Eva did not reply to her sister’s question, for she had hurried to the door, and found not her mother, as she eagerly expected, but Mrs. Smith, with her bonnet awry, and her shawl trailing to the ground. The good woman’s face was flushed with crying, and a fresh rain of tears came to her eyes the moment she saw Eva.
“Don’t! Don’t! Order me from the door! Don’t wither me up into nothing, just with looking in my face! It wasn’t my fault; I knew no more about it than my Jerusha Maria, poor innocent darling, that never dreamed what a cruel father she’s got. I’ll never live with Smith again—never! To go and do such a thing, without telling me! I’m not a cannibal, nor a Hottentot to stand such things!”
Mrs. Smith had burst forth in this torrent of words and tears on the very doorstep. Eva entreated her to come in. Being utterly ignorant of the particular grief that possessed the good woman, she could do no more.
“You’re just one degree from a heavenly angel, Eva Laurence,” continued the good woman, wiping her eyes on the corner of her shawl, as she passed into the parlor. “Smith won’t, but I’ve come to make atonement on my bended knees. Tell me what to do for them, and I’ll do it, if Jerusha Maria and I are left without a crust.”
“My dear Mrs. Smith, what do you mean? Who has troubled you so?”
“Who? My own lawfully married husband. What? Oh, mercy upon me! don’t you know yet? Where’s your mother?”
“She went out this morning,” said Eva, “and has not returned yet. We are expecting her every minute.”
“Expecting her! Why, don’t you know? Expecting her? Oh! oh! this is hard, that I should have to tell it, and he my husband! Eva, both your mother and James are in prison.”
“In prison!”
Three voices at once uttered this one sentence. Ruth started up from her couch, white to the lips; Eva stood rooted to the floor, her eyes widening, and lips just apart. Even Mr. Ross started to his feet, and a swarthy color swept over his face.