Three Women

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6. Blue Monday



October, with its wealth of color, its mellow days, and soft haze was passing quickly and November was not far off: November with its "melancholy days" of "wailing winds and wintry woods."

Baltie had now been a member of the Carruth family for nearly a month and had improved wonderfully under Mammy Melviny's care. How the old woman found time to care for him and the means to provide for him was a source of wonder not only to Mrs. Carruth, but to the entire neighborhood who regarded the whole thing as a huge joke, and enjoyed many a hearty laugh over it, for Mammy was considered a character by the neighbors, and nobody felt much surprised at any new departure in which she might elect to indulge. Two or three friends had begged Mrs. Carruth to let them relieve her of the care of the old horse, assuring her that they would gladly keep him in their stables as long as he needed a home, and ended in a hearty laugh at the thought of Mammy turning groom. But when Mrs. Carruth broached the subject to Mammy she was met with flat opposition:

"Send dat ole horse off ter folks what was jist gwine tek keer of him fer cha'ity? No I aint gwine do no sich t'ing. De Lawd sartin sent him ter me ter tek keer of an' I'se gwin ter do it. Aint he mine? Didn't Jabe Raulsbury say dat anybody what would tek keer of him could have him? Well I'se tekin' keer of him so co'se he's mine. I aint never is own no live stock befo' an now I got some. Go 'long, Miss Jinny; you'se got plenty ter tend ter 'thout studyin' 'bout my horse. Bimeby like 'nough I have him so fed up and spry I can sell him fer heap er cash--dough I don' believe anybody's got nigh 'nough fer ter buy him whilst Baby loves him."

And so the discussion ended and Baltie lived upon the fat of the land and was sheltered in Mrs. Carruth's unused stable. Dry leaves which fell in red and yellow clouds from the maple, birch and oak trees made a far softer bed than the old horse had known in many a day. A bag of bran was delivered at Mrs. Carruth's house for "Mammy Melviny," with Hadyn Stuyvesant's compliments. Mammy herself, invested in a sack of oats and a bale of cut hay, to say nothing of saving all bits of bread and parings from her kitchen, and Baltic waxed sleek and fat thereon. Jean was his devoted slave and daily led him about the grounds for a constitutional. Up and down the driveway paced the little girl, the old horse plodding gently beside her, his ears pricked toward her for her faintest word, his head held in the pathetic, listening attitude of a blind horse. He knew her step afar off, and his soft nicker never failed to welcome her as she drew near. To no one else did he show such little affectionate ways, or manifest such gentleness. He seemed to understand that to this little child, which one stroke of his great hoofs could have crushed, he owed his rescue and present comforts.

And so the weeks had slipped away. The money which Jean had left for Mr. Pringle had been promptly refunded with a note to explain that the Society had borne all the expenses for Baltie's board.

Mrs. Carruth sat in her library wrinkling her usually serene brow over a business letter this chilly Monday morning, and hurrying to get it completed before the arrival of the letter carrier who always took any letters to be mailed. Her face wore a perplexed expression, and her eyes had tired lines about them, for the past year had been harder for her than anyone suspected. Her income, at best, was much too limited to conduct her home as it had always been conducted, and the general expenses of living in Riveredge were steadily increasing. True, Mammy was frugality itself in the matter of providing, and Mrs. Carruth often marveled at the small amounts of her weekly bills. But the demands in other directions were heavy, and the expenses of the place itself were large. More than once had she questioned the wisdom of striving to keep the home, believing that the tax upon her resources, and her anxiety, would be less if she gave it up and removed to town where she could live for far less than in Riveredge. Then arose the memory of the building of the home, the hopes, the plans, and the joys so inseparable from it, the children's well-being and their love for the house their father had built; their education, and the environment of a home in such a town as Riveredge.

Now, however, new difficulties were confronting her, for some of her investments were not making the returns she had expected and her income was seriously affected. In spite of the utmost frugality and care the outlook was not encouraging, and just now she had to meet the demand of the fire insurance upon the home and its contents, and just how to do so was the question which was causing her brows to wrinkle. She had let the matter stand until the last moment, but dared to do so no longer for upon that point Mr. Carruth had always been most emphatic; the insurance upon his property must never lapse. He had always carried one, and since his death his wife had been careful to continue it. But now how to meet the sum, and meet it at once, was the problem.

She had completed her letter when Mammy came to the door.

"Is yo' here, Miss Jinny? Is yo' busy? I wants to ax you sumpin'," she said as she gave a quick glance at Mrs. Carruth from her keen eyes.

"Come in, Mammy. What is it?"

The voice had a tired, anxious note in it which Mammy was quick to catch.

"Wha' de matter, honey? Wha's plaguin' you dis mawnin'?" she asked as she hurried across the room to rest her hand on her mistress' shoulder.

Like a weary child Mrs. Carruth let her head fall upon Mammy's bosom--a resting place that as long as she could remember had never failed her--as she said:

"Mammy, your baby is very weary, and sorely disheartened this morning, and very, very lonely."

The words ended in a sob.

Instantly all Mammy's sympathies were aroused. Gathering the weary head in her arms she stroked back the hair with her work-hardened hand, as she said in the same tender tones she had used to soothe her baby more than forty years ago:

"Dere, dere, honey, don' yo' fret; don' yo' fret. Tell Mammy jist what's pesterin' yo' an' she'll mak' it all right fer her baby. Hush! Hush. Mammy can tek keer of anythin'."

"Oh, Mammy dear, dear old Mammy, you take care of so much as it is. What would we do without you?"

"Hush yo' talk chile! What I gwine do widout yo' all? Dat talk all foolishness. Don't I b'long ter de fambly? Now yo' mind yo' Mammy an' tell her right off what's a frettin' yo' dis day. Yo' heah me?"

Mammy's voice was full of forty-five years of authority, but her eyes were full of sympathetic tears, for her love for her "Miss Jinny" was beyond the expression of words.

"O Mammy, I am so foolish, and I fear so pitifully weak when it comes to conducting my business affairs wisely. You can't understand these vexatious business matters which I must attend to, but I sorely miss Mr. Carruth when they arise and must be met."

"Huccum I cyan't understand 'em? What Massa Bernard done tackle in his business dat I cyan't ef yo' kin? Tell me dis minute just what you' gotter do, an' I bate yo' ten dollars I c'n do it."

"I know there isn't anything you would not try to do, Mammy, from taking care of an old horse, to moving the contents of the entire house if it became necessary," replied Mrs. Carruth, smiling in spite of herself, as she wiped her eyes, little realizing how near the truth was her concluding remark regarding Mammy's prowess.

"I reckon I c'd move de hull house if I had time enough, an' as fer de horse--huh! ain't he stanin' dere a livin' tes'imony of what a bran-smash an' elbow-grease kin do? 'Pears lak his hairs rise right up an' call me bres-sed, dey's tekin' ter shinin' so sense I done rub my hans ober 'em," and Mammy, true to her racial characteristics, broke into a hearty laugh; so close together lies the capacity for joy or sorrow in this child race. The next instant, however, Mammy was all seriousness as she demanded:

"Now I want yo' ter tell me all 'bout dis bisness flummy-diddle what's frettin' yo'. Come now; out wid it, quick."

Was it the old habit of obedience to Mammy's dictates, or the woman's longing for someone to confide in during these trying days of loneliness, that impelled Mrs. Carruth to explain in as simple language as possible the difficulties encompassing her?

The burden of meeting even the ordinary every-day expenses upon the very limited income derived from Mr. Carruth's life insurance, which left no margin whatsoever for emergencies. Of the imperative necessity of continuing the fire insurance he had always carried upon the home and its contents, lest a few hours wipe out what it had required years to gather together, and his wife and children be left homeless. How, under their altered circumstances this seemed more than ever imperative, since in the event of losing the house and its contents there would be no possible way of replacing either unless they kept the insurance upon them paid up.

Mammy listened intently, now and again nodding her old head and uttering a Um-uh! Um-uh! of comprehension.

When Mrs. Carruth ceased speaking she asked:

"An' how much has yo' gotter plank right out dis minit fer ter keep dis hyer as'sur'nce f'om collaps'in', honey?"

"Nearly thirty dollars, Mammy, and that seems a very large sum to me now-a-days."

"Hum-uh! Yas'm. So it do. Um. An' yo' aint got it?"

"I have not got it to-day, Mammy. I shall have it next week, but the time expires day after to-morrow and I do not know whether the company will be willing to wait, or whether I should forfeit my claim by the delay. I have written to ask."

"Huh! Wha' sort o' compiny is it dat wouldn't trus' a Blairsdale, I like ter know?" demanded Mammy indignantly.

Mrs. Carruth smiled sadly as she answered:

"These are not the old days, Mammy, and you know 'corporations have no souls.'"

"No so'les? Huh, I'se seen many a corpo'ration dat hatter have good thick leather soles fer ter tote 'em round. Well, well, times is sho' 'nough changed an' dese hyer Norf ways don't set well on my bile; dey rises it, fer sure. So dey ain't gwine trus' you, Baby? Where dey live at who has de sesso 'bout it all?"

"The main office is in the city, Mammy, but they have, of course, a local agent here."

"Wha' yo' mean by a locum agen', honey?"

"A clerk who has an office at 60 State street, and who attends to any business the firm may have in Riveredge."

"Is yo' writ yo' letter ter him? Who is he?"

"No, I have written to the New York office, because Mr. Carruth always transacted his business there. I thought it wiser to, for this Mr. Sniffins is a very young man, and would probably not be prepared to answer my question."

"Wha' yo' call him? Yo' don' mean dat little swimbly, red-headed, white-eyed sumpin' nu'er what sets down in dat basemen' office wid his foots cocked up on de rail-fence in front ob him, an' a segyar mos' as big as his laig stuck in he's mouf all de time? I sees him eve'y time I goes ter market, an' he lak' ter mek me sick. Is he de agen'?"

"Yes, Mammy, and I dare say he is capable enough, although I do not care to come in contact with him if I can avoid it."

"If I ketches yo' in dat 'tater sprout's office I gwine smack yo' sure's yo' bo'n. Yo' heah me? Why his ma keeps the sody-fountain on Main street. Wha-fo you gotter do wid such folks, Baby?"

"But, Mammy, they are worthy, respectable people,"--protested Mrs. Carruth.

"Hush yo' talk, chile. I reckon I knows de diff'rence twixt quality an' de yether kind. Dat's no place fer yo' to go at," cried Mammy, all her instincts rebelling against the experiences her baby was forced to meet in her altered circumstances. "Gimme dat letter. I'se gwine straight off ter markit dis minit and I'll see dat it get sont off ter de right pusson 'for I'se done anudder ting."

"But what did you wish to ask me, Mammy?"

"Nuffin'. 'Taint no 'count 'tall. I'll ax it when I comes back. Go 'long up-stairs and mek yo' bed if yo pinin' for occerpation," and away Mammy flounced from the room, leaving Mrs. Carruth more or less bewildered. She would have been completely so could she have followed the old woman.