Chapter IX: The Gardens of Memory 247 (5)

"I'm always contendin', child, that this world's growin' better and better all the time; but, Lord! Lord! that fair come pretty near upsettin' my faith. Why, in my day folks could take their children to the fair and turn 'em loose; and, if they had sense enough to keep from under the horses' feet, they was jest as safe at the fair as they was at a May meetin'. But, la! the sights I saw that day Henrietta took me to the fair! Every which way you'd look there was some sort of a trap for temptin' boys and leadin' 'em astray. Whisky and beer and all sorts o' gamblin' machines and pool sellin', and little boys no higher'n that smokin' little white cigyars, and offerin' to bet with each other on the races. And I says to Henrietta, 'Child, I don't call this a fair; why, it's jest nothin' but a gamblin' den and a whisky saloon. And,' says I, 'I know now what old Uncle Henry Matthews meant.' I'd asked the old man if he was goin' to show anything at the fair that year, and he said, 'No, Jane. Unless you've got somethin' for the town folks to bet on, it ain't worth while.'

"But there was one thing I did enjoy that day, and that was the races. There's some folks thinks that racin' horses is a terrible sin; but I don't. It's the bettin' and the swearin' that goes with the racin' that's the sin. If folks'd behave as well as the horses behaves, a race'd be jest as religious as a Sunday-school picnic. There ain't a finer sight to me than a blooded horse goin' at a two-forty gait round a smooth track, and the sun a-shinin' and the flags a-wavin' and the wind blowin' and the folks cheerin' and hollerin'. So, when Henrietta said the races was goin' to begin, I says, says I, 'Here, child, take hold o' my arm and help me down these steps; I'm goin' to see one more race before I die.' And Henrietta helped me down, and we went over to the grand stand and got a good seat where I could see the horses when they come to the finish. I tell you, honey, it made me feel young again jest to see them horses coverin' the ground like they did. My father used to raise fine horses, and Abram used to say that when it come to knowin' a horse's p'ints, he'd back me against any man in Kentucky. I'll have to be a heap older'n I am now before I see the day when I wouldn't turn around and walk a good piece to look at a fine horse."

And the old lady gave a laugh at this confession of weakness.

"It was like old times to see the way them horses run. And when they come to the finish I was laughin' and hollerin' as much as anybody. And jest then somebody right behind me give a yell, and says he:

"'Hurrah for old Kentucky! When it comes to fine horses and fine whisky and fine women, she can't be beat.'

"Everybody begun to laugh, and a man right in front o' me says, 'It's that young feller from Lexin'ton. His father's one o' the biggest horsemen in the state. That's his horse that's jest won the race.' And I turned around to see, and there was a boy about the size o' my youngest grandchild up at Danville. His hat was set on the back of his head, and his hair was combed down over his eyes till he looked like he'd come out of a feeble-minded school. He had a little white cigyar in his mouth, and you could tell by his breath that he'd been drinkin'.

"Now I ain't much of a hand for meddlin' with other folks' business, but I'd been readin' about the Salvation Army, and how they preach on the street; and it come into my head that here was a time for some Salvation work. And I says to him, says I, 'Son, there's another thing that Kentucky used to be hard to beat on, and that was fine men. But,' says I, 'betwixt the fine horses and the fine women and the fine whisky, some o' the men has got to be a mighty common lot.' Says I, 'Holler as much as you please for that horse out there; he's worth hollerin' for. But,' says I, 'when a state's got to raisin' a better breed o' horses than she raises men, it ain't no time to be hollerin' "hurrah" for her.' Says I, 'You're your father's son, and yonder's your father's horse; now which do you reckon your father's proudest of to-day, his horse or his son?'

"Well, folks begun to laugh again, and the boy looked like he wanted to say somethin' sassy, but he couldn't git his wits together enough to think up anything. And I says, says I, 'That horse never touched whisky or tobacco in his life; he's clean-blooded and clean-lived, and he'll live to a good old age; and, maybe, when he dies they'll bury him like a Christian, and put a monument up over him like they did over Ten Broeck. But you, why, you ain't hardly out o' your short pants, and you're fifty years old if you're a day. You'll bring your father's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, and you'll go to your own grave a heap sooner'n you ought to, and nobody'll ever build a monument over you.'

"There was three or four boys along with the Lexin'ton boy, and one of 'em that appeared to have less whisky in him than the rest, he says, 'Well, grandma, I reckon you're about right; we're a pretty bad lot.' And says he, 'Come on, boys, and let's git out o' this.' And off they went; and whether my preachin' ever did 'em any good I don't know, but I couldn't help sayin' what I did, and that's the last time I ever went to these new-fashioned fairs they're havin' nowadays. Fair time used to mean a heap to me, but now it don't mean anything but jest to put me in mind o' old times."

Just then there was a sound of galloping hoofs on the pike, and loud "whoas" from a rider in distress. We started up with the eagerness of those whose lives have flowed too long in the channels of stillness and peace. Here was a possibility of adventure not to be lost for any consideration. Aunt Jane dropped her pan with a sharp clang; I gathered up my skirt with its measure of unshelled beans, and together we rushed to the front of the house.

It was a "solitary horseman," wholly and ludicrously at the mercy of his steed, a mischievous young horse that had never felt the bridle and bit of a trainer.

"It's that red-headed boy of Joe Crofton's," chuckled Aunt Jane. "Nobody'd ever think he was born in Kentucky; now, would they? Old Man Bob Crawford used to say that every country boy in this state was a sort o' half-brother to a horse. But that boy yonder ain't no kin to the filly he's tryin' to ride. There's good blood in that filly as sure's you're born. I can tell by the way she throws her head and uses her feet. She'll make a fine saddle-mare, if her master ever gets hold of her. Jest look yonder, will you?"

The horse had come to a stand; she gave a sudden backward leap, raised herself on her hind legs, came down on all fours with a great clatter of hoofs, and began a circular dance over the smooth road. Round she went, stepping as daintily as a maiden at a May-day dance, while the rider clung to the reins, dug his bare heels into the glossy sides of his steed, and yelled "whoa," as if his salvation lay in that word. Then, as if just awakened to a sense of duty, the filly ceased her antics, tossed her head with a determined air, and broke into a brisk, clean gallop that would have delighted a skilled rider, but seemed to bring only fresh dismay to the soul of Joe Crofton's boy. His arms flapped dismally and hopelessly up and down; a gust of wind seized his ragged cap and tossed it impishly on one of the topmost boughs of the Osage-orange hedge; his protesting "whoa" voiced the hopelessness of one who resigns himself to the power of a dire fate, and he disappeared ingloriously in a cloud of summer dust. Whereupon we returned to the prosaic work of bean-shelling, with the feeling of those who have watched the curtain go down on the last scene of the comedy.

"I declare to goodness," sighed Aunt Jane breathlessly, as she stooped to recover her pan, "I ain't laughed so much in I don't know when. It reminds me o' the time Sam Amos rode in the t'u'nament." And she began laughing again at some recollection in which I had no part.

"Now, that's right curious, ain't it? When I set here talkin' about fairs, that boy comes by and makes me think o' how Sam rode at the fair that year they had the t'u'nament. I don't know how long it's been since I thought o' that ride, and maybe I never would 'a' thought of it again if that boy of Joe Crofton's hadn't put me in mind of it."

I dropped my butter-beans for a moment and assumed a listening attitude, and without any further solicitation, and in the natural course of events, the story began.

"You see the town folks was always gittin' up somethin' new for the fair, and that year I'm talkin' about it was a t'u'nament. All the Goshen folks that went to town the last County Court day before the fair come back with the news that there was goin' to be a t'u'nament the third day o' the fair. Everybody was sayin', 'What's that?' and nobody could answer 'em till Sam Crawford went to town one Saturday jest before the fair, and come back with the whole thing at his tongue's end. Sam heard that they was practisin' for the t'u'nament that evenin', and as he passed the fair grounds on his way home, he made a p'int of goin' in and seein' what they was about. He said there was twelve young men, and they was called knights; and they had a lot o' iron rings hung from the posts of the amp'itheater, and they'd tear around the ring like mad and try to stick a pole through every ring and carry it off with 'em, and the one that got the most rings got the blue ribbon. Sam said it took a good eye and a steady arm and a good seat to manage the thing, and he enjoyed watchin' 'em. 'But,' says he, 'why they call the thing a t'u'nament is more'n I could make out. I stayed there a plumb hour, and I couldn't hear nor see anything that sounded or looked like a tune.'

"Well, the third day o' the fair come, and we was all on hand to see the t'u'nament. It went off jest like Sam said. There was twelve knights, all dressed in black velvet, with gold and silver spangles, and they galloped around and tried to take off the rings on their long poles. When they got through with that, the knights they rode up to the judges with a wreath o' flowers on the ends o' their poles--lances, they called 'em--and every knight called out the name o' the lady that he thought the most of; and she come up to the stand, and they put the wreath on her head, and there was twelve pretty gyirls with flowers on their heads, and they was 'Queens of Love and Beauty.' It was a mighty pretty sight, I tell you; and the band was playin' 'Old Kentucky Home,' and everybody was hollerin' and throwin' up their hats. Then the knights galloped around the ring once and went out at the big gate, and come up and promenaded around the amp'itheater with the gyirls they had crowned. The knight that got the blue ribbon took off ten rings out o' the fifteen. He rode a mighty fine horse, and Sam Amos, he says, 'I believe in my soul if I'd 'a' been on that horse I could 'a' taken off every one o' them rings.' Sam was a mighty good rider, and Milly used to say that the only thing that'd make Sam enjoy ridin' more'n he did was for somebody to put up lookin'-glasses so he could see himself all along the road.

"Well, the next thing on the program was the gentleman riders' ring. The premium was five dollars in gold for the best gentleman rider. We was waitin' for that to commence, when Uncle Jim Matthews come up, and says he, 'Sam, there's only one entry in this ring, and it's about to fall through.'

"You see they had made a rule that year that there shouldn't be any premiums given unless there was some competition. And Uncle Jim says, 'There's a young feller from Simpson County out there mighty anxious to ride. He come up here on purpose to git that premium. Suppose you ride ag'inst him and show him that Simpson can't beat Warren.' Sam laughed like he was mightily pleased, and says he, 'I don't care a rap for the premium, Uncle Jim, but, jest to oblige the man from Simpson, I'll ride. But,' says he, 'I ought to 'a' known it this mornin' so I could 'a' put on my Sunday clothes.' And Uncle Jim says, 'Never mind that; you set your horse straight and carry yourself jest so, and the judges won't look at your clothes.' 'How about the horse?' says Sam. 'Why,' says Uncle Jim, 'there's a dozen or more good-lookin' saddle-horses out yonder outside the big gate, and you can have your pick.' So Sam started off, and the next thing him and the man from Simpson was trottin' around the ring. Us Goshen people kind o' kept together when we set down in the amp'itheater. Every time Sam'd go past us, we'd all holler 'hurrah!' for him. The Simpson man appeared to have a lot o' friends on the other side o' the amp'itheater, and they'd holler for him, and the town folks was divided up about even.

"Both o' the men rode mighty well. They put their horses through all the gaits, rackin' and pacin' and lopin', and it looked like it was goin' to be a tie, when all at once the band struck up 'Dixie,' and Sam's horse broke into a gallop. Sam didn't mind that; he jest pushed his hat down on his head and took a firm seat, and seemed to enjoy it as much as anybody. But after he'd galloped around the ring two or three times, he tried to rein the horse in and get him down to a nice steady trot like the Simpson man was doin'. But, no, sir. That horse hadn't any idea of stoppin'. The harder the band played the faster he galloped; and Uncle Jim Matthews says, 'I reckon Sam's horse thinks it's another t'u'nament.' And Abram says, 'Goes like he'd been paid to gallop jest that way; don't he, Uncle Jim?'

"But horses has a heap o' sense, child; and it looked to me like the horse knew he had Sam Amos, one o' the best riders in the county, on his back and he was jest playin' a little joke on him.

"Well, of course when the judges seen that Sam'd lost control of his horse, they called the Simpson man up and tied the blue ribbon on him. And he took off his hat and waved it around, and then he trotted around the ring, and the Simpson folks hollered and threw up their hats. And all that time Sam's horse was tearin' around the ring jest as hard as he could go. Sam's hat was off, and I ricollect jest how his hair looked, blowin' back in the wind--Milly hadn't trimmed it for some time--and him gittin' madder and madder every minute. Of course us Goshen folks was mad, too, because Sam didn't git the blue ribbon; but we had to laugh, and the town folks and the Simpson folks they looked like they'd split their sides. Old Man Bob Crawford jest laid back on the benches and hollered and laughed till he got right purple in the face. And says he, 'This beats the Kittle Creek babtizin' all to pieces.'

"Well, nobody knows how long that horse would 'a' kept on gallopin', for Sam couldn't stop him; but finally two o' the judges they stepped out and headed him off and took hold o' the bridle and led him out o' the ring. And Uncle Jim Matthews he jumps up, and says he, 'Let me out o' here. I want to see Sam when he gits off o' that horse.' Milly was settin' on the top seat considerably higher'n I was. And says she, 'I wouldn't care if I didn't see Sam for a week to come. Sam don't git mad often,' says she, 'but when he does, folks'd better keep out o' his way.'

"Well, Uncle Jim started off, and the rest of us set still and waited; and pretty soon here come Sam lookin' mad enough to fight all creation, sure enough. Everybody was still laughin', but nobody said anything to Sam till up comes Old Man Bob Crawford with about two yards o' blue ribbon. He'd jumped over into the ring and got it from the judges as soon as he could quit laughin'. And says he, 'Sam, I have seen gracefuler riders, and riders that had more control over their horses, but,' says he, 'I never seen one yet that stuck on a horse faithfuler'n you did in that little t'u'nament o' yours jest now; and I'm goin' to tie this ribbon on you jest as a premium for stickin' on, when you might jest as easy 'a' fell off.' Well, everybody looked for Sam to double up his fist and knock Old Man Bob down, and he might 'a' done it, but Milly saw how things was goin', and she come hurryin' up. Milly was a mighty pretty woman, and always dressed herself neat and trim, but she'd been goin' around with little Sam in her arms, and her hair was fallin' down, and she looked like any woman'd look that'd carried a heavy baby all day and dragged her dress over a dusty floor. She come up, and says she, 'Well, Sam, ain't you goin' to crown me "Queen o' Love and Beauty"?' Folks used to say that Sam never was so mad that Milly couldn't make him laugh, and says he, 'You look like a queen o' love and beauty, don't you?' Of course that turned the laugh on Milly, and then Sam come around all right. And says he, 'Well, neighbors, I've made a fool o' myself, and no mistake; and you all can laugh as much as you want to;' and he took Old Man Bob's blue ribbon and tied it on little Sam's arm, and him and Milly walked off together as pleasant as you please. And that's how Sam Amos rode in the t'u'nament," said Aunt Jane conclusively, as she arose from her chair and shook a lapful of bean pods into a willow basket near by.

"Is Sam Amos living yet?" I asked, in the hope of prolonging an o'er-short tale. A softened look came over Aunt Jane's face.

"No, child," she said quietly, "Sam's oldest son is livin' yet, and his three daughters. They all moved out o' the Goshen neighborhood long ago. But Sam's been in his grave twenty years or more, and here I set laughin' about that ride o' his. Somehow or other I've outlived nearly all of 'em. And now when I git to callin' up old times, no matter where I start out, I'm pretty certain to end over in the old buryin'-ground yonder. But then," and she smiled brightly, "there's a plenty more to be told over on the other side."

VIII

MARY ANDREWS' DINNER-PARTY

"Well!" exclaimed Aunt Jane, as she surveyed her dinner-table, "looks like Mary Andrews' dinner-party, don't it? However, there's a plenty of it such as it is, and good enough what there is of it, as the old man said; so set down, child, and help yourself."

A loaf of Aunt Jane's salt-rising bread, a plate of golden butter, a pitcher of Jersey milk, and a bowl of honey in the comb,--who would ask for more? And as I sat down I blessed the friendly rain that had kept me from going home.

"But who was Mary Andrews? and what about her dinner-party?" I asked, as I buttered my bread.

"Eat your dinner, child, and then we'll talk about Mary Andrews," laughed Aunt Jane. "If I'd 'a' thought before I spoke, which I hardly ever do, I wouldn't 'a' mentioned Mary Andrews, for I know you won't let me see any rest till you know all about her."

And Aunt Jane was quite right. A summer rain, and a story, too!

"I reckon there's mighty few livin' that ricollect about Mary Andrews and her dinner-party," she said meditatively an hour later, when the dishes had been washed and we were seated in the old-fashioned parlor.

"Mary Andrews' maiden name was Crawford. A first cousin of Sam Crawford she was. Her father was Jerry Crawford, a brother of Old Man Bob, and her mother was a Simpson. People used to say that the Crawfords and the Simpsons was like two mud-puddles with a ditch between, always runnin' together. I ricollect one year three Crawford sisters married three Simpson brothers. Mary was about my age, and she married Harvey Andrews a little over a year after me and Abram married, and there's few women I ever knew better and liked more than I did Mary Andrews.

"I ricollect her weddin' nearly as well as I do my own. My Jane was jest a month old, and I had to ask mother to come over and stay with the baby while I went to the weddin'. I hadn't thought much about what I'd wear--I'd been so taken up with the baby--and I ricollect I went to the big chest o' drawers in the spare room and jerked out my weddin' dress, and says I to mother, 'There'll be two brides at the weddin'!'

"But, bless your life, when I tried to make it meet around my waist, why, it lacked four or five inches of comin' together; and mother set and laughed fit to kill, and, says she, 'Jane, that dress was made for a young girl, and you'll never be a young girl again!' And I says, 'Well, I may never fasten this dress around my waist again, but I don't know what's to hinder me from bein' a young girl all my life.'

"I wish to goodness," she went on, "that I could ricollect what I wore to Mary Andrews' weddin'. I know I didn't wear my weddin' dress, and I know I went, but to save my life I can't call up the dress I had on. It ain't like me to forgit the clothes I used to wear, but I can't call it up. However, what I wore to Mary Andrews' weddin' ain't got anything to do with Mary Andrews' dinner-party."

Aunt Jane paused and scratched her head reflectively with a knitting needle. Evidently she was loath to go on with her story till the memory of that wedding garment should return to her.

"I was readin' the other day," she continued, "about somethin' they've got off yonder in Washington, some sort of bureau that tells folks what the weather'll be, and warns the ships about settin' off on a voyage when there's a storm ahead. And says I to myself, 'Do you reckon they'll ever git so smart that they can tell what sort o' weather there is ahead o' two people jest married and settin' out on the voyage that won't end till death parts 'em? and what sort o' weather they're goin' to have six months from the weddin' day?' The world's gittin' wiser every day, child, but there ain't nobody wise enough to tell what sort of a husband a man's goin' to make, nor what sort of a wife a woman's goin' to make, nor how a weddin' is goin' to turn out. I've watched folks marryin' for more'n seventy years, and I don't know much more about it than I did when I was a ten-year-old child. I've seen folks marry when it looked like certain destruction for both of 'em, and all at once they'd take a turn that'd surprise everybody, and things would come out all right with 'em. There was Wick Harris and Virginia Matthews. Wick was jest such a boy as Dick Elrod, and Virginia was another Annie Crawford. She'd never done a stitch o' sewin' nor cooked a meal o' victuals in her life, and I ricollect her mother sayin' she didn't know which she felt sorriest for, Wick or Virginia, and she wished to goodness there was a law to keep such folks from marryin'. But, bless your life! instead o' comin' to shipwreck like Dick and Annie, they settled down as steady as any old married couple you ever saw. Wick quit his drinkin' and gamblin', and Virginia, why, there wasn't a better housekeeper in the state nor a better mother'n she got to be.

"And then I've seen 'em marry when everything looked bright ahead and everybody was certain it was a good thing for both of 'em, and it turned out that everybody was wrong. That's the way it was with Mary Andrews and Harvey. Nobody had a misgivin' about it. Mary was as happy as a lark, and Harvey looked like he couldn't wait for the weddin' day, and everybody said they was made for each other. To be sure, Harvey was 'most a stranger in the neighborhood, havin' moved in about a year and a half before, and we couldn't know him like we did the Goshen boys that'd been born and brought up there. But nobody could say a word against him. His family down in Tennessee, jest beyond the state line, was as good people as ever lived, and Harvey himself was industrious and steady, and as fine lookin' a man as you'd see in a week's journey. Everybody said they never saw a handsomer couple than Harvey and Mary Andrews.

"Mary was a tall, proud-lookin' girl, always carried herself like a queen, and hadn't a favor to ask of anybody; and Harvey was half a head taller, and jest her opposite in color. She was dark and he was light. They was a fine sight standin' up before the preacher that day, and everybody was wishin' 'em good luck, though it looked like they had enough already; both of 'em young and healthy and happy and good-lookin', and Harvey didn't owe a cent on his farm, and Mary's father had furnished the house complete for her. The weddin' come off at four o'clock in the evenin', and we all stayed to supper, and after supper Harvey and Mary drove over to their new home. I ricollect how Mary looked back over her shoulder and laughed at us standin' on the steps and wavin' at her and hollerin' 'good-bye.'

"It was the fashion in that day for all the neighbors to entertain a newly married couple. Some would invite 'em to dinner, and some to supper, and then the bride and groom would have to do the same for the neighbors, and then the honeymoon'd be over, and they'd settle down and go to work like ordinary folks. We had Harvey and Mary over to dinner, and they asked us to supper. I ricollect how nice the table looked with Mary's new blue and white china and some o' the old-fashioned silver that'd been in the family for generations. And the supper matched the table, for Mary wasn't the kind that expects company to satisfy their hunger by lookin' at china and silver. She was a fine cook like her mother before her. Amos and Marthy Matthews had been invited, too, and we had a real pleasant time laughin' and jokin' like folks always do about young married people. After supper we all went out on the porch, and Mary whispered to me and Marthy to come and see her china closet and pantry. You know how proud a young housekeeper is of such things. She showed us all through the back part o' the house, and we praised everything and told her it looked like old experienced housekeepin' instead of a bride's.

"Well, when we went back to the dinin'-room on our way to the porch, if there wasn't Harvey bendin' over the table countin' the silver teaspoons! A man always looks out o' place doin' such things, and I saw Mary's face turn red to the roots of her hair. But nobody said anything, and we passed on through and left Harvey still countin'. It was a little thing, but I couldn't help thinkin' how queer it was for a man that hadn't been married two weeks to leave his company and go back to the table to count spoons, and I asked myself how I'd 'a' felt if I'd found Abram countin' spoons durin' the honeymoon.

"Did you ever take a walk, child, some cloudy night when everything's covered up by the darkness, and all at once there'll be a flash o' lightnin' showin' up everything jest for a second? Well, that's the way it is with people's lives. Near as Harvey and Mary lived to me, and friendly as we were, I couldn't tell what was happenin' between 'em. But every now and then, as the months went by, and the years, I'd see or hear somethin' that was like a flash of light in a dark place. Sometimes it was jest a look, but there's mighty little a look can't tell; and as for actions, you know they speak louder than words. I ricollect one Sunday Harvey and Mary was walkin' ahead o' me and Abram. There was a rough piece o' road jest in front of the church, and I heard Harvey say: 'Don't walk there, come over on the side where it's smooth.'

"I reckon Mary thought that Harvey was thinkin' of her feet, for she stepped over to the side of the road right at once and says he, 'Don't you know them stones'll wear out your shoes quicker'n anything?' And, bless your life, if Mary didn't go right back to the middle of the road, and she took particular pains to walk on the stones as far as they went. It was a little thing, to be sure, but it showed that Harvey was thinkin' more of his wife's shoes than he was of her feet, and that ain't a little thing to a woman.

"Then, again, there was the time when me and Abram was passin' Harvey's place one evenin', and a storm was comin' up, and we stopped in to keep from gittin' wet. Mary had been to town that day, and she had on her best dress. She was a woman that looked well in anything she put on. Plain clothes couldn't make her look plain, and she set off fine clothes as much as they set her off. Me and Abram took seats on the porch, and Mary went into the hall to git another chair. I heard the back hall door open and somebody come in, and then I heard Harvey's voice. Says he, 'Go up-stairs and take off that dress.' Says he, 'What's the use of wearin' out your best clothes here at home?' But before he got the last words out, Mary was on the porch with the chair in her hand, talkin' to us about her trip to town, and lookin' as unconcerned as if she hadn't heard or seen Harvey. That night I says to Abram, says I, 'Abram, did you ever have any cause to think that Harvey Andrews was a close man?'

"Abram thought a minute, and, says he, 'Why, no; I can't say I ever did. What put such a notion into your head, Jane? Harvey looks after his own interests in a trade, but he's as liberal a giver as there is in Goshen church. Besides,' says Abram, 'who ever heard of a tall, personable man like Harvey bein' close? Stingy people's always dried up and shriveled lookin'.'

"But I'd made up my mind what the trouble was between Harvey and Mary, and nothin' that Abram said could change it. I don't reckon any man knows how women feel about stinginess and closeness in their husbands. I believe most women'd rather live with a man that'd killed somebody than one that was stingy. And then Mary never was used to anything of that kind, for her father, old man Jerry Crawford, was one o' the freest-handed men in the county. It was 'Come in and make yourself at home' with everybody that darkened his door, and for a woman, raised like Mary was, havin' to live with a man like Harvey was about the hardest thing that could 'a' happened to her. However, she had the Crawford pride, and she carried her head high and laughed and smiled as much as ever; but there's a look that tells plain enough whether a woman's married to a man or whether she's jest tied to him and stayin' with him because she can't get free; and when Mary wasn't laughin' or smilin' I could tell by her face that she wasn't as happy as we all thought she was goin' to be the day she married Harvey."

Aunt Jane paused a moment to pick up a dropped stitch.

"It's a good thing you had your dinner, honey, before I started this yarn," she said, looking at me quizzically over her glasses, "for I'll be a long time bringin' you to the dinner-party. But I've got to tell you all this rigmarole first, so you'll understand what's comin'. If I was to tell you about the dinner-party first you'd get a wrong idea about Mary. That's how folks misjudges one another. They see people doin' things that ain't right, and they up and conclude they're bad people, when if they only knew somethin' about their lives, they'd understand how to make allowance for 'em. You've got to know a heap about people's lives, child, before you can judge 'em.

"Well, along about this time, somewhere in the '60's, I reckon it must 'a' been, there was a big excitement about politics. I can't somehow ricollect what it was all about, but they had speakin's everywhere, and the men couldn't talk about anything but politics from mornin' till night. Abram was goin' in to town every week to some meetin' or speakin'; and finally they had a big rally and a barbecue at Goshen. One of the speakers was Judge McGowan, from Tennessee, and he was a cousin of Harvey Andrews on his mother's side."

Here Aunt Jane paused again.

"I wish I could ricollect what it was all about," she said musingly. "Must 'a' been something mighty important, but it's slipped my memory, sure. I do ricollect, though, hearin' Sam Amos say to old Squire Bentham, 'What's the matter, anyhow? Ain't Kentucky politicians got enough gift o' gab, without sendin' down to Tennessee to git somebody to help you out?'

"And the old Squire laughed fit to kill; and says he, 'It's all on your account, Sam. We heard you was against us, and we knew there wasn't an orator in Kentucky that could make you change your mind. So we've sent down to Tennessee for Judge McGowan, and we're relyin' on him to bring you over to our side.' And that like to 'a' tickled Sam to death.

"Well, when Harvey heard his cousin was to be one o' the big men at the speakin', he was mighty proud, as anybody would 'a' been, and nothin' would do but he must have Judge McGowan to eat dinner at his house.

"Some of the men objected to this, and said the speakers ought to eat at the barbecue. But Harvey said that blood was thicker than water with him, and no cousin o' his could come to Goshen and go away without eatin' a meal at his house. So it was fixed up that everybody else was to eat at the barbecue, and Harvey was to take Judge McGowan over to his house to a family dinner-party.

"I dropped in to see Mary two or three days before the speakin', and when I was leavin', I said, 'Mary, if there's anything I can do to help you about your dinner-party, jest let me know.' And she said, 'There ain't a thing to do; Harvey's been to town and bought everything he could think of in the way of groceries, and Jane Ann's comin' over to cook the dinner; but thank you, all the same.'

"I thought Mary looked pleased and satisfied, and I says, 'Well, with everything to cook and Jane Ann to cook it, there won't be anything lackin' about that dinner.' And Mary laughed, and says she, 'You know I'm my father's own child.'

"Old Jerry used to say, ''Tain't no visit unless you waller a bed and empty a plate.' They used tell it that Aunt Maria, the cook, never had a chance to clean up the kitchen between meals, and the neighbors all called Jerry's house the free tavern. I've heard folks laugh many a time over the children recitin' the Ten Commandments Sunday evenin's, and Jerry would holler at 'em when they got through and say:

"'The 'leventh commandment for Kentuckians is, "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers," and never mind about 'em turnin' out to be angels. Plain folks is good enough for me.'

"Here I am strayin' off from the dinner, jest like I always do when I set out to tell anything or go anywhere. Abram used to say that if I started to the spring-house, I'd go by way o' the front porch and the front yard and the back porch and the back yard and the flower gyarden and the vegetable gyarden to git there.

"Well, the day come, and Judge McGowan made a fine speech, and Harvey carried him off in his new buggy, as proud as a peacock. I ricollect when I set down to my table that day I said to myself: 'I know Judge McGowan's havin' a dinner to-day that'll make him remember Kentucky as long as he lives.' And it wasn't till years afterwards that I heard the truth about that dinner. Jane Ann herself told me, and I don't believe she ever told anybody else. Jane Ann was crippled for a year or more before she died, and the neighbors had to do a good deal of nursin' and waitin' on her. I was makin' her a cup o' tea one day, and the kittle was bubblin' and singin', and she begun to laugh, and says she, 'Jane, do you hear that sparrer chirpin' in the peach tree there by the window?' Says she, 'I never hear a sparrer chirpin' and a kittle b'ilin', that I don't think o' the dinner Mary Andrews had the day Judge McGowan spoke at the big barbecue.' Says she, 'Mary's dead, and Harvey's dead, and I reckon there ain't any harm in speakin' of it now.' And then she told me the story I'm tellin' you.

"She said she went over that mornin' bright and early, and there was Mary sittin' on the back porch, sewin'. The house was all cleaned up, and there was a big panful o' greens on the kitchen table, but not a sign of a company dinner anywhere in sight. Jane Ann said Mary spoke up as bright and pleasant as possible, and told her to set down and rest herself, and she went on sewin', and they talked about this and that for a while, and finally Jane Ann rolled up her sleeves, and says she, 'I'm a pretty fast worker, Mis' Andrews, but a company dinner ain't any small matter; don't you think it's time to begin work?'

"And Mary jest smiled and said in her easy way, 'No, Jane Ann, there's not much to do. It won't take long for the greens to cook, and I want you to make some of your good corn bread to go with 'em.' And then she went on sewin' and talkin', and all Jane Ann could do was to set there and listen and wonder what it all meant.

"Finally the clock struck eleven, and Mary rolled up her work, and says she, 'You'd better make up your fire now, Jane Ann, and I'll set the table. Harvey likes an early dinner.'

"Jane Ann said she expected to see Mary get out the best china and silver and the finest tablecloth and napkins she had, but instead o' that she put on jest plain, everyday things. Everything was clean and nice, but it wasn't the way to set the table for a company dinner, and nobody knew that better than Mary Andrews.

"Jane Ann said she saw a ham and plenty o' vegetables and eggs in the pantry, and she could hardly keep her hands off 'em, and she did smuggle some potatoes into the stove after she got her greens washed and her meal scalded. She said she knew somethin' was wrong, but all she could do was to hold her tongue and do her work. That was Jane Ann's way. When Mary got through settin' the table, she went up-stairs and put on her best dress. Trouble hadn't pulled her down a bit; and, if anything, she was handsomer than she was the day she married. I reckon it was her spirit that kept her from breakin' and growin' old before her time. Jane Ann said she come down-stairs, her eyes sparklin' like a girl's and a bright color in her cheeks, and she had on a flowered muslin dress, white ground with sprigs o' lilac all over it, and lace in the neck, and angel sleeves that showed off her arms, and her hair was twisted high up on her head, and a big tortoise-shell comb in it. Jane Ann said she looked as pretty as a picture; and jest as she come down the stairs, Harvey drove up with Judge McGowan, and Mary walked out to give him a welcome, while Harvey put away the buggy. Nobody had pleasanter ways than Mary Andrews. She always had somethin' to say, and it was always the right thing to be said, and in a minute her and the old judge was laughin' like they'd known each other all their lives, and he had the children on his knees trottin' 'em and tellin' 'em about his little girl and boy at home.

"Jane Ann said her greens was about done and she started to put on the corn bread, but somethin' held her back. She knew corn bread and greens wasn't a fit dinner for a stranger that had been invited there, but of course she couldn't do anything without orders, and she was standin' over the stove waitin' and wonderin', when Harvey, man-like, walked in to see how dinner was gettin' on. Jane Ann said he looked at the pot o' greens and the pan of corn bread batter, and he went into the dinin'-room and saw the table all clean, but nothin' on it beyond the ordinary, and his face looked like a thunder-cloud. And jest then Mary come in all smilin', and the prettiest color in her cheeks, and Harvey wheeled around and says he, 'What does this mean? Where's the ham I told you to cook and all the rest o' the things I bought for this dinner?'

"Jane Ann said the way he spoke and the look in his eyes would 'a' frightened most any woman but Mary; she wasn't the kind to be frightened. Jane Ann said she stood up straight, with her head thrown back and still smilin', and her voice was as clear and sweet as if she'd been sayin' somethin' pleasant. And she looked Harvey straight in the eyes, and says she, 'It means, Harvey, that what's good enough for us is good enough for your kin.' Jane Ann said that Harvey looked at her a second as if he didn't understand, and then he give a start as if he ricollected somethin', and it looked like all the blood in his body rushed to his face, and he lifted one hand and opened his mouth like he was goin' to speak. There they stood, lookin' at each other, and Jane Ann said she never saw such a look pass between husband and wife before or since. If either of 'em had dropped dead, she said, it wouldn't 'a' seemed strange.

"Honey, I read a story once about two men that had quarreled, and one of 'em picked up a little rock and put it in his pocket, and for eight years he carried that rock, and once a year he'd turn it over. And at last, one day he met the man he hated, and he took out the rock he'd been carryin' so long, and threw it at him, and it struck him dead. Now I know as well as if Mary Andrews had told me, that Harvey had said them very same words to her years before, and she'd carried 'em in her heart, jest like the man carried the stone in his pocket, waitin' till she could throw 'em back at him and hurt him as much as he hurt her. It wasn't right nor Christian. But knowin' Mary Andrews as I did, I never had a word o' blame for her. There never was a better-hearted woman than Mary, and I always thought she must 'a' gone through a heap to make her say such a thing to Harvey.

"Jane Ann said that when she worked at a place she always tried to be blind and deaf so far as family matters was concerned, and she knew that she had no business seein' or hearin' anything that went on between Harvey and Mary, but there they stood, facin' each other, and she could hear a sparrer chirpin' outside, and the tea-kittle b'ilin' on the stove, while she stood watchin' 'em, feelin' like she was charmed by a snake. She said the look in Mary's eyes and the way she smiled made her blood run cold. And Harvey couldn't stand it. He had to give in.

"Jane Ann said his hand dropped, and he turned and walked out o' the house and down towards the barn. Mary watched him till he was out o' sight, and then she went back to the front porch, and the next minute she was laughin' and talkin' with Harvey's cousin as if nothin' had happened.

"Well, for the next half hour Jane Ann said she made her two hands do the work of four, and when she put the dinner on the table it was nothin' to be ashamed of. She sliced some ham and fried it, and made coffee and soda biscuits, and poached some eggs; and when they set down to the table, and the old judge'd said grace, he looked around, and, says he: 'How did you know, cousin, that jowl and greens was my favorite dish?' And while they was eatin' the first course, Jane Ann made up pie-crust and had a blackberry pie ready by the time they was ready to eat it. The old judge was a plain man and a hearty eater, and everything pleased him.

"When they first set down, Mary says, says she: 'You'll have to excuse Harvey, Cousin Samuel; he had some farm-work to attend to and won't be in for some little time.'

"And the old judge bows and smiles across the table, and, says he, 'I hadn't missed Harvey, and ain't likely to miss him when I'm talkin' to Harvey's wife.'

"Jane Ann said she never saw a meal pass off better, and when she looked at Mary jokin' and smilin' with the judge and waitin' on the children so kind and thoughtful, she could hardly believe it was the same woman that had stood there a few minutes before with that awful smile on her face and looked her husband in the eyes till she looked him down. She said she expected Harvey to step in any minute, and she kept things hot while she was washin' up the dishes. But two o'clock come and half-past two, and still no Harvey. And pretty soon here come Mary out to the kitchen, and says she:

"'I'm goin' to drive the judge to town, Jane Ann. And when you get through cleanin' up, jest close the house, and your money's on the mantelpiece in the dinin'-room.' Then she went out in the direction of the stable, and in a few minutes come drivin' back in the buggy. Jane Ann said the horse couldn't 'a' been unharnessed at all. Her and the judge got in with the two children down in front, and they drove off to catch the four-o'clock train.

"Jane Ann said she straightened everything up in the kitchen and dinin'-room, and shut up the house, and then she went out in the yard and walked down in the direction of the stable, and there was Harvey, standin' in the stable-yard. She said his face was turned away from her, and she was glad it was, for it scared her jest to look at his back. He was standin' as still as a statue, his arms hangin' down by his sides and both hands clenched, and it looked like he'd made up his mind to stand there till Judgment Day. Jane Ann said she wondered many a time how long he stayed there, and whether he ever did come to the house.

"I ricollect how everybody was talkin' about the speakin' that day. Abram come home from the barbecue, and, says he, 'Jane, I haven't heard such a speech as that since the days of old Humphrey Marshall; and as for the barbecue, all it needed was Judge McGowan to set at the head o' the table. But then,' says he, 'I reckon it was natural for Harvey to want to take his cousin home with him.'

"That was about four o'clock, and it wasn't more than two hours till we heard a horse gallopin' way up the pike. I'd jest washed the supper dishes, and me and Abram was out on the back porch, and I had the baby in my arms. There was somethin' in the sound o' the horse's hoofs that told me he was carryin' bad news, and I jumped up, and says I, 'Abram, some awful thing has happened.' And he says, 'Jane, are you crazy?' I could hear the sound o' the gallopin' comin' nearer and nearer, and I rushed out to the front gate with Abram follerin' after me. We looked up the road, and there was Sam Amos gallopin' like mad on that young bay mare of his. The minute he saw us he hollered out to Abram: 'Git ready as quick as you can, and go to town! Harvey Andrews has had an apoplectic stroke, and I want you to bring the undertaker out here right away.'

"I turned around to say, 'What did I tell you?' But before I could git the words out, Abram was off to saddle and bridle old Moll. That was always Abram's way. If there was anything to be done, he did it, and the talkin' and questionin' come afterwards.

"Sam stopped at the gate and got off a minute to give his horse a breathin' spell. He said he was passin' Harvey's place about five o'clock and he heard a child screamin'. 'At first,' says he, 'I didn't pay any attention to it, I'm so used to hearin' children holler. But after I got past the house I kept hearin' the child, and somethin' told me to turn back and find out what was the matter. I went in,' said he, 'and follered the sound till I come to the stable-yard, and there was Harvey, lyin' on the ground stone dead, and Mary standin' over him lookin' like a crazy woman, and the children, pore little things, screamin' and cryin' and scared half to death.'

"The horse and buggy was standin' there, and Mary must 'a' found the body when she come back from town.