BERTHA'S HOUSE.

Evening Star, Issue 11605, 16 June 1902, Page 8

BERTHA'S HOUSE.

[All Bights Reserved.]

By Julia M. Crotttk (Author of 'Annals of a Pull Town,' ' The Lost Land,' etc.).

The old weather-slated house at the corner of Kilcullen High rtftet, where it ended at the churchvard, was the most important residence in the town, - and Miss Hoffmann and her niece, Miss Bertha, were looked'up to by their neighbors, the as very " considerable " people indeed. They dressed well, kept a housemaid and cook, attended the Presbyterian Church, had five hundred pounds a year in their joint right, and showed many other signs and tokens of aentilitv. Among the latter was the fact of thfir descent from the Palatines, a colonv that more than a century a«ro came over from Germany and settled in the interior of the country. The colonists long preserved the wavs and habits of the home country, and even now, on the clear winter evening, when Miss Bertha stood looking dreamily out at the street, there was a fragrance through the house that was not grateful to the sentimental mood which she was m--2ulK«>- . , . ~ ~ " Good gracious!" she cried, impatiently, "sauer kraut again! It is abominable that aunt will persist in having that wretched stuff. I never touch it, and still, year after year, she will have those horrid cabbages cut up and barrelled and cooked." The odor was, in truth, overpowering, and only to be compared in disagreeableness U that of the Limbnrger cheese which also, to Bertha's mind, made a too frequent appearance on the Hoffmann table. But these viands and the pancakes, and potato-and-herring salads, were part of the old times to which Miss Hoffmann clung with the same affection that she did to the old German Family Bible, the double feather beds, and the other ancestral housekeeping items. But Bertha's irritation was only momentary- there was a more anxious matter weighing on her. Mrs Quirke, the doctor s wife, had called that afternoon, and among other bits of gossip had told them that The O'Kcarney was going off to Italy with the regiment of Papal Zouaves that he had raised in the county. " A man of fiftv. my dear, think of that —risking life and limb in a hopeless cause." . ... It was worse than hopeless in Miss Bertha's Presbyterian eyes; but all the same, since it was he who was doing it, something gallant and generous seemed minded with the rash " Papistry of it. They had known the O'Kearney since the time, "six years ago, when Bertha's father and aunt had fallen into a little fortune by the death of a relative in America, and had "iven up their farm and settled in the town. Some of the money had been invented in a small freehold estate, the only remaining property of the O'Kearney, whose prnple had once owned half the county. The negotiations consequent on the transfer ( ,f the"piece of ground had brought the ronntv gentleman into acquaintance with the Palatine household, and something m il». hnmelv life there—the order and peace and calm of it-had been attractive to him. The women of the family were wonderfully Grrman in their looks. He was actually astonished, at first speech with them, to l,P, ir instead of the guttural Fatherland accents, the soft Kerry tongue. He had «tormv times at home-a querulous old mother, sisters who sat in desolation became hunting and ballsing were no longer possible to them, and who were wearing the mm hopeless old maidenhood after the flintiest/ gayest youth The isolation from old friends (for he and his were too proud to force themselves on those who 4 warmth had waned with the O'Kearney fortunes), the sullen gloom of the "sour sisters, ' broken by scenes of recrimination between themselves and i lie peevish mother-all gentle feeling seemed to have been annihilated in them by their tronbles-the poverty, the ill-ordered home in the lodgings over the chandlery shop, wheic no servant could be kept and where tiobodv was willing or able to do a servant's" work-all the sordid daily experiences and worries made the Hoffmann house a very haven of rest to him. \t first the old' father had been there, with his shrewd, practical hard sense, and uis clear-cut opinions on every subject. When he died three vears ago the habit of going to the house 'seemed too stiong to 1 e broken. The O'Kearney had continued his visits finding in the quiet domestic talk «.f Wt Lizabeth and Miss Bertha, as they worked at their lace and embroidery, something to soothe and, in a manner, comfort him. Latelv. however, for some months, hj,. iiad been, less with them. They knew that he was busv in the county recruiting the Zouaves, but it was a complete shock to Bertha to find that he meant to accompanv an., head these himself. And so e stood at the window, thinking with a pang that her soldier might never return. That he T*H "hers" she had no right to say, for bevond the most matter-of-fact ordinary friendship, of which her aunt, fifteen years older, had as large a share as herself, he'had given no sign of feeling. But it is not what one receives, but what one gives, that counts in love sometimes. To Bertha, in her midule-class, commonplace, humdrum life, the broken-down gentleman, with l:s iad' face, his ready, kindly smile and interest, the tragic melancholy of his lost fortune, his hopeless law suits, his unhappy home, all so patiently borne, was an cement of romance that brought into bloom everv flower of sentiment in her soft German heart. She was thirty, and plain 'f feature, and this she knew; but she was also aware that the O'Kearneys blue eyes had sometimes, unconsciously enougn, rested on her with a not displeased regard. She did not know that her ever-busy hands, her bright eyes, and wholesome complexion, her satin-smooth hair, and general spotless freshness were a relief to the eyes of he man of many moping slipshod sisters. "Lizabeth," she said, turning from the street where midway down its length the O'Kearney lodgings stood, with then" blinds all awTV "behind the dusty panes, 'isnt >t dreadful to think of a man bke the O Kearnev throwing himself in with that rag-tag and bobtail of a Pope's army?" "Oh there wul be many as good men as he in it," said the aunt placidly crochetting in the chimney corner. "The pity of it, to BT mind, is that any man should be so misguided as to join it." "But ms, especially—a gentleman. "I suppose it is a case of desperation with him. Going off even with that ;orlorn hope seems better to him, perhaps, than eatimf his heart out here in his unhappy home He win have an active life, and bo out of sight, at any rate, of all that iniserv." , "I"often think I'd like to try and help the poor ow mother and sisters of his. But how? They'd resent an approach of the kind—of anv kind on our part." "Speak for yourself, Bertha. I don't think I'm ever going to make any advances to them. They are eaten up with pride, and it isn't self-respecting pride, for if it were they'd never allow themselves to become, such shiftless, untidy creatures. Look at those windows of theiw—don't they tell

a ston''" •' But ladies, Lizabetb—how, after al!, could they be expected to clean windows and to wash and scrob?" i>be was of a later and more Irish generation than her aunt, and the pride that shrank from the performance of "menial work" of any kind as from a defilement was more comprehensible to her thap to the older woman. "The disorder aronnd them adds immeasurably to their unhappiness, I'm sure," she coiiuuueii. "It would be easy enough to remedy things a little for them, if oue mi«'ht. But they'd never permit it" "They would not," agreed the annt. "They're like many others—determined "o work out their own destruction. Bertha, let us have a rest, dear, from these O'Kearneys. If "ou want to do good there are plenty of opportunities in the lanes, and no obstacles to encounter there." But Bertha had no special drawing towards kue lane people and their wants. Those whom she desired to help were i'ie women of the O'Keamey's household, •i-.d these simple that he might be happier, or more content.

The going away of the Papal recruits

was an occasion of much excitement in the town. After they and their leader were gone, and the place had fallen back into its usual stagnation, the dullness of it lay like lead on Bertha's soul. She used to sit for hours in her room, the swishing rain upon the window and out in the churchyard* deepening her feeling of loneliness and loss. She could not keep her poor Soldier of Fortune out of her head. By-and-bye news came. The chances of battle, like everything else in his life, were against him, as she knew they would be. He would be coining home, God sparing him, one of these days, but into what a home? The sisters and mother were never seen now, and the windows had curtains of dust upon them that took away all need for outer blinds. Miss Rosina, the one who had been the beauty of the family, had been heard to say that if she could only live out of "the horrid town," if they could live in the country, away from the prying eyes and prating tongues and "vulgarity" of this " inferno," things would not seem half so bad. Bertha lay awake one whole night thinking of all this, and in the morning she rose up, determined upon a certain course of action. "I am going to build a house," she announced at breakfast. " What!" almost screamed Miss Lizabeth. "To get a house built, rather. And I'll get it done without losing a penny of my own or anyone else's by it," she said, anticipating the objections that were rising to Miss Lizabeth's lips. To all the aunt's questions, she would only give the information that this was a iancy of hers, that she would have it built on the portion of the freehold belonging to herself, and that she meant to commence the work forthwith. She had some ready money in the bank to use in the beginning. This she would replace later on, with the interest that should have accrued on it.

It was an extraordinary whim, Miss Lizabeth thought, but Bertha was no child to be thwarted, or pushed away from any project that she seriously entertained, and the aunt could see that this was a very well-defined plan, however astonishing in its nature. There was nothing for Miss Lizabeth to do but let her niece take the matter in hand and go through with it as she would.

At the rear of the Hoffmann residence there was a disused storehouse fitted up with shelves and bins that had been empty since the time of the house's occupancy by the minister with seventeen children. To make this place into a very presentable shop was the work of a very little labor or expense. In a week it was stored with a full supply of teas', sugar, candles, cottons, shoes, etc.—all the modest requirements of a general shop's customers in such a town as Kilcullen. People wondered at this, but it was set down after the usual nine days' discussion as a " frake " of one of the notoriously " frakish " genteel folks to do " sinseless" things was the privilege of the prosperous. But it was soon discovered that the "frake," was not quite so senseless as ifc had at first appeared. Miss Bertha had interviews with sundry quarrymen, masons, carpenters, etc., resulting in very general satisfaction to those long-idle craftsmen. She engaged them at fair wages for the work on the building, of which she was to be architect and contractor-general. The one condition attached to their employment was that they should agree to Duy from her (Miss Bertha's) shop everything they wanted of the kind sold therein. Any infringement or disregard of this agreement was to be met by instant dismissal. As may be surmised of people who had for months been on the briuk of starvation, they were only too glad to get groceries and clothing on any terms, and Miss Bertha's prices being no higher than those of the other shops the workmen and their families kept faithfully to their written promises. There must have been some old trading blood in the Hoffmanns, for Bertha developed a real shopkeeping genius in thoso busy days. She discovered as if by instinct where goods of the best quality could be bought cheapest, and in a short time many more important people than her workpeople were glad to be admitted among the number of her customers. And so the tine mansion rose fair and stately out on the old Coolkowan O'Kcarney land, in the middle of the Hoffmann's garden—a mansion even finer and more commodious than the one given np with such heartbreak by the luckless family. The townspeople speculated about its purpose, and the general opinion was that one or other of the spinsters had a notion of marrying, and, being neither younc nor handsome, deemed it necessary to add substantial and fetching attractions to offer with their "hand and heart." " Terrible foolishness it was for a pair of ould cratures—the eldest of 'em with one leg in the grave, as you might say, to V* thinkin' of worldliness and marriage—instead of sitting at aise an' reading their pious books an' preparing for their eternity." Some of this talk, no doubt, reached Bjjrtha's ears, but she worked away busily and happily, finding in the progress of the building and the success of her shop enough of happiness to drown every ill-natured sting. One April evening, when the snow of the cherry trees in the garden was floating in a breeze that was summer-like in its softness, Bertha stood at the porch door perfectly satisfied with her house. From attic to'basement everything had been well planned and was well finished. Judgment and good taste, solid materials and skilful workmanship were everywhere evident, and with a sigh of satisfaction she locked the door behind her and went home. Aunt Lizabeth, who was ailing a little, had taken but a faint interest in the house and shop, and yet to-night when Bertha brought out her carefully-balanced accounts and showed that the expenses of the building were actually forty pounds less than .the profits of the shop, she could not repress an exclamation of surprise and admiration. Thatmagnificent mass of masonry, those noble rooms, the possibilities for beautiful refined living all out of a "trifling shop"—it was wonderful! Just then it happened that the death of Colonel Patterson, of Kilcullen House, occasioned many changes in his family. The one that interested Bertha was the sale of the furniture of that comfortable home. It was a forced matter—the family were impatient to have it over and to get away—and everything went, it was said, "for a song.'* Bertha's surplus forty pounds procured the handsome furnishing of four or five rooms and the complete equipment of the kitchen. While the last touches were being given to the curtain-hanging and other final arrangements, Bertha heard that the doctor had been going to the O'Kearneys' lodgings for some days, and then it was known that one of the ladies was ill of fever. It was a light enough case of typhoid, but the word "fever" had untold terrors for Kilcullen, which in the predtainage times ten years ago used to have a visitation of typhus yearly. The alarmed neighbors, working on the fears of the chandler-landlord, made bim insist on the removal of the patient from his premises to the only other available shelter—the workhouse hospital—and this was about to be attempted when Bertha heard of it. The Union ambulance stood outside the door, around which a curious crowd was collected when Miss Hoffmann arrived there. They were listening to a storm of high words on the upper landing—the Mtas O'Kearneys indignantly protesting against the "intrusion" of the ambulance people and relieving officer, and the firm refusal of the latter to leave without the patient. The health of the whole town was not to be put in danger by sick people who were unwilling to leave their insanitary quarters for a fine wholesome hospital. The doctor strove kindly to modify the apparent harshness of the proceedings, but the poor ladies could see nothing in the removal but "disgrace," and they would not give up their patient. Bertha came quietly forward, and laying her hand on the trembling one of Miss Rosina, she said: "Dear Miss O'Kearney, there is no need whatever of the hospital. If vou will only let your sister come out to Coolaowan and accompany her yourselvee,

it will be pleas&nter and better. You will find everything ready in the new house." The O'Kearneys were in that stage of acute distress when it seems the most natural thing in the world to have deliverance offered.

"You are very good," Miss Rosina said simply, and they hurried off to prepare themselves and the invalid for the journey. The O'Kearneys had some of the Stoic in them, yet. when, Hut of the blooming garden, they entered the roms so exquisitely fresh and comfortable, uncontrollable tears filled their eyes. "It is heavenly—heavenly," murmured Miss Rosina. "My God, what a deliverance!" Even the invalid rejoiced, and with Bertha's nursing was quickly on the road to recovery. When she was able to be up and about, however, by degrees a sort of uneasiness stole into the manner of her sisters. A great change had come over them with their change of abode. Their dress was carefully attended to, and their pretty surroundings were kept in all the dainty order in which they had found them, though at what unearthly hour the latter work was done no one could discover. But that, Miss Rosina considered, was another advantage of living in the country; they could manage to do things unobserved. The renewed feeling of wellbeing and satisfaction in them brought back the old keen sense of their own importance that resented any suspected or obvious pity or favor-bestowing. That these should be from an "inferior" was veiy bitter to them.

One day Miss Rosina said to Bertha, who had been out in the garden with the convalescent: " I'm afraid, Miss Hoffmann, you must have thought it Very unbusinesslike of us not to have inquired before now the rent for these rooms. It may be beyond us, you know." Bertha detected something "superior" in the manner, and a desire to get her down. "My brother may be home any day now, and it will be necessary, of course, to know the rent you will expect." "It will be time enough to talk of all that when he arrives," Bertha said cheerfully. "Oh, but pardon me, that would never do. He is very proud—none of us can forget what is due to our family and name—and neither he nor we would wish to inc<r a larger debt than we can pay—to be nnder an obligation—to anyone. Please let ui know distinctly what your terms are," Bertha hesitated. She found it difficn t in the face of these grim, narrow, sensufficient beings before her, to offer the house as a gift, as it had all along been id htr mind to do.

" But," sho at length managed to say. "there must reallv be no question f.f rent at all "

"No question of rent?" demanded the others, haughtily. "I mean—l want to tell you abnat the house. Here it is on your own land. t«e natural home for you all. It has beer, built (and furnished to the extent you set! on the profits from the sale of y>(xh to the workmen employed on it and ot. ( .*rs. It has cost me absolutely nothing, bo <hal in offering it to your family as a gift there is nothing really to thank me for.' "As a gift! Heavens above, are we s'ink si, !ow that the fruits of shopkeeping '-an be offered us in charity?" cried Mjss Rosina.

"That a shopkeeper can insult the O'Kearneys!" said Miss Selina. "It 5* .n----sufferable. Thank God, our brother L'-s been spared it!" Miss Allison contented herself with nunc and leaving the room, an example whicj the others made no delay in foliowia:. Unaccustomed waves of mortification succeeded each other hotly in Bertha's face as she too rose and left. She had not much lesiure to think of it, however, for on reaching home she found her aunt seriously ill. When the Hoffmanns ailed they made speedy work of getting ill or daying, and alas! it is not getting well in the good aunt's case. A fortnight later she was lying in the Palatines' bury-ing-ground, inland, and Bertha was trying to take up her old life and its duties with some of her old courage. It was hard to do so, for when her grief had by any chance a rest, there was sure to rise before her the remembrance of that last scene with the O'Kearneys, leaving her humiliated and empty of every earthly interest. Sho was sitting in her black gown, one evening, at the window where, she and her aunt used to spend a cheerful hour before tea, when she saw the O'Kearnev coming up the street, genial and kindly-looking as ever. She did not know that he was at home, and a flush that prettily replaced her now usual pallor mounted to her cheeks. He was coming to see her! She had much ado to still the trembling that came Wer her, but there was, after all, no need for so much agitation. He passed on without stopping at the door. " They've told him," she groaned to hersel, after the first gasp of disappointment, "they have told him of what I've done, and he, too, is shocked at the ' insult.'" It seemed too much; everything was wrong and heart-breaking; and with her face buried in her aunt's chair she wept the bitterest tears of her life. "Miss Bertha! Miss Bertha, dear. Whisht, achree! The O'Kearney is coming up," whispered Peggy, the old servant, and a moment after the returned soldier was in the room. He went straight up to Bertha standing white and shaking, and with all the marks of tell-tale grief upon her that she had not had time to wipe away. " Poor child, poor child," he said, gently, drawing her to her old seat near the window, "poor, little, lonely one, and this is how I find you." Between her sobs, for his tenderness had let loose her tears again, she told him all about her aunt's death. "But you tell me nothing of all you have done during my absence. Ah, little home-maker—noble one—l know what you have done and striven to do for me and mine. The sisters have had the grace to be ashamed of their reception of your generous offer, and I am here with their heartfelt apologies —they will be here with them, themselves, to-morrow. I liked you always, Bertha—l love you now—but I would not ask you to join your lot with miue only that I have recovered some means and standing at last. The lawsuit, so long pending, has just been decided in my favor, restoring to me enough of the old property to enable me to take my place in the county again. Will you honor me by sharing that place, by becoming my wife —my darling little haus frau—my dearest V