The Entailed Hat | Page 7

George Alfred Townsend
from distant places
under contract; the experiment in which he had embarked was still an
experiment, and he was subject to the knowledge and judgment of his
manager, being himself rather the patron than the manufacturer at the
works. Many days, when he was supposed to be testing the percentage
and mixture of his ores, he was gunning off on the ocean bars, crabbing
on Whollop's Beach, or hunting up questionable company among the
forest girls, or around the oystermen's or wrecker's cabins. He had
plenty of property and family endorsers, however, and seldom failed to
have a satisfactory interview with Meshach Milburn, who was now
assisting him, at least once a quarter, to keep both principal and interest
at home.
The Judge had grown thicker with Meshach, but the storekeeper merely
listened and assented, and took no pains to incur another criticism on
his motives. Meshach wore his great hat, as ever, to church and on
festive days, and it was still derided, and held to be the town wonder.

Vesta Custis often saw the odd little man come into church while she
was singing, and she fancied that his large, coarse ears were turned to
receive the music she was making, and she faintly remembered that
once she had held in her hands that wonderful hat with its copper
buckle in the band, and stiff, wide brim, flowing in a wave. More than
that she knew nothing, except that the wearer was an humble-born,
grasping creature--a forester without social propensities, or, indeed, any
human attachments. The negro who abode under his roof was beloved,
compared to the sordid master, and all testimony concurred that
Meshach Milburn deserved neither commiseration, friendship, nor
recognition. Her father, however, indulgent in all things, said the
money-lender had a good mind, and was no serf.
Milburn had ceased to deal with negroes or dispense drams. His wealth
was now known to be more than considerable. He had ceased, also, to
lend money on the surrounding farms, and rumors came across the bay
that he was a holder of stocks and mortgages on the Western Shore, and
in Baltimore and Pennsylvania. The little town of Princess Anne was
full of speculations about him, and even his age was uncertain; Jack
Wonnell had measured it by hats. Said Jack:
"I bought my bell-crowns the year ole Milburn's daddy and mammy
died. They died of the bilious out yer in Nassawongo, within a few
days of each other. Now, I wear two bell-crowns a year. I come out
every Fourth of July and Christmas. 'Tother day I counted what was left,
and I reckoned that Meshach couldn't be forty-five at the wust."
Vesta Custis was only twenty years old when the townsfolk thought she
must be twenty-five, so long had she been the beauty of Somerset. Her
mother had always looked with apprehension on the possible time
when her daughter would marry and leave her; for Judge Custis had
long ceased to have the full confidence of his lady, whose fortune he
had embarked without return on ventures still in doubt, and he always
waived the subject when it was broached, or remarked that no loss was
possible in his hands while Mrs. Custis lived.
CHAPTER III.

THE FORESTERS.
One Saturday afternoon in October Meshach Milburn drew out his
razor, cup, and hone, and prepared to shave, albeit his beard was never
more than harmless down. By a sort of capillary attraction Samson Hat
divined his purpose, and, opening the big green chest, brought out the
mysterious hat.
"Put it down!" commanded the money-lender. "Go out and hire me a
carriage with two horses--two horses, do you mind!"
Samson dropped the hat in wonderment.
"Make yourself decent," added Meshach; "I want you to drive. Go with
me, and keep with me: do you understand?"
"Yes, marster."
When the negro departed, Meshach himself took up the tall, green,
buckled hat, with the stiff, broad, piratical brim. He looked it over long
and hard.
"Vanity, vanity!" he murmured, "vanity and habit! I dare not disown
thee now, because they give thee ridicule, and without thee they would
give me nothing but hate!"
The people around the tavern and court-house saw, with surprise too
great for jeering, the note-shaver go past in a carriage, driven by his
negro, and with two horses! Jack Wonnell took off his shining beaver
to cheer. As the phenomenal team receded, the old cry ran, however,
down the stilly street: "Steeple-top! He's got it on! Meshach's loose!"
The carriage proceeded out the forest road, and soon entered upon the
sandy, pine-slashed region called Hard-scrabble, or Hardship.
Here the roads were sandy as the hummocks and hills in the rear of a
sea beach, and the low, lean pines covered the swells and ridges, while
in occasional
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