University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
A DINNER ON WASHING DAY.

THE world cannot wait for anybody. No matter
whose heart breaks or whose limbs ache, the world
must move on. Life always has its next thing to be
done, which comes up imperatively, no matter what happens
to you or me.

So when it appeared that Maggie was absolutely
gone—gone without leaving trace or clue where to look
for her, Mary, though distressed and broken-hearted,
had small time for lamentations.

For just as Maggie's note had been found, read, and
explained to Mary, and in the midst of grief and wonderment,
a note was handed in to Eva by an office-boy,
running thus:

“Was ever such a man!” said Eva; “poor Mary!
I'm sorry all this is to come upon you just as you have
so much trouble, but just hear now! Mr. Henderson
has invited an English gentleman to dinner, and a whole
parcel of folks with him. Well, most of them are our
folks, Mary—Miss Angie, and Miss Alice, and Mr. Fellows,

and Mr. Bolton, and Mr. St. John—of course we
must have him.”

“Oh, well, we must just do the best we can,” said
Mary, entering into the situation at once; “but really,
the turkey that's been sent in isn't enough for so many.
If you'd be so good as to step down to Simon's, ma'am,
and order a pair of chickens, I could make a chicken
pie, and then there's most of that cold boiled ham left,
and trimmed up with parsley it would do to set on table
—you'll ask him to send parsley—and the celery's not
enough, we shall want two or three more bunches. I'm
sorry Mr. Henderson couldn't have put it off, later in
the week, till the washing was out of the way,” she concluded,
meekly, “but we must do the best we can.”

Now, Christian fortitude has many more showy and
sublime forms, but none more real than that of a poor
working-woman suddenly called upon to change all her
plans of operations on washing day, and more especially
if the greatest and most perplexing of life's troubles
meets her at the same moment. Mary's patience and
self-sacrifice showed that the crucifix and rosary and
prayer-book in her chamber were something more than
ornamental appendages—they were the outward signs
of a faith that was real.

“My dear, good Mary,” said Eva, “it's just sweet of
you to take things so patiently, when I know you're
feeling so bad; but the way it came about is this: this
gentleman is from England, and he is one that Harry
wants very much to show attention to, and he only stays
a short time, and so we have to take him when we can
get him. You know Mr. Henderson generally is so
considerate.”

“Oh, I know,” said Mary, “folks can't always have
things just as they want.”

“And then, you know, Mary, he thought we should

have Maggie here to help us. He couldn't know, you
see—”

Mary's countenance fell, and Eva's heart smote her,
as if she were hard and unsympathetic in forcing her
own business upon her in her trouble, and she hastened
to add:

“We sha'n't give Maggie up I will tell Mr. Henderson
about her when he comes home, and he will know
just what to do. You may be sure, Mary, he will stand
by you, and leave no stone unturned to help you. We'll
find her yet.”

“It's my fault partly, I'm afraid; if I'd only done
better by her,” said Mary; “and Mike, he was hard on
her; she never would bear curbing in, Maggie would n't.
But we must just do the best we can,” she added, wiping
her eyes with her apron. “What would you have for
dessert, ma'am?”

“What would you make easiest, Mary?”

“Well there's jelly, blanc-mange or floating island,
though we didn't take milk enough for that; but I guess
I can borrow some of Dinah over the way. Miss Dorcas
would be willing, I'm sure.”

“Well, Mary, arrange it just as you please. I'll go
down and order more celery and the chickens, and I
know you'll bring it all right; you always do. Meanwhile,
I'll go to a fruit store, and get some handsome
fruit to set off the table.”

And so Eva went out, and Mary, left alone with her
troubles, went on picking celery, and preparing to make
jelly and blanc mange, with bitterness in her soul. People
must eat, no matter whose hearts break, or who go
to destruction; but, on the whole, this incessant drive of
the actual in life is not a bad thing for sorrow.

If Mary had been a rich woman, with nothing to do
but to go to bed with a smelling-bottle, with full leisure

to pet and coddle her griefs, she could not have made
half as good headway against them as she did by help
of her chicken pie, and jelly, and celery and what not,
that day.

Eva had, to be sure, given her the only comfort in
her power, in the assurance that when her husband came
home she would tell him about it, and they would see if
anything could be done to find Maggie and bring her
back. Poor Mary was full of self-reproach for what it
was too late to help, and with concern for the trouble
which she felt her young mistress had been subjected to.
Added to this was the wounded pride of respectability,
even more strong in her class than in higher ones,
because with them a good name is more nearly an only
treasure. To be come of honest, decent folk is with
them equivalent to what in a higher class would be
called coming of gentle blood. Then Mary's brother
Mike, in his soreness at Maggie's disgrace, had not failed
to blame the mother's way of bringing her up, after the
manner of the world generally when children turn out
badly.

“She might have expected this. She ought to have
known it would come. She had n't held her in tight
enough; had given her her head too much; his wife
always told him they were making a fool of the girl.”

This was a sharp arrow in Mary's breast; because
Mike's wife, Bridget, was one on whom Mary had looked
down, as in no way an equal match for her brother, and
her consequent want of cordiality in receiving her had
rankled in Bridget's mind, so that she was forward to
take advantage of Mary's humiliation.

It is not merely professed enemies, but decent family
connections, we are sorry to say, who in time of trouble
sometimes say “aha! so would we have it.” All whose
advice has not been taken, all who have felt themselves

outshone or slighted, are prompt with the style of consolation
exemplified by Job's friends, and eager above
all things to prove to those in trouble that they have
nobody but themselves to thank for it.

So, no inconsiderable part of Mary's bitter herbs this
day, was the prick and sting of all the possible things
which might be said of her and Maggie by Bridget and
Mike, and the rest of the family circle by courtesy included
in the term “her best friends.” Eva, tender-hearted
and pitiful, could not help feeling a sympathetic
cloud coming over her as she watched poor Mary's woe-struck
and dejected air. She felt quite sure that Maggie
had listened, and overheard Aunt Maria's philippic
in the parlor, and that thus the final impulse had been
given to send her back to her miserable courses; and
somehow Eva could not help a vague feeling of blame
from attaching to herself, for not having made sure that
those violent and cruel denunciations should not be
overheard.

“I ought to have looked and made sure, when I
found what Aunt Maria was at,” she said to herself. “If
I had kept Maggie up stairs, this would not have happened.”
But then, an English literary man, that Harry
thought a good deal of, was to dine there that night,
and Eva felt all a housekeeper's enthusiasm and pride, to
have everything charming. You know how it is, sisters.
Each time that you have a social enterprise in hand you
put your entire soul into it for the time being, and have
a complete little set of hopes and fears, joys, sorrows and
plans, born with the day and dying with the morrow.

Just as she was busy arranging her flowers, the door-bell
rang, and Jim Fellows came in with a basket of fruit.

“Good morning,” he said; “Harry told me you were
going to have a little blow-out to-night, and I thought
I'd bring in a contribution.”

“Oh! thanks, Jim; they are exactly the thing I was
going out to look for. How lovely of you!”

“Well, they've come to you without looking, then,”
said Jim. “Any commands for me? Can't I help you
in any way?”

“No, Jim, unless—well, you know my good Mary is
the great wheel of this establishment, and if she breaks
down we all go too—for I should n't know what to do a
single day without her.”

“Well, what has happened to this great wheel?” said
Jim. “Has it a cold in its head, or what?”

“Come, Jim, don't make fun of my metaphors; the
fact is, that Mary's daughter, Maggie, has run off again
and left her.”

“Just what she might have expected,” said Jim.

“No; Maggie was doing very well, and I really
thought I should make something of her. She thought
everything of me, and I could get along with her perfectly
well, and I found her very ingenious and capable;
but her relations all took up against her, and her uncle
came in last night and talked to her till she was in a
perfect fury.”

“Of course,” said Jim, “that's the world's way; a
fellow can't repent and turn quietly, he must have his
sins well rubbed into him, and his nose held to the
grindstone. I should know that Maggie would flare up
under that style of operation; those great black eyes of
hers are not for nothing, I can tell you.”

“Well, you see it was last night, while I was up at
papa's, that her uncle came, and they had a stormy time,
I fancy; and when Harry and I came home we found
Maggie just flying out of the door in desperation, and I
brought her back, and quieted her down, and brought her
to reason, and her mother too, and made it all smooth
and right. But, this morning, came in Aunt Maria—”

Jim gave a significant whistle.

“Yes, you may well whistle. You see, Maggie once
lived with Aunt Maria, and she's dead set against her,
and came to make me turn her out of my house, if she
could. You ought to have seen the look of withering
scorn and denunciation she gave Maggie when she
opened the door!—and she talked about her so loud to
me, and said so much to induce me to turn away both
her and Mary, and take another set of girls, that I don't
wonder Maggie went off; and now poor Mary is quite
broken-hearted. It makes me feel sad to see her go
about her work so forlorn and patient, wiping her eyes
every once in a while, and yet doing everything for me,
like the good soul she always is.”

“By George!” said Jim; “I wish I could help her.
Well, I'll put somebody on Maggie's track and we'll find
her out. I know all the detectives and the police—
trust us newspaper fellows for that—and Maggie is a
pretty marked article, and I think I may come on the
track of her; there are not many things that Jim can't
find out, when he sets himself to work. Meanwhile,
have you any errands for me to run, or any message to
send to your folks? I may as well take it, while I'm
about it.”

“Well, yes, Jim; if you'd be kind enough, as you go
by papa's, to ask Angie to come down and help me. She
is always so brisk and handy, and keeps one in such
good spirits, too.”

“Oh, yes, Angie is always up and dressed, whoever
wants her, and is good for any emergency. The little
woman has Christmas tree on her brain just now—for
our Sunday-school; only the other night, she was showing
me the hoods and tippets she had been knitting for
it, like a second Dorcas—”

“Yes,” said Eva, “we must all have a consultation

about that Christmas tree. I wanted to see Mr. St. John
about it.'

“Do you think there were any Christmas trees in the
first centuries,” said Jim, “or any churchly precedent
for them?—else I don't see how St. John is going to allow
such a worldly affair in his chapel.”

“Oh, pshaw! Mr. St. John is sensible. He listened
with great interest to Angie, the other night, while she
was telling about one that she helped get up last year
in Dr. Cushing's Sunday-school room, and he seemed
quite delighted with the idea; and Angie and Alice and
I are on a committee to get a list of children and look
up presents, and that was one thing I wanted to talk
about to-night.”

“Well, get St.John and Angie to talking tree together,
and she'll edify him. St.John is O. K. about all
the particulars of how they managed in the catacombs,
without doubt, and he gets ahead of us all preaching
about the primitive Christians, but come to a Christmas
tree for New York street boys and girls, in the 19th century,
I'll bet on Angie to go ahead of him. He'll have
to learn of her—and you see he won't find it hard to
take, either. Jim knows a thing or two.” And Jim
cocked his head on one side, like a saucy sparrow, and
looked provokingly knowing.

“Now, Jim, what do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Alice says I mustn't think anything
or say anything, on pain of her high displeasure. But,
you just watch the shepherd and Angie to-night.”

“Jim, you provoking creature, you mustn't talk
so.”

“Bless your heart, who is talking so? Am I saying
anything? Of course I'm not saying anything. Alice
won't let me. I always have to shut my eyes and look
the other way when Angie and St. John are around, for

fear I should say something and make a remark. Jim
says nothing, but he thinks all the more.”

Now, we'll venture to say that there isn't a happy
young wife in the first months of wifehood that isn't predisposed
to hope for all her friends a happy marriage, as
about the summit of human bliss; and so Eva was not
shocked like Alice by the suggestion that her rector
might become a candidate for the sacrament of matrimony.
On the contrary, it occurred to her at once that
the pretty, practical, lively, efficient little Angie might be
a true angel, not merely of church and Sunday-school,
but of a rector's house. He was ideal and theoretic, and
she practical and common-sense; yet she was pretty
enough, and picturesque, and fanciful enough for an ideal
man to make a poem of, and weave webs around, and
write sonnets to; and as all these considerations flashed
at once upon Eva's mind, she went on settling a spray
of geranium with rose-buds, a pleased dreamy smile on
her face. After a moment's pause, she said:

“Jim, if you see a bird considering whether to build
a nest in the tree by your window, and want him there,
the way is to keep pretty still about it and not go to the
window, and watch, and call people, saying, `Oh, see here,
there's a bird going to build!' Don't you see the sense
of my parable?”

“Well, why do you talk to me? Haven't I kept away
from the window, and walked round on tip-toe like a cat,
and only given the quietest look out of the corner of my
eye?”

“Well, it seems you couldn't help calling my attention
and Alice's. Don't extend the circle of observers, Jim.”

“See if I do. You'll find me discretion itself. I
shall be so quiet that even a humming bird's nerves
couldn't be disturbed. Well, good by, for the present.”

“Oh, but, Jim, don't forget to do what you can about

Maggie. It really seems selfish in me to be absorbed in
my own affairs, and not doing anything to help Mary,
poor thing, when she's so good to me.”

“Well, I don't see but you are doing all you can.
I'll see about it right away and report to you,” said Jim;
“so, au revoir.”

Angie came in about lunch time; the two sisters,
once at their tea and toast, discussed the forthcoming
evening's preparations and the Christmas Sunday-school
operations: and Eva, with the light of Jim's suggestions
in her mind, began to observe certain signs of increasing
intimacy between Angie and Mr. St. John.

“O Eva, I want to tell you: I went to see those
poor Prices, Saturday afternoon; and there was John, just
back from one of those dreadful sprees that he will have
every two or three weeks. You never saw a creature so
humble and so sorry, and so good, and so anxious to
make up with his wife and me, and everybody all round,
as he was. He was sitting there, nursing his wife and
tending his baby, just as handy as a woman,—for she,
poor thing, has had a turn of fever, in part, I think,
brought on by worry and anxiety; but she seemed so
delighted and happy to have him back!—and I couldn't
help thinking what a shame it is that there should be
any such thing as rum, and that there should be people
who make it their business and get their living by tempting
people to drink it. If I were a Queen, I'd shut up
all the drinking-shops right off!”

“I fancy, if we women could have our way, we should
do it pretty generally.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” said Angie. “One
of the worst shops in John's neighborhood is kept by a
woman.”

“Well, it seems so hopeless—this weakness of these
men,” said Eva.

“Oh, well, never despair,” said Angie. “I found
him in such a good mood that I could say anything I
wanted to, and I found that he was feeling terribly because
he had lost his situation in Sanders' store on account
of his drinking habits. He had been a porter and
errand boy there, and he is so obliging and quick that
he is a great favorite; but they got tired of his being so
unreliable, and had sent him word that they didn't want
him any more. Well, you see, here was an opportunity.
I said to him: `John, I know Mr. Sanders, and if you'll
sign a solemn pledge never to touch another drop of
liquor, or go into a place where it is sold, I will try and
get him to take you back again.' So I got a sheet of
paper and wrote a pledge, strong and solemn, in a good
round hand, and he put his name to it; and just
then Mr. St. John came in and I showed it to him, and
he spoke beautifully to him, and prayed with him, and I
really do hope, now, that John will stand.”

“So, Mr. St. John visits them?”

“Oh, to be sure; ever since I had those children in
my class, he has been very attentive there. I often hear
of his calling; and when he was walking home with me
afterwards, he told me about that article of Dr. Campbell's
and advised me to read it. He said it had given
him some new ideas. He called this family my little
parish, and said I could do more than he could. Just
think of our rector saying that.”

Eva did think of it, but forbore to comment aloud.
“Jim was right,” she said to herself.