When they went in to supper later on, there was a great deal of laughing and talking going on down the long table. Mr. Sparkes was finishing a story as they entered, and he was finishing it in a loud voice.
“They’re pretty well known,” he said; “an’ the Colonel’s the worst o’ the lot. The nigger told me thar’d been a reg’lar flare-up at the Springs. Thar was a ball an’ he got on a tear an’ got away from ’em an’ bust right into the ballroom an’ played Hail Columby. He’s a pop’lar man among the ladies, is the Colonel, but a mixtry of whiskey an’ opium is apt to spile his manners. Nigger says he’s the drunkest man when he is drunk that the Lord ever let live. Ye cayn’t do nothin’ with him. The boy was thar, an’ they say ’twas a sight ter see him. He’s his daddy’s son, an’ a bigger young devil never lived, they tell me. He’s not got to the whiskey an’ opium yet, an’ he jes’ takes his’n out in pride an’ temper. Nigger said he jest raved an’ tore that night—went into the Colonel’s room an’ cussed an’ dashed round like he was gone mad. Kinder shamed, I reckin. But Lord, he’ll be at it himself in ten years from now. It’s in the blood.”
“Who’s that you’re talking of?” asked Tom from his end of the table. He had not recovered his colour yet and looked pale as he put the question.
“Colonel De Willoughby of Delisleville,” answered Mr. Sparkes. “Any kin o’ your’n? Name’s sorter like. He jest left here this evenin’ with his boy an’ nigger. They’ve ben to Whitebriar, an’ they’re on their way home.”
“I saw them ride over the hill,” said Tom. “I thought I wasn’t mistaken in the man. I’ve seen him before.”
But he made a very poor supper, and a shadow seemed to have fallen upon his cheery mood of the morning. Sheba recognised this and knew, too, that her new friend and his father were in some vague way responsible for it, and the knowledge oppressed her so that when they sat out upon the porch together after the meal was over, she in her accustomed place on his knee, she grew sad under it herself and, instead of talking as usual, leaned her small head against his coat and watched the few stars whose brightness the moon had not shut out.
She went to bed early, but did not sleep well, dreaming dreary dreams of watching the travellers riding away towards the sunset, and of hearing the woman talk again. One of the talkers seemed at last to waken her with her voice, and she sat up in bed suddenly and found that it was Tom, who had roused her by speaking to himself in a low tone as he stood in a flood of moonlight before the window.
“She died,” he was saying; “she died.”
Sheba burst into a little sob, stretching out her hands to him without comprehending her own emotion.
“And he went away,” she cried, “nobody knows where—nobody knows where—” And even when he came to her hurriedly and sat down on the bedside, soothing her and taking her in his arms to sink back into slumber, she sobbed drearily two or three times, though, once in his clasp, she felt, as she had always done, the full sense of comfort, safety, and rest.