One afternoon Drusilla was working in her corner of the greenhouse
transplanting lily bulbs. She did not notice the entrance of Daphne
until she heard the fresh young voice at her side.
"Good morning, Miss Doane. I have come on business. I am an agent to
enlist your services."
Drusilla pushed her near-seeing glasses up on her forehead so that she
could the better regard the pretty face before her.
"Well, now, what company is hirin' you? They have a good agent. Is it a
book or a washin' machine?"
Daphne laughed.
"Neither, Miss Doane. How shocking! I am working in a great cause--the
cause of the poor."
"So--" said Drusilla. "What do _you_ know about the poor?"
"Oh, I know a lot, Miss Doane. I am one of the volunteer workers in a
Settlement house in the slums."
"What's that? I seem to disremember what I have read about such things,
if I have ever read about them."
"A Settlement is a lot of nice people who go down to live among the
poor, and they have clubs where the boys and girls can come evenings,
and they have sometimes a kindergarten or a day nursery where the
mothers who go out to work by the day can leave their children while
they are away, and they give free baths and have a medical clinic. Dr.
Eaton gives his services to one twice a week, and there is a district
nurse, and--Oh lots of things are done for the poor in the neighborhood
of the Settlement house."
Drusilla put down her trowel and looked interested.
"Do tell! How nice of 'em. Are they paid to do it?"
"Yes; the workers who live in the Settlement get a salary. But girls
like myself give a day a week, or every once in a while go there and
help."
"What do you do?" asked Drusilla.
"I--I--teach sewing. I have a class."
Drusilla looked at her a moment in astonishment.
"_You_ teach sewing? _You_ have a sewing class? I didn't know you
sewed."
"I--don't--_much_, but I can do enough for a class like I have. They're
just making gymnasium suits, and we buy the pattern and I get along
some way."
Drusilla laughed.
"Well, for a girl who has all her clothes made and keeps a maid to sew
on her buttons, I think it is very nice of you to learn girls how to
sew. You must be a great help in that work."
Daphne flushed.
"Now you're laughing at me, Miss Doane."
"No, I'm not laughin'; but it seems to me--how many girls you got in
your class?"
"I have ten."
"How old are they?"
"About twelve to fourteen years."
"When do you learn 'em?"
"Saturday afternoon."
"Well--well! You must let me go down with you some day and see you
learn girls to make their dresses. I'd surely enjoy the sight."
"That's why I came to you to-day. Our Settlement wants me to bring you
down."
Drusilla looked up inquiringly and a little suspiciously.
"Why do they want you to bring me down?"
Daphne said rather hesitatingly: "Well--they would like to interest you
in their mother's summer home."
"What's that?"
"They have a home in the country where they send some of the poor
mothers who live in the tenements and can't get away for the summer."
"I s'picioned it was a subscription they want; but it sounds like a
good thing, and I'd like to know about it."
"Won't you come with me to-day? We'll talk with Mrs. Harris, the head
worker, and she'll tell you all about it."
"Well--I don't know--" looking at her plants. "I'd ought--"
"Oh, please come, Miss Doane. You haven't anything to do, have you?"
"I don't know as I have anything _particular_, though sence I got these
babies, my days is as full as a wine cup. But if you want me--"
"That's right; I knew you would! Come right away--I must get to my
class."
Drusilla wiped her hands on her apron and went into the house. Soon she
was ready and they were being whirled swiftly toward the East Side, a
part of New York that Drusilla had never visited. She was interested in
the women as they sat upon the tenement steps, and in the many, many
children playing in the streets. Spring was in the air, although it
could hardly be recognized here except by the people loitering in the
streets in order to get away from the crowded homes.
"What a lot of people!" said Drusilla. "Where do they all come
from--and the children! I never saw so many children in my life."
"Oh, but you should see it in July and August," Daphne laughed. "Then
it _is_ crowded, and the people sleep on the fire-escapes and even on
the sidewalks in some of the smaller streets. It is so hot in their
stuffy rooms."
Soon they drew up before the door of the Settlement, and were received
in the parlor by the head worker. Daphne left Drusilla, to go to her
sewing-class, and Mrs. Harris conducted Drusilla over the Settlement.
She was shown the kindergarten, the club rooms where the boys and girls
of the neighborhood danced in the evening, the clinic, the public
baths, and the play yard. Then she asked to be taken to see Daphne with
her sewing-class, as she could not get over the idea that it was a joke
of some kind for Daphne to teach sewing, knowing that the girl knew
nothing about the work. They found Daphne absorbed in cutting out very
full trousers and middy blouses by the aid of a paper pattern, while
eight girls were basting and stitching them. Drusilla watched them for
a while.
"Is this all the sewing-class you have?" she asked.
"It is all we have at present," Mrs. Harris answered.
"Do the girls in the neighborhood, the grown girls, learn it?"
"No; they all work, and have only their evenings."
"Why don't you have an evening class?"
"We have thought of that, but it is hard to get a girl like Daphne to
come down in the evening."
Drusilla watched Daphne frowning over the intricacies of the pattern.
"Now I think it is nice of Daphne," she said, "to want to come here and
help them girls learn to sew; but it seems to me that she'd be doin' a
good deal more good to the girls if she hired a woman, some one who
needed the work and knowed dressmaking, to come and really learn the
girls to make their dresses. Learn 'em from the start, from cuttin' out
the cloth to sewin' up the seams and makin' the last buttonhole. Them
girls don't want to learn how to make them big pants and that shirt;
they want to make their clothes--something pretty they can wear. I
think a lot of Daphne, but she'd be doin' more good if she hired some
one who knowed her business instead of tryin' to do somethin' she don't
know nothin' about. Quite likely it does _her_ good, but so far as I
can see it don't do the girls much good."
The head worker flushed, as did Daphne.
"We like to interest the girls from homes like Miss Thornton's to come
down and help the people less fortunate than themselves."
"Yes, that's good too; interest them. I saw Daphne pay five dollars for
a box of candy the other day, and it's bad for her complexion. Instead
of buying them things let her hire some one, I say. She can come just
the same, but let a dressmaker or a sewing woman learn 'em to sew; not
a girl who ain't even sewed a button on her own clothes or made a
pocket handkerchief. And then she'd be helpin' the dressmaker too, who
might need the money. If you had some sensible sewing learnt you might
git some of the girls who work days to come in evenings and learn, but
no girl is goin' to waste her time fiddlin' around with things like
that, that they ain't goin' to use, or don't have no need of."
"But they do need them. They are gymnasium suits."
"What's gymnasium suits?"
"Suits to take exercise in, physical exercise."
"Do they need special clothes to take exercise in? What's the matter
with the clothes they got on?"
"They restrict the movements."
"You mean they can't move their arms and legs. Fudge and fiddlesticks!
Put them girls out to play and they'd move their arms and legs quick
enough without fancy clothin'. If they can't move 'em with the
exercises you give 'em, give 'em other kinds. It seems to me that if
these people are as poor as you tell me, exercise ain't what they want.
They want to learn things to help 'em pay the rent at home, or save a
little money once in a while by makin' their things."
Mrs. Harris was a little angry.
"I am sorry, Miss Doane," she said stiffly, "that you don't approve of
our sewing-class."
"No, I don't approve of it. With a teacher like Daphne it's about as
much use as squirtin' rose-water on a garbage tin. If the rest of your
work is like this, I guess I'll go home--"
She started to leave the room, but at the door she stopped.
"What's that Daphne was tellin' me about a home for mothers in the
country?"
The head worker's face brightened. Here she had something that would
appeal to the old lady, who was reputed to be very fond of children.
"I am so glad you came to-day. I can show you some of the mothers we
were hoping to take to the country. We want to enlarge our house, we
can only accommodate twelve mothers with their children, and we should
have a place for at least twenty-five, as we have so many applications."
"How long do you keep 'em?"
"We try to give each mother a two weeks' vacation; and she brings with
her the small children she cannot leave at home."
"I like the idee. I like children and I like mothers, and from what
I've seen it seems to me that it'd be heaven for these people to git
away from the noise for a while. It most drives me crazy to hear it for
an hour, and it must be awful to live with."
"They get used to it; but they do need a change. Some of the poor
mothers are completely worn out and break down in the hot weather. If
they could get into the country, even for a short time, it would save
many a life."
"Pshaw, is it so bad as that?" said sympathetic Drusilla.
"Yes; this year is especially bad. We had hoped to have the money to
build an additional wing to the house and take all our people; but we
have not been able to get the money, so we have to tell a great many
whom we have promised that they cannot go this year, and--I am afraid
it will be a great disappointment."
Here an inspiration came to Mrs. Harris.
"By the way, Miss Doane, I was going this afternoon to tell one of the
mothers that she cannot go this year. Would you like to come with me,
then you can see for yourself how very much the place is needed."
Drusilla brightened.
"I'd like to go," she said.
The worker hesitated.
"You are not afraid of contagion?"
"There ain't nothin' catchin' in the house, is there? I don't want to
git the smallpox at my time of life, or the mumps--"
Mrs. Harris laughed.
"No, nothing as bad as that; but the tenements are not overly clean,
you know."
"Pshaw, I don't care about that. If they can live in 'em all the year,
I guess it won't hurt me to visit 'em for ten minutes."
They entered the motor, surrounded by a crowd of noisy children who
clung to the footboard and hung on the back and made themselves into a
noisy escort until the tenement was reached. There Drusilla and Mrs.
Harris climbed three flights of stairs. In answer to the knock, a soft
voice said, _Entre lei_, and they stepped into a room that was
evidently the kitchen, living- and dining-room.
Near the only window in the room was a kitchen table. Around it sat the
father, the mother, a little boy of nine, two younger girls, and a
little round-faced boy of four, while two other children, mere babies,
were playing on the floor. The people at the table were sticking
marguerites onto wreaths, about ten flowers to a wreath. The flowers
were in bundles stuck together, and the little boy took them apart and
handed them to the other children, who took yellow stems from other
bundles, dipped them into paste, then into the center of the marguerite
and handed the finished flower to the father or mother, who placed it
in position on the wreath. They worked quickly, showing long practice.
The mother gave chairs to her guests; then went back to her work.
"I have come, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, "to tell you about the
country."
"Si," and the dark Italian face brightened. "I ready go any day."
"I am sorry, awfully sorry, but we have no place for you this year."
The Italian woman looked at the speaker uncomprehendingly.
_"Si?"_
"I am sorry," Mrs. Harris began again, speaking slowly, "that we cannot
take you. We have not been able to enlarge the house, and there were so
many applications ahead of you."
The woman looked at her blankly for a moment, then Drusilla saw that
she understood. Her mouth drooped and quivered, her hands faltered in
their work, but only for a moment. Mechanically she put the flower into
the paste, then placed it on the wreath. She worked quietly for several
moments.
"I hope next year, Mrs. Tolenti--"
But Mrs. Harris was interrupted.
"I no wanta next year. I wanta dis year, I wanta _now!_ I tired. I
wanta see da country. I wanta see da flower, not dese tings--I hata
dem." She gave the flowers in front of her a push. "I hata dem! I wanta
see da rosa on da bush, I wanta see da leaves on da tree. I wanta put
ma face in da grass lak when I young girl in Capri. I wanta look at da
sky, I wanta smell da field. I wanta lie at night wi ma bambini and
hear da rain. I no can wait one year, I wanta go _now!"_
"But, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, secretly a little elated at the
storm she had raised, which she could see was impressing Miss Doane, "I
had no idea you felt it so strongly--"
"Yes," the low voice continued, "I feel it _here_," pointing to her
breast. She was quiet for a while, then went on in the low, monotonous
voice of the desperate poor. "This winter ver had. My man no work.
Sometime go wood yard, but only fifty cents one day. He walk, walk,
walk, looka for work. We must eat, we must pay rent. We all work maka
da flower, but no can maka da mon. Fi' cent a gross for da wreath. It
taka long time to maka one dozen wreath, and only git fi' cent. No can
live. I canno' live every day, every day da same. Nine year I stay here
maka da flower, always maka da flower. Nine year I no go away from dis
street. But dis year I tink I go to da country. When I set here maka da
flower I say three mont more, two mont more, one mont more, den I see
da grass, I hear da bird, I shuta ma eyes, I tink I again in my
Capri--Oh, Dio mio!" She turned suddenly and let her face fall upon her
arms, stretched out on the pile of flowers before her. "Der ain't no
God for poor man, der ain't no God!"
Mrs. Harris looked at her sadly and said nothing; but the tears were
streaming down the face of Drusilla and she impulsively rose from her
seat and coming to the mother, put her arms round the shaking
shoulders, and said quietly:
"You certainly shall go to the country with your babies. You certainly
shall go. Don't think a moment again about it."
The woman did not raise her face nor seem to understand; dry sobs
shaking her worn and wasted body. She seemed utterly broken and
disheartened.
Drusilla turned to Mrs. Harris.
"Will you make her understand?"
The worker said something to the father, and he nodded his head and
they went from the room. Drusilla stopped at the door to take a last
look around the room, at the wondering faces of the children who
watched her with great black eyes, but who did not stop their fingers
from separating and placing the flowers together again. She saw the
babies on the floor playing quietly, as if they too were oppressed by
the tragedy that was always before them, and then she looked at the
blank wall outside the window, and it seemed to her that the lives of
these hopeless poor were like that window, only a blank wall to face.
They arrived at the Settlement house and Mrs. Harris ordered tea to be
brought to her sitting-room. She was delighted at the effect of her
visit, and her imagination ran riot in the thought of the additions
that might be made to the summer home for mothers.
Drusilla was quiet during tea, but when it was carried away she spoke.
"Now tell me about your home. You say you want to make an addition, add
an ell or something."
"Yes; we think by adding a wing we can double our capacity. But I have
the plans of the new work, and a picture and plans of the present
house."
She brought a book of views with an architect's drawings of the new
hoped-for wing, and the pictures and plans of the present house.
Drusilla drew her glasses from her bag and bent over the new plans;
then she turned her attention to the house now in use.
"You say this is where they are at present? Which is the rooms you use
for the mothers?"
The worker pointed them out.
"We have six beds in this room, and four beds in this, and five beds in
this room. In this long room we can put about twelve cots for the
children that do not have to be with their mothers during the night.
This is the dining-room; this the living-room."
Drusilla caught sight of some rooms upstairs.
"What's these three rooms. Who're they for?"
"Those are for the workers who go out for the week-end."
"What do you mean by the week-end?"
"From Saturday to Monday."
"You mean the women who work here like yourself go out there and spend
Saturday and Sunday?"
"Yes."
"But why do you need three rooms?"
"Well, you see there are a great many workers here, and they take
turns, and often three or four of them go out."
"They each have a room to themselves?"
"Yes, you see they are in the noise here all the week, and they must
have a place where they can rest and have quiet."
Drusilla looked at her sharply.
"What do you do with the rooms the rest of the time?"
"They are vacant."
"You don't put none of the mothers in 'em?"
"Certainly not. We could not use them if they had been occupied by the
class of people we send out."
"Why don't you double up when you go out, and not take so much room?
You could put four beds in that room and all be together and use them
other rooms for mothers."
"That would be hard on our workers. They like their privacy. And then
we would not like the mothers and their children so close to us. They
would disturb us and we could not get the rest we need."
Drusilla was quiet for a moment, drumming lightly on the table with her
fingers.
"I don't see how you can rest or sleep at night with a cry in your ears
like that I jest heard from that mother. I'd sleep on a board by the
side of the fence to let her get a chance to 'put her face in the
grass' as she says. How can you talk about privacy and quiet when you
see such misery and unhappiness as that I jest saw? No, don't stop
me--" as she saw Mrs. Harris raise her flushed face and open her lips
as if to speak--"I'm all wrought up. I'll hear that mother's cry and
see her poor body bent over that table, and those babies settin' there
workin' when they ought to be out playin' as long as I live. And you
see them and hear them every day and yet can talk about havin' to have
quiet and privacy! And you take the three best rooms in a house that's
supported by people who think they are giving some poor Italian family
an outin' in the country! You could all go in one room and that would
mean that five or six more mothers could go; the woman we left up there
could go--instead of keeping the rooms for women who have a nice place
like your'n here." She looked with scorn around the cozily furnished
room. "And you keep them for only one or two days a week! I can't talk,
I'm all wrought up."
Drusilla sat back in her chair and fanned herself with the book of
views.
The worker was aghast. She had not thought of any possible outcome
except the one for which she had been planning.
"But you see, Miss Doane, when we have a wing--"
"I'd 'a' give you a wing, or two wings, or a whole batch of wings, if I
hadn't seen them three rooms. How'd I know that you wouldn't take the
best rooms for the rest of your workers; or perhaps your cook might
need rest or privacy for a part of the week. No--" shaking her old head
vigorously--"I'll build my own wings where I can watch 'em."
She rose then.
"I must be goin'. Will you send for Daphne? I want to think about what
I can do for that family. I'll give her my own room if I have to, but
she's goin' to the country!"
Daphne came in soon, and looked quickly at Drusilla's flushed, excited
face.
"Did you have a nice time, Miss Doane? Isn't it a wonderful work?"
"Yes, I had a lovely time, and I learnt a lot. Thank you so much for
your tea, Mis' Harris. I'm real glad I come."
And before the chagrined hostess could find words in which to try to
rectify her mistake, Drusilla was in the motor.
Daphne looked at the angry old lady curiously.
"Weren't you interested, Miss Doane? Aren't you going to help the
Settlement? They need money so badly for their summer home--"
"Now, Daphne, don't talk to me about the summer home! You know we got a
big lot of things and people that always is asking me for money. I git
a heap of letters every morning from preachers, and charity workers and
beggars and poor people, and people who are trying to make a fool of
me, and git my money. I guess there ain't a person in New York or an
institution that's got a want, but they feel that it won't do no harm
for to try me."
"Why, I didn't know you were bothered. Why don't you have them all sent
to Father?"
"Humph--mighty little attention they'd git. No, I go over 'em all
myself, with Dr. Eaton. You didn't know he was my private advisor, did
you? He's a fine young man and he's got a head on his shoulders; and
him and me go over all the letters and them that he thinks that is
honest, he sees, and then he tells me what he thinks we had better do.
He's got sense and don't let me git foolish, because sometimes the
letters or the cases is so pitiful that I can't help cryin', and
generally them's the ones he finds is no good. I been visitin'
institutions with him, orphan asylums, and rescue homes. We got a lot
of new babies and their mothers comin' to the house next week; we got
them from the hospitals. He's workin' out a plan for me, and now I want
to talk to him about them mothers and the country. We are going by his
office, as I can't wait until he comes out to-night."
Daphne flushed.
"We might take him out with us."
"That's a good idea, Daphne. You go up to his office and tell him to
come down an we'll take him home. I want to talk and he can stay to
dinner."
"Can't I stay too--" shyly said Daphne, slipping her hand into
Drusilla's.
Drusilla looked down at her and laughed.
"No, you can't. Your father wouldn't like it, and besides if you are
there the doctor won't talk sense. He'll jest set and look at you."
Daphne laughed happily.
"I wish I thought he liked to look at me, but--"
"But what?"
"Well--he doesn't ever seem very anxious to see me. He's invited to
lots of places where he knows I will be, and he doesn't come."
"You mean dances and things like that. Laws sakes, Daphne, ain't he got
nothin' better than to go to dances and daddle around the room with a
fool girl--"
"But I'm not a fool girl."
"No one would know it by your actions sometimes."
"I guess you are right, Miss Doane. I do act as if nothing were worth
while but having a good time."
"Yes; I seen a lot of your friends and I often think that a young man's
takin' a lot of risk by marryin' one of you unless he's got nothin' to
do in the world but to go to parties and to make money to buy you
clothes and motorcars. But never mind--here we are. You go upstairs and
get the doctor. Tell him I want to talk to him particular."
Daphne was gone longer than was actually needed to go to an office and
fetch a man to the motor car, but Drusilla only smiled when they came
down.
"Did we keep you waiting? I am so sorry," murmured Daphne.
Drusilla laughed.
"Yes, you look worried to death; but I won't scold you. You don't git
much chance to talk alone together, and I suppose you wanted to discuss
the latest improvements in medicine. It's a big subject and would take
time."
"Oh, no, we didn't talk at all--the doctor--was busy--"
The doctor laughed.
"What is it you want to see me about, Miss Doane?"
"I want to talk to you about mothers and their babies. I'll tell you
all about it after dinner. Daphne's goin' home and you and me and
John'll set down and talk it all over. John ain't no good; he ain't
what you call sensible, but he's comfortable. And I got some new things
on my mind.
"Yes," broke in Daphne. "Miss Doane has been visiting our Settlement."
The doctor smiled.
"What do you think of it?"
Before Drusilla could reply, Daphne said: "What do you think Dr. Eaton
calls them, Miss Doane? It's dreadful. He calls them the 'decayed
gentle ladies' refuge.'"
The doctor flushed.
"Daphne--"
"Do you?" queried Drusilla, interestedly. "Why?"
"Well--" the doctor said rather apologetically, "perhaps I shouldn't;
but most of the settlements that I know are filled with workers who are
charming women, too good to be stenographers or clerks or housekeepers.
They come to the settlements, where they receive a good salary and keep
their social position, which they feel they could not do if they
worked. You see it's rather a fad to be a social settlement worker, and
most of the women couldn't make their living to save their soul at work
that really took trained brains or executive ability."
"Do tell!" said Drusilla. "I kind of thought something like that when I
saw Mrs. Harris, but she seemed to be real pert."
"Oh, I am only generalizing. Some of them, the heads especially, are
competent women, but the great average--" and he spread his hands out
expressively.
"Well, anyway, Dr. Eaton--you remember that big blue pencil that we use
to draw across the names that ain't no good?--I got a new name to-day
to add to that list--settlements--and I want to git home and sharpen
the pencil."