V
In two days’ time the whole country had heard the news. The mystery of Blair’s Hollow was revived and became a greater mystery than ever. The woman was dead, the man had disappeared. The cabin stood deserted, save for the few household goods which had been left just as they were on the day of the funeral. Not an article had been moved, though the woman to whom Tom De Willoughby, as the person most concerned, handed over the discarded property, did not find the little trunk, and noticed that articles had been burned in the fireplace in the front room.
“Thar wus a big pile o’ ashes on the ha’th,” she said to her friends, “sorter like as if he’d been burnin’ a heap a little things o’ one sort or ’nother. It kinder give me cold chills, it looked so lonesome when I shut the door arter the truck was gone. I left the ashes a-lyin’ thar. I kinder had a curi’s feelin’ about touchin’ on ’em. Nothing wouldn’t hire me to live thar. D’Willerby said he reckoned I could hev moved right in ef I wanted to, but, Lawsy! I wouldn’t have done it fer nothin’.”
But that which roused the greatest excitement in the community was Tom De Willoughby’s course.
At first Mrs. Doty’s story of Big Tom’s adoption of the child was scarcely accepted as being a possibility. The first man who heard it received it with a grin of disbelief. This individual was naturally Mr. Doty himself.
“Minty,” he said, “don’t ye let him fool ye. Don’t ye know Tom D’Willerby by this time? Ye’d orter. It’s jest some o’ his gas. Don’t ye s’pose he hain’t got no more sense? What’d he do with it?”
“Ye can believe it or not,” replied Mrs. Doty, sharply, “but he’s gwine to raise that young’n, as shore as your name’s Job. Mornin’s got her this minute.”
Mr. Doty indulged in a subdued chuckle.
“A nice-lookin’ feller he is to raise a infant babe!” he remarked. “Lord a massy! if thet thar ain’t jest like one o’ his doggoned tales! He is the derndest critter,” with reflective delight, “the derndest! Thar ain’t nothin’ in Hamlin to come up to him.”
But the next day even Mr. Doty was convinced. After his customary visit to the Cross-roads, he returned to his family wearing a bewildered expression. It became a sheepish expression when his wife confronted him on the doorstep.
“Wal, Job Doty,” she remarked, “I guess you’ve found out by this time whether I was right or wrong.”
“Wal,” answered Mr. Doty, throwing his saddle down on the porch, “I reckon I hev. She’s thar shore enough, ‘n’ it seems like he’s gwine to keep her; but I wouldn’t hev believed it ef I hadn’t seen it, doggoned ef I would! But, Lord, it’s like him, arter all.” And he brightened up and chuckled again.
“I reckon he don’t scarcely know what he’s tuk in hand,” said Mrs. Doty.
“Him!” answered Mr. Doty. “Tom! Lord! ’tain’t a-gwine to trouble Tom. He’ll get along, Tom will. Tom’d jus’ as lief as she wus twins as not, mebbe liefer. It’d be a bigger thing for him to engineer ‘n’ gas about ef she wus. Ef you’d seen him bring her into the store to the boys ‘n’ brag on her ‘n’ spread hisself, I reckon ye wouldn’t hev minded ’bout Tom. Why, he’s set on her, Minty, a’reddy, as set as he kin be.”
The Cross-roads post-office had indeed been the scene of a sort of informal levée held by the newcomer, who had been thus presented to her fellow-citizens. One man after another had dropped in to hear the truth of the story related, and each one had been dumfounded at the outset by Tom’s simple statement of fact.
“Yes, I’m going to keep her, boys,” he said. “She’s in the back part of the house now. According to my calculations, she’s drunk about three quarts of milk since morning, and seems to stand it pretty well, so I suppose she’s all right.”
There were a great many jokes made at first, and a general spirit of hilariousness reigned, but it was observed by one of the keener witted ones that, despite his jocular tone, there was an underlying seriousness in Tom’s air which might argue that he felt the weight of his responsibility. When the women began to come in, as they did later in the day, he received them with much cordiality, rising from his chair to shake hands with each matron as she appeared.
“Come in to see her, have you?” he said. “That’s right. She’s in the back room. Walk right in. Mis’ Simpson and Mis’ Lyle, I’d like some of you ladies to have a look at her. I’ll go with you myself and hear what you have to say.”
He made the journey each time with a slight air of anxiety, leading the way to the wooden cradle, and standing over it like a Herculean guardian angel, listening attentively to all the comments made and all the advice given.
“She seems to be getting on pretty well, doesn’t she?” he enquired.
“Lor’, yes!” said one matron; “jest keep her kivered up ‘n’ don’t let no air strike her, ‘n’ ye won’t hev no trouble with her, I reckon.”
“No air?” enquired Tom, in some trepidation; “none at all?”
“Wal, thet’s my way,” was the answer. “Some folks does diff’rent, but I didn’t never expose ’em none till they was more’n amonth old. New-born babies is tender things!”
“Yes,” said Tom. “Good Lord, yes!”
His visitor started at him perplexedly for a moment.
“Wal,” she said. “My man allus used to say they kinder skeered him ’long at the first—he kinder felt as if they’d mebbe come apart, or sumthin’. They allus sorter ’minded me o’ young mice. Wal, you jest tell Mornin to giv’ her es much milk as she calls fer, an’ don’t let it bile too long, ‘n’ she’ll come on fine.”
The next visitor that entered uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“Ye’re gwine ter kill her!” she said. “Thar ain’t a breath o’ air in the room, ‘n’ thar ain’t nothin’ a new-born baby wants more ’n plenty o’ air. They’re tender critters, ‘n’ they cayn’t stand to be smothered up. Ye’ll hev her in spasms afore the day’s over.”
Tom flung the doors and windows open in great alarm.
“It is hot,” he said. “It’s hot enough out of doors, but Mis’ Simpson told me to keep her shut up, and I thought she’d had experience enough to know.”
“Jane Simpson!” with ill-concealed scorn. “She’d orter! She’s had six to die in their second summer. I reckon she told ye to give her half-b’iled milk as often as she wanted it?”
Tom reflected in manifest trepidation.
“She did tell me not to boil it too much, and to give it to her when she called for it,” he said, slowly.
“Wal, if ye don’t want ter kill her, take my advice an’ bile it a good half hour, ‘n’ don’t give it to her oftener than once in three hours. She’ll cry fur it, but ye needn’t mind. Ye’ll get used ter it. I don’t
