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 li............