When you learn that this story begins with the heroine setting off
through the woods to visit her grandmother, who was ill, you may guess
that it is the familiar tale of _Little Red Riding Hood_. I must admit
that that is what it is, and I warn you that you may count upon a very
artless little heroine and a wolf of insinuating manners and glib
tongue; but _this_ grandmother will not be eaten up.
Nor did Ethel carry a basket containing a little pat of butter and a
cake. She had, instead, a large and luxurious box of candied fruit under
her arm; and instead of singing through the woods, she wore a sulky and
miserable expression. Unfortunately red hoods are not in vogue, for such
a thing would have been notably becoming to her little gypsy face.
However, she was young enough and lovely enough to look well in
anything, even a sulky expression.
She was not without some excuse for her discontented air. Ethel was one
of those unfortunate little bones of contention so often to be found in
divided families, and she had been so much disputed over and argued
about, and so rarely consulted or even questioned, that she had grown to
think of herself as a helpless pawn in an incomprehensible game, where
she could never win anything.
The disputes had begun long before she was born. Her father’s family had
that pride of newly acquired wealth beside which pride of ancestry
shrinks to nothing. Indeed, to spring from splendid ancestors may often
make one feel a little humble, but to feel that one is vastly more
important than any of one’s forbears makes for arrogance.
The Taylors had objected very much to the marriage of their only son.
Even when the marriage was made, and there was no earthly use in
objecting, they kept on, in a very unpleasant way. All the misfortunes
which the young man brought upon his wife and child by his recklessness
and folly only increased their anger against the victims; and when he
died, they all came forward with helpful suggestions as to what he
should have done when he was alive.
Ethel had been a small girl of nine then, and not yet looked upon as
guilty; but when she refused to leave her mother and take advantage of
the offers made by several of the Taylors, she lost their sympathy. Her
mother, with criminal selfishness, hadn’t made the least attempt to
persuade her child to leave her. On the contrary, she had gone back to
her own people, and had lived with them in quiet contentment.
It was to these people of hers that the Taylors so strongly objected.
She herself was a quiet and inoffensive creature who gave little
trouble, but her parents were Italians, and poor, and not ashamed of
either of the two things.
Dr. Mazetti had been professor of romance languages in a small Western
college, but he had become so absorbed in the enormous commentary upon
Dante which he was writing that he found his teaching very much in the
way; so he gave up his chair. Mrs. Taylor, the paternal grandmother, had
spoken about this.
“Of course,” she had said, not very pleasantly, “it’s a good thing to
have faith in your husband’s work; but suppose it’s _not_ a financial
success?”
“We don’t expect it to be,” replied Mrs. Mazetti, in her excellent
English. “Such work as that is not undertaken for money.”
“Do you mean to say that you’ll permit your husband to give up his--”
began Mrs. Taylor, but the other interrupted her.
“A _man_ does not ask the permission of others to do what he thinks
best,” she said quietly. “I should be ashamed of myself if I were even
to suggest that he should sacrifice his life’s work on my account.”
“What about yourself? Aren’t you sacrificing--”
“I sacrifice nothing,” said Mrs. Mazetti. “I am very, very happy and
proud.”
And so she was, and so was her only child until she married young
Taylor; and so she was again when she came home with the little Ethel,
to live with those simple, gentle people once more. Not for long,
however, for she died some two years later.
Then the arguments and disputes began again, and this time the Taylors
won. Children of eleven are pitifully easy to bribe, and while Ethel was
still dazed and stricken after the loss of her mother, all these
relations competed for her favor. She was petted and pampered as she had
never been before in her life.
It is regrettable to admit that she liked all this, liked the toys and
the pretty clothes and the indulgence better than the benign and quiet
régime of her grandfather Mazetti, who believed that children should be
literally “brought up” to the level of the wiser and more experienced
adults about them, instead of bringing a whole household down to
childish standards. He was always very patient and gentle, but he was
too fond of talking about Dante, and of relating anecdotes about an
Italian poet who insisted upon being tied into his chair, so that he
couldn’t run away from his studies.
Moreover, old Dr. Mazetti had no money to spend upon toys and clothes.
The Taylors took no interest in Dante or any other poet, but they took
Ethel to the circus; so she said she wanted to live with Aunt Amy, her
father’s sister.
She wasn’t aware, at the time, how terribly she had hurt the Mazettis.
They said very little. Indeed, they discussed it in private, and decided
that it was their duty to say very little. Aunt Amy could give Ethel
material benefits which they could not give; and if the child preferred
that sort of thing, it was, after all, neither unnatural nor unexpected.
“Each must find his own,” said Dr. Mazetti. “What is joy for one is a
burden for another.”
So they let her go, and they did it beautifully, without saddening her
little heart with reproaches or tears. She came back to visit them once
a month or so, but somehow, in her new existence, this quiet old couple
had begun to seem very foreign, very unreal.
She was abroad with her aunt when Dr. Mazetti died. Though she grieved
for him honestly, she was too young and too busy to nourish any sorrow
long.