I was with her when it came, and she looked up from the black-bordered sheet to say—vacantly, and in a level, stupid-sounding sort of tone—“He was poor!” I was sewing clean cuffs and collars in my serge dress and I stuck myself and made a spot of blood on one cuff. I was so sorry for her that I really shook when anything new that was hard came to her.
“Read it, Jane,” she said, and she held out the letter. I did, and I couldn’t imagine that any one who had ever known or really loved Viola’s father had written it. It was full of complaints and self-pity, because the husband of the woman who had written it had died to leave his widow with less money than she thought she should have. I didn’t know what to say. Then I suppose I did a dreadful thing, but I did it without meaning to do anything dreadful, and because I have been brought up to speak the truth.
“Maybe,” I said, “he is happier dead.”
The tears stood out in Viola’s eyes.
“I only said that,” I explained miserably, “because I thought it might make you feel better, for if your mother talked to him like that I—I guess it worried you—” (I stammered terribly over it; it was so hard to say anything that sounded even half right)
“I talked that way too,” said Viola. I couldn’t say anything to that. So I began to sew in my collar.
“He hated the hyphenated name!” said Viola. I finished sewing in my collar and began on my last cuff.
“I don’t mind the money, but I have to think of it—what shall I do? I hate sponging. I will say I always hated it! Mother can go visit people—and she will—but I—I can’t!”
“Why don’t you work?” I asked.
She looked at me hard. “What would I do?” she asked after several moments of scrutiny.