Mrs. Atwood now set herself seriously to the work of getting appareled. She read advertisements, and went to town two days in succession, bringing home samples of cloth for family approval; she sought the advice of her young sister-in-law, Mrs. Callender, and of her friend, Mrs. Nichols, with the result that she finally sat down one morning immediately after breakfast, and wrote a letter to a New York firm ordering a jacket and skirt made like one in a catalogue issued by them, and setting down her measurements according to its directions. Just before she finished, a maid brought her up word that Mrs. Martindale was below.
“Mrs. Martindale—at this time in the morning!”
Mrs. Martindale was her cousin, and lived over the other side of the track, some distance away. Mrs. Atwood hurried down with a premonition of evil to find the visitor, a pretty woman, elegantly but hastily gowned, sitting on the edge of a chair, as if ready for instant flight. There was a wild expression in her eye.
She began at once, taking no notice of Mrs. Atwood’s greeting.
“I suppose you think I’m crazy to come here in this way. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I didn’t know what to do. We’re in such a state!”
“Is it the business?”
“Oh, it’s the estate and the business and everything. Mr. Bellew’s death has just brought the whole thing to a standstill. All the money is tied up in some dreadful way—don’t ask me. Of course it will be all right in three or four weeks, Dick says, and we have credit everywhere. It’s just to tide over this time. But we haven’t a penny of ready money; not a penny. It would be ridiculous if it wasn’t horrible. Dick gave me all he could scrape together last week, and told me to try and make it last, but it’s all gone—I couldn’t help it. And the washerwoman comes to-day. If you could let me have ten dollars, Jo; I couldn’t bear to let Dick know.”
“Why, certainly,” said Mrs. Atwood with loving alacrity. “Don’t say another word.” If she felt a pang, she scorned it.
“You don’t know how many calls there are on one,” murmured the other, sinking back with relief.
Mrs. Atwood thought she did, but she only said, “You poor thing,” and rushed upstairs to get one of her crisp ten-dollar bills; she could not use the house money for this. She passed Josephine in the hall, afterwards, on her way to school, and held the bill behind her, but she felt sure the girl’s keen eyes had spied it.