_ Her eyes rested wonderingly on the thin shabby figure at her
side. She had known Nettie Crane as one of the discouraged
victims of over-work and anaemic parentage: one of the
superfluous fragments of life destined to be swept prematurely
into that social refuse-heap of which Lily had so lately
expressed her dread. But Nettie Struther's frail envelope was now
alive with hope and energy: whatever fate the future reserved for
her, she would not be cast into the refuse-heap without a
struggle.
"I am very glad to have seen you," Lily continued, summoning a
smile to her unsteady lips. "It'll be my turn to think of you as
happy--and the world will seem a less unjust place to me too."
"Oh, but I can't leave you like this--you're not fit to go home
alone. And I can't go with you either!" Nettie Struther wailed
with a start of recollection. "You see, it's my husband's
night-shift--he's a motor-man--and the friend I leave the baby
with has to step upstairs to get HER husband's supper at seven. I
didn't tell you I had a baby, did I? She'll be four months old
day after tomorrow, and to look at her you wouldn't think I'd
ever had a sick day. I'd give anything to show you the baby, Miss
Bart, and we live right down the street here--it's only three
blocks off." She lifted her eyes tentatively to Lily's face, and
then added with a burst of courage: "Why won't you get right into
the cars and come home with me while I get baby's supper?
It's real warm in our kitchen, and you can rest there, and I'll
take YOU home as soon as ever she drops off to sleep."
It WAS warm in the kitchen, which, when Nettie Struther's match
had made a flame leap from the gas-jet above the table, revealed
itself to Lily as extraordinarily small and almost miraculously
clean. A fire shone through the polished flanks of the iron
stove, and near it stood a crib in which a baby was sitting
upright, with incipient anxiety struggling for expression on a
countenance still placid with sleep.
Having passionately celebrated her reunion with her offspring,
and excused herself in cryptic language for the lateness of her
return, Nettie restored the baby to the crib and shyly invited
Miss Bart to the rocking-chair near the stove.
"We've got a parlour too," she explained with pardonable pride;
"but I guess it's warmer in here, and I don't want to leave you
alone while I'm getting baby's supper."
On receiving Lily's assurance that she much preferred the
friendly proximity of the kitchen fire, Mrs. Struther proceeded
to prepare a bottle of infantile food, which she tenderly applied
to the baby's impatient lips; and while the ensuing degustation
went on, she seated herself with a beaming countenance beside her
visitor.
"You're sure you won't let me warm up a drop of coffee for you,
Miss Bart? There's some of baby's fresh milk left over--well,
maybe you'd rather just sit quiet and rest a little while. It's
too lovely having you here. I've thought of it so often that I
can't believe it's really come true. I've said to George again
and again: 'I just wish Miss Bart could see me NOW--' and I used
to watch for your name in the papers, and we'd talk over what you
were doing, and read the descriptions of the dresses you wore. I
haven't seen your name for a long time, though, and I began to be
afraid you were sick, and it worried me so that George said I'd
get sick myself, fretting about it." Her lips broke into a
reminiscent smile. "Well, I can't afford to be sick again, that's
a fact: the last spell nearly finished me. When you sent me off
that time I never thought I'd come back alive, and I didn't much
care if I did. You see I didn't know about George and the baby
then."
She paused to readjust the bottle to the child's bubbling mouth.
"You precious--don't you be in too much of a hurry! Was it mad
with mommer for getting its supper so late? Marry
Anto'nette--that's what we call her: after the French queen in
that play at the Garden--I told George the actress reminded me of
you, and that made me fancy the name . . . I never thought I'd
get married, you know, and I'd never have had the heart to go on
working just for myself."
She broke off again, and meeting the encouragement in Lily's
eyes, went on, with a flush rising under her anaemic skin: "You
see I wasn't only just SICK that time you sent me off--I was
dreadfully unhappy too. I'd known a gentleman where I was
employed--I don't know as you remember I did type-writing in a
big importing firm--and--well--I thought we were to be married:
he'd gone steady with me six months and given me his mother's
wedding ring. But I presume he was too stylish for me--he
travelled for the firm, and had seen a great deal of society.
Work girls aren't looked after the way you are, and they don't
always know how to look after themselves. I didn't . . . and it
pretty near killed me when he went away and left off writing . .
. It was then I came down sick--I thought it was the end of
everything. I guess it would have been if you hadn't sent me off.
But when I found I was getting well I began to take heart in
spite of myself. And then, when I got back home, George came
round and asked me to marry him. At first I thought I couldn't,
because we'd been brought up together, and I knew he knew about
me. But after a while I began to see that that made it easier. I
never could have told another man, and I'd never have married
without telling; but if George cared for me enough to have me as
I was, I didn't see why I shouldn't begin over again--and I did."
The strength of the victory shone forth from her as she lifted
her irradiated face from the child on her knees. "But, mercy, I
didn't mean to go on like this about myself, with you sitting
there looking so fagged out. Only it's so lovely having you here,
and letting you see just how you've helped me." The baby had sunk
back blissfully replete, and Mrs. Struther softly rose to
lay the bottle aside. Then she paused before Miss Bart.
"I only wish I could help YOU--but I suppose there's nothing on
earth I could do," she murmured wistfully.
Lily, instead of answering, rose with a smile and held out her
arms; and the mother, understanding the gesture, laid her child
in them.
The baby, feeling herself detached from her habitual anchorage,
made an instinctive motion of resistance; but the soothing
influences of digestion prevailed, and Lily felt the soft weight
sink trustfully against her breast. The child's confidence in its
safety thrilled her with a sense of warmth and returning life,
and she bent over, wondering at the rosy blur of the little face,
the empty clearness of the eyes, the vague tendrilly motions of
the folding and unfolding fingers. At first the burden in her
arms seemed as light as a pink cloud or a heap of down, but as
she continued to hold it the weight increased, sinking deeper,
and penetrating her with a strange sense of weakness, as though
the child entered into her and became a part of herself.
She looked up, and saw Nettie's eyes resting on her with
tenderness and exultation.
"Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything if she could grow up to
be just like you? Of course I know she never COULD--but mothers
are always dreaming the craziest things for their children."
Lily clasped the child close for a moment and laid her back in
her
mother's arms.
"Oh, she must not do that--I should be afraid to come and see her
too often!" she said with a smile; and then, resisting Mrs.
Struther's anxious offer of companionship, and reiterating the
promise that of course she would come back soon, and make
George's acquaintance, and see the baby in her bath, she passed
out of the kitchen and went alone down the tenement stairs.
As she reached the street she realized that she felt stronger and
happier: the little episode had done her good. It was the first
time she had ever come across the results of her spasmodic
benevolence, and the surprised sense of human fellowship took the
mortal chill from her heart.
It was not till she entered her own door that she felt the
reaction of a deeper loneliness. It was long after seven o'clock,
and the light and odours proceeding from the basement made it
manifest that the boarding-house dinner had begun. She hastened
up to her room, lit the gas, and began to dress. She did not mean
to pamper herself any longer, to go without food because her
surroundings made it unpalatable. Since it was her fate to live
in a boarding-house, she must learn to fall in with the
conditions of the life. Nevertheless she was glad that, when she
descended to the heat and glare of the dining-room, the repast
was nearly over. _