A WORD IN SEASON
“Children pick up words like pigeons peas,
And utter them again as God shall please.”
When Grandma came to the breakfast table with her sour little smile and her peremptory “Good morning,” every one said “good morning” as politely and pleasantly as they could, but they didn’t say very much else. They attempted bravely.
“A fine morning, Mother,” Papa observed, but she only answered “Too cold.”
“Did you sleep well, Mother?” ventured Mama; and the reply to that was,
“No, I never do!”
Then Uncle John tried—he always tried once.
“Have you heard of our new machine, Mrs. Grey? We’ve got one now that’ll catch anything in a room—don’t have to talk right into it.”
Mrs. Grey looked at him coldly.
“I do not take the least interest in your talking machines, Henry, as I have told you before.”
She had, many times before, but Uncle Henry never could learn the astonishing fact. He was more interested in his machines than he was in his business, by far; and spent all his spare time in tinkering with them.
“I think they are wonderful,” said little Josie.
“You’re my only friend, Kid! I believe you understand ’em almost as well is I do,” her Uncle answered gaily; and finished his breakfast as quickly as possible.
So did everybody. It was not appetizing to have Grandma say “How you do dawdle over your meals, Louise!”
Little Josephine slipped down from her chair, with a whispered “Scuse me
Mama!” and whisked into her play room.
“How you do spoil that child!” said Grandma, and Mama closed her lips tight and looked at her husband.
“Now Mother, don’t you fret about Josie,” said he. “She’s a good little girl and quiet as a mouse.”
“Anything I can do for you downtown, Mother?”
“No thank you Joseph. I’ll go to my room and be out of Louise’s way.”
“You’re not in my way at all, Mother—won’t you sit down stairs?”
Young Mrs. Grey made a brave effort to speak cordially, but old Mrs. Grey only looked injured, and said “No thank you, Louise,” as she went upstairs.
Dr. Grey looked at his wife. She met his eyes steadily, cheerfully.
“I think Mother’s looking better, don’t you dear?” she said.
“There’s nothing at all the matter with my mother—except—” he shut his mouth hard. “There are things I cannot say, Louise,” he continued, “but others I can. Namely; that for sweetness and patience and gentleness you—you beat the Dutch! And I do appreciate it. One can’t turn one’s Mother out of the house, but I do resent her having another doctor!”
“I’d love your Mother, Joseph, if—if she was a thousand times worse!” his wife answered; and he kissed her with grateful love.
Sarah came in to clear the table presently, and Ellen stood in the pantry door to chat with her.
“Never in my life did I see any woman wid the patience of her!” said
Ellen, wiping her mouth on her apron.
“She has need of it,” said Sarah. “Any Mother-in-law is a trial I’ve heard, but this wan is the worst. Why she must needs live with ’em I don’t see—she has daughters of her own.”
“Tis the daughter’s husbands won’t put up wid her,” answered Ellen, “they havin’ the say of course. This man’s her son—and he has to keep her if she will stay.”
“And she as rich as a Jew!” Sarah went on. “And never spendin’ a cent!
And the Doctor workin’ night and day!”—
Then Mama came in and this bit of conversation naturally came to an end.
A busy, quiet, sweet little woman was Mama; and small Josie flew into her arms and cuddled there most happily.
“Mama Dearest,” she said, “How long is it to Christmas? Can I get my mat done for Grandma? And do you think she’ll like it?”
“Well, well dear—that’s three questions! It’s two weeks yet to Christmas; and I think you can if you work steadily; and I hope she’ll like it.”
“And Mama—can I have my party?”
“I’m afraid not, dearest. You see Grandma is old, and she hates a noise and confusion—and parties are expensive. I’m sorry, childie. Can’t you think of something else you want, that Mother can give you?”
“No,” said the child, “I’ve wanted a party for three years, Mama!
Grandma just spoils everything!”
“No, no, dear—you must always love Grandma because she is dear Papa’s mother; and because she is lonely and needs our love.
“We’ll have a party some day, Dearest—don’t feel badly. And we always have a good time together, don’t we?”
They did; but just now the child’s heart was set on more social pleasures, and she went sadly back to her playroom to work on that mat for Grandma.
It was a busy day. Mama’s married sister came to see her, and the child was sent out of the room. Two neighbors called, and waited, chatting, some time before Mama came down.
Grandma’s doctor—who was not Papa—called; and her lawyer too; and they had to wait some time for the old lady to dress as she thought fitting.
But Grandma’s doctor and lawyer were very old friends, and seemed to enjoy themselves.
The minister came also, not Grandma’s minister, who was old and thin and severe and wore a long white beard; but Mama’s minister, who was so vigorous and cheerful, and would lift Josephine way up over his head—as if she was ten years old. But Mama sent her out of the room this time, which was a pity.
To be sure Josephine had a little secret trail from her playroom door—behind several pieces of furniture—right up to the back of the sofa where people usually sat, but she was not often interested in their conversation. She was a quiet child, busy with her own plans and ideas; playing softly by herself, with much imaginary conversation. She set up her largest doll, a majestic personage known as “The Lady Isobel,” and talked to her.
“Why is my Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can you love people—if you don’t, Lady Isobel?
“Other girls’ Grandmas are nice. Nelly Elder’s got a lovely Grandma! She lets Nelly have parties and everything. Maybe if Grandma likes my mat she’ll—be pleasanter.
“Maybe she’ll go somewhere else to live—sometime. Don’t you think so,
Lady Isobel?”
The Lady Isobel’s reply, however, was not recorded.
Grandma pursued her pious way as usual, till an early bedtime relieved the family of her presence. Then Uncle Harry stopped puttering with his machines and came out to be sociable with his sister. If Papa was at home they would have a game of solo—if not, they played cribbage, or quiet.
Uncle Harry was the life of the household—when Grandma wasn’t around.
“Well, Lulu,” he said cheerfully, “What’s the prospect? Can Joe make it?”
“No,” said Mama. “It’s out of the question. He could arrange about his practice easily enough but it’s the money for the trip. He’ll have to send his paper to be read.”
“It’s a shame!” said the young man, “He ought to be there. He’d do those other doctors good. Why in the name of reason don’t the old lady give him the money—she could, easy enough.”
“Joe never’ll ask her for a cent,” answered Mrs. Grey, “and it would never occur to her to give him one! Yet I think she loves him best of all her children.”
“Huh! Love!” said Uncle Harry.
*
Grandma didn’t sleep well at night. She complained of this circumstantially and at length.
“Hour after hour I hear the clock strike,” she said. “Hour after hour!”
Little Josephine had heard the clock strike hour after hour one terrible night when she had an earache. She was really sorry for Grandma.
“And nothing to take up my mind,” said Grandma, as if her mind was a burden to her.
But the night after this she had something to take up her mind. As a matter of fact it woke her up, as she had napped between the clock’s strikings. At first she thought the servants were in her room—and realized with a start that they were speaking of her.
“Why she must live with ’em I don’t see—she has daughters of her own—”
With the interest of an eavesdropper she lay still, listening, and heard no good of herself.
“How long is it to Christmas?” she presently heard her grandchild ask, and beg her mother for the “party”—still denied her.
“Grandma spoils everything!” said the clear childish voice, and the mother’s gentle one urged love and patience.
It was some time before the suddenly awakened old lady, in the dark, realized the source of these voices—and then she could not locate it.
“It’s some joke of that young man’s” she said grimly—but the joke went on.
It was Mrs. Grey’s sister now, condoling with her about this mother-in-law.
“Why do you have to put up with it Louise? Won’t any of her daughters have her?”
“I’m afraid they don’t want her,” said Louise’s gentle voice. “But Joe is her son, and of course he feels that his home is his mother’s. I think he is quite right. She is old, and alone—she doesn’t mean to be disagreeable.”
“Well, she achieves it without effort, then! A more disagreeable old lady I never saw, Louise, and I’d like nothing better than to tell her so!”
The old lady was angry, but impressed. There is a fascination in learning how others see us, even if the lesson is unpleasant. She heard the two neighbors who talked together before Mama came down, and their talk was of her—and of how they pitied young Mrs. Grey.
“If I was in her shoes,” said the older of the two, “I’d pick up and travel! She’s only sixty-five—and sound as a nut.”
“Has she money enough?” asked the other.
“My, yes! Money to burn! She has her annuity that her father left her, and a big insurance—and house rents. She must have all of three thousand a year.”
“And doesn’t she pay board here?”
“Pay board! Not she. She wouldn’t pay anything so long as she has a relative to live on. She’s saved all her life. But nobody’ll get any good of it till she’s dead.”
This talk stopped when their hostess entered, changing to more general themes; but the interest revived when men’s voices took up the tale.
“Yes—wants her will made again. Always making and unmaking and remaking. Harmless amusement, I suppose.”
“She wastes good money on both of us—and I tell her so. But one can’t be expected to absolutely refuse a patient.”
“Or a client!”
“No. I suppose not.”
“She’s not really ill then?”
“Bless you, Ruthven, I don’t know a sounder old woman anywhere. All she needs is a change—and to think of something besides herself! I tell her that, too—and she says I’m so eccentric.”
“Why in all decency don’t her son do her doctoring?”
“I suppose he’s too frank—and not quite able to speak his mind. He’s a fine fellow. That paper of his will be a great feature of our convention. Shame he can’t go.”
“Why can’t he? Can’t afford it?”
“That’s just it. You see the old lady don’t put up—not a cent—and he has all he can do to keep the boys in college.” And their conversation stopped, and Grandma heard her own voice—inviting the doctor up to her room—and making another appointment for the lawyer.
Then it was the young minister, a cheerful, brawny youth, whom she had once described as a “Godless upstart!”
He appeared to be comforting young Mrs. Grey, and commending her. “You are doing wonders,” he said, as their voices came into hearing, “and not letting your right hand know it, either.”
“You make far too much of it, Mr. Eagerson,” the soft voice answered, “I am so happy in my children—my home—my husband. This is the only trouble—I do not complain.”
“I know you don’t complain, Mrs. Grey, but I want you to know that you’re appreciated! ‘It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a woman in a wide house’—especially if she’s your mother-in-law.”
“I won’t allow you to speak so—if you are my minister!” said young Mrs. Grey with spirit; and the talk changed to church matters, where the little lady offered to help with time and service, and regretted that she had no money to give.
There was a silence, save for small confused noises of a day time household; distant sounds of doors and dishes; and then in a sad, confidential voice—”Why is Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can you love people you don’t, Lady Isobel?”
Grandma was really fond of quiet little Josephine, even if she did sometimes snub her as a matter of principle. She lay and listened to these strictly private remarks, and meditated upon them after they had ceased. It was a large dose, an omnibus dose, and took some time to assimilate; but the old lady had really a mind of her own, though much of it was uninhabited, and this generous burst of light set it to working.
She said nothing to anyone, but seemed to use her eyes and ears with more attention than previously, and allowed her grand-daughter’s small efforts toward affection with new receptiveness. She had one talk with her daughter-in-law which left that little woman wet-eyed and smiling with pleasure, though she could not tell about it—that was requisite.
But the family in general heard nothing of any change of heart till breakfast time on Christmas morning. They sat enjoying that pleasant meal, in the usual respite before the old lady appeared, when Sarah came in with a bunch of notes and laid one at each plate, with an air of great importance.
“She said I was to leave ’em till you was all here—and here they are!” said Sarah, smiling mysteriously, “and that I was to say nothing—and I haven’t!” And the red-cheeked girl folded her arms and waited—as interested as anybody.
Uncle Harry opened his first. “I bet it’s a tract!” said he. But he blushed to the roots of his thick brown hair as he took out, not a tract, but a check.
“A Christmas present to my son-in-law-by-marriage; to be spent on the improvement of talking machines—if that is necessary!”
“Why bless her heart!” said he, “I call that pretty handsome, and I’ll tell her so!”
Papa opened his.
“For your Convention trip, dear son,” said this one, “and for a new dress suit—and a new suit case, and a new overcoat—a nice one. With Mother’s love.”
It was a large check, this one. Papa sat quite silent and looked at his wife. She went around the table and hugged him—she had to.
“You’ve got one, too, Louise,” said he—and she opened it.
“For my dear daughter Louise; this—to be spent on other people; and this” (this was much bigger) “to be inexorably spent on herself—every cent of it! On her own special needs and pleasures—if she can think of any!”
Louise was simply crying—and little Josephine ran to comfort her.
“Hold on Kiddie—you haven’t opened yours,” said Uncle Harry; and they all eagerly waited while the child carefully opened her envelope with a clean knife, and read out solemnly and slowly, “For my darling Grand-child Josephine, to be spent by herself, for herself, with Mama’s advice and assistance; and in particular to provide for her party!”
She turned over the stiff little piece of paper—hardly understanding.
“It’s a check, dear,” said Papa. “It’s the same as money. Parties cost money, and Grandma has made you a Christmas present of your party.”
The little girl’s eyes grew big with joy.
“Can I?—Is there really—a party?”
“There is really a party—for my little daughter, this afternoon at four!”
“O where is Grandma!” cried the child—”I want to hug her!”
They all rose up hurriedly, but Sarah came forward from her scant pretense of retirement, with another note for Dr. Grey.
“I was to give you this last of all,” she said, with an air of one fulfilling grave diplomatic responsibility.
“My dear ones,” ran the note, “I have gathered from my family and friends, and from professional and spiritual advisers the idea that change is often beneficial. With this in mind I have given myself a Christmas present of a Cook’s Tour around the world—and am gone. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!”
She was gone.
Sarah admitted complicity.
“Sure she would have no one know a thing—not a word!” said Sarah. “And she gave us something handsome to help her! And she’s got that young widder Johnson for a companion—and they went off last night on the sleeper for New York!”
The gratitude of the family had to be spent in loving letters, and in great plans of what they would do to make Grandma happy when she came back.
No one felt more grateful than little loving Josephine, whose dearest wishes were all fulfilled. When she remembered it she went very quietly, when all were busy somewhere else, climbed up on the step ladder, and took down the forgotten phonograph from the top of the wardrobe.
“Dear Grandma!” she said. “I do hope she liked it!”
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