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Title: The Luck of the Dudley Grahams

Author: Alice Calhoun Haines

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 Elizabeth

THE LUCK OF THE DUDLEY GRAHAMS

AS RELATED IN EXTRACTS FROM
ELIZABETH GRAHAM’S DIARY
 BY
ALICE CALHOUN HAINES
ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANCIS DAY

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1907

Copyright, 1907,
by
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

Published October, 1907

THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.

To My Mother
Thy heart will read what others do not see;
Therefore, dear heart, this book is most for thee.
 THE LUCK OF THE DUDLEY GRAHAMS

New York, Wednesday, November 26.

We are the Dudley Grahams,—four children and a mother. We are

very poor and keep a boarding-house; not because we like boarders,
but because when dear father died a three thousand dollar life
assurance and this house were our only “available assets,” as Uncle
George, who was executor, explained: “and so you must take
boarders.” We do; but it isn’t always pleasant.
The three thousand dollars did not last long, either; for there
were a great many debts to be met that nobody had known
anything about, and we had to have the library repapered and a new
carpet in the hall, to impress the people who came to look for
rooms. “We must be very polite and charming, too,” said Ernie, “and
talk as hard as we can all the time, and then perhaps they won’t
notice how shabby the rest of the things are.” But I fancy they did;
because it was over two months before we could get anybody to
stop with us, and the money in the bank grew less and less, while
Uncle George grew more grim and disapproving, and said that dear
father had been “criminally careless,” and that no man should be
permitted to have a family, if he did not know enough to provide for
it. But, at last, Miss Brown came; and then Mrs. Hudson and the
Hancocks, and now we are really beginning to get along.
Father was Uncle George’s only brother. He was an inventor, and a
true genius; but, unfortunately, nobody ever discovered this, except
just us. He knew all about air-currents, the contractile bladders of
fish, and the flight of birds. There is a great, ghostly, flying-machine
in the workshop in the attic with dusty yellow sails, and a really
wonderful motor. Haze, who sleeps in the workshop since he was
obliged to give up his room to the boarders, often dreams that he is
taking trips at night. He says the dreams are quite horrible, and calls
them “nightmares”; but if only dear father had lived to perfect the
machine, we are sure it would have been a success. And that would
have been so pleasant, for father never had any successes, except
just once,—which we did not profit by, as I will tell later.
Haze is my chum. He is fifteen, and I am seventeen; but
sometimes we feel a hundred, because there are so many things to
worry about. Dearest mother never worries. She is too Irish for that;
—all she cares for, she says, is that her children shall be happy, and
good, and clever, and have everything they want. Somehow she
seems to believe that we are what she wishes us to be, too,—so that
one would feel ashamed to appear discontented. But, oh, if you love
your family the way I do, it is hard, hard, hard to be poor!
However, to return to our mutton,—in this instance Haze,—his
real name is John Hazard, though he is never called John or Jack,
only Hazard, or Haze, or Hazey, especially the last two, because they
fit so well. For, though he is very clever and half through High School
already, he is not a bit practical, never sees what goes on about him,
and is always forgetting things. He does not care about athletics,
either. He hasn’t the build, he says (his legs being too thin), nor the
time nor the money. He is in his Junior year this term, the youngest
in his class, and at present he is cramming like mad, so that he can
take the final examinations next fall, and “begin to help the family.”
That means giving up college, his fondest dream. It is mighty noble
of Hazey; but, I must confess, not at all becoming. His face seems to
grow smaller day by day, and his eyes, behind his goggly glasses,
bigger. Dear Haze! he doesn’t even have time to talk to me any
more, and that is why I thought of starting a diary. My cousin Meta
has kept one for over a year,—a dainty little volume with gold clasps
and a red morocco binding. This is just an ugly old account book of
father’s that I found in the workshop. The first few pages are full of
the most amazing aërial computations; but there is plenty of room
left for writing,—and one must have somebody to confide in!
After Hazard comes Ernestine. She is twelve, and is frequently
called Ernie,—which name suits her just as well as Haze’s names do
him; for she is really more of a boy than a girl, we think, despite her
charming blue eyes and rose-leaf complexion. Ernie is very, very
pretty, has sweet ways and a really lovely disposition; but, for all
this, she is rather a trying child, for she is continually getting into
scrapes, tearing her frocks, breaking the furniture, etc.,—and she
always means so well that it is hard to scold her.
Geof is Ernestine’s chum, just as Hazard is mine. He is Uncle
George’s son, but so much more like a brother than a cousin that I
am going to describe him here. He is fourteen years old, and the
direct opposite of Haze in nearly every way. He is a handsome
fellow, big for his age, and rather sullen sometimes. That, I think, is
because he is not happier at home. He goes to a fashionable school,
plays football and hockey, and is perfectly hopeless in his studies.
Uncle George maintains he could do better if he would. Aunt
Adelaide, who is Geoffrey’s stepmother, says it is a case of “inherent
stupidity.” Mother thinks neither is right, and that there is something
radically wrong with the school methods. Altogether it is not
pleasant for Geof, who wants to give up studying and go into
business. This enrages Hazard.
“A fellow with your chances!” he says.
“I’d swap them for yours,” answers Geof, who is not brilliant at an
argument. And Haze snorts derisively.
After Ernie comes Robin; he is six, and our baby. He has never
been strong, because when he was a tiny mite of a thing a careless
nurse dropped him and injured his hip. He has bright, dark eyes, and
you can always tell when he is coming by the little hopping sound he
makes with his crutch. It reminds one of a bird, so his name suits
him, too. I love Robin better than anything in the world; and I am
never going to marry, so that I can stay with him and take care of
him always. But this is a secret.
And that (including mother, whom one can’t describe because she
is too wonderful) is all there are of us, except the kitten, which is
black and is named Rosebud, and the cook, who is also black and is
named Rose. Of course, we did not name the kitten after the cook.
It just happened that way.
 As to Uncle George’s family,—whom we call the George Grahams,
—they are very wealthy, and have a beautiful house, and horses,
and plenty of servants. But we would not change with them. No,
indeed!
When Uncle George comes to visit us of a Sunday morning, as he
sometimes does to see how we are getting on, he is sure to stand in
the middle of our shabby back parlour, and puff out his cheeks, and
throw out his chest and say,—
“I don’t pretend to be a man of genius like your father. I went into
business at fifteen years of age. I’ve pegged away a good forty years
since then, and I guess I’ve managed to get pretty much what I
want out of the world. Talent don’t pay, sir. No, sir; it’s common
sense that pays.”
Aunt Adelaide, who is Uncle George’s second wife, is handsome
and fashionable. She was a widow with one daughter when Uncle
George married her. So you see that Meta is really no relation to
either Geof or ourselves. She is six months older than I, and she and
Geof do not get along so very well. She thinks him stupid because
he does not like the things she likes, and he thinks her silly and
affected. I am afraid she sometimes is.
Georgie is both Meta and Geof’s half-brother. He is a little younger
than our Robin. He has very rosy cheeks, and beautiful clothes, and
expensive toys. Once when he was sick for two weeks with German
measles a trained nurse was engaged, and he had chicken broth and
oranges every day. Sometimes I hate Georgie!—which is wicked.
Uncle George is devoted to his family, after his own fashion, and
does not spare any expense where they are concerned; though he,
himself, dresses plainly and never gives anything in charity. He says
he does not believe in it, that no one ever gave anything to him.
One day when he was standing in the middle of our parlour with
his cheeks puffed out as usual, Robin, who had been sitting in the
window turning the pages of an animal picture-book, looked up.
“Did you ever wish you were a camel, Uncle George?” he asked.
 “No; I can’t say I ever did,” answered Uncle George,
condescendingly. “Why should I, now?”
“It would be so much easier for you to get into heaven,” chirped
Robin. And, after a minute, when Uncle George had thought it over
and began to understand, he laughed and really felt rather flattered.
Dear father was so different!
I said I would tell about his one success, and how we did not
profit by it as we should. It was a great pity, because most of the
problems father worked on had no market value at all:—he was too
brilliant to find it easy to consider commercial interests. But this was
different,—something quite sellable and practical,—a mechanical
attachment for dump-carts! How ever father came to think of it, he
admitted that he did not know. He quite despised it, and was really
rather ashamed even to explain the way it worked. But he made up
his mind that for once a little money would be nice; so he took the
model to Uncle George and asked for a loan. But Uncle George’s
own affairs were rather involved just at that time, and besides he
said he did not care for investments of such a nature. He never had
much faith in father.
After that father was introduced to Mr. Perry, a lawyer and
promoter, and a partnership was arranged between them by which
father was to receive $500 down, and in one year’s time five per
cent. of whatever income the invention continued to realize. The
contract was drawn up, for father read it aloud to us one day at the
lunch table.
“I’ll go around to Perry’s this afternoon,” he said, “and get this
thing settled and off my mind.” We were all quite excited, for it was
a long time since we had had anything to spend. I remember we sat
in the window-seat in the dining-room and planned our winter
clothes—Haze, Ernie, and I—for nearly two hours.
However, we none of us saw father when he came home. He
went directly to his workshop, and about ten minutes later, as Rose
was passing the door she thought she heard him call. So she peeped
in, and saw him standing supporting himself with one hand on the
table.
He tried to speak, but could only groan, and the next instant he
fell to the floor. Dear father! it all seems like yesterday, now that I
write it. Rose gave the alarm. Somehow we got him downstairs and
into bed; but he did not recognise any of us, and the next morning
at three o’clock he died.
Dr. Porter said the attack was brought on by worry and brain
fatigue. It seems so sad, just on the eve of his first success! For
nearly all the carts one meets throughout the city nowadays dump in
father’s way, though the patent bears Mr. Perry’s name.
And we never found the contract! Mr. Perry says he knows
nothing about it, and that he never signed any. He has his brother as
witness to a verbal agreement entered into that same afternoon in
his office by which father sold the model outright for five hundred
dollars, which was paid to him the same date by check.
It is true that Mr. Perry paid father. We found the check in his
waistcoat pocket; but it was only on account, we feel sure. Without
the contract, however, we can prove nothing and are quite helpless.
Could father have lost it, or left it anywhere that afternoon? Even
a little income would be very nice,—for then perhaps we would not
have to take boarders.
There is Mrs. Hudson’s bell! She has rung twice. Rose won’t
answer it. I must fly!
 Saturday, November 29.

Blue! blue! blue! oh dear, I do feel blue, and so does every one else,
even the kitten! In the first place the house is cold. We have not
been able to get the dining-room above 58° at any time to-day, and
the boarders appear to believe that we keep it at that cosey
temperature out of pure spite and malevolence.
“My friend Mrs. Bo-gardus considers it a stupid form of suicide to
economise coal in such weather,” Mrs. Hudson remarked this
morning. We had not been economising, but nevertheless we felt
crushed; for whenever Mrs. Hudson has a criticism to make it comes
under cover of the same potent Name,—perhaps I don’t spell it quite
correctly, but so it is invariably pronounced. None of us have ever
met Mrs. Bo-gardus, none of us ever expect to meet her,—she is a
sort of cousin to the famous “Mrs. Harris,” we are sometimes
tempted to believe,—but it is through her reported remarks that we
are given the coveted, if immensely overestimated, advantage of
“seeing ourselves as others see us.”
This morning’s none too flattering vision resulted in Haze being
sent down to shake up the furnace;—which did not prevent Miss
Brown from wearing her pink knitted shawl all day, and sniffing, and
rubbing the red tip of her nose. Just why these artless actions
should have enraged me I don’t know; but, somehow, they did.
As Ernie once sagely remarked,—“However innocent a boarder’s
habits, they are bound to be unpleasing.”
Then, too, I broke a string of my mandolin, and I have not five
cents in the world with which to buy another. It is almost amusing to
be as poor as that. Also, Haze is growing cross as well as homely,
because it does not agree with him to study late at night.
Last evening when I put on my golf-cape and ran up to the
workshop for a little chat I found the poor boy sitting in the flying-
machine with his overcoat on,—it is cold in the workshop, let me tell
you,—pegging away at his Latin. He looked up over his glasses and
scowled at me.
“Won’t it make you dream worse than ever to sit there, dear?” I
asked.
“The sails keep the draughts off,” answered Hazard in sepulchral
tones.
“What are you studying, Haze?” I ventured next.
“My lessons,” came the communicative croak.
Nice, chummy conversation that! So I retired.
But I suppose I may as well be honest and admit that none of the
reasons I have mentioned yet have anything to do with making me
unhappy. It is about Robin. We ought to take such good care of him,
—and we can’t! Thursday he caught cold sitting on the draughty
floor; and, as usual, it settled in his little lame side. So mother kept
him in bed yesterday morning, and I amused him with games and
stories;—but after lunch he grew feverish and tired.
“Would you like me to read again, Bobsie?” I asked.
“No, thank you, honey,” he answered, and turned his head wearily
among the pillows.
“Would you like to play ‘Tommy-Come-Tickle-Me,’ or ‘Thumbs
Up’?”
“No, dear, they aren’t a bit of good when your legs ache. Sing,
please.”
“What shall I sing?” I asked.
“About Heaven,” said Bobsie,—“like we did last Sunday night.”
It wasn’t a bit priggish, the way he said it,—just simple, and
wistful, and very sweet.
So I took him in my arms in the big rocking-chair and sang all the
heaven hymns I know. First, “There’s a Home for Little Children,”
then “Jerusalem the Golden,” and,
 “I heard a sound of voices
Around the great white throne,
With harpers harping on their harps
To Him that sits thereon.”
When I came to that last beautiful verse,
“O Lamb of God Who reignest!
Thou Bright and Morning Star,
Whose glory lightens that new earth
Which now we see from far!
O worthy Judge eternal!
When Thou dost bid us come,
Then open wide the gates of pearl,
And call Thy servants home,”
the thought flashed through me, “What if God should really take
Robin from us,—him, too, as well as father!” And I stopped singing,
and hugged him tight, and hurt his little, aching back!
“What’s the matter, Elizabeth?” asked Bobsie, fretfully. “I was just
going to sleep.”
“Nothing, honey,” I answered.
But that night after I had gone to bed the terror returned, and I
could not get any peace or rest. I could not say my prayers right,
either, for it seemed as if heaven were full of harping, and singing
voices, and God would not hear. So I tossed and turned, till finally I
woke Ernie.
“What’s the matter, Elizabeth?” she asked, just as Robin had.
“Oh, Ernie,” I answered. “I’m so unhappy! I’ve been thinking that
perhaps Bobsie is going to die.”
“Well, of course we’re all going to some day,” answered Ernie,
sleepily. But she slipped her hand into mine like a cuddlesome kitten,
and somehow I felt comforted.
Dr. Porter says that what Robin needs is “all the luxuries.” That is,
to go away in the summer to the seashore or mountains, to have
good nourishing food, proper clothing, and plenty of fresh air all the
year round, and neither to be overstimulated nor worried. Nice
possible prescription, that! Uncle George means to do what is right, I
am sure; but, oh, why can’t he say,—
“Here is $5,000. Take it, and make Robin well.” If it were Georgie
who was ill!
That reminds me that Geof was in this afternoon, quite sulky and
injured because he had to go to the opera this evening.
“Meta has a friend staying with her,” he explained. “And they
prance round and see everything. That’s all right; but why do they
have to lug me along?”
“Poor Geof,” purred Ernie, who is always sympathetic. “What is it
going to be?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Geoffrey. “They’re all the same. A
fellow in pink pants gets up and bellows at the top of his lungs,—‘Ish
leap a dish!’ The lady answers to the same tune, only shriller, and
then they both die. Giddy show that!”
We could not help laughing; but how I wish I were going in Geof’s
place!
Mother would be sorry if she could see what I have written to-
day. I think she would call it cowardly. She always faces things so
bravely, dear mother!—and if she can be cheerful and light-hearted I
am sure the rest of us should be. I’ll try,—I will,—I will,—whatever
comes!
 Sunday, November 30.

Robin is better. This morning he woke quite free from pain, so

mother has let him up again. Perhaps God did hear, in spite of the
harping,—foolish Elizabeth!
 Monday, December 1.

Mrs. Hudson is going, and, oh dear! we can’t afford it. It is all Ernie’s
fault, too. How could she have been so careless!
This is the way it happened. We have had a visit from Mrs. Bo-
gardus! No one would have believed it possible; no one really, I
suppose, except Miss Brown and Robin, entirely believed there was
any “sich a person.” But to-day her existence was proven to us. Let
me begin at the beginning and explain.
Mrs. Hudson has been with us six months now, renting the
second-story alcove room; and during all that time, whether the
beefsteak was tough or the house cold, she has never personally
complained. It has been rather,—
“My friend Mrs. Bo-gardus simply couldn’t endure such a draught
as this. It would give her pneumonia directly. She is a very sensitive
woman;—what I call a true blood aristocrat.”
“Is she indeed?” Miss Brown would murmur, antiphonically
responsive. Miss Brown is meek, and meagre, and easily impressed.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson would continue, swelling visibly under the
arrested attention of the entire dinner table (for everybody listens
when Mrs. Hudson talks):—“That is what I should certainly call her.
Now a soup such as we are eating this evening simply wouldn’t sit
on Mrs. Bo-gardus’s stummick. It is too thick.”
“Her stummick is too thick?” queries Mr. Hancock, anxiously. He is
a dyspeptic, himself, and very much interested in anything pertaining
to symptoms or dietetics.
“Not at all,” answers Mrs. Hudson, slightly ruffled at the
misapprehension. “The soup is too thick.”
Whereupon Mr. Hancock, who has been eating quite comfortably
up to the present moment, takes to stirring round and round his
plate with reproachful sweeps of the spoon, till his wife inquires
soothingly,—
“Don’t you think we might try some of that Glucose Bread we saw
advertised, Ducky? I’m sure Mrs. Graham would get it for you.”
The Hancocks are young, and recently married. He is a bank clerk
with poppy eyes; she is small, and plump, and pretty. They are
“Ducky” and “Dovie” to each other,—but they are really nice and
considerate, so one feels rather shabby to poke fun.
However, to return to Mrs. Bo-gardus. It was not only what she
could not eat. She had a great many opinions as well, especially as
to how people “in reduced circumstances” should live.
“Mrs. Bo-gardus thinks that if you can only afford one servant you
should certainly engage two, for there is nothing that pays so well as
style.”
She also “thought” a great many other things,—I can’t pause to
relate them here,—and no matter how patently absurd her opinions
might be, they were reported as such Delphic utterances that no one
dreamed of questioning them.
Every fortnight or so Mrs. Hudson has been in the habit of paying
Mrs. Bo-gardus a call. One always learned at the breakfast table
when one of these visits was about to take place, for Mrs. Hudson
dressed for them upon rising, no matter what time of day she may
have planned to start, in a purple velvet walking-suit, with white
linen collar and cuffs, and a very much crimped blond false front.
Her own hair is decidedly gray. When she goes to church, or
shopping with Miss Brown, or even to the theatre, this answers. It is
only for Mrs. Bo-gardus the blond crimps appear.
Naturally this morning when Mrs. Hudson descended upon us “in
full panoply of war-paint,” as Haze expressed it, we supposed she
must be going to pay one of her ceremonial visits. Both mother and
I felt relieved, for the house continued cold despite all our efforts;
but we made no remark, and Mrs. Hudson volunteered no
information till Rose appeared, rather untidy as to dress and apron,
bearing a plate of slightly burned biscuits. Then it began.
 “Mrs. Bo-gardus’s establishment consists of three maids and an
imported butler. His name is Samuels,—with an s, if you please, Miss
Brown. One can judge from that fact alone of the style to which she
is accustomed.”
“Yes, indeed,” murmured Miss Brown.
“Now, anything like this,” continued Mrs. Hudson, helping herself
to a biscuit and weighing it accusingly on extended palm, “simply
wouldn’t sit on Mrs. Bo-gardus’s stummick. She is used to lunching
at Sherry’s or the Waldorf, every day, if she pleases. However, I have
warned her she must expect to find things different here. She is fully
prepared; for I explained everything when I issued my invitation.”
“Mrs. Bo-gardus! here!” exclaimed mother, setting down the
cream jug with undue suddenness; while Mr. Hancock, who had
been morosely weighing his biscuit in servile imitation of Mrs.
Hudson, dropped it into his coffee cup, and stared with popping
eyes.
“Yes,” returned Mrs. Hudson, evidently very well satisfied with the
impression she was producing. “Haven’t I mentioned that I am
expecting a visit from Mrs. Bo-gardus to-day? She is coming to lunch
with me. It seemed about time I should repay some of her
hospitality. I hope my little plan in no way inconveniences any one?”
Haze kicked me under the table. Ernie wriggled ecstatically. Robin
sighed, and opened wide, shining eyes; while poor Miss Brown
murmured feebly,—
“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Bo-gardus! oh really!”
Mother was the first to regain her composure.
“We will be very glad to meet any friend of yours, Mrs. Hudson,”
she said; “but I am sorry you did not tell me before. It would have
been easier to make arrangements.”
“Certainly, I intended to do so,” observed Mrs. Hudson. “But the
fact is, the matter slipped my mind.”
We looked at one another in open admiration. Could human cheek
be carried further? Mrs. Bo-gardus was coming to luncheon, and the
fact had slipped Mrs. Hudson’s mind!
Gradually the boarders faded from the room, leaving us to a
hurried family council. It was Monday; there was cold roast left over
from yesterday’s dinner, and a washerwoman in the kitchen. Yet,
strangely enough, no one thought of rebellion or complaint.
“Mrs. Bo-gardus,” murmured Haze, in a voice as nearly like Miss
Brown’s as he could make it, “Mrs. Bo-gardus, you know, is coming
to lunch!”
And then, for no earthly assignable reason, we dropped into
various receptacles along the way and melted and sobbed with
mirth. Robin caught his knees in both arms and rolled over and over
on the rug, a corner of the tablecloth stuffed in his mouth. Ernie
began to caper and frisk madly about, hugging the bewildered and
rebellious kitten. I sank helpless on the window-seat, and hid my
face among the curtains.
“Shut the door, Hazard,” gasped mother, as soon as she was able
to articulate. “They mustn’t hear us!”
At which the gale began afresh. Somehow the situation struck us
as irresistibly funny.
“Well,” chuckled Hazard, weakly at last, “there’s no lark here for
me. I shan’t meet her. I’ll be away at school.”
“And I have a holiday to-day and to-morrow, because they are
repairing the furnaces! How jolly!” cried Ernie.
“Will she come in a hansom?” piped Robin, “or by fairy?”
He meant the ferry; and these two modes of conveyance are the
most elegant known to his youthful experience.
“Yankee-doodle came to town,
Riding in a han-som!”—
parodied Haze.
“And driven by Samuels,—with an s, if you please, Miss Brown,”
mocked Ernie, wickedly.
 “Children! children!” warned mother. “We must be serious. It is
Mrs. Bo-gardus, you know;—and I had planned cold veal for
luncheon!”
“Not even chicken?” pleaded Ernestine.
The situation as one faced it loomed portentous. The psychic
power of that Name was not to be lightly evaded.
“Well,” said mother, at last, with a little sigh, “we must do the best
we can. Elizabeth will help me in the kitchen, Rose is never the least
good of a Monday, and Ernestine can dress Robin and superintend
the setting of the table. Let me see, there will be six, seven, of us,—
eliminating Haze and Mr. Hancock, who fortunately do not lunch at
home. I like an even table so much better.”
“Let me wait then, mother dear,” volunteered Ernie. “The way I do
Sunday evenings when Rose is out. You know she never does serve
things properly.”
“You would not mind?” asked mother.
“No, indeed; not a bit,” answered Ernie, frankly. “Everybody will
know I am your daughter, just the same, and I think it is rather fun.”
So it was arranged. The menu took a little longer to plan; and
with cooking, dusting, and dressing, the morning flew swiftly by.
One might have supposed we were preparing for a royal visit.
Eleven o’clock struck,—half-past eleven. Robin and Ernie in their
pretty blue sailor-suits flashed down to the kitchen for inspection.
“Will she be here soon?” pranced Robin. His eyes were bright as
stars, his cheeks as pink as roses.
“I think so,” answered mother. “Run up to the nursery now, where
you can watch from the window.”
At quarter to twelve precisely there sounded the clatter of horses’
feet upon the asphalt. Shall I confess it? Interrupting a hasty toilet I
ran to the window, too, and peeped out like any child.
A hansom-cab, as Robin had predicted, was drawn up before our
door. From it stepped a middle-aged lady. She was tall, somewhat
spare, attired in conventional black. From the distance at which I
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