little hazy, retrospective smile, that was somehow wistful, too. Her
wisdom had certainly been vindicated, yet there were results that, as
usual, eluded theory. She was never quite sure whether her rebellion had
been a success or not. The time might come when she and her Francis would
laugh over it together in company—but it hadn’t come yet.
The Mother of Emily
The Mother of Emily
“If I had only the foundation, but I haven’t that, or the trimming,
either; nothing but this old, tumbled _chiffon_ and these faded flowers.”
Mrs. Briarley looked dejectedly at the mass of frippery in her lap. Five
dollars for a new hat such as she wanted would leave only one dollar from
her own private purse for the Easter collection, and the sermon last
Sunday had been a plea for religious enthusiasm in giving at this season.
Mrs. Briarley was a fair, pretty little thing, although slight almost to
meagreness in her immaturity of outline. She was foolishly young to be
the wife of a man of thirty and the mother of a two-year-old child.
In spite of this she had an earnest soul, and pondered deeply over each
perplexing question of her married life as it arose. The mere fact of
having to decide anything enveloped her in a sort of confusion which
obscured every guide-post which experience had erected, the more so that,
as her husband travelled, she could not have recourse to him. It was as
if each occasion had been evolved whole from space to have its merits
decided upon, whether it were a question of little Emily’s going out to
play in the damp, or the quantity of material for a new skirt, or which
kind of breakfast food to order.
Just now it was the question of the hat. There was indeed no question as
to whether she needed it or not, but her husband’s means kept her within
certain limits.
To make a whole hat would cost very nearly five dollars; if other people
did it for less, she wasn’t able to. And Mr. Beatoun, the clergyman, had
said that he wanted to make an appeal to each one personally. Each one
must judge for himself if he were doing all he could to pay off that debt
on the church for which he urged the special effort now.
To Mrs. Briarley the question seemed to have relation to those deep
places of decision which govern the current of one’s life. If she refused
this appeal she would not be quite what the mother of Emily ought to be.
She was painfully anxious that Emily should have every advantage. She
herself had been a neglected orphan, brought up in helter-skelter
fashion, and she longed above all things that her baby should have the
maternal ideal she had lacked. She was glad that Mr. Beatoun’s sermon had
come after she had bought little Emily’s hat, for she felt secretly that
no appeal could have been strong enough to have denied that sweet white
ribbon and the daisies to her child.
“If I had _any_ trimming that could be used!” she murmured for the third
time, and turned as the servant came into the room. “What is it, Ellen?”
“There’s a lady down-stairs, ma’am—Mrs. Stebbins.”
“Oh, Mrs. _Stebbins_!” Mrs. Briarley’s tone was one of doubtful welcome.
This was one of the ladies of the parish in which Mrs. Briarley was a
newcomer, and in which she still felt herself wistfully an outsider, in
spite of the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Beatoun had formally called upon her,
and Mrs. Stebbins had conscientiously shaken hands with her at the church
door.
But Mrs. Stebbins had also once come to collect, and to collect now,
in addition to an appeal, would be futile as far as Mrs. Briarley was
concerned.
She nerved herself to meet the words that followed after the first
greetings were over.
“I want to know if you won’t give something to our church sale.”
“The church sale? Oh, no, I—I don’t think I care to be connected with
anything of the kind—at least—I mean, this year,” said Mrs. Briarley,
hurriedly.
The last time she had taken part in a fair, before moving to this place,
her sympathy had run unwarrantably ahead of her purse. She had indulged
in that specious form of charity which consists of buying goods on credit
and then presenting them to the church. She had a vivid remembrance of a
box of soap which another woman had bought for half price at the fair,
“because it was given, and whatever was made on it was clear gain.”
Mrs. Briarley had had to pay the full price at the grocer’s a month
later, when the bill was already too large. Her husband had not liked it,
and she felt wary of fairs.
“A fair! Oh, no, indeed, this isn’t a fair!” Mrs. Stebbins, a sallow,
greyish, compactly solid lady in a short walking-skirt and a small, tight
hat, smiled intelligently at her hostess. “It’s a sale—a rummage sale.
I’m surprised that you haven’t heard of it; it’s been in progress two
weeks already. Of course, though, you don’t belong to the Guild. There
are only three days more for the sale, and we _do_ want them to be a
success. The proceeds go to the church debt. A rummage sale—you know what
that is. You send any old things you have—_any_thing; it doesn’t make
any difference what it is, and we sell them to the poor for a few cents.
We hired an empty store at the other end of the town—64 Herkimer Street.
Some of our ladies take charge of it in turn.”
“And do you sell much?” asked Mrs. Briarley.
Mrs. Stebbins laughed. “Do we sell much? We have made fifteen hundred
dollars already. You know it’s really an accommodation to the poor—many
of them will buy things when they wouldn’t beg for them. They get good
warm clothing and stores for a song. And quite a number of us pick up
odds and ends there—really! You don’t know what fascinating things we
take in now and then; nobody knows where half of them come from. Some
of them are quite new. There was a lovely jacket sent in last week; Mr.
Stebbins’s sister said she would have bought it herself—she doesn’t live
here—if the sleeves had been a little longer. And there was a white satin
lambrequin, embroidered in gold thread,—one end had oil spilled over
it,—and Minnie Ware bought it for a quarter, and she’s made the most
fetching collar and vest front that you ever saw. Of course, Minnie Ware
can do _anything_—she doesn’t care a snap who knows. Have you met Miss
Ware? She belongs to the Guild.”
“No,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the pang of the outsider.
“Well, I bought a colonial chair myself there yesterday; there’s a rung
gone, but it can easily be put in. You _will_ send something, won’t you?
Some of our ladies are in charge from nine until six.”
“Why, I’ll try to,” said Mrs. Briarley, hesitatingly. “We got rid of most
of our rubbish when we moved here. Is Mrs. Beatoun at the sale?”
She had a reverential admiration for the rector’s wife, as a person who
in that position must be superhumanly good. She longed to know her as
other people did. She had been sensitively quick to feel the alteration
from the conventional politeness of Mrs. Beatoun’s manner to her to
the intimate interchange of laughing remarks with a party of friends
afterwards. Mrs. Briarley had indeed been asked to join the Guild, but
she could not get up her courage to face so many strangers alone.
“No, Mrs. Beatoun will not be at the sale to-day,” said Mrs. Stebbins,
rising to go. “I’ve just come from the rectory now. She had such a
pleasant surprise—the present of a lovely hat from her cousin. She had to
go into mourning for her mother-in-law, and so she sent this hat to Mrs.
Beatoun, it was made in Paris, and I don’t believe it was ever worn more
than twice. It’s a perfect beauty!”
“That must have been very nice,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the thought of
the hat for which she longed.
“Well, I should think so! To get a hat like that without paying a cent!
And if ever anybody needed one it was Mrs. Beatoun. She’s worn that old
black straw for five years; but after all, you’d hardly know it. She’s
got that sort of an air about her—almost too much for a clergyman’s wife,
some people think—that makes you feel as if she _was_ dressed up when she
isn’t. Is this your little girl?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the tremulous flush that always came into
her cheek when little, dark-curled, lustrous-eyed Emily suddenly appeared
in her dainty white frock and little slippers. She looked at her visitor
with an expression which said, “Did you ever see anything as beautiful as
this?”
But Mrs. Stebbins only remarked, “She favours her papa, doesn’t she? I
don’t see much resemblance to you,” patted the child’s head, shook hands
with Mrs. Briarley, and was gone, with a parting injunction not to forget
the rummage sale.
Mrs. Briarley knelt down on the floor by Emily that she might gather the
plump little standing form more fully into her thin young arms. She
loved and respected her husband greatly, but her humble soul magnified
the Lord daily for this wonder and joy of being the mother of Emily. She
had a way of pressing the little soft cheek to hers, as now, and saying,
“Baby _dear_,” in a tone of ineffable love, that at once embodied her
bliss and a prayer that she might be worthy of it. When she left the
child now she knew that there was only one path to choose. She must go
without her hat. She _must_ respond to the appeal.
She thought of it all the time she was selecting her slender dole
of rubbish for the sale—a vase that had been mended and a couple of
books. As she was walking to Herkimer Street she imagined herself in a
ninety-eight-cent, ready-trimmed straw turban. One could hardly realize
how earnestly solemn the sacrifice was to her.
Dress was a very serious matter. She had a natural daintiness, a touch
that was almost genius. It was a feminine charm which even her husband
recognized, and she liked to see him like to look at her. Perhaps he
would not now. If she could only have a hat given her, like fortunate
Mrs. Beatoun!
The window of the temporary shop was filled with a heterogeneous mass
of clothing, before which stood a group of hatless women and a few
children. Mrs. Briarley nervously pushed her way past them, for she was
always afraid of contagion on account of Emily. She became still more
nervous on her entrance into the shop.
It was filled with a swarm of Italian women, bright-shawled, earringed,
swarthy and voluble, fingering the piles of cast-off clothing and
chaffering over them. The air was bad, and the two young girls behind the
counter looked singularly helpless and distracted. One was sitting down
with her head upon her hand, but the other responded to Mrs. Briarley’s
proffer of her gifts.
“Oh, yes—thank you! _Would_ you please put the price on them yourself?
Here are tags and a pencil. Mark them _anything_. I can’t leave this
corner for a minute. I never was in such a place! I really don’t know
what to do. The young lady who _was_ waiting here—Miss Morley—_fainted_ a
few minutes ago,—it’s the air, you know, and the window won’t open,—and
Mrs. Whitaker has just taken her home. They say she’s the _second_ one
that’s fainted to-day.”
“How dreadful!” said Mrs. Briarley, with admiring pity. These were indeed
martyrs to the cause.
“_Isn’t_ it? Mrs. Whitaker just asked me to come in and stay with
Gladys till she got back, and now Gladys has such a headache she isn’t
the slightest good, and it all comes on me. I’m only visiting here, and
I’ve got to take the three o’clock train home. It puts me in an awful
position.”
She turned to a couple of wildly gesticulating women.
“Yes, you can have that dress for ten cents. No, _no_! Not you; the other
one. No, you _didn’t_ speak first! I’ll send for the police if you claw
each other.”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Mrs. Briarley.
“If you wouldn’t mind unwrapping some of those things over there, and
marking them,” said the girl. “I haven’t had time to see to them since
they came in. Mark them anything.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Briarley, going deftly about the work. There was
a waist and some boys’ clothing, and there was a box, which she left for
the last. It looked as if it might contain a hat.
It _was_ a hat. A dark hat, yet not too dark, elegant, yet not
noticeable, with a chaste outline, a temperate, subdued richness
of effect that spoke volumes to the initiated. No wonder that Mrs.
Briarley’s eyes were glued to it as she held it in her hand. It was a
hat that could rise to the occasion of state garments or impart “style”
to one’s ordinary garb. It was a hat, in short, that could be Worn with
Anything.
Mrs. Briarley turned it round and inspected it with a growing wonder. The
white satin lining looked new, and the structure itself showed no sign of
wear but two holes through which a hatpin had been thrust.
There _were_ people who gave away things as little used as this. Mrs.
Stebbins had spoken of it. If she herself had ever possessed a hat like
this,—her thought went in leaps,—if it were not a rummage hat! But what
if it were? Would any one know? There were many hats made on the same
order. With a slight change in the front trimming—of course you didn’t
know who had worn it before, but there was a subtle odour of violet about
it that was reassuring.
“How much is this hat?” asked Mrs. Briarley, suddenly, in an odd voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the girl who had spoken before, looking around
to catch a glimpse of it. “I sold a hat for fifteen cents just before you
came in.”
“This is _very_ good,” said Mrs. Briarley.
“Ask a quarter for it, then. For goodness’ sake, Gladys, don’t you get
faint!”
“I’ll take it myself,” said Mrs. Briarley, hastily. “My—my cook might
like it.” She put it back in the box and tied the string around it. “The
atmosphere in here _is_ dreadful, isn’t it? Can’t I help you open that
window? Here’s the money. Good-bye!”
She had done it! She could hardly believe in the miracle. Not only would
she have the happy thrill of responding to the appeal with her own
precious and individual five dollars, but the very price she had paid for
the hat went to the cause also, and she had money left over besides! And
she had the hat!
She felt awestricken at so much reward of virtue. It was like seek ye
first the kingdom of righteousness and all these things shall be added
unto you. If she had said her cook might like the hat, that was no lie;
her cook well might. And she was so glad that she had enough humility
herself to wear a rummage hat! Underneath all the simplicity of her
vanity lay an earnest and tremulous joy in being more what the mother of
Emily should be.
It has been stated that Mrs. Briarley did not belong to the Guild. She
passed a delegation from it, indeed, the next day, all busily talking
together; but there was nobody in it whom she even knew to bow to.
She was perhaps the only woman in the parish who did not know of the
exciting incident at present disturbing it, the facts of which were being
now recounted once again.
“Yes, the hat was almost new; it was a present to Mrs. Beatoun from her
cousin. It was a beauty. Mrs. Beatoun was going out to lunch, and she
sent the Peters boy back to the parsonage to get some bundles for the
rummage sale, and that stupid new girl of hers gave him the box with the
hat in it with the other things from her room. She had left it on the
bed. So off it went to the sale. The only one who remembers anything
about it is Gladys Tucker, and she doesn’t remember much, she had such
a headache. She says a lady—she thinks it was a lady—came in and bought
one for a quarter; she heard her talking to Nannie Leduc. Gladys didn’t
even see it; the place was full of Italians. Of course the woman took
advantage.”
“Those girls are so scatter-brained! But no lady would have bought a hat
there.”
“That’s just what I say. If she did, she must have known it was a
mistake. That hat cost thirty dollars, and it had been worn twice. And
to pay only a quarter for it! It was as bad as _stealing_. You know how
reserved Mrs. Beatoun is, but she’s decided, very. Well, she did say
that if she saw any woman with it on she thought she would really walk
up to her and speak about it. It’s the effrontery of the thing that’s so
maddening.”
“Mrs. Beatoun never seemed to care much for clothes,” said one lady.
“I suppose she’s human, like the rest of us,” said the first, grimly.
“She’s worn that black straw of hers five summers.”
“I do believe she’d rather go without than not have just the right
thing,” said yet another. “Her family always thought a great deal of
themselves, I’ve been told.”
“Well, they have a right to,” said the first speaker again. “Mrs.
Beatoun’s a good woman, but I didn’t blame her for being angry to-day.
When she’s worked as hard as she has for the church, to be cheated in
this way! And Gladys Tucker says she’s sure it was a lady. Well, I told
Mrs. Beatoun one thing. I said, ‘Be sure we’ll all look out for her!’”
Through all the week in which the disappearance of Mrs. Beatoun’s Paris
hat was canvassed Mrs. Briarley remained happily unconscious.
The excitement had reached fever-heat on Easter Sunday, that Sunday on
which Mrs. Briarley’s precious five-dollar bill was solemnly laid in the
contribution plate. She, all her little lone self, was actually paying
off part of the church debt! It seemed to her as she left the church that
several women looked at her rather oddly—or was it at her hat? She had
changed the trimming a little in the front. Perhaps they were admiring it.
She had expected to take little Emily to the children’s service in the
afternoon, and when the child fell asleep instead, she went by herself.
The service was pretty; it was full of flowers and music and children’s
voices. When it was ended she stood in the vestibule, lingering, with her
eyes fixed on a group of women talking to Mrs. Beatoun.
Suddenly Mrs. Beatoun detached herself from the group and came forward,
with tall figure held erect. There was a breathless pause. Those who were
there knew that the wearer of the hat and the owner of the hat had met at
last.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Briarley, “I’m so glad you came to speak to me! I’ve been
just hoping that you would!”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Beatoun.
“I wanted to tell you—I’ve never enjoyed going to church as I have
to-day.” Mrs. Briarley raised her rapt eyes to those of the rector’s
wife, who wore a little half-cynical smile. “I think your husband
preaches such beautiful sermons. I never heard any that made me feel so
much like—like wanting to be good.” Her voice dropped shyly.
“That is very nice, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Beatoun, politely. “May I ask
where you got your hat?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you asked!” said Mrs. Briarley. She was so full of her
own earnestness of purpose that she kept on, oblivious to the chill
in Mrs. Beatoun’s tone. Her cheeks became pink, her eyes suffused. “I
bought it at the rummage sale. Of course it must have been worn before,
although it doesn’t look it. I bought it because—I’ve been wanting to
tell you that after Mr. Beatoun’s appeal I _couldn’t_ spend the five
dollars I had meant to on a hat, although I needed one. I just bought
this at the sale, and gave the money to the church. I thought Mr. Beatoun
might like to know he had made somebody feel that way. I never have
thought of—things—before, and I wanted to thank him. I have been saying
to myself, as I stood here, that if you came forward to speak to me, I’d
take it as a—sign that I was to tell you this.”
She paused a moment, and then went on. (While you were unburdening your
heart, why not tell all?)
“I have a dear little girl at home, and I do so want to learn to be
better—for her sake. And I’ve thought if I could know you—I’ve been sort
of afraid of you before, but I’m not now. And I love my little girl so
_very_ much——” She stopped again.
Something passed from one to the other as they stood there—Mrs. Briarley
did not know what. There was a wonderful and sweet gentleness in the
face of the older woman as it bent to the simple earnestness of the
other. Mrs. Briarley’s one little thought of truth had unerringly met and
rounded its circle. It is not only at the sacramental table that we are
partakers together of the Bread of Life.
“I’m so glad you told me!” said Mrs. Beatoun. She was not a demonstrative
woman, but in that pause she had put her arms round Mrs. Briarley and
kissed her, under the very shade of the rummage hat.
“And Mr. Beatoun will be glad, too. No, indeed, you must never be afraid
of me again; and you must bring your little girl to see us. It was just
sweet of you to think of telling me about the hat.”
“I’ve noticed people looking at it,” said Mrs. Briarley, all in a glow.
“I never thought until to-day that it might be a mistake about its being
sent to the sale. But you don’t think so?”
“No, it’s not a mistake,” said Mrs. Beatoun, with a sudden smile, as she
added “and I’m in a position to know.”
* * * * *
“Yes, I’ve joined the Guild,” said Mrs. Briarley, with pride in her tone.
“They’ve made me secretary already.” She did not know how cordially that
position was made the portion of the stranger. She was talking to her
husband the evening of his return.
“Mrs. Beatoun couldn’t have been more interested about that five
dollars if she had given it herself. You’ve no idea how nice everybody
in the Guild is to me; they seem to take pains to be kind. But Mrs.
Beatoun—there’s something about Mrs. Beatoun I can’t explain!”
“Well?” said her husband, enjoyingly. Mrs. Briarley was in a washed white
muslin, with ribbons the exact blue of her innocent eyes. She did not
look as if she could be the mother of an Emily.
“I believe Mrs. Beatoun is really—fond of me!”
“That’s very strange,” said Mrs. Briarley’s husband.
Madonna of the Toys: A Christmas Story
Madonna of the Toys: A Christmas Story
“I don’t know what to give him for Christmas!”
Mrs. Tom looked tragically at the group consulting over their
father-in-law in the old-fashioned library. Miss Clara, the unmarried
daughter, had left the room.
“We have a picture,” announced Mrs. Andrew complacently; “a cathedral
interior, beautifully dark and perspective. Little Mary has a cup and
saucer, and Francis a whisk broom.”
“My boys can give black-bordered silk handkerchiefs,” said Mrs. Frank.
“Clara suggests that I have that armchair re-covered, the one he never
sits in.”
“Malcolm had better get him another dozen cases of mineral water,” said
Mrs. Malcolm. “When it’s in the house he drinks it. But that hardly seems
enough, father’s so generous to us. I shall buy a small refrigerator for
his room—it’s so useful in sickness.”
“What do you think of rubber water-bags in assorted sizes?” suggested
Mrs. Walter eagerly. “If he had a pain in two or three places at once
they’d be very handy.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Frank lowered her voice. “I dread coming here Christmas
afternoon and staying to supper; don’t you? _We_ can get along all right,
and the little girls bring their dolls, but boys are so restless—and men,
too! It was so different when Kate and her children were living here, but
last year——! Clara doesn’t know how to make the house attractive.”
“She worries so now that father has to stay up-stairs,” agreed Mrs.
Malcolm feelingly. “The boys love their grandfather, but there’s nothing
for them to do. Why, Violet, you’re not going?”
“I must,” answered a girl with reddish hair and pretty, long-lashed eyes,
who was Mrs. Arthur. She had risen, and was throwing a white boa around
her neck. Her white teeth flashed suddenly in a smile: “I never was of so
much importance before. Good-bye, everybody!”
She ran down the hall, looking in at an open doorway to call an audacious
“Last tag!” to a tall old man who sat there reading, and receive his
quick, amused response before she went swiftly homeward.
Violet’s appointment with the baby was very important indeed. As she sat
afterwards in the darkened nursery, with the infant’s little downy head
against her warm breast, her thoughts went back to grandfather. Somehow
his Christmas prospects depressed her—the dark picture and the mineral
water, the re-covered chair, the refrigerator and the rubber bags seemed
so unlightsome; there was nothing from which the most willing mind could
conjure festivity. Even the perennial handkerchiefs and whisk brooms and
cups and saucers failed to cheer her. It seemed dreadful to be so old
that you weren’t supposed to want anything anybody else did, to have
everything so tiresomely suitable. Violet had an irreverent desire to
send her father-in-law a pink necktie or a flippant poster.