CHAPTER XXVI
THE SERPENT OF REMORSE
The day that followed on the party and the storm was unlike any day thatJacqueline had known in her short life, and the week that followed wasunlike any week that she had ever expected to live.
Grandma Conway was very, very ill. She had not been struck by lightning,as the younger children believed, nor had she slipped and fallen, asAunt Martha had thought at first. She had had a stroke of apoplexy, sothe old doctor said, when he came plowing through the mud to the farm,on that ghastly night. She would get well, he hoped, but she would neverbe so active again. And she might be ill for a long time.
Grandma's bed was set up in the parlor, across the hall from the diningroom. It was a big room, almost square, with windows to the north andthe east. In one corner was a little old square piano, with yellow keys,on which Freddie's and Annie's mother used to play, when she was a girl.There were horsehair armchairs, with white crocheted tidies on theirbacks, and a horsehair sofa, and a marble-topped table. All thisfurniture was pushed aside, to make place for Grandma's bed and the oldcouch from the dining room on which Aunt Martha slept so that she couldbe near her.
Upstairs, in Aunt Martha's room over the dining room, Annie's crib nowstood beside Freddie's. Jacqueline and Nellie slept in Aunt Martha'sbed, and it was their job to care for the younger children. Above allthey had to see that the children did not cry in the night and disturbGrandma's fitful sleep.
Jacqueline saw these arrangements made, with honest bewilderment. Shethought somewhat of her own discomfort, packed in a room with twobabies, who woke at the first cock-crow, but to do her justice, shethought also of Aunt Martha, who worked hard all day long and was nowplanning to watch all night. She remembered, when Auntie Blair was illwith the flu at Buena Vista, how two stern young women, in crisp whiteclothes, had instantly appeared, and like the lesser and the greaterlights in Genesis, had ruled the day and the night.
"But Aunt Martha," suggested Jacqueline, "aren't you going to hire anurse?"
Aunt Martha's lips twisted into a smile that wasn't the least bitmirthful.
"I expect I am, Jackie," she answered, "'bout the time I swap the Lizziefor a seven-seated high class touring car, and shed my old sweater for asealskin coat."
By this time Jacqueline had learned enough about Aunt Martha's funny wayof talking, to understand that Aunt Martha meant she was too poor tohire a nurse. Jacqueline felt as if she had been slapped in the face bythe hard hand of a creature called Poverty, that up to now she hadlooked upon as little more than an amusing playfellow.
"But Aunt Martha," she urged, "it's an awful stunt, nursing sick people.You've got the outdoor work to see to--and the cooking--and thechildren. You just can't do it, Aunt Martha."
Again Aunt Martha gave her little twisted smile.
"No such word in the dictionary, Jackie. Besides, as old Abe Lincolnsaid, this is a case of 'Root, hog, or die!'"
Then her twisty smile grew kind, and her anxious eyes softened.
"Lucky I've got you, Jackie," she said. "I just felt when I saw you atBaring Station you were going to be a help and a comfort some day, but Ididn't dream 'twould be so soon."
It wasn't just empty praise, either. Jacqueline knew she was a greathelp--much more help, she told herself proudly, than little Caroline,afraid of boys and cows, could ever have been. With Nellie's assistance,Jacqueline washed and dressed the babies, and made the beds, and sweptand tidied up the rooms. She saw to it that Nellie kept the little onesquite out of earshot through the long day. She cooked--no pretty-pretendcooking at all, but great pans of her famous Johnny-cake, and stacks oftoast, and quarts of apple-sauce, platters of scrambled eggs, and moundsof mashed potato, crocks full of sugar cookies, and when Aunt Marthafound her the place in the recipe book, big sheets of soft gingerbread.She couldn't make pie crust or white bread, but she stirred up Grahambread, after Aunt Martha had shown her how, and she had good luck withit.
"You're a born cook, Jackie," Aunt Martha told her.
Neil and Dickie were called upon to wash the dishes. That was theirshare of the extra work, caused by Grandma's illness, so Aunt Marthasaid. Ralph for his part had to take on many outdoor jobs andresponsibilities which had been Aunt Martha's, and Aunt Martha meantimewas doing night and day the work of two nurses, and half of her ownoutdoor work and of Grandma's indoor work besides.
Life at the farm in those days was strenuous, you may well believe.Jacqueline hadn't dreamed that any one could take in a day as many stepsas she now took in Caroline's old sneakers, nor could be so tired atnight. But she went about her tasks uncomplaining, with a subdued mannerwhich all the young folk shared. For Grandma, dear little spry Grandma,who had worked so hard, as Jacqueline realized, now that Grandma'schores in part were hers, might never step-step it round the kitchenagain. The doctor came twice a day, and Aunt Martha's face had not evena twisted smile.
At first Jacqueline hadn't time to think. She just did the things thathad to be done. But as the days passed, and she grew tired and saw AuntMartha growing tired, too, she asked herself: what's the use? Money tohire nurses would relieve them both, and she had money--quite a lot ofmoney. At least she had heard people at the school say she was anheiress, and she knew she had always been given plenty of money when sheasked for it. She could ask for it now. She would go to theGildersleeves.
No, she couldn't go to the Gildersleeves, for there was her promise toCaroline. She wished she had never given it. She had known when she gaveit, like a silly, that she was going to regret it. But just the same, apromise was a promise. It wouldn't be fair now, when things were so hardat the farm, to ask Caroline to give up the piano, and the cool rooms,and the pretty frocks that she so loved, and never would have again,poor kid! and come and take her rightful place with the Conways.
Well, she wouldn't go to the Gildersleeves, but she'd write home formoney--a lot of money! She couldn't write to Uncle Jimmie and Aunt Edie,for they were honeymooning all over the surface of Alaska, nor to AuntieBlair, for she was somewhere on the shores of the Great Lakes. But shecould write to Auntie Blair's father, Judge Blair, who with Aunt Edieshared her guardianship. Only he would address his reply--and themoney!--to Jacqueline Gildersleeve, and Caroline would get them, becausein Longmeadow Caroline was Jacqueline. That wouldn't do at all. He mustaddress his letter to Caroline Tait and then Jacqueline would receiveit. But in order to get him to do such an extraordinary thing, she wouldhave to explain to him how she happened to have become Caroline. Oh,shivering chimpanzees, and also woolly rhinoceroses! For Jacqueline wasafraid of Judge Blair, if she was afraid of anybody, and besides, like ablundering grown-up, he would probably write straight off to theGildersleeves and tell them everything that she had told him.
At last she decided that whatever she did, she would see Caroline first.Perhaps they could arrange something between them. Why couldn't JudgeBlair send the money to Jacqueline (that is, to Caroline), and Carolinetake it, and give it to the real Jacqueline? Why, of course, that wasthe way out of her difficulties, and she need only see Caroline rightstraight off, and tell her about it.
It took Jacqueline some time to think this all out. She hadn't had to doa great deal of thinking for herself in her life, and this problem waswhat her new Uncle Jimmie would have called "intrikut." Besides she hadto give a great many of her thoughts just now to the children, and thecooking, and Aunt Martha, who kept forgetting to eat, and poor Grandma,who was always there in the back of her mind, and the depth of herheart.
But the day came, after a week of dragging days that seemed a year, whenthe doctor looked quite cheerful after his morning visit, and said hewouldn't need to come again until to-morrow. Aunt Martha turned fromseeing him out at the door, with a smile that wasn't a bit twisted, andwhen Jacqueline saw that smile, her head began to swim for joy, and hereyes went misty.
"She's going to get well! Grandma's going to get well!" Jacquelinechanted under her breath, while she jumpe
d up and down softly in hersneakers.
"Glad you've spunk enough left to hop," said Aunt Martha.
"Hop?" beamed Jacqueline. "I could run a mile. Oh, Aunt Martha, can't Igo to the village this afternoon? I won't be long. I'll run most of theway----"
Then she stopped. For she saw, by Aunt Martha's face, that she was nomore going to Longmeadow that afternoon than she was going to Timbuctoo.
"I'd like to let you go right well, Jackie," said Aunt Martha, "but Idon't see how I can spare you. I've got to get over to East Baring andsee about selling the wood lot. It's a piece of business Ralph can'ttend to. I was counting on leaving you to sit with Grandma."
Jacqueline shivered a little. Honestly she was afraid of the strange,white, withered woman who lay helpless in Grandma's bed. And for alltheir sakes she wanted to see Caroline and arrange about getting thatmoney just as quickly as possible. But she had no choice in the matter.She couldn't explain to Aunt Martha why she wanted to go to Longmeadowand she couldn't expect Aunt Martha to alter business plans just onaccount of what must seem to her a child's desire to take a holiday.
So Aunt Martha drove away that afternoon in the Ford, and took Freddiewith her, to relieve Jacqueline of one care, and Jacqueline settledherself by the north window in the parlor, ready to be of service, ifGrandma so much as whispered. Jacqueline might have read story paperswhile she sat there, but she hated even the thought of those storypapers. If she hadn't sat reading, all that hot day before the day ofthe party, and left the work to Grandma, perhaps Grandma wouldn't havebeen taken ill. She didn't dare ask Aunt Martha if this were so. Shekept the thought to herself, and was tortured with it. She never wantedto see that pile of story papers again, as long as she lived. In theirplace she got out the big, overflowing mending basket (Grandma'sbasket!) and darned stockings patiently through the long afternoon.
She had hoped that Aunt Martha would be home at four o'clock to giveGrandma her cup of broth. But there was never a sign of Aunt Martha,when four o'clock struck. "Root, hog, or die!" as old Abe Lincoln saidof a disagreeable job. Jacqueline went into the kitchen, and warmed thebroth, and put it into a thick white cup, and carried it to Grandma.
The feeble old white head shifted itself on the pillow, as Jacquelineslipped an arm beneath it, as she had seen Aunt Martha do, and gentlyraised it. The pale old lips approached the thick edge of the coarsecup.
"No--no," Grandma muttered, and turned away her head. "Not that. Cup."
"Drink it, Grandma dear," begged Jacqueline. "I warmed it up real nice.Do, please drink it and get well."
"My cup," whispered Grandma. "No--no."
She shut her eyes and her lips, with the obstinacy of the very feeble,and turned her head away. Jacqueline looked down at her helplessly. Frombeneath the pale eyelids she saw two tears course slowly.
"Oh, Grandma! Don't!" begged Jacqueline.
"Cup," murmured Grandma. "Want--green cup."
Then Jacqueline understood.
The Turned-About Girls Page 27