Blue Monday
October, with its wealth of color, its mellow days, and soft haze was
passing quickly and November was not far off: November with its
"melancholy days" of "wailing winds and wintry woods."
Baltie had now been a member of the Carruth family for nearly a month
and had improved wonderfully under Mammy Melviny's care. How the old
woman found time to care for him and the means to provide for him was
a source of wonder not only to Mrs. Carruth, but to the entire
neighborhood who regarded the whole thing as a huge joke, and enjoyed
many a hearty laugh over it, for Mammy was considered a character by
the neighbors, and nobody felt much surprised at any new departure in
which she might elect to indulge. Two or three friends had begged Mrs.
Carruth to let them relieve her of the care of the old horse, assuring
her that they would gladly keep him in their stables as long as he
needed a home, and ended in a hearty laugh at the thought of Mammy
turning groom. But when Mrs. Carruth broached the subject to Mammy she
was met with flat opposition:
"Send dat ole horse off ter folks what was jist gwine tek keer of him
fer cha'ity? _No_ I aint gwine do no sich t'ing. De Lawd sartin sent
him ter me ter tek keer of an' I'se gwin ter _do_ it. Aint he mine?
Didn't Jabe Raulsbury say dat anybody what would tek keer of him could
_have_ him? Well I'se tekin' keer of him so _co'se_ he's _mine_. I
aint never is own no live stock befo' an now I _got_ some. Go 'long,
Miss Jinny; you'se got plenty ter tend ter 'thout studyin' 'bout my
_horse_. Bimeby like 'nough I have him so fed up and spry I can sell
him fer heap er cash--dough I don' believe anybody's got nigh 'nough
fer ter buy him whilst Baby loves him."
And so the discussion ended and Baltie lived upon the fat of the land
and was sheltered in Mrs. Carruth's unused stable. Dry leaves which
fell in red and yellow clouds from the maple, birch and oak trees made
a far softer bed than the old horse had known in many a day. A bag of
bran was delivered at Mrs. Carruth's house for "Mammy Melviny," with
Hadyn Stuyvesant's compliments. Mammy herself, invested in a sack of
oats and a bale of cut hay, to say nothing of saving all bits of bread
and parings from her kitchen, and Baltic waxed sleek and fat thereon.
Jean was his devoted slave and daily led him about the grounds for a
constitutional. Up and down the driveway paced the little girl, the
old horse plodding gently beside her, his ears pricked toward her for
her faintest word, his head held in the pathetic, listening attitude
of a blind horse. He knew her step afar off, and his soft nicker never
failed to welcome her as she drew near. To no one else did he show
such little affectionate ways, or manifest such gentleness. He seemed
to understand that to this little child, which one stroke of his great
hoofs could have crushed, he owed his rescue and present comforts.
And so the weeks had slipped away. The money which Jean had left for
Mr. Pringle had been promptly refunded with a note to explain that the
Society had borne all the expenses for Baltie's board.
Mrs. Carruth sat in her library wrinkling her usually serene brow over
a business letter this chilly Monday morning, and hurrying to get it
completed before the arrival of the letter carrier who always took any
letters to be mailed. Her face wore a perplexed expression, and her
eyes had tired lines about them, for the past year had been harder for
her than anyone suspected. Her income, at best, was much too limited
to conduct her home as it had always been conducted, and the general
expenses of living in Riveredge were steadily increasing. True, Mammy
was frugality itself in the matter of providing, and Mrs. Carruth
often marveled at the small amounts of her weekly bills. But the
demands in other directions were heavy, and the expenses of the place
itself were large. More than once had she questioned the wisdom of
striving to keep the home, believing that the tax upon her resources,
and her anxiety, would be less if she gave it up and removed to town
where she could live for far less than in Riveredge. Then arose the
memory of the building of the home, the hopes, the plans, and the joys
so inseparable from it, the children's well-being and their love for
the house their father had built; their education, and the environment
of a home in such a town as Riveredge.
Now, however, new difficulties were confronting her, for some of her
investments were not making the returns she had expected and her
income was seriously affected. In spite of the utmost frugality and
care the outlook was not encouraging, and just now she had to meet the
demand of the fire insurance upon the home and its contents, and just
how to do so was the question which was causing her brows to wrinkle.
She had let the matter stand until the last moment, but dared to do so
no longer for upon that point Mr. Carruth had always been most
emphatic; the insurance upon his property must never lapse. He had
always carried one, and since his death his wife had been careful to
continue it. But _now_ how to meet the sum, and meet it at once, was
the problem.
She had completed her letter when Mammy came to the door.
"Is yo' here, Miss Jinny? Is yo' busy? I wants to ax you sumpin'," she
said as she gave a quick glance at Mrs. Carruth from her keen eyes.
"Come in, Mammy. What is it?"
The voice had a tired, anxious note in it which Mammy was quick to
catch.
"Wha' de matter, honey? Wha's plaguin' you dis mawnin'?" she asked as
she hurried across the room to rest her hand on her mistress'
shoulder.
Like a weary child Mrs. Carruth let her head fall upon Mammy's bosom--a
resting place that as long as she could remember had never failed
her--as she said:
"Mammy, your baby is very weary, and sorely disheartened this morning,
and very, very lonely."
The words ended in a sob.
Instantly all Mammy's sympathies were aroused. Gathering the weary
head in her arms she stroked back the hair with her work-hardened
hand, as she said in the same tender tones she had used to soothe her
baby more than forty years ago:
"Dere, dere, honey, don' yo' fret; don' yo' fret. Tell Mammy jist
what's pesterin' yo' an' she'll mak' it all right fer her baby. Hush!
Hush. Mammy can tek keer of anythin'."
"Oh, Mammy dear, dear old Mammy, you take care of so much as it is.
What _would_ we do without you?"
"Hush yo' talk chile! What I gwine do widout yo' all? Dat talk all
foolishness. Don't I b'long ter de fambly? Now yo' mind yo' Mammy an'
tell her right off what's a frettin' yo' dis day. Yo' heah _me_?"
Mammy's voice was full of forty-five years of authority, but her eyes
were full of sympathetic tears, for her love for her "Miss Jinny" was
beyond the expression of words.
"O Mammy, I am so foolish, and I fear so pitifully weak when it comes
to conducting my business affairs wisely. You can't understand these
vexatious business matters which I must attend to, but I sorely miss
Mr. Carruth when they arise and _must_ be met."
"Huccum I cyan't understand 'em? What Massa Bernard done tackle in his
business dat I cyan't ef _yo'_ kin? Tell me dis minute just what you'
gotter do, an' I bate yo' ten dollars I c'n _do_ it."
"I know there isn't anything you would not try to do, Mammy, from
taking care of an old horse, to moving the contents of the entire
house if it became necessary," replied Mrs. Carruth, smiling in spite
of herself, as she wiped her eyes, little realizing how near the truth
was her concluding remark regarding Mammy's prowess.
"I reckon I c'd move de hull house if I had _time_ enough, an' as fer
de horse--huh! ain't he stanin' dere a livin' tes'imony of what a
bran-smash an' elbow-grease kin do? 'Pears lak his hairs rise right up
an' call me bres-sed, dey's tekin' ter shinin' so sense I done rub my
hans ober 'em," and Mammy, true to her racial characteristics, broke
into a hearty laugh; so close together lies the capacity for joy or
sorrow in this child race. The next instant, however, Mammy was all
seriousness as she demanded:
"Now I want yo' ter tell me all 'bout dis bisness flummy-diddle what's
frettin' yo'. Come now; out wid it, quick."
Was it the old habit of obedience to Mammy's dictates, or the woman's
longing for someone to confide in during these trying days of
loneliness, that impelled Mrs. Carruth to explain in as simple
language as possible the difficulties encompassing her?
The burden of meeting even the ordinary every-day expenses upon the
very limited income derived from Mr. Carruth's life insurance, which
left no margin whatsoever for emergencies. Of the imperative necessity
of continuing the fire insurance he had always carried upon the home
and its contents, lest a few hours wipe out what it had required years
to gather together, and his wife and children be left homeless. How,
under their altered circumstances this seemed more than ever
imperative, since in the event of losing the house and its contents
there would be no possible way of replacing either unless they kept
the insurance upon them paid up.
Mammy listened intently, now and again nodding her old head and
uttering a Um-uh! Um-uh! of comprehension.
When Mrs. Carruth ceased speaking she asked:
"An' how much has yo' gotter plank right out dis minit fer ter keep
dis hyer as'sur'nce f'om collaps'in', honey?"
"Nearly thirty dollars, Mammy, and that seems a very large sum to me
now-a-days."
"Hum-uh! Yas'm. So it do. Um. An' yo' aint got it?"
"I have not got it to-day, Mammy. I shall have it next week, but the
time expires day after to-morrow and I do not know whether the company
will be willing to wait, or whether I should forfeit my claim by the
delay. I have written to ask."
"Huh! Wha' sort o' compiny is it dat wouldn't trus' a _Blairsdale_, I
like ter know?" demanded Mammy indignantly.
Mrs. Carruth smiled sadly as she answered:
"These are not the old days, Mammy, and you know 'corporations have no
souls.'"
"No so'les? Huh, _I'se_ seen many a corpo'ration dat hatter have good
thick _leather_ soles fer ter tote 'em round. Well, well, times is
sho' 'nough changed an' dese hyer Norf ways don't set well on my bile;
dey rises it, fer sure. So dey ain't gwine _trus'_ you, Baby? Where
dey live at who has de sesso 'bout it all?"
"The main office is in the city, Mammy, but they have, of course, a
local agent here."
"Wha' yo' mean by a locum agen', honey?"
"A clerk who has an office at 60 State street, and who attends to any
business the firm may have in Riveredge."
"Is yo' writ yo' letter ter him? Who _is_ he?"
"No, I have written to the New York office, because Mr. Carruth always
transacted his business there. I thought it wiser to, for this Mr.
Sniffins is a very young man, and would probably not be prepared to
answer my question."
"Wha' yo' call him? Yo' don' mean dat little swimbly, red-headed,
white-eyed sumpin' nu'er what sets down in dat basemen' office wid his
foots cocked up on de rail-fence in front ob him, an' a segyar mos' as
big as his laig stuck in he's mouf all de time? I sees _him_ eve'y
time I goes ter market, an' he lak' ter mek me sick. Is _he_ de
agen'?"
"Yes, Mammy, and I dare say he is capable enough, although I do not
care to come in contact with him if I can avoid it."
"If I ketches yo' in dat 'tater sprout's office I gwine smack yo'
sure's yo' bo'n. Yo' heah _me_? Why _his_ ma keeps the _sody_-fountain
on Main street. Wha-fo you gotter do wid such folks, Baby?"
"But, Mammy, they are worthy, respectable people,"--protested Mrs.
Carruth.
"Hush yo' talk, chile. _I_ reckon I knows de diff'rence twixt quality
an' de _yether_ kind. Dat's no place fer yo' to go at," cried Mammy,
all her instincts rebelling against the experiences her baby was
forced to meet in her altered circumstances. "Gimme dat letter. I'se
gwine straight off ter markit dis minit and I'll see dat it get sont
off ter de right pusson 'for I'se done anudder ting."
"But what did you wish to ask me, Mammy?"
"Nuffin'. 'Taint no 'count 'tall. I'll ax it when I comes back. Go
'long up-stairs and mek yo' bed if yo pinin' for occerpation," and
away Mammy flounced from the room, leaving Mrs. Carruth more or less
bewildered. She would have been completely so could she have followed
the old woman.