Chapter IV: Part II

It was eight o’clock of a June morning. It had rained during the night. Now the air was sweet with the sunshine on the wet leaves and flowers.

Mrs. Endey was ironing. The table stood across the open window, up which a wild honey-suckle climbed, flinging out slender, green shoots, each topped with a cluster of scarlet spikes. The splendor of the year was at its height. The flowers were marching by in pomp and magnificence.

Mrs. Endey spread a checked gingham apron on the ironing cloth. It was trimmed at the bottom with a ruffle, which she pulled and smoothed with careful fingers.

She selected an iron on the stove, set the wooden handle into it with a sharp, little click, and polished it on a piece of scorched newspaper. Then she moved it evenly across the starched apron. A shining path followed it.

At that moment some one opened the gate. Mrs. Endey stooped to peer through the vines.

“Well, ’f I ever ’n all my natcherl life!” she said, solemnly. She set the iron on its stand and lifted her figure erect. She placed one hand on her hip, and with the other rubbed her chin in perplexed thought. “If it ain’t Orville Parmer, you may shoot me! That beats me! I wonder ’f he thinks Emarine’s a-dyin’ o’ love fer him!”

Then a thought came that made her feel faint. She fell into a chair, weakly. “Oh, my land!” she said. “I wonder ’f that _ain’t_ what’s the matter of her! I never’d thought o’ that. I’d thought o’ ev’rything _but_ that. I wonder! There she’s lied flat o’ her back ever sence she fell out with him a month ago. Oh, my mercy! I wonder ’f that is it. Here I’ve b’en rackin’ my brains to find out what ails ’er.”

She got up stiffly and went to the door. The young man standing there had a pale, anxious face.

“Good-mornin’, Mis’ Endey,” he said. He looked with a kind of entreaty into her grim face. “I come to see Emarine.”

“Emarine’s sick.” She spoke coldly.

“I know she is, Mis’ Endey.” His voice shook, “If it wa’n’t fer her bein’ sick, I w’u’dn’t be here. I s’pose, after the way she sent me off, I ain’t got any spunk or I w’u’dn’t ’a’ come anyway; but I heard—”

He hesitated and looked away.

“What ’id you hear?”

“I heard she wa’n’t a-goin’ to—get well.”

There was a long silence.

“Is she?” he asked, then. His voice was low and broken.

Mrs. Endey sat down. “I do’ know,” she said, after another silence. “I’m offul worried about her, Orville. I can’t make out what ails ’er. She won’t eat a thing; even floatin’ island turns agi’n ’er—an’ she al’ays loved that.”

“Oh, Mis’ Endey, can’t I see ’er?”

“I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be any use. Emarine’s turrable set. ’F you hadn’t went an’ told your mother that if there was any knucklin’-down to be did between her an’ Emarine, Emarine ’u’d have to do it, you an’ her’d ’a’ b’en married by this time. I’d bought most ha’f her weddin’ things a’ready.”

The young man gave a sigh that was almost a groan. He looked like one whose sin has found him out. He dropped into a chair, and putting his elbows on his knees, sunk his face into his brown hands.

“Good God, Mis’ Endey!” he said, with passionate bitterness. “Can’t choo ever stop harpin’ on that? Ain’t I cursed myself day an’ night ever sence? Oh, I wish yuh’d help me!” He lifted a wretched face. “I didn’t mean anything by tellin’ my mother that; she’s a-gettin’ kind o’ childish, an’ she was afraid Emarine ’u’d run over ’er. But if she’ll only take me back, she’ll have ev’rything her own way.”

A little gleam of triumph came into Mrs. Endey’s face. Evidently the young man was rapidly becoming reduced to a frame of mind desirable in a son-in-law.

“Will you promise that, solemn, Orville Parmer?” She looked at him sternly.

“Yes, Mis’ Endey, I will—solemn.” His tone was at once wretched and hopeful. “I’ll promise anything under the sun, ’f she’ll only fergive me. I can’t _live_ without ’er—an’ that’s all there is about it. Won’t choo ask her to see me, Mis’ Endey?”

“Well, I do’ know,” said Mrs. Endey, doubtfully. She cleared her throat, and sat looking at the floor, as if lost in thought. He should never have it to say that she had snapped him up too readily. “I don’t feel much like meddlin’. I must say I side with Emarine. I do think”—her tone became regretful—“a girl o’ her spir’t deserves a gov’nor.”

“I know she does,” said the young man, miserably. “I alwus knew _I_ wa’n’t ha’f good enough fer ’er. But Mis’ Endey, I know she loves me. Won’t choo—”

“Well!” Mrs. Endey gave a sigh of resignation. She got up very slowly, as if still undecided. “I’ll see what she says to ’t. But I’ll tell you right out I sha’n’t advise ’er, Orville.”

She closed the door behind her with deliberate care. She laughed dryly as she went up stairs, holding her head high. “There’s nothin’ like makin’ your own terms,” she said, shrewdly.

She was gone a long time. When Orville heard her coming lumbering back down the stairs and along the hall, his heart stopped beating.

Her coming meant—everything to him; and it was so slow and so heavy it seemed ominous. For a moment he could not speak, and her face told him nothing. Then he faltered out—“Will she? Oh, don’t choo say she won’t!”

“Well,” said Mrs. Endey, with a sepulchral sigh, “she’ll see you, but I don’t know ’s anything ’ll come of it. Don’t you go to bracin’ up on that idee, Orville Parmer. She’s set like a strip o’ calico washed in alum water.”

The gleam of hope that her first words had brought to his face was transitory. “You can come on,” said Mrs. Endey, lifting her chin solemnly.

Orville followed her in silence.

The little room in which Emarine lay ill was small and white, like a nun’s chamber. The ceiling slanted on two sides. There was white matting on the floor; there was an oval blue rug of braided rags at the side of the bed, and another in front of the bureau. There was a small cane-seated and cane-backed rocker. By the side of the bed was a high, stiff wooden chair, painted very black and trimmed with very blue roses.

There were two or three pictures on the walls. The long curtains of snowy butter-cloth were looped high.

The narrow white bed had been wheeled across the open window, so Emarine could lie and look down over the miles of green valley, with the mellifluous Willamette winding through it like a broad silver-blue ribbon. By turning her head a little she could see the falls; the great bulk of water sliding over the precipice like glass, to be crushed into powdered foam and flung high into the sunlight, and then to go seething on down to the sea.

At sunrise and at sunset the mist blown up in long veils from the falls quickened of a sudden to rose and gold and purple, shifting and blending into a spectral glow of thrilling beauty. It was sweeter than guests to Emarine.

The robins were company, too, in the large cherry tree outside of her window; and sometimes a flight of wild canaries drifted past like a yellow, singing cloud. When they sank, swiftly and musically, she knew that it was to rest upon a spot golden with dandelions.

Outside the door of this room Mrs. Endey paused. “I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be proper to let you go in to see ’er alone,” she said, sternly.

Orville’s eyes were eloquent with entreaty. “Lord knows there w’u’dn’t be any harm in ’t,” he said, humbly but fervently. “I feel jest as if I was goin’ in to see an angel.”

Mrs. Endey’s face softened; but at once a smile came upon it—one of those smiles of reluctant, uncontrollable humor that take us unawares sometimes, even in the most tragic moments. “She’s got too much spunk fer an angel,” she said.

“Don’t choo go to runnin’ of her down!” breathed Orville, with fierce and reckless defiance.

“I wa’n’t a-runnin’ of her down,” retorted Mrs. Endey, coldly. “You don’t ketch me a-runnin’ of my own kin down, Orville Parmer!” She glowered at him under drawn brows. “An’ I won’t stand anybody else’s a-runnin’ of ’em down or a-walkin’ over ’em, either! There ain’t no call fer _you_ to tell me not to run ’em down.” Her look grew blacker. “I reckon we’d best settle all about your mother before we go in there, Orville Parmer.”

“What about ’er?” His tone was miserable; his defiance was short-lived.

“Why, there’s no use ’n your goin’ in there unless you’re ready to promise that you’ll give Emarine the whip-hand over your mother. You best make up your mind.”

“It’s _made_ up,” said the young fellow, desperately. “Lord Almighty, Mis’ Endey, it’s made up.”

“Well.” She turned the door-knob. “I know it ain’t the thing, an’ I’d die if Miss Presley sh’u’d come an’ find out—the town w’u’dn’t hold her, she’d talk so! Well! Now, don’t stay too long. ’F I see anybody a-comin’ I’ll cough at the foot o’ the stairs.”

She opened the door and when he had passed in, closed it with a bitter reluctance. “It ain’t the proper thing,” she repeated; and she stood for some moments with her ear bent to the keyhole. A sudden vision of Miss Presley coming up the stairs to see Emarine sent her down to the kitchen with long, cautious strides, to keep guard.

Emarine was propped up with pillows. Her mother had dressed her in a white sacque, considering it a degree more proper than a night-dress. There was a wide ruffle at the throat, trimmed with serpentine edging. Emarine was famous for the rapidity with which she crocheted, as well as for the number and variety of her patterns.

Orville went with clumsy noiselessness to the white bed. He was holding his breath. His hungry eyes had a look of rising tears that are held back. They took in everything—the girl’s paleness and her thinness; the beautiful dark hair, loose upon the pillow; the blue veins in her temples; the dark lines under her languid eyes.

He could not speak. He fell upon his knees, and threw one arm over her with compelling passion, but carefully, too, as one would touch a flower, and laid his brow against her hand. His shoulders swelled. A great sob struggled from his breast. “Oh, Emarine, Emarine!” he groaned. Then there was utter silence between them.

After a while, without lifting his head, he pushed her sleeve back a very little and pressed trembling, reverent lips upon the pulse beating irregularly in her slim wrist.

“Oh, Emarine!” he said, still without lifting his head. “I love yuh—I love yuh! I’ve suffered—oh, to think o’ you layin’ here sick, night after night fer a whole month, an’ me not here to do things fer yuh. I’ve laid awake imaginin’ that yuh wanted a fresh drink an’ c’u’dn’t make anybody hear; or that yuh wanted a cool cloth on your forrid, or a little jell-water, or somethin’. I’ve got up ’n the middle o’ the night an’ come an’ stood out at your gate tell I’d see a shado’ on the curt’n an’ know yuh wa’n’t alone.... Oh, Emarine, Emarine!”

She moved her hand; it touched his throat and curved itself there, diffidently. He threw up his head and looked at her. A rush of passionate, startled joy stung through him like needles, filling his throat. He trembled strongly. Then his arms were about her and he had gathered her up against his breast; their lips were shaking together, after their long separation, in those kisses but one of which is worth a lifetime of all other kisses.

Presently he laid her back very gently upon her pillow, and still knelt looking at her with his hand on her brow. “I’ve tired yuh,” he said, with earnest self-reproach. “I won’t do ’t ag’in, Emarine—I promise. When I looked ’n your eyes an’ see that yuh’d fergive me; when I felt your hand slip ’round my neck, like it ust to, an’ like I’ve b’en _starvin’_ to feel it fer a month, Emarine—I c’u’dn’t help it, nohow; but I won’t do ’t ag’in. Oh, to think that I’ve got choo back ag’in!”

He laid his head down, still keeping his arm thrown, lightly and tenderly as a mother’s, over her.

The sick girl looked at him. Her face settled into a look of stubbornness; the exaltation that had transfigured it a moment before was gone. “You’ll have to promise me,” she said, “about your mother, you know. I’ll have to be first.”

“Yuh shall be, Emarine.”

“You’ll have to promise that if there’s any knucklin’-down, she’ll do ’t, an’ not me.”

He moved uneasily. “Oh, don’t choo worry, Emarine. It’ll be all right.”

“Well, I want it settled now. You’ll have to promise solemn that you’ll stand by ev’rything I do, an’ let me have things my way. If you don’t, you can go back the way you come. But I know you’ll keep your word if you promise.”

“Yes,” he said, “I will.”

But he kept his head down and did not promise.

“Well?” she said, and faint as she was, her voice was like steel.

But still he did not promise.

After a moment she lifted her hand and curved it about his throat again. He started to draw away, but almost instantly shuddered closer to her and fell to kissing the white lace around her neck.

“Well,” she said, coldly, “hurry an’ make your choice. I hear mother a-comin’.”

“Oh, Emarine!” he burst out, passionately. “I promise—I promise yuh ev’rything. My mother’s gittin’ old an’ childish, an’ it ain’t right, but I can’t give you up ag’in—I _can’t_! I promise—I swear!”

Her face took on a tenderness worthy a nobler victory. She slipped her weak, bare arm up around him and drew his lips down to hers.

An hour later he walked away from the house, the happiest man in Oregon City—or in all Oregon, for that matter. Mrs. Endey watched him through the vines. “Well, he’s a-walkin’ knee-deep in _promises_,” she reflected, with a comfortable laugh, as she sent a hot iron hissing over a newly sprinkled towel. “I guess that mother o’ his’n’ll learn a thing er two if she tries any o’ her back-sass with Emarine.”

Emarine gained strength rapidly. Orville urged an immediate marriage, but Mrs Endey objected. “I won’t hear to ’t tell Emarine gits her spunk back,” she declared. “When she gits to settin’ her heels down the way she ust to before she got sick, she can git married. I’ll know then she’s got her spunk back.”

Toward the last of July Emarine commenced setting her heels down in the manner approved by her mother; so, on the first of August they were married and went to live with Mrs. Palmer. At the last moment Mrs. Endey whispered grimly—“Now, you mind you hold your head high.”

“Hunh!” said Emarine. She lifted her chin so high and so suddenly that her long earrings sent out flashes in all directions.

* * * * *

They had been married a full month when Mrs. Endey went to spend a day at the Palmer’s. She had a shrewd suspicion that all was not so tranquil there as it might be. She walked in unbidden and unannounced.

It was ten o’clock. The sun shown softly through the languid purple haze that brooded upon the valley. Crickets and grasshoppers crackled through the grasses and ferns. The noble mountains glimmered mistily in the distance.

Mrs. Palmer was sewing a patch on a tablecloth. Emarine was polishing silverware. “Oh!” she said, with a start. “You, is ’t?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Endey, sitting down, “me. I come to spen’ the day.”

“I didn’t hear yuh knock,” said Mrs. Palmer, dryly. She was tall and stoop-shouldered. She had a thin, sour face and white hair. One knew, only to look at her, that life had given her all its bitters and but few of its sweets.

“I reckon not,” said Mrs. Endey, “seein’ I didn’t knock. I don’t knock at my own daughter’s door. Well, forever! Do you patch table-cloths, Mis’ Parmer? I never hear tell! I have see darnt ones, but I never see a patched one.” She laughed aggravatingly.

“Oh, that’s nothin’,” said Emarine, over her shoulder, “we have ’em made out o’ flour sacks here, fer breakfas’.”

Then Mrs. Palmer laughed—a thin, bitter laugh. Her face was crimson. “Yaas,” she said, “I use patched table-cloths, an’ table-cloths made out o’ flour sacks; but I never did wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in _my_ life.”

Then there was a silence. Emarine gave her mother a look, as much as to say—“What do you think of that?” Mrs. Endey smiled. “Thank mercy!” she said. “Dog-days’ll soon be over. The smoke’s liftin’ a leetle. I guess you an’ Orville’ll git your house painted afore the fall rain comes on, Emarine? It needs it turrable bad.”

“They ain’t got the paintin’ of it,” said Mrs. Palmer, cutting a thread with her teeth. “It don’t happen to be their house.”

“Well, it’s all the same. It’ll git painted if Emarine wants it sh’u’d. Oh, Emarine! Where’d you git them funny teaspoons at?”

“They’re Orville’s mother’s.” Emarine gave a mirthful titter.

“I want to know! Ain’t them funny? Thin’s no name fer ’m. You’d ought to see the ones my mother left me, Mis’ Parmer—thick, my! One ’u’d make the whole dozen o’ you’rn. I’ll have ’em out an’ ask you over to tea.”

“I’ve heerd about ’em,” said Mrs. Palmer, with the placidity of a momentary triumph. “The people your mother worked out fer give ’em to her, didn’t they? My mother got her’n from her gran’mother. She never worked out. She never lived in much style, but she al’ays had a plenty.”

“My-_O_!” said Mrs. Endey, scornfully.

“I guess I’d best git the dinner on,” said Emarine. She pushed the silver to one side with a clatter. She brought some green corn from the porch and commenced tearing off the pale emerald husks.

“D’you want I sh’u’d help shuck it?” said her mother.

“No; I’m ust to doin’ ’t alone.”

A silence fell upon all three. The fire made a cheerful noise; the kettle steamed sociably; some soup-meat, boiling, gave out a savory odor. Mrs. Endey leaned back comfortably in her rocking-chair. There was a challenge in the very fold of her hands in her lap.

Mrs. Palmer sat erect, stiff and thin. The side of her face was toward Mrs. Endey. She never moved the fraction of an inch, but watched her hostilely out of the corner of her eye, like a hen on the defensive.

It was Mrs. Endey who finally renewed hostilities. “Emarine,” she said, sternly, “what are you a-doin’? Shortenin’ your biscuits with _lard_?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Endey sniffed contemptuously. “They won’t be fit to eat! You feathered your nest, didn’t you? Fer mercy’s sake! Can’t you buy butter to shorten your biscuits with? You’ll be makin’ patata soup next!”

Then Mrs. Palmer stood up. There was a red spot on each cheek.

“Mis’ Endey,” she said, “if yuh don’t like the ’comadations in this house, won’t you be so good ’s to go where they’re better? I must say I never wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in _my_ life! The hull town’s see ’em on your clo’s line, an’ tee-hee about it behind your back. I notice your daughter was mighty ready to git in here an’ shorten biscuits with lard, an’ use patched table-cloths, an’—”

“_Oh, mother!_”

It was her son’s voice. He stood in the door. His face was white and anxious. He looked at the two women; then his eyes turned with a terrified entreaty to Emarine’s face. It was hard as flint.

“It’s time you come,” she said, briefly. “Your mother just ordered my mother out o’ doors. Whose house is this?”

He was silent.

“Say, Orville Parmer! whose house is this?”

“Oh, Emarine!”

“Don’t you ‘oh, Emarine’ me! You answer up!”

“Oh, Emarine, don’t let’s quar’l. We’ve only b’en married a month. Let them quar’l, if they want—”

“You answer up. Whose house is this?”

“It’s mine,” he said in his throat.

“You’rn! Your mother calls it her’n.”

“Well, it is,” he said, with a desperation that rendered the situation tragic. “Oh, Emarine, what’s mine’s her’n. Father left it to me, but o’ course he knew it ’u’d be her’n, too. She likes to call it her’n.”

“Well, she can’t turn my mother out o’ doors. I’m your wife an’ this is my house, if it’s you’rn. I guess it ain’t hardly big enough fer your mother an’ me, too. I reckon one o’ us had best git out. I don’t care much which, only I don’t knuckle-down to nobody. I won’t be set upon by nobody.”

“Oh, Emarine!” There was terror in his face and voice. He huddled into a chair and covered his eyes with both hands. Mrs. Palmer, also, sat down, as if her limbs had suddenly refused to support her. Mrs. Endey ceased rocking and sat with folded hands, grimly awaiting developments.

Emarine stood with the backs of her hands on her hips. She had washed the flour off after putting the biscuits in the oven, and the palms were pink and full of soft curves like rose leaves; her thumbs were turned out at right angles. Her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes were like diamonds.

“One o’ us’ll have to git out,” she said again. “It’s fer you to say which ’n, Orville Parmer. I’d just as soon. I won’t upbraid you, ’f you say me.”

“Well, I won’t upbraid choo, if yuh say me,” spoke up his mother. Her face was gray. Her chin quivered, but her voice was firm. “Yuh speak up, Orville.”

Orville groaned—“Oh, mother! Oh, Emarine!” His head sunk lower; his breast swelled with great sobs—the dry, tearing sobs that in a man are so terrible. “To think that you two women sh’u’d both love me, an’ then torcher me this way! Oh, God, what can I do er say?”

Suddenly Emarine uttered a cry, and ran to him. She tore his hands from his face and cast herself upon his breast, and with her delicate arms locked tight about his throat, set her warm, throbbing lips upon his eyes, his brow, his mouth, in deep, compelling kisses. “I’m your wife! I’m your wife! I’m your wife!” she panted. “You promised ev’rything to get me to marry you! Can you turn me out now, an’ make me a laughin’-stawk fer the town? Can you give _me_ up? You love me, an’ I love you! Let me show you how I love you—”

She felt his arms close around her convulsively.

Then his mother arose and came to them, and laid her wrinkled, shaking hand on his shoulder. “My son,” she said, “let _me_ show yuh how _I_ love yuh. I’m your mother. I’ve worked fer yuh, an’ done fer yuh all your life, but the time’s come fer me to take a back seat. Its be’n hard—it’s be’n offul hard—an’ I guess I’ve be’n mean an’ hateful to Emarine—but it’s be’n hard. Yuh keep Emarine, an’ I’ll go. Yuh want her an’ I want choo to be happy. Don’t choo worry about me—I’ll git along all right. Yuh won’t have to decide—I’ll go of myself. That’s the way _mothers_ love, my son!”

She walked steadily out of the kitchen; and though her head was shaking, it was carried high.