Emancipation

by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

  Emancipation

  BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

  OLD Billy Thomas sat beside the window. He had the weekly religious newspaper on his knee. He was not reading it. He never read it. If questioned, he could not have told why he so apparently cherished it. There was certainly no affectation about Billy, and least of all affectation with regard to religion. He was a very good old man, leavened to his own amusement with a queer, childish mischievousness bordering upon the malicious. This leaven might not have developed had it not been for his daughter Esther, who all unwittingly was especially fitted to produce such development. Now Esther was not at home. She had gone down street on an errand.

  Billy was very carefully attired. His collar was immaculate. Esther had brushed his coat twice that very day. Billy, left to himself, would never have brushed his coat. He had arrived at an age when his house of life had become to a certain degree perfectly uninteresting to him. All he asked of it was a comfortable acquiescence with his wishes. He desired no rheumatic pains. Stiffness he recognized as incident to his endurance in his present form upon the earth; he bore that with cheerful stolidity. He wished for warmth and food for that worn old habitation of flesh, and he wished more than for anything else for a certain freedom. That he did not have. Esther very innocently prevented that. Billy was like a child who frets because he is not allowed to kick and sprawl and change monotonous order to disorder. In reality, Billy practically wished to make his mud-pies of life instead of sitting there so carefully combed and brushed, with his religious newspaper unread on his knees. He was thinking about his daughter with a sort of rueful love and admiration and dissent. He said to himself, as he often said to Sam Ellis: "Esther is the salt of the earth. She's as pretty as they make 'em, and neat, and a good cook, and she does her duty by me, and she has a hard time of it. She would have a harder if she didn't naturally expect so much of men-folks and make allowances. My daughter is as good and pretty a woman as you can find in a week of Sundays, but sometimes I sorter wish she was as easy-goin' as her ma was. Maybe if her ma had lived Esther would have been more like her. She wouldn't have tried half as hard and she would have been a darned sight better off, and so would other folks."

  Billy, thinking of Esther, realized that his heart, loving as it was toward her, inclined toward rebellion. A queer expression was in his bright old eyes. Suddenly he crumpled the religious paper viciously, and threw it down on the floor. Then he stamped on it. Then he looked alarmed. He bent over stiffly, gathered it up and refolded it. Then he looked out of the window at the yard and the horse-chestnut-tree holding its young umbrella-shaped leaves over its straight trunk. Old Billy gazed, and his face--a very simple old face as to line and feature--became complex.

  He looked away from the window at the room perfectly ordered. There was not a speck of dust. The vases on the mantel-shelf stood each in its appointed place. The books on the table were arranged in exact little piles. The lamp stood in the mathematical center. The table-cover hung with absolute correctness. The chairs were ranged about the room as if by line and rule. Not one picture hung off the true level.

  Old Billy regarded everything gloomily. After a while he got up and walked past the table, and without apparent intent knocked against it. A little vase containing exactly six daffodils was upset. The water trickled slowly over the chenille table-cloth and dripped to the floor. A pile of books was pushed awry. Old Billy next encountered a steel engraving, "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers." After he had passed, the picture hung decidedly off the plumb-line. Then old Billy, on his way back to his chair, stumbled over a mat and left it turned up at one end.

  He sat down and regarded things with a grin. He looked like a malevolent child. He was an old man, but full of wiry strength. His thick, gray hair and beard had the outward spring of strong wire. His eyes were sparklingly alert.

  Old Billy gazed out of the window. It was nearly time for Esther's return. He was still uneasy. He gazed as far down the road as he could, but saw no sign of Esther. He rose quickly and fairly ran out of the room. He returned, and again jostled the table and "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers," and this time he touched the mantel-shelf. When he sat down again he could see distinctly a shadow, as of dust, over the front of the shelf and on the glass of the picture. Another pile of books on the table was awry. Old Billy raised a hand with the forefinger stiffly crooked, and rubbed it across the crystal-like window. There was left a smear, as of lard. Old Billy put his hands on the under side of his coat-tails and rubbed off the butter and flour on them. Then he chuckled. "Ruther guess Betsey would laugh till she cried, ef she was here," he said aloud. When Esther entered he was reading his religious weekly.

  "All wrapped up in your paper, father?" she remarked in her clear, fine voice. Old Billy read on. Esther crossed the room to put away her hat and coat. She removed the hat carefully and put it on the closet shelf; removed her coat, adjusted it over a hanger, and replaced it upon its hook. Then she turned, her thin hands mechanically smoothing her satin-smooth hair.

  Esther was a pretty creature in an unassertive fashion. She was made of charming shadows instead of colors; of charming delays rather than progressions. Her soft hair, neither black nor brown, although glossy, showed no highlights; her smooth cheeks, flawless in texture, had no bloom; her gray eyes gave out no sparks of inward fire even when Esther was firm.

  Esther was firm after a curious fashion. She never ordered, but her attitude was in itself equivalent to a whole broadside of orders. She never raised her voice, she often did not express a wish, but her silence held the force of ultimate command. Her aged father, retaining, as he still did in very high measure, the fire of youth, was no match for her. His rebellious desires, his impatience for his own way, were blunted before her as before a porcelain wall of purest, impenetrable femininity. Billy's Betsey, easy-going as she had been, had possessed a temper which her man could meet in fair fight, and either win or be worsted. Esther had apparently no temper whatever. She had simply character, resistant in its primary quality. Old Billy never argued with his daughter. He was reduced to the slyness of petty diplomacy. The time was at hand when he would once more gather himself up for a last aggressive move, but it had not yet arrived. He continued to sit perfectly still, with his eyes fixed upon the printed page before him.

  Esther surveyed the disorder of the room. Old Billy felt her eyes turn toward him. He made no sign. He knew from past experience that she would not exclaim nor question. Esther straightened carefully "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers," the vases on the shelf, the pile of books on the table. She glided out of the room and returned with cloths. She wiped the water from the overturned vase. She replaced the daffodils. She dusted off the flour. After she had straightened and dusted everything, and readjusted the rug which Billy had kicked, she put away the duster. Billy never raised his eyes.

  Then, Esther saw the smear on the window-glass. Even then she did not exclaim. She stood staring at it. The faintest pink had come over her smooth cheeks. Her eyes, while still devoid of sparkle, were alive with wonder. At last she spoke.

  "Have you been having some bread and butter, father?" she asked.

  Billy apparently did not hear.

  "Have you been having some bread and butter, father?" repeated Esther. [illustration omitted, page unnumbered]

  "Hey?"

  "Have you been having some bread and butter?"

  "No, Esther, I 'ain't," replied Billy, and returned again to his paper.

  Esther said no more. She again went out for a cloth. This time she brought a basin of hot water and some polishing-powder. She could not well reach the window, and Billy moved, hitching his chair slightly.

  Esther worked, cleaning off the smear and polishing the glass. She eye
d it, not quite satisfied. When she went out, evidently to try her polish on the outside, thinking that some of the trouble must be there, Billy clapped his hand over his mouth and nearly choked with repressed mirth. When Esther appeared on the other side of his window with her polish, he was reading his paper with an intensely sober face.

  Billy enjoyed himself immensely. These little tricks were his only amusement. He loved his daughter, but deep-rooted in his nature was the love of mischief, even against one whom he loved. He derived a peculiar pleasure from its exercise in the case of Esther, because she was so completely unsuspecting. What she did suspect her father did not even dream. Had he dreamed it, he would have enjoyed it to the full. Poor Esther Thomas feared her father was gradually losing his wits from old age. She had a fair amount of reason. She knew perfectly well in what a state of order and cleanliness she had left the house when she went out. She knew, of course, that flour and lard do not of their own volition get on tables and shelves and windows. Her father had been the only person in the house. Esther was aware that her father must be the culprit. He had put her order in disorder; he had sprinkled flour over spotless surfaces; he had smeared the clear window-glass. Esther knew this, but her mind could grasp no motive within reason for the deeds. She had no conception of mischief for the sake of mischief, of uneasiness finding its safety-valve. She therefore told herself sadly that "poor father was failing," and she must be even more watchful regarding her duty toward him.

  Esther Thomas was a sweet woman. She was sweet like a flower, blooming only under certain restrictions, facing always one way. After she had cleaned the window she went into the kitchen and washed carefully the cloth and her hands.

  While she was there, old Billy, gazing out, saw Sam Ellis. Right opposite the Thomas house was the little grocery-store. Sam was standing on the piazza gazing longingly over at Billy. Billy shook his head, raised his hand, and went through an elaborate code of signals: Sam understood. When Esther re-entered the room her father was having a hard coughing-spell. Old Billy had rather violent attacks of asthma. Esther went to the little chimney cupboard for a bottle of medicine.

  "It ain't--there," strangled Billy.

  "Why, where is it, father?"

  "I--used up--the last on't--some days ago--while you was out, and I threw the bottle away. No use of old medicine-bottles settin' round," Billy coughed and wheezed.

  Esther went to the closet and got her hat and coat. Old Billy, still coughing, watched her slyly.

  "Where you--goin'?"

  "Down to the drug-store to get another bottle of your medicine. Keep perfectly still while I am gone, father. I will be back as soon as I can."

  Billy coughed. He found it rather difficult to desist after he had watched his daughter out of sight. He still coughed while frantically beckoning Sam Ellis on the grocery piazza.

  Sam shambled over and entered, grinning. Sam was a shabby figure. He came from a good old family, but he was the last shred of it, swaying and fraying before the winds of destiny, with nobody of his kith or kin to mend him, or brush him; or attend generally to his physical welfare. He lived alone in a corner of the old Ellis house. Dreadful tales were told by good housekeepers about the state of that house and especially Sam's corner. Carpets had not been taken up for half a century. Moth and rust reigned undisputed. However, Sam was a happier man than Billy. He had all that is sometimes left to the aged of the world, his own way, and he loved it.

  Billy gazed at him when he entered, with a queer affection and envy. The two old men loved each other. Billy envied; Sam pitied.

  "How did ye manage it?" queried Sam.

  "Had a coughin'-spell, and the medicine was all gone." He winked and coughed again in spite of himself.

  "You hadn't ought to take liberties with that cough," said Sam, anxiously. Out of a jungle of crisscross lines of white hairs covering his face his blue eyes gleamed tenderly upon his friend. His bald head rose dome-like and shining, but his white beard covered his cheeks and fell upon his breast. He had been a handsome man. He had never married, but he had had in his youth his love-affair. The girl whom he had loved had died.

  Sam could not quite understand Billy's attitude with regard to his daughter. "Why d'ye have to manoeuver that way to get a minute to see me?" he queried, with regard to the cough-medicine. "Now Esther always seems to me real mild and gentle."

  "She is. Esther's the salt of the earth, and she never gets mad nor speaks up," declared Billy.

  "Then why--"

  "If she did get mad I wouldn't feel called upon to manoeuver. She and me could fight it out, and I guess I'd get my own way," said Billy.

  Sam took his venerable pipe out of his pocket. He looked inquiringly at Billy, who shook his head.

  Sam replaced the pipe. "S'pose it wouldn't do," he admitted.

  "She would smell it," said Billy. "I don't never smoke mine except once in a while in summer-time, when I can get down in the orchard, and the wind ain't toward the house, and she's gone out anyway."

  "What does she say?"

  "She don't say nothin'. She don't even sniff round the way some women would. Esther is a lady, if she is my daughter. I jest know it wouldn't do for me to smoke my old pipe around the house as long as she's livin' here, so I keep it in the lowermost secretary drawer."

  Sam regarded Billy thoughtfully. He got up and peered down the street.

  "It ain't time for her yet," said Billy.

  Sam thrust his face close to Billy's and whispered, "When is she goin' to git married to the parson?"

  "She ain't never goin' to as long as I live."

  "How d'ye know?"

  "She told him so. She said it was her duty to stay right here and take care of me. He acted real nice about it; said I would be jest as welcome to live with 'em as if I was his own father. But she told him he couldn't leave his mother, and neither of 'em said anything, but both of 'em knew that wouldn't work--old lady Comstock livin' with her daughter-in-law's pa."

  Sam chuckled. "Golly! You couldn't hev said your soul was your own, sure enough," he remarked.

  Billy chuckled in response. "Reckon you're right. Betwixt Esther's holdin' her tongue and the old lady not holdin' hers, it'd been a case of the upper and nether millstones," said he. "Esther and Willard both knew that wouldn't do, and Esther, she won't leave me nohow."

  "You could git along."

  Billy fairly snorted. "Git along! I ruther reckon I could! I could git Sarah Miles to come here. She's spry and a good housekeeper, and she 'ain't never tried to have her way. She 'ain't got any way. She'd keep house, and you could about live here. We could do jest as we was a mind to."

  "But Esther's sot."

  "When it comes to what she thinks is her duty, Esther is more than sot. She's growed to it."

  "Willard Comstock always liked her, and a minister ought to have a wife."

  "Esther told him not to come here again. She said it would make talk, and he'd better marry some one else. She said, 'As long as father lives, my duty is right here.' It made me feel kind of queer." Old Billy's voice was pathetic. "Seems as if old folks hadn't ought to stand in the way of young ones, but how in Sam Hill be they goin' to git out till the Lord calls 'em?"

  "Near as I can see, you ain't in the way."

  "No, I ain't, but she thinks I'm her duty, and there's no use tryin' to reason her out of it."

  "An' he ain't comin' any more?"

  "He 'ain't been here for months, and I can see she's feelin' sort of miserable about it."

  "Why don't he stick it out an' come? I guess when I was his age I'd have stepped right over her duty an' trompled it down."

  "Ef he would only come!" reflected Billy. "He used to come to tea sometimes." Suddenly he sat up. His face assumed the expression of eager mischief that it had worn when he had made his expedition into the pantry for the flour and lard. His eyes snapped. He slapped his knee. "By hookey!" said he. "I'll git Willard Comstock here to tea this very night."

  Sam eyed him, as exci
ted as his friend. "How will you manage?" he demanded. For answer Billy rapped madly on the window.

  "What you doin' that for?"

  "I'm goin' to send the little Abbott boy to invite him. Eddy Abbott is such a good little boy, nobody can suspicion anything ain't all right. Esther, she's got plenty of cake and a floating- island. She baked this mornin'. I'll do it." Billy beckoned frantically.

  A little boy on the street outside, moving waveringly on roller-skates, turned a pretty face toward the window.

  "Come in here a minute. Come in here a minute," said Billy.

  The boy could not have heard him, but he saw the beckoning old hand. He navigated with difficulty up the front walk to the door, where Billy met him.

  When Billy returned to the sitting-room he looked rather pale but triumphant. "Eddy Abbott is going to tell Willard Comstock that Miss Esther Thomas invites him to take tea with her and her pa at six o'clock to-night," he whispered.

  "Guess I'd better light out," said Sam, rising.

  "Guess you'd better. It's most time for her to come home."

  "Ain't you goin' to shave or put on a clean collar; or nothin'?"

  "Can't, unless I want her to suspicion somethin'."

  "Well," said Sam. He lounged out, and presently Billy saw him seated in an arm-chair on the grocery piazza. He was smoking his pipe. He waved his hand imperceptibly. Then Esther appeared, walking rather hurriedly down the street with her little parcel from the drug-store.

  "I guess I feel some better," Billy said when his daughter entered, bottle and spoon in hand.

  "You had better take it, anyway, father. You are not breathing properly now."

  Billy murmured something about "not spilin' his appetite for supper," but he took his dose. Esther went out in the kitchen. Billy rose and peeped out stealthily. Esther was mixing biscuits. Billy nodded approvingly and returned to his seat.

  He had begun to smell the biscuits baking when he saw a young man coming hastily up the street. He gave a sigh of relief. Billy had realized the risk he had run of getting a message of refusal by little Eddy Abbott, and his daughter's discovery of the plot. Now that the young man was accepting, he knew that all would be well. However puzzled Esther Thomas might be, she would say nothing when a guest appeared at tea-time. She had a great sense of hospitality. She might have refused to see Willard in the evening, but at tea-time his welcome was assured, however bewildered she might be.