Gertrude Smith
A Theft Condoned
About the print version
A Theft Condoned
Gertrude Smith
Century Magazine 1891-1892
Volume 43
Note: pp. 97-100
Published: 1891-1892
ONE of the seven houses in Pawnee faced toward the south. It was the house
where Mrs. Dyer lived. The other houses faced the west. The railroad track was
across the street from these houses, with a broad plank walk and a little
unpainted box of a station.
The houses in Pawnee were all one-story wooden buildings, with the gable-ends
toward the street. Mrs. Dyer's house was painted a dull red; the other houses
were not painted.
It had been a warm day and the sun had shone glaringly on the unbroken
prairie around Pawnee.
The town was on a slight rise of ground. You could see more than twenty miles
in three directions. A narrow strip of woods broke the view on the north, half a
mile away.
Mrs. Dyer stood in her front door and looked off over the prairie. The
railroad track wound away toward the south and disappeared where the earth and
sky seemed to meet. The sun was going down and the short thin prairie-grass
looked white and gold. The railroad track shone like silver. There were no
clouds. In places the blue of the sky was so light that it was almost white. The
air was cool and clear after the warm day.
"The sun's going down without any fuss to-night," Mrs. Dyer said, sitting
down on the doorstep."Just droppin' off the edge, like the string that held it
had been cut."
She folded her arms in her lap and turned her face away from the bright
light. She was a small, old woman with thin features. She wore her hair, which
was still very black, combed smoothly behind her ears. Her eyes were black, with
a keen look of resistance in them. This look was emphasized in the lines around
her mouth.
Mrs. Dyer lived alone. Her son kept a little store and the post-office in the
front room of one of the other houses. Two years before when her husband had
died Mrs. Dyer had come west to be near her son. Her son had invited her to live
with them, but she had refused.
"You ain't got room for your own. I didn't come out here to be beholden to
anybody. I'll have my own place, and you'll see enough of me, dodgin' in and
out, as it is."
She had spent the greater part of the time watching the carpenters at work on
her house, during her forced stay at her son's, urging them to work faster, and
at last in her impatience moved in before they had finished shingling the roof.
She had decided to postpone the plastering until some time when she should go
away on a visit.
The sun had gone down. The air was a soft gray and very still.
"Well, I mustn't sit here gettin' the cramps," she said, getting up from the
step."I do say I ain't seen them mover wagons before. I wonder now if they've
stopped since I been sitting here. They camped near enough! I suppose they'll
buy something up to the store. The movers bring in John quite a little, off and
on. There comes John up this way. I wonder now what he's comin' up here for. What you want, John? They ain't anything the
matter, is they?" she called.
John came slowly toward her. He was a large man, but his clothes, which hung
loosely, gave him the appearance of being thin. He wore a soft felt hat pulled
well over his forehead. His eyes were like his mother's in color, but there was
none of the determination in them.
"Have you seen the movers campin' over yonder?" he asked, pointing across the
prairie.
"Yes, I just was lookin' at them when I see you comin' up."
"Well, they was just two of them up to the store, and they was evil-lookin',
I can tell you. Marthy was in the store and see them, and she would have it you
must come over and stay to our house to-night."
"Why, I ain't afraid of movers, as I know of."
"She don't want to think of you stayin' here by yourself, and I'll own I
don't neither."
"Well, I ain't goin' to leave my bed 'cause some movers happen to be campin'
near. There's always movers comin' and goin'. I guess if they stole me they'd
drop me when it come light enough to see what they'd got."
"Well, I think you'd better come. Marthy won't feel easy unless you do."
"I ain't goin' to be so silly, to please Marthy or no one. I ain't got
anything they want, without it's that money I've saved to have my carpet-rags
wove up, and they'd never think of lookin' in a can for it. It's one of them
cove-oyster cans. I've made a pin-cushion that fits down into the can, and sewed
a silk cover around the outside. You'd never know it was a can to look at it. I
see one made something like it when I lived east."
"You ain't got much money in it, have you?"
"It's all in nickels. Oh, I guess they must be four or five dollars. I ain't
counted it just lately."
"Well, I think you're foolish to stay here by yourself, when you can just as
well come over. I think you'd better change your mind and come along."
He turned and went back along the grassy road toward his own home. He walked
with his head bent down and with a shambling gait. He was dreading his wife's
reproaches that he had not been able to induce his mother to come back with him.
He did not believe there was any real danger in letting his mother stay alone.
"I guess I ain't goin' to set up for a coward, at my time of life," said Mrs.
Dyer."I wonder now if Marthy really thought I'd come!"
An express train was coming from the south. The light from the engine could
be seen for some time before there was any noise from the train. Night had come
quickly. It was already quite dark.
Mrs. Dyer took off her gingham apron and put it over her head, and stood
watching the light from the engine as it drew nearer, and finally when the train
had dashed by the little station she turned and went into the house. There were
but two rooms in the house -- the living-room and a small bedroom opening out of
it. Mrs. Dyer went over to the window and looked out.
"It does beat me how soon night comes out here," she said;"back in York
State we had a little between-time. There's the moon shinin' away as if the sun
hadn't only just left. You can see the movers plain as if 'twas day. They're
much as half a mile away, too. They've got a big fire. 'Tain't likely there's
any more harm in them than there's in me. I'm goin' to get out that money and
count it. They must be most enough to have the carpet wove by this time. Six
dollars, they say it'll cost me. They never charge no such price as that back
east."
The can in which she kept the money was on a shelf behind the stove. She went
over the took it down, and then sat down in an old rocking-chair, not far from
the window. The moonlight shone in brightly. She took the cushion out of the top
of the can and emptied the money into her lap. There was quite a pile of it.
"One would think there was considerable more'n there is to look at it," she
said, fingering the money."If you could call these pieces dollars 'stid of
nickels, 'twould be. Might as well say five-dollar pieces while I'm about it, I
suppose."
She began counting the money, dropping each piece into the can as she did so.
She enjoyed the sound of the money's rattling. Two or three times she forgot her
count, and emptied it back into her lap and began again. Suddenly she started,
gathering the money up in her dress. She went over and looked out of the window.
The prairie was flooded with moonlight. The light from the fire in the movers'
camp lit up the white canvas-covered wagons. Everything was perfectly still. She
went over and locked the door.
"It must have ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Go to the beginning of the document
Go to previous page
Go to next page
Go to the end of document
