Whatever her husband may have been thinking, he had the presence of mind
to hide his eyes in the water he had poured from the pitcher. He scooped
it up now in double handfuls. He made a great splutter and soused his
face in the bowl, and scrubbed the back of his neck and behind his ears
and his bald spot, and slapped his eminent collar-bones with his wet
hand. And then he was bathed.
Serina pulled on her stockings, and hated them and the coarser feet they
covered. She opened the wardrobe door as a screen, less from modesty for
herself than from sudden disgust of her old corset and her all too sober
lingerie. She resolved that she would hereafter deck herself with more
of that coquetry which had abruptly returned to her mind as a wife's
most solemn duty.
Then she remembered that they were poorer than they ever had been. Now
they could not even run into debt again; for who would give them further
credit, since their previous bills had been canceled by nothing more
satisfactory than the grim "Received payment" of the bankruptcy court?
It was too late for her to reform. Her song was sung. And as for buying
frills and fallals, there were two daughters to provide for and a son
who was growing into the stratum of foppery. With a sigh of dismissal
she flung on her old wrapper, whose comfortableness she suddenly
despised, and made her escape, murmuring, "I'll call the childern."
She pounded on the boy's door, and Horace eventually answered with his
regular program of uncouth noises, like some one protesting against
being strangled to death. These were followed by moans of woe, and then
by far-off-sounding promises of "Oh, aw ri', I'm git'nup."
Serina moved on to her youngest daughter's door. She had tapped but once
when it was opened by "the best girl that ever lived," according to her
father; and according to her mother, "a treasure; never gave me a bit of
trouble--plain, of course, but so willing!"
Ollie was fully dressed and so was her room, except for the bed, the
covers of which were thrown back like a wave breaking over the
footboard. In fact, after Ollie had kissed her mother she informed her
that the kitchen fire was made, the wash-boiler on, and the breakfast
going.
"You are a treasure!" Serina sighed.
She passed on to the door of Prue. Prue was the second daughter. Rosie,
the eldest, had married Tom Milford and moved away. She was having
troubles of her own, and children with a regularity that led Serina to
dislike Tom Milford more than ever.
Serina knocked several times at Prue's door without response. Then she
went in as she always had to. Prue was still asleep, and her yesterday's
clothes seemed to be asleep, too, in all sorts of attitudes and all
sorts of places. The only regularity about the room was the fact that
every single thing was out of place. The dressing-table held a little
chaos, including one stocking. The other stocking was on the floor. One
silken garter glowed in the southeast corner and one in the northwest.
One shoe reclined in the southwest corner and the other gaped in the
northeast. But they were pretty shoes.
Her frock was in a heap, but it suggested a heap of flowers.
Hair-ribbons and ribboned things and a crumpled sash bedecked the
carpet. But the prettiest thing of all was the head half fallen from the
pillow and half smothered in the tangled skeins of hair. One arm was
bent back over her brow to shut out the sunlight and the other arm
dangled to the floor. There was something adorable about the round chin
nestling in the soft throat. Her chin seemed to frown with a lovable
sullenness. There was a mysterious grace in the very sprawl vaguely
outlined by the long wrinkles and ridges of the blankets.
Serina shook her head over Prue in a loving despair. She was the bad boy
of the family, impatient, exacting, hot-tempered, stormy, luxurious, yet
never monotonous.
"You can always put your hand on Ollie," Serina would say; "but you
never know where Prue is from one minute to the next."
Consequently Ollie was not interesting and Prue was.
They were all afraid of Prue and afraid for her. They all toadied to her
and she kept them excited--alarmed, perhaps; angry, oh yes; but never
bored.
And there were rewards in her service, too, for she could be as stormy
with affection as with mutiny. Sometimes she would attack Serina with
such gusts of gratitude or admiration that her mother would cry for
help. She would squeeze her father's ribs till he gasped for breath.
When she was pleased she would dance about the house like a whirling
maenad with ululations of ecstasy. These crises were sharp, but they left
a sweet taste in the memory.
So Prue had the best clothes and did the least work. Prue was sent off
to boarding-school in Chicago, though she had never been able to keep up
with her classes in Carthage; while Ollie--who took first prizes till
even the goody-goody boys hated her--stayed at home. She had dreamed of
being a teacher in the High, but she never mentioned it, and she studied
bookkeeping and stenography in the business college so that she could
help her father.
Prue had not been home long and had come home with bad grace. When her
father had found it impossible to borrow more money even to pay his
clerks, to say nothing of boarding-school bills, he had to write the
truth to Prue. He told her to come again to Carthage.
She did not come back at once and she refused to explain why. As a
matter of fact, she had desperately endeavored to find a permanent job
in Chicago. It was easy for so attractive a girl to get jobs, but it was
hard for so domineering a soul to keep one. She was regretfully bounced
out of three department stores in six days for "sassing" the customers
and the aisle-manager.
She even tried the theater. She was readily accepted by a stage-manager,
but when he found that he could not teach her the usual figures or
persuade her to keep in step or line with the rest he regretfully let
her go.
It was the regularity of it that stumped Prue. She could dance like a
ballerina by herself, but she could not count "one-two-three-four" twice
in succession. The second time it was "o-o-one-t'threeee-f'r" and next
it would be "onety-thry-fo-o-our."
Prue hung about Chicago, getting herself into scrapes by her charm and
fighting her way out of them by her ferocious pride. Finally she went
hungry and came home. When she learned the extent of her father's
financial collapse she delivered tirades against the people of Carthage
and she sang him up as a genius. And then she sought escape from the
depression at home by seeking what gaiety Carthage afforded. She made no
effort to master the typewriter and she declined to sell dry-goods.
Serina stood and studied the sleeping girl, that strange wild thing she
had borne and had tried in vain to control. She thought how odd it was
that in the mystic transmission of her life she had given all the useful
virtues to Ollie and none of them to Prue. She wondered what she had
been thinking of to make such a mess of motherhood. And what could she
do to correct the oversight? Ollie did not need restraint, and Prue
would not endure it. She stood aloof, afraid to waken the girl to the
miseries of existence in a household where every day was blue Monday
now.
Ollie had not waited to be called. Ollie had risen betimes and done all
the work that could be done, and stood ready to do whatever she could.
Prue was still aloll on a bed of ease. Even to waken her was to waken a
March wind. The moment she was up she would have everybody running
errands for her. She would be lavish in complaint and parsimonious of
help. And yet she was a dear! She did enjoy her morning sleep so well.
It would be a pity to disturb her. The rescuing thought came to Serina
that Prue loved to take a long hot bath on Monday mornings, because on
wash-day there was always a plenty of hot water in the bathroom. On
other mornings the hot-water faucet suffered from a distressing cough
and nothing more.
So she tiptoed out and closed the door softly.