“Yes, indeed,” assented Annette absently. She dropped down on the lounge. “Joseph and I were figuring last night that if we had two dollars more a month we might really get married. That would include the twenty-five cents a week for doctor’s bills—I suppose we ought to allow that.” She stopped a moment to switch onto another track. “It seemed to me there was something odd in Tina’s manner this morning, Elinor; I think she has some plan about Francis!”
As that week went on, and the next and the next, it became apparent to all that there was a change in the dear little youngest. She threw herself into her studies with exemplary conscientiousness, she performed her small, appointed tasks with the modicum of fractiousness. She went out nowhere. She was as lively and capricious as she had always been, and although she celebrated her eighteenth birthday, seemed younger than ever; but through it all there was an odd change—an absence of earnestness when she was earnest, an absence of mirth when she was mirthful. In some unexplained way Tina wasn’t with them; something ineffably bright and soul-inspiring had dropped out of the household. The loss of it made a growing little undercurrent of uneasiness, of anxiety. Through all the daily living there is in every home a fateful knowledge of the unexpressed.
It is impossible to hide one’s secrets. The whole family felt sure that Tina was thinking of Francis Fanshawe, though she never even looked out of the window when he spun past it, as sometimes happened, in his big, white motor car, filled with a gay crowd of bugle-blowing boys. Elinor, with the tacit consent of her elders, actually wrote a note inviting him to the house. He came, indeed, but Tina refused to see him, playing checkers up-stairs in the library with Robert, who had a meditative, humorous way of beating her, while Elinor, perforce, did the entertaining. The big youth was not unpleasing, as she owned afterwards, though he said next to nothing, but his blue eyes looked unusually appreciative and he gripped her hand so hard when he left that her fingers were nearly welded into each other.
It was at the end of the month that Tina came into her mother’s room one morning with an unexpected rush, her golden head thrown back, the black poodle barking delightedly at her heels. There was a note in her voice which had not been there in these four weeks past, as she said:
“Momsey, I’ve something to say to you.”
“Well, come over here, dear. I want to hook you up; your dress is all open in the back. I wish you would be more careful. Isn’t it time for you to go to your lessons?”
“I’m not going to study any more, mother.”
“My dear child, what do you mean?”
“I’ve decided that I want to get married,” said Tina—“to Francis.” A wave of colour rose suddenly over her lovely face, and she made an annoyed motion as if to brush it away. “Annette knows I want to marry him. I wanted her to tell you, but she said you wouldn’t like it unless I told you myself. So now I’m telling you. And I hope you won’t mind very much, for Francis and I will never care for any one else.”
“Oh, my dear child!” said Mrs. Malison. Mother and daughter looked at each other with the same expression of dominant will. “This is, of course, nonsense, Tina.” She braced herself as one does against a coming blow so appalling that one cannot stop to fear the weight of it; all one’s energies must be used to fend it off.
“It distresses me to hear you talk like this; you don’t mean it—you don’t know what it means; but it distresses me, Tina!”
“There, I knew you’d say that!” cried Tina in poignant remonstrance. She dropped into her favourite attitude of hunched up shoulders, her lips set in scornful bitterness. “Every one lectures me and scolds me—nobody wants me to do anything I like except Francis. Even Robert lectures me, though he’s such a muff with Elinor! I know none of you like Francis. I know you all despise him, but he’s a thousand times nicer to me than any one else is. He likes me to have everything I want.”
“Oh, Tina!” said poor Mrs. Malison, her heart pierced with twenty daggers. “Of course, I’m not saying—— If you still care for him in a couple of years, then, perhaps, your father and I may consider it. But you can’t know your own mind now, my darling. You have seen nothing of life; marriage is a very serious thing.”
“Then I don’t want to wait until I know about life, if it’s as horrid as you say it is!” said Tina, hotly. “I don’t want to wait until I change my mind. I’ll never change it. I made Francis stay away on purpose all last month to see what it would be like—and I hated it—and so did he.” Tina’s voice had the ring of a passionate conviction, her blue eyes had a sombre depth of melancholy in them. “Why do we have to wait for years and years like Annette and Joseph when it isn’t necessary? Mother, why can’t Francis and I be married? My grandmother was married at sixteen.”
“And would you leave your father and me, Tina, when we’ve taken care of you, and loved you, so much?” Mrs. Malison’s voice shook, she fastened her eyes on her daughter with anguish. Tina’s mouth took on the obstinate curve which the too obvious appeal to her affections always brought there. She didn’t even take the trouble to answer as she tapped irritatingly on the floor with her small foot. The silence conveyed even more forcibly than words that it was a recognized fact that people left their parents when they married without discredit attaching to them—it was part of the plan. Even through her wretchedness Mrs. Malison drearily acquiesced in the received view of the matter! but for Tina—her baby—— Ah, that was a different thing.
For Tina’s own good this time she must not have her way.
The mother went around all day with a stone on her heart, that made her face white and drawn and breathing difficult, while Annette and Elinor talked excitedly and incessantly with household avocations half done, and sought the dear little wayward sister separately afterwards, Annette with mute caresses, and larges pieces of bread and jam to supplement the lack of a breakfast, and Elinor with intelligent reasoning as she put the child’s collar straight and fastened her belt. Tina had never dressed herself alone in her life. “I thought I cared for Tommy Burns, Tina, when I was seventeen, and as for even looking at him now——! When it comes down to it, dear, what men have you ever seen?”
“I’ve seen—Robert,” said Tina dangerously, under her breath.
Elinor’s arms fell away from her office of tiring woman; she stood staring.
“Robert——?”
Tina’s eyes gleamed with a daring, revealing, lightning flash: “Well, if you’re never nice to a person yourself, Elinor——” She escaped to the doorway for a parting shot.
“Yes, Robert!” she called back elfishly, and fled, passing her mother with no recognition, and actually going out in young Fanshawe’s car with him for all the afternoon, only coming back in time for dinner, which was a state function, with guests, and going to bed immediately afterwards.
It is strange how one untoward event disrupts all the working order of the mind; that which has given joy loses its flavour, that which has been counted on as sure becomes fluctuant. Everything has to arrange itself anew. If Elinor wrote a note to a Robert who had neglected to appear, it was not from the dictates of reason, but from a novel and jealous desire for his presence. If Annette and Joseph sat up unusually late after the guests had departed it was, perhaps, because figuring over a housekeeping text-book wasn’t as satisfying as sometimes, and they had to keep at it a little longer to capture the pleasure of that future living together. Even to the most unselfish, the most vernally patient of lovers waiting may show a grim face, all “bare of bliss” at times, especially when confronted with a boy of twenty-one who has money and to spare for that leap over the matrimonial barriers. It was only after thoroughly studying a mysterious way of Approaching a Butcher, by which, although special cuts and roasts were so much a pound, you got a whole diagrammic ox for a dollar, that that prophetic feeling of happiness mingled once more with the lovers’ goodnight kiss. Heaven only knows what delicate sentiment was embedded in those visionary steaks and chops!
Long after Joseph had gone Mrs. Malison and Annette talked in the mother’s room, with low, painfully murmuring voices, taking counsel together into the small hours. It was three of the clock when the hurrying of soft footsteps and a touch at the chamber door startled them, and then a piteous voice:
“Momsey; oh, momsey!”
The mother was up on the instant, opening the door; by the light in the hall, Tina’s eyes, ice-blue, stared at her over the lace frills of her night-dress. “I came to tell you—if you feel like that—the way you looked to-day—I’ll tell Francis I won’t marry him; it will kill me; but if you are happy it doesn’t make any difference. I can’t stand seeing you look like that! It will kill me, but you’ll be happier, any way.”
“Oh, dear me!” said Mrs. Malison in despair—anxiety lent roughness to her voice. “This is nonsense, Tina. Come up-stairs this minute. The idea! with nothing on your feet—you’ll get your death of cold.” She led the girl to her own bed, tucking the soft form with resolute fingers, and lying down herself afterwards under the coverlet with her cheek against Tina’s chill flesh.
“Oh, Tina, as if mother could ever be glad if you were unhappy! It’s just because I fear that if you have what you want that it will only be for your unhappiness that I look as I do. If your father were only at home!”
Tina gave a movement of impatience, though she lay close cuddled in her mother’s arms. “I think it would have been a great deal better if we had eloped—Francis and I,” she murmured.
“Tina!” The mother gave a horrified gasp.
“Well, I do think so—it would have saved everything, all the feeling so badly, and the talk, and everything. Francis and I wanted to go off in the automobile this afternoon and get married then, and settle it all at once. People never seem to mind a bit after it’s all over—the Boggses made such a fuss about Lucy’s marrying that widower and now nobody says a word about it. She comes to Sunday-night’s tea with his children.”
“But you didn’t elope, my darling,” said Mrs. Malison, searching for the one crumb of comfort.
“Francis thought you might mind.”
“That was very right of Francis.”
“And he was afraid the car would break down; he had to take it to the garage for repairs.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed the poor mother once more.
It was only after Tina seemed to be asleep that she stole down-stairs again to drop into an uneasy slumber herself.
This battle was going to be a long and weary fray.
They were all down unusually early to breakfast but Tina.
“Don’t waken Miss Tina,” Mrs. Malison warned the maid.
“Sure she’s not in the house, ma’am.” Emma’s tone was glibly important. “Bridget said as how Miss Tina slipped out at six o’clock this morning; she came down the stairs a tiptoe in her new grey shuit. ’Twas towards the trolley car she wint.”
It had happened then already—the blow had fallen! The headstrong child had gone. Mrs. Malison whispered the words with lips that could hardly frame the words. Other people’s daughters had deceived them and done this thing—she had felt shamed for them—but hers! The room went around with her, some one was bringing her water. She saw the scared faces of Annette and Elinor bending over her—the moments seemed like dreary years as they passed.
The square, marble-pillared clock, in its old-fashioned glass case on the mantel, chimed eight musically as Tina came into the room. Her blue hat with its white feathers was pushed sideways on her rumpled hair, and the new grey suit was wrinkled and spotted with clay from an enormous pot of daisies hugged tightly in her arms. She set it down hastily on the white cloth of the breakfast table, and leaned back, panting, against the mahogany sideboard laden with its tall old silver; the light from the parting of the heavy curtains leaped towards her, and held her in its shining embrace.
“I didn’t know that was going to be so heavy. The trolleys were so slow, they wouldn’t connect. I went to get the flowers for you, momsey, because you’re so fond of them.”
Her eyes took swift tally of the group, unheeding of their exclamations. “Please leave the room, Emma——” she went on speaking with a defiant hardness, broken now and then by an odd, piteous little catch in her young voice:
“I suppose you thought I’d eloped. I promise you now that I won’t; I won’t get married until you and daddy say I can. I’ll wait forever if you say so. I can’t bear to hurt any one’s feelings. But I’ll never be happy here at home any more, and I’ll never care for anybody here. I may act as if I cared, but I won’t, really! I’ll only care for Francis—as he cares for me.” The wind from some far source seemed to shake her with its ruthless power. “You think I’m so young—you make me younger than I really am so that I don’t know how to tell you what I mean—to tell you so that you’ll understand. When I’m with Francis he doesn’t need to speak, he doesn’t even need to be near me; but I’m just so happy!” Her voice had changed to the exquisite cadence of love. “It’s my own life! And whether I’m glad or sorry, I want to spend it with him. I want to be with him anyway—I want to be with him if I die for it!”
She put her hand on her heart with a quick, passionate gesture, her ice-blue eyes had in them that look which is as old as the world, as deep as life. She stepped past the weeping sisters to throw herself on her knees by her mother, to hide her bright head upon her mother’s breast, to reach her young arms up to clasp around her mother’s neck as she whispered:
“Oh, mother, mother, you ought to know!”
“It certainly was a beautiful wedding!” Little Miss Ward was calling once more at the Malisons; her voice was earnestly kind. “How lovely Miss Annette and Miss Elinor looked. I never saw girls keep their looks so well! And Miss Elinor engaged, too, at last! Every one was so surprised at Miss Tina’s getting married so soon. Mr. Fanshawe seemed very happy, I shouldn’t wonder if there really was more to him than people think; he shook my hand so—cordially, it’s a little lame yet. And as for the bride”—Miss Ward lowered her voice tenderly—“well, Mrs. Grandison said, when she saw that child’s sweet, young face going up the aisle, there was something so pathetic about it that she just broke down and gave up and cried, when she thought of all that might be before her. Have you ever thought what a lottery life is?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Malison. She had indeed! For good or for evil the portion of the youngest was Tina’s. She had had, as always, her own way.
The goings forth and the comings back of the head of a suburban household are the pendulum by which all the rest of the time swings. Polly Townsend, in a short white duck skirt, with a cheerful red bow in her light hair, was putting the finishing touches to the dinner-table in the now permanent absence of the “girl,” and listening for the returning footstep of her husband with more than her usual sense of expectation, which lately had been braced to divine what that footstep might imply as to the day’s success or non-success.
Mr. Townsend was “out of a position,” a stage of tenuous existence over which self-respecting families draw a decent veil. In the three months of his detachment he had experienced all its usual effects in his relations with a comfortably occupied world—the sympathetic indignation and inefficient, helpful efforts in his behalf, with the haphazard, temporary “jobs,” the gradual subsidence of poignant interest, and, finally, the semi-irritation at his “not having anything yet,” which would really seem to imply a culpable torpidity on his part to all but the wife who alone knew the struggle which he no longer heralded abroad. Her indignation daily burned stronger against the friends who couldn’t seem to do anything for him, but who were themselves successful without half of his talent.
She herself had done what she could, besides looking after the house and the two children. For ten weeks she had secretly given music lessons to the child of a friend, steadily refusing payment until the end of the term, and she now held in the little bag at her belt the princely sum of seven dollars and fifty cents, all her own, and destined for great uses. Mrs. Townsend was, above all things, a woman of action, and to resolve was to dare immediately.
It was with a faint sigh of farewell to a hope barely entertained that she heard the aggressive briskness of her husband’s tread, and she answered the florid cheerfulness of his greeting with the studied carelessness of custom in the well-worn words:
“Nothing new to-day, I suppose?”
“No, nothing new,” said Mr. Townsend heartily. He was a large, attractive-looking man, with the slightly greyish hair which had handicapped him so much in getting a position, though his wife was eagerly ready to tell every one how really young he was.
“Dinner’s about ready, I see; well I’m ready for it.” He relapsed into a chair by the table as he spoke. “Where are the children?”
“They’re spending the evening at the Mays’,” said his wife, bringing in the hot dishes from the kitchen and taking quick note of his unconscious lassitude and the new wrinkles in his broad forehead. “We can have a quiet, little cozy time all by ourselves. Would you mind tying the thread around this rag on my finger? I sliced it when I was peeling the potatoes.”
“You dash at everything so,” remonstrated the husband, accomplishing the thread-tying slowly and painstakingly. “I should think you would learn to be more careful after you had burned yourself so badly. Stand still. Don’t be in such a hurry; the dinner can wait.”
“No, it can’t,” said Mrs. Townsend, escaping to the head of the table. “Have you seen any one to-day?”
“About seven hundred people.”
“Francis! You know what I mean. Have you seen any one I know?”
“No. Yes, I did see Harry Jenkins for a moment.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, Francis!” Mrs. Townsend looked despairing. “Why do you make me drag things out of you this way? Didn’t he tell you anything about his wife’s return from England——?”
“Not a word.”
“And you didn’t ask——?”
“My dear Polly, I saw him for about two seconds, crossing the street on his way to the tailor’s. If that can give you any satisfaction you’re welcome to it.”
“I wish you could go to the tailor’s,” said Mrs. Townsend deeply, with a sudden moistening of her luminous grey eyes. “I wish—I wish your clothes weren’t getting so—so——”
“It will soon be cold enough for my overcoat,” said her husband consolingly.
“Yes, I know, but—Francis! I’ve been wanting to speak to you for ever so long. Those trousers you have on—really, you know they were always perfectly hideous. I nearly cried when you brought them home. How a man who has always dressed as well as you have could ever have chosen those things! Of course, I know you only bought them because they were so cheap, but there’s always a choice. And now they’re so shabby it makes me positively sick to see you in them. Last Sunday when you passed the plate in church—well, you thought I went out because I was faint, but it was simply because I couldn’t sit there and see you walk up the aisle and stand in front of the whole congregation until that anthem was finished.”
“Let’s change the subject,” said Mr. Townsend. “It’s a fine day.”
“No, I won’t change the subject. Do you know they’re advertising trousers at Brooker’s—such a good place!—for six dollars. Mrs. Bond says her husband got two pairs there yesterday—the very best quality. And—I want you to buy a pair to-morrow. She says they wear forever.”
“Where could I get the six dollars?” asked Mr. Townsend facetiously.
“I knew you’d say that. Oh, Francis! I have the money right here. I earned it myself.” Mrs. Townsend rose and swept her chair down beside her husband. “I never told you a word, but I’ve been giving Alice May music lessons ever since—Francis! Now see here, you’re not going to mind! How perfectly absurd! It’s been a real pleasure. Mrs. May paid me seven dollars and a-half to-day. Now, Francis, I want you to take this money and buy those trousers to-morrow.”
“Well, I’ll see myself—farther,” said Mr. Townsend comprehensively. He half rose, and pushed her gently from him. “I’d like to see myself take—take your little money. Spend it on yourself, now you’ve got it, or on the children if you want to—heaven knows you need things badly enough! I won’t touch a cent of it.”
“But Francis, you must! You never can get a position dressed as you are; you look like—— Clothes make such a difference! Oh, I didn’t want to say it but—Francis, you’ve got to take the money.” She strove to put it in his pocket and he thrust forth her hand with a grip that held her slender wrist like a vise.
“It’s no use, Polly. You don’t know how your having to earn it hurts me; I haven’t the right to forbid it but”—he stopped, and forced down something—“I haven’t come to such a pass that I’ll take your money to buy my clothes.” He fixed her sternly with a masterful eye. “There’s no use in your persisting. I’ll tell you once for all that I won’t do it; and I don’t want to hear any more on the subject.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Townsend soothingly, in the tone of one who bides her time. She added afterwards in protest, “You haven’t half eaten your dinner—and I took such pains with it.”
“I think—you make it so nicely—but I think I’m just a little tired of stew,” said Mr. Townsend apologetically.
Later she found him rummaging in his closet, appearing as he heard her step to say explanatorily:
“I want to see if I can’t find another pair of trousers to wear to-morrow. I guess I’d better leave these I have on for you to fix up a little. The fact is—I didn’t tell you before, for I don’t want you to raise your hopes in any way—but I’ve at last got an appointment for the day after to-morrow to see Mr. Effingham.”
“An appointment with Mr. Effingham! Oh, Francis!”
“Cartwright’s letter was what did it. Cartwright says Effingham is the kind of a fellow who either likes you or doesn’t like you, straight off the bat. I tell you, I think a lot of Cartwright’s writing all the way from Chicago about this, taking so much pains for a man that’s almost a stranger to him.”
“Oh, you never do anything for people yourself!” said his wife sarcastically.
“I never did anything for Cartwright—except put his wife once on the right train,” said Mr. Townsend. “Now, what’s the matter with these trousers?” He held up a pair for inspection. “They look all right.”
“Oh, nothing’s the matter, nothing whatever,” said his wife scornfully, “except that they’re full of moth holes. Those are the winter trousers—the only good pair you had—that you left at your sister’s—you said you could get them any time—and she had them stuffed into a dark closet this summer while she was away in the country; she just sent them over Monday.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Mr. Townsend hastily. “You’d better get rid of them. Now, here’s a pair—I didn’t know I had any so good.”
“Those are the ones you painted the attic in last spring,” said Mrs. Townsend, “and the pair next are what you keep for fishing. Those belong to your dress-suit, and the ones beyond are too short, and worn all over so that you were afraid to put them on.”
Mr. Townsend surveyed the last named with raised eyebrows and a consenting, cornerwise glance at his wife. “Yes, they are pretty bad—but I guess I’d better wear them to-morrow while you fix up these.”
“Francis, if you’re going to see Mr. Effingham you’ll just have to buy a pair of trousers.”
He turned on her sternly as he said: “Didn’t I tell you not to speak of it?”
“Yes, but I will speak of it!” Mrs. Townsend hurled herself into the fray. “Francis, I can’t help it! When I think of all you’ve suffered, and all you’ve done, and how much depends now on—oh, my dearest!” she tried to put her head on an eluding shoulder as she followed him around the room, flushed with her eloquence—“please take this money. If you knew how happy I’d been all the time to think that I was working for you, and how I had set my heart on it, you wouldn’t be so unkind. I know I told you my shoes were bad, but they do quite well as they are, and the children do not need warm underwear yet. It was very stupid of me to talk of it, and it will make all the difference how you are dressed when you go to see Mr. Effingham. You’ve often said what a difference a person’s appearance made—and it’s so unlike you to look shabby! You ought to do everything to try and get that position; you can’t afford to lose the ghost of a chance. You are so foolish, you won’t listen to reason! Oh, Francis, won’t you stand still and answer me?”
“Yes, I’ll answer you,” said Mr. Townsend deliberately. “You can ‘reason,’ as you call it, until you’re blind. Once for all, I will never take that money.”
“You will.”
“I will not. Now, Polly not another word; do you hear? Not another word!”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Townsend, as before with conventional obedience, and followed the words with a reckless flash of her grey eyes as she left the room, murmuring with quick breath: “But I give you fair warning, I’ll make you take that money yet; I don’t care whether you’re angry or not. You’ll see, you’ll see!”
If the subject was dropped from speech afterwards it was nevertheless present in thought. Mr. Townsend rose late in the morning, as is the habit of the man “out of a position,” who has no place on the early trains into town with his customary confrères, the workers, or in their busy offices. The heads of departments whom he goes in to see are only accessible in the later hours, and a delayed breakfast obviates the necessity for luncheon. When husband and wife parted, he in the trousers that were a good deal too short and a good deal too worn, she, indeed, broke through the ice with temerity to adjure him for goodness sake not to let any one see him to-day with those on, and he had retorted grimly that he would endeavour to keep his hundred and eighty pounds entirely invisible to oblige her.
During the course of the morning Mrs. Townsend went around with knitted brows, pondering deeply over the vexed question. Her back ached and her feet were weary long before her household labours were ended. She wasn’t accustomed to doing her own work, and, though she was willing, experience, that time-saver, was not hers. Mrs. Townsend knew that ladies were popularly supposed to bring a deftness and daintiness to kitchen work that was lacking in the efforts of a rougher class, but for herself it was just the opposite. The scalding kettles and saucepans she carried would perform a tremolo movement with the shaking of her slight wrists that sent greasy splashes of the contents over the kitchen floor; the beef-steak she broiled took in not only the fire but the whole top of the range in its sputterings, and plates and dishes, whether empty or filled with food for the table, slipped from her tired fingers and broke with ruinous celerity. After all the ceaseless effort of her heroic incapacity she was forced to long for the look of shining cleanliness accomplished easily by the strong, accustomed arms of an ordinary “girl.”
And the children were going half-clothed, she had so little time to sew! If this sort of thing didn’t stop soon she didn’t know what would become of them all. Depression had grown to be her usual frame of mind in the morning when there was no one to look at her. She had known that Francis couldn’t get a place when he was so shabby. People were afraid of men who looked poor; it seemed as if they couldn’t be capable. In spite of himself she must save him, though he hurled javelins at her afterwards. She would have gone and bought him the trousers out of hand if remembrance had not brought uncomfortably to mind a time when she had tried to demonstrate how economically she could regulate his smoking by purchasing an advertized box of cigars from a department store. To Polly Townsend, if you did a certain thing one certain effect ought to follow—that, instead, it ramified off into all sorts of different ways was the mean advantage life took over theory. She felt now that if she could only make her Francis buy those trousers he couldn’t help realizing gratefully afterwards how wise and good she’d been, and her heart glowed at the prospect.
But Mr. Effingham! He was a man whose old-fashioned punctiliousness was notably affected by externals: by suitable dress, by polish of manner, by a certain air in addition to more solid requirements. It was bad enough for Francis to hand the plate in those hideous, old, faded, mended trousers, but to go supplicantly in them to Mr. Effingham would be suicidal. She could have wept at the thought.
Yet later in the day Mrs. Townsend might have been seen with a face lightened by a persistent smile—a jimpy, sly, inwardly-lurking, swiftly-flashing, three-cornered gleam that took in two reckless eyes and a demure mouth, and brought forth curious comment from Mrs. Whymer, a friend whom she met in the street.
“How well you do look! No one would think you had a girl of ten—but you always did have colour. I feel all dragged out; the doctor says I’m just going on my nerves. My husband has been home all day. No, there’s nothing really the matter with him, just one of his attacks, but he always gets so worried about himself. I often tell him, when he sits there looking so depressed, if he only knew all I go through without saying a word! Having a man around the house is so upsetting, but I suppose you’re used to it. Mr. Townsend hasn’t anything yet, I believe?”
“He has several positions in view,” said Mrs. Townsend with elegant indefiniteness, and a quick, hot resentment at the implied reproach, which was answerable for the expenditure of twenty-five cents of her little hoard for peaches to be used in the manufacture of the deep peach pie which her Francis loved.
She derived an exquisite satisfaction from outwitting him in this way, forcing her money thus secretly down his throat, watching him eat each mouthful, and meeting his raised eyebrows and the “Isn’t this a little extravagant?” with the reassuring answer:
“Now, it’s all right; I just want you to enjoy it. No, Frankie, no more; you had a large plateful.”
“You made papa be helped three times,” said Frankie.
Her husband put an affectionate arm around her when she came up-stairs afterwards. “Fixed those trousers for me to-day, dear?”
“Yes, I fixed them,” said Mrs. Townsend.
“That’s a good girl. These I have on now—I don’t believe they’d last over another day.”
“You see Mr. Effingham to-morrow, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, I believe I do,” said Mr. Townsend with an effect of carelessness. Heaven only knew how their two thoughts travelled together in that long hopefulness that must have an end somewhere in something tangible. Yet even as they sat there Mr. Townsend became conscious of a not unknown quantity.
“What do you want to keep kissing my hand for? What have you been doing? You haven’t lamed your back again moving the flour-barrel, I hope. See here,” his tone suddenly stiffened, “you haven’t been spending that money of yours for——”
“No,” said Mrs. Townsend hurriedly. “Not a penny; well, just a few cents for peaches.”
“Oh, I knew you bought them,” said Mr. Townsend indulgently. “Well, that pie was awfully good, but don’t do so any more. I don’t like it, Polly; it hurts.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Townsend in an odd voice. She faced him with gleaming eyes. “I’ll never do anything that doesn’t please you, no matter how foolish it is. If you say the sky is pea-green I’ll say it is pea-green, too. And if you want to kill yourself I’ll bring the carbolic acid. Oh, yes, I’m to be just too sweet for anything and never say boo when you want to go out looking like a tramp and ruin every chance you have just because it ‘hurts you’ to take this money from me, from your own wife. Haven’t I a right to earn money for you, and love and help you, and work my fingers off for you, if I want to?” Her voice trembled. “Wouldn’t I rather go barefoot than see the way you’ve looked this last month?” She refused to quail before his gaze as she went on piteously: “Oh, you’re so exactly like a man. I know you just hate to hear me talk like this. I know I’ll never convince you in this wide world, but some things hurt me! Francis——”
“Well,” said Mr. Townsend as she stopped short. He had withdrawn his arm from around her.
“I want you to take that money.”
“I think I’ll go down and read for a while if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Townsend dryly.
Francis Townsend was always a punctilious man as to his toilette, but the next morning he made it a sort of continuous performance. Mrs. Townsend down-stairs, “redding up” the place after the children, and keeping his breakfast hot, felt her heart thump and sink alternately as she heard his footstep advance and retreat interminably on the floor above. Her coat and hat lay upon a chair, in furtherance of her morning journey to market, but no matter what she was doing her eyes turned, in spite of herself, to the place set for Francis at the end of the table, where there was a fringed napkin, a plate, a knife and fork, and a coffee-cup with the unusual addition of a little roll of greenbacks sticking up in it. Prepared as she was for some commotion she involuntarily clutched a chair back as she caught the sound of a quick and angry stride across the room above to the hall, and heard the tone of towering wrath:
“Polly!”
“Yes, Francis.”
“Did you cut off the leg of this pair of trousers?”
“Your breakfast’s in the oven,” said Mrs. Townsend glibly, “and the coffee’s on the stove. I’ve got to go to market.” She flung herself into her jacket and hat as she spoke, jabbing in the hatpins viciously. The triumph was exciting, but she didn’t know she was going to be quite so scared. She hesitated a moment, and then called back: “Good-bye, dearest!” as she closed the hall door and then ran down the steps into the street.
“Seventy-five cents for each dancing lesson, but if there are two in the family she makes a reduction.”
Mrs. Whymer sat rocking idly while she watched Mrs. Townsend basting seams on a dark piece of cloth, in her little sewing-room.
“I’ll see about it to-morrow when I’m in town,” said Mrs. Townsend.
“Going shopping? If you want that skirt pattern I’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you, I would like it,” said Mrs. Townsend, “though I’m not going shopping exactly; I have to take Pinky to the dentist’s—it’s so long since she’s been—but I may get some material for myself on the way home.”
Her husband had been for several months with Mr. Effingham, and they were just about beginning to get their feet on the first rungs of the ladder which leads to the plateau of Living Like Other People.
“Why on earth did you cut up those trousers to make knickerbockers for Frankie?” said the other, taking up the end of Mrs. Townsend’s work. “They look just like new, and the cloth doesn’t seem worn at all.”
“It isn’t,” said Mrs. Townsend briefly; “Mr. Townsend only had them on a few times. They are the best material, they were bought at Brooker’s, and I thought he’d get such good wear out of them, but he says there’s something wrong with the cut.”
“Well, it’s no use to try and make a man wear anything he doesn’t want to,” said Mrs. Whymer. She yawned as she rose. “You don’t say I’ve been here over an hour! I do get so lonesome at home all day, and Mr. Whymer is working until eleven o’clock every night. I’m thinking of going to that new sanitarium at Westly for a while. I really haven’t been able to do a thing for the last six weeks. I get so tired out ordering the meals, and the doctor thinks I had better try a rest cure. Your husband likes it with Mr. Effingham, I hear. He was very fortunate in getting the position. Mr. Butts tried for it, but he always looked so—well, not up-to-date, you know. Clothes do make such a difference.”
“That’s what I always say,” returned Mrs. Townsend demurely, with a queer little hazy, retrospective smile, that was somehow wistful, too. Her wisdom had certainly been vindicated, yet there were results that, as usual, eluded theory. She was never quite sure whether her rebellion had been a success or not. The time might come when she and her Francis would laugh over it together in company—but it hadn’t come yet.
“If I had only the foundation, but I haven’t that, or the trimming, either; nothing but this old, tumbled chiffon and these faded flowers.”
Mrs. Briarley looked dejectedly at the mass of frippery in her lap. Five dollars for a new hat such as she wanted would leave only one dollar from her own private purse for the Easter collection, and the sermon last Sunday had been a plea for religious enthusiasm in giving at this season.
Mrs. Briarley was a fair, pretty little thing, although slight almost to meagreness in her immaturity of outline. She was foolishly young to be the wife of a man of thirty and the mother of a two-year-old child.
In spite of this she had an earnest soul, and pondered deeply over each perplexing question of her married life as it arose. The mere fact of having to decide anything enveloped her in a sort of confusion which obscured every guide-post which experience had erected, the more so that, as her husband travelled, she could not have recourse to him. It was as if each occasion had been evolved whole from space to have its merits decided upon, whether it were a question of little Emily’s going out to play in the damp, or the quantity of material for a new skirt, or which kind of breakfast food to order.
Just now it was the question of the hat. There was indeed no question as to whether she needed it or not, but her husband’s means kept her within certain limits.
To make a whole hat would cost very nearly five dollars; if other people did it for less, she wasn’t able to. And Mr. Beatoun, the clergyman, had said that he wanted to make an appeal to each one personally. Each one must judge for himself if he were doing all he could to pay off that debt on the church for which he urged the special effort now.
To Mrs. Briarley the question seemed to have relation to those deep places of decision which govern the current of one’s life. If she refused this appeal she would not be quite what the mother of Emily ought to be.
She was painfully anxious that Emily should have every advantage. She herself had been a neglected orphan, brought up in helter-skelter fashion, and she longed above all things that her baby should have the maternal ideal she had lacked. She was glad that Mr. Beatoun’s sermon had come after she had bought little Emily’s hat, for she felt secretly that no appeal could have been strong enough to have denied that sweet white ribbon and the daisies to her child.
“If I had any trimming that could be used!” she murmured for the third time, and turned as the servant came into the room. “What is it, Ellen?”
“There’s a lady down-stairs, ma’am—Mrs. Stebbins.”
“Oh, Mrs. Stebbins!” Mrs. Briarley’s tone was one of doubtful welcome.
This was one of the ladies of the parish in which Mrs. Briarley was a newcomer, and in which she still felt herself wistfully an outsider, in spite of the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Beatoun had formally called upon her, and Mrs. Stebbins had conscientiously shaken hands with her at the church door.
But Mrs. Stebbins had also once come to collect, and to collect now, in addition to an appeal, would be futile as far as Mrs. Briarley was concerned.
She nerved herself to meet the words that followed after the first greetings were over.
“I want to know if you won’t give something to our church sale.”
“The church sale? Oh, no, I—I don’t think I care to be connected with anything of the kind—at least—I mean, this year,” said Mrs. Briarley, hurriedly.
The last time she had taken part in a fair, before moving to this place, her sympathy had run unwarrantably ahead of her purse. She had indulged in that specious form of charity which consists of buying goods on credit and then presenting them to the church. She had a vivid remembrance of a box of soap which another woman had bought for half price at the fair, “because it was given, and whatever was made on it was clear gain.”
Mrs. Briarley had had to pay the full price at the grocer’s a month later, when the bill was already too large. Her husband had not liked it, and she felt wary of fairs.
“A fair! Oh, no, indeed, this isn’t a fair!” Mrs. Stebbins, a sallow, greyish, compactly solid lady in a short walking-skirt and a small, tight hat, smiled intelligently at her hostess. “It’s a sale—a rummage sale. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard of it; it’s been in progress two weeks already. Of course, though, you don’t belong to the Guild. There are only three days more for the sale, and we do want them to be a success. The proceeds go to the church debt. A rummage sale—you know what that is. You send any old things you have—anything; it doesn’t make any difference what it is, and we sell them to the poor for a few cents. We hired an empty store at the other end of the town—64 Herkimer Street. Some of our ladies take charge of it in turn.”
“And do you sell much?” asked Mrs. Briarley.
Mrs. Stebbins laughed. “Do we sell much? We have made fifteen hundred dollars already. You know it’s really an accommodation to the poor—many of them will buy things when they wouldn’t beg for them. They get good warm clothing and stores for a song. And quite a number of us pick up odds and ends there—really! You don’t know what fascinating things we take in now and then; nobody knows where half of them come from. Some of them are quite new. There was a lovely jacket sent in last week; Mr. Stebbins’s sister said she would have bought it herself—she doesn’t live here—if the sleeves had been a little longer. And there was a white satin lambrequin, embroidered in gold thread,—one end had oil spilled over it,—and Minnie Ware bought it for a quarter, and she’s made the most fetching collar and vest front that you ever saw. Of course, Minnie Ware can do anything—she doesn’t care a snap who knows. Have you met Miss Ware? She belongs to the Guild.”
“No,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the pang of the outsider.
“Well, I bought a colonial chair myself there yesterday; there’s a rung gone, but it can easily be put in. You will send something, won’t you? Some of our ladies are in charge from nine until six.”
“Why, I’ll try to,” said Mrs. Briarley, hesitatingly. “We got rid of most of our rubbish when we moved here. Is Mrs. Beatoun at the sale?”
She had a reverential admiration for the rector’s wife, as a person who in that position must be superhumanly good. She longed to know her as other people did. She had been sensitively quick to feel the alteration from the conventional politeness of Mrs. Beatoun’s manner to her to the intimate interchange of laughing remarks with a party of friends afterwards. Mrs. Briarley had indeed been asked to join the Guild, but she could not get up her courage to face so many strangers alone.
“No, Mrs. Beatoun will not be at the sale to-day,” said Mrs. Stebbins, rising to go. “I’ve just come from the rectory now. She had such a pleasant surprise—the present of a lovely hat from her cousin. She had to go into mourning for her mother-in-law, and so she sent this hat to Mrs. Beatoun, it was made in Paris, and I don’t believe it was ever worn more than twice. It’s a perfect beauty!”
“That must have been very nice,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the thought of the hat for which she longed.
“Well, I should think so! To get a hat like that without paying a cent! And if ever anybody needed one it was Mrs. Beatoun. She’s worn that old black straw for five years; but after all, you’d hardly know it. She’s got that sort of an air about her—almost too much for a clergyman’s wife, some people think—that makes you feel as if she was dressed up when she isn’t. Is this your little girl?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the tremulous flush that always came into her cheek when little, dark-curled, lustrous-eyed Emily suddenly appeared in her dainty white frock and little slippers. She looked at her visitor with an expression which said, “Did you ever see anything as beautiful as this?”
But Mrs. Stebbins only remarked, “She favours her papa, doesn’t she? I don’t see much resemblance to you,” patted the child’s head, shook hands with Mrs. Briarley, and was gone, with a parting injunction not to forget the rummage sale.
Mrs. Briarley knelt down on the floor by Emily that she might gather the plump little standing form more fully into her thin young arms. She loved and respected her husband greatly, but her humble soul magnified the Lord daily for this wonder and joy of being the mother of Emily. She had a way of pressing the little soft cheek to hers, as now, and saying, “Baby dear,” in a tone of ineffable love, that at once embodied her bliss and a prayer that she might be worthy of it. When she left the child now she knew that there was only one path to choose. She must go without her hat. She must respond to the appeal.
She thought of it all the time she was selecting her slender dole of rubbish for the sale—a vase that had been mended and a couple of books. As she was walking to Herkimer Street she imagined herself in a ninety-eight-cent, ready-trimmed straw turban. One could hardly realize how earnestly solemn the sacrifice was to her.
Dress was a very serious matter. She had a natural daintiness, a touch that was almost genius. It was a feminine charm which even her husband recognized, and she liked to see him like to look at her. Perhaps he would not now. If she could only have a hat given her, like fortunate Mrs. Beatoun!
The window of the temporary shop was filled with a heterogeneous mass of clothing, before which stood a group of hatless women and a few children. Mrs. Briarley nervously pushed her way past them, for she was always afraid of contagion on account of Emily. She became still more nervous on her entrance into the shop.
It was filled with a swarm of Italian women, bright-shawled, earringed, swarthy and voluble, fingering the piles of cast-off clothing and chaffering over them. The air was bad, and the two young girls behind the counter looked singularly helpless and distracted. One was sitting down with her head upon her hand, but the other responded to Mrs. Briarley’s proffer of her gifts.
“Oh, yes—thank you! Would you please put the price on them yourself? Here are tags and a pencil. Mark them anything. I can’t leave this corner for a minute. I never was in such a place! I really don’t know what to do. The young lady who was waiting here—Miss Morley—fainted a few minutes ago,—it’s the air, you know, and the window won’t open,—and Mrs. Whitaker has just taken her home. They say she’s the second one that’s fainted to-day.”
“How dreadful!” said Mrs. Briarley, with admiring pity. These were indeed martyrs to the cause.
“Isn’t it? Mrs. Whitaker just asked me to come in and stay with Gladys till she got back, and now Gladys has such a headache she isn’t the slightest good, and it all comes on me. I’m only visiting here, and I’ve got to take the three o’clock train home. It puts me in an awful position.”
She turned to a couple of wildly gesticulating women.
“Yes, you can have that dress for ten cents. No, no! Not you; the other one. No, you didn’t speak first! I’ll send for the police if you claw each other.”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Mrs. Briarley.
“If you wouldn’t mind unwrapping some of those things over there, and marking them,” said the girl. “I haven’t had time to see to them since they came in. Mark them anything.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Briarley, going deftly about the work. There was a waist and some boys’ clothing, and there was a box, which she left for the last. It looked as if it might contain a hat.
It was a hat. A dark hat, yet not too dark, elegant, yet not noticeable, with a chaste outline, a temperate, subdued richness of effect that spoke volumes to the initiated. No wonder that Mrs. Briarley’s eyes were glued to it as she held it in her hand. It was a hat that could rise to the occasion of state garments or impart “style” to one’s ordinary garb. It was a hat, in short, that could be Worn with Anything.
Mrs. Briarley turned it round and inspected it with a growing wonder. The white satin lining looked new, and the structure itself showed no sign of wear but two holes through which a hatpin had been thrust.
There were people who gave away things as little used as this. Mrs. Stebbins had spoken of it. If she herself had ever possessed a hat like this,—her thought went in leaps,—if it were not a rummage hat! But what if it were? Would any one know? There were many hats made on the same order. With a slight change in the front trimming—of course you didn’t know who had worn it before, but there was a subtle odour of violet about it that was reassuring.
“How much is this hat?” asked Mrs. Briarley, suddenly, in an odd voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the girl who had spoken before, looking around to catch a glimpse of it. “I sold a hat for fifteen cents just before you came in.”
“This is very good,” said Mrs. Briarley.
“Ask a quarter for it, then. For goodness’ sake, Gladys, don’t you get faint!”
“I’ll take it myself,” said Mrs. Briarley, hastily. “My—my cook might like it.” She put it back in the box and tied the string around it. “The atmosphere in here is dreadful, isn’t it? Can’t I help you open that window? Here’s the money. Good-bye!”
She had done it! She could hardly believe in the miracle. Not only would she have the happy thrill of responding to the appeal with her own precious and individual five dollars, but the very price she had paid for the hat went to the cause also, and she had money left over besides! And she had the hat!
She felt awestricken at so much reward of virtue. It was like seek ye first the kingdom of righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you. If she had said her cook might like the hat, that was no lie; her cook well might. And she was so glad that she had enough humility herself to wear a rummage hat! Underneath all the simplicity of her vanity lay an earnest and tremulous joy in being more what the mother of Emily should be.
It has been stated that Mrs. Briarley did not belong to the Guild. She passed a delegation from it, indeed, the next day, all busily talking together; but there was nobody in it whom she even knew to bow to. She was perhaps the only woman in the parish who did not know of the exciting incident at present disturbing it, the facts of which were being now recounted once again.
“Yes, the hat was almost new; it was a present to Mrs. Beatoun from her cousin. It was a beauty. Mrs. Beatoun was going out to lunch, and she sent the Peters boy back to the parsonage to get some bundles for the rummage sale, and that stupid new girl of hers gave him the box with the hat in it with the other things from her room. She had left it on the bed. So off it went to the sale. The only one who remembers anything about it is Gladys Tucker, and she doesn’t remember much, she had such a headache. She says a lady—she thinks it was a lady—came in and bought one for a quarter; she heard her talking to Nannie Leduc. Gladys didn’t even see it; the place was full of Italians. Of course the woman took advantage.”
“Those girls are so scatter-brained! But no lady would have bought a hat there.”
“That’s just what I say. If she did, she must have known it was a mistake. That hat cost thirty dollars, and it had been worn twice. And to pay only a quarter for it! It was as bad as stealing. You know how reserved Mrs. Beatoun is, but she’s decided, very. Well, she did say that if she saw any woman with it on she thought she would really walk up to her and speak about it. It’s the effrontery of the thing that’s so maddening.”
“Mrs. Beatoun never seemed to care much for clothes,” said one lady.
“I suppose she’s human, like the rest of us,” said the first, grimly. “She’s worn that black straw of hers five summers.”
“I do believe she’d rather go without than not have just the right thing,” said yet another. “Her family always thought a great deal of themselves, I’ve been told.”
“Well, they have a right to,” said the first speaker again. “Mrs. Beatoun’s a good woman, but I didn’t blame her for being angry to-day. When she’s worked as hard as she has for the church, to be cheated in this way! And Gladys Tucker says she’s sure it was a lady. Well, I told Mrs. Beatoun one thing. I said, ‘Be sure we’ll all look out for her!’”
Through all the week in which the disappearance of Mrs. Beatoun’s Paris hat was canvassed Mrs. Briarley remained happily unconscious.
The excitement had reached fever-heat on Easter Sunday, that Sunday on which Mrs. Briarley’s precious five-dollar bill was solemnly laid in the contribution plate. She, all her little lone self, was actually paying off part of the church debt! It seemed to her as she left the church that several women looked at her rather oddly—or was it at her hat? She had changed the trimming a little in the front. Perhaps they were admiring it.
She had expected to take little Emily to the children’s service in the afternoon, and when the child fell asleep instead, she went by herself. The service was pretty; it was full of flowers and music and children’s voices. When it was ended she stood in the vestibule, lingering, with her eyes fixed on a group of women talking to Mrs. Beatoun.
Suddenly Mrs. Beatoun detached herself from the group and came forward, with tall figure held erect. There was a breathless pause. Those who were there knew that the wearer of the hat and the owner of the hat had met at last.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Briarley, “I’m so glad you came to speak to me! I’ve been just hoping that you would!”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Beatoun.
“I wanted to tell you—I’ve never enjoyed going to church as I have to-day.” Mrs. Briarley raised her rapt eyes to those of the rector’s wife, who wore a little half-cynical smile. “I think your husband preaches such beautiful sermons. I never heard any that made me feel so much like—like wanting to be good.” Her voice dropped shyly.
“That is very nice, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Beatoun, politely. “May I ask where you got your hat?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you asked!” said Mrs. Briarley. She was so full of her own earnestness of purpose that she kept on, oblivious to the chill in Mrs. Beatoun’s tone. Her cheeks became pink, her eyes suffused. “I bought it at the rummage sale. Of course it must have been worn before, although it doesn’t look it. I bought it because—I’ve been wanting to tell you that after Mr. Beatoun’s appeal I couldn’t spend the five dollars I had meant to on a hat, although I needed one. I just bought this at the sale, and gave the money to the church. I thought Mr. Beatoun might like to know he had made somebody feel that way. I never have thought of—things—before, and I wanted to thank him. I have been saying to myself, as I stood here, that if you came forward to speak to me, I’d take it as a—sign that I was to tell you this.”
She paused a moment, and then went on. (While you were unburdening your heart, why not tell all?)
“I have a dear little girl at home, and I do so want to learn to be better—for her sake. And I’ve thought if I could know you—I’ve been sort of afraid of you before, but I’m not now. And I love my little girl so very much——” She stopped again.
Something passed from one to the other as they stood there—Mrs. Briarley did not know what. There was a wonderful and sweet gentleness in the face of the older woman as it bent to the simple earnestness of the other. Mrs. Briarley’s one little thought of truth had unerringly met and rounded its circle. It is not only at the sacramental table that we are partakers together of the Bread of Life.
“I’m so glad you told me!” said Mrs. Beatoun. She was not a demonstrative woman, but in that pause she had put her arms round Mrs. Briarley and kissed her, under the very shade of the rummage hat.
“And Mr. Beatoun will be glad, too. No, indeed, you must never be afraid of me again; and you must bring your little girl to see us. It was just sweet of you to think of telling me about the hat.”
“I’ve noticed people looking at it,” said Mrs. Briarley, all in a glow. “I never thought until to-day that it might be a mistake about its being sent to the sale. But you don’t think so?”
“No, it’s not a mistake,” said Mrs. Beatoun, with a sudden smile, as she added “and I’m in a position to know.”
“Yes, I’ve joined the Guild,” said Mrs. Briarley, with pride in her tone. “They’ve made me secretary already.” She did not know how cordially that position was made the portion of the stranger. She was talking to her husband the evening of his return.
“Mrs. Beatoun couldn’t have been more interested about that five dollars if she had given it herself. You’ve no idea how nice everybody in the Guild is to me; they seem to take pains to be kind. But Mrs. Beatoun—there’s something about Mrs. Beatoun I can’t explain!”
“Well?” said her husband, enjoyingly. Mrs. Briarley was in a washed white muslin, with ribbons the exact blue of her innocent eyes. She did not look as if she could be the mother of an Emily.
“I believe Mrs. Beatoun is really—fond of me!”
“That’s very strange,” said Mrs. Briarley’s husband.