essential part of decent morals; one can commit as dastardly crimes with
an ill-tempered tongue as with a lying one. And what right has she to
plume herself on her frankness, as if that were a justification for such
ill manners as cut the joy and fellowship of life at the root? I think
our ideas of morals need standardizing, at least to the point where we
can no longer, by bad temper and worse behavior, inflict misery at will
on those about us, sowing on every side the seeds of anger or contempt,
and yet remain a highly respected member of society and a shining light
in the church.—Yet, after all, I’m making a deal of a pother about
trifles. It is what we do ourselves that counts, not what is done to us.
In the face of the void, at the land’s end, the hurts one has suffered
will disappear; it is the hurts one has inflicted that will be lions in
the way. And if I have really hurt Cousin Jane—well, when I’m a little
stronger I’ll try my best to get straight with her. For the present, I
am here in bed again, with the birds outside for company—and a visit
from Caro to look forward to. She telephoned a while ago that she had
been spending the night with Milly and would be over before lunch. So
Cousin Jason hasn’t annihilated the child, at least.
* * * * *
_June 3rd._ Milly really did go home and begin. She went by for Caro
yesterday afternoon on her way home, and they found Cousin Jason in a
thunderous mood. Milly was quietly determined. He had left the breakfast
table that morning in a temper, after his frequent fashion: and Milly,
in her brand-new fashion, had refrained from running after him and
imploring him to have pity on his poor head, and drink his coffee. He
had fumed around on the porches for some time, waiting for her to take
her cue, and had finally disappeared. He came back at eleven with a
headache, slamming all the doors, notwithstanding, and demanded hot
coffee at once. Milly, however, had forseen this contingency and
prepared for it. The cook’s daughter was ill, and she had allowed her to
go down there as soon as breakfast was over and stay until time to cook
dinner. It was the housemaid’s regular day off, and she had already
departed, not to return until the late afternoon. As Uncle Jason had
ordered cold lunches for the summer, the girl had fixed everything for
him, and left it in the refrigerator. Joe, the house man, would serve
it. Milly herself, who was just leaving the house as her uncle came in,
had an engagement in Chatterton for lunch and must hurry; but if he
wanted coffee Joe could make a fire for him, though he could not brew
any drinkable beverage. But Uncle Jason had always said he could make
better coffee than her mother’s cooks, and it would take only a few
minutes. It was too bad about the headache; he should have taken his
coffee at breakfast. And Milly drove off, a vision of gentle serenity,
and left him gasping in the hall.
Caro went back with her in time for dinner. Milly had passed the pale
stage and was in unwonted and most becoming excitement. Caro, of course,
was enraptured with the whole situation. She is the only soul alive who
ever held Cousin Jason in check; and now she infuriated him with her
innocent remarks, and made him laugh the next moment in spite of
himself, which made him more furious still. After dinner they retired to
Milly’s room and discussed Bobolink’s perfections—and David’s, I
wonder?—until the latest of late bedtimes.
At breakfast Cousin Jason was more than crabbed; but he drank the last
of his coffee, and made quite a hearty meal before pronouncing the very
excellent waffles unfit for human consumption and slamming the
dining-room door after him as he went out. Caro had then seen Milly off
to the city, where she was to do a little shopping and “take a bobolink
lunch,” and would go back to spend the night with her.
Caro will stay there all the time Grace is away. She is in the highest
of spirits over the prospect, not only because a battle with Cousin
Jason has been one of her life-long desires; but because she is more
than weary of Cousin Jane, and her blunderbuss manner of forcing
conversation anent Bob White. Caro won’t say much about it—for fear, I
devoutly hope, that I may draw inferences in David’s favor; but she is
unconcealably bored with Bob, and his money, and his pedigree and
connections, clear back to Noah. I doubt if the boy ever had a chance
with her; but if he had—or would have had without Cousin Jane’s
disastrous approval of him—it is only a might-have-been henceforth. I
feel a little sorry for him, but not much. He was crazy about Olive
Wilson last year, and will be crazy about somebody else before long.
He’s one of those fellows who find a pretty girl a necessary adjunct to
life, and if one can’t be had, he will cheerfully and whole-heartedly
look for another. When he gets her, he will settle down with her
contentedly, and make a devoted and exemplary spouse.
Of course I keep David posted. And of course he wants me to. But he
never alludes to Caro in his letters, which are long and interesting,
and determinedly cheerful. The little sinner asks for them unblushingly
every time she comes over, and is delighted that “dear David” is
enjoying himself so, and is so in love with the West. She is
ostentatiously fond of him, in a lofty, elder-sisterly manner, and makes
frequent inquiries about his health, which appears to be unromantically
robust. I cannot see the slightest change in her, except for a
wistfulness in her pretty eyes, when she has to say good-bye and go
away; and sometimes a fleeting quiver in her smile when she finds me
back in bed, as she has done so often of late. I am glad we are to leave
together soon, for I can scarcely bear this continual sending her away.
I don’t think she can mind going, busy and active as she is, as I mind
having her go. I really am a very old lady to be so upset with youthful
love affairs: I’m positively decrepit. But if one will have the fun of
having children, I suppose one must pay the piper sometimes.
* * * * *
_June 6th._ I think I am learning the art of living; and isn’t that
worth a bit of pain? It is to discover the best in the present moment,
though it be no larger than a needle in a haystack, and getting the good
of it while one has it. One can relax one’s mind by force of will, and
hold it open to small pleasures and tiny interests; and such little
things may become one’s salvation in desperate straits! I think that is
one of life’s greatest needs, especially as one grows older, or if one
is ill—that one should guard and cherish the capacity for enjoyment of
trifles. It is to the soul what elasticity of the arteries is to the
body; for through it the currents of our thoughts and feelings run in
swift and wholesome tides, to the upbuilding of the inner life.
And there’s always something. Though the children have run away, I have
the birds.
* * * * *
_June 7th._ Milly has crossed her Rubicon, sure enough. I was propped up
in bed yesterday evening, with my tray before me, and the Peon was
eating his dinner from a flower-garnished table beside me, when there
came a sudden gust of laughter in the hall, and a moment later she and
Caro came in the room.
“Oh, Mammy Lil, won’t you please give us something to eat?” Caro
besought. “Just a bite of your fried chicken, Daddy Jack, for two
beautiful damsels in distress; and a pinch of oats or something for a
poor little pin-feathered bird we’ve got in the hall that’s most mad
enough to chew nails—or would be if he were not a saint.”
“Mr. Lincoln is in the parlor, Cousin John,” said Milly. “We don’t want
any dinner, of course—he’s going back to town in a few minutes; he just
drove us over from home. We want to stay all night—Caro and I.”
The Peon was already in the hall. Milly looked wonderfully pretty, with
that light in her eyes, and a soft color in her cheeks, like fire behind
a pearl.
“Indeed we do want dinner!” exclaimed Caro. “Come along and help me
forage. There’s no use in Bobolink’s going back. He can stay at the
hotel in Chatterton tonight, and get back in plenty of time for his
business in the morning.—Poor Mammy Lil! We’re not telling you a thing;
but I’ll come back in a minute with the whole tale, as soon as I get
dinner started.”
She dropped a kiss on the end of my nose—her favorite spot for such
attentions—and went out, drawing Milly after her. I heard them in the
dining-room with the servants, and then Caro’s gay voice in the parlor a
moment; and then she came back to me. She picked a drumstick from the
Peon’s dish, and sat on my bed gnawing it, joyfully reminiscent of her
recent adventures.
“Mammy Lil,” she began impressively, “jay-baiting is the grandest sport
ever invented. Milly doesn’t appreciate the fun of it as much as she
might, but she’s dead game; and I’ve been having the time of my life.”
“It’s too bad that Mr. Lincoln couldn’t have been kept free from it,
dear. How did that happen?”
“Why, that wasn’t our fault at all. He often comes out in the afternoon
and takes Milly out in his car. Then he goes to the hotel in Chatterton
for supper, and comes back for the evening. He hardly ever sees Cousin
Jay, and when he does, there’s never been any trouble since that time
Milly told you about; she’s made him leave at half-past nine ever since.
“They came back early from their drive because I was to be there, and he
stopped for a little visit before dinner. He doesn’t stop usually—they
stay out till the last minute; and Cousin Jay just jumped to the
conclusion Milly had asked him to dinner. We have been teaching Cousin
Jay to eat all the breakfast he wants before he leaves the table, and
one or two other things, too. If he’s too horrid at dinner we go to our
room afterward, and leave him all the evening with nobody to quarrel at.
And I suppose he just meant to get even. He came out and told Milly and
me to go in the house and get ready for dinner, for he was tired of
waiting for us. And then he turned around to Mr. Lincoln—he hadn’t
spoken to him at all—and said, ‘It’s time for you to be going, young
man, and you needn’t come back after supper. I’m tired of your hanging
around here.’ And then he turned on his heel and walked to the house.
Oh, I was so mad I could hear my hair crackle! Just feel how crisped-up
and woolly it is.”
She bent forward on the bed and pushed her soft curls under my hand,
burrowing her nose in the covers.
“What did Mr. Lincoln do?”
“Just behaved like an angel. He didn’t have a thought but for Milly. He
forgot all about me, and spoke to her as if they were alone. Mammy Lil,
that man’s sweet. He’ll do for Milly, and I told him so afterwards. But
Milly was a perfect joy. She gave Bobolink one adoring look. It went to
my very toes, so I don’t know what it did to him; and then she said, in
the quietest way:
“Won’t you stay here for a few minutes and wait for me? I’m coming
back.”
“And he said he’d wait till doomsday, of course! and she took my hand
without a word, and into the house we went. It wasn’t nearly dinner
time. We went by the back way, and she stopped in the kitchen long
enough to tell Jule she wouldn’t be home for several days, and what to
do for Cousin Jason. Then we went upstairs and packed a couple of
suitcases, and I called Joe to take them down stairs. We all went down
the front way, and there he was in the hall.”
“‘What the deuce are you doing?’ he snapped.
“‘I’m going out of this house,’ said Milly, as quietly as if she’d said
she were going out on the porch; ‘and I’m not coming back till you learn
your place in it.’
“‘I reckon you’ll learn some sense when your mother comes home,’ he
sneered. ‘Go play the fool if you want to.’
“Milly didn’t seem to hear him; and somehow that still, deep anger of
hers made me ashamed to sputter, so I never said a word. He slammed the
door behind us, and we all got in Bobolink’s car and came over.
“Milly told him what she had said to Cousin Jay, and they fixed
everything in two minutes. Milly won’t write a word to Cousin Grace,
because she’s just obliged to stay with old Mrs. Wood till her daughter
gets back, and there’s no use in worrying her. I know you’ll let Milly
stay here; and when Cousin Grace comes back, if she’ll make Cousin Jay
behave, or go away, Milly will go home and wait to be married till her
mother wishes. But if Cousin Grace won’t stop him, Milly’s going to
marry Bobolink right off, in church, with just the clothes she has. And
I think she’s exactly right.”
“She’s right to come here and wait for Grace to settle it,” I said; “and
Grace will settle it right, I know.”
But I was half afraid, even as I said it. Cousin Jason has bent Grace
like a reed from her babyhood, and almost—perhaps not quite—broken
her. Could she stand against him, even if she would?
* * * * *
_June 9th._ Could she indeed? As if love couldn’t set the gentlest face
like a flint!
We were all in here this morning, Milly and Caro both busy with a lace-y
frock for the bride-to-be—“just in case she has to be a bride next
week”—when I saw Grace driving up. I did not tell them she was coming,
and her arms were around Milly before the child knew she was there.
“You darling!” said Grace; “you’ll have to forgive me dear, as Robert
has done. He’s coming out this afternoon to take dinner and spend the
night.”
Milly gave a little gasp, and then dropped her head on her mother’s
shoulder and began to cry. Caro snatched up the filmy stuff they were
working on, threw it over Milly like a bridal veil, and pirouetted
around the two, crooning the dolefulest tune imaginable, her eyes
dancing with fun. Grace looked up.
“Don’t stop petting Milly a minute,” Caro exhorted; “she’s a perfect
heroine, and Bobolink’s a dear. I’m just singing a requiem for my
jay-bird kin.”
“But, Mother,” asked Milly, sitting up, “how ever did you hear about it?
And how did you happen to come home so soon? And when did you
see—Robert?” She blushed beautifully as she called his name.
“Your uncle telephoned me night before last. I knew he had everything
wrong, of course; but I was sure that enough was the matter for me to
come home and see about it. It was all right to leave Mother, for Annie
promised to stay, and Mary is coming the last of the week. So I
telephoned Robert to meet me in town yesterday at twelve o’clock. I
stayed there last night because there were several things to do in
taking business affairs into my own hands again; and before I saw
Brother Jason I had to think out clearly what I wished to say.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Yes, I went there first this morning.” She hesitated, a troubled look
in her eyes. Milly drew her closer.
“Poor mother!” she said.
“It is your uncle who needs sympathy, dear, though he will not have it.
And I know it is partly my fault, and partly the whole family’s, as well
as his. We have all given up to him all our lives, under color of being
kind and patient and magnanimous, and all that, when at the bottom we
were just afraid to oppose him; and he—suffers.”
“O, Mother, I’m sorry!” cried Milly. “I’ll give up!”
“Now, Cousin Grace, I call that a shame,” broke in Caro. “No matter what
you and Milly do, you make a fault and a penance out of it to shield him
and hurt yourselves. It isn’t fair. He knows he’s outrageous, and he
doesn’t care; and I just think he ought to be hurt, to find out what
he’s been doing to other people. If he’s gone, do let Milly enjoy
herself, for once. But is he gone, really?”
“He’s going,” said Grace. “I wanted him to stay, as my guest, and not as
the master of the house. But he—he was very angry. He is to leave this
morning, while I am here. He’s going back to his own house and live
there all alone.”
“And a mighty good thing for him,” declared Caro. “When I used to
indulge in tantrums like his, Mammy Lil always made me go stay by myself
till I was what she called a social creature. I think I’ll go over and
see Cousin Jason and tell him about it. I could always come back the
second I was willing to be polite, and so can he. Think of Cousin
Jason’s emerging a social creature! Butterflies and caterpillars won’t
be in it. But if Milly isn’t to be married next week, when do we begin
on the trousseau?”
The talk passed into a discussion of clothes, and drifted about that
interesting topic till time for them to go home. They found their house
empty, except for the servants. Cousin Jason had gone, as he said,
without eating again beneath his sister’s roof.
* * * * *
_June 16th._ I suppose the excitement of Cousin Jason’s deposition was a
little too much for me: I’ve been curled up dead-’possum-fashion for a
week. Now I’m uncurling again, and showing that, like the ’possum, I’m
not so dead as I look. Caro came back, whether or no, and took charge of
me. It is a great comfort to have her.
* * * * *
_June 19th._ A slow pull and a hard one. But I make it, inch by inch.
* * * * *
_June 21st._ Courage, patience and laughter—life would be impossible
without them. Yet the first necessity, and the last, is love. If one
only loves enough, one can fight anything, and fight always, while
breath and consciousness last.
* * * * *
_June 24th._
_WHEN WINGS GO BY_
_A flash of wings across my window-pane!_
_Fallen these narrow walls; and sky-arched plain,_
_Fern-haunted pool, white foam of summer seas,_
_Blue, dawn-steeped mountains, dusk of forest trees—_
_All things free wings may seek, or near or far—_
_Sweep round this bed, where pain and stillness are._
_A prisoned life? When any moment brings_
_A far horizon, and the sense of wings?_
XI
WHERE THE BATTLE WAS FOUGHT
_July 7th._ I have seen the woods in summer time again! It was winter
when I left home for those three years, and winter when I went back;
and, though one does not think of the country passed in a winter journey
as dead—for the winter’s story of life reserved is as vivid as the
summer one of life out-poured—yet one longs to see, far out-spread in
breeze and sunshine, the close-shut life of the winter buds.
As soon as the doctor would allow it, the Peon and Caro brought me here.
We came through the mountains nearly all the way—one long splendor of
rhododendrons, wild phlox, azaleas, laurel, and briar rose, all in
glorious bloom; and above them the green billows of the trees, with
great masses of chestnut blooms for foam. And everywhere the mountains
themselves, green and dark near at hand, and blue and faint in the
distance; and between them the valleys, heaped with beauty and
over-flowing with life.
The Boss and the Madam met us in Baltimore, and brought us to this
heavenly place. My room is downstairs, with windows on three sides, and
wide doors opening on a quiet end of the wide piazza, which nearly
encircles the house. I can be wheeled there, straight from the bed, to a
couch-like hammock, where a cranky back may be as comfortable as its own
bad temper will allow; and my bed is under a long row of windows, just
as it is at home. I can look out across the small plateau, occupied by
the cottage grounds, to mountains, near and far, and to the glory of the
sunset skies. And again, from the porch, on mountains, and slopes where
the summer cottagers have set their beautiful homes.
I was ashamed to come here in this battered condition; when the Madam
wrote for us I expected to be walking all about by the time I came. But
they would have me, and the Peon and Caro were of the same mind. For
myself, I can scarcely imagine a lovelier place to get well in; the
loving-kindness indoors is as fine a tonic as the mountain air outside.
I have not seen any of the Peon’s family in all these years of my
invalidism, but I find them in spirit just where I left them—and in
body, too, for that matter; for health and love and happiness are a
combination to defy time, and the heads of the household are still a
bridal pair. Their youthful names for one another, long since adopted by
the rest of us, suit their sunny middle-age as well as ever; so the
“Boss” and the “Madam” they remain.
One of the daughters is married, and will make but a brief visit this
summer. The other, known as Hazel-eyes, is the light of the big house; a
quiet little body, wonderfully pretty, her mother’s shadow and her
father’s adorer.
The Peon stayed only a couple of days, and went back to our empty nest.
He is to go West before long, and will come here on his return to tell
me all about David.
Caro is restless and unusually silent, not doing herself justice among
strangers. The child has been severely taxed in the last few weeks, and
shows it plainly. The roses are all gone, and her eyes are tired and
sad. She seems like a new Caro whom I must learn to know. I know I was
ill for awhile, though not as ill as they thought; and she never saw me
suffer that way before. But it isn’t that which clouds her bright
eyes—it can’t be, no matter what she says, now that I am past the worst
of it. I wonder will she ever open her heart to me about David. She used
to tell me everything. I always said the test of my success in mothering
her would come with her falling in love; if she came to me with that, I
would know I had done my work aright. And now I see that I have failed.
If I had been her real mother I would have known better how to reach
her. It is a real motherhood to me, of course, but not to Caro—and
perhaps not even to David. So I must lie here and wait, like any other
outsider, till everybody knows how it turns out.
* * * * *
_July 9th._ Yesterday Caro wheeled me out to the line of locusts, which
cuts this plateau in half and divides the Boss’s grounds from his
neighbor’s. A song sparrow came to call at once, a dear little fellow,
all streaks and music. They sing here all day long—they and the winter
wrens.
A flicker has a clamorous brood in the tallest locust; they cry every
moment, except when their wail is gagged by a worm. Their parents toil
incessantly, but I should think their nerves would be on edge. The
bluebird mothers, too, are hard at work, for there are dozens of
bluebird babies to feed, and bluebird fathers never turn a wing or lend
a bill to their upbringing. The babies are cunning, speckled things,
their big round eyes ringed with white, giving them an expression of
child-like wonder.
This afternoon I am out on my end of the porch, in the hammock. Caro has
gone with Hazel-eyes and a party of young folks on an expedition to Bare
Rock—a great shelf of granite which juts out near the top of the
mountain to the north of us, and from which there is a wonderful view.
The Madam is entertaining visitors on the other side of the porch, and I
am finding the solitude I need a constant temptation to Grumpyish
thoughts.
When one wants to bog down, there are always such unassailable reasons
for doing it! I have faced Grumpy down and out about the pain. And I’ve
done fairly well about the idleness; that isn’t a losing fight, at
least. But I’m just bowled over about the children. And it isn’t
altogether that they’re suffering, though that hurts. It’s because
they’re suffering away from me, and I can’t do anything until they
choose to take me into their confidence.
I’ve been lying here thinking how Grumpy must be enjoying my
back-sliding till I’ve made up my mind to fight him to a finish on this
also. They have a right to their secrets and to their own lives; it’s
the right and natural way. I never repaid Great-aunt Letitia’s love to
her, any more than she repaid her mother’s. You don’t pay love back; you
pay it forward. The great-aunts paid their love-debt, not to their
mother, but to me; and I’ve paid what I owed them to David and Caro; and
Caro and David won’t pay to me—they can’t; they’ll pay it to children
yet unborn. Why can’t I accept the law, and be glad? It’s trying to grab
what isn’t one’s share that makes all the trouble in life, anyway. I’ve
always said the most secure possession was the one carried in an open
handle and free to fly at a breath: I’ll carry the children that way
now. And for amusement, there are still the birds.
* * * * *