Talbot's Angles

Amy Blanchard

Amy E. Blanchard

Talbot's Angles

CHAPTER I

THE END OF A DAY

The sun was very low in the west and the evening colors were staining the creek whose quiet waters ran between flat lands to be carried out to the river further on, which, in its turn, found the broader bay. The arms of one or two ancient windmills, which had been moving lazily in the breeze, made a few rotations and then stopped, showing themselves dark objects against a glowing sky. An old church, embowered by tall trees, caught some of the evening glow upon its ancient brick walls, and in the dank long grass gray headstones glimmered out discovering the graveyard. Beyond the church the sparkling creek murmured gently. A few turkey-buzzards cast weird shadows as they circled slowly overhead or dropped with slanting wing to perch upon the chimneys of a long low house which stood not many rods from the weather-stained church. One reached the church by way of a green lane, and along this lane was now coming Linda Talbot, a girl above medium height whose dark hair made her fine fair skin look the fairer by contrast. Her eyes were downcast so that one could not discern their depth of violet blue, but one could note the long black lashes, the well-shaped brows and the rounded chin. Just now her lips were compressed so the lines of her mouth could not be determined upon. She walked slowly, never once raising her eyes toward the sparkling creek and the sunset sky. But once beyond the gate opening from the lane, she stood and looked around, taking in the view which included the windmills raising protesting arms, the fields where lately, corn had been stacked, the long low brown house. Upon this last her eyes lingered long and lovingly, observing the quaint lines, the low sloping roof, the small-paned windows, the chimneys at each end, the porch running the length of the building, each detail so familiar, so dearly loved, and now passing from her.

She gave her head a little quick shake as if to scatter the thoughts assailing her, then she moved more quickly toward the house, but passing around to the kitchen rather than entering by way of the porch. An old colored woman was picking crabs at a table near the window. "Gwine give yuh some crab cakes fo' suppah, Miss Lindy," she announced, looking up. "Dark ketch me fo' I git 'em done I specs, dat no 'count Jake so long gittin' 'em hyar. He de no countines' niggah evah I did see. Thinks he ain't got nothin' to do but set 'roun' rollin' his eyes at de gals."

"Get me an apron, Mammy," said Linda, "and I'll help you."

"Go 'long, Miss Lindy. 'Tain't no need o' dat."

"But I'd like to," persisted the girl feeling relief at not immediately being obliged to seek other society than that of the old colored woman to whom she had brought her troubles from babyhood.

Enveloped in a huge gingham apron, she sat down to her task, but was so much more silent than was her wont that the old woman from time to time, raised her eyes to watch her furtively.

Presently she could stand it no longer. "Wha' de matter, honey?" she asked solicitously. "Yuh got sumpin mo' on yo' min' dat honin' fo' Mars Martin."

Linda dropped crab and fork into the dish of crab meat, rested her arms on the table and hid her face in them that Phebe should not see the tears she could no longer keep back.

"Dere, honey, dere baby," crooned Phebe. "Tell yo' ole Mammy all about it. Wha' she been a doin' to Mammy's honey chile?"

Linda lifted her tearful eyes. "Oh, Mammy, I can't stand it. I must go."

Phebe's hands shook. "What yuh mean, chile?" she asked with a tremor in her voice.

"I mean I must earn my own living. Phebe, I shall have to. Oh, Mammy, you know I cannot blame my brother, but if he had only left a little, just a little for my very own. If he had not made the conditions so hard."

"Tell Mammy agin jes' how yuh stan's, honey," said Phebe soberly.

"It's this way, Mammy. The place is left to Grace and me. As long as she chooses to make it her home I am to live here. If Grace marries she forfeits her right to it, but whil