MAMIE PARKER
ON a bright winter day more than a year after Mr. Conway's deliverance
with regard to cards, Mrs. Burnham's next very distinct milestone was
set up. She was away from the old home and Mr. Conway and all the
associations of her past. She was spending her second winter in a lively
college town, and Erskine was a sophomore.
The lonely mother of one son had been through much anxiety and
perplexity before the plans for this change in their life were fully
formed. Erskine's gay rendering of the situation was that not only did
every adopted aunt and uncle and grandmother that he had in the world
know best how to plan their life for them, but had each a pet college to
ride as a hobby. He gave this as a reason why it was just as well to
break all their hearts at one fell swoop and choose for himself--which
was what in effect he had done; at least he had gone quite contrary to
the urgings of his other friends and had compromised with his mother.
But he had made quite a compromise. His very first choice had been one
of which she entirely disapproved; nor could she be persuaded despite
his arguments to change her point of view. In vain he held her quite
into the night in a close and eager debate, setting forth his important
reasons with skill and eloquence. In vain he assured her that conditions
had very much changed since his father had expressed disapproval of this
particular centre of learning, and as for his grandfather, why there was
nothing left of his times but the name.
His mother urged that her opinion, or her feeling--he might call it
feeling if he chose--was not based on his grandfather's or even entirely
on his father's views, but was the result of her own reading and
inquiry, and was unalterable. If he selected that college, it would be
in direct opposition to her strongly expressed wishes. She had been
tempted to add that if he did so, his money, left in her charge and
subject to her decisions until he was of legal age, would not be
forthcoming. She was mercifully preserved from making this mistake. Had
she said so, he would probably have gone to the college of his choice
even though he had to go penniless. As it was, his eyes flashed a
little. But his mother's voice had trembled as she added those last
words, "And I suppose I need not try to tell you how such a course would
hurt me."
It was that which held the boy. He sprang up suddenly, took two or three
hasty turns up and down the room in a manner so like his father's that
Ruth could hardly bear it, then his face had cleared.
"You shall not be hurt, mommie," he had said in his usual cheery tone.
"You shall never be hurt by me. I want that college more I presume than
I could make you understand, and the more I think about it the more I
feel that I should like to choose it. But I am not a baby who must have
everything he wants; and I do not care enough for anything on earth to
get it at the expense of hurting you. You know that, don't you? I'll
tell you, mother, we will compromise; this is an age of compromise. I
will drop my first choice from this time forth if you will unite
heartily with me on the second one and help me stop this clamor of
tongues."
It had not been by any means her second choice, but she felt that having
been treated so well she must meet him halfway; so the vexed question
was settled.
There had been another anxiety. Marion Dennis had written to her not to
make the mistake of following her boy to college; and Dr. Dennis had
added a few lines to the same effect, saying that in nine cases out of
ten he believed such a course to be a mistake, and even in the tenth,
separation would probably have been better. Moreover, an only son and an
only child needed, as a rule, more than any other to be thrown on his
own resources. All the old arguments over again, and numberless plans
for the disposal of the mother. She was to come to the Dennis home for a
visit of unlimited length; she was to spend the winter with Flossy; she
was to go abroad with Grace and her husband. Eurie, the outspoken,
wrote:--
"Now, Ruth, don't, I beg of you, tie that dear boy to your apron-string.
I am the mother of five, and I know all about how they talk, and how
they feel when they don't talk. Besides, I need you this winter as never
before; let me tell you something." Then had followed revelations
intended to prove that it was Ruth's imperative duty to spend the winter
with her old friend.
Mr. Conway added his courteous hint, and suggested plans. Mrs. Conway
wondered if Mrs. Burnham would not like to join her sister Helen and
their mutual friends, the Hosmers, on an extended Western trip, now that
she was to be alone. The winter was an ideal time for such a tour as
they had planned; and it would be pleasant for Erskine to think of his
mother as travelling with friends instead of being at home alone. Poor
Ruth! her heart turned from them all in almost rebellion. If she must be
separated from Erskine for the first time in his life, couldn't she be
let alone in her own home? To go visiting or sight-seeing without him
she felt would be unbearable. She kept most of these anxieties and
advices to herself, feeling that she must not cloud Erskine's last days
at home with them. Still, she wondered not a little,--and sometimes it
hurt her,--that he had not spoken of her plans at all, but seemed to be
so absorbed in his own as to have forgotten her. At last, when she felt
that some positive decision must be reached, she told him of Mr.
Conway's proposition, and showed him Eurie's letter. He glanced it
through, smiling serenely:--
"Aunt Eurie is cool, as usual," he remarked. "They can all save their
time by planning for somebody else, can't they? Of course I am going to
take you with me, mommie. Do they think I would leave you in this big
house alone, or let you go travelling without me!"
It was all so easy to arrange after that. It sounded so different from
the wording in those letters when Erskine himself replied to them.
"I am very grateful for your thoughtful kindness about my mother, but I
am going to take her with me; I had not a thought of doing otherwise. I
should not be comfortable to have her away from my care in winter, even
though she were with you. I have so long made her first in my thoughts
and look upon her so entirely as my father's precious charge to me, that
no other plan is to be thought of. I shall find pleasant rooms for her,
and I think she will enjoy the change."
Ruth smiled proudly as she made her verbal explanations. "Thank you very
much, but Erskine says I am to go with him; he cannot think of trusting
me to myself; he has taken care of me for a long time, you know." There
was not a thought of sarcasm in this suggestion. She knew that the
assumption of authority sat well on her handsome son who could look down
on her from his splendid height; it seemed quite in keeping with his
appearance and character that he was going to take his mother with him
in order to take care of her.
The scheme had worked well. He "took" his mother and took excellent care
of her, and incidentally she did much, of course, for his comfort, and
they were happy. Early in his college career she had sometimes overheard
explanations like this:--
"No, boys, I can't join you to-night. You see, I have my mother with me
and I feel bound to give her what time I can spare. It will never do to
have her feel lonely and deserted after bringing her away out here among
strangers, on purpose to take care of her."
It was all very pleasant. But she had learned something from those
letters and that volume of advice. She tried steadily not to dominate
her son; indeed, so far as a carefully-watched-over mother could, she
effaced herself, or tried to. Erskine had no thought of such a thing,
and was openly and serenely happy in his mother's society.
"I pity the other fellows," was a phrase often on his lips. "Most of
them live in pokey rooms all by themselves or with only each other; no
woman to speak to but a cross-grained hostess, and nothing homelike
anywhere; while here it is almost as nice as being at home."
And he would glance complacently around the handsomely furnished suite
of rooms that showed everywhere the touch of his mother's hand. But of
course there were evenings that were not spent with his mother. It was
in connection with one of these that she reached that distinct milestone
of which mention has been made. Erskine in explaining about it had shown
an unaccountable embarrassment.
"It is just a kind of spread that one of the boys is getting up in honor
of his sister; she has come to spend the winter with him. It is rather
new business to him and I have promised to help him through, so I must
go early and stay late--not very late, though. Parker's landlady will
look out for that; she is one of the grim and surly kind. I should have
the shivers if I had to get up a spread, with her in charge. Yes, Parker
is the curly-headed one that you don't quite fancy. I don't know why, he
is a good fellow. Haven't I spoken before of his sister? She has been
here for three weeks. Didn't you notice Parker last Wednesday at the
concert? He sat just across from us and had her with him. Yes, she is at
his boarding-house, and the spread is in his room. He has the downstairs
room, mother, in fact it is the back parlor; there is a folding-bed that
does duty as a sort of sideboard during the day. It is very nice,
really. One wouldn't imagine that there was a bed anywhere around.
Parker is one of the fellows who has a good deal of money, I think, but
not the culture that generally goes with such a condition. Sometimes I
fancy that his father must have made his money lately and suddenly; but,
of course, I don't know. Still, everything is very nice and proper about
this spread; of course you know that, or I wouldn't be in it. The
sister? Oh, yes, she is young--younger than Parker. He is older than
most of us, you know. No, there are no women in the house except the
landlady and her sister, a maiden lady. That's a pity; it must be rather
lonely for Ma--for Miss Parker."
The color flamed in his face and he laughed in an embarrassed way and
spoke apologetically:--
"Parker has 'Mamie' so constantly on his tongue that the rest of us are
in danger of forgetting. He is very proud of his sister. Why, no,
mother, of course he could not very well make any other arrangement; why
should he? Of course it is a perfectly proper thing for a young lady to
be in her brother's boarding-house. She isn't obliged to have any more
to do with the other young men than she chooses. Parker wants her to
stay with him all winter. Their father is a mining man, and he and his
wife have gone to the mountains somewhere among the mines to look up
some more of their money, I suppose."
He spoke almost contemptuously; for some reason the evidence of
abundance of money in the Parker family seemed to annoy him. He went on
quickly with his labored explanations:--
"Of course it would be pleasanter for M--for his sister if Parker were
in a house where there are ladies, but he has been there for several
years and has a room that suits him; he doesn't seem to think he can
make a change. Oh, yes, there are to be ladies to-night. Some of the
other boys have sisters, and cousins, or intimate friends; it is a very
informal affair. I fancy that Miss Parker herself is to be hostess. As
for a chaperon, I don't think they have thought of her." He laughed in a
half-embarrassed way as he said that, and added hastily:--
"It is really just a frolic, mother; they are not formal people at all,
under any circumstances, I fancy. Is it possible that that clock is
striking seven! I must be off at once; Parker will think I have
forgotten my promise to see him through from beginning to end."
What had he said to cause his mother to sit, for an hour after his
departure, as still as a stone, her hands clasped over the neglected
book in her lap? What was making that strange stricture around her heart
as though a cold hand had clutched her and was holding on?
He had kissed her good-by with almost more tenderness than usual, if
that were possible. He had called her "mommie," his special pet name for
her, and had inquired solicitously as to whether there was any special
reason for his getting home early. If there was, why of course--or if
for any reason she would rather not be left to-night, he could excuse
himself to Parker,--of course he could. All his friends knew well enough
that his mother came first.
But how relieved and pleased he had looked when she made haste to assure
him that there was not, and that she would be quietly happy with her
book all the evening, and there was no need at all for his hastening
home. And besides--she paused over that connecting phrase and tried to
formulate her fears. How had her son conveyed to her heart the feeling
that the time to which it seemed to her she had always looked
forward--the time when he would look upon some other woman with eyes
that were no longer indifferent, had come?
She could not have put it into words; but though she arose, at last, and
put away her book as something that seemed to have failed her, and sat
down at her desk to spend an hour with Marian Dennis, and abandoned her,
presently, for Flossy Shipley, and gave them both up after the second
page, and selected another book with the firm determination to compel
herself to read it, the simple truth is that she spent the entire
evening, and a large portion of the night as well, with one Mamie
Parker.