II
That night Mrs. Thompson had a visit from Mrs. Ewebanks, accompanied by her daughter Mary Ann, a fair slip of a creature of twelve years. Mary Ann was always her mother’s companion on her social rounds in the neighborhood. She was a very timid child and was never known to open her mouth on any of these visits. They took the chairs offered them before the fire. It was at once evident from Mrs. Ewebanks’s manner that she had come to advise her neighbor, and she showed by her disregard for oral approaches that she was going to reach her point by a short cut.
“Jim told me he’d been over,” she began, with a sneer, as she seated herself squarely in her chair and brushed a brindled cat from under her blue homespun skirt. “Scat! I don’t want yore flees! An’ he told me, after I’d pumped ’im about dry, what he was fool enough to advise you. Men hain’t a bit o’ gumption. What’s he want to tell you all that foolishness fer? I hain’t never had a bit o’ use fer them high-falutin’ Hansards. Why, they hain’t had respect enough fer yore feelin’s to even let you know yore sister was at death’s door. Sally Wynn jest drapped onto it by accident.”
Mrs. Thompson was standing in the chimney-corner, her hand on the little mantelpiece, but she sat down.
“I reckon a body ort not to have ill-will at sech a time,” she faltered. “Ef Melissa’s a-dyin’ I reckon it ’ud be nothin’ more’n human fer me to want to be thar. She mought be sorry you see, in ’er last hour, an’ wish she’d sent fer me. I’d hate to think that, after she was laid away fer good an’ all.”
“Pshaw!” Mrs. Ewebanks drew her damp, steaming shoes back from the fire. She had something else to say.
“I never told you, Martha Thompson, but I give it to that woman straight from the shoulder not long back. I was visitin’ my brother over thar. Mrs. Hansard used to drive out fer fresh air when the weather was good, an’ she stopped at the spring on brother’s place one day while I was thar gittin’ me a drink—no, I remember now, I was pickin’ a place to set a bucket o’ fresh butter to harden it up fer camp-meetin’. She didn’t take no more notice o’ me’n ef I’d been some cornfield nigger, but you bet I started the conversation. I up an’ axed ’er ef she wasn’t a Hansard an’ when she ’lowed she was, I told ’er I thought so from her favor to ’er sister over here. She got as red as a pickled beet, an’ stammered an’ looked ashamed, then she sot into axin’ how you was a-comin’ on, an’ the like.”
“That was a good deal fer Melissa to do,” observed the widow. “Thar was a time that she never mentioned my name. She’s awful proud.”
“Oh, I’ll be bound you’ll make excuses fer ’er,” snapped Mrs. Ewebanks. “When folks liter’ly knock the breath out’n you, you jump up an’ rub the hurt place an’ ax the’r pardon. As fer me, I give that woman a setback that I’ll bet she didn’t git over in a long time. I told ’er as I looked straight in ’er eyes, that ef she wanted to know how ’er own sister was makin’ of it, she’d better have ’er nigger drive ’er over to the log shack Martha Thompson lives in, an’ pay a call.”
“Oh, you said that!”
“Yes, an’ she jest set on the carriage-seat an’ squirmed like an eel an’ looked downcast an’ said nothin’.”
“That must ’a’ been at the beginnin’ o’ ’er sickness,” said Mrs. Thompson thoughtfully. She had missed the point of her visitor’s story and kept her eyes on her son, who sat in the chimney-corner, his feet on a pile of logs and kindling pine.
“The Lord wouldn’t give blessed health to a pusson with her mean sperit,” resumed the visitor warmly. “I jest set thar an’ wondered how any mortal woman in a Christian land could calmly ax a stranger about ’er own sister livin’ twenty miles off an’ not go to see ’er. She tried to talk about some’n else but she’d no sooner git started than I’d deliberately switch ’er back to you an’ yore plight an’ I kept that a-goin’ till she riz an’ driv off.”
“I have heard,” said the widow, her glance going cautiously back to her son, who had bent down to add another piece of pine to the fire, “I have heard that Colonel Hansard was always in debt from his extravagance, an’ that his family lived past the’r means. Brother Thomas went to see Melissa once, an’ he said he believed she was a misjudged woman. He ’lowed she was willin’ enough to do right, but that her husband always made ’er feel dependent on him becase his money had lifted ’er up. Brother Thomas said the gals had growed up like the’r daddy, an’ that between ’em all, Melissa never’d had any will o’ her own. I reckon I railly ort to go see ’er.”
“Ef you do they’ll slam the door in yore face,” said Mrs. Ewebanks in the angry determination to stir the widow’s pride.
“I don’t think it’s a matter fer you to decide on, Mrs. Ewebanks.” The widow leaned back out of the fire-light, and sat coldly erect. “I believe in doin’ unto others as I’d have them do unto me, an’ ef I was in Melissa’s fix I’d want to see my only livin’ sister. Facin’ the end folks sometimes change powerful. Circumstances made ’er what she is; ef she hadn’t been tuck by a rich man, she’d ’a’ been like common folks. She used to love me when she was little, an’ I jest don’t want ’em to lay ’er body away without seein’ ’er once more. I—I used to—I reckon I still love ’er some.”
Mrs. Thompson’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper. Mrs. Ewebanks moved uneasily; a sneer had risen on her red face, but it died away. Joe Thompson had suddenly turned upon her from the semi-darkness of his corner. There was no mistaking the ferocious glare of his eyes.
“It—it hain’t none o’ my business,” she stammered; “I—I jest——”
Joe leaned forward; his round freckled face under the shock of tawny hair, through which he had been running his fingers, was in the light.
“Now yo’re a-shoutin’!” he said, with a harsh laugh; “it hain’t none o’ yore business, but you stalked all the way over here tonight to attend to it.”
“Hush, Joe, be ashamed o’ yorese’f!” said his mother; “you’ve clean forgot how to behave ’fore company.”
“’Fore company hell!” Joe rose quickly and stumbled over a fire-log which rolled down under his feet. There was a hint of tears in his eyes and he shook his head like an angry dog as he went to the door and stood with his back to the visitors in sullen silence.
For a moment there was silence. Mrs. Ewebanks knew she had blundered hopelessly. Mary Ann, who never said anything, and who seldom moved when anyone was looking at her, now turned appealingly to her mother, and, unfolding her gingham sunbonnet, she bent down and swung it like a switchman’s flag between her knees. Mrs. Ewebanks paid no heed to it. She dreaded her husband’s finding out what had passed, especially as he had intrusted her with a message to Mrs. Thompson quite out of key with her argument.
“Jim told me to tell you he’d drive you over in his wagon in the mornin’ ef you are bent on makin’ the trip,” she said almost apologetically.
Joe Thompson whirled round fiercely. His back was against the door, and in his checked shirt and rolled-up sleeves he looked like a pugilist ready for fight.
“We don’t need any help from you-uns,” he snorted. “I’m goin’ to take mother.”
Mrs. Ewebanks now felt sure that her husband would blame her for the rejection of his invitation. In her vexation she slapped Mary Ann’s red hand loose from its urgent clutch on her skirt and turned to Joe.
“I’m afeard I’ve been meddlin’ with what don’t concern me,” she began, but the young man interrupted her.
“It’s our bed-time,” he said fiercely. “The Lord knows mother’s had enough o’ yore clatter fur one dose.”
“Joe!” exclaimed Mrs. Thompson sternly, “I ’lowed you had more manners.”
Mary Ann had drawn her mother’s skirt sharply to one side and grasped her arm tenaciously. Mrs. Ewebanks allowed herself thus to be unseated, and she rose meekly enough. There was nothing in her manner resembling a threat that she would never be ordered out of that house again, and in this Mary Ann witnessed her mother’s first swerving from habit.
There was a look on the widow’s face which showed that she was almost sorry for her visitor’s chagrin.
“Don’t hurry,” she said in a pained and yet gentle tone.
“Oh, no, don’t hurry!” Joe repeated, with a sneer; “stay to breakfast; I’ll throw some more wood on the fire an’ let’s set down an’ talk.”
The defeat of Mrs. Ewebanks was more than complete. Between her hostess and the son she stood wavering. This provoked an actual vocal sound from Mary Ann. At any other time the Thompsons would have marveled over it. She grunted in impatience and then said audibly:
“Come on, ma, let’s go home.” And in this it was as if the child had at once extended a verbal hand of sympathy to the Thompsons and given her mother a back-handed slap.
There was nothing for Mrs. Ewebanks to do but obey, for Mary Ann had stalked heavily from the cabin and just outside the door stood beckoning to her. Joe had gone to the fireplace and was digging a grave in the hot ashes for the fire-coated back-log.
Mrs. Thompson shambled to the door and looked after her departing guests. She could see their dresses in the light of the thinly veiled moon as they slowly descended the narrow path. When the noise Joe was making with the shovel and tongs had ceased she heard someone speaking in a raised voice. For several minutes it continued, rising and falling with the breeze, an uninterrupted monologue, growing fainter and fainter as the visitors receded.
It was the voice of Mary Ann.