Flight, page 13
“Be careful!” she cried as one of the men let the basket strike against the door. A sharp physical pain shot through her body, followed by nausea as the men righted the slipping basket. Then all went dark for her. Without a sound she sank to the floor, unconscious …
When she awoke she was in bed. Hilda sat near and smiled at her when she opened her eyes. “Papa says you must keep quiet, absolutely. Mama is seeing after things and Mr. Hunter is taking care of all the arrangements for the funeral
The ominous, horrifying word brought a little cry of anguish from Mimi. Hilda’s eyes filled with tears at her ineptness.
“Ask your mother if she’ll try and get some candles. And see if she can get a priest for the funeral. Jean would be happiest if he was buried that way,” begged Mimi.
When Hilda had hurried away to execute her wishes, Mimi tried to get up but found herself too weak. She was glad to sink back into the soft pillows. Yes, Jean would be happiest if he had a Catholic burial. He hadn’t been to mass for years now but he had never allowed the narrowness and prejudice of priests who after all were human and with human fear and cowardice and prejudice to destroy his faith. Reverently, Mimi made the sign of the cross …
The morning passed before she had strength enough to rise. She talked over with Mrs. Daquin, Mrs. Adams and Mr. Hunter plans for the funeral. Jean’s sister in New York whom Mimi had never seen had been telegraphed and had wired she was leaving for Atlanta at once. They decided the services were to be held on Friday. Mrs. Daquin thought it best to have a Protestant service but Mimi was obdurate, immovable. This was the last thing she could do for Jean and she was determined that it should be done, if possible.
Late in the afternoon, in the lull of visitors who were called home by household duties, Carl came. To both it seemed impossible that less than twenty-four hours before they had been so happy together in that very room.
“There’s no use of my saying I’m sorry, Mimi. You know it—I loved your father better than anybody except you. He seemed to understand me—I—I—” His sudden rush of feeling made it impossible for him to speak. His eyes filled with tears as he touched Mimi’s hand, gently and but for a second.
“Yes, Carl, I know … ” she whispered …
By Thursday evening Mimi felt she could no longer stand the torture of greeting people, answering the same questions over and over again, performing the many additional tasks the death had brought. Mrs. Daquin seemed actually to be enjoying after a fashion the new importance which Jean’s death had brought to her as his widow. Not that she let it show on her face. She saw to it her eyes bore the appearance of much weeping and her general air was that of a Christian martyr about to be thrown to the lions. To Mimi she seemed to have donned the atmosphere of the sorely tried and heavily bereaved with full attention to the effectiveness of details, wearing the role as an accomplished actress would. Mimi found all her old antagonism rising again—Jean’s life, she reflected bitterly, would have been much happier had his wife expended some of that energy now used in simulated grief towards happiness for Jean when alive.
There was but one place where Mimi felt at peace, and that sitting beside Jean’s casket. To-morrow morning Jean’s sister, Mrs. Rogers of New York, would arrive. To-morrow afternoon the funeral. Mimi crept quietly into the parlour. The room was unlighted save for the illumination from the flickering candles. Through the partly opened windows floated a warm breeze of an unusually balmy late October evening. The lace curtains swayed lazily back and forth as though bidding a languid farewell to the body in the casket just beyond their reach. In the dimness they seemed to Mimi like long slender fingers seeking vainly to caress the sides of the box which held all that remained of Jean.
The house was nearly deserted. One by one they had gone away. Mimi, wearied by the incessant stream, felt a great eagerness to find the peace she could get nowhere else save near Jean. It annoyed her to find she was not alone. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King sat near the window conversing in lowered voices. Mimi ignored them, drew a chair close to the casket and sat there gazing at Jean’s face. On it was unmistakable peace—she almost wished that she were there beside him. The extent of her loss was creeping upon her. Without Jean she felt lost, terrified, afraid. To whom could she turn? Mrs. Daquin? Obviously, no. Mrs. Hunter? Hilda? Hilda’s mother? Carl? Each of them had his good points but none of them were so all-inclusive, so gentle, so understanding, so unselfish. Nor even was she herself, she realized. For here I am thinking only of myself—had I done less of that when Jean was alive, I would have made his life and my own far happier.
“ … her eyes ain’t even red … if she was so crazy about him as she pretended to be, she’d … ”
Mimi suddenly became conscious of the sibilant whispers which came to her from the two women by the window. Lost in the grief bottled up within her like turbulent waters held by a great dam, she had been oblivious of comments during the days since Jean had died. Even to the undoubtedly sympathetic ones she had replied methodically, listlessly, giving little thought to the words, words, words. Now as the sinister, malevolent whisperings came to her, the inevitable reaction to the apathy she had felt flamed into being. She rose from her chair, bitter hatred welling up for the evil-tongued old women. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, an overwhelming sense of the futility of it all came over her, a sense of inappropriateness, the lack of respect for Jean if she were to engage here in what would be but little more than a fishwives’ quarrel. She checked the hot, bitter words that pressed for utterance and rushed from the room.
In the security of her own room she lay on the bed and envied the peace on Jean’s face. Again and again the picture melted into the face of Carl as he had left the house the night Jean died. She wondered if this fantastic trick of her mind were not sacrilege, if it were not in some manner disloyalty to Jean. Yet, one was living, the other gone, and she felt a comforting sense that Jean would not think her disloyal. She wondered what course her new relations with Carl would take. Now that Hilda was removed from the problem … ? Weighing, pondering, wondering, she lightly slept. They’ll surely be gone now, she thought, as she on awaking descended to the parlour once more, drawn back to Jean as iron filings are attracted by a powerful magnet.
The chairs by the window were empty and Mimi was glad. She sat again by the casket and peace again came to her. How long she sat there she did not know, lost as she was in her own rambling, chaotic musings. Again there came to her a feeling she was not alone. The whispering rose once more, this time from the shadows on the other side of the casket. She sought to put them out of her mind, to lose herself again in her own thoughts. After all, she thought, they are trying to show their respect for Jean and their willingness to be of service. It is thoughtful of them to come over here and sit up. From the kitchen came the sound of voices and the aroma of coffee. Maybe they’ll leave soon if only to get something to eat.
They did not leave. Though she made every effort to close her ears and mind to the words which floated jerkily to her, Mimi found her resentment rising again. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King discussed the probable price of the casket, the furniture. They speculated as to what the widow and daughter would do now, in what sort of financial circumstances the deceased had left them. Mimi heard Carl’s name linked with her own—followed by an appreciative chuckle from Mrs. King in response to some remark made by her companion which Mimi could not hear. It was obvious the women had not seen or heard Mimi reenter the room, for the frankness of their comment indicated their assumption they were alone. On and on they roamed, by innuendo and by unqualified assertion destroying, maligning, tearing to pieces …
A cold, blind fury seized Mimi. She jumped to her feet. The women gasped as Mimi’s bloodless face framing flashing eyes filled with fury rose at the head of the casket, the light from the tall candles giving it a terrifying, ghostlike appearance.
“You two get out!” Mimi demanded. “You might have had enough respect for my father here to have silenced your filthy, lying tongues! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
Her voice at first was but little more than a sharp whisper. As her anger mastered her it rose until her words carried to the hall beyond. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King, thoroughly frightened, hastily edged around the room towards the door, keeping as great distance as was possible between them and Mimi, who slowly circled her body so that her eyes remained upon them. The two gossips hurried through the little knot which had gathered at the door, drawn there by the commotion. As the door shut behind them Mimi sank into her chair and wept as Mrs. Adams came in and put her arms about her …
Down the street hurried two indignant, surprised women. Mrs. Plummer speculated plaintively in an aggrieved tone as she panted her way homeward.
“I wonder what was the matter with her,” she asked her companion. “We didn’t say nothing to make her r’ar and tear like that and over her dead father’s body at that! Some folks sho’ is funny!”
“Mis’ Plummer,” her companion declared portentously,” it’s the truth that hurts! You remember the old sayin’s, “The hit dog yelps!” and “Where there’s smoke there’s fire! Guess we weren’t so far wrong at that … Guess that gal will bear watchin’.” …
Early the next morning Mrs. Rogers came. As she entered the house Mimi rushed to meet her. Her aunt took her in her arms, murmuring gentle words of consolation to Mimi, who felt instantly the presence of a friend and ally. Mrs. Rogers was of medium height, younger than Jean but so like her brother that Jean seemed only a replica to which white, close-cropped hair, a moustache and a little beard had been added.
“Poor, dear Mimi,” she whispered, her eyes wet. She pressed Mimi to her in a warm outpouring of real affection, affection which sprang into existence unreservedly, binding them together in a flash of understanding and love …
Mimi and her aunt talked a long time together just before Mrs. Rogers returned to New York two days after the funeral.
“What are your plans, Mimi? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Sophie—this thing has come on me so suddenly I’m all upset. I suppose I’ll stay on here as long as I can get along with Mrs. Daquin—”
“Why did Jean marry her? She’s not our sort at all—an estimable woman, I suppose, but—well, she just isn’t the sort—not Margot’s type at all.”
Mimi told her the circumstances of the marriage, of the years of misunderstanding which had followed the union.
“Just like Jean to do a thing like that,” his sister observed when Mimi had finished. “Why stay on here with her? Won’t you go back to New York with me?
“Oh, Aunt Sophie, I’d love to—but I can’t leave Atlanta right now—”
“What’s his name?” Mrs. Rogers demanded with what to Mimi seemed uncanny shrewdness.
“Carl Hunter,” she answered frankly, her face reddening. “You see, he needs me.” And she told the story simply, fully, knowing that her aunt would understand. When she finished, Mrs. Rogers smiled sympathetically.
“I see—I see. But if ever things get unpleasant here, send me a wire and come on to New York. I’ve been pretty lonely since Henry died and I’ve always wanted a daughter. I’d try to make you happy and I don’t think there’s overmuch happiness here for you with Jean’s widow. And up North you’d have a much better chance than here where all you can do is to teach school or get married. The last isn’t bad if you get the right man—but, don’t hurry—a girl with your looks and brains can go a long way if she only keeps her head …
Chapter XII
She would not have believed that so soon after Jean’s death she could find herself settling back into a routined life. At first there had been the long, empty days and the longer nights when the house seemed a vast, empty place from which the spirit or thing or whatever it might be called which had made it different from other places had fled. But Mrs. Daquin had removed most of the things which too vividly brought back memories of Jean.
“There’s no use of keeping things that only make you sad,” she had said. “I get the creeps every time I go to see Mrs. Simpkins—those dried flowers from her husband’s funeral hanging in the frame in her parlour. There’ll be nothing like that around here—a dead person’s dead and you can’t bring him back, no matter how much you loved him.”
At first Mimi had objected strenuously to Mrs. Daquin’s seemingly ruthless disposal of all the things which to her were so intimately associated with Jean. They had, however, brought little furniture from New Orleans, only Jean’s books and a few odds and ends. These latter Mimi removed to her own room and then she willingly consented to whatever changes her step-mother desired. A new parlour set was purchased as soon after the funeral as was decently possible. New wall-paper appeared in the long dark hall and in Mrs. Daquin’s bedroom. Out, too, went the bedroom furniture of mottled walnut. A brass bed with frolicsome curves and angles of shiny metal contrasting with the cloudy dullness of the heavier portions took its place. The imperfect set of plain white china with the narrow border of gold and blue was stored in the attic. In its stead appeared china of awe-inspiring combinations of bluebirds kissing on the wing, many cupolaed pagodas, sampans rowed by fat-bellied Chinamen, and trees of a design never produced even by a profligate Nature. Mimi took only a perfunctory interest in these changes other than vouchsafing a listless “They’re pretty,” when pressed for comment by Mrs. Daquin.
Mimi at times was amazed at her ready acceptance of the uneventful life. She was grateful that she had apparently been wrong in her estimation of her step-mother. Mrs. Daquin seemed changed, chastened by Jean’s death. She had really loved her husband in her own fashion even when she had been most irritated by what to her seemed his lack of intelligence in grasping opportunities for advancement or gain. Now that he was dead, she found herself regarding him not in the light of the later years but more as she had during their short courtship and the first year of their marriage. This mood was sustained by the very evident advantages which she found coming to her as a recently bereaved widow. She knew that in time this too would pass. In time Jean would be but a faint memory to most of those with whom she associated.
It was not conscious dishonesty nor was she a deliberate poseuse when she accepted the little attentions, the deference which they bestowed on her. Mrs. Daquin found herself for the first time a personage in her own right. All her youth she had lived under the dominating influence of her father, and even after her marriage to so retiring a person as Jean, she found that her handicap in being a woman in a conventional society was very great. Her father had not attended the funeral but he had wired and written her repeatedly urging her to return to Chicago. This she resolved not to do—at least not unless circumstances compelled such a step—for she was enjoying too greatly for immediate surrender her new importance.
The mood thus engendered worked to Mimi’s advantage though she did not fully understand the reasons for that good fortune. Mrs. Daquin was kindly in her manner, far more so than she had ever been before. When after a few weeks they began to be seen on the streets, Mimi was always to be seen with her step-mother, both clad in the depressingly sombre blacks of sorrow which custom demanded. Mimi’s oval, cream-coloured face topped by its aureole of reddish gold peeped out with startling beauty from the black bonnet tied under her chin with strings of the same colour. Mrs. Daquin did not fare so well in her melancholy raiment, her brown skin and hair offering not so marked a contrast as in Mimi’s case. She suffered the loss of comeliness cheerfully, however, for its added advantages in sympathetic attention.
Careless as usual of material things, they found Jean had not made a will. Mr. Hunter had volunteered to relieve them of the burdens of settling the estate and his report had shown that not much had been left. Jean had not secured the full value of his property in New Orleans and the cash he had secured had been invested largely in purchasing stock in the Lincoln Mutual Insurance Company. This would in time prove a sound investment, but at present there was little return from it. The deeds to the house given them by Mr. Robertson had been made out in Mrs. Daquin’s name. Mr. Robertson volunteered to contribute a definite sum each month to their support when he saw that his daughter had no intentions of returning to Chicago as he wished. Mimi, trained to do no work which would bring her appreciable income or which she could have accepted without lowering their social status, found herself faced with the Hobson’s choice of teaching school or enduring the loss of many little comforts and even a few necessities which before had seemed to her so natural she had never given thought to their source. She did not grumble but began at once to prepare for the examination as a school teacher in the spring. In fact, she was glad to find a definite thing on which to concentrate—it served as an opiate when Jean’s loss seemed too great to bear …
Into this new life Carl came with much larger importance than Mimi had supposed was possible. In time Mrs. Daquin, who had never been able to find out from Mimi the purpose of Mrs. Hunter’s mysterious call but who had linked it up after a fashion with Carl and Mimi, offered no objection to Carl’s visits to the house. This lack of hostility changed in time to actual welcome due to the increased cordiality of Mrs. Hunter towards Mrs. Daquin which the latter sensed was in large measure because of his visits. This welcome was strengthened by Carl’s evident reformation. No longer was he seen with questionable companions. He had not been seen under the influence of liquor since he had begun again to visit Mimi, and every Sunday now he was to be seen with his parents and sister at church.
The old comradeship, deepened and enriched in a subtle but unmistakable way, was returning. Memory of that night during which so much had taken place, their reunion, Jean’s death and all the rest, had kept them from the torridity of feeling which had swept over them then. Instead there was a comforting sense of unity which ripened and deepened through the unspoken avowals of their love that flashed between them whenever they met.
