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About The Oregon daily journal. (Portland, Or.) 1902-1972 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 12, 1909)
- '; THE OREGON SUNDAY JOURNAL, TORTLAND, SUNDAY MORNING. 'DECEMBER 12.' 1009. V.".. " ft wouldn't ha sent home money if be hadn't been. 1 No, Tj-our father' just be'n travellin' round over the country, clock-niendin' and tinkerin' an' workin' in fact'ries, an Annie, her daughter, who lived alone. . you've no call to be ashamed of hira. : ... ' i ou speaK as u iwi wnai you a nave picKcu oui for him to do, if you had your choice," said the g irj. "I couldn't help pickin' it out, if thai was the -way he was made," said her mother, with the queer, little tang of humor that sometimes brightened her. "If I'd ha had any choice I'd had my two good feet, an' then I'd -ha' gone with him." You would, mother? Trailimr round over the coun- . try for all the world like two tramps ? " - "I certain would," said her mother. ".Wouldn't you with Frank? HERE!" said Mrs. Marvin, I guess were rrpared. She limped to the rockin-enair the window, ana siooo. dcsiuc u in uic dusk. Annie, her daughter, who live with her in the old Marvin homestead, was binding the clock , What you doin' that so early for?" asked Mrs. Annie's voice came with a flute-like cadence out of the dim .corner: "I thought I'd get everything done up, so there d be 'nothing to think of. Then we can sit down by ourselves and talk." , : . . . . , . ... Mrs. Marvin waited by her chair until both weights had been wound, and Annie had given the pendulum that little tap she always accorded it, at the end, to make it swing the faster. It wps a trick of ber childish days, when she was first allowed to wind the dock, and her mother, after trying in a faint-hearted way to break , her of the habit, had acquiesced in it as an irregularity likely to give ft moment's pleasure and do nobody harm. u Le'j Bot stay cooped up'in here," said the mother.-. "Le's go out an' set on the steps." Annie put a hand through her arm and the two went slowly out to the front-door stone and established them selves there, where honeysuckle was sweet and the gar- den threw back its blended scents. It was art old cus- , torn, this summer-night's communion of a mother and daughter who had fallen into a concord of habit through iheir life alone together. It would not be the same agaia To-morrow Annie -was to marry Franklin Blake. . There was silence for a time, the girl looking off into the orchard across the road, and the mother with her "faze fixed a the young figure wrapped about by the dark; but ivisible to her consciousness through the eyes of love. - ' . " You think we'd better whip the, cream? " she asked, thnnfh fli miration had been settled twice over. "For tlie chocolate?" asked Annie, to carry on the JBut most ot era "Aunt Nabby!" she said, rising. I don't feel like seeing folks to- snecious dialogue. Yes, I guess so, will take coffee anyways. " Well, said Mrs, Marvin, musing into space, it'll be good." Then again the talk dropped, and a whippoorwill called from the orchard. Mrs. Marvin shivered. - " He makes me as nervous as a witch," she said. " He sung every identical night the month before your father went awav." She was not used to mentioning the girl's father in that tone. For years she had referred to him in a commonplace fashion, as if be had just driven to market, and now Annie started at the change. The m'ghr, her mothers altered voice, both gave her courage. "Mdher," said she abruptly, "do you know where father M , . . . . . "Well, no," said her mother, without hesitation, "I don't know's I do." "But Aunt Nabby asked you yesterday if you sup posed he'd come to the wedding, and you said you thought likely not. But you spoke as it you'd heard. Mother, you don't hear? "No," said Mrs. Marvin, in a colorless tone; "I dont "bear." - . f ,. "I think it's a shame!" the girl hurst forth. The mother answered gently, like one directing an emotion into some safer channel. " No, dear, it ain't a shame. You don't see how 'tis, that's all." But a habit of years once broken, the girl dared what she never had before. Until now her mother had wsapped their lonely life in silence. al .see what everybody sees," the daughter said. Father went away when I was a little girL He's never set his foot here since. He's sent you money; but what's money? Mother, what made him go?" "I guess he got kind o' tired," said her mother. There was patience in her voice. "What'd he get tired of?" "Well," said Mrs. Marvin, with the air of one who, "baying abandoned caution, has not yet made up her The girl considered briefly. '"WeTl!" she said. la a moment she spoke more' shyly.' "Mother, there wasn't any trouble between you and father when he .went . away? Did you have words?" ' - : . ' ; "Your father was pretty still all that spring." Mrs.' Marvin spoke rapidly, as if, having launched upon her narrative, she found it hateful to her. " I guess he was thinkin' now dull 'twas just to do the chores an', read -the paper; .Well, one day, long towards spring, he says, 'Sally, should you just as soon Hiram Means Would' .take the, farm to the halves?' Certain,' says I, 'if that's your wish.' Well, I couldn't help knowin what was comin', an' I didnt feel any surprise when he be gun to pick up his tools, an, made up a little bag t he could sling over his back. One mornin' -'twas the twenty-third o June he shaved him an' took his bag. ! You was over to Aunt Nabby's, playin' in the garden. .1 remember you come home to dinner that day with your apron full o' poppy dolls. There wa'n't no dinner. I didn t get any. But I'm runnin' ahead o' my story. Well, he come along' to the winder .where I was, puttin' bread into the pans, an he says, 'Well, Sally, I guess 111 set out an' see what I can find.'" "What did you say, mother?"'1 " I didn't say anything. Oh, ye's, I did 1 I says. ' You I hope got a clean pair o stockin's ? ' An' then, when he said he had, I says, 'LVnt you want I should put you up some luncheon?' But he shook his head. I watched him 'most out o' sight, an down tinder the old elm he turned an' waved his hand to me. Then I went irf. That was the twenty-third o' June." Her voke showed no emotion, except, perhaps, a little wistfulness. " Mother," eried the girl sharply, her mind upon the man she jpved, " I should thjnk you'd have died 1 " " Oh, no ! I don't know how to put it, -Annie, but when things are big enough they don't kill you. They just shut out everything else, that's all," , Annie moved a little nearer. She laid her hand on her mother's knee, and the mother put her own hand gently over it ... ;;. ." : ; -;"'',' "You see," said Mrs. Marvin, "I couldn't say so much as this before; but now you're goin' to have a home o' your own, seems 'if you ought to know how things stood, so, if your father ever come back ah' I wa'n't here, you'd take him in. You would, Annie, wouldn't your" The words were like shadows coming out of the night. They struck at the girl and hurt her, and she answered sharply : , "What makes you say such things? What makes you say you won't be here ? Mother, where you goin' ? " Her mother's soothing hand was. on her hair. "There, dear, there," said Mrs. Marvin, as women comfort babies. "Don't you fret, mother's right here. Only, if anything should happen to. me, you must be ready to see to father." "I want to see to you," cried the girl, in" a passion of homesickness. "It ain't right to leave you alone in this house, anyways, even if ycu do say you'll spend nights over to Aunt Nabby's. Oh, mother, you're terrible ob stinate not to come and live with us ! " "Well, now, you see, dear, she said tenderly, "I V'1 A -1 ft " A f , wmm is' i "X A 4X Annie saw it .first " Mother, I'll go ia night" : Nabby came stalking through the path between the borders. .. . . . : - . - .- "Beats all how this mignonette does smell f. she said in a voice of soldierlike quality, as she reached the . tPS. ' ' ' "v't . " l ' ' . "Fick a sprig,'' said Mrs.-Marvin.' "You always wls? great on smells." V :. ? " : -... , ; No, I got some lemon verbena here," said Aunt . Nabby, fanning herself .with it and . diffusing odors.' ' " T'won't do to mix 'em. I harnessed up this arternoon an' drove down to the Junction to, git a bottle o cologne for Annie lo-morrer. I thought mebbe she'd like, to scent up her handkercher." - ' '. . . ' ' That's complete. Wei!, Nabby, to-morrer'i .'most here."-:- ". v;; .:' - " Yes. If don't seem tnore'n yesterday Annie was trottin off to school with that little waterproof on, the hood up over her, head." - ;,c.r . '. . r "No, it don't" Mrs. Marvin impulsively put out a hand and touched her sister. " Nabby," (he said, " what if I should tell you suthin'? - . ,"Yes," said Nabby comfortably, "so do." "Well, sometimes I think Annie's weddin ain't the only thing that's goin', to 'happen." "What do you mean, barah?" "I don't believe in. signs an' omens, Sarah went on breathlessly. "But I've got it into my head suthin's goin' to happen right here. It's goin to happen to me." "Well, what kind of a thing is it?" Aunt Nabby spoke with abated curiosity, not yet knowing what form of sympathy was to be required of her. " Nabby, I think I'm goin to be called away." "You think Stephen's goin' to send for ye?" "No, oh, no! he never would. I think I'm goin to die." "Cat's grandmothef, Sarah Marvin f What's got that into yourhead?" Mrs. Marvin spoke solemnly now, as if she told the story to herself, regardless of her hearer. k " It s partly because my mind dwell so on the past. Grarfdmothcr Marvin always used to s'ay that was a sign. She said when old folks got ready to go, there was a kind of a forerunner. Well, Nabby, that s how it's bc'tt with me this last week. I feel as if I was kinder preparin' to be gone." " Cat's grandmother f said Aunt Nabby again, in her . comfortable bass, " You're all nerved up over Annie's weddin', that's the matter with you. You're all beat out. Sarah, with this frostin' cake an' packin things an' josm Annie an an i But Mrs. Marvin shook her head. "No," she said solemnly, "my time lias come. "But I've talked with Annie an she knows what I want she should do if ever there's a chance, Annie wouldn't dis regard it She'd say 'twas mother's Wish. Well, Nabby" Her tone had changed to quick alertness. " Le's we get to bed. There's lots to do in the mornin. . The school children are comin' eVly witfi brakes an things to trim up, an' I've got to set out my chiny. It's goin' to be fair. I'm thankful for that." Aunt Nabby rose more slowly. She was vaguely troubled by her sister's confidence. It was as if Mrs. Marvin had taken off the mantle of her gloom and thrown it upon her. She turned away thoughtfully. "Sarah." she hesitated. "Now. Sarah r . "No," said Mrs. Marvin brightly, "no, I ain't a-goin' to fuss no more, You needn't say it I got kinder nerved up, I guess. Annie's goin' an' ah, m after to morrer's over I can settle down again." But that night in her own room, with Annie breath ing at her side, she knew this for no spectre of the mind. She lay there looking out igto the moonlight, where the linden breathed from countless blooms, and thought anew that something was going to happen quite different from anything that had happened to her before. This did not seem to be one of the calamities forever attacking her husband in her dreams. They were less real. It was something very large and it was near. It was bringing with it,' too, a strange beneficence, and she smiled into the night, temembermg how she had been told that death itself is welcome at the last The next day went in an unbroken current of good fortune. Annie's school children came laden with spoils from woods and meadow, and her girl-mates turned the house into, a greenwood bower. The bride was still, and ' calm, and the sun shone on her. The young husband looked all pride and strength. The cream was whipped precisely right, and there were no tears. And through it all the little mother, in her shining hair and her sum mer silk, moved about with her halting step, seeing that everybody was served and that nothing suffered lack Nabby breathed freely, finding that her sister was her self again; but Nabby did not know. Cheerfully as Sarah Marvin was turning here and there on her brisk errands, her mind was elsewhere. She was breathless with expectation of a summons stire to come. But it was not until Annie had driven oil and the last guest dropped volubly away, that she found time to meet her mood and recognize it. Aunt Nabby had stayed to wash the china, and they talked excitedly over the sweet day. " Now," said Aunt Nabby, when the last dmh was put in place, "you come over with me an' we'll have a cup o' tea an' go straight into our beds." A look of swift alarm flitted into the little mother's xace. sne put one small nana on Nabby s wrist ,r " Yes, Stephen," she answered out of her dream. "Come right hi."1 But she rose, in speaking, and has tened to die door. ' " I guess that screen's ketched," she said practically. " Sometimes it is." - Her huband stepped inside and set his bag down oil ,. the floor. Then it was that she found. her heart was, beating wildly, and her mouth grew dry. ., x' '-, ." Well, Sally I " said he. It was the same voice. ( Kind and sad, kind by- nature, sad for no reason, and jt was , like a call from that past which seemed at once so far away ana meagre compared witn the momenta vivid- ', ...V . should trunk I wa n t more n three year old. Now. voti Ie' me light a light, Stephen, an' git you a bite o' suthin' to eat" 1 . - ' Stephen sank, into his chair, as if the weight of thought were heavy for him, and .sat there lopklng , straight hi front of him, while she struck her match with ..... .. I I . t'l. 4 .1 , i I Wheeled about in his chair and looked at her. She was, tlMivt iftf'Mb frtl A aim dk 1 ft lie fuse ' T- alia ma ' vtieti ijtvva sv.v ! lit ivu uvt sivsy aivvt oitu WOSt perhaps, more a mother than a wife, a mother than a wife, a soft broodinor bird who had protected and counselled and set herself -"aside. Yet her cheek was smooth and fair, and the doss , ; "I see in the paper Annie was goin' to be married to- . ,of fier brown braids was something he remembered, day," he said. ' , . " " ; This was the sweetness of maternity, and it moved him. .. v.. i. ,i.. ' f nl . ' ri i. u. ... ...,,i. vs. v..,v . weddin' 1" . ' i- "That why you got all thi green up? I looked in through the winder. ' . . . Yea. Her mates trimmed up for her." , . .. Bv GeorHel" he broke out under his breath. "What is it, Stephen?" she asked him softly, and Standing with one hand upon the table, she looked at him in turn. He was, to her faithful woman's eves, almost as she remembered him. His outdoor life had ? . r - , ' -t v, t . " a ,1 v , s. t ' ik t ifajr vA ; r , - ' V, if I ' : - ? t V . , J: ' " V AX " ; V 'SALLY," SAID HB, CXJiIN TO HIS feet and facing her, 4f too MUST HA' GOT METlY Witt WO&K OUT , . WITH ME, ALL THIS TIME." " I don't know's ever I see anything quite so pretty." Then he added with some awkwardness, ' I was over thirty mile away. I thought I'd come." - "Yes; Annie spoke about you last night" She was shaking now so that she was afraid her feet would tremble on the floorr m :? v vr ' -' "Maybe she thought I'd. come. Did you think so, Sally? Some eagerness had crept into his voice WHT, MOTHM," SHE SAtS II A WHISMTl, " TOU'Vl BEEN KOrENIN HIM ALL TBI TlKll" r 'nd mhki way to take, J folks are made up different. Your father had a kind f rorm' dipoition. He had u t ever ought to settled down. But he did, an' he " -rr wWed tww 'twas goto' to 'pear to hira till 'twas t -i late." , . " rt.i 'if you made tun out a kind of a eusv." said Awirf, with a d.ta.:e that seemed more than half par . -irv!.ip c-f her rorther. " No, aid Mrs. Mirrra, "I shouldn't call it that, rr. Cut i-jlkM are d.flerent, Annie.' The sooner you vit oet the belter, so's to give et free twing "bt' Irt yo have free swmg," aked the girl J..---'. Who's thnatrht ef yo -ail e years?" " 0 I r r's tbmiftt enr)-oerbie." said het "ocf iJixtt a rc4 fcttfvi di'poshjoa. He couldn't, could I, when your father might be home? He's growin' older every vear, an the timell come when, his legt'H fail him, an' mebbe then liell think of us. SoJ you rel" ' I " T J "hy, mother," she said in a whisper, "you ve been mourn in him aH this time!" .t ' But ber mother answered practically, " ire be n real thankful his rovia dispmition never took him off to aea. T would ha' been terrible in storm. Bat sometime, winter nights, I're laid awake well. I've got faith to believe be ain't be'n snowed up yet" Then they sat sti3 for a time. There were more ques tions the girl kxured to a.k, but the atmosphere had chMSged between them. FresentTy a woman s rgure came aiccg tue pain.,. ' No, no. said she. " don't vou ask me tint tn-niwtit I'm goin' to stay right here, f m goin' to have me a cup o' tea by myself, an' then I'm goin5 to wind up the clock an go to bed. You let me do it just that way to-night, Nabby. Seems 'if I must" "Well," said Nabby, "will!" She rolled down her . sleeves thoughtfully, and took up a pile of her own dishes, loaned for the occasion. "I'll be over in the mornin'," she concluded, and went with her grenadier step out at the back door. " You'd better come here an' git a breath," she called from the garden.- "Smells ter rible good here. 'Cruit you right up." But Mrs. Marvin wanted no tonic save that of soli tude in her familiar place; She sank into the rocking chair by the window with a sense of peace. The house was full of fragrance. Green leaves were everywhere, and the ferns in the next room diffused a damp deliciousness like their own color. She hardly knew her house, it was so sweet The dusk was falling, and the Junction clock struck eight This was not the way she had ex pected to feel on the night of her girl's wedding; but, strangely, her mind was not on Annie, but with ber own lost youth. As if she had stepped from this ceremony into a chamber of her own life, she found herself going over her first meeting with ber husband when they were young. It was at a picnic, but she bad forgotten who else was there. Only he seemed to be always beside her, carrying her basket, picking flowers, and saving things the others must not hear. Then came their marriage and the first year of it, when there seemed to be noth ing in the world but good fortune. Beyond that, the invuible spirit that led ber mind did not guide her The -years f slow understanding f hr hutwnd's nature, the years when patience had Wen born in her through sharp i travail, had dropped away. A beneficent hand had ' wiped tbera out, as if their mision having Keen accom plished, she might tura from sorrow rsow to ret So he dropped idly back into her cemmhip day, wtwder trtg ariij if, as Grandmother Marvin Mid. this appari tion f the part were a forerunner cf the end. earr a man's rkt from the darkened door- roa there? "Jtfo." said she irentlv. I didn't s'oose you would. Stephen, here's your chair." She drew it forward from , its place beside the hearth, but he only laid his hand upon it. f i ' " I did come," he said quickly, like a boy making con fession. " 1 got nere long about eleven, but I hadn't the face to come in. I didn't know who'd be here.' So I cut down across the woods an' set there by the spring till now." "You ain't had a thing to eat," said the wife ten derly. " You let me get a light" " No." His hand was on her shoulder, checking her. "Do you wish I'd come to the weddin'?" he asked halt ingly. " Should you be'n pleased to have me here ? " Sne was silent for a moment while they followed the clock's, tick, and he wondered at feeling her trembling so under his Rand. , "Yes," she said; then-gently, "I should ha be'n pleased to have you. So would . Annie. But" her voice broke there,, and with it her hardly won control. -"No! no!" she sobbed, "it dont make any difference when-yOu come, ao long as-you're here now Do joa s'pose I care whether folks see you or not or whether : they think you've done what's right by comin', or any- thing in the world, so's you're here livin' and breathin in this room?" She had laid both hands upon him and, was clinging to him heavily. Her words came breath lessly. When he bent to her he. saw that there were team tspon her face. "Why, Sally," he spoke slowly and in wonder, "I never knew roo set by me like that . "Oh. me I she was sobbing. " Oh, my soall I ain't : died while you've be'n gone, but I guess I can't live . through anything like your comin home. Oh, me! Oh, me!" Stephen put bis arms about her and stood there, bis cheek upwi her hair. For the first time be understood his life, and the pang of it was so great that even a woman's mercy could not save hira from iw Only, by bis homecomir.f cmiM be learn what it had been to rn awav. - But Sarmh Marvin was not so rmlike the yomg Sally ho bad chaffed and bantered bint thoe, years ago. She withdrew berself from hint and put tfi bT apron t wipe ber eyes. ""There!' ad she with a little brelea laugh, "I kept him strong and well. An unfretted existence had helped disguise his years. He . was clean and whole some, and she felt m her heart that she was proud of him. " What t it ? " she asked agahW , "Sally," said lie, coming to his feet and facing her, "you must ha' got pretty well wore out with me, all this time." Her hand went to her throat, as she felt the accumu lated wearying (of the years. " I never did. once," she said, with the simplicity of a child. "Didn't you wanM should come back?" " Not till you got ready." . ( ; - A shade of perplexity crossed his brow and wrinkled ' it. , "Sally," said he, "did you1 understand what madd me' want to go away?" "Yes," said Sally,- in that same instant loyalty, . "'course I did." . " Well, that's more'n I do. Whaf was ft? " " You wanted to because you wanted to," said Sally. " You was made that way." "Well, mebbe I was. But it's a mighty poor way, an' I ought to be'n kicked out on't Now, you look .here, Sally." He crossed the space between them at a. , stride, and put his hands upon her shoulders. "You want me to stay, now I'm here ? " A look of terror wrung her face. He knew it for - what jt was, and wondered again that any man could be so dear to any woman. But she spoke with moderation. , '" " If you feel to, I want you should." "Then you listen to jnei I ain't done a thing couldn't tell you. An' we ain't so terrible old..' We've got a good deal o time before us. An' whaf s, left ooic. well settle down here fogether, an' I'll see what I can do." , ;; His wife flushed slowly. The delicate reddening of. her cheeks was pretty to him. She laughed a little with ' a sudden thought It was a merriment not far from tears. - '. - " Mebbe I ain't goin' to die after all" she Vaid. Tve be'n possessed thinkin over what was part an' rone. . Now I see what 'twas. You was on your way, an 1 got Tiewf on't somehow." She turned back to him from the pantry where her rookery awaited hitta. Her eves were shining. " Now, you only think." she said. " t ruese-d . twt death, an so 'tis, a kind of death for death's the pattin' awsv f tvirgs tVat was. It's a kind of a begm rvin. too. Now, I'm gtv'n' tn tr.aVe a Ccp o' tea an' well pet dmrn an' drkk it Mebbe well eat a piece o' wedLo cake." - - ccrrrtCHT,