Part 16 (2/2)

The bellringer was William, the genial little negro whose acquaintance the ladies had made, and he performed his duty with an unction that left nothing to be desired. The bell was so large that William was compelled to use both hands in swinging it. He bore it from the dining-room to the hall, and thence from one veranda to the other, making fuss enough to convince everybody that those who ate at the tavern were on the point of enjoying another of the famous meals prepared under the supervision of Mrs. Haley.

There was nothing in the dining-room to invite the criticism of Helen and her aunt, even though they had been disposed to be critical; there was no evidence of slatternly management. Everything was plain, but neat. The ceiling was high and wide; and the walls were of dainty whiteness, relieved here and there by bracket-shelves containing s.h.i.+ny crockery and gla.s.sware. The oil-lamps gave a mellow light through the simple but unique paper shades with which they had been fitted. Above the table, which extended the length of the room, was suspended a series of large fans. These fans were connected by a cord, so that when it became necessary to cool the room, or to drive away the flies, one small negro, by pulling a string, could set them all in motion.

Over this dining-room Mrs. Haley presided. She sat at the head of the table, serene, cheerful, and watchful, antic.i.p.ating the wants of each and every one who ate at the board. She invited Helen and her aunt to seats near her own, and somehow managed to convince them, veteran travelers though they were, that hospitality such as hers was richly worth paying for.

”I do hope you'll make out to be comfortable in this poor little neighborhood,” she said as the ladies lingered over their tea, after the other boarders--the clerks and the shopkeepers--had bolted their food and fare. ”I have my hopes, and I have my doubts. Gener'l Garwood says you're come to mend your health,” she continued, regarding the ladies with the critical eye of one who has had something to do with herbs and simples; ”and I've been tryin' my best to pick out which is the sick one, but it's a mighty hard matter. Yet I won't go by looks, because if folks looked bad every time they felt bad, they'd be some mighty peaked people in this world off and on--William, run and fetch in some hot batter-cakes.”

”I am the alleged invalid,” said Helen. ”I am the victim of a conspiracy between my aunt here and our family physician.--Aunt Harriet, what do you suppose Dr. Buxton would say if he knew how comfortable we are at this moment? I dare say he would write a letter, and order us off to some other point.”

”My niece,” said Miss Tewksbury, by way of explanation, ”has weak lungs, but she has never permitted herself to acknowledge the fact.”

”Well, my goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Haley, ”if that's all, we'll have her sound and well in a little or no time. Why, when I was her age I had a hackin' cough and a rackin' pain in my breast night and day, and I fell off till my own blood kin didn't know me. Everybody give me up; but old Miss Polly Flanders in Hanc.o.c.k, right j'inin' county from Greene, she sent me word to make me some mullein tea, and drink sweet milk right fresh from the cow; and from that day to this I've never know'd what weak lungs was. I reckon you'll be mighty lonesome here,” said Mrs.

Haley after William had returned with a fresh supply of batter-cakes, ”but you'll find folks mighty neighborly, once you come to know 'em.

And, bless goodness, here's one of 'em now!--Howdy, Emma Jane?”

A tall, ungainly-looking woman stood in the door of the dining-room leading to the kitchen. Her appearance showed the most abject poverty.

Her dirty sunbonnet had fallen back from her head, and hung on her shoulders. Her hair was of a reddish-gray color, and its frazzled and tangled condition suggested that the woman had recently pa.s.sed through a period of extreme excitement; but this suggestion was promptly corrected by the wonderful serenity of her face--a pale, unhealthy-looking face, with sunken eyes, high cheek-bones, and thin lips that seemed never to have troubled themselves to smile: a burnt-out face that had apparently surrendered to the past, and had no hope for the future. The Puritan simplicity of the woman's dress made her seem taller than she really was, but this was the only illusion about her.

Though her appearance was uncouth and ungainly, her manner was unembarra.s.sed. She looked at Helen with some degree of interest; and to the latter it seemed that Misery, hopeless but unabashed, gazed at her with a significance at once pathetic and appalling. In response to Mrs.

Haley's salutation, the woman seated herself in the doorway, and sighed.

”You must be tired, Emma Jane, not to say howdy,” said Mrs. Haley, with a smile. The woman raised her right hand above her head, and allowed it to drop helplessly into her lap.

”Ti-ud! Lordy, Lordy! how kin a pore creetur' like me be ti-ud? Hain't I thes natally made out'n i'on?”

”Well, I won't go so fur as to say that, Emma Jane,” said Mrs. Haley, ”but you're mighty tough. Now, you know that yourself.”

”Yes'n--yes'n. I'm made out'n i'on. Lordy, Lordy! I thes natally hone fer some un ter come along an' tell me what makes me h'ist up an' walk away over yan'ter the railroad track, an' set thar tell the ingine shoves by. I wisht some un ud up an' tell me what makes me so restless an' oneasy, ef it hain't 'cause I'm hongry. I thes wisht they would.

Pa.s.sin' on by, I sez ter myself, s' I: 'Emma Jane Stucky,' s' I, 'ef you know what's good fer your wholesome,' s' I, 'you'll sneak in on Miss Haley, 'cause you'll feel better,' s' I, 'ef you don't no more'n tell 'er howdy,' s' I. Lordy, Lordy! I dunner what ud 'come er me ef I hadn't a bin made out'n i'on.”

”Emma Jane,” said Mrs. Haley, in the tone of one who is humoring a child, ”these ladies are from the North.”

”Yes'n,” said the woman, glancing at Helen and her aunt with the faintest expression of pity; ”yes'n, I hearn tell you had comp'ny. Hit's a mighty long ways fum this, the North, hain't it, Miss Haley--a long ways fuder'n Tennissy? Well, the Lord knows I pity um fum the bottom of my heart, that I do--a-bein' such a long ways fum home.”

”The North is ever so much farther than Tennessee,” said Helen pleasantly, almost unconsciously a.s.suming the tone employed by Mrs.

Haley; ”but the weather is so very cold there that we have to run away sometimes.”

”You're right, honey,” said Mrs. Stucky, hugging herself with her long arms. ”I wisht I could run away fum it myself. Ef I wa'n't made out'n i'on, I dunner how I'd stan' it. Lordy! when the win' sets in from the east, hit in-about runs me plum destracted. Hit kills lots an' lots er folks, but they hain't made out'n i'on like me.”

While Mrs. Stucky was describing the vigorous const.i.tution that had enabled her to survive in the face of various difficulties, and in spite of many mishaps, Mrs. Haley was engaged in making up a little parcel of victuals. This she handed to the woman.

”Thanky-do! thanky-do, ma'am! Me an' my son'll set down an' wallop this up, an' say thanky-do all the time, an' atter we're done we'll wipe our mouves, an' say thanky-do.”

”I reckon you ladies'll think we're mighty queer folks down here,” said Mrs. Haley, with an air of apology, after Mrs. Stucky had retired; ”but I declare I can't find it in my heart to treat that poor creetur' out of the way. I set and look at her sometimes, and I wish I may never budge if I don't come mighty nigh cryin'. She ain't hardly fittin' to live, and if she's fittin' to die, she's lots better off than the common run of folks. But she's mighty worrysome. She pesters me lots mor'n I ever let on.”

<script>