The Story of Duciehurst: A Tale of the MississippiCraddock, Charles Egbert
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The Story of Duciehurst: A Tale of the Mississippi
Craddock, Charles Egbert
Mississippi River -- Fiction
As he ceased to speak he had a sudden look of affront--more than aught
else it suggested the impulse of some spirited horse refusing a mandate
of urgency, and ready to bolt, to rear, to assert an insurgent and
untamed power. Mrs. Floyd-Rosney’s words might bear an interpretation
of an ill-judged patronage,--her facile foolish blandness in magnifying
the importance of his opportunity that at its best must seem so very
small to her. With an almost visible effort he brought himself under
control without a snort of contempt or an impatient stamp. There was an
interval of silence so awkward, in view of these forced disclosures of
commercial status and financial interest, that Ducie was disposed to
continue the personal relation as a less crude method of its conclusion
than bolting precipitately from the subject. “We have close connections,
of course, with importers in America as well as elsewhere. It is my
mission to effect a settlement of a matter in controversy with a company
having extensive dealings with us and I am glad to utilize the
opportunity to run in on Ran at his plantation in this lower country
while I am en route to New Orleans. It makes this detention all the more
unfortunate. I lose time that I might otherwise spend with him.”
“You must be awfully lonesome over on the other side without your twin
brother, your other self,” said Miss Dean, sweetly commiserative.
And, indeed, his face fell.
“But how lovely to be in France,” sighed Mrs. Floyd-Rosney. “I envy you
your Paris.”
“Paris!” he could but fleer. “I see as much of Paris as if I were in the
Mississippi swamp.” Then, recovering himself, “Paris is not France, so
far as the silk manufacturing interest is concerned.”
An interruption was at hand and this seemed well. An old gentleman,
dressed in black, a Prince Albert coat, a wide soft felt hat, with a
white beard and sightless eyes, seeming more aged and infirm than he
really was, by reason of his groping progress between a stout stick and
a pompous negro man-servant, was steered down the guards and toward the
group; perceiving whom, Colonel Kenwynton hastily arose and advanced.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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