"Of course; and they can walk in the garden and sit on the piazza," murmured Mrs. Wentworth happily.
In the orphan asylum that same evening there was even greater excitement. Mrs. Wentworth's handwriting was not of the clearest, and her request for "two" children had been read as "ten"; and since the asylum—which was only a small branch of a much larger institution—had recently been depleted until it contained but five children, the matron was sorely perplexed to know just how to fill so generous an order. It ended in her writing an apologetic note to Mrs. Wentworth and dispatching it the next morning by the hand of the eldest girl, Tilly, who was placed at the head of four other jubilant children, brushed, scrubbed, and admonished into a state of immaculate primness.
At half-past nine o'clock the driver of the big carry-all set five squirming children on to their feet before the front door at "Meadowbrook," and rang the bell.
"Here you are," he called gayly, as Hannah opened the door. "I've washed my hands of 'em—now they're yours!" And he drove briskly out of the yard.
Hannah neither moved nor spoke. She simply stared.
"Here's a note," began Tilly, advancing shyly, "for Mis' Wentworth."
Mechanically Hannah took the note and, scarcely realizing what she was doing, threw open the door of the parlor—that parlor which was sacred to funerals, weddings, and the minister's calls.
The children filed in slowly and deposited themselves with some skill upon the slippery haircloth chairs and sofa. Hannah, still dazed, went upstairs to her mistress.
"From the asylum, ma'am," she said faintly, holding out the note.
Mrs. Wentworth's eyes shone.
"Oh, the children! Where are they, Hannah?"
"In the parlor, ma'am."
"The parlor? Why, Hannah, the parlor is no place for those two children!" Mrs. Wentworth started toward the door.
Hannah coughed and uptilted her chin.
"They ain't two, ma'am. There's as much as half a dozen of 'em."
"What!"
"There is, ma'am."
"Why, Hannah, what—" The lady tore open the note with shaking fingers, and read:
My dear Madam: You very generously asked for ten children, but I hope you will pardon me for sending only five. That is all we have with us now, owing to several recent adoptions from our ranks—you know we are never very large, being only a branch of the Hollingsworth Asylum. The children were so crazy, though, at the idea of a trip to the country, that I am sure each child will have fun enough—and make noise enough, also, I fear—for two, so in the end you may think you've got your ten children, after all. You must be fond of children to be willing to give so many a two-weeks' vacation, but you don't know what a lot of good you are doing. If you could have seen the children when I read them your note, you would have been well repaid for all your trouble. I wish there were more like you in the world. Yours respectfully,
"Hannah," faltered Mrs. Wentworth, dropping into her chair, "they did n't read my note right. They—they've actually sent us the whole asylum!"
"Well, it looks like it—downstairs," returned Hannah grimly.
"Sure enough, theyaredownstairs, and I must go to them," murmuredMrs. Wentworth, rising irresolutely to her feet. "I—I 'll go down.I'll have to send all but two home, of course," she finished, as sheleft the room.
Downstairs she confronted five pairs of eyes shining out at her from the gloom.
"Good-morning, children," she began, trying to steady her voice. "There is—er—I—well—" She stopped helplessly, and a small girl slid to the floor from her perch on the sofa and looked longingly toward the hall.
"Please, ma'am, there's a kitty out there; may I get it?" she asked timidly.
"Please, have you got a dog, too?" piped up a boy's voice.
"An' chickens an' little pigs? They said you had!" interposed a brown-eyed girl from the corner.
"An' there's hammocks an' swings, maybe," broke in Tilly; "an' please, ma'am, may n't we go outdoors and begin right away? Two weeks is an awful short time, you know, for all we want to do," she finished earnestly.
Four pairs of feet came down to the floor with a thump and eight small boots danced a tattoo of impatience on the parlor carpet—the small girl was already out in the hall and on her knees to the cat.
"Why, yes,—that is—you see, there was a mistake; I—" Mrs. Wentworth stopped suddenly, for as soon as the "yes" had left her lips the children had fled like sheep.
She stepped to the front door and looked out.
A boy was turning somersaults on the grass. Three girls had started a game of tag. Watching all this with eager eyes was a boy of eight, one foot tightly bound into an iron brace. It was on this child that Mrs. Wentworth's eyes lingered the longest.
"Poor little fellow! Well, he shall be one of the two," she murmured, as she hurried out to Hannah.
"When they going, ma'am?" began Hannah, with an assurance born of long service.
"I—I haven't told them; I—well, I waited for Mr. Wentworth," confessed her mistress hastily. Then, with some dignity: "They can just as well have to-day outdoors, anyway."
It was nearly noon when Mr. Wentworth drove into the yard, gave his horse into the care of Bill, the man-of-all-work, and hurried into the house.
"Mary, Mary—where are you?" he called sharply. Never before had JamesWentworth broken the serene calm of his home with a voice like that.
"Yes, dear, I 'm here—in the dining-room."
Mrs. Wentworth's cheeks were flushed, her hair was disordered, and her neck-bow was untied; but she was smiling happily as she hovered over a large table laden with good things and set for six.
"You can sit down with them, James," she exclaimed; "I'm going to helpHannah serve them."
"Mary, what in the world does this mean? The yard is overrun with screaming children! Have they sent us the whole asylum?" he demanded.
Mrs. Wentworth laughed hysterically.
"That's exactly what they have done, dear. They took my 'two' for a 'ten,' and—and they did the best they could to supply my wants!"
"Well, but—why don't you send them home? We can't—"
"Yes, yes; I know, dear," interrupted the woman hastily, the happy look gone from her eyes. "After dinner I am—that is, you may send all but two home. I thought I 'd let them play awhile."
"Humph!" ejaculated the man; "send them home?—I should think so!" he muttered, as his wife went to call the children to dinner.
What a wonderful meal that was, and how the good things did vanish down those five hungry throats!
The man at the head of the table looked on in dumb amazement, and he was still speechless when, after dinner, five children set upon him and dragged him out to see the bird's nest behind the barn.
"An' we found the pigs an' the chickens, Mister, jest as they said we would," piped up Tommy eagerly, as they hurried along.
"An' a teeny little baby cow, too," panted the smaller girl, "an' I fed him."
"Well, I guess you could n't 'a' fed him if I had n't held him with the rope," crowed Bobby.
"Or if I had n't scared him with my stick!" cut in Tilly. "I guess you ain't the only pebble on the beach, Bobby Mack!"
"Good Heavens!" groaned Mr. Wentworth, under his breath. "And have I got to keep two of these little hoodlums for a whole fortnight? Er—children," he said aloud, after the bird's nest had been duly admired; "er—suppose we go and—er—read."
Into the house trooped the five chattering boys and girls in the wake of an anxious, perplexed man. Some minutes later the children sat in a stiff row along the wall, while the man, facing them, read aloud from a ponderous calf-bound volume on "The Fundamental Causes of the Great Rebellion."
For some time Mr. Wentworth read without pausing to look up, his sonorous voice filling the room, and his mind wholly given to the subject in hand; then he raised his eyes—and almost dropped the book in his hand: Tommy, the cripple, sat alone.
"Why, where—what—" stammered Mr. Wentworth.
"They've gone out ter the barn, Mister," explained Tommy cheerfully, pointing to the empty chairs.
"Oh!" murmured Mr. Wentworth faintly, as he placed the book on the shelf. "I—er—I think we won't read any more."
"Come on, then; let's go to the barn," cried Tommy. And to the barn they went.
There were no "Fundamental Causes of the Great Rebellion" in the barn, but there were fundamental causes of lots of other things, and Mr. Wentworth found that now his words were listened to with more eagerness; and before he knew it, he was almost as excited as were the children themselves.
They were really a very intelligent lot of youngsters, he told himself, and the prospect of having two of them for guests did not look so formidable after all.
From the barn they went to the garden, from the garden to the pond, from the pond back to the yard; then they all sat down under the apple trees while Mr. Wentworth built them a miniature boat; in days long gone by James Wentworth had loved the sea, and boat-making had been one of his boyhood joys.
At four o'clock Mrs. Wentworth called from the house:
"James, will you come here a minute, please?"
A slow red stole over the man's face as he rose to his feet. The red was a deep crimson by the time he faced his wife.
"How are you going to send them home, dear?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"But it's four o'clock, and we ought to be thinking of it. Which two are you going to keep?"
"I—I don't know," he acknowledged.
For some unapparent reason Mrs. Wentworth's spirits rose, but she assumed an air of severity.
"Why, James!—have n't you told them?" she demanded.
"Mary, I couldn't; I've been trying to all the afternoon. Er—you tell them—do!" he urged desperately. "I can't—playing with them as I have!"
"Suppose we keep them all, then?" she hazarded.
"Mary!"
"Oh, I can manage it! I 've been talking with Hannah—I saw how things were going with you "—his features relaxed into a shame-faced smile—"and Hannah says her sister can come to help, and we 've got beds enough with the cots in the attic."
He drew a deep breath.
"Then we won't have to tell them!" he exclaimed.
"No, we won't have to tell them," she laughed, as she turned back into the house.
What a fortnight that was at "Meadowbrook!" The mornings—no longer peaceful—were full of rollicking games; and the long, drowsy afternoons became very much awake with gleeful shouts. The spotless order fled before the bats and balls and books and dolls that Mr. Wentworth brought home from the store; and the methodical routine of the household was shattered to atoms by daily picnics and frequent luncheons of bread and butter.
No longer were the days ordered with a precision that admitted of no frivolous deviations, for who could tell in the morning how many bumped heads, cut fingers, bruised noses and wounded hearts would need sympathetic attention before night?
And so it went on until the evening before the two weeks were completed; then, after the children were abed and asleep, the man and his wife talked it over.
"Well, this ends to-morrow, I suppose. You must be tired, Mary; it's been a hard time for you, dear," he began.
"Not a bit of it, James," she demurred. "Hannah and Betsey have done all the work, and you 've been with the children so much I 've not felt their care at all."
The man stirred uneasily.
"Well, I—I wanted to relieve you as much as possible," he exclaimed, wondering if she knew how many boats he had built for the boys, and how many jackknives he had broken in the process.
"Do you know?—I think I shall be actually lonely when they are gone," declared Mrs. Wentworth, without looking up.
The man threw a sharp glance at his wife.
"So shall I," he said.
"James, I've been wondering, could n't we—adopt one of them?" she suggested, trying to make it appear as if the thought had but just entered her head.
Again the man gave his wife a swift glance.
"Why—we—might—I suppose," he returned, hoping that his hesitation would indicate that the idea was quite new to him—instead of having been almost constantly in his thoughts for a week.
"We might take two—company for each other, you know!" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Hm-m," he agreed pleasantly.
"The only trouble is the selecting, James."
"Yes, that is a drawback," murmured the man, with a vivid recollection of a certain afternoon under the apple trees.
"Well, I'll tell you"—Mrs. Wentworth leaned forward in sudden animation—"to-morrow you pick out the one you want and ask him—or her—to go into the parlor for a few minutes at nine o'clock in the morning, and I will do the same."
"Well, maybe," he began a little doubtfully, "but—"
"And if there are two, and you are n't real sure which you want, just ask both of them to go, and we 'll settle it together, later," she finished.
To this, with some measure of content, her husband agreed.
The next morning at ten minutes before nine Mrs. Wentworth began her search. With no hesitation she accosted the little cripple.
"Tommy, dear, I want you to go into the parlor for a few minutes. Take your book in there and read, and I 'll come very soon and tell you what I want."
Tommy obeyed at once and Mrs. Wentworth sighed in relief. At that moment Tilly came into the garden.
What a dear little woman those two weeks of happiness had caused Tilly to become! How much she loved Tommy, and what care she took of him! Really, it was a shame to separate them—they ought to be brought up together—perhaps Mr. Wentworth would n't find any child that he wanted; anyway, she believed she should send Tilly in, at a venture.
A moment later Tilly was following in Tommy's footsteps. On the piazza steps sat Bobby—homely, unattractive Bobby, crying.
"Why, my dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Wentworth.
"Tommy's gone! I can't find him," sobbed the boy.
Mrs. Wentworth's back straightened.
Of course Bobby cried—no one was so good to him as Tommy was—no one seemed to care for him but Tommy. Poor, homely Bobby! He had a hard row to hoe. He—
But she could n't take Bobby! Of course not—she had Tommy and Tilly already. Still—
Mrs. Wentworth stooped and whispered a magic word in Bobby's ear, and the boy sprang to his feet and trotted through the hall to the parlor door.
"I don't care," muttered Mrs. Wentworth recklessly. "I could n't bear to leave him alone out here. I can settle it later."
Twice she had evaded her husband during the last fifteen minutes; now, at nine o'clock, the appointed time, they both reached the parlor door. Neither one could meet the other's eyes, and with averted faces they entered the room together; then both gave a cry of amazement.
In the corner, stiff, uncomfortable, and with faces that expressed puzzled anxiety, sat five silent children.
Mrs. Wentworth was the first to recover presence of mind.
"There, there, dears, it's all right," she began a little hysterically. "You can call it a little game we were playing. You may all run outdoors now."
As the last white apron fluttered through the door she dropped limply into a chair.
"James, what in the world are we going to do?" she demanded.
"Give it up!" said the man, his hands in his pockets—James Wentworth's vocabulary had grown twenty years younger in the last two weeks.
"But really, it's serious!"
"It certainly is."
"But whatshallwe do?"
The man took his hands from his pockets and waved them in a manner that would indicate entire irresponsibility.
"We might end it as we did two weeks ago and keep the whole lot of them," she proposed merrily.
"Well—why don't you?" he asked calmly.
"James!"
His face grew red with a shame-faced laugh.
"Well—there are families with five children in them, and I guess we could manage it," he asserted in self-defense.
She sat up and looked at him with amazement.
"Surely we have money enough—and I don't know how we could spend it better," he continued rapidly; "and with plenty of help for you—there 's nothing to hinder turning ourselves into an orphan asylum if we want to," he added triumphantly.
"Oh, James, could we—do you think?" she cried, her eyes shining with a growing joy. "Tommy, and Tilly, and all? Oh, we will—we will! And—and—we'll never have to choose any more, will we, James?" she finished fervently.
The Elephant's Board and Keep
On twelve hundred dollars a year the Wheelers had contrived to live thus far with some comforts and a few luxuries—they had been married two years. Genial, fun-loving, and hospitable, they had even entertained occasionally; but Brainerd was a modest town, and its Four Hundred was not given to lavish display.
In the bank Herbert Wheeler spent long hours handling money that was not his, only to hurry home and spend other long hours over a tiny lawn and a tinier garden, where every blade of grass and every lettuce-head were marvels of grace and beauty, simply because they were his.
It was June now, and the lawn and the garden were very important; but it was on a June morning that the large blue envelope came. Herbert went home that night and burst into the kitchen like a whirlwind.
"Jessica, we 've got one at last," he cried.
"One what?"
"An automobile."
Jessica sat down helplessly. In each hand she held an egg—she had been selecting two big ones for an omelet.
"Herbert, are you crazy? What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"About our automobile, to be sure," he retorted. "'T was CousinJohn's. I heard to-day—he's left it to us."
"Tous! But we hardly knew him, and he was only a third or fourth cousin, anyway, was n't he? Why, we never even thought of going to the funeral!"
"I know; but he was a queer old codger, and he took a great fancy to you when he saw you. Don't you remember? Anyhow, the deed is done."
"And it's ours?—a whole automobile?"
"That's what they say—and it's a three-thousand-dollar car."
"Oh, Herbert!" When Jessica was pleased she clapped her hands; she clapped them now—or rather she clapped the eggs—and in the resulting disaster even the automobile was for a moment forgetten [Transcriber's note: forgotten?]. But for only a moment.
"And to think how we 've wanted an automobile!" she cried, when the impromptu omelet in her lap had been banished into oblivion. "The rides we 'll have—andwewon't be pigs!We 'lltake our friends!"
"Indeed we will," agreed Herbert.
"And our trips and vacations, and even down town—why, we won't need any carfare. We 'll save money, Herbert, lots of money!"
"Er.—well, an auto costs something to run, you know," ventured Herbert.
"Gasoline, 'course!—but what's a little gasoline? I fancy we can afford that when we get the whole car for nothing!"
"Well, I should say!" chuckled the man.
"Where is it now?"
"In the garage on the estate," returned Herbert, consulting his letter."I'm requested to take it away."
"Requested! Only fancy! As if we were n't dying to take it away!"
"Yes, but—how?" The man's face had grown suddenly perplexed.
"Why, go and get it, of course."
"But one can't walk in and pocket a motor-car as one would a package of greenbacks."
"Of course not! But you can get it and run it home. It's only fifty miles, anyhow."
"I don't know how to run an automobile. Besides, there's licenses and things that have to be 'tended to first, I think."
"Well,somebodycan run it, can't there?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so. But—where are we going to keep it?"
"Herbert Wheeler, one would think you were displeased that we 've been given this automobile. As if it matteredwherewe kept it, so long as we had it to keep!"
"Yes, but—really, Jessica, we can't keep it here—in the kitchen," he cried. "It's smashed two eggs already, just the mention of it," he finished whimsically.
"But thereareplaces—garages and things, Herbert; you know there are."
"Yes, but they—cost something."
"I know it; but if the car is ours for nothing, seems as if we might be able to afford its board and keep!"
"Well, by George! it does, Jessica; that's a fact," cried the man, starting to his feet. "There 's Dearborn's down to the Square. I 'll go and see them about it. They 'll know, too, how to get it here. I 'll go down right after supper. And, by the way, how about that omelet? Did our new automobile leave any eggs to make one?"
"Well, a few," laughed Jessica.
There was no elation in Herbert Wheeler's step when, two hours later, the young bank teller came home from Dearborn's.
"Well, I guess we—we're up against it, Jessica," he groaned.
"What's the matter? Won't they take it? Never mind; there are others."
"Oh, yes, they 'll take it and take care of it for fifteen or twenty dollars a month, according to the amount of work I have them do on it."
"Why, I never heard of such a thing! Does it cost that—all that? But then, thecardoes n't cost anything," she added soothingly, after a pause.
"Oh, no, the car doesn't cost anything—only eight or ten dollars to bring it down by train, or else two dollars an hour for a chauffeur to run it down for us," retorted her husband.
"Eight or ten dollars! Two dollars an hour to run it!" gasped Jessica. "Why, Herbert, what shall we do? There is only ten dollars now of the household money to last the rest of the month; and there 's this week's grocery bill and a dollar and a half for the laundry to pay!"
"That's exactly it—what shall we do?" snapped Herbert. This thing was getting on his nerves.
"But we must do," laughed Jessica hysterically. "The idea of giving up a three-thousand-dollar automobile because one owes a grocery bill and a dollar and a half for laundry!"
"Well, we can't eat the automobile, and 't won't wash our clothes for us."
"Naturally not! Who wants it to?" Jessica's nerves, also, were feeling the strain.
"We might—sell it."
"Sell it! Sell our automobile!" flamed Jessica; and to hear her, one would think the proposition was to sell an old family heirloom, beloved for years.
Her husband sighed.
"Isn't there something somewhere about selling the pot to get something to put into it?" he muttered dismally, as he rose to lock up the house for the night. "Well, I fancy that's what we 'll have to do—sell the automobile to get money enough to move it!"
Two days later the automobile came. Perhaps the grocer waited. Perhaps the laundry bill went unpaid. Perhaps an obliging friend advanced a loan. Whatever it was, spic and span in Dearborn's garage stood the three-thousand-dollar automobile, the admired of every eye.
June had gone, and July was weeks old, however, before the preliminaries of license and lessons were over, and Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Wheeler could enter into the full knowledge of what it meant to be the joyous possessors of an automobile which one could run one's self.
"And now we'll take our friends," cried Jessica. "Who'll go first?"
"Let's begin with the A's—the Arnolds. They 're always doing things for us."
"Good! I'll telephone Mrs. Arnold to-night. To-morrow is Saturday, half-holiday. We'll take them down to the lake and come home by moonlight. Oh, Herbert, won't it be lovely?"
"You bet it will," exulted Herbert, as he thought of the Arnolds' admiring eyes when their car should sweep up to their door.
At three o'clock Saturday afternoon the Wheelers with their two guests started for the lake. It was a beautiful day. The road was good and every one was in excellent spirits—that is, every one but the host. It had come to him suddenly with overwhelming force that he was responsible not only for the happiness but for the lives of his wife and their friends. What if something should go wrong?
But nothing did go wrong. He stopped twice, it is true, and examined carefully his car; but the only result of his search was a plentiful bedaubing of oil and gasoline on his hands and of roadway dust on his clothing. He was used to this and did not mind it, however—until he went in to dinner at the Lakeside House beside the fresh daintiness of his wife and their friends; then he did mind it.
The ride home was delightful, so the Arnolds said. The Arnolds talked of it, indeed, to each other, until they fell asleep—but even then they did not talk of it quite so long as their host worked cleaning up the car after the trip. Wheeler kept the automobile now in a neighbor's barn and took care of it himself; it was much cheaper than keeping it in Dearborn's garage.
There were several other friends in the A's and B's and two in the C's who were taken out in the Wheeler automobile before Herbert one day groaned:
"Jessica, this alphabet business is killing me. It does seem as if Z never would be reached!"
"Why, Herbert!—and they 're all our friends, and you know how much they think of it."
"I think of it, too, when the dinner checks and the supper checks come in. Jessica, we just simply can't stand it!"
Jessica frowned and sighed.
"I know, dear; but when thecardid n't cost anything—"
"Well, lobster salads and chicken patties cost something," mentioned the man grimly.
"I know it; but it seems so—so selfish to go all by ourselves with those empty seats behind us. And there are so many I have promised to take. Herbert, what can we do?"
"I don't know; but I know what we can't do. We can't feed them to the tune of a dollar or two a plate any longer."
There was a long pause; then Jessica clapped her hands.
"Herbert, I have it! We'll have basket picnics. I 'll take a lunch from the house every time. And, after all, that'll be lots nicer; don't you think so?"
"Well, that might do," acquiesced the man slowly. "Anyhow, there would n't be any dinner checks a-coming."
August passed and September came. The Wheelers were in "M" now; they had been for days, indeed. Even home-prepared luncheons were beyond the Wheelers' pocketbook now, and no friend had been invited to ride for a week past. The spoiling of two tires and a rather serious accident to the machine had necessitated the Wheelers spending every spare cent for repairs.
In the eyes of most of the town the Wheelers were objects of envy.Theyhad an automobile.Theycould ride while others must plod along behind them on foot, blinded by their dust and sickened by their noisome odor of gasoline.
As long as the Wheelers were "decently hospitable" about sharing their car, the townspeople added to their envy an interested tolerance based on a lively speculation as to when one's own turn for a ride would come; but when a whole week went by, and not one of the many anxious would-be guests had been invited, the interest and the tolerance fled, leaving only an angry disdain as destructive to happiness as was the gasoline smell of the car itself.
There were some things, however, that the townspeople did not know. They did not know that, though the Wheelers had a motor-car, they had almost nothing else; no new clothes, except dust coats and goggles; no new books and magazines, except such as dealt with "the practical upkeep and operation of a car"; no leisure, for the car must be kept repaired and shining; no fresh vegetables to eat, for the garden had died long ago from want of care, and they could buy only gasoline. But they did have an automobile. This much the town knew; and there came a day when this fact loomed large and ominous on the horizon of the Wheelers' destiny.
On the first day of October the bank in which young Wheeler worked closed its doors. There had been a defalcation. A large sum of money was missing, and the long finger of suspicion pointed to Herbert Wheeler.
Did he not sport an automobile? Was he not living far beyond his means? Had not the Wheelers for weeks past flaunted their ill-gotten wealth in the very eyes of the whole town? To be sure they had. The idea, indeed, of a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-year clerk trying to cut a dash like that! As if every one could not guess just where had gone that missing sum of money.
And so the town talked and wagged its head, and back in the tiny house in the midst of its unkept lawn and garden sat the angry, frightened, and appalled Herbert Wheeler, and Jessica, his wife.
In vain did the Wheelers point out that the automobile was a gift. In vain did they bare to doubting eyes the whole pitiful poverty of their daily life. The town refused to see or to understand; in the town's eyes was the vision of the Wheeler automobile flying through the streets with selfishly empty seats; in the town's nose was the hateful smell of gasoline. Nothing else signified.
To the bank examiners, however, something else did signify. But it took their sworn statement, together with the suicide of Cashier Jewett (the proved defaulter), to convince the town; and even then the town shook its head and said:
"Well, it might have been that automobile, anyhow!"
The Wheelers sold their elephant—their motor-car.
"Yes, I think we 'd better sell it," agreed Jessica tearfully, when her husband made the proposition. "Of course the car did n't cost us anything, but we—"
"Cost us anything!" cut in Herbert Wheeler wrathfully. "Cost us anything! Why, it's done nothing but cost from the day it smashed those two eggs in the kitchen to the day it almost smashed my reputation at the bank. Why, Jessica, it's cost us everything—food, clothing, fun, friends, and almost life itself! I think we 'll sell that automobile."
And they sold it.
A Patron of Art
Mrs. Livingstone adored art—Art with a capital A, not the kind whose sign-manual is a milking-stool or a beribboned picture frame. The family had lived for some time in a shabby-genteel house on Beacon Hill, ever since, indeed, Mrs. Livingstone had insisted on her husband's leaving the town of his birth and moving to Boston—the center of Art (according to Mrs. Livingstone).
Here she attended the Symphony Concerts (on twenty-five cent tickets), and prattled knowingly of Mozart and Beethoven; and here she listened to Patti or Bernhardt from the third balcony of the Boston Theater. If she attended an exhibit of modern paintings she saw no beauty in pictured face or flower, but longed audibly for the masterpieces of Rubens and of Titian; and she ignored the ordinary books and periodicals of the day, even to the newspapers, and adorned her center-table with copies of Shakespeare and of Milton.
To be sure, she occasionally read a novel or a book of poems a trifle less ancient in character, but never unless the world had rung with the author's praises for at least a score of years. The stamp of Time's approval was absolutely necessary to the aspirant after Mrs. Livingstone's approbation. Indeed, there was only one of the present-day celebrities who interested the good lady at all, but that one attracted with a power that compensated for any lack in the others. She would have given much—had it been hers to give—to once meet that man.
Of course he was famous—he had been for thirty years. She called him the "Inimitable One," and set him up in her heart and groveled joyfully at his feet. She bought each of his books when published, whether she had shoes to her feet or clothes to her back. He was the Prophet—the High Priest—the embodiment of Art. She occasionally even allowed his books to rest on the table along with Milton and Shakespeare.
Mrs. Livingstone's husband was only an ordinary being who knew nothing whatever of Art; and it was a relief to her—and perhaps to him, poor man—when he departed this life, and left her to an artistic widowhood with anything but an artistic income—if size counts in Art. But one must eat, and one must wear clothes (in chilly, civilized Boston, at least), and Mrs. Livingstone suddenly realized that something must be done toward supplying these necessities of life for herself and her young daughter, Mabel.
It was at about this time that there came a sharp ring at the doorbell, and a stout man with small, but very bright, black eyes asked to see Mrs. Livingstone.
"I have come, my dear madam, on a matter of business," said he suavely; "and though I am a stranger to you, you certainly are not one to me. I said 'business,' madam, yet I and the one for whom I am speaking are so anxious that you should look favorably upon our proposition that I had almost said that I had come to ask a favor."
Mrs. Livingstone relaxed from the forbidding aspect she had assumed, and looked mildly interested.
"A gentleman wishes to leave his house in your charge, madam. The house is advertised for sale, and from time to time parties may wish to see it. He would like it to be in the care of some one who will understand how to show it to the best advantage, you see."
Mrs. Livingstone's back straightened, and her chin rose perceptibly.Had she come to this—a common caretaker? And yet—there was Mabel.Something must certainly be done.
"Who is this man?" she asked aggressively; and then she almost started from her chair as the name fell from the other's lips—it was that borne by the Inimitable One.
"That man!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "That famous creature with the world at his feet!"
The stout gentleman opposite smiled, and his little eyes narrowed to mere slits of light. He had counted on this. His employer was indeed famous—very famous, though perhaps not in the way this good lady supposed. It was not the first time he had traded on this convenient similarity of names.
"I thought, madam, we had made no mistake. I was sure you would deem it a privilege. And as for us, your keen appreciative sense of the fitness of things will—er—will make it a favor to us if you comply with our request," said he, floundering in helpless confusion for a moment.
But Mrs. Livingstone did not notice. She went through the rest of that interview in a dazed, ecstatic wonder. She only knew at its conclusion that she was to go up to Vermont to care for His house, to live in the rooms that He had lived in, to rest where He had rested, to walk where He had walked, to see what He had seen. And she was to receive pay—money for this blissful privilege. Incredible!
It did not take Mrs. Livingstone long to make all necessary arrangements. The shabby-genteel house in Boston was rented by the month, all furnished, and the good lady promptly gave her notice and packed her trunks for departure. The first day of the month found her and her daughter whirling away from the city toward their destination.
As they stepped from the train to the platform at the little country station, Mrs. Livingstone looked about her with awed interest. He had been here! The jouncing yellow stage coach became a hallowed golden chariot, and the ride to the house a sacred pilgrimage. She quoted His poetry on the doorstep, and entered the hall with a reverent obeisance; whereupon the man who brought the trunks ever after referred to her with a significant tap on his forehead and the single word "cracked."
"Only think, Mabel, He walked here, and sat here," said the woman adoringly, suiting the action to the word and sinking into a great Morris chair.
Mabel sniffed her disdain.
"I presume so; but I should like to know where he ate—maybe he left something!"
Mrs. Livingstone rose in despairing resignation.
"Just like your father, child. No conception of anything but the material things of life. I did hope my daughter would have some sympathy with me; but it seems she has n't. Bring me my bag—the black one; the lunch is in that. Of course we can't have a warm supper until we get started."
The next few days were a dream of bliss to Mrs. Livingstone. The house was a handsome mansion set well back from the street, and surrounded by beautiful grounds which were kept in order by a man who came two or three times a week to attend to them. Mrs. Livingstone had but herself and Mabel to care for, and she performed the work of the house as a high-priestess might have attended upon the altars of her gods. It was on the fifth day that a growing wonder in the mind of Mrs. Livingstone found voice.
"Mabel, there is n't one of His works in the house—not one. I 've been everywhere!" said 'the woman plaintively.
"Well, mother," laughed the girl saucily, "that's the most sensible thing I ever knew of the man. I don't wonder he did n't want them round—I should n't!"
"Mabel!"
"Well, I shouldn't!" And Mabel laughed wickedly while her mother sighed at the out-spoken heresy. It was plain that Mabel had no soul.
Mrs. Livingstone was furthermore surprised at her idol's taste in art; some of the pictures on the wall were a distinct shock to her. And if the absence of the Inimitable One's works astonished her, the presence of some others' books certainly did more than that.
The house was to be sold completely furnished, with the exception of the books and pictures. The price was high, and there were but few prospective purchasers. Occasionally people came to see the property; such Mrs. Livingstone conducted about the house with reverent impressiveness, displaying its various charms much as a young mother would "show off" her baby.
"It is something to buy a house owned by so famous a man," she insinuated gently one day, after vainly trying to awaken a proper enthusiasm in a prim little woman who was talking of purchasing.
"Indeed!" replied the other, frigidly. "Do you think so? I must confess it is somewhat of a drawback to me." And from that time Mrs. Livingstone wore an injured air—the young mother's baby had been snubbed—grievously snubbed.
There were times when Mrs. Livingstone was lonely. Only one of her neighbors had called, and that one had not repeated the visit. Perhaps the lady's report—together with that of the trunkman—was not conducive to further acquaintance. It would appear so.
Toward the last of the summer a wild plan entered Mrs. Livingstone's brain; and after some days of trembling consideration, she determined to carry it out. The morning mail bore a letter from her to the Inimitable One through his publishers. She had learned that he was to be in Boston, and she had written to beg him to come up to his old home and see if it was being cared for to his satisfaction. The moments dragged as though weighted with lead until the answer came. When at last it was in her hands, she twisted a hairpin under the flap of the envelope and tore out the letter with shaking fingers.
It was from the Inimitable One's private secretary. The Inimitable One did not understand her letter—he was the owner of no house in Vermont; there was doubtless some mistake. That was all. The communication was wholly enigmatic.
The letter fluttered to the floor, and Mrs. Livingstone's dazed eyes rested on the gardener in the lawn below. In a moment she was at his side.
"Peter, isn't this house owned by a very famous man?"
"Indade it is, ma'am."
"Who is he?" she demanded shortly, holding her breath until that familiar name borne by the Inimitable One passed the other's lips.
"Well, Peter, is n't he the writer? What does he do for a living?" she faltered, still mystified.
"Do? He fights, ma'am. He 's the big prize-fighter that won—" He was talking to empty air. The woman had fled.
When Polly Ann Played Santa Claus
The Great Idea and What Came of It
Margaret Brackett turned her head petulantly from side to side on the pillow. "I'm sure I don't see why this had to come to me now," she moaned.
Polly Ann Brackett, who had been hastily summoned to care for her stricken relative, patted the pillow hopefully.
"Sho! now, Aunt Margaret, don't take on so. Just lie still and rest.You 're all beat out. That's what's the matter."
The sick woman gave an impatient sigh.
"But, Polly Ann, it's only the 22d. I ought not to be that—yet! It never comes until the 26th, and I 'm prepared for it then. Sarah Bird comes Christmas Day, you know."
Polly Ann's jaw dropped. Her eyes stared frankly.
"Sarah Bird!" she cried. "You don't mean you engaged her beforehand—anurse! That you knew you 'd need her!"
"Of course. I do every year. Polly Ann, don't stare so! As if Christmas did n't use every one up—what with the shopping and all the planning and care it takes!"
"But I thought Christmas was a—a pleasure," argued Polly Ann feebly; "something to enjoy. Not to—to get sick over."
"Enjoy—yes, though not to be taken lightly, understand," returned the elder woman with dignity. "It is no light thing to select and buy suitable, appropriate gifts. And now, with half of them to be yet tied up and labeled, here I am, flat on my back," she finished with a groan.
"Can't I do it? Of course I can!" cried Polly Ann confidently.
The sick woman turned with troubled eyes.
"Why, I suppose you'll have to do it," she sighed, "as long as I can't. Part of them are done up, anyway; but there's John's family and Mary and the children left. John's are in the middle drawer of the bureau in the attic hall, and Mary's are in the big box near it. You'll know them right away when you see them. There's paper and strings and ribbons, and cards for the names, besides the big boxes to send them in. Seems as if you ought to do it right, only—well, you know how utterly irresponsible and absent-minded you are sometimes."
"Nonsense!" scoffed Polly Ann. "As if I could n't do up a parcel of presents as well as you! And I'll prove it, too. I'll go right up now," she declared, rising to her feet and marching out of the room.
In the attic hall Polly Ann found the presents easily. She knew which was for which, too; she knew Margaret and her presents of old. She did not need the little bits of paper marked, "For Mary," "For Tom," "For John," "For Julia," to tell her that the woolen gloves and thick socks went into Mary's box, and the handsomely bound books and the fine lace-edged handkerchief into John's.
Mary, as all the Bracketts knew, was the poor relation that had married shiftless Joe Hemenway, who had died after a time, leaving behind him a little Joe and three younger girls and a boy. John, if possible even better known to the Brackett family, was the millionaire Congressman to whom no Brackett ever failed to claim relationship with a proudly careless "He's a cousin of ours, you know, Congressman Brackett is."
At once Polly Ann began her task. And then—
It was the French doll that did it. Polly Ann was sure of that, as she thought it over afterward. From the middle drawer where were John's presents the doll fell somehow into the box where were Mary's. There the fluffy gold of the doll's hair rioted gloriously across a pair of black woolen socks, and the blue satin of its gown swept glistening folds of sumptuousness across a red flannel petticoat. One rose-tipped waxen hand, outflung, pointed, almost as if in scorn, to the corner of the box where lay another doll, a doll in a brown delaine dress, a doll whose every line from her worsted-capped head to her black-painted feet spelled durability and lack of charm.
Polly Ann saw this, and sighed. She was thinking of Mary's little crippled Nellie for whom the brown delaine doll was designed; and she was remembering what that same Nellie had said one day, when they had paused before a window wherein stood another just such a little satin-clad lady as this interloper from the middle bureau drawer.
"Oh, Cousin Polly, look—look!" Nellie had breathed. "Is n't she be-yu-tiful? Oh, Cousin Polly, if—if I had—one—like that, I don't think I 'd mind eventhese—much," she choked, patting the crutches that supported her.
Polly Ann had sighed then, and had almost sobbed aloud as she disdainfully eyed her own thin little purse, whose contents would scarcely have bought the gown that Miss Dolly wore. She sighed again now, as she picked up the doll before her, and gently smoothed into order the shining hair. If only this were for Nellie!—but it was n't. It was for Julia's Roselle, Roselle who already possessed a dozen French dolls, and would probably possess as many more before her doll days were over, while Nellie—
With a swift movement Polly Ann dropped the doll back into the box, and picked up the other one. The next moment the brown delaine dress was rubbing elbows with a richly bound book and a Duchesse lace collar in the middle bureau drawer. Polly Ann cocked her head to one side and debated; did she dare ask Aunt Margaret to make the change?
With a slow shake of her head she owned that she did not. She knew her aunt and her aunt's convictions as to the ethics of present-giving too well. And, if she were tempted to doubt, there were the two sets of presents before her, both of which, even down to the hemp twine and brown paper in one and the red ribbons and white tissue-paper in the other, proclaimed their donor's belief as to the proper distribution of usefulness and beauty.
The two dolls did look odd in their present environment. Polly Ann admitted that. Reluctantly she picked them up, and was about to return each to her own place, when suddenly the Great Idea was born.
With a little cry and a tense biting of her lip Polly Ann fell back before it. Then excitedly she leaned forward, and examined with searching eyes the presents. She drew a long breath, and stood erect again.
"Well, why not?" she asked herself. Aunt Margaret had said she was utterly irresponsible and absent-minded. Very well, then; she would be utterly irresponsible and absent-minded. She would change the labels and misdirect the boxes. John's should go to Mary, and Mary's to John. Nellie should have that doll. Incidentally Nellie's mother and sisters and brother and grandmother should have, too, for once in their starved lives, a Christmas present that did not shriek durability the moment the wrappings fell away.
It was nothing but fun for Polly Ann after this. With unafraid hands she arranged the two sets of presents on the top of the bureau, and planned their disposal. Mentally she reviewed the two families. In Mary's home there were Mary herself; Joe, eighteen; Jennie, sixteen; Carrie, fourteen; Tom, eleven; and Nellie, six; besides Grandma. In John's there were John, his wife, Julia; their son Paul, ten; and daughter Roselle, four; besides John's younger sister Barbara, eighteen, and his mother.
It took a little planning to make the presents for six on the one hand do for seven on the other, and vice versa; but with a little skillful dividing and combining it was done at last to Polly Ann's huge satisfaction. Then came the tying-up and the labeling. And here again Polly Ann's absent-mindedness got in its fine work; for the red ribbons and the white tissue-paper went into Mary's box, which left, of course, only the brown paper and hemp twine for John's.
"There!" sighed Polly Ann when the boxes themselves were at last tied up and addressed. "Now we 'll see what we shall see!" But even Polly Ann, in spite of her bravely upheld chin, trembled a little as she turned toward the room where Margaret Brackett lay sick.
It was a pity, as matters were, that Polly Ann could not have been afly on the wall of Mary's sitting-room at that moment, for Mary'sJennie was saying gloomily, "I suppose, mother, we'll have CousinMargaret's Christmas box as usual."
"I suppose so," her mother answered. Then with a determined cheerfulness came the assertion, "Cousin Margaret is always very kind and thoughtful, you know, Jennie."
There was a pause, broken at last by a mutinous "I don't think so, mother."
"Why,Jennie!"
"Well, I don't. She may be kind, but she isn't—thoughtful."
"Why, my daughter!" remonstrated the shocked mother again. "I 'm ashamed of you!"
"I know; it's awful, of course, but I can't help it," declared the girl. "If she really were thoughtful, she 'd think sometimes that we 'd like something for presents besides flannel things."
"But they're so—sensible, Jennie, for—us."
"That's just what they are—sensible," retorted the girl bitterly. "But who wants sensible things always? Wehaveto have them the whole year through. Seems as if at Christmas we might have something—foolish."
"Jennie, Jennie, what are you saying? and when Cousin Margaret is so good to us, too! Besides, she does send us candy always, and—and that's foolish."
"It would be if 't was nice candy, the kind we can't hope ever to buy ourselves. But it isn't. It's the cheap Christmas candy, two pounds for a quarter, the kind we have to buy when we buy any. Mother, it's just that; don't you see? Cousin Margaret thinks that's the only sort of thing that's fit for us! cheap, sensible things, the kind of things we have to buy. But that does n't mean that we would n't like something else, or that we have n't any taste, just because we have n't the means to gratify it," finished the girl chokingly as she hurried out of the room before her mother could reply.
All this, however, Polly Ann did not hear, for Polly Ann was not a fly on Mary's sitting-room wall.
On Christmas Day Sarah Bird appeared, cheerfully ready to take charge of her yearly patient; and Polly Ann went home. In less than a week, however, Polly Ann was peremptorily sent for by the sick woman. Polly Ann had expected the summons and was prepared; yet she shook in her shoes when she met her kinswoman's wrathful eyes.
"Polly Ann,whatdid you do with those presents?" demanded MargaretBrackett abruptly.
"P-presents?" Polly Ann tried to steady her voice.
"Yes, yes, the ones for Mary and John's family."
"Why, I did them up and sent them off, to be sure. Did n't they get 'em?"
"Get them!" groaned Margaret Brackett, "get them! Polly Ann, what did you do? You must have mixed them awfully somehow!"
"Mixed them?" In spite of her preparation for this very accusationPolly Ann was fencing for time.
"Yes, mixed them. Look at that—and that—and that," cried the irate woman, thrusting under Polly Ann's nose one after another of the notes of thanks she had received the day before.
They were from John and his family, and one by one Polly Ann picked them up and read them.
John, who had not for years, probably, worn anything coarser than silk on his feet, expressed in a few stiff words his thanks for two pairs of black woolen socks. Julia, famed for the dainty slenderness of her hands, expressed in even stiffer language her thanks for a pair of gray woolen gloves. She also begged to thank Cousin Margaret for the doll so kindly sent Roselle and for the red mittens sent to Paul. John's mother, always in the minds of those who knew her associated with perfumed silks and laces, wrote a chilly little note of thanks for a red flannel petticoat; while John's sister, Barbara, worth a million in her own right, scrawled on gold-monogrammed paper her thanks for the dozen handkerchiefs that had been so kindly sent her in the Christmas box.
"And there were n't a dozen handkerchiefs, I tell you," groaned Margaret, "except the cotton ones I sent to Mary's two girls, Jennie and Carrie, six to each. Think of it—cotton handkerchiefs to Barbara Marsh! And that red flannel petticoat, and those ridiculous gloves and socks! Oh, Polly Ann, Polly Ann, how could you have done such a thing, and got everything so hopelessly mixed? There was n't a thing, not a single thing right but that doll for Roselle."
Polly Ann lifted her head suddenly.
"Have you heard from—Mary?" she asked in a faint voice.
"Not yet. But I shall, of course. I supposetheygot John's things.Imagine it! Mary Hemenway and a Duchesse lace collar!"
"Oh, but Mary would like that," interposed Polly Ann feverishly. "You know she's invited out a good deal in a quiet way, and a bit of nice lace does dress up a plain frock wonderfully."
"Nonsense! As if she knew or cared whether it was Duchesse or—or imitation Val! She 's not used to such things, Polly Ann. She would n't know what to do with them if she had them. While John and Julia—dear, dear, what shall I do? Think of it—a red flannel petticoat to Madam Marsh!"
Polly Ann laughed. A sudden vision had come to her of Madam Marsh as she had seen her last at a family wedding clad in white lace and amethysts, and with an amethyst tiara in her beautifully dressed hair.
Margaret Brackett frowned.
"It's no laughing matter, Polly Ann," she said severely. "I shall write to both families and explain, of course. In fact, I have done that already to John and Julia. But nothing, nothing can take away my mortification that such a thing should have occurred at all. And when I took so much pains in selecting those presents, to get suitable ones for both boxes. I can't forgive you, Polly Ann; I just can't. And, what's more, I don't see how in the world you did it. I am positive that I had each thing marked carefully, and—"
She did not finish her sentence. Sarah Bird brought in a letter, and with a petulant exclamation Margaret Brackett tore it open.
"It's from Mary," she cried as soon as Sarah Bird had left the room; "and—goodness, look at the length of it! Here, you read it, Polly Ann. It's lighter by the window." And she passed the letter to her niece.
Dear Cousin Margaret[read Polly Ann aloud]: I wonder if I can possibly tell you what that Christmas box was to us. I 'm going to try, anyway; but I don't believe, even then, that you'll quite understand it, for you never were just as we are, and you'd have to be to know what that box was to us.
You see we can't buy nice things, really nice things, ever. There are always so many "have-to-gets" that there is never anything left for the "want-to-gets"; and so we had to do without—till your box came. And then—but just let me tell you what did happen when it did come.
The expressman brought it Christmas Eve, and Joe opened it at once. Mother and I and all the children stood around watching him. You should have heard the "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of delight when the pretty white packages all tied with red ribbons were brought to light. By the way, Nellie has captured all those red ribbons, and her entire family of dolls is rejoicing in a Merry Christmas of their own in consequence.
As for the presents themselves—I don't know where to begin or how to say it; but I'll begin with myself, and try to make you understand.
That beautiful Duchesse lace collar! I love it already, and I'm actually vain as a peacock over it. I had made over mother's black silk for myself this fall, and I did so want some nice lace for it! You've no idea how beautiful, really beautiful, the dress looks with that collar. I shan't cry now when I'm invited anywhere. It's a pity, and I'm ashamed that it is so; but clothes do make such a difference.
Mother is fairly reveling in that lovely silk and lace workbag. She has carried it with her all day all over the house, just to look at it, she says. She has always wanted some such thing, but never thought she ought to take the money to buy one. She and two or three other old ladies in the neighborhood have a way of exchanging afternoon visits with their work; and mother is as pleased as a child now, and is impatiently awaiting the next "meet" so she can show off her new treasure. Yet, to see her with it, one would think she had always carried silk workbags, scented with lavender.
Joe is more than delighted with his handsome set of books. And really they do lighten our dull sitting-room wonderfully, and we are all proud of them. He is planning to read them aloud to us all this winter, and I am so glad. I am particularly glad, for we not only shall have the pleasure of hearing the stories themselves, but I shall have the satisfaction of knowing where my boy is evenings. Joe is a good lad always, but he has been worrying me a little lately, for he seemed to like to be away so much. Yet I could n't wonder, for I had so little to offer him at home for entertainment. Now I have these books.
Carrie is wild over her necklace of pretty stones. She says they're "all the rage" at school among the girls, and the very latest thing out. Dear child! she does so love pretty things, and of course I can't give them to her. It is the same with Jennie, and she is equally pleased with that dainty lace-edged handkerchief. It is such a nice handkerchief, and Jennie, like her mother, does so love nice things!
Tom was almost speechless with joy when he discovered that sumptuous knife. But he has n't been speechless since—not a bit of it! There is n't any one anywhere within the radius of a mile, I guess, to whom he has n't shown every blade and corkscrew and I don't-know-what-all that that wonderful knife can unfold.
I've left Nellie till the last, but not because she is the least. Poor dear little girlie! My heart aches now that I realize how she has longed for a beautiful doll, one that could open and shut its eyes, say "Papa" and "Mamma," and one that was daintily dressed. I had no idea the little thing would be so overcome. She turned white, then red, and actually sobbed with joy when the doll was put into her arms, though since then she has been singing all over the house, and has seemed so happy. I 'm sure you will believe this when I tell you that I overheard her last night whisper into dolly's ear that now she did n't mind half so much not being like other girls who could run and play, because she had her to love and care for.
And then the candy that was marked for all of us—and such candy! All their lives the children have longingly gazed at such candy through store windows, and dreamed what it might taste like; but to have it right in their hands—in their mouths! You should have heard their rapturous sighs of content as it disappeared.
And now, dear Cousin Margaret, can you see a little what that Christmas box has been to us? I can't bear to say, "Thank you"; it seems so commonplace and inadequate. And yet there is n't anything else I can say. And we do thank you, each and every one of us. We thank you both for our own gift, and for all the others, for each one's gift is making all the others happy. Do you see? Oh, I hope you do see and that you do understand that we appreciate all the care and pains you must have taken to select just the present that each of us most longed for.
Lovingly and gratefully yours,MARY.
Polly Ann's voice quivered into silence. It had already broken once or twice, and it was very husky toward the last. For a moment no one spoke; then with an evident attempt at carelessness Margaret said: "I guess, Polly Ann, I won't write to Mary at all that there was any mistake. We 'll let it—pass."
There was no answer. Twice Polly Ann opened her lips, but no sound came. After a moment she got to her feet, and walked slowly across the room. At the door she turned abruptly.
"Aunt Margaret," she panted, "I suppose I ought to tell you. There wa'n't any—mistake. I—I changed those presents on purpose." Then she went out quickly and shut the door.