The love of contention served, in the case of old Persimmon Sneed, in
the stead of industry, of rectitude, of perseverance, of judgment, of
every quality that should adorn a man. So eager was he to be off and
at the road again that he could scarcely wait to swallow his
refection. All the charms of the profusely spread board had not
availed to decoy him from the subject, and the repast of the devoted
jury of view was seasoned with his sage advice and vehement argument
against the project, which its advocates, fully occupied, failed for
the nonce to combat. Now and again Mrs. Minerva Slade sought to
interpose in their behalf, and many a tempting trencher was thrust to
his elbow to divert the tenor of his discourse. But despite his
youthful vulnerability to the dainty which had won him his sobriquet,
Persimmon Sneed's palate was not more susceptible to the allurements
of flattery than his hard head or his obdurate heart. There was,
however, at intervals, a lively clatter of his knife and fork, and
some redoubtable activity on the part of his store teeth, frankly
false, and without doubt the only false thing about him. Then he
hustled up the jury of view and their _confreres_ to the resumption of
their duties, and was the first man to put foot in stirrup. Certain
other mountaineers would fain have lingered, as was manifest by the
triangular slices of "apple custard pie" in their hands, as they
stood, still munching, on the porch, watching the departing jury of
view with their active and aged precursor, and by their loitering
farewells and thanks to Aunt Minerva Slade. A beaming countenance did
she wear this day. She had cooked to some cheerful purpose. Not one
failure had marred the _menu_, in testimony of which, as she afterward
remarked, "I never seen scraps so skimpy." Her spectacles reflected
the bland light of the day as smilingly as the eyes above which they
were poised, as she stood in the doorway, and with fluttering
graciousness received the homage of her beneficiaries.
"That youngest one, Con Hite, was sorter mild-mannered an' meek," she
afterward said, often recounting the culinary triumphs of the great
day, "an' I misdoubts but he hed the deespepsy, fur he war the only
one ez didn't pitch in an' eat like he war tryin' to pervide fur a
week's fastin'. I reckon they all knowed what sort'n pitiful table
they sets out at Mis' Cornely Hood's, t'other side the mounting, whar
they expected ter stop fur supper, an' war a-goin' ter lay up suthin'
agin destitution."
For an hour, perhaps, before reaching Hanway's, Con Hite had ridden
with the jury of view. He had not much expectation of influencing the
fate of the road in any respect by his presence, but he felt it was a
matter of consistency to appear with the others of the opposition. He
desired, too, to publicly urge, as his reason for objecting to the
project, the insufficiency of hands in so sparsely populated a region
to make a road and keep it in repair; lest another reason, the wish to
preserve the seclusion so dear to the moonshiner, be attributed to
him. This matter of policy had been made very palatable by the
probability that he would see Narcissa, and it was with a deep
disappointment that he beheld Selwyn beside her, and received only a
slight movement of her drooping eyelids as a token of recognition and
welcome. He had been minded to dismount and walk with her, but his
heart burned with resentment. Of what worth now were all his buoyant
anticipations, while she was listening to the sugared flatteries of
the "town cuss"? He had this subject for cogitation, while, in a
stifling room, he was regaled with hard cider and apple-jack by no
more fascinating Hebe than old Mrs. Slade, with her withered sallow
skin, her excited, anxious eye, her fluttered, tremulous, skinny
fingers, her hysteric cap with its maddeningly flying strings, and her
wonderfully swift venerable scamper in and out of the kitchen.
Con Hite was the last to go. He led his horse down to the
watering-trough, oblivious of the stream, with its ample supply, a
hundred yards or so further on and in full view; and as he stood
there, with his hand on the animal's shoulder, he turned his eyes,
somewhat wistful, though wont to be so bold and bright, upon Narcissa,
still seated on the stile. Her own brown long-lashed eyes had a
far-away look in them. They evidently passed him over absently, and
followed the squad of men swiftly trotting adown the road, all in good
heart and good temper again, to take up their duty where they had
laid it down. No faint vestige of a dimple was now in her daintily
white cheek.
"Ye be powerful sparin' o' speech ter-day," he remarked.
Her eyes did not move from the distant landscape. "Folks ez hev got
nuthin' ter say would do well ter say it."