“Yes. What else did he say?” asked Joe, his hands clenched, his eyes peering straight ahead at the wall.
She related the circumstances of Chase’s visit, his threat of eviction, his declaration that she would become a county charge the moment that she set foot in the road.
“The old liar!” said Joe.
There seemed to be nothing more for her to say. She could make no defense of an act which stood before her in 17 all its ugly selfishness. Joe sat still, staring at the wall beyond the stove; she crouched forward in her chair, as if to shrink out of his sight.
Between them the little glass lamp stood, a droning, slow-winged brown beetle blundering against its chimney. Outside, the distant chant of newly wakened frogs sounded; through the open door the warm air of the April night came straying, bearing the incense of the fields and woodlands, where fires smoldered like sleepers sending forth their dreams.
His silence was to her the heaviest rebuke that he could have administered. Her remorse gathered under it, her contrition broke its bounds.
“Oh, I sold you, my own flesh and blood!” she cried, springing to her feet, lifting her long arms above her head.
“You knew what he was, Mother; you knew what it meant to be bound out to him for two long years and more. It wasn’t as if you didn’t know.”
“I knew, I knew! But I done it, son, I done it! And I done it to save my own mis’able self. I ain’t got no excuse, Joe, I ain’t got no excuse at all.”
“Well, Mother, you’ll be safe here, anyhow, and I can stand it,” said Joe, brightening a little, the tense severity of his face softening. “Never mind; I can stand it, I guess.”