Neither blame nor disgrace attached to anybody. Nobody thought less of the Odells, nor did they of themselves.
The crash of her dream-house stunned Eris. She took it very silently, with no outward emotion.
After a month the whole thing seemed, in fact, a dream—too unreal to believe or to grieve over.
After three months Odell talked vaguely of getting a di-vorce, “so’s she kin hook up to somebody respectable when she’s a mind to.”
Then Eris flashed fire for the first time:
“I’ll never marry again! Never! I never wanted to anyway. This is enough! I’ll live and die as I am. And there’ll be no more men in my life and no bother about divorce, either. He’ll never come back. What do I care whether I’m married or not! It doesn’t mean anything and it never will. I’m through with marriage and with marrying men! And that’s that!”
CHAPTER V
IT was Sunday; and it was in May. To Whitewater Farms floated the sound of bells from three village churches, pealing alternately. With a final three strokes from each bell, Odell and Lister drove out of the horse-barn in the family carry-all. In God’s honour, Odell wore a celluloid collar. Lister’s reverence was expressed in a new scarlet bandanna.
Mazie, big, symmetrical, handsome in her trim summer clothes, appeared from the house, herding her loitering, loutish offspring—Gene, 18; Si, 17; Willis, 16; Buddy, 15; all habited in the dark, ready-made clothing and dark felt hats of rural ceremony, the gloomy similarity relieved only by ready-made satin neck-scarfs of different but primitive hues.
“Where’s Eris?” inquired Odell.