And during all this time the girl just stood passively with her sweet and vacant smile, and presently Mrs. Lampley heaved a powerful sigh of maternal tribulation, and, shaking her head slowly, said:
“But, Lord! Lord! They’re a worry an’ a care to you from the moment that they’re born! You sweat an’ slave to bring ’em up right—an’ even then you can’t tell what will happen. You watch ’em day an’ night—an’ then the first low-down bastard that comes along may git ’em out an’ ruin ’em the first time your back is turned!”
And again she sighed heavily, shaking her head. And in this grotesque and horribly comic manifestation of motherly love and solicitude, and in the vacant, tender smile upon the girl’s large, empty face there really was something moving, terribly pitiful, and unutterable.
WHENEVER GEORGE THOUGHT of this savage and tremendous family, his vision always returned again to Mr. Lampley himself, whose last, whose greatest secrecy, was silence. He talked to no one more than the barest necessity of business speech demanded, and when he spoke, either in question or reply, his speech was as curt and monosyllabic as speech could be, and his hard, blazing eyes, which he kept pointed as steady as a pistol at the face of anyone to whom he spoke or listened, repelled effectively any desire for a more spacious conversation. Yet, when he did speak, his voice was never surly, menacing, or snarling. It was a low, hard, toneless voice, as steady and unwavering as his hard black eyes, yet not unpleasant in its tone or timbre; it was, like everything about him save the naked, blazing eyes—hard, secret, and contained. He simply fastened his furious and malignant little eyes on one and spoke as brief and short as possible.
“Talk!” a man said. “Why, hell, he don’t need to talk! He just stands there and lets those eyes of his do all the talkin’ for him!” And this was true.
Beyond this bare anatomy of speech, George had heard him speak on only one occasion. This had been one day when he had come to make collections for the meat he had delivered. At this time it was known in the town that Mr. Lampley’s son, Baxter, had been accused of stealing money from the man he worked for, and that—so ran the whispered and discreditable rumor—Baxter had been compelled to leave town. On this day when Mr. Lampley came to make collections, Aunt Maw, spurred by her native curiosity, and the desire that people have to hear the confirmation of their worst suspicions from the lips of those who are most painfully concerned, spoke to the butcher with the obvious and clumsy casualness of tone that people use on these occasions:
“Oh, Mr. Lampley,” she said, as if by an afterthought when she had paid him, “say—by the way—I was meanin’ to ask you. What’s become of Baxter? I was thinkin’ just the other day, I don’t believe I’ve seen him for the last month or two.”
During all the time she spoke, the man’s blazing eyes never faltered in their stare upon her face, and they neither winked nor wavered as he answered.
“No,” he said, in his low, hard, toneless voice. “I don’t suppose you have. He’s not livin’ here any more. He’s in the navy.”
“What say?” Aunt Maw cried eagerly, opening the screen door a trifle wider and moving forward. “The navy?” she said sharply.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Lampley tonelessly, “the navy. It was a question of join the navy or go to jail. I gave him his choice. He joined the navy,” Mr. Lampley said grimly.
“What say? Jail?” she said eagerly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Lampley replied. “He stole money from the man he was workin’ for, as I reckon maybe you have heard by now. He done something he had no right to do. He took money that did not belong to him,” he said with a brutal stubbornness. “When they caught him at it they came to me and told me they’d let him go if I’d make good the money that he’d stolen. So I said to him: ‘All right. I’ll give ’em the money if you join the navy. Now, you can take your choice—it’s join the navy or go to jail. What do you want to do?’ He joined the navy,” Mr. Lampley again concluded grimly.
As for Aunt Maw, she stood for a moment reflectively, and now, her sharp curiosity having been appeased by this blunt and final statement, a warmer, more engaging sentiment of friendliness and sympathy was awakened in her:
“Well, now, I tell you what,” she said hopefully, “I believe you did just the thing you should have done. I believe that’s the very thing Baxter needs. Why, yes!” she now cried cheerfully. “He’ll go off there and see the world and meet up with all kinds of people, and learn to keep the proper sort of hours and lead a good, normal, healthy sort of life—for there’s one thing sure,” she said oracularly, “you can’t violate the laws of nature. If you do, you’ll have to pay for it some day as sure as you’re born,” she said solemnly, as she shook her head, “as sure as you’re born.”