"A few of your pats will cripple Jim for a week," she observed, "so you'd better be careful; he's too useful a friend to lose while there are any jobs to do.""Why, if I had that muscle I could run a farm with one hand,"said Jim."Give a plough a single push, Christopher, and Ibelieve it would run as long as there was level ground."Cynthia, standing at the kitchen window with a cuptowel slung across her arm, watched the three chatting merrily in the sunshine, and the look of rigid resentment settled like a mask upon her face.She was still gazing out upon them when Docia opened the door behind her and informed her in a whisper that "Ole miss wanted her moughty quick.""All right, Docia.Is anything the matter?""Naw'm, 'tain' nuttin' 'tall de matter.She's des got fidgetty.""Well, I'll come in a minute.Are you better to-day? How's your heart?""Lawd, Miss Cynthia, hit's des bruised all over.Ev'y breaf Idraw hits it plum like a hammer.I hyear hit thump, thump, thump all de blessed time.""Be careful, then.Tell mother I'm coming at once."She hung the cup-towel on the rack, and, taking off her blue checked apron, went along the little platform to the main part of the house and into the old lady's parlour, where the morning sunshine fell across the faces of generations of dead Blakes.The room was still furnished with the old rosewood furniture, and the old damask curtains hung before the single window, which gave on the overgrown front yard and the twisted aspen.Though the rest of the house suggested only the direst poverty, the immediate surroundings of Mrs.Blake revealed everywhere the lavish ease so characteristic of the old order which had passed away.The carving on the desk, on the book-cases, on the slender sofa, was all wrought by tedious handwork; the delicate damask coverings to the chairs were still lustrous after almost half a century; and the few vases scattered here and there and filled with autumn flowers were, for the most part, rare pieces of old royal Worcester.While it was yet Indian summer, there was no need of fires, and the big fireplace was filled with goldenrod, which shed a yellow dust down on the rude brick hearth.
The old lady, inspired by her indomitable energy, was already dressed for the day in her black brocade, and sat bolt upright among the pillows in her great oak chair.
"Some one passed the window whistling, Cynthia.Who was it? The whistle had a pleasant, cheery sound.""It must have been Jim Weatherby, I think: old Jacob's son.""Is he over here?"
"To see Christopher--yes."
"Well, be sure to remind the servants to give him something to eat in the kitchen before he goes back, and I think, if he's a decent young man, I should like to have a little talk with him about his family.His father used to be one of our most respectable labourers.""It would tire you, I fear, mother.Shall I give you your knitting now?""You have a most peculiar idea about me, my child.I have not yet reached my dotage, and I don't think that a little talk with young Weatherby could possibly be much of an ordeal.Is he an improper person?""No, no, of course not; you shall see him whenever you like.Iwas only thinking of you."
"Well, I'm sure I am very grateful for your consideration, my dear, but there are times, occasionally, you know, when it is better for one to judge for oneself.I sometimes think that your only fault, Cynthia, is that you are a little--just a very little bit, you understand--inclined to manage things too much.Your poor father used to say that a domineering woman was like a kicking cow; but this doesn't apply to you, of course.""Shall I call Jim now, mother?"
"You might as well, dear.Place a chair for him, a good stout one, and be sure to make him wipe his feet before he comes in.
Does he appear to be clean?"
"Oh, perfectly."
"I remember his father always was--unusually so for a common labourer.Those people sometimes smell of cattle, you know; and besides, my nose has grown extremely sensitive in the years since I lost my eyesight.Perhaps it would be as well to hand me the bottle of camphor.I can pretend I have a headache.""There's no need, really; he isn't a labourer at all, you know, and he looks quite a gentleman.He is, I believe, considered a very handsome young man."Mrs.Blake waved toward the door and the piece of purple glass flashed in the sunlight."In that case, I might offer him some sensible advice," she said."The Weatherbys, I remember, always showed a very proper respect for gentle people.I distinctly recall how well Jacob behaved when on one occasion Micajah Blair--a dreadful, dissolute character, though of a very old family and an intimate friend of your father's--took decidedly too much egg-nog one Christmas when he was visiting us, and insisted upon biting Jacob's cheek because it looked so like a winesap.Jacob had come to see your father on business, and Iwill say that he displayed a great deal of good sense and dignity; he said afterward that he didn't mind the bite on his cheek at all, but that it pained him terribly to see a Virginia gentleman who couldn't balance a bowl of egg-nog.Well, well, Micajah was certainly a rake, I fear; and for that matter, so was his father before him.""Father had queer friends," observed Cynthia sadly."I remember his telling me when I was a little girl that he preferred that family to any in the county.""Oh, the family was all right, my dear.I never heard a breath against the women.Now you may fetch Jacob.Is that his name?""No; Jim."
"Dear me; that's very odd.He certainly should have been called after his father.I wonder how they could have been so thoughtless."Cynthia drew forward an armchair, stooped and carefully arranged the ottoman, and then went with stern determination to look for Jim Weatherby.
He was sitting in the stable doorway, fitting a shoe on the old mare, while Lila leaned against an overturned barrel in the sunshine outside.At Cynthia's sudden appearance they both started and looked up in amazement, the words dying slowly on their lips.
