BROTHERS-IN-LAW.
The news of his sister Nellie's death came upon Jim Adams with the
suddenness of a thunderclap. The weeks had gone by since she wrote to
ask him to take Harry, with no further news of her, and after
watching every post for a few days in the expectation of a black-edged
envelope, he had begun to think that it was only a scare, and that she
was not going to die at all, and it was really a pity that he had had
all that bother with Jane!
Yet, in spite of this feeling, the incident had done him good in more
ways than one.
He had fought for duty instead of running away from it. He had been
reminded of things which he had hardly wanted to remember. He had
been strengthened for the right by the mere fact that somebody never
dreamed but that he would do right.
Also he had taken Tom's advice, and had had what Jane deridingly
called "a teetotal spell," the result of which was a respectable
banking account which perfectly astonished him. He had no idea small
sums could total up so.
The idea of saving a little money had come to him from one of Jane's
harangues, in which she informed him that when "that brat" came, she
did not intend to spend any of her housekeeping money upon him; Jim
would have to give her more. She was quite short enough as it was,
especially with a great romping baby of her own, and she supposed
that Jim would be sorry to see _him_ getting thin and pale and perhaps
dying altogether, because somebody else's child ate the food that
ought to have been in his mouth. And then the funeral! Funerals cost a
lot!
With this interesting climax Jane went to get the supper beer--out of
the housekeeping--and Jim made his cocoa, and thought things over.
Not that he discussed Harry's coming with her. He had never mentioned
the subject since that first night. He disliked words, and he found
Jane tired of rating more quickly without an answer, though sometimes
he could not resist giving one, but he always wished afterwards he had
held his tongue.
He determined, as he sipped his cocoa, that he would accept some
over-time work, which he had happily not mentioned to Jane, and save
up what he earned and add it to his beer-money in the bank. Who could
tell when it might be wanted?
So the telegram telling of Nellie's death found him unprepared in one
way--prepared in another.
He proposed to go down and attend the funeral and bring Harry back,
but Jane was furious. He had promised to take her and the baby down to
her mother's for the Easter, and she did not mean to go by herself,
as if she had no husband, and if Jim spent the money on train fares
to Whitecliff and board and lodging as well, where was the money for
going home to come from? Besides, what good would it do? Nellie was
dead, and the brat could come up with the guard. Anyhow, Jim had no
black clothes!
That last argument was unanswerable. So Jim wrote to Nellie's friends
and said he could not come to the funeral, and asked them to arrange
for Harry to come up with the guard and to let him know the day and
the train, and he would meet him.
Then with a rather heavy heart, he shouldered Jane's parcel and his
big baby, and took the Easter excursion train into Suffolk.
It was very late on the Saturday night when they reached their
destination, for the train was two hours behind time, but the welcome
they received in the tiny cottage had suffered nothing from its delay.
Old Mr. and Mrs. Green's delight over their first grandchild was quite
astonishing, and they admired him from the curl on the top of his
round head to the sole of his little fat foot.
And there, in the chimney corner, looking thin and worn, sat Tom.
Jim grasped his hand warmly.
"Well! I _am_ glad you're here," said he, "it will be a bit of
company." He glanced back at the group round the baby and Tom nodded
comprehendingly.
"I had nothing to keep me," he said quietly.
It was a long, long time since Jim had been to church, but he found
that on this Easter Sunday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Green expected
nothing else. Jane elected to remain at home and mind the baby and
cook the dinner, and the old couple, with their stalwart son-in-law
on one side and Tom on the other, found themselves places in the old
village church.
It was all very quiet and nice, Jim thought.
His heart was sore for his little sister Nellie and he felt alone
in the world, cut off from all his childhood, all that they two had
shared together.
It had never occurred to Jane to offer him any sympathy in his loss.
She had hardly realised the loss, only the coming of a burden. And in
not going to the funeral, Jim had an odd feeling of neglecting Nellie,
though his common sense told him it could make no difference to her.
The Easter hymns comforted him strangely. His mind seemed to pass from
the earthly grave to the heavenly Resurrection with a thrill of hope
that matched with the sunshine, the bursting of green leaves, the
twitter of the birds and the blue sky above.
On that happy Easter morning,
All the graves their dead restore,
Father, sister, child, and mother
Meet once more.
And so he came to another thought. Was _he_ going to meet Nellie?
He glanced across at Tom. The quiet patience of his face touched him.
Tom had lost something too. Something more hopeless, more irremediable
than even the death of a sister, and yet there was a strength in his
look which seemed to Jim not to be of earth, but from above. Tom and
Nellie were on one side, and he, Jim, was on another.
The two young men went for a walk together in the afternoon, and it
was like Tom to be the first to touch on Jim's sorrow.
"You're wearing a black tie, Jim," he said.
So Jim told him all about Nellie, his pretty little gentle sister
Nellie, and then of her child and of how he had promised to take him,
and look after him, but he did not mention Jane. After all, Jane was
Tom's sister.
Tom listened gravely. There was sympathy in the very way he listened,
and Jim felt it. He longed to ask Tom if he approved of his taking
Harry, but some of the strength which had grown in him since his
decision, kept him silent. He _had_ decided and what was the use of
courting disapproval. But Tom was not one to withhold commendation, of
which there is so little in this world's intercourse, and he gave his
verdict unasked.
"I'm glad you did," he said heartily, "poor little chap, what else
could you do? It's quite right. Mind you, Jim, any time if you are
pushed with him, there's always a bed and meal with me. I've more than
enough for myself."
That was Jim's opportunity, and he took it.
"You're a good sort, Tom," he said, "I'll not forget. How--how--" he
hesitated. "Have you seen Pattie since?"
"Yes," said Tom sadly, "I've seen her."
There was a finality in his answer that Jim did not like to break, and
they walked on in silence till Tom spoke again.
"I saw her," he said, "when she didn't see me, and I thought she
looked tired-like. She was with some girl, a loud-voiced, gay-looking
sort of girl, who must have known me, though I don't know her; and
when she saw me, she whispered to Pattie and laughed, and Pattie
tossed her head and laughed out loud, as I never heard her laugh
before, and she went red, but she never turned her head nor looked,
not even when she got to the corner, for I stood and watched. I
couldn't turn my back and leave her. I _had_ to look while she was in
sight."
"Is there--is there any----?" Jim stopped.
"Is there anybody else?" said Tom in a strangled kind of voice. "They
say so. The butcher's man, in that big shop by the Station Hotel.
He looks smart and dresses like any gentleman on a Sunday, but he's
always popping in and out of the hotel, and if you could hear his
language--"
"I shouldn't be too sure of what 'they say'," said Jim, "and as for
her laughing and all that--p'r'aps it was just put on because you were
looking. It made her feel awkward-like. If she hadn't cared a bit,
she'd have gone on without turning a hair."
Tom sighed.
"I'd wait a bit and take no heed of what folks say about her," went
on Jim, "and then if you find you keep on caring, just up and ask her
again. You've as much right as any other man. When she gets to know
this fellow better, she'll know what she's missed."
Tom smiled faintly and the shadow in his eyes lightened a little at
Jim's hopefulness.
"If Jane was to meet her and have words, I don't know what I should
do," he said. "It would be best not to remind her of Pattie at all."
"Not me!" answered Jim emphatically.