A SPOILED MOTHER
IT had been an ideal October day: one of those ravishing days that come
sometimes in late autumn when, though the air is crisp with the hint of
a coming winter, it is at the same time balmy with the memory of the
departed summer. The hills in the near distance had put on their
glorified autumn dress, and the flowers in the gardens were all of the
gorgeous or deep-toned colorings that tell of summer suns and autumn
crispness. It was, in short, one of those days when it is, or should be,
a delight simply to live.
The Burnham place had never looked more lovely than it did that
afternoon, bathed in the soft glory of an unusually brilliant
sun-setting. It was customary to speak of this as the old Burnham place;
yet nothing in Ruth Erskine Burnham's changeful life showed more
markedly the effect of change than did this.
The long, low, rambling, old-fashioned house, much in need of paint,
that Ruth had come to as a bride, was there still, but so altered that
even she had all but forgotten the original. The house and the grounds
had been, like many other things and persons, transformed. No spot
anywhere, for miles around, was such a source of pride and pleasure to
the old friends of that region as the Burnham place. There were those
still living who could tell in minutest detail the story of its
transformation, when the Judge's new wife came out there to live, and
astonished the country by her doings. Some of them had been more than
half afraid of Ruth in those early days; they all believed in her now.
She had come out to the upper porch for a moment, not so much to get a
view of the wonderful sunset as to get her breath. The house was full of
flowers, and they had seemed to stifle her.
A handsome woman still was Mrs. Burnham. Stately was one of the words
that people had been wont to use in describing her; she was stately yet,
though her son Erskine would soon celebrate his thirtieth birthday.
These later years had touched her lightly. They had been spent, for the
most part, in the cheerful quiet of their old home, which, although the
city had grown out to it, had yet not absorbed it, but allowed its
favored residents to have much of the pleasures of country life, with a
rapid transit into the heart of the great city as often as life of that
kind was desired.
Erskine had for several years been admitted to the bar, and the old firm
name that had meant so much in legal circles had once more the strong
name of Burnham associated with it. That her son was a legal success was
not a surprise to his mother. With such antecedents as his how could it
have been otherwise? She had not kept up with his legal studies as she
had almost done through his college course, but she had kept in touch
with them, and could copy his notes for him, giving him just the points
he needed--better, he told her, than he could do it himself.
"We will take you into the firm if you say so, dearest," he said gayly
one evening, after a spirited argument between them with regard to a
point of law in which Mrs. Burnham had vindicated her side by an appeal
to an undoubted authority. "I told Judge Hallowell, yesterday, that it
was easier to consult you than to look up a point, and did just as well.
He would agree to the partnership, mother, without hesitation; he
considers you a wonderful woman."
At which the happy mother laughed, and told him he was a wonderful
flatterer; and then--Did he want her to look up the evidence in that
Brainard case for him? She could do it as well as not. She had been
reading up about it that morning.
An ideal life they had lived together all these years, this mother and
son. More than once in the years gone by Mrs. Burnham had overheard some
such remark as: "It will be hard on that mother when Erskine marries,
will it not?" It used to annoy her a little. She was conscious of a
feeling very like resentment that people should consider it necessary to
discuss their affairs at all; especially to intimate that there would
ever be anything "hard" between them.
There had been other talk, too, that she had resented. It had been
noticed that Judge Hallowell, Judge Burnham's lifelong friend, came
often to the old Burnham place, and somebody got up a very sentimental
reason for his never having married; and somebody else objected that
Mrs. Burnham did not believe in second marriages; she had been heard to
go so far as to say she thought they were actually wrong. Then somebody
else looked wise and smiled, and said she had heard of people, before
this, who changed their opinions about such things, on occasion. And--
How would such a masterful young man as Erskine get on with a
stepfather? This bit of gossip had floated about the Burnhams for a year
or more, while Erskine was studying law, without their having been the
wiser for it. The day for the wedding had almost been set, still without
reference to them, when Judge Hallowell, sixty years old though he was,
suddenly brought home a wife; and that, without an hour's break in the
friendship between himself and the Burnhams.
By degrees, the form of the question which the talkers asked each other
slightly changed, and they said they were afraid it would be hard on
Mrs. Burnham if Erskine should ever marry, and they added that it wasn't
probable that he ever would. They even ventured, one or two of the more
intimate, or the more rude, to express some such thought to the mother
herself. When they did, she laughed lightly and bade them not be sure of
anything. Her son might astonish them all, yet. She was sure she hoped
so. She was sincere in this. As each year passed she told herself more
and more firmly that of course she wanted him to marry. Why shouldn't
she want him to find that lovely being who must have been foreordained
for him? She was sure now, after all her long years of experience with
him, that she should know the very first moment when he discovered her.
Of course she had not been through the years since Alice Warder was
married without more than once imagining that she had been discovered.
They had numbered some very lovely young women among their friends.
There had been a certain Miriam whom she had admired and liked and
almost loved, and had meant to love in earnest if Erskine really wished
it. And she had gone about the finding out very cautiously. Didn't he
think Miriam was pretty?
"Very pretty indeed," he had answered promptly.
And she was so sweet and winsome, so thoughtful of her elders, so
gracious to everybody; quite unlike many others in that respect.
He was quick to agree with this, also.
Didn't he think her delightful in conversation? She seemed able to
converse sensibly on any subject that was under discussion, as well as
to talk the most delicious nonsense, on occasion.
"Well," he said cheerfully. In that respect he must differ from her. He
could not say he thought the young woman especially gifted in
conversation; it seemed to him to be her weak point. If she could talk
as well as her grandmother, she would be charming.
Mrs. Burnham had argued loyally for her favorite; had assured her son
that Miriam was a charming talker when she chose, and that it was
ridiculous to think of comparing her with her grandmother! But she had
laughed light-heartedly at his folly, and had confessed to her secret
self that she was glad he liked the grandmother better.
There were several other temporary interests, and then the mother
settled down to restfulness. Erskine was a boy no longer, but a
full-grown man, doing a man's work in the world; she could trust him. He
had always confided in her and of course he would not fail to do so when
this supreme hour of his life came to him. She still wanted him to
marry; she believed that he would, some day. She promised herself that
she would be, when the time came, a perfect mother. She would love the
chosen one with all her heart; she should be second only to Erskine
himself. And she would give herself to helping them both to be so happy,
anticipating their wishes and aiding and abetting all their plans, that
they would be glad to have her with them always. And always she closed
these hours of planning with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction that they
were all in the dim future.
Erskine Burnham had passed his thirtieth birthday before he had been
separated from his mother for more than a few days at a time. It was
early in the May following the thirtieth anniversary when the break
came. He went abroad then, on legal business of importance.
"Shall you take your mother over with you?" Judge Hallowell had asked,
but a short time before he started; and he had answered quickly: "Oh,
yes, indeed; I couldn't think of leaving mother alone, with the ocean
between us; she is too much accustomed to my daily care for that.
Moreover, I think a sea voyage will be good for her."
But his mother met him at the door, that afternoon, open letter in hand,
and the grave announcement that she had bad news for him.
"What is it, dearest?" he had asked composedly, as he bent to kiss her.
It occurred to him then there could be no very bad news for either of
them so long as they stood there together, safe and well.
"It is Alice; she is ill, very ill they are afraid, and her husband
writes that she wants me immediately. They think, Erskine, that there
will have to be an operation, and she feels that she cannot go through
it without me. I fill the place of mother to her, you know, dear."
Erskine did not take his disappointment easily. He was used to having
his own way, and he had planned a delightful outing for his mother. He
argued the question strenuously, and was loath to admit that his
mother's duty lay elsewhere, and that he must go abroad without her.
"It is hard on my mother," he said discontentedly to Judge Hallowell.
But he admitted to himself that it was quite as hard for him; he hated
travelling alone.
For Mrs. Burnham the summer had dragged. For thirty years she had lived
for her son. Why should life without him be called living? It was harder
for her because her sacrifice proved to be unnecessary. The surgical
operation was, after all, postponed; there was some hope that it would
not have to be at all; and Alice herself had gone abroad with her
husband: not by Erskine's route, but on a sailing vessel, making the
ocean trip as long as possible.
Mrs. Burnham had stayed to do the thousand and one little things for the
invalid that a mother would naturally do, and to see her fairly started
on her journey, and then had come back to her lonely home: what
might-have-been crowding itself discontentedly among her thoughts. She
had lost her summer with Erskine for nothing, she told herself. Still,
the summer was going; it would not be long now.
Erskine had written to her daily, mailing his letters as opportunity
offered. At first the letters were long, very long and full; it was
almost like seeing the old world with him. Then, as business matters
pressed him, and social functions growing out of business relations
consumed more and more of his time, they shortened, often to a few
hurried lines.
Sometimes there was only the date at a late hour, and "Good night,
mother dear. This has been my 'busy day.' Interesting things have
happened. Heaps to tell you when I get home, which I hope now will be
soon. Perhaps in my very next I can set the date."
She had lived on his letters, watching for each as eagerly as a maiden
might watch for word from her lover. Was he not her lover? All she had
in all the world, she told herself proudly, and was satisfied, and
smiled over that word, "Dearest," that fell as naturally from his pen as
from his lips.
That next letter in which perhaps he would set the date of his return
was waited for in almost feverish impatience. There was so much she
wanted to do just before he came. She had planned to set the house and
grounds in festive array as for the coming of a conqueror. Actually his
first home-coming of any note in which she was there to greet him!
Always before they had come together.
The watched-for letter was delayed. There occurred a longer interval by
several days than there had been before, between letters. Mrs. Burnham
allowed herself to grow almost nervous over this, and watched the
newspapers hourly, glancing over foreign items in feverish haste. She
talked about the strangeness of this delay with her friends, until the
most sympathetic among them laughed a little and told each other that
that spoiled mother was really absurd! And at last it came.
She remembered--she will always remember that October evening when, the
shades being drawn close and a brisk fire burning in the grate, she had
seated herself near it in a luxurious reading chair and, merely for
company, had pushed Erskine's favorite easy-chair just opposite and
laughed a little at her folly, and tried to assure herself that young
Ben had returned long ago with the evening mail, which had to be sent
for, if one could not wait until morning. And then--Ben's step had
crunched on the gravel outside, and she had held her breath to listen,
and--in another minute it lay in her lap! A thick letter, when she had
expected only a few hurried lines. It was almost like the steamer letter
that he had written her on going out. It couldn't be a steamer letter!
not yet! She seized it eagerly and studied the postmark. Could he be
coming so soon that this was really her last letter?
How silly she was! her hand trembled so that the thin foreign paper
rattled in her grasp. There were many sheets written fine and full.
But it was not a steamer letter; he was still in Paris.
She made herself wait until she gave careful attention to Ellen, who
appeared just then, answering all her questions, directing her in minute
detail as to a piece of next morning's work, having her add another
block to the fire and rearrange the windows before she finally dismissed
her.
At last she was fairly into her letter. She read rapidly at first,
devouring the pages with her eyes. Then, more slowly, stopping over one
page, re-reading it, a third, a fourth time; staring at it, with a
strange look in her eyes. Suddenly she dropped them, all the thin
rustling sheets, and covered her face with both hands.
It seemed to her afterward that she spent a lifetime shut up with that
foreign letter.