Alis (19 page)

But then came fat, red-faced Mistress Dinah demanding attention. She had a gift for Galin—a crock of honey from the bees she kept in the apple orchard. She handed it to Alis, saying, “You will see that he eats some, will you not, Mistress Alis? I am sure ’tis no harm for a man so self-denying to taste sweetness once in a while.”

When Alis thanked her stiffly, Galin frowned at her and broke in, covering her awkwardness.

The people admired him but they were in awe of him, too, and some were clearly very ill at ease. A thin-faced man with a shifty look left in a hurry as soon as the closing prayer was done. He had recently been brought before the people to confess that he had lain with his neighbor’s wife. The burly miller, who had been admonished, first privately and then publicly, for his mistreatment of his two sons gave Galin a black look.

The young kept their distance. The girls Alis had known gathered in little groups, smirking and shooting glances at her when they thought their parents would not notice. Her mother’s position as Senior Elder had always set Alis somewhat apart. Now that she was married to Galin, it was worse than ever. And Elzbet, who had been her dearest friend, had not come to the meeting. She was with child and very sick. Alis had been to see her, thinking to find some comfort there. But Elzbet, between bouts of terrible nausea, seemed overawed by Alis’s new status, and the meeting had not been a success.

When, at last, she and Galin left the prayer house, he took her arm. She stiffened, but with a sense of eyes upon her, she knew she must endure it.

Back in the house she had not learned to call home, he said to her, “It must have been an ordeal for you, Alis. You did well.”

She felt so lonely, she was grateful for his praise. He was a good man—she had seen his kindness to poor old Hester. And after all, he might have been like Thomas.

 

 

Martha, the servant girl, who had cooked and cleaned for Galin before his marriage, helped in the household still. Heavily built and plainer of face than she liked to think, Martha did not see why she should defer to someone younger. In awe of the Minister, she had not dared to neglect her duties before, but now that Alis was in charge, she dawdled, skimped, and looked affronted when she was given instructions. Galin noticed the difference, was displeased, and said so. It was clear that he expected Alis to deal with the matter.

She ran a fingertip along a ledge: it was dusty. In the kitchen

Martha was idly scraping the pots in water that needed changing. She stopped altogether when Alis entered.

“The cleaning has not been done. Leave that and do it at once.

The Minister will be home soon and he will not wish to lay his books among the dust.”

Martha dropped the pot back into the scummy water, sighed loudly, and reached for the towel. Alis stood still in the kitchen doorway and the girl found her way blocked.

“If you want me to do the work you’ll have to let me pass, I reckon,” she said scornfully.

Alis looked at her. “You may go home.”

The girl stared back. “I can’t go yet. I don’t finish till the prayer-house clock strikes four.” There was a note of triumph in her voice: no jumped-up minister’s wife could get the better of her.

“You finish now and you don’t come back,” Alis said evenly. She was not afraid. She needed no knife for this.

Martha smirked. “You can’t dismiss me.
He
took me on.
He
must tell me to go.”

Somebody would slap her big, bold face one of these days, Alis thought. Calmly she said, “I think you will find that the Minister regards this as a matter for a wife. You may tell your mother you were dismissed for idleness and insolence.”

Martha went white; she had not expected this. “There’s no need for that. I meant to do the cleaning. I daresay I should have done it sooner, only the pots needed scouring. There’s more to do than there used to be, now you’re here.”

Alis raised her eyebrows. “You can explain at home. I am sure your mother will understand.”

Angrily, though her lip was beginning to tremble, the other girl said, “’Tis not fair. You ought to forgive me as we’re taught, instead of getting me into trouble. I’m sure the Minister does not think ill of me. He never complains.”

Alis said coldly, “The Minister has noticed your neglectful ways. He is much displeased. No doubt your mother will wish to know that, too.”

This was too much for Martha. Her mother had never been slow to punish, and she held Galin in high esteem. “Oh, no. Please! I’m sorry, truly I am, and I’ll not give you any more trouble if only you’ll not dismiss me.”

“Complete your work, then I will decide.” Alis turned away and went out of the house.

She sat in the wilderness of the garden at the back, hearing the sounds of frenzied activity from indoors. The prayer-house clock struck four. Still she sat there. It had struck five, and six also, before Martha came out, disheveled and apprehensive, to say that she had done. Alis went indoors. Methodically she went through the house: examining surfaces, lifting chairs, checking corners. At length she looked at the waiting girl. Martha’s hair had come loose and her big face was sweaty.

“It will do well enough,” Alis said—the house was spotless—“but let me not have to speak to you again.”

Later, waiting for Galin to come home, she felt sickened. What had her life come to?

When he arrived, it was only to say that he had to go out again immediately. He had promised Eli, the stone mason, that he would visit. But he noted the newly polished wood and dust-free books approvingly. “You have spoken to Martha already, I see.”

Alis said sharply, “Of course. It is my job, is it not?”

He flinched at her tone and turned away without another word. Afterward she was sorry. He had meant well, after all. And he was gone, for the third evening in a row, to sit with Master Eli, who was dying slowly and in great pain. She must try to be kinder to him.

It was very late when he came back. Alis had been sitting in the gloom wondering what had become of Edge and Joel, dreaming of Luke. It was a relief to hear Galin returning. Hurriedly wiping away her tears, she turned up the lamp. He stopped abruptly in the doorway when he saw her.

“Alis! Why are you not in bed? Are you ill?”

“No, I am quite well. Would you like a bit of supper? You have had such a long day, you must be weary.”

For an instant, he remained quite still in surprise. Then he said, “That is kind. I am weary indeed.” He came in and sat down heavily at the table. “But I do not think I can eat. To watch such suffering—”

“You will feel better if you take a little food,” Alis said firmly. “I have made some broth. I will heat it up.”

He made no further protest but sat staring blankly before him. When she placed the bowl on the table, he lifted the spoon slowly, as if his mind was still in the sickroom with the dying man. Nevertheless, he ate what she put before him, and when he was done, he said, “Thank you, Alis. That was good. Now you must go to bed. Midnight is long gone.”

“Will you go to bed also?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I will sit up awhile. My spirit is heavy tonight.”

He sounded so heartsick, she was prompted to say hesitantly, “If it would please you, I will sit up with you. I am not tired.”

He looked up at that. For a moment she thought he would dismiss her, then he said, “Will you, Alis? That would be a comfort.”

They sat in silence until at last he said, “I have prayed that he might die and be spared more pain. None who sees him could wish him to linger. And yet he lives. In his agony he cries out to me, to know what he has done to deserve this dying when others pass peacefully in their sleep. I have no answer for him.”

She wanted to help, but she had no answer, either. Why had Luke died?

Angrily she said, “It is cruel and we must endure it. It is of no use to ask for reasons.”

“But I am the Minister. Who should answer such questions if not I?”

“Well, you must tell them that all will be made well. The dying go to the Maker and their tears are wiped away.”

It was what she had been taught as a child, but she was not a child anymore, to believe such a tale. There was sorrow, and at the end, darkness: that was all.

He was tracing circles on the table with his finger as he did when he was troubled, and almost arguing with himself. “The Maker is merciful. We must believe this. How else can we bear to live? But why must we suffer—the good and the sinner alike? It cannot be that the Maker is not good himself. Perhaps he is not all-powerful then. But . . .” He was silent once more.

She said, “You are worn out. You should go to bed.”

He sighed and got up, rubbing his forehead wearily. Then he looked at her and smiled faintly. “You have been kind, Alis.”

She shrugged. “I have done nothing.”

He shook his head. “I came home desolate but your company has cheered me. I thank you.”

He went out slowly and she listened to his feet on the stairs. Then she put out the lamp and sat in the darkness thinking about him.

T
he next day was hot and when Alis had completed her Thousehold tasks, she remembered a book that Galin had wanted the previous day. It was on the shelf at the back of the prayer house where the volumes for borrowing were kept.

The heavy front door was open wide in the sunshine. Martha would be there with one or two of the other girls, taking her turn at cleaning as Alis had done with Elzbet long ago. The inner door was ajar and she was about to push it open when her attention was arrested by the sound of her own name.

“Well, you can say what you like, but it sticks in my throat to call her
Mistress
Alis.”

That was dark-eyed Hetty, whose glossy curls always escaped from her cap. She was something of a ringleader among the unmarried girls, and she lived to gossip and make eyes at the young men.

A kinder voice replied—Betsy, the weaver’s youngest daughter, mousy, fair, and thin. “’Tis hard on her, I say. I’d not like to be married to an old man.”

“He’s not such an old man,” Hetty said, adding sharply, “and you’ve no call to speak for her, Betsy; she’s as puffed up with pride as anything. Can’t hardly bring herself to speak to us no more.”

Alis felt her cheeks redden. Then Martha’s grumbling tones took up the theme. “Hetty’s right. You’ve not to work for her as I do. Why should I be servant to such as her? She’s no better ’n me.”

“Yes,” said Hetty, “and my mother says she don’t behave like a wife toward him at all. She’s only took him so’s she can set herself above the rest of us and give herself airs, I reckon.”

“You’re mighty hard on her, Hetty,” Betsy protested. “She didn’t choose him. ’Twas all arranged, they say. And even if she don’t like it, she can’t say so, can she? Besides Elzbet thinks—”

“Elzbet!” Hetty’s voice was spiteful. “You do as I say, Betsy, and don’t be talking to Elzbet. She’ll only go telling tales to the Minister’s wife. Always standing up for her, she is. She’s not one of us no more.”

Alis retreated silently, her cheeks burning. She knew well enough how she must appear to them, but if she seemed proud, it was only that she must get through her days without showing the world how bitter her life was to her. And poor Elzbet. They had been the closest of friends once, and now it seemed the other girls had turned against her on Alis’s account. She would go to visit her and make an effort not be stiff and formal.

Full of good intentions, she turned away from the green, and went down the beaten-earth path along a row of cottages until she reached the one that Elzbet shared with her young husband Martin, the blacksmith’s apprentice. The door was shut but the shutters were open. Alis knocked and waited. There was no reply. Resisting disappointment, for Elzbet might be upstairs or out back, she knocked again, more loudly. This time there were footsteps, and then the door opened.

Elzbet’s pregnancy was well advanced and her belly bulged hugely under her apron. She looked flustered when she saw who her visitor was. “Oh, Mistress Alis, I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I was upstairs, and I move so slowly these days. Do come in.”

They went into the cool interior of the cottage. Determined to reach out to her friend, Alis accepted refreshment and pressed Elzbet to say how she was finding married life. Things were well with them, Elzbet said—Martin was most loving to her at home, and the blacksmith thought highly of his work. Although she smiled when she spoke of her husband, she seemed reluctant to say much, and after a little while the conversation faltered. Then Elzbet said timidly, “And what about you, Alis? Mistress Alis, I mean.”

Alis looked away from her. Once, as children, they had promised to be friends forever and tell each other everything, even when they were married. And now Elzbet called her “Mistress Alis” and thought of her only as the Minister’s wife. It was no good.

She turned back to Elzbet, meaning to make a polite excuse and depart but the sorrowful look on her friend’s face and the memory of Hetty’s spiteful words made her say instead, “Dear Elzbet, we were such friends once. Will you not call me Alis and talk to me as you used to?”

She heard her voice waver at the end but Elzbet said eagerly, “Oh, yes, I should like that. I have been so troubled about you.”

“Well, you shall hear all about me, but first, tell me truly how you are.”

“Truly, I am well. And Martin and I are very happy together. He is so proud and joyful that he is to be a father soon.”

Alis hesitated. “And you are not lonely? I have heard . . .” She stopped.

Elzbet looked down at her lap and sighed. “Well, you know, Hetty thinks me a dull old thing now that I am a married woman. And where Hetty leads, Betsy and half a dozen of the others follow, so I see little of them.”

“What about Susannah? Surely she will not do Hetty’s bidding.” Susannah was the cobbler’s daughter, a big, kindly girl whom they had both liked very much.