Three days after the homing birds flitting about the old foundry on the
river road witnessed the betrothal of George and Helen, Mrs. George
William Cutter was seen to issue from her residence at five o’clock in
the afternoon. It was barely possible at any time to do this on Wiggs
Street without being observed by the secret eyes of your neighbors and
exciting a purely private interest in where you were going. But it was
absurdly impossible for Mrs. Cutter to have escaped on this occasion
without exciting the liveliest curiosity, owing to the way she looked
and her obvious destination, as compared with what she had been saying
quite freely for the last three months to any one who wanted to know
what her feelings and opinions were concerning a certain matter.
Her hair was crimped, although this was Thursday and she never put
it up on hairpins except on Saturday nights “for Sunday.” She wore a
small, glistening, lavender straw hat wreathed in lilacs of that shade
of pink grown only by milliners. A helpless thing securely pinned on,
which somehow gave the impression of having involuntarily drawn back
from her face in a mild flowerlike terror of this face. Any one seeing
her might have understood the feelings of this hat. Her countenance
seemed to burn, probably from the summer heat, possibly from some fiery
emotion. Her red brown eyes spat sparks, her neck was bowed until she
accomplished what Nature had not designed she should have, a wrinkle
that made a thin double chin.
Her frock was of gray silk, high at the neck, tight at the waist, full
in the skirt, “garnished” with three graduated bands of satin ribbon
above a flounce at the bottom. It rustled richly as she walked, and she
fairly crimped the ground as she walked, taking short, emphatic steps,
as if the high heels of her slippers were stings with which she stung
whatever was lawful for an indignant woman to sting with her heels.
She was on her way to Helen Adams and her mother. She had tried to
reason with George about this hasty marriage. She had pointed out to
him that while the girl was a nice girl, and so on and so forth, only
to have George fling out of the room as if she had insulted him. She
had talked to Mr. Cutter about it, who had told her briefly, if not
rudely, that she had better mind her own business and leave these young
people to attend to theirs since they would do it, anyhow. As if George
was not, and had not been, her own and chief business from the day of
his birth. She had moped and suffered these three days. At last she
had resolved to do her duty, since it was the only thing left that she
could do. She would go and call on the Adamses, “recognize” them, and
thus by the sacrifice of her pride and convictions, reinstate herself
with George.
The lot of a mother was a sad one! She had the pangs by which her
child, in this case a son, was born. She nursed him. She had the care
of him, never thinking of herself. Then when he was old enough to give
her some returns, he goes off against her advice and gives himself to
another woman who, she knows, and will live to see, is unsuited to
him, and on top of all this she must sacrifice her feelings, stultify
herself, boot-lick George by going over there! She was so moved to
pity of herself that the imminence of tears reminded her that she had
forgotten her handkerchief. She went back to get it, thus keeping the
neighbors in suspense, because she had to stop and powder her nose
after blowing it.
This time she came out, moving swiftly and rustlingly across the street
to the Adams cottage. She did not doubt that she would be received
cordially there. She did not know that Mrs. Adams had ceased to “speak”
to her some time ago, because she had never been more than civil to
Mrs. Adams, and therefore would not have known if that lady had passed
a year without speaking to her.
She was received, of course, but by no stretch of imagination could the
reception have been called cordial. Mrs. Adams did it. She asked her
in, and admitted coolly that yes, Helen was at home. She would “tell”
her. She went out to do this. Mrs. Cutter’s eyes took one flight about
the room. She made the best of what she saw. There certainly were some
good pieces of golden oak in it. She wondered if the girl would be
allowed to take her piano when she married. She hoped--
Mrs. Adams returned, large, serene, dignified, very cool. She hoped
Mrs. Cutter had been well?
Oh, yes, quite well, thanks.
Then she told Mrs. Cutter voluntarily that if she had not been worried
to death about Helen she supposed she might have been in her usual
health.
Mrs. Cutter raised her brows and said she hoped there was nothing the
matter with Helen.
Oh, no, the child was well and sillily happy, but this engagement!
The two women stared at each other, ice and fire in these looks. Mrs.
Cutter was astounded. Did her ears deceive her? They did not.
Mrs. Adams was speaking in her large, welkin-ringing voice, distinctly
audible in the street, across the street, for that matter. Helen was
too young to marry, she was saying. She had not finished school. She
had expected to give her the best advantages in music. Helen had
talent, a future before her. But what good would talent do a married
woman?
She asked Mrs. Cutter this and paused for a reply if Mrs. Cutter could
make one. Evidently she could not.
No good in the world! Mrs. Adams retorted by way of answering herself.
The less personal promise she had of a future, the better it was for a
married woman. To have a gift in you that you could not develop made
for unhappiness. And what time would Helen have for her music now?
None. What use would she have for it? Practically none. And Helen
had a very nice little talent for drawing. She had painted several
placques, waving her hand at the evidences of her daughter’s art on the
walls of the parlor. It was there--a placque the size of a dinner plate
full of pansies, another one with roses painted on it.
Mrs. Cutter’s eyes flew up obedient to these artless efforts in art,
and immediately resumed their position on Mrs. Adams’ face, which was
as full of meaning as the portrait of a Dutch mother done by an old
master.
“Of course you don’t know how I feel about it. You have never had a
daughter,” she told Mrs. Cutter. “But I can tell you what it means.
Your whole life is centered in her. You sacrifice and plan for her. You
think she is yours. Well, you are mistaken. She belongs to some man she
has never seen. About the time you are beginning to have some peace and
satisfaction in her, he comes and gets her, marries her, regardless of
you. Then you spend the rest of your life watching her do her duty by
him, go through what you have gone through in your own married life, if
not worse, when if you could only have had your way a little while it
would have been so different, and--”
Fortunately she did not finish this sentence. Helen came in at this
moment and gave a sweeter, politer turn to the conversation.
Mrs. Cutter had intended to discuss the situation--in a kind way of
course, but frankly. She wanted to give some advice, let Helen know
how important it was for her to exert every effort to fit herself for
the position she would have in the Cutter family. But she did nothing
of the kind. She said a few pleasant things, kissed the girl cordially
on both cheeks and hoped George would make her happy, to which Helen
replied that he had already made her happy. Then she took her leave.
Helen accompanied her to the door, Mrs. Adams remained in the parlor.
She had seen Mrs. Cutter’s transit across the street when she came to
make this call. She had read truly the mood of George’s mother. And
she had attended to her. She had let her know a thing or two. Now she
stood behind the parlor curtains watching her again cross the street.
This time it was less in the nature of a transit, she perceived,
nodding her head grimly. Mrs. Cutter’s neck was limber, her proud look
had disappeared. Her hat, although she had not touched it, was tilted
absurdly to one side, as if an invisible blow had struck it. And she
was walking hurriedly, like a person in retreat.
Mrs. Cutter barely made it across her own doorsill before she began to
wring her hands. Oh! her Father in heaven, what kind of mother-in-law
would that woman make to poor Georgie? She received no immediate
answer to this interrogative prayer. We never do. An answer to prayer
comes when you wait until it is worked out somewhere in life. Her own
suspicions answered it clearly enough, however; she must knuckle to
some sort of courtship of that old Adams woman, or there was no telling
what might happen.
She had taken it for granted that George would bring his wife to his
own home. One look at Mrs. Adams convinced her that if the young couple
lived with anybody they would live with Helen’s mother. That would
never do! Since George was determined to marry the girl the only wise
course to follow would be to give him a home of his own. She would tell
Mr. Cutter so, and why. He could afford to do something for George.
He might make him a wedding present of the old Carrol place. It would
cost something to repair the house, but anything would be better than
sitting across the street and seeing George domesticated in the Adams
home.
All this is important to set down in order that you may realize the
difficulty so many young people have in disentangling themselves from
the lives of their elders and starting out for themselves. We have
escaped the old tribal instinct in everything more than in this. The
son is persuaded to bring his wife into his father’s house, or he does
do it for the sake of economy. Nothing can be more disintegrating to
the welding and growth of such a marriage.
But the chief reason I have recorded what happened on this day is
because it was by this accident of maternal jealousy that Helen came
into possession of her house. So far from believing in any sort of
orderly destiny, my belief is that the Fates which change and control
our lives are as uncertain as the flight of birds. The world about us
is filled with contending forces.
Some one whom you never saw or heard of looks at the ticker in his
office and sells out that day. The next day that little package of
bonds or stock in your safety-deposit box is not worth the embossed
paper they are written on. Or, you turn a street corner, meet a
man, walk two blocks with him, learn from him something about this
same market which he does not know he has told in the course of his
conversation, and you get the opportunity to become a rich man in this
same market before night. Or, you who have always been a reasonably
decent young man meet the eyes of a woman in a crowded place, and you
pass on with her to a fate which leads to every dishonor. You had no
intention of doing such a thing; it is contrary to your principles and
your habits; but you do it. So many are subject to these whirlwinds of
fate that you cannot tell by looking at them or even by hearing them
pray which ones are steady and safe from disaster. It all depends upon
the compass within whether we swing at the right moment into the right
current.
Just so, if Mrs. Adams had not resented the bow of Mrs. Cutter’s neck,
the offensive emphasis of her little wrinkle of a double chin, when
she came to make that call, she might have received her amiably. And
if Mrs. Cutter had been received amiably, her maternal jealousy might
not have been so aroused and she would not have persuaded Mr. Cutter
to give George the Carrol place. In that case the House of Helen might
have been some other house, or no house at all. And her life would have
been in all probability a different kind of existence. Because the
house in which a woman lives, moves and does her duties, determines her
character much more than the bank does in which her husband transacts
his affairs.
If the reader is another woman, and has spent her spare time for
nearly forty years, as I have, in a sort of involuntary study of men,
she knows, as well as I do, that there is nothing you can see with
the naked eye or put even your gloved finger on that does determine
the character of a man. He never breaks his own personal confidence.
It is no use to keep either your eye or your finger on him. You will
never know him unless he goes to pieces like the one-horse shay, after
which it is very unfortunate to know him at all. I am putting this
down merely to give you a line on how effervescently Helen came into
possession of her house, though it seemed so natural that she should
have it, and to warn you that while you think you know what will happen
in this story, you do not know, because you do not know George. You do
not, even if your own husband is a similar George.