But my relative had called my attention to one thing which I was to note, and that was that despite the fact she was within three months of an accouchement, we would find her working as usual, which was true. She was obviously as near her day as that, and yet during our visit she went to look after the pigs and chickens, the while milord smoked on and talked. His one theme was his farm, his proposed addition to his chicken-coop, a proposed enlargement of his pig-pen, the fact that his farm would be better if he could afford to take over the five acres to the east, and so on. Several times he referred to his tour of the West and the fact that he had "served his time" on the Denver & Rio Grande.
After that I could not help thinking of him from time to time, for he illustrated to me again so clearly the casual and accidental character of so many things in nature, the fact that fortune, strength, ease, beauty, fame, any power of the mind or body, come in the main to the individual as gifts and are so often not even added to or developed by any effort of his. Here was this vague, casual weakling drawn back to this region by a kind of sixth sense which regulated his well-being, and after he had failed in all other things, only to find this repressed and yet now free victim, his wife, seeking, by the aid of her small means, some satisfaction in the world of love through him. But did he really care for her? I sometimes asked myself. Could he? Had he the capacity, the power of appreciation and understanding which any worth-while love requires? I wondered.
§ 3
The events of the following September seemed to answer the question in a rather definite way, and yet I am not so sure that they did, either. Life is so casual; love, or the matter of affinity, such an indefinite thing with so many! I was sleeping in a large room which faced the front of the house -- a room which commanded the slope of a hill and a distant and splendid valley beyond. Outside was a number of evergreens and horse-chestnuts that rustled and whispered in the slightest breeze. At two or three of the clock of one of those fine moonlit nights I heard a knocking below and a voice calling:
"Oh, Mis' K----! Oh, Mis' K----!"
Fearing that my hostess might not hear, I went to one of the open windows; but as I did so, the door below opened, and I heard her voice and then Widdle's, though I could not make him out in the pale light. He seemed, for once, somewhat concerned, and asked if she would not come over and see his wife.
"She's been taken powerful' bad all of a sudden, Mis' K----," I heard him say. "She ain't been feelin' well for the last few days; been complainin', sorta, an' she's very bad now, an' I do' know what to do. It'd be a big favor if you'd come. Mis' Agrew 'phoned fer a doctor fer me, but she don't seem to be able to get none yet."
So the time had come! I wondered how the spinsterish Ida would make out. She was rather old now for motherhood, and so large and ungainly. How would she fare? How serve a nursing child? Not many minutes after I heard Mrs. K----, accompanied by one of her sons, leaving in the machine, the humanitarian and social aspects of the situation seeming to arouse in her the greatest solicitude. Then I heard nothing more until the following noon, when she returned. By that time Mrs. Widdle was very ill indeed. She had worked in the fields up to three days before, and on the day before her illness had attempted to do a week's washing. No help of any kind had been called in, no doctor consulted. Widdle had gone on dreaming as usual, possibly doing his share of the work, but no more, and no doubt accepting cheerfully the sacrifices and the ministrations of his wife until this latest hour.
It was evident to all that the conditions underlying possible motherhood for Mrs. Widdle were most unsatisfactory. During all the nine months of gestation she had given herself no least attention. A doctor called in at this late hour by my relative wagged his head most dolefully. Perhaps she would come through all right, but there was undue pressure on the kidneys. He suggested a nurse, but this Mrs. Widdle, ill as she was, would not hear of. The end came swiftly on the following night, and with great agony. She was in nowise fitted to endure the strain, and an attempt to remove the child, accompanied by uric poisoning, did for her completely. Ether was given, and she remained unconscious until she died.
§ 4
I saw her once afterward, and only once, when I joined the family in "viewing the body." Widdle was in no great standing with either his relatives or his neighbors, being of that poor, drifting, dreaming caliber which offers no least foundation on which a friendship or even a community of interests may be reared. He was usually silent or slow of speech, with just a few ideas relative to his present state upon which to meditate or discuss. Consequently, few neighbors and no relatives, barring her two brothers, were interested to call, and the latter in only the most perfunctory way. Such as did come or had offered assistance had arranged that the parlor, a most sacred place, should be devoted to the last ceremonies and the reception of visitors; and here the body, in a coffin the like of which for color and decoration I had never seen before, lay in state. It was of lavender plush, lined with pink silk, and to be carried by handles of gilt. And this parlor was no doubt a realm of beauty as these two had seen it, and hence arrested my attention. It was furnished with a center-table, now pushed to one side, some stiff and homely chairs with red plush seats, and a parlor wood-stove decorated with nickel and with red isinglass windows in front. On the walls, which were papered a bright pink, were two yarn mottos handsomely framed in walnut, a picture of Widdle and his wife boxed in walnut and glass and surrounded by a wax wreath, and, for sharp contrast, a brightly colored calendar exhibited a blonde movie queen rampant. Gracing the centertable was a Bible, and a yellow plush album in which was not a single picture, for I looked. It must have been the yellow plush that had fascinated them, that ancient and honorable symbol of luxury.
But the coffin! I have no desire to intrude levity in connection with death, and, anyhow, it is said to presage misfortune. Also, I recognize too well the formless and untutored impulse toward beauty which struggles all too feebly in the most of us, animals and men. Out of such have risen Karnak and the Acropolis and the "Ode on a Grecian Urn." But at that time, and for all I know the custom may endure to this hour, there were being introduced, to the poorest sections of the big cities at least, and from this experience I judged to the backwoods also, a type of coffin calculated to engage the attention of any lover of color, astonishing confections in yellow, blue, green, silver, and lavender plush, usually lined with contrasting shades of silk and equipped with handles of equally arresting hues -- silver, gilt, black, or gray. Trust the profiteer Barnums of the undertaking world to prepare something that would interest the afflicted simple in their hour of bereavement. Beauty, as each interprets it for himself, must certainly be the anodyne that resolves all our pains. At any rate, this coffin was of lavender and lined with pink silk and ornamented with bright gilt handles; and considering the general solidity and angularity of the frame it held, it could not but seem incongruous. Astonishing, in fact, yet obviously selected for its beauty and as a special comfort to the bereaved living, the Honorable Henry Widdle. Indeed, unless I am greatly mistaken, Widdle was for the first time in his life indulging a long repressed impulse toward luxury, which in its turn was disguising itself to him as deep grief.
But the figure in the coffin, embedded in such voluptuous materiality at so late a date, she who had followed the plow and pitched hay, struck me as remarkable. Her hair was thick and coarse, but smoothly plaited and laid -- red hair. The large, bony head, with the wide mouth and small nose, looked tired indeed. But one strong arm held snugly the minute infant that had never known life pressed close to her breast and big yearning face.
I turned away, arrested and humiliated by the terrifying cosmic urge that had brought all this about. That face showed lines which stilled all humor. Sleep! I thought, sleep! It is best.
But the little house she had left, that little shell in which she had thought to intrench herself against misery and loneliness. Not a corner or a window or a shelf or a pan but had been scrubbed and shined and dusted repeatedly. The kitch
en revealed a collection of utensils almost irritatingly clean; the dining-living-room the same. And outside were all the things as she had left them, all in clean and orderly array. And on the front porch, viewing the scenery and greeting the few straggling visitors, was Widdle himself. For the occasion he had donned his best clothes, and looked for all the world as though he were holding a reception or conducting a function of some kind, the importance of which had been solemnly impressed upon his mind.
What interested me most, after seeing this other, was his attitude, the way in which he now faced death and this material as well as spiritual loss, his attitude toward the future, now that this brief solution of most of his material difficulties had been removed. Any one who postulates the mechanical or chemical origin of life, and behaviorism as the path of its development, would have been interested in this case. As I viewed Widdle then, he was but a weak reflection of all the customs or emotional or mental mechanics of his day and realm. It was customary on such occasions to wear black, and he wore black, as much as he could find. He had heard or seen that funerals were occasions of state, so this coffin, with none of the other evidences of grandeur, was introduced into this meager home. He had noted that people grieved, so he drew a long face and wore as sad a mien as he could muster.
But when I asked about his future, after due comments on the pathos of his great loss, he showed a strong, if repressed, interest in the fact that all this which had been his wife's was now his, assuming that no undue wind arose to disturb him. For some reason, due to no conscious effort on my part, he assumed that I was friendly to him and wished him well, and in consequence, not five minutes after I had come out of the house, he wished to know if I had seen the barn. I replied that I had not and expressed interest, and he took me to see it, solemnly and slowly, cortège style. Once there, his spirit seemed to unlimber, and he talked of the future that was now his. The one horse he had there was good enough, but now that he was alone and might need to hire occasional help, he was thinking of buying another. His wife had helped him a good bit, and he wasn't sure whether he could get along now without a man. Next came the pigs, which we examined with care. His wife had thought that four were enough for this fall, but next year, if his crops turned out right, he might try six or eight. There was money in the dairy business, too, if only a man had three or four cows; but there was a lot of trouble connected with feeding, milking, calving, and the like, and he wasn't sure that he understood this as well as his wife had. Did I know anything about the law governing a wife's property or her husband's just claim to it?
"You know," he said, leaning against one of the posts of the pig-pen, "my wife's relations ain't any too friendly to me, fer some reason. I never could make it out, an' I was thinkin' mebbe they'd feel they have a claim on this, though when we bought, she wouldn't have it any other way but joint. 'Squire,' she says to Squire Driggs over to Shrivertown, when she was havin' the property transferred to the two of us when we got married, 'I want this property fixed so that in case anything happens to either of us the other one gets it, money an' all.' That's what she said, an' that's what both of us signed over there to Shrivertown. I got the papers in the house here now. That's clear enough, ain't it? I'd like to bring the papers up to you some time an' let you look at 'em. There ain't no way they could interfere with that, is there, do you think?"
I thought not, and said so. It seemed to ease him some. Then he led me to the chicken-coop and the milk-house. We stood at a fence and looked over that five-acre field adjoining which some day he hoped to own. After a few more comments as to the merits of the departed, I left, and saw him but once after, some two weeks later, when, the funeral being over and the first fresh misery of his grief having passed, he came up to my table on the hilltop one sunny afternoon to spend a social moment or two, as I thought, but really to discuss the latter phases of his position as master and widower.
§ 5
The afternoon was so fine! A sea of crystal light bathed the hills and valleys, and where I worked, the ground was mottled with light sifting through the leaves. Birds sang, and two woodchucks, bitten by curiosity, reconnoitered my realm. Then the brush crackled, and forward came Widdle out of nowhere and sidling slightly as he came.
"Nice view you have up here."
"Yes, I enjoy it very much. Have that stump over there. How've you been?"
"Oh, pretty fair, thank you. I was thinkin' you might like to look over them papers I spoke about. I have 'em here now." And he fished in his coat-pocket.
I turned over the one paper he extracted, which was a memorandum to the effect that Ida Widdle, née Hauchawout, sole owner of such-and-such property, desired and hereby agreed that in the event of her death and the absence of any children, her husband, Henry Widdle, was to succeed her as sole owner and administrator. And this was witnessed by Notary Driggs of Shrivertown.
"There's no question in my mind as to the validity of that," I solemnly assured him. "It seems to me that a lawyer could make it very difficult for any one to disturb you in your place. Still, I'm not a lawyer. Why not see one? Or ask Justice Driggs?"
"Well," he said, turning his head slowly and as slowly taking the paper, "I don't like to go to any lawyer unless I have to. I'm afraid of 'em. They could make a lot o' trouble for an inexperienced feller like me. I don't calc'late to do nothin' unless I have to, but I thought you might know."
I stopped my work and meditated on his fate and how well chance had dealt with him in one way and another. After a time, during which it seemed to me that he might be thinking of the misused Ida, he searched in his pockets and finally extracted another paper, which I thought might be another agreement of some kind. He held this in his hands for a minute or more, then unfolding the paper very carefully he said:
"You bein' a writer, I thought I'd bring up a little thing I've fixed up here about my wife an' ask you what you thought of it. It's some poetry I've been thinkin' I'd put in 'The Banner' over here to Bixley."
I could scarcely suppress my astonishment, let alone my curiosity, as to the nature of this composition which was to be published, at his request presumably, by "The Banner."
"How do you mean, publish?" I inquired respectfully, and holding out my hand. "Suppose you let me see it."
"If you don't mind, I'd rather read it to you. It's in my writin' an' kind o' mixed up, but I can read it to you."
"By all means. But tell me something about it first. You say it's a poem about your wife. Did you compose it yourself?"
"Yes, sir. Only yesterday an' last night. Well, mebbe three days, countin' the time I been thinkin' on it."
"And it's going to be published in 'The Banner?' Do you submit it, or just how is that?"
"Oh, they always print death-rhymes," he went on in his slow explanatory way. "They charge ten cents a line. Everybody does it when anybody they're fond of dies -- husband or wife, or like o' that."
"Oh, I see," I hazarded, a great light dawning. "It's a custom, and you feel in a way that you ought to do it."
"Yes, sir, that's it. If it don't cost too much, I thought I'd just put this in."
I prepared to give the matter attentive ear.
"Read it," I said, and he smoothed out the paper, the slanting afternoon light falling over him and it, and began: "'Dearest wife who now are dead, I miss you as in the days before we
were wed. Gone is your kind touch, your loving
care. I look around, but can't find you
anywhere. The kind deeds that you scattered
far and wide Tell me that you are no longer by
my side. I look around now and seek you in
vain; My tears they fall like rain. The house is silent without your
dear tread, Everywhere that you were you are
now missed instead. I am lonely now but our Father
above Now has you in His care and love. If gone from me, you are happy
there at rest, And death that tortures me for you
is best. Dear husband,
weep not for your
departed wife, For from heaven, looking down, I
see you as in life. I see your woe and grief and misery, And would be there with you if I
could in glee, So kind you were, dear husband, and
so good. The Father of All above knows
what you've withstood; He knows how hard you've tried,
what efforts you have made, To help and serve in love. Don't
be afraid. Face the world with courage, husband dear, And never have any fear. For if in life you may now be misunderstood, Our Father who is in heaven knows
that you were kind and good. Your efforts were very many, your
rewards were few. The world should know how kind
you were and true. The tongues of men may slander,
husband dear, But do not let that trouble your ear. I, your wife in heaven, know how we While we were together on earth did
love and agree, And in heaven too, when it pleases
God to call us, We will love and be happy together
as we did on earth always.'"
He paused and looked up, and I confess that by now my mouth had
unconsciously opened a little. The simplicity! The naïf
unconsciousness of possible ridicule, of anachronism, of false interpretation on the part of those who could not know! Could a mind be so obtuse to even the most elementary phases of fact as to believe that this was not ridiculous? I stared while he gazed, waiting for some favorable comment.
"Tell me," I managed to say at last, "did you write all that yourself?"
"Well, you know the papers publish them death-rhymes right along, every week. I see 'em in 'The Banner,' an' I just took some of the lines from them, but most of 'em are mine."
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