AUNT MIRA AND IRA
“Now you see, Iry Hasbrook, where your boastin’ and braggin’ and lyin’
yarns has led to,” said Aunt Mira, after Westy had gone. It had proved
impossible to detain him, and he had marched off after his sensational
disclosure with a feeling of infinite relief that no complications had
occurred. But he might have seen danger of complications in Ira’s
shrewd, amused look if he had only taken the trouble to notice it.
“He’s a great kid,” said Ira.
“A pretty mess you’ve got him in,” said Aunt Mira, “with your _droppin’_
this and _droppin’_ that. Now he’s _dropped_ his deer and I hope you’re
satisfied. ’Twouldn’t be no wonder if he ran away to sea and you to
blame, Ira Hasbrook. It’s because he’s so good and trustin’ and makes
heroes out of every one, even fools like you with your kidnappin’ kings
and rum smugglin’ and what all.”
“How ’bout the book in the settin’ room?” Ira asked.
Aunt Mira made no answer to this but she at least paid Ira the
compliment of rising from her chair with such vigor of determination
that the dishpan full of beans which had been reposing in her lap was
precipitated upon the floor. She strode into the sitting room where the
“sumptuous, gorgeously illustrated volume” lay upon the innocent worsted
tidy which decorously covered the marble of the center table.
Laying hands upon it with such heroic determination as never one of its
flaunted hunters showed, she conveyed it to the kitchen and forthwith
cremated it in the huge cooking stove. Then she returned to the back
porch with an air that suggested that what she had just done to the book
was intended as an illustration of what she would like to do to Ira
himself. But Ira was not sufficiently sensitive to take note of this
ghastly implication.
“Yer recipe for makin’ currant wine was in that book,” was all he said.
For a moment, Aunt Mira paused aghast. It seemed as if, in spite of her
spectacular display, Ira had the better of her. He sat calmly smoking
his pipe.
“Why didn’t you call to me that it was there?” she demanded sharply.
“You wouldn’t of believed me, I’m such a liar,” said Ira quietly.
“I don’t want to hear no more of your talk, Iry,” said the distressed
and rather baffled lady. “I don’t know as I mind losin’ the recipe. What
I’m thinkin’ about is the hundred dollars that poor boy worked to
get—and you went and lost for him.”
She had subsided to the weeping stage now and she sat down in the old
wooden armchair and lifted her gingham apron to her eyes and all Ira
could see was her gray head shaking. Her anger and decisive action had
used up all her strength and she was a touching enough spectacle now, as
she sat there weeping silently, the string beans and the empty dishpan
scattered on the porch floor at her feet.
“He’s all right, aunty,” was all that Ira said.
“I thank heavens he told the truth ’bout it least-ways,” Aunt Mira
sobbed, pathetically groping for the dishpan. “I thank heavens he come
back here like a little man and told the truth. I couldn’t of beared it
if he’d just sneaked away and lied. He won’t lie to Henry—if he wouldn’t
lie to me he won’t lie to Henry. I do hope Henry won’t be hard with
him—I know he won’t lie to his father, ’tain’t him to do that. He was
just tempted, he saw the deer and his head was full of all what you told
him and that pesky book I hope the Lord will forgive me for ever buyin’.
I’m goin’ to write to Henry this very night and tell him I burned up the
book and prayed for forgiveness for you, Iry Hasbrook—I am.”
Ira puffed his horrible pipe in silence for a few moments, and in that
restful interval could be heard the sound of the bars being let down so
that the cows might return to their pasture. The bell on one wayward cow
sounded farther and farther off as Uncle Dick, all innocent of the
little tragedy, drove the patient beasts into the upper meadow.
The clanking bell reminded poor Aunt Mira to say, “You told him he
couldn’t even shoot a cow, you did, Iry.”
“He’s just about the best kid that ever was,” was all that Ira answered.
“I’m goin’ to write to Henry to-night and I’m goin’ to tell him, Iry,
just what you been doin’, I am. I’m goin’ to tell him that poor boy
isn’t to blame. I know Henry won’t be hard on him. I’m goin’ to tell him
about that book and ask him to forgive me my part in it,” the poor lady
wept.
“Ask him if he’s got a good recipe for currant wine,” drawled Ira.