by Myrtle Reed
V
Mrs. Smithers
The chickens were clucking peacefully in their corner of Uncle Ebeneezer'sdooryard, and the newly acquired bossy cow mooed unhappily in herimprovised stable. Harlan had christened the cow "Maud" because sheinsisted upon going into the garden, and though Dorothy had vigorouslyprotested against putting Tennyson to such base uses, the name still held,out of sheer appropriateness.
Harlan was engaged in that pleasant pastime known as "pottering." Theinstinct to drive nails, put up shelves, and to improve generally hislocal habitation is as firmly seated in the masculine nature ashousewifely characteristics are ingrained in the feminine soul. Neverbefore having had a home of his own, Harlan was enjoying it to the full.
Early hours had been the rule at the Jack-o'-Lantern ever since thefeathered sultan with his tribe of voluble wives had taken up his abode onthe hilltop. Indeed, as Harlan said, they were obliged to sleep when thechickens did--if they slept at all. So it was not yet seven one morningwhen Dorothy went in from the chicken coop, singing softly to herself, andintent upon the particular hammer her husband wanted, never expecting tofind Her in the kitchen.
"I--I beg your pardon?" she stammered, inquiringly.
A gaunt, aged, and preternaturally solemn female, swathed in crape, bentslightly forward in her chair, without making an effort to rise, andreached forth a black-gloved hand tightly grasping a letter, which wastremulously addressed to "Mrs. J. H. Carr."
"My dear Madam," Dorothy read.
"The multitudinous duties in connection with the practice of my profession have unfortunately prevented me, until the present hour, from interviewing Mrs. Sarah Smithers in regard to your requirements. While she is naturally unwilling to commit herself entirely without a more definite idea of what is expected of her, she is none the less kindly disposed. May I hope, my dear madam, that at the first opportunity you will apprise me of ensuing events in this connection, and that in any event I may still faithfully serve you?
"With kindest personal remembrances and my polite salutations to the distinguished author whose wife you have the honour to be, I am, my dear madam,
"Yr. most respectful and obedient servant,
"Jeremiah Bradford.
"Oh," said Dorothy, "you're Sarah. I had almost given you up."
"Begging your parding, Miss," rejoined Mrs. Smithers in a chilly tone ofreproof, "but I take it it's better for us to begin callin' each other byour proper names. If we should get friendly, there'd be ample time tochange. Your uncle, God rest 'is soul, allers called me 'Mis' Smithers.'"
Somewhat startled at first, Mrs. Carr quickly recovered her equanimity."Very well, Mrs. Smithers," she returned, lightly, reflecting that when inRome one must follow Roman customs; "Do you understand all branches ofgeneral housework?"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't be makin' no attempts in that direction," repliedMrs. Smithers, harshly. "I doesn't allow nobody to do wot I does no betterthan wot I does it."
Dorothy smiled, for this was distinctly encouraging, from at least onepoint of view.
"You wear a cap, I suppose?"
"Yes, mum, for dustin'. When I goes out I puts on my bonnet."
"Can you do plain cooking?" inquired Dorothy, hastily, perceiving that shewas treading upon dangerous ground.
"Yes, mum. The more plain it is the better all around. Your uncle wasnever one to fill hisself with fancy dishes days and walk the floor with'em nights, that's wot 'e wasn't."
"What wages do you have, Sa--Mrs. Smithers?"
"I worked for your uncle for a dollar and a half a week, bein' as we'dknowed each other so long, and on account of 'im bein' easy to get alongwith and never makin' no trouble, but I wouldn't work for no woman forless 'n two dollars."
"That is satisfactory to me," returned Dorothy, trying to be dignified. "Idaresay we shall get on all right. Can you stay now?"
"If you've finished," said Mrs. Smithers, ignoring the question, "there'sa few things I'd like to ask. 'Ow did you get that bruise on your face?"
"I--I ran into something," answered Dorothy, unwillingly, and taken quiteby surprise.
"Wot was it," demanded Mrs. Smithers. "Your 'usband's fist?"
"No," replied Mrs. Carr, sternly, "it was a piece of furniture."
"I've never knowed furniture," observed Mrs. Smithers, doubtfully, "to getup and 'it people in the face wot wasn't doin' nothink to it. If youdisturb a rockin'-chair at night w'en it's restin' quiet, you'll get yourankle 'it, but I've never knowed no furniture to 'it people under the eyeunless it 'ad been threw, that's wot I ain't.
"I mind me of my youngest sister," Mrs. Smithers went on, her keen eyesuncomfortably fixed upon Dorothy. "'Er 'usband was one of these 'eremasterful men, 'e was, same as wot yours is, and w'en 'er didn't please'im, 'e 'd 'it 'er somethink orful. Many's the time I've gone there andfound 'er with 'er poor face all cut up and the crockery broke bad. 'Idropped a cup' 'er'd say to me, 'and the pieces flew up and 'it me in theface.' 'Er face looked like a crazy quilt from 'aving dropped so manycups, and wunst, without thinkin' wot I might be doin' of, I gave 'er achiny tea set for 'er Christmas present.
"Wen I went to see 'er again, the tea set was all broke and 'er 'ad courtplaster all over 'er face. The pieces must 'ave flew more 'n common fromthe tea set, cause 'er 'usband's 'ed was laid open somethink frightful andthey'd 'ad in the doctor to take a seam in it. From that time on I never'eard of no more cups bein' dropped and 'er face looked quite human andpeaceful like w'en 'e died. God rest 'is soul, 'e ain't a-breakin' no teasets now by accident nor a-purpose neither. I was never one to interferebetween man and wife, Miss Carr, but I want you to tell your 'usband thatshould 'e undertake to 'it me, 'e'll get a bucket of 'ot tea throwed in'is face."
"It's not at all likely," answered Dorothy, biting her lip, "that such athing will happen." She was swayed by two contradictory impulses--one toscream with laughter, the other to throw something at Mrs. Smithers.
"'E's been at peace now six months come Tuesday," continued Mrs. Smithers,"and on account of 'is 'avin' broke the tea set, I don't feel no call towear mourning for 'im more 'n a year, though folks thinks as 'ow it brandsme as 'eartless for takin' it off inside of two. Sakes alive, wot's that?"she cried, drawing her sable skirts more closely about her as a darkshadow darted across the kitchen.
"It's only the cat," answered Dorothy, reassuringly. "Come here,Claudius."
Mrs. Smithers repressed an exclamation of horror as Claudius, purringpleasantly, came out into the sunlight, brandishing his plumed tail, andsat down on the edge of Dorothy's skirt, blinking his green eyes at theintruder.
"'E's the very cat," said Mrs. Smithers, hoarsely, "wot your uncle killedthe week afore 'e died!"
"Before who died?" asked Dorothy, a chill creeping into her blood.
"Your uncle," whispered Mrs. Smithers, her eyes still fixed upon ClaudiusTiberius. "'E killed that very cat, 'e did, 'cause 'e couldn't never abide'im, and now 'e's come back!"
"Nonsense!" cried Dorothy, trying to be severe. "If he killed the cat, itcouldn't come back--you must know that."
"I don't know w'y not, Miss. Anyhow, 'e killed the cat, that's wot 'e did,and I saw 'is dead body, and even buried 'im, on account of your uncle notbein' able to abide cats, and 'ere 'e is. Somebody 's dug 'im up, and 'e's come to life again, thinkin' to 'aunt your uncle, and your uncle 'asfollered 'im, that's wot 'e 'as, and there bein' nobody 'ere to 'aunt butus, 'e's a 'auntin' us and a-doin' it 'ard."
"Mrs. Smithers," said Dorothy, rising, "I desire to hear no more of thisnonsense. The cat happens to be somewhat similar to the dead one, that'sall."
"Begging your parding, Miss, for askin', but did you bring that there catwith you from the city?"
Affecting not to hear, Dorothy went out, followed by Claudius Tiberius,who appeared anything but ghostly.
"I knowed it," muttered Mrs. Smithers, gloomily, to herself. "'E was 'erew'en 'er come, and 'e's the same cat. 'E's co
me back to 'aunt us, that'swot 'e 'as!"
"Harlan," said Dorothy, half-way between smiles and tears, "she's come."
Harlan dropped his saw and took up his hammer. "Who's come?" he asked."From your tone, it might be Mrs. Satan, or somebody else from theinfernal regions."
"You're not far out of the way," rejoined Dorothy. "It's Sa--Mrs.Smithers."
"Oh, our maid of all work?"
"I don't know what she's made of," giggled Dorothy, hysterically. "Shelooks like a tombstone dressed in deep mourning, and carries with her theatmosphere of a graveyard. We have to call her 'Mrs. Smithers,' if wedon't want her to call us by our first names, and she has two dollars aweek. She says Claudius is a cat that uncle killed the week before hedied, and she thinks you hit me and gave me this bruise on my cheek."
"The old lizard," said Harlan, indignantly. "She sha'n't stay!"
"Now don't be cross," interrupted Dorothy. "It's all in the family, foryour uncle hit me, as you well know. Besides, we can't expect all thevirtues for two dollars a week and I'm tired almost to death from tryingto do the housework in this big house and take care of the chickens, too.We'll get on with her as best we can until we see a chance to do better."
"Wise little woman," responded Harlan, admiringly. "Can she milk thecow?"
"I don't know--I'll go in and ask her."
"Excuse me, Miss," began Mrs. Smithers, before Dorothy had a chance tospeak, "but am I to 'ave my old rooms?"
"Which rooms were they?"
"These 'ere, back of the kitchen. My own settin' room and bedroom andkitchen and pantry and my own private door outside. Your uncle was allersa great hand for bein' private and insistin' on other folks keepin'private, that 's wot 'e was, but God rest 'is soul, it didn't do the poorold gent much good."
"Certainly," said Dorothy, "take your old rooms. And can you milk a cow?"
Mrs. Smithers sighed. "I ain't never 'ad it put on me, Miss," she said,with the air of a martyr trying to make himself comfortable up against thestake, "not as a regler thing, I ain't, but wotever I'm asked to do in theline of duty whiles I'm dwellin' in this sufferin' and dyin' world, I aimsto do the best wot I can, w'ether it's milkin' a cow, drownin' kittens, orburyin' a cat wot can't stay buried."
"We have breakfast about half-past seven," went on Dorothy, quickly;"luncheon at noon and dinner at six."
"Wot at six?" demanded Mrs. Smithers, pricking up her ears.
"Dinner! Dinner at six."
"Lord preserve us," said Mrs. Smithers, half to herself. "Your uncleallers 'ad 'is dinner at one o'clock, sharp, and 'e wouldn't like it to'ave such scandalous goin's on in 'is own 'ouse."
"You're working for me," Dorothy reminded her sharply, "and not for myuncle."
There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Smithers peered curiously ather young mistress over her steel-bowed spectacles. "I'm not so sure asyou," she said. "On account of the cat 'avin come back from 'is grave, itwouldn't surprise me none to see your uncle settin' 'ere at any time in'is shroud, and a-askin' to 'ave mush and milk for 'is supper, the which'e was so powerful fond of that I was more 'n 'alf minded at the lastminute to put some of it in 's coffin."
"Mrs. Smithers," said Dorothy, severely, "I do not want to hear any moreabout dead people, or resurrected cats, or anything of that nature. What'sgone is gone, and there's no use in continually referring to it."
At this significant moment, Claudius Tiberius paraded somewhatostentatiously through the kitchen and went outdoors.
"You see, Miss?" asked Mrs. Smithers, with ill-concealed satisfaction."Wot's gone ain't always gone for long, that's wot it ain't."
Dorothy retreated, followed by a sepulchral laugh which grated on hernerves. "Upon my word, dear," she said to Harlan, "I don't know how we'regoing to stand having that woman in the house. She makes me feel as if Iwere an undertaker, a grave digger, and a cemetery, all rolled into one."
"You're too imaginative," said Harlan, tenderly, stroking her soft cheek.He had not yet seen Mrs. Smithers.
"Perhaps," Dorothy admitted, "when she gets that pyramid of crape off herhead, she'll seem more nearly human. Do you suppose she expects to wear itin the house all the time?"
"Miss Carr!"
The gaunt black shadow appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and thehigh, harsh voice shrilled imperiously across the yard.
"I'm coming," answered Dorothy, submissively, for in the tone there wasthat which instinctively impels obedience. "What is it?" she asked, whenshe entered the kitchen.
"Nothink. I only wants to know wot it is you're layin' out to 'ave foryour--luncheon, if that's wot you call it."
"Poached eggs on toast, last night's cold potatoes warmed over, hotbiscuits, jam, and tea."
Mrs. Smithers's articulate response resembled a cluck more closely thananything else.
"You can make biscuits, can't you?" went on Dorothy, hastily.
"I 'ave," responded Mrs. Smithers, dryly. "Begging your parding, Miss, butis that there feller sawin' wood out by the chicken coop your 'usband?"
"The gentleman in the yard," said Dorothy, icily, "is Mr. Carr."
"Be n't you married to 'im?" cried Mrs. Smithers, dropping a fork. "Iunderstood as 'ow you was, else I wouldn't 'ave come. I was never oneto----"
"I most assuredly _am_ married to him," answered Dorothy, with dueemphasis on the verb.
"Oh! 'E's the build of my youngest sister's poor dead 'usband; the one wotbroke the tea set wot I give 'er over 'er poor 'ed. 'E can 'it powerful'ard, can't 'e?"
Quite beyond speech, Dorothy went outdoors again, her head held high and adangerous light in her eyes. To-morrow, or next week at the latest, shouldwitness the forced departure of Mrs. Smithers. Mrs. Carr realised that thewoman did not intend to be impertinent, and that the social forms ofJudson Centre were not those of New York. Still, some things wereunbearable.
The luncheon that was set before them, however, went far toward atonement.With the best intentions in the world, Dorothy's cooking nearly alwayswent wide of the mark, and Harlan welcomed the change with unmistakablepleasure.
"I say, Dorothy," he whispered, as they rose from the table; "get on withher if you can. Anybody who can make such biscuits as these will go out ofthe house only over my dead body."
The latter part of the speech was unfortunate. "My surroundings are soextremely cheerful," remarked Dorothy, "that I've decided to spend theafternoon in the library reading Poe. I've always wanted to do it and Idon't believe I'll ever feel any creepier than I do this blessed minute."
In spite of his laughing protest, she went into the library, locked thedoor, and curled up in Uncle Ebeneezer's easy chair with a well-thumbedvolume of Poe, finding a two-dollar bill used in one place as a book mark.She read for some time, then took down another book, which opened ofitself at "The Gold Bug."
The pages were thickly strewn with marginal comments in the fine, small,shaky hand she had learned to associate with Uncle Ebeneezer. Theparagraph about the skull, in the tree above the treasure, had evidentlyfilled the last reader with unprecedented admiration, for on the marginwas written twice, in ink: "A very, very pretty idea."
She laughed aloud, for her thoughts since morning had been persistentlydirected toward things not of this world. "I'm glad I'm notsuperstitious," she thought, then jumped almost out of her chair at thesound of an ominous crash in the kitchen.
"I won't go," she thought, settling back into her place. "I'll let thatold monument alone just as much as I can."
Upon the whole, it was just as well, for the "old monument" was on herbony knees, with her head and shoulders quite lost in the secret depths ofthe kitchen range. "I wonder," she was muttering, "where 'e could 'ave putit. It would 'ave been just like that old skinflint to 'ave 'id it in thestove!"
