The three weeks were running into a month now, and virtue still reigned
in the Carey household. But things were different. Everybody but Peter
saw the difference. Peter dwelt from morn till eve in that Land of Pure
Delight which is ignorance of death. The children no longer bounded to
meet the postman, but waited till Joanna brought in the mail. Steadily,
daily, the letters changed in tone. First they tried to be cheerful;
later on they spoke of trusting that the worst was past; then of hoping
that father was holding his own. "Oh! if he was holding _all_ his own,"
sobbed Nancy. "If we were only there with him, helping mother!"
Ellen said to Joanna one morning in the kitchen: "It's my belief the
Captain's not going to get well, and I'd like to go to Newburyport to
see my cousin and not be in the house when the children's told!" And
Joanna said, "Shame on you not to stand by 'em in their hour of
trouble!" At which Ellen quailed and confessed herself a coward.
Finally came a day never to be forgotten; a day that swept all the
former days clean out of memory, as a great wave engulfs all the little
ones in its path; a day when, Uncle Allan being too ill to travel,
Cousin Ann, of all people in the universe,--Cousin Ann came to bring the
terrible news that Captain Carey was dead.
Never think that Cousin Ann did not suffer and sympathize and do her
rocky best to comfort; she did indeed, but she was thankful that her
task was of brief duration. Mrs. Carey knew how it would be, and had
planned all so that she herself could arrive not long after the blow had
fallen. Peter, by his mother's orders (she had thought of everything)
was at a neighbor's house, the centre of all interest, the focus of all
gayety. He was too young to see the tears of his elders with any profit;
baby plants grow best in sunshine. The others were huddled together in a
sad group at the front window, eyes swollen, handkerchiefs rolled into
drenched, pathetic little wads.
Cousin Ann came in from the dining room with a tumbler and spoon in her
hand. "See here, children!" she said bracingly, "you've been crying for
the last twelve hours without stopping, and I don't blame you a mite. If
I was the crying kind I'd do the same thing. Now do you think you've got
grit enough--all three of you--to bear up for your mother's sake, when
she first comes in? I've mixed you each a good dose of aromatic spirits
of ammonia, and it's splendid for the nerves. Your mother must get a
night's sleep somehow, and when she gets back a little of her strength
you'll be the greatest comfort she has in the world. The way you're
carrying on now you'll be the death of her!"
It was a good idea, and the dose had courage in it. Gilbert took the
first sip, Kathleen the second, and Nancy the third, and hardly had the
last swallow disappeared down the poor aching throats before a carriage
drove up to the gate. Some one got out and handed out Mrs. Carey whose
step used to be lighter than Nancy's. A strange gentleman, oh! not a
stranger, it was the dear Admiral helping mother up the path. They had
been unconsciously expecting the brown muff and blue velvet bonnet, but
these had vanished, like father, and all the beautiful things of the
past years, and in their place was black raiment that chilled their
hearts. But the black figure had flung back the veil that hid her from
the longing eyes of the children, and when she raised her face it was
full of the old love. She was grief-stricken and she was pale, but she
was mother, and the three young things tore open the door and clasped
her in their arms, sobbing, choking, whispering all sorts of tender
comfort, their childish tears falling like healing dew on her poor
heart. The Admiral soothed and quieted them each in turn, all but Nancy.
Cousin Ann's medicine was of no avail, and strangling with sobs Nancy
fled to the attic until she was strong enough to say "for mother's sake"
without a quiver in her voice. Then she crept down, and as she passed
her mother's room on tiptoe she looked in and saw that the chair by the
window, the chair that had been vacant for a month, was filled, and that
the black-clad figure was what was left to them; a strange, sad, quiet
mother, who had lost part of herself somewhere,--the gay part, the
cheerful part, the part that made her so piquantly and entrancingly
different from other women. Nancy stole in softly and put her young
smooth cheek against her mother's, quietly stroking her hair. "There are
four of us to love you and take care of you," she said. "It isn't quite
so bad as if there was nobody!"
Mrs. Carey clasped her close. "Oh! my Nancy! my first, my oldest, God
will help me, I know that, but just now I need somebody close and warm
and soft; somebody with arms to hold and breath to speak and lips to
kiss! I ought not to sadden you, nor lean on you, you are too young,
--but I must a little, just at the first. You see, dear, you come next
to father!"
"Next to father!" Nancy's life was set to a new tune from that moment.
Here was her spur, her creed; the incentive, the inspiration she had
lacked. She did not suddenly grow older than her years, but simply, in
the twinkling of an eye, came to a realization of herself, her
opportunity, her privilege, her duty; the face of life had changed, and
Nancy changed with it.
"Do you love me next to mother?" the Admiral had asked coaxingly once
when Nancy was eight and on his lap as usual.
"Oh dear no!" said Nancy thoughtfully, shaking her head.
"Why, that's rather a blow to me," the Admiral exclaimed, pinching an
ear and pulling a curl. "I flattered myself that when I was on my best
behavior I came next to mother."
"It's this way, Addy dear," said Nancy, cuddling up to his waistcoat and
giving a sigh of delight that there were so many nice people in the
world. "It's just this way. First there's mother, and then all round
mother there's a wide, wide space; and then father and you come next
the space."
The Admiral smiled; a grave, lovely smile that often crept into his eyes
when he held Mother Carey's chickens on his knee. He kissed Nancy on the
little white spot behind the ear where the brown hair curled in tiny
rings like grape tendrils, soft as silk and delicate as pencil strokes.
He said nothing, but his boyish dreams were in the kiss, and certain
hopes of manhood that had never been realized. He was thinking that
Margaret Gilbert was a fortunate and happy woman to have become Mother
Carey; such a mother, too, that all about her was a wide, wide space,
and next the space, the rest of the world, nearer or farther according
to their merits. He wondered if motherhood ought not to be like that,
and he thought if it were it would be a great help to God.
V