Elsie Marley was very tired as she locked the door of the library
Saturday night and started for _home_, as she caught herself calling
the parsonage. She had been there the greater part of the day. She
had spoken to Mr. Middleton at breakfast of going over to familiarize
herself somewhat with the encyclopaedias and reference-books, and he
had asked her to look up certain passages and verify one or two
quotations for him. The latter proved a more difficult task for the
girl than the clergyman would have dreamed; but she was very happy in
doing it, gratified, too, to realize that her handwriting was very
clear as well as pretty. And the single cause of her dismay when he
thanked and praised her and referred to her mother--or his sister--was
that she should not be on hand to help him another Saturday.
The afternoon had been a very busy one, every one in town, seemingly,
old, young, and middle-aged, desiring a book for Sunday. A goodly
number of girls of near her age came in, sweet-faced girls who, though
they couldn't compare with Elsie Moss (who was, however, in a class by
herself), seemed more attractive than those she had seen at home. The
tall boy who was interested in electricity came again and greeted her
shyly, though rather as if they were old friends. Later, older girls
and young men who worked in Boston during the week dropped into the
library to inquire for the latest novel or to spend part of their
half-holiday looking over the picture papers and magazines. All were
extremely cordial and friendly. Without actually overhearing anything,
Elsie, who wasn't at all quick in regard to matters of that sort,
understood, somehow, that there was more or less comparison between
herself and the regular librarian, which was not altogether
complimentary to Miss Stewart.
As she went up the walk shortly after six o'clock, the girl saw some
one gazing out of the window of the room she had first entered four
days ago, and recalled her first view, which seemed now far back in the
past. There was no one there when she went in, however, and as she
realized that the place had not been touched since her arrival,
suddenly the glow of satisfaction that had cloaked her weariness
changed to wrath. She flew to her room for refuge.
And now real wrath descended upon her. For she found it as she had
left it that morning. The bed was not made; her nightgown was on the
floor, and the clothes she had worn yesterday scattered about on the
chairs. Her brown eyes looked darker and there was a hint of color in
her cheeks as she ran down to the kitchen and confronted Kate amid the
chaos and confusion of her own domain.
"Katy, my bed hasn't been made, nor my room done to-day," she cried.
"Bless my soul, I clean forgot it," said Kate in real consternation.
"I'll go right up this very minute as soon as I've cast my eyes on the
oven, though, to tell you the truth, my feet ache like the toothache."
Elsie's feet ached, too, for the first time in her life. Wherefore she
partly understood. Her indignation died out.
"Oh, don't bother then, Katy," she said kindly, "I can sleep on the
couch to-night. And to-morrow, perhaps, you'll do it early before your
feet get tired?"
Kate insisted upon going. "No, you don't sleep on no sofy; not while I
can crawl about," she declared, and Elsie followed her up-stairs.
Watching her from her chair by the window, the girl saw that she looked
tired, indeed.
"I could have slept on the couch, Katy," she protested.
Kate looked at her--frowned--then smiled.
"Oh, Miss Elsie, a body'd know you lost your mother young. Now if I'd
'a' forgot your uncle's bed, he'd 'a' made it hisself and said nothing.
There's many young ladies as makes their own beds, and does all but the
heavy sweepin'. I don't suppose you ever did such a thing in your
life?"
Elsie confessed that she hadn't. She didn't say that it seemed a
burden to turn down the covers. Again Kate frowned and smiled.
Clearly Miss Moss wasn't one to take a hint.
"How would you like to _learn_?" she inquired.
"Oh, I never thought," said Elsie. "Why, yes, of course, if you'll
teach me some time, I'll do it every day after I get so that I can."
For the moment she had forgotten her stay was to be so limited.
"Bless you, you'll learn in no time; it's nothing to do," Kate assured
her beamingly. "Come here, right now."
Somewhat taken aback, Elsie complied. She was surprised to find that
it wasn't difficult nor even unpleasant.
"You see, Miss Elsie, I can't never go about my work and finish one
thing before I take up another," Kate explained. "I'm up and down
these stairs, up and down, up and down, from mornin' till night,
a-waitin' on the missus. When it ain't eggnog, it's beef-tea or gruel,
and then again it'll be frosted cake, icing that thick, upon my word
and honor! And once she gets hold of me, I have to stay and tell her
all the news I get from the grocer and the butcher's boy, and who goes
by and what they has on. Not that I don't admire bein' sociable, and I
can't help havin' a motherly feelin' for one old enough to be my
mother; but I don't get no chance to redd up nowhere except the
dinin'-room and his study. And then you know, I ain't no general
housework girl, anyways, I've always cooked before; but here I have to
do everything, besides waitin' on a woman as isn't any sicker than what
I be. If you knew the money she spends on choc'late creams and
headache powders and the trashy novels she reads, you'd wonder she
ain't even yellower than what she is."
The next morning Elsie set about trying to do her own room. Before she
had reached the point of attacking the bed, she had decided that she
could save herself a great deal of work by putting things away when she
took them off or used them, instead of dropping them, as she had always
done, for some one else to pick up. Kate came in and insisted upon
helping with the bed.
"But, Katy, don't you want to get ready for church?" Elsie suddenly
thought to inquire.
"I went to early mass this mornin', miss. I declare to goodness, I'm
that shabby that I don't like to appear out in broad daylight."
"Why, Katy, what do you do with all your money? Do you have parents to
support?"
"No'm, I'm an orphan. But I don't have any ready money, and I don't
like to take what little I have out of the savings-bank. I ain't been
paid my wages sence Christmas."
Elsie was aghast. "But why don't you ask for them?" she cried.
"I do. And she keeps a-promisin', but money slips right through her
fingers. I don't like to go to himself about it, because I hate to
upset him, and then she's good to me, and I know them headache powders
makes her forgetful. I don't know where the money goes: she has a
fistful the first of every month, but she owes bills to everybody in
town except the undertaker. What I'm afraid of is as some of 'em'll go
to himself. The ice man is gettin' as sassy as he can live."
Elsie was shocked beyond expression. The situation would have seemed
inconceivable except that anything was conceivable in connection with
Mrs. Middleton. The girl had almost forgotten that she was departing
shortly, but realizing it, she was the more relieved. Only it would be
all the harder for Elsie Moss.
Still, even so, she found she couldn't dismiss the matter thus.
Somehow her heart went out to that careless, slipshod, kindly, Irish
Kate. Before she went to church, she slipped into the kitchen and
insisted upon her accepting fifteen dollars to get herself some clothes
before the next Sunday. And when Kate flatly refused to take the
money, she developed a curious resourcefulness. She declared that
unless she took it, she should go to her uncle and ask him to inquire
into the question of her unpaid wages. And Kate succumbed.
After service, Elsie sat down to write to Elsie Moss. She didn't say
anything she had meant to say. She knew she ought at least to give her
some intimation of the situation, lest the other should be wholly
unprepared and enter perhaps upon some course that must be rudely
interrupted by the end of another week. But she wasn't clever enough
for that.
She spoke of the place and the people and how much she liked them. She
told of the three afternoons in the library, and remembering how the
other had taken to the children on the train, tried, in her stiff,
constrained way, to describe little Mattie Howe, who minded the baby
all his waking hours and read a Prudy book a day.
She couldn't even mention Mrs. Middleton. She spoke freely of Elsie's
uncle--almost enthusiastically, indeed--told how he had asked if she
had toothache, and signed herself, rather abruptly, "Your loving
friend, Elsie M----."
The following morning she found a letter on her plate. She had gone by
the name of Moss nearly a week, yet it gave her a start to see the
address and to break open the envelope.
It was a bright, amusing letter, as informal as her own had been stiff.
Elsie Moss found Cousin Julia no end jolly, a perfect brick. The
boarding-house was the most interesting place she had ever known, and
the people just right; and though New York was stifling she loved it,
and wasn't the least in a hurry to get to the shore. She expected very
soon to confide her ambition to Miss Pritchard--honestly, she was so
dear and splendid, that it was the greatest wonder that she hadn't told
her she wanted to be an actress before they left the Grand Central
Station. . . .
"I'm simply perishing to hear from you, Elsie-Honey," the letter
concluded. "Uncle's a darling saint, I know, but you must tell me
about Aunt Milly so I can describe her to my stepmother. I sort of
glossed her over in this letter I enclose for you to forward so that it
will have the Enderby postmark. I came out strong on Uncle John and
the station at Boston, however. And tell me about the servants. I
know there's a servants' hall like in English books, so I suppose they
have a lot. If there's a butler, I almost envy you, for that would be
good practice for me, because most plays have a butler and a French
maid. I shall probably be French-maided to the limit if I ever get a
start, though I'd rather be a slavey or a chimney-sweep!
"Do you leave your shoes outside the door at night? I should never
remember. The first day I was here I made my own bed! The chambermaid
nearly fell over.
"Do tell me a lot to write to auntie (that's my stepmother); I have
always told her everything I'm thinking about, and now it will be
rather difficult for I only think now about the stage and Cousin Julia
and you, Elsie-Honey. I hope you think of me?"