A Son of Courage
9781465643827
281 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Mrs. Wilson lit the coal-oil lamp and placed it in the center of the kitchen table; then she turned toward the door, her head half bent in a listening attitude. A brown water-spaniel waddled from the woodshed into the room, four bright-eyed puppies at her heels, and stood half in the glow, half in the shadow, short tail ingratiatingly awag. "Scoot you!" commanded the woman, and with a wild scurry mother dog and puppies turned and fled to the friendly darkness of their retreat. Mrs. Wilson stood with frowning gaze fastened on the door. She was a tall, angular woman of some forty years, heavy of features, as she was when occasion demanded it, heavy of hand. Tiny fret-lines marred a face which under less trying conditions of life might have been winsome, but tonight the lips of the generous mouth were tightly compressed and the rise and fall of the bosom beneath the low cut flannel gown hinted of a volcano that would ere long erupt to the confusion of somebody. As a quick step sounded outside, she lowered herself slowly to a high-backed chair and waited, hands locked closely upon her lap. The door opened and her husband entered. He cast a quick, apprehensive glance at his wife, and the low whistle died on his lips as he passed over to the long roller towel hanging above the wash-bench and proceeded to dry his hands. He was a medium sized man, with brown wavy hair and a beard which failed to conceal the glad boyishness of a face that would never quite be old. The eyes he turned upon the woman when she sharply spoke his name were blue and tranquil. "Yes, Mary?" he responded gently. "I want'a tell you that I'm tired of bein' the slave of you an' your son," she burst out. "One of these days I'll be packin' up and goin' to my home folks in Nova Scotia." Wilson averted his face and proceeded to straighten the towel on the roller. His action seemed to infuriate the woman. Her lips tightened. Her hands unclenched and gripped the table as she slowly arose. "You—" she commenced, her voice tense with passion, "you—" she checked herself. Unconsciously one of the groping hands had come in contact with the soft leather cover of a book which lay on the table. It was the family Bible. She had placed it there after reading her son Anson his evening chapter. Slowly she mastered herself and sank back into her chair. Wilson came over and laid a work-hardened hand gently on her heaving shoulder. "Mary," he said, "what is it? What have I done?" "Oh," she cried miserably, "what haven't you done, Tom Wilson? Didn't you bring me here to this lonesome spot when I was happy with my son, happy an' contented?" "But I told you you'd like find it some lonesome, Mary, you remember?" "Yes, but did you so much as hint at what awful things I'd have to live through here? Not you! Did you tell me that an old miser 'ud die and his ghost ha'nt this neighborhood? Did you tell me that blindness 'ud strike one of the best and most useful young men low? Did you tell me," she ran wildly on, "that the sweetest girl in the world 'ud be dyin' of a heartbreak? Did you tell me anythin', Tom Wilson, that a woman who was leavin' her own home folks, to work for you and your son, should a' been told?" Wilson sighed. "How was I to know these things would happen, Mary? It's been hard haulin', I know, but someday it won't be so hard. Maybe now, you'd find it easier if you didn't shoulder everybody else's trouble, like you do—" "Shut right up!" she flared, "I'm a Christian woman, Tom Wilson. Do you think I could face God on my knees if I failed in my duty to the sick as calls fer me? Why, I couldn't sleep if I didn't do what little I'm able to do fer them in trial; I'd hear weak voices acallin' me, I'd see pain-wild eyes watchin' fer me to come an' help their first-born into the world."
