Mr. Macglowrie's Widow Page #3

"Mr. Macglowrie's Widow" is a short story by Bret Harte that explores themes of love, loss, and the complexities of human relationships set against the backdrop of the American West. The narrative revolves around the widow of Mr. Macglowrie, who grapples with her grief while navigating the expectations and judgments of her community. Harte’s nuanced characterizations and poignant storytelling highlight the struggles of a woman seeking independence and fulfillment in a changing world. With a touch of humor and a keen observation of social dynamics, the story poignantly examines the impact of loss and the search for identity in the face of adversity.

• Short story

								

Cowboy," a common unlettered frontiersman, he was said to have developed
wonderful powers of exhortatory eloquence among the Indians, and
scarcely less savage border communities where he had lived, half
outcast, half missionary. He had just come up from the Southern
agricultural districts, where he had been, despite his rude antecedents,
singularly effective with women and young people. The moody dyspeptics
and lazy rustics of Laurel Spring were stirred as with a new patent
medicine. Dr. Blair went to the first "revival" meeting. Without
undervaluing the man's influence, he was instinctively repelled by
his appearance and methods. The young physician's trained powers of
observation not only saw an overwrought emotionalism in the speaker's
eloquence, but detected the ring of insincerity in his more lucid speech
and acts. Nevertheless, the hysteria of the preacher was communicated to
the congregation, who wept and shouted with him. Tired and discontented
housewives found their vague sorrows and vaguer longings were only the
result of their "unregenerate" state; the lazy country youths felt
that the frustration of their small ambitions lay in their not being
"convicted of sin." The mourners' bench was crowded with wildly
emulating sinners. Dr. Blair turned away with mingled feelings of
amusement and contempt. At the door Jim Slocum tapped him on the
shoulder: "Fetches the wimmin folk every time, don't he, Doctor?" said
Jim.

"So it seems," said Blair dryly.

"You're one o' them scientific fellers that look inter things--what do
YOU allow it is?"

The young doctor restrained the crushing answer that rose to his lips.
He had learned caution in that neighborhood. "I couldn't say," he said
indifferently.

"'Tain't no religion," said Slocum emphatically; "it's jest pure
fas'nation. Did ye look at his eye? It's like a rattlesnake's, and them
wimmin are like birds. They're frightened of him--but they hev to do
jest what he 'wills' 'em. That's how he skeert the widder the other
day."

The doctor was alert and on fire at once. "Scared the widow?" he
repeated indignantly.

"Yes. You know how she swooned away. Well, sir, me and that preacher,
Brown, was the only one in that dinin' room at the time. The widder
opened the door behind me and sorter peeked in, and that thar preacher
give a start and looked up; and then, that sort of queer light come in
his eyes, and she shut the door, and kinder fluttered and flopped down
in the passage outside, like a bird! And he crawled away like a snake,
and never said a word! My belief is that either he hadn't time to turn
on the hull influence, or else she, bein' smart, got the door shut
betwixt her and it in time! Otherwise, sure as you're born, she'd
hev been floppin' and crawlin' and sobbin' arter him--jist like them
critters we've left."

"Better not let the brethren hear you talk like that, or they'll lynch
you," said the doctor, with a laugh. "Mrs. MacGlowrie simply had an
attack of faintness from some overexertion, that's all."

Nevertheless, he was uneasy as he walked away. Mrs. MacGlowrie had
evidently received a shock which was still unexplained, and, in spite of
Slocum's exaggerated fancy, there might be some foundation in his story.
He did not share the man's superstition, although he was not a skeptic
regarding magnetism. Yet even then, the widow's action was one of
repulsion, and as long as she was strong enough not to come to these
meetings, she was not in danger. A day or two later, as he was passing
the garden of the hotel on horseback, he saw her lithe, graceful,
languid figure bending over one of her favorite flower beds. The high
fence partially concealed him from view, and she evidently believed
herself alone. Perhaps that was why she suddenly raised herself from her
task, put back her straying hair with a weary, abstracted look, remained
for a moment quite still staring at the vacant sky, and then, with
a little catching of her breath, resumed her occupation in a dull,
mechanical way. In that brief glimpse of her charming face, Blair was
shocked at the change; she was pale, the corners of her pretty mouth
were drawn, there were deeper shades in the orbits of her eyes, and in
spite of her broad garden hat with its blue ribbon, her light flowered
frock and frilled apron, she looked as he fancied she might have looked
in the first crushing grief of her widowhood. Yet he would have passed
on, respecting her privacy of sorrow, had not her little spaniel
detected him with her keener senses. And Fluffy being truthful--as dogs
are--and recognizing a dear friend in the intruder, barked joyously.

The widow looked up, her eyes met Blair's, and she reddened. But he was
too acute a lover to misinterpret what he knew, alas! was only confusion
at her abstraction being discovered. Nevertheless, there was something
else in her brown eyes he had never seen before. A momentary lighting
up of RELIEF--of even hopefulness--in his presence. It was enough for
Blair; he shook off his old shyness like the dust of his ride, and
galloped around to the front door.

But she met him in the hall with only her usual languid good humor.
Nevertheless, Blair was not abashed.

"I can't put you in splints and plaster like Fluffy, Mrs. MacGlowrie,"
he said, "but I can forbid you to go into the garden unless you're
looking better. It's a positive reflection on my professional skill, and
Laurel Spring will be shocked, and hold me responsible."

Mrs. MacGlowrie had recovered enough of her old spirit to reply that she
thought Laurel Spring could be in better business than looking at her
over her garden fence.

"But your dog, who knows you're not well, and doesn't think me quite a
fool, had the good sense to call me. You heard him."

But the widow protested that she was as strong as a horse, and that
Fluffy was like all puppies, conceited to the last degree.

"Well," said Blair cheerfully, "suppose I admit you are all right,
physically, you'll confess you have some trouble on your mind, won't
you? If I can't make you SHOW me your tongue, you'll let me hear you USE
it to tell me what worries you. If," he added more earnestly, "you won't
confide in your physician--you will perhaps--to--to--a--FRIEND."

But Mrs. MacGlowrie, evading his earnest eyes as well as his appeal, was
wondering what good it would do either a doctor, or--a--a--she herself
seemed to hesitate over the word--"a FRIEND, to hear the worriments of a
silly, nervous old thing--who had only stuck a little too closely to her
business."

"You are neither nervous nor old, Mrs. MacGlowrie," said the doctor
promptly, "though I begin to think you HAVE been too closely confined
here. You want more diversion, or--excitement. You might even go to
hear this preacher"--he stopped, for the word had slipped from his mouth
unawares.

But a swift look of scorn swept her pale face. "And you'd like me to

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