Part 16

And Aunt Jane was quite right. A summer rain, and a story, too!

"I reckon there's mighty few livin' that ricollect about Mary Andrews and her dinner-party," she said meditatively an hour later, when the dishes had been washed and we were seated in the old-fashioned parlor.

"Mary Andrews' maiden name was Crawford. A first cousin of Sam Crawford she was. Her father was Jerry Crawford, a brother of Old Man Bob, and her mother was a Simpson. People used to say that the Crawfords and the Simpsons was like two mud-puddles with a ditch between, always runnin' together. I ricollect one year three Crawford sisters married three Simpson brothers. Mary was about my age, and she married Harvey Andrews a little over a year after me and Abram married, and there's few women I ever knew better and liked more than I did Mary Andrews.

"I ricollect her weddin' nearly as well as I do my own. My Jane was jest a month old, and I had to ask mother to come over and stay with the baby while I went to the weddin'. I hadn't thought much about what I'd wear--I'd been so taken up with the baby--and I ricollect I went to the big chest o' drawers in the spare room and jerked out my weddin' dress, and says I to mother, 'There'll be two brides at the weddin'!'

"But, bless your life, when I tried to make it meet around my waist, why, it lacked four or five inches of comin' together; and mother set and laughed fit to kill, and, says she, 'Jane, that dress was made for a young girl, and you'll never be a young girl again!' And I says, 'Well, I may never fasten this dress around my waist again, but I don't know what's to hinder me from bein' a young girl all my life.'

"I wish to goodness," she went on, "that I could ricollect what I wore to Mary Andrews' weddin'. I know I didn't wear my weddin' dress, and I know I went, but to save my life I can't call up the dress I had on. It ain't like me to forgit the clothes I used to wear, but I can't call it up. However, what I wore to Mary Andrews' weddin' ain't got anything to do with Mary Andrews' dinner-party."

Aunt Jane paused and scratched her head reflectively with a knitting needle. Evidently she was loath to go on with her story till the memory of that wedding garment should return to her.

"I was readin' the other day," she continued, "about somethin' they've got off yonder in Washington, some sort of bureau that tells folks what the weather'll be, and warns the ships about settin' off on a voyage when there's a storm ahead. And says I to myself, 'Do you reckon they'll ever git so smart that they can tell what sort o' weather there is ahead o' two people jest married and settin' out on the voyage that won't end till death parts 'em? and what sort o' weather they're goin' to have six months from the weddin' day?' The world's gittin' wiser every day, child, but there ain't nobody wise enough to tell what sort of a husband a man's goin' to make, nor what sort of a wife a woman's goin' to make, nor how a weddin' is goin' to turn out. I've watched folks marryin' for more'n seventy years, and I don't know much more about it than I did when I was a ten-year-old child. I've seen folks marry when it looked like certain destruction for both of 'em, and all at once they'd take a turn that'd surprise everybody, and things would come out all right with 'em. There was Wick Harris and Virginia Matthews. Wick was jest such a boy as Dick Elrod, and Virginia was another Annie Crawford. She'd never done a stitch o' sewin' nor cooked a meal o' victuals in her life, and I ricollect her mother sayin' she didn't know which she felt sorriest for, Wick or Virginia, and she wished to goodness there was a law to keep such folks from marryin'. But, bless your life! instead o' comin' to shipwreck like Dick and Annie, they settled down as steady as any old married couple you ever saw. Wick quit his drinkin' and gamblin', and Virginia, why, there wasn't a better housekeeper in the state nor a better mother'n she got to be.

"And then I've seen 'em marry when everything looked bright ahead and everybody was certain it was a good thing for both of 'em, and it turned out that everybody was wrong. That's the way it was with Mary Andrews and Harvey. Nobody had a misgivin' about it. Mary was as happy as a lark, and Harvey looked like he couldn't wait for the weddin' day, and everybody said they was made for each other. To be sure, Harvey was 'most a stranger in the neighborhood, havin' moved in about a year and a half before, and we couldn't know him like we did the Goshen boys that'd been born and brought up there. But nobody could say a word against him. His family down in Tennessee, jest beyond the state line, was as good people as ever lived, and Harvey himself was industrious and steady, and as fine lookin' a man as you'd see in a week's journey. Everybody said they never saw a handsomer couple than Harvey and Mary Andrews.

"Mary was a tall, proud-lookin' girl, always carried herself like a queen, and hadn't a favor to ask of anybody; and Harvey was half a head taller, and jest her opposite in color. She was dark and he was light. They was a fine sight standin' up before the preacher that day, and everybody was wishin' 'em good luck, though it looked like they had enough already; both of 'em young and healthy and happy and good-lookin', and Harvey didn't owe a cent on his farm, and Mary's father had furnished the house complete for her. The weddin' come off at four o'clock in the evenin', and we all stayed to supper, and after supper Harvey and Mary drove over to their new home. I ricollect how Mary looked back over her shoulder and laughed at us standin' on the steps and wavin' at her and hollerin' 'good-bye.'

"It was the fashion in that day for all the neighbors to entertain a newly married couple. Some would invite 'em to dinner, and some to supper, and then the bride and groom would have to do the same for the neighbors, and then the honeymoon'd be over, and they'd settle down and go to work like ordinary folks. We had Harvey and Mary over to dinner, and they asked us to supper. I ricollect how nice the table looked with Mary's new blue and white china and some o' the old-fashioned silver that'd been in the family for generations. And the supper matched the table, for Mary wasn't the kind that expects company to satisfy their hunger by lookin' at china and silver. She was a fine cook like her mother before her. Amos and Marthy Matthews had been invited, too, and we had a real pleasant time laughin' and jokin' like folks always do about young married people. After supper we all went out on the porch, and Mary whispered to me and Marthy to come and see her china closet and pantry. You know how proud a young housekeeper is of such things. She showed us all through the back part o' the house, and we praised everything and told her it looked like old experienced housekeepin' instead of a bride's.

"Well, when we went back to the dinin'-room on our way to the porch, if there wasn't Harvey bendin' over the table countin' the silver teaspoons! A man always looks out o' place doin' such things, and I saw Mary's face turn red to the roots of her hair. But nobody said anything, and we passed on through and left Harvey still countin'. It was a little thing, but I couldn't help thinkin' how queer it was for a man that hadn't been married two weeks to leave his company and go back to the table to count spoons, and I asked myself how I'd 'a' felt if I'd found Abram countin' spoons durin' the honeymoon.

"Did you ever take a walk, child, some cloudy night when everything's covered up by the darkness, and all at once there'll be a flash o' lightnin' showin' up everything jest for a second? Well, that's the way it is with people's lives. Near as Harvey and Mary lived to me, and friendly as we were, I couldn't tell what was happenin' between 'em. But every now and then, as the months went by, and the years, I'd see or hear somethin' that was like a flash of light in a dark place. Sometimes it was jest a look, but there's mighty little a look can't tell; and as for actions, you know they speak louder than words. I ricollect one Sunday Harvey and Mary was walkin' ahead o' me and Abram. There was a rough piece o' road jest in front of the church, and I heard Harvey say: 'Don't walk there, come over on the side where it's smooth.'

"I reckon Mary thought that Harvey was thinkin' of her feet, for she stepped over to the side of the road right at once and says he, 'Don't you know them stones'll wear out your shoes quicker'n anything?' And, bless your life, if Mary didn't go right back to the middle of the road, and she took particular pains to walk on the stones as far as they went. It was a little thing, to be sure, but it showed that Harvey was thinkin' more of his wife's shoes than he was of her feet, and that ain't a little thing to a woman.

"Then, again, there was the time when me and Abram was passin' Harvey's place one evenin', and a storm was comin' up, and we stopped in to keep from gittin' wet. Mary had been to town that day, and she had on her best dress. She was a woman that looked well in anything she put on. Plain clothes couldn't make her look plain, and she set off fine clothes as much as they set her off. Me and Abram took seats on the porch, and Mary went into the hall to git another chair. I heard the back hall door open and somebody come in, and then I heard Harvey's voice. Says he, 'Go up-stairs and take off that dress.' Says he, 'What's the use of wearin' out your best clothes here at home?' But before he got the last words out, Mary was on the porch with the chair in her hand, talkin' to us about her trip to town, and lookin' as unconcerned as if she hadn't heard or seen Harvey. That night I says to Abram, says I, 'Abram, did you ever have any cause to think that Harvey Andrews was a close man?'

"Abram thought a minute, and, says he, 'Why, no; I can't say I ever did. What put such a notion into your head, Jane? Harvey looks after his own interests in a trade, but he's as liberal a giver as there is in Goshen church. Besides,' says Abram, 'who ever heard of a tall, personable man like Harvey bein' close? Stingy people's always dried up and shriveled lookin'.'

"But I'd made up my mind what the trouble was between Harvey and Mary, and nothin' that Abram said could change it. I don't reckon any man knows how women feel about stinginess and closeness in their husbands. I believe most women'd rather live with a man that'd killed somebody than one that was stingy. And then Mary never was used to anything of that kind, for her father, old man Jerry Crawford, was one o' the freest-handed men in the county. It was 'Come in and make yourself at home' with everybody that darkened his door, and for a woman, raised like Mary was, havin' to live with a man like Harvey was about the hardest thing that could 'a' happened to her. However, she had the Crawford pride, and she carried her head high and laughed and smiled as much as ever; but there's a look that tells plain enough whether a woman's married to a man or whether she's jest tied to him and stayin' with him because she can't get free; and when Mary wasn't laughin' or smilin' I could tell by her face that she wasn't as happy as we all thought she was goin' to be the day she married Harvey."

Aunt Jane paused a moment to pick up a dropped stitch.

"It's a good thing you had your dinner, honey, before I started this yarn," she said, looking at me quizzically over her glasses, "for I'll be a long time bringin' you to the dinner-party. But I've got to tell you all this rigmarole first, so you'll understand what's comin'. If I was to tell you about the dinner-party first you'd get a wrong idea about Mary. That's how folks misjudges one another. They see people doin' things that ain't right, and they up and conclude they're bad people, when if they only knew somethin' about their lives, they'd understand how to make allowance for 'em. You've got to know a heap about people's lives, child, before you can judge 'em.

"Well, along about this time, somewhere in the '60's, I reckon it must 'a' been, there was a big excitement about politics. I can't somehow ricollect what it was all about, but they had speakin's everywhere, and the men couldn't talk about anything but politics from mornin' till night. Abram was goin' in to town every week to some meetin' or speakin'; and finally they had a big rally and a barbecue at Goshen. One of the speakers was Judge McGowan, from Tennessee, and he was a cousin of Harvey Andrews on his mother's side."

Here Aunt Jane paused again.

"I wish I could ricollect what it was all about," she said musingly. "Must 'a' been something mighty important, but it's slipped my memory, sure. I do ricollect, though, hearin' Sam Amos say to old Squire Bentham, 'What's the matter, anyhow? Ain't Kentucky politicians got enough gift o' gab, without sendin' down to Tennessee to git somebody to help you out?'

"And the old Squire laughed fit to kill; and says he, 'It's all on your account, Sam. We heard you was against us, and we knew there wasn't an orator in Kentucky that could make you change your mind. So we've sent down to Tennessee for Judge McGowan, and we're relyin' on him to bring you over to our side.' And that like to 'a' tickled Sam to death.

"Well, when Harvey heard his cousin was to be one o' the big men at the speakin', he was mighty proud, as anybody would 'a' been, and nothin' would do but he must have Judge McGowan to eat dinner at his house.

"Some of the men objected to this, and said the speakers ought to eat at the barbecue. But Harvey said that blood was thicker than water with him, and no cousin o' his could come to Goshen and go away without eatin' a meal at his house. So it was fixed up that everybody else was to eat at the barbecue, and Harvey was to take Judge McGowan over to his house to a family dinner-party.

"I dropped in to see Mary two or three days before the speakin', and when I was leavin', I said, 'Mary, if there's anything I can do to help you about your dinner-party, jest let me know.' And she said, 'There ain't a thing to do; Harvey's been to town and bought everything he could think of in the way of groceries, and Jane Ann's comin' over to cook the dinner; but thank you, all the same.'

"I thought Mary looked pleased and satisfied, and I says, 'Well, with everything to cook and Jane Ann to cook it, there won't be anything lackin' about that dinner.' And Mary laughed, and says she, 'You know I'm my father's own child.'

"Old Jerry used to say, ''Tain't no visit unless you waller a bed and empty a plate.' They used tell it that Aunt Maria, the cook, never had a chance to clean up the kitchen between meals, and the neighbors all called Jerry's house the free tavern. I've heard folks laugh many a time over the children recitin' the Ten Commandments Sunday evenin's, and Jerry would holler at 'em when they got through and say: