The Withdrawal: A Story

THE WITHDRAWAL. BY KATE THOMAS. She came from the land where the pine abounds, and the winter clouds hang purple over the misty fjords. And she was named Christine, perhaps to always remind her of her own Chris- tiania. Her face was refined; her hands tapering and filbert- nailed. In the old country she had been my lady's maid. In the new, she was the "girl"' of general housework. In a year she could write English a little, could read better than she could speak, and she spoke remarkably well. "I had a hard time to get here," she confided to us. "My lady, she felt most badly. She cried. I did not want to be a 'Mor-mon,' but I could not help it. I knew another girl in Chris- tiania. She said, I will go to a 'Mor-mon' meeting. I laughed and said, 'I will go, too. I may get a husband. ' She said, 'you do not know what you talk about, 'Mormons' do not look for wo- men. They have plenty at home.' I am here, now I know. I laughed and said, 'I will go, too, and get a husband.' I think I will make a noise and break up such a bad meeting. But I went many times, and I did not laugh. I took the Book of Mor- mon home. I did not let my lady know. One night she came to my room. She seldom came to my room. I was scared. I put the Book of Mor-mon behind my back. She said, 'What are you reading, Christine?' I showed her. She said, 'I am told you go to 'Mor-mon' meetings, Christine.' I said, 'yes.' She said, 'You will not be a 'Mormon, 'Christine?' I did not think to be 'Mor-mon,' until then. I surprised myself. I said, yes.' She cried, and said, 'Do not be a 'Mor-mon.' I will pay you more money.' I said, 'But I will join the 'Mor-mons.' ' She said, 'If so, you cannot work for

38 IMPROVEMENT ERA. me. ' I said, 'I cannot work for you, because I am going to Utah. My mother said, 'You shall not go.' They watched me, and would not let me go to meeting. I took my clothes and ran away. My mother, nor any one would speak to me after." Six months later, beaming-eyed, she made the startling an- nouncement: "This foolish fellow will come sure with the next company." Enquiry drew out the fact that the plainly acceptable foolish fellow was a Norwegian sweetheart whom she was emigrating. We looked forward to his coming with almost as great an excitement as the girl herself had. The rather prepossessing Scandinavian lass had in eighteen months of American ways and style of dress become a decidedly attractive young creature, with ideas far beyond her station. And we wondered. On the great day, five of her friends, three serving maids and two men, all in varying styles of anxiety, called to accompany Christine to the train. They escorted her home again, and al- though it was then near midnight, sat in the kitchen for a full half hour. "Well, Christine," we asked when they had gone, "did he come?" "Yes," she answered. "Haven't you gone to bed yet, ma'am?" It was late to Christine, in spite of love's young dream. She turned the tap in the sink and watched the water run down the hole. Then she said, "He is funny." "funny" meant an extreme Christine's type. We felt sorry for her. Sundays and Wednesdays she met him somewhere. She would not allow him to come to the house. After the fifth visit she was wholly disillusioned. "He will never be anything," she said disconsolately. "He should have stayed in Norway. A week later she said, "I don't know what to do. I do not like this fellow." "It is a pity you imported him," we said facetiously. "What's this— import?" "Sent for him."

THE WITHDRAWAL. 39 "Yes," she assented, the humor lost upon her. "I'd rather have the money." She worried for two weeks longer. Then she reached the decisive point. "I will write dis fellow that it is all wrong. He is a good 'Mor-mon.' He will find another girl." Christine's faith that a good 'Mormon' could always find con- solation in any woman was somewhat comical, but it was neverthe- less deep and abiding. If he were married he was eventually saved. And with Betsey in his crown of glory, what did he need of Chris- tine? She frankly preferred to adorn some other man's circlet. So she wrote the letter telling him so, and posted it the same af- ternoon. The next morning brought a letter from him. Christine's eyes grew round as she took it. On reading it, she broke into tears. "It is so funny," she sobbed. "I do not understand." The letter, she explained, was about word for word the same as she had written to him. It must have been written at the same time, and he was no doubt reading hers now. The somewhat start- ling coincidence proved beyond a doubt that these two young peo- ple were not specially designed for each other. Shocked at her red eyes, "You are not sorry, Christine," was asked. "No, no!" she protested vehemently. "I am glad. It is so funny, that's all. I am so glad I sent this letter yesterday. He knows now that I wrote first." She saw him once more and brought us the following news: "He says he loves me but will marry this rich widow. She has four grown up girls. She is older than he, and not nice. She is ugly and — what you call com-mon? Shefrom the old coun- is try, too. She can have him. He is not worth anything, this fel. low, nothing at all!" "Will he pay back the money he borrowed from yon, now, Christine?" "No. He is not that kind, this fellow. He will keep the money. I don't care. I am glad to be rid of him. He is not a good 'Mormon.' I will not marry one who is not a good 'Mor-mon.'

40 IMPROVEMENT ERA. Christine had been with us two years when a Gentile lady offered her a position as a cook at a larger wage than we were paying her. Christine was honorable. "You took me when I could not speak English," she said. u 'You have learned me — "Taught, Christine," I corrected. "Taught me many things. I am more of a lady now. I shall stay with you, if you say so." We disliked to lose her, for good housemaids are scarce. But we could not accept her offer. She came on her first evening off to tell us how she liked her new place. The work was continuous, and she did not get out much. The dinner hour prevented her from going to meeting. As time went on, she became more friendly with the other servants. She wore finer clothes. Her old associates gradually dropped her. She came down one evening, looking pale and rather unhappy. "I wish you did not have a good girl," she said wistfully. "I should like to come back again. I never see a 'Mor-mon' any more. Nobody comes to see me. The girls I work with are not what I like to be with. I am lonely in that house up there." For a time she spent her free evenings in our kitchen with her successor. But daily association was toe strong. She became more and more friendly with her fellow maids. Several times we met her walking with a tall man of more than ordinary appear- ance. We teased her about him when we saw her next She told us that he was her countryman, an architect, well-to-do, and that his attentions were serious. "A 'Mormon,' of course?" "No, he is not a 'Mormon.' He is nothing at all. He be- lieves not even God." "Yet you are going to marry him, Christine?" "I don't know." Then she added, flushing slowly, 'Tm not a good 'Mor-mon' like I used to be. "After all you went through in the beginning?" "Yes. Is this not strange? In Norway I would die for that religion. Here it is not so good. People are not so good. Noth- ing so good. I think this queer."

THE WITHDRAWAL. 41 "You had better^go to meeting sometimes, Christine. "I don't like meetings any more. I think I will not marry this man." However, the next time she came it was to tell of her engage- ment. "He makes good money," she said. "We will go back to the old country after a while. This little American money he has saved will make him more a somebody. I will be more a some- body." And so she went back to the country she had fled from under so devout a religious love, the wife of an inf del. A missionary brought us news of her. She was in a cozy home on the finest street of one of the smaller towns. She was mistress herself, now, and the little blo-.de maid who did her bid- ding thought her a fine lady. But in spite of all, she was not happy. "I thought," she told him, "that when I was married 1 would be lonely no more. But I am worse and worse lonely. My-husband laughs, if I pray. He will not speak to a 'Mormon.' You must go before he comes. No 'Mormon' must come again. And all the time I want to be a 'Mormon!' I think how I left this country so hard to leave — for that religion. Oh, those fine Utah moun- tains! And those good people! I will never see the Utah moun- tains again! I'm not strong enough, brother, that's all. I think everybody leaves me, and do not care for me. And I love this man for that. more weak there than I am here for that re- I was ligion. I'm sorry now. But I brought this on myself. I'll do my best by this man. And so, far away. Christine looks out from the little home, where she is "more somebody," over the wide Norwegian hills, and longs for her own people, and the unwavering majesty of the heavy- browed mountains of Utah. New York, N. Y.