The chairs by the window were empty and Mimi was glad. She sat again by the casket and peace again came to her. How long she sat there she did not know, lost as she was in her own rambling, chaotic musings. Again there came to her a feeling she was not alone. The whispering rose once more, this time from the shadows on the other side of the casket. She sought to put them out of her mind, to lose herself again in her own thoughts. After all, she thought, they are trying to show their respect for Jean and their willingness to be of service. It is thoughtful of them to come over here and sit up. From the kitchen came the sound of voices and the aroma of coffee. Maybe they’ll leave soon if only to get something to eat.
They did not leave. Though she made every effort to close her ears and mind to the words which floated jerkily to her, Mimi found her resentment rising again. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King discussed the probable price of the casket, the furniture. They speculated as to what the widow and daughter would do now, in what sort of financial circumstances the deceased had left them. Mimi heard Carl’s name linked with her own—followed by an appreciative chuckle from Mrs. King in response to some remark made by her companion which Mimi could not hear. It was obvious the women had not seen or heard Mimi reenter the room, for the frankness of their comment indicated their assumption they were alone. On and on they roamed, by innuendo and by unqualified assertion destroying, maligning, tearing to pieces. …
A cold, blind fury seized Mimi. She jumped to her feet. The women gasped as Mimi’s bloodless face framing flashing eyes filled with fury rose at the head of the casket, the light from the tall candles giving it a terrifying, ghostlike appearance.
“You two get out!” Mimi demanded. “You might have had enough respect for my father here to have silenced your filthy, lying tongues! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
Her voice at first was but little more than a sharp whisper. As her anger mastered her it rose until her words carried to the hall beyond. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King, thoroughly frightened, hastily edged around the room towards the door, keeping as great distance as was possible between them and Mimi, who slowly circled her body so that her eyes remained upon them. The two gossips hurried through the little knot which had gathered at the door, drawn there by the commotion. As the door shut behind them Mimi sank into her chair and wept as Mrs. Adams came in and put her arms about her. …
Down the street hurried two indignant, surprised women. Mrs. Plummer speculated plaintively in an aggrieved tone as she panted her way homeward.
“I wonder what was the matter with her,” she asked her companion. “We didn’t say nothing to make her r’ar and tear like that—and over her dead father’s body at that! Some folks sho’ is funny!”
“Mis’ Plummer,” her companion declared portentously, “it’s the truth that hurts! You remember the old sayin’s, ‘The hit dog yelps!’ and ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire!’ Guess we weren’t so far wrong at that … Guess that gal will bear watchin’.” …
Early the next morning Mrs. Rogers came. As she entered the house Mimi rushed to meet her. Her aunt took her in her arms, murmuring gentle words of consolation to Mimi, who felt instantly the presence of a friend and ally. Mrs. Rogers was of medium height, younger than Jean but so like her brother that Jean seemed only a replica to which white, close-cropped hair, a moustache and a little beard had been added.
“Poor, dear Mimi,” she whispered, her eyes wet. She pressed Mimi to her in a warm outpouring of real affection, affection which sprang into existence unreservedly, binding them together in a flash of understanding and love. …
Mimi and her aunt talked a long time together just before Mrs. Rogers returned to New York two days after the funeral.
“What are your plans, Mimi? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Sophie—this thing has come on me so suddenly I’m all upset. I suppose I’ll stay on here as long as I can get along with Mrs. Daquin—”
“Why did Jean marry her? She’s not our sort at all—an estimable woman, I suppose, but—well, she just isn’t the sort—not Margot’s type at all.”
Mimi told her the circumstances of the marriage, of the years of misunderstanding which had followed the union.
“Just like Jean to do a thing like that,” his sister observed when Mimi had finished. “Why stay on here with her? Won’t you go back to New York with me?
“Oh, Aunt Sophie, I’d love to—but I can’t leave Atlanta right now—”
“What’s his name?” Mrs. Rogers demanded with what to Mimi seemed uncanny shrewdness.
“Carl Hunter,” she answered frankly, her face reddening. “You see, he needs me.” And she told the story simply, fully, knowing that her aunt would understand. When she finished, Mrs. Rogers smiled sympathetically.
“I see—I see. But if ever things get unpleasant here, send me a wire and come on to New York. I’ve been pretty lonely since Henry died and I’ve always wanted a daughter. I’d try to make you happy and I don’t think there’s overmuch happiness here for you with Jean’s widow. And up North you’d have a much better chance than here where all you
