Flower of the Dusk Page 2

  II

  Miss Mattie

  Miss Mattie was getting supper, sustained by the comforting thought thather task was utterly beneath her and had been forced upon her by themysterious workings of an untoward Fate. She was not really "Miss,"since she had been married and widowed, and a grown son was waitingimpatiently in the sitting-room for his evening meal, but herneighbours, nearly all of whom had known her before her marriage, stillcalled her "Miss Mattie."

  [Sidenote: "Old Maids"]

  The arbitrary social distinctions, made regardless of personality, areoften cruelly ironical. Many a man, incapable by nature of life-longdevotion to one woman, becomes a husband in half an hour, dulysanctioned by Church and State. A woman who remains unmarried, because,with fine courage, she will have her true mate or none, is called "anold maid." She may have the heart of a wife and the soul of a mother,but she cannot escape her sinister label. The real "old maids" are ofboth sexes, and many are married, but alas! seldom to each other.

  [Sidenote: A Grievance]

  In his introspective moments, Roger Austin sometimes wondered whymarriage, maternity, and bereavement should have left no trace upon hismother. The uttermost depths of life had been hers for the sounding, butMiss Mattie had refused to drop her plummet overboard and had spent theyears in prolonged study of her own particular boat.

  She came in, with the irritating air of a martyr, and clucked sharplywith her false teeth when she saw that her son was reading.

  "I don't know what I've done," she remarked, "that I should have to liveall the time with people who keep their noses in books. Your pa wasforever readin' and you're marked with it. I could set here and set hereand set here, and he took no more notice of me than if I was a piece offurniture. When he died, the brethren and sistern used to come tocondole with me and say how I must miss him. There wasn't nothin' tomiss, 'cause the books and his chair was left. I've a good mind to burn'em all up."

  "I won't read if you don't want me to, Mother," answered Roger, layinghis book aside regretfully.

  "I dunno but what I'd rather you would than to want to and not," sheretorted, somewhat obscurely. "What I'm a-sayin' is that it's in theblood and you can't help it. If I'd known it was your pa's intention togive himself up so exclusive to readin', I'd never have married him,that's all I've got to say. There's no sense in it. Lemme see whatyou're at now."

  She took the open book, that lay face downward upon the table, and readaloud, awkwardly:

  "Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate thebirths of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talkof choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected."

  [Sidenote: Peculiar Way of Putting Things]

  "Now," she demanded, in a shrill voice, "what does that mean?"

  "I don't think I could explain it to you, Mother."

  "That's just the point. Your pa couldn't never explain nothin', neither.You're readin' and readin' and readin' and you never know what you'rereadin' about. Diamonds growin' and births bein' hurried up, and friendsbein' religious and voted for at township elections. Who's runnin' forfriend this year on the Republican ticket?" she inquired, caustically.

  Roger managed to force a laugh. "You have your own peculiar way ofputting things, Mother. Is supper ready? I'm as hungry as a bear."

  "I suppose you are. When it ain't readin', it's eatin'. Work all day toget a meal that don't last more'n fifteen minutes, and then see readin'goin' on till long past bedtime, and oil goin' up every six months.Which'll you have--fresh apple sauce, or canned raspberries?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Then I'll get the apple sauce, because the canned raspberries can layover as long as they're kept cool."

  [Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Personal Appearance]

  Miss Mattie shuffled back into the kitchen. During the Winter she woreblack knitted slippers attached to woollen inner soles which had noheels. She was well past the half-century mark, but her face had fewlines in it and her grey eyes were sharp and penetrating. Her smooth,pale brown hair, which did not show the grey in it, was parted preciselyin the middle. Every morning she brushed it violently with a stiff brushdipped into cold water, and twisted the ends into a tight knot at theback of her head. In militant moments, this knot seemed to rise and theprotruding ends of the wire hairpins to bristle into formidable weaponsof offence.

  She habitually wore her steel-bowed spectacles half-way down her nose.They might have fallen off had not a kindly Providence placed a largewart where it would do the most good. On Sundays, when she put on shoes,corsets, her best black silk, and her gold-bowed spectacles, she tookgreat pains to wear them properly. When she reached home, however, shealways took off her fine raiment and laid her spectacles aside with agreat sigh of relief. Miss Mattie's disposition improved rapidly as soonas the old steel-bowed pair were in their rightful place, resting safelyupon the wart.

  [Sidenote: Second-hand Things]

  When they sat down to supper, she reverted to the original topic. "AsI was sayin'," she began, "there ain't no sense in the books you andyour pa has always set such store by. Where he ever got 'em, I dunno,but they was always a comin'. Lots of 'em was well-nigh wore out whenhe got 'em, and he wouldn't let me buy nothin' that had been used before,even if I knew the folks.

  "I got a silver coffin plate once at an auction over to the Ridge foralmost nothin' and your pa was as mad as a wet hen. There was a name onit, but it could have been scraped off, and the rest of it was perfectlygood. When you need a coffin plate you need it awful bad. While your pawas rampin' around, he said he wouldn't have been surprised to see mecomin' home with a second-hand coffin in the back of the buggy. Who everheard of a second-hand coffin? I've always thought his mind wasunsettled by so much readin'.

  "I ain't a-sayin' but what some readin' is all right. Some folks hasjust moved over to the Ridge and the postmaster's wife was a-showin' mesome papers they get, every week. One is _The Metropolitan Weekly_, andthe other _The Housewife's Companion_. I must say, the stories in thosepapers is certainly beautiful.

  "Once, when they come after their mail, they was as mad as anythingbecause the papers hadn't come, but the postmaster's wife was readin'one of the stories and settin' up nights to do it, so she wa'n't toblame for not lettin' 'em go until she got through with 'em. They slipout of the covers just as easy, and nobody ever knows the difference.

  [Sidenote: The Doctor's Darling]

  "She was tellin' me about one of the stories. It's named _Lovely Lulu,or the Doctor's Darling_. Lovely Lulu is a little orphant who has to domost of the housework for a family of eight, and the way they abuse thatchild is something awful. The young ladies are forever puttin' ruffledwhite skirts into her wash, and makin' her darn the lace on their bluesilk mornin' dresses.

  "There's a rich doctor that they're all after and one day little Luluhappens to open the front-door for him, and he gets a good look at herfor the first time. As she goes upstairs, Arthur Montmorency--that's hisname--holds both hands to his heart and says, 'She and she only shall bemy bride.' The conclusion of this highly fascinatin' and absorbin'romance will be found in the next number of _The Housewife'sCompanion_."

  "Mother," suggested Roger, "why don't you subscribe for the papersyourself?"

  Miss Mattie dropped her knife and fork and gazed at him in open-mouthedastonishment. "Roger," she said, kindly, "I declare if sometimes youdon't remind me of my people more'n your pa's. I never thought of thatmyself and I dunno how you come to. I'll do it the very first time I godown to the store. The postmaster's wife can get the addresses withouttearin' off the covers, and after I get 'em read she can borrow mine,and not be always makin' the people at the Ridge so mad that she'srunnin' the risk of losin' her job. If you ain't the beatenest!"

  Basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, Rogerfinished his supper in peace. Afterward, while she was clearing up, heeven dared to take up the much-criticised book and lose himself oncemore in his father's beloved Emerson.


  * * * * *

  [Sidenote: Childish Memories]

  All his childish memories of his father had been blurred into one by themists of the intervening years. As though it were yesterday, he couldsee the library upstairs, which was still the same, and the grave,silent, kindly man who sat dreaming over his books. When the childentered, half afraid because the room was so quiet, the man had risenand caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almostcried out.

  "Oh, my son," came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness; "mydear little son!"

  [Sidenote: The Priceless Legacy]

  That was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of thebooks. The library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a manof discriminating, yet catholic, taste. The books had been used and werenot, as so often happens, merely ornaments. Page after page had beeninterlined and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich inmarginal notes, sometimes questioning in character, but indicatingalways understanding and appreciation.

  As soon as he learned to read, Roger began to spend his leisure hours inthis library. When he could not understand a book, he put it aside andtook up another. Always there were pictures and sometimes many of them,for in his later years Laurence Austin had contracted the baneful habitof extra-illustration. Never maternal, save in the limited physicalsense, Miss Mattie had been glad to have the child out of her way.

  Day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. Year byyear, Roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father, throughthe medium of the marginal notes. He wondered, sometimes, that a pencilmark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who madeit. It seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and lettersare the things that endure, in a world of transition and decay.

  The underlined passages and the marginal comments gave evidence of anextraordinary love of beauty, in whatever shape or form. And yet--theparlour, which was opened only on Sunday--was hideous with a gaudycarpet, stuffed chairs, family portraits done in crayon and inflictedupon the house by itinerant vendors of tea and coffee, and there was abasket of wax flowers, protected by glass, on the marble-topped"centre-table."

  The pride of Miss Mattie's heart was a chair, which, with incredibleindustry, she had made from an empty flour barrel. She had spoiled agood barrel to make a bad chair, but her thrifty soul rejoiced in herachievement. Roger never went near it, so Miss Mattie herself sat in iton Sunday afternoons, nodding, and crooning hymns to herself.

  [Sidenote: An Awful Chasm]

  "How did father stand it?" thought Roger, intending no disrespect. Heloved his mother and appreciated her good qualities, but he saw theawful chasm between those two souls, which no ceremony of marriage couldever span.

  [Sidenote: Roger Austin]

  In appearance, Roger was like his father. He had the same clear, darkskin, with regular features and kind, dark eyes, the same abundant, wavyhair, strong, square chin, and incongruous, beauty-loving mouth. He had,too, the lovable boyishness, which never quite leaves some fortunatemen. He was studying law in the judge's office, and hoped by anotheryear to be ready to take his examinations. After working hard all day,he found refreshment for mind and body in an hour or so at night spentwith the treasures of his father's library.

  "Let us buy our entrance to this guild with a long probation," readRoger. "Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intrudingupon them? Why insist upon rash personal relations with your friend? Whygo to his house, and know his mother and brother and sisters? Why bevisited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant?Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me----"

  "I've spoke twice," complained Miss Mattie, "and you don't hear me nomore'n your pa did."

  "I beg your pardon, Mother. I did not hear you come in. What is it?"

  "I was just a-sayin' that maybe those papers would be too expensive.Maybe I ought not to have 'em."

  "I'm sure they're not, Mother. Anyhow, you get them, and we'll make itup in some other way if we have to." Dimly, in the future, Roger sawlong, quiet evenings in which his disturbing influence should berendered null and void by the charms of _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor'sDarling_.

  [Sidenote: A Morning Call]

  "Barbara North sent her pa over here this morning to ask for some book.I disremember now what it was, but it was after you was gone."

  Roger's expressive face changed instantly. "Why didn't you tell mesooner, Mother?" He spoke with evident effort. "It's too late now for meto go over there."

  "There's no call for you to go over. They can send again. Miss Miriamcan come after it any time. They ain't got no business to let a blindold man like Ambrose North run around by himself the way they do."

  "He takes very good care of himself. He knew this place before he wasblind, and I don't think there is any danger."

  "Just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what I toldhim this morning. 'A blind old man like you,' says I, 'ain't got nobusiness chasin' around alone. First thing you know, you'll fall downand break a leg or arm or something.'"

  Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. "Mother!" he cried. "How canyou say such things!"

  "Why not?" she queried, imperturbably. "He knows he's blind, I guess,and he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do tospeak of it? Anyway," she added, piously, "I always say just what Ithink."

  Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forthrestlessly. "People who always say what they think, Mother," heanswered, not unkindly, "assume that their opinions are of greatimportance to people who probably do not care for them at all. Unlessdirectly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep therest to ourselves."

  "I was kind," objected Miss Mattie. "I was tellin' him he ought not totake the risk of hurtin' himself by runnin' around alone. I don't knowwhat ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa."

  [Sidenote: Dangerous Rocks]

  "How long had you and father known each other before you were married?"asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that willloom up in the best-regulated of conversations.

  "'Bout three months. Why?"

  "Oh, I just wanted to know."

  "I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now."Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed farinto space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lentto the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.

  "I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely.

  "Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir andI had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I cansmell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was openin Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lightedon Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't was yesterday.

  [Sidenote: Great Notions]

  "Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before wewas married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did."