DOROTHY GOES UPON AN ERRAND
When Mrs. Chester returned she was tired and found Dorothy so. The girl
took her mother's hat and put it away in its box, brought her a fan, and
asked if she should get her something to eat.
"No, dear, thank you. I had dinner, all I wanted, with Aunt Chloe
Chester. She takes this trouble of ours very hard, and declares that she
will not live to see 'her boy' come back to Baltimore. She wishes she
could die first, right away, so 'that he could go to my funeral while
he's handy to it.'"
"Horrors! I--I suppose I love Aunt Chloe, because she was so good to
father John, but I hope I'll never grow into such a terrible old woman.
Seems if she had always to be dragged up out of the gloom into the
sunshine. It's always the worst things are going to happen--with her. I
don't see how father ever grew up to be such a sunshiny man, always
under her hand, so. You must have had a dreary visit."
"It wasn't a restful one; but the reason for John's always looking on
the bright side may be just that she always did the opposite. But you
look sober, too, dearie. Wasn't Mabel's visit a pleasant one? How long
has she been gone?"
"Oh! a good while. She went home to dinner. I--she ate 'most all the
ham. All the best big slices anyway, and full half the pie. Then she
wanted mustard, so she could eat more. She said that sometimes when she
couldn't eat a big lot and they had extra good things, she'd get up and
walk around the table, so she could. She didn't say that, to-day,
though, but did once at a school picnic. And I--I broke a tumbler. One
of the best."
"Why, Dorothy C.! How could you?" returned Mrs. Chester, but not at all
as if she really heard or were in the least vexed. Then, as if forcing
herself to an interest in small, home matters, she asked: "Were you
very lonely after she went?"
"No, indeed. I wasn't alone--I mean, I wasn't lonely. Did father like
his roses?"
"Yes, darling, and he fully appreciated your cutting them. He said he
knew how you disliked it, for you'd never got over your baby notion that
it hurt the plants, just as a cut finger hurt you. He said, too, that I
was to tell you he'd found all the kisses, every one, but if you wanted
any paid back you'd have to come to Johns Hopkins after them. It was a
comfort to find him so happy and sure of getting well. I wish I were
half as sure!"
Dorothy opened her lips to say something which it seemed impossible to
keep from this beloved little mother opposite, who already seemed so
changed and worn; who had lost every bit of that gayety which had been
so astonishing, yesterday. But not yet--not yet. Besides, she was fully
as truthful as Mabel Bruce and had given her pledge to silence. Then she
remembered that she did not know to what part of the "country" they were
destined, and asked:
"Mother Martha, can't you tell me something of your plans? Where we are
going and when? And what is to become of this dear home?"
There was so much earnestness and sympathy in the girl's tones that Mrs.
Chester forgot how young she was, and now talked with her as she might
have done with a much older person; almost, indeed, as she would have
done with the postman himself.
"We are going to a far-away state; to a place I haven't seen since I was
a child, myself--the Hudson River highlands."
"Why--the Hudson River is in New York and we're in Maryland!" cried
Dorothy. "Why go so far, away from everybody we know and care for?
Wouldn't it do just to go to some little spot right near Baltimore,
where we could come into the city on the cars, at any time? Isn't that
what the Johns Hopkins doctors call the 'country'?"
"Oh! if we only might! But, my dear, there's an old saying about
'beggars' being 'choosers.' We aren't beggars, of course, but we are too
poor to be 'choosers.' Fortunately, or unfortunately, as time will
prove, I have a little place in the country where I told you. It
belonged to an old bachelor uncle who died long ago. It has stood empty
for many years and may be badly out of order. He willed it to me, as my
portion of his estate: and though some of his other heirs have once or
twice offered to buy it from me, the price they offered was so small
that John had me refuse it. He's said in jest: 'No telling how glad we
may some time be of that rocky hill-farm, Martha. Better hold on to it,
as long as we can pay the taxes and keep it.' The taxes were not heavy,
and we've paid them. Now, it is the only place out of the city where we
have a right to go; and in one sense there couldn't be a better. It's
one of the healthiest spots on earth, I suppose: and there'll be plenty
of room for John to live in 'the open,' as he's advised. So we must go;"
and with a heavy sigh mother Martha ceased speaking and leaned her head
back, closing her eyes as if she were about to sleep.
But underneath all her calmness of tone had lain a profound sadness, and
none but the absent John could have told how bitter to her was the
coming severance from all she had ever held dear. Though born in New
York State, she had come south with her parents when she was too small
to remember any other home than their humble one in this same city. Here
she had met and married John. Here they had together earned their cozy
home. Here were all her church associations, and here the few whom she
called friends.
She had always leaned upon her husband's greater wisdom and strength in
all the affairs of their quiet lives, and now that she needed them most
she was deprived of them. Alone, she must pack up, or sell, their
household goods, and not an article of them but was dear because of some
sacrifice involved in its purchase. Alone, she must attend to the sale
or rental of their house, for the doctors had told her that very morning
that her patient must not be disturbed "for any cause whatever. There
was a chance, one in a thousand, that he might get well. If this chance
were to be his it depended upon his absolute freedom from care and
responsibility."
She had assured them that this should be so, and it had seemed easy to
promise, in the face of the greater sorrow if he must remain an invalid
or, possibly, die. But now, back in the security of her beloved home,
her courage waned; and Dorothy, watching, saw tears steal from under the
closed eyelids and chase one another down the pale cheek, which only
yesterday, it seemed, had been so round and rosy.
To a loving child there is no more piteous sight than a mother weeping.
It was more than Dorothy could bear, and, with a little cry of distress,
she threw herself at Mrs. Chester's knees and hid her own wet eyes upon
them. Then she lifted her head and begged:
"Don't cry, mother! Dearest mother Martha, please, please, don't cry!
You've never done it, never; in all my life I haven't seen you, no
matter what happened. If you cry we can't do anything, and I'm going to
help you. Maybe we won't have to go away. Maybe something perfectly
splendid will happen to prevent. Maybe darling father will get well,
just resting from his mail route. Surely, nobody could fix him nicer
nourishments than you can, if we can afford it. Maybe we shall be able
to afford--Oh! if only I could tell you something! Something that would
make you happy again!"
Mother Martha ceased weeping and smiled into the tender eyes of the
devoted child who had so well repaid her own generosity. Then she wiped
both their faces and in quite a matter-of-fact way bade Dorothy sit
down, quietly, while she told her some necessary things. One: that in
the morning she should be sent to the post-office, to receive the
envelope containing the ten dollars due for her own board. Mrs. Chester
had arranged with the new postman about it and there would be no
difficulty. There was never a word written with these payments. The
postman's address was on the outside the envelope, which was never
registered, had never gone astray, and had never held more than the
solitary crisp ten-dollar bill expected.
"We shall need all the money we can get in hand, for the expenses of our
moving will be heavy--for us. I'm going to see some real-estate men and
decide whether it is best to sell, or rent, this house. I shall be very
busy. John isn't to stay at the hospital but a week, and so by the end
of this coming one I want to be in our new home. I rather dread the
journey, though we can easily make it in a day--or less. But your father
thinks he can get along real well on crutches, that we'll have to buy,
of course; and I've noticed that people on the street cars, even, are
always kind and helpful to invalids. John believes that it's a good,
jolly old world, and you and I must try to believe the same. He says
there's lots of truth in the saying: 'He that would have friends must
show himself friendly.' I reckon nobody ever turned a friendlier face
toward others than John has, and that's why everybody loves him so.
"Now, dearie, fetch me my Bible and I'll read awhile. I don't feel as if
I'd had any real Sunday, yet. Then, by and by, you may make me a cup of
tea and we'll get to bed early. Of course, there'll be no more school
for you here, though I shall want you to step in and bid Miss Georgia
good-bye. That's no more than polite, even if you don't love her as you
should."
Dorothy made a little mouth, which for once her mother did not reprove:
and presently they both were reading. At least, Mrs. Chester really was,
while the peace of the volume she studied stole into her troubled heart
and shed its light upon her face. Dorothy, also, held her book in her
hand and kept her eyes fixed on the printed pages; but, had her mother
chanced to look up and observe, she would have seen no leaves turned;
though gradually an expression of almost wild delight grew upon the
mobile features till the girl looked as if she were just ready to sing.
However, she said nothing of her happy thoughts and watched her mother
fall asleep in the drowsy heat of the late afternoon, and from the
fatigue of a sleepless night and a busy day. Then she crept on tiptoe
out of the room, noiselessly removing her slitted shoes before she rose
from her chair, and presently had gained the kitchen at the rear. Here
she lighted a little gas stove and put on the kettle to boil. Then she
did what seemed a strange thing for a girl as strictly reared as she,
on a Sunday evening. She caught up her short skirts and, after the
manner of pictured dancers upon wall-posters, began to whirl and
pirouette around the little space, as if by such movements, only, could
she express the rapture that thrilled her.
"There, I reckon I've worked myself down to quiet!" she exclaimed, at
length, to the cat which entered, stretching its legs in a sleepy
fashion and ready for its supper. "Now, I'll feed you, Ma'am Puss,
though you ought to feed yourself on the rats that bother our garden.
Queer, isn't it? How everything 'feeds' on something else. I hate rats,
and I hate to have them killed. Killing is horrible: and, I'm afraid
that to have my roses killed by the creatures is worst of all."
Ma'am Puss did not reply, except by rubbing herself against her
mistress's legs, and, having filled a saucer with milk, Dorothy went out
into the garden and stayed there a long time. There many thoughts came
to her, and many, many regrets. Regrets for past negligencies, that had
caused the drooping--therefore suffering--of some tender plant; for the
knowledge of her coming separation from these treasures which both she
and father John had loved almost as if they were human creatures; but
keenest of all, regrets for the lost activity of the once so active
postman. Mother Martha's griefs and her own might be hard to bear, but
his was far, far worse. Nothing, not even the delightful surprises she
felt she had in store for him, could give him back his lost health.
She had no propensity to dance when she went indoors again. It was a
very sober, thoughtful Dorothy C. who presently carried a little tray
into the parlor and insisted upon the tired housemistress enjoying her
supper there, where she could look out upon the cheerful street with its
Sunday promenaders, "and just be waited on, nice and cozy."
Both inmates of the little home slept soundly that night. Sleep is a
close friend to the toilers of the world, though the idle rich seek it
in vain: and the morning found them refreshed and courageous for the
duties awaiting. There would be few tears and no repining on the part of
either because of a home-breaking. Bitterer trials might come, but the
depth of this one they had fathomed and put behind them.
Moreover, it fell in with Dorothy's own desires that she was to make the
post-office trip: and she started upon it with so much confidence that
her mother was surprised and remarked:
"Well, small daughter, for a child who knows so little of business and
has never been further down town than the market, alone, you are
behaving beautifully. I'm proud of you. So will your father be. Maybe,
if any of the agents I'm going to telephone come here to-day and keep
me, I'll let you go to pay the daily visit to John and tell him all the
news. Take care of the street crossings. It's so crowded on the business
streets and I should be forlorn, indeed, if harm befell my Dorothy C."
Even when the child turned, half-way down the block, to toss a kiss
backward to her mother in the doorway, that anxious woman felt a strange
fear for her darling and recalled her for a final caution:
"Be sure to take care of your car-fare, Dorothy; and be more than sure
you don't lose the money-letter. When you board a car look to see
another isn't coming on the other track, to knock you down."
The little girl came back and clung to Mrs. Chester for a moment,
laughing, yet feeling her own courage a trifle dashed by these
suggestions of peril. But she slipped away again, determining to do her
errands promptly, while, with a curious foreboding in her mind, the
housemistress re-entered her deserted home, reflecting:
"John always laughs at my 'presentiments,' yet I never had one as strong
as this upon me now that I did not wish, afterward, I had yielded to it.
I've half a mind to follow the child and overtake her before she gets
into a car. I could snatch a little while to do those downtown errands
and she'd be perfectly safe here. Pshaw! How silly I am! Dorothy is old
enough to be trusted and can be. I'll put her out of mind till I hear
her gay little call at the door, when she rings its bell: 'It's I,
mother Martha! Please let me in!'"
But alas! That familiar summons was never again to be heard at No. 77
Brown Street.