did wonder how them Harts do keep up. Why, them girls dress just as fine
as any lady on the Avenue and that there Lillian wears real diamond
ear-rings. 'Pears mighty, mighty funny to me, and Lord the airs they do
put on! Holdin' up their heads like nobody's good enough to speak to. I
don't like to talk about people, you know, yourself, Mrs. Luke I never
speak about anybody, but mark my word, girls that cut up capers like
them Hartses' girls never come to any good."
Mrs. Luke heaved a deep sigh of appreciation at the wisdom of her
neighbor, but before she could reply a re-inforcement in the person of
little Mrs. Peters, apron over her head, hands shrivelled and soap-sudsy
from washing, appeared.
"Did you ever see the like?" she asked in her usual, rapid breathless
way. "Why, my Louis says they're putting canvass cloths on the floor,
and taking down the bed in the back-room; and putting greenery and such
like trash about. Some style about them, eh?"
Mrs. Tuckley tossed her head and sniffed contemptuously, Mrs. Luke began
to rehearse a time worn tale, how once a carriage had driven up to the
Hart house at nine o'clock at night, and a distinguished looking man
alighted, went in, stayed about ten minutes and finally drove off with a
great clatter. Heads that had shaken ominously over this story before
began to shake again, and tongues that had wagged themselves tired with
conjectures started now with some brand new ideas and theories. The
children of the square, tired of fishing for minnows in the ditches, and
making mud-pies in the street, clustered about their mother's skirts
receiving occasional slaps, when their attempts at taking part in the
conversation became too pronounced.
Meanwhile, in the Hart household, all was bustle and preparation. To and
fro the members of the house flitted, arranging chairs, putting little
touches here and there, washing saucers and glasses, chasing the Hart
Juniors about, losing things and calling frantically for each other's
assistance to find them. Mama Hart, big, plump and perspiring, puffed
here and there like a large, rosy engine, giving impossible orders, and
receiving sharp answers to foolish questions. Lillian, the æsthetic,
practiced her most graceful poses before the large mirror in the
parlor; Martha rushed about, changing the order of the furniture, and
Papa Hart, just come in from work, paced the rooms disconsolately,
asking for dinner.
"Dinner!" screamed Mama Hart, "Dinner, who's got time to fool with
dinner this evening? Look in the sideboard and you'll see some bread and
ham; eat that and shut up."
Eight o'clock finally arrived, and with it, the music and some
straggling guests. When the first faint chee-chee of the violin floated
out into the murky atmosphere, the smaller portion of the neighborhood
went straightway into ecstasies. Boys and girls in all stages of
deshabille clustered about the door-steps and gave vent to audible
exclamations of approval or disapprobation concerning the state of
affairs behind the green shutters. It was a warm night and the big round
moon sailed serenely in a cloudless, blue sky. Mrs. Tuckley had put on a
clean calico wrapper, and planted herself with the indomitable Stella
on her steps, "to watch the purceedings."
The party was a grand success. Even the intensely critical small fry
dancing on the pavement without to the scraping and fiddling of the
string band, had to admit that. So far as they were concerned it was all
right, but what shall we say of the guests within? They who glided
easily over the canvassed floors, bowed, and scraped and simpered, "just
like the big folks on the Avenue," who ate the ice-cream and cake, and
drank the sweet, weak Catawba wine amid boisterous healths to Mr. and
Mrs. Hart and the Misses Hart; who smirked and perspired and cracked
ancient jokes and heart-rending puns during the intervals of the
dances, who shall say that they did not enjoy themselves as thoroughly
and as fully as those who frequented the wealthier entertainments
up-town.
Lillian and Martha in gossamer gowns of pink and blue flitted to and fro
attending to the wants of their guests. Mrs. Hart, gorgeous in a black
satin affair, all folds and lace and drapery, made desperate efforts to
appear cool and collected--and failed miserably. Papa Hart spent one
half his time standing in front of the mantle, spreading out his
coat-tails, and benignly smiling upon the young people, while the other
half was devoted to initiating the male portion of the guests into the
mysteries of "snake killing."
Everybody had said that he or she had had a splendid time, and finally,
when the last kisses had been kissed, the last good-byes been said, the
whole Hart family sat down in the now deserted and disordered rooms, and
sighed with relief that the great event was over at last.
"Nice crowd, eh?" remarked Papa Hart. He was brimful of joy and
second-class whiskey, so no one paid any attention to him.
"But did you see how shamefully Maude flirted with Willie Howard?" said
Lillian. Martha tossed her head in disdain; Mr. Howard she had always
considered her especial property, so Lillian's observation had a rather
disturbing effect.
"I'm so warm and tired," cried Mama Hart, plaintively, "children how are
we going to sleep to-night?"
Thereupon the whole family arose to devise ways and means for wooing the
drowsy god. As for the Hart Juniors they had long since solved the
problem by falling asleep with sticky hands and faces upon a pile of
bed-clothing behind the kitchen door.
* * * * *
It was late in the next day before the house had begun to resume
anything like its former appearance. The little Harts were kept busy all
morning returning chairs and dishes, and distributing the remnants of
the feast to the vicinity. The ice-cream had melted into a warm custard,
and the cakes had a rather worse for wear appearance, but they were
appreciated as much as though just from the confectioner. No one was
forgotten, even Mrs. Tuckley, busily stitching on a muslin garment on
the steps, and unctuously rolling the latest morsel of scandal under her
tongue, was obliged to confess that "them Hartses wasn't such bad people
after all, just a bit queer at times."
About two o'clock, just as Lillian was re-draping the tidies on the
stiff, common plush chairs in the parlor, some one pulled the bell
violently. The visitor, a rather good-looking young fellow, with a
worried expression smiled somewhat sarcastically as he heard a sound of
scuffling and running within the house.
* * * * *
Presently Mrs. Hart opened the door wiping her hand, red and smoking
with dish-water, upon her apron. The worried expression deepened on the
visitor's face as he addressed the woman with visible embarrassment.
"Er--I--I--suppose you are Mrs. Hart?" he inquired awkwardly.
"That's my name, sir," replied she with pretentious dignity.
"Er--your-er--may I come in madam?
"Certainly," and she opened the door to admit him, and offered a chair.
"Your husband is an employee in the Fisher Oil Mills, is he not?"
Mrs. Hart straightened herself with pride as she replied in the
affirmative. She had always been proud of Mr. Hart's position as foreman
of the big oil mills, and was never so happy as when he was expounding
to some one in her presence, the difficulties and intricacies of
machine-work.
"Well you see my dear Mrs. Hart," continued the visitor. "Now pray don't
get excited--there has been an accident, and your husband--has--er--been
hurt, you know."
But for a painful whitening in her usually rosy face, and a quick
compression of her lips, the wife made no sign.
"What was the accident?" she queried, leaning her elbows on her knees.
"Well, you see, I don't understand machinery and the like, but there was
something about a wheel out of gear, and a band bursted, or something,
anyhow a big wheel flew to pieces, and as he was standing near, he was
hit."
"Where?"
"Well--well, I may as well tell you the truth, madam; a large piece of
the wheel struck him on the head--and--he was killed instantly."
She did not faint, nor make any outcry, nor tear her hair as he had
partly expected, but sat still staring at him, with a sort of helpless,
dumb horror shining out her eyes, then with a low moan, bowed her head
on her knees and shuddered, just as Lillian came in, curious to know
what the handsome stranger had to say to her mother.
* * * * *
The poor mutilated body came home at last, and was laid in a stiff,
silver-decorated, black coffin in the middle of the sitting-room, which
had been made to look as uncomfortable and unnatural as mirrors and
furniture shrouded in sheets and mantel and tables divested of ornaments
would permit.
There was a wake that night to the unconfined joy of the neighbors, who
would rather a burial than a wedding. The friends of the family sat
about the coffin, and through the house with long pulled faces. Mrs.
Tuckley officiated in the kitchen, making coffee and dispensing cheese
and crackers to those who were hungry. As the night wore on, and the
first restraint disappeared, jokes were cracked, and quiet laughter
indulged in, while the young folks congregated in the kitchen, were
hilariously happy, until some member of the family would appear, when
every face would sober down.
The older persons contented themselves with recounting the virtues of
the deceased, and telling anecdotes wherein he figured largely. It was
astonishing how many intimate friends of his had suddenly come to
light. Every other man present had either attended school with him, or
was a close companion until he died. Proverbs and tales and witty
sayings were palmed off as having emanated from his lips. In fact, the
dead man would have been surprised himself, had he suddenly come to life
and discovered what an important, what a modern solomon he had become.
The long night dragged on, and the people departed in groups of twos and
threes, until when the gray dawn crept slowly over the blackness of
night shrouding the electric lights in mists of cloudy blue, and sending
cold chills of dampness through the house, but a few of the great crowd
remained.
The day seemed so gray in contrast to the softening influence of the
night, the grief which could be hidden then, must now come forth and
parade itself before all eyes. There was the funeral to prepare for; the
dismal black dresses and bonnets with their long crape veils to don;
there were the condolences of sorrowing friends to receive; the floral
offerings to be looked at. The little Harts strutted about resplendent
in stiff black cravats, and high crape bands about their hats. They were
divided between two conflicting emotions--joy at belonging to a family
so noteworthy and important, and sorrow at the death. As the time for
the funeral approached, and Lillian began to indulge in a series of
fainting fits, the latter feeling predominated.
* * * * *
"Well it was all over at last, the family had returned, and as on two
nights previous, sat once more in the deserted and dismantled parlor.
Mrs. Tuckley and Mrs. Luke, having rendered all assistance possible, had
repaired to their respective front steps to keep count of the number of
visitors who returned to condole with the family.
"A real nice funeral," remarked the dress-maker at last, "a nice
funeral. Everybody took it so hard, and Lillian fainted real beautiful.
She's a good girl that Lillian. Poor things, I wonder what they'll do
now."
Stella, the irrepressible, was busily engaged balancing herself on one
toe, _a la_ ballet.
"Mebbe she's goin' to get married," she volunteered eagerly, "'cos I saw
that yeller-haired young man what comes there all the time, wif his arms
around her waist, and a tellin' her not to grieve as he'd take care of
her. I was a peepin' in the dinin'-room."
"How dare you peep at other folks, and pry into people's affairs? I
can't imagine where you get your meddlesome ways from. There aint none
in _my family_. Next time I catch you at it, I'll spank you good." Then,
after a pause, "Well what else did he say?"
FAREWELL.
Farewell, sweetheart, and again farewell;
To day we part, and who can tell
If we shall e'er again
Meet, and with clasped hands
Renew our vows of love, and forget
The sad, dull pain.
Dear heart, 'tis bitter thus to lose thee
And think mayhap, you will forget me;
And yet, I thrill
As I remember long and happy days
Fraught with sweet love and pleasant memories
That linger still
You go to loved ones who will smile
And clasp you in their arms, and all the while
I stay and moan
For you, my love, my heart and strive
To gather up life's dull, gray thread
And walk alone.
Aye, with you love the red and gold
Goes from my life, and leaves it cold
And dull and bare,
Why should I strive to live and learn
And smile and jest, and daily try
You from my heart to tare?
Nay, sweetheart, rather would I lie
Me down, and sleep for aye; or fly
To regions far
Where cruel Fate is not and lovers live
Nor feel the grim, cold hand of Destiny
Their way to bar.
I murmur not, dear love, I only say
Again farewell. God bless the day
On which we met,
And bless you too, my love, and be with you
In sorrow or in happiness, nor let you
E'er me forget.
LITTLE MISS SOPHIE.
When Miss Sophie knew consciousness again, the long, faint, swelling
notes of the organ were dying away in distant echoes through the great
arches of the silent church, and she was alone, crouching in a little,
forsaken, black heap at the altar of the Virgin. The twinkling tapers
seemed to smile pityingly upon her, the beneficent smile of the
white-robed Madonna seemed to whisper comfort. A long gust of chill air
swept up the aisles, and Miss Sophie shivered, not from cold, but from
nervousness.
But darkness was falling, and soon the lights would be lowered, and the
great, massive doors would be closed, so gathering her thin little cape
about her frail shoulders, Miss Sophie hurried out, and along the
brilliant noisy streets home.
It was a wretched, lonely little room, where the cracks let the
boisterous wind whistle through, and the smoky, grimy walls looked
cheerless and unhomelike. A miserable little room in a miserable little
cottage in one of the squalid streets of the Third District that nature
and the city fathers seemed to have forgotten.
As bare and comfortless the room, so was Miss Sophie's lonely life. She
rented these four walls from an unkempt little Creole woman, whose
progeny seemed like the promised offspring of Abraham,--multitudinous.
The flickering life in the pale little body she scarcely kept there by
the unceasing toil of a pair of bony hands, stitching, stitching,
ceaselessly, wearingly on the bands and pockets of pants. It was her
bread, this monotonous, unending work, and though while days and nights
constant labor brought but the most meagre recompense, it was her only
hope of life.
She sat before the little charcoal brazier and warmed her transparent,
needle-pricked fingers, thinking meanwhile of the strange events of the
day. She had been up town to carry the great, black bundle of pants and
vests to the factory and receive her small pittance, and on the way home
stopped in at the Jesuit Church to say her little prayer at the altar of
the calm, white Virgin. There had been a wondrous burst of music from
the great organ as she knelt there, an over-powering perfume of many
flowers, the glittering dazzle of many lights, and the dainty frou-frou
of silken skirts of wedding guests filing and tripping. So Miss Sophie
stayed to the wedding, for what feminine heart, be it ever so old and
seared, does not delight in one? And why shouldn't a poor little Creole
old maid be interested too?
When the wedding party had filed in solemnly, to the rolling, swelling,
pealing tones of the organ. Important-looking groomsmen, dainty, fluffy,
white-robed maids, stately, satin-robed, illusion-veiled bride, and
happy groom. She leaned forward to catch a better glimpse of their
faces. Ah!--
Those near the Virgin's altar who heard a faint sigh and rustle on the
steps glanced curiously as they saw a slight, black-robed figure clutch
the railing and lean her head against it. Miss Sophie had fainted.
"I must have been hungry," she mused over the charcoal fire in her
little room, "I must have been hungry," and she smiled a wan smile, and
busied herself getting her evening meal of coffee and bread and ham.
If one were given to pity, the first thought that would rush to one's
lips at sight of Miss Sophie would have been: Poor little Miss Sophie!
She had come among the bareness and sordidness of this neighborhood five
years ago, robed in crepe, and crying with great sobs that seemed to
fairly shake the vitality out of her. Perfectly silent, too, about her
former life, but for all that, Michel, the quarter grocer at the corner,
and Mme. Laurent, who kept the rabbe shop opposite, had fixed it all up
between them, of her sad history and past glories. Not that they knew,
but then Michel must invent something when the neighbors came to him,
their fountain head of wisdom.
One morning little Miss Sophie opened wide her dingy windows to catch
the early freshness of the autumn wind as it whistled through the
yellow-leafed trees. It was one of those calm, blue-misted, balmy,
November days that New Orleans can have when all the rest of the country
is fur-wrapped. Miss Sophie pulled her machine to the window, where the
sweet, damp wind could whisk among her black locks.
Whirr, whirr, went the machine, ticking fast and lightly over the belts
of the rough jean pants. Whirr, whirr, yes, and Miss Sophie was actually
humming a tune! She felt strangely light to-day.
"_Ma foi_," muttered Michel, strolling across the street to where Mme.
Laurent sat sewing behind the counter on blue and brown-checked aprons,
"but the little ma'amselle sings. Perhaps she recollects."
"Perhaps," muttered the rabbe woman.
But little Miss Sophie felt restless. A strange impulse seemed drawing
her up town, and the machine seemed to run slow, slow, before it would
stitch the endless number of jean belts. Her fingers trembled with
nervous haste as she pinned up the unwieldy black bundle of the finished
work, and her feet fairly tripped over each other in their eagerness to
get to Claiborne Street, where she could board the up-town car. There
was a feverish desire to go somewhere, a sense of elation,--foolish
happiness that brought a faint echo of color into her pinched cheeks.
She wondered why.
No one noticed her in the car. Passengers on the Claiborne line are too
much accustomed to frail, little black-robed women with big, black
bundles; it is one of the city's most pitiful sights. She leaned her
head out of the window to catch a glimpse of the oleanders on Bayou
Road, when her attention was caught by a conversation in the car.
"Yes, it's too bad for Neale, and lately married too," said the elder
man, "I can't see what he is to do."
Neale! she pricked up her ears. That was the name of the groom in the
Jesuit church.
"How did it happen?" languidly inquired the younger. He was a stranger,
evidently; a stranger with a high regard for the faultlessness of male
attire, too.
"Well, the firm failed first; he didn't mind that much, he was so sure
of his uncle's inheritance repairing his lost fortunes, but suddenly
this difficulty of identification springs up, and he is literally on the
verge of ruin."
"Won't some of you fellows who've known him all your lives do to
identify him?"
"Gracious man, we've tried, but the absurd old will expressly stipulates
that he shall be known only by a certain quaint Roman ring, and unless
he has it--no identification, no fortune. He has given the ring away and
that settles it."
"Well, you're all chumps. Why doesn't he get the ring from the owner?"
"Easily said--but--It seems that Neale had some little Creole
love-affair some years ago and gave this ring to his dusky-eyed fiancee.
But you know how Neale is with his love-affairs, went off and forgot the
girl in a month. It seems, however, she took it to heart,--so much so
until he's ashamed to try to find her or the ring."
Miss Sophie heard no more as she gazed out into the dusty grass. There
were tears in her eyes, hot blinding ones that wouldn't drop for pride,
but stayed and scalded. She knew the story with all its embellishments
of heartaches. The ring, too; she remembered the day she had kissed and
wept and fondled it, until it seemed her heart must burst under its load
of grief before she took it to the pawn broker's that another might be
eased before the end came,--that other, her father. The "little Creole
love affair" of Neale's had not always been poor and old and
jaded-looking; but reverses must come, even Neale knew that--so the ring
was at the _Mont de Piete_.
Still he must have it, it was his; it would save him from disgrace and
suffering, and from trailing the proud head of the white-gowned bride
into sorrow. He must have it,--but how?
There it was still at the pawn-broker's, no one would have such a jewel,
and the ticket was home in the bureau drawer. Well, he must have it; she
might starve in the attempt. Such a thing as going to him and telling
him that he might redeem it was an impossibility. That good,
straight-backed, stiff-necked Creole blood would have risen in all its
strength and choked her. No; as a present had the quaint Roman circlet
been placed upon her finger,--as a present should it be returned.
The bumping car rode heavily, and the hot thoughts beat heavily in her
poor little head. He must have the ring--but how--the ring--the Roman
ring--the white-robed bride starving--she was going mad--ah yes,--the
church.
Right in the busiest, most bustling part of the town, its fresco and
bronze and iron quaintly suggestive of mediæval times. Within, all cool
and dim and restful, with the faintest whiff of lingering incense rising
and pervading the gray arches. Yes, the Virgin would know and have pity;
the sweet, white-robed Virgin at the pretty flower-decked altar, or the
one away up in the niche, far above the golden dome where the Host was.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. Poor little Miss Sophie.
Titiche, the busy-body of the house, noticed that Miss Sophie's bundle
was larger than usual that afternoon. "Ah, poor woman!" sighed Titiche's
mother, "she would be rich for Christmas."
The bundle grew larger each day, and Miss Sophie grew smaller. The
damp, cold rain and mist closed the white-curtained window, but always
there behind the sewing machine drooped and bobbed the little
black-robed figure. Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and the coarse jean
pants piled in great heaps at her side. The Claiborne street car saw her
oftener than before, and the sweet, white Virgin in the flowered niche
above the gold-domed altar smiled at the little penitent almost every
day.
"_Ma foi_," said the slatternly landlady to Madame Laurent and Michel one
day, "I no see how she live! Eat? Nothing, nothing, almost, and las'
night when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I hav' to mek him build fire.
She mos' freeze."
Whereupon the rumor spread that Miss Sophie was starving herself to
death to get some luckless relative out of jail for Christmas,--a rumor
which enveloped her scraggy little figure with a kind of halo to the
neighbors when she appeared on the streets.
November had verged into December and the little pile of coins were yet
far from the sum needed. Dear God! how the money did have to go. The
rent, and the groceries and the coal,--though, to be sure, she used a
precious bit of that. All the work and saving and skimping,--maybe, yes,
maybe by Christmas. What a gift!
Christmas Eve night on Royal Street is no place for a weakling, for the
shouts and carousals of the roisterers will strike fear into the brave.
Yet amid the cries and yells, the deafening blow of horns and tin
whistles and the really dangerous fusillade of fireworks, the little
figure hurried along, one hand clutching tight the battered hat that the
rude merry-makers would have torn off, the other grasping under the
thin, black cape a worn little pocketbook.
Into the _Mont de Piete_, breathless, eager. The ticket? Here, worn,
crumpled. The ring? It was not gone? No, thank Heaven! It was really a
joy well worth her toil, she thought, to have it again.