Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Jane Field

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

"When did you hear from her last, Mandy?" interposed Mrs. Babcock.

"About a month ago."

"I s'pose Lois is a good deal better?"

"Yes, I guess she is. Her mother said she seemed pretty well for her.
I s'pose it agrees with her better down there."

"I s'pose there was a good deal more fuss made about her when she was
here than there was any need of," said Mrs. Babcock, her whole face
wrinkled upward contemptuously; "a great deal more fuss. There wa'n't
nothin' ailed the girl if folks had let her alone, talkin' an'
scarin' her mother to death. She was jest kind of run down with the
spring weather. Young girls wilt down dreadful easy, an' spring up
again. I've seen 'em. 'Twa'n't nothin'."

"Well, I dunno; she looked dreadfully," Mrs. Green said, with mild
opposition.

"Well, you can see how much it amounted to," returned Mrs. Babcock,
with a triumphant sniff. "Folks ought to have been ashamed of
themselves, scarin' Mis' Field the way they did about her. Seemed as
if they was determined to have Lois go into consumption whether or
no, an' was goin' to push her in, if they couldn't manage it in no
other way. I s'pose you've sent all Mis' Field's things down there,
Mandy?"

"The furniture is all up garret," said Amanda. "All I've sent down
was their clothes. Mis' Field had me pack 'em up in their two trunks,
an' send 'em down to Lois. I didn't see why she didn't have me mark
'em to her."

"I should think it was kind of queer," said Mrs. Green. "Now s'pose
we go, what had we better carry for clothes? We don't need no trunk."

"Of course we don't," said Mrs. Babcock promptly. "We can each carry
a bag. We ain't going to need much."

"I guess, if I went," said Amanda, "that I should carry this sacque
to slip on, if it's as hot weather as 'tis now. I should have to do
it up, but that ain't much work."

Mrs. Babcock eyed it. "Well, I dunno," said she; "it's pretty long in
the shoulders seams. I dunno how much they dress down there where
Mis' Field lives. Mebbe 'twould do."

"There's one thing I've been thinkin' about," Mrs. Green said, with
an anxious air. "If we go down on that early train, an' stay all day
in Boston, we shall have to buy us something to eat; we should get
dreadful faint before we got out to Mis' Field's, and things are
dreadful high in those places."

"Oh, land!" cried Mrs. Babcock in a superior tone. "All we've got to
do is to carry some luncheon with us. I'll make some pies, and you
can bake some cookies, an' then we'll set down in Boston Common an'
eat it. That's the way lots of folks do. That ain't nothin' to worry
about. Well, now, I think it's about time for us to decide whether or
no we're goin'. I've got to go home an' git supper."

"I'll do jest as the rest say," said Mrs. Green. "I s'pose I can go.
I s'pose father'll say I'd better. An' Abby she was all for it, when
I spoke about it to her. She thinks she can have the Fay girl over to
stay with her, an' she wants me to buy her a dress in Boston, instead
of gettin' it here."

"Well," said Amanda, with a sigh--she was quite pale--"I'll think of
it."

"We've got to make up our minds," said Mrs. Babcock sharply. "There
ain't time for much thinkin'. The excursion starts a day after
to-morrow."

"I'll have my mind made up to-morrow mornin'," said Amanda. "I've got
to think of it over-night, anyhow. I can't start right up an' say
I'll go, without a minute to think about it." Her voice trembled
nervously, but decision underlay it.

"I don't see why it ain't time enough if we decide to-morrow morning.
I'd ruther like to think of it a little while longer," said Mrs.
Green.

Mrs. Babcock got up. "Well," said she, "I'll send Adoniram round
to-morrow mornin', an' you tell him what you've decided. I guess I
shall go whether or no. I've got three men folks to leave, an' it's a
good deal more of an undertakin' for me than some, but I ain't easy
scart. I b'lieve in goin' once in a while."

"Well, I'll let you know in the mornin'. I jest want to think of it
over-night," repeated Amanda, with dignified apology.

She went to the door with her guests. Mrs. Babcock spread her green
umbrella, and descended the steps with a stiff side-wise motion.

"It is hotter than ever, I do believe," she groaned.

"Well, now, I was jest thinkin' it was a little grain cooler,"
returned Mrs. Green, following in her wake. Her back was meekly bent;
her face, shaded by a black sun-hat, was thrust forward with patient
persistency. "There, I feel a little breeze now," she added.

"I guess all the breeze there is, is in your own motion," retorted
Mrs. Babcock. Her green umbrella bobbed energetically. She fanned at
every step.

"Mebbe it's your fan," said the other woman.

Amanda went into the house and shut the door. She stood in the middle
of the parlor and looked around. There was a certain amaze in her
eyes, as if everything wore a new aspect. "They can talk all they've
a mind to," she muttered, "it's a great undertakin'. S'pose anything
happened? If anything happened to them whilst they were gone, there's
folks enough to home to see to things. S'pose anything happened to
me, there ain't anybody. If I go, I've got to leave this house jest
so. I've got to be sure the bureau drawers are all packed up, an'
things swept an' dusted, so folks won't make remarks. There's other
things, too. Everything's got to be thought of. There's the cat. I
s'pose I could get Abby Green to come over an' feed her, but I
dassen't trust her. Young girls ain't to be depended on. Ten chances
to one she'd get to carryin' on with that Fay girl an' forgit all
about that cat. She won't lap her milk out of anything but a clean
saucer, neither, and I don't believe Abby would look out for that.
She always seemed to me kind of heedless. I dunno about the whole of
it."

Amanda shook her head; her eyes were dilated; there was an anxious
and eager expression in her face. She went into the kitchen, kindled
the fire, and made herself a cup of tea, which she drank absently.
She could not eat anything.

The cat came mewing at the door, and she let her in and fed her. "I
dunno how she'd manage," she said, as she watched her lap the milk
from the clean saucer beside the cooking-stove.

After she had put away the cat's saucer and her own tea-cup, she
stood hesitating.

"Well, I don't care," said she, in a decisive tone; "I'm goin' to do
it. It's got to be done, anyhow, whether I go or not. It's been on my
mind for some time."

Amanda got out her best black dress from the closet, and sat down to
alter the shoulder seams. "I don't care nothin' about this muslin
sacque," said she, "but I ain't goin' to have Mis' Babcock measurin'
my shoulder seams every single minute if I do go, an' they may be
real dressy down where Mis' Field is."

Amanda sewed until ten o'clock; then she went to bed, but she slept
little. She was up early the next morning. Adoniram Babcock came over
about eight o'clock; the windows and blinds were all flung wide open,
the braided rugs lay out in the yard. He put his gentle grizzled face
in at one of the windows. There was a dusty odor. Amanda was sweeping
vigorously, with a white handkerchief tied over her head. Her
delicate face was all of a deep pink color.

"Ann Lizy sent over to see if you'd made up your mind," said
Adoniram.

Amanda started. "Good-mornin', Mr. Babcock. Yes, you can tell her I
have. I'm a-goin'."

There was a reckless defiance of faith in Amanda's voice. She had a
wild air as she stood there with the broom in a faint swirl of dust.

"Well, Ann Lizy'll be glad you've made up your mind to. She's gone to
bakin'," said the old man in the window.

"I've got to bake some, too," said Amanda. She began sweeping again.

"I've jest been over to Mis' Green's, an' she says she's goin' if you
do," said Mr. Babcock.

"Well, you tell her I'm goin'," said Amanda, with a long breath.

"I guess you'll have a good time," said the old man, turning away. "I
tell Ann Lizy she can stay a month if she wants to. Me an' the boys
can git along." He laughed a pleasant chuckle as he went off.

Amanda glanced after him. "I shouldn't care if I had a man to leave
to look after the house," said she.

Amanda toiled all day; she swept and dusted every room in her little
domicile. She put all her bureau drawers and closets in exquisite
order. She did not neglect even the cellar and the garret. Mrs.
Babcock, looking in at night, found her rolling out sugar
gingerbread.

"For the land sakes, Mandy!" said she, "what are you cookin' by
lamp-light for this awful hot night?"

"I'm makin' a little short gingerbread for luncheon."

"I don't see what you left it till this time of day for. What you got
them irons on the stove for?"

"I've got to iron my muslin sacque. I've got it all washed and
starched."

"Ironin' this time of day! I'd like to know what you've been doin'
ever since you got up?"

"I've been getting everything in order, in case anything happened,"
replied Amanda. She tried to speak with cool composure, but her voice
trembled. Her dignity failed her in this unwonted excitement.

"What's goin' to happen, for the land sake?" cried Mrs. Babcock.

"I dunno. None of us know. Things do happen sometimes."

Mrs. Babcock stared at her, half in contempt, half in alarm. "I hope
you ain't had no forewarnin' that you ain't goin' to live nor
anything," said she. "If you have, I should think you'd better stay
to home."

"I ain't had no more forewarnin' than anybody," said Amanda. "All is,
there ain't nobody in the other part of the house. The Simmonses all
went yesterday to make a visit at her mother's, and in case anything
should happen, I'm goin' to leave things lookin' so I'm willin'
anybody should see 'em."

"Well," said Mrs. Babcock, "I guess you couldn't leave things so
you'd be willin' anybody'd see 'em if you had three men folks afoul
of 'em for three days. I've got to be goin' if I git up for that
four-o'clock train in the mornin'. I've made fifteen pies an' five
loaves of bread, besides bakin' beans, to say nothin' of a great
panful of doughnuts an' some cake. I ain't been up garret nor down
cellar cleanin', an' if anything happens to me, I s'pose folks'll see
some dust and cobwebs, but I've done considerable. Adoniram's goin'
to take us all down in the covered wagon; he'll be round about
half-past four."

Amanda lighted Mrs. Babcock out the front door; then she returned to
her tasks. She did not go to bed that night. She had put her bedroom
in perfect order, and would not disturb it. She lay down on her hard
parlor sofa awhile, but she slept very little. At two o'clock she
kindled a fire, made some tea, and cooked an egg for her breakfast.
Then she arrayed herself in her best dress. She was all ready, her
bag and basket of luncheon packed and her bonnet on, at three
o'clock. She sat down and folded her hands to wait, but presently
started up. "I'm going to do it," said she. "I don't care, I am. I
can't feel easy unless I do."

She got some writing-paper and pen and ink from the chimney cupboard
and sat down at the table. She wrote rapidly, her lips pursed, her
head to one side. Then she folded the paper, wrote on the outside,
and arranged it conspicuously on the top of a leather-covered Bible
on the centre of the table. "There!" said she. "It ain't regular, I
s'pose, an' I ain't had any lawyer, but I guess they'd carry out my
wishes if anything happened to me. I ain't got nobody but Cousin
Rhoda Hill, an' Cousin Maria Bennet; an' Rhoda don't need a cent, an'
Maria'd ought to have it all. This house will make her real
comfortable, an' my clothes will fit her. I s'pose I'd have this
dress on, but my black alpaca's pretty good. I s'pose Mis' Babcock
would laugh, but I feel a good deal easier about goin'."

Amanda waited again; she blew out her lamp, for the early dawnlight
strengthened. She listened intently for wheels, and looked anxiously
at the clock. "It would be dreadful if we got left, after all," she
said.

Suddenly the covered wagon came in sight; the white horse trotted at
a good pace. Adoniram held the reins and his wife sat beside him.
Mrs. Green peered out from the back seat. "Mandy! Mandy!" Mrs.
Babcock called, before they reached the gate. But Amanda was already
on the front door-step, fitting the key in the lock.

"I'm all ready," she answered, "jest as soon as I can get the door
locked."

"We ain't got any too much time," cried Mrs. Babcock.

Amanda went down the path with her basket and black valise and
parasol. Adoniram got out and helped her into the wagon. She had to
climb over the front seat. As they drove off she leaned out and gazed
back at the house. Her tortoise-shell cat was coming around the
corner. "I do hope the cat will get along all right," she said
agitatedly. "I've fed her this mornin', an' I've left her enough milk
till I get back--a saucerful for each day--an' Abby said she'd give
her all the scraps off the table, you know, Mis' Green."

Mrs. Babcock turned around. "Now, Amanda Pratt," said she, "I'd like
to know how in creation you've left a saucerful of milk for that cat
for every day till you get back."

"I set ten saucers full of milk down cellar," replied Amanda, still
staring back anxiously at the cat--"one for each day. I got extra
milk last night on purpose. She likes it jest as well if it's sour,
if the saucer's clean."

Amanda looked up with serious wonder at Mrs. Babcock, who was
laughing shrilly. Mrs. Green, too, was smiling, and Adoniram
chuckled.

"For the land sakes, Amanda Pratt!" gasped Mrs. Babcock, "you don't
s'pose that cat is goin' to stint herself to a saucer a day? Why,
she'll eat half of it all up before night."

Amanda stood up in the carriage. "I've got to go back, that's all,"
said she. "I ain't goin' to have that cat starve."

"Land sakes, set down!" cried Mrs. Babcock. "She won't starve. She
can hunt."

"Abby'll feed her, I know," said Mrs. Green, pulling gently at her
companion's arm. "Don't you worry, Mandy."

"Well, I guess I shouldn't worry about a cat with claws to catch mice
in warm weather," said Mrs. Babcock, with a sarcastic titter. "It's
goin' to be a dreadful hot day. Set down, Mandy. There ain't no use
talkin' about goin' back. There ain't any time. Mis' Green an' me
ain't goin' to stay to home on account of a cat."

Amanda subsided weakly. She felt strange, and not like herself. Mrs.
Babcock seemed to recognize it by some subtle intuition. She would
never have dared use such a tone toward her without subsequent
concessions. Amanda had always had a certain dignity and persistency
which had served to intimidate too presuming people; now she had lost
it all.

"I'll write to Abby, jest as soon as I get down there, to give the
cat her milk," whispered Mrs. Green soothingly; and Amanda was
comforted.

The covered wagon rolled along the country road toward the railroad
station. Adoniram drove, and the three women sat up straight, and
looked out with a strange interest, as if they had never seen the
landscape before. The meadows were all filmy with cobwebs; there were
patches of corn in the midst of them, and the long blades drooped
limply. The flies swarmed thickly over the horse's back. The air was
scalding; there was a slight current of cool freshness from the dewy
ground, but it would soon be gone.

"It ain't goin' to rain," said Mrs. Babcock, "there's cobwebs on the
grass, but it's goin' to be terrible hot."

They reached the station fifteen minutes before the train. After
Adoniram had driven away, they sat in a row on a bench on the
platform, with their baggage around them. They did not talk much;
even Mrs. Babcock looked serious and contemplative in this momentary
lull. Their thoughts reached past and beyond them to the homes they
had left, and the new scenes ahead.

When the whistle of the train sounded they all stood up, and grasped
their valises tightly. Mrs. Green looked toward the coming train; her
worn face under her black bonnet, between its smooth curves of gray
hair, had all the sensitive earnestness which comes from generations
of high breeding. She was, on her father's side, of a race of old New
England ministers.

"Well, I dunno but I've been pretty faithful, an' minded my household
the way women are enjoined to in the Scriptures; mebbe it's right for
me to take this little vacation," she said, and her serious eyes were
full of tears.

Chapter VIII

When Jane Field, in her assumed character, had lived three months in
Elliot, she was still unsuspected. She was not liked, and that made
her secret safer. She was full of dogged resolution and audacity. She
never refused to see a caller nor accept an invitation, but people
never called upon her nor invited her when they could avoid it, and
thus she was not so often exposed to contradictions and
inconsistencies which might have betrayed her. Elliot people not only
disliked her, they were full of out-spoken indignation against her.
The defiant, watchful austerity which made her repel when she
intended to encourage their advances had turned them against her, but
more than that her supposed ill-treatment of her orphan niece.

When Lois, the third week of her stay in Elliot, had gone to a
dressmaker and asked for some sewing to do, the news was well over
the village by night. "That woman, who has all John Maxwell's money,
is too stingy and mean to support her niece, and she too delicate to
work," people said. The dressmaker to whom Lois appealed did not for
a minute hesitate to give her work, although she had already many
women sewing for her, and she had just given some to Mrs. Maxwell's
daughter Flora.

"There!" said she, when Lois had gone out. "I ain't worth five
hundred dollars in the world, I don't know how she'll sew, and I
didn't need any extra help--it's takin' it right out of my pocket,
likely as not--but I couldn't turn off a cat that looked up at me the
way that child did. She looks pinched. I don't believe that old woman
gives her enough to eat. Of all the mean work--worth all that money,
and sending her niece out to get sewing to do! I don't believe but
what she's most starved her."

It was true that Lois for the last week had not had enough to eat,
but neither had her mother. The two had been eking out the remnants
of Lois's school-money as best they might. There were many provisions
in the pantry and cellar of the Maxwell house, but they would touch
none of them. Some money which Mr. Tuxbury had paid to Mrs.
Field--the first instalment from the revenue of her estate--she had
put carefully away in a sugar-bowl on the top shelf of the china
closet, and had not spent a penny of it. After Lois began to sew, her
slender earnings provided them with the most frugal fare. Mrs. Field
eked it out in every way that she could. She had a little vegetable
garden and kept a few hens. As the season advanced, she scoured the
berry pastures, and spent many hours stooping painfully over the low
bushes. Three months from the time at which she came to Elliot, on
the day on which her neighbors started from Green River to visit her,
she was out in the pasture trying to fill her pail with blueberries.
All the sunlight seemed to centre on her black figure like a
burning-glass; the thick growth of sweet-fern around the blueberry
bushes sent a hot and stifling aroma into her face; the wild flowers
hung limply, like delicate painted rags, and the rocks were like
furnaces. Mrs. Field went out soon after dinner, and at half-past
five she was still picking; the berries were not very plentiful.

Lois, at home, wondered why she did not return, and the more because
there was a thunder-storm coming up. There was a heavy cloud in the
northwest, and a steady low rumble of thunder. Lois sat out in the
front yard sewing; her face was pink and moist with the heat; the
sleeves of her old white muslin dress clung to her arms. Presently
the gate clicked, and Mrs. Jane Maxwell's daughter Flora came toward
her over the grass.

"Hullo!" said she.

"Hullo!" returned Lois.

"It's a terrible day--isn't it?"

"Terrible!"

Lois got up, but Flora would not take her chair. She sat down
clumsily on the pine needles, and fanned herself with the cover of a
book she carried.

"I've just been down to the library, an' got this book," she
remarked.

"Is it good?"

"They say it's real good. Addie Green's been reading it."

Flora wore a bright blue cambric dress and a brown straw hat. Her
figure was stout and high-shouldered, her dull-complexioned face full
of placid force. She was not very young, and she looked much older
than she was; and people had wondered how George Freeman, who was
handsome and much courted by the girls, as well as younger than she,
had come to marry her. They also wondered how her mother, who had
been so bitterly opposed to the match, had given in, and was now
living so amicably with the young couple; they had been on the alert
for a furious village feud. But when Flora and her husband had
returned from their stolen wedding tour, Mrs. Maxwell had met them at
the depot and bidden them home with her with vociferous ardor, and
the next Sunday Flora had gone to church in the new silk. There had
been a conflict of two wills, and one had covered its defeat with a
parade of victory. Mrs. Maxwell had talked a great deal about her
daughter's marriage and how well she had done.

"There's a thunder-shower coming up," Flora said after a little.
"Where's your aunt?"

"Gone berrying."

"She'll get caught in the shower if she don't look out. What makes
you work so steady this hot day, Lois?"

"I've got to get this done."

"There isn't any need of your working so hard."

Lois said nothing.

"If your aunt ain't willing to do for you it's time you had somebody
else to," persisted Flora. "I wish I had had the money on your
account. I wouldn't have let you work so. You look better than you
did when you came here, but you look tired. I heard somebody else say
so the other day."

Flora said the last with a meaning smile.

Lois blushed.

"Yes, I did," Flora repeated. "I don't suppose you can guess who
'twas?"

Lois said nothing; she bent her hot face closer over her work.

"See here, Lois," said Flora. She hesitated with her eyes fixed
warily on Lois; then she went on: "What makes you treat Francis so
queer lately?"

"I didn't know I had," replied Lois, evasively.

"You don't treat him a bit the way you did at first."

"I don't know what you mean, Flora."

"Well, if you don't, it's no matter," returned Flora. "Francis hasn't
said anything about it to me; you needn't think he has. All is,
you'll never find a better fellow than he is, Lois Field, I don't
care where you go."

Flora spoke with slow warmth. Lois's face quivered. "If you don't
take care you'll never get married at all," said Flora, half
laughing.

Lois sat up straight. "I shall never get married to anybody," said
she. "That's one thing I won't do. I'll die first."

Flora stared at her. "Why, why not?" said she.

"I won't."

"I never knew what happiness was until I got married," said Flora.
Then she flushed up suddenly all over her steady face.

Lois, too, started and blushed, as if the other girl's speech had
struck some answering chord in her. The two were silent a moment.
Lois sewed; Flora stared off through the trees at the darkening sky.
The low rumble of thunder was incessant.

"George is one of the best husbands that ever a girl had," said
Flora, in a tender, shamed voice; "but Francis would make just as
good a one."

Lois made no reply. She almost turned her back toward Flora as she
sewed.

"I guess you'll change your mind some time about getting married,"
Flora said.

"No, I never will," returned Lois.

"Well, I suppose if you don't, you'll have money enough to take care
of yourself with some time, as far as that goes," said Flora. Her
voice had a sarcastic ring.

"I shall never have one cent of that Maxwell money," said Lois, with
sudden fire. "I'll tell you that much, once for all!" Her eyes
fairly gleamed in her delicate, burning face.

"Why, you scare me! What is the matter?" cried Flora.

Lois took a stitch. "Nothing," said she.

"You'd ought to have the money, of course," said Flora, in a
bewildered way. "Who else would have it?"

"I don't know," said Lois. "You are the one that ought to have it."

Flora laughed. "Land, I don't want it!" said she. "George earns
plenty for us to live on. She's your own aunt, and of course she'll
have to leave it to you, if she does act so miserly with it now.
There, I know she's your aunt, Lois, and I don't suppose I ought to
speak so, but I can't help it. After all, it don't make much
difference, or it needn't, whether you have it or not. I've begun to
think money is the very least part of anything in this world, and I
want you to be looking out for something else, too, Lois."

"I can't look out for money, or something else, either. You don't
know," said Lois, in a pitiful voice.

There came a flash, and then a great crash of thunder. The tempest
was about to break.

Flora started up abruptly. "I must run," she shouted through a sudden
gust of wind. "Good-by."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11