University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE DEVIL OF SILENCE.

RALPH had reason to fear Small. They were
natives of the same village of Lewisburg, though
Small was five years the elder. Some facts in the
doctor's life had come into Ralph's possession in
such a way as to confirm life-long suspicion without
giving him power to expose Small, who was firmly intrenched
in the good graces of the people of the county-seat village of
Lewisburg, where he had grown up, and of the little cross-roads
village of Clifty, where his “shingle” now hung.

Small was no ordinary villain. He was a genius. Your ordinary
hypocrite talks cant. Small talked nothing. He was the
coolest, the steadiest, the most silent, the most promising boy ever
born in Lewisburg. He made no pretensions. He set up no
claims. He uttered no professions. He went right on and lived
a life above reproach. Your vulgar hypocrite makes long prayers
in prayer-meeting. Small did nothing of the sort. He sat still
in prayer-meeting, and listened to the elders as a modest young
man should. Your commonplace hypocrite boasts. Small never
alluded to himself, and thus a consummate egotist got credit
for modesty. It is but an indifferent trick for a hypocrite to

make temperance speeches. Dr. Small did not even belong to
a temperance society. But he could never be persuaded to drink
even so much as a cup of tea. There was something sublime
in the quiet voice with which he would say, “Cold water, if
you please,” to a lady tempting him with smoking coffee on a
cold morning. There was no exultation, no sense of merit in the
act. Everything was done in a modest and matter-of-course way
beautiful to behold. And his face was a neutral tint. Neither
face nor voice expressed anything. Only a keen reader of
character might have asked whether all there was in that eye
could live contented with this cool, austere, self-contained life;
whether there would not be somewhere a volcanic eruption. But
if there was any sea of molten lava beneath, the world did not
discover it. Wild boys were sick of having Small held up to
them as the most immaculate of men.

Ralph had failed to get two schools for which he had applied,
and had attributed both failures to certain shrugs of Dr. Small.
And now, when he found Small at the house of Granny Sanders,
the center of intelligence as well as of ignorance for the neighborhood,
he trembled. Not that Small would say anything.
He never said anything. He damned people by a silence worse
than words.

Granny Sanders was not a little flattered by the visit.

“Why, doctor, howdy, howdy! Come in, take a cheer. I am
glad to see you. I 'lowed you'd come. Old Dr. Flounder used
to say he larnt lots o' things of me. But most of the doctors sence
hez been kinder stuck up, you know. But I know'd you fer a
man of intelligence.”

Meantime, Small, by his grave silence and attention, had almost
smothered the old hag with flattery without saying one single word.

“Many's the case I've cured with yarbs and things. Nigh upon
twenty year ago they was a man lived over on Wild Cat Run
as had a breakin'-out on his side. 'Twas the left side, jes below
the waist. Doctor couldn't do nothin'. 'Twas Doctor Peacham.
He never would have nothin' to do with `ole woman's cures.'
Well, the man was goin' to die. Everybody seed that. And
they come a driving away over here all the way from the Wild
Cat. Think of that air! I never was so flustered. But as soon
as I laid eyes on that air man, I says, says I, that air man, says I,
has got the shingles, says I. I know'd the minute I seed it. And
if they'd a gone clean around, nothing could a saved him. I says,
says I, git me a black cat. So I jist killed a black cat, and let the
blood run all over the swellin'. I tell you, doctor, they's nothin'
like it. That man was well in a month.”

“Did you use the blood warm?” asked Small, with a solemnity
most edifying.

These were the only words he had uttered since he entered the
cabin.

“Laws, yes; I jest let it run right out of the cat's tail onto
the breakin'-out. And fer airesipelus, I don't know nothin' so
good as the blood of a black hen.”

“How old?” asked the doctor.

“There you showed yer science, doctor! They's no power in
a pullet. The older the black hen the better. And you know
the cure fer rheumatiz” And here the old woman got down a
bottle of grease. “That's ile from a black dog. Ef it's rendered
right, it'll knock the hind sights off of any rheumatiz you ever
see. But it must be rendered in the dark of the moon. Else a
black dog's ile a'n't worth no more nor a white one's.”

And all this time Small was smelling of the uncorked bottle,

taking a little on his finger and feeling of it, and thus feeling
his way to the heart—drier than her herbs—of the old witch.
And then he went round the cabin gravely, lifting each separate
bunch of dried yarbs from its nail, smelling of it, and then, by
making an interrogation-point of his silent face, he managed to
get a lecture from her on each article in her materia medica, with
the most marvelous stories illustrative of their virtues. When
the Granny had gotten her fill of his silent flattery, he was ready
to carry forward his main purpose.

There was something weird about this silent man's ability to
turn the conversation as he chose to have it go. Sitting by the
Granny's tea-table, nibbling corn-bread while he drank his glass
of water, having declined even her sassafras, he ceased to stimulate
her medical talk and opened the vein of gossip. Once started,
Granny Sanders was sure to allude to the robbery. And once
on the robbery the doctor's course was clear.

“I'low somebody not fur away is in this 'ere business!”

Not by a word, nor even by a nod, but by some motion of the
eyelids, perhaps, Small indicated that he agreed with her.

“Who d'ye s'pose 'tis?”

But Dr. Small was not in the habit of supposing. He moved
his head in a quiet way, just the least perceptible bit, but so that
the old creature understood that he could give light if he
wanted to.

“I dunno anybody that's been 'bout here long as could be
suspected.”

Another motion of the eyelids indicated Small's agreement with
this remark.

“They a'n't nobody come in here lately 'ceppin' the master.”

Small looked vacantly at the wall.

“But I 'low he's allers bore a tip-top character.” The doctor
was too busy looking at his corn-bread to answer this remark
even by a look.

“But I think these oversmart young men'll bear looking arter,
I do.”

Dr. Small raised his eyes and let them shine an assent. That
was all.

“Shouldn't wonder ef our master was overly fond of gals.”

Doctor looks down at his plate.

“Had plenty of sweethearts afore he walked home with Hanner
Thomson t'other night, I'll bet.”

Did Dr. Small shrug his shoulder? Granny thought she detected
a faint motion of the sort, but she could not be sure.

“And I think as how that a feller what trifles with gals' hearts
and then runs off ten miles, may be a'n't no better'n he had orter
be. That's what I says, says I.”

To this general remark Dr. Small assented in his invisible—
shall I say intangible?—way.

“I allers think, may be, that some folks has found it best to
leave home and go away. You can't never tell. But when people
is a-bein' robbed it's well to look out. Hey?”

“I think so,” said Small quietly, and, having taken his hat and
bowed a solemn and respectful adieu, he departed.

He had not spoken twenty words, but he had satisfied the news-monger
of Flat Creek that Ralph was a bad character at home,
and worthy of suspicion of burglary.