Bobbie, General Manager/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX
WILL and I used to run up to Hilton for over Sunday very often. But when Edith found out that Oliver had gone to South America and Madge had remained with us, she wrote to me immediately and warned me never to attempt "to cram the girl down her throat." She had no idea of ever recognising Oliver's wife as any connection of hers. If Will and I came up to Hilton she must ask us to leave our preposterous protegée behind.
I didn't see that it would hurt Edith any to be formally courteous to Madge. She needn't have become intimate. I didn't expect Madge to be invited everywhere I went. I didn't take her anywhere with me in my social life at the university. But I did think that Edith was neglecting her duty as a woman to ignore Alec's own brother's wife, whoever she was. It was almost inevitable to avoid the growth of a feeling of hostility between Edith and me; but I did want to escape an open break. I didn't want to quarrel about Madge, so whenever I saw Edith I tried to overlook the existence of any bone of contention between us. I made a point of running up to Hilton very often for the day, and tried to refer to Madge in a natural, open, frank sort of manner that made little of the seriousness of the situation. I didn't go to Hilton to court trouble, I assure you. I made my fortnightly trips for the express purpose of promoting family peace and harmony.
The arrival of Edith's baby was only about a month off when I went up to carry her a little afghan I had crocheted. I found her unpacking some baby scales and the most elaborate weighing basket I ever saw. It was all beruffled and trimmed with artificial rosebuds around the edge. It was when I stood off and admired it that I remarked with a sigh, and in the most offhand way in the world, that I guessed Madge's baby would have to be weighed on the kitchen scales if at all. I meant it as a kind of tribute to Edith's basket. Besides I thought it a good idea to refer to Madge's expectations. It seemed more friendly to the family to take them into my confidence in such a matter.
You would have thought a bomb had gone off in the room.
"That creature going to have a baby!" Edith exclaimed.
"Yes," I said. "Just think of it! Oliver with a little son or daughter!"
Edith turned suddenly upon me.
"Oh, I see!" she flashed. "I see! A son indeed! So that's the story! I suppose the girl has her eyes on that three thousand, without doubt. Designing little minx!"
"Why, your baby comes first, Edith," I replied. "Of course if you shouldn't get the prize, I think Madge could make pretty good use of three thousand dollars. She probably needs it more than you."
"Oh! So you hope I won't have a boy! That's it. Very well. We'll see. You hope—"
"Why, Edith," I interrupted, "I don't hope anything of the sort. I—"
"We'll see if this girl of Oliver's has any right to that money," Edith went on excitedly. "We'll see about that. When is her precious baby expected? Too soon for decency's sake, I suppose—horrid, common little—"
I flushed. "Edith Vars," I fired, "don't you imply anything like that about Madge. Don't you dare!"
I was angry now and Edith knew it. She seemed to glory in it, for she prodded me again with another false accusation against Madge, and before I could stop it we were quarrelling dreadfully. I don't remember all we said to each other that morning in Edith's room, but I know our words came thick and fast; I know our voices shook with our fury, and that we glared at each other across the expanse of the snowy bed with actual hatred in our eyes. It all ended by Edith's suddenly flinging herself face down upon the pillows, and bursting into awful sobs. Not until then did I realise that my sister-in-law was not well, nor quite herself these days—I had never seen her cry before in my life—and frightened I went out of the room to call for help.
That noon Alec sent for a doctor, and half an hour later it was announced that Edith had a temperature. A trained nurse appeared at four o'clock and Alec called me into the library.
He was dreadfully concerned about the consequences of my news in regard to Madge; I shouldn't have mentioned it, it seems; it might be the cause of the most dreadful results—he couldn't tell. Edith was very excitable just now. I ought to have known better. He blamed me wholly. I had been careless, inconsiderate and cruel. I had better leave for home as soon as possible. The thought of me in the house annoyed and disturbed Edith even now; she had inquired three times if I had gone. Alec had ordered the automobile; I could catch the five-thirty if I hurried. He wished I hadn't come to see Edith at all; she had been so well; everything had appeared very favourable before my arrival; Alec couldn't understand my attitude toward Edith anyway; she had done everything for Ruth and me (had I forgotten my wedding?) and I paid her back with gratitude like this!
I didn't reply to my brother. Alec and I had travelled too many miles in opposite directions to understand each other now. A bitter antagonism arose in my heart against Edith. I should have quarrelled with Alec too had I opened my mouth to speak. I went out and got into the automobile without a retort, and as I whisked out of the driveway and looked back at Edith's curtained windows, a wicked wish was born in my heart. I said to myself, "I hope it will be a girl. 'Twould serve her exactly right."
It was, however, a pretty discouraged ambassador of peace who crawled back to her little brown refuge that night about eight o'clock. Will was sitting by the fire reading a big book, his hair all ruffled up as it always is when he reads. Madge had gone upstairs to bed. The comfortable lamp-light, the dear, homely black walnut furniture, Will's quiet sympathy, never seemed more precious to me than that night.
"O Will," I said tearfully when he kissed me, "I've quarrelled with Edith and Alec. And, oh, dear, it was the last thing in the world I meant to do."
"Tell me about it," he said and laid aside his big book. I took its place on the arm of his chair, and told him my story. After he had rung up Edith's doctor by telephone and found that there wasn't cause for alarm, he came back to me and called me "young wildcat" which sweet words were music to my ears. I knew at the sound of them that Will didn't consider the quarrel serious. "It will all blow over in a week. You see!" he laughed, and I went to sleep comforted.
But it didn't blow over. That fateful visit of mine marked the beginning of an understood family war. Clouds of trouble grew thicker instead of blowing away. The very next evening I received a brief note from Alec asking that I postpone any more visits to Hilton until after Edith's illness. Ruth wrote she couldn't understand me in the least; she thought it was dreadful that Madge was going to have a child anyway, but if she got Father's three thousand dollars it would be the unjustest thing that ever happened! Tom—even fair-minded Tom from out West—told me to remember that Oliver's marriage had been rather out-of-order, and asked me if I was championing a cause I could call worthy. When Ruth ran across me one day in town a fortnight later she treated me like a bare acquaintance. Alec went so far as to cancel a Saturday golf engagement with Will. Long distance telephone calls between our houses came to an abrupt end. Malcolm from New York bluntly referred to the "family row."
I didn't tell Madge about the trouble brewing in our family. I never even imparted to her the knowledge of the premium to be paid for the first Vars grandson. Silently I sat with her sewing by the hour on her meagre little outfit of five nainsook slips, three flannel Gertrudes, two bands, two shirts, and three flannellette night-gowns, with never a word of my eager thoughts. I became very loyal to the cause I had chosen to defend. It didn't trouble me that our little baby-clothes were so much plainer than Edith's, for night and day, day and night, I was hoping against hope, wishing against chance, willing and frantically demanding that Madge's splendour might lie in her victory.
You can imagine the ecstatic state of excitement I was thrown into when the news of the arrival of Edith's nine-pound daughter reached me some six weeks after my last visit to Hilton.
I must have felt a good deal like the supporters of a weaker foot-ball team when their side makes the first touchdown. I could have thrown up my hat with joy; I could have shouted myself hoarse. Madge had an opportunity! Madge had a chance! It seemed too good to be true, and I longed to share with Madge the triumph so nearly hers. But Will was afraid she might worry and fret about it,—there was, of course, the possibility of disappointment,—so I followed his advice and kept on building my air-castles in secret.
It was on November twenty-first that Madge's little child was born. We had written to Oliver in June and he had started on his homeward journey as soon as Madge's belated letter reached him, some time in August. He had tramped a hundred miles down a tropical river, had lain sick for five weeks with a fever in a native camp, had dragged himself in a weakened condition twenty miles farther on to the coast, and finally had caught a slow-travelling freight-boat bound for Spain. Blown out of its course, becalmed, disabled by a terrific storm, Oliver never saw the coast of Europe until well into November. His mite of a child was two weeks old before he reached home.
Oliver had done well down there in South America. Reports of his ability had reached the Boston office months before Oliver himself appeared. It seems that Oliver's chief had written a long letter telling all about the ingenuity which young Vars had shown in working out some technical problem connected with a suspension bridge down there. I told you Oliver's line was civil engineering. The Boston office informed Will they had offered Vars a good position right here at home with a salary that he could live on. I was delighted, and as soon as we learned that he had started for God's country, I began to hunt up apartments.
I wanted Oliver to see for himself and by himself what a perfect little housekeeper—what a lovely little creature, simple as she was, he had chanced to pick out up there in the mountains of Vermont. I honestly began to fear Oliver wouldn't appreciate half of the delicate points that Madge had developed. I wished I could give my brother a course of training too. He is the kind to be rather impolite inside the walls of his own domain. I selected for Madge and Oliver a suburb where the rents were not high, about half an hour by trolley from Boston. I planned to have Madge well established in her own five sunny little rooms before the arrival of either her husband or child. From my safe-full of silver and attic-full of Will's furniture, which I couldn't use, I could easily have set up two brides at housekeeping. I sent over a whole load of things from our house to Madge's and we spent days afterward settling the darling little rooms. On November twenty-first I went over to the apartment alone. Madge had complained of not feeling very well and I didn't want her to get all tired out before she actually moved the following week. The kitchen utensils were waiting to be washed and set in rows on the cupboard shelves, so I started out straight after breakfast and spent the whole day "playing house" there alone. I didn't get back until after seven o'clock at night. Will must have been watching for me, for he met me at the door. The instant I entered the house I knew something unexpected had happened. There was a white pillow on the couch in the living-room. I smelled ether.
"Will," I said all weak in my knees, "where's Madge? What's happened?"
He closed the living-room door and turned up the gas.
"She's all right, dear. We didn't send for you, because there was nothing you could do. I was here all the time."
"You mean—" I began. "Will," I said, and then my mind leaped over a league of details to one question, and after I had asked it Will took my hands and replied gently:
"No, dear, a sweet little girl."
I couldn't answer at first. I crumpled down in a heap in Will's big chair.
"It was the only thing I ever really, really wanted," I said brokenly. "Oh, Will, I can't believe fate would be so unkind! Tell me again—did you say a girl—really a girl?"
"Yes, dear, a fine, perfect, lovely little girl."
I stared straight in front of me.
"Isn't it too bad, too bad, too bad," I said. "Oh, Will!" I broke out, and began to cry.
Will came over and put his arms around me.
"Why, Bobbie dear," he said sadly, "I should think the little kiddie was yours."
I couldn't have been more disappointed if it had been. All the victorious telegrams, all the confident, buoyant notes to the different members of the family were more than useless now. The poor little mite of humanity wrapped up in a piece of flannel upstairs in the sewing-room in the clothes-basket, which Madge and I had lined with muslin, had shattered all my plans—had frustrated its poor little mother's only chance for glory.
It was all I could do to muster up a smile for poor, broken, beaten Madge herself, when the nurse ushered me into her bedroom the next day. I was glad when I saw her smiling up at me from the pillows that I had not confided my eager hopes to her.
"Oh, Lucy," she said to me, "it's a girl! I knew you hoped it would be a little girl, because you were so happy when Edith's baby came. And I—"
"Are you glad?" I asked tremblingly, feeling like a hypocrite before an angel.
"I—oh, I prayed for a girl. I wouldn't know what to do with a boy. My dolls were always girls."
It wasn't until I ran across Edith, most unexpectedly, several days later in town, that I woke up to the fact that that little girl of Madge's was a blessing in disguise. Edith's daughter was then about three months old and she was flitting about again as gay as ever, feathered and furred, stepping like a horse who has just had a good rub-down. I had seen her several times in the last month. She does all her shopping in Boston and I am often there myself. Of course we had spoken, even chatted on impersonal subjects as we chanced to meet here and there. On this particular day we happened to find ourselves in the drapery department of a large department store both waiting for the elevator to take us to the street.
"Oh, how do you do?" she said to me loftily. "Gorgeous day, isn't it?"
"Fine," I replied.
And then she asked evasively, her curiosity getting the better of her. "How's everything at your establishment?"
"Oh, all right. I have a note already written to you. There's a new member in our family, you know."
I saw the colour rush to Edith's face.
"No!" she exclaimed. "Really?" Then arming herself against a dreaded blow she gasped, "Which is it?"
"A girl," I hated to announce; "born Thursday."
"A girl! Did you say a girl?" Edith's voice broke into a nervous laugh. "Lucy Vars, has Oliver's wife a little girl? Is she dreadfully disappointed? How is she? When was it? How much does it weigh? A girl! Well, well, is it possible?" Her eyes were fairly glowing now.
I followed her into the elevator.
"You mean it? You aren't fooling? This isn't a joke?" she exclaimed as we dropped a floor.
"No," I assured her.
"Poor thing! Poor thing!" she ejaculated with sparkling eyes. "A girl. A girl!" She found my hand and gave it an eager little squeeze. "Won't Oliver be just too cute with a daughter?" she bubbled.
By the time we reached the ground floor, she had slipped her arm through mine.
"You've got to come and have lunch with me, Bobbie Vars," she said. "Let's let bygones be bygones. I hate fights. I'm tired to death putting myself out to be disagreeable. Heavens! I can hardly wait to tell Alec. A little girl!" She led me out into the street. "I'm starved," she ran on. "We'll blow ourselves to the best luncheon in this town. I want to know all the details—every one. Do you know I felt in my bones she would have a daughter, and I simply never make a mistake; and by the way, way down in my boots, I wanted a girl myself. I said I preferred a boy, but that was talk. You can dress girls up in such darling clothes. That's what I'm telling people anyhow," she confided frankly. "Remember, should any one ask."
In spite of the many things about Edith I do not like, she has some splendid qualities. "Look here," she ejaculated abruptly, "I believe I'll send that poor little creature of Oliver's some flowers. I don't suppose she has many. Come on in here, Bobbie, and help me pick out something stunning!"
Next Wednesday Ruth 'phoned from town. Friday she came out for dinner, and not very long afterward, the expressman left a lovely embroidered baby's coat and cap "for the dear little daughter," it said on Edith's visiting-card in her bold unmistakable handwriting.
It was Oliver himself, who had been at home about two days, who opened the package. He and I were alone in the living-room. He flushed when his eyes fell upon the card.
"So Edith—" he began.
"Yes," I assured him; "and the roses on Madge's bureau are from Edith too."
He flung the card down on the table and came over and stood before me.
"Look here, Bobbie," he said. "I must have been completely run down—or something, before I went away. I don't know what ailed me. Everything bothered me horribly and to think I took it out so on poor little Madge. Why, Madge—Say, Bobbie, isn't Madge—" He stopped. "Pshaw!" he went on, "I've known a lot of girls in my day but not one to come up to Madge. Did I ever tell you how she can cook? Like a streak! You ought to see her arrange flowers in the middle of the table. Looks as if they were growing! Madge is worth twenty society girls. Could Ruth run a vegetable garden, do you think? Could her boarding-school friends go into the village store and run the accounts when the regular girl's off on a vacation? Madge can! I knew she would learn city ways and manners quickly enough once she was here. I knew it. And say—isn't she pretty? Isn't she simply—lovely with the kid? Humph—" he broke off, picking up Edith's card and tossing it down again. "I knew the family couldn't help but like Madge once they knew her, and I'm mighty glad!"
"So am I, Oliver. She's got the loveliest, sweetest disposition! Sometimes I've been afraid that you would be the one not to appreciate it. She's thinking a lot how to make you happy, Oliver. Her head is full of schemes and little devices to please and satisfy you; and I've been wondering if you've been thinking up little ways to please her. Sometimes married people take it for granted that schemes and methods and contrivances for happiness are superfluous, if they love each other; but I believe that new love needs just about as much care and tending as that little helpless baby in there. I hope you think so too, Oliver."
"I don't know as I'd thought much about it. I'm not much of a philosopher on such subjects. Things come to me in flashes, and they stick too. I remember the last time I ever had a real good old time with the college crowd was at Ruth's party, two or three years ago. I drank more than was good for me that night and when I came to go upstairs about four A. M., right there on the landing waiting for me was Father. Somebody had left his picture lighted up, you know, and it was absolutely gruesome how he stared down at me out of his frame—like a ghost or something. I never forgot it. I tried to get the fellows to put out the light, but they couldn't find the switch. It was horrible to struggle up in front of Father in my condition—I can't explain it; but from that day to this I've never been able to enjoy that sort of a time since. I've never taken more than I should since that night, and I never shall again. I'm sure of myself now."
"Isn't it splendid to live on in the way Father does?" I remarked quietly.
"Well," went on Oliver, "the first sight of Madge in there with the baby was like that lighted picture of Father. Do you know what I mean? It flashed over me, 'Heavens, I've got to amount to something now anyhow,' and those flashes stick, as I said. I shall amount to something. See if I don't!" He stopped a moment, embarrassed. "I don't know as you understand at all about that picture of Father, and Madge in bed in there, as if they had any connection. They haven't, only—"
"I do understand, Oliver," I said; "I do perfectly. And I'm so glad and happy and proud! I always felt you had it in you!"
About a week later Edith called me up from Boston.
"Hello," she said. "You, Bobbie? It's Edith. Ruth and I are in town. We've just had lunch. I've got to go to the tailor's at two, but we thought later we might come out and see the baby." ("It's Edith," I whispered excitedly to Will with my hand over the receiver.) "Will it be all right?"
"Surely," I called back. "Come right ahead."
"Is Madge able to see people yet?" ("She wants to see Madge," I told Will.) "Oh, yes! She comes downstairs every afternoon now. We'll expect you—good-bye."
I hung up the receiver, and went into the butler's pantry to prepare my tea-tray. Ten minutes later I casually remarked to Madge:
"Oh, by the way, Edith and Ruth are coming out this afternoon. I think I shall ask you to pour tea, Madge."
"All right," she replied quietly, like a little stoic. "I understand. I'll do my very best, Lucy."
I felt something of the same tremulous pride of a mother listening to her daughter deliver a valedictory at a high school graduation, as I watched Madge at the tea-table that afternoon. Her parted hair, simply knotted behind, pale cheeks tinged with a little colour, her frail hands among the tea-cups, her shy timid manner, were all lovely to behold. Oliver, from the piano-stool, glowed with pride; Edith and Ruth, from the couch, could not fail to appreciate the careful, calm, and correct collection of napkin, plate, tea-cup and spoon. Edith has a great faculty for observation. I knew she was sizing up Madge out of the corner of her eye, even as she rattled on to me on the wonders of the little niece in Hilton whom I had never seen.
She and Ruth stayed until just time to connect with the six-thirty train for Hilton. It was closeted in my room that Edith said to me in her erratic way, "My dear, I never saw such a change in any living mortal. Do you realise that having that baby has simply made that girl over? It's wonderful—put refinement into her. Why, really, one wouldn't guess the child's origin now. Listen to me. I've decided to invite the whole family bunch, as usual, for Christmas (one may as well be forgiving in this short life, I've concluded); so I came to have a look at Madge. She isn't half bad, you know. I had a nice little chat alone with her when you were showing Ruth the baby. She says she was simply crazy for a girl, and I think she means it. She isn't as impossible as I feared—not half. All she needs are some clothes and I've gotten it into my head to take her to my own dressmaker in town. One may as well be generous, Lucy. Besides, if the girl comes to the house at Christmas she must dress decently. I've a good mind to take the little thing in hand myself and polish her up a little. She's pretty enough. You see," Edith broke off, "Breck Sewall will probably be around Christmas-time—won't it be wonderful if he should marry Ruth?—and I simply had to have a look at Madge before inviting her. However, I really think she'll do."
The instant the door had closed on Edith I rushed back to Madge. I threw my arms about her.
"You've passed your preliminaries, dear child!" I said and kissed her hard.