"I think we shall have thunder-showers to-day," Mrs. Anderson
remarked, as she poured the coffee at the breakfast-table. Even this
old gentlewoman, carefully attired in her dainty white lawn wrapper,
had that slightly dissipated, bewildered, and rancorous air that
extreme heat is apt to impart to the finest-grained of us. Her fair
old face had a glossy flush, her white hair, which usually puffed
with a soft wave over her temples, was stringy. She allowed her
wrapper to remain open at the neck, exposing her old throat, and
dispensed with her usual swathing of lace. She confessed that she had
not been able to sleep at all; still she kept her trust in
Providence, and would scarcely admit to discomfort. "I am sure there
will be showers, and cool the air," she said, with her sweet
optimism. As she spoke she fanned herself with the great palm-leaf
fan with a green bow on the stem, which she was never without during
this weather. "It is certainly very warm so early in the season. One
must feel it a little, but it is always so delightful after a shower
that it compensates."
"You are showing a lovely Christian spirit, mother," Anderson
returned, smiling at her with fond amusement, "but don't be
hypocritical."
"My son, what do you mean?"
"Mother, dear, you don't really like this weather. You only pretend
to because man did not make it."
"Randolph!"
"Only think how you would growl if the mayor and aldermen, or even
the president, made this weather!"
"My son, they did not," Mrs. Anderson responded, solemnly.
"No, and that settles it, I suppose. If they did, you would say at
once they ought to be forced to resign from their offices. Now,
mother, be resigned all you like, but don't be pleased, for you can't
cheat the Providence that made this beastly heat, and must know
perfectly well how beastly it is, better than you or I do, and won't
think any more of us for any pretence in the matter."
"You shock me, dear. And, besides, I did not say that I liked it. I
said I liked the weather after a shower. You look pale this morning,
dear, and you don't talk quite like yourself. I do wish you would
take an umbrella when you go to the office to-day. It is so very
warm." Mrs. Anderson had a chronic fear of sunstroke.
When Randolph went away without his umbrella, as he usually did,
being, dearly as he loved his mother, impervious to some of her
feminine demands, she watched him, standing in the doorway and
shaking her head with a dubious air.
That noon she was quite contented, for he did actually carry his
umbrella. The sky in the northwest was threatening, although the sun
still shone fiercely in the south. She herself sat on the doorstep in
the shade, and fairly panted like a corpulent old dog. Her mouth was
open and her tongue even lolled a little. She was, in reality,
suffering frightfully. She had both flesh and nerves, and, given
these two adverse conditions to endurance, and the mercury ninety in
the shade, there is torture although the spirit is strong.
Although the sky was threatening all the afternoon, it was not until
four o'clock that the northwest sky grew distinctly ominous and the
rumble of the thunder was audible. Then Mrs. Anderson called her
maid, and they proceeded to close tightly all the windows against the
rising wind.
"It is very dangerous indeed to have a draught in the house in a
thunder-shower," Mrs. Anderson always said while closing them.
Then she hurriedly divested herself of the white lawn wrapper which
she had worn all day, and put on her black summer silk gown, with a
wrap and a bonnet and an umbrella at hand. Mrs. Anderson was not
afraid of a thunder-shower in the ordinary sense, but her imagination
never failed her. Therefore she was always dressed, in case the worst
should happen and she be forced to flee from a stricken house. She
also had her small and portable treasures ready at hand. Then she sat
down in the middle of the sitting-room well out of range of the
chimney, and prayed for her own and her son's safety, and
incidentally for the safety of the maid, who was in the adjoining
room with the door open, and for the house and her son's store. She
always did thus in a thunder-shower, but she never told any one this
innocent childish secret of an innocent old soul.
She thought with a sort of undercurrent of faithlessness of the great
draught in her son's store if the large front doors and the office
door were both open, as there was a strong probability of their
being. She thought uneasily that her son might be that very moment in
that draught, as indeed he was. He stood in the strong current of
fresh storm-air, with its pungent odors, more like revelations than
odors, of things which had been in abeyance for some time past in the
drought. The smell of the wet green things was like a paean of joy.
It was a call of renewed life out of concealed places of fainting and
hiding. There were scents of flowers and fruits, and another strange
odor, like the smell of battle, from all the ferment on the earth
which had precipitated the storm. It was quite a severe
thunder-shower. The rain had held off for a fierce prelude, then it
came in solid cataracts. Then it was that Charlotte Carroll rushed
into the store. She was dripping, beaten like a flower, by the force
of the liquid flail of the storm. She had pulled off the
rose-wreathed hat which was dear to her heart, and she had it under
her dress skirt, which she held up over her lace-trimmed petticoat
modestly, with as little revelation as might be. Her dark head
glistened with the rain.
Anderson stepped forward quickly. "Pray come into the office, Miss
Carroll," he said.
But she remained standing in front of the door, having removed her
hat furtively from its shelter. "No, thank you," said she, "I would
rather stay here. I like to watch it."
Anderson fetched a chair from his office, but she thanked him and
said that she preferred standing.
"I thought I had time to get to Madame Griggs's on the other side of
the street," said she, "but all at once it came down."
Anderson felt her ungraciousness, but she herself did not seem to
realize it at all. Presently she gave a little sidewise smile at him,
and comprehended in the smile the old clerk and the boy who hovered
near.
"It is a fine shower," said she, with a kind of confidential glee. As
she spoke she looked out at the snarl of rain shot with lances of
electric fire, and there was a curious elation, almost like
intoxication, in her expression. She was in a fine spiritual
excitement.
"Yes," said Anderson. "We needed rain."
Just then the world seemed swimming in blue light and there was a
terrific crash. Anderson, who never thought of any personal fear in a
tempest, looked rather apprehensively at the girl. He recalled his
mother's fear of draughts.
"Perhaps you had better move back a little; that was quite near," he
said. Somehow the little fears and precautions which he scorned for
himself seemed to apply quite reasonably to this little, tender,
pretty creature with the lightning playing around her and the thunder
breaking over her defenceless head.
Charlotte laughed. "Oh, I am not afraid," said she. Then she added,
quite innocently, with more of personal appeal than she had ever used
towards him, "Are you?"
"No," said Anderson.
"I like it," said she, staring out at the swaying, brandishing
maples, and the street which ran like a river, with now and then a
boiling pool.
"I am afraid you are wet," said Anderson.
"Yes," said she, "but that is nothing. My dress won't hurt. It is
just white lawn, you know. All that would be hurt is my hat, and that
is hardly damp. I took it off." She held it up carefully on one hand,
and gazed solicitously at it. "It is my best hat," said she, simply.
"No, I don't think it is hurt at all." She looked sharply towards the
counter. "The counter is clean, isn't it?" said she. "I might lay my
hat there. I don't want to put it on until my hair gets dry."
The old clerk smiled covertly, the boy grinned at her in a fascinated
way. Anderson regarded her with worshipful amazement. This little,
artless revelation of the innermost vanity of a woman's heart touched
him. It was to him inconceivable that she should so care for the
welfare of that flower-bedecked oval of straw, and yet he thought it
adorable of her to care. He stared at the hat as if it had been a
halo, then he turned and looked anxiously at the counter.
"Get a sheet of clean paper," he ordered the boy, and frowned at him
for his grin.
The boy obeyed solemnly.
"I think that will not soil your hat," Anderson said, when the
preparations were complete.
"Oh, thank you," she said, and handed him the hat.
Anderson touched it gingerly as if it were alive, and placed it
upside down on the clean sheet of paper.
"The other way up, please," said she, and Anderson changed it in
alarm.
"I hope I have not injured it," he said.
She was laughing openly at him. "No," she replied, "but you put it
right on the roses. Men don't know how to handle girls' hats, do
they?"
"No; I fear they don't," replied Anderson.
He remained leaning against the counter near the door; the old clerk
lounged against the next one, on the end of which Sam Riggs was
perched. Charlotte remained standing in the doorway, leaning slightly
against the post, and they all watched the storm, which was fast
reaching its height. The flashes of lightning were more frequent, the
crashes of thunder followed fast, sound overlapping sight. The rain
became a flood. The girl watched, with the intense, self-forgetful
delight of a child, the plash of the great blobs of rain on the
macadamized road outside. They came to look to her exactly like
little figures chasing one another in an unintermittent race of
annihilation. She smiled, watching them. Anderson, looking from the
rain to her, saw the smile, and thought with a little pang that she
was probably thinking of her own happiness when she smiled to herself
like that. He kept his eyes fixed upon her for a moment, her
glistening dark head, her smooth cheek, her smiling mouth, her
shoulders faintly pink through her thin white gown, which, being wet,
clung to them. Charlotte's shoulders were thin, but the hollowing
curve from the throat to the arm was ravishing. Anderson's face
hardened a little. He looked away again at the rain.
All at once Charlotte glanced up from the dancing flight of the
rain-drops on the road, and laughed. "Why," she cried, "there is Ina!
There is my sister!"
Anderson looked, and in a second-story window opposite was a girl's
head in a violet-trimmed hat. She was smiling and nodding. Charlotte
waved her hand to her.
"I'll be over as soon as it holds up a little," she cried out. "Did
you get wet?"
The girl in the window hollowed a slim hand over an ear.
"Did you get caught in the shower? Did you get wet?" called Charlotte.
The girl in the window shook her head gayly.
"She didn't," Charlotte said, with an absurd but charming confidence
to Anderson; "but, anyway, she didn't have on her very best hat."
"I am very glad," Anderson replied, politely. He read a sign fastened
beneath the window which framed the girl's head--"Madame Estelle
Griggs, Modiste." He reflected that she was the Banbridge dressmaker,
and that Charlotte was probably having her trousseau made there,
which was a deduction that only a masculine mind of vivid imagination
could have evolved.
Charlotte was gazing eagerly across at her sister. "It does not rain
nearly so hard now," said she. "I think I might venture." She looked
irresolutely at her hat on the counter.
"I can let you have an umbrella," said Anderson.
"Thank you," said Charlotte, "but my hair is still so wet, and my hat
is lined with pink chiffon, you know."
"Yes," said Anderson, respectfully. He did not know what pink chiffon
was, but he understood that water would injure it.
"If I might leave my hat here," said Charlotte, "until I come back--"
"Certainly," replied Anderson.
"Then I think I can go now. No, thank you; I won't take the umbrella.
I am about as wet as I can be now, and, besides, I like to feel the
rain on my shoulders."
With a careful but wary gathering up of her white skirts, with chary
disclosures of lace and embroidery and little skipping shoes, she was
gone in a snowy whirl through the mist across the street. She seemed
to fly over the puddles. The girl's head disappeared from the
opposite window and Anderson heard quite distinctly the outburst of
laughter and explanation.
"You had better get a sheet of tissue-paper and put it over that," he
said to Sam Riggs, and he pointed at Charlotte's hat on the counter.
Then he went back to his office and wrote some letters. He resolved
that he would not see Charlotte when she returned for her hat.
Presently the sun shone into the office, and a new light seemed to
come from the rain-drenched branches outside the window. Anderson
continued to write, feeling all the time unhappiness heavy in his
heart. He also had a sense of injury which was foreign to him. He was
distinctly aware that he had an unfair allotment of the good things
of life. Yet there was a question dinning through his consciousness:
"Why should I have so little?" Then the world-old query considering
personal responsibility for misery swept over him. "What have I
done?" he asked himself, and answered himself, with a fierce
challenge of truth, that he had done nothing. Then the habit of his
life of patience, which was at the same time a habit of bravery,
asserted itself. He wrote his letters carefully and closed his ears
to the questions.
It was about half an hour later, and he was thinking about going
home, when Sam Riggs came to the office door and informed him that
Mrs. Griggs wanted to see him.
Mrs. Griggs was Madame nowhere except on her sign and in the mouths
of a few genteel patrons who considered that Madame had a more
fashionable sound than Mrs.
"Ask her to come in here," Anderson said, and directly the dressmaker
appeared. She was a tiny, thin, nervous creature with restless,
veinous little hands, and a long, thin neck upon which her small
frizzled head vibrated constantly like the head of a bird. Anderson
knew her very well. Back in his childhood they had been schoolmates.
He remembered distinctly little Stella Mixter. She had been a sharp,
meagre, but rather pretty little girl, with light curls, and was
always dressed in blue. She wore blue now, for that matter--blue
muslin, ornate with lace and ribbons. She had had a sad and hard
life, but her spirit still asserted itself. Her husband had deserted
her; she had lost her one child; she worked like a galley-slave, but
she still frizzed her hair carefully, and never neglected her own
costume even in her greatest rush of business, and that in a
dressmaker showed deathless ambition and self-respect.
Anderson greeted her and offered her a chair. She seated herself with
a conscious elegance, and disposed gracefully around her thin knees
her blue muslin flounces. There was a slight coquetry in her manner,
although she was evidently anxious about something. She looked around
and spoke in a low voice.
"I want to ask you something," she said, in a whisper.
"Certainly," said Anderson.
"You used to be a lawyer, and I don't suppose you have forgotten all
your law, if you are in the grocery business now." There was about
the woman the very naivete of commonplacedness and offence.
Anderson smiled. "I trust not, Mrs. Griggs," he replied.
"Well"--she lowered her voice still more--"I wanted to ask you-- I've
got a big job of work for--that Carroll girl that's going to be
married, and I've heard something that made me kind of uneasy. What I
want to know is, do you s'pose I'm likely to get my pay?"
"I know nothing whatever about the family's financial standing,"
Anderson replied, after a slight pause. He spoke constrainedly, and
did not look at his questioner.
"You don't know whether I'm likely to get my pay or not?"
Anderson looked at her then, the little, nervous, overworked, almost
desperate creature, fighting like a little animal in her bay of life
against the odds which would drive her from it, and he felt in a
horrible perplexity. He felt also profane. Why could not he be left
out of this? he inquired, with concealed emphasis. Finally he said
that he would rather not advise in a case about which he knew so
little.
"I'm willing to pay," said the dressmaker, with her artless vulgarity.
"It is not that," Anderson said, quickly, with some asperity.
"I don't know," said the dressmaker, innocently deepening the
offence, "but what you didn't feel as if you could give law-advice
for nothin', even if you had quit the law. I s'pose it cost you a
good deal to learn the law, and I know you didn't git your money
back." She spoke with the kindest sympathy.
"That has nothing to do with it," Anderson repeated, with an
inflection of irritated patience. "I cannot give any advice because I
know nothing whatever about the matter."
"Can't you find out?"
"That belongs to the business which I have given up."
"Well, I s'pose it does," admitted Madame Griggs, with a sigh. "I
wouldn't have bothered you if I hadn't been at my wit's end."
"I am willing to do anything in my power--" began Anderson, with a
softened glance at the absurdly pathetic little figure, "but--"
"Then you think I had better not trust them?"
"No; I said--"
"You think I had better send her word I've changed my mind, and can't
do her work?"
Anderson winced. "No; I did not say so," he replied, vehemently. "I
merely said that you must settle--"
"Then you think I had better keep on with it?"
"If you think best," said Anderson, emphatically. "Really, Mrs.
Griggs, I cannot settle this matter for you. You often trust people
in your business. You must decide yourself."
The dressmaker arose. "Well, I guess it's all right," said she.
"She's a lovely girl, and so are they all. Her mother seems sort of
childish, but she's real sweet-spoken. I guess it's all right, but
I'd heard some things, and I thought I would ask you what you
thought. I thought it wouldn't do any harm. Now I feel a good deal
easier about it. Good-afternoon. What a tempest we've had!"
"Yes," said Anderson. "Good-afternoon." He was conscious of a mental
giddiness as he regarded her.
"We needed it, and I do think it has cooled the air a little. I'm
very much obliged. I don't suppose there is any use in my offering to
pay you, now you're in the grocery business?"
"Certainly not. I have done nothing to admit of any question of
payment," replied Anderson, curtly.
"Well, I s'pose you throw it in along with the butter and eggs," said
Madame Griggs, with a return of her slight coquetry. "By-the-way, I
wish you'd send over five pounds of that best butter. Good-afternoon."
"Good-afternoon."
The dressmaker turned in the doorway and looked back. "I'm so glad to
have my mind settled about it," she said, with a pathos which
overcame her absurdity and vulgarity. "I do work awful hard, and it
doesn't seem as if I could lose my money." She appeared suddenly
tragic in her cheap muslin and her frizzes. She looked old and her
features sharpened out rigidly.
Anderson, looking after her, felt both bewilderment and compunction.
He thought for a moment of going after her and saying something
further; then he heard a flutter and a quick sweet voice, and he knew
that Charlotte had come for her hat. He heard her say: "Where? Oh, I
see; all covered up so nicely. Thank you. I did not come before,
because the trees were dripping. Thank you." Then there was a silence.
Anderson got his hat and went out through the store. The old clerk
was fussing over some packages on the counter.
"That young lady came for her hat," he remarked.
"Did she?"
"Yes. She's a pretty-spoken girl. Her sister's goin' to git married
before long, I hear."
Anderson stopped and stared at him. "No; this is the one."
"No; her sister. I had it straight."
Anderson went out. Everything was wonderful outside. The world was
purified of dust and tarnish as a soul of sin. The worn prosaicness
of nature was adorned as with jewels. Everything glittered; a
thousand rainbows seemed to hang on the drenched trees. New blossoms
looked out like new eyes of rapture; every leaf had a high-light of
joy. Anderson drew a long breath. The air was alive with the breath
of the sea from which the fresh wind blew. He walked home with a
quick step like a boy. He was smiling, and fast to his breast, like a
beloved child, he clasped his dream again.