TALBOT'S ANGLES
[Illustration: "I AM AS PROUD AS CAN BE OF YOU."
FRONTISPIECE (_Page 147_).]
_TALBOT'S ANGLES_
_BY
AMY E. BLANCHARD_
_Author of "A Journey of Joy," "Wits' End,"
"The Glad Lady," etc._
[Illustration]
_BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS_
_Copyright, 1911_,
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS:
C.H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AT END OF DAY 9
II. A CLINGING VINE 21
III. LEAVING THE NEST 35
IV. DEPARTED DAYS 48
V. THE ALARM 61
VI. AN INQUISITIVE NEIGHBOR 75
VII. WAS IT CURIOSITY? 89
VIII. A DISCLOSURE 105
IX. THE LETTERS ON THE TRUNK 118
X. PURSUING CLUES 132
XI. A NEWSPAPER 145
XII. A BRACE OF DUCKS 157
XIII. AN ANCESTRAL PILGRIMAGE 170
XIV. TWO BUGGIES 185
XV. A DISTINCT SENSATION 199
XVI. BEGONE, DULL CARE 213
XVII. AS WATER UNTO WINE 228
XVIII. THE DELIBERATE CONSCIENCE 245
XIX. OF WHAT AVAIL? 262
XX. "THE SPRING HAS COME" 277
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"I AM AS PROUD AS CAN BE OF YOU." (_Page 147_) _Frontispiece_
SCOLDING AWAY "JES LAK AN OLE BLUE JAY," DECLARED JAKE. 38
"DON'T SHOOT!" 71
"BUT YOU MUST NOT CALL ME COUSIN!" 115
"YOU DON'T IMAGINE HE HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH GRACE, DO YOU?" 164
"HE HAS GIVEN ME THE DEAREST RING." 225
"HER GAZE FELL ON THE TWO." 289
TALBOT'S ANGLES
CHAPTER I
THE END OF A DAY
The sun was very low in the west and the evening colors were staining
the creek whose quiet waters ran between flat lands to be carried out
to the river further on, which, in its turn, found the broader bay. The
arms of one or two ancient windmills, which had been moving lazily in
the breeze, made a few rotations and then stopped, showing themselves
dark objects against a glowing sky. An old church, embowered by tall
trees, caught some of the evening glow upon its ancient brick walls,
and in the dank long grass gray headstones glimmered out discovering
the graveyard. Beyond the church the sparkling creek murmured gently. A
few turkey-buzzards cast weird shadows as they circled slowly overhead
or dropped with slanting wing to perch upon the chimneys of a long low
house which stood not many rods from the weather-stained church. One
reached the church by way of a green lane, and along this lane was now
coming Linda Talbot, a girl above medium height whose dark hair made
her fine fair skin look the fairer by contrast. Her eyes were downcast
so that one could not discern their depth of violet blue, but one could
note the long black lashes, the well-shaped brows and the rounded chin.
Just now her lips were compressed so the lines of her mouth could not
be determined upon. She walked slowly, never once raising her eyes
toward the sparkling creek and the sunset sky. But once beyond the gate
opening from the lane, she stood and looked around, taking in the view
which included the windmills raising protesting arms, the fields where
lately, corn had been stacked, the long low brown house. Upon this last
her eyes lingered long and lovingly, observing the quaint lines, the
low sloping roof, the small-paned windows, the chimneys at each end,
the porch running the length of the building, each detail so familiar,
so dearly loved, and now passing from her.
She gave her head a little quick shake as if to scatter the thoughts
assailing her, then she moved more quickly toward the house, but
passing around to the kitchen rather than entering by way of the porch.
An old colored woman was picking crabs at a table near the window.
"Gwine give yuh some crab cakes fo' suppah, Miss Lindy," she announced,
looking up. "Dark ketch me fo' I git 'em done I specs, dat no 'count
Jake so long gittin' 'em hyar. He de no countines' niggah evah I did
see. Thinks he ain't got nothin' to do but set 'roun' rollin' his eyes
at de gals."
"Get me an apron, Mammy," said Linda, "and I'll help you."
"Go 'long, Miss Lindy. 'Tain't no need o' dat."
"But I'd like to," persisted the girl feeling relief at not immediately
being obliged to seek other society than that of the old colored woman
to whom she had brought her troubles from babyhood.
Enveloped in a huge gingham apron, she sat down to her task, but was
so much more silent than was her wont that the old woman from time to
time, raised her eyes to watch her furtively.
Presently she could stand it no longer. "Wha' de matter, honey?" she
asked solicitously. "Yuh got sumpin mo' on yo' min' dat honin' fo' Mars
Martin."
Linda dropped crab and fork into the dish of crab meat, rested her arms
on the table and hid her face in them that Phebe should not see the
tears she could no longer keep back.
"Dere, honey, dere baby," crooned Phebe. "Tell yo' ole Mammy all about
it. Wha' she been a doin' to Mammy's honey chile?"
Linda lifted her tearful eyes. "Oh, Mammy, I can't stand it. I must
go."
Phebe's hands shook. "What yuh mean, chile?" she asked with a tremor in
her voice.
"I mean I must earn my own living. Phebe, I shall have to. Oh, Mammy,
you know I cannot blame my brother, but if he had only left a little,
just a little for my very own. If he had not made the conditions so
hard."
"Tell Mammy agin jes' how yuh stan's, honey," said Phebe soberly.
"It's this way, Mammy. The place is left to Grace and me. As long as
she chooses to make it her home I am to live here. If Grace marries
she forfeits her right to it, but while she remains a widow she has a
claim to the whole farm, the crops, everything. I am permitted only a
place to sleep and enough to eat, and if she elects not to stay here,
what am I to do? I cannot keep up an establishment on nothing, can I?
Oh, Mammy, I did try, you know I did, while Martin lived, I tried to be
patient and good. It hurt more than anyone knew when he brought home
a silly pretty girl to take my place, to show a petty jealousy of me.
You know how I used to delight in saving that I might buy something
for Christmas or birthdays that he particularly wanted. Every little
possession meant some sacrifice, and when, one by one, all the little
treasured things that I had scrimped and saved to get for him, when
they were shoved out of sight and something took their place that she
had bought, I never said a word though it did hurt. We were such
comrades, Mart and I, and I was only a school girl when I began to keep
house for him and he came to me with all his confidences. We used to
talk over the crops, the investments, this, that, the other thing, and
it seemed as if it must always be so until--"
"Yas, honey, yas, I knows." Phebe spoke soothingly.
"She was jealous of every little thing," Linda went on. "She was very
sweet and appealing, always calling me 'dear little sister' to Mart
and gradually weaning him from me and my interests, subtly poisoning
his mind--No, not that exactly, but making him believe he was such a
wonderful brother to give me a home, to support me. She never ceased to
praise him for what she told him was his great unselfishness. She never
ceased to put me in the light of a dependent who had no real right to
what he gave. It used to be share and share alike, Mammy, and Mart used
to be the one to praise me for making a cheerful home. He used to say
that he would work day and night rather than have me go out into the
world to make my living, but, Mammy--to-day--Grace said I ought to do
it, and I must, for she is going to the city for the winter."
"Law, honey! Law, honey! Mah li'l baby!" groaned Mammy. "Yo' ma an'
pa'll riz up in dere grabes ef yuh does dat. Ain't it yo' home 'fore
it hers? Ain't yo' gran'daddy an' you gre't-gran'-daddy live hyar?
Ain't yuh de one dat has de mostes' right?"
"Yes, Mammy, dear, in the ordinary order of things it would be so, but
you know the place was mortgaged up to the last dollar and it was Mart
who lifted the mortgage and made the farm all his before father died.
According to the law I have no part nor parcel in it except what he
chose to leave me. Poor dear Mart, he was so blind, he thought never
was such a wife as Grace; he couldn't see that she worked steadily,
cleverly, cunningly all the time to build a barrier between us, to
chain him fast, to make him see through her eyes, to make me appear a
poor, weak incapable creature who ought to be left in her guardianship.
Well, she succeeded; my darling brother, whose thought was always for
me, made his will in such a way as to render me homeless."
"Lord, have mercy," groaned Mammy, rocking back and forth, the crabs
unheeded in their pan.
"Oh, he was innocent enough, poor dear," Linda went on quickly. "He
couldn't see anything but that it would be a fine thing for us two to
live together like loving sisters always. I would be Grace's right
hand; she would be my kind elder sister. That is the way it looked to
him. He couldn't see through her little deceits. How could he know
that her smiles covered a jealous, grasping nature? How could he
know that six months after he left us she would practically turn me
out-of-doors, that she would tell me I could not expect anything more
than food and shelter for part of the year, and that she intended to
spend her winters with her family and only her summers here?"
"Ain't it de troof?" ejaculated Mammy.
Having for the first time poured forth her grievances to a sympathetic
ear, Linda was not disposed to stop the torrent which gave her relief.
"She told me that it was for my sake as well as her own, and that she
thought I would be much happier if I were to make myself entirely
independent, all with that solicitous manner as if she lay awake nights
thinking of my welfare. Oh, no one but you, Mammy, who have seen it,
could realize the thousand little pin pricks that I have endured."
"Yas, honey, I knows; Mammy knows," responded the old woman gravely.
"But lemme tell yuh right now, ef yuh leaves de ole place, I leaves it."
"Oh, no, Mammy," Linda spoke in alarm, "Master Mart wouldn't like you
to do that."
"I ain't thinkin' so much about Marster Mart as I is o' my baby, an'
huccome she goes away. I ain't thinkin' so much o' him as I am o' mah
ole mistis, yo' grandma. Yuh reckon she think I 'bleedged to stay? No,
ma'am, dat she don't. 'Sides, honey, I reckons by dis time de angels
done cl'ar yo' brudder's eyes o' de wool what been pull over dem dese
two ye'rs pas', an' I reckons he a-sayin' to his own daddy an' ma', de
ole place ain't de same nohow, an' po' li'l sis she need her ole Mammy
Phebe, wharever she go!"
At these words, Linda quite broke down again, but this time she hid her
face on Phebe's shoulder and was patted gently with many soothing words
of, "Dere, honey, dere now, baby, don' cry; de good Lord gwine look
arfter yuh."
After a few minutes Linda raised her head to say, "Grace's sister is
coming down to help her close the house. They mean to leave before
Christmas and Phillips will manage the place. I haven't told you yet
what I mean to do. I had a letter to-day from Mr. Willis and he thinks
I can have a position in one of the schools, for one of the teachers is
going to be married and he will do all he can to get me her place."
"Dat up in town?"
"Yes, it will be in the primary department, and I shall have a class of
little boys."
"Humph!" Mammy expressed her disdain. "Whar yuh gwine live?"
"I shall have to board somewhere, of course."
The old woman's face fell. "I hopes I ain't live to see mah ole mistis'
gran'child bo'din' in a common bo'din' house, 'thout no lady to give
her countenance an' make it proper fo' her beaux to come an' see her.
No, ma'am, I hopes I ain't live to see dat."
"But, Mammy, what can I do? I haven't any very near relatives down
here, you know, and none nearly related anywhere, certainly not near
enough for me to invite myself to their homes. I can't afford a
chaperone, and besides I am sure I am well enough known in town to be
treated with respect wherever I may happen to live."
"I ain't say yuh isn't, but what I do say is dat it ain't fittin' an'
proper fo' one of de fambly to go off to bo'd thes anywhar lak common
folks."
"Then please to tell me what I am to do. Pshaw! Mammy, it's nonsense to
talk as if I were a princess. We've got to face facts--plain, every-day
facts. I must make my living, and I am lucky to be able to do it in a
nice, ladylike way, in my own town and among my own friends."
Mammy began to pick at the crabs again, working away sullenly. She knew
these were facts, but she rebelled against the existence of them. She
thought seriously over the situation for some minutes. "If yuh goes, I
goes," at last she reiterated. "Miss Ri Hill she tell me laughin' like,
mo' times dan one, 'When yuh wants a place, Phebe, mah kitchen ready
fo' yuh.' She ain't think I uvver leave yuh-alls, but I knows she tek
me ef she kin git me."
"Miss Ri Hill! Why, Mammy, that is an inspiration. She is the very one.
Perhaps she will take me in, too," cried Linda.
"Praise de Lord! Ain't it de troof now? Co'se she tek yuh. 'Tain'
nobody think mo' o' yuh dan Miss Ri. She yo' ma's bridesmaid, an' yuh
always gre't fav'ite o' hers. Dat mek it cl'ar as day. She yuh-alls
kin' an' she stan' fo' yuh lak home folks. When yuh gwine, Miss Lindy?"
"Oh, pretty soon, I think."
Just here the door opened and a high-pitched, rather sweet, but
sentimentally pathetic voice said, "Phebe, have you forgotten that it
is nearly supper time? Linda, dear, is that you? I wouldn't hinder
Phebe just now. I was wondering where you were. I saw you walking
about so energetically and am so glad you can take pleasure in
outside things, for of course I couldn't expect you to appreciate my
loneliness, a young girl like you is always so buoyant." A plaintive
sigh followed, as Grace Talbot turned to go. She was a fair, plump
young woman with an appealing expression, a baby mouth and wide-open
eyes in which it was her effort to maintain a look of childish
innocence. "Do try to have supper promptly, Phebe," she said as she
reached the door. "Of course, I don't care for myself, as I eat very
little, but Miss Linda must be hungry after her walk."
Phebe gave a suggestive shrug and muttered something under her breath
about "snakes in the grass," while Linda, with a sad little smile of
deprecation, followed her sister-in-law through the irregular rooms,
up a step here, down there, till the parlor was reached. Here an open
fire was burning dully, for, though it was early fall, the evenings
were chill even in this latitude, and Grace was a person who loved
warmth. Creature comforts meant much to her, a certain chair, a special
seat at table, a footstool, a cushion at her back, these she had
made necessities, and had demanded them in the way which would most
appeal to her husband, while later, for the sake of harmony, Linda had
followed his precedent.
Grace now sank into her chair by the fire, put her head back against
the cushion and closed her eyes. "Linda, dear," she said, "would you
mind seeing if there is more wood? One gets so chilly when one's
vitality is low, and I am actually shivering."
Silently Linda went to the wood box, brought a log, stirred the fire
and started a cheerful blaze, then sat down in a dim corner, resting
elbows on knees, chin in hands.
"Where were you walking?" asked Grace presently, stretching herself
like some sleek animal in the warmth of the fire.
"I went to the graveyard," replied Linda slowly.
Grace shivered slightly. "What strong nerves you have. I simply
cannot bear to do such things; I am so sensitive. I cannot endure
those reminders of my loss. You are so different, but, of course, all
natures are not the same. I saw you talking to Phillips. I am glad to
know that you can still take an interest in the place, but as for me
it is too sad to talk over those things which were always a concern of
my dear husband's. I cannot face details yet. My sorrow consumes all
my thoughts and outside matters have no place in them. I suppose," she
added in a weary voice, "everything is going on all right or you would
tell me."
"Everything is right so far as I can judge," returned Linda; "but I
would advise you to rouse yourself to take an interest soon, Grace, for
I shall not be here."
"Are you really going soon?" asked Grace, opening her eyes.
It was Linda's impulse to say, "I hope so," but she refrained. "I think
so," she answered. "I will tell you just when after I have definite
information."
"Please don't be so secretive," said Grace a little sharply. "You must
consider that I have my own arrangements to make and that it is due me
to know your plans as soon as they are made."
"I will tell you as soon as they are settled," returned Linda stoutly.
Here Phebe came in to announce supper and the conversation ended.