FullReads

It was half-past nine of a radiant winter’s night, and the Widder Poll’s tooth still ached, though she was chewing cloves, and had applied a cracker poultice to her cheek. She was walking back and forth through the great low-studded kitchen, where uncouth shadows lurked and brooded, still showing themselves ready to leap aloft with any slightest motion of the flames that lived behind the old black fire-dogs. At every trip across the room, she stopped to look from the window into the silver paradise without, and at every glance she groaned, as if groaning were a duty. The kitchen was unlighted save by the fire and one guttering candle; but even through such inadequate illumination the Widder Poll was a figure calculated to stir rich merriment in a satirical mind. Her contour was rather square than oblong, and she was very heavy. In fact, she had begun to announce that her ankles wouldn’t bear her much longer, and she should “see the day when she’d have to set by, from mornin’ to night, like old Anrutty Green that had the dropsy so many years afore she was laid away.” Her face, also, was cut upon the broadest pattern in common use, and her small, dull eyes and closely shut mouth gave token of that firmness which, save in ourselves, we call obstinacy. To-night, however, her features were devoid of even their wonted dignity, compressed, as they had been, by the bandage encircling her face. She looked like a caricature of her unprepossessing self. On one of her uneasy journeys to the window, she caught the sound of sleigh-bells; and staying only to assure herself of their familiar ring, she hastily closed the shutter, and, going back to the fireplace, sank into a chair there, and huddled over the blaze. The sleigh drove slowly into the yard, and after the necessary delay of unharnessing, a man pushed open the side door, and entered the kitchen. He, too, was short and square of build, though he had no superfluous flesh. His ankles would doubtless continue to bear him for many a year to come. His face was but slightly accented; he had very thin eyebrows, light hair, and only a shaggy fringe of whisker beneath the chin. This was Heman Blaisdell, the Widder Poll’s brother-in-law, for whom she had persistently kept house ever since the death of his wife, four years ago. He came in without speaking, and after shaking himself out of his great-coat, sat silently down in his armchair by the fire. The Widder Poll held both hands to her face, and groaned again. At length, curiosity overcame her, and, quite against her judgment, she spoke. She was always resolving that she would never again take the initiative; but every time her resolution went down before the certainty that if she did not talk, there would be no conversation at all,–for Heman had a staying power that was positively amazing.

“Well?” she began, interrogatively.

Heman only stirred slightly in his chair.

“Well! ain’t you goin’ to tell me what went on at the meetin’?”

Her quarry answered patiently, yet with a certain dogged resistance of her,–

“I dunno’s there’s anything to tell.”

“How’d it go off?”

“‘Bout as usual.”

“Did you speak?”

“No.”

“Lead in prayer?”

“No.”

“Wa’n’t you asked?“

“No.”

“Well, my soul! Was Roxy Cole there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you fetch her home?”

“No, I didn’t!” Some mild exasperation animated his tone at last. The Widder detected it, and occupied herself with her tooth.

“My soul an’ body! I wonder if it’s goin’ to grumble all night long!” she exclaimed, bending lower over the blaze. “I’ve tried everything but a roasted raisin, an’ I b’lieve I shall come to that.”

Heman rose, and opened the clock on the mantel; he drew forth the key from under the pendulum, and slowly wound up the time-worn machinery. In another instant, he would be on his way to bed; the Widder knew she must waste no time in hurt silence, if she meant to find out anything. She began hastily,–