It rained. It had rained all day. To Helen Raymond, spatting along the
wet slipperiness of the drenched pavements, it seemed as if it had always
rained, and always would rain.
Helen was tired, blue, and ashamed--ashamed because she was blue; blue
because she was tired; and tired because--wearily her mind reviewed her
day.
She had dragged herself out of bed at half-past five, but even then her
simple toilet had been hastened to an untidy half completion by the
querulous insistence of her mother's frequent "You know, Helen,--you
_must_ know how utterly impossible it is for me to lift my head until
I've had my coffee! _Are n't_ you nearly ready?" Mrs. Raymond had
wakened earlier than usual that morning, and she could never endure to
lie in bed when not asleep.
With one shoe unbuttoned and no collar on, Helen had prepared the coffee;
then had come the delicate task of getting the semi-invalid up and
dressed, with hair smoothed to the desired satiny texture. The hair had
refused to smooth, however, this morning; buttons had come off, too, and
strings had perversely knotted until Helen's patience had almost
snapped--almost, but not quite. In the end her own breakfast, and the
tidying of herself and the little four-room flat, had degenerated into a
breathless scramble broken by remorseful apologies to her mother, in
response to which Mrs. Raymond only sighed:
"Oh, of course, it does n't matter; but you _know_ how haste and
confusion annoy me, and how bad it is for me!"
It had all resulted as Helen had feared that it would result--she was
late; and tardiness at Henderson & Henderson's meant a sharp reprimand,
and in time, a fine. Helen's place in the huge department store was
behind a counter where spangled nets and embroidered chiffons were sold.
It had seemed to Helen today that half the world must be giving a ball to
which the other half was invited, so constant--in spite of the rain--were
the calls for her wares. The girl told herself bitterly that it would
not be so unendurable were she handling anything but those filmy,
glittering stuffs that spoke so loudly of youth and love and laughter.
If it were only gray socks and kitchen kettles that she tended! At least
she would be spared the sight of those merry, girlish faces, and the
sound of those care-free, laughing voices. At least she would not have
all day before her eyes the slender, gloved fingers which she knew were
as fair and delicate as the fabrics they so ruthlessly tossed from side
to side.
Annoyances at the counter had been more frequent to-day than usual, Helen
thought. Perhaps the rain had made people cross. Whatever it was, the
hurried woman had been more hurried, and the insolent woman more
unbearable. There had been, too, an irritating repetition of the woman
who was "just looking," and of her sister who "did n't know"; "was n't
quite sure"; but "guessed that would n't do." Consequently Helen's list
of sales had been short in spite of her incessant labor--and the list of
sales was what Henderson & Henderson looked at when a promotion was being
considered.
And through it all, hour after hour, there had been the shimmer of the
spangles, the light chatter of coming balls and weddings, the merry
voices of care-free girls--the youth, and love, and laughter.
"Youth, and love, and laughter." Unconsciously Helen repeated the words
aloud; then she smiled bitterly as she applied them to herself.
Youth?--she was twenty-five. Love?--the grocer? the milkman? the
floorwalker? oh, yes, and there was the postman. Laughter?--she could
not remember when she had seen anything funny--really funny enough to
laugh at.
Of all this Helen thought as she plodded wearily homeward; of this, and
more. At home there would be supper to prepare, her mother to get to
bed, and the noon dishes to clear away. Helen drew in her breath sharply
as she thought of the dinner. She hoped that it had not been
codfish-and-cream to-day. If it had, she must speak to Mrs. Mason.
Codfish twice a week might do, but five times! (Mrs. Mason was the
neighbor who, for a small sum each day, brought Mrs. Raymond her dinner
fully cooked.) There was a waist to iron and some mending to do. Helen
remembered that. There would be time, however, for it all, she thought;
that is, if it should not unfortunately be one of her mother's wakeful
evenings when talking--and on one subject--was the only thing that would
soothe her.
Helen sighed now. She was almost home, but involuntarily her speed
slackened. She became suddenly more acutely aware of the dreary flapping
of her wet skirts against her ankles, and of the swish of the water as it
sucked itself into the hole at the heel of her left overshoe. The wind
whistled through an alleyway in a startling swoop and nearly wrenched her
umbrella from her half-numbed fingers, but still her step lagged. The
rain slapped her face smartly as the umbrella careened, but even that did
not spur her to haste. Unmistakably she dreaded to go home--and it was
at this realization that Helen's shame deepened into a dull red on her
cheeks; as if any girl, any right-hearted girl, should mind a mother's
talk of her only son!
At the shabby door of the apartment house Helen half closed her umbrella
and shook it fiercely. Then, as if freeing herself from something as
obnoxious as was the rain, she threw back her head and shook that, too.
A moment later, carefully carrying the dripping umbrella, she hurried up
three flights of stairs and unlocked the door of the rear suite.
"My, but it sprinkles! Did you know it?" she cried cheerily to the
little woman sitting by the west window.
"'Sprinkles'! Helen, how can you speak like that when you _know_ what a
dreadful day it is!" fretted the woman. "But then, you don't know. You
never do know. If _you_ had to just sit here and stare and stare and
stare at that rain all day, as I do, perhaps you would know."
"Perhaps," smiled Helen oddly--she was staring just then at the havoc
that that same rain had wrought in what had been a fairly good hat.
Her mother's glance followed hers.
"Helen, that can't be--your hat!" cried the woman, aghast.
Helen smiled quizzically. "Do you know that's exactly what I was
thinking myself, mother! It can't be--but it is."
"But it's ruined, utterly ruined!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you have n't any other that's really decent!"
"No, ma'am."
The woman sighed impatiently. "Helen, how can you answer like that when
you _know_ what it means to spoil that hat? Can't _anything_ dampen your
absurd high spirits?"
"'High spirits'!" breathed the girl. A quick flash leaped to her eyes.
Her lips parted angrily; then, as suddenly, they snapped close shut. In
another minute she had turned and left the room quietly.
Clothed in dry garments a little later, Helen set about the evening's
tasks. At the first turn in the little room that served for both kitchen
and dining-room she found the dinner dishes waiting to be cleared from
the table--and there were unmistakable evidences of codfish-and-cream.
As she expected, she had not long to wait.
"Helen," called a doleful voice from the sitting-room.
"Yes, mother."
"She brought codfish again to-day--five times this week; and you _know_
how I dislike codfish!"
"Yes, I know, dear. I'm so sorry!"
"'Sorry'! But that does n't feed me. You _must_ speak to her, Helen. I
_can't_ eat codfish like that. You must speak to-night when you take the
dishes back."
"Very well, mother; but--well, you know we don't pay very much."
"Then pay more. I'm sure I shouldn't think you'd grudge me enough to
eat, Helen."
"Mother! How can you say a thing like that!" Helen's voice shook. She
paused a moment, a dish half-dried in her hands; but from the other room
came only silence.
Supper that night was prepared with unusual care. There was hot
corncake, too,--Mrs. Raymond liked hot corncake. It was a little late,
it is true; Helen had not planned for the corncake at first--but there
was the codfish. If the poor dear had had nothing but codfish! . . .
Helen opened a jar of the treasured peach preserves, too; indeed, the
entire supper table from the courageous little fern in the middle to the
"company china" cup at Mrs. Raymond's plate was a remorseful apology for
that midday codfish. If Mrs. Raymond noticed this, she gave no sign.
Without comment, she ate the corncake and the peach preserves, and drank
her tea from the china cup; with Mrs. Raymond only the codfish of one's
daily life merited comment.
It was at the supper table that Helen's mother brought out the letter.
"You don't ask, nor seem to care," she began with a curious air of
injured triumph, "but I've got a letter from Herbert."
The younger woman flushed.
"Why, of course, I care," she retorted cheerily. "What does he say?"
"He wrote it several days ago. It got missent. But it's such a nice
letter!"
"They always are."
"It asks particularly how I am, and says he's sorry I have to suffer so.
_He_ cares."
Only the swift red in Helen's cheeks showed that the daughter understood
the emphasis.
"Of course he cares," she answered smoothly.
"And he sent me a present, too--money!" Mrs. Raymond's usually fretful
whine carried a ring of exultation.
Helen lifted her head eagerly.
"Money?"
"Yes. A new crisp dollar bill. He told me to get something pretty--some
little trinket that I'd like."
"But, a dollar--only a dollar," murmured Helen. "Now you're needing a
wrapper, but that--"
"A wrapper, indeed!" interrupted Mrs. Raymond in fine scorn. "A wrapper
is n't a 'trinket' for me! I'd have wrappers anyway, of course. He said
to buy something pretty; something I'd like. But then, I might have
known. _You_ never think I need anything but wrappers and--and codfish!
I--I'm glad I've got one child that--that appreciates!" And Mrs. Raymond
lifted her handkerchief to her eyes.
Across the table Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. For a
moment she did not speak; then very gently she said:--
"Mother, you did n't quite mean that, I'm sure. You know very well that
I--I'd dress you in silks and velvets, and feed you on strawberries and
cream, if I could. It's only that--that-- But never mind. Use the
dollar as you please, dear. Is n't there something--some little thing
you would like?"
Mrs. Raymond lowered her handkerchief. Her grieved eyes looked
reproachfully across at her daughter.
"I'd thought of--a tie; a lace tie with pretty ends; a _nice_ tie. You
_know_ how I like nice things!"
"Of course, you do; and you shall have it, too," cried Helen. "I'll
bring some home tomorrow night for you to select from. Now that will be
fine, won't it?"
The other drew a resigned sigh.
"'Fine'! That's just like you, Helen. You never appreciate--never
realize. Perhaps you do think it's 'fine' to stay mewed up at home here
and have ties _brought_ to you instead of going out yourself to the store
and buying them, like other women!"
"Oh, but just don't look at it that way," retorted Helen in a cheerful
voice. "Just imagine you're a queen, or a president's wife, or a
multi-millionairess who is sitting at home in state to do her shopping
just because she wishes to avoid the vulgar crowds in the stores; eh,
mother dear?"
"Mother dear" sniffed disdainfully.
"Really, Helen," she complained, "you are impossible. One would think
you might have _some_ sympathy, _some_ consideration for my feelings!
There's your brother, now. He's all sympathy. Look at his letter.
Think of that dollar he sent me--just a little thing to give me
happiness. And he's always doing such things. Did n't he remember how I
loved peppermints, and give me a whole box at Christmas?"
Helen did not answer. As well she knew, she did not need to. Her
mother, once started on this subject, asked only for a listener. Wearily
the girl rose to her feet and began to clear the table.
"And it is n't as if he did n't have his hands full, just running over
full with his business and all," continued Mrs. Raymond. "You _know_ how
successful he is, Helen. Now there's that club--what was it, president
or treasurer that they made him? Anyhow, it was _something_; and that
_shows_ how popular he is. And you know every letter tells us of
something new. I 'm sure it is n't any wonder I 'm proud of him; and
relieved, too--I did hope some one of my children would amount to
something; and I 'm sure Herbert has."
There was a pause. Herbert's sister was washing the dishes now,
hurriedly, nervously. Herbert's mother watched her with dissatisfied
eyes.
"Now there's you, Helen, and your music," she began again, after a long
sigh. "You _know_ how disappointed I was about that."
"Oh, but piano practice does n't help to sell goods across the counter,"
observed Helen dully. "At least, I never heard that it did."
"'Sell goods,'" moaned the other. "Always something about selling goods!
Helen, _can't_ you get your mind for one moment off that dreadful store,
and think of something higher?"
"But it's the store that brings us in our bread and butter--and codfish,"
added Helen, half under her breath.
It was a foolish allusion, born of a much-tried spirit; and Helen
regretted the words the moment they had left her lips.
"Yes, that's exactly what it brings--codfish," gloomed Mrs. Raymond.
"I'm glad you at least realize that."
There was no reply. Helen was working faster now. Her cheeks were pink,
and her hands trembled. As soon as possible she piled Mrs. Mason's
dinner dishes neatly on the tray and hurried with them to the outer door
of the suite.
"Now, Helen, don't stay," called her mother. "You know how much I'm
alone, and I just simply can't go to bed yet. I'm not one bit sleepy."
"No, mother." The voice was calm, and the door shut quietly; but in the
hall Helen paused at the head of the stairs, flushed and palpitating.
"I wonder--if it would do any good--if I should--throw them!" she choked
hysterically, the tray raised high in her hands. Then with a little
shamed sob she lowered the tray and hurried downstairs to the apartment
below.
"It's only me, Mrs. Mason, with the dishes," she said a moment later, as
her neighbor peered out into the hall in answer to the knock at the door.
"I'm a little late to-night."
"Oh, to be sure, Miss Raymond; come in--come in. Why, child, what ails
you?" cried the woman, as Helen stepped into the light.
"Ails me? Why, nothing," laughed the girl evasively. "Shall I put the
things here?"
As she set the tray down and turned to go, the elder woman, by a sudden
movement, confronted her.
"See here, Miss Helen, it ain't none o' my business, I know, but I've
just got to speak. Your eyes are all teary, and your cheeks have got two
red spots in 'em. You've been cryin'. I know you have. You're so thin
I could just blow you over with a good big breath. And I know what's the
matter. You're all wore out. You 're doin' too much. No mortal woman
can work both day and night!"
"But I don't--quite," stammered the girl "Besides, there is so much to be
done. You know, mother--though she isn't very sick--can do but little
for herself."
"Yes, I know she don't--seem to. But is n't there some one else that
could help?"
The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes sought for a means of escape.
"Why, no, of course not. There is n't any one," she murmured. "You are
very kind, really, Mrs. Mason, but I must go--now."
The other did not move. She was standing directly before the hall door.
"There 's--your brother."
The girl lifted her head quickly. A look that was almost fear came into
her eyes.
"Why, how did you know that I had--a brother?"
"Know it!" scoffed Mrs. Mason. "I have known your mother for a
year--ever since she moved here; and as if a body could know _her_ and
not hear of _him_! He's the very apple of her eye. Why can't he--help?
Would n't he, if he knew?"
"Why, Mrs. Mason, of course! He has--he does," declared the girl
quickly, the red deepening in her cheeks. "He--he sent her money only
to-day."
"Yes, I know; she told me--of that." Mrs. Mason's voice was significant
in its smoothness. "Your mother said she was going to get her--a tie."
"Yes, a tie," repeated Helen, with feverish lightness; "lace, you know.
Mother does so love pretty things! Oh, and by the way," hurried on the
girl breathlessly, "if you don't mind--about the dinners, you know.
Mother does n't care for codfish-and-cream, and if you could just
substitute something else, I'll pay more, of course! I'd expect to do
that. I've been thinking for some time that you ought to have at least
ten cents a day more--if you could manage--on that. And--thank you; if
you _would_ remember about--the codfish, and now I really must--go!" she
finished. And before Mrs. Mason knew quite what had happened a flying
figure had darted by her through the half-open doorway.
"Well, of all things! _Now_ what have I said?" muttered the puzzled
woman, staring after her visitor. "Ten cents a day more, indeed! And
where, for the land's sake, is the poor lamb going to find that?"
Long hours later in the Raymond flat, after the mending was done, the
waist ironed, and the mother's querulous tongue had been silenced by
sleep, the "poor lamb" sat down with her little account book and tried to
discover just that--where she was going to find the extra ten cents a day
to buy off Mrs. Mason's codfish.
It did not rain the next morning. The sun shone, indeed, as if it never
had rained, and never would rain. In Helen Raymond's soul a deeper shame
than ever sent the blue devils skulking into the farthermost corners--as
if it were anything but a matter for the heartiest congratulations that
one's mother had at least one child who had proved not to be a
disappointment to her! And very blithely, to cheat the last one of the
little indigo spirits, the girl resolutely uptilted her chin, and began
her day.
It was not unlike the days that had gone before. There was the same
apologetic rush in the morning, the same monotonous succession of buyers
and near-buyers at the counter, the same glitter and sparkle and
chatter--the youth, and love, and laughter. Then at night came the
surprise.
Helen Raymond went home to find the little flat dominated by a new
presence, a presence so big and breezy that unconsciously she sniffed the
air as if she were entering a pine grove instead of a stuffy, four-room
city flat.
"Helen, he knows Herbert, my Herbert," announced Mrs. Raymond
rapturously; and as she seemed to think no further introduction was
necessary, the young man rose to his feet and added with a smile:--
"My name is Carroll--Jack Carroll; Miss Raymond, I suppose. Your
brother--er--suggested that I call, as I was in the city."
"Of course you'd call," chirruped Mrs. Raymond. "As if we were n't
always glad to see any friend of my boy's. Helen, why don't you say
something? Why don't you welcome Mr. Carroll?"
"I have n't had much chance yet, mother," smiled the girl, in some
embarrassment. "Perhaps I--I have n't caught my breath."
"Not that Mr. Carroll ought to mind, of course," resumed Mrs. Raymond
plaintively. "And he won't when he knows you, and sees how moderate you
are. You know Herbert is so quick," she added, turning to Herbert's
friend.
"Is he?" murmured the man; and at the odd something in his voice Helen
looked up quickly to find the stranger's eyes full upon her. "You see,
I'm not sure, after all, that I do know Herbert," he continued lightly,
still with that odd something in his voice. "Herbert's mother has been
telling me lots of things--about Herbert."
"Yes; we've been having such a nice visit together," sighed Mrs. Raymond.
"You see, _he_ understands, Helen,--Mr. Carroll does."
Again Helen glanced up and met the stranger's eyes. She caught her
breath sharply and looked away.
"Of course he understands," she cried, in a voice that was not quite
steady. "If he knew you better, mother dear, he would know that there
could n't be any nicer subject than Herbert to talk about--Herbert and
the fine things he has done!" There was no bitterness, no sarcasm, in
tone or manner. There was only a frightened little pleading, a
warding-off, as of some unknown, threatening danger. "Of course, Mr.
Carroll understands," she finished; and this time she turned and looked
straight into the stranger's eyes unswervingly.
"I understand," he nodded gravely.
And yet--it was not of Herbert that he talked during the next ten
minutes. It was of Mrs. Raymond and her daughter, of their life at home
and at the store. It was a gay ten minutes, for the man laughed at the
whimsical playfulness with which Miss Raymond set off the pitiful little
tale of the daily struggle for existence. If he detected the nervousness
in the telling, he did not show it. He did frown once; but that was when
Herbert's mother sighed apologetically:--
"You must n't mind all she says, Mr. Carroll. Helen never did seem to
realize the serious side of life, nor what I suffer; but that is Helen's
way."
"After all, it must be a way that helps smooth things over some," he had
retorted warmly.
And there the matter had ended--except in Helen's memory: there it bade
fair to remain long, indeed.
At the end of the ten minutes, Herbert's friend rose to his feet and said
that he must go. He added that he would come again, if he might; and to
Miss Raymond he said very low--but very impressively--that she would see
him soon, very soon. It was no surprise, therefore, to Helen, to
encounter the big, tall fellow not twenty feet from her doorway when she
started for the store the next morning.
His clean-cut face flushed painfully as he advanced; but the girl did not
change color.
"Good-morning. I thought you'd do this," she began hurriedly. "We can
talk as we walk. Now, tell me, please, quick. What is it
about--Herbert?"
"Then you--know?"
"Not much; only suspect. I know everything is n't quite--right."
"But your mother doesn't know--even that much?"
"No, no! You saw that, didn't you? I was so glad you did, and did n't
speak! He is her pet, and she's so proud of him!"
"Yes, I know," nodded the man grimly. "I saw--that."
The girl lifted her chin.
"And mother has a right to be proud of him. Herbert is fine. It is only
that--that--" She weakened perceptibly. "Was it--money?" she faltered.
"Y-yes." Carroll spoke with evident reluctance. His eyes looked down
almost tenderly at the girl with the still bravely uptilted chin.
"It--it is rather serious this time. He asked me to call and--and make
it plain to you. I had told him I was coming up to town on business, and
I promised. But--good Heavens, Miss Raymond, I--I can't tell you!"
"But you must. I'll have to know," cried the girl sharply. All the
pride had fled now. "And you need n't fear. I know what it is. He
wants money to settle debts. I've sent it before--once. That is
it--that _is_ it?"
"Yes, only it's--it's a particularly bad job this time," stammered the
other. "You see, it--it's club money--a little club among the boys, of
which he is treasurer--and he sto--used part of the--funds."
The man choked over the wretched tale, and instinctively laid his hand on
the girl's arm. She would faint or cry, of course, and he wondered what
he could do. But there was no fainting, no crying. There was only the
pitiful whitening of a set little face, and the tense question:
"How much--was it?"
Carroll sighed in relief.
"Miss Raymond, you're a--a brick--to take it like that," he cried
brokenly. "I don't know another girl who-- It was--well, a hundred
dollars will cover it; but he's got to have it--to-morrow."
"I'll send it."
"But how--forgive me, Miss Raymond, but last night you were telling me
that--that--" He flushed, and came to a helpless pause.
"How can I get it?" she supplied wearily. "We've a little in the bank--a
very little laid by for a rainy day; but it will cover that. We never
think of touching it, of course, for--for ordinary things. But--_this_."
She shuddered, and Carroll saw her shabbily gloved hand clinch
spasmodically. "Mr. Carroll, how did he come to--do it?"
It was a short story, soon told--the usual story of a pleasure-loving,
thoughtless youth, tempted beyond his strength. Carroll softened it
where he could, and ended with:--
"I asked Bert to let me make it good, somehow, but he would n't, Miss
Raymond. He--he just would n't!"
"Of course he would n't," exclaimed the girl sharply. Then, in a softer
voice: "Thank you, just the same. But, don't you see? 'T would have
done no good. I'd have had to pay you. . . . No, no, don't say any
more, please," she begged, in answer to the quick words that leaped to
his lips. "You have been kind--very kind. Now, just one kindness more,
if you will," she hurried on. "Come tonight. I must leave you now--it's
the store, just around the corner. But to-night I 'll have the money.
It's in my name, and I can get it without mother's--knowing. You
understand? Without--mother's--_knowing_."
"I understand," he nodded gravely, as he wrung her hand and turned
chokingly away.
When Helen reached home that night she found the little flat dominated
once again by the big, breezy presence of Herbert's friend.
"I've been telling him more about Herbert," Mrs. Raymond began joyously,
as soon as Helen entered the room. "I've been telling him about his
letters to me, and the peppermints and the lace tie, you know, and how
_good_ Herbert is to me. We've had such a nice visit!"
"Have you? I'm so glad!" returned Helen, a little unsteadily; and only
the man knew the meaning of the quick look of relieved gratitude that
came to her face.
At the door some minutes later, Carroll found a small packet thrust into
his fingers. He caught both the hand and the packet in a firm clasp.
"You're true blue, little girl," he breathed tremulously, "and I'm going
to keep tabs on Bert after this. I 'll _make_ him keep straight for
her--and for _you_. He's only a bit weak, after all. And you'll see me
again soon--very soon," he finished, as he crushed her hand in a grip
that hurt. Then he turned and stumbled away, as if his eyes did not see
quite clearly.
"Now, wasn't he nice?" murmured Mrs. Raymond, as the girl closed the hall
door. "And--didn't he say that he'd call again sometime?"
"Yes, mother."
"Well, I'm sure, I hope he will. He isn't Herbert, of course, but he
_knows_ Herbert."
"He--does, mother." There was a little break in Helen's voice, but Mrs.
Raymond did not notice it.
"Dearie me! Well, he's gone now, and I _am_ hungry. My dinner didn't
seem to please, somehow."
"Why, mother, it was n't--codfish; was it?"
"N-no. It was chicken. But then, like enough it _will_ be codfish
to-morrow."
Helen Raymond dreamed that night, and she dreamed of love, and youth, and
laughter. But it was not the shimmer of spangled tulle nor the chatter
of merry girls that called it forth. It was the look in a pair of
steadfast blue eyes, and the grip of a strong man's hand.