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My Mother
by
“I don’t believe I have the honor of knowing you, sir,” replied the Indian, with a puzzled but gracious look.
“I am your wife’s brother-in-law,” said the old clergyman, “the man who would not allow her to be married from my house–that is, married to you.”
The Indian bit his lip and instinctively stepped backward. Added to his ancestral creed of never forgiving such injury, came a rush of memory–the backward-surging picture of his homeless little sweetheart and all that she had endured. Then came the memory of his dead mother’s teaching–teaching she had learned from her own mother, and she in turn from her mother: “Always forget yourself for old people, always honor the old.”
Instantly George Mansion arose–arose above the prejudices of his blood, above the traditions of his race, arose to the highest plane a man can reach–the memory of his mother’s teaching.
“I would hardly be here as a lay delegate of my church were I not willing to let bygones be bygones,” he said, simply, and laid his hand in that of the old clergyman, about whose eyes there was moisture, perhaps because this opportunity for peacemaking had come so tardily.
* * * * *
The little family of “Grand Mansions” were now growing to very “big childhood,” and the inevitable day came when Lydia’s heart must bear the wrench of having her firstborn say good-bye to take his college course. She was not the type of mother who would keep the boy at home because of the heartache the good-byes must bring, but the parting was certainly a hard one, and she watched his going with a sense of loss that was almost greater than her pride in him. He had given evidence of the most remarkable musical talent. He played classical airs even before he knew a note, and both his parents were in determined unison about this talent being cultivated. The following year the oldest daughter also entered college, having had a governess at home for a year, as some preparation. But these changes brought no difference into the home, save that George Mansion’s arm grew stronger daily in combat against the old foe. Then came the second attack of the enemy, when six white men beset him from behind, again knocking him insensible, with a heavy blue beech hand-spike. They broke his hand and three ribs, knocked out his teeth, injured his side and head; then seizing his pistol, shot at him, the ball fortunately not reaching a vital spot. As his senses swam he felt them drag his poor maimed body into the middle of the road, so it would appear as if horses had trampled him, then he heard them say, “This time the devil is dead.” But hours afterwards he again arose, again walked home, five interminable miles, again greeted his ever watchful and anxious wife with, “Lydia, they’ve hurt me once more.” Then came weeks of renewed suffering, of renewed care and nursing, of renewed vitality, and at last of conquered health.
These two terrible illnesses seemed to raise Lydia into a peculiar, half-protecting attitude towards him. In many ways she “mothered” him almost as though he were her son–he who had always been the leader, and so strong and self-reliant. After this, when he went forth on his crusades, she watched his going with the haunting fear with which one would watch a child wandering on the edge of a chasm. She waited on him when he returned, served him with the tenderness with which one serves a cripple or a baby. Once he caught her arm, as she carried to him a cup of broth, after he had spent wearisome hours at the same old battle, and turning towards her, said softly: “You are like my mother used to be to me.” She did not ask him in what way–she knew–and carried broth to him when next he came home half exhausted. Gradually he now gathered about him a little force of zealous Indians who became enthusiastic to take up arms with him against the whisky dealers. He took greater precautions in his work, for the growing mist of haunting anxiety in Lydia’s eyes began to call to him that there were other claims than those of the nation. His splendid zeal had brought her many a sleepless night, when she knew he was scouring the forests for hidden supplies of the forbidden merchandise, and that a whole army of desperadoes would not deter him from fulfilling his duty of destroying it. He felt, rather than saw, that she never bade him good-bye but that she was prepared not to see him again alive. Added to this he began to suffer as she did–to find that in his good-byes was the fear of never seeing her again. He, who had always been so fearless, was now afraid of the day when he should not return and she would be once more alone.