her kitchen, she looked as Eve might have looked, if, with her womanly
tears and sighs, she had bribed the Angel of the Flaming Sword to let
her pass through the gate and stroll for an hour along the paths of her
lost Eden. But Sarah's Paradise Regained was the paradise of the worker.
She rolled up her sleeves, tied a gingham apron around her waist, and
set about getting supper with the zeal of those who count themselves
blest in having to earn the bread they eat.
She set the little square table near a western window, and the sunset
light fell on the cheap cloth, the ill-matched pieces of cheap china,
and the plain food of the working man. It was all she could do to keep
back the tears of joy when she called David in to supper. David's eyes
filled, too, when he seated himself at the table. He bowed his head to
say grace, but his voice failed, and their grace was a silent
thanksgiving, not for food, but for the restoration of the old home and
the old life.
In the midst of the meal Sarah laid down her knife and fork with an
expression of dismay. "Oh, David!" she exclaimed, "what will we do about
the house in town? We can't leave it in charge of those no-account
servants."
"Don't worry," said David placidly. "Ann Bryan's in charge of that
house, and she'll stay as long as we're here. Ann knows how to manage
servants. She used to be the housekeeper at Northcliffe Manor, you
remember. I told her about the trouble you'd had, and I think you'll
find Nelly and Bertha well broken in when you get back."
Sarah drew a sigh of relief. It was good to know that those hateful
servants were in stronger hands than hers, and better still, that she
and David could eat their meals in the privacy of the kitchen with no
spying eyes upon them.
"Do the people at Millville know about this house, David?" she asked
later, as they sat on the porch in the stillness and coolness of the
night. David blew a puff of smoke into the darkness before he answered.
"They all know, Sarah, and I think it'll make things a good deal easier
for you. Annie McGowan came by one day, when I was havin' the cottage
torn down and the lumber hauled out here; she stopped to ask questions,
and I told her how you pined for your old home and what I intended to
do, and I guess she told all the other women, for I notice a change in
everybody's face."
"What did Annie say?" urged Sarah eagerly.
"She said she always knew your heart was in the right place."
The old home and the old friends, too! All her loved and lost
possessions were found, and if David's wealth were suddenly snatched
away, she would still be a rich woman. She slept soundly and woke with a
thrill of rapture at the thought of the day's work before her. How many
things there were to be done and how willingly she would do them, for
she was back in her own place, living her own life, and finding health
and happiness in daily toil. She went from task to task, rejoicing that
her hand had not lost its cunning for sweeping, dusting, sewing,
cooking, and all the rest of the blessed work that goes to the making of
a home; "and the evening and the morning were the first day." The second
day was like unto the first, and on the third day Mary Matthews and
Annie McGowan came, and a broken friendship was cemented, never to be
broken again.
At the end of the week David came home with a grave face. "I'm sorry,
Sarah," he said, as they sat down to their supper, "but I'm afraid
we'll have to break camp and go back to town to-morrow morning. I had a
letter from Bates and Hammond, that big firm I told you about, and I
have to go to St. Louis to-morrow morning. I can't leave you out here
alone, so I reckon you'll have to go back to the two-story brick for
awhile."
He expected an outburst of tears from Sarah, but to his great relief she
went calmly on, pouring his coffee and helping him to the corn bread and
bacon.
"That's all right, David," she said pleasantly. "I was just wonderin'
to-day how things were in town, and I'd just as soon go back as not."
David drew a breath of relief. "I think you'll find everything in good
order," he said. "Ann Bryan has got Nelly and Bertha well in hand. She
says they're good servants, and all they need is a tight rein to hold
them to their work. She says you must look them straight in the eye when
you give an order, and never let a bad piece of work pass. She says
that's the secret of managin' servants."
Sarah said nothing, but there was a look on her face that Ann Bryan
would have approved.
"We have to make an early start to-morrow," continued David, "for I
leave on the nine o'clock train. Ann may leave the house before we get
to town. Her brother's wife is sick, and she's needed at home, and
that's another reason why we ought to go back to town for awhile."
"Of course it is," agreed Sarah, "and I don't mind it at all."
David watched his wife closely, as they made preparations for leaving
the next morning, but there was nothing in her manner or her words to
indicate the slightest annoyance over the return to town. She seemed
alert, cheerful, and more than willing to make the change, and when they
came in sight of the two-story brick, David thought she looked rather
pleased.
"Maybe you'd better have some one to stay with you while I'm gone," he
suggested, as he kissed her good-by.
"No," said Sarah, very decidedly, "I've got some work to do, and I'd
rather be alone. Take care of yourself, David, and come home as soon as
you can."
She stood on the porch till David was out of sight and then walked back
to the kitchen where the two servants were dawdling and gossiping over
their breakfast.
"Nelly," she said, pointing to the kitchen clock and looking the maid
squarely in the face, "it's nearly nine o'clock and no cleaning done
yet. Go up-stairs and open the windows so the house'll have a good
airing, and then get the parlor in order first before company comes."
While the astonished Nelly obeyed orders, she turned to Bertha and gave
directions for the next meal. "You've got your kitchen in good order,"
she said approvingly, "and from now on you must keep it just this way."
"She's learnin' fast," said Nelly to Bertha an hour later, when they
came together for a whispered conference in the kitchen pantry.
"Believe me!" returned Bertha, "it won't be long before I'll be cookin'
six o'clock dinner instead of supper."
Sarah had ample time to work and think, for David was gone a week
instead of three days. Every morning she arose with certain plans in her
mind, and every night she lay down to sleep, calmly satisfied because
she had carried these plans to a successful completion. The forenoons
were spent in a careful superintendence of household affairs, and Nelly
and Bertha were made to feel the authority of a mistress whose ideas of
cleanliness and order were beyond any they had ever known. In the
afternoon she put on her brown suit and went out to walk, or to call on
the friendly people whose cards lay in the silver tray on her center
table. Her air at such times was one of grave determination, and even
David never knew with what fear and trembling and heart-sinking these
first social duties were performed. She was a pleasant-faced,
wholesome-looking woman; her dark, abundant hair was somewhat coarse,
but it waved naturally, and she arranged it well; her skin was not fine,
but it had a clear, healthy color, and her form was erect, in spite of
years of drudgery. Each day a careful observer might have found some
slight improvement in her dress and manner. Hitherto the putting on of
clothes had been to Sarah merely a part of her day's work, something to
be done with the utmost speed; but now she was learning to make a
toilette, varying the arrangement of her hair and observing the fit of
her garments and the effect of different colors. Her taste in clothes
happened to be good, and the fine simplicity of her suit and hat offset
the plainness of her manner and her evident embarrassment over the
difficult function of making calls.
"I like her," said Mrs. Emerson, the minister's wife, to Mrs. Morris,
the banker's wife. "She is what you call a plain woman, and they're
unmistakably 'new rich', but the newspaper paragrapher will never have
anything on her. She's absolutely without pretense, and she has a world
of common sense. I'm glad she's consented to join our club, for we need
just such a woman in this legislative work we're undertaking."
When David wrote her the date of his home-coming, she made it a festal
occasion. The house had an extra cleaning; the grocer's boy left the
choicest meat, fruits, and vegetables on Nelly's kitchen table, and
Bertha was ordered to make the table look as attractive as possible.
Notwithstanding her longing for the old life, Sarah had always taken a
timid, tremulous sort of pleasure in the fine damask, the cut glass,
silver, and china that David had bought when they moved into the
"two-story brick", and after she had dressed to meet David, she stole
down to the dining-room to feast her eyes on the costly things that had
replaced the plated spoons, steel knives, ten-cent dishes, and cotton
napkins of other days. Closing the door lest Bertha should intrude on
her, she gazed fondly at her possessions. She was just beginning to feel
they were really hers. She touched the lace of the centerpiece and a
daring thought came into her mind. Was there time to do it before David
came? She rushed up-stairs, put on her hat and coat, seized her purse,
and walked swiftly to a near-by greenhouse.
"Roses?" said the florist, "certainly, madam, what kind?"
What kind? Alas! the only roses she knew by name were roses like the
old-fashioned ones that grew in the gardens of the Millville people.
These stately queens clad in white, pink, and crimson satin and cloth of
gold, were strangers to her. She looked hesitatingly from the Bridesmaid
to the Bride, from the Bride to the Jacqueminot, and the florist, seeing
her perplexity, suggested La France as a desirable choice and called her
attention to the perfume. Yes, she wanted a dozen,--she almost turned
pale at the thought of her own extravagance,--and when the florist laid
the big, soft bundle of roses and ferns on her arm, she hurried home
with a fearful joy in her heart. She was used to placing flowers on her
table, gay nasturtiums, delicate sweet peas, and gorgeous zinnias from
her own little back-yard garden. But to buy flowers for the table had
always seemed to her the acme of luxury. Often she had gazed admiringly
at the treasures of the florist's window, with never a thought that such
splendors of color and perfume would one day be within her reach. She
had really never accepted the change from poverty to wealth, and not
once had she put her fingers into the purse that the hand of fortune
held out to her. It was David who bought the house and its furnishings,
David who bought even her clothes, while she, fettered by the frugal
habits of a lifetime, stood aghast at what seemed to her a reckless,
sinful extravagance. But now the rich fragrance of the roses was like an
enchantment. Her hands trembled, a flush rose to her cheek, and as she
placed the blossoms in a cut-glass vase, unconsciously she stepped
across the boundary line between the old life and the new. Those
hothouse flowers and ferns were the signs of wealth, David's wealth. She
was David's wife, and she had a right to every costly and beautiful
thing that her husband's money could purchase. She drew back from the
table to observe the effect of the flowers drooping over the heavy
damask cloth set with sparkling glass and silver and delicate china;
then, moved by a sudden impulse that she could not have explained, she
drew one of the roses from the vase and hurried up to her room,
glancing furtively back to see whether she was observed by either of the
servants. Standing before the mirror, she broke off the long stem and
pinned the flower at her belt, then gazed anxiously into the glass.
Clearly the flower looked out of place. She unpinned it, noticing how
rough and coarse her hands were when they touched the satiny rose
petals. But she had seen other women wearing great clusters of such
flowers, and she too must learn to wear them. She heard David's step on
the pavement below; the front door opened. She replaced the rose, and
turning from the mirror with an air of firm resolve, she went bravely
down to meet her husband.
Ah, the joy of reunion! All her perplexities fell away from her as she
and David clasped hands and smiled at each other after the manner of
long married lovers.
"Thank God for home!" ejaculated David, sinking into an easy chair. He
looked around the room, looked again at his wife, and was conscious of a
subtle change in the atmosphere of the house. The exquisite order and
cleanliness reminded him of the housekeeping he had been accustomed to,
when he and Sarah lived in the little Millville cottage; and on Sarah's
face there was an expression that her husband had never before seen
there, the look of a soul that is girding itself for new
responsibilities and new duties. David did not understand the look, but
he observed that Sarah no longer crept about the house like an awkward,
frightened guest; her step and bearing were that of the mistress, and he
had a thrill of exultant pride a few moments later, when he heard her
address Nelly in a tone of calm command. He also saw and approved the
rose at her belt, but he did not know that the flower was a symbol of
all the changes that had been wrought during his absence.
There was no self-consciousness in the manner of either when they sat
down at the flower-decked table. David had seen persons of importance
and transacted business of importance; he was the sort of husband who
makes his wife a silent partner in all his business affairs, and the two
talked at ease, forgetting the hated presence of a servant. David looked
across the roses at his wife's face, serene and happy as it used to be
in the old days, and again he silently blessed the doctor and his magic
prescription.
"How do you feel now, Sarah?" he asked, as they seated themselves in the
parlor, and Sarah took up her basket of crocheting. "You know the
doctor said I must let him know how you got along."
"I am perfectly well," said Sarah emphatically, "and what's more, I
intend to stay well."
David laughed aloud with pleasure. "I'll tell the doctor how well his
prescription worked. That cottage is the best investment I ever made."
"Even if we never went back to it," said Sarah thoughtfully, "it would
make me happy just to know it's there and it's ours."
"That reminds me," said David, with a sudden change of manner. "Hale and
Davis say they can sell this house for me any day."
"Hale and Davis?" inquired Sarah with a look of surprise.
"Real estate men," explained David.
"What right have they to sell my house?" asked Sarah almost angrily.
David looked embarrassed. "Why, Sarah, I told them you were
dissatisfied; you know you said--"
"Yes, I know I did," owned Sarah hastily. Her face crimsoned with an
embarrassment greater than David's. During his absence she had been
born again, born from poverty to riches. This sudden change of heart
and mind that had made her a new creature was a mystery to herself; how,
then, could she explain it satisfactorily to her husband? "I know you'll
think I'm notionate and changeable, but--I don't want to sell this
house. I feel just as much at home here now as I do in the little
cottage. I've got used to the servants and everything, and I want to
stay, and if I did not want to, I'd stay anyhow. It's cowardly to run
away or turn back when you've set out to do a certain thing, and I'm not
a coward. Oh! I know I can't make you understand how I feel about it and
how I came to change so, but--_I want to stay in this house._" She
paused and looked pleadingly at David. For a few seconds he was dumb
with astonishment, then:
"Good for you, Sarah," ejaculated David: "That's exactly the way I feel
about it." Pride and exultation shone in his eyes. Sarah had risen to
the situation, and if Sarah could, so could he.
"But can we afford to keep this house and the cottage, too?" asked Sarah
anxiously.
David laughed as one laughs at the questioning of a child.
"Wait a minute, Sarah; I've got something to show you." He rose and left
the room, returning presently with a drawing-board covered with sheets
of drafting paper. He drew his chair near to Sarah's, rested the board
on her knees, and began an enthusiastic description of the mechanism
pictured in his rough drawings. Sarah could not comprehend the
complexities of wheels, pulleys, flanges, and weights that David pointed
out to her, but David's mechanical genius was the glory of her life, and
she looked at the drawings with the rapt admiration a painter's wife
might bestow on a canvas fresh from her husband's touch.
"I've been hammering at this idea a good while," concluded David, "and I
believe I've got it in working shape at last. I'll have some better
drawings made this week and get them off to Washington, and if all goes
well, we'll have more money than we know what to do with."
"No, we won't," said Sarah. Her lips closed to a thin line, and she
spoke with defiant emphasis. "That's another thing I've learned while
you were away. I know what to do with money, and I don't care how rich
we are."
David stared at his wife in unveiled amazement. Was this his wife, who a
few short weeks ago was weeping over unwelcome riches and longing for a
life of poverty? Sarah's face crimsoned with the confusion of the woman
who is suddenly called upon to explain a change of mind, and she began
her explanation, speaking slowly and hesitatingly.
"You remember I told you about that Mrs. Emerson who came to see me and
ask me to join her club,--the Fortnightly, I believe they call it. Well,
the day after you left, I dressed myself in my best and went to see her.
And I told her that if the place was still open, I believed I'd join.
She was real pleasant about it, and said she was so glad I'd changed my
mind, and that they'd all be glad to have me for a member. And I said to
her: 'Now, Mrs. Emerson, I'm not an educated woman, but I've got sense
enough to know what I can do and what I can't do. I can't write papers
and make speeches, but maybe there's some kind of work for me to do, if
I join the club;' and she laughed and said that if I have sense enough
to know what I could do and what I couldn't do, I'd make a fine club
woman. And she said they had been studyin' _The Ring and the Book_,
whatever that is, but now they've concluded to change their plan of
work, and they were lookin' into the conditions of workin' people,
especially workin' women, and she was sure I could help in that sort of
work. And I said: 'That's very likely, for I've been a workin' woman
myself, and lived with workin' women all my life.' And she said that was
something to be proud of, and that every woman ought to be a workin'
woman, and it was just for that reason they wanted me in the club."
Sarah paused here and bent over to straighten out a tangle in her
worsteds. David was holding a paper open before him, but his wife's
social adventures were of more interest to him than any page of the
_Inventor's Journal_, and he waited patiently for Sarah to resume her
story.
"The next day was Wednesday, and the club met at Mrs. Morton's--she's
the president."
"What Morton? Alexander Morton's wife?" interrupted David.
Sarah nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Alexander Morton. They live in the big white
stone house over on First Avenue."
"He's president of the bank and about everything else in this place."
David stated this fact in an un-emotional way, but his eyes gleamed
with triumph. His wife and Alexander Morton's wife members of the same
club!
"When Mrs. Emerson said the club met at Mrs. Morton's, I declare, Dave,
my heart stood still at the thought of goin' by myself to that club. But
Mrs. Emerson said she'd come by in her carriage and take me there, and
she did."
David laid down his paper and straightened himself in his chair. "How
did they treat you?" he asked eagerly.
"Just as nice as they possibly could," said Sarah. "I won't mind goin'
by myself next time."
David's face expressed a satisfaction and pride too deep for words.
"What did they do?" he asked with the curiosity of the masculine mind
that seeks to penetrate the mysteries of a purely feminine affair.
"Well, they talked mostly, and at first I couldn't see what they were
drivin' at, but I kept on listenin', and at last I began to understand
what they intend to do. They're lookin' into the conditions of workin'
women and girls and children, and they're tryin' to get laws passed that
will make things easier for people that work in mills and factories.
They asked me about the hours of work at the mills, and the wages and
how the mill people lived, and, David, they said when the Legislature
meets this winter, they'll have to go up to the capital to get some
bills passed, and they want me to go with them."
It was impossible for Sarah to stifle the note of triumph in her voice.
There was a red spot on each cheek, her eyes shone with enthusiasm, and
though she might not be able yet to define the word "civic", evidently
she had caught the spirit of civic work. As for David, he was speechless
with astonishment and delight. If long residence in Millville had
qualified Sarah for membership in the Fortnightly Club, then, after all,
the world of the rich and the world of the poor were not very far apart.
"I told them about Agnes Thompson, how she lost her thumb and finger in
the mill this spring, and what the Company offered her for damages, and
how hard it is for mothers with little children to leave home and work;
and they want to build a day nursery where the babies and children can
be looked after, and that's why I said I'd learned what to do with
money." She paused and looked at David, who nodded sympathetically. "One
thing that helped me to see things right," she continued, "was a sermon
I heard the Sunday you were away. You know that little church just three
blocks down the street back of us? Well, Sunday morning I dressed and
started out, and I said to myself: 'I'll go to the first church I come
to;' and it happened to be that little church down the street with the
cross on the steeple and over the door 'Church of the Eternal Hope.'
That's a pretty name for a church, ain't it? Church of Eternal Hope. I
went in while they were singin' the first hymn, and when the preacher
read his text and begun to preach, it seemed to me that something must
have led me there, for that sermon, every word of it, was just meant for
me. The text was: 'I know both how to abound and to suffer need,' and he
said life was a school, and every change that life brought to us was a
lesson, and instead of complaining about it, we ought to go to work and
learn that lesson, and get ready for a new one. He said if poverty came
to us, it was because we needed the lesson of poverty; and if riches
came, it was because we needed another lesson; and he said the lesson of
poverty was easier to learn than the lesson of wealth. Oh,
David!"--Sarah's face was glowing with repressed emotion and her voice
trembled,--"I wish you could have heard him, I can't remember it all,
but it seemed as if he was preaching just to me, and I sat and listened,
and all my troubles and worries just seemed to leave me, because I began
to see the meaning of them; and when you know what trouble means, it's
not a trouble any longer. And he said that there was a purpose in every
life, and it was our duty to find out what the purpose was and do our
best to carry it out. Now, I believe, David, that I see why all this
money's been put into our hands. We were happy without it, and it made
us pretty miserable at first, but it was given to us for a purpose, and
we must carry out the purpose. Both of us were born poor, and we've
lived with poor people all our lives, and I can see the purpose in that.
We know how poor people live, we know what they need, and now we've got
money"--she stopped abruptly. "Don't you see the purpose, David?"