by Anne Warner
CHAPTER TWELVE - A TRAP FOR AUNT MARY
In Aunt Mary's part of the country the skies had been crying themselvessick for the last six weeks. The cranberry bog was a goner forever, it wasfeared, and a little house, very handy for sorting berries in, had had itsfoundations undermined, and disappeared beneath the face of the watersalso.
Under such propitious circumstances, Aunt Mary sat by her own particularwindow and looked sternly and severely out across the garden and down theroad. Lucinda sat by the other window sewing. Lucinda hadn't changedmaterially, but her general appearance struck her mistress as moreirritating than ever. Everything and everybody seemed to have become moreand more irritating ever since Jack had been disinherited. Of course, itwas right that he should have been disinherited, but Aunt Mary hadn'tthought much beforehand as to what would happen afterward, and it was tooaggravating to have him turn out so well just when she had lost allpatience with him and so cast him off forever, and for him to develop sucha beautiful character, all of a sudden too--just as if education and goodadvice had been his undoing and seclusion and illness were the guardianangels arrived just in time to save him from the evil effects thereof.
It hadn't occurred to Aunt Mary that people keep on living just the sameeven after they have been cut out of a will. And she never had counted onJack's taking his bitter medicine in the spirit he was manifesting. Shehad not calculated any of the possible effects of her hasty action verymaturely, but she certainly had not anticipated a lamblike submission toeven the harshest of her edicts, nor had she expected Jack to be one whowould strictly observe the Bible regulations and so return good forevil--in other words, write her now when he had never written her in thebygone years (unless under sharpest financial stress of circumstances).
Yet such was the case. Jack had become a "ready letter-writer" ever sincehis removal to the city, whither some kind friends had invited himdirectly he could leave his sick-room. Aunt Mary did not know who thefriends were and had hesitated somewhat as to opening the first letter.But it had borne no sting--being instead most sweetly pathetic, and sincethen, others had followed with touching frequency. Their polished periodsfell upon the old lady's stony hardness of heart with the persistentfrequency of the proverbial drop of water. After the second she had ceasedto regard the instructions given Lucinda as to mentioning her nephew'sname, and after the third he became again her favorite topic ofconversation.
It seemed that the poor boy had had the misfortune to contract measles,and in his weakened state the disease had nearly proved fatal. You canperhaps divine the effect of this statement on the grand-aunt, and thefurther effect of the words: "But never mind, Aunt Mary," with which heconcluded the brief narration.
Aunt Mary had tried to snort and had sniffed instead; she had turned backto the first page, read, "All my head has been shaved, but I don't careabout having any more fun, anyhow," and had let the letter fall in herlap. Every time that she had thought since of "our boy," her anger hadfallen hotter upon whoever was handiest. Lucinda (who was used to it)lived under a figurative rain of cinders, and thrived salamander-like intheir midst; but Arethusa--who had come up for a week--found herself totallyunable to stand the endless lava and boiling ashes, and fled back to thebosom of Mr. Arethusa the third morning after her arrival.
"I've got to go, I find," she had yelled the night before her departure.
"I certainly wish you would," replied her aunt. "I'm a great believer inmarried women paying attention at home before they begin to pry into theirneighbors' affairs. It's a good idea. Most generally--most always."
This was bitterly unkind, since Arethusa was in the habit of taking thelong journey purely out of a sense of duty and to keep Lucinda up to themark; but grateful appreciation is rarely ever a salient point in thecharacter of an autocrat.
"I'm glad she's gone," Aunt Mary told Lucinda, when they were lefttogether once more. "She puts me beyond all patience. She chattersgibberish that I can't make out a word of for an hour at a time, and then,all of a sudden, she screams, 'Dinner's ready,' or something equallysilly, in a voice like a carvin' knife. It's enough to drive a sane personstark, raving mad. It is."
Lucinda acquiesced with a nod. Lucinda herself was glad that Arethusa hadgone. She resented the manner in which the latter always looked over thepreserve closet and counted the silver. Nothing was ever missing, becauseLucinda was as honest as a day twenty-five hours long, but the more honestthose of Lucinda's caliber are, the more mad they get if they feel thatthey are being watched. So Lucinda acquiesced with a nod.
The mistress and maid were sitting alone together, with the June rainfalling without, and it was that pleasantly exciting hour which comes onlyin the country and is known as "about mail-time."
"There's Joshua now," Aunt Mary exclaimed, presently, "I see him turnin'in the gate. He'll be at the door before you get there, Lucinda,--he will.There, he's twistin' his wheel off. He's tryin' to hold Billy an' hold theletters an' whistle, all at once. Why don't you go to him, Lucinda? Can'tyou hear a whistle that I can see? Or, if you can't hear the whistle,can't you hear me? Do you think whoever wrote those letters would be muchpleased if they could see you so slow about gettin' them? Do--"
Just here the old lady, turning toward Lucinda, perceived that she hadbeen gone--Heaven knew how long. She felt decidedly vexed at findingherself to be in the wrong, rubbed her nose impatiently, and waited in atemper to match the rubbing.
"My Lord! how slow she is!" she thought. "Well, if I don't die of old agefirst, I presume I'll get my letters some time. Maybe."
As a matter of fact, the door had blown shut behind Lucinda, and thelatter personage was making her way, with well-hoisted skirts, around thehouse to the back door. She didn't pass the window where the Argus-eyedwas looking forth; because that lady had strong opinions of those who letdoors bang behind them without their own volition.
Five minutes later the maid did finally appear with one letter.
"I thought you was waitin' to bring to-morrow's mail at the same time,"said Aunt Mary, icily.
Then she found that the letter was from Jack, and Lucinda was completelyforgotten in the pleasure of opening and reading it.
DEAR AUNT MARY:
It seems so strange how I'm just learning the pleasure of writing letters. I enjoy it more every day. When I see a pen I can hardly keep from feeling that I ought to write you directly. I think of you, then, because I'm thinking of you most always. It seems as if I never appreciated you before, Aunt Mary.
I want to tell you something that I know will make you happy. I've never made you very happy Aunt Mary, but I'm going to begin now. I've got a place where I can earn my own living, and I'm going to work just as soon as I am strong enough. I'm as tickled as a baby over it. I'll lay you any odds I get to be a richer man than the other John Watkins. I reckon money was bad for me, Aunt Mary, and I can see that you've done just the right thing to make a man of me. That isn't surprising, because you always did do just the right thing, Aunt Mary; it was I that always did just the wrong thing, but I'm straightened out now and this time it's forever--you just wait and see.
There's one thing bothers me some, and that is I don't get strong very fast. They want me to take a tonic, but I don't think a tonic would help me much. I feel so sort of blue and depressed, and perhaps that's natural, for Bob's away most of the time and I'm here all alone. It's a big house and sort of lonely and sometimes I find myself imagining how it would seem to have someone from home in it with me, and I find myself almost crying--I do, for a fact, Aunt Mary.
Next week, Bob is going to be away more than usual, and I'm dreading it awfully; but never mind, Aunt Mary, I don't want to make you blue, because honestly I don't think I'm going into a decline, even if the doctor does. And, after all, if I did sort of dwindle away it wouldn't matter much, for I'm not worth anything, and no one knows that as well as myself--except you, Aunt Mary. I must stop becau
se it's nine o'clock and time I was in bed. I've got some socks to wash out first, too; you see, I'm learning how to economize just as fast as I can. It's only two miles to my work, and I'm going to walk back and forth always--that'll be between fifty cents and a dollar saved each week. I'm figuring on how to live on my salary and never have a debt, and you'll be proud of me yet, Aunt Mary--if I don't die first.
Think of me all alone here next week. If I wasn't steadfast as a rock I believe I'd do something foolish just to get out of myself. But never mind, Aunt Mary, it's all right.
Your afft. nephew,
John Watkins, Jr., Denham.
When Lucinda returned from drying her feet, Aunt Mary had her handkerchiefin one hand and spectacles in the other.
"Saints and sinners!" cried the maid, in a voice that grated withsympathy. "He ain't writ to say he's dead, is he?"
"No," said Aunt Mary; "but he isn't as well as he makes out. There's nodeceivin' me, Lucinda!"
"Dear! dear!" cried the Trusty and True; "is that so? What's to be done?Do you want Joshua to run anywhere?"
Aunt Mary suddenly regained her composure.
"Run anywhere?" she asked, with her usual bitter intonation. "If you ain'tthe greatest fool I ever was called upon to bed and board, Lucinda! Willyou kindly explain to me how settin' Joshua trottin' is goin' to do anymortal good to my poor boy away off there in that dreadful city?"
"He could telegraph to Miss Arethusa," Lucinda suggested. The suggestionbespoke the superior moral quality of Lucinda's make-up--her own feelingtoward Arethusa being considered.
"I don't want her," said Aunt Mary with a positiveness that was final. "Idon't want her. My heavens, Lucinda, ain't we just had enough of her?Anyhow, if you ain't, I have. I don't want her, nor no livin' soul exceptmy trunk; an' I want that just as quick as Joshua can haul it down out ofthe attic."
"You ain't thinkin' of goin' travelin'!" the maid cried in consternation;"you can't never be thinkin' of _that?_"
"No," said her mistress with fine irony; "I want the trunk to make a pieout of, probably."
Lucinda was speechless.
"Lucinda," her mistress said, after a few seconds had faded awayunimproved, "seems to me I mentioned wantin' Joshua to get down atrunk--seems to me I did."
The maid turned and left the room. She felt more or less dazed. Nothing sostartling as Aunt Mary's wanting a trunk had happened in years.Disinheriting Jack was not in it by comparison. She went slowly away tofind Joshua and found him in the farther end of the rear woodhouse--JohnWatkins, like several of his ilk, having marked each forward step in theworld by a back extension of his house.
Joshua was chopping wood; his ax was high in the air. He also was calm andunsuspecting.
"She's goin' to the city all alone!" Lucinda's voice suddenly proclaimedbehind him.
The ax fell.
"Who says so?" its handler demanded, facing about in surprise.
"She says so."
Joshua picked up the ax and poised it afresh. He was himself again.
"She'll go then," he said calmly.
Lucinda marched around in front of him, and planted herself firmly amongthe chips.
"Joshua Whittlesey!"
"We can't help it," said Joshua stolidly. "We're here to mind her. If shewants to go to New York, or to change her will, all we've got to do is tobe simple witnesses."
"She don't want Miss Arethusa telegraphed," said Lucinda.
"I don't blame her," said Joshua; "if I was her and if I was goin' to NewYork I wouldn't want no one telegraphed."
"She wants her trunk out of the attic."
"Then she'll get her trunk out of the attic. When does she want it?"
"She wants it now."
[Illustration 3]
"She's goin' to the city all alone!' Lucinda's voice suddenly proclaimed behind him."
"Then she'll get it now," said Joshua. From the general trend of this andother remarks of Joshua the reader will readily divine why he had been inAunt Mary's employ for thirty years, and had always been characterized byher as "a most sensible man," and anyone who had seen the alacrity withwhich the trunk was brought and the respectful attention with which AuntMary's further commands were received would have been forced to coincidein her opinion.
The packing of the trunk was a task which fell to Lucinda's lot and wasperformed under the eagle eye of her mistress. Aunt Mary's ideas of whatshe would require were delightfully unsophisticated and brought up shorton the farther-side of her tooth brush and her rubbers. Nevertheless sheagreed in Lucinda's suggestions as to more extensive supplies.
Late that afternoon Joshua drove into town (amidst a wealth of mudspatters) and dispatched the answer to Jack's letter. Aunt Mary was urgedto haste by several considerations, some well defined, and others not somuch so. To Lucinda she imparted her terrible anxiety over the dear boy'shealth, but not even to herself did she admit her much more terribleanxiety lest Arethusa or Mary should suddenly appear and insist onaccompanying her. She wanted to go, but she wanted to go alone.
Jack telegraphed a response that night, and his aunt left by the Mondaymorning train. She had a six o'clock breakfast, and drove into town at aquarter of nine so as to be absolutely certain not to miss the train.Joshua drove, with the trunk perched beside him. It was a small andunassuming trunk, but Aunt Mary was not one who believed in putting onairs just because she was rich. Lucinda sat on the back seat with hermistress.
"I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy yourself," she said.
"Of course he's nothing but a boy," Aunt Mary replied,--"an' I've told youa hundred times that boys will be boys and we mustn't expect otherwise."
They arrived on time, and only had an hour and three-quarters to wait inthe station. Toward the last Aunt Mary grew very nervous for fearsomething had happened to the train; but it came to time according to thewaiting-room clock. Joshua put her aboard, and she soon had nothing leftto worry over except the wonder as to whether Jack would be on hand tomeet her or not.
Joshua drove back home, let Lucinda out at the door, and put the horse upbefore going in to where she sat in solitary glory.
"I wonder what _he's_ up to?" she said with a pleasant sense of unlimitedfreedom as to the subject and duration of the conversation.
"Suthin', of course," was the answer.
"Do you s'pose he's really sick?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you s'pose she thinks he's really sick?"
"Mebbe."
"Ain't you goin' to sit down, Joshua?"
"I don't see nothin' to make me sit down here for."
"What do you think of her going?" she said, as he walked toward the door.
"I think she'll have a good time."
"At her age?"
"Havin' a good time ain't a matter o' age," said Joshua. "It's a matter o'bein' willin' to have a good time."
Lucinda screwed her face up mightily.
"If I was sure she'd be gone for a week," she said, "I'd go a-visitin'myself."
"She'll be gone a week," said Joshua; and the manner and matter of hisspeech were both those of a prophet.
Then he went out and the door slammed to behind him.