Part 1 (1/2)

Ap.r.o.n-Strings.

by Eleanor Gates.

DEAR ANN WILDE,--

It seems to me that there are, broadly speaking, three kinds of mothers. First, there is the kind that does not plan for, or want, a child, but, having borne one, invariably takes the high air of martyrdom, feeling that she has rendered the supreme service, and that, henceforth, nothing is too good for her. Second, there is the mother who loves her own children devotedly, and has as many as her health and the family purse will permit, but who is fairly indifferent to other women's children. Last of all, there is the mother who loves anybody's children--everybody's children. Where the first kind of mother finds ”young ones” a bother, and the second revels in a contrast of her darlings with her neighbors' little people (to the disparagement of the latter), the third never fails to see a baby if there is a baby around, never fails to be touched by little woes or joys; belongs, perhaps, to a child-study club, or helps to support a kindergarten, or gives as freely as possible to some orphanage. And often such a woman, finding herself childless, and stirred to her action by a voice that is Nature's, ordering her to fulfill her woman's destiny, makes choice from among those countless little ones who are unclaimed; and if she happens not to be married, nevertheless, like a mateless bird, she sets lovingly about the building of a home nest.

This last kind is the best of all mothers. Not only is the fruit of her body precious to her, but all child-life is precious. She is the super-mother: She is the woman with the universal mother-heart.

You, the ”Auntie-Mother” to two lucky little girls, are of this type which I so honor. And that is why I dedicate to you this story--with great affection, and with profound respect.

Your friend, ELEANOR GATES.

New York, 1917.

Ap.r.o.n-STRINGS

CHAPTER I

”I tell you, there's something funny about it, Steve,--having the wedding out on that sc.r.a.p of lawn.” It was the florist who was speaking. He was a little man, with a brown beard that lent him a professional air. He gave a jerk of the head toward the high bay-window of the Rectory drawing-room, set down his basket of smilax on the well-cared-for Brussels that, after a disappearing fas.h.i.+on, carpeted the drawing-room floor, and proceeded to select and cut off the end of a cigar.

”Something wrong,” a.s.sented Steve. He found and filled a pipe.

The other now dropped his voice to a whisper. ”'Mrs. Milo,' I says to the old lady, 'give me the Church to decorate and I'll make it look like something.' 'My good man,' she come back,--you know the way she talks--'the wedding will be in the Close.'”

”A stylish name for not much of anything,” observed Steve. ”The Close!

Why not call it a yard and be done with it?”

”English,” explained the florist. ”--Well, I pointed out that _this_ room would be a good place for the ceremony. I could hang the wedding-bell right in the bay-window. But at that, _click_ come the old lady's teeth together. 'The wedding will be in the Close,' she says again, and so I shut my mouth.”

”Temper.”

”Exactly. And why? What's the matter with the Church? and what's the matter with this room?--that they have to go outdoors to marry up the poor youngsters. What's worse, that Close hasn't got the best reputation. For there stands that orphan basket, in plain sight----”

”It's _no_ place for a wedding!”

”Of course not!--a yard where of a night poor things come sneaking in----”

A door at the far end of the long room had opened softly. Now a voice, gentle, well-modulated, and sorrowfully reproving, halted the protesting of the florist, and paralyzed his upraised finger. ”That will do,” said the voice.

What had frozen the gesture of his employer only accelerated the movements of Steve. Recollecting that he was in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the pipe from his mouth, seized upon the smilax basket, and sidled swiftly through the door leading to the Close.

”Goo--good-morning, Mrs. Milo,” stammered the florist, putting his cigar behind his back with one large motion that included a bow.

”Good-afternoon. I've just brought the festoons for the wedding-bower.”

Once more he jerked his head in the direction of the bay-window, and edged his way toward it a step or two, his fluttering eyelids belieing the smile that divided his beard.

Mrs. Milo, her background the heavy oak door that led to the library, made a charming figure as she looked down the room at him. She was a slender, active woman, who carried her seventy years with grace. Her hair was a silvery white, and so abundant that it often gave rise to justified doubt; now it was dressed with elaborate care. Her eyes were a bright--almost a metallic--blue. Despite her age, her face was silkily smooth, and as fair as a girl's, having none of those sallow spots which so frequently mar the complexions of the old. Her cheeks showed a faint color. Her nose was perhaps too thin, but it was straight and finely cut. Her mouth was small, pretty, and curved by an almost constant smile. Her hands were slender, soft, and young. They were not given to quick movements. Now they hung touching the blue-gray of her morning-dress, which, with ruffles of lace at collar and wrists, had the fresh smartness of a uniform.