“Of course I would. I can’t think of any person in the world I feel much sorrier for.”
“Well, I can. I feel lots sorrier for Nan and me with our house party on hand and Cousin Ann turning up for the second time since Christmas. It’s all well enough for you and Father to be so high and mighty about honoring the aged, and blood being thicker than water and so on. You don’t have to sleep with Cousin Ann, the way Nan and I do sometimes.”
“We-ell, no!” laughed Jeff.
“Hush, Mildred. Remember how Father feels about the comings of Cousin Ann. You and Nan must be polite.” Mrs. Bucknor sighed, 26 realizing she was demanding of her daughters something that was difficult for her to perform herself. Being polite to Cousin Ann had been the most arduous task imposed upon that wife and mother during twenty-five years of married life.
At the yard gate Uncle Billy drew in his steeds with a great show of their being unwilling to stop. He turned as though to command the footman to alight and open the door of the coach. With feigned astonishment at there being no footman, he climbed down from the box with so much dignity that even Aunt Em’ly was impressed, though unwilling to acknowledge it.
“That ol’ nigger certainly do walk low for anybody who sets so high,” she whispered to Mildred. The bowing of Uncle Billy’s legs in truth took many inches from his height. But the old man, in spite of crooked legs, worn-out boots, shabby livery and battered high hat, carried himself with the air of a prime minister. Miss Ann Peyton was his queen.
There was an expression of infinite pathos on the countenance of the old darkey as he opened the door of the ancient coach. Bowing low, as though to royalty, he said, “Miss Ann, we air done arrive.” 27
Jeff Bucknor took his mother’s arm and gently led her down the walk. Involuntarily she stiffened under his affectionate grasp and held back. It was all very well for the men of the family to take the stand they did concerning Cousin Ann Peyton and her oft-repeated visits. Men had none of the bother of company. Of course she would be courteous to her and always treat her with the consideration due an aged kinswoman, but she could not see the use of pretending she was glad to see her and rushing down the walk to meet her as though she were an honored guest.
“It is hard on Mildred and Nan,” she murmured to her stalwart son, as he escorted her towards the battered coach.
“Yes, Mother, but kin is kin—and the poor old lady hasn’t any real home.”