Chapter XLII

“Some folks’ pride runs in queer streaks,” said Betty, as she turned a beefsteak on the gridiron; “if I lived in such a grand house as this, and had so many fine clothes, I wouldn’t let my poor cousin stand every Monday in my kitchen, bending over the wash-tub, and rubbing out her clothes and her children’s, with my servants, till the blood started from her knuckles.”

“Do you know what dis chil’ would do, if she were Missis Ruth Hall?” asked Gatty. “Well, she’d jess go right up on dat shed fronting de street, wid ’em, and hang ’em right out straight before all de grand neighbors, and shame Missus Millet; dat’s what dis chil’ would do.”

“Poor Mrs. Ruth, she knows too much for that,” replied Betty; “she shoulders that great big basket of damp clothes and climbs up one, two, three, four flights of stairs to hang them to dry in the garret. Did you see her sit down on the stairs last Monday, looking so pale about the mouth, and holding on to her side, as if she never would move again?”

“Yes, yes,” said Gatty, “and here now, jess look at de fust peaches of de season, sent in for dessert; de Lor’ he only knows what dey cost, but niggers musn’t see noffing, not dey, if dey wants to keep dere place. But white folks is stony-hearted, Betty.”

“Turn that steak over,” said Betty; “now get the pepper; work and talk too, that’s my motto. Yes, Gatty, I remember when Mrs. Ruth’s husband used to ride up to the door of a fine morning, and toss me a large bouquet for Mrs. Millet, which Mrs. Ruth had tied up for her, or hand me a box of big strawberries, or a basket of plums, or pears, and how all our folks here would go out there and stay as long as they liked, and use the horses, and pick the fruit, and the like of that.”

“Whar’s her brudder, Massa Hyacinth? Wonder if he knows how tings is gwyin on?” asked Gatty.

“He knows fast enough, only he don’t know,” replied Betty, with a sly wink. “I was setting the table the other day, when Mrs. Millet read a letter from him to her husband. It seems he’s got a fine place in the country, where he lives with his new bride. Poor thing, I hope he won’t break her heart, as he did his first wife’s. Well, he told how beautiful his place was, and how much money he had laid out on his garden, and hot-house, and things, and invited Mrs. Millet to come and see him; and then he said, ‘he ’sposed Mrs. Ruth was getting on; he didn’t know anything about her.’”

“Know about de debbel!” exclaimed Gatty, throwing down the pepper castor; “wonder whose fault dat is, Betty? ’Spose all dese folks of ours, up stairs, will go to de bressed place? When I heard Massa Millet have prayers dis morning, I jess wanted to ask him dat. You ’member what our minister, Mr. Snowball, said las’ Sunday, ’bout de parabola of Dives and Lazarus, hey?”

“Parable,” said Betty contemptuously; “Gatty, you are as ignorant as a hippopotamus. Come, see that steak now, done to a crisp; won’t you catch it when you take it into breakfast. It is lucky I can cook and talk too.”