He Fell In Love With His Wife - Edward Payson Roe (the speed reading book .txt) 📗

periodical visits.

 

He regarded her and her child as barnacles with such appalling adhesive powers

that even his ingenuity at “crowding out” had been baffled. In justice to

him, it must be admitted that Mrs. Mumpson was a type of the poor relation

that would tax the long suffering of charity itself. Her husband had left her

scarcely his blessing, and if he had fled to ills he knew not of, he believed

that he was escaping from some of which he had a painfully distinct

consciousness. His widow was one of the people who regard the “world as their

oyster,” and her scheme of life was to get as much as possible for nothing.

Arrayed in mourning weeds, she had begun a system of periodical descents upon

his relatives and her own. She might have made such visitations endurable and

even welcome, but she was not shrewd enough to be sensible. She appeared to

have developed only the capacity to talk, to pry, and to worry people. She

was unable to rest or to permit others to rest, yet her aversion to any useful

form of activity was her chief characteristic. Wherever she went she took the

ground that she was “company,” and with a shawl hanging over her sharp,

angular shoulders, she would seize upon the most comfortable rocking chair in

the house, and mouse for bits of news about everyone of whom she had ever

heard. She was quite as ready to tell all she knew also, and for the sake of

her budget of gossip and small scandal, her female relatives tolerated her

after a fashion for a time; but she had been around so often, and her scheme

of obtaining subsistence for herself and child had become so offensively

apparent, that she had about exhausted the patience of all the kith and kin on

whom she had the remotest claim. Her presence was all the more unwelcome by

reason of the faculty for irritating the men of the various households which

she invaded. Even the most phlegmatic or the best-natured lost their

self-control, and as their wives declared, “felt like flying all to pieces” at

her incessant rocking, gossiping, questioning, and, what was worse still,

lecturing. Not the least endurable thing about Mrs. Mumpson was her peculiar

phase of piety. She saw the delinquencies and duties of others with such

painful distinctness that she felt compelled to speak of them; and her zeal

was sure to be instant out of season.

 

When Mr. Weeks had started on his ominous mission to Holcroft his wife

remarked to her daughter confidentially, “I declare, sis, if we don’t get rid

of Cynthy soon, I believe Lemuel will fly off the handle.”

 

To avoid any such dire catastrophe, it was hoped and almost prayed in the

Weeks household that the lonely occupant of the hill farm would take the widow

for good and all.

 

Chapter III. Mrs. Mumpson Negotiates and Yields

 

Mr. Weeks, on his return home, dropped all diplomacy in dealing with the

question at issue. “Cynthy,” he said in his own vernacular, “the end has come,

so far as me and my folks are concerned—I never expect to visit you, and

while I’m master of the house, no more visits will be received. But I haint

taken any such stand onconsiderately,” he concluded. “I’ve given up the whole

forenoon to secure you a better chance of living than visiting around. If you

go to Holcroft’s you’ll have to do some work, and so will your girl. But

he’ll hire someone to help you, and so you won’t have to hurt yourself. Your

trump card will be to hook him and marry him before he finds you out. To do

this, you’ll have to see to the house and dairy, and bestir yourself for a

time at least. He’s pretty desperate off for lack of women folks to look

after indoor matters, but he’ll sell out and clear out before he’ll keep a

woman, much less marry her, if she does nothing but talk. Now remember,

you’ve got a chance which you won’t get again, for Holcroft not only owns his

farm, but has a snug sum in the bank. So you had better get your things

together, and go right over while he’s in the mood.”

 

When Mrs. Mumpson reached the blank wall of the inevitable, she yielded, and

not before. She saw that the Weeks mine was worked out completely, and she

knew that this exhaustion was about equally true of all similar mines, which

had been bored until they would yield no further returns.

 

But Mr. Weeks soon found that he could not carry out his summary measures.

The widow was bent on negotiations and binding agreements. In a stiff,

cramped hand, she wrote to Holcroft in regard to the amount of “salary” he

would be willing to pay, intimating that one burdened with such

responsibilities as she was expected to assume “ort to be compensiated

proposhundly.”

 

Weeks groaned as he dispatched his son on horseback with this first epistle,

and Holcroft groaned as he read it, not on account of its marvelous spelling

and construction, but by reason of the vista of perplexities and trouble it

opened to his boding mind. But he named on half a sheet of paper as large a

sum as he felt it possible to pay and leave any chance for himself, then

affixed his signature and sent it back by the messenger.

 

The widow Mumpson wished to talk over this first point between the high

contracting powers indefinitely, but Mr. Weeks remarked cynically, “It’s

double what I thought he’d offer, and you’re lucky to have it in black and

white. Now that everything’s settled, Timothy will hitch up and take you and

Jane up there at once.

 

But Mrs. Mumpson now began to insist upon writing another letter in regard to

her domestic status and that of her child. They could not think of being

looked upon as servants. She also wished to be assured that a girl would be

hired to help her, that she should have all the church privileges to which she

had been accustomed and the right to visit and entertain her friends, which

meant every farmer’s wife and all the maiden sisters in Oakville. “And then,”

she continued, “there are always little perquisites which a housekeeper has a

right to look for—” Mr. Weeks irritably put a period to this phase of

diplomacy by saying, “Well, well, Cynthy, the stage will be along in a couple

of hours. We’ll put you and your things aboard, and you can go on with what

you call your negotiations at Cousin Abiram’s. I can tell you one thing

though—if you write any such letter to Holcroft, you’ll never hear from him

again.”

 

Compelled to give up all these preliminaries, but inwardly resolving to gain

each point by a nagging persistence of which she was a mistress, she finally

declared that she “must have writings about one thing which couldn’t be left

to any man’s changeful mind. He must agree to give me the monthly salary he

names for at least a year.”

 

Weeks thought a moment, and then, with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, admitted,

“It would be a good thing to have Holcroft’s name to such an agreement. Yes,

you might try that on, but you’re taking a risk. If you were not so

penny-wise and pound-foolish, you’d go at once and manage to get him to take

you for ‘better or worse.’”

 

“You—misjudge me, Cousin Lemuel,” replied the widow, bridling and rocking

violently. If there’s any such taking to be done, he must get me to take

him.”

 

“Well, well, write your letter about a year’s engagement. That’ll settle you

for a twelvemonth, at least.”

 

Mrs. Mumpson again began the slow, laborious construction of a letter in which

she dwelt upon the uncertainties of life, her “duty to her offspring,” and the

evils of “vicissitude.” “A stable home is woman’s chief desire,” she

concluded, “and you will surely agree to pay me the salary you have said for a

year.”

 

When Holcroft read this second epistle he so far yielded to his first impulse

that he half tore the sheet, then paused irresolutely. After a few moments he

went to the door and looked out upon his acres. “It’ll soon be plowing and

planting time,” he thought. “I guess I can stand her–at least I can try it

for three months. I’d like to turn a few more furrows on the old place,” and

his face softened and grew wistful as he looked at the bare, frost-bound

fields. Suddenly it darkened and grew stern as he muttered, “But I’ll put my

hand to no more paper with that Weeks tribe.”

 

He strode to the stable, saying to Timothy Weeks, as he passed, “I’ll answer

this letter in person.”

 

Away cantered Timothy, and soon caused a flutter of expectancy in the Weeks

household, by announcing that “Old Holcroft looked black as a thundercloud and

was comin’ himself.”

 

“I tell you what ‘tis, Cynthy, it’s the turn of a hair with you now,” growled

Weeks. “Unless you agree to whatever Holcroft says, you haven’t the ghost of a

chance.”

 

The widow felt that a crisis had indeed come. Cousin Abiram’s was the next

place in the order of visitation, but her last experience there left her in

painful doubt as to a future reception. Therefore she tied on a new cap,

smoothed her apron, and rocked with unwonted rapidity. “It’ll be according to

the ordering of Providence—”

 

“Oh, pshaw!” interrupted Cousin Lemuel, “it’ll be according to whether you’ve

got any sense or not.”

 

Mrs. Weeks had been in a pitiable state of mind all day. She saw that her

husband had reached the limit of his endurance—that he had virtually already

“flown off the handle.” But to have her own kin actually bundled out of the

house—what would people say?

 

Acceptance of Holcroft’s terms, whatever they might be, was the only way out

of the awkward predicament, and so she began in a wheedling tone, “Now, Cousin

Cynthy, as Lemuel says, you’ve got a first-rate chance. Holcroft’s had an

awful time with women, and he’ll be glad enough to do well by anyone who does

fairly well by him. Everybody says he’s well off, and once you’re fairly

there and get things in your own hands, there’s no telling what may happen.

He’ll get a girl to help you, and Jane’s big enough now to do a good deal.

Why, you’ll be the same as keeping house like the rest of us.”

 

Further discussion was cut short by the arrival of the victim. He stood

awkwardly in the door of the Weeks sitting room for a moment, seemingly at a

loss how to state his case.

 

Mr. And Mrs. Weeks now resolved to appear neutral and allow the farmer to make

his terms. Then, like other superior powers in the background, they proposed

to exert a pressure on their relative and do a little coercing. But the

widow’s course promised at first to relieve them of all further effort. She

suddenly seemed to become aware of Holcroft’s presence, sprang up, and gave

him her hand very cordially.

 

“I’m glad to see you, sir,” she began. “It’s very considerate of you to come

for me. I can get ready in short order, and as for Jane, she’s never a bit of

trouble. Sit down, sir, and make yourself to home while I get our things

together and put on my bonnet;” and she was about to hasten from the room.

 

She, too, had been compelled to see that Holcroft’s farmhouse was the only

certain refuge left, and while she had rocked and waited the thought had come

into her