“This ends it. That girl has got to leave.”
“What girl?”
“Ruby. Twenty women this afternoon, and she says she’s going to the Reservation. They’ll be here at half-past two.” It was rather incoherent, but Cim, surprisingly enough, seemed to understand.
“But she told you a month ago.”
“Told me what? How do you know?”
“Because she told me she told you, ever so long ago.”
“Maybe she did. She never mentioned it again. I can’t be expected to remember every time the Indians have one of their powwows. I told her she couldn’t go. She’s in there getting ready. Well, this ends it. She needn’t come back.”
She flounced into the kitchen. There stood a mild-mannered young Indian girl unknown to her.
“What do you want?”
“I am here,” the girl answered, composedly, “to take Ruby Big Elk’s place this afternoon. I am Cherokee. She told me to come.” She plucked Ruby’s blue and white checked gingham apron off the hook behind the door and tied it around her waist.
“Well!” gasped Sabra, relieved, but still angry. Through the kitchen window she saw Cim hitching up the two pintos to the racy little yellow phaeton that Yancey had bought. She must run out and tell him before he left. He had seemed disturbed. She was glad he was clearing out. She liked having the men folks out of the way when afternoon company was due.
Ruby’s door opened. The girl came out. Her appearance was amazing. She wore a dress of white doeskin hanging straight from shoulders to ankles, and as soft and pliable as velvet. The hem was fringed. Front, sleeves, collar were finely beaded in an intricate pattern that was more like embroidery than beading. On her feet were moccasins in ivory white and as exquisitely beaded as the dress. It was the robe of a princess. Her dark Indian eyes were alive. Her skin seemed to glow in contrast with the garment. The girl was, for the moment, almost beautiful.
“Hello, Theresa Jump. … This is Theresa Jump. She will do my work this day. I have told her. She knows about the pineapple and marshmallow salad.” For a moment it seemed to Sabra that just the faintest shadow of amusement flitted over Ruby’s face as she said this. But then, Sabra never had pretended to understand these Indians. “I will be back tomorrow morning.”
She walked slowly out of the house by way of the kitchen door, across the yard with her slow insolent dragging step. A stab of suspicion cut Sabra. She flew to the back porch, stood there a moment. Ruby Big Elk walked slowly toward the barn. Cim drove out with the phaeton and pintos. He saw the Indian woman in her white doeskin dress. His eyes shone enormous. He lifted his head as though to breathe deeply. At that look in his face Sabra ran across the yard. One hand was at her breast, as though an Indian arrow had pierced her. Ruby had set one foot in its cream white moccasin on the buggy step. Cim held out his free hand.
Sabra reached them, panting. “Where are you going?”
“I’m driving Ruby out to the Reservation.”
“No, you’re not. No, you’re not.” She put one hand in a futile gesture on the buggy wheel, as though to stop them by main force. She knew she must not lose her dignity before this Indian woman—before her son. Yet this thing was, to her way of thinking, monstrous.
Cim gathered up the reins, his eyes on the restive ponies. “I may stay to see some of the dancing and the Mescal Ceremony. Father says it’s very interesting. Big Elk has invited me.”
“Your father knows you’re going? Like this?”
“Oh, yes.” He cast a slight, an oblique glance at her hand on the wheel. Her hand dropped heavily to her side. He spoke to the horses. They were off. Ruby Big Elk looked straight ahead. She had uttered no word. Sabra turned and walked back to the house. The hot tears blinded her. She was choking. But her pride spoke, even then. You must not go the kitchen way. That Indian girl will see you. They are all alike. You must go around by the front way. Pretend it is nothing. Oh, God, what shall I do! All those women this afternoon. Perhaps I am making a fuss over nothing. Why shouldn’t he take the Indian girl out to the Reservation and stop an hour or two to see the dances and the rites? … His face! His face when he saw her in that dress.
She bathed her eyes, powdered her nose, changed her dress, came into the kitchen, smiling. “… the pineapple cut into chunks about like this. Then you snip the marshmallow into it with the scissors. Mix whipped cream into your mayonnaise … a cherry on top … little thin sandwiches … damp napkin …” She went into the sitting doom, adjusted a shade, plumped a pillow. The door bell rang. “Howdy-do, Mrs. Nisbett. … No, you’re not. You’re just on time. It’s everybody else who’s late.” She thought, “Women are wonderful. No man could do what I am doing. Smiling and chatting when I am almost crazy.” Her fine dark eyes were luminous. Her clear ivory skin was tinged now with a spot of red on either cheek. She looked very handsome.
Theresa Jump proved clumsy and unteachable. Sabra herself mixed and served the pineapple and marshmallow salad, and though this novelty proved a great success, the triumph of serving it was spoiled for Sabra. She bundled the girl off at six, after the dishes were done. Wearily she began to set the house to rights, but Yancey came home to a confusion of chairs and squashed pillows, a mingled odor of perfumery and coffee; a litter of cake crumbs, bits of embroidery silk, and crumpled tea napkins. His huge frame moving about the cluttered sitting room made these feminine remnants seem ridiculous. The disorder of
