The Voice of the People Part 28

She had crossed the threshold and stood now in the ambient glow, gazing across the quiet pasture, where a stray sheep bleated. She reached up and broke a bunch of red leaves from the oak, fastening them in her belt as they descended the narrow path.

In the road they came upon Uncle Ish, who was hobbling slowly towards them. He was wrinkled with age and bent with rheumatism, and his voice sounded cracked and querulous.

"Is de Lawd done sont dem vittles?" he demanded suspiciously. "Ef He ain', I dunno how I'se gwine ter git mo'n a'er ash cake fur supper.

'Pears like He's gittin' monst'ous ondependible dese yer las' days. I ain' lay eyes on er dish er kebbage sence I lef dat ar patch on Hick'ry Hill, en all de blackeye peas I'se done seen is what I raise right dar behint dat do'. Es long es Gord A'mighty ondertecks ter feed you, He mought es well feed you ter yo' tase."

"There are some eggs in the cupboard," said Eugenia seriously. "You must cook some for supper."

Uncle Ish grunted.

"En egg's er wishwashy creeter es ain' got ernuff tase er its own ter stan' alont widout salt," he remarked contemptuously; after which he grew hospitable.

"Ain' you gwine ter step in es you'se pa.s.sin'?" he inquired.

Eugenia shook her head.

"Not to-day, Uncle Ish," she responded cheerfully. "I know you're tired--and how is your rheumatism?"

"Wuss en wuss," responded the old negro gloomily. "I'se done cyar'ed one er dese yer I'sh taters in my pocket twell hit sprouted, en de rhematiks ain' never knowed 'twuz dar. Hit's wuss en wuss."

As they pa.s.sed on, he hobbled painfully up the rocky path, leaning heavily upon his stick and grunting audibly at each rheumatic twinge.

Nicholas and Eugenia followed the highway and turned into the avenue of cedars. When the house was in sight, he stopped and held out his hand.

"May I see you sometimes?" he asked diffidently.

She spoke eagerly.

"Oh, do come to see us," she said. "Papa would enjoy talking about Judge Ba.s.sett. He half wors.h.i.+ps him."

"So do I."

She nodded sympathetically.

"I know--I know. He is splendid! And you are doing well, aren't you?"

"I have work to do, thank G.o.d, and I do it. I can't say how."

"What does Judge Ba.s.sett say?"

He laughed boyishly. "He says silence."

She was puzzled.

"I don't understand--but I must go--I really must. It is quite dark."

And she pa.s.sed from him into the box-bordered walk. He watched her tall figure until it ascended the stone steps and paused upon the porch, whence came the sound of voices. Through the wide open doors he could see the swinging lamp in the centre of the great hall and the broad stairway leading to the floor above. For a moment he stood motionless; then, turning back into the avenue, he retraced his steps to his father's house.

In the kitchen, where the table was laid for supper, his half-sister, Nannie, was sewing on her wedding clothes. She was to be married in the fulness of the winter to young Nat Turner--one of the Turners of Nicholas's boyhood. By the light of the kerosene lamp she looked wonderfully fair and fresh, her auburn curls hanging heavily against her cheek as she bent over the cambric in her lap.

As Nicholas entered she looked up brightly, exclaiming: "Oh, it's you!"

in disappointed accents.

Nicholas looked about the kitchen inquiringly.

"Where's ma?" he asked, and at the instant Marthy Burr appeared in the doorway, a pat of b.u.t.ter in her hand.

"Air you home, Nick?" was her greeting, as she placed the b.u.t.ter upon the table. Then she went across to Nannie and examined the hem on the cambric ruffle.

"It seems to me you might have done them st.i.tches a little finer," she observed critically. "Old Mrs. Turner's got powerful sharp eyes for st.i.tches, an' she's goin' to look mighty hard at yours. If thar's one st.i.tch shorter'n another, it's goin' to stand out plainer than all the rest. It's the nater of a woman to be far-sighted at seeing the flaws in her son's wife, an' old Mrs. Turner ain't no better'n G.o.d made her, if she ain't no worse. 'Tain't my way to be wis.h.i.+n' harm to folks, but I al'ays said the only thing to Amos Burr's credit I ever heerd of is that he's an orphan--which he ain't responsible for."

"But the sewing's all right," returned Nannie in wounded pride. "Nat ain't marrying me for my sewing, anyway."

Her mother shook her head.

"What a man marries for's hard to tell," she returned; "an' what a woman marries for's past find-in' out. I ain't never seen an old maid yet that ain't had a mighty good opinion of men--an' I ain't never seen a married woman that ain't had a feelin' that a few improvements wouldn't be out of place. I don't want to turn you agin Nat Turner--he's a man an' he's got a mother, an' that's all I've got agin him. No talkin's goin' to turn anybody that's got their mind set on marryin', any more than it's goin' to turn anybody that's got their mind set on drink. So I ain't goin' to open my mouth."

Here Amos Burr appeared, and as he seated himself beside Nannie she drew her ruffles away. "You're so dusty, pa," she exclaimed half pettishly.

He fixed his heavy, admiring eyes upon her, receiving the reproof as meekly as he received all feminine utterances. He might bully a man, but he would always be bullied by a woman.

"I reckon you're pretty near ready," he observed cheerfully, rubbing his great hairy hands. "You've got 'most a trunk full of finery. I reckon Turner'll know I ain't in the poorhouse yet--or near it."

It was a speech of unusual length, and, after making it, he slowly settled into silence.

"Nat wouldn't mind if I was in the poorhouse, so long as he could get me out," said his daughter, taking up the cudgels in defence of her lover's disinterestedness.

Amos Burr chuckled.

"Don't you set no store by that," he rejoined.

"An' don't you set about judgin' other folks by yourself, Amos Burr,"

retorted his wife sharply. "'Tain't likely you'd ever pull anybody out o' the poorhouse 'thout slippin' in yourself, seein' as I've slaved goin' on twenty years to keep you from land-in' thar at last. The less you say about some things the better. Now, you'd jest as well set down an' eat your supper."

II

The next day Nicholas went into Tom Ba.s.sett's office, where he met Dudley Webb, who was spending a dutiful week in Kingsborough. He was a genial young fellow, with a clear-cut, cleanly shaven face and a handsome head covered with rich, dark hair. His hands were smooth and white, and he gesticulated rapidly as he talked. It was already said of him that he told a poor story better than anybody else told a good one--a fact which was probably the elemental feature of his popularity.

As Nicholas looked in, he raised himself lightly from Tom's desk chair and gave him a hearty handshake.

"h.e.l.lo, Burr! We were just talking of you. I was telling Tom a jolly thing I heard yesterday. Two farmers were discussing you at the post-office, and one of them said: ''Tain't that he's got so much sense--I had a sight more at his age--but he's so blamed sure of himself, he makes you believe in him.' How's that for fame?"

"Not so bad as it is for me," returned Nicholas with a laugh. "If you win one or two small cases, there's obliged to be undue influence of the devil."