Part 2 (1/2)
The little dining-room, the little round table with the little round fern-dish in the middle, the little turkey and the little carving-set--game-set she would have called it--all made her feel as if she was looking through the wrong end of an opera-gla.s.s.
In Annie's precise efficiency she saw no room for her a.s.sistance; no room in the church, no room in the small, busy town, prosperous and progressive, and no room in the house. ”Not enough to turn round in!”
she said to herself. Annie, who had grown up in a city flat, thought their little parsonage palatial. Mrs. Morrison grew up in the Welcome House.
She stayed a week, pleasant and polite, conversational, interested in all that went on.
”I think your mother is just lovely,” said Annie to Andrew.
”Charming woman, your mother,” said the leading church member.
”What a delightful old lady your mother is!” said the pretty soprano.
And Andrew was deeply hurt and disappointed when she announced her determination to stay on for the present in her old home. ”Dear boy,”
she said, ”you mustn't take it to heart. I love to be with you, of course, but I love my home, and want to keep it is long as I can. It is a great pleasure to see you and Annie so well settled, and so happy together. I am most truly thankful for you.”
”My home is open to you whenever you wish to come, mother,” said Andrew.
But he was a little angry.
Mrs. Morrison came home as eager as a girl, and opened her own door with her own key, in spite of Sally's haste.
Two years were before her in which she must find some way to keep herself and Sally, and to pay two thousand dollars and the interest to Peter b.u.t.ts. She considered her a.s.sets. There was the house--the white elephant. It _was_ big--very big. It was profusely furnished. Her father had entertained lavishly like the Southern-born, hospitable gentleman he was; and the bedrooms ran in suites--somewhat deteriorated by the use of boarders, but still numerous and habitable. Boarders--she abhorred them. They were people from afar, strangers and interlopers.
She went over the place from garret to cellar, from front gate to backyard fence.
The garden had great possibilities. She was fond of gardening. and understood it well. She measured and estimated.
”This garden,” she finally decided, ”with the hens, will feed us two women and sell enough to pay Sally. If we make plenty of jelly, it may cover the coal bill, too. As to clothes--I don't need any. They last admirably. I can manage. I can _live_--but two thousand dollars--_and_ interest!”
In the great attic was more furniture, discarded sets put there when her extravagant young mother had ordered new ones. And chairs--uncounted chairs. Senator Welcome used to invite numbers to meet his political friends--and they had delivered glowing orations in the wide, double parlors, the impa.s.sioned speakers standing on a temporary dais, now in the cellar; and the enthusiastic listeners disposed more or less comfortably on these serried rows of ”folding chairs,” which folded sometimes, and let down the visitor in scarlet confusion to the floor.
She sighed as she remembered those vivid days and glittering nights.
She used to steal downstairs in her little pink wrapper and listen to the eloquence. It delighted her young soul to see her father rising on his toes, coming down sharply on his heels, hammering one hand upon the other; and then to hear the fusilade of applause.
Here were the chairs, often borrowed for weddings, funerals, and church affairs, somewhat worn and depleted, but still numerous. She mused upon them. Chairs--hundreds of chairs. They would sell for very little.
She went through her linen room. A splendid stock in the old days; always carefully washed by Sally; surviving even the boarders. Plenty of bedding, plenty of towels, plenty of napkins and tablecloths. ”It would make a good hotel--but I _can't_ have it so--I _can't!_ Besides, there's no need of another hotel here. The poor little Haskins House is never full.”
The stock in the china closet was more damaged than some other things, naturally; but she inventoried it with care. The countless cups of crowded church receptions were especially prominent. Later additions these, not very costly cups, but numerous, appallingly.
When she had her long list of a.s.sets all in order, she sat and studied it with a clear and daring mind. Hotel--boarding-house--she could think of nothing else. School! A girls' school! A boarding school! There was money to be made at that, and fine work done. It was a brilliant thought at first, and she gave several hours, and much paper and ink, to its full consideration. But she would need some capital for advertising; she must engage teachers--adding to her definite obligation; and to establish it, well, it would require time.
Mr. b.u.t.ts, obstinate, pertinacious, oppressively affectionate, would give her no time. He meant to force her to marry him for her own good--and his. She shrugged her fine shoulders with a little s.h.i.+ver.
Marry Peter b.u.t.ts! Never! Mrs. Morrison still loved her husband. Some day she meant to see him again--G.o.d willing--and she did not wish to have to tell him that at fifty she had been driven into marrying Peter b.u.t.ts.
Better live with Andrew. Yet when she thought of living with Andrew, she s.h.i.+vered again. Pus.h.i.+ng back her sheets of figures and lists of personal property, she rose to her full graceful height and began to walk the floor. There was plenty of floor to walk. She considered, with a set deep thoughtfulness, the town and the townspeople, the surrounding country, the hundreds upon hundreds of women whom she knew--and liked, and who liked her.
It used to be said of Senator Welcome that he had no enemies; and some people, strangers, maliciously disposed, thought it no credit to his character. His daughter had no enemies, but no one had ever blamed her for her unlimited friendliness. In her father's wholesale entertainments the whole town knew and admired his daughter; in her husband's popular church she had come to know the women of the countryside about them. Her mind strayed off to these women, farmers'