ZEB AND A TEA PARTY.
The door swung slowly open and a small, miserably thin child stood
narrowly inspecting them through black, curly wisps of hair that hung
down over her forehead and made her look like a terrier. She had on a
ragged, dirty frock, and a dingy plaid shawl covered her shoulders.
“I am glad to see you, dear child,” said Stargarde, going to meet her
and taking her warmly by the hand. “Come into the bedroom and take off
your things.”
The child picked off the back of her black head a tiny boy’s cap that
lay there like an ugly patch, and plucking impatiently at her shawl to
draw it from her shoulders, flashed Stargarde an adoring glance and
followed her into an inner room.
“Will you wash your face, dear?” said Stargarde, pouring some water from
a ewer to a little basin that she placed on a chair. “Here is a clean
towel and some of the nicest soap. Just smell it. Somebody sent it to me
from Paris.”
The girl tossed back her hair from her dirty face and dabbled her hands
in the water. “Who’s that cove out there?” she said with an ugly scowl
and jerking her head in the direction of the other room.
“A friend of mine, Dr. Camperdown. He is a nice man, Zeb. I hope you
will like him.”
“Them dirty swells, I hate ’em,” returned the child.
Stargarde was silent. To try at the outset to reform the vocabulary of a
child of the gutter was, she knew, a mistake. The girl had been brought
up in an evil atmosphere, and her little perverted mind was crammed with
bitter prejudices against all who were better off in regard to this
world’s goods than she was herself. Stargarde watched pityingly the
sullen face bending over the basin.
“He wants yer,” said the child suddenly, and with an acute spasm of
jealousy contracting her brows. “I seed it in him. He’ll take yer away
from the Pav.”
Stargarde blushed a little. Just for one instant she was tempted by a
natural disinclination not to discuss her love affairs with such an
uncongenial being as the one before her. Then she remembered her
invariable maxim, “No prevarication. Perfect frankness in my dealings
with my fellow-men,” and said gently: “I am not willing to go, Zeb, I
shall stay here.”
“Not if he coaxes yer?” said the child eagerly.
“No, Zeb.”
The little renegade scrubbed vigorously at her face without making
reply. Then polishing her hands with a towel she approached Stargarde.
“Will yer kiss me now?” she said humbly.
“Yes, darling,” and the beautiful woman took the dirty child to her
breast in a warm embrace.
The child’s clothes were not clean. In fact months had passed over her
head since her dress had made acquaintance with the wash tub. “Zeb,”
said Stargarde hesitatingly, “I have a little cotton frock here”—the
child frowned angrily and regarded her with a glance as proud as
Lucifer’s. “It is just like mine,” went on Stargarde. “Look, Zeb.”
She took a small garment from a closet and showed the child the
coquettish frills adorning the skirt and neck. “Seeing it’s you,” said
the child graciously, “I’ll take it. But we’s no beggars, mind that! Mam
and pap’ll kill me, likely, but I don’t care,” and with a fine
assumption of indifference she pulled off her ragged gown, kicked it
contemptuously aside, and allowed Stargarde to slip over her head the
new and pretty dress which tortures would not have forced her to don, if
it had not been for the fortunate occurrence that it was made from a
similar piece of material to that clothing the woman she so passionately
admired.
“I will speak to your mother about it,” said Stargarde reassuringly, as
she buttoned her visitor up. “I don’t think she will mind.” Zeb thrust a
hand into hers without speaking and walked silently out to Dr.
Camperdown with her. When Stargarde introduced her to him she put out
her tongue, stuck up her shoulder at him, and half turning her back drew
up a little footstool to the grate, to which she sat so close that
Stargarde was in momentary fear lest she should catch fire.
“Now, what shall we have for tea?” said Stargarde cheerily. “Let every
one choose what he would like. What are you for, Brian?”
“Anything you choose to give me,” he said agreeably, “provided there is
enough of it. I’m as hungry as a hunter this evening. Good breakfast,
but patients were dogging me all lunch time, and I haven’t broken my
fast yet.”
“Well, we’ll give you something substantial,” replied his hostess. “What
will you have, Zeb?”
“Something in the line o’ birds,” said the child, a hard and hungry look
coming into her eyes. “I sees ’em hangin’ up in the shops, I smells ’em
and sees the dogs lickin’ the bones, but never a taste gets I. Say
turkey, missis, or goose.”
“They have some turkeys over at the restaurant, I saw them to-day,” said
Stargarde clapping her hands like a child. “We’ll have one, and
stuffing, Zeb, and hot potato. Come, let us go and get it.”
The child sprang up, and clasping her hand Stargarde hurried out of the
room and across the yard to the gay little eating house, going with the
utmost speed so that they might not take cold. Breathless and laughing
they pulled up outside the door, and opening it, walked soberly in. The
child squeezed her patron’s hand with delight. The large, bright room
before her, with its light walls adorned with pictures and its floor
covered with little tables where people were eating and drinking, was
like a glimpse of heaven to her. Stargarde went up to the counter.
“Good-evening, Mary,” she said to a pretty young girl there; “can you
let me have a basket to put some purchases in? Ah, that is just what I
want,” as the girl, diving behind the counter brought up one of the
light flexible things made by the Indians of Nova Scotia. “Now first of
all we want a turkey, a small one—no, a large one,” in response to a
warning pressure from Zeb’s fingers. “See, there is one coming from the
kitchen on a platter. Isn’t he a monster! Put him in a covered dish,
Mary, and pop him into the basket with a dish of potatoes and—what
vegetables have you?”
“Turnips, beets, parsnips, carrots, squash——”
“Well, give us some of each, but we’ll have to get the boy to help us
carry them. We never can take all these things. And cranberry sauce,
don’t forget that. Pickles, Zeb? Do you want some of them? Very good,
we’ll have a bottle. Have you made your mince pies yet? No. Well, we’ll
have a lemon one and a strawberry tart and some fruit. Will you have
grapes or oranges, Zeb?”
“Dates, and figs, and nuts,” gurgled the child in almost speechless
delight.
Stargarde stifled a laugh. “So be it Mary, and cheese and crackers for
Dr. Camperdown. Now Zeb let us take this basket and run home and Mary
will send the rest.”
Camperdown looked up in amazement as the two burst into the room.
“What’s the excitement?” he said, getting up and standing with his back
to the fire. “Here, let me put your basket on the table. What’s all
this?”
“Dear Brian,” said Stargarde breathlessly, “you must not talk. Only help
us. Set all these dishes on the hearth to keep hot. I should have set my
table before we went to the restaurant. Alas, I am a poor housekeeper.
Zeb dear, here is the cloth; spread it on the table; and Brian do help
her to put the knives and forks and plates around. I will make the tea
or coffee—which would you rather have?”
“Coffee for me, if it’s dinner,” said Camperdown. “I smell meat, don’t
I? What do you call this meal, anyway?”
“I call it anything,” said Stargarde, “only it must be eaten hot. Cold
things are detestable.”
“Tea for me,” piped up Zeb shrilly; “I hates coffee.”
Stargarde uncomplainingly searched in her cupboard for two vessels
instead of one—brought out a small earthenware teapot and a tin
coffeepot, and set them on a trivet which she fastened to the grate.
Then finding a small kettle, she filled it with water and put it on the
glowing coals.
“I call this pleasant!” exclaimed Dr. Camperdown a few minutes later.
The dishes were all nicely arranged on a cloth as white as snow. He had
a spotlessly clean but coarse _serviette_ spread across his knees, and
was flashing glances of admiration across the mammoth turkey before him
at Stargarde, seated at the other end of the board. “I call this
pleasant!” he repeated, picking up his knife and fork, “and a woman who
serves a dinner smoking hot deserves a medal. My old dame thinks it a
crime to put things before me more than lukewarm. I hear her coming up
stairs with my dinner. Tramp, tramp—down on a step to rest. Tramp,
hobble, up again—down on another, just to aggravate me—bah, I’ll dismiss
her to-morrow!”
Stargarde looked at him without a shadow on her resplendent face. “You
are like the dogs, Brian,” she said gayly; “your bark is worse than your
bite. You love that old woman, you know you do.”
“I don’t love any one,” he growled. “You’re not eating anything there.
Stop fanning yourself and attend to your plate—have some more turkey.
This is a beauty. Where did he come from? The country, I’ll wager. This
isn’t city flesh on his bones.”
“Cornwallis,” said Stargarde thoughtfully. “Unfortunate creature—I wish
we did not have to eat him.”
“Now Stargarde,” said the man warmly, “for one meal, no hobbies. Let the
S. P. C. and the G. H. A. and the L. M. S. alone for once. Talk nonsense
to me and this young lady here,” turning politely to his fellow-guest.
His term was inadvisedly chosen, and Zeb flashed him a wicked glance
over the bone that her little, sharp teeth were gnawing. Stargarde to
her dismay saw that there was a smouldering fire of distrust and dislike
between her two guests, that at any moment might break into open flame.
Zeb was jealous of Dr. Camperdown. With ready, quick suspicion, she
divined the fact that his sympathies were not with her kind. He would
take away from her and her fellow-paupers the beautiful woman who at
present lived only for them, and she hated him accordingly.
She had only recently come to Halifax. She had experienced different and
worse degrees of misery in other cities, and now that a new, bright
world was dawning upon her, it was not pleasant to know that her
benefactor might be snatched at any moment from her. So she hated him,
and he almost hated her as a representative of a class that absorbed the
attention of the only woman in the world that he cared for, and who, but
for them, would, he knew, devote herself to the endeavor of making more
human and more happy his present aching, lonely, miserable heart.
Aware of all this, Stargarde kept the conversation flowing smoothly in
channels apart from personal concerns. She talked continuously herself,
and laughed like a girl full of glee when the moment for changing the
plates having arrived, Dr. Camperdown and Zeb politely rising to assist
her, left the table deserted.
When they reseated themselves she drew Zeb’s chair closer to her own,
for she saw that the child had satisfied her hunger and at any moment
might commence hostilities.
“Will you have some tart, Zeb?” she asked kindly.
“Oh, land, no!” said the child; “I’m stuffed. Give it to piggy there.
He’s good for an hour yet,” and she pointed a disdainful finger to the
other end of the table.
Dr. Camperdown had a large appetite—an appetite that was, in fact,
immense, but he did not like to be reminded of it, and looked with
considerable animosity at the small child.
“Do not pay any attention to her, Brian,” said Stargarde rapidly in
German, then she turned to Zeb. “Dr. Camperdown had no dinner. He is
hungry. Won’t you go and look at those picture books till we finish?”
“I don’t want ter,” said the child, as she nestled closer to her, “I
likes to be with yer.”
What could Stargarde do in the face of such devotion? She left Dr.
Camperdown to his own devices, and cracking nuts for the child searched
diligently for a philopena. Having found one she shared it with her,
related the pretty German custom concerning it, and promised Zeb a
present if she would first surprise her the next day.
Zeb listened in fascinated attention, only throwing Dr. Camperdown a
glance occasionally, as much as to say, “You see, she is giving me her
undivided attention now.”
And he was foolish enough to be restive. “If he would only be
sensible—two children together,” murmured Stargarde, as she got up to
pour him out his coffee. As a student of human nature, she was amused at
the attitude of the professional man toward the outcast; as a
philanthropist, she was fearful lest there should be driven away from
her the little bit of vicious childhood that she had charmed to her
side.
“If he would only be sensible and think of something else!” she went on
to herself. “They’ll come to an open rupture soon. I must try to
restrain Zeb, for she, alas, is capable of anything. I won’t look at him
as I give him his coffee.”
Unfortunately she was obliged to do so, for as she set it before him, he
said childishly, “Do you put the sugar in,” thereby obliging her to give
him a remonstrating glance.
Zeb saw the blue eyes meet the admiring gray ones and immediately issued
an order in her shrill voice, “Gimme a cupper tea.”
Stargarde could not scold people. She was a born mother—loving and
patient and humoring weaknesses perhaps to a greater degree than was
always wise. She patiently waited upon her second troublesome guest, and
sat down beside her without saying a word, but in an unlucky instant
when she was obliged to go to the cupboard for an additional supply of
cream, the war broke out—the deluge arrived.
Zeb, filling her mouth with tea, adroitly squirted a thin stream of it
the whole length of the table across Camperdown’s shoulder.
He saw it coming, and uttering a wrathful exclamation, jumped up from
his seat. Stargarde heard him, and turned around hastily just in time to
hear Zeb say contemptuously, “Oh, shut up—you’ll get it in the mouth
next time.”
When Camperdown at Stargarde’s request explained what had happened, her
lovely face became troubled and she looked as if she were going to cry.
“Zeb,” she said with trembling lips, “you must go away. I cannot have
you here any longer if you do such things.”
The child sprang to her. “Don’t ye, don’t ye do that. I’ll slick up.
Gimme a lickin’, only let me stay. I’ll not look at him—the devil!” with
a furious glance at Camperdown. “I’ll turn round face to the wall, only,
only don’t send me out in the cold.”
What could Stargarde do? Pardon, pardon, always pardon, that was the
secret of her marvelous hold on the members of her enormous family. She
drew up the little footstool to a corner, placed the child on it, and
shaking her head at Dr. Camperdown, sat down opposite him. “Take people
for what they are—not for what they ought to be,” she said to him in
German.
“You are a good woman, Stargarde,” he returned softly in the same
language. “I can give you no higher praise. And I have had a good
dinner,” he continued, drawing back from the table. “What are you going
to do with those dishes? Mayn’t I help you wash them?”
“No, thank you. Zeb will assist me when you have gone.”
He smiled at her hint to withdraw, and placing the rocking-chair by the
fire for her, said wistfully: “Do you really wish me to go?”
“Well, you may stay for half an hour longer,” she replied, as indulgent
with him as she was with the child.
As soon as the words left her lips, he ensconced himself comfortably in
the arm-chair, and gazing into the fire listened dreamily to the
low-murmured sentences Stargarde was addressing to the child, who had
crept into her arms begging to be rocked.
“I wish I could smoke,” he said presently; “I think you don’t object to
the smell of tobacco, Stargarde?”
“No,” she said quietly, “not the smell of it.”
“But the waste, the hurtfulness of the habit, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take the responsibility of that, if you let me have one pipe,
Stargarde, only one.”
“One then let it be,” she replied.
With eyes fixed on her, he felt for his tobacco pouch and pipe, which he
blindly filled, only looking at it when the time for lighting came. Then
in a state of utter beatification he leaned back, smoking quietly and
listening to her clear voice, as she swung slowly to and fro, talking to
the child.
After a time Zeb fell asleep and Stargarde’s voice died away.
Camperdown rose slowly to his feet. He knew that it was time for him to
be gone and that it was better for him to call attention to it himself
than to wait for an ignominious dismissal as soon as Stargarde should
come out of the reverie into which she had fallen.
“Good-bye,” he said in startling fashion. “Take notice that I’m going of
my own accord for once, and don’t put me out any more. I’m trying to
deserve my good fortune, you see.”
“Good-night, Brian,” she said gently.
He seized his cap and coat, flashed her a look of inexpressible
affection from his deep-set eyes, and was gone.