It was intended, of course, for striking matches. As Mrs. Champney
never had occasion to strike a match, this little object was not
remarkably useful. Nor, being a woman of taste, would she have
admitted that it was in the least ornamental; but it was precious to
her—so precious that a sob rose in her throat as she took it down from
the wall.
She showed a bright enough face to the old ladies, however, as she
carried the kitten across the room and laid it in the bag. She had
often talked to these old friends about her past—about her two
heavenly winters in Italy, about her girlhood “down East,” about all
sorts of lively and amusing things that she had seen and done; but she
had said very, very little about the period to which the velvet kitten
belonged.
It had been given to her in the early days of her married life by a
grateful and adoring cook. It had hung on the wall of her bedroom in
that shabby, sunny old house in Connecticut where her three children
had been born. She could not think of that room unmoved, and she did
not care to talk of it to any one.
Not that it was sad to remember those bygone days. There was no trace
of bitterness in the memory. It was all tender and beautiful, and
sometimes she recalled things that made her laugh through the tears;
but even those things she couldn’t talk about.
There was, for instance, that ridiculous morning when grandpa had come
to see the baby, the unique and miraculous first baby. He had sat down
in a chair and very gingerly taken the small bundle in his arms, and
the chair had suddenly broken beneath his portly form. Down he
crashed, his blue eyes staring wildly, his great white mustache fairly
bristling with horror, the invaluable infant held aloft in both hands.
If she had begun to tell about that, in the very middle of it another
memory might have come—a recollection of the day when she had sat in
that same room, the door locked, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes
staring ahead of her at the years that must be lived without her
husband, her friend and lover.
She had thought she could not bear that, but she had borne it; and the
time had come when the memory of her husband was no longer an anguish
and a futile regret, but a benediction. She had lived a happy life
with her children. They were all married now, and in homes of their
own, and she was glad that it should be so.
These four years alone had been happy, too. Her children wrote to her
and visited her, and their family affairs were a source of endless
interest. She had all sorts of other interests, too. She made friends
readily; she was an energetic parish worker; she loved to read; she
enjoyed a matinée now and then, or a concert, and the conversation of
Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane.
With all her heart she had relished her freedom and her dignity. Her
children were always asking her to come and live with one or the other
of them, but she had always affectionately refused. She believed it
wasn’t wise and wasn’t right.
She had stayed on in this comfortable, old-fashioned boarding house in
Stamford, cheerful and busy. It had been a delight beyond measure to
her to send a little check now and then to one of her children, a
present to a grandchild, some pretty thing that she had embroidered or
crocheted to her daughters-in-law. Her elder son’s wife had written
once that she was a “real fairy godmother,” and Mrs. Champney never
forgot that. It was exactly what she wanted to be to them all—a gay,
sympathetic, gracious fairy godmother.
But she wasn’t going to be one any longer. What her lawyer called a
“totally unforeseen contingency” had arisen, and all her life was
changed. He was a young man, that lawyer. His father had been Mrs.
Champney’s lawyer and friend in his day, and she had, almost as a
matter of course, given the son charge of her affairs when the elder
man died.
She had not wanted either of her sons to look after things for her.
She didn’t like even to mention financial matters to people she loved.
Indeed, she had been a little obstinate about this. And now this
“totally unforeseen contingency” had come, to sweep away almost all of
her income, and with it the independence, the dignity, that were to
her the very breath of life.
If it had been possible, she would not have told her children. She had
said nothing when she had received that letter from the lawyer—such an
absurd and pitiful letter, full of a sort of angry resentment, as if
she had been unjustly reproaching him. She had gone to see him at
once. She had been very quiet, very patient with him, and had asked
very few questions about what had happened. She simply wanted to know
exactly what there was left for her, and she learned that she would
have fifteen dollars a month.
So she had been obliged to write to her children, and they had all
wanted her immediately; but she chose her second son, because he lived
nearest, and she hadn’t enough money for a longer journey. Now she was
ready to go to his house.
She locked the bag and gave one more glance around the empty room.
“Well!” she said cheerfully. “That seems to be all!”
Mrs. Maxwell rose heavily from her chair.
“Jessica,” she said, not very steadily, “we’re going to miss you!”
Mrs. Deane also rose.
“Whoever else takes this room,” she added sternly, “it won’t be
_you_—and I don’t care what any one says, either!”
Mrs. Champney put an arm about each of them and smiled at them
affectionately. She was, in their old eyes, quite a young woman, full
of energy and courage, trim and smart in her dark suit and her
debonair little hat; but she had never before felt so terribly old and
discouraged.
She couldn’t even tell these dear old friends that she would see them
again soon, for in order to see them she would have either to get the
money for the railway ticket from her son, or else to invite them to
her daughter-in-law’s house. It hurt her to leave them like this—and
it was only the beginning.
At this point the landlady came toiling up the stairs.
“The taxi’s here, Mrs. Champney,” she said, with a sigh. “My, how
empty the room does look!”
So Mrs. Champney kissed the old ladies and went downstairs. The two
servants were waiting in the hall to say good-by to her. She smiled at
them. Then the landlady opened the front door, and Mrs. Champney went
out of the house, still smiling, went down the steps, and got into the
taxi.
She sat up very straight in the cab, a valiant little figure, dressed
in her best shoes, with spotless white gloves, and her precious sable
stole about her shoulders—and such pain and dread in her heart! There
was no one in the world who could quite understand what she felt in
this hour. To other people she was simply leaving a boarding house
where she had lived all by herself, and going to a good home where she
was heartily welcome, to a son whom she loved, a daughter-in-law of
whom she was very fond, and a grandchild who was almost the very best
of all her grandchildren; but to Mrs. Champney the journey was bitter
almost beyond endurance.
She loved her children with all the strength of her soul, but she had
been wise in her love. She had tried always to be a little aloof from
them, never to be too familiar, never to be tiresome. She had given
them all she had, all her love and care and sympathy, and she had
wanted nothing in return. She wished them to think of her, not as weak
and helpless, but as strong and enduring, and always ready to give.
And now—
“Now I’m going to be a mother-in-law,” she said to herself. “Oh,
please God, help me! Help me not to be a burden to Molly and Robert!
Help me to stand aside and to hold my tongue! Oh, please God, help me
_not_ to be a mother-in-law!”