V
The next day was a dismal day by nature, and Mrs. MacAdams did nothing to make it better. She gave Dr. Joe the worst breakfast he had yet had, and she presented a curious and disturbing appearance. She had a bandage around her throat and another around her left wrist, and a plug of cotton wool in one ear. Time was when Dr. Joe would have made kindly inquiries about these matters, but not now. He had learned that her troubles were all due to opening the door for patients, to answering the telephone, or to going up and down the stairs; and as he couldn’t remove the cause, he was obliged to ignore the symptoms.
Nevertheless it disturbed him and made him feel guilty, and he set off to make his rounds in an unusually downcast mood. He did not forget that he had promised Molly Ryan to find her another job. Indeed, he forgot nothing at all about Molly—not even the way her dark hair curled above her ears; but his morning was too busy and hurried, and he had no chance to serve her. And this made him feel worse.
When he came home at lunch time, he did not run up the steps. He walked, and this gave him an opportunity to observe that the glass in the door was grimy and the curtain covering it limp and spotted. He was about to fling open the door when, to his surprise, it was opened for him. It was opened by Miss Ryan, hatless, and wearing an apron.
“Lots of people in the waiting room,” she whispered. “Your lunch is all ready.”
“See here!” he cried, astounded, but she had hurried off down the passage.
He followed her into the dining room. There was a clean cloth on the table, and its radiance dazzled him. There was a wonderful aroma in the air.
“Sit down!” said she, and vanished into the kitchen.
He did sit down, dazed and helpless. In a minute back she came, with a broiled steak such as no man had ever eaten before, and fried potatoes, and tomato salad, and other things.
“Please eat it while it’s nice and hot,” she said.
“See here!” cried Dr. Joe again. “What are you doing here?”
“Begin to eat, then!” she insisted sternly. “Well, you see, you must have dropped your notebook out of your pocket last night. I found it on the veranda this morning, and I thought I’d better bring it to you. When I came, that Mrs. MacAdams—well, she marched upstairs and got her hat and coat, and she said—”
Miss Ryan paused.
“Well, what did she say?” the doctor asked.
“All sorts of nasty, silly things,” answered Molly, growing very red. “Any[Pg 267]how, she went out of the house and said she was never coming back if—”
“If what?”
“Oh, nothing!” said Miss Ryan hastily. “Only—she went. Some one had to get your lunch, so I stayed.”
“You—stayed!” Dr. Joe repeated, as if stunned. “You—stayed!”
Miss Ryan grew redder than ever.
“It wasn’t anything to do,” she said. “I couldn’t go to work, anyway, on account of Frankie, because grandma hasn’t come back yet.” Her face changed. “I can’t help thinking it’s queer,” she went on anxiously. “I can’t help worrying. She never did such a thing before. She just left a note.”
The girl hesitated for a moment. Then from the pocket of her apron she drew out a piece of wrapping paper and handed it to him. On it was printed, in pencil:
i have to go away a wile—gran.
Miss Ryan watched Dr. Joe while he read it; then their eyes met.
“She’s the finest woman God ever made,” said Molly quietly. “She’s done everything in the world for me. She’s worked and slaved so that I could have an education—and all the things she’s never been able to have.”
Dr. Joe understood all that she meant him to understand, and he loved her for it. Yes, he admitted that he loved her. He knew it wasn’t the proper time to love her; he had only seen her twice. But he did, just the same.
“Molly Ryan!” he said.
Even the tips of Miss Ryan’s ears grew red.
“I—I can’t think about anything but grandma just now,” she said. “I’m—I’m so worried about her!”
“I’ll look after her,” said Dr. Joe. “I’ll see that she doesn’t go out scrubbing any more. I’ll look after Frankie, too; and if you’ll only let me—”
“There’s the doorbell!” cried Molly.
“I’ll go!” said Dr. Joe.
“Oh, do please eat your nice hot lunch!” said she.
“Won’t have you waiting on me!” he returned.
They both reached the doorway at the same instant, and there was not room there for the broad-shouldered doctor and any one else; so he turned, and they faced each other.
“Won’t you let me help you?” he said. “I don’t know how to explain—it has come so suddenly. Of course, I know you don’t—of course, you can’t—but—”
“It’s the lunch,” said Miss Ryan. “You’re so glad to get a decent meal.”
“It’s not!” he denied indignantly. “It’s—if you’d only just come here twice a day, and stand in the hall and smile when I come in!”
Then they both began to laugh.
“It’s not a joke, though,” said Dr. Joe.
“I know it,” said she. “I didn’t mean to be silly and horrid; only, until grandma comes back—”
The doorbell rang again. This time Molly got ahead of him, and ran down the passage.
“Grandma!” she cried, as she opened the door.
Katie entered with a bland smile.
“Good day to ye, doctor!” she said.
Dr. Joe was remarkably glad to see her again.
“Well!” he said, with a smile. “You’ve been causing a good deal of anxiety—”
“It’s sorry I am for that,” she broke in; “but it couldn’t be helped at all.”
“But where—” Molly began.
“Whisht now!” said Katie. “It’s about Frankie I’ve come. Ye had the bye with ye yesterday; and what did ye think of him, doctor dear?”
“I was talking to Miss Ryan about that,” replied Dr. Joe seriously. “I’d just told her that I’d be glad to look after the boy, and—”
“D’ye mean it, doctor dear? D’ye mean ye’ll make a doctor out of him?” she cried.
“If that’s what he wants when—”
Katie looked steadily at him for a minute, then she turned toward the door.
“My work’s done,” she said. “Ye’ve tould me ye’d make a doctor of him, an’ ye’ll do it. Good day to ye, doctor dear!”
“Here! Wait a minute!” he called. “I’d like to speak to you. Come in and have lunch with me.”
Katie stopped and faced him again, and he was aware of a fine dignity in her.
“Ye’d ask an ould woman like me to sit down at the table with ye?” she inquired gravely.
Dr. Joe flushed a little.
“I have asked you,” he said.
Her keen little eyes were still fixed on his face.[Pg 268]
“Then ye’re not one o’ thim that—then ye’d not think the worse of Frankie if his parents wasn’t the grand, rich people they are?”
“See here!” said Dr. Joe. “You have some mighty queer ideas!”
“It is not myself has the queer ideas,” said she. “It’s others has thim. I’m an ould woman, an’ I have seen a lot. If Frankie’s parents wasn’t Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Depew of New York, he’d niver have been took into that academy; but they writ a latter, the two o’ thim, and he is there.”
“Granny!” cried Molly.
“Whisht now!” said the other. “I know well what I’m doin’. Didn’t I see the way it wint with me own bye? If Frankie was to be the greatest doctor that ever lived, he’d niver be the equal o’ that bye. He come here from the ould country, and not a penny in his pockets. It was in his head he’d be a doctor; so he worked in the days and studied in the nights. Thim that had money had all their time for the studyin’, and they wint ahead of him. Five years he took for that they’d do in two, him workin’ in a garage in the days. Thin what does he do but get married? A fine girl she was, too—a fine girl. ‘She’ll help me,’ says he, ‘for she’s had a grand education.’ A school-teacher she was, a fine girl. Thin Molly was born, and the two o’ thim schemin’ and plannin’ the way she’d be a doctor’s daughter, and the grand time she’d have of it. Thin the war came and he wint, like the rest o’ thim, and in the end of it he was kilt; and it wasn’t so long before the poor girl died, too.” Katie was silent for a moment. “But it’s different with Frankie,” she said. “He’ll have a grand chance!”
“He will,” said Dr. Joe. “He would, even if his parents weren’t Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Depew of New York.”
She gave the doctor a startled, sidelong glance.
“But they are!” she insisted.
“Certainly, if you say so,” agreed Dr. Joe; “but I can’t help thinking that it’s rather a pity. A father like that boy of yours, for instance, would be some one he could be proud of.”
“And an ould grandmother that scrubs floors?”
“I couldn’t think of a much better one,” said Dr. Joe, pretending not to notice that she was hastily wiping her eyes.
“Whatever way it is,” she said, “I had me mind made up Frankie should get his chance. And now ye’ve promised me, doctor dear, and I can go off home to me brother in the ould country.”
“Granny!” cried Molly. “But what about me? You can’t—”
The old woman laid her hand on Molly’s shoulder.
“Ye’ll get on, acushla,” she said gently. “I want to go back to the ould country, and to what frinds is left me there. You’ll get on, you and Frankie, the both o’ ye. Where is the bye?”
“He’s in the kitchen, eating his lunch. But, granny—”
“Lave him come here,” said she, “so I can have a word with him.”
When Molly had gone, she turned again to the doctor.
“Studyin’ music, she was, and goin’ to be one o’ thim—thim that gives concerts an’ all,” she told him; “but I couldn’t go on with it. Frankie’s a bye, and it’s a bye has to have the chance.”
“You may be sure that if there’s anything I can do for her,” said Dr. Joe, “I will.”
“Well, there might be something,” said Katie judicially. Then Dr. Joe was astounded to see a grin on the old woman’s face—not a smile, but a broad grin. “Doctor dear,” she continued, “didn’t I pick ye out, the day I saw ye in the clinic, an’ me there with Mrs. O’Day? Didn’t I know if ye once set eyes on the two o’ thim—Frankie and Molly—ye’d be a frind to thim? I’m an ould woman. I cannot do much more for thim. I wint off to Mrs. O’Day’s last night, the way ye’d get better acquainted with thim. Sure, ye’re not angry with me, doctor dear?”
He was not.
On Sunday morning Mrs. Bennett telephoned to Dr. Joe, to remind him that he had promised to come to dinner that night. She knew by his tone that he had forgotten all about it.
“But—yes, of course,” he said. “I—yes; but see here! I—I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask Molly.”
“Molly, Dr. Joe?”
“Yes,” he answered, with immense pride. “Girl I’m going to marry next month. Can’t very well make any arrangements without consulting Molly, you know![Pg 269]”
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
NOVEMBER, 1925
Vol. LXXXVI NUMBER 2
The Worst Joke in the World
A STORY WHICH THROWS A NEW AND INTERESTING LIGHT UPON THE TIME-HONORED PROBLEM OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
MRS. CHAMPNEY was putting the very last things into her bag, and Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane sat watching her. The room in which she had lived for nearly four years was already strange and unfamiliar. The silver toilet articles were gone from the bureau. The cupboard door stood open, showing empty hooks and shelves. The little water colors of Italian scenes had vanished from the walls, and the books from the table. All those things were gone which had so charmed and interested Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane.
They were old ladies, and to them Jessica Champney at fifty was not old at all. With her gayety, her lively interest in life, and her dainty clothes, she seemed to them altogether young—girlish, even, in her enthusiastic moments, and always interesting. They loved and admired her, and were heavy-hearted at her going.
“You’ve forgotten the pussy cat, Jessica,” Mrs. Maxwell gravely remarked.
“Oh, so I have!” said Mrs. Champney.
Hanging beside the bureau was a black velvet kitten with a strip of sandpaper fastened across its back, and underneath it the inscription:
SCRATCH MY BACK
It was intended, of course, for striking matches. As Mrs. Champney never had occasion to strike a match, this little object was not remarkably useful. Nor, being a woman of taste, would she have admitted that it was in the least ornamental; but it was precious to her—so precious that a sob rose in her throat as she took it down from the wall.
She showed a bright enough face to the old ladies, however, as she carried the kitten across the room and laid it in the bag. She had often talked to these old friends about her past—about her two heavenly winters in Italy, about her girlhood “down East,” about all sorts of lively and amusing things that she had seen and done; but she had said very, very little about the period to which the velvet kitten belonged.
It had been given to her in the early days of her married life by a grateful and adoring cook. It had hung on the wall of her bedroom in that shabby, sunny old house in Connecticut where her three children had been born. She could not think of that room unmoved, and she did not care to talk of it to any one.
Not that it was sad to remember those bygone days. There was no trace of bitterness in the memory. It was all tender and beautiful, and sometimes she recalled things that made her laugh through the tears; but even those things she couldn’t talk about.
There was, for instance, that ridiculous morning when grandpa had come to see the baby, the unique and miraculous first baby. He had sat down in a chair and very gingerly taken the small bundle in his arms, and the chair had suddenly broken beneath his portly form. Down he crashed, his blue eyes staring wildly, his great white mustache fairly bristling with horror, the invaluable infant held aloft in both hands. If she had begun to tell about that, in the very middle of it another memory might have come—a recollection of the day when she had sat in that same room, the door locked, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes staring ahead of her at the years that must be lived without her husband, her friend and lover.
She had thought she could not bear that,[Pg 271] but she had borne it; and the time had come when the memory of her husband was no longer an anguish and a futile regret, but a benediction. She had lived a happy life with her children. They were all married now, and in homes of their own, and she was glad that it should be so.
These four years alone had been happy, too. Her children wrote to her and visited her, and their family affairs were a source of endless interest. She had all sorts of other interests, too. She made friends readily; she was an energetic parish worker; she loved to read; she enjoyed a matinée now and then, or a concert, and the conversation of Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane.
With all her heart she had relished her freedom and her dignity. Her children were always asking her to come and live with one or the other of them, but she had always affectionately refused. She believed that it wasn’t wise and wasn’t right.
She had stayed on in this comfortable, old-fashioned boarding house in Stamford, cheerful and busy. It had been a delight beyond measure to her to send a little check now and then to one of her children, a present to a grandchild, some pretty thing that she had embroidered or crocheted to her daughters-in-law. Her elder son’s wife had written once that she was a “real fairy godmother,” and Mrs. Champney never forgot that. It was exactly what she wanted to be to them all—a gay, sympathetic, gracious fairy godmother.
But she wasn’t going to be one any longer. What her lawyer called a “totally unforeseen contingency” had arisen, and all her life was changed. He was a young man, that lawyer. His father had been Mrs. Champney’s lawyer and friend in his day, and she had, almost as a matter of course, given the son charge of her affairs when the elder man died.
She had not wanted either of her sons to look after things for her. She didn’t like even to mention financial matters to people she loved. Indeed, she had been a little obstinate about this. And now this “totally unforeseen contingency” had come, to sweep away almost all of her income, and with it the independence, the dignity, that were to her the very breath of life.
If it had been possible, she would not have told her children. She had said nothing when she had received that letter from the lawyer—such an absurd and pitiful letter, full of a sort of angry resentment, as if she had been unjustly reproaching him. She had gone to see him at once. She had been very quiet, very patient with him, and had asked very few questions about what had happened. She simply wanted to know exactly what there was left for her, and she learned that she would have fifteen dollars a month.
So she had been obliged to write to her children, and they had all wanted her immediately; but she chose her second son, because he lived nearest, and she hadn’t enough money for a longer journey. Now she was ready to go to his house.
She locked the bag and gave one more glance around the empty room.
“Well!” she said cheerfully. “That seems to be all!”
Mrs. Maxwell rose heavily from her chair.
“Jessica,” she said, not very steadily, “we’re going to miss you!”
Mrs. Deane also rose.
“Whoever else takes this room,” she added sternly, “it won’t be you—and I don’t care what any one says, either!”
Mrs. Champney put an arm about each of them and smiled at them affectionately. She was, in their old eyes, quite a young woman, full of energy and courage, trim and smart in her dark suit and her debonair little hat; but she had never before felt so terribly old and discouraged.
She couldn’t even tell these dear old friends that she would see them again soon, for in order to see them she would have either to get the money for the railway ticket from her son, or else to invite them to her daughter-in-law’s house. It hurt her to leave them like this—and it was only the beginning.
At this point the landlady came toiling up the stairs.
“The taxi’s here, Mrs. Champney,” she said, with a sigh. “My, how empty the room does look!”
So Mrs. Champney kissed the old ladies and went downstairs. The two servants were waiting in the hall to say good-by to her. She smiled at them. Then the landlady opened the front door, and Mrs. Champney went out of the house, still smiling, went down the steps, and got into the taxi.
She sat up very straight in the cab, a valiant little figure, dressed in her best shoes, with spotless white gloves, and her[Pg 272] precious sable stole about her shoulders—and such pain and dread in her heart! There was no one in the world who could quite understand what she felt in this hour. To other people she was simply leaving a boarding house where she had lived all by herself, and going to a good home where she was heartily welcome, to a son whom she loved, a daughter-in-law of whom she was very fond, and a grandchild who was almost the very best of all her grandchildren; but to Mrs. Champney the journey was bitter almost beyond endurance.
She loved her children with all the strength of her soul, but she had been wise in her love. She had tried always to be a little aloof from them, never to be too familiar, never to be tiresome. She had given them all she had, all her love and care and sympathy, and she had wanted nothing in return. She wished them to think of her, not as weak and helpless, but as strong and enduring, and always ready to give. And now—
“Now I’m going to be a mother-in-law,” she said to herself. “Oh, please God, help me! Help me not to be a burden to Molly and Robert! Help me to stand aside and to hold my tongue! Oh, please God, help me not to be a mother-in-law!”