“What became of his son––you said he had a boy?” Northrup was gathering the threads in his hands. Nothing must escape him; it was all grist.
“Oh! Larry came off and on the scene. There are them as think ole Doc didn’t treat Larry fair and square. I don’t know, but anyway, just before ole Doc was struck with that 22 stroke that finished him, Larry came home and seemed to be forgiving enough, if there had been any wrong done. He had considerable education; ole Doc had given him that chance, but Larry drifted––allas was, and still is, a drifter. We all stand pat for the feller on account of his father and Mary-Clare. It was a blamed risky thing, though, Larry’s marrying Mary-Clare! I allas will hold to that!”
Once, when Northrup was a young boy, he had been shocked by electricity. The memory of his experience often recurred to him in moments of stress. He had been standing within a few yards of the tree that had been shattered, and he had fallen unconscious. When he came to, he was vividly aware of the slightest details of sight and sound surrounding him. His senses seemed to have been quickened during the lapse of time. He winced at the light; the flickering of leaves above him hurt; the song of birds beat against his brain with sweet clamour, and he vaguely wondered what had happened to him; where he had been?
In like manner Northrup, now, was aware of a painful keenness of his senses. Heathcote looked large and his voice vibrated in the quiet room; Aunt Polly seemed dwindling, physically, while something about her––the light playing on her knitting needles and spectacles, probably––radiated. The crackling logs were like claps of thunder. Northrup pulled himself to an upright position as one does who resists hypnotism.
“I’m afraid you’re tiring Brace, brother.”
Aunt Polly’s voice, low, even, and calm, got into the confusion as a soft breeze had, that day so long ago, and brought full consciousness in its wake.
“On the other hand,” Northrup gave a relieved laugh, “I am intensely interested. You see, she looks so young, that Mrs.––Mrs.–––”
“Rivers?” suggested Heathcote refilling his pipe. “Lord! I wonder if any one ever called Mary-Clare Mrs. Rivers before, Polly?” Heathcote paused, then went on:
“Yes; Mary-Clare holds her own and her boy-togs help the idea. Mary-Clare ain’t properly grown up, anyway. 23 Some parts of her are terrible strong and thrifty; parts as has caught the sunlight, so to speak, and been sheltered from blasts. The other parts of her ain’t what you might say shrivelled, but they’ve kept hid and they ain’t ever on exhibition.”
“How ridiculous you are, brother.” Aunt Polly was enjoying her brother’s flights, but felt called upon to keep him in order.