Thankful's Inheritance Part 42

Imogene chuckled. "I don't think she brought 'em at all," she replied.

"She wa'n't here yesterday. She--why, yes, seems to me Kenelm said he heard she was sick abed with a cold."

Thankful nodded. "So she is," she said. "Probably the poor thing ain't had time to finish mendin' 'em. It's a good deal of a job, I guess. She told me once that that Hammond man wore his inside clothes till they wa'n't anything BUT mendin', just hung together with patches, as you might say. His suits and overcoats are all right enough 'most always, but he can't seem to bear to spend money for anything underneath.

Perhaps he figgers that patches are good as anything else, long's they don't show. Imogene, go tell him Melindy didn't fetch 'em."

Imogene went and returned with her grin broader than ever.

"He says she did bring 'em," she announced. "Says she always brings him his things on the ninth. He's pretty peppery this mornin', seems to me.

Says he don't cal'late to stand there and freeze much longer."

"Freeze! Why, it's the warmest day we've had for a fortni't. The sun's come out and it's cleared up fine, like Indian summer. Oh, DO be still!"

as another shout for "Mrs. Barnes" came from above. "Here, never mind, Imogene; I'll tell him."

She went into the front hall and called up the stairs.

"Your things ain't here, Mr. Hammond," she said. "Melindy didn't bring 'em. She's laid up with a cold and probably couldn't get 'em ready."

"Course she's got 'em ready! She always has 'em ready. She knows I want 'em."

"Maybe so, but she ain't always sick, 'tain't likely. They ain't here, anyway. You won't need 'em today."

"Need 'em? Course I need 'em. It's colder than Christmas."

"No, it isn't. It's almost as warm as September. Put on two suits of your others, if you're so cold. And come down to breakfast as soon as you can. We've all had ours."

When Mr. Hammond did come down to breakfast his manner was that of a martyr. The breakfast itself, baked beans and fishb.a.l.l.s, did not appeal to him, and he ate little. He grumbled as he drank his coffee.

"Healthy note, this is!" he muttered. "Got to set around and freeze to death just 'cause that lazy critter ain't finished her job. I pay her for it, don't I?"

Thankful sniffed. "I suppose you do," she said, adding under her breath, "though how much you pay is another thing."

"Is this all the breakfast you've got?" queried Caleb.

"Why, yes; it's what we always have Sunday mornin's. Isn't it what you expected?"

"Oh, I expected it, all right. Take it away; I don't want no more.

Consarn it! I wish sometimes I had a home of my own."

"Well, why don't you have one? I should think you would. You can afford it."

Mr. Hammond did not reply. He folded his napkin, seized his hat and coat and went out. When he crossed the threshold he shivered, as a matter of principle.

He stalked gloomily along the path by the edge of the bluff. Captain Obed Bangs came up the path and they met.

"h.e.l.lo, Caleb!" hailed the captain. "Fine weather at last, eh? Almost like August. Injun summer at last, I cal'late. What you got your coat collar turned up for? Afraid of getting your neck sunburned?"

Mr. Hammond grunted and hurried on. Captain Obed had chosen a poor topic if he desired a lengthy conversation.

Mrs. Pease lived at the farther end of the village and when Caleb reached there he was met by the lady's niece, Emma Snow.

"Aunt Melindy's real poorly," said Emma. "She's been so for 'most three days. I'm stayin' here with her till she gets better. No, she ain't had time to do your mendin' yet. Anyhow it's so nice and warm you don't need the things, that's a comfort."

It may have been a comfort to her, but it was not to Caleb. He growled a reply and turned on his heel. The churchgoers along the main road received scanty acknowledgment of their greetings.

"Ain't you comin' to meetin'?" asked Abbie Larkin.

"Naw," snarled Caleb, "I ain't."

"Why not? And it's such a lovely day, too."

"Ugh!"

"Why ain't you comin' to meetin', Mr. Hammond?"

"'Cause I don't feel like it, that's why."

"I want to know! Well, you DON'T seem to be in a pious frame of mind, that's a fact. Better come; you may not feel like church, but I should say you needed it, if ever anybody did."

Caleb did not deign a reply. He stalked across the road and took the path to the sh.o.r.e.

As he came opposite the Parker cottage he saw Hannah Parker at the window. He nodded and his nod was returned. Hannah's experience was as gloomy as his own. She did not look happy and somehow the idea that she was not happy pleased him; Abbie Larkin had been altogether too happy; it grated on him. He was miserable and he wanted company of his own kind. He stopped, hesitated, and then turned in at the Parker gate.

Hannah opened the door.

"Good mornin', Caleb," she said. "Come in, won't you? It looks sort of chilly outdoor."

This WAS a kindred spirit. Mr. Hammond entered the Parker sitting-room.

Hannah motioned toward a chair and he sat down.

"Mornin', Hannah," said Caleb. "'Tis chilly. It'll be a mercy if we don't catch our deaths, dressed the way some of us be. How's things with you?"

Miss Parker shook her head. "Oh, I don't know, Caleb," she answered.

"They ain't all they might be, I'm afraid."

"What's the matter? Ain't you feelin' up to the mark?"

"Oh, yes--yes; I'm feeling well enough in body. I ain't sick, if that's what you mean. I'm kind of blue and--and lonesome, that's all. I try to bear up under my burdens, but I get compressed in spirit sometimes, I can't help it. Ah, hum a day!"

She sighed and Mr. Hammond sighed also.

"You ain't the only one," he said. "I'm bluer'n a whetstone myself, this mornin'."

"What's the trouble?"

"Trouble? Trouble enough! Somethin' happened this mornin' that riled me all up. It--" he paused, remembering that the cause of the "rilin'" was somewhat personal, not to say delicate. "Well--well, never mind what it was," he added. "'Twas mighty aggravatin', that's all I've got to say."

Hannah sighed again. "Ah, hum!" she observed. "There's aggravations enough in this life. And they generally come on account of somebody else, too. There's times when I wish I didn't have any flesh and blood."