Nevertheless May went home victorious, and Mrs. Wayt, disquiet in eye and soul, sought her sister and detailed the steps of the siege and the surrender.
“Refusal was impossible without risking the displeasure of influential parishioners, or exciting suspicions that might be more hurtful,” she concluded.
Hetty was cleaning silver in the dining room. Over her buff gingham she wore a voluminous bib apron; housewifely solicitude informed her whole personality. Her hair was turned back from her temples, and the roughened roll showed rust-red lights in a bar of sunshine crossed by her head as she moved. The lines of her face had what Hester called “their forenoon sag,” a downward inclination that signified as much care as she could bear. She rubbed a tablespoon until she could see each loosened hair and drooping line in it, before unclosing her thinned lips to reply. Even then her speech was reluctant.
“The child is yours, Frances—not mine, dearly as I love her. I understand as well as you how cruel it seems to deny her what is, in itself, a harmless pleasure. Still, we have agreed up to this time that it is inexpedient to give people the run of the house, and this looks like a straight road to that.”
She did not glance up in speaking, or afterward. Her accent was unimpassioned, her thoughts apparently engrossed in the business of bringing polish out of tarnish.
“There are circumstances that may alter cases—and premises,” returned Mrs. Wayt deprecatingly. “I cannot but feel that we may begin to argue and determine from a different standpoint. I wish you could be a little more sanguine, dear.”
“You don’t wish it more than I do, sister! I wasn’t built upon the ‘Hope on, Hope ever’ plan. My utmost effort in that direction is to make the best of what cannot be bettered. And since you have said ‘Yes’ to this painting scheme we will think only of what a boon it will be to Hester. The new cook is a more imminent difficulty. This house is large, and the salary excellent, I admit, but it would have been wise to wait until our arrival before engaging her.”
She knew that her sister was as much surprised as herself at Mr. Wayt’s commission to Mrs. Gilchrist, also that the wife would not plead this ignorance in self-defense.
“Homer, you, and I could have divided the housework, as we did in other places,” continued Hetty, attacking a row of forks, now that the spoons were done with, “and we could hire a woman by the day to wash and iron. The cook may justify Mrs. Gilchrist’s recommendation. I dare say she will. Only—but I’ll not utter another croak to-day! You are an angelic optimist, and I am given over to pessimism of the opposite type. We will accept Mary Ann and the rest of the goods the Fairhill gods provide, including the open-air studio, eat, drink, and be merry, and make up our minds that to-morrow we won’t die! I’d seal the covenant with a kiss if I were quite certain that I am not silicon-ed up to the eyes.”
Mrs. Wayt bore a pained and heavy heart to the nursery and her mending basket. She loved Hetty fondly, and with what abundant reason no one knew so well as the heroic wife of a selfishly eccentric man. She trusted her sister’s sterling sense, and in most instances was willing to abide by her judgment, but there were radical differences in their views upon certain subjects. The very pains Hetty took to avert open discussion of what lay like a carking blight upon the spirits of both caused friction and rawness, and the feigned levity with which she closed the door upon the topic would have been insult from anyone else. She had no alternative but to submit, no help but in the Refuge of all pure souls tempted almost out of measure by the sins and perversities of those dearest to them. Upon the knees of her heart she besought wisdom and comfort, and—sweet satire upon the pious duty of self-examination!—forgiveness for her intolerance of others’ foibles!