THE STORYTELLER
, FIRST PETEI:
(By Helen Topping Miller). They walked very slowly up the hill from the sawmill in the valley below —slowly and solemnly, as men walk at such times. Their feet—broad ploughmen's feet, accustomed to rough furrows and rocky hillsides—dragged over the smooth grass of the lane like feet utterly weary. No one spoke. Except for the muffled sniffing of Bland Whittaker, the slowstepping procession that bore the dead man's body wa3 silent. It was not the weight of their burden which made them lag more and more as they came near the Sutton gate. It was the appalling thought which burned in each man's mind like a whitehot ember, the dread which made each man's skin tighten and chill. Mel Martin voiced it at iast when they had shifted their load for the last time, at the front gate. "Somebody's got to tell Minnie," he said, bluntly. Each man of the seven drew a long breath, glad that the numbing truth had been spoken. Each man of the seven waited, glancing covertly about him, listening for the voice of some voluntee-'. But no man spoke. Halfwa, up the path, where the light from the k tchen window wove a broad, yellow web upon the grass, they halted as one man and stood searching one another's faces. Old" Bill Potts cleared his throat nervously. "His face ain't hurt," he remarked. "That's one good thing." "I washed the blood off his hands," stated the blacksmith. "I fixed 'em back in the sleeves of his coat, so they look right natural." "Who's goin' to tell her?" insisted Mel Martin. Not a man made reply. Not one of them all knew how to tell Minnie— Minnie, whom they had known as a shrinking, tow-headed little girl—Minnie, who sickened when a rabbit was shot, and tied fingers in ears, from the decapitation of a chicken. "Dolph was a good husband to Minnie." mused old Potts. "He was a good provider," amended jland Whittaker. "That ain't here nor there," snapped rfel Martin. "He's dead, and she's got to be told of it. We can't stand out , here all night!" "Git some of the women to tell her," luggested the blacksmith. , "And have two of 'em swoondin' on our hands!" scorned Mel. "I tell you gome of us has got to do it." "You do it, Mel Martin," ordered Bill rotts. Mel shifted his portion of the load abruptly! "Well, ihen, I'll do it!" His voice was Brittle. "Why didu't you say so ten minutes ago?" Turning his back, lie marched doggedly up to the house. The opening kitchen door showed a rectangle of warm light, and then darkened. The men in the path stood in silent expectation. Their shoulders were beginning to ache slightly from the strain upon them. Dolph Sutton had been a ► pretty hefty chunk of a fellow. Five minutes passed—ten minutes—and still the kitchen window cast its golden beam upon the grass,' still the wood smoke curled like a grey feather from the chimney. There came no sound of lamentations, ho hysterical shrieks, no summons for aid from Mel. "Git hold here, Bland,' commanded the blacksmith, tired of idle waiting. "Let's tote him in." • Around the house they tramped and dp the steps to the seldom-used parlor door. Here Potts rapped softly. "He ain't told her—the skunk!" muttered the blacksmith. Through the rooms they could hear jfinnie coming, her footsteps sounding lightly, swiftly. "No, Mel ain't told her!" repeated old Potts. But the shadow of enlightenment was dark on Minnie Sutton's face as she opened the door. At sight of her the men —her old neighbours—drew back a little abashed, and dragged off their hats. For it seemed as if this woman who stood holding the door open, framed in its lighted rectangle, was a stranger Minnie—a tall, stern wraith with a white and awful face and eyes wide and strange. They turned pittous and beseeching faces upon her »s they stumbled awkwardly in. She did not speak or move, but only shrank a little closer to the door as the fearful burden passed her. In the middle of the room the bearers halted and looked about them questioningly. Minnie stood still, offering no assistance, voicing no grief, only staring—staring—like a child overcome by some momentous sight. The blacksmith dragged out a red handkerchief and blew his nose thunderously. Old Bill Potts began to whimper a little. The others coughed and shuffled their feet. Screams and sobs they had been prepared for, and could have endured, but sorrow like this! It was Mel Martin who finally did something to relieve the situation, appeared in the doorway with a wire cot. He unfolded the legs of it and set it up in the middle of the floor. "Easy now," lie advised, jas they stumbled forward and deposited the Shapeless bulk upon the cot. "We'd ought to have a clean sheet to lay over him. Got a clean sheet, Minnie?" Like a shadow she vanquished into the rear of the house. Mel looked up at the rest with troubled eyes. "She acts queer," he whispered. "Ain't spoke a single word since I broke it to her. Good Lord, Jeff!" he added, turning to the blacksmith. He drew away the stained quilt from the shattered thing it covered. "You've got them hands in the wrong sleeves!" They had restored the body to what order they could when Minnie came back with clean sheets. A little wisp of a thing she was, with a thin, flat body and a pale face where purple shadows lay always under the eyes. Her light, straight hair clung to her temples and strayed down upon her cheeks. Her hands were transparent and frail. said Mel Martin gently, as she took hold of the quilt. "You better not lift that up—Dolph was hurt pretty bad." But she twitched the cloth from his fingers. "11l do it," she said in a cold, lifeless tone. "I ■told him not to run that saw at night!" Without a quiver she drew the sodden cover back. With steady eyes she looked upon the ruined, shapeless thing jrhich an hour before; had been her has-
band—a man—dominant, compelling. Then she spread the sheet over the body, calmly smoothing out the wrinkles with hands that did not tremble. Her thin face glowed opalescent, as if a light burned behind her haunting eyes.
Old Bill Potts turned away, blubbering audibly. Mel Martin laid a hand upon her arm. "Come on, Minnie,'' he said soothingly. "Let's go out in the other room. You'll feel better after a little. He was a good feller—tliat's some consolation. Dolph was a good husband." Mutely she followed him into the dim dining-room. The house was filling up with women now —women who stood about, white-faced, with handkerchiefs pressed to their eyelids—women who bustled and poked wood into the cookstove and exclaimed: "Poor thing!"— women who whispored and glanced about the rooms sharply. Minnie sank into a stiff chair, and, resting her elbows on the table, sat looking straight before her. Mel turned to two women who stood at the door, with masculine dread of feminine hysteria in his brown face.
"You look after her," he advised in a low tone. "She's a little off the handle right now. Git her to go to bed, if you can. I've got to go to town and see about the undertaker."
The two women—lank, bosomless crSTtures with sagging garments—approached on tiptoe and laid tentative hands on Minnie's arms.
"Don't take on so, child," counselled the elder of them. "Dolph was a good man and a good husband. He's been took home." '
"The Lord gave and the Lord takes away," mourned the other in pious voice. "He won't give us no more than we can bear."
Minnie looked up at them with indifferent, half-scornful eyes. "Let me alone, please," she murmured listlessly. The -two women sat down, resigned, watchful, silent.
After a few minutes the younger began fingering the table-cloth curiously. "It's linen," she whispered audibly to the other. "Feel the heft of it. It must have coat seventy-five cents a yard. Dolph certainly got everything real gocd for the house!"
"He bought the cupboard, too," added the elder. "Minnie was sort of disappointed because she didn't have a china closet, but I say take what's goin' and be thankful. This room looks like Dolph, don't-'H? Everything in it is good and solid and firm "
"That's his motto up yonder." The younger woman pointed with brown forefinger. "He had Dan Wilkie to frame it. It's out of First Peter, third chapter, first verse—'Wives, be in subjection to your husbands.' Dolph thought a whole lot of First Peter."
"He hadn't enough to 'a' gone to that sawmill after dark. Where you goin', Minnie? Upstairs? Well, we'll come along and help you git to bed."
But at the head of the stairs the clender, white-faced girl-widow slipped into a room and closed the door. The watchers, tiptoeing after, turned ti* knob tentatively. The door was locked. "Look through the keyhole, Laury," advised the elder of the two. "She ■don't act right. It ain't natural for her not to cry, with Dolph dead. She may be out of her head. She might try to make 'way with herself." There was a sound of a match ignited in the room, and a thin beam of light came from over the door.
"The transom!" whispered Laury. "I'll git a chair and peep over to see what .she's doin'."
Balanced on a splint-bottomed chair of uncertain age but sure solidity, Laury peered eagerly through the narrow glass transom. "She's sittin' on the bed," she whispered down. "She's took off her dress. My land, she's pore! She's nothin' but skin and bones."
"Let me look, Laury," urged the older woman.
With much whispering and jiggling they changed places. "Laury!" came a frantic whisper from the watcher on the height. "She's cryin', Laury! No, she ain't! She laughin'. She's out of her head! She's rollin' over on the bed and laughin' and cryin' al together, Laury!"
From within the room there came a sound of cracking wood and of splentering glass. With a collapsing movement the woman half fell, half sprang off the chair at the door.
"My land!" she breathed, .horrified. 'There was a motto hangin' over the bed —one of Dolph's mottos from First Peter, about wives bein' subject to their hubands. And, Laury, she took that thing down from the wall and broke it deliberate over her knee. She just smashed it all to pieces—and then she threw back her head and laughed!" Wide-eyed, the younger woman climbed upon the chair. Silently she watched, for five minutes—for ten—- ' What's she doin' now ?" demanded the woman below. 'What's she doin' now, Laury?"
Laury made no reply; for through the dusty width of glass she was beholding tragedy—tragedy that made her spine quiver and stilled her tongue. Standing before the mirror in the room she saw Minnie—the weak childwidow, Minnie whom Dolph Sutton had married and provided for and moulded to his own pattern—Minnie who had a black silk dress for Sunday and a velvet rug on her parlour floor—slowly lift a small photograph from the dresser and tear it vindictively to bits. A pair of slippers lay on the foot of the bed—red crochet slippers. Dolph's slippers. While Laury gazed, palsied, Dolph's widow fell upon them. With almost the avidity of a fierce wild beast she rent and tore them, ripping the soles apart, tangling the ravelled yarn. Then, with a spring, she raised the window and tosed out the wreck.
Dolph's nightshirt went after the fragments of his slippers, and then his best hai.
Then, slowly, Minnie began pulling off her sleeves, dragging the garments from her shoulders. How thin she was—how pitifully thin! Her small arms were blue and transparent; her chest sank into hollows of emaciation. Languidly she thrust her underclothes down under her arms and pulled up the loose hair at the back of her neck. Then she turner her back to the mirror and to the door. Involuntarily Laury cried out. For across Minnie' 3 fleshless shoulders, angry and purple and swollen, lay three deep marks—the bitter, brutal, hideous marks of blows. Slowly, sickened, Laury climbed down from the chair. "Let' 3 go downstairs,' she said to tf>" older woman.
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Taranaki Daily News, 30 October 1915, Page 9
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2,064THE STORYTELLER Taranaki Daily News, 30 October 1915, Page 9
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