September was theoretically always a very busy month with Mrs.
Saunders. She believed that she devoted it to activities which she
called her fall work, and that she pressed forward in the fulfilments
of these duties with a vigor inspired by the cool, clear weather. But
in reality there was not much less folding of the hands with her in
September than there was in July. She was apt, on the coolest and
clearest September day, to drop into a chair with a deep drawn "_Oh_,
hum!" after the fatigue of bringing in an apronful of apples, or
driving the hens away from her chrysanthemums, and she spent a good
deal of time wondering how, with all she had to do, she was ever going
to get those flowers in before the frost caught them. At one of these
times, sitting up slim, graceful and picturesque, in the
feather-cushioned rocker-lounge, and fanning her comely face with her
shade-hat, it occurred to her to say to Cornelia, sewing hard beside
the window, "I guess you won't see them in blossom _this_ Christmas,
Nie."
"Not unless you cut them at the roots and send them to me by mail to
look at," said the girl.
Her mother laughed easily. "Well, I must really take hold and help you,
or you'll _never_ get away. I've put off everybody else's work, till
it's perfectly scandalous, and I'm afraid they'll bring the roof about
my ears, and yet I seem to be letting you do all your sewing. Well, one
thing, I presume I hate to have you go so!"
"Mother!" cried the girl, drawing out her needle to the full length of
her thread before she let her hand drop nervelessly at her side, and
she fell back to look fixedly at Mrs. Saunders. "If _that's_ the way
you feel!"
"I don't! I want you to go just as much as ever I did. But looking at
you there, just against the window, that way, I got to thinking you
wouldn't be there a great while; and----" Mrs. Saunders caught her
breath, and was mute a moment before she gave way and began to whimper.
From the force of habit she tried to whimper with one side of her
mouth, as she smiled, to keep her missing teeth from showing; and at
the sight of this characteristic effort, so familiar and so full of
long association, Cornelia's heart melted within her, and she ran to
her mother, and pulled her head down on her breast and covered the
unwhimpering cheek with kisses.
"Don't you suppose I think of that, too, mother? And when you go round
the room, or out in the yard, I just keep following you as if I was
magnetized, and I can see you with my eyes shut as well as I can with
them open; and I _know_ how I shall feel when that's all I've got of
you! But I'll soon be back! Why I'll be here in June again! And it's no
use, _now_. I've _got_ to go."
"Oh, yes," said her mother, pushing herself free, and entering upon so
prolonged a search for her handkerchief that her tears had almost time
to dry without it before she found it. "But that don't make it any
easier, child."
They had agreed from the time Cornelia made up her mind to go, and they
had vowed the Burtons to secrecy, that they were not to tell any one
till just before she started; but it was not in Mrs. Saunders's nature
or the nature of things, that she should keep her part of the
agreement. She was so proud of Cornelia's going to study art in New
York, and going on her own money, that she would have told all her
customers that she was going, even if it had not proved such a good
excuse for postponing and delaying the work they brought her.
It was all over town before the first week was out, and the fact had
been canvassed in and out of the presence of the principals, with much
the same frankness. What Cornelia had in excess of a putting-down pride
her mother correspondingly lacked; what the girl forbade, Mrs. Saunders
invited by her manner, and there were not many people, or at least many
ladies, in Pymantoning, who could not put their hands on their hearts
and truly declare that they had spoken their minds as freely to Mrs.
Saunders as they had to anybody.
As the time drew near Mrs. Burton begged to be allowed to ask Mr.
Ludlow about a boarding-place for Cornelia; and to this Cornelia
consented on condition that he should be strictly prohibited from
taking any more trouble than simply writing the address on a piece of
paper. When Mrs. Burton brought it she confessed that Mr. Ludlow seemed
to have so far exceeded his instructions as to have inquired the price
of board in a single room.
"I'm afraid, Nelie, it's more than you expected. But everything _is_
very dear in New York, and Mr. Ludlow thought it was cheap. There's no
fire in the room, even at that, but if you leave the door open when
you're out, it heats nicely from the hall. It's over the door, four
flights up; it's what they call a side room."
"How much is it, Mrs. Burton?" Cornelia asked, steadily; but she held
her breath till the answer came.
"It's seven dollars a week."
"Well, the land!" said Mrs. Saunders, for all comment on the
extortionate figure.
For a moment Cornelia did not say anything. Then she quietly remarked,
"I can be home all the sooner," and she took the paper which Ludlow had
written the address on; she noticed that it smelt of tobacco smoke.
"He said you could easily find your way from the Grand Central Depot by
the street cars; it's almost straight. He's written down on the back
which cars you take. You give your check to the baggage expressman that
comes aboard the train before you get in, and then you don't have the
least trouble. He says there are several girl art-students in the same
house, and you'll soon feel at home. He says if you feel the least
timid about getting in alone, he'll come with a lady friend of his, to
meet you, and she'll take you to your boarding-house."
Mrs. Burton escaped with rather more than her life from the
transmission of this offer. Cornelia even said, "I'm very much obliged
to him, I'm sure. But I shouldn't wish to trouble him, thank you. I
won't feel the least timid."
But her mother followed Mrs. Burton out to the gate, as usual. "I
guess," Mrs. Saunders explained, "she hated to have him make so much
to-do about it. What makes him want to bring a lady friend to meet her?
Somebody he's engaged to?"
"Well, that's what I wondered, at first," said Mrs. Burton. "But then
when I came to think how very different the customs are in New York, I
came to the conclusion that he did it on Cornelia's account. If he was
to take her to the boarding-house himself, they might think he was
engaged to _her_."
"Well!" said Mrs. Saunders.
"You may be sure it's because he's good and thoughtful about it, and
wants her not to have any embarrassment."
"Oh, I guess he's all right," said Mrs. Saunders. "But who'd ever have
thought of having to take such precautions? I shouldn't think life was
worth having on such terms, if _I_ was a girl."
She told Cornelia about this strange social ceremony of chaperonage,
which now for the first time practically concerned them.