The Web and The Root (19 page)

The girl rarely spoke, and seemed to have no variety of passion save that indicated by her constant, limitlessly sensual, and vacant smile. And as she stood obedient and docile beside her mother, and that huge creature spoke of her with a naked frankness, and as the girl smiled always that tender, vacant smile as if her mother’s words had no meaning for her, the feeling of something inhuman and catastrophic in the natures of these people was overwhelming:

“Yes,” Mrs. Lampley would drawl, as the girl stood smiling vacantly at her side. “She’s growed up here on me before I knowed it, an’ I got to watch her all the time now to keep some son-of-a-bitch from knockin’ her up an’ ruinin’ her. Here only a month or two ago two of these fellers down here at the livery stable—you know who I mean,” she said carelessly, and in a soft, contemptuous voice—“that dirty, good-fer-nothin’ Pegram feller an’ that other low-down bastard he runs around with—what’s his name, Grace?” she said impatiently, turning to the girl.

“That’s Jack Cashman, mama,” the girl answered in a soft and gentle tone, without changing for a second the tender, vacant smile upon her face.

“Yeah, that’s him!” said Mrs. Lampley. “That low-down Cashman—if I ever ketch him foolin’ around here again I’ll break his neck, an’ I reckon he knows it, too,” she said grimly. “Why, I let her out, you know, one night along this Spring, to mail some
letters,” she went on in an explanatory tone, “an’ told her not to be gone more’n half an hour—an’ these two fellers picked her up in a buggy they was drivin’ an’ took her fer a ride way up the mountain side. Well, I waited an’ waited till ten o’clock had struck, an’ still she didn’t come. An’ I walked the floor, an’ walked the floor, an’ waited—an’ by that time I was almost out of my head! I’ll swear, I thought I would go crazy,” she said slowly and virtuously. “I didn’t know what to do. An’ finally, when I couldn’t stand it no longer, I went upstairs an’ waked Lampley up. Of course, you know Lampley,” she chuckled. “
He
goes to bed early. He’s in bed every night by nine o’clock, and
he
ain’t goin’ to lose sleep over nobody. Well, I waked him up,” she said slowly. “Lampley,’ I says, ‘Grace’s been gone from here two hours, an I’m goin’ to find her if I have to spend the rest of the night lookin’ for her.’—‘Well how you goin’ to find her,’ he says, ‘if you don’t know where she’s gone?’—‘I don’t know,’ I says, ‘but I’ll find her if I’ve got to walk every street an’ break into every house in town—an’ if I find some son-of-a-bitch has taken advantage of her, I’ll kill him with my bare hands,’” said Mrs. Lampley. “I’ll kill the two of them together—for I’d rather see her layin’ dead than know she’s turned out to be a whore’—that’s what I said to him,” said Mrs. Lampley.

During all this time, the girl stood obediently beside the chair in which her mother sat, smiling her tender, vacant smile, and with no other sign of emotion whatever.

“Well,” said Mrs. Lampley slowly, “then I heard her. I heard her while I was talkin’ to Lampley, openin’ the door easylike an’ creepin’ up the stairs. Well, I didn’t say nothin’—I just waited until I heard her tiptoe in along the hall past Lampley’s door—an’ then I opened it an’ called to her. ‘Grace,’ I said, ‘where’ve you been?’—Well,” said Mrs. Lampley with an air of admission, “she told me. She never tried to lie to me. I’ll say that fer her, she’s never lied to me yet. If she did,” she added grimly, “I reckon she knows I’d break her neck.”

And the girl stood there passively, smiling all the time.

“Well, then.” said Mrs. Lampley, “she told me who she’d been with and where they’d been. Well—I thought I’d go crazy!” the woman said slowly and deliberately. “I took her by the arms an’ looked at her. ‘Grace,’ I said, ‘you look me in the eye an’ tell me the truth—did those two fellers do anything to you?’—‘No,’ she says.—‘Well, you come with me,’ I says, ‘I’ll find out if you’re telling me the truth, if I’ve got to kill you to git it out of you.’”

And for a moment the huge creature was silent, staring grimly ahead, while her daughter stood beside her and smiled her gentle and imperturbably sensual smile.

“Well,” said Mrs. Lampley slowly, as she stared ahead, “I took her down into the cellar—and,” she said with virtuous accents of slight regret, “I don’t suppose I should have done it to her, but I was so worried—so worried,” she cried strangely, “to think that after all the bringin’ up she’d had, an’ all the trouble me an’ Lampley had taken tryin’ to keep her straight—that I reckon I went almost crazy…. I reached down an’ tore loose a board in an old packin’ case we had down there,” she said slowly, “an’ I beat her! I
beat
her,” she cried powerfully, “until the blood soaked through her dress an’ run down on the floor…. I beat her till she couldn’t stand,” cried Mrs. Lampley, with an accent of strange maternal virtue in her voice, “I beat her till she got down on her knees an’ begged for mercy—now
that
was how hard I beat her,” she said proudly. “An’ you know it takes a lot to make Grace cry—she won’t cry fer nothin’—so you may know I beat her mighty hard,” said Mrs. Lampley, in a tone of strong satisfaction.

And during all this time the girl just stood passively with her sweet and vacant smile, and presently Mrs. Lampley heaved a powerful sigh of maternal tribulation, and, shaking her head slowly, said:

“But, Lord! Lord! They’re a worry an’ a care to you from the moment that they’re born! You sweat an’ slave to bring ’em up right—an’ even then you can’t tell what will happen. You watch ’em day an’ night—an’ then the first low-down bastard that comes along may git ’em out an’ ruin ’em the first time your back is turned!”

And again she sighed heavily, shaking her head. And in this grotesque and horribly comic manifestation of motherly love and solicitude, and in the vacant, tender smile upon the girl’s large, empty face there really was something moving, terribly pitiful, and unutterable.

W
HENEVER
G
EORGE THOUGHT
of this savage and tremendous family, his vision always returned again to Mr. Lampley himself, whose last, whose greatest secrecy, was silence. He talked to no one more than the barest necessity of business speech demanded, and when he spoke, either in question or reply, his speech was as curt and monosyllabic as speech could be, and his hard, blazing eyes, which he kept pointed as steady as a pistol at the face of anyone to whom he spoke or listened, repelled effectively any desire for a more spacious conversation. Yet, when he did speak, his voice was never surly, menacing, or snarling. It was a low, hard, toneless voice, as steady and unwavering as his hard black eyes, yet not unpleasant in its tone or timbre; it was, like everything about him save the naked, blazing eyes—hard, secret, and contained. He simply fastened his furious and malignant little eyes on one and spoke as brief and short as possible.

“Talk!” a man said. “Why, hell, he don’t need to talk! He just stands there and lets those eyes of his do all the talkin’ for him!” And this was true.

Beyond this bare anatomy of speech, George had heard him speak on only one occasion. This had been one day when he had come to make collections for the meat he had delivered. At this time it was known in the town that Mr. Lampley’s son, Baxter, had been accused of stealing money from the man he worked for, and that—so ran the whispered and discreditable rumor—Baxter had been compelled to leave town. On this day when Mr. Lampley came to make collections, Aunt Maw, spurred by her native curiosity, and the desire that people have to hear the confirmation of their worst suspicions from the lips of those who are most painfully concerned, spoke to the butcher with the obvious and clumsy casualness of tone that people use on these occasions:

“Oh, Mr. Lampley,” she said, as if by an afterthought when she had paid him, “say—by the way—I was meanin’ to ask you. What’s become of Baxter? I was thinkin’ just the other day, I don’t believe I’ve seen him for the last month or two.”

During all the time she spoke, the man’s blazing eyes never faltered in their stare upon her face, and they neither winked nor wavered as he answered.

“No,” he said, in his low, hard, toneless voice. “I don’t suppose you have. He’s not livin’ here any more. He’s in the navy.”

“What say?” Aunt Maw cried eagerly, opening the screen door a trifle wider and moving forward. “The navy?” she said sharply.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Lampley tonelessly, “the navy. It was a question of join the navy or go to jail. I gave him his choice. He joined the navy,” Mr. Lampley said grimly.

“What say? Jail?” she said eagerly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Lampley replied. “He stole money from the man he was workin’ for, as I reckon maybe you have heard by now. He done something he had no right to do. He took money that did not belong to him,” he said with a brutal stubbornness. “When they caught him at it they came to me and told me they’d let him go if I’d make good the money that he’d stolen. So I said to him: ‘All right. I’ll give ’em the money if you join the navy. Now, you can take your choice—it’s join the navy or go to jail. What do you want to do?’ He joined the navy,” Mr. Lampley again concluded grimly.

As for Aunt Maw, she stood for a moment reflectively, and now, her sharp curiosity having been appeased by this blunt and final statement, a warmer, more engaging sentiment of friendliness and sympathy was awakened in her:

“Well, now, I tell you what,” she said hopefully, “I believe you did just the thing you should have done. I believe that’s the very thing Baxter needs. Why, yes!” she now cried cheerfully. “He’ll go off there and see the world and meet up with all kinds of people, and learn to keep the proper sort of hours and lead a good, normal, healthy sort of
life—for there’s one thing sure,” she said oracularly, “you can’t violate the laws of nature. If you do, you’ll have to pay for it some day as sure as you’re born,” she said solemnly, as she shook her head, “as sure as you’re born.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Lampley in his low, toneless voice, keeping his little blazing eyes fixed straight upon her.

“Why, yes,” Aunt Maw cried again, and this time with the vigorous accents of a mounting cheerful certitude, “they’ll teach that boy a trade and regular habits and the proper way to live, and you mark my words, everything’s goin’ to turn out good for him,” she said with heartening conviction. “He’ll forget all about this trouble. Why, yes!—the whole thing will blow right over, people will forget all about it. Why, say! everyone is liable to make a mistake sometime, aren’t they?” she said persuasively. “That happens to everyone—and I’ll bet you. I’ll bet you anything you like that when that boy comes back—”

“He ain’t comin’ back,” said Mr. Lampley.

“What say?” Aunt Maw cried in a sharp, startled tone.

“I said he ain’t comin’ back,” said Mr. Lampley.

“Why what’s the reason he’s not?” she said.

“Because if he does,” said Mr. Lampley, “I’ll kill him. And he knows it.”

She stood looking at him for a moment with a slight frown.

“Oh, Mr. Lampley,” she said quietly, shaking her head with a genial regret, “I’m sorry to hear you say that. I don’t like to hear you talk that way.”

He stared at her grimly for a moment with his furious, blazing eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, as if he had not heard her. “I’ll kill him. If he ever comes back here, I’ll kill him. I’ll beat him to death,” he said.

Aunt Maw looked at him, shaking her head a little, saying with a closed mouth: “Huh, huh, huh, huh.”

He was silent.

“I never could stand a thief,” he said at length. “If it’d been anything
else, I could’ve forgotten it. But a thief!” for the first time his voice rose hoarsely on a surge of passion. “Ah-h-h!” he muttered, stroking his head, and now there was a queer note of trouble and bewilderment in his hard tone. “You don’t know! You don’t know,” he said, “the trouble I have had with that boy! His mother an’ me done all we could for him. We worked hard an’ we tried to raise him right—but we couldn’t do nothing with him,” he muttered. “He was a bad egg.” He looked at her quietly a moment with his little, blazing eyes. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, and with a note of strong rising virtue in his voice, “I beat him, I beat him till he couldn’t stand up—I beat him till the blood ran down his back—but it didn’t do no more good than if I was beatin’ at a post,” he said. “No, ma’am. I might as well have beaten at a post.”

And now his voice had a queer, hard note of grief, regret, and resignation in it, as if a man might say: “All that a father could do for a son I did for mine. But if a man shall beat his son until the blood runs down his back, and still that son learns neither grace nor penitence, what more can a father do?”

He paused a moment longer, with his eyes fixed hard upon her.

“No, ma’am,” he concluded, in his low, toneless voice, “I never expect to see his face again. He’ll never come back here. He knows I’ll kill him if he does.” Then he turned and walked off towards his ancient vehicle while Aunt Maw stood watching him with a troubled and regretful face.

A
ND HE HAD
told the truth. Baxter never did come back. He was as lost to all of them as if he had been dead. They never saw him again.

But George, who heard all this, remembered Baxter suddenly. He remembered his part-brutal, part-corrupted face. He was a creature criminal from nature and entirely innocent. His laugh was throaty with a murky, hoarse, and hateful substance in it; there was something too glutinously liquid, rank, and coarse in his smile; and his eyes looked wet. He had too strange and sudden and too murderously obscure a rage for the clear, hard passions most boys knew. He had a
knife with a long, curved blade, and when he saw negroes in the street he put his hand upon his knife. He made half-sobbings in his throat when his rage took hold of him. Yet he was large, quite handsome, well-proportioned. He was full of rough, sudden play, and was always challenging a boy to wrestle with him. He could wrestle strongly, rudely, laughing hoarsely if he flung somebody to the ground, enjoying a bruising struggle, and liking to pant and scuffle harshly with skinned knees upon the earth; and yet he would stop suddenly if he had made his effort but found his opponent stronger than he was, and succumb inertly, with a limp, sudden weakness, smiling, with no pride or hurt, as his opponent pinned him to the earth.