Oh, Money! Money! Part 13

"I used ter do 'em an' leave 'em 'round, but ma says I can't now.

Callers might come and find 'em, an' what would they say--on the West Side! An' that's the way 'tis with everything. Ma an' Bess are always doin' things, or not doin' 'em, for those callers. An' I don't see why.

They never come--not new ones.'

"Yes, yes, dear, but they will, when they get acquainted. You haven't found where the dog's head goes yet."

"Pa says he don't want ter get acquainted. He'd rather have the old friends, what don't mind baked beans, an' shirt-sleeves, an' doin' yer own work, an' what thinks more of yer heart than they do of yer pocketbook. But ma wants a hired girl. An' say, we have ter wash our hands every meal now--on the table, I mean--in those little gla.s.s wash-dishes. Ma went down an' bought some, an' she's usin' 'em every day, so's ter get used to 'em. She says everybody that is anybody has 'em nowadays. Bess thinks they're great, but I don't. I don't like 'em a mite."

"Oh, come, come, Benny! It doesn't matter--it doesn't really matter, does it, if you do have to use the little dishes? Come, you're not half doing the puzzle."

"I know it." Benny shifted his position, and picked up a three-cornered bit of wood carrying the picture of a dog's paw. "But I was just thinkin'. You see, things are so different--on the West Side. Why even pa--he's different. He isn't there hardly any now. He's got a new job."

"What?" Miss Maggie turned from the puzzle with a start.

"Oh, just for evenin's. It's keepin' books for a man. It brings in quite a lot extry, ma says; but she wouldn't let me have some new roller skates when mine broke. She's savin' up for a chafin' dish.

What's a chafin' dish? Do you know? You eat out of it, some way--I mean, it cooks things ter eat; an' Bess wants one. Gussie Pennock's got one. ALL our eatin's different, 'seems so, on the West Side. Ma has dinners nights now, instead of noons. She says the Pennocks do, an'

everybody does who is anybody. But I don't like it. Pa don't, either, an' half the time he can't get home in time for it, anyhow, on account of gettin' back to his new job, ye know, an'--"

"Oh, I've found where the dog's head goes," cried Miss Maggie, There was a hint of desperation in her voice. "I shall have your puzzle all done for you myself, if you don't look out, Benny. I don't believe you can do it, anyhow."

"I can, too. You just see if I can't!" retorted Benny, with sudden spirit, falling to work in earnest. "I never saw a puzzle yet I couldn't do!"

Mr. Smith, bending a.s.siduously over his work at the table, heard Miss Maggie's sigh of relief--and echoed it, from sympathy.

CHAPTER VII

POOR MAGGIE AND SOME OTHERS

It was half an hour later, when Mr. Smith and Benny were walking across the common together, that Benny asked an abrupt question.

"Is Aunt Maggie goin' ter be put in your book, Mr. Smith?"

"Why--er--yes; her name will be entered as the daughter of the man who married the Widow Blaisdell, probably. Why?"

"Nothin'. I was only thinkin'. I hoped she was. Aunt Maggie don't have nothin' much, yer know, except her father an' housework--housework either for him or some of us. An' I guess she's had quite a lot of things ter bother her, an' make her feel bad, so I hoped she'd be in the book. Though if she wasn't, she'd just laugh an' say it doesn't matter, of course. That's what she always says."

"Always says?" Mr. Smith's voice was mildly puzzled.

"Yes, when things plague, an' somethin' don't go right. She says it helps a lot ter just remember that it doesn't matter. See?"

"Well, no,--I don't think I do see," frowned Mr. Smith.

"Oh, yes," plunged in Benny; "'cause, you see, if yer stop ter think about it--this thing that's plaguin' ye--you'll see how really small an' no-account it is, an' how, when you put it beside really big things it doesn't matter at all--it doesn't REALLY matter, ye know. Aunt Maggie says she's done it years an' years, ever since she was just a girl, an' somethin' bothered her; an' it's helped a lot."

"But there are lots of things that DO matter," persisted Mr. Smith, still frowning.

"Oh, yes!" Benny swelled a bit importantly, "I know what you mean. Aunt Maggie says that, too; an' she says we must be very careful an' not get it wrong. It's only the little things that bother us, an' that we wish were different, that we must say 'It doesn't matter' about. It DOES matter whether we're good an' kind an' tell the truth an' shame the devil; but it DOESN'T matter whether we have ter live on the West Side an' eat dinner nights instead of noons, an' not eat cookies any of the time in the house,--see?"

"Good for you, Benny,--and good for Aunt Maggie!" laughed Mr. Smith suddenly.

"Aunt Maggie? Oh, you don't know Aunt Maggie, yet. She's always tryin'

ter make people think things don't matter. You'll see!" crowed Benny.

A moment later he had turned down his own street, and Mr. Smith was left to go on alone.

Very often, in the days that followed, Mr. Smith thought of this speech of Benny's. He had opportunity to verify it, for he was seeing a good deal of Miss Maggie, and it seemed, indeed, to him that half the town was coming to her to learn that something "didn't matter"--though very seldom, except to Benny, did he hear her say the words themselves. It was merely that to her would come men, women, and children, each with a sorry tale of discontent or disappointment. And it was always as if they left with her their burden, for when they turned away, head and shoulders were erect once more, eyes were bright, and the step was alert and eager.

He used to wonder how she did it. For that matter, he wondered how she did--a great many things.

Mr. Smith was, indeed, seeing a good deal of Miss Maggie these days. He told himself that it was the records that attracted him. But he did not always copy records. Sometimes he just sat in one of the comfortable chairs and watched Miss Maggie, content if she gave him a word now and then.

He liked the way she carried her head, and the way her hair waved away from her, shapely forehead. He liked the quiet strength of the way her capable hands lay motionless in her lap when their services were not required. He liked to watch for the twinkle in her eye, and for the dimple in her cheek that told a smile was coming. He liked to hear her talk to Benny. He even liked to hear her talk to her father--when he could control his temper sufficiently. Best of all he liked his own comfortable feeling of being quite at home, and at peace with all the world--the feeling that always came to him now whenever he entered the house, in spite of the fact that the welcome accorded him by Mr. Duff was hardly more friendly than at the first.

To Mr. Smith it was a matter of small moment whether Mr. Duff welcomed him cordially or not. He even indulged now and then in a bout of his own with the gentleman, chuckling inordinately when results showed that he had pitched his remark at just the right note of contrariety to get what he wanted.

For the most part, however, Mr. Smith, at least nominally, spent his time at his legitimate task of studying and copying the Blaisdell family records, of which he was finding a great number. Rufus Blaisdell apparently had done no little "digging" himself in his own day, and Mr.

Smith told Miss Maggie that it was all a great "find" for him.

Miss Maggie seemed pleased. She said that she was glad if she could be of any help to him, and she told him to come whenever he liked. She arranged the Bible and the big box of papers on a little table in the corner, and told him to make himself quite at home; and she showed so plainly that she regarded him as quite one of the family, that Mr.

Smith might be pardoned for soon considering himself so.

It was while at work in this corner that he came to learn so much of Miss Maggie's daily life, and of her visitors.

Although many of these visitors were strangers to him, some of them he knew.

One day it was Mrs. Hattie Blaisdell, with a countenance even more florid than usual. She was breathless and excited, and her eyes were worried. She was going to give a luncheon, she said. She wanted Miss Maggie's silver spoons, and her forks, and her hand painted sugar-and-creamer, and Mother Blaisdell's cut-gla.s.s dish.

Mr. Smith, supposing that Miss Maggie herself was to be at the luncheon, was just rejoicing within him that she was to have this pleasant little outing, when he heard Mrs. Blaisdell telling her to be sure to come at eleven to be in the kitchen, and asking where could she get a maid to serve in the dining-room, and what should she do with Benny. He'd have to be put somewhere, or else he'd be sure to upset everything.

Mr. Smith did not hear Miss Maggie's answer to all this, for she hurried her visitor to the kitchen at once to look up the spoons, she said. But indirectly he obtained a very conclusive reply; for he found Miss Maggie gone one day when he came; and Benny, who was in her place, told him all about it, even to the dandy frosted cake Aunt Maggie had made for the company to eat.

Another day it was Mrs. Jane Blaisdell who came. Mrs. Jane had a tired frown between her brows and a despairing droop to her lips. She carried a large bundle which she dropped unceremoniously into Miss Maggie's lap.

"There, I'm dead beat out, and I've brought it to you. You've just got to help me," she finished, sinking into a chair.

"Why, of course, if I can. But what is it?" Miss Maggie's deft fingers were already untying the knot.

"It's my old black silk. I'm making it over."

"AGAIN? But I thought the last time it couldn't ever be done again."

"Yes, I know; but there's lots of good in it yet," interposed Mrs. Jane decidedly; "and I've bought new velvet and new lace, and some b.u.t.tons and a new lining. I THOUGHT I could do it alone, but I've reached a point where I just have got to have help. So I came right over."

"Yes, of course, but"--Miss Maggie was lifting a half-finished sleeve doubtfully--"why didn't you go to Flora? She'd know exactly--"

Mrs. Jane stiffened.