The Judge had grown thicker with Meshach, but the storekeeper merely
listened and assented, and took no pains to incur another criticism on
his motives. Meshach wore his great hat, as ever, to church and on
festive days, and it was still derided, and held to be the town wonder.
Vesta Custis often saw the odd little man come into church while she was
singing, and she fancied that his large, coarse ears were turned to
receive the music she was making, and she faintly remembered that once
she had held in her hands that wonderful hat with its copper buckle in
the band, and stiff, wide brim, flowing in a wave. More than that she
knew nothing, except that the wearer was an humble-born, grasping
creature--a forester without social propensities, or, indeed, any human
attachments. The negro who abode under his roof was beloved, compared to
the sordid master, and all testimony concurred that Meshach Milburn
deserved neither commiseration, friendship, nor recognition. Her father,
however, indulgent in all things, said the money-lender had a good mind,
and was no serf.
Milburn had ceased to deal with negroes or dispense drams. His wealth
was now known to be more than considerable. He had ceased, also, to lend
money on the surrounding farms, and rumors came across the bay that he
was a holder of stocks and mortgages on the Western Shore, and in
Baltimore and Pennsylvania. The little town of Princess Anne was full of
speculations about him, and even his age was uncertain; Jack Wonnell had
measured it by hats.
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