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.
"'I got her and the children to the house,' says he; 'and then I
started out to get some person to help me move the body, and, as luck
would have it,' says he, 'I met the Crawford boys comin' from town,
and between us we managed to get the corpse up to the house and laid
it on the big settee in the front hall. And now,' says he, 'I'm goin'
after Uncle Jim Matthews; and me and him and the Crawford boys'll lay
the body out when the undertaker comes. And Marthy Matthews will have
to come over and stay all night.
"Says I, 'Sam, how is Mary bearin' it?'
"He shook his head, and says he, 'The worst way in the world. She
hasn't shed a tear nor spoke a word, and she don't seem to notice
anything, not even the children. But,' says he, 'I can't stand here
talkin'. There's a heap to be done yet, and Milly's lookin' for me
now.'
"And with that he got on his horse and rode off, and I went into the
house to put the children to bed. Then I set down on the porch steps
to wait for Abram. The sun was down by this time, and there was a new
moon in the west, and it didn't seem like there could be any sorrow
and sufferin' in such a quiet, happy, peaceful-lookin' world. But
there was poor Mary not a mile away, and I set and grieved over her in
her trouble jest like it had been my own. I didn't know what had
happened that day between Harvey and Mary. But I knew that Harvey had
been struck down in the prime o' life, and that Mary had found his
dead body, and that was terrible enough. From what I'd seen o' their
married life I knew that Mary's loss wasn't what mine would 'a' been
if Abram had dropped dead that day instead o' Harvey, but a man and
woman can't live together as husband and wife and father and mother
without growin' to each other; and whatever Mary hadn't lost, she had
lost the father of her children, and I couldn't sleep much that night
for thinkin' of her.
"The day of the funeral I went over to help Mary and get her dressed
in her widow's clothes. She was actin' queer and dazed, and nothin'
seemed to make much impression on her. I was fastenin' her crape
collar on, and she says to me: 'I reckon you think it's strange I
don't cry and take on like women do when they lose their husbands.
But,' says she, 'you wouldn't blame me if you knew.'
"And then she dropped her voice down to a whisper, and says she, 'You
know I married Harvey Andrews. But after I married him, I found that
there wasn't any such man. I haven't got any cause to cry, for the man
I married ain't dead. He never was alive, and so, of course, he can't
be dead.'
"And then she began to laugh; and says she, 'I don't know which is the
worst: to be sorry when you ought to be glad, or glad when you ought
to be sorry.'
"And I says, 'Hush, Mary, don't talk about it. I know what you mean,
but other folks might not understand.'
"Mary ain't the only one, child, that's married a man, and then found
out that there _wasn't any such man_. I've looked at many a bride and
groom standin' up before the preacher and makin' promises for a
lifetime, and I've thought to myself, 'You pore things, you! All you
know about each other is your names and your faces. You've got all
the rest to find out, and nobody knows what you'll find out nor what
you'll do when you find it out.'
"Folks said it was the saddest funeral they ever went to. Harvey's
people all lived down in Tennessee. His father and mother had died
long ago, and he hadn't any near kin except a brother and a sister;
and they lived too far off to come to the funeral in time. Abram said
to me after we got home: 'Well, I never thought I'd help to lay a
friend and neighbor in the ground and not a tear shed over him.'
"If Mary had 'a' cried, we could 'a' cried with her. But she set at
the head o' the coffin with her hands folded in her lap, and her mind
seemed to be away off from the things that was happenin' around her. I
don't believe she even heard the clods fallin' on the coffin; and when
we started away from the grave Marthy Matthews leaned over and
whispered to me: 'Jane, don't Mary remind you of somebody walkin' in
her sleep?'
"Mary's mother and sister hadn't been with her in her trouble, for
they happened to be down in Logan visitin' a great-uncle. So Marthy
and me settled it between us that she was to stay with Mary that
night and I was to come over the next mornin'. You know how much
there is to be done after a funeral. Well, bright and early I went
over, and Marthy met me at the gate. She was goin' out as I was comin'
in. Says she, 'Go right up-stairs; Mary's lookin' for you. She's more
like herself this mornin'; and I'm thankful for that.'
"The minute I stepped in the door I heard Mary's voice. She'd seen me
comin' in the gate and called out to me to come up-stairs. She was in
the front room, her room and Harvey's, and the closet and the bureau
drawers was all open, and things scattered around every which way, and
Mary was down on her knees in front of an old trunk, foldin' up
Harvey's clothes and puttin' 'em away. Her hands was shakin', and
there was a red spot on each of her cheeks, and she had a strange look
out of her eyes.
"I says to her, 'Why, Mary, you ain't fit to be doin' that work. You
ought to be in bed restin'.' And says she, 'I can't rest till I get
everything straightened out. Mother and sister Sally are comin',' says
she, 'and I want to get everything in order before they get here.' And
I says, 'Now, Mary, you lay down on the bed and I'll put these things
away. You can watch me and tell me what to do, and I'll do it; but
you've got to rest.' So I shook everything out and folded it up as
nice as I could and laid it away in the trunk, while she watched me.
And once she said, 'Don't have any wrinkles in 'em. Harvey was always
mighty particular about his clothes.'
"Next to layin' the body in the ground, child, this foldin' up dead
folks' clothes and puttin' 'em away is one o' the hardest things
people ever has to do. It's jest like when you've finished a book and
shut it up and put it away on the shelf. I knew jest how Mary felt,
when she said she couldn't rest till everything was put away. The life
she'd lived with Harvey was over, and she was closin' up the book and
puttin' it out of sight forever. Pore child! Pore child!
"Well, when I got all o' Harvey's clothes put away, I washed out the
empty drawers, lined 'em with clean paper and laid some o' little
Harvey's clothes in 'em, and that seemed to please Mary. The father
was gone, but there was his son to take his place. Then I shut it up
tight, and Mary raised herself up out o' bed and says she, 'Take hold,
Jane, I'm goin' to take this to the attic right now.' And take it we
did, though the trunk was heavy and the stairs so steep and narrer we
had to stop and rest on every step. We pushed the trunk way back
under the eaves, and it may be standin' there yet for all I know.
"When we got down-stairs, Mary drew a long breath like she'd got a big
load off her mind, and says she, 'There's one more thing I want you to
help me about, and then you can go home, Jane, and I'll go to bed and
rest.' She took a key out of her pocket, and says she, 'Jane, this is
the key to the little cabin out in the back yard. Harvey used to keep
something in there, but what it was I never knew. As long as we lived
together, I never saw inside of that cabin, but I'm goin' to see it
now.'
"The children started to foller us when we went out on the back porch,
but Mary give 'em some playthings and told 'em to stay around in the
front yard till we come back. Then we went over to the far corner of
the back yard where the cabin was, under a big old sycamore tree. I
ricollect how the key creaked when Mary turned it, and how hard the
door was to open.
"Mary started to go in first, and then she fell back, and says she, in
a whisper, 'You go in first, Jane; I'm afraid.' So I went in first and
Mary follered. For a minute we couldn't see a thing. There was two
windows to the cabin, but they'd been boarded up from the outside,
and there was jest one big crack at the top of one of the windows that
let in a long streak of light, and you could see the dust dancin' in
it. The door opened jest enough to let us in, and we both stood there
peerin' around and tryin' to see what sort of a place we'd got into.
The first thing I made out was a heap of old rusty iron. I started to
take a step, and my foot struck against it. There was old bolts and
screws and horseshoes and scraps of old cast iron and nails of every
size, all laid together in a big heap. The place seemed to be full of
somethin', but I couldn't see what it all was till my eyes got used to
the darkness. There was a row of nails goin' all round the wall, and
old clothes hangin' on every one of 'em. And down on the floor there
was piles of old clothes, folded smooth and laid one on top o' the
other jest like a washerwoman would fold 'em and pile 'em up. Harvey's
old clothes and Mary's and the children's, things that any
right-minded person would 'a' put in the rag-bag or given away to
anybody that could make use of 'em; there they was, all hoarded up in
that old room jest like they was of some value. And over in one corner
was all the old worn-out tin things that you could think of: buckets
and pans and milk-strainers and dippers and cups. And next to them
was all the glass and china that'd been broken in the years Mary and
Harvey'd been keepin' house. And there was a lot of old brooms,
nothin' but stubs, tied together jest like new brooms in the store.
And there was all the children's broken toys, dolls, and doll dresses,
and even some glass marbles that little Harvey used to play with. The
dust was lyin' thick and heavy over everything, and the spiderwebs
looked like black strings hangin' from the ceilin'; but things of the
same sort was all lyin' together jest like some woman had put the
place in order.
"You've heard tell of that bird, child, that gathers up all sorts o'
rubbish and carries it off to its nest and hides it? Well, I thought
about that bird; and the heap of old iron reminded me of a little
boy's pocket when you turn it wrong side out at night, and the china
and glass and doll-rags made me think of the playhouses I used to make
under the trees when I was a little girl. I've seen many curious
places, honey, but nothin' like that old cabin. The moldy smell
reminded me of the grave; and when I looked at all the dusty, old
plunder, the ragged clothes hangin' against the wall like so many
ghosts, and then thought of the dead man that had put 'em there, I
tell you it made my flesh creep.
"Well, we stood there, me and Mary, strainin' our eyes tryin' to see
into the dark corners, and all at once the meanin' of it come over me
like a flash: _Harvey was a miser!_"
Aunt Jane stopped, took off her glasses and polished them on the hem
of her gingham apron. I sat holding my breath; but, all regardless of
my suspense, she dropped the thread of the story and followed memory
in one of her capricious backward flights.
"I ricollect a sermon I heard when I was a gyirl," she said. "It ain't
often, I reckon, that a sermon makes much impression on a gyirl's
mind. But this wasn't any ordinary sermon or any ordinary preacher.
Presbytery met in town that year, and all the big preachers in the
state was there. Some of 'em come out and preached to the country
churches, and old Dr. Samuel Chalmers Morse preached at Goshen. He was
one o' the biggest men in the Presbytery, and I ricollect his looks as
plain as I ricollect his sermon. Some preachers look jest like other
men, and you can tell the minute you set eyes on 'em that they ain't
any wiser or any better than common folks. But Dr. Morse wasn't that
kind.