Life’s Aftermath
“The grave of all things hath its violet.”
It was in mellow, many-hued October. It was a Sunday—sunny and still. There was the feel of Sunday in the air. Three years had passed since the Great Soldier’s prayer, “Let us have peace!” had been answered with blesséd acquiescence. But when, for any reason, the people came together in a crowd, it was sad to see how many still wore mourning. And when the wearer was old or middle-aged, there was something in the deadly composure of manner that said as plain as words: “This will be my garb as long as life shall last!”
One woman there was who watched with envious eye those who passed her wearing “deep mourning.” Envious, because she was herself denied the sad satisfaction of this outward expression of her great grief. Her husband—her dearer self—had simply abhorred the custom—the “social bondage,” as he called it—of mourning! The wrapping up of the strained and shaken body in black garments, and then the shutting out of every breath of pure air, every ray of God’s sunlight with yards on yards of the most hideous product of the manufacturing world—black crêpe—was, he declared, detrimental to good health when worn willingly, and when worn unwillingly, it was hypocrisy as vulgar as it was cruel. And he had exacted a solemn promise from her, that in the approaching hour of her loss, she would wear no crêpe at all, and black only for the briefest possible time; a concession made to save her from the wondering and satirical comments of her friends and neighbors.
Now suddenly the church bells, the chimes, burst forth and tossed high their ringing notes into the pellucid air, sweet reminders to the Great-All Father that His children, sinning, bewildered, yet loving, trusting still, were gathering from afar to kneel and humbly pray together; remembering well those words big with promise: “When two or three are gathered together in my name!”
And among the moving multitude, two women from opposite sides of the city were approaching the same church. Both were middle-aged, and both felt that, in the better sense, their lives were over. Both were victims of the war; both had lost their nearest and dearest; and one, her home as well. And now, among strangers, she wore her rusty crêpe with a dignified, almost haughty carriage of body, which, nevertheless, said plainly: “Here is the poverty which is so cruel to the well-bred and refined!” She worked to eke out her small pittance of an income, but there was no sweetness, no savor in her work. She knew she was growing hard and bitter in her sorrow and loneliness, but what did it matter now; there was no dear one to be wounded by her sarcastic speech. “A childless widow!” she murmured, “why do I encumber the earth? There is no living thing that needs me, that is glad of my coming,” and she shuddered in her thin, black garments as she thought of the years that, dull and cold, might be waiting her, and then saw the church, and tried to bring her thoughts under control.
The other woman (she who sighed to wear black), moving slowly and heavily, wondered why neither the bright, warm sun nor the heavy, handsome camel’s-hair shawl in which, to the surprise of her neighbors, she was closely wrapped this warm day, could conquer that little, creeping chill in her blood that every now and then developed into a shiver. But she gave that matter scant thought. Weary and dull to her, the very bells seemed to ring out over and over again the one word, “A-lone! A-lone!”
She had her comfortable, even handsome, home; ample means to keep it up, but it was so empty! There was no one to watch for, to dress for, to plan for, cook for! No one to give her greeting, or loving thanks for loving service. She was utterly alone, and she was only forty-four, and might live—good God! how long? If it were not unlawful so to do, she would kneel here in the church she was entering and pray to die at once, that she might fill her appointed place between her husband and her son, and be at rest.
With such thoughts, these women approached the church and each other. Foolish, wicked thoughts, you say. Perhaps, but for a woman who is growing old, whose heart is bleeding from many wounds, it is so hard a thing to face the great world alone. But so it came about that as Mrs. Martha Swift, of Ohio, sat in pew 71, an usher waved into pew 72 Mrs. Marion Wallace, of Georgia, who was no sooner comfortably seated than a quick shiver shaking the shoulders of the woman in front of her drew her attention to the shoulders and to the shawl about them. And then an odd thing happened. Her glance, at first a merely casual one, had quickly intensified into a prolonged and piercing stare. Then she had raised her veil and studied the shawl as if it had been the horoscope of one she loved; studied it until from the seeming confusion of the innumerable morsels of rich, dim colors tossed together, there came order and a clear design. Then, to the wonderment of two or three observers, she drew off her glove and, leaning forward, passed her bare forefinger eagerly along the edge of that bit of solid color always found in the centre of these precious shawls; did it carefully, as does a woman who searches for some faint stain or mark, and suddenly the blood rushed to her face; she drew back swiftly into her place, resumed her glove, but from “Dearly Beloved,” clear through to “Let Your Light so Shine,” she never took her eyes from that shawl in front of her.
As Mrs. Swift passed out of church, she thought herself rather unnecessarily crowded by a tall woman in black. She answered two or three friendly comments on her bundled-up appearance by saying that, “heavy shawl and all, she was still cold, at least part of the time,” and, “yes, come to think of it, she was shivering half her time yesterday”; “yes, it was a lovely day,” and so slipped away as quickly as she could, and started to walk across the Public Square, that she might be alone; and then a woman in black was at her side—a woman whose eyes were big and bright with anger; whose trembling finger tapped her on the arm, as she swiftly said: “Madam, this shawl is not your property; it is mine!”
Mrs. Swift was so startled—so utterly taken aback—that at first she could only stare at the stranger and say, stupidly: “What—what did you say?”
And the stranger, in increasing anger, repeated: “This shawl is not your property—it is mine, I tell you! My most precious treasure—mine—and I can prove it, too, by marks you cannot gainsay!”
But Mrs. Swift drew away from the tapping finger, exclaiming: “Do you know who you are talking to? You must be crazy! Why, I’ve owned this shawl these five years!”
“Five years?” scornfully cried the other, “I owned it long enough to know its full design—the dealer’s private mark—that my boy showed me when he brought it to me from his first trip abroad—and in the corner, here on the under side, beneath a rough seam in the border, you will find two letters worked in white silk—an ‘M’ and a ‘W,’ and beneath them both a tiny star in many-colored threads. See, then—” She caught swiftly at the corner of the shawl nearest her—turned it back—scanned it closely, and then triumphantly pointed out two small, imperfect letters in white silk—“M” and “W,” with the star beneath, as she had said.
Mrs. Swift felt her face flush, but she bravely looked the excited woman in the face: “I do not understand,” she said. “This shawl was a gift to me from my only son!”
“A poor gift that—of ill-gotten property!” cried the woman in black, and then Martha Swift lifted stern, blue eyes and said: “Madam, my son was a soldier! He lies out there, beneath his tombstone now! Do not insult his memory!”
And she of the black, burning eyes said quickly: “My son fell at the Bloody Angle—he was not identified—and fills some corner of a trench that is marked, if marked at all, by a stone bearing the cruel word, ‘Unknown!’ I insult the memory of no soldier, and I pray you pardon me!”
Then, all suddenly, they stood with working faces, holding hard to one another’s hands, while their tears ran swiftly. They were too deeply moved to speak much then, and they drew down their veils that they might not attract attention.
They had exchanged names and addresses, then walked silently as far as the monument in the centre of the Square. As they were about to separate, Mrs. Swift said: “Mrs. Wallace, this dear shawl is yours, beyond the shadow of a doubt—and back it goes to you, be sure of that—but won’t you come to my house, in a day or two, and tell me its story?” Then, seeing refusal dawning on the other’s face, she quickly added, “I would so like to hear about your boy!”
Ah, subtle tempter! What mother could resist such sweet flattery! Not this one, who for two long years had not named aloud that beloved son—who entering the army as an elegant young beau, had died in broken shoes and tattered clothing—fighting like a demoniac!
Yes, she would come, and Mrs. Swift would tell her side of the story too—would she not? And then it would all come clear between them about the shawl—and there would be blame to no one but herself, perhaps, for her too hasty speech!
And with these promises they parted—each thinking compassionately of the other: “How she must suffer, it is so terrible a thing to lose husband and child too!”
The following Tuesday, on starting out to make the promised visit, Mrs. Wallace became conscious of a lightness, an alertness of movement—of a genuine feeling of interest in the approaching interview, as pleasant as unusual to her. And she wondered a little that she felt in her heart no enmity for this Northern woman who had, beyond a doubt, done her small best to help conquer the South and destroy the beloved “Cause”! But, considered simply as individuals, they were both conquered—beaten—broken down forever! In tastes, up-bringing and experience, they were as far apart as the poles, but between those two great cries of motherhood—one wrung from the body’s anguish at the man-child’s birth, and the other from the soul’s anguish at his death—the women understood and sympathized passionately with each other! With these thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Wallace made her way to the pretty house, with its bit of lawn, choice shrubs and late flowers, that belonged to Mrs. Swift, and had the door, after some delay, thrown open for her by an elderly and very angry gentleman—evidently a doctor—who continued an unequal contest with two hysterical and belligerent maidens from the “Old Isle”—one of whom, with the maddening iteration peculiar to her class, repeated again and again: “’Twas meself that heard it!—the Banshee! Bad ’cess to yees—’twas meself that heard it—the Banshee!—the Banshee!” while the other, with maudlin tears, vowed she’d “lave that minute for she couldn’t stand hearin’ talkin’ of blood and—shootin’ and such-like things—besides, when a woman was crazy, she might kill the lot of them—and such rucktions she couldn’t stand at all—at all! and lave she must and would!”
Then the doctor locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and turning to the astonished looker-on, said: “Let us get out of this hul-a-ba-loo! Come in here, please, where we can escape from that infernal Banshee! Now, Madam, Mrs. Swift is a very sick woman!” (“Oh,” thought Mrs. Wallace, “here is the meaning of those shiverings, last Sunday!”) “She is going to be worse before she’s better; she is absolutely alone save for these rattle-brained servants, who were bad enough to begin with, but are for leaving the poor soul here alone because she has been a bit delirious. You look like a sensible woman and a kind one. Are you an old friend, and can you by chance help her and me now, in this emergency?” Remember, you could not “push the button” then, and let the trained nurse do the rest. There was no button to push, and no trained nurse to answer it. Each family had to care for its own sick. To go to the hospital was looked upon as a degradation. Such nurses as could be had were mostly poor, old, homeless bodies, as ignorant as they were disobedient, and Mrs. Swift’s case was not a very uncommon one.
Mrs. Marion Wallace paused—before she answered. She literally could not say, “I am a stranger.” At her first slow words, “I am not an old friend,” such a look of despair came into the doctor’s face that she hurriedly added, “but still a friend, and—,” slowly removing her bonnet and shawl, she stepped to the hall, took the Banshee’s white apron from her, tied it about her own waist, sent the Banshee herself upstairs for a pair of slippers—“anyone’s would do”—and returning to the parlor, said, quietly: “Now, Doctor, if you will kindly give me your first instructions in writing, please. You see, I shall have to get this demoralized household set right again. When all is going smoothly, I shall only need to be told your wishes, but just at first—”
And the doctor had stared a moment, and then he had caught her hands and shook them half off, crying: “You’ll stay—you’ll take charge here? You’re a mighty fine woman, I can tell you that—and what I call a good Christian, by—!” And so this strange, Southern woman came to nurse faithfully her Northern sister in sorrow—to guide her household into ways of clocklike regularity, and so heard the story of the shawl, not once, but many times—but always told with fever-cracked lips—with burning eyes and hands wandering and restless, and alas, always with hoarse entreaties to believe her—her boy could not steal—no, not even for her, his mother! He had bought the shawl from one who swore he had come by it honestly! If only the strange woman with the angry eyes would believe her! “You see, it came about like this”—she would say, and wearily begin all over again, to explain—to convince—to defend!
Then one day the subject of her rambling talk was changed. She seemed to be reading some account of a Northern victory—over and over again, she repeated all the details—the calmness of the great General—the wild delight of the victorious troops!—the rags and hunger of the prisoners—and always ended with: “The enemy lost two thousand men killed and five thousand wounded!”
Mrs. Wallace had listened to the harassing repetition of this Northern triumph until her strained nerves could bear no more, and was turning with a flushed face to leave the bedside, when a sort of gasping sob stopped her. Once more the sick woman repeated: “The enemy lost two thousand men killed—” and then, in a tone lowered almost to a whisper, she added: “Oh, the wives and the mothers!—two thousand killed! Oh, dear God, be merciful to the poor mothers—the heartbroken mothers of the South!” and Mrs. Wallace sank upon her knees, and taking the burning hand of the sick woman in her own, she cried: “Great heart! I will love you all my life, for that gentle prayer!”
The words seemed to reach the inner consciousness of the sufferer—her hot, blue eyes turned their glance upon the calm, brown ones beside her, where they wavered for a moment—steadied—rested, and then recognition dawned in them, and a weak voice whispered: “You said—?”
“I said I loved you for your great heart!” answered Mrs. Wallace.
A faint brightness came to the sick face, and she said: “Then don’t leave me ever! We can love and mourn our dead together! Life is so hard—to bear alone—be my sister—Marion!”
They looked long into each other’s eyes. They must have thought of many things! But it was as if the hands of their dear, dead boys drew them together. And Mrs. Wallace gently answered: “I will not leave you while you want me, Martha! We will walk together, if you will it, till we are called to join our dear ones;” their hands met in a close clasp, and in ten minutes Mrs. Swift was asleep. After Mrs. Swift had recovered, the neighbors spent all their spare time, and a good deal that was not spare, in wondering “when that Southern woman was going away?”
Early in the winter they had seen two trunks and a large picture brought to the house, but they watched in vain for the exit of the aforesaid two trunks and picture. What could it mean? They all declared Mrs. Swift too active a woman to want a housekeeper—too strong to need a nurse—too proud and too well off to have a boarder! But surely she would have to go soon, now that spring was almost upon them! And lo! one sunny spring morning, both ladies, with garden hats firmly tied on, and loose old gloves protecting their hands, were out in the garden, making life a misery and bewilderment to the harmless, nearly useless old gardener, who, doddering about, accepted their orders with a respectful misunderstanding of them that promised rare developments for the future. One thing they did, though, with their own hands. Mrs. Swift had obtained a fine, young magnolia—a gift for Mrs. Wallace. It was a pretty thought, and Mrs. Wallace accepted shrub and thought with warm gratitude. And together, with smiles, and may be a tear or two, they planted the magnolia on the lawn, and at the same time filled the souls of the neighbors with a very anguish of curiosity.
When summer came, notes from a well-played piano floated from the open windows of Mrs. Swift’s house, and no matter what classic composition Mrs. Wallace might begin with, she always closed her playing with “In the Hazel Dell,” because that had been the favorite song of the young Northern soldier, and his mother loved to hear the simple, old air for his dear sake.
Winter came, and the two trunks and the picture had not been removed. The neighbors had fallen into a sort of torpor. Then, one day, one rushed to the others, declaring: “They call each other by their first names! Yes, Mrs. Swift said: ‘Marion, there must be double windows for your room this winter!’ and that Southern woman answers up: ‘Oh, no, Martha, that’s not necessary!’ What do you think of that?” Evidently there was no use in watching the house, after that, for the departure of the Southern woman.
During the long winter evenings, this elderly couple used to talk unceasingly of the war, and they would tell one another of this or that engagement, illustrating the positions of the troops with spools of thread, the scissors always coming handy for streams that had to be crossed. Then Mrs. Swift never tired of hearing what the war had meant to the women of the South. She wept over the burned houses, the looted property, the hunger, the make-shift for clothing, and would draw her rocker closer to Mrs. Wallace, as she told how the last precious ounces of real coffee had been hidden—as people hide gold or jewels—only to be brought forth in tiny portions for a sick or wounded soldier—told how she had cut up old garments of her husband’s to make herself shoes, and had worn skirts made from her sitting-room curtains!
When spring came again, and Decoration Day arrived, Mrs. Wallace felt that Mrs. Swift, for the first time, showed a lack of tact—of proper feeling—in insisting upon having her accompany her to the cemetery that day. It would be very painful to see the graves, all flower-covered, and to think of her own dear, unhonored dead, lying so far away. This insistence was so unlike Mrs. Swift’s usual manner, too! Well, she must bear it! and so she entered the carriage, with a heavy heart, to drive to the cemetery, and wondered a little why Mrs. Swift had two great wreaths, instead of one, to lay upon the grave.
When they arrived, she wished to remain in the carriage, but again Mrs. Swift insisted upon having her company, and together they made their way to the family plot, and there stood the explanation of Mrs. Swift’s strange conduct—a fair, white stone, bearing the name of Wallace instead of Swift. And Mrs. Wallace knelt humbly down to read that this monument was in memory of the young captain, Marion Wallace, whose body lay in the distant State where he had fallen fighting for the “cause” he loved! As she pressed her lips upon the name on the stone, she solemnly vowed that the welfare of the woman who had done this thing should be the one object of her life hereafter.
And so they faced the world together. A gentle pair, helping the poor or the troubled; trusting and admiring each other; Mrs. Swift honestly believing Mrs. Wallace was the greatest pianist in the city, and that her feeble little sketches were remarkable works of art, while Mrs. Wallace stood in speechless wonder at Mrs. Swift’s ability, with only the help of an inch or two of stubby pencil and a morsel of paper, to bring perfect order out of the chaos of her accounts. And though she had something less than three hundred a year, it was really astonishing the muddle she could get her affairs into! So it’s no wonder that she respected Mrs. Swift as an mathematician of parts.
The shawl was worn by one as often as the other, though it was acknowledged to be Mrs. Wallace’s property, since she owned it for years before that day when young Lieutenant Swift had purchased it from a soldier who declared he had bought it for a few dollars from an old contraband camp-follower. And as they shared the shawl, so they shared everything—duties, pleasures, or personal belongings. Each acted as housekeeper, month about. If one was daintier, the other had more executive ability. They came to understand each other so perfectly that when Mrs. Wallace sometimes sat completely lost in thought, Mrs. Swift could tell, from the expression of her face, whether she was thinking of her son’s young manhood and soldierly death or of his baby days when within the tender circle of her arms he found a very tower of defence against the world.
The last time I saw them they were in church—the same church where they first saw each other. Two sweet-faced, old women; one blue-eyed, one dark-eyed, but both with whitened hair, each anxious to serve the other; Mrs. Swift a trifle quicker about wraps and foot-stools, but Mrs. Wallace smilingly ahead in the finding of places in hymnal or prayer book. As they sat with attentive, uplifted faces, I thought they looked like two ancient children who had walked hand in hand over a long, rough road that alone either would have shrunk from.
True sympathy had drawn all bitterness from their grief, while their unshakable faith in the resurrection of the body and the Life everlasting, had kept Hope alive in their souls! Hope for that “Life of the world to come”! And Hope’s sweetness was in their old eyes and about their paled, tremulous lips, as they worshipped there.
The last prayer said, each instinctively put out her hand to assist the other to rise. Their hands met; so did their eyes, and they smiled at each other, and at that very moment the sunlight, striking on the stained-glass window, flung a very halo of splendid color about their dear, white heads, the church thus smiling upon them as they smiled upon each other; and I said to myself: “The Aftermath—truly they have garnered their Life’s Aftermath!”
PRINTED AT THE WINTHROP PRESS
NEW YORK, FOR BRENTANO’S
MDCCCXCIX
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.