A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
“especial regret I should say. Young Dillingham is engaged to be married
to the daughter of my cousin whom I expect to-day, and the other young
man involved, Donald Morley, is Mrs. Sequin's brother.”
“Well for the life of me,” said Miss Wuster, counting stitches between
her sentences, “I can't see how they got Mr. Dillingham off, unless it
was the way Mr. Gooch said.”
“Who is Mr. Gooch?” asked Miss Lady of the Doctor.
“The gentleman who came to see me yesterday. He is a lawyer and has
followed the case closely. He does not scruple to affirm that the trial
was a farce, one of those legal travesties that sometimes occur when a
scion of a rich and influential family happens to transgress the law. It
seems that the saloon-keeper, who was at first reasonably sure of what
happened, suffered a strange lapse of memory when on the stand. Gooch
thinks he was bought up, but Gooch is fallible where human motives are
involved. His misanthropy invariably colors his judgment.”
“Well, nothing on earth can keep me from thinking that Mr. Dillingham
did the shooting!” declared the nurse with violent partizanship. “Look
at the way he sneaked home, and left the other young man to get a doctor
and help move Sheeley to the hospital. Yes, sir, it's time for your
medicine, just wait 'till I finish this spool and I'll go down and heat
the water.”
“He--he oughtn't to have gone away?” said Miss Lady, looking at the
Doctor interrogatively.
“Donald, you mean? Certainly not, it was most ill-advised, probably some
quixotic idea about not wanting to testify against his friend. If you
knew the boy you would understand what a hot-headed, harum-scarum person
he is. He was my pupil at one time and I grew quite fond of him. He has
ability, undoubted ability, but he is a ship without a rudder; he has
been drifting ever since he was born.”
“This acquittal of Mr. Dillingham puts the blame on--on him, doesn't
it?”
“Naturally. His absence at the trial was undoubtedly one of the
strongest arguments in Dillingham's favor. Mr. Gooch tells me that the
counsel for the defense took especial pains to throw suspicion upon
Donald. The case has been confusing in the extreme, the absence of
witnesses, the failure to establish the ownership of the pistol, the
absurd complication about the slot machine and crowbar,--an absolute
jumble of contradictory evidence. As for Donald Morley's being guilty,
it's absurd! He is not the sort of man who runs away from punishment.”
Miss Lady's heart swelled with gratitude. Of course Donald Morley was
nothing to her now. She had assured herself of that so continuously for
two months that she was beginning to believe it. She knew that he was
wild, reckless and unreliable, that he had failed her in her greatest
need, and that she had put him out of her life forever. But it was good
of the Doctor to take his part!
“I know now what my father meant when he said you were the justest man
he ever knew!” she said timidly, lifting a pair of shining eyes.
“Unfortunately for Donald the Court does not share my opinion. It is not
known even by the family as yet, but Mr. Gooch tells me that Donald has
been indicted by the grand jury.”
“Indicted!”
“Yes, he can never return to Kentucky without standing his trial. It is
a serious affair for him, I fear.”
CHAPTER VIII
When in the course of the morning Uncle Jimpson started to the station
to meet Mrs. Sequin, he did not have to direct the course of his steed.
Had old John not known the way from experience, the inherited memory of
his ancestors would have prompted him to turn twice to the right, once
to the left, and pull up at a certain corner of the station platform.
For the honor of being the Carseys' “station horse” had descended to him
from his father Luke, whose father Mark had in the days of prosperity
traveled in harness with Matthew, fulfilling that same important
office. Thus John was, in a way, enjoying the distinction of apostolic
succession.
Arrived at the station Uncle Jimpson stepped jauntily around the
post-office box and ostentatiously took out the Carseys' mail. It was a
small act to take pride in, but in lieu of more important duties it had
to serve. For the past six weeks the advent of city people at Thornwood
had stirred up old ambitions in him. A new sprightliness was observable
in his gait, a briskness in his speech, which Aunt Caroline did not
hesitate to characterize as “taking on airs.”
The blood of a butler coursed through Uncle Jimpson's veins, a stately,
ebony butler who had been wont to stand at the Thornwood door during
the old days and hold a silver tray covered with boutonnieres, for the
arriving guests. Uncle Jimpson had inherited this tray along with an
ambition that was not above buttons. Year after year he had descended
with the descending Carsey fortunes, passing from the house to the
horses, then to the field, and finally becoming the man of all work, but
never relinquishing that dream of his youth, to stand in livery in the
halls of the rich, and exercise those talents with which Providence had
blessed him.
As he passed the compliments of the day with two farm hands, who were
loading a wagon near by, his eye fell upon a strange object that stood
in the door of the dining-room. It looked to Uncle Jimpson like pictures
he had seen of lions, only it was small and white and barked remarkably
like a dog.
“Dat sure am a curious lookin' animal,” he observed. “Hit must b'long to
a show.”
One of the farm hands laughed and pointed with his thumb to the
waiting-room. Uncle Jimpson tiptoed to the window and peered in. All
that he could see was the back of a very imposing lady and the top of a
large plumed hat.
“Is--is she a-waitin' fer anybody?” he whispered, motioning anxiously
with his soft hat.
“Oh! no,” said the nearest man; “she ain't waitin'; she's just enjoyin'
the scenery on them railroad posters. She likes to set there, been doin'
it for a half hour.”
Uncle Jimpson scraped the mud from his shoes, buttoned the one button
that was left on his linen coat, and dropping his hat outside the door
summoned courage to present himself.
“'Scuse me, mam, but does dis heah happen to be Mrs. Sequm?”
“It is,” said the lady, haughtily.
“Yas'm, dat's what I 'lowed. Dat's what I tole Carline--leastwise dat's
what I'st gwine tell her. Ise Cunnel Carsey's coachman.”
Mrs. Sequin eyed him coldly through a silver lorgnette. “Didn't they
understand that I was coming on the eleven train?”
“Yes'm, dat's right. But you allays has to 'low fer dem narrow gauges.
Dey has to run slow to keep from fallin' offen de track. Dat must have
been de ten o'clock train you come on.”
“Not at all, I left the city at ten minutes of eleven.”
“Yas'm, dat was de ten train den. De leben train don't start 'til long
about noon.”
“Preposterous!” said Mrs. Sequin, sweeping to her feet. “Take me to the
carriage. Fanchonette! Where are you?”
Uncle Jimpson apologetically dragged forward his left foot, upon the
trouser hem of which the small dog had fastened her sharp little teeth.
“Frightfully obstinate little beast,” said Mrs. Sequin, “she won't let
go until she gets ready. You needn't be afraid of her biting you. She
couldn't be induced to bite a colored person.”
Uncle Jimpson, carrying the dog along on his foot, led the way, while
Mrs. Sequin, with the cautious tread of a stout person used to the
treacheries of oriental rugs on hardwood floors, followed. She was a
woman of full figure and imposing presence, whose elaborate coiffure
and attention to detail in dress, gave evidence that the world had its
claims.
At sight of the shabby, old, mud-covered buggy, and the decrepit
apostolic John she paused.
Jimpson all obsequious politeness, put a linen duster over the wheel,
and with a gesture worthy of Chesterfield, handed her in.
“I wish the top up,” she commanded. “The glare is unspeakable.”
Uncle Jimpson, standing by the wheel, shuffled his feet in
embarrassment: “Yas'm,” he agreed, “I'll put it up effen you want me to.
But it won't stay up. No, mam, it won't stay. Looks lak in de las' two
or three years it got a way o' fallin' back. Cunnel 'lowed he was gwine
to git it fixed onct or twict, but he ain't done it.”
Fanchonette just here became enraged at a bit of paper that was caught
in the wheel, and gave vent to such a violent burst of temper that it
required the undivided attention of her mistress to calm her.
Uncle Jimpson, occupying the smallest possible portion of the seat, and
with one leg hanging outside the buggy, rejoiced in the proximity of so
much elegance. It gave him a feeling of prosperity and importance, and
made him straighten his back, crook his elbow, and even adopt a more
formal manner with old John. He deeply regretted that he had not put on
a clean coat and as for the buggy, he was already planning a thorough
cleaning of it before driving the stylish guest back in the afternoon.
“Stop a moment!” commanded Mrs. Sequin peremptorily. “What a view! I had
no idea there was such scenery anywhere around here!”
“Yas'm, hits about de fines' sceneries in de world! You kin see from
dem heights clean down to de bridge. All dis hill used to be our-alls. I
'member hearin' how Mr. Rogers Clark done gib it to de Cunnel's gran'paw
fer a lan' grant when de Injuns libed here!”
“Who owns it now? Who owns the hilltop?”
“I don't know, mam. We been sellin' off considerable.”
“Well, I must find out about that at once. I'll send an agent out
to-morrow to look into the matter. Colonel Carsey left only one
daughter, I believe, and she never married?”
Uncle Jimpson jerked the reins and looked a bit nettled.
“Not yit,” he said, “but she ain't no old maid, Miss Lady ain't. Dere
neber wuz a Carsey lady yit dat withered on de stalk; de trouble wif
_dem_ is dey git picked too soon. Ez fer Miss Lady's ma, she wasn't but
jes turned sebenteen when me an' de Cunnel went down to Alabama to marry
her.”
“Who are Miss Carsey's relatives, her advisers?”
“She ain't got none. She didn't hab a livin', breathin' soul but her
paw, 'ceptin' me an' Carline, an' Carline's liable to drop off mos'
anytime.”
“But who is going to live with her?”
“I spec she gwine git married some day,” Jimpson said hopefully, “all de
boys been plumb 'stracted 'bout dat chile since she wuz a little girl.
But she wuz so crazy 'bout her paw, she jes laff at 'em. Now de Cunnel's
gone, she'll hab to git somebody else to make ober.”
“Well, I must find out about that hill,” said Mrs. Sequin, turning for a
last glimpse. “Whose old place is this we are coming to?”
“Dis is our place, dis is Thornwood,” said Uncle Jimpson, half in pride,
half in apology, as he skirted the holes in the road. “It don't look lak
itself. It's a terrible pretty place when it's fixed up.”
“Dreadfully run down,” said Mrs. Sequin to herself, making a sweeping
survey of the premises, “all this front lawn ought to be terraced and
have granitoid walks and formal approaches. The house could be made
quite imposing.”
They had turned in the long winding avenue, and were following the old
gray wall that swept in a wide circle past the negro cabins, then toward
the house.
Suddenly Mrs. Sequin pointed dramatically to the little porch of one of
the cabins.
“A Sheraton! Great heavens! Where did it come from? What is it doing
there?”
Uncle Jimpson, following the direction of her finger, looked surprised:
“Dat ain't no sheraton, dat's a sideboard. Leastwise it wuz one 'fore
I fixed it into a chicken coop. I took out de drawers and put on dem
cross-pieces. Got forty de purtiest little chickens you eber seen!”
“And the legs are curved and have knobs, haven't they?”
“No, mam, dey ain't no more bow-legged dan most chickens. Do you raise
chickens on your place?”