Husband and Wife in Trouble
Like many others with simple, strong natures, Holcroft could not be
wrong-headed moderately, and his thoughts, once started in a direction
were apt to carry him much farther than the cause warranted. Engrossed
in painful and rather bitter musings, he paid no heed to Jane and
almost forgot his errand to town. "I was a fool to ask that question,"
he thought. "I was getting silly and sentimental with my talk about the
picture and all that. She laughed at me and reminded me I was wasting
time. Of course she can't like an old, hard-featured man like me. I'm
beginning to understand her now. She made a business marriage with me
and means to live up to her agreement. She's honest; she feels I've
done her a real kindness in giving her a home, and she's willing to be
as self-sacrificing as the day is long to make it up to me. I wish she
wasn't so grateful; there's no occasion for it. I don't want her to
feel that every pleasant word and every nice act is so much toward
paying a debt. If there was any balance in my favor it was squared up
long ago, and I was willing to call it even from the start. She's made
me like her for her own sake and not on account of what she does for
me, and that's what I had in mind. But she's my superior in every way;
she's growing to be a pretty as a picture, and I suppose I appear like
a rather rough customer. Well, I can't help if, but it rather goes
against me to have her think, 'I've married him and I'm going to do my
duty by him, just as I agreed.' She'll do her duty by this Jane in the
same self-sacrificing spirit, and will try to make it pleasant for the
child just because it's right and because she herself was taken out of
trouble. That's the shape her religion takes. 'Tisn't a common form,
I know--this returning good for good with compound interest. But her
conscience won't let her rest unless she does everything she can for
me, and now she'll begin to do everything for Jane because she feels
that self-sacrifice is a duty. Anybody can be self-sacrificing. If I
made up my mind, I could ask Mrs. Mumpson to visit us all summer, but I
couldn't like her to save my life, and I don't suppose Alida can like
me, beyond a certain point, to save her life. But she'll do her duty.
She'll be pleasant and self-sacrificing and do all the work she can lay
her hands on for my sake; but when it comes to feeling toward me as I
can't help feeling toward her--that wasn't in the bargain," and he
startled Jane with a sudden bitter laugh.
"Say," said the child, as if bent on adding another poignant
reflection, "if you hadn't married her, I could 'a' come and cooked for
you."
"You think I'd been better off if I'd waited for you, eh?"
"You kinder looked as if yer thought so."
He now made the hills echo with a laugh, excited both by his bitter
fancies and the preposterous idea. She looked at him inquiringly and
was much perplexed by his unwonted behavior. Indeed, he was slightly
astonished at his own strange mood, but he yielded to it almost
recklessly. "I say, Jane," he began, "I'm not a very good-looking man,
am I?"
She shook her head in emphatic agreement.
"I'm old and rough and hard-featured?"
Again she nodded approvingly.
"Children and some others speak the truth," he growled.
"I never had no teachin', but I'm not a fool," remarked Jane keenly.
"I guess I'm the fool in this case," he added.
"It don't make no difference to me," she said sympathetically. "I'm
goin' to mind you and not her. If you ever send her away I'll cook for
you."
"Send her away!" exclaimed the farmer, with a shiver. "God forbid!
There, don't talk any more!"
For the next half mile he drove in silence, with a heavy frown on his
face; then he broke out sternly, "If you don't promise to mind Mrs.
Holcroft and please her in everything, I'll leave you at the poorhouse
door and drive home again."
"'Course I will, if you tells me to," said the child in trepidation.
"Well, I DO. People will find that making her trouble is the surest
way of making themselves trouble."
"She's got some hold on 'im," concluded Jane, who, in listening to much
gossip, had often heard this expression, and now made a practical
application of the idea.
Watterly was greatly relieved when he saw Holcroft drive up with the
fugitive. "I was just going out to your place," he said, "for the
girl's mother insisted that you had enticed the child away," and the
man laughed, as if the idea tickled him immensely.
Holcroft frowned, for he was in no mood for his friend's rough jests.
"Go to your mother till I send for you," he said to Jane.
"The fact that you had taken two other females from the house gave some
color to Mrs. Mumpson's views," pursued Watterly, who could take only
the broadest hint as to his social conduct.
He received one now. "Tom Watterly," said the farmer sternly, "did I
ever insult your wife?"
"By jocks! No, you nor no other man. I should say not."
"Well, then, don't you insult mine. Before I'd seen Mrs. Holcroft, you
told me she was out of the common run,--how much out, you little
know,--and I don't want her mixed up with the common run, even in your
thoughts."
"Well, now, I like that," said Watterly, giving Holcroft his hand. "You
know I didn't mean any offense, Jim. It was only one of my foolish
jokes. You were mighty slow to promise to love, honor, and obey, but
hanged if you aint more on that line than any man in town. I can see
she's turning out well and keeping her agreement."
"Yes, that's just what she's doing," said the farmer gloomily. "She's a
good, capable woman that'll sacrifice herself to her duty any day. But
it wasn't to talk about her I came. She's a sight better than I am,
but she's probably not good enough for anybody in this town to speak
to."
"Oh, pshaw; now, Jim!"
"Well, I've come on disagreeable business. I didn't know that Mrs.
Mumpson and her child were here, and I wish to the Lord they could both
stay here! You've found out what the mother is, I suppose?"
"I should say so," replied Tom, laughing. "She's talked several of the
old women to death already. The first day she was here she called on
my wife and claimed social relations, because she's so 'respecterbly
connected,' as she says. I thought Angy'd have a fit. Her respectable
connections have got to take her off my hands."
"I'm not one of 'em, thank goodness!" resumed Holcroft. "But I'm
willing to take the girl and give her a chance--at least I'll do it,"
he corrected himself, in his strict observance of truth. "You can see
she's not a child to dote on, but I was sorry for her when I sent her
mother away and said I'd try and do something for her. The first thing
I knew she was at the house, begging me to either take her in or kill
her. I couldn't say no, though I wanted to. Now, you see what kind of
a good Samaritan I am."
"Oh, I know you! You'd hit a man between the eyes if he charged you
with doing a good deed. But what does your wife say to adopting such a
cherub?"
"We're not going to adopt her or bind ourselves. My wife took the
child's part and plead with me in her behalf, though I could see the
young one almost made her sick. She thinks it's her duty, you know,
and that's enough for her."
"By jocks, Holcroft! She don't feel that way about you, does she?"
"Why shouldn't she?"
"Why should she? I can take about anything from Angy, but it wouldn't
do for her to let me see that she disliked me so that I kinder made her
sick."
"Oh, thunder, Tom! You're getting a wrong impression. I was never
treated better by anybody in my life than by Mrs. Holcroft. She's a
lady, every inch of her. But there's no reason why she should dote on
an old fellow like me."
"Yes, there is. I have my opinion of a woman who wouldn't dote on a
man that's been such a friend as you have."
"Oh, hang it all, Tom! Let's talk about business. She's too
grateful--that's what worries me. By the way she took hold and filled
the house with comfort she made everything even from the start. She's
been as good a friend to me as I to her. She's done all she agreed and
more, and I'll never hear a word against her. The point I've been
trying to get at is this: If Mrs. Mumpson will agree never to come near
us or make trouble in any way, we'll take the child. If she won't so
agree, I'll have nothing to do with the girl. I don't want to see her
mother, and you'd do me one of the kindest turns you ever did a man by
stating the case to her."
"If I do," said Watterly, laughing, "you'll have to forgive me
everything in the past and the future."
"I will, Tom, for I'd rather have an eye tooth pulled than face that
woman. We're all right--just as we used to be at school, always half
quarreling, yet ready to stand up for each other to the last drop. But
I must have her promise in black and white."
"Well, come to my office and we'll try to arrange it. The law is on
your side, for the county won't support people that anyone will take
off its hands. Besides I'm going to shame the woman's relations into
taking her away, and they'll be glad there's one less to support."
They drew up a brief, strong agreement, and Watterly took it to the
widow to sign. He found her in great excitement and Jane looking at
her defiantly. "I told you he was the one who enticed away my
offspring," she began, almost hysterically. "He's a cold-blooded
villain! If there's a law in the land, I'll--"
"Stop!" thundered Watterly. His voice was so high and authoritative
that she did stop, and with open mouth stared at the superintendent.
"Now, be quiet and listen to me," he continued. "Either you are a sane
woman and can stop this foolishness, or else you are insane and must be
treated as such. You have your choice. You can't tell me anything
about Holcroft; I've known him since he was a boy. He doesn't want
your girl. She ran away to him, didn't you?" to Jane, who nodded. "But
he's willing to take her, to teach her something and give her a chance.
His motive is pure kindness, and he has a good wife who'll--"
"I see it all," cried the widow, tragically clasping her hands. "It's
his wife's doings! She wishes to triumph over me, and even to usurp my
place in ministering to my child. Was there ever such an outrage?
Such a bold, vindictive female--"
Here Jane, in a paroxysm of indignant protest, seized her mother and
began to shake her so violently that she could not speak.
"Stop that!" said Watterly, repressing laughter with difficulty. "I see
you are insane and the law will have to step in and take care of you
both."
"What will it do with us?" gasped the widow.
"Well, it ought to put you in strait jackets to begin with--"
"I've got some sense if mother aint!" cried Jane, commencing to sob.
"It's plain the law'll decide your mother's not fit to take care of
you. Anyone who can even imagine such silly ridiculous things as she's
just said must be looked after. You MAY take a notion, Mrs. Mumpson,
that I'm a murderer or a giraffe. It would be just as sensible as your
other talk."
"What does Mr. Holcroft offer?" said the widow, cooling off rapidly.
If there was an atom of common sense left in any of his pauper charges,
Watterly soon brought it into play, and his vague threatenings of law
were always awe-inspiring.
"He makes a very kind offer that you would jump at if you had sense--a
good home for your child. You ought to know she can't stay here and
live on charity if anyone is willing to take her."
"Of course I would be permitted to visit my child from time to time?
He couldn't be so monstrously hard-hearted as--"
"Oh, nonsense!" cried Watterly impatiently. "The idea of his letting
you come to his house after what you've said about him! I've no time
to waste in foolishness, or he either. He will let Jane visit you, but
you are to sign this paper and keep the agreement not to go near him or
make any trouble whatever."
"It's an abominable--"
"Tut! Tut! That kind of talk isn't allowed here. If you can't decide
like a sane woman the law'll soon decide for you."
As was always the case when Mrs. Mumpson reached the inevitable, she
yielded; the paper was signed, and Jane, who had already made up her
small bundle, nodded triumphantly to her mother and followed Watterly.
Mrs. Mumpson, on tiptoe, followed also, bent on either propitiating
Holcroft and so preparing the way for a visit, or else on giving him
once more a "piece of her mind."
"All right, Holcroft!" said Watterly, as he entered the office, "here's
the paper signed. Was there ever such an id----"
"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Holcroft?" cried the widow, bursting in and
rushing forward with extended hand.
The farmer turned away and looked as if made of stone.
Changing her tactics instantly, she put her handkerchief to her eyes
and moaned, "You never can have the heart to say I can't come and see
my child. I've signed writings, 'tis true, under threats and
compulsions; but I trust there will be relentings--"
"There won't be one relent!" cried Jane. "I never want to see you
again, and a blind post could see that he doesn't."
"Jane," said Holcroft sternly, "don't speak so again. If strangers can
be kind and patient with you, you can be so with your mother. She has
no claims on me and has said things which make it impossible for me to
speak to her again, but I shall insist on your visiting and treating
her kindly. Goodbye, Watterly. You've proved yourself a friend
again," and he went rapidly away, followed by Jane.
Mrs. Mumpson was so taken aback by Holcroft's final words and
Watterly's stern manner as he said, "This is my office," that for once
in her life she disappeared silently.
Holcroft soon purchased the articles on his list, meanwhile racking his
brains to think of something that he could buy for Alida, but the fear
of being thought sentimental and of appearing to seek a personal regard
for himself, not "nominated in the bond," restrained him.
On his way home he was again sunk in deep abstraction, but the
bitterness of his feeling had passed away. Although as mistaken as
before in his apprehension of Alida, his thoughts were kinder and
juster. "I've no right to find fault or complain," he said to himself.
"She's done all I asked and better than she agreed, and there's no one
to blame if she can't do more. It must have been plain enough to her
at first that I didn't want anything but a housekeeper--a quiet,
friendly body that would look after the house and dairy, and she's done
better than I even hoped. That's just the trouble; she's turned out so
different from what I expected, and looks so different from what she
did, that I'm just sort of carried away. I'd give half the farm if she
was sitting by my side this June evening and I could tell her all I
feel and know she was glad. I must be just and fair to her. I asked
her to agree to one thing and now I'm beginning to want a tremendous
sight more--I want her to like not only her home and work and the quiet
life she so longed for, but I want her to like me, to enjoy my society,
not only in a friendly, businesslike way, but in another way--yes,
confound my slow wits! Somewhat as if she was my wife in reality and
not merely in name, as I insisted. It's mighty mean business in me,
who have been so proud of standing up to my agreements and so exacting
of others to do the same. I went away cold and stiff this afternoon
because she wasn't silly and sentimental when I was. I'm to her an
unpolished, homely, middle-aged man, and yet I sort of scoffed at the
self-sacrifice which has led her to be pleasant and companionable in
every way that her feelings allowed. I wish I were younger and better
looking, so it wouldn't all be a sense of duty and gratitude.
Gratitude be hanged! I don't want any more of it. Well, now, James
Holcroft, if you're the square man you supposed yourself to be, you'll
be just as kind and considerate as you know how, and then you'll leave
Alida to the quiet, peaceful life to which she looked forward when she
married you. The thing for you to do is to go back to your first ways
after you were married and attend to the farm. She doesn't want you
hanging around and looking at her as if she was one of her own posies.
That's something she wasn't led to expect and it would be mean enough
to force it upon her before she shows that she wishes it, and I
couldn't complain if she NEVER wished it."
During the first hour after Holcroft's departure Alida had been
perplexed and worried, but her intuitions soon led to hopefulness, and
the beauty and peace of nature without aided in restoring her serenity.
The more minutely she dwelt on Holcroft's words and manner, the more
true it seemed that he was learning to take an interest in her that was
personal and apart from every other consideration. "If I am gentle,
patient, and faithful," she thought, "all will come out right. He is
so true and straightforward that I need have no fears."
When he returned and greeted her with what seemed his old, friendly,
natural manner, and, during a temporary absence of Jane, told her
laughingly of the Mumpson episode, she was almost completely reassured.
"Suppose the widow breaks through all restraint and appears as did
Jane, what would you do?" he asked.
"Whatever you wished," she replied, smiling.
"In other words, what you thought your duty?"
"I suppose that is what one should try to do."
"I guess you are the one that would succeed in doing it, even to Mrs.
Mumpson," he said, turning hastily away and going to his room.
She was puzzled again. "I'm sure I don't dote on self-sacrifice and
hard duty any more than he does, but I can't tell him that duty is not
hard when it's to him."
Jane was given the room over the kitchen which Mrs. Wiggins had
occupied, and the farmhouse soon adopted her into its quiet routine.
Holcroft's course continued to cause Alida a dissatisfaction which she
could scarcely define. He was as kind as ever he had been and even more
considerate; he not only gratified her wishes, but tried to anticipate
them, while Jane's complete subserviency proved that she had been
spoken to very plainly.
One day she missed her spelling lesson for the third time, and Alida
told her that she must learn it thoroughly before going out. The child
took the book reluctantly, yet without a word. "That's a good girl!"
said Alida, wishing to encourage her. "I was afraid at first you
wouldn't mind me so readily."
"He told me to. He'd fire me out the window if I didn't mind you."
"Oh, no! I think he's very kind to you."
"Well, he's kind to you, too."
"Yes, he has always been kind to me," said Alida gently and
lingeringly, as if the thought were pleasant to dwell upon.
"Say," said Jane, yielding to her curiosity, "how did you make him so
afraid of you when he don't like you? He didn't like mother, but he
wasn't afraid of her."
"Why do you think he doesn't like me?" Alida faltered, turning very
pale.
"Oh! 'Cause he looked once jest as he did after mother'd been goin'
for--"
"There, be still! You mustn't speak of such things, or talk to me
about Mr. Holcroft in such a way," and she hastily left the kitchen.
When in the solitude of her own room, she gave way to bitter tears. "Is
it so plain," she thought, "that even this ignorant child sees it? And
the unhappy change began the day she came, too. I can't understand it.
We were so happy before; and he seemed to enjoy being near me and
talking to me when his work permitted. He used to look into my eyes in
a way that made me hope and, indeed, feel almost sure. I receive no
more such looks; he seems only trying to do his duty by me as he
promised at first, and acts as if it were all duty, a mere matter of
conscience. Could he have discovered how I felt, and so is taking this
way to remind me that nothing of the kind was in our agreement? Well,
I've no reason to complain; I accepted the relation of my own free
will, but it's hard, hard indeed for a woman who loves a man with her
whole heart and soul--and he her husband--to go on meeting him day
after day, yet act as if she were his mere business partner. But I
can't help myself; my very nature, as well as a sense of his rights,
prevents me from asking more or even showing that I wish for more.
That WOULD be asking for it. But can it be true that he is positively
learning to dislike me? To shrink from me with that strong repulsion
which women feel toward some men? Oh! If that is true, the case is
hopeless; it would kill me. Every effort to win him, even the most
delicate and unobtrusive, would only drive him farther away; the
deepest instincts of his soul would lead him to withdraw--to shun me.
If this is true, the time may come when, so far from my filling his
house with comfort, I shall make him dread to enter it. Oh, oh! My
only course is to remember just what I promised and he expected when he
married me, and live up to that."
Thus husband and wife reached the same, conclusion and were rendered
equally unhappy.