though martin’s visit proved to be a long one, his uncle saw very little of him. he never asked the young man to come down to the mill; indeed, he put his nephew out of his mind as much as possible. he realized that it meant a great deal to sapphira to have this foolish, lively young fellow about the place. certainly, martin was very attentive to her; chatted with her on the porch in the morning, had tea with her in the afternoon, played cribbage with her after supper.
one night when the miller was sitting at his reading-table, he heard a knock at his door. in answer to his “come in,” sampson appeared.
“yes, sampson. what is it?”
the tall mulatto stood uneasily before him. “master henry, i’d like to speak to you about something i got on my mind, but i don’t rightly know if it’s my place to.”
“speak out, sampson.”
“mr. henry, i’m ‘fraid mr. martin worries nancy a right smart.”
the miller looked up and frowned. “worries her? what do you mean? how worries her?”
“well, sir, you know how them young fellers is. they likes to fool round a pretty girl, even if she’s coloured. i don’t say he means no harm, but she ain’t used to them ways, an’ she seems kind-a scared-like all the time. i know you wouldn’t want to see harm befall her.”
“shut the door there behind you, sampson. now tell me: have you seen anything amiss?”
“not rightly speaking, sir. but awhile back nancy was pickin’ cherries in one of them big trees behind the smokehouse. me an’ jeff was in the smokehouse, an’ we heard her holler like she was hurt or somethin’. we both run out an’ seen mr. martin standin’ at the foot of the tree. before we come, he’d been standin’ on the cheer nancy took to climb up with. i seen the mud off his boots on the cheer-bottom. the gal was scared fo’ sho’, mr. henry. she was tremblin’ like a leaf an’ taken sick like. i took her down, an’ jeff hepped her to the cabin. i may be wrong, but i didn’t like it.”
the miller’s face had taken on a dark flush. “i’ll keep an eye on my nephew, sampson. sometimes a girl will make a fuss over nothing, you know.”
“yes, sir. i never seen nancy do nothin’ free nor unbecomin’ when she comes an’ goes.”
“nor have i. she’s a good girl, and i’ll look after her.”
“thank you, sir. good night, mr. henry.” sampson withdrew, but his face told that he was not reassured.
the miller closed his book and began to move slowly about the room. in a flash he realized that from the first he had distrusted his nephew, though he had never thought of him in connection with nancy. to him nancy was scarcely more than a child. it was his habit to refer to her in that way. in reality, of course, she was a young woman. his three daughters had married when they were younger than nancy was now. wrath flamed up in him as he paced the floor; against his nephew and the father who begot him, against all his brothers and the colbert blood. his own father he could hold in reverence; he was an honest man, and the woman who shared his laborious and thrifty life was a good woman. but there must have been bad blood in the colberts back on the other side of the water, and it had come to light in his three brothers and their sons. he knew the family inheritance well enough. he had his share of it. but since his marriage he had never let it get the better of him. he had kept his marriage vows as he would keep any other contract.
the miller got very little sleep that night. when the first blush of the early summer dawn showed above the mountain, he rose, put on his long white cotton milling coat, and went to bathe in the shallow pool that always lay under the big mill-wheel. this was his custom, after the hot, close nights which often made sleep unrefreshing in summer. the chill of the water, and the rays of gold which soon touched the distant hills before the sun appeared, restored his feeling of physical vigour. he came back to his room, leaving wet footprints on the floury floor behind him. having dressed and shaved, he put on his hat and walked down along the mill-race toward the dam. he did not know why, but he felt strongly disinclined to see nancy this morning. he did not wish to be there when she came to the mill; it would not be the same as yesterday. something disturbing had come between them since then.
for years, ever since she was a child, nancy had seemed to him more like an influence than a person. she came in and out of the mill like a soft spring breeze; a shy, devoted creature who touched everything so lightly. never before had anyone divined all his little whims and preferences, and been eager to gratify them. and it was for love, from dutiful affection. she had nothing to gain beyond the pleasure of seeing him pleased.
now that he must see her as a woman, enticing to men, he shrank from seeing her at all. something was lost out of that sweet companionship; for companionship it had been, though it was but a smile and a glance, a greeting in the fresh morning hours.
