Mother Marshall stood by the kitchen window, with her cheek against a
boy's old soft felt hat, and she looked out into the gathering dusk for
Father. The hat was so old and worn that its original shape and color
were scarcely distinguishable, and there was one spot where Mother
Marshall's tears had washed some of the grime away into deeper stains
about it. It was only on days when Father was off to town on errands
that she allowed herself the momentary weakness of tears.
So she had stood in former years looking out into the dusk for her son
to come whistling home from school. So she had stood the day the awful
news of his fiery death had come, while Father sat in his rush-bottomed
chair and groaned. She had laid her cheek against that old felt hat and
comforted herself with the thought of her boy, her splendid boy, who had
lived his short life so intensely and wonderfully. When she felt that
old scratchy felt against her cheek it somehow brought back the memory
of his strong young shoulder, where she used to lay her head sometimes
when she felt tired and he would fold her in his arms and brush her
forehead with his lips and pat her shoulder. The neighbors sometimes
wondered why she kept that old felt hat hanging there, just as when
Stephen was alive among them, but Mother Marshall never said anything
about it; she just kept it there, and it comforted her to feel it; one
of those little homely, tangible things that our poor souls have to
tether to sometimes when we lose the vision and get faint-hearted.
Mother Marshall wasn't morbid one bit. She always looked on the bright
side of everything; and she had had much joy in her son as he was
growing up. She had seen him strong of body, strong of soul, keen of
mind. He had won the scholarship of the whole Northwest to the big
Eastern university. It had been hard to pack him up and have him go away
so far, where she couldn't hope to see him soon, where she couldn't
listen for his whistle coming home at night, where he couldn't even come
back for Sunday and sit in the old pew in church with them. But those
things had to come. It was the only way he could grow and fulfil his
part of God's plan. And so she put away her tears till he was gone, and
kept them for the old felt hat when Father was out about the farm. And
then when the news came that Stephen had graduated so soon, gone up
higher to God's eternal university to live and work among the great,
even then her soul had been big enough to see the glory of it behind the
sorrow, and say with trembling, conquering lips: "I shall go to him, but
he shall not return to me. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord!"
That was the kind of nerve that blessed little Mother Marshall was built
with, and it was only in such times as these, when Father had gone to
town and stayed a little later than usual, that the tears in her heart
got the better of her and she laid her face against the old felt hat.
Down the road in the gloom moved a dark speck. It couldn't be Father,
for he had gone in the machine--the nice, comfortable little car that
Stephen had made them get before he went away to college, because he
said that Father needed to have things easier now. Father would be in
the machine, and by this time the lights would be lit. Father was very
careful always about lighting up when it grew dusk. He had a great
horror of accidents to other people. Not that he was afraid for himself,
no indeed. Father was a _man_! The kind of a man to be the father of a
Stephen!
The speck grew larger. It made a chugging noise. It was one of those
horrible motor-cycles. Mother Marshall hated them, though she had never
revealed the fact. Stephen had wanted one, had said he intended to get
one with the first money he earned after he came out of college, but she
had hoped in her heart they would go out of fashion by that time and
there would be something less fiendish-looking to take their place. They
always looked to her as if they were headed straight for destruction,
and the person on them seemed as if he were going to the devil and
didn't care. She secretly hated the idea of Stephen ever sitting upon
one of them, flying through space. But now he was gone beyond all such
fears. He had wings, and there were no dangers where he was. All danger
and fear was over for him. She had never wanted either of her men to
know the inward quakings of her soul over each new risk as Stephen began
to grow up. She wanted to be worthy to be the mother and wife of
noblemen, and fears were not for such; so she hid them and struggled
against them in secret.
The motor-cycle came on like a comet now, and turned thundering in at
the big gate. A sudden alarm filled Mother Marshall's soul. Had
something happened to Father? That was the only terrible thing left in
life to happen now. An accident! And this boy had come to prepare her
for the worst? She had the kitchen door wide open even before the boy
had stopped his machine and set it on its mysterious feet.
"Sp'c'l d'liv'ry!" fizzed the boy, handing her a fat envelope, a book,
and the stub of a pencil. "Si'n'eer!" indicating a line on the book.
She managed to write her name in cramped characters, but her hand was
trembling so she could hardly form the letters. A wild idea that perhaps
they had discovered somehow that Stephen had escaped death in some
miraculous manner flitted through her brain and out again, controlled by
her strong common sense. Such notions always came to people after death
had taken their loved ones--frenzied hopes for miracles! Stephen had
been dead for four months now. There could be no such possibility, of
course.
Just to calm herself she went and opened the slide of the range and
shoved the tea-kettle a little farther on so it would begin to boil,
before she opened that fat letter. She lit the lamp, too, put it on the
supper-table, and changed the position of the bread-plate, covering it
nicely with a fringed napkin so the bread wouldn't get dry. Everything
must be ready when Father got back. Then she went and sat down with her
gold spectacles and tore open that envelope.
She was so absorbed in the letter that she failed for the first time
since they got the car to hear its pleasant purr as it came down the
road, and the big head-lights sent their rays out cheerfully without any
one at the kitchen window to see. Father was getting worried that the
kitchen door didn't fly open as he drew in beside the big flag-stone,
when Mother suddenly came flying out with her face all smiles and
eagerness. He hadn't seen her look that way since Stephen went away.
She had left a trail of letter all the way from her big chair to the
door, and she held the envelope in her hand. She rushed out and buried
her face in his rough coat-collar:
"Oh, Father! I've been so worried about you!" she declared, joyfully,
but she didn't look worried a bit.
Father looked down at her tenderly and patted her plump shoulder. "Had a
flat tire and had to stop, and get her pumped up," he explained, "and
then the man found a place wanted patching. He took a little longer than
I expected. I was afraid you would worry."
"Well, hurry in," she said, eagerly. "Supper's all ready and I've got a
letter to read to you."
It went without saying that if Mother liked a thing in that home Father
would, too. His sun rose and set in Mother, and they had lived together
so long and harmoniously that the thoughts of one were the reflection of
the other. It didn't matter which, you asked about a thing, you were
sure to get the same opinion as if you had asked the other. It wasn't
that one gave way to the other; it was just that they had the same
habits of thought and decision, the same principles to go by. So when,
after she had passed the hot johnny-cake, seen to it that Father had the
biggest pork chop and the mealiest potato, and given him his cup of
coffee creamed and sugared just right, Mother got out the letter with
the university crest and began to read. She had no fears that Father
would not agree with her about it. She read eagerly, sure of his
sympathy in her pleasure; sure he would think it was nice of Stephen's
friend to write to her and pick her out as a real mother, saying all
those pleasant things about her; sure he would be proud that she, with
all the women they had in the East, should have so brought up a boy that
a stranger knew she was a real mother. She had no fear that Father would
frown and declare they couldn't be bothered with a stranger around, that
it would cost a lot and Mother needed to rest. She knew he would be
touched at once with the poor, lonely girl's position, and want to do
anything in his power to help her. She knew he would be ready to fall
right in with anything she should suggest. And, true to her conviction,
Father's eyes lighted with tenderness as she read, watched her proudly
and nodded in strong affirmation at the phrases touching her ability as
mother.
"That's right, Mother, you'll qualify for a job as mother better 'n any
woman I ever saw!" said Father, heartily, as he reached for another
helping of butter.
His face kindled with interest as the letter went on with its
proposition, but he shook his head when it came to the money part,
interrupting her:
"I don't like that idea, Mother; we don't keep boarders, and we're
plenty able to invite company for as long as we like. Besides, it don't
seem just the right thing for that young feller to be paying her board.
She wouldn't like it if she knew it. If she was our daughter we wouldn't
want her to be put in that position, though it's very kind of him of
course--"
"Of course!" said Mother, breathlessly. "He couldn't very well ask us,
you know, without saying something like that, especially as he doesn't
know us, except by hearsay, at all."
"Of course," agreed Father; "but then, equally of course we won't let it
stand that way. You can send that young feller back his check, and tell
him to get his new ottymobeel. He won't be young but once, and I reckon
a young feller of that kind won't get any harm from his ottymobeels, no
matter how many he has of 'em. You can see by his letter he ain't
spoiled yet, and if he's got hold of Steve's idea of things he'll find
plenty of use for his money, doing good where there ain't a young woman
about that is bound to object to being took care of by a young man she
don't know and don't belong to. However, I guess you can say that,
Mother, without offending him. Tell him we'll take care of the money
part. Tell him we're real glad to get a daughter. You're sure, Mother,
it won't be hard for you to have a stranger around in Steve's place?"
"No, I like it," said Mother, with a smile, brushing away a bright tear
that burst out unawares. "I like it '_hard_,' as Steve used to say! Do
you know, Father, what I've been thinking--what I thought right away
when I read that letter? I thought, suppose that girl was the one
Stephen would have loved and wanted to marry if he had lived. And
suppose he had brought her home here, what a fuss we would have made
about her, and all! And I'd just have loved to fix up the house and make
it look pleasant for her and love her as if she were my own daughter."
Father's eyes were moist, too. "H'm! Yes!" he said, trying to clear his
throat. "I guess she'd be com'ny for you, too, Mother, when I have to go
to town, and she'd help around with the work some when she got better."
"I've been thinking," said Mother. "I've always thought I'd like to fix
up the spare room. I read in my magazine how to fix up a young girl's
room when she comes home from college, and I'd like to fix it like that
if there's time. You paint the furniture white, and have two sets of
curtains, pink and white, and little shelves for her books. Do you think
we could do it?"
"Why, sure!" said Father. He was so pleased to see Mother interested
like this that he was fairly trembling. She had been so still and quiet
and wistful ever since the news came about Stephen. "Why, sure! Get some
pretty wall-paper, too, while you're 'bout it. S'posen you and I take a
run to town again in the morning and pick it out. Then you can pick your
curtains and paint, too, and get Jed Lewis to come in the afternoon and
put on the first coat. How about calling him up on the 'phone right now
and asking him about it? I'm real glad we've got that 'phone. It'll come
in handy now."
Mother's eyes glistened. The 'phone was another thing Stephen insisted
upon before he left home. They hadn't used it half a dozen times except
when the telegrams came, but they hadn't the heart to have it
disconnected, because Stephen had taken so much pride in having it put
in. He said he didn't like his mother left alone in the house without a
chance to call a neighbor or send for the doctor.
"Come to think of it, hadn't you better send a telegram to that chap
to-night? You know we can 'phone it down to the town office. He'll maybe
be worried how you're going to take that letter. Tell him he's struck
the right party, all right, and you're on the job writing that little
girl a letter to-night that'll make her welcome and no mistake. But tell
him we'll finance this operation ourselves, and he can save the
ottymobeel for the next case that comes along--words to that effect you
know, Mother."
The supper things were shoved back and the telephone brought into
requisition. They called up Jed Lewis first before he went to bed, and
got his reluctant promise that he would be on hand at two o'clock the
next afternoon. They had to tell him they were expecting company or he
might not have been there for a week in spite of his promise.
It took nearly an hour to reduce the telegram to ten words, but at last
they settled on:
Bonnie welcome. Am writing you both to-night. No money
necessary.
(Signed) STEPHEN'S MOTHER AND FATHER.
The letters were happy achievements of brevity, for it was getting late,
and Mother Marshall realized that they must be up early in the morning
to get all that shopping done before two o'clock.
First the letter to Bonnie, written in a cramped, laborious hand:
DEAR LITTLE GIRL:
You don't know me, but I've heard about you from a sort of
neighbor of yours. I'm just a lonely mother whose only son
has gone home to heaven. I've heard all about your sorrow
and loneliness, and I've taken a notion that maybe you would
like to come and visit me for a little while and help cheer
me up. Maybe we can comfort each other a little bit, and,
anyhow, I want you to come.
Father and I are fixing up your room for you, just as we
would if you were our own daughter coming home from college.
For you see we've quite made up our minds you will come, and
Father wants you just as much as I do. We are sending you
mileage, and a check to get any little things you may need
for the journey, because, of course, we wouldn't want to put
you to expense to come all this long way just to please two
lonely old people. It's enough for you that you are willing
to come, and we're so glad about it that it almost seems as
if the birds must be singing and the spring flowers going to
bloom for you, even though it is only the middle of winter.
Don't wait to get any fixings. Just come as you are. We're
plain folks.
Father says be sure you get a good, comfortable berth in the
sleeper, and have your trunk checked right through. If
you've got any other things besides your trunk, have them
sent right along by freight. It's better to have your things
here where you can look after them than stored away off
there.
We're so happy about your coming we can't seem to wait till
we hear what time you start, so please send a telegram as
soon as you get this, saying when the doctor will let you
come, and don't disappoint us for anything.
Lovingly, your friend,
RACHEL MARSHALL.
The letter to Courtland was more brief, but just as expressive:
MR. PAUL COURTLAND:
DEAR FRIEND.--You're a dear boy and I'm proud that
my son had you for a friend.
(When Courtland read that letter he winced at that sentence and saw
himself once more standing in the hall in front of Stephen Marshall's
room, holding the garments of those who persecuted him.)
I have written Bonnie Brentwood, telling her how much we
want her, and I am going to town in the morning to get some
things to fix up a pretty room for her. I thank you for
thinking I was a good mother. Father and I are both quite
proud about it. We are very lonely and are glad to have a
daughter for as long as she will stay. But, anyway, if we
hadn't wanted her, we could not have said no when you asked
for Christ's sake. Father says we are returning the check
because we want to do this for Bonnie ourselves; then there
won't be anything to cover up. Father says if you have begun
this way you will find plenty of ways to spend that money
for Christ and let us look after this one little girl. We've
sent her mileage and some money, and we're going to try to
make her happy. And some day we would be very happy if you
would come out and visit us. I should like to know you for
my dear Stephen's sake. You are a dear boy, and I want to
know you better. I am glad you have found our Christ. Father
thinks so too. Thank you for thinking I would understand.
Lovingly,
MOTHER MARSHALL.
But after all that excitement Mother Marshall could not sleep. She lay
quietly beside Father in the old four-poster and planned all about that
room. She must get Sam Carpenter to put in some little shelves each side
of the windows, and a wide locker between for a window-seat, and she
would make some pillows like those in the magazine pictures. She
pictured how the girl would look, a dozen times, and what she would say,
and once her heart was seized with fear that she had not made her letter
cordial enough. She went over the words of the young man's letter as
well as she could remember them, and let her heart soar and be glad that
Stephen had touched one life and left it better for his being in the
university that little time.
Once she stirred restlessly, and Father put out his hand and touched her
in alarm:
"What's the matter, Rachel? Aren't you sleeping?"
"Father, I believe we'll have to get a new rug for that room."
"Sure!" said Father, relaxing sleepily.
"Gray, with pink rosebuds, soft and thick," she whispered.
"Sure! pink, with gray rosebuds," murmured Father as he dropped off
again.
They made very little of breakfast the next morning; they were both too
excited about getting off early; and Mother Marshall forgot to caution
Father about going at too high speed. If she suspected that he was
running a little faster than usual she winked at it, for she was anxious
to get to the stores as soon as possible. She had arisen early to read
over the article in the magazine again, and she knew to a nicety just
how much pink and white she would need for the curtains and cushions.
She had it in the back of her mind that she meant to get little brass
handles and keyholes for the bureau also. She was like a child who was
getting ready for a new doll.
It was not until they were on their way back home again, with packages
all about their feet, and an eager light in their faces, that an idea
suddenly came to both of them--an idea so chilling that the eagerness
went out of their eyes for a moment, and the old, patient, sweet look of
sorrow came back. It was Mother Marshall who put it into words:
"You don't suppose, Seth," she appealed--she always called him Seth in
times of crisis--"you don't suppose that perhaps she mightn't _want_ to
come, after all!"
"Well, I was thinking, Rachel," he said, tenderly, "we'd best not be
getting too set on it. But, anyhow, we'd be ready for some one else. You
know Stevie always wanted you to have things fixed nice and fancy. But
you fix it up. I guess she's coming. I really do think she must be
coming! We'll just pray about it and then we'll leave it there!"
And so with peace in their faces they arrived at home, just five minutes
before the painter was due, and unloaded their packages. Father lifted
out the big roll of soft, velvety carpeting, gray as a cloud, with moss
roses scattered over it. He was proud to think he could buy things like
this for Mother. Of course now they had no need to save and scrimp for
Stephen the way they had done during the years; so it was well to make
the rest of the way as bright for Mother as he could. And this "Bonnie"
girl! If she would only come, what a bright, happy thing it would be in
their desolated home!
But suppose she shouldn't come?