Part 10 (1/2)
”Yes, ain't it? And she's brought up that poor child the same way. Why, from babyhood, Mellicent never had her rattles till she wanted blocks, nor her blocks till she wanted dolls, nor her dolls till she was big enough for beaus! And that's what made the poor child always look so wall-eyed and hungry. She was hungry--even if she did get enough to eat.”
”Mrs. Blaisdell probably believed in--er--economy,” hazarded Mr. Smith.
”Economy! My stars, I should think she did! But, there, I ought not to have said anything, of course. It's a good trait. I only wish some other folks I could mention had more of it. There's Jim's wife, for instance. Now, if she's got ten cents, she'll spend fifteen--and five more to show HOW she spent it. She and Jane ought to be shaken up in a bag together. Why, Mr. Smith, Jane doesn't let herself enjoy anything.
She's always keeping it for a better time. Though sometimes I think she DOES enjoy just seeing how far she can make a dollar go. But Mellicent don't, nor Frank; and it's hard on them.”
”I should say it might be.” Mr. Smith was looking at the wistful eyes under the long lashes.
”'T is; and 't ain't right, I believe. There IS such a thing as being too economical. I tell Jane she'll be like a story I read once about a man who pinched and saved all his life, not even buying peanuts, though he just doted on 'em. And when he did get rich, so he could buy the peanuts, he bought a big bag the first thing. But he didn't eat 'em. He hadn't got any teeth left to chew 'em with.”
”Well, that was a catastrophe!” laughed Mr. Smith, as he pocketed his notebook and rose to his feet. ”And now I thank you very much, Miss Blaisdell, for the help you've been to me.”
”Oh, you're quite welcome, indeed you are, Mr. Smith,” beamed Miss Blaisdell. ”It's done me good, just to talk to you about all these folks and pictures. I we enjoyed it. I do get lonesome sometimes, all alone, so! and I ain't so busy as I wish I was, always. But I'm afraid I haven't helped you much--just this.”
”Oh, yes, you have--perhaps more than think,” smiled the man, with an odd look in his eyes.
”Have I? Well, I'm glad, I'm sure. And don't forget to go to Maggie's, now. She'll have a lot to tell you. Poor Maggie! And she'll be so glad to show you!”
”All right, thank you; I'll surely interview--Miss Maggie,” smiled the man in good-bye.
He had almost said ”poor” Maggie himself, though why she should be POOR Maggie had come to be an all-absorbing question with him. He had been tempted once to ask Miss Flora, but something had held him back. That evening at the supper table, however, in talking with Mrs. Jane Blaisdell, the question came again to his lips; and this time it found utterance.
Mrs. Jane herself had introduced Miss Maggie's name, and had said an inconsequential something about her when Mr. Smith asked:--
”Mrs. Blaisdell, please,--may I ask? I must confess to a great curiosity as to why Miss Duff is always 'poor Maggie.'”
Mrs. Blaisdell laughed pleasantly.
”Why, really, I don't know,” she answered, ”only it just comes natural, that's all. Poor Maggie's been so unfortunate. There! I did it again, didn't I? That only goes to show how we all do it, unconsciously.”
Frank Blaisdell, across the table, gave a sudden emphatic sniff.
”Humph! Well, I guess if you had to live with Father Duff, Jane, it would be 'poor Jane' with you, all right!”
”Yes, I know.” His wife sighed complacently.
”Father Duff's a trial, and no mistake. But Maggie doesn't seem to mind.”
”Mind! Aunt Maggie's a saint--that's what she is!” It was Mellicent who spoke, her young voice vibrant with suppressed feeling. ”She's the dearest thing ever! There COULDN'T be anybody better than Aunt Maggie!”
Nothing more was said just then, but in the evening, later, after Mellicent had gone to walk with young Pennock, and her father had gone back down to the store, Mrs. Blaisdell took up the matter of ”Poor Maggie” again.
”I've been thinking what you said,” she began, ”about our calling her 'poor Maggie,' and I've made up my mind it's because we're all so sorry for her. You see, she's been so unfortunate, as I said. Poor Maggie!
I've so often wished there was something I could do for her. Of course, if we only had money--but we haven't; so I can't. And even money wouldn't take away her father, either. Oh, mercy! I didn't mean that, really,--not the way it sounded,” broke off Mrs. Blaisdell, in shocked apology. ”I only meant that she'd have her father to care for, just the same.”
”He's something of a trial, I take it, eh?” smiled Mr. Smith.
”Trial! I should say he was. Poor Maggie! How ever she endures it, I can't imagine. Of course, we call him Father Duff, but he's really not any relation to us--I mean to Frank and the rest. But their mother married him when they were children, and they never knew their own father much, so he's the father they know. When their mother died, Maggie bad just entered college. She was eighteen, and such a pretty girl! I knew the family even then. Frank was just beginning to court me.
”Well, of course Maggie had to come home right away. None of the rest wanted to take care of him and Maggie had to. There was another Duff sister then--a married sister (she's died since), but SHE wouldn't take him, so Maggie had to. Of course, none of the Blaisdells wanted the care of him--and he wasn't their father, anyway. Frank was wanting to marry me, and Jim and Flora were in school and wanted to stay there, of course. So Maggie came. Poor girl! It was real hard for her. She was so ambitious, and so fond of books. But she came, and went right into the home and kept it so Frank and Jim and Flora could live there just the same as when their mother was alive. And she had to do all the work, too. They were too poor to keep a girl. Kind of hard, wasn't it?--and Maggie only eighteen!”