Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Jane Field

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All the other ladies stared. Mrs. Maxwell, standing in their midst,
with a large cambric apron over her dress, and a powder of flour on
one cheek, looked wonderingly back at the minister's wife.

"I suppose you all know what I mean?" said Mrs. Wheeler, still
smiling. "I suppose Mrs. Maxwell has not kept the glad tidings to
herself." In spite of her smiling face, there was a slight doubt and
hesitancy in her manner.

Mrs. Maxwell's old face suddenly paled, and at the same time grew
alert. Her black eyes, on Mrs. Wheeler's face, were sharply bright.

"Mebbe I have, an' mebbe I ain't," said she, and she smiled too.

"Well," said the minister's wife, "I told Flora that her mother must
be a brave woman to invite company to tea the afternoon her daughter
was married, and I thought we all ought to appreciate it."

The other women gasped. Mrs. Maxwell's face was yellow-white in its
framework of curls; there was a curious noise in her throat, like a
premonitory click of a clock before striking.

"Well," said she, "Flora 'd had this day set for the weddin' for six
months. When her uncle died, we talked a little about puttin' of it
off, but she thought 'twas a bad sign. So it seemed best for her to
get married without any fuss at all about it. An' I thought if I had
a little company to tea, it would do as well as a weddin'."

Mrs. Maxwell's old black eyes travelled slowly and unflinchingly
around the company, resting on each in turn as if she had with each a
bout of single combat. The other women's eyes were full of scared
questionings as they met hers.

"They got off in the three-o'clock train," remarked the minister's
wife, trying to speak easily.

"That was the one they'd talked of," said Mrs. Maxwell calmly. "Now I
guess I shall have to leave you ladies to entertain each other a few
minutes."

When Mrs. Maxwell had left the room, the ladies stared at each other.

"Do you s'pose she didn't know about it?" whispered Mrs. Lowe.

"I don't know," whispered the minister's wife. "I was very much
afraid she didn't at first. I began to feel very nervous. I knew Mr.
Wheeler would have been much distressed if he had suspected anything
clandestine."

"Did she have a new dress?" asked Mrs. Robbins.

"No," replied the minister's wife; "and that was one thing that made
me suspicious. She wore her old blue one, but George Freeman wore a
nice new suit."

"I heard," said Mrs. Lowe, "that Flora had all her under-clothes made
before old Mr. Maxwell died, an' she hadn't got any of her dresses. I
had it pretty straight. She told my Flora."

"I had heard that the wedding was postponed on account of Mr.
Maxwell's death, and so I was a little surprised when Mr. Wheeler
came to me and said they were in the parlor to be married," said the
minister's wife; "but I put on my dress as quick as I could, and went
in to witness it."

"How did Flora appear?" asked Mrs. Lowe.

"Well, I thought she looked rather sober, but I don't know as she
looked any more so than girls usually do when they're married. I have
seen them come to the parsonage looking more as if they were going to
their own funerals than their weddings, they were so scared and quiet
and sober. Now Flora--" The minister's wife stopped short, she heard
Mrs. Maxwell coming and she turned the conversation with a jolt of
conscience into another channel. "Yes, it is very dry," said she
effusively; "we need rain very much indeed."

The little woman with the crimped hair colored very painfully.

Mrs. Maxwell made frequent errands into the room, and her daughter's
wedding had to be discussed guardedly. Always after she went out, the
women looked at each other in an agony of inquiry.

"Do you s'pose she knew?" they whispered.

Mrs. Field said nothing; she sat grimly quiet, knitting. Lois looked
silently out of the window. Both of them knew that Mrs. Maxwell had
not known of her daughter's wedding. Presently a man's voice could be
heard out in the kitchen.

"It's Francis," said Mrs. Lowe. "I wonder if he knew?"

Lois started, and blushed softly, but nobody noticed her.

There was a deep silence in the parlor; the women were listening to
the hum of voices in the kitchen.

"Don't you think it's dreadful close here?" said Mrs. Lowe.

"Yes, I think it is," assented the minister's wife.

"I think it would be a good plan to open the door a little ways,"
said Mrs. Lowe, and she opened it cautiously.

Still they could distinguish nothing from the hum of voices out in
the kitchen.

Mrs. Maxwell was in reality speaking low lest they should hear,
although she was clutching her nephew's arm hard, and the veins in
her thin temples and her throat were swelling purple. When he had
entered she had sprung at him. "Did you hear about it? I want to know
if you knew about it," said she, grasping his arm with her wiry
fingers, as if she were trying to wreak her anger on him.

"Knew about what?" said Francis wonderingly. "What is the matter,
Aunt Jane?"

"Did you know Flora went to the minister's and got married this
afternoon?"

"No," said Francis slowly, "I didn't; but I knew she would, well
enough."

"Did Flora tell you?"

"No, she didn't tell me, but I knew she wouldn't do anything else."

"Knew she wouldn't do anything else? I'd like to know what you're
talkin' about, Francis Arms."

"I knew as long as she was Flora Maxwell, and her wedding was set for
to-day three months ago, it wasn't very likely that old Mr. Maxwell's
dying and not leaving her his money, and your not liking it, was
going to stop her."

"Hadn't it ought to have stopped her? Hadn't the wishes of a mother
that's slaved for her all her life, and didn't want her to get
married without a silk gown to her back to a man that ain't any
prospects of being able to buy her any, ought to have stopped her,
I'd like to know?"

"I guess Flora didn't think much about silk gowns, Aunt Jane," said
Francis, and his face reddened a little. "I guess she didn't think
much about anything but George."

"George! What's George Freeman? What's all the Freemans? I ain't
never liked them. They wa'n't never up to our folks. His mother ain't
never had a black silk dress to her name--never had a thing better
than black cashmere, an' they ain't never had a thing but oil-cloth
in their front entry, an' the Perry's ain't never noticed them
either. I ain't never wanted Flora to go into that family. I never
felt as if she was lookin' high enough, an' I knew George couldn't
get no kind of a livin' jest being clerk in Mason's store. But I felt
different about it before Thomas died, for I thought she'd have money
enough of her own, an' she was gettin' a little on in years, and
George was good-lookin' enough. After Thomas died an' left all his
money to Edward's wife, I hadn't an idea Flora would be such a fool
as to think of marryin' George Freeman. She'd been better off if
she'd never been married. I thought she'd given up all notions of
it."

"Well, don't you worry, Aunt Jane," said Francis in a hearty voice.
"Make the best of it. I guess they'll get along all right. If George
can't buy Flora a silk dress I will. I'd have bought her one anyway
if I'd known."

"You can stand up for her all you want to, Francis Arms," cried his
aunt. "It's nothin' more than I ought to expect. What do you s'pose
I'm goin' to do? Here I am with all these folks to tea an' Flora
gone. She might have waited till to-morrow. Here they are all pryin'
an' suspectin'. But they shan't know if I die for it. They shan't
know that good-for-nothin' girl went off an' got married unbeknown to
me. They've had enough to crow over because we didn't get Thomas
Maxwell's money; they shan't have this nohow. You'll have to lend me
some money, an' I'm goin' to Boston to-morrow an' I'm goin' to buy a
silk dress for Flora an' get it made, so she can go out bride when
she comes home; an' they've got to come here an' board. I might jest
as well have the board-money as them Freemans, an' folks shan't think
we ain't on good terms. Can you let me have some money to-morrow
mornin'?"

"Of course I can, Aunt Jane," said Francis soothingly. "I'll make
Flora a wedding-present of it."

"I don't want it for a weddin'-present. I'll pay you back some time.
If you're goin' to give her a weddin'-present, I'd rather you'd give
her somethin' silver that she can show. I ain't goin' to have you
give her clothes for a weddin'-present, as if we was poor as the
Freemans. You didn't have any pride. There ain't anybody in this
family ever had any pride but me, an' I have to keep it up, an'
nobody liftin' a finger to help me. Oh, dear!" the old woman quivered
from head to foot. Her face worked as if she was in silent hysterics.

"Don't, Aunt Jane," whispered her nephew--"don't feel so bad. Maybe
it's all for the best. Why, what is the matter with your wrist?"

"I burned it takin' the biscuit out of the oven," she groaned.

"Why, it's an awful burn. Don't you want something on it?"

"No, I don't mind no burns."

Suddenly Mrs. Maxwell moved away from her nephew. She began arranging
the plates on the table. "You go into the parlor," said she sharply,
"an' don't you let 'em know you didn't know about it. You act kind of
easy an' natural when they speak about it. You go right in; tea won't
be ready quite yet. I've got something a little extra to see about."

Francis went into the parlor and greeted the guests, shaking hands
with them rather boyishly and awkwardly. The minister's wife made
room for him on the sofa beside her.

"I suppose you'd like to hear about your cousin's wedding that I went
to this afternoon," said she, with a blandness that had a covert
meaning to the other women, who listened eagerly.

"Yes, I would," replied Francis, with steady gravity.

"I suppose it wasn't such a surprise to you as it was to us?" said
she directly, and the other women panted.

"No, I suppose it wasn't," said Francis.

Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Robbins glanced at each other.

"_He_ knew," Mrs. Lowe motioned with her lips, nodding.

"_She_ didn't," Mrs. Robbins motioned back, shaking her head.

Francis sat beside the minister's wife. She talked on about the
wedding, and he listened soberly and assentingly.

"Well, it will be your turn next, Francis," said she, with a sly
graciousness, and the young man reddened, and laughed constrainedly.

Francis seldom glanced at Lois, but it was as if her little figure in
the window was all he saw in the room. She seemed so near his
consciousness that she shut out all else besides. Lois did not look
at him, but once in a while she put up her hand and arranged the hair
on her forehead, and after she had done so felt as if she saw herself
with his eyes. The air was growing cool; presently Lois coughed.

"You'd better come away from that window," said Mrs. Field, speaking
out suddenly.

There was no solicitude in her tone; it was more like harsh command.
Everybody looked at Lois; Francis with an anxious interest. He partly
arose as if to make room for her on the sofa, but she simply moved
her chair farther back. Presently Francis went over and shut the
window.

The minister, Mr. Tuxbury, and Mrs. Robbin's husband all arrived
together shortly afterward. Mrs. Maxwell announced that tea was
ready.

"Will you please walk out to tea?" said she, standing at the door, in
a ceremonious hush. And the company arose hesitatingly, looking at
one another for precedence, and straggled out.

"You sit here," said Mrs. Maxwell to Lois, and she pointed to a chair
beside Francis.

Lois sat down and fixed her eyes upon her green and white plate while
the minister asked the blessing.

"It's a pleasant day, isn't it?" said Francis's voice in her ear,
when Mrs. Maxwell began pouring the tea.

"Real pleasant," said Lois.

Mrs. Maxwell had on her black gloves pouring the tea. The women eyed
them surreptitiously. She wore them always in company, but this was
an innovation. They did not know how she had put them on to conceal
the burn in her wrist which she had gotten in her blind fury as she
flew about the kitchen preparing supper, handling all the household
utensils as if they were weapons to attack Providence.

Mrs. Maxwell poured the tea and portioned out the sugar with her
black-gloved hands, and Mrs. Field stiffly buttered her biscuits.
Nobody dreamed of the wolves at the vitals of these two old women.

However, the eyes of the guests from the first had wandered to a cake
in the centre of the table. It was an oblong black cake; it was set
on a plate surrounded thickly with sprigs of myrtle, and upon the top
lay a little bouquet of white flowers and green leaves. Mrs. Lowe and
Mrs. Robbins, who sat side by side, looked at each other. Mrs. Lowe's
eyes said, "_Is_ that a wedding-cake?" and Mrs. Robbin's said: "I
dunno; it ain't frosted. It looks jest like a loaf she's had on
hand."

But nothing could exceed the repose and dignity with which Mrs.
Maxwell, at the last stage of the meal, requested her nephew to pass
the cake to her. Nobody could have dreamed as she cut it, every turn
of her burned wrist giving her pain, of the frantic haste with which
she had taken that old fruit cake out of the jar down-cellar, and
pulled those sprigs of myrtle from the bank under the north windows.

"Will you have some weddin'-cake?" said she.

The ladies each took a slice gingerly and respectfully. Mrs. Lowe and
Mrs. Robbins nodded to each other imperceptibly. The cake was not
iced with those fine devices which usually make a wedding-loaf, it
was rather dry, and not particularly rich; but Mrs. Maxwell's perfect
manner as she cut and served it, her acting on her own little
histrionic stage, had swayed them to her will. Mrs. Lowe and Mrs.
Robbins both thought she knew. But the minister's wife still doubted;
and later, when the other women were removed from the spell of her
acting, their old suspicions returned. It was always a mooted
question in Elliot whether or not Mrs. Jane Maxwell had known of her
daughter's marriage. Not all her subsequent behavior, her meeting the
young couple with open arms at the station on their return, and
Flora's appearance at church the next Sunday in the silk dress which
her mother had concocted during her absence, could quite allay the
suspicion, although it prevented it from gaining ground.

All that evening Mrs. Maxwell's courage never flagged. She
entertained her guests as well as a woman of Sparta could have done.
She even had the coolness to prosecute other projects which she had
in mind. She kept Mrs. Field and Lois behind the rest, and walked
home with the mother, that Francis might have the girl to himself.
And she went into the house with Mrs. Field, and slipped a parcel
into her pocket, while the two young people had a parting word at the
gate.

Chapter VII

It was a hot afternoon in August. Amanda Pratt had set all her
windows wide open, but no breeze came in, only the fervid breath of
the fields and the white road outside.

She sat at a front window and darned a white stocking; her long, thin
arms and her neck showed faintly through her old loose muslin sacque.
The muslin was white, with a close-set lavender sprig, and she wore a
cameo brooch at her throat. The blinds were closed, and she had to
bend low over her mending in order to see in the green gloom.

Mrs. Babcock came toiling up the bank to the house, but Amanda did
not notice her until she reached the front door. Then she fetched a
great laboring sigh.

"Oh, hum!" said she, audibly, in a wrathful voice; "if I'd had any
idea of it, I wouldn't have come a step."

Then Amanda looked out with a start. "Is that you, Mis' Babcock?" she
called hospitably through the blind.

"Yes, it's me--what's left of me. Oh, hum! Oh, hum!"

Amanda ran and opened the door, and Mrs. Babcock entered, panting.
She had a green umbrella, which she furled with difficulty at the
door, and a palm-leaf fan. Her face, in the depths of her scooping
green barege bonnet, was dank with perspiration, and scowling with
indignant misery. She sank into a chair, and fanned herself with a
desperate air.

Amanda set her umbrella in the corner, then she stood looking
sympathetically at her. "It's a pretty hot day, ain't it?" said she.

"I should think 'twas hot. Oh, hum!"

"Don't you want me to get you a tumbler of water?"

"I dunno. I don't drink much cold water; it don't agree with me very
well. Oh, dear! You ain't got any of your beer made, I s'pose?"

"Oh, no, I ain't. I'm dreadful sorry. Don't you want a swaller of
cold tea?"

"Well, I dunno but I'll have jest a swaller, if you've got some. Oh,
dear me, hum!"

Amanda went out hurriedly, and returned with a britannia teapot and a
tumbler. She poured out some tea, and Mrs. Babcock drank with
desperate gulps.

"I think cold tea is better for anybody than cold water in hot
weather," said Amanda. "Won't you have another swaller, Mis'
Babcock?"

Mrs. Babcock shook her head, and Amanda carried the teapot and
tumbler back to the kitchen, then she seated herself again, and
resumed her mending. Mrs. Babcock fanned and panted, and eyed Amanda.

"You look cool enough in that old muslin sacque," said she, in a tone
of vicious injury.

"Yes, it is real cool. I've kept this sacque on purpose for a real
hot day."

"Well, it's dreadful long in the shoulder seams, 'cordin' to the way
they make 'em now, but I s'pose it's cool. Oh, hum! I ruther guess I
shouldn't have come out of the house, if I'd any idea how hot 'twas
in the sun. Seems to me it's hot as an oven here. I should think
you'd air off your house early in the mornin', an' then shut your
windows tight, an' keep the heat out."

"I know some folks do that way," said Amanda.

"Well, I always do, an' I guess 'most everybody does that's good
housekeepers. It makes a sight of difference."

Amanda said nothing, but she sat straighter.

"I s'pose you don't have to make any fire from mornin' till night;
seems as if you might keep cool."

"No, I don't have to."

"Well, I do. There I had to go to work to-day an' cook squash an'
beans an' green corn. The men folks ain't satisfied if they don't
have 'em in the time of 'em. I wish sometimes there wasn't no such
thing as garden sauce. I tell 'em sometimes I guess if they had to
get the things ready an' cook 'em themselves, they'd go without.
Seems sometimes as if the whole creation was like a kitchen without
any pump in it, specially contrived to make women folks extra work.
Looks to me as if pease without pods could have been contrived pretty
easy, and it does seem as if there wasn't any need of havin' strings
on the beans."

"Mis' Green has got a kind of beans without any strings," said
Amanda. "She brought me over some the other day, an' they were about
the best I ever eat."

"Well, I know there is a kind without strings," returned Mrs.
Babcock; "but I ain't got none in my garden, an' I never shall have.
It ain't my lot to have things come easy. Seems as if it got hotter
an' hotter. Why don't you open your front door?"

"Jest as sure as I do, the house will be swarmin' with flies."

"You'd ought to have a screen-door. I made Adoniram make me one five
years ago, an' it's a real nice one; but I know, of course, you ain't
got nobody to make one for you. Once in a while it seems as if men
folks come in kinder handy, an' they'd ought to, when women work an'
slave the way I do to fill 'em up. Mebbe some time when Adoniram
ain't drove, I could get him to make a door for you. Mebbe some time
next winter."

"I s'pose it would be nice," replied Amanda. "You're real kind to
offer, Mis' Babcock."

"Well, I s'pose women that have men folks to do for 'em ought to be
kind of obligin' sometimes to them that ain't. I'll see if I can get
Adoniram to make you a screen-door next winter. Seems to me it does
get hotter an' hotter. For the land sakes, Amanda Pratt! what are you
cuttin' that great hole in that stockin' heel for? Are you crazy?"

Amanda colored. "The other stockin's got a hole in it," said she,
"an' I'm makin' 'em match."

"Cuttin' a great big hole in a stockin' heel on purpose to darn?
Mandy Pratt, you ain't?"

"I am," replied Amanda, with dignity.

"Well, if you ain't a double and twisted old maid!" gasped Mrs.
Babcock.

Amanda's long face and her neck were a delicate red.

Mrs. Babcock laughed a loud, sarcastic cackle. "I never--did!" she
giggled.

Amanda opened her mouth as if to speak, then she shut it tightly,
remembering the offer of the screen-door. She had had so few gifts in
her whole life that she had a meek impulse of gratitude even if one
were thrust into her hand hard enough to hurt her.

"Well," Mrs. Babcock continued, still sniggering unpleasantly, "I
don't want to hurt your feelin's, Mandy; you needn't color up so; but
I can't help laughin'."

"Laugh, then, if you want to," said Amanda, with a quick flash. She
forgot the screen-door.

Mrs. Babcock drew her face down quickly. "Land, Mandy," said she,
"don't get mad. I didn't mean anything. Anybody knows that old maids
is jest as good as them that gets married. I ain't told you what I
come over here for. I declare I got so terrible heated up, I couldn't
think of nothin'. Look here, Mandy."

Amanda mended on the stocking foot drawn tightly over her left hand,
and did not raise her eyes.

"Mandy, you ain't mad, be you? You know I didn't mean nothin'."

"I ain't mad," replied Amanda, in a constrained tone.

"Well, there ain't nothin' to be mad about. Look here, Mandy, how
long is it since Mis' Field and Lois went?"

"About three months."

"Look here! I dunno what you'll say, but I think Mis' Green thought
real favorable of it. Do you know how cheap you can go down to Boston
an' back now?"

Amanda looked up. "No. Why?" said she.

Mrs. Babcock stopped fanning and leaned forward. "Amanda Pratt, you
can go down to Boston an' back, an' be gone a week, for--three
dollars an' sixty cents."

Amanda stared back at her in a startled way.

"Let's you an' me an' Mis' Green go down an' see Mis' Field an'
Lois," said Mrs. Babcock, in a tragic voice.

Amanda turned pale. "They don't live in Boston," she said, with a
bewildered air.

"We can go down to Boston on the early train," replied Mrs. Babcock,
importantly. "Then we can have all the afternoon to go round Boston
an' see the sights, an' then, toward night, we can go out to Mis'
Field's. Land, here's Mis' Green now! She said she'd come over as
soon as Abby got home from school. I'm jest tellin' her about it,
Mis' Green."

Mrs. Green stood in the doorway, smiling half-shamefacedly. "I s'pose
you think it's a dreadful silly plan, Mandy," said she deprecatingly.

Amanda got up and pushed the rocking-chair in which she had been
sitting toward the new-comer.

"Set down, do," said she. "I dunno, Mis' Green. I ain't had time to
think it over, it's come so sudden." Amanda's face was collected,
but her voice was full of agitation.

"Well," said Mrs. Green, "I ain't known which end my head is on since
Mis' Babcock come in an' spoke of it. First I thought I couldn't go
nohow, an' I dunno as I can now. Still, it does seem dreadful cheap
to go down to Boston an' back, an' I ain't been down more'n four
times in the last twenty years. I ain't been out gaddin' much, an'
that's a fact."

"The longer you set down in one corner, the longer you can," remarked
Mrs. Babcock. "I believe in goin' while you've got a chance, for my
part."

"I ain't ever been to Boston," said Amanda, and her face had the
wishful, far-away look that her grandfather's might have had when he
thought of the sea.

"It does seem as if you'd ought to go once," said Mrs. Green.

"I say, let's start up an' go!" cried Mrs. Babcock, in an intense
voice.

The three women looked at each other.

"Abby could keep house for father a few days," said Mrs. Green, as if
to some carping judge; "an' it ain't goin' to cost much, an' I know
father'd say go."

"Well, I guess I can cook up enough victuals to last Adoniram and the
boys whilst I'm gone," said Mrs. Babcock defiantly; "I guess they can
get along. Adoniram can make rye puddin', an' they can fill up on rye
puddin' an' molasses. I'm a-goin'."

"I dunno," said Amanda, trembling. "I'm dreadful afraid I hadn't
ought to."

"Well, I should think you could go, if Mis' Green an' I could," said
Mrs. Babcock. "Here you ain't got nobody but jest yourself, an' ain't
got to leave a thing cooked up nor nothin'."

"I would like to see Mis' Field an' Lois again, but it seems like a
great undertakin'," sighed Amanda. "Then it's goin' to cost
something."

"It ain't goin' to cost but jest three dollars an' sixty cents," said
Mrs. Babcock. "I guess you can afford that, Mandy. There your
tenement didn't stay vacant two weeks after the Fields went; the
Simmonses came right in. I guess if I had rent-money, an' nobody but
myself, I could afford to travel once in a while."

"Now you'd better make up your mind to go, Mandy," Mrs. Green said.
"I think Mis' Field would be more pleased to see you than anybody in
Green River. That's one thing I think about goin'. I know she'll be
tickled almost to death to see us comin' in. Mis' Field's a real good
woman. There wa'n't anybody in town I set more by than I did by her."

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