trouble, and you'll find the chart is easy enough, after I've given you
a little help on it."
They came, sometimes singly, sometimes by twos and threes, and Mary
straightway found herself at the head of a dressmaking establishment
from which every business feature except the hard work had been
completely eliminated. The customers sometimes brought their children,
and often stayed in friendly fashion to dinner or supper, as the
exigencies of the work demanded a prolonged visit. Mary played the part
of the gracious hostess while she cut and tried on, and planned and
contrived and suggested, slipping away now and then to put another stick
of wood in the kitchen stove, or see that the vegetables were not
scorching, or mix up the biscuits, or make the coffee, or set the table,
using all her fine tact to keep the guest from feeling that she was
giving trouble.
Mary was social in her nature, and the pleasure of entertaining her
neighbors and her unselfish delight in bestowing favors kept her from
realizing at once the weight of the burden she had taken on herself. But
she was a housekeeper who rarely saw the sun go down on an unfinished
task, and when she took a retrospective view of the week, she was
dismayed by the large arrears of housework and sewing; and all her
altruism could not keep back a sigh of relief as she saw Mandy Harris's
rockaway disappear down the road late Saturday afternoon. She sat up
till half-past ten sewing on a gingham dress for Lucy Ellen and a linen
blouse for little John, and the next day she knowingly and wilfully
broke the Sabbath by sweeping and dusting the parlor and dining-room.
Monday dawned cool and cloudy, more like March than April, and when the
rain began to come down in slow, steady fashion, she rejoiced at the
prospect of another day unbroken by callers. By Tuesday morning April
had resumed her reign. A few hours of wind and sunshine dried up the mud
and put the roads in fine condition, and an extra number of visitors and
children came in the afternoon. Lucy Ellen and little John were expected
to entertain the latter. But Lucy Ellen and John were by this time
frankly weary of company, and they had a standard of hospitality that
differed essentially from their mother's. It seemed to them that hosts
as well as guests had some rights, and they were ready at all times to
stand up and battle for theirs. Lucy Ellen could not understand why she
should be sent an exile to the lonely spare-room up-stairs, merely
because she had slapped Mary Virginia Harris for breaking her favorite
china doll; and little John was loudly indignant because he was
reprimanded for calling Jimmie Crawford names, when Jimmy persisted in
walking over the newly-planted garden. For the first time, both children
had hard feelings toward their gentle stepmother, and she herself longed
for the departure of the guests that she might take John's children in
her arms and explain away her seeming harshness.
Wednesday repeated the trials of Tuesday with a few disagreeable
variations, and Thursday was no better than Wednesday. By Thursday night
Mary had abandoned all hope of finishing her own sewing before May
Meeting Sunday. Her one aim now was to do a small amount of housework
each day and get three meals cooked for John and the children, and even
this work had to be subordinated to the increasing demands of the
dressmaking business. At times she had a strange feeling in her head,
and wondered if this was what people meant when they spoke of having
headache; but sleep, "the balm of every woe", seldom failed to come
nightly to her pillow, and all day long her sweet serenity never failed,
even when the trying week was fitly rounded out by a simultaneous visit
from Sally McElrath and Ma Harris. Sally had just "dropped in", but Ma
Harris came, as usual, with intent to find or to make trouble.
Ma Harris was John Crawford's "mother-in-law on his first wife's side",
as Dave Amos phrased it, and it was the opinion of the neighbors that if
John and his second wife had not been the best-natured people in the
world, they never could have put up with Ma Harris and her "ways."
She had exercised a careful supervision over John's domestic affairs
during the first wife's lifetime. When Sarah died, she redoubled her
vigilance, and when his second marriage became an impending certainty,
Ma Harris's presence and influence hung like a dark cloud over the
future of the happy pair.
"There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mary," said honest John. "I know
you'll get along all right with me and the children, but I don't know
about Ma Harris; I'm afraid she'll give you trouble."
"Don't you worry about that," said Mary cheerily. "I've never seen
anybody yet that I couldn't get along with, and Ma Harris won't be the
exception."
Popular sentiment declared that Ma Harris took her son-in-law's second
marriage much harder than she had taken her daughter's death. Her
lamentations were loudly and impartially diffused among her
acquaintances; but it was evident that the sympathies of the community
were not with John's "mother-in-law on his first wife's side."
"I reckon old Mis' Harris won't bother me again soon," said Maria
Taylor. "She was over here yesterday with her handkerchief to her eyes,
mournin' over John marryin' Mary Parrish, and I up and told her that she
ought to be givin' thanks for such a stepmother for Sarah's children,
John Crawford was too good a man, anyhow, to be wasted on a pore,
shiftless creature like Sarah, and her death was nothin' but a blessin'
to John and the children."
Ma Harris soon found that she had never given herself a harder task than
when she undertook to find fault with John for his treatment of Mary, or
with Mary for her treatment of the children. It vexed her soul on
Sundays to see John ushering Mary into his pew as if she had been a
princess, but what could she say? Did not all the inhabitants of Goshen
know that John had carried "pore Sarah" into the church in his strong
arms as long as she was able to be carried, and nursed her faithfully at
home until the day of her death? Then the children fairly adored Mary;
and Mary, being a genuine mother, and having none of her own, was free
to spend all her love on John's little ones. Not only this, but she
treated Ma Harris with such respect and kindness that complaint was
well-nigh impossible. Altogether, Ma Harris began to realize that the
way of the fault-finder is sometimes as hard as that of the
transgressor.
"Well, Mary," she said, as she dropped heavily into a rocking-chair, "I
heard yesterday that you had a new dressmakin' chart and all the
neighbors was usin' it, and says I to Maria, 'I reckon Mary's forgot me,
and I'll have to go up and remind her that Ma Harris is still in the
land of the livin' and jest as much in need of clothes as some other
folks.'" And she threw a withering glance in Sally's direction.
"Why, Ma Harris!" said Mary. "Didn't John give you my message? I sent
you word about the chart last week, and I've been looking for you every
day."
Ma Harris's face brightened, for Mary's words were as a healing balm to
her wounded self-love.
"There, now!" she exclaimed, "I didn't think you'd slight me that-a-way,
Mary. So it was John's fault, after all. Well, I might a' known it. It's
precious few men that can remember what their wives tell 'em to do, and
I used to tell Joel that if I wanted to send a message I'd send it by
the telegraph company before I'd trust him with it."
Mary breathed a breath of deep relief. Peace was restored between Ma
Harris and herself, but she knew that between her two guests there
yawned a breach that time and frequent intercourse only widened and
deepened. Once in an uncharitable moment Sally had likened Ma Harris to
Dan's old wall-eyed mare, and more than once Ma Harris had made
disparaging remarks about Sally's cooking. The bearer of tales had
attended to her work, and thereafter the two seldom met without an
interchange of hostile words. Mary was of those blessed ones who love
and who make peace, and for the next hour she stood as a buffer between
two masked batteries. If a sarcastic remark were thrown out, she caught
it before it could reach its mark, and took away its sting by some
kindly interpretation of her own. If a challenge were given, she took it
up and laughed it off as a joke. If the conversation threatened to
become personal, she led its course into the safe channel of
generalities; and for once the two enemies were completely baffled in
their efforts to bring about a quarrel. But only Mary knew at what cost
peace had been purchased, when she lay down on the old sofa in the hall
for a moment's rest before going to the kitchen to cook supper and make
tea-cakes for the May Meeting basket. After supper she sewed buttons on
Lucy Ellen's frock and little John's blouse and, being a woman and
young, she thought of the pale blue dimity she had hoped to wear to the
May Meeting, because pale blue was John's favorite color.
But in the matter of women's clothes, John was not quick to distinguish
between the new and the old, and there was nothing but loving admiration
in his eyes the next morning as he stood at the foot of the stairs and
looked up at Mary in a last year's gown of dark blue linen with collar
and cuffs of delicate embroidery. He helped her into the carriage, and
away they went down the elm-shaded road. The carriage was shabby, but
there was a strain of noble blood in the horse, that showed itself in a
smooth, even gait, and Mary's eyes brightened, and the color came into
her face, as she felt the exhilaration that swift motion always brings.
The poet who sang the enchantment of "midsummer nights" might have sung
with equal rapture of May mornings, when there is a sun to warm you
through, and a breeze to temper the warmth with a touch of April's
coolness; when the flowers on the earth's bosom, touched by the
sunshine, gleam and glow like the jewels in the breastplate of the high
priest, and the heart beats strong with the joy of winter past and the
joy of summer to come.
Mary leaned back with the long, deep sigh of perfect happiness. Of late
she had been striving with "a life awry", but now her soul
"Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll,
Freshening and fluttering in the wind."
It was May Meeting Sunday. Nobody could come to use the chart, and she
and John were riding together. A redbird carolled to its mate in the top
of a wayside elm, and she laughed like a child.
"Listen to that sweet bird!" she exclaimed. "Why, it can almost talk.
Don't you hear the words it's singing?
"'Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!
_With_ you!
_With_ you!'"
"Smart bird," said John. "Sees you and me together and makes a song
about it." And Mary laughed and blushed as her eyes met John's.
"Oh!" she sighed, "I almost wish we could ride on and on and never come
to the church. It seems a pity to lose any of this sunshine and wind."
"Just say the word," said John, "and we'll keep right on and have a May
Meetin' all to ourselves out at Blue Spring, or anywhere else you say.
May Meetin's just a Sunday picnic, anyway."
But Mary's conscience forbade such Sabbath breaking. It was all right to
have a picnic after you had been to preaching, but to have the picnic
without the previous church-going was not to be thought of.
It was a Sunday of great events. Not only was it May Meeting Sunday, but
the Sawyer twins were to be baptized, and Sidney Harris and his bride
were to make their first appearance in public that day. Sidney had
married a young girl from the upper part of the State, and it was
rumored that her wedding clothes had been made in New York, that they
were worth "a small fortune." One costume in particular, it was said,
had cost "a cool hundred", and every woman in the church had a secret
hope of seeing the gown at the May Meeting.
According to custom, every one wore her freshest, newest raiment in
honor of the day and the month. Mary usually felt an innocent pleasure
in looking at the new apparel of her friends, but to-day, as she glanced
around, she was moved by a strange feeling of irritation, weariness, and
dissatisfaction. That she was wearing old clothes while every one else
wore new ones gave her little concern; but just in front of her sat
Ellen McElrath in the blue and white gingham waist that she and Ellen
had cut out that dreadful afternoon when the sponge cake burnt up, and
Ellen's little boy pulled up all her clove pinks. The back of the waist
was cut on the bias, and the stripes did not hit. How she had worked and
worried over those stripes and lain awake at night, wondering if she
ought not to buy Ellen enough goods to cut a new back. She turned away
her eyes, and there, across the aisle, was little May Johnson in the
pink blouse that recalled the morning when Mary had left her churning
and baking six times to show May's mother the working of that mysterious
chart. And there was Aunt Amanda Bassett, ambling heavily down to the
"amen corner" in the black alpaca skirt that would wrinkle over her
ample hips in spite of all the letting out and taking up that had been
done for it that hot afternoon when the bread burned to a crisp, while
Mary was down on the floor turning up Aunt Amanda's hem and trying to
make both sides of the skirt the same length. And here came Annie
Matthews in the brown and white shirt waist, that was an all-around
misfit because Annie had thought that three fourths of sixteen inches
was eight inches, Mary blamed herself for not staying by Annie and
watching her more closely. And was that a wrinkle in the broad expanse
of gingham across Nanny McElrath's shoulders? It was; and Mary knew
there would be some ripping and altering next week.
Oh! if she could only shut out the sight of those hateful garments! How
could she ever get herself into a reverent frame of mind surrounded by
these dismal reminders of all the work and worry of the past month?
She glanced over at the old Parrish pew and Aunt Mary's countenance of
smiling peace rebuked her. If Aunt Mary could smile, sitting lonely in
the old church thronged with memories of her dead, surely, with John by
her side and the heart of youth beating strong in her breast, she ought
not to feel like crying, especially at May Meeting service.
The church was filling rapidly, and every new arrival roused a fresh
train of vexatious memories. There was a rustle and flutter all over
the church, a great turning of heads, and good cause for it; for down
the aisle came Sam and Maria Sawyer, Sam bearing the twins, one on each
arm, their long white clothes reaching far below his knees and giving
him the appearance of an Episcopal clergyman in full vestments. And
close behind these came Sidney and his bride, the latter smiling and
blushing under a hat of white lace trimmed with bunches of purple
violets, and gowned in a suit of violet cloth, whose style carried to
every mind the conviction that it was indeed the hundred-dollar gown.
Mary touched John on the arm. She tried to speak, and could not; but
there was no need for speech. John understood the pallor of her face and
the imploring look in her eyes. He whispered a word to the children,
then he and Mary rose and passed out unnoticed.
"What's the matter?" said John in a low voice, as soon as they were
fairly outside the door.
But Mary only shook her head and walked faster toward the old rockaway,
which was standing in the shade of a tall chestnut tree. There she sank
on the ground and began laughing and sobbing, while John, thoroughly
alarmed, knelt by her, patting her on the back and saying: "There,
there, Honey; don't cry," as if he were talking to a frightened child.
The touch of his kind hands and the fresh, sweet air on her face were
quick restoratives, and in a moment or two Mary was able to speak.
"Don't look so scared, John," she gasped faintly. "There's nothing much
the matter; I'll be all right in a minute or two. I haven't been feeling
very well lately, and I'm afraid I ought to have stayed at home to-day.
It was too warm in the church; and I got to looking at the clothes the
people had on, and nearly everything new was cut out by my chart, and it
seemed so funny, and I felt all at once as if I wanted to cry or laugh,
I didn't know which, but I'm better now."
John was listening with keen attention. Nearly all the new clothes in
the church made by Mary's chart, and she so tired and nervous that she
could not stay inside the church! His face grew grave and stern, but
when he spoke, his voice had its usual gentleness.
"You come along with me, Mary," he said, "We'll have our Sunday meetin'
out of doors, after all."
He lifted the cushions and robes from the rockaway and started towards
the woods at the back of the church, Mary following with the docility
of utter weariness. It was wrong, of course, to miss the May Meeting
sermon, but how could she worship God with that striped shirt waist in
front of her? Her temples throbbed, and there was a queer feeling at the
back of her head.
John laid the cushions on the ground and folded the robes into a pillow.
"Now, Mary, lay right down here," he commanded. "Sunday's a day of rest,
and you've got to rest. Don't you worry about the children. If they get
tired listenin' to the sermon, they've got sense enough to get up and
come out here; and nobody's goin' to know whether you and me are in
church or not. They're too much taken up with the baptizin' and the
bride."
And with these assurances Mary closed her eyes, and surrendered herself
to the sweet influence of the day and hour. The sunshine lay warm on her
shoulders and hands, the breath of May fanned her aching head, and John,
like a strong angel, was watching beside her. She heard the twitter of
birds in the top branches of the giant oaks, the voices of the choir
came to her softened by the distance, and her brain took up the rhythm
of the hymn they were singing:
"This is the day the Lord hath made,
He calls the hours his own;
Let heaven rejoice, let earth be glad,
And praise surround the throne."
But before the last stanza had been sung, the tension of brain and body
relaxed. John saw that she slept and thanked God. He looked at her
sleeping face, and the anxiety in his own deepened. For five years he
had borne the cross of a peevish, invalid wife, and then he had known
the bliss of living with a perfectly sound woman. He had never analyzed
the nature of his love for Mary,--as soon would he have torn away the
petals of Mary's budding roses to see what was at their heart,--and he
did not know that the charm that had drawn him to her and kept him her
lover through three years of married life, was not alone her sweet,
unselfish nature, but the exquisite health that made work a pleasure,
the perfect equilibrium of nerve and brain that kept a song on her lips,
that made her step like a dance, and her mere presence a spell to soothe
and heal. His heart sank at the thought of her losing these. He had
always shielded her from the heavy drudgery that farm life brings to a
woman, and now he called memory to the witness stand and sternly
questioned her concerning the cause of this sudden change. She had been
having a good deal of company lately, but then Mary enjoyed company. She
had never complained about the unusual number of callers, but who ever
heard Mary complain about anything? She was not the complaining kind.
John was not a psychologist, and could not know the danger to nerve and
brain that lies in enforced--even self-enforced--submission to
unpleasant circumstances, but his brow darkened as he thought of her
words: "Nearly everything new was cut out by my chart." And yet, what
right had he to blame the neighbors for their thoughtlessness? If he,
Mary's husband, had not been considerate of her health and happiness,
why should he expect the neighbors to be so?
"It's all my fault at last," he thought remorsefully, as he leaned over
the sleeping woman and brushed away an insect that had lighted on her
gold-brown hair.
Yes, there were faint lines around her mouth and under her eyes, and the
contour of her cheek was not as girlish as it had been a month ago.
"If that chart was at the bottom of the trouble--" But again why should
he blame the chart or the agent, when the main fault was his?
Taking off his coat, he laid it gently over her shoulders and seated
himself so that the shadow of his body would screen her from a ray of
sun that lay across her closed eyelids.
The minister's voice rose and fell in earnest exhortation. He was
preaching an unusually long sermon that morning, and John was glad, for
the longer his sermon, the longer would be Mary's sleep. As for himself,
he needed no sermon within church walls. He was listening to the voice
of his conscience preaching to him of things undone and of judgment to
come.
"It's curious," he said to himself, "that a man can't see a thing that's
goin' on right under his own eyes and in his own house and that concerns
his own wife."
Suddenly a new sound was heard from the church, a duet of infant wails
that drowned the minister's words, the voices of two young protestants
making known their objections to the rite of infant baptism. John smiled
as he pictured the scene within.
"I wouldn't be in Sam Sawyer's place now for ten dollars," he mentally
declared; "holdin' them squallin' young ones, and everybody in church
laughin' in their sleeves."
The lamentations of the twins gradually subsided. The notes of the organ
sounded, and the choir sang joyfully. There was a hush, then the moving
of many feet as the congregation rose for the benediction; another hush,
then a murmur of voices growing louder as the little crowd crossed the
threshold of the church, and came into the freedom of God's great
out-of-doors.
Mary opened her eyes and started up with an exclamation of self-reproach
at the sight of John in his shirt sleeves and the realization that she
had slept all through the minister's sermon.
"Take it easy," said John, smiling at her and putting on his coat with
more than his usual deliberation. "Your hair's all right, and you look
fifty per cent brighter than you did an hour ago. You needed that nap
worse'n you need Brother Smith's sermon. Now sit still and let me do the
talkin' and explainin'."
"Yes, Mis' Morrison," as the neighbors came hastening up with kindly
inquiries, "Mary wasn't feelin' very well when we started this mornin',
but she's all right now. She's been workin' a little too hard lately,
and I'm afraid I haven't been as careful of her as I ought to 'a'
been."
"Bless her soul!" said Aunt Tabby McElrath, giving Mary a motherly pat
on the head. "You did just right to come out here. There's nothin' like
a hot church for makin' a body feel faint; and a day like this it'd be
better for us all if we'd have the preachin' outdoors as well as the
eatin'. Now, don't you stir, Mary. You're always waitin' on other
people; let other people wait on you for once. And, John, you come with
me, and I'll give you a waiter of nice things for Mary. Nobody can cook
better'n Mary; that I know. But when a person ain't feelin' very well,
they'd rather eat somebody else's cookin' than their own."
"Well, it depends on who the somebody is," said her niece, Sally
McElrath. "I'd rather eat anybody else's cookin' than my own, whether
I'm feelin' well or not; but for mercy's sake don't get anything from my
basket on that waiter you're fixin' up for Mary. My cake ain't as light
as it might be, and the icin' didn't cook long enough; and when it comes
to bread, you all know a ten-year-old child could beat me."
The May Meeting dinners in Goshen neighborhood had long been famous.
Town people who were so fortunate as to partake of one were wont to talk
of it for years afterward, for the standards of housewifery in this
part of the country were of the highest, and the consciences of the
housewives made them live sternly up to their ideals, all but Sally. Her
cooking and her housekeeping were always below the mark. But she had the
wisdom to ward off censure by a prompt and cheerful admission of her
failures, and none but a professional critic like Ma Harris cared to
find fault with the delinquent who frankly said of herself the worst
that could be said.