Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“I use red ones myself most of the time,” replied Mrs. Hanna, crocheting industriously. “It saves washin’. I guess poor Mis’ Lane’ll have to see the old place after all these years, whether she wants or not. They’ll take her right past here to the poor-farm.”

Mrs. Bridges set on the table a white plate holding a big square of yellow butter, and stood looking through the open door, down the path with its tall hollyhocks and scarlet poppies on both sides. Between the house and the barn some wild mustard had grown, thick and tall, and was now drifting, like a golden cloud, against the pale blue sky. Butterflies were throbbing through the air, and grasshoppers were crackling everywhere. It was all very pleasant and peaceful; while the comfortable house and barns, the wide fields stretching away to the forest, and the cattle feeding on the hillside added an appearance of prosperity. Mrs. Bridges wondered how she herself would feel—after having loved the place—riding by to the poor-farm. Then she pulled herself together and said, sharply:

“I’m afraid you feel a draught, Mis’ Hanna, a-settin’ so clost to the door.”

“Oh, my, no; I like it. I like lots o’ fresh air. Can’t get it any too fresh for me. If I didn’t have six childern an’ my own mother to keep, I’d take her myself.”

“Take who?” Mrs. Bridges’s voice rasped as she asked the question. Isaphene paused on her way to the pantry, and looked at Mrs. Hanna with deeply thoughtful eyes.

“Why, Mis’ Lane—who else?—before I’d let her go to the poor-farm.”

“Well, I think her childern ought to be _made_ to take care of her!” Mrs. Bridges went on setting the table with brisk, angry movements. “That’s what I think about it. The law ought to take holt of it.”

“Well, you see the law _has_ took holt of it,” said Mrs. Hanna, with a grim smile. “It seems a shame that there ain’t somebody in the neighborhood that ’u’d take her in. She ain’t much expense, but a good deal o’ trouble. She’s sick, in an’ out o’ bed, nigh onto all the time. My opinion is she’s been soured by all her troubles; an’ that if somebody ’u’d only take her in an’ be kind to her, her temper’ment ’u’d emprove up wonderful. She’s always mighty grateful for ev’ry little chore you do her. It just makes my heart ache to think o’ her a-havin’ to go to the poor-house!”

Mrs. Bridges lifted her head; all the softness and irresolution went out of her face.

“Well, I’m sorry for her,” she said, with an air of dismissing a disagreeable subject; “but the world’s full o’ troubles, an’ if you cried over all o’ them you’d be a-cryin’ all the time. Isaphene, you go out an’ blow that dinner-horn. I see the men-folks ’av’ got the horses about foddered. What did you do?” she cried out, sharply. “Drop a smoothin’-iron on your hand? Well, my goodness! Why don’t you keep your eyes about you? You’ll go an’ get a cancer yet!”

“I’m thinkin’ about buyin’ a horse an’ buggy,” she announced, with stern triumph, when the girl had gone out. “An’ an organ. Isaphene’s been wantin’ one most offul. I’ve give up her paw’s ever gettin’ her one. First a new harrow, an’ then a paten’ rake, an’ then a seed-drill—an’ then my mercy”—imitating a masculine voice—“he ain’t got any money left for silliness! But I’ve got some laid by. I’d like to see his eyes when he comes home an’ finds a bran new buggy with a top an’ all, an’ a horse that he can’t hetch to a plow, no matter how bad he wants to! I ain’t sure but I’ll get a phaeton.”

“They ain’t so strong, but they’re handy to get in an’ out of—’specially for old, trembly knees.”

“I ain’t so old that I’m trembly!”

“Oh, my—no,” said Mrs. Hanna, with a little start. “I was just thinkin’ mebbe sometimes you’d go out to the poor-farm an’ take poor, old Mis’ Lane for a little ride. It ain’t more’n five miles from here, is it? She ust to have a horse an’ buggy o’ her own. Somehow, I can’t get her off o’ my mind at all to-day. I just heard about her as I was a-startin’ for your house.”

The men came to the house. They paused on the back porch to clean their boots on the scraper and wash their hands and faces with water dipped from the rain-barrel. Their faces shone like brown marble when they came in.

* * * * *

It was five o’clock when Mrs. Hanna, with a sigh, began rolling the lace she had crocheted around the spool, preparatory to taking her departure.

“Well,” she said, “I must go. I had no idy it was so late. How the time does go, a-talkin’. I’ve had a right nice time. Just see how well I’ve done—crocheted full a yard since dinner-time! My! how pretty that hop-vine looks. It makes awful nice shade, too. I guess when Mis’ Lane planted it she thought she’d be settin’ under it herself to-day—she took such pleasure in it.”

The ladies were sitting on the front porch. It was cool and fragrant out there. The shadow of the house reached almost to the gate now. The bees had been drinking too many sweets—greedy fellows!—and were lying in the red poppies, droning stupidly. A soft wind was blowing from Puget Sound and turning over the clover leaves, making here a billow of dark green and there one of light green; it was setting loose the perfume of the blossoms, too, and sifting silken thistle-needles through the air. Along the fence was a hedge, eight feet high, of the beautiful ferns that grow luxuriantly in western Washington. The pasture across the lane was a tangle of royal color, being massed in with golden-rod, fire-weed, steeple-bush, yarrow, and large field-daisies; the cotton-woods that lined the creek at the side of the house were snowing. Here and there the sweet twin-sister of the steeple-bush lifted her pale and fluffy plumes; and there was one lovely, lavender company of wild asters.

Mrs. Bridges arose and followed her guest into the spare bedroom.

“When they goin’ to take her to the poor-farm?” she asked, abruptly.

“Day after to-morrow. Ain’t it awful? It just makes me sick. I couldn’t of eat a bite o’ dinner if I’d stayed at home, just for thinkin’ about it. They say the poor, old creature ain’t done nothin’ but cry an’ moan ever since she knowed she’d got to go.”

“Here’s your bag,” said Mrs. Bridges. “Do you want I should tie your veil?”

“No, thanks; I guess I won’t put it on. If I didn’t have such a big fam’ly an’ my own mother to keep, I’d take her in myself before I’d see her go to the poor-house. If I had a small fam’ly an’ plenty o’ room, I declare my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep nights.”

A deep red glow spread over Mrs. Bridges’s face.

“Well, I guess you needn’t to keep a-hintin’ for me to take her,” she said, sharply.

“_You!_” Mrs. Hanna uttered the word in a tone that was an unintentional insult; in fact, Mrs. Bridges affirmed afterward that her look of astonishment, and, for that matter, her whole air of dazed incredulity were insulting. “I never once thought o’ _you_,” she said, with an earnestness that could not be doubted.

“Why not o’ me?” demanded Mrs. Bridges, showing something of her resentment. “What you been talkin’ an’ harpin’ about her all day for, if you wasn’t hintin’ for me to take her in?”

“I never thought o’ such a thing,” repeated her visitor, still looking rather helplessly dazed. “I talked about it because it was on my mind, heavy, too; an’, I guess, because I wanted to talk my conscience down.”

Mrs. Bridges cooled off a little and folded her hands over the bedpost.

“Well, if you wasn’t hintin’,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, “it’s all right. You kep’ harpin’ on the same string till I thought you was; an’ it riles me offul to be hinted at. I’ll take anything right out to my face, so’s I can answer it, but I won’t be hinted at. But why”—having rid herself of the grievance she at once swung around to the insult—“why _didn’t_ you think o’ me?”

Mrs. Hanna cleared her throat and began to unroll her mitts.

“Well, I don’t know just why,” she replied, helplessly. She drew the mitts on, smoothing them well up over her thin wrists. “I don’t know why, I’m sure. I’d thought o’ most ev’rybody in the neighborhood—but you never come into my head _onct_. I was as innocent o’ hintin’ as a babe unborn.”

Mrs. Bridges drew a long breath noiselessly.

“Well,” she said, absent-mindedly, “come again, Mis’ Hanna. An’ be sure you always fetch your work an’ stay the afternoon.”

“Well, I will. But it’s your turn to come now. Where’s Isaphene?”

“I guess she’s makin’ a fire ’n the cook-stove to get supper by.”

“Well, tell her to come over an’ stay all night with Julia some night.”

“Well—I will.”

Mrs. Bridges went into the kitchen and sat down, rather heavily, in a chair. Her face wore a puzzled expression.

“Isaphene, did you hear what we was a-sayin’ in the bedroom?”

“Yes, most of it, I guess.”

“Well, what do you s’pose was the reason she never thought o’ me a-takin’ Mis’ Lane in? Says she’d thought o’ ev’rybody else.”

“Why, you never thought o’ takin’ her in yourself, did you?” said Isaphene, turning down the damper of the stove with a clatter. “I don’t see how anybody else ’u’d think of it when you didn’t yourself.”

“Well, don’t you think it was offul impadent in her to say that, anyhow?”

“No, I don’t. She told the truth.”

“Why ought they to think o’ ev’rybody takin’ her exceptin’ me, I’d like to know.”

“Because ev’rybody else, I s’pose, has thought of it theirselves. The neighbors have all been chippin’ in to help her for years. You never done nothin’ for her, did you? You never invited her to visit here, did you?”

“No, I never. But that ain’t no sayin’ I wouldn’t take her as quick ’s the rest of ’em. They ain’t none of ’em takin’ her in very fast, be they?”

“No, they ain’t,” said Isaphene, facing her mother with a steady look. “They ain’t a one of ’em but ’s got their hands full—no spare room, an’ lots o’ childern or their folks to take care of.”

“Hunh!” said Mrs. Bridges. She began chopping cold boiled beef for hash.

“I don’t believe I’ll sleep to-night for thinkin’ about it,” she said, after a while.

“I won’t neither, maw. I wish she wasn’t goin’ right by here.”

“So do I.”

After a long silence Mrs. Bridges said—“I don’t suppose your paw’d hear to us a-takin’ her in.”

“I guess he’d hear to ’t if we would,” said Isaphene, dryly.

“Well, we can’t do’t; that’s all there is about it,” announced Mrs. Bridges, with a great air of having made up her mind. Isaphene did not reply. She was slicing potatoes to fry, and she seemed to agree silently with her mother’s decision. Presently, however, Mrs. Bridges said, in a less determined tone—“There’s no place to put her in, exceptin’ the spare room—an’ we can’t get along without that, noways.”

“No,” said Isaphene, in a non-committal tone.

Mrs. Bridges stopped chopping and looked thoughtfully out of the door.

“There’s this room openin’ out o’ the kitchen,” she said, slowly. “It’s nice an’ big an’ sunny. It ’u’d be handy ’n winter, bein’ right off o’ the kitchen. But it ain’t furnished up.”

“No,” said Isaphene, “it ain’t.”

“An’ I know your paw’d never furnish it.”

Isaphene laughed. “No, I guess not,” she said.

“Well, there’s no use a-thinkin’ about it, Isaphene; we just can’t take her. Better get them potatoes on; I see the men-folks comin’ up to the barn.”

The next morning after breakfast Isaphene said suddenly, as she stood washing dishes—“Maw, I guess you’d better take the organ money an’ furnish up that room.”

Mrs. Bridges turned so sharply she dropped the turkey-wing with which she was polishing the stove.

“You don’t never mean it,” she gasped.

“Yes, I do. I know we’d both feel better to take her in than to take in an organ”—they both laughed rather foolishly at the poor joke. “You can furnish the room real comf’table with what it ’u’d take to buy an organ; an’ we can get the horse an’ buggy, too.”

“Oh, Isaphene, I’ve never meant but what you should have an organ. I know you’d learn fast. You’d soon get so’s you could play ‘Lilly Dale’ an’ ‘Hazel Dell;’ an’ you might get so’s you could play ‘General Persifer F. Smith’s Grand March.’ No, I won’t never spend that money for nothin’ but an organ—so you can just shet up about it.”

“I want a horse an’ buggy worse, maw,” said Isaphene, after a brief but fierce struggle with the dearest desire of her heart. “We can get a horse that I can ride, too. An’ we’ll get a phaeton, so’s we can take Mis’ Lane to church an’ around.” Then she added, with a regular masterpiece of diplomacy—“We’ll show the neighbors that when we do take people in, we take ’em in all over!”

“Oh, Isaphene,” said her mother, weakly, “wouldn’t it just astonish ’em!”

* * * * *

It was ten o’clock of the following morning when Isaphene ran in and announced that she heard wheels coming up the lane. Mrs. Bridges paled a little and breathed quickly as she put on her bonnet and went out to the gate.

A red spring-wagon was coming slowly toward her, drawn by a single, bony horse. The driver was half asleep on the front seat. Behind, in a low chair, sat old Mrs. Lane; she was stooping over, her elbows on her knees, her gray head bowed.

Mrs. Bridges held up her hand, and the driver pulled in the unreluctant horse.

“How d’you do, Mis’ Lane? I want that you should come in an’ visit me a while.”

The old creature lifted her trembling head and looked at Mrs. Bridges; then she saw the old house, half hidden by vines and flowers, and her dim eyes filled with bitter tears.

“We ain’t got time to stop, ma’am,” said the driver, politely. “I’m a takin’ her to the county,” he added, in a lower tone, but not so low that the old woman did not hear.

“You’ll have to make time,” said Mrs. Bridges, bluntly. “You get down an’ help her out. You don’t have to wait. When I’m ready for her to go to the county, I’ll take her myself.”

Not understanding in the least, but realizing, as he said afterwards, that she “meant business” and wasn’t the kind to be fooled with, the man obeyed with alacrity.

“Now, you lean all your heft on me,” said Mrs. Bridges, kindly. She put her arm around the old woman and led her up the hollyhock path, and through the house into the pleasant kitchen.

“Isaphene, you pull that big chair over here where it’s cool. Now, Mis’ Lane, you set right down an’ rest.”

Mrs. Lane wiped the tears from her face with an old cotton handkerchief. She tried to speak, but the sobs had to be swallowed down too fast. At last she said, in a choked voice—“It’s awful good in you—to let me see the old place—once more. The Lord bless you—for it. But I’m most sorry I stopped—seems now as if I—just _couldn’t_ go on.”

“Well, you ain’t goin’ on,” said Mrs. Bridges, while Isaphene went to the door and stood looking toward the hill with drowned eyes. “This is our little joke—Isaphene’s an’ mine. This’ll be your home as long as it’s our’n. An’ you’re goin’ to have this nice big room right off o’ the kitchen, as soon ’s we can furnish it up. An’ we’re goin’ to get a horse an’ buggy—a _low_ buggy, so’s you can get in an’ out easy like—an’ take you to church an’ all around.”

* * * * *

That night, after Mrs. Bridges had put Mrs. Lane to bed and said good-night to her, she went out on the front porch and sat down; but presently, remembering that she had not put a candle in the room, she went back, opening the door noiselessly, not to disturb her. Then she stood perfectly still. The old creature had got out of bed and was kneeling beside it, her face buried in her hands.

“Oh, Lord God,” she was saying aloud, “bless these kind people—bless ’em, oh, Lord God! Hear a poor, old mis’rable soul’s prayer, an’ bless ’em! An’ if they’ve ever done a sinful thing, oh, Lord God, forgive ’em for it, because they’ve kep’ me out o’ the poor-house—”

Mrs. Bridges closed the door, and stood sobbing as if her heart must break.

“What’s the matter, maw?” said Isaphene, coming up suddenly.

“Never you mind what’s the matter,” said her mother, sharply, to conceal her emotion. “You get to bed, an’ don’t bother your head about what’s the matter of me.”

Then she went down the hall and entered her own room; and Isaphene heard the key turned in the lock.

THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT

THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT

“Why, mother, where are you a-goin’, all dressed up so?”

Mr. Sybert stood in the bedroom door and stared at his wife’s ample back. There was a look of surprise in his blue eyes. Mrs. Sybert stooped before the bureau, and opened the middle drawer, taking hold of both handles and watching it carefully as she drew it toward her. Sometimes it came out crookedly; and every one knows that a drawer that opens crookedly, will, in time, strain and rub the best bureau ever made. From a red pasteboard box that had the picture of a pretty actress on the cover, Mrs. Sybert took a linen handkerchief that had been ironed until it shone like satin. After smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of it, she put it into her pocket, set her bonnet a little further over her forehead, pushing a stray lock sternly where it belonged, adjusted her bonnet-strings, which were so wide and so stiff that they pressed her ears away from her head, giving her a bristling appearance, and buttoned her gloves with a hair-pin; then, having gained time and decided upon a reply, she said, cheerfully, “What’s that, father?”

“Well, it took you a right smart spell to answer, didn’t it? I say, where are you a-goin’, all dressed up so?”

Mrs. Sybert took her black silk bag with round spots brocaded upon it, and put its ribbons leisurely over her arm. “I’m a-goin’ to see Mis’ Nesley,” she said.

Her husband’s face reddened. “What’s that you say, mother? You’re a-goin’ to do _what_? I reckon I’m a-goin’ a little deef.”

“I’m a-goin’ to see Mis’ Nesley.” Mrs. Sybert spoke calmly. No one would have suspected that she was reproaching herself for not getting out of the house ten minutes sooner. “He never’d ’a’ heard a thing about it,” she was thinking; but she looked straight into his eyes. Her eyelids did not quiver.

The red in Mr. Sybert’s face deepened. He stood in the door, so she could not pass. Indeed, she did not try. Mrs. Sybert had not studied signs for nothing during the thirty years she had been a wife. “I reckon you’re a-foolin’, mother,” he said. “Just up to some o’ your devilment!”

“No, I ain’t up to no devilment, father,” she said, still calmly. “You’d best let me by, now, so’s I can go; it’s half after two.”

“D’ you mean to say that you’re a-ne’rnest? A-talkin’ about goin’ to see that _hussy_ of a Mis’ Nesley?”

“Yes, I’m a-ne’rnest,” said Mrs. Sybert, firmly. “She ain’t a hussy, as I know of. What you got agin ’er, I’d like to know?”

“_I_ ain’t got anything agin ’er. Now, what’s the sense o’ you’re a-pretendin’ you don’t know the talk about ’er, mother?” Mr. Sybert’s tone had changed slightly. He did not like the poise of his wife’s body; it bespoke determination—a fight to the finish if necessary. “You know she’s be’n the town talk fer five years. Your own tawngue hez run on about ’er like’s if ’t was split in the middle an’ loose at both en’s. There wa’n’t a woman in town that spoke to ’er”——

“There was men, though, that did,” said Mrs. Sybert, calmly. “I rec’lect bein’ in at Mis’ Carney’s one day, an’ seein’ you meet ’er opposite an’ take off your hat to ’er—bowin’ an’ scrapin’ right scrumptious like.”

Mr. Sybert changed his position uneasily, and cleared his throat. “Well, that’s diff’rent,” he said. “I ust to know ’er before ’er husband died”——

“Well, I ust to know ’er, then, too,” said Mrs. Sybert, quietly.

“Well, you hed to stop speakin’ to ’er after she got to actin’ up so, but it wa’n’t so easy fer me to stop biddin’ ’er the time o’ day.”

“Why not?” said Mrs. Sybert, stolidly.

“Why not!” repeated her husband, loudly; he was losing his temper. “What’s the sense o’ your actin’ the fool so, mother? Why, if I’d ’a’ set myself up as bein’ too virtjus to speak to ’er ev’ry man in town ’u’d ’a’ be’n blagg’ardin’ me about bein’ so mighty good!”

“Why _sh’u’dn’t_ you be so mighty good, father? You expect me to be, I notice.”

Mr. Sybert choked two or three times. His face was growing purplish.

“Oh, _damn_!” he burst out. Then he looked frightened. “Now, see here, mother! You’re aggravatin’ me awful. You know as well as me that men ain’t expected to be as good all their lives as women”——

“Why ain’t they expected to?” Mrs. Sybert’s tone and look were stern.

“I don’t know why they ain’t, mother, but I know they _ain’t_ expected to—an’ I know they ain’t as _good_, ’ither.” This last was a fine bit of diplomacy. But it was wasted.

“They ain’t as good, aigh? Well, the reason they ain’t as good is just because they ain’t expected to be! That’s just the reason. You can’t get around that, can you, father?”

Evidently he could not.

“An’ now,” continued Mrs. Sybert, “that she’s up an’ married Mr. Nesley an’ wants to live a right life, I’m a-goin’ to see her.”

“How d’you know she wants to live a right life?”

“I don’t know it, father. I just _reckon_ she does. When you wanted I sh’u’d marry you, my father shook his head, an’ says—‘Lucindy, I do’ know what to say. John’s be’n a mighty fast young fello’ to give a good girl to fer the askin’,’ but I says—‘Well, father, I reckon he wants to start in an’ live a right life now.’ An’ so I reckon that about Mis’ Nesley.”

“God A’mighty, mother!” exclaimed Mr. Sybert, violently. “That’s diff’rent. Them things ain’t counted the same in men. Most all men nowadays sow their wild oats an’ then settle down, an’ ain’t none the worse for it. It just helps ’em to appreciate good women, an’ to make good husbands.”

“Well, I reckon Mis’ Nesley knows how to appreciate a good man by this time,” said Mrs. Sybert, with unintentional irony. “I reckon she’s got all her wild oats sowed, an’ is ready to settle down an’ make a good wife. So I’m goin’ to see ’er. Let me by, father. I’ve fooled a ha’f an hour away now, when I’d ort to ’a’ be’n on the road there.”

“Now, see here, mother. You ain’t goin’ a step. The whole town’s excited over a nice man like Mr. Nesley a-throwin’ hisself away on a no-account woman like her, an’ you sha’n’t be seen a-goin’ there an’ upholdin’ her.”

Mrs. Sybert looked long and steadily into her husband’s eyes. It was her policy to fight until she began to lose ground, and then to quietly turn her forces to maneuvering. “I reckon,” she was now reflecting; “it’s about time to begin maneuv’rin’.”

“Well, father,” she said, mildly; “I’ve made up my mind to go an’ see Mis’ Nesley an’ encourage her same’s I w’u’d any man that wanted to live better. An’ I’m a-goin’.”

“You _ain’t_ a-goin’!” thundered Mr. Sybert. “I forbid you to budge a step! You sha’n’t disgrace yourself, Mrs. Sybert, if you do want to, while you’re my wife!”

Mrs. Sybert untied her bonnet strings, and laid her bag on the foot of the bed. “All right, father,” she said, “I won’t go till you tell me I can. I always hev tried to do just as you wanted I sh’u’d.”

She went into another room to take off her best dress. Mr. Sybert stood staring after her, speechless. He had the dazed look of a cat that falls from a great height and alights, uninjured, upon its feet. The maneuvering had commenced.

Mr. Sybert spent the afternoon at the postoffice grocery store. It was a pleasant place to sit. There was always a cheerful fire in the rusty box-stove in the back room, and there were barrels and odds and ends of chairs scattered around, whereon men who had an hour to squander might sit and talk over the latest scandal. Men, as it is well known, are above the petty gossip as to servants and best gowns which women enjoy; but, without scruple or conscience, they will talk away a woman’s character, even when they see her struggling to live down a misfortune or sin and begin a new life. There are many characters talked away in the back rooms of grocery stores.

It was six o’clock when he went home. As he went along the narrow plank walk, he thought of the good supper that would be awaiting him, and his heart softened to “mother.”

“I reckon I was too set,” he reflected. “There ain’t many women as good an’ faithful as mother. I don’t see what got it into her head to go to see that Mis’ Nesley—an’ to talk up so to me. She never done that afore.”

The door was locked. In surprise he fumbled about in the dark for the seventh flower-pot in the third row, where mother always hid the key. Yes, it was there. But his knees shook a little as he entered the house. He could not remember that he had ever found her absent at supper time since the children were married. Some of the neighbors must be sick. In that case she would have left a note; and he lighted the kitchen candle, and searched for it. It was pinned to a cushion on the bureau in the bedroom. The house was cold, but he did not wait to kindle a fire. He sat down by the bureau, and with fingers somewhat clumsier than usual, adjusted his spectacles over his high, thin nose. Then, leaning close to the candle, he read the letter, the composition of which must have given “mother” some anxious hours. It was written with painful precision.

“DEAR FATHER: You will find the coald meat in the safe out on
the back porch in the stun crock covered up with a pie pan. The
apple butter is in the big peory jar down in the seller with
a plate and napkeen tied over it. Put them back on when you
get some out so the ants wont get into. There’s a punkin pie
on the bottom shelf of the pantree to the right side of the
door as you go in, and some coffy in the mill all ground. I’m
offul sorry I hadent time to fix supper. I hev gone to Johns
and Marias to stay tell you come after me and I don’t want that
you shud come tell you change your mind bout Mis Nesley, if it
takes till dumesday to change it. I aint never gone against you
in anythin before, but I haf to this time. Im goin to stay at
Johns and Marias tell you come of yourself and get me. You dont
haf to say nothin before John and Maria except just well mother
Ive come after you. Then I’ll know you meen I can go and see
Mis Nesley.

“Well father I reckon youll be surprised but Ive been thinkin
bout that poor woman and us not givin her a chanse after what
Christ said bout castin the first stun. He didnt make no
difrence between mens and womens sins and I dont perpose to.
There aint a woman alive thats worse than haff the men are when
they conclud to settle down and live right and if you give men
a chanse youve got to give women a chanse too. They both got
soles an I reckon thats what Gods thinkin bout. I married you
and give you a chanse and I reckon youd best do as much fer Mis
Nesley.

“If you dont come fer me Ill live at Johns and Marias and I
want that you shud keep all the things but the hit and miss rag
carpet. I dont think I cud get along without that. Marias are
all wove in stripes and look so comon. And my cloze and one
fether bed and pillow. Well thats all.

“MOTHER.”

“I laid out your clean undercloze on the foot of the bed and
your sox with them.”

One fine afternoon the following week Mrs. Sybert, looking through the geraniums in Maria’s kitchen window, saw her husband drive up to the gate. She did not look surprised.

“Here’s father come to get me, Maria,” she said, lifting her voice.

Maria came out of the pantry with flour on her hands and arms and stood waiting. Mr. Sybert came in, stamping, and holding his head high and stiffly. He had a lofty and condescending air.

“Well, mother,” he said, “I’ve come after you.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert, “set down till I get on my things. I’ve had a right nice vis’t, but I’m glad to get home. Did you find the apple butter?”

On the road home Mrs. Sybert talked cheerfully about John and Maria and their domestic affairs. Mr. Sybert listened silently. He held his body erect, looking neither to the right nor to the left. He did not speak until they approached Mr. Nesley’s gate. Then he said, with firmness and dignity:

“Mother, I’ve b’en thinkin’ that you’d best go an’ see Mis’ Nesley, after all. I changed my mind down at the postoffice groc’ry store that same afternoon an’ went home, meanin’ to tell you I wanted you sh’u’d go an’ see ’er—but you was gone to John’s an’ Maria’s. I reckon you’d best stop right now an’ have it over.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert.

She descended meekly over the front wheel. There was not the slightest air of triumph about her until she got inside the gate. Then a smile went slowly across her face. But her husband did not see it. He was looking out of the corners of his eyes at the house across the road. Mrs. Deacon, the druggist’s wife, and all her children had their faces flattened against the window.

Mr. Sybert’s determination kept his head high, but not his spirit.

“God A’mighty!” he groaned. “The whole town’ll know it to-morrow. I’d rather die than face that groc’ry store—after the way I’ve went on about people upholdin’ of her!”

A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN

A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN

IN THREE PARTS