Mr. Macglowrie's Widow Page #4

"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

								

follow those skinny old frumps and leggy, limp chits, that slobber and
cry over that man!" she said contemptuously. "No! I reckon I only want a
change--and I'll go away, or get out of this for a while."

The poor doctor had not thought of this possible alternative. His heart
sank, but he was brave. "Yes, perhaps you are right," he said sadly,
"though it would be a dreadful loss--to Laurel Spring--to us all--if you
went."

"Do I look so VERY bad, doctor?" she said, with a half-mischievous,
half-pathetic smile.

The doctor thought her upturned face very adorable, but restrained his
feelings heroically, and contented himself with replying to the pathetic
half of her smile. "You look as if you had been suffering," he said
gravely, "and I never saw you look so before. You seem as if you had
experienced some great shock. Do you know," he went on, in a lower tone
and with a half-embarrassed smile, "that when I saw you just now in the
garden, you looked as I imagined you might have looked in the first days
of your widowhood--when your husband's death was fresh in your heart."

A strange expression crossed her face. Her eyelids dropped instantly,
and with both hands she caught up her frilled apron as if to meet
them and covered her face. A little shudder seemed to pass over
her shoulders, and then a cry that ended in an uncontrollable and
half-hysterical laugh followed from the depths of that apron, until
shaking her sides, and with her head still enveloped in its covering,
she fairly ran into the inner room and closed the door behind her.

Amazed, shocked, and at first indignant, Dr. Blair remained fixed to
the spot. Then his indignation gave way to a burning mortification as he
recalled his speech. He had made a frightful faux pas! He had been fool
enough to try to recall the most sacred memories of that dead husband
he was trying to succeed--and her quick woman's wit had detected his
ridiculous stupidity. Her laugh was hysterical--but that was only
natural in her mixed emotions. He mounted his horse in confusion and
rode away.

For a few days he avoided the house. But when he next saw her she had
a charming smile of greeting and an air of entire obliviousness of his
past blunder. She said she was better. She had taken his advice and
was giving herself some relaxation from business. She had been riding
again--oh, so far! Alone?--of course; she was always alone--else what
would Laurel Spring say?

"True," said Blair smilingly; "besides, I forgot that you are quite able
to take care of yourself in an emergency. And yet," he added, admiringly
looking at her lithe figure and indolent grace, "do you know I never can
associate you with the dreadful scenes they say you have gone through."

"Then please don't!" she said quickly; "really, I'd rather you wouldn't.
I'm sick and tired of hearing of it!" She was half laughing and yet half
in earnest, with a slight color on her cheek.

Blair was a little embarrassed. "Of course, I don't mean your
heroism--like that story of the intruder and the scissors," he
stammered.

"Oh, THAT'S the worst of all! It's too foolish--it's sickening!" she
went on almost angrily. "I don't know who started that stuff." She
paused, and then added shyly, "I really am an awful coward and horribly
nervous--as you know."

He would have combated this--but she looked really disturbed, and he
had no desire to commit another imprudence. And he thought, too, that he
again had seen in her eyes the same hopeful, wistful light he had once
seen before, and was happy.

This led him, I fear, to indulge in wilder dreams. His practice,
although increasing, barely supported him, and the widow was rich. Her
business had been profitable, and she had repaid the advances made her
when she first took the hotel. But this disparity in their fortunes
which had frightened him before now had no fears for him. He felt that
if he succeeded in winning her affections she could afford to wait for
him, despite other suitors, until his talents had won an equal position.
His rivals had always felt as secure in his poverty as they had in his
peaceful profession. How could a poor, simple doctor aspire to the hand
of the rich widow of the redoubtable MacGlowrie?

It was late one afternoon, and the low sun was beginning to strike
athwart the stark columns and down the long aisles of the redwoods on
the High Ridge. The doctor, returning from a patient at the loggers'
camp in its depths, had just sighted the smaller groves of Laurel
Springs, two miles away. He was riding fast, with his thoughts filled
with the widow, when he heard a joyous bark in the underbrush, and
Fluffy came bounding towards him. Blair dismounted to caress him, as
was his wont, and then, wisely conceiving that his mistress was not far
away, sauntered forward exploringly, leading his horse, the dog hounding
before him and barking, as if bent upon both leading and announcing him.
But the latter he effected first, for as Blair turned from the trail
into the deeper woods, he saw the figures of a man and woman walking
together suddenly separate at the dog's warning. The woman was Mrs.
MacGlowrie--the man was the revival preacher!

Amazed, mystified, and indignant, Blair nevertheless obeyed his first
instinct, which was that of a gentleman. He turned leisurely aside as
if not recognizing them, led his horse a few paces further, mounted him,
and galloped away without turning his head. But his heart was filled
with bitterness and disgust. This woman--who but a few days before
had voluntarily declared her scorn and contempt for that man and his
admirers--had just been giving him a clandestine meeting like one of the
most infatuated of his devotees! The story of the widow's fainting,
the coarse surmises and comments of Slocum, came back to him with
overwhelming significance. But even then his reason forbade him to
believe that she had fallen under the preacher's influence--she, with
her sane mind and indolent temperament. Yet, whatever her excuse or
purpose was, she had deceived him wantonly and cruelly! His abrupt
avoidance of her had prevented him from knowing if she, on her part, had
recognized him as he rode away. If she HAD, she would understand why he
had avoided her, and any explanation must come from her.

Then followed a few days of uncertainty, when his thoughts again
reverted to the preacher with returning jealousy. Was she, after all,
like other women, and had her gratuitous outburst of scorn of THEIR
infatuation been prompted by unsuccessful rivalry? He was too proud to
question Slocum again or breathe a word of his fears. Yet he was not
strong enough to keep from again seeking the High Ridge, to discover
any repetition of that rendezvous. But he saw her neither there, nor
elsewhere, during his daily rounds. And one night his feverish anxiety
getting the better of him, he entered the great "Gospel Tent" of the

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