Chapter XII

"I am sorry," Mrs. Harris began again, speaking slowly, "that we cannot take you. We have not been able to enlarge the house, and there were so many applications ahead of you."

The woman looked at her blankly for a moment, then Drusilla saw that she understood. Her mouth drooped and quivered, her hands faltered in their work, but only for a moment. Mechanically she put the flower into the paste, then placed it on the wreath. She worked quietly for several moments.

"I hope next year, Mrs. Tolenti--"

But Mrs. Harris was interrupted.

"I no wanta next year. I wanta dis year, I wanta now! I tired. I wanta see da country. I wanta see da flower, not dese tings--I hata dem." She gave the flowers in front of her a push. "I hata dem! I wanta see da rosa on da bush, I wanta see da leaves on da tree. I wanta put ma face in da grass lak when I young girl in Capri. I wanta look at da sky, I wanta smell da field. I wanta lie at night wi ma bambini and hear da rain. I no can wait one year, I wanta go now!"

"But, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, secretly a little elated at the storm she had raised, which she could see was impressing Miss Doane, "I had no idea you felt it so strongly--"

"Yes," the low voice continued, "I feel it here," pointing to her breast. She was quiet for a while, then went on in the low, monotonous voice of the desperate poor. "This winter ver had. My man no work. Sometime go wood yard, but only fifty cents one day. He walk, walk, walk, looka for work. We must eat, we must pay rent. We all work maka da flower, but no can maka da mon. Fi' cent a gross for da wreath. It taka long time to maka one dozen wreath, and only git fi' cent. No can live. I canno' live every day, every day da same. Nine year I stay here maka da flower, always maka da flower. Nine year I no go away from dis street. But dis year I tink I go to da country. When I set here maka da flower I say three mont more, two mont more, one mont more, den I see da grass, I hear da bird, I shuta ma eyes, I tink I again in my Capri--Oh, Dio mio!" She turned suddenly and let her face fall upon her arms, stretched out on the pile of flowers before her. "Der ain't no God for poor man, der ain't no God!"

Mrs. Harris looked at her sadly and said nothing; but the tears were streaming down the face of Drusilla and she impulsively rose from her seat and coming to the mother, put her arms round the shaking shoulders, and said quietly:

"You certainly shall go to the country with your babies. You certainly shall go. Don't think a moment again about it."

The woman did not raise her face nor seem to understand; dry sobs shaking her worn and wasted body. She seemed utterly broken and disheartened.

Drusilla turned to Mrs. Harris.

"Will you make her understand?"

The worker said something to the father, and he nodded his head and they went from the room. Drusilla stopped at the door to take a last look around the room, at the wondering faces of the children who watched her with great black eyes, but who did not stop their fingers from separating and placing the flowers together again. She saw the babies on the floor playing quietly, as if they too were oppressed by the tragedy that was always before them, and then she looked at the blank wall outside the window, and it seemed to her that the lives of these hopeless poor were like that window, only a blank wall to face.

They arrived at the Settlement house and Mrs. Harris ordered tea to be brought to her sitting-room. She was delighted at the effect of her visit, and her imagination ran riot in the thought of the additions that might be made to the summer home for mothers.

Drusilla was quiet during tea, but when it was carried away she spoke.

"Now tell me about your home. You say you want to make an addition, add an ell or something."

"Yes; we think by adding a wing we can double our capacity. But I have the plans of the new work, and a picture and plans of the present house."

She brought a book of views with an architect's drawings of the new hoped-for wing, and the pictures and plans of the present house. Drusilla drew her glasses from her bag and bent over the new plans; then she turned her attention to the house now in use.

"You say this is where they are at present? Which is the rooms you use for the mothers?"

The worker pointed them out.

"We have six beds in this room, and four beds in this, and five beds in this room. In this long room we can put about twelve cots for the children that do not have to be with their mothers during the night. This is the dining-room; this the living-room."

Drusilla caught sight of some rooms upstairs.

"What's these three rooms. Who're they for?"

"Those are for the workers who go out for the week-end."

"What do you mean by the week-end?"

"From Saturday to Monday."

"You mean the women who work here like yourself go out there and spend Saturday and Sunday?"

"Yes."

"But why do you need three rooms?"

"Well, you see there are a great many workers here, and they take turns, and often three or four of them go out."

"They each have a room to themselves?"

"Yes, you see they are in the noise here all the week, and they must have a place where they can rest and have quiet."

Drusilla looked at her sharply.

"What do you do with the rooms the rest of the time?"

"They are vacant."

"You don't put none of the mothers in 'em?"

"Certainly not. We could not use them if they had been occupied by the class of people we send out."

"Why don't you double up when you go out, and not take so much room? You could put four beds in that room and all be together and use them other rooms for mothers."

"That would be hard on our workers. They like their privacy. And then we would not like the mothers and their children so close to us. They would disturb us and we could not get the rest we need."

Drusilla was quiet for a moment, drumming lightly on the table with her fingers.

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