The Witness by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz (best fiction novels of all time .txt) 📖

Kind To The Extent Of One Tea

Or Reception Apiece A Year,  But That Was About The Limit.

 

Well,  There Was Tennelly's Mother! Dignified,  White-Haired,  Beautiful,

Dominant In Her Home And Clubs,  Charming To Her Guests; But--He Could

Just Fancy How She Would Raise Her Lorgnette And Look "Bonnie" Brentwood

Over. There Would Be No Room In That Grand House For A Girl Like Bonnie.

Bonnie! How The Name Suited Her! He Had A Strange Protective Feeling

About That Girl,  Not As If She Were Like The Other Girls He Knew;

Perhaps It Was A Sort Of A "Christ-Brother" Feeling,  As The Minister Had

Suggested. But To Go On With The List Of Mothers--Wasn't There One

Anywhere To Whom He Could Appeal? Gila's Mother? Pah! That Painted,

Purple Image Of A Mother! Her Own Daughter Needed To Find A Real Mother

Somewhere. She Couldn't Mother A Stranger! Mothers! Why Weren't There

Enough Real Ones To Go Around? If He Had Only Had A Mother,  A Real One,

Himself,  Who Had Lived,  She Would Have Been One To Whom He Could Have

Told Bonnie's Story,  And She Would Have Understood!

 

He Looked Into The Pictured Eyes On The Wall And An Idea Came To Him. It

Was Like An Answer To Prayer. Stephen Marshall's Mother! Why Hadn't He

Thought Of Her Before? She Was That Kind Of A Mother Of Course,  Or

Stephen Marshall Would Not Have Been The Man He Was! If The Bonnie Girl

Could Only Get To Her For A Little While! But Would She Take Her? Would

She Understand? Or Might She Be Too Overcome With Her Own Loss To Have

Been Able To Rally To Life Again? He Looked Into The Strong Motherly

Face And Was Sure _Not_.

 

He Would Write To Her. He Would Put It To The Test Whether There Was A

Mother In The World Or Not. He Went Back To His Room,  And Wrote Her A

Long Letter,  Red-Hot From The Depths Of His Heart; A Letter Such As He

Might Have Written To His Own Mother If He Had Ever Known Her,  But Such

As Certainly He Had Never Written To Any Woman Before. He Wrote:

 

     Dear Mother Of Stephen Marshall:

 

     I Know You Are A Real Mother Because Stephen Was What He

     Was. And Now I Am Going To Let You Prove It By Coming To You

     With Something That Needs A Mother's Help.

Chapter 8 Pg 51

     There Is A Little Girl--I Should Think She Must Be About

     Nineteen Or Twenty Years Old--Lying In The Hospital,  Worn

     Out With Hard Work And Sorrow. She Has Recently Lost Her

     Father And Mother,  And Had Brought Her Little Five-Year-Old

     Brother To The City A Couple Of Weeks Ago. They Were Living

     In A Very Small Room,  Boarding Themselves,  She Working All

     Day Somewhere Down-Town. Two Days Ago,  As She Was Coming

     Home In The Trolley,  Her Little Brother,  Crossing The Street

     To Meet Her,  Was Knocked Down And Killed By A Passing

     Automobile. We Buried Him To-Day,  And The Girl Fainted Dead

     Away On The Way Back From The Cemetery And Only Recovered

     Consciousness When We Got Her To The Hospital. The Doctor

     Says She Has Exhausted Her Vitality And Needs To Sleep For A

     Week And Be Fed Up; And Then She Ought To Go To Some

     Cheerful Place Where She Can Just Rest For A While And Have

     Fresh Air And Sunshine And Good,  Plain,  Nourishing Food.

 

     Now She Hasn't A Friend In The City. I Know From The Few

     Little Things She Has Told Me That There Isn't Any One In

     The World She Will Feel Free To Turn To. She Isn't The Kind

     Of Girl Who Will Accept Charity. She's Refined,  Reserved,

     Independent,  And All That,  You Know. There's Another Thing,

     Too--She Prays To Your Stephen's Christ--That's Why I Dared

     Write To You About It.

 

     You See,  I'm An Entire Stranger To Her. I Just Happened

     Along When The Kid Was Killed And Had To Stick Around And

     Help; That's How I Came To Know. Of Course She Hasn't Any

     Idea Of All This,  And I Haven't Any Real Business With It,

     But I Can't See Leaving Her In A Hole This Way; And There's

     No One Else To Do Anything.

 

     You Wonder Why I Didn't Find A Mother Nearer By,  But I

     Haven't Any Living Of My Own,  Except A Stepmother,  Who

     Wouldn't Understand,  And All The Other Mothers I Know

     Wouldn't Qualify For The Job Any Better. I've Been Looking

     At Your Picture And I Think You Would.

 

     What I Thought Of Is This (If It Doesn't Strike You That Way

     Maybe You Can Think Of Some Other Way): I'm Pretty Well

     Fixed For Money,  And I've Got A Lump That I've Been

     Intending To Use For A New Automobile; But My Old Car Is

     Plenty Good Enough For Another Year,  And I'd Like To Pay

     That Girl's Board Awhile Till She Gets Rested And Strong And

     Sort Of Cheered Up. I Thought Perhaps You'd See Your Way

     Clear To Write A Letter And Say You'd Like Her To Visit

     You--You're Lonesome Or Something. I Don't Know How A Real

     Mother Would Fix That Up,  But I Guess You Do.

 

     Of Course The Girl Mustn't Know I Have A Thing To Do With It

     Except That I Told You About Her. She'd Be Up In The Air In

     A Minute. She Wouldn't Stand For Me Doing Anything For Her.

     She's That Kind.

Chapter 8 Pg 52

     I'm Sending A Check Of Two Hundred Dollars Right Now Because

     I Thought,  In Case You See A Way To Take Up With My

     Suggestion,  You Might Send Her Money Enough For The Journey.

     I Don't Believe She's Got Any. We Can Fix It Up About The

     Board Any Way You Say. Don't Hesitate To Tell Me Just How

     Much It Is Worth. I Don't Need The Money For Anything. But

     Whatever's Done Has Got To Be Done Mighty Quick Or She'll Go

     Back To Work Again,  And She Won't Last Three Days If She

     Does. She Looks As If A Breath Would Blow Her Away. I'm

     Sending This Special Delivery To Hurry Things. Her Address

     Is Miss R.B. Brentwood,  Good Samaritan Hospital. The Kid

     Called Her "Bonnie." I Don't Know What Her Whole Name Is.

 

     So Now You Have The Whole Story,  And It's Up To You To

     Decide. Maybe You Think I've Got A Lot Of Crust To Propose

     This,  And Maybe You Won't See It This Way,  But I've Had The

     Nerve Because Stephen Marshall's Life And Stephen Marshall's

     Death Have Made Me Believe In Stephen Marshall's Christ And

     Stephen Marshall's Mother.

 

                           I Am,  Very Respectfully,

                                              Paul Courtland.

 

 

 

 

He Mailed The Letter That Night And Then Studied Hard Till Three O'clock

In The Morning.

 

The Next Morning's Mail Brought Him A Dainty Little Note From Gila's

Mother,  Inviting Him To A Quiet Family Dinner With Them On Friday

Evening. He Frowned When He Read It. He Didn't Care For The Large,

Painted Person,  But Perhaps There Was More Good In Her Than He Knew. He

Would Have To Go And Find Out. It Might Even Be That She Would Be A Help

In Case Stephen Marshall's Mother Did Not Pan Out.

Chapter 9 Pg 53

Mother Marshall Stood By The Kitchen Window,  With Her Cheek Against A

Boy's Old Soft Felt Hat,  And She Looked Out Into The Gathering Dusk For

Father. The Hat Was So Old And Worn That Its Original Shape And Color

Chapter 9 Pg 54

Were Scarcely Distinguishable,  And There Was One Spot Where Mother

Marshall's Tears Had Washed Some Of The Grime Away Into Deeper Stains

About It. It Was Only On Days When Father Was Off To Town On Errands

That She Allowed Herself The Momentary Weakness Of Tears.

 

So She Had Stood In Former Years Looking Out Into The Dusk For Her Son

To Come Whistling Home From School. So She Had Stood The Day The Awful

News Of His Fiery Death Had Come,  While Father Sat In His Rush-Bottomed

Chair And Groaned. She Had Laid Her Cheek Against That Old Felt Hat And

Comforted Herself With The Thought Of Her Boy,  Her Splendid Boy,  Who Had

Lived His Short Life So Intensely And Wonderfully. When She Felt That

Old Scratchy Felt Against Her Cheek It Somehow Brought Back The Memory

Of His Strong Young Shoulder,  Where She Used To Lay Her Head Sometimes

When She Felt Tired And He Would Fold Her In His Arms And Brush Her

Forehead With His Lips And Pat Her Shoulder. The Neighbors Sometimes

Wondered Why She Kept That Old Felt Hat Hanging There,  Just As When

Stephen Was Alive Among Them,  But Mother Marshall Never Said Anything

About It; She Just Kept It There,  And It Comforted Her To Feel It; One

Of Those Little Homely,  Tangible Things That Our Poor Souls Have To

Tether To Sometimes When We Lose The Vision And Get Faint-Hearted.

Mother Marshall Wasn't Morbid One Bit. She Always Looked On The Bright

Side Of Everything; And She Had Had Much Joy In Her Son As He Was

Growing Up. She Had Seen Him Strong Of Body,  Strong Of Soul,  Keen Of

Mind. He Had Won The Scholarship Of The Whole Northwest To The Big

Eastern University. It Had Been Hard To Pack