"Oh, Miss Moss, I think I can come earlier to-morrow afternoon and stay
longer," said little Mattie Howe eagerly. "It's been such a good week
for drying clothes that mother's way ahead on her work, and she'll mind
the baby herself. Charles Augustus is going to take back the last load
this afternoon with his cart."
"That's nice for you, Mattie, but I shan't be here. Miss Stewart's
coming back to-morrow," replied Elsie.
The child's bright, thin little face clouded.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear, these changes are most too much for me, I
declare!" she cried. "I mean changes-_back_ is. The change that
brought you here, Miss Moss, was just sweet. Only I wish it had turned
into a _stay_."
Elsie drew the little thing close to her. At the moment she herself
almost wished it had been a _stay_.
"I wonder if that's my _hard_," prattled the child. "Mother says
everybody, even rich people, have hard things to bear. Do you bleeve
so, Miss Moss?"
Elsie looked startled.
"Why, Mattie, I hardly know," she faltered. "Ye-es, I suppose every
one does, really."
"Even you, Miss Moss?"
Elsie couldn't answer. On a sudden that first day she and Elsie Moss
had been together came back to her. She recalled Elsie's fresh grief
for the death of her mother and her own sense of remissness, and the
class motto that signified through hardships to the stars. Since she
had been at Enderby, things had been disagreeable enough almost to make
up for her former immunity. And yet, she hadn't been here ten days,
and she didn't really have to endure it. Furthermore, she was to
escape from it very shortly.
"No, Mattie, I don't believe I have had so much that is hard as most
people have," she owned.
"You are like the princess, you see," murmured the child. "But I
s'pose you feel awfully sorry about your auntie being so poorly? When
mother was sick once I felt as bad _here_ as if I had the stomachache
hard."
Elsie evaded the issue by hoping politely that the little girl's mother
was quite well now.
"Oh, yes, Miss Moss, and does four peopleses' washings besides our
own," Mattie declared. "Father works steady most of the time, but
there's five of us, counting the baby, and--sometimes he gets drunk.
Not so very often, he doesn't, but nobody can ever tell when he will
and when he won't, so mother has to help out. Well, I must go now.
When will I see you?"
Elsie didn't know what to say. Miss Stewart's return had been delayed
from day to day and she had postponed making her decision as to her
course until that matter was settled. Only to-day had she learned that
the librarian would resume her work to-morrow, Saturday, and she
expected to give up her evening to forming her own plans. Until this
moment, she hadn't thought of Mattie as a complication. It didn't seem
possible that one could become so attached to a child of ten years
in--it wasn't yet ten days--that one not only hated to leave her, but
even felt remiss, almost conscience-stricken, in so doing.
"Won't you come to see us, mother and me and the baby--you'll just love
him, Miss Moss, he can pat-a-cake and by-by and almost talk and lots
else, too. Won't you please come?" the child begged.
Even with her arm about the child's shoulders, the incongruity of
calling upon a woman who took in washing came to Elsie Marley--likewise
the fact that she wasn't likely to be in Enderby beyond Monday at the
latest. But she surprised herself and delighted Mattie by suddenly
agreeing to come the next day.
When she spoke of it to Mr. Middleton that night at dinner, expecting
him to be surprised and, perhaps, to protest, she found him interested
and eager.
"Oh, Elsie, that's capital!" he exclaimed. "She's the nicest sort of
woman, Mrs. Howe is. She's hardly more than a girl in spite of that
little brood of five. She gets out very little, and if you would go
around once in a while it would mean a lot to her. Besides, I'm sure
you'll enjoy her."
As Elsie sat in her room by the window that evening, she wondered
whether one visit from a person one is never to see again would mean
anything to Mattie's mother? Well, for that matter, whether it would
or not, she had promised to make it and must keep her word. And she
mustn't allow her thoughts to be diverted by that.
For the opportunity she had sought to complete her plans was hers. Mr.
Middleton had gone out to attend a committee meeting directly after
dinner. Mrs. Middleton she hadn't seen all day. The matter of the
library had settled itself, and her way was clear.
But somehow her thoughts didn't proceed as she had expected them to do.
She had rather looked for marshalled ranks of reasons standing at
either hand--those saying _go_, of course, largely predominating--which
she would only have to review. Instead her mind wandered, roving back
to the conversation with Mattie, and the little girl's quoting her
mother that every one has a hard to bear.
Was it really true? She supposed it must be. Mr. Middleton, despite
his serenity, looked as if he had undergone all sorts of things. So
had Elsie Moss. Even poor old Kate had had her share. On the other
hand, there was Mrs. Middleton, there was Elsie's own grandmother and
her mother. And there was Elsie herself. She had never had anything
hard in her life until within a fortnight.
How curious it was that Mattie should have put her finger upon Mrs.
Middleton as being her particular difficulty, mistaken though her sense
of the situation was. Mrs. Middleton was truly the only _hard_ Elsie
had ever known. Undergoing a certain amount of her society and
submitting to her caresses, sometimes once a day, often less
frequently, was the only ordeal she had ever undergone. And severe
though it was, there were wide spaces between, and those spaces were
the happiest moments she had ever known.
Now she was planning to throw away all the happiness, the delight,
because of the discomfort. It came to her rather vaguely that perhaps
that was the way with people who seemed never to have had hardships.
They evaded them somehow. And she wondered if some one else had to
shoulder them as so much extra burden? It almost seemed so.
And yet, why should she remain and endure that dreadful Mrs. Middleton?
What good would it do? Mightn't it, on the contrary, do real harm?
The girl couldn't imagine it as being any easier as the days went by,
but in case it should, what would it mean but that she herself was
becoming coarse--even vulgar?
In a sense, there wasn't any one now to care whether she was coarse or
not. Elsie Moss might, and Mr. Middleton. He liked her as she was.
He wouldn't like her to be different. And yet, he not only endured
Mrs. Middleton but actually cared for her, and he was as refined as any
one she had ever known, besides being so much more interesting than any
one except Elsie Moss. Possibly he would rather have her altered
somewhat than have the shock of learning the truth of the matter, and
of having a reluctant, and perhaps unwilling, Elsie Moss in the house.
Elsie Moss, too, liked her as she was. She had called her a princess.
Surely she wouldn't endure any change. And yet again--what if enduring
Mrs. Middleton would mean actually doing something for the other Elsie?
What if not enduring her--flying from difficulty--would mean
disappointment--breaking her ardent heart?
The clock struck nine, and immediately she heard Mr. Middleton enter
the house. He called to her and Elsie went down.
He wanted to tell her of a plan they had been discussing at the meeting
in regard to a course of lectures for the coming winter. All
eagerness, he reviewed the whole situation for her benefit, then went
on to tell her of the lectures they had had in other years, and to
compare those in prospect. Elsie, who was already learning to talk, to
express some of the interest she felt, enjoyed it the more that she was
able to respond in a measure--quite enough to satisfy him completely.
When she went to her room again, it was only to postpone the decision.
To-morrow she would go to see Mattie Howe without knowing whether it
was a farewell call or not. The next day, Sunday, she would decide.
She promised herself solemnly that she would do so. She would shut
herself up in her room directly after dinner, and would not emerge
until she had made up her mind.