The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon crept through the cobwebbed
window, and Miss Evelina stirred uneasily in her sleep. The mocking
dream vanished and she awoke to feel, as always, the iron, icy hand
that unmercifully clutched her heart. The room was cold and she
shivered as she lay beneath her insufficient covering.
At length she rose, and dressed mechanically, avoiding the mirror, and
pinning her veil securely to her hair. She went downstairs slowly,
clinging to the railing from sheer weakness. She was as frail and
ghostly as some disembodied spirit of Grief.
Soon, she had a fire. As the warmth increased, she opened the rear
door of the house to dispel the musty atmosphere. The March wind blew
strong and clear through the lonely rooms, stirring the dust before it
and swaying the cobwebs. Suddenly, Miss Evelina heard a footstep
outside and instinctively drew down her veil.
Before she could close the door, a woman, with a shawl over her head,
appeared on the threshold, peered curiously into the house, then
unhesitatingly entered.
"For the land's sake!" cried a cheery voice. "You scared me most to
death! I saw the smoke coming from the chimney and thought the house
was afire, so I come over to see."
Miss Evelina stiffened, and made no reply.
"I don't know who you are," said the woman again, mildly defiant, "but
this is Evelina Grey's house."
"And I," answered Miss Evelina, almost inaudibly, "am Evelina Grey."
"For the land's sake!" cried the visitor again. "Don't you remember
me? Why, Evelina, you and I used to go to school together. You----"
She stopped, abruptly. The fact of the veiled face confronted her
stubbornly. She ransacked her memory for a forgotten catastrophe, a
quarter of a century back. Impenetrably, a wall was reared between
them.
"I--I'm afraid I don't remember," stammered Miss Evelina, in a low
voice, hoping that the intruder would go.
"I used to be Mehitable Smith, and that's what I am still, having been
spared marriage. Mehitable is my name, but folks calls me Hitty--Miss
Hitty," she added, with a slight accent on the "Miss."
"Oh," answered Miss Evelina, "I remember," though she did not remember
at all.
"Well, I'm glad you've come back," went on the guest, politely.
Altogether in the manner of one invited to do so, she removed her shawl
and sat down, furtively eyeing Miss Evelina, yet affecting to look
carelessly about the house.
She was a woman of fifty or more, brisk and active of body and kindly,
though inquisitive, of countenance. Her dark hair, scarcely touched
with grey, was parted smoothly in the exact centre and plastered down
on both sides, as one guessed, by a brush and cold water. Her black
eyes were bright and keen, and her gold-bowed spectacles were
habitually worn half-way down her nose. Her mouth and chin were
indicative of great firmness--those whose misfortune it was to differ
from Miss Hitty were accustomed to call it obstinacy. People of
plainer speech said it was "mulishness."
Her gown was dark calico, stiffly starched, and made according to the
durable and comfortable pattern of her school-days. "All in one
piece," Miss Hitty was wont to say. "Then when I bend over, as folks
that does housework has to bend over, occasionally, I don't come apart
in the back. For my part, I never could see sense in wearing clothes
that's held by a safety-pin in the back instead of good, firm cloth,
and, moreover, a belt that either slides around or pinches where it
ain't pleasant to be pinched, ain't my notion of comfort. Apron
strings is bad enough, for you have to have 'em tight to keep from
slipping." Miss Hitty had never worn corsets, and had the straight,
slender figure of a boy.
The situation became awkward. Miss Evelina still stood in the middle
of the room, her veiled face slightly averted. The impenetrable
shelter of chiffon awed Miss Mehitable, but she was not a woman to give
up easily when embarked upon the quest for knowledge. Some unusual
state of mind kept her from asking a direct question about the veil,
and meanwhile she continually racked her memory.
Miss Evelina's white, slender hands opened and closed nervously. Miss
Hitty set her feet squarely on the floor, and tucked her immaculate
white apron closely about her knees. "When did you come?" she demanded
finally, with the air of the attorney for the prosecution.
"Last night," murmured Miss Evelina.
"On that late train?"
"Yes."
"I heard it stop, but I never sensed it was you. Seemed to me I heard
somebody go by, too, but I was too sleepy to get up and see. I thought
I must be dreaming, but I was sure I heard somebody on the walk. If
I'd known it was you, I'd have made you stop at my house for the rest
of the night, instead of coming up here alone."
"Very kind," said Miss Evelina, after an uncomfortable pause.
"You might as well set down," remarked Miss Hitty, with a new
gentleness of manner. "I'm going to set a spell."
Miss Evelina sat, helplessly, in the hair-cloth chair which she hated,
and turned her veiled face yet farther away from her guest. Seeing
that her hostess did not intend to talk, Miss Hitty began a
conversation, if anything wholly one-sided may be so termed.
"I live in the same place," she said. "Ma died seventeen years ago on
the eighteenth of next April, and left the house and the income for me.
There was enough to take care of two, and so I took my sister's child,
Araminta, to bring up. You know my poor sister got married. She ought
to have known better, but she didn't. She just put her head into the
noose, and it slipped up on her, as I told her it would, both before
and after the ceremony. Having seen all the trouble men make in the
world, I sh'd think women would know enough to keep away from 'em, but
they don't--that is, some women don't." Miss Hitty smoothed her stiff
white apron with an air of conscious virtue.
"Araminta was only a year old when her ma got enough of marrying and
went to her reward in Heaven. What she 'd been through would have
tried the patience of a saint, and Barbara wasn't no saint. None of
the Smith family have ever grown wings here on earth, but it's my
belief that we'll all be awarded our proper plumage in Heaven.
"He--" the pronoun was sufficiently definite to indicate Araminta's
hapless father--"was always tracking dirt into the clean kitchen, and
he had an appetite like a horse. Barbara would make a cake to set away
for company, and he'd gobble it all up at one meal just as if 't was a
doughnut. She was forever cooking and washing dishes and sweeping up
after him. When he come into the house, she'd run for the broom and
dustpan, and follow him around, sweeping up, and if you'll believe me,
the brute scolded her for it. He actually said once, in my presence,
that if he'd known how neat she was, he didn't believe he'd have
married her. That shows what men are--if it needs showing. It's no
wonder poor Barbara died. I hope there ain't any brooms in Heaven and
that she's havin' a good rest now.
"Araminta's goin' on nineteen, and she's a sensible girl, if I do say
it as shouldn't. She's never spoke to a man except to say 'yes' and
'no.' I've taught her to steer clear of 'em, and even when she was
only seven years old, she'd run if she saw one coming. She knows they
're pizen and I don't believe I'll ever have any cause to worry about
Minty.
"I've got the minister boarding with me," pursued Miss Hitty,
undaunted, and cheerfully taking a fresh start. "Ministers don't
count, and I must say that, for a man, Mr. Thorpe is very little
trouble. He wipes his feet sometimes for as much as five minutes when
he's coming in, and mostly, when it's pleasant weather, he's out. When
he's in, he usually stays in his room, except at meals. He don't eat
much more 'n a canary, and likes what he eats, and don't need hardly
any pickin' up after, though a week ago last Saturday he left a collar
layin' on the bureau instead of putting it into his bag.
"I left it right where 't was, and Sunday morning he put it where it
belonged. He's never been married and he's learned to pick up after
himself. I wouldn't have had him, on Araminta's account, only that
there wasn't no other place for him to stay, and it was put to me by
the elders as being my Christian duty. I wouldn't have took him,
otherwise, and we've never had an unmarried minister before.
"Besides, Mr. Thorpe ain't pleasing the congregation, and I don't know
that he'll stay long. He's been here six months and three Sundays
over, and I've been to every single service, church and Sunday-school
and prayer-meeting, and he ain't never said one word about hell. It's
all of the joys of Heaven and a sure reward in the hereafter for
everybody that's done what they think is right--nothing much, mind you,
about what is right. Why, when Mr. Brewster was preaching for us, some
of the sinners would get up and run right out of the church when he got
started on hell and the lost souls writhin' in the flames. That was a
minister worth having.
"But Mr. Thorpe, now, he doesn't seem to have no sense of the duties of
his position. Week before last, I heard of his walkin' along the river
with Andy Rogers--arm in arm, if you'll believe me, with the worst
drunkard and chicken thief in town. The very idea of a minister
associatin' with sinners! Mr. Brewster would never have done that.
Why, Andy was one of them that run out of the church the day the
minister give us that movin' sermon on hell, and he ain't never dared
to show his face in a place of worship since.
"As I said, I don't think Mr. Thorpe 'll be with us long, for the
vestry and the congregation is getting dissatisfied. There ain't been
any open talk, except in the Ladies' Aid Society, but public opinion is
settin' pretty strongly in that direction." Miss Hitty dropped her
final g's when she got thoroughly interested in her subject and at
times became deeply involved in grammatical complications.
"Us older ones, that's strong in the faith, ain't likely to be injured
by it, I suppose, but there's always the young ones to be considered,
and it's highly important for Araminta to have the right kind of
influence. Of course Mr. Thorpe don't talk on religious subjects at
home, and I ain't let Araminta go to church the last two Sundays.
Meanwhile, I've talked hell to her stronger 'n common.
"But, upon my soul, I don't know what Rushton is comin' to. A month or
so ago, there was an outlandish, heathen character come here that beats
anything I've ever heard tell of. His name is Tom Barnaby and he's set
up a store on the edge of town, in the front parlour of Widow Simon's
house. She's went and rented it to him, and she says he pays his rent
regular.
"He wears leather leggings and a hat with a red feather stuck in it,
and he's gone into competition with Mrs. Allen, who's kept the
dry-goods here for the last twenty years.
"Of course," she went on, a little wistfully, "I've always patronised
Mrs. Allen, and I always shall. They do say Barnaby's goods is a great
deal cheaper, but I'd feel it my duty to buy of a woman, anyhow, even
though she has been married. She's been a widow for so long, it's most
the same as if she'd never been married at ail.
"Barnaby lives with a dog and does for himself, but he's hardly ever in
his store. People go there to buy things and find the door propped
open with a brick, and a sign says to come in and take what you want.
The price of everything is marked good and plain, and another sign says
to put the money in the drawer and make your own change. The
blacksmith was at him for doing business so shiftless, and Barnaby
laughed and said that if anybody wanted anything he had bad enough to
steal it, whoever it was, he was good and welcome to it. That just
shows how crazy he is. Most of the time he's roaming around the
country, with his yellow dog at his heels, making outlandish noises on
some kind of a flute. He can't play a tune, but he keeps trying.
Folks around here call him Piper Tom.
"Of course I wouldn't want Mrs. Allen to know, but I've thought that
sometime when he was away and there was nobody there to see, I'd just
step in for a few minutes and take a look at his goods. Elmiry Jones
says his calico is beautiful, and that for her part, she's going to
trade there instead of at Allen's. I suppose it is a temptation. I
might do it myself, if 't want for my principles."
The speaker paused for breath, but Miss Evelina still sat silently in
her chair. "What was it?" thought Miss Hitty. "I was here, and I knew
at the time, but what happened? How did I come to forget? I must be
getting old!"
She searched her memory without result. Her house was situated at the
crossroads, and, being on higher ground, commanded a good view of the
village below. Gradually, her dooryard had become a sort of clearing
house for neighbourhood gossip. Travellers going and coming stopped at
Miss Hitty's to drink from the moss-grown well, give their bit of news,
and receive, in return, the scandal of the countryside. Had it not
been for the faithful and industrious Miss Mehitable, the town might
have needed a daily paper.
"Strange I can't think," she said to herself. "I don't doubt it'll
come to me, though. Something happened to Evelina, and she went away,
and her mother went with her to take care of her, and then her mother
died, all at once, of heart failure. It happened the same week old
Mis' Hicks had a doctor from the city for an operation, and the
Millerses barn was struck by lightning and burnt up, and so I s'pose
it's no wonder I've sorter lost track of it."
Miss Evelina's veiled face was wholly averted now, and Miss Hitty
studied her shrewdly. She noted that the black gown was well-worn, and
had, indeed, been patched in several places. The shoes which tapped
impatiently on the floor were undeniably shabby, though they had been
carefully blacked. Against the unrelieved sombreness of her gown.
Miss Evelina's hands were singularly frail and transparent. Every line
of her body was eloquent of weakness and well-nigh insupportable grief.
"Well," said Miss Hitty, again, though she felt that the words were
flat; "I'm glad you've come back. It seems like old times for us to be
settin' here, talkin', and--" here she laughed shrilly--"we've both
been spared marriage."
A small, slender hand clutched convulsively at the arm of the haircloth
chair, but Miss Evelina did not speak.
"I see," went on Miss Hitty, not unkindly, "that you're still in
mourning for your mother. You mustn't take it so hard. Sometimes
folks get to feeling so sorry about something that they can't never get
over it, and they keep on going round and round all the time like a
squirrel in a wheel, and keep on getting weaker till it gets to be a
kind of disease there ain't no cure for. Leastwise, that's what Doctor
Dexter says."
"Doctor Dexter!" With a cry, Miss Evelina sprang to her feet, her
hands tightly pressed to her heart.
"The same," nodded Miss Hitty, overjoyed to discover that at last her
hostess was interested. "Doctor Anthony Dexter, our old schoolmate, as
had just graduated when you lived here before. He went away for a year
and then he came back, bringing a pretty young wife. She's dead, but
he has a son, Ralph, who's away studying to be a doctor. He'll
graduate this Spring and then he's coming here to help his father with
his practice. Doctor Dexter's getting old, like the rest of us, and he
don't like the night work. Some folks is inconsiderate enough to get
sick in the night. They orter have regular hours for it, same as a
doctor has hours for business. Things would fit better.
"Well, I must be going, for I left soup on the stove, and Araminta's
likely as not to let it burn. I'm going to send your supper over to
you, and next week, if the weather's favourable, we'll clean this
house. Goodness knows it needs it. I'd just as soon send over all
your meals till you get settled--'t wouldn't be any trouble. Or, you
can come over to my house if you wouldn't mind eating with the
minister. It seems queer to set down to the table with a man, and not
altogether natural, but I'm beginning to get used to it, and it gives
us the advantage of a blessing, and, anyway, ministers don't count.
Come over when you can. Goodbye!"
With a rustle of stiffly starched garments Miss Mehitable took her
departure, carefully closing the door and avoiding the appearance of
haste. This was an effort, for every fibre of her being ached to get
back to the clearing house, where she might speculate upon Evelina's
return. It was her desire, also, to hunt up the oldest inhabitant
before nightfall and correct her pitiful lapse of memory.
At the same time, she was planning to send Araminta over with a nice
hot supper, for Miss Evelina seemed to be far from strong, and, even to
one lacking in discernment, acutely unhappy.
Down the road she went, her head bowed in deep and fruitless thought.
Swiftly, as in a lightning flash, and without premonition, she
remembered.
"Evelina was burnt," she said to herself, triumphantly, "over to Doctor
Dexter's, and they took her on the train to the hospital. I guess she
wears that veil all the time."
Then Miss Hitty stopped at her own gate, catching her breath quickly.
"She must have been burnt awful," she thought. "Poor soul!" she
murmured, her sharp eyes softening with tears. "Poor soul!"