SENTIMENT AND SACRIFICE
THE woman on the upper porch who had come out to get her breath had in a
short time passed through so many phases of feeling as to be hardly able
to recognize herself. She had lived ten days since that bulky foreign
letter had seemed to change the current of her life and set it
flowing--when indeed it flowed again--in another channel.
In truth, Ruth Erskine Burnham, as she stood there ostensibly watching
the sunset, was reviewing the days in a half-frightened, half-shamefaced
way. She had always, even in young girlhood, been self-controlled. Why
could she not hold herself in better check even though her world had
suddenly turned to--stop! she would not say it! What had happened to
her, after all, but that which fell to the lot of mothers? It was not as
though some terrible calamity had overtaken her, and yet--could she have
done differently if it had been? She went back in thought to that
evening ten days away and looked at herself as though she were another
person looking on. She even smiled faintly at the absurdity of that
foolish woman's first action, before she had finished reading the
letter. She had risen suddenly and turned off the light, and pushed up
every window to its highest, and rolled back the curtains and let in a
whirl of wind that had made the foreign sheets fly about as though they
were things of life. Then, aided only by the firelight, she had stooped
and clutched after them and held them for a second to her breast and
then, suddenly, had thrown them from her with a low cry of pain. The
woman on the upper porch looking at the sunset smiled at that
half-insane woman of ten days ago and wondered that she could have so
far forgotten herself. Why should there have been any such outburst as
that, when Erskine was well and--and happy. She shivered a little even
now over the word, and drew her wrap closer and told herself that as
soon as the sun disappeared the chill came. Then she went back to her
review and reminded herself firmly that there had been no calamity to
any one; there was nothing but joy. Erskine was not only well and happy,
but he was coming home. He was coming to-night! No, she must not say
"he" any more; _they_ were coming. Forever and ever after this it must
be "they": her son and daughter. That to which she had looked forward
for so many years with varying emotions had come upon her. Erskine was a
married man; and to-night he was bringing home his bride. She had said
over the words aloud, that day, when she was quite alone, trying to make
herself feel that she was speaking of her son. It was all so sudden, so
utterly different from any imaginings of hers, and she thought that she
had gone over in her imaginings the whole wide range of possibilities.
That long letter over which she had spent a strange night, believed that
it was giving her the minutest particulars of this strange thing.
Erskine had met the woman who was now his wife on his first evening in
Paris, and from the very first had been attracted to her by his sympathy
with her unprotected condition. Her only friend and companion in a
strange land was a maiden aunt who was an invalid. Indeed it was for her
sake that they were lingering in France, because she was not able to
travel; she had been made worse by the ocean voyage, instead of better
as had been hoped. Irene had been very closely confined with her for
many weeks, and welcomed a face and voice from home as only those can
understand who have themselves been cast adrift among foreigners. He had
been able to do a few little things for the comfort of the invalid, and
the gratitude of both ladies was almost embarrassing. They were staying
at the same hotel, and as they chanced at that time to be almost the
only Americans, at least the only ones belonging to their world, they
naturally saw much of each other. As the aunt grew more and more feeble
and Irene became entirely dependent on him not only for what little rest
and recreation she got, but for all those offices which members of the
same family can do for each other in a time of illness, their friendship
made rapid strides. Then, when her aunt was suddenly taken alarmingly
ill, and after a few days of really terrible suffering died, leaving
Irene alone in a strange land, her situation was pitiable. He would have
to confess that he did not know just what she would have done, had he
not been there to care for her.
"Of course, mother, you do not need to have me tell you that long before
this I knew that I had met the one woman in all the world who could ever
become my wife. The reason that I had not mentioned her in any of my
letters was that I could not, even on paper, speak of her casually, as
of any ordinary acquaintance, and I had no right to speak in any other
way. Then, when I had the right to tell you everything, it was so near
my home-coming that I determined to leave it until you and I were face
to face, and I could answer all your questions and look into your dear
eyes and receive from you the sympathy that has never failed me and I
know never will. Nothing was farther from our thoughts at that time than
immediate marriage. Indeed it would have seemed preposterous to me, as
it would have been under any other circumstances, to be married without
your knowledge and presence. But when this unexpected blow came, I
realized the almost impossibility of any other course, although, even
then, I had the greatest difficulty in persuading Irene to take such a
step. She had to be convinced through some annoying experiences of the
folly of her hesitation. I do not know that even you, with your long
experience, realize the difference between this country and ours in
matters of etiquette. Things which at home would be done as a
matter-of-course are so unusual here as to be almost, if not quite,
questionable; and the number of purely business details that loomed up
to be managed by that lonely homesick girl simply appalled her. She sank
under them, physically, and I plainly saw that she simply must have my
help and care day and night. Why, even the nurse who had attended her
aunt, deserted us! that is, she was summoned away by telegraph. In
short, mamma, there was literally no other course for us than the one we
took; although it had to be taken at the sacrifice of a good deal of
sentiment on the part of both. It is a continual relief to me to
remember that I am writing to a sane and reasonable woman, who is in the
habit of weighing questions carefully, and who, when she decides that a
thing is right, does it without regard to sentiment or adverse opinion.
But oh, mommie, it was hard not to have you with us."
There was more in the letter, much more. Erskine had exhausted language
and repeated himself again and again in his effort to make everything
very clear and convincing.
He had been skilful also in his attempt to make his mother see the woman
of his choice with his eyes.
"She will appeal to your sympathies, mamma," he had written. "Although
she is so young, barely twenty-six, she has been through much trouble
and sorrow. She is an orphan, and has been for four years a widow. I
need hardly add that her short married life was unhappy and so sad that
she can scarcely speak of that year even to me. Of course it is an
experience that I shall do my utmost to make her forget; and I need not
speak of it again. I wanted you to know, dear mother, that you and I
have much to make up to her. She was made fatherless and motherless in a
single day, when she was a child of sixteen. I like to think of what you
will be to her, dearest mother; a revelation, I am sure, of mother-love;
for besides being so young when she lost hers, there are mothers, and
_mothers_, you know, and I am sure Irene does not understand it very
well; Do you know, she is half afraid of you? She has read a few of your
letters, and has caught an idea of what we are to each other, and talks
mournfully about coming between us! as though any one ever could! I have
assured her that I am simply bringing to you the daughter for whom your
heart has always longed."
It was at that point that Ruth Burnham had flung the sheets away from
her and buried her face in her hands.
But ten days had passed since then, and she had long known, by heart,
all that that letter could tell her.
And now, in less than another hour, they would be at home! her son and
daughter!
She had not gone to New York to meet the incoming steamer, as had been
arranged, or rather, as it had once arranged itself, quite as a matter
of course.
"Think how delightful it will be, when you stand on the dock watching
the incoming steamer, and straining your eyes to discover which
frantically waved handkerchief is mine!"
This was what Erskine had said as he gave her one of her good-by kisses.
She had replied that she would recognize his handkerchief among a
thousand.
In the earlier letters much had been said about that home-coming, and
elaborate plans had been made as to what they would do together in New
York. But in that last long letter, on the margin of the last page, as
though it had been an afterthought, were these words:--
"On the whole, mother, we believe that it would be better for you not to
try to meet us in New York. Irene has no love for that city; it was the
scene of some of her sorrows. She wants to stop there only long enough
to call upon her cousins; and we are both in such frantic haste to be at
home that we shall make the delay as short as possible; so we think it
would be less fatiguing to you to avoid that trip and be at home to
welcome us."
Ruth Burnham said over that sentence as she stood on that upper veranda,
waiting to welcome them. She had said it a hundred times before. What
was there about it that jarred? She could not have told, in words; yet
the jar was there.
Could it be that continually recurring "we"? Was she going to be a
jealous woman, with all the rest? So meanly jealous as that? "God
forbid!" she said the words aloud, and solemnly.
She knew that she needed the help of God in this crisis of her life;
since the news of it came to her she had spent hours on her knees
seeking his strength. She wanted Erskine to say "we" and think "we" and
to be supremely happy,--not only in his married life, but to have that
life all that it could be to two souls. And yet--Would it have been
wrong for him, in that first letter, to have remembered that she had
been used all his life to being the "we" of his thoughts, and to have
said simply "I" once or twice? Of course she could never any more be
"dearest"--his special name for her; but--was he never again for a
little while to be just himself, to her? And must she learn to think
"they" and never "him"?
Oh, she didn't mean any of this, she told herself nervously, and she
must get her thoughts away at once. Of course she would say "Erskine and
Irene" now, always, and forever. Or should she put it, "Irene and
Erskine"? Could she? Perhaps that would help. Did other mothers, waiting
for the home-coming of their married sons, have such strange thoughts as
haunted her?
There was Mrs. Adams, for instance, whose three sons had all been
married within a few years. And Mrs. Adams had not seemed to care. Well,
as to that, neither would she seem to; and she drew herself up
instinctively. But Mrs. Adams had four boys; five, indeed; the youngest
of them was almost as tall as his mother, while she--"The only son of
his mother, and she was a widow." The words seemed to repeat themselves
in her brain like a dull undertone refrain.
Other words that had nothing whatever to do with the situation, but that
had been familiar to her girlhood, came back and stupidly repeated
themselves:--
"Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east." But that was wildness,
and utter folly! Erskine would be ashamed of her and with reason, could
he know--which he never should--that such fancies had been tolerated for
a moment.
Outwardly Mrs. Burnham was irreproachable. So was her home. In the ten
days following that letter she had given time and thought to its
adorning. She was a model housekeeper, and to have Erskine's rooms
always in spotless order had been one of her pleasures. But they had
been very thoroughly gone over, and whereever it was possible to add a
touch of beauty, it had been done.
Already she had drawn the shades and lighted up brilliantly, for at this
season the twilights were very brief. She had paused, on her way to the
veranda, to take a final critical survey, and had told herself that she
did not know how to make an added touch. And then she went swiftly to
her own room and brought therefrom a vase of roses and set them on the
dressing-table of the bride. The vase was a costly trifle that Erskine
had brought her just before he went abroad, and the roses were his
special favorites. She had kept that vase filled with them on her table
ever since she reached home.
For herself, she was dressed in white: Erskine's favorite home dress for
her, summer and winter. Indeed he was almost absurd about it, never
quite liking to see her in any other attire. "I suppose you will want me
to dress in white when I am eighty!" she had said to him once,
laughingly. His reply had been quick. "Of course I shall. What could be
more appropriate for a beautiful old lady? You will be beautiful,
dearest, but I cannot think that you will ever be old."
So, on this evening, although she had taken down a black silk and looked
at it wistfully, she had resolutely hung it away again, and brought out
a white cashmere richly trimmed with white silk. This was a festive
evening and she must honor it with one of her prettiest dresses.
All at once as she stood there, waiting, her heart seemed for a moment
to stop its beating. She clutched at the railing to prevent her falling,
and made a stern and effectual protest. "This is ridiculous! I will not
faint, and I shall do nothing to mar his home-coming, or to give him
occasion to be ashamed of me."
But she stood still, although the carriage that had gone to the station
to meet the bridal party was whirling around the corner, was turning in
at the carriage drive, was stopping before the door. They were getting
out. They were on the porch, they were in the hall; she could hear her
son's voice:--
"Where is my mother?"
And she was not there as she had meant to be to welcome them! she was
still on the upper veranda, steadying herself by the railing and feeling
it impossible to take a single step.