Chapter 25
“Granite” Continued.
Mary and Arethusa—Aunt Mary’s two nieces—were not uncommonly mercenary; but about three weeks after the new arrival they became seriously troubled over the ascendancy that she appeared to be gaining over the mind of their aunt. Lucinda’s duties had included for many years the writing of a weekly letter which contained formal advices of the general state of affairs, and after Janice’s establishment, these letters became so provocative of gradually increasing alarm that first Mary, and then Arethusa thought it advisable to make the journey for the purpose of investigating the affair personally. They found the new maid apparently devoid of evil intent, but certainly fast becoming absolutely indispensable to the daily happiness of their influential relative. Mary feared that a codicil for five thousand dollars would be the result; but Arethusa felt, with a sinking heart, that there was another naught going on to the sum, and that, unless the tide turned, the end might not be even then.
Aunt Mary was so cool that neither niece stayed long, and Lucinda’s letters had to be looked to for the progress of events. Lucinda’s letters were frequent and not at all reassuring. After the sisters had talked them over, they sent them on to Jack.
She [thus Lucinda invariably began] is the same as ever. It’s cross the heart and bend the knee, an’ then you ain’t down far enough to suit her. But she’s gettin’ so afraid she’ll go that she’s wax in her hands. It would scare you. She won’t let her out of her sight a minute. I must say that whatever she’s giving her, she certainly is earning the money, for she works her harder every day. The poor thing is hopping about, or singing, or playing cards, from dawn to dark, and unless it’s a provision in her will I can’t see what would pay her enough for working so. Lord knows I considered I earned my wages without skipping around with my legs crossed like she does, and she has no end of patience too, even if she won’t ever let her take a walk. She’s getting as pale as she is herself. Seems like something should be done.
Respectfully, L. COOKE.
Three days later Lucinda wrote again:
She does seem to be getting worse and worse. She makes her sleep on a sofa beside her, and she begins to look dreadfully worn out. I do believe she’ll kill her, before she dies herself. I told her so to-day, but she only smiled. It’s funny, but I like her even if I am bolted out all the time. I ain’t jealous, and I’m glad of the rest. I should think her throat would split with talking so much, but she certainly does hear her better than anyone else. I think something must be done, though. She’s getting as crazy as she is herself. They play cards and call each other “aunty” for two hours at a stretch some days.
Respectfully, L. COOKE.
At the end of the week Lucinda wrote again:
I think if you don’t come, she will surely die. She is very feeble herself, but that don’t keep her from wearing her to skin and bone. She keeps her doing tricks from morning to night. Every minute that she is awake she keeps her jumping. It’s a mercy she sleeps so much, or she wouldn’t get any sleep at all. I can’t do nothing, but I can see something has got to be done. She’s killing her, and she’s getting where she don’t care for nobody but her, and if she’s to be kept in trim to keep on amusing her she’ll have to have some rest pretty quick.
Respectfully, L. COOKE.
If the sisters were perturbed by the general trend of these epistles, Jack was half wild over the situation. He swore vigorously and he tramped up and down his room nights until the people underneath put it in their prayers that his woes might suggest suicide as speedily as possible. In vain he wrote to Mrs. Rosscott to restore Janice to her proper place in town; Mrs. Rosscott answered that as long as Aunt Mary desired Janice at her side, at her side Janice should stay. Jack knew his lady well enough to know that she would keep her word, and although he longed to assert his authority he was man enough to feel that he had better wait now and settle the debt after marriage.
Nevertheless the whole affair was unbearably vexatious and at last he felt that he could endure it no longer.
“I’m a fool,” he said, in a spirit of annoyance that came so close to anger that it led to an utter loss of patience. “I’ll take the train for Aunt Mary’s to-day, and straighten out that mess in short order.”
It was Saturday, and he arranged to leave by the noon train. He laid in a heavy supply of bribes for his aged relative and of reading matter for himself, and went to the station with a heart divided ’twixt many different emotions. It was an unconscionably long ride, but he did get there safely about ten o’clock.
It was a pleasant night—not too cold—even suggestive of some lingering Indian summer intentions on the part of Jack’s namesake. The young man thought that he would walk out to his childhood’s home, and his decision was aided by the discovery that there was no other way to get there.
So he took his suit-case in his hand and set off with a stride that covered the intervening miles in short order and brought him, almost before he knew it, to where he could see Lucinda’s light in the dining-room and her pug-nosed profile outlined upon the drawn shade. Everyone else was evidently abed, and as he looked, she, too, arose and took up the lamp. He hurried his steps so that she might let him in before she went upstairs, but in the same instant the light went out and with its withdrawal he perceived a little figure sitting alone upon the doorstep.
His heart gave a tremendous leap—but not with fright—and he made three rapid steps and spoke a name.
She lifted up her head. Of course it was Janice, and although she had been weeping, her eyes were as beautiful as ever.
“Oh, Jack!” she exclaimed, and happy the man who hears his name called in such a tone—even if it be only for once in the whole course of his existence.
He pitched his suit-case down upon the grass and took the maid in his arms.
What did anything matter; they both were lonely and both needed comforting.
He kissed her not once but twenty times,—not twenty times but a hundred.
“It’s abominable you’re being here,” he said at last.
“I am very, very tired,” she confessed.
“And you’ll go back to the city when I go?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “I don’t know whether she’ll let me.”
Jack laughed.
“To-morrow I will beard Aunt Mary in her den,” he declared; “now let’s go in and—and—”
The hundred and first!