THE NEW ARRIVAL
Mindful of her promise to Mrs. Trotter, Persis had looked through her
piece-bag apparently with excellent results. For the little garments
symbolic of humanity's tenderest hopes, the garments that are to clothe
the unborn child, were growing rapidly under her skilful fingers.
The first slip had been severely plain, and then Persis, yielding to a
temptation most women will understand, began to fashion scraps of
embroidery and odds and ends of lace and insertion into tiny yokes and
bands. After many a long day's work she sat by the shaded lamp
finishing the diminutive garments with stitches worthy of a bridal
outfit.
"Who is it that's expecting?" Joel demanded one evening, his sex not
proving an impregnable armor against the assaults of curiosity.
The brevity of Persis' answer indicated reluctance to import the
desired information. "Mis' Trotter."
"Bartholomew Trotter's wife? And of course she's going to pay you for
all this fiddling and folderol."
Persis accepted the implied rebuke meekly. "I guess I'm paying myself
in the satisfaction I get out of it. I started in to stitch up some
slips on the machine, but I just couldn't stand it. Machine sewing's
all right for grown folks, but it does seem that when a little child's
getting ready to come into the world, there'd ought to be a needle
weaving back and forth, and tender thoughts and hopes weaving along
with it. And specially if a baby's going to be born into a home like
the Trotters', you can't grudge it a little bit of beauty to start out
with."
"Well, I must say it's lucky that so far you women have been kept where
you belong. Weaving hopes, indeed! As if 'twould make any difference
to that young one of Trotter's whether it was rigged out like a
millionaire baby or wrapped up in a horse blanket."
Persis sewed on unmoved. "I don't say the baby'd know the difference.
It's just my way of showing respect for the human race."
Her industry was not premature. One Saturday night she carried to the
Trotters' squalid home a daintily fashioned, freshly laundered outfit
which took Mrs. Trotter's restrained and self-respecting gratitude
quite by storm. Forgetting for once the public obligation to provide
for the needs of her family present and to come, she accepted the gift
in a silence vastly more eloquent than her usual volubility. Then the
muscles of her scrawny throat twitched, and a tear splashed down on the
soft cambric. Nor did she, during the interview, recover her usual
poise sufficiently to refer to the obligation under which Bartholomew
and herself were placing the community; and Persis returned home in a
mood of even more than her customary tolerance.
That was Saturday night. Early Monday morning little Benny brought
word that his mother was sick and wanted Miss Persis to come right
away. Joel had not risen, and Persis scrawled a hasty note explaining
her abrupt departure and set out for the Trotter establishment,
stopping on the way to ask a favor of Susan Fitzgerald.
Susan was finishing her early breakfast, her hair still wound about her
crimping pins, the painfully strained and denuded effect which resulted
being a necessary preliminary to the rippling luxuriance of the
afternoon. Persis stated her errand tersely.
"Susan, they've sent for me from Trotters', and there's no telling when
I'll be home. I wish you'd go up to the house, if you've nothing
particular on hand and look after Joel. He's the helplessest man ever
born when it comes to doing for himself."
In her complex excitement, Susan fluttered like an impaled butterfly.
"Oh, dear me! I mean of course I will, Persis. But what do you want
me to do?"
"Oh, just get his meals and amuse him till I get back. You can keep
Joel pretty cheerful if you'll let him unload all his notions on you.
Joel generally finds a good listener good comp'ny."
"And so poor Lizzie Trotter's going through that again," exclaimed
Susan, momentarily forgetting her own prospective ordeal, in sympathy
for the other woman's severer trial. "I don't want to accuse Divine
Providence, but I must say it hardly seems fair to put all the
responsibility for getting the children into the world off on women.
If 'twas turn and turn about, now, I wouldn't say a word."
"I guess if that was the way of it, there'd never be more'n three in a
family, and it took a sight of people to fill up the world, starting
with the garden of Eden. Well, I must hurry, Susan. I won't be gone a
mite longer'n I can help."
As Susan removed her crimping pins, her agitation grew. The favor
Persis had asked so lightly, and she had granted so readily, took on a
new aspect as she considered it. Susan shared the respect of Clematis
for Joel Dale's intellectuality and stood rather in awe of his foibles.
Her hands trembled as she arranged her undulating locks in the fashion
ordinarily reserved for afternoons. Her cooking might not suit him.
Her efforts to be entertaining might not measure up to his lofty
standards. She quaked, picturing his possible displeasure. For this
courageous champion of the rights of womankind who did not hesitate to
call the Creator Himself to account for seeming injustice, became the
meekest of the meek when confronted with the sex from which oppressors
are made.
Susan's apprehensions were not so groundless as might be fancied. Joel
Dale was in a very bad humor after he had finished reading his sister's
note. Joel held the not unpopular theory that the supreme duty of
woman is to make some man comfortable. Religion and philanthropy were
legitimate diversions if not allowed to interfere with the higher
claim. Even the exercise of talent might be tendered a patronizing
approval, if this, too, knew its place. Joel was willing that Persis
should utilize her gifts in earning his living provided she did not
forget the complex ministrations involved in making him "comfortable."
He was ready to allow her to help her poorer neighbors, so that she was
never absent when he wanted her. But if that jealous divinity, his
Comfort, were denied its due, the indulgent brother was lost in the
affronted tyrant.
Poor Susan Fitzgerald found her tremors doubled by the sight of his
lowering face. "Mr. Dale, I've come up to keep house for you to-day,
seeing--seeing Persis has been called away." She blushed, realizing
that Joel was undoubtedly in the secret of that errand. After forty
years in a world where birth is the one inevitable human experience,
aside from death, she had never been able to rid herself of the
impression that it was essentially immodest.
Though the cloud of Jovian displeasure did not remove immediately from
Joel's brow, his mood underwent an instant change. His sister had not
been guilty of leaving him to shift for himself. The opportune
appearance of Susan Fitzgerald indicated a proper regard for the
masculine helplessness, which is also, by some obscure process of
reasoning, the badge of masculine superiority. Moreover Susan's
presence furnished the opportunity of setting forth in detail sundry
theories which to Persis were an old story. To a gentleman of Joel's
temperament, a new audience is at times a necessity.
"You won't have much trouble getting my meals," he assured her, his
cold dignity thawing rapidly. "Just set on the dish of apples and
nuts."
Susan's near-sighted eyes narrowed as she gazed at him. "You mean for
dessert?"
"Dessert! When Adam and Eve started housekeeping do you s'pose they
sat down to soup to begin with and wound up with pie? The Lord put 'em
in a garden instead of a butcher's shop, because He wanted 'em to eat
vegetable food and not poison themselves with dead animals." Joel's
voice had grown almost cheerful. His ardor in the dissemination of his
dietetic theories waxed and waned, but when there was a new observer to
be impressed, he always found the crucifixion of his appetites well
worth while. He seated himself at the table with a gesture which
seemed to wave into some remote background the temptation of sausages
and buckwheat cakes.
"No trouble for me. Just set on the nuts and apples, same as our
ancestors ate before they got wiser'n their Creator and learned to cook
their victuals. We're the only animals that ain't satisfied with raw
food. And we're the only ones that are everlastingly kicking about
indigestion."
"I declare!" exclaimed Susan Fitzgerald, carried away by this masterly
logic. "You certainly have your own way of looking at subjects, Mr.
Dale."
"Well, I'll admit that I'm not much at taking up with second-hand
opinions. Now, here's another idea of mine." He held up a walnut
between his thumb and finger. "There's a tree in that, ain't there?"
"Why, yes." Susan's ready admission gave every indication of a
willingness to be impressed.
"Well, what's enough to give a start to a tree that may grow seventy
feet or over, ought to start a man off to his day's work pretty well.
That's my way of reasoning."
"But don't you feel an awful goneness after a breakfast like that?"
"Goneness!" Magnificently Joel waved away the suggestion. "With an
apple and five or six good nuts inside me, I feel like I could run
through a troop, as the psalmist says, and leap over a wall."
Susan's admiring murmur indicated that the sustaining effect of the
diet Joel recommended was due less to its intrinsic virtue than to some
unusual and dominating quality of Joel's personality. And Joel,
struggling with a peculiarly tough Brazil nut, reflected that Susan
Fitzgerald was an intelligent woman as well as an agreeable one.
The morning passed pleasantly for both. Susan possessed the gift which
men have ever highly esteemed in the sex, the faculty of continued
silence, combined with close attention. Some of Joel's theories
impressed her as startling, but like many very proper people, Susan
rather enjoyed being shocked, if the sensation was not overdone.
Whether she murmured approval or blushed in decorous protest, it was
plain that she found Joel's monologues immensely interesting. She
could hardly believe her ears when the clock struck twelve.
Susan brought the nuts and apples out again after their brief period of
retirement, and seated herself at the table, to share the Eden-like
repast. "You'd be an awful easy man to cook for, Mr. Dale," she said,
with a glance which in another woman would have been coquettish.
But the arrow glanced harmless. Joel's mood was abstracted. Not for
some time had he put into practise his theories regarding uncooked
food, and his rebellious appetite craved more stimulating fare. He
munched his nuts with distracting memories of yesterday's pot roast.
He found himself resenting Susan's eager compliance. She should have
insisted on preparing him a good meal--good from her standpoint--and as
a gentleman he could have done no less than show his appreciation by
eating it.
For once Joel had lost interest in his own eloquence. Inward voices
were protesting against this return to the fare which had satisfied
Father Adam. When he retired to the armchair, after dinner, and
relapsed into a sulky silence, Susan remembered that the obligation to
amuse him was also nominated in the bond. Luckily his tastes were
literary, which rendered her task a simple one.
Susan stepped into the tightly-closed, partially darkened parlor which
never in the sultriest weather seemed wholly to lose the chill of its
unwarmed winter days. The center of the room was occupied by a square
table, on each corner of which lay a book, the four arranged with
geometrical nicety. Susan was too familiar with Clematis traditions
not to know that the books on the center-table were seldom of a sort
one would care to open, but as she lifted the nearest volume and saw
that it was a collections of poems, she felt a comforting certainty
that luck was with her.
"You're a great admirer of po'try, ain't you, Mr. Dale? I've always
understood so."
With an effort Joel roused himself.
"Another has expressed my sentiments, Miss Fitzgerald.
"Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound.'"
"Then if you'd like, I'll read you a little so's to help pass the
time." Susan seated herself near the window, cleared her throat and
opening the volume at random, began in the self-conscious and unnatural
voice characterizing ninety-nine people out of every hundred who
attempt the reading of verse.
"'O there's a heart for every one
If every one could find it.
Then up and seek, ere youth is gone,
Whate'er the task, ne'er mind it.
For if you chance to meet at last
With that one heart intended--'"
Susan's voice had grown husky. She cleared her throat again. "I'm
afraid I made a poor selection," she apologized. "You see I'm not as
familiar with po'try as you are, Mr. Dale." She turned the leaves in a
confusion that increased as her groping vision stumbled continually on
lines startlingly sentimental.
"'Let thy love in kisses rain
On my cheeks and eye-lids pale.'"
Susan opened ten pages ahead and tried again.
"'When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee.
Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea.'"
Joel's change of position was subtly suggestive of weariness. Susan
whirled the leaves and took a desperate plunge.
"'Ask if I love thee? O, smiles can not tell
Plainer what tears are now showing too well.
Had I not loved thee my sky had been clear;
Had I not loved thee, I had not been here.'"
It was plainly impossible for a self-respecting single woman to
continue. "Why, they're all silly," she exclaimed, with a little
nervous giggle. Her face flamed. What was she to say next, not only
to carry out Persis Dale's injunction, but to occupy the blank silence
which contradictorily seemed echoing with that fateful refrain, "Had I
not loved thee I had not been here."
When in doubt, play trumps. Susan Fitzgerald's chief interest in life
was the question of woman's suffrage. And the confusion which had
swept her mind bare of small talk, had not jostled her substantial
ideas on the familiar theme. She determined to broach the subject
delicately and with caution. If Joel cared for discussion, this would
occupy a good portion of the afternoon, and be a sufficient antidote
for her unfortunate poetical selections. It was even possible that a
strong forceful presentation of the case might result in making a
convert. Susan thrilled, realizing what such an accession would mean
to the cause.
"Mr. Dale," she began, feeling her way to a tactful introduction. "I
am sure you must have a pretty good opinion of women. A man with such
a sister as you've got couldn't help it."
Her opening was unfortunate. No man is so reluctant to recognize
feminine superiority as the one who profits most by the gifts of some
woman. Joel's brow clouded, and his answer showed a cautious resolve
not to be trapped into any compromising admission.
"Oh, I haven't anything against women folks. I've always thought the
poet went too far when he said:
"'Mankind from Adam has been woman's fools.
Women from Eve have been the Devil's tools.'"
Despite the negative nature of this encouragement, Susan continued.
"I'm sure a fair-minded man like you are, Mr. Dale, wouldn't want to
keep any woman out of what rightfully belonged to her. You'd want her
to have a chance to fill her place in the world, wouldn't you?"
"Why, yes, I'd be in favor of that." Joel's voice was less positive
than his words, owing to an inward uncertainty as to the trend of these
observations.
"Well, Mr. Dale, there's lots of us that are ready to take up our share
of the duties the Creator designed for us. We are standing waiting
like the people in the parable that nobody had hired. The trouble is
you won't let us, you men won't. We've got to wait for you to give us
our rights. All our willingness doesn't amount to anything till you
are ready."
A sudden harassing suspicion assailed the target of Susan's eloquence,
and no sooner had it entered his mind than a dozen details instantly
corroborated it. Joel remembered the look which had accompanied
Susan's declaration that he would be an easy man to cook for. The love
poems had in themselves been equivalent to an avowal of passion even
without her tell-tale blushes. And now at last he grasped the
underlying meaning of her vague hints and obscure figures of speech.
For though she talked of rights and duties and the designs of the
Creator, there could be no doubt that she meant a husband.
Joel rose to his feet and his mute tempestuous indignation was not
without interest as throwing light on the workings of the masculine
mind. In such a design as he attributed to Susan, it would seem that
the lady had much to lose and little to gain. She was vigorous,
well-preserved, possessed of a competence, while Joel was doubly
bankrupt. Yet his mood was far removed from humble gratitude. He was
furious at her presumption, alert to defend his threatened
prerogatives, angry at Persis for exposing him to such an attack under
his own roof where ignominious retreat was his only safety.
"I've just thought of a little matter I've got to look after this
afternoon," he said, his manner nicely calculated to repel any tender
advances. "I'll have to hurry along, and there won't be any occasion
for you to linger. Please hang the key on the nail so Persis can let
herself in when she comes."
His sudden hauteur was not lost on Susan. She sighed as he withdrew.
"Funny how real liberal-minded men won't listen to argument when it
comes to some questions. But maybe he'll think over what I said and
it'll have an influence sooner or later. Anyway, we've got to be
prepared to sow beside all waters."
The leather-covered book, whose failure to serve her purpose was
indirectly responsible for the broaching of so delicate a question,
caught her wandering attention. She picked it up, reading the title
aloud.
"_Love Songs of Many Lands_. No wonder I couldn't find one that was
sensible. Well, I declare!"
The book had opened at the fly-leaf. "Persis from Justin," Susan read,
bringing her near-sighted eyes close to the faded ink. She pursed her
lips and shook her head in disapproving surprise.
"Persis Dale must have known some man pretty well to let him give her
anything so pointed. I should have thought she'd have felt awfully
embarrassed if she ever read the poems. Justin! Justin! There was a
Justin Ware, but I never heard there was anything between them."
She returned the book to the chilly front room, adjusting it to the
proper angle on the center-table, as if it had been a part of a
geometrical diagram, And finally, after locking the door and hanging
the key where Persis, or any other arrival, would immediately notice
it, she turned her downcast face toward home.
"I'm afraid I hurt Mr. Dale's feelings. It beats all how sensitive
some natures are. It's lucky I didn't get as far as what you would
call the real telling arguments."
If Susan Fitzgerald's mood was despondent, as she reviewed the
activities of the day, such was not the case with Persis Dale. In the
Trotters' shabby cottage, exaltation reigned. Young Doctor Ballard,
lean and boyish, looked ready to be congratulated on a good piece of
work, though perfectly aware ha could never in this world, at least,
collect his fee for medical attendance. Bartholomew's complacent
self-importance almost straightened his bowed shoulders and redeemed
the weakness of his sagging lips and feeble chin. Lizzie, his wife,
spent and pallid, her gaunt temples hollowed and her face chiseled by
suffering, smiled contentedly as she lay against her pillow, a creature
lifted for the moment above the petty weaknesses, pitiable fruit of
life-long and grinding poverty, by the gracious dignity of motherhood.
As for Persis, as she carried the new arrival down-stairs to make the
acquaintance of his brothers and sisters, her comely face was radiant.
Weariness was forgotten. The hours of uncertainty, the long hours when
Life and Death matched forces in that old duel renewed with each new
existence, had all been forgotten. For a man was born.
The little Trotters gathered around in an ecstasy of pleasure and
surprise. In a household where food was scanty, and every new pair of
shoes was a serious economic problem, there was no lack of welcome for
the newcomer. Chirpy little voices commented on the new brother's
surprising pinkness, his diminutive proportions and his belligerent
fashion of clenching his fists.
"He's got on the nice clean dress the angels made him," said Winnie,
the observant. "See the lace in the sleeves."
"I wish the angels had made him some hair instead," suggested Wilbur,
plainly aggrieved. "'Cause he could have worn some of our old clothes,
but he can't wear our hair."
"He can have my jack-knife when he gets big enough," declared Benny,
the oldest of the flock. He drew the cherished possession from his
pocket as if ready to surrender it on the instant. And that offer was
a signal for a general outburst of generosity.
"He can have my tooth brush."
"I'll give him my rubber boot. Maybe when he's big enough to wear it,
somebody will give him one for the other leg."
"You're going to let the new baby have your high chair, ain't you,
Essie?" Thus Winnie prompted the sister now compelled to relinquish
the honors and dignities attaching to the post of baby of the family.
And Essie, nodding her little tow head, laid a rose-leaf cheek against
the crumpled carnation of the newcomer. "Nice litty brudder," she
cooed. "Essie loves 'oo."
"My gracious me!" thought Persis Dale, as she tucked the baby into the
battered cradle, never long without an occupant, "It's queer that we
ain't shaking our heads and groaning over this. The Trotters can't
afford a new baby any more than I can afford a steam yacht. There
ain't enough of anything to go around, and yet we're all holding up our
heads and acting as if this was the best day's work we ever had a hand
in. It's no use talking. Down in our hearts we know that life's a
good thing, even when we've got to take poverty and hardships along
with it. And that's why we start in singing Psalms in spite of
ourselves when a new baby comes."