Part 30 (1/2)
Madelon faced around on him. ”What isn't so?” she asked, coldly. ”I didn't hear you come in.”
Old Luke Ba.s.set shuffled stiffly to the hearth and settled into David's chair. ”Well,” said he, ”I heerd in the store just now that your weddin' was put off, but I s'pose it ain't so, 'cause you seem to be in sech good sperits. A gal wouldn't be singin' if her weddin'
was put off.”
”Look here, Uncle Luke,” said Madelon.
”Well?”
”My wedding is put off for a month; now that settles it. I don't want to say another word about it.” Madelon went into the pantry.
Luke sent his old voice, shrill and penetrating as a baby's, after her. ”They say 'tain't luck to have a weddin' put off. 'Ain't ye afeard he'll give ye the slip?”
Madelon made no reply. There was a rattle of dishes in the pantry.
Old Luke waited a moment; then raised his shrill, infantile voice again. ”If this feller gives ye the slip, ye can jest hang up yer fiddle; ye won't git t'other one back. Parson Fair's gal's got 'nough fine feathers comin' from Boston to fit out the Queen of England, they say.”
Madelon said nothing.
”D'ye hear?” called old Luke; but he got no reply. ”Dexter Beers says a hull pa.s.sel of stuff come up from Boston on the stage yesterday.
Sat.u.r.day,” persisted old Luke, ”Mis' Beers she see an eend of blue satin a-stickin' out of one of the bundles.”
Old Luke waited again, with sharp eyes on the pantry. He could see therein a fold of Madelon's indigo-blue petticoat, and could hear the click of a spoon against a dish; that was all.
Old Luke tried his last prod of aggravation. ”Folks air sayin' down to the store that mebbe there was some truth, arter all, in what you said 'bout the stabbin', an' mebbe that's the reason Lot is a puttin'
off the weddin',” piped old Luke. He chuckled slyly to himself, but sobered suddenly, and cowered in his chair before Madelon.
She came out of the pantry with a rush, and stood before him, her eyes blazing. ”There _was_ truth in what I said, after all!” she cried. ”The truth's the truth, whether there's folks to believe it or not, and I spoke it, and you can tell them so at the store.”
Old Luke shrank before her. His old body seemed to cease to shape his clothes. He looked up at her with scared eyes.
”And the reason I have told for the wedding being postponed is the truth, too,” continued Madelon. ”I did stab Lot Gordon, and he knows I did, though he won't own it, and he's bound to stab me back my whole life. And we shall be married in a month fast enough--you needn't worry, Uncle Luke Ba.s.set.”
Madelon stood over the old man a minute, quivering with impatience and utterly reckless anger and scorn, and he shrank before her with scared eyes, and yet a lurking of his malicious grin about his mouth.
Then she made a contemptuous gesture, as if she would brush him out of her consciousness altogether, and went away out of the room without another word, and left him alone.
He turned his head slowly and looked cautiously around after the door was closed. He heard Madelon's quick tread up the stairs. ”Gorry!”
muttered old Luke under his breath, and scowled reflectively over his foxy eyes. Quite convinced in his own mind was old Luke Ba.s.set that his grandniece had spoken the truth, and had wounded Lot Gordon almost to death, and quite resolute was he also that he would, since she was his own kin, contend against the carping tongues of the village gossips with all the cunning in him.
Old Luke waited for some time. Then he got up stiffly and shuffled out on his tottering legs, sc.r.a.ping his feet for purchase on the floor, like some old claw-footed animal.
Out in the entry he paused a moment, with his head c.o.c.ked shrewdly and warily towards the stairs. ”Hey!” he called, but got no response.
He opened the outer door, and, all ready to be gone should his niece appear, he called shrilly up the stairs, ”Hey, Mad'lon--forgot to tell ye. Mis' Beers she said she see a bandbox 'mongst them things that come for the parson's gal; said 'twas most big 'nough to hold the bride, and she guessed 'twas the weddin'-bunnit.”
Not a sound from above heard old Luke, and presently he gave it up and went out and down the road to the village, with occasional glances of a crafty old eye over his shoulder at Madelon's chamber window. Madelon had heard every word. She was folding up her own wedding-silk and putting it away in the cedar chest until she should want it. She put away her wedding-bonnet also, with its cream-colored plumes and its linings and strings of yellow satin, in the bandbox.
She set her mouth hard, and coupled bitterly her own poor wedding-finery with Dorothy Fair's grand outfit; and yet not for the reason that her Uncle Luke had striven to give her, for she would have held an old ragged blanket of one of her Indian grandmothers like the bridal gown of a queen had Burr been her bridegroom.
Madelon heard the door shut, and knew her tormentor was gone; and after her fine attire was packed away she went down-stairs and about her tasks again. But she sang no more. The certainty of the future overcame her like the present, and her short-lived joy or respite was all gone. When her father and brothers came home at noon they found the old stern quiet in her face, and their suspicions that there had been a rupture with Lot ceased. They were relieved, but the boy Richard eyed her with furtive pity. That night he lingered behind the others when they dispersed for the night, and went up to Madelon and threw an arm around her, and laid his cheek against hers. ”Oh, Madelon, I wish--” he began, and then he caught his breath, and his cheek against hers was wet, and Madelon turned and comforted him, as a woman will turn and comfort a man for even his pity for her sorrow.