Chapter 9
"No, folks don't have company every day," repeated the Girl softly; and into the longing eyes opposite she threw, before she went away, one look such as only the dearest girl in the world can give--a look full of tenderness and love and understanding.
Long hours later, in quite a different place, the Girl saw the man again. He was not Mike now. He was the Millionaire. For a time he talked eagerly of his curious visit, chatting excitedly of all the delightful results that were to come from it; rest and ease for the woman; a wheel chair and the best of surgeons for the little girl; school and college for the boy. Then, after a long minute of silence, he said something else. He said it diffidently, and with a rush of bright color to his face--he was not used to treading quite so near to his heart.
"I never thought," he said, just touching the crutches at his side, "that I 'd ever be thankful for--for these. But I was--almost--to-day. You see, it was they that--that brought me--my dinner," he finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the shake in his voice.
When Mother Fell Ill
Tom was eighteen, and was spending the long summer days behind the village-store counter--Tom hoped to go to college in the fall.
Carrie was fifteen; the long days found her oftenest down by the brook, reading--Carrie was a bit romantic, and the book was usually poetry.
Robert and Rosamond, the twins--known to all their world as "Rob" and "Rose"--were eight; existence for them meant play, food, and sleep. To be sure, there were books and school; but those were in the remote past or dim future together with winter, mittens, and fires. It was summer, now--summer, and the two filled the hours with rollicking games and gleeful shouts--and incidentally their mother's workbasket with numerous torn pinafores and trousers.
Behind everything, above everything, and beneath everything, with all-powerful hands and an all-wise brain, was mother. There was father, of course; but father could not cook the meals, sweep the rooms, sew on buttons, find lost pencils, bathe bumped foreheads, and do countless other things. So thought Tom, Carrie, and the twins that dreadful morning when father came dolefully downstairs and said that mother was sick.
_Mother sick_! Tom stared blankly at the sugar bowl, Carrie fell limply into the nearest chair, and the twins began to cry softly.
The next thirty-six hours were never forgotten by the Dudleys. The cool nook in the woods was deserted, and Carrie spent a hot, discouraged morning in the kitchen--sole mistress where before she had been an all too seldom helper. At noon Mr. Dudley and Tom came home to partake of underdone potatoes and overdone meat. The twins, repressed and admonished into a state of hysterical nervousness, repaired directly after dinner to the attic. Half an hour later a prolonged wail told that Rob had cut his finger severely with an old knife; and it was during the attendant excitement that Rose managed to fall the entire length of the attic stairs. At night, after a supper of soggy rolls and burnt omelet, Mr. Dudley sent an appealing telegram to "Cousin Helen"; and the next afternoon, at five, she came.
Miss Helen Mortimer was pretty, sweet-tempered, and twenty-five. The entire family fell captive to her first smile. There was a world of comfort and relief in her very presence, and in the way she said cheerily:
"We shall do very well, I am sure. Carrie can attend to her mother, and I will take the helm downstairs."
The doctor said that rest and quiet was what Mrs. Dudley most needed, so Carrie's task would be comparatively light; and with a stout woman to come twice a week for the heavy work downstairs, the household gave promise of being once more on a livable basis.
It was at breakfast the next morning that the first cloud appeared on Miss Mortimer's horizon. It came in the shape of the crisply fried potatoes she was serving. The four children were eating late after their father had left.
"Oh, Cousin Helen," began Tom, in an annoyed manner, "I forgot to tell you; I don't like fried potatoes. I have baked ones."
"Baked ones?"
"Yes; mother always baked them for me."'
"Oh, that's too bad; you can't eat them, then,--they hurt you!"
Tom laughed.
"Hurt me? Not a bit of it! I don't like them, that's all. Never mind; you can do it to-morrow."
When "to-morrow" came Miss Mortimer had not forgotten. The big round dish was heaped with potatoes baked to a turn.
"Thank you, I'll take the fried," said Carrie, as the dish was passed to her.
"The f-fried?" stammered Miss Mortimer.
"Yes; I prefer those."
"But there _are_ no fried. I baked them."
"Well, how funny!" laughed Carrie. "I thought we had it all fixed yesterday. I thought we were to have both fried and baked. Mother always did, you know. You see, we don't like them the same way. Never mind," she added with a beaming smile, quite misunderstanding the look on her cousin's face, "it does n't matter a bit and you must n't feel so bad. It 'll be all right to-morrow, I'm sure."
"Yes, and I want buckwheat cakes, please," piped up Rob.
"All right, you shall have them," agreed Cousin Helen with a smile.
Tom laughed.
"Maybe you don't quite know what you 're getting into, Cousin Helen," he suggested. "If you make buckwheat cakes for Rob--it means graham muffins for Rose."
"And she shall have them; the very next morning, too."
"Oh, no, that will never do. She demands them the same day."
"What!"
"Oh, I thought you didn't understand," chuckled Tom. "When you make one, you have to make both. Mother always did--she had to; 't was the only way she could suit both the twins, and I don't believe you 'll find any other way out of it. As for us--we don't mind; we eat them all!"
"Oh!" said Cousin Helen faintly.
"And another thing," resumed Tom, "we might as well settle the drink question right away--of course you 'll want to know. Father is the only one who drinks cereal coffee. We (Carrie and I) like the real thing, every time; and the twins have cocoa--weak, of course, so there 's not much to it."
"And you must n't sweeten mine while you 're cooking it," interposed Rose decidedly.
"Sure enough--lucky you thought of that," laughed Tom, "or else poor Cousin Helen would have had another mistake to fret over. You see," he explained pleasantly, "Rose insists on putting in _all_ the sugar herself, so hers has to be made unsweetened; but Rob is n't so particular and prefers his made in the regular way--sweetened while cooking, you know."
"Oh, I make two kinds of cocoa, do I?" asked Cousin Helen.
"Yes--er--that is, in two ways."
"Hm-m; and coffee and the cereal drink, making four in all?" continued Cousin Helen, with ominous sweetness.
Tom stirred uneasily and threw a sharp glance into his cousin's face.
"Well--er--it does seem a good many; but--well, mother did, you know, and we might as well have what we want, as something different, I suppose," he finished, with vague uneasiness.
"Oh, certainly, who would mind a small thing like that!" laughed Miss Mortimer, a queer little gleam in her eyes.
This was but the beginning. On the pantry-shelf were four kinds of cereals. Carrie explained that all were served each morning, for the family could n't agree on any particular one. As for eggs; Tom always had to have his dropped on a slice of toast; the twins liked theirs scrambled; but Carrie herself preferred hers boiled in the shell. Apple-pie must always be in the house for Tom, though it so happened, strangely enough, Carrie said, that no one else cared for it at all.
"Mother was always making apple-pie," laughed Carrie apologetically. "You see, they get stale so quickly, and Tom is the only one to eat them, they have to be made pretty often--one at a time, of course."
Bread, rolls, pastry, meat, vegetables--each had its own particular story, backed always by that ever-silencing "mother did," until Miss Mortimer was almost in despair. Sometimes she made a feeble protest, but the children were so good-natured, so entirely unaware that they were asking anything out of the ordinary, and so amazed at any proposed deviation from the established rules, that her protests fell powerless at their feet.
"Mother did"--"mother did"--"mother did," Miss Mortimer would murmur wearily to herself each day, until she came to think of the tired little woman upstairs as "Mother Did" instead of "Aunt Maria." "No wonder 'Mother Did' fell ill," she thought bitterly. "Who wouldn't!"
The weeks passed, as weeks will--even the dreariest of them--and the day came for Cousin Helen to go home, Mrs. Dudley being now quite her old self. Loud were the regrets at her departure, and overwhelming were the thanks and blessings showered in loving profusion; but it was two weeks later, when Tom, Carrie, and the twins each sent her a birthday present, that an idea came to Miss Mortimer. She determined at once to carry it out, even though the process might cause her some heartache.
Thus it came about that Tom, Carrie, Rob, and Rose, each received a letter (together with the gift each had sent) almost by return mail.
Tom's ran:
_My dear Cousin_: Thank you very much for the novel you sent me, but I am going to ask you to change it for a book of travels. I like that kind better, and mother and all my friends give me travels whenever they want to please me. I might as well have something I want as something different, I suppose, so I am asking you to change.
Very lovingly YOUR COUSIN HELEN
Carrie read this:
_My dear Carrie_: Thank you for the pretty little turnover collar and cuffs you sent me for my birthday; but I think it is so funny you never noticed that I don't care for pink. Mother found it out even when I was but little more than a baby. Oh, I can wear it, but I don't care for it. Don't feel badly, however, my dear Carrie; all you've got to do is just to take these back and make me some blue ones, and I know you won't mind doing that.
Lovingly COUSIN HELEN
Rob's letter ran:
_My dear Rob_: I am writing to thank you for the box of chocolates you sent yesterday. I am sending them back to you, though, because I seldom eat chocolates. Oh, no, they don't hurt me, but I don't like them as well as I do caramels, so won't you please change them? Mother gives me a box of candy every Christmas, but it is never chocolates. I know you would rather give me what I like, Rob, dear.
Lots of love COUSIN HELEN
Rose had striven early and late over a crocheted tidy, spending long hours of her playtime in doing work to which her fingers were but little accustomed. She confidently expected a loving letter of thanks and praise, and could scarcely wait to open the envelope. This is what she read:
_My dear Rose_: Thank you very much for the tidy, dear, but whatever in the world caused you to make it in that stitch? I like shell-stitch ever so much better, so would you mind doing it over for me? I am returning this one, for maybe you will decide to ravel it out; if you don't, you can just make me a new one. Mother has crocheted several things for me, but most of them are in shell-stitch, which, after all, is about the only stitch I care for.
Lots of love from YOUR COUSIN HELEN
After a dazed five minutes of letter-reading, the four children hurried to the attic--always their refuge for a conference. There they read the four letters aloud, one after another. A dumfounded silence followed the last word. Rose was the first to break it.
"I think she's a mean old thing--so there!" Rose was almost crying.
"Hush, dear, hush!" choked Carrie. "She isn't mean; she's good and kind--we know she is. She--she means something by it; she must. Let's read them again!"
Bit by bit they went over the letters. It was at the third mention of "mother" that Tom raised his head with a jerk. He looked sheepishly into Carrie's face.
"I--I guess I know," he said with a shame-faced laugh.
It must have been a month later that Miss Mortimer received a letter from Mrs. Dudley. One paragraph sent a quick wave of color to the reader's face; and this was the paragraph:
I am feeling better than for a long time. Some way, the work does n't seem nearly so hard as it used to. Perhaps it is because I am stronger, or perhaps it is because the children are not nearly so particular about their food as they used to be. I am so glad, for it worried me sometimes--they were so very fussy. I wondered how they would get along out in the world where "mother" could n't fix everything to their liking. Perhaps you noticed it when you were here. At any rate, they are lots better now. Perhaps they have out-grown it. I hope so, I'm sure.
The Glory and the Sacrifice
The Honorable Peter Wentworth was not a church-going man, and when he appeared at the prayer-meeting on that memorable Friday evening there was at once a most irreligious interest manifested by every one present, even to the tired little minister himself. The object of their amazed glances fortunately did not keep the good people long in suspense. After a timid prayer--slightly incoherent, but abounding in petitions for single-mindedness and worshipful reverence--from the minister's wife, the Honorable Peter Wentworth rose to his feet and loudly cleared his throat:
"Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen--er--ah--brethren," he corrected, hastily, faint memories of a godly youth prompting his now unaccustomed lips; "I--er--I understand that you are desirous of building a new church. A very laudable wish--very," with his eyes fixed on a zigzag crack in the wall across the room; "and I understand that your funds are--er--insufficient. I am, in fact, informed that you need two thousand dollars. Ahem! Ladies--er--brethren, I stand here to announce that on the first day of January I will place in your pastor's hands the sum of one thousand dollars, provided"--and he paused and put the tips of his forefingers together impressively--"provided you will raise an equal amount on your own part. The first day of next January, remember. You have nearly a year, you will notice, in which to raise the money. I--er--I hope you will be successful." And he sat down heavily.
The remainder of that meeting was not conspicuous for deep spirituality, and after the benediction the Honorable Peter Wentworth found himself surrounded by an excited crowd of grateful church members. The honorable gentleman was distinctly pleased. He had not given anything away before since--well, he had the same curious choking feeling in his throat now that he remembered to have felt when he gave the contents of his dinner pail to the boy across the aisle at the old red schoolhouse. After all, it was a rather pleasant sensation; he almost wished it had oftener been his.
It was not until the silent hours of the night brought a haunting premonition of evil to the Reverend John Grey that the little minister began to realize what the church had undertaken. One thousand dollars! The village was small and the church society smaller. The Honorable Peter Wentworth was the only man who by even the politest fiction could be called rich. Where, indeed, was the thousand to be found?
When morning came, the Reverend John Grey's kindly blue eyes were troubled, and his forehead drawn into unwonted lines of care; but his fathers had fought King George and the devil in years long past, and he was a worthy descendant of a noble race and had no intention of weakly succumbing, even though King George and the devil now masqueraded as a two-thousand-dollar debt.
By the end of the week an urgent appeal for money had entered the door of every house in Fairville. The minister had spent sleepless nights and weary days in composing this masterly letter. His faithful mimeograph had saved the expense of printing, and his youngest boy's willing feet had obviated the necessity of postage stamps. The First Congregational Church being the only religious organization in the town of Fairville, John Grey had no hesitation in asking aid from one and all alike.
This was in February, yet by the end of May there was only four hundred dollars in the fund treasury. The pastor sent out a second appeal, following it up with a house-to-house visit. The sum grew to six hundred dollars.
Then the ladies held a mass-meeting in the damp, ill-smelling vestry. The result was a series of entertainments varying from a strawberry festival to the "passion play" illustrated. The entertainers were indefatigable. They fed their guests with baked beans and "red flannel" hash, and acted charades from the Bible. They held innumerable guessing contests, where one might surmise as to the identity of a baby's photograph or conjecture as to the cook of a mince pie. These heroic efforts brought the fund up to eight hundred dollars. Two hundred yet to be found--and it was November!
With anxious faces and puckered brows, the ladies held another meeting in that cheerless vestry--then hastened home with new courage and a new plan.
Bits of silk and tissue-paper, gay-colored worsteds and knots of ribbon appeared as by magic in every cottage. Weary fingers fashioned impossible fancy articles of no earthly use to any one, and tired housewives sat up till midnight dressing dolls in flimsy muslin. The church was going to hold a fair! Everything and everybody succumbed graciously or ungraciously to the inevitable. The prayer-meetings were neglected, the missionary meetings postponed, the children went ragged to school, and the men sewed on their own buttons. In time, however, the men had to forego even that luxury, and were obliged to remain buttonless, for they themselves were dragged into the dizzy whirl and set to making patchwork squares.
The culminating feature of the fair was to be a silk crazy quilt, and in an evil moment Miss Wiggins, a spinster of uncertain age, had suggested that it would be "perfectly lovely" to have the gentlemen contribute a square each. The result would have made the craziest inmate of a lunatic asylum green with envy. The square made by old Deacon White, composed of pieces of blue, green, scarlet, and purple silk fastened together as one would sew the leather on a baseball, came next to the dainty square of the town milliner's covered with embroidered butterflies and startling cupids. Nor were the others found wanting in variety. It was indeed a wonderful quilt.
The fair and a blizzard began simultaneously the first day of December. The one lasted a week, and the other three days. The people conscientiously ploughed through the snow, attended the fair, and bought recklessly. The children made themselves sick with rich candies, and Deacon White lost his temper over a tin trumpet he drew in a grab bag. At the end of the week there were three cases of nervous prostration, one of pneumonia, two of grippe--and one hundred dollars and five cents in money.
The ladies drew a long breath and looked pleased; then their faces went suddenly white. Where was ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents to come from in the few days yet remaining? Silently and dejectedly they went home.
It was then that the Reverend John Grey rose to the occasion and shut himself in his study all night, struggling with a last appeal to be copied on his faithful mimeograph and delivered by his patient youngest born. That appeal was straight from the heart of an all but despairing man. Was two thousand dollars to be lost--and because of a paltry ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents?
The man's face had seemed to age a dozen years in the last twelve months. Little streaks of gray showed above his temples, and his cheeks had pitiful hollows in them. The minister's family had meat but twice a week now. The money that might have bought it for the other five days had gone to add its tiny weight to the minister's contribution to the fund.
The pressure was severe and became crushing as the holidays approached. The tree for the Sunday-School had long since been given up, but Christmas Eve a forlorn group of wistful-eyed children gathered in the church and spoke Christmas pieces and sang Christmas carols, with longing gaze fixed on the empty corner where was wont to be the shining tree.
It was on Christmas Day that the widow Blake fought the good fight in her little six-by-nine room. On the bed lay a black cashmere gown, faded and rusty and carefully darned; on the table lay a little heap of bills and silver. The woman gathered the money in her two hands and dropped it into her lap; then she smoothed the bills neatly one upon another, and built little pyramids of the dimes and quarters. Fifteen dollars! It must be five years now that she had been saving that money, and she did so need a new dress! She needed it to be--why--even decent!--looking sourly at the frayed folds on the bed.
It was on Christmas Day, too, that the little cripple who lived across the bridge received a five-dollar gold piece by registered mail. Donald's eyes shone and his thin fingers clutched the yellow gold greedily. Now he could have those books!--his eyes rested on an open letter on the floor by his chair; a mimeograph letter signed "John W. Grey." Gradually his fingers relaxed; the bit of money slipped from the imprisoning clasp, fell to the floor, and rolled in flashing, gleaming circles round and round the letter, ending in a glistening disk, like a seal, just at the left of the signature. The lad looked at the yellow, whirling thing with frightened eyes, then covered his face with his hands, and burst into a storm of sobs.
On the 26th of December, the Reverend John Grey entered on his list: "Mrs. Blake, $15.00; Donald Marsh, $5.00."
The little minister's face grew pale and drawn. The money came in bit by bit, but it wanted twenty dollars and ninety-five cents yet to complete the needed thousand. On the 27th the teacher of the infant class brought a dollar, the gift of her young pupils. On the 28th, nothing came; on the 29th, five cents from a small boy who rang the bell with a peal that brought the Reverend John Grey to the door with a startled hope in his eyes. He took the five pennies from the small dirty fingers and opened his mouth to speak his thanks, but his dry lips refused to frame the words.
The morning of the 30th dawned raw and cloudy. The little minister neither ate nor slept now. The doorbell rang at brief intervals throughout the day, and stray quarters, dimes, and nickels, with an occasional dollar, were added to the precious store until it amounted to nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars and eighty-five cents.
When the Reverend John Grey looked out of his bedroom window on the last day of that weary year, he found a snow-white world, and the feathery flakes still falling. Five times that day he swept his steps and shoveled his path--mute invitations to possible donors; but the path remained white and smooth in untrodden purity, and the doorbell was ominously silent.
He tried to read, to write, to pray; but he haunted the windows like a maiden awaiting her lover, and he opened the door and looked up and down the street every fifteen minutes. The poor man had exhausted all his resources. He himself had given far more than he could afford, and he had begged of every man, woman and child in the place. And yet--must two thousand dollars be lost, all for the lack of ten dollars and fifteen cents? Mechanically he thrust his hands into his pockets and fingered the few coins therein.
It was nearly midnight when there came a gentle tap at the study door. Without waiting for permission the minister's wife turned the knob and entered the room. Her husband sat with bowed head resting on his outstretched arms on the desk, and her eyes filled with tears at the picture of despair before her.