mrs. colbert had zack sent down to the mill to ask her husband to come up early before supper-time. when his wife told him that his nephew had come to visit them, he showed neither pleasure nor annoyance. hospitality, in those days, was one of the decencies of life. whoever came, friend or stranger, was made welcome and cared for according to his place in the world. henry saw that his wife was wearing her velvet gown, so he unquestioningly changed his shirt and put on his black suit. when martin came downstairs, his uncle met him in the spacious hall, gave him a hearty handshake, and told him he was glad to see him.
washington announced supper and wheeled the mistress to her place at table. the miller noticed that a bottle of his best madeira was on the sideboard. as soon as the two men were seated, washington filled the wineglasses. martin lifted his, saying:
“to the lady of the house, uncle henry,” bowing to his aunt, who smiled graciously. his uncle also smiled.
supper was served at seven o’clock in summer, and throughout the hour sampson’s twelve-year-old katie, barefoot, in a stiffly starched red calico dress, walked round and round the table waving a long flybrush made of a peacock’s tail. even in town houses the flybrush was part of the table service.
katie had seldom heard such animated conversation at supper. mrs. colbert had reserved all her inquiries about loudoun county families until her husband should be present. she wished martin to make a good impression. he was full of gossip and told a story well. he complimented his uncle on his wine, and drank it liberally. the abstemious miller drank two glasses and left the third standing full. his wife, who always had a little wine with her supper, signalled washington to bring on another bottle.
martin’s stories were never quite indecent, and always characteristic of old loudoun county neighbours. when he was talking about captain bushwell’s fine horses, he happened to say: “fact is, his trainers say nowadays bushwell sleeps in the stables.” suddenly remembering that the miller was said to sleep at the mill, he caught himself up with a giggle, blushed, and ducked his shoulders.
sapphira promptly covered his blush by asking him about hal gogarty, a dare-devil young irishman whose stables rivalled bushwell’s.
“gogarty? ‘course you know about his runaway last summer?”
“runaway? i didn’t know he ever had one. it’s funny sister bushwell didn’t tell me about it when i saw her in town at easter.”
gogarty, she knew, delighted in driving a coach-and-four over the roughest roads in the blue ridge mountains. people down there took more interest in horses than in anything else.
martin said gogarty had a party of visitors up from the tidewater country. (loudoun county people were thought to be a little jealous of the older and richer families in tidewater virginia.) gogarty had wanted to give his guests a little excitement, since they made it plain that in staying with him they were tasting frontier life. he arranged to take them on a coaching party, and asked martin to go along and sit on the box with him, whispering that he meant to make it a pretty rough trip. they set out with six passengers.
“that drive,” martin went on, “took in some of the worst roads in the mountains, uncle henry, and you know the best are none too good. nobody can handle four horses better than gogarty. we went like the wind. up hill and down dale. the women laughed and screamed, but hal never let on he heard them. he’d have come out all right, too, except for a funny thing. just as we were coming down a long hill at a pretty good pace, a young deer jumped out of the bushes right in front of the horses. of course they reared and shied. hal kept his head, nothing got tangled. but the right front wheel smashed on a big rock beside the road. he couldn’t stop the horses on the minute, so we bumped along on a dished wheel till the spokes flew out and we turned over. then the horses went plumb crazy. hal held on to the lines and sawed the bits, while i got forward and cut the traces. i thought i’d be kicked to death, and i did get a bad shin plaster. our passengers were pretty well bumped up, but nobody was much hurt. one girl got her nose broken; she was a pretty girl, too. i was mighty sorry; so was hal. it was that damn-fool deer made all the mischief. who ever heard of a deer acting so?” martin looked from his uncle to his aunt.
“certainly, no one,” his aunt replied with a twinkle. “it must have been got up on hal’s account. those folks from the tidewater do hold their heads high, though i’ve never seen just why they feel called upon.”
the miller had laughed at the story, but he looked at his wife, not his nephew. martin’s laugh showed an upper front tooth of a bluish cast; it was set on a wooden pivot and did not fit his gum snugly. there was a story about this tooth, and the miller did not like to be reminded of it.
martin, on his way to and from the hunts over in clarke county, had found a pretty, homespun girl in the blue ridge. she used to meet him in the woods, and, as the mountain folk put it, “he fooled her.” her two brothers lay for him in the thickets along the road to give him a horsewhipping. when they jumped out from cover and caught his mare by the bit, he saw he was in for it.
“you’re in the right, boys,” he said amiably, “but no whip. come at me with your fists, an’ i’ll do the best i can, one against two. that’s fair enough.”
they took him at his word, and did him in completely. they put their mark on him by knocking out one of his white teeth. (white teeth were not common in that tobacco-chewing country.) the brothers left him unconscious beside the road, but they let his horse go home to give the alarm.
everyone in the blue ridge country and in winchester knew the story of martin’s blue tooth. many of them agreed with sapphira: that martin deserved what he got, but that spirited young men were wild and always would be.
sampson’s katie, walking round and round the supper table with her flybrush, wondered what had come over her folks. “jist a-laffin’ an’ a-laffin’.” she was so delighted, so distracted, that more than once she let her peacock feathers dip on miss sapphy’s high headdress. even the master laughed at the stories about his old neighbours; a deep laugh from the belly up, it did a body good to hear it. the mistress’s laugh was always pleasant (when she was not laughing scornfully, as a form of reprimand): tinkling, ladylike, but with something cordially appreciative, like the occasional flash in her eyes.
martin’s laugh was just on the edge of being vulgar — rather loose, caught-inthe-act as it were. old washington, standing behind his mistress’s chair, reflected that this was a pretty figger of a young man, but he wasn’t a full-growed gen’leman yet.
katie, excited as she was by the talk, had even keener joys in anticipation. her eyes gloated over the good things mr. washington carried in to the table. she knew she would get a taste of them, though bluebell always had the best of what went back to the kitchen. lizzie had promised to make ice cream enough for everybody. tap had brought squares and chunks of ice in a wheelbarrow up from the icehouse, — a dark, sawdust filled cave under one wing of the mill. since six o’clock old jeff had been seated behind the laundry cabin, turning the big freezer. in winter, whenever there was a snowfall, lizzie made “snow-cream” for the mistress — beating the fresh, clean snow into a bowl of thick cream well flavoured with sugar and brandy. but she made ice cream only on special occasions.
the family sat so long at table that the after-supper visit in the parlour was brief that night. the mistress admitted that she was tired.
“i seldom spend such a lively day, martin. i had a long wait for my guest, and a very pleasant tea and supper after he got here. i like having young people with me,” she added, patting his hand. she rang for washington and told him to send nancy upstairs to turn down mr. martin’s bed and see that he had everything to make him comfortable.
when martin went to his room, nancy had already taken off the starched pillow shams and was folding up the counterpane.
“do you like the bolster left on, sir, or jest the pillows?”
“just the pillows. never leave the bolster on. take it away with you, can’t you?”
“yes indeed, sir. is two candles enough for you? good night, mr. martin.”
as she was going toward the door, with the long bolster upright in her arms, martin caught her round the shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. she let the heavy roll of feathers slide to the floor and pushed against his chest with both hands.
“oh, please, sir, please!”
though the candlelight was dim, he saw she was really frightened.
“now, my girl, what’s there to make a fuss about? that’s the way we say good-night down where i live. you ask my aunt.” she was already at the door. “wait a minute.” he pointed to the bolster lying on the carpet. “you take that thing with you, and waken me half an hour before breakfast. don’t forget.”
