"The Old Hill House," on the north Connecticut line, seemed almost too
good to be true. It was an unpretentious country hotel, and Nancy and
Junior settled themselves in one of its hot, second-story rooms feeling
almost guiltily happy. Nancy kissed Bert good-bye on the first Monday
morning assuring him that she had NOTHING to do! To go down to meals,
and they were good meals, without the slightest share in the work of
preparing them, and to be able to wear dainty clothes without the
ruinous contact with the kitchen, seemed too luxurious.
But she was not quite idle, none-the-less. Junior had to have his
morning bath, after breakfast, and while he was in the tub, his mother
washed six bottles in the hand-basin. Then, on a tiltish alcohol stove,
Nancy had to boil his barley for twenty endless minutes. When the stove
upset there was an additional half-hour's hard work, but even when it
did not, it was usually ten o'clock before she went down to the kitchen
for his two quarts of milk. Then came the usual careful work with the
"ouncer," and the six filled bottles were put into Nancy's own small
ice-box, to which one of the maids was then supposed to bring a small
piece of ice. The left-over milk was taken back to the kitchen, and
Nancy washed the little saucepan in her hand-basin, and put away stove
and barley. By this time Junior was ready for another bottle, and when
he went to sleep his mother went down to the laundry with an arm-full
of small garments.
There was no other way. Labour was scarce in the village, and Nancy
could get no one of the housemaids to take upon herself this daily
task. Women from the outside were not allowed in the hotel laundry, and
so the task fell naturally to the baby's mother. She assumed it gladly,
but when the line of snowy linen was blowing free in the summer wind,
and the cake of soap had been put on its special rafter, and the tubs
were draining, Nancy usually went up to her bedroom, tiptoeing in
because of the sleeper, and flung herself down for a heavy nap.
After luncheon she gathered in her linen and watched by the wideawake
baby. Then they went down to the cool shade by the creek, and Junior
threw stones, and splashed fat hands in the shallows, and his mother
watched him adoringly. It never entered her head that she was anything
but privileged to be able to slave for him. He was always and supremely
worth while. Nancy's only terrors were that something would happen to
rob her of the honour. She wanted no other company; Junior was her
world, except when Saturday's noon train brought Bert. She told her
husband, and meant it, that she was too happy; they did not need the
world.
But sometimes the world intruded, and turned Nancy's hard-won
philosophy to ashes. She did not want to be idle, and she did not want
to be rich, but when she saw women younger than herself, in no visible
way inferior, who were both, her calm was shattered for a time.
One day she and Bert wheeled the boy, in his small cart, down a
pleasant unfamiliar roadway, and across a rustic bridge, and, smiling
over their adventure, found themselves close to a low, wide-spreading
Colonial house, with striped awnings shading its wide porches, and
girls and men in white grouped about a dozen tea-tables. Tennis courts
were near by, and several motor-cars stood beside the pebbled drive.
A gray-uniformed attendant came to them, civilly. Did they wish to see
some member of the club! "Oh, it is a club then," Bert asked, a little
too carelessly. "It is the Silver River Country Club, sir."
"Oh, well, we'll get out of here, then," Bert said good naturedly, as
he turned the perambulator on the gravel under a hundred casual eyes.
He and Nancy chatted quite naturally about their mistake, as they
re-crossed the rustic bridge, and went up the unfamiliar roadway again.
But a cloud lay over them for the rest of that day, and that night
Nancy said:
"What must one have--or be--to belong to a thing like that, Bert?"
"To--oh, that club?" Bert answered, "Oh, it isn't so much. A hundred
initiation, and a hundred a year, I suppose."
"We could do that--some year," Nancy predicted.
"Well, it isn't only that. There's no use joining a country club," Bert
said musingly, "unless you can do the thing decently. It means signing
checks for tea, and cocktails, and keeping a car, and the Lord knows
what! It means tennis rackets and golf sticks and tips and playing
bridge for a stake. It all counts up!"
"Where do all those people get the money?" Nancy asked resentfully.
"They looked common, to me!"
"We'll get there, never you fret!" Bert answered vaguely. But long
after he was asleep his wife lay awake in the hot hotel bedroom, and
thought darkly of fate. She came of gentle stock, and she would meet
her lot bravely, but oh, how she longed for ease, for a little luxury,
for coolness and darkness and silence and service, for frothy laces and
the touch of silk!
Lights came up from the lawn before the hotel. It was Sunday night, and
the young people were making the most of the precious week-end. Nancy
heard a clock somewhere strike ten, and then the single stroke for the
half-hour. She got up and sat beside the window; the night was
insufferably close, with not a breath of air.
Junior sighed; his mother arose, stricken, and lighted a shaded lamp.
Half-past-ten and she had forgotten his bottle!
When she carried it over to him, he was wide awake, his face sober, his
aureole of bright hair damp with the heat. But at the sight of his
playfellow his four new teeth came suddenly into sight. Here was
"Mugger," the unfailing solace and cheer of his life. He gave her a
beatific smile, and seized the bottle with a rapturous "glug." Bert was
roused by her laughter, and the soft sound of kisses.