Then she tried to write an explanation of her inability to be absent from the home the night before but found after several attempts that it was impossible without telling too much. So she tore up her efforts, and wrote a few lines of regret that she could not come to the party and of disappointment to find them all away. She signed it, “Lovingly, Elsie,” just as if nothing had happened, and went out, leaving it on the desk where she knew her aunt would be sure to find it. This was all she could do.
She looked around once more wistfully on the dear rooms, so immaculate in their quiet order, ready for the hour when the family should come home to occupy them. Yet there was not any regret in her heart for what she had done. Her own home was fully as attractive in its way, and there was a bond of the need for her that drew her now far more strongly than ever she had been bound to this home. She did not go up to the room that had been hers. Somehow she felt it was not hers any more. There had been a finality about her going from here that had made her feel she would never again enter as anything but a guest. It could not belong to her in the old sense.
She thought she was sad as she left the door; but a few minutes and she was happy again, thinking of the evening and anticipating what Eugene would have to tell about his day’s experience. She was anxious to know whether anybody else had the problem and whether the professor was surprised. She thought pleasantly of the young man who had come in so informally and helped them, and of his frank, friendly way of being one with them. It did not seem possible that he was the same one who had spoken with such haughty superiority of the education of women. She felt again the frosty air on her cheek, and saw the wreaths of fog rise from the swamps as she recalled the wonderful motor trip; and then she wondered dreamily whether they would see him again often. He had said he would come and take them to ride, but so many people forget such things as soon as they are said. Well, it had been pleasant, if only for once.
The she turned her thoughts to the dinner. She would have time if she started as soon as she got home to make a Brown Betty for dessert. Her father had said he would like one, and she knew how to made delicious ones with hard sauce. So musing, she reached her home.
The Brown Betty was all made, and Elsie was just about to sit down to a book when she happened to glance out of the window, and saw Stewart going by. She stood still a moment behind the curtain, watching him. He could not see her; and she studied his tall, well-built form, his easy stride, the way he carried his head. Her vision was arrested by the trolley stopping and her father being assisted to get out. Was he ill? Was he—oh! He was staggering! Staggering and shaking his fist at the conductor, who had helped him out, shouting angrily something to which the conductor replied with a contemptuous laugh. The passengers were looking at him, too, and laughing or frowning; the whole lighted car was giving its attention to their house and to her father, who was making a terrible spectacle of himself! Cameron Stewart was passing the car! He could not have helped seeing and hearing! He could not help knowing who the drunken man was or where he lived, even if he did not remember him. A great resentment filled her heart. Oh! Why did that young man always seem to be around! Always she was humiliated before him! Well he was getting his wish! She was certainly being tried by a fiercer fire than ever burned in any kitchen range!
Her face burned crimson. Her heart beat so wildly that it seemed as if she could not get her breath. Her head reeled giddily. Everything in the room danced blackly before her eyes. Then she heard her father’s stumbling step upon the porch; and, turning, she fled blindly up the stairs to her room, locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed, burying her face in the pillow, yet listening with her very soul for any sound of horror that might come from below.
Chapter 19
She lay quite still for several seconds, her burning face hot in the pillow, her soul trying to listen for sounds from below, while the blood surged through her ears in a noisy tide that deafened her. All the time one thought was beating itself over and over in her brain, “That drunken man down there is my father!”
Suddenly she sat up with a strained, anxious look on her face, and realized that she had no time for giving way to agony. There were things to be done. There was that servant with ears and eyes probably all agog! She must somehow get her out of the house. Stealthily she opened her door and stole down the back stairs, trying in her flight to brush back her hair and erase the traces of horror fro her face.
“Martha!” she said sweetly from the dusk of the stairway, “could you please run down to the store at once before it closes and get a bottle of olives?”
Martha retreated hastily from the pantry door, where she also had been listening. With a knowing attitude, she came toward the back stairs, her large worn-down heels and floppy shoe-soles making no sound; and, standing close to the stair door, she peered keenly into Elsie’s flushed face.
“Say, now, honey, do you really want a bottle of olives? Cause, if you do, I think you just better run down yourself and get ’em. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a man come home more’n half full, and I can manage him. I worked for your Ma once, an’ I know all about this business. So you just keep out of it. I’ll get some supper on the table, an’ let him eat. Then like’s not he’ll go ’sleep an’ you all can come down and get yours. I’ll keep it hot. Now you run ’long to your room, honey, and don’t you fret. ’Tisn’t worth frettin’ about. My old man used to come home this way many a time. There, there, honey! You run ’long, an’ don’t you cry.” And Martha gave her an encouraging pat on the back.
Elsie stood for a moment, feeling that all the waters of trouble that the world contained were gone over her. The intolerable shame that a servant should know all about their disgrace, and speak of it as a common thing! That she should dare to open up the subject! That the circumstances were such that she had a right to offer pity and consolation! And then in her horror and dismay it came to her that this was just what Aunt Esther had meant. This was what she had sought to save her from.
With this realization came two things, a sudden pang of forgiveness and great love for the love that would have protected her; and a great, overwhelming determination to be strong and meet this terrible thing which she had no doubt she had been sent here to meet, and grapple with, and conquer, if possible.
The tears were in her eyes and rolling unheeded down her burning cheeks, but her firm little chin was lifted and set with purpose. She actually tried to smile as she stood there on the lower stair in the shadow and steadied her voice to say, “Thank you, Martha!” without choking over it.
A flash of understanding and admiration passed between the two, and there were tears on both black and white face alike. Then new horror froze Elsie’s breath in her throat. Heavy footsteps were coming toward the pantry door, and they could hear muttered imprecations.
“Run upstairs, honey, girl! Let me handle ’im!” whispered Martha, tenderly pushing Elsie away from her; but the girl stepped down beside the black woman, and stood calmly awaiting the opening of the door.
It was flung open with an angry jerk that caused it to rebound almost shut again, striking the man in the face and arousing his anger still further. This he vented on the two who stood awaiting his coming.
“Yes, here you are! Hiding away from me in my own house! Just as I expected!” he snarled, lowering his head like some wild beast and curving his hands till they made one think of claws outstretched for prey. He looked at them with his eyes narrowed into little glittering slits, all the fine manliness of his old face gone—vacant—and a beast in place of a soul. He stooped, and took a stealthy step forward as if he would spring upon them both, and began to utter a low guttural, ending in a stream of oaths.
“Run quick!” whispered Martha. “He’s pretty well tanked up. He’s been at it all day!”
But Elsie stepped forth from behind her protector, and in a clear voice spoke to him.
“Father! Supper is all ready. You go in and sit down in your place, and Martha and I will bring it
in.”
Something commanding in the clear voice held the beast in check. He straightened up, and looked at her a moment blankly as if trying to fathom her meaning. Then his eyes narrowed cunningly again, and he dropped once more into the stealthy, forward, creeping attitude.
“Oh, I know you! You want to get rid of me. Get rid of your own father! But I’ll teach you to be dutiful! I’ll show you that you can’t run away and hide from me when I come in: You—you—you—”
A torrent of hideous language followed as the man slowly lurched forward toward the girl, who stood looking at him with frightened, fascinated eyes. Slow memories were stealing, as if a veil had been suddenly lifted that hid the past; scenes in which she had had no part, of which she had heard far echoes; times when she had been hurried out of the house or to some distant room that she might not hear or see. Was this what had made her mother’s face so white and her smile so sad?
What was he going to do? Was he going to kill her, strangle her, perhaps? Why wasn’t she frightened? Why didn’t she run or scream? Why did she have to stand rooted to this spot on the old kitchen linoleum, with the chops burning on the gas-range and no power in her hands or feet to go and save them? And those awful words! Would she ever forget them if she lived beyond this terrible moment? They shivered through her like keen blades. He was coming nearer still. He had taken two more steps. She could smell the liquor on his breath. Would it never end, this awful waiting for him to do his worst?
Then suddenly a strong arm was flung about the man from behind; a hand shut firmly over his mouth, and two other hands caught his feet, and threw him. The brothers had come and flung themselves into the scene so quietly that no one of the three had heard them.
There was a moment’s struggle during which the girl closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears, waiting with trembling limbs for she knew not what. Then she was aware that the noise and struggle had ceased and Martha was drawing her down into a chair. Her brothers had carried their father up to his room. She could hear his struggles and shouting dimly; but Martha had shut all the doors, and was smoothing her hair and saying: “You poor child! Don’t take on so, honey! He’ll sleep it all off, and he won’t do a thing to you. Your ma use to say he wouldn’t ever really do anything when he was drunk, only just talk. You’ve got no call to be afraid. Yoh big brothers ’ll take good care o’ you, honey!”
Elsie heard Martha’s tender chatter, but for some time could not take in all she was saying. She tried to smile and make the woman understand that she was grateful, but she could not speak. She was overwhelmed. It was as if she had received a revelation of the world’s sin and degradation through the voice and person of her own father, and it was too much for her. She felt dazed with the horror of it all.
The boys came downstairs presently. They were stern and white. They came anxiously into the kitchen in search of her. Their eyes were flashing fire. It reminded Elsie of sparks she had once seen flying from a piece of fine steel that was held to the grindstone. She lifted a white face, and smiled a welcome to them faintly. Eugene stooped and gently kissed her on the forehead, and called her “dear” in a low tone. She was touched to tears with the suddenness and tenderness of it from this reserved brother. Jack came over, and lifted her up from the chair.
“Come on, kiddie,” he said as if she were a little child, “don’t take on! Why worry? You can’t help it, you know. He isn’t worth your tears. And anyhow he was bound to do it sooner or later, though he did hold off a long time on your account.”
“He’s no business to come home in that condition and frighten her!” muttered Eugene angrily. “He’s no business! He owes something to Elsie at least, after she’s come home to make things comfortable for us, even if he doesn’t owe anything to us. Hang it all! What’s the use of trying to do anything? What’s the use of my trying to go to the university with a father like that? No matter what you start, you’re always coming up against this.”
His face was black with anger and despair. Jack lifted his own tired eyes in a white face, and looked at him despairingly.
“Well, what’s the use?” he said with a kid of groan. “You can’t do anything.”
Then Elsie stood up and faced her brothers.
“God can!” she said solemnly. “And, yes we can do something, too. We must do something! We will do something! Why, boys, we can’t have him go on and live this way and then die! He mustn’t die that way!”
“Die!” sneered Eugene. “It would be a godsend if he would! You don’t know, Elsie. You were little. You didn’t understand. We shouldn’t have let you come here, I suppose. We knew it couldn’t last. But he promised. And it was so good to think of your coming.”
“I’m glad I came,” said Elsie. “Of course I’d come! I ought to have come before. And you’re not to talk that way. Something must be done. If I don’t understand, I’ll learn. We must find a way. People do stop drinking. I know they do. We must pray.”
Elsie was not accustomed to talk religion. In her heart she had her own firm faith, but she had been brought up to keep these things to herself, and now in the stress of the moment the words seemed wrung from her like something sacred that she feared to desecrate, yet was compelled to lay hold upon.
Her brothers stared at her, and Jack laughed at her, a loud, nervous laugh.
“Pray!” he said. “I’d like to know what good you think that would do? He needs a good club, I think, coming home and getting you into this state.”
“Pray!” sneered Eugene. “What good would that do? Elsie, you don’t understand. He’s been at it for years, and he’ll keep at it to the end. There’s no stopping him, and you might as well understand that now as later. You better pack up your things and go back to Aunt Esther’s. This is no place for you. We ought to have known better than to let you come.”
But Elsie was calm now. Somehow the mention of prayer had strengthened her. Somehow she remembered who had promised to walk beside His children in times of trouble, and a great peace descended upon her, and helped her to see things clearly.
“No, Eugene!” she said quietly. “You needn’t talk of my going away. He’s my father as well as yours, and I came here to stay. We’ll stick together, and keep the home; and we’ll work for him with all our might.”
“But it isn’t right to you, Elsie. You are a girl. You’ve had a chance to get out of this—this—this hell of a life, for that’s what it’s been, and you ought to stay out of it. It’s no place for a girl, just as Aunt Esther said. Why, you can’t have any friends coming here. You never know when he’s going to come home like this and turn everything upside down. You ought to go, Elsie, you really ought.”
Jack stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking miserably from one to the other of them.
“Do you want me to go, Gene?” asked Elsie, her voice trembling with appeal for her brother’s love.
“No! Of course I don’t want you to go, but I think you ought,” responded Eugene gruffly.
“Do you want me to go, Jack?”
“Not on your life!” responded Jack savagely.
“Then I’m not going!” she answered decidedly. “Whatever comes, I’m not going. Do you understand? Please don’t mention it to me again. I’m going to stay right here and help, at least until you want me to go. Now come; we’re going in to eat our supper.”
Martha had been going quietly back and forth carrying in the supper, and now she signified that everything was ready. Jack, big, hungry boy that he was, put his arm around Elsie’s waist, and she drew her arm within Eugene’s; and so the three went slowly, soberly to the table, and, sitting down, tried to be cheerful for one another’s sakes. But it was hard, for upstairs an angry, muttering voice kept shouting invectives, and there was pounding on the door; and the hearts of the three children were very sore.
“Come on out and take a walk, Elsie,” said Jack after supper when they had all settled down in the living-room and Eugene was at his books. The sounds of disturbance were st
ill heard upstairs at intervals. “This gets on my nerves.”
“But we mustn’t leave Gene here alone, and he has to study,” said Elsie, longing to go, yet held by her duty.
Eugene looked up from his books with an appreciative smile. It was so new to him to have anyone consider him that it sent a thrill through him every time.
“I don’t mind, really, kid,” he said tenderly. “I’m used to it, you know; and, besides, this book is awfully interesting. I’ll just stay here and keep at it. I’ve got to write a review of it yet tonight, you know, or I’d go too.”
So they slipped away in the moonlight, brother and sister, and walked about the streets of Morningside for an hour or more, passing houses lit up where people sat happily around tables reading and talking; looking in wistfully and wondering whether these too had hidden sorrows that might break out at any time and spoil the beauty and the comfort of the home. Jack opened his heart to his sister, revealing many of his boyish hopes and fears, how he used to dread to go into the house at night, because always his mother’s coffin seemed to be there in the parlor when he first entered, and how Elsie’s coming had dispelled the dreadful vision of that white, sad face. He told her how he used to lie and cry himself to sleep nights when his father was drunk, and wish and pray that he might die before morning; and how it used to hurt him to know that everyone knew their shame. He let her know that he had felt that God was against them all for his father’s sin, and he had often felt how useless it was to try to do anything right because there was God hating him for something he couldn’t help.
THE HONOR GIRL Page 15