I hadn't asked Mr.
Brooks' advice about anything. There I sat then going over these matters
in my mind, in a kind of weariness and sickness of heart. I had heard of
cases where wills had been rejected for fraud or lack of mind on the
part of the maker. Was it possible that my father's mind was disturbed?
What fraud could have been wrought upon him? I, the chief beneficiary,
had not influenced him; no one could have done so for me. What then?
Zoe came in now and began to spread the table. There was only the one
large room downstairs beside the kitchen. But I loved its comforts, its
quaint and substantial furnishings. All brought from North Carolina
originally, Mrs. Spurgeon said. There were silver spoons, hand wrought;
and blue china, and thick blue spreads for the table. There were three
rooms upstairs. The beds were posters, built up with feather beds in the
cold weather; spread now with thick linen sheets. Mrs. Spurgeon had
woven some of these things. Her loom stood yet in one of the outhouses,
on occasion set up in the living room when she brought herself to the
task of weaving, rarely now. She was too old for much labor. Sarah
helped Zoe with the meal. Reverdy stayed to share it with us. But I had
learned that he lived at the tavern, though he disliked it thoroughly.
Some nights later I asked Zoe to walk out with me.
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