“Dorindy, I tell you . . . WHAT makes you so unlikely? . . . I was just . . . All right then,” desperately, “I'll go! And if you never set eyes on me again 'twon't be my fault. You'll be sorry then. If you never see me no more you'll be sorry.”
“I'll set eyes on you at dinner time. I ain't afraid of that. Git!”
She followed him to the kitchen and then returned.
“Ah hum!” she sighed, “it's pretty hard to remember that about darkest just afore dawn when you have a burden like that on your shoulders to lug through life. It's night most of the time then. Poor critter! he means well enough, too. And once he was a likely enough young feller, though shiftless, even then. But he had a long spell of fever three year after we was married and he's never been good for much since. I try to remember that, and to be patient with him, but it's a pretty hard job sometimes.”
She sighed again. I had often wondered how a woman of her sense could have married Luther Rogers. Now she was telling me.
“I never really cared for him,” she went on, looking toward the door through which the discomfited eavesdropper had made his exit. “There was somebody else I did care for, but he and I quarreled, and I took Luther out of spite and because my folks wanted me to. I've paid for it since. Roscoe,” earnestly, “Roscoe, if you care for anybody and she cares for you, don't let anything keep you apart. If she's worth a million or fifty cents that don't make any difference. It shouldn't be a matter of her folks or your folks or money or pride or anything else. It's a matter for just you and her. And if you love each other, that's enough. I tell you so, and I know.”
I was more astonished than ever. I could scarcely believe that this was the dry, practical Dorinda Rogers who had kept house for Mother and me all these years. And with my astonishment were other feelings, feelings which warned me that I had better make my escape before I was trapped into betraying that which, all the way home from Mackerel Island, I had been swearing no one should ever know. I would not even admit it to myself, much less to anyone else.
I did not look at Dorinda, and my answer to her long speech was as indifferent and careless as I could make it.
“Thank you, Dorinda,” I said. “I'll remember your advice, if I ever need it, which isn't likely. Now I must go to my room and change my clothes. These are too badly wrinkled to be becoming.”
When I came down, after an absence of half an hour, she was sitting by the window, sewing.