Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Jane Field

M >> Mary E. Wilkins Freeman >> Jane Field

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When meeting was done, and Mrs. Field arose, the girl spoke to her.
She had a pretty blush on her round cheeks, and she smiled at Mrs.
Field in the same way that she would soon smile at the young
minister.

"How's Lois to-night, Mrs. Field?" said she.

"She's pretty well, thank you, Ida."

"I heard she was sick."

"Oh, no, she ain't sick. The spring weather has made her feel kind of
tired out, that's all. It 'most always does."

"Well, I'm glad she isn't sick," said the girl, her radiant absent
eyes turned upon the minister, who was talking with some one at the
desk. "She wasn't out to meeting, and I didn't know but she might
be."

"She thought she wouldn't--" began Mrs. Field, but the girl was gone.
The minister had started down the other aisle, and she met him at the
door.

Several other people inquired for Lois as Mrs. Field made her way
out; some had heard she was ill in bed. She had an errand to do at
the store on her way home; when she reached it she went in, and stood
waiting at the counter.

There were a number of men lounging about the large, rank,
becluttered room, and there were several customers. The village
post-office was in one corner of the store. There were only two
clerks besides the proprietor, who was postmaster as well. Mrs. Field
had to wait quite a while; but at last she had made her purchases,
and was just stepping out the door, when a voice arrested her. "Mis'
Field," it said.

She turned, and saw the postmaster coming toward her with a letter in
his hand. The lounging men twisted about and stared lazily. The
postmaster was a short, elderly man with shelving gray whiskers, and
a wide, smiling mouth, which he was drawing down solemnly.

"Mis' Field, here's a letter I want you to look at; it come this
mornin'," he said, in a low voice.

Mrs. Field took the letter. It was directed, in a fair round hand, to
Mrs. Esther Maxwell; that had been her dead sister's name. She stood
looking at it, her face drooping severely. "It was sent to my
sister," said she.

"I s'posed so. Well, I thought I'd hand it to you."

Mrs. Field nodded gravely, and put the letter in her pocket. She was
again passing out, when somebody nudged her heavily. It was Mrs.
Green, a woman who lived in the next house beyond hers.

"Jest wait a minute," she said, "an' I'll go along with you."

So Mrs. Field stood back and waited, while her neighbor pushed
forward to the counter. After a little she drew the letter from her
pocket and studied the superscription. The post-mark was Elliot. She
supposed the letter to be from her dead sister's father-in-law, who
lived there.

"I may jest as well open it an' see what it is while I'm waitin',"
she thought.

She tore open the envelope slowly and clumsily with her stiff
fingers, and held up the letter so the light struck it. She could not
read strange writing easily, and this was a nearly illegible scrawl.
However, after the first few words, she seemed to absorb it by some
higher faculty than reading. In a short time she had the gist of the
letter. It was from a lawyer who signed himself Daniel Tuxbury. He
stated formally that Thomas Maxwell was dead; that he had left a will
greatly to Esther Maxwell's advantage, and that it would be advisable
for her to come to Elliot at an early date if possible. Inclosed was
a copy of the will. It was dated several years ago. All Thomas
Maxwell's property was bequeathed without reserve to his son's widow,
Esther Maxwell, should she survive him. In case of her decease before
his own, the whole was to revert to his brother's daughter, Flora
Maxwell.

Jane Field read the letter through twice, then she folded it,
replaced it in the envelope, and stood erect by the store door. She
could see Mrs. Green's broad shawled back among the customers at the
calico counter. Once in a while she looked around with a beseeching
and apologetic smile.

Mrs. Field thought, "I won't say a word to her about it." However,
she was conscious of no evil motive; it was simply because she was
naturally secretive. She looked pale and rigid.

Mrs. Green remarked it when she finally approached with her parcel of
calico.

"Why, what's the matter, Mis' Field?" she exclaimed. "You ain't sick,
be you?"

"No. Why?"

"Seems to me you look dreadful pale. It was too bad to keep you
standin' there so long, but I couldn't get waited on before. I think
Mr. Robbins had ought to have more help. It's too much for him with
only two clerks, an' the post-office to tend, too. I see you got a
letter." Mrs. Field nodded. The two women went down the steps into
the street.

"How's Lois to-night?" Mrs. Green asked as they went along.

"I guess she's about as usual. She didn't say but what she was."

"She ain't left off her school, has she?"

"No," replied Mrs. Field, stiffly, "she ain't."

Suddenly Mrs. Green stopped and laid a heavy hand on Mrs. Field's
arm. "Look here, Mis' Field, I dun'no' as you'll thank me for it, but
I'm goin' to speak real plain to you, the way I'd thank anybody to if
'twas my Jenny. I'm dreadful afraid you don't realize how bad Lois
is, Mis' Field."

"Mebbe I don't." Mrs. Field's voice sounded hard.

The other woman looked perplexedly at her for a moment, then she went
on:

"Well, if you do, mebbe I hadn't ought to said anything; but I was
dreadful afraid you didn't, an' then when you come to, perhaps when
'twas too late, you'd never forgive yourself. She hadn't ought to
teach school another day, Mis' Field."

"I dun'no how it's goin' to be helped," Mrs. Field said again, in her
hard voice.

"Mis' Field, I know it ain't any of my business, an' I don't know but
you'll think I'm interferin'; but I can't help it nohow when I think
of--my Abby, an' how--she went down. _Ain't_ you got anybody that
could help you a little while till she gets better an' able to work?"

"I dun'no' of anybody."

"Wouldn't your sister's husband's father? Ain't he got considerable
property?"

Mrs. Field turned suddenly, her voice sharpened, "I've asked him all
I'm ever goin' to--there! I let Esther's husband have fifteen hundred
dollars that my poor husband saved out of his hard earnin's, an' he
lost it in his business; an' after he died I wrote to his father, an'
I told him about it. I thought mebbe he'd be willin' to be fair, an'
pay his son's debts, if he didn't have much feelin'. There was Esther
an' Lois an' me, an' not a cent to live on, an' Esther she was
beginnin' to be feeble. But he jest sent me back my letter, an' he'd
wrote on the back of it that he wa'n't responsible for any of his
son's debts. I said then I'd never go to him agin, and I didn't; an'
Esther didn't when she was sick an' dyin'; an' I never let him know
when she died, an' I don't s'pose he knows she is dead to this day."

"Oh, Mis' Field, you didn't have to lose all that money!"

"Yes, I did, every dollar of it."

"I declare it's wicked."

"There's a good many things that's wicked, an' sometimes I think some
things ain't wicked that we've always thought was. I don't know but
the Lord meant everybody to have what belonged to them in spite of
everything."

Mrs. Green stared. "I guess I don't know jest what you mean, Mis'
Field."

"I meant everybody ought to have what's their just due, an' I believe
the Lord will uphold them in it. I've about come to the conclusion
that folks ought to lay hold of justice themselves if there ain't no
other way, an' that's what we've got hands for." Suddenly Mrs.
Field's manner changed. "I know Lois hadn't ought to be teachin'
school as well as you do," said she. "I ain't said much about it, it
ain't my way, but I've known it all the time."

"She'd ought to take a vacation, Mis' Field, an' get away from here
for a spell. Folks say Green River ain't very healthy. They say these
low meadow-lands are bad. I worried enough about it after my Abby
died, thinkin' what might have been done. It does seem to me that if
something was done right away, Lois might get up; but there ain't no
use waitin'. I've seen young girls go down; it seems sometimes as if
there wa'n't nothin' more to them than flowers, an' they fade away in
a day. I've been all through it. Mis' Field, you don't mind my
speakin' so, do you? Oh, Mis' Field, don't feel so bad! I'm real
sorry I said anythin'."

Mrs. Field was shaking with great sobs. "I ain't--blamin' you," she
said, brokenly.

Mrs. Green got out her own handkerchief. "Mis' Field, I wouldn't have
spoken a word, but--I felt as if something ought to be done, if there
could be; an'--I thought--so much about my--poor Abby. Lois always
makes me think of her; she's jest about her build; an'--I didn't know
as you--realized."

"I realized enough," returned Mrs. Field, catching her breath as she
walked on.

"Now I hope you don't feel any worse because I spoke as I did," Mrs.
Green said, when they reached the gate of the Pratt house.

"You ain't told me anything I didn't know," replied Mrs. Field.

Mrs. Green felt for one of her distorted hands; she held it a second,
then she dropped it. Mrs. Field let it hang stiffly the while. It was
a fervent demonstration to them, the evidence of unwonted excitement
and the deepest feeling. When Mrs. Field entered her sitting-room,
the first object that met her eyes was Lois' face. She was tilted
back in the rocking-chair, her slender throat was exposed, her lips
were slightly parted, and there was a glassy gleam between her
half-open eyelids. Her mother stood looking at her.

Suddenly Lois opened her eyes wide and sat up. "What are you standing
there looking at me so for, mother?" she said, in her weak, peevish
voice.

"I ain't lookin' at you, child. I've jest come home from meetin'. I
guess you've been asleep."

"I haven't been asleep a minute. I heard you open the outside door."

Mrs. Field's hand verged toward the letter in her pocket. Then she
began untying her bonnet.

Lois arose, and lighted another lamp. "Well, I guess I'll go to bed,"
said she.

"Wait a minute," her mother returned.

Lois paused inquiringly.

"Never mind," her mother said, hastily. "You needn't stop. I can tell
you jest as well to-morrow."

"What was it?"

"Nothin' of any account. Run along."

Chapter II

The next morning Lois had gone to her school and her mother had not
yet shown the letter to her. She went about as usual, doing her
housework slowly and vigorously. Mrs. Field's cleanliness was
proverbial in this cleanly New England neighborhood. It almost
amounted to asceticism; her rooms, when her work was finished, had
the bareness and purity of a nun's cell. There was never any bloom of
dust on Mrs. Field's furniture; there was only the hard, dull glitter
of the wood. Her few chairs and tables looked as if waxed; the paint
was polished in places from her doors and window-casings; her
window-glass gave out green lights like jewels; and all this she did
with infinite pains and slowness, as there was hardly a natural
movement left in her rheumatic hands. But there was in her nature an
element of stern activity that must have its outcome in some
direction, and it took the one that it could find. Jane had used to
take in sewing before her hands were diseased. In her youth she had
learned the trade of a tailoress; when ready-made clothing, even for
children, came into use, she made dresses. Her dresses had been
long-waisted and stiffly boned, with high, straight biases, seemingly
fitted to her own nature instead of her customers' forms; but they
had been strongly and faithfully sewed, and her stitches held fast as
the rivets on a coat of mail. Now she could not sew. She could knit,
and that was all, besides her housework, that she could do.

This morning, while dusting a little triangular what-not that stood
in a corner of her sitting-room, she came across a small box that
held some old photographs. The box was made of a kind of
stucco-work--shells held in place by a bed of putty. Amanda Pratt had
made it and given it to her. Mrs. Field took up this box and dusted
it carefully; then she opened it, and took out the photographs one by
one.

After a while she stopped; she did not take out any more, but she
looked intently at one; then she replaced all but that one, got
painfully up from the low foot-stool where she had been sitting, and
went out of her room across the entry to Amanda's, with the
photograph in her hand.

Amanda sat at her usual window, sewing on her rug. The sunlight came
in, and her shadow, set in a bright square, wavered on the floor; the
clock out in the kitchen ticked. Amanda looked up when Mrs. Field
entered. "Oh, it's you?" said she. "I wondered who was comin'. Set
down, won't you?"

Mrs. Field went over to Amanda and held out the photograph. "I want
to see if you can tell me who this is."

Amanda took the photograph and held it toward the light. She
compressed her lips and wrinkled her forehead. "Why, it's you, of
course--ain't it?"

Mrs. Field made no reply; she stood looking at her.

"Why, ain't it you?" Amanda asked, looking from the picture to her in
a bewildered way.

"No; it's Esther."

"Esther?"

"Yes, it's Esther."

"Well, I declare! When was it took?"

"About ten years ago, when she was in Elliot."

"Well, all I've got to say is, if anybody had asked me, I'd have said
it was took for you yesterday. Why, Mis' Field, what's the matter?"

"There ain't anything the matter."

"Why, you look dreadfully."

Mrs. Field's face was pale, and there was a curious look about her
whole figure. It seemed as if shrinking from something, twisting
itself rigidly, as a fossil tree might shrink in a wind that could
move it.

"I feel well 'nough," said she. "I guess it's the light."

"Well, mebbe 'tis," replied Amanda, still looking anxiously at her.
"Of course you know if you feel well, but you do look dreadful white
to me. Don't you want some water, or a swaller of cold tea?"

"No, I don't want a single thing; I'm well enough." Mrs. Field's
tone was almost surly. She held out her hand for the photograph. "I
must be goin'," she continued; "I ain't got my dustin' done. I jest
come across this, an' I thought I'd show it to you, an' see what you
said."

"Well, I shouldn't have dreamed but what it was yours; but then you
an' your sister did look jest alike. I never could tell you apart
when you first came here."

"Folks always said we looked alike. We always used to be took for
each other when we was girls, an' I think we looked full as much
alike after our hair begun to turn. Mine was a little lighter than
hers, an' that made some difference betwixt us before. It didn't show
when we was both gray."

"I shouldn't have thought 'twould. Well, I must say, I shouldn't
dream but what that picture was meant for you."

Mrs. Field took her way out of the room.

"How's Lois this mornin'?" Amanda called after her.

"About the same, I guess."

"I saw her goin' out of the yard this mornin', an' I thought she
walked dreadful weak."

"I guess she don't walk any too strong."

When Mrs. Field was in her own room she stowed away the photograph in
the shell box; then she got a little broom and brushed the shell-work
carefully; she thought it looked dusty in spite of her rubbing.

When the dusting was done it was time for her to get her dinner
ready. Indeed, there was not much leisure for Mrs. Field all day. She
seldom sat down for long at a time. From morning until night she kept
up her stiff resolute march about her house.

At half-past twelve she had the dinner on the table, but Lois did not
come. Her mother went into the sitting-room, sat down beside a
window, and watched. The town clock struck one. Mrs. Field went
outdoors and stood by the front gate, looking down the road. She saw
a girl coming in the distance with a flutter of light skirts, and she
exclaimed with gladness, "There she is!" The girl drew nearer, and
she saw it was Ida Starr in a dress that looked like Lois'.

The girl stopped when she saw Mrs. Field at the gate. "Good-morning,"
said she.

"Good-mornin', Ida."

"It's a beautiful day."

Mrs. Field did not reply; she gazed past her down the road, her face
all one pale frown.

The girl looked curiously at her. "I hope Lois is pretty well this
morning?" she said, in her amiable voice.

Mrs. Field responded with a harsh outburst that fairly made her start
back.

"No," she cried out, "she ain't well; she's sick. She wa'n't fit to
go to school. She couldn't hardly crawl out of the yard. She ain't
got home, an' I'm terrible worried. I dun'no' but she's fell down."

"Maybe she just thought she wouldn't come home."

"No; that ain't it. She never did such a thing as that without saying
something about it; she'd know I'd worry."

Mrs. Field craned her neck farther over the gate, and peered down the
road. Beside the gate stood two tall bushes, all white with flowers
that grew in long white racemes, and they framed her distressed face.

"Look here, Mrs. Field," said the girl, "I'll tell you what I'll do.
The school-house isn't much beyond my house; I'll just run over there
and see if there's anything the matter; then I'll come back right
off, and let you know."

"Oh, will you?"

"Of course I will. Now don't you worry, Mrs. Field; I don't believe
it's anything."

The girl nodded back at her with her pretty smile; then she sped away
with a light tilting motion. Mrs. Field stood a few minutes longer,
then she went up the steps into the house. She opened Amanda Pratt's
door instead of her own, and went through the sitting-room to the
kitchen, from whence she could hear the clink of dishes.

"Lois ain't got home yet," said she, standing in the doorway.

Amanda set down the dish she was wiping. "Mis' Field, what do you
mean?"

"What I say."

"Ain't she got home yet?"

"No, she ain't."

"Why, it's half-past one o'clock! She ain't comin'; it's time for
school to begin. Look here, Mis' Field, I guess she felt kind of
tired, an' thought she wouldn't come."

Mrs. Field shook her head with a sort of remorselessness toward all
comfort. "She's fell down."

"Oh, Mis' Field! you don't s'pose so?"

"The Starr girl's gone to find out."

Mrs. Field turned to go.

"Hadn't you better stay here till she comes?" asked Amanda,
anxiously.

"No; I must go home." Suddenly Mrs. Field looked fiercely around.
"I'll tell you what 'tis, Mandy Pratt, an' you mark my words! I ain't
goin' to stan' this kind of work much longer! I ain't goin' to see
all the child I've got in the world murdered; for that's what it
is--it's murder!"

Mrs. Field went through the sitting-room with a stiff rush, and
Amanda followed her.

"Oh, Mis' Field, don't take on so--don't!" she kept saying.

Mrs. Field went through the house into her own kitchen. The little
white-laid table stood against the wall; the tea-kettle steamed and
rocked on the stove; the room was full of savory odors. Mrs. Field
set the tea-kettle back where it would not boil so hard. These little
household duties had become to her almost as involuntary as the tick
of her own pulses. No matter what hours of agony they told off, the
pulses ticked; and in every stress of life she would set the
tea-kettle back if it were necessary. Amanda stood in the door,
trembling. All at once there was a swift roll of wheels in the yard
past the window. "Somebody's come!" gasped Amanda. Mrs. Field rushed
to the back door, and Amanda after her. There was a buggy drawn up
close to the step, and a man was trying to lift Lois out.

Mrs. Field burst out in a great wail. "Oh, Lois! Lois! She's
dead--she's dead!"

"No, she ain't dead," replied the man, in a drawling, jocular tone.
"She's worth a dozen dead ones--ain't you, Lois? I found her layin'
down side of the road kind of tuckered out, that's all, and I thought
I'd give her a lift. Don't you be scared, Mis' Field. Now, Lois, you
jest rest all your heft on me."

Lois' pale face and little reaching hands appeared around the wing of
the buggy. Amanda ran around to the horse's head. He did not offer to
start; but she stood there, and said, "Whoa, whoa," over and over, in
a pleading, nervous voice. She was afraid to touch the bridle; she
had a great terror of horses.

The man, who was Ida Starr's father, lifted Lois out, and carried her
into the house. She struggled a little.

"I can walk," said she, in a weakly indignant voice.

Mr. Starr carried her into the sitting-room and laid her down on the
sofa. She raised herself immediately, and sat up with a defiant air.

"Oh, dear child, do lay down," sobbed her mother.

She put her hand on Lois' shoulder and tried to force her gently
backward, but the girl resisted.

"Don't, mother," said she. "I don't want to lie down."

Amanda had run into her own room for the camphor bottle. Now she
leaned over Lois and put it to her nose. "Jest smell of this a
little," she said. Lois pushed it away feebly.

"I guess Lois will have to take a little vacation," said Mr. Starr.
"I guess I shall have to see about it, and let her have a little
rest."

He was one of the school committee.

"I don't need any vacation," said Lois, in a peremptory tone.

"I guess we shall have to see about it," repeated Mr. Starr. There
was an odd undertone of decision in his drawling voice. He was a
large man, with a pleasant face full of double curves. "Good-day,"
said he, after a minute. "I guess I must be goin'."

"Good-day," said Lois. "I'm much obliged to you for bringing me
home."

"You're welcome."

Amanda nodded politely when he withdrew, but Mrs. Field never looked
at him. She stood with her eyes fixed upon Lois.

"What are you looking at me so for, mother?" said Lois, impatiently,
turning her own face away.

Mrs. Field sank down on her knees before the sofa. "Oh, my child!"
she wailed. "My child! my child!"

She threw her arms around the girl's slender waist, and clung to her
convulsively. Lois cast a terrified glance up at Amanda.

"Does she think I ain't going to get well?" she asked, as if her
mother were not present.

"Of course she don't," replied Amanda, with decision. She stooped and
took hold of Mrs. Field's shoulders. "Now look here, Mis' Field,"
said she, "you ain't actin' like yourself. You're goin' to make Lois
sick, if she ain't now, if you go on this way. You get up an' make
her a cup of tea, an' get her somethin' to eat. Ten chances to one,
that's all that ailed her. I don't believe she's eat enough to-day to
keep a cat alive."

"I know all about it," moaned Mrs. Field. "It's jest what I expected.
Oh, my child! my child! I have prayed an' done all I could, an' now
it's come to this. I've got to give up. Oh, my child! my child!"

It was to this mother as though her daughter was not there, although
she held her in her arms. She was in that abandon of grief which is
the purest selfishness.

Amanda fairly pulled her to her feet. "Mis' Field, I'm ashamed of
you!" said she, severely. "I should think you were beside yourself.
Here's Lois better--"

"No, she ain't better. I know."

Mrs. Field straightened herself, and went out into the kitchen.

Lois looked again at Amanda, in a piteous, terrified fashion. "Oh,"
said she, "you don't think I'm so very sick, do you?"

"Very sick? No; of course you ain't. Your mother got dreadful nervous
because you didn't come home. That's what made her act so. You look a
good deal better than you did when you first came in."

"I feel better," said Lois. "I never saw mother act so in my life."

"She got all wrought up, waitin'. If I was you, I'd lay down a few
minutes, jest on her account. I think it would make her feel easier."

"Well, I will, if you think I'd better; but there ain't a mite of
need of it."

Lois laid her head down on the sofa arm.

"That's right," said Amanda. "You can jest lay there a little while.
I'm goin' out to tell your mother to make you a cup of tea. That'll
set you right up."

Amanda found Mrs. Field already making the tea. She measured it out
carefully, and never looked around. Amanda stepped close to her.

"Mis' Field," she whispered, "I hope you wa'n't hurt by what I said.
I meant it for the best."

"I sha'n't give way so again," said Mrs. Field. Her face had a
curious determined expression.

"I hope you don't feel hurt?"

"No, I don't. I sha'n't give way so again." She poured the boiling
water into the teapot, and set it on the stove.

Amanda looked at a covered dish on the stove hearth. "What was you
goin' to have for dinner?" said she.

"Lamb broth. I'm goin' to heat up some for her. She didn't eat hardly
a mouthful of breakfast."

"That's jest the thing for her. I'll get out the kettle and put it on
to heat. I dun'no' of anything that gits cold any quicker than lamb
broth, unless it's love."

Amanda put on a cheerful air as she helped Mrs. Field. Presently the
two women carried in the little repast to Lois.

"She's asleep," whispered Amanda, who went first with the tea.

They stood looking at the young girl, stretched out her slender
length, her white delicate profile showing against the black arm of
the sofa.

Her mother caught her breath. "She's got to be waked up; she's got to
have some nourishment, anyhow," said she. "Come, Lois, wake up, and
have your dinner."

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