Jane Field Part 16

"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 b.u.t.tery, 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 superst.i.tion, 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 pa.s.sed along the road below. Lois watched it listlessly--the black-draped hea.r.s.e, 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 pa.s.sed. 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 hea.r.s.e 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 cas.h.i.+er 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'