Part 10

“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.

The Mother of Emily

The Mother of Emily

“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—_any_thing; 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.