Mary Minds Her Business | Page 8

when Ma'm Maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed in the doorway, Josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later he carried Mary upstairs himself--and went back to his study without a word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn't without significance.
And nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, Mary made a visit to old Josiah's study downstairs; and one Saturday morning when he was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind him and there stood Mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin with an elastic. In the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers into his hand. He hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on. The next minute they were walking down the drive together.
As they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had once used to his sisters, "After seven generations you simply can't keep them away. It's bred in the bone."
A thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side.
"If she had only been a boy!" he breathed.
At the end of the drive he stopped.
"You must go back now, dear."
"No," said Mary and tried to pull him on.
For as long as it might take you to count five, Josiah stood there irresolute, Mary's fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor Martha's fate pulling him the other.
"And yet," he thought, "she's bound to see it sometime. Perhaps better now--before she understands--than later--"
He lifted her and sat her on his arm.
"Now, listen, little woman," he said as they gravely regarded each other. "This is important. If I take you this morning, will you promise to be a good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself? Will you promise me that?"
This, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as Eve: Still gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him with a kiss. He set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his palm again, and together they walked to the factory.
The road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river, almost affording a bird's-eye view of the buildings below--lines of workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of an army of giants.
A freight train was disappearing into one of the warehouses. Long lines of trucks stood on the sidings outside. Wisps of steam arose in every direction, curious, palpitating.
From up the river the roar of the falls could just be heard while from the open windows of the factory came that humming note of industry which, more than anything else, is like the sound which is sometimes made by a hive of bees, immediately before a swarm.
It was a scene which always gave Josiah a well-nigh oppressive feeling of pride and punishment--pride that all this was his, that he was one of those Spencers who had risen so high above the common run of man--punishment that he had betrayed the trust which had been handed down to him, that he had broken the long line of fathers and sons which had sent the Spencer reputation, with steadily increasing fame, to the corners of the earth. As he walked down the hall that Saturday morning, his sombre eyes missing no detail, he felt Mary's fingers tighten around his hand and, glancing down at her, he saw that her attention, too, was engrossed by the scene below, her eyes large and bright as children's are when they listen to a fairy tale.
Arrived at the office, he placed her in a chair by the side of his desk, and you can guess whether she missed anything of what went on. Clerks, business callers, heads of departments came and went. All had a smile for Mary who gravely smiled in return and straightway became her dignified little self again.
"When is Mr. Woodward expected back?" Josiah asked a clerk.
"On the ten-thirty, from Boston."
This was Stanley Woodward, Josiah's cousin--Cousin Stanley of the spider's web whom you have already met. He was now the general manager of the factory, and had always thought that fate was on his side since the night he had heard of Martha's death and that the child she left behind her was a girl.
Josiah glanced at his watch.
"Time to make the rounds," he said and, lifting Mary on his arm, he left the office and started through the plant.
And, oh, how Mary loved it--the forests of belts, whirring and twisting like live things, the orderly lines of machine tools, each doing its work with more than human ingenuity and precision, the enormous presses reminding her of elephants stamping out pieces of metal, the grinders which sang to her, the