u CHAUNCEY WETMORE WELLS 1872-1933 This book belonged to Chauncey Wetmore Wells. He taught in Yale College, of which he was a graduate, from 1897 to 1901, and from 1901 to 1933 at this University. Chauncey Wells was, essentially, a scholar. The range of his read- ing was wide, the breadth of his literary sympathy as uncommon as the breadth of his human sympathy. He was less concerned with the collection of facts than with meditation upon their sig- nificance. His distinctive power lay in his ability to give to his students a subtle perception of the inner implications of form, of manners, of taste, of the really disciplined and discriminating mind. And this perception appeared not only in his thinking and teaching but also in all his relations with books and with men. The Story of Mary Mecome * THE STORy MARY MECOME BY ZEPHINE HUMPHREY NEW YORK DOIKIK PUBLISHING COMPANY 40-42 EAST 19TH STREET JPR.IVATELY PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR ,* *. ! COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY **-* 'ZEPHINE HUMPHREY IN MEMORIAM CHAPTER I. YOU had only to follow your nose to find Mary Mecome provided you were hungry enough. For she lived over a little bakery whose portal diffused alluring odors the length of its humble street. Not too humble a street, however; thoroughly respectable, or Mary would have had none of it. Up a narrow flight of stairs, around to the left, and there you were ! That was all the good it did you, to be sure, unless you had carefully timed your visit, for Mary was almost always from home. And in her absence her door was locked, be very sure of that. But if you came in the early evening, after the day's working hours were over and before it was quite time to go to bed, >and if, moreover, you were one of the very few elect, then you might obtain an entrance. Be careful of your shoes, however, and have your manners well in hand, for this is no unceremonious abode, this single room over a bakery, and your hostess knows her requirements. She was scarcely more than four feet tall, perfectly proportioned, with a dignity of bearing which put any strange interlocutor on his mettle of self-respect. Nobody knew quite why she carried herself so grandly. There was 863676 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME f no o\strts$l?lef Reason in the plain little room, nor in her 'vocation' of' scrub- woman, nor in her diminutive stature. But, ,bstelns&.te ', reasons are as nothing beside those man- dates of the spirit which go forth and are obeyed. Mary | Mecome was a Personage, circumstance was set at naught. It was also a question unsolved by the world where she came from and who she was. Not that it mattered much. Wherever she had come from, she had done it long ago, and as for the problem of who she was, she had looked after that. She was Mary Mecome. Her name she had brought with her at least from the orphan asylum whence she had made her early indomitable entrance upon life her name and little else. Not a relation. Well, relations are sometimes troublesome to an independent spirit. Not a penny. Well, the greater zest in work. Not a birthday. Ah, that was a different matter. Birthdays are a universal, inalienable possession of the human race ; Mary had a right to one. So she carefully considered the calendar, and chose the twenty-second of February as her natal day. I do not know that she chose any year. It would seem that certain advantages might lie in a wise refraining here, and Mary was very wise. It was not to be doubted that she made a success of life. She earned her way steadily. Her one room never impressed the observer as being only one, "and that's all, THE STORY OF MARY MECOME poor thing !" but as a quite sufficient abode, a home of com- fort and peace. The kettle sang cheerily on the stove, the white deal table, spread with a cloth across one end, set forth a pleasant supper, the walnut table, bearing its lamp, waited with copious workbasket, the bare floor lay speck- less beneath. It was a cozy domain enough, and the nar- row bed, the bureau and washstand did not jar on its har- mony, but rather added to the good cheer by their sugges- tion that the little mistress of that genial fire need not leave its grateful warmth to find her way to her pillow. Mary's position in the community was one of esteem and honor. "The best families" employed her. She cleaned houses and mended carpets and sewed on dainty ward- robes, her fingers were versatile. Then on Sunday she went to church. O, none of your Beulah Chapels for Mary Mecome, with rousing hymns and hands at the door and soup-tickets and what not! To the front pew of the grav- est old church she could find in the grave old city, most aristocratic and conservative of sanctuaries, she trotted steadfastly. Decorum was the food of her spirit; surely in church she must have it. The venerable pewholders watched her come Sunday after Sunday, tolerant and amused. She was as much a part of the foreground to them as the baptismal font. There were not many poor in Olivet Church ; all the more reason for Mary's choice. THE STORY OF MARY MECOME Acquaintances she had many then; smiling faces on every hand "Good morning, Mary. How do you do?" And she returned all greetings courteously; she liked the little social round of her daily life. But friendship was another matter; there she held herself aloof. This reserve seemed, of course, coldness on her part; women of her class are gregarious ordinarily. Very well, let it pass for coldness. At night Mary mounted to her room, stopping by the way to buy her fresh rolls for supper, and closed her door and was alone quite contentedly. One must have time to live one's own inner life now and then, untroubled by the world. Perhaps it was a lonely life, this of Mary Mecome's, but I think not consciously so. What had she ever had to teach her the meaning of love and companionship? Where all was entire lack to begin with, the attainment of her position, of her steady support, of her cozy room meant much actual good. She might well be satisfied. Moreover, her spirit was austere, with a certain fine control; it did not waste itself beyond its range in vain imaginings. Then when at last love came her way ! But that is another chapter. CHAPTER II. THIS is a love story to be sure, but one not quite of the conventional kind. The reader is doubt- less anticipating the arrival now of a cavalier to carry off Mary Mecome; some goodly baker, policeman, janitor, enamored of four feet of independence, capable and alert. No ; at the risk of gainsaying the poets, I venture the assertion that the love of which I am going to write was a finer than matrimony. Finer for Mary at any rate. Her nature flowered in it. Some natures bear only single bloom, pure, pale and passionate ; of such expect not :he double rose. The beloved was the new minister's wife. Perhaps the minister himself led the way a little, but that was noth- iing new. Mary had the propensity of her sex to admire [ministers; her religious life was strong. This thoughtful (man, tall, grave and kind, a little remote till a sudden hu- mor shone through his eyes and turned them blue Mary 'stood in awe of him and longed to sweep his carpet a ser- vice, in fact, she was soon enabled to perform, for how 8 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME could the parsonage of Olivet Church get on without Mary Mecome? She went down on her knees to the carpet (it was tacking at first, not sweeping), she looked up and saw the minister's wife, and her life-love had begun. It was not so much because of kindness shown though there were fervid reminiscences later of wonderful deeds of bounty, the gift of a wrapper when Mary was sick, frequent shelter on stormy nights. Gratitude does very well in its place, but you found a friendship on a more independent basis congeniality, nothing less. The minis- ter's wife was congenial to Mary. "My bosom friend," Mary called her at once, settling quietly down to the friendship ; more familiarly, to her face, "Dear You." There was no servility in the relation, hardly a touch of deference ; love makes for equality. But neither was there any presumption. Presumption! What sort of a word is that in such a relationship? Mary came in and out through the kitchen door, she sat with the servants, she was a servant. Of course; what else? What should love do but serve? If there was going to be further ques- tion of gratitude in this affair, the debt should be all on the other side. To Mary Mecome love meant giving. Well, to be sure, she gave. The minister's family from henceforth became her charge, her care. She took them under her wing, one and THE STORY OF MARY MECOME all, guarding, befriending them. One can hardly imagine a finer situation, nor one more full of the subtleties of deli- cacy and humor. If it demanded nothing in point of fact, it put the spirit on its mettle to fail no gracious test. Dear She had need of all her tact, of all her primal intuitive sense of the realities of things. For this relation was pri- mal in fact. It reverted to first human principles and took no heed at all of extraneous circumstance. Alone in her room in the evening Mary drew her work- basket to her beside the cheerful lamp and embroidered towels and napkins. The initial letter was not enough, sturdy, resplendent in red or blue; but wreaths of flowers must entwine it, loving touches of the unnecessary. Some- thing of the spirit of the old cathedral builders was Mary Mecome's, of the early Italian painters; she lavished her tender skill. When these masterpieces of the needle were presented to Dear Her there was something of a struggle. It may be more blessed to give than to receive, but the latter office is surely the more difficult and makes the greater demand on the Christian grace of humility. Dear She expostulated. "But, Mary, all these hours of time! And it is your very livelihood. I can't." Mary drew herself gravely erect she reached thus almost to the shoulder of the bosom friend and looked the 10 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME answer which she scorned to speak. Livelihood forsooth! The towels were hastily, meekly accepted. And that was- the beginning. Dear She little knew. It is always easy for love to find service, and Mary's hands were never idle from the outset of this friendship; but it did seem as if the birth of the baby were an oppor- tunity created on purpose for her. Perhaps it was so in- deed, who can say ? The baby, for her part, is willing. And well she may be, for such attire as she found ready to deck herself withal when she reached this chilly world was enough to reconcile any feminine mind to strange ulterior disposals of fate. Such dresses, such flannel petticoats em- broidered to the waist, such sacques and blankets and socks ! Dear She had sighed resignedly many a time and oft, but the baby did not sigh. She was born into Mary Mecome's bounty ; she knew no other condition. Before she was old enough, however, really to know much of anything, the great departure came, the tragedy in this love affair. Dear She recognized the tragic element which the change would have for Mary, and delayed its announcement, hesitating. Mary was usually quick to hear the rumors of parish news; why did she not learn this im- portant fact that the minister had resigned ? No ; she went on her way serenely, cheerful and busy as ever. Ah, Mary ! She was as deep as she was steadfast. THE STORY OF MARY MECOME . 11 "So it seems you are going to take Mary Mecome with you," said a neighbor casually one day. "That's something of a risk, don't you think ? She's so very difficult." Dear She caught her breath. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "Why, she's packing up all her things, and her land- lady says she is going with you. I beg your pardon. I thought of course it was some arrangement of your own." As soon as the neighbor was gone, Dear She sum- moned Mary from the kitchen. "Mary!" she almost sobbed. Then ensued a half hour so hard that the two bosom friends were quite spent at the end. Yes, it was true, Mary calmly affirmed ; of course she was going with them. What else should she do in the world? "Out there in that wild place" she meant Cincinnati -~ "you'll need your old Mary, you'll see. I couldn't let Dear You go alone; I couldn't no way do it. It's not for pay, Dear You knows" she flushed a little, proudly "I'm quite well off, I can get along, I'll just come and live with Dear You always." Yet in the end she had to yield. Dear She felt as if she had trampled pearls; yes, even so humbled was her spirit to refuse this beautiful thing. As for Mary, she went away quiet as ever. If the walls of her room had tales to 12 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME tell of any grief that evening they kept their counsel se- curely. On the whole, I think she did not waste any time in idle lamentation. The decree had gone forth, that way was closed, another way must be found. The Flannel Petticoat ! With characteristic directness her mind saw and chose its end. In the wilds of the West, bleak, barren and cheerless, re-enforcements must be needed against the elements; she would sew and sew and sew. Here at least she could not be balked, here she was sure of attainment. She got out her needle and settled herself to her lifework. And from that moment until her death, thirty years later, she never stopped Considerable Flannel Petticoat? Well, the reader will see CHAPTER III. WHEN I came to years of consideration (for it must be known that the baby mentioned in the last chapter is none other than the writer) the patronage of Mary Mecome over our family was an established condition. My father had died and our diminutive patroness had thrown the shield of her ample spirit over us to protect us from harm ; our worldly care was hers. Not only the Flannel Petticoat now, but sheets and pillow-cases, table-cloths, hoarded treasures of crockery, rolls of "pieces" silk, cotton and wool ornaments, every- thing in short that came to hand and could be passed on found its way to us. The boxes came every month or two, enormous receptacles, bursting with comforts express charges always prepaid of course, a whole day's wages often enough. O, doubtless no, that was not the way to look at the matter at all. We showed ourselves unworthy there, as well as out of our proper sphere. Mary was our appointed 14 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME Protector; receptivity was our part, let us see that we kept ourselves to it. In sober truth this loving bestowal was the crown of our Patroness's life, and we should have been glad for her (as well as for ourselves) in every box that discharged itself at our front door. But, as I have said before, endless receiving is not easy. There was the crazy-quilt for instance. Mary wrote exultantly that she had been offered one hundred dollars for this production; yet she expected us to receive it as a matter of course, with a satisfaction as complacent as her own. I, for my part, had no objection. The years had not yet opened to me the annoying realm of scruples. It was almost a pleasure to be sick, if so I might be put to bed beneath that expanse of varied color, and lie traveling through the little fields with a dreaming eye, browsing strange pasturage for the mind. Each little field red, pur- ple, blue, pink was railed off from its neighbor by a yellow fence of feather-stitch, and the whole checkered country rolled away in gentle undulations to a boundary wall of yellow plush which straitly asserted itself at length. I climbed the fences carefully and sat down in the little fields. In the very middle of the quilt was a square in- scription, bearing Mary's initials and Dear Hers and the date of presentation. It was a triumphant quilt. But I think my carnal soul at that age loved best of all THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 15 Mary's gifts to us, the frequent gingersnaps. These came by the half-bushel, packed so precariously in a large paste- board box that they were almost always broken into bits. That was the joy of the whole situation. The unbroken rounds were picked out by my elders and dedicated to the afternoon tea-table, where they were served to attentive guests with a smiling dissertation; but the bits were hand- ed over to me and stored in my doll-house. Delicious re- pasts of quiet winter afternoons, where a dozen dolls sat to be eaten for, and there was never any sure calculating of bits proportionate to a whole in case of maternal restric- tion! There was always the Flannel Petticoat too; that must not be overlooked. It was often a pain to hide its re- splendence (embroidered in red silk once, I remember) as convention demanded. It was on the whole Mary's stronghold. Once she went the round of the family on a single Christmas with this comfortable offering. The task proved too much for the promptness of even her nimble ringers. "Baby's petticoat isn't finished, I am so sorry, I ask her Pardon, but she won't be left to go Cold very long, I'll work Night and Day." I really think she thought of herself as standing between us and destitution in our wild Western home. 16 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME It was always in vain to expostulate; such proceeding only made matters worse. "So Dear You tells old Mary to stop, not to send no more Boxes, but Dear You might as well understand that Mary's never going to stop, what else should she do Fc like to know but take care of her Bosom Friend? I'm going to punish Dear You now, another Box is ready to go, I was going to wait till I had more Pieces but Dear You has made such a Fuss Dear You must be punneshed Won't Dear You's eyes shine when Dear You sees the red silk Cover? There ain't very many Pieces but Dear You may have what there is and in a few Weeks I'll senc another Box." Our rag-bags overflowed with "pieces," our camphor trunks were stuffed, our pantry shelves stood deep with dishes, and still the tide rolled in. The appearance of the Express Company's white horse at the entrance to our street was always deeply significant to us. We ran to open the store-closet door and give an extra push to the bag least replete. Of course we emulated our Patroness and gave away where we could, but you cannot give the ocean away. Moreover again, this was not our role ; Mary meant her gifts for our use. Precipitate flight of the Protegees! It would perhaps be saying too much to declare that we went to Europe on THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 17 purpose to escape, but we laughingly told each other that such was the case indeed. We would assert ourselves, we would show, tacitly, delicately, that we could maintain our- selves, even to the point of some little extravagance. Was this again ignoble in us? I at least make confession frankly. "I am so glad," Mary wrote to us, "that Dear You has been able to take this Trip, I think of the good times Dear You is having and am very Happy indeed. Now Dear You must not worry about the Expense, I have made my Will and have left all my Money to Dear You, it is quite ia good deal, Dear You will see, some day Dear You can hold up your Head as high as anybody." We were away from home for two years. No boxes followed us of course. Perhaps the habit was broken, we thought; perhaps Mary would settle down to a quieter mode of giving now, less concentrated and intense. A wonderful tenderness possessed us as we realized, in the right perspective of distance, the uniqueness of this devo- tion, the beauty and almost the passion of it. We were humble and very grateful. Then we came home, and there at the door was the familiar white horse of the Express Company. Two boxes were being carried up the steps, a third waited in the hall, and a fourth and fifth box came before the week was over. 18 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME "I have saved up everything for Dear You," Mary wrote happily. "Dear You shan't have to lose one single Thing by being away so long, my Room is stuffed with Pieces." Ah, Mary, Mary invincible ! There was nothing for us to do but submit. CHAPTER IV. YET Dear She and I did once form a grand conspi- racy. A trunk had arrived from Mary Mecome, a trunk and by express! It contained a teapot, a sofa pillow, two boxes of gingersnaps, six yards of red flannel, a pair of slippers, a china soap dish, a Japanese fan, a wedding ring, a garnet breastpin, a calendar, a table- cloth, and the rest in pieces. Dear She let her hands fall in her lap, sighing despair- ingly. "It's no use," I murmured ; "she will not stop." I took up the teapot and studied it. It had a ruffle jof itself all around the bottom, with little holes pierced therein curious device ! "No," responded Dear She, musing, with her eyes on the trunk. "But can we not do something for her? I must do something for her." She sat thus pondering for a moment, then an idea dawned upon her. She leaned forward, her hands on the trunk, her face waking to eagerness. "We might pay her back in her own coin," she sug- gested. 20 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME "You mean?" I was attentive. "I mean" Dear She became animated as she saw her way more clearly "I mean that we might fill her trunk, her very trunk, with presents and send it back to her at Christmas time. Would she like that, do you think?" "What kind of presents?" I demurred. "Well" Dear She glanced at the open trunk "not clothes of course, nor china, nor ornaments for her room. It is not easy, is it? Not food I don't know though, wait a minute, she likes to live well ; how would it do to fill her trunk with good things to eat, choice things from the deli- catessen shops such as she would not buy for herself? I believe that's a good idea." "We could put a whole larder into that trunk,"! re- sponded, catching fire. "We'll do it, Dear You, we'll do it ; and we'll begin at once." It was early in December then; we had a full two weeks. I suppose we had never enjoyed an enterprise more in our whole experience. Our ardor grew as we planned and consulted, making out delectable lists, search- ing the grocery shops, reading advertisements. We were very sure of our success, already triumphant and satisfied. It was not so much (let no one misjudge us) our wish to redeem our self-respect as our honest hope to give pleasure to one who had lavished herself in love for us ; and to that THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 21 end we were as careful as an artist with a picture, as pains- taking as Mary herself with her crazy-quilt. "Onions?" I queried, hesitating, with my head on one side. Dear She hesitated, too. Dear She despises onions. "Yes, I think so," she conceded. "Mary will like them probably." Sweet potatoes without a doubt, a fine ham, some bot- tles of olives, cans of sardines and potted meats, cans of French vegetables, jars of preserves and pickles and jellies, tea, coffee, Huyler's cocoa, a box of candy does not the mouth water merely to tell of this display? The eyes of Dear Her watered, too, but not from the fragrance of the spices with which she filled up the chinks in the trunk, only from joy in her enterprise and assurance of its suc- cess. "How Dear You's eyes will shine!" she quoted softly from time to time, as she fitted some specially telling pack- age into its secure corner. The trunk was a large, substantial affair. That had been Mary's triumph two weeks ago; it was our triumph now, neatly turned. It was so heavy at the last that I could barely lift one end. And as for the express charge ! "There!" we said as we paid and signed. 22 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME Yes, I know, alas! our weakness was manifest again, our base unworthiness. That malicious exclamation laid us open to punishment. Well, we settled down to wait, eagerly impatient. We calculated the days and the hours. Two days for the trans- portation of the trunk; one day, well, two, for Mary's de- light to spend itself in observation and adjustment; two days for a letter to reach us. Six days then before we could reap the full fruit of our pleasure. We followed the trunk closely in thought. Now it had reached the city. Now it was being carried up the stairs to Mary's room. A pretty big trunk for such nar- row stairs, we thought complacently. Then we remem- bered that it had gone down those same stairs three weeks ago. The suggestion brought with it a certain arresting qualm. How would she feel when she first saw it coming back again, that trunk so proudly dispatched? But this shade of apprehensive misgiving vanished promptly enough as we gave ourselves over to picturing the unpacking of boxes and jars. "Do you suppose she has ever tasted stuffed prunes before?" we asked each other in smiling content. In spite of our careful allowances for delays and stupe- factions, we began to look for the letter on the first mail possible. We were not surprised that it did not come, hard- THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 23 ly disappointed. Nor yet on the second day were we trou- bled; elated rather, had we not said she would be over- whelmed? But the third day brought an uneasy note into the voice with which I replied, calling back from the front door, "No, not yet, Dear You." When four and five days had passed thus silent we were frankly distressed. Had the trunk gone astray? Was Mary ill? Had a letter been lost? We consulted together in puzzled anxiety, ruefully cast down. And yet we took no steps to follow up the matter. This quiescence on our part was significant. It meant that all the time, in our heart of hearts we knew, we knew. This was not our role with Mary Mecome, this of benefactress. In turning the tables (or trunks) upon her, we were dis- turbing the order of things, rebelliously running counter to Fate. Moreover, that "There!" with which we paid the expressman lurked in our guilty remembrance. We said very little as the days passed and still no letter. We only looked at each other and smiled. Some tribute of humor must be given to our abject failure. Finally, after ten days or so, I came whirling upstairs from the Postman's visit. "Dear You," I called, "here it is ; come quick !" I was quite out of breath, so Dear She opened and read: 24 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME "Dear Friend: I was sorry You did not care for the Trunk, I thought You might like to have it. Thank You for the Things You sent, I found a Family in the next Street who eats onions and Mrs. Rogers in the House here drinks Coffee, Candy isn't good for me so I gave the Box .away to a little Boy, I hope it won't make him sick. My Dear, I am wurryed to think You eat canned Vegitables, don't You know they ain't healthy at all? Please mind me and don't never touch them again, I have thrown all These away. "And now I must tell Dear You that I am going to pack the Trunk again with the rest of the Pieces I wrote Dear You about and with a Pitcher, one of a Sett which Dear You shall have at my Death, Dear You must watch tout sharp for the Trunk, it will come in a Day or two. Dear You's eyes will shine I can tell you, it is a lovely Pitcher. "Yours truly in haste, "MARY MECOME/'' Comment is doubtless unnecessary on the state of mind of the recipients of this letter ! It was characteristic of Mary that her letters came always in quick succession, two or three in as many days. She seemed full of afterthoughts. Therefore we were not THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 25 surprised to receive another reassurance close on the heels of the first. "I thought you'd like to know that I've found some- body to take the sweet Potatoes.'" Again in a day or two, "Mrs. Blake says the Tea is real good." We grew to dread the coming of these letters; we took them shrinkingly from the Postman. Yet we laughed too; O, we laughed! And, after all, our hope was not fully frustrate, our success did not forever delay. For once, in a postscript, Mary said, apropos of nothing, "I was cold when I came home last Night, so I made me a cup of Cocoa out of the Can which Dear You sent and it was good." Over this crumb of satisfaction which, only, was our due, we bowed our heads, humbly grateful ; and never again in all her life did we attempt to get even with Mary Me- come. CHAPTER V. FOR thirty years we lived on Mary Mecome's bounty. She was a part of life to us, a part of its finer, dearer side which never grew common or stale. The very humor of our relation kept it always fresh. Then one day, quite suddenly, we found ourselves thrown on the world, for Mary Mecome was dead. We were living that winter not far from Mary's home. Dear She had been planning to go and see her as soon as Christmas should be over. She was not very well we knew, but her letters came, frequent and long as ever. The years might bother her body indeed, her spirit held them at bay. We could hardly believe the telegram; we looked at each other aghast. "Mary Mecome dead, come at once. N. Cone." Then *we pushed back our chairs from the luncheon table. "The next train leaves at four," I said ; "we must take it, Dear You." THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 27 We knew nothing of the circumstances until we reached the city after dark that evening. I leaned back in the train and thought Mary Mecome dead! My mind went over all the past, swiftly, eagerly, marveling as one does marvel when death throws its strange illumination on life, and the salient points start out. Had I half realized the beauty, I wondered, the strength of this devotion? I glanced at Dear Her and my heart was warm. There had never been anything like it, I thought; an affection unique in the world. David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias those were reciprocal loves. Mary Mecome waited not to receive, but bestowed herself on Dear Her. We made our way to Mrs. Cone's house. We did not know this good lady ourselves, but she had been Mary's friend for years. She received us with a subdued serious- ness that fitted the occasion, but in her eye was a gleam of something triumph, success what had she been up to, I wondered, as we followed her into her parlor. Even so might Mary have looked when she sent that famous trunk back to us. Mrs. Cone was a little woman, spare, erect, with a spirited independence of bearing, fit to be Mary Mecome's friend. She told us her story succintly enough, her tone a mingling of the same gravity and elation which lurked in her eye. Mary had died in the hospital, quite suddenly, of 28 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME pneumonia. Poor and alone as she was, science had bent its cold eye upon her ; she was a rightful prey. "And she such a frail of a body too!" Mrs. Cone said indignantly. "But I told them no, she was not alone, she had a dear friend, a lady, who was coming as fast as she could; they must not touch Mary. I went away; but I wasn't no ways satisfied; I was afraid they'd do it after all. So I put on my bonnet again and went to Cromwell, Wolffe & Co., and told them to send for Mary. She's there now." Cromwell, Wolffe & Co! If one had hunted the country over, one could not have found an establishment more aristocratic nor more expensive to boot! The good Mrs. Cone ! It was not her funeral ! Also, I have no doubt, she felt the fitness of things and knew that the best was none too stately for the little body concerned. Just as Mary had sat at her ease in the front pew of Olivet Church, so she lay now where she belonged, among the wealthy dead in the great rooms of Cromwell, Wolffe & Co. Only now it made no difference to her. That was too bad. If she could only have known beforehand! I could hardly so minimize the exalting effect of death as to suppose that her spirit cared, even if it could look back and see its body's resting place. But if she might have anticipated! At first I rejoiced in the chance that seemed at last to THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 29 lie in our hands. We could get even with Mary now, we could give her a treat which she must accept, which she could not repay. I smiled with satisfaction. But again the punishment was swift for the unworthy thought. That Will, leaving all she possessed to Dear Her! We might delude ourselves as much as we pleased by paying for the funeral out of our own purse ; there would be just so much more in our purse again when Mary's bank book was made over to us. It was not I who smiled this time, but a some- thing fine in the air above me, I thought. Or was I again in danger of belittling death? Anyway, whosoever the credit, the funeral took place in proper order. Display, ostentation of any kind would have been offensive to Mary. Propriety was her satisfac- tion, and none knew better than she its bounds. So a sim- ple black coffin, a simple black dress of fine wool and soft white chiffon, and a great loose bunch of flowers and ferns were what we ordered for her. I think she would most have appreciated, could she only have had the anticipation, the decorum of the black-coated men who bore her gravely, respectfully, as if she were a princess. When Dear She and I, as chief mourners, went up to look at our dead benefactress, I warned myself inwardly. "Remember," I thought, "a poor old woman, a dwarf, and wasted by sickness, no doubt." 30 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME But the next instant I caught my breath. Seldom had I seen a beauty of expression such as that which shone from the face before me against the satin pillow. Poor, old and wasted, to be sure, but invested with such a triumph of soul that it seemed as if it must look up and speak out this great thing which it had learned. Every line was in- stinct with sudden intelligence, not surprise so much as realization. Ah, Mary's soul was free at last. What had she seen in that supreme moment which left its stamp upon her? The service was simple and dignified. There were not many people present. Mary's death was not one to be widely mourned any more than her life had been one to be widely cherished. But it was all right; Dear She was there. We went to her room that afternoon. The place was in perfect order, save that the dust had gathered on the fur- niture. The kettle shone on the neat black stove, the dishes stood ranged immaculate on the cupboard shelves, a towel bearing Dear Her's initial lay folded within the work-bas- ket. The room was cold, and its personality had evapor- ated somewhat in the absence of its mistress, so subtle an essence personality is. But we lighted a fire in the stove and won the cheer gradually back. THE STORY OF MARY MECOME 31 Before the bed I stood pondering. A tiny bed, very neatly made, with a flowered quilt spread over it why was its general effect so depressing, lugubrious even? I could not tell. "Made to represent a grave, ma'am, you see," said Mrs. Cone with quiet pride, coming up behind us. "Head- stone and footstone quite true to life." That was it of course. I acknowledged the representa- tion at once. Only a death's head and an inscription were lacking to the high, narrow headboard. The flowery quilt, was that symbolic too, type of the blossoming earth? My high veneration for the august dead gives way in spite of me to a human sentiment when I think of that after- noon. I am very sure Mary Mecome was there, watching us gleefully. She must have seen us unpack the rare old china toilet set; I cannot have it thac she did not hear our exclamations of pleasure. "Isn't it beautiful?" I cried, raising my voice a little. Whence she had gathered her stored-up treasures it was interesting to consider. Rich people for whom she had worked had given them to her I suppose, growing tired of them, or, not at all impossibly, being lured by her artful praises. She had always an unerring eye for the excellent and an unfailing thought for the future of her bosom friend. At any rate, there were odds and ends of things 32 THE STORY OF MARY MECOME in her little room which were rare and valuable. Dear Her's eyes did shine I can tell you ; but fully as often and fully as softly over the funny old pictures of herself and over the hoarded letters as over the cups and plates. It was altogether an afternoon that must have laid claim to Mary's recent enlargement of soul to support the triumph. We were once more definitely, successfully, finally overwhelmed. And we could not say "thank you" even. No, on the whole, with some regret, I retract that "finally/' For one thing, our home is adorned for years, for a life time to come. "O, where did you get that lovely old plate?" "It be- longed to Mary Mecome." "Dear You, is there any red silk in the house?" "Yes, plenty in Mary's work-basket." For another thing, she has gained an unfair advantage by taking herself off to the spirit world. Who can tell what she may not be up to now, working away there in silence, what daily benefits are due to her intervention? "Here, Dear You," she will say some day, "here is your angel's robe all ready. I have worked it nicely and embroidered it with your initials. Take it with love, Dear You." 863676 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY