ACCIDENT OR DESIGN?
MRS. BURNHAM had stood for a full minute irresolute; then she had spoken
in her usual tone, explaining to Ellen that the friend she had intended
to take out would not be able to go in a livery carriage. She would
herself make plain to her why the drive must be deferred until another
time. The mistake had occurred by her neglecting to explain to her
daughter the morning's plans. Then she had turned and slowly retraced
her steps. She had seen and been humiliated by the flush on Ellen's face
and the flash in her eyes. It was humiliating to think that her maid was
indignant over the way she was being treated by her daughter. It is
probably well that she did not hear the maid's exclamation:--
"The horrid cat! If I only dared tell Mr. Erskine all about it!"
Ruth Burnham had gone downstairs again after a time. She had changed her
street dress first, and made a careful at-home toilet. She had given
certain additional directions to the cook, with a view to doing honor to
their unexpected guests. She had made a special effort to have Ellen
understand that all was quite as it should be, and had sternly assured
herself that such was the case. If she could not sympathize with the
sudden movements of young people on hearing of the coming of friends,
she deserved to be set aside as too old to be endurable. It was absurd
in her to be so wedded to an old custom! just as though any other day in
the week would not do as well as Friday. Then she had gone to the living
room which was Erskine's favorite of the entire house.
"It is such a home-y room, mamma," he used to say, away back in his
early boyhood. When it had been refurnished, or at least renewed, with a
view to Erskine's home-coming, his mother had taken pains to preserve
the sense of homeiness, and had seen to it that his pet luxuries, sofa
pillows, were in lavish evidence.
It was a charming room. Very long and many windowed, with wide, low
window-seats, and tempting cosy-corners, piled high with cushions so
carefully chosen, as to size and harmony of color, that they were in
themselves studies in art. There was a smaller room opening from this
and nearer the front entrance, which was used as a reception room, and
was furnished more after the fashion of the conventional parlor; but
guests who, as Erskine phrased it, really "belonged," were always
entertained in the living room.
In the doorway of this room the mistress of the house had stopped short
and looked about her in astonishment. It wore an unfamiliar air. The
easy-chairs, each one of which she had made a study, until it seemed to
have been created for the particular niche in which it was placed, had
every one changed places and to the eyes of the mistress of the house
looked awkward and uncomfortable. But that was foolish, she assured
herself quickly. Chairs, of course, belonged wherever their friends
chose to place them. There were other changes. The window-seats had been
shorn of some of their largest and prettiest cushions, and a little onyx
table that had occupied a quiet corner was gone. It had held a choice
picture of Erskine's father, set in a dainty frame, and near it had
stood a tiny vase which was daily filled with fresh blossoms. Picture
and vase and flowers had disappeared.
"Ellen," Mrs. Burnham had said, catching sight of the girl in the next
room, "what has happened here? Has there been an accident?"
"No, m'm," said Ellen, appearing in the opposite doorway, duster in
hand.
"It wasn't any accident, ma'am, it was orders. She didn't want such a
lot of pillows here, she said. It looked for all the world like a show
room, or as if it had been got ready for a church fair. Those was her
very words."
"Never mind the pillows, Ellen." Mrs. Burnham had spoken hastily, and
was regretting that she had spoken at all. "It is the table, and
especially the picture about which I am inquiring. I hope the picture is
safe? It is the best one we have."
"It's all safe, ma'am; I looked out for that; but that was orders, too.
She said the room was too full, and looked cluttery; and she said that
only country folks kept family pictures in their parlors. And she had me
take the table and the picture and the vase up into the back attic. She
said the vase was a nuisance; it was always tipping over and she didn't
want it around in the way. Of course I had to take them; you told me to
obey orders."
Ellen's indignation was getting the better of her usual discreetness. It
was her tone and manner that recalled the elder woman to her senses. She
spoke with decision and dignity.
"Certainly, Ellen. Why should there be occasion for mentioning that? Of
course Mrs. Erskine Burnham's orders are to be obeyed equally with my
own; or, if they conflict at any time with my own, give hers the
preference. Especially should the parlors and sitting rooms be arranged
just as she wishes. Young people care more about such little matters
than we older ones do."
She knew that her voice had been steady, and she took care to make her
movements quiet and her manner natural and at ease. Not for the world
would she have had Ellen know of the turmoil going on inside. It was the
picture that hurt her; or rather that emphasized the hurt. Erskine's
favorite picture of his father; the one that as a child he had daily
kissed good morning; the one that now after all these years he always
stood beside in silence for a moment, after greeting her. And she could
not recall that he had ever forgotten to select from the flowers he
brought home, an offering for the tiny vase.
How was it possible for his wife to have spent six months in his home
without noting all this? And noting it, how could she possibly have
interfered with that cherished corner?
The morning had been a distinct advance on former experiences. The new
daughter had evidently misunderstood the spirit in which small
interferences and small slights had heretofore been accepted, and
determined on aggressive effort. Long before this, and as often as she
chose, she had made what changes pleased her in the more pretentious
parlor, and Mrs. Burnham had openly approved some of them and been
pleasantly silent over others. She had also given explicit directions to
the would-be rebel, Ellen, that the "new lady's" slightest hint was to
be obeyed.
There had been no pettiness in her thoughts about the changes. She was
earnestly anxious to have her son's wife feel so entirely at home that
she would not need to hesitate about carrying out her own tastes. But
was it not to be supposed that a wife would consult her husband's tastes
as well as her own? And his father's picture that he had cherished ever
since he was a child! She had herself told Irene one morning, standing
before that very picture, how Erskine had singled it out from all the
others and said decidedly: "That one is papa." And his wife could banish
it to the attic!
Ruth Erskine Burnham was used to mental struggles. There had been times
in her life when her strong-willed feelings had got the upper hand and
swayed her for days together; but it is doubtful if a more violent storm
of feeling had ever swept about her than surged that morning. For a
while the pent-up emotions of many weeks were allowed their way. But
only for a little while. The Christian of many years' experience had
herself too well in training for long submission to the enemy's control.
By the time that delayed luncheon hour drew near she believed that she
was her quiet self again; ready to receive and assist in entertaining
her daughter's guests whoever they might be. As was her habit when under
the power of strong feeling that must be held in check she took refuge
with her absent friends, and wrote a long letter to Marian Dennis,
ignoring the immediate present utterly and revelling in certain happy
experiences of their past. When her unusually lengthy epistle was
finished, she was startled at the lateness of the hour, and began to
wonder how certain details of the dinner could be managed if luncheon
were much longer delayed. Just then Ellen knocked at her door.
"They are 'most through luncheon, ma'am," was her message. "I heard you
moving around and I thought I'd venture to tell you."
"Why, Ellen, how is this? I did not hear any call to luncheon."
"You wasn't called, ma'am. She said you was likely asleep, and she
wouldn't let me come up and see. She thinks you don't do anything but
sleep when you are upstairs!"
This last was muttered, and not supposed to be heard by her mistress.
Ellen had evidently reached the limit of her endurance. Since the
mistress said not a word, she ventured a further statement. "There's
four of them, ma'am, besides Mrs. Burnham; and it's long after three,
and they're on the last course. I thought you would be wanting something
to eat by this time."
Outwardly, Ruth was herself again.
"Thank you, Ellen," she said. "Since I am so late, I think I will not go
down until the guests have left the dining room. I am not in the least
hungry; I think on the whole I should prefer to wait until dinner is
served."
Her tone was gentleness itself; but there was in it that quality which
made Ellen understand that she was dismissed.
Then Mrs. Burnham went back to her room and sat down near the open
window. The sweet spring air came to her, laden with the breath of the
flowers she loved, but their odor almost sickened her. She had thought
that her battle was fought and victory declared, and behold it was only
a lull! What was she to do? What ought she to do? Should she go down to
the guests, apologize for tardiness, and act as though nothing had
occurred to disturb her? That, of course, would be the sensible way;
but,--could she do it well, with the closely observing and indignant
Ellen to confront? It scarcely seemed possible; and she blushed for
shame over the thought that she was afraid to meet the anxious eyes of
her maid.
Even while she waited and considered, a carriage swung around the corner
and stopped before her door. Three ladies alighted, evidently with the
intent of paying an afternoon visit. Among them was Mrs. Stuart, her
most intimate acquaintance. Now indeed she would have to go down; but
she would wait for a summons, that would make it appear more natural. So
she waited; but no summons came. The ladies, all of them her friends,
made their call and departed. And others came--a constant succession of
callers; the new spring day had tempted everybody out. Most of the
people Mrs. Burnham knew by sight; some of them were comparative
strangers, paying their first calls. What was being given as the reason
why she was not there to meet them? The words of Ellen recurred to her,
words that she had considered it wisdom not to seem to hear:--
"She thinks you don't do anything but sleep when you are upstairs." The
matron's lip curled a little. She was not given to sleeping by daylight;
a fifteen minutes' nap after luncheon was always sufficient, and even
that was frequently omitted.
It was a strange afternoon, the strangest that she had ever passed. She
kept her seat at the window, almost within view, if the guests had
raised their eyes, and saw friends who rarely got out to make calls, and
whom she had always made special efforts to entertain. What must they
think of her, at home, and well, and not there to meet them? And why was
she not there? What strange freak or whim was this? Could her
daughter-in-law hope to make a prisoner of her in her own house? Why did
she sit there in that inane way as though she were in very deed a
prisoner? Why not go down, as a matter of course, and take her proper
place as usual? But the longer she delayed and watched those groups of
callers come and go, the more impossible it seemed to do this. With each
fresh arrival she felt sure that she would be summoned, and waited
nervously for Ellen's knock. But no Ellen came.
The day waned and the hour for Erskine and dinner drew near; and still
Mrs. Burnham sat like one dazed at that open window. An entire afternoon
lost. When, before, had she spent a day in such fashion?
She leaned forward, presently, and watched Erskine's car stop at the
corner, and watched his springing step as he came with glad haste to his
home, and received his bow and smile as he looked up at her window. Now
indeed she must go down; and go before he could come in search of her,
and question her with keen gaze and searching words. Her eyes told no
tales, they were dry, and there were bright spots glowing on her cheeks.
She had not known what she should say, just how she should manage his
solicitous inquiries. She would make no plans, she told herself; things
must just take their course. Matters had so shaped themselves that any
planning of hers was useless.
Then she had gone down to that cheerful dining room, and listened to the
chatter of her daughter-in-law, and replied to her son as best she
could. Now she was back in her room, and Erskine and his wife were out
on the porch in the moonlight, and that slight, frequent cough was
coming up to her. Presently he would come, and she dreaded it. For
almost the first time in her life she dreaded to meet her son. He would
be insistent, and she was not good at dissembling. And yet, he must not
know, he must never know how she had been treated that day. If only he
would stay away and give her a chance to think, to pray, to grow calm.
Should she lock her door?
Lock out her son? She could not do that! but she could not talk with him
to-night; she would turn off her light and ask him not to light up again
and not to stay, because she was tired. That at least would be true: she
was tired. For the first time in her life she was tired of life! She
must get into a different spirit from this. After Erskine had kissed her
good-night she would have it out with her heart, or her will.
Hark! he was coming! they were coming upstairs together, and Irene was
chattering. Out went the lights in the mother's room. She heard the wife
pass on to her own room, she heard her son, stepping lightly, stopping a
moment before her door, then he too passed on, to his own room, and
closed his door.