Part 4 (2/2)
”You look stout and hearty; if you learn to weave as fast as you ort, and git so you can tend five or six looms, I'll bet you git a husband,”
he remarked in a burst of generosity. ”I'll bet you do; and what's more, I'll speak a good word for ye. A gal that's a peart weaver's mighty apt to find a man. You learn your looms if you want to git wedded--and I know in reason you do--it's about all gals of your age thinks of.”
When supper was over Johnnie was a little surprised to see the tall woman approach Pap Himes like a small child begging a favour of a harsh taskmaster.
”Can't that there new girl bunk with me?” she inquired earnestly.
”I had the intention to give her Louvany's bed,” Pap returned promptly.
”As long as n.o.body's with you, I reckon I don't care; but if one comes in, you take 'em, and she goes with Mavity, mind. I cain't waste room, poor as I am.”
Piloted by the tall girl, Johnnie climbed the narrow stair to a long bare room where a row of double beds accommodated eight girls. The couch she was to occupy had been slept in during the day by a mill hand who was on night turn, and it had not been remade. Deftly Johnnie straightened and spread it, while her partner grumbled.
”What's the use o' doin' that?” Mandy inquired, stretching herself and yawning portentously. ”We'll jist muss it all up in about two minutes.
When you've worked in a mill as long as I have you'll git over the notion of makin' your bed, for hit's _but_ a notion.”
Johnnie laughed across her shoulder.
”I'd just as soon do it,” she rea.s.sured her companion. ”I do love smooth bedclothes; looks like I dream better on 'em and under 'em.”
Mandy sat down on the edge of the bed, interfering considerably with the final touches Johnnie was putting to it.
”You're a right good gal,” she opined patronizingly, ”but foolish. The new ones always is foolish. I can put you up to a-many a thing that'll help you along, though, and I'm willin' to do it.”
Again Johnnie smiled at her, that smile of enveloping sweetness and tenderness. It made something down in the left side of poor Mandy's slovenly dress-bodice vibrate and tingle.
”I'll thank you mightily,” said Johnnie Consadine, ”mightily.” And knew not how true a word she spoke.
”You see,” counselled Mandy from the bed into which she had rolled with most of her clothes on, ”you want to get in with Miss Lydia Sessions and the Uplift ladies, and them thar swell folks.”
Johnnie nodded, busily at work making a more elaborated night toilet than the others, who were going to bed all about them, paying little attention to their conversation.
”Miss Lyddy she ain't as young as she once was, and the boys has quit hangin' 'round her as much as they used to; so now she has took up with good works,” the girl on the bed explained with a directness which Miss Sessions would not perhaps have appreciated. ”Her and some other of the n.o.bby folks has started what they call a Uplift club amongst the mill girls. Thar's a big room whar you dance--if you can--and whar they give little suppers for us with not much to eat; and thar's a place where they sorter preach to ye--lecture she calls it. I don't know what-all Miss Lyddy hain't got for her club. But you jist go, and listen, and say how much obliged you are, an she'll do a lot for you, besides payin'
your wages to get you out of the mill any day she wants you for the Upliftin' business.”
Mandy had a gasp, which occurred between sentences and at the end of certain words, with grotesque effect. Johnnie was to find that this gasp was always very much to the fore when Mandy was being uplifted. It then served variously as the gasp of humility, grat.i.tude, admiration; the gasp of chaste emotion, the gasp of reprobation toward others who did not come forward to be uplifted.
”Did you say there was books at that club?” inquired Johnnie out of the darkness--she had now extinguished the light. ”Can a body learn things from the lectures?”
”Uh-huh,” agreed Mandy sleepily; ”but you don't have to read 'em--the books. They lend 'em to you, and you take 'em home, and after so long a time you take 'em back sayin' how much good they done you. That's the way. If Mr. Stoddard's 'round, he'll ask you questions about 'em; but Miss Lyddy won't--she hates to find out that any of her plans ain't workin'.”
For a long time there was silence. Mandy was just dropping off into her first heavy sleep, when a whispering voice asked,
”Is Mr. Stoddard--has he got right brown eyes and right brown hair, and does he ride in one of these--one of these--”
”Good land!” grumbled the addressed, ”I thought it was mornin' and I had to git up! You ort to been asleep long ago. Yes, Mr. Stoddard's got sorter brown eyes and hair, and he rides in a otty-mobile. How did you know?”
But Mandy was too tired to stay awake to marvel over that. Her rhythmic snores soon proved that she slept, while Johnnie lay thinking of the various proffers she had that evening received of a lamp to her feet, a light on her path. And she would climb--yes, she would climb. Not by the road Pap Himes pointed out; not by the devious path Mandy Meacham suggested; but by the rugged road of good, honest toil, to heights where was the power and the glory, she would certainly strive.
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