A Spinner in the Sun Part 5

"Well," continued Aunt Hitty, after an aggravating pause, "the woman that lives in that house has been burnt."

Araminta gasped. "Oh, Aunt Hitty, was she bad? What did she do and how did she get burned before she was dead?"

Miss Mehitable brushed aside the question as though it were an annoying fly. "I don't want it talked of," she said, severely.

"Evelina Grey was a friend of mine, and she is yet. If there's anything on earth I despise, it's a gossip. People who haven't anything better to do than to go around prying into other folks's affairs are better off dead, I take it. My mother never permitted me to gossip, and I've held true to her teachin'." Aunt Hitty smoothed her skirts with superior virtue and tied a knot in her thread.

"How did she get burned?" asked Araminta, eagerly.

"Gossip," said Miss Mehitable, sententiously, "does a lot of harm and makes a lot of folks miserable. It's a good thing to keep away from, and if I ever hear of your gossiping about anybody, I'll shut you up in your room for two weeks and keep you on bread and water."

Araminta trembled. "What is gossiping, Aunt Hitty?" she asked in a timid, awe-struck tone.

"Talking about folks," explained Miss. .h.i.tty. "Tellin' things about 'em they wouldn't tell themselves."

It occurred to Araminta that much of the conversation at the crossroads might appropriately be cla.s.sed under that head, but, of course, Aunt Hitty knew what she was talking about. She remembered the last quilting Aunt Hitty had given, when the Ladies' Aid Society had been invited, en ma.s.se, to finish off the quilt Araminta's rebellious fingers had just completed. One of the ladies had been obliged to leave earlier than the rest, and----

"I don't believe," thought Araminta, "that Mrs. Gardner would have told how her son ran away from home, nor that she didn't dust her bed slats except at house-cleaning time, nor that they ate things other people would give to the pigs."

"I expect there'll be a lot of questions asked about Evelina,"

observed Miss Mehitable, breaking in rudely upon Araminta's train of thought, "as soon 's folks finds out she's come back to live here, and that she has to wear a veil all the time, even when she doesn't wear her hat. What I'm telling you for is to show you what happens to women that haven't sense enough to keep away from men. If Evelina 'd kept away from Doctor Dexter, she wouldn't have got burnt."

"Did Doctor Dexter burn her?" asked Araminta, breathlessly. "I thought it was G.o.d."

At the psychological moment, Doctor Dexter drove by, bowing to Miss Mehitable as he pa.s.sed. Araminta had observed that this particular event always fl.u.s.tered her aunt.

"Maybe, it was G.o.d and maybe it was Doctor Dexter," answered Miss Mehitable, quickly. "That's something there don't n.o.body know except Evelina and Doctor Dexter, and it's not for me to ask either one of 'em, though I don't doubt some of the sewin' society 'll make an errand to Evelina's to find out. I've got to keep 'em off 'n her, if I can, and that's a big job for one woman to tackle.

"Anyhow, she got burnt and got burnt awful, and it was at his house that it happened. It was shameless, the way Evelina carried on.

Why, if you'll believe me, she'd actually go to his house when there wa'n't no need of it--n.o.body sick, nor no medicine to be bought, nor anything. Some said they was goin' to be married."

The scorn which Miss Mehitable managed to throw into the word "married" indicated that the state was the crowning ignominy of the race. The girl's cheek flamed into crimson, for her own mother had been married, and everybody knew it. Sometimes the deep disgrace seemed almost too much for Araminta to endure.

"That's what comes of it," explained Miss. .h.i.tty, patiently, as a teacher might point to a demonstration clearly made out on a blackboard for an eager cla.s.s. "If she'd stayed at home as a girl should stay, and hadn't gone to Doctor Dexter's, she wouldn't have got burnt. Anybody can see that.

"There was so much goin' on at the time that I sorter lost track of everything, otherwise I'd have known more about it, but I guess I know as much as anybody ever knew. Evelina was to Doctor Dexter's--shameless hussy that she was--and she got burnt. She was there all the afternoon and they took her to the hospital in the city on the night train and she stayed there until she was well, but she never came back here until just now. Her mother went with her to take care of her and before Evelina came out of the hospital, her mother keeled over and died. Sarah Grey always had a weak heart and a weak head to match it. If she hadn't have had, she'd have brought up Evelina different,

"Neither of 'em was ever in the house again. Neither one ever came back, even for their clothes. They had plenty of money, then, and they just bought new ones. When the word come that Evelina was burnt, Sarah Grey just put on her hat and locked her doors and run up to Doctor Dexter's. n.o.body ever heard from them again until Jim Gardner's second cousin on his father's side sent a paper with Sarah Grey's obituary in it. And now, after twenty-five years, Evelina's come back.

"The poor soul's just sittin' there, in all the dust and cobwebs.

When I get time, I aim to go over there and clean up the house for her--'t ain't decent for a body to live like that. I'll take you with me, to help scrub, and what I'm telling you all this for is so 's you won't ask any questions, nor act as if you thought it was queer for a woman to wear a white veil all the time. You'll have to act as if nothing was out of the way at all, and not look at her any more than you can help. Just pretend it's the style to wear a veil pinned to your hair all the time, and you've been wearin' one right along and have forgot and left it to home. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Aunt Hitty."

"And when people come here to find out about it, you're not to say anything. Leave it all to me. 'T ain't necessary for you to lie, but you can keep your mouth shut. And I hope you see now what it means to a woman to walk straight on her own path that the Lord has laid out for her, and to let men alone. They're pizen, every one of 'em."

Nun-like, Araminta sat in her chair and sewed steadily at her dainty seam, but, none the less, she was deeply stirred with pity for women who so forgot themselves--who had not Aunt Hitty's superior wisdom.

At the end of the prayer which Miss Mehitable had taught the child, and which the woman still repeated in her nightly devotions, was this eloquent pa.s.sage:

"And, Oh Lord, keep me from the contamination of marriage. For Thy sake. Amen."

"Araminta," said Aunt Hitty, severely, "cover up your foot!"

Modestly, Araminta drew down her skirt. One foot was on the immaculate footstool and her ankle was exposed to view--a lovely ankle, in spite of the broad-soled, common-sense shoes which she always wore.

"How often have I told you to keep your ankles covered ?" demanded Miss Mehitable. "Suppose the minister had come in suddenly!

Suppose--upon my word! Speakin' of angels--if there ain't the minister now!"

The Reverend Austin Thorpe came slowly up the brick-bordered path, his head bowed in thought. He was painfully near-sighted, but he refused to wear gla.s.ses. On the doorstep he paused and wiped his feet upon the corn-husk mat until even Miss Mehitable, beaming at him through the window, thought he was overdoing it. Unconsciously, she took credit to herself for the minister's neatness.

Stepping carefully, lest he profane the hall carpet by wandering off the rug, the minister entered the parlour, having first taken off his coat and hat and hung them upon their appointed hooks in the hall.

It was cold, and the cheery warmth of the room beckoned him in. He did not know that he tried Miss. .h.i.tty by trespa.s.sing, so to speak, upon her preserves. She would have been better pleased if he remained in his room when he was not at the table or out, but, to do him justice, the reverend gentleman did not often offend her thus.

Araminta, blus.h.i.+ng, took her foot from the footstool and pulled feverishly at her skirts. As Mr. Thorpe entered the room, she did not look up, but kept her eyes modestly upon her work.

"There ain't no need to tear out the gathers," Miss. .h.i.tty said, in a warning undertone, referring to Aramlnta's skirts. "Why, Mr. Thorpe!

How you surprised me! Come in and set a spell," she added, grudgingly.

Steering well away from the centre-table with its highly prized ornament, Thorpe gained the chair in which, if he did not lean against the tidy, he was permitted to sit. He held himself bolt upright and warmed his hands at the stove. "It is good to be out,"

he said, cheerfully, "and good to come in again. A day like this makes one appreciate the blessing of a home."

Miss. .h.i.tty watched the white-haired, inoffensive old man with the keen scrutiny of an eagle guarding its nest. He did not lean upon the tidy, nor rest his elbows upon the crocheted mats which protected the arms of the chair. In short, he conducted himself as a gentleman should when in the parlour of a lady.

His blue, near-sighted eyes rested approvingly upon Araminta. "How the child grows!" he said, with a friendly smile upon his kindly old face. "Soon we shall have a young lady on our hands."

Araminta coloured and bent more closely to her sewing.

"I hope I'm not annoying you?" questioned the minister, after an interval.

"Not at all," said Miss Mehitable, politely.

"I wanted to ask about some one," pursued the Reverend Mr. Thorpe.

"It seems that there is a new tenant in the old house on the hill that has been empty for so long--the one the village people say is haunted. It seems a woman is living there, quite alone; and she always wears a veil, on account of some--some disfigurement."

Miss. .h.i.tty's false teeth clicked, sharply, but there was no other sound except the clock, which, in the pause, struck four. "I thought--" continued the minister, with a rising inflection.

Hitherto, he had found his hostess of invaluable a.s.sistance in his parish work. It had been necessary to mention only the name. As upon the turning of a faucet a stream of information gushed forth from the fountain of her knowledge. Age, date and place of birth, ancestry on both sides three generations back, with complete and illuminating biographical details of ancestry and individual; education, financial standing, manner of living, illnesses in the family, including dates and durations of said illnesses, accidents, if any, medical attendance, marriages, births, deaths, opinions, reverses, present locations and various careers of descendants, list of misfortunes, festivities, entertainments, church affiliation past and present, political leanings, and a vast amount of other personal data had been immediately forthcoming. Tagged to it, like the postscript of a woman's letter, was Miss. .h.i.tty's own concise, permanent, neatly labelled opinion of the family or individual, the latter thrown in without extra charge.

"Perhaps you didn't know," remarked the minister, "that such a woman had come." His tone was inquiring. It seemed to him that something must be wrong if she did not know.

"Minty," said Miss. .h.i.tty, abruptly, "leave the room!"

Araminta rose, gathered up her patchwork, and went out, carefully closing the door. It was only in moments of great tenderness that her aunt called her "Minty."

The light footsteps died away upon the stairs. Tactlessly, the minister persisted. "Don't you know?" he asked.

Miss Mehitable turned upon him. "If I did," she replied, hotly, "I wouldn't tell any prying, gossiping man. I never knew before it was part of a minister's business to meddle in folks' private affairs.

You'd better be writing your sermon and studyin' up on h.e.l.l."

"I--I--" stammered the minister, taken wholly by surprise, "I only hoped to give her the consolation of the church."