“My wedding is put off for a month; now that settles it. I don't want to say another word about it.” Madelon went into the pantry.
Luke sent his old voice, shrill and penetrating as a baby's, after her. “They say 'tain't luck to have a weddin' put off. 'Ain't ye afeard he'll give ye the slip?”
Madelon made no reply. There was a rattle of dishes in the pantry.
Old Luke waited a moment; then raised his shrill, infantile voice again. “If this feller gives ye the slip, ye can jest hang up yer fiddle; ye won't git t'other one back. Parson Fair's gal's got 'nough fine feathers comin' from Boston to fit out the Queen of England, they say.”
Madelon said nothing.
“D'ye hear?” called old Luke; but he got no reply. “Dexter Beers says a hull passel of stuff come up from Boston on the stage yesterday. Saturday,” persisted old Luke, “Mis' Beers she see an eend of blue satin a-stickin' out of one of the bundles.”
Old Luke waited again, with sharp eyes on the pantry. He could see therein a fold of Madelon's indigo-blue petticoat, and could hear the click of a spoon against a dish; that was all.
Old Luke tried his last prod of aggravation. “Folks air sayin' down to the store that mebbe there was some truth, arter all, in what you said 'bout the stabbin', an' mebbe that's the reason Lot is a puttin' off the weddin',” piped old Luke. He chuckled slyly to himself, but sobered suddenly, and cowered in his chair before Madelon.
She came out of the pantry with a rush, and stood before him, her eyes blazing. “There was truth in what I said, after all!” she cried. “The truth's the truth, whether there's folks to believe it or not, and I spoke it, and you can tell them so at the store.”
Old Luke shrank before her. His old body seemed to cease to shape his clothes. He looked up at her with scared eyes.