Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 216, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 September 1914 — STINGING PUNISHMENT [ARTICLE]

STINGING PUNISHMENT

By EPES WINTHROP SARGENT.

(Copyright.) “Tqke good care of yourself, John, and if you want anything don’t be afraid to say so. We all want to do what we cad to help. Poor Lizzie wifi be worrying about you. We can’t have that, you know. Poor Lizzie!” John Marvin groaned and the drawn lips grew tense, as he tried to meet the eye of the kindly neighbor, and failed. “Poor Lizzie!’' he echoed dully. "I can’t realize that she’s really gone. Up—up there, you know, I wanted to make them stop shoveling, to tell them that she wasn’t dead. It seems as though she can’t be dead. Dead! And by her own hand; her own hand, poor little girl.” His glance wandered vacantly about the room that had once been home to him and sighed. Mrs. Calder patted his arm reassuringly. • “You musn’t take on so, John,” she warned. “You ain’t nothin’ to blame yourself for. You did all you could to make her happy. Her mother was like her, poor thing, always worrying about George not lovin’ her. I guess it was worryin’ about her mother that made her do it.

"You ain’t got nothin* to reproach yourself for. She says that. I wisht I had a letter like that from my Jim. I wasn’t always easy with him —and I wisht he’d said them things, John. It yould be a mighty comfort. I’ll be over In the mornin’ to tidy up a bit. Good night.” Without waiting for reply she moved clumsily down the front walk and John Marvin watched her go with mingled feelings of relief and terror. She was the last of the solicitous neighbors who had straightened up the house while he had ridden to thee peaceful little graveyard on the hill where they had laid away the frail form of the woman who had been his wife. He dreaded to be left alone, but he was glad she was gone, for every word of sympathy had cut like a whiplash. It was a torture as had been those thr,ee days while Lizzie’s slender form had lain in the front parlor, the “front parlor” that was opened only for marriages and deaths and visits of great ceremony. They had come, her old friends, with words of comfort and of admiration for his kindness and they had unwittingly tormented his soul to distraction.

John has hated company, and after one or two efforts to make her relatives welcome in spite of his boorishness, she had made her poor little excuses to them and they, half suspecting, half affronted, had stayed away. Now they came unchallenged to speak in wondering admiration of her words of praise for him, and Marvin was half sorry they did not know. Had they upbraided him; had they told him that it was his treatment that had driven Lizzie into her grave as surely as though his own hand had guided the razor that slashed the reed-like wrists, he would have been driven to defend himself, he would have fought them back and would have taken comfort in the fight. They could not guess what ghastly sarcasm their words of praise became. They could not guess. Dumbly he turned from the door and passed into the dining-room where Mrs. Calder had thoughtfully set out some supper, sliced chicken, Some of Lizzie’s little stock of preserves, fresh bread, new butter, and a pot of coffee on the hack of the stove against his need, With a gesture of disgust he pushed the dishes from him and sat down beside the lighted lamp to read-again the letter that he had learned by heart in the last three days. It was a pitiful little letter, almost childish in its phrasing, for Lizzie had been the worker in her own family before she had come to be John Marvin’s patient slave. Her terms at the district school had been few, though the other girls had gone on to high school and the youngest was even now in Vassar.

In her plain, unformed hand, she wrote as simply as she spoke and he could almost bear the tired little voice as he read the sentences over again, though he did not need the letter to repeat the contents. It was seared into his brain. « Briefly she told of her determination to make away with herself, alluding to the Insanity that was supposed to be the curse of her mother's family and of her fear that abe would come to be a burden to him. It was just the way she had spoken of her dread -he had laughed at her. He could see her now as she suggested the dreafl possibility, the quivering. lips, the eyes of a tired, hurt little child. He had laughed when he should have taken her into his arms with the words of loving cheer that would have dispelled her doubts. But it was the last part of it that held his thoughts. She had writen:

I couldn’t let that come, John. It would make it so bad for you. Mother didn’t know that it was coming on her. I can’t tell that it is coming to me. but sometimes I think It is, and I want to go away before it comes. I don’t want you to remember me as X remembered mother at the last. That was terrible. John. This morning you kissed me before you drove to town, and you said I smiled Ilka I used to when I was a little girl. I shall like to remember that, if we take remembrance where I am going, to remember that I reminded you of those happy, happy days. • And I want to tell every ope how dear you have been to me and how'kind you are end how gentle. Some mav think it strange that I killed myself. They may

•ven think that it la because aomettnwe you are quick-tempered. I should not like them to think that, John. I can’t tell how patient and gentle yon have been with me, but you know and I want you to show them this letter and to tell them. I want them to know that it is not your fault That It was just because I was afraid. f Good-by. John, my dear husband. I shall say that again when death cornea to me. I shall say It over and over again as I grow weak and the promised land draws near, and so, again, bless you, dear John, and good-by, < He put the letter back into his pocket. He knew that soon he would draw ft out to read again, though he could repeat every word. He could tell without looking the appearance of efery line and of the tear blot that seemed to underscore the “your” in the signature. “His loving wife," she had said, and she had wanted every one .to know how kind and loving he had been. She had been glad that he had kissed her good-by and he thanked Heaven for the little touch of sentiment that had made him tell her that she looked as she had when they were children together.

He could not remember when he had kissed her before. It must have been weeks- if not months, and on his way to town he had wondered why he had spoken. It had sounded foolish then, but now he knew it had been done to make her passing easier and he was. glad he 'had said it. He' had been good-humored that morning. The breakfast had been better than usual because he had scolded about the coffee the night before. She had cooked the things he liked as a silent peaqe-offering and the kiss had been her reward. He had been chary of bls caresses all through their married life, but he had been quick to complain, and more than once she had cried that he would drive her Insane and he had laughed at her.

He had told her he was more likely to be driven crazy. He had thought at the time it was a clever retort, but now the cruelty of it came to him and his frame shook in a silent sob. And worst of all, she meant all she said in the note. She had written it to reassure him as the dog crawls to kiss the hand of its cruel master In mute forgiveness. All Corning knew his hasty temper and she knew what they would think. In the pangs of that last farewell she had thought of him, had saved him from the comment of his neighbors. In the first shock of finding her he had offered the letter in explanation, and it had had its effect. The first ugly, silent suspicion had changed to a ready sympathy that had cut the Soul of the man to the quick. Had she written in a spirit of sarcasm or had she denounced him he could have fought back. He would have declared that it was but the evidence of Insanity, the raving of a disordered mind, but he knew that she meant what she had written, that she had made herself believe that she was In the wrong and that he had been all that was patient and tender. He knew that she had cherished that chance parting speech to carry with her in the world beyond. He knew that in her great love she had made worthy he who was unworthy, and the sense of his own failure was the more acute,

fJhe had remembered only the kindly things—and there had been so little to remember, so much to forget. He sat until the lamp grew dim, fighting In vain with its feeble flame the bright glow of the sun. Long before the Are, untended, had gone out and the winter stole thrqugh the cracked casement, but-he did not feel the cold. He was cramped from long sitting, but he was not conscious of his discomfort. Slowly he rose to seek the room that had been theirs, to throw himself upon the bed and seek the sleep of utter exhaustion, and as be slipped the letter into his pocket for the hundredth time he knew that this was his punishment. He would face his work tomorrow and the next day and all the days to come. The, world would sorrow with the man who had been so good to his wife and every word would bring a fresh sting, for he was unworthy of 'their sympathy. Reproach he could have stood; complaint he could have endured, but the tender, loving forgiveness would always be his burden because he, knew himself unworthy and a hypocrite.