Marion Duer and Doris Alexander duly arrived for tea with Leslie, and
Norma was introduced. They all sat in Leslie's room, and laughed as they
reached for crumpets, and marvelled at the storm. Norma found them
rather younger than their years, and shyly anxious to be gracious. On
her part she realized with some surprise that they were not really
unapproachable, and that Leslie was genuinely anxious to take her to tea
with Aunt Alice some day, and have them "talk books and things." The
barriers between such girls as this one and herself, Norma was honest
enough to admit, were largely of her own imagining. They were neither so
contemptibly helpless nor so scornfully clever as she had fancied them;
they were just laughing girls, absorbed in thoughts of gowns and
admirers and good times, like her cousin Rose and herself.
There had been perhaps one chance in one hundred that she and Leslie
Melrose might at once become friends, but by fortunate accident that
chance had favoured them. Leslie's spontaneous laugh in Mrs. Melrose's
room, her casual mention of tea, her appreciative little phrases as she
introduced to Marion and Doris the young lady who picked out books for
Aunt Alice, had all helped to crush out the vaguely hostile impulse
Norma Sheridan had toward rich little members of a society she only knew
by hearsay. Norma had found herself sitting on Leslie's big velvet
couch laughing and chatting quite naturally, and where Norma chatted
naturally the day was won. She could be all friendliness, and all
sparkle and fun, and presently Leslie was listening to her in actual
fascination.
The butler announced a motor-car, a maid came up; Doris and Marion had
to go. Leslie and Norma went into Leslie's dressing-room, and Leslie's
maid went obsequiously to and fro, and the girls talked almost
intimately as they washed their hands and brushed their hair. Neither
cared that the time was passing.
But the time was passing none the less. Five o'clock came with a pale
and uncertain sunset, and a cold twilight began to settle over the snowy
city. Leslie and Norma came back to the fire, and were standing there, a
trifle uncertainly, but still talking hard and fast, when there was an
interruption.
They looked at each other, paling. What was that?
There was utter silence in the old house. Leslie, with a frightened look
at Norma, ran to the hall door. As she opened it Mrs. Sheridan opened
the door of her grandmother's room opposite, and called, quite loudly:
"It's nothing, dear! Get hold of your grandmother's maid--somebody! She
feels a little--but she's quite all right!"
Leslie and Norma ran across the hall, and into Mrs. Melrose's room. By
this time Regina had come flying in, and two of the younger maids, and
Joseph had run upstairs. Leslie had only one glimpse of her grandmother,
leaning against Regina's arm, and drinking from a glass of water that
shook in the maid's hands. Then Mrs. Sheridan guided both herself and
Norma firmly into the hall, and reassured them cheerfully:
"The room was very hot, dear, and your grandmother said that she had
gotten tired, walking in the wind. She's quite all right--you can go in
immediately. No; she didn't faint--she just had a moment of dizziness,
and called out."
Regina came out, too evidently convinced that she had to deal with a
murderess, and coldly asked that Mrs. Sheridan would please step back
for a minute. Mrs. Sheridan immediately complied, but it was hardly more
than a minute when she joined the girls again.
"She wants to see you, dear," she said to Leslie, whose first frightened
tears had dried from bewilderment and curiosity, "and we must hurry on.
Come, Norma, we'll say good-night!"
"Good-night, Miss Melrose," Norma said.
"Good-night," Leslie answered, hesitating over the name. Her wide
babyish smile, the more appealing because of her wet lashes, made a
sudden impression upon Norma's heart. Leslie hung childishly on the
upstairs balustrade, in the dim wide upper hall, and watched them go.
"I--I almost called you Norma!" she confessed, mischievously.
"I wish you had!" Norma called up from below. She was in great spirits
as they went out into the deepening cold blue of the street, and almost
persuaded her aunt to take the omnibus up the Avenue. But Mrs. Sheridan
protested rather absent-mindedly against this extravagance. They were
close to the subway and that was quicker.
Norma could not talk in the packed and swaying train, and when they
emerged at Sixty-fifth Street they had only one slippery, cold, dark
block to walk. But when they had reached the flat, and snapped on
lights everywhere, and cast off outer garments, aproned and busy, in the
kitchen, she burst out:
"What on earth was the matter with that old lady, Aunt Kate?"
"Oh, I suppose they all eat too much, and sleep too much, and pamper
themselves as if they were babies," her aunt returned, composedly, "and
so it doesn't take much to upset 'em!"
"Oh, come now!" the girl said, stopping with arrested knife. "That
wasn't what made her let out a yell like that!"
Mrs. Sheridan, kneeling at the oven of the gas stove, laughed uneasily.
"Oh, you could hear that, could you?"
"Hear it! They heard it in Yonkers."
"Well," Mrs. Sheridan said, "she has always been high-strung, that one.
I remember years ago she'd be going into crying and raving fits. She's
got very deep affections, Mrs. Melrose, and when she gets thinking of
Theodore, and of Alice's accident, and this and that, she'll go right
off the handle. She had been crying, poor soul, and suddenly she began
this moaning and rocking. I told her I'd call someone if she didn't
stop, for she'd go from bad to worse, with me."
"But why with you, Aunt Kate? Do you know her so well?"
"Do I know them?" Mrs. Sheridan dug an opener into a can of corn with a
vigorous hand. "I know them all!"
"But how was that?" Norma persisted, now dropping her peeled potatoes
into dancing hot water.
"I've told you five thousand times, but you and Rose would likely have
one of your giggling fits on, and not a word would you remember!" her
aunt said. "I've told you that years ago, when your Uncle Tom died, and
I was left with two babies, and not much money, a friend of mine, a
milliner she was, told me that she knew a lady that wanted someone to
help manage her affairs--household affairs. Well, I'd often helped your
Uncle Tom with his books, and my mother was with me, to look out for the
children----"
"Where was I, Aunt Kate?"
"You! Wolf wasn't but three, and Rose a year old--where would you be?"
"I was minus two years," Norma said, sententiously. "I was part of the
cosmic all----"
"You be very careful how you talk about such things until you're a
married woman!" her aunt said. "Salt those potatoes, darling. Norma, can
you remember what I did with the corn that Rose liked so?"
Norma was attentive.
"You beat it up with eggs, and it came out a sort of puff," she
recalled. "I know--you put a little cornstarch in, to give it body!
Listen, Aunt Kate, how long did you stay with Mrs. Melrose?"
"Well, first I just watched her help for her, and paid the bills, and
went to market. And then I got gradually managing more and more; I'd go
to pay her interest, or deposit money, or talk to tenants; I liked it
and she liked me. And then she talked me into going to France with her,
but I cried all the way for my children, and I was glad enough to come
home again! She and Miss Annie spent some time over there, but I came
back. Miss Alice was in school, and Theodore--dear knows where he
was--into some mischief somewhere! But I'd saved money, and she'd given
me the Brooklyn houses, and I took a boarder or two, and that was the
last I ever worked for any one but my own!"
"Well, that's a nice girl, that Leslie," Norma said, "if her father
_was_ wild!"
"Her mother was a good girl," Kate said, "I knew her. But the old lady
was proud, Baby--God save any one of us from pride like that! You'd
never know it, to see her now, but she was very proud. Theodore's wife
was a good girl, but she was Miss Annie's maid, and what Mrs. Melrose
never could forgive was that when she ordered the girl out of the house,
she showed her her wedding certificate. She was Mrs. Theodore Melrose,
fast enough--though his mother never would see her or acknowledge her in
any way."
"They must think the Lord has made a special arrangement for
them--people like that!" Norma commented, turning a lovely flushed face
from the pan where she was dexterously crisping bacon. "What business is
it of hers if her son marries a working girl? That gives me a feeling
akin to pain--just because she happens to have a lot of money! What does
Miss Leslie Melrose think of that?"
"I don't know what she thinks--she loves her grandmother, I suppose.
Mrs. Melrose took her in when she was only a tiny girl, and she's been
the apple of her eye ever since. Theodore and his wife were divorced,
and when Leslie was about four or five he came back to his mother to
die--poor fellow! It was a terrible sorrow to the old lady--she'd had
her share, one way and another! My goodness, Norma," Mrs. Sheridan
interrupted herself to say, in half-reproachful appreciation, "I wish
you'd always help me like this, my dear! You can be as useful as ten
girls, when you've a mind to! And then perhaps to-morrow you'll be as
contrary----!"
"Oh, Aunt Kate, aren't you ashamed! When I ironed all your dish-towels
last night, when you were setting bread, and I made the popovers
Sunday!" Norma kissed her aunt, brushed a dab of cornstarch from the
older woman's firm cheek, and performed a sort of erratic dance about
the protestant and solid figure. "I'm a poor working girl," she said,
"and I get dragged out with my long, hard day!"
"Well, God knows that's true, too," her aunt said, with a sudden look of
compunction; "you may make a joke of it, but it's no life for a girl. My
dear," she added, seriously, holding Norma with a firm arm, and looking
into her eyes, "I hope I did no harm by what I did to-day! I did it for
the best, whatever comes of it."
"You mean stirring up the whole thing?" Norma asked, frowning a little
in curiosity and bewilderment. "Going to see her?"
"That--yes." Mrs. Sheridan rubbed her forehead with her hand, a fashion
she had when puzzled or troubled, and suddenly resumed, with a great
rattling of pans and hissing of water, her operations at the sink.
"Well, nothing may come of it--we'll see!" she added, briskly. Norma,
who was watching her expectantly, sighed disappointedly; the subject was
too evidently closed. But a second later she was happily distracted by
the slamming of the front door; Wolf and Rose Sheridan had come in
together, and dinner was immediately served.
Norma recounted, with her own spirited embellishments, her adventures of
the afternoon as the meal progressed. She had had "fun" getting to the
office in the first place, a man had helped her, and they had both
skidded into another man, and bing!--they had all gone down on the ice
together. And then at the shop nobody had come in, and the lights had
been lighted, and the clerks had all gathered together and talked. Then
Aunt Kate had come in to have lunch, and to have Norma go with her to
the gas company's office about the disputed charge, and they had decided
to make, at last, that long-planned call on the Melroses. There followed
a description of the big house and the spoiled, pretty girl, and the
impressive yet friendly old lady.
"And Aunt Kate--I'm sorry to say!--talked her into a nervous convulsion.
You did, Aunt Kate--the poor old lady gave one piercing yell----"
"You awful girl, there'll be a judgment on you for your impudence!" her
aunt said, fondly. But Rose looked solicitously at her mother, and said:
"Mother looks as if she had had a nervous convulsion, too. You look
terribly tired, Mother!"
"Well, I had a little business to discuss with Mrs. Melrose," Mrs.
Sheridan said, "and I'm no hand for business!"
"You know it!" Wolf Sheridan concurred, with his ready laugh. "Why
didn't you send me?"
"It was her business, lovey," his mother said, mildly, over her second
heartening cup of strong black tea.
The Sheridan apartment was, in exterior at least, exactly like one
hundred thousand others that line the side streets of New York. It faced
the familiar grimy street, fringed on the great arteries each side by
cigarette stands and saloons, and it was entered by the usual flight of
stained and shabby steps, its doorway showing a set of some dozen
letter-boxes, and looking down upon a basement entrance frequently
embellished with ash-cans and milk-bottles, and, just at present, with
banks of soiled and sooty snow. The Sheridans climbed three long flights
inside, to their own rooms, but as this gained them a glimpse of river,
and a sense in summer of airiness and height, to say nothing of pleasant
nearness to the roof, they rarely complained of the stairs--in fact,
rarely thought of them at all.
With the opening of their own door, however, all likeness to their
neighbours ceased. Even in a class where home ties and home comforts are
far more common than is generally suspected, Kate Sheridan was
exceptional, and her young persons fortunate among their kind. Her
training had been, she used to tell them, "old country" training, but it
was not only in fresh linen and hot, good food that their advantage lay.
It was in the great heart that held family love a divine gift, that had
stood between them and life's cold realities for some twenty courageous
years. Kate idolized her own two children and her foster-child with a
passion that is the purest and the strongest in the world. In possessing
them, she thought herself the most blessed of women. To keep a roof over
their heads, to watch them progress triumphantly through long division
and measles and skates, to see milk glasses emptied and plates scraped,
to realize that Wolf was as strong morally as he was physically, and
that all her teachers called Rose an angel, to spoil and adore the
beautiful, mischievous, and amusing "Baby"; this made a life full to the
brim, for Kate, of pride and happiness. Kate had never had a servant,
or a fur coat; for long intervals she had not had a night's unbroken
rest; and there had been times, when Wolf's fractured arm necessitated a
doctor's bill, or when coal for the little Detroit house had made a
disproportionate hole in her bank account, in which even the thrifty
Kate had known biting financial worry.
But the children never knew it. They knew only her law of service and
love. They must love each other, whatever happened. There was no
quarrelling at meals at Kate's house. Rose must of course oblige her
brother, sew on the button, or take his book to the library; Wolf must
always protect the girls, and consider them. Wolf firmly believed his
sister and cousin to be the sweetest girls in the world; Rose and Norma
regarded Wolf as perfection in human form. They rarely met without
embraces, never without brightening eyes and light hearts.
That this attitude toward each other was only the result of the healthy
bodies and honest souls that Kate had given them they would hardly have
believed. That her resolute training had literally forced them to love
and depend upon themselves in a world where brothers and sisters as
habitually teased and annoyed each other, would have struck them as
fantastic. Perhaps Kate herself hardly knew the power of her own will
upon them. Her commands in their babyhood had not been couched in the
language of modern child-analysts, nor had she given, or been able to
give, any particular reason for her law. But the instinct by which she
drew Wolf's attention to his sister's goodness, or noted Wolf's
cleverness for Rose's benefit, was better than any reason. She summed
the situation up simply for the few friends she had, with the phrase:
"They're all crazy about each other, every one of them!"
Kate's parlour would have caused Annie von Behrens actual faintness. But
it was a delightful place to Rose and Wolf and their friends. The
cushioned divan on Sunday nights customarily held a row of them, the
upright ebony piano sifted popular music impartially upon the taboret,
the patent rocker, and the Rover rug. They laughed, gossiped, munched
candy, and experimented in love-making quite as happily as did Leslie
and her own intimates. They streamed out into the streets, and sauntered
along under the lights to the moving pictures, or on hot summer nights
they perched like tiers of birds on the steps, and the world and youth
seemed sweet to them. In Kate's dining-room, finished in black wood and
red paper, they made Welsh rarebits and fudge, and in Kate's spotless
kitchen odours of toast and coffee rose at unseemly hours.
Lately, Rose and Norma had been talking of changes. Rose was employed in
an office whose severe and beautiful interior decoration had cost
thousands of dollars, and Norma's Old Book Room was a study in dull
carved woods, Oriental rugs, dull bronzes, and flawless glass. The girls
began to feel that a plain cartridge paper and net curtains might well
replace the parlour's florid green scrolling and Nottingham lace. But
they did not worry about it; it served as a topic to amuse their leisure
hours. The subject was generally routed by a shrewd allusion, from Norma
or Wolf, to the sort of parlour people would like if they got married,
married to someone who was doing very well in the shoe business, for
example.
These allusions deepened the colour in Rose's happy face; she had been
"going" for some three months with an attractive young man who exactly
met these specifications--not her first admirer, not noticeable for any
especial quality, yet Rose and Norma, and Kate, too, felt in their souls
that Rose's hour had come. Young Harry Redding was a big, broad, rather
inarticulate fellow, whose humble calling was not the more attractive to
the average young woman because he supported his mother by it. But he
suited Rose, more, he seemed wonderful to Rose, and because her dreams
had always been humble and self-sacrificing, Harry was a thousand times
more than she had dreamed. She felt herself the luckiest girl in the
world.
Kate sat at the head of her table, and Wolf at the foot. Rose, a gentle,
quiet copy of her handsome mother, was nearest the kitchen door, to
which she made constant flying trips. Norma was opposite Rose, and by
falling back heavily could tip her entire chair against the sideboard,
from which she extracted forks or salt or candy, as the case might be.
The telephone was in the dining-room, Wolf's especial responsibility,
and Mrs. Sheridan herself occasionally left the table for calls to the
front door or the dumb-waiter.
To-night, after supper, the girls flew through their share of
clearing-up. It never weighed very heavily upon them; they usually began
the process of piling and scraping dishes before they left the table,
Rose whisking the tablecloth into its drawer as Norma bumped through the
swinging door with the last dishes, and Kate halfway through the washing
even then. Chattering and busy, they hustled the hot plates onto their
shelves, rattled the hot plated ware into its basket, clanked saucepans,
and splashed water. Not fifteen minutes after the serving of the dessert
the last signs of the meal had been obliterated, and Kate was guilty of
what the girls called "making excuses" to linger in the kitchen. She was
mixing cereal, storing cold potatoes and cut bread, soaking dish-towels.
But these things did not belong to the duties of Norma and Rose, and the
younger girl could flash with a free conscience to the little room she
shared with Rose. Wolf had called out for a companion, they were going
to take a walk and see what the blizzard had done!
Norma washed her face, the velvety skin emerging with its bloom
untouched, the lips crimson, the blue eyes blazing. She pressed a great
wave of silky dark hair across her white forehead, and put the
fur-trimmed hat at a dashing angle. The lace blouse, the pearl beads,
her fur-collared coat again, and Norma was ready to dance out beside
Wolf as if fatigue and labours did not exist.
"Where's Rose?" he said, as they went downstairs.
"Oh, Wolf--Saturday night! Harry's coming, of course!" Norma slipped her
little hand, in its shabby glove, through his big arm. "She and Aunt
Kate were gossiping!"
"Suits me!" Wolf said, contentedly. He held her firmly on the slippery
lumps of packed snow. The sidewalks were almost impassable, yet hundreds
of other happy persons were stumbling and scrambling over them in the
mild winter darkness. Stars were out; and whether Norma was blinking up
at them, or staring into lighted windows of candy stores and fruit
markets, her own eyes danced and twinkled. The elevated trains thundered
above their heads, and the subway roared under their feet; great
advertising signs, with thousands of coloured lights, fanned up and down
in a haze of pink and blue; the air was full of voices, laughing and
shouting, and the screaming of coasting children.
"I have my pearls on," Norma told her companion. They stopped for some
molasses peppermints, and their pungent odour mingled for Norma in the
impression of this happy hour. "Wolf, how do they do that?" the girl
asked, watching an electric sign on which a maid mopped a dirty floor
with some prepared cleaner, leaving the floor clean after her mop. Wolf,
interested, explained, and Norma listened. They stopped at a drug store,
and studied a picture that subtly altered from Roosevelt's face to
Lincoln's, and thence to Wilson's face, and Wolf explained that, too.
Norma knew that he understood everything of that nature, but she liked
to impress him, too, and did so far more often than she realized, with
her book-lore. When Norma spoke lightly of a full calf edition de luxe
of the Sonnets from the Portuguese, she might almost have been speaking
in that language for all she conveyed to Wolf, but he watched the
animated face proudly just the same. Rose had always been good and
steady and thoughtful, but Wolf knew that Norma was clever, taking his
big-brotherly patronage with admiring awe, but daring where he
hesitated, and boldly at home where he was ill at ease. When she said
that when she got married she wanted Dedham china, and just a plain,
glass bowl for goldfish, Wolf nodded, but he would have nodded just as
placidly if she had wanted a Turkish corner and bead portières. And
to-night when she asserted that she wouldn't be Leslie Melrose for
anything in the world, Wolf asked in simple wonderment why she should
be.
"Imagine, a maid came to take those big girls home, Wolf! They can speak
French," Norma confided. Wolf did not look for coherence from her, and
took the two statements on their face value. "Now, I know I'm not
pretty," she continued, following, as was usual with her, some obscure
line of thought, "but I'm prettier than Doris Alexander, and she had her
picture in the paper!"
"Who broke it to you that you're not pretty?" Wolf asked.
"Well, I _know_ I'm not!" Norma jumped along at his side for a few
minutes, eyeing him expectantly, but Wolf's mind was honestly busy with
this assertion, and he did not speak. Wasn't she pretty? Girls had funny
standards. "You know," she resumed, "you'd hate a girl like Leslie
Melrose, Wolf!"
"Would I?"
"Oh, you'd loathe her. But I'll tell you who you _would_ like," Norma
added, in a sudden burst. "You'd love Mr. Liggett!"
"Why should I?" Wolf asked, in some surprise.
"Oh, because he's nice--he's very good-looking, and he has such a
pleasant voice, as if he knew everything, but wasn't a bit conceited!"
Norma said. "And he picks out books for his wife, and when I try to tell
him something about them, he always knows lots more. You know, in a
pleasant, careless sort of way, not a bit as if he was showing off. And
I'll tell you what he did. Miss Drake was showing him a pottery bowl
one day, and she dropped it, and she told me he sort of caught at it
with his hand, and he said to Mr. Biretta, 'I've very stupidly broken
this--just put it on my bill, will you?' Of course," Norma added,
vivaciously, "old B. G. immediately said that it was nothing at all, but
_you know_ what Miss Drake would have caught, if _she'd_ broken it!"
Perhaps Wolf did, but he was thinking at the moment that the family baby
was very cunning, with her bright eyes and indignant mouth. He stopped
her before a vaudeville house, in a flare of bright light.
"Want to go in?"
"Oh, Wolf! Would Aunt Kate care? Oh, Wolf, _let's_!"
There was absolute ecstasy in her eyes as they went through the
enchanted doorway and up the rising empty foyer toward the house. It was
nine o'clock; the performance was fairly under way. Norma rustled into a
seat beside her companion without moving her eyes from the coloured
comedian on the stage; she could remove hat and gloves and jacket
without losing an instant of him.
When the lights went up Wolf approved the dark hair and the pearls, and
bent toward her to hear the unending confidences. Norma thought she had
never seen anything better, and even Wolf admitted that it was a good
show. They finished the peppermints, and were very happy.
They had seen the big film, and so could cut the last third of the
programme, and reach home at ten o'clock. There was no comment from Aunt
Kate, who was yawning over the evening paper in the dining-room. Rose
and Harry were murmuring in the dimly lighted parlour. Wolf, who was of
the slow-thinking, intense type that discovers a new world every time it
reads a new book, was halfway through a shabby library copy of "War and
Peace," and went off to his room with the second volume under his arm.
Norma went to her room, too, but she sat dreaming before the mirror,
thinking of that Melrose house, and of Leslie's friendliness, until Rose
came in at eleven o'clock.