Master of the Vineyard Part 34

[Sidenote: Well Groomed]

"Maybe not. Maybe it's the Ma and Pa and two children and an Aunt or an Uncle or some other of the family connection."

"Well, even if there's only two children, if their Ma is makin' 'em caps to hold back their ears and pinchin' their noses regular, she ain't got no time to have her own nose flattened out against the gla.s.s lookin' for _The Household Guardian_."

"'If, however, through ignorance or the press of other occupations,'"

Grandmother resumed, clearing her throat, "'this early care has not been given, every woman, no matter what her circ.u.mstances are, may at least be well-groomed.'"

Matilda giggled hysterically.

"What's the matter now?" queried Grandmother, with interest.

"I was just thinkin' about the erect carriage and the groomin'. The man what wrote that piece seems to think a woman is a horse. Reckon I'll get myself a curry-comb."

"It might improve the looks of your hair some if you did," the old lady observed, caustically. "'No woman is so poor that she cannot take the time to attend to her personal appearance, nor so rich that she can afford to neglect it. The hair should be shampooed at--Continued on page sixty-seven.'"

"The hair should be what?"

"'Shampooed at least once a month.'"

[Sidenote: Face Ma.s.sage]

"What's that?"

"Don't interrupt," commanded the old lady, with the dull red burning on her withered cheeks. "Here I am readin' to you and tryin' to improve your mind and all the time you're interruptin' me."

"Only to ask questions," Matilda returned, with affected submission. "If I'm to have my mind improved I want it well done."

"'In the intervals it should be frequently brushed, and the regular weekly face ma.s.sage'--that's printed wrong--'the regular weekly face message should not be neglected.'"

"What's a face message?" asked Matilda, curiosity overcoming prudence.

"Anything that's said to anybody, I suppose. Now don't speak to me again. 'The nails must also be taken care of and one or two visits to a good manicure will show any woman how it is to be done. The implements are not expensive and will last----'"

"What's a manicure?"

"Some kind of a doctor, I reckon,--'and will last a long time. A few simple exercises should be taken every night and morning to preserve the fig--Continued on page seventy.'"

"Preservin' figs ain't any particular exercise," Matilda observed, shaking out the mended skirt. "You can do most of it settin' down."

"'Preserve the figure,'" Grandmother continued with emphasis. "'Soap and hot water may be used on the face if a good cold cream is well rubbed into the pores immediately afterward.'"

[Sidenote: Cuc.u.mber Milk]

"Vanilla or lemon?" Matilda asked.

"It doesn't say ice-cream, it just says cold cream. 'Cuc.u.mber milk is excellent for freckles or tan, and----'"

"I reckon I won't hear no more," said Matilda. Her lips were compressed into a thin tight line. "I can stand the carriages that are to be driv'

standin' up, and the lovely imps and the nose pinchin' and the caps for the ears, but when it comes to goin' out every mornin' to milk the cuc.u.mbers, I don't feel called on to set and listen to it. The man what wrote that piece was as crazy as a loon, and if five million people read his paper every week, four million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em know it. I ain't sayin'

who's the one that don't."

She sailed majestically out of the room with her head held high, and her frowsy grey hair bristling with indignation. Grandmother's lower jaw dropped in amazement for a moment, then she returned to the paper.

"Milkin' the cuc.u.mbers don't seem quite right," she said to herself, "but there it is in print, as plain as day."

For the first time her faith in the printed word wavered. "Maybe there's some special kind of cuc.u.mber," she mused, "that gives milk. We used to hear 'em called cowc.u.mbers. Why'd they be called that if they didn't give milk? There's only the two kinds as far as I know--the tame and wild, and the wild ones--" The light of pure intellectual joy dawned upon the puzzled old face. "Of course. Don't I remember the white sticky juice inside the wild ones? That's it! Wait till I tell Matilda!"

[Sidenote: Grandmother Sees the Stranger]

Triumphantly she returned to _The Household Guardian_, and, in her new allegiance, read every line of every advertis.e.m.e.nt before folding it carefully and putting it away with the others. "Good for freckles and tan," she said to herself, meditatively, "but it didn't say nothin'

about warts. Maybe that'll be in next week's paper."

While she sat looking out of the window a woman pa.s.sed, walking so slowly that Grandmother had plenty of time to observe her. As the stranger turned her head neither to the right nor the left, the old lady's intense scrutiny was attended by no embarra.s.sment.

From the fragmentary description that had come her way, she at once recognised Mrs. Lee--the tall, straight figure in a gown of pale green linen, the dainty, regular features, and the crown of wonderful hair, radiating sunlit splendour, as she wore no hat.

[Sidenote: Ready Money]

A letter in her hand betrayed the object of her pa.s.sing. "She's goin' to the post-office," Grandmother mused, "and if she comes back this way, I'll see her again. Matilda ain't seen her but twice and then she had a hat on."

Mrs. Lee did, indeed, come back that way, but gave no sign that she saw, or even felt, the presence of the keen observer in the window of the little brown house. Grandmother hoped that Matilda was not peering from an upper window. Perhaps she would tell her immediately, and perhaps she wouldn't. While she was considering this point, Rosemary came in, wiping her hands upon her ap.r.o.n, and announced that she was ready to go to the store.

Rapidly giving a list of the articles desired, Grandmother rose from her chair, lifted her skirts, and from some safe inner pocket, drew out a black bag, which was evidently fastened around her waist with a string.

This bag contained another, closely wrapped. Inside was a much worn leather "wallet," from which Grandmother extracted a two-dollar bill and some pennies.

"Run along, Rosemary. I reckon that'll be enough."

Rosemary obeyed, privately wondering for the thousandth time whence came Grandmother's money. Neither she nor Matilda had ever dared to ask, but when the supply gave out, the old lady always produced a twenty-dollar gold piece from the magic bag.

[Sidenote: It Seemed Odd]

When she returned from her errand, Aunt Matilda was nowhere to be seen, and Grandmother, nodding in her chair by the window, had not been awakened by the opening and closing of the door. Rosemary went up-stairs, and, from sounds that penetrated the hall through the closed door of Aunt Matilda's room, inferred that she also was taking an afternoon nap.

If she could only write to Alden, and tell him he was free! Night after night she had pondered over ways and means. It seemed odd that in a house where there was always plenty to eat and to wear, of a certain sort, stationery and stamps should be practically unknown. Grandmother had used the last sheet of paper and the last envelope when she ordered the bolt of brown alpaca, and with stern suspicion held Rosemary to account for every penny with which she was entrusted.

If she had paper and an envelope, perhaps she might ask the storekeeper to send the note up with the Marshs' groceries, or, better yet, she might go up to the house herself very early some morning or very late some night and slip it under the front door. In that way, she would be sure he received it. Rosemary brightened as she saw that a stamp would not really be necessary after all.

[Sidenote: Rosemary Takes Possession of the Box]

If only, among her mother's things in the attic, there might be an envelope! She could use brown wrapping paper to write upon, if worst came to worst--the storekeeper might even give her a small, fresh piece of the pale yellow sort. Rosemary knew every separate article in the trunk, however, even the inlaid box to which the key was missing. She had never dared to ask for the key, much less to break open the box, but to-day, the courage of desperation sustained her and she ran quickly up-stairs.

Long afternoon sunbeams, sweet with June, came into the attic, and made fairy gold of the dust as they entered the room. It had none of the charm which belongs to every well-regulated attic; it was merely a storehouse, full of cobwebs and dust. A few old trunks were stored there, all empty save the small hair-cloth trunk which held Rosemary's mother's few possessions that had outlived her.

She opened it, found the box, and discovered that she had forgotten the scissors with which she intended to break the lock. She wondered whether she might safely risk the trip down-stairs after the scissors, or whether it would be better to take the box with her and hide it in her room. Before she had made up her mind, she heard a slow, heavy tread upon the stair.

She could not go down and she did not wish to be found with the box--indeed, she dared not. She cowered back under the eaves and lay flat on the floor behind the trunk, just as Grandmother came into the attic.

[Sidenote: Hidden Gold]