"Mr. Bartlett, the cashier, has charge of that matter, Mrs. Watson. He
has not been down for two or three days: one of his children is very
sick. I'll make a note of it, however, and draw his attention to it when
he comes in." He wrote a few lines hurriedly on a bit of paper, and
impaled it on an already overcrowded spindle.
"Can you tell me where he lives?" asked Nancy.
The young man hesitated.
"I don't believe I would go to the house; they say it's something
contagious"--
"I'm not afraid," interrupted Nancy grimly.
The teller wrote an address, and slipped it toward her with a nimble
motion, keeping his hand outstretched for the next comer, and smiling at
him over Nancy's dusty shoulder.
The woman turned away, suddenly aware that she had been blocking the
wheels of commerce, and made her way through the knot of men that had
gathered behind her. Outside she could feel the sea in the air, and at
the end of the street she caught a glimpse of a level blue plain with no
purple mountains on its horizon.
Someway, the mortgage had grown smaller; no one seemed to care about it
but herself. She had felt vaguely that they would be expecting her and
have themselves steeled against her request. On the way from the station
she had thought that people were looking at her curiously as the woman
from "up toward Pinacate" who was about to lose her home on a mortgage.
She had even felt that some of them knew of the little wire-fenced grave
on the edge of the barley-field.
She showed the card to a boy at the corner, who pointed out the street
and told her to watch for the number over the door.
"It isn't very far; 'bout four blocks up on the right-hand side. Yuh kin
take the street car fer a nickel, er yuh kin walk fi' cents cheaper," he
volunteered, whereupon an older boy kicked him affectionately, and
advised him in a nauseated tone to "come off."
Nancy walked along the smooth cement pavement, looking anxiously at the
houses behind their sentinel palms. The vagaries of Western architecture
conveyed no impression but that of splendor to her uncritical eye. The
house whose number corresponded to the one on her card was less
pretentious than some of the others, but the difference was lost upon
her in the general sense of grandeur.
She went up the steps and rang the bell, with the same stifling clutch
on her throat that she had felt in the bank. There was a little pause,
and then the door opened, and Nancy saw a fragile, girl-like woman with
a tear-stained face standing before her.
"Does Mr. Bartlett live here?" faltered the visitor, her chin trembling.
The young creature leaned forward like a flower wilting on its stem, and
buried her face on Nancy's dusty shoulder.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you," she sobbed; "I thought no one ever
_would_ come. I didn't know before that people were so afraid of scarlet
fever. They have taken my baby away for fear he would take it. Do you
know anything about it? Please come right in where she is, and tell me
what you think."
Nancy had put her gaunt arm around the girl's waist, and was patting her
quivering shoulder with one cotton-gloved hand. Two red spots had come
on her high cheek-bones, and her lips were working. She let herself be
led across the hall into an adjoining room, where a yellow-haired child
lay restless and fever stricken. A young man with a haggard face came
forward and greeted her eagerly. "Now, Flora," he said, smoothing his
wife's disordered hair, "you don't need to worry any more; we shall get
on now. I'm sure she's a little better to-day; don't you think so?" He
appealed to Nancy, wistfully.
"Yes; I think she is," said Nancy stoutly, moving her head in awkward
defiance of her own words.
"There, Flora, that's just what the doctor said," pleaded the husband.
The young wife clung to the older woman desperately.
"Oh, do you think so?" she faltered. "You know, I never _could_ stand
it. She's all--well, of course, there's the baby--but--oh--you see--you
know--I never could bear it!" She broke down again, sobbing, with her
arms about Nancy's neck.
"Yes, you can bear it," said Nancy. "You can bear it if you have to, but
you ain't a-goin' to have to--she's a-goin' to get well. An' you've got
your man--you ought to recollect that"--she stifled a sob--"he seems
well an' hearty."
The young wife raised her head and looked at her husband with tearful
scorn. He met her gaze meekly, with that ready self-effacement which
husbands seem to feel in the presence of maternity.
"Have you two poor things been here all alone?" asked Nancy.
"Yes," sobbed the girl-wife, this time on her husband's shoulder;
"everybody was afraid,--we couldn't get any one,--and I don't know
anything. You're the first woman I've seen since--oh, it's been _so_
long!"
"Well, you're all nervous and worn out and half starved," announced
Nancy, untying her bonnet-strings. "I've had sickness, but I've never
been this bad off. Now, you just take care of the little girl, and I'll
take care of you."
It was a caretaking like the sudden stilling of the tempest that came to
the little household. The father and mother would not have said that the
rest and order that pervaded the house, and finally crept into the room
where the sick child lay, came from a homely woman with an ill-fitting
dress and hard, knotted hands. To them she seemed the impersonation of
beauty and peace on earth.
That night Nancy wrote to her husband. The letter was not very explicit,
but limited expression seems to have its compensations. There are
comparatively few misunderstandings among the animals that do not write
at all. To Robert the letter seemed entirely satisfactory. This is what
she wrote:--
I have not had much time to see about the Morgage. One of their
children is very sick and I will have to stay a few days. If the
cough medisine gives out tell mother the directions is up by the
Clock. I hope you are able to set up. Write and tell me how the
Barley holds on. Tell the children to be good. Your loving wife,
NANCY WATSON.
"Nancy was always a great hand around where there's sickness," Robert
commented to his mother-in-law. "I hope she won't hurry home if she's
needed."
He wrote her to that effect the next day, very proud of his ability to
sit up, and urging her not to shorten her stay on his account. "Ime
beter and the Barly is holding its own," he said, and Nancy found it
ample.
"This Mrs. Watson you have is a treasure," said the doctor to young
Bartlett; "where did you find her?"
"Find her? I thought you sent her," answered Bartlett, in a daze.
"No; I couldn't find any one; I was at my wits' end."
The two men stared at each other blankly.
"Well, it doesn't matter where she came from," said the doctor, "so she
stays. She's a whole relief corps and benevolent society in one."
Young Bartlett spoke to Nancy about it the first time they were alone.
"Who sent you to us, Mrs. Watson?" he asked.
Nancy turned and looked out of the window.
"Nobody sent me--I just came."
Then she faced about.
"I don't want to deceive nobody. I come down from Pinacate to see you
about some--some business. They told me at the bank that you was up at
the house, so I come up. When I found how it was, I thought I'd better
stay--that's all."
"From Pinacate--about some business?" queried the puzzled listener.
"Yes; I didn't mean to say anything to you; I don't want to bother you
about it when you're in trouble an' all wore out. I told them down at
the bank; they'll tell you when you go down." And with this the young
man was obliged to be content.
It was nearly two weeks before the child was out of danger. Then Nancy
said she must go home. The young mother kissed her tenderly when they
parted.
"I'm so sorry you can't stay and see the baby," she said, with sweet
young selfishness; "they're going to bring him home very soon now. He's
_so_ cute! Archie dear, go to the door with Mrs. Watson, and
remember"--She raised her eyebrows significantly, and waited to see that
her husband understood before she turned away.
The young man followed Nancy to the hall.
"How much do I owe"--He stopped, with a queer choking sensation in his
throat.
Nancy's face flushed.
"I always want to be neighborly when there's sickness," she said; "'most
anybody does. I hope you'll get on all right now. Good-by."
She held out her work-hardened hand, and the young man caught it in his
warm, prosperous grasp. They looked into each other's eyes an instant,
not the mortgagor and the mortgagee, but the woman and the man.
"Good-by, Mrs. Watson. I can never"--The words died huskily in his
throat.
"Papa," called a weak, fretful little voice.
Nancy hitched her old cape about her high shoulders.
"Good-by," she repeated, and turned away.
* * * * *
Robert leaned across the kitchen table, and held a legal document near
the lamp.
"It's marked 'Satisfaction of mortgage' on the outside," he said in a
puzzled voice; "and it must be our mortgage, for it tells all about it
inside; but it says"--he unfolded the paper, and read from it in his
slow, husky whisper,--"'The debt--secured thereby--having been fully
paid--satisfied--and discharged.' I don't see what it means."
Nancy rested her elbows on the table, and looked across at him
anxiously.
"It must be a mistake, Robert. I never said anything to them except that
we'd like to have more time."
He went over the paper again carefully.
"It reads very plain," he said. Then he fixed his sunken eyes on her
thoughtfully. "Do you suppose, Nancy, it could be on account of what you
done?"
"Me!" The woman stared at him in astonishment.
Suddenly Robert turned his eyes toward the ceiling, with a new light in
his thin face.
"Listen!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "it's raining!"
There was a swift patter of heralding drops, and then a steady,
rhythmical drumming on the shake roof. The man smiled, with that
ineffable delight in the music which no one really knows but the tiller
of the soil.
Nancy opened the kitchen door and looked out into the night.
"Yes," she said, keeping something out of her voice; "the wind's strong
from the southeast, and it's raining steady."
Nancy Watson always felt a little lonesome when it rained. She had never
mentioned it, but she could not help wishing there was a shelter over
the little grave on the edge of the barley-field.
The Face of the Poor
Mr. Anthony attached a memorandum to the letter he was reading, and put
his hand on the bell.
"Confound them!" he said under his breath, "what do they think I'm made
of!"
A negro opened the door, and came into the room with exaggerated
decorum.
"Rufus, take this to Mr. Whitwell, and tell him to get the answer off at
once. Is any one waiting?"
"Yes, suh, several. One man's been there some time. Says his name's
Busson, suh."
"Send him in."
The man gave his head a tilt forward which seemed to close his eyes,
turned pivotally about, and walked out of the room in his most luxurious
manner. Rufus never imitated his employer, but he often regretted that
his employer did not imitate him.
Mr. Anthony's face resumed its look of prosperous annoyance. The door
opened, and a small, roughly dressed man came toward the desk.
"Well, here I am at last," he said in a tone of gentle apology; "I
suppose you think it's about time."
The annoyance faded out of Mr. Anthony's face, and left it blank. The
visitor put out a work-callous hand.
"I guess you don't remember me; my name's Burson. I was up once before,
but you were busy. I hope you're well; you look hearty."
Mr. Anthony shook the proffered hand, and then shrank back, with the
distrust of geniality which is one of the cruel hardships of wealth.
"I am well, thank you. What can I do for you, Mr. Burson?"
The little man sat down and wiped the back of his neck with his
handkerchief. He was bearded almost to the eyes, and his bushy brows
stood out in a thatch. As he bent his gaze upon Mr. Anthony it was like
some gentle creature peering out of a brushy covert.
"I guess the question's what I can do for you, Mr. Anthony," he said,
smiling wistfully on the millionaire; "I hain't done much this far,
sure."
"Well?" Mr. Anthony's voice was dryly interrogative.
"When Edmonson told me he'd sold the mortgage to you, I thought certain
I'd be able to keep up the interest, but I haven't made out to do even
that; you've been kept out of your money a long time, and to tell the
truth I don't see much chance for you to get it. I thought I'd come in
and talk with you about it, and see what we could agree on."
Mr. Anthony leaned back rather wearily.
"I might foreclose," he said.
The visitor looked troubled. "Yes, you could foreclose, but that
wouldn't fix it up. To tell the truth, Mr. Anthony, I don't feel right
about it. I haven't kep' up the place as I'd ought; it's been running
down for more'n a year. I don't believe it's worth the mortgage to-day."
Some of the weariness disappeared from Mr. Anthony's face. He laid his
arms on the desk and leaned forward.
"You don't think it's worth the mortgage?" he asked.
"Not the mortgage and interest. You see there's over three hundred
dollars interest due. I don't believe you could get more'n a thousand
dollars cash for the place."
"There would be a deficiency judgment, then," said the millionaire.
"Well, that's what I wanted to ask you about. I supposed the law was
arranged some way so you'd get your money. It's no more'n right. But it
seems a kind of a pity for you and me to go to law. There ain't nothing
between us. I had the money, and you the same as loaned it to me. It was
money you'd saved up again old age, and you'd ought to have it. If I'd
worked the place and kep' it up right, it would be worth more, though of
course property's gone down a good deal. But mother and the girls got
kind of discouraged and wanted me to go to peddlin' fruit, and of course
you can't do more'n one thing at a time, and do it justice. Now if you
had the place, I expect you could afford to keep it up, and I wouldn't
wonder if you could sell it; but you'd have to put some ready money into
it first, I'm afraid."
Mr. Anthony pushed a pencil up and down between his thumb and
forefinger, and watched the process with an inscrutable face. His
visitor went on:--
"I was thinking if we could agree on a price, I might deed it to you and
give you a note for the balance of what I owe you. I'm getting on kind
of slow, but I don't believe but what I could pay the note after a
while."
Mr. Anthony kept his eyes on his lead pencil with a strange, whimsical
smile.
"Edmonson owed me two thousand dollars," he said, "the mortgage really
cost me that; at least it was all I got on the debt."
The visitor made a regretful sound with his tongue against the roof of
his mouth.
"You don't say so! Well, that is too bad."
The thatch above the speaker's eyes stood out straight as he reflected.
"You're worse off than I thought," he went on slowly, "but it don't
quite seem as if I ought to be held responsible for that. I had the
thousand dollars, and used it, and I'd ought to pay it; but the
other--it was a kind of a trade you made--I can't see--you don't
think"--
Mr. Anthony broke into his hesitation with a short laugh.
"No, I don't think you're responsible for my blunders," he said soberly.
"You say property has gone down a good deal," he went on, fixing his
shrewd eyes on his listener. "A good many other things have gone down.
If my money will buy more than it would when it was loaned, some people
would say I shouldn't have so much of it. Perhaps I'm not entitled to
more than the place will bring. What do you think about that?" There was
a quizzical note in the rich man's voice.
Burson wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief, dropped it into
his hat, and shook the hat slowly and reflectively, keeping time with
his head.
"If you'd kep' your money by you, allowin' that you loaned it to
me,--because you the same as did,--if you'd kep' it by you or put it in
the bank and let it lay idle, you'd 'a' had it. It wouldn't 'a' gone
down any. You hadn't ought to lose anything, that I can see,--except of
course for your mistake about Edmonson. That kind of hurts me about
Edmonson. I wouldn't 'a' thought it of him. He always seemed a clever
sort of fellow."
"Oh, Edmonson's all right," said Mr. Anthony; "he went into some things
too heavily, and broke up. I guess he'll make it yet."
Burson looked relieved. "Then he'll straighten this up with you, after
all," he said.
Mr. Anthony whistled noiselessly. "Well, hardly. He considers it
straightened."
Burson turned his old hat slowly around between his knees.
"He's a fair-spoken man, Edmonson; I kind of think he'll square it up,
after all," he said hopefully. "Anyway, it doesn't become me to throw
stones till I've paid my own debts."
The hair that covered the speaker's mouth twitched a little in its
effort to smile. He glanced at his companion expectantly.
"Could you come out and take a look at the place?" he asked.
Mr. Anthony slid down in his chair, and clasped his hands across his
portliness.
"I believe I'll take your valuation, Burson," he answered slowly; "if I
find there's nothing against the property but my mortgage, and you'll
give me a deed and your note for the interest, or, say, two hundred and
fifty dollars, we'll call it square. It will take a few days to look the
matter up, a week, perhaps. Suppose you come in at the end of the week.
Your wife will sign the deed?" he added interrogatively.
Burson had leaned forward to get up. At the question he raised his eyes
with the look that Mr. Anthony remembered to have seen years ago in
small creatures he had driven into corners.
"Mother didn't have to sign the mortgage," he said, halting a little
before each word, "the lawyer said it wasn't necessary. I don't know if
she'll"--
Mr. Anthony broke into his embarrassment. "Let me see." He put his hand
on the bell.
"Ask Mr. Evert to send me the mortgage from Burson to Edmonson, assigned
to me," he said when Rufus appeared.
The negro walked out of the room as if he were carrying the message on
his head.
"Mother doesn't always see things just as I do," said Burson; "she was
willing to sign the mortgage, though," he added, "only she didn't need
to; she wanted me to get the money of Edmonson."
He put his hand into his pocket, and a light of discovery came into his
face.
"Have a peach," he said convivially, laying an enormous Late Crawford on
the corner of the desk. Mr. Anthony gave an uncomprehending glance at
the gift. "Hain't you got a knife?" asked Burson, straightening himself
and drawing a bone-handled implement from his pocket; "I keep the big
blade for fruit," he said kindly, as he laid it on the desk.
Mr. Anthony inspected the proffered refreshment with a queer, uncertain
smile; then he took the peach from the desk, drew the wastebasket
between his knees, opened the big blade of the knife, and began to
remove the red velvet skin. The juice ran down his wrists and threatened
his immaculate cuffs. He fished a spotless handkerchief from his pocket
with his pencil and mopped up the encroaching rivulets. His companion
smiled upon him with amiable relish as the dripping sections
disappeared.
"I errigated 'em more than usual this year, and it makes 'em kind of
sloppy to eat," he apologized; "it doesn't help the flavor any, but most
people buy for size. When you're out peddling and haven't time to
cultivate, it's easy to turn on the water. It's about as bad as a
milkman putting water in the milk, and I always feel mean about it. I
tell mother errigating's a lazy man's way of farming, but she says water
costs so much here she doesn't think it's cheating to sell it for
peach-juice."
Rufus came into the room, and bore down upon the pair with deferential
disdain. Mr. Anthony gave his fingers a parting wipe, and took the
papers from the envelope.
"It's all right, Burson," he said after a little, "you needn't mind
about your wife's signature. I'll risk it. Come back in about a week,
say Thursday, Thursday at ten, if that suits you. I'll have my attorney
look into it."
Burson got up and started out. Then he turned and stood still an
instant.
"Of course, I mean to tell mother about the deed," he said; "I wouldn't
want you to think"--
"Oh, certainly, certainly," acquiesced Mr. Anthony with an almost
violent waiving of domestic confidence. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Burson." He
whirled his revolving chair toward the desk with a distinct air of
dismissal, and picked up the package of papers.
After the door closed he sat still for some time, looking thoughtfully
at the mortgage; then he made a memorandum in ink, with his signature in
full, and attached it to the document. Rufus opened the door.
"Mr. Darnell and two other gentlemen, suh."
The millionaire set his jaws. "Show them in, Rufus. Damn it," he said
softly,--"damn it, why can't they be honest!"
* * * * *
"Do you mean to tell me, Erastus Burson, that you deeded him this place,
and gave him your note for two hundred and fifty dollars you didn't owe
him?"
"Why, no, mother; didn't I explain to you there'd be a deficiency
judgment?"
"Well, I should say there was. But if anybody's lackin' judgment I'd say
it was you, not him. The idea! Why he's as rich as cream, and you're as
poor"--
"Well, his being rich and me being poor hasn't got anything to do with
it, mother; we're just two men trying to be fair with each other, don't
you see? You and the girls wouldn't want me to be close-fisted and
overreachin', even if I am poor. I think we fixed it up just as near
right as a wrong thing can be fixed. Of course I don't like to feel the
way I do about Edmonson, but Mr. Anthony don't seem to lay up anything
again him, and he's the one that has the right to. Edmonson treated him
worse than anybody ever treated me. I don't know just how I'd feel
toward a man if he'd treated me the way Edmonson treated Mr. Anthony."
Mrs. Burson laid the overalls she was mending across her knee in a
suggestive attitude.
"I don't call it close-fisted or overreachin' to keep a roof over your
family's head," she argued; "if the place isn't ours, I suppose we'll
have to leave it."
"No; Mr. Anthony wants us to stay here, and take care of the place for
the rent. I feel as if I'd ought to keep it up better, but if I'm to
peddle fruit and try to pay off the note, I'll have to hustle. I want to
do the square thing by him. He's certainly treated me white."
Mrs. Burson fitted a patch on the seat of the overalls, and flattened it
down with rather unnecessarily vigorous slaps of her large hand.
"I wouldn't lose any sleep over Mr. Anthony; I guess he's able to take
care of himself," she said, closing her lips suddenly as if to prevent
the escape of less amicable sentiments.
"Well, he doesn't seem to be," urged her husband, "the way Edmonson's
overreached him. My! but I'd hate to be in that fellow's shoes: doin'
dirt to a man that a way!"
Mrs. Burson sighed audibly, and gave her husband a hopelessly
uncomprehending look. "You do beat all, Erastus," she said wearily.
"Here's your overalls. I guess you can be trusted with 'em. They're too
much patched to give to Mr. Anthony."
Burson returned her look of uncomprehension. Fortunately the marital fog
through which two pairs of eyes so often view each other is more likely
to dull the outline of faults than of virtues. Mrs. Burson watched her
husband not unfondly as he straddled into his overalls and left the
room.
"A man doesn't have to be very sharp to get the better of Erastus," she
said to herself, "but he has to be awful low down; and I s'pose there's
plenty that is."
The winter came smilingly on, tantalizing the farmer with sunny
indifference concerning drouth, and when he was quite despondent sending
great purple clouds from the southeast to wash away his fears. By
Christmas the early oranges were yellowing. There had been no frost, and
Burson's old spring-wagon and unshapely but well-fed sorrel team made
their daily round of the valley, and now and then he dropped into Mr.
Anthony's office to make small payments on his note. Pitifully small
they seemed to the mortgagee, who appeared nevertheless always glad to
receive them, and gave orders to Rufus, much to that dignitary's
disgust, that the fruit-vender should always be admitted. The handful of
coin which he so cheerfully piled on the corner of the rich man's desk
always remained there until his departure, when Mr. Anthony took an
envelope from the safe, swept the payment into it without counting, and
returned it to its compartment, making no indorsement on the note.