Kitabı oku: «Dorothy», sayfa 4

CHAPTER VI
DOROTHY GOES UPON AN ERRAND

When Mrs. Chester returned she was tired and found Dorothy so. The girl took her mother's hat and put it away in its box, brought her a fan, and asked if she should get her something to eat.

"No, dear, thank you. I had dinner, all I wanted, with Aunt Chloe Chester. She takes this trouble of ours very hard, and declares that she will not live to see 'her boy' come back to Baltimore. She wishes she could die first, right away, so 'that he could go to my funeral while he's handy to it.'"

"Horrors! I – I suppose I love Aunt Chloe, because she was so good to father John, but I hope I'll never grow into such a terrible old woman. Seems if she had always to be dragged up out of the gloom into the sunshine. It's always the worst things are going to happen – with her. I don't see how father ever grew up to be such a sunshiny man, always under her hand, so. You must have had a dreary visit."

"It wasn't a restful one; but the reason for John's always looking on the bright side may be just that she always did the opposite. But you look sober, too, dearie. Wasn't Mabel's visit a pleasant one? How long has she been gone?"

"Oh! a good while. She went home to dinner. I – she ate 'most all the ham. All the best big slices anyway, and full half the pie. Then she wanted mustard, so she could eat more. She said that sometimes when she couldn't eat a big lot and they had extra good things, she'd get up and walk around the table, so she could. She didn't say that, to-day, though, but did once at a school picnic. And I – I broke a tumbler. One of the best."

"Why, Dorothy C.! How could you?" returned Mrs. Chester, but not at all as if she really heard or were in the least vexed. Then, as if forcing herself to an interest in small, home matters, she asked: "Were you very lonely after she went?"

"No, indeed. I wasn't alone – I mean, I wasn't lonely. Did father like his roses?"

"Yes, darling, and he fully appreciated your cutting them. He said he knew how you disliked it, for you'd never got over your baby notion that it hurt the plants, just as a cut finger hurt you. He said, too, that I was to tell you he'd found all the kisses, every one, but if you wanted any paid back you'd have to come to Johns Hopkins after them. It was a comfort to find him so happy and sure of getting well. I wish I were half as sure!"

Dorothy opened her lips to say something which it seemed impossible to keep from this beloved little mother opposite, who already seemed so changed and worn; who had lost every bit of that gayety which had been so astonishing, yesterday. But not yet – not yet. Besides, she was fully as truthful as Mabel Bruce and had given her pledge to silence. Then she remembered that she did not know to what part of the "country" they were destined, and asked:

"Mother Martha, can't you tell me something of your plans? Where we are going and when? And what is to become of this dear home?"

There was so much earnestness and sympathy in the girl's tones that Mrs. Chester forgot how young she was, and now talked with her as she might have done with a much older person; almost, indeed, as she would have done with the postman himself.

"We are going to a far-away state; to a place I haven't seen since I was a child, myself – the Hudson River highlands."

"Why – the Hudson River is in New York and we're in Maryland!" cried Dorothy. "Why go so far, away from everybody we know and care for? Wouldn't it do just to go to some little spot right near Baltimore, where we could come into the city on the cars, at any time? Isn't that what the Johns Hopkins doctors call the 'country'?"

"Oh! if we only might! But, my dear, there's an old saying about 'beggars' being 'choosers.' We aren't beggars, of course, but we are too poor to be 'choosers.' Fortunately, or unfortunately, as time will prove, I have a little place in the country where I told you. It belonged to an old bachelor uncle who died long ago. It has stood empty for many years and may be badly out of order. He willed it to me, as my portion of his estate: and though some of his other heirs have once or twice offered to buy it from me, the price they offered was so small that John had me refuse it. He's said in jest: 'No telling how glad we may some time be of that rocky hill-farm, Martha. Better hold on to it, as long as we can pay the taxes and keep it.' The taxes were not heavy, and we've paid them. Now, it is the only place out of the city where we have a right to go; and in one sense there couldn't be a better. It's one of the healthiest spots on earth, I suppose: and there'll be plenty of room for John to live in 'the open,' as he's advised. So we must go;" and with a heavy sigh mother Martha ceased speaking and leaned her head back, closing her eyes as if she were about to sleep.

But underneath all her calmness of tone had lain a profound sadness, and none but the absent John could have told how bitter to her was the coming severance from all she had ever held dear. Though born in New York State, she had come south with her parents when she was too small to remember any other home than their humble one in this same city. Here she had met and married John. Here they had together earned their cozy home. Here were all her church associations, and here the few whom she called friends.

She had always leaned upon her husband's greater wisdom and strength in all the affairs of their quiet lives, and now that she needed them most she was deprived of them. Alone, she must pack up, or sell, their household goods, and not an article of them but was dear because of some sacrifice involved in its purchase. Alone, she must attend to the sale or rental of their house, for the doctors had told her that very morning that her patient must not be disturbed "for any cause whatever. There was a chance, one in a thousand, that he might get well. If this chance were to be his it depended upon his absolute freedom from care and responsibility."

She had assured them that this should be so, and it had seemed easy to promise, in the face of the greater sorrow if he must remain an invalid or, possibly, die. But now, back in the security of her beloved home, her courage waned; and Dorothy, watching, saw tears steal from under the closed eyelids and chase one another down the pale cheek, which only yesterday, it seemed, had been so round and rosy.

To a loving child there is no more piteous sight than a mother weeping. It was more than Dorothy could bear, and, with a little cry of distress, she threw herself at Mrs. Chester's knees and hid her own wet eyes upon them. Then she lifted her head and begged:

"Don't cry, mother! Dearest mother Martha, please, please, don't cry! You've never done it, never; in all my life I haven't seen you, no matter what happened. If you cry we can't do anything, and I'm going to help you. Maybe we won't have to go away. Maybe something perfectly splendid will happen to prevent. Maybe darling father will get well, just resting from his mail route. Surely, nobody could fix him nicer nourishments than you can, if we can afford it. Maybe we shall be able to afford – Oh! if only I could tell you something! Something that would make you happy again!"

Mother Martha ceased weeping and smiled into the tender eyes of the devoted child who had so well repaid her own generosity. Then she wiped both their faces and in quite a matter-of-fact way bade Dorothy sit down, quietly, while she told her some necessary things. One: that in the morning she should be sent to the post-office, to receive the envelope containing the ten dollars due for her own board. Mrs. Chester had arranged with the new postman about it and there would be no difficulty. There was never a word written with these payments. The postman's address was on the outside the envelope, which was never registered, had never gone astray, and had never held more than the solitary crisp ten-dollar bill expected.

"We shall need all the money we can get in hand, for the expenses of our moving will be heavy – for us. I'm going to see some real-estate men and decide whether it is best to sell, or rent, this house. I shall be very busy. John isn't to stay at the hospital but a week, and so by the end of this coming one I want to be in our new home. I rather dread the journey, though we can easily make it in a day – or less. But your father thinks he can get along real well on crutches, that we'll have to buy, of course; and I've noticed that people on the street cars, even, are always kind and helpful to invalids. John believes that it's a good, jolly old world, and you and I must try to believe the same. He says there's lots of truth in the saying: 'He that would have friends must show himself friendly.' I reckon nobody ever turned a friendlier face toward others than John has, and that's why everybody loves him so.

"Now, dearie, fetch me my Bible and I'll read awhile. I don't feel as if I'd had any real Sunday, yet. Then, by and by, you may make me a cup of tea and we'll get to bed early. Of course, there'll be no more school for you here, though I shall want you to step in and bid Miss Georgia good-bye. That's no more than polite, even if you don't love her as you should."

Dorothy made a little mouth, which for once her mother did not reprove: and presently they both were reading. At least, Mrs. Chester really was, while the peace of the volume she studied stole into her troubled heart and shed its light upon her face. Dorothy, also, held her book in her hand and kept her eyes fixed on the printed pages; but, had her mother chanced to look up and observe, she would have seen no leaves turned; though gradually an expression of almost wild delight grew upon the mobile features till the girl looked as if she were just ready to sing.

However, she said nothing of her happy thoughts and watched her mother fall asleep in the drowsy heat of the late afternoon, and from the fatigue of a sleepless night and a busy day. Then she crept on tiptoe out of the room, noiselessly removing her slitted shoes before she rose from her chair, and presently had gained the kitchen at the rear. Here she lighted a little gas stove and put on the kettle to boil. Then she did what seemed a strange thing for a girl as strictly reared as she, on a Sunday evening. She caught up her short skirts and, after the manner of pictured dancers upon wall-posters, began to whirl and pirouette around the little space, as if by such movements, only, could she express the rapture that thrilled her.

"There, I reckon I've worked myself down to quiet!" she exclaimed, at length, to the cat which entered, stretching its legs in a sleepy fashion and ready for its supper. "Now, I'll feed you, Ma'am Puss, though you ought to feed yourself on the rats that bother our garden. Queer, isn't it? How everything 'feeds' on something else. I hate rats, and I hate to have them killed. Killing is horrible: and, I'm afraid that to have my roses killed by the creatures is worst of all."

Ma'am Puss did not reply, except by rubbing herself against her mistress's legs, and, having filled a saucer with milk, Dorothy went out into the garden and stayed there a long time. There many thoughts came to her, and many, many regrets. Regrets for past negligencies, that had caused the drooping – therefore suffering – of some tender plant; for the knowledge of her coming separation from these treasures which both she and father John had loved almost as if they were human creatures; but keenest of all, regrets for the lost activity of the once so active postman. Mother Martha's griefs and her own might be hard to bear, but his was far, far worse. Nothing, not even the delightful surprises she felt she had in store for him, could give him back his lost health.

She had no propensity to dance when she went indoors again. It was a very sober, thoughtful Dorothy C. who presently carried a little tray into the parlor and insisted upon the tired housemistress enjoying her supper there, where she could look out upon the cheerful street with its Sunday promenaders, "and just be waited on, nice and cozy."

Both inmates of the little home slept soundly that night. Sleep is a close friend to the toilers of the world, though the idle rich seek it in vain: and the morning found them refreshed and courageous for the duties awaiting. There would be few tears and no repining on the part of either because of a home-breaking. Bitterer trials might come, but the depth of this one they had fathomed and put behind them.

Moreover, it fell in with Dorothy's own desires that she was to make the post-office trip: and she started upon it with so much confidence that her mother was surprised and remarked:

"Well, small daughter, for a child who knows so little of business and has never been further down town than the market, alone, you are behaving beautifully. I'm proud of you. So will your father be. Maybe, if any of the agents I'm going to telephone come here to-day and keep me, I'll let you go to pay the daily visit to John and tell him all the news. Take care of the street crossings. It's so crowded on the business streets and I should be forlorn, indeed, if harm befell my Dorothy C."

Even when the child turned, half-way down the block, to toss a kiss backward to her mother in the doorway, that anxious woman felt a strange fear for her darling and recalled her for a final caution:

"Be sure to take care of your car-fare, Dorothy; and be more than sure you don't lose the money-letter. When you board a car look to see another isn't coming on the other track, to knock you down."

The little girl came back and clung to Mrs. Chester for a moment, laughing, yet feeling her own courage a trifle dashed by these suggestions of peril. But she slipped away again, determining to do her errands promptly, while, with a curious foreboding in her mind, the housemistress re-entered her deserted home, reflecting:

"John always laughs at my 'presentiments,' yet I never had one as strong as this upon me now that I did not wish, afterward, I had yielded to it. I've half a mind to follow the child and overtake her before she gets into a car. I could snatch a little while to do those downtown errands and she'd be perfectly safe here. Pshaw! How silly I am! Dorothy is old enough to be trusted and can be. I'll put her out of mind till I hear her gay little call at the door, when she rings its bell: 'It's I, mother Martha! Please let me in!'"

But alas! That familiar summons was never again to be heard at No. 77 Brown Street.

CHAPTER VII
AN OFFICE SEEKER AND A CLIENT

"Well, little girl, what are you doing here?"

Dorothy had safely reached the big post-office, which seemed to be the busiest place she had ever entered; busier even than the department stores on a "bargain day;" and she had timidly slipped into the quietest corner she could find, to wait a moment while the crowd thinned. Then she would present her note, that asked for father John's letter to be given her, and which was in his own handwriting, to make sure. But the crowd did not thin! Besides the swarms and swarms of postmen, wearing just such gray uniforms as her father's, there were so many men. All were hastening to or from the various windows which partitioned a big inner room from this bigger outside one and behind which were other men in uniform – all so busy, busy, busy!

"Why! I didn't dream there could ever be so many letter-carriers! and each one is so like father, that I'm all mixed up! I know I've got to go to one those windows, to give this letter and get the other one, but how will I ever get a chance to do it, between all those men?"

Then while Dorothy thus wondered, growing half-frightened, there had come that question, put in a familiar tone, and looking up she saw another gray-uniformed person whom she recognized as her father's friend. Once he had been to their house to dinner, and how glad she now was for that.

"Oh, Mr. Lathrop! How glad I am to see you! I've got to get a letter and I don't see how I'll ever have the chance. The people don't stop coming, not a minute."

"That's so, little girl – Beg pardon, but I forget your name, though I know you belong to John Chester."

"Dorothy it is, Mr. Lathrop. Could you – could you possibly spare time to help me?"

"Well, I reckon there's nobody in this office but would spare any amount of time to help one of John Chester's folks. I was just starting on my rounds – second delivery – heavy mail – but come along with me and I'll fix you out all right."

He turned, shifted his heavy pouch a little, and caught her hand. Then he threaded his way through the crowd with what seemed to his small companion a marvelous dexterity. It happened to be the "rush hour" of business, and at almost any other, Dorothy would not have found any difficulty in making her own way around, but there was also the confusion of a first visit. Presently, however, she found herself at the right window to secure the letter she sought, received it, and heard Mr. Lathrop say:

"There. That's all right. I reckon you can find your way out all safe, and I'm in a hurry. Please make my regards to your mother and tell her we've heard where John is and some of us are going to see him, first chance we get. Too bad such a thing should happen to him! Don't let anybody snatch that letter from you, and good-bye."

Then Dorothy found herself alone and no longer afraid. She had accomplished her mother's errand – now she must attend to a much more important one of her own. She gazed about her with keenest interest, trying to understand the entire postal business, as there represented before her, and assuring herself that after all it was extremely simple.

"It's just because it's new. New things always puzzle folks. As soon as I've been once or twice I shan't mind it, no more than any of these people do. I wonder which way I must go? If he's the head man he ought to have the head room, I should think. Hmm. I'll have to ask, and – and – I sort of hate to. Never mind, Dorothy C.! You're doing it for father John and mother Martha; and if you plan to be grown-up, in your outsides, you must be inside, too. Father hates bold little girls. He says they're a – a – annemoly, or something. It belongs to girl children to be afraid of things. He thinks it's nice. Well, I'm all right nice enough inside, this minute, but – I'll do it!"

After these reflections and this sudden resolution Dorothy darted forward and seized the arm of a negro who was cleaning the floor.

"Please, boy, tell me the way to the head man's place. The real postmaster of all."

"Hey? I dunno as he's in, yet. He don't come down soon, o' mornin's. What you want to see him for?"

"On business of my own. The way, please," answered Dorothy, bracing her resolution by the fancied air of a grown person.

The negro grinned and resumed his scrubbing, but nodded backward over his shoulder toward a tall gentleman just entering the building.

"That's him. Now you got your chance, better take it."

There was nothing to inspire fear in the face of this "head man of all," nor was there anything left in Dorothy's mind but the desire to accomplish her "business" at once and, of course, successfully. Another instant, and the gentleman crossing the floor felt a detaining touch upon his sleeve and beheld a bonny little face looking earnestly up into his own. Also, a childish voice was saying:

"I'm John Chester's little girl. May I ask you something?"

"You seem already to be asking me something, but I'm happy to meet you, Miss Chester, and shall be very glad to hear all about your father. He was one of the very best men on the force, one of the most intelligent. I can give you five minutes. Come this way, please."

Dorothy flashed him one of her beautiful smiles, and the postmaster, who happened to love all children, observed that this was a very handsome child with a pair of wonderful, appealing eyes. Though, of course, he did not express his admiration in words, Dorothy felt that she had pleased him and her last hesitation vanished.

As soon as they were seated in a private apartment, she burst into the heart of the matter, saying:

"Please, Mr. Postmaster, will you let me take my father's place?"

"W-wh – at?" asked the gentleman, almost as if he whistled it in astonishment.

Dorothy laughed. "I know I'm pretty small to carry big pouches, 'specially the Christmas and Easter ones, but you always have 'extras' then, anyway. I know my father's whole beat. I know it from end to end – all the people's houses, the numbers to them, and lots of the folks that live around. What I don't know I can read on the envelopes. I'm a quick reader of handwriting, Miss Georgia says."

The postmaster did not interrupt her by a word, but the twinkle in his eyes grew brighter and brighter and at the end he laughed. Not harshly nor in a manner to hurt her feelings, which he saw were deep and sincere, but because he found this one of the most refreshing experiences of his rather humdrum position. Here was a visitor, a petitioner, quite different from the numberless illiterate men who bothered him for office. He hated to disappoint her, just yet, so asked with interest:

"And who is Miss Georgia?"

"She's my teacher. She's the vice principal of our school. She's dreadful smart."

"Indeed? But what, Miss Chester, put this notion into your head? By taking your father's 'place' I conclude that you are applying for his position as mail-carrier. Did you ever hear of a little girl postman?"

"No, sir, I didn't, but there has to be a first time, a first one, to everything, doesn't there? So I could be the first girl postman. And why I want to is because I think I must support my parents."

The applicant's reply was given with the serious importance due from a young lady whom such a fine gentleman called "Miss Chester"; and when he again desired to know whose idea it was that she should seek a place on "the force," she answered proudly:

"All my own. Nobody's else. Not a single body – not even my mother Martha – ever suspects. I want it to be a surprise, a real, Christmassy surprise. Oh! She's feeling terrible bad about our leaving our home and not knowing what we'll have to live on. So I thought it all out and that I'd come right to you and ask, before any other substitute got appointed.

"Well, maybe the notion came that last day my father carried the mail. His poor legs and feet got so terribly wobbly that he was afraid he'd fall down or something and couldn't finish his delivery. So I walked alongside of him and ran up the steps and handed in the letters and everybody was just as nice as nice to us, except old Mrs. Cecil, who lives at Bellevieu. She was mad. She was real mad. She said we were breaking the law, the two of us. Think of that! My father, John Chester, a law-breaker! Why, he couldn't break a law to save his life. He's too good."

The postmaster smiled. He had, apparently, forgotten that he was to give only five minutes to this small maid, and he was really charmed by her simplicity and confidence.

"Was that the day Mr. Chester was taken to the hospital? The boys have told me about him – some things. How is he doing? Will he be there long? You see, I can ask questions, too!" continued the gentleman, very socially.

"My mother says there's a chance he may get well. He's to be there only this week that ever is. Then he's to be taken into the country, away, away to some mountains in New York State. He's got to live right outdoors all the time, and he mustn't worry, not a single worry. My mother daren't even talk with him about selling, or renting, our house, or the furniture, or – or anything. So she talks to me – some."

"I hope you talk to her – more than 'some'; and I'm wondering if you had done so before you came to me whether I should ever have had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

Was there a reproof in this? Dorothy's sensitive heart fancied so, yet she couldn't imagine in what she had done wrong. With a little waning of hope – the postmaster had been so delightful that she was already sure he would grant her request – she asked:

"Is it bad? why shouldn't I want to earn the money for my parents? Same as they have for me and us all. If I had the place, they could go to the country, just the same, and the money could be sent to them to live on every month. Of course, I'd have to not go with them. I reckon Mrs. Bruce, the plumber's wife, would let me live with her, if my folks paid her board for me. Mabel and I could sleep together, and I'd help with the dishes and work, 'cause if I were a postman I couldn't go to school, of course. I'd have to study nights, same as father has. So, if I didn't make much trouble, maybe Mrs. Bruce wouldn't charge much. But, excuse me. My father John says I talk too much, and that when I go to do errands I should stick to business. He says it doesn't make any difference to the folks that hire you to work for them whether you're rich or poor, sick or well. All they want is to have the work done – and no talk about it. I'm sorry I've said so much. I didn't mean to, but – "

"But," repeated the postmaster, suggestively; and Dorothy finished her sentence:

"I haven't talked a single word to anybody else, and it seems so good to do it now. I never had a secret – secrets, for I've got another one yet, that I can't tell – before and I don't like them. I beg your pardon, and – May I have my father's position?" said Dorothy, rising, and seeing by the big clock on the wall that she had long overstayed the time allotted for this interview.

The gentleman also rose, and laid his hand kindly upon her shoulder, but his face and voice were grave, as he answered:

"No, my dear, I am sorry to disappoint you, but you ask the impossible. You could not – But there's no use in details of explanation. As your wise father has taught you, business should be reduced to its simplest terms. I cannot give you the place, but I can, and do, give you the best of advice – for one of your imaginative nature. Never cherish secrets! Never, even such delightful, surprising ones, as this of yours has been. Especially, never keep anything from your mother. When anything comes into your mind which you feel you cannot tell her banish the idea at once and you'll stay on the safe side of things. Good-morning."

Other people were entering the private office and Dorothy was being courteously bowed out of it, before she fully realized that she had not obtained her desire, and never would. For a few seconds, her temper flamed, and she reflected, tartly:

"Huh! I should make as good a postman as lots of them do. My father says some of them are too ignorant for their places. I'm not ignorant. I'm the best scholar in my class, and my class is the highest one in our Primary. I could do it. I could so. But – Well, he was real nice. He acted just as if he had little girls of his own and knew just how they felt. He laughed at me, but he didn't laugh hateful, like Miss Georgia does on her 'nervous days' when she mixes me all up in my lessons. And anyhow, maybe it's just as well. If I'd got to be a letter-girl I couldn't have gone to the country with father and mother, and I should have about died of lonesomeness without them. Maybe Mrs. Bruce wouldn't have had me, nor the minister's folks either. Anyway, I've got that other, more splendid secret, still. I have to have that, because I have it already, and so can't help. Miss Georgia would say that there were two too many 'haves' in that sentence, and the 'two too' sounds funny, too. Now I must go home. I've got my money-letter all right and, after all, I'm glad mother Martha doesn't know that I wanted father's beat, she'd be so much disappointed to know how near we came to staying here and couldn't."

With which philosophic acceptance of facts and a cheerful looking forward to the "next thing," the rejected seeker after public office ran up the hill leading from the post-office and straight against another opportunity, as it were.

Just as she had signalled a car, the "gentleman" who had twice called upon her and who had told her that his name was "John Smith," appeared beside her on the sidewalk, raised his hat, and with an engaging air exclaimed:

"Why, Miss Chester, how fortunate! I was just on the point of going to see you. Now, if you will go with me, instead, it will save time and answer just as well. We don't take this car, but another. My office is on Howard Street, and we'll walk till we meet a Linden Avenue car. This way, please. Allow me?"

But Dorothy shrank back from this overly pleasant man. It was with the same feeling of repulsion that she had experienced on each of their previous meetings, and which she had tried to conquer because of the great benefit he claimed he had sought her to bestow upon her.

Her next sensation was one of pride, remembering that this was the second time that morning for her to be called "Miss Chester." Each time it had been by a grown-up gentleman and the fact made her feel quite grown-up and important, also. Besides, this present person was able, he said, to more than compensate for any disappointment the postmaster had inflicted – though, of course, that affair was known only to "the head man of all" and herself. However, she couldn't accept Mr. Smith's invitation, for, she explained:

"Thank you, but I can't go with you now. I'm doing an errand for my mother and she'll be expecting me home. She's very busy and needs me to help her. Nor do I want to make her worry, for she has all the trouble now she can bear. The first time I can come, if you'll tell me where, I'll try to do so. Are you sure, sure, Mr. Smith, that I am really an heiress and you will help me to get the money that belongs to me?"

"Perfectly sure. A lawyer like me doesn't waste his time on any doubtful business. I have more cases on hand, this very minute, than I can attend to and ought not to stand idle here one moment. Don't, I beg of you, also stand in your own light, against your real interests and the interests of those who are dearer to you than yourself. It is very simple. As soon as you reach the office I'll give you paper and pen and you can send a message to your mother, explaining that you have been detained on business but will soon be with her. Ah, yes, the note by all means. It quite goes against my nature to cause anybody needless anxiety. Here's our car. Step in, please."