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 interior.
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.