Throckmorton: A Novel

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Within a few days Throckmorton and Jack Throckmorton—the traitor and the traitor’s son—had arrived at Millenbeck.

Jacqueline could talk of nothing but the dawning splendors of the place. Delilah, who had an appetite for the marvelous scarcely inferior to Jacqueline’s, kept her on the rack with curiosity.

“Dey done put Bruskins carpets all over de house,” she retailed solemnly into Jacqueline’s greedy ears, “an’ velvet sofys an’ cheers, an’ de lookin’-glasses from de garret ter de cellar. An’ dey got a white man name’ Sweeney—mighty po’ white trash, Simon Peter say—dat is a white nigger, an’ he talk mighty cu’rus. Simon Peter he meet him in de road, an’ dis heah Mis’ Sweeney he ax him ef dey was any Orrish gentmans ’bout here. Simon Peter he say he never heerd o’ no sich things ez Orrish gentmans, an’ Mis’ Sweeney he lif’ up he stick, an’ Simon Peter he took ter he heels an’ Mis’ Sweeney arter him, an’ Simon Peter ’low ef he hadn’t run down in de swamp, Mis’ Sweeney would er kilt him, sho’! An’ he doan’ min’ blackin’ de boots at Millenbeck an’ milk de cows, an’ den he dress up fine an’ wait on de table—an’ he a white man, too! He done tell some folks he wuz a soldier an’ fit, an’ he gwine ev’ywhar Marse George Throckmorton go, ef it twuz hell itself. Things is monst’ous fine at Millenbeck—dat dey is—an’ all fur dem two menfolks. Seem like God A’mighty done give all de good times ter de menfolks an’ all de hard times ter de womenfolks.”

“Is that so, mammy?” asked Jacqueline, dolefully, who was simple of soul, and disposed to believe everything Delilah told her.

“Dat ’tis, chile, ez sho’—ez sho’ ez God’s truf. De menfolks jes’ lives fur ter be frustratin’ an’ owdacious ter de po’ womenfolks, what byar de burdens. I tell Simon Peter so ev’y day; but dat nigger he doan’ worrit much ’bout what de po’ womenfolks has got ter orndure. Men is mighty po’, vain, weak creetures—I tell Simon Peter dat too ev’y day.”

“Dat you does,” piously responded Simon Peter.

The windows to Judith’s room possessed a strange fascination in those days for Jacqueline, because they looked straight out to Millenbeck. There she stood for hours, dreaming, speculating, thinking out aloud.

“Just think, Judith; there is a great big hall there that mamma says has a splendid dancing-floor!”

“Jacky, stop thinking about Millenbeck and the dancing-floor. It doesn’t concern you, and you know that mother will never let you speak to either of the Throckmortons,” answered Judith.

“Yes, I know it,” said Jacqueline, disconsolately. “The more’s the pity. Papa is dying to be friends with them when they come; but, of course, mamma won’t let him.”