They thought from little things that came to mind afterward2, that she must have been prepared for it, but forebore to trouble them with a presentiment3 of what could not in any case have been much longer delayed: she had clung to them more and been still more loath4 to trouble them with her wants. The Saturday before, she had made Effie understand that she wished all the photographs of my father brought together, queer, little old daguerrotypes of him as a young man, a tintype of him in his volunteer soldier dress, and a large, faded photo of him as an officer leaning on his sword. She kept them by her and would be seen poring upon them, as though she tried to fix the identity of one about to be met under unfamiliar5 or confusing circumstances, though they did not think of this until afterward. The Sunday of her death Cousin Judd had come in to sit with her, as his custom was, an hour earlier than the morning service. He had read the day's lesson from the Bible and sung the hymn6, and then after an interval7 Effie, who was busy about the back of the house, heard him sing again my mother's favourite hymn,
and as he sung she saw the tears rolling down his face. So she turned her back on them and let them say their good-byes without her, though she had no notion how near the final parting was.
Forester was dressing—he and Effie had taken turns at church-going ever since mother's stroke—and he was surprised to find that Cousin Judd had gone off without him. Mother clung to him when he went to kiss her good-bye; she struggled with her impotence, but they made out that it was not because she wanted him to stay at home with her; and for the first time since her illness she wished not to be propped10 up at the window where she could sign to the neighbours going by, but seemed to want greatly to sleep. Effie wheeled her into the corner of the sitting room; and a little later she noticed that mother's head had slipped down on the pillow as it did sometimes, past her power to lift it up again. So my sister straightened the poor head with a kiss and went back to getting the dinner. She moved softly because mother seemed asleep, but at last when she went as usual to tell her that Forester was visible at the end of the street, on the way home, she saw that the head had slipped down again, and this time as she lifted it up there was no life in it at all.
One of the strange incidents of that morning, and yet not strange when you think how much they had been to one another, was that Cousin Judd, though he had started home directly after church, could not get there, but when he had driven a little way out of town, drawn11 by he knew not what unseen force, turned back and pulled up in front of our door just as the doctor who had been summoned hastily was saying that mother had been dead an hour.
It was Monday morning when I arrived, and the funeral could not be until Tuesday, to allow time for the news to penetrate12 to all the distant country places from which my mother's relatives would be drawn to it, moved and anxious to come, though many of them had not seen her for a matter of years. I think I realized at once how it would be about my getting back to Chicago, especially when I spoke13 to Effie about it. She cried out and clung to me in a way that made me see that I stood for something more to her than just sisterliness. Without saying anything I wrote to Mr. Coleman that I should be detained a week or longer, and that though I hoped he would be able to save my place for me, I didn't really expect that he would.
It was not in the Taylorville cemetery14 that we buried my mother, but in a little plot set aside from the old Judd place, along with the rest of the Wilsons, Judds, and Jewetts, those that had dropped back peacefully to their native sod, and those sent home from Gettysburg and Appomattox. It was a longish ride; from turn to turn of the country road, teams dropped into the procession that led out from town. On either side the woods blazed like the ranked Cherubim, host on host; great shoals of fiery15 leaves lay in the shallows of the burying ground. At the last, shaken by the light breeze that sprung up, little flamy darts16 from the oak whirled into the grave with her. They were to say in their own fashion that there was nothing more natural. I think my mother must have found it so.
We had scarcely got home again, still sitting about, veiled and voluminous, when I was drawn out of grief to meet Effie's emergency. It was Almira Jewett who brought me face to face with it. Almira had taken off her things and was getting tea for us in her brisk, capable way.
"Anyhow," she said, "I 'spose you'll stay with your sister until she gets sort of used to things." It flashed on me that what she was expected to get used to, was going on just as she had been without the excuse of my mother's needing her.
"My land!" said Almira Jewett, "you talking of the breakin' up and your mother ain't hardly out of the house yet. They do say there's nothing like play-acting to make you nimble in your feelings." I knew of course that they would lay it to the defibricating influence of my profession that I should take the breaking up of my mother's home so lightly, but I had caught a brief hiatus in Effie's sobs18 and I realized that what the poor child was afraid of, was being hypnotized into a situation against which her natural good sense revolted. I was bracing19 myself against the tradition of filial obligation that I felt was going to be put in force against me, when suddenly help arrived from an unsuspected quarter.
"I 'spose you're going with a troupe20 yet?" Cousin Lydia interposed, for the first time in her life, I believe, delivering herself of a conclusion. "It's a pity, because if you was anyways settled you could take Effie with you. Forester was a good son;" she ruminated21 on that for a while. "He was what you call a real model son, but I don't know as I want to see Effie married to him the same as your mother was." It gave me a shock to think that all these years she must have been seeing how things were.
"She shan't," I assured her, "not if I have to stay with Forrie myself." I had thought a good many times what was to become of Effie. I couldn't take her with me, of course, but I wasn't in the least prepared to see her intrigued22 by the popular sentiment into becoming a mere23 figurehead for Forester's rôle of provider. "Keeping up a home" they called it in Taylorville, as though the house and furniture and the daily habit of coming back to it, were the pivotal facts of existence.
It almost seemed as if it might come to that. After the others were all gone and the night closed in on us three, the spirit of the dead came and stood among us. Effie wept in Forrie's arms and said that he should not be quite bereft24, he should have her anyway.
"You poor child ... you've got a brother left; you too, Olivia. You shan't want for a home while I live." That of course was the sort of thing Taylorville expected of him. It began to seem as if I might have to make good my word about staying with my brother to let Effie free. I believe he would have accepted that without even a suspicion of what I surrendered by it. If anything, he would have seen in it only another dramatization of his rôle of dutifulness. That a woman had any preferred employment beside cushioning life for the males of her family, had not impinged on the consciousness of Taylorville.
But the very next morning I awoke anew to the purpose of rescuing Effie, and to the recollection of an incident of the funeral, noted25 but not taken into the reckoning in the stress of more absorbing emotions.
"Effie, wasn't that Mrs. Jastrow I saw at the cemetery yesterday with her head done up in a black veil—crape, too? I have just recalled it." Effie nodded.
"One would have thought," I resented, "that she was one of the family."
"Ah, that's it; she thinks she is."
"One of the family? Oh! you don't mean that Forrie——Where was Lily then?" I demanded.
"She wouldn't come, of course, not being recognized as one of the family and yet counting herself one."
"But, explain ... how could she? I thought that was broken off long ago."
"When mother was first taken," Effie agreed, "but you see she made such a dead set at him, she had to keep it up somehow; she couldn't admit that Forrie hadn't wanted her. So they made it up between them, Lily and her mother, I mean, that she and Forrie had really been engaged, but it had been broken off because Forrie couldn't marry so long as mother——" She broke off with tears again, remembering how mother was now.
"That was two years ago; you don't mean to say they've kept it up all the time?"
"They've had to. You see Lily hadn't been careful about not getting herself talked about with Forester. Oh, not scandal, of course, but you know how it is when a girl is crazy after a man; everybody gets to hear of it. And then they had to make so much of the engagement never coming to anything on mother's account, it quite spoiled Lily's chances, and you know, Forester...."
"Oh, he was taken in by it, no doubt; it was something to sentimentalize over and be self-sacrificing about."
"Well, of course, he couldn't quite abandon the poor girl; and she really is fond of him."
"And perfectly27 safe to philander28 with. Well, now that he has no one depending on him I suppose he will marry her!"
"That's what is worrying me," protested Effie; "you see it all depends on whether I go on depending on him." She broke down over that. Mother hadn't wanted Forester to marry Lily Jastrow, and everybody by the mouth of Almira Jewett, had thought it was Effie's duty to keep him from it if she could.
"And I could, by just staying on. It's mother's money in the business, your's and mine as much as his, and this house ... it's partly ours ... if we stay in it."
"Well if you want to...."
Effie came over and sobbed29 on my shoulder, "Oh, I don't," she said. "I suppose it is horrid30 and selfish. I'm fond of Forrie, but I want to do things in the world ... like you have ... and I want to marry and have babies. Oh, oh!" She was quite overwhelmed with the turpitude31 of it.
"You shall, you shall," I determined32 for her.
"Oh, Olivia, I have wanted you so. I knew you'd understand. It was all right so long as mother lived; I could do anything for her, but now I want—I want to be me!" I understood very well what that want was. But first off I had to explain to Effie why I couldn't take her with me. It was wonderful how she entered into my feeling about my work, and my lack of success in Chicago.
"Of course, you ought to go to New York. You'll be a great tragic33 actress, Olive, I know that. You could go, too, if you could get your share out of the business. You could have mine and yours!" She glowed over it. But the fact was we couldn't get the money out of the business. As it stood we couldn't have sold the shop for what mother had put into it, and, besides, we should have had to deal first with Forester's conviction that he was taking care of our shares for us. I needn't have worried about Effie; she was too pretty and competent not to have arranged for herself. The principal and his wife drove over from Montecito to say that they would be glad to have her come back and finish the course interrupted within a few months of graduation by my mother's illness. And for her board and tuition she was to act as the principal's secretary. Within a year she wrote that she was engaged to their son.
In the meantime I undertook to stop the capacious maw of Forrie's need of being important; and the only way I saw to do it, involved my surrender of any hope I had of finding my own release in what my mother had left us of my father's hard won savings34. I shouldn't have had any compunction, so fierce was my own need of success, about forcing my brother's hand, but I meant definitely not to leave any gap in his life for Effie to be drawn back into. Before we had come to this point, the second afternoon after the funeral in fact, circumstances had begun to work for me. Effie and I, looking out of the window, saw Mrs. Jastrow coming along by the front fence with all her gentility spread, as it were, by the feeling she had of her call on us being a diplomatic function.
"Her coming to the funeral as one of the family? Well, how do we take it, Effie?"
"Mother couldn't bear the idea of it." Tears came into my sister's eyes; I could see the wings of self-immolation hovering36 over her.
"Look here, Effie, you go and take home Mrs. Endsleigh's spoons." There had been so many out of town connections dropping in for a meal that we had been obliged to fall back on our nearest neighbour.
"Lily's respectable, isn't she? and Forester has encouraged her. Well, you don't want to spoil the poor girl's life, do you?"
"Oh," said Effie, "oh, Olivia!" I could see she was torn between compunction and admiration37 for my way of putting it on high moral grounds. I heard her counting out the spoons in the kitchen as I went to let Mrs. Jastrow in.
I think she didn't know any more than Effie did, what to make of my manner of receiving her. She sat on the edge of a chair and snivelled a little into a handkerchief which was evidently her husband's, but it was chiefly, I could see, because she had come prepared to snivel and couldn't quickly adjust herself to my change of base.
"Poor Lily," she moaned, "she thought such a lot of Mr. Lattimore's mother; but I tell her she must bear up."
"She must indeed," I assured her. "Forester needs all the sympathy he can get just now." I could see her peeping over the top of her handkerchief, trying to guess what to make of that; but the sentimental26 was easy for her.
"That's what I tell her; they'll have to comfort each other. Them poor young things, they'd ought to be together. But Lily's so sensitive she couldn't bear to put herself forward."
"I'll tell Forrie you called," I assured her.
Mrs. Jastrow fanned herself with her damp handkerchief; her poor little pretence38 broke quite down under my friendliness39.
"He's got to marry her," she whispered. "Lily's been talked about, and he's got to." I could guess suddenly what it meant to her to have reached up so desperately40 for something better for her daughter than she had been able to manage for herself, and to come so near not getting it. I was able to put something like sympathy into my voice when I spoke to Forester at supper.
"Mrs. Jastrow called to-day. She says Lily isn't bearing up as she might. I suppose you ought to go and see her!"
Effie's eyes grew round at me over the teacups, but after all Forrie didn't know what had passed between mother and me in regard to Lily. If I chose to take his relation to her as a matter of course, he couldn't object to it. We heard Forrie in his room changing his collar before he went back to the shop again.
"He'll go to her to-night after he closes up," Effie told me. "It will end with her getting him."
"So long as he doesn't get you——" But it was unfair to put ideas like that in Effie's head. "After all it is a very good match for him in some ways; she'll always look up to him, and that is what Forrie needs."
It was natural to Effie to judge every situation by what it had for those concerned; she wasn't troubled as I was by the pressure of an outside ideal. By the end of a month, when I thought of going back to the city, it was tacitly understood that as soon as convenient Forester was to marry Lily Jastrow. He meant, however, to be fair with us both about the property; he had given us notes for our share, and expected to pay interest. The note wasn't negotiable, as I learned immediately, and the interest wasn't any more than Effie would need for her clothing. I felt that the jaws41 of destiny which had opened to let Effie out, had closed on me instead. I returned to Chicago early in November; my place with the Coleman players had long been filled, and there was nothing whatever to do.
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1
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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2
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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6
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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7
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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8
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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9
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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10
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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12
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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13
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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14
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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15
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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16
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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17
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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18
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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19
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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21
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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22
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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26
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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27
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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28
philander
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| v.不真诚地恋爱，调戏 | |
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29
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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30
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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31
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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32
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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33
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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34
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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35
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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36
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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37
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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38
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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39
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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40
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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41
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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