Jane Field | Page 8

an' after he died I wrote to his father, an' I told him about it. I thought mebbe he'd be willin' to be fair, an' pay his son's debts, if he didn't have much feelin'. There was Esther an' Lois an' me, an' not a cent to live on, an' Esther she was beginnin' to be feeble. But he jest sent me back my letter, an' he'd wrote on the back of it that he wa'n't responsible for any of his son's debts. I said then I'd never go to him agin, and I didn't; an' Esther didn't when she was sick an' dyin'; an' I never let him know when she died, an' I don't s'pose he knows she is dead to this day."
"Oh, Mis' Field, you didn't have to lose all that money!"
"Yes, I did, every dollar of it."
"I declare it's wicked."
"There's a good many things that's wicked, an' sometimes I think some things ain't wicked that we've always thought was. I don't know but the Lord meant everybody to have what belonged to them in spite of everything."
Mrs. Green stared. "I guess I don't know jest what you mean, Mis' Field."
"I meant everybody ought to have what's their just due, an' I believe the Lord will uphold them in it. I've about come to the conclusion that folks ought to lay hold of justice themselves if there ain't no other way, an' that's what we've got hands for." Suddenly Mrs. Field's manner changed. "I know Lois hadn't ought to be teachin' school as well as you do," said she. "I ain't said much about it, it ain't my way, but I've known it all the time."
"She'd ought to take a vacation, Mis' Field, an' get away from here for a spell. Folks say Green River ain't very healthy. They say these low meadow-lands are bad. I worried enough about it after my Abby died, thinkin' what might have been done. It does seem to me that if something was done right away, Lois might get up; but there ain't no use waitin'. I've seen young girls go down; it seems sometimes as if there wa'n't nothin' more to them than flowers, an' they fade away in a day. I've been all through it. Mis' Field, you don't mind my speakin' so, do you? Oh, Mis' Field, don't feel so bad! I'm real sorry I said anythin'."
Mrs. Field was shaking with great sobs. "I ain't--blamin' you," she said, brokenly.
Mrs. Green got out her own handkerchief. "Mis' Field, I wouldn't have spoken a word, but--I felt as if something ought to be done, if there could be; an'--I thought--so much about my--poor Abby. Lois always makes me think of her; she's jest about her build; an'--I didn't know as you--realized."
"I realized enough," returned Mrs. Field, catching her breath as she walked on.
"Now I hope you don't feel any worse because I spoke as I did," Mrs. Green said, when they reached the gate of the Pratt house.
"You ain't told me anything I didn't know," replied Mrs. Field.
Mrs. Green felt for one of her distorted hands; she held it a second, then she dropped it. Mrs. Field let it hang stiffly the while. It was a fervent demonstration to them, the evidence of unwonted excitement and the deepest feeling. When Mrs. Field entered her sitting-room, the first object that met her eyes was Lois' face. She was tilted back in the rocking-chair, her slender throat was exposed, her lips were slightly parted, and there was a glassy gleam between her half-open eyelids. Her mother stood looking at her.
Suddenly Lois opened her eyes wide and sat up. "What are you standing there looking at me so for, mother?" she said, in her weak, peevish voice.
"I ain't lookin' at you, child. I've jest come home from meetin'. I guess you've been asleep."
"I haven't been asleep a minute. I heard you open the outside door."
Mrs. Field's hand verged toward the letter in her pocket. Then she began untying her bonnet.
Lois arose, and lighted another lamp. "Well, I guess I'll go to bed," said she.
"Wait a minute," her mother returned.
Lois paused inquiringly.
"Never mind," her mother said, hastily. "You needn't stop. I can tell you jest as well to-morrow."
"What was it?"
"Nothin' of any account. Run along."
Chapter II
The next morning Lois had gone to her school and her mother had not yet shown the letter to her. She went about as usual, doing her housework slowly and vigorously. Mrs. Field's cleanliness was proverbial in this cleanly New England neighborhood. It almost amounted to asceticism; her rooms, when her work was finished, had the bareness and purity of a nun's cell. There was never any bloom of dust on Mrs. Field's furniture; there was only the hard, dull glitter of the wood. Her few chairs and tables