# The Shorn Lamb/Chapter 7
### Chapter 7 PHILIP'S HOME-COMING

A sound of gay chatter, followed by a peal of laughter, came from around the side of the house.
"That's that thar Betsy! Who you reckon she larfin' at now?" queried Aunt Peachy, tin cup raised to her protruding lips.
A step on the flagging! Elizabeth's heart lost a beat. A man's deep voice asking: "Where's Mother?" Then her two children standing arm in arm in the kitchen doorway!
"I walked all the way to the pike, Mother," said Betsy. "I was so sure he was coming. Here he is!"
"Mother!"
"My boy!"
Philip gave his mother one long kiss and then turned to his father, holding out his hand:
"Father, I am back."
"Humph! High time!" Rolfe Bolling shook his son's hand flabbily. There was something about Philip that made him feel uncomfortable. He tried to find the reason in his ​befuddled brain. He had a vague feeling that it was because he looked strangely like one of the far-off Bolling ancestors—the one in powdered cue and high stock that used to hang in the parlor and had been discarded for a crayon portrait of more recent date. As a little boy Rolfe had been afraid of the portrait, although fascinated by it. Aunt Peachy had used his fear of it to control the child, making vague threats that "the ol' man wif his th'oat all wropped up was a gonter ketch him." Both the old negress and the little white boy believed it was this very man who had hanged himself in the attic, connecting his stock with the noose, but they were mistaken. The portrait in question was of the charming gentleman who had planned the sunken garden and was responsible for the noble proportions of The Hedges.
Philip had changed decidedly from the boy of nineteen. He had always had a certain poise in his bearing in spite of the too long legs and arms, accentuated by the too short sleeves and trousers of the country-made clothes in which he had last been seen by his family. Now, not only did his clothes fit him, but he fitted his clothes. He impressed his people as he had Major Taylor. He had the indescribable air of birth and breeding. The set of his head, turn ​of his wrist, slender strong hands and well shod, shapely feet all bespoke the gentleman.
Elizabeth looked at her son with a heart full of joy and thankfulness. She felt that he would be able to cope with the difficulties that were sure to beset his path.
"Where is little Jo?" asked Philip. "I certainty do want to see the kid."
"He's not little Jo any more," said the mother sadly. "You can almost see the boy grow."
"He's off down the river fishing with Jim Strong," answered Betsy. "Jim is trying to get religion again and he says the fishermen in the Bible were holy men and maybe if he fishes enough he can come through. Jim is a silly old nigger. Jo is always running with those farm hands and it certainly doesn't improve his manners any. I do hope, now you are home, you will make him mend his ways, Philip."
Philip looked inquiringly at his mother and saw on her face a troubled look. He put his arm around her and kissed her again.
"Y'ain't kissed ol' Mam' Peachy yit," whined the old negress from behind the stove.
Philip started in surprise. The old woman had been so quiet and was crouched so low in her chair he had not been aware of her presence in the kitchen.
​"Yo' pap done kissed me time an' agin when he wa' a baby, an' you ain't no better'n yo' pap. Yo' pap done set me up an' put a gol' ring on my finger."
"How do you do, Aunt Peachy?" Philip spoke pleasantly, but with a dignity that for a moment quelled the old woman's tirade, and before she could collect her wits for the tongue-lashing she meant to give the young master he turned to his mother with:
"I would have been here sooner, but I had to take a little girl over to Mill House." He told them of Rebecca's arrival and Aunt Peachy was, as usual, appeased by the thrill of joy she always experienced over a choice morsel of news.
"You mean she air Tom Taylor's gal? Lil' Tom Taylor what done lef home whin Betsy thar wa'n't mo'n a baby? I'll be boun' thar's some lef handed doin's or the gal would a been hyar long ago. I'm a lowin' them thar hoighty toighty Myras an Ev'lyns will rar back mo'n ever with proudified feelin's 'ca'se they ain't a gonter want ter have no upstart brat aroun' ter look arfter."
Philip ignored the old woman and went on to tell his mother of Rebecca.
"I hope Betsy and Jo can see something of ​the child. They will like her, I am sure, and it will mean something to the little thing to have a friend like Betsy." He looked upon his sister with admiration and affection. Betsy had been not much older than Rebecca when he left home and now she was a grown girl, pretty beyond belief, with a complexion like a Cherokee rose and grey eyes that twinkled like waters on a starry night.
"Oh, fine!" exclaimed Betsy. "I'd like to see somebody besides the cows and the pigs and old Mam' Peachy. I won't mind a bit being older than Rebecca. I'm mortal afraid of old Major Taylor and his stuck-up daughters, but I think Mr. Spot Taylor is as handsome as a king. He took a stone out of the grey colt's foot only last Sunday, and he was as politeful as could be."
"Polite!" corrected her mother, smiling at her daughter's enthusiasm.
"But he was more than polite."
"Mind out! Mind out!" cackled Aunt Peachy. "Them Taylor men ain't ter be trusted. They has a way er lovin' low an' marryin' high. Not that the Bolling blood ain't mo' fittin' than any er that there Taylor blood. They ain't no better'n mountain po' whites ter start wif. I hates the whole passel er them. I ​hates the white folks an' I hates the black folks on that side er the ribber. I hates ol' Bob Taylor, wif his teasin' skeeterish ways, an' I hates his stiff-backed cotton-topped gals. I hates that there fat Testy an' I hated her mammy bef o' her. I hates that ol' fool of a Pearly Gates, a layin' up in the bed lak a queen. An' I hates her ol' fool nigger husban', Si Johnson. I ain't seed this here young Spot Taylor but oncet lately an' I reckon he air as bus'in' open wif conceit as the res' er the mess. He ain't never had no manners ter speak on. I's got plenty er hate lef fer him, an' I's got some ter spar fer the lil' brat what air jes' come."
Aunt Peachy, with the cleverness of her type, divined at once that it annoyed Philip for her to speak of Rebecca in such terms. She leered at him impertinently, leaning over and scratching her ankle with the expression of a vindictive ape.
"Well, when Rebecca Taylor comes over to see me I hope you will mend your manners, old Mam' Peachy," laughed Betsy. "You mustn't scratch in her presence. She is a young lady from New York and it might shock her."
Aunt Peachy retorted in a shrill cackle:
"Yi! Yi! Not scratch befo' mill folks! Yi! Yi! I kin tell you-alls right here that ​when I itches I scratches, wharever I is an' wharever I itches. Ain't it the truf, my baby?"
"Yes, an' befo' I git through with ol' Bob Taylor he's a gonter be hollerin' fer room to scratch," declared Rolfe Bolling, as he sank in his chair and began to eat the dinner which Elizabeth had dished up for him. Rolfe always ate in the kitchen, Aunt Peachy entertaining him with her ceaseless and scandalous chatter. Elizabeth had from the very beginning insisted upon having her meals with her children in the dining room.
"There's Jo now!" cried Betsy. "A string of catfish! You needn't expect me to clean 'em and fry 'em."
"Nobody's expectin' you to do anything but dress up and go to the Court House," was the scornful rejoinder of the boy who came slouching into the kitchen. "Jiminy crickets! Who's here?" he yelled, as he caught sight of Philip. "Golly Moses, but you are some dude! What'd you bring me from New York?"
"Hello, kid!" laughed Philip. "My, but you've grown so I can no longer call you a kid! I brought you a camera, a mighty neat little trick you can carry around in your pocket."
"Gee! That's bully. I'll take a picture of ol' Mam' Peachy."
​"I ain't gonter set fer no tintype. Please don't go snappin' no likeness er me, lil' Jo," pleaded the old woman.
"Well, it might bust my camera," laughed Jo.