three days after the homing birds flitting about the old foundry on the river road witnessed the betrothal of george and helen, mrs. george william cutter was seen to issue from her residence at five o’clock in the afternoon. it was barely possible at any time to do this on wiggs street without being observed by the secret eyes of your neighbors and exciting a purely private interest in where you were going. but it was absurdly impossible for mrs. cutter to have escaped on this occasion without exciting the liveliest curiosity, owing to the way she looked and her obvious destination, as compared with what she had been saying quite freely for the last three months to any one who wanted to know what her feelings and opinions were concerning a certain matter.
her hair was crimped, although this was thursday and she never put it up on hairpins except on saturday nights “for sunday.” she wore a small,[84] glistening, lavender straw hat wreathed in lilacs of that shade of pink grown only by milliners. a helpless thing securely pinned on, which somehow gave the impression of having involuntarily drawn back from her face in a mild flowerlike terror of this face. any one seeing her might have understood the feelings of this hat. her countenance seemed to burn, probably from the summer heat, possibly from some fiery emotion. her red brown eyes spat sparks, her neck was bowed until she accomplished what nature had not designed she should have, a wrinkle that made a thin double chin.
her frock was of gray silk, high at the neck, tight at the waist, full in the skirt, “garnished” with three graduated bands of satin ribbon above a flounce at the bottom. it rustled richly as she walked, and she fairly crimped the ground as she walked, taking short, emphatic steps, as if the high heels of her slippers were stings with which she stung whatever was lawful for an indignant woman to sting with her heels.
she was on her way to helen adams and her mother. she had tried to reason with george about this hasty marriage. she had pointed out to him that while the girl was a nice girl, and so on and so forth, only to have george fling[85] out of the room as if she had insulted him. she had talked to mr. cutter about it, who had told her briefly, if not rudely, that she had better mind her own business and leave these young people to attend to theirs since they would do it, anyhow. as if george was not, and had not been, her own and chief business from the day of his birth. she had moped and suffered these three days. at last she had resolved to do her duty, since it was the only thing left that she could do. she would go and call on the adamses, “recognize” them, and thus by the sacrifice of her pride and convictions, reinstate herself with george.
the lot of a mother was a sad one! she had the pangs by which her child, in this case a son, was born. she nursed him. she had the care of him, never thinking of herself. then when he was old enough to give her some returns, he goes off against her advice and gives himself to another woman who, she knows, and will live to see, is unsuited to him, and on top of all this she must sacrifice her feelings, stultify herself, boot-lick george by going over there! she was so moved to pity of herself that the imminence of tears reminded her that she had forgotten her handkerchief. she went back to get it, thus keeping[86] the neighbors in suspense, because she had to stop and powder her nose after blowing it.
this time she came out, moving swiftly and rustlingly across the street to the adams cottage. she did not doubt that she would be received cordially there. she did not know that mrs. adams had ceased to “speak” to her some time ago, because she had never been more than civil to mrs. adams, and therefore would not have known if that lady had passed a year without speaking to her.
she was received, of course, but by no stretch of imagination could the reception have been called cordial. mrs. adams did it. she asked her in, and admitted coolly that yes, helen was at home. she would “tell” her. she went out to do this. mrs. cutter’s eyes took one flight about the room. she made the best of what she saw. there certainly were some good pieces of golden oak in it. she wondered if the girl would be allowed to take her piano when she married. she hoped—
mrs. adams returned, large, serene, dignified, very cool. she hoped mrs. cutter had been well?
oh, yes, quite well, thanks.
then she told mrs. cutter voluntarily that if she had not been worried to death about helen[87] she supposed she might have been in her usual health.
mrs. cutter raised her brows and said she hoped there was nothing the matter with helen.
oh, no, the child was well and sillily happy, but this engagement!
the two women stared at each other, ice and fire in these looks. mrs. cutter was astounded. did her ears deceive her? they did not.
mrs. adams was speaking in her large, welkin-ringing voice, distinctly audible in the street, across the street, for that matter. helen was too young to marry, she was saying. she had not finished school. she had expected to give her the best advantages in music. helen had talent, a future before her. but what good would talent do a married woman?
she asked mrs. cutter this and paused for a reply if mrs. cutter could make one. evidently she could not.
no good in the world! mrs. adams retorted by way of answering herself. the less personal promise she had of a future, the better it was for a married woman. to have a gift in you that you could not develop made for unhappiness. and what time would helen have for her music now? none. what use would she have for it?[88] practically none. and helen had a very nice little talent for drawing. she had painted several placques, waving her hand at the evidences of her daughter’s art on the walls of the parlor. it was there—a placque the size of a dinner plate full of pansies, another one with roses painted on it.
mrs. cutter’s eyes flew up obedient to these artless efforts in art, and immediately resumed their position on mrs. adams’ face, which was as full of meaning as the portrait of a dutch mother done by an old master.
“of course you don’t know how i feel about it. you have never had a daughter,” she told mrs. cutter. “but i can tell you what it means. your whole life is centered in her. you sacrifice and plan for her. you think she is yours. well, you are mistaken. she belongs to some man she has never seen. about the time you are beginning to have some peace and satisfaction in her, he comes and gets her, marries her, regardless of you. then you spend the rest of your life watching her do her duty by him, go through what you have gone through in your own married life, if not worse, when if you could only have had your way a little while it would have been so different, and—”
[89]fortunately she did not finish this sentence. helen came in at this moment and gave a sweeter, politer turn to the conversation.
mrs. cutter had intended to discuss the situation—in a kind way of course, but frankly. she wanted to give some advice, let helen know how important it was for her to exert every effort to fit herself for the position she would have in the cutter family. but she did nothing of the kind. she said a few pleasant things, kissed the girl cordially on both cheeks and hoped george would make her happy, to which helen replied that he had already made her happy. then she took her leave.
helen accompanied her to the door, mrs. adams remained in the parlor. she had seen mrs. cutter’s transit across the street when she came to make this call. she had read truly the mood of george’s mother. and she had attended to her. she had let her know a thing or two. now she stood behind the parlor curtains watching her again cross the street. this time it was less in the nature of a transit, she perceived, nodding her head grimly. mrs. cutter’s neck was limber, her proud look had disappeared. her hat, although she had not touched it, was tilted absurdly to one side, as if an invisible blow had[90] struck it. and she was walking hurriedly, like a person in retreat.
mrs. cutter barely made it across her own doorsill before she began to wring her hands. oh! her father in heaven, what kind of mother-in-law would that woman make to poor georgie? she received no immediate answer to this interrogative prayer. we never do. an answer to prayer comes when you wait until it is worked out somewhere in life. her own suspicions answered it clearly enough, however; she must knuckle to some sort of courtship of that old adams woman, or there was no telling what might happen.
she had taken it for granted that george would bring his wife to his own home. one look at mrs. adams convinced her that if the young couple lived with anybody they would live with helen’s mother. that would never do! since george was determined to marry the girl the only wise course to follow would be to give him a home of his own. she would tell mr. cutter so, and why. he could afford to do something for george. he might make him a wedding present of the old carrol place. it would cost something to repair the house, but anything would be better than sitting across the street and seeing george domesticated in the adams home.
[91]all this is important to set down in order that you may realize the difficulty so many young people have in disentangling themselves from the lives of their elders and starting out for themselves. we have escaped the old tribal instinct in everything more than in this. the son is persuaded to bring his wife into his father’s house, or he does do it for the sake of economy. nothing can be more disintegrating to the welding and growth of such a marriage.
but the chief reason i have recorded what happened on this day is because it was by this accident of maternal jealousy that helen came into possession of her house. so far from believing in any sort of orderly destiny, my belief is that the fates which change and control our lives are as uncertain as the flight of birds. the world about us is filled with contending forces.
some one whom you never saw or heard of looks at the ticker in his office and sells out that day. the next day that little package of bonds or stock in your safety-deposit box is not worth the embossed paper they are written on. or, you turn a street corner, meet a man, walk two blocks with him, learn from him something about this same market which he does not know he has told in the course of his conversation, and you get the[92] opportunity to become a rich man in this same market before night. or, you who have always been a reasonably decent young man meet the eyes of a woman in a crowded place, and you pass on with her to a fate which leads to every dishonor. you had no intention of doing such a thing; it is contrary to your principles and your habits; but you do it. so many are subject to these whirlwinds of fate that you cannot tell by looking at them or even by hearing them pray which ones are steady and safe from disaster. it all depends upon the compass within whether we swing at the right moment into the right current.
just so, if mrs. adams had not resented the bow of mrs. cutter’s neck, the offensive emphasis of her little wrinkle of a double chin, when she came to make that call, she might have received her amiably. and if mrs. cutter had been received amiably, her maternal jealousy might not have been so aroused and she would not have persuaded mr. cutter to give george the carrol place. in that case the house of helen might have been some other house, or no house at all. and her life would have been in all probability a different kind of existence. because the house in which a woman lives, moves and does her duties, determines her character[93] much more than the bank does in which her husband transacts his affairs.
if the reader is another woman, and has spent her spare time for nearly forty years, as i have, in a sort of involuntary study of men, she knows, as well as i do, that there is nothing you can see with the naked eye or put even your gloved finger on that does determine the character of a man. he never breaks his own personal confidence. it is no use to keep either your eye or your finger on him. you will never know him unless he goes to pieces like the one-horse shay, after which it is very unfortunate to know him at all. i am putting this down merely to give you a line on how effervescently helen came into possession of her house, though it seemed so natural that she should have it, and to warn you that while you think you know what will happen in this story, you do not know, because you do not know george. you do not, even if your own husband is a similar george.
