Chapter 4

“Age fiddlesticks!” she said, knitting violently. “The plain truth is—and you might as well acknowledge it, Lizzie—that they would take me by myself quick enough, just to get the ambulance I’ve offered, if for no other reason. But they don’t want three middle-aged women, and I don’t know that I blame them.”

That was during September, I think, and Tish had just received her third rejection. They were willing enough to take the ambulance, but they would not let Tish drive it. I am quite sure it was September, for I remember that Aggie was having hay fever at the time, and she fell to sneezing violently.

Tish put down her knitting and stared at Aggie fixedly until the paroxysm was over.

“Exactly,” she observed, coldly. “Imagine me creeping out onto a battlefield to gather up the wounded, and Aggie crawling behind, going off like an alarm clock every time she met a clump of golden rod, or whatever they have in France to produce hay fever.”

“I could stay in the ambulance, Tish,” Aggie protested.

“I understand,” Tish went on, in an inflexible tone, “that those German snipers have got so that they shoot by ear. One sneeze would probably be fatal. Not only that,” she went on, turning to me, “but you know perfectly well, Lizzie, that a woman of your weight would be always stepping on brush and sounding like a night attack.”

“Not at all,” I replied, slightly ruffled. “And for a very good reason. I should not be there. As to my weight, Tish, my mother was always considered merely a fine figure of a woman, and I am just her size. It is only since this rage for skinny women——”

But Tish was not listening. She drew a deep sigh, and picked up her knitting again.

“We’d better not discuss it,” she said. But in these days of efficiency it seems a mistake that a woman who can drive an ambulance and can’t turn the heel of a stocking properly to save her life, should be knitting socks that any soldier with sense would use to clean his gun with, or to tie around a sore throat, but never to wear.

It was, I think, along in November that Charlie Sands, Tish’s nephew, came to see me. He had telephoned, and asked me to have Aggie there. So I called her up, and told her to buy some cigarettes on the way. I remember that she was very irritated when she arrived, although the very soul of gentleness usually.

She came in and slammed a small package onto my table.

“There!” she said. “And don’t ever ask me to do such a thing again. The man in the shop winked at me when I said they were not for myself.”

However, Aggie is never angry for any length of time, and a moment later she was remarking that Mr. Wiggins had always been a smoker, and that one of his workmen had blamed his fatal accident on the roof to smoke from his pipe getting into his eyes.

Shortly after that I was surprised to find her in tears.

“I was just thinking, Lizzie,” she said. “What if Mr. Wiggins had lived, and we had had a son, and he had decided to go and fight!”

She then broke down and sobbed violently, and it was some time before I could calm her. Even then it was not the fact that she had no son which calmed her.

“Of course I’m silly, Lizzie,” she said. “I’ll stop now. Because of course they don’t _all_ get killed, or even wounded. He’d probably come out all right, and every one says the training is fine for them.”

Charlie Sands came in shortly after, and having kissed us both and tried on a night shirt I was making for the Red Cross, and having found the cookie jar in the pantry and brought it into my sitting room, sat down and came to business.

“Now,” he said. “What’s she up to?”

He always referred to Tish as “she,” to Aggie and myself.

“She has given up going to France,” I replied.

“Perhaps! What does Hannah report?”

I am sorry to say that, fearing Tish’s impulsive nature, we had felt obliged to have Hannah watch her carefully. Tish has a way of breaking out in unexpected places, like a boil, as Charlie Sands once observed, and by knowing her plans in advance we have sometimes prevented her acting in a rash manner. Sometimes, not always.

“Hannah says everything is quiet,” Aggie said. “Dear Tish has apparently given up all thought of going abroad. At least, Hannah says she no longer practises first aid on her. Not since the time Tish gave her an alcohol bath and she caught cold. Hannah says she made her lie uncovered, with the window open, so the alcohol would evaporate. But she gave notice the next day, which was ungrateful of her, for Tish sat up all night feeding her things out of her First Aid case, and if she _did_ give her a bit of iodine by mistake——”

“She is no longer interested in First Aid,” I broke in. Aggie has a way of going on and on, and it was not necessary to mention the matter of the iodine. “I know that, because I blistered my hand over there the other day, and she merely told me to stick it in the baking soda jar.”

“That’s curious,” said Charlie Sands.

“Because—— Great Scott, what’s wrong with these cigarettes?”

“They are violet-scented,” Aggie explained. “The smell sticks so, and Lizzie is fond of violet.”

However, he did not seem to care for them, and appeared positively ashamed. He opened a window, although it was cold outside, and shook himself in front of it like a dog. But all he said was:

“I am a meek person, Aunt Lizzie, and I like to humor whims when I can. But the next time you have a male visitor and offer him a cigarette, for the love of Mike don’t tell him those brazen gilt-tipped incense things are mine.”

He then ate nine cookies, and explained why he had come.

“I don’t like the look of things, beloved and respected spinsters,” he said. “I fear my revered aunt is again up to mischief. You haven’t heard her say anything more about aeroplanes, have you?”

“No,” I replied, for us both.

“Or submarines?”

“She’s been taking swimming lessons again,” I said, thoughtfully.

“Lizzie!” Aggie cried. “Oh, my poor Tish!”

“I think, however,” said Charlie Sands, “that it is not a submarine. There are no submarine flivvers, as I understand it, and a full-size one would run into money. No, I hardly think so. The fact remains, however, that my respected and revered aunt has made away with about seven thousand dollars’ worth of bonds that were, until a short time ago, giving semi-annual birth to plump little coupons. The question is, what is she up to?”

But we were unable to help him, and at last he went away. His parting words were:

“Well, there is something in the air, and the only thing to do, I suppose, is to wait until it drops. But when my beloved female relative takes to selling bonds without consulting me, and goes out, as I met her yesterday, with her hat on front side behind, there is something in the wind. I know the symptoms.”

Aggie and I kept a close watch on Tish after that, but without result, unless the following incident may be called a result. Although it was rather a cause, after all, for it brought Mr. Culver into our lives.

I think it important to relate it in detail, as in a way it vindicates Tish in her treatment of Mr. Culver, although I do not mean by this statement that there was anything of personal malice in the incident of June fifth of this year. Those of us who know Tish best realize that she needs no defence. Her motives are always of the highest, although perhaps the matter of the police officer was ill-advised. But now that the story is out, and Mr. Ostermaier very uneasy about the wrong name being on the marriage license, I think an explanation will do dear Tish no harm.

I should explain, then, that Tish has retained the old homestead in the country, renting it to a reliable family. And that it has been our annual custom to go there for chestnuts each autumn. On the Sunday following Charlie Sands’ visit, therefore, while Aggie and I were having dinner with Tish, I suggested that we make our annual pilgrimage the following day.

“What pilgrimage?” Tish demanded. She was at that time interested in seeing if a table could be set for thirty-five cents a day per person, and the meal was largely beans.

“For chestnuts,” I explained.

“I don’t think I’ll go this year,” Tish observed, not looking at either of us. “I’m not a young woman, and climbing a chestnut tree requires youth.”

“You could get the farmer’s boy,” Aggie suggested, hopefully. Aggie is a creature of habit, and clings hard to the past.

“The farmer is not there any more.”

We stared at her in amazement, but she was helping herself to boiled dandelion at the time, and made no further explanation.

“Why, Tish!” Aggie exclaimed.

“Aggie,” she observed, severely, “if you would only remember that the world is hungry, you would eat your crusts.”

“I ate crusts for twenty years,” said Aggie, “because I’d been raised to believe they would make my hair curl. But I’ve come to a time of life when my digestion means more to me than my looks. And since I’ve had the trouble with my teeth——”

“Teeth or no teeth,” said Tish, firmly, “eating crusts is a patriotic duty, Aggie.”

She was clearly disinclined to explain about the farm, but on being pressed said she had sent the tenants away because they kept pigs, which was absurd and she knew it.

“Isn’t keeping pigs a patriotic duty?” Aggie demanded, glancing at me across the table. But Tish ignored the question.

“What about the church?” I asked.

Tish has always given the farm money to missions, and is therefore Honorary President of the Missionary Society. She did not reply immediately as she was pouring milk over her cornstarch at the time, but Hannah, her maid, spoke up rather bitterly.

“If we give the heathen what we save on the table, Miss Lizzie,” she said, “I guess they’ll do pretty well. I’m that fed up with beans that my digestion is all upset. I have to take baking soda after my meals, regular.”

Tish looked up at her sharply.

“Entire armies fight on beans,” she said

“Yes’m,” said Hannah. “I’d fight on ’em too. That’s the way they make me feel. And if a German bayonet is any worse than the colic I get——”

“Leave the room,” said Tish, in a furious voice, and finished her cornstarch in silence.

But she is a just woman, and although firm in her manner, she is naturally kind. After dinner, seeing that Aggie was genuinely disappointed about the excursion to the farm, she relented and observed that we would go to the farm as usual.

“After all,” she said, “chestnuts are nourishing, and might take the place of potatoes in a pinch.”

Here we heard a hollow groan from the pantry, but on Tish demanding its reason Hannah said, meekly enough, that she had knocked her crazy bone, and Tish, with her usual magnanimity, did not pursue the subject.

There was a heavy frost that night, and two days later Tish called me up and fixed the following day for the visit to the farm. On looking back, I am inclined to think that her usual enthusiasm was absent, but we suspected nothing. She said that Hannah would put up the luncheon, and that she had looked up the food value of chestnuts and that it was enormous. She particularly requested that Aggie should not bake a cake for the picnic, as had been her custom.

“Cakes,” she said, “are a reckless extravagance. In butter, eggs and flour a single chocolate layer cake could support three men at the front for two days, Lizzie,” she said.

I repeated this to Aggie, and she was rather resentful. Aggie, I regret to say, has rather a weakness for good food.

“Humph!” she said, bitterly. “Very well, Lizzie. But if she expects me to go out like Balaam’s ass and eat dandelions, I’d rather starve.”

Neither Aggie nor I is inclined to be suspicious, and although we noticed Tish’s rather abstracted expression that morning, we laid it to the fact that Charlie Sands had been talking about going to the American Ambulance in France, which Tish opposed violently, although she was more than anxious to go herself.

Aggie put in her knitting bag the bottle of blackberry cordial without which we rarely travel, as we find it excellent in case of chilling, or indigestion, and even to rub on hornet stings. I was placing the suitcase, in which it is our custom to carry the chestnuts, in the back of the car, when I spied a very small parcel. Aggie saw it too.

“If that’s the lunch, Tish,” she said, “I don’t know that I care to go.”

“You can eat chestnuts,” said Tish, shortly. “But don’t go on my account. It looks like rain anyhow, and the last time I went to the farm in the mud I skidded down a hill backwards and was only stopped by running into a cow that thought I was going the other way.”

“Nonsense, Tish,” I said. “It hasn’t an idea of raining. And if the lunch isn’t sufficient, there are generally some hens from the Knowles place that lay in your barn, aren’t there?”

“Certainly not,” she said stiffly, although it wasn’t three months since she had threatened to charge the Knowleses rent for their chickens.

Well, I was puzzled. It is not like Tish to be irritable without reason, although she has undoubtedly a temper. She was most unpleasant on the way out, remarking that if the Ostermaiers’s maid continued to pare away half the potatoes, as any fool could see around their garbage can, she thought the church should reduce his salary. She also stated flatly that she considered that the nation would be better off if some one would uncork a gas bomb in the Capitol at Washington, in spite of the fact that my second cousin, once removed, the Honorable J. C. Willoughby, represents his country in its legislative halls.

It is always a bad sign when Tish talks politics, especially since the income tax.

Although it had no significance for us at the time, she did not put her car in the barn as she usually does, but left it in the road. The house was closed, and there was no cool and refreshing buttermilk with which to wash down our frugal repast, which we ate on the porch, as Tish did not offer to unlock the house. Frugal repast it was indeed, consisting of lettuce sandwiches made without butter, as Tish considered that both butter and lettuce was an extravagance. There were, of course, also beans.

Now as it happens, Aggie is not strong and requires palatable as well as substantial food to enable her to get about, especially to climb trees. We missed her during the meal, and I saw that she was going toward the barn. Tish saw it also, and called to her sharply.

“I am going to get an egg,” Aggie replied, with gentle obstinacy. “I am starving, Tish, and I am certain I heard a hen cackle. Probably one of the Knowles’s chickens——”

“If it is a Knowles’s chicken,” Tish said, virtuously, “its egg is a Knowles’s egg, and we have no right to it.”

I am sorry to relate that here Aggie said: “Oh, rats!” but as she apologized immediately, and let the egg drop, figuratively, of course, peace again hovered over our little party. Only momentarily, however, for, a short time after, a hen undoubtedly cackled, and Aggie got up with an air of determination.

“Tish,” she said, “that may be a Knowles’s hen or it may be one belonging to this farm. I don’t know, and I don’t give a—I don’t care. I’m going to get it.”

“The barn’s locked,” said Tish.

“I could get in through a window.”

I shall never forget Tish’s look of scorn as she rose with dignity, and stalked toward the barn.

“I shall go myself, Aggie,” she said, as she passed her. “You would probably fall in the rain barrel under the window. You’re no climber. And you might as well eat those crusts you’ve hidden under the porch, if you’re as hungry as you make out you are.”

“Lizzie,” Aggie hissed, when Tish was out of hearing, “_what is in that barn?_”

“It may be anything from a German spy to an aeroplane,” I said. “But it’s not your business or mine.”

“You needn’t be so dratted virtuous,” Aggie observed, scooping a hole in the petunia bed and burying the crusts in it. “Whatever’s on her mind is in that barn.”

“Naturally,” I observed, “while Tish is in it!”

Tish returned in a short time with one egg, which she placed on the porch floor without a word. But as she made no effort to give Aggie the house key, and as Aggie has never learned to swallow a raw egg, although I have heard that they taste rather like oysters, and slip down in much the same way, Aggie was obliged to continue hungry.

It is only just to record that Tish grew more companionable after luncheon, and got into a large chestnut tree near the house by climbing on top of the hen house. We had always before had the farmer’s boy to do the climbing into the upper branches, and I confess to a certain nervousness, especially as Tish, when far above the ground, decided to take off her dress skirt, which was her second best tailor-made, and climb around in her petticoats.

She had to have both hands free to unhook the band, and she very nearly overbalanced while stepping out of it.

“Drat a woman’s clothes, anyhow,” she said. “If we had any sense we’d wear trousers.”

“I understand,” I said, “that even trousers are not easy to get out of, Tish.”

“Don’t be a fool, Lizzie,” she said tartly. “If I had trousers on I wouldn’t have to take them off. Catch it!”

However, the skirt did not fall clear, but caught on a branch far out, and hung there. Tish broke off a small limb and poked at it from above, and I found a paling from a fence and threw it up to dislodge it. But it stuck tight, and the paling came down and struck Aggie on the head. Had we only known it, this fortunate accident probably saved Aggie’s life, for she sat down suddenly on the ground, and said faintly that her skull was fractured.

I was bending over Aggie when I heard a sharp crack from above. I looked up, and Tish was lying full length on a limb, her arm out to reach for the skirt and a most terrible expression on her face. There was another crack, and our poor Tish came hurtling through the air, landing half in Aggie’s lap and half in the suitcase.

I was quite unable to speak, and owing, as I learned later, to Tish’s head catching her near the waist line, Aggie had no breath even to scream.

There was a dreadful silence. Then Tish said, without moving:

“All my property is to go to Charlie Sands.”

“Tish!” I cried, in an agony, and Aggie, who still could not speak, burst into tears.

However, a moment later, Tish drew up first one limb and then the other, and observed that her back was broken. She then mentioned that Aggie was to have her cameo set and the dining room sideboard, and that I was to have the automobile, but the next instant she felt a worm on her neck and sat up, looking rather dishevelled, but far from death.

“Where are you hurt, Tish?” I asked, trembling.

“Everywhere,” she replied. “Everywhere, Lizzie. Every bone in my body is broken.”

But after a time the aching localized itself in her right arm, which began to swell. We led her down to the creek and got her to hold it in the cold water and Aggie, being still nervous and unsteady, slipped on a mossy stone and sat down in about a foot of water. It was then that our dear Tish became like herself again, for Aggie was shocked into saying, “Oh, damn!” and Tish gave her a severe lecture on profanity.

Tish was quite sure her arm was broken, as well as all the ribs on one side. But she is a brave woman and made little fuss, although she kept poking a finger into her flesh here and there.

“Because,” she said, “the First Aid book says that if a lung is punctured the air gets into the tissues, and they crackle on pressure.”

It was soon after this that I saw Aggie, who had made no complaint about Tish falling on her, furtively testing her own tissues to see if they crackled.

Leaving my injured there by the creek, I went back to the tree and secured my paling again. By covering it with straw from the barn I was quite sure I could make a comfortable splint for Tish’s arm. However, I had but just reached the barn and was preparing to crawl through a window by standing on a rain barrel when I saw Tish limping after me.

“Well?” she said. “What idiotic idea is in your head, Lizzie? Because if it is more eggs——”

“I am going to get some straw and make a splint.”

“Nonsense. What for?”

“What do you suppose I intend it for?” I demanded, tartly. “To trim a hat?”

“I won’t have a splint.”

“Very well,” I retorted. “Then I shall get some straw and start a fire to dry Aggie out.”

“You’ll stick in that window,” Tish said, in what, in a smaller woman, would have been a vicious tone.

“Look here, Tish,” I said, balancing on the edge of the rain barrel, “is there something in this barn you do not wish me to see?”

She looked at me steadily.

“Yes,” she said. “There is, Lizzie. And I’ll ask you to promise on your honor not to mention it.”

That promise I am glad to say I have kept until now, when the need of secrecy is past, Tish herself having divulged the truth. But at the time I was greatly agitated, and indeed almost fell into the rain barrel.

“Or try to find out what it is,” Tish went on, sternly.

I promised, of course, and Tish relaxed somewhat, although I caught her eye on me once or twice, as though she was daring me to so much as guess at the secret.

“Of course, Lizzie,” she said, as we approached Aggie, “it is nothing I am ashamed of.”

“Of course not,” I replied hastily. I took my courage in my hands and faced her. “Tish, have you an aeroplane hidden in that barn?”

“No,” she replied promptly. She might have enlarged on her denial, but Aggie took a violent sneezing spell just then, pressing herself between paroxysms to see if she crackled, and we decided to go home at once.

Here a new difficulty presented itself. Tish could not drive the car! I shall never forget my anguish when she turned to me and said:

“You will have to drive us home, Lizzie.”

“Never!” I cried.

“It’s perfectly easy,” she went on. “If children can run them, and the idiots they have in garages and on taxicabs——”

“Never,” I said firmly. “It may be easy, but it took you six months, Tish Carberry, and three broken springs and any number of dead chickens and animals, besides the time you went through a bridge, and the night you drove off the end of a dock. It may be easy, but if it is, I’d rather do something hard.”

“I shall sit beside you, Lizzie,” she said, in a patient voice. “I daresay you know which is your right foot and which is your left. If not, I can tell you. I shall say ‘left’ when I want you to push out the clutch, and ‘right’ for the brake. As for gears, I can change them for you with my left hand.”

“I could do it sitting in a chair,” I said, in a despairing voice. “But Tish,” I said, in a last effort, “do you remember when you tried to teach me to ride a bicycle? And that the moment I saw something to avoid I made a mad dash for it?”

“This is different,” Tish said. “It is a car——”

“And that I rode about a quarter of a mile into Lake Penzance, and would likely have ridden straight across if I hadn’t run into a canoe and upset it?”

“You can always _stop_ a car,” said Tish. “Don’t be a coward, Lizzie. All you have to do is to shove hard with your right foot.”

Yet, when I did exactly that, she denied she had ever said it. Fond as I am of Tish, I must admit that she has a way of forgetting things she does not wish to remember.

In the end I consented. It was against my better judgment, and I warned Tish. I have no talent for machinery, but indeed a great fear of it, since the time when as a child I was visiting my grand-aunt’s farm and almost lost a finger in a feed-cutter. In addition to that, Tish’s accident and her secret had both unnerved me. I knew that calamity faced us as I took my place at the wheel.

Tish was still in her petticoat, as we were obliged to leave her dress skirt in the tree, and Aggie was wrapped in the rug to prevent her taking cold.

“When we meet a buggy,” Tish said, “we’d better go past it rather fast. I don’t ache to be seen in a seersucker petticoat.”

“Fast,” I said, bitterly. “You’d better pray that we go past it at all.”