The Storyteller

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2455, 20 March 1909, Page 10 (Supplement)

T he Storyteller

THE STEPMOTHER. “You arc going in town to the emorial service*, Dan?” questioned .o' woman. Her voice .was appealing. Tho young fellow standing at tholoorly shifted his position.impatiently. He is twenty-three, tall ami brawny. \ars of labor on tho farm had dovelopliis limbs and toughened his muscles, iter in life he would bo stooped and ambling, as are'those who follow the ougli and guide the harrow 'after the ■ys of youthful manhood had passed. )W In? was straight and stately, and the lossal symmetry of his frame was good : loo'k upon. His cotton shirt, falling ose at the neck, revealed a triangle sunburnt skin. His low-browed, rong-featured face was copper red So. The jaw was heavy—the chin uare. The blue eyes he turned on e woman had the sullenness of one 10 expects opposition. “Yes. I’m a-goin’.” . . <! Jn the new buggy?”

e nodded. There was a silence which wistfully for him to break.

3 he'said nothing, she picked up the wing which lay in her lap. “I was hoping I could get to go," L e said, speaking in a plaintive moiione produced by colorless years of self-

pression and self-denial. “I’ve been eiy time ivhori.T could take or leave ie children. It’s a year since I’ve ;en to town.” Her needle was susffided. She looked afar over the nindless expanse of prairie with weary r es. “My father and brother arc tried over the hill there. Little üby—she’s there too. She died when O was but eight. She was the greatchild for flowers! The weeds even flowers to her. I guess she’d know Sphere were some put on her grave.” S'gain there was silence, she sending

m eager, furtive glances; he staring it where an ocean of oats tossed turalently in the glaring sunshine. " “Even if the celebration brings, sad lought,” she went on, “it’s kind of leerful, too. There’s so many folks in iwn. There’s the flags—and the music, lie girls have new hats and dresses. ;’s sociable-like. There hasn’t been a ml to this bouse since Christmas, hen it was only some campers whose ■aggon broke down. But it seemed bod to see them, even.”

“Look here, mother,” lie broke out,

l know you ain’t got much pleasure, [d like you could fix to go. But as |f .me drivin’ you in—well, I promised !> take Christina Marks.”

She said nothing, but the look that

iivered out on her face made him set s teeth hard for an instant. Then with scarlet blotch burning on each cheek, ie took- up her sewing again and went i stitching—stitching. The. home of the Carneys was a forfn/place; Thero was no timber in M-xegion. The small, shabby house «|fied-upon, the bluff was exposed to hitter winds of winter and to the rridst,;:malignant furnace blasts- of miner. It was nineteen years since iv£ij, Carney had married for the secdrtiine. Then, he and liis two sturdy ys/hud sadly needed tlie ministraiffs/ai/a woman. The girl he married is/ young and romantic. She pitied ‘jiff/ihe' mistook her exquisite symtliyVfor .the divine passion itself, lien'-he; -traded his business in the stif for. a rocky Nebraska farm, and

pt.Ctovlive where his lack of experice capricious climate coniffns .-together conspired against him, j outcome was despondency-and futile ;i;et. , He not only i ailed to do one ng Well; he succeeded in- doing many ngs ill. He credited fate with pecuL perversity towards himself—with almost personal antagonism. Dysisia, that grim demon evoked by mhouse viands, became a consant

m'ent. Insomnia duly followed. Pesiism, the prompt hand-maid of these, ited upon them. So he became pmy and unreasonable, except when '.depression was temporarily ; merged i'he maudlin amiability of liquor, ft was upon the woman, however, jt the burdens of failure pressed most, fvily. She-had been a brave and ■ant young creature, .but the cowice >and shrinking selfishness of the’ i she married ate into the core of 'being like an acid. one knew better than she that work i long before light on winter morns,, . from the first streak of pearl in: mer skies, was hard. She knew that arty was a rabid, a relentless thing, knew that it made potty those who Id be great and generous,' that it sred hands that .would fain be ex 7 ed in royal generosity ; that none it scale its ramparts which barred, possible -ambitions—pleasures —joys! those- she accepted—the poverty the toil. At - the melancholy of ;ia surrounding her she rebelled, dreaded its contagion. She re--1 to have' her "heritage of k hope tod from lier. She would hot live i atmosphere of rayless foreboding, denied the right' of one man'*to emu her to profound and enduring intent. '• She was not one of those succumb;to adversity willingly. So mail? a hard fight. Occasionally conquered—less ' frequently as the 3 : ; went by. The .’struggle told on She lost expectancy of expression elasticity of step'. - Child-bearing shild-rearing "were part of her haniped existence. . — v.;‘-"C

Now a fresh fear had arisen. Whai ' if Dan were to marry—Dan, upon whonj they all depended, rather than upon tlie moping, misanthropic father 1 , “Dan !” Her voice sounded strange to herself, and she waited until slit Could speak as usual. “Ban, wliat would we all do without you ” J She had been a school teacher in hoi youth, and she spoke with a correct ness and .a precision which, although marred by occasional idioms, still dis ( tiiiguished her speech from the lingual ( slovenliness of the Western farm woman.

“Oh, I guess you’d git along!’ A dull, slow color had crept into his face “It’s goin’ to be a good year. Hick could take my place.”

Hick —take —liis place! He was thinking, then—-he was going to —— “We—we can’t depend on Hick l” she ■murmured...- A vision of Hick rose be '.fore her—gaypleasure-loving, . incon si derate Hick! , She.smiled a sad smile. “I didn’t tl i'nk . .Ch r i sti u a was the kinc •of girl"you’d take a fancy to,-Ban.” • He swung round. " , “What/ he demanded, “have yotf got agin her?” ...

Her -work fell on her lap. She clasped her thin, knobby-jointed hands upon it, and looked'up at, her stepson. She was a frail little body, gowned in the everlasting print wrapper of the prairie housekeeper. Her large hazel cyfcs were bright—too bright. She breathed quickly. She had lost two of her front teeth. To have them replaced would be an extravagance not to be considered. Frequently when speaking she lifted her. hand with a nervous gesture and covered her mouth.

“She’s frivolous, Han. She likes admiration—all pretty clothes—” “Is that all? What girl don’t,

mother?” “It seems to me,” she went on hurriedly, “that your—your marriage to her would be a—a mistake! j-hink it over a hit ” “Think it over!” he burst out. “Mother, you didn’t use to want to stand in my way! Bon’t you s’pose 1 have thought it over? Bo you think I'm goin’ to be dray horse for all’s here —two of ’em as well able to work as me—all the born days of my bull life?”

The hot May sun streamed down on him. She could see hils ■ great chest i ising and falling, and the muscles of bis arms working under the worn sleeves of his shirt.

“You have more than your share of the work!” she admitted. Her voice tailed her again. ; A stray sunbeam glinted on her needle—nil idle needle just then. “And—l don’t want to stand in your way, Dan. Only—you’ve always seemed like my hoy—the only boy I. ever had! Maybe I’m saying siiis to you about Tina because—because I want to keep you.” Her hungry eyes never left his face. “Perhaps—l’m—l’m just making excuses. Perhaps ”

The scarlet blotches faded in her cheeks. She picked up her sewing again, but the hands trembled over the coarse cotton cloth. She could not ply the glittering little., implement she held. Suddenly she went deathly pale. She ]ay back, drawing her breath in short, soft gasps. “Mother!”, cried the young fellow. “Mother!” “It’s nothing,” she panted. “Noth-

mg But her lips took on a bluish tinge, and after a faint shiver she lay quite still. He dashed out to the well for water, brought it to her, forced her to swallow it. He watched her anxiously, all his eullenness gone, as she shuddered back to consciousness. “I didn’t mean to rile you, mother," he said. “But seems like I couldn’t boar to have you cornin’ between Christina an’ me.” • He had dropped on one knee beside her chair in a bewilderment of dumb and clumsy penitence. “I know it’s hard for you,” she murmured. “You are young and it’s hard for you.” The tired tears were slipping down her cheeks. . “It ain’t dead easy for you, mother.” “Oh, don’t think of me !” ! “We don’t. We’ve got out of the way of thinking of you.” Her little skinny arm lay near him. Tfc never occurred to him to give it a gentle touch. They are chary of careess—the prairie people. Perfunctory kisses are given -at the marriage feast or before the burial—but even these are few and far between. He stumbled to his feet, ashamed of the compassionate impulse which- had temporarily mastered him. The woman rose, too.

“It’s time to get supper,” she said ‘They’ll be in soon.”

But as she crossed the kitchen to set her work aside she suddenly put Ter band to her breast—stood stiU. One stride and Ban was beside her. “You’re not forgittin’ what the doctor said?” he questioned. “That if you got vsoairt—or —or hurt, an’ had another heart spell you was like—like to—”"; - • She flashed around on him. Suddenly her face was young, yearning, eager. , “Oh,’ she cried breatlessly, “Oh, I was forgetting,! Do you thing—” But as suddenly as it had come the brilliance waned. She shook her head.

“No-—I shall no die—not soon/’ she said. ' :

She went on filling the little 'rusted ■itovc. with cobs. Dan did not offer to assist her. The attitude of a young Western farmer to his mother is that of an Indian to his squaw. All domestic drudgery properly pertains to her, “I’ll go out ■ an’ take a look at the young peach trees,” he said. ‘“They’re coinin’ on.fine. This’ll be the second year of bearin’. = There ought be enough made out’n ’em to pay dad for the hogs the cholery got.” “What you talkin' 1 about?”' rasped a dolorous voice. “Them peaches? They’ll be some, maybe. But the. nursery man fooled me on the settins." He didn’t give mer the Baltimore beauties I bought off’n him—on’y the common kind. An’ the common kind is dreadful plenty. It’s the best that fetches the price. Every one’s again me. Every one cheats me. I alius had the worst uck of any one I ever knowed.” . He sank into the. only comfortable ■hair 'the room, afforded, a limp heap if inactive humanity. He watched the .roman preparing supper.

“There’s them,” he announced: placidly, arousing himself from a.trance of Indolent content.. '

“Them” came tumbling in, a ffiotoiis,. - roystoring, healthy brood. They laughed, and mocked, and fought/ and ’mrst into peals of laughter. The head of the: house regarded them with bland interest..

: “Seems,like,” lie. remarked, “I ain’t never so happy as when I a’sittin’, so to speak, .in the bosom of my fanibly.” His conciliatory manner was oiie to incite distrust. His wife sent him a swift glance. “Have you been to town?” she asked. He declared that lie had not been to town. That even if he had she knew better than to suppose that he would go into the Owl-King—or near the OwlKing, or——

Hick, perfumed, pomaded, and iff his Sunday best, canie clattering down the ladder-like stairway. “Hurry up, mother. I’m goin’ in town to a strawberry festival at the; Methodist Church. Here, Holly, you got your supper. You let me set there.” Holly protested with a howl. Dick pi eked, her up and deposited her on the floor, where she appeared to shrink together like a callapsible drinking cup. When Han came in from his aimless tramp through the orchard the owner of the farm was sunk in stertorous oblivion. The last child had been tucked in bed. last utensil had been washed and set aside. And the woman, sitting by the kitchen table, in the dull light.of the kerosene lamp, was sewing, stitching into Han’s denim shirt rebellion, (regret, resentment—love.’ That one unselfish love of all doves!

Christina Marks was waiting for Dan when he drove up. She was a slender, brown-haired girl, clad, in the inevitable white lawn and fluttering ribbons of? the prairie belle. She was not pretty, but she was charming. There was a fresh wholesomeness about her as pleasant as the scent of wild-plum blossoms. Her quiet eyes held a look of reserve. They were eyes which might., indeed,

Keep back a daring lover Or comfort a grioving child

“I’m late.” He had jumped down and was helping her into the buggy. “It’s a fine morning but I’m afraid it’s going to blow up a bit.” She looked away to the horizon with the keen and prescient vision of those who are prairie-born. “It will be a dust storm, I think'.’ ’ The little town presented its usual Memorial -Day appearance, which was that of festivity—festivity, however, the most seemly and decorous. But—as Dan’s stepmother had remarked—the flags, flowers, music, the groups promenading in their finest attire., the uniforms of the band of bent veterans, the gold-lettered badges of the Women’s Relief Corps, the importance and celerity of the few officials on horseback, the forming of the parade, the deliberate .progress to the church, the singing, the speeches, even the bulging baskets in the back of the waggons,' were “sociable-like.” • Dan enjoyed neither the day nor the propinquity of the girl he loved. His brow was contracted. He spoke, seldom!: His companion wondered—silently. She was wise enough to know that to question a secretive man is to invoke a lie. The dust storm she, had prophesied did come, At first there was only the most infantile—the most' ineffectual little breeze. The tiny spirals of dost rose in ' the country roads. Suddenly the tawny spirals were as tall as waterspouts. The increasing wind, bellowing up from Kansas, blew the dust into a curtain—a wall—an encompassing, enveloping fog. Dan, urging his horses homeward, tried to protect Christina. He pulled up the buggy top. He gave

her his silk handkerchief to tie. over .her eyes. But the man does not live who

i can combat a Nebraska dust stonn. The yellowish powder sifted in through the joints of the canopy. It stung the flesh like the bites of myriad infinitesimal insects. It grimed the lap-robe and . the girl’s white gown. It maddened the old farm horses until they were mettle-1 some as pastured colts.. It pierced, and penetrated, and choked, and blinded. And all the time the wind sen*, the buggy careening, screeched in the ears of its occupants, and howled in. its fury after each rare pause to take breath. All the time, too, the sun blazed down—: a great , blotch of deep orange seen

through saffron clouds. “I shan’t;let yoii out. at your house,” Dan shouted. “I’ll take the short cut to our place. There is something I want to tell you.” The violence of the storm was spent when they turned into the narrow road . that zigzagged towards the desolate house on the bluff. Han slackened rein. At last he could make himself -heard. “Tina,” he blurted out, “I asked you to marry me. I didn’t know then — anyways I didn’t think. But J s’posed we could git married this fall. Now —well, now we can’t. I’ve thought it over good an’ hard—an’ we can’t. I got- to stick by mother a while longer. Maybe this year—-maybe, all next, too. 1 I don’t suppose now you’ll want to keep comp’ny with me no longer. But,” doggedly, “I got to stick by mother.” ) She turned her grave eyes on him. ( The illimitable love in them dazzled him. ] His-heart plunged. . J “I wouldn’t think, much of you,” she ( said, “if you didn’t stick by your mother after all she’s done for you. My mother, often told me before she died how strong and pretty Mis’ Carney was when she first come out to Nebraska. She said how nice she kep’ you an’ Dick—always good clothes an’ the best of everything for you, when she didn’t have a stuff dress to her hack. I’ll wait for you, Han.” “Tina !” lie cried. “Tina !” lie ventured again. But the pain'in his throat precluded speech. He yelled to the; horses. They forged ahead. Suddenly Tina leaned forward — clutched his arm. .“Look, Han, look! ’What’s wrong? The children are running down the bluff. They’re coming this way. An’ your father—he’s beckonin’! There’s Mis’ Harrowsby—l know her cape —an’ Mis’ Peterson. Hurry—-hurry!” “Oh, my God !” muttered Dan. The world seemed to reel away from him. Tina’s hand steadied him. Tina’s voice recalled him. All at once he was standing up —was lashing the horses. “I wish I’d taken her!” tlie girl heard him cry. “I wish to God I’jl taken her! She wanted so to go in this Memorial Day!” “Hush, Dan! Hush dear! It will.be all right!” Some one was at the horses’ heads. He hurled -himself out of the buggy—was in the house. “We don’t know just how it happened,” one of the whispering group in tho kitchen was saying. “She was alone when the storm came up.” . “She went-out to drive the young calves under shelter,” interposed an-

other. “A-loose, scantlin’ struck her in the side,” volunteered a third. “She ain’t been real strong or late "anyhow. That heart trouble’s awful onreliablo. the doctor? Can’t git him. He’s over in Kansas. Mis’ Peterson knows well as him, though.’ She. ’lows there ain’t anythin’ to be. done.” Dan pushed by them into the little poor best bedroom. Hi 6 stepmother lay on the pine bedstead. The patchwork quilt was drawn to her chin. He fell on his knees beside her. His head dropped on his clenched hands. His shoulders were heaving. She lifted one weak arm and laid it around his neck. “Look at —me —Han.” He lifted his haggard eyes to liersj which were sweet and luminous. “Dan,” went on the voice, which seemed to come from a distance, “I’m —l’m sorry for what I said—about Tina. She is dear —she is good—like her mother before her.” “Mother—she is here.” “Yes—l can see her now. lam glad -r-very glad. But—-Dan.” A woman came in, insisting the sufferer should v not speak. The workworn hand was imperious then as any 7 which ever swayed a sceptre. At its light motion the intruder left the room. “Dan—where are you? Listen!” “I am listening, mo.ther.” “Don’t make Tina’s life—too hard! Women are not fitted—to bear—as much as—men. They—must—hear— more. Men love women, only—they—don’t understand. This is Memorial Day.”. Her hand found his rough head and rested there. “I hope, you’ll remember—every Memorial Day—about Tina.' And that a woman isn’t always —well, or —happy-—just, because she keeps on her —feet- —and doesn’t—complain.. And let her know—you—” Greyness swept over her face like an obliterating billow. “Mother!” he sobbed hoarsely, “Mother!” Tlie bed shook to the beat of liis breast.

“Little Dan,” she. was saying softly. “No—l can’t think he’s my stepson. He’s my boy.” The hand on his head moved caressingly. “Such prettypretty curls! My boy—the only boy I ever had.” . Then she was whispering about Ruby, the little, sister who had died when she wasn’t-but eight. The little child who had loved all flowers—to , whom the weeds were flowers.