North of Boston Part 8

"I like your 'going to be.' You said just now It's going to rain."

"I know, and it was raining.

I let you say all that. But I must go now."

"You let me say it? on consideration?

How shall we say good-bye in such a case?"

"How shall we?"

"Will you leave the way to me?"

"No, I don't trust your eyes. You've said enough.

Now give me your hand up.--Pick me that flower."

"Where shall we meet again?"

"Nowhere but here Once more before we meet elsewhere."

"In rain?"

"It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain.

In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains?

But if we must, in suns.h.i.+ne." So she went.

The Housekeeper

I LET myself in at the kitchen door.

"It's you," she said. "I can't get up. Forgive me Not answering your knock. I can no more Let people in than I can keep them out.

I'm getting too old for my size, I tell them.

My fingers are about all I've the use of So's to take any comfort. I can sew: I help out with this beadwork what I can."

"That's a smart pair of pumps you're beading there.

Who are they for?"

"You mean?--oh, for some miss.

I can't keep track of other people's daughters.

Lord, if I were to dream of everyone Whose shoes I primped to dance in!"

"And where's John?"

"Haven't you seen him? Strange what set you off To come to his house when he's gone to yours.

You can't have pa.s.sed each other. I know what: He must have changed his mind and gone to Garlands.

He won't be long in that case. You can wait.

Though what good you can be, or anyone-- It's gone so far. You've heard? Estelle's run off."

"Yes, what's it all about? When did she go?"

"Two weeks since."

"She's in earnest, it appears."

"I'm sure she won't come back. She's hiding somewhere.

I don't know where myself. John thinks I do.

He thinks I only have to say the word, And she'll come back. But, bless you, I'm her mother-- I can't talk to her, and, Lord, if I could!"

"It will go hard with John. What will he do?

He can't find anyone to take her place."

"Oh, if you ask me that, what will he do?

He gets some sort of bakeshop meals together, With me to sit and tell him everything, What's wanted and how much and where it is.

But when I'm gone--of course I can't stay here: Estelle's to take me when she's settled down.

He and I only hinder one another.

I tell them they can't get me through the door, though: I've been built in here like a big church organ.

We've been here fifteen years."

"That's a long time To live together and then pull apart.

How do you see him living when you're gone?

Two of you out will leave an empty house."

"I don't just see him living many years, Left here with nothing but the furniture.

I hate to think of the old place when we're gone, With the brook going by below the yard, And no one here but hens blowing about.

If he could sell the place, but then, he can't: No one will ever live on it again.

It's too run down. This is the last of it.

What I think he will do, is let things smash.

He'll sort of swear the time away. He's awful!

I never saw a man let family troubles Make so much difference in his man's affairs.

He's just dropped everything. He's like a child.

I blame his being brought up by his mother.

He's got hay down that's been rained on three times.

He hoed a little yesterday for me: I thought the growing things would do him good.

Something went wrong. I saw him throw the hoe Sky-high with both hands. I can see it now-- Come here--I'll show you--in that apple tree.

That's no way for a man to do at his age: He's fifty-five, you know, if he's a day."

"Aren't you afraid of him? What's that gun for?"

"Oh, that's been there for hawks since chicken-time.

John Hall touch me! Not if he knows his friends.

I'll say that for him, John's no threatener Like some men folk. No one's afraid of him; All is, he's made up his mind not to stand What he has got to stand."

"Where is Estelle?

Couldn't one talk to her? What does she say?

You say you don't know where she is."

"Nor want to!

She thinks if it was bad to live with him, It must be right to leave him."

"Which is wrong!"

"Yes, but he should have married her."

"I know."

"The strain's been too much for her all these years: I can't explain it any other way.

It's different with a man, at least with John: He knows he's kinder than the run of men.

Better than married ought to be as good As married--that's what he has always said.

I know the way he's felt--but all the same!"

"I wonder why he doesn't marry her And end it."

"Too late now: she wouldn't have him.

He's given her time to think of something else.

That's his mistake. The dear knows my interest Has been to keep the thing from breaking up.

This is a good home: I don't ask for better.

But when I've said, 'Why shouldn't they be married,'

He'd say, 'Why should they?' no more words than that."

"And after all why should they? John's been fair I take it. What was his was always hers.

There was no quarrel about property."

"Reason enough, there was no property.

A friend or two as good as own the farm, Such as it is. It isn't worth the mortgage."

"I mean Estelle has always held the purse."

"The rights of that are harder to get at.

I guess Estelle and I have filled the purse.

'Twas we let him have money, not he us.

John's a bad farmer. I'm not blaming him.

Take it year in, year out, he doesn't make much.

We came here for a home for me, you know, Estelle to do the housework for the board Of both of us. But look how it turns out: She seems to have the housework, and besides, Half of the outdoor work, though as for that, He'd say she does it more because she likes it.

You see our pretty things are all outdoors.