It was bitterly cold weather when Grannie arrived at the workhouse.
Not that the workhouse itself was really cold. Its sanitary
arrangements were as far as possible perfect; its heating arrangements
were also fairly good. Notwithstanding the other old women's groans,
the food was passable and even nourishing, and beyond the fact that
there was an absence of hope over everything, there were no real
hardships in the great Beverley workhouse. There were a good many old
women in this workhouse--in fact, two large wards full--and these were
perhaps the most melancholy parts of the establishment. They slept on
clean little narrow beds in a huge ward upstairs. There was a
partition about eight feet high down the middle of this room. Beds
stood in rows, back to back, at each side of this partition; beds stood
in rows along the walls; there were narrow passages between the long
rows of beds. The room was lighted with many windows high up in the
walls, and there was a huge fireplace at either end. By a curious
arrangement, which could scarcely be considered indulgent, the fires in
very cold weather were lit at nine o'clock in the morning, after the
paupers had gone downstairs, and put out again at five in the
afternoon. Why the old creatures might not have had the comfort of the
fires when they were in their ward, it was difficult to say, but such
was the rule of the place.
Grannie's bed was just under one of the windows, and when she went
upstairs the first night, the chill, of which she had complained ever
since she had taken her bath, kept her awake during the greater part of
the hours of darkness. There were plenty of blankets on her little
bed, but they did not seem to warm her. The fact is, there was a great
chill at her heart itself. Her vitality was suddenly lowered; she was
afraid of the long dreary future; afraid of all those hopeless old
women; afraid of the severe cleanliness, the life hedged in with
innumerable rules, the dinginess of the new existence. Her faith
burned dim; her trust in God himself was even a little shaken. She
wondered why such a severe punishment was sent to her; why she, who
wrote so little, should get a disease brought on by writing. It seemed
all incomprehensible, unfathomable, too dark for any ordinary words, or
any ordinary consolation to reach.
For the first time in her life she forgot her grandchildren, and the
invariable good luck of the family, and thought mostly about herself.
Toward morning she fell into a troubled doze, but she had scarcely
seemed to drop asleep before a great bell sounded, which summoned her
to rise. It was just six o'clock, and, at this time of the year, pitch
dark. The long ward was now bitterly cold, and Grannie shivered as she
got into her ugly workhouse dress. The other old women rose from their
hard beds with many "ughs" and groans, and undercurrents of grumbling.
Grannie was much too proud to complain. They were all dressed by
five-and-twenty past six, and then they went downstairs in melancholy
procession, and entered the dining-hall, where their breakfast,
consisting of tea, bread and margarine, was served to them. When
breakfast was over they went upstairs to the ground floor, and Grannie
found herself again in the ward into which she had been introduced the
night before.
The women who could work got out their needlework, and began to perform
their allotted tasks in a very perfunctory manner. Grannie's fingers
quite longed and ached for something to do. She was sent for presently
to see the doctor, who examined her hand, said it would never be of any
use again, ordered a simple liniment, and dismissed her. As Grannie
was returning from this visit, she met the labor matron in one of the
corridors.
"I wish you would give me something to do," she said suddenly.
"Well, what can you do?" asked the matron. "Has the doctor seen your
hand?"
"Yes."
"And what does he say to it?"
"He says it will never be any better."
"Never be any better!" The labor matron fixed Grannie with two rather
indignant eyes. "And what are you wasting my time for, asking for
work, when you know you can't do it?"
"Oh, yes; I think I can, ma'am--that is, with the left hand. I cannot
do needlework, perhaps, but I could dust and tidy, and even polish a
bit. I have always been very industrious, ma'am, and it goes sore agen
the grain to do nothin'."
"Industrious indeed!" muttered the matron. "If you had been
industrious and careful, you wouldn't have found your way here. No,
there is no work for you, as far as I can see. Some of the able-bodied
women do out the old women's ward; it would never do to trust it to an
incapable like yourself. There, I can't waste any more time with you."
The matron hurried away, and Grannie went back to her seat by the fire,
in the company of the other old women. They were curious to know what
the doctor had said to her, and when she told them they shook their
heads and groaned, and said they all knew that would be the case.
"No one _h_advanced in life gets better here," said Mrs. Peters; "and
you are _h_advanced in life, aint you, ma'am?"
"Not so very," replied Grannie indignantly. She felt quite young
beside most of the other old paupers.
"Well now, I calc'late you're close on eighty," said Mrs. Peters.
"Indeed, you are mistook," replied Grannie. "I aint seventy yet. I'm
jest at the age when it is no expense at all to live, so to speak. I
were sixty-eight last November, and no one can call that old. At least
not to say very old."
"You look seventy-eight at the very least," said most of the women.
They nodded and gave Grannie some solemn, queer glances. They all saw
a change in her which she did not know anything about herself. She had
aged quite ten years since yesterday.
The one variety in the old women's lives was their meals. Dinner came
at half-past twelve, and supper at six. All the huge old family went
up to bed sharp at eight. There could not possibly be a more dreary
life than theirs. As the days passed on, Grannie recovered from her
first sense of chill and misery, and a certain portion of her brave
spirit returned. It was one of the rules of the workhouse that the
pauper women of over sixty might go out every Sunday from half-past
twelve to six. They might also go out for the same number of hours on
Thursday. Those who were in sufficiently good health always availed
themselves of this outing, and Grannie herself looked forward quite
eagerly to Sunday. She scarcely slept on Saturday night for thinking
of this time of freedom. She had obtained permission to wear her own
neat dress, and she put it on with untold pride and satisfaction on
this Sunday morning. Once again some of the spirit of the Simpsons and
Phippses came into her. She left the workhouse quite gayly.
"I feel young again," she murmured to herself as she heard the ugly
gates clang behind her.
She walked down the road briskly, took an omnibus, and by and by found
herself at Bayswater. She had asked Alison to wait in for her, telling
the girl that she might be able to pay her a little visit on Sunday.
When she rang, therefore, the servants' bell at Mrs. Faulkner's
beautiful house, Alison herself opened the door.
Alison looked handsomer than ever in her neat lady's-maid costume.
"Oh, Grannie," she exclaimed. "It is good for sore eyes to see you.
Come in, come in. You can't think how kind Mrs. Faulkner is. She says
I'm to have you all to myself, and you are to stay to dinner, and David
is here; and the housekeeper (I have been telling the housekeeper a lot
about you, Grannie) has given us her little parlor to dine in, and Mrs.
Faulkner is out for the day. Oh, we'll have quite a good time. Come
downstairs at once, dear Grannie, for dinner is waiting."
"Well, child, I am pleased to see you so spry," said Grannie. Her
voice felt quite choking when she entered the big, luxurious house.
"I'll be able to keep it up fine," she murmured to herself. "Lor', I'm
a sight better; it was the air of that place that was a-killin' me.
I'll keep it up afore the chil'en, and ef I can manage to do that, why
bless the Lord for all his mercies."
David was waiting in the housekeeper's room when Grannie got
downstairs. Grannie had never known before what a power of comfort
there was in David's strong young step, and the feel of his firm
muscular arms, and the sensation of his manly kiss on her cheek.
"Aye, Dave," she said, "I'm a sight better for seeing you, my lad."
"And I for seeing you," replied the boy. "We have missed Grannie,
haven't we, Ally?"
"Don't talk of it," said Alison, tears springing to her blue eyes.
"Well, we're all together again now," said Grannie. "Bless the Lord!
Set down each side of me, my darlin's, and tell me everything. Oh, I
have hungered to know, I have hungered to know."
"Mine is a very good place," said Alison. "Mrs. Faulkner is most kind."
"And ef it weren't for thinking of you, Grannie, and missing you," said
David, "why, I'd be as happy as the day is long."
"But tell us about yourself, dear Grannie," said Alison. "How do you
like the country, and are Mr. Williams' friends good to you?"
"Real good! that they are," said Grannie. "Why, it's a beautiful big
place."
"They are not poor folks, then?" said David.
"Poor!" said Grannie. "I don't go for to deny that there are some poor
people there, but they as owns the place aint poor. Lor' bless yer,
it's a fine place. Don't you fret for me, my dearies. I'm well
provided for, whoever aint."
"But how long are you to stay?" said David. "You can't always be on a
visit with folks, even if they are the friends of Mr. Williams."
"Of course I can't stay always," said Grannie, "but Mr. Williams has
arranged that I am to stay for a good two or three months at least, and
by then, why, we don't know what 'll turn out. Now, chil'en, for the
Lord's sake don't let us waste time over an old body like me. Didn't I
tell you that I have come to the time o' life when I aint much 'count?
Let's talk of you, my dearies, let's talk of you."
"Let's talk of dinner first," said David. "I'm mighty hungry, whoever
aint."
The dinner served in Mrs. Faulkner's housekeeper's room was remarkably
nourishing and dainty, and Grannie enjoyed the food, which was not
workhouse food, with a zest which surprised herself. She thought that
she had completely thrown her grandchildren off the scent, and if that
were the case, nothing else mattered. When dinner was over the sun
shone out brightly, and Alison and David took Grannie out for a walk.
They went into Kensington Gardens, which were looking very bright and
pretty. Then they came home, and Grannie had a cup of tea, after which
she rose resolutely and said it was time for her to go.
"I will see you back," said David, in a determined voice. "I have
nothing else to do. I don't suppose those friends of Mr. Williams who
are so good to you would mind me coming as far as the door."
"Yes, they would," said Grannie, "they wouldn't like it a bit."
"Now, Grannie, that's all nonsense, you know," said the young man.
"No it aint, my lad, no it aint. You've just got to obey me, David, in
this matter. I know what I know, and I won't be gainsaid."
Grannie had suddenly put on her commanding air.
"I am on a visit with right decent folks--people well-to-do in the
world, wot keep up everything in fine style--and ef they have fads
about relations comin' round their visitors, why shouldn't they?
Anyhow, I am bound to respect 'em. You can't go home with me, Dave,
but you shall see me to the 'bus, ef you like."
"Well," said Dave, a suspicious, troubled look creeping up into his
face, "that's all very fine, but I wish you wouldn't make a mystery of
where you are staying, dear Grannie."
"I don't want to," said Grannie. "It's all Mr. Williams. He has been
real kind to me and mine, and ef he wants to keep to himself what his
friends are doing for me, why shouldn't I obleege him?"
"Why not, indeed?" said Alison. "But are you sure you are really
comfortable, Grannie?"
"And why shouldn't I be comfortable, child? I don't look
uncomfortable, do I?"
"No, not really, but somehow----"
"Yes, I know what you mean," interrupted David.
"Somehow," said Alison, "you look changed."
"Oh, and ef I do look a bit changed," said the old woman, "it's cause
I'm a-frettin' for you. Of course I miss you all, but I'll get
accustomed to it; and it's a beautiful big place, and I'm in rare luck
to have got a 'ome there. Now I must hurry off. God bless you, my
dear!"
Alison stood on the steps of Mrs. Faulkner's house, and watched Grannie
as she walked down the street. The weather had changed, and it was now
bitterly cold; sleet was falling, and there was a high wind. But
Grannie was leaning on Dave's arm, and she got along bravely.
"I don't like it," said Alison to herself, as she went into the house.
"Grannie's hiding something; I can't think what it is. Oh, dear, oh
dear, how I wish Jim had been true to me. If he only had, we would
have made a home for Grannie somehow. Grannie is hiding something.
What can it be?"
Meanwhile David saw Grannie to the omnibus, where he bade her an
affectionate "good-by." She arranged to come again to see her
grandchildren on the following Sunday if all was well.
"But ef I don't come, don't you fret, Dave, boy," was her last word to
the lad. "Ef by chance I don't come, you'll know it's because it aint
quite convenient in the family I'm staying with. Now, good-by, Dave.
Bless you, lad."
The omnibus rolled away, and Grannie snuggled back into her corner.
Her visit to her grandchildren had cheered her much, and she thought
that she could very well get through a dreary week in the workhouse
with that beacon post of Sunday on ahead. She would not for the world
trouble the children on work-a-day Thursday, but on Sunday she might as
a rule get a sight of them.
"And they suspect nothin', thank the good Lord!" she said, hugging her
secret to her breast.
She left the omnibus at the same corner where she had left it on the
previous Monday.
The weather meanwhile had been changing for the worse; snow was now
falling thickly, and the old woman had no umbrella. She staggered
along, beaten and battered by the great tempest of wind and snow. At
first she stepped on bravely enough, but by and by her steps grew
feeble. The snow blinded her eyes and took away her breath, it
trickled in little pools down into her neck, and seemed to find out all
the weak parts of her dress. Her thin black shawl was covered with
snow; her bonnet was no longer black, but white. Her heart began to
beat at first too loudly, then feebly; she tottered forward, stumbling
as one in a dream. She was cold, chilled through and through;
bitterly, bitterly cold. Suddenly, without knowing it, she put her
foot on a piece of orange-peel; she slipped, and the next moment lay
prone in the soft snow. Her fall took away her last remnant of
strength; try as she would, she found she could not rise. She raised
her voice to call for assistance, and presently a stout laboring man
came up and bent over the little prostrate woman.
"Let me help you to get up, ma'am," he said politely.
He caught hold of her swollen right hand. The sudden pain forced a
sharp scream from her lips.
"Not that hand, please, sir; the other," she said. She put out her
left hand.
"Nay, I'll lift you altogether," he said. "Why, you are no weight at
all. Are you badly hurt, ma'am?"
"No, no, it's nothin'," said Grannie, panting, and breathing with
difficulty.
"And where shall I take you to? You can't walk--you are not to attempt
it. Is your home anywhere near here, ma'am?"
In spite of all her pain and weakness, a flush of shame came into the
old cheeks.
"It is nigh here, very nigh," said Grannie, "but it aint my home; it's
Beverley workhouse, please, sir."
"All right," said the man. He did not notice Grannie's shame.
The next moment he had pulled the bell at the dreary gates, and Grannie
was taken in. She was conveyed straight up to the infirmary.