best part of the story yet. After the lady had said good-by and was out
of the door, she turned back, and says she: 'Miss Mayfield, when I get
the furniture in order, I'm going to send my carriage for you, and you
must come over and see if you can recognize your old friends in their
new dress and their new home.' I never believed she was goin' to send
_her_ carriage for _me_, Maria, but she did. And she took me all over
the house, and they've made it over the same as you'd make over an old
dress; and it ain't a house any longer, it's a palace. Don't ask me to
tell you how it looks, for I can't. I've always wondered what sort of
places kings and queens lived in, and now I know. There wasn't a room
that didn't have some of my old mahogany in it, but at first I couldn't
believe it was the same furniture I'd sold the lady. She'd had all the
varnish scraped off, and it was as soft and shiny-lookin' as satin, even
that little, old black cradle, and the lady said that when the furniture
man began to scrape that, he found it was solid rosewood. We went into
the library, and there was Grandfather's old secretary, lookin' so fine
and grand, Maria, it took my breath clean away. There wasn't a dent or a
scratch on it, and it shone in the light jest like a piece of polished
silver, and the prettiest curtains you ever saw fallin' on each side of
it. It looked exactly like it belonged in that room. And it does belong
there. Why, as I was standin' there lookin' at it, I thought if that old
secretary could speak, it would say: 'I've found my place at last.' And
it come over me all at once, Maria, that the doctrine of foreordination
holds good with things as well as people. That old mahogany never
belonged to me nor to Mother. It jest stopped over a while with us,
while it was on its way to the lady, and it was hers from the very day
it was made. I tell you, Maria, things belong to the folks that can
appreciate 'em. That furniture was jest chairs and tables and bedsteads
to Mother and me; but the lady knew all about it, when it was made and
where it was made, and the name of the man that first made it. And after
we'd looked at everything in the house, she took me out to see the
gyarden. Such a gyarden! She said it was jest like one she'd seen over
in England, and she was plantin' the same kind of flowers in it. The
beds were all sorts of shapes, and there was a pool of water in the
middle with water-lilies in it, and right by the pool was somethin' that
tells the time of day pretty near as well as a clock, jest by the shadow
on it. There was a hedge planted all around the gyarden, and the
gyardner was settin' out all kinds of flowers, and there was one bed of
pansies and another of geraniums in full bloom, and I said: 'I don't
know why you wanted my old-fashioned flowers, when you've got such a
gyarden as this.' And she smiled and looked down at the geraniums, and
says she: 'These flowers don't mean anything to me. But your roses and
honeysuckles and pinks mean everything; they are joy and sorrow and love
and youth,--everything I have had and lost.' Hearin' her talk, Maria,
was jest like readin' a book. And then, she took me around to another
gyarden at the back of the house, and showed me a bed, and all the roots
and slips that she'd got from me were growin' in it. The gyardner 'tends
to the rest of the flowers, but he never touches this bed; the lady
weeds it and waters it with her own hands. Now, I don't want anything
around me that reminds me of what I've had and lost, but she's one of
the kind that loves associations.
"No, I haven't re-furnished all the up-stairs rooms, Maria. What's the
use o' havin' furnished rooms that you never use? Yes, it does look
pretty empty, but after livin' in a jungle of old mahogany these many
years, you don't know what a blessed relief it is to have a few empty
spots about the house. Every house ought to have one or two empty
rooms, Maria, jest for folks to rest their eyes on.
"Yes, I did keep one piece o' the family furniture, but it wasn't
mahogany. It was that little plain rockin'-chair with the oak-split
bottom; there it sets in the corner. Mother used to sit in that chair
when she washed and dressed us children and rocked the baby to sleep.
She liked it because it was low and hadn't any arms for the baby's head
to get bumped on. I can look at it and see Mother holdin' the baby in
her arms and rockin' and singin':
'Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,'
and I'd rather have that common little chair than all the old mahogany
that belonged to my great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. There
ain't an unpleasant association connected with that chair, and
furthermore, I don't have to polish it.
"Yes, this dress is rather gay, Maria, but don't you think it matches
the golden oak furniture? I always like to have things in keepin' with
each other, and as long as I had to live in the midst o' old mahogany,
it seemed natural and proper to wear brown and black and gray. But now I
feel like mixin' in a little blue and red and yellow with the brown and
black and gray, and when your feelin's and your clothes and your
furniture correspond, it certainly does make a comfortable condition for
you.
"I'll be gettin' married next? Well, maybe I will, Maria Marvin, maybe I
will. Gettin' rid o' that old mahogany seems to 'a' taken about fifty
years off my shoulders, and if I should happen to find a man that'd
match up with my new furniture and suit me as well as that golden oak
dresser does, I may get married, after all.
"Do you have to go? Well, come again, Maria, and if you happen to meet
any o' the neighbors, tell 'em to drop in and take a look at my golden
oak furniture."
MILLSTONES AND STUMBLING-BLOCKS
"I do believe that's Margaret Williams!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin,
thrusting aside the curtain and peering through the tangle of
morning-glory vines that shaded her parlor window. She turned away and
began arranging the chairs and straightening the table cover with the
nervous haste of a fastidious housekeeper unprepared for company.
But there was no need for haste. The expected caller paused at the gate
and seemed to be making a critical survey of the house and premises. Her
air was that of a person examining a piece of property with a view to
purchasing it. She walked slowly along the garden path, gazing up at the
sloping roof and the dormer windows, and on the first step of the porch
she paused and looked around at the tidy front yard, with its clumps of
shrubbery, fine old trees, and beds of blossoming flowers. Within, Mrs.
Martin was nervously awaiting her visitor's knock. She had taken off her
kitchen apron and smoothed her hair down with her hands. But no knock
was heard, for Mrs. Williams placidly continued her survey of the house
and its surroundings, until the voice of her hostess interrupted her.
"Why, Mrs. Williams! Have you been standin' out here all this time? I
must be losin' my hearin' when I can't hear a person knockin' at the
door."
"Nothin's the matter with your hearin'," responded Mrs. Williams,
following her hostess into the shady parlor; "I hadn't knocked."
She seated herself in a rocking-chair that suited her generous
proportions and began looking at the inside of the house with the same
business-like scrutiny she had given the outside.
"We're havin' some pleasant weather now," said Mrs. Martin, by way of a
conversational beginning.
"Mighty pleasant weather," said Mrs. Williams, "but I came here this
mornin' to talk about somethin' a good deal more important than the
weather."
Long acquaintance had never wholly accustomed Mrs. Martin to the
straightforward bluntness that was known as "Sarah Williams' way", and a
look of apprehension and faint alarm crossed her worn, delicate face.
"Oh! I hope there's nothin' wrong," she said.
Apparently Mrs. Williams did not hear the gently uttered words. There
was a look of stern determination on her face, and she drove straight on
toward an objective point unknown to her listener.
"Do you know, Mrs. Martin," she asked, "how long your Henry has been
courtin' my Anna Belle?"
Mrs. Martin looked bewildered.
"Why, no," she said, hesitatingly. "I don't believe I ever thought about
it."
"Well," said Mrs. Williams with grave emphasis, "it's exactly one year
and a month, come next Wednesday. I know, because the first time Henry
ever come home from prayer-meetin' with Anna Belle was the day after I
fell down the cellar stairs and broke my wrist, and I'm not likely to
forget when that was. One year and one month! Now, of course, I know a
certain amount of courtin' is all right and proper. It's just as
necessary to court before you marry as it is to say grace before you
eat; but suppose you sit down to the table and say your grace over and
over again, till mealtime's past, and it's pretty near time for the next
meal? Why, when you open your eyes and start to eat, everything 'll be
cold, and most likely you won't have any appetite for cold victuals,
and you'll conclude not to eat at all till the next meal comes round.
And that's the way it is with these long courtin's. Folks' feelin's cool
just like a meal does. Many a couple gets tired of each other after
they're married, and there's such a thing as gettin' tired of each other
before you're married."
Mrs. Martin was listening with rapt intentness. The gift of fluent
speech was not hers. She could only think and feel, but it was a delight
to listen to one who knew how to express thoughts and feelings in
language that went straight to the mark.
"I've always thought that way," she said with gentle fervor, as her
visitor paused for breath.
"Well," continued Mrs. Williams, "I made up my mind some time ago that
Henry and Anna Belle had been sayin' grace long enough, and it was time
for them to marry, if they ever intended to marry. And I also made up my
mind to find out what was the matter. Of course I couldn't ask Anna
Belle why Henry didn't marry her. There's some things that no mother's
got a right to speak of to her child, and this is one of 'em; and I
couldn't say anything to Henry, for that would 'a' been a thousand
times worse, but I says to myself: 'I've got a right to know what's the
matter, and I'm goin' to know.'"
Mrs. Martin was leaning forward, listening breathlessly. There was a
faint flush on her cheek, and her eyes were the eyes of a young girl who
is reading the first pages of a romance. Her son's love affair had been
the central point of interest in her life for a year past. But Henry was
a taciturn youth, and her delicacy forbade questioning; so, in spite of
the deep affection between the two, the rise and progress of her son's
courtship was an unknown story to her. Two nights in every week Henry
would take his way to the home of the girl he loved, and as she sat
alone waiting for his return, and living over the days of her own
courtship, she had felt a wistful, unresentful envy of Mrs. Williams
because of her nearness to the lovers. The long wooing had been a
mystery to her also, and now the mystery was about to be explained.
"I've wondered, myself, why they didn't marry," she said hesitatingly.
Mrs. Williams hitched her chair nearer to her hostess.
"And what do you reckon I did?" she asked, dropping her voice to a husky
whisper.
"I can't imagine," responded Mrs. Martin, repressed excitement in her
voice and face.
Mrs. Williams leaned forward, and her voice dropped a tone lower.
"It's somethin' I never thought I'd do," she whispered, "and before I
tell you, I want you to promise you'll never tell a soul."
"Of course I won't," said Mrs. Martin with gentle solemnity, and as she
promised, her thoughts went back to that period of her schoolgirl life
when every day brought its great secret, with that impressive oath: "I
cross my heart and point my finger up to God." She bent her head in a
listening way toward her caller. But the telling of a secret was too
delightful a task to be hastily dispatched, and having worked her
audience up to the desired point of interest, Mrs. Williams was in no
hurry to reach the climax of the story. She leaned back in her chair and
resumed her natural tone of voice.
"The way I happened to think there was somethin' wrong," she continued,
"was this: Anna Belle had been doin' a good deal of sewin' and
embroiderin' ever since Henry begun to keep company with her, and, all
of a sudden, she stopped work and put everything away in the bottom
bureau drawer. Well, that set me to thinkin'. If she'd put the things in
the top bureau drawer, I wouldn't have noticed it, for the top drawer is
the place where you keep the things you expect to finish and the things
you're usin' now. But when you fold a thing up and put it in the bottom
drawer, it means you haven't any use for it right now, and you don't
intend to finish it for some time to come. At first I thought that maybe
Henry and Anna Belle had had a fallin' out. But the next Wednesday night
here comes Henry just as usual, and he's never stopped comin'; but still
Anna Belle never took her things out of the bottom drawer; and the other
day I happened to pass by her room, and the door was halfway open, and I
saw her kneelin' down by the drawer, lookin' at the things and smoothin'
them down. I couldn't see her face, but I know just how she looked as
well as if I'd been in front of her instead of behind her."
Mrs. Martin gave a sympathetic murmur, wholly unheard by Mrs. Williams,
who went blithely on with her narrative.
"When your Henry comes to see my Anna Belle, Mrs. Martin, I always make
it a point to go as far away from 'em as possible, for courtin' can't be
rightly done if there's folks lookin' and listenin' around. So in the
winter time I have a fire in my room the nights Henry comes, and sit
there, and in summer I generally go out on the back porch and let Henry
and Anna Belle have the front porch, and I can truthfully say that I
never interfered with Henry's courtin'. But, as I said a while ago, I
made up my mind to find out what was the matter. Well, the next time
Henry come, they sat out on the front porch, and I was on the back porch
as usual. But I had to go into the front room once or twice after
somethin' I left there, and it was so dark in the hall, I had to grope
my way across right slow, and I heard Anna Belle say: 'I'm all mother
has in the world,' and Henry said somethin' I couldn't hear, but I
reckon he said that he was all his mother had, and Anna Belle says: 'It
wouldn't be right and I never could be happy, thinkin' of your mother
and my mother all alone.' Well, by that time I was in the front room and
got what I went for and started back; and, as I said, the hall was dark
and I had to go slow, and I dropped my pocket handkerchief, and when I
stopped to pick it up, I couldn't help hearin' what Anna Belle and Henry
was talkin' about."
She leaned comfortably back in her chair and chuckled heartily as she
recalled the scene.
"I reckon I might as well own up that I didn't hurry myself pickin' up
that handkerchief and gettin' out o' the hall. I know eavesdroppin' is a
disgraceful thing, and this is a plain case of eavesdroppin', but I
trust you never to tell this to anybody as long as you live."
"You can trust me," said Mrs. Martin firmly. "I never broke a promise in
my life."
"Well," resumed Mrs. Williams, "as I was savin', I stood there in the
hall pickin' up my pocket handkerchief, and I heard your Henry give a
sigh,--I could hear it plain,--and says he: 'Well, Anna Belle, I suppose
there's nothin' for us to do but wait,' and Anna Belle says: 'I'll wait
for you, as long as you'll wait for me, Henry, and longer.' And then
they stopped talkin' for awhile, and I knew exactly how they felt,
sittin' there in the dark, lovin' each other and thinkin' about each
other, and all their plans come to a dead stop, and nothin' ahead of 'em
but waitin'. Now, what do you think of that, Mrs. Martin? They're
waitin'. Waitin' for what? Why, for us to die, of course. They don't
know it, and if we accused 'em of it, they'd deny it hard and fast, for
they're good, dutiful children, and they love us. But we're
stumblin'-blocks in their way, and they're waitin' for us to die."
She paused dramatically to let her words have their full weight with the
listener. Mrs. Martin was leaning forward, her delicate hands tightly
clasped, and her face alight with intense feeling. The visitor's words
were like great stones thrown into the placid waters of her mind, and in
the turmoil of thought and emotion she found no word of reply. Nor was
any needed. The situation was an enjoyable one for Mrs. Williams. The
chair in which she sat was a springy rocker, the room was cool, her own
voice sounded pleasantly through the quiet house, and the look on the
face of her hostess was an inspiration to further speech.
"Now, I don't know how you feel about it, Mrs. Martin," she continued,
"but I never could do anything if somebody was standin' around waitin'.
If I know there's anybody waitin' for dinner, I'll burn myself and drop
the saucepans and scorch every thing I'm cookin'. If I'm puttin' the
last stitches in a dress, and Anna Belle's waitin' to put the dress on,
I have to send her out of the room so I can manage my fingers and see to
thread the needle. And if Anna Belle and Henry are waitin' for me to
die, I verily believe I'll live forever."
This declaration of possible immortality in the flesh was made with such
vehemence that the speaker had to pause suddenly to recover breath,
while Mrs. Martin sat expectant, awaiting the next passage in the
romance.
"Mrs. Martin," resumed Mrs. Williams solemnly, "if there's anything I do
hate, it's a stumblin'-block. I've had stumblin'-blocks myself, people
that got in my way and kept me from doin' what I wanted to do, and I
always bore with them as patient as I could. But when it comes to bein'
a stumblin'-block myself, I've got no manner of patience. If I'm in
anybody's way, I'll take myself out as quick as I can, and if I can't
get out of the way, I'll fix it so they can manage to walk around me,
for I never was cut out to be a stumblin'-block."
"Nor me," said Mrs. Martin with tremulous haste, "especially when it's
my own child I'm standin' in the way of. Why, I never dreamed that I
was interfering with Henry's happiness. There ain't a thing on earth I
wouldn't do for him--my only child."
Mrs. Williams nodded approvingly. "I'm glad you feel that way," she said
warmly, "for this is a case where it takes two to do what has to be
done. And that reminds me of somethin' I saw the other day: I was
sittin' by the window, and here comes a big, lumberin' old wagon and two
oxen drawin' it and an old man drivin'. They were crawlin' along right
in the middle of the road, and just behind the wagon there was a young
man and a pretty girl in a nice new buggy and a frisky young horse
hitched to it, and the horse was prancin' and tryin' to get by the
ox-team, but there wasn't room enough to pass on either side of the
road."
She paused and looked inquiringly at Mrs. Martin to see if the meaning
of the allegory was plain to her. But Mrs. Martin's face expressed only
perplexity and distress.
"Don't you see," said Mrs. Williams persuasively, "that you and me are
just like that old ox-team? There's happiness up the road for Henry and
Anna Belle, but we're blockin' the way, and they can't get by us. Now,
what are we goin' to do about it?"
This direct question was very disconcerting to gentle Mrs. Martin. A
flush rose to her face, and she clasped and unclasped her hands in
nervous embarrassment.
"Why--I'm sure--I don't know--I never thought about it," she stammered.
The guest did not press the question. Instead, she settled herself more
comfortably in her chair, waved her palm-leaf fan, and went calmly on
with her monologue. Apparently Mrs. Williams was merely a fat,
middle-aged woman making a morning call on a friend, but in reality she
was an ambassador from the court of a monarch by whose power the world
is said to go round, a diplomat in whose diplomacy the destinies of two
human beings were involved. Her words had been carefully chosen before
setting out on her envoy, and she was craftily following a line of
thought leading up to a climax beyond which lay either victory or
defeat. That climax was at hand, but she was not yet ready for it. There
was some preliminary work to be done, a certain mental impression to be
made on her hearer, before she dared "put it to the touch."
"I don't know how it is with you, Mrs. Martin," she continued, "but I'm
not one of the kind that thinks children are made for the comfort and
convenience of their parents. I've been hearin' sermons all my life
about the duty of children to their parents, and I never heard one about
the duty of parents to their children." She broke off with a reminiscent
laugh.
"That reminds me of my Uncle Nathan, and what he said to the preacher
once. You know, Uncle Nathan wasn't a church member, and he had his own
way of lookin' at religious matters and he was mighty free-spoken. Well,
one day the preacher was makin' a pastoral call at Mother's, and he
asked for a glass of water, and when Mother brought it to him and he'd
drunk it, he set the glass down, and says he to Mother: 'Did you ever
think, Sister Brown, how kind it is in the Lord to give us such a good
and perfect gift as pure, fresh water?' Says he: 'We're not half
grateful enough for these gifts of the Lord.' And Uncle Nathan says:
'Well, now, Parson, it never struck me that way.' Says he: 'God made us
with a need for water, and if he gives us water, why, it's no more than
he ought to do.' And that's the way it is with parents and children. We
bring 'em into the world, and there's certain things they have to have,
and if we give 'em those things, it's no more than we ought to do."
"Of course not," exclaimed Mrs. Martin warmly.
"Every child ought to have a chance for happiness," said Mrs. Williams.
"Of course he ought," said Mrs. Martin. It was uncertain to what
conclusion the current of her visitor's remarks was carrying her, but
Mrs. Williams' statements were so obviously true that dissent was
impossible.
"And if you and me are standin' in the way of our children's happiness,
we must get out of the way, mustn't we?" pursued Mrs. Williams.
"Indeed, we must," said Mrs. Martin. There was a tremor in her voice,
and in her heart a growing self-reproach that she should have to be
reminded of her duty to her son.
"Well, as I said before," remarked Mrs. Williams, "I'm not cut out to be
a millstone or a stumblin'-block, and neither are you, and now
somethin's got to be done."
She paused. Mrs. Martin did not reply. There was a silence that
threatened to become awkward. She cleared her throat and looked as
nervous and confused as her hostess, then bravely resumed the charge.
"Of course they might live with one of us, but if they lived with me,
you'd be jealous, and rightly so, too. And if they lived with you, I'd
be jealous. And Anna Belle wouldn't be willin' to have me to live alone,
and Henry wouldn't leave you alone; and then there's the mother-in-law
question. Did you ever live with your mother-in-law, Mrs. Martin?"
Mrs. Martin hesitated a moment, "Yes, I did," she said, as if confessing
to a misdemeanor.
"Did you enjoy it?" questioned Mrs. Williams.
"No, I didn't," replied Mrs. Martin with a decisive promptness that she
rarely exhibited.
"Neither did I," echoed Mrs. Williams. "There never was but one Ruth and
Naomi, and they lived so long ago nobody knows whether they ever did
live. I guess Henry and Anna Belle feel just as we do about
mothers-in-law, and, as I said before, what are we goin' to do about
it?"
Mrs. Martin's only reply was a look of bewilderment and distress. It was
evident to Mrs. Williams that she would have to answer her own
question, but she delayed, for there were still a few well considered
diplomatic remarks that it might be well to use before the climax was
brought on. "Now, I don't want you to answer me, Mrs. Martin. You
couldn't be expected to answer that question on such short notice as
this. Many's the night I've stayed awake till long after the clock
struck twelve askin' myself what could be done about it, and the only
thing I can think of is this."
She paused. Mrs. Martin was listening eagerly. The time had come for the
final charge.
"Don't you think, Mrs. Martin,"--there was an anxious, beseeching note
in the speaker's voice,--"don't you think that you and me might manage
to live together? Your house is big enough for two, and it's a double
house, with a hall runnin' through the middle, so you can live on one
side and me on the other. And if you'll let me come and live in one side
of your house, I'll deed my house to Henry and Anna Belle, and they can
get married with a clear conscience. You and me can be company for each
other, and we've each got enough money to supply our wants; and I'll
keep house on my side of the hall, and you'll keep house on your side,
and there's no need of our ever fallin' out or interferin' with each
other."
There! the deed was done, and the doer of the deed, pale with
consternation over her own daring, sat waiting a reply.
But no reply came. Apparently Mrs. Martin had not heard her words, for
she was looking beyond her visitor with the dreamy gaze of one who sees,
but not with the eye of flesh. Was she considering the question, or was
her silence a rebuke to an officious meddler? Mrs. Williams' heart was
beating as it used to beat on Friday afternoons when she stood up to
read her composition before the school, and she tingled from head to
foot with a flush of shame.
"I don't know what you think of me for makin' such a proposition to
you," she stammered. "You'll never know what it costs me to say what
I've said, and I never could have said it, if it hadn't been for that
nightgown put away in the bottom drawer, and the look in Anna Belle's
eyes."
Still Mrs. Martin did not speak. The piteous humiliation in her
visitor's eyes deepened. She must make one more effort to break the ice
of that cruel silence.
"It's not for myself; I hope you understand that. There's no reason why
I should want to give up my home, but it's for Anna Belle. A mother'll
do anything for her child, you know."
Mrs. Martin's eyes were fixed gravely on her visitor's face.
"Yes, I do know," she said, speaking with sudden resolution. "It's all
as plain as day. I don't know what Henry will say, when he finds out
that a stranger had to tell his mother what her duty was. I ought to
have seen it long ago just as you did." Her voice faltered, and there
were tears in her eyes.
The embarrassment and distress on Mrs. Williams' face changed to joyful
relief. She drew a quick breath and laid instant hold on her wonted
power of speech.
"You're not to blame at all," she consoled eagerly. "If Anna Belle was
your child, you'd have seen it just as I did. A son's here and there and
everywhere, but a daughter's right in the house with you, and you can
read her heart like an open book. That's how I happened to know before
you did. My goodness! Is that clock strikin' eleven?" She rose with an
air of deep contrition, "Here I've taken up nearly all your mornin'. But
then, what's a mornin's work by the side of your child's happiness?" On
the threshold she paused and stood irresolute for a few seconds.
"I'm glad you think as I do," she said slowly; "but somethin' tells me
that you ought to have time to think it over. It's no light matter to
take another woman under your roof and for a lifetime, too. So give
yourself a chance to consider, and if you change your mind, we'll still
be friends."