Margaret smiled faintly. Her hand dropped to her side and she glanced through the window. Her face changed. “Here comes Aunt Betsy. She hasn’t been here but once since we moved in.”
She watched Miss Betsy approaching with rigid determination across the wet brown earth. She disappeared around the side of the house, in the direction of the kitchen door. Margaret made a quick movement, coloring with annoyance. In a few moments the sitting room door opened and Betsy Hobart entered decisively. Mrs. Holbrooks looked over her glasses at the visitor.
“Well, howdy, Betsy. Ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”
Betsy stopped abruptly near the door. She frowned, her face tightening. She looked at Margaret with an expression of cold annoyance.
“I didn’t know you had visitors,” she said.
“Land sakes, I’m no visitor!” said Mrs. Holbrooks with a chuckle. “I’m a friend.”
“Sit down, please,” said Margaret, indicating a chair. But Miss Betsy, though she moved to the chair, only stood behind it, clutching the top. She glared at the girl for a moment.
“You haven’t started a garden. I was just wondering if you wanted to start one. If you are, you’d better do it right away. I’ve got some seeds and plants I could give you.”
Margaret looked at her, moved. “Thank you,” she replied gently. “I haven’t thought about a garden. I’d like to have one. I could bring over some of my grandmother’s rose bushes ”
She was enormously touched, eager to approach the older woman again. But Miss Betsy’s face was still relentless.
“Always have a garden, I say,” said Mrs. Holbrooks, knitting tranquilly. “It kind of brings you closer to things.” She seemed not to have noticed the other woman’s rudeness.
Miss Betsy glanced at her contemptuously. “Margaret, I want to say something to you.”
Margaret hesitated, embarrassed. Then she left the room, followed by her husband’s aunt. Once in the large dim hall outside, she waited in silence. She looked at Miss Betsy; the older woman’s face had changed. Her gray lips were dry. When she spoke her voice was low, hurried, yet sharp.
“Did John tell you that he’s arranging to sell old Margot’s land—to the railroad? It’ll go right across the graves, over old Margot’s grave, and the others. Did you know that?”
Margaret stared at her blankly. “He never told me that,” she whispered. She put her cold fingers swiftly to her face. “He can’t do that! It’s Pa’s land! It’s my land!”
Miss Betsy shrugged. “I didn’t think he’d told you. He did say he was going to drive over to see your father about it tonight. I thought you ought to know. Now then, don’t tell him I told you.”
She went abruptly toward the farther door. There she paused. She glanced back at Margaret; there was a warning expression on her face. Then she went out. Margaret stood there for a moment, confused, angered, filled with panic. She went back to Mrs. Holbrooks. The old woman was standing, gathering her knitting.
“Gettin’ late. Well, Maggie, I’ve had a nice time, settin’ here talkin’. Kin you and Johnny ride over Sunday and eat dinner with us?”
“Yes. No! I don’t know,” replied Margaret, shaken. She pushed back her hair from her forehead that was damp. Mrs. Holbrooks did not look at her. She continued to chatter amiably as Margaret helped her into her shawls and gave her her bonnet.
“Hear that Johnny’s got a mortgage on every farm in the county, ’cept ours,” she chuckled. “’Spect he’s plannin’ for that boy you got comin’ in June, Maggie.” She chuckled louder. “Lots of folks hereabouts are agoin’ to be disappointed that he’s comin’ in June. They kind of expected he’d be comin’ in March or this month.”
Margaret smiled mechanically. When her visitor had gone, she discovered that her hands were trembling. She sat before the fire and stared blindly at it.
After a little while, one of the hired girls, a ruddy country wench, opened the door without knocking and put her head into the room.
“You there, Mis’ Hobart? Your sister Linda’s out in the kitchen. Told her to go right in here, but she wouldn’t. She wants to see you.”
“I’m coming.” Margaret stood up. She went out into the big kitchen where the two hired girls were cooking and baking. Fifteen-year-old Linda, shabby, thin and tall in her baggy coat, her head wet with rain, stood shyly near the kitchen door.
“Hello, Linda,” Margaret said gently, kissing the girl’s rosy cheek.
“I kin only stay a minit,” mumbled the girl defensively.
“Come into the sitting room, Linda, and talk to me. Mary,” she said to one of the hired girls, “bring in some coffee and some of that cake from supper last night.”
In the sitting room Margaret tried to get Linda to remove her coat, but the girl refused stubbornly. It was evident that she was uneasy in all this clean grandeur. She had never been here before. She sat on the edge of a chair, glancing resentfully about. Margaret studied her thoughtfully. In a year or two, she thought with pleased surprise, Linda would be very pretty. Her hair was thick and fine, shining with pure gold. Her bones were delicate and gracefully formed. Her eyes were large and blue, edged with thick, yellow lashes. Her nose was piquant and small, her lips full and pouting.
“I kin only stay a minit,” muttered Linda again. She twisted uneasily on her chair. “Ma sent me. She said not to tell Pa.”
“Well, what is it, Linda?” asked Margaret encouragingly. She wanted to be affectionate; for the first time she realized that between herself and the rest of Melinda Hamilton’s children was a bitter wall of hostility. Linda was her mother’s favorite; she would never be close to Margaret Hobart.
Linda shuffled her feet. “Well,” she muttered. “Pa won’t buy Ma any more medicine. Said she’s pilled and drunk him down. So he won’t buy her no more. She said she’d die without ’em. And he said go, then, and die. I’m sick alookin’ at your miserable face, anyways.” She glanced up at Margaret, real fright and childish grief on her face. “And so, Ma was wonderin’ if you’d help her. Lend her a little money, and not tell Pa. She’ll die if you don’t.”
Margaret studied the thin, half-starved body, the ugly shoes, the torn coat. Melinda’s pills and bottles had robbed her children of decencies.
“Linda, have you gone to school much this winter?” she asked suddenly.
Linda, forgetting her shyness, looked up and stared at her sister, confused at this irrelevance.
“No, I ain’t,” she stammered. “Only ’bout a month. Ma’s been porely all winter, though I ’spect you didn’t know,” she added reproachfully. “You ain’t been over to see her but once, after Christmas. Ma said she didn’t hold much for book learnin’. Not much use.”
“Why, Linda, you can hardly read or write! It’s a shame.”
Linda stood up abruptly, began to fumble on her coat for buttons that were not there.
“If you don’t want to lend Ma the money—” she began.
Obeying an obscure impulse, Margaret caught at the girl’s hand, forced her to look at her between her flickering yellow lashes.
“Do you want me to lend her the money, Linda?” she asked with a desperate attempt to approach the child.
Linda stared, blinking. Then her face dissolved into tears. “I don’t want Ma to die!” she sobbed. Margaret stood up, put her arms about the thin shoulders, which silently repulsed her.
“Then, Linda,” she said gently, “I’ll give her the money. She mustn’t even think about returning it! I really owe it to her.” She kissed the child’s shrinking cheek, allowed Linda to withdraw a step from her. Her heart ached with new pain.
“Ma won’t die,” she said. “She’s always had her pills and things. If she wants them, she can have them. Don’t cry, Linda, dear. I—I want to help you. And Linda, you’ll come to see me often, won’t you? I want to see you. I want to help you. The others are so little. But you are grown now. We can be such friends, together. You’ll try to love me a little, won’t you, Linda?”
Her voice was infinitely pleading, gentle.
“Well, Ma’s porely. She needs me. ’Spect I can’t come often. But there ain’t nothin’ to keep you from comin’ to see Ma, Maggie.” Her sliding eye fixed itself curiously on Margaret’s swollen body. Margaret shrank from that glance; it seemed impure, sniggering. She ached again for the child.
“I’ll come,” she said. “I’ll really come, Linda. I just didn’t think anyone wanted me.” She felt defensive. “Well, here’s your coffee and cake,” she said as Mary entered with a tray.
“I’m not hungry,” said Linda with renewed hostility.
Mary laid the tray on the table and withdrew, her nose high.
“But you must eat it. You’ve got a long walk home. And while you eat it, I’ll go upstairs for my purse. Sit down, Linda. See, it’s real nice cake and good hot coffee. Sit down here, right by the fire, and dry yourself.”
The girl obeyed unwillingly.
Margaret went heavily upstairs, dragging legs that seemed weighted with lead. She went to her room and counted out three big silver dollars, went to her wardrobe, withdrew a nearly new warm coat and two woolen dresses. She wrapped up the garments in a bright red shawl and then went downstairs again. Linda had eaten the cake, every crumb, and had drunk the coffee. She seemed ashamed and angry as Margaret entered, and pushed the dishes roughly from her. Margaret began to speak cheerfully.
“Here’s three dollars, Linda. And here’s a nice shawl for Ma. And in the shawl’s a nice coat for you and two dresses. Almost new. You’ll like them.”
Linda stared at the garments. “We don’t want your ole cast-off things. We ain’t beggars,” she said rudely. But her blue eyes were fixed longingly on the bundle.
“Beggars?” repeated Margaret, smiling. “Are my mother and sister beggars if they take something I can give them? Here, child, put the coat on. There, it fits beautifully! How warm it seems, with that little high fur collar. Ma will like the shawl; it’s always cold at home.”
The dark-brown fur heightened the milky-whiteness of Linda’s flesh, brightened the blue eyes, gave the childish form a certain regality which Margaret’s possessed. She’s beautiful, thought Margaret wistfully. I’ve got to do something for Linda.
The girl left soon, listening to Margaret’s gentle advice and tenderness with a faint smile of malice. Margaret watched her go, sighing.
It was only about half-past three when John came in, shaking his hat free of clinging raindrops, stamping and shouting.
“There you are, old girl! Feelin’ all right? That’s fine. Goin’ to give me a kiss?”
He swept Margaret up from her chair into the circle of his arms, kissed her thoroughly. She made a small mechanical gesture of repulsion, but, despite herself, thewarm security that was John flooded her, and she relaxed. She dropped her hand on his shoulder, closing her eyes. If only he would hold me like this all the time, I would never think of anything else, she thought. But when he released her and she looked up into the glowing face, she felt a physical withdrawal, a sense of disorientation. This man was a stranger; he had no right to her body. They had nothing to say to each other.
“Fourteen cows calved today and yesterday,” he said with satisfaction as he sat down before the fire. “’Spect ten more to calve tomorrow or the next day. First thing you know, we’ll have the best stock farm in the whole state! Everythin’s comin’ along fine. Elmer Cannon’d better be ready with his mortgage money in June, or I’ll have another nice strip of bottom land! Time and again I’ve tried to show him how to get the most from his place, but he’s plain shiftless.”
“He’s got ten children,” said Margaret
“Eh? Ten young uns? Was I their dad?” He chuckled. “What the hell does he want with ten, anyway? If he spent less time in bed and more down in his fields he’d be able to take care of things like mortgages and such. I can’t be Santa Claus and support a lot of shiftless kids.”
Margaret’s listless face became animated. “Something might be done about that, John. All these children, and no place for them. Like—like Ma and Pa. Linda was here a while ago, and she’s getting so pretty. But she never goes to school because Ma’s poorly. She’s had ten children. And Linda, I suppose, will marry someone like herself, and that’ll be the end of her.”
John scowled. “Well, what do you want me to do? Start a county farm ’specially to house the overflow of brats?” He looked thoughtful. “Might not be a bad idea. Anyway, Linda’s nearly growed now. Why can’t the gal hire herself out?”
“Your wife’s sister working in someone’s kitchen?” suggested Margaret shrewdly. John pulled at his lower lip, frowning. Then, to Margaret’s surprise, his scowl faded and his face assumed a certain blandness.
“Well, who knows? Perhaps your Pa’ll get some money, somehow, and do somethin’ for his young uns.” He stood up, stretching his arms, not meeting her eye. “I think I’ll run down to his place and talk to him a spell. One of the men said he saw Pete goin’ home a while ago. ’Spect there’s nothin’ much doin’ at the forge.”
Margaret stood up, too. She tried to speak casually. “I’ll go with you. Linda was saying Ma’s sick, and I ought to see her. Besides, Dr. Webster said last week that I should get out as much as possible.”
John shook his head. “No, ma’am, you ain’t ridin’ over those roads in any buggy with me. Only a couple of months now and I ain’t takin’ chances. I’m countin’ on that boy of mine.”
Margaret laid her hand on his arm, smiled up at him cajolingly. “John, I’m no city lady. I’m used to bad roads. I’m as strong as an ox. I want to see Ma. I don’t want you to leave me here alone. Please take me; I’m lonesome.”
John was about to refuse again, but a thought struck him. Might as well get everything over at once, he thought, and no more shilly-shallying. If I drive slow maybe it won’t hurt her. He smiled indulgently.
“Come on, then. Wrap up warm. Weather’s treacherous yet. Here, give me another kiss, first.”
They drove under dripping green canopies of trees over a road like a muddy river. On each side stretched fields that looked like wet gray corduroy, lonely, running and desolate. Moisture dripped on the roof of the buggy; brown water splashed onto the floor. John smoked his pipe, and so heavy was the damp air that the smoke refused to leave the interior of the buggy and filled it with acrid fog. Both husband and wife were unusually silent. Though John removed his pipe once or twice and seemed about to say something, he always replaced it and stared glumly before him. They drove very slowly.
The little Hamilton shack seemed extraordinarily desolate, its eaves drifting with a fog of smoke. The wails of children could be heard from within, and the angry roar of Peter’s voice.
As John hitched his horse to a post, the door opened and Peter himself stamped out, shouting. He gaped with surprise at the sight of his visitors, then his huge and hairy face lighted with pleasure. He came to them boisterously, kissed Margaret smartly, and insisted on shaking John’s hand. Nevertheless, there was constraint between the two men.
Margaret held her velvet skirts high to avoid the gritty floors. Melinda was lying on a cot at one side of the stove, huddled beneath dirty quilts, while the children swarmed about her. Linda was preparing biscuits, her thin young arms white with flour. Margaret glanced about, sickened. Had she actually spent nineteen years in such a place? She shivered even while she went to her mother.
Melinda was really ill this time. Her face was drawn, her white lips blistered and dry, her gray plaits sprawled over the wrinkled sheet. She watched Margaret’s approach, and, despite her illness, her old malevolence sprang into her sunken eyes.
“So you fin’ly decided to come to visit your pore relations, Maggie?”
“Ma! You’re sick!”
“Much you care, Maggie, with your fine new clothes and fine new house and fine new husband!” She cast a vicious look at John, who was now entering with Peter just behind him.
John drew in a breath of the rank air. “Wh
ew!” he cried. “I don’t hold much with this new fangled idea of lots of fresh air, but this place would be better if you’d open a window! How’re you, Ma?” He loomed in the place like an ox in a small stable.
Melinda began to whimper.
“Oh, shut up!” said Peter irritably. “John and Maggie didn’t come to hear you grunt! Set down, John. Set down, Maggie. ’Spect you oughtn’t be on your feet much, eh?”
Melinda became weakly hysterical. “Yes, Pete Hamilton, you can make a fuss of ’em, and they never comin’ near the place to see if we be dead or alive, or starvin’, or anythin’, for months! You never did have no more character than a kicked dog!”
John shrugged good-naturedly. “Never mind, Pete. See here, Ma, didn’t you get them hams and spuds and cabages I sent you? Sure, you did! Well, that means you ain’t starved none. And how about that cow I gave you when your own died on you? Still givin’ milk, eh? And them sacks of flour and sides of bacon? Well, now! And didn’t I give Pete here thirty dollars at Christmas to help pay his taxes and make things easy for you?”
Pete glowered. “Oh, she’s allus bellyachin’. Give her the world and she’d ask you for the sky. Shet up, now, Melindy.” He jerked his head toward the “settin’ room.” “Come on in there, John. Kin see you got somethin’ on your mind. Maggie can stay here with her ma and listen to her gruntin’s.”
Margaret watched the door close behind the men, then hastily withdrew her leather purse from her muff. She emptied it on the table near her mother’s bed. Ten round silver dollars. Melinda’s sharp and wizened face changed; her hot hand slipped over the money and put it under her pillow. None of the children saw it.
“I’ll send Dr. Webster over tomorrow, Ma,” said Margaret. Then, removing her coat and throwing it over a chair, she opened the door and went into the “settin’ room.” John was standing by the smoldering wood fire, filling his pipe. Peter was smoking comfortably as he rocked in one of the shabby chairs. He had removed his boots and was stretching his toes out to the blaze. John turned and frowned as Margaret entered.