by Zane Grey
“Fer the land sakes! Is that all?” said the woman with much relief and a degree of satisfaction. “Why, that’s nothing. You ought to be proud. Many a girl would go boasting round about that. What are you crying for? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Why, Lizzie seems to think he’s fine. I tell you Lizzie wouldn’t cry if he was to kiss her, I’m sure. She’d just laugh, and ask him fer a holiday. Here, sit up, child, and wash your face, and go back to your work. You’ve evidently struck the manager on the right side, and you’re bound to get a rise in your wages. Every girl he takes a notion to gets up and does well. Perhaps you’ll get money enough to go to school. Goodness knows what you want to go for. I s’pose it’s in the blood, though Bess used to say your pa wa’n’t any great at study. But, if you’ve struck the manager the right way, no telling what he might do. He might even want to marry you.”
“Grandmother!”
Mrs. Brady was favored with the flashing of the Bailey eyes. She viewed it in astonishment not unmixed with admiration.
“Well, you certainly have got spirit,” she ejaculated. “I don’t wonder he liked you. I didn’t know you was so pretty, Bessie; you look like your mother when she was eighteen; you really do. I never saw the resemblance before. I believe you’ll get on all right. Don’t you be afraid. I wish you had your chance if you’re so anxious to go to school. I shouldn’t wonder ef you’d turn out to be something and marry rich. Well, I must be getting back to me tub. Land sakes, but you did give me a turn. I thought Lizzie had been run over. I couldn’t think what else’d make you run off way here without your coat. Come, get up, child, and go back to your work. It’s too bad you don’t like to be kissed, but don’t let that worry you. You’ll have lots worse than that to come up against. When you’ve lived as long as I have and worked as hard, you’ll be pleased to have some one admire you. You better wash your face, and eat a bite of lunch, and hustle back. You needn’t be afraid. If he’s fond of you, he won’t bother about your running away a little. He’ll excuse you ef ’tis busy times, and not dock your pay neither.”
“Grandmother!” said Elizabeth. “Don’t! I can never go back to that awful place and that man. I would rather go back to Montana. I would rather be dead.”
“Hoity-toity!” said the easy-going grandmother, sitting down to her task, for she perceived some wholesome discipline was necessary. “You can’t talk that way, Bess. You got to go to your work. We ain’t got money to keep you in idleness, and land knows where you’d get another place as good’s this one. Ef you stay home all day, you might make him awful mad; and then it would be no use goin’ back, and you might lose Lizzie her place too.”
But, though the grandmother talked and argued and soothed by turns, Elizabeth was firm. She would not go back. She would never go back. She would go to Montana if her grandmother said any more about it.
With a sigh at last Mrs. Brady gave up. She had given up once before nearly twenty years ago. Bessie, her oldest daughter, had a will like that, and tastes far above her station. Mrs. Brady wondered where she got them.
“You’re fer all the world like yer ma,” she said as she thumped the clothes in the wash-tub. “She was jest that way, when she would marry your pa. She could ’a’ had Jim Stokes, the groceryman, or Lodge, the milkman, or her choice of three railroad men, all of ’em doing well, and ready to let her walk over ’em; but she would have your pa, the drunken, good-for-nothing, slippery dude. The only thing I’m surprised at was that he ever married her. I never expected it. I s’posed they’d run off, and he’d leave her when he got tired of her; but it seems he stuck to her. It’s the only good thing he ever done, and I’m not sure but she’d ’a’ been better off ef he hadn’t ’a’ done that.”
“Grandmother!” Elizabeth’s face blazed.
“Yes, gran’mother!” snapped Mrs. Brady. “It’s all true, and you might’s well face it. He met her in church. She used to go reg’lar. Some boys used to come and set in the back seat behind the girls, and then go home with them. They was all nice enough boys ’cept him. I never had a bit a use fer him. He belonged to the swells and the stuck-ups; and he knowed it, and presumed upon it. He jest thought he could wind Bessie round his finger, and he did. If he said, ‘Go,’ she went, no matter what I’d do. So, when his ma found it out, she was hoppin’ mad. She jest came driving round here to me house, and presumed to talk to me. She said Bessie was a designing snip, and a bad girl, and a whole lot of things. Said she was leading her son astray, and would come to no good end, and a whole lot of stuff; and told me to look after her. It wasn’t so. Bess got John Bailey to quit smoking fer a whole week at a time, and he said if she’d marry him he’d quit drinking too. His ma couldn’t ’a’ got him to promise that. She wouldn’t even believe he got drunk. I told her a few things about her precious son, but she curled her fine, aristocratic lip up, and said, ‘Gentlemen never get drunk.’ Humph! Gentlemen! That’s all she knowed about it. He got drunk all right, and stayed drunk, too. So after that, when I tried to keep Bess at home, she slipped away one night; said she was going to church; and she did too; went to the minister’s study in a strange church, and got married, her and John; and then they up and off West. John, he’d sold his watch and his fine diamond stud his ma had give him; and he borrowed some money from some friends of his father’s, and he off with three hundred dollars and Bess; and that’s all I ever saw more of me Bessie.”
The poor woman sat down in her chair, and wept into her apron regardless for once of the soap-suds that rolled down her red, wet arms.
“Is my grandmother living yet?” asked Elizabeth. She was sorry for this grandmother, but did not know what to say. She was afraid to comfort her lest she take it for yielding.
“Yes, they say she is,” said Mrs. Brady, sitting up with a show of interest. She was always ready for a bit of gossip. “Her husband’s dead, and her other son’s dead, and she’s all alone. She lives in a big house on Rittenhouse Square. If she was any ’count, she’d ought to provide fer you. I never thought about it. But I don’t suppose it would be any use to try. You might ask her. Perhaps she’d help you go to school. You’ve got a claim on her. She ought to give you her son’s share of his father’s property, though I’ve heard she disowned him when he married our Bess. You might fix up in some of Lizzie’s best things, and go up there and try. She might give you some money.”
“I don’t want her money,” said Elizabeth stiffly. “I guess there’s work somewhere in the world I can do without begging even of grandmothers. But I think I ought to go and see her. She might want to know about father.”
Mrs. Brady looked at her granddaughter wonderingly. This was a view of things she had never taken.
“Well,” said she resignedly, “go your own gait. I don’t know where you’ll come up at. All I say is, ef you’re going through the world with such high and mighty fine notions, you’ll have a hard time. You can’t pick out roses and cream and a bed of down every day. You have to put up with life as you find it.”
Elizabeth went to her room, the room she shared with Lizzie. She wanted to get away from her grandmother’s disapproval. It lay on her heart like lead. Was there no refuge in the world? If grandmothers were not refuges, where should one flee? The old lady in Chicago had understood; why had not Grandmother Brady?
Then came the sweet old words, “Let not your heart be troubled.” “In the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me.” She knelt down by the bed and said “Our Father.” She was beginning to add some words of her own now. She had heard them pray so in Christian Endeavor in the sentence prayers. She wished she knew more about God, and His Book. She had had so little time to ask or think about it. Life seemed all one rush for clothes and position.
At supper-time Lizzie came home much excited. She had been in hot water all the afternoon. The girls had said at lunch-time that the manager was angry wit
h Bessie, and had discharged her. She found her coat and hat, and had brought them home. The pocketbook was missing. There was only fifteen cents in it; but Lizzie was much disturbed, and so was the grandmother. They had a quiet consultation in the kitchen; and, when the aunt came, there was another whispered conversation among the three.
Elizabeth felt disapproval in the air. Aunt Nan came, and sat down beside her, and talked very coldly about expenses and being dependent upon one’s relatives, and let her understand thoroughly that she could not sit around and do nothing; but Elizabeth answered by telling her how the manager had been treating her. The aunt then gave her a dose of worldly wisdom, which made the girl shrink into herself. It needed only Lizzie’s loud-voiced exhortations to add to her misery and make her feel ready to do anything. Supper was a most unpleasant meal. At last the grandmother spoke up.
“Well, Bessie,” she said firmly, “we’ve decided, all of us, that, if you are going to be stubborn about this, something will have to be done; and I think the best thing is for you to go to Mrs. Bailey and see what she’ll do for you. It’s her business, anyway.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks were very red. She said nothing. She let them go on with the arrangements. Lizzie went and got her best hat, and tried it on Elizabeth to see how she would look, and produced a silk waist from her store of garments, and a spring jacket. It wasn’t very warm, it is true; but Lizzie explained that the occasion demanded strenuous measures, and the jacket was undoubtedly stylish, which was the main thing to be considered. One could afford to be cold if one was stylish.
Lizzie was up early the next morning. She had agreed to put Elizabeth in battle-array for her visit to Rittenhouse Square. Elizabeth submitted meekly to her borrowed adornings. Her hair was brushed over her face, and curled on a hot iron, and brushed backward in a perfect mat, and then puffed out in a bigger pompadour than usual. The silk waist was put on with Lizzie’s best skirt, and she was adjured not to let that drag. Then the best hat with the cheap pink plumes was set atop the elaborate coiffure; the jacket was put on; and a pair of Lizzie’s long silk gloves were struggled into. They were a trite large when on, but to the hands unaccustomed to gloves they were like being run into a mould.
Elizabeth stood it all until she was pronounced complete. Then she came and stood in front of the cheap little glass, and surveyed herself. There were blisters in the glass that twisted her head into a grotesque shape. The hairpins stuck into her head. Lizzie had tied a spotted veil tight over her nose and eyes. The collar of the silk waist was frayed, and cut her neck. The skirt-band was too tight, and the gloves were torture. Elizabeth turned slowly, and went down-stairs, past the admiring aunt and grandmother, who exclaimed at the girl’s beauty, now that she was attired to their mind, and encouraged her by saying they were sure her grandmother would want to do something for so pretty a girl.
Lizzie called out to her not to worry, as she flew for her car. She said she had heard there was a variety show in town where they wanted a girl who could shoot. If she didn’t succeed with her grandmother, they would try and get her in at the show. The girls at the store knew a man who had charge of it. They said he liked pretty girls, and they thought would be glad to get her. Indeed, Mary James had promised to speak to him last night, and would let her know to-day about it. It would likely be a job more suited to her cousin’s liking.
Elizabeth shuddered. Another man! Would he be like all the rest?—all the rest save one!
She walked a few steps in the direction she had been told to go, and then turned resolutely around, and came back. The watching grandmother felt her heart sink. What was this headstrong girl going to do next? Rebel again?
“What’s the matter, Bessie?” she asked, meeting her anxiously at the door. “It’s bad luck to turn back when you’ve started.”
“I can’t go this way,” said the girl excitedly. “It’s all a cheat. I’m not like this. It isn’t mine, and I’m not going in it. I must have my own clothes and be myself when I go to see her. If she doesn’t like me and want me, then I can take Robin and go back.” And like another David burdened with Saul’s armor she came back to get her little sling and stones.
She tore off the veil, and the sticky gloves from her cold hands, and all the finery of silk waist and belt, and donned her old plain blue coat and skirt in which she had arrived in Philadelphia. They had been frugally brushed and sponged, and made neat for a working dress. Elizabeth felt that they belonged to her. Under the jacket, which fortunately was long enough to hide her waist, she buckled her belt with the two pistols. Then she took the battered old felt hat from the closet, and tried to fasten it on; but the pompadour interfered. Relentlessly she pulled down the work of art that Lizzie had created, and brushed and combed her long, thick hair into subjection again, and put it in its long braid down her back. Her grandmother should see her just as she was. She should know what kind of a girl belonged to her. Then, if she chose to be a real grandmother, well and good.
Mrs. Brady was much disturbed in mind when Elizabeth came down-stairs. She exclaimed in horror, and tried to force the girl to go back, telling her it was a shame and disgrace to go in such garments into the sacred precincts of Rittenhouse Square; but the girl was not to be turned back. She would not even wait till her aunt and Lizzie came home. She would go now, at once.
Mrs. Brady sat down in her rocking-chair in despair for full five minutes after she had watched the reprehensible girl go down the street. She had not been so completely beaten since the day when her own Bessie left the house and went away to a wild West to die in her own time and way. The grandmother shed a few tears. This girl was like her own Bessie, and she could not help loving her, though there was a streak of something else about her that made her seem above them all; and that was hard to bear. It must be the Bailey streak, of course. Mrs. Brady did not admire the Baileys, but she was obliged to reverence them.
If she had watched or followed Elizabeth, she would have been still more horrified. The girl went straight to the corner grocery, and demanded her own horse, handing back to the man the dollar he had paid her last Saturday night, and saying she had need of the horse at once. After some parley, in which she showed her ability to stand her own ground, the boy unhitched the horse from the wagon, and got her own old saddle for her from the stable. Then Elizabeth mounted her horse and rode away to Rittenhouse Square.
CHAPTER XIII
ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER
Elizabeth’s idea in taking the horse along with her was to have all her armor on, as a warrior goes out to meet the foe. If this grandmother proved impossible, why, then so long as she had life and breath and a horse she could flee. The world was wide, and the West was still open to her. She could flee back to the wilderness that gave her breath.
The old horse stopped gravely and disappointedly before the tall, aristocratic house in Rittenhouse Square. He had hoped that city life was now to end, and that he and his dear mistress were to travel back to their beloved prairies. No amount of oats could ever make up to him for his freedom, and the quiet, and the hills. He had a feeling that he should like to go back home and die. He had seen enough of the world.
She fastened the halter to a ring in the sidewalk, which surprised him. The grocer’s boy never fastened him. He looked up questioningly at the house, but saw no reason why his mistress should go in there. It was not familiar ground. Koffee and Sons never came up this way.
Elizabeth, as she crossed the sidewalk and mounted the steps before the formidable carved doors, felt that here was the last hope of finding an earthly habitation. If this failed her, then there was the desert, and starvation, and a long, long sleep. But while the echo of the cell still sounded through the high-ceiled hall there came to her the words: “Let not your heart be troubled.… In my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.… I will come again and receive you.” How
sweet that was! Then, even if she died on the desert, there was a home prepared for her. So much she had learned in Christian Endeavor meeting.
The stately butler let her in. He eyed her questioningly at first, and said madam was not up yet; but Elizabeth told him she would wait.
“Is she sick?” asked Elizabeth with a strange constriction about her heart.
“O no, she is not up yet, miss,” said the kind old butler; “she never gets up before this. You’re from Mrs. Sands, I suppose.” Poor soul, for once his butler eyes had been mistaken. He thought she was the little errand-girl from Madam Bailey’s modiste.
“No, I’m just Elizabeth,” said the girl, smiling. She felt that this man, whoever he was, was not against her. He was old, and he had a kind look.
He still thought she meant she was not the modiste, just her errand-girl. Her quaint dress and the long braid down her back made her look like a child.
“I’ll tell her you’ve come. Be seated,” said the butler, and gave her a chair in the dim hall just opposite the parlor door, where she had a glimpse of elegance such as she had never dreamed existed. She tried to think how it must be to live in such a room and walk on velvet. The carpet was deep and rich. She did not know it was a rug nor that it was woven in some poor peasant’s home and then was brought here years afterward at a fabulous price. She only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen with gleaming colors through it like jewels in the dew.
On through another open doorway she caught a glimpse of a painting on the wall. It was a man as large as life, sitting in a chair; and the face and attitude were her father’s—her father at his best. She was fairly startled. Who was it? Could it be her father? And how had they made this picture of him? He must be changed in those twenty years he had been gone from home.