Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Jane Field

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

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"Is Mis' Maxwell to home?"

Lois stared at her.

"Is Mis' Maxwell to home? I heard she'd come here to live," repeated
the woman, in a deprecating way. She smoothed down the folds of her
over-skirt. Lois started; the color spread over her face and neck.
"No, she isn't at home," she said sharply.

"Do you know when she will be?"

"No, I don't."

The woman's face also was flushed. She turned about with a little
flirt, when suddenly a door slammed somewhere in the house. The woman
faced about, with a look of indignant surprise.

Lois said nothing. She opened the front door and went into the house,
straight through to the kitchen, where her mother was preparing
breakfast. "There's a woman out there," she said.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. She wants to see--Mrs. Maxwell."

Lois looked full at her mother; her eyes were like an angel's before
evil. Mrs. Field looked back at her. Then she turned toward the door.

Lois caught hold of her mother's dress. Mrs. Field twitched it away
fiercely, and passed on into the sitting-room. The woman stood there
waiting. She had followed Lois in.

"How do you do, Mis' Maxwell?" she said.

"I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Mrs. Field, looking at her with
stiff inquiry.

The woman had a pale, pretty face, and stood with a sturdy set-back
on her heels. "I guess you don't know me, Mis' Maxwell," said she,
smiling deprecatingly.

Mrs. Field tried to smile, but her lips were too stiff. "I guess
I--don't," she faltered.

The smile faded from the woman's face. She cast an anxious glance at
her own face in the glass over the mantel-shelf; she had placed
herself so she could see it. "I ain't got quite so much color as I
used to have," she said, "but I ain't thought I'd changed much other
ways. Some days I have more color. I know I ain't this mornin'. I
ain't had very good health. Maybe that's the reason you don't know
me."

Mrs. Field muttered a feeble assent.

"I'd know you anywhere, but you didn't have any color to lose to make
a difference. You've always looked jest the way you do now since I've
known you. I lived in this house a whole year with you once. I come
here to live after Mr. Maxwell's wife died. My name is Jay."

Mrs. Field stood staring. The woman, who had been looking in the
glass while she talked, gave her front hair a little shake, and
turned toward her inquiringly.

"Won't you sit down in this rockin'-chair, Mis' Jay?" said Mrs.
Field.

"No, thank you, I guess I won't set down, I'm in a little of a hurry.
I jest wanted to see you a minute."

Mrs. Field waited.

"You know Mr. Maxwell's dyin' so sudden made a good deal of a change
for me," Mrs. Jay continued. She took out her handkerchief and wiped
her eyes softly; then she glanced in the glass. "I'd had my home here
a good many years, an' it seemed hard to lose it all in a minute so.
There he came home that Sunday noon an' eat a hearty dinner, an'
before sunset he had that shock, and never spoke afterward. I've
thought maybe there were things he would have said if he could have
spoke."

Mrs. Jay sighed heavily; her eyes reddened; she straightened her
bonnet absently; her silvered fair hair was frizzed under it.

Mrs. Field stood opposite, her eyes downcast, her face rigid.

"I wanted to speak to you, Mis' Maxwell," the other woman went on. "I
ain't obliged to go out anywheres to live; I've got property; but
it's kind of lonesome at my sister's, where I'm livin'. It's a little
out of the village, an' there ain't much passin'. I like to be where
I can see passin', an' get out to meetin' easy if it's bad weather.
I've been thinkin'--I didn't know but maybe you'd like to have me--I
heard you had some trouble with your hands, an' your niece wa'n't
well--that I might be willin' to come an' stay three or four weeks. I
shouldn't want to promise to stay very long."

"I ain't never been in the habit of keepin' help," returned Mrs.
Field. "I've always done my own work."

The other woman's face flushed deeply; she moved toward the door. "I
don't know as anything was said about keepin' help," said she. "I
ain't never considered myself help. There ain't any need of my goin'
out to live. I've got enough to live on, an' I've got good clothes.
I've got a black silk stiff enough to stand alone; cost three dollars
a yard. I paid seven dollars to have it made up, and the lace on it
cost a dollar a yard. I ain't obliged to be at anybody's beck and
call."

"I hope I ain't said anything to hurt your feelin's," said Mrs.
Field, following her into the entry. "I've always done my own work,
an'--"

"We won't speak of it again," said Mrs. Jay. "I'll bid you
good-mornin', Mis' Maxwell." Her voice shook, she held up her black
skirt, and never looked around as she went down the steps.

Mrs. Field returned to the kitchen. Lois sat beside the window, her
head leaning against the sash, looking out. Her mother took some
biscuits out of the stove oven and set them on the table with the
coffee. "Breakfast is ready," said she.

She sat down at the table. Lois never stirred.

"You needn't worry," said Mrs. Field, in a sarcastic voice;
"everything on this table is bought with your own money. I went out
last night and got some flour. There's a whole barrelful in the
buttery, but I didn't touch it."

Lois drew her chair up to the table, and ate a biscuit and drank a
cup of coffee without saying a word. Her eyes were set straight
ahead; all her pale features seemed to point out sharply; her whole
face had the look of a wedge that could pierce fate. After breakfast
she went out of the room, and returned shortly with her hat on.

"Mother," said she.

"What is it?"

"You'd better know what I'm going to do."

"What are you goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' down to that lawyer's office, and--tell him." Lois turned
toward the door.

"I s'pose you know all you're goin' to do," said her mother, in a
hard voice.

"I'm going to tell the truth," returned Lois, fiercely.

"You're goin' to put your mother in State's prison."

Lois stopped. "Mother, you can't make me believe that."

"It's true, whether you believe it or not. I don't know anything
about law, but I'm sure enough of that."

Lois stood looking at her mother. "Then I'll put you there," said
she, in a cruel voice. "That's where you ought to go, mother."

She went out of the room, and shut the door hard behind her; then she
kept on through the house to the front porch, and sat down. She sat
there all the morning, huddled up against a pillar. Her mother worked
about the house; Lois could hear her now and then, and every time she
shuddered. She had a feeling that the woman in the house was not her
mother. Had she been familiar with the vampire superstition, she
might have thought of that, and had a fancy that some fiend animated
the sober, rigid body of the old New England woman with evil and
abnormal life.

At noon Lois went in and ate some dinner mechanically; then she
returned. Presently, as she sat there, a bell began tolling, and a
funeral procession passed along the road below. Lois watched it
listlessly--the black-draped hearse, the slow-marching bearers, the
close-covered wagons, and the nodding horses. She could see it
plainly through the thin spring branches. It was quite a long
procession; she watched it until it passed. The cemetery was only a
little way below the house, on the same side of the street. By
twisting her head a little, she could have seen the black throng at
the gate.

After a while the hearse and the carriages went past on their
homeward road at a lively pace, the gate clicked, and Mrs. Jane
Maxwell and a young man came up the walk.

Lois stood up shrinkingly as they approached, the door behind her
opened, and she heard her mother's voice.

"Good-afternoon," said Mrs. Field, with rigid ceremony, her mouth
widened in a smile.

"Good-afternoon, Esther," returned Mrs. Maxwell. "I've been to the
funeral, an' I thought I'd jest run in a minute on my way home. I
wanted to ask you an' your niece to come over an' take tea to-morrow.
Flora, she'd come, but she didn't get out to the funeral. This is my
nephew, Francis Arms, my sister's son. I s'pose you remember him when
he was a little boy."

Mrs. Field bowed primly to the young man. The old lady was eying
Lois. "I s'pose this is your niece, Esther? I heard she'd come," she
said, with sharp graciousness.

"This is Miss Lois Field; I'll make you acquainted, Mis' Maxwell,"
replied Mrs. Field.

Mrs. Maxwell reached out her hand, and Lois took it trembling; her
little girlish figure drooped before them all.

"She don't look much like you, Esther. I s'pose she takes after her
mother," said Mrs. Maxwell.

"I think she rather favors her father's folks," said Mrs. Field.

"I heard she wa'n't very well, but seems to me she looks pretty
smart."

"She ain't been well at all," returned Mrs. Field, in a quick,
resentful manner.

"Well, I guess she'll pick up here; Elliot's a real healthy place.
She must come over and see us real often. This is my nephew, Francis
Arms, Lois. I shall have to get him to beau you around and show you
the sights."

Lois glanced timidly up at the young man, and returned his bow
slightly.

"Won't you walk in?" said Mrs. Field.

Lois went into the house with the party; the old lady still held her
hand in her black-mitted one.

"I want you and my nephew to get acquainted," she whispered; "he's a
real nice young man. I'm goin' to have you an' your aunt come over
an' take tea to-morrow."

They all seated themselves in the south front room. Lois sat beside
Mrs. Maxwell on the high black sofa; her feet swung clear from the
floor. The young man, who was opposite, beside the chimney, glanced
now and then kindly across at her.

"Francis didn't have to go to the bank this afternoon," said Mrs.
Maxwell. "I don't know as I told you, Esther, but he's cashier in the
bank; he's got a real good place. Francis ain't never had anything
but a common-school education, but he's always been real smart an'
steady. Lawyer Totten's son, that's been through college, wanted the
place, but they gave it to Francis. Mr. Perry, whose mother was
buried this afternoon, is president of the bank, an' that's why it's
shut up. Francis felt as if he'd ought to go to the funeral, an' I
told him he'd better come in here with me. I suppose you remember
Francis when he was a little boy, Esther?"

"No, I guess I don't."

"Why, I should think you'd be likely to. He lived with me when you
was here. He came right after his father died, an' that was before
you came here. He was quite a big boy. I should think you'd remember
him. You sure you don't, Esther?"

"Yes, I guess I don't."

"Seems to me it's dreadful queer; I guess your memory ain't as good
as mine. I s'pose you're beginnin' to feel kind of wonted here,
Esther? It's a pretty big house, but then it ain't as if you hadn't
been here before. I s'pose it seems kind of familiar to you, if you
ain't seen it for so long; I s'pose it all comes back to you, don't
it?"

There was a pause. "No, I'm afraid it don't," said Mrs. Field her
pale severe face fronting the other woman. Although fairly started
forth in the slough of deceit, she still held up her Puritan skirts
arduously.

"It's kind of queer it don't, ain't it?" returned Mrs. Maxwell. "The
house ain't been altered any, an' the furniture's jest the same.
Thomas, he wouldn't have a thing altered; the carpet in his bedroom
is wore threadbare, but he wouldn't get a new one nohow. Mis' Jay,
she wanted him to get a new cookin'-stove, but he wouldn't hear to
it; much as ever he'd let her have a new broom. And it wa'n't because
he was stingy; it was jest because he was kind of set, an' had got
into the way of thinkin' nothin' had ought to be changed. It wa'n't
never my way; I never believed in hangin' on to old shackly things
because you've always had 'em. There ain't no use tryin' to set down
tables an' chairs as solid as the everlastin' hills. There was Mis'
Perry, she that was buried this afternoon, Mr. Perry's mother, when
she came here to live after her husband died, she sold off every
stick of her old furniture, an' got the handsomest marble-top set
that money could buy for her room. She got some pictures in gilt
frames too, and a tapestry carpet, and vases and images for her
mantel-shelf. She said folks could talk about associations all they
wanted to, she hadn't no associations with a lot of old worm-eaten
furniture; she'd rather have some that was clean an' new. H'm,
anybody to hear folks talk sometimes would think they were
blood-relations to old secretaries and bureaus."

Mrs. Maxwell screwed her face contemptuously, as if the talking folk
were before her, and there was a pause. The young man looked across
at Lois, then turned to her mother, as if about to speak, but his
aunt interposed.

"Esther," said she, "I jest wanted to ask you if there wa'n't two of
them old swell-front bureaus in the north chamber upstairs."

"I guess there is," replied Mrs. Field. She sat leaning forward
toward her callers, with her face fairly strained into hospitable
attention.

"Well, I wanted to know. I ain't come beggin', an' I'd 'nough sight
rather have a good clean new one, but I'm kind of short of bureau
drawers, an' I'd kind of like to have it because 'twas Thomas'. I
wonder if you wouldn't jest as soon I'd have one of them bureaus?"

Mrs. Field's face gleamed suddenly. "You can have it jest as well as
not," said she.

"Well, there's another thing. I kind of hate to speak about it. Flora
said I shouldn't; but I said I would, whether or no. I know you'd
rather I would. There's a set of blue china dishes that Nancy, that's
Thomas' wife, you know, always said Flora should have when she got
done with them. Thomas, he never said anything about it after Nancy
died. I didn't know but he might make mention of it in the will. But
we all know how that was. I ain't findin' no fault, an' I ain't
begrudgin' anything."

"You can have the dishes jest as well as not," returned Mrs. Field,
eagerly.

"Well, I didn't know as you'd value them much. I s'posed you'd rather
get some new ones. You can get real handsome ones now for ten
dollars. Silsbee's got an elegant set in his window. Of course folks
that can afford them would rather have them. But I s'pose Flora would
think considerable of that old set because it belonged to her aunt
Nancy. There's one or two other things I was thinkin' of, but it
don't matter about those to-day. It's a beautiful day, ain't it?"

"What be they?" asked Mrs. Field. "If there's anything you want,
you're welcome to it."

Mrs. Maxwell glanced at her nephew. He was looking out of the window,
with his forehead knitted and his lips compressed. Lois had just
thought how cross he looked. "You ain't been out to see anything of
the town, have you, Lois?" asked Mrs. Maxwell, sweetly.

Lois started. "No, ma'am," she said, faintly.

"You ain't been into the graveyard, I s'pose?"

"No, ma'am."

"You'd ought to go in there an' see the Mason monument. Francis,
don't you want to go over there with her an' show her the Mason
monument?"

Francis rose promptly.

"I guess I'd rather not," Lois said, hurriedly.

"Oh, you run right along!" cried Mrs. Maxwell. "You'll want to see
the flowers on Mis' Perry's grave, too. I never saw such handsome
flowers as they had, an' they carried them all to the grave. Get your
hat, and run right along, it'll do you good."

"You'd better," said the young man, smiling pleasantly down at Lois.

She got up and left the room, and presently returned with her hat on.

"Don't sit down on the damp ground," Mrs. Field said as the two went
out. And her voice sounded more like herself than it had done since
she left Green River.

Lois walked gravely down the street beside Francis Arms. She had
never had any masculine attention. This was the first time she had
ever walked alone with a young man. She was full of that shy
consciousness which comes to a young girl who has had more dreams
than lovers, but her steady, sober face quite concealed it.

Francis kept glancing down at her, trying to think of something to
say. She never looked at him, and kept her shabby little shoes
pointed straight ahead on the extreme inside of the walk, as intently
as if she were walking on a line. Nobody would have dreamed how her
heart, in spite of the terrible exigency in which she was placed, was
panting insensibly with the sweet rhythm of youth. In the midst of
all this trouble and bewilderment, she had not been able to help a
strange feeling when she first looked into this young man's face. It
was as if she were suddenly thrust off her old familiar places, like
a young bird from its nest into space, and had to use a strange new
motion of her soul to keep herself from falling.

But Francis guessed nothing of this. "It's a pleasant day," he
remarked as they walked along.

"Yes, sir," she replied.

The graveyard gates had been left open after the funeral. They
entered, and passed up the driveway along the wheel ruts of the
funeral procession. Pink garlands of flowering-almond arched over the
old graves, and bushes of bridal-wreath sent out white spikes.
Weeping-willows swept over them in lines of gold-green light, and
evergreen trees stood among them as they had stood all winter. In
many of these were sunken vases and bottles of spring flowers, lilacs
and violets.

Lois and Francis Arms went on to the Mason monument.

"This is the one Aunt Jane was speaking about," he said, in a
deferential tone.

Lois looked up at the four white marble women grouped around the
central shaft, their Greek faces outlined against the New England
sky.

"It was made by a famous sculptor," said Francis; "and it cost a
great deal of money."

Lois nodded.

"They box it up in the winter, so it won't be injured by the
weather," said Francis.

Lois nodded again. Presently they turned away, and went on to a new
grave, covered with wreaths and floral devices. The fragrance of
tuberoses and carnations came in their faces.

"This is the grave Aunt Jane wanted you to see," said Francis.

"Yes, sir," returned Lois.

They stood staring silently at the long mound covered with flowers.
Francis turned.

"Suppose we go over this way," said he.

Lois followed him as he strode along the little grassy paths between
the burial lots. On the farther side of the cemetery the ground
sloped abruptly to a field of new grass. Francis stooped and felt of
the short grass on the bank.

"It's dry," said he. "I don't think your aunt would mind. Suppose we
sit down here and rest a few minutes?"

Lois looked at him hesitatingly.

"Oh, sit down just a few minutes," he said, with a pleasant laugh.

They both seated themselves on the bank, and looked down into the
field.

"It's pleasant here, isn't it?" said Francis.

"Real pleasant."

The young man looked kindly, although a little constrainedly, down
into his companion's face.

"I hear you haven't been very well," said he. "I hope you feel better
since you came to Elliot?"

"Yes, thank you; I guess I do," replied Lois.

Francis still looked at her. Her little face bent, faintly rosy,
under her hat. There was a grave pitifulness, like an old woman's,
about her mouth, but her shoulders looked very young and slender.

"Suppose you take off your hat," said he, "and let the air come on
your forehead. I've got mine off; it's more comfortable. You won't
catch cold. It's warm as summer."

Lois took off her hat.

"That's better," said Francis, approvingly. "You're going to live
right along here in Elliot with your aunt, aren't you?"

Lois looked up at him suddenly. She was very pale, and her eyes were
full of terror.

"Why, what is the matter? What have I said?" he cried out, in
bewilderment.

Lois bent over and hid her face; her back heaved with sobs.

Francis stared at her. "Why, what is the matter?" he cried again.
"Have I done anything?" He hesitated. Then he put his hand on her
little moist curly head. Lois' hair was not thick, but it curled
softly. "Why, you poor little girl," said he; "don't cry so;" and his
voice was full of embarrassed tenderness.

Lois sobbed harder.

"Now, see here," said Francis. "I haven't known you more than an
hour, and I don't know what the matter is, and I don't know but
you'll think I'm officious, but I'll do anything in the world to help
you, if you'll only tell me."

Lois shook off his hand and sat up. "It isn't anything," said she,
catching her breath, and setting her tear-stained face defiantly
ahead.

"Don't you feel well?"

Lois nodded vaguely, keeping her quivering mouth firmly set. They
were both silent for a moment, then Lois spoke without looking at
him.

"Do you know if there's any school here that I could get?" said she.

"A school?"

"Yes. I want to get a chance to teach. I've been teaching, but I've
lost my school."

"And you want to get one here?"

"Yes. Do you know of any?"

"Why, see here," said Francis. "It's none of my business, but I
thought you hadn't been very well. Why don't you take a little
vacation?"

"I can't," returned Lois, in a desperate tone. "I've got to do
something."

"Why, won't your aunt--" He stopped short. The conviction that the
stern old woman who had inherited the Maxwell property was too hard
and close to support her little delicate orphan niece seized upon
him. Lois' next words strengthened it.

"I lost my school," she went on, still keeping her face turned toward
the meadow and speaking fast. "Ida Starr got it away from me. Her
father is school-committee-man, and he said he didn't think I was
able to teach, just because he brought me home in his buggy one day
when I was a little faint. I had a note from him that morning
mother--that morning she came down here. I was just going to school,
and I was a good deal better, when Mr. Starr's boy brought it. He
said he thought it was better for me to take a little vacation. I
knew what that meant. I knew Ida had wanted the school right along. I
told Amanda I was coming down here. She tried to stop me, but I had
money enough. Mr. Starr sent me what was owing to me, and I came. I
thought I might just as well. I thought mother--Amanda was dreadfully
scared, but I told her I was going to come. I can't go back to Green
River; I haven't got money enough." Lois's voice broke; she hid her
face again.

"Oh, don't feel so," cried Francis. "You don't want to go back to
Green River."

"Yes, I do. I want to get back. It's awful here, awful. I never knew
anything so awful."

Francis stared at her pityingly. "Why, you poor little girl, are you
as homesick as that?" he said.

Lois only sobbed in answer.

"Look here!" said Francis--he leaned over her, and his voice sank to
a whisper--"it's none of my business, but I think you'd better tell
me; it won't go any further--isn't your aunt good to you? Doesn't she
treat you well?"

Lois shook her head vaguely. "I can't go back anyway," she moaned.
"Ida's got my school. I haven't got anything to do there. Don't you
think I can get a school here?"

"I am afraid you can't," said Francis. "You see, the schools have all
begun now. But you mustn't feel so bad. Don't." He touched her
shoulder gently. "Poor little girl!" said he. "Perhaps I ought not to
speak so to you, but you make me so sorry for you I can't help it.
Now you must cheer up; you'll get along all right. You won't be
homesick a bit after a little while; you'll like it here. There are
some nice girls about your age. My cousin Flora will come and see
you. She's older than you, but she's a real nice girl. She's feeling
rather upset over something now, too. Now come, let's get up and go
and see some more of the monuments. You don't want a school. Your
aunt can lookout for you. I should laugh if she couldn't. She's a
rich woman, and you're all she's got in the world. Now come, let's
cheer up, and go look at some more gravestones."

"I guess I'd rather go home," said Lois, faintly.

"Too tired? Well, let's sit here a little while longer, then. You
mustn't go home with your eyes red, your aunt will think I've been
scolding you."

Francis looked down at her with smiling gentleness. He was a handsome
young man with a pale straight profile, his face was very steady and
grave when he was not animated, and his smile occasioned a certain
pleasant surprise. He was tall, and there was a boyish clumsiness
about his shoulders in his gray coat. He reached out with a sudden
impulse, and took Lois' little thin hand in his own with a warm
clasp.

"Now cheer up," said he. "See how pleasant it looks down in the
field."

They sat looking out over the field; the horizon sky stretched out
infinitely in straight blue lines; one could imagine he saw it melt
into the sea which lay beyond; the field itself, with its smooth
level of young grass, was like a waveless green sea. A white road lay
on the left, and a man was walking on it with a weary, halting gait;
he carried a tin dinner-pail, which dipped and caught the western
sunlight at every step. A cow lowed, and a pair of white horns tossed
over some bars at the right of the field; a boy crossed it with long,
loping strides and preliminary swishes of a birch stick. Then a
whistle blew with a hoarse musical note, and a bell struck six times.

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