Hands in her pockets, Bettina looked at me disappointedly. "It's
very cold," she said. "Why don't you wear your fur coat?"
"I like this one better. It's warm and not so heavy."
"Your fur coat is the only one in Scarborough Square. A sure-enough
fur one, I mean. There're plenty of imitations. Mrs. Crimm's got an
imitation. You look awful grand in that fur coat--look like a
princess person. Grannie says you don't want to seem different from
the people down here. How are you going to help it?"
"I don't know. I mean--" It was silly that my face should flush
before Bettina's unblinking scrutiny, but flush it did. "I don't
want to seem different. People are much more alike than they
imagine. If we didn't think so much of our differences--"
"Bound to think of them when they're right in your face. You don't
suppose you're anything like Evie May Poore, do you? or Roberta
Wicks, or Mrs. Clay Burt? Every time I see Evie May Poore I wish I
was an Indian so I could tomahawk her hair. Most of her money goes
in hair and chewing-gum. Mr. Crimm says he thinks girls who dress
like Roberta Wicks ought to be run in, but there ain't any law which
lets him do it. Mr. Crimm's going to a big wedding to-night. Did
you know it?"
I shook my head. In my mouth were the pins with which my veil was to
be fastened. Hands on my hat, I straightened the latter before
putting on the veil.
"Well, he is. Funny, ain't it, that all these swells have to have a
plain-clothes man at weddings so the people what come to 'em won't
take any of the presents? That's Mr. Crimm's chief business
nowadays, looking out for high-class crooks. He says you ain't as
strong-colored as some the ladies he sees up-town, but he never did
see a face with more sense and soul in it than what yours has got.
At the last wedding he went to he told grannie some the ladies didn't
have on clothes enough to wad a gun. Are you ready? It gets dark by
five o'clock."
"I'm ready." Taking up my muff, I followed Bettina down the steps
and into the street to the corner, on which was the little shop
wherein were sold goldfish and canary-birds, and fox-terriers and
white rabbits; and from there we turned in the direction which led to
Mrs. Gibbons's. The day was cold and clear, but the ground was
slippery with sleet, and, holding on to my arm, Bettina made valiant
effort to pilot me aright.
As we walked she talked, and the names of the occupants of various
houses passed were told to me, together with the particular kind of
work in which they were engaged, and the amount of wages which were
earned by different members of the household. The information given
me had been gained from her schoolmates, and what at first had seemed
appalling frankness and freedom, I soon learned was a community
custom, and a comparison of earnings a favorite subject of discussion
among children of all ages. Recess, it appears, is the usual time
for an exchange of facts concerning family affairs.
"Myra Blunt, who sits in front of me, says she's going in the
pickle-factory as soon as she's fourteen." Bettina slipped, but
caught herself, and held my arm more firmly.
"She's our ashman's daughter, and she's got a mole right on the end
of her nose. It's a little on one side, but it looks awful funny,
and Jimmie Rice says she'll stay in that pickle-factory all her life
if she don't have that mole taken off. A boy won't have a girl for a
sweetheart if her nose has got a mole on it, will he? Myra is afraid
it will hurt to have it come off. She's an awful coward. This is
the place. This is Ninety-two."
Mrs. Gibbons's residence was one of several small and shabby houses
which huddled together as if for protection, and as we went up the
steps of the shaky porch a head from the second-story window was
thrust out--a head wrapped in a red crocheted shawl.
"You-all want to see Mrs. Gibbons? Well, she ain't to home. That
is, I don't think she is. She told me this morning she was going
down to the 'firmary to get some medicine for that misery in her back
what struck her yesterday. If she ain't to home, you-all kin come up
here and rest yourself if you want to. It's awful cold, ain't it?"
Before we could express our appreciation of the hospitality offered,
the door at which we had knocked was opened cautiously, and at its
aperture a head was seen. There was a moment's hesitancy and then
the door opened more widely.
"Is this Mrs. Gibbons?"
Bettina asked the question, and at its answer called to the woman
still leaning out of the upstairs window, "She's home." Then she
introduced me.
"This is Miss Heath. Miss Dandridge Heath, Mrs. Gibbons; and I'm
Bettina Woll. We've come to see you. Can we come in?"
Mrs. Gibbons, who had nodded imperceptibly in my direction as Bettina
called my name, motioned limply toward a room on my right, and as I
entered it I looked at her and saw at once that she, too, belonged to
the unqualified and unfit. She must once have been a pretty woman,
but her hair and eyes were now a dusty black, her skin the color of
putty, and her mouth a drooping curve that gave to her face the
expression of one who was about to cry. Life had apparently for some
time been more than she was equal to, and, incapable of battling
further with it, she radiated a helplessness that was pitiable and
yet irritating. Thin and flat-chested, her uncorseted figure in its
rusty black dress straightened for half a minute, then again it
relaxed.
"Take a seat, won't you?" Her voice was as listless as her eyes.
"It's warmer in the kitchen. Maybe you'd better come back there. My
little girl's in there. She's sick."
As we turned to leave the room I glanced around it. The windows were
down, the shutters closed, but by the light which came through the
broken slats and cheap lace curtains, whose ends were spread
expansively on the bare floor, I saw its furnishings. A bed, covered
with a white spread and with pillow-shams embroidered in red cotton,
was against the side of the wall facing the windows, and close to it
was a table on which lay a switch of coarse black hair. A
crepe-paper lambrequin decorated the mantel-shelf, whose ornaments
were a cup and saucer, a shaving-set, and a pair of conch-shells;
while between the windows was a wash-stand obviously kept for
ornamental purposes, as there was no water in the pitcher and the
basin was cracked. Pinned on the soft plastering of the walls were
florid advertisements of various necessities and luxuries of life,
together with highly colored Scripture texts, and over the mantel
hung a crayon of the once head of the house. The room was cold and
damp. The air in it had not been changed for some time, and as Mrs.
Gibbons stopped and picked up the baby, who at the sound of voices
had crawled into the room, I did not wonder at its croupy cough.
Down the dark and narrow passageway Bettina and I followed our
hostess, and at its end I would have stumbled over a step had I not
been warned in time. The noise made by a box overturned by Bettina
gave the latter opportunity to give me one more injunction.
"Don't promise to do too much right off." The whisper was
uncomfortably clear. "She's the kind who's like a sifter. You have
to be right hard with people like that-- Take care! There's another
step!"