as day followed day, with no return of the cause of their anxiety, the greys began to breathe more freely. if mrs. grey felt less confident than the children, she hid her fears, and the girls rejoiced with the buoyancy of youth in their rescue from the great sorrow threatening them.
the autumnal equinox had passed, prue had resumed school, and beautiful brooding days of golden sunshine, with their lengthening evenings, and the first touch of the cosey, shut-in feeling winter brings were resting over fayre. rob's brow did not match the brooding peace of nature. over and over, with growing desperation, she said to herself: "i must earn money, i must earn money, but how?" mr. grey had thrown caution to the four winds—if he could have been said to have any to throw—and was working madly on his invention by day, and dreaming of it by night. rob was in constant[116] requisition to help him; she shared her father's excitement, and began to believe, with renewed faith, that they were on the eve of entering the land flowing with milk and honey. but the eve was dark and long, pointing, of course, proverbially to the nearness of dawn, but hard to live through.
the disaster the greys had feared had befallen them; there was a temporary reduction in their income—so slender at best—owing to something going wrong with a railroad, in the queer, and, to feminine minds, mysterious ways investments have of behaving. it would be righted again one day, but in the meantime the reduction took the practical form of cutting down the simple family rations, leaving nothing for anything beyond necessities, very literally construed, and putting the greys on a basis that really was, as prue said, discontentedly: "poor folksy." and wythie and rob did need winter coats so sadly! their old ones were so shabby that rob said she "was colder with it on than without it, for its whitened seams and many worn spots gave her chills."
"i give you fair warning, wythie, i'm going to commit a felony," said poor rob, coming home from a walk and trying to laugh as she[117] tossed her hat on the old "nurse," as they called the shabby but comfortable couch which had cuddled them all as babies. "i feel a felony coming on, and it's as drawing as a felon."
"what form is it going to take, rob?" asked wythie.
"stealing," said prue, promptly. "i know i wanted to break in roger's window to-day and take the chocolate eclairs he had put there—they looked perfect dreams, and were as fresh! or else you want to fib," she added, thoughtfully. "no, though; you're not tempted as i am. it is simply awful when the girls ask you why you don't do this, or why you don't get that. what am i going to tell them?"
"the truth, that you can't afford it," said rob, stoutly. "you might as well, for everybody in fayre knows everybody else's affairs just a little better than they do themselves, so everybody knows we're poor—poor as pudding-stone rock. but there's one comfort; they all know, too, we're not every-day, pasture pudding-stone, but real old plymouth rockers, so mere money doesn't matter much—except to us. i don't suppose—since mardy isn't here—there's any use in our pretending we don't mind the present pinching state of our finances."
[118]
"our history lesson yesterday was on the way alexander hamilton made banks and money out of nothing but his country's debts, almost before it was a country; i wish i knew how he did it," observed prue, pensively.
"you haven't told us what form you felt your felony would take, rob," said oswyth. "where does your moral felon hurt you?"
"i feel twinges all over, my dear anglo-saxon messenger," said rob, airily. "in my feet when i look at my shoes, in my fingers when i put on my old gloves, or, worse yet, mittens instead of gloves, such as most fair maidens wear, and in my stomach when i try to make it believe an egg, some creamed potatoes, and a rice-pudding are porterhouse steak. but it's reaching a climax on my back. i must have a winter coat, and so must—a muster must—you, my patient wythie. to-day when i came past the rectory—st. chad's rectory—the lady rectoress had hung out her three daughters' three new winter coats, fur-trimmed, o my sisters, and beautiful to behold! i am going to break and enter that house in the dark of the moon, and steal those coats."
"i hope if you're caught your punishment will[119] be banishment from fayre, or i don't see what good your felony will do you—you can never wear the coats," laughed wythie, and then she sighed. "it's hard, robsy, but bear up, my boy! you believe this is our last hard winter."
rob shrugged her shoulders. "of course, but it's also the only one we're living through this year, and next year's dinners aren't sustaining—or, at least, you can't help weak moments if you live on them," she said. "here comes our aunt azraella. she is stopping in the back yard to examine those two underskirts you sewed that lace on, wythie. she is estimating its cost and disapproving of it at a high rate of pressure. i wish she would come around the front way, even if it is farther! what with the bleaching grass, the clothes-line, and the pantry window, the back way is dangerous to a critic born."
"rob, you're a villain!" said wythie, trying to pull her lips straight.
"you've time for a little laugh, oswyth; she's delaying now at the blind i mended—neat job, mrs. winslow, ma'am, though i say it who shouldn't," remarked rob. "as to being a villain, it's lucky i am, for unless a body's a saint like you—and you may have noticed i'm not—[120] aunt azraella might embitter one unless she were handled with a lightly humorous touch. eyes right! shoulder arms! she comes, the greek—a freak?—she comes!"
wythie and prue looked flushed and shaken as their aunt entered, but rob met her with the solemnity of a holbein portrait, or as nearly as nature had allowed her rippling face to attain that standard.
"good-morning, girls," said mrs. winslow. "i hardly have time to sit. where's your mother? it doesn't matter; don't call her. i came on an errand."
"she's decided to waive the skirts; think how much nicer they'll look with that lace on them when they're waved," whispered rob to wythie, who choked as she gave her sister a remonstrant pinch.
"what i wanted was to borrow one of you girls to help me take down the old parlor curtains and put up my new ones," said aunt azraella. "elvira has a bad knee, besides, she's busy, and i sent aaron away on an errand. oswyth, will you come?"
"i will go if you like, but rob is better at such work," began wythie.
"i have to help patergrey," "i would rather[121] have you," said rob and her aunt, speaking together.
"auntie and i are mutually agreeable to your going, wythikins," said rob, smiling gaily into her aunt's face.
"i'll go," said wythie, rising hastily; she was always nervously afraid of what might happen when rob and their aunt collided. "do you want me now?"
"certainly; it gets dark too early to lose a minute," said mrs. winslow. "get your hat and jacket and come right along."
oswyth obeyed. it was a pretty walk up the hill to mrs. winslow's from the little grey house, but oswyth did not enjoy it, for her aunt seized the opportunity to question her as to the greys' domestic affairs, "because," she said, "mary was so shut-mouthed," and to point out to the young girl how straight they were headed for destruction. the girls did not visit more frequently than duty demanded the hill-house which would have been so pleasant to them if their uncle had not left it too early for them to have known him. oswyth entered it now with the chill it invariably gave her.
every chair sat prim and straight in its own place against the wall; it made one shudder to[122] imagine what would have been the consequences if in the night they had taken to playing "going to jerusalem" with one another.
the light was carefully excluded, and, warm and soft although the air was out of doors, the house held a deadly chill in its atmosphere.
books—proper compilations, selections, and poems—lay in austere firmness, each on its own spot on the bleak plateau of the marble-topped centre-table. a clock that had not made a new record of time in sixty-one thousand three hundred and twenty hours, pointed stoically to ten minutes to five from its position precisely in the middle of the parlor mantelpiece, flanked on either hand by a grimly resolute bronze warrior.
on the chair nearest the door lay the new curtains, dark blue, heavy material, folded neatly and piled on one another. the old ones, which had been pretty, green-corded silk, hung in their places at the six windows; even in the dim light they had abandoned all hope of concealing the fact that they were badly faded, and displayed their yellow streaks with hopeless candor.
at the sight of them an inspiration came to wythie which nearly took her breath away. what was aunt azraella going to do with those old curtains?
[123]
aunt azraella laid aside her lingering sun-hat with a manner—for her—actually sprightly. "i'll get the steps, oswyth, and you might be shaking the new curtains out of their folds and putting the pins in," she said. "you'll find new pins in that box on top of the pink china vase. turn the curtains down to the depth of this card across the tops—all but two pairs. they have to be turned slanting, because they go at the end windows, where the floor has settled. but there! you can't do much while i'm getting the steps." and aunt azraella stepped away with a certain crisp decision which was her way of hurrying—aunt azraella never flustered.
oswyth obediently shook out the curtains, and had laid the new upholsterer's pins on the table, separating them into detached rows, like so many brass grasshoppers, by the time her aunt returned with the step-ladder hung gracefully on one arm, the other slightly extended for balance. before her walked tobias, the tiger cat, so called because of his fishing proclivities, and who, so far from being spoiled like kiku-san, was staid and serious, relegated to the kitchen and elvira's society, and only suffered in the parlor under special conditions and surveillance, like the present.
[124]
"i'll take the old ones down, aunt; i can run up and down the steps more easily than you," said wythie, taking the step-ladder from her aunt, and testing its iron brace as she set it before the first window. mrs. winslow began to stick pins into the obdurate new material, marking the amount to be turned down by keeping the card she had notched against it with her left thumb, holding the while a second brass grasshopper between her teeth, ready for use. wythie unhooked the old pins from the rings and let the faded curtains droop, eagerly planning the while, and wondering if she could get her courage to the begging-point. "i don't think," said gentle wythie to herself, "i do not think that we can be forbidden to covet our neighbor's goods when they are so very old and faded."
at last all the old curtains were down, and the new ones up in their place. wythie had patiently climbed up and down the step-ladder, skilfully avoiding tobias, who liked to sit on the second step from the top; had altered pins, and supported the heavy material while aunt azraella altered; her natural desire to please increased by her resolve to be bold and dare when all was done. and when it was done she had something of her reward, for aunt azraella[125] actually patted her on the shoulder, and said: "you have been very helpful, oswyth. i was wise to insist on having you; roberta would never have been so patient and thorough."
"i am glad if i have been useful," wythie said, rather faintly.
"it seems a pity not to use those old curtains for something," said aunt azraella, whose mind was on the order of mrs. john gilpin's. "but they are too faded for any purpose, and too big to make it worth while sending them to new york to be dyed."
"i wonder if you would mind—aunt azraella, might i have them?" said wythie, with desperate courage—it was nearly impossible for her to ask for anything.
"you, oswyth! what on earth could you do with them? you can't mean to get your mother to dye them for curtains for your house? you don't need curtains," said mrs. winslow.
"i don't want them for curtains, aunt azraella; i want them for winter coats," said wythie, more boldly, now that the first plunge was made. "rob and i are too shabby to go out when there's a moon—not to mention sun. and mardy could dye this material, and it would be warm and pretty. if you don't need them, aunt, they[126] would really do us a lot of good—we would make the coats, you know."
mrs. winslow stared wonderingly, then she gleamed approval at wythie, though she felt called upon to conceal it. "there are thirty-six yards here, fifty-four inches wide; do you think you need so much? and it seems a pity to divide it," she said.
"oh, no; i've no idea what it would take, but not that—still, they would have to be lined, and mardy could dye half another color, and line with the same," stammered wythie. "i didn't think you'd care, but if you do i'm sorry i spoke—i did not mean to ask for anything you wanted."
having reduced wythie to the properly humble frame of mind, mrs. winslow relented. "i did not say i wanted them, oswyth," she said. "thank goodness, your uncle, my husband, left me enough, besides all i had from my father; he was a thrifty man, and a good business-man, your uncle horace. i don't need old curtains, i hope. you may take a pair home—if you can carry them—and ask your mother if they can be used as you think, and how many she needs—you may have all you want of them. i'm glad to see you practical and managing; you've got the[127] winslow faculty, and aren't a grey, as i'm afraid roberta is. i'll get you paper and twine. go across the orchard, oswyth; don't let folks see you taking my curtains home. can you carry them?"
"i'll carry them, aunt; never fear, and i'll not let a soul but ourselves know where we got our splendid winter coats," cried wythie, gleefully. and in the exuberance of her pleasure she actually kissed her aunt with an affection that really belonged to the new coats, but which surprised and pleased aunt azraella as if it had been her own—as indeed she thought it was.
she let wythie out of the door in a high state of satisfaction in her own generosity which had made the girl so happy, and watched her run down the hill with a speed her heavy bundle could not at first retard. but she had to go slower at the foot of the hill; only by repeatedly sitting down on her treasure to rest, and by dragging and tugging it with both hands between halts, did she succeed in reaching the door of the little grey house.
roberta saw her coming, and had the door open as wythie laid her heavy burden on the steps. "what in all the wide world have you there, wythie?" cried rob.
[128]
"our—winter—coats," panted wythie, very warm and short-breathed.
"honestly?" cried rob, joyfully. "i thought aunt azraella had given you her old curtains."
"so she has, and they are our winter coats," said oswyth, preparing to take her bundle into the house, but rob forestalled her by seizing the twine, and she carried the treasure, bumping against her knees, to their mother.
mrs. grey laughed over wythie's project, but pronounced it feasible. "you will have to let me dye them black, girlies," she said. "i would never risk all those faded stripes coming out one shade of a color. but we'll make the lining red—defects won't show there—so they shall not be sombre. i think i have some fur in the golconda which will go around the necks, and make them really sumptuous."
"the golconda" was the chest in which mrs. grey stored her remnants of better days, and which was to the girls a mine of richness, furnishing them with their few luxuries of toilet.
the kettle and the witch-stick came forth, and the kettle boiled and bubbled, and mrs. grey toiled and troubled to good purpose, for the handsome material of the old curtains came out a beautiful glossy black.
[129]
mrs. grey cut and basted, and wythie stitched the new coats with feverish impatience for the result, and aunt azraella came over to see the trying on.
"really, mary," she said, moved almost to enthusiasm as their mother revolved wythie and rob by their shoulders, displaying a success exceeding her own hopes, while making chalk notes of improvements—"really, mary, you are wonderful! you might be a tailor. it is marvellous, brought up as you were."
"my bringing up explains it, azraella. mother believed in teaching her children to use their hands and wits. i'll tell you, azraella; it's that plymouth strain you so venerate. the pilgrim mothers wove and spun, and my tailoring must be a case of pure heredity," said mrs. grey, laughing with a girlish mischievousness that rarely found expression. wythie and rob were just beginning to be old enough to realize that their mother was young.
the coats were finished, and really were triumphs. aunt azraella was so pleased with her curtains for turning out so creditably to her that she actually produced from the treasure-house of her attic, which the girls longed to ravage, handsome buttons to adorn the coats, and enough rich[130] velvet for hats for all three nieces. wythie made jaunty little muffs from the material of the coats, and behold, from being shabby, she and rob were transformed into an external splendor that enabled them to look their sister maidens in the face with equable minds.
but aside from this windfall matters grew worse, rather than better, in the little grey house. everything that they could deny themselves the greys went without. prue rebelled against her childish fare of rice and molasses, and declared her eyes were growing almond-shaped from over-indulgence in that celestial and nuptial grain.
rob sang her a pleasing extemporaneous ditty about
"little prue-sing, poor little thing!
lived upon 'lasses and rice,
but she turned up her nose and said: 'under the rose,
i'd rather have something more nice.'
but i said: 'o my sweet, it will give you small feet,
and won't you consider the price?'"
prue looked less pleased with the ditty than she might have been, and wythie, "the olive[131]branch," as rob called her, said, hastily: "we've a japanese kitten, so we oughtn't to mind being just a trifle mongolian, prudy. come here, kiku-san." for kiku-san was wearing his most serene and sanctified expression, and that look usually preceded his breaking something.
"prudence, mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking," sang rob, with immense expression. "and you know it is always darkest before dawn. just wait—only wait a little while longer, my child, and patergrey will compress all our troubles with his coal-dust, and consume them forever. wait for the machine, goldilocks."
but away down in her stanch and loyal heart rob could not help feeling that it was weary waiting.
