Just work hard and earn seventy-five cents a week, and maybe they’ll let you have a good meal at supper.” Then she said savagely, “A good meal. Steal it if you must. They got plenty. They save the scraps for their dog, and you’re better than a dog. My Ellen.”
Ellen, all distress gone from her, and happy that her aunt had recovered from her mysterious collapse, kissed May warmly and went to bed. May sat for some minutes, thinking. “It can’t be,” she whispered aloud. “She can’t remember—that. She was never even there. Just me and Miss Amy and May. Why, she wasn’t even born yet! She wasn’t born in Philadelphia. She was born in Erie!”
Now May was swept with an old grief and her eyes flooded again and she bowed her head and whispered, “Mary, Mary.” Then she was horribly frightened, and she stood up and blew out the lamp and scuttled to her own bed, where she lay sleepless for some time listening to the voices of the wind and the few trees on the street. There was a gas lamp outside and it poured its ocher light into the bedroom and flickered on the damp walls and May Watson thought she saw ghosts and covered her head with her sheet.
C H A P T E R 3
“I BIN UP AN HOUR, since five,” Mrs. Jardin grumbled to Ellen, “while you were still slugging in bed. Your auntie knows that the home folks eat their breakfast at six, even though their visitors don’t eat till seven, a heathen lazy way of living, in the cities.”
“I’ll come at half past five tomorrow morning,” said Ellen, again sheepish with guilt. “But Aunt May thought you said six, Mrs. Jar-din.” It was still barely light outside; the laurels had a ghostly reflection on them as seen through the kitchen window. By bending forward over the sink and peering to her left Ellen could see that the eastern sky was a vast sheet of gold into which, at the horizon, were being intruded long thin fingers of scarlet. Birds were already arrowing through the dimness of dawn and their cries and calls made an exciting music to the girl. She had walked through the dark streets in which only a few early workers had been moving, and they still half asleep. At least she had escaped the mocking cruelty of the children on her way to this house.
“What you staring at through the window?” demanded Mrs. Jar-din. Her jaunty face became sly. “You look peakish this morning. Didn’t get to bed ‘til late, I reckon.”
“It was about half past eleven,” said Ellen, rubbing the silver.
“Oh?” asked Mrs. Jardin, pausing by the fuming stove, which crackled cheerfully with the fresh wood. “Where was you?”
“Well, I fell asleep, waiting for Aunt May,” said Ellen. She thought of the clean winds of dawn she had just encountered, the sweetness of the air even in this dusty village by the river, and she smiled happily to herself. Mrs. Jardin saw that smile, and she smirked.
“Anyone with you?” she asked in a voice deliberately uninterested.
Ellen was surprised. She turned her head to look at Mrs. Jardin. “No, there isn’t anyone living in the house but us.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant a kind of visitor maybe,” Mrs. Jardin said, and winked at Ellen. The girl was puzzled. Yet a sense of degradation without a name attacked her, a shapeless embarrassment. “We don’t have visitors, except the ladies who come for Aunt May to make them dresses and alterations.”
Mrs. Jardin nodded significantly to herself and her smile was slyer. If ever a girl was a natural-born strumpet this one was, with all that wild red hair and bold face. You can’t fool me, my girl, she thought. I know a bad one when I sees one and you’re bad, clear through. End up on the street in Scranton most likely. Born for it. You didn’t sleep alone last night, and nobody can tell me different. While your aunt—if she is your aunt and not your mother—was out working.
The kitchen was lighted by gas, new to Preston, and its light was harsh and depressing. It
Ellen, all distress gone from her, and happy that her aunt had recovered from her mysterious collapse, kissed May warmly and went to bed. May sat for some minutes, thinking. “It can’t be,” she whispered aloud. “She can’t remember—that. She was never even there. Just me and Miss Amy and May. Why, she wasn’t even born yet! She wasn’t born in Philadelphia. She was born in Erie!”
Now May was swept with an old grief and her eyes flooded again and she bowed her head and whispered, “Mary, Mary.” Then she was horribly frightened, and she stood up and blew out the lamp and scuttled to her own bed, where she lay sleepless for some time listening to the voices of the wind and the few trees on the street. There was a gas lamp outside and it poured its ocher light into the bedroom and flickered on the damp walls and May Watson thought she saw ghosts and covered her head with her sheet.
C H A P T E R 3
“I BIN UP AN HOUR, since five,” Mrs. Jardin grumbled to Ellen, “while you were still slugging in bed. Your auntie knows that the home folks eat their breakfast at six, even though their visitors don’t eat till seven, a heathen lazy way of living, in the cities.”
“I’ll come at half past five tomorrow morning,” said Ellen, again sheepish with guilt. “But Aunt May thought you said six, Mrs. Jar-din.” It was still barely light outside; the laurels had a ghostly reflection on them as seen through the kitchen window. By bending forward over the sink and peering to her left Ellen could see that the eastern sky was a vast sheet of gold into which, at the horizon, were being intruded long thin fingers of scarlet. Birds were already arrowing through the dimness of dawn and their cries and calls made an exciting music to the girl. She had walked through the dark streets in which only a few early workers had been moving, and they still half asleep. At least she had escaped the mocking cruelty of the children on her way to this house.
“What you staring at through the window?” demanded Mrs. Jar-din. Her jaunty face became sly. “You look peakish this morning. Didn’t get to bed ‘til late, I reckon.”
“It was about half past eleven,” said Ellen, rubbing the silver.
“Oh?” asked Mrs. Jardin, pausing by the fuming stove, which crackled cheerfully with the fresh wood. “Where was you?”
“Well, I fell asleep, waiting for Aunt May,” said Ellen. She thought of the clean winds of dawn she had just encountered, the sweetness of the air even in this dusty village by the river, and she smiled happily to herself. Mrs. Jardin saw that smile, and she smirked.
“Anyone with you?” she asked in a voice deliberately uninterested.
Ellen was surprised. She turned her head to look at Mrs. Jardin. “No, there isn’t anyone living in the house but us.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant a kind of visitor maybe,” Mrs. Jardin said, and winked at Ellen. The girl was puzzled. Yet a sense of degradation without a name attacked her, a shapeless embarrassment. “We don’t have visitors, except the ladies who come for Aunt May to make them dresses and alterations.”
Mrs. Jardin nodded significantly to herself and her smile was slyer. If ever a girl was a natural-born strumpet this one was, with all that wild red hair and bold face. You can’t fool me, my girl, she thought. I know a bad one when I sees one and you’re bad, clear through. End up on the street in Scranton most likely. Born for it. You didn’t sleep alone last night, and nobody can tell me different. While your aunt—if she is your aunt and not your mother—was out working.
The kitchen was lighted by gas, new to Preston, and its light was harsh and depressing. It
Similar Books
