In Connection with the De Willoughby Claim. Frances Hodgson BurnettЧитать онлайн книгу.
to ’tend court to Bakersville, an’ took it on my road to go by thar. She was settin’ in the door, an’ I see her afore she seen me. When she hearn the sound of my mule’s feet, she got up an’ went into the house. It was a powerful hot mornin’, ‘n’ I wus mighty dry, ‘n’ I stopped fur a cool drink. She didn’t come out when fust I hollered, ‘n’ when she did come, she looked kinder skeered ‘n’ wouldn’t talk none. Kep’ her sunbonnet over her face, like she didn’t want to be seen overmuch.”
“What does she look like, Ezry?” asked one of the younger men.
Mr. Stamps meditated a few seconds.
“Don’t look like none o’ the women folk about yere,” he replied, finally. “She ain’t their kind.”
“What d’ye mean by that?”
“Dunno eggsactly. She’s mighty white ‘n’ young-lookin’ ‘n’ delicate—but that ain’t all.”
Tom made a restless movement.
“Look here, boys,” he broke in, suddenly, “here’s a nice business—a lot of fellows asking questions about a woman an’ gossiping as if there wasn’t a thing better to do. Leave ’em alone, if they want to be left alone—leave ’em alone.”
Mr. Stamps expectorated in an entirely unbiased manner. He seemed as willing to leave his story alone as he had been to begin it.
“He’s comin’ yere,” he said, softly, after a pause. “Thet’s whar he’s comin’.”
The rest of the company straightened themselves in their seats and made an effort to assume the appearance of slightly interested spectators. It became evident that Mr. Stamps was right, and that the rider was about to dismount.
He was a man about thirty years of age, thin, narrow-chested, and stooping. His coarse clothes seemed specially ill-suited to his slender figure, his black hair was long, and his beard neglected; his broad hat was pulled low over his eyes and partially concealed his face.
“He don’t look none too sociable when he’s nigher than half a mile,” remarked Nath in an undertone.
He glanced neither to the right nor to the left as he strode past the group into the store. Strange to relate, Tom had lounged behind the counter and stood ready to attend him. He asked for a few necessary household trifles in a low tone, and, as Tom collected and made them into a clumsy package, he stood and looked on with his back turned towards the door.
Those gathered upon the porch listened eagerly for the sound of conversation, but none reached their ears. Tom moved heavily to and fro for a few minutes, and then the parcel was handed across the counter.
“Hot weather,” said the stranger, without raising his eyes.
“Yes,” said Tom, “hot weather, sir.”
“Good-day,” said the stranger.
“Good-day,” answered Tom.
And his customer took his departure. He passed out as he had passed in; but while he was indoors little Mr. Stamps had changed his position. He now sat near the wooden steps, his legs dangling as before, his small countenance as noncommittal as ever. As the stranger neared him, he raised his pale little eyes, blinked them, indulged in a slight jerk of the head, and uttered a single word of greeting.
“Howdy?”
The stranger started, glanced down at him, and walked on. He made no answer, untied his horse, mounted it, and rode back over the Barnesville Road towards the mountain.
Mr. Stamps remained seated near the steps and blinked after him silently until he was out of sight.
“Ye didn’t seem to talk none, D’Willerby,” said one of the outsiders when Tom reappeared.
Tom sank into his chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stretched his limbs out to their fullest capacity.
“Let a man rest, boys,” he said, “let a man rest!”
He was silent for some time afterwards, and even on the arrival of the mail was less discursive than usual. It was Mr. Stamps who finally aroused him from his reverie.
Having obtained his mail—one letter in a legal-looking envelope—and made all other preparations to return to the bosom of his family, Stamps sidled up to the counter, and, leaning over it, spoke in an insinuatingly low tone:
“She was bar’foot,” he said, mildly, “ ‘n’ she hadn’t been raised to it—that was one thing. Her feet wus as soft ‘n’ tender as a baby’s; ‘n’ fur another thing, her hands wus as white as her face, ‘n’ whiter. Thet ain’t the way we raise ’em in Hamlin County—that’s all.”
And, having said it, he slipped out of the store, mounted his mule, and jogged homeward on the Barnesville Road also.
CHAPTER II
Before the war there were no people better known or more prominent in their portion of the State than the De Willoughbys of Delisle County, Tennessee. To have been born a De Willoughby was, in general opinion, to have been born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth. It was indeed to have been born to social dignity, fortune, courage, and more than the usual allowance of good looks. And though the fortune was lavishly spent, the courage sometimes betrayed into a rather theatrical dare-deviltry, and the good looks prone to deteriorate in style, there was always the social position left, and this was a matter of the deepest importance in Delisleville. The sentiments of Delisleville were purely patrician. It was the county town, and contained six thousand inhabitants, two hotels, and a court-house. It had also two or three business streets and half a dozen churches, all very much at odds with each other and each seriously inclined to disbelieve in the probable salvation of the rest. The “first families” (of which there were eight or ten, with numerous branches) attended the Episcopal Church, the second best the Presbyterian, while the inferior classes, who could scarcely be counted at all, since they had not been born in Delisleville, drifted to the Methodists.
The De Willoughbys attended the Episcopal Church, and, being generally endowed with voices, two or three of them sang in the choir, which was composed entirely of members of the attending families and executed most difficult music in a manner which was the cause after each service of much divided opinion. Opinion was divided because the choir was divided—separated, in fact, into several small, select cliques, each engaged in deadly and bitter feud with the rest. When the moon-eyed soprano arose, with a gentle flutter, and opened her charming mouth in solo, her friends settled themselves in their pews with a general rustle of satisfaction, while the friends of the contralto exchanged civilly significant glances; and on the way home the solo in question was disposed of in a manner at once thorough and final. The same thing occurred when the contralto was prominent, or the tenor, or the baritone, or the basso, each of whom it was confidently asserted by competent Delisleville judges might have rendered him or herself and Delisleville immortal upon the lyric stage if social position had not placed the following of such a profession entirely out of the question. There had indeed been some slight trouble in one or two of the best families, occasioned by the musical fervour of youthful scions who were in danger of being led into indiscretions by their enthusiasm.
The De Willoughbys occupied one of the most prominent pews in the sacred edifice referred to. Judge De Willoughby, a large, commanding figure, with a fine sweep of long hair, mustache and aquiline profile; Mrs. De Willoughby (who had been a Miss Vanuxem of South Carolina), slender, willowy, with faded brunette complexion and still handsome brunette eyes, and three or four little De Willoughbys, all more or less pretty and picturesque. These nearly filled the pew. The grown-up Misses De Willoughby sang with two of their brothers in the choir. There were three sons, Romaine, De Courcy, and Thomas. But Thomas did not sing in the choir. Thomas, alas! did not sing at all. Thomas, it was universally