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. &l............