“June,” she said in a voice that was husky and low, “please don’ go. Seems like if you was to leave home, I couldn’ hardly stand it.”
June turned and looked at her. His mouth was too full to speak, the yellow crumbs were all over his lips, but as soon as he could swallow he burst out.
“Why, Si May-e, I didn’t know you would take it so hard. Fo Christ’s sake, looka de pure water in you eyes.”
Mary smiled and shook her head.
“No, you don’ see no water in my eyes. I’m done quit a-cryin. But I sho would wallow all over de ground and bawl like a stuck hog if you was to go off an’ leave me an’ Unex.”
“Den, I’ll stay, Si May-e. I didn’ know you’d feel so bad about my gwinen.”
That was all. June showed no sign that he had been conjured, but she had done it with her eyes wide open, knowing June, knowing what it all might come to. He showed that the conjure rag had laid its heavy spell on him without tarrying.
The red rooster stepped out in front of the steps and called the hens to make haste and come see some fine tasty thing he had found. Mary knew he was fooling them, playing a trick on them.
Did June mean all the things he was saying to her now? Did she look as young as a single girl? Did he think as much of her as he said? Her heart seemed to stop beating. Her breath was cut off. She could not answer him a single word.
XVII
The next Christmas Day found Mary with Seraphine, a tiny baby girl, in her arms. Mary herself was a new creature. Her heart was light, her eyes sparkled and her laughter rang out as gaily as anybody’s. She had learned again how to enjoy waking up to see the sky and to work all day long without slackening her speed. Her blood was warm with new life. It was pleasant to walk along the roads, to go to the forest for firewood, to swing her ax like a man, driving its keen bright edge into the clean white wood of the trees. She could never be the same free-hearted girl she had been, for trouble had left a scar somewhere deep down in her breast.
But sin and Seraphine had agreed with her. She would have been completely happy except for Budda. He would not speak to her, so cross was he that she had brought a child into the world after her lawful husband had left her. Instead of coming to see her Christmas Day, he sat on the woodpile cutting splinters, frowning and being as surly as he was on all the other days of the year. When she called a cheerful “Christmas gift” to him, he glowered at her and turned his face away with an ugly snort that cut her to the very quick. Budda was too hard on her, too unforgiving.
He tried to make her marry June, then he tried to make her quit grieving over July but now, when she had proved to the world by means of Seraphine that July was out of her mind, and June in his place, Budda was cross and mean and would not speak to her even on Christmas Day. It didn’t seem right. He was so vexed with her, he hated a little innocent baby.
Mary thought and thought until the long shadows began closing in on the sunshine. She must do something. If Christmas passed and Budda still stayed angry she would never be able to win him back.
The sun had set and the clear first dark had grown keen and chilly, but she wrapped a warm woolen shawl carefully around Seraphine and, hurrying to the woodpile, laid the child in Budda’s lap, calling out, “Here’s a Christmas gift for you, Budda.” She ran away as fast as she could, stopping behind a tree to hide so she could peep out and see what happened. Budda was ready to go home, but now he was trapped. He dropped his stick and snatched the baby up as if he would throw her away.
Mary’s heart stood still. “May-e! May-e!” he bawled. “You better quit you crazy doins. Come back here an’ git dis child!” A dead silence made Seraphine’s faint “Goo-goo” sound very sweet.
“May-e! Come git dis chile.”
“Goo-goo,” Seraphine cooed.
Budda Ben must have been stunned for it was several minutes before he moved again. He carefully laid the child down on the woodpile among the chips and sticks and reached for his walking stick. But he could not get himself up and balanced on his feet without running a risk of stumbling over Seraphine.
“May-e!” he shouted, and Mary laughed to herself. At last she had made him not only speak to her, but made him call her to come to him.
Seraphine began a little fretful whimpering which suddenly shifted into a furious wailing. The sticks of wood were hurting her soft little bones. She wanted to be taken up.
“May-e, you fool, come get dis baby befo e catch e death o cold on dis woodpile.”
Mary’s mirth changed to anxiety, but she must not give in yet. Budda would hate to be caught with a crying baby at his feet. He might try to hush it before anybody saw his plight.
“Sh-sh-sh,” he began softly, but it did no good. “Shut you mouth, fo Gawd’s sake,” he growled, then he leaned and scooped Seraphine up into his arms again.
Maum Hannah heard the disturbance, and came to her door and called out, “Who dat duh cry so pitiful, Ben?”
“Come here, Ma!” Ben growled, and soon Maum Hannah had Seraphine, carrying her into the house while Ben hobbled along beside them, muttering what Mary knew were
