“’Caise his gran’mother jilted Colonel Thorne jes’ de day befo’ de weddin’, to marry his gran’daddy.”
“Do you mean to say seriously that that dead and gone romance is at the bottom of the present-day feud between the Thornes and the Porters?”
“I ’spect it are.” Cato crossed the room and adjusted a rug to his taste. “Ain’t nebber heard nuffin’ else.”
“And on the strength of that Mrs. Porter refuses to receive Dr. Thorne as a guest in her house,” Mitchell laughed. “It doesn’t seem possible in these enlightened days that people will nurse a grievance nearly a hundred years old. And apparently Mrs. Porter intends passing the feud to the next generation, and keeping her daughter and Dr. Thorne at loggerheads.” Mitchell jingled the keys in his pocket. “It has all the atmosphere of a Montague and Capulet affair—except for the lack of romance.”
Old Cato scratched his bald head and the little tufts of wool still remaining, in perplexity.
“Dar’s a Montagu livin’ ’bout five miles from hyar, but I ain’t never heard tell ob no Capulets in de neighborhood. Was yo’ a-referrin’ to de Richard Montagu fam’ly?”
“No, no—only to an old play,” explained Mitchell, and seeing Cato’s mystified air, added, “It would have been like the play had Dr. Thorne and Miss Millicent Porter fallen in love and the families opposed the match; that is what I meant.”
“Yessir.” Cato brightened. “Dat was what Ole Miss uster wonder ’bout, when little Miss Milly uster slip ober hyar and eat hot gingerbread.”
Mitchell’s scrutiny was not noticed by Cato as he replaced articles on the mantelpiece. “Am I mistaken—is there a romance between Dr. Thorne and Miss Porter?” he asked.
“I doan know what yo’ mean by romance,” grumbled Cato. “Marse Beverly am mos’ twelve years older than Miss Milly; dey knowed each odder when chillen, an’ Marse Beverly made her whistles an’ things, an’ fo’ fear de old Judge Porter would fo’bid Miss Milly comin’ hyar to see Ole Miss we nebber tole no one.”