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A Special Limited Edition
IN CONNECTION WITH THE De WILLOUGHBY CLAIM
by
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
Author of
"A Lady of Quality," "Little Lord Fauntleroy," Etc.
The People's Library
Issued Monthly
By _The American News Company_
New York
The American News Company
Publishers' Agents
39-41 Chambers Street
Copyright, 1899
by Charles Scribner's Sons
All rights reserved
The owners of the copyright of this volume sanction the issue of
this edition as a paper-covered book, to be sold at fifty cents;
but, while not wishing to interfere with any purchaser binding his
own copy, they do not sanction placing on the market any volumes of
this edition bound in any other form.
In Connection with
The De Willoughby Claim
CHAPTER I
High noon at Talbot's Cross-roads, with the mercury standing at
ninety-eight in the shade--though there was not much shade worth
mentioning in the immediate vicinity of the Cross-roads post-office,
about which, upon the occasion referred to, the few human beings within
sight and sound were congregated. There were trees enough a few hundred
yards away, but the post-office stood boldly and unflinchingly in the
blazing sun. The roads crossing each other stretched themselves as far as
the eye could follow them, the red clay transformed into red dust which
even an ordinarily lively imagination might have fancied was red hot. The
shrill, rattling cry of the grasshoppers, hidden in the long yellow
sedge-grass and drouth-smitten corn, pierced the stillness now and then
with a suddenness startling each time it broke forth, because the
interval between each of the pipings was given by the hearers to
drowsiness or heated unconscious naps.
In such napping and drowsiness the present occupants of the post-office
were indulging. Upon two empty goods boxes two men in copperas-coloured
jean garments reclined in easy attitudes, their hats tilted over their
eyes, while several others balanced their split-seated chairs against the
house or the post-porch and dozed.
Inside the store the postmaster and proprietor tilted his chair against
the counter and dozed also, though fitfully, and with occasional restless
changes of position and smothered maledictions against the heat. He was
scarcely the build of man to sleep comfortably at high noon in midsummer.
His huge, heavy body was rather too much for him at any time, but during
the hot weather he succumbed beneath the weight of his own flesh. Hamlin
County knew him as "Big Tom D'Willerby," and, indeed, rather prided
itself upon him as a creditable possession. It noted any increase in his
weight, repeated his jokes, and bore itself patiently under his satire.
His indolence it regarded with leniency not entirely untinged with secret
exultation.
"_The_ derndest, laziest critter," his acquaintances would remark to each
other; "the _derndest_ I do reckon that ever the Lord made. Nigh unto
three hundred he weighs, and never done a lick o' work in his life. Not
one! Lord, no! Tom D'Willerby work? I guess not. He gits on fine without
any o' that in his'n. Work ain't his kind. It's a pleasin' sight to see
him lyin' round thar to the post-office an' the boys a-waitin' on to him,
doin' his tradin' for him, an' sortin' the mail when it comes in. They're
ready enough to do it jest to hear him gas."
And so they were. About eight years before the time the present story
commences, he had appeared upon the scene apparently having no object in
view but to make himself as comfortable as possible. He took up his
quarters at one of the farm-houses among the mountains, paid his hostess
regularly for the simple accommodations she could afford him, and, before
three months passed, had established his reputation and, without making
the slightest apparent effort, had gathered about him a large circle of
friends and admirers.
"His name's D'Willerby," Mrs. Pike would drawl when questioned about him,
"an' he's kin to them D'Willerbys that's sich big bugs down to
D'Lileville. I guess they ain't much friendly, though. He don't seem to
like to have nothin' much to say about 'em. Seems like he has money
a-plenty to carry him along, an' he talks some o' settin' up a store
somewhars."
In the course of a month or so he carried out the plan, selecting
Talbot's Cross-roads as the site for the store in question. He engaged
hands to erect a frame building, collected by the assistance of some
mysterious agency a heterogeneous stock consisting of calicoes, tinware,
coffee, sugar, tobacco, and various waif and stray commodities, and,
having done so, took his seat on the porch one morning and announced the
establishment open.
Upon the whole, the enterprise was a success. Barnesville was fifteen
miles distant, and the farmers, their wives and daughters, were glad
enough to stop at the Cross-roads for their calico dresses and
store-coffee. By doing so they were saved a long ride and gained superior
conversational advantages. "D'Willerby's mighty easy to trade with," it
was said.
There was always a goodly number of "critters" tied to the fence-corners,
and consequently to business was added the zest of society and the
interchanging of gossip. "D'Willerby's" became a centre of interest and
attraction, and D'Willerby himself a county institution.
Big Tom, however, studiously avoided taking a too active part in the
duties of the establishment. Having with great forethought provided
himself with a stout chair which could be moved from behind the counter
to the door, and from the door to the store as the weather demanded, he
devoted himself almost exclusively to sitting in it and encouraging a
friendly and accommodating spirit in his visitors and admirers. The more
youthful of those admirers he found useful in the extreme.
"Boys," he would say, "a man can't do more than a thousand things at
once. A man can't talk a steady stream and do himself justice, and settle
the heftiest kind of questions, and say the kind of things these ladies
ought to have said to 'em, and then measure out molasses and weigh coffee
and slash off calico dresses and trade for eggs. Some of you've got to
roust out and do some clerking, or I've got to quit. I've not got the
constitution to stand it. Jim, you 'tend to Mis' Pike, and Bill, you wait
on Mis' Jones. Lord! Lord! half a dozen of you here, and not one doing a
thing--not a derned thing! Do you want me to get up and leave Miss
Mirandy and do things myself? We've got to settle about the colour of
this gown. How'd you feel now, if it wasn't becoming to her complexion?
Just help yourself to that plug of tobacco, Hance, and lay your ten cents
in the cash drawer, and then you can weigh out that butter of Mis'
Simpson's."
When there was a prospect of a post-office at the Cross-roads, there was
only one opinion as to who was the man best calculated to adorn the
position of postmaster.
"The store's right yere, Tom," said his patrons, "an' you're right yere.
Ye can write and spell off things 'thout any trouble, an' I reckon ye
wouldn't mind the extry two dollars comin' in ev'ry month."
"Lord! Lord!" groaned Tom, who was stretched full length on the floor of
the porch when the subject was first broached. "Do you want a man to kill
himself out an' out, boys? Work himself into eternal kingdom come? Who'd
do the extra work, I'd like to know--empty out the mail-bag and hand out
the mail, and do the extra cussin'? That would be worth ten dollars a
month. And, like as not, the money would be paid in cheques, and who's
goin' to sign 'em? Lord! I believe you think a man's immortal soul could
be bought for fifty cents a day. You don't allow for the wear and tear on
a fellow's constitution, boys."
But he allowed himself to be placed in receipt of the official salary in
question, and the matter of extra labour settled itself. Twice a week a
boy on horseback brought the mail-bag from Barnesville, and when this
youth drew rein before the porch Big Tom greeted him from indoors with
his habitual cordiality.
"'Light, sonny, 'light!" he would call out in languidly sonorous tones;
"come in and let these fellows hear the news. Just throw that mail-bag on
the counter and let's hear from you. Plenty of good water down at the
spring. Might as well take that bucket and fill it if you want a drink.
I've been waiting for just such a man as you to do it. These fellows
would sit here all day and let a man die. I can't get anything out of
'em. I've about half a mind to quit sometimes and leave them to engineer
the thing themselves. Look here now, is any fellow going to attend to
that mail, or is it going to lie there till I have to get up and attend
to it myself? I reckon that's what you want. I reckon that'd just suit
you. Jehoshaphat! I guess you'd like me to take charge of the eternal
universe."
It was for the mail he waited with his usual complement of friends and
assistants on the afternoon referred to at the opening of this chapter.
The boy was behind time, and, under the influence of the heat,
conversation had at first flagged and then subsided. Big Tom himself had
taken the initiative of dropping into a doze, and his companions had one
by one followed his example, or at least made an effort at doing so. The
only one of the number who remained unmistakably awake was a little man
who sat on the floor of the end of the porch, his small legs, encased in
large blue jean pantaloons, dangling over the side. This little man, who
was gently and continuously ruminating, with brief "asides" of
expectoration, kept his eyes fixed watchfully upon the Barnesville Road,
and he it was who at last roused the dozers.
"Thar's some un a-comin'," he announced in a meek voice. "'Tain't him."
Big Tom opened his eyes, stretched himself, and gradually rose in his
might, proving a very tight fit for the establishment, especially the
doorway, towards which he lounged, supporting himself against its side.
"Who is it, Ezra?" he asked, almost extinguishing the latter cognomen
with a yawn.
"It's thet thar feller!"
All the other men awakened in a body. Whomsoever the individual might be,
he had the power to rouse them to a lively exhibition of interest. One
and all braced themselves to look at the horseman approaching along the
Barnesville Road.
"He's a kinder curi's-lookin' feller," observed one philosopher.
"Well, at a distance of half a mile, perhaps he is," said Tom. "In a
cloud of dust and the sun blazin' down on him like thunderation, I don't
know but you're right, Nath."
"Git out!" replied Nath, placidly. "He's a curi's-actin' feller, anyway.
Don't go nowhar nor hev nothin' to say to nobody. Jest sets right down in
that thar holler with his wife, as if b'ars an' painters wus all a man or
woman wanted round 'em."
"She's a doggoned purty critter," said the little man in large trousers,
placidly. He had not appeared to listen to the conversation, but, as this
pertinent remark proved, it had not been lost on him.
His observation was greeted with a general laugh, which seemed to imply
that the speaker had a character which his speech sustained.
"Whar did ye see her, Stamps?" was asked.
The little man remained unmoved, still dangling his legs over the porch
side, still ruminating, still gazing with pale, blinking eyes up the
road.
"Went over the mountain 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.