Chapter X: The Routing of Uncle Jason

_June 2nd._ I’m afraid I haven’t inherited the family grace of hospitality; for the further I get from Cousin Jane’s visit the more glad I am that I sent her home. And it isn’t all on David’s account either, though I could never have done it but for what she said of him. Yet since it is done I remember her life-time disregard of the small courtesies of life. I wonder if it were not more cowardice in me than kindness that for so long I meekly allowed it, and thereby encouraged her, so far as lay in my power, to ride rough-shod over all the rules of politeness.

I do believe that decent manners, even to one’s junior kinfolks, are an essential part of decent morals; one can commit as dastardly crimes with an ill-tempered tongue as with a lying one. And what right has she to plume herself on her frankness, as if that were a justification for such ill manners as cut the joy and fellowship of life at the root? I think our ideas of morals need standardizing, at least to the point where we can no longer, by bad temper and worse behavior, inflict misery at will on those about us, sowing on every side the seeds of anger or contempt, and yet remain a highly respected member of society and a shining light in the church.—Yet, after all, I’m making a deal of a pother about trifles. It is what we do ourselves that counts, not what is done to us. In the face of the void, at the land’s end, the hurts one has suffered will disappear; it is the hurts one has inflicted that will be lions in the way. And if I have really hurt Cousin Jane—well, when I’m a little stronger I’ll try my best to get straight with her. For the present, I am here in bed again, with the birds outside for company—and a visit from Caro to look forward to. She telephoned a while ago that she had been spending the night with Milly and would be over before lunch. So Cousin Jason hasn’t annihilated the child, at least.

* * * * *

_June 3rd._ Milly really did go home and begin. She went by for Caro yesterday afternoon on her way home, and they found Cousin Jason in a thunderous mood. Milly was quietly determined. He had left the breakfast table that morning in a temper, after his frequent fashion: and Milly, in her brand-new fashion, had refrained from running after him and imploring him to have pity on his poor head, and drink his coffee. He had fumed around on the porches for some time, waiting for her to take her cue, and had finally disappeared. He came back at eleven with a headache, slamming all the doors, notwithstanding, and demanded hot coffee at once. Milly, however, had forseen this contingency and prepared for it. The cook’s daughter was ill, and she had allowed her to go down there as soon as breakfast was over and stay until time to cook dinner. It was the housemaid’s regular day off, and she had already departed, not to return until the late afternoon. As Uncle Jason had ordered cold lunches for the summer, the girl had fixed everything for him, and left it in the refrigerator. Joe, the house man, would serve it. Milly herself, who was just leaving the house as her uncle came in, had an engagement in Chatterton for lunch and must hurry; but if he wanted coffee Joe could make a fire for him, though he could not brew any drinkable beverage. But Uncle Jason had always said he could make better coffee than her mother’s cooks, and it would take only a few minutes. It was too bad about the headache; he should have taken his coffee at breakfast. And Milly drove off, a vision of gentle serenity, and left him gasping in the hall.

Caro went back with her in time for dinner. Milly had passed the pale stage and was in unwonted and most becoming excitement. Caro, of course, was enraptured with the whole situation. She is the only soul alive who ever held Cousin Jason in check; and now she infuriated him with her innocent remarks, and made him laugh the next moment in spite of himself, which made him more furious still. After dinner they retired to Milly’s room and discussed Bobolink’s perfections—and David’s, I wonder?—until the latest of late bedtimes.

At breakfast Cousin Jason was more than crabbed; but he drank the last of his coffee, and made quite a hearty meal before pronouncing the very excellent waffles unfit for human consumption and slamming the dining-room door after him as he went out. Caro had then seen Milly off to the city, where she was to do a little shopping and “take a bobolink lunch,” and would go back to spend the night with her.

Caro will stay there all the time Grace is away. She is in the highest of spirits over the prospect, not only because a battle with Cousin Jason has been one of her life-long desires; but because she is more than weary of Cousin Jane, and her blunderbuss manner of forcing conversation anent Bob White. Caro won’t say much about it—for fear, I devoutly hope, that I may draw inferences in David’s favor; but she is unconcealably bored with Bob, and his money, and his pedigree and connections, clear back to Noah. I doubt if the boy ever had a chance with her; but if he had—or would have had without Cousin Jane’s disastrous approval of him—it is only a might-have-been henceforth. I feel a little sorry for him, but not much. He was crazy about Olive Wilson last year, and will be crazy about somebody else before long. He’s one of those fellows who find a pretty girl a necessary adjunct to life, and if one can’t be had, he will cheerfully and whole-heartedly look for another. When he gets her, he will settle down with her contentedly, and make a devoted and exemplary spouse.

Of course I keep David posted. And of course he wants me to. But he never alludes to Caro in his letters, which are long and interesting, and determinedly cheerful. The little sinner asks for them unblushingly every time she comes over, and is delighted that “dear David” is enjoying himself so, and is so in love with the West. She is ostentatiously fond of him, in a lofty, elder-sisterly manner, and makes frequent inquiries about his health, which appears to be unromantically robust. I cannot see the slightest change in her, except for a wistfulness in her pretty eyes, when she has to say good-bye and go away; and sometimes a fleeting quiver in her smile when she finds me back in bed, as she has done so often of late. I am glad we are to leave together soon, for I can scarcely bear this continual sending her away. I don’t think she can mind going, busy and active as she is, as I mind having her go. I really am a very old lady to be so upset with youthful love affairs: I’m positively decrepit. But if one will have the fun of having children, I suppose one must pay the piper sometimes.

* * * * *

_June 6th._ I think I am learning the art of living; and isn’t that worth a bit of pain? It is to discover the best in the present moment, though it be no larger than a needle in a haystack, and getting the good of it while one has it. One can relax one’s mind by force of will, and hold it open to small pleasures and tiny interests; and such little things may become one’s salvation in desperate straits! I think that is one of life’s greatest needs, especially as one grows older, or if one is ill—that one should guard and cherish the capacity for enjoyment of trifles. It is to the soul what elasticity of the arteries is to the body; for through it the currents of our thoughts and feelings run in swift and wholesome tides, to the upbuilding of the inner life.

And there’s always something. Though the children have run away, I have the birds.

* * * * *

_June 7th._ Milly has crossed her Rubicon, sure enough. I was propped up in bed yesterday evening, with my tray before me, and the Peon was eating his dinner from a flower-garnished table beside me, when there came a sudden gust of laughter in the hall, and a moment later she and Caro came in the room.

“Oh, Mammy Lil, won’t you please give us something to eat?” Caro besought. “Just a bite of your fried chicken, Daddy Jack, for two beautiful damsels in distress; and a pinch of oats or something for a poor little pin-feathered bird we’ve got in the hall that’s most mad enough to chew nails—or would be if he were not a saint.”

“Mr. Lincoln is in the parlor, Cousin John,” said Milly. “We don’t want any dinner, of course—he’s going back to town in a few minutes; he just drove us over from home. We want to stay all night—Caro and I.”

The Peon was already in the hall. Milly looked wonderfully pretty, with that light in her eyes, and a soft color in her cheeks, like fire behind a pearl.

“Indeed we do want dinner!” exclaimed Caro. “Come along and help me forage. There’s no use in Bobolink’s going back. He can stay at the hotel in Chatterton tonight, and get back in plenty of time for his business in the morning.—Poor Mammy Lil! We’re not telling you a thing; but I’ll come back in a minute with the whole tale, as soon as I get dinner started.”

She dropped a kiss on the end of my nose—her favorite spot for such attentions—and went out, drawing Milly after her. I heard them in the dining-room with the servants, and then Caro’s gay voice in the parlor a moment; and then she came back to me. She picked a drumstick from the Peon’s dish, and sat on my bed gnawing it, joyfully reminiscent of her recent adventures.

“Mammy Lil,” she began impressively, “jay-baiting is the grandest sport ever invented. Milly doesn’t appreciate the fun of it as much as she might, but she’s dead game; and I’ve been having the time of my life.”

“It’s too bad that Mr. Lincoln couldn’t have been kept free from it, dear. How did that happen?”

“Why, that wasn’t our fault at all. He often comes out in the afternoon and takes Milly out in his car. Then he goes to the hotel in Chatterton for supper, and comes back for the evening. He hardly ever sees Cousin Jay, and when he does, there’s never been any trouble since that time Milly told you about; she’s made him leave at half-past nine ever since.

“They came back early from their drive because I was to be there, and he stopped for a little visit before dinner. He doesn’t stop usually—they stay out till the last minute; and Cousin Jay just jumped to the conclusion Milly had asked him to dinner. We have been teaching Cousin Jay to eat all the breakfast he wants before he leaves the table, and one or two other things, too. If he’s too horrid at dinner we go to our room afterward, and leave him all the evening with nobody to quarrel at. And I suppose he just meant to get even. He came out and told Milly and me to go in the house and get ready for dinner, for he was tired of waiting for us. And then he turned around to Mr. Lincoln—he hadn’t spoken to him at all—and said, ‘It’s time for you to be going, young man, and you needn’t come back after supper. I’m tired of your hanging around here.’ And then he turned on his heel and walked to the house. Oh, I was so mad I could hear my hair crackle! Just feel how crisped-up and woolly it is.”

She bent forward on the bed and pushed her soft curls under my hand, burrowing her nose in the covers.

“What did Mr. Lincoln do?”

“Just behaved like an angel. He didn’t have a thought but for Milly. He forgot all about me, and spoke to her as if they were alone. Mammy Lil, that man’s sweet. He’ll do for Milly, and I told him so afterwards. But Milly was a perfect joy. She gave Bobolink one adoring look. It went to my very toes, so I don’t know what it did to him; and then she said, in the quietest way:

“Won’t you stay here for a few minutes and wait for me? I’m coming back.”

“And he said he’d wait till doomsday, of course! and she took my hand without a word, and into the house we went. It wasn’t nearly dinner time. We went by the back way, and she stopped in the kitchen long enough to tell Jule she wouldn’t be home for several days, and what to do for Cousin Jason. Then we went upstairs and packed a couple of suitcases, and I called Joe to take them down stairs. We all went down the front way, and there he was in the hall.”

“‘What the deuce are you doing?’ he snapped.

“‘I’m going out of this house,’ said Milly, as quietly as if she’d said she were going out on the porch; ‘and I’m not coming back till you learn your place in it.’

“‘I reckon you’ll learn some sense when your mother comes home,’ he sneered. ‘Go play the fool if you want to.’

“Milly didn’t seem to hear him; and somehow that still, deep anger of hers made me ashamed to sputter, so I never said a word. He slammed the door behind us, and we all got in Bobolink’s car and came over.

“Milly told him what she had said to Cousin Jay, and they fixed everything in two minutes. Milly won’t write a word to Cousin Grace, because she’s just obliged to stay with old Mrs. Wood till her daughter gets back, and there’s no use in worrying her. I know you’ll let Milly stay here; and when Cousin Grace comes back, if she’ll make Cousin Jay behave, or go away, Milly will go home and wait to be married till her mother wishes. But if Cousin Grace won’t stop him, Milly’s going to marry Bobolink right off, in church, with just the clothes she has. And I think she’s exactly right.”

“She’s right to come here and wait for Grace to settle it,” I said; “and Grace will settle it right, I know.”

But I was half afraid, even as I said it. Cousin Jason has bent Grace like a reed from her babyhood, and almost—perhaps not quite—broken her. Could she stand against him, even if she would?

* * * * *

_June 9th._ Could she indeed? As if love couldn’t set the gentlest face like a flint!

We were all in here this morning, Milly and Caro both busy with a lace-y frock for the bride-to-be—“just in case she has to be a bride next week”—when I saw Grace driving up. I did not tell them she was coming, and her arms were around Milly before the child knew she was there.

“You darling!” said Grace; “you’ll have to forgive me dear, as Robert has done. He’s coming out this afternoon to take dinner and spend the night.”

Milly gave a little gasp, and then dropped her head on her mother’s shoulder and began to cry. Caro snatched up the filmy stuff they were working on, threw it over Milly like a bridal veil, and pirouetted around the two, crooning the dolefulest tune imaginable, her eyes dancing with fun. Grace looked up.

“Don’t stop petting Milly a minute,” Caro exhorted; “she’s a perfect heroine, and Bobolink’s a dear. I’m just singing a requiem for my jay-bird kin.”

“But, Mother,” asked Milly, sitting up, “how ever did you hear about it? And how did you happen to come home so soon? And when did you see—Robert?” She blushed beautifully as she called his name.

“Your uncle telephoned me night before last. I knew he had everything wrong, of course; but I was sure that enough was the matter for me to come home and see about it. It was all right to leave Mother, for Annie promised to stay, and Mary is coming the last of the week. So I telephoned Robert to meet me in town yesterday at twelve o’clock. I stayed there last night because there were several things to do in taking business affairs into my own hands again; and before I saw Brother Jason I had to think out clearly what I wished to say.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, I went there first this morning.” She hesitated, a troubled look in her eyes. Milly drew her closer.

“Poor mother!” she said.

“It is your uncle who needs sympathy, dear, though he will not have it. And I know it is partly my fault, and partly the whole family’s, as well as his. We have all given up to him all our lives, under color of being kind and patient and magnanimous, and all that, when at the bottom we were just afraid to oppose him; and he—suffers.”

“O, Mother, I’m sorry!” cried Milly. “I’ll give up!”

“Now, Cousin Grace, I call that a shame,” broke in Caro. “No matter what you and Milly do, you make a fault and a penance out of it to shield him and hurt yourselves. It isn’t fair. He knows he’s outrageous, and he doesn’t care; and I just think he ought to be hurt, to find out what he’s been doing to other people. If he’s gone, do let Milly enjoy herself, for once. But is he gone, really?”

“He’s going,” said Grace. “I wanted him to stay, as my guest, and not as the master of the house. But he—he was very angry. He is to leave this morning, while I am here. He’s going back to his own house and live there all alone.”

“And a mighty good thing for him,” declared Caro. “When I used to indulge in tantrums like his, Mammy Lil always made me go stay by myself till I was what she called a social creature. I think I’ll go over and see Cousin Jason and tell him about it. I could always come back the second I was willing to be polite, and so can he. Think of Cousin Jason’s emerging a social creature! Butterflies and caterpillars won’t be in it. But if Milly isn’t to be married next week, when do we begin on the trousseau?”

The talk passed into a discussion of clothes, and drifted about that interesting topic till time for them to go home. They found their house empty, except for the servants. Cousin Jason had gone, as he said, without eating again beneath his sister’s roof.

* * * * *

_June 16th._ I suppose the excitement of Cousin Jason’s deposition was a little too much for me: I’ve been curled up dead-’possum-fashion for a week. Now I’m uncurling again, and showing that, like the ’possum, I’m not so dead as I look. Caro came back, whether or no, and took charge of me. It is a great comfort to have her.

* * * * *

_June 19th._ A slow pull and a hard one. But I make it, inch by inch.

* * * * *

_June 21st._ Courage, patience and laughter—life would be impossible without them. Yet the first necessity, and the last, is love. If one only loves enough, one can fight anything, and fight always, while breath and consciousness last.

* * * * *

_June 24th._

_WHEN WINGS GO BY_

_A flash of wings across my window-pane!_
_Fallen these narrow walls; and sky-arched plain,_
_Fern-haunted pool, white foam of summer seas,_
_Blue, dawn-steeped mountains, dusk of forest trees—_
_All things free wings may seek, or near or far—_
_Sweep round this bed, where pain and stillness are._
_A prisoned life? When any moment brings_
_A far horizon, and the sense of wings?_