Elizabeth Stock, an unmarried woman of thirty-eight, died of consumption during the past winter at the St. Louis City Hospital. There were no unusually pathetic features
attending her death. The physicians say she showed hope of rallying till placed in the incurable ward, when all
courage seemed to leave her, and she relapsed into a silence that remained unbroken till the end.
In Stonelift, the village where Elizabeth Stock was born and raised, and where I happen to be sojourning this summer, they say she was much given over to scribbling. I was permitted to examine her desk, which was quite filled with scraps and bits of writing in bad prose and impossible verse. In the whole conglomerate mass, I discovered but
the following pages which bore any semblance to a connected or consecutive narration.
Since I was a girl I always felt as if I would like to write stories. I never had that ambition to shine or make a name; first place because I knew what time and labor it meant to acquire a literary style. Second place, because whenever I wanted to write a story I never could think of a plot. Once I wrote about old Si’ Shepard that got lost in the woods and
never came back, and when I showed it to Uncle William he said: “Why, Elizabeth, I reckon you better stick to your dress making: this here ain’t no story; everybody knows
about old Si’ Shepard.”
No, the trouble was with plots. Whenever I tried to think of one, it always turned out to be something that
some one else had thought about before me. But here back awhile, I heard of great inducements offered for an
acceptable story, and I said to myself: “Elizabeth Stock, this is your chance. Now or never!” And I laid awake most a
whole week; and walked about days in a kind of dream,
turning and twisting things in my mind just like I often saw old ladies twisting quilt patches around to compose a design. I tried to think of a railroad story with a wreck, but couldn’t. No more could I make a tale out of a murder, or
money getting stolen, or even mistaken identity; for the story had to be original, entertaining, full of action and
Goodness knows what all. It was no use. I gave it up. But now that I got my pen in my hand and sitting here kind of quiet and peaceful at the south window, and the breeze so soft carrying the autumn leaves along, I feel as I’d like to
tell how I lost my position, mostly through my own negligence, I’ll admit that.
My name is Elizabeth Stock. I’m thirty-eight years old
and unmarried, and not afraid or ashamed to say it. Up to a few months ago I been postmistress of this village of
Stonelift for six years, through one administration and a half—up to a few months ago.
Often seems like the village was most too small; so small that people were bound to look into each other’s
lives, just like you see folks in crowded tenements looking into each other’s windows. But I was born here in Stonelift and I got no serious complaints. I been pretty comfortable and contented most of my life. There ain’t more than a
hundred houses all told, if that, counting stores, churches, postoffice, and even Nathan Brightman’s palatial mansion up on the hill. Looks like Stonelift wouldn’t be anything
without that.
He’s away a good part of the time, and his family; but he’s done a lot for this community, and they always
appreciated it, too.
But I leave it to any one—to any woman especially, if it ain’t human nature in a little place where everybody knows every one else, for the postmistress to glance at a postal
card once in a while. She could hardly help it. And besides, seems like if a person had anything very particular and
private to tell, they’d put it under a sealed envelope.
Anyway, the train was late that day. It was the breaking up of winter, or the beginning of spring; kind of betwixt and between; along in March. It was most night when the mail
came in that ought have been along at 5:15. The Brightman girls had been down with their pony-cart, but had got tired waiting and had been gone more than an hour.
It was chill and dismal in the office. I had let the stove go out for fear of fire. I was cold and hungry and anxious to get home to my supper. I gave out everybody’s mail that was waiting; and for the thousandth time told Vance
Wallace there was nothing for him. He’ll come and ask as regular as clockwork. I got that mail assorted and put aside in a hurry. There was no dilly dallying with postal cards,
and how I ever come to give a second look at Nathan Brightman’s postal, Heaven only knows!
It was from St. Louis, written with pencil in large characters and signed, “Collins,” nothing else; just
“Collins.” It read:
“Dear Brightman: Be on hand tomorrow, Tuesday at 10.
A.M. promptly. Important meeting of the board. Your own interest demands your presence. Whatever you do, don’t fail. In haste, Collins.”
I went to the door to see if there was anyone left
standing around: but the night was so raw and chill, every last one of the loungers had disappeared. Vance Wallace
would of been willing enough to hang about to see me home; but that was a thing I’d broken him of long ago. I locked things up and went on home, just ashivering as I went, it was that black and penetrating—worse than a
downright freeze, I thought.
After I had had my supper and got comfortably fixed
front of the fire, and glanced over the St. Louis paper and was just starting to read my seaside Library novel, I got thinking, somehow, about that postal card of Nath Brightman’s. To a person that knew B. from hill’s foot, it was just as plain as day that if that card laid on there in the office, Mr. Brightman would miss that important meeting in St. Louis in the morning. It wasn’t anything to me, of course, except it made me uncomfortable and I couldn’t
rest or get my mind fixed on the story I was reading. Along about nine o’clock, I flung aside the book and says to myself:
“Elizabeth Stock, you a fool, and you know it.” There ain’t much use telling how I put on my rubbers and
waterproof, covered the fire with ashes, took my umbrella and left the house.
I carried along the postoffice key and went on down
and got out that postal card—in fact, all of the Brightmans’ mail—wasn’t any use leaving part of it, and started for “the house on the hill” as we mostly call it. I don’t believe
anything could of induced me to go if I had known before
hand what I was undertaking. It was drizzling and the rain kind of turned to ice when it struck the ground. If it hadn’t been for the rubbers, I’d of taken more than one fall. As it was, I took one good and hard one on the footbridge. The
wind was sweeping down so swiftly from the Northwest, looked like it carried me clean off my feet before I could clutch the hand-rail. I found out about that time that the stitches had come out of my old rubbers that I’d sewed
about a month before, and letting the water in soaking my feet through and through. But I’d got more than good and started and I wouldn’t think of turning around.
Nathan Brightman has got kind of steps cut along the side of the hill, going zig-zag. What you would call a
gradual ascent, and making it easy to climb. That is to say, in good weather. But Lands! There wasn’t anything easy
that night, slipping back one step for every two; clutching at the frozen twigs along the path; and having to use my
umbrella half the time for a walking stick; like a regular
Alpine climber. And my heart would most stand still at the
way the cedar trees moaned and whistled like doleful organ tones; and sometimes sighing deep and soft like dying souls in pain.
Then I was a fool for not putting on something warm underneath that mackintosh. I could of put on my knitted wool jacket just as easy as not. But the day had been so mild, it bamboozled us into thinking spring was here for
good; especially when we were all looking and longing for it; and the orchards ready to bud, too.
But I forgot all the worry and unpleasantness of the walk when I saw how Nath Brightman took on over me bringing him that postal card. He made me sit down
longside the fire and dry my feet, and kept saying:
“Why, Miss Elizabeth, it was exceedingly obliging of you; on such a night, too. Margaret, my dear”—that was his wife—“mix a good stiff toddy for Miss Elizabeth, and see
that she drinks it.”
I never could stand the taste or smell of alcohol. Uncle William says if I’d of had any sense and swallowed down
that toddy like medicine, it might of saved the day.
Anyhow, Mr. Brightman had the girls scampering
around getting his grip packed; one bringing his big top coat, another his muffler and umbrella; and at the same
time here they were all three making up a list of a thousand and one things they wanted him to bring down from St.
Louis.
Seems like he was ready in a jiffy, and by that time I was feeling sort of thawed out and I went along with him. It was a mighty big comfort to have him, too. He was as polite as could be, and kept saying:
“Mind out, Miss Elizabeth! Be careful here; slow now. My! but it’s cold! Goodness knows what damage this won’t do to the fruit trees.” He walked to my very door with me,
helping me along. Then he went on to the station. When the midnight express came tearing around the bend, rumbling
like thunder and shaking the very house, I’d got my clothes changed and was drinking a hot cup of tea side the fire I’d started up. There was a lot of comfort knowing that Mr.
Brightman had got aboard that train. Well, we all more or less selfish creatures in this world! I don’t believe I’d of
slept a wink that night if I’d of left that postal card lying in the office.
Uncle William will have it that this heavy cold all came of that walk; though he got to admit with me that this
family been noted for weak lungs as far back as I ever heard of.
Anyway, I’d been sick on and off all spring; sometimes hardly able to stand on my feet when I’d drag myself down
to that postoffice. When one morning, just like lightning out of a clear sky, here comes an official document from Washington, discharging me from my position as postmistress of Stonelift. I shook all over when I read it,
just like I had a chill; and I felt sick at my stomach and my teeth chattered. No one was in the office when I opened
that document except Vance Wallace, and I made him read it and I asked him what he made out it meant. Just like
when you can’t understand a thing because you don’t want to. He says:
“You’ve lost your position, Lizabeth. That what it means; they’ve passed you up.”
I took it away from him kind of dazed, and says:
“We got to see about it. We got to go see Uncle William; see what he says. Maybe it’s a mistake.”
“Uncle Sam don’t make mistakes,” said Vance. “We got to get up a petition in this here community; that’s what I
reckon we better do, and send it to the government.”
Well, it don’t seem like any use to dwell on this subject. The whole community was indignant, and pronounced it an outrage. They decided, in justice to me, I had to find out
what I got that dismissal for. I kind of thought it was for my poor health, for I would of had to send in my resignation sooner or later, with these fevers and cough. But we got
information it was for incompetence and negligence in office, through certain accusations of me reading postal cards and permitting people to help themselves to their own mail. Though I don’t know as that ever happened
except with Nathan Brightman always reaching over and saying:
“Don’t disturb yourself, Miss Elizabeth,” when I’d be sorting out letters and he could reach his mail in the box just as well as not.
But that’s all over and done for. I been out of office two months now, on the 26th. There’s a young man named Collins, got the position. He’s the son of some wealthy,
influential St. Louis man; a kind of delicate, poetical-
natured young fellow that can’t get along in business, and they used their influence to get him the position when it
was vacant. They thinks it’s the very place for him. I reckon ’tis. I hope in my soul he’ll prosper. He’s a quiet, nice-
mannered young man. Some of the community thought of boycotting him. It was Vance Wallace started the notion. I
told them they must be demented, and I up and told Vance Wallace he was a fool.
“I know I’m a fool, Lizabeth Stock,” he said, “I always been a fool for hanging round you for the past twenty
years.”
The trouble with Vance is, he’s got no intellect. I
believe in my soul Uncle William’s got more. Uncle William advised me to go up to St. Louis and get treated. I been up there. The doctor said, with this cough and short breath, if I know what’s good for me I’ll spend the winter in the South. But the truth is, I got no more money, or so little it
don’t count. Putting Danny to school and other things here lately, hasn’t left me much to brag of. But I oughtn’t be
blamed about Danny; he’s the only one of sister Martha’s boys that seemed to me capable. And full of ambition to
study as he was! It would have felt sinful of me, not to. Of course, I’ve taken him out, now I’ve lost my position. But I got him in with Filmore Green to learn the grocery trade, and maybe it’s all for the best; who knows!
But indeed, indeed, I don’t know what to do. Seems like I’ve come to the end of the rope. O! it’s mighty pleasant
here at this south window. The breeze is just as soft and
warm as May, and the leaves look like birds flying. I’d like to sit right on here and forget everything and go to sleep and never wake up. Maybe it’s sinful to make that wish.
After all, what I got to do is leave everything in the hands of Providence, and trust to luck.
