“Well, I think he did it partly for Melly’s sake but mostly because he thought it would be a huge joke on us all. We’ve hated him so much and showed it so plainly and now he’s got us in a fix where all of you have your choice of saying you were at that Watling woman’s house and shaming yourself and wives before the Yankees—or telling the truth and getting hanged. And he knows we’ll all be under obligation to him and his—mistress and that we’d almost rather be hanged than be obliged to them. Oh, I’ll wager he’s enjoying it.”
The doctor groaned. “He did look amused when he took us upstairs in that place.”
“Doctor,” Mrs. Meade hesitated, “what did it look like?”
“What are you saying, Mrs. Meade?”
“Her house. What did it look like? Are there cut-glass chandeliers? And red plush curtains and dozens of full-length gilt mirrors? And were the girls—were they unclothed?”
“Good God!” cried the doctor, thunderstruck, for it had never occurred to him that the curiosity of a chaste woman concerning her unchaste sisters was so devouring. “How can you ask such immodest questions? You are not yourself. I will mix you a sedative.”
“I don’t want a sedative. I want to know. Oh, dear, this is my only chance to know what a bad house looks like and now you are mean enough not to tell me!”
“I noticed nothing. I assure you I was too embarrassed at finding myself in such a place to take note of my surroundings,” said the doctor formally, more upset at this unsuspected revelation of his wife’s character than he had been by all the previous events of the evening. “If you will excuse me now, I will try to get some sleep.”
“Well, go to sleep then,” she answered, disappointment in her tones. Then as the doctor leaned over to remove his boots, her voice spoke from the darkness with renewed cheerfulness. “I imagine Dolly has gotten it all out of old man Merriwether and she can tell me about it.”
“Good Heavens, Mrs. Meade! Do you mean to tell me that nice women talk about such things among them—”
“Oh, go to bed,” said Mrs. Meade.
It sleeted the next day, but as the wintry twilight drew on the icy particles stopped falling and a cold wind blew. Wrapped in her cloak, Melanie went bewilderedly down her front walk behind a strange negro coachman, who had summoned her mysteriously to a closed carriage waiting in front of the house. As she came up to the carriage the door was opened and she saw a woman in the dim ulterior.
Leaning closer, peering inside, Melanie questioned: “Who is it? Won’t you come in the house? It’s so cold—”
“Please come in here and set with me a minute, Miz Wilkes,” came a faintly familiar voice, an embarrassed voice from the depths of the carriage.
“Oh, you’re Miss—Mrs.—Watling!” cried Melanie. “I did so want to see you! You must come in the house.”
“I can’t do that, Miz Wilkes.” Belle Watling’s voice sounded scandalized. “You come in here and set a minute with me.”
Melanie entered the carriage and the coachman closed the door behind her. She sat down beside Belle and reached for her hand.
“How can I ever thank you enough for what you did today! How can any of us thank you enough!”
“Miz Wilkes, you hadn’t ought of sent me that note this mornin’. Not that I wasn’t proud to have a note from you but the Yankees might of got it. And as for sayin’ you was goin’ to call on me to thank me—why, Miz Wilkes, you must of lost your mind! The very idea! I come up here as soon as ‘twas dark to tell you you mustn’t think of any sech thing. Why, I—why, you—it wouldn’t be fittin’ at all.”
“It wouldn’t be fitting for me to call and thank a kind woman who saved my husband’s life?”
“Oh, shucks, Miz Wilkes! You know what I mean!”
Melanie was silent for a moment, embarrassed by the implication. Somehow this handsome, sedately dressed woman sitting in the darkness of the carriage didn’t look and talk as she imagined a bad woman, the Madam of a House, should look and talk. She sounded like—well, a little common and countrified but nice and warm hearted.
“You were wonderful before the provost marshal today, Mrs. Watling! You and the other—your—the young ladies certainly saved our men’s lives.”
“Mr. Wilkes was the wonderful one. I don’t know how he even stood up and told his story, much less look as cool as he done. He was sure bleedin’ like a pig when I seen him last night. Is he goin’ to be all right, Miz Wilkes?”
“Yes, thank you. The doctor says it’s just a flesh wound, though he did lose a tremendous lot of blood. This morning he was—well, he was pretty well laced with brandy or he’d never have had the strength to go through with it all so well. But it was you, Mrs. Watling, who saved them. When you got mad and talked about the broken mirrors you sounded so—so convincing.”
“Thank you, Ma’m. But I—I thought Captain Butler done mighty fine too,” said Belle, shy pride in her voice.
“Oh, he was wonderful!” cried Melanie warmly. “The Yankees couldn’t help but believe his testimony. He was so smart about the whole affair. I can never thank him enough—or you either! How good and kind you are!”
“Thank you kindly, Miz Wilkes. It was a pleasure to do it I—I hope it ain’t goin’ to embarrass you none, me sayin’ Mr. Wilkes come regular to my place. He never, you know—”
“Yes, I know. No, it doesn’t embarrass me at all. I’m just so grateful to you.”
“I’ll bet the other ladies ain’t grateful to me,” said Belle with sudden venom. “And I’ll bet they ain’t grateful to Captain Butler neither. I’ll bet they’ll hate him just this much more. I’ll bet you’ll be the only lady who even says thanks to me. I’ll bet they won’t even look me in the eye when they see me on the street. But I don’t care. I wouldn’t of minded if all their husbands got hung, But I did mind about Mr. Wilkes. You see I ain’t forgot how nice you was to me durin’ the war, about the money for the hospital. There ain’t never been a lady in this town nice to me like you was and I don’t forget a kindness. And I thought about you bein’ left a widder with a little boy if Mr. Wilkes got hung and—he’s a nice little boy, your boy is, Miz Wilkes. I got a boy myself and so I—”
“Oh, you have? Does he live—er—”
