# Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 3

Mary's wedding-day had dawned but instead of being up at first fowl crow and running around helping Maum Hannah get everything ready, she lay still in her bed in the shed room, thinking, pretending to sleep, watching the streaks of light creep in through the cabin cracks, while the old woman moved quietly about in the big room, rousing the fire in the chimney, filling the kettle with fresh water, stirring at the pots on the hearth and pushing them up closer to the fire so the breakfast victuals could cook faster.
Mary was happy over her wedding. God knew she had loved July all of her life; yet, when she thought of leaving Maum Hannah and Budda Ben and this kind old house where she had been born and where she had spent most of her life, something inside her breast ached.
She had no father and her mother had been dead for years, but Maum Hannah had been like a mother to her, Budda Ben, Maum Hannah's crippled son, had been both a father and a brother, and this old tottering house was like a ​dear friend. She loved every board in its weather-beaten sides, every shingle in its warped roof, every rusty nail that held it together.
The house where she and July would live at the other end of the Quarter street was exactly like it, for it was built at the same time, by the same people and by the same pattern. Its roof was warped too, its rotted shingles were edged with small green ferns, the wide-mouthed chimney rising out of its ridge-pole took up a third of the inside wall in the same way. It was an old unpainted wooden cabin sitting low on the earth, heavy with years, yet able and strong in its beam and joists and rafters and sides, for it was built in the old days when men took time to choose timbers carefully and to lay them together with skill. Like this old house, it had held many generations. Red birth, black death, hate, sorrow and love had all dwelt inside it, sheltered by its roof, shielded by its walls. July's people had lived in it for generations, but this was the home where she was born. Everything here was part of her life. She was born in this same bed. The crippled table over in the corner, heaped high with clean quilts, had been there ever since she could remember. The cupboard where her clothes stayed and the leaning shelf by the window with the four sad-irons ​resting on it after their hard week's work had never been out of their places since they were put there by women who lived here before Maum Hannah was born. When Maum Hannah died they would all belong to Mary. Crippled Budda Ben was bound to die ahead of his mother who prayed to God every day of her life to let her outlive him, so that when he died she could see that his box was made right. Budda's poor legs must not be cramped when they were laid away in the ground for their last long rest. She knew how to pray and she would outlive Budda Ben as sure as the world.
He was snoring peacefully in the shed room next to Mary's as Maum Hannah went tripping quietly about the big room so as not to wake him. The shed-room door was open so Mary could see the wedding-cakes standing in a long white row in front of the jugs of wedding-wine. When Maum Hannah began examining them and talking softly to herself Mary couldn't help smiling to see how she peeped at one, then another, turning each around, appraising them all, grunting with pride in so much beauty. "My jaws pure leak water just to look at em," Maum Hannah murmured. The neighbors had baked and iced them all except the bride's cake which ​stood like a tall steeple in the center of the row. Maum Hannah made that one herself, and it was the tallest and loveliest cake Mary had ever seen: Its big bottom layer had been baked in a dish-pan and the other layers grew smaller as they rose higher and higher until the last layer came, and that had to be baked in a tomato can for no pan in the Quarters was small enough to be right for it. When it was all finished, iced white and dotted over with white spots, Budda Ben hobbled to Grab-All, as the crossroads store was called because it got every cent everybody ever had, and bought pink and white candies that looked like rice grains and sprinkled these all over the whole cake. Then it became too beautiful to eat. Maum Hannah said that the candy rice would bring good luck to the bride. Rice always does. Until yesterday, Mary thought rice brought luck to brides because after a woman marries she must cook rice for her husband every day, but Maum Hannah told her that rice sprinkled over brides and bride cakes brings many children and that Budda Ben's rice candy would bring many children to her.
It had taken many an egg and many a pound of sugar and flour to make so many cakes, but everybody on the whole plantation could have a ​good hunk to eat to-day. Maum Hannah had been saving eggs since early fall; and every scuppernong grape and bullace that could be picked and squeezed was made into wedding-wine.
Mary had worked hard all the week and now she lay still with half-closed eyes until all of a sudden Maum Hannah threw up her hands and groaned, "Do, Master, look down and see what a rat is done!"
Mary's heart flew up into her mouth. Cold chills ran over her as she ran to see what had happened. There it was, a great hole gnawed deep into the bride's cake's tender meat. Candy rice and rich yellow cake crumbs sprinkled the shelf and the floor. She wanted to cry out, to scream, but her voice froze in her throat and she fell into bitter dumb sobs. Maum Hannah's head shook gloomily from side to side. Such bad luck was hard to face. But her hand reached out and gave Mary's shoulder a comforting pat. "Don't fret so hard, honey. You eyes will get all red an' ugly. Wipe de water out em on you gown-tail an' go get me some eggs an' sugar out de safe. I aim to make some new icin an' mend dis cake so nobody won' never know it was hurt exceptin you an' me an' Gawd an' Satan. We won' even tell Ben. Satan is de one sent dat rat here to kill we joy an' make we ​have sin to-day. But I'll show em, e can' rule me, I done fought wid em too many times in my life to let em get de best o me now. Now, you go on back to bed an' get warm, whilst I whips up de icin. Gawd'll help me fix dis cake. He wouldn' have de heart to let Satan ruin a lil mudderless bride's cake on de weddin-day. No. Gawd promised to be a mudder to the mudderless, honey. You run jump in de bed an' get warm. I'll call you when I'm done."
Mary shivered with misery as she crawled back under the quilts. Maum Hannah whipped the egg whites stiff with sugar, and with many sighs and grunts and prayers, filled the ugly hole full, patted the icing smooth and neat, and stuck some of the wasted candy rice over it. Then she came to Mary's door and called softly so as not to let Budda Ben hear her, "De cake is good as new, honey. Get down on your knees an' thank Gawd."
The cake was mended. Nobody would ever guess it had been hurt. Mary was so happy she gave Maum Hannah a tight hug, then stepped out on the floor and started cutting a pigeon wing while she hummed the tune of "Black Annie, Black Annie Moore——" But Maum Hannah stopped her sternly. "Is you gone crazy, gal? Is you forgot you is a church-​member? I told you to kneel down an' thank God an' here you is singin a reel song an' crossip you feets. Dat's a sin, gal, a pure sin."
Mary grinned and gave the old soul another great hug and hurried back to the shed room to dress. But the morning was chilly, and Maum Hannah was thoughtful.
"You better fetch you clothes in here an' dress by the fire. It's mighty airish to-day. Come eat a tater first to hotten up you insides so you can move fast. Budda Ben put a lot o nice yams in de ashes when he banked de fire last night. Dey's all good an' done. A nice soft one'll do you belly all de good. A full belly makes a brave heart, an' you'll need a brave heart to-day."
The floor felt cold to Mary's feet, the big room was drafty, with its chairs and tables pushed back against the wall to make room for the wedding: guests. It looked almost as large as a church. She stood close to the great yellow fire, warming, but Maum Hannah jerked her farther away with a warning. "Mind, gal, dis fire's mean. Gawd knows e's old enough to have better sense, but e would just as soon catch you an' burn you as not. I done had enough worry-ation dis mornin to last me a long time."
"Fire couldn' catch me to-day, Auntie. Not me," Mary said but she stood farther back and ​ate her potato slowly while she looked around at all the things she had done to make the room attractive. Every board in the floor had been scrubbed white with lye and sand, her hands were still sore with the lye cuts. The walls were fresh covered with newspapers bought from Grab-All with eggs; circles of fringed papers sewed to barrel hoops and tied to the rafters looked like big lanterns as they swung gently overhead in the cold drafts of morning air which fell through the broken shingles in the roof. The wide rock hearth was newly reddened with clay, and the mantel-shelf had a newspaper cover which she had carefully scalloped and cut with holes to make blossoms and stars. That was lovely. She tried hard to get one more paper to fix a cover like it for the water-shelf where the cake and wine stood, but not another paper was to be had for eggs or peanuts or anything else. June whitewashed the shelf with the white clay that fell in lumps out of the side of the duck dam gully and it matched the whitened front door and window-blinds, and looked clean and nice enough.
Maum Hannah's bed in the corner of the room was freshly made up with clean things and the wedding-dress lay spread out on it, waiting to be worn. The wide white muslin ​skirt trimmed half-way up with narrow frills and the tucked waist trimmed with lace at the neck and sleeves made a garment that matched the wedding-cake in looks. Budda Ben had dug up all his buried savings to buy the cloth and to get the best seamstress on the plantation to make it, but it was worth every cent he paid out He said so himself when Mary tried it on to let him see how well it fitted.
She carefully licked off the sweet potato bits that stuck to her fingers, then squatted on the hearth close to the fire to warm good through and through before she put on her clothes. One good yawn, one good stretch, then she would dress fast and fetch the water and finish up whatever had to be done yet this morning. "You ever was like a cat, Si May-e; always stretchin. But after to-day, you ain' gwine have time to be gapin an' warmin, an' pleasurin youself in de mornins. You'll see."
Sister Mary stood up and slipped out of her night-gown, which dropped near to the pot Maum Hannah was stirring. The old woman looked up with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "Is you crazy, gal? Look how you duh fan ashes in de victuals. Fo Gawd's sake put on some clothes. You ain' to stand up buck naked like dat. You's a grown 'oman now. Is you forgot?" ​Mary laughed and stretched out her long slim body until every muscle was taut. What did she care if Maum Hannah saw her buck naked now when she had seen her so a thousand times? But Maum Hannah's laugh had cut off and she was leaning forward with her eyes blinking and gazing as if they could not see quite clearly. They were searching Mary's body from head to foot, marking each line, each curve, as if something astonished and distressed them. Mary crouched down and, picking up a garment, hurriedly put it on, but Maum Hannah's eyes were wise and keen. There was no use to be covering up now.
"What de matter all you, Auntie? How-come you duh gaze at me so hard, like you ain' never seen me naked befo?" Mary tried to sound cool and guiltless, but she could not look Maum Hannah in the face.
"May-e,—honey, I can' hardly b'lieve my own eyes. What you been doin, gal?" Her piercing eyes cut into Mary's heart.
It was no use to lie, or to try to deceive them. Nothing could escape them when they shone like that.
"Honey,—May-e,—look at me——"
"Yes'm—I'm a-lookin——" Something quivered in Mary's throat.
"Honey,——" It was the third time Maum ​Hannah said the word, as if she could get no further. It fell so sorrowfully, with such pity, that Mary hung her head low.
"May-e, you an' July is been a-havin sin, enty?"
Mary wanted to deny it, but to save her life her lips could not raise a sound. She could not even say, "Yes."
"Enty?" Maum Hannah asked again, softly, gently. "I raised you to know right from wrong, enty? An' you went an' let July make you have sin?" Maum Hannah sighed deep. "Lawd, dat July is a case. A heavy case in dis world."
Mary wanted to say that July was not all to blame, but her breath fluttered and spilled the words.
"I see now why Satan sent dat rat to gnaw a hole in you weddin-cake. Satan knowed you b'longed to him an' not to Jedus. Oh, honey, I'm dat sorry, I could cry. What you done pure cuts my heart-strings. I wouldn' a thought you had de heart to fool me so. No."
"Wha dat I done so awful bad, Auntie? Me an' July is gwine marry to-day." She tried to speak calmly, but her throat went dry and the words fell into a husky whisper.
Maum Hannah shook her head gloomily. "Don' ax me, gal. Looka you bosom, a-struttin, ​a-tellin de bad news an' you body a-swellin an' a-braggin. Why couldn' you wait for de preacher to read out de book over you an' make you July's lawful wife? Lawd, gal, I'm dat sorry, I could pure cry like a baby. I could, fo-true. Some sin is black, an' some ain' so black, but dis sin you had is pure scarlet."
Cold misery made Mary sick. Frightened tears began streaming down her cheeks. She slipped down on her knees.
"But you love me, enty, Auntie?"
Maum Hannah sighed, "Sho, I love you, I couldn' stop lovin you. I'll never stop, not till I'm dead. I love de sinner, but I hate de sin. Yes, Jedus. A scarlet sin is a awful bad sin."
A sudden hope sprang in Mary's heart. Maybe if she denied the sin, Maum Hannah might think her eyes had not seen right.
"I ain' had sin, Auntie—I'm just a-growin. I'm just fat by I eat so much victuals lately." Mary ventured it timidly, but Maum Hannah's eyes flashed fire and her voice grew sharp and stinging.
"Shut you mout', gal, befo Gawd strikes you dead wid a lie on you tongue. You might could fool some people, but you can' fool me! Neither Gawd. Gawd's eye stays on you, all de time, day an' night. A-seein all you do same like ​dat lookin-glass on de wall sees dis room, Evy time you have sin, a big white angel up in Heaven writes it down in a book. All dat what you an' July done, is wrote down. On de day o judgment, dat same angel'll stand up an' read em out for de whole world to hear. De livin an' de dead'll know, same like I know right now, how you an' July let Satan fool you. If you don' repent, yunnuh'll go to torment when you die too."
Mary sat on the floor speechless. Here, on her wedding-morning, all the joy in the world was gone. She wanted to be good. She tried to be kind, never to hurt anything or anybody; yet she had become a sinner because she loved July so much. And the worst of it was that Maum Hannah had found it out.
The old woman leaned over the pots, stirring them, tasting them, talking mournfully to herself. "I ever did say—company in de dark don' do for gals. No. Company in de dark don' do. Company's right wid light, but in de dark—company don' do."
The wavy looking-glass hanging in its square wooden frame beside the fireplace stared at the room, its wrinkled face making everything it reflected look more twisted than ever. The fire, rushing straight up the chimney full of ​sparks and light, looked wavy and foolish in the glass.
Maum Hannah's eyes knew too much. They must be wise as God's.
Everybody had been saying lately how fast she was growing. Her old clothes were too tight and too short, her skimpy skirts left her bare legs looking very long and lean, but her body was almost as slim as ever except that her breasts had budded up. But she was almost sixteen and a grown-up woman to be married to a husband to-day, thank God.
"Auntie, you wouldn' tell nobody on me, would you?" she whispered, and Maum Hannah shook her head. She would not tell. People would find out soon enough. A sin like Mary's tells on itself. A scarlet sin is a blab-mouth thing.
"Will dey turn me out de church, Auntie?" The thought of such deep disgrace made her shiver. Maum Hannah nodded sadly that they would. The deacons have to keep clean righteous people on the church roll. Not sinners.
Budda Ben was up, bumping around in the shed room. He would soon be coming out to get his breakfast. Mary wiped her eyes. She must go to the spring for water before he saw her.
"Eat some breakfast befo you go, honey. De ​mush is done now, an' de fry-meat is brown."
"I rather eat when I come back, Auntie. Le me fetch de water first, I want to eat breakfast wid Budda dis last time." At the door, she paused. "You wouldn' tell Budda Ben, would you, Auntie?"
Maum Hannah threw up her hands. "Who? Me? Great Gawd, gal, Budda would choke July to deat'. E would wring July's neck same like a chicken."
As Mary hurried along with her three empty buckets, walking quickly between the long rows of houses on each side of the rain-rutted road, gay greetings were called to her from the opep doors and windows.
"Hey, Si May-e, how you feel dis mornin?"
"You sho got a fine weddin-day!"
"Looka how de sun is a-shinin on you, gal!"
"July's a lucky boy fo-true."
Mary laughed and called back merry, good-mannered answers to them all, holding her small head high, and hoping't that nobody saw that her eyes were red.
The fresh morning air was filled with delicious scents: ripe leaves, fragrant weeds, late cotton blossoms, and the breath of the dark red earth itself. Summer was over. The birds were sing​ing restlessly; their nestlings were all full feathered and ready for mating.
Katydids and crickets creaked a few faint words over and over, speaking sadly to each other before frost came and silenced them for the winter. Morning-glory vines sprawled everywhere, on the hedge rows, on the old rail fence, around the stalks of corn in the field, holding up white-throated blossoms to the light, patiently striving to make all the seed they could before their time was out.
The path dwindled as it dropped down sidewise between the shoulders of two hills, running over gnarled tree roots and rocks that jutted up out of the clay on to a hollow where the clear little spring bubbled out.
Tall poplars and sweet-gums clutched at the dark earth with black crooked roots, but they flaunted purple and scarlet and yellow heads up in the face of the sky. With every stir of air a shower of gay leaves fell, some to lie still on the ground while others, alighting on the tiny stream, floated away, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the bright current hurried to reach the great yellow river.
Mary sat down on a rock and watched the water trickle out of the shining pool. She was so still the shy birds grew bold and came to ​drink where the water was new and sweet. A gray fox came stealing out through the broom-sedge and frost-bleached grass and after stopping to size up Mary, he crept closer and began lapping the water daintily. He was heavy with food. This very morning Maum Hannah's hens had cackled loud and cried for help. Budda Ben had got up and cursed the varmint that disturbed them, but Maum Hannah shamed him; she said God made foxes and hawks and owls so they had to eat flesh to live. They were not to blame. Ben must have patience with them and ask God to protect the hens.
Mary had always been afraid of God. He and Death were the two most fearsome things in the world. If she were to die, now, in her sin, God would put her in Hell and burn her for ever and ever. But if God knew everything, then He knew that July was not mild and easy-going like June, and that she loved him so much she had lacked the strength to rule him.
"May—e—e! May—e—e!"
Lord, how Maum Hannah could call.
"Yes,—Aunt—ee! I'm—a—com—in!" Mary sent back her answer as loud as she could, but it was weak beside Maum Hannah's clear trumpeting. That old voice had grown strong with long years of use. Many a time Mary ​had stood beside Maum Hannah in the door while it announced the news of the plantation to the whole world: births, deaths, fires, accidents, each thing shaping its own wail. Now, Maum Hannah's persistent calling meant that her childhood was over. No more romping and laughing with the little children who were left at Maum Hannah's cabin while their mothers worked in the fields. No more playing with the funny little dolls she made for them out of peanuts and bits of cloth. She'd soon have a baby of her own to sew for. July's baby.
"May—e—e! Si May—e—e!" Maum Hannah called again.
Taking the three empty buckets, Mary filled them to the brim, one by one, then carefully putting one on top of her head, and taking the other two, one in each hand, she stepped quickly into the foot-worn path and walked up the hill toward home, as if she had no load at all.
At the top of the hill she turned to look back at the hazy blue world lying so far away over the river. July had been out there and had overcome all kinds of danger and seen all kinds of places, all kinds of women. He had been in great towns with long streets filled with big white houses, standing at the end of long ave​nues. He had seen box-bordered gardens full of sweet-smelling flowers like the gardens of the plantation Big House. Many girls out there had tried to get him to stay, but he had come back to her. He wanted her who had never been more than five miles from home for his lawful wedded wife. Thank God. She would never, never do anything wrong again.
The sun was climbing up the sky, the morning's haziness was going, taking with it the glistening dew. The Quarter street was full of noise, everybody was awake, talking, laughing, tramping up and down the street, going back and forth, helping Maum Hannah get everything in order for the wedding.