"She didn't say much. I could see she was thankful, though, she had a
son's to go to. She said she pitied all poor wretches that had to set
out their Christmas alone. Poor old lady! she ain't got much spunk
left. She's all broke down. But I cheered her up some. Sech a
_wishful_ look took holt o' her when I pictchered her dinner over here
at Emarine's. I can't seem to forget it. Goodness! I must go. I'm on
my way to Sidonie's, an' she'll be comin' after me if I ain't on
time."
When Mrs. Eliot had gone limping down the path, Mrs. Endey said: "You
got your front room red up, Emarine?"
"No; I ain't had time to red up anything."
"Well, I'll do it. Where's your duster at?"
"Behind the org'n. You can get out the wax cross again. Mis' Dillon
was here with all her childern, an' I had to hide up ev'rything. I
never see childern like her'n. She lets 'em handle things so!"
Mrs. Endey went into the "front room" and began to dust the organ. She
was something of a diplomat, and she wished to be alone for a few
minutes. "You have to manage Emarine by contrairies," she reflected.
It did not occur to her that this was a family trait. "I'm offul sorry
I ever egged her on to turnin' Orville's mother out o' doors, but
who'd 'a' thought it 'u'd break her down so? She ain't told a soul
either. I reckoned she'd talk somethin' offul about us, but she ain't
told a soul. She's kep' a stiff upper lip an' told folks she al'ays
expected to live alone when Orville got married. Emarine's all worked
up. I believe the Lord hisself must 'a' sent gran'ma Eliot here to
talk like an angel unawares. I bet she'd go an' ask Mis' Parmer over
here to dinner if she wa'n't afraid I'd laff at her fer knucklin'
down. I'll have to aggravate her.'
She finished dusting, and returned to the kitchen. "I wonder what
gran'ma Eliot 'u'd say if she knew you'd turned Orville's mother out,
Emarine?"
There was no reply. Emarine was at the table making tarts. Her back
was to mother.
"I didn't mean what I said about bein' sorry I egged you on, Emarine.
I'm glad you turned her out. She'd _ort_ to be turned out."
Emarine dropped a quivering ruby of jelly into a golden ring of pastry
and laid it carefully on a plate.
"Gran'ma Eliot can go talkin' about her daughter-'n-law Sidonie all
she wants, Emarine. You keep a stiff upper lip."
"I can 'tend to my own affairs," said Emarine, fiercely.
"Well, don't flare up so. Here comes Orviile. Land, but he does look
peakid!"
* * * * *
After supper, when her mother had gone home for the night, Emarine put
on her hat and shawl.
Her husband was sitting by the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at the
bed of coals.
"I'm goin' out," she said briefly. "You keep the fire up."
"Why, Emarine, it's dark. Don't choo want I sh'u'd go along?"
"No; you keep the fire up."
He looked at her anxiously, but he knew from the way she set her heels
down that remonstrance would be useless.
"Don't stay long," he said, in a tone of habitual tenderness. He loved
her passionately, in spite of the lasting hurt she had given him when
she parted him from his mother. It was a hurt that had sunk deeper
than even he realized. It lay heavy on his heart day and night. It
took the blue out of the sky, and the green out of the grass, and the
gold out of the sunlight; it took the exaltation and the rapture out
of his tenderest moments of love.
He never reproached her, he never really blamed her; certainly he
never pitied himself. But he carried a heavy heart around with him,
and his few smiles were joyless things.
For the trouble he blamed only himself. He had promised Emarine
solemnly before he married her, that if there were any "knuckling
down" to be done, his mother should be the one to do it. He had made
the promise deliberately, and he could no more have broken it than he
could have changed the color of his eyes. When bitter feeling arises
between two relatives by marriage, it is the one who stands between
them--the one who is bound by the tenderest ties to both--who has the
real suffering to bear, who is torn and tortured until life holds
nothing worth the having.
Orville Palmer was the one who stood between. He had built his own
cross, and he took it up and bore it without a word.
Emarine hurried through the early winter dark until she came to the
small and poor house where her husband's mother lived. It was off the
main-travelled street.
There was a dim light in the kitchen; the curtain had not been drawn.
Emarine paused and looked in. The sash was lifted six inches, for the
night was warm, and the sound of voices came to her at once. Mrs.
Palmer had company.
"It's Miss Presly," said Emarine, resentfully, under her breath. "Old
gossip!"
"--goin' to have a fine dinner, I hear," Miss Presly was saying.
"Turkey with oyster dressin', an' cranberries, an' mince an' pun'kin
pie, an' reel plum puddin' with brandy poured over 't an' set afire,
an' wine dip, an' nuts an' raisins, an' wine itself to wind up on.
Emarine's a fine cook. She knows how to git up a dinner that makes
your mouth water to think about. You goin' to have a spread, Mis'
Parmer?"
"Not much of a one," said Orville's mother. "I expected to, but I
c'u'dn't git them fall patatas sold off. I'll have to keep 'em till
spring to git any kind o' price. I don't care much about Christmas,
though"--her chin was trembling, but she lifted it high. "It's silly
for anybody but children to build so much on Christmas."
Emarine opened the door and walked in. Mrs. Palmer arose slowly,
grasping the back of her chair. "Orville's dead?" she said solemnly.
Emarine laughed, but there was the tenderness of near tears in her
voice. "Oh, my, no!" she said, sitting down. "I run over to ask you to
come to Christmas dinner. I was too busy all day to come sooner. I'm
goin' to have a great dinner, an' I've cooked ev'ry single thing of it
myself! I want to show you what a fine Christmas dinner your
daughter-'n-law can get up. Dinner's at two, an' I want you to come at
eleven. Will you?"
Mrs. Palmer had sat down, weakly. Trembling was not the word to
describe the feeling that had taken possession of her. She was
shivering. She wanted to fall down on her knees and put her arms
around her son's wife, and sob out all her loneliness and heartache.
But life is a stage; and Miss Presly was an audience not to be
ignored. So Mrs. Palmer said: "Well, I'll be reel glad to come,
Emarine. It's offul kind o' yuh to think of 't. It 'u'd 'a' be'n
lonesome eatin' here all by myself, I expect."
Emarine stood up. Her heart was like a thistle-down. Her eyes were
shining. "All right," she said; "an' I want that you sh'u'd come just
at eleven. I must run right back now. Good-night."
"Well, I declare!" said Miss Presly. "That girl gits prettier ev'ry
day o' her life. Why, she just looked full o' _glame_ to-night!"
* * * * *
Orville was not at home when his mother arrived in her rusty best
dress and shawl. Mrs. Endey saw her coming. She gasped out, "Why, good
grieve! Here's Mis' Parmer, Emarine!"
"Yes, I know," said Emarine, calmly. "I ast her to dinner."
She opened the door, and shook hands with her mother-in-law, giving
her mother a look of defiance that almost upset that lady's gravity.
"You set right down, Mother Parmer, an' let me take your things.
Orville don't know you're comin', an' I just want to see his face when
he comes in. Here's a new black shawl fer your Christmas. I got mother
one just like it. See what nice long fringe it's got. Oh, my! don't go
to cryin'! Here comes Orville."
She stepped aside quickly. When her husband entered his eyes fell
instantly on his mother, weeping childishly over the new shawl. She
was in the old splint rocking-chair with the high back. "_Mother!_" he
cried; then he gave a frightened, tortured glance at his wife. Emarine
smiled at him, but it was through tears.
"Emarine ast me, Orville--she ast me to dinner o' herself! An' she
give me this shawl. I'm--cryin'--fer--joy--"
"I ast her to dinner," said Emarine, "but she ain't ever goin' back
again. She's goin' to _stay_. I expect we've both had enough of a
lesson to do us."
Orville did not speak. He fell on his knees and laid his head, like a
boy, in his mother's lap, and reached one strong but trembling arm up
to his wife's waist, drawing her down to him.
Mrs. Endey got up and went to rattling things around on the table
vigorously. "Well, I never see sech a pack o' loonatics!" she
exclaimed. "Go an' burn all your Christmas dinner up, if I don't look
after it! Turncoats! I expect they'll both be fallin' over theirselves
to knuckle down to each other from now on! I never see!"
But there was something in her eyes, too, that made them beautiful.