MART'S VISIT TO HIS SISTER
Bertha woke next morning with a sense of weariness and desolation still
at her heart, but she dressed and went to breakfast with Haney at an
hour so early that the dining-room was nearly empty. Lucius, with quiet
insistence upon the importance of his employers, had secured a place at
a window overlooking the lake, and was glad to see his mistress brighten
as her eyes swept the burnished shoreless expanse.
Haney, still troubled by her languid air and gloomy face, took heart,
and talked of what Chicago was in the days when he saw it and what it
was now. "People say it don't improve. But listen: when I was here the
Palmer House was the newly built wonder of the West, the streets were
tinkling with bobtail horse-cars. And now look at it!"
Bertha went back to her room, still in nerveless and despondent mood,
not knowing what to do. The Captain proposed the usual round. "We'll
take an auto-car, and go to the parks, and inspect the Lake Shore Drive
and the Potter Palmer castle. Then we'll go down and see where the
World's Fair was. Then we'll visit the Wheat Pit. 'Tis all there is,
bedad."
Lucius, who had been answering the 'phone in the hall, came in at the
moment to say; "A lady wishes to speak with Mrs. Haney."
"A lady! Who?"
"A certain Mrs. Brent--a friend of Miss Franklin's."
Bertha's face darkened. "Oh I'd forgot all about her. Miss Franklin gave
me a letter to her," she explained, as she went out.
She had no wish to see Mrs. Brent. On the contrary, she had an aversion
to seeing or doing anything. But there was something compelling in the
cool, sweet, quiet voice which came over the line, and before realizing
it she had promised to meet her at eleven o'clock.
Mrs. Brent then added: "I am consumed with desire to see you, for Dor--I
mean Miss Franklin--has been writing to me about you. You're just in
time to come to a little dinner of mine--don't make any engagement for
to-morrow night. I'm coming down immediately."
Bertha quite gravely answered, "All right, I'll be here," and hung up
the receiver, committed to an interview that became formidable, now that
the sweetness of the voice had died out of her ears.
"Who was it?" asked the Captain.
"A friend of Miss Franklin's--sounds just like her voice, but I think
she's only a cousin. She wants to see me, and I've promised to be here
at eleven."
The Captain looked a little disappointed. "Well, we can take a spin up
the lake. Lucius, go hire a buckboard and we're off."
"There's an auto-car waiting, sir. I ordered it half an hour ago."
The gambler looked at him humorously. "Ye must be a mind-reader."
A tap on the door called the man out, and when he returned he bore a
telegram. "For you, Captain," he said, presenting it on the salver.
The gambler took it with sudden apprehension in his face. "I hope
there's no trouble at the mine," he muttered.
Bertha, leaning over his shoulder, read it first. "It's from Ben!" she
called, joyously. "Ain't it just like him?"
This message seemed a little bit foolish to Haney.
"Just to say hello! All well here. Have a good time.
"FORDYCE."
To Bertha it made all the difference between sunshine and shadow. She
thrilled to it as if it had been a voice. "He knew I'd be homesick, and
so he sent this to cheer me up," she said. And in this she was right.
Her shoulders lifted and her face cleared. "Come on, Captain, if we're
going."
As they came down the elevator, men in buttons met them, and attended
them to the door, and turned them over to still other uniformed
attendants, who were fain to help them into the auto-car; for Lucius had
managed to convey to the hotel a proper sense of his employer's money
value. He himself was always close to his master's side, for lately
Haney had taken to stumbling at unexpected moments, and his increasing
bulk made a fall a real danger.
A thrill of delight, of elation, ran through the young wife as she
glanced up and down Chicago's proudest avenue. It conformed to her
notion of a city. The level park, flooded with spring sunshine, was
walled on the west by massive buildings, while to the east stretched the
shining lake. From here the city seemed truly cosmopolitan. It had
dignity and wealth of color, and to the girl from Sibley Junction was
completely satisfying--almost inspiring.
It was uplifting also to be attended to a splendid auto-car by willing,
alert servants, and to feel that the passers-by were all envious of her
careless ease. Bertha forgot her homesickness, and took her seat in the
spirit of one who is determined to have the worth of her money (for once
anyhow), and the pedestrians, if they had any definite notion of her at
all, probably said: "There goes a rich old cattle king and his pretty
daughter. It's money that makes the 'mobile go."
She held to this pose for half an hour, while they threaded the tumult
of Wabash Avenue, and, crossing the river, swept up the Lake Shore
Drive. But the lake filled her with other thoughts. "I wish we had this
at the Springs," she said. "This is fine!"
"We have our share," answered he. "If we had this at our door, there
wouldn't be anything left to go to."
They whizzed through the park, and down another avenue into the thick
tangle of traffic, which scared them both, and so back to the hotel, the
Captain saying: "My! my! but she has grown. 'Tis twenty years since I
took this turn."
In some strange way Bertha had drawn courage, resolution, pride, and
ambition from what she saw on this short ride. That she was in a car and
mistress of it was in itself a marvellous distinction, and the thought
of what she would have been--as a "round-tripper" from Sibley
Junction--added to her pleasure and pride. She was always doing sums in
her head now. Thus: "Suppose our excursion does cost twenty dollars per
day; that's only one hundred and fifty per week, six hundred per month,
and our income is ten times that, and more." She had not risen above the
habit of calculation, but she was fast rising to higher levels of
expenditure.
She met Mrs. Brent with something of this mood in her manner, but was
instantly softened and won by her visitor, who did not in the least
resemble Miss Franklin in appearance, though her voice was wonderfully
the same. Her eyes were wide, her brow serene, and her lips smiling.
"Why, you're a child," she said--"a mere babe! Dorothy didn't tell me
that."
Bertha stiffened a little, and Mrs. Brent laughingly added: "Please
don't be offended--I am really surprised." And then her manner became so
winning that before the Western girl realized it she had given her
consent to join a dinner-party the following night. "Come early, for we
are to go to the theatre afterwards. I'll have some of the university
people in to see you. Miss Franklin has made us all eager to meet you."
Bertha had a dim perception that this eagerness to meet her was
curiosity, but her loyalty to her teacher and the charm of her visitor
kept her from openly rebelling.
The Captain was not so easily persuaded. "'Tis poor business for me," he
said. "Time was when I went to bed like a wolf--when the time served;
but now I'm as regular to me couch as a one-legged duck. However, to
keep me wife in tune, I'll go or come, as the case may be."
Mrs. Brent did not attempt to be funny with this wounded bear, and they
parted very good friends.
As her visitor was going, Bertha suddenly said, "Wait a minute," and,
going to her hand-bag, brought out an envelope addressed in Congdon's
big scrawling hand. "Do you know these people?"
Mrs. Brent glanced at it. "Why, yes, Joe Moss is an artist. He's
well-known here, and you'll like him. His wife is a very talented woman,
and will be of great advantage to you. They know all the 'artistic
gang,' as they call themselves, and they live a delightfully Bohemian
life. They're right near here, and if I were you I'd go in to see them.
I'd thought of having the Mosses to-morrow night, and this settles it.
They must come. Good-bye till to-morrow at 7 P.M." And she went out,
leaving the girl in a glow of increasing good-will.
Haney was looking over a list of names and addresses which Lucius had
brought to him, and as Bertha returned he put his finger on one, and
said: "I believe, on me soul, that this Patrick McArdle is me second
sister's husband. 'Patrick McArdle, pattern-maker.' Sure, Charles said
he was in a stove foundry. 'Tis over on the West Side, Lucius says. How
would it do to slide over and see?"
"I'm agreeable," she carelessly answered, her mind full of Mrs. Brent
and the dinner.
Lucius interposed a word. "It's a very poor neighborhood, Captain. We
can hardly get to it with a machine."
"Well, then we'll drive. I want to make a stab at finding my sister
anyhow."
Lucius submitted, but plainly disapproved of the whole connection. On
the way Haney talked of his sister Fanny. "She was a bouncing,
jolly-tempered girl, always down at the heels, but good to me. She was
two years older, and was mother's main guy, as the sailors say. She was
fairly industrious, though none of us ever worked just for the fun of
it. Fan married all the other girls off to saloon-keepers or aldermen,
which is all the same in pay, and then ended up by takin' a man far
older than herself, who was not very strong and not very smart. He makes
patterns in sand for the leaves and acorns you see on stove doors. For
all we know, he may have made them that's on your new range at home."
The mention of that range brought to Bertha's mind a picture of her
lovely kitchen, so light and bright and shining, and another spasm of
homesickness and doubt seized her. "Mart, we had no business to come
away and leave that house and all our nice things in it."
"Miss Franklin will see after it."
"But how can she? She's gone nearly all day. And, besides, she's not up
to housekeeping--it ain't her line. I feel like going right back this
minute!"
This feeling of dismay was increased by the glimpses of the grimy West
Side, into which they were plunging every moment deeper. After leaving
the asphalt pavement the noise increased till they were unable to make
each other hear without shouting, and so they sat in silence while the
driver turned corners and dodged carts and cars till at last he turned
abruptly into a side-street, and, driving slowly along over a rotting
block pavement, drew up before a small, two-story frame house--a relic
of the old-time city.
The yards were full of children, who all stopped their play to stare at
this carriage, especially impressed by Lucius, who sat very erect on the
seat beside the driver, resolutely doing a very disagreeable duty. At
the door he got down and said: "Now, Captain, you give me a pointer or
two, and I'll find out whether this is your McArdle or not."
"Just ask if Mrs. McArdle was Fan Haney, of Troy. That'll cover the
specification," he answered.
By this time a large, fair-haired, slovenly woman had opened the door,
and, with truculent voice, called out: "Who do you want to find?"
"Fan Haney, of Troy," answered the Captain.
"That's me," the woman retorted.
"Ye are so! Very well, thin, consider yourself under arrest this
minute," said Haney, beginning to clamber out of the carriage.
The woman stared a moment; then a slow grin developed on her face so
like to Haney's own that Bertha laughed. The lost sister was found.
As Haney neared her, he called out: "Well, Fan, ye're the same old
sloven ye were when I used to kick your shins in Troy for soapin' me
mouth."
"Mart Haney, by the piper!" she exclaimed, wiping her lips and hands in
anticipation of a caress. "Where did ye borry the funeral wagon?"
He shook her hand--the kiss was out of his inclination--and responded in
the same vein of mockery: "A friend of mine died the day, and I broke
out of the procession to pay a call. Divil a bit the dead man cares."
"Who's with you in the carriage?"
"Mrs. Haney, bedad."
"Naw, it is not!"
"Sure thing!"
"She's too young and pretty--and Mart, ye're lame! And, howly saints,
man, ye look old! I wouldn't have known ye but fer the mouth and the
eyes of ye. Ye have the same old grin."
"The same to you."
"I get little chance to practise it these days."
"'Tis the same here."
"But how came ye hurt?"
"A felly with a grievance poured a load of buckshot into me side, and
one of them lodged in me spine, so they say."
She clicked her tongue in ready sympathy. "Dear, dear! But come in and
sit ye down. Ask yer girl to come in--I'm not perticular."
"She's me lawful wife," he said, and his tone changed her manner into
something like sweetness and dignity.
"Go ye in, Mart. I'll fetch her."
As the young wife sat in her carriage before this wretched little home
and watched that slatternly sister of her husband approach, she rose on
a wave of self-appreciation. Haney lost in dignity and power by this
association. For the first time in her life the girl acknowledged a
fixed difference between her blood and that of Mart Haney. She was
disgusted and ashamed as Mrs. McArdle, coming to the carriage side, said
bluffly: "'Tis a poor parlor I have, Mrs. Haney, but if ye'll light out
and come in I'll send for Pat. He'll be wantin' to see ye both."
Bertha would have given a good deal to avoid this visit, but seeing no
way to escape she stepped from the carriage under the keen scrutiny of
her hostess and walked up the rickety steps with something of the same
squeamish care she would have shown on entering a cow-barn.
"Here, Benny!" called Mrs. McArdle. "Run you to Dad and tell him me
brother Mart has come, and to hurry home. Off wid ye now!"
The poverty of this city working-man's home was plain to see. It struck
in upon Bertha with the greater power by reason of her six months of
luxury. It was not a dirty home, but it was cluttered and hap-hazard.
The old wooden chairs were worn with scouring, but littered with
children's rags of clothing. The smell of boiling cabbage was in the
air, for dinner-time was nigh. There were three rooms on the
ground-floor and one of these was living-room and dining-room, the other
the kitchen, and a small bedroom showed through an open door. For all
its disorder it gave out a familiar odor of homeliness which profoundly
moved Haney.
"Ye've grown like the mother, Fan. And I do believe some of these chairs
are her's."
"They are. When Dad broke up the house and went to live with Kate I put
in a bid for the stuff and I brought some of it out here with me."
"I'm glad ye did. That old rocker now--sure it's the very one we used to
fight for. I'll give ye twenty-five dollars for it, Fan."
"Ye can have it for the askin', Mart," she generously replied--tears of
pleasure in her eyes. "Sure, after all the tales I heard of ye--it's to
see you takin' fine to the mother's chair. She was a good mother to us,
Mart."
"She was!" he answered.
"And if the old Dad had been as much of a man as she was, we'd all stand
in better light to-day I'm thinkin'--though the father did the best he
knew."
"The worst he did was to let us all run wild. A club about our shoulders
now and then would have kept our tempers sweeter."
Bertha, in rich new garments, seemed as alien to the scene as any fine
lady visiting among the slums. She was struggling, too, between disgust
of her sister-in-law's slovenly house and untidy dress, and the good
humor, tender sentiment and innate motherliness of her nature. There was
charm in her voice and in her big gray eyes. Irish to the core, she
could storm at one child and coo with another an instant later. She was
like Mart, or rather Mart became every moment more of her kind and less
of the bold and remorseless desperado he had once seemed to be. The
deeper they dug into the past the more of his essential kinship to this
woman he discovered. He greeted her children with kindly interest,
leaving a dollar in each chubby, dirty fist, and when McArdle came into
the room Fan had quite conquered her awe of Bertha's finery.
McArdle was a small bent man, with a black beard, a pale serious face
and speculative eyes. He looked like a wondering, rather cautious animal
as he came in. He wore a cheap gray suit and a celluloid collar, and was
as careless in his way as his wife. It was plain that he was gentle,
absent-minded, and industrious.
He listened to his wife's voluble explanations in silence, inwardly
digesting all that was said, then shook hands--still without a word. And
when all these preliminaries were over he laid his hat aside and ran his
fingers through his thin hair with a perplexed and troubled gesture,
asking, irrelevantly: "How's the weather out there?"
Nobody saw the humor of this but his wife, who explained: "Pat is a
fiend on the weather. He was raised on a farm, ye see, and he can't get
over it. I say to him: 'What difference does the state o' the weather
make to you, that's under a roof all day?' But divil a change does it
make in him. The first thing in the morning he turns to the weather
report."
McArdle's eyes showed traces of a smile. "If it weren't for the papers
and the weather reports, me days would be alike. But sit by," he added,
hospitably, waving his hand towards the table, on which the dinner was
steaming.
They were drawing up to the board when a puffing and blowing, and the
furious clatter of feet announced the inrushing of the children.
Not the mother's shrill whooping, but the sight of the strange guests,
transformed them into mutes. The carriage outside had filled them with
wild alarms, but the sight of their parents alive, and entertaining
guests of shining quality, was almost as satisfyingly unusual as death
and a funeral.
They were a noisy, hearty throng, and Bertha's heart went out to poor
Patrick McArdle, who sat amid the uproar, silent, patient, the heroic
breadwinner for them all. No wonder he was old before his time. Slowly
her antipathy died out. She began to find excuses even for the mother.
To feed such a herd of little pigs and calves, even out of wooden
troughs, would require much labor; to keep them buttoned, combed, and
fit for school was an appalling task. "Mart must help these folks," she
said to herself.
McArdle had nothing to say during the meal, and Bertha could see that
his family did not expect him to do more than answer a plain question.
Indeed, the children created a hubbub that quite cut off any connected
intercourse, and Fan, with a grin of despair, at last said: "They'll be
gorged in a few minutes, and then we'll have peace."
"This is what lack of money means," Bertha was thinking. And her house,
her automobile, her horses, became at the moment as priceless, as
remote, as crown jewels and papal palaces. Then, conversely, she grew to
a larger conception of the possibilities which lay in sixty thousand
dollars a year. Not only did it lift her and all hers above the heat and
mire and distress of the world of toil, it enabled them to help others.
Swiftly the children filled their stomachs, and, seizing each a piece of
cake or pie, withdrew, leaving the old folks and their guests in peace.
Thereupon, McArdle, taking a pipe from his pocket and knocking it
absent-mindedly on the seat of the chair, dryly remarked: "Now that we
can hear ourselves think, let's have it all over again. Who air ye, and
why air ye here?"
Being told a second time that this was his brother-in-law, a miner from
Colorado, he shook hands all over again, and accepted Mart's cigar with
careful fingers, as if fearing to drop and break the precious thing.
Bertha said: "I think we'd better be going, Captain. Our carriage is
outside."
"Gracious Peter," cried Mrs. McArdle, "I forgot all about it! Is he by
the day or by the hour?"
Mart answered, with an amused smile. "Well, now, I don't know. I think
by the hour."
"Ye're makin' a big bluff, Mart. We're properly impressed," said his
sister. "Go pay him off, and save the money."
McArdle put in a query. "You must have a good thing out there?"
"'Tis enough to pay me carriage hire," answered Mart. And his tone
satisfied McArdle, who, with reflective eye on Bertha, puffed away at
his cigar, while Mart gave his promise to call again. "I'll come over
and get you all, and take you to the theatre in me auto-car," he said,
as he rose. "But we must be going now."
Fan was beginning to perceive in him more and more of the man of power
and substance, and her manner changed. "Ye were always the smartest of
the lot of us, Mart."
"No, I was not. Charles was the bright boy."
"So he was, but he was lazy. That was why he took up with
play-acting--'tis an easy job."
"Even that is too much work for him," remarked McArdle.
"I reckon that's right," laughed Mart, as he turned towards the door.
"Come again, if ye find time," called Fan, as they went down the steps.
McArdle, with his cigar in his hand, waved it in a sign of parting. And
so their visit to the McArdles closed.
Mart turned to his silent and thoughtful wife, and said, with a great
deal of meaning in his voice: "Well, now, what do you think of that for
a fine litter of pups?"
"They seem hearty."
"They do. 'Tis on such that the future of the ray-public rests." And
then he added: "Sure, Bertie, it gripped me heart to see the mother's
old chair!"