He Fell In Love With His Wife, Edward Payson Roe [children's books read aloud .TXT] 📗

about as if possessed,

and he stopped to watch her. It soon became evident that she was trying to

get his supper. His heart relented at once in spite of himself. “The poor,

wronged child!” he muttered. “Why should I be so hard on her for doing what

she’s been brought up to do? Well, well, it’s too bad to send her away, but I

can’t help it. I’d lose my own reason if the mother were here much longer,

and if I kept Jane, her idiotic mother would stay in spite of me. If she

didn’t, there’d be endless talk and lawsuits, too, like enough, about

separating parent and child. Jane’s too young and little, anyway, to be here

alone and do the work. But I’m sorry for her, I declare I am, and I wish I

could do something to give her a chance in the world. If my wife was only

living, we’d take and bring her up, disagreeable and homely as she is; but

there’s no use of my trying to do anything alone. I fear, after all, that I

shall have to give up the old place and go—I don’t know where. What is to

become of her?”

 

Chapter XVI. Mrs. Mumpson’s Vicissitudes

 

Having completed her preparations for supper, Jane stole timidly up to

Holcroft’s room to summon him. Her first rap on his door was scarcely

audible, then she ventured to knock louder and finally to call him, but there

was no response. Full of vague dread she went to her mother’s room and said,

“He won’t answer me. He’s so awful mad that I don’t know what he’ll do.”

 

“I think he has left his apartment,” her mother moaned from the bed.

 

“Why couldn’t yer tell me so before?” cried Jane. “What yer gone to bed for?

If you’d only show some sense and try to do what he brought you here for, like

enough he’d keep us yet.”

 

“My heart’s too crushed, Jane—”

 

“Oh, bother, bother!” and the child rushed away. She looked into the dark

parlor and called, “Mr. Holcroft!” Then she appeared in the kitchen again,

the picture of uncouth distress and perplexity. A moment later she opened the

door and darted toward the barn.

 

“What do you wish, Jane?” said Holcroft, emerging from a shadowy corner and

recalling her.

 

“Sup—supper’s—ready,” sobbed the child.

 

He came in and sat down at the table, considerately appearing not to notice

her until she had a chance to recover composure. She vigorously used the

sleeve of both arms in drying her eyes, then stole in and found a seat in a

dusky corner.

 

“Why don’t you come to supper?” he asked quietly.

 

“Don’t want any.”

 

“You had better take some up to your mother.”

 

“She oughtn’t to have any.”

 

“That doesn’t make any difference. I want you to take up something to her,

and then come down and eat your supper like a sensible girl.”

 

“I aint been sensible, nor mother nuther.”

 

“Do as I say, Jane.” The child obeyed, but she couldn’t swallow anything but

a little coffee.

 

Holcroft was in a quandary. He had not the gift of speaking soothing yet

meaningless words, and was too honest to raise false hopes. He was therefore

almost as silent and embarrassed as Jane herself. To the girl’s furtive

scrutiny he did not seem hardened against her, and she at last ventured, “Say,

I didn’t touch them drawers after you told me not to do anything on the sly.”

 

“When were they opened? Tell me the truth, Jane.”

 

“Mother opened them the first day you left us alone. I told her you wouldn’t

like it, but she said she was housekeeper; she said how it was her duty to

inspect everything. I wanted to inspect, too. We was jes’ rummagin’—that’s

what it was. After the things were all pulled out, mother got the rocker and

wouldn’t do anything. It was gettin’ late, and I was frightened and poked ‘em

back in a hurry. Mother wanted to rummage ag’in the other day and I wouldn’t

let her; then, she wouldn’t let me have the keys so I could fix ‘em up.”

 

“But the keys were in my pocket, Jane.”

 

“Mother has a lot of keys. I’ve told you jes’ how it all was.”

 

“Nothing was taken away?”

 

“No. Mother aint got sense, but she never takes things. I nuther ‘cept when

I’m hungry. Never took anything here. Say, are you goin’ to send us away?’

 

“I fear I shall have to, Jane. I’m sorry for you, for I believe you would try

to do the best you could if given a chance, and I can see you never had a

chance.”

 

“No,” said the child, blinking hard to keep the tears out of her eyes. “I aint

had no teachin’. I’ve jes’ kinder growed along with the farm hands and rough

boys. Them that didn’t hate me teased me. Say, couldn’t I stay in your barn

and sleep in the hay?”

 

Holcroft was sorely perplexed and pushed away his half-eaten supper. He knew

himself what it was to be friendless and lonely, and his heart softened toward

this worse than motherless child.

 

“Jane,” he said kindly, “I’m just as sorry for you as I can be, but you don’t

know the difficulties in the way of what you wish, and I fear I can’t make you

understand them. Indeed, it would not be best to tell you all of them. If I

could keep you at all, you should stay in the house, and I’d be kind to you,

but it can’t be. I may not stay here myself. My future course is very

uncertain. There’s no use of my trying to go on as I have. Perhaps some day

I can do something for you, and if I can, I will. I will pay your mother her

three months’ wages in full in the morning, and then I want you both to get

your things into your trunk, and I’ll take you to your Cousin Lemuel’s.”

 

Driven almost to desperation, Jane suggested the only scheme she could think

of. “If you stayed here and I run away and came back, wouldn’t you keep me?

I’d work all day and all night jes’ for the sake of stayin’.”

 

“No, Jane,” said Holcroft firmly, “you’d make me no end of trouble if you did

that. If you’ll be a good girl and learn how to do things, I’ll try to find

you a place among kind people some day when you’re older and can act for

yourself.”

 

“You’re afraid ‘fi’s here mother’d come a-visitin,” said the girl keenly.

 

“You’re too young to understand half the trouble that might follow. My plans

are too uncertain for me to tangle myself up. You and your mother must go

away at once, so I can do what I must do before it’s too late in the season.

Here’s a couple of dollars which you can keep for yourself,” and he went up to

his room, feeling that he could not witness the child’s distress any longer.

 

He fought hard against despondency and tried to face the actual condition of

his affairs. “I might have known,” he thought, “that things would have turned

out somewhat as they have, with such women in the house, and I don’t see much

chance of getting better ones. I’ve been so bent on staying and going on as I

used to that I’ve just shut my eyes to the facts.” He got out an old account

book and pored over it a long time. The entries therein were blind enough,

but at last he concluded, “It’s plain that I’ve lost money on the dairy ever

since my wife died, and the prospects now are worse than ever. That Weeks

tribe will set the whole town talking against me and it will be just about

impossible to get a decent woman to come here. I might as well have an

auction and sell all the cows but one at once. After that, if I find I can’t

make out living alone, I’ll put the place in better order and sell or rent. I

can get my own meals after a fashion, and old Jonathan Johnson’s wife will do

my washing and mending. It’s time it was done better than it has been, for

some of my clothes make me look like a scarecrow. I believe Jonathan will

come with his cross dog and stay here too, when I must be away. Well, well,

it’s a hard lot for a man; but I’d be about as bad off, and a hundred-fold

more lonely, if I went anywhere else.

 

“I can only feel my way along and live a day at a time. I’ll learn what can

be done and what can’t be. One thing is clear: I can’t go on with this Mrs.

Mumpson in the house a day longer. She makes me creep and crawl all over, and

the first thing I know I shall be swearing like a bloody pirate unless I get

rid of her.

 

“If she wasn’t such a hopeless idiot I’d let her stay for the sake of Jane,

but I won’t pay her good wages to make my life a burden a day longer,” and

with like self-communings he spent the evening until the habit of early

drowsiness overcame him.

 

The morning found Jane dispirited and a little sullen, as older and wiser

people are apt to be when disappointed. She employed herself in getting

breakfast carelessly and languidly, and the result was not satisfactory.

 

“Where’s your mother?” Holcroft asked when he came in.

 

“She told me to tell you she was indisposed.”

 

“Indisposed to go to Lemuel Weeks’?”

 

“I ‘spect she means she’s sick.”

 

He frowned and looked suspiciously at the girl. Here was a new complication,

and very possibly a trick.

 

“What’s the matter with her?”

 

“Dunno.”

 

“Well, she had better get well enough to go by this afternoon,” he remarked,

controlling his irritation with difficulty, and nothing more was said.

 

Full of his new plans he spent a busy forenoon and then came to dinner. It

was the same old story. He went up and knocked at Mrs. Mumpson’s door, saying

that he wished to speak with her.

 

“I’m too indisposed to transact business,” she replied feebly.

 

“You must be ready tomorrow morning,” he called. “I have business plans which

can’t be delayed,” and he turned away muttering rather sulphurous words.

 

“He will relent; his hard heart will soften at last—” But we shall not weary

the reader with the long soliloquies with which she beguiled her politic

seclusion, as she regarded it. Poor, unsophisticated Jane made matters worse.

The condition of life among her much-visited relatives now existed again. She

was not wanted, and her old sly, sullen, and furtive manner reasserted itself.

Much of Holcroft’s sympathy was thus alienated, yet he partially understood

and pitied her. It became, however, all the more clear that he must get rid

of both mother and child, and that further relations with either of them could

only lead to trouble.

 

The following morning only Jane appeared. “Is your mother really sick?” he

asked.

 

“S’pose so,” was the laconic reply.

 

“You haven’t taken much pains with the breakfast, Jane.”

 

“‘Taint no use.”

 

With knitted brows he thought deeply, and silently ate the wretched meal which

had been prepared. Then, remarking that he might do some writing, he went up

to a small attic room which had been used occasionally by a hired man. It

contained a covered pipe-hole leading into the chimney flue. Removing the

cover, he stopped