She hesitated, but it seemed to her that the questing eyes of Rembrandt's portrait looked upon her through the dark—eyes reverent and eager at once.
She said: "You may do as you will."
His unmanacled hand went up, found her hair, passed slowly over its folds.
"It is like silk to the touch, but far more delicate, for there is life in every thread of it. It is abundant and long. Ah, it must shine when the sun strikes upon it! It is golden hair, madame, no pale-yellow like sea-sand, but glorious gold, and when it hangs across the whiteness of your throat and bosom the hearts of men stir. Speak! Tell me I have named it!"
She waited till the sob grew smaller in her throat.
"Yes, it is golden hair," she said.
"I could not be wrong."
His hand passed down her face, fluttering lightly, and she sensed the eagerness of every touch. Cold fear took hold of her lest those searching fingers should discover the truth.
"Your eyes are blue. Yes, yes! Deep-blue for golden hair. It cannot be otherwise. Speak."
"God help me!"
"Madame?"
"I have been too vain of my eyes, sir. Yes, they are blue."
The fingers were on her cheeks, trembling on her lips, touching chin and throat.
"You are divine. It was foredoomed that this should be! Yes, my life has been one long succession of miracles, but the greatest was reserved until the end. I have followed my heart through the world in search of perfect beauty and now I am about to die, I find it. Oh, God! For one moment with canvas, brush, and the blessed light of the sun! It cannot be! No miracle is complete; but I carry out into the eternal night one perfect picture. Canvas and paint? No, no! Your picture must be drawn in the soul and colored with love. The last miracle and the greatest! Three days? No, three ages, three centuries of happiness, for are you not here?"
Who will say that there is not an eye with which we pierce the night? To each of these two sitting in the utter dark there came a vision. Imagination became more real than reality. He saw his ideal of the woman, that picture which every man carries in his heart to think of in the times of silence, to see in every void. And she saw her ideal of manly power. The dark pressed them together as if with the force of physical hands. For a moment they waited, and in that moment each knew the heart of the other, for in that utter void of light and sound, they saw with the eyes of the soul and they heard the music of the spheres.
Then she seemed to hear the voice of the prince: "You should be grateful to me. Trust me, child, I am bringing you that love of which you dreamed. Le Dieu, c'est moi!"
Yes, it was the voice of doom which had spoken from those sardonic lips. The dark which annihilates time made their love a century old.
"In all the world," she whispered, "there is one man for every woman. It is the hand of Heaven which gives me to you."
"Come closer—so! And here I have your head beside mine as God foredoomed. Listen! I have power to look through the dark and to see your eyes—how blue they are!—and to read your soul beneath them. We have scarcely spoken a hundred words and yet I see it all. Through a thousand centuries our souls have been born a thousand times and in every life we have met, and known—"
And through the utter dark, the merciful dark, the deep, strong music of his voice went on, and she listened, and forgot the truth and closed her eyes against herself.
On the night which closed the third day the prince approached the door of the sealed room. To the officer of the secret police, who stood on guard, he said: "Nothing has been heard."
"Early this afternoon there were two shots, I think."
"Nonsense. There are carpenters doing repair work on the floor above. You mistook the noise of their hammers."
He waved the man away, and as he fitted the key into the lock he was laughing softly to himself: "Now for the revelation, the downward head, the shame. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
He opened the door and flashed on his electric lantern. They lay upon a couch wrapped in each other's arms. He had shot her through the heart and then turned the weapon on himself; his last effort must have been to draw her closer. About them was wrapped the chain, idle and loose. Surely death had no sting for them and the grave no victory, for the cold features were so illumined that the prince could hardly believe them dead.
He turned the electric torch on the painter. He was a man about fifty, with long, iron-gray hair, and a stubble of three days' growth covering his face. It was a singularly ugly countenance, strong, but savagely lined, and the forehead corrugated with the wrinkles of long, mental labor. But death had made Bertha beautiful. Her eyes under the shadow of her lashes, seemed a deep-sea blue, and her loose, brown hair, falling across the white throat and breast, seemed almost golden under the light of the torch. A draft from the open door moved the hair and the heart of the prince stirred in him.
He strove to loosen the arms of the painter, but they were frozen stiff by death.
"She was a fool, and the loss is small," sighed the prince. "After all, perhaps God was nearer than I thought. I bound them together with a chain. He saw my act and must have approved, for see! He has locked them together forever. Well, after all—le Dieu, c'est moi!"
YES, suh, I feels plum' qualified to take on a wife."
The black negro blushed to a darker hue and his face shone like polished ebony in the blazing August sun. In his embarrassment he twisted his shapeless wool hat into a wad, thrust it under his arm like a bundle, turned his back upon the white man's quizzical eyes, and sat down upon the lowest step of the porch.
At the feet of the white man lay half a dozen pairs of handcuffs. He stooped and picked up a pair which showed rusty in the bright light, rubbed the rust off with sand-paper, squirted some oil into the mechanism from a little can, and busied himself for a few minutes seeing that his police hardware was in good condition.
The sheriff remained silent for so long that the negro imagined he had been forgotten. Then Flournoy fired a question so unexpectedly that the black man winced: "What's your name?"
"Dey calls me Plaster Sickety."
"Gosh!" the sheriff exploded. "Can any woman be induced to exchange a perfectly decent name for a smear like that?"
"Suttinly," the negro grinned. "Dat gal's name ain't so awful cute. Dey calls her Pearline Flunder."
"Plaster Sickety and Pearline Flunder—help, everybody! What sort of children will issue from a matrimonial alliance of such names?"
"I reckin our chillun will all be borned Huns, Marse John; but I cain't he'p it."
Under his manipulation the sheriff's worn handcuffs took on a polish like new. At intervals he glanced up from his task to see the sunlight spraying from the pecan-trees like water and the heat rising from the ground, visible as a boiling cloud. Once he heard an eagle scream, and glanced toward the Little Mocassin swamp to behold a black speck sail into the haze that hung like a curtain of purple and gold upon the horizon. The negro sat motionless except for glowing black eyes restless as mercury and all-perceiving.
Suddenly the bear-trap mouth of the big sheriff twisted into a little smile.
"How'd you like to give your girl one of these things for a wedding-present, Plaster?" he asked, as he tossed a polished pair of handcuffs on the step beside the negro.
"I's kinder pestered in my mind 'bout gittin' a fitten weddin'-present, Marse John, but—" Plaster rose to his feet and returned the manacles without completing his sentence.
"How much money have you got?" Flournoy asked.
"I ain't got none till yit."
"How you going to buy the license? How you going to pay the preacher?" Flournoy asked.
"Dat's whut I come to git a view from you about, Marse John. All de cullud folks gives you a rep dat you is powerful good to niggers an' I figgered dat you an' me mought fix up some kind of shake-down so I could git married 'thout costin' me nothin'."
"Don't you ever read the Bible?" Flournoy growled. "Even Adam's wife cost him a bone."
"Yes, suh," the negro grinned. "But I figger ef Sheriff Flournoy had been aroun' anywheres at dat time, maybe Adam would 'a' got off a whole lot cheaper."
"Have you got a job to support your wife?" Flournoy asked.
"Naw, suh."
"Have you got a house to live in?"
"Naw, suh."
"Where are you going to live with her—in a hollow sycamore-tree?"
"Yes, suh, I reckin so—dat is, excusin' ef you don't he'p us none."
"Where are you two idiots going to derive your sustenance—from the circumambient atmosphere?"
"Dat's de word, Marse John—dat is, excusin' ef you don't loant us a hand in our troubles," the negro murmured, wondering what the sheriff's big talk meant.
"Do you love this black girl very much?" the sheriff asked with that odd turn of tone with which every man speaks of love when he is in love with love.
"Boss," the black man answered in a voice which throbbed, "I been lovin' dat gal ever since she warn't no bigger dan—dan—dan a June-bug whut had visited accidental a woodpecker prayer-meetin'."
"Is she good to look at, Plaster?" Flournoy smiled.
"Well, suh, I cain't lie to no white man, Marse John; an' I tells you honest—she looks a whole heap better at night in de dark of de moon."
"If she ain't a good-looker, why do you love her?" Flournoy asked without a smile.
"She's good sense an' jedgment, Marse John," the black man answered earnestly. "An'—an'—I jes' nachelly loves her."
Flournoy studied a moment, twisting a pair of steel handcuffs in his giant hands. Finally he spoke:
"Plaster, I have a cabin down on the Coolie Bayou which I have given to three young married couples in succession on the condition that they live there in peace and amity one year."
"Yes, suh."
"Every couple broke up and got a divorce within nine months."
"Too bad, Marse John, dat's mighty po' luck."
"You niggers think you love each other until you get hitched and then you don't stay hitched."
"Some shorely don't—dey don't fer a fack."
"Now I make you and Pearline Flunder this offer. I will buy your marriage license, pay Vinegar Atts to marry you, bear all the expense of a church wedding, give you a job so you can support your wife, and I will make you a present of that cabin down on the Coolie Bayou if you and your wife will live together for three days without busting up in a row."
"Three days, Marse John!" the negro howled. "Boss, I motions to make it thurty years!"
"No!" Flournoy snapped. "Three days!"
"I's willin', Marse John," the negro laughed, cutting a caper on the grass.
"All right!" the sheriff said as he stooped and picked up a pair of handcuffs. "Now listen: I intend to cut the little chain on these two manacles and attach each cuff to a ten-foot chain. When you and Pearline are married, I am going to put one of these manacles around her wrist and one around your wrist"—the negro showed the whites of his eyes—"and bind you two honey-loves together with a ten-foot chain." The negro looked behind him toward the gate and the public highway, took a tighter grip upon his hat, and made a furtive step backward. "You are to remain bound together for three days." The negro smiled and stepped forward. "At the end of that time you are to come here and report, and if you agree to spend the remainder of your life together, the cabin is yours!"
"Make it a two-feets chain, Marse John, so us kin git clost to each yuther," Plaster pleaded.
"What I have spoken I have spoken," Flournoy proclaimed autocratically. "Now, go tell your sweetheart all about it."
The Big Four of Tickfall sat around a much bewhittled pine table in the Hen-Scratch saloon. The room was hazy with their tobacco smoke. Conversation languished. The session was about to adjourn until to-morrow at the same hour. Figger Bush laid his cigarette upon the edge of the table, lifted his head like a dog baying the moon, and chanted:
"O you muss be a lover of de landlady's daughter
Or you cain't git a secont piece of pie!"
Before the other could catch the tune, the green-baize doors of the saloon were thrown open and a white man entered. Every negro looked up into that granite face with its deep-set eyes, iron jaw, and rugged lines of strength and purpose, and smiled a joyful welcome:
"Mawnin', Marse John. 'Tain't no use to come sheriffin' down dis way. No niggers ain't done nothin'."
"I am hunting for a Methodist clergyman of color," Flournoy grinned.
"Boss," Vinegar Atts chuckled as he rose to his feet, "I's de blackest an' best nigger preacher whut is, an' I b'lieves in de Mefdis doctrine of fallin' from grace an' grease. Ef you misdoubts my words, ax my wife. Dat ole woman admits dat fack herse'f."
"I want you to perform a wedding ceremony at the Shoofly Church to-night at seven o'clock," the sheriff announced.
Instantly the Rev. Vinegar Atts thrust both hands into the pockets of his trousers and brought his hands out, turning out the pockets and showing them empty.
"Dar now, Figger Bush!" Vinegar bellowed. "I tole you dat de good Lawd would pervide a way fer me to pay fer dem near-booze grape-juices I been guzzlin' in yo' sinful saloom! Five dollars will sottle wid you an' leave a few change over fer seegaws."
"Who's cormittin' mattermony, Marse John?" Mustard Prophet wanted to know. "Is it one of dese here shotgun weddin's?"
"Plaster Sickety wishes to wed Pearline Flunder."
"I knows 'em," Hitch Diamond rumbled from his big chest. "De good Lawd will shore got to pervide fer dem coons like He do fer Vinegar Atts—nary one is got git-up enough to make a livin'."
"Those young colored honey-birds are under my special care and protection," Flournoy announced, smiling. "I intend to house them and take care of them and get them work. They are an experiment."
"De trouble wid experiments is dis, Marse John," Mustard chuckled, "sometimes dey bust in yo' face."
"My plan is this," Flournoy told them. "I am going to tie those two negroes together with a ten-foot chain and they are to live in peace and amity for three days."
"Lawdymussy, Marse John!" the Rev. Vinegar Atts bellowed. "Did you ever tie two cats to each yuther an' hang 'em over de limb of a tree?"
"Yes."
"Does you recommember how quick dem cats got tired of each yuther's sawsiety an' fell out wid theirselves?"
"Certainly."
Vinegar jerked a yellow bandana handkerchief from the tail of his coat and mopped the top of his bald head.
"You mought care fer dem niggers ef you ties em togedder, Marse John. But you ain't gwine be able to pertection 'em—not from each yuther," Vinegar announced as he slapped at his face with his kerchief. "I wouldn't be tied to my nigger wife wid a telephone-wire long enough to conversation de man in de moon. Naw, suh! Dat ole gal would be yankin' on dat line a catfish all de time. Whoosh!"
"I agrees wid dem religium sentiments," Hitch Diamond rumbled. "Now you example Goldie, my own wife. Dat little yeller gal's maw is a lunatic, an' Goldie ain't no lunatic, but she ain't got her right mind. I wouldn't mind bein' a Dandylion in de lion's den, like de Bible tells about—dat would gib me a chance to fight fer my gizzard. But chained up to Goldie—"
Hitch broke off, shook his head in earnest negation, rubbed one giant hand around his iron-thewed wrist as if he could feel the holy bonds of matrimony and gave utterance to one expressive word: "Gawd!"
"Hol' on, niggers!" Figger Bush exclaimed. "I don't foller you-alls in dem sentiments. Now I been married to Scootie gwine on two year an' I ain't never got too much of dat gal yit. I cherishes de opinion dat Marse John could tie our heads togedder an' I wouldn't complain none."
"I sides wid Figger Bush," Mustard Prophet grinned. "I been livin' off an' on wid Hopey fer twenty year, an' dat gal is busted stovewood over my head off an' on plenty of times, but I don't bear her no grouch. She kin always make peace by givin' me some hot biskits an' a few sirup."
"You four niggers talk too much," Flournoy grinned. "I want you to get busy and decorate that Shoofly Church and pull the biggest Tickfall church wedding ever seen in the social sets of our colored circles. I'll pay for everything."
"Us fo' niggers will git our wifes an' pull some kind of nice stunt ourselfs, too, Marse John," Vinegar howled. "We'll fix up a good send-off fer 'em."
At seven o'clock that evening the Flournoy automobile conveyed the happy pair to the Shoofly Church. The Rev. Vinegar Atts proceeded with the ceremony until the bride sported a new ring and the two were pronounced man and wife with the solemn admonition:
"Whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder!"
Thereupon Sheriff Flournoy stepped forward and with the ease of long practice slipped a manacle upon the right wrist of the bride and another upon the left wrist of the groom and snapped the handcuffs shut.
Figger Bush stooped and lifted a long bottle from a bucket of ice. There was a loud pop, the cork struck against the ceiling, ricochetted around the walls of the room and caused a commotion by falling on Vinegar's bald head. Figger advanced with a tray containing three glasses and the sheriff toasted the bride and groom.
The ten-foot chain rattled as the bride raised her manacled hand to drink.
When they marched out of the church the entire congregation formed a procession and accompanied them to their cabin on the Coolie Bayou. They noticed that Plaster Sickety picked up the chain and wrapped a turn around his bride's neck and one about his own, thus shortening the bond and bringing them close together. They clamped their arms around each other's waists, and plodded solemnly through the deep dust of the crooked highway.
"Dat nigger cain't park his wife like a new automobile an' walk off an' leave her," Vinegar chuckled.
"He ain't actin' anxious to git away—now," Hitch rumbled pessimistically.
"Not yit, but soon," Vinegar agreed.
Approaching the cabin, Plaster Sickety's voice broke into exultant song, and through the negro's wonderful gift of improvisation, he produced this neat bit:
"Listen to dat fool!" Hitch Diamond chuckled. "He's singin' like a little black angel whut had swiped de pearliest pearl offen de pearly gates!"
The bride and groom entered their cabin and softly closed the door.
Good night!
"Looky here, Pearline, I ain't used to totin' dis ole steel band on my wrist an' it hurts my feelin's," Plaster complained as he sat at the breakfast-table before a meal which had been left on the door-step a few minutes before by Hitch Diamond.
"Don't begin to howl an' pull back like a dawg tied under a wagin, Plaster," Pearline urged prettily, as she helped herself to liberal portions of the breakfast prepared in Sheriff Flournoy's kitchen. "You won't kick about wearin' it as long as you loves me, will you?"
"No'm," Plaster said, as he lifted the chain to a more comfortable place upon the dining-table. "But I shore wish dat white man hadn't choosed such a heavy chain."
"Dis chain ain't heavy, Plaster," Pearline protested. "You hadn't oughter talk dat way. Excusin' dat, I likes dis chain—it ties us to each yuther. Don't you like it?"
"Yes'm, I shore does."
"How come you complains about it fer?"
"I ain't got no lament, Pearline—dat is, I ain't mean it dat way."
The bridegroom filled his mouth with food and for the next ten minutes ate voraciously. One watching him would draw the inference that he was not eating to enjoy the food so much as to find some occupation for his mouth beside speech.
Pearline reached out with her free hand and toyed with the chain, twisting it about her fingers lovingly, a dreamy light in her coal-black eyes.
"Us had de biggest weddin' in cullud circles, Plaster," she murmured.
"I ain't no cullud circle," Plaster mumbled, his mouth full of food. "But I reckin I got to run circles aroun' you 'slong as dis ole chain stays on. Don't rattle dat chain so loud, Pearly! Gosh! It makes a heap of racket fer its little size."
"You jes' now said it wus a big, heavy chain fer its size," his wife reminded him in a sweetly argumentative tone.
"Yes'm, it am—dis chain is bofe little an' big—fer its size," the groom amended hastily. "Stop talkin' about dis chain!"
"You started dis talk," she reminded him reproachfully. "You said it hurted yo' wrist."
There was a loud knock upon the door. Plaster sprang up to answer. The chain jerked at his wrist.
"Good gawsh!" he snorted. "Come to de door wid me, honey, so I kin open up."
"I cain't, Plaster," the bride exclaimed in a panic. "I ain't dressed fer comp'ny dis soon in de mawnin."
"You's got on all de clothes you owns," the groom reminded her.
"Suttinly, but I ain't got no white powder on my black nose," she giggled. "Come back in de nex' room an' let me fresh up befo' we opens de door."
"I stayed in dar a plum' hour while you wus freshin' up fer yo' viteles," Plaster grumbled.
"Don't git grumped up, Plaster," Pearline urged. "You ack like yo' love is commenced to wilt aroun' de edges."
Meekly the man followed her to the bedroom and stood for fifteen minutes while the bride primped her hair, powdered her nose, adjusted her collar, fiddled with her belt, put pins in her shirt-waist, took them out and deposited them in her mouth, put them back into her waist, turned around and looked at herself in the mirror, hunted for a fresh handkerchief and could not find it, located it at last in the bosom of her waist, wondered where she had left her chewing-gum, found it on top of the box of face-powder, and finally said:
"Come on—less hurry up. Dat comp'ny will git tired waitin' fer us!"
"Dat comp'ny is gone done it," Plaster sighed. "I peeped through de crack in de door an' seed 'em. Hitch Diamond knocked fo' times, den opened de door an' picked up dem breakfast-dishes an' trod out."
"Dat's too bad," Pearline remarked with no interest whatever. She was looking at herself in the mirror. "I'd like to seen Hitchie. He use to be one of my ole sweethearts."
"Come out an' set under de tree wid me an' mebbe dat ole sweetheart of yourn will come back," Plaster suggested.
"I don't like to git out in de sunshine," the girl replied. "Dar's too much glare."
"Too much—which?" Plaster asked.
"Glare."
"Yes'm."
Plaster stood looking at her helplessly, wondering where they were going from there.
"Does you love me, Plaster?" the girl asked, siding up to him and stepping on the chain.
"Yes'm," Plaster answered as he pulled the chain from under her feet and rubbed his wrist. "Don't step on dat chain no mo'. You might break it."
"How come you don't tell me you loves me?"
"I done tole you 'bout fawty times dis mawnin'," Plaster reminded her.
"But you ain't never tole me onless I axed you."
"Less go somewhar an' set down an' I'll tell you a millyum times," Plaster said eagerly.
"Bless Gawd, I knows you loves me a plum' plenty, but I likes to hear you tell dem words. Wait a minute till I puts—er—I b'lieve I oughter change de collar on dis dress. A clean one would make me look mo' fresher."
Plaster lingered until the woman was dressed to her fancy, resting his weight first on one impatient leg, then upon the other.
"You wastes a heap of time fixin' yo'se'f, Pearly," he sighed at last. "I hopes you'll soon git dressed up fer de day."
"You wants yo' wife to look nice, don't you?" she asked reproachfully.
"Yes'm."
"How kin I look nice 'thout takin' de time to dress?"
They went out and sat down under the pecan-tree in the "glare." Pearline seemed to have forgotten the glare. Plaster lighted a cigarette, smoked it to the end, lighted another, smoked it to the end, and lighted another. Then Pearline remarked:
"Honey, does you love me more dan you loves dem cigareets?"
"I shore does"—with moderate fervor.
"Does you love me a millyum times mo' dan you loves cigareets?"
"Suttinly."
"Den, fer gossake, throw dem cigareets away! Dey smells like some kind o' fumigate."
"I cain't do that, Pearly. Dese here smokes costes money. An' I couldn't affode to buy 'em ef I had to wuck fer de money. Dey's a weddin' present."
"Is you gwine smoke all yo' married life?"
"Yes'm."
"But you ain't gwine smoke no mo' fer de nex' three days, is you?"
"No'm."
Pearline thrust her hand into Plaster's pocket and brought forth his precious smokes. She concealed them in the mysterious recesses of her attire and Plaster sighed deeply.
Ten minutes later the girl straightened up with a fierceness that nearly snapped her spinal column.
"Fer mussy sake, Plaster Sickety! Whut is you got in yo' mouf?"
"I's nibblin' a few crumbs of terbacker, honey," Plaster said apologetically.
"My gawsh! You aim to tell me dat you chaws?"
"Yes'm. I chaws a little bit now an' den. It kinder helps my brains to think an' sottles my stomick."
There was a long silence. Plaster stared straight ahead of him, his jaws moving with the regularity of a ruminant cow, his eyes counting the leaves on the trees, the pickets on the broken-down fence, and estimating the number of ants crawling out of a hill. Then, unconsciously, he reached into his pocket for another cigarette. He did not find it.
He heard a suspicious sound beside him and looked at Pearline.
"Whut you cryin' about honey?"
"You tole me you loved me more dan cigareets, an' yit you cain't set by me a minute 'thout chawin' terbacker," she wailed. "You is blood kin brudder to a worm an' a goat—nothin' else chaws!"
"Lawd!" Plaster sighed in desperation. "I sees now dat I'm got to learn how to suck eggs an' hide de shells."
Suddenly a loud whoop was heard near at hand and out of the swamp came Vinegar Atts, Figger Bush, Mustard Prophet and Hitch Diamond.
"Hey, niggers!" Plaster bawled. "Come up an' set down. Lawd, I nefer wus so glad to see nobody in my whole life."
"Good mawnin', Sister Pearline!" Vinegar chuckled. "How is yo'-alls enjoyin' mattermony life by now?"
"Fine," the bride smiled, with a suspicion of tears still in her eyes.
"Praise de Lawd!" exclaimed Vinegar. "I wus skeart you niggers would be fightin' by now, an' mebbe one of yous would be draggin' de yuther on de end o' dat chain—dead!"
"Naw, suh!" Plaster howled, as he snatched a cigar out of Hitch Diamond's pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "Us is gittin' along puffeckly."
Plaster snatched his cigar from his lips with his manacled hand and flourished it with a motion of broad contentment. Pearline gave the chain a quick jerk and the smoke flew from Plaster's fingers and fell over in the high grass.
"You two idjits look like a holy show to me," Figger Bush cackled. "How come you don't charge admissions to de show an' git rich?"
"Us wouldn't git rich quick," Pearline giggled. Hitch Diamond had retrieved the cigar, and Pearline had taken it from him and stuck it in her hair. "You-all is de onlies' comp'ny we is had till yit."
"I hopes you niggers will stay wid us all day, brudders," Plaster exclaimed earnestly. "We wus feelin' kinder—er—me an' Pearline wus feelin' sorter—er—"
"Uh-huh," Hitch Diamond grunted knowingly. "Dat's a fack. We ole married folks onderstan's dem feelin's. I'd feel dat way mese'f ef I wus in yo' fix. I'd whet up my teeth on a brick-bat an' bite myse'f in my own gizzard an' die."
"Not me!" Figger Bush howled. "Ef I wus chained to dat little gal, I'd git me a plow-line an' wrop it aroun' our necks."
"I would, too," Vinegar bellowed. "But I'd tie de yuther eend of dat plow-line to a tree an' jump off de worl'."
"I bet Pearline don't hanker to jump offen no worl'," Mustard Prophet proclaimed. "Look at her—she's jes' as happy as ef she had sense."
The eyes of the four men turned upon the girl appraisingly. Then Pearline remembered that a few moments before she had been sniffling and shedding tears. She was sure her eyes were red, and she knew the tears had washed all the white powder off her black nose. Quickly she rose to her feet, giving the ten-foot chain a sharp jerk.
"I hates to take you from yo' frien's, Plaster," she exclaimed, "but I'm got to go in. I cain't stand de glare."
Side by side they entered the cabin and the chain rattled as they shut the door.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
"Stop scatterin' dem shavin's all over de floor, Plaster," Pearline commanded. "Ef folks comes to see us, I don't want dis house all literated up wid trash."
"I got to whittle while you sews, honey," Plaster said patiently. "I wanted to sot out in the yard, but you kep' me in de house all yistiddy afternoon because you said you had de headache from de glare."
"You kin whittle 'thout messin' up dis room," Pearline snapped.
"I likes a messy room," the man declared. "It looks like folks lived in it an' wus tol'able comfer'ble."
"You cain't mess up my house ef I got to come atter you an' clean up," the woman replied in a tone of finality.
A hound-dog stuck his wistful face into the door, seeking an invitation to enter.
"Dar's a frien' in need," the bridegroom proclaimed happily. "Come here, dawg!"
"Git out o' here!" the woman shrieked, kicking at the hound and sending him out with a howl. "I don't want dat houn' in dis house scratchin' his fleas all over de rooms. Look at de mud dat dawg tracked in. Come wadin' through de bayou an' den come trackin' through de house!"
"Dar's some advantages in livin' a dawg's life, Pearline," Plaster sighed. "Even excusin' de fleas, dar's plenty advantage. A dawg, even a married dawg, he ain't tied up all de time an' kin run aroun' some."
"You aims to say you's gittin' tired stayin' here wid me?" Pearline snapped.
"No'm. Nothin' like dat. I's happy as a mosquiter on a pickaninny's nose."
"Ef you feels tied up like a houn'-dawg in de middle of de secont day, how does you expeck to feel in de middle of de secont year?"
Plaster thought it best not to venture a reply. He looked through the open door at the hound, lying under the china-berry tree in the glare, placidly scratching fleas, bumping the elbow of his hind leg on the soft ground as he scratched.
"Don't you never answer no 'terrogations when I axes you?" Pearline asked sharply. "How you gwine feel in de middle of de secont year?"
Out of sheer perversity Plaster was disposed to tell her that he would feel dead and buried for at least a year before the time she mentioned, but instead he swallowed hard three times. His throat was dry and his tongue rasped his mouth like sandpaper. His answer, finally, was a song:
Thereupon Pearline jumped from her chair, got strangle-hold upon her husband, sat down on him, and impressed him forcibly in the next half-hour that his wife was a heavyweight and the day was extremely warm.
Plaster made such a hit with his improvised song that he repeated it three times, then gradually eased his wife off his lap and onto a chair.
"Don't you never shave yo' face, Plaster?" the lady asked when the love scene ended. "You feels like a stubby shoe-brush."
"No'm, my whiskers don't pester me none."
"But dey looks so bad," the woman urged.
"I cain't see 'em," Plaster grinned.
"I wants you to shave eve'y day while you is married to me."
"Huh," Plaster grunted.
"An I wants you to brush up yo' clothes, Plaster," the woman told him. "You looks scandalous dusty."
"I looks as good as you does," Plaster retorted. "I's got powdered dirt on my clothes an' you's got powdered chalk on yo' nose. You looks to dang dressy fer me anyhow. I favors bein' dusty an' easy-feelin'."
The discussion ended by the appearance of three women who came to the open door from the highroad.
"Look at dat, now!" Plaster exclaimed. "Here comes three ole gals of mine. I co'ted 'em all servigerous but it didn't git me nothin'."
"Whut dey buttin' in here fer?" Pearline asked in sharp tones.
"Mebbe dey'll tell us when dey comes in," Plaster chuckled.
The three women were the wives of Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush, and Vinegar Atts. When they entered they came straight to the point.
"Plaster, us ladies wants to talk to Sister Pearline Flunder Sickety in privut."
"Dat cain't be did, sisters," Plaster answered, looking them over suspiciously. "Whut does you want to tell my wife in privut?"
"Dat's a secret," Scootie Bush giggled.
Plaster looked at the women with an earnest effort to read their intentions. He recalled certain incidents in his association with the three in the old days of happy courtship that he preferred his wife should not know. He thought he saw mischief in the eyes of each of the women, especially Scootie and Goldie, and he shook his head.
"Nothin' ain't told in privut, sisters," he announced. "Leastwise, not till after de third day."
"Does you aim to say dat I cain't conversation in privut wid my frien's?" Pearline snapped.
"No'm not perzackly dat," Plaster hastened to explain. "But it looks kinder onpossible to me as long as I'm tied up wid you on dis chain."
"Git over again dat wall while dese ladies whispers to me," Pearline replied, giving him a push.
Plaster sat down and strained his ears to hear. What he heard was spasmodic giggles. He saw mischievous glances directed to himself. Once he saw his wife look straight at him reproachfully, as if she suspected that he was trying to overhear. There was half an hour of this, then the three giggling women took their departure.
"Whut did dem nigger women want, Pearline?" Plaster demanded.
"Dat's a fambly secret," Pearline giggled.
"Does you think you oughter hab any secrets from yo' cote-house husbunt?" Plaster demanded belligerently.
"Naw, suh. Not no secrets dat stays secrets, but dis here little myst'ry will git public powerful soon."
Coming through the medium of Plaster's troubled conscience, this answer sounded ominous. Pearline picked up some sewing and Plaster reached for his unwhittled stick. He spent one half-hour in deep thought. He was sorry he had told Pearline that those three women were old sweethearts of his. He recalled that his courtship of each woman had broken up in a row and a fist-fight. It had been one-sided, the women conducting the row and doing all the fighting while Plaster endeavored to escape. Now Plaster had no other idea than that they were hot on his trail. They were planning to make his life miserable through the jealousy of his wife.
There was a loud knock on the front door. The two arose and the door opened to Vinegar Atts, Figger Bush, and Hitch Diamond.
"Sister Sickety, us three niggers is a cormittee of three app'inted to wait in privut on Brudder Plaster Sickety an' hol' a secret confab wid him," Vinegar announced pompously.
"I don't allow my husbunt to hab no secrets from me," Pearline answered looking suspiciously at her old sweetheart, Hitch Diamond.
"Dis am a man's pussonal bizzness, Pearline," Hitch Diamond rumbled. "A nigger woman is got to butt out."
"But I's chained up wid Plaster," Pearline protested.
"Git over agin dat wall while dese gen'lemens whispers to me," Plaster remarked, giving her a push toward the chair which he had occupied under similar circumstances a short time before.
The three committeemen walked up close to Plaster, draped their arms over his shoulders, and talked in whispers, but guffawed out loud. Because Pearline was present their eyes irresistibly sought hers, especially when they laughed—what man can keep from looking at the woman in a room?—and Pearline inferred that they were talking and laughing about her. She strained her ears to hear, but not a word enlightened her ignorance. Then with a loud laugh the three men patted Plaster on the back and took themselves off.
"Whut did them niggers want, Plaster?" Pearline demanded in irate tones.
"Dat's a fambly secret," Plaster quoted mockingly.
"I felt like a fool wid dem mens lookin' at me an' snickerin'," the woman complained. "Wus dey talkin' about me?"
"Yes'm," the man chuckled.
This remark set Pearline to thinking about certain incidents. Hitch had been an old sweetheart, Figger Bush and Vinegar Atts had paid her courtly attentions, and some things had happened that she would rather not have to explain to her husband. There was a dismal depthless gulf of painful silence between the honeymooners for a long time. Then Pearline said with difficulty:
"I don't like de nigger mens you 'socheates wid. Dem three niggers ain't fitten comp'ny fer my husbunt."
"Dat's whut I thinks about dem three womens dat come to see you," Plaster answered. "Ef you runs wid dat color of petticoats I shore will disrespeck you mo' dan I does now."
"I runs wid anybody I chooses," Pearline snapped.
They pulled apart and the chain rattled.
They stepped back from the entrance and closed the door.
And the evening and the morning were the second day.
By sleeping until the noon-hour the two love-captives shortened the third day by half.
In the two days past they had exhausted every theme of conversation, had wearied of every kind of amusement they could devise, and had pumped their hearts dry of language to proclaim and protest their affection for each other to lubricate the machinery of existence amid the friction of their disposition and temperament.
The day before Plaster had made a hit with a song, so he decided to fill every moment of that day until the sun sank below the horizon with vocal music, for song banishes conversation and song is not provocative of difference of opinion and argument—so he thought. While he and his wife were dressing, Plaster began: