It was towards the end of summer, when already there was a brisk touch of fall in the air, that Roy Beardsley fell ill with typhoid and for three weeks was a desperately sick man. Martin, who had various talks with the physician, told Jeannette that there was small hope of his recovery; certain phases of the case made it appear very grave.
Jeannette took Etta and Ralph to stay with her in the country and Mrs. Sturgis moved out to the flat in the Bronx to help Alice fight for Roy’s life. Jeannette, from the first, believed he was going to die; destiny, it seemed to her, had ordained it. For the first time in many years she got down on her knees in her bedroom and prayed. She realized more clearly than anyone else in the family what a tragedy Roy’s death would be to them all,—to helpless Alice and his helpless children, to her little mother, to Martin, to herself. She did not know what would become of Alice and her babies! How would they live? She and Martin would have to shoulder the responsibility, and they had difficulty in making ends meet as it was! Where would Martin get fifty or even twenty-five dollars a month to send Alice? And how could Alice and the children manage on so small a sum? Roy, she knew, had a three thousand dollar life insurance policy,—hardly more than enough to bury him decently! Alice could not go to work; she had not the faintest notion of how to earn a living. She was clever with her needle, but that was all. It was impossible to imagine her a seamstress! But she would either have to go into that work and let Jeannette keep the children, or she would have to live with her mother, while Mrs. Sturgis and Martin,—between them,—would have to contribute what they were able to their support! It was a terrible prospect in any case. Jeannette was ridden with fear of the catastrophe. How different it would be, she reminded herself, were she in Alice’s situation,—she with her profession and her experience in business! She had nothing to fear on that score; she could always take care of herself. Poor Alice!—poor little brown bird!—there would be nothing for her to do; she could not support herself, not to mention her two children! Jeannette remembered that once she had begged to be allowed to follow her sister’s example and go to work, and she recalled how she and her mother had vigorously opposed her. She wondered now if that had been right. Perhaps every woman ought to have a profession or at least a recognized means of earning her livelihood. How secure Alice would feel now in that case if Roy died! Grief-stricken, yes, but with the comforting knowledge that neither she nor her children need be dependent on anyone!
All day long as Jeannette watched Etta and Ralph playing under the apple trees, which had begun to shed their yellow leaves and the scant weazened fruit from their scraggy branches, she thought of Roy’s possible death and her sister’s plight. Any one of the family group could be spared better than he! Yes, even Alice! ... Oh, it would be a calamity,—a dreadful, horrible calamity if Roy died! ... Twenty times a day she closed her eyes and thought a prayer.
She enjoyed having the children with her. Etta was an affectionate, ebullient child, always ready with hugs and kisses; little Ralph placidly viewed the world with reposeful solemnity, made no demands, was amiably satisfied with any arrangement his elders or even his big sister thought wise, and in his gentleness was extraordinarily appealing.
Late in the afternoons, Jeannette would dress them in clean rompers, pull on their sweaters and set them out on the lower step of the front stoop to wait for Martin. There they would sit for sometimes an hour, or even longer, watching for him and at the first glimpse, Etta would run screaming to meet him with arms flung wide, Ralph following as best he could. Martin was particularly in love with the boy, and he would hold the baby in his lap for long periods, neither of them making a sound; or the child would grasp his finger and toddle beside him, see-sawing from one slightly bowed leg to another, to inspect the pool and perhaps capture a frog.
Only a miracle would stay Death’s hand, the doctor had said, but the miracle happened; very slowly the tide began to turn and inch by inch the flood of life came back to the wasted body of Roy Beardsley. Jeannette shed tears of gratitude when it was definitely asserted he would get well. She left the children in Hilda’s care and went to the city to rejoice with her mother and sister. They clung together the way they used to do before either of the girls was married, wept and sniffled and kissed one another again and again. Roy’s blue eyes seemed enormously large and dark when his sister-in-law saw him; his lip was drawn tight across his teeth and these protruded like the fangs of a famished dog. His cheeks were sunk in great hollows beneath his cheek-bones, and his hands were the hands of the starved. He was a living skeleton, but his great eyes acknowledged her presence and her smile, and there was a faint twitching of the tight-drawn lip. Although she had been prepared, she could not keep from betraying the shock his altered appearance gave her; he was indeed ghastly.
The averted tragedy sobered them all. Roy would be many weeks getting back his health and he must take particular care of himself during the approaching winter, the doctor cautioned. No one ever whispered the word “tuberculosis” but each knew it was that which Roy must guard against. If it could be managed, he ought to be taken to a warmer climate, the physician advised, and he must make no effort, but rest, drink milk and eat nourishing food for a long time until he had entirely regained his strength. His father eagerly wrote him to come to California; Jeannette and Martin asked to keep the children; everyone urged Alice to take her husband to the Golden State. So just before the first snow of the year, she and Roy departed westward, waving good-bye through the iron grill at the station to the little group behind it, who waved vigorously in return until “All aboard” was shouted, the porter helped Alice up into the vestibule and the train began slowly to move.
§ 3
The winter was hard. It was unusually cold and snow lay heavy in great mounds along the edges of the village streets, and beaten trails of it meandered through the frozen fields. Soot from the trains blackened the white drifts and the road-beds were rutted in sharp ridges, and gray ice, that crackled and shivered like glass underfoot, formed in the hollows. The leafless trees spread their branches in black nakedness against the bleak sky and the wind blew chilly across the bare countryside from the icy waters of the Sound.
Yet Jeannette knew her first happiness at Cohasset Beach. Her days were full of the care of her small niece and nephew. They were endearing mites, exacting, but warmly affectionate. She had had no experience in bringing up children but her mother came down to stay with her for a while, and Mrs. Drigo, who lived a hundred yards or so down the street, and had four healthy youngsters of her own, gave counsel in emergencies. Jeannette devoted herself to her task. She attacked the problem much as she would have met some untoward circumstance in business. She considered herself efficient, set great store by efficiency, and proposed to apply it to the care of her sister’s children. She devised a system and adhered to it.