Back Aa

Dust Flower

Close

<h2>Chapter VIII</h2> “I’m ’ere.” Letty couldn’t know, of course, that this announcement, made in a menacing female bass, was due to the fact that three swaying bodies had been endeavoring so to get round the deployed paper wings as to see what was hidden there, and had found their efforts vain. All she could recognize was the summons to the bar of social judgment. To the bar of social judgment she would have gone obediently, had it not been for that rebelliousness against being “looked down upon” which had lately mastered her. As it was, she lengthened her neck by another half inch, receiving from the exercise a new degree of self-strengthening. “Mrs. Courage is ’ere, madam,” Steptoe seconded, “and begs to sye as she’s givin’ notice to quit madam’s service––” The explosion came as if Mrs. Courage was strangling. “When I wants words took out of my mouth by ’Enery Steptoe or anybody else I’ll sye so. If them as I’ve come into this room to speak to don’t feel theirselves aible to fyce me––” “Madam’ll excuse an old servant who’s outlived ’er time,” Steptoe intervened, “and not tyke no notice. They always abuses the kindness that’s been showed ’em, and tykes liberties which––” But not for nothing had Mrs. Courage been born to the grand manner. “When ’Enery Steptoe talks of old servants out-livin’ their time and tykin’ liberties ’e speaks of what ’e knows all about from personal experience. ’E was an old man when I was a little thing not so high.” The appeal was to the curiosity of the girl behind the screen. To judge of how high Mrs. Courage had not been at a time when Steptoe was already an old man she might be enticed from her fortifications. But the pause only offered Steptoe a new opportunity. “And so, if madam can dispense with ’er services, which I understand madam can, Mrs. Courage will be a-leavin’ of us this morning, with all our good wishes, I’m sure. Good-dye to you, Mary Ann, and God bless you after all the years you’ve been with us. Madam’s givin’ you your dismissal.” Obedient to her cue Letty lowered her guard just enough to incline her head with the grace Steptoe had already pronounced “letter perfect.” The shock to Mrs. Courage can best be narrated in her own terms to Mrs. Walter Wildgoose later in the day. “Airs! No one couldn’t imagine it, Bessie, what ’adn’t seen it for theirselves—what them baggages’ll do—smokin’—and wearin’ pearl necklaces—and ’avin’ their own limousines—all that I’ve seen and ’ad got used to—but not the President’s wife—not Mary Queen of England—could ’a myde you feel as if you was dirt hunder their feet like what this one—and ’er with one of them marked down sixty-nine cent blouses that ’adn’t seen the wash since—and as for looks—why, she didn’t ’ave a look to bless ’erself—and a-’oldin’ of ’erself like what a empress might—and bowin’ ’er ’ead, and goin’ back to ’er pyper, as if I’d disturbed ’er at ’er readin’—and the dead and spitten image of ’Enery Steptoe ’imself she is—and you know ’ow many times we’ve all wondered as to why ’e didn’t marry—and ’im with syvings put by—Jynie thinks as ’e’s worth as much as—and you know what a ’and Jynie is for ferritin’ out what’s none of ’er business—why, if Jynie Cykebread could ’a myde ’erself Jynie Steptoe—but that’s somethink wild ’orses wouldn’t myke poor Jynie see—that no man wouldn’t look at ’er the second time if it wasn’t for to laugh—pitiful, I call it, at ’er aige—and me always givin’ the old rip to know as it was no use ’is ’angin’ round where I was—as if I’d marry agyne, and me a widda, as you might sye, from my crydle—and if I did, it wouldn’t ’a been a wicked old varlet what I always suspected ’e was leadin’ a double life—and now to see them two fyces together—why, I says, ’ere’s the explanytion as plyne as plyne can make it....” All of which might have been true in rhetoric, but not in fact. For what had really given Mrs. Courage the coup de grace we must go back to the scene of the morning. Ignoring both Letty’s inclination of the head and Steptoe’s benediction she had shown herself hurt where she was tenderest. “Now that there’s no one to ryse their voice agynst the disgryce brought on this family but me––” “Speak right up, Jynie. Don’t be afryde. Madam won’t eat you. She knows that you’ve come to give notice––” Mrs. Courage struggled on. “No one ain’t goin’ to bow me out of the ’ouse I’ve been cook-’ousekeeper in these twenty-seven year––” “Sorry as madam’ll be to lose you, Jynie, she won’t stand in the wye of your gettin’ a better plyce––” Mrs. Courage’s roar being that of the wounded lioness she was, the paper shook till it rattled in Letty’s hand. “I will be listened to. I’ve a right to be ’eard. My ’eart’s been as much in this ’ouse and family as ’Enery Steptoe’s ’eart; and to see shyme and ruin come upon it––” Steptoe’s interruption was in a tone of pleased surprise. “Why, you still ’ere, Mary Ann? We thought you’d tyken leave of us. Madam didn’t know you was speakin’. She won’t detyne you, madam won’t. You and Jynie and Nettie’ll all find cheques for your wyges pyde up to a month a ’ead, as I know Mr. Rashleigh’d want me to do....” Shame and ruin! Letty couldn’t follow the further unfoldings of Steptoe’s diplomacy because of these two words. They summed up what she brought—what she had been married to bring—to a house of which even she could see the traditions were of honor. Vaguely aware of voices which she attributed to Jane and Nettie, her spirit was in revolt against the rôle for which her rashness of yesterday had let her in, and which Steptoe was forcing upon her. Jane was still whimpering and sniffling: “I’m sure I never dreamed that things would ’appen like what ’as ’appened—and us all one family, as you might sye—’opin’ the best of everyone––” “Jynie, stop,” Mrs. Courage’s voice had become low and firm, with emotion in its tone, making Letty catch her breath. “My ’eart’s breakin’, and I ain’t a-goin’ to let it break without mykin’ them that’s broken it know what they’ve done to me.” “Now, Mary Ann,” Steptoe tried to say, peaceably, “madam’s grytely pressed for time––” “’Enery Steptoe, do you suppose that you’re the only one in the world as ’as loved that boy? Ain’t ’e my boy just as much as ever ’e was yours?” “’E’s boy to them as stands by ’im, Mrs. Courage—and stands by them that belongs to ’im. The first thing you do is to quit––” “I’m not quittin’; I’m druv out. I’m druv out at a hour’s notice from the ’ome I’ve slyved for all my best years, leavin’ dishonor and wickedness in my plyce––” Letty could endure no more. Dashing to the floor the paper behind which she crouched she sprang to her feet. “Is that me?” she demanded. The surprise of the attack caught Mrs. Courage off her guard. She could only open her mouth, and close it again, soundlessly and helplessly. Jane stared, her curiosity gratified at last. Nettie turned to whisper to Jane, “There; what did I tell you? The commonest thing!” Steptoe nodded his head quietly. In this little creature with her sudden flame, eyes all fire and cheeks of the wine-colored damask rose, he seemed to find a corroboration of his power of divining character. It seemed long before Mrs. Courage had found the strength to live up to her convictions, by faintly murmuring: “Who else?” “Then tell me what you accuse me of?” Mrs. Courage saw her advantage. “We ain’t ’ere to accuse nobody of nothink. If it’s ’intin’ that I’d tyke awye anyone’s character it’s a thing I’ve ’ardly ever done, and no one can sye it of me. All we want is to give our notice––” “Then why don’t you do it—and go?” Once more Steptoe intervened, diplomatically. “That’s what Mrs. Courage is a-doin’ of, madam. She’s finished, ain’t you Mary Ann? Jynie and Nettie is finished too––” But it was Letty now who refused this mediation. “No, they ain’t finished. Let ’em go on.” But no one did go on. Mrs. Courage was now dumb. She was dumb and frightened, falling back on her two supporters. All three together they huddled between the portières. If Steptoe could have calmed his protégée he would have done it; but she was beyond his control. “Am I the ruin and shame to this house that you was talkin’ about just now? If I am, why don’t you speak out and put it to me plain?” There was no response. The spectators looked on as if they were at the theater. “What have you all got against me anyhow?” Letty insisted, passionately. “What did I ever do to you? What’s women’s hearts made of, that they can’t let a poor girl be?” Mrs. Courage had so far recovered as to be able to turn from one to another, to say in pantomime that she had been misunderstood. Jane began to cry; Nettie to laugh. “Even if I was the bad girl you’re tryin’ to make me out I should think other women might show me a little pity. But I’m not a bad girl—not yet. I may be. I dunno but what I will. When I see the hateful thing bein’ good makes of women it drives me to do the other thing.” This was the speech they needed to justify themselves. To be good made women hateful! Their dumb-crambo to each other showed that anyone who said so wild a thing stood already self-condemned. But Letty flung up her head with a mettle which Steptoe hadn’t seen since the days of the late Mrs. Allerton. “I’m not in this house to drive no one else out of it. Them that have lived here for years has a right to it which I ain’t got. You can go, and let me stay; or you can stay, and let me go. I’m the wife of the owner of this house, who married me straight and legal; but I don’t care anything about that. You don’t have to tell me I ain’t fit to be his wife, because I know it as well as you do. All I’m sayin’ is that you’ve got the choice to stay or go; and whichever you do, I’ll do different.” Never in her life had she spoken so many words at one time. The effort drained her. With a torrent of dry sobs that racked her body she dropped back into her chair. The hush was that of people who find the tables turned on themselves in a way they consider unwarranted. Of the general surprise Steptoe was quick to take advantage. “There you are, girls. Madam couldn’t speak no fairer, now could she?” To this there was neither assent or dissent; but it was plain that no one was ready to pick up the glove so daringly thrown down. “Now what I would suggest,” Steptoe went on, craftily, “is that we all go back to the kitchen and talk it over quiet like. What we decide to do we can tell madam lyter.” For consent or refusal Jane and Nettie looked to Mary Ann, whose attitude was that of rejecting parley. She might, indeed, have rejected it, had not Letty, bowing her head on the arms she rested on the table, begun to cry bitterly. It was then that you saw Mrs. Courage at her best. The gesture with which she swept her subordinates back into the hall was that of the supremacy of will. “It shan’t be said as I crush,” she declared, nobly, directing Steptoe’s attention to the weeping girl. “Where there’s penitence I pity. God grant as them tears may gush out of an aichin’ ’eart.” <hr class='major' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2