Teeftallow/Chapter 36

AFTER that first moment of sheer pathos when he heard of the birth of his natural daughter, Abner Teeftallow's thoughts were drawn, in time, to the position in which he now stood in Lanesburg society.

The gossip spread over the village with the speed usual to small-town salacity. In reaction certain girl acquaintances of Abner's grew distantly polite, while others "stopped speaking"; a misnomer, since both distant and silent ones now discussed Abner incessantly. The youth's invitations to parties and dances dropped away to nothing. Such criticism discomfited Abner. In the garage at Irontown his liaison with Nessie had been admired, but the feminine world of Lanesburg censured him keenly. Abner never before had dwelt in a feminine world.

The men of Lanesburg sympathized with Abner in a semi-humorous way. The man who came in for their serious contempt was Nessie's husband, A. M. Belshue. The jeweller had broken that unworded law forbidding any easement or comfort to the enemies of society. In marrying a social outcast, Belshue weakened the village discipline and imperilled its whole structure. His sin was, in reality, subtler and more insidious than was Abner's in deflowering the girl. The village folk would forgive Abner in time, but they would never forego their bitter contempt for the jeweller because he had rescued the unhappy girl from degradation and utter destruction.

One day Abner was complaining to Jim Sandage about his social boycott.

"It's jest freshened up for a while," philosophized Jim ​easily. "It'll die down an' that'll end it—tull you do somethin' else."

"I don't give a damn for the rest of 'em," proceeded Abner gloomily. "What I'm worried about is Adelaide."

"Think she's goin' to hold it agin' you?" asked Jim with concern.

"Don't know."

"I don' imagine so. No matter what man she gits it'll be the same thing. A sensible gal like Addy ort to know that."

"Wish you'd give her a hint."

"She'll find it out fer herse'f, if she don't know it already. Have you seen her sence the news got aroun' town?"

"No, I'm kinder skittish of her."

"That's no good," declared Jim roundly. "You ort to go an' git married to her. It's ridickilous, a man of yore age havin' troubles like this. This here scatterin' idyah ain't no good. A man ort to keep his childern where he can lay his finger on 'em; he gits satisfaction out of his fam'ly same as anything else he owns. Thing for you to do is to marry Adelaide, an' that'll end up all this gossip. Gals never talk about what a married man done when he was single."

But Abner could not accept this broad, easy view of life. He could not marry Adelaide Jones out of hand; neither could he dismiss his relations with Nessie Belshue in such a cavalierish manner. Their baby girl would remain their baby girl no matter whom he married; and then his old tenderness toward Nessie, his effort to marry her which had been frustrated by the mob, moved him.

Several times he nerved himself to go to Adelaide and try to explain himself—if only she could understand how he felt she might come to sympathize with him and even love him in that strange mixed way women have of loving the very wounds of another love. But he never went to Adelaide. He was afraid. Not so much that she would take the cold attitude of the other village girls who had no compassion for any frailties except their own; but that she might not take ​him seriously at all; she might pass flippantly over his tragedy, coin a cynicism about it, laugh at him as Tim Fraley had done; only with that more polished and subtle mockery indigenous to a modern young ladies' seminary; that place where nothing is sacred, not even unchastity. Abner felt he could never endure that.

The conversation veered from Adelaide to Railroad Jones and the strike of the construction gang. The two men were sitting in Mr. Sandage's office in the county courthouse watching the country people who were beginning to gather for another quarterly court.

"I shore hope Railroad gits his new gang together to-day," mused the county trustee, watching this fresh supply of raw labour.

"Jest what did the old gang strike for?" asked Abner. "More money?"

"No, some money."

"What you mean by that?"

"Perry Northcutt quit advancin' wages, an' nachelly the men quit work."

"How's railroad goin' to finance his new gang?" inquired Abner curiously.

"Tell you the truth," said the trustee in a low tone, "I'm goin' to do it myse'f."

"You!" Abner stared at his foster-father.

Jim moistened his lips. "I got to, Abner. I got so much invested in that railroad, I got to put through these last few miles, then I'll git all my money back."

"You goin' to pay off the old gang, too?"

"No, Railroad said we didn't have enough money to pay off the old gang; said we'd jest start in with a fresh gang we didn't owe nothin'."

"That's playin' it purty low down on the others," mused Abner.

"Once the road's a-runnin', Railroad says he can pay off ever'body. . . . You know sometimes I wish I hadn't got into this damn business a-tall." He sat staring at the ​crowd. "You might go around to Railroad's office to-day, Ab, an', if you keer to light in an' do a little work with the new gang, it would he'p that much."

"Shore, if I can be of any he'p," agreed Abner with the easiness of his kind.

Abner left the courthouse and started toward the yellow office on the west side of the square. As he went along he did not pause to gossip with the country folk as he once would have done. Too many perplexities were in his mind to permit such aimless conversations. He was acquiring the focussed attitude of the town. He heard somebody drawl, "Money has turned Ab Teeftaller into a stuck-up town johnny. I guess he's forgot his daddy died in the county jail."

A group of men were already forming below Railroad Jones's high porch in anticipation of the magnate's new draft on labour. They were talking about the lawsuit, about what wages Jones would pay. As Abner came up they turned to him.

"How's this suit goin' to turn out, Ab?" asked a black-bearded man. "I hear Perry Northcutt's got ever' foot of Railroad Jones' lan' tied up in mortgages."

"Don't worry," said Abner in an oracular manner, "the only way to beat Railroad Jones in a lawsuit is to kill him."

At this reply the hillmen burst into raucous laughter, which fell into silence as Railroad Jones waddled out on his porch. There was something grim in his square jaundiced face, purple birthmark, and little burnt-out eyes. He caught and held the attention of the crowd.

"Boys," he began in his spewing voice, "you know what we're up ag'inst here in Lanesburg."

"Yeh, Railroad, we know."

"Arntown wants to grab our railroad after we got it built. I ain't callin' names, but the man I partnered with has gone back on me and says he won't allow me to finish the road I promised you folks."

A murmur from the crowd at this.

​"I told him to take his money an' go, that us Lanesburg folks could build our own road an' we wuzn't beholdin' to no little razor-backed banker from Arntown."

The crowd roared raucously at this. "You said it, Railroad!"

The magnate shook his fist and swung his mighty jowl.

"Yeh, an' I'll say more. You boys stick to me an' I'll finish this road if it takes the las' cent I can scrape an' the las' breath I can draw. I say you farmers in Lane County ain't goin' to be shut off from the markets of the worl' no longer. I say if the little two-by-fours of Arntown injoy a railroad, why in God's name shouldn't the broad-gague citizens of Lanesburg, the county seat, have the same advantages? Ain't we as good as they air? Ain't we better?"

Came a drawling cheer. "By God, we're with ye, Railroad!"

Railroad shook his big head. "Stay with me an' we'll have a express train whistlin' in the courthouse square. Don't let no silver-tongued orator turn you away from your own intrusts, boys. All the money I ever made I made workin' for you, an' damn near all you ever made, you made workin' for me." Laughter at this. "United we stan', divided we fall. Walk up, boys, sign the payroll, and begin to draw yore pay this minute, an' we'll build a railroad in spite of Perry Northcutt an' the devil! Come on up!"

At this the men looked at one another, and when Abner climbed the steps everybody followed him. Railroad Jones waved them into his office, where a clerk took their names on the payroll.

The magnate shook hands warmly with Abner. "I 'preciate this, Abner," he said in his closed voice. "I haven't seen you sence the night of the dance, what's the matter?"

"I—jest haven't been aroun'," said Abner awkwardly.

"Me an' Addy's been sorter expectin' you."

Here the conversation was interrupted by some of the men beginning to file out.

​"When do we report, Mr. Jones?"

"Right away—Sheriff Bascom is goin' down with ye."

"We heard he was.—Not goin' to be any trouble, d'reckon?"

"Reckon shorely not. They ain't nobody big enough fools to tell a set of men like you they won't let ye work. If so, you boys know what to do?"

"Hell, yes."

The black-bearded man winked. "There's one feller in this crowd who stopped two revenuers from raidin' his still one night."

"Nobody ort to disturb a man at work," returned Railroad, and winked solemnly.

Another gust of wheezing and hacking laughter. The men filed on out, leaving in the office the rank odour of their unwashed bodies. As they were going out, a motor honked outside, and a little later Adelaide came in among the outgoing stream of men. As she passed them she spoke to some, nodded brightly to every individual workman. They all knew her and gave her "Good-days," "Howdy, Adelaide?" "Howdy do, Addy?"

Her bright cordiality to them might have been timed.

"Dad," she called, "got those blanks ready for me?"

Railroad turned to his table and drew out a drawer.

"Come an' see if these ain't them, Addy."

In passing she flung at the youth, "Hello, Abner!—Yes, that's them, Daddy."

"As you drive over to Arntown, you might give Abner a lift to the camp, Addy," suggested the magnate.

The girl gave Abner a swift glance. "So you are going to be with us after all?" she said with a warm inflection.

Abner stood by the big goods box full of papers.

"Yeh, I told yore daddy I was," he said, a little constrained.

"Well—we hadn't heard anything more. . . ." She stepped over, took the bundle of papers from her father's hand, then started past Abner to the door.

​"Ready to go?" she asked, smiling.

Abner acquiesced and went out with her to the yellow roadster. They got into it and eased away into the square without a word. Owing to the crowd, the girl had to sound her horn constantly. Half-dozing countrymen would come awake at her blasts, look around, and then with a movement that was slow, and yet somehow appeared to be startled, would get awkwardly from in front of the big machine.

Once Adelaide smiled and said, "He needs dancing lessons, but I suppose he would think it a sin to take 'em."

Abner was faintly amused at the idea; then for some reason he thought of Nessie Sutton and his amusement vanished. They said no more until they were out of Lanesburg, rushing silently down a hill. Beneath them lay a small creek valley glowing with the red and yellow of autumn. Adelaide glanced at the scene from time to time in the midst of her driving.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" she admired.

"Yes, it is—yonder's a lot of mighty good white oaks." Abner pointed out a great length of russet foliage.

Adelaide laughed. "I declare, have you got so you see so many white oaks and chestnuts, so many cross ties and so many saw logs every time you look at the woods?"

"Well—they're there, ain't they?"

"Not unless you have a kind of sawmill in your eye, so that every tree you look at falls into logs, lumber, and cross ties. You never see the trees at all . . . that's the kind of person my husband will be, I suppose, no matter whom I marry." Adelaide pressed her accelerator and increased the gale about their ears.

Abner hardly knew what to say. He looked at Adelaide's half-ironic, half-wistful smile with a feeling of how essentially alien she was to him. The thought of marrying her seemed vague and impossible. He tried to think of himself possessing the Jones mansion with Adelaide in it; this pretty, cynical, poised girl for a wife. The more he thought of it the more impossible it appeared.

​"Why didn't you come to see me the day after the ball?" asked Adelaide, breaking her silence at last.

Abner hesitated. "I wasn't sure you wanted to see me."

"Why—on account of the gossip?"

Abner was surprised and a little shocked at her coolness.

"Well—yes—the other girls turned aginst me."

Adelaide shrugged a shoulder. "They're silly—in this world a girl may get her frocks made to order, but not her husband."

The implication in this careless phrase caused a lifting sensation in Abner's midriff which marks a joyful surprise. He was on the verge of putting an arm around her very self-assured little waist and asking, "Do you love me, Adelaide, and will you marry me?" but she was so self-poised and self-contained that to mention love to Adelaide seemed somehow incongruous. He substituted in a slightly tense voice, "Did you see Buckingham Sharp that night, Adelaide?"

The girl glanced at him with a faint smile. "Certainly I did."

The youth grew more nervous.

"Well—are you—er—going to marry him?"

She shook her head in a slight negative.

Abner looked intently at the curve of her cheek over her furs. He had a nervous feeling of having come to the brink of a sharp turn in his life. He was half afraid she would laugh at him as he asked in a tone that caught somewhere in his throat, "Are—you—going to marry me—after all?"

He watched breathlessly, fearing a smile, when to his relief, her small bosom lifted in a little spasm.

"I—I think so, Abner," and she went on immediately as if justifying herself. "At least you are not conceited; and you don't think I'm just waiting to tumble in your arms. And you really are good-looking, and you will soon learn to dance, though, of course, I won't want to dance with you when you're my husband; and you have farms. . . ."

​Abner put an arm around her and leaned over to kiss her with a jubilant relieved feeling.

"You don't have to apologize, Adelaide!" he cried, and pressed his lips toward her mouth.

Adelaide laughed, but turned her face quickly away. "Let's don't spoon here on the road. I was just counting your good points aloud. Goodness knows I've counted them a thousand times to myself.—You like to hear them, don't you?"

"Shore I do!" cried the youth, but in his heart he felt the lack of that intimate feeling which he had known with Nessie. This girl, somehow, was so self-contained she excluded him completely.

"Abner, let me ask now, if it will be all right with you, after we are married, for me to dance with other men?"

"Why—yes," drawled Abner, surprised, but not feeling the slightest jealousy of anticipation.

"And I want other men to call on me and be nice to me, just as they do to other married women in other places. Why, I think it's awful the way the Lanesburg women do. When they get married they bury themselves. They have no mixed social life at all. They never really talk to anybody except other women and their husbands. Why, Abner, that's not civilized! No wonder they grow into a lot of tittle-tattles and backbiters; women just naturally get that way unless they see a lot of men—just as men get profane and vulgar if they don't see a lot of women. If folks would just use their sex right, it would keep them sweet!"

During this outburst Adelaide gradually had stopped her car. Now they were standing still and she stated her position with more passion than she had spoken of their marriage.

"Why, ye-es," agreed Abner, "I guess that's right."

"I want to lead a human life, even here in Lanesburg. Of course, I'll have to stay here. Daddy's property is like a great big ball and chain. It will be one around you, too, Abner. Neither of us can ever possibly get away. Nobody ​ever gets away from Lanesburg—we're either too rich or too poor."

Abner began to smile. "Maybe they can when the railroad is built?"

"Yes, yes, no doubt—well, run along and build it. Good-bye."

Abner observed for the first time that the motor had stopped.

"Do I get out here?"

"Of course, silly, this is the old Coltrane place. The camp's right over that hill past the house." She pointed and Abner climbed out of the car.

"Now, don't let the strikers get you," she cautioned, leaning over and touching one of his hands on the door.

On the impulse she moved to him quickly. "Kiss me, after all," she said, lifting her face and holding out her arms to him.

Abner put his arms about her and kissed her lips. He caught the faint fragrance of her face powder, and his arms were about furs which felt exquisitely soft and warm. The curve of her torso seduced an extra heartbeat, and he would have lifted her against his chest, but this was Adelaide Jones, and the open country and chill October sun forbade. He stepped back from the car.

"I'll watch out for the strikers."

Adelaide looked up the road and whispered, "Look—that man saw us guzzling."

Abner laughed. "What he saw was all right."

Adelaide gave a little shrug. "It was more than all right, it was positively virtuous. You know the great virtue in this county, Abner, is iciness to the opposite sex—well, come to see me when you get back to Lanesburg," and laughing at her own irony, she sent her car forward at gathering speed.