Part 11 (1/2)
A sob caught her voice.
”Don't say that, Madame. No neighbor of mine will ever be without a home so long as I have a house with a roof on it.”
”Thank you, Colonel Lee,” she interrupted, ”but you know I can't let my man be a renter and see my husband and my sons workin' other people's land like n.i.g.g.e.r slaves. I got pride. I jus' can't do it. I'd rather starve.”
”I understand, Madame,” Lee answered.
The two older boys came awkwardly out into the yard. One of them was fourteen years old and the other sixteen.
The mother beckoned and they came to her with embarra.s.sed step. Her face lighted with pride in their stalwart figures and well-shaped, regular features.
”Here's my oldest boy, William, Colonel Lee.”
The Colonel took the outstretched hand with cordial grasp.
”I'm glad to know you, young man.”
”And glad to see you, sir,” he stammered, blus.h.i.+ng.
”My next boy Drury, sir. He ain't but fourteen but he's a grown man.”
Drury flushed red but failed to make a sound.
When they had moved away and leaned against the fence watching the scene out of the corner of an eye, the mother turned to the Colonel and asked:
”Do you blame me if I'm proud of my boys, Colonel?”
”I do not, Madame.”
”The Lord made me a mother. All I know is to raise fine children and love 'em. My little gals is putty as dolls.”
John suddenly appeared beside her and pulled her skirt.
”What's the matter?” she whispered.
”Pa's waked up. I told him Colonel Lee's here and he's washed his face and walks straight. Shall I fetch him out, too?”
”Yes, run tell him to come quick.”
The boy darted back into the house.
”Johnnie's father wants to see you, Colonel Lee,” the woman apologized.
”I'll be glad to talk to him, Madame.”
”He'll be all right now. Your comin' to see us'll sober him. He'll be awful proud of the honor, sir.”
Doyle emerged from the house and walked quickly toward the Colonel.
His head was high. He smiled a welcome to his guest and his step was straight, light and springing, as if he were not quite sure he could rest his full weight on one foot and tried to get them both down at the same time.
Lee's face was a mask of quiet dignity. The tragedy in the woman's heart made the more pathetic the comedy of the half-drunken husband. Besides, he was philosopher enough to know that more than half the drunkenness of the world was the pitiful effort to smother a heartache.