Part 114 (1/2)

Well, father couldn't work, it had to be his right arm, of course. And mother couldn't work either; she was just helpless and miserable, and the more she worried the sicker she got, and the sicker she got the more she worried. My patience! How I did work! No time to read, no time to study, no time to sew on any of the pretty white things I was gradually acc.u.mulating. I got up before daylight, almost; kept the house as neat as I could, and got breakfast, such as it was. Father could dress himself after a fas.h.i.+on, and he could sit with mother when I was outside working in the garden. I began that garden just as an experiment, the day after father broke his arm. The outlay was only thirty cents for lettuce and radish seed, but it took a lot of work.

Then there was mother to do for, and father to cheer up (which was hardest of all), and dinner and supper to get,--and nothing to get them with, practically.

The doctor didn't push us any, but father hates a debt as he hates poison, and mother is a natural worrier. ”She is killing herself with worry,” the doctor said; and he had no anti-toxin for that, apparently.

And then, as if that wasn't enough, that Mr. Robert Grey Sr. took advantage of our misfortunes and began to make up to me again.

I never liked the old man since I was a little girl. He was always picking me up and kissing me, when I didn't want to in the least. When I got older he'd pinch my checks, and offer me a nickle if I'd kiss him.

Mother liked him, for he stood high in the church, and was a charitable soul. Father liked him because he was successful--father always admired successful men;--and Mr. Grey got his money honestly, too, father said.

He was a kind old soul. He offered to send me to college, and I was awfully tempted; but father couldn't bear a money obligation,--and I couldn't bear Mr. Grey.

There was a Robert Grey Jr., who was disagreeable enough; a thin, pimply, sanctimonious young fellow, with a cla.s.s of girls in sunday-school. He was sickly enough, but Mr. Robert Grey Sr. was worse.

He sort of tottered and threw his feet about as he walked; and kind or not kind, I couldn't bear him. But he came around now all the time.

He brought mother nice things to eat,--you can't refuse gifts to the sick,--and they were awfully nice; he has a first cla.s.s cook. And he brought so much that there was enough for father too. We had to eat it to save it, you see,--but I hated every mouthful. I lived on our potatoes mostly, and they were poor enough--in June--and no milk to go with them.

He came every day, bringing his basket of delicacies for mother, and he'd chat awhile with her--she liked it; and he'd sit and talk with father--he liked it; and then he'd hang around me--and I had to be civil to him! But I did not like it a bit. I couldn't bear the old man with his thin grey whiskers, and his watery gray eyes, and his big pink mouth--color of an old hollyhock.

But he came and came, and n.o.body could fail to see what he wanted; but O dear me! How I wished for Jimmy. My big, strong, brisk boy, with the jolly laugh and the funny little swears that he invented himself! I watched the s.h.i.+pping news, and waited and hoped; he might come back any time now, if they'd had luck. But he didn't come. Mr. Robert Grey Sr.

was there every day--and Jimmy didn't come.

I tried not to cry. I needed all my strength and courage to keep some heart in father and mother, and I tried always to remember what Jimmy would have said; how he'd have faced it. ”Don't be phazed by _anything,_” he used to say. ”Everything goes by--give it time. Don't holler! Don't give a jam!” (People always looked so surprised when Jimmy said ”Jam!”) ”Just hang on and do the square thing. You're not responsible for other people's sorrows. Hold up your own end.”

Jimmy was splendid! He used to read to me about an old philosopher called Euripides, and I got to appreciate him too. But when the papers were full of ”Storms at sea”--”Terrible weather in the north”--”Gales”--”High winds”--”Losses in s.h.i.+pping”--it did seem as if I couldn't bear it.

Then at last it came, in a terrible list of wrecks. The Mary Jenks--lost, with all on board.

O what was the use of living! What did anything matter! Why couldn't I die! Why couldn't I die!

But I didn't. My health was as good as ever; I could even sleep--when I wasn't crying. Working hard out of doors and not eating very much makes you sleep I guess, heart or no heart. And I had to keep on working; my lettuce was up and coming on finely, rows upon rows of it, just as I had planted it, two days apart. And the radishes too, they were eatable, and we tried them.

But father laughed grimly at my small garden. ”A lot of good that'll do us, child!” he said. ”O Jenny--there's more than that you can do for your poor mother! I know you feel badly, and ordinarily I wouldn't say a word, but--you see how it is.”

I saw how it was well enough, but it seemed to me too horrible to think of. To thrust that tottering old philanthropist right into my poor bleeding heart! I couldn't bear it.

Mother never said a word. But she looked. She'd lie there with her big hollow eyes following me around the room; and when I came to do anything for her she'd look in my face so! It was more effective than all father's talks. For father had made up his mind now, and urged me all the time.

”We might as well face the facts, Jenny,” he said. ”James Young is gone, and I'm sorry; and you are naturally broken-hearted. But even if you were a widow I'd say the same thing. Here is this man who has been good to you since you were a child; he will treat you well, you'll have a home, you'll be provided for when he dies. I know you're not in love with him. I don't expect it. He don't either. He has spoken to me.

He don't expect miracles. Here we are, absolutely living on his food!

It--it is _terrible_ to me, Jennie! But I couldn't refuse, for your mother's sake. Now if I could pocket my pride for her sake, can't you pocket your grief? You can't bring back the dead.”

”O father, don't!” I said. ”How can you talk so! O Jimmy! Jimmy!--If you were here!”

”He isn't here--he never will be!” said father steadily. ”But your mother is here, and sick. Mr. Grey wants to send her to a sanitarium--'as a friend.' I can't let him do that,--it would cost hundreds of dollars. But--as a son-in-law I could.”

Mother didn't say a thing--dear mother. But she looked at me.