"Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt and taints of blood."
Next day, early in the afternoon, Mrs. Deans put away her sewing, and,
donning a black bonnet and a large broche shawl folded corner-wise,
betook herself out of the house. She went quietly, even
sneakingly--this caution was exercised with an object. Mrs. Deans did
not want the bound girl to know she had gone. Such knowledge would be
too conducive to a sinful peace of mind.
Mrs. Deans took her way to the village, intent on getting some dye from
the store. She hesitated before the gate of the Holder cottage, then,
assuming a look calculated to show the beholder that the milk of human
kindness had in her case turned to cream, she entered the garden.
Partly out of a desire to show old Mrs. Holder that this was really a
neighborly visit, and partly to come upon her unawares if possible and
see what she was doing, and also to have an opportunity of seeing the
child without asking to see it, Mrs. Deans followed the little footpath
round to the back door. It was open. The small kitchen was
scrupulously clean; some washtubs stood in one corner full of soapy
water, awaiting the return of Myron to empty them. Mrs. Holder had
deferred her washing, evidently. A line hung diagonally across one
corner of the room, and upon it a row of little ill-shaped garments
hung drying, fluttered by the slight breeze from the open door. The
rest of the scanty washing Mrs. Deans could see in the garden; old Mrs.
Holder never hung a garment of the child's outside.
Mrs. Deans scrutinized all these things, standing at the open door, but
not knowing where Mrs. Holder might be; and fearful lest the sharp-eyed
old Englishwoman had already seen her spying out the land, she felt
impelled to knock. This she did, and in a moment Mrs. Holder came from
the front room. Seeing Mrs. Deans, she greeted her with the nearest
approach to warmth she was capable of displaying, and placed a wooden
rocking-chair for her, sitting down herself in a narrow high-backed
wooden chair, bolt upright and with her arms folded. Presently she let
fall her hands into her lap, twisting them nervously, one within the
other; they were bleached an unhealthy pallor, and their palms and
fingers tips crinkled like crape, from her washing.
"And how are you, Mrs. Deans?" she asked. Her voice held a strong
English accent.
"Oh, well; for which I ought to be thankful," returned Mrs. Deans.
"Considering them as is took that is unprepared, _we_ ought to be
grateful that _we're_ spared, for it would seem as if them that _is_
ready would go the first. Dan Follett died last Thursday. How do you
find yourself, Mrs. Holder?"
"Not well--not at all well," returned the old woman, her voice
querulous. "I was took cruel queer last night, a-gasping after breath
as wouldn't come. I'm nigh tired enough o' living, if I could die
mind-easy, but I can't."
"Yes," said Mrs. Deans, pursing her lips and shaking her head, "we all
have our troubles; but you have had a terrible affliction, and, as I
have often said to Henry, 'Old Mrs. Holder does take it terrible hard.'"
"It do be hard," said Mrs. Holder. Then came a pause.
Mrs. Deans was in certain ways clever; she knew the futility of
attempting to force Mrs. Holder's confidence, therefore she contented
herself with a lugubrious shake of her head, a sympathetic expression
of eye, and murmured:
"Yes--it's terrible hard!"
"Yes," began Mrs. Holder, almost reflectively, "to think as it should
come to me, being afraid o' being buried, due to not knowing who's
going to lay along o' me. It do seem main hard"--here the speaker's
tones grew hard and her beady eyes venomous--"but I'll find a way
somehow. Myron Kind's daughter and her bastard brat don't never lay
alongside o' my son and me."
Light now dawned upon Mrs. Deans. She fully appreciated Mrs. Holder's
attitude in the matter; she rose to the occasion.
"It's the lot up in the cemetery that's worrying you," she said.
"Well, so 'twould me, to think a young one sich as that was going to be
next hand, touching me in my grave!"
At that moment there came a sound from the adjoining bedroom, the door
was ajar, a chubby hand reached through the opening, and pulled the
door wide, and the next instant, Myron's baby, roused from his sleep by
the sound of their voices, came out, and, walking totteringly across
the floor, took hold of his grandmother's dress, and stood eying Mrs.
Deans with the frank impertinence of babyhood.
His yellow hair was tossed and tangled; his blue eyes, a little heavy
yet from sleep, were placid and happy; his face was round and dimpled,
one cheek flushed a deep rose from the pressure of the pillow. He
looked indeed perfect as any cherubic picture. However such children
as he may develop--undoubtedly the blond, rosy, dimpled type is the
ideal baby.
There was something grotesque in these two women: their souls grimed
with the dust of their own sins, their hearts hardened beneath a crust
of their own self-seeking lusts, their bodies calloused by the world,
defiled by their own passions, fearing contamination, living or dead,
from too near vicinity to that child.
"Run away, My," said his grandmother, giving him a little push. The
baby stood still a moment. A gray cat peeped in at the door, and then
withdrew its head; with a gurgle of laughter, the child trotted after
it.
Mrs. Deans had been eying him steadily since his appearance.
"Now, who does that young one look like?" said she with emphasis, as if
to force an answer by her earnestness.
"Nobody," said Mrs. Holder. "He do be 'witched, I think. I never see
a child like him afore. You could always see a likeness in some trick
or other, but that young one has no tricks with him; them's his ways,
such as you've seen: eat--smile--sleep."
"Well, it beats all," said Mrs. Deans, feeling exasperated.
A trill of inarticulate laughter interrupted them, and the baby
appeared at the door, the gray cat in his arms, wriggling to free
itself. It did. Putting its hind legs against the baby's breast, it
sprang out of his arms; the recoil sent the boy down, but he picked
himself up and again began the pursuit.
"Now, Mrs. Holder, you was telling me about the cemetery lot," said
Mrs. Deans.
"Yes;" returned her hostess. "It's this way: there's four graves in
the lot, and only one took up. I can't abear to think on it; to think
whether I will or no that I have to lie wi' such a lot an' rise wi' 'em
at the day."
"Well," said Mrs. Deans, in a meditative voice, "well"--a long pause,
then she added: "Now, if 'twasn't for offending you, Mrs. Holder, I
think I can see my way!"
"I'll be right glad if you do," said Mrs. Holder, eagerly; "it's vexing
me sore."
"Well," began Mrs. Deans, "it's this way. I've done a lot of business,
one way and another, and I'm used to seeing through things, and this is
what I would suggest, Mrs. Holder--not that I want to make or meddle
with other folks' business, but being always willing to do what I can
to help along, and what I would suggest is this: Get Muir to call here
and fix it with him, so as he'll do whatever's necessary when the time
comes; and you give him half the lot for it, so, if anything happens,
why everything'll be done up proper; and then he'll stake off half the
lot and you needn't be scared; he'll not let it out of his hands.
That's what I would suggest, Mrs. Holder, not that I pretend to be
anything more than common--but I've done a heap of business in my time."
"It do seem fair wonderful, Mrs. Deans," said Mrs. Holder, her face
lighting with an ugly expression of gratified malice; "it do be fair
wonderful, the mind you have; but how'll I get word to Muir? I don't
want Myron to know, of course, and I won't go down street with My
flaunting the family shame--and there I be fair stuck."
"I'm passing Muir's as I go to the store," said Mrs. Deans, rising.
"Oh, no thanks, please; don't thank me. We must all do what we can to
help other folks along, you know, in this world, and I don't take it no
trouble to do my share."
"Well, I take it rare kindly," returned the old woman.
"Oh," said her guest, pausing, "I meant specially to ask you about
Myron; she was terrible late yesterday morning. I spoke to her about
it, and she spunked up dreadful; got 's red 's fire and never said a
word. I thought it my duty to tell you, Mrs. Holder, being anxious for
her good and knowing you couldn't look after her, when she was out of
jour sight."
"She was late yesterday morning in starting," said Mrs. Holder, "but I
be fair ashamed she should show herself like that to you, after your
goodness to her, and bearing with her, as you have done. Oh, Myron has
her mother's ways--sulky she is, and close-mouthed." (Alas! was this
all the memory left of Myron Kind's gentleness and sweet patience!)
"You can see what I have to put up with day in and day out. Come here,
My!" This to the child, as she saw him going along the path.
"Yes, you have your own times, I'll warrant," said Mrs. Deans. "What
did you call the young one?"
"My," replied Mrs. Holder. "That's what she always calls it, and I'm
bound it's most fitting, being near her own name. I fair hate that
name, Mrs. Deans. Myron's mother took my son away from me and she
brought me shame; it's fit and well to call the brat that too."
"Yes, indeed, you're right there," agreed Mrs. Deans, at once relieved
and disappointed; relieved that her Gamaliel was left in undisturbed
possession of his name, disappointed that Myron Holder had not given
some more definite name to her child--Homer, for instance.
Mrs. Deans took her way down street, filled with righteous
self-congratulation. The scheme of debarring Myron Holder from ever
lying beside her father seemed to her most admirable. Doubtless, from
a strictly legal point of view, there might have been difficulties in
the way, but who was going to tell Myron that? Mrs. Deans smiled to
think of Myron's surprise when she found out. Myron Holder had never
done Mrs. Deans any injury, but the latter cherished against her that
inexplicable hatred, that alien from rhyme or reason, sometimes
fearfully fostered in the human heart. This feeling, mature and
enfranchised, made the streets of Paris red with blood; has nerved the
hand that hurled a bomb; has steadied the aim of the assassin and,
developed by heredity and indulged by training and opportunity, has
made the Thugs a people. To inflict what others endure with pain is
their life.
Half-way down the street Mrs. Deans paused before a door overshadowed
by a green painted veranda, supported by spindling posts; upon each
side of the door was a window. In one was displayed a mortuary wreath,
made of white stucco flowers and a star formed of six nickel-plated
coffin-plates, tastefully disposed against a black background, the same
being the beaver covering stripped from one of Mr. Muir's defunct tall
hats. In the other window was placed a small coffin. This cheerful
display was intended to indicate that the Jamestown undertaker was to
be found within.
As Mrs. Deans entered a bell hung over the top of the door rang, and as
its note died away in a harsh tinkle steps began to come from the rear
of the shop--slow, solemn footsteps, the echo of one dying away before
the other succeeded it, which gave a sepulchral effect to the tread of
Mr. Muir. They were indeed a fitting herald of the little undertaker's
appearance, which distinctly suggested his vocation.
He was short and broad, without being in the least stout. He had a
sandy colored beard, so shaggy as to be almost woolly, and which he
wore parted in the middle and brushed on either side into the semblance
of a gigantic Dundreary. He wore habitually a broadcloth suit, and of
these he had always three, one in the last stages of dilapidation that
he wore when doing his "chores" in the morning, attending to his two
spare-ribbed black horses, oiling the wheels of the hearse, etc.;
another he wore when he "kept shop," and when attending to the private
offices of his profession; the third was the holiest, and reserved for
his public functions at the funerals. The suit always consisted of a
frock coat, which fell below his knees and hung around him in folds; a
waistcoat buttoned up to the neck, and a pair of trousers that were
always too short, but which made up in width for that deficiency. An
odd little bird of ill-omen he was. His face was settled into an
expression of unalleviated gloom; his features had assumed an attitude
of mournful resignation. From this funereal countenance his eyes shone
forth strangely--little bright eyes, keen and acquisitive.
He advanced, rubbing his hands slowly together. "Mrs. Deans," he said,
and bowed.
This bow was an acquirement much thought of in Jamestown. What more
palliating to bereaved feelings than to behold Mr. Muir, in all the
black glory of grief, ushering in the funeral guests with a succession
of these bows! He had a clever knack of including the "remains" in
each of these genuflections, which were always performed at the door of
the room where the dead lay. His appearance upon these official
occasions was little less than sublime; the way in which he removed his
tall hat from his head was in itself a poem--hardly ostentatious, yet
most impressive--exalting the act to a ceremonial and dignifying the
performance unspeakably.
Mrs. Deans never cared much for Mr. Muir. The little man's eye held a
certain proprietary look that chilled one's blood; it was as though he
viewed one in the light of prospective "remains"--as who should say,
"Go your way in your own fashion _now_; some day you will go _my_ way
in _my_ fashion." A tape-line always showed itself from one of his
pockets, and this in itself brought as grewsome a suggestion as any one
cared to contemplate.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Muir?" said Mrs. Deans. "How d'ye do? How's the
world treating you these days?"
"Oh, well, very well," replied Mr. Muir solemnly, still rubbing his
hands together; then he nodded towards the rear of the shop: "Will you
go in?" he asked. This was Mr. Muir's way of inviting customers to
inspect the coffins.
"No, not to-day," said Mrs. Deans hastily. "I haven't called about any
work for you, Mr. Muir, but on business."
Mr. Muir looked puzzled, the terms evidently bearing some relation to
each other in his estimation.
"It's for old Mrs. Holder," went on Mrs. Deans.
"If it's to do any burying for her, I won't do it unless the council
guarantees it," interrupted Mr. Muir, with decision. "Here I have
waited and waited for Jed's money, and only got the last of it last
week--got it by fifty centses. It ain't satisfying, getting a bill in
fifty-cent pieces; it ain't business. They get the coffin in a lump;
they ought to pay in a lump. No, I can't do it, Mrs. Deans, not
meaning to disoblige you, though; and I hope you won't hold it against
me and keep back the favor of your business. Of course doing for you
and doing for such as Holders is two stories. Now, for you or your
husband, something more after the style of General----"
Mrs. Deans broke in hastily. Once upon a time, Mr. Muir had travelled
seven hundred miles to see the funeral of a great general. That
funeral was to Mr. Muir what a visit to Rome is to an artist; and his
description of it was a story to outlast the passing of the pageant it
pictured. All Jamestown knew the story, and Mrs. Deans felt that
prompt action alone could save her.
"It don't concern burying people at all, Mr. Mnir, but burying ground."
Mrs. Deans gurgled over her own joke. "And I'll just tell you about
it, if you'll wait a minute. You see," looking confidential, "it's
like this: Mrs. Holder takes it terrible hard about Myron's goings-on,
and when she dies she can't bear to think her and her young one is
going to be put right a-touching her, as you may say, which ain't to be
wondered at when one considers the importance of the thing." Mrs.
Deans paused for breath and to give this time to have due effect upon
Mr. Muir, who was once known to complain because people spent more on
marrying than on burying.
Mr. Muir nodded his approval, and Mrs. Deans continued:
"That being the case, Mr. Muir, as I said, it ain't to be wondered at
that Mrs. Holder is uneasy and wants to fix it so she 'n' her son'll be
undisturbed. So, having asked me about the matter, I siggested to her
that you could fix it, if any one could; and so she wants you to call
up to see her, because she can't leave My, and she won't bring him out."
"Who's My?" asked Mr. Muir.
"Why, that's the young one! Didn't you know? That's more of Myron
Holder's slyness. But pshaw! What's the use of talking? Them kind's
all alike. But fancy naming it after herself! Well, as I said, old
Mrs. Holder, she wanted you should come up to see her and make a trade.
Now, I hope you'll go, Mr. Muir, being as I specially siggested t' her
that you could help her out."
"I'll go, Mrs. Deans; I'll go," said Mr. Muir. "Think I'll just slip
up by White's and see the lot first; nigh-hand to Warner's, ain't it?"
"Yes, nigh close to old man Warner's, which was filled when Ann Eliza
was buried. Mr. White did say that Ann Eliza overlapped his lot. But
there! it doesn't do to say them things; it ain't me to spread talk.
She had a queer look, though, Ann Eliza did when she was laid out,
hadn't she, Mr. Muir?" Here Mrs. Deans nodded with much sinister
meaning at Mr. Muir.
"Yes, a very wretched-looking body she made. I like to see a
cheerful-looking corpse; something more after the style of Jed Holder.
Now, when he was ready, he was a real credit to me, though his pay was
onsatisfactory--very onsatisfactory."
"Yes, Jed did smooth out most wonderful," agreed Mrs. Deans. "Then
you'll go up to Mrs. Holder's? Better go soon, Mr. Muir; old Warner'll
be after more lots some of these days."
"Yes, without a doubt, Mrs. Deans," said Mr. Muir. Mrs. Deans pulled
the door open, again the harsh bell rang, and she heard its dying
tinkle through Mr. Muir's farewells, for he came outside the door with
her, and after she betook herself down the street, he still lingered,
gloating critically over the arrangement of the coffin-plates in his
window.
Mrs. Deans proceeded down the street, and soon reached the store. As
she paused at the store door, she looked back and saw the undertaker
just entering his shop.
"He'll never handle any job for me," Mrs. Deans said, recalling the
rudeness of his interruption during their conversation. "I'll get
Foster from Ovid for Henry."
She entered the store, purchased her dyestuffs quickly, and then, all
business cares off her mind, set her face steadfastly to go to Mrs.
Wilson's.
Now, Mrs. Deans was extremely eager to find out if Mrs. Wilson's
anxiety about the naming of Myron Holder's child sprang from any
knowledge or suspicion of the boy's parentage. As she trod heavily
along the sandy footpath to the Wilson farm, she turned the matter over
in her mind and considered the best means of getting at the truth, or
at least all Mrs. Wilson knew of it. Gossip is something more,
perhaps, than a vulgar propensity--there is art in it, as in everything
else. There are several ways of inducing others to talk freely of
their affairs. Mrs. Deans thoroughly appreciated the distinctions
between the methods. One way which Mrs. Deans had found very effective
in some cases is to assume high ground; treat the discussion with the
careless condescension of one to whom it is an old story; acknowledge
every tid-bit of information with a nod signifying thorough
acquaintance with the whole matter; the victim, oftentimes irritated by
your show of superior knowledge, goes on supplying detail after detail,
in the hope of startling you out of your apathy. This plan has
however, as Mrs. Deans knew, been known to miss fire, and when it
fails, it fails completely. She hesitated to try it with Mrs. Wilson.
Another very seductive plan is to assume an air of great meekness and
draw your subject out by seeming to believe she knows all about the
mooted question--whilst lowly you know nothing. Few women can resist
this--the desire to flaunt the knowledge imputed to them is too strong
to be denied.
Mrs. Deans slowly entered the Wilson gate. The path from the road led
up to the house between two rows of large stones, placed at regular
intervals from each other, upon the grass at the side of the path.
These stones were whitewashed every now and then by Mrs. Wilson, and
were considered to give quite an "air" to the place. The spring
house-cleaning being just over, they shone dazzlingly white from a
fresh coat; their ranks were broken half-way up to the house by two
small "rockeries," over which grew "Live Forever," "Old Man," "Winter
Verbena," and "Lemon Balm;" they were each crowned by a geranium, the
one a sweet-scented one, the other a single scarlet. Close to the
house grew two plum trees, one on each side of the path. From the
branches of one was suspended a hanging-basket made out of half of a
cocoanut-shell, in which grew "Creeping Charlie," whilst the other tree
was adorned by a tin pan filled with the luxuriantly-growing jointed
stems of the "Wandering Jew." On each side of the steps--for Mrs.
Wilson was fond of uniformity--stood a brown shilling crock, one almost
hidden beneath a green mat of a trailing vine called "Jacob's Ladder,"
the other holding an upright and sturdy "Jerusalem Cherry Tree" (known
to unimaginative botanists as Solanum), around whose roots were
appearing the tiny rosettes of portulaca seedlings.
Mrs. Deans noted these things not altogether approvingly, Marian Wilson
being in her estimation somewhat perilously given up to vanities.
Her knock brought a speedy answer in the person of Mrs. Wilson. "Well,
Jane," she ejaculated, "come right in. I was jest expectin' you some
of these days; come right into the setting room and lay off your
things, and we'll visit together for a spell."
"Oh, I ain't come to stop," said Mrs. Deans, suffering herself to be
led into the sitting-room. "I ain't come to stop, only as I was just
at the store for dye, I thought I'd come on and see you."
"You done right," said Mrs. Wilson; "you done right there, and I'm real
glad you've come. Got your rags all sewed?"
"Yes, forty-two pounds," replied Mrs. Deans, who all this time had been
mechanically untying her bonnet-strings and affecting to be oblivious
of the actions of Mrs. Wilson, who was unpinning her shawl. Presently,
the bonnet-strings being unloosened, Mrs. Wilson dexterously switched
away bonnet and shawl, and said triumphantly:
"Now, Jane, come and set down." Then, and not till then, Mrs. Deans
awoke with a start to the fact that her outdoor garb had been removed.
"Why, Marian, I declare," she said, "you do beat all!"
Having suffered herself to be led to and installed in a rocking-chair,
Mrs. Deans settled herself comfortably for a talk.
"What colors are you going to dye, Jane?" asked Mrs. Wilson.
"Well," said Mrs. Deans, checking off the list on her fingers, "I've
got hickory bark for yellow, and walnut shucks that I saved last fall
for brown, and barberry stems to mix with bluing for green; and I've
bought red and magenta and blue, and I was thinking that, being as I
didn't want much color, that would be enough."
"Yes," said Mrs. Wilson, "I never care for a carpet that is just a mess
of colored rags. I like a good deal of yellow, though. I seen one in
the market the other day; a woman from Ovid had it for sale, and it was
real neat-looking. It had a brier twist of yellow and black in the
middle of the pattern, and a stripe of red at each side; then there was
a wide piece of purple and a narrow stripe of green; the filling up was
mixed, with a lot of blue in it, and she had it wove with red warp."
"I didn't get any purple," said Mrs. Deans, "but I might get it----"
"Say, wouldn't red and blue mix for purple?" asked Mrs. Wilson.
"Why, I don't know but they would! Where did she have hers wove?"
"Up to Skinner's at the Pinewoods," said Mrs. Wilson. "They do say the
Skinnerses keeps back the rags and helps themselves to the warp; but
the way I do is to weigh the warp and the rags, and then when I get the
carpet back I weigh that."
"A very good way, too," agreed Mrs. Deans. "I'd like to see the
carpet-wearer that would cheat me!"
"Have to get up early in the morning, eh, Jane?" said Mrs. Wilson,
approvingly.
"Yes, earlier than before night," chuckled Mrs. Deans. "Suppose you
heard Dan Follett was gone?"
"Yes, Homer seen the funeral; 'twas a most terrible big one, and
nothing would do Homer but he must follow on with it to the cemetery.
It do seem hard to think how one's son'll go on doing sich things. The
idea!" Mrs. Wilson concluded between a sniff and a snort.
"Yes," said Mrs. Deans, sympathetically. "Well, there's one good
thing, no one would hold you responsible for Homer's doings now. I
tell you when men gets his age, they're bound to go their own ways."
Then abruptly, "I was at Mrs. Holder's to-day." Here Mrs. Deans looked
full at Mrs. Wilson.
"You was?" said her hostess. "You was? Who did you see?"
"I seen old Mrs. Holder and the young one; it's named----"
"What?" asked Mrs. Wilson, breathlessly.
"Well, you'd never guess," said Mrs. Deans, maliciously prolonging her
hostess' agony. "You'd never guess. I'm sure I never suspicioned
she'd call it that. I suppose it's fitting, most fitting, I should
say--but there! What's the odds what it's called? I wouldn't let it
worry me, no matter what she called it."
"What is its name, Jane?" asked Mrs. Wilson, with such directness that
Mrs. Deans could not disregard it.
"My," answered she, "My--short for Myron."
"Well, Jane," gasped Mrs. Wilson, in relief, and affecting that her
exclamation was one of surprise; "well, it beats all!"
Mrs. Deans felt satisfied on one point: Mrs. Wilson had certainly had
grave fears in regard to the naming of the child--too grave to be
causeless, Mrs. Deans assured herself. Well, Mrs. Deans had never
thought much of Homer Wilson--he was altogether too conceited, and he
never spoke in revival meeting any more than that once; and he was too
sure of himself, and too independent. So it was Homer Wilson, then!
Why hadn't he married her? Why hadn't Myron told? Now, if she--Mrs.
Deans--could only expose the two of them, how meritorious that would
be! A hazy plan to attack Homer on the question flitted through her
brain; to ask him suddenly, when he was unprepared, point-blank--would
that startle him into a confession or a betrayal of the truth in spite
of himself?
Mrs. Deans and Mrs. Wilson talked the afternoon away, peaceably and
amicably, and in the twilight Mrs. Deans went home. She met Myron half
way to the village and stopped her.
"I been in to see your grandmother to-day," she said. "I wonder at
you, Myron Holder, that you ain't ashamed to show your face; she's
failing fast, your grandmother is, and no wonder! Well, I wouldn't
have your conscience for something. Poor old woman, slaving herself to
death over a young one like that. But you'll be found out yet, Myron
Holder; and when you do, don't look to me, thinking I'll back you up,
for I won't; the time for that's past, unless you want to take your
last chance and own up the whole of it now." Mrs. Deans paused--her
very attitude an interrogation.
"Good-night, Mrs. Deans," said Myron, in her soft English voice, and
passed on with down-bent head.
Mrs. Deans stood for quite a minute amazed, looking after the quiet
form going wearily into the dusk of the gathering night--to be left
thus was a trifle too much. "I'll take it out of her for that!" said
Mrs. Deans, flushing with wrath. "I'll let her know what's what, or my
name ain't Deans. The idea! She'll walk off and leave me standing
talking to her, will she? Well,----"
Mrs. Deans resumed her irate way. Myron Holder held on her path to the
village. She was numb alike in mind and body; the accumulated
weariness of days of toil and nights of painful thought pressed upon
her; it was marvellous how she endured the fatigues of her life without
breaking down physically. "As thy days so shall thy strength be!" has
hidden a germ of bane as well as blessing. Does it not often seem as
if sorrow imbued life with its own bitter tenacity? Was ever such a
fearful doom pictured as that of the Eternal Wanderer "mocked with the
curse of immortality"?
So Myron Holder went home in the twilight, and Mrs. Deans went home
revolving fresh schemes for her humiliation, inventing new burdens for
her overtaxed shoulders. "God," they say, "builds the nest of the
blind bird." Is it man who lines it with thorns?