Part 45 (2/2)
”Well, seh, de question is dis: Why is de--? No, dat ain't it. Lemme see. O ya.s.s, wha.s.s de diff'ence 'twix' de busy blacksmiff an' de loss calf? Ans' me dat, seh! Folks say C'nelius Leggett a pow'ful smaht maan!
How I gwine to know he a smaht maan ef he cayn't evm ans' a riddle-diddle-dee?”
”I kin ans' it! I's ans'ed bushels an' ba'ls o' riddles! Now that riddle is estremely simple, an' dis is de inte'p'etation thereof! The diff'ence betwix' a busy blacksmiff an' a loss ca-alf--tha.s.s what you said, ain't it?--Ya.s.s, well, it's because--O tha.s.s too easy! I dislikes to occupy my facilities with sich a trifle! It's jess simply because they both git so hawngry they cross-eyed! Tha.s.s why they alike!”
”No, seh! no, seh! miss it ag'in! O fie, fo' shaame! a man o' sich mind-powehs like you! Didn't you neveh know de blacksmiff fill de air full o' bellows whilce de loss calf--aw shucks! you done made me fo'git it! Now, jess hesh up, you smaht yalleh niggeh! try in' to meek out like you done guess it! Dis is it; de blacksmiff he fill de caalf full o'
bellows, whilce----”
They both broke into happy laughter and he toyed innocently with one of her pinchbeck ear-rings.
”O! my sweet familiarity! you knows I knows it! But yo' sof' eyes is shot me th'oo to that estent that I don't know what I does know! I jess sets here in the emba'ssment o' my complacency a won'de'n' what you takes me faw!”
”How does you know I's tuck you at all yit; is I said so, Mr.
Saampson?--Don't you tetch me, seh! right here in full sight o' de house! You's too late, seh! too late! Come roun' here, C'nelius Leggett, an' he'p me out'n dis-yeh buggy, else I dis'p'int you yit wid my aansweh.--No, seh! you please to take jess de tips o' my fingehs. Now, gimme my bundle o' duds!” the voice rose and fell in coquettish undulations--”now git back into de buggy--ya.s.s, seh; da.s.s right. Thaank yo ve'y much, seh. Good-by. Come ag'in.”
”Miss Daphne, y' ain't ans' my interrogutive yit.”
”Ya.s.s, I is. Da.s.s my answeh--come ag'in.”
”Is dat all de respondence my Delijah got faw her Saampson?”
”Mr. Leggett, I ain't yo' Delijah! Tha.s.s fix! I ain't read the scripters in relations to dat young lady faw nuthin! Whetheh you my Saampson remain”--the smile and tone grew bewitching--”faw me to know an faw you to fine out.”
”Sh.e.l.l I come soon?” murmured Mr. Leggett, for the old field hand and his wife were in sight; and the girl answered in full voice, but winsomely:
”As to dat, seh, I leaves you to de freedom o' yo' own compulsions.”
He moved slowly away, half teased, half elated. At the last moment he cast a final look backward, and Daphne Jane, lagging behind the old couple, tossed him a kiss.
Quite satisfied to be idle, but not to be alone, the maiden so early contrived with her Leggettstown vivacity to offend the old field hands, that the night found her with only herself and her cogitations for company.
However, the house was still new to her, if not in its pantry, at least in its bureaus and wardrobes, and when she had spent the first evening hour counterfeiting the softly whimpered quavers of a little screech-owl that snivelled its woes from a tree in the back-yard, the happy thought came to her innocent young mind to try on the best she could find of her mistress's gowns and millinery. By hook and by crook, combined with a blithe a.s.siduity, she managed to open doors and drawers, and if mimicry is the heaven of aspiring laziness, the maid presently stood unchallenged on the highest plateau of a sluggard's bliss. She minced before the mirror, she sank into chairs, she sighed and whined, took the att.i.tudes given or implied by the other Daphne's portrait down-stairs, and said weary things in a faint, high key.
And then--whether the contagion was in the clothing she had put on, or whether her make-up and her acting were so good as to deceive Calliope herself--inspiration came; the lonely reveler was moved to write.
Poetry? No! ”Miss it ag'n!” She began a letter intended to inform ”Mr.
S. Cunnelius Leggett,” that while alike by her parents and by Mrs. March she was forbidden to see ”genlmun frens,” an unannounced evening visitor's risks of being shot by Mr. March first, and the question of his kins.h.i.+p to the late Enos settled afterward, were probably--in the popular mind--exaggerated. The same pastime enlivened the next evening and the next. She even went farther and ventured into verse. Always as she wrote she endeavored to impersonate in numerous subtleties of carriage the sweet songstress whose gowns she had contrived--albeit whose shoes she still failed--to get into. And so, with a conscience void of offence, she was preparing herself to find out, what so many of us already know, that playing even with the muse's fire is playing with fire, all the same.
XLIX.
MEETING OF STOCKHOLDERS
At sunrise of the twenty-second, Barbara started from her pillow, roused by the jarring thunder of a cannon. As it pealed a second time Fannie drew her down.
”It's only Charlie Champion in the square firing a salute. Go to sleep again.”
As they stepped out after breakfast for a breath of garden air, they saw John March a short way off, trying to lift the latch of Parson Tombs's low front gate. He tried thrice and again, but each time he bent down the beautiful creature he rode would rear until it seemed as if she must certainly fall back upon her rider. The pastor had come out on his gallery, where he stood, all smiles, waiting for John to win in the pretty strife, which the rider presently did, and glanced over to the Halliday garden, more than ready to lift his hat. But Fannie and Barbara were busy tiptoeing for peach blossoms.
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