Grandmother Harcourt was failing. Annette was rising towards life's
summit. Her grandmother was sinking to death's vale.
The hours are rifting day by day
Strength from the walls of living clay.
Her two children who were living in A.P. wished her to break up her home
and come and live with them. They had room in their hearts and homes for
her, but not for Annette. There was something in Annette's temperament
with which other members of the family could not harmonize. They were
not considerate enough to take into account her antenatal history, and
to pity where they were so ready to condemn. Had Annette been born
deficient in any of her bodily organs, they could have made allowance
for her, and would have deemed it cruel to have demanded that she should
have performed the same amount of labor with one hand that she could
have done with both. They knew nothing of heredity, except its effects,
which they were not thoughtful enough to trace back to the causes over
which Annette had no control, and instead of trying to counteract them
as one might strive to do in a case of inherited physical tendencies,
they only aggravated, and constantly strengthened all the unlovely
features in Annette's character, and Annette really seemed like an
anomalous contradiction. There was a duality about her nature as if
the blood of two races were mingling in her veins. To some persons
Annette was loving and love-able, bright, intelligent, obliging and
companionable; to others, unsociable, unamiable and repelling. Her heart
was like a harp which sent out its harmonious discords in accordance
with the moods of the player who touched its chords. To some who swept
them it gave out tender and touching melody, to others its harshest and
saddest discords. Did not the Psalmist look beneath the mechanism of the
body to the constitution of the soul when he said that "We are fearfully
and wonderfully made?"
But the hour came when all discussion was ended as to who was to shelter
the dear old grandmother in her declining years. Mrs. Harcourt was
suddenly paralyzed, and in a few days Annette stood doubly orphaned.
Grandmother Harcourt's children gathered around the bedside of their
dying mother. She was conscious but unable to speak. Occasionally her
eyes would rest lovingly upon Annette and then turn wistfully to her
children. Several times she assayed to speak, but the words died upon
her lips. Her eldest son entered the room just as life was trembling on
its faintest chords. She recognized him, and gathering up her remaining
strength she placed his hand on Annette's, and tried again to speak. He
understood her and said very tenderly,
"Mother, I will look after Annette."
All the care faded from the dear old face. Amid the shadows that never
deceive flitted a smile of peace and contentment. The fading eye lit up
with a sudden gaze of joy and wonder. She reached out her hand as if to
meet a welcome and precious friend, and then the radiant face grew
deathly pale; the outstretched hands relaxed their position, and with a
smile, just such a smile as might greet a welcoming angel, her spirit
passed out into the eternities, and Annette felt as she had never felt
before, that she was all alone. The love that had surrounded and watched
over her, born with her perverseness, and sheltered her in its warm
clasp, was gone; it had faded suddenly from her vision, and left in its
stead a dull and heavy pain. After the funeral, Mrs. Harcourt's children
returned to the house where they quietly but earnestly discussed the
question what shall be done with Annette. Mrs. Hanson's house was rather
small; that is, it was rather small for Annette. She would have found
room in her house if she only had room in her heart for her. She had
nursed her mother through her sickness, and said with unnatural
coldness, "I have got rid of one trouble and I do not want another."
Another sister who lived some distance from A.P., would have taken
Annette, but she knew that other members of her family would object, as
they would be fearful that Annette would be an apple of discord among
them. At length, her uncle Thomas decided that she should go with him.
He felt that his mother had died with the assurance on her mind that he
would care for Annette, and he resolved to be faithful in accepting what
was to him the imposition of a new burden on his shoulders. His wife was
a cold and unsympathizing woman. She was comfortably situated but did
not wish that comfort invaded by her husband's relations. In household
matters her husband generally deferred to her judgment, but here was no
other alternative than that of taking Annette under the shadow of his
home, or leaving her unprotected in the wide world, and he was too
merciful and honorable to desert Annette in her saddest hour of need.
Having determined that Annette should share his home, he knew that it
was advisable to tell his wife about his decision, and to prepare her
for Annette's coming.
"Well," said Dr. Harcourt's wife after her husband's return from the
funeral, "what are you going to do with Annette?"
"She is coming here," said Dr. Harcourt quietly and firmly.
"Coming here?" said Mrs. Harcourt, looking aghast. "I think at least you
might have consulted me."
"That is true, my dear, I would have gladly done so had you been present
when the decision was made."
"But where are her aunts, and where was your brother, John; why didn't
they take her?"
"John was at home sick with the rheumatism and sister Jane did not
appear to be willing to have her come."
"I guess Jane is like I am; got enough to do to look after her own
family."
"And sister Eliza said she hadn't any room."
"No room; when she has eight rooms in her house and only two children?
She could have made room for her had she chosen."
"May be her husband wasn't willing."
"Oh, it is no such thing. I know John Hanson[15] better than that; Liza
is the head man of that house, and just leads him by the nose wherever
she wants him to go, and besides, Mrs. Lord's daughter is there
pretending to pay board, but I don't believe that she pays it one-half
the time."
"She is company for Alice and they all seem very fond of her."
"I do get so sick of that girl, mambying and jambying about that family;
calling Liza and her husband 'Ma and Pa,' I haven't a bit of faith in
her."
"Well, I confess that I am not very much preposessed in her favor. She
just puts me in mind of a pussy cat purring around you."
"Well, now as to Annette. You do not want her here?"
"Not if I can help it."
"But can't she help you to work?"
"She could if she knew how. If wishes were horses beggars might ride.
Your mother made a great mistake in bringing Annette up. Annette has a
good education, but when that is said, all is said."
"Why, my dear mother was an excellent housekeeper. Did she not teach
Annette?"
"Your mother was out a great deal as a sick nurse, and when she went
away from home she generally boarded Annette with a friend, who did not,
as your mother paid her good board, exact any service from Annette, and
while with her she never learned to make a loaf of bread or to cook a
beefsteak, and when your mother was at home when she set Annette to do
any work, if she did it awkwardly and clumsily she would take it out of
her hand and do it herself rather than bother with her, and now I
suppose I am to have all the bother and worry with her."
"Well my dear."
"Oh don't come dearing me, and bringing me all this trouble."
"Well my dear, I don't see how it could be helped. I could not leave
Annette in the house all by herself. I couldn't afford to make myself
the town's talk. May be things will turn out better than you expect.
We've got children of our own, and we don't know when we are gone, how
they will fare."
"That is true, but I never mean to bring my children up in such a way
that they will be no use anywhere, and no one will want them."
"Well, I don't see any other way than bringing Annette here."
"Well, if I must, I must," she said with an air of despondency.
Dr. Harcourt rode over to his sister's where Annette was spending the
day and brought the doubly orphaned girl to his home. As she entered the
room, it seemed as though a chill struck to her heart when her Aunt bade
her good morning. There was no warm pressure in the extended hand. No
loving light in the cold unsympathizing eyes which seemed to stab her
through and through. The children eyed her inquisitively, as if wishing
to understand her status with their parents before they became sociable
with her. After supper Annette's uncle went out and her aunt sat quietly
and sewed till bed time, and then showed Annette to her room and left
the lonely girl to herself and her great sorrow. Annette sat silent,
tearless, and alone. Grief had benumbed her faculties. She had sometimes
said when grandmother had scolded her that "she was growing cross and
cold." But oh, what would she not have given to have had the
death-created silence broken by that dear departed voice, to have felt
the touch of a vanished hand, to have seen again the loving glance of
the death darkened eye. But it was all over; no tears dimmed her eye, as
she sat thinking so mournfully of her great sorrow, till she unfastened
from her neck a little keepsake containing a lock of grandmother's hair,
then all the floodgates of her soul were opened and she threw herself
upon her bed and sobbed herself to sleep. In the morning she awoke with
that sense of loss and dull agony which only they know, who have seen
the grave close over all they have held dearest on earth. The beautiful
home of her uncle was very different from the humble apartments; here
she missed all the freedom and sunshine that she had enjoyed beneath the
shelter of her grandmother's roof.
"Can you sew?" said her aunt to Annette, as she laid on the table a
package of handkerchiefs.
"Yes ma'm."
"Let me see how you can do this," handing her one to hem. Annette hemmed
the handkerchief nicely; her aunt examined it, put it down and gave her
some others to hem, but there was no word of encouragement for her, not
even a pleasant, "well done." They both relapsed into silence; between
them there was no pleasant interchange of thought. Annette was tolerated
and endured, but she did not feel that she was loved and welcomed. It
was no place to which she could invite her young friends to spend a
pleasant evening. Once she invited some of her young friends to her
home, but she soon found that it was a liberty which she should be
careful never to repeat. Soon after Annette came to live with her aunt
her aunt's mother had a social gathering and reunion of the members of
her family. All Dr. Harcourt's children were invited, from the least to
the greatest, but poor Annette was left behind. Mrs. Lasette, who
happened in the house the evening before the entertainment, asked, "Is
not Annette going?" when Mrs. Harcourt replied, very coldly, "She is not
one of the family," referring to her mother's family circle.
A shadow flitted over the face of Mrs. Lasette; she thought of her own
daughter and how sad it would be to have her live in such a chilly
atmosphere of social repression and neglect at a period of life when
there was so much danger that false friendship might spread their lures
for her inexperienced feet. I will criticize, she said to herself, by
creation. I, too, have some social influence, if not among the careless,
wine-bibbing, ease-loving votaries of fashion, among some of the most
substantial people of A.P., and as long as Annette preserves her
rectitude at my house she shall be a welcome guest and into that
saddened life I will bring all the sunshine that I can.