IN MISS FLORA’S ALBUM
It was the next afternoon that Mr. Smith inquired his way to the home
of Miss Flora Blaisdell. He found it to be a shabby little cottage on
a side street. Miss Flora herself answered his knock, peering at him
anxiously with her near-sighted eyes.
Mr. Smith lifted his hat.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Blaisdell,” he began with a deferential bow. “I
am wondering if you could tell me something of your father’s family.”
Miss Flora, plainly pleased, but flustered, stepped back for him to
enter.
“Oh, Mr. Smith, come in, come in! I’m sure I’m glad to tell you
anything I know,” she beamed, ushering him into the unmistakably
little-used “front room.” “But you really ought to go to Maggie. I can
tell you some things, but Maggie’s got the Bible. Mother had it, you
know, and it’s all among her things. And of course we had to let it
stay, as long as Father Duff lives. He doesn’t want anything touched.
Poor Maggie—she tried to get ’em for us; but, mercy! she never tried
but once. But I’ve got some things. I’ve got pictures of a lot of them,
and most of them I know quite a lot about.”
As she spoke she nicked up from the table a big red plush photograph
album. Seating herself at his side she opened it, and began to tell him
of the pictures, one by one.
She did, indeed, know “quite a lot” of most of them. Tintypes,
portraying stiffly held hands and staring eyes, ghostly reproductions
of daguerreotypes of stern-lipped men and women, in old-time stock
and kerchief; photographs of stilted family groups after the
“he-is-mine-and-I-am-his” variety; snap-shots of adorable babies with
blurred thumbs and noses—never had Mr. John Smith seen their like
before.
Politely he listened. Busily, from time to time, he jotted down a name
or date. Then, suddenly, as she turned a page, he gave an involuntary
start. He was looking at a pictured face, evidently cut from a magazine.
“Why, what—who—” he stammered.
“That? Oh, that’s Mr. Fulton, the millionaire, you know.” Miss Flora’s
hands fluttered over the page a little importantly, adjusting a corner
of the print. “You must have seen his picture. It’s been everywhere.
He’s our cousin, too.”
“Oh, is he?”
“Yes, ’way back somewhere. I can’t tell you just how, only I know
he is. His mother was a Blaisdell. That’s why I’ve always been so
interested in him, and read everything I could—in the papers and
magazines, you know.”
“Oh, I see.” Mr. John Smith’s voice had become a little uncertain.
“Yes. He ain’t very handsome, is he?” Miss Flora’s eyes were musingly
fixed on the picture before her—which was well, perhaps: Mr. John
Smith’s face was a study just then.
“Er—n-no, he isn’t.”
“But he’s turribly rich, I s’pose. I wonder how it feels to have so
much money.”
There being no reply to this, Miss Flora went on after a moment.
“It must be awful nice—to buy what you want, I mean, without fretting
about how much it costs. I never did. But I’d like to.”
“What would you do—if you could—if you had the money, I mean?” queried
Mr. Smith, almost eagerly.
Miss Flora laughed.
“Well, there’s three things I know I’d do. They’re silly, of course,
but they’re what I _want_. It’s a phonygraph, and to see Niagara
Falls, and to go into Noell’s restaurant and order what I want without
even looking at the prices after ’em. Now you’re laughing at me!”
“Laughing? Not a bit of it!” There was a curious elation in Mr. Smith’s
voice. “What’s more, I hope you’ll get them—some time.”
Miss Flora sighed. Her face looked suddenly pinched and old.
“I shan’t. I couldn’t, you know. Why, if I had the money, I shouldn’t
spend it—not for them things. I’d be needing shoes or a new dress. And
I _couldn’t_ be so rich I wouldn’t notice what the prices was—of
what I ate. But, then, I don’t believe anybody’s that, not even him.”
She pointed to the picture still open before them.
“No?” Mr. Smith, his eyes bent upon the picture, was looking
thoughtful. He had the air of a man to whom has come a brand-new,
somewhat disconcerting idea.
Miss Flora, glancing from the man to the picture, and back again, gave
a sudden exclamation.
“There, now I know who it is that you remind me of, Mr. Smith. It’s
him—Mr. Fulton, there.”
“Eh? What?” Mr. Smith looked not a little startled.
“Something about the eyes and nose.” Miss Flora was still interestedly
comparing the man and the picture, “But, then, that ain’t so strange.
You’re a Blaisdell yourself. Didn’t you say you was a Blaisdell?”
“Er—y-yes, oh, yes. I’m a Blaisdell,” nodded Mr. Smith hastily. “Very
likely I’ve got the—er—Blaisdell nose. Eh?” Then he turned a leaf of
the album abruptly, decidedly. “And who may this be?” he demanded,
pointing to the tintype of a bright-faced young girl.
“That? Oh, that’s my cousin Grace when she was sixteen. She died; but
she was a wonderful girl. I’ll tell you about her.”
“Yes, do,” urged Mr. Smith; and even the closest observer, watching his
face, could not have said that he was not absorbedly interested in Miss
Flora’s story of “my cousin Grace.”
It was not until the last leaf of the album was reached that they came
upon the picture of a small girl, with big, hungry eyes looking out
from beneath long lashes.
“That’s Mellicent—where you’re boarding, you know—when she was little.”
Miss Flora frowned disapprovingly. “But it’s horrid, poor child!”
“But she looks so—so sad,” murmured Mr. Smith.
“Yes, I know. She always did.” Miss Flora sighed and frowned again. She
hesitated, then burst out, as if irresistibly impelled from within.
“It’s only just another case of never having what you want _when_
you want it, Mr. Smith. And it ain’t ’cause they’re poor, either. They
_ain’t_ poor—not like me, I mean. Frank’s always done well, and
he’s been a good provider; but it’s my sister-in-law—her way, I mean.
Not that I’m saying anything against Jane. I ain’t. She’s a good woman,
and she’s very kind to me. She’s always saying what she’d do for me if
she only had the money. She’s a good housekeeper, too, and her house is
as neat as wax. But it’s just that she never thinks she can _use_
anything she’s got till it’s so out of date she don’t want it. I
dressmake for her, you see, so I know—about her sleeves and skirts, you
know. And if she ever does wear a decent thing she’s so afraid it will
rain she never takes any comfort in it!”
“Well, that is—unfortunate.”
“Yes, ain’t it? And she’s brought up that poor child the same way. Why,
from babyhood, Mellicent never had her rattles till she wanted blocks,
nor her blocks till she wanted dolls, nor her dolls till she was big
enough for beaus! And that’s what made the poor child always look so
wall-eyed and hungry. She was hungry—even if she did get enough to eat.”
“Mrs. Blaisdell probably believed in—er—economy,” hazarded Mr. Smith.
“Economy! My stars, I should think she did! But, there, I ought not
to have said anything, of course. It’s a good trait. I only wish some
other folks I could mention had more of it. There’s Jim’s wife, for
instance. Now, if she’s got ten cents, she’ll spend fifteen—and five
more to show _how_ she spent it. She and Jane ought to be shaken
up in a bag together. Why, Mr. Smith, Jane doesn’t let herself enjoy
anything. She’s always keeping it for a better time. Though sometimes I
think she _does_ enjoy just seeing how far she can make a dollar
go. But Mellicent don’t, nor Frank; and it’s hard on them.”
“I should say it might be.” Mr. Smith was looking at the wistful eyes
under the long lashes.
“’Tis; and ’tain’t right, I believe. There _is_ such a thing
as being too economical. I tell Jane she’ll be like a story I read
once about a man who pinched and saved all his life, not even buying
peanuts, though he just doted on ’em. And when he did get rich, so he
could buy the peanuts, he bought a big bag the first thing. But he
didn’t eat ’em. He hadn’t got any teeth left to chew ’em with.”
“Well, that was a catastrophe!” laughed Mr. Smith, as he pocketed his
notebook and rose to his feet. “And now I thank you very much, Miss
Blaisdell, for the help you’ve been to me.”
“Oh, you’re quite welcome, indeed you are, Mr. Smith,” beamed Miss
Blaisdell. “It’s done me good, just to talk to you about all these
folks and pictures. I we enjoyed it. I do get lonesome sometimes, all
alone, so! and I ain’t so busy as I wish I was, always. But I’m afraid
I haven’t helped you much—just this.”
“Oh, yes, you have—perhaps more than you think,” smiled the man, with
an odd look in his eyes.
“Have I? Well, I’m glad, I’m sure. And don’t forget to go to Maggie’s,
now. She’ll have a lot to tell you. Poor Maggie! And she’ll be so glad
to show you!”
“All right, thank you; I’ll surely interview—Miss Maggie,” smiled the
man in good-bye.
He had almost said “poor” Maggie himself, though why she should be
_poor_ Maggie had come to be an all-absorbing question with him.
He had been tempted once to ask Miss Flora, but something had held him
back. That evening at the supper-table, however, in talking with Mrs.
Jane Blaisdell, the question came again to his lips; and this time it
found utterance.
Mrs. Jane herself had introduced Miss Maggie’s name, and had said an
inconsequential something about her when Mr. Smith asked:—
“Mrs. Blaisdell, please,—may I ask? I must confess to a great curiosity
as to why Miss Duff is always ‘poor Maggie.’”
Mrs. Blaisdell laughed pleasantly.
“Why, really, I don’t know,” she answered, “only it just comes natural,
that’s all. Poor Maggie’s been so unfortunate. There! I did it again,
didn’t I? That only goes to show how we all do it, unconsciously.”
Frank Blaisdell, across the table, gave a sudden emphatic sniff.
“Humph! Well, I guess if you had to live with Father Duff, Jane, it
would be ‘poor Jane’ with you, all right!”
“Yes, I know.” His wife sighed complacently.
“Father Duff’s a trial, and no mistake. But Maggie doesn’t seem to
mind.”
“Mind! Aunt Maggie’s a saint—that’s what she is!” It was Mellicent who
spoke, her young voice vibrant with suppressed feeling. “She’s the
dearest thing ever! There _couldn’t_ be anybody better than Aunt
Maggie!”
Nothing more was said just then, but in the evening, later, after
Mellicent had gone to walk with young Pennock, and her father had gone
back down to the store, Mrs. Blaisdell took up the matter of “Poor
Maggie” again.
“I’ve been thinking what you said,” she began, “about our calling her
‘poor Maggie,’ and I’ve made up my mind it’s because we’re all so
sorry for her. You see, she’s been so unfortunate, as I said. Poor
Maggie! I’ve so often wished there was something I could do for her. Of
course, if we only had money—but we haven’t; so I can’t. And even money
wouldn’t take away her father, either. Oh, mercy! I didn’t mean that,
really,—not the way it sounded,” broke off Mrs. Blaisdell, in shocked
apology. “I only meant that she’d have her father to care for, just the
same.”
“He’s something of a trial, I take it, eh?” smiled Mr. Smith.
“Trial! I should say he was. Poor Maggie! How ever she endures it, I
can’t imagine. Of course, we call him Father Duff, but he’s really
not any relation to us—I mean to Frank and the rest. But their mother
married him when they were children, and they never knew their own
father much, so he’s the only father they know. When their mother died,
Maggie had just entered college. She was eighteen, and such a pretty
girl! I knew the family even then. Frank was just beginning to court me.
“Well, of course Maggie had to come home right away. None of the
rest wanted to take care of him and Maggie had to. There was another
Duff sister then—a married sister (she’s died since), but _she_
wouldn’t take him, so Maggie had to. Of course, none of the Blaisdells
wanted the care of him—and he wasn’t their father, anyway. Frank was
wanting to marry me, and Jim and Flora were in school and wanted to
stay there, of course. So Maggie came. Poor girl! It was real hard for
her. She was so ambitious, and so fond of books. But she came, and went
right into the home and kept it so Frank and Jim and Flora could live
there just the same as when their mother was alive. And she had to do
all the work, too. They were too poor to keep a girl. Kind of hard,
wasn’t it?—and Maggie only eighteen!”
“It was, indeed!” Mr. Smith’s lips came together a bit grimly.
“Well, after a time Frank and Jim married, and there was only Flora and
Father Duff at home. Poor Maggie tried then to go to college again. She
was over twenty-one, and supposed to be her own mistress, of course.
She found a place where she could work and pay her way through college,
and Flora said she’d keep the house and take care of Father Duff. But,
dear me; it wasn’t a month before that ended, and Maggie had to come
home again. Flora wasn’t strong, and the work fretted her. Besides, she
never could get along with Father Duff, and she was trying to learn
dressmaking, too. She stuck it out till she got sick, though, then of
course Maggie had to come back.”
“Well, by Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Smith.
“Yes, wasn’t it too bad? Poor Maggie, she tried it twice again. She
persuaded her father to get a girl. But that didn’t work, either. The
first girl and her father fought like cats and dogs, and the last time
she got one her father was taken sick, and again she had to come home.
Some way, it’s always been that way with poor Maggie. No sooner does
she reach out to take something than it’s snatched away, just as she
thinks she’s got it. Why, there was her father’s cousin George—he was
going to help her once. But a streak of bad luck hit him at just that
minute, and he gave out.”
“And he never tried—again?”
“No. He went to Alaska then. Hasn’t ever been back since. He’s done
well, too, they say, and I always thought he’d send back something; but
he never has. There was some trouble, I believe, between him and Father
Duff at the time he went to Alaska, so that explains it, probably.
Anyway, he’s never done anything for them. Well, when he gave out,
Maggie just gave up college then, and settled down to take care of her
father, though I guess she’s always studied some at home; and I know
that for years she didn’t give up hope but that she could go some time.
But I guess she has now. Poor Maggie!”
“How old is she?”
“Why, let me see—forty-three, forty-four—yes, she’s forty-five. She
had her forty-third birthday here—I remember I gave her a handkerchief
for a birthday present—when she was helping me take care of Mellicent
through the pneumonia; and that was two years ago. She used to come
here and to Jim’s and Flora’s days at a time; but she isn’t quite so
free as she was—Father Duff’s worse now, and she don’t like to leave
him nights, much, so she can’t come to us so often. See?”
“Yes, I—see.” There was a queer something in Mr. Smith’s voice. “And
just what is the matter with Mr. Duff?”
“Matter!” Mrs. Jane Blaisdell gave a short laugh and shrugged her
shoulders. “Everything’s the matter—with Father Duff! Oh, it’s nerves,
mostly, the doctor says, and there are some other things—long names
that I can’t remember. But, as I said, everything’s the matter with
Father Duff. He’s one of those men where there isn’t anything quite
right. Frank says he’s got so he just objects to everything—on general
principles. If it’s blue, he says it ought to be black, you know. And,
really, I don’t know but Frank’s right. How Maggie stands him I don’t
see; but she’s devotion itself. Why, she even gave up her lover years
ago, for him. She wouldn’t leave her father, and, of course, nobody
would think of taking _him_ into the family, when he wasn’t
_born_ into it, so the affair was broken off. I don’t know,
really, as Maggie cared much. Still, you can’t tell. She never was one
to carry her heart on her sleeve. Poor Maggie! I’ve always so wished I
could do something for her!
“There, how I have run on! But, then, you asked, and you’re interested,
I know, and that’s what you’re here for—to find out about the
Blaisdells.”
“To—to—f-find out—” stammered Mr. Smith, grown suddenly very red.
“Yes, for your book, I mean.”
“Oh, yes—of course; for my book,” agreed Mr. Smith, a bit hastily. He
had the guilty air of a small boy who has almost been caught in a raid
on the cooky jar.
“And although poor Maggie isn’t really a Blaisdell herself, she’s
nearly one; and they’ve got lots of Blaisdell records down there—among
Mother Blaisdell’s things, you know. You’ll want to see those.”
“Yes; yes, indeed. I’ll want to see those, of course,” declared Mr.
Smith, rising to his feet, preparatory to going to his own room.