Roy’s oldest son, Ralph, was in many ways like his father. He had the same sweet, obliging nature and was even gentler. His voice had the quality of Baby Roy’s: indolent, drawling, dragging, and he spoke with a leisureliness that was often irritating. He was slight of build, narrow-chested and stoop-shouldered, a student by disposition, forever burrowing into a book or frowning over a magazine article. Jeannette would have considered this highly commendable had Ralph ever shown any evidence of having gleaned something from his reading, or displayed any knowledge as a result of it. What he read seemed to pass through his mind like water through a sieve.
She had brought down an advanced copy of the forthcoming issue of Corey’s Commentary for him, and he accepted this now, with an appreciative word.
She always made a point of bringing presents to her sister’s children whenever she visited them; she liked the reputation of never coming empty-handed. The gifts, themselves, might be trifling,—indeed she thought it becoming that they should be,—but she strove to make them sufficiently appropriate to indicate considerable thoughtfulness in their selection. She regarded herself as very generous where her nieces and nephews were concerned. Yesterday she had enabled Etta to buy a more expensive dress than was possible with the money her mother had given her, and last week she had sent Frank a fine sweater from a sale of boys’ sweaters she happened upon in a department store. Of all her sister’s children, Frank baffled her. He treated her casually, almost with indifference. While the other children swarmed about her with effusive gratitude and affection, whenever she gave them anything, Frank either grunted his thanks or failed to express them at all. She loved him by far the best, and was continually making him presents or defending him from criticism. Her partiality was so noticeable she was mildly teased about it by the rest of the family; but it drew no recognition from the boy. His aunt, eyeing him with great yearning in her heart, would often wonder how she could bribe him to put his stout, rough arms about her neck and kiss her once with warmth and tenderness. She was never able to stir him to the faintest betrayal of sentiment.
Her benevolence toward her sister’s family frequently went further than presents for the children. At Christmas-time she was munificent to them all, and she never forgot one of their birthdays. Once a year she took Nettie, Frank and Baby Roy to the Hippodrome, and on the occasional Saturdays that Alice or Etta came to the city, she always had them to lunch with her, accompanied them on their shopping trips, and contributed, here and there, to their small purchases. Not infrequently when she knew Alice was worrying unduly about some vexatious account, she would press a neatly folded bill into her hand. She liked the power that money gave her where they were concerned; she delighted in their gratitude and deference to her opinions; she was an important factor in their lives and she enjoyed the part.
§ 3
At one o’clock dinner was announced. There was little ceremony about the Beardsleys’ meals; the important business was to be fed. Kate, the cook and waitress,—a big-bosomed, wide-hipped Irish woman, with the strength of a horse and the disposition of a bear,—had scant regard for the preferences of any one member of the family she served. Her attention was concentrated upon her work; indeed, it required a considerable amount of clear-thinking and planning to dispatch it at all, and she brooked no interference. Roy, Alice, and the children were frankly afraid of her; even Jeannette admitted a wholesome respect.
“Oh, Kate’s in an awful tantrum!” the whisper would go around the house and the family would deport itself with due regard to Kate’s mood.
She piled the food on the table, rattled the bell and departed kitchenward, leaving the Beardsleys to assemble as promptly or as tardily as they chose. There never were but two courses to a meal: meat and dessert. Kate had no time to bother with soup or salad. Her cooking was good, however, and there were always great dishes of potatoes and other vegetables as well as a large plate of muffins or some other kind of hot bread. Jeannette firmly asserted that Kate’s meat pie with its brown crisp crust could not be surpassed in any kitchen.
To-day there were but seven at table as Nettie remained upstairs in bed. She would have crackers and milk later, her mother announced.
“Milk toast,” Jeannette suggested. But Alice shook her head and made a motion in the direction of the kitchen.