Читать книгу Cherry Square - Grace S. Richmond - Страница 7

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How to be a "fascinating servant!" That was the task Josephine Jenney had set herself. Many times since she had made that extraordinary declaration to Norah O'Grady had it occurred to her that the phrase was ill chosen. It was all but a contradiction in terms. An efficient servant, a loyal servant, even an attractive servant, it was conceivable that one might become, but a fascinating servant—such a person was never heard of. As a matter of fact, who would be likely to want a fascinating servant? Let the mistress of the place exercise the fascinations, if any were to be let loose; but let her maids remain demure though capable if they wished to be retained in her good graces.

Association with Mrs. Lawson, the cook, was likely to keep her assistants subdued. A stickler for conservatism was Mrs. Lawson. Not only was her cookery of the most appetizing, but her ideas as to the manner of its service in the dining room, and of every detail of that service, were unalterable.

"Serve to the left, take away to the right," Mrs. Lawson laid down the laws. "Never let the place be lacking a plate. Never pile up the dishes in front of the person when you're going to change courses." And so on. "Never do this, always do that, and never, never make the least noise about it, or fumble anything." Mrs. Lawson endlessly elaborated her instructions.

Jo went about these duties with an odd expression in her amused eyes, a queer little twist in the corner of her lips. If she had been closely noted she might have been seen now and then to lay a fork or place a finger bowl and then give it a little wave of salutation. "How are you, old friend? Sure you go there, are you? Always did, didn't you? Take care you don't run away!"

Outside of these matters, however, Mrs. Lawson was most reticent and tight-lipped, and of this Jo was exceedingly glad. The thing she had feared was that she would be expected by Mrs. Chase's other servants to discuss her with them, and this she would never do. Mary, the young nurse, had shown a tendency to indulge in household gossip, but since she was younger than Jo it had been easy to show her that this was not in Jo's own code. It was Norah O'Grady who most tempted the former teacher of her Patsy to break her resolution in this respect.

"Faith, ye're gettin' on like a house afire with yer worrk," Norah announced one day, when she and Jo had to themselves the big airy back kitchen where the ironing was done. "I can see they think ye're the cat's whiskers in the place where ye are. But how about bein' the fri'nd of the family ye set out to be? Have they asked ye in to set by the fire on the cool avenin's yet, at all?"

If Jo Jenney had not been really fond of Norah O'Grady and had not understood that behind this challengingly ironic inquiry was actual solicitude that she attain her wish, she might have answered stingingly. As it was she subdued that inclination, and only said quietly, with a little lift of the head: "I'm enjoying being in this house. It's quite as interesting as I thought it would be."

Norah stared at her, then nodded her head. "The time'll come," she said. "Ye can't keep a good man down, nor a girl like you. Ye have the look of thimselves, I'll say that—an' why not? It's not in your own place you are, an' some day somethin'll happen that'll show it to thim. I'll be glad when that happens."

Now Jo could smile at her, and did, so that the warm Irish heart could expand still more generously. "Maybe I can make it happen mesilf," said Norah to herself—but knew better than to say it to Jo.

On the second Sunday of the Chases' stay Sally came downstairs with a definite intention as regarded Josephine. The first Sunday Mrs. Chase had let go comfortably by with the feeling that for once in many months she might forget that there was such a thing as a church service, with hymns and prayers and responses and a sermon to be loyally listened to. It had seemed a luxury not to feel responsible—actually responsible—for the way the service went, but to be able to roam off as she had done that first Sunday into the lanes and fields which could be reached by five minutes' walk from Cherry Square. She had said a little prayer of thankfulness out there under the blue sky, and had persuaded herself that on this vacation from responsibility she would spend her Sundays as she pleased.

But on this second Sunday, at her first waking, she had somehow been assailed by the wish to go to church. Old habit asserting itself, she supposed, but there it was. She wanted to see what a church service would be like in the old white church with the needle-like spire on the south side of Cherry Square. She wanted to say a prayer for Schuyler between the walls of a sanctuary, though she didn't know just why. She supposed it must be because her thoughts of Schuyler were so closely tied up with sanctuaries. And she had suddenly remembered her new maid, Josephine. Curiously enough, she often found herself thinking of Josephine, even when the two were not in the same room. That spirited-looking young woman might have some Protestant church affiliation. Mrs. Lawson and Mary were Catholics, and the town held no Catholic church; but to Josephine it might be her employer had an obligation.

A minute's conversation demonstrated the fact.

"Thank you, Mrs. Chase, I should like to go to church very much," assented Jo. "I wasn't sure you could spare me."

"I always arrange to spare anybody under my roof who cares to go to church," Sally said. "You and Mrs. Lawson may have alternate Sundays at church time, though she won't go here. Suppose you go to-day. Which church do you prefer?"

Jo told her. It was the white church to which Sally herself meant to go. Mrs. Schuyler Chase, accustomed to being democratic as well as Christian, even in a city church which was as aristocratic in its tendencies as a wealthy membership could keep it, instantly invited Jo to go with her. Rather, she invited Jo to take her new mistress with her.

"I'm practically a stranger in the town, it's so long since I used to come here," Sally said, smiling the adorable smile which few people could resist. "So it will be nice to have you take me. Are you a member of that church?"

Jo said she wasn't, but that she had a seat there with a nice old man who had been a member all his life. Upon which Sally felt a certain conviction of hers deepening, and as it was a conviction which interested her very much she was glad that she had asked these questions of her maid. Though Josephine had not yet become to her mistress a "fascinating servant," she was certainly an extremely interesting servant, and challenging to the imagination. The idea of going to church in her company was far from being repellent. Democratic though Sally was, she realized that she wouldn't, from the standpoint of congeniality, have cared to be accompanied by either Mrs. Lawson, Mary Beales, or Norah O'Grady. Therefore there was no question but that Josephine Jenney had already made upon her a distinct impression of superiority not only to the others, and by a notable distance, but to all people whom Sally had ever known in such a capacity.

When at her call Jo joined her, Sally looked at her companion with an almost startled recognition of the test which is always made by the leaving off of the levelling effect of the uniform. Mary Beales, in uniform, was a satisfactory nursemaid; out of it upon a holiday she looked her origin. Cheap materials, gay colours, and an evident effort to be "stylish" turned Mary into a commonplaceness from which it wasn't conceivable that anything could rescue her—not even the example of her perfectly turned-out mistress. Mary had often said that Mrs. Chase could look much "grander" on the street than she did if she'd "just not dress so awful quiet. But I s'pose," reflected Mary pityingly, "she thinks she has to, 'count of him!"

But Josephine Jenney, as she followed Mrs. Schuyler Chase out of the front entrance of Cherry House—for the first time—might easily have been "one of the family." Certainly, that was what Lucinda Hunt, peering from her upper window, thought her, until the pair came nearer. Then, electrifiedly, she informed Clarinda (who became almost breathless at the news) that the girl she hadn't recognized, and who was dressed almost exactly as Sally Chase was dressed, was Josephine Jenney herself, and that the two were evidently on their way to church. "Miss Jenney always did have a sort of nice look about her," declared Lucinda, "sort of close and smooth and set-well. But I never noticed she looked the way those city folks look—as if they come out of a bandbox—till I saw her just now. Seeing her in a uniform got me thinking of her as hired help. But she certainly don't look it now. Must be Sally intends to make of her, knowing she's been a teacher and all—if she does know it. Maybe she don't. I should think it would upset the other help, though."

Be this as it might—which was what Sally herself foresaw, and didn't now care, because her first glance at Jo had actually charmed her—the two proceeded on their way, talking pleasantly as two friends might. With the temporary dropping of the uniform Jo had known she might, to a certain degree, also drop temporarily the over-repressed manner of the servant, and speak when she wasn't spoken to. She possessed a particularly attractive voice, well modulated, and capable of fine shades of inflection. She was conscious of using this voice with good effect, and she knew well that it alone, with her pure speech, was sure to be noticed by Mrs. Chase with more interest under the present conditions than when Josephine the housemaid was merely using the housemaid's vocabulary. This proved to be the case, and she knew that she was being drawn out by a practised conversationalist, who was making discoveries with every word spoken. "She's going to like me in a new way to-day," exulted Jo, and played her part with all the art of which she was past-mistress. It was her first notable opportunity, and she meant to make the most of it—yet not too much, either, lest she overplay the entertaining game. For it was a game—a perfectly legitimate game, since her purposes were wholly honourable—and she meant to win.

The zealous young usher who wanted to conduct Mrs. Schuyler Chase to the front pew in the centre of the church where prominent guests were always placed, was much disappointed when she signified that she would sit with Miss Jenney. The pew of Jo's "nice old man" was also well toward the front, but upon one side. Therefore those upon that side of the church had an advantageous chance to observe the entry. The entire town knew by now that the school teacher of the past year was in Mrs. Chase's domestic employ, therefore they had not expected to see the two together, and much craning of necks and nudging of elbows followed their appearance.

Strangely enough, the approval of this comradeship was not universal. The Gildersleeves and the Broughtons and the Abbotts were distinctly upset, though their eyes told them that Josephine Jenney unquestionably looked the part of companion to Sally Cherry Chase. But the Endicotts and the Langs and the Holts were delighted with this proof of the sense and sweetness of the departed Miss Eldora Cherry's niece, and liked her from that moment as they hadn't expected to like her. As Tom Lang said afterward: "If Miss Jenney needed it and had the spunk to earn her vacation money that way, why shouldn't she? She's not a bit the less of a lady, and I think a good sight more of Mrs. Chase for taking that position."

The matter was discussed at almost as many dinner tables as there were families in the little church that Sunday. But with all that, there is small reason to be concerned. Dinner-table discussions may help to mould public opinion, but public opinion cannot altogether mould lives, and in this instance it assuredly did not.

Familiar visions of quite other scenes were filling Sally's imagination and her thoughts as she sat in the unfamiliar pew, and looked toward the bare pulpit with the row of village singers behind it, and saw the minister ascend to take his place, having come down the aisle from the back of the church, like his congregation. For a measurable space of time she really saw nothing of this at all, because she was seeing something very different—the accustomed surroundings of every Sunday morning for six of the ten years of her married life. While the man behind the walnut desk in this village church read the Scriptures and offered prayer, and while the choir sang the simple anthem which was within the range of its limited capabilities, Sally was, virtually, in her own seat in the great dignified edifice which was Schuyler's pride.

"The most beautiful church interior in the city," he had often called it. "Every line of it, every effect of colouring and lighting, is churchly and beautiful. I see it in my dreams when I'm getting ready to speak in it. The thought of it helps me to put myself in the mood. Perhaps I'm too dependent on environment, but I sometimes think I could never have spoken, like Saint Paul, in the market-place. Or even, like some of our modern preachers, in whatever audience-room or theatre is put at their disposal. I'm too imaginative, perhaps—but I can see and feel God here. In more sordid places He seems too far away."

Sally had sometimes disputed this point of view, even while she in a measure sympathized with it. She appreciated it to-day, however, more than she ever had before. This little village church, while outwardly attractive in its fine old-time austerity of line and spotless whiteness—it had been very recently painted as it happened—was peculiarly barren of beauty within. Indeed, most of its appointments were distinctly ugly, even to the bare windows of ordinary glass, through which the sunlight streamed mercilessly, revealing every inferiority of detail. "Schuyler could never preach here," she thought, and felt an almost homesick hungering for the perfect appointments of the place she knew so well; for the sound of the great organ played by a master's hand; for the sight of her husband's slender figure in his gown entering through the narrow arched doorway from his study. His was a figure always watched for by many other eyes than hers, the effect of that entry was somehow so quietly dramatic.

Yet how could one accuse Schuyler of being dramatic, she argued—as she had argued many times before with herself, almost guiltily—when no move of his, no look, no tone of voice, was ever other than perfectly suited to the occasion? Was it that very perfection which sometimes seemed unreal? She wondered. Anyhow, carefully studied his pulpit work was—must be, from his point of view, to be effective. She found herself longing to see him, that entry of his, his face; to hear his voice with its melodious yet often intensely forceful inflections. After all, there was nobody like Schuyler Chase—nobody; he was truly wonderful in his way. And in the midst of this longing she suddenly became aware, as she had not yet been, of this so different personality before her in the small country pulpit.

It was a sturdy figure which stood before the village congregation, one whose outlines in the well-fitting, non-clerical clothes conveyed a distinct suggestion of tight muscles beneath. The face was that of a man in the middle thirties, with good features which though spare had a look of vigorous health; with a peculiarly direct glance of deep-set blue eyes below crisp sandy hair cut short that it might not curl; with a voice whose pleasant incisiveness had an unmistakable Scottish accent. He said "pairfect" as none but a Scotsman says it. At the moment when Sally Chase became really aware of him he had one hand plunged deep in his trousers pocket. What a mannerism, and how amused if not shocked Schuyler would have been by it!

But the man was saying something which challenged her attention. It seemed that he had but recently come to this small parish as a supply for the summer, that he didn't know the people yet, and that he was feeling for a common ground on which to meet them. In spite of the unconventionality of his manner, and a certain occasional harshness in his voice, she almost at once became attracted to him. Perhaps his voice seemed now and then harsh to her because it was so different from Schuyler's beautiful resonances. At any rate, he seemed to be able to hold everybody's close attention. The little crowded house was listening in absolute stillness.

"You know," he was saying, when Sally began to give him hearing, "a preacher is under a terrible handicap. What is the first thing you want in him? I think you'll say sincerity. Yes, of course, you'll say that, because if he isn't sincere first of all, you don't want him at all. There's enough hypocrisy in the world, and you want your preacher to be free of it—free as anybody can be. But, see here. See what you expect of him. He's got to know a lot more about certain things than you do, and yet to cover it up so you won't think he's proud of himself. Then, no matter how he's feeling, whether he happens to have a toothache or a heartache, he's got to cover those up, too, and be interested in your toothache or your heartache. Don't you suppose it's sometimes a bit deeficult to be sincere about that? He's only human—and his tooth aches! Then—he has to go to a funeral and act as if he were sorry—and to act that he has to be sorry. And he has to go to a wedding and act as if he were glad—and be glad, too. To put it in a nutshell, he has to play at pairfection when he isn't pairfect. Has to be a model for the community when he knows he isn't one. Has to keep from offending anybody—if he can.

"Now I suppose I'm shocking you. I may be fooling myself in thinking that my first wish is to be honest with you, but I do think that's what I want. A minister has to make up his mind that he'll be his own kind of minister, and that he can't be any other kind. He wants to live and work among people as one of them—and it's the only way he can work. If you'll let me live my life here these few months as one of you, no less and no more, just as my friend John Craigie has, and if you'll give me a fair hearing when I'm in the pulpit, and fight me outside of it if you think I've said the wrong thing, we'll get along together. I don't see any other way that we can."

Well! Sally didn't know whether she liked this sort of thing or not, it was so extraordinarily different from anything she had ever heard from the pulpit. The man talked, with that hand in his pocket, as if he were making a business man's address, or demonstrating an article for sale, or putting over—wasn't that the phrase they used?—a new idea for popularizing education of the masses. It was so informal that it was undignified. And yet—they were listening. They would be likely to listen to anything this man had to say.

His hand had come out of his pocket. His shoulders straightened, he was speaking in a different tone, lower, a little less informal.

"Because, I believe, with all there is of me, that we're here such a little while, and there's so much to do, that we can't afford to fuss much about how we do it. I expect there's a lot for me to do in this village, during this summer, and I want to do it. There's a carpenter's shop somewhere in this village, and I expect to go there often, because a carpenter's shop is one of the places that makes me feel able to do my own sort of work better. I think of that Carpenter's Son who learned to use the hammer and the saw, the plane and the straightedge—and I need all those in my work, as He did in His. The hammer—and the saw—and the plane—and the straightedge! Think how we all need them in our work! Let's learn to use them together, and then—'From whom the whole body, fitly joined together.. . . .'"

A minute or two later Sally found herself standing, sharing the hymn-book with Jo, singing a hymn which was one of Schuyler's favourites. Something within her was deeply stirred by the familiar words:

"We thank Thee, Lord, Thy paths of service lead To blazoned heights and down the slopes of need: They reach Thy Throne, encompass land and sea, And he who journeys in them walks with Thee."

The voice of Josephine, her maid, beside her thrilled her, it was so lovely a contralto. Though it was kept subdued Sally recognized its quality, and understood what it would be if it were allowed to emerge from a suitable repression. Was this a mere housemaid who held the other corner of her book? Even the well-shaped thumb, with its softly rosy polish of the nail, betrayed the fastidious habits of its owner. As Sally's eyes met Josephine's, as the two came out into the aisle, Sally smiled at her as at a friend, because she couldn't help it.

She shook hands with the preacher at the door, as everybody did. His manner was as straightforward as his sermon had been. His smile was delightful. The impression he had given in the pulpit of vigour and force of character was deepened by this direct contact with him. People crowded to meet him.

Sally's hand was shaken by many other people. Mrs. Tom Lang whispered in her ear:

"Miss Jenney's the nicest girl, as well as the prettiest. And we think she's the smartest teacher we've ever had in town."

"I'm sure of it," agreed Sally Chase, without turning a hair at the information thus conveyed. "I'm very glad to have her with me."

(From Josephine Jenney's Note-book

The Rapid Rise of the Aspiring! To church this morning with Mrs. Chase. Unexpected happening—yet expected ultimately, if not quite so soon. Uniform shuffled off, demurest country church garb sleekly donned. Enjoyed not quite concealable satisfaction in mistress's eye, when it viewed fleetingly but comprehendingly maid's appearance not in white muslin with blue sash and flowered hat, but in clothes chaste and well cut, like her own—if costing somewhat less.

Conversation on way very nice. Recognized mistress's charming effort to adapt herself to supposed rather limited mental furnishing of companion, rapidly giving way to pleased appreciation of possible ability to talk in terms of those who have lived outside of Cherry Square. Maid proceeded cautiously, refraining from quoting Shakespeare or Strindberg, DeQuincey or Dostoyevski. Longed to play a high card or two, but forced self to be content with little ones. What snobs we are, to be so eager to acquaint others with our erudition!

Gordon Mackay preached vigorous, unusual sermon. Fear I was less occupied with sermon, however, than with preacher. Effect of him somewhat like having airplane fly low over one's head—thrilling but making one momentarily want to dodge and duck. Power, purpose, persistence—these make a stout humming from his wings. When the plane takes a slant upward and away, one breathes freer. If he should invite one to be his passenger, Lord only knows whether one would be more fascinated or fearful.

Departing congregation much interested in Mrs. Schuyler Chase in society of ex-teacher. Heard suppressed whisperings; caught glances, mostly friendly, a few askance. Gildersleeves unconscious of J. J.'s presence; Broughtons pursuing middle course of half-nod. Thoroughly enjoyed it all.

Home again, uniform on, knives and forks laid. Reverberations of airplane dying away in distance, overcome by hummings of mosquitoes close at hand. Mrs. Lawton quite insufferable. . . . What does it matter?