During the long ride across the city, old Minna kept up a steady
chatter. Her one idea was to comfort the girl. There was no thought
of her own necessity for seeking a new position. There were plenty
of places for cooks and housekeepers, but this frail little creature,
who sat beside her with the black veil drawn down over her face to
hide the tears, what could she do?
Presently they got off the tram, and Minna leading the way, hurried
up a narrow street, filled with children and gossiping women. They
turned in at a doorway next to a delicatessen shop. On the steps, a
little girl of about eight, with very tightly braided hair, was
hushing a fat baby to sleep. The child moved aside for them to pass,
and they made their way up the long, dark stair. The air was heavy
with the smell of cooking, mixed with that of hot soapsuds.
Two flights up, Minna knocked loudly at a door, in front of which a
tiny point of gas was sputtering in a crooked jet.
The door was opened by a thin, little woman, in a clean calico dress,
with a small black apron tied over it. She wore great round
spectacles, through which her sharp black eyes twinkled. She tipped
her chin in a curious way, as she looked at them.
"Ach, Minna," she cried, cordially, "come in, come in. It is so long
since Shatzi and I have seen you."
She held the door wide, and Minna stood aside for Marie to enter.
"I have brought a young lady," she said, "who wants a room to live
in. I told her I thought you might have a place for her."
Their hostess pushed forward a chair for Marie and motioned Minna to
a seat on the sofa.
"Sit down, sit down," she said hospitably, "I'll get a cup of coffee
and some _kuchen_, and then we can talk," and she bustled out to
prepare refreshments for her guests.
Marie glanced about the neat little room. Against the walls were
arranged stiffly, old-fashioned black horsehair chairs, each with a
white knitted antimacassar pinned neatly on the back. In the window
a canary fluted, his tiny throat swelling with ecstatic trills as he
swung in his cage over the shining leaves of a little rubber tree.
Primly in its corner stood the sofa, place of honor, where Minna now
sat, her holiday finery spread out about her.
On the tiny mantel stood a crowd of china ornaments, jolly looking
little dogs with huge bows about their necks, gilt and blue
shepherdesses, very small vases, decorated with very large roses. In
the center, a faded photograph of an empty-faced little girl with two
blond braids over her shoulders, stared stiffly out of a frame made
of sea shells and dried flowers twined about the ornately lettered
phrase, "_In liebender Erinnerung_." Marie, reading the tender
phrase, smiled wistfully. No one was so plain or so unimportant but
that in some heart they were enshrined "in loving memory."
She was impressed by the spotlessness of everything. She found
herself wondering, if each little object had its place marked on the
shelf so that it could be put back when it had been dusted.
Over the mantel hung a brilliantly colored chromo of a sad-eyed
Christ, His blue robe opened at the breast, showing a gilt and
bleeding heart. There were two or three other religious pictures,
but every other available space on the dingy little walls was hung
with photographs of the same empty-faced little girl, in various
stages of growth.
Old Minna, her hands, in their brown thread mittens, folded in her
lap, sat blinking her lashless eyelids. There was always a certain
dignified manner which accompanied the wearing of her best clothes,
and she was wrapped in it to-day, so that Marie scarcely knew her for
the same, plain-spoken, good humored old woman who had taken care of
the little house in the _Blumen Strasse_.
Once or twice the girl opened her lips by way of starting a
conversation, but closed them again and relapsed into an uneasy
silence, suppressed by the majestic dignity of the old housekeeper.
Presently, the hostess returned with a tray, which she set on the
center table, first having carefully removed the lamp and a large
embossed album, and folded up into a neat square the red-fringed
cloth. There was coffee in a highly decorated pot, cups equally
ornate, one with a gilt initial on its side, a plate of plain cake,
with a richly sugared top, and a small pitcher of milk.
"Now," she said, "while we have our coffee, we can talk. Is it a
room to live in, you want?"
Marie opened her lips to answer, but Minna broke in.
"The Fräulein is the daughter of my poor master, who has just died,"
she said. The little old woman shook her head in pity, glancing at
Marie over the edge of her spectacles like a bright-eyed bird. "She
is quite poor now," continued the housekeeper, "ach, yes, even rich
folks can spend all their money, and now she's all alone. I think it
would be nice for you to have her here."
Their hostess tilted her chin grotesquely as she eyed the girl
through her thick glasses.
"We have an extra room, yes, it would be company for me while Shatzi
is away," and then quite suddenly she turned to Minna. "She looks
like Frieda," she said softly, her eyes straying mistily to the many
pictures of the empty-faced little girl, "she can stay with us."
Marie smiled at her gratefully, glancing somewhat dubiously at
Frieda's photograph. This would be much better than going out among
people of whom she knew nothing. Herr Gutman was to attend to the
selling of her few belongings. Minna could close the house and send
her trunk. She would go now to the solicitor's office and make
arrangements.
Frau Schultz showed them the little room she was to occupy. There
was a narrow yellowish wooden bed in it, with a starched counterpane
and a stiffly frilled pillow sham across which was embroidered in
red, "_Guten Morgen_." Over the yellow wooden dresser hung a cheap
mirror. The glass was wavy and blotched in places where the mercury
had worn away. Marie wondered, as she saw the distorted reflection
of herself, if the compliment Frau Schultz had paid her had been
deserved. A small chair completed the furnishings, excepting a small
plaster figure of the Virgin against the wall, with a holy water
stoup under it. It was a tiny cupboard of a place, but neat and
spotless. Marie stood and looked down from the small window into the
courtyard onto which it gave. Between the houses hung rows of
freshly washed linen, all manner of garments swinging in shameless
abandon, but the courtyard, though barren and unattractive, was
scrupulously clean. She thought of the cool sweetness of the garden
she was leaving, of the old locust tree and its falling blossoms, the
comfortable wicker chair in which her father used to sit through the
sunny mornings. She turned away with a sigh, her heart heavy, a lump
rising in her throat. Frau Schultz, standing at her elbow, peered at
her with her bird-like eyes, and the girl felt instinctively that she
had found some one who would be kind.
She broached the price shyly, timidly it was acquiesced in by Frau
Schultz, and decisively settled by the capable Minna.
Then they went back into the little parlor again, and to the
accompaniment of Hanzi, the canary's, operatic warblings, Minna had
two more cups of coffee and another piece of _kuchen_. Then,
brushing the crumbs from her ample lap, she rose to go.
"I'll send your trunk right away, Fräulein," she said.
"When can I come to stay?" Marie asked timidly.
"As soon as you wish, Fräulein," said Frau Schultz hospitably. "You
can stay now if you want to. We are very simple people. You are
like our Frieda. We'll watch over you."
Marie explained that she must go to the solicitor's office and
arrange her affairs, and that she would be back as soon as she could,
to stay, so with many exchanges of hearty good will between Minna and
Frau Schultz, and the promise of care for Marie, they started down
the dark stair again, Minna to go back to the house to close it,
Marie to arrange about the source of her hundred _kronen_.