Chapter Ninety Nine.
The Yellow Duenna.
“Good lor, gal! wha you doin’ down da? You know Mass’ Holt an’ Mass’ Stebbins want dar coffee? Why ain’t you done fotch de water?”
I faced round on hearing the voice. The tone and patois had already admonished me that the speaker was neither white nor Indian, but of that third typical race that mingles in the social life of the transatlantic world—an African. The harsh accentuation had prepared me for the appearance of a man and a negro; but, on turning, I perceived that I was mistaken—both as to the sex and colour. In the speaker I beheld a mulatto—a yellow woman of large size—gross, corpulent, and greasy. Her dress was a light-coloured muslin print—negligently open at the breast, and garnished with gaudy ribbons, from which freely protruded the mountainous masses of her bosom. On her head was a toque of checked “bandana,” folded over the black corkscrew ringlets, that scarce reached so low as her ears; while ungartered stockings upon her ankles, and slipshod shoes upon her feet, completed the tout ensemble of her costume. Notwithstanding the negligé visible in her apparel, there were signs of conceit as to personal appearance. The fashion and trimmings were not in keeping with that of her tabooed race; and in the set of the toque there was a certain air of coquetry. The features, small and regular, might have once passed for handsome; but they were now nearly eliminated by her obese condition, which produced a disproportionate rotundity of face. The eyes, moreover, had lost all loveliness, if ever they had been endowed with such an expression. Their glance, in its brightest day, could have been only animal. It was still sufficiently sensual; but sensuality of a sullen and leering character. The voice of this woman had already produced an unpleasant effect upon me; so, too, the words spoken. The sight of her, as she stood “akimbo,” her hands resting upon her enormous haunches, only strengthened the sinister impression, which was still further confirmed by my observing that it had caused a similar effect elsewhere—upon Lilian! Even over that radiant countenance I could see that a cloud had stolen, and continued to shadow it!
“Say, gal! wha you doin’ dar, anyhow? You fill dat pail double-quick, or, golly, you catch it!” A threat! Lilian listens to it, and obeys!
“I am coming, Aunt Lucy!” replied the girl, in a trembling voice, at the same time hastening to fill the water-can.
I was in hopes that this conciliatory answer would send the mulatta back into the corral. To my chagrin, it produced a result directly the reverse; for, on hearing it, the woman came waddling down in rapid strides towards the river. She made direct for the spot where Lilian was filling the can; and by her quick, nervous gestures, and the lurid light flashing in her half-buried eyes, I could perceive that some hideous passion was stirring within her. Lilian had already perceived that she was approaching, and stood waiting for her—evidently in awe! When within a few paces of the girl, the fat fury opened speech upon her—and in a tone as vindictive as the sound of her voice was harsh and grating.
“Wha for, gal, you call me Aunt Lucy? Wha for you say dat? Dam! you call me so ’gain, I jab you eyes out. Sure I live, I gouge you!”
The monster, as she spoke, stretched out her hand, bending the thumb with a significant gesture.
She continued in the same spiteful tone:—“I tear you’ har you so conceit’ ’bout—you’ golding har, folks call. Piff! you’ har da colour ob yella squash. I pull um out o’ you’ head in fistful, you call me Aunt Lucy ’gain.”