The Gilded Age | Page 6

so, Nancy. It's all a chance, of course, and,
chances haven't been kind to us, I'll admit--but whatever comes, old
wife, they're provided for. Thank God for that!"
"Amen," came low and earnestly.
And with an activity and a suddenness that bewildered Obedstown and
almost took its breath away, the Hawkinses hurried through with their
arrangements in four short months and flitted out into the great
mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee.
CHAPTER II.
Toward the close of the third day's journey the wayfarers were just
beginning to think of camping, when they came upon a log cabin in the
woods. Hawkins drew rein and entered the yard. A boy about ten years
old was sitting in the cabin door with his face bowed in his hands.
Hawkins approached, expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it
did not. He halted a moment, and then said:
"Come, come, little chap, you mustn't be going to sleep before
sundown"
With a tired expression the small face came up out of the hands,--a face
down which tears were flowing.
"Ah, I'm sorry I spoke so, my boy. Tell me--is anything the matter?"
The boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture that the trouble
was in the, house, and made room for Hawkins to pass. Then he put his
face in his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering a
grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry. Hawkins
stepped within. It was a poverty stricken place. Six or eight
middle-aged country people of both sexes were grouped about an
object in the middle of the room; they were noiselessly busy and they
talked in whispers when they spoke. Hawkins uncovered and
approached. A coffin stood upon two backless chairs. These neighbors
had just finished disposing the body of a woman in it--a woman with a

careworn, gentle face that had more the look of sleep about it than of
death. An old lady motioned, toward the door and said to Hawkins in a
whisper:
"His mother, po' thing. Died of the fever, last night. Tha warn't no sich
thing as saving of her. But it's better for her--better for her. Husband
and the other two children died in the spring, and she hain't ever hilt up
her head sence. She jest went around broken-hearted like, and never
took no intrust in anything but Clay--that's the boy thar. She jest
worshiped Clay--and Clay he worshiped her. They didn't 'pear to live at
all, only when they was together, looking at each other, loving one
another. She's ben sick three weeks; and if you believe me that child
has worked, and kep' the run of the med'cin, and the times of giving it,
and sot up nights and nussed her, and tried to keep up her sperits, the
same as a grown-up person. And last night when she kep' a sinking and
sinking, and turned away her head and didn't know him no mo', it was
fitten to make a body's heart break to see him climb onto the bed and
lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and she not answer. But
bymeby she roused up, like, and looked around wild, and then she see
him, and she made a great cry and snatched him to her breast and hilt
him close and kissed him over and over agin; but it took the last po'
strength she had, and so her eyelids begin to close down, and her arms
sort o' drooped away and then we see she was gone, po' creetur. And
Clay, he--Oh, the po' motherless thing--I cain't talk abort it--I cain't
bear to talk about it."
Clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the
neighbors reverently fell apart and made way for him. He leaned upon
the open coffin and let his tears course silently. Then he put out his
small hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly.
After a bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three
or four fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent over and kissed the
unresponsive lips time and time again, and then turned away and went
out of the house without looking at any of the company. The old lady
said to Hawkins:
"She always loved that kind o' flowers. He fetched 'em for her every

morning, and she always kissed him. They was from away north
somers--she kep' school when she fust come. Goodness knows what's
to become o' that po' boy. No father, no mother, no kin folks of no kind.
Nobody to go to, nobody that k'yers for him--and all of us is so put to it
for to get along and families so