‘Yes, and more than that,’ inserted Miss Jacobs, who, though not on the committee, seemed familiar with its workings. ‘He told them —— — —’ But Mrs Briggs waved her aside and continued swiftly —
‘He taught that innocent girl about — the Bad Disease! Actually!’
‘He did!’ said the dressmaker. ‘It got out, too, all over town. There wasn’t a man here would have married her after that.’
Miss Jacobs insisted on taking up the tale. ‘I understand that he said it was “to protect her!” Protect her, indeed! Against matrimony! As if any man alive would want to marry a young girl who knew all the evil of life! I was brought up differently, I assure you!’
‘Young girls should be kept innocent!’ Mrs Briggs solemnly proclaimed. ‘Why, when I was married I knew no more what was before me than a babe unborn and my girls were all brought up so, too!’
Then, as Maria Amelia returned with the salts, she continued more loudly, ‘but she did marry after all. And a mighty queer husband she got, too. He was an artist or something, made pictures for the magazines and such as that, and they do say she met him first out in the hills. That’s the first ’twas known of it here, anyhow — them two trapesing about all over; him with his painting things! They married and just settled down to live with her father, for she vowed she wouldn’t leave him, and he said it didn’t make no difference where he lived, he took his business with him.’
‘They seemed very happy together,’ said Maria Amelia.
‘Happy! Well, they might have been, I suppose. It was a pretty queer family, I think.’ And her mother shook her head in retrospection. ‘They got on all right for a while; but the old man died, and those two — well, I don’t call it housekeeping — the way they lived!’
‘No,’ said Miss Jacobs. ‘They spent more time out of doors than they did in the house. She followed him around everywhere. And for open love making—’
They all showed deep disapproval at this memory. All but the City Boarder and Maria Amelia.
‘She had one child, a girl,’ continued Mrs Briggs, ‘and it was just shocking to see how she neglected that child from the beginnin’. She never seemed to have no maternal feelin’ at all!’
‘But I thought you said she was very fond of children,’ remonstrated the City Boarder.
‘Oh, children, yes. She’d take up with any dirty faced brat in town, even to them Kanucks. I’ve seen her again and again with a whole swarm of the mill hands’ young ones round her, goin’ on some picnic or other— “open air school,” she used to call it —
Such notions as she had. But when it come to her own child!
Why—’ Here the speaker’s voice sank to a horrified hush.
‘She never had no baby clo’se for it! Not a single sock!’
The City Boarder was interested. ‘Why, what did she do with the little thing?’
‘The Lord knows!’ answered old Mis’ Briggs. ‘She neved would let us hardly see it when ’twas little,’Shamed too, I don’t doubt. But that’s strange feelin’s for a mother. Why, I was so proud of my babies! And I kept ’em lookin’ so pretty! I’d a-sat up all night and sewed and washed, but I’d a had my children look well!’ And the poor old eyes filled with tears as she thought of the eight little graves in the churchyard, which she never failed to keep looking pretty, even now. ‘She just let that young one roll round in the grass like a puppy with hardly nothin’ on! Why, a squaw does better. She does keep ’em done up for a spell! That child was treated worse’n an Injun! We all done what we could, of course. We felt it no more’n right. But she was real hateful about it, and we had to let her be.’
‘The child died?’ asked the City Boarder.
‘Died! Dear no! That’s it you saw going by; a great strappin’ girl she is, too, and promisin’ to grow up well, thanks to Mrs Stone’s taking her. Mrs Stone always thought a heap of Esther. It’s a mercy to the child that she lost her mother, I do believe! How she ever survived that kind of treatment beats all! Why that woman never seemed to have the first spark of maternal feeling to the end! She seemed just as fond of the other young ones after she had her own as she was before, and that’s against nature. The way it happened was this. You see they lived up the valley nearer to the lake than the village. He was away, and was coming home that night, it seems, driving from Drayton along the lake road. And she set out to meet him. She must a walked up to the dam to look for him; and we think maybe she saw the team clear across the lake. Maybe she thought he could get to the house and save little Esther in time — that’s the only explanation we ever could put on it. But this is what she did; and you can judge for yourselves if any mother in her senses could ha’ done such a thing! You see ’twas the time of that awful disaster, you’ve read of it, likely, that destroyed three villages. Well, she got to the dam and see that ’twas givin’ way — she was always great for knowin’ all such things. And she just turned and ran. Jake Elder was up on the hill after a stray cow, and he seen her go. He was too far off to imagine what ailed her, but he said he never saw a woman run so in his life.
‘And, if you’ll believe it, she run right by her own house — never stopped — never looked at it. Just run for the village. Of course, she may have lost her head with the fright, but that wasn’t like her. No, I think she had made up her mind to leave that innocent baby to die! She just ran down here and give warnin’, and, of course, we sent word down valley on horseback, and there was no lives lost in all three villages. She started to run back as soon as we was ‘roused, but ’twas too late then.
‘Jake saw it all, though he was too far off to do a thing. He said he couldn’t stir a foot, it was so awful. He seen the wagon drivin’ along as nice as you please till it got close to the dam, and then Greenwood seemed to see the danger and whipped up like mad. He was the father, you know. But he wasn’t quite in time — the dam give way and the water went over him like a tidal wave. She was almost to the gate when it struck the house and her, — and we never found her body nor his for days and days. They was washed clear down river.
‘Their house was strong and it stood a little high, and had some big trees between it and the lake too. It was moved off the place and brought up against the side of the stone church down yonder, but ‘twant wholly in pieces. And that child was found swimmin’ round in its bed, most drowned, but not quite. The wonder is, it didn’t die of a cold, but it’s here yet — must have a strong constitution. Their folks never did nothing for it — so we had to keep it here.’
‘Well, now, mother,’ said Maria Amelia Briggs. ‘It does seem to me that she did her duty. You know yourself that if she hadn’t give warnin’ all three of the villages would a’ been cleaned out — a matter of fifteen hundred people. And if she’d stopped to lug that child, she couldn’t have got here in time. Don’t you believe she was thinkin’ of those mill-hands’ children?’
‘Maria’Melia, I’m ashamed of you!’ said old Mis’ Briggs. ‘But you ain’t married and ain’t a mother. A mother’s duty is to her own child! She neglected her own to look after other folks — the Lord never gave her them other children to care for!’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Jacobs, ‘and here’s her child, a burden on the town! She was an unnatural mother!’
THE WIDOW’S MIGHT
JAMES had come on to the funeral, but his wife had not; she could not leave the children — that is what he said. She said, privately, to him, that she would not go. She never was willing to leave New York except for Europe or for Summer vacations; and a trip to Denver in November — to attend a funeral — was not a possibility to her mind.
Ellen and Adelaide were both there: they felt it a duty — but neither of their husbands had come. Mr Jennings could not leave his classes in Cambridge, and Mr Oswald could not leave his business in Pittsburg — that is what they said.
The last services were over. They had had a cold, melancholy lunch and were all to take the night train home again. Meanwhile the lawyer was coming at four to read the will.<
br />
‘It is only a formality. There can’t be much left,’ said James.
‘No,’ agreed Adelaide, ‘I suppose not.’
‘A long illness eats up everything,’ said Ellen, and sighed. Her husband had come to Colorado for his lungs years before and was still delicate.
‘Well,’ said James rather abruptly, ‘What are we going to do with Mother?’
‘Why, of course—’ Ellen began, ‘We could take her. It would depend a good deal on how much property there is — I mean, on where she’d want to go. Edward’s salary is more than needed now,’ Ellen’s mental processes seemed a little mixed.
‘She can come to me if she prefers, of course,’ said Adelaide. ‘But I don’t think it would be very pleasant for her. Mother never did like Pittsburg.’
James looked from one to the other.
‘Let me see — how old is Mother?’
‘Oh she’s all of fifty,’ answered Ellen, ‘and much broken, I think. It’s been a long strain, you know.’ She turned plaintively to her brother. ‘I should think you could make her more comfortable than either of us, James — with your big house.’
‘I think a woman is always happier living with a son than with a daughter’s husband,’ said Adelaide. ‘I’ve always thought so.’
‘That is often true,’ her brother admitted. ‘But it depends.’ He stopped, and the sisters exchanged glances. They knew upon what it depended.
‘Perhaps if she stayed with me, you could — help some,’ suggested Ellen.
‘Of course, of course, I could do that,’ he agreed with evident relief. ‘She might visit between you — take turns — and I could pay her board. About how much ought it to amount to? We might as well arrange everything now.’
‘Things cost awfully in these days,’ Ellen said with a crisscross of fine wrinkles on her pale forehead. ‘But of course it would be only just what it costs. I shouldn’t want to make anything.’
‘It’s work and care, Ellen, and you may as well admit it. You need all your strength — with those sickly children and Edward on your hands. When she comes to me, there need be no expense, James, except for clothes. I have room enough and Mr Oswald will never notice the difference in the house bills — but he does hate to pay out money for clothes.’
‘Mother must be provided for properly,’ her son declared. ‘How much ought it to cost — a year — for clothes.’
‘You know what your wife’s cost,’ suggested Adelaide, with a flicker of a smile about her lips.
‘Oh, no,’ said Ellen. ‘That’s no criterion! Maude is in society, you see. Mother wouldn’t dream of having so much.’
James looked at her gratefully. ‘Board — and clothes — all told; what should you say, Ellen?’
Ellen scrabbled in her small black hand bag for a piece of paper, and found none. James handed her an envelope and a fountain pen.
‘Food — just plain food materials — costs all of four dollars a week now — for one person,’ said she. ‘And heat — and light — and extra service. I should think six a week would be the least, James. And for clothes and carfare and small expenses — I should say — well, three hundred dollars!’
‘That would make over six hundred a year,’ said James slowly. ‘How about Oswald sharing that, Adelaide?’
Adelaide flushed. ‘I do not think he would be willing, James. Of course if it were absolutely necessary —— —’
‘He has money enough,’ said her brother.
‘Yes, but he never seems to have any outside of his business — and he has his own parents to carry now. No — I can give her a home, but that’s all.’
‘You see, you’d have none of the care and trouble, James,’ said Ellen. ‘We — the girls — are each willing to have her with us, while perhaps Maude wouldn’t care to, but if you could just pay the money —— —’
‘Maybe there’s some left after all,’ suggested Adelaide. ‘And this place ought to sell for something.’
‘This place’ was a piece of rolling land within ten miles of Denver. It had a bit of river bottom, and ran up towards the foothills. From the house the view ran north and south along the precipitous ranks of the ‘Big Rockies’ to westward. To the east lay the vast stretches of sloping plain.
‘There ought to be at least six or eight thousand dollars from it, I should say,’ he concluded.
‘Speaking of clothes,’ Adelaide rather irrelevantly suggested, ‘I see Mother didn’t get any new black. She’s always worn it as long as I can remember.’
‘Mother’s a long time,’ said Ellen. ‘I wonder if she wants anything, I’ll go up and see.’
‘No,’ said Adelaide, ‘She said she wanted to be let alone — and rest. She said she’d be down by the time Mr Frankland got here.’
‘She’s bearing it pretty well,’ Ellen suggested, after a little silence.
‘It’s not like a broken heart,’ Adelaide explained. ‘Of course Father meant well—’
‘He was a man who always did his duty,’ admitted Ellen. ‘But we none of us — loved him — very much.’
‘He is dead and buried,’ said James. ‘We can at least respect his memory.’
‘We’ve hardly seen Mother — under that black veil.’ Ellen went on. ‘It must have aged her. This long nursing.’
‘She had help toward the last — a man nurse,’ said Adelaide.
‘Yes, but a long illness is an awful strain — and Mother never was good at nursing. She has surely done her duty,’ pursued Ellen.
‘And now she’s entitled to a rest,’ said James, rising and walking about the room. ‘I wonder how soon we can close up affairs here — and get rid of this place. There might be enough in it to give her almost a living — properly invested.’
Ellen looked out across the dusty stretches of land.
‘How I did hate to live here!’ she said.
‘So did I,’ said Adelaide.
‘So did I,’ said James.
And they all smiled rather grimly.
‘We don’t any of us seem to be very — affectionate, about Mother,’ Adelaide presently admitted, ‘I don’t know why it is — we never were an affectionate family, I guess.’
‘Nobody could be affectionate with Father,’ Ellen suggested timidly.
‘And Mother — poor Mother! She’s had an awful life.’
‘Mother has always done her duty,’ said James in a determined voice, ‘and so did Father, as he saw it. Now we’ll do ours.’
‘Ah,’ exclaimed Ellen, jumping to her feet. ‘Here comes the lawyer, I’ll call Mother.’
She ran quickly upstairs and tapped at her mother’s door.
‘Mother, oh Mother,’ she cried. ‘Mr Frankland’s come.’
‘I know it,’ came back a voice from within. ‘Tell him to go ahead and read the will. I know what’s in it. I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
Ellen went slowly back downstairs with the fine criss-cross of wrinkles showing on her pale forehead again, and delivered her mother’s message.
The other two glanced at each other hesitatingly, but Mr Frankland spoke up briskly.
‘Quite natural, of course, under the circumstances. Sorry I couldn’t get to the funeral. A case on this morning.’
The will was short. The estate was left to be divided among the children in four equal parts, two to the son and one each to the daughters after the mother’s legal share had been deducted, if she were still living. In such case they were furthermore directed to provide for their mother while she lived. The estate, as described, consisted of the ranch, the large, rambling house on it, with all the furniture, stock and implements, and some $5,000 in mining stocks.
‘That is less than I had supposed,’ said James.
‘This will was made ten years ago,’ Mr Frankland explained. ‘I have done business for your father since that time. He kept his faculties to the end, and I think that you will find that the property has appreciated. Mrs McPherson has taken excellent care of the ranch, I understand �
�� and has had some boarders.’ Both the sisters exchanged pained glances.
‘There’s an end to all that now,’ said James.
At this moment, the door opened and a tall black figure, cloaked and veiled, came into the room.
‘I’m glad to hear you say that Mr McPherson kept his faculties to the last, Mr Frankland,’ said the widow. ‘It’s true. I didn’t come down to hear that old will. It’s no good now.’
They all turned in their chairs.
‘Is there a later will, madam?’ inquired the lawyer.
‘Not that I know of. Mr McPherson had no property when he died.’
‘No property! My dear lady — four years ago he certainly had some.’
‘Yes, but three years and a-half ago he gave it all to me. Here are the deeds.’
There they were, in very truth — formal and correct, and quite simple and clear — for deeds, James R. McPherson, Sr, had assuredly given to his wife the whole estate.
‘You remember that was the panic year,’ she continued. ‘There was pressure from some of Mr McPherson’s creditors; he thought it would be safer so.’
‘Why — yes,’ remarked Mr Frankland, ‘I do remember now his advising with me about it. But I thought the step unnecessary.’
James cleared his throat.
‘Well, Mother, this does complicate matters a little. We were hoping that we could settle up all the business this afternoon — with Mr Frankland’s help — and take you back with us.’
‘We can’t be spared any longer, you see, Mother,’ said Ellen.
‘Can’t you deed it back again, Mother,’ Adelaide suggested, ‘to James, or to — all of us, so we can get away?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Now, Mother,’ Ellen put in persuasively, ‘we know how badly you feel, and you are nervous and tired, but I told you this morning when we came, that we expected to take you back with us. You know you’ve been packing—’
‘Yes, I’ve been packing,’ replied the voice behind the veil.
‘I dare say it was safer — to have the property in your name — technically,’ James admitted, ‘but now I think it would be the simplest way for you to make it over to me in a lump, and I will see that Father’s wishes are carried out to the letter.’
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 150
