Part 29 (1/2)

”Gray?” stammered Ella.

”Yes!--fer coffins, ye know.” Jim made a sudden movement, and started to speak; but the old woman raised her hand. ”You don't need ter say anythin',” she interposed cheerfully. ”I jest wanted ter make sure where 'twas, so I went up. You see, Jed's comin' home, an' I thought he might feel--queer if he run on to it, casual-like.”

”Jed--comin' home!”

The old woman smiled oddly.

”Oh, I didn't tell ye, did I? The doctor had this telegram yesterday, an' brought it over to me. Ye know he was here last night. Read it.” And she pulled from her pocket a crumpled slip of paper. And Jim read:

Shall be there the 8th. For G.o.d's sake don't let me be too late.

J. D. DARLING

Wristers for Three

The great chair, sumptuous with satin-damask and soft with springs, almost engulfed the tiny figure of the little old lady. To the old lady herself it suddenly seemed the very embodiment of the luxurious ease against which she was so impotently battling. With a spasmodic movement she jerked herself to her feet, and stood there motionless save for the wistful sweep of her eyes about the room.

A level ray from the setting sun shot through the window, gilding the silver of her hair and deepening the faint pink of her cheek; on the opposite wall it threw a sharp silhouette of the alert little figure--that figure which even the pa.s.sage of years had been able to bend so very little to its will. For a moment the lace kerchief folded across the black gown rose and fell tumultuously; then its wearer crossed the room and seated herself with uncompromising discomfort in the only straight-backed chair the room contained. This done, Mrs. Nancy Wetherby, for the twentieth time, went over in her mind the whole matter.

For two weeks, now, she had been a member of her son John's family--two vain, unprofitable weeks. When before that had the sunset found her night after night with hands limp from a long day of idleness? When before that had the sunrise found her morning after morning with a mind dest.i.tute of worthy aim or helpful plan for the coming twelve hours?

When, indeed?

Not in her girlhood, not even in her childhood, had there been days of such utter uselessness--rag dolls and mud pies need _some_ care! As for her married life, there were Eben, the babies, the house, the church--and how absolutely necessary she had been to each one!

The babies had quickly grown to stalwart men and sweet-faced women who had as quickly left the home nest and built new nests of their own. Eben had died; and the church--strange how long and longer still the walk to the church had grown each time she had walked it this last year! After all, perhaps it did not matter; there were new faces at the church, and young, strong hands that did not falter and tremble over these new ways of doing things. For a time there had been only the house that needed her--but how great that need had been! There were the rooms to care for, there was the linen to air, there were the dear treasures of picture and toy to cry and laugh over; and outside there were the roses to train and the pansies to pick.

Now, even the house was not left. It was October, and son John had told her that winter was coming on and she must not remain alone. He had brought her to his own great house and placed her in these beautiful rooms--indeed, son John was most kind to her! If only she could make some return, do something, be of some use!

Her heart failed her as she thought of the grave-faced, preoccupied man who came each morning into the room with the question, ”Well, mother, is there anything you need to-day?” What possible service could _she_ render _him_? Her heart failed her again as she thought of John's pretty, new wife, and of the two big boys, men grown, sons of dear dead Molly. There was the baby, to be sure; but the baby was always attended by one, and maybe two, white-capped, white-ap.r.o.ned young women. Madam Wetherby never felt quite sure of herself when with those young women.

There were other young women, too, in whose presence she felt equally ill at ease; young women in still prettier white ap.r.o.ns and still daintier white caps; young women who moved noiselessly in and out of the halls and parlors and who waited at table each day.

Was there not some spot, some creature, some thing, in all that place that needed the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye? Surely the day had not quite come when she could be of no use, no service to her kind!

Her work must be waiting; she had only to find it. She would seek it out--and that at once. No more of this slothful waiting for the work to come to her! ”Indeed, no!” she finished aloud, her dim eyes alight, her breath coming short and quick, and her whole frail self quivering with courage and excitement.

It was scarcely nine o'clock the next morning when a quaint little figure in a huge gingham ap.r.o.n (slyly abstracted from the bottom of a trunk) slipped out of the rooms given over to the use of John Wetherby's mother. The little figure tripped softly, almost stealthily, along the hall and down the wide main staircase. There was some hesitation and there were a few false moves before the rear stairway leading to the kitchen was gained; and there was a gasp, half triumphant, half dismayed, when the kitchen was reached.

The cook stared, open-mouthed, as though confronted with an apparition.

A maid, hurrying across the room with a loaded tray, almost dropped her burden to the floor. There was a dazed moment of silence, then Madam Wetherby took a faltering step forward and spoke.

”Good-morning! I--I've come to help you.”

”Ma'am!” gasped the cook.

”To help--to help!” nodded the little old lady briskly, with a sudden overwhelming joy at the near prospect of the realization of her hopes.

”Pare apples, beat eggs, or--anything!”