“As the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of a fool,” he said, with slow emphasis.
It should be observed in passing that Deacon Saxon’s use of the name which he had just bestowed by implication on his sister was, like the text itself, Solomonic. The person lacking, not in knowledge, but in moral sense, was the one whom the wise man called a fool, and there were moments when Katharine Saxon appeared to her brother to be so wanting in this respect as to come fairly under the title. It was not the first time that his frankness had led him to bestow it on her.
“Hey?” she said, leaning forward suddenly, with her hand curled about her ear.
That she had not caught the words was by no means certain. It suited her humor sometimes to offset his boastfulness as to his good hearing with a certain parade of her own slight deafness, and the occasions for making him repeat himself were often cunningly chosen. For once he did not do it. Perhaps, a second time, he remembered the presence of his granddaughters.
As for the girls themselves, they caught their breath, in the silence that followed, with something like a gasp. It is safe to say that they had never been present before at such an interview between relatives. Kate would not have minded a renewal of hostilities, but Esther, with better grace, seized the chance to effect a truce by turning the conversation into a more peaceful channel.
“Aunt Katharine,” she said eagerly, “you spoke of the spinning you used to do. Have you the old wheel now? I’ve heard mother tell what a wonderful spinner you were, and I should so like to see the very wheel you used.”
The old woman took her hand from her ear and turned toward the girl. “No,” she said, “I hain’t got the old wheel now; one of Nancy’s girls wanted it, and I let her carry it off. ’Twasn’t any account; pretty near as much wore out as I was when it stopped running.”
Evidently she felt that her passage-at-arms with her brother was ended. The sharpness of her expression relaxed, and she rose from her place with her ordinary manner. “I can show you a piece of linen your mother wove, if you want to see it. She’d have made a good spinner herself if she’d stuck to it, but I s’pose she forgot all about it long ago. Well, there’s plenty other ways for women to use their time nowadays, and I’m glad of it.”
The rest of the call ran smoothly. Miss Saxon could be even gracious when she was so disposed, and she treated her guests to a bottle of raspberry vinegar, which, in spite of the fact that she had brewed it herself, was not in the least too sharp, with fruit cake which time had brought to the most perfect mellowness. Her nieces would have left her house imagining that the “queerness,” of which she had given such ample proof, was confined to the one subject which she had discussed with her brother, had it not been for a little episode at the very end of the call, and for this, as it happened, the old gentleman was again responsible.
“How are you getting along with your garden, Katharine?” he asked. “I was thinking mebbe I or’ to send Tom down here to do a little weeding for you.”