Keturah, as if recalling the duties of hospitality, said, “Sit down. I’ll make a cup of tea. Do you like bread and jelly?”
The question was directed at Mermaid. The child had been eyeing the woman with attentiveness. Now she answered politely, though she did not smile:
“I’m fond of it.”
Keturah Smiley entered her pantry and emerged with a brown jar and a loaf. She cut two large slices, spread them, and set a teapot on the stove. She said no more until the tea was brewed. As she poured out two steaming cups of it she remarked, pushing one toward her brother:
“What I leave of Aunt Keturah’s property goes to you. As I am not a spendthrift, in the natural course of events I would leave you more than I inherited. If you die before me it goes to your children. It would go to her.”
John Smiley swallowed too hastily and burnt his throat.
“This is not a matter to discuss before Mermaid,” he said, shortly.
“I sent for her because I wanted to have a good look at her, and I wanted you to have her to look at while you choose,” Keturah rejoined. “At first I thought it would not go to an adopted child, and so did Judge Hollaby. But he looked it up and the wording of the will is such that he thinks it would. I said once, to him, that if you ever adopted a child I would give or throw away every cent of that money. I was a fool; I can be as big a fool sometimes as any one else, brother.” It was on the tip of her tongue to add “yourself included,” but she checked it.
“Now I’ve had a good look at her. You take a good look at her, too. I know you more than half hate me, but that’s neither here nor there. Let the girl live with me and go to school and you can adopt her if you like, and I’ll do all I can in reason for her. Send her here to live with the Biggleses, and I’ll keep my promise to Judge Hollaby!”
The tight-lipped rather hard-visaged woman was determined, but she was curiously excited, too. Her rather flat chest rose and fell with her breath, and her breathing was almost audible in the stillness of the room. Mermaid, who had finished her slices of bread, looked with wonder, but with a childish gravity and apparently a suspension of judgment, at this strange woman. The little girl knew who she was: she was Dad’s sister, but evidently as unlike him as possible. Still, her Dad’s sister was entitled to respect and a certain deference, if not to affection. They were talking about money and Dad was angry. She had never seen him so angry, not even when her youngest uncle, Uncle Joe, had capsized the life boat in the surf.