“Sure,” said Jack, suddenly become his blithe and buoyant self again. “You just take off your hat and look the other way, Mrs. Rosscott, and we’ll have you a lunch in a jiffy.”
Chapter Twelve
A Trap For Aunt Mary
In Aunt Mary’s part of the country the skies had been crying themselves sick for the last six weeks. The cranberry bog was a goner forever, it was feared, and a little house, very handy for sorting berries in, had had its foundations undermined, and disappeared beneath the face of the waters also.
Under such propitious circumstances, Aunt Mary sat by her own particular window and looked sternly and severely out across the garden and down the road. Lucinda sat by the other window sewing. Lucinda hadn’t changed materially, but her general appearance struck her mistress as more irritating than ever. Everything and everybody seemed to have become more and more irritating ever since Jack had been disinherited. Of course, it was right that he should have been disinherited, but Aunt Mary hadn’t thought much beforehand as to what would happen afterward, and it was too aggravating to have him turn out so well just when she had lost all patience with him and so cast him off forever, and for him to develop such a beautiful character, all of a sudden too—just as if education and good advice had been his undoing and seclusion and illness were the guardian angels arrived just in time to save him from the evil effects thereof.
It hadn’t occurred to Aunt Mary that people keep on living just the same even after they have been cut out of a will. And she never had counted on Jack’s taking his bitter medicine in the spirit he was manifesting. She had not calculated any of the possible effects of her hasty action very maturely, but she certainly had not anticipated a lamblike submission to even the harshest of her edicts, nor had she expected Jack to be one who would strictly observe the Bible regulations and so return good for evil—in other words, write her now when he had never written her in the bygone years (unless under sharpest financial stress of circumstances).
Yet such was the case. Jack had become a “ready letter-writer” ever since his removal to the city, whither some kind friends had invited him directly he could leave his sick-room. Aunt Mary did not know who the friends were and had hesitated somewhat as to opening the first letter. But it had borne no sting—being instead most sweetly pathetic, and since then, others had followed with touching frequency. Their polished periods fell upon the old lady’s stony hardness of heart with the persistent frequency of the proverbial drop of water. After the second she had ceased to regard the instructions given Lucinda as to mentioning her nephew’s name, and after the third he became again her favorite topic of conversation.
It seemed that the poor boy had had the misfortune to contract measles, and in his weakened state the disease had nearly proved fatal. You can perhaps divine the effect of this statement on the grand-aunt, and the further effect of the words: “But never mind, Aunt Mary,” with which he concluded the brief narration.
Aunt Mary had tried to snort and had sniffed instead; she had turned back to the first page, read, “All my head has been shaved, but I don’t care about having any more fun, anyhow,” and had let the letter fall in her lap. Every time that she had thought since of “our boy,” her anger had fallen hotter upon whoever was handiest. Lucinda (who was used to it) lived under a figurative rain of cinders, and thrived salamander-like in their midst; but Arethusa—who had come up for a week—found herself totally unable to stand the endless lava and boiling ashes, and fled back to the bosom of Mr. Arethusa the third morning after her arrival.
“I’ve got to go, I find,” she had yelled the night before her departure.
“I certainly wish you would,” replied her aunt. “I’m a great believer in married women paying attention at home before they begin to pry into their neighbors’ affairs. It’s a good idea. Most generally—most always.”