PLEASANT CONVERSE
"Well, what did I tell you?" said Mrs. Ray to Mrs. Catt, a day or so
later, when that lady had dropped in for a little call. "Those two young
people up at Nellie O'Neil's have fallen in love just as sure as beans
are beans. Not that he's so young, either, but a man's always able to
fall in love whenever he gets a chance. Age don't matter. There was Mr.
Ray. He was always in love unless he was married. Yes, indeed."
"If he's engaged to that other one, I shouldn't think he'd find it very
easy to fall in love right under her nose, so to speak," said Mrs. Catt.
"She wouldn't notice," said Mrs. Ray, adjusting her shawl, and turning
the needlework in her hands; "she's the kind who don't even see the
things they go headlong over. She's the mooney kind. I know. Yes,
indeed. Mr. Ray had mooney days. There were days when Mr. Ray called me
by his first wife's name all day. Those were his mooney days."
"My cousin Eliza thinks she's crazy too. She says she's seen her time
and again setting on stumps in the woods, and she turns out in the road
for sparrows. And then that house. They're at it tooth and nail from
dawn to dark. I never see nothing like it."
"Yes," said Mrs. Ray; "there's others say that, too. She is queer!
Nellie says she often doesn't eat breakfast--nor any meat either. And
she talks about the dam as if we was all heathens laying the axe at the
root of our own mothers. She says all the trees ought to belong to the
United States Government. As if we wasn't singing 'Pass under the rod of
the Republican party' from dawn to dark now. Such a country!"
"She goes down to see Mr. Ledge, too," pursued Mrs. Catt; "of course he
don't want the dam, and he makes her more so. Josiah Bates was driving
home from Castile the other day, and he saw her coming from there.
Josiah said he was sure she'd been to see Mr. Ledge, 'cause she wasn't
ten feet from the house, and they was waving their hands to her from the
window. You can always depend on Josiah Bates knowing what he's talking
about."
"Yes," said Mrs. Ray, turning her work about; "yes, Josiah Bates is a
very careful observer. He'll never die of no fish-bone in his throat for
want of watching the fish."
"Speaking of fish-bones," said Mrs. Catt, "have you seen Lottie Ann
Wiley lately? There's a bag of bones for you!"
"Not for a week or so. Why? Is she thinner than she was?"
"Thinner! Well, I should say so. I don't know what the Wileys will do
with that girl if she keeps on getting thinner and paler."
"She isn't any paler than that girl at Nellie O'Neil's."
"Which one?"
"That Lathbun girl. Do you know anything about them?"
"That's what every one's asking."
Mrs. Ray threaded her needle. "They're a queer pair," she remarked.
"Well, I should say so. They don't eat any breakfast, either; make it up
on chestnuts. They're picking chestnuts all over. Lizzie says she never
saw people making so free. Folks don't know what to say, but it riles a
good many. They pick that little gray bag they've got full three or four
times a day."
"Well, I declare," said Mrs. Ray; "do you suppose they eat 'em all?"
Mrs. Catt rose. "I only stopped for a minute," she said. "Oh, I don't
know, I'm sure. Chestnuts is hearty, but seems to me they ought to ask
at the houses, anyway. Mrs. Wiley says if they come to her trees again,
she'll turn the bull in the lot."
"Must you go?" Mrs. Ray asked. "I thought Mrs. Wiley was afraid of the
bull."
"Yes, I must. What you making?"
"I'm putting a new lining in this vest for Elmer Hoskins. His dog chewed
it up, while he was asleep."
"Did he have it on?" Mrs. Catt asked in great surprise.
"No; he had it on the chair and it fell off."
"Fell off! I s'pose you've heard about Gran'ma Benton's parrot falling
off?"
"Falling off what? No, I haven't heard."
"Fell off the perch. I saw poor Clay this morning, and he's half mad.
The parrot and Gran'ma Benton have been discussing most all night
lately, and the parrot gets so mad he hops all over and last night he
got in a rage and fell off the perch. Broke the perch, too."
"Well, I declare," said Mrs. Ray; "why don't Clay show some spirit and
put a stop to all that? I would."
"He can't. Gran'ma Benton's so fond of discussing, and if she didn't
have the parrot she'd soon wear them all out."
"I thought she was wearing them out as it is."
"Well, yes--" Mrs. Catt looked cornered, "but, anyhow, they don't have
to do the talking now--the parrot does it. I'd like to see my husband's
mother have a parrot--that's all!" Mrs. Catt twitched her shawl
expressively.
"Poor Clay Wright Benton," said Mrs. Ray. "Just to look at him you'd
know it all. I do despise men who haven't got any spirit; but if they
have spirit of course they're almost worse to get on with. Yes, indeed."
"Yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Catt with meaning; "well, good-by, Mrs. Ray."
"Oh! Good-by."
Mrs. Catt went out.
It was only a few minutes later that Mrs. Wiley arrived, with another
large bundle wrapped up in newspaper.
"Don't stop your work," she said, putting it down with a sigh. "Oh, you
ain't sewing on my coat," she added, in a tone of deep disappointment,
evidently seeing interruption in a changed light at once.
"No, but I've cut it out. What you got there?"
"I've got another suit of father's."
Mrs. Ray eyed the bundle with thoughtfully compressed lips, and gave her
shawl a fresh tuck.
"What you want made out of this one?"
Mrs. Wiley hesitated. "It's such a handsome piece of cloth," she said,
"I'm willing to leave the cut to you, but I thought maybe you could get
a winter jacket for Lottie Ann out of this one?"
Mrs. Ray compressed her lips more, and frowned. "I don't know about
that," she said, shaking her head. "I've had trouble enough with the
last."
"This was his new when he died. After he reached three hundred. And it
isn't worn anywhere. You can get her big sleeves out of the hips, I
think."
"There's a good deal to a coat beside the sleeves," said Mrs. Ray; "that
coat of yours has most drove me mad. I never thought of your bringing me
another. Well, unroll it and let me look at it."
Mrs. Wiley began to unfasten the package.
"Any moth-holes in this one?" Mrs. Ray asked, with professional
interest.
"None to speak of. The only real hole is where he sat down on a engine
spark at the station, the day of his last shock."
"It isn't the suit he had on when the oil-tank exploded, then?"
"No," said Mrs. Wiley; "that was the last but one. The oil-tank was the
middle one of his three shocks."
She unfolded the garments and spread them out. Mrs. Ray watched her, and
continued her work at the same time.
"How's Lottie Ann?" she asked, presently.
"Oh, she's poorly," said Mrs. Wiley. "We're getting awful worried over
Lottie Ann. I thought maybe you could get her fronts out of his fronts;
you see, she's slimmer than I am."
"But her big spread will come lower than yours," said Mrs. Ray; "is
there any up and down to the cloth? How much does she weigh, anyhow?"
"Yes, there is an up and down. Ninety-six last time. That's mighty
little for her height. She only wanted it short, anyway."
"It'll have to be short. Yes, indeed. Why you must have weighed most
double that at her age. It's too bad men always have pockets."
"He would have them; you know how father always set store by pockets.
There, that's the engine spark. I don't know, I'm sure, what we'll do
about her. Mr. Wiley says his grandmother went just so--" Mrs. Wiley's
voice broke suddenly; she took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes.
"Do you see any way to getting the fronts out?" she asked, falteringly,
after a minute.
"You musn't look to the worst that way," said Mrs. Ray, soothingly;
"those thin girls pick up wonderfully. The only way I see is if you've
got braid. If you've got any braid, I can piece it back of the braid.
She may marry and be as well as any one. Look at her great-grandmother
you just spoke of. Yes, indeed."
"I haven't got any braid. But I can buy some. Judy was up from the St.
Helena road yesterday, and she said to give her milk--all she'll drink."
"Turn it over so I can see the back," said Mrs. Ray; "will she drink it,
though? That's the question. She was up for the mail two nights ago, and
I thought she looked pretty well-willed. That's a nice piece of cloth.
My, but you were lucky he didn't have it on when the oil-tank exploded.
Yes, indeed. It's better cloth than the other."
"Yes, that's what I think. That's just the trouble, Mrs. Ray; she will
_not_ drink it."
"You never was severe enough with her. Not but what if it hadn't burnt
through you could get the oil out, maybe."
"I know it, but she's my only girl. I thought you could use the same
buttons. Eleven boys, and then that one girl. She's named for Mr.
Wiley's mother and my mother. Charlotte, you know. See, Mrs. Ray,
there's six of each size, one on each cuff, too. And all so stout but
her. The boys and their father got together on the hay scales the other
day, and they went up over two thousand pounds. Did you hear about it?"
Mrs. Ray stopped sewing and scanned the new proposition with one eye
half closed.
"I'd have to piece the sleeves; you'd have to make up your mind to that.
Were they in the wagon?"
"No, just standing on the scales. You think you can manage it if you
piece them--don't you?"
"Yes, I can manage it then. I can get my backs out below the knee, and
get her sides out of his backs."
"Oh, Mrs. Ray, you've taken a load off my mind. I'm so glad to get these
awful sad remembrances done some good with. I made pillow-slips out of
his nightshirts, but his flannels will haunt me till I die. Eddy's the
only one of the boys that is ever going to grow to them, and Eddy never
wears flannel."
"I should think you could use 'em up to cover the ironing-table. Who did
you say was picking chestnuts,--Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter?"
"I haven't said a word about them." Mrs. Wiley opened her eyes widely.
"But I'm hearing about them all over. I don't believe she's her daughter
any more than you are. They're a nice pair, those two. Chestnuts six
dollars a bushel, and they picking them morn, noon, and night. Have you
seen Sammy Adams? He took them in the night before they got here, you
know. You heard of that."
"Yes, I did." Mrs. Ray's lips came together; "I shall ask him all about
that taking them in, the first time I see him. Never bought a stamp yet!
Such doings! They're not respectable. Don't tell _me_."
"You're terrible prejudiced in your opinions, Mrs. Ray; you judge
everybody by the stamps they buy."
"It's all I have to judge strangers by," said Mrs. Ray, "and it's a
pretty good guide, too. Mrs. Lathbun don't buy stamps and nobody can't
tell me that she's on the square. Wait till I see Sammy!"
"When do you think you can try mine on?" asked Mrs. Wiley.
"Will next Thursday do?"
"Yes, I don't want to wear it till Thanksgiving; I won't go to Buffalo
till Christmas. Lottie Ann won't want hers till then."
"I can do them both by Thanksgiving," said Mrs. Ray. "I've got a few
little jobs to do for others, and I want to build a new back fence, and
I guess I'm going to get the contract for whitewashing the church
cellar, I'm bidding on it. But after that, except for my house-cleaning
and my boarders and my regular duties under the United States
Government, I haven't got anything particular on hand."
"I'll be so glad," said Mrs. Wiley, moving towards the door. "We're all
so kind of upset about not knowing whether Uncle Purchase will come and
live with us or not if the dam goes through, that I want to have my
things in order, anyhow. He wrote, you know."
"No, I didn't know, but I guess he'll come and live with you, anyway,"
said Mrs. Ray; "good-by."
Mrs. Wiley went out, and before long there was another caller,--Clay
Wright Benton himself this time, usually called "poor Clay Wright
Benton" by his friends, for the simple reason that he was Sarah Benton's
husband, and his mother's son.
"How d'ye do," he said, opening the door a few inches and looking in
through it. "No, I won't come in; I only stopped to speak about the hay.
You said I could have it, you know."
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Ray; "but I said, if you came before October
first. That's past now, and Elmer took it off yesterday. Him and his dog
was here at sun up and away again by noon. You see now what it is to
take your own time."
Clay Wright Benton stood still, turning his cap about and about.
"I thought you knew I wanted it," he said, finally; "I couldn't come
sooner."
"I did know. But I thought you needed a lesson. Nobody that wants to get
ahead in this world can take their own time. You've got to be a little
ahead of other people's time if you really want to make your mark. How's
Susan? Got back from her father's yet?"
"No," said the man; "she's going to stay till Thanksgiving. She was so
awful tired of the parrot."
"Look out you don't leave her too long--same as the hay," said Mrs. Ray,
cheerfully. "Who's that coming up the steps behind you? I can feel the
draught as long as you stand there in the crack, but I can't see through
your body."
Clay Wright Benton moved aside, and Mrs. Dunstall pushed past him. "I'm
sorry I was late about the hay," he said then, and went slowly away.
Mrs. Benton and his mother had left very little spirit in him.
"What did he come for?" asked Mrs. Dunstall, shutting the door tightly.
"I'm sorry for Susan. She married him for his looks, and looks is all he
ever had to give her." The attitude of the community was that of larger
communities towards the humbly unsuccessful in life.
"He ain't giving her even looks, any more," said Mrs. Ray; "she's gone
home, and his looks is gone heaven knows where. No man was ever so
handsome yet that he could rise above needing to shave."
"He'll make his fortune if the dam goes through, though," observed Mrs.
Dunstall; "he owns all the land above Ledgeville."
"He'll never see her for dust then," said Mrs. Ray, drily. "She'll leave
him to keep house for Gran'ma Benton and the parrot. Well, what did you
come for?"
"I was walking by, and I thought I'd just stop and ask you if you'd
heard about that Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter staying all night with
Sammy Adams? Josiah Bates was up that way for a load of apples and he
heard of it."
Mrs. Ray became rigid. "I have heard of it," she said; "but not from
Sammy. He was here and never said a thing about it, but some one else
told me. So it's all over town now, is it?"
"They was walking across country and there came on a rain and they
stopped for shelter and it was Sammy's where they stopped."
Mrs. Ray sewed very fast. "I always said they were tramps anyway," she
said, haughtily; "now you'll all see."
"Seems funny Sammy never told you about it."
"Well, he never did."
"He tells you everything--don't he?"
"I thought so."
"It couldn't be he really took a fancy to either of 'em," reflected Mrs.
Dunstall; "I don't think they're good-looking."
"Good-looking!"
"But you know, men are queer, Mrs. Ray. There was Mr. Ray. He was
queer."
Mrs. Ray gave her thread a jerk that broke it.
"They never get any letter, do they? You said they never did, didn't
you?" Mrs. Dunstall was all query.
"No, they never get any letters."
"They claim to come from Cromwell, don't they?"
"I don't know. I never heard. I wouldn't believe anything they said. No
trunks and stealing chestnuts all over. I never!"
"Wouldn't it be a funny thing if, after all these years, some stranger
like those two was to come in from saints-know-where and marry Sammy?"
"Yes, it would be funny," said Mrs. Ray, "very funny. Yes, indeed. Yes,
it would be _very_ funny!"
"I thought I'd just stop and tell you," said Mrs. Dunstall. "I knew
you'd be interested. I know you're such a friend of Sammy's. I thought
if you knew, maybe you could look 'em up a little. Nathan's got an aunt
living in Cromwell. If I was you I'd look 'em up, Mrs. Ray."
Mrs. Ray opened her scissors like the jaws of a shark.
"I _am_ looking 'em up," she said, and the scissors closed with a snap
full of meaning; "they'll soon find what it means to get no letters and
write no letters and stop with Sammy Adams when it rains. Yes, indeed."
Two hours later every one in the township--that is, every one except the
boarders of the O'Neil House--knew that Mrs. Ray was actively advocating
an investigation into the Lathbuns' history.
"I guess she'll find out a good deal," said Samuel Peterkin to Judy, as
they drove home towards the St. Helena road.
The scene far and near was one maddest autumn blaze of beauty.
"Mrs. Ray will never let up on him till she does," said Judy; "she's
awful mad at Sammy."
The road bent between giant pines, and revealed the gray facade of the
High Banks beyond, stretching in gigantic grandeur between the black
shadows below and the bewildering colors above.
"If these trees was down, what a long ways we could see along the
river," said Samuel.
"Yes," said Judy, "trees is dreadfully in the way when you want to see.
And to think that Mr. Ledge is always talking about having planted ten
thousand of them. People are curious."
The sun came out upon the horizon behind them at that minute, and shot a
shaft of glory down the cañon, illuminating all the gray rock with
silver.
"There, now," said Judy; "it's late when it's like that. It's right in
our eyes, too. We must hurry."
"I told you you were staying too long," said Samuel; "and you know as
well as I do that nobody can trot the St. Helena hill."