Pratt Portraits/Chapter 11
"THANK you, dear child."
The voice in which these words were spoken was of that soft, uncertain quality in which a hint of querulousness may be detected. The speaker's face was the face of a nervous invalid.
"Thank you, dear child," she said sweetly, and her daughter's cheeks flushed with pleasure. Mary Anne Spencer knew no greater joy than a word of appreciation from those lips could bestow. She left the room with heightened color and elastic step.
"How unselfish Mary Anne is!" said Mrs. Spencer, as the door closed behind her daughter.
The remark fell upon unheeding ears. Mr. James Spencer was far too much engrossed in his evening paper to give a thought to so commonplace a theme as Mary Anne's unselfishness. Every one knew that Mary Anne was unselfish, every one said that she was. There was no more doubt on the subject than upon the color of her hair or of her eyes, and those who praised her were totally unconscious of the patronizing tone which lurked in their commendations.
Unselfishness is a virtue which is seldom questioned, but, if carried to excess, it places its owner at a manifest disadvantage. It is a hindrance to personal success, and whoever may have first made the statement, the world surely did not wait for his utterance before discovering that "nothing succeeds like success."
James Spencer, himself a successful man, unacquainted with the first principles of self-abnegation, did not concern himself much with his daughter's character. She was useful to him in many ways, but her personality failed to interest him. He would not have acknowledged even to himself that he found her amiability monotonous. Indeed, Mary Anne's "crying virtue" as her father once called it in a moment of irritation, had never awakened a distinct misgiving in any one's mind, excepting in that of her father's grandmother, Old Lady Pratt.
"Don't talk to me about Mary Anne's unselfishness!" the independent old lady would exclaim. "I've no patience with her."
"But, Grandma!" would be the rejoinder, "don't you think her spirit of self-sacrifice is very beautiful?"
"A fig for her sperrit of self-sacrifice! Before you know it, it'll be all the sperrit she's got left! I can tell you something that's a long sight better than self-sacrifice, and that's a good, wholesome bit of self-assertion! We wa'n't made to lie down for other folks to walk over. What's the good of a backbone, I should like to know, if not so's we can stand up straight and make the most of the chances the Lord gives us!"
This had been the old lady's stand from the very first, and she held her position stoutly to the last. The "unselfish" Mary Anne had always given her greater cause for uneasiness than did Mary Anne's scapegrace brother Tom, who, in his boyhood, was the despair of his other elders.
One day, in her extreme old age, Old Lady Pratt gave still stronger expression to her views than she had hitherto done. For on this occasion she took her daughter Harriet (Mary Anne's grandmother) into her confidence on a point which she had never before touched upon.
"I tell you what't is, Harriet," she said, with her old eyes snapping, and her knitting-needles glinting faster than ever. "I tell you what 't is! I ain't lived ninety years in this world without findin' out that a little spunk is as good for other folks as 't is for yourself. It's my opinion that women like Mary Anne do more mischief than they'd relish bein' called to account for. There's Betsy, now! You don't 'spose I'm any the better for havin' ordered her about for more 'n sixty years runnin'?"
The old lady looked at her patient daughter with a softened, pitiful expression.
"Poor Betsy! She ain't to blame, seein' she's deaf as a post. She's a good girl, and she'd ben smart's anybody if she could only ha' heard a little of what folks was sayin'. But there! There's no need o' cryin' over spilt milk. All I've got to say is, there ain't no sech excuse for Mary Anne, and I declare for 't, I sometimes feel's though I should like to shake her."
Now neither the many who praised, nor yet the one who censured, really had the clue to the girl's character. Old Lady Pratt, with all her shrewdness, supposed, as the rest of the world did, that Mary Anne was inherently and spontaneously unselfish. That when she gave up pleasures that others might enjoy them, when she sacrificed her own inclinations that she might do a service for some one else, it was because of a quality in her nature different from anything in her companions.
The truth was, however, that Mary Anne's unselfishness was a refuge, to which she instinctively had resort, impelled thereto by her two ruling characteristics—self-distrust and a craving for approbation.
Mary Anne was the eldest child of James Spencer, a man of peremptory manners, though of a really yielding disposition. His other children had never found any difficulty in "getting round Father." It was only his eldest daughter who stood in awe of him. This may have been one reason why she was not a favorite with her father. From the time when she was a little child, his commands and admonitions had frightened her. He had a way of coming to the foot of the stairs, when there was too much noise in the nursery, and saying "Hst!" and that sharp, penetrating sound would send cold shivers down her back, even when she was doing her best to keep her little flock in order.
She was very young when she began to regard the little ones as her special charge. Her mother, who had little of what our grandmothers called "constitution," had always had her own hands full with the care of the youngest baby, and she had left the others more and more to Mary Anne's guidance and oversight. Mary Anne appeared to take naturally to the task. 'To all the world she seemed to be a good, plodding girl, quite without desires and aspirations on her own account. The fact that it took brains as well as patience to accomplish what she had always done never seemed to dawn upon those abouther. All her usefulness, and no one denied its magnitude, was attributed to her being "so unselfish," and, proud of the one virtue with which she was credited, Mary Anne clung to her reputation and, unconsciously perhaps, endeavored to augment it. So great was her thirst for praise that a word of thanks, a smile of appreciation, filled her cup of happiness to the brim, and no price was too high to pay for such a reward. It must be recorded, however, that none of Mary Anne's beneficiaries were lavish in their gratitude. Her father, as has been seen, took her good deeds for granted and wasted no words upon them. His wife, on her part, had so early formed the habit of shifting the burden of her cares upon her strong young daughter's shoulders, that now, when there were no more babies to tend, she still looked upon Mary Anne as her chief support, and accepted the girl's services as naturally and unthinkingly as she did those of the old family horse, or of the paid house-maids. It was because her "Thank you, dear child!" was rare that it sent the color into her daughter's cheeks.
Mrs. James Spencer's children—and there were nine of them—were a plump and hearty race, and all of them, excepting Mary Anne, were governed by that healthy spirit of self-seeking to which the world in reality owes so much.
"Mary Anne! Mary Anne!" was the cry from morning till night. "Mary Anne! Come and help me do my sums!" Or: "Mary Anne! I've torn a streak-o'-lightning hole in my trousers!" Or: "Mary Anne! I've made a list of errands for you if you're going to town." Sometimes a careless "Thank you" was tossed her for these services; oftener, perhaps, it was forgotten.
If any one of the children was taken sick in the night Mary Anne was sure to be called up, and young Dr. Winship, who had succeeded to his father's practice, declared that she was a "born nurse." If Miss Plimpton, the dressmaker, was employed by the day it was Mary Anne who settled down, quite as a matter of course, to do seamstress work until the dressmaking dispensation was past. It was Mary Anne who played backgammon with her father of an evening; it was Mary Anne who bathed her mother's head when it ached; who beguiled the younger children to bed with tales of gnomes and fairies, of good little girls and bad little boys; it was "Miss Mary Anne" to whom the servants came in any domestic emergency. She used sometimes to wish that she had been given a gentler, more musical name, since she was to hear it called in so many keys, by so many voices, to so many ends. She had been named for her mother, who, however, had always been called "Nannie." "And she's always been treated 'Nannie,'" Mary Anne sometimes said to herself, rejoicing in the gentleness with which everybody approached the delicate, dependent woman. Mary Anne loved her mother with a devotion which was maternal in its tenderness and generosity; and next to her mother she loved her troublesome brother, Tom.
Tom, the "scapegrace" of the family, was four years her junior. He was no less bent upon having his own way than were his brothers and sisters. But where they simply demanded, he wheedled. Now wheedling involves many little expressions of affection, with a pinch of flattery thrown in, and now and then a kiss crops out in the process. When Tom told Mary Anne that she was the best sister a fellow ever had he was merely making a statement of fact, which the others, if called upon, would have willingly endorsed, but it so happened that he was the only one who ever thought of putting his opinion into words. And when he had made some such demonstration, Mary Anne's cheeks would flush, and all day long she would gloat over the recollection as a miser gloats over his gold. She was not as unconscious as so good a girl should have been. When she played the piano for a whole evening that a party of boys and girls might dance, she was not above reflecting that they owed their enjoyment to her. When she had stroked her mother's temples until her arm felt like anguished lead, and when she finally saw sleep steal over the worn face, she would glory in the thought that it was she who had brought relief. She would have begrudged the office to any other hand. Happily, Mary Anne was not morbidly conscientious or introspective. Had she been so, she would have detected her own foibles, and all her innocent pleasure would have been spoiled. She was now twenty-six years of age, and she had never yet thought of living a life of her own. There was only one very strong desire which she cherished on her own account, and that one desire was for a musical education. She had been taught piano-playing when she was a little girl, but after she had attained such proficiency as to be able to play for dancing, the lessons had been stopped. She had a strong musical bent, and practising was still her one indulgence. She played Beethoven sonatas and Mendelssohn Songs Without Words, in her own way, which was a much better way than any one had yet discovered. Her mother's mother had recently died, leaving each of her grandchildren a legacy of five hundred dollars, and Mary Anne intended using it for music lessons whenever she should "get time." The money, meanwhile, had been placed in the savings bank, where it might increase itself to this excellent end.
But one day Tom came begging, and before he left her she had loaned him her $500, for a secret purpose which he could not reveal, but which he was "sure she would approve." Tom was in a banker's office, and had doubtless heard of a promising investment, and nothing could have seemed more natural than that he should have the use of her money.
One fine evening in April Mary Anne found herself mistress of the house and of her own time. Her father had taken his wife and two of his daughters to hear Christine Nilsson sing. The two youngest children were in bed, and the rest of the family were scattered in one or another direction. The evening was mild and the house rather warm. Mary Anne opened the parlor windows, lighted the candles in the brackets of the old square piano, and fell to practising the Moonlight Sonata. Untutored as she was, there was nothing ordinary or slipshod in the girl's playing. What she lacked in technique was more than atoned for, to the uncritical ear, by the spirit and expression with which she played. She had practised long and carefully on this sonata, and to-night, for the first time, she was giving rein to her fingers. She played the third movement, with its splendid crescendos and beautiful periods, three times over, each time with gathering impetuosity and passion. It was something to arrest any listener.
So at least thought one passer-by, as he paused at the gate. It was young Dr. Winship, a man of German tastes and traditions, to whom the Moonlight Sonata was an article of faith.
"Who on earth can that be?" he asked himself.
The young man had a great liking and respect for the family in the large, rambling yellow house, with the little white fence around the roof, and the pear-trees in the front yard. He liked them all very much, and he flattered himself that he knew them pretty thoroughly, but he had never discovered any musical genius among them.
Mary Anne was just beginning the movement for the third time, and the opening passages went rolling up and on like great ocean breakers. Dr. Winship listened a few minutes with growing incredulity, and then he opened the gate and walked up the path. Just as the performer, rather breathless and excited, had finished the movement he was ushered into the parlor. There sat his "born nurse," in the soft, transfiguring candle-light, turning a starlit face toward him, and rising with a dazed, uncertain gesture to meet him.
But she was herself in a moment, and came forward, saying deprecatingly:
"Oh Dr. Winship! I am so sorry everybody is out!"
"It didn't sound as though everybody were out a moment ago," he said, grasping her hand very warmly. "I came in to thank you for your music."
"Did you like it?" she cried, with a childlike spontaneous delight which was very winning.
"Doesn't everybody?" he asked.
"I never play to anybody except for dancing."
"I hope you will play for me sometimes. But not to-night." he added, gently. "You have played yourself into a fever."
It was the most delicious thing Mary Anne had experienced in all her life. First the praise and then this solicitude and gentleness.
"Where did you learn to play?" he asked presently, as he sat beside the music-stand looking over the little collection of pieces.
"I never learned. That is just the trouble," she said. "I took lessons till I was twelve years old, and then it got crowded out."
"Crowded out, when you were twelve years old! What a busy child you must have been!"
She laughed and said, "I'm afraid I was only slow."
"Are all your people out to-night? I was in luck!—I mean," he corrected himself, "I was in luck that you should not have gone too."
"They have all gone to town to hear Nilsson."
"I wonder how they managed to leave the musician of the family at home." The situation made him unconventional.
"Father could only get four tickets," she answered simply.
Dr. Winship suddenly remembered that he had always associated this girl with household cares, that he had found her on three separate occasions established as night-nurse in a sick-room, that when he had called socially, he had invariably been told that Mary Anne was "playing backgammon with Father" or was "up-stairs with Mother." A feeling of indignation got the better of him.
"Miss Spencer?" he asked, "do you never by any chance have any good times?"
Mary Anne gave her questioner a surprised look. Then she replied with a sort of apologetic dignity:
"I always have a good time."
"Is that so? Then you are the first person I ever knew who got her exact deserts."
Having thus relieved his mind, the visitor discreetly left personalities alone. They fell to—talking of music and of Germany, of foreign people and remote things, and for one reason or another, both these young people became entirely absorbed in conversation, and both felt a pang of regret as the tall clock in the dining-room sent its solemn voice echoing through the house proclaiming the hour of ten.
Dr. Winship sprang promptly to his feet, for he prided himself upon knowing how to go. But before precipitating himself out of the door, as was his wont, he shook his entertainer cordially by the hand, and said, with unmistakable sincerity: "I don't know when I have enjoyed an evening so much. May I bring my violin next time?"
"Next time!" The words sounded like music, the very clang of the closing door resounded like a peean through the house.
As Mary Anne stood in the middle of the room, trying to get her balance, there was a sharp rap on the door which she opened hastily.
"Have you seen the new moon over your left shoulder?" asked the young doctor, with amusing eagerness. "It has rained so much lately I thought you might have missed it."
"No. I haven't seen it. But you ought to look at it over your right shoulder."
"Oh, no! That's a great mistake. The Germans, who are up in mystic lore, taught me better."
She held back doubtfully.
"I've always been so particular about it," she said.
"Well, now. Just trust to me, and try it the other way. See, it will be gone behind the church in a few minutes. There! stand that way and turn your head to the left. There now! See if you don't begin to have good luck as is good luck."
She laughed a delighted little laugh that was pleasant to hear.
"I always supposed you were all science," she cried.
"And I always thought you were all usefulness," he retorted. "It is a great relief to know the truth about you."
"And I'm very glad you're so light-minded."
She had her hand on the door to goin. Her face, turned toward the moonlight, looked wonderfully youthful and sweet. Mary Anne's cares had after all been of a kind to leave the spirit unclouded.
"Did you ever breathe anything so good as this air?" the young man asked, actually lingering on the brink, as he had seen and despised others for doing.
"It's the spring," she answered, simply. He remembered her attitude and the tone of her voice, years after, when they listened together to the same words set to heavenly music.
"Miss Spencer," he cried, impulsively, "I wish the next time anybody is sick, you would let somebody else sit up with them. It would do them good."
She shook her head with much decision.
"There isn't anybody else—and, besides, I like it."
"There's the usefulness cropping out again," he cried. "Good-bye."
"And weren't you a trifle professional just now," she called gayly after him.
Then she closed the door behind her, and stood in the brightly lighted 'hall, trying once more to get her bearings.
How foolish she was to be so excited and happy over a little thing. It was probably just like what was happening to other girls all the time. She had had a very pleasant evening, of course, but what of that? And there were the candles on the piano burnt down to their very sockets, and she must go directly and make a cup of tea against her mother's return.
She busied herself with this and other duties, and tried to bring herself to reason, but do what she would, think what she would, she was changed, and the next morning before breakfast she determined not to put off any longer getting herself a spring suit, even if the rest of the family were not already provided for. This, in itself, was enough to prove that a revolution had taken place in her mind. Yet so strongly did her old life-long habits assert themselves as the day wore on, that, but for an opportune catastrophe, she might again have fallen a victim to them.
The second day following her pleasant evening was a New England holiday, the 19th of April. Mr. Spencer did not go to his office in town, and Mary Anne was not surprised to be summoned to him in the library. She went, prepared to render some chance service, or answer some question about household affairs. To her consternation she found Tom there, looking very pale and desperate, standing before his father, whose face was stern and lowering.
"Well, Mary Anne!" was her father's greeting. "Here's a pretty state of things!"
"Why, Father. What's the matter?"
"Matter enough! Tom's been gambling in stocks, and owes a thousand dollars, and there's nobody to blame for it but you."
"Father!" Tom remonstrated.
"Hold your tongue, Tom," cried his father, hotly. "It's exactly as I say. If Mary Anne hadn't been an absolute fool, she would have known better than to lend you money. I don't count that among his debts," James Spencer added, bitterly. "It serves you right to lose it, and I, for one, shall not make it up to you."
"But, Father," Tom began again.
"Hold your tongue, Tom. Do you hear me? Tom's been a fool, too," he went on, turning to his daughter; "but he has at least had the manliness to own up. He's not quite lost to all sense of decency yet. But he's headed straight down hill. He's got a taste for gambling, and if he goes straight to the deuce, I swear there's nobody to blame but you."
Mary Anne stood half stunned by the violence of the attack. Could it be she whom her father was saying such things about? She? She who would have given her life for Tom? She who had never had a thought for herself? Who had sacrificed every natural wish and taste to serve her family? Who had relinquished her little treasure because Tom had persuaded her that it would make a man of him to have a taste of enterprise? She was to be Tom's ruin? A hot flush of indignation went over her. For the first time in her life she experienced a great throb of self-assertion. In a voice as peremptory as James Spencer's own she demanded: "Are you talking about me, Father? Do you say that I have ruined Tom?"
"Yes, I do! You have systematically spoiled him all his life; and now"
"I have systematically spoiled you all," cried Mary Anne, with a sudden, uncontrollable energy of rebellion. "Every one of you! From you, Father," looking him unflinchingly in the eye, "down to little Ben and Jimmy. I've spoiled you so that you"
"Highty! tighty! Is this the self-sacrificing Mary Anne, who prides herself"
Again she interrupted him. She was no more afraid of her father now, than she was of the Moonlight Sonata, and flinging herself with the whole force of her nature upon the catastrophe, she cried, "I will never be self-sacrificing again as long as I live! I will never do another thing for anybody else! I am going to be a perfect pig!"
James Spencer stared for a few seconds in speechless astonishment at his daughter, standing before him with flaming cheeks and defiant eyes. Had she lost her mind, or had she become possessed of the devil? At any rate she looked surprisingly handsome, and that at least was as it should be. A sudden revulsion of feeling went over him, and holding out both hands to her, he cried:
"Mary Anne, come here! You're a trump! I'm proud of you!" He held her hands for a moment and gazed up at her from his big easy chair with a look wherein approbation still contended with amazement, and then he said: "See that you stick it out, my girl! see that you stick it out!"
For the moment om's misdemeanors were forgotten, and somehow they never assumed the same gigantic proportions in the family councils again. In his joy at having his daughter's virtues mitigated, James Spencer could afford to be indulgent to the sins of his son.
When, that same evening, a caller was announced, namely, Dr. Charles Winship, Mary Anne, witha queer little laugh, said to her younger sister: "Edith, I think you'd better play backgammon with Father this evening. I want to see Dr. Winship myself."
Then James Spencer openly gloried in the situation.
"Well, Edith," he said, with a comical shrug of his broad shoulders, as he settled himself for his game; "Mary Anne's carrying things with a high hand. You and I may as well submit."