Storyteller.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 11, 10 June 1893, Page 13

Storyteller.

ABRAHAM’S MOTHER

(From Lippincott’s Magazine.) Lucy Slocum was hurrying down the street, her bonnet over one ear, her shawl slipping off her shoulders. She had just heard the news, and the ■village was alive with it. If she had not chosen that particular moment to go to Hammerston, she might have known it as soon as anybody else. Her shopping could have waited. What earthly difference did it make whether she bought eight yards brown alpaca Monday or Tuesday ? As she was getting out of the stage on her return from Hammerston, she had been met by Eliza Mott. In a few word the news was told her, and, with Eliza Mott, she hurried home. There, on top of the Bible on the sitting-room lable, lay an invitation, the counterpart of the one in Eliza Mott’s excited lingers, but addressed to Mr and Mrs Daniel B. Slocum. John Ordway’s boy had gone from house to house that morning, leaving invitations. When he was questioned he had nothing to say, but laughed as if he thought it the best joke in the world. John Ordway kept the “ Ordway House ” at Hammerston, and the boy had run wild until Maria West had given him work. The boy had been perfectly steady ever since ; but that meant nothing. Who would not be steady under Maria ? Eliza Mott and Lucy Slocum, putting their heads together, examined the invitation again, read it aloud again to each other, and, when Dan Slocum came in, read it aloud to him. “ What! John Ordway’s boy’s been leavin' these things from house to house P” Dan Slocum leaned his big shoulders against the sitting-room wall and laughed until tears rolled down his dl66k>S * “Well, I’m Mowed ! There ain’t been such a rise taken out of the village since I was a boy myself. He’ll get on in the world. A boy with the brains to think of that trick’ll get on. But see here, Lucy,” —Dan Slocum picked up the invitation and grew suddenly grave, —“John Ordway’s boy’s pretty smart, but there’s somethin’ he’s left out; somethin’ mighty important. ‘ The pleasure of your company is requested at the 'marriage of Maria West on Saturday even ’, March seventeenth , at eight o'clock .’ ” Slocum turned to his wife and Eliza Mott, with a twinkle in his eye : “ And who’s the man ? Did either of you ladies ever hear tell of a weddin’ without a man ? ” Mrs Mott and Mrs Slocum looked at each other. Of course they could see through the trick, but what a dreadful thing for John Ordway’s boy! Maria never would forgive liim.

“It’s kinder lucky, after all, that he didn’t take the name of no man in the village,” suggested Eliza Mott. “ Nobody would have stood that.” Lucy Slocum did not say much of anything. Nervously tying her bon-net-strings arid pinning her shawl, she started down the street with the determination to learn the truth —to learn it from Maria West’s own lips. Few, very few, of her neighbours took liberties with Maria West. In a cool moment Lucy Slocum never would have dreamed of doing it. But, as it was, she walked straight into the store and up to Maria’s desk and said, “ It’s gone all over the village, Maria West, that you’ve sent out invitations to a weddin V* No other person was in the store at that moment, not even John Ordway’s boy. Scratch, sci’atch, went Maria’s pen down the ledger. Lucy Slocum wished herself at home. “ Six and two, eight; and four, twelve; and nine, twenty-one,” said Maria, sternly,—“ Take a seat, Lucy Slocum,- —and one, twenty-two ; and nine, thirty-ore. Yes, I’ve sent out invitations; i suppose you’re coming ? ”

Lucy Slocum's 'knees gave' way? Luckily there was a chair behind her. Maria .West closed the inkstand, wiped the pen, and locke’d up the ledger. Then she her elbows, on the desk, rested her chin on the palms of her hands, and said, “Well ? ” There was something awe-inspiring about Maria. She was hig and broadshouldered, with iron-gray hair, and eyes that bored holes through you. She always looked through people, never at them. “Well,” she repeated, looking through Lucy, “ didn’t you come round for nothin’ in particular?” “We’re all—l mean everybody—l mean everybody in the village,” began Mrs Slocum, fidgeting on her chair and growing red, “ we’re all surprised, Maria, because we hadn’t heard you was going to be married until we got the invitations this mornin’.” Maria pulled out her watch and laid it face upward on the desk. “ How, Lucy Slocum, I’ve got a few minutes’ time to tell you about my affairs. I’ve been runnin’ the grocery business single-handed for close on twenty years. I’ve had to hire men to do work I couldn’t attend to, and it’s been an expense 'most even with the profits. I might just as well get married, and have one man around permanent, instead of botherin’ every year tryin’ to get new ones. I’m goin’ to get married next Saturday, so, of course, I got the invitations off my hands to-day. Is there anythin’ more you’d like to know ?” Lucy Slocum gasped. She was accustomed to Maria West’s business ways, but this was too much. Mechanically she reached for her shawl and drew it close around her. The action seemed to pull her together. “Yes,” she said, with more confidence, “ there’s a thing I’d like to ask, Maria, which I hope you won’t think pryin’. Livin’ a stone’s-throw from you for forty years and not hearin’ of your intentions, I can’t help bein’ surprised, and it’s natural I’d like to know who’s the man.”

Patience was not Maria’s strong point. She jumped to her feet. “ For the land’s sake, Lucy,” she cried, “ how do you expect everything at once ? Folks is different. You married when you was a baby in arms ; I never believed in it, and I never will. I ain’t gone around blabbin’ that I’ve always had the intention of gettin’ married. When I got to a suitable age I jest sat down and made up my mind to doin’ it. Now, what’s the most important thing in a weddin’, and what’s the most serious thing afterwards P The husband, ain’t it ? Well, my plan is to attend to all the invitations and the party and to set the day ; then I get the things that ain’t serious off my mind ; after that I attend to the husband.” The amazement on Lucy Slocum’s face gave way to an admiration so respectful that Maria was mollified. “ The minute I’d begun writin’ the invitations,” she went on, in softer tones, “ I took a New York paper* A quiet, respectable man, it said, was wantin’ the acquintance of a middle aged lady; object, matrimony. A man who don’t put on more airs than to call himself quiet and respectable, I thought I’d take a look at. I wrote I’d pay his fare, and told him how to get here. I got an answer that he’d go to Hammerston and come over in the stage this afternoon ; so if I don’t like him it’s settled he’ll go back to New York, and if he suits he’ll board at Elizabeth Jenkinses till the weddin’. I’ve had enough business dealin’s to see through a man as soon as I set eyes on him. This one’ll find out pretty quick whether he’s goin’ to suit or not.” Maria West stopped, expecting comment, but Lucy Slocum was beyond speech. A flush of pardonable pride rose in Maria’s face as she looked at her. What man or woman can be indifferent to completely overpowering another ? “Well Lucy,” she said, after a reasonable pause, “ you’ve heard all there is to hear, and if the man ain’t what he pretends to be, you’ll see

him go off in the stage tomorrow.” Lucy did not stir. She was in no state of mind to take a hint, and it was only when Maria walked towards the door that it occurred to her to leave. With a dazed good-bye, she started up the street. She had not taken a dozen steps before the old stage lumbering along fx-om Hammerston pulled up in front of the store and deposited its only passenger, who, hat in hand, stood in full view bowing before Maria. Out of the comer of her eye, Mazda saw Lucy looking back, and was gratified. The “quiet and respectable ” of the advertisement was certainly confirmed by the man’s appearance. He had a pale, studious face, fair hair, and pale-blue eyes. He was tall and thin, and wore glasses. His age might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, very quiet. After his first words of introduction, he stood waiting for Mazda to cany on the conversation. Mazda had never* seen anybody like him. The men she lived among were farmers, rough and loud - spoken. They were too much like hez*self, and treated her on to mizcli of an equality. She led the way into the store and pulled forward two chairs. “ What did you say A. H. stood for?” asked. “ Abz-aham Harrison, ma’am,” he answered, quietly. “ Well, Abraham Haz-zdson,” said Maria, in her* quick tones, “ I guess I made everything pretty clear- in zzzy letter. I told you what kind of a life I lead, and what busines I’m doin’, and what I expect of a husband. If yozz’z-e quiet and respectable, I don’t see why we shozzldn’t get along-, and if you’ve z*ead my letter I dozz’t believe you’ve come all the way from Yew York without bein’ willin’ to stay. What’s your business r 1” “ I was in the grocery business in Yew York for a long time.”

“ Do you smoke ?” . No, ma’am.” Maria gave a satisfied nod. “ I’m glad of that. If everything else suited, I might put up "with a little smokin’, but it’s jest as well you don’t want it. Now I’ll take you across to Elizabeth Jenkinses. You’re goin’ to board there till Saturdav. The weddin’ is Saturday' night at 8 o’clock.” Harrison took up his hat and valise to follow Maria. At the door she turned suddenly: “I knew I was forgettin’ to ask you somethin’ Ain’t you got any relations ?” “ No, ma’am ; nobody I know of at till. Not a soul in the world belongin’ to me, —-besides my mother.” “ Your mother !!” Maria braced her stalwart shoulders against the door. - “You never wrote a word on paper, and you never let fall'a word since you came, sayin’ you had a mother.” Harrison shifted from one foot to the other and gave a feeble smile. “She’s sick,” he said, apologetically, “ sick abed goin’ on ten years, and she don’t trouble nobody. She says. to me, ‘Abraham, it’ll be the joy of my life to have you get married, and if you’ll find a nice wife it’ll be worth somethin’ to you both after I’m gone.’ She sends you her remembrances, and she wants you to understand that she aint strong enough to visit. She'll go on livin’ peaceable in New York, and we won’t have no interference from her ever. “ Humph !” Maria meditated. She had an inherent prejudice against a mother-in-law. Was it. possible she had not mentioned the fact in her letter ? Now that.she had seen Harrison, and that the interview had--proved satisfactory in every other respect, she did not want to send him away. “ Don’t your mother go a step out of New York ?” she asked. “ Never, she ain’t got the strength," said Harrison sadly. “ She says, 1 Abraham, you must speak (/loan; You must make Miss West-800 that I ain’t to be expected at the weddin'.’ ,S he’s got a nice pleasant room and a servant girl to take care of her. If it wasn’t that she was provided for, I

wouldn’t feel easy at goin’. away." ■‘Well, if she dozz’t make no visits, she’ll be thinkin’ it my place to go to see hez*, and I don’t make no visits either,” said Mazda decidedly. “ I ain’t been out of this village, except to Haznmez-ston, in my life. This is my home, and I live in it; this is my store and I run it; I ,can’t spare time to fool az-ound Yew Yoz-k. I suppose you’ll be wantin’ to go to see yourmother, won’t you ?” Haz-zdson looked up submissively : “ The third Sunday of every month’ll do, ma’am. I could go Saturday mornin’s and be back Monday evenin’s pz-ompt.” Mazda drew a bz-eath of z-elief. “ I’m glad you can talk sense, Abz’ahazn Hand son. You live like that and you’ll do. The thiz-d Sunday of every month you can have regularwith your mother. Step lively now, and we’ll go acz-oss to Elizabeth Jenkinses.” (To he continued.)