The rooms at the back had never seemed so quiet before as when, at the
close of the day, he went into them. They seemed all the quieter by
contrast with the excitement of the past hours. In the kitchen Mornin was
giving the final touches to the supper, and in the room which was at once
sitting-room and bedroom, the wooden cradle had fitted itself in a corner
near the fireplace and wore an air of permanent establishment remarkable
to contemplate when one considered how unlooked-for an incident it was.
On the threshold of this apartment Tom paused a moment. Such silence
reigned that he could hear the soft, faint breathing of the child as it
lay asleep. He stopped a second or so to listen to it. Then he stooped
down, and began to loosen his shoes gently. As he was doing it, Mornin
caught sight of him in passing the open door.
"Mars Tom," she said, "what's ye a-gwine fer to do?"
"I'm going to take them off," he answered, seriously. "They'll make too
much noise."
The good soul in the kitchen chuckled.
"Now," she said, "now, Mars Tom, dar ye go right now a-settin' out to
ruinate a good chile, 'stead o' ustin' it ter things--a-settin' out ter
ruinate it. Don't never tip aroun' fer no chile. Don't ye never do it,
'n' ye won't never haf ter. Tippin' roun' jest spiles 'em. Tell ye,
Mornin never tipped roun' when she had em' ter raise. Mornin started out
right from de fust."
Tom looked at the cradle.
"She'll rest easier," he said. "And so shall I. I must get a pair of
slippers." And he slipped out of his shoes and stood ready to spend the
evening in his stocking-feet. A solitary tallow candle stood upon the
table, shedding its yellow light upon all surrounding objects to the best
of its ability, and, seeing that its flickering brightness fell upon the
small sleeper's face, he placed it at the farther end of the high mantel.
"She'll be more comfortable," he said. And then sat down feeling at ease
with his conscience.
Mornin went back to her supper shaking her head.
"By de time she's a year old, dar won't be no managin' her," she said.
"Da's allus de way wid de men folks, allus too hard or too soft; better
leav' her to Mornin 'n' ust'n her to things right at de start."
There seemed little chance that she would be so "ustened." Having
finished his supper, Tom carried his pipe and newspaper into the kitchen.
"I'll sit here awhile," he said. "The smoke might be too much for her,
and the paper rustles so. We'd better let her have her sleep out."
But when the pipe was out and the last page of the paper read, he went
back to his own room. The small ark stranded in his chimney corner was
attractive enough to draw him there. It was a stronger attraction than it
would have been to most men. He had always been fond of children and
curious concerning them. There was not a child in the surrounding region
who had not some remembrance of his rather too lavish good-nature. A
visit to the Cross-roads was often held out as a reward for circumspect
behaviour, and the being denied the treat was considered punishment heavy
enough for most juvenile crimes.
"Ef ye'd had young uns of yer own, Tom, ye'd hev ruined them, shore," the
secretly delighted matrons frequently remarked. "You'd let 'em run right
over ye. I reckon ye keep that candy thar right a-purpose to feed 'em on
now, don't yer?"
His numerous admirers, whose affection for him was founded on their
enjoyment of his ponderous witticisms and the humour which was the little
leavening of their unexciting lives, had once or twice during the past
few days found themselves unprepared for, and so somewhat bewildered by,
the new mood which had now and then revealed itself.
"It's kinder outer Tom's way to take things like he takes this; it looks
onnat'ral," they said.
If they had seen him as he drew up to the cradle's side, they would have
discovered that they were confronting a side of the man of which they
knew nothing. It was the man whose youth had been sore-hearted and
desolate, while he had been too humble to realise that it was so, and
with reason. If he had known lonely hours in the past eight years, only
the four walls of the little back room had seen them. He had always
enacted his _role_ well outside; but it was only natural that the three
silent rooms must have seemed too empty now and again. As he bent over
the cradle, he remembered such times, and somehow felt as if they were
altogether things of the past and not to trouble him again.
"She'll be life in the place," he said. "When she sleeps less and is old
enough to make more noise, it will be quite cheerful."
He spoke with the self-congratulating innocence of inexperience. A
speculative smile settled upon his countenance.
"When she begins to crawl around and--and needs looking after, it will be
lively enough," he reflected. "She'll keep us busy, I daresay."
It was a circumstance perhaps worthy of mention that he never spoke of
the little creature as "it."
"She'll need a good deal of looking after," he went on. "It won't do to
let her tumble around and take care of herself, as a boy might. We must
be tender of her."
He bent forward and drew the cover cautiously over the red flannel
sleeve.
"They think it a good joke, those fellows," he said; "but it isn't a joke
with us, is it, young woman? We've a pretty big job to engineer between
us, but I daresay we shall come out all right. We shall be good friends
in the end, and that's a pretty nice thing for a lonely fellow to look
forward to."
Then he arose stealthily and returned to the kitchen.
"I want you to tell me," he said to Mornin, "what she needs. I suppose
she needs something or other."
"She needs mos' ev'rything, Mars Tom," was the answer; "seems like she
hain't bin pervided fer 't all, no more 'n ef she was a-gwine ter be a
youn' tukky dat de Lord hisself hed fitted out at de start."
"Well," said Tom, "I'll go to Barnesville to-morrow and talk to Judge
Rutherford's wife about it. She'll know what she ought to have."
And, after a few moments given to apparently agreeable reflection, he
went back to the room he had left.
He had barely seated himself, however, when he was disturbed by a
low-sounding tap on the side door, which stood so far open as to allow of
any stray evening breeze entering without reaching the corner of the
chimney.
"Come in!" said Tom, not in a friendly roar, as usual, but in a
discreetly guarded voice.
The door was pushed gently open and the visitor stood revealed, blinking
with an impartial air at the light within.
"Don't push it wide open," said Tom; "come in if you are going to, and
leave it as it was."
Mr. Stamps obeyed without making any noise whatever. It was one of his
amiable peculiarities that he never made any noise, but appeared and
disappeared without giving any warning, making himself very agreeable
thereby at inopportune moments. He slipped in without a sound, deftly
left the door in its previous position, and at once slipped into a chair,
or rather took possession of one, by balancing himself on the extreme
edge of it, arranging his legs on the lower bar with some dexterity.
"Howdy?" he said, meekly, having accomplished this.
Tom's manner was not cordial. He stretched himself, put his hands in his
pockets, and made no response to the greeting which was, upon the whole,
a rather unnecessary one, as Mr. Stamps had been hanging about the
post-office through the whole day, and had only wended his way homeward a
few hours before.
"Want anything?" he enquired.
Mr. Stamps turned his hat around in his hands hurriedly.
"No, I don't want nothin', Tom," he said. Then, after a pause, he added,
very softly:
"I jest thought I'd step in."
"Where are you going?" asked Tom.
The hat was turned round again.
"Whar wus I a-gwine?" deprecatingly. "Whar? Oh! I--I was a-gwine--I was
a-gwine to Marthy's, I guess."
"You're pretty late," remarked Tom; "better lose no time; it's a pretty
bad road between here and there."
"So 'tis," replied Mr. Stamps, apparently struck with the originality of
the suggestion. "So 'tis!" He appeared to reflect deeply for a few
seconds, but suddenly his eyes began to wander across the room and rested
finally upon the corner in which the cradle stood. He jerked his head
towards it.
"It's thar, is it?" he enquired.
"Yes, she's thar," Tom answered, rather crustily. "What of it?"
"Oh! nothin', nothin', Tom, only it's kinder curi's--kinder curi's."
"Well," said Tom, "I've not begun to look at it in that light yet
myself."
"Hain't ye, now?" softly. "Hain't ye, Tom?"
Then a faint little chuckle broke from him--not an intrusive chuckle,
quite the contrary; a deprecatory and inadvertent sort of chuckle.
"That ain't me," he ventured, inoffensively. "I've been a-thinkin' it was
curi's all along."
"That ain't going to hurt anybody," responded Tom.
"Lord, no!" quite in a hurry. "Lord, no! 'tain't likely; but it kinder
int'rusted me--int'rusted me, findin' out what I did."
And he ended with a gently suggestive cough.
Tom thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and covered as large an area
of floor with his legs as was possible without upsetting Mr. Stamps's
chair and at the same time that stealthy little man himself.
"Oh! found out!" he replied, "Found out h----"
He checked himself with much suddenness, glancing at the cradle as he did
so.
"What did you find out?" he demanded, unceremoniously, and with manifest
contempt. "Let's hear."
Mr. Stamps coughed again.
"'Twan't much, mebbe," he replied, cautiously, "'n' then again, mebbe
'twas. It was kinder int'rusting, though. That--that thar was a good
prayer o' his'n, warn't it?"
"Yes," admitted Tom, rather blusteringly. "I daresay it was; I suppose
you are a better judge of prayers than I am."
"I'm a purty good judge on 'em," modestly. "I'd orter be, bein' a
class-leader 'n' uster kinder critykisin'. I don't never do it much in
public myself, but I've allus critikised them as did. Thet sounded more
professionaller then they air mostly--unless comin' frum them, as has bin
raised to it."
"Did it?" said Tom.
"Yes, it was more professionaller."
Then he turned his hat again, setting it more carefully on his knee. He
also fixed his eyes on Tom with a harmless smile.
"They wus North'ners."
Tom started, but managed to recover himself.
"You might have mentioned that before," he remarked, with sarcasm.
"I did," said Mr. Stamps, "along at the start, Tom; but ye wouldn't none
on ye believe me."
Tom remembered that this was true, it having been Mr. Stamps who
suggested the Northern theory which had been so unitedly scouted by his
hearers at the time of its propounding.
"I h'ain't stayed as stiddy in North Car'lina as the rest on 'em,"
repeated Mr. Stamps. "When I was younger, I kinder launched out wunct. I
thought I could make money faster ef I wus in a more money-makin'er
place, 'n' I launched out. I went North a spell 'n' was thar a right
smart while. I sorter stedded the folks' ways 'n' I got to knowin' 'em
when I seed 'em 'n' heerd 'em talk. I know'd her for one the minit I set
eyes on her 'n' heern her speak. I didn't say nuthin' much to the rest on
ye, 'cause I know's ye'd make light on it; but I know'd it wus jest that
ar way with the Northerners."
"Well," said Tom, "it's valuable information, I suppose."
Mr. Stamps coughed. He turned his hat over and looked into its greasy and
battered crown modestly.
"It mout be," he replied, "'n' then again it moughtent. It moughtent be
if thar' wus nuthin' else to go 'long with it. They wus hidin' sumthin',
ye know, 'n' they sot a heap on keepin' it hid. Ef a body know'd the
whole thing from the start, thet'd be int'rustin', 'n' it 'ud be
vallyable too."
"Valuable be d----" Tom began, but he checked himself once more on
glancing at the cradle.
But Mr. Stamps was so far interested that he did not read the warning he
might have read in the suddenly repressed outbreak. As he neared his goal
he became a little excited and incautious. He leaned forward, blinking
rapidly.
"They wasn't no man 'n' wife," he said. "Lord, no! 'N' ef the two as
knowed most on 'em 'n' was kinder quickest at readin' signs 'd kinder go
partners 'n' heve confydence in one another, 'n' sorter lay to 'n' work
it out 'n' foller it up, it ud be vallybler than stores, or post-offices,
or farms to both on 'em." And he leaned so far forward and blinked so
fast that he lost his balance and almost fell off his chair.
It was Tom who saved him from his fall, but not from that tender
consideration for his physical security which such an act would argue.
Tom gathered up his legs and strode across to him almost before he had
finished speaking. For the time being he had apparently forgotten the
cradle and its occupant. He seized the little man by the back of his
collar and lifted him bodily out of his chair and shook him as a huge
mastiff might have shaken a rat, agitating the little legs in the large
trousers with a force which gave them, for a few seconds, the most active
employment.
"You confounded, sneaking, underhanded little thief!" he thundered. "You
damned little scoundrel! You--you----"
And he bore him out of doors, set him struggling astride his mule which
was cropping the grass, and struck that sagacious animal a blow upon her
quarters which sent her galloping along the Barnesville Road at a pace
which caused her rider to cling to her neck and body with arms and legs,
in which inconvenient posture he remained, unable to recover himself, for
a distance of at least half a mile.
Tom returned to the back room in some excitement. As he crossed the
threshold, he was greeted by a shrill cry from the cradle. He ruefully
regarded the patchwork quilt which seemed to be struggling violently with
some unseen agency.
"Doggone him!" he said, innocently, "he's wakened her--wakened her, by
thunder!"
And he sat down, breathing heavily from his bodily exertion, and began to
rock the cradle with a vigour and gravity which might have been expected
to achieve great results, if Mornin had not appeared and taken his charge
into her own hands.