Mr. Macglowrie's Widow Page #5

"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

								

revival preacher.

It chanced to be an extraordinary meeting, and the usual enthusiastic
audience was reinforced by some sight-seers from the neighboring county
town--the district judge and officials from the court in session, among
them Colonel Starbottle. The impassioned revivalist--his eyes ablaze
with fever, his lank hair wet with perspiration, hanging beside his
heavy but weak jaws--was concluding a fervent exhortation to his
auditors to confess their sins, "accept conviction," and regenerate then
and there, without delay. They must put off "the old Adam," and put on
the flesh of righteousness at once! They were to let no false shame
or worldly pride keep them from avowing their guilty past before their
brethren. Sobs and groans followed the preacher's appeals; his own
agitation and convulsive efforts seemed to spread in surging waves
through the congregation, until a dozen men and women arose,
staggering like drunkards blindly, or led or dragged forward by sobbing
sympathizers towards the mourners' bench. And prominent among them, but
stepping jauntily and airily forward, was the redoubtable and worldly
Colonel Starbottle!

At this proof of the orator's power the crowd shouted--but stopped
suddenly, as the colonel halted before the preacher, and ascended the
rostrum beside him. Then taking a slight pose with his gold-headed cane
in one hand and the other thrust in the breast of his buttoned coat, he
said in his blandest, forensic voice:--

"If I mistake not, sir, you are advising these ladies and gentlemen to
a free and public confession of their sins and a--er--denunciation
of their past life--previous to their conversion. If I am
mistaken I--er--ask your pardon, and theirs and--er--hold myself
responsible--er--personally responsible!"

The preacher glanced uneasily at the colonel, but replied, still in the
hysterical intonation of his exordium:--

"Yes! a complete searching of hearts--a casting out of the seven Devils
of Pride, Vain Glory"--

"Thank you--that is sufficient," said the colonel blandly. "But might
I--er--be permitted to suggest that you--er--er--SET THEM THE EXAMPLE!
The statement of the circumstances attending your own past life and
conversion would be singularly interesting and exemplary."

The preacher turned suddenly and glanced at the colonel with furious
eyes set in an ashy face.

"If this is the flouting and jeering of the Ungodly and Dissolute," he
screamed, "woe to you! I say--woe to you! What have such as YOU to do
with my previous state of unregeneracy?"

"Nothing," said the colonel blandly, "unless that state were also the
STATE OF ARKANSAS! Then, sir, as a former member of the Arkansas BAR--I
might be able to assist your memory--and--er--even corroborate your
confession."

But here the enthusiastic adherents of the preacher, vaguely conscious
of some danger to their idol, gathered threateningly round the platform
from which he had promptly leaped into their midst, leaving the colonel
alone, to face the sea of angry upturned faces. But that gallant warrior
never altered his characteristic pose. Behind him loomed the reputation
of the dozen duels he had fought, the gold-headed stick on which he
leaned was believed to contain eighteen inches of shining steel--and the
people of Laurel Spring had discretion.

He smiled suavely, stepped jauntily down, and made his way to the
entrance without molestation.

But here he was met by Blair and Slocum, and a dozen eager questions:--

"What was it?" "What had he done?" "WHO was he?"

"A blank shyster, who had swindled the widows and orphans in Arkansas
and escaped from jail."

"And his name isn't Brown?"

"No," said the colonel curtly.

"What is it?"

"That is a matter which concerns only myself and him, sir," said the
colonel loftily; "but for which I am--er--personally responsible."

A wild idea took possession of Blair.

"And you say he was a noted desperado?" he said with nervous hesitation.

The colonel glared.

"Desperado, sir! Never! Blank it all!--a mean, psalm-singing, crawling,
sneak thief!"

And Blair felt relieved without knowing exactly why.

The next day it was known that the preacher, Gabriel Brown, had left
Laurel Spring on an urgent "Gospel call" elsewhere.

Colonel Starbottle returned that night with his friends to the county
town. Strange to say, a majority of the audience had not grasped the
full significance of the colonel's unseemly interruption, and those who
had, as partisans, kept it quiet. Blair, tortured by doubt, had a new
delicacy added to his hesitation, which left him helpless until the
widow should take the initiative in explanation.

A sudden summons from his patient at the loggers' camp the next
day brought him again to the fateful redwoods. But he was vexed and
mystified to find, on arriving at the camp, that he had been made the
victim of some stupid blunder, and that no message had been sent from
there. He was returning abstractedly through the woods when he was
amazed at seeing at a little distance before him the flutter of Mrs.
MacGlowrie's well-known dark green riding habit and the figure of
the lady herself. Her dog was not with her, neither was the revival
preacher--or he might have thought the whole vision a trick of his
memory. But she slackened her pace, and he was obliged to rein up
abreast of her in some confusion.

"I hope I won't shock you again by riding alone through the woods with a
man," she said with a light laugh.

Nevertheless, she was quite pale as he answered, somewhat coldly, that
he had no right to be shocked at anything she might choose to do.

"But you WERE shocked, for you rode away the last time without
speaking," she said; "and yet"--she looked up suddenly into his eyes
with a smileless face--"that man you saw me with once had a better right
to ride alone with me than any other man. He was"--

"Your lover?" said Blair with brutal brevity.

"My husband!" returned Mrs. MacGlowrie slowly.

"Then you are NOT a widow," gasped Blair.

"No. I am only a divorced woman. That is why I have had to live a lie
here. That man--that hypocrite--whose secret was only half exposed
the other night, was my husband--divorced from me by the law, when, an
escaped convict, he fled with another woman from the State three years
ago." Her face flushed and whitened again; she put up her hand blindly
to her straying hair, and for an instant seemed to sway in the saddle.

But Blair as quickly leaped from his horse, and was beside her. "Let
me help you down," he said quickly, "and rest yourself until you are
better." Before she could reply, he lifted her tenderly to the ground
and placed her on a mossy stump a little distance from the trail. Her
color and a faint smile returned to her troubled face.

"Had we not better go on?" she said, looking around. "I never went so
far as to sit down in the woods with HIM that day."

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