“The winged word of spite outstrips a kindness.”
Emma was too tired to feel her unhappiness, and too relieved, now that everything was over, to feel her loneliness very much. The blast rite had somehow robbed her of her hope of Jarlsen’s recovery, and established the idea of his death in her mind. Jeremy Black nursed him at first, after her outburst. In the neighbours’ phrase, he “turned and fed the poor blast.”
Emma’s crude nature found a pleasure—never before known to her—in food, and in lying on the lean-to floor and thanking God that her barber days were over. Her voice was harsh and loud; she had always hidden it from Jarlsen. To-day she sang and was not ashamed.
Then Black went mysteriously to the city. This might mean New York, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, or some nearer, smaller town than either of these. He left at the beginning of the drought, and Emma, with the rest of his townspeople, envied him sorely. Her resumed service to Jarlsen was automatic. He spoke, but she did not listen; she was afraid of being hurt if she heard his words. The drought made her double work, for her patient drank a great deal of water, and refused it with a wearied patience if it were not cold. She often went at noon to the Bridge well, her tin dipper growing burning hot beneath a sun that made the mica specks shine in the roadside dust. She lagged heavily down the hill, the people greeting her and she answering without knowledge of what they said. She had learned that forgetfulness is the better part of wisdom.
She could not ignore Quarry; he was merciless. On Sunday she went at six for Jarlsen’s drink from the well. She had a handful of oatmeal to put in it; and, as she leaned over and caught the dripping bucket, she heard Quarry’s voice in the alder thicket that smelt sweet with the heavy dew on it.
“She’s a real good girl, and I can’t help but feel, ef she could let me at her wedding dance, set alone with her waitin’ till Jarlsen come, that I owe it to her to marry her, and I think when she’s worn out her mourning thet she’d be agreeable. He was a queer fellow; hed them fancy virtues thet prevents a man from making a good husband jest as sure as his havin’ the vices would. He give his money to lame-legged and blind-eyed, and thet’s keepin’ it from wifie jest es much es if he give it up for drink.”
A woman’s voice answered him in full assent: “You’ll not be the only one to marry her, though; she’s got money now, and a rare head for livin’ straight.”
Emma had not seen the woman, but guessed it must be one of those who “wrought” in the offices of the plant, writing, or sorting the mass of mail. Excepting herself Quarry rarely spoke to any one of less class among the women.
She was very angry, and could see how Quarry had used it all in his talk; all the circumstances of her courtship he could twist into evidence that she had loved nothing of Jarlsen but what he had left her. She could hear the woman’s opinion that her conduct was not quite right, uttered in the dry tone she used when speaking of her straight life.
She said to herself just as fiercely as ever that Quarry was a liar, but she felt that happiness had given her the power to fight him, and now her happiness was gone. She remembered with a dim horror that Quarry had resumed a practice, since Jarlsen’s mishap, that she hoped her engagement had ended. Up to the day that they had spoken of their marriage publicly, Quarry would take things into his hands that Emma had lately touched and fondle them. He had done so again the day of the blast rite, she remembered.