United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
Esther, red-faced with embarrassment, intervened peremptorily. “How
_can_ you, father!” she broke in. “For all you know he might have been
red-hot on that side himself! In fact, I dare say he would have been.
How on earth can _you_ know to the contrary, anyway?”
Jee was all excitement on the instant, at the promise of an argument.
His eyes flashed; he half rose from his seat and opened his mouth to
reply.
So much had he to say, indeed, that the words stumbled over one another
on his tongue, and produced nothing, but an incoherent stammering
sound, which all at once was supplanted by a violent fit of coughing. So
terrible were the paroxysms of this seizure that when they had at last
spent their fury the poor man was trembling like a leaf and toppled in
his chair as if about to swoon. Esther had hovered about over him from
the outset of the fit, and now looked up appealingly to Abner. The
farmer rose, walked down the table-side, and gathered Jee’s fragile form
up under one big engirdling arm. Then, as the girl hastily dragged forth
the tick and blankets again and spread them into the rough semblance of
a bed, Abner half led, half carried the cooper over and gently laid him
down thereon. Together they fixed up some sort of pillow for him with
hay under the blanket, and piled him snugly over with quilts and my
comfortable.
“There--you’ll be better layin’ down,” said Abner, soothingly. Hagadorn
closed his eyes wearily and made no answer. They left him after a minute
or two and returned to the table.
The rest of the breakfast was finished almost in silence. Every once in
a while Abner and Esther would exchange looks, his gravely kind, hers
gratefully contented, and these seemed really to render speech needless.
For my own part, I foresaw with some degree of depression that there
would soon be no chance whatever of my securing attention in the _rôle_
of an invalid, at least in this part of the barn.
Perhaps, however, they might welcome me in the kitchen part, as a sort
of home-product rival to the sick cooper. I rose and walked languidly
out into M’rye’s domain. But the two women were occupied with a furious
scrubbing of rescued pans for the morning’s milk, and they allowed me
to sit feebly down on the wood-box behind the stove without so much as a
glance of sympathy.
By and by we heard one of the great front doors rolled back on its
shrieking wheels and then shut to again. Some one had entered, and in
a moment there came some strange, inarticulate sounds of voices which
showed that the arrival had created a commotion. M’rye lifted her head,
and I shall never forget the wild, expectant flashing of her black eyes
in that moment of suspense.
“Come in here, mother!” we heard Abner’s deep voice call out from beyond
the democrat wagon. “Here’s somebody wants to see you!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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