Libby the Unloved.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVII, Issue 8036, 26 January 1906, Page 4

Libby the Unloved.

Libby Anderson hung the dishcloth on its accustomed nail, and stood there surveying it. It was plain, from the way she looked, that she had determined to speak. " Ma," she asked of the woman who was sitting before the little colonial oven, " what were those papers Dave put in his pocket as I dame in? " " Some things he was showin' me." "Ma," she asked quiverly, "you didn't sign anything, did you ? " " I didn't sign your name to anything," and the needles clashed again. She knew her mother too well to press fur. ther. " I just- couldn't understand Dave coming here this time of year," she ventured; "and I thought he acted queer." The old woman was folding her knitting. " I'm going to bed, and you'd better come along, too," was her reply. A week went by, and although Ijibby had twice forgotten to feed the chickens, and lmd several times let the kettle burn dry, she was beginning to feel more settled in her mind. She did up the work one morning and went to town. Her first call was at the solicitor, and there she heard the worst. Ma had assigned her home to Dave. She did not make any fuss; the was too old-fashioned for hysterics. It was not until the old place came in eight that she broke down. " It's not fair," she cried out, " when I've stayed here and worked—it's not fair 1" Ana for the first time in many years—she was crying passionately crying. It was a feeling of outraged justice that made her speak, for she was just a woman—the daughter of Pa. " Ma," she said, "do you think Pa would like to think of your assigning the place to Dave, when I've stayed here and kept it up the best I could for twenty years ?'' The old woman put down her knitting. "La, now, Liliby?" she said, not unkindly, "don't take on. You'll never want for nothing! " Liliby stood there looking at her. " I think you don't realise what you've done," she said ; and turned to the bedroom to take off her things. It was not until the next month, the blustering month of March, that all was made clear. It was early in the afternoon when Libby looked from the window and saw a man coming in at the big gate. " That friend of Dave's from the city is coming, Ma," she said. " Gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Anderson, " and such a day as'tis ! " The stranger warmed his bands and disbursed a number of pleasantries. " Well, Mrs. Anderson," he said, finally, " your son wants me to make a little proposition to you." Mrs. Anderson looked pleasantly expectant. " Dave's always makiu' propositions," she chuckled.

"He'sbeing a good deal worried about you this winter-afraid you were not just comfortable out here—you two, all alone." " Dave's always thinkin' of his mother's comfort," she asserted, and looked triumphantly over to Libby. " Well," he resumed, turning his back to the older woman, " it worries Dave to think of your being out here alone now that you're getting along in years, so be rented a nice little place in town, andbe feels sureit would be better all round if you'd go in and lake it." " If that ain't for all the world like Dave I —always some new idea in his head. But yon tell him, Mr. Murray, not to be bothered. We don't want to move to town—do we, Libby?"

" Sot if we can help it," she replied. " Dave's been away from the place so long that he don't see just how 'tis," Ma, explained. "Libby and me wouldn't feel at home noplace else." " It's too bad you feel that way," he went on persuasively, " for Dave was so sure you'd like the idea tiiat he's gone ahead and made all arrangements, and I'm afraid there might be a little trouble about unmaking them."

He turned to Libby. " How soon do you think you could move? By the first of May'?" '•'lsuppose so," she answered, in a dull voice.

April came, and for the fiftieth time the old woman watched the white givo way to the. green on the hills that curved in and out around her old home.

Asiongasshe could, Libby let her have her dream. Her heart was not hard towards Ma now. Ma had not understood. And Libby was glad she could bave those few spring days before she was torn from the old home.

"Ma," she began one morning, " I think I will have to be packing up this week." " Tacking up what ? " " Why, don't you remember, Ma, we're going to town the first of May ? " " Oh, la, Libby 1 I've give that up long ago ! I'm going to die on the old place." "But you know, Ma, the arrangements have all been made. I'm afraid we'll have to go." She turned to her crossly. " There's no use to argue wi'me, Libby Anderson, I ain't goin'! " " But what about Dave ? " " You can jest write Dave, and say his mother don't want to leave the place.

Dave don't have nothin' further to say." She looked off at the meadowland as if it were all settled. Libby would have to tell her. " Ma,* sha said, " it'sno use to write to Dave."

"Whynot?"she demanded in a halffrightened, half-aggressive voice. " He's sold the place, Ma."

" What's that you say '! Something about Dave selling my place ? Are you gone crazy, Libby?" " You know you deeded it to him, Ma. It was his after you did that. And he's sold it, and we'll have to move out."

Filing no answer, she turned around, and it was then she coveted Dav'es gift of saying things smoothly. The old woman was crouched low in her chair, and her face was quivering, and looked sunken and gray. " I didn't think he'd do that," she faltered.

" Never mind, Ma," Libby said awkwardly. " Poor Ma 1 "

It was the nearest to a caress that had passed between them since Libby was a little girl. Nothing more was said until Ma had gone to bed. Libby supposed she was asleep when she called quaveringly to her. " Libby," she said, " you mustn't be thinkin'hard of Dave. He must bave thought itfor the best."

Libby was used to caring for Ma, and she needed care now.

" Yes, Ma," she answered, " I'm sure he must."

It was not until the morning of the fourth day that the silence between them was broken. Libby got up to take down the clock when she heard a strange noise behind her, and, turning, she saw that Ma's head was down low in her hands, and she was rocking passionately back and forward, and crying as though her old heart had broken. She put down the clock, and again she wished for a little of Dave's silkiness of speech. But she did not have it, and the best she could do was to pull Ma's chair out

from the ban-en room into the sunshine olj the porch. The hills, she thought, would J stili look like home. Ma did not get up at all next day. Perhaps she was ill, orpeehaps it was only that she did not want to go out in the sitting room to see how unlike home it looked. Uul tho next day she did not get up either, and then Libby went to town for the doctor. He said the excitement had weakened her, and did not seem very certain she would ever get up again. That night Libby wrote a letter to Dave, asking him again to let his mother die on the old place. A week passed, and an answer had not come, and still Ma had not left her bed. The packing was all done, it was the first of May, and sho was just waiting—she did not know for what. Her whole soul rose up against moving Ma from the old place now, when her days were so surely numbered; and so she sent a tele- i gram to Dave, telling him his mother was ill j and asking leave to stay a little longer. There came a reply from his partner saying that Dave was away, and would not be home for two weeks. That night the old woman raised herself and sobbed out the truth. " It's Dave that's killin' mo I It's to think Dave sold the place, and turned mc out to die [ " And then the way opened before Libby, and she saw her path. The disinherited child wrote a letter that night, and fco it she signed her brother's name. Out in the world they might have applied to it an ugly word, but Libby was only caring for Ma. She was a long time about it, for it was hard to put things in Dave's round, bold, hand, and it was hard to say them in bil silky way. The doctor said next morning that it was a matter of but a few days at most, for Ma was much worse.

" It ain't that I'm goin' to die," she said, when Libby cainc in and found her crying " but I was tbinkin' of Dave. I keep thinkin 1 and thinkin' of him when he was a little boy, and how he used to run about the place, and how pretty he used to look ; and then, just as I begin to take a little comfort in rememberin 1 some of the smart things he said, I have to think of what he has done, and it does seem like ho might have waited till—" But the words were too bitter to be spoken, and, with a hard, scraping sound in her throat, she turned her face to the wall.

Libby put her hand on something in her pocket, and thought of last night's work with thankfulness. About 11 o'clock she entered the room with the sheels ot a letlei- in her hand.

" Sfn," she said, tremulously, " here's a letter just conic from Dave." " I knew it'd come—l know it!" Ann the old voice filled the room with its triuinphanl ring. Then tlieic cicpt into hav face an anxious Jook. "What does ho say?" " lie's sorry about selling the place, Ma. He really thought you'd like it hotter in town. Jiuthe liseil il up torus tostuy. He says you'll never have to leave the place." " I knoweil it—l kuowed it well enough ! You don't know Dave like I do. But read me the letter. She did read il, and the old woman listened with tears giad tears now -■ fulling over her withered cheeks.

" You can just unpack our things," she cried, when it was finished, " and get this place straightened out. The idea of your packin' up, and think we was goin' to move to town I Sice mess you've made of it! Jest as if Dave would hear of us leuvin' Ihe place. 1 always knowed you never 'predated Dave."

Before morning was dead. Hap py, because she had back hj, r old faith in Dave—the blind, beautiful faith of the mother in the son. And Libby—the honicle.-s auii unloved Libby—was happy, 100, for the had tinisheil well her work of caring for Ma,