“If folks knew you didn’t believe in any hereafter, they’d say you was a wicked woman!” cried Mrs. Butterfield, angrily;—“an’ that fool machine—”
“I never said I didn’t believe in a hereafter. Course his machine ain’t sense. That’s what makes it so pitiful.”
“He’ll never finish it.”
“Course he won’t. That’s why I’m takin’ him.”
“Well, my sakes!” said Mrs. Butterfield, helplessly. And then, angrily again, “Course if you set out to go your own way, I suppose you don’t expect no help from them as thinks you are all wrong?”
“I do not,” Lizzie said, steadily; and then a spark glinted in her leaf-brown eye: “Folks that have means, and yet would let that poor unfortunate be taken to the Farm—I wouldn’t expect no help from ’em.”
“Well, Mis’ Graham, you can’t say I ain’t warned you.”
“No, Mis’ Butterfield, I can’t,” Lizzie responded; and the two old friends parted stiffly.
The word that Lizzie Graham—“poor as Job’s turkey!”—was going to marry Nathaniel May spread like grass fire through Jonesville. Mrs. Butterfield preserved a cold silence, for her distress was great. To hear people snicker and say that Lizzie Graham must be “dyin’ anxious to get married”; that she must be “lottin’ considerable on a good ghost-market”; that she “took a new way o’ gettin’ a hired man without payin’ no wages,”—these things stung her sore heart into actual anger at the friend she loved. But she did not show it.
“Mis’ Graham probably knows her own business,” she said, stiffly, to any one who spoke to her of the matter. Even to her own husband she was non-committal. Josh sat out by the kitchen door, tilting back against the gray-shingled side of the house, his hands in his pockets, his feet tucked under him on the rung of his chair. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he had unbuttoned his baggy old waistcoat, for it was a hot night. Mrs. Butterfield was on the kitchen door-step. They could look across a patch of grass at the great barn, connected with the little house by a shed. Its doors were still open, and Josh could see the hay, put in that afternoon. The rick in the yard stood like a skeleton against the fading yellow of the sky; some fowls were roosting comfortably on the tongue. It was very peaceful; but Mrs. Butterfield’s face was puckered with anxiety. “Yet I don’t know as I can do anything about it,” she said, her foot tapping the stone step nervously; “she ain’t got no call to be so foolish.”