 | CHAPTER XVIII.
IGNORANCE.—LOOKING FOR WORK. What can she do? |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
IGNORANCE.—LOOKING FOR WORK.
THE next day Edith went to the village, and
frankly told Mr. Hard how they were situated,
mentioning that the failure of their lawyer to sell
the stock had suddenly placed them in this crippled
condition.
Mr. Hard's eyes grew more pebbly as he listened.
He ventured in a constrained voice as
consolation,—
“That he never had much faith in stocks—No,
he had no employment for ladies in connection with
his store. He simply bought and sold at a small
advance. Miss Klip, the dressmaker, might have
something.”
To Miss Klip Edith went. Miss Klip, although
an unprotected female, appeared to be a maiden
that could take care of herself. One would scarcely
venture to hinder her. Her cutting scissors
seemed instinct with life, and one would get out of
their way as instinctively as from a railroad train.
She gave Edith a sharp look through her spectacles
and said abruptly in answer to her application,—
“I thought you was rich.”
“We were,” said Edith sadly, “but we must
work now and are willing to.”
“What do you know about dressmaking and
sewing?”
“Well, not a great deal, but I think you would
find us very ready to learn.”
“Oh, bless you, I can get all my work done by
thorough hands, and at my own prices, too. Good
morning.”
“But can you not tell me of some one who
would be apt to have work?”
“There's Mrs. Glibe across the street. She
has work sometimes. Most of the dressmakers
around here are well trained, have machines, and
go out by the day.”
Edith's heart sank. What chance was there
for her untaught hands among all these “trained
workers.”
She soon found that Mrs. Glibe was more inclined
to talk, (being as garrulous as Miss Klip was
laconic,) and to find out all about them, than to
help her to work. Making but little headway in
Edith's confidence she at last said, “I give Rose
Lacey all the work I have to spare and it isn't very
much. The business is so cut up that none of us
have much more than we can do except a short
time in the busy season. Still, those of us who can
give a nice fit and cut to advantage can make a
good living after getting known. It takes time and
training you know of course.”
“But isn't there work of any kind that we can
get in this place?” said Edith impatiently.
“Well, not that you'd be willing to do. Of
plain sewing, though that is mostly done on a machine.
A good strong woman can always get day's
work, except in winter, but you aint one of that
sort,” she added, looking at Edith's delicate pink
and white complexion and little white hands in
which a scrubbing brush would look incongruous.
“Isn't there any demand for fancy work?” asked
Edith.
“Mighty little. People buy such things in the
city. Money aint so plenty in the country that
people will spend much on that kind of thing.
The ladies themselves make it at home and when
they go out to tea.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Edith, as she plodded wearily
homeward, “what can we do? Ignorance is as
bad as crime.”
Her main hope now for immediate necessities
was that they might get some scholars. She had
put up a notice in the post office and an advertisement
in the paper. She had also purchased
some rudimentary school books, and the poor child,
on her return home, soon distracted herself by a
sudden plunge into vulgar fractions. She found
herself so sadly rusty that she would have to study
almost as hard as any of her pupils, were they obtained.
Laura's bookish turn and better memory
had kept her better posted. Edith soon
threw aside grammars and arithmetics, saying to
Laura,—
“You must take care of the school if we get
these things in our emergency.”
Almost desperate from the feeling that there
was nothing she could do, she took a hoe that was
by no means light, and loosened the ground and
cut off all the sprouting weeds around her strawberry
vines. The day was rather cool and cloudy,
and she was surprised at the space she went over.
She wore her broad-rimmed straw-hat tied down
over her face, and determined she would not look
at the road, and act as if it were not there, letting
people think what they pleased. But a familiar
rumble and rattle caused her to look shyly up after
the wagon had passed, and she saw Arden Lacey
gazing wonderingly back at her. She dropped her
eyes instantly as if she had not seen him, and went
no with her work. At last, thoroughly wearied,
she went in and said half triumphantly, half defiantly,—
“A woman can hoe. I've done it myself.”
“A woman can ride a horse like a man,” said
Mrs. Allen, and this was all the home encouragement
poor Edith received.
They had had but a light lunch at one o'clock,
meaning to have a more substantial dinner at six.
Hannibal was showing Zell and getting her started
in her department. It was but a poor little dinner
they had, and Zell said in place of dessert,—
“Edith, we are most out of everything.”
“And I can't get any work,” said Edith despondingly.
“People have got to know how to do
time to learn.”
“Ten dollars won't last long,” said Zell recklessly.
“I will go down to the village and make further
inquiries to-morrow,” Edith continued in a weary
tone. “It seems strange how people stand aloof
from us. No one calls and every body wants what
we owe them right away. Are there not any good
kind people in Pushton? I wish we had not
offended the Laceys. They might have advised
and helped us, but nothing would tempt me to go
to them after treating them as we did.”
There were plenty of good kind people in Pushton,
but Mrs. Allen's “policy” had driven them
away as far as possible. By their course the Allens
had placed themselves, in relation to all classes,
in the most unapproachable position, and their
“friends” from the city and Tom Crowl's gossip
made matters far worse. Poor Edith thought
they were utterly ignored. She would have felt
worse if she had known every one was talking
about them.
The next day Edith started on another unsuccessful
expedition to the village, and while she was
gone, Zell went to the post-office to which she had
told Van Dam to direct his reply. She found the
plausible lie we have already placed before the
reader.
At first she experienced a sensation of anger
that he had not complied with her wish. It was
Van Dam, so long her obsequious slave, think of
anything contrary to her wishes. She also feared
that Edith might be right, and that Van Dam
designed evil against her. She would not openly
admit, even to herself, that this was his purpose,
and yet Edith's words had been so clear and
strong, and Van Dam's conditions placed her so
entirely at his mercy, that she shrank from him
and was fascinated at the same time.
But instead of indignantly casting the letter
from her, she read it again and again. Her foolish
heart pleaded for him.
“He couldn't be so false to me, so false to his
written word,” she said, and the letter was hidden
away, and she passed into the dangerous stage of
irresolution, where temptation is secretly dwelt
upon. She hesitated, and according to the proverb,
the woman who does this is lost. Instead
of indignantly casting temptation from her, she
left her course open, to be decided somewhat
by circumstances. She wilfully shut her eyes to
the danger, and tried to believe, and did almost
believe that her lover meant honestly by her.
And so the days passed, Edith vainly trying to
find something to do, and working hard in her
garden, which as yet brought no return. She was
often very sad and despondent and again very
irritable. Laura's apathy only deepened, and she
seemed like one not yet awakened from a dream
of the past. Zell made some show of work, but
and when Edith sharply chided her, she laughed
recklessly and said,—
“What's the use? If we are going to starve
we might as well do so at once and it's over with.”
“I won't starve,” said Edith, almost fiercely.
“There must be honest work somewhere in the
world for one willing to do it, and I'm going to
find it. At any rate, I can raise food in my garden
before long.”
“I'm afraid we'll starve before your cabbages
and carrots come to maturity, and we might as
well as to try to live on such garbage. Supplies
are running low, and as you say, the money is
nearly gone.”
“Yes, and people won't trust us any more.
Two or three declined to in the village to-day, and
I felt too discouraged and ashamed to ask any
further. For some reason people seem afraid of
us. I see persons turn and look after me, and yet
they avoid me. Two or three impudent clerks
tried to make my acquaintance, but I snubbed
them in such a way that they will let me alone
hereafter. I wonder if any stories could have got
around about us? Country towns are such places
for gossip.”
“Have you heard of any scholars?” said Laura
languidly.
“No, not one,” was Edith's despondent answer.
“If nothing turns up before, I'll go to New York
go where I'm known this time.”
Nothing turned up, and by Sunday they had
nothing in the house save a little dry bread, which
they ate moistened with wine and water. Mrs.
Allen sighed and cried all day. Laura had the
strange manner of one awaking up to something
unrealized before. Restlessness began to take the
place of apathy, and her eyes often sought the face
of Edith in a questioning manner. Finding her
alone in the garden, she said,—
“Why Edith, I'm hungry. I never remember
being hungry before. Is it possible we have come
to this?”
Edith burst into tears, and said brokenly,—
“Come with me to the arbor.”
“I'm sure I'm willing to do anything,” said
Laura piteously, “but I never realized we would
come to this.”
“Oh, how can the birds sing?” said Edith bitterly.
“This beautiful spring weather, with its
promise and hopefulness, seems a mockery. The
sun is shining brightly, flowers are budding and
blooming, and all the world seems so happy, but
my heart aches as if it would burst. I'm hungry,
too, and I know poor old Hannibal is faint, though
he tries to keep up whenever I am around.”
“But Edith if people knew how we are situated
they would not let us want. Our old acquaintances
in New York, or our relations even, though not
very friendly, would surely keep us.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so for a little while, but I
can't bring myself to ask for charity, and no one
would undertake to support us. What discourages
me most is that I can't get work that will bring in
money. Between people wishing to have nothing
to do with us, on one hand, and my ignorance on
the other, there seems no resource. Some of those
whom we owe seem inclined to press us. I'm so
afraid of losing this place and being out on the
street. If I could only get a chance somewhere,
or get time to learn to do something well!”
Then after a moment she asked suddenly,
“Where's Zell?”
“In her room, I think.”
“I don't like Zell's manner,” said Edith, after
a brief painful reverie. “It's so hard and reckless.
Something seems on her mind. She has long fits
of abstraction as if she was thinking of something,
or weighing some plan. Could she have had any
communication with that villain Van Dam? Oh,
that would be the bitterest drop of all in our cup
of sorrow. I would rather see her dead than that.
“Oh dear,” said Laura, “it seems as if I had
been in a trance and had just awakened. Why
Edith, I must do something. It is not right to let
you bear all these things alone. But don't trouble
about Zell, not one of George Allen's daughters
will sink to that.”
| CHAPTER XVIII.
IGNORANCE.—LOOKING FOR WORK. What can she do? | |