“It’s worth about three thousand—not more’n that,” said grandaunt, judicially. “And it’ll be hard to sell, for it’s built the craziest I ever saw—all twisted around from the way a sensible house ought to be.”
“We thought it very beautiful,” said mother meekly.
“Everyone to his taste. Mebbe we’ll find some fool ready to buy it. But even three thousand ain’t a great deal to raise two children on,” she added grimly, as she surveyed us through her glasses. “And mighty hearty children, too—big eaters and awful hard on their clothes.”
“Food is cheaper than medicine,” retorted mother, with some faint revival of her old self; but she collapsed again under grandaunt’s severe gaze.
“Some food is,” snapped grandaunt, “and some food ain’t,” and she directed her gaze toward a plate of oranges which stood on the sideboard. “And clothes,” she added, surveying our garments with disapproval. “But we’ll change all that. As I said, I’ll look out for you. But I’ve got to work out a plan. It’s a good thing you’re my only relatives, and there ain’t nobody else to think about.”
With that she dismissed us, and we went our several ways—Dick and I to the nursery, where we selected a little white-haired doll, dressed it in black, and solemnly hanged it on a gallows of Dick’s improvising. Mother came in and caught us at it; and laughed a little and cried a little, and then sat down with us on the floor and drew us to her and told us gently that we must not mind grandaunt’s abrupt ways; that she was sure she had a kind heart beating under all her roughness, and that we should grow to love her when we came to know her better. But I, at least, was not convinced.
Just at first, I think, mother was rather glad to have someone to cling to, someone to tyrannize over her and order her steps for her. She was like a ship without a rudder—grateful for any means of guidance. But as the days passed, the yoke began to gall. Grandaunt, accustomed practically all her life to having her own way, exacted an instant and complete obedience. She disdained to draw any glove over the mailed fist—that would have seemed to her an unworthy subterfuge. And at last, she announced the plan which she had formulated, whereby to work out our salvation.
“Of course you can’t stay here,” she began, when she had us assembled before her. “I’ll try to sell the house.”
“Yes,” agreed mother, with a sigh, “I suppose that is best.”
“Best!” echoed grandaunt. “There ain’t no best about it. It’s the only thing you can do. Besides, I can’t stay idlin’ around here any longer. I want to get back to my own house at Plumfield, where I expect to pass the rest of my days; I hope in peace,” she added, though by the way she looked at us, it was evident she had grave doubts as to whether the hope would be realized. “I’ve been away too long already,” she continued. “I dare say, Abner and Jane are lettin’ the place run to rack and ruin—I’ve never been away from it for this long in forty year. You, Clara, and the girl—we’ll try to find a sensible name for her—I’ve been thinkin’ about Martha or Susan—”