The sample-case man said, "---- ---- ---- ---- ----" (You can fill that
up at your leisure.)
The woman in the brown silk rose to her feet, gathered her skirts
carefully in her hand, skewered the conductor with her eye, and said:
"You've gone and sp'ilt my day, that's what you've gone and done;" and,
receiving no reply, crossed the aisle and plumped herself down in the
overturned seat opposite the dear old lady, adding, as she shook out her
skirt:
"Dirt mean, ain't it?"
The Dear Old Lady looked at the Woman in Brown, nodded in kindly assent,
gazed at the conductor over her spectacles until he had closed the door,
and said in a low, sweet voice that was addressed to nobody in
particular, and yet which permeated the car like a strain of music:
"Well, if we're going to be here for six hours I guess I'll knit."
Just here I began to be interested. The philosophy of the dear woman's
life had evidently made her proof against such trivialities. Six hours!
What difference did it make? There was a flavor of the _Mañana por la
mañana_ of the Spaniard and the _Dolce far niente_ of the Italian in her
acceptance of the situation that appealed to me. Another sun would rise
on the morrow as beautiful as the one we had to-day; why worry over its
setting? Let us eat, drink, and be merry--or knit. It was all the same
to her.
I immediately wanted to know more of this passenger--a desire that did
not in the slightest degree extend to any other inmate of the car. And
yet there were restrictions and barriers which I could not pass. Not
occupying the seat beside her or opposite her, but the one behind her,
I, of course, was not on terms of such intimacy as would make it
possible for me to presume upon her privacy. She was occupying her own
house, as it were, framed in between two seat-backs turned to face each
other, giving her the use of four seats--one of which had been usurped
by the Woman in Brown. I had my one seat with my bag beside me, giving
me the privileges of two sittings. Between us, of course, was the back
of her own seat, over which I looked and studied her back hair and
bonnet and shawl and--knitting.
Under the circumstances I could no more intrude upon the Dear Old Lady's
privacy than upon a neighbor's who lived next door to me but whom I did
not know and was separated from me only by an eight-inch brick wall. The
conventionalities of life enforce these conditions. When, therefore, the
Dear Old Lady informed me and the car that she would "knit," I got
myself into position to watch the operation; not obtrusively, not with
any intention of prying into her private life, but just because--well,
just because I couldn't help it.
There was something about her, somehow, that I could not resist. I knew
a Dear Old Lady once. She wasn't so stout as this old lady and her eyes
were not brown, but blue, and her hair smooth as gray satin and of the
same color. I can see her now as I write, the lamplight falling on her
ivory needles and tangle of white yarn--and sometimes, even now, I think
I hear her voice.
The Dear Old Lady before me felt in her pocket, pulling up her
overskirt and fumbling about for a mysterious pouch that was tied around
her waist, perhaps, and in which she carried her purse, and then she
pinched her reticle and said to herself--I was so near I could hear
every word: "Oh, I guess I put it in the bag"--and she leaned over and
began unfastening the clasps of an old-fashioned carpet-bag, encased in
a pocket-edition of a linen duster, which rested on the seat in front of
her and beside the Woman in Brown, who drew her immaculate,
never-to-be-spotted silk skirt out of the way of any possible polluting
touch.
I craned my head. Somehow I could hardly wait to see what kind of
knitting she would take out--whether it was a man's stocking or a baby's
mitten or a pair of wee socks, or a stripe to sew in an afghan to put
over somebody's bed. What stories could be written about the things dear
old ladies knit--what stories they are, really! In every ball of yarn
there is a thread that leads from one heart to another: to some big son
or fragile daughter, or to the owner of a pair of pink toes that won't
stay covered no matter how close the crib--or to a chubby-faced boy
with frost-tipped ears or cheeks.
First came the ball of yarn--just plain gray yarn--and then two steel
needles, and then----
Then the Dear Old Lady stopped, and an expression of blank amazement
overspread her sweet face as her fingers searched the interior of the
bag.
"Why," she said to herself, "why! Well! You don't tell me that--well! I
never knew that to happen before. Oh, isn't that dreadful! Well, I
_never_!" Here she drew out an unfinished gray yarn stocking. "Just look
at it! Isn't it awful!"
The Woman in Brown sprang to her feet and switched her dress close to
her knees.
"What is it?" she cried.
"Jam!" answered the old lady.
"Jam! You don't mean to say----"
"That's just what it is. Blackberry jam, that my Lizzie put up for John
just before I left home and--oh, isn't it too bad! It's streaming all
over the seat and running down on the floor! Oh my! my!"
The Woman in Brown gave a bound and was out in the aisle. "Well, I
should think," she cried indignantly, "that you'd had sense enough to
know better than to carry jam in a thing like that. I ain't got none on
me, hev I?"
The Dear Old Lady didn't reply. She was too much absorbed in her own
misfortunes to notice her companions.
"I told Lizzie," she continued, "just 'fore I left, that she oughter put
it in a basket, but she 'lowed that it had a tin cap and was screwed
tight, and that she'd stuff it down in my clothes and it would carry all
right. I ain't never left it out of my hand but once, and then I give it
to the man who helped me up the steps. He must have set it down sudden
like."
As she spoke she drew out from the inside of the bag certain articles of
apparel which she laid on the seat. One--evidently a neck
handkerchief--looked like a towel that had just wiped off the face of a
boy who had swallowed the contents of the jar.
The Woman in Brown was in the aisle now examining her skirts, twisting
them round and round in search of stray bits of jam. The Dear Old Lady
was still at work in her bag, her back shielding its smeared contents.
Trickling down upon the floor and puddling in the aisle and under the
seats on the opposite side of the car ran a sticky fluid that the woman
avoided stepping upon with as much care as if it had been a snake.
I started forward to help, and then I suddenly checked myself. What
could I do? The blackberry jam had not only soaked John's stockings, but
it had also permeated. Well, the Dear Old Lady was travelling and
evidently on the way to see John--her son, no doubt--and to stay all
night. No, it was beyond question; I could not be of the slightest use.
Then again, there was a woman present. Whatever help the Dear Old Lady
needed should come from her.
"You ain't got no knife, I suppose?" I heard the Woman in Brown say. "If
you had you could scrape most of it off."
"No," answered the Dear Old Lady. "Have you?"
"Well, I did hev, but I don't just know where it is. It would gorm that
up, too, maybe, if I did find it."
"No, I guess the best way is to try and wash it off. I'll get rid of
this anyway," the Dear Old Lady answered; and out came the treacherous
jar with the crack extending down its side, its metal top loose, the
whole wrapped in yellow paper--all of which she dropped out of the open
window.
During this last examination the Woman in Brown stood in the aisle, her
skirts above her ankles. It wasn't her bag, or her stockings, or her
jam. She had paid her fare and was entitled to her seat and its
surrounding comforts: I had a good view of her face as she stood in
front of me, and I saw what was passing in her mind. To this air of
being imposed upon, first by the railroad and now by this
fellow-passenger, was added a certain air of disgust--a contempt for any
one, however old, who could be so stupid and careless. The little
wrinkles that kept puckering at the base of her red lobster-claw of a
nose--it really looked like one--helped me in this diagnosis. Its shape
prevented her from turning it up at anybody, and wrinkling was all that
was left. Having read her thoughts as reflected in her face, I was no
longer surprised that she continued standing without offering in any
way to help her companion out of her dilemma.
The Dear Old Lady's examination over, and the intricacies of her bag
explored and the corners of certain articles of apparel lifted and
immediately replaced again, she said to herself, with a sigh of relief:
"Ain't but one stocking tetched, anyhow. Most of it's gone into my
shoes--yes, that's better. Oh, I was so scared!"
"Everything stuck up, ain't it?" rasped the Woman. She hadn't taken her
seat yet. It seemed to me she could get more comfort out of the Old
Lady's misery standing up.
"Well, it might ha' been worse, but I ain't goin' to worry a mite over
it. I'll go to the cooler and wash up what I can, and the rest's got to
wait till I get to John's," she said in her sweet, patient way, as she
gathered up the bag and its contents and made her way to the wash-basin.
The car relapsed into its former dull condition. Those of the passengers
who were not experts and whose advice, if taken, would have immediately
replaced the cylinder-head and sent the train in on time, were picking
flowers outside the track, but close enough to the train to spring
aboard at the first sign of life in the motive-power. Every now and then
there would come a back-thrust of the car and a bumping into the one
behind us. Some scientist who had spent his life in a country store
hereupon explained to a mechanical engineer who had a market garden out
of Springfield (I learned this from their conversation) that "it was the
b'iler that acted that way; the engineer was lettin' off steam and the
jerk come when he raised the safety-valve."
A brakeman now opened the door nearest the water-cooler, passed the old
lady washing up, ran amuck through a volley of questions fired at him in
rapid succession, and slammed the other door behind him without replying
to one of them. In this fusillade the Woman in Brown, who had now turned
over a flower-picking passenger's seat in addition to her own, had
managed her tongue with the rapidity and precision of a Gatling gun.
One of those mysterious rumors, picked up from some scrap of
conversation heard outside, now drifted through the car. It conveyed the
information that another engine had been telegraphed for and would be
along soon. This possibility the Sample-Case Man demolished by remarking
in his peculiar vernacular--unprintable, all of it--that it was ten
miles to the nearest telegraph station and it would take two hours to
walk it.
The bottom having dropped out of this slight hope, the car relapsed into
its dull monotony. No statement now of any kind would be believed by
anybody.
During this depression I espied the Dear Old Lady making her way down
the aisle. No trace of anxiety was on her face. The bag had resumed its
former appearance, its linen duster buttoned tight over its ample chest.
The Woman in Brown was waiting for her, her feet up on the
flower-picking passenger's seat, her precious brown silk tucked in above
her shoes.
"Quite a muss, warn't it?" she said with rather a gleeful tone, as if
she rejoiced in the Old Lady's punishment for her stupidity.
"Yes, but it's all right now. It soaked through my shoes and went all
over my cap, and----" Here she bent her head and whispered into the
Woman's ear. I realized then how impossible it would have been for me to
have rendered the slightest assistance.
She had taken her seat now and had laid the bag in its original position
on the cushion in front of her. My heart had gone out to her, but I was
powerless to help. Once or twice I conned over in my mind an expression
of sympathy, but I could not decide on just what I ought to say and when
I ought to say it, and so I kept silent. I should not have felt that way
about the Woman in Brown, who sat across from me, her two feet patting
away on the seat cushion as if to express her delight that she had
escaped the catastrophe (toes express joy oftener than fingers, if we
did but know it). It would not have taken me five seconds to express my
opinion of her--with my toes had she been a man.
The Dear Old Lady began now to rearrange her toilet, drawing up her
shawl, tightening the strings of her comfortable bonnet, wiping the big
gold spectacles on a bit of chamois from her reticule. I watched every
movement. Somehow I could not keep my eyes from her. Then I heard her
say in a low voice to herself:
"Well, the toe warn't stained--I guess I can work on that."
Out came the needles and yarn again, and the wrinkled fingers settled
down to their work. No more charming picture in the world than the one
now before me!
The Woman in Brown held a different opinion. Craning her head and
getting a full view of the Dear Old Lady peacefully and comfortably at
work, all her sorrows ended, she snapped out:
"I s'pose ye don't know I can't put my feet down nowheres. It's all a
muck round here; you seed it when the jar fust busted, 'cause I heard ye
say so. I been 'spectin' ye'd clean it up somehow."
Down went the knitting and up she got.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I'll get a newspaper and wipe it up. I hope you
didn't get none on your clothes."
"Oh, I took care o' that! This is a brand-new dress and I ain't wore it
afore. I don't get nothin' on _my_ clothes--I ain't that kind." This
last came with a note of triumph in her voice.
I watched the Dear Old Lady lean over the thin axe-handle ankles of the
Woman in Brown, mop up a little pool of jam-juice, tuck the stained
paper under the crossbar, and regain her seat. I started up to help, but
it was all over before I could interfere.
The Dear Old Lady resumed her knitting. The Woman in Brown put down her
feet; her rights had been recognized and she was satisfied. I kept up my
vigil.
Soon a movement opposite attracted me. I raised my eyes. The Woman in
Brown, with her eye on the Dear Old Lady, was stealthily opening a small
paper bundle. She had the air of a boy watching a policeman. The paper
parcel contained a red napkin, a dinner knife, and two fat sandwiches
streaming with butter.
"Oh, you brought your lunch with you, did ye?" remarked the Dear Old
Lady, who had unexpectedly raised her eyes from her knitting and at the
wrong moment.
"Well, jes' a bite. I'd offer ye some, but I heard ye say that you were
goin' to eat dinner with your son. That's so, ain't it?"
"Yes, that's so."
The needles kept on their course, the Dear Old Lady's thoughts worked in
with every stitch. It was now twelve o'clock, and Boston hours away.
John would dine late if he waited for his old mother.
The red napkin had now been laid on the seat cushion and the sandwiches
placed side by side in full sight of the car. Concealment was no longer
necessary.
"I don't s'pose ye left any water in the cooler, did ye?"
"Oh, plenty," came the reply, the needles still plying, the dear face
fixed on their movement.
"Well, then, I guess before I eat I'll get a cup," and she covered the
luncheon with the brown paper and passed down the aisle.
During her brief absence several important incidents took place. First
there came a jerk that felt for a moment like a head-on collision. This
was a new locomotive, which had been sent to our relief, butting into
the rear car. Then followed a rush of passengers, flower-pickers,
mechanical engineers, scientists, sample-case man, and, last, the man
with the dusting-brush whiskers. He paused for a moment, located his
seat by his umbrella in the rack overhead, picked up the paper parcel,
transferred it to the other seat, the one the woman in Brown had just
left, tilted forward the back, and sat down.
When he had settled himself and raised his head, the Woman in Brown
stood over him looking into his eyes, an angry expression on her face.
She held a cup of water in her hand.
"My seat, ain't it?" he blurted out.
"Yes, 'spec' it is," she snarled back, "long as you want it." And she
gathered her skirts carefully, edged into the reduced space of her
former seat, laid the cup of water on the sill of the window, and sat
down as carefully as a hen adjusting herself to a nest, and, I thought,
with precisely the same movement.
A moment more and she leaned over the seat-back and said to the
bewhiskered man:
"Hand me that napkin and stuff, will ye?"
The man moved his arm, picked up his newspaper, looked under it, and
said:
"It ain't here."
"Well, I guess it is. I sot it there not more'n two minutes ago!"
The man settled himself in his seat and began to read.
"Look 'round there, will ye? Maybe it dropped on the floor."
"It ain't on the floor. Guess I know a napkin when I see it." This came
with some degree of positiveness.
"Well, it ain't here. I left it right where you're a-sittin' when I went
and got this water. You ain't eat it, hev ye?" She was still in her
seat, her head twisted about, her face expressing every thought that
crossed her mind.
"No, I ain't eat it. I ain't no goat!" and the man buried his face in
his paper. For him the incident was closed.
Here there came a still small voice floating out from the lips of the
Dear Old Lady, slowly, one word at a time:
"Ain't you set on it?"
"Set on it! _What!_"
She was on her feet now, pulling her skirt around, craning her neck, her
face getting whiter and whiter as the truth dawned upon her.
"Oh, Lordy! Jes' look at it! However did I come to! Oh!"
"Here, take my handkerchief," murmured the Dear Old Lady. "Let me help
wipe it off." And she laid down her knitting.
Oh, but it was a beautiful stain! A large, irregular, map-like stain,
with the counties plotted in bits of ham and the townships in smears of
bread, with little rivers of butter running everywhere. One dear,
beloved rill in an ecstasy of delight had skipped a fold and was pushing
a heap of butter ahead of it down a side plait.
I hugged myself with the joy of it all. If it had only been a crock she
had sat in, with sandwiches enough to supply a picnic!
And the stain!
That should have been as large as the State of Rhode Island!