CHAPTER XVII
GRAPE-SHOT
Mrs. Quincy, in her solitary confinement, unloved and complaining, might be considered a figure either repulsive or pathetic, according to the onlooker’s point of view. Fortunately there are always a few big enough at heart to turn towards the world a face of affection rather than of criticism, to whom woe appeals more than vulgarity.
So, once in a while in her busy life, Mrs. Lenox found time to drop in as the bearer of a cheerful word and a friendly look to the ugly little apartment where Mrs. Quincy lived in the third story height of domestic felicity.
On an April afternoon she came, like a dark-eyed Flora, her hands loaded with daffodils that might bring a glow of the beauty of spring even to an inartistic spirit. The front door stood open, and a flat has an unrelenting way of laying bare all the skeletons that find no closet room. Mrs. Lenox surprised a scene of domestic economy in the tiny parlor. The curtains had been taken down for fear they would fade, and a large piece of newspaper lay where the sunlight struck the carpet. In the middle of the room sat Mrs. Quincy, and before her on a kitchen chair stood a little tub of foamy soap-suds. A maid was stationed at hand with a bar of soap and a bottle of ammonia, and the steam of homely cleanliness filled the air.
“Good gracious, I declare!” ejaculated Mrs. Quincy, “if it ain’t Mrs. Lenox! Come right in. I’m just washin’ out my under-flannels and my stockin’s. I can’t bear the slovenly ways of servants, and it’s only myself as can do ’em to suit myself. There, Sarah, you take the things away, and I’ll let you rinse ’em out this once. And mind you do it good. Be sure to use four rinsin’s. And soft water, mind. And hand me a towel to wipe off my hands. It’s real good of you to come and see a forlorn old woman, that I know can’t be much pleasure to you, Mrs. Lenox. There ain’t many that takes the trouble. And yet time was when I was considered as good-lookin’ as that ungrateful daughter of mine, that I slaved for for years. Put them flowers in water, Sarah. I guess a butter jar’s the only thing I got that’s big enough to hold them.”
Mrs. Lenox sat down, wondering if time and life could ever transform the smooth beauty of Lena’s features to this semblance of failure which they so closely resembled. Mrs. Quincy’s face was like a grain field over which the storms had swept, changing what was its glory to a horror.
The scarlet-faced Sarah hustled tub and chair and dripping garments kitchen-ward. The visitor took up her task of cheerfulness, and Mrs. Quincy cackled and grumbled to her heart’s content.