The Third Violet
Copyright© 2024 by Stephen Crane
Chapter 11
“John,” said the old mother, from the profound mufflings of the pillow and quilts.
“What?” said the old man. He was tugging at his right boot, and his tone was very irascible.
“I think William’s changed a good deal.”
“Well, what if he has?” replied the father, in another burst of ill-temper. He was then tugging at his left boot.
“Yes, I’m afraid he’s changed a good deal,” said the muffled voice from the bed. “He’s got a good many fine friends, now, John—folks what put on a good many airs; and he don’t care for his home like he did.”
“Oh, well, I don’t guess he’s changed very much,” said the old man cheerfully. He was now free of both boots.
She raised herself on an elbow and looked out with a troubled face. “John, I think he likes that girl.”
“What girl?” said he.
“What girl? Why, that awful handsome girl you see around—of course.”
“Do you think he likes ‘er?”
“I’m afraid so—I’m afraid so,” murmured the mother mournfully.
“Oh, well,” said the old man, without alarm, or grief, or pleasure in his tone.
He turned the lamp’s wick very low and carried the lamp to the head of the stairs, where he perched it on the step. When he returned he said, “She’s mighty good-look-in’!”
“Well, that ain’t everything,” she snapped. “How do we know she ain’t proud, and selfish, and—everything?”
“How do you know she is?” returned the old man.
“And she may just be leading him on.”
“Do him good, then,” said he, with impregnable serenity. “Next time he’ll know better.”
“Well, I’m worried about it,” she said, as she sank back on the pillow again. “I think William’s changed a good deal. He don’t seem to care about—us—like he did.”
“Oh, go to sleep!” said the father drowsily.
She was silent for a time, and then she said, “John?”
“What?”
“Do you think I better speak to him about that girl?”
“No.”
She grew silent again, but at last she demanded, “Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s none of your business. Go to sleep, will you?” And presently he did, but the old mother lay blinking wild-eyed into the darkness.
In the morning Hawker did not appear at the early breakfast, eaten when the blue glow of dawn shed its ghostly lights upon the valley. The old mother placed various dishes on the back part of the stove. At ten o’clock he came downstairs. His mother was sweeping busily in the parlour at the time, but she saw him and ran to the back part of the stove. She slid the various dishes on to the table. “Did you oversleep?” she asked.
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