The morning after the funeral, Chase, upon coming down to breakfast,
found Mrs. Franklin already in the sitting-room. She had not taken the
trouble to put on the new mourning garb which had been hastily made for
her; her attire was a brown dress which she had worn in Florida. She sat
motionless in her easy-chair, with her arms folded, her feet on a
footstool, and her face had the same stony look which had not varied
since she was told, upon her arrival at Raleigh, that her son was dead.
"Well, ma'am, I hope you have slept?" Chase asked, as he extended his
hand.
She gave him hers lifelessly.
"Yes; I believe so."
"Ruth will soon be here now," her son-in-law went on, as he seated
himself. "I told Hill not to let her travel straight through, for it
would only tire her; and she needs to keep well, ma'am, so as to be of
use to you. I'm going to drive over to Old Fort to-day, starting
late--about six o'clock, I guess. I've calculated that if Ruth spent a
night in New York (as she probably did, waiting for Hill to get there),
and if she stops over one night on the way, she would reach Old Fort
to-morrow noon. Then I'll bring her right on to L'Hommedieu."
"Yes, bring her. And let her stay."
"As long as ever you like, ma'am. I can't hold on long myself just now,
but I'll leave her with you, and come for her later. I am thinking of
taking a house at Newport for the summer; I hope that you and Miss Dolly
will feel like spending some time there with Ruth? Say August and
September?"
"I shall travel no more. Leave her with me; it won't be for long."
"You must cheer up, ma'am--for your daughters' sake."
"Ruth has you," Mrs. Franklin responded. "And _you_ are good." Her tone
remained lifeless. But it was evident that her words were sincere; that
a vague sense of justice had made her rouse herself long enough to utter
the commendation.
"That's a mistake. I've never laid claim to anything of _that_ sort,"
Chase answered rather curtly, his face growing red.
"When I say '_good_' I mean that you will be good to Ruth," said the
mother; "it is the only sort of goodness I care for! At present you
don't like Dolly. But Dolly is so absolutely devoted to her sister that
you will end by accepting her, faults and all; you won't mind her little
hostilities. I can therefore trust them both to you--I do so with
confidence," she added. And, with her set face unchanged, she made him a
little bow.
"Why talk that way, ma'am? We hope to have you with us many years
longer," Chase answered. "A green old age is a very fine thing to see."
(He thought rather well of that phrase.) "My grandmother--she stuck it
out to ninety-eight, and I hope you'll do the same."
"Probably she wished to live. I have no such desire. As I sat here
beside my son the morning we arrived, I knew that I longed to go, too. I
want to be with him--and with my husband--and my dear father. My life
here has now come to its end, for _they_ were my life."
"That queer Dolly knew!" thought Chase. "But perhaps they've talked
about it?" He asked this question aloud. "Have you told your daughter
that, ma'am?"
"Told my poor Dolly? Of course not. Please go to breakfast, Mr. Chase; I
am sure it is ready." Chase went to the dining-room. A moment later
Dolly came in to pour out the coffee.
"Is there anything I can do for you this morning?" Chase asked, as he
took a piece of Zoe's hot corn-bread. "I am going to drive over to Old
Fort this afternoon, and wait there for Ruth, for I've calculated the
trains, and I reckon that she and Hill will reach there to-morrow."
Dolly looked at him for a moment. Then she said: "You have a great deal
of influence with Genevieve; perhaps you could make her understand that
for the present it is better that she should not try to see mother. Tell
her that mother is much more broken than she was yesterday; tell her
that she is very nervous; tell her, in short, anything you please,
provided it keeps her away!" Dolly added, suddenly giving up her long
effort to hide her bitter dislike.
Chase glanced at her, and said nothing; he ate his corn-bread, and
finished his first cup of coffee in silence. Then, as she poured out the
second, he said: "Well, she might keep away entirely? She might leave
Asheville? She has a brother in St. Louis, and she likes the place, I
know; I've heard her say so. If her property here could be taken off her
hands--at a good valuation--and if a well-arranged, well-furnished house
could be provided for her there, near her brother, I guess she'd go. I
even guess she'd go pretty quick," he added; "she'd be a long sight
happier there than here." For though he had no especial affection for
Genevieve, he at least liked her better than he liked Dolly.
Dolly, however, was indifferent to his liking or his disliking. "_Oh!_"
she said, her gaze growing vague in the intensity of her wish, "if it
could only be done!" Then her brow contracted, she pushed her plate
away. "But we cannot possibly be so much indebted to you--I mean so much
_more_ indebted."
"You needn't count yourself in, if it worries you," Chase answered with
his deliberate utterance. "For I should be doing it principally for
Ruth, you know. When she comes, the first thing she'll want to do, of
course, is to make her mother comfortable. And if Gen's clearing out,
root and branch, will help that, I rather guess Ruth can fix it."
"You mean that _you_ can."
"Well, we're one; I don't think that even _you_ can quite break that up
yet," Chase answered, ironically. Then he went on in a gentler tone: "I
want to do everything I can for your mother. She has always been very
kind to me."
And Dolly was perfectly well aware that, as he looked at her (looked at
her yellow, scowling face), his feeling for her had become simply pity,
pity for the sickly old maid whom no one could possibly please--not even
her sweet young sister.
Soon after breakfast Chase went to the Cottage. Genevieve received him
gratefully. Her cheeks were pale; her eyes showed the traces of the
tears of the previous day, the day of the funeral.
Her visitor remained two hours. Then he rose, saying, "Well, I must see
about horses if I am to get to Old Fort to-night. I shall tell Ruth
about this new plan of ours, Gen. She'll be sure to like it; she'll
enjoy going to St. Louis to see you; we'll both come often. And you'll
be glad of a change yourself. The other house, too, is likely to be shut
up. For, though they don't say so yet, I guess the old lady and Dolly
will end by spending most of their time with Ruth, in New York."
"I must go over and see mamma at once," answered Genevieve. "I must have
her opinion, first of all. I shall ask mamma's advice more than ever
now, Horace; it will be my pleasure as well as my duty. For Jay was very
fond of his mother; he often told me--" Her voice quivered, and she
stopped.
"Now, Gen, listen to me," said Chase, taking her hand. "Don't go over
there at all to-day. And, when you go to-morrow, and later, don't try to
see the old lady; wait till she asks for you. For she is all unhinged;
I've just come from there, and I know. She is very nervous, and
everything upsets her. It won't do either of you any good to meet at
present; it would only be a trial to you both. And Dolly says so, too.
Promise me that you'll take care of yourself; promise me especially that
you won't leave the house at all to-day, but stay quietly at home and
rest."
Genevieve promised. But after he had gone, the sense of duty that was a
part of her nature led her to reconsider her determination. That her
husband should have been laid in his grave only twenty-four hours
before, and that she, the widow, should not see his bereaved mother
through the whole day, when their houses stood side by side; that they
should not mingle their tears, and their prayers also, while their
sorrow was still so new and so poignant--this seemed to her wrong. In
addition, it seemed hardly decent. The mother was ill and broken? So
much the more, then, was it her duty to go to her. At four o'clock,
therefore, she put on her bonnet and its long crape veil, and her black
mantle, and crossed the meadow towards L'Hommedieu.
Mrs. Franklin was still sitting in the easy-chair with her arms folded,
as she had sat in the morning when Chase came in. The only difference
was that now a newspaper lay across her lap; she had hastily taken it
from the table, and spread it over her knees, when she recognized her
daughter-in-law's step on the veranda.
Genevieve came in. She was startled at first by the sight of the brown
dress, which happened to have red tints as well as brown in its fabric.
But it was only another cross to bear; her husband's family had always
given her so many! "I hope you slept last night, mamma?" she said,
bending to kiss Mrs. Franklin's forehead.
"Yes, I believe so," the elder woman answered, mechanically, as she had
answered Chase. She was now indefinitely the elder. Between the wife of
forty, and the slender, graceful, vivacious mother of fifty-eight, there
had been but the difference of one short generation. But now the mother
might have been any age; her shoulders were bent, her skin looked
withered, and all the outlines of her face were set and sharpened.
Genevieve took off her crape mantle, folding it (with her habitual
carefulness) before she laid it on a chair. "You must let me see to your
mourning, mamma," she said, as she thus busied herself. "I suppose your
new dress doesn't fit you? It was made so hastily. I shall be sitting
quietly at home for the present, day after day, and it will occupy me
and take my thoughts from myself to have some sewing to do. And I know
how to cut crape to advantage also, for I was in mourning so long when
I was a girl."
Mrs. Franklin made no reply.
Her daughter-in-law, seating herself beside her, stroked back her gray
hair. "You look so tired! And I am afraid Dolly is tired out also, as
she isn't with you?"
"I sent her to bed half an hour ago; for I am afraid one of her attacks
is coming on," Mrs. Franklin answered, her lips compressing themselves
as she endured the caress. Genevieve's touch was gentle. But Mrs.
Franklin did not like to have her hair stroked.
"Poor Dolly! But, surely, it is not surprising. I must see her before I
go back. But shall I go back, mamma? As you are alone, wouldn't it be
better for me to stay with you for the rest of the day? I could read to
you; I should love to do it. It seems providential that my dear copy of
_Quiet Hours_ should have come back from Philadelphia only yesterday; I
had sent it to Philadelphia, you know, to be rebound. But there have
been greater providences still; for instance, how I was able to get to
Raleigh in time to see our dear one. For the stage had gone when
Horace's telegram came, and Mr. Bebb's having arranged, by a mere
chance, to drive to Old Fort with that pair of fast horses at the very
_moment_ I wished to start--surely that was providential? But you look
so white; do let me get you some tea? Or, better still, won't you go to
bed? I should so love to undress you, and bathe your face with cologne."
Mrs. Franklin shook her head; through her whole life she had detested
cologne. On the top of her dumb despair, on the top of her profound
enmity, rose again (a consciousness sickening to herself) all the petty
old irritations against this woman; against her "providential"; her
_Quiet Hours_; her "surely"; her "cutting crape to advantage"; and even
her "cologne." She closed her eyes so that at least she need not _see_
her.
"I have had a letter from my sister," Genevieve went on. "I brought it
with me, thinking that you might like to hear it, for it is so
_beautifully_ expressed. As you don't care to lie down, I'll read it to
you now. My sister reminds me, mamma, that in the midst of my grief I
ought to remember that I have had one great blessing--a blessing not
granted to all wives; and that is, that from the first moment of our
engagement to his last breath, dear Jay was perfectly devoted to me; he
never looked--he never cared to look--at any one else!"
Mrs. Franklin refolded her arms; her hands, laid over her elbows,
tightened on her sleeves.
Genevieve began to read the letter. But when she came to the passage she
had quoted, the tears began to fall. "I won't go on," she said, as she
wiped them away. "For we must not dwell upon our griefs--don't you think
so, mamma? Not _purposely_ remind ourselves of them; surely that is
unwise. I have already arranged to give away Jay's clothes, for
instance--give them to persons who really need them. For as long as they
are in the house I can't help cr-crying whenever I see them." Her voice
broke, and she stopped; her effort at self-control, both here and at
home, was sincere.
She replaced the letter in her pocket. And as she did so, the crape of
her sleeve, catching on the edge of the newspaper which lay over Mrs.
Franklin's knees, drew it so far to one side that it fell to the floor.
And there, revealed on the mother's lap, lay a little heap: a package of
letters in a school-boy hand; a battered top, and one or two other toys;
a baby's white robe yellow with age; some curls of soft hair, and a
little pair of baby shoes.
"Oh, mamma, are you letting yourself brood over these things? Surely it
is not wise? Let me put them away."
But Mrs. Franklin, gathering her poor treasures from Genevieve's touch,
placed them herself in her secretary, which she locked. Then she began
to walk to and fro across the broad room--to and fro, to and fro, her
step feverishly quick.
After a minute, Genevieve followed her. "Mamma, try to be resigned. Try
to be calm."
Mrs. Franklin stopped. She faced round upon her daughter-in-law. "You
dare to offer advice to me, you barren woman? You tell me to be
resigned? What do _you_ know of a mother's love for her son--you who
have never borne a child? You can comprehend neither my love nor my
grief. Providential, is it, that you reached Raleigh in time? Providence
is a strange thing if it assists _you_. For you have killed your
husband--killed him as certainly as though you had given him slow
poison. You broke up his life--the only life he loved; you never rested
until you had forced him out of the navy. And then, your greed for money
made you urge him incessantly to go into business--into business for
himself, which he knew nothing about. You gave him no peace; you drove
him on; your determination to have all the things _you_ care for--a
house of your own and a garden; chairs and tables; handsome clothes;
money for _charities_" (impossible to describe the bitterness of this
last phrase)--"these have been far more important to you than anything
else--than his own happiness, or his own welfare. And, lately, your
process of murder has gone on faster. For he has been very ill all
winter (I know it _now_!) and you have not been near him; you have
stayed here month after month, buying land with Ruth's money, filling
your pockets and telling him nothing of it, adding to your house, and
saying to yourself comfortably meanwhile that this wise course of yours
would in the end bring him round to your views. It _has_ brought him
round--to his death! His life for years has been wretched, and you were
the cause of the misery. For it was his feeling of being out of his
place, his gradual discouragement, his sense of failure, that finally
broke down his health. If he had never seen _you_, he might have lived
to be an old man, filling with honor the position he was fitted for.
Now, at thirty-nine, he is dead. He was faithful to you, you say? He
was. And it is my greatest regret! I do not wish ever to see your face
again. For he was the joy of my life, and you were the curse of his.
Go!"
These sentences, poured out in clear, vibrating tones, had filled
Genevieve with horror. And something that was almost fear followed as
the mother, coming nearer, her eyes blazing in her death-like face,
emphasized her last words by stretching out her arm with a gesture that
was fiercely grand--the grandeur of her bereavement and her despair.
Genevieve escaped to the hall. Then, after waiting for a moment
uncertainly, she hurried home.
When the sound of her footsteps had died away, Mrs. Franklin went to the
secretary and took out again the dress and the top, the little shoes and
the baby-curls; seating herself, she began to rearrange them. But her
hands only moved for a moment or two. Then her head sank back, her eyes
closed.