Bartlett Carter’s Awakening

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 22, 1 December 1906, Page 29

Bartlett Carter’s Awakening

By

William Forster Brown

in “Munsey's ”

A RRAYED becomingly in her best black silk, Mrs Hepsibah HarkJ ness descended backward with / V the celerity of much practise • from the high seat of the newly varnished Concord. Securing the fat old farm horse from the hitching-post she advanced along the gravelled path toward Mrs. Bartlett Carter’s back door. “Thank goodness,” she ejaculated, glancing over her shoulder at the morning sun. “I don’t believe it’s goin* to rain. I’m here good an’ early; 1 do hope Linda’s ready 1 I’ve been lookin’ forward to this trip all summer,” she continued, walking briskly past the glowing geranium beds, crossing the worn boards of the narrow piazza, and lifting the latch of the screen door. "An’ 1 — mercy sakes, Belinda Carter, don't you know what time ’tis?” Mrs. Harkness paused on the braided rug just inside the kitchen door; astonishment, wrath, and glowing apprehension fighting within her for coherent utterance.

Mrs. Carter, standing beside the kiteh-en-table, laid down her rolling-pin, pushed up a faded calico sleeve with three floury fingers, and turned a pair of swollen eyes toward the door. “Good mornin’, Hepsie,” she said forlornly. “Ain’t you dretful early? 1 s’pose you're struck all of a heap to see me in this rig. but”—with a sudden sniff -—“I ain't goin’ to the Food Fair.” “You ain’t goin’?” echoed Mrs. Harkness helplessly. "You ain't sick, or you wouldn’t be rollin’ pie-crust. There ain t nothin’ the matter with Bartlett, is there, Linda?” “No,” Mrs. Carter answered slowly. “He's down in the lower wood-lot with Jim Raymond, sawin’ wood. ’ “I thought Jim was sawin’ over to Berwick’s place this week,” commented Mrs. Harkness. “He told Kathan lie didn’t expect to get ’round here for a fortnight.” “He wasn’t goin’ to,” agreed -Mrs. Carter, “but yesterday afternoon Berwick’s roan coit kicked the buggy be was hitched up in all to flinders and Berwick got hurt pretty bad. You know, Hepsie, the old man’s close as the bark of a tree: he wouldn't hear of Jim's sawin’ another stick till he could be ’round an’ see he wasn’t bein cheated. So Jim yoked up bis oxen an’ dragged the engine? an' mill over here, bout ten o’clock last night—woke Bart an’ me up, geehawin’.” What's Jim Raymond an’ his travailin' saw-mill got to do with your goin’ to Boston’’’.demanded Mrs. Harkness sternly. “You ain’t agoin’ to help ’em saw, lie you?” "No, course not; but somebody’s got to get the meals for all of ’em today, so Bart said I’d hev to stay to home.” Mrs. Harkness fairly snorted. “Do you mean to tell me that jest ’cause Bart thought you orter cook them men a hot dinner, you’re goin’ to give up the Food Fair, Belinda Carter?’ she exclaimed indignantly. “Now. see here, I won't put up with no such foolishness, Bart or no Bari. Ain’t there some cold vittles you can leave for ’em ? Yon hurry an’ change your dress an’ I'll get out some pies an’ things an’ cover ’em over with the table-cloth.” “I jest wish I dared to!” gasped Belinda, fumbling at her apron-strings. "1 declare I believe I will!” she went on, flinging off the apron. “I jest about cried myself sick this mornin’ 'cause I’d got to give it up.” “Y’ou won't hev to give it up,” Airs. Harkness assured her, bustling energetically about the table. “Leastways, you won’t if you stir yourself.” Mrs. Carter disappeared into another

room, and her sister continued her trips to the pantry. "Bartlett Carter means well,” she said to herself, “but lie's gettiu’ to be mighty thoughtless an’ domineerin’. Linda’s beginnin’ to look as dragged out as an old rag —an’ she used to be the prettiist girl in Meadowfield. I guess I’d better go in an’ hurry her up some. There! That dinner’s good enough for a king.” Mrs. Carter sat on the edge of the bed, her face bowed in her hands, the tears flowing thick and fast from between her locked fingers. With a quick swoop Airs. Harkness gathered the weeping figure into her arms.

“Don’t cry, Linda,” she said soothingly. “Y’ou ain’t got more’n time to finish giftin’ ready. Bart ain't a fool, an’ mebbe you’re showing a will of your own’ll do him a world of good. It’s high time he learned there was somebody in the universe besides himself.” "I warn’t cryin’ ’bout Bart,” Airs. Carter sobbed, wiping her eyes. "It was—was—’cause I ean’t go, anyway, Hepsie; I ain’t got any money.” “No money?” broke in Airs. Hepsibah in amazed tones. “Why ain't you? You got four dollars for the rag carpet you sold, didn’t you? An’ saved nine dollars butter-money? What's become of it?' “Bart took it. That is —I gave it to him,” answered Mrs. Carter. “We warn t erpectin’ Jim so soon, you see, so there warn’t no money in the house but my thirteen dollars. Bart reckomd Jmi d git through sawin’ by supper-time, so he wanted my money to pay him with. He said as 1 warn’t goin’ to the fair 1 wouldn't need it.” Twice Mrs. Hepsibah Harkness essayed speech, and failed. “I’m goin’ to speak my mind for once,” she announced finally; “an’ when 1 git through, if you don’t put on your hat and do as I tell you —thank the Lord you’ve got your dress changed—l’ll wash my hands of you and go to Boston alone. I don't b’lieve in interferin’ between husband an’ wife ’cept on uncommon occasions, but I allow this is one of 'em. You’ve been married goin’ on five years, ain’t you?” Linda nodded. “Well, what hev you got out of it? You’ve worked early an’ late—like a slave—so Bart could put money in the bank. Mind you, I ain’t sayin’ but what that’s a good thing —the money part —• but ’tain’t everything. You can’t hev this, an’ you ean’t hev that, ’cause Bart thinks he can afford it. You’re even seairt to give a loaf of cake or a pie to the Ladies’ Aid Suppers, ’less you ask him first. Bart's a good man—l ain’t runnin’ him down a mite—but he’s no different from other men; give ’em an inch of authority more’n rightly belongs to ’em, an’ nine times out of ten they'll take an ell. I tell you, Linda Carter, you’re acting like a fool givin’ in to Bart the way you do, an’ if you don’t turn square round pretty soon an’ stand up for your rights it'll be everlastin’ly too late!”

“I dunno but you're iight, Hepsie,” admitted Mrs. Carter reluctantly. “Linda,” resumed Mrs. Harkness, impressively, “if I tell you something I ain’t breathed before to a livin' soul, I hope you’ll profit by it. AS hen Nathan an’ I was first married, I was jest about as proud of our big new barn an’ all the stock we had as any girl ever was; ’specially of Nellie, the colt Uncle -vinos give me for a wedilin’ present. I guess 1 used to go down to the barn 'bout forty times a day to look everything over —the pigs an' the mowin’ machine, an’ the tons an’ tons of smelly hay piled ’way to the rafters—an’ 1 alius wound up by getting Nellie out of her •tall an' eunycombia’ an’ brushiu’ till

she'd shine like a silver dollar. Bimeby some busybodies seen me Coin' it. an’ said they thought I’d better stay in the house; that horse-cleanin’ an' messin’ round stock warn’t a woman’s business. One afternoon Nathan came into the barn while I was fussin’ over Nellie, an* said, with his face kinder drawn down:!

“ ‘Hepsie, don’t you thin x it would look better if you stayed in the house more, ’stid of coinin’ down here to the barn so much? It’s makin’ talk!’ "1 guessed in a minute wliut had put him up to sayin' it, for he’d alius been as tickled to hev me ’round the barn as I’d been to be there. 1 knew if 1 didn’t put my foot down right then, l‘d hev to give in till kingdom eotne, so 1 sez, soft an' pleasant: "'Do you mean I’m left in’ my housework go, or neglectin’ anyt' ig 1 ought to do, Nathan?” " ‘No,’ he sez, hesitatin’. ‘I don't ; but a woman's place is in the house.’ “‘Mebbe you're right,’ sez I, an' 1 dropped the currycomb mi’ started for the house without another word- lor an idea had popped inio my head. "He’d had a dretful backward spring that year, an' the weather was middlin’ chilly for April. Soon’s 1 got to the house 1 shook down the settin'-room fire so’s it would go out; then 1 took Nathan's slippers an’ put 'em in the closet. After a while J got supper, an’ when Nathan had got through ratin’ he went into the settin’-room to read a «pel). same’s he did every night.—but in a minute he'd come out ag in.” "How'd you come to let the lire go out. Hepsie?’ he sez. It’s eolder’n Greenland in there.’ “‘I s’pose it is,’ I sez. as if it was the most natural thing in the world — but all the time my heart was heatin’ faster an’ faster. ‘I allowed I'd run over to Mis’ Green's, an’ as- I warn't goin’ into the settin-room to-night 1 thought I might as well save the wood.’ “Nathan looked at me as if he didn't hardly know what was coinin’ next. “ ‘I can't find my slippers,’ he sez. “ 'l've put ’em away.’ sez I. screwin’ up my courage an’ lookin’ him square in the eye. *A man’s place is in the barn, not bangin’ ’round the setting-room in easy-chairs an’ slippers every night ; it don’t look jest right, an’ folks might talk. 1 reckon they’d hev as good reason as they hev talkin’ about my goin’ to my own barn!’

“He didn't say a word for as much as two minutes, and the expression on his face made me feel mighty uncomfortable: but I was bound 1 wouldn't give in. All to onee 1 seen a change come over Nathan's faee, an’ he laughed an* grabbed me into his arms. “ ‘I reckon they would, little girl,’ ha sez, pattin’ me on the back —1 begun t<» cry then, like a good one —’though it never struck me that way till jest now; I guess we'll agree to let ’em. The currycomb’s hanging on the inside of the harness-room door, ’stid of layin' on the beam—an’ Hepsie, do you s’pose while I’m buildin’ the lire you could find my slippers?” “That settled the 'woman's place’ business in the Harkness family, fir good an’ all,” concluded Mrs. Harkness, rising. An’ now, Linda, you write a note an* tell Bart that you’re goin' to the fair —that you've borrowed the money of me; I can spare, it just as well as not. Pin the paper on the tableclotn in plain sight, an’ for the land's sake, hurry! It'll be touch an’ go if »e git the train.” IL The shining coneord was vanishing over a rise in the road aero s the valley

from the lower wood-lot as Bartictt Carter, piling the last stick of \ .methodically packed cord of freshly uawn wood, caught the glint of whirling wheels. “That must be Hepsie,” he mused, shading his eyes. "She must have stopped at the house quite a spell. I reckon Linda's. pretty well down in the mouth because she had to give up goin*. (She ain't talked, of, nothing else all summer; but she’s just as well off. It don’t hurt a woman to stay at home. Thirteen dollars is a good sight of money to spend in one day for car-fare an’ foolishness, leavin’ nothin’ to show for it.”

'Bartlett began a new pill and dismissed the subject from his mind. ■Twelve o'clock arrived, and the screech oi the saw promptly ceased. Five, ten, fifteen minutes went by, and Bart heard no welcome toot from the direction of tile, house—and dinner. ' <■

“That’s queer,” he remarked, in a voice that betrayed increasing wonderment. “1 never knew Linda to lie be-hindhand-before by as much as a minute. Guess we might as well go up to the house, Jim; ’taint no use waitin’ any longer.” A glance at the cloth-covered table, and a hasty perusal of the scrap of paper pinned conspicuously on the linen, revealed to the astonished Bartlett the cause of the dinner horn’s silence. For a second his domestic world tottered alioiit his ears; but he came of a hardheaded race and was game to the core. "You boys will have to put up with a cold dinner," he announced, as Jim Raymond and his helpers filed in front the back-room sink. Linda’s gone to the Food Fair after all. I cal’late her sister must have over-persuaded her. Jest set light down, an’ I’ll make some coffee.” The meal was despatched in silence, the frown on Bartlett’s face discouraging conversation. "You can start right up without waiting for me,” he remarked, as the men . headed for the door. I’ll clear up an’ come along bimeby.” Left to himself, Bartlett, during trips to the sink, dish-laden, gave audible vent to the wrath that welled up in his affronted and bewildered soul. "By Judas!” he muttered; -‘:l wouldn’t b’lieved Linda’d do such a thing; but I'll bet a dollar it was Hepsie Harkness’ doin’. She’s too-high an’ mighty anyhow, an’ Nathan lets her do jest as she’s a mind to; but Linda’ll find out that things ain’t agoin’ to be rim that way in my house. I ain’t Nathan Harkness, an’ I don’t cal’late to he, nuther! When Linda gets back I” ” •A loud "Hello!” ended Bart’s soliloquy and brought him hurriedly to the piazza, to behold a white-topped meat-dart and’* the red face of Caleb Myriek, the Plainfielil butcher, peering forth inquiringly from beneath the cover. ’’Hello, Bart!” called Myriek, hitching forward on his seat. “Have you heard tin news?” i.i'l ain't heard nothin',” admitted Bart, ■with interest. “Berwick ain't dead, is hf-” "Not as I know on,” replied the butcher soberly. “It’s worse’n that: the Meadowfield Centre excursion train has gone through the bridge into Miller’s River—eight ears an’ the injine—pretty nigh everybody on it killed or drownded. 'l’ve jest come from the Centre, an’ they got word ’bout 15 minutes ’fore I left. There’s a wrecker coinin’ from Fitchburg with a car-load of doctors —it’s something awful!” The noonday sun went out in black eclipse over Bartlett Carter’s head. He clutched unconsciously at the piazza rail. Myriek leaped from his seat arid clattered. swiftly up the path. “What’s ■ the matter, Bart!” he queried anxiously. “Don’t tell me any of your folks was on that train?” “My wife and her sister!” Bart's dry lips writhed in an endeavour to frame the words. “They went to the Food [Fair this mornin’.” He groped uncertainly for the latch of the.screen door. “I must hitch up an’ go for Nathan,” he muttered thickly. "He'll know what to do—il —can’t—think straight!” “You go right into the house and sit down,” commanded Myriek, laying a hand on Carter's shoulder. “Mebbe they ain’t hurt after all; ’tain’t likely everybody's killed. I'm going by Nathan’# place, and I’ll tell him to come here s ight off —that’ll'save time,'anyhow.” Caleb departed, and Bart—with a vague idea that lie must chunge his wbrking clothes liefore going to the Centre, wandered into the bedroom. Through the open window a slender golden finger„ of sunshine touched Linda's worn ealiep Areas, thrown carelessly over the back •f the rocking-chair, and the sight of its

familiar outlines went into his heart like the thrust of a knife. ... "“What Shall I'do!” Bart groaned. “I can’t stand it—l can’t!” His fingers closed convulsively over the limp sleeve. “Life ain't worth nothin' to ..me without Liriila. I ain’t'been as good a husband to her a» 1 might hev—but I’ve meant- to —God knows I hev!” The recollection of his scarcely cold anger at his wife rose up arid smote him accusingly. • A hundred poignant memories of her housewifely virtues, of her jjatience, of her unwavering Jove and trust, thronged in on his brain; and he saw iu damning contrast his own selfish, unworthy soul. “It’s a judgment on me,” he cried bitterly. “I ain’t done right. I never realised' how good she was an’ how precious —the best wife a man ever had! I’ve been rough an’ overbearin’ an' mean —an’ now ■she’s taken away from me. Oh, God!” he prayed in sudden fierce entreaty. If you’ll only give me back my wife, safe and sound. I’ll do anythin’ —I ll be different—l'll promise- ” The door slammed violently, and Bartlett, with a choke, turned and looked into the eager face of the butcher, standing on the bedroom threshold. "Look here. Bart Carter,” Myriek cried excitedly.' “dt struck me all to once, as I was goin’ along, that jest now you said somethin’ or other about the Food Show* Ain’t that in Boston?” Bart nodded dismally. “Then, by the great horn spoon, yelled the butcher, “you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about after all! ’Taint the Boston excursion that’s wrecked; it’s the Hoosac one. If it hadn’t giv’ me such a, jolt seeing you keel over on the railin,. I’d hev remembered there was two excursions to-day: one to Boston an’ t'other through the tunnel. - Bartlett Carter, with an inarticulate cry of relief and thanksgiving, snatched up his wife’s dress and buried his quivering face in its faded folds. HI. <: Hours afterward, when Beliudq Carter —flushed, tired, but holding tight the memory of a deliriously exciting day as a talisman to cling to when the waves of the coming domestic upheaval should dose over her head —pulled open the screen' door and stepped on the braided rug, she halted in sheer amazement at -the -picture .that confronted her apprehensive eyes.

The oblong openings of the range draft were'glaring cheerfully, and from under the spider’s tin cover arose a fragrant hissing. The supper-table —laid for two —stood forth spotless and complete, even to’ a tall vase of ruddy nasturtiums. To crown the wonder, Bart—the defied and outraged husband, whose bitter and not unmerited censure Linda, during the long ride home, had been steeling herself to endure patiently—was ■withdrawing a pan of biscuits from the oven, whistling softly to himself. “That you. Linda?” he called eagerly. “I reckoned it was about time for you. so I took out the biscuits. I done the best I could with ’em, but they don’t look right, somehow; mebbe I forgot somethin’ or other. They're good an’ hot, anyhow, an’ p’raps you can eat ’em. Had a good time! I’ve been off on a little trip of my own this afternoon; ■been to Plainfield to get some money to pay back Hepsie — I won’t believe in owin’, not even to relations — an’ I brought back somethin’ for you.” ■Bartlett fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat, and extended a small, fiat book with drab covers. - - - - “Why, Bart,” exclaimed Linda wonderingly. turning the book over in her hand, “ain’t you made a mistake? This is your bank-book you’ve-giv’ me.” : ’ “No. ’taint; you jest open it an’ see,” said Bart exultantly. Mrs. ('arter complied. ’ On the first page, in the ciabbed handwriting of Jason Stubbs, cashier' of the Plainfield Savings Bank,'was chronicled the astonishing fact that Mrs. Belinda Carter had, deposited ,to her credit in that institution, the sun, pf'o6o dollars'. “Oh, Bart!” faltered the dumbfounded Linda. “You don’t mean this for me, do you! Why, it’s half of all the money you’ve got in the bank; an’ — —” ; “Don’t care if ’tis,” broke in Bart, coining nearer. “It’s yours,-Linda. - You can spend it jest as you’re a mind- to; I don't cai'late for you to hev to borrow no more money.” * , i; -. ■ V' Mrs. Carter dropped the book, and threw her arm# around her husband’s neck. - • ■ ..... “Bart,” she sobbed, “you’re the best husband that ever lived, and I don’t da-

serve it, nuther! I’ve been a wicked an’ ungrateful wife, but I’ll never.do anything again you - don’t want me to.” “1 reckon you won’t hev no call to.” replied Bartlett, a “curious little catch in his voice. His clasping arms tightened, and he pressed his lips to his wife's brown hair.