AMONG THE COTTAGES.
Joyce, laughing to herself, tripped across the ground occupied by the
works, and, after a hurried glance along the first row of cottages,
selected one at random and making straight for it, knocked with some
trepidation, but no delay. She heard herself announced inside by a
childish voice in descriptive fashion--"Say, ma, it's a girl in swell
clothes--hurry!" and began to question if she were too well dressed,
even in her plain black garb, for her part. Certainly there was an air
about her not common to the traveling agency people, but whether it were
entirely due to her garments may be doubted.
After considerable scurrying about inside, plainly distinguished through
the thin planking, the door was gingerly opened a few inches and a
touzled head appeared in the slit.
"Good-morning, 'm," spoke the head with an inquiring accent, which
plainly meant, "And what do you want?"
Joyce partly ignored the woman and her brusquerie, for the pretty curly
pate of a baby clinging to her skirts, and her ready smile was for him,
as she said,
"What a bright-eyed baby! May I come in for a minute and talk to you?"
The mother thawed to that, and the door fell wide apart. "Why, yes, come
in, come in! I'm washing to-day, but there's no great hurry's I knows
on. Sit there, won't ye? It's more comfor'ble."
Quite willing to be "more comfor'ble," if at no one's expense, Joyce
sank into the old cane rocker, still beaming upon the baby, who shyly
courted her from amid the damp folds of his mother's skirts.
"He's pretty smart for 'leven months," affirmed the latter, lifting him
to her knee, and dropping into the wooden chair opposite with a sense of
utter relaxation that struck the caller as being the next thing to
unconscious grace, even in that lank, slatternly figure. "He can go
clear 'round the room by takin' hold o' things. I guess you like babies,
'm?"
"I like some babies--and yours is a beauty; large, too. I had thought
him much older."
"Yes, he's as big as I care to lug--that's certain! Dorey, go and stir
down the clo'es in the boilin' suds, and be quick about it, too! Don't
ye know better'n to stand starin' at folks like a sick cat?" This, to a
little girl, presumably the herald of Joyce's approach, who had been
peeping in through the crack of a rear door.
Joyce, dreading a storm, asked politely,
"You have two children, have you?"
The woman laughed with something of a bitter cadence. "Oh yes, and seven
more atop o' them. There's two between baby and Dorey, and five older.
My three oldest is in the Works, and Rache is about the best hand
they've got, if I do say it. Rache earns good wages, I tell ye--better'n
the boys. But then, what with tobacco and beer, and beauin' the girls
around to dances and shows, and all, you can't expect a fellow to have
much left for his own folks. And my other two gals is workin' out in
town. Dorey, stop jouncin' them hot clo'es up an' down in the suds!
You'll git scalt with 'em yit."
"Do any of your children go to school?" asked the caller, quickly.
The woman laughed shortly.
"Where'd they go? There ain't no schools around here, and we ain't
wanting any, either, since our time with that one last year. 'Twas a
reg'lar sell! The gal what kep' it asked a nickel a week for every young
'un, and left us right in the middle of a term, 'cause she said it
didn't pay. Stuck-up thing she was, too! Couldn't see nothin' lower'n
the top of her own head, I couldn't abide her! No, if you're thinkin' of
gettin' up any of them kinter-gardens you might as well give it up,"
eying Joyce suspiciously. "We don't want 'em."
"But would you object to a free public school?" asked Joyce with a
patient air.
"Oh, I don't know's I should object," tolerantly. "Rache, she's a great
hand to read, and she takes in a magerzine, too, but I never could see
the sense o' spendin' time and money that way. If she marries she'll hev
to come down to scrubbin' and cookin', and tendin' baby, same's her ma;
and if she's an old maid, why, there's the Works, or goin' out to
housework, and either way I don't see just where an eddication comes
in."
"It might help her to some easier employment," suggested Joyce, but
rather faintly, for the woman's airy loquacity disconcerted her.
"It might, an' then it mightn't. I've seen girls as got above their
business come down a good deal lower than what they started from, and I
say, let well enough alone. There's lots of born ladies that ain't no
softer spoken than my girl Rache, and she's good to me and the young
'uns. I don't want anybody spoilin' my fam'ly by these highfalutin'
notions."
The woman assumed a Cornelia expression that almost daunted poor Joyce,
who was half a coward at heart, anyhow, so she meekly rose to go.
"I won't delay you from your washing any longer; good-by," she said,
nodding at the baby, who showed pearly teeth in return; and she passed
out, nor realized until later that she had not posed as a canvasser
here, unless in an educational sense.
She felt just a trifle discouraged by the unflinching attitude of this
Spartan mother, and was proportionately surprised when, obeying a call
to enter at the next door, she stepped into a bright, tastefully
furnished apartment with flowers in the window and magazines on the
table. Near by, in a large invalid chair reclined a girl--nay, a woman,
as Joyce decided after the second look, though a small creature--busily
embroidering upon a little frame, while on a small, detachable table,
now screwed to the arm of her chair, was a bright array of silks, and
beside them a half-open book, with a pencil slid between its leaves. She
gave Joyce an inquiring glance, and waited for her to speak. The latter
flushed a little, scarcely knowing how to introduce herself, but a
second look towards the magazines touched up her memory, and she began
graciously,
"I see you are a reader. I wonder if you would care for the paper I have
here," and she handed it over for inspection.
"Ah, I cannot tell if 'tis so; pray be seated ma'amselle. Yes, I like
mooch those peectures and those patterns. They do help in my work." Her
accent was distinctly foreign, yet every word was so plainly enunciated
that it was easy to understand her. "You do sell this?" she asked.
Joyce was nonplussed, but caught at her waning wits enough to answer,
"Not this copy. It is only for you to look at."
"Ah yes,"--quickly, with a merry smile, "It ees a sahmple, eh?"
"Yes, a sample copy, but if you think you could use it in your work I
will see that you have it every month."
"And the expense of it?" She looked up apprehensively. "That, too, must
be considered."
"Surely. You see it says ten cents a number, or one dollar a year. But I
think I might furnish you a sample copy free, if you would speak a good
word for it among your neighbors. Not to trouble yourself any, of
course."
"That is most kind, and I could do it. The girls do coom in and listen
as I read, by times. It is a great deal that books do for one like me,
ma'amselle. They are my friends, my coomfort. They, and my vork."
"I can well believe it. And what beautiful work you do! Doesn't it tire
you while in that reclining position? You look so delicate."
"But I am so mooch bettare--quite near to well once more. I do this,
while my sister, she work in the glass-house. She is all well and
strong--my sister."
"That is good! And you live here alone together?"
"Yes, we do. We come across from Havre together--we, the two--and we
think we will make a fortune, now we have lost our parents, and have no
big strong brother. And then it is I that must get sick, and when the
fevaer do go after the long weeks, it takes with it all my strength, and
so I cannot yet walk."
"Poor little woman! But you have such a pretty room--how kind your
sister must be."
"My Babette? Ah, she is so bright, so gay. She will not let me say that
we have been onlooky--oh no! She say, 'You here, I here, nevare mind any
other thing.' So she coomfort me."
"And do you send this beautiful embroidery into the city?"
"Yes, I do. To an eschange for womans. I have teeket and that make me
one member."
"I see; 'tis an excellent plan. But who keeps house for you?"
"Oh, that is an easy thing. I do skin off the potatoes and schop up the
meat for the hash, and Babette, she do sweep with the broom and set out
the table. And while we work she can tell me all there is going about
outside, and I can tell how mooch bettare I am doing this day--do not
you see?"
"I see you must be very happy together! But do you stay alone all day!
And what if you need something, meanwhile?" she laughed.
"See?" with a comprehensive sweep of the hands, "I have everything. But
for fear I do get sick, see this?"
She put out her hand to a rope dangling along the wall close beside her.
"When I pull hard once Lucie, in the next house, knows that I would like
to see her, but it is not bad; when I pull twice then she must indeed
run quick, for I need her. She is so good, little Lucie!"
By her motions Joyce knew she was speaking of the house upon the
opposite side from that where she herself had just called. So, feeling
she must economize her time, and anxious to learn all she could, she
asked at once,
"Who is this Lucy? Please tell me about her."
There was a way with Joyce that made people like to confide in her. She
was so bright and pretty, so interested, and so free from guile, that
hearts opened to her as blossoms to the sun. One could not long be
reserved in her presence. The invalid smiled upon her and chatted on in
her odd English, telling of the children next door lately left
motherless, where the oldest girl, Lucy, aged sixteen, was bravely
keeping house for father, and looking after two younger girls, a baby
boy, just learning to toddle alone and a younger baby of a few months.
It was evident a great friendship existed between this little
Frenchwoman and the maiden, and that there was mutual helpfulness in
their intercourse, Lucy bringing youthful cheer and strength to exchange
for thoughtful lessons in some of the finer ways of living, not common
here.
"I hope her father is very good to her!" cried Joyce, becoming at once a
partisan of the plucky child, upon whom the other was showering
encomiums. "Only sixteen, and doing all that! Is he a fine workman? Does
he earn much?"
"Yes, when he do work." The embroiderer bent over her frame with renewed
diligence, and shut her lips together in a determined way.
"I understand," said Joyce quickly, with a little sigh; "he isn't quite
steady?"
"I would nevare say ill of him. He mean well--oh, yes! But he do not
know when it is time to leave off. He take one drink, that make him talk
loud and laugh; he take two, that make him swear bad worts and knock
round the furniture; he take t'ree, that make him come home and beat
thos poor leetle girls till it make your heart sore! And poor Lucie will
try so hard, and then he will be so oogly--but I should not so speak to
a strangare."
"Don't let that trouble you; it shall go no further. I will try and see
this Lucy, soon. What is her other name?"
"It is Hapgood, ma'amselle. I pray you to forget I have ill spoke of a
man who means to be kind, but so troubled he must try somehow to forget
his cares. Many men are like that. And of a truth there is no place to
go for rest. In the small house the children do cry and quarrel, and
tired Lucie will scold at times, and he does come home so weary,
himself. If all is not to please him he snatches his hat and goes
rushing away--but where? The only place that makes welcome is the
saloon--you know it."
"Yes, yes, I do know. And the poor children, too! They ought to have
places where they can be jolly and make a noise besides in these barren
streets. Tell me, Mrs.----"
"I am not that," laughing merrily, "I am Marie Sauzay, and my sister,
she is Babette, though everybody makes it Bab for short, and she likes
the little name."
"I can imagine it is like her--short and sweet. Well, Ma'amselle Marie,
tell me this. Is there no public hall here--no place of meeting where
the people may go for music, or pleasure. Don't you have any
amusements?"
"Amusements!" Marie laughed outright. "And who would care to amuse us,
who have to work? No, no, that is not to be thought of. That Mr. Early,
who is the high boss, he would laugh at such a question. What have we to
do with amusements?"
Joyce winced at what seemed to her a direct slur upon her father's
memory, but knew it was just. She could fairly hear him laugh as Marie
spoke, sitting back in an easy attitude, perhaps mixing a julep and
cackling amusedly in that peculiar voice that was curiously like a
scolding woman's. How often she had heard him say, "Don't try to mix
business and philanthropy, my dear. It won't work. As well hope to
combine oil and water. You would only spoil the one and make a mess of
the other. The working-classes are best off when let quite alone. If you
don't want them to override you, be careful to keep them well down. Once
let them see you mean to give them any leeway, and they are only content
with a revolution. You can give away as much as you like in charity, but
just leave me to manage the Works, if you please."
She sighed once more, and rose to her feet.
"Thank you for your courtesy," she said, happening to remember her
ostensible errand. "I shall send you the paper soon, and may some day
see you again. Good-by!"
She passed out, smiling back at the little woman until she had softly
closed the door, then her young face relapsed into grave thoughtfulness.
"How large and formidable evil seems when one sets out to battle with
it!" she murmured. "I wonder, is it really so powerful, or does it
diminish on a closer view, like all things seen through a mist? Can I
ever accomplish what I have determined upon? Well, at least I can die
trying, as Leon used to say."
She smiled, and a soft look crept over her face though she had set her
little teeth in stubborn fashion. She bent her head as if in retrospect,
and walked some distance, apparently forgetful of her purpose, before
she finally selected another door at random, and sought admittance.