Part 3 (1/2)
”Well, first I just watched her help for her, and paid the bills, and went to market. And then I got gradually managing more and more; I'd go to pay her interest, or deposit money, or talk to tenants; I liked it and she liked me. And then she talked me into going to France with her, but I cried all the way for my children, and I was glad enough to come home again! She and Miss Annie spent some time over there, but I came back. Miss Alice was in school, and Theodore--dear knows where he was--into some mischief somewhere! But I'd saved money, and she'd given me the Brooklyn houses, and I took a boarder or two, and that was the last I ever worked for any one but my own!”
”Well, that's a nice girl, that Leslie,” Norma said, ”if her father _was_ wild!”
”Her mother was a good girl,” Kate said, ”I knew her. But the old lady was proud, Baby--G.o.d save any one of us from pride like that! You'd never know it, to see her now, but she was very proud. Theodore's wife was a good girl, but she was Miss Annie's maid, and what Mrs. Melrose never could forgive was that when she ordered the girl out of the house, she showed her her wedding certificate. She was Mrs. Theodore Melrose, fast enough--though his mother never would see her or acknowledge her in any way.”
”They must think the Lord has made a special arrangement for them--people like that!” Norma commented, turning a lovely flushed face from the pan where she was dexterously crisping bacon. ”What business is it of hers if her son marries a working girl? That gives me a feeling akin to pain--just because she happens to have a lot of money! What does Miss Leslie Melrose think of that?”
”I don't know what she thinks--she loves her grandmother, I suppose.
Mrs. Melrose took her in when she was only a tiny girl, and she's been the apple of her eye ever since. Theodore and his wife were divorced, and when Leslie was about four or five he came back to his mother to die--poor fellow! It was a terrible sorrow to the old lady--she'd had her share, one way and another! My goodness, Norma,” Mrs. Sheridan interrupted herself to say, in half-reproachful appreciation, ”I wish you'd always help me like this, my dear! You can be as useful as ten girls, when you've a mind to! And then perhaps to-morrow you'll be as contrary----!”
”Oh, Aunt Kate, aren't you ashamed! When I ironed all your dish-towels last night, when you were setting bread, and I made the popovers Sunday!” Norma kissed her aunt, brushed a dab of cornstarch from the older woman's firm cheek, and performed a sort of erratic dance about the protestant and solid figure. ”I'm a poor working girl,” she said, ”and I get dragged out with my long, hard day!”
”Well, G.o.d knows that's true, too,” her aunt said, with a sudden look of compunction; ”you may make a joke of it, but it's no life for a girl. My dear,” she added, seriously, holding Norma with a firm arm, and looking into her eyes, ”I hope I did no harm by what I did to-day! I did it for the best, whatever comes of it.”
”You mean stirring up the whole thing?” Norma asked, frowning a little in curiosity and bewilderment. ”Going to see her?”
”That--yes.” Mrs. Sheridan rubbed her forehead with her hand, a fas.h.i.+on she had when puzzled or troubled, and suddenly resumed, with a great rattling of pans and hissing of water, her operations at the sink.
”Well, nothing may come of it--we'll see!” she added, briskly. Norma, who was watching her expectantly, sighed disappointedly; the subject was too evidently closed. But a second later she was happily distracted by the slamming of the front door; Wolf and Rose Sheridan had come in together, and dinner was immediately served.
Norma recounted, with her own spirited embellishments, her adventures of the afternoon as the meal progressed. She had had ”fun” getting to the office in the first place, a man had helped her, and they had both skidded into another man, and bing!--they had all gone down on the ice together. And then at the shop n.o.body had come in, and the lights had been lighted, and the clerks had all gathered together and talked. Then Aunt Kate had come in to have lunch, and to have Norma go with her to the gas company's office about the disputed charge, and they had decided to make, at last, that long-planned call on the Melroses. There followed a description of the big house and the spoiled, pretty girl, and the impressive yet friendly old lady.
”And Aunt Kate--I'm sorry to say!--talked her into a nervous convulsion.
You did, Aunt Kate--the poor old lady gave one piercing yell----”
”You awful girl, there'll be a judgment on you for your impudence!” her aunt said, fondly. But Rose looked solicitously at her mother, and said:
”Mother looks as if she had had a nervous convulsion, too. You look terribly tired, Mother!”
”Well, I had a little business to discuss with Mrs. Melrose,” Mrs.
Sheridan said, ”and I'm no hand for business!”
”You know it!” Wolf Sheridan concurred, with his ready laugh. ”Why didn't you send me?”
”It was her business, lovey,” his mother said, mildly, over her second heartening cup of strong black tea.
The Sheridan apartment was, in exterior at least, exactly like one hundred thousand others that line the side streets of New York. It faced the familiar grimy street, fringed on the great arteries each side by cigarette stands and saloons, and it was entered by the usual flight of stained and shabby steps, its doorway showing a set of some dozen letter-boxes, and looking down upon a bas.e.m.e.nt entrance frequently embellished with ash-cans and milk-bottles, and, just at present, with banks of soiled and sooty snow. The Sheridans climbed three long flights inside, to their own rooms, but as this gained them a glimpse of river, and a sense in summer of airiness and height, to say nothing of pleasant nearness to the roof, they rarely complained of the stairs--in fact, rarely thought of them at all.
With the opening of their own door, however, all likeness to their neighbours ceased. Even in a cla.s.s where home ties and home comforts are far more common than is generally suspected, Kate Sheridan was exceptional, and her young persons fortunate among their kind. Her training had been, she used to tell them, ”old country” training, but it was not only in fresh linen and hot, good food that their advantage lay.
It was in the great heart that held family love a divine gift, that had stood between them and life's cold realities for some twenty courageous years. Kate idolized her own two children and her foster-child with a pa.s.sion that is the purest and the strongest in the world. In possessing them, she thought herself the most blessed of women. To keep a roof over their heads, to watch them progress triumphantly through long division and measles and skates, to see milk gla.s.ses emptied and plates sc.r.a.ped, to realize that Wolf was as strong morally as he was physically, and that all her teachers called Rose an angel, to spoil and adore the beautiful, mischievous, and amusing ”Baby”; this made a life full to the brim, for Kate, of pride and happiness. Kate had never had a servant, or a fur coat; for long intervals she had not had a night's unbroken rest; and there had been times, when Wolf's fractured arm necessitated a doctor's bill, or when coal for the little Detroit house had made a disproportionate hole in her bank account, in which even the thrifty Kate had known biting financial worry.
But the children never knew it. They knew only her law of service and love. They must love each other, whatever happened. There was no quarrelling at meals at Kate's house. Rose must of course oblige her brother, sew on the b.u.t.ton, or take his book to the library; Wolf must always protect the girls, and consider them. Wolf firmly believed his sister and cousin to be the sweetest girls in the world; Rose and Norma regarded Wolf as perfection in human form. They rarely met without embraces, never without brightening eyes and light hearts.
That this att.i.tude toward each other was only the result of the healthy bodies and honest souls that Kate had given them they would hardly have believed. That her resolute training had literally forced them to love and depend upon themselves in a world where brothers and sisters as habitually teased and annoyed each other, would have struck them as fantastic. Perhaps Kate herself hardly knew the power of her own will upon them. Her commands in their babyhood had not been couched in the language of modern child-a.n.a.lysts, nor had she given, or been able to give, any particular reason for her law. But the instinct by which she drew Wolf's attention to his sister's goodness, or noted Wolf's cleverness for Rose's benefit, was better than any reason. She summed the situation up simply for the few friends she had, with the phrase:
”They're all crazy about each other, every one of them!”
Kate's parlour would have caused Annie von Behrens actual faintness. But it was a delightful place to Rose and Wolf and their friends. The cus.h.i.+oned divan on Sunday nights customarily held a row of them, the upright ebony piano sifted popular music impartially upon the taboret, the patent rocker, and the Rover rug. They laughed, gossiped, munched candy, and experimented in love-making quite as happily as did Leslie and her own intimates. They streamed out into the streets, and sauntered along under the lights to the moving pictures, or on hot summer nights they perched like tiers of birds on the steps, and the world and youth seemed sweet to them. In Kate's dining-room, finished in black wood and red paper, they made Welsh rarebits and fudge, and in Kate's spotless kitchen odours of toast and coffee rose at unseemly hours.
Lately, Rose and Norma had been talking of changes. Rose was employed in an office whose severe and beautiful interior decoration had cost thousands of dollars, and Norma's Old Book Room was a study in dull carved woods, Oriental rugs, dull bronzes, and flawless gla.s.s. The girls began to feel that a plain cartridge paper and net curtains might well replace the parlour's florid green scrolling and Nottingham lace. But they did not worry about it; it served as a topic to amuse their leisure hours. The subject was generally routed by a shrewd allusion, from Norma or Wolf, to the sort of parlour people would like if they got married, married to someone who was doing very well in the shoe business, for example.