"_I want to tell you how much I love you. I also want not to tell
you at all, but to do something for you with my hands and feet, to
make your bed, to pick lavender pine cones for you, to do something
you would never know that I had done. For of the many ways of love,
one of the dearest is to serve in silence, to celebrate and not be
found out. Mothering is a great business on these lines._"--_Dr.
Richard Cabot in "What Men Live By."_
Summer had passed with the anxiety and toil of harvest, and the
cheering presence of numberless bird colonies, living out the
romances and cares of their family history in the meadow of the Swamp
Farm. The sumachs in the fence corners were turning crimson before a
plan that had long been evolving in Mary's mind took definite
direction. Dan had gone on a two days' trip for one of his agencies.
It might be the only opportunity she would have for secrecy. Nothing
had ever before driven her to such drastic measures, but never before
had she had so much at stake. She felt distinctly guilty as she
evaded Billy's few searching questions and looked away from the
troubled appeal in Jean's brimming eyes. For the first time in their
lives she was leaving them; no wonder they had misgivings. She was
almost frightened herself, at this new thing that could drive her to
practise such deception.
Still she set out on her six mile walk to town with grim
determination, walking fast to reach the railroad track before she
should meet any one she knew on the travelled highway. By the time
she came to the narrow board walk at the edge of the town she was hot
and tired and white with excitement. Everyone seemed to be looking at
her. She supposed they all knew Dan, but then there was no reason why
they should associate her with Dan. It was a long time since they had
been in town together, strangely enough, on a similar errand.
That was before Jean was born, and Dan had brought her in to the
lawyer's office. He had sold a town lot that her father had given
her, and superficial as it might seem, it had been necessary for her
to come to the lawyer's office to put her name to the deed, and sign
another paper applying the proceeds against the mortgage on the Swamp
Farm. It was the first time Mary had put her name to any legal
document except her marriage certificate, and she wished now that she
had known more about what these papers meant with their dazzling red
seals and nothing clear about them except the dotted line for her
name.
She had another town lot, though. That was what had brought her out
on such a questionable adventure to-day. Dan had sold it too, but
when he came home with arrangements all made to take her to town the
next day to sign the papers again, she gave him the biggest surprise
of his married life by saying she didn't want to sell; she wanted to
keep that lot--her father had given it to her.
And Dan had laughed, a very indulgent, unnatural laugh for Dan, and
said she was "such a whimsical little woman." However it was much
better to sell the lot and turn the money into the farm where it
would be safe for the children; so he had sold it. He wanted to make
that quite clear; _the lot was already sold_; all that remained was
to sign the papers.
And Mary with that quiet immovableness that sometimes takes
possession of those gentle, pliable, unquestioning women, replied
that she was sorry, but she wouldn't sign the papers. She didn't say
why. She didn't mention that the farm was running deeper into debt
every year; that it was already proving more of an injury than a help
to the children, and that in this remnant of her inheritance lay the
only hope she had of ever giving them anything better. She just
repeated slowly, a bit shakily, and looking down at the spout of her
tea-pot, that she _wouldn't sign them_.
And then Dan dropped his indulgent, protective attitude quite
suddenly. He asked her "what in hell" she expected to do with the
lot, then. Did she think she could look after it herself? She knew
about as much about business as a squaw. How was any woman to look
after her interests in legal affairs where even a man had to keep his
eyes open? And who would be expected to take care of such things for
her if not her husband? He also enlarged upon a business man's
attitude toward women who cared to mix up in such things instead of
keeping their place. Altogether he was very much annoyed over this
unexpected check in his affairs. It was extremely humiliating to have
to tell Harding that his wife, for sentimental reasons, didn't want
the lot sold; besides he needed the money. He had no doubt about
getting it ultimately, of course. Several plans might be worked to
that end, one of the most feasible being to take Billy out of school
because there were no funds forthcoming to hire help. But even under
the pressure of this, Mary was risking his further displeasure, and
taking a venture that would have seemed madness to her a year ago.
The world seemed swimming around her when she entered the lawyer's
office, nervously tucking back the damp hair from her forehead, and
painfully conscious of the years-old cut of her dress, the road-dust
on her shoes, and her absolute ignorance of what to do. If the lawyer
was surprised he didn't show it. His practice was not very pressing
in the sleepy little town, and he could afford time to put his
clients at ease before proceeding to business.
"You mean," he repeated when she had explained her errand, "that you
have changed your mind about the lot; that you would like to see
Harding this afternoon?"
She assented with inward panic at the thought of it. "Or would I need
to see him? You couldn't just--telephone him or something? I should
be getting back, and I wanted to--it seems foolish--but I thought I
would like to make my will."
"I see. And you think if you had the lot turned into cash it would be
easier to leave it as you want to? I'll just ask Harding to come
around. You feel that you know what the lot's worth?"
"Why, I hadn't thought much about that. Father paid five hundred for
it, I think."
"That was a long time ago. A dollar doesn't go as far now. Do you
remember just what Harding offered Mr. Withers this spring?"
"Six hundred."
The lawyer's mouth hardened a little. He had heard the offer made in
his office, and had suspected that Dan wanted to reserve a few
hundred for immediate use.
"Better ask for a thousand," he advised casually, "and would you like
to put the money out on a mortgage?"
"I'd rather put it in the bank. I want it where it can be got at.
That's why I came about the will. I want it used for the children
while they need it, before they come of age. I want it used to send
them to school. That could be arranged, couldn't it?"
"I guess so. What about your executor?"
"I hadn't thought of that. How do they generally do?"
"A woman generally makes her husband her executor, but if there is
any reason why you would rather have someone else----."
"Certainly not." Mary had come into possession of her dignity with
remarkable suddenness. A bright red covered her face, but her head
was up, and the eyes that had wandered all over the room in nervous
embarrassment before, met the lawyer's squarely with something of a
challenge. She even held them there in the face of his amusement
while she finished a bit lamely: "But I think I would rather leave it
with you to take care of for them, if you would--Dan has so much to
look after."
Mary didn't notice the weariness of the way home that night. A
strange, new elation carried her aching feet over the bruising,
irregular railroad ties. The whole dismal swamp seemed singing with
the joy of a breaker passed. Only, when the stars began to come out
over the trees, she wondered if the children would be afraid to stay
alone, and quickened her steps. Several times she slipped her hand
into her bag just to feel the copy of the will that was to be their
safeguard if anything happened. Once she took out her bank-book and
peered through the faint moonlight at the dancing figures. She had
never had a bank-book before. She had never known what it was to take
a ten-dollar bill from a pile, and spend it with luxurious
recklessness in white flannelette and nainsook and shirting and
various colored calicoes for the children. Then she would gather up
the parcels in her aching arms and hurry on again with a thrill of
happy anticipation.
A section-man watching her thought her deranged, but Mary knew that
she was just beginning to see clearly. She had learned that the laws
relating to a woman's property were not framed to be beyond a woman's
understanding, and the men hadn't seemed to consider her out of her
place. A hot wave went over her when she thought of her ignorance of
the simplest parts of the procedure. They had been very kind about
it, but some arrangement must be made to teach these things to Jean,
and save her the agony of such embarrassment.
So it seems we have one of the great motive forces of human
evolution--the ambition of individuals here and there to give their
children the things they have missed themselves.
The days after this were filled with a mother's provident setting of
her house in order. Piles of little garments took shape and received
their distinguishing hand touches of smocking and embroidery in the
cold, weary hours when everyone else was sleeping. When she smoothed
them out the soft nap caught on her roughened hands like the clutch
of something frail and clinging--something that needed her, and she
prayed for life desperately, as though the waters were already
covering her.
Then, one day in late November, when Dan had gone on an indefinite
itinerary selling incubators, and Billy was trying to harvest the
turnip crop, the dinner-bell called over the fields again. Something
in the short, quick ring told him the call was urgent, but when he
reached the house he could only stare with growing terror. His
mother's face and hair were wet with perspiration; her mouth was set
hard and white at the edges; her eyes were bright like stars--full of
suffering that could not be hidden even from the child. She was
sorting through a basket of white stuff and as usual she stopped to
reassure him.
"It's all right, Boy. Just take the colt and run and tell Auntie
Brown to come."
Through all the hard things that had tried the boy's courage and
robbed him of the irresponsibility of childhood, he had never known
what real fear was before. It seemed to make his limbs and voice
powerless to urge the colt to his hardest run. Only one thing was
clear to him--his mother might die, and she was alone. It was miles
farther to the doctor's, but if only Auntie Brown were there! She was
as good as a doctor, everyone said, and she was the only physician
many of them knew.
Mrs. Brown saw him coming and opened the door before he stopped. She
didn't ask him what he came for. She just said she would go right
down, and told him to go for the doctor, then called after him to ask
if his father was at home, or when he was coming, but Billy didn't
answer. Already he was floating down the road on the horse's neck. He
might have told her, he reflected, that they didn't know when his
father was coming home; his trip had been delayed because he had to
stay around until Nell's colt came, but there was no time for
gossiping now. Anyway, he couldn't see why anyone should be concerned
about where his father was at such a time as this.
The doctor wasn't at home. His wife said she would telephone and send
him right down from another case but to the boy, remembering the look
in his mother's eyes when he left her, it seemed as though the fates
in general had conspired against him. When he reached home with his
lathered, limping colt, the doctor hadn't arrived yet and Mrs. Brown
was worried. She wouldn't let him see his mother, but she lifted the
corner of a shawl from a white flannel bundle in the rocking chair
and Billy looked. He swallowed his astonishment and looked again, at
the squirming, blind, uncomfortable little mite, and sighed. He felt
much as he had done when a kindly-intentioned neighbor had
unexpectedly thrust into his arms one cold day in winter, a very
young, whimpering puppy, when he had no warm place to keep it, and
the cows were dry--he couldn't see how he was going to make it very
comfortable. Perhaps, however, the dog had developed his sense of
responsibility and protection, for he bent down till he could feel
the baby's breath in faint, warm little puffs against his face and
from the depths of bitter experience, confided his sympathy.
"Poor little beggar," he said. "Just startin' out, ain't you?"
The baby didn't make much difference to the tenor of affairs in the
household. When he was three days old his father came home and was
glad to see him. A week later Billy discovered that the newcomer was
going to get him into serious difficulties. Mrs. Brown had told him,
with no uncertain meaning, that if he wanted to keep his mother he
would have to help her a lot, and Billy was beginning awkwardly and
heroically, because he hated it, to add several new chores about the
house to his regular daily programme. On this afternoon he was riding
the disc-harrow up the field toward the house when his mother, who
had been washing, came out with a basket of clothes. It occurred to
Billy that he might hang out the clothes for her, and he brought down
a storm of his father's wrath by urging the horses over the
half-frozen clods almost at a trot. He was so sure that his case was
justified that he offered a spirited, if terrified, explanation, but
Dan wasn't interested in hanging out a washing. Out of all patience
with Billy's lack of judgment as a horseman, he demanded with
finality, "Don't you know that mare has a colt?"
Then one day, in the winter, the baby dropped out of the world as
unceremoniously as he had entered. Dan was away on another business
trip when the first heavy snowfall came and the young cattle had to
be housed. As she had done in other years, Mary went out to help. The
next day the baby had a cold. In a few days more he was fighting a
losing battle with pneumonia. His father reached home in time to see
him go.
Dan had been proud of the happy, laughing little fellow, with his
strong little body and bright, dark eyes, just like his own. He had
never cared to handle him much, and he had often sworn moderately
when he cried in the night--not at the baby himself, just at the
general conspiracy of domestic affairs to disturb a man's sleep. But
he had felt a real thrill of pride when anyone who came into the
house exclaimed at his sturdy, perfect little form, at his striking
resemblance to his father. Now all this was slipping away under his
eyes, and he could do nothing but stand there helpless. There was
a hard bitterness in the set of his jaw, and it grew harder as he
watched his wife's pitiful, useless efforts and tearless submission.
She had been with the baby day and night, through it all, and now,
even as she felt the round, clinging arms slowly loosen from around
her neck, she was glad his suffering was over. For the first time she
seemed to notice that Dan was there. She looked up and waited.
"You killed him," he said. "He hadn't no chance to live. You just
killed him. After you had deliberately gone out and waded in the snow
for half a day when you knowed better--after you had give it to him,
if you couldn't save him yourself, why didn't you get someone who
could? Don't look at me like that. If you've a spark of motherliness
in you, cry or something."
And, looking down at the little form, before the neighbors sent him
out, Dan himself cried, freely and easily as one does at a pathetic
play, until the women felt sure that the loss of his child had
reformed him. Mary followed him out to the porch, pleading in dry,
broken attempts. She reached out and almost touched him, but he
folded his arms with a cruelty of aloofness and contempt that was
almost dramatic. Then a hard glitter came into his eyes, and in a
steely voice, too low to carry into the house, he said:
"Keep away, will you. 'Tain't only the boy, there, but I _can't
trust you_. You've deceived me. I seen Harding yesterday."
And Billy, watching and listening with a child's intuition, saw his
mother stagger against the door as she went into the house. The old
smouldering hate possessed him wickedly; he had never wanted so much
to be a man.