"'Cording to the Lord," whispered Aunt Sonora, horrified, very audibly—"Hear that."
"'Cording to la'," repeated the Squire, who overheard her, "not 'zactly 'cordin' to la', but it is a constructive compliance with the statert, and will pass muster on the first turn-out;" and, thankin' them all for their attendance, he adjourned the company siney die.
CHAPTER XXI.
Mrs. Bird gets in a Rage.—Starve a Child.—Mrs. Bird blows off at Mrs. Beagle.—Takes Breath.—Blows off again.—Mrs. Beagle gives a Piece of her Mind.—Aunt Sonora drops in.—She has no Faith in Second Wives.—All adjourn to the House of Mrs. Swipes.—General Fight of Tongues.—Mrs. Swipes gives her Opinion.—A Dead Set by all upon Mrs. Longbow.—Mrs. Longbow raps at the Door.—The Scene changes.—Final Wind-up.
Aunt Graves had not got warm in her seat as mistress of Squire Longbow's household, when she found half of the female portion of Puddleford upon her in full cry. The Swipeses, and the Beagles, and Birds, who were very jealous of the sudden elevation of the old spinster, gave her no peace night nor day. They had seen the time when she looked up to them, and now she was the wife of a Squire—had taken good old Mrs. Longbow's place, and "really," as they said, "tried to lord it over them."
Mrs. Bird went all the way in the rain, mud over shoe, to inform Mrs. Beagle "that she warn't a-goin' to stand it any longer; she'd seen enough, and if other people were a-mind to blind their eyes, they might—she guessed she know'd what was what—she warn't brought into the world for nothin'—they might humbug her if they could—she only wished old Mrs. Longbow could jist rise from her grave—jist once—that's all she would ask—she'd make a scatterin' among the dry bones—jist to think—to think—"
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Beagle, who stood waiting for the climax, with her mouth wide open, holding her dish-cloth in her hand.
"What?—what"—repeated Mrs. Bird, "you may well say what—that Longbow woman abuses little Elvira Julia Longbow like sixty—the darling creature—how my heart bleeds. That child," continued Mrs. Bird, putting down each word in a measured way by striking her fist on the table—"that child—that dear—Elvira Julia—the idol—you know of her mother—and what a mother she had, too, Mrs. Beagle—O, what a mother! That child is starved! She don't get half enough to eat—I know it just as well as if the child had told me so with her own lips. She looks puny-like. She didn't hold up her head in church all sarvice time, last Sunday—how my heart ached for her—I couldn't think of nothin' else—and to think—to think, Mrs. Beagle, that that woman who warn't nobody, and who'd come onto the town if she hadn't fooled the old Squire, is now goin' to turn round and starve his children. One thing I do know, I shall never knuckle to her—not while my name is Bird—I'll let her know who Mrs. Bird is. She'll find out that the Birds can hoe their own row—the Birds allers have liv'd, and will live, I guess, and they never were beholdin' to the Longbows, nuther. Starve a child!—and if she thinks I ever mean to know her as anybody but old Poll Graves, she is most grandly mistaken. I'll jist tell her who old Graves, her father, was, and what he was, and how he used to drink, the old brute. She knows it all—but she thinks Mrs. Bird forgets such things—but Mrs. Bird don't forget such things—she has a long memory—and her mother warn't none too good, nuther—I could touch her up a little on that. Starve a child! Lord-a-massey, I s'pose she thinks she is the queen of Puddleford, now, and can do as she has a mind-ter. If she don't run agin a snag some day, then call Sally Bird a liar, that's all. Pride must have its fall, Mrs. Beagle;" and here Mrs. Bird took the first long breath, after entering the house.