Tom was sick at heart. The little fool would cripple the place.
It gave him acute nausea to see the gangs at work about the
lawns; it made him sicker to pass through the house. There were
five or six women in the kitchen now--he was damned if he could
see what they found to do--there was a butler and a page. Betty
had levied on the stables for one of the best teams to draw the
family carriage, which had not been in use since her mother's
death; there was a coachman for that, and another little monkey
to ride on the rumble and hop down and open gates. This came of
sending girls away to school--they only learned foolishness.
And those niggers about the house had to be dressed for their new
work; the butler, a cracking plow-hand he was, wore better
clothes than he--Tom--did. No wonder he was sick;--and waste!
Tom knew all about that when the bills began to come in from
Memphis. Why, that pink-faced chit, he always referred to her in
his own mind now as a pink-faced chit, was evolving a scheme of
life that would cost eight or ten thousand dollars a year to
maintain, and she was talking of decorators for the house, either
from New Orleans or Philadelphia, and new furniture from top to
bottom.
Tom felt that he was being robbed. Then he realized with a sense
of shock that here was a fortune of over half a million in lands
and slaves which he had managed and manipulated all these years,
but which was not his. It was true that under the terms of his
stepmother's will he would inherit it in the event of Betty's
death--well, she looked like dying, a whole lot--she was as
strong as a mule, those soft rounded curves covered plenty of
vigorous muscle; Tom hated the very sight of her.
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