Part 48 (2/2)
Stone could do no more than glare after him, and he then said something which is not usually said in sick rooms.
”Won' a li'l cullud skin do?” the old nurse looked timidly up at him.
He shook his head; smiling, but sadly.
She sighed. The windows were getting black now; night was settling over the earth; yet this man in whose hands rested the fate of Mesmie walked softly back and forth across the room, muttering:
”I must have good skin.”
”I knows whar you kin git good skin,” she whispered excitedly, arising and grasping him by the sleeve. ”Git in dar-ar churn of yoh'n an' go dis minit to Tom Hewlet's house, den tell Miss Nancy ole Timmie say we'se countin' on her! She'll come, too! Make haste now, man!”
The noise of his little machine was growing faint, when the door opened and Brent stood on the threshold.
”Where's Stone, Aunt Timmie?”
”He's done gone,” she sharply answered, for by now her heart was beating with strong resentment against entire mankind. ”What you want 'im fer?”
”Nothing, so long as he isn't here,” Brent turned away.
But she was following. After all, he did come to the little girl's relief--even though his intimacy with juleps had spoiled the offer. So she called after him in a kinder voice:
”I never said he warn't comin' back! What you want 'im fer, Ma.r.s.e Brent?
Is you sick?”
”No,” he gave a short laugh. ”It's this way: He couldn't use me on account of my drinking--even little as it now is; and I wanted to ask how long a fellow must be entirely free from it to make his skin a good grafting proposition. If he thinks Mesmie can wait that long, I'll stop to-night and get ready. That's all. Tell him, will you, Aunt Timmie? And let me know? I'll be up stairs pretty soon.”
A soft light crept into her face.
”We don' need it now, chile,” she murmured. ”We'se gwine git some nice, soft lady-like skin. De doctor's done gone arter her!”
”You don't mean Miss Jane!” he turned furiously upon her. ”She shan't do it, I tell you!”
”Since when's you had de right to say what she kin do an' what she cyarn' do, I'd lak to know? But,” she began to chuckle, ”as you 'pears so upsot 'bout it, I'll tell you he ain' gwine arter Miss Jane. Now, better go home, an' not talk so loud!”
Embarra.s.sed, he started toward the house.
”Bress yoh heart,” she whispered to herself. ”Dar is good in you, arter all--I don' kyeer ef you an' Ma.r.s.e John do toddy too much at times!”
Then, quite suddenly, she asked aloud: ”Who sont you back heah dis time?” His first visit she might have attributed to Jane, but Jane had now been gone half an hour. She began to think he had not heard, for he continued walking away; but, at last, his voice came through the gloom:
”The gardener.”
”De gyard'ner!” she tried to reach him with her eyes. ”What's de use of talkin' dat a-way! De gyard'ner don' never come nigh de house!”
There was another silence. She knew he had stopped now; she knew he was still close in front of the cottage, but her eyes were too poor to make him out in the gathering darkness.
”That's just the trouble, Aunt Timmie,” she heard him say. ”We don't often let the gardener come in to keep things trim and decent!”
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