I wish I had time to tell you in the fulness of detail how those two
spinsters brought up Mary, but there is so much else to put before you
that I dare not dally here. Still, I am going to find time to say that
all the love and affection which Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty had ever
woven into their fancies were now showered down upon Mary--falling softly
and sweetly like petals from two full-blown roses when stirred by a
breeze from the south.
When she was a baby, Mary's nose had an upward tilt.
One morning after Miss Cordelia had bathed her (which would have reminded
you of a function at the court of the Grand Monarque, with its Towel
Holder, Soap Holder, Temperature Taker and all and sundry) she suddenly
sent the two maids and the nurse away and, casting dignity to the winds,
she lifted Mary in a transport of love which wouldn't be denied any
longer, and pretended to bite the end of the poor babe's nose off.
"Oh, I know it's candy," she said, mumbling away and hugging the blessed
child. "It's even got powdered sugar on it--"
"That's talcum powder," said Miss Patty, watching with a jealous eye.
"Powdered sugar, yes," persisted Miss Cordelia, mumbling on. "I know. And
I know why her nose turns up at the end, too. That naughty Miss Patty
washed it with yellow soap one night when I wasn't looking--"
"I never, never did!" protested Miss Patty, all indignation in a moment.
"Washed it with yellow soap, yes," still persisted Miss Cordelia, "and
made it shine like a star. And that night, when Mary lay in her bed, the
moon looked through the window and saw that little star twinkling there,
and the moon said 'Little star! Little star! What are you doing there in
Mary's bed? You come up here in the sky and twinkle where you belong!'
And all night long, Mary's little nose tried to get up to the moon, and
that's why it turns up at the end--" And then in one grand finale of
cannibalistic transport, Miss Cordelia concluded, "Oh, I could eat her
up!"
But it was Miss Patty's turn then, because although Cordelia bathed the
child, it was the younger sister's part to dress her. So Miss Patty put
her arms out with an authority which wouldn't take "No" for an answer,
and if you had been in the next room, you would then have heard--
"Oh, where have you been
My pretty young thing--?"
Which is a rather active affair, especially where the singer shows how
she danced her a dance for the Dauphin of France. By that time you won't
be surprised when I tell you that Miss Patty's cheeks had a downright
glow on them--and I think her heart had something of the same glow, too,
because, seating herself at last to dress our crowing heroine, she beamed
over to her sister and said (though somewhat out of breath) "Isn't it
nice!"
This, of course, was all strictly private.
In public, Mary was brought up with maidenly deportment. You would never
dream, for instance, that she was ever tickled with a turkey feather
(which Miss Cordelia kept for the purpose) or that she had ever been
atomized all over with Lily of the Valley (which Miss Patty never did
again because Ma'm Maynard, the old French nurse, smelled it and told the
maids). But always deep down in the child was an indefinable quality
which puzzled her two aunts.
As Mary grew older, this quality became clearer.
"I know what it is," said Miss Cordelia one night. "She has a mind of her
own. Everything she sees or hears: she tries to reason it out."
I can't tell you why, but Miss Patty looked uneasy.
"Only this morning," continued Miss Cordelia, "I heard Ma'm Maynard
telling her that there wasn't a prettier syringa bush anywhere than the
one under her bedroom window. Mary turned to her with those eyes of
hers--you know the way she does--'Ma'm Maynard,' she said, 'have you seen
all the other s'inga bushes in the world?' And only yesterday I said to
her, 'Mary, you shouldn't try to whistle. It isn't nice.' She gave me
that look--you know--and said, 'Then let us learn to whistle, Aunt
T'delia, and help to make it nice.'"
"Imagine you and I saying things like that when we were girls," said Miss
Patty, still looking troubled.
"Yes, yes, I know. And yet... I sometimes think that if you and I had
been brought up a little differently...."
They were both quiet then for a time, each consulting her memories of
hopes long past.
"Just the same," said Miss Patty at last, "there are worse things in the
world than being old-fashioned."
In which I think you would have agreed with her, if you could have seen
Mary that same evening.
At the time of which I am now writing she was six years old--a rather
quiet, solemn child--though she had a smile upon occasions, which was
well worth going to see.
For some time back she had heard her aunts speaking of "Poor Josiah!" She
had always stood in awe of her father who seemed taller and gaunter than
ever. Mary seldom saw him, but she knew that every night after dinner he
went to his den and often stayed there (she had heard her aunts say)
until long after midnight.
"If he only had some cheerful company," she once heard Aunt Cordelia
remark.
"But that's the very thing he seems to shun since poor Martha died,"
sighed Miss Patty, and dropping her voice, never dreaming for a moment
that Mary was listening, she added with another sigh, "If there had only
been a boy, too!"
All these things Mary turned over in her mind, as few but children can,
especially when they have dreamy eyes and often go a long time without
saying anything. And on the same night when Aunt Patty had come to
the conclusion that there are worse things in the world than being
old-fashioned, Mary waited until she knew that dinner was over and then,
escaping Ma'm Maynard, she stole downstairs, her heart skipping a beat
now and then at the adventure before her. She passed through the hall and
the library like a determined little ghost and then, gently turning the
knob, she opened the study door.
Her father was sitting at his desk.
At the sound of the opening door he turned and stared at the apparition
which confronted him. Mary had closed the door and stood with her back to
it, screwing up her courage for the last stage of her journey.
And in truth it must have taken courage, for there was something in old
Josiah's forbidding brow and solitary mien which would have chilled the
purpose of any child. It may have been this which suddenly brought the
tears to Mary's eyes, or it may have been that her womanly little breast
guessed the loneliness in her father's heart. Whatever it was, she
unsteadily crossed the room, her sight blurred but her plan as steadfast
as ever, and a moment later she was climbing on Josiah's knee, her arms
tight around his neck, sobbing as though it would shake her little frame
to pieces.
What passed between those two, partly in speech but chiefly in silence
with their wet cheeks pressed together, I need not tell you; but when
Ma'm Maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed
in the doorway, Josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later
he carried Mary upstairs himself--and went back to his study without a
word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn't without significance.
And nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, Mary made a
visit to old Josiah's study downstairs; and one Saturday morning when he
was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind
him and there stood Mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin
with an elastic. In the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers
into his hand. He hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on. The next
minute they were walking down the drive together.
As they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had
once used to his sisters, "After seven generations you simply can't keep
them away. It's bred in the bone."
A thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side.
"If she had only been a boy!" he breathed.
At the end of the drive he stopped.
"You must go back now, dear."
"No," said Mary and tried to pull him on.
For as long as it might take you to count five, Josiah stood there
irresolute, Mary's fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor
Martha's fate pulling him the other.
"And yet," he thought, "she's bound to see it sometime. Perhaps better
now--before she understands--than later--"
He lifted her and sat her on his arm.
"Now, listen, little woman," he said as they gravely regarded each other.
"This is important. If I take you this morning, will you promise to be a
good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself?
Will you promise me that?"
This, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as Eve: Still
gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him
with a kiss. He set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his
palm again, and together they walked to the factory.
The road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river,
almost affording a bird's-eye view of the buildings below--lines of
workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of
an army of giants.
A freight train was disappearing into one of the warehouses. Long lines
of trucks stood on the sidings outside. Wisps of steam arose in every
direction, curious, palpitating.
From up the river the roar of the falls could just be heard while from
the open windows of the factory came that humming note of industry which,
more than anything else, is like the sound which is sometimes made by a
hive of bees, immediately before a swarm.
It was a scene which always gave Josiah a well-nigh oppressive feeling
of pride and punishment--pride that all this was his, that he was
one of those Spencers who had risen so high above the common run of
man--punishment that he had betrayed the trust which had been handed down
to him, that he had broken the long line of fathers and sons which had
sent the Spencer reputation, with steadily increasing fame, to the
corners of the earth. As he walked down the hall that Saturday morning,
his sombre eyes missing no detail, he felt Mary's fingers tighten around
his hand and, glancing down at her, he saw that her attention, too, was
engrossed by the scene below, her eyes large and bright as children's are
when they listen to a fairy tale.
Arrived at the office, he placed her in a chair by the side of his desk,
and you can guess whether she missed anything of what went on. Clerks,
business callers, heads of departments came and went. All had a smile for
Mary who gravely smiled in return and straightway became her dignified
little self again.
"When is Mr. Woodward expected back?" Josiah asked a clerk.
"On the ten-thirty, from Boston."
This was Stanley Woodward, Josiah's cousin--Cousin Stanley of the
spider's web whom you have already met. He was now the general manager of
the factory, and had always thought that fate was on his side since the
night he had heard of Martha's death and that the child she left behind
her was a girl.
Josiah glanced at his watch.
"Time to make the rounds," he said and, lifting Mary on his arm, he left
the office and started through the plant.
And, oh, how Mary loved it--the forests of belts, whirring and twisting
like live things, the orderly lines of machine tools, each doing its work
with more than human ingenuity and precision, the enormous presses
reminding her of elephants stamping out pieces of metal, the grinders
which sang to her, the drilling machines which whirred to her, the
polishing machines which danced for her, the power hammers which bowed to
her. Yes, and better than all was the smile that each man gave her,
smiles that came from the heart, for all the quiet respect that
accompanied them.
"It's his daughter," they whispered as soon as Josiah was out of hearing.
Here and there one would stop smiling and say, "I remember the day he
brought her mother through--"
At the end of one of the workshops, Mr. Spencer looked at his watch
again.
"We'd better get back to the office," he said. "Tired, dear?"
In a rapture of denial, she kicked her little toes against his side.
"Bred in the bone..." he mused. "Eh, if she had only been a boy...!" But
that was past all sighing for, and in the distance he saw Cousin Stanley,
just back from Boston, evidently coming to find him.
Mary, too, was watching the approaching figure. She had sometimes seen
him at the house and had formed against him one of those instinctive
dislikes which few but children know. As Stanley drew near she turned her
head and buried her face against her father's shoulder.
"Good news?" asked Josiah.
"Good news, of course," said Stanley, speaking as an irresistible force
might speak, if it were endowed with a tongue. "When Spencer & Son start
out for a thing, they get it." You could tell that what he meant was
"When Stanley Woodward starts out for a thing, he gets it." His elbows
suddenly grew restless. "It will take a lot of money," he added. "Of
course we shall have to increase the factory here--"
Still Mary kept her face hidden against her father's shoulder.
"Got the little lady with you, I see."
"Yes; I'm afraid I've tired her out."
A murmur arose from his shoulder.
"What?" said Josiah. "Not tired? Then turn around and shake hands with
Uncle Stanley."
Slowly, reluctantly, Mary lifted her head and began to reach out her
hand. Then just before their fingers would have touched, she quickly
clasped her hands around her father's neck and again she buried her face
upon his shoulder.
"She doesn't seem to take to you," said Josiah.
"So it seems," said the other dryly. Reaching around he touched Mary's
cheek with the back of his finger. "Not mad at your uncle, are you,
little girl?" he asked.
"Don't!" said Josiah, speaking with quick concern. "You're only making
her tremble...."
The two stared at each other, slightly frowning. Stanley was the first to
catch himself. "I'll see you at the office later," he said, and with a
bow at the little figure on Josiah's arm he added with a touch of irony,
"Perhaps I had better wait until you're alone!"
He turned and made his way back to the office, his elbows grown restless
again.
"A good thing it isn't a boy," he thought, "or he might not like me when
he grows up, either. But a girl... Oh, well, as it happens, girls don't
count.... And a good thing, too, they don't," he thoughtfully added. "A
good thing, too, they don't...."