MORNING TALKS AND INTERRUPTIONS.
“Cousin Margaret, are there many Avenue A’s in this city?” asked
Jessica one morning, shortly after that first glimpse of real poverty
which her visit to Sophy Nestor had given her.
Madam laid down the Review she was reading--a Review of Paris
fashions--and brought her attention to bear upon the girl sitting
thoughtfully upon that old, fascinating carpet, whose half-invisible
figures she was so fond of studying.
“I hope not! I should say that one was amply sufficient for even so
large a city as New York. But, Jessica, do get up and take a chair. You
are rumpling your frock and I shall want you to go down town with me
very soon. I have already ordered the carriage. You will need many more
things and so shall I. Look, child. You have fairly good taste. What
do you think of this design for a dinner gown? It strikes me as very
graceful, with the long lines and its dignified simplicity. I’ve a mind
to order Melanie to make me one just like it.”
Jessica obediently came and stood beside the lady, and tried to fix
her gaze upon the colored page of models. But they seemed to dance
before her in a maze of ragged garments fluttering from a “pulley”
clothes-line, and the simpering faces of the pictured wearers took
on the haggard features of the wretched tenement women she could not
forget.
“They all look so silly, those paper women, Cousin Margaret.”
“Of course, odd child! The editor could scarcely afford to pay real
artists to put on the heads to his fashion-models after the great
expense of them, alone. This is the most exclusive of our magazines,
devoted to the art of dress, and the styles in this are copyrighted.
That’s such a fine thing about them, they can never become common.
But--why do you look at me so strangely?”
“Did I, Cousin Margaret? Beg pardon, if I was rude. I didn’t mean it. I
was just--just thinking about that buying me more clothes. Why must I
have them? Do you think my mother would like it?”
“Quite likely not. She seems to have taken up very peculiar ideas, out
there in that wilderness. But you happen to be living in civilization
now and must be clothed in accordance with its demands.”
Jessica laughed. It always amused her to hear dear Sobrante spoken of
as “that wilderness,” when her own memory of it was so delightful. And
it was a little strange, had either of these two thought about it,
that so old a person as Madam should fall into the habit of consulting
so young an one as “Little Captain.” But the lady had lived so long
alone with servants only that it was a relief to discuss affairs with a
real “gentlewoman” and a Waldron, even a girlish one. She had already
learned to look into Jessica’s eyes, as into a mirror, for approval
or disapproval of her oft-changed attire; and, when it was what her
own conscience warned her was “too youthful,” to meet a disappointed
expression in the big, blue eyes. They were so clear and far-seeing,
with such instant perception of the false or the true, that Cousin
Margaret trusted them in spite of herself.
“Well, girlie, what do you think? Would I look well in such a gown?”
again rather impatiently demanded the Madam.
“I think you would look beautiful, just beautiful. You always do, dear
Cousin. Next to my mother I think you must be the most handsome lady
lives. I’ve seen nobody here in this New York, in the carriages we meet
in the Park, nor in the stores down town--or up town, either--that
can compare with you. I suppose that’s because you are a Waldron. And
so--Do you mind if I say it right out?”
“Whether I do or not you are pretty sure to ‘say out’ whatever is in
your mind. So do it now,” smilingly answered the other, flattered more
than she acknowledged by this sincere admiration of Jessica.
“Well, then, I wish you wouldn’t spend any more money on pretty
clothes. I wish you’d give it to the Avenue A people, and all the
others like them in this great city. O Cousin Margaret! It just makes
my heart ache so I can’t sleep, some nights, thinking they have no
soft beds like ours to lie on and so few poor rags to wear while you,
while I, have more things than we need. My mother thought three frocks
were all I wanted. Two to change and a fresh one for Sunday. Only, of
course, at Christmas time it is well to have a prettier one because
that is the best day in all the year and one should do it reverence.
It would save you so much worry, too, and you wouldn’t get half so
tired.”
“Humph! Who ever said that I was tired? Not I, indeed, and who spoke of
worry? Oh! that unfortunate accident of Buster’s! I’d rather have given
a thousand dollars than have it happen. Your head has been full of
maggots--I mean of unwholesomely grave ideas--ever since. I think that
Ephraim fosters them, too, and much as I should dislike to separate you
two I fear I shall have to do it, unless you both promise to put this
Avenue A business out of mind and take life as you should, in your own
station. Tired? I’m certain you never heard me complain, little Jessica
Trent, nor anybody else.”
“No, Cousin Margaret, and that’s what makes Barnes and me feel so bad.”
“Heigho! So Barnes is in it, too, is she?”
“Yes, of course. It’s she helps undress you and puts away your clothes
and she says the wardrobes and closets are just packed with them. She
says it’s a great worriment to her to keep the moths and bugs out of
’em. She says it would be worse, only you like silk things best and
moths don’t much trouble the silks. She----”
“My dear, let me explain what mostly ‘worries’ our good soul Barnes.
As lady’s-maid her perquisites are my cast-off clothing. This she
sells for a considerable sum and puts the proceeds in the bank. So I
shouldn’t think she would object to my buying as many new things as
possible. Humph! If Barnes has got to betraying bedroom secrets Barnes
must be dealt with.”
Madam Dalrymple leaned back in her chair, tossed the Review aside,
and tapped with her tiny cane upon the floor. This cane she called her
“affectation,” laughingly declaring that she carried it because it
happened to be a fad of fashionable folk just then, and only the old
maid servant knew how sorely it was really needed for support. At that
very moment, indeed, it was almost impossible for the proud woman to
prevent the contortion of her handsome features by a spasm of pain.
Rheumatism held her in thrall, but still she laughed and defied it;
believing that no Waldron should be overcome by anything so plebeian as
physical distress. She would carry herself proudly to the end and when
that came, let it come quickly!
Barnes appeared and was bidden to bring hat and mantle; and in a
few moments more the Dalrymple carriage was whirling storeward, its
mistress and her young western cousin making such a lovely picture
against its dark cushions that more than one person looked and envied.
Not the least of these a small flower-girl, clad in a rather soiled
white-and-scarlet frock, who hid her misshapen shoulders against a
building and wistfully held up her violets for sale.
“Five cents a bunch, lady! Only--five--centses--a bunch!”
Something familiar in the shrill cry caught Jessica’s ear, but the
carriage had turned into Broadway and it was too late to see if that
were Sophy Nestor who had called her wares.
Greatly to Jessica’s grief the two girls had not met since that day of
their brief acquaintance. Sophy had duly taken her stand in the Square
and there had watched and waited for a glimpse of the fair-haired
“angel” who had brightened a few hours of her life. But it was Madam
Dalrymple, not Jessica, who discovered the girl posted as near her
own iron gates as could be without entering them and who had promptly
dispatched Tipkins to interview the Square patrolman on the subject.
Result: Sophy was banished as a “nuisance”; and, vowing vengeance
against everybody who had interfered with her, established herself on
the very next corner beyond this policeman’s beat. Thence she gibed
at and mocked him, with all her gutter eloquence, matching her puny
strength against his authority and affecting him not at all, save that
he became much interested in the defiant little creature and pitying
her for her physical affliction, marveled at the peculiarities of the
rich who could call such as she a “nuisance.”
There, alas! She had waited and watched in vain for her new friend. It
so chanced that for the first time in her life the little Californian
fell ill of a slight cold, which Madam instantly magnified into
something dreadful; suggesting diphtheria, and other dire diseases, to
the portly physician who came in his carriage and looked the small maid
over.
“Nothing in the world but a mere cold, dear Madam. There’s not the
least cause for anxiety. Keep her indoors for a time and she’ll be all
right.” Then he departed, pocketing his goodly fee, and leaving his old
patron of exactly the same opinion she had held all along.
So it was small wonder that on this morning of the shopping trip
Jessica should look almost as wan as would have been suitable had she
been really ill. The confinement in that poorly ventilated mansion had
told upon her who had lived always out of doors, and it had given her
time to think much about that other half of the world which dwelt in
Avenue A.
Seeing her at last, stirred Sophy Nestor’s heart to its depths. Her
“angel” didn’t look happy. Sophy wasn’t happy, herself. Granny Briggs
was even more gloomy than of old. The visit of Ephraim had delighted
her for the time; but when it was repeated and he had urged her removal
to better quarters she had stubbornly refused. It had suddenly come to
her New England pride that she was becoming an object of charity and
she would not be pauperized, even by an old town-mate whose father had
sold her father shoe-leather.
She went even further. She sent Sophy to the Square with the
twenty-five dollars in crisp new bills, carefully folded within that
cheap scrap of letter paper, whereon she had inscribed her “duty” and
her thanks, along with the statement that as no injury had been done no
payment was necessary. The frock bestowed upon her grandchild she could
not return. That had already been assumed and worn to bed--lest by some
mischance it should disappear--a vision too beautiful to be real.
In vain Ephraim argued, scolded, entreated. He was obliged to carry the
money back, for Madam Dalrymple refused to touch it, regarding it as
already infected by the “poor smell” or some foul disease. And when his
entreaties were useless, he quietly disposed the sum in a safe place,
awaiting some future day when he could spend it for his old friend, he
angrily declared:
“The trouble with you, Sophia Badger Briggs, is that you over-ate
yourself that night. You’ve been indulgin’ your stomach with poor
rations and slop victuals and that one good square meal just gave
you the dyspepsy. Nothing else on earth ails you. A man with the
dyspepsy--or a woman either--ain’t in their right mind. They haven’t
got a correct ‘sight’ and can’t shoot straight. You think you’ve hit
the ‘bull’s-eye’ with this cantankerous pride o’ yours but you haven’t
come within a mile of it. However, ‘When she will she will, you may
depend on’t, and when she won’t she won’t, and there’s an end on’t.’ So
I’ll take myself back to my pots and pans and when you want me or my
help just send that bright little girl of yours after me an’ I’ll keep
step to the music, instanter. Good-by.”
So it seemed that Madam Dalrymple’s anxiety over the Avenue A
acquaintance was useless. “Forty-niner” and Jessica did, indeed, often
discuss it, but the matter ended in discussion merely.
“Only, Ephy dear, I can never, never be just the same girl I was
before I went to that dreadful place. It’s made this ‘being one of
the richest,’ as I shall be, seem such a solemn thing. The money that
will be mine sometime must all be used to help such poor folks. It
won’t be _mine_, really, you know. My mother said that. She said it
would be ‘a trust put into my hands for righteous disposal.’ Those
were her very own words. Course, I haven’t the money yet. The mine
is costing more than it pays out, now at first, but it’s coming. Mr.
Ninian said there was no possibility of mistake. When it does--O Ephy!
It frightens me to think I may not give enough or give it right or, in
some way, be unfaithful to that ‘trust.’ It makes me feel so old, so
old, Ephy dear!” cried the hitherto careless girl, with an earnestness
which touched and offended her old henchman, till he agreed with Madam
Dalrymple that he’d “give a thousand dollars if that accident had never
happened.” “Only,” he added whimsically, “I haven’t the thousand, so
it’s easy to boast!”
“One good thing there is. Mr. Hale called here yesterday, to see
me--to see _me_, Ephraim Marsh! Think of that! He came to tell me what
my mother had arranged about my ‘spending-money.’ It seemed to be so
queer, this being an ‘heiress’ yet never having any money of my own
to use. Having to go to Cousin Margaret when I wanted any and always
being afraid to ask. Anyhow, that’s all past. I am to have an allowance
of five dollars a month spending-money. All for myself. Isn’t that
splendid? Mr. Hale says my mother wishes me to learn the proper use of
that amount and as I grow older and require more it shall be furnished.
As if any girl could possibly want more than that! Isn’t it fine? Isn’t
it? Do say so, ‘Forty-niner,’ or I shall be so disappointed.”
“Land, honey! I’d say anything in the dictionary to prevent that. I
only want to give you a bit of advice----”
“Don’t, Ephy! Don’t give it! I’ve never had so much advice given me
in all my life as since I’ve come to this New York. Just keep it to
yourself, old dear!” cried Jessica, laying her hand upon his lips.
Whence he removed it with a laugh, but stubbornly insisting:
“Yes, I must. Just one word. Don’t waste a cent of that sixty dollars
per annum on anybody living at 221 Avenue A, rear tenement, top
floor. Flambergasted proud old thing! Even the little one’s caught the
distemper and actually turned up her little pug nose at a peppermint
cat I bought for her, t’other day. Fact. Yet the little beggar looked
at it so greedy--Whew! Her eyes were as green as the cat’s own! But
touch it, no! ‘I don’t care for pep’mints,’ quoth she. ‘I mean my
Granny don’t care to have me eat ’em.’ I bet all my old shoes they
hadn’t a mouthful in that cupboard that minute, and old Sophia sewing
as if she hadn’t another minute to live and must get everything done in
that one. A cupboard full of pride, they had. Nothing else. Shucks!”
“You needn’t sneer at them, Mr. Ephraim Marsh. I like them for it.
I used to think pride was sinful. But it isn’t. Look at my Cousin
Margaret. Instead of complaining and groaning, like Wun Lung, when
he has a pain, she bottles all hers up in her own breast and spares
everybody the thought of her suffering. Barnes says nobody knows what
‘my lady’ endures, some of those ‘privacy’ times, when she’s shut up
in her bedroom and never lets on. Then, when she gets a little better,
on she puts her prettiest gown and down she comes smiling and sits at
table as easy as if she had never ached at all. I think that’s fine,
Ephy. I think that’s the best part of being a ‘Waldron,’ or any other
high-up person, that one is too proud ever to ‘let on’ and make other
folks unhappy. There’s so many ways of testing a gentleperson; like
Cousin Margaret offering a stranger caller a rocking chair. She keeps
one on purpose, though she wouldn’t ‘demean’ to sit in it herself. If
the stranger takes it and rocks, that’s the end of the stranger for my
Cousin Margaret, for it proves the stranger ill-bred. It’s always rude
to rock in company, Ephraim, remember that.”
“Well, well, well! There’s a lot of nonsense been stuffed into your
curly head since we struck the trail for this Gotham! Along with some
sense, too. But, my ‘Captain,’ don’t you go and get a solemn-ite! I
couldn’t stand that. The minute you get too good to be wholesome I
shall upstakes and hoof it back to Californy. And, speakin’ of Madam,
she’s begun to pay me reg’lar wages, same as she would any other
‘chef,’ as she calls it. So betwixt your allowance and my wages--we
ought to feed a good many hungry folks in the course of a year. Eh!
What? Who’s ringing that bell that way? sounds like the crack of doom;
and I vow, I believe they’ve smashed it! Tipkins is out, Barnes has got
the sick headache, no ‘emergency’ creatur’ in for the day, I’ll have to
answer it myself. Hope to goodness there hasn’t anything happened!”
But there had. The direst happening which could befall that ancient
mansion.