# Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 27

Mary spent most of the day lying on the bed except when she heard footsteps on the path in front of the door, then she got up quickly and pretended to be patching clothes.
When she heard Maum Hannah's limping steps across the yard, she went to help her up the steps, for the misery in the old woman's knee seemed worse than usual.
"How-come you duh hop so bad to-day, Auntie, de sun is a-shinin fair."
"Worry-ation, honey. Worry-ation makes a misery worse dan east rain an' wind. But how-come you eyes is red as red flannel?"
Mary hesitated. She had to think quickly or tell the truth. "I been a-thrashin peas an' peas-dust got in my eyes. It like to blinded me."
"Poor creeter," Maum Hannah pitied her. "I didn' know peas-dust was pizen."
They lighted their pipes and sat down to talk, yet the silence stayed on, hard to break. Presently Maum Hannah cleared her throat.
"July told me you wouldn' much as let him darken you door."
​A heavy sigh fell from her bosom, and she shook her head mournfully from side to side. Mary was wrong. She could have a house full of children for other men, but she could not change the law of God. Whom God has joined together all the men and all the sin in the world can not part. She was July's wife, July was her husband just the same as the first day Reverend Duncan read out the Book over them and married them together.
"You must be forgot how July done me, Auntie; how July suffered me. I done well te live."
"Is July de first man ever suffered a 'oman?"
"No, Auntie, I don' mean dat."
Maum Hannah grunted. Before she left she wanted Mary to tell her one thing. What had she ever done to make God bless her with a husband that would not suffer her?
Mary shook her head. She had done nothing to win such a blessing. Maum Hannah sighed and said good night.
The dusk dropped deeper. The light was almost gone. The air in the house was hot, and thick with the smell of cooking food. The children crowded around the hearth, laughing, happy, greedy, their black faces glistening in the ​red firelight. Their mouths chattered with talk, all at one time, nobody listening to anybody else. Bright faces, white teeth, slim bodies, quick-moving hands and feet filled Mary's eyes. These were all her children, the fruit of her body. Healthy, strong younglings, all growing fast.
But her heart had that heavy dull aching, the same old aching of those first years when July left her. Her whole breast hurt, it was hard to catch air enough when she breathed.
She stepped out into the yard and looked toward the evening star. Such a hot bright star, standing in the path of the slim new moon.
"How-come you duh star-gaze, gal?"
Budda Ben was on his wood-pile, so still and black she had not noticed him until he spoke. With the night blotting out his poor body his voice had a different sound. It was a man's voice and his words had warmth and tenderness.
"Budda Ben——" She stumbled over a piece of wood as she went toward him, and sat down beside him heavily.
"Mind, gal," he warned her, "don' fall down an' broke you leg. I ain' able to cook for no house o chillen."
She knew he was trying to boost her, to make her laugh, but she couldn't do it. Not yet.
​"Budda Ben, July come——"
"I know, I seen him."
"Now he's gone—— I wouldn't let him come inside my door."
"Enty?"
Silence fell between them. The night closed around them. Budda Ben's stick fell from his hands, as they both reached slowly out and took one of Mary's. What strong sinewy hands they were, although they trembled now.
"Please don' be sorry for me, Budda. I can' stand dat. I made July go. I sent him off. He been want to stay, but I wouldn' let him."
"I know, gal. I know how proudful you ever was. Too proudful."