Part 8

"Well, if I felt inclined to quarrel," said Mrs. Williams, "the thought of Sam and Job would be enough to keep me from it, and if that's not enough, there's the thought of Anna Belle and Henry. They can't be happy unless we get along well together, and we mustn't do anything to spoil their happiness."

Mrs. Martin made an assenting murmur, and another silence fell between them, Both were conscious of the strangeness of their new relation. To Mrs. Martin it seemed that Mrs. Williams was her guest, and she was vaguely wondering if it would be polite to suggest that it was time to go to bed. Mrs. Williams rocked to and fro, and the squeak of the old chair mingled with the shrill notes of the crickets. Presently she stopped rocking and heaved a deep sigh.

"It's curious," she said, "how grown folks never get over bein' children. When I was a little girl I used to go out to the country to visit my Aunt Mary Meadows. I'd get along all right durin' the day, but when night come, and the frogs and the katydids begun to holler, I'd think about home and wish I was there; and when Aunt Mary put me to bed and carried the light away, I'd bury my face in the pillow and cry myself to sleep. And just now, when I heard that katydid up yonder in the old locust tree, I felt just like I used to feel at Aunt Mary's."

Her voice quivered on the last word, but once more she laughed bravely. A flash of comprehension crossed Mary Martin's brain. She leaned over and laid her hand on the other woman's arm.

"You're homesick," she said, with a note of deep sympathy in her voice. "All day I've been thinkin' about it, and I've come to the conclusion that you've got the hardest part of this matter. Henry and Anna Belle owe more to you than they do to me. We've both given up a child, but you've given up your home, too, and that's a hard thing to do at your time of life." At her time of life! The words were like a spur to a jaded horse. Mrs. Williams straightened her shoulders, raised her head, and laughed again.

"Shuh!" she said carelessly, "changin' your house ain't any more than changin' your dress. I ain't so far gone in years yet that I have to stick in the same old place to keep from dyin'. But I reckon I'm like that spring branch that used to run through the field back of Father's house. It was always overflowin' and ruinin' a part o' the crop, and one fall Father went to work and turned it out of its course into a rocky old pasture where it couldn't do any harm. I was just a little child, but I remember how sorry I felt for that little stream runnin' along between the new banks, and I used to wonder if it wasn't homesick for the old course, and if it didn't miss the purple flags and the willers and cat-tails that used to grow alongside of it; but just let me get a good night's rest and my things all straightened out, and I'll soon get used to the new banks and be as much at home as you are."

She rose heavily from her chair. "I believe I'll go to bed now," she said briskly. "Movin' 's no light work, and we're both tired."

"If you should get sick in the night or need anything," said Mrs. Martin, following her into the house, "don't fail to call me."

"I'm goin' to sleep the minute my head hits the pillow and sleep till it's time to get up," replied Mrs. Williams, "and you do the same. Good night!"

She closed the door and stood for a few seconds in the darkness. Then she groped her way to the table and lighted her lamp. Its cheerful radiance flooded every part of the little room, and showed each familiar piece of furniture in its new surroundings. Yes, there was the high chest of drawers that Grandfather Means had made from the wood of a cherry tree on the old home place; there was the colonial sewing-table, and the splint-bottomed rocker, the old bookcase, and all the rest of the belongings that she cherished because they belonged to "the family." But how strange her brass candlesticks looked on that mantel! It was not _her_ mantel, and the wall-paper was not hers. Her wall-paper was gray with purple lilacs all over it, and this was pink and green and white! And the windows and doors were not in their right places. Ah! the hold of Place and Custom! The memories and associations of a lifetime twined themselves around her heart closer and closer, and the hand of Change seemed to be tearing at every root and tendril. Pale and trembling she sank into a chair, and the same tears she had shed sixty years ago, the tears of a homesick child, fell over her wrinkled cheeks, while in her brain one thought repeated itself with a terrifying emphasis: "_I can't get used to it. I can't get used to it._"

But the sound of her own sobs put a stop to her grief. She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand and glanced toward the door. The other woman across the hall must not know her weakness. She rose, walked forlornly to a side window, and parting the curtains, looked fearfully out. Why, where was the lilac bush and the Lombardy poplar and the box-wood hedge? Again the hand tore at her heart; she peered bewilderedly into the night. Alas! the stream turned from its course cannot at once forget the old channel and the old banks. Again the tears came, but as she wiped them away, a fresh wind arose, parting the light clouds that lay in the western sky and showing a crescent moon and near it the evening star. Like a message from heaven came a memory that dried her tears and swept away the homesick longing. Twenty-five years ago she had looked at the new moon on her wedding night, and this was Anna Belle's wedding night--her daughter's wedding night! Fairer than moon or star, the face of the young bride seemed to look into hers; she felt the girl's clinging arms around her neck and heard the fervent whisper: "_You are the very best mother in the whole wide world._"

She lifted her eyes once more, not to the moon or the star, but to Something beyond them.

"O God!" she whispered brokenly, "it's harder than I thought it would be; but for my child's sake I can stand it, and anyway, I'm glad I'm not a millstone or a stumblin'-block."

"ONE TASTE OF THE OLD TIME"

"There is no organic disease whatever," said the doctor. "The trouble is purely mental. No, I don't mean that," he corrected hastily, as he saw the look of dismay on David Maynor's face. "Your wife is not losing her mind. Nothing of that sort. Indeed, I take her to be a woman of unusually sound mentality. But, evidently there is some trouble preying on her mind and producing these nervous symptoms. The prescription I am leaving will palliate these, but it remains for you to find out what the trouble is and remove it, if you can. There are some cases where doctors are powerless, and this, I think, is one of them." He reached for his hat and bowing with professional courtesy turned to leave.

"How much do I owe you?" said David Maynor.

The blunt question was like a sentry's challenge, and the doctor paused with his hand on the knob of the door.

"Ah--never mind about that now. A bill will be sent you at the end of the month." His tone and manner implied that this was too trivial a matter to be mentioned.

But David Maynor's hand was in his pocket, and he was drawing forth his new seal-leather purse.

"I always pay as I go," he said stolidly. The corners of the doctor's mouth twitched, and a gleam of humor came into his eyes. "Ten dollars," he said, and while David Maynor was counting out the bills, the physician's quick glance was taking note of the expensive furniture and the utter absence of individuality, that gave the house the air of a hotel rather than a home. "The new rich," he thought with good-natured amusement, then aloud:

"Let me hear from your wife to-morrow, Mr. Maynor. But, as I said before, the case is in your hands. Good afternoon!" And with another courtly bow he was gone.

David Maynor hurried back up-stairs to his wife's bedside. "Sarah," he said, bending over her and smoothing her hair clumsily, "the doctor says there's not a thing the matter with you, except you've got something on your mind that's worrying you. He says he can't do much for you, and that I've got to find out what the trouble is and remove it, if I can."

Sarah Maynor turned her head restlessly on the pillow. "I must say he's got more sense than I thought he had," she said, with a nervous laugh. "I was afraid he'd go to dosing me with bitters and pills. He's exactly right: no doctor can cure me." Her voice broke, and she buried her face in the pillow.

A deep anxiety settled on David's rugged features. "Why, Sarah," he said, with tender reproach in his voice, "when did you get to hiding your troubles from me? Is there anything you want? Anything I can do for you? You know you can have everything now that money can buy."

Sarah turned her face toward her husband. Her gray eyes were filled with tears, and her hands were clenched in an effort to control her feelings.

"That's just the trouble!" she cried, her voice rising into a wail. "You've given me everything that money buys, and I don't want anything except the things that love buys. I want to go back to Millville! I want to live in our own little cottage! I'm sick of this sort of life! I never was made to be a rich man's wife, and it's killing me! It's killing me! Oh! I know I'm ungrateful, Dave, but I can't help it!" Her voice broke in a storm of sobs. She covered her face with the bedclothes and shrank away from her husband's hand.

A look of profound relief lighted David Maynor's face. "Is that all?" he exclaimed. "And here I've been putting up with everything because I thought you were pleased! My gracious, Sarah! You don't hate this life any more than I do."

Sarah lifted her head from the pillow and searched his face with her tear-reddened eyes. "Dave Maynor," she said solemnly, "are you just saying that to please me, or is it the truth?"

"I'd go back to Millville to-morrow, if I could," said David, with an emphasis that swept away all doubt of his sincerity.

Sarah fell back on her pillows with a long, sobbing breath of relief. Her tears flowed again, but they were tears of happiness, and an ecstatic smile shone through them.

"Oh! Then it's all right, Dave! It's all right!" She reached for David's hand and laid it against her wet cheek. "You see, it was just the thought that you and I didn't think alike--that was what I couldn't stand. But if you feel as I do, why, I can stand anything. You know what I mean, don't you, Dave?"

"Of course I know what you mean, honey," said David soothingly, as if he were talking to a child in distress. "I've felt exactly the same way, ever since we left our little Millville home and come to this two-story brick house. I thought you liked it,--women always like fine houses and fine furniture,--and I wanted to please you, but I hated it from the start; and we'd always thought the same about everything, and to have this big pile of brick and mortar comin' between us at our time of life--"

At this point words failed him. He was not in the habit of analyzing and describing his own feelings, but Sarah's eyes met his, and a look of perfect understanding passed between husband and wife. They had been living a divided life, but now they were one.

"It was my fault," said Sarah. "I ought to have stopped you in the beginning; but I knew you were trying to please me, and I didn't want to seem ungrateful--"

"Yes, honey, yes," interrupted David, "I know just how it was, and it was my fault, not yours. I ought to have asked you what you wanted, instead of takin' things for granted. Yes, if it's anybody's fault, it's mine. But what's the use in blamin' anybody? My doctrine is that when a thing _has_ happened, instead of blamin' ourselves or anybody else, we just ought to conclude that it _had_ to happen, and then make the best of it. This house is built; it's ours; we're in it; we don't like it; and now what are we going to do about it?"

Sarah's face clouded at once. She and David were of one mind, but things were not "all right", for still the burden of unaccustomed wealth and luxury weighed upon her, and David's question brought her face to face with the old troubles.

"Oh! I don't know," she said wearily. "If we just hadn't left our little cottage!"

"It was that architect fellow's fault, my buildin' this house," said David ruefully. "He was a young man just startin' out in the world, and I thought I'd give him a helpin' hand. And then it didn't look right for people with the income we've got to live in a four-room cottage in Millville."

"I don't care how it looked," said Sarah fretfully, "we were in our right place there, and we're out of place here. When we lived in Millville, I'd get up in the morning, and I knew just exactly what I'd have to do, and I knew I could do whatever I had to do. But now--" She made a gesture of unutterable despair--"Why, I hate to open my eyes, I hate to get up, I hate to think there's another day before me, for I'm certain there'll be things to do that I never did before, and don't know how to do and don't want to do, even if I knew how. People come to see me and they talk about things I never heard of, and ask me to do things I can't do, and I feel just exactly as if I was caught in some kind of a cage and couldn't get out. There was that Mrs. Emerson--she wanted me to join a club she belongs to. She said it used to be a literary club, but that they'd changed their plans, and, instead of writin' papers, they'd decided to do civic work."

She paused in her passionate confession and turned abruptly to David with a look of self-scorn that was tragic in its intensity. "Do you know what 'civic work' is, David?" David did not answer at once.

"Why, no, Sarah, I can't say I do," he said cautiously. "It seems to me I've seen that word somewhere, and maybe I could think up what it means, if you'd give me time to--"

Sarah cut him short. "You don't know what that word means, David, and neither do I," she said with studied calmness.

David was genuinely puzzled by Sarah's evident distress over so unimportant a circumstance as the meaning of a word. "Honey," he said tenderly, "I'll go right down town and buy you a dictionary, so you can find out what that word means. But what difference does it make, anyhow?"

Once more his wife turned on him a face that was like a mask of tragedy. "What difference does it make?" she wailed. "Oh, David! Can't you see? Can't you understand? There I sat--in my own house--like a fool--not knowin' what answer to give her, just because I didn't know what that word meant! And every day something like this happens, something that makes me feel that I'm out of place, something that makes me hate myself! Can't you understand?"

Yes, David understood as well as a man could be expected to understand a woman. Many times since Fortune had smiled on him, he had been thrown with men of superior education and social position and had known momentarily the feeling of being out of place. And if Sarah's passionate words failed to convey all she felt and suffered, the despair in her eyes and the nervous twitching of her fingers brought comprehension to her husband's mind.

"There! There!" he soothed, taking her hands in his. "You mustn't carry on this way, Sarah, or I'll have to send for the doctor again. Just give me time to think; there must be a way out of this trouble. My goodness!" He shook his head in helpless wonderment over the strange situation. "I thought we'd be through with troubles when we got rich, but it looks as if this money's the most trouble we ever had."

"It wouldn't be a trouble if we were used to it," explained Sarah. "We were born poor, and we've lived poor all our lives, and we don't know how to get happiness out of money."

David sighed. "We can't go back to Millville to live," he said thoughtfully. "At least we can't get back our old place." Sarah's face was already clouded, but at these words a deeper shadow passed over it. She had known, when she left the Millville house, that the owner of the property intended tearing down the cottage and building a tenement house for the mill-workers, and every time she thought of her house in ruins, she had a dull heartache. "I never hankered after riches," mused David, his mind still occupied with the mysterious ways of the Providence that had made him rich. "I never even tried to invent that machine. It just seemed to come to me, without any thinkin' or tryin' on my part; and when I patented the thing, I never supposed it would do any more than make us fairly comfortable in our old age. But here's the money comin' in all the time; it's ours, and it's honest money, and we've got to take it and make the best of it. But," tenderly, "I'm not goin' to let it worry you to death if I can help it. What is it that bothers you most, honey?"

Sarah moved her head restlessly on the pillow and sighed heavily. "Oh! everything; but I believe the servants are the worst aggravation of all."

"What's the matter with 'em?" asked David; "don't they do their work right?"

"No, they don't," said Sarah despairingly. "I never saw such cleanin' as that Bertha does--dust behind the doors and on the window sills; and she never takes up a rug, and the windows look like Jacob's cattle, all ringed and striped and streaked. And Nelly's just as bad. The dish towels are a sight, and the kitchen closet's in such a mess I can't sleep for thinkin' of it. I never could stand dust, especially in my kitchen; you know that, David. And here we are payin' these good-for-nothin' creatures every week almost as much money as you used to earn in a month! It's enough to drive me crazy." It was the lamentation of a housekeeper, a cry as old as civilization, that Sarah was uttering, and David heard it sympathetically, for his wife's troubles were his own.

"Can't you make 'em do their work right?" he asked.

"Make 'em?" Sarah's voice rose in a petulant wail. "No, I can't. I can make myself work, but I don't know how to make anybody else work."

"Do they ever give you any back talk?" asked David.

"No, they don't," said Sarah, a dull flush crimsoning her face. "They're polite enough to my face, but, David, I believe they laugh at us both behind our backs. Two or three times I've turned around right quick, and I've seen a look on their faces that made me want to turn 'em out of the house."

David's face hardened. "Why don't you discharge 'em?" he asked grimly.

"Oh! I don't know how," said Sarah fretfully. "It seems to me you ought to know that, without being told. I never discharged anybody in my life. I wouldn't know what to say. Don't you have to give servants warning before you turn 'em off?"

David deliberated a moment. "Either they have to give you warning, or you have to give them warning, or maybe it's both," he announced. "I guess it would take a lawyer to settle that question."

"People that don't know how to get rid of a servant have got no business with servants," said Sarah bitterly. "Here I am, a stout, able-bodied woman, holdin' my hands all day, when I ought to be doin' my own work just as I always have."

"You couldn't do your work in this house," argued David. "It would break you down if you tried it."

"There it is again," cried Sarah. "The house! It's the house that's to blame for everything. Why, it was just last week I met Molly Matthews on the street, and she turned her head away and wouldn't speak to me! Molly Matthews that nursed me when I had the fever and that's been like a sister to me all these years!"

David's face darkened angrily. "What right has Molly Matthews to fall out with you, because you've got a better house than she has? That's just envy."

"No, it's not envy!" cried Sarah in loyal defense of the absent friend. "I know Molly as well as I know myself. She hasn't changed, but she thinks I've changed; she thinks I feel above her just because I've got this two-story brick. And I don't blame her a bit. When we left Millville and moved into town, it looked just like we had turned our backs on all our old friends. I'd feel just as Molly does, if I were in Molly's place. I've wanted to have Molly and Annie and all the rest of my friends to spend the day with me,--I've only waited because I wanted to feel at home in my own house, before I had visitors,--but now I can't do it. We've got a fine house, David, and plenty of money, but we've lost our old friends; and what is life without friends?"

The god of Mammon had showered his favors on these simple souls, but they would never be worshippers of the god. David, too, had felt the barrier of wealth rising, hard and cruel, between him and the friends of a lifetime, and his heart echoed Sarah's question, "What is life without friends?"

"Well," he said, with an effort at lightness, "if our old friends forsake us, we'll have to make new ones."

"But I don't want new friends!" cried Sarah, with the accent of a fretful child, "Haven't I just told you I couldn't talk to that Mrs. Emerson?"

A sudden thought seemed to strike David. He took out his watch and glanced at it. "It's time for you to take another dose of the medicine the doctor left. I have to go down-town for a few minutes. You lie still and see if you can't sleep a little."

He handed her the medicine and left the room. Sarah waited till he was out of the house, and then she rose hastily from the bed and began making a hurried toilet.

When David reappeared, he found her fully dressed and the marks of tears gone from her face.

"That medicine's helped you already," he said cheerfully; "and here's a dictionary, and we'll find out what that word means."

The dictionary was an unfamiliar book to David, but after a patient search he found the strange word. "Here it is: civic, of or pertaining to a city, a citizen, or citizenship." He looked hopefully at Sarah. She shook her head rather sadly.

"I don't know a bit more now than I did before, David, but never mind that word. I told you awhile ago that I could stand anything, if we only felt alike about it, and I'm goin' to stand this."

"That's right," said David heartily; "and while you're standing it, I'll be looking for a way out of it. I didn't build this house for you to stand, I built it for you to enjoy, and if you don't enjoy it, you don't have to live in it." At that moment the supper bell rang.

"Come on, honey," said David, holding out his hand to help her from the chair, "you'll feel better after you've had something to eat."

But Sarah only sighed and shook her head languidly. "If I'd only cooked the supper, I might feel hungry. But I just don't care whether I eat or not. I'd rather go hungry than to eat with that Nelly starin' at me."

"You stay up here, Sarah," said David with sudden determination. He wheeled a small table in front of her and hurried from the room. In a few minutes Nelly appeared with a laden tray that she set on the table.

"Mr. Maynor says if there's anything else you want, to let him know." Nelly's tone and manner were those of the well-trained servant, and she looked at her mistress with a gleam of real sympathy in her eyes.

"This is all I want. I'm much obliged," said Sarah Maynor awkwardly.

Nelly withdrew, and Sarah began to eat, more from gratitude to David than from any sense of hunger. David was so good to her, she must get used to things for his sake. But the relief of eating without the espionage of a servant quickened her appetite, and when David rejoined her, he looked with satisfaction on the empty dishes.

"Don't worry about me, David," said Sarah, with a good attempt at a careless smile. "I've been actin' like a child, but from now on I'm goin' to behave myself." David did not answer. He appeared to be in deep thought about some important matter. He took out a pencil, did some figuring on the back of an envelope, relapsed again into the thoughtful mood, and finally went to bed silent and preoccupied.