Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - By the Light of the Soul

M >> Mary E. Wilkins Freeman >> By the Light of the Soul

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However, she was not that afternoon to proceed on her way long
uninterrupted. For some time Josephine, the nurse-girl, had either
been growing jealous, or chocolates were palling upon her. Josephine
had also found her own home locked up, and the key nowhere in
evidence. There would be a good half-hour to wait at the usual corner
for Maria. The wind had changed, and blew cold from the northwest.
Josephine was not very warmly clad. She wore her white gown and
apron, which Mrs. Edgham insisted upon, and which she resented. She
had that day felt a stronger sense of injury with regard to it, and
counted upon telling her mother how mean and set up she thought it
was for any lady as called herself a lady to make a girl wear a
summer white dress in winter. She shivered on her corner of waiting.
Josephine got more and more wroth. Finally she decided to start in
search of Maria and the baby. She gave her white skirts an angry
switch and started. It was not very long after she had turned her
second corner before she saw Maria and the baby ahead of her.
Josephine then ran. She was a stout girl, and she plunged ahead
heavily until she came up with Maria. The first thing Maria knew,
Josephine had grabbed the handle of the carriage--two red girl hands
appeared beside her own small, gloved ones.

"Here, gimme this baby to once," gabbled Josephine in the thick
speech of her kind.

Maria looked at her. "The time isn't up, and you know it isn't,
Josephine," said she. "I just passed by a clock in Melvin & Adams's
jewelry store, and it isn't time for me to be on the corner."

"Gimme the baby," demanded Josephine. She attempted to pull the
carriage away from Maria, but Maria, although her strength was
inferior, had spirit enough to cope with any poor white. Her little
fingers clutched like iron. "I shall not give her up until four
o'clock," said she. "Go back to the corner."

Josephine's only answer was a tug which dislodged Maria's fingers and
hurt her. But Maria came of the stock which believed in trusting the
Lord and keeping the powder dry. She was not yet conquered. The right
was clearly on her side. She and Josephine had planned to meet at the
corner at four o'clock, and it was not quite half-past three, and she
had given Josephine half a pound of chocolates. She did not stop to
reflect a moment. Maria's impulses were quick, and lack of decision
in emergencies was not a failing of hers. She made one dart to the
rear of Josephine. Josephine wore her hair in a braided loop, tied
with a bow of black ribbon. Maria seized upon this loop of brown
braids, and hung. She was enough shorter than Josephine to render it
effectual. Josephine's head was bent backward and she was helpless,
unless she let go of the baby-carriage. Josephine, however, had good
lungs, and she screamed, as she was pulled backward, still holding to
the little carriage, which was also somewhat tilted by the whole
performance.

"Lemme be, you horrid little thing!" she screamed, "or I'll tell your
ma."

"She isn't my mother," said Maria in return. "Let go of my baby."

"She is your ma. Your father married her, and she's your ma, and you
can't help yourself. Lemme go, or I'll tell on you."

"Tell, if you want to," said Maria, firmly, actually swinging with
her whole weight from Josephine's loop of braids. "Let go my baby."

Josephine screamed again, with her head bent backward, and the
baby-carriage tilted perilously. Then a woman, who had been watching
from a window near by, rushed upon the scene. She was Gladys Mann's
mother. Just as she appeared the baby began to cry, and that
accelerated her speed. The windows of her house became filled with
staring childish faces. The woman, who was very small and lean but
wiry, a bundle of muscles and nerve, ran up to the baby-carriage, and
pulled it back to its proper status, and began at once quieting the
frightened baby and scolding the girls.

"Hush, hush," cooed she to the baby. "Did it think it was goin' to
get hurted?" Then to the girls: "Ain't you ashamed of yourselves, two
great girls fightin' right in the street, and most tippin' the baby
over. S'posin' you had killed him?"

Then Josephine burst forth in a great wail of wrath and pain. The
bringing down of the carriage had increased her agony, for Maria
still clung to her hair.

"Oh, oh, oh!" howled Josephine, her head straining back. "She's most
killin' me."

"An' I'll warrant you deserve it," said the woman. Then she added to
Maria--she was entirely impartial in her scolding--"Let go of her,
ain't you shamed." Then to the baby, "Did he think he was goin' to
get hurted?"

"He's a girl!" cried Maria in a frenzy of indignation. "He is not a
boy, he is a girl." She still clung desperately to Josephine's hair,
who in her turn clung to the baby-carriage.

Then Gladys came out of the house, in a miserable, thin, dirty gown,
and she was Maria's ally.

"Let that baby go!" she cried to Josephine. She tugged fiercely at
Josephine's white skirt.

"Gladys Mann, you go right straight into the house. What be you
buttin' in for!" screamed her mother. "You let that girl's hair
alone. Josephine, what you been up to. You might have killed this
baby."

The baby screamed louder. It wriggled around in its little, white fur
nest, and stretched out imploring pink paws from which the mittens
had fallen off. Its little lace hood was awry, the pink rosette was
cocked over one ear. Maria herself began to cry. Then Gladys waxed
fairly fierce. She paid no attention whatever to her mother.

"You jest go round an' ketch on to the kid's wagin," said she, "an'
I'll take care of her." With that her strong little hands made a
vicious clutch at Josephine's braids.

Maria sprang for the baby-carriage. She straightened the lace hood,
she tucked in the fur robe, and put on the mittens. The baby's
screams subsided into a grieved whimper. "Did great wicked girls come
and plague sister's own little precious?" said Maria. But now she had
to reckon with Gladys's mother, who had recovered her equilibrium,
lost for a second by her daughter's manoeuvre. She seized in her turn
the handle of the baby-carriage, and gave Maria a strong push aside.
Then she looked at all three combatants, like a poor-white Solomon.

"Who were sent out with him in the first place, that's what I want to
know?" she said.

"I were," replied Josephine in a sobbing shout. Her head was aching
as if she had been scalped.

"Shet up!" said Gladys's mother inconsistently.

"Did your ma send her out with him?" she queried of her.

"He is not a boy," replied Maria shiftily.

"Yes, she did," said Josephine, still rubbing her head.

Gladys, through a wholesome fear of her mother, had released her hold
on her braids, and stood a little behind.

Mrs. Mann's scanty rough hair blew in the winter wind as she took
hold of the carriage. Maria again tucked in the white fur robe to
conceal her discomfiture. She was becoming aware that she was being
proved in the wrong.

"Shet up!" said Mrs. Mann in response to Josephine's answer. There
was not the slightest sense nor meaning in the remark, but it was, so
to speak, her household note, learned through the exigency of being
in the constant society of so many noisy children. She told
everybody, on general principles, to "shet up," even when she wished
for information which necessitated the reverse.

Mrs. Mann was thin and meagre, and wholly untidy. The wind lashed her
dirty cotton skirt around her, disclosing a dirtier petticoat and
men's shoes. The skin of her worn, blond face had a look as if the
soil of life had fairly been rubbed into it. All the lines of this
face were lax, displaying utter lassitude and no energy. She,
however, had her evanescent streaks of life, as now. Once in a while
a bubble of ancestral blood seemed to come to the surface, although
it soon burst. She had come, generations back, of a good family. She
was the run out weed of it, but still, at times, the old colors of
the blossom were evident. She turned to Maria.

"If," said she, "your ma sent her out with this young one, I don't
see why you went to pullin' her hair fur?"

"I gave her a whole half-pound of chocolates," returned Maria, in a
fine glow of indignation, "if she would let me push the baby till
four o'clock, and it isn't four o'clock yet."

"It ain't more than half-past three," said Gladys.

"Shet up!" said her mother. She stood looking rather helplessly at
the three little girls and the situation. Her suddenly wakened mental
faculties were running down like those of a watch which has been
shaken to make it go for a few seconds. The situation was too much
for her, and, according to her wont, she let it drop. Just then a
whiff of strong sweetness came from the house, and her blank face
lighted up.

"We are makin' 'lasses candy," said she. "You young ones all come in
and hev' some, and I'll take the baby. He can get warm, and a little
of thet candy won't do him no harm, nuther." Mrs. Mann used the
masculine pronoun from force of habit; all her children with the
exception of Gladys were boys.

Maria hesitated. She had a certain scorn for the Manns. She eyed Mrs.
Mann's dirty attire and face. But she was in fact cold, and the smell
of the candy was entrancing. "She said never to take the baby in
anywhere," said she, doubtfully.

Josephine having tired of chocolate, realized suddenly an enormous
hunger for molasses candy. She sniffed like a hunting hound. "She
didn't say not to go into Mrs. Mann's," said she.

"She said anywhere; I heard her tell you," said Maria.

"Mrs. Mann's ain't anywhere," said Josephine, who had a will of her
own. She rushed around and caught up the baby. "She's most froze,"
said she. "She'll get the croup if she don't get warmed up."

With that, Josephine carrying the baby, Maria, Gladys, and Mrs. Mann
all entered the little, squalid Mann house, as hot as a conservatory
and reeking with the smell of boiled molasses.

When Josephine and Maria and the baby started out again, Maria turned
to Josephine.

"Now," said she, "if you don't let me push her as far as the corner
of our street, I'll tell how you took her into Mrs. Mann's. You know
what She'll say."

Josephine, whose face was smeared with molasses candy, and who was
even then sucking some, relinquished her hold on the carriage.
"You'll be awful mean if you do tell," said she.

"I will tell if you don't do what you say you'll do another time,"
said she.

When they reached home, Ida had not returned, but she came in radiant
some few minutes later. She had read a paper on a famous man, for the
pleasure and profit of the Edgham Woman's Club, and she had received
much applause and felt correspondingly elated. Josephine had taken
the baby up-stairs to a little room which had recently been fitted up
for a nursery, and, not following her usual custom, Ida went in there
after removing her outer wraps. She stood in her blue cloth dress
looking at the child with her usual air of radiant aloofness, seeming
to shed her own glory, like a star, upon the baby, rather than
receive its little light into the loving recesses of her own soul.
Josephine and also Maria were in a state of consternation. They had
discovered a large, sticky splash of molasses candy on the baby's
white embroidered cloak. They had washed the baby's sticky little
face, but they did not know what was to be done about the cloak,
which lay over a chair. Josephine essayed, with a dexterous gesture,
to so fold the cloak over that the stain would be for the time
concealed. But Ida Edgham had not been a school-teacher for nothing.
She saw the gesture, and immediately took up the cloak herself.

"Why, what is this on her cloak?" said she.

There was a miserable silence.

"It looks like molasses candy. It is molasses candy," said Ida.
"Josephine, did you give this child molasses candy?" Ida's voice was
entirely even, but there was something terrible about it.

Maria saw Josephine turn white. "She wouldn't have given her the
candy if it hadn't been for me," said she.

Ida stood looking from one to the other. Josephine's face was white
and scared, Maria's impenetrable.

"If you ever give this child candy again, either of you," said Ida,
"you will never take her out again." Then she went out, still smiling.

Josephine looked at Maria with enormous gratitude.

"Say," said she, "you're a dandy."

"You're a cheat!" returned Maria, with scorn.

"I'm awful sorry I didn't wait on the corner till four o'clock,
honest."

"You'd better be."

"Say, but you be a dandy," repeated Josephine.

Chapter XII

Maria began to be conscious of other and more vital seasons than
those of the old earth on which she lived--the seasons of the human
soul. Along with her own unconscious and involuntary budding towards
bloom, the warm rush of the blood in her own veins, she realized the
budding progress of the baby. When little Evelyn was put into short
frocks, and her little, dancing feet were shod with leather instead
of wool, Maria felt a sort of delicious wonder, similar to that with
which she watched a lilac-bush in the yard when its blossoms deepened
in the spring.

The day when Evelyn was put into short frocks, Maria glanced across
the school-room at Wollaston Lee, and her innocent passion, half
romance, half imagination, which had been for a time in abeyance,
again thrilled her. All her pulses throbbed. She tried to work out a
simple problem in her algebra, but mightier unknown quantities were
working towards solution in every beat of her heart. Wollaston shot a
sidelong glance at her, and she felt it, although she did not see it.
Gladys Mann leaned over her shoulder.

"Say," she whispered, "Wollaston Lee is jest starin' at you!"

Maria gave a little, impatient shrug of her shoulders, although a
blush shot over her whole face, and Gladys saw distinctly the back of
her neck turn a roseate color.

"He's awful stuck on you, I guess," Gladys said.

Maria shrugged her shoulders again, but she thought of Wollaston and
then of the baby in her short frock and she felt that her heart was
bursting with joy, as a bud with blossom.

Ida, meantime, was curiously impassive towards her child's
attainments. There was something pathetic about this impassiveness.
Ida was missing a great deal, and more because she did not even know
what she missed. However, she began to be conscious of a settled
aversion towards Maria. Her manner towards her was unchanged, but she
became distinctly irritated at seeing her about. When anything
annoyed Ida, she immediately entertained no doubt whatever that it
was not in accordance with the designs of an overruling Providence.
It seemed manifest to her that if anything annoyed her, it should be
removed. However, in this case, the way of removal did not seem clear
for a long time. Harry was undoubtedly fond of Maria. That did not
trouble Ida in the least, although she recognized the fact. She was
not a woman who was capable of jealousy, because her own love and
admiration for herself made her impregnable. She loved herself so
much more than Harry could possibly love her that his feeling for
Maria did not ruffle her in the least. It was due to no jealousy that
she wished Maria removed, at least for a part of the time. It was
only that she was always conscious of a dissent, silent and helpless,
still persistent, towards her attitude as regarded herself. She knew
that Maria did not think her as beautiful and perfect as she thought
herself, and the constant presence of this small element of negation
irritated her. Then, too, while she was not in the least jealous of
her child, she had a curious conviction that Maria cared more for her
than she herself cared, and that in itself was a covert reproach.
When little Evelyn ran to meet her sister when she returned from
school, Ida felt distinctly disturbed. She had no doubt of her
ultimate success in her purpose of ridding herself of at least the
constant presence of Maria, and in the mean time she continued to
perform her duty by the girl, to that outward extent that everybody
in Edgham pronounced her a model step-mother. "Maria Edgham never
looked half so well in her own mother's time," they said.

Lillian White spoke of it to her mother one Sunday. She had been to
church, but her mother had remained at home on account of a cold.

"I tell you she looked dandy," said Lillian. Lillian was still as
softly and negatively pretty as ever. She was really charming because
she was not angular, because her skin was not thick and coarse,
because she did not look anaemic, but perfectly well fed and
nourished and happy.

"Who?" asked her mother.

"Maria Edgham. She was togged out to beat the band. Everything looked
sort of fadged up that she had before her own mother died. I tell you
she never had anything like the rig she wore to-day."

"What was it?" asked her mother interestedly, wiping her rasped nose
with a moist ball of handkerchief.

"Oh, it was the handsomest brown suit I ever laid my eyes on, with
hand-embroidery, and fur, and a big picture hat trimmed with fur and
chrysanthemums. She's an awful pretty little girl anyhow."

"She always was pretty," said Mrs. White, dabbing her nose again.

"If Ida don't look out, her step-daughter will beat her in looks,"
said Lillian.

"I never thought myself that Ida was anything to brag of, anyway,"
said Mrs. White. She still had a sense of wondering injury that Harry
Edgham had preferred Ida to her Lillian.

Lillian was now engaged to be married, but her mother did not feel
quite satisfied with the man. He was employed in a retail clothing
establishment in New York, and had only a small salary. "Foster
Simpkins" (that was the young man's name) "ain't really what you
ought to have," she often said to Lillian.

But Lillian took it easily. She liked the young man very much as she
would have liked a sugar-plum, and she thought it high time for her
to be married, although she was scarcely turned twenty. "Oh, well,
ma," she said. "Men don't grow on every bush, and Foster is real
good-lookin', and maybe his salary will be raised."

"You ain't lookin' very high," said her mother.

"No use in strainin' your neck for things out of your own sky," said
Lillian, who had at times a shrewd sort of humor, inherited from her
father.

"Harry Edgham would have been a better match for you," her mother
said.

"Lord, I'd a good sight rather have Foster than another woman's
leavin's," replied Lillian. "Then there was Maria, too. It would have
been an awful job to dress her, and look out for her."

"That's so," said her mother, "and then the two sets of children,
too."

Lillian colored and giggled. "Oh, land, don't talk about children,
ma!" said she. "I'm contented as it is. But you ought to have seen
that young one to-day."

"What did Ida wear?" asked Mrs. White.

"She wore her black velvet suit, that she had this winter, and the
way she strutted up the aisle was a caution."

"I don't see how Harry Edgham lives the way he does," said Mrs.
White. "Black velvet costs a lot. Do you s'pose it is silk velvet?"

"You bet."

"I don't see how he does it!"

"He looks sort of worn-out to me. He's grown awful old, I noticed it
to-day."

"Well, all Ida cares for is herself. _She_ don't see he's grown old,
you can be sure of that," said Mrs. White, with an odd sort of
bitterness. Actually the woman was so filled with maternal instincts
that the bare dream of Harry as her Lillian's husband had given her a
sort of motherly solicitude for him, which she had not lost. "It's a
shame," said she.

"Oh, well, it's none of my funeral," said Lillian, easily. She took a
chocolate out of a box which her lover had sent her, and began
nibbling it like a squirrel.

"Poor man," said Mrs. White. Tears of emotion actually filled her
eyes and mingled with the rheum of her cold. She took out her moist
ball of handkerchief again and dabbed both her eyes and nose.

Lillian looked at her half amusedly, half affectionately. "Mother,
you do beat the Dutch," said she.

Mrs. White actually snivelled. "I can't help remembering the time
when his poor first wife died," said she, "and how he and little
Maria came here to take their meals, poor souls. Harry Edgham was
just the one to be worked by a woman, poor fellow."

Lillian sucked her chocolate with a full sense of its sweetness. "Ma,
you can't keep track of all creation, nor cry over it," said she.
"You've got to leave it to the Lord. Have you taken your pink pellet?"

"Poor little Maria, too," said Mrs. White.

"Good gracious, ma, don't you take to worryin' over her," said
Lillian. "Here's your pink pellet. A young one dressed up the way she
was to-day!"

"Dress ain't everything, and nothin' is goin' to make me believe that
Ida Slome is a good mother to her, nor to her own child neither. It
ain't in her."

Lillian, approaching her mother at the window with the pink pellet
and a glass of water, uttered an exclamation. "For the land's sake,
there she is now!" she said. "Look, ma, there is Maria in her new
suit, and she's got the baby in a little carriage on runners. Just
look at the white fur-tails hanging over the back. Ain't that a
handsome suit?"

Mrs. White gazed out eagerly. "It must have cost a pile," said she.
"I don't see how he does it."

"She sees you at the window," said Lillian.

Both she and her mother smiled and waved at Maria. Maria bowed, and
smiled with a sweet irradiation of her rosy face.

"She's a little beauty, anyhow," said Lillian.

"Dear child," said Mrs. White, and she snivelled again.

"Ma, either your cold or the stuff you are takin' is making you
dreadful nervous," said Lillian. "You cry at nothin' at all. How
straight she is! No stoop about her."

Maria was, in fact, carrying herself with an extreme straightness
both of body and soul. She was conscious to the full of her own
beauty in her new suit, and of the loveliness of her little sister in
her white fur nest of a sledge. She was inordinately proud. She had
asked Ida if she might take the child for a little airing before the
early Sunday dinner, and Ida had consented easily.

Ida also wished for an opportunity to talk with Harry about her
cherished scheme, and preferred doing so when Maria was not in the
house. For manifest reasons, too, Sunday was the best day on which to
approach her husband on a subject which she realized was a somewhat
delicate one. She was not so sure of his subservience when Maria was
concerned, as in everything else, and Sunday was the day when his
nerves were less strained, when he had risen late. Ida did not insist
upon his going to church, as his first wife had done. In fact, if the
truth was told, Harry wore his last winter's overcoat this year, and
she was a little doubtful about its appearance in conjunction with
her new velvet costume. He sat in the parlor when Ida entered after
Maria had gone out with Evelyn. Harry looked at her admiringly.

"How stunning you do look in that velvet dress!" he said.

Ida laughed consciously. "I rather like it myself," said she. "It's a
great deal handsomer than Mrs. George Henderson's, and I know she had
hers made at a Fifth Avenue tailor's, and it must have cost twice as
much."

Ida had filled Harry with the utmost faith in her financial
management. While he was spending more than he had ever done, and
working harder, he was innocently unconscious of it. He felt a sense
of gratitude and wonder that Ida was such a good manager and
accomplished such great results with such a small expenditure. He was
unwittingly disloyal to his first wife. He remembered the rigid
economy under her sway, and owned to himself, although with
remorseful tenderness, that she had not been such a financier as this
woman. "You ought to go on Wall Street," he often told Ida. He gazed
after her now with a species of awe that he had such a splendid,
masterful creature for his wife, as she moved with the slow majesty
habitual to her out of the room, the black plumes on her hat softly
floating, the rich draperies of her gown trailing in sumptuous folds
of darkness.

When she came down again, in a rose-colored silk tea-gown trimmed
with creamy lace, she was still more entrancing. She brought with her
into the room an atmosphere of delicate perfume. Harry had stopped
smoking entirely nowadays. Ida had persuaded him that it was bad for
him. She had said nothing about the expense, as his first wife had
been accustomed to do. Therefore there was no tobacco smoke to dull
his sensibilities to this delicate perfume. It was as if a living
rose had entered the room. Ida sank gracefully into a chair opposite
him. She was wondering how she could easily lead up to the subject in
her mind. There was much diplomacy, on a very small and selfish
scale, about Ida. She realized the expediency of starting from
apparently a long distance, to establish her sequences in order to
maintain the appearance of unpremeditativeness.

"Isn't it a little too warm here, dear?" said she, presently, in the
voice which alone she could not control. Whenever she had an entirely
self-centred object in mind, an object which might possibly meet with
opposition, as now, her voice rang harsh and lost its singing quality.

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