Grandmother

CHAPTER IV

HOW SHE SANG GRANDFATHER TO SLEEP

Grandfather began to fail. He complained of no pain or distress; but his stately figure seemed to shrink, and his head that he used to hold so high was now bowed on his breast, and he began to creep and shuffle in his walk. Widow Peace said the change had begun when he came back from the vain search for his graceless son, and I think it was true. “He won’t more than last out the winter,” said Mrs. Peace, “if he does that. The Merions don’t run much above seventy.”

“Don’t, mother!” said Anne.

“Don’ting won’t stop the course of nature,” said her mother, “nor yet is it proper you should say ‘Don’t’ to me, Anne Peace.”

“I beg your pardon, mother; I meant no harm.”

“No more you did, daughter. You may hand me the tape measure. Anne, if you can tell me how to cut this dress so as to make Mis’ Broadback look like anything besides Behemoth in the Bible I shall be obliged to you.”

“You’re real funny, mother!” said Anne, who never quite understood her parent.

“Fun keeps the fiddle going!” said Mrs. Peace. “You may cut them gores if you’re a mind to, Anne. There’s Rachel and Manuel goin’ off again. S’pose they’re goin’ to make a match of it?”

“Oh, mother!” said little Anne.

What does Grandmother do these days? I haven’t seen her go out of the gate for a week and more. You were over this morning, wasn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “Oh, mother, she just sits by Grandfather all the time – when her work is done, that’s to say; Grandmother never slights anything; sits by him all day, reading to him when he’s awake, or talking, or singing those little songs he likes; and when he drops off asleep she just reaches for her sewing and sits and waits till he wakes up. And she’s growing so white and thin – there! it just makes me ache to see her. I said to her ‘Grandmother,’ I said, ‘when he drops off asleep that way, you’d ought to slip out into the garden for a mouthful of air, even if you don’t go no further. Rachel can stay round,’ I said, ‘case he should want anything,’ I said. But she just shook her head. ‘No, Anne!’ she says. ‘I must be here,’ she says. ‘He has been so good to me; so good to me; he must always find me here when he wants me.’

“And sure enough, mother, directly he woke up, before he opened his eyes he says ‘You here, Grandmother?’ kinder restless like, and she says ‘Yes, Grandfather, right here!’ and laid her hand on his and began to sing, and he smiled real happy and contented, said he didn’t want anything except just to know that she was there. But, mother, ’tis a sweet pretty sight now, to see them two together. Of course he’s an old man and she’s a young girl, but yet – well, they aren’t like other folks, neither one of them. What makes you look like that, mother?”

“Nobody ever was like other folks that ever I heard of,” said Widow Peace rather grimly. “Now you be quiet, Anne Peace. Here comes Rachel.”

Rachel Merion came flying in, splendid in her scarlet dress. “How do, Mis’ Peace?” she said. “Anne, will you lend me that mantilla pattern? I want to make one out of some of that black lace Grandmother Willard had. Will you, Anne? hurry up, I can’t wait.”

Mrs. Peace looked at her with mild severity. “Rachel,” she said; “sit down a spell. I want to speak to you.”

“Oh, I can’t, Mis’ Peace!” said Rachel. “Manuel’s waiting for me outside.”

“Manuel can wait,” said Mrs. Peace. “It’ll do him good. Sit down, Rachel!”

“I’d full as lives stand, thank you,” said Rachel sullenly.

“I asked you to sit down,” said Mrs. Peace quietly; and Rachel sat down with a flounce on the edge of a chair, and listened with lowering brows.

“I want to speak to you about Grandmother,” said the little widow. “She isn’t well; Anne sees it, and I see it. She’s outdoing her strength, caring for Grandfather all day long, and I think you’d ought to help her more than what you do.”

Rachel’s eyes flashed under their black brows.

“She wanted him,” she said, “and she got him; now let her see to him. I don’t feel no call to take care of Grandfather; he isn’t my husband.”

Anne’s soft eyes glowed with indignation. She was about to speak, her mother motioned her to silence. “Rachel Merion,” she said. “You’d ought to be slapped, and I’ve a good part of a mind to do it. You’re careless and shiftless, and heathen; and you’ll neither do good nor get it in this world till you get a human heart in your bosom. Grandmother is worth twenty of you, and I pay her no compliment either in saying it; it shows what she is, that she has put up with your actions so long. I wouldn’t have, not a single week. I’d have drove you out with a broomstick, Rachel, and give you time to learn manners before I let you in again. There! now I’ve said my say, and you can go.”

As Anne said, it was a pretty sight there, in the Merion kitchen. The good old man sat in his great armchair, dozing or dreaming the hours away, less and less inclined to stir as the weeks went on; and always beside him was the slight figure in the clear print dress, watching, waiting, tending; yes, it was pretty enough.

“Sing, Grandmother!” he would say now and then; and Grandmother would sing in her low sweet voice, like a flute:

Or that quaint little old song that he specially liked:

Or it would be the song of the river, and that she loved to sing, because Grandfather would fall asleep to the soft lulling time of it:

One day she was singing this, softer and softer, till she thought Grandfather was fast asleep. Lower and lower sank the lulling voice, till at length it died away in a sigh. Then she sat silent, looking at him; at the good white head, the broad forehead, with its strong lines of toil and thought, all the kind face that she knew and loved well now. She sighed again, not knowing that she did; and at that Grandfather opened his eyes without stirring and looked at her – oh, so kindly!

“Little Grandmother,” he said. “You know I am going soon?”

“Yes, Grandfather!” said she.

“You have been a good, good child,” said Grandfather; “a good and faithful child, and when I go my blessing stays with you. You are young, and I want you to be happy. Perhaps you will like to marry Manuel, my dear?”

Grandmother lifted her clear eyes to his.

“Yes, Grandfather!” she said.

“He is not good enough for you,” said Grandfather, “but – well! well! you are both young, both young, and youth is a great thing. I was young myself – a long, long time ago, my dear.” He was silent.

Grandmother knelt down beside him, and took his hand in her own two, stroking it and singing softly.

Presently he looked up, and spoke hurriedly, in a strange, confused voice.

“Mary!” he said. “Are you there?”

Now Mary was the name of the wife of his youth. Grandmother was silent.

“Are you there, Mary?” asked the old man impatiently. “‘Tis so dark I can’t see you.”

“Yes, I am here!” said Grandmother.

“‘Tis time to light up!” said Grandfather. “We mustn’t sit here in the dark like old folks, Mary. Let me get up and light the lamps.”

The afternoon light fell clear on his face with its open sightless eyes, and on the angel face turned up to it in faithful love.

“Wait just a little, John,” said Grandmother. “I – I love the twilight; ’tis restful. Let – let me rest a bit before we light up, won’t you?”

“Surely, Mary; surely, my dear. We’ll rest together then; I – I am tired too, I – think.”

There was a long silence. The light was growing softer, fainter; the old clock ticked steadily; a coal tinkled from the fire.

“Mary – you are there?”

“Yes, dear!”

“Song – the sleepy song; I think I shall sleep.”

Hush! rest, dear white head, on my breast; close, poor eyes that cannot see the light. Rest, rest, in the quiet twilight!

CHAPTER V

HOW THE SECOND LINE CAME IN HER FOREHEAD

It was when Grandfather died that the second line came across Grandmother’s clear forehead. Sometimes – when she was playing with the children, for example – it was so faint one hardly noticed it; but again it would be deep, a line of thought – or was it pain? – drawn straight as by a ruler. Manuel noticed it one day, and spoke of it.

“You look troubled, Grandmother. What is it?”

“I have lost my best friend, Manuel,” said Grandmother. “I may well look troubled; yet it is not trouble either, only sorrow, for missing him, and for wishing I had done more for him.”

“No one could have done more,” said Manuel; “you were an angel to him.” He was silent a moment; then he said, “You used to call me your best friend – once. Shall I call you Pitia again, Grandmother?”

Something in his tone – or was it something not there? – drew the line deeper across the white forehead. She waited a moment before she spoke, and then answered carefully, keeping an even tone:

“Perhaps ‘Grandmother’ is better, Manuel; we are all used to it, you know. Why should we change?”

“As you please!” said Manuel; and whether there was more regret or relief in his voice, who shall say? He lingered a moment, hesitating, with words on his lips which seemed to hang, unready for utterance; and Grandmother stood very still, only her breath fluttering a little; but he need not see that, and did not.

Suddenly from the garden came a voice, clear, shrill, imperious; Rachel’s voice. “Manuel, where are you? I want you! come, quick.”

Manuel gave one glance at the still face; hesitated a moment; then muttering something about “Back soon!” he went out.

Little Grandmother stood very still. Sounds crept through her ears, – the clock ticking, the old cat purring on the hearth, the song-sparrow singing loud and clear in the apple-tree outside the sitting-room window, – but she did not heed them. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on the door through which Manuel had gone. It formed a lovely picture, blossoming trees, waving grass (winter had come and gone since Grandfather died), gay flower-beds; but she did not see them. Only when two figures crossed the space, a girl in a scarlet dress, a man at her side, looking down as she laughed up in his face, Grandmother shivered a little, and went over to where the great work-basket stood, and caught up her sewing with a kind of passion. “I have you!” she said. “You are mine, good little stitches dear, kind, good little stitches!”

If I have not said much about Manuel, it is because there is not very much to say. He was a handsome lad, and a merry one. His laziness did not show much till after Grandfather’s death, for he feared and loved the old man, and did his best to please him. How he should have made the effort to cross the Continent in search of Grandmother was one of the things that could not be understood. It was like a fire of straw, as Mrs. Peace said; it burned up bright, but there were no coals left.

Mrs. Peace had little patience with Manuel. He had been boarding with her now for two years, and had never once, so she said, wiped his feet as they should be wiped when he came into the house. Also she pronounced him lazy, shiftless, careless, and selfish.

“If he marries Rachel,” she said, “there’ll be a pair of ’em, and a precious pair, too. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind before I sleep to-night.”

“That’s a real pretty skirt of Rachel’s, mother,” said Anne. “Don’t you want I should stroke the gathers?”

“You may stroke the gathers, Anne, but you can’t stroke me,” said her mother gently. “I tell you I am going to give that fellow a piece of my mind. Yes, it is a pretty dress, and it’s the third Rachel Merion has had this spring, and if you’ll tell me when Grandmother has had a new dress, I’ll give you the next ninepence that’s coined.”

“Grandmother always looks like a picture, I’m sure,” said Anne.

“I’ve no special patience with Grandmother,” said Mrs. Peace, “nor yet with you, Anne Peace. If the Lord had meant for us to be angels here, it’s likely he would have provided us with wings and robes, ’cordin’ to. When I see an angel in a calico dress goin’ round askin’ folks won’t they please wipe their feet on her and save their carpets, I want to shake her.”

“Shake Grandmother?” said Anne, opening great eyes of reproach.

“There’s Manuel now!” said Widow Peace. “You might take this waist home to Mis’ Wyman, if you’ve a mind to, Anne.”

It is not known precisely what Mrs. Peace said to Manuel Santos. Anne, on her return from Mrs. Wyman’s, met him coming out, in a white flame of rage. He glared at her, and muttered something under his breath, but made no articulate reply.

“Chatterin’ mad, he was!” Mrs. Peace said calmly, in answer to Anne’s anxious questions. “Fairly chatterin’ mad. I don’t know, Anne, whether I’ve done harm or good, but something had to be done, and there’s times when harm is better than nothing.”

“Why, Mother Peace!” exclaimed Anne, aghast. “How you talk!”

“It don’t sound pretty, does it?” said the widow; “but I believe it’s a fact. Something will happen now, you see if it don’t.”

Something did happen. Manuel, still white and inarticulate with rage, met Rachel in the garden, on his way to the house; Rachel in her red dress, with scarlet poppies in her hair and hands. She was waiting for him, perhaps; certainly, at sight of him, the color and light flashed into her face in a way that might have moved a stronger man than Manuel.

“Manuel!” she cried. “What’s the matter? what makes you look so queer? are you sick, Manuel?”

“Yes!” cried the man roughly. “I am sick! sick of this place, sick of these people. I am going away, back to the west, where a man can live without being watched and spied upon and stung by ants and wasps.”

“Going away! Manuel!” the poppies dropped from the girl’s hands, the rich color fled from her cheeks. “If you go,” she said simply, “I shall die.” Rachel had never learned to govern herself.

Well, after that there was only one way out of it – at least for a man like Manuel. Among all these cold, thin-blooded Eastern folk, here was one whose blood ran warm and swift and red like his own. No satin lily that a man dared not touch, but a bright poppy like those in her hair, fit and ready to be gathered. Yet when he passed the white lilies, with his arm round the girl, his promised wife – even while he looked down at the rapture of her face and thrilled at the thrill in her voice – the fragrance of the lilies seemed a tangible thing, like a thorn that pierced him.

At the garden door they parted. He had to see to the stock, he said; would Rachel tell Grandmother?

Rachel ran into the house, calling Grandmother. There was no answer; but listening she heard the sound of the wheel in the big empty chamber overhead. She ran up-stairs, still calling. Grandmother was spinning wool – she loved to spin – at the great wool-wheel, stepping lightly back and forward; but at the first sound of Rachel’s voice below she stopped, and put her hand to her heart. She was standing so when the girl rushed in, panting and radiant.

“Grandmother! why didn’t you answer? didn’t you hear me?” She never waited for an answer but ran on in a torrent of speech. “Grandmother, I’ve been hateful to you, and I’m sorry. Do you hear? I’m sorry, sorry; I’m so happy now, I mean to be good, good all the time. Do you know what’s going to happen, Grandmother? guess! I’ll give you three guesses – no, I won’t, I won’t give you one! I must tell you. I am going to marry Manuel. Grandmother, are you glad? You are so good, I suppose you’ll be glad. I should hate you, I should kill you, if it were you who were going to marry Manuel. Do you know” – she caught her breath a moment, then laughed on, the laugh rippling through her speech – “do you know, Grandmother, I have been jealous of you. I’ve always been jealous I guess; first because of Grandfather – poor old Grandfather, what a pity he isn’t alive to know! – and then – and lately – oh, Grandmother, I didn’t know – I didn’t know but he might care about you. Are you laughing? it is funny, isn’t it?” But Grandmother was not laughing.

“I might have known!” the girl went on, “I needn’t have been afraid, need I, Grandmother? You aren’t like other folks, you’ve never lived; you don’t know what life is, do you, Grandmother? I’d be sorry for you if I wasn’t so glad for myself, so glad, so glad! Do you think I’m crazy? I want to kiss you, little Grandmother! What’s the matter? did my pin scratch you?”

Grandmother had given a cry as the girl flung her arms round her; a little low cry, instantly silent.

“Yes – dear,” she said quietly, but with that little flutter in her voice that one who loved her might have noticed; “I think it must have been the pin. Oh, Rachel,” she said, “I hope you will be so happy, so happy! I hope there will never be anything but happiness for you and Manuel, my dear.”

Rachel opened her dark eyes wide. “Why, of course there won’t!” she said.

“Grandmother’s all right!” she said an hour later, when she had run to meet her lover in the dewy orchard, and they were coming home together in the sunset light; “she’s all right. She didn’t say much – I don’t know as I gave her a chance, Manuel. I had so much to say myself; but she was real pleased, and wished me joy. She’s good, Grandmother is. I mean never to be hateful to her again if I can help it. How sweet those lilies smell, Manuel!”

“Is she happy, do you think?” said Manuel; it seemed to say itself, without will of his.

“Who? Grandmother? of course she is! You don’t expect her to cry all her life for an old man, do you? She’s as happy as a person can be who has never lived. Hush! hear her singing this minute!”

Yes! hear her singing, in the quiet twilight garden where she walks alone.

CHAPTER VI

HOW SHE WENT VISITING

It was after Rachel’s marriage that Grandmother first began to go about in the village. Till then she had always kept pretty much within the four walls of the Merion garden, and people thought she was proud, until they came to know her. But now a restlessness seemed to come over her, and she was away from home a good deal. She did not go to “circles” and meetings – one would as soon have expected to see a white birch walk into the vestry – nor did she make what we loved to call “society calls;” but she found out the people who were sick or sad or lonely – the Peaces always knew – and she went to them, sometimes with Anne to introduce her, oftener alone, making some errand, taking a flower, or a pot of jelly or the like. Old Aunt Betsy Taggart was living then, the white old woman who had taken to her bed so long ago that none of us young folks ever knew why she had done it. Indeed, I think Anne and I rather supposed she had always been there – grew there, perhaps, like some strange old white flower. She was the most independent old soul, Aunt Betsy. It seemed terrible for her to live there alone, but it was the only way she would live. Her niece, Hepsy Babbage, came in morning and evening, and “did for” the old lady, but she was not allowed to stay more than an hour at a time. “My soul is my own,” Aunt Betsy used to say, “and I like to be able to call it so, my dear!” Hepsy was a great talker, certainly; and Aunt Betsy did her own cooking over a lamp that stood on the table by her bed, and actually made her own butter in a little churn that Wilbur Babbage made for her the winter before he died. (Anne Peace never would let me say that Wilbur was talked to death, but she could not prevent her mother’s saying so.)