WOULD SHE "DO"?
THE next morning Mrs. Burnham came into her pretty parlor, where a
dainty breakfast table was laid for two, prepared to be as wise as a
serpent over the new situation. She was genial, sympathetic, and not too
penetrative in her questions. Erskine had come home late, much later
than he had ever been before; yet apparently his mother had not noticed
it.
She did not even ask at what time he had come. In truth she needed no
information, but how was Erskine to know that?
Did he have a pleasant evening, and was the occasion all that it should
have been? He was not enthusiastic. It was pleasant enough, he said. In
some respects very pleasant; only--well, a few of the boys were noisier
than was agreeable, and two or three of them did not apparently know how
to treat ladies.
"Oh, nothing objectionable, of course," he said quickly, in response to
her startled look.
"They are so used to being alone that they grow loud-voiced and careless
about the small proprieties, or at least courtesies; I fancy some of
their ways must have seemed peculiar to Miss Parker."
"The other girls? Oh, they are used to such things; they were the
sisters and cousins of the boys, and the ways of a lot of fellows
accustomed chiefly to their own society would not seem so strange to
the others; but Miss Parker is--at least I hope, I mean I think
she--" He caught himself and left the sentence unfinished save by a
half-embarrassed laugh, which changed into a slight frown.
While his mother rang her table bell and gave low-voiced directions to
the maid, she pondered. What was it that Erskine hoped? That Miss Parker
was by nature more refined than the other ladies? And was the hope well
founded? She was slightly acquainted with some of the sisters and
cousins who were probably at this gathering. At least she had met them
once or twice and had felt no fear as to their influence over Erskine.
Was this Mamie Parker different? She felt her face flush a little even
over her thoughts. Must she learn to say "Mamie"? One thing was certain:
she must make the acquaintance of the girl at once. She ventured a move.
"Is this Mr. Parker so much your friend, Erskine, that he will expect
your mother to call on his sister, or is that unnecessary?"
Her heart beat in steady thumps while she waited for his answer. If only
he would say in his pleasant, indifferent tone:--
"Oh, it isn't necessary, mother; Parker and I are not especially
intimate, and he has no reason to expect such attentions from you." But
there was no indifference in the quick response.
"Mommie, you know just what, and how, always, don't you? I was wishing
for that very thing and not wanting to trouble you. Parker and I cannot
be said to be inseparable; but he is a good fellow, and I think you
would like him better on closer acquaintance. His sister is very much
alone here; none of those girls who were there last night have homes or
mothers; I mean of course that they are away from home; though I must
admit that some of them acted last night as though they had no mothers
anywhere, worthy of the name. It would mean very much to Miss Parker,
mother, if she could know you; and of course Parker would appreciate it
more than anything else that could be done for her. You don't know how
much the boys admire my mother."
His mother managed to smile cheerfully, and assure him that she would
make the proposed call. When he went away to his recitation he kissed
her fervently and told her she was the dearest mother in the world; and
as she watched him out of sight, she turned from the window and said
with a kind of strange gravity:--
"I think it has come: I must pray for grace to do right."
For several days thereafter the hours that Mrs. Burnham spent alone were
unusually thoughtful and prayerful. The feeling grew upon her that her
son had reached a critical point in his life. It is true he was very
young, not yet twenty; but none knew better than she that boys of twenty
sometimes glorify and sometimes mar all their future by reason of their
interest in one young woman. Also, she knew that a single false step on
her part, just now, might spoil all her future with her son and hasten a
condition of things that she longed to postpone for him. But she could
not plan her way, could not indeed see a single step before her until
that first one was taken: she must make that call on Mamie Parker. While
she allowed one triviality after another to delay her, the conviction
grew upon her that the step was important. Erskine's interest was keen;
despite the sympathy there had always been between them he had never
before shown such a lively desire to hear about each moment of his
mother's time while they were separated. That he chose not to ask in so
many words whether or not she had yet made that call but emphasized the
situation. When, before, had he hesitated to urge what he desired?
Moreover, he was often absent-minded and constrained; seeming to be
almost embarrassed over his own thoughts. He could not mention the
girl's name without a heightened color, yet he evidently planned ways of
introducing it that would sound accidental.
All things considered, Mrs. Burnham, as she dressed carefully for
calling, gravely admitted to herself that she was evidently about to
meet one who, for good or ill, had taken a strong hold upon her son's
life.
As she waited in the large ugly parlor, where the wall-paper was gaudily
angry over the colors in the carpet, and where every article of
furniture or ornament--of which last there were many--seemed ready to
fight with every other one, she wondered what Erskine the fastidious
thought of this room. It seemed almost profane to think of meeting one's
ideal in such a room. Yet she must be reasonable; of course the girl was
not to blame for the taste, or want of taste, displayed in her brother's
boarding-house.
She had to wait an unreasonable length of time, and despite her furs she
felt the chill of the half-warmed room. There were a few books on the
table, but she tried in vain to find one that would hold her thoughts.
Perhaps no book could have been expected to do that under the
circumstances.
Presently she became aware that some one else had entered an adjoining
room where there had been brisk moving about ever since her arrival.
With the coming of another, a sharp little voice could be distinctly
heard:--
"Oh, say, Lucile, do come here and fasten this waist; I'm scared to
pieces and my fingers all feel like thumbs. Don't you think 'Ma' has
come to look me over and see if I will do! Oh dear! can't you hook it?
It's awful tight, but I've got to be squeezed into it somehow; I'm
keeping her waiting an awful while. I had on that fright of a wrapper
when she came, and my hair in crimps. I didn't get up to breakfast this
morning; we were so horrid late last night, I couldn't."
"'Ma' who?" said another voice. "Not Erskine Burnham's mother? You don't
say so! My land! I should think you would be scared. They say she's
awful particular who she calls on. You must mind your p's and q's,
Mamie, or you'll never see that handsome boy of hers again. They say she
keeps him right under her thumb all the time."
Mamie's response was in too low a tone to penetrate into the next room,
but it was followed by explosive giggles from both talkers. Meanwhile,
the caller's face was glowing, not only with shame for them, but with
indignation. What might _not_ those coarse girls--she was sure they were
both coarse--be saying about her son!
The door opened at last and a mass of fluffy hair entered; behind which
peeped a pert little face with pink cheeks and bright, keen eyes.
The girl was dressed in the extreme of the prevailing style,--quite too
much dressed for morning, though the material of which her garments were
made was flimsy and cheap-looking. Plainly if she had money she had not
learned how to spend it to advantage. Still the clothes were worn with
an air that hinted at her ability to learn how to play the fine lady if
she were given the opportunity.
Her manner to her caller suggested a curious mixture of timidity and
bravado. She chattered incessantly and showered slang words and phrases
about her freely; yet all the while kept up a nervous little undertone
of movement and manner that showed she was not at ease.
"Oh, indeed, she was having an awfully good time. Brother Jim was doing
the best he could to give her a lark. She had never been much away from
home and they lived in a stupid little village where there was nothing
going on. Oh, Jim was an elegant brother; he wanted her to stay all
winter and look after his buttons and things."
"I expect you have heard a good deal about Jim, haven't you, from your
son? Only he calls him 'Parker' instead of Jim; the boys all do that,
you know. It's 'Parker,' and 'Burnham,' and all the rest of them. Ain't
it funny, instead of using their first names? I s'pose that's the
college of it; but your son has such a pretty name it seems a pity not
to use it. Don't you think Erskine is an awful pretty name? I do. It has
such an aristocratic sound. Ma says I ought to have been born with a
silver spoon in my mouth, I like aristocratic things so well. Not but
what we've got money enough;"--this with an airy toss of the frizzed
head. Then, in a confidential tone: "But I may as well own to you that
it didn't pan out until a little while ago."
Mrs. Burnham, as she took her thoughtful way home, too much exhausted
with this effort to think of making another call, studied in vain the
problem of her son's enthralment.
The girl was pretty, certainly, with a kind of garish, unfinished
beauty, not unlike that of a pert doll; and her chatter, if one could
divest one's self of all thought of interest in the chatterer save in
the way of a moment's diversion, was rather entertaining than otherwise,
when it was not too much mixed with slang; but what Erskine, her
cultivated and always fastidious son, could find in the empty little
brain to attract him was beyond the mother's comprehension. But he must
have been pronounced in his attentions. Had she not been reported as
having called to see if the girl would "do"? Ruth's sensitive face
flushed over the memory. Should she tell that to Erskine? What should
she tell to Erskine? How should the place and the interview and her
impressions of the entire scene be described? It required serious
thought. The more the mother considered it, the more sure she felt that
much of Erskine's future might turn on the way in which she, his mother,
conducted herself just now. She puzzled long and reached no clearer
conclusion than that until she saw her way clearer she would take no
steps at all, and would be entirely noncommittal in her statements. This
she found hard; Erskine was curious, more curious than she had ever
before known him to be. He cross-questioned her closely as to her call,
and was openly regretful, almost annoyed, at her having so little to
tell. In the course of the next few days the watching mother, who yet
did not wish to appear to watch, knew of at least two social functions
that included her son and Miss Parker. One was a sleigh-ride which fell
on the evening of the mid-week prayer-meeting in the church they were
attending. Erskine had been scrupulous in his attendance on this
meeting, declining for it social and business engagements alike,
sometimes to his own inconvenience.
"There was no use in compromising about these matters," he said. "Busy
people can find something important to detain them every week of their
lives if they once admit an exception. The only way is to set one's face
like a flint and march ahead."
But he came to her with profuse apologies for this exception; Parker had
planned, without knowing anything about the prayer-meeting; he had not
been brought up to think of such things, and it was going to embarrass
him very much if he declined. He wouldn't have had it happen in this way
for a great deal, and he should take care to let Parker know in the
future that Thursday evening belonged to his mother and to no one else.
He himself arranged for her to have agreeable company to and from the
church, and she had grace to be sweet and cheerfully acquiescent in all
his plans. Nevertheless she owned, quite to herself, that she felt in a
strange, new sense alone. She was more straitened in her praying that
evening than she had been for months, almost for years. There was a
miserable undertone question hovering about each petition: Could it be
possible that she must teach herself to pray for Mamie Parker, not as a
passing acquaintance but as one of her very own? and could she learn
such a lesson? She had by no means settled it that such a catastrophe
must come upon them, but she could not keep down her forebodings.
It was two days afterwards that Mrs. Burnham, having at last reached a
decision, made another very careful move. It was discussed over the
cosey breakfast which she and Erskine took together in her parlor.
"Would he like to have her ask Mr. Parker and his sister in to dinner on
some evening soon? or would that indicate a greater degree of intimacy
with the young man than he cared to live up to?"
There was a sudden stricture at her heart over the flash of pleasure on
her son's face.
"Mommie, you are a jewel!" this was his first outburst. "Parker would be
everlastingly obliged to you for such an attention. You see he knows
very few people here of the sort that he would care to have his sister
visit. Most of his friends are just college boys away from home, and
Parker has ideas about his sister's associates. He is a real good
fellow, Mommie; if he had had one-third of my opportunities, he would
have made more of them, I believe, than I have."
His mother did not choose to argue that question. She felt a wicked
temptation to say that she would be glad if she need never hear his name
again; but she restrained herself and asked another question.