The Crux | Page 9

are thinking of, these days," went on the
old gentleman, putting another shovelful of coal on the fire with a
careful hand. "Doctors and lawyers and even ministers, some of 'em!
The Lord certainly set down a woman's duty pretty plain she was to
cleave unto her husband!"
"Some women have no husbands to cleave to, Father."
"They'd have husbands fast enough if they'd behave themselves," he
answered. "No man's going to want to marry one of these self-sufficient
independent, professional women, of course."
"I do hope, Viva," said her mother, "that you're not letting that Dr.
Bellair put foolish ideas into your head."
"I want to do something to support myself sometime, Mother. I can't
live on my parents forever."
"You be patient, child. There's money enough for you to live on. It's a
woman's place to wait," put in Mr. Lane.
"How long?" inquired Vivian. "I'm twenty-five. No man has asked me
to marry him yet. Some of the women in this town have waited thirty
forty fifty sixty years. No one has asked them."

"I was married at sixteen," suddenly remarked Vivian's grandmother.
"And my mother wasn't but fifteen. Huh!" A sudden little derisive noise
she made; such as used to be written "humph!"
For the past five years, Mrs. Pettigrew had made her home with the
Lanes. Mrs. Lane herself was but a feeble replica of her energetic
parent. There was but seventeen years difference in their ages, and
comparative idleness with some ill-health on the part of the daughter,
had made the difference appear less.
Mrs. Pettigrew had but a poor opinion of the present generation. In her
active youth she had reared a large family on a small income; in her
active middle-age, she had trotted about from daughter's house to son's
house, helping with the grandchildren. And now she still trotted about
in all weathers, visiting among the neighbors and vibrating as regularly
as a pendulum between her daughter's house and the public library.
The books she brought homle were mainly novels, and if she perused
anything else in the severe quiet of the reading-room, she did not talk
about it. Indeed, it was a striking characteristic of Mrs. Pettigrew that
she talked very little, though she listened to all that went on with a
bright and beady eye, as of a highly intelligent parrot. And now, having
dropped her single remark into the conversation, she shut her lips tight
as was her habit, and drew another ball of worsted from the black bag
that always hung at her elbow. She was making one of those perennial
knitted garments, which, in her young days, were called "Cardigan
jackets," later "Jerseys," and now by the offensive name of "sweater."
These she constructed in great numbers, and their probable expense
was a source of discussion in the town. "How do you find friends
enough to give them to?" they asked her, and she would smile
enigmatically and reply, "Good presents make good friends."
"If a woman minds her P's and jQ's she can get a husband easy
enough," insisted the invalid. "Just shove that lamp nearer, Vivian, will
you."
Vivian moved the lamp. Her mother moved her chair to follow it and
dropped her darning egg, which the girl handed to her.

"Supper's ready," announced a hard-featured middle-aged woman,
opening the dining-room door.
At this moment the gate clicked, and a firm step was heard coming up
the path.
"Gracious, that's the minister!" cried Mrs. Lane. "He said he'd be in this
afternoon if he got time. I thought likely 'twould be to supper."
She received him cordially, and insisted on his staying, slipping out
presently to open a jar of quinces.
The Reverend Otis Williams was by no means loathe to take occasional
meals with his parishioners. It was noted that, in making pastoral calls,
he began with the poorer members of his flock, and frequently arrived
about meal-time at the houses of those whose cooking he approved.
"It is always a treat to take supper here," he said. "Not feeling well, Mr.
Lane? I'm sorry to hear it. Ah! Mrs. Pettigrew! Is that jacket for mje, by
any chance? A little sombre, isn't it? Good evening, Vivian. You are
looking well as you always do."
Vivian did not like him. He had married her mother, he had christened
her, she had "sat under" him for long, dull, uninterrupted years; yet still
she didn't like him.
"A chilly evening, Mr. Lane," he pursued.
"That's what I say," his host agreed. "Vivian says it isn't; I say it is."
"Disagreement in the family! This won't do, Vivian," said the minister
jocosely. "Duty to parents, you know! Duty to parents!"
"Does duty to parents alter the temperature?" the girl asked, in a voice
of quiet sweetness, yet with