Part 20 (1/2)

His resentment changed to anger; he moved to the foot of the bed, where, in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, he harangued her:

”I want a cheerful wife, one with a song to her, and not a dam' female elder around the house. A good woman is a--a jewel, but when your goodness gives you a face ache it's ... it's something different, it's a nuisance.

I'd almost rather have a wife that wasn't so good but had some give to her.” He sat down, clutching a heavy shoe which came off suddenly. Lettice was as immobile as the chest of drawers.

”G.o.ddy knows,” he burst out again, ”it's solemn enough around here anyhow with Sim Caley's old woman like a grave hole, and now you go and get it too.... Berry might put up with it, and Sim's just fool-hearted, but a regular man wouldn't abide it, he'd--he'd go to Paris, where the women are civilized and dance all night.” He muttered an unintelligible period about French widows and pink.... ”Buried before my time,” he proclaimed. He stood with his head grizzled and harsh above an absurdly flowing nights.h.i.+rt. In the deepening light Lettice's countenance seemed thinner than usual, her round, staring eyes were frightened, as though she had seen in the night the visible apparition of the curse of suffering laid upon all birth.

”You look like you've taken leave of your wits,” he exclaimed in an acc.u.mulated exasperation; ”say something.” He leaned across the bed, and, grasping her elbow, shook her. She was as rigid, as unyielding, as the bed posts. Then with a long, slow shudder she turned and buried her head in the pillow.

XIV

Rutherford Berry and Effie, Barnwell K. and the delicate Rose, left after breakfast. Sim drove off behind the st.u.r.dy horse and Mrs. Caley was audibly energetic in the kitchen. When Gordon appeared on the porch Lettice was seated in the low rocker that had so often held Clare. She responded in a suppressed voice to her husband's salutation. ”You went and spoiled Effie's whole visit,” she informed him, ”making Rutherford drunk.”

”Why,” he protested, ”we never; he just got himself drunk.”

”It was mean anyway--sitting drinking all night in the stable.”

”You'll say I was drunk too next.”

”It doesn't matter to you what I say, or what I go through with. I've stood more than I rightly ought, more than I'm going to--you must give me one thought in a day. You just act low. Father was self-headed, but he was never real trashy. He never got into fights at those common camp meetings.”

”I threw the stone that hit Buck, didn't I! I busted his head open, didn't I! Oh, of course, I'm to blame for it all ... put it on me.”

”Well, how did you get in it? how did you get mixed up with the school-teacher?”

”I got Mrs. Caley to thank for this, and I'll thank her.” He hotly recited the obvious aspect of his connection at the camp meeting with Meta Beggs.

”It sounds all right as far as it goes,” she retorted; ”but I'll chance there's a good deal more; I'll chance you had it made up to meet her there. You would never have gone for any other reason; I don't believe you have been to a revival for twenty years. You had it made up between you.

And that Miss Beggs is too smart for you, she'll fool you all over the mountain. I don't like her either, and I don't want you to give her the satisfaction of making up to you. It's what she'd like--laughing at my back!”

”Miss Beggs never spoke any harm of you.”

She made a gesture, hopeless, impatient, at his innocence. Her resentment burst out again, ”Why does she want to speak to you--another woman's husband? Anybody knows it's low down. When did you see her? What did you talk about?”

”Of course when I see her coming I ought to go 'round by South Fork,” he replied, heavily sarcastic.

”Well, you don't have to stand and talk like I warrant you do. There's something deep about her look.”

”I've taken care of myself for some years, and I guess I can keep on.”

”You can if you want to go to ruin, like you were when I married you, and you only had one s.h.i.+rt to your name.”

”Throw it up to me. It's no wonder a man drinks here, he's got more to forget than to think about.” He stepped from the porch, preparing to leave.

”Wait!” she commanded; ”I'll put up with being left, and having you drink all night with the beasts, and fooling my money away, but,” her voice rose and her eyes burned over dark shadows, ”I won't put up with another woman, I won't put up with that thin thing making over my husband. I won't! I won't! do you understand that.... I--I can't.”

He went around the corner of the house with her last words ringing in his ears, kicking angrily at the rough sod. His house, between Mrs. Caley's glum silence and Lettice's ceaseless complaining, was becoming uninhabitable. And, as Rutherford Berry had pointed out, the latter would only increase, sharpen, with the years. Lettice was a good wife, she was not like Nickles' old woman, worthless but the pleasantest body you'd meet in a day on a horse. She was not like Meta Beggs. He had never seen any other like the latter. Lettice had said that she would fool him all over the mountain ... but not him, not Gordon Makimmon, he thought complacently.

He was well versed in the ways of women; he would not go a step that he did not intend, understand. This business of Paris, for example: he might tell Meta Beggs that he'd go, and then, at--say, Norfolk, he would change his mind. Anyhow that was a plan worth considering. He recalled the school-teacher's level, penetrating gaze; she was as smart as Lettice had divined; he would have difficulty in fooling her. He felt obscurely that any step taken with her would prove irrevocable.