In those days, because it was difficult and dangerous for any one to
visit Cypress Hill and because, after all, no one had any particular
reason to visit it, there was at the old house, only one caller beside
the doctor. This was Hattie Tolliver, whose strength had given way a
little to an increasing stoutness but whose pride and spirit flagged not
at all. To the police and the hired guards at the Mills, she became as
familiar a figure as the doctor himself. She came on foot, since all
service on the clanging trolley cars of Halsted street was long since
suspended, her large powerful body clad in black clothes of good
quality, a basket suspended over one arm and the inevitable umbrella
swinging from the other. She walked with a sort of fierce disdain
directed with calculated ostentation alike at the Mill guards, the
police, and the dwellers of the Flats who viewed her bourgeois approach
with a sullen hostility. The basket contained delicacies concocted by
her own skilled and housewifely hand ... the most golden of custards,
the most delicate of rennets, fragile biscuits baked without sugar--in
short, every sort of thing which might please the palate of an invalid
accustomed to excellent food.
In effect, Cypress Hill fell slowly into a state of siege. Surrounded on
three sides by the barrier of barbed wire, the sole means of egress was
the long drive turning into Halsted street. Here there was danger, for
disorders occurred frequently at the very wrought iron gates, now rusted
and broken. Stones were hurled by the strikers and shots fired by the
police. The wagons of the Town no longer delivered goods at a spot so
isolated and dangerous, and the duties of supplying the place with food
came gradually to be divided between Irene and Hattie Tolliver, whose
lack of friendliness and understanding toward each other approached an
open hatred. They alone of the little garrison went in and out of the
wrought iron gates; for Hennery and the mulatto woman were far too
terrified by the disorders outside ever to venture into the Town.
On the day of Lily’s letter Hattie Tolliver, bearing a well-laden
basket, arrived and went at once to Aunt Julia’s room. She brooked no
interference from the mulatto woman.
After bidding Sarah place the contents of the basket in a cool place she
swept by the servant with a regal swish of black skirts.
Upstairs in the twilight Julia Shane lay in the enormous bed, flat on
her back staring at the ceiling. At the approach of her niece she raised
herself a little and asked in a feeble voice to be propped up. It was as
though the approach of her vigorous rosy-faced niece endowed her with a
sudden energy.
“And how are you?” asked Hattie Tolliver when she had smoothed the
pillows with an expert hand and made the old woman more comfortable than
she had been in many days.
“The same ... just the same,” was the monotonous answer. “Lily is a long
time in coming.”
Cousin Hattie went to the windows and flung back the curtains. “Light
and air will do you good,” she said. “There’s nothing like light and
air.” And then turning, “Why don’t you make Sarah keep the windows
open?”
Julia Shane sat up more straightly, breathing in the crisp air. “I tell
her to ... but she doesn’t like air,” she said weakly.
“You let her bully you! She needs some one to manage her. I’m surprised
Irene doesn’t put her in her place.”
The old woman smiled. “Irene,” she said. “Irene.... Why she’s too meek
ever to get on with servants. It’s no use ... her trying anything.”
“I’ve brought you a custard and some cakes,” continued her niece, at the
same time flicking bits of dust from the dressing table with her
handkerchief and setting the pillows of the chaise longue in order with
a series of efficient pats. “There’s going to be trouble ... real
trouble before long. The strikers are getting bolder.”
“They’re getting more hungry too, Irene says,” replied the old woman.
“Perhaps that’s why.”
Cousin Hattie came over to the bed now and sat herself down, at the
same time taking out a pillow-case which she set herself to hemming.
“You know what they’re saying in the Town,” she remarked. “They’re
saying that Irene is helping the strike by giving the strikers money.”
To this the old woman made no reply and Cousin Hattie continued. “I
don’t see the sense in that. The sooner every one gets to work, the
better. It isn’t safe in Halsted street any longer. I’m surprised at
Irene helping those foreigners against the Harrisons. I didn’t think she
had the spirit to take sides in a case like this.”
Julia Shane moved her weary body into a more comfortable position. “She
doesn’t take sides. She only wants to help the women and children.... I
suppose she’s right after all.... They are like the rest of us.”
At this Cousin Hattie gave a grunt of indignation. “They didn’t have to
come to this country. I’m sure nobody wants ’em.”
“The Mills want them,” said her aunt. “The Mills want them and the Mills
want more and more all the time.”
“But I don’t see why we have to suffer because the Mills want
foreigners. There ought to be some law against it.”
As though there seemed to be no answer to this, Julia Shane turned on
her side and remarked. “I had a letter from Lily to-day.”
Her niece put down the pillow case and regarded her with shining eyes.
Her heavy body became alive and vibrant. “What did she say? Was there
any news of Ellen? Shall I read it?”
“No, go on with your work. If you prop me a little higher and give me my
glass, I’ll read it.”
This operation completed, she read the letter through. It was not until
Ellen’s name occurred that Cousin Hattie displayed any real interest. At
the sound of her daughter’s name, the woman put down her sewing and
assumed an attitude of passionate listening.
“Ellen,” ran the letter, “is doing splendidly. She is contented here and
is working hard under Philippe. She plays better than ever ... if that
is possible, and plans to make her début in London next year. She has
every reason to make a great success. I am leaving her in my house when
I come to America. She gets on beautifully with Madame Gigon. That was
my greatest worry, for Madame Gigon has grown worse as she has grown
older. But she has taken a fancy to Ellen ... fortunately, so everything
is perfect. Tell Cousin Hattie that one day she will be proud of her
daughter.”
Julia Shane, when she had finished, put down the letter, and regarded
her niece. “You see, Hattie,” she said, “there is no need to worry.
Everything is going splendidly. Ellen couldn’t be in better hands. Lily
knows her way about the world a great deal better than most. Some day
your daughter will be famous.”
There came no response from her niece. Mrs. Tolliver sat upright and
thoughtful. Presently she took up the pillow case and set to work again.
“These débuts,” she said. “They cost money, don’t they?”
“Yes,” replied her aunt.
“Well where is Ellen to get it? Clarence’s life insurance must all be
gone by this time.”
“I suppose Lily has found a way. Lily is clever. Besides Ellen isn’t
altogether helpless.”
Again there was a thoughtful pause and the old woman said, “I don’t
think you’d be pleased if Ellen _was_ a great success.”
“I don’t know. I’d be more pleased if I had her nearer to me. I don’t
like the idea of her being in Paris. It’s not a healthy place. It’s the
wickedest city in the world.”
“Come, Hattie. You mustn’t forget Ellen was made to live in the world.
You brought her up to be successful and famous. It’s your fault if you
have reason to be proud of her.”
Into this single sentence or two Julia Shane managed to condense a whole
epic. It was an epic of maternal sacrifices, of a household kept without
servants so that the children might profit by the money saved, of plans
which had their beginning even before the children were born, of hopes
and ambitions aroused skilfully by a woman who now sat deserted, hemming
a pillow-case to help dispel her loneliness. She had, in effect, brought
about her own sorrow. They were gone now, Ellen to Paris, Fergus and
Robert to New York. It was in their very blood. All this was written,
after all, in the strong proud face bent low over the pillow-case ... an
epic of passionate maternity.
“We have to expect these things of our children,” continued Aunt Julia.
“I’m old enough to know that it’s no new story, and I’ve lived long
enough to know that we have no right to demand of them the things which
seem to us the only ones worth while. Every one of us is different from
the others. There are no two in the least alike. And no one ever really
knows any one else. There is always a part which remains secret and
hidden, concealed in the deepest part of the soul. No husband ever knows
his wife, Hattie, and no wife ever really knows her husband. There is
always something just beyond that remains aloof and untouched,
mysterious and undiscoverable because we ourselves do not know just what
it is. Sometimes it is shameful. Sometimes it is too fine, too precious,
ever to reveal. It is quite beyond revelation even if we chose to reveal
it....”