Part 6 (1/2)

”I oughter been sati'fied with all I got, stiddier hectorin' other folks till they 'ain't got no heart ter hold on ter what they been at sech trouble ter git,” he said, as he turned out the horse and strode gloomily toward the house with the saddle over his arm.

”Hev ennybody been spiteful ter you-uns ter-day?” she asked, in an almost maternal solicitude, and with a flash of partisan anger in her eyes.

”Git out'n my road, Eveliny,” he said, fretfully, pus.h.i.+ng by, and throwing the saddle on the floor. There was no one in the room but the occupant of the rude box on rockers which served as cradle.

Absalom had a swift, prescient fear. ”She'll git it all out'n me ef I don't look sharp,” he said to himself. Then aloud, ”Whar's mam?” he demanded, flinging himself into a chair and looking loweringly about.

”Topknot hev jes kem off'n her nest with fourteen deedies, an' she an'

'Melia hev gone ter the barn ter see 'bout'n 'em.”

”Whar's Pete?”

”A-huntin'.”

A pause. The fire smouldered audibly; a hickory-nut fell with a sharp thwack on the clapboards of the roof, and rolled down and bounded to the ground.

Suddenly: ”I seen yer dad ter-day,” he began, without coercion. ”He gin me a cussin', in the court-room, 'fore all the folks. He cussed all the Kittredges, _all_ o' 'em; him too”--he glanced in the direction of the cradle--”cussed 'em black an' blue, an' called me a _thief_ fur marryin'

ye an kerry-in' ye off.”

Her face turned scarlet, then pale. She sat down, her trembling hands reaching out to rock the cradle, as if the youthful Kittredge might be disturbed by the malediction hurled upon his tribe. But he slept st.u.r.dily on.

”Waal, now,” she said, making a great effort at self-control, ”ye oughtn't ter mind it. Ye know he war powerful tried. I never purtended ter be ez sweet an' pritty ez the baby air, but how would you-uns feel ef somebody ye despised war ter kem hyar an' tote him off from we-uns forever?”

”I'd cut thar hearts out,” he said, with prompt barbarity.

”Thar, now!” exclaimed his wife, in triumphant logic.

He gloomily eyed the smouldering coals. He was beginning to understand the paternal sentiment. By his own heart he was learning the heart of his wife's father.

”I'd chop 'em inter minch-meat,” he continued, carrying his just reprisals a step further.

”Waal, don't do it right now,” said his wife, trying to laugh, yet vaguely frightened by his vehemence.

”Eveliny,” he cried, springing to his feet, ”I be a-goin' ter tell ye all 'bout'n it. I jes called on the cheerman fur the law agin him.”

”Agin _dad_!--the law!” Her voice dropped as she contemplated aghast this terrible uncomprehended force brought to oppress old Joel Quimbey; she felt a sudden poignant pang for his forlorn and lonely estate.

”Never mind, never mind, Eveliny,” Absalom said, hastily, repenting of his frantic candor and seeking to soothe her.

”I _will_ mind,” she said, sternly. ”What hev ye done ter dad?”

”Nuthin',” he replied, sulkily--”nuthin'.”

”Ye needn't try ter fool me, Abs'lom Kittredge. Ef ye ain't minded ter tell me, I'll foot it down ter town an' find out. What did the law do ter him?”

”Jes fined him,” he said, striving to make light of it.

”An' ye done that fur--_spite_!” she cried. ”A-settin' the law ter chouse a old man out'n money, fur gittin' mad an' sayin' ye stole his only darter. Oh, I'll answer fur him”--she too had risen; her hand trembled on the back of the chair, but her face was scornfully smiling--”he don't mind the _money_; he'll never git you-uns _fined_ ter pay back the gredge. He don't take his wrath out on folkses' _wallets_; he grips thar throats, or teches the trigger o' his rifle. Laws-a-ma.s.sy!