Boston a novel
at Miss Wilson’s?”
“No, but naturally I listen and think. They’ve got another quarrel now,
that I’m not supposed to know about; but I can’t help hearing--and then
Priscilla tells me a lot.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s Aunt Alice; there’s a gentleman who admires her very much,
and it’s all right, of course, only she drove somewhere with this
gentleman, and somebody else saw them, and there was a lot of gossip
about it, and mother had to lie for Aunt Alice at her Sewing Circle,
and she vows she will never do it again. And Aunt Alice cried, and they
haven’t been to each other’s house for several months.”
Cornelia thought for a space. “I don’t believe I’m ready to go home
yet, Betty!”
III
They strolled to the edge of the woods, where they found a seat covered
with pine-needles, and Betty told more gossip of the Thornwell clan.
Aunt Clara had had another baby; that made eight, and Aunt Alice called
it a positive indecency--if they were looking for scandals, there was
a real one. And Great-uncle Abner had had a bad attack of the gout;
and his son, Uncle Quincy--you must pronounce it as if it were another
disease--had won a chess cup. And Uncle Henry Winters and Uncle James
Scatterbridge had made no one could say how many millions buying ships
and things and selling them to the allies; and Betty’s father had made
a speech at a banquet of the bankers, declaring that the interests
of civilization required that America should enter the war. “On which
side?” asked Cornelia; and the girl looked at first puzzled and then
shocked. “Oh, the allies, of course.”
So Cornelia told the decision which had been forming in her mind during
her year of independence. She was a pacifist. She believed that the
interests of civilization required that men should stop killing one
another. When Betty said, “Oh, but if the Kaiser should win!” Cornelia
answered that it didn’t matter who won, the interests of civilization
would lose. She quoted one of the founding fathers, Benjamin Franklin,
to the effect that there never was a good war nor a bad peace.
This was a subject they might have discussed for quite a while; but
Betty’s conscience began to trouble her. “It is time I was dressing for
dinner, and I mustn’t be late. Mrs. Walker has to be so careful with
me.”
“Mrs. Walker?” said Cornelia; and the other explained that she was
spending a couple of weeks with the Jerry Walkers. Cornelia could
hardly believe her ears. “How does that happen?”
“I know, it sounds funny; but you see, Lucile Walker, the oldest
daughter, is at Miss Wilson’s, and I like her better than any other
girl in the school--in fact we just adore each other. She really
knows more than six of me, Grannie, and why does one always have to
be thinking about family and ancestors? The way it seems to me, we
Thornwells have got so much pride and money that we don’t really need
to amount to anything or to know anything. Honestly, I get bored with
it; and Lucile interests me, so why shouldn’t we be friends?”
“Certainly; only I’m surprised that Deborah would let you visit them.”
“Well, we had a time, of course. Mother says she simply cannot
understand my vulgar tastes. She couldn’t figure out where I got them,
but now she’s decided that it’s from you, Grannie!” And Cornelia
spread out her knobby knuckles, and said that she had gone back to her
ancestors; and Betty caught those knobby knuckles and cried over them,
and they had a fine sentimental time.
Betty told more about the people she was visiting; she knew the whole
shameful story from her mother--how Jerry Walker had been employed as
an errand boy in St. Andrew’s hospital, of which Cornelia had been
one of the supporters; and later he had worked as a felt-salesman, and
Grandfather Thornwell had helped to put up the money so that he might
buy his first plant. Now he owned about all the felt-plants there were
in New England, and was getting to be as rich as anybody. But he could
never be forgiven for being a nobody, and it was preposterous that his
daughter should have been admitted to a fashionable school with the
daughters of the Thornwells.
“You can see how it is,” said Betty. “If anything were to go wrong
with me while I’m at Mrs. Walker’s, she would never be forgiven;
so I mustn’t cause her any worry. If I could tell her about you,
Grannie--but then I don’t know”--and again laughter lighted up the
eager face of the girl--“I’m afraid maybe you are not respectable any
more!”
Cornelia replied, “I’m lost forever. The people I’ve been living with
are far worse than the Walkers. They are called Dago Reds.”
“Dago Red?” said Betty, puzzled. “I thought that was what the college
boys call wine.”
“Yes, but this is another kind of Red, those who don’t believe in
religion, or in government; they are anarchists, in short.”
This time Miss Betty was really shocked, and all the laughter died out
of her eyes. “Oh, Grannie, but you’re joking!”
“No. But they’re really quite charming people. I’ll introduce you to
them, maybe, and you can see. One of them is called Bart, and he is a
saint.”
“A saint?” echoed Betty, still more puzzled. “But you said they didn’t
believe in religion!”
“It appears that many saints don’t, any more,” was Cornelia’s reply.
“There are what you might call secular saints.”
IV
They walked towards Betty’s dinner, and on the way discussed the
problem of how she was to meet these dangerous and thrilling friends of
Grannie’s. Betty could not be absent from the Walkers’ without giving
some excuse, and she did not want to tell any fibs to a hostess who
carried such a grave responsibility. It would not do to tell Lucile,
because secrets didn’t last long with her, and anyhow, she was not
old enough to be a chaperon. Betty bethought herself of Miss Mehitabel
Smith, the unmarried sister of Mrs. Walker. Miss Mehitabel was very,
very upright; “almost as good as Mother,” said Betty. She did a great
deal of visiting among the poor, and if Betty were to be seized with a
desire to go visiting with her, that would be perfectly proper; Miss
Mehitabel could visit her own poor, while Betty visited Betty’s--and
it would be no fib, because anybody had only to look at that frightful
get-up that Grannie wore--“How on earth do you stand it?”
It would be necessary to take Miss Mehitabel into the secret; but Betty
was sure it would be safe, for no one could be more conscientious.
Cornelia said all right, but of course Betty must not give any hint
of the reason why Cornelia had left home; family quarrels were family
skeletons, never taken out in public; and Betty said, “Oh, of course!”
She would say that her grandmother was engaged in sociological
research, and her secret must be kept because otherwise her conclusions
would be invalidated. Miss Mehitabel would be thrilled to death by
that, and it would be such a very, very little fib, it would hardly
count at all. It was agreed that Betty was to pay a call in Suosso’s
Lane on the following evening.
And meantime, what must the little mischief do but arrange with
Miss Mehitabel to inspect the cordage plant! Miss Mehitabel was a
stockholder in the company, so it was easy for her, and at 10 o’clock
in the morning the two of them suddenly appeared in Cornelia’s
wrapping-room. They did not speak, but stood for a long time and
watched the work, and Cornelia stole glances at them out of the corner
of her eyes. The other women workers did the same, the young ones
especially; for Betty was as good as a fashionplate or a visit to the
movies. As for Miss Mehitabel--well, Cornelia tried to imagine what an
Italian or Portuguese worker would make of her solid Norfolk jacket
fastened with a belt, and her plain tweed skirt without a pleat or
fold, and her plain brown stockings and “ground gripper” shoes. Miss
Mehitabel wore her hair short--this in the days when it was an act of
heroism--and parted in the middle and covered by a Swiss guide hat with
a small feather in it--the only ornamental thing in the whole costume.
Miss Mehitabel’s face was serious, even stern, and her eyes looked
out through large horn-rimmed spectacles. In short, she was a perfect
imitation of a certain very common type of Beacon Hill lady who has
got through with nonsense once for all, especially the nonsense of
men, and wishes to advertise the fact, especially to the men. In
the case of Miss Mehitabel, who was a rank outsider, it was a very
bold, even presumptuous thing to do; but that, of course, would be
something beyond the comprehension of a cordage worker, who would take
Miss Mehitabel to be the real thing, and have enough to do trying to
imagine what that thing might be. After the two ladies had walked on,
Cornelia heard the foreman of the department standing behind her seat,
discussing the problem with the subforeman. “Now what do you suppose a
woman gets herself up like that for?”
“Search me,” said the subforeman.
“Well, they tell you the reason there is so many old maids in New
England, because the men goes west. But what I say is, if the women
tried hard enough, they could get the men to come fetch them.” It was
what is known as “Yankee humor.”
V
Cornelia had decided not to give the Brinis any explanation of Betty.
She would just say that one of her grand-daughters was visiting in
Plymouth, and wanted to meet them. There was a mystery anyhow, and the
presence of a grand-daughter would neither add to it nor take away.
Betty put on her least fashionable costume for the occasion; but the
gulf between the lowest of Betty’s and the highest of an Italian
cordage worker’s was not to be bridged at one day’s notice. Alfonsina
had barely time after supper to put clean clothes on the children, and
to smooth her own hair and put on her necklace of beads. Papa Brini
came in from the garden and washed his hands and put on his coat. As
for poor old Bart, his clothes hung on him as if they had come from
a pawnbroker’s, and he didn’t even know enough to trim his walrus
mustaches when a young lady was coming to call.
But all the stiffness and embarrassment was soon forgotten; because
Betty set out to be loved, and there was no resisting her. “Nonna?” she
said, when she heard Cornelia’s name. “What does that mean?” When they
told her it was the Italian word for grandma, she said, “Oh, how cute!
Nonna. I’ll make it my pet name for her,” and she began to do it right
away.
She got one arm about Trando, and said, “You will teach me lots
of lovely Italian words. And Nonna tells me you are going to be a
violinist. I play the piano a little, and you can come to see me and
we’ll play duets; only you are going to be famous, and you won’t waste
your time with me.” So then, of course, Alfonsina beamed, and Vincenzo
was so touched that he got out one of the last of his precious bottles
of “Dago Red,” and they all had a glass--even Bart drank a little when
it was a matter of courtesy. They made the jokes about “Dago Red,” and
the one about “divino da vino,” and explained it to Betty. And then she
turned to Bart and said, “Mr. Vanzetti, Nonna tells me that you have
made her into a pacifist.”
Now Bart, of course, had never seen anything so lovely as this in all
his life; at least, never close at hand, and paying attention to _him_.
He who would walk a whole afternoon in the woods searching for the
first mayflower, now saw one come laughing and chatting into the parlor
where he boarded. Of course he was awe-stricken; but even so, not for a
moment must his proletarian conscience be drugged. “No, Meess Betty,”
said he. “Nonna is very good lady, mooch lovely lady; but if she is
made pacifista”--he pronounced it Italian fashion, “pachifeesta”--“if
she is pachifeesta, it is not by me. I am never sooch t’ing.”
“Oh, then what are you, Mr. Vanzetti?”
“I am anarchista.”