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Aunt Cornelia was beside her husband now. "No, no," Blev answered the look on the two faces; "nothin' ain't the matter of Sammy. He's jest married that little Huldy Frew 'at's been waitin' on table at Aunt Randy Card's ho-tel. You know, Aunt Cornely, she is a mighty pretty little trick and there ain't nothin' bad about the gal.
Then he said, gently: "Hit's gone, befo' hit ever come to us, Cornely. Hit never breathed a breath of this werrisome world." A man who had practised medicine in the Turkey Tracks for twenty-five years a doctor among these mountain people, where poverty is the rule, hardship a condition of life, and tragedy a fairly familiar element, would have had his fibre well stiffened.
Its outcome was this: Toward the end of the first year of the marriage, upon a bleak, forbidding March day a day of bitter wind and icy sleet, there rode one to the Overholt door who called upon Pap and Aunt Cornelia to hitch up and come with all possible haste to old Eph'm Blackshears, Cornelia's father a man who had lived to fourscore, and who now lay at his last, asking for his daughter, his baby chile, Cornely.
She had exchanged the name of Trenti for that of Cornelis, or Cornely, which, as I found out afterwards, was Rigerboo's real name. We spent an hour in writing to this curious woman, as we desired to take advantage of the circumstance that a man whom Rigerboos desired to commend to her was shortly going to England.
And so when Pappy come a-totin' milk, an' a-totin' pork, an' a-ploughin' his co'n outen the weeds, w'y, Sammy jest draw down his face an' look black at Pappy, and make like he mad at him like he don't want none o' them things like Pappy jest pesterin' round him fer nothin'. but meanness. Now mind, Aunt Cornely, I ain't say Sammy knows this his own se'f. But I studied Sammy mighty well, an' I know.
They cain't nothin' be done to him for nair a one of 'em you know, same's I do 'ca'se hit cain't be proved in a co't o' law. But I kin ketch him in this meanness with this hyer little jigger, and I'm a-gwine to do hit, jest ez sure ez my name's John Overholt!" "Oh, Pappy! A leetle bit o' co'n fer a man's chillen " "Now, Cornely honey, that's a womern!
"That youngest one, Con Hite, was sorter mild-mannered an' meek," she afterward said, often recounting the culinary triumphs of the great day, "an' I misdoubts but he hed the deespepsy, fur he war the only one ez didn't pitch in an' eat like he war tryin' to pervide fur a week's fastin'. I reckon they all knowed what sort'n pitiful table they sets out at Mis' Cornely Hood's, t'other side the mounting, whar they expected ter stop fur supper, an' war a-goin' ter lay up suthin' agin destitution."
W'y, they'd starve! Huldy and the chaps would jest p'intedly starve." "No, they won't, John. He'd come to his senses and be thankful for what the Lord sent, like other people. W'y, John " "Cornely honey don't. Don't ye say another word.
Venice gives place to the assembly rooms of Mrs. Cornely and the fast taverns of the London of 1760; we pass from Versailles to the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg in the days of Catherine, from the policy of the Great Frederick to the lewd mirth of strolling-players, and the presence-chamber of the Vatican is succeeded by an intrigue in a garret.
"Oh, my po' chile, my po' little Huldy! Whar? His own place! My law! whar? Whar has he drug that little soul?" An intuition flashed into Pap Overholt's mind. He grasped his wife's arm. "W'y, Cornely," he cried, "hit's that cabin on The Bench! Don't ye know, honey? I give him that land when he was sixteen year old, time he brung the prize home from the school down in the settlemint." "The Bench!
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