“Whe is July?” he growled furiously.
“Gawd knows. July went off yesterday on de excursion an’ e ain’ never come home, not till yet.” Grief melted all her pride and she sobbed out loud.
“Is cryin gwine to fetch em back?” he asked presently in a gruff tone. “I told you to leave dat no-count rascal alone, enty? You wouldn’ listen at nobody. Not nobody. You’s made a hard bed for yousef, now you got to lie in it.”
With each word he waxed crosser. “Budda,” she plead meekly, “please, Budda, don’ holler at me now. You an’ Auntie an’ de baby is all I got left in de world.”
“You would have you way, enty? Now, you want evybody to be sorry fo you. You ought to be shame. A-blubberin’ like a baby, stead o bein glad to be shet o dat low-lived scoundrel. What did you want wid em, anyhow? Didn’ e disgrace you befo e married you? Tell me dat?”
He paused for Mary’s answer, but she had become wordless. Her one thought was to get home before she fell dead of misery there on the woodpile, for the merciless words went clean through her heart, cutting off her breath, her strength, her courage, all her hope.
The great crimson sun dropped behind the trees; black shadows came out from under the houses and stayed.
Night was falling, red firelight twinkled out through the open doors and windows of the cabins up and down the street, but Mary’s house was almost dark. She sat alone by the hearth where only a few embers glowed, bewildered, filled with unspeakable loneliness and grief. Maum Hannah was off with some sick person, Unex slept and she had no friend left to comfort her. A few people had come by to speak to her this morning, but she knew they had come to see how she took July’s going and she didn’t encourage them to stay and talk. If she had the heart, she would go away and leave everything, everybody. She could find work of some kind in the town, and yet, this was home. She had known no other place in her life. The very earth here was a part of herself, and it held her so fast she could never leave it, no matter what came. She must stay and face everything the best she could, as well as her misery would let her.
The old cowbell began ringing for meeting-time. Voices and footsteps passed her door. A sudden stumbling on the steps startled her. “Budda Ben? Is dat you?” she cried, fear jerking the words out of her mouth.
“I cut you some nice wood, Si May-e. Come, fetch it in befo de dew has it wet.” He spoke gently, kindly, as if he had never said a harsh word to her in his life.
“Budda—Budda—I’m so glad to see you—I’m lonesome, I’m most dead—”
She was not angry with him, for deep in her heart she knew Budda was her faithful friend. Puffing and groaning with the effort to mount the steps, Budda came inside. Sobs choked Mary, and her brain whirled dizzily.
“Go get de wood, gal. Le me mend you fire. Whe de baby is?”
“Yonder on de bed—a-sleepin.” She stood still in bewilderment as much a helpless baby as Unex himself.
“I’ll stay wid em till you get you wood. Hurry, befo somebody else takes em. Dem chillen is tricky devils. You can’ leave nothin’ a-lyin around.”
Budda hobbled to where Unex lay sound asleep. “Such a fine lil boy,” he murmured.
Mary went and hurried back with an armful of wood, then another. Budda built up the fire, and when it blazed up bright, he said this was meeting night. Mary had better come go.
Mary’s heavy heart throbbed in her breast, and a sob shook her as she leaned over the bed where Unex was. If she went to meeting she’d have to take him. He couldn’t stay by himself in the dark, even asleep. She had been by herself all day, she might feel better to go where some people were.
Wrapping a warm shawl around him very gently, so as not to rouse him, she eased him up into her arms. Then holding him carefully, she closed the front door behind her and stepped out into the warm dark. All the red light the sunset had poured over the land and sky had died out. Night had crept out from under all the houses and rose up over the fields, chasing every shadow of daylight away. The afterglow had left the sky. The stars were appearing one by one, white stars first, then red ones and blue ones, all marching slowly toward sunset.
Where was July now?
Maum Hannah’s cabin, where meeting was held every Wednesday and Sunday night, stood at the other end of the street, as the washed-out, dilapidated road running between the two rows of weather-beaten cabins was called. Not many people would be there yet. Only the old people, the good earnest Christians, cared to be on time for the beginning of the prayer-meeting. The young and the sinful preferred to linger on the doorsteps chatting, laughing, smoking, talking over the pleasures of yesterday’s excursion to town.
As Mary passed them she called out as cheerfully and pleasantly as she could, “How yunnuh do?” but she knew that her lively tone fooled nobody.
The answers came back at once, clear, warm, but pitying, “I well, Si May-e, how you?” with an undercurrent of murmurs, “Poor child.” “E’s frettin right now.” “July ought not to do em so.” “No.” “July is a case, a heavy case.” Then the kindly voices fell back into talk about the excursion to town.
The same talk had run steadily through the whole day. That excursion yesterday was the best excursion ever run. The most orderly. Not a soul had been shot. Nobody got cut with a razor. The one man bent on starting a row got pushed clean off the boat. A good thing, too. Lord, town had a fine
