“I believe you are,” he said, expressing the confirmation of a thing he had never doubted. “I ain’t askin’ you any questions, Lizzie, I just know—that’s all.”
With something like a glow about his heart, he opened the door of his simple dwelling. He had never doubted her, nor believed the nonsense he had heard about her, but he had just had his faith refreshed. He carried the baby to the one little bedroom of his house, scuffing a wooden rocking chair behind him across the rough floor. He established Elizabeth in it beside Sadie, and then placing the sleeping child in its mother’s arms went back to the potato field, hurrying his work to finish before dark. He understood in a measure why this was Elizabeth’s first visit to them, and he did not resent it. Luther never resented. He lived his own kindly, industrious life. If people did not like Sadie he accepted it as a fact, but not as a thing to be aggrieved about. He could wait for Sadie to grow, and others must wait also. In the meantime, Luther watched Elizabeth and desired growth for her; her smallest movement was of interest to him. Elizabeth as a mother was a new feature. He remembered the deft way she had nestled the baby to her as he had relinquished it a few moments before, and thought with a sigh, of the cowhide-covered trunk filled with little garments under the bed by which she sat. Not even Sadie knew what the loss of that first child meant to Luther. A new love for women’s ways with babies grew up in him as he thought of Elizabeth’s cuddling.
In the house, Elizabeth was getting into touch with the young mother who was childless. Sadie, in spite of a determination not to do so, was warming to that touch reluctantly. After all, it was pleasant to be telling Elizabeth about it, and to have her asking as if she wanted to know.
“Yes—I took bad about a week ago,” she was saying. “I’d been kind of miserable for several days. I got a fall that last rain we had, an’ I didn’t seem t’ get over it.”
“I’d have come sooner if I’d known it,” Elizabeth said, thinking of Luther’s acceptance of a similar statement. “Jake didn’t even tell us last night what was the matter.”
“I guess he didn’t know. Would you ’a’ come if you’d ’a’ known, Lizzie?” Before Elizabeth could reply, she continued, “Ma used t’ think it’d be kind o’ nice for me t’ live close t’ you, but I knew you wouldn’t never come t’ see me. I used t’ be kind o’ jealous cause Luther liked you s’ much. I said everything mean I could think of about you, t’ him—but law! Luther ain’t got no pride. He don’t care. He defends you from everybody, whether you come t’ see us ’r not.”
It was a curious little confession and one Sadie had not intended to make. Something big and sweet in Elizabeth had forced it from her. It embarrassed Elizabeth Hunter, and it held things which could not be discussed, and she turned the subject without answering.
“Oh, it only lived a couple of hours. You see it was too soon an’—an’ it wasn’t right. Th’ doctor didn’t expect it t’ live as long as it did, but Luther would have it that it could, an’ kept ’em a tryin’ everything that could be thought of.”
Sadie’s voice died away gradually and she lay looking out of the window retrospectively: the last two weeks had brought food for much thinking.