As the days drifted by, it seemed indeed as though Julie’s passion
of loving service had worked a miracle in old Miss Fogg--that broken
vessel which life had cast upon the midden of the world. Her canary
bird, restored to life, sang in the window. The geranium was dead; but
Julie bought another, so the effect of the room was gay, with white
curtains blowing in the wind, the bird’s song, and the flower in the
sunshine.
The room’s vigor and cleanliness inspired Miss Fogg to attempt mending
her clothes and putting them in order.
“It would be a right funny thing,” she said, “if I couldn’t put my own
old duds to rights, me that always did the fine sewin’ for all the
swellest brides in town.”
Her fits of depression and indifference persisted but, sustained by
Julie, she was more alive between the attacks, more able to look after
herself.
One morning when Julie went up to her, she found the old woman, a
fantastic gingham cap upon her head, busy turning out all her drawers,
with a spasmodic energy.
“I got to get everything straight--all nice and clean,” she announced.
“Wait,” she added. She tiptoed across to the door and closed it.
“Sh-sh!” she whispered. “There ain’t a soul in this house a person can
trust. They spy on me all the time. They peep at me over the transom
an’ spy in at the keyhole. Ain’t it just awful what some folks will do?”
She stood close to Julie and spoke into her ear mysteriously. “Sh-sh!
there’s one of ’em at the keyhole now.”
Julie went quickly over and threw wide the door. The hall was
completely empty.
“There’s nobody there,” she said. “You just thought you heard somebody.”
“Hm!” the old woman retorted scornfully but still whispering. “So _you_
think; but they don’t fool me. They’re quick enough to jump away when
you open the door. I’ve quit doin’ _that_. I’m up to their tricks, an’
I got a way to fool ’em all right.”
Catching up an old spotted handkerchief, she hung it stealthily on the
handle of the door. “There, that’ll fix ’em!” she triumphed. “If they
want to peep, let ’em peep into that handkerchief. They’ll see all them
red spots, an’ then they’ll run out in the street an’ say, ‘Old Miss
Fogg’s done killed herself, an’ her blood’s all over the floor.’ That’d
be funny, wouldn’t it?” She gave a sudden crazy laugh. “I _kin_ kill
myself all right, but it won’t be none er their business if I do. It
won’t be their brains on the floor.”
A shiver ran through Julie.
The old woman sank down upon the edge of her bed and stared at the
floor. “That’s what comes of livin’ with common people,” she moaned. “I
ain’t used to common folks an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to start runnin’ with
’em now, me that’s sewed for all the best folks in town. I wouldn’t mix
with this common lot, not to save their souls I wouldn’t; an’ my little
baby child wouldn’t neither; she wouldn’t turn her hand over for er one
of ’em.”
“Maybe your little niece will come soon,” Julie said catching at that
one bright hope.
“Sh-sh!” the other commanded. Rising, she tiptoed over to the door
again and, raising the handkerchief, bent her old back and peeped out
through the keyhole. Then dropping it, she came back to Julie. “That
was what I wanted to tell you,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be surprised
if she was to come soon now--real soon. I had a dream last night--I’m
mighty apt to have dreams when anything’s goin’ to happen--an’ the
dream said she was comin’ soon. That’s why I got to get everything
straight for her.”
“I’ll help you!” Julie cried eagerly. “We’ll get everything all nice
before she comes.”
Julie fell to work at once. The old woman attempted a fitful
assistance, but her burst of energy gave out before it had carried her
far, and soon she retired to the easy chair by the window, watching
Julie with dull eyes, or staring down at her lap and moaning, “Oh my
Lord, Oh my Lord!” from time to time.
Julie was amazingly happy. So happy that she broke into little snatches
of song as she moved about the room, dusting and cleaning it, and
straightening the wild heap of garments in Miss Fogg’s drawers. So
happy that the moaning old woman crumpled up in her chair did not
seem repulsive to her, but rather, as always now, an outlet for the
abounding joy that surged through her.
There was only one little rift the whole morning through. That was when
Julie essayed to open a small drawer in Miss Fogg’s bureau. She had
turned out and straightened all the others, but when she came to this
one it refused to open. Thinking it merely stuck, she tugged upon the
handles, but was stopped by a sudden cry, almost a scream, from the
old woman. “Leave that drawer alone, leave it alone, I tell you!” she
cried. Julie jumped round, startled.
Miss Fogg had sprung to her feet, and was glaring at her.
“Oh my Lord!” she cried, “Can’t you leave _nothing_ be?”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was locked,” Julie apologized hastily.
“My Lord! Can’t I have _no_ place to myself no more?” the other
stormed, sinking down again and running her trembling hands wildly
through her hair.
“I’m so sorry,” Julie pleaded again. “See, I’m not touching it. I won’t
touch it again.”
But it took her some time to soothe Miss Fogg and to win her confidence
once more; and always afterward Julie was conscious of a certain
uneasiness on the old woman’s part whenever she came near that especial
drawer.
But on the whole it was a happy and beautiful morning for Julie, and
even for Miss Fogg it held a faint return to life.
Julie tried again that night to tell Tim what Miss Fogg meant to her.
It was a mystery that she could not quite explain to herself. She was
constantly drawn back to interpret it to him.
“It’s like she was my child,” she said. “I’m giving her life. She’s
mine. Everybody’s forgotten her. Life’s forgot her, an’ gone on by;
but now I’ve come along, an’ brought some of it back to her. It’s like
all the sufferings of the world had got a-hold of my heart, an I _had_
to go down into hell to drag folks out. It isn’t just that poor old
soul. She stands for all the rest: all of ’em that’s suffering. It’s
something bigger almost than I can feel, but it’s got a-hold of me, an’
it’ll _never_ let me go. Oh, my honey! my love!” she burst out, holding
the lapels of his coat and staring up into his face. “You know what it
is! It’s our love gone beyond itself--beyond just us, an’ out into all
the world.” For a moment her eyes blazed up into his and her face was
a white flame, then he put his hand over the wide gaze and turned her
face against his breast pressing it there with both hands.
“Little honey, don’t!” he cried. “You’re mine. Don’t slip away to all
the world.”
It made Julie happy when anyone in the house commented upon Miss Fogg’s
improved condition. She was pleased when Mrs. Watkins said, “Well, you
certainly are the miracle-worker! Who ever would have thought you could
get that old soul to look so spruced up an’ reasonable. Why, she looks
almost like real folks now.”
Mrs. Watkins was rocking back and forth in a chair which creaked
regularly as it struck a certain board in the floor, the while she
fanned herself and the baby in her arms with a frayed palm-leaf fan,
which she used also to emphasize her remarks.
“She _is_ better, isn’t she?” Julie said, eager for more praise of her
creation.
“She is that,” Mrs. Watkins assented cordially. “But it’s you that’s
done it.” She pointed the fan at Julie. “You mark what I say, it’s you
that’s put life into the old graveyard-deserter. She hasn’t got any
real life of her own: she’s just what you’ve made of her. You’ve put
life into her like a kid blowing up a toy balloon; but if you was to
quit blowing at her she’d go flat again, or maybe bust.”
“I know,” Julie admitted uneasily. “That’s the reason I wish her niece
would come to her.”
“Niece?” Mrs. Watkins swept a fly off the sleeping baby’s face and
paused, staring at Julie. “Niece?” she snorted. “I’m mighty doubtful
about any niece, myself.”
“Why, she’s got a photograph on her mantel of a girl that she says is
her niece,” Julie cried.
“Well, maybe she is. I don’t know for certain,” Mrs. Watkins returned,
still doubtfully. “I know the picture. Miss Fogg used to let me into
her room sometimes before she got so cranky an’ suspicious. An’ I know
she _says_ it’s her niece, but if it is, believe me, she certainly
don’t care one thing about her old aunt. Miss Fogg’s been in this house
for all the eight years I’ve been here--for all she thinks we’re so
common, she keeps a stayin’ with us--an’ I’ve never seen any niece
in all that time; an’ she don’t ever seem to have no letters, or word
of any kind from the niece--not even at Christmas--that I know of.
My, ain’t it hot!” she interpolated, putting up one languid hand and
plucking a wisp of hair back from her forehead. “I just b’lieve that
photograph’s a picture of some girl she used to sew for, and she likes
to b’lieve it’s kin to her, poor soul.”
“Oh! it must be her niece,” Julie cried, distressfully. “It would be
awful if it weren’t. Why, she’s all poor old Miss Fogg has in the
world--the last straw of life that she clings to. It would be awful if
she didn’t have her!”
“Well, I hope in my heart she has got a niece,” Mrs. Watkins returned.
“She ought to be here,” Julie persisted. “She ought to come to Miss
Fogg, in case I have to leave.”
“Why, you thinkin’ of goin’ away?”
“No--Oh, no. Not really,” Julie evaded hastily, with that little
breathless catch in her voice which was characteristic of her under any
stress. “No. But I might.”
“Well, it would be a sad day for everybody in this house if you was
to leave,” Mrs. Watkins said heartily. “You’ve got something about you
most people ain’t got. You’re so--so good.”
Julie looked up, her eyes wide and horrified.
“Oh--Oh, no! I’m not. Don’t say that,” she faltered blindly.
It was after her talk with Mrs. Watkins that Julie made a fresh attempt
to get Miss Fogg to write to her niece. The old woman would never give
her either the niece’s name or her address. That and the locked drawer
in her bureau were the only things over which she evinced the secretive
suspicion toward Julie that she showed toward every one else. When
Julie tried again that afternoon to persuade her, she firmed her lips
obstinately.
“I’ll write if I want, an’ I’ll not if I don’t,” she announced.
“Look,” Julie coaxed. “See, I’ve brought you in ink and paper and
everything. See what nice paper this is.”
Miss Fogg took the paper and inspected it critically. “That’s right
nice,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t write to her on any but the best
paper; she thinks a heap of having things stylish.”
Julie drew up a table and spread the writing materials invitingly upon
it.
“There now, just write her a few lines,” she begged.
The old woman looked at all the preparation dimly, but presently she
really did pick up the pen, and squaring herself at the table made a
few trembling strokes. “My baby child,” she scrawled, the line running
slantingly down the paper. “My little baby,” she attempted again and
then, staring at the words, she broke down in tears. “I can’t do it,”
she wept. “I can’t. I can’t get beyond ‘My baby child.’ I just think of
her like that. She don’t seem to me like a grown person, an’ it’s all I
can think to say.”
“That’s plenty: that’s all she’ll need,” Julie comforted her. “I’ll
write her a letter and tell her all about everything, and put in what
you’ve written.”
“Well,” the old woman consented shakingly, “well, tell her--Oh, tell
her please to come! Tell her not to be mad at me.” And then all at once
the secret of the old woman’s heart burst forth. “She’s mad at me about
something. She won’t come. I’ve written and written--of course I have.
But she don’t even answer. She don’t send a word. She’s gone back on
me.” She looked up at Julie, her old face all distorted and twitching.
“Don’t tell--don’t you tell any of these onery folks--but she’s gone
back on me. She don’t ever write nor nothin’. Not even Christmas time.
I ain’t told on her. I’ve kep’ it all to myself, here in my breast--but
it’s erbout killed me. All I’ve got in the world! All--” The words fell
into sobs.
“But she _will_ come now!” Julie promised with poignant sympathy. “She
just doesn’t understand. But I’ll write so she’ll see she must come.”
“Well--you write,” the other agreed with a pathetic confidence in
Julie. “Maybe she’ll come for you. Tell her--Oh, tell her her old
Tannie is sick an’ wants her. ‘Tannie,’ that was what she always called
me: it was as near as she could come to saying ‘Aunt Annie’ when she
was little.”
Julie did write. She did not know the niece’s name, and was afraid to
ask, dreading a return of that sly suspicious look that was always
brought out on Miss Fogg’s face when she questioned her too closely
about anything. So she began the letter “Madam,” and when she came to
the signing of her own name, she hesitated. She had never yet brought
herself to write, “Julie Freeman.” She had always managed in some way
to avoid doing so. For all that she had said that the name was no lie,
she could not make herself write it. But her own name she dared not
put. So in the end she signed it, “From a Friend.”
She wrote urgently, and enclosed the sheet on which Miss Fogg’s
trembling words, “My baby child,” went slanting down the paper. Then
she sealed the envelope and stamped it.
“Now then,” she said with an assumption of confidence that she did not
feel, “what’s her address?”
To her despair she was met by the old crafty look in Miss Fogg’s eyes.
“That’s all right--that’s all right,” the old woman said with dignity.
“Just lay it there, an’ I’ll back it when I git ready.”
Julie was blank with disappointment, but it was useless to insist, so
she left the letter sealed and stamped and ready for the address. She
did not know it, but that night when all the house was quiet, old Miss
Fogg slipped out and, going secretly down a side street, posted the
letter which she had managed to address, after looking all about and up
and down to be sure that no one was spying at her.