Run To Seed | Page 2

took it from
her--that is, all but the old house and the two poor worn old fields
which were her dower. She would have given up those too if it had not
been for her children, Jim and Kitty, and for the little old enclosure on
the hill under the big thorn-trees where they had laid him when they
brought him back in the broken pine box from Gettysburg. No, she
could not undo the past, nor alter the present, nor change the future. So
what could she do?
In her heart Mrs. Wagoner was glad of the poverty of the Uptons; not

merely glad in the general negative way which warms the bosoms of
most of us as we consider how much better off we are than our
neighbors--the "Lord-I-thank-thee-that-I-am-not-as-other-men-are"
way;--but Mrs. Wagoner was glad positively. She was glad that any of
the Uptons and the Duvals were poor. One of her grandfathers had been
what Mrs. Wagoner (when she mentioned the matter at all) called
"Manager" for one of the Duvals. She was aware that most people did
not accept that term. She remembered old Colonel Duval--the old
Colonel--tall, thin, white, grave. She had been dreadfully afraid of him.
She had had a feeling of satisfaction at his funeral. It was like the
feeling she had when she learned that Colonel Duval had not forgiven
Betty nor left her a cent.
Mrs. Wagoner used to go to see Mrs. Upton--she went frequently. It
was "her duty" she said. She carried her things--especially advice.
There are people whose visits are like spells of illness. It took Mrs.
Upton a fortnight to get over one of these visits--to convalesce. Mrs.
Wagoner was "a mother to her": at least, Mrs. Wagoner herself said so.
In some respects it was rather akin to the substance of that name which
forms in vinegar. It was hard to swallow: it galled. Even Mrs. Upton's
gentleness was overtaxed--and rebelled. She had stood all the
homilies--all the advice. But when Mrs. Wagoner, with her lips drawn
in, after wringing her heart, recalled to her the warning she had given
her before she married, she stopped standing it. She did not say much;
but it was enough to make Mrs. Wagoner's stiff bonnet-bows tremble.
Mrs. Wagoner walked out feeling chills down her spine, as if Colonel
Duval were at her heels. She had "meant to talk about sending Jim to
school": at least she said so. She condoled with every one in the
neighborhood on the "wretched ignorance" in which Jim was growing
up, "working like a common negro." She called him "that ugly boy."
Jim was ugly--Mrs. Wagoner said, very ugly. He was slim, red-headed,
freckle-faced, weak-eyed; he stooped and he stammered. Yet there was
something about him, with his thin features, which made one look
twice. Mrs. Wagoner used to say she did not know where that boy got
all his ugliness from, for she must admit his father was rather
good-looking before he became so bloated, and Betty Duval would

have been "passable" if she had had any "vivacity." There were people
who said Betty Duval had been a beauty. She was careful in her
limitations, Mrs. Wagoner was. Some women will not admit others are
pretty, no matter what the difference in their ages: they feel as if they
were making admissions against themselves.
Once when Jim was a boy Mrs. Wagoner had the good taste to refer in
his presence to his "homeliness," a term with which she sugar-coated
her insult. Jim grinned and shuffled his feet, and then said, "Kitty's
pretty." It was true: Kitty was pretty: she had eyes and hair. You could
not look at her without seeing them--big brown eyes, and brown
tumbled hair. Kitty was fifteen--two years younger than Jim in 187-.
Jim never went to school. They were too poor. All he knew his mother
taught him and he got out of the few old books in the book-case left by
the war,--odd volumes of the Waverley novels, and the Spectator, "Don
Quixote," and a few others, stained and battered. He could not have
gone to school if there had been a school to go to: he had to work: work,
as Mrs. Wagoner had truthfully said, "like a common nigger." He did
not mind it; a bird born in a cage cannot mind it much. The pitiful part
is, it does not know anything else. Jim did not know anything else. He
did not mind anything much--except chills. He even got used to them;
would just lie down and shake for an hour and then go to ploughing
again as soon as the ague was over, with the fever on him. He had to
plough; for corn was necessary. He had this compensation: he was
worshipped by