Part 5

Mother and I have had our consultation, and we feel better. It was rather like a general and his adjutant preparing for a siege. First, we mustered our resources,—the house; so much coal in the cellar, furnace, and range; Miss Brown’s seven dollars a week, Hazard’s three: next, the demands that were to be met,—lighting (always an expensive item at this season of the year); milk for Robin; and the table expenses generally.

“The first thing to be done is to dispense with Rose,” said mother, pencil on lip. “Apart from the question of wages, she eats a great deal!”

At this we could not help laughing. The parsimonious picture presented was certainly ludicrous;—but, on an income of ten dollars a week, every potato counts, and Rose has never been either efficient or economical. We have kept her for her cheapness and general good temper. She has washed the dishes, cooked, after a fashion, and attended a _great_ many funerals,—apparently the more the merrier.

“It’s ma cousin’s step-brudder’s lil’ boy, dis time, Mis’ Graham,” she explained to mother, Saturday afternoon. “That ain’ no very close kin, ’cordin’ to some folks’ way ob reckonin’, Ah know. But Ah’m one o’ them that believes in keepin’ up the dispectability ob the fambly tie. C’n Ah go?”

Of course, mother answered that she might, and consequently Ernie and I washed the dinner dishes. So, though perhaps Rose will be sorry to leave us, since she once confessed to Robin in an unconsidered burst of confidence, she considers us “a right sma’t fambly to do fer,” we cannot feel that she will be much of a loss; and, as we know she can get a place any time she wants it with her sister “at a swell boa’ding house in the fash’nable distric’s,” we are relieved of responsibility on that score.

So now it is settled;—and after next Saturday when the Hancocks leave we are to do everything ourselves, washing, cooking, sweeping, and all. I can’t say that I look forward to the experiment with any particular “thrill,” but mother is great to work with, and somehow we’ll pull through.

“Perhaps you will be willing to admit by this time, Elizabeth,” remarked Haze this evening, looking up from _Treasure Island_, “that I was right, and you were wrong. My salary comes in pretty conveniently just at present, eh?”

Certainly, Haze’s salary is one of the things we are counting on,—but, for all that, I can’t help grieving over him, poor dear. Though he does not utter a word of complaint, I know he realises more keenly every day the magnitude of the sacrifice he has made. He was not cut out for a business-man and finds it hard to adjust himself to the new conditions.

This very morning he was in trouble, over _Treasure Island_, if you please! Ernie got the book from the public library Saturday, expecting to read it herself; but, unfortunately, when she went to Sunday-school yesterday afternoon, she left it lying open on the workshop table. Haze strolled in, carelessly picked it up, and began to read. Naturally, when Ernie came home a couple of hours later, she demanded her story,—but pleadings and protestations were of no avail. Hazard would not even answer,—apparently he was deaf to all remarks. So Ernie lost patience, at last, and tried to snatch the book away; at which Haze rose, dazed yet dignified, placed it on his chair, and calmly sat down on it.

“I think you’re too mean for anything,” cried Ernie, with flashing eyes. “You haven’t any _right_ to take my story and keep it from me, just because you are stronger than I am!”

“Don’t be a dog in the manger,” returned Hazard, loftily. “You can’t possibly expect to read the thing while I’m sitting on it, can you? Go away and find something useful to do. You’re only wasting both our time here, and naturally, when I’ve finished it, I’ll give it back.”

Ernie stamped and fumed, quite unable to appreciate the fine logic of this position; but Haze sat stolidly on, till at last she gave in,—she is always a generous child,—and Hazard arose, resumed his story, and read rabidly till bedtime. Even so, however, he did not finish the book, and took it with him this morning to read on the trolley;—in consequence of which he was carried seven blocks out of his way, and arrived a quarter of an hour late at the office!

Mr. Bridges, who is something of a disciplinarian and determined to show no partiality, “jumped on him like anything” he confessed to Ernie and me this evening,—“And, of course,” says Haze, “though I objected to the language he used, I was not in a position to resent it,—which comes of being an office boy!”

“Never mind,” purred nice little Ernie, immediately forgetful of any rancour she herself may have been cherishing. “Some day you’ll surprise them all, Hazard. They don’t appreciate you yet, dear,—but we know, don’t we, Elizabeth? Just let ’em wait a bit, and they’ll see!”

Thursday, December 18.

Tuesday I received an invitation from Aunt Adelaide to dine with them yesterday evening. I was to bring my mandolin, and after dinner Meta and I were to play from _Iolanthe_. The fairy music is very pretty on the mandolin.

There were to be a number of guests: an Englishman and his wife, a railroad president, and several others. Aunt Adelaide extends me one or two such informal invitations each winter. I expect she considers it her duty,—besides which it lends support to Meta, and two mandolins are better than one.

Naturally, the first question was as to clothes. Aunt Adelaide sees to it that two or three of Meta’s last season’s dresses are sent to me spring and fall. They are always _chic_, always pretty, and as we are very nearly of a size, they require little alteration. Yet, somehow, I hate to wear them,—especially in their native habitat, where I am perpetually haunted by the discomforting suggestion that they must be fatally familiar to all. However, it is expected; and Ernie declares that I ought to be grateful, since I am thus “provided with a wardrobe far above my station.”

She is too young to understand that that is just what I do not like. Last evening I wore a graceful little white surah frilled frock, garnished with artificial forget-me-nots. The idea! for a girl who expects to start in on the family-wash come Monday.

Uncle George’s house, as I have remarked before, is very imposing. There is a magnificent display of plate-glass windows, a flight of broad stone steps, and a really oppressive vestibule.

I was admitted by William, the coloured man, who took my instrument, and told me that “Miss Meta was above stairs; would I please go right up?”

Such a charming room as Meta has,—all rose and mossy green, with soft rugs, a desk, a bookcase, her favourite casts and photographs! Everything individual and personal,—which seems to me the greatest treat of all.

“Come in!” she answered to my knock, and turned half round before the cheval-glass, a pout upon her pretty face.

“Oh, Meta!” I cried, “how charming!” For the dress of which she was evidently trying the effect before the mirror was truly lovely,—a Nile green rajah silk, with lace under-sleeves and a touch of amber fluff at the throat.

“Do you think so?” returned Meta, “You haven’t really seen it yet. Come and look how this shoulder pulls. Now wouldn’t that jar you!”

“There isn’t much amiss,” I answered. “The underseam wants to be let out a little, that’s all.”

“I declare I’ll give Miss Murray fits,” returned Meta, her face flushing unpleasantly. “It was all I could do to get her to promise the thing for to-night, and then to send it home like this! She’s a big fake,—forever working on mamma’s sympathies with that cough of hers! I’m going to change, Elizabeth, see if I don’t! All the girls are going to Madam Delahasset, now; and I don’t see why I should be made to look like a frump, just because Miss Murray is delicate, and has a pair of aged parents to support!”

“You’re exaggerating, Meta,” I returned. “There is nothing the least frumpish about that frock. It’s the prettiest thing I have seen in ages,—and as to the shoulder, that’s easily remedied, and might have happened with any one.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Meta, uncertainly.

“Why, of course I do,” I replied. “And what is more, I think Miss Murray is a wonder—always so _chic_ and original.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it,” admitted Meta, who is not difficult to bring around if only one is firm enough. “Mamma believes in her; but there is nothing that upsets me so much as a new frock. See,—won’t my amber buckle be the very ticket with this girdle?”

“It’s stunning,” I returned, and threw my hat and gloves upon the bed.

“You look well yourself, Elizabeth,” continued Meta, turning, jewel-case in hand, to sweep me an approving glance. “Somehow, I never appreciate how nice my things are till I see them on you. Those bunches of forget-me-nots, for instance, didn’t look half so cute when I wore them. But, mercy, child—what have you been doing with your hands?”

“Dish-washing,” I was forced to admit. “Are they very bad?”

“H’m’m,” returned Meta, in dubious assent. “It wouldn’t matter so much if we didn’t have to play. Don’t you ever use cold cream?” And then, quickly, before I had time to reply,—

“How can you bear it, Elizabeth?—truly, now,—your life, I mean?”

“My life?” I questioned. “You want me to answer honestly? Well, first place, it’s interesting; one never has a moment to be bored. Of course, there are plenty of worries, and a good deal happens that one doesn’t like; but the planning is exciting, and the sense of battle. Then, too, there are such lots of _funny_ things! I’m convinced that nothing develops one’s sense of humour like being poor,—and it teaches one to love one’s family, and gives one plenty of chance to show it, too, without being sentimental; and, oh,—it’s good training in other ways. For instance, it would take a lot more than a new frock to upset me, Meta, and——”

Here I stopped, amazed. Either it was pride that made me answer so, or I had suddenly discovered that being poor is not altogether such bad luck! I, who have kicked so determinedly against the pricks;—longing for the luxuries we can’t afford;—resentful of Georgie because for him they are afforded. Well, I must do better now. Since, among the thorns, there are roses to be found, why not pluck and wear them?

Meta still stood before the mirror, trying the effect of the amber buckle.

“I don’t understand a word you’ve been saying,” she confessed. “I’m afraid you’re talking through your hat, Elizabeth. But, come on. Let’s go down now—I’m ready, since you think my rags will do.”

And we proceeded to the drawing-room, where we found Aunt Adelaide and a number of guests already assembled.

Geof did not appear till dinner was announced. He sat next me, and after an unenthusiastic greeting began upon the oysters. It was evident he was in one of his moods.

“How’s hockey coming on, Geof?” I asked, under cover of the general conversation.

“It’s not coming on at all,” returned Geof, glumly. “Probably shan’t play any more this season.”

“What!” I replied, for Geof is captain of his school team, a crack player, fast, and wonderfully clever. “Not even the Lakeville match? I thought you had it all arranged!”

“So we have,” muttered Geof, crumbling a bit of bread between his fingers. “The match’ll come off, all right;—under a different captain, that’s all.”

“Oh, Geoffrey!” I said; for I saw by his face and the nervous movements of his hand how deeply the matter cut. “What has happened? You’re not in trouble again at school?”

“I’d get on all right at school,” returned Geof, sullenly, “if only they’d stop nagging at home. It seems the Governor’s not pleased with my reports,—one can’t especially blame him for that,—and the ultimatum’s gone forth that I am to give up athletics,—my place on the team and all. He’s put up to it, of course. I’m sharp enough to know that.”

“But, Geoffrey,” I said, “if scholarship is the only difficulty, why don’t you buckle down and study? Aunt Adelaide is really anxious about you. Her motives are good,—and, after all, the matter rests in your own hands,—it isn’t hockey, as _hockey_, that is objected to. You know that.”

Geof turned from me. I saw that I would receive no further answer; and yet I felt sorry for the poor fellow, stubborn and headstrong as I know him to be.

When we returned to the drawing-room, Meta, Geof, and I retired to a window-recess, where we felt ourselves screened from observation.

“Mamma’s evenings are so dull,” Meta began, plaintively. “One puts on one’s best clothes, and then nothing happens at all! Seventeen is a hateful age anyway, it seems to me. One is not grown up, and yet one is no longer a kid. Fancy, Elizabeth! mamma says I am not to come out till I am twenty! Did you ever hear anything so unjust? All this talk about education makes me tired.”

“_Much_ you have to complain of,” jeered Geof;—“a fudge party every other week, and girls so thick about the house one can’t move without stepping on ’em!”

“Oh, I’m not trying to infringe your patent,” replied Meta, smartly. “Did you know, Elizabeth, that Geof has taken out a patent on martyrdom, since he’s been forbidden athletics? He has even got to give up his beloved hockey. It’s a national misfortune, let me tell you.”

“That’s all you know about it,” returned Geof. “But who’d expect you to understand, anyhow? You haven’t an atom of sport in your make-up!”

He raised an excited arm as he spoke, and as ill luck would have it struck Meta rather sharply on the side of the head. I should have laughed had I been in her place, for it was not really much of a blow, and we were crowded so against the window-seat that accidents were only natural. But she cried out,—

“Geof! stop that! You hurt me!”

And Uncle George, who was standing near enough to overhear the exclamation, turned and rumbled in that heavy bass of his,—“Are you teasing your sister, sir? Leave the room;—since you can’t conduct yourself like a gentleman.”

Geof jumped up and looked at Meta, as if expecting her to explain; I waited, too; but never a word did she say. Then Geoffrey, very red and stormy, walked toward the door. How sorry I felt; for every one had turned at Uncle George’s voice, and it sounded brutal,—the way one would order a dog.

“Meta!” I whispered; “how could you? It was an accident—you know that perfectly well!”

Meta raised her hand to her hair with an airy little laugh. “He mussed my pompadour, all the same,” she explained. “And besides, Geof will understand. He knows perfectly well that I owed him one.”

I turned away, shocked and disgusted, and presently Aunt Adelaide asked us to play.

The music went well enough: people applauded, and declared it delightful; but, so far as I was concerned, the evening had proved anything but a success.

About half-past nine I made my _adieus_, and was conducted home under the wing of the dignified and awe-inspiring William.

Well, I had not had a pleasant time, but I think I learned a lesson. Meta’s question and my unexpected answer in return. Certainly, there _are_ advantages in being poor;—for, under given circumstances, one would have to be so very selfish to be selfish at all, that that in itself is a safeguard.

Poor Geof! poor Meta! I lay awake and thought of them late into the night. They waste so much that is good and pleasant, and are not nearly as happy as any of us, whom they often pity, I feel sure.

Friday, December 19.

This morning, as Rose was sweeping the pavement in front of our house, she was accosted by a small boy with ruddy cheeks and a red cap.

“Is he dead?” asked the small boy, his head interrogatively to one side, a half-expectant, half-wistful light in his twinkling blue eyes.

“Dead?” says Rose, with a little skip. “Who?”

“Why, him,” specified the small boy, ungrammatically insistent. “The little chap which used to sit in the winder and watch us play. I haven’t seen him for three days.”

“Of course he ain’t dead,” answered Rose, indignantly, for, with all her faults, she is very fond of Robin. “Ah guess he can stay in bed if he wan’ster without askin’ you! Shoo! get along!” and she swished viciously at the boy with her broom.

“Then give him this,” cried the red-capped one, hopping nimbly to safety in the gutter; and rolled a great golden orange to her feet. “I bought it with my own pennies to eat in school; but I’d rather he had it,—as long as he isn’t dead.” And he walked whistling down the street.

It was Robin’s “chum” John, to be sure,—and how Bobsie _did_ enjoy that orange!

“It isn’t everybody who has such good friends as me,” he remarked with gusto, between unctuous sucks. “There’s Mrs. Burroughs, who sends over chairs an’ things just when you least expect it; and Francis, who wants me to have ’em (she said I might count him); an’ Georgie, even if we do fight sometimes; an’ my chum John. It’s pleasant to have people love you, isn’t it, Ellie dear?—and very comforting, too.”

In one instance, certainly, the comfort seems to be mutual. Mrs. Burroughs has run in to see Robin several times this last week. They laugh and chatter away together in the jolliest fashion. Indeed, it is quite delightful to hear them; for Bobs has not a particle of shyness with his new friend, while she seems to find an almost painful pleasure in his society. The more we see her, the sweeter we think her; and there was not a dissenting voice when Ernie declared this evening that “Mrs. Burroughs is next door to an angel.”

Saturday, December 20.

Rose left us this afternoon with many protestations of affectionate regard.—

“If ever you wan’ me, jus’ call upon me, Mis’ Graham,” she said to mother. “Ah’m ready to come back any time, at $18 a mont’, and no questions arst.”

I must say it seemed rather nice to have the kitchen to ourselves, the closet shelves all tidy and ship-shape, and clean sash curtains in the windows.

I was to get my first dinner alone, for poor little Robin had had a wretched night, and been in so much pain during the day that we had finally decided to send for the doctor. He was expected at any moment, and mother had to be ready to receive him.

The potatoes were bubbling pleasantly away on the hottest part of the stove, the steak was salted and peppered on the gridiron, ready for broiling, and I had just run in to the dining-room to take a last survey of the table before sitting down to cut up the oranges, when there sounded a _tap-tap_ on the window-pane, and looking up, I saw Hazard’s anxious face peering in at me.

Naturally I ran to the basement door to let him in.

“Is anything the matter, Haze?” I asked,—for he has a latchkey, and it seemed odd that he should tap at the window.

“Hush, Elizabeth,” he answered. “I don’t want ’em to know that I’m home just yet.” And he preceded me into the dining-room, threw his cap upon a chair, sat despairingly down on it, and buried his head in his arms across the chair-back.

“What has happened, Hazard?” I asked, anxiously.

Haze swallowed hard, looked up, and then let his head drop down on his arm again.

“Do answer me, Haze,” I urged. “_What_ is the matter? You aren’t dismissed, are you?”

“Not this time,” returned Haze, unsteadily, “but, from our point of view, it’s all the same as if I were.” And then, in an ashamed and broken voice, the poor boy started in to tell his story.

It seems that he was sent by Mr. Bridges this morning to collect a small debt for the firm. Haze got the money without any trouble, and started at a clip down the office stairs, because the elevator was several flights up, and he wanted to break the record, so to speak, and accomplish his errand in such short time that Mr. Bridges, whose special hobby is promptitude, would be forced to notice and commend him. When he reached the curb there was no car in sight, and Hazard happened to remember that he had not counted his money. Of course he knew that it must be all right, for the firm he was dealing with is perfectly trustworthy and reputable. However, to make sure, Haze thrust his hand into his coat pocket, drew out the little wad of bills, and proceeded to verify them.—There were two tens, a two, and three ones, in all twenty-five dollars, which was the correct sum.

Haze stood with the money in his hand, thinking how nice it would be to have that amount to spend on Christmas, till presently a down-town car came bowling along, Haze thrust the bills hurriedly into the outside pocket of his overcoat, and swung on.

There was a fine-looking, white-bearded old gentleman standing on the back platform. He caught Haze by the arm, and steadied him.

“Young blood will have its way,” he remarked, in admiring reproof. “Some forty years ago I swung aboard the cars in just such style myself.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s all right,” says Haze, never stopping to think that it must have been stage coaches the old gentleman swung aboard.

“Pleasant weather,” remarked Hazard’s new friend, presently. “Crisp, but not too keen. I see you are like myself, and prefer the view from the back platform here, to the stuffy atmosphere within. Oh, the poetry of a great city!” he observed again. “There’s romance here as fine and true as any hid away amid the snowcapped hills and sheltered valleys of my native state. Judging from your physiognomy, my boy, you are of the fibre to appreciate all that. The brow of a scholar, above the ardent eyes of a poet!”

“Thank you, sir,” says Hazey again, blushing a bit, and thinking, I haven’t a doubt, what a nice, appreciative old gentleman he had run across. “I do like to watch the city, and listen to its hum. It’s like wheels within a wheel. If you can keep your place, and pace, all right;—otherwise——”

“Otherwise,” concluded the old gentleman, his eyes fixed abstractedly upon the guard, who had walked the length of the car, and was fumbling with the door handle,—“Otherwise, it is what one might call—_bum_!”

And then, much to the surprise of Hazard, he hopped lightly to the step, swung himself off the car with a really amazing agility for one of his years, and disappeared among the throng.

Haze was still staring blankly after him when he felt a touch upon his shoulder. “Fare, please,” said the guard.

Haze felt in his overcoat pocket for the nickel, and turned pale. The wad of bills was gone! He had been robbed.

“And the worst of it is,” added Hazard, “that I shall have to make good out of my salary. That means I won’t be able to pay another cent to the family for eight weeks, Elizabeth. And I’d planned what I was going to give you all for Christmas,—and—and Mr. Bridges called me a _calf_ before the entire office! I can stand most things,” concluded poor Hazey, with an angry sort of gulp, “but not, _not_ an ’ninsult!”

Of course I comforted him as well as I could, and told him I would break the matter to mother. But, oh! it took all my courage, I can tell you, when she came down a few moments later, white-faced, and so tired-looking, after her interview with the doctor.

There was no use waiting, however, till after dinner. We should have to wash the dishes then, and she would want to return to Robin. So I began as cheerfully as I could, and mother listened, half as if she had expected it.

“Who could ever suppose that three dollars a week would seem so much?” she said, at last. “Well, we can’t have any Christmas spree, that’s all. I’m sorry, dears, but I do not dare draw anything from the bank. There is only $300 left,—and we may need it all, later.”

Somehow, in the back of my brain I have half a suspicion what mother fears we may need that money for. But I am not going to ask her and make sure. I haven’t the courage, that’s all.

“_Mother!_” protested Ernie, who had come down to the kitchen in time to hear mother’s last words. “No Christmas spree! What will Robin think?”

“There, there,” said mother, almost harshly. “It can’t be helped, Ernestine. Get the blue dish for the potatoes, and then ring the gong. We mustn’t keep Miss Brown waiting.”