the next day, saturday, was my birthday. i celebrated it by a heavy cold, with a bursting headache, and chills chasing each other down my back. i went out to the cow-barn with the two men before daylight, as usual, but felt so bad that i had to come back to the house before milking was half over. the moment m’rye saw me, i was ordered on to the sick-list.
the beech homestead was a good place to be sick in. both m’rye and janey had a talent in the way of fixing up tasty little dishes for invalids, and otherwise ministering to their comfort, which year after year went a-begging, simply because all the men-folk kept so well. therefore, when the rare opportunity did arrive, they made the most of it. i had my feet and legs put into a bucket of hot water, and wrapped round with burdock leaves. janey prepared for my breakfast some soft toast—not the insipid and common milk-toast—but each golden-brown slice treated separately on a plate, first moistened with scalding water, then peppered, salted, and buttered, with a little cold milk on top of all. i ate this sumptuous breakfast at my leisure, ensconced in m’rye’s big cushioned rocking-chair, with my feet and legs, well tucked up in a blanket-shawl, stretched out on another chair, comfortably near the stove.
it was taken for granted that i had caught my cold out around the bonfire the previous evening—and this conviction threw a sort of patriotic glamour about my illness, at least in my own mind.
the bonfire had been a famous success. though there was a trifle of rain in the air, the barrels and mossy discarded old fence-rails burned like pitch-pine, and when hurley and i threw on armfuls of brush, the sparks burst up with a roar into a flaming column which we felt must be visible all over our side of dearborn county. at all events, there was no doubt about its being seen and understood down at the corners, for presently our enemies there started an answering bonfire, which glowed from time to time with such a peculiarly concentrated radiance that abner said lee watkins must have given them some of his kerosene-oil barrels. the thought of such a sacrifice as this on the part of the postmaster rather disturbed abner’s mind, raising, as it did, the hideous suggestion that possibly later returns might have altered the election results. but when hurley and i dragged forward and tipped over into the blaze the whole side of an old abandoned corn-crib, and heaped dry brush on top of that, till the very sky seemed afire above us, and the stubblefields down the hill-side were all ruddy in the light, abner confessed himself reassured. our enthusiasm was so great that it was nearly ten o’clock before we went to bed, having first put the fire pretty well out, lest a rising wind during the night should scatter sparks and work mischief.
i had all these splendid things to think of next day, along with my headache and the shivering spine, and they tipped the balance toward satisfaction. shortly after breakfast m’rye made a flaxseed poultice and muffled it flabbily about my neck, and brought me also some boneset-tea to drink. there was a debate in the air as between castor-oil and senna, fragments of which were borne in to me when the kitchen door was open. the underwood girl alarmed me by steadily insisting that her sister-in-law always broke up sick-headaches with a mustard-plaster put raw on the back of the neck. every once in a while one of them would come in and address to me the stereotyped formula: “feel any better?” and i as invariably answered, “no.” in reality, though, i was lazily comfortable all the time, with lossing’s “field-book of the war of 1812” lying open on my lap, to look at when i felt inclined. this book was not nearly so interesting as the one about the revolution, but a grandfather of mine had marched as a soldier up to sackett’s harbor in the later war, though he did not seem to have had any fighting to do after he got there, and in my serious moods i always felt it my duty to read about his war instead of the other.
so the day passed along, and dusk began to gather in the living-room. the men were off outdoors somewhere, and the girls were churning in the butter-room. m’rye had come in with her mending, and sat on the opposite side of the stove, at intervals casting glances over its flat top to satisfy herself that my poultice had not sagged down from its proper place, and that i was in other respects doing as well as could be expected.
conversation between us was hardly to be thought of, even if i had not been so drowsily indolent. m’rye was not a talker, and preferred always to sit in silence, listening to others, or, better still, going on at her work with no sounds at all to disturb her thoughts. these long periods of meditation, and the sedate gaze of her black, penetrating eyes, gave me the feeling that she must be much wiser than other women, who could not keep still at all, but gabbled everything the moment it came into their heads.
we had sat thus for a long, long time, until i began to wonder how she could sew in the waning light, when all at once, without lifting her eyes from her work, she spoke to me.
“d’ you know where ni hagadorn’s gone to?” she asked me, in a measured, impressive voice.
“he—he—told me he was a-goin’ away,” i made answer, with weak evasiveness.
“but where? down south?” she looked up, as i hesitated, and flashed that darkling glance of hers at me. “out with it!” she commanded. “tell me the truth!”
thus adjured, i promptly admitted that ni had said he was going south, and could work his way somehow. “he’s gone, you know,” i added, after a pause, “to try and find—that is, to hunt around after—”
“yes, i know,” said m’rye, sententiously, and another long silence ensued.
she rose after a time, and went out into the kitchen, returning with the lighted lamp. she set this on the table, putting the shade down on one side so that the light should not hurt my eyes, and resumed her mending. the yellow glow thus falling upon her gave to her dark, severe, high-featured face a duskier effect than ever. it occurred to me that molly brant, that mysteriously fascinating and bloody mohawk queen who left such an awful reddened mark upon the history of her native valley, must have been like our m’rye. my mind began sleepily to clothe the farmer’s wife in blankets and chains of wampum, with eagles’ feathers in her raven hair, and then to drift vaguely off over the threshold of indian dreamland, when suddenly, with a start, i became conscious that some unexpected person had entered the room by the veranda-door behind me.
the rush of cold air from without had awakened me and told me of the entrance. a glance at m’rye’s face revealed the rest. she was staring at the newcomer with a dumfounded expression of countenance, her mouth half-open with sheer surprise. still staring, she rose and tilted the lampshade in yet another direction, so that the light was thrown upon the stranger. at this i turned in my chair to look.
it was esther hagadorn who had come in!
there was a moment’s awkward silence, and then the school-teacher began hurriedly to speak. “i saw you were alone from the veranda—i was so nervous it never occurred to me to rap—the curtains being up—i—i walked straight in.”
as if in comment upon this statement, m’rye marched across the room, and pulled down both curtains over the veranda windows. with her hand still upon the cord of the second shade, she turned and again dumbly surveyed her visitor.
esther flushed visibly at this reception, and had to choke down the first words that came to her lips. then she went on better: “i hope you’ll excuse my rudeness. i really did forget to rap. i came upon very special business. is ab—mr. beech at home?”
“won’t you sit down?” said m’rye, with a glum effort at civility. “i expect him in presently.”
the school-ma’am, displaying some diffidence, seated herself in the nearest chair, and gazed at the wall-paper with intentness. she had never seemed to notice me at all—indeed had spoken of seeing m’rye alone through the window—and now i coughed, and stirred to readjust my poultice, but she did not look my way. m’rye had gone back to her chair by the stove, and taken up her mending again.
“you’d better lay off your things. you won’t feel ’em when you go out,” she remarked, after an embarrassing period of silence, investing the formal phrases with chilling intention.
esther made a fumbling motion at the loop of her big mink cape, but did not unfasten it.
“i—i don’t know what you think of me,” she began, at last, and then nervously halted.
“mebbe it’s just as well you don’t,” said m’rye, significantly, darning away with long sweeps of her arm, and bending attentively over her stocking and ball.
“i can understand your feeling hard,” esther went on, still eyeing the sprawling blue figures on the wall, and plucking with her fingers at the furry tails on her cape. “and—i am to blame, some, i can see now—but it didn’t seem so, then, to either of us.”
“it ain’t no affair of mine,” remarked m’rye, when the pause came, “but if that’s your business with abner, you won’t make much by waitin’. of course it’s nothing to me, one way or t’other.”
not another word was exchanged for a long time. from where i sat i could see the girl’s lips tremble, as she looked steadfastly into the wall. i felt certain that m’rye was darning the same place over and over again, so furiously did she keep her needle flying.
all at once she looked up angrily. “well,” she said, in loud, bitter tones: “why not out with what you’ve come to say, ’n’ be done with it? you’ve heard something, i know!”
esther shook her head. “no, mrs. beech,” she said, with a piteous quaver in her voice, “i—i haven’t heard anything!”
the sound of her own broken utterances seemed to affect her deeply. her eyes filled with tears, and she hastily got out a handkerchief from her muff, and began drying them. she could not keep from sobbing aloud a little.
m’rye deliberately took another stocking from the heap in the basket, fitted it over the ball, and began a fresh task—all without a glance at the weeping girl.
thus the two women still sat, when janey came in to lay the table for supper. she lifted the lamp off to spread the cloth, and put it on again; she brought in plates and knives and spoons, and arranged them in their accustomed places—all the while furtively regarding miss hagadorn with an incredulous surprise. when she had quite finished she went over to her mistress and, bending low, whispered so that we could all hear quite distinctly: “is she goin’ to stay to supper?”
m’rye hesitated, but esther lifted her head and put down the handkerchief instantly. “oh, no!” she said, eagerly: “don’t think of it! i must hurry home as soon as i’ve seen mr. beech.” janey went out with an obvious air of relief.
presently there was a sound of heavy boots out in the kitchen being thrown on to the floor, and then abner came in. he halted in the doorway, his massive form seeming to completely fill it, and devoted a moment or so taking in the novel spectacle of a neighbor under his roof. then he advanced, walking obliquely till he could see distinctly the face of the visitor. it stands to reason that he must have been surprised, but he gave no sign of it.
“how d’ do, miss,” he said, with grave politeness, coming up and offering her his big hand.
esther rose abruptly, peony-red with pleasurable confusion, and took the hand stretched out to her. “how d’ do, mr. beech,” she responded with eagerness, “i—i came up to see you—a—about something that’s very pressing.”
“it’s blowing up quite a gale outside,” the farmer remarked, evidently to gain time the while he scanned her face in a solemn, thoughtful way, noting, i doubt not, the swollen eyelids and stains of tears, and trying to guess her errand. “shouldn’t wonder if we had a foot o’ snow before morning.”
the school-teacher seemed in doubt how best to begin what she had to say, so that abner had time, after he lifted his inquiring gaze from her, to run a master’s eye over the table.
“have janey lay another place!” he said, with authoritative brevity.
as m’rye rose to obey, esther broke forth: “oh, no, please don’t! thank you so much, mr. beech—but really i can’t stop—truly, i mustn’t think of it.”
the farmer merely nodded a confirmation of his order to m’rye, who hastened out to the kitchen.
“it’ll be there for ye, anyway,” he said. “now set down again, please.”
it was all as if he was the one who had the news to tell, so naturally did he take command of the situation. the girl seated herself, and the farmer drew up his arm-chair and planted himself before her, keeping his stockinged feet under the rungs for politeness’ sake.
“now, miss,” he began, just making it civilly plain that he preferred not to utter her hated paternal name, “i don’t know no more’n a babe unborn what’s brought you here. i’m sure, from what i know of ye, that you wouldn’t come to this house jest for the sake of comin’, or to argy things that can’t be, an’ mustn’t be, argied. in one sense, we ain’t friends of yours here, and there’s a heap o’ things that you an’ me don’t want to talk about, because they’d only lead to bad feelin’, an’ so we’ll leave ’em all severely alone. but in another way, i’ve always had a liking for you. you’re a smart girl, an’ a scholar into the bargain, an’ there ain’t so many o’ that sort knockin’ around in these parts that a man like myself, who’s fond o’ books an’ learnin’, wants to be unfriendly to them there is. so now you can figure out pretty well where the chalk line lays, and we’ll walk on it.”
esther nodded her head. “yes, i understand,” she remarked, and seemed not to dislike what abner had said.
“that being so, what is it?” the farmer asked, with his hands on his knees.
“well, mr. beech,” the school-teacher began, noting with a swift side-glance that m’rye had returned, and was herself rearranging the table. “i don’t think you can have heard it, but some important news has come in during the day. there seems to be different stories, but the gist of them is that a number of the leading union generals have been discovered to be traitors, and mcclellan has been dismissed from his place at the head of the army, and ordered to return to his home in new jersey under arrest, and they say others are to be treated in the same way, and fath—some people think it will be a hanging matter, and—”
abner waved all this aside with a motion of his hand. “it don’t amount to a hill o’ beans,” he said, placidly. “it’s jest spite, because we licked ’em at the elections. don’t you worry your head about that!”
esther was not reassured. “that isn’t all,” she went on, nervously. “they say there’s been discovered a big conspiracy, with secret sympathizers all over the north.”
“pooh!” commented abner. “we’ve heer’n tell o’ that before!”
“all over the north,” she continued, “with the intention of bringing across infected clothes from canada, and spreading the small-pox among us, and—”
the farmer laughed outright; a laugh embittered by contempt. “what cock-’n’-bull story’ll be hatched next!” he said. “you don’t mean to say you—a girl with a head on her shoulders like you—give ear to such tomfoolery as that! come, now, honest injin, do you mean to tell me you believe all this?”
“it don’t so much matter, mr. beech,” the girl replied, raising her face to his, and speaking more confidently—“it don’t matter at all what i believe. i’m talking of what they believe down at the corners.”
“the corners be jiggered!” exclaimed abner, politely, but with emphasis.
esther rose from the chair. “mr. beech,” she declared, impressively; “they’re coming up here to-night! that bonfire of yours made ’em mad. it’s no matter how i learned it—it wasn’t from father—i don’t know that he knows anything about it, but they’re coming here! and—and heaven only knows what they’re going to do when they get here!”
the farmer rose also, his huge figure towering above that of the girl, as he looked down at her over his beard. he no longer dissembled his stockinged feet. after a moment’s pause he said: “so that’s what you came to tell me, eh?”
the school-ma’am nodded her head. “i couldn’t bear not to,” she explained, simply.
“well, i’m obleeged to ye!” abner remarked, with gravity. “whatever comes of it, i’m obleeged to ye!”
he turned at this, and walked slowly out into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. “pull on your boots again!” we heard him say, presumably to hurley. in a minute or two he returned, with his own boots on, and bearing over his arm the old double-barrelled shot-gun which always hung above the kitchen mantel-piece. in his hands he had two shot-flasks, the little tobacco-bag full of buckshot, and a powder-horn. he laid these on the open shelf of the bookcase, and, after fitting fresh caps on the nipples, put the gun beside them.
“i’d be all the more sot on your stayin’ to supper,” he remarked, looking again at esther, “only if there should be any unpleasantness, why, i’d hate like sin to have you mixed up in it. you see how i’m placed.”
esther did not hesitate a moment. she walked over to where m’rye stood by the table replenishing the butter-plate. “i’d be very glad indeed to stay, mr. beech,” she said, with winning frankness, “if i may.”
“there’s the place laid for you,” commented m’rye, impassively. then, catching her husband’s eye, she added the perfunctory assurance, “you’re entirely welcome.”
hurley and the girls came in now, and all except me took their seats about the table. both abner and the irishman had their coats on, out of compliment to company. m’rye brought over a thick slice of fresh buttered bread with brown sugar on it, and a cup of weak tea, and put them beside me on a chair. then the evening meal went forward, the farmer talking in a fragmentary way about the crops and the weather. save for an occasional response from our visitor, the rest maintained silence. the underwood girl could not keep her fearful eyes from the gun lying on the bookcase, and protested that she had no appetite, but hurley ate vigorously, and had a smile on his wrinkled and swarthy little face.
the wind outside whistled shrilly at the windows, rattling the shutters, and trying its force in explosive blasts which seemed to rock the house on its stone foundations. once or twice it shook the veranda door with such violence that the folk at the table instinctively lifted their heads, thinking some one was there.
then, all at once, above the confusion of the storm’s noises, we heard a voice rise, high and clear, crying:
“smoke the damned copperhead out!”
