THE DUCHESS
IT was eleven o’clock in the morning, and Barbara threw herself into
the hammock on the porch, every nerve in her body tingling with
fatigue. In a chair near by sat the Kid, driving imaginary horses along
Main Street, and politely removing his hat to every one he met on the
way. He inquired whether Barbara desired to ride on the front seat
with him, but she was so tired that she scarcely answered the little
boy, and wearily closed her eyes to avoid seeing David’s book and
Jack’s racket lying on the piazza floor. She felt that to rise from the
hammock and pick up that racket was a task requiring the strength and
energy of a Titan.
She was gradually succumbing to the influence of the swaying hammock,
and the tension of her nerves was relaxing, so that the sudden stampede
of the horses on the porch was dimly associated in her mind with
thunder, when she felt a sudden touch on her shoulder, and opened her
eyes to see the Kid standing near.
“There’s a lady at the gate, Barb’ra,” he said.
Barbara peered over the edge of the hammock. Coming up the path, with
a stately stride and a majestic swing that allowed her skirts to sweep
first one edge of the path and then the other, advanced a Being whose
presence immediately inspired Barbara with a sense of approaching
royalty. It was not that the visitor was fashionably attired, for
her faded black garments and dejected-looking bonnet, even in their
palmiest days, could not have been called stylish. Yet, resting in
serenity upon the thin, tall form of their wearer, they seemed calmly
self-satisfied and distinguished. As the visitor approached, she shed
kindly critical and affable glances about her, and rewarded Barbara’s
inquiring gaze with a cheerful smile.
“You’re Barbara Grafton, I s’pose,” she said in a brisk voice. “I’m
Mrs. ’Arris, an’ I’ve come to ’elp you hout.”
[Illustration: I’M MRS. ’ARRIS, AN’ I’VE COME TO ’ELP YOU HOUT]
Barbara sat up quickly. “Oh!” she said. “Do you wish a position as cook
here?”
Mrs. Harris’s eyes rested upon her with amiable condescension. “I come
to ’elp you hout,” she repeated. “I’m Mrs. Brown’s widder sister, and
when she told me as ’ow you was left alone and the ’ouse agoin’ to rack
and ruin—”
Barbara suddenly stiffened in the hammock.
“Why, she says to me, she says, ‘’Ilda, I’m awful fond of Dr. Grafton,
an’ I can’t let ’im starve without proper care while ’is wife’s gone.
Now you jest put on your things an’ go up there an’ ’elp hout.’ So I
come,” concluded Mrs. Harris, composedly; and she sat down.
The Kid drew nearer, and stared at her from under his mass of tawny
hair. “You goin’ to stay here?” he inquired.
“Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Harris, with a sweeping glance at the
little fellow, that took in the holes in the knees of his stockings.
“Then please get out o’ that chair,” said the Kid, promptly. “It’s my
black Arabian horse.”
“Charles!” cried Barbara.
“You take another chair, or play somewheres else,” said Mrs. Harris,
calmly. “Runnin’ wild sence ’is mother left, I s’pose,” she remarked,
turning to Barbara.
Barbara choked back her astonished resentment at this speech, and
returned to the subject at hand.
“It may be that you will not suit,” she said coldly, rising. “Can you
cook well, and do you understand gas-ranges?”
Mrs. Harris laughed complacently, eyeing the slender girl before her
with amused condescension. “I ’ave cooked for the finest families o’
Hengland,” she announced. “I’ll settle with your father about wages.
Now you jest show me the kitchen, an’ then I’ll let you go, as I see
this porch ain’t tidy, an’ that there child needs to be attended to,
an’ probably the rest o’ the ’ouse wants cleanin’.”
The Kid slunk off the porch as the words “needs to be attended to”
pierced his small cranium. He thought it meant chastisement for his
last speech, poor child, and saw, with joy, Barbara following this new
and surprising person into the house. In Barbara’s mind a sense of
resentment and defeat was conflicting with a feeling of relief at the
prospect of help. She rejoiced to herself as they passed through the
hall, for she had just swept it with her own hands.
“Dreadful dusty mopboards,” said Mrs. Harris, nonchalantly. Barbara’s
spirits sank.
As they entered the kitchen, she suddenly remembered that she had left
some dishes piled in the sink, to be washed with the dinner things.
In her absence, moreover, some hungry boy had been rummaging in the
cake-box, and had left crumbs and morsels of food scattered over the
table. Mrs. Harris paused on the threshold, and untied her bonnet,
while her roving black eyes quickly took in the scene before her. Clean
enough it had seemed to Barbara an hour before, but now many things,
hitherto unnoticed, suddenly sprang into prominence. She saw that the
white sash-curtain at the window was disreputably dirty; that the stove
was actually rusty on top; that cobwebs lurked in the corners; and she
remembered, with a pang, that the ice-box had not been cleaned since
her mother left.
“My!” ejaculated Mrs. Harris. “Well, I’ll get dinner first, then I’ll
tackle this lookin’ room. You set the table, Barbara,—ain’t that your
name?—an’ I’ll do the cookin’. What meat ’ave you ordered?”
“None,” answered Barbara; “I don’t approve of eating meat, and have not
allowed the children to have any for some time. Father has been taking
his dinners down-town lately.”
“Land alive!” ejaculated Mrs. Harris, turning shocked eyes upon
Barbara. “The poor children! An’ your paw,—druv from ’is ’ome! Well!
You jest go to the telephone, an’ horder a good piece of steak before
it’s too late.”
“I prefer not to have meat,” said Barbara, stiffly.
Mrs. Harris’s face settled into stubborn lines. “I’ve never ’eard of
anything so foolish,” she declared. “Growin’ children need meat, an’
you run right along an’ horder that steak.”
It was at this point that Barbara’s sense of diplomacy came to her aid.
This woman had indeed forced herself into the kitchen, but she was
very welcome, nevertheless. She must not prejudice her at the outset,
but must gradually accustom Mrs. Harris to her views. Barbara turned
away to the telephone. Immediately Mrs. Harris’s manner changed, and
she became affable again as she bustled capably about the kitchen, and
assigned small jobs to her young mistress.
“Hello!” cried Jack, joyfully, as he took his seat in his father’s
place, and viewed the well-cooked steak. “Is the embargo off? Is this
a carving-knife that I see before me? Why, Barbara! Didst do this
thyself, lass?”
“Jack,” said Barbara, nervously, “I have engaged a new maid and—”
A decided voice from the kitchen interrupted her.
“Barbara, you come an’ git the bread. I’m busy.”
The children seated around the table stared at one another.
“Whew!” whispered Jack to Gassy; “now, by my halidame, there goes
Barbara. Is Petruchio in the kitchen?”
Barbara reëntered with scarlet cheeks. There was something in her
manner which warned even the Kid not to comment The meal began in
absolute silence, another cause of which may have been the perfectly
cooked dinner, which descended like manna into the loyal but empty
stomachs of the Grafton offspring. The Kid ate his steak voraciously,
and eagerly extended his plate for more.
“See ’ow ’e’s ben pinin’,” remarked a voice from the open doorway.
The children started, and looking up, for the first time saw the
dignified figure of Mrs. Harris surveying them with a condescendingly
satisfied gaze. “These are all the children, I s’pose, Barbara. Well,
now, there’s a nice rice puddin’ for dessert, an’ then you an’ that
little girl can ’elp me clear away to-day, ’cause there’s so much to do
to clean up this ’ouse.”
“I don’t want any pudding,” declared Jack, in haste, longing to get
away to some nook where he could laugh unseen.
“Set right where you are,” said Mrs. Harris, calmly. “You don’t get no
more to eat till supper, so you’d better fill up now.”
Jack gasped and obeyed.
Even when dinner was over, and the dishes washed with the surprised
help of a subdued Gassy, there was no diminution of Mrs. Harris’s
energy. She cleaned the kitchen thoroughly; she scrubbed the bathroom;
she charged upon the children’s rooms, and the dust and dirt retreated
in confusion before her vigorous onslaught. She accompanied the
performances with a running fire of ejaculatory comment. Barbara, with
set lips, kept just behind her, and followed directions with an injured
determination to die in her tracks before giving up.
“I am glad to have such capable help,” she said, observing Jack in the
next room.
“’Eh?” returned Mrs. Harris, looking up from her dustpan. “Wish I could
say the same! But never mind, you’ll learn in time, I dare say. O’
course you’ve ben in school an’ can’t be expected to know much yet.”
Barbara heard a chuckle and subdued applause from the next room.
“Who’s that?” inquired Mrs. Harris, abruptly. “Oh, it’s your brother. I
was lookin’ for ’im. What’s ’is name? Jack? Well, Jack, you jest take
these rugs out to the back yard an’ beat ’em a little. They need it.”
Jack advanced, hesitating. “I don’t know how to beat rugs,” he muttered.
“Well, I’ll show you,” said Mrs. Harris, serenely. “Lend a hand with
this big one.”
Barbara surveyed with joy the sullen droop of Jack’s back, as he
followed his instructor down the hall.
“Let well enough alone,” she called impersonally.
“Don’t you do it!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “You beat ’em thorough.”
“I think we won’t do any more,” declared Barbara to Mrs. Harris, as
the clock struck four. “We have been at this all the afternoon, and
I’ll let you leave Jack’s room until to-morrow. We have done enough for
to-day.”
Mrs. Harris put her hands on her hips and surveyed Barbara quizzically.
“Well, you ain’t used to work, be you?” she said. “Tired, I s’pose.”
Barbara’s face flushed. She was so weary that she lost the dignity to
which she had been clinging desperately all day.
“Yes, I am tired!” she burst out. “I worked all the morning before
you came. Besides, it’s absurd to fly around like this, trying to do
everything at once. My time is too valuable to waste so much of it upon
such things as these.”
A queer expression settled upon the features of Mrs. Harris. She looked
amused, indulgent, and vastly superior.
“Your time too valuable?” she said slowly and calmly; “your time too
valuable? Well, young lady, I don’t know jest what things you’ve got to
do besides taking care of your brothers and your sister, but I reckon
there ain’t nothing better.”
Barbara drew a long breath of anger and walked away.
* * * * *
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” she said ruefully to her father, a few days
later, “if only she didn’t assume all the powers and prerogatives of
a sovereign. But she has actually reduced the children to the most
subdued state you can imagine. Jack never ravages the pantry now, since
Mrs. Harris caught him that first afternoon, and asked him kindly if he
would mind leaving enough for the rest of us. Even Gassy never answers
her saucily, and David goes about the house like a crushed piece of
nothing. And yet she isn’t a bit cross or unkind. It’s something in her
manner that admits of no disputation. Jack has named her the Duchess,
and it just suits her.”
The Doctor laughed. “You mustn’t allow yourself to be so easily
impressed, my dear,” he said. “I notice, however, that she takes
a great deal of responsibility off your hands, and that ought to
reconcile you to any drawbacks. I have just sent word to Mrs. Harris to
have dinner at one instead of twelve, as I shall be busy at the office,
and can’t get away so soon.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when they saw David returning
down the hall in haste, followed by a tall figure advancing with
majestic tread. The doctor coughed uneasily.
“Dr. Grafton!” proclaimed the Duchess; “David says as ’ow you wants the
dinner put off till one!”
There was an accent of such injury in her voice that the Doctor found
himself saying hastily:—
“Why, yes, Mrs. Harris, I did send that message, but—”
“I thought it best to tell you as ’ow it can’t be done,” replied the
Duchess, with finality, turning to depart.
Dr. Grafton caught the smile on Barbara’s face.
“What’s that?” he said peremptorily; “can’t be done? Why not?”
The Duchess turned back with surprise written in her large, serene
countenance. “Why not? Why not?” she repeated. “Why, because it ain’t
convenient to change, sir.”
Dr. Grafton found himself following her down the hall. “I’m going to
be very busy and can’t get away,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps
half-past twelve—”
The Duchess turned again, and contemplated him calmly. “Any reason why
the rest must wait for you?” she inquired with uplifted eyebrows.
“Why, no,” said the Doctor.
“Well, then,” answered the Duchess, “come any time you want. You’ll
find your dinner kep’ nice an’ warm on a plate in the oven.”
Dr. Grafton meekly returned to the living-room, to find his daughter
considerately averting her face from him. His hearty laugh brought her
back to his side. He threw himself on the couch by the window.
“Well, I give up!” he announced. “Was there ever such a martinet!”
Barbara laughed with him, but her face quickly sobered. “I really don’t
think I shall stand it much longer,” she said. “She has absolutely no
regard for my ideas, and pays no attention to any orders or requests.
She even tells me what she ‘desires’ for meals.”
“They are very good meals,” put in the Doctor, hastily. His mind
reviewed the gastronomic comforts of the last few days, and the
uncertainty and scantiness of those meals before the arrival of the
Duchess.
“Don’t give Mrs. Harris up, my dear,” he said, as he rose to depart.
“You are forgetting the state of things before she came, just as it
is hard to remember the tooth-ache when it has finally succumbed to
treatment.”
A drawling voice from the library broke the ensuing silence.
“‘It feels so nice when it stops aching,’” quoted Jack. “Remember
those green-apple pies, Miss Babbie?”
“Remember those rugs that you beat so happily?” retorted Barbara.
“Well, I am going to try to accustom the Duchess gradually to those
regulations which are necessary; and if she won’t fall into line, she
can—”
“Fall out!” said Jack, promptly. “Only in that case, my dear, you will
not find the poet truthful in those charming lines,—
The falling out of faithful friends
Renewing is of love.
You will find it a renewal of—Idgits, I’m thinking.”
But it was another week before the clash came. A few preliminary
skirmishes marked the passage of time, but Barbara might have
overthrown theories and plans, however “necessary,” if matters had not
been precipitated by a morning visitor.
“I just thought I’d drop in,” said Miss Bates, coming up to the porch
where Barbara was sitting shelling peas and Gassy was reading. “I
wanted to see how you were getting on. Where you goin’, Gassy?”
“To read where people aren’t talking,” answered the little girl as she
left the porch.
Miss Bates shook her head sorrowfully. “It’s awful to see how those
children act without their mama,” she said. “I don’t like to complain,
Barbara, but Cecilia’s conduct to me is almost beyond parallel! An’
Charles called me a real naughty name yesterday, when I took his toy
reins off of my gate-posts.”
“I’m sorry,” said Barbara, mechanically, putting some peas in with the
pods. “I’ll speak to Charles—”
She was interrupted by the voice of one who called with authority,
“Barbara, ain’t them peas done? It’s time to put them on.”
Barbara excused herself, and carried in the dish. When she returned,
with flaming cheeks, Miss Bates was watching for her with open
curiosity.
“I heard you quarreling about the potatoes,” she said. “They say you’re
completely changed now, an’ that you haven’t the say about anything
any more, since that Englishwoman came; but I didn’t believe it until I
heard you give up about havin’ the potatoes mashed.”
They had forgotten the presence of David, who had been reading in a
corner of the porch all morning.
“You always have your say about everything, don’t you?” he inquired
dreamily. “I wonder how you know so many things people say. Barbara
never does.”
“I must go,” said Miss Bates, rising abruptly. “Barbara, since things
_are_ all took off your hands, why don’t you spend some time teaching
them children manners?”
Barbara ate her appetizing dinner in almost complete silence. The
comfort of sitting down to a well-set table and of staying there
throughout the meal, without rising half a hundred times for forgotten
articles, had no power to soothe her injured feelings. So all Auburn
was talking about her, and calling her incompetent, and imposed upon
by a woman who was only a kitchen “help”! It was intolerable, and she
would endure it no longer. She would take the initiative, and once for
all convince Mrs. Harris of the necessity of subordination.
After dinner, Barbara wiped the dishes, a task which Mrs. Harris
exacted on ironing-day. Her resentful silence was lost entirely on
the Duchess, whose good-humor was almost startlingly displayed in
conversation.
“I’ve ben hironin’ like a fiend to-day,” she said in a self-satisfied
tone, “an’ there’ll be plenty o’ time this afternoon to finish, an’ to
put up them tomatoes as ’as ben waiting to be put up. You’ll ’ave to
’elp, Barbara, if we’re to get them done in time.”
“That will be impossible, I’m afraid,” said Barbara, endeavoring to
keep her voice calm. “Susan Hunt is coming over this afternoon for a
lesson.”
“Oh, well, put ’er off,” replied the Duchess.
Barbara moved uneasily. “No,” she answered steadily. “I don’t wish to
put her off. The tomatoes can be put up to-morrow.”
“Them tomatoes is just right now, an’ it’s so warm, lots O’ them will
spoil afore mornin’,” the Duchess answered, the smile dying out of her
face. “Go to the telephone, Barbara, an’ tell that ’Unt girl she can’t
come. She’s ben runnin’ ’ere enough lately, an’ I can’t get through
them tomatoes alone.”
For a moment Barbara wavered. Insufferable as she felt this dictation
to be, she thought of the comfort and order of the house, and her heart
sank at the thought of losing them. Then Miss Bates’s words suddenly
came back to her: “You haven’t the say about anything any more; they
say you’re completely changed.”
She turned on the unsuspecting Duchess. “Mrs. Harris,” she said
determinedly, “you ordered those tomatoes yesterday, when I had decided
that it was best not to have them until later, because of the ironing.
Now you want to put them up when it is inconvenient to me to do so,
because you have them on your hands, and they may spoil. I cannot help
you this afternoon. If you cannot attend to them alone, let them go
until to-morrow, when I shall be at leisure. We shall simply have to
throw away those tomatoes which are not good.”
Auburn should have seen the expression of the Duchess. Good-humor
gave way to surprise, which was succeeded by disapproval, in turn to
be routed by annoyance. It was not until the last sentence that a
Jove-like rage sat upon her reddening countenance.
“You _won’t_ do them tomatoes?” she inquired in a queer voice.
“No,” said Barbara.
“You’ll let ’em spoil?” incredulously.
“Yes, if necessary.”
Mrs. Harris stopped ironing. She reached out a strong brown hand, and
turned out the gas under the irons. She unrolled the sleeves of her
brown calico dress. Then she turned slowly toward her resolute mistress.
“Barbara Grafton,” she said with an awful calmness of manner, “you’re
an ungrateful, ’ard-’eaded girl, an’ I’m sorry for your family. I come
’ere to ’elp you hout in your trouble,—I ain’t no common ’elp,—an’
you flies in my face whenever you can, an’ goes agin me every chanct
you get. What does I do about that? Nothin’. You try to make me spend
my time in frills, an’ fussin’ over things as the finest families in
Hengland never ’as. What does I do? Nothin’. I goes on my way an’
swallers insults from a chit of a girl. I seen lots o’ things sence I
come which ’urt my sensitive disposition, but I passes ’em by. Now it
comes to tomatoes, an’ I guess we’ll part. You’re an ungrateful girl,
an’ I washes my hands of you.”
Mrs. Harris crossed over to the sink, and solemnly washed and wiped her
hands. Then she put on her faded black bonnet, which always hung by its
rusty strings from a hook behind the door. She stood a minute, on the
threshold, and looked at Barbara in Olympic sorrow.
“Onct more,” she said almost entreatingly, “will you ’elp with them
tomatoes?”
“No,” said Barbara.
The screen-door banged loudly. Barbara was alone again.