Part 45 (1/2)
”Possibly. The Ba.s.setts don't seem troubled by Allen's attentions to Marian; but the real fight between Mr. Thatcher and Mr. Ba.s.sett hasn't come yet.”
”Who says so?”
”Oh, it's in the air; every one says so. Dan says so.”
”I've warned Morton to let Edward Thatcher alone. The United States Senate wouldn't be ornamented by having either one of them down there.
I met Colonel Ramsay--guess he's got the senatorial bee in his hat, too--coming up on the train from Louisville the other day. There's only one qualification I can think of that the Colonel has for going to the Senate--he would wring tears out of the galleries when he made obituary speeches about the dead members. When my brother Blackford was senator, it seemed to me he spent most of his time acting as pallbearer for the dead ones. But what were we talking about, Sylvia? Oh, yes. I'm going to send those catalogues over to your room, and as you get time I want you to study out a scheme for a little school to teach what you call efficiency to girls that have to earn their living. I don't mean school-teaching, but a whole lot of things women ought to be doing but ain't because they don't know how. Do you get the idea?”
”A school?” asked Sylvia wonderingly.
”A kind of school.”
”It's a splendid, a beautiful idea, but you need better advice than I can give you. They talk a good deal now about vocational training, and it's going to mean a great deal to women.”
”Well, we must get hold of all the latest ideas, and if there's any good in us old daguerreotypes, we'll keep it, and graft it on to the kodak.”
”Oh, I hope there will always be ladies of the daguerreotype! One thing we women have to pray to be saved from is intolerance toward our sisters. You know,” continued Sylvia with a dropping of her voice and a tilting of her head that caused Mrs. Owen to laugh,--”you know we are not awfully tolerant. And there's a breadth of view, an ability to brush away trifles and get to the heart of things, that we're just growing up to. And magnanimity--I think we fall short there. I'm just now trying to cultivate a sisterly feeling toward these good women for whom Jane Austen and Sir Roger de Coverley and the knitting of pale-blue tea cosies are all of life--who like mild twilight with the children singing hymns at the piano and the husband coming home to find his slippers set up against the baseburner. That was beautiful, but even they owe something to the million or so women to whom Jane Addams is far more important than Jane Austen. It might be more comfortable if the world never moved, but unfortunately it does seem to turn over occasionally.”
”I notice that you can say things like that, Sylvia, without waving your hands, or shouting like an old woman with a shawl on her head swinging a broom at the boys in her cherry tree. We've got to learn to do that. It was some time after I went into business, when Jackson Owen died, before I learned that you couldn't shoo men the way you shoo hens. You got to drop a little corn in a fence corner and then throw your ap.r.o.n over 'em.
It strikes me that if you could catch these girls that go to work in stores and offices young enough you might put them in the way of doing something better. There are schools doing this kind of thing, but I'd like to plant one right here in Indiana for the kind of girls we've got at Elizabeth House. They haven't much ambition, most of 'em; they're stuck right where they are. I'd like to see what can be done toward changing that, and see it started in my lifetime. And we must do it right. Think it over as you get time.” She glanced at the window. ”You'd better stay all night, Sylvia; it's getting dark.”
”No, I must run along home. The girls expect me.”
”That school idea's just between you and me for the present,” Mrs. Owen remarked as she watched Sylvia b.u.t.ton her mackintosh. ”Look here, Sylvia, don't you need some money? I mean, of course, don't you want to borrow some?”
”Oh, never! By the way, I didn't tell you that I expect to make some?
The publisher of one of grandfather's textbooks came to see me about the copyright, and there were some changes in the book that grandfather thought should be made and I'm going to make them. There's a chance of it's being adopted in one or two states. And then, I want to make a geometry of my own. All the textbooks make it so hard--and it really isn't. The same publisher told me he thought well of my scheme, and I'm going ahead with it.”
”Well, don't you kill yourself writing geometries: I should think teaching the youngsters would be a full job.”
”That's not a job at all, Aunt Sally; that's just fun. And you know I'm not going to do it always. I'm learning things now that I needed to know. I only wish my mind were as sound as my health.”
”You ought to wear heavier flannels, though; it's a perfect scandal what girls run around in nowadays.”
She rested her hands on Sylvia's shoulders lightly, smiled into her face, and then bent forward and kissed her.
”I don't understand why you won't wear rubbers, but be sure you don't sit around all evening in wet stockings.”
A gray mist was hastening nightfall, though the street lamps were not yet lighted. The glow of Mrs. Owen's kindness lingered with Sylvia as she walked toward Elizabeth House. She was constantly surprised by her friend's intensely modern spirit--her social curiosity, and the breadth and sanity of her views. This suggestion of a vocational school for young women had kindled Sylvia's imagination, and her thoughts were upon it as she tramped homeward through the slush. To establish an inst.i.tution such as Mrs. Owen had indicated would require a large sum of money, and there were always the Ba.s.setts, the heirs apparent of their aunt's fortune. Any feeling of guilt Sylvia may have experienced by reason of her enforced connivance with Mrs. Owen for the expenditure of her money was mitigated by her belief that the Ba.s.setts were quite beyond the need of their aunt's million, the figure at which Mrs. Owen's fortune was commonly appraised.
She was thinking of this when a few blocks from Mrs. Owen's she met Morton Ba.s.sett. The electric lamp overhead was just sputtering into light as he moved toward her out of an intersecting street. His folded umbrella was thrust awkwardly under his arm, and he walked slowly with bent head. The hissing of the lamp caused him to lift his eyes. Sylvia paused an instant, and he raised his hat as he recognized her.
”Good evening, Miss Garrison! I've just been out for a walk. It's a dreary evening, isn't it?”
Sylvia explained that she had been to Mrs. Owen's and was on her way home, and he asked if he might go with her.
”Marian usually walked with me at Fraserville, but since we've been here, Sunday seems to be her busy day. I find that I don't know much about the residential district; I can easily lose myself in this part of town.”
During these commonplaces she wondered just where their conversation at Marian's ball had left them; the wet street was hardly a more favorable place for serious talk than the crowded Propylaeum. The rain began to fall monotonously, and he raised his umbrella.