The Messenger from Plumfield
THE history of the eight years that followed forms no portion of this
story, and need be touched upon here only in the most casual way.
After grandaunt had washed her hands of us, as it were, and definitely
abandoned us to our fate, mother threw off her despondency by a mighty
effort of will, and went seriously to work to plan for our future. I
like to believe that Grandaunt Nelson really expected to hear from us,
really expected mother to appeal to her for help, and stood ready to
answer that appeal, once her terms were accepted, just as a besieging
army will kill and maim and starve the enemy, but rush in with food and
comfort once the white flag is run up. But I suppose there was a strain
of the same blood in both of them, for mother, having chosen her path,
nerved herself to walk in it, unassisted, to the end.
She found it steep and stony, and difficult enough. Rigid economy was
necessary and we children, of course, felt the pinch of it, though
mother guarded us all she could; but we had each other, and I am
certain none of us ever regretted the decision which had cut us off
from grandaunt’s bounty. Yet even the most rigid economy would not
have availed, but for a fortunate chance--or, perhaps I would better
say, a meting out of tardy justice.
One morning--it was a Saturday, and so I chanced to be at home--there
came a knock at the door, and when I answered it, I saw standing there
a man with a close-bearded face and long, shaggy hair. He inquired for
Mrs. Truman, and I asked him in and ran for mother.
“You are the widow of George Truman, I believe, madam?” he said, rising
as she entered the room.
“Yes,” mother answered. “Did you know him?”
“Not personally, I am sorry to say,” replied the stranger; “but I know
him intimately through his work. It was never appraised at its true
value during his lifetime--”
“No,” agreed mother, quickly, “it was not.”
“But he is coming to his own at last, madam. The world treated him just
as it has treated so many others--stones while he lived, laurels when
he died.”
A quick flush had come to mother’s face and an eager light to her eyes.
“Are you speaking seriously, sir?” she asked, her hands against her
breast.
“Most seriously,” he assured her. “Did you see the report of that sale
of paintings at the Fifth Avenue Art Galleries last week? No? Well, one
of your husband’s was among them--‘Breath on the Oat’--no doubt you
remember it. Do you happen to know what your husband got for it?”
“Yes,” said mother, “I remember very well. It was one of his first
triumphs. He sold it for one hundred dollars.”
Our visitor laughed a little cynically, and his face clouded for a
moment.
“Well, Senator Bloom paid four thousand for it last week,” he said.
“Of course, the senator is not much of a judge of pictures, but a
representative from the Metropolitan went to three thousand, which
shows the way the wind’s blowing. Your husband’s lot was one common to
artists. It’s the dealers who get rich--not all of them,” he added,
with a wry little smile. “For I’m a dealer. That’s what brings me here.
I thought you might perhaps have a few of his pictures still in your
possession. I’ll promise to treat you fairly.”
“There are only some studies, I fear,” answered mother, her hands
trembling slightly. “Would you care to see them?”
“I certainly should,” he cried, and they went away up-stairs together.
I know what it cost mother to let them go--the contents of those
portfolios, or such of them as were marketable--the sketches, the
studies, the ideas which had developed into finished pictures. They
were a part of him, the most vital part of him she had left; but her
duty was to her children, and she never hesitated. And one morning,
nearly a month later, came a letter. The sketches had been sold at
auction, they had awakened a very satisfactory interest, and the net
result, after deducting the dealer’s commission, was the check for two
thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars, which was enclosed.
It came at a good hour, as I learned long afterwards; at an hour when
mother found herself quite at the end of her resources, and failure
staring her in the face--at an hour when she was thinking that she must
swallow her pride and appeal for help to Plumfield; hoist the white
flag, as it were, and admit defeat.
As to grandaunt, we never heard from her nor of her. When she slammed
our front door behind her that morning, she passed from our lives
completely. Mother wrote to her once, but received no answer, and would
not write again; and gradually we children came to forget, almost, that
she existed, or remembered her only as a kind of myth--a phantom which
had crossed our path years before and then disappeared for ever. Yet I
now know that she sometimes thought of us, and that, as the years went
by, the anger she felt toward us passed away, and left, at worst, only
a settled belief in our foolishness and incapacity. Perhaps we were
foolish and incapable, but we were happy, too!
So eight years rolled around, and again we faced a crisis. For one
must eat and be clothed, and even the sum we had got for father’s
sketches would not last for ever. Both Dick and I were old enough now
to be taken into the family council, and mother wisely thought it
best to confide in us wholly, and we were very proud to be taken into
her confidence. Briefly, our home was mortgaged to its full value,
and would have to be sold, since there was no way of paying off the
indebtedness, nor even of meeting the interest on it.
“We will move into a smaller house,” said mother. “We really don’t
need so large a one as this,” but her eyes filled with tears, despite
herself, as she looked around at the familiar room. “Our expenses are
not great, and with the little we will realize from the sale of the
house, I hope--”
Her chin was quivering a little, and her voice not wholly steady. I
understood now why she had worn her last gown so long; I understood
many things--and sprang into her arms sobbing, for suddenly I saw how
thoughtless and selfish I had been; I had not helped her as I might
have done, and the thought wrung me. The hat I could have done without,
the ribbon I did not need, the ticket for the matinee--
“I’ll go to work, dear mother!” cried Dick, jumping out of his chair,
his face aglow. “Here am I, a big, hulking fellow of sixteen! It’s time
I was doing something!”
Mother looked up at him with a proud light in her eyes, and I went over
to give him a hug. I never knew but one other boy who was anything like
as nice as Dick.
“And so will I,” I said. “I’m sure there’s lots of ways even a girl can
make money--though of course not so easily as a boy,” and I looked at
Dick a little enviously.
“Never you worry,” he said, confidently. “I’ll take care of you,
mother, and of you, too, Biffkins. I’ll start right away.”
“There’s no such hurry,” said mother, smiling a little at our
enthusiasm. “The mortgage isn’t due for two months yet, and I’d like
you to finish this term at school, dear Dick. I had hoped that you
could graduate, but I fear--”
“We won’t fear anything!” cried Dick, throwing his arms around us both.
“We’ll show this old world a thing or two before we’re done with it!”
“That we will!” I echoed, with never a doubt of our ability to set the
world whirling any way we chose.
But in the days that followed, we both of us began to realize that the
world was very big and indifferent, and our position in it exceedingly
unimportant. Dick managed to pick up some odd jobs, which he could do
out of school hours, but the actual returns in money were very small;
and as for me, I soon acquired a deep distrust of those writers who
described, in the columns of the magazines, the countless easy ways in
which a girl could make a living. I tried some of them disastrously!
And then, one bright April morning, came the great message! My heart
leaps, even yet, when I think of it.
Just as I was starting for school, a handsome, well-dressed man of
middle age turned in at our gate.
“This is where Mrs. Truman lives, isn’t it?” he asked, seeing me
standing in the door.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and wondered with some misgiving whether mother
could have been mistaken in the date of the mortgage.
“I should like to see her for a few minutes, if she is at home,” he
added.
“Come in, sir,” I said, “and I will call her.”
But we met mother coming down the front stair as we entered the hall.
“This is my mother, sir,” I said.
“My name is Chester, Mrs. Truman,” began our caller. “I come from
Plumfield.”
“From Plumfield!” cried mother. “Oh, then--Aunt Nelson--”
“Is dead--yes,” said Mr. Chester, gently.
“Sit down, sir,” said mother, a little tremulously, leading the way
into the sitting-room. “I--I fear,” she added, as she sat down opposite
him, “that I have been neglectful of her. Oh, I am so sorry! I had
always hoped to see her again and tell her-- If she had only sent me
word that she was ill!”
“She wasn’t ill,” broke in Mr. Chester. “Not ill, at least, in the
sense of being bed-fast. She was in her usual health, so far as any of
her neighbours knew. She was not very intimate with any of them, and
lived a rather secluded life. She owned a great, old-fashioned house,
you know, with large grounds surrounding it, and she lived there with
two old servants, a man who attended to the outdoor work, and his wife,
who acted as cook and house-servant. Three days ago, the latter found
her mistress dead in bed. She was smiling, and had evidently passed
away peacefully in her sleep.”
“But three days ago!” cried mother. “Why was I not told at once?”
“I was simply carrying out her commands, Mrs. Truman. She was a very
peculiar woman, as you doubtless know.”
“Yes,” mother agreed. “But she had no other relatives, and I should
have been there.”
“I know you should,” assented Mr. Chester, visibly ill at ease. “But I
really had no option in the matter. Let me explain. My place happens
to adjoin Mrs. Nelson’s, and so we got to know each other, though not
nearly so well as neighbours usually do. I am a lawyer by profession,
and she entrusted a few of her business affairs to my hands--among
other things, the making of her will. She enjoined me strictly that
under no circumstances were you to be informed of her death until after
the funeral--”
“After the funeral!” repeated mother, mechanically.
“Which took place yesterday.”
“Oh, this is worse than I thought!” said mother, miserably. “I should
have been there, Mr. Chester! She was still angry with me, then. We--we
had a disagreement many years ago; but I had hoped she had long since
forgotten it.”
“My dear Mrs. Truman,” protested Mr. Chester, quickly, “please put that
thought out of your mind. Mrs. Nelson was not in the least angry with
you--as you will see. Her not desiring you at her funeral was simply
another of her peculiarities. She was very old, you know,” he went on,
hesitatingly, as though uncertain how much he should say, “and in her
last years took up some queer beliefs. I don’t know just what they
were, but I do know that she belonged to no church, and that she also
forbade that any minister should be present at her funeral.”
Mother gasped, and sank back in her chair staring at him with eyes dark
with dismay.
“However,” he hastened to add, “there were some lengths to which I did
not feel justified in going--and there _was_ a minister present.”
Mother drew a breath of relief.
“I am glad of that,” she said. “But why have you come to tell me all
this, Mr. Chester?”
“I came to take you back with me for the reading of the will.”
“The will? Am I interested in that?”
“As her only living relative, you are deeply interested. Mrs. Nelson,
you know, inherited a considerable property from her husband. I wanted
to make certain you would be present when the will was opened.”
A vivid flush had crept into mother’s cheeks, and I confess that my own
heart was beating wildly.
Perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--
“When is it to be?” asked mother, after a moment.
[Illustration: “‘OH, I SUPPOSE I CAN GET READY,’ FALTERED MOTHER, A
LITTLE DAZED.”]
“To-day, if we can get there in time. There is a train at
ten-thirty--it’s not quite nine, now. Can you be ready by then? If not,
of course we can put it off till to-morrow.”
“Oh, I suppose I can get ready,” faltered mother, a little dazed by the
suddenness of it all. “That is, if you advise it.”
“I do advise it most strongly,” said Mr. Chester, emphatically. “Mrs.
Nelson’s will is a most peculiar one--by far the most peculiar I ever
had anything to do with--and it is only fair to you that it should be
opened as soon as possible.”
“Very well, we will go!” said mother, rising. “You will excuse us?”
“Certainly. Permit me to suggest,” he added, “that you take things
enough with you for a short stay--for two or three days, anyway.”
“Oh,” said mother, looking at him in surprise, “we can’t come back
to-night, then?”
“No; there are some details you will have to look after,” explained Mr.
Chester, hesitatingly. “You will, of course, use your own judgment, but
I believe you will decide to stay.”
“We might as well go prepared,” mother agreed, and hurried away to get
our things together.
The school bell had rung long since, quite unheeded by me, who had
been hanging breathless over the back of mother’s chair, and now, while
mother got ready for the journey, I raced away to summon Dick. He had
started for school earlier than I, having some errands to do on the
way, so to the school-house I had to go after him. He turned quite
white when he came out in answer to the message I sent in for him and
saw me standing there, fairly gasping with excitement.
“What is it, Biffkins?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Not--”
“Grandaunt Nelson’s dead,” I began; “and, oh, Dick! we’re to go down to
hear the will--by the ten-thirty--we must hurry!”
“All right,” he said, his colour coming back. “Wait till I get
excused,” and he hurried away to tell the principal of the sudden
summons.
He was back in a moment, cap in hand.
“All right,” he said. “Come along,” and we hastened from the building.
“You’re not angry with me, Dick?” I asked, for he still seemed a little
white and shaken.
“Angry?” he repeated, looking down at me with a quick smile. “Why, no,
Biffkins. But you needn’t have frightened a fellow half to death. I
thought--I thought--no matter what I thought.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you, Dick. But I haven’t told you all
about it yet,” I went on, trotting along by his side. “There’s a
mystery--you know how I adore mysteries!”
“What sort of mystery?” he asked, with provoking coolness.
“I don’t just know, but Mr. Chester--he’s the lawyer--says it’s a most
peculiar will. Oh, Dick, am I really awake?” and I pinched him on the
arm.
“You can’t tell whether you’re awake by pinching _me_,” he protested.
“But I guess you are, all right. You seem a little delirious
though--got any fever?”
“Only the fever of excitement, Dick,” I said. “How can you keep so cool
about it? I think it’s wonderful!”
“What’s wonderful?”
“Why, the legacy--of course it’s a legacy, Dick. We’re her only living
relatives! And she lived in a big, old-fashioned house, which she
inherited from her husband. I never thought of grandaunt as having a
husband,” I added, reflectively. “I wonder what sort of man he was.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” retorted Dick. “What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t matter. Only, if grandaunt--” But I didn’t finish the
uncharitable sentence. “And, oh, Dick, if it comes true, you can go on
and graduate--you won’t have to go to work.”
“But I want to go to work,” said Dick, and his face was quite gloomy,
as we turned in at the gate together.