When in the course of neighbourly conversation Matt mentioned this to his friend Aunt Mary Fields, she put a new colour upon it.
“He worshipped his maw, an’ she jest ’dored down on him,” she said; “but ’tain’t only he want look like her, he doan’ want look like his paw. Ev’one know what Cun’l de Courcy was—an’ dat chile jest ’spise him. He was allus a mons’ous proud chile, and when de Cun’l broke loose an’ went on one o’ his t’ars, it mos’ ’stroyed dat boy wid de disgracefulness. Dar’s chil’en as doan’ keer or notice—but dat boy, it ’most ’stroyed him.”
The big, empty-sounding house was kept orderly and spotless, the back garden exhibited such vegetables as no one else owned, the fruit-trees and grape-vines throve, in time the flower-beds began to bloom brilliantly, the rose-bushes and shrubs were trimmed, the paths swept, and people began to apply to Uncle Matt for slips and seeds. He himself became quite young again, so inspired was he by his importance and popularity. When he went into the town upon errands, people stopped to talk to him; the young business or professional men called him into their offices to have a chat with him. He was such a respectable relic of the times which had been “better days” to all of them, that there were those who were almost confidential with him. Uncle Matt would always understand their sentiments and doctrines, and he was always to be relied on for any small service. Such a cocktail or julep no one else could prepare, and there were numerous subtle accomplishments in the matter of mixing liquid refreshments which would have earned a reputation for any man.
There was no more familiar figure than his in the market or business streets of the hot, sunshine-flooded little town, which the passing armies had left so battered and deserted.
Uncle Matt knew all the stories in Delisleville. He knew how one house was falling to pieces for lack of repairs; he heard of the horses that had been sold or had died of old age and left their owners without a beast to draw their rickety buggies or carriages; he was deeply interested in the failing fortunes of what had once been the most important “store” in the town, and whose owner had been an aristocratic magnate, having no more undignified connection with the place than that of provider of capital.
As he walked up Main Street on his way to market, with his basket on his arm, he saw who had been able to “lay in new stock” and who had not. He saw the new sign-boards hung outside small houses which had been turned into offices. He knew what young scion of a respectable family had begun “doctoring” or “set up as a lawyer.” Sometimes he even dropped in and made brief visits of respectful congratulation.
“But,” he said privately to his young master, “de air ob de atmosphere, it’s jest full of dem young lawyers an’ doctors. Dar don’t seem to be nothin’ else for a gen’leman’s sons to do but to kyore people or go to law for ’em. Of cose dey oughtn’t ter hab ter work, gen’lemen oughtn’ter. Dey didn’t usen to heb ter, but now dey is gotter. Lawdy, Marse Rupert, you’ll hatter ’scuse me, but de young lawyers, an’ de young doctors, dey is scattered about dish yer D’lisleville!”
There were certain new sign-boards which excited him to great interest. There was one he never passed without pausing to examine and reflect upon it.
When he came within range of it on his way up the street, his pace would slacken, and when he reached it he would stop at the edge of the pavement and stand with his basket on his arm, gazing at the lettering with an absorbed air of interest and curiosity. It read, “Milton January, Claim Agent.” He could not read, but he had heard comments made upon the profession of the owner of this sign-board which had filled him with speculative thought. He shared the jealousy of strangers who came from “the North” to Delisleville and set up offices, which much more intelligent persons than himself burned with. He resented them as intruders, and felt that their well-dressed air and alert, business-like manner was an insult to departed fortunes.
“What they come fer?” he used to grumble. “Takin’ away trade an’ business when they ain’t none left for de proper people nohow. How’s we gwine ter live if all New York City an’ Bos’n an’ Philadelphy pours in?”