That night, when Ellen went down the street towards home with the
stream of factory operatives, she computed that she must have earned
about fifty cents, perhaps not quite that. She was horribly tired.
Although the work in itself was not laborious, she had been all day
under a severe nervous tension.
"You look tired to death, Ellen Brewster," Abby said, in a
half-resentful, half-compassionate tone. "You can never stand this
in the world."
"I am no more tired than any one would be the first day," Ellen
returned, stoutly, "and I'm going to stand it."
"You act to me as if you liked it," said Abby, with an angry switch
like a cat.
"I do," Ellen returned, almost as angrily. Then she turned to Abby.
"Look here, Abby Atkins, why can't you treat me half-way decent?"
said she. "You know I've got to do it, and I'm making the best of
it. If anybody else treated me the way you are doing, I don't know
what you would do."
"I would kill them," said Abby, fiercely; "but it's different with
me. I'm mad to have you go to work in the shop, and act as if you
liked it, because I think so much of you." Abby and Ellen were
walking side by side, and Maria followed with Sadie Peel.
"Well, I can't help it if you are mad at me," said Ellen. "I've had
everything to contend against, my father and mother, and my
grandmother won't even speak to me, and now if you--" Ellen's voice
broke.
Abby caught her arm in a hard grip.
"I ain't," said she; "you can depend on me. You know you can, in
spite of everything. You know why I talk so. If you've set your
heart on doing it, I won't say another word. I'll do all I can to
help you, and I'd like to hear anybody say a word against you for
going to work in the shop, that's all."
Ellen and Abby almost never kissed each other; Abby was not given to
endearments of that kind. Maria was more profuse with her caresses.
That night when they reached the corner of the cross street where
the Atkinses lived, Maria went close to Ellen and put up her face.
"Good-night," said she. Then she withdrew her lips suddenly, before
Ellen could touch them.
"I forgot," said she. "You mustn't kiss me. I forgot my cough. They
say it's catching."
Ellen caught hold of her little, thin shoulders, held her firmly,
and kissed her full on her lips.
"Good-night," said she.
"Good-night, Ellen," called Abby, and her sharp voice rang as sweet
as a bird's.
When Ellen came in sight of her grandmother's house, she saw a
window-shade go down with a jerk, and knew that Mrs. Zelotes had
been watching for her, and was determined not to let her know it.
Mrs. Pointdexter came out of her grand house as Ellen passed, and
took up her station on the corner to wait for a car. She bowed to
Ellen with an evasive, little, sidewise bow. Her natural amiability
prompted her to shake hands with her, call her "my dear," and
inquire how she had got on during her first day in the factory, but
she was afraid of her friend, whose eye she felt upon her around the
edge of the drawn curtain.
It was unusually dark that night for early fall, and the rain came
down in a steady drizzle, as it had come all day, and the wind blew
from the ocean on the east. The lamp was lighted in the kitchen when
Ellen turned into her own door-yard, and home had never looked so
pleasant and desirable to her. For the first time in her life she
knew what it was to come home for rest and shelter after a day of
toil, and she seemed to sense the full meaning of home as a refuge
for weary labor.
When she opened the door, she smelled at once a particular kind of
stew of which she was very fond, and knew that her mother had been
making it for her supper. There was a rush of warm air from the
kitchen which felt grateful after the damp chill outside.
Ellen went into the kitchen, and her mother stood there over the
stove, stirring the stew. She looked up at the girl with an
expression of intense motherliness which was beyond a smile.
"Well, so you've got home?" she said.
"Yes."
"How did you get along?"
"All right. It isn't hard work. Not a bit hard, mother."
"Ain't you tired?"
"Oh, a little. But no more than anybody would be at first. I don't
look very tired, do I?" Ellen laughed.
"No, you don't," said Fanny, looking at her cheeks, reddened with
the damp wind. The mother's look was admiring and piteous and brave.
No one knew how the woman had suffered that day, but she had kept
her head and heart above it. The stew for Ellen's supper was a proof
of that.
"Where's father?" asked Ellen, taking off her hat and cape, and
going to the sink to wash her face and hands. Fanny saw her do that
with a qualm. Ellen had always used a dainty little set in her own
room. Now she was doing exactly as her father had always done on his
return from the shop--washing off the stains of leather at the
kitchen sink. She felt instinctively that Ellen did it purposely,
that she was striving to bring herself into accord with her new life
in all the details.
Little Amabel came running out of the dining-room, and threw her
arms around Ellen's knees as she was bending over the sink. "I've
set the table!" she cried.
"Look out or you'll get all splashed," laughed Ellen.
"And I dusted," said Amabel.
"She's been as good as a kitten all day, and a sight of help," said
Fanny.
"She's a good girl," said Ellen. "Cousin Ellen will kiss her as soon
as she gets her face washed."
She caught hold of a fold of the roller towel, and turned her
beautiful, dripping face to her mother as she did so.
"That stew does smell so good," said she. "Where did you say father
was?"
"I thought we'd just have some bread and milk for dinner, and
somethin' hearty to-night, when you came home," said Fanny. "I
thought maybe a stew would taste good."
"I guess it will," said Ellen, stooping down to kiss Amabel. "Where
did you say father was?"
"Uncle Andrew has been lyin' down all day most," whispered Amabel.
"Isn't he well?" Ellen asked her mother, in quick alarm.
"Oh yes, he's well enough." Fanny moved close to the girl with a
motion of secrecy. "If I were you I wouldn't say one word about the
shop, nor what you did, before father to-night; let him kind of get
used to it. Amabel mustn't talk about it, either."
"I won't," said Amabel, with a wise air.
"You know father had set his heart on somethin' pretty different for
you," said Fanny.
Fanny hushed her voice as Andrew came out of the dining-room,
staggering a little as if the light blinded him. His nervous
strength of the morning had passed and left him exhausted. He moved
and stood with a downward lope of every muscle, expressing
unutterable patience, which had passed beyond rebellion and
questioning.
He stood before Ellen like some old, spent horse. He was expecting
to hear something about the shop--expecting, as it were, a touch on
a sore, and he waited for it meekly.
Ellen turned her lovely, glowing face towards him.
"Father," she said, as if nothing out of the common had happened,
"are you going down-town to-night?"
Andrew brightened a little. "I can if you want anything, Ellen," he
said.
"Well, I don't want you to go on purpose, but I do want a book from
the library."
"I'd just as soon go as not, Ellen," said Andrew.
"It'll do him good," whispered Fanny, as she passed Ellen, carrying
the dish of stew to the dining-room.
"Well, then, I'll give you my card after supper," said Ellen.
"Supper is ready now, isn't it, mother? I'm as hungry as a bear."
Andrew, when he was seated at the table and was ladling out the
stew, had still that air of hopeless and defenceless apology towards
life, but he held his head higher, and his frown of patient gloom
had relaxed.
Then Ellen said something else. "Maybe I can write a book some
time," said she.
A sudden flash illumined Andrew's face. It was like the visible
awakening of hope and ambition.
"I don't see why you can't," he said, eagerly.
"Maybe she can," said Fanny. "Give her some more of the potatoes,
Andrew."
"I'll have plenty of time after--evenings," said Ellen.
"I guess lots of folks write books that sell, and sell well, that
don't have any more talent than you," said Andrew. "Only think how
they praised your valedictory."
"Well, it can't do any harm to try," said Ellen, "and you could copy
it for me, couldn't you, father? Your writing is so fine, it would
be as good as a typewriter."
"Of course I can," said Andrew.
When Andrew went down to the library, passing along the drenched
streets, seeing the lamps through shifting veils of heavy mist, he
was as full of enthusiasm over Ellen's book as he had been over the
gold-mine. The heart of a man is always ready to admit a ray of
sunshine, and it takes only a small one to dispel the shadows when
love dwells therein.