SUZANNA PUTS A REQUEST
In that devastating fire which swept out of existence the entire
tenement district of Anchorville two were lost, never to be heard of
again, parents of a twain of children, a boy of four and a girl of
three.
Mrs. Procter, finding the mites wandering away from the smoking ruins,
had at once taken them home with her, fed them, found clothes for them,
and rocked the tired little girl to sleep.
"Are we going to keep them forever, mother?" Maizie asked one afternoon
about two weeks after the fire. No one had put in a claim for the
children; they were homeless, friendless. What was to be done with them?
Mrs. Procter had turned with loathing from the thought of the orphanage.
She stood at Maizie's question in deep perplexity. She could not turn
the children away or put them in an institution--and yet, how could she
care for them? There was the very definite problem of extra clothes and
food to be found out of an income already stretched to its utmost.
"They haven't a home any more, have they, mother?" Suzanna asked, the
while her earnest eyes searched her mother's face. "So we should do unto
others as we'd be done by, shouldn't we?"
A vague memory returned to Mrs. Procter. What was it Suzanna had once
said? "Mrs. Procter cuddles all children in her heart." And Suzanna and
Maizie stood watching her, asking a literal translation of a principle
laid down for man's guidance.
"We'll see what can be done," Mrs. Procter answered finally. And then
she continued very carefully: "You see, it isn't only a question of
giving these little ones a home, but they must be clothed and fed and
educated, and we haven't a great deal of money."
"So many of those poor people haven't any homes any more, have they?"
asked Suzanna. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears of pity. She looked
out of the window. The sun was shining brightly. And to be in keeping
with the suffering about them, Suzanna wished it would hide behind a
cloud. It seemed the day itself, to be in sympathy, should be dark,
depressed, altogether gloomy.
Her mother answered: "It's providential in a manner that those unsightly
cottages were swept away; but they meant homes for many poor souls; and
all that they possessed was contained in those homes."
Suzanna's ingenious mind settled itself to work on the problem of the
bereft ones. She was no longer thinking of the two little orphans, but
of the many troubled people. If only her home were large enough to
accommodate them all! Her thoughts in natural sequence ran to the Eagle
Man and his beautiful place, but she immediately rejected the idea. She
feared he might not listen kindly to the plan of lending his home even
as a temporary abode for the stricken. Had he not been a little unkind
about her father's wonderful Machine?
Suddenly she remembered Bartlett Villa, and with the memory came a
thousand thoughts. Impulsively she donned hat and coat, spoke a word to
her mother and was off.
In a very short time, for she ran nearly all the way, she reached
Bartlett Villa. She pushed open the big iron gate leading into the
grounds, and stopped short, for there to the left, near a closed
fountain, stood Graham. He was talking to a tall man whose back was
toward Suzanna. About the two, in seeming happiness, played Jerry.
Graham cried out when he saw Suzanna. She went quickly to him. Then the
man looked down at her and smiled. Suzanna decided that she liked him,
but she wished his smile was more of a real one, one that should light
his face. She did not know the word, but he looked, despite his smile,
cynical, rather weary. Yes, she knew she should like him, for in some
indefinite way he reminded her of her father. Was it the brown, rather
nearsighted eyes? Surely they were keen, yet behind their keenness dwelt
a softness; perhaps he, too, once had cherished a vision.
Graham greeted her demonstratively. "And this is my father, Suzanna," he
said. "I've told him a lot about you."
"Yes, I know a great deal about you, Suzanna," said Mr. Bartlett; "and
David has told me of your father's invention and what he expects to do
some day with it."
Suzanna's face kindled. "Yes, my father's a great man," she said,
simply.
Then she turned to Graham: "I came to talk to you about something very
important. I was going to ask you afterwards to speak to your father
about my plan."
"I may hear, then?" said Mr. Bartlett. "Shall we go on into the house?
There's a little chill in the air."
So they walked toward the great house, leaving Jerry rather
disconsolate. Suzanna, looking up at Mr. Bartlett, said: "I've been here
twice and I've never seen you."
"My business takes me often to different cities," he replied.
They entered the house and went into a small room at the left of the
wide hall. It was lovely, Suzanna decided, done all in soft gray, except
the curtains at the window, which were of amber silk, hanging in heavy
folds. Yes, very charming, Suzanna emphasized to herself. She liked
particularly the one picture on the wall, showing a group of horses,
heads high in the air, full of fire. Suzanna could see them move, she
believed.
"Sit down there, Suzanna, in that high-backed chair and tell us what you
have to say that's so important," suggested Mr. Bartlett.
"I'm crazy to hear all about it, Suzanna," supplemented Graham. He
settled himself in anticipation, for Suzanna was always intensely
interesting.
Suzanna seated herself. A quaint little figure she was, her fine head
thrown in relief against the gray satin of the chair. "You know," she
began, "there's been a fire."
"A bully big one," said Graham.
Suzanna turned her dark eyes upon the boy. "It was a big one, and maybe
fun to watch," she said, "but it burned all the people's homes. We've
got two little children, at our house. We could never find their father
and mother."
Mr. Bartlett, occupying the corner of a lounge, shifted uneasily.
Evidently to put forth truths so baldly was inartistic.
"My mother says it was--I can't think of the word--but she meant it was
lucky those cottages were burned down; they were so dirty." Suzanna went
on: "And babies played in the yards in ashes and old papers. I always
hurried past when I went that way because something stopped inside of
me, I felt so sorry for those babies." Suzanna paused. "I just thought
as we walked up your front path how different everything is here; your
front yard is so clean, and there's so much room!"
She stopped again. She wished Mr. Bartlett would speak. He must guess
now all that she meant to convey to him; all she would ask of him.
But still he didn't answer. "The Eagle Man owned those houses," she said
at last.
"The Eagle Man?" Mr. Bartlett roused himself at last. "Who is the Eagle
Man?"
"Mr. Massey other people call him. The Eagle Man's my own private name
for him."
Graham knew his father was heavily interested in the Massey Steel Mills.
But he did not speak.
"You know, it's an awful fine feeling you get when you're doing
something for strangers," Suzanna pressed on. "Some way you don't feel
so excited when you're doing something for your very own family."
But she was doomed to disappointment. A continued silence still greeted
her words. "When people work for you isn't it as though you were their
father or their big brother and had to help them when they needed it?"
she asked, at length.
"Well, it's a new thought that you owe anything to the men who work for
you except their wages," said Mr. Bartlett at last.
"Why, Drusilla told me that everyone in the world has a little silver
chain running from his wrist to his next friend's wrist; it stretches
when you run--a fellowship link my father named it when I told him. And
the chain runs from my wrist to your wrist and from yours to every other
wrist in the world." She leaned closer, finishing earnestly. "And
Drusilla says if you break your chain you're really a slave."
"Very interesting," commented Mr. Bartlett.
"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Suzanna. She returned tenaciously to her
subject. "There are many homeless families who weren't welcome where
they had to go after the fire. Mary Holmes says her mother took in four
people and she says as long as they stay there'll have to be stews, for
in that way a pound of meat goes further, and Mary just hates stews."
"Well, what is your suggestion of a remedy, Suzanna?" asked Mr.
Bartlett. At which question, though put in words beyond her, Suzanna's
eyes brightened. She caught the sense unerringly and answered promptly.
"Why, I thought _you_ could do something. You have so much room." And
then the solution came, out of the sky as often answers came when you
didn't expect them. "Why, you could put tents up in your big yards for
the homeless people, till their own homes are built again."
Mr. Bartlett was greatly amused. "You ask such a little thing, Suzanna."
"Yes, isn't it, seeing it'll help out so much?" Suzanna returned
innocently.
Graham rose and went close to his father. "Father," he said, "who's
going to build the new homes for the poor people?"
His father answered: "I don't know, I'm sure; but I should think it old
John Massey's duty to do so."
"Father," asked Graham, after a pause given over to thought and drawing
on his memory for what vague facts he knew of his father's business, "if
you take less money for your interests in the mill and if you speak to
him, do you suppose Mr. Massey would begin at once to build those
homes?" His young face was quite white with earnestness and other new
emotions struggling up to the surface.
Mr. Bartlett looked from one small face to the other. He smiled grimly.
They could see nothing but the humanness of a situation, the need
existing. Going against all precedent meant nothing to them; they simply
followed ridiculous altruistic impulses. Only in their minds was the
knowledge that other people were suffering; and the immediate necessity
for relief.
He let his hand fall upon his son's shoulder. "How about the trip
abroad, Graham?" There was an under meaning in his question which Graham
got at once. His face lit.
"I'd rather help out here, father, and give up the trip. I really
would."
Mr. Bartlett remained quiet for a long time again. In some mysterious
manner he was now for almost the first time looking upon his son as an
individual, one with opinions and the power of criticism. And there
grew in his heart the very fervent desire to stand well in that son's
estimation. He looked at Suzanna and envied her father. How proudly, how
simply she had said, "He is a great man!"
But when he spoke, he reverted to a name used a moment before by
Suzanna, a name he knew well.
"Who's your very philosophic friend, Suzanna--Drusilla, you called her."
Suzanna's eyes shone. "Drusilla? She's my special friend. She lives in a
little house on the forked road. She's pretty and sweet and she has
fancies, like children. She plays sometimes she's a queen. But she's
lonely. She gave Miss Massey to Robert in the little church. And she has
no one in all the world left to call her by her first name. So I call
her Drusilla and she loves it."
Graham did not stir. Neither did he look at his father till Suzanna,
suddenly remembering, cried out:
"Why, Drusilla's Graham's grandmother!"
Mr. Bartlett's face suddenly went very white. He didn't speak for a long
time. Then he rose and went to the window, drew back the silken curtain
and stared out.
Suzanna wondered if he would ever move again! At the moment he was far
away. He was a boy again at his mother's knee, listening to that
fanciful conception of the little silver chain that stretched so far.
There rushed in on him, too, other memories, blinding ones that hurt.
True, every day at the little house a spray of lilies of the valley were
delivered; but with that impersonal gift which cost him nothing but the
drawing of a check he had dismissed his mother from his busy mind,
letting her stay in loneliness, live in old dreams.
A soft little swish was heard at the door and Mrs. Bartlett entered the
room. She stopped in some consternation at sight of the silent trio
within.
"Why, what is the matter?" she asked, impulsively.
Mr. Bartlett turned from the window. He looked at his wife, steadily
regarded her beautiful face and bronze-colored hair piled high upon her
small and regal head. His gaze sought the soft, white hands, the tapered
fingers with pink and shining nails.
At last he spoke, very quietly, but each word seemed weighed: "'And in
the morning there shall tents suddenly arise.' A quotation from
somewhere, my dear, but it shall come true here."
She turned a cold gaze upon him. "Will you explain what you mean?" she
asked.
"There are a few homeless people in Anchorville; their homes laid waste
by a fire," he said, pleasantly. "This small messenger has suggested
that we make use of our ample grounds for a time by putting up tents,
for a time, I say, till more substantial abiding places may be built."
She clenched her hands. "You can't do that, Graham," she began, a note
of entreaty in her voice; "you can't possibly be so absurdly quixotic."
"And why not?"
"I can't understand!" she repeated. "Such philanthropic ideas have not
occurred to you before."
He went to her, standing so he could look into her eyes. "It's late in
the day, but I'll try to do some little thing my mother would like me to
do."
Mrs. Bartlett was about to speak again in burning protest when her
glance fell upon the children, Suzanna and her own boy. And the eloquent
expressions upon those small faces kept her silent. At last she turned
as though to leave the room. Over her shoulder she spoke.
"At least you will not insist upon my presence here while you fulfill
your preposterous plans?"
He replied gently: "As always, I ask nothing that you cannot give in
perfect freedom."
She hesitated, was about to say something, stopped and took another
subject: "As for your mother--"
He interrupted her, but to repeat "As for my mother--" but he left his
thought unfinished.
Then he, too, went toward the door, and as he passed Suzanna he let his
fine, nervous hand touch her bright hair. Once he turned. "Suzanna, as I
told you," he said, "David, my fine gardener, has interested me somewhat
in your father's machine; perhaps I'll make a journey to your home some
day to see it."