The Housekeeper
I let myself in at the
kitchen door.
“It’s you,”
she said. “I can’t get up. Forgive
me
Not answering your knock.
I can no more
Let people in than I can keep
them out.
I’m getting too old
for my size, I tell them.
My fingers are about all I’ve
the use of
So’s to take any comfort.
I can sew:
I help out with this beadwork
what I can.”
“That’s a smart
pair of pumps you’re beading there.
Who are they for?”
“You mean?—oh,
for some miss.
I can’t keep track of
other people’s daughters.
Lord, if I were to dream of
everyone
Whose shoes I primped to dance
in!”
“And where’s John?”
“Haven’t you seen
him? Strange what set you off
To come to his house when
he’s gone to yours.
You can’t have passed
each other. I know what:
He must have changed his mind
and gone to Garlands.
He won’t be long in
that case. You can wait.
Though what good you can be,
or anyone—
It’s gone so far.
You’ve heard? Estelle’s run off.”
“Yes, what’s it
all about? When did she go?”
“Two weeks since.”
“She’s in earnest,
it appears.”
“I’m sure she
won’t come back. She’s hiding somewhere.
I don’t know where myself.
John thinks I do.
He thinks I only have to say
the word,
And she’ll come back.
But, bless you, I’m her mother—
I can’t talk to her,
and, Lord, if I could!”
“It will go hard with
John. What will he do?
He can’t find anyone
to take her place.”
“Oh, if you ask me that,
what will he do?
He gets some sort of bakeshop
meals together,
With me to sit and tell him
everything,
What’s wanted and how
much and where it is.
But when I’m gone—of
course I can’t stay here:
Estelle’s to take me
when she’s settled down.
He and I only hinder one another.
I tell them they can’t
get me through the door, though:
I’ve been built in here
like a big church organ.
We’ve been here fifteen
years.”
“That’s a long
time
To live together and then
pull apart.
How do you see him living
when you’re gone?
Two of you out will leave
an empty house.”
“I don’t just
see him living many years,
Left here with nothing but
the furniture.
I hate to think of the old
place when we’re gone,
With the brook going by below
the yard,
And no one here but hens blowing
about.
If he could sell the place,
but then, he can’t:
No one will ever live on it
again.
It’s too run down.
This is the last of it.
What I think he will do, is
let things smash.
He’ll sort of swear
the time away. He’s awful!
I never saw a man let family
troubles
Make so much difference in
his man’s affairs.
He’s just dropped everything.
He’s like a child.
I blame his being brought
up by his mother.
He’s got hay down that’s
been rained on three times.
He hoed a little yesterday
for me:
I thought the growing things
would do him good.
Something went wrong.
I saw him throw the hoe
Sky-high with both hands.
I can see it now—
Come here—I’ll
show you—in that apple tree.
That’s no way for a
man to do at his age:
He’s fifty-five, you
know, if he’s a day.”
“Aren’t you afraid
of him? What’s that gun for?”
“Oh, that’s been
there for hawks since chicken-time.
John Hall touch me! Not
if he knows his friends.
I’ll say that for him,
John’s no threatener
Like some men folk. No
one’s afraid of him;
All is, he’s made up
his mind not to stand
What he has got to stand.”
“Where is Estelle?
Couldn’t one talk to
her? What does she say?
You say you don’t know
where she is.”
“Nor want to!
She thinks if it was bad to
live with him,
It must be right to leave
him.”
“Which is wrong!”
“Yes, but he should
have married her.”
“I know.”
“The strain’s
been too much for her all these years:
I can’t explain it any
other way.
It’s different with
a man, at least with John:
He knows he’s kinder
than the run of men.
Better than married ought
to be as good
As married—that’s
what he has always said.
I know the way he’s
felt—but all the same!”
“I wonder why he doesn’t
marry her
And end it.”
“Too late now:
she wouldn’t have him.
He’s given her time
to think of something else.
That’s his mistake.
The dear knows my interest
Has been to keep the thing
from breaking up.
This is a good home:
I don’t ask for better.
But when I’ve said,
‘Why shouldn’t they be married,’
He’d say, ‘Why
should they?’ no more words than that.”
“And after all why should
they? John’s been fair
I take it. What was his
was always hers.
There was no quarrel about
property.”
“Reason enough, there
was no property.
A friend or two as good as
own the farm,
Such as it is. It isn’t
worth the mortgage.”
“I mean Estelle has
always held the purse.”
“The rights of that
are harder to get at.
I guess Estelle and I have
filled the purse.
’Twas we let him have
money, not he us.
John’s a bad farmer.
I’m not blaming him.
Take it year in, year out,
he doesn’t make much.
We came here for a home for
me, you know,
Estelle to do the housework
for the board
Of both of us. But look
how it turns out:
She seems to have the housework,
and besides,
Half of the outdoor work,
though as for that,
He’d say she does it
more because she likes it.
You see our pretty things
are all outdoors.
Our hens and cows and pigs
are always better
Than folks like us have any
business with.
Farmers around twice as well
off as we
Haven’t as good.
They don’t go with the farm.
One thing you can’t
help liking about John,
He’s fond of nice things—too
fond, some would say.
But Estelle don’t complain:
she’s like him there.
She wants our hens to be the
best there are.
You never saw this room before
a show,
Full of lank, shivery, half-drowned
birds
In separate coops, having
their plumage done.
The smell of the wet feathers
in the heat!
You spoke of John’s
not being safe to stay with.
You don’t know what
a gentle lot we are:
We wouldn’t hurt a hen!
You ought to see us
Moving a flock of hens from
place to place.
We’re not allowed to
take them upside down,
All we can hold together by
the legs.
Two at a time’s the
rule, one on each arm,
No matter how far and how
many times
We have to go.”
“You mean that’s
John’s idea.”
“And we live up to it;
or I don’t know
What childishness he wouldn’t
give way to.
He manages to keep the upper
hand
On his own farm. He’s
boss. But as to hens:
We fence our flowers in and
the hens range.
Nothing’s too good for
them. We say it pays.
John likes to tell the offers
he has had,
Twenty for this cock, twenty-five
for that.
He never takes the money.
If they’re worth
That much to sell, they’re
worth as much to keep.
Bless you, it’s all
expense, though. Reach me down
The little tin box on the
cupboard shelf,
The upper shelf, the tin box.
That’s the one.
I’ll show you.
Here you are.”
“What’s this?”
“A bill—
For fifty dollars for one
Langshang cock—
Receipted. And the cock
is in the yard.”
“Not in a glass case,
then?”
“He’d need a tall
one:
He can eat off a barrel from
the ground.
He’s been in a glass
case, as you may say,
The Crystal Palace, London.
He’s imported.
John bought him, and we paid
the bill with beads—
Wampum, I call it. Mind,
we don’t complain.
But you see, don’t you,
we take care of him.”
“And like it, too.
It makes it all the worse.”
“It seems as if.
And that’s not all: he’s helpless
In ways that I can hardly
tell you of.
Sometimes he gets possessed
to keep accounts
To see where all the money
goes so fast.
You know how men will be ridiculous.
But it’s just fun the
way he gets bedeviled—
If he’s untidy now,
what will he be——?
“It makes it all the
worse. You must be blind.”
“Estelle’s the
one. You needn’t talk to me.”
“Can’t you and
I get to the root of it?
What’s the real trouble?
What will satisfy her?”
“It’s as I say:
she’s turned from him, that’s all.”
“But why, when she’s
well off? Is it the neighbours,
Being cut off from friends?”
“We have our friends.
That isn’t it.
Folks aren’t afraid of us.”
“She’s let it
worry her. You stood the strain,
And you’re her mother.”
“But I didn’t
always.
I didn’t relish it along
at first.
But I got wonted to it.
And besides—
John said I was too old to
have grandchildren.
But what’s the use of
talking when it’s done?
She won’t come back—it’s
worse than that—she can’t.”
“Why do you speak like
that? What do you know?
What do you mean?—she’s
done harm to herself?”
“I mean she’s
married—married someone else.”
“Oho, oho!”
“You don’t believe
me.”
“Yes, I do,
Only too well. I knew
there must be something!
So that was what was back.
She’s bad, that’s all!”
“Bad to get married
when she had the chance?”
“Nonsense! See
what’s she done! But who, who——”
“Who’d marry her
straight out of such a mess?
Say it right out—no
matter for her mother.
The man was found. I’d
better name no names.
John himself won’t imagine
who he is.”
“Then it’s all
up. I think I’ll get away.
You’ll be expecting
John. I pity Estelle;
I suppose she deserves some
pity, too.
You ought to have the kitchen
to yourself
To break it to him. You
may have the job.”
“You needn’t think
you’re going to get away.
John’s almost here.
I’ve had my eye on someone
Coming down Ryan’s Hill.
I thought ’twas him.
Here he is now. This
box! Put it away.
And this bill.”
“What’s the hurry?
He’ll unhitch.”
“No, he won’t,
either. He’ll just drop the reins
And turn Doll out to pasture,
rig and all.
She won’t get far before
the wheels hang up
On something—there’s
no harm. See, there he is!
My, but he looks as if he
must have heard!”
John threw the door wide but
he didn’t enter.
“How are you, neighbour?
Just the man I’m after.
Isn’t it Hell,”
he said. “I want to know.
Come out here if you want
to hear me talk.
I’ll talk to you, old
woman, afterward.
I’ve got some news that
maybe isn’t news.
What are they trying to do
to me, these two?”
“Do go along with him
and stop his shouting.”
She raised her voice against
the closing door:
“Who wants to hear your
news, you—dreadful fool?”
