Sally had as much spirit as the rest of her sex, and so to show John that she was quite indifferent about the new turn in their affairs, she set the milk-pan, into which he was to pour his morning's milk, out into the porch, and closed the kitchen-door in his false face, that he might have nothing upon which to hinge an idea that she wanted to see him. And more; she tied the yellow neck-ribbon he gave her on the last fourth of July round the pump-handle, and if John Short had not been blind as well as "short," he must have seen that "when a woman will—she will, you may depend on't," and "when a woman won't—she won't, and there's an end on't."
Poor Sally, before she saw John, had lived along contentedly in her underground habitations, year after year, peeling potatoes, making puddings, washing, ironing, baking, and brewing; nobody had ever made love to her; she had not the remotest idea what a Champagne draught love was. She could have torn her hair out by the roots, when she did find out, to think she had so misspent her past time. It really did seem to her, although she was squint-eyed, that there was nothing else in this world of any account at all. She had thought herself happy when her bonnet was trimmed to suit her, or her gown a good fit; but a love-fit! ah, that was a very different matter. Poor Sally! mischievous John!—the long and short of it was, if Bouncing Bettys have any floral significance, Sally should have been Mrs. Short.
Of course, she had no motive on the afternoon we speak of, to look long in the cracked looking-glass; it made no difference now whether she wore her brown calico with the little white dots, or her plaid delaine with the bishop sleeves; there was no use in braiding her hair, or in putting on her three-shilling collar; she had resigned herself to her fate. She even threw a pitcher of hot water at the innocent organ-grinder, because he played Love's young Dream.
Still you see, she goes on mechanically with her work, putting the tea-kettle over the fire, setting the six brass lamps in a regular row on the mantle, and tucking the ends of some clean towels, out of sight, in the half-open bureau-drawers. Sally is neat; but John Short's little Patty is plump and rosy.
Ah! now she has some company—there is Miss Harriet Place, who has the misfortune to have so stiff a neck that when she turns it, her whole body must follow. Miss Harriet has black eyes, affects the genteel, and speaks of "my poor neck" in a little mincing way, as if its stiffness were only a pretty little affectation on her part. Her cronies wink at this weakness, for Miss Harriet has a gift at trimming their bonnets, and putting finishing touches to all sorts of feminine knicknacks; then, here comes Alvah Kittridge, who is a rabid Free-will Baptist, and who lives at Mayor Treadwell's! where they have such fine dinners; at which the Mayor drinks a great deal, and "finds fault very bad," with every thing the next morning. Miss Alvah pays her way as she goes, both in stories, and maccaroons; the former her own, the latter Mayor Treadwell's.
Last, but by no means least, comes Mrs. Becky Saffron, all cap-border and eyes, the only other noticeable thing about her being her mouth, which displays, in her facetious moods, two enormous yellow tusks, one upper and one under, reminding the observer of a hungry catamount; this resemblance scarce diminishes on acquaintance, as Mrs. Becky, like all the skinny skeleton-ish tribe, is capable of most inordinate guzzling and gorging.
"Glad to see you, Miss Place," said Mrs. Becky (giving her cap-border a twitch), and getting on the right side of that stiff-necked individual, "I have not set eyes on you these six months."
"No," minced Miss Place; "I called at your boarding-house, and they said you had gone somewhere, they could not tell where."
"Oh, I'm nobody; of course they wouldn't know; I'm nobody. I'm down in the world, as one may say. I'm nobody but 'Becky.' I come and go; nobody cares, especially when I go," and Mrs. Becky gave her two yellow tusks an airing.
"I left my old place some time ago. I'm to broth-er's now." Mrs. Becky always pronounced the first syllable of this word like the liquid commonly designated by that syllable. "Yes, I'm to broth-ers now. His wife never wanted me in the house. She's dreadful pert and stuck-up, for all she was nobody; so I have always been boarded out, and been given to understand that my room was better than my company. But something queer has happened. I can't find out what, only that broth-er has got the whip-rein of his wife now, and has it all his own way; so he came and told me that it would cost less for him to keep me at St. John's Square than to board me out; so there I am.