In the cold mornings when the children woke, they might look at their picture-books until she came in to dress them. They must not make any noise and Martin must not go in to play with them or even open their door to say “Hello” when he got up early to fix the furnace. They had their “poggy” and milk at eight and immediately thereafter were bundled into their woolly leggings, sweaters, hooded caps and mittens and sent out to play in the snow. They were to amuse themselves until eleven, when, furred and properly shod, their aunt appeared to take them with her to market, wheeling Ralph in his go-cart, while Etta trailed along beside them. Upon returning, the children had their luncheon, always a good full meal of baked potato, cut-up meat and vegetables, and a little dessert. Jeannette believed small children should have light suppers, and that their “dinner” should come at midday. After they had eaten, it was nap-time, and this was the blessed interval of relaxation for herself. Her charges must stay in bed until three o’clock, when they were re-dressed in their woolly leggings, sweaters and caps, and permitted to go out again to play in the snow. For the rest of her life, bits of watery ice stuck to the fine hairs of woollen garments always brought back to Jeannette with poignant emotion the memory of these days. When the children stamped into the house at the end of their play, their skins hard and coldly fresh, their breaths puffs of vapor, their cheeks crimson, the little sweaters and leggings would be encrusted with hard, icy snow. Jeannette would have a log fire going, and she would undress them before its crackling blaze and hang their damp outer garments on the fire screen to dry. The little naked figures dancing in the warm room in the flickering firelight was always a delightful sight to her. They were their merriest at this hour and said their cutest things with which she remembered later to regale Martin. Upstairs the oil heater would be warming the bathroom which Hilda had made ready and presently there would come a mad dash into the dining-room and up the cold stairway to the grateful temperature of the little room. And here began a great splashing with shrieks and admonitions, and here Jeannette dried their sweet little bodies and slipped them into their cotton flannel double-gowns. Then downstairs once more before the replenished log fire to sit on either side of her and empty their warmed bowls of crackers and milk and listen to the story she either read or told them until Martin came in to find them so. Then followed kisses and hugs all round and immediately thereafter the children were dispatched to bed with a final warning from their aunt that there must positively be no talking.
Thus it was day after day, always the same, relentlessly the same, undeviating monotony. Martin always praised Jeannette, her mother praised her, even the neighbors praised her. Alice wrote loving messages of deep gratitude. She responded to the general approval, delighted in the applause. The thought that she was proving herself equal to this unfamiliar rôle, that she was doing her job efficiently, comforted and inspired her. Revelling in her righteous duty, she threw herself passionately into its perfect execution. She gave it all her energy, thought and time. She told her husband and mother with much emphasis that Etta and Ralph were far better behaved now than they ever had been with their own father and mother.
“It’s routine, I tell you,” she would say. “Children respond to routine and this business of deviating from a strict schedule is demoralizing. A little firmness is all that is necessary in making children good. They really are very adaptable. I confess I was surprised. They learn so quickly! The minute Etta and Ralph saw when they first came that I wouldn’t stand for any foolishness, they were as meek as lambs.... I declare! Alice is so soft and easy-going with them, I hate to think of their being spoilt when they go back.”
It was another surprise to Jeannette to discover how little the presence of the children in the house disturbed Martin. She had thought he would grow restless after a time and that they would be certain to annoy him. She had been sure he would soon object to ties which would chain her to the house. Martin loved children—loved them particularly well for a man, perhaps—but he was often unreasonable where her time and movements were concerned, and had always rebelled at restraint. Now he mildly accepted the new element in their lives without protest and as time passed continued amiable. If she could not go out with him or accept an invitation, he did not reproach or even urge her, but praised her for her devotion, and often stayed at home to keep her company. Saturday nights, however, when the “gang” gathered at the Yacht Club, he went off to join them, but since the children were with her, Jeannette did not mind being alone in the house.
“Come home early,” she would say to him. “It’s such fun to have you in the house on Sundays and the children love it. I hate to have you wake up tired and hollow-eyed, and you know, Martin, when you get only two or three hours’ sleep you are sometimes a little cross and the children notice it.”
“You’re dead right,” he would agree with her readily. “I’ll tell the boys I’ve got to quit at midnight. They can begin the rounds then; there’s no sense in our sitting up until three or four o’clock in the morning.”
And often he kept his word.
§ 4
Alice and Roy had planned to stay six months in California, but in April Jeannette received a letter from her sister with the news that they had decided to return the first of May; Roy was in fine shape,—he was even fat!—they both were mad to see their children.
The letter left Jeannette feeling strangely blank. What was she to do without Etta and Ralph? She had talked a great deal about the fearful responsibility, the exacting care these youngsters involved and what a relief it would be to her when their mother came home to take them off her hands. She had aired these views to her own mother and to Mrs. Drigo, Mrs. Gibbs, and particularly to Martin. Yet now that Alice was coming a month, even six weeks sooner than she intended, she had none of the expected elation. A sadness settled upon her. She wondered how she would occupy herself when the babies were gone.