"PORE LITTLE WOMAN"
Silas Chamberlain answered to a loud knock on his door at the midnight
hour. It was the first week of August.
"From Hunter's, you say?"
There was a mumbled conversation at the door.
"Why, yes, of course. Come right in--glad t' have you. When was you
called--an hour an' a half ago? Now you come right upstairs, an' we'll
have you in bed in two shakes. There now--them covers'll be too heavy, I
'spect, but you kin throw 'em off if you don't want 'em. Jest keep that
light. I'll git another downstairs. Good-night. Oh, yes! Jake's gone for
th' doctor, you say? Started an hour an' a half ago? Guess 'e ain't there
yet--seven mile you know. Well, good-night!"
Silas stumbled down the steep stairs.
"Liza Ann, it's come! Pore little woman!"
He got back into bed and lay so still that his wife thought him asleep.
"Pore child!" she heard him say just as she was drifting off to dreamland.
An hour passed. An hour and a half. There was the sound of wheels.
"That's th' doctor, Liza Ann." There was no reply.
The old man fidgeted for fifteen minutes more; he had grown nervous. He
slid out of the bed quietly and went to the barn.
"Thought I heard a noise," he told himself by way of excuse for his
action. "Wonder if Old Queen's loose?" He felt his way along the manger
carefully. Unaccustomed to midnight visitors, Queen snorted and shrank
from his hand when he touched her.
"Whoa, there! You needn't be so blamed 'fraid--nothin's goin' t' hurt you.
You ain't a woman."
Silas found a nail-keg and sat down on it across from the nibbling horses,
and thought and waited.
"He's there by this time," he murmured presently. "Wisht they'd 'a' sent
for Liza Ann. No, I guess it's better not. She wouldn't know what t' do,
havin' no experience."
He debated with himself as to whether he should go back to bed or not.
"Couldn't sleep," he concluded. "Lord! how long the nights is when a
feller's awake!"
The horses ate on uninterruptedly and the soft breeze stole through the
old barn, while everything in nature was indicative of peace except the
old man, whose mind worked relentlessly on the situation of the young wife
whose certain suffering racked him almost as much as if he had stood in
its presence.
"Gosh-a-livin's!" he exclaimed as a new thought struck him. "I wonder
which one of 'em Jake got. Now that young Doc Stubbins ain't got no more
sense 'n a louse. I ought t' 'a' told John an' I forgot. Lord! Lord! th'
chances th' poor critters have t' take!"
Mrs. Chamberlain was awakened in the gray light of morning as her husband
crept shivering into bed.
"Where you been?" she asked.
"Out t' th' barn. Heard a noise an' thought I'd better look into it," was
Silas's reply.
* * * * *
As the sun rose the new life was ushered in. Doctor Morgan did not start
home till after nine o'clock.
"Who is to have charge of your wife, Mr. Hunter?" he asked as he paused in
the door and looked back at his patient anxiously. Seven miles was a long
distance--and she might need him suddenly.
"Why, I thought Hepsie and I could care for her," John replied. Trained
nurses were unheard of in those days.
"It simply cannot be," answered the old man. (Doctor Stubbins had not been
engaged.) "Another attack like this last one would--well, you _must_ have
some one of experience here. It's a matter of life or death--at least it
might be," he added under his breath. "Couldn't you stay?" he asked Susan
Hornby, who sat with the baby on her knee. "The girl's liable to slip away
from us before I could get here."
It was arranged that Aunt Susan should stay with the young mother, who was
too weak to turn her head on the pillow it lay upon, for as the old doctor
had said she was a desperately sick girl. They had but just kept her with
them. The presence of Aunt Susan was almost as delightful to Elizabeth
Hunter as the head of the child on her arm. Weak and exhausted, she was
permitted such rest as she had not known in all the days of her married
life. The darkened room and the quiet of the next three days were such a
mercy to her tired nerves that she would have been glad to lie there for
ages. Doctor Morgan let Susan Hornby return to her home and husband at the
end of the week, confident that with care, Hepsie could perform the little
offices required, but he was to learn that country people have little
judgment in serious cases of illness, and that the young mother's room
would be filled with company when he came out the next day.
Mr. and Mrs. Crane were the first to arrive on Sunday morning, and when
John announced that they were driving up to the hitching post, Elizabeth
begged weakly for him to say that she was too ill to see any one that day.
John would have been glad to deliver that message, remembering the wedding
day, but Sadie was with her mother, and John had found Luther a convenient
neighbour of late.
"We can't offend them," he said.
"But I can't have them. Please, John--with my head aching already."
"Don't speak so loud," John said warningly.
Mrs. Farnshaw came and had to have her team tied to the barnyard fence.
She walked to the house with the rest of the company, and even in their
presence could not restrain her complaints because she had not been
notified of her daughter's serious illness and the arrival of the child.
Elizabeth's protest that they had been absorbed by that illness, and too
busy to think of anything but the most urgent and immediate duties, did
not quiet the objections, for Mrs. Farnshaw had the habit of weak
insistence. Her mother's whine was never so hard to bear.
"Where's Mr. Farnshaw?" Mr. Crane asked. "He's grandpa now."
Elizabeth shrank into her pillows, and Mrs. Farnshaw bridled angrily.
"He's busy," was her tart reply.
"I should think he'd want t' see his grandson. Lizzie, you haven't showed
me that boy," Mr. Crane insisted.
And Elizabeth, weak and worn, had to draw the sleeping child from under
the quilts at her side and show him off as if he had been a roll of butter
at a country fair, while constant reference was made to one phase or
another of the unpleasant things in her experience. Her colour deepened
and her head thumped more and more violently, and by noon when they
trooped out to the dining room, where Hepsie had a good dinner waiting,
the girl-wife was worn out. She could not eat the food brought to her, but
drank constantly, and was unable to get a snatch of sleep before the
visitors assembled about her bed again.
At four o'clock Doctor Morgan arrived and Luther Hansen came for Sadie.
Sadie saw him drive in, and laughed unpleasantly.
"Luther wasn't a bit for comin', but I told him I'd come over with ma, an'
he could come after me. He's always chicken-hearted, an' said since Lizzie
was so sick we oughtn't t' come. I don't see as you're s' sick, Lizzie;
you've got lots of good colour in your face, an' th' way you pull that
baby around don't look much like you was goin' t' kick the bucket just
yet."
Elizabeth made no reply, but watched John help Doctor Morgan tie his
team.
"How's Mrs. Hunter?" Doctor Morgan asked John as he came around to the
gate after the horses were fastened.
"All right, I guess. She's had a good deal of company to-day. I didn't
want them, but you can't offend people."
"We usually have a good deal of company at a funeral," the old doctor said
dryly, as he viewed the extra horses and wagons about the fence.
When he entered the sickroom his face hardened.
"I'm not as much afraid of your neighbours as you are, Mr. Hunter," he
said, and went to the middle door and beckoned Luther to come with him
into the yard. A few words was all that was needed with Luther Hansen, and
the doctor returned to his patient.
* * * * *
Sadie was more sarcastic than usual as they drove home.
"I wouldn't 'a' come if I'd a known I wasn't wanted," she remarked
sulkily.
"But, Sadie, Doc Morgan says she's worse! I'd turn 'em out quick enough if
it was you."
Poor little Sadie Hansen caught the spirit of the remark. Nothing like it
had ever before been offered her in all her bitter, sensitive experience.
She looked up at her husband mollified, and let even Elizabeth have a
season of rest as she considered this astonishing thing which marriage had
brought to her.
Susan Hornby, who had thought her darling resting on this quiet Sabbath
day, was reestablished at the bedside, and it was not till the morning of
the tenth day that she again left the house. At the end of that time she
was dismissed reluctantly by the good old doctor himself. It had been such
a good excuse to be with Elizabeth that Aunt Susan had persuaded the
long-suffering Nathan that her presence beside her was a thing not to be
denied, and Nathan, glad to see Sue so happy, ate many a cold meal that
haying season and did not complain. It was a great event in Susan Hornby's
life. Gentle and cordial to all, Susan Hornby lived much alone--alone most
of all when surrounded with her neighbours. Elizabeth was her only real
tie.
"Oh, child! I'm so glad you've got him," she said one day as she laid the
beautiful brown head on Elizabeth's arm.
Elizabeth patted the hand that was drawing the little white shawl over the
baby's head. Master John Hunter--the babe had been named for its
father--had had his daily bath, and robed in fresh garments, and being
well fed and housed in the snuggest of all quarters, the little triangle
made by a mother's arm, settled himself for his daily nap, while the two
women watched him with the eyes of affection. Never again do we so nearly
attain perfect peace in this turbulent life as during those first few
weeks when the untroubled serenity of human existence is infringed upon by
nothing but a desire for nourishment, which is conveniently present, to be
had at the first asking, and which there is such a heaven of delight in
obtaining. We are told that we can only enter the Kingdom of Heaven by
becoming as little children: no other Kingdom of Heaven is adequate after
that.
The life in this little room had taken Susan Hornby back to her own youth,
and as often as otherwise when Master John was being put through his daily
ablutions it was the little Katie of long ago that she bathed and robed
fresh and clean for the morning nap. At other times Elizabeth was her
Katie grown older. It was the flowering time of Susan Hornby's life. The
fact that Elizabeth had never crossed her threshold since her marriage to
John Hunter had faded out of Aunt Susan's mind. Elizabeth's every word and
look spoke the affection she felt for her. Other people might sneer and
doubt, but Susan Hornby accepted what her instincts told her was genuine.
* * * * *
Elizabeth got about the house slowly. The days in bed had been made
tolerable by the presence of those she loved, but she was far from strong,
and she looked forward with reluctance to the time when Aunt Susan would
not be with her. John complained of Hepsie's work only when with his wife
alone, for Aunt Susan had been so constant in her praises that he would
not start a discussion which he had found he brought out by such
criticism.
Susan Hornby looked on, and was as much puzzled as ever about the
relations of the young couple. Elizabeth was evidently anxious about
John's opinions, but she never by so much as a word indicated that they
differed from hers. She spoke of him with all the glow of her early love;
she pointed out his helpfulness as if he were the only man in the world
who looked after the kitchen affairs with such exactitude; she would have
the baby named for no one else, and all her life and thought centred
around him in so evident a manner that Aunt Susan could not but feel that
she was the happiest of wives. She talked of her ideals of harmony, of her
thankfulness for the example of the older woman's life with her husband,
of her desire to pattern after that example, of everything that was good
and hopeful in her life, with so much enthusiasm as to completely convince
her friend that she had found a fitting abiding place. And, indeed,
Elizabeth believed all that she said. Each mistake of their married life
together had been put away as a mistake. Each day she began in firm faith
in the possibility of bringing about necessary changes. If she failed, she
was certain in her own mind that the failure had been due to some weakness
of her own. Never did man have a more patient, trusting wife than John
Hunter. There had been much company about the house of late, and there had
been no difficulties. Elizabeth was not yet analytical enough to reason
out that because of the presence of that company far less demand had been
made upon her by her husband. She thought that they were really getting on
better than they had done, and told herself happily that it must be
because she was more rested than she had been and was therefore not so
annoyed by small things. It was ever Elizabeth's way to look for blame in
herself. The baby was a great source of pleasure also. He was a good child
and slept in the most healthy fashion, though beginning now when awake to
look about him a little and try to associate himself with his
surroundings. Elizabeth had begun to look forward to Silas's first visit
with the child. Silas had quaint ways with the young, and it was with very
real pleasure that she dragged herself to the door and admitted him the
first week she was out of bed. Elizabeth led the old man to the lounge on
tiptoe.
"I want you to see him, Mr. Chamberlain; you and he are to be great
friends," she said as she went down on her knees and drew the white shawl
reverently from the sleeping face. "Isn't he a fine, big fellow?" she
asked, looking up at the old man.
"'E ought t' be, havin' you for his mother," Silas said with an attempt at
being witty, and looking at the baby shyly.
The baby roused a little, and stretched and grunted, baby fashion.
"Lordie! what good sleep they do have!" Silas said, holding out his finger
to the little red hand extended toward him, and then withdrawing it
suddenly. "Now, Liza Ann sleeps just like that t' this day." He spoke
hesitatingly, as if searching for a topic of conversation. "She does 'er
work regular like, an' she sleeps as regular as she works. I often think
what a satisfyin' sort of life she leads, anyhow. She tends t' 'er own
business an' she don't tend t' nobody else's, an'--an'--she ain't got no
more on 'er mind 'n that there baby."
Elizabeth gathered the child into her arms and seated herself in a rocking
chair, while the old man sat stiffly down on the edge of the lounge and
continued:
"Now I ain't that way, you know. I have a most uncomfortable way of
gettin' mixed up in th' affairs of others."
"But it's always a friendly interest," Elizabeth interposed, mystified by
his curious manner and rambling conversation.
Silas crossed his knees and, clasping his hands about the uppermost one,
rocked back and forth on the edge of the lounge.
"Most allus," he admitted, "but not quite. Now I'm fair ready t' fight
that new Mis Hansen. I've been right fond of Luther, for th' short time
I've knowed 'im, but what he see in that there Sadie Crane's beyond me.
_He's_ square. He looks you in th' face 's open 's day when he talks t'
you, an' you know th' ain't no lawyer's tricks in th' wordin' of it. But
she's different. They was over t' our house Sunday 'fore last an' I never
knowed Liza Ann t' be's near explodin' 's she was 'fore they left. It done
me right smart good t' see 'er brace up an' defend 'erself. I tell you Mis
Hansen see she'd riled a hornet 'fore she got away. Liza Ann 'll take an'
take, till you hit 'er just right, an' then--oh, my!"
Silas ended with a chuckle.
"After they left, she just told me I could exchange works with somebody
else; she wasn't goin' t' have that woman comin' t' our house no more."
"Sadie is awfully provoking," Elizabeth admitted, "but--but--Luther likes
her, and Luther is a good judge of people, I always thought."
"Yep," Silas admitted in return, "an' I don't understand it. Anyhow, I
never knew Liza Ann come s' near forgettin' 'erself. It was worth a day's
travel t' see."
They talked of other things, the baby dropped asleep in its mother's arms,
and Silas took his departure.
"How unlike him," Elizabeth said to herself as she watched him go to his
wagon.
Silas rode away in an ill-humour with himself.
"Now there I've been an' talked like a lunatic asylum," he meditated. "I
allus was that crazy about babies! Here I've gone an' talked spiteful
about th' neighbours, an' told things that hadn't ought t' be told. If I'd
a talked about that baby, I'd 'a' let 'er see I was plum foolish about
it--an' I couldn't think of a blessed thing but th' Hansens."
He rode for a while with a dissatisfied air which gave way to a look of
yearning.
"My! How proud a man ought t' be! How little folks knows what they've got
t' be thankful for! Now I'll bet 'e just takes it as a matter of course,
an' never stops t' think whether other folks is as lucky or not. She
don't. She's in such a heaven of delight, she don't care if she has lost
'er purty colour, or jumped into a life that'll make an ol' woman of 'er
'fore she's hardly begun t' be a girl, nor nothin'. She's just livin' in
that little un, an' don't even know that can't last long."
There was a long pause, and then he broke out again.
"Think of a man havin' all that, an' not knowin' th' worth of it! Lord! If
I'd 'a' had--but there now, Liza Ann wouldn't want me t' mourn over
it--not bein' 'er fault exactly. Guess I ought t' be patient; but I would
'a' liked a little feller."
* * * * *
When John came home that night Elizabeth told him of Silas's visit.
"He hardly looked at baby at all," she said disappointedly, "and I'd
counted on his cunning ways with it more than anybody's. I thought he'd be
real pleased with it, and instead of that, he didn't seem interested in it
at all, and sat and stared at me and talked about Sadie. I thought sure
he'd want to hold it--he's got such cute ways."
"How could you expect an old fellow like him to care for babies?" John
said, smiling at the thought of it. "A man has to experience such things
to know what they mean."
He took the child from her arms and sat down to rock it while he waited
for the supper to be put on the table.
"Say," he began, "I saw Hepsie setting the sponge for to-morrow's bread as
I came through the kitchen. I'll take care of baby, and you go and see
about it. The bread hasn't been up to standard since you've been sick.
You'll have to look after things a little closer now that you are up
again."
Elizabeth, whose back was not strong, had been sitting on the lounge, and
now dropped into a reclining position as she replied:
"The bread has not been bad, John. Aunt Susan was always marvelling at how
good it was compared to the usual hired girl's bread."
"It was pretty badly burned last time," John observed dryly.
"That didn't happen in the sponge, dear, and anybody burns the bread
sometimes," she returned; "besides that, it makes my back ache to stir
things these days."
John Hunter did not reply, but every line of him showed his displeasure.
It was not possible to go on talking about anything else while he was
annoyed, and the girl began to feel she was not only lazy but easily
irritated about a very small thing. Reflecting that her back would quit
hurting if she rested afterward, she arose from the lounge and dragged
herself to the kitchen, where she stirred the heavy sponge batter as she
was bidden.
Mrs. Hunter was expected to return in a little over a week, and the first
days when Elizabeth was able to begin to do small things about the house
were spent in getting the house cleaning done and the entire place in
order for her coming. It happened that a light frost fell upon Kansas that
year weeks before they were accustomed to look for it; and the tomato
vines were bitten. It was necessary to can quickly such as could be saved.
In those days all the fruit and vegetables used on Kansas farms were "put
up" at home, and Elizabeth, with two, and sometimes more, hired men to
cook for, was obliged to have her pantry shelves well stocked. The heat of
the great range and the hurry of the extra work flushed the pale face and
made deep circles below her eyes, but Elizabeth's pride in her table kept
her at her post till the canning was done. By Saturday night the tomatoes
were all "up," and the carpets upstairs had been beaten and retacked. Mrs.
Hunter's room had been given the most exact care and was immaculate with
tidies and pillow-shams, ironed by Elizabeth's own hands, and the chickens
to be served on the occasion of her arrival were "cut up" and ready for
the frying pan.
Sunday there was a repast fit for a king when John and his mother came
from town. Every nerve in Elizabeth's body had been stretched to the limit
in the production of that meal. Too tired to eat herself, the young wife
sat with her baby in her arms and watched the hungry family devour the
faultless repast. She might be tired, but the dinner was a success. The
next morning, when the usual rising hour of half-past four o'clock came,
it seemed to the weary girl that she could not drag herself up to
superintend the getting of the breakfast.
"Mother'll help you with the morning work and you can lie down afterward,"
John assured her when she expressed a half determination not to rise.
But after breakfast Mrs. Hunter suggested that they scour the tinware, and
the three women put in the spare time of the entire morning polishing and
rubbing pans and lids. As they worked, Mrs. Hunter discussed tinware, till
not even the shininess of the pans upon which they worked could cover the
disappointment of the girl that her mother-in-law should have discovered
it in such a neglected condition.
"Really, child, it isn't fit to put milk in again till it's in better
condition. How did you happen to let it get so dull and rusty?"
"Now, mother, it isn't rusty at all. It is pretty dull, but that's not
Hepsie's fault. It was as bright as a pin when I got up, but we've had the
tomatoes to put up and the housecleaning to do and it couldn't be helped,"
Elizabeth replied, covering up any share the girl might have had in the
matter. She knew the extra work which had fallen on Hepsie's shoulders in
those last weeks, and particularly since she herself had been out of bed,
for the girl loved Elizabeth and had shielded her by extra steps many
times when her own limbs must have ached with weariness.
"You don't mean to say you used the tin pans for any thing as corroding as
tomatoes!" Mrs. Hunter exclaimed in astonishment.
"We used everything in sight I think--and then didn't have enough,"
Elizabeth said with a laugh.
"But you should never use your milk pans for anything but milk, dear," the
older woman remonstrated. "You know milk takes up everything that comes
its way, and typhoid comes from milk oftener than any other source."
"There are no typhoids in tomatoes fresh from the vine," Elizabeth replied
testily, and Mrs. Hunter dropped the subject.
But though she dropped the subject she did not let the pans drop till the
last one shone like a mirror. With the large number of cows they were
milking many receptacles were needed and John had got those pans because
they were lighter to handle than the heavy stone crocks used by most
farmers' wives. Elizabeth was more appreciative, of those pans than any
purchase which had been made for her benefit in all the months she had
served as John's housekeeper, but by the time she was through scouring she
was ready to throw them at any one who was foolish enough to address her
upon housekeeping; besides, she plainly discerned the marks of discontent
upon Hepsie's face. Hepsie was a faithful servitor, but she had learned by
several years of service to stop before her energies were exhausted. It
was the first sign of dissatisfaction she had ever shown, and Elizabeth
was concerned.
The next morning Elizabeth's head was one solid, throbbing globe of roar
and pain. Mrs. Hunter brought her a dainty breakfast which it was
impossible for her to eat, and said with genuine affection:
"We have let you do too much, my dear, and I mean to take some of this
burden off of your shoulders. You're not yourself yet. John tells me you
were sicker than people usually are at such times. I ought to have helped
the girl with that tinware yesterday and sent you to bed."
Elizabeth listened with some alarm to the proposition of Mrs. Hunter
taking the house into her own hands, but she was touched by the real
sympathy and concern evident.
"It's good of you, mother. You'll have to be careful about Hepsie, though.
You must not call her 'the girl' where she hears you. You see she is one
of our old neighbours, and--and--well, they hate to be called that--and
they aren't exactly servants."
"Well, I'll get the dinner for her--it's wash day. Don't try to get up,"
Mrs. Hunter said, taking the breakfast away with her.
"Be careful about Hepsie, mother," Elizabeth called after her in an
undertone. "She's a good girl, if you understand her and--and they leave
you at the drop of a hat."
Hepsie's going came sooner than even Elizabeth had feared. She brought a
cup of coffee to her at noon, but avoided conversation and went out at
once.
Elizabeth called her mother-in-law to her after dinner was over and
cautioned her afresh.
"But I haven't had a word with her that was ill-natured or cross," Mrs.
Hunter protested indignantly.
"I don't suppose you have, mother," the miserable girl replied, puzzled as
to how she was to make the older woman understand. "It's--it's a way you
have. I saw that she was hurt about that tinware. She's been very
satisfactory, really. She takes every step off of me that she can. She's
the best in the country--and--and they hang together too. If we lost her,
we'd have a hard time getting another."
"Well, it makes me cross to have to work with them as if they were rotten
eggs and we were afraid of breaking one, but if I have it to do I suppose
I can. I only looked after the clothes to see that she got the streaks out
of them. I knew she was mad about something, but I rinsed them myself; I
always do that."
After Mrs. Hunter was gone Elizabeth thought the matter over seriously.
Neither Hepsie nor any other girl they could get in that country was going
to have her work inspected as if she were a slave. They were free-born
American women, ignorant of many things regarding the finer kinds of
housekeeping in most instances, but independent from birth and
surroundings. In fact, there was a peculiar swagger of independence which
bordered upon insolence in most of the homes from which Kansas help must
be drawn. Elizabeth knew that their dignity once insulted they could not
be held to any contract.
Mrs. Hunter went back to the kitchen and tried to redeem the mistakes she
had made, but Hepsie would not be cajoled and the unpleasantness grew.
Saturday night the girl came to Elizabeth and said, without looking her in
the face at all:
"Jake says, if he can have th' team, he'll take me home. I--I think I
won't stay any longer."
"Do you have to go, Hepsie?" Elizabeth said, her face troubled.
Hepsie avoided her glance because she knew the trouble was there. Hepsie
had been very happy in this house and had been proud of a chance to keep
its well supplied shelves in satisfactory condition. Gossip hovered over
whatever went on in the Hunter home, and there was a distinction in being
associated with it; also Hepsie had come to love Elizabeth more than she
usually did her country mistresses. She saw that all the unkind things
which were being said about Elizabeth's stuck-up propensities were untrue,
and that Elizabeth Hunter was as sensible and kindly as could be wished
when people understood her.
"I'll be up and around hereafter," Elizabeth continued. "You don't
understand mother. She's all right, only she isn't used to the farm."
"I guess I understand 'er all right," Hepsie said sullenly; "'t wouldn't
make no difference, you bein' up. She'd be a-tellin' me what t' do just
th' same, an' I'm tired enough, washdays, without havin' somebody t'
aggravate me about every piece that goes through th' rench."
She stood waiting for Elizabeth to speak, and when she did not, added
resentfully:
"You an' me always got along. We had a clean house, too, if Mr. Hunter
didn't think I knew much."
Elizabeth's surprise was complete. She had not supposed the girl knew
John's estimate of her work. John was usually so clever about keeping out
of sight when he insisted upon anything unpleasant that it had never
occurred to Elizabeth that Hepsie was aware that John insisted upon having
her do things which he felt that Hepsie could not be trusted to do
unwatched. There was nothing more to be said. She reckoned the girl's
wages, and told her that Jake could have the team.
Before Hepsie went that night, she came back to the bedroom and cuddled
the baby tenderly.
"I'm--I'm sorry t' go an' leave you with th' baby so little, Lizzie.
'Taint hardly fair, but--but if you worked out a while you'd learn t' quit
'fore you was wore out." She stood thinking a moment, and then cautioned
Elizabeth sincerely: "I'm goin' t' say one thing 'fore I leave: you'd
better ship that old woman 'fore you try t' get another girl around these
parts. I'll be asked why I left an'--an' I'll have t' tell, or git folks
t' thinkin' I'm lazy an' you won't have me."
Elizabeth's heart sank. She would not plead for the girl to keep still. It
would have been of no use; besides, her own sense of fairness told her
that there was room for all that had been hinted at.
* * * * *
Monday John spent the day looking for a girl to take Hepsie's place. Tired
and discouraged, he came home about four o'clock in the afternoon.
"Could you get me a bite to eat?" he asked Elizabeth as he came in. "I
haven't had a bite since breakfast."
Elizabeth laid the baby on the bed, and turned patiently toward the
kitchen. An hour was consumed in getting the extra meal and doing the
dishes afterward, and then it was time to begin the regular supper for the
rest of the family. When John found that she had thrown herself down on
the bed to nurse the baby instead of coming to the table for her supper,
he insisted that she at least come and pour the tea, and when she sat
unresistant through the meal, but could not eat, he sent her to bed and
helped his mother wash the supper dishes without complaint. The next
morning, however, he hailed her forth to assist with the half-past four
o'clock breakfast relentlessly, unaware that she had spent a weary and
sleepless night.
"Are you going to look for a girl to-day?" she asked as he was leaving the
house after the breakfast was eaten.
"Oh! I suppose so, but I haven't much hopes of getting one," he answered
impatiently. Then seeing the tears in her eyes at the thought of the
washing waiting to be done, he kissed her tenderly. "I'll do the best I
can, dear; I know you're tired."
"Well, the next one I get I hope mother 'll let me manage her. If Hepsie
wouldn't stand her ways of talking about things none of the rest will."
After a moment's reflection she added: "I cannot do all this work myself.
I'm so tired I'm ready to die."
John slipped his arm about her and said earnestly:
"I'll do all I can to help you with the dinner dishes, but you are not to
say one word to mother about this."
It was gently put, but authoritative.
"Then you needn't look for one at all," she said sharply.
John's arm fell from about her and he looked at her in cold astonishment.
"I don't care," she insisted. "I can't keep a girl and have mother looking
over every piece of washing that is hung on the line."
"Mother kept girls a long time in her own house," he answered, taking
offence at once.
"I don't care; she dealt with a different kind of girls." Then with a
sudden illumination, she added: "She didn't have such quantities of work
to do, either. If we go on this way we'll have to have help and keep it or
we'll have to cut down the farm work." She brightened with the thought.
"Let's cut the work down anyhow, dear. I'd have so much an easier time
and--and you wouldn't have all those wages to raise every month, and we
could live so much more comfortably."
She leaned forward eagerly.
"I don't see but we're living as comfortably as folks usually do," John
replied evasively.
"I know, dear, but we have to have the men at meals all the time
and--and----"
"Now see here, Elizabeth, don't go and get foolish. A man has to make a
living," John said fretfully.
The girl had worked uncomplainingly until her last remnant of strength was
gone, and they were neither willing to do the thing which made it possible
to keep help, nor to let her do the work as she was able to do it. With it
all, however, she tried patiently to explain and arrange. Something had to
be done.
"I know you have to make a living, John, and I often think that I must let
you do it in your own way, but there are so many things that are getting
into a snarl while we try it this way. We don't have much home with
strangers at our table every day in the year. We never have a meal alone.
I wouldn't mind that, but it makes more work than I am able to do, it is
getting you into debt deeper every month to pay their wages, and you don't
know how hard it is going to be to pay those debts a few years from now.
But that isn't the worst of it as far as I am concerned. I work all the
time and you--you aren't satisfied with what I do when I do everything my
strength will let me do. I can't do any more than I'm doing either."
"I _am_ satisfied with what you do," he said with evident annoyance at
having his actions and words remarked upon. "Besides, you have mother to
help you." He had ignored her remarks upon the question of debts,
determined to fasten the attention elsewhere.
The little ruse succeeded, for Elizabeth's attention was instantly riveted
upon her own hopeless situation.
"It isn't much help to run the girl out and then make it so hard to get
another one," she said bitterly.
Instantly she wished she had not said it. It was true, but she wished she
could have held it back. John did not realize as she did how hard it was
going to be to get another girl. She had not told him of Hepsie's remarks
nor of her advice. Elizabeth was not a woman to tattle, and the "old
woman" Hepsie had referred to was his mother.
"Don't think I'm hard on her, John. If we could only get another girl I
wouldn't care."
She waited for him to speak, and, when he did not do so, asked
hopelessly:
"Don't you think we can get another girl pretty soon if we go a good ways
off from this neighbourhood?"
"I don't know anything about it, and I don't want to hear anything more
about it either," was the ungracious reply.
"I am in the wrong. You will hear no more on either subject."
The tone was earnest. Elizabeth meant what she said. John went from the
house without the customary good-bye kiss. We live and learn, and we learn
most when we get ourselves thoroughly in the wrong.