THE SMOKING CAP

It was the turn of Ida’s little boy Horace to bounce up and down on Eudocia’s lap as she pounded on the keyboard and sang lustily. This time, the song was a jolly one by Stephen Foster, “Camptown Races”—

Gwine to run all night!
Gwine to run all day!
I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag—
Somebody bet on de bay.

The four sharps were almost beyond Eudocia’s powers, but the words were harmless. These days, she had to be careful what she chose from the songbook, because Seth’s mother so often reclined on the settee in the same room.

“Home, Sweet Home” would not do, because Augusta’s dear son would never come home. He was not only dead but disgraced.

Nor could Eudocia sing “Kathleen Mavourneen,” because of the mournful refrain, “It may be for years, and it may be forever.” And of course all the dear old soldier songs were banished for good—“Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground,” and “Tramp! Tramp! Tramp, the Boys Are Marching.” They were out of the question.

The mind of poor Mother Morgan had been failing before, but now the sorrow and shame of her loss had addled what little was left. Ida’s mother-in-law lay on the sofa or sat idly at the table in the kitchen condemning the imbecility of all things. Even God was a blockhead.

But that was just her way. Eudocia attended cheerfully to Augusta’s physical needs and ignored her dire pronouncements. Sally and Josh and Alice were polite to Mother Morgan, Eben was mostly away at school and of course, Ida’s boy—Augusta’s and Eudocia’s grandchild—was too young to have any opinion about the mental capacity of the Creator.

Eudocia’s singing voice was strong, and it echoed to all corners of the house. Even in her bedroom upstairs Ida could hear it above the whine and buzz of her sewing machine.

It was new, the gift of Dr. Clock, but she had mastered its complexities. Now she hunched over it, guiding the needle down a seam, pedaling vigorously. Bzzzz, bzzzz, slow down, lift the lever, whirl the sleeve around, lower the lever, give the wheel a push and start again, bzzzz, bzzzz. It was so quick!

Peterson’s Magazine was full of enticing patterns. As soon as she finished the French sacque for little Horace, she’d try the knickerbocker suit, the favorite style of dress for boys too young to be breeched.

By midafternoon she had finished the French sacque and begun to copy the pattern for the little suit, when her mother called up the stairs, “Ida?”

Josh had driven the spring wagon to the post office. He had brought home a magazine for his sister and a letter.

Ida ran downstairs and paused in the parlor to kiss her mother-in-law. “Oh, the stupidity,” groaned Mother Morgan, “Oh, the shame.”

“Now, Augusta,” said Eudocia, “remember our agreement. We agreed to say nothing more about that.”

Ida’s letter was another one from Alexander. She ran upstairs, opened the envelope, and slipped out the closely written sheets. Folded among them was something else, his photograph. Ida gazed at it, pleased that he had done as he had promised.

At once she went to her chest of drawers and found the little hooked case that enclosed the likenesses of herself and Seth. The glass rectangle over Seth’s face was smudged where Ida had so often kissed it. Sorrowfully now she kissed it for the last time and wiped the glass clean. Working slowly and carefully, she edged out the gilded frame and with gentle fingers slid Alexander’s picture in place over Seth’s and pressed the glass down over both of them. Then she straightened the crocheted edging of the dresser scarf and positioned the open case next to the daguerreotype of her father.

Perhaps it was time now to take care of other things. Ida pulled open the drawer in which she had stored away a sacred collection of handkerchiefs among the gloves and winter stockings. She had been making them for Seth—so long ago! Most of them had never been embroidered with the letter S, and therefore they had never been sent. But there was a single exception, the handkerchief with the terrifying crimson hem, the one given back to her by Lieutenant Gobright on that fearful night on the battlefield.

Also in Ida’s dresser drawer was Seth’s last letter, written from an encampment in Maryland, and two more sad things—her own last letter to him and the pamphlet from the American Tract Society. Also in the drawer were the three perfumed letters from Lily LeBeau that had caused her so much anguish.

Under Lily’s letters lay other dreadful things, the playbills that had been given out in handfuls by shouting boys on the Avenue when Ida had been living at Mrs. Broad’s. She had always taken them eagerly, hoping to find Seth’s name printed boldly on the swaggering lists of actors. It was never there, but another name had appeared on every one of them, large and black and abominable. She wanted to throw all the playbills in the fire, but they were heart-wrenching memorials of a bitter kind, and she couldn’t let them go.

At least she could make them less hateful. Ida picked up her sewing scissors, remembering an innocent conversation in the cars on the way back from Washington—her mother and Eben, Ida and her baby.

Her mother had wanted to hear about the exciting life of the nation’s capital. Had there been public exhibitions with transparencies and fireworks? Had she seen the president and his wife? Famous generals and fashionable ladies in beautiful gowns?

The baby had been fretful. Ida’s mother had taken him and asked another question. “Did you see any famous plays, Ida dear?”

“Or famous actors?” said Eben. Ida’s brother was thin and pale from lying so long in a hospital bed, but he, too, was eager to hear about the thrilling life of the city.

“Maggie Mitchell?” said Ida’s mother. “Charlotte Cushman?”

“Edwin Forrest?” said Eben.

“What about that other one,” said Eudocia, trying to remember, “that famous young Shakespearean actor? Wasn’t he another Edwin?”

“No, not Edwin.” Ida held out her arms for the baby. “His brother, I think. I feel sure it was his brother.”

Now Ida snipped and snipped, cutting out pieces from the playbills. Finished, she put them back in the bottom of the drawer and covered them with cotton stockings. Then she undid the ribbon around Alexander’s letters, added the new one, tied up the bundle again, laid it down on her Sunday gloves, and softly closed the drawer.

Something else had come in the mail, the new copy of Peterson’s Magazine. For a moment Ida leafed through it, and then, smiling, she took it downstairs, deciding to make a present for Alexander—perhaps the handsome smoking cap on page one. “We give here a design, full size, printed in colors, for this very stylish Smoking Cap, so that any subscriber can make it for herself, a very pretty gift for a gentleman.”