Marian Kent Hurd

“Now she’s cast off her bonny shoon
Made o’ gilded leather,
And she’s put on her Hieland brogues
To skip amang the heather:
And she’s cast off her bonny goon
Made o’ the silk and satin,
And she’s put on a tartan plaid
To row amang the bracken.”

MARIE JEAN HENNESY was making her morning toilet. The sun was five hours high, but for this Marie Jean cared nothing at all. She finished tying a row of white rags in her hair that gave her a peculiarly spiked and bristling appearance, and then buttoned her velveteen waist here and there, leaving a button over at the top and bringing a mateless buttonhole out at the bottom.

Marie Jean's room was in a state of disorder that suggested its owner had participated in late festivities the night before. A pair of soiled white slippers were flung under the bed, together with a pair of down-trodden shoes which Marie Jean, on her knees, was even now seeking. A white gown that had lost much of its pristine purity was thrown over a chair, while belts, ribbons, soap, corset-strings, fans, handkerchiefs, powder-puffs and stockings occupied conspicuous positions on the furniture or on the floor. Every drawer had its mouth shut tight on a large mouthful of its possessions,—and the dresser top was so filled with combs, brushes, perfumery, thread, safety pins, matches, hair-pins and bottles, that the only wonder was it could hold it all.

But the rapt expression of Marie Jean Hennesy's face betokened that her thoughts were far away from the mean subject of household disorder. She was studying the programme of the ball of the night before, at which she had danced every number. To be sure, her slippers had hurt her, and she had endured an uncomfortable pinch in the waist, but murmurs of admiration on every side had told her she "looked lovely." She hummed a bit of a waltz tune and glanced coquettishly in the mirror as the remembrance of her conquests flowed warmly back to her: then discovering that by the morning light she was looking sallow, she rescued the jar of Maiden's Blush from under the bureau and deftly applied it to her cheeks.

That Marie Jean's breakfast waited, no one with a nose could deny. The smoky fat of much fried bacon festooned the air in graceful clouds, alluring the tardy maid kitchenward. It swung riotously in the folds of the parlour curtains and luxuriated on the best plush parlour chairs, while the essence of boiled coffee stalked boldly upstairs, calling loudly, "Come down, Marie Jean,—we've waited for hours."

In the kitchen there were evidences that Mrs. Hennesy had been scrubbing. A pail of scrubbing water stood on the floor, and the brush and soap lay beside. A sharp boundary line, also, divided the clean from the unclean. But the floor was quite dry, and Mrs. Hennesy's apron was nearly dry, and she was so absorbed in looking out of the window at the people that were moving in next door that she did not hear Marie Jean enter the kitchen. When she became aware of her presence she gave an apologetic little cough, and bustled about the stove serving the delayed breakfast.

"If I'd knowed ye was up, Mary Jane," she said deprecatingly, "I'd've fixed somethin' else fer yer breakfast. I've been kapin' this since sivin o'clock an' it's near noon now. What kind of a time was there at the dance last night? I tried to kape awake till ye come in, but I was that tired wit' the ironin' I dropped off in spite of mesilf. Did ye enjoy yerself?"

"Oh, fairly well," drawled Marie Jean, toying languidly with her cup and spoon: there was a wrinkle between the eyes, and a haughty uplifting of the chin that warned Mrs. Hennesy that as ever after a ball, Marie Jean was cross, and she hastened to change the subject to impersonal topics.

"The new folks is movin' in next door," she volunteered: "they must have been doin' a lot of repairs. The painters an' paper hangers has just got their ladders an' things moved out, an' the carpets is bein' nailed down now: they've kep' the racket up since sivin o'clock this mornin'. Sure now, I do be missin' Mrs. Casey more an' more ivery day,—a-comin' in an' out wit' a pail, or the coal hod, or the potatay peelin's, an' always stoppin' to spake neighbourly like, over the fince. It's hard to see new folks movin' in."

"What manner of people are they?" inquired Marie Jean, leaning languidly back in her chair.

"Oh, they seem good enough folks," returned Mrs. Hennesy, "but they'll niver be what Mrs. Casey was,—that frindly an' obligin' she was that she'd lind the head off her shoulders. The man looks like wan of thim Protestant praists,—an' the woman's young lookin', all but her white hair. There's two girls about yer age, Mary Jane, an' a boy, besides a hired girl. They've got good furniture,—nothin' so good as our plush parlour set, though,—an' I don't much care for the colour of their carpets. Still, I guess they'll be good neighbours enough."

Marie Jean pushed back her breakfast and stepped over to the window. The scene that met her eyes was an animated one. Workmen were lifting furniture and household goods out of a heavy moving van and hurrying them into the house. A tall gentlemen in a silk hat was beating a rug in the back yard. A stout-armed maid was suspended out of an upper story window with pail, brushes and fluttering rags, engaged in cleaning the glass. A tall broad-shouldered youth in a baggy pair of overalls was digging out the rotten fenceposts: and last of all, a girl in a gingham dress, a girl with flushed face and wavy hair tucked up under an old hat, was energetically raking the yard and gathering the dirt into little piles.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Marie Jean Hennesy. Then she added haughtily, "I shall not call upon them."