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Updated: June 5, 2025
Then he realized that the woman had been under a long strain, what with the spring thaws, and a delicate patient who wouldn't mend and Melora to fight with, on behalf of all human decency, every day. "You go, then," he said finally. "I'll take care of her." The nurse stared at him. Then she thought, presumably, of Kathleen Somers's ineffable delicacy, and burst out laughing.
It was hard on him to stay away, but she had made it very clear that she wanted her convalescent summer to herself. When she had to let Miss Willis go and Miss Willis had already taken a huge slice of Kathleen's capital he might come and see her through the transition. So Withrow sweltered in New York all summer, and waited for permission. Then Melora Meigs was gracious for once.
I give you full and free leave to take it away with you if you want it. And I don't think the house is much better. But I'm afraid I shall have to keep that for Melora Meigs and me to live in." It was her old smile. The bitterness was all in the words. No, it was not bitterness, precisely, for it was fundamentally as impersonal as criticism can be.
Death would have been the kindest friend that could arrive to her across those detested hills. We the "we" is a little vague, but several of us scurried about sent up a trained nurse, delaying somewhat for the sake of getting the woman who had been there before; for she had the advantage of having experienced Melora Meigs without resultant bloodshed.
He had not slept in the barn, for they could hardly have let a cat sleep in the barn on such cold nights; but Melora Meigs had apparently treated him even worse than she had treated me. Kathleen Somers had named some of the unnamed mountains after the minor prophets; as grimly as if she had been one of the people they cursed.
If I had been a woman, I would have fled from Melora Meigs even into the arms of a bearded farmer; I would have listened to the most nasal male the hills had bred. I would have milked cows, to get away from Melora. But I am a crass creature. Besides, what son of the soil would want her: unexuberant, delicate, pleasant in strange ways, and foreign to all familiar things?
So they brought Kathleen Somers back from the hills to live. It was impossible for her to remain on her mountainside without a Melora Meigs; and Melora, unlike most tortures, was unreplaceable. Kathleen's world welcomed her as warmly as if her exile had been one long suspense: a gentle hyprocrisy we all forgave each other. Some one went abroad and left an apartment for her use.
Presently, indeed, I got my way; and moved yes, actually lugged and lifted and dragged the cot, the chair, and the stand out through the dusty, half-rotted corridors and sheds to the barn. I drew water at the tap in the yard and washed my perspiring face and neck. Then I had supper with Miss Somers and Melora Meigs. After supper my hostess lighted a candle.
"We go to bed very early," she informed me. "I know you'll be willing to smoke out-of-doors, it's so warm. I doubt if Melora could bear tobacco in the house. And you won't mind her locking up early. You can get into the barn from the yard any time, of course. Men are never timid, I believe; but there's a horn somewhere, if you'd like it. We have breakfast at six-thirty. Good-night."
That was her greeting. Melora Meigs was snuffling in the hallway outside listening, I suppose. "Oh, yes, you can. If you can't I'm sure Joel Blake will. I've come to stay a while, Miss Somers." "Can you eat porridge and salt pork for supper?" "I can eat tenpenny nails, if necessary. Also I can sleep in the barn." "Melora!" The old woman entered, crooked and grudging of aspect.
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