THE WAY OF A GRANDMOTHER
Patricia sat on the back steps carefully arranging purple and white
asters in an old blue and white punchbowl, the pride of her Aunt Julia's
heart.
"It's the 'Washington bowl,' Custard," she explained to the small curly
black dog, watching her intently. "Daddy says it's called that because
it is just as easy to prove that Washington never did have punch from it
as that he did." Patricia paused to rearrange one particularly wobbly
aster, too short as to stem and too big as to head. "Anyhow, it's one
of the very nicest things we've got."
Custard sighed restlessly; to spend this breezy October afternoon in
fussing over flowers, when just beyond the gate a whole world waited to
be explored, seemed to him a most un-Patricia-like wasting of time.
Then as Patricia rose slowly to her feet, the bowl of flowers in her
hands, he sprang up at her with a sharp little bark of delight.
"Down!" she warned sharply. "Custard Kirby, if you make me drop this
punchbowl I don't know what Aunt Julia _will_ say!"
It seemed to Patricia as if that journey upstairs to the spare bedroom
never would be made in safety; but it was accomplished at last, and her
burden placed right in the center of the low reading-table, standing at
one side of the south window.
With a long breath of relief, Patricia sat down on the edge of the bed,
looking about the big pleasant room with approving eyes. It was exactly
the sort of room she should like to have when she got be a grandmother.
There were fresh muslin curtains at the windows, the fine old-fashioned
mahogany furniture shone from its recent polishing; on the broad hearth
a light fire was laid ready for the lighting, and at one corner of the
fireplace stood a big chintz-covered armchair. Of course there was a
footstool beside it. Patricia had seen to the footstool herself, hunting
it out up garret that morning. She had wondered why Daddy's eyes
twinkled at sight of it--Daddy would tell her nothing about grandmother,
she must wait and see. And Patricia so hated waiting for anything, from
surprises to scoldings.
"Yes, it certainly does look grandmothery, Custard," she said; "and
the flowers help a lot. I know she'll love asters; they're such an
old-ladyish flower. Mind, sir, you're not to go rushing at her! And the
very first time you run off with any of her things you're going to get
your ears boxed."
Custard wagged tentatively; boxing his ears appeared to him to belong to
Miss Kirby's special department.
"Miss P'tricia!" Sarah stood in the doorway, indignation in the very
points of her knotted turban--"Miss P'tricia, ain't yo' never be'n tole
not to sit on beds? 'Tic'larly beds all ready fo' comp'ny!"
Patricia slipped hurriedly to her feet; but by this time Sarah had
caught sight of something else. "Land sakes, Miss P'tricia! Ef yo' isn't
gone an' tuk Miss Julia's punchbowl--what she don't 'low no one but
herse'f to tech!"
Patricia put an arm around Sarah's waist, or rather, around as much of
it as she could encompass. "Aunt Julia wasn't in--and I wanted the very
nicest bowl I could think of. It is so perfectly lovely to have a
grandmother coming!"
There was a world of unconscious longing in Patricia's voice; no one,
not even Daddy, knew quite what the coming of her grandmother meant to
the little motherless girl. And a grandmother she had not seen since
babyhood. The coming weeks seemed to Patricia full of untold
possibilities.
"It do look pretty," Sarah admitted, as she went to smooth out the bed
covers. "'Pears like it was time yo' was gettin' your dress changed,
honey. Yo' best let me giv yo' hair a brush; seems like yo' never did
get the kinks out."
Patricia submitted with most unaccustomed patience to the finishing
touches Sarah insisted on giving her toilet. "I reckon yo'll do now,
honey," Sarah said at last.
"Only half an hour more and she'll be here, Custard," Patricia said to
the dog, sniffing inquiringly at the tips of her best shoes; "Daddy's
to meet the five-thirty train."
Patricia settled herself circumspectly in the hammock, smoothing out
her crisp white skirts. "Oh, I do wonder what she'll be like, really
I haven't even a photograph--grandmother doesn't like being
photographed--and I haven't seen her since I was three years old.
Custard, do you suppose she'll have an ear trumpet, like the Barkers'
grandmother? It's very embarrassing talking into an ear trumpet.
I rather hope she's short and--stoutish. I've been thinking over all
the people I know, and it seems to me that the short, stout ones are
mostly more good-natured than the other kinds."
Custard wagged agreeingly; he was short, and not his worst enemy could
accuse him of being thin. So far this coming of a grandmother did not
appeal to Custard; never before had he been refused a share of the
hammock; and those one or two preliminary nips he had taken at the toes
of Patricia's shiny shoes had been promptly squelched. To be talked to
and confided in was all very well, but a game of tag in the meadow
behind the house would have been a great deal more fun. Nor was Custard
quite sure what a grandmother was; he hoped it was something good to
eat.
Patricia had never known such a long half hour; she made one or two
trips down to the gate, walking carefully on the edge of the grass, so
as not to get her shoes dusty. It was very odd that Aunt Julia didn't
come home--Good, she was coming now.
"Isn't the train late?" Patricia demanded, the moment her aunt was
within earshot.
Miss Kirby smiled. "It isn't due yet, Patricia, for five minutes." She
didn't look in the least excited, going calmly up the garden path to the
house.
But then it wasn't _her_ grandmother who was coming; besides,
Patricia's gray eyes danced mischievously, she didn't know about the
punchbowl.
Patricia decided to wait down by the gate--explanations were such
tiresome things.
Then, in a few moments, far down the quiet village street she caught
sight of a familiar gig, duly attended by old Cæsar, the pointer.
The gig was quite close now. Patricia's heart gave a great jump, then
seemed to stand quite still.
She hadn't come!
There was a lady in the gig with Daddy; but--
Patricia turned sharply, and regardless of her shoes ran swiftly back up
the driveway and through the garden to the meadow beyond; never stopping
until she dropped, a little breathless heap, beside the brook.
Custard barked excitedly, thinking it some new move in this grandmother
game; then suddenly he poked his cold black nose in under the tossed
thatch of Patricia's brown curls. For Patricia was crying--and doing it
quite as earnestly and as thoroughly as she did most things.
At last she sat up, dabbing her eyes.
"She didn't come! And we were all ready--and now it can't be just the
same--when she does come. Custard, do you suppose it's a--a judgment
on me, for taking the punchbowl?"
Custard looked sober.
"I'll go put it right back. Oh, dear, I do hope that other person hasn't
stayed to supper!"
Patricia went back to the house, forlorn, bedraggled; very different
from the Patricia whom Sarah had sent downstairs not an hour before,
imploring her to "try and keep smarted up for once."
On the back porch she met her father.
"Patricia," he asked, "what does this mean? Why did you run away when
you saw your grandmother coming?"
Patricia gasped. "But, Daddy, she didn't come! I didn't see her! Oh, do
you mean, was that--I expected she'd have on a bonnet tied under her
chin--and a shawl--and glasses." Patricia was half crying again, her
head on her father's shoulder.
It was hard to relinquish the picture of the grandmother she had been
carrying in her mind for the past fortnight; a sort of composite picture
of all the grandmothers she knew in Belham.
And the doctor, understanding, comforted her, sending her to freshen
herself up again for supper, with the promise that it would all come
right--she would see.
On the upper landing Patricia came face to face with grandmother; a
grandmother who was tall and slender and dressed in some delicate gray
material that rustled softly when she walked, and gave forth a faint
scent of violets. There was very little gray in the dark wavy hair,
that framed a face altogether different from the placid wrinkled one
of Patricia's imaginings; but when Mrs. Cory said, "O Patricia!" and
held out her arms, Patricia went to her at once.
They sat down on the broad window seat to get acquainted; Patricia hoped
grandmother would not see she had been crying and how tumbled her clean
dress was. Though Mrs. Cory saw, she said nothing, she had the gift of
knowing what questions not to ask; only asking instead, "Patricia dear,
who put that delightful bowl of flowers in my room?"
Patricia's color deepened. "I did--grandmother; I thought you would
like them--they were," Patricia caught herself up, doubting now the
appropriateness of those "old-ladyish" flowers.
Fortunately Custard appeared at that moment, wagging ingratiatingly; and
grandmother at once responded to his overtures with a friendliness that
warmed not only the heart of Custard but of Custard's small mistress.
Patricia went to bed that night with her thoughts rather in a whirl.
"I suppose," she decided finally, "that she is one of those 'up-to-date
grandmothers' one reads about; anyhow, she's a dear and I love her, and
oh, Aunt Julia did behave beautifully about the punchbowl--she seemed to
appreciate what a delicate situation it was--and I'll never, never take
it again without asking."
On the whole, this "up-to-date grandmother" proved a most charming
possession; a grandmother who took long walks with one, who played
croquet with one, who planned delightful trips in town to shops and even
to matinees. And how delightful to know that one was the object of both
envy and interest to the other girls; to be able to show the tiniest of
enameled watches, straight from Paris; to have a grandmother who had
actually been in Egypt, and had seen the king and queen of England.
Patricia held her head very high in these days.
Yet at times there was an odd, barely defined feeling of something like
regret at the bottom of Patricia's heart.
This new grandmother was the best of chums and companions, but somehow
it was hard to realize that she was really a _grandmother_. And
before Patricia's inward gaze would pass the picture of a little
white-capped old lady, quietly knitting at one corner of the fireplace;
an old lady whose big Dutch pocket held an unfailing supply of ginger
nuts and peppermint drops, whose stories were all of those far-off days
when "I was a little girl."
But only at times; as a rule these days were too full for Patricia to
find time for inner visions.
"You're the luckiest girl, Patricia Kirby," Patricia's particular chum,
Nell Hardy, declared one morning on the way to school. "I think Mrs.
Cory's perfectly lovely; she always acts as if she was ever so glad to
see you."
Patricia swung her strap of books thoughtfully. "Daddy says she has a
beautiful manner. I'm going to be just like her."
Nell's quick glance was hardly flattering. "When?"
"Anyhow, she's _my_ grandmother!" Patricia retorted; she shook out
her short skirts, if only she could have silk linings. Clothes were
beginning to take on new meanings for Patricia.
"We'd better hurry," Nell said, "or we'll be late."
"Grandmother never really hurries."
"Maybe she did when she was going to school; there's the bell now!"
"Bet I'll be there first," Patricia said, darting ahead.
But she wasn't; it seemed as if all the babies and dogs in town chose
that particular moment to get right in her path, avoiding with equal
skill Nell's eager rush. What with picking up a baby here and stopping
to speak to one there--Patricia never could get by babies--Patricia
reached the schoolhouse just too late to join her line and had to wait
outside until the opening exercises were over.
It was by no means the first time; and Miss Carrol looked very grave as
Patricia slipped into her place a little later, trying to ignore Nell's
bob of triumph.
It was after supper that evening that the doctor called Patricia into
the office. "Patricia," he said, as she came to stand before him, "I met
Miss Carrol this afternoon."
"Yes, Daddy." Patricia's thoughts flew rapidly backward; had she been
doing anything very dreadful?
"She tells me that you have been tardy very frequently of late,
Patricia."
"Y-yes, Daddy."
"And yet you usually appear to start in good season?"
"Yes, Daddy; it--it doesn't seem to be the _starting_ early.
It's--such a lot of things always do seem to happen on the way."
"What kind of things, Patricia?"
"Well, you see, Daddy, there are such a lot of babies all along, they
just expect to be noticed; and sometimes I go for some of the girls and
they've something to do and I wait to help; and sometimes I go an errand
for old Mrs. Daly--you know she hasn't any one to go at home. If you
were with me you'd understand, Daddy."
The doctor smiled. "Oh, I understand all right, Patricia; still, this
being late for school has got to stop. Suppose every one in the room
came just a little late?"
"They don't," Patricia said; "most of the girls hate it."
"And you must learn to hate it too; as a means to that end, if it
happens again this week it must be only the yard on Saturday, Patricia."
"Daddy!" Patricia made swift calculation on the tips of her fingers; it
was Monday night--twice four made eight--eight pitfalls to be avoided or
else--Not once since her coming had grandmother failed to take Patricia
somewhere on Saturday afternoon.
All of this was in Patricia's gray eyes, as she lifted them appealingly
to her father. "Daddy, if you _could_ make it something else?"
"Are you going to give up the fight beforehand, Pat?"
"But you see, Daddy," Patricia quoted gravely, "I 'know my limitations.'
And besides, it isn't just me--grandmother'll be so disappointed; you
know we always go somewhere together Saturday afternoon."
"Which means a double reason for coming up to the mark, Patricia," the
doctor answered; and Patricia, with a little sigh, turned away.
She and Custard were alone in the sitting-room a little later, when Mrs.
Cory came in. Grandmother glanced at the sober face. "Is anything wrong,
dear?" she asked.
"I'm positive I can't make it," Patricia said forlornly.
"Make what?"
And Patricia explained.
"Of course you can, dear," grandmother said cheerily; "and indeed you
must; I've got a very special reason for wanting you to--I'm not going
to tell you what it is, however, until Saturday morning at breakfast."
"Over four days to wait! Grandmother, mayn't I have just the first
letter?"
Grandmother shook her head.
The next morning at breakfast she announced that she felt the need of
more regular exercise, and she thought she should take a short walk
every morning.
"Ah!" Dr. Kirby said, "about what time?"
"I should think--about half past eight," Mrs. Cory answered.
"A short walk _before_ breakfast is considered more beneficial by some."
Miss Kirby looked interested. "There are a good many pretty walks about
Belham," she said.
When Patricia came down the path, her strap of books over her shoulder,
and a get-there-early-or-die expression on her face, Mrs. Cory was just
turning out of the gate.
"Are you going in my direction, grandmother?" Patricia asked; and
grandmother replied that she was.
Later, sauntering slowly homewards, Mrs. Cory met the doctor. He drew
rein. "Well?" he asked.
She laughed softly. "Patrick, if you'd been with us! It was like making
a royal progress. There were exactly six babies, and I quite lost count
of the dogs, not to mention several old ladies, all waiting to pass the
time of day with Patricia. My only wonder is that she ever gets to
school at all. Patrick, I don't believe you realize what a dear child
she is."
"Don't I!"
Mrs. Cory stood a moment looking down the pleasant tree-bordered street.
She had not been in Belham before since the death of Patricia's mother,
more than eight years ago, having been abroad most of the time. Now she
found herself regretting this long absence. She had been missing a good
deal--she would like to have had some share in Patricia's life all these
years.
"I was beautifully early this morning," Patricia announced proudly at
the table that noon.
"And you will be this afternoon?" grandmother asked.
"I'm not so apt to be late afternoons," Patricia answered; "I suppose
it's just happened that way."
The next morning after breakfast, Patricia lingered. "Are you going my
way _this_ morning, grandmother?"
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Cory answered.
Patricia caught the smile in her father's eyes and wondered.
Half-way to school she suddenly stopped. "Grandmother, you're doing it
on purpose--to _make_ me get there early!"
Mrs. Cory smiled. "You see I didn't want to lose my treat, Patricia."
When Friday noon came Patricia had not one tardy mark for those four
days; and on that same Friday noon she met her Waterloo.
It was the Dixon baby who caused her downfall.
He was one of Patricia's most ardent admirers; and when he saw
her coming that noon he made as straight for her as his very shaky
two-year-old legs would allow. Of course he tumbled down and scratched
his snubby little nose; and of course Patricia stopped to pet and
comfort him, carrying him back to the house. "Mrs. Dixon," she called
from the gate, "oh, Mrs. Dixon!"
But Mrs. Dixon had just stepped over to a neighbor's. Patricia tried to
put her charge down, but he stoutly refused to be put.
"You'll be late, Patricia," Nell warned, coming up.
"Danny won't let me leave him; and I don't know where his mother is,"
Patricia almost wailed.
"Mercy, put him down and come on!" Nell advised. "He's a little
nuisance."
"You don't know Danny's powers for hanging on," Patricia said; "besides,
he did hurt himself."
Five minutes after school had opened Patricia made her appearance.
"Patricia," Miss Carrol said, "I had begun to hope that you were not
going to end the week as you began it."
Patricia took her place without answering.
Miss Kirby and Mrs. Cory had gone in town that afternoon, not to return
until the late train, and it so happened that the doctor did not come
home to supper; so there was no one but Sarah to notice the depths into
which Patricia was plunged. For Patricia never did anything by halves.
"Is yo' sick, honey?" Sarah asked anxiously, when Patricia refused a
second piece of chocolate cake.
Patricia shook her head. "I'm just disgusted with life."
"Land sakes!" Sarah exclaimed; "and only this noon looked like yo' was
walkin' on air!"
Patricia went to bed early that night; even Custard's powers to comfort
had proved inadequate. To-morrow stretched ahead a long, blank, dreary
waste.
She was a little late to breakfast the next morning; as she slipped into
place, after kissing him good-morning, the doctor glanced at her rather
closely. She was a most subdued Patricia.
And then grandmother came in, also a little late. "Patricia," she said,
almost at once, "after breakfast I want you to run over and ask Mrs.
Hardy if Nell may go in town with you and me to-day--to the circus."
Patricia caught her breath--so that was the "special reason!"
Then she pushed her chair back. "I--can't go!" she cried; and was
halfway upstairs before any of the others could speak.
Mrs. Cory turned to Miss Kirby. "What can be the matter?"
Miss Kirby shook her head. "Do you know what it means, Patrick?"
The doctor looked guilty. "I am afraid it means--that Patricia has been
late to school again."
"But I thought," grandmother began, then stopped; as soon as she had
finished her breakfast she went up to Patricia's room.
Coming down a few moments after, she went straight to the office.
"Patrick," she said, "I have been finding out how Patricia came to be
late; and remember, please, that Patricia herself has given me only the
barest facts, with no thought of making out a case for herself, but
reading between the lines--" and then the doctor was given the
opportunity to also read between the lines.
He listened gravely. "I know," he said at last, "it was a very
Patricia-like action; still I am afraid I must stand by my word."
"Patrick, I think I shall claim my prerogative."
"Your what?"
"Prerogative--as a grandmother. From time immemorial it has been the
right of the grandmother to come to the rescue of the grandchildren."
"But Patricia knows--"
"It is my chance, you see,"--Mrs. Cory had been told why Patricia had
run away that first night,--"my chance to prove to Patricia that even
if I don't wear a cap and spectacles and all the paraphernalia of the
good old-fashioned grandmother, at heart I really am one--just as
soft-hearted and unreasonable as any one of them."
"But--"
"Patrick, didn't _your_ grandmother ever get _you_ out of a
tight place?"
The doctor looked thoughtfully out at the leaf-covered lawn; it was
going to be a perfect fall day. "Yes," he said, "she did, more than
once--bless her--in the most reprehensible way."
"The way of a grandmother the world over," Mrs. Cory commented softly.
"And upon my word I don't believe it did me any harm!" the doctor went
through to the foot of the stairs. "O Pat!" he called.
Patricia came promptly, bravely blinking back the tears.
"You mustn't lay it up against _me_, Pat," the doctor said; "it's
all your grandmother's doing. She simply insists on taking you to that
circus today."
"Daddy!" Patricia's arms were about his neck instantly; "Daddy, I
_will_ try--ever 'n' ever so hard! You'll see!"
The doctor laughed. "Wish I were going too, Pat. In my young days it was
_after_ the circus that one appreciated most the advantages of
owning a grandmother."
"Where is grandmother, Daddy?"
"In the office."
Patricia flew to the office. "Oh," she cried, her arms around her
grandmother's neck this time, "you're the very grandmotheriest
grandmother that ever could be!"
And then and there vanished forever from Patricia's heart that picture
of a placid, wrinkled little old lady, knitting quietly at one corner of
the fireplace.