“Oh, I think it is delightful,” exclaimed Elsie as she, Margaret, and
Dr. Ely stopped in the late glow of the afternoon sun before the gate of
the place at Idlewild. “Such a charming tangle of briers to get
scratched on while hunting for very stray berries.”
“There is something to be done here before one could hope for returns,”
assented the doctor. “But let us explore the house, and see whether it
is possible to exist in it.”
The house, by courtesy a cottage, had four rooms, so called. Elsie
suggested boxes as a better name, but found consolation in the fact that
four rooms for three people left a breathing-room that each could occupy
in turn. The rooms were black with smoke and slippery with filth, and
even Margaret felt something very like despair as she exclaimed
piteously: “The muscle and soap it will take to cleanse it.”
“Is it habitable otherwise?” asked the doctor as he rattled windows,
examined hinges and locks, and poked into chimneys and cupboards.
“Fairly good. Whitewash, paint, soap, and muscle, and you won’t know it,
Miss Margaret. Now let us see what the garden is like. Wants
underdraining badly. Soil clayey and cold, but admirably situated for
outlet of drain. A few muck-heaps and this garden will blossom like the
rose.”
“But you frighten me,” exclaimed Margaret aghast. “I haven’t the
slightest idea how to drain it, and I am sure it will cost more than we
can afford.”
“We are only examining possibilities. ‘Small fruits,’ a dozen ragged
currant bushes, some straggling strawberry vines, grapes that have run
riot, and a ‘delightful tangle,’ as Elsie says, of raspberry bushes.
Common, too—no, Gregg if I am not mistaken. Ah! that is better. ‘Three
acres of land’—not more than two and one-half that can yield anything.
Now, Miss Margaret, if you and Elsie are ready we’ll interview the
agent.”
“The place will not pay for the outlay upon it, I am afraid,” said
Margaret despondently, as they went out of the gate.
“Not this season, certainly; but we can tell better when we have seen
the agent and found out what we can do with him.”
“Well, if you had not insisted on coming with us I should have turned
back in dismay. Somehow, when I can see a way through I am ready enough
to act; but I become frightened when the wall is so high I cannot see
over.”
“That is natural enough. Very few women have the courage to scale
precipices; but those who undertake the problem of self-support must
encounter all of a man’s difficulties. We are a chivalrous people here
in America, but that chivalry usually consists in giving a woman a fair
field and no quarter. If you seek to be one with us in opportunities,
you must be one with us in conditions.”
“If I might always be sure of such fair consideration I shall not
complain. A woman, however, cannot insure her own incompetency against
the greed of those who are chivalrous enough to take advantage of it.
She must always be more or less a victim.”
“So long as she remains incompetent. Experience, however, is the great
moulder in her case as well as that of her brother. She demonstrates her
capacity in proportion as she learns the same hard lessons. One of the
first of these lessons is not to ask any more of the world because of
her sex. When women cease clamoring for a man’s rights and a woman’s
pre-eminence at one and the same time, then will the dogged opposition
of those to whom she appeals be less noticeable.”
“Yet it is quite natural for the weak to ask a little extra
standing-room of their more fortunate brothers.”
“It is one thing to ask by virtue of a common sympathy, and another to
demand as a right. Mankind is a good deal like the pig that Paddy tried
to drive to market. ‘Shure if ye iver git ’im there, ye must head ’im
t’other way.’ It might be well to try the scheme on the agent of this
place.”
As Margaret glanced up and caught the humorous twinkle of the doctor’s
eyes, she said quietly: “I leave the settlement of the matter in your
hands, while I watch your effort in getting the pig to market. I shall
have need to learn all I can.”
Mr. Smith, of the real estate firm of Harris & Smith, was a portly,
self-satisfied man, who regarded the applicants for the little place at
Idlewild with a somewhat lofty stare over the rim of his gold
eye-glasses. It was quite evident from his manner that so small a
transaction as this was not considered worth any extra amount of
civility. But the pompous manner neither abashed nor diverted Dr. Ely
from his purpose. With a man’s decision and firmness he stated his
wishes, met objections, overcame difficulties, and obtained satisfactory
results, with such facility that Margaret felt herself well-nigh
overwhelmed in the dismal swamp of her own incapacity.
When the contract for the specific performance of each had been duly
drawn and signed, and Dr. Ely, Margaret, and Elsie had once more
regained the sidewalk, the doctor asked: “Well, Miss Margaret, did I get
my pig to market?”
“As I should never have dared to do.”
“I knew it,” and the doctor’s face grew suddenly grave. “It is a big
undertaking for a slender untried woman.”
“No,” said Margaret gently, “not when I have such an adviser.”
“Well, I intend to see you safely settled before I leave. There is a
great deal in getting started right.”
“I haven’t a demur to make—not even an expostulation as to the trouble
you are making yourself. The time to assert my independence will be when
I am monarch of all I survey.”
“You’ll have nothing to do now for three years to come but develop your
skill as a gardener. I fancy you will not find altogether easy work or
satisfactory returns.”
“I do not expect to. I have my apprenticeship yet to learn; but it seems
to promise more than any other available thing. Besides, I shall count
even mistakes as so much marketable goods in the future, if I am only
wise enough to profit by them.”
“He is wise indeed who always succeeds in doing it.”
The doctor at once set himself to supervising the laying in of the
drain, the painting and papering of the little house, and the trimming
and pruning of the tangle of vines and bushes in the garden. With the
aid of Gilbert, a bright lad of sixteen, the untidy place soon came to
assume an air of neatness and thrift which at once impressed Mr. Smith
with the idea that his tenants were people on whom it might be worth
while to expend a little civility.
It was the first of March, raw, cold, and inhospitable, when, with their
household belongings, the little party was set down at the door of the
new home. It was late in the afternoon and all were cold, tired, and
somewhat dispirited. Even the doctor’s equanimity was beginning to give
way before the settled obstinacy of a refractory stove-pipe, when a
brisk knock at the door of the sitting-room interrupted operations for a
moment. Margaret opened the door, to be greeted with the cheery voice of
a little black-eyed woman who stepped in without waiting for an
invitation. “Good-efening to you all,” she cried. “I am Lizzette Minaud.
I lif ze next door, and I haf prepared ze souper for you. Do not say
‘Non!’ I take it so amiss. You look so blue, so tired, so ready to cry,
pauvre child,” and she laid her hand warmly upon Margaret’s arm as she
spoke.
“You are very kind, but——” and Margaret glanced apprehensively at the
doctor.
“Oh, your—your—ze gentilhomme will go, I am sure. I haf known how ze
tired comes in mofing, and you sall work so mooch ze better when you haf
supped. I keep you only so long as you sall need ze rest and
refreshment.”
“A thousand thanks,” said the doctor heartily. “To be sure we will go.
Gilbert, you and I can have a good deal more patience with this unruly
stove-pipe after we have partaken of this lady’s supper, eh?”
“I can’t answer for you, sir, but I know I am hungry as a wolf.”
“So mooch ze better. Hunger ees ze sauce piquante to black bread.”
“Did you ever feed a boy?” interposed Elsie, glancing roguishly at
Gilbert. “If not, I warn you beforehand.”
“Non, non. I do not need ze warning. Lizzette Minaud’s table ees nefer
empty.”
“We are taxing your kindness, I fear,” said Margaret, as they prepared
for the visit.
“Non, eet ees ze plaisir. I—I like your face,” and the impulsive little
woman again grasped Margaret’s hand. “We must be friends, and friends
take no thought of ze trouble of serving each ozair.”
“You have given the true meaning of friendship,” replied Margaret
earnestly.
Lizzette Minaud’s house was a “box” indeed, not even as large as the one
which seemed so small to Margaret and Elsie; but it was a marvel of
neatness and taste. The oak floor of the salon, as in grandiose style
Lizzette designated her sitting-room, was like a mirror in its capacity
to reflect objects, and nearly as dangerous to walk upon. Here and there
bright-colored rugs, knit by the expert fingers of the mistress, lay
before couch, stove, and tables. The walls were a delicate cream tint,
with dado and frieze composed of crimson, brown, and golden maple leaves
delicately veined and shaded, each one the particular work of Lizzette.
In response to the delighted exclamation of her visitors, she explained
in perfect frankness that having little money and some skill, she had
determined to decorate her home—bought with the savings of years—in as
tasteful a design as she could achieve. She was rewarded with gratifying
success, for the grouping of the leaves was so artistic and the coloring
so perfect that nature seemed to be rivalled in the reproduction.
“You are an artist!” enthusiastically exclaimed Margaret.
“Non, non—only a Frenchwoman and a cook,” she answered with a
characteristic shrug. “I haf all my life been cook for ze great
families. In France first, in America many year since. I marry twelve
year since, and my husband he go away when my Antoine but two year old.
He ees here in zis room, and he will be so charmed to meet you.” As she
finished speaking, she turned toward a little alcove and presented to
view, what at first seemed a little child propped up on a couch. A
second look, and it was at once discovered that the child was a
hunch-backed lad of some ten years, with dwarfed and misshapen limbs
that refused to support him. With that appealing gaze so often noted in
the suffering and unfortunate, his dark eyes looked out from beneath a
brow broad, smooth, and white. Rings of jet-black curls, a straight,
delicate nose, and a mouth with lips thin and bloodless and downward
curved, completed the cast of his features. But it would be impossible
to reproduce in words the innate beauty of the smile that lit up his
face or the sublimity of spirit which looked out of the dark eyes.
Impulsive Elsie was on her knees beside him in a moment.
“You dear angel!” she exclaimed, picking up one of the thin, white hands
and kissing it. “I shall love you, I know.”
“Everybody does. Everybody is so good,” said the lad simply. “You are
good to come. I wanted to see you.”
“Eet ees true,” said Lizzette, “he would not rest until I had tried to
make ze welcome. He ees sometimes lonesome when I go about ze work, but
he ees always patient and always so kind. He ees un grand scholair, too.
See, he read zis,” and Lizzette held up in triumph a well-thumbed copy
of Shakespeare. “It is ze Anglais. He learn so fast, and he read Santine
et Racine très bien. I go to school to mon enfant soon,” and the little
mother patted the boy’s pale cheek in an effusion of pride and fondness.
The lad glanced up lovingly and said quickly:
“Non, non. Ma mère has quicker eyes and more wisdom than Antoine. Is the
supper ready? I am very hungry and want my wheel chair.”
The mother turned to get it, but Gilbert was before her, and gently
lifting the lad into it, he started it toward the little kitchen where
stood the supper-table.
“Ma mère is a famous cook,” said the lad with a bright smile. “She makes
appetite when it has forgotten to grow.”
“So he say,” said Lizzette with a shrug. “I only follow ze way of my
art.”
The doctor, who had long been silent, glanced up as they seated
themselves at the table, and asked: “Do you indeed think cookery an
art?”
“Oui, oui, sir. Ze grand art, sir. Ze grain of ze man ees as ze food he
eat; if it be coarse, he coarse too. Strong, may be, but not ze fine
gentilhomme who eferywhere see ze leetle beauties of life, and so rest
you wiz ze gracefulness of his way.”
“Perhaps you are right, madam,” said the doctor gravely, “although I
confess I had never looked at it in that light.”
“Eet ees like ze art of ozair sings. Ze leetle touch zat makes ze
picture, and as Antoine say, ze poetry of Shakespeare. Will it please
you to speak ze grace?”
Lizzette’s supper-table was a sight to tempt less weary and hungry
wayfarers than our dispirited quartette. It was simplicity itself, the
principal dish being a salad so crisp in its delicate ravigote of
finely-flavored herbs that Elsie declared it “a mortgage on the summer,
since it had stolen all its sweetest flavors.”
Lobster rissoles, a mushroom omelette, with cold bread, a soupçon of
preserved plums, black coffee, and tea served from the depths of a
Japanese cosey, completed the menu.
“The salad, Miss Elsie, ees made of ze weeds of ze wayside,” said
Lizzette. “Vous Anglais despise ze sings ze French live by. I make zis
salad of ze herb you call dandelion; I find it growing eferywhere. I mix
it wiz ze cressom—you call it water-cress—growing by ze brooks, toss it
up wiz ze ravigote of tarragon, chervil et bumet, and behold you have,
as you say, ‘ze summer in mortgage to ze winter.’”
“Count me a pupil to the economy of these versatile French,” exclaimed
Elsie rapturously. “I know now what I was born for. Madam Minaud shall
make an artist of me. I am positively inspired with ambition.”
“Or Madam Minaud’s supper,” observed Gilbert.
“We Americans long ago accepted the gospel of plain ‘boiled and fried,’
and your dispensation is only just beginning to be felt among those who
have lived abroad. It is certainly a much-needed lesson,” said the
doctor as he complacently accepted Lizzette’s offer of a second
omelette.
“Ze French nevaire trow away like ze Anglais. Zey save ze leetle sings,
and so zey grow reech where ze Anglais—il a de quoi vivre mais bien
maigrement.”
“Our lines have fallen in pleasant places,” cried Elsie
enthusiastically. “Antoine shall teach me French, and Madam Minaud shall
bestow upon me the art of converting wayside weeds into meat and drink
for the fleshly tabernacle.”
“You are making the bargain all for yourself, Elsie. What compensation
do you propose in return?” asked Margaret with an amused glance at the
girl’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
“Compensation?” exclaimed Antoine quickly. “Everything! herself,
love—ah, we shall be more than paid. I shall have the companion I have
longed for, and ma mère will see the rose come back to my cheeks and be
glad. Is it not so?” and the child’s hand sought Elsie’s as it rested on
the back of his chair.
“Yes, yes,” said Elsie eagerly. “You shall have all the comfort I can
give you, dear child.”
As she spoke she pushed back the jetty curls and left the warm touch of
her lips upon the lad’s white forehead. In an instant the thin arms were
around her neck, and he cried excitedly: “I love you so, and I shall
never be unhappy again.”
Grave Dr. Ely turned away from this scene with quivering lip, and his
voice was not altogether steady as he said: “Well, Gilbert, that
stove-pipe does not look half so formidable as it did before Madam
Minaud’s delicious supper.”
“Indeed, no, sir. I feel like a Hercules.”
“All right. Let us see how soon we can slay the giant disorder. In view
of the circumstances, madam will excuse a hasty departure.”
“Certainment. Work ees master in our leetle world.”
“Work and love, ma mère,” exclaimed Antoine.
“Antoine is right,” said Margaret. “These are the soul and body of
existence; to toil is the Divine command—to love the Divine purpose.”
“We must perforce obey the command,” exclaimed Elsie, patting Antoine’s
cheek. “The purpose we will leave to its own solution.”
“I’ve already solved it,” answered Antoine with a ripple of laughter
that brought a happy light to Lizzette’s eyes as she answered the
“good-nights” of the little party.