Part 42 (1/2)

”Down in the orchard.”

”Well, ring the bell for dinner loud, so he can hear it.”

When Andrew came shuffling wearily up from the orchard, f.a.n.n.y met him at the corner of the house, out of sight from the windows. She was flushed and perspiring, clad in a coa.r.s.e cotton wrapper, revealing all her unkempt curves. She went close to him, and thrust one large arm through his. ”Look here, Andrew,” said she, in the tenderest voice he had ever heard from her, a voice so tender that it was furious, ”you needn't say one word. What's done's done. We shall get along somehow. I ain't afraid. Come in and eat your dinner!”

The dressmaking work went on as usual after dinner. Andrew had disappeared, going down the road towards the shop. He tried for a job at Briggs's, with no success, then drifted to the corner grocery.

Ellen sat until nearly three o'clock sewing. Then she went up-stairs and got her hat, and went secretly out of the back door, through the west yard, that her mother should not see her. However, her grandmother called after her, and wanted to know where she was going.

”Down street, on an errand,” answered Ellen.

”Well, keep on the shady side,” called her grandmother, thinking the girl was bound to the stores for some dressmaking supplies.

That night Miss Higgins did not ask for her pay; she had made up her mind to wait until her week was finished. She went away after supper, and Ellen followed her to the door. ”We won't want you to-morrow, Miss Higgins,” said she, ”and here is your pay.” With that she handed a roll of bills to the woman, who stared at her in amazement and growing resentment.

”If my work ain't satisfactory,” said she--

”Your work is satisfactory,” said Ellen, ”but I don't want any more work done. I am not going to college.”

There was something conclusive and intimidating about Ellen's look and tone. The dressmaker, who had been accustomed to regard her as a child, stared at her with awe, as before a sudden revelation of force. Then she took her money, and went down the walk.

When Ellen re-entered the sitting-room her father and mother, who had overheard every word, confronted her.

”Ellen Brewster, what does this mean?”

Andrew looked as if he would presently fall to the floor.

”It means,” said Ellen--and she looked at her parents with the brave enthusiasm of a soldier on her beautiful face--she even laughed--”it means that I am going to work--I have got a job in Lloyd's.”

When Ellen made that announcement, her mother did a strange thing.

She ran swiftly to a corner of the room, and stood there, staring at the girl, with back hugged close to the intersection of the walls, as if she would withdraw as far as possible from some threatening ill. At that moment she looked alarmingly like her sister; there was something about f.a.n.n.y in her corner, calculated, when all circ.u.mstances were taken into consideration, to make one's blood chill, but Andrew did not look at her. He was intent upon Ellen, and the facing of the worst agony of his life, and Ellen was intent upon him. She loved her mother, but the fear as to her father's suffering moved her more than her mother's. She was more like her father, and could better estimate his pain under stress. Andrew rose to his feet and stood looking at Ellen, and she at him. She tried to meet the drawn misery and incredulousness of his face with a laugh of rea.s.surance.

”Yes, I've got a job in Lloyd's,” said she. ”What's the matter, father?”

Then Andrew made an almost inarticulate response; it sounded like a croak in an unknown tongue.

Ellen continued to look at him, and to laugh.

”Now look here, father,” said she. ”There is no need for you and mother to feel bad over this. I have thought it all over, and I have made up my mind. I have got a good high-school education now, and the four years I should have to spend at Va.s.sar I could do nothing at all. There is awful need of money here, and not only for us, but for Aunt Eva and Amabel.”

”You sha'n't do it!” Andrew burst out then, in a great shout of rage. ”I'll mortgage the house--that'll last awhile. You sha'n't, I say! You are my child, and you've got to listen. You sha'n't, I say!”

”Now, father,” responded Ellen's voice, which seemed to have in it a wonderful tone of firmness against which his agonized vociferousness broke as against a rock, ”this is nonsense. You must not mortgage the house. The house is all you have got for your and mother's old age. Do you think I could go to college, and let you give up the house in order to keep me there? And as for grandma Brewster, you know what's hers is hers as long as she lives--we don't want to think of that. I have got this job now, which is only three dollars a week, but in a year the foreman said I might earn fifteen or eighteen, if I was quick and smart, and I will be quick and smart.

It is the best thing for us all, father.”

”You sha'n't!” shouted Andrew. ”I say you sha'n't!”

Suddenly Andrew sank into a chair, his head lopped, he kept moving a hand before his eyes, as if he were brus.h.i.+ng away cobwebs. Then f.a.n.n.y came out of her corner.

”Get the camphor, quick!” she said to Ellen. ”I dun'no' but you've killed your father.”