 CHAPTER 1 OF MOTHER MOTHER A STORY by Kathleen Norris To G-E-T-N-G-A-T As years ago we carried to your knees the tales and treasures of eventful days, knowing no deed to humble for your praise nor any gift to trivial to please. So still we bring with older smiles and tears what gifts we made to claim the old dear right, your faith be on the silence and the night, your love still close and watching through the years. CHAPTER 1 While we couldn't have much worse weather than this for the last week of school, could we? Margaret Padgett said in discouragement. She stood at one of the school windows, her hands thrust deep into her coat pockets for warmth, her eyes following the whirling course of the storm that howled outside. The day had commenced with snow, but now at twelve o'clock, the rain was falling in sheets, and the barren schoolhouse yard in the play shed rough ran muddy streams of water. Margaret had taught in this schoolroom for nearly four years now, ever since her seventeenth birthday, and she knew every feature of the big beer room by heart, and every detail of the length of village streets that the high and curtain windows commanded. She had stood at this window in all weathers, when locusts and lilac made even ugly little western enchanting, and all the windows were open to floods of sweet spring air, and tie dry heat of autumn burned over the world, when the common little houses and barns and the bare trees lay dazzling and transfigured under the first snowfall, and the wood crackled at the schoolroom stove, and when it's today, midwinter rains swept drearly past the windows, and the children must have the lights lighted for their writing lesson. She was tired of it all, with an utter and hopeless weariness, tired of the bells and the whispering and the shuffling feet of the books that smelled of pencil dust and ink and little dusty fingers, tired of the blackboard cleaned in great irregular scalps by small and zealous arms, of the clear-ticking big clock, of little girls who sulked and little girls who cried after hours in the hall because they had lost their lunch basket or their overshoes, and little girls who had colds in their heads and no handkerchiefs. Looking out into the grey day in the rain, Margaret said herself that she was sick of it all. There were no little girls in the schoolroom now. They were for the most part downstairs in the big playroom, discussing cold lunches and planning presumably the joys of the closely approaching holidays. One or two windows had been partially open to air the room in their absence, and Margaret s only companion was another teacher, Emily Porter, a cheerful little widow, whose plain rosy face was in marked contrast to the younger woman s unusual beauty. Mrs. Porter loved Margaret and admired her very much, but she herself loved teaching. She had had a hard fight to secure this position a few years ago. It meant comfort to her and her children, and it still seemed to her a miracle of God s working after her years of struggle and worry. She could not understand why Margaret wanted anything better. The better thing indeed could life hold. Sometimes, looking admiringly at her associates' crown of tawny braids, at the dark eyes and the exquisite lines of mouth and forehead, Mrs. Porter would find herself empathetic with the girl s vague discontent and longings, to the extent of wishing that some larger social circle than that of Weston might have a chance to appreciate Margaret Padgett s beauty, that some of those painters who go crazy over girls not half as pretty might see her. But after all, sensible little Mrs. Porter would say to herself, Weston was a nice town, only four hours from New York absolutely up to date, and Weston s best people were all nice, and the Padgett girls were very popular and went everywhere. Young people were just discontented and exacting. That was all. She came to Margaret s side now, but in snuggling into her own stormcoat, and they looked out at the rain together. Nothing alive was in sight. The bare trees tossed in the wind, and a garden gate half way down the row of little shabby cajas banged and banged. Shame! This is the worst yet, Mrs. Porter said. You aren t going home to lunch on all this, Margaret. Oh, I don t know, Margaret said despondently. I m so dead that I d make a cup of tea here if I didn t think mother would worry and send Julia over with lunch. I brought some bread and butter, but not much. I hoped it would hold up. I hate to leave Tom and sister alone all day, Mrs. Porter said dubiously. There s tea in some of those bullion cubes and some crackers left. But you re so tired. I don t know but what you ought to have a hearty lunch. Oh, I m not hungry. Margaret dapped into a desk, put her elbows on it, pushed her hair off her forehead. The other woman saw a tear slip by the lower, long lashes. You re exhausted, aren t you, Margaret? she said suddenly. The little tenderness was too much. Margaret s lips shook. Dead, she said, and steadily. Presently she added with an effort at cheerfulness. I m just cross, I guess, Emily. You remind me. I m tired out with examinations and her eyes filled again. And I m sick of wet, cold weather and rain and snow. She added childishly. Our house is full of muddy rubbers and wet clothes. Other people go places and do present things. Said Margaret, her breast rising and falling strongly. But nothing ever happens to us except broken arms and bills and boilers bursting in chicken pox. It s trudge, drudge, drudge from morning until night. With a sudden little gesture of abandonment, she found a water-tiff in her belt and pressed it still folded against her eyes. Mrs. Porter watched her solicitously, but silently. Outside the schoolroom windows the wind battered furiously and rain slapped steadily against the panes. Well, said the girl, resolutely and suddenly. And after a moment she added, frankly. I think the real trouble today, Emily, is that we just heard of Betty Forrest s engagement. She was my brother s girl, you know. He has admired her ever since she got into high school. And of course Bruce is going to feel awfully bad. He s engaged. Who, too? Mrs. Porter was interested. To that man, boy, rather, he s only twenty-one, who s been visiting the Redmans, Margaret said. She s only known in two weeks. Gracious, and she s only eighteen. Not quite eighteen. She and my sister Julie were in my first class four years ago. They re the same age, Margaret said. She came fluttering over to tell us last night, wearing a dime in the size of a marble. Of course, Margaret was loyal. I don t think there s a jealous bone in Julie s body. Still, it s pretty hard. It s Julie plugging a way to get through the normal school, so that she can teach all the rest of her life. And Betty s been to California, and then to Europe. And now it s going to marry a rich New York man. Betty s the only child, you know, so of course she has everything. It seems so unfair. For Mr. Forrest s salary is exactly what Dad s is, yet they can travel and keep two maids and entertain all the time. And as for her family, my mother s family s one of the finest in the country, and Dad had two uncles who were judges and what were the forces. However, Margaret dried her eyes and put away her handkerchief. However, it s for Bruce, I mind the most. Bruce is only three years older than you are, twenty-three or four, Mrs. Porter smiled. Yes, but he s not the kind that forgets. Margaret s flesh was a little resentful. Oh, of course you can laugh, Emily. I know that there are plenty of people who don t mind dragging long day after day, working and eating and sleeping. But I m not that kind, she went unmoodyly. I used to hope that things would be different. It made me sick to think how brave I was. And now here s Jude coming along and Ted growing up, and Bruce s girl throwing him over. It s also unfair. I look at the cutter girls, nearly fifty, and running the post office for thirty years, and Mary Page in the library, and the Norbury s painting pillows, and I could scream. Things will take a turn for the better someday, Margaret, said the other woman soothingly. And as time goes on, you ll find yourself getting more and more pleasure out of your work as I do. Why, I ve never been so securely happy in my life as I am now. You ll feel differently someday. Maybe, Margaret, ascented on enthusiastically. There was a pause. Perhaps the girl was thinking that to teach school, live in a plain little cottage on the unfashionable bridge road, take two rumors, and cook himself and plan for Tom and little Emily, as Mrs. Porter did, was not quite in an ideal existence. You re an angel anyway, Emily, said she affectionately, a little shame-facedly. Don t mind my growling. I don t do it very often. But I look about at other people, and then realize how my mother sly for twenty years since my father s been tied down. And I ve come to the conclusion that, while there may have been a time when a woman could keep the house, tend to garden, sow, and spin and raise twelve children, things are different now. Life is more complicated. You owe your husband something. You owe yourself something. I want to get on, to study and travel, to be a companion to my husband. I don t want to be a mere upper servant. No, of course not, ascented Mrs. Porter vaguely, soothingly. Well, if we are going to stay here, I ll light the stove. Margaret said after a pause. Burt, this room gets cold with the windows open. I wonder why Kelly doesn t bring us more wood. I guess I ll stay, Mrs. Porter said uncertainly, following her to the big book closet off the school room, where a little gas stove and a small china closet occupied one wide shelf. The water for the tea and bouillon was put over the flame in a tiny, enameled saucepan. They set forth on a fringe napkin, crackers and sugar and spoons. At this point, a small girl of eleven with a brilliant tawny head and a wide and toothless smile opened the door cautiously and said blinking rapidly with excitement. Mark, mother says, please may she come in. This was Rebecca, one of Margaret s five younger brothers and sisters, and a pupil of the school herself. Margaret smiled at the dear little face. Hello, darling, is mother here? Certainly she can. I believe, she said, turning suddenly radiant to Mrs. Porter. I ll just bet you she s brought us some lunch. They brought us our lunch, with eggs, and spiced cake and everything. Exalted Rebecca, vanishing, and a moment later Mrs. Padgett appeared. She was a tall woman, slender but larger build, and showing under a shabby raincoat and well-pinned up skirt the gracious generous lines of shoulders and hips the deep bosom direct figure that is rarely seen except in old daguerreotypes, or the ideal of some artists two generations ago. The storm today had blown an unusual color into her thin cheeks. Her bright deep eyes were like Margaret s, but the hair that once had shown an equally golden luster was dull and smooth now, in touch with gray. She came in smiling and a little breathless. Mother, you didn t come out in all this rain just to bring us our lunches, Margaret protested, kissing the cold fresh face. Well, look at the lunch you silly girls were going to eat, Mrs. Padgett protested in turn, in a voice which was amusement. I loved to walk in the rain mark. I used to love it when I was a girl. Tom and sister at our house, Mrs. Porter, playing with Duncan and Baby. I ll keep them until after school, then I ll send them over to walk home with you. Oh, you are an angel, said the younger mother gratefully. And you are an angel, mother, Margaret echoed, as Mrs. Padgett opened a shabby suitcase and took from it a large jar of hot-rich soup, a little blue bowl of stuffed eggs, half a fragrant whole wheat loaf and a white napkin, a little glass full of sweet butter, and some of the spice cakes to which Rebecca had already enthusiastically eluded. There, she said, pleased with their delight. Now take your time. You ve got three quarters of an hour. Julie deviled the eggs, and a sweet butterman happened to come just as I was starting. Delicious! You saved our lives, Margaret said, busy with cups and spoons. You ll say, mother? She broke off suddenly, as Mrs. Padgett closed the suitcase. I can t, dear, I must go back to the children, her mother said cheerfully. No coke seemed proving of any avail. Margaret went with her to the top of the hall stairs. What s my girl worrying about? Mrs. Padgett asked, with a keen glance at Margaret s face. Oh, nothing. Margaret used both hands to button the top button up her mother s coat. I was hungry and cold, and I didn t want to walk home in the rain. She confessed, raising her eyes to the eyes so near her own. Well, go back to your lunch, Mrs. Padgett urged, after a brief pause, not quite satisfied with the explanation. Margaret kissed her again, watched her descend the stairs, and leaning over the banister called on her softly. Don t worry about me, mother. No, no, no, her mother called back brightly. Indeed, Margaret reflected, going back to the much cheered Emily. It was not in her nature to worry. No, mother never worried. Or, if she did, nobody ever knew it. Care, fatigue, responsibility, hard long years of busy days and broken nights had left their mark on her face. The old beauty that had been hers was chiseled to a mere pure outline now. But there was a contagious serenity in Mrs. Padgett s smile, a clear steadiness in her calm eyes, and her forehead, beneath an unfashionably plain sweep of hair, was untroubled and smooth. The children s mother was a simple woman, so absorbed in the hourly problems attendant upon the housing and feeding of her husband and family, but her own personal ambitions, if she had any, were quite lost sight of, and the actual outlines of her character were forgotten by everyone, herself included. If her busy day marched successfully to nightfall, if darkness found her husband reading in his big chair, the younger children spelled safe and asleep in a shabby nursery. The older ones contented with books or games. The clothes sprinkled the bread set, the kitchen dark and clean. Mrs. Padgett asked no more of life. She would sit, her overflowing work basket beside her, looking from one absorbed face to another, thinking perhaps of Julia's new school dress, of Ted's impending siege with the dentist, or of the old bureau abatic that might be mended for Bruce's room. Thank God we all have warm beds, she would say, when they all went upstairs yawning and chilly. She had married at 20 the man she loved, and had found him better than her dreams in many ways, and perhaps disappointed in some few others, but the best man in the world for all that. That for more than 20 years he had been satisfied to stand for nine hours daily behind one dinghy desk and to carry home to her its unopened salary envelope twice a month, she found only admirable. Daddy was steady, he was so gentle with the children. He was the easiest man in the world to cook for. Bless his heart, no woman ever had less to worry over in her husband, she would say, looking from her kitchen window to the garden, where he trained the pee vines with the children's yellow heads bobbing about him. She never analyzed his character, much less criticized him. Good and bad, he was taken for granted. She was much more lenient to him than to any of the children. She welcomed the fast-coming babies as gifts from God, marveled over their tiny perfectness, dreamed over the soft, relaxed little forms with a heart almost too full for prayer. She wasn't a word, old-fashioned, hopelessly out of the modern current of thoughts and events. She secretly regarded her children as marvelous, even while she laughed on their youthful conceit and punished their naughtiness. Thinking a little of all these things, as a girl with her own wifehood and motherhood all before her does think, Margaret went back to her hot luncheon. One o'clock found her at her desk, refreshed in spirit by her little outburst and much fortified in body. The room was well-aird and a reinforced fire roared in the little stove. One of the children had brought her a spray of pine and the spicy fragrance of it reminded her that Christmas and the Christmas vacation were near. Her mind was pleasantly busy with anticipation of the play that the pageants always wrote and performed sometime during the holidays and with the New Year's costume dance at the hall and a dozen lesser festivities. Suddenly, in the midst of a droning spelling lesson, there was a jarring interruption. From the world outside came a child's shrill screaming and in the school room below her, Margaret heard her thundering rush of feet and answering screams. With the suffocating terror at her heart, she ran to the window followed by every child in the room. The rain had stopped now and the sky showed a pale, cold yellow light low in the west. At the schoolhouse gate, an immense limousine car had come to a stop. The driver had his face alone visible beneath a great leather coat and visor leather cap was talking unheard above the din. A tall woman, completely enveloped in steel skins, had evidently jumped from the limousine and now held in her arms what made Margaret's heart tread sick and cold, the limp figure of a small girl. About these central figures, there serves the terrified crying small children of the Justice Miss primary class and in the half moment that Margaret watched, Mrs. Porter, white and shaking and another teacher, S.L. Eliot, always an excitable girl who was now sobbing and chattering hysterically, ran out from the school, each followed by her own class of crowding and excited boys and girls. With one horrified exclamation, Margaret ran downstairs and out to the gate. Mrs. Porter caught at her arm as she passed her in the path. Oh, my God, Margaret, it's poor little Dorothy Scott. She says they've killed her. The car went completely over her. Oh, Margaret, don't go near her. Oh, how can you scream Miss Eliot? Oh, she's all they have. Who will tell her mother? With the stony she knees for the children gladly recognized authority, Margaret pushed through the group to the mortar car. Stop screaming, stop the shouting at once. Keep still, every one of you. She said angrily, shaking various shoulders as she went with such good effect that the voice of the woman in steel skins could be heard by the time Margaret reached her. I don't think she's badly hurt, said this woman nervously and eagerly. She was evidently badly shaken and was very white. Oh, quiet then, can't you? She said with a sort of apprehensive impatience. Can't we take her somewhere and get a doctor? Can't we get out of this? Margaret took the child in her own arms. Little Dorothy roared afresh, but to Margaret's unspeakable relief she twisted about and locked her arms tightly about the love teacher's neck. The other women watched them anxiously. The blood on her fox just nosebleed, she said. But I think the car went over her. I assure you we were running very slowly. How it happened? But I don't think she was struck. Nosebleed, Margaret echoed with her great breath. No, she said quietly over the agitated little head. I don't think she's much hurt. We'll take her in. Now look here, children, she added loudly to the assembled pupils of the Western Grammar School, whom mere curiosity had somewhat quieted. I want every one of you children to go back to your schoolrooms, do you understand? Dorothy's had a bad scare, but she's got no bones broken and we're going to have a doctor see that she's all right. I want you to see how quiet you can be. Mrs. Porter, may my class go into your room a little while? Certainly, so Mrs. Porter, eager to cooperate and much relieved to have her share of the episode take this form. Form nine, children, she added calmly. Ted, Margaret said to her own small brother, who was one of Mrs. Porter's pupils and who had edged closer to her than any boy unprivileged by relationship dared. Well, you go down the street and ask old doctor Potts to come here and then go tell Dorothy's mother that Dorothy has had a little bump and that Miss Padgett says she's all right, but that she'd like her mother to come for her. Sure, I will, Mark. The other responded enthusiastically, departing on her own. Mama said the little sufferer at this point, hearing a familiar word. Yes, darling, you want mama, don't you? Margaret said soothingly as she started with her burning up to schoolhouse steps. What were you doing, Dorothy? She went unpleasantly to get under that big car. I dropped my ball, where the small girl, her tears began to fresh and it rolled and rolled and I didn't see the automobile and I didn't see it and I fell down and bumped my nose. Well, I should think you did, Margaret said, laughing. Mother won't know you at all with such a muddy face and such a muddy apron. Dorothy laughed shakily at this and several other little girls passing an orderly file laughed heartily. Margaret crossed the lines of children to the room where they played and ate their lunches on wet days. She shut herself in with a child in the fur clad lady. Now you're all right, said Margaret Gailey and Dorothy was presently comfortable in the big chair, wrapped in her rug from the motor car with her face washed and her head dropped languidly back against her chair as it became an interesting invalid. The Irish janitor was facetious as he replenished the fire and made her laugh again. Margaret gave her a numerical chart to play with and saw it was satisfaction that the little head was bent interestingly over it. Quiet fell upon the school. The muffled sounds of lessons recited in concert presently reached them. Theodore returned reporting that the doctor would come as soon as he could and that Dorothy's mother was away at a car party but that Dorothy's girl would come for her as soon as the bed was out of the oven. There was nothing to do but wait. Seems a miracle, said the strange lady in a low tone when she believed she and Margaret were alone again with the child but I don't believe she was scratched. I don't think so, Margaret agreed. Mother says no child who can cry is very badly hurt. They made such a horrible noise, said the other sign wearyly. She passed a white hand with one or two blazing great stones upon it across her forehead. Margaret had leisure now to notice that by all signs this was a very great lady indeed. The quality of her furs, the glimpse of her gown that the loose in coat showed, her rings and most of all the tones of her voice, the authority of her manner, the well-groomed hair and skin in hands all marked the thoroughbred. Do you know that you manage that situation very cleverly just now? Said the lady with a keen glance that made Margaret color. I wanted such a dread of the crowd, just a public sentiment, you know. Some odious bystander calls the police, they crowd against her driver. Perhaps a brick gets thrown. We had an experience in England once. She paused then interrupted herself. But I don't know your name, she said brightly. Margaret supplied it. Was led to talk a little of her own people. Southern of you, eh? Seven's too many, said the visitor with the assurance that Margaret was to learn characterized her. I have two myself, two girls, she went on. I wanted a boy, but they're nice girls. And you six brothers and sisters? Are they all as handsome as you in the study of yours? And why do you like teaching? Why do I like it? Margaret said, enjoying these confidences and the unusual experience of sitting idle in the afternoon. I don't, I hate it. I see. But then why don't you come down to New York and do something else? The woman asked. I needed at home and I don't know anyone there. Margaret said simply. I see, the lady said again thoughtfully. There was a pause. Then the same speaker said reminiscently. I taught school once for three months when I was a girl to show my father I could support myself. I've taught for four years, Margaret said. Well, if you ever want to try something else, there are such lots of fascinating things a girl can do now. Be sure you come and see me about it, the stranger said. I am Mrs. Carbolt in New York. Margaret's amazed eyes slashed Mrs. Carbolt's face, her cheeks crimsoned. Mrs. Carbolt? She echoed blankly. Why not? Smiled the lady, not at all displeased. Why, Stammer and Margaret laughing and rosy, why, nothing. Only I never dreamed who you were. She finished a little confused. And indeed it never afterwards seemed to her anything short of a miracle that brought the New York society woman feigned on two continents and from ocean to ocean for her jewels, her entertainment, her gowns, her establishments, into a Western schoolroom and into Margaret Padgett's life. I was on my way to New York now, so Mrs. Carbolt. I don't see why you should be delayed, Margaret said, glad to be able to speak normally with such a fast-feeding and pleasantly excited heart. I'm sure Dorothy's all right. Oh, I'd rather wait. I like my company, said the other. And Margaret decided in that instant that there never was a more deservedly admired and copied and quoted woman. Presently their chat was interrupted by the tramp of the departing school children. The other teachers peeped in, were reassured and went their ways. Then came the doctor to pronounce the entirely cheerful Dorothy unhurt and to stow upon her some whorehound drops. Mrs. Carbolt settled at once with the doctor and when Margaret saw the size of the bill that was pressed into his hand, she realized that she had done her old friend a good turn. Use it up on your poor people, said Mrs. Carbolt to his protestations. And when he had gone and Dorothy's girl appeared, she tipped that worthy and amazing tootin after promising Dorothy a big doll from a New York shop sent a child and made home in the motor car. I hope this hasn't upset your plans, Margaret said, as I stood waiting in the doorway. It was nearly five o'clock, the school was empty and silent. No, not exactly. I have planned to get home for dinner, but I think I'll get Wilcoff to take me back to Dayton. I have some very dear friends there who will give me a cup of tea. Then I'll come back this way and get home by 10 I should thank for a late supper. Then as the limousine appeared, Mrs. Carbolt took both Margaret's hand and hers and said, and now goodbye, my dear girl. I've got your address and I'm going to send you something pretty to remember me by. You save me from, I don't know what, annoyance and publicity. And don't forget that when you come to New York, I'm going to help you meet the people you want to and give you a start if I can. You're far too clever and good looking to waste your life down here. Goodbye. Goodbye, Margaret said. Her cheeks brilliant, her head a whirl. She stood unmindful of the chilly evening air, watching the great motor car wheel and slip into the goom. The rain was over. A dying wind moaned mysteriously through the desk. Margaret went slowly upstairs, pinned on her hat, buttoned her long clothes, snuggly about her. She locked the schoolroom door and turning the corner, plunged her hands into her pockets and faced the wind bravely. Deepening darkness and coldness were about her, but she felt surrounded by the warmth and brightness of her dreams. She saw the brilliant streets of a big city, the carriages and motor cars coming and going, the idle, lovely women and their sumptuous gowns and hats. These things were real, near, almost attainable, tonight. Mrs. Carpboldt, Margaret said, the darling, I wonder if I'll ever see her again. End of chapter one. Chapter two of Mother. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother by Kathleen Norris. Chapter two. Life in the shabby commonplace house that sheltered the Padgett family sometimes really did seem to proceed, as Margaret had suggested, in a long chain of violent shocks, narrow escapes and closely averted catastrophes. No sooner was Duncan's rash pronounced not to be scarlet fever than Robert swallowed a penny or back set fire to the dining room wastebasket or dad foresaw the immediate failure of the Weston Home Savings Bank and the inevitable loss of his position there. Sometimes there was a paternal explosion because Bruce liked to murmur vaguely of dandy chances in Manila or because Julie, pretty excitable in 16, had an occasional dose of stage fever and would stammer desperately between convulsive sobs that she wasn't half as much afraid of the terrible temptations of the life as she was afraid of dying of hokey-yield made in Weston. In short, the home was crowded, the Padgets were poor and every one of the seven possessed a spirited and distinct entity. All the mother's effort could not keep them always contented. Growing ambitions made the Weston horizon seem narrow and mean and the young eyes that could not see beyond tomorrow were often wet with rebellious tears. Through it all they loved each other. Sometimes whole weeks went by in utter harmony. The children contented over parches on the hearth rug in the winter evenings, Julie singing in the morning sunlight as she filled the vases from the shabby margarite bushes on the lawn. But there were other times when to the dreamiest studious Margaret, the home circle seemed all discred, all ugly dinghiness and threadbareness, the struggle for ease and beauty and refinement seemed hopeless and overwhelming. In these times she would find herself staring thoughtfully at her mother's face bent over the mending basket or her eyes would leave the chess board that held her father's attention so closely and move from his bald spot with his encircling crown of fluffy gray to his rosy face with its kind and tent blue eyes and the little line about his mouth that his mustache didn't hide with a half-formed question in her heart. What hadn't they done, these dearest people, to be always struggling, always tired, always behind the game? Why should they be eternally harassed by Palmer's bills and dentist bills and shoes that would wear out in school books that must be bought? Why weren't they holding their place in Western society, the place to which they were entitled by right of the Quincy grandfather and the uncles who were judges? And in answer, Margaret came despondently to the decision, if you have children, you never have anything else. How could mother keep up with her friends when for some 15 years she had been far too busy to put out a dainy gown in the afternoon and serve a hospitable cup of tea on the each porch? Mother was buttering bread for supper then, opening little beds and laying out little nightgowns, starting to head off for the milk, washing small faces in hands, soothing bumps and binding cuts, admonishing, praising, directing. Mother was only too glad to sink weirdly into her rocker after dinner and after a few spirited visits to the rampant nursery upstairs, expressed the hope that nobody would come in tonight. Gradually the friends dropped away and the social life of Weston flowed smoothly on without the pageants. But when Margaret began to grow up, she grasped the situation with all the keenness of a restless and ambitious nature. Weston, detested Weston, it must apparently be. Very well, she would make the best of Weston. Margaret called on her mother's old friends, she was tireless and charming little attentions. Her own first dances had not been successful. She and Bruce were not good dancers. Margaret had not been satisfied with her gowns. They both thought out of place. When Julie's dancing days came along, Margaret saw to it that everything was made much easier. She planned social evenings at home and exhausted herself preparing for them that Julie might know the right people. To her mother, all people were alike if they were kind and not vulgar. Margaret felt very differently. It was a matter of the greatest satisfaction to her when Julie blossomed into a fluffy-haired butterfly, tremendously in demand, in spite of much clean slippers and often pressed frocks. Margaret arranged Christmas theatricals, made picnics, Fourth of July gatherings. She never failed Bruce when the serious brother wanted her company. She was, as Mrs. Padgett told her over and over, the sweetest daughter any woman ever had. But deep in her heart, she knew moods of bitter distaste and restlessness. The struggle did not seem worth the making. The odds against her seemed too great. Still dreaming in the winter dark, she went through the home gate and up the porch steps of a roomy, cheap house that had been built in the era of scalloped and pointed shingles, of colored glass embellishments around the window panes, of perforated squirrel work and wooden railings and Grecian designs. A mass of wet overshoes lay on the porch and two or three of the weather-stained porch rockers swayed out of the way of spread-wet raincoats. Two open umbrellas wheeled in the current of air that came around the house, the porch ran water. While Margaret was adding her own rainy day equipment to the others, a golden-brown setter, one ecstatic regal from nose to tail, flashed into view and came fawning to her feet. Hello, Bran, Margaret said, propping herself against the house with one hand while she pulled at a tight overshoe. Hello, old fellow. Well, did they lock him out? She let herself through the freezing gusts of air to the dark hall, groping to the hat rack for matches. While she was lighting the gas, a very pretty girl of sixteen, with crimson cheeks and tumble, soft-dock hair, came to the dining room door. This was her sister Julie, Margaret's roommate and warmest admirer, and for the last year or two, her inseparable companion. Julie had her finger in a book, but now she closed it and said affectionately between her yawns, come in here, darling, he must be dead. Don't let Bran in, cried someone from upstairs. He isn't, mother, Margaret called back. And Rebecca and the three small boys, Theodore, the four-year-old baby, Robert and Duncan, a grave little lad of seven, all rushed out of the dining room together, shouting as they fell on the delighted dog. Ah, leave them in, leave them poor little feller in. Come on, Bran, come on, old feller. Leave them in, Mark, can't we? Kissing and hugging the dog, and stumbling over each other and over him, they went back to the dining room, which was warm and stuffy. A coal fire was burning low in the grate, the window panes were beaded, and the little boys had marked their initials on the steam. They had also pushed the fringe table cover almost off and scattered the contents of a box of Lotto over the scarred walnut top. The room was shabby, ugly, comfortable. Julie and Margaret had established a tea table in the bay window, had embroidered a cover for the wide couch, had burned the big wooden bowl that was supposedly always full of nuts or grapes or red apples, but these touches were lost on the mass of less pleasing detail. The body Brussels carpet was worn, the wallpaper depressing. The woodwork was painted dark brown with an imitation burl smeared in by the painter's thumb. The chairs were of several different woods and patterns. The old black walnut side were clumsy and battered. About the fires took some comfortable worn chairs. Margaret dropped weirdly into one of these, and the dark-eyed Julie hung over her with little affectionate attentions. The children returned to their game. Well, what a time you had with little Dolly Scott, said Julie sympathetically. Ted's been getting it all mixed up. Tell us about it. Well, Mark, you're all in, aren't you? Mark, would you like a cup of tea? Love it, Margaret said, a little surprised, for this luxury was not common. And toast, we'll toast it, said Theodore enthusiastically. No, no, no tea, said Mrs. Padgett, coming in at this point with some sewing in her hands. Don't spoil your dinner now, Mark, dear. Tea doesn't do you any good. And I think Blanche is saving the cream for an apple tapioca. Theodore, mother wants you to go right downstairs for some cold, dear, and Julie, you'd better start your table. It's close to six. Put up the game, Rebecca. There was general protest. Duncan, it seemed, needed only two more to win. Little Robert, who was benevolently allowed by the other children to play the game exactly as he pleased, screamed delightedly that he needed only one more, and showed a card upon which even the blank spaces were lavishly covered with glass. He was generously conceded to victory and kissed by Rebecca and Julie as he made his way to his mother's lap. Why, this can't be Robert Padgett, said Mrs. Padgett, putting aside her sewing to gather him in her arms. Not this great big boy. Yes, I am, the little fellow asserted joyously, dodging her kisses. Good to get home, Margaret said luxuriously. You must sleep late in the morning, her mother commanded affectionately. Yes, because you have to be fresh for the party Monday, exalted Julie. She had flung a white cloth over the long table and was putting the ring napkins down with rapid bangs. I knew your zeeves the dance, she went unboyantly. I just love Christmas anyway. Rebecca, ask Blanche if she needs me. That was mother. You'd go perfectly crazy about her, Jew. She's the most fascinating and the most unaffected woman. Margaret was full of the day's real vent. And mother says that Ted and Duncan and I can have our friend on the day after Christmas to see the Christmas tree. That was Rebecca, who added. Blanche says no, mother, unless you want to make some cream gravy for the tops. And Mark, Eleanor asked if Bruce and you and I weren't going as puret and purets. She's simply crazy to find out. This was Julie again. And then Margaret coaxingly. Do make cream gravy for Bruce, mother. Give baby to me. And little Robert's elated. I know three things Becky's going to get for Christmas, Mark. Well, I think I will, there's milk. Mrs. Padgett conceded rising, put Bran out, Teddy, or put him in the laundry if you want to while we have dinner. Margaret presently followed her mother into the kitchen, stopping in a crowded passageway to tie an apron over her school gown. Bruce come in yet? She said in a low voice. Her mother flashed her sympathetic look. I don't believe he's coming, Mark. Isn't? Oh, mother. Oh, mother, does he feel so badly about Betty? I suppose so. Mrs. Padgett went on with her bread-cutting. But mother, surely he didn't expect to marry Betty Forseth. I don't know why not, Mark. She's a sweet little thing. But mother, Margaret was a little at a loss. We don't seem old enough to really be getting married, she said a little lamely. Bruce came in about half past five and said he was going over to Richie's, Mrs. Padgett said with a sigh. In all this rain, that long walk, Margaret ejaculated, as she filled a long wicker basket with sliced bread. I think an evening of work with Richie will do him a world of good, said his mother. There was a pause. There's Dad. I'll go in, she said, suddenly ending it as the front door slammed. Margaret went in, too, to kiss her father, a tired-looking gray-haired man close to fifty who had taken her chair by the fire. Mrs. Padgett was anxious to be assured that his shoulders and shoes were not damp. But your hands are icy, Daddy, said she, as she sat down behind a smoking terrine at the head of the table. Come, have your nice hot soup, dear. Pass out to Dad Becky and light the other gas. What sort of a day? A hard day, said Mr. Padgett heavily. Here, one of your girls put Baby into his chair. Let go, Bob, I'm too tired tonight for monkey shines. He sat down stiffly. Where's Bruce? Can't that boy remember what time we have dinner? Bruce is going to have supper with Richie Williams, Dad, said Mrs. Padgett serenely. They'll get out their blueprints afterwards and have a good evening's work. Fill the glasses before you sit down, Jew. Come, Ted, put that back on the mantel. Come, Becky, tell Dad about what happened today, Mark. They all drew up their chairs. Robert, recently graduated from a high chair, was propped upon the offices of the Civil War and the household book of verse. Julie tied on his bib and kissed the back of his fat little neck before she slipped into her own seat. The mother sat between Ted and Duncan for reasons that immediately became obvious. Margaret sat by her father and attended to his needs, telling him all about the day and laying her pretty slim hand over his as it rested beside his plate. The chops and cream gravy as well as a mountain of baked potatoes and various vegetables were under discussion when everyone stopped short and surprised at hearing the doorbell ring. Who? said Margaret, turning puzzled brows to her mother and I'm sure I, her mother answered, shaking her head. Ted was heard to mutter and easily that Jean maybe is on penbroke, mad because the fellas had soaked his old skates with snowballs. Julie dimpled and said, maybe it's flowers. Robert shouted, bakery man. More because he had recently acquired the word than because of any conviction on the subject. In the end, Julie went to the door with the four children in her wake. When she came back, she looked bewildered and the children a little alarmed. It's Mrs. Carbolt, mother, said Julie. Well, don't leave her standing there in the cold, dear, Mrs. Padgett said, rising quickly to go into the hall. Margaret, her heart thumping with an unanalyzed premonition of something pleasant and nervous too for the hospitality of the Padgets, followed her. So they were all presently crowded into the hall. Mrs. Padgett, all hospitality, Margaret full of fear she would have denied that her mother would not be equal to the occasion. The children curious, Julie a little embarrassed. The visitor, fur clad, rain spattered, fur it was raining again and beaming, stretched a hand to Mrs. Padgett. You're Mrs. Padgett, of course. This is an awful hour to interrupt you. She sat in her big easy way and there's my Miss Padgett. How do you do? But you see, I must get up to town tonight. In the store, I can see perfectly thank you and I did want a little talk with you first. Now, what a shame. For the gas, lighted by Theodore at this point, revealed Duncan's bib and then asked if some of the others were still carrying. I've interrupted your dinner. Won't you let me wait here until, perhaps, if you haven't had your supper, you will have some with us? Said Mrs. Padgett a little uncertainly. Margaret inwardly shuddered. But Mrs. Carbolt was gracious. Mrs. Padgett, that's charming of you, she said. But I had tea at Dayton and mustn't lose another moment. I shan't dine until I get home. I'm the busiest woman in the world, you know. No, it won't take me two minutes. She was seated now. Her hand still deepened her muff for the parlor was freezing cold. Mrs. Padgett, with a rather bewildered look, sat down too. You can run back to your dinners, she said to the children. Take them, Julie. Mark, dear, will you help the pudding? They all filed dutifully out of the room and Margaret, excited and curious, continued a meal that might have been of sawdust and sand for all she knew. The strain did not last long. In about ten minutes Mrs. Padgett looked into the room with a rather worried expression and sat a little breathlessly. Daddy, can you come here a moment? You're all right, dear, she added, as Mr. Padgett indicated with an embarrassed gesture his well-worn housecoat. They went out together. The young people sat almost without speaking, listening to the indistinguishable murmur from the adjoining room and smiling mysteriously at each other. Then Margaret was called and went as far as the dining-room door and came back to put her napkin certainly down at her place. Hesitated, arranged her gown carefully, and finally went out again. They heard her voice with the others in the parlor, questioning, laughing. Presently the low murmur broke into audible farewells. Chairs were pushed back, feet scraped in the hall. Good night, then, said Mrs. Carboldt's clear tones, and so sorry to have. Good night, Mr. Padgett. Oh, thank you, but I'm well-wrapped. Thank you. Good night, dear. I'll see you again soon. All right. And then came the honking of the motor car and a great swish where it grazed a wet bush near the house. Somebody lowered the gas in the hall, and Mrs. Padgett's voice said regretfully, I wish we had had a fire in the parlor, just one of those times, but there's no help for it. They all came in. Margaret flushed, starry eyed. Her father and mother a little serious. The three blinked at the brighter light and fell upon the cooling chops, as if eating were the important business of the moment. We waited the pudding, said Julie. What is it? Why, Mrs. Padgett began hesitatingly, Mr. Padgett briskly took the matter out of her hands. This lady, he said, with an air of making any further talk unnecessary, needs a secretary, and she has offered your sister Margaret the position. That's the whole affair in a nutshell. I'm not at all sure that your mother and I think it a wise offer for Margaret to accept, and I want to say here and now that I don't want any child of mine to speak of this matter, or make it a matter of general gossip in the neighborhood. Mother, I'd like very much to have Blanche make me a fresh cup of tea. What's Margaret? Gaff's Julie, unaffected. So astonishing was this news by her father's unusual sternness. Oh, mother! Oh, Mark! Oh, you lucky thing! Why is she coming down here? She isn't coming down here. She wants Mark to go to her. That's it, said her mother. Mark, in New York! Sheryl Theodore. Julie got up to rush around the table and kiss her sister. The younger children laughed and shouted. There is no occasion for all this, said Mr. Padgett, but mildly, for the fresh tea had arrived. Just quiet then down, will you, mother? I see nothing very extraordinary in the matter. This Mrs. Carboldt is it, needs a secretary and companion, and she offers a position to Mark. But, but she never even saw Mark until today, Marville Julie. I hardly see how that affects it, my dear, her father observed unenthusiastically. But I think it makes it simply extraordinary, exiled to the generous little sister. Oh, Mark, isn't this just the sort of thing you would wish to have happen? Secretary work, just what you love to do. And you, with your beautiful handwriting, you'll be just invaluable to her. And you're German, and I'll bet you'll just have them all adoring you. Oh, Jew, if I can only do it, first from Margaret, with a little childish gasp. She was sitting back from the table, twisted about so that she sat sideways. Her hands clasped about the top bar of her chair back. Her tawny, soft hair was loosened about her face, her dark eyes aflame. Lennox, she said, Margaret went undaisedly, and Europe, and traveling everywhere, and a hundred dollars a month, and nothing to spend it on, so I can still help out here, why it, I can't believe it. She looked from one smiling, interested face to another, and suddenly her radiance underwent a quick eclipse. Her lip trembled, and she tried to laugh as she pushed her chair back, and ran to the arms her mother opened. Oh, mother, saw Margaret clinging there. Do you want me to go? Shall I go? I've always been so happy here, and I feel so ashamed of being discontented, and I don't deserve a thing like this to happen to me. Why, God bless her heart, said Mrs. Padgett tenderly. Of course you'll go. Oh, you silly, I'll never speak to you again if you don't, laughed Julie, through sympathetic tears. Theodore and Duncan immediately burst into a radiant reminiscence of their one brief visit to New York. Rebecca was heard to murmur that she would visit Mark some day, and the baby, tugging at his mother's elbow, asked sympathetically if Mark was naughty, and was caught between his sisters and his mother's arms and kissed by them both. Mr. Padgett, picking his paper from the floor beside his chair, took an armchair by the fire, stirred the coals noisily, and while cleaning his glasses, observed rather huskily that the little girl always knew she could come back again if anything went wrong. But suppose I don't suit, suggested Margaret, sitting back on her heels refreshed by tears, and with her arms laid across her mother's lap. Oh, you'll suit, said Julie confidently, and Mrs. Padgett smoothed the girl's hair back instead affectionately. I don't think she'll find many girls like you for the asking, Mark. Read in English with the two little girls, said Margaret dreamily, and answering notes and invitations and keeping books. You can do that anyway, said her father over his paper, and dinner list, you know, mother. Doesn't it sound like an English story? Margaret stopped in the middle of an ecstatic wriggle. Mother, will you pray I succeed? She said solemnly. Just be your own dear, simple self, Mark, her mother advised. January, she added with a great sigh. It's the first break, isn't it, Dad? Think of trying to get along without our Mark. January, Julie was instantly alert. Why, but you'll need all sorts of clothes. Oh, she says there's a sewing woman always in the house, Margaret said, almost embarrassed by the still unfolding advantages of the position. I can have her do whatever's left over. Her father lowered his paper to give her a shrewd glance. I suppose somebody knows something about this Mrs. Carbolt, mother, asked he. She's all right, I suppose. Oh, Dad, her name's always in the papers, Julie burst out. And the mother smiled as she said, we'll be pretty sure of everything before we let our Mark go. Later, when the children had been dismissed and he himself was going rather stiffly toward the stairs, Mr. Padgett again voiced a mild doubt. There was a perfectly good reason for her hurry, I suppose. Old secretary deserted it, got married. She had good reason for wanting Mark and all this hurry. Mrs. Padgett and her daughters had sat on about the fire for an hour's delicious discussion, but she interrupted it to say soothingly. It was her cousin, Dad, who's going to be married, and she's been trying to get hold of just the right person, so she's fearfully behind hand. Well, you're not best, said Mr. Padgett, departing a little discontentedly. Left to the dying fire, the others talked, yawned, made a pretence of breaking up, talked and yawned again. The room grew chilly, bruce, oldest of the children, dark, undemonstrative, weary. Presently came in, and was given the news, and marveled in his turn. Bruce and Margaret had talked of their ambitions a hundred times, of the day when he might enter college, and when she might find the leisure and beauty in life for which her soul hungered. Now, as he sat with his arm about her, and her head on his shoulder, he said with generous satisfaction over and over, it was coming to you, Mark, you've earned it. At midnight, loitering upstairs, cold and yawning, Margaret kissed her mother and brother quietly, with a whispered, brief good-night. But Julie, lying warm and snug in bed, and half an hour later, had a last word. You know, Mark, I think I'm as happy as you are. No, I'm not generous at all. It's just that it makes me feel that things do come your way, finally, if you wait long enough, and that we aren't the only family in town that never has anything decent happen to it. I'll miss you awfully, Mark, darling. Mark, do you suppose mother'd let me take this bed out and just have a big couch in here? It would make the room seem so much bigger, and then I could have the girls come up here, dunchy-know, when they come over. Think of you, you, going abroad. I'd simply die. I can't wait to tell Betty. I hope to goodness mother won't put back in here. We've had this room a long time together, haven't we? Ever since grandma died. Do you remember her canary that Teddy hit with a plate? I'm going to miss you terribly, Mark. But all right, end of chapter two. Chapter three of Mother. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother, by Kathleen Norris. Chapter three. On the days that followed, the miracle came to be accepted by all Weston, which was much excited for a day or two over this honor done a favorite daughter, and by all the pageants, except Margaret. Margaret went through the hours in her old, quiet manner, a little more tender and gentle, perhaps, than she had been, but her heart never beat normally, and she lay awake late at night and early in the morning, thinking, thinking, thinking. She tried to realize that it was in her honor that a farewell tea was planned at the club. It was for her that her fellow teachers were planning a goodbye luncheon. It was really she, Margaret Padgett, whose voice said at the telephone a dozen times a day, on the 14th. Oh, do I, I don't feel calm. Can't you try to come in? I do want to see you before I go. She dutifully repeated Bruce's careful directions. She was to give her check to an expressman and her suitcase to a red cap. The expressman would probably charge 50 cents. The red cap was to have no more than 15, and she was to tell the latter to put her into a taxi cap. I'll remember, Margaret assured him gratefully, but with a sense of unreality pressing almost painfully upon her, one of a million ordinary school teachers in a million little towns, and this marvel had befallen her. The night of the Padgett's Christmas play came, a night full of laughter and triumph, and marked for Margaret by the little parting gifts that were slipped into her hands, and by the warm good wishes that were murmured, not always steadily, by this old friend and that. When the time came to distribute plates and paper napkins and great saucers of ice cream and sliced cake, Margaret was toasted in cold-fleet lemonade and drawing close to harmonize more perfectly. The circle about her touched the glasses while they sang, for she's a jolly confetto. Later, when the little supper was almost over, Essel Elliott, leaning over to lay her hand on Margaret's, began in her rich control to, when other lives and other hearts. And as they all went seriously through the two verses, they stood up, one by one, in linked arms. The little circle, affectionate and admiring, that had bound in Margaret's friendships until now. Then Christmas came, with a dark freezing walk to the pine-spiced and candle-lighted early service in the little church, and a quicker walk home, chilled and happy and hungry, to a riotous Christmas breakfast and a littered breakfast table. The new year came, with a dance and revel, and the Padgett took one of their long trance through the snowy afternoon and came back hungry for a big dinner. Then there was dress-making, Mrs. Schmidt in command, Mrs. Padgett tireless at the machine, Julie, all eager interest. Margaret, patiently standing to be fitted, conscious of the icy, wet touch of Mrs. Schmidt's red fingers on her bare arms, dreaming like he sent us to buttons or hooks with truly absent in spirit. A trunk came, Mr. Padgett very anxious that the key should not be fooled with by the children. Margaret's mother packed this trunk scientifically. No, now that she's marked, now that heavy skirt, she would say, run get mother some more tissue paper back. You'll have to leave the big cake, dear, and you can send for it if you need it. Now the blue dress, too. I think that dyed so prettily, just the thing for mornings. And here's your prayer book in the tray, dear. If you go Saturday, you'll want it first thing in the morning. See, I'll put a fresh handkerchief in it. Margaret, relaxed and idle in a rocker, with Duncan on her lap, busily working at her locket, would say over and over. You're all such angels, I'll never forget it. And wish that, knowing how sincerely she meant it, she could feel it a little more. Conversation languished in these days, mother and daughters feeling that time was too precious to waste speech of little things, and that their hearts were too full to touch upon the great change in pending. A night came when the Padgetts went early upstairs, saying that, after all, it was not like people marrying and going to Russia. It was not like a real parting. It wasn't as if Mark couldn't come home again in four hours if anything went wrong in either end of the line. Margaret's heart was beating high and quick now. She tried to show some of the love and sorrow she knew she should have felt. She knew that she did feel under the hurry of her blood that made speech impossible. She went to her mother's door, slender and girlish in her white night gown, to kiss her good night again. Mrs. Padgetts' big arms went about her daughter. Margaret later had childishly on her mother's shoulder. Nothing of significance was said. Margaret whispered, mother, I love you. Her mother said, you were such a little thing, Mark, when I kissed you one day without hugging you. And you said, please don't love me with just your face, mother. Love me with your heart. Then she added, did you and Julie get that extra blanket down today, dear? It's going to be very cold. Margaret nodded, good night, little girl. Good night, mother. That was the real farewell. For the next morning was all confusion. They dressed hurriedly by chilly gaslight. Clocks were compared. Rebecca's back buttoned. Duncan's overcoat jerked on. Coffee drunk, scalding hot, as they stood about the kitchen table. Bread barely tasted. They walked to the railway station on wet sidewalks under a broken sky. Bruce with Margaret's suitcase in the lead. Western was asleep in the gray morning after the storm. Far and near belated, cocks were crowing. A score of old friends met Margaret at the train. There were gifts, promises, good wishes. There came a moment when it was generally felt the pageants should be left alone now. The far whistle of the train beyond the bridge, the beginning of the goodbyes. A sudden filling of her mother's eyes that was belied by her smile. Goodbye, sweetest. Don't knock my hat off, baby, dear. Back, darling. Oh, Jew, dude, don't just say it. Stunt me a letter tonight. All right to me. Goodbye, dad, darling. All right, Bruce, I'll get in. Another for dad. Goodbye, mother, darling. Goodbye, goodbye. Then for the pageants. There was a walk back to the empty disorder of the house. Julie very talkative at her father's side. Bruce walking far behind the others with his mother. And the day's familiar routine to be somehow gone through without Margaret. But for Margaret, settling herself comfortably in the grateful warmth of the train and watching the uncertain early sunshine brighten unfamiliar fields and farmhouses, every brilliant possibility in life seemed to be waiting. She tried to read, to think, to pray. To stare steadily out of the window. She could do nothing for more than a moment at a time. Her thoughts went backward and forward like a weaving shuttle. How good they've all been to me, how grateful I am. Now if only, only I can make good. Look out for the servants. Julie, from the depth of her 16 years old wisdom had warned her sister, the governess will hate you because she'll be afraid you'll cut her out. And Mrs. Carbolts made'll be a cat. They always are in books. Margaret had laughed at this advice, but in her heart she rather believed it. Her new work seemed so enchanting to her that it was not easy to believe that she did not stand in somebody's light. She was glad that by a last moment arrangement she was to arrive at the Grand Central Station at almost the same moment as Mrs. Carbolts herself, who was coming home from a three weeks visit in the Middle West. Margaret gave only half her attention to the flying country that was beginning to shape itself into streets and rows of houses. All the last half hour of the trip was clouded by the nervous fear that she would somehow fail to find Mrs. Carbolts in the confusion at the railroad terminal. But happily enough, the lady was found without trouble. A rather Margaret was found. Felt an authoritative tap on her shoulder, caught a breath of fresh violets and a glimpse of her passion's clear skin, resolute face. They whirled through wet, deserted streets. Mrs. Carbolts gracious and talkative, Margaret nervously interested and amused. Their wheels presently graded against a curb. A man in library opened the limousine door. Margaret saw an immense stone mansion facing the park, climbed a dazzling flight of wide steps and was in a great hall that faced an interior court where there were florentine marble benches and the great lifted leaves of palms. She was little dazed by crowded impressions, impressions of height and spaciousness and richness and opening vistas, a great model stairway and a landing where there was an immense designed window and clear-ended glass, rugs, tapestries, mirrors, polished wood and great chairs with brocaded seats and carved dark backs. Two little girls, heavy, well-groomed little girls, one spectacled and good-natured looking, the other rather pretty, with a mass of fair hair, were coming down the stairs with an eager little German woman. They kissed their mother, much-diverted by the mad rushes and leafs of the two white poodles who accompanied them. These are my babies, Miss Padgett, said Mrs. Carbolts. This is Victoria, who's eleven and Harriet, who's six and these are Monsieur Petal and Monsieur Michet, said Victoria, introducing the dogs with entire ease of manner. The German woman said something forcibly and Margaret understood the child's reply in that tongue. Mama won't blame you, Fralin. Harriet and I wish them to come down. Presently they all went up in a luxuriously fitted little lift, Margaret being carried to the fourth floor to her own rooms, to which a little maid escorted her. When the maid had gone, Margaret walked to the door and tried it, for no reason whatever, it was shut. Her heart was beating violently. She walked into the middle of the room and looked at herself in the mirror and laughed a little breathless laugh. Then she took off her hat carefully and went into the bedroom that was beyond her sitting room and hung her hat in a fragrant white closet that was entirely and delightfully empty and her gloves and bag in the empty big top drawer of a great mahogany bureau. Then she went back to the mirror and looked hard at her own beauty reflected in it and laughed her little laugh again. It's too good, it's too much, she whispered. She investigated her domain after quelling a wild desire to sit down at the beautiful desk and try the new pens through crystal inkwell and the heavy paper with its severely engraved address and a long letter to mother. There was a tiny upright piano in the sitting room and at the fireplace a deep thick rug and an immense leather armchair. A clock and crystal and gold flanked by two crystal candlesticks had the center of the mantelpiece. On the little round mahogany center table was a lamp with a wonderful mosaic shade. A little bookcase was filled with books and magazines. Margaret went to one of the three windows and looked down upon the bare trees and the snow in the park and upon the rumbling green omnibuses, all bathed in bright chili sunlight. A mahogany door with a crystal knob opened into the bedroom where there was a polished floor and more rugs and a gay rosy wallpaper and a great bed with a lace cover. Beyond was a bathroom, all in ammo, marble, glass and nickel plate with heavy monogram towels on the rack, three new little washcloths sealed in glazed paper, three new toothbrushes and paper cases and a cake of famous English soap just out of its wrapper. Over the whole little suite they're brewed in an exquisite order. Not a particle of dust broke the shining surfaces of the mahogany. Not a fallen leaf lay under the great bowl of roses on the desk. Now and then the radiator clanked in the stress. It was hard to believe in that warmth and silence that a cold winter wind was blowing outside and that snow still lay on the ground. Margaret, resting luxuriously in the big chair, became thoughtful. Presently she went into the bedroom and knelt down beside the bed. Oh Lord, let me stay here. She prayed, her face in her hands. I want so to stay. Make me a success. Never was a prayer more generously answered. Miss Paget was an instant success. In something less than two months she became indispensable to Mrs. Carbolt and was a favorite with everyone from the rather stolid, silent head of the house down to the least of the maids. She was so busy, so unaffected, so sympathetic that her sudden rise in favor was resented by no one. The butler told her his troubles. The French made ductically clared, but that from its pageant she would not for one second remain. The children went cheerfully even did the dentist with their adorned Miss Peggy. They soon preferred her escort to Matini or Zoo to that of any other person. Margaret also escorted Mrs. Carbolt's mother, a magnificent old lady on shopping expeditions and attended the meetings of charity boards for Mrs. Carbolt. With notes and invitations, account books and checkbooks, dinner lists and interviews with caterers, decorators, and florists, Margaret's time was full, but she left every moment of her work and gloried in her increasing usefulness. At first there were some dark days, notably the dreadful one upon which Margaret somehow, somewhere, dropped the box containing the new hat she was bringing home for Harriet and kept the little girl out in the cold afternoon air while the motor made a fruitless trip back to the milliners. Harriet contracted a cold and Harriet's mother for the first time spoke severely to Margaret. There was another bad day when Margaret artlessly admitted to Mrs. Pierre Polk at the telephone that Mrs. Carbolt was not engaged for dinner that evening, thus obliging her employer to snub the lady or accept a distasteful invitation to dine. And there was the most uncomfortable occasion when Mr. Carbolt, not at all at his best, stumbled in upon his wife with some angry observations meant for Harriet alone and Margaret, busy with accounts and a window recess, was unknown to them both, a distressed witness. Another time, Miss Paget, said Mrs. Carbolt coldly, upon Margaret's appearance scarlet cheek between the curtains, don't oblige me to ascertain that you are not within hearing before feeling sure of privacy. Will you finish those bills upstairs, if you please? Margaret went upstairs with a burning heart, cast her bills haphazard on her own desk and flung herself dry-eyed and furious on the bed. She was far too angry to think, but lay there for perhaps 20 minutes with her brain whirling. Finally rising, she brushed up her hair, straightened her collar and full of tremendous resolves, stepped into her little sitting room to find Mrs. Carbolt in the big chair serenely eyeing her. I'm so sorry I spoke so peggie, said her employer generously. But the truth is I am not myself when Mr. Carbolt, the little hesitating appeal in her voice completely disarmed Margaret. In the end, the little episode cemented the rapidly growing friendship between the two women. Mrs. Carbolt seemed to enjoy the relief of speaking rather freely of what was the one real trial in her life. My husband has always had too much money, she said in her positive way. At one time we were afraid that he would absolutely ruin his health by this habit of his. His position and I took him around the world. I left Victoria, just a baby with mother. And for two years he was never out of my sight. It has never been so bad since. You know yourself how reliable he usually is. She finished cheerfully, unless some of the other men get a hold of him. As the months went on, Margaret came to admire her employer more and more. There was not an indolent impulse in Mrs. Carbolt's entire composition. Smooth haired, fresh skinned and spotless linen. She began the day at eight o'clock, full of energy and interest. She had daily sessions with butler and housekeeper, shopped with Margaret and the children, walked about her greenhouse or her country garden with her skirts pinned up and had tulips potted and stonework continued. She was prominent in several clubs, a famous dinner giver. She took a personal interest in all her servants, loved to settle their quarrels and have three or four of them up on the carpet at once, tearful and explanatory. Margaret kept for her a list of some 200 friends whose birthdays were to be marked with carefully selected gifts. She pleased Mrs. Carbolt by her open amazement at the latter's vitality. The girl observed that her employer could not visit any institution without making a few of vigorous suggestions as she went about. She accompanied her checks to the organized charities and her charity flowed only through absolutely reliable channels with little friendly advisory letters. She liked the democratic attitude for herself, even while promptly snubbing any such tendency in children or friends. And she told Margaret that she only used her coat of arms on house linen, stationery and library because her husband and mother liked it. It's of course rather nice to realize that when comes from one of the oldest of the colonial families, she would say, the Carterets of Maryland, you know, but it's all such bosh. And she urged Margaret to claim her own right to family honors. You're a Quincy, my dear. Don't let that woman intimidate you. She didn't remember that her grandfather was a captain until her husband made his money. And where the family portraits come from, I don't know. But I think there's a man on 4th Avenue who does him, she would say. Or, I know all about Lily Reynolds Peggy. Her father was as rich as she says, and I daresay the crest is theirs. But ask her what her maternal grandmother did for a living if you want to shut her up. Other people she would condemn was the mere whispered coal or patent bath tubs behind her fan. And it pleased her to tell people that her treasure of a secretary had the finest blood in the world in her veins. Margaret was much admired, and Margaret was her discovery, and she liked to emphasize her find. Mrs. Carbolts' mother, a tremulous pompous old lady, unwittingly aided the impression by taking an immense fancy to Margaret and by telling her few intimates in the older women among her daughter's friends that the girl was a perfect little thoroughbred. When the Carbolts filled their house with the reckless and noisy company they occasionally affected, Mrs. Carterette would say majestically to Margaret, you and I have nothing in common with this riffraff, my dear. Summer came, and Margaret headed a happy letter Bar Harbor. Two months later, all Western knew that Margaret Padgett was going abroad for a year with those rich people and had written her mother from the Lusitania. Letters from London, from Germany, from Holland, from Russia followed. We are going to put the girls at school in Switzerland and, ahem, winter on the Riviera and then Rome for Holy Week, she wrote. She was presently home again, chattering French and German to amuse her father, teaching Becky a little Italian song to match her little Italian costume. It's wonderful to me how you get along with all these rich people, Mark, said her mother admiringly during Margaret's home visit. Mrs. Padgett was watering the deducted looking side garden with a straggling length of hose. Margaret and Julie shelling peas on the side steps. Margaret laughed, coloring a little. Why, we're just as good as they are, mother. Mrs. Padgett drenched a dried little lump of carnations. We're as good, she admitted, but we're not as rich or as traveled. We haven't the same ideas. We belong to a different class. Oh, no, we don't, mother, Margaret said quickly. Who are the carbolts, except for their money? Why, Mrs. Carter, for all her family, is it half the aristocrat grandma was? And you, you could be a daughter of the officers of the revolution, mother. Why, Mark, I never heard that. Her mother protested, cleaning the sprinkler with a hairpin. Mother, Julie said eagerly, great-grandfather Quincy. Oh, Grandpa, said Mrs. Padgett. Yes, Grandpa was a pay master. He was on Governor Hancock's staff. They used to call him Major. But, Mark, she turned off the water, holding her skirts away from the combination of mud and dust underfoot. That's a very silly way to talk, dear. Money does make a difference. It does no good to go back into the past and say that this one was a judge and that one a major. We must live our lives where they are. Margaret had not lost a wholesome respect for her mother's opinion in the two years she had been away. But she had lived in a very different world and was full of new ideas. Mother, do you mean to tell me that if you and dad hadn't had a perfect pack of children and moved so much, and if dad, say, had been in that oil deal that he said he wished he had the money for, and we still lived in the brick house, that you wouldn't be in every way the equal of Mrs. Carbolt? If you mean as far as money goes, Mark, no. We might have been well-to-do as country people go, I suppose. Exactly, said Margaret. And you would have been as well off as dozens of the people who are going about in society this minute. It's the mere chance that we aren't rich. Just for instance, father's father had 12 children, didn't he? And left them, how much was it? About 3,000 apiece. And the godsend it was, too, said her mother reflectively. But suppose dad had been the only child, mother? Margaret persisted. He would have had, he would have had the whole $36,000, I suppose, Mark. Or more, said Margaret, for grandfather Paget was presumably spending money on them all the time. Well, but Mark, said Mrs. Paget, laughing is at the vagaries of a small child. Father Paget did have 12 children, and daddy and I ate, she sighed as always, at the thought of the little son who was gone. And there you are, you can't get away from that, dear. Margaret did not answer, but she thought to herself that very few people had mother's views of the subject. Mrs. Carpolt's friends, for example, did not accept increasing cares in this resigned fashion. Their lives were ideally pleasant and harmonious without the complicated responsibilities of large families. They drifted from season to season without care, always free, always gay, always irreproachably gowned. In winter there were daily meetings for shopping, for luncheon, bridge or tea. Summer was filled with a score of country visits. There were motor trips for weekends, dinners, theaters, and the opera to fill the evenings, German or singing lessons, manicure, misuse, and dressmaker to crowd the morning hours all the year round. Margaret learned from these exquisite, fragrant creatures the art of being perpetually fresh and charming, learned their methods of caring for their own beauty, learned to love rare toilet waters and powders, finding embroidered linen and silk stockings. There was no particular strain upon her wardrobe now, nor upon her purse. She could be as dainty as she liked. She listened to the conversations that went on about her, sometimes critical or unconvinced, more often admiring, and as she listened she found slowly but certainly her own viewpoint. She was not mercenary. She would not marry a man just for his money, she decided, but just as certainly she would not marry a man who could not give her a comfortable establishment, a position in society. The man seemed in no hurry to appear. As a matter of fact, the men who Margaret met were openly anxious to evade marriage, even with the wealthy girls of their own set. Margaret was not concerned. She was too happy to miss the love-making element. The men she saw were not of a type to inspire a sensible, busy, happy girl with any very deep feeling. And it was with generous and perfect satisfaction that she presently had news of Julie's happy engagement. Julie was to marry a young and popular doctor, the only child of one of Weston's most prominent families. The little sister's letter bubbled joyously with news. Harry's father is going to build us a little house on the big place, the darling, wrote Julie, and we will stay with them until it is done. But in five years, Harry says we will have a real honeymoon in Europe. Think of going to Europe as a married woman. Mark, I wish you could see my ring. It is a beauty, but don't tell mother I was silly enough to write about it. Margaret delightedly selected a little collection of things for Julie's true so. A pair of silk stockings, a scarf she never had worn, a lace petticoat, pink silk for a waist. Mrs. Carbolt, coming in in the midst of these preparations, insisted upon adding so many other things from chunks and closets that Margaret was speechless to delight. Scarves, cobwebby silks and uncut lengths, embroidered lingerie still in the tissue paper of Paris shops, parasols, gloves, and lengths of lace. She piled all of them into Margaret's arms. Julie's true so is consequently quite the most beautiful that Weston had ever seen. And the little sister's cloudless joy made the fortnight Margaret spent at home at the time of the wedding, a very happy one. It was a time of rush and flurry, laughter and tears, of roses, and girls in white gowns. But some ten days before the wedding, Julie and Margaret happened to be alone for a peaceful hour over their sewing and fell to talking seriously. "'You see, our house will be small,' said Julie, "'but I don't care. "'We don't intend to stay in Weston all our lives.' "'Don't read this to anyone, Mark, "'but if Harry does as well as he's doing now "'for two years, we'll rent the little house "'and we're going to Baltimore "'for a year for a special course. "'Then, you know he's devoted to Dr. McKim. "'He always calls him the Chief. "'Then he thinks maybe McKim will work him into his practice. "'He's getting old, you know, and that means New York.' "'Oh, Jew, really?' "'I don't see why not,' Julie said, dimpling. "'Harry's crazy to do it. "'He says he doesn't propose to live and die in Weston. "'McKim could throw any amount of hospital practice "'his way to begin with, "'and you know Harry'll have something. "'And the house will rent? "'I'm crazy,' said Julie enthusiastically, "'to take one of those lovely old apartments "'on Washington Square "'and to meet a few nice people, you know, "'and really make something of my life. "'Mrs. Carbolton, I will spin down for you every few days,' S. Margaret said, falling readily in with a plan. "'I'm glad you're not going to simply get into a razz "'the way some of the other girls have, "'cooking in babies and nothing else,' she said. "'I think that's an awful mistake,' Julie said passively. "'Starting in right is so important. "'I don't want to be a male judge like Ethel or Louise. "'They may like it. "'I don't.' "'Of course. "'This isn't a matter to talk of,' she went on, "'colouring a little. "'I never breathe this to mother. "'But it's perfectly absurd to pretend "'that girls don't discuss these things. "'I've talked to Betty and Louise. "'We all talk about it, you know.' "'And Louise says they haven't had one free second "'since Buddy came. "'She can't keep one maid, "'and she says the idea of two maids "'eating them three meals a day, "'whether she's home or not, "'makes her perfectly sick. "'Someone's got to be with them every second, "'even now when he's four, "'to see that he doesn't fall off something "'or put things in his mouth. "'And as Louise says, "'it means no more weekend trips. "'You can't go visiting overnight. "'You can't even go for a day's drive "'or a day on the beach "'without extra clothes for the baby. "'A mosquito net and an umbrella for the baby, "'milk packed in ice for the baby. "'Somebody trying to get the baby to take a snap? "'It's awful.' "'It would end our Baltimore plan, "'and that means New York. "'And New York means everything, the Harry and me,' "'finished Julie, contentedly, "'flatting in a finished bit of embroidery on her knee "'and regarding it complacently.' "'Well, I think you're right,' Margaret approved. "'Things are different now from what they were "'in Mother's Day.' "'And look at Mother,' Julie said. "'One long slavery. "'Life's too short to wear yourself out that way.' "'Mrs. Padgett, sunny, cheerful, "'as so sadly shaken when the actual moment of party "'with the exquisite, rose-headed, gray-focked Julie "'came. "'Her face worked pitifully in its effort to smile. "'Her tall figure, awkward and an ill-made, unbecoming new silk, "'seem to droop tenderly over the little clinging wife. "'Mogret, stirred by the sight of tears on her Mother's face, "'stood with an arm about her when the bride and groom "'drove away in the afternoon sunshine. "'I'm going to stay with you until she gets back,' "'she reminded her mother. "'And you know you've always said you wanted the girls "'to marry, Mother,' urged Mr. Padgett. "'Rebecca felt it's a felicitous moment to ask "'that she and the boy could have the rest of the ice-cream. "'Divide it evenly,' said Mrs. Padgett, "'wiping her eyes and smiling. "'Yes, I know, Daddy, dear. "'I'm an ungrateful woman. "'I suppose your turn will come next, Mark, "'and then I don't know what I will do.'" End of chapter three. Chapter four of Mother. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother by Kathleen Norris. Chapter four. But Margaret's turn did not come for nearly a year. Then, in Germany again, and lingering at a great Berlin hotel, because the spring was so beautiful, and the city so sweet with linden bloom, and especially because there were two Americans at the hotel, whose game of bridge it pleased Mr. and Mrs. Carbolt Daily to hope they could match. Then Margaret was transformed within a few hours from a merely pretty, very dignified, perfectly contented secretary, entirely satisfied with what she wore as long as it was suitable and fresh, into a living woman whose cheeks pale and flushed at nothing but her thoughts, who laughed at herself in her mirror, loitered over her toilet trying one gown after another, and walked half-smiling over a succession of rosy dreams. It all came about very simply. One of the aforementioned bridge players wondered if Mrs. Carbolt and her niece, oh, wasn't it? Her secretary, then, would like to hear a very interesting young American professor lecture this morning. Wondered when they were fanning themselves in the airy lecture room if they would care to meet Professor Tennyson. Margaret looked into a pair of keen, humorous eyes, answered with her own smile, Professor Tennyson's sudden charming one, lost her small hand in his big, firm one. Then she listened to him talk, as he strut about the platform, boyishly shaking back the hair that fell across his forehead. After that he walked to the hotel with them, through dazzling seas of perfume and of flowers, under the enchanting, shifting green of great trees, or so Margaret thought. There was a plunge from the hot street into the awning, cool gloom of the hotel, and then a luncheon, when the happy, steady murmur from their own table seemed echoed by the murmur's clink and stern laughter all about them, and accented by the not-too-close music from the band. Dr. Tennyson was everything charming, Margaret thought, instantly drawn by the unaffected friendly manner, and watched the interesting gleam of his blue eyes and the white flash of his teeth. He was a gentleman, to begin with, distinguished at thirty-two in his chosen work, big and well-built, without suggesting the athlete, of an old and honored American family, and the only son of a rich and eccentric, old doctor, who missed his car-bolt chance to know. He was frankly delighted at the chance that had brought him in contact with these charming people, and as Mrs. Carbolt took an instant fancy to him, and as he was staying at their own hotel, they saw him after that every day and several times a day. Margaret would come down the great sun-bath stairway in the morning to find him patiently waiting in a porch chair. Her heart would give a great leap, half joy, half new strange pain, as she recognized him. There would be a time for a chat over their fruit and eggs before Mr. Carbolt came down, all ready for a motor trip, or Mrs. Carbolt swathed in cream-colored coat and flying veils, joining them with an approving. Good morning. Margaret would remember these breakfasts all her life, the sun-splashed little table in a corner of the great dining room, the rosy, fatherly waiter who was so much delighted with her German, the busy, picturesque traffic in the street just below the wide-open window. She would always remember a certain filmy silk-striped gown, a wide hat loaded with daisies. Always loved the odor of linden trees in the spring. Sometimes the professor went with them on their morning drive to be dropped at the lecture hall with Margaret and Mrs. Carbolt. The latter was pleased to take the course of lectures very seriously and carried a handsome Russian leather notebook and a gold pencil. Sometimes after luncheon, they all went on an expedition together, and now and then Margaret and Dr. Tennyson went off alone on foot to explore the city. They would end the afternoon with coffee and little cakes in some tea room and come home tired and merry in the long shadows of the spring sunset with wilted flowers from the street markets in their hands. There was one glorious tramp in the rain when the professor's great laugh rang out like a voice for sheer high spirits, and when Margaret was an enchanting vision in her long coat, with her cheeks glowing through the blown wet tendrils of her hair. That day they had tea in the deserted charming little parlour of a tiny inn and drank it toasting their feet over a glowing fire. Is Mrs. Carbolt your mother's or your father's sister? John Tennyson asked, watching his companion with approval. Oh, good gracious, said Margaret, laughing over her teacup. Haven't I told you yet that I'm only her secretary? I never saw Mrs. Carbolt until five years ago. Perhaps you did tell me, but I got an inch in my head that first day that you were aunt and niece. People do, I think, Margaret said thoughtfully, because we're both fair. She did not say that but for Mrs. Carbolt's invaluable maid, the likeness would have been less marked on this score at least. I taught school, she went on simply, and Mrs. Carbolt happened to come to my school, and she asked me to come to her. You're all alone in the world, Miss Padgett? He was eyeing her amusingly. The direct question came quite naturally. Oh, dear me, no, my father and mother are living. And feeling as she always did, a little claim on her loyalty, she added, we are, or were rather, southern people, but my father settled in a very small New York town. Mrs. Carbolt told me that, I'd forgotten, said Professor Ternson, and he carried the matter entirely out of Margaret's hands, much, much further indeed than she would have carried it by continuing. She tells me that Quincyport was named for your mother's grandfather, and that Judge Padgett was your father's father. Father's uncle, Margaret corrected, although as a matter of fact, Judge Padgett had been no nearer than her father's second cousin. But father always called him uncle, Margaret assured herself inwardly. To the Quincyport claim, she said nothing. Quincyport was in the country that mother's people had come from. Quincy was a very unusual name, and the original Quincy had been at Charles, which certainly was one of mother's family names. Margaret and Julie, browsing about among the colonial histories and genealogies of the Westin Public Library years before, had come to a jubilant certainty that mother's grandfather must have been the same man, but she did not feel quite so positive now. Your people aren't still in the South, you said? Oh no, Margaret cleared her throat. They're in Weston, Western New York. Weston, not in your Dayton? Well, yes. Do you know Dayton? Do I know Dayton? He was like an eager child. Why, my Aunt Pamela lives there, the only mother I ever knew. I knew Weston too, a little. Lovely homes there, some of them, old colonial houses, and your mother lives there? Is she fond of flowers? She loves them, Margaret said, vaguely uncomfortable. Well, she must know Aunt Pamela, said John Tennyson enthusiastically. I expect they'd be great friends, and you must know Aunt Pam. She's like a dainty old piece of China, or a, I don't know, a T-Rose. She's never married, and she lives in the most charming brick house with brick walls and hollyhocks all about it, and such an atmosphere inside. She has an old maid and an old gardener, and don't you know, she's the sort of woman who likes to sit down under a portrait of your great-grandfather in a dim parlor full of mahogany and rose jars, with her black silk skirt spreading about her in an old blue cup in her hand and talk family. How cousin this married a man whose people aren't anybody, and cousin that is outraging precedent by naming her child for her husband's side of the house. She's a funny dear old lady. You know, Miss Padgett, the professor went on, with his eager and personal air. When I met you, I thought you didn't quite seem like a New Yorker or a bar harborer, if that's the word. Aunt Pam, you know she's my only mother. I got all my early knowledge from her. Aunt Pam detests the usual New York girl, and the minute I met you, I knew she'd like you. You'd sort of fit into the Dayton picture with your braids and those roughly things you wear. Margaret said simply, I would love to meet her, and began slowly to draw on her gloves. It was surely not requisite that she should add, but you must not confuse my home with any exquisitely ordered existence as that. We are poor people, our house is crowded, our days of severe and endless struggle with the ugly things of life. We have good blood in our veins, but not more than hundreds of thousands of other American families. My mother would not understand one-tenth of your aunt's conversation. Your aunt would find very uninteresting the things that are vital to my mother. No, she couldn't say that. She picked up her dashing little hat, and pinned it over her loose and soft massive yellow hair, and buttoned up her stormcoat, and plunged her hands deep in her pockets. No, the professor would call on her at Bar Harbor, take a guiding trip with car bolts perhaps, and then, when they were really good friends, some day she would ask mother to have a simple little luncheon, and Mrs. Carbolt would let her bring Dr. Tennyson down in the motor from New York. And meantime, no need to be too explicit. For just two happy weeks, Margaret lived in Wonderland. The 14 days were a revelation to her. Life seemed to grow warmer, more rosy-colored. Little things became significant. Every moment carried its freight of joy. Her beauty, always notable, became almost startling. There was a new glow in her cheeks and lips, new fire in the dark-lashed eyes that were so charming in a contrast to her bright hair. Like a pair of joyous and irresponsible children, she and John Tennyson walked through the days, too happy ever to pause and ask themselves whether they were going. Then abruptly, it ended. Victoria, brought down from school in Switzerland with various indications of something wrong, was in a flash as sick child, a child who must be hurried home to the only surgeon in whom Mrs. Carbolt placed the least trust. There was hurried packing, telephoning, wiring. It was only a few hours after the great German physician's diagnosis that they were all at the railway station, restless, nervous, eager to get started. Dr. Tennyson accompanied them to the station, and in the five minutes wait before their train left, a little incident occurred, the memory of which clouded Margaret's dreams for many a day to come. Arriving as they were departing, were the St. George Allens, noisy, rich, arrogant New Yorkers, for whom Margaret had a special dislike. The Allens fell joyously upon the Carbolt Party with a confusion of greetings, "'And, John Tennyson!' shouted Lily Allen delightedly. "'Well, what fun! What are you doing here?' "'I'm feeling a little lonely,' said the professor, smiling at Mrs. Carbolt. "'Nothing like that, and say them words,' said Margaret Allen cheerfully. "'Mama, make him dine with us. Say you will.' "'I assure you, I was dreading to lone the evening,' John Tennyson said gratefully. Margaret's last glimpse of his face was between Lily's pink and cherry hat, and Margaret's astonishing headgear of yellow straw, gold braid, spangled quills, and calla-lulies. She carried a secret heartache through the worried fortnight of Victoria's illness, and the busy days that followed. For Mrs. Carbolt had one of many nervous breakdowns, and took her turn at the hospital when Victoria came home. For the first time in five happy years, Margaret drooped, and for the first time, allowing for money and power of her own knot at the girl's heart. If she had but her share of these things, she could hold her own against a hundred modded Lily Allens. As it was, she told herself a little bitterly. She was only a secretary, one of the hundred-paid dependents of a rich woman. She was only, after all, a little middle-class country school teacher. End of chapter four. Chapter five of Mother. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother by Kathleen Norris. Chapter five. So you're going home to your own people for the weekend, Peggy. And how many of you are there? I always forget, said young Mrs. George Crawford, negligently. She tipped back in her chair, half shut her novel, half shut her eyes, and looked critically at her fingernails. Outside the big country house, summer sunshine flooded the smooth lawns, sparkled on the falling diamonds and still pooled the fountain, glowed over acres of matchless wood and garden. But deep awnings made a clear, cool shade in doors, and the wide rims were delightfully breezy. Margaret, busy with the ledger and checkbook, smiled absently, finished a long column, made an orderly entry, and wiped her pen. Seven, said she, smiling. Seven, echoed Mrs. Potter lazily, my heaven, seven children, how early Victorian. Isn't it? Said a third woman, a very beautiful woman, Mrs. Watts Watson, who was also idling and reading in the white and gray morning room. Well, she added, dropping her magazine and locking her hands about her head. My grandmother had 10, fancy trying to raise 10 children. Oh, everything's different now, the first speaker said indifferently. Everything's more expensive, life is more complicated. People used to have roomier houses, aunts and cousins and grandmothers living with them. There was always someone at home with the children. Nowadays we don't do that. And thank the saints, we don't, said Mrs. Watson piously. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a house full of things in law. Of course, but I mean it made the family problem simpler. Mrs. Crawford pursued, oh, and I don't know. Everything was so simple. All this business of sterilizing and fumigating and pasteurizing and vaccinating and boiling and boracic acid wasn't done in those days. She finished vaguely. Now there you are, said Mrs. Carbolt, entering into the conversation with sudden force. Entirely recovered after her nervous collapse as brisk as ever in her crisp linen gown. She was signing the checks that Margaret handed her, frontingly busy and absorbed with her accounts. Now she leaned back in her chair, glanced at the watch at her wrist and relaxed the cramped muscles of her body. That's exactly it, Rose, said she to Mrs. Crawford. Life is more complicated. People, the very people who ought to have children, simply cannot afford it. And who is to blame? Can you blame a woman whose life is packed full of other things she simply cannot avoid if she declines to complicate things any further? Our grandmother's didn't have telephones or motor cars or weakened affairs or even, for that matter, manicures and hairdressers. A good heavy silk was full dress all the year round. They washed their own hair. The upstairs girl answered the doorbell. Why, they didn't even have talcum powder and nursery refrigerators and sanitary rugs that have to be washed every day. Do you suppose my grandmother ever took a baby's temperature or had its eyes and nose examined or its adenoids cut? They had more children and they lost more children without any reason or logic, whatever. Poor things, they never thought of doing anything else, I suppose. A fat old, darky nurse sprouted the whole crowd and makes one shudder to think of it. Why, I always had a trained nurse and the regular nurse used to take two baths a day. I insisted on that and both nurseries were washed out every day with chloride and a potash solution and the iron beds washed every week. And even then, Dick had this mastoid trouble and Harriet got everything almost. Exactly, said Mrs. Watson. That's you, Hattie, with all the money in the world. Now, do you wonder that some of the rest of us who have to think of money? In short, she finished decidedly, do you wonder that people are not having children? At first naturally, one doesn't want them. For three or four years, I'm sure, the thought doesn't come into one's head. But then afterwards, you see, I've been married 15 years now. Afterwards, I think it would be awfully nice to have one or two little kitties if it was a possible thing, but it isn't. No, it isn't, Mrs. Crawford agreed. You don't want to have them unless you're able to do everything in the world for them. If I were Hattie here, I'd have a dozen. Oh, no, you wouldn't, Mrs. Carbolt assured her promptly. No, you wouldn't. You can't leave everything to servants. There are clothes to think of in dentists and special teachers, and it's frightfully hard to get a nursery governess. And then you've got to see that they know the right people, don't you know? And give them parties? I tell you, it's a strain. Well, I don't believe my mother with her seven ever worked any harder than you do, said Margaret, with their admiration in her eyes that was so sweet to the older woman. Look at this morning. Did you sit down before you came in here 20 minutes ago? I, indeed I didn't, Mrs. Carbolt said. I had my breakfast and letters at seven, bath at eight, straightened up that squabble between swan and the cook. I think Paul's still simmering, but that's neither here nor there. Then I went down to the vet to see the mare. Joel never forgave me if I really broke in the creature's knees. Then I telephoned mother and saw Harriet's violin man and talked to that Italian Joe set up to clean the oils. He's in the gallery now. And let's see, Italian lesson, Margaret prompted. Italian lesson, the other echoed, and then came in here to sign my checks. You're so executive Harriet, said Mrs. Crawford languidly. Apropos of swan, Margaret said. He confided to me that he has seven children on a little farm down on Long Island. The butler, oh, I daresay, Mrs. Watson agreed. They can, because I've no standard to maintain. Seven or 17, the only difference is expense and the actual amount of bread and butter consumed. It's too bad, said Mrs. Crawford. But you've got to handle the question sanely and reasonably like any other. Now, I love children, she went on. I'm perfectly crazy about my sister's little girl. She's 11 now, and the cutest thing alive. But when I think of all Mabel's been through since she was born, I realize that it's a little too much to expect of any woman. Now look at us. There are thousands of people fixed as we are. We're in an apartment hotel with one maid. There's no room for a second maid, no porch and no backyard. Well, the baby comes. One loses before and after the event, just about six months of everything. And of course the expense is frightful, but no matter, the baby comes. We take a house. That means three indoor maids, Georgia chauffeur, a man for lawn and furnace that's five. Doubling expenses, said Mrs. Carbolt thoughtfully. Doubling, troubling or more. But that's not all. The baby must be out from 11 to three every day. So you've got to go sit by the carriage in the park while nurse goes home for her lunch. Or if you're out for luncheon or giving a luncheon, she brings baby home, bumps the carriage into the basement, carries the baby upstairs, eats her lunch and snatches. The maids don't like it and I don't blame them. I know how it was with Mabel. She had to give up that wonderful old apartment of theirs on Gramercy Park. Sid had a studio on the top floor and she had such a lovely flat on the next floor, but there was no lift and no laundry and the kitchen was small. A baby takes so much fussing. And then she lost that splendid cook of hers, Germaine. She wouldn't stand it. Up to that time, she'd been cooking and waiting too, but the baby ended that. Mabel took a house and Sid paid studio right beside and they had two maids and then three maids and what with their fighting and their days off and eternally changing, Mabel was a wreck. I've seen her trying to play a bridge hand with Dorothy bobbing about on her arm, poor girl. Finally, they went to a hotel and of course a child got older and was less trouble. But to this day, Mabel doesn't dare leave her alone for one second and when they got to dinner and leave her alone in the hotel, of course a child cries. That's the worst of a kitty. Mrs. Watson said, you can't ever turn them off as it were or make it spades. They're always right on the job. I'll never forget Elsie Clay. She was the best friend I had. My bridesmaid too. She married and after a while they took a house in Jersey because of the baby. I went out there to lunch one day. There she was in the house perfectly buried in trees with the rain sopping down outside and smoke blowing out of the fireplace and the drawing room as dark as pitch at two o'clock. Elsie said she used to nearly die of loneliness sitting there all afternoon long listening to the trains whistling and the main thumping irons in the kitchen and picking up the baby's box. And they quarreled, you know, she and her husband. That was the beginning of the trouble. Finally, the boy went to his grandmother and now believe Elsie's married again and living in California somewhere. Margaret, hanging over the back of her chair was an attentive listener. But people, people in town have children. She said, the blanketships have one and haven't the denormandies? The blanket ship boys in college, said Mrs. Carboldt and the little denormandies live with their grandmother until they were old enough for boarding school. Well, the deans have three, Margaret said triumphantly. Ah, well, my dear, Harry deans a rich man and she was a pal of Philadelphia. Mrs. Crawford supplied promptly. Now the Eastmans have three too with a trained nurse apiece. I see, Margaret admitted slowly, far wiser to have none at all. Said Mrs. Carboldt in her decisive way than to handicap them from the start by letting them see other children enjoying pleasures and advantages they can't afford. And now girls, let's stop wasting time. It's half past 11. Why can't we have a game of auction right here and now? Margaret returned to her checkbook with speed. The other two, glad to be aroused, heartily approve the idea. Well, what does this very business like aspect imply? Mrs. Carboldt asked her secretary. It means that I can't play cards and you oughtn't. Margaret said laughing. Oh, why not? Because you've lots of things to do and I've got to finish these notes and I have to sit with Harriet while she does her German. Where's Farlin? Farlin's going to drive Vic over to the partridges for luncheon and I promised one I'd talk to him about favors and thanks for tomorrow night. Well, busy Lizzie, and what have I to do? Margaret reached for a well-filled date book. You were to decide about those alterations, the porch and dining room you know, said she. There are some architect's sketches around here. The man's going to be here early in the morning. You said you'd drive over to the yacht club to see about the stage for the children's play. You were to stop on the way back and see old Mrs. McNamber moment. You wanted to write Mrs. Pocco note to catch the Kaiser and Augusta and luncheon's early because of the Kellogg Bridge. She shut the book and called Mr. Carboldt at the club at one, she added. All that, now fancy, said her employer and Myra Inley. She had swept some scattered magazines from a small table and was now seated there, negligently shuffling a pack of cards in her fine white hands. Ring, will you Peggy? said she. And the boat races are today and you dine at Oaks in the field. Margaret supplemented inflexibly. Yes? Well, come and beat the seven of clubs, said Mrs. Carboldt, spreading the deck for the draw. For all then, she said sweetly, when a maid had summoned that worthy and earnest governess, tell Ms. Harriet that mother doesn't want her to do her German today, it's too warm. Tell her that she used to go with you and Ms. Victoria for a drive, thank you. And for all then, will you telephone all Mrs. McNabb and say that Mrs. Carboldt is lying down with a severe headache and she won't be able to come in this morning? Thank you. And for all then, telephone the yacht club, will you? And tell Mr. Matthews that Mrs. Carboldt is indisposed and I'll have to come back this afternoon. I'll talk to him before the children's races and one thing more, will you tell Swan this pageant we'll see him about tomorrow's dinner when she comes back from the yacht club today and tell him to send us something cool to drink now. Thank you so much. No, shut it. Thank you. Have a nice drive. They odd you up their chairs to the table. You and I Rose, said Mrs. Watson. I'm so glad you suggested this, Hattie. I am dying to play. It really rests me more than anything else, said Mrs. Carboldt, two spades. End of chapter five.