Mary Ellen

Mary Ellen By Maud Baggarley The fragrant odor of baking bread permeated the hot kitchen where Mary Ellen stepped rapidly back and forth setting the table for the noon meal. Silver and cut glass gleamed on the heavy linen cloth, although Mary Ellen had lived alone for ten years and the near- est pair of curious eyes were six miles away, and acre upon acre of sage-brush plain stretched "left and right over the hills and out of sight" like the pavilions about Sir Launfal's castle. But Mary Ellen never intended to become a squaw, or a mere clod, even if she did live on the desert. And although she had, in a measure and after a fashion, renounced civilization, yet she clung to the habits to which she was accustomed. A woman does not return to the primitive quite as easily and readily as man — her superior, hence being essentially feminine she did certain things not because she had a reason for so doing, but just because she had always done them. Her house was a two roomed shack, yet the floor of the living room was covered by an Oriental rug which glowed like an opal and on the walls hung a few choice paintings — all land- scapes. Faces haunted and repelled Mary Ellen, so of portraits or photographs there were none. When a traveler from the great outer world stopped at this oasis, which a woman's hands had made in the desert, his first glimpse of Mary Ellen's living room gave him a sort of shock. If he chanced to be a man of education the titles of the books that nearly hid the walls from view gave him a greater one. Socrates, Plato, and Plutarch, were there as a matter of course, also Voltaire and Rousseau, but works like those of Darwin and Haeckel — compositions that foster unbelief in the lonely and melancholy — books on socialism and science, were in the preponderance. Of modern novels, there were none at all. Mary Ellen "neither loafed nor invited her soul," but she fed both her mind and body well. As for the rest she worked from dawn until sun-set with scarcely a pause and thrust her questioning soul as far back into the dim recesses of her being as it would go. If it were possible she would have scourged it forth with stripes, for she loathed life and the meaning of life, and like the fool she said in her

812 IMPROVEMENT ERA heart, "There is no God," and read everything she could get to make herself believe it. Today she intended to drive to town to market her farm produce and was but waiting for the br^.d to finish baking be- fore starting. "The eggs are graded — fourteen dozens in all," she ex- claimed aloud — communing with herself as those who live a life of solitude, often do. "Four bushels of new potatoes, too — the first of the season. They ought to bring a good price." "I wish the peaches were riper," and she glanced specula- tively at a heavily laden tree near the open window. She had planted it there eight years ago with her own hands that she might enjoy the wonder of its blossoming boughs in springtime. The very thought of a peach tree in full flower sent an ecstatic thrill through her. Like a man this once frail woman, now grown wiry and gray, had labored to wrest a livelihood — and something more — from the bleak soil of this newly settled country. Not only had she striven but she had succeeded. Often when gloating over her small pile of slowly accumu- lating gold the meadow-lark would interrupt her self -congratula- tions with a high trilled note of pure joy. Instinctively her h&nd would go to her heart, and her eyes unconsciously seek to penetrate the blue above, that veiled from her the face of — what? "Oh, if tl ^ould only see the reason in it all," she would cry bitterly. "If I could only have my old childlike faith restored. Then, resolutely taking herself in hand, she would turn to her self-appointed task of making money. Lost in thought, the steaming food growing gradually cold, she was startled qut of her revery by the quavering tones of a childish voice and looked up in astonishment to see the form of a slim boy, about ten years old, framed in the vine-covered arch- way in front of the open door. The tears rolled slowly down his dirty, sunburned face. "Missus, my momo is awful sick, could you come down to our wagon in the gulch yander? I reckon as how, maybe she might be a'givin' to. die." He gulped — half sobbed — but quickly regained control of himself. His eyes beseeched her tragically. "My dear child!" Mary Ellen was on her feet instantly. Snatching her bonnet from a nearby chair she flung it on her head, gathered a few household remedies and without further questioning — after a hasty and calculating glance at the bread in the oven — ran with the child, down the road to the gulch. The canvas-covered wagon was but a short distance from

MARY ELLEN 813 Mary Ellen's house, which faced the state high road, but hidden from it by a hill covered with grease-wood. It was even as the boy had said. The outfit had traveled far, had undergone many vicissitudes, Mary Ellen judged by the condition of the battered, weather-stained equipment. This she found was the case. They had come from Mis- souri, with all their earthly belongnigs, and were on their way to Arizona where they hoped the climate would benefit the father's failing health, but he had died, a week's journey back, of dysentery. Leaving her husband in a lonely grave among strangers, the half distracted mother had continued her journey, pressing on toward Flagstaff, where a solitary friend awaited her coming. One of the gaunt horses had died that day. His fleshless ribs told his story all too plainly. A glance at the woman revealed hers. Mary Ellen's active brain, accustomed to emergencies worked quickly. Stern woman of the desert that she had now become, she wasted not one minute in offering either advice or sympathy. She heard but one groan from the woman then turned and ran back over the road by which she had come. Unfastening the horse which stood at the hitching-post ready for the trip to town which she had contemplated making, she sprang into the buggy and drove furiously over the hill to- ward the stricken family stranded in the gulch. Lifting the emaciated form of the woman she carried her to the vehicle, and when the children had climbed in, she drove carefully but auickly home. An hour later a strange, thin cry came from the living room where Mary Ellen worked valiantly with compressed lips and wildly beating heart. Such suffering and fortitude she had never before seen. The woman's eyes were closed. Suddenly she opened them widely and motioned for the new-born babe to be brought to her. Mary Ellen placed it in her nerveless arms and folded them about it. The woman gazed at the child in silence. Two big tears gathered slowly in her eyes and hung there. She made an effort to speak but no words came. She seemed to sink away, then rallying her forces in one supreme effort gasped : "Pray — quickly — pray." Mary Ellen looked down at her. "There is no God," was on the tip of her tongue. "She has given life for life — she must not die like this — but what can I do?" She cried inwardly, feeling her own impotence. The sick woman's eyelids fluttered down. She waited. The whole universe seemed to wait with her. At length, as if a voice whispered in her ear, came

814 IMPROVEMENT ERA the message to Mary Ellen: "Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death — " "Oh Lord, I cry to thee from the depths, let me feel that thou art near, for the sake of thy Son who was crucified," she hegged. Her breath came thickly. She felt as if she would suffocate. The ice about her heart seemed to melt. A warm glow en- veloped her. Not for herself but for another had she prayed, and God had answered immediately. With the tears pouring down her face, she fell on her knees and talked with the Lord as if face to face. The woman opened her eyes and looked at Mary Ellen's transfigured countenance. "Unto the least of these — " she murmured. Agony held her for a long moment. "Sammy — Elin," she whispered. Mary Ellen brought them hastily. Both children kissed their mother and pressed close t«; her. "Be a good boy, Sammy — take care of sisters," came from her almost rigid lips. Slowly her big brown eyes traveled from one child to an- other then dwelt upon Mary Ellen with mute but agonizing questioning. Mary Ellen knew what those dumb eyes asked. But could she do it? Like a vision her whole past unfolded itself before her, but she forced her face to remain empty of expression. She saw herself a deserted wife with two small children to support; her desperate struggle with poverty and ill health; she saw herself as a teacher of art in a large university and able to gratify her desire for luxury, then threatened blindness and shattered nerves; finding no room at the firesides of her daughters whose worried hands were fully occupied with caring for their many little children, she had in desperation packed her household goods and fled to the desert. Her homestead, productive and beautiful now, was her own ; work in the open had made her as strong as a man. But she felt that she wanted no new responsibilities. She had done all the Lord ought to require of her. "Children are not grateful for the sacrifices one makes to rear them; they return but grudging duty, for all they get," she thought rebelliously. Still the dumb eyes questioned. They seemed to compre- hend and appreciate her struggle. Slowly in Mary Ellen's soul was born the great truth: What one gets out of life matters not at all. It is what one

MARY ELLEN 815 gives. "Man is, that he may have joy." And joy is born of un- selfish service. In Mary Ellen's face came a look of great peace. The woman smiled. Bending over her Mary Ellen said softly: "I will keep them all, and God helping me, I shall be so kind to them that even you watching shall be satisfied." An immortal radiance dawned in the dying mother's eyes, and with a little tired sigh she grew very cold and still. The