THE STORYTELLER.

White Ribbon, Volume 19, Issue 224, 18 February 1914, Page 13

THE STORYTELLER.

HER WIDOWHOOD. (By Constance Clyde.) (Concluded.) James Reid’s brows contracted a little. Ilis first expression of shocked amazement was wiped off his face as by a sponge, and in its place was a look almost of uneasiness. ‘‘But wouldn’t you rather rest here?” he asked suddenly, almost enticingly. “Eh? In the home you helped to make ?” “Oh, no, James, not when Jack’s landlord. Gladys and me don’t hit it off quite, and we’re better friends, my daughter-in-law and me, apart, as toe saying is. I think the lawyer’s come," she added without a change in her quiet tones as a slight noise of footsteps was heard outside. A few minutes later the party had seated themselves for the function of will-reading. The servants stole in at the back. Jack, the only son of the deceased, a loutish, sullen young man, came in with his girl wife, pert and crisp haired, with smiling eyes above a consciously demure mouth. They were followed by the lawyer, but a few minutes were spent waiting for young Mrs Patterson. She came downstairs hurriedly. One of the maids in curiosity had unpacked her box, laying a most inappropriate pink silk costume out on the bed. In sptte of the solemnity of the occasion, she had to subdue a slight .-mile over the occurrence, as, not having time to put the costume back, she rejoined the party downstairs. Mrs Patterson sat at the head of the table; she clasped the black mittened hands before her as the lawyer opened the sheets. Freed fn m legal phraseology, the will was n very simple one. There were legacies to the servants, sums proportionate to their length of service ; then followed other items, such as a “bust of Wesley and my gold repeater as marks of esteem to my brother-in-law, James Curtis Reid.” Mrs Patterson nodded gentle approval at each name mentioned. The lawyer proceeded. “To my dear wife Hannah, all my personal effects except . . here a few ornaments, “some time in the family,” were mentioned—“and to my only son John the business of

the hotel Kdginton Arms, Kdginton, Sussex, with all the moneys accruing from it, and all the moneys accruing to me from what source whatsoever, and all the furniture of the said hotel, with this proviso, that my son John give his mother a home with him, not only because of his duty as a son, but in return for her assistance in building up the business.” There were a few more words, then followed the name of the testator and the witnesses. The lawyer laid the sheets back on the table. There were various small movements, and some changes of expression. Jack’s feet were heard to shuffle; his wife glanced at the rings on her fingers; James Reid, elbow on table, pressed his hand to nis forehead. Only Hannah was placid; she leant forward. “Now, what about me, Mr Mirams?” “That is all about you, Mrs Patterson.” “I mean the money due to me —my share ?” “There is nothing due to you, ma’am, except the personal possessions already mentioned. That would mean clothes and jewellery, save what has been excepted.” “James had no jewellery to speak of” —there was now a faint note of anxiety in her tones —“1 mean the widow’s third, the pait the law allows the widow if the husband don’t. . . .” “There is no su< h law in England, madam.” “I thought there was; 1 thought there was,” she murmured. “So do many people, but it is quite a mistake. The wife is absolutely dependent upon her husband. It says much for the natural sense of right in men,” sententiously, “that very seldom does a man take advantage of this want in the law.” She brushed his words aside. Her nervous hands were grasping the table edge. “Then . . . I’ve got nothing, ... no money at all.” “No, madam, only the . . .” Edith leant forward to touch her hand, but she paid no heed. A gleam had suddenly appeared in her face. “I put a hundred pounds into the business when 1 took Josiah. I made it out of poultry on my father’s farm, so it’s my own,” triumphantly. “1 can get that ba< k with interest.” “Unless it were put in with the usual formalities, I’m afraid not.”

She shook her head. “ 1 here weren’t no formalities,’’ her voice quavered once more. “1 here weren t no formalities. I ju-t gave it to Josiah.” She stopped. Her colour had risen; with the occasional tremble in her voice there had come a working of the features. Now the features stilled themselves, and the energy went to her eyes, that had a new steady light m them. Only once 'ln' dropped her lids, seeming to count the crape rufflings on her wri-t. Then she raised her eyes again. She rose and put back her < hair neatly against the table. “I want you to stay here a little.” Her gaze wandered from one to the other. “I’ve a word to -ay, but I’ve gut something to do before l say it. 1 want you just to be here. Yes, you stop too, Mr Mirams.” She was at the door a- -he let fall the last phrase a little breathlessly. The handle turned, and she was outside. Jack Patterson’s sullen face was Hushed. “Upon my word, I think mother’s way of taking it is rather Hard on me.” “It’s a di-graccful will,” burst from Edith impetuously. “Mr Mirams, I wonder you didn’t remonstrate with the man.” The lawyer defended himself. “As a matter of fa< t, 1 <1 id venture to point out to my Lite client that the will was hardly generous to the widow’. But Mr Patterson, as it happened, was very anxious to keep all the money in the business. He gave me the impression also that his wife would be content with hi- decision, or at least not much dissatisfied.” James Reid raised his head “I am afraid I must absolve poor Josiah from some of the blame. He mentioned this will to me some time ago, and I, . . . well, ... I thought my sister, being no longer a young woman, would not care . . . whether she had anything,” he ended uncertainly. “The women are not supposed to want much before fifty, or anything at all afterwards,” said Edith Reid sarcastically. She looked towards the young couple, now landlord and landlady of the Kdginton Arms, and her voice changed. “Jack, you hear what James says. Your father didn’t understand. If he had remembered that it was Hannah who made the business, that it was really hers too,

he’d have left her something, a few hundreds at least. Hut you’ll do it. The voice was earnest now. Jack lowered at her with heavy humour. “You think a man shouldn't dispose of his money without consulting his wife?” ‘‘Certainly I think so.” “'lhen 1 can’t give anything to my mother without consulting tiladdie here, and 1 know what she’ll say. Cuts both ways, you see, your women’s rights.” Gladys gave a giggle, decorously subdued. Edith turned bark to the other two men. ‘‘And this is what women have to put up with, and no law to prevent it, and this is only one case?” “1 don’t suppose it happens very often. One seldom hears . . .” ‘‘No, not with the higher classes, perhaps; they are protected by family rules and by publi< opinion, but with people like us it happens, 1 believe, very often, and with th*' very women who have done most. \ou don’t hear of it, perhaps, because what can a woman do? Nothing, nothing whatever.” She stopped. The door behind her had opened as >he finished. At the same moment her husband jumped to his feet, a look of horror on his fare. Jack clutched at the table, his heavy mouth opening ; his wife clasped his aim with a hysterical giggle. Involuntarily Edith followed their gaze. “Hannah,” she tied, “Hannah, is that you?” She had reason to ask. It was Hannah, but Hannah completely changed. Instead of the manyflounced crape costume, she wore a salmon pink silk and r hiffon dress with parasol and gloves of a harmonious shade in her hand. The widow’s bonnet, with its r rape veil, was swept away, and in its place was a fashionable hat, the pink minglne exquisitely with delicate shades of blue. Altogether no more brilliant or festive figure had ever stepped within the private parlour of the Edginton Hotel than was presented by this its hitherto demure and housewifely mistress. Strange to say, the little elderly face did not look grotesque in this gay costume. There was a dignity about the countenance that redeemed even the strange attire. They noticed this, perhaps vaguely, as after a few amazed exclamations their voices fell into silence.

Hannah waited till there was complete silence. Then she rustled further forward. Her hands, no longer rmttencd, a filmy fall of lace half hid the worn knuckles, c lasped the back of her chair. “You’ll excuse me taking the dress,” she turned to her sister-in-law ; “it’s a liberty, 1 know; not that the silk’s as good as good; it’s a liberty me taking it as a loan loan ” ‘Keep it,” Edith found herself saying; “it’s yours; only not now ” “It’s just now I’m wanting it. I’m going to tell you why I’m wearing it. You all know what I’ve done here. 1 won’t say anything about being a wife and mother. The law don’t hold with w ives and mothers, so far as I see, but there’s something the law does hold with, that’s partnership, and 1 was Josiah’s partner. It wasn’t only a bit of money 1 put into the business. 1 put myself into it. For hve-and-twenty years 1 done that. I’ve worked arc! and ad no ’oliday, and brought the business through hard times, and what’s my reward? i ne servant that stayed with him six yeais gets something, and the other as stayed with him ten get> more, according, but the wife that stayed with him tive-and twenty years and been servant, clerk, nurse, and partner, partner . . . she gets nothing.” Her son had recovered him-elf. “You get a ’ome, mother,” he said reprovingly. “A ’ome, a place by the fireside in the home that isn’t mine now, though it’s me as made it? Not that I want it for myself. It’s the money’s worth I want. Hut I haven’t got it. I got nothing, and that’s why I am wearing this dress, and tha.’s why I’m going out in it.” Hut these words, like an electric shock, reused son and brother from their stupor. “Mother.” “Hannah, you can’t.” “Have you forgotten you’re a widow?” “I ain’t Josiah’s widow. He’s said so himself in his will, and who am 1 to go against him? And why shouldn’t 1 wear a bright dress and lace to n ? High time 1 began if I’m ever going to. I ain’t ever had such a dress all those years. 1 ain’t ever had nothing. Hut I’m going’to have ’em now. Why shouldn’t 1, not being a widow? I’m going out, so as everyone can sec. I ni going to the thcayte; if there’s a

matinay on. ... I ain’t been inside a theayter these twelve years, and I’ll ride in one of them new taxi things before ail Edginton. If it gets into the papers 1 don’t care. If a ‘Daily Mirror’ man me why I did it, I’ll tell him I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to show what it means to u-> women. . . . I’ve got to.” “Oh, Hannah, don’t.” It was Edith who spoke. “You’ve shown how you feel. Now let it rest. It will be so terrible. l*oor Josiah didn’t under stand ” “Yes, Edith. Josiah knew all along that Gladys and 1 didn’t hit it off together, but there’s a mean, nasty spirit in every man, as you’ll find out some day, which makes them like women to be ai loggerheads, so that they < an think how much superior they are —ca-y enough, seeing they only know ihe people they want to, but are always shoving their wives against the women they’d be better friends with, as the saying is, apart. No, Edith, Josiah knew very well, only he didn’t care. And that’s why I’m doing this.” She made another move to the door. Hut now they grasped the full meaning of her intention, this reversal ef the mourning process. “You stop her,” Jack almost screamed; “tell her you’ll put the law on her, Aunt Edith —the law on her for stealing vour clothes.” “I can’t; but oh, Hannah!” Hannah kept her son at bay wi.h her glance. “You may knock your mother down. It’s what mothers are for in England; but that’s the only way you will keep me. . . .” She tore herself from Edith’s < lasp, and, with James Reid’s indignant outcry, “I’ll never forgive you,” she went, an incongruous, bright-hued figure, into the sunshine. “No, I’ll never forgive her. He said it again, dazed, stupefied a minute later. Lawyer and servants had slipped away; Jack had gone with Gladys. “Why, it wasn’t every young couple as would stand having a mother-in-law in the house always. Mother didn’t understand. So he had muttered as the door banged behind him. Edith stood by her husband and tried to soothe him, pointing out the psychology of the incident. “She isn’t heartless. Josiah’s onfy a sort of symbol to her now. It’s a mission this; she feels she must. Oh,

she hates it as much as you do, but she’s wound up.” She spoke on, and the man’s florid face lost its hardness; a wave of sympathy went through him. “By Jove, you re right. Hannah’s had a lot to put up with. Hut she won’t suffer, not any more. She’ll always have a seat by our fireside.”

“Hut she doesn’t want seats by firesides, James.” Edith almost laughed at the obtuseness of man. “She wants —can’t you understand —her own life at last. No, we’ll lend her the money for her own plans, and not care if she can't pay back. Hut she will. Hannah’s a splendid business woman, as she was in the hotel. . . ”

“Yes, we’ll do that, . . . Edith.” His eyes sought the door. “Can’t you prevent it even now, this exposure before all Edginton. Look.” Hannah was at the gate; a small boy was running for the taxi. “Yes, do persuade her. Tell her 1 believe in her, and you shall have your allowance, Edith. . . . Good Heavens! no pink dress on my funeral day; no, thank you —but go, go!” She went to the door, then paused and turned. “1 shall try to persuade her, but if 1 fail, 1 shall stand by Hannah!” “Don’t tail. Don’t fail,” he reiterated anxiously He watched her cross the courtyard. A few stragglers had gathered now. Someone «ried out. . . . Wheels sounded, and the taxi came in sight, . . . stopped near the festive figure. Hut Edith had reached that figure by now. Her hand was on the arm, raised to grasp the door of the taxi. Mrs Patterson secn.ed to draw back. James Reid watched eagerly; all his decent middle-class m’nence craving protection looked out from his anxious eyes. Would his wife succeed? Would this domestic difference become public? It was a shame of Jack to refuse his mother, but still, if there was no help for it, it would be so mu< h better for her to keep it all quiet. After ail, women always had to do the endurance. He saw Hannah put her hand into Edith’s. It seemed as if she were returning. His lips prepared themselves for a forgiving smile. Then both figures stepped into the open taxi, and the gleam of pink and blue disappeared down the quiet Street!