SEVERED COMPANIONSHIP
Eliza Brewster could count on the fingers of one hand the number of
times that tears had escaped her pale eyes. She had always felt for
those who wept easily, the same leniency without comprehension that she
entertained for women who fainted.
Trials had come and gone in her life; but never, since the day when she
discovered some boys maltreating her cat, had she shed such tears as
flowed now in her sorrow. The cat's abbreviated tail bore witness still
to that day's conflict, but both his wound and hers had healed.
When would this new wound cease to ache and palpitate! Each day there
in the lonely flat, Eliza Brewster renewed war with the memories to
which she had no mind to succumb. The gentleness of her mistress,
her innocent, ever-springing hope, her constant disappointments, the
solitariness of her narrow life, the neglect of her relatives--all
these things recurred to the faithful handmaiden with the terrific
appeal which contracts the newly bereft heart, causing it to bleed
afresh. Mary Ballard, in spite of her twenty years' greater age, had
been child as well as mistress to the faithful woman, who cared for
the quiet, shy dreamer of dreams through the twenty-five years of the
latter's widowhood.
Now Eliza's occupation was gone. All her rather hard philosophy, all
her habitual self-possession, was swamped in a world where she could
no longer call her dear one from the easel to her meals; and where
the rooms of the little apartment grew spacious and echoed from sheer
emptiness.
Mrs. Ballard had bequeathed her maid all her clothing, and all her
personal possessions, save one old-fashioned diamond brooch, which was
to be sent to her namesake, Mary Sidney. Some weeks before her death,
she told Eliza of the disposition of her effects. In referring to the
small gift of money which was to be hers, she said:--
"I wish it were more, Eliza, but," looking wistfully into the eyes of
her companion, "I have a great mission for my little capital as I have
told you. If only the amount were as great as the object!"
"Nonsense, talking about wills," rejoined Eliza brusquely, a new
delicacy in the loved face making her tone sharp, "more likely I'll be
leaving something to you; though I don't know what it would be, unless
'twas the cat."
Mrs. Ballard smiled. "Not a bad legacy," she replied. "Pluto is very
sympathetic. He likes to watch me paint. He has really concluded to
endure the smell of oil and turpentine just to keep me company."
At the moment the night-black cat was lifting green eyes of approval
to his own portrait which stood near, and Mrs. Ballard buried a
veined hand in his glossy fur. A few weeks later that hand was still.
Oh, the dear garments with the outline of the wearer still warm in
their curves! Who has not known the tender, overpowering anguish of
their touch? Every day Eliza tried to systematize and pack her new
belongings, and every day she postponed the ordeal until to-morrow.
Mrs. Ballard's watch alone stood on the table at the head of her bed,
hanging in the little satin slipper just as it had ticked beside her
mistress's sleeping form so many years. The watch seemed as alive as
Pluto, and almost as much of a companion. It spoke eloquently of the
gentle being who had always been unconscious of its warnings.
On the mantelpiece in the living-room, which had been studio as well,
was Philip Sidney's photograph and his two sketches, one of his mother,
and one of a storm-beaten tree. They were the two that Mary Sidney
had sent in response to her aunt's gift in the summer-time. All three
pictures were turned now to the wall. Mrs. Sidney was a relative. That
stamped her for Eliza. The sketches had been either the vainglorious
gift of a fond mamma, or else prompted by hope of the very result they
had gained. As for the photograph of the artist, Eliza could not deny
that it had marvellously cheered and companioned the last months of her
dear one's life.
Indeed, in those days, recent yet already seeming so long past,
Eliza, out in her kitchen, had often laughed grimly to herself at the
infatuation for the picture shown by her mistress.
"If she was sixteen she couldn't be more head over heels in love," she
would soliloquize. "I s'pose an artist has got to be just so stirred
up by good looks, whether it's a landscape or a human; but I know I
wouldn't trust a handsome man around the corner with a dog's dinner."
In pursuance of these reflections, when her mistress had gone, Phil's
picture went with the sketches, his face to the wall.
Eliza's attitude toward the whole world was defiance on the subject of
her mistress's lifework. Of course, Mrs. Ballard was an artist; a great
artist. Eliza knew it must be so, there were so many of her pictures
that she could not understand.
A canvas which was a blur to her contained so much which the painter
would explain while Eliza stood devotedly by, dutifully assenting to
the unravelling of the snarl of form and color.
"You don't care for it, do you, Eliza?" the artist would say sometimes,
wistfully.
"Indeed, I do, Mrs. Ballard," would come the response, and never words
rang more prompt and true. "I'm just one o' those folks so practical,
I can't see an inch before my nose and I've never had advantages. I
haven't got any insight, as you call it, beyond a dishpan; but when you
explain it so clear, that's when I begin to see."
This latter was a loyal lie; as a rule, Eliza never did see; but she
applauded just the same with vague murmurs of wonder and admiration.
It hurt the faithful soul even now to recall how, when the sketches
came from the West, her mistress had eagerly examined them, and bitten
her lip, her eyes glistening. "There's the true touch, Eliza," she had
said quietly. "This boy has a spark of the divine fire."
"Pooh! I don't think so at all," Eliza had returned stoutly and
contemptuously. "Of course, that drawin' of his mother is pleasant
enough, but you haven't seen her in years. You don't know how good the
likeness is; and as for that landscape, that rough twisted tree most
blown off its feet and clouds racin' above those rocks, nobody'd ever
think they was anything except just what they are, a tree and rocks and
clouds; awful pokerish, I call it, not a bit pretty." Eliza's long nose
lifted in scorn.
Mrs. Ballard smiled and bowed her head over the wind-blown tree.
"My flesh and blood, still," she murmured.
Now, in the dreary days, Eliza moved about aimlessly, forgetting to
eat, and roused only by Pluto's indignant _meows_, to remember that,
though he might mourn, still he felt that he owed it to himself to keep
his coat glossy by milk baths, taken internally.
Never had he known such long luxurious naps in the lap of his mistress
as now. Wrapped in thought she sat for hours without moving; the
irrepressible tears welling up from her heart and creeping, one by one,
down her thin cheeks.
She had made no friends in the cheap apartment building where they
lived. It was a changing population, which ebbed and flowed at the
mercy of its own financial tide.
"There ain't a lady in this house except you," Eliza had been wont to
say to her mistress.
"I don't believe we know that," Mrs. Ballard had rejoined; "but we're
too busy for neighboring, aren't we, Eliza?"
Whenever there had been any leisure, Mrs. Ballard had taken her
handmaiden to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Not for worlds would Eliza mar the joy with which her mistress bestowed
upon her this treat. So she climbed endless stairs, and plodded weary
miles with fortitude, having ready a response to every worshipful
utterance with which Mrs. Ballard pointed out this and that marvel.
"Wonderful, ain't it!" Eliza would respond with the regularity of
clockwork.
"How I love to get you out of that kitchen, Eliza, up into this
atmosphere of genius!" her mistress would say, in a burst of affection
for the strong mainspring of her household.
"Wonderful, ain't it!" returned the beneficiary, stepping on the other
foot in the effort to rest one leg.
The sight of the very exterior of the great repository of art-treasures
caused Eliza's bones to ache, if she caught sight of the imposing pile
from a car window.
One day, however, all this was changed. The Metropolitan Museum of Art
rose in Eliza's estimation to the level of her own kitchen where a
chromo depicting kittens in various attitudes of abandon hung over the
table.
Mistress and maid were doing the well-worn circuit. The faithful echo
had repeated "Wonderful, ain't it!" for the twentieth time. The ardor
in Mrs. Ballard's eyes was lending wings to her slender body, but Eliza
had lagged, spurred on, and rested the other leg, until, to paraphrase
a bit from Mr. Lowell--
"On which leg she felt the worse,
She couldn't 'a' told you, 'nother,"--
when suddenly an inspiration of deliverance seized her. The fact that
it had not seized her months before was simply another proof of
devotion to the sun of her existence. Each time she entered the massive
gates to her place of torture, she left such mentality as she possessed
behind her. As well might a fish be expected to navigate in the free
air of heaven as Eliza in these marble halls. This was her mistress's
element. Let her guide. But one memorable day the two were standing
before a marine.
"Oh, Eliza, that's new!" exclaimed Mrs. Ballard; and from the vigor of
her tone, her handmaid feared the worst. She had believed they were
nearly ready to depart. Now her companion seemed inspired for another
two hours.
"Might it not have been painted from your island," continued Mrs.
Ballard. "What adorable work!"
"Wonderful, ain't it!" came Eliza's wooden accents.
"What feeling!" murmured her rapt companion.
"I only hope 'tain't sciatica," thought Eliza, wiggling her hip. Her
casually roving eye caught sight of one vacancy on the bench in the
middle of the room.
"Don't you want to sit down a spell and look at it, Mrs. Ballard?" she
asked. "There's a place."
"No," was the slow, absent reply. "I seem to prefer to stand in its
presence--a royal presence, Eliza."
Miss Brewster waited no longer. With incontinent haste she limped,
as in seven-league boots, toward the desired haven. She saw that a
portly gentleman was heading for the same spot. She sprinted. She beat
him by a toe's length, and nearly received him on her maiden lap. He
recovered himself and glared at her. She maintained an unconscious air,
her gaze fixed on the sky of the marine painting. It was all she could
see; there were so many standing in front of her, welcoming this new
treasure to the home of beauty.
Presently Mrs. Ballard, missing her shadow, looked about and at last
descried Eliza. She approached, her small, veined hands clasped on her
breast for joy.
"It seems as if it must have been done from the island!" she exclaimed.
"How can you sit down, Eliza! I should think it would take you straight
to your old home!"
Miss Brewster did not say that she thought there was more likelihood of
her again seeing her native place if she did sit down; but for once
her clockwork did not act. It seemed as if the succumbing of her legs
had impeded the other mechanism.
"I just felt as if I had to, Mrs. Ballard," she answered numbly.
"You dear!" exclaimed her mistress impulsively, speaking low. "I might
have known it. You felt overcome. I don't wonder. It took me back to
the island, too, in a flash! I dare say you often conceal homesickness
from me, Eliza. We must try to go there next summer! I did use to think
that perhaps Mrs. Fabian--but, no matter; we can go on our own account,
Eliza, and we will, too."
"It would be lots better for you than staying here in summer, that's
sure."
Mrs. Ballard sighed, "Yes, if only the rent didn't keep on, and keep
on."
Eliza knew the arguments. She did not pursue the subject now. She rose,
keeping firm pressure, however, against the bench.
"Take this place, Mrs. Ballard, and rest a minute."
"Oh, I'm not a bit tired. I thought we'd take one or two more rooms.
The light is wonderful to-day."
Up to the present moment Eliza in this temple of genius had, as has
been said, galvanized her energies and followed where her mistress led,
at any cost, as unquestioningly as the needle follows the magnet; but
this was the moment of her emancipation. Mrs. Ballard herself gave her
the cue, for she added with consideration for an unwonted sentiment:--
"Unless you'd rather stay and look at that reminder of home a while
longer, Eliza? I'll come back for you."
"Oh, would you, just as soon, Mrs. Ballard?"
The eagerness of the tone touched her mistress.
"Why, of course, my dear, do so; but I'd get up if I were you." Eliza
had sunk back upon the bench with the certainty and impact of a
pile-driver. "There is such a crowd you can't see anything from here
but the sky."
"I feel as if I could look at that sky for a week," responded Eliza
with a sincerity which admitted of no doubt.
"It is wonderful, isn't it?" returned her mistress, unconscious of
plagiarism. She patted Eliza's shoulder. "I'll be back soon," she
assured her, and moved away.
"The good creature!" she thought. "How selfish I have been to her!
I ought occasionally to let her go home; but I know she'd never go
without me. She wouldn't believe that I'd eat three meals a day, no
matter how faithfully I promised." And Mrs. Ballard laughed a little
before becoming engrossed in an old favorite.
She was gone so long that Eliza cogitated with newly acquired ingenuity.
"It's a good thing," she reflected, "that the fool-catcher ain't
artistic. He'd 'a' caught me here lots o' times. Supposin' I was with
that dear crazy critter all this time, hoppin' along in misery, or
standin' in front o' some paintin' like a stork." Eliza's light eyes
twinkled. "Why shouldn't I set up a taste in pictures, too? Just watch
me from this on."
After this day Mrs. Ballard did observe with joy a transformation in
her handmaid's attitude. When they visited the galleries Eliza would
move along with her usual calm until suddenly some picture would
particularly hold her attention.
"Is that a very fine paintin'?" she would ask of her cicerone.
"Which one, Eliza? Oh, yes, I see. Certainly, or it wouldn't be here;
but in that next room are those I thought we should make a study of
to-day."
Eliza's light eyes swept the unbroken polished surface of the floor
of the adjoining room. "I know I haven't got very far along in
understandin' these things," she said modestly, "but to my eyes there
is a certain somethin' there,"--she paused and let her transfixed gaze
toward the chosen picture say the rest.
Mrs. Ballard held her lip between her teeth reflectively as she looked
at it too. On that first occasion it was a summer landscape painted at
sunset.
"We've passed it many times," she thought, "but it's evident that Eliza
is waking up!"
The reflection was exultant. Far be it from Mrs. Ballard to interrupt
the birth throes of her companion's artistic consciousness.
"Then stay right here, Eliza, as long as you wish," she replied
sympathetically. "I shall be near by."
She hurried away in her light-footed fashion, and Eliza continued to
stand before her cynosure long enough to disarm possible suspicion, and
then backed thoughtfully away until she reached a bench upon which she
sank, still with eyes upon the picture.
Mrs. Ballard from the next room observed her trance.
"She is waking up. Her eyes are opening, bless her heart," she thought.
"Constant dropping does wear the stone."
Eliza would have paraphrased the proverb and declared that constant
dropping saves the life.
From this day on she professed, and triumphantly acted upon, an
appreciation for certain pictures; and Mrs. Ballard marvelled with
pride at the catholicity of her taste; for such serpentine wisdom
did Eliza display in passing, unseeing, many an inviting bench, that
never, to their last pilgrimage to Mrs. Ballard's mecca, did the latter
suspect the source of her companion's modest enthusiasm.
"Poor thing," thought Eliza during these periods of rest; "it's a sin
and a shame that she hasn't got anybody worthy to come with her. If
those relatives of hers were, any of 'em, fit to live, one of 'em would
bring her here sometimes. The poor dear, as long as she hasn't a soul
but an ignorant country body like me to sympathize with her, I've got
to do my best; and really if I set a spell once in a while, I'll have
more sprawl and can seem to enjoy it more. It's awful hard when you
can't think of anything but your joints! I'm younger'n she is, and I'm
ashamed o' gettin' so tuckered; but she's got some kind o' wings that
seem to lift her along."
Mrs. Ballard, from the next room, caught Eliza's eye, smiled, and
nodded, well pleased. So the era of peace ensued; and when Miss
Brewster caught sight from a street car of the Metropolitan Museum of
Art, she was able to regard it without a frown.