Westerfelt Part 33

"Do you think so, Mis' Lithic.u.m?" Mrs. Slogan retained the big smooth shuttle in her hand and eyed the speaker anxiously, her eyelids quivering.

"To be downright plain, yes, I do. Mis' Slogan, ef she _is_ yore sister, an' I've thought many a time 'at ef I wus in yore place I wouldn't feel safe nuther. They say a pusson sometimes gits softenin'

o' the brain frum hatin' folks an' livin' alone like she does. I'd be afeerd to leave the house open at night ef I wus you."

"Well!" suddenly broke in Peter, who was the only one remaining at the window. "You may have my overcoat an'"--after a pause--"my best Sunday shirt, too, ef she hain't loaded 'er bed in that wagon an' 's a-comin'

this way as big as the side of a house. She's comin' back heer, Clariss, Lordy, Lordy!"

They all ran to the window again and stood breathlessly watching the oncoming wagon. "She's off 'er nut now, I know," said Peter. "I know 'er too well; she never would come back heer ef she wus in 'er right mind."

"Well, I don't want to meet 'er--that's one thing certain," cried Mrs.

Lithic.u.m in sudden terror. "She mought pounce upon me on Lizzie's account. I'm a-goin' home by the path through the cotton-patch. Good day to all uv you. Ef I was you-uns," she called back from the door, "I'd have 'er put up!"

Abner mutely followed her, and the Slogans were left to solve the problem for themselves. The wagon drew up at the door, and from their window they saw the little woman step down over the front wheel and direct the white driver--they could not hear her voice, but they read the signs of her hands--to put the few pieces of furniture on the porch. This done, the wagon clattered away, and Mrs. Dawson, with hanging head, came into the pa.s.sage and went to her old room.

"What in the name o' goodness do you reckon she's goin' to do?" gasped Mrs. Slogan, quite pale and cold. "I'm nearly skeerd to death."

"She's got a faint idee 'at she's goin' to put up heer with us,"

answered Peter with considerable concern for a man of his phlegmatic temperament. "They say crazy folks jest natcherly drift back into the'r old ruts, an' the best way is to let 'em alone. Ef she kin feed 'erself we'll be in luck; some crazy folks jest gaum the'rselves from head to foot an' have to have constant attention."

"But you ain't a-goin' to let 'er stay, are you?" cried his wife.

Peter smiled grimly and went to the mantel-piece for his foul-smelling comforter. He also pulled down from a nail on the wall a dry stalk of tobacco and proceeded to crush and crumble some of the crisp leaves in his big palm.

"Me? I don't see 'at I've got a thing to say in the matter," he retorted, with a grimace that bore a slight resemblance to a smile.

"You wus tellin' me jest t'other day 'at the lan' an' house wus in yore name an' her'n, an' 'at I had no right to put in. I reckon you'll have to manage 'er, Clariss."

Mrs. Slogan sank back on the bench of the loom, but she didn't set the thing in motion; she had an idea that the slightest sound might draw the attention of the bustling inmate of the room across the pa.s.sage, and just then she was not prepared to exchange greetings.

Peter stood at the window, his head now enveloped in smoke, and kept peering out at the porch from which Mrs. Dawson was moving the various articles pertaining to her bed, such as slats, posts, railings, mattress, pillows, sheets, and coverings.

"She's as busy as a hoss's tail in fly-time," he observed. "Oh, Lawsy mercy!"

This last e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n came out with such startled emphasis that his wife let her mouth fall open as she waited for him to explain. But Peter only stretched his neck towards the window, holding his pipe behind him to keep from setting fire to the curtain.

"Oh, Peter, what is it?"

"She hain't fetched a sign of a thing to cook with," he replied. "I kinder thought I heerd a clatter in that wagon as it driv' off; she's give 'er coffee-pot an' fryin'-pan an' dishes to the feller that fetched 'er over heer an' moved 'er things. She intends to eat with us."

Mrs. Slogan wrung her hands. "Something jest has to be done," she said, "an' the Lord knows I don't know what it is. Do you reckon she's dangerous, Peter?"

"She's yore sister, Clariss," he chuckled, in spite of the gravity of the situation, "an' I'd hate to be in yore re'ch ef you wus to lose any more uv yore mind. As it is, you--"

"I wish you'd shet up!" broke in his wife; "this ain't no time fer foolishness."

Then they drew their chairs up to the fireplace and sat down. They could still hear the old woman moving about, setting things to rights in her room. Suddenly there was a great clatter of falling slats. The bed had come down.

"She can't put that thing up by 'erself" suggested Peter. "Go in an'

he'p 'er."

"I'll do no sech a thing; do you reckon I want 'er to scratch my eyes out? Huh! She hates me like a rattlesnake, an' has jest come heer so she kin devil me to death. I see it now. She seed she wusn't worryin'

me much over thar in 'er ol' cabin, an' she's jest bent on gittin'

nigher."

"I reckon that's jest yore--yore conscience a-talkin'," opined Slogan.

"Thar's no gittin' round it, Clariss, you did sorter rub it in when Sally wus alive. I often used to wonder how the old creetur managed to put up with it; you kept ding-dongin' at 'er frum mornin' to night. Ef she's cracked, yo're purty apt to have it read out to you frum the Book o' Judgment."

Mrs. Slogan must have felt the truth of this accusation, for she voiced no denial. The room across the pa.s.sage suddenly became quiet. It was evident that the bed was up; as a further evidence of this, Mrs. Dawson was seen to go out to the wood-pile and fill her ap.r.o.n with chips and return with them.

"She's got located," remarked Slogan. "She's a-goin' to set in now an'

make 'erse'f comfortable."

"She'll burn the house down over our heads," whined Mrs. Slogan. "Oh, Peter, I'm not satisfied! I'm anything but."

The sun went down and night came on. Mrs. Slogan began to prepare supper, casting, the while, frequent glances at the door opening on the pa.s.sage. Peter smoked pipe after pipe without being able to come to any definite conclusion as to how to surmount the difficulty. Suddenly he looked over his shoulder and tapped the heel of his shoe with his pipe.

"You'd better cook enough fer three," was what he said, "an' make more coffee. Ef she don't he'p us drink it, we'll need it to keep us company through the night. I know in reason 'at you won't close yore eyes till--till we see some way out of the difficulty."

"Peter Slogan," said his wife, in a whisper, as she laid the table-cloth down in a chair and leaned over him, "you skeer the life out o' me when you talk that away. I never seed you look like you minded anything before."

"I'm glad I show some'n'," he grinned, struggling back into his old sardonic mood. "I 'lowed I'd got too hardened to feer man, G.o.d, ha'nt, ur devil. Well, I _don't_ keer overly much about havin' a crazy creetur' so nigh me, an' I ain't a-goin' to, ef I kin see any way out of it. We ain't a thousand miles from the State asylum."

Mrs. Slogan moved noiselessly as she unfolded the cloth and spread it.

She put the coffee on the table and poured the floating grounds from the top into a tin cup.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," she proposed, timidly. "I'll fix 'er some supper on that piece o' plank thar, an' a big cup o' coffee sweetened jest like she used to like it, ef--" She hesitated.

"Ef what? Out with it!"

"Ef you'll take it in thar whar she's at."

Peter deliberated and cleared his throat.

"She's _yore_ sister," he got out, finally, "an' the last time I went to 'er cabin she wouldn't listen to me no more 'n ef I wus a rat a-squeakin'. You see, a feller's sorter expected to--"

"I don't keer ef she _is_ my sister, I ain't a-goin' in thar, an' that settles it. I declare I'd be ashamed to call myse'f a man ef I wus afeerd uv a weakly, bent-over old woman like she is."

Peter stirred uneasily in his chair.

"I don't keer about holdin' no talk with 'er--ur startin' 'er off by the sight o' me--but I'll go thar--I see 'er door ain't shet--an' I'll put the grub whar she'll see it."

"Well, that'll do," agreed Mrs. Slogan. "Feedin' 'er ain't a-goin' to make 'er any wuss, an' it mought have a quietin' effect."

Peter took the improvised tray when it was brought to him and went out with it, returning in a moment.

"I ketched 'er a-lookin' right at me," he said, "an' so I jest walked bold-faced in an' put the stuff on a table in front of 'er. She looked down in the fire an' didn't speak, an' I didn't nuther. She didn't look one bit dangerous. Now that I've seed 'er, I reckon I'll sleep some. I'm dem glad I did. Ef you'll jest take a peep at 'er you'll feel better."

"Well, I won't close my two eyes," affirmed his wife. "I hain't seed 'er, nur I don't intend to, ef I kin git out of it."

When supper was ready they softly moved their chairs to their places and sat down. Mrs. Slogan didn't eat heartily, but Peter's appet.i.te seemed normal. They had finished eating, Peter had secured his toothpick from the broom, and they had moved back to the fireplace, when they heard a stealthy step on the pa.s.sage floor near the door.