Part 44

He wondered. He wondered why he had so many dishes made from roasts, and so seldom the roasts themselves. He wondered why the tablecloth was neither dirtier nor cleaner. If it was never changed, it would certainly have been worse than it was. It must, therefore, be clean sometimes; but he couldn’t remember having ever seen it so.

IV

It seemed a long time before Miss Ryan came back, but the delay was justified. Upon a tray she bore three plates. What there was in two of them Dr. Joe never knew, but what she set before him was a miracle. Cheese and eggs and toast were part of it, but there must have been other things.

His spirits revived, and so did Frankie’s. He made jokes, and Frankie laughed at them. So did Miss Ryan, but in a different way. Dr. Joe suspected that something was amiss with her, and later, when he was helping her on with her coat, he felt sure of it. The light in the hall was dim, and he bent nearer. It was true--there were tears in her eyes.

He said nothing at the moment. He waited until he had got them snugly stowed into the car, Miss Ryan beside him, with Frankie on her lap.

“What’s wrong, Miss Ryan?” he asked, in his blunt way.

“Why, nothing!” she answered brightly.

He knew there was, though. She wasn’t the sort of girl to have tears in her eyes for nothing. He thought about it for awhile, and then he came to a conclusion.

“Miss Ryan,” he inquired, “what do you do?”

In his wide experience of other people’s troubles, he had learned the terrible and pitiful importance of jobs, or the lack of them.

“Well, doctor,” she replied, “I play the piano in the music department of the Novelty Bazaar.”

“In the basement,” said Dr. Joe. “That’s not much of a job.”

He was acquainted with the Novelty Bazaar and its system of ventilation.

“Oh, it might be worse,” she returned cheerfully.

“Not very much,” said Dr. Joe.

Again he was silent, thinking of Miss Ryan at work in the basement of the Novelty Bazaar.

“I’m going to get you another job,” he announced abruptly.

“I wish you’d get yourself another housekeeper!” she cried, with a vehemence that startled him. “I never saw--anything so--awful. It’s a sh-shame!”

“See here!” said he, astounded. “You’re not crying about _that_?”

“I’m not c-crying at all,” replied Miss Ryan, with dignity. “Only--when I saw that kitchen--and that dinner--it’s cruel!”

This made him laugh.

“Cruel?” he said. “Mrs. MacAdams cruel? Poor old soul! She’s--”

“It is cruel,” said Miss Ryan, “when you’re so busy and so--wonderfully kind and good.”

He had been called kind and good often enough before in his life, but it had never sounded like this. He looked at Molly Ryan. The interior of the little car was well lighted, so that he could see her clearly, sitting there beside him, with Frankie in her strong young arms, and those blue eyes of hers misty. Kind? He wasn’t the only one.

“It’s down this street,” she told him. “There--that’s the house--with the white fence.”

He stopped the car before the house--such a poor, forlorn little house it was--and Miss Ryan tried to set Frankie on his feet; but Frankie would not stand. Limp and dazed with sleep, he sank down on the floor of the car.

“I’ll carry him,” said Dr. Joe. “Come on! We’ll make a dash for it.”

So they did make a dash for it, through the pelting rain, to the veranda of the poor little house, and Miss Ryan rang the bell. Nothing happened. She waited a moment, rang again, and then opened the door with a latchkey.

Dr. Joe followed her inside, still carrying Frankie. She had lighted an oil lamp on the table, and, as he came in out of the stormy darkness, there was a picture he did not soon forget. It was a very little room, and a very humble one; it was not tastefully furnished; indeed, regarded in detail, it was quite the contrary; but it was a home. It was clean and neat and blessedly tranquil in the lamplight. It was a house with a heart--and Molly Ryan was in it.

Frankie came to life now.

“Where’s Katie?” he demanded.

“She’s left a note,” said Molly. “I don’t understand. She’s never gone out so late before; but perhaps some of the people she works for sent for her.”

The girl looked perplexed and troubled. Dr. Joe was perplexed, too.

“People she works for?” he repeated. “Thought she was the boy’s nurse.”

“She is,” answered Molly; “only while he’s at school she--she does other things.”

“What other things?”

For a moment Molly looked dignified, and as if she would not answer, but she thought better of it. She looked up at Dr. Joe with the straightforward glance that he liked so well.

“She does day’s work, Dr. Joe--scrubbing and cleaning.”

“But see here--I don’t understand this! Do you mean to tell me that the boy’s parents have gone off and left him with his nurse, and haven’t given her any money to look after the child?”

“She does look after him!” cried Miss Ryan hotly. “He goes to the Lessell Academy. He’s getting the best education and the best care--”

“I’m sure of that,” interrupted Dr. Joe. “What I don’t understand is why his nurse has to go out scrubbing by the day. Why does the child live here? Why don’t his parents--”

“They can’t help it!” said Miss Ryan. Her cheeks were flaming, her blue eyes alight. “They’ve done the best they can. They’re the--the finest, most splendid people in the world. They--they just are!”

Dr. Joe respected her loyal defense; but he didn’t agree with her. He felt pretty sure now that Katie and this girl were burdened with the entire support of the boy, that they went shabby while he was well dressed, that they worked, scrubbing floors and playing the piano in the Novelty Bazaar, while Frankie went to an expensive private school. To his thinking, there was no possible excuse for parents who would do such a thing.

“See here!” he said. “I’ve got to go now--patients waiting for me. Send Frankie to me again to-morrow. No trouble to me. Fact is, I rather like to have him.”

Miss Ryan held out her hand, and Dr. Joe took it. He didn’t know what to say to her. He couldn’t very well ask her to come to see him, and he didn’t quite know how to suggest coming to see her; so he only gripped her little hand and said nothing, and it made him very unhappy. He wanted to see her, not just some time in the indefinite future, but the very next day and all other days. Going away from her was going away from home.

V

The next day was a dismal day by nature, and Mrs. MacAdams did nothing to make it better. She gave Dr. Joe the worst breakfast he had yet had, and she presented a curious and disturbing appearance. She had a bandage around her throat and another around her left wrist, and a plug of cotton wool in one ear. Time was when Dr. Joe would have made kindly inquiries about these matters, but not now. He had learned that her troubles were all due to opening the door for patients, to answering the telephone, or to going up and down the stairs; and as he couldn’t remove the cause, he was obliged to ignore the symptoms.

Nevertheless it disturbed him and made him feel guilty, and he set off to make his rounds in an unusually downcast mood. He did not forget that he had promised Molly Ryan to find her another job. Indeed, he forgot nothing at all about Molly--not even the way her dark hair curled above her ears; but his morning was too busy and hurried, and he had no chance to serve her. And this made him feel worse.

When he came home at lunch time, he did not run up the steps. He walked, and this gave him an opportunity to observe that the glass in the door was grimy and the curtain covering it limp and spotted. He was about to fling open the door when, to his surprise, it was opened for him. It was opened by Miss Ryan, hatless, and wearing an apron.

“Lots of people in the waiting room,” she whispered. “Your lunch is all ready.”

“See here!” he cried, astounded, but she had hurried off down the passage.

He followed her into the dining room. There was a clean cloth on the table, and its radiance dazzled him. There was a wonderful aroma in the air.

“Sit down!” said she, and vanished into the kitchen.

He did sit down, dazed and helpless. In a minute back she came, with a broiled steak such as no man had ever eaten before, and fried potatoes, and tomato salad, and other things.

“Please eat it while it’s nice and hot,” she said.

“See here!” cried Dr. Joe again. “What are you doing here?”

“Begin to eat, then!” she insisted sternly. “Well, you see, you must have dropped your notebook out of your pocket last night. I found it on the veranda this morning, and I thought I’d better bring it to you. When I came, that Mrs. MacAdams--well, she marched upstairs and got her hat and coat, and she said--”

Miss Ryan paused.

“Well, what did she say?” the doctor asked.

“All sorts of nasty, silly things,” answered Molly, growing very red. “Anyhow, she went out of the house and said she was never coming back if--”

“If what?”

“Oh, nothing!” said Miss Ryan hastily. “Only--she went. Some one had to get your lunch, so I stayed.”

“You--stayed!” Dr. Joe repeated, as if stunned. “You--stayed!”

Miss Ryan grew redder than ever.

“It wasn’t anything to do,” she said. “I couldn’t go to work, anyway, on account of Frankie, because grandma hasn’t come back yet.” Her face changed. “I can’t help thinking it’s queer,” she went on anxiously. “I can’t help worrying. She never did such a thing before. She just left a note.”

The girl hesitated for a moment. Then from the pocket of her apron she drew out a piece of wrapping paper and handed it to him. On it was printed, in pencil:

i have to go away a wile--gran.

Miss Ryan watched Dr. Joe while he read it; then their eyes met.

“She’s the finest woman God ever made,” said Molly quietly. “She’s done everything in the world for me. She’s worked and slaved so that I could have an education--and all the things she’s never been able to have.”

Dr. Joe understood all that she meant him to understand, and he loved her for it. Yes, he admitted that he loved her. He knew it wasn’t the proper time to love her; he had only seen her twice. But he did, just the same.

“Molly Ryan!” he said.

Even the tips of Miss Ryan’s ears grew red.

“I--I can’t think about anything but grandma just now,” she said. “I’m--I’m so worried about her!”

“I’ll look after her,” said Dr. Joe. “I’ll see that she doesn’t go out scrubbing any more. I’ll look after Frankie, too; and if you’ll only let me--”

“There’s the doorbell!” cried Molly.

“I’ll go!” said Dr. Joe.

“Oh, do please eat your nice hot lunch!” said she.

“Won’t have you waiting on me!” he returned.

They both reached the doorway at the same instant, and there was not room there for the broad-shouldered doctor and any one else; so he turned, and they faced each other.

“Won’t you let me help you?” he said. “I don’t know how to explain--it has come so suddenly. Of course, I know you don’t--of course, you can’t--but--”

“It’s the lunch,” said Miss Ryan. “You’re so glad to get a decent meal.”

“It’s not!” he denied indignantly. “It’s--if you’d only just come here twice a day, and stand in the hall and smile when I come in!”

Then they both began to laugh.

“It’s not a joke, though,” said Dr. Joe.

“I know it,” said she. “I didn’t mean to be silly and horrid; only, until grandma comes back--”

The doorbell rang again. This time Molly got ahead of him, and ran down the passage.

“Grandma!” she cried, as she opened the door.

Katie entered with a bland smile.

“Good day to ye, doctor!” she said.

Dr. Joe was remarkably glad to see her again.

“Well!” he said, with a smile. “You’ve been causing a good deal of anxiety--”

“It’s sorry I am for that,” she broke in; “but it couldn’t be helped at all.”

“But where--” Molly began.

“Whisht now!” said Katie. “It’s about Frankie I’ve come. Ye had the bye with ye yesterday; and what did ye think of him, doctor dear?”

“I was talking to Miss Ryan about that,” replied Dr. Joe seriously. “I’d just told her that I’d be glad to look after the boy, and--”

“D’ye mean it, doctor dear? D’ye mean ye’ll make a doctor out of him?” she cried.

“If that’s what he wants when--”

Katie looked steadily at him for a minute, then she turned toward the door.

“My work’s done,” she said. “Ye’ve tould me ye’d make a doctor of him, an’ ye’ll do it. Good day to ye, doctor dear!”

“Here! Wait a minute!” he called. “I’d like to speak to you. Come in and have lunch with me.”

Katie stopped and faced him again, and he was aware of a fine dignity in her.

“Ye’d ask an ould woman like me to sit down at the table with ye?” she inquired gravely.

Dr. Joe flushed a little.

“I have asked you,” he said.

Her keen little eyes were still fixed on his face.

“Then ye’re not one o’ thim that--then ye’d not think the worse of Frankie if his parents wasn’t the grand, rich people they are?”

“See here!” said Dr. Joe. “You have some mighty queer ideas!”

“It is not myself has the queer ideas,” said she. “It’s others has thim. I’m an ould woman, an’ I have seen a lot. If Frankie’s parents wasn’t Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Depew of New York, he’d niver have been took into that academy; but they writ a latter, the two o’ thim, and he is there.”

“Granny!” cried Molly.

“Whisht now!” said the other. “I know well what I’m doin’. Didn’t I see the way it wint with me own bye? If Frankie was to be the greatest doctor that ever lived, he’d niver be the equal o’ that bye. He come here from the ould country, and not a penny in his pockets. It was in his head he’d be a doctor; so he worked in the days and studied in the nights. Thim that had money had all their time for the studyin’, and they wint ahead of him. Five years he took for that they’d do in two, him workin’ in a garage in the days. Thin what does he do but get married? A fine girl she was, too--a fine girl. ‘She’ll help me,’ says he, ‘for she’s had a grand education.’ A school-teacher she was, a fine girl. Thin Molly was born, and the two o’ thim schemin’ and plannin’ the way she’d be a doctor’s daughter, and the grand time she’d have of it. Thin the war came and he wint, like the rest o’ thim, and in the end of it he was kilt; and it wasn’t so long before the poor girl died, too.” Katie was silent for a moment. “But it’s different with Frankie,” she said. “He’ll have a grand chance!”

“He will,” said Dr. Joe. “He would, even if his parents weren’t Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Depew of New York.”

She gave the doctor a startled, sidelong glance.

“But they are!” she insisted.

“Certainly, if you say so,” agreed Dr. Joe; “but I can’t help thinking that it’s rather a pity. A father like that boy of yours, for instance, would be some one he could be proud of.”

“And an ould grandmother that scrubs floors?”

“I couldn’t think of a much better one,” said Dr. Joe, pretending not to notice that she was hastily wiping her eyes.

“Whatever way it is,” she said, “I had me mind made up Frankie should get his chance. And now ye’ve promised me, doctor dear, and I can go off home to me brother in the ould country.”

“Granny!” cried Molly. “But what about me? You can’t--”

The old woman laid her hand on Molly’s shoulder.

“Ye’ll get on, acushla,” she said gently. “I want to go back to the ould country, and to what frinds is left me there. You’ll get on, you and Frankie, the both o’ ye. Where is the bye?”

“He’s in the kitchen, eating his lunch. But, granny--”

“Lave him come here,” said she, “so I can have a word with him.”

When Molly had gone, she turned again to the doctor.

“Studyin’ music, she was, and goin’ to be one o’ thim--thim that gives concerts an’ all,” she told him; “but I couldn’t go on with it. Frankie’s a bye, and it’s a bye has to have the chance.”

“You may be sure that if there’s anything I can do for her,” said Dr. Joe, “I will.”

“Well, there might be something,” said Katie judicially. Then Dr. Joe was astounded to see a grin on the old woman’s face--not a smile, but a broad grin. “Doctor dear,” she continued, “didn’t I pick ye out, the day I saw ye in the clinic, an’ me there with Mrs. O’Day? Didn’t I know if ye once set eyes on the two o’ thim--Frankie and Molly--ye’d be a frind to thim? I’m an ould woman. I cannot do much more for thim. I wint off to Mrs. O’Day’s last night, the way ye’d get better acquainted with thim. Sure, ye’re not angry with me, doctor dear?”

He was not.

* * * * *

On Sunday morning Mrs. Bennett telephoned to Dr. Joe, to remind him that he had promised to come to dinner that night. She knew by his tone that he had forgotten all about it.

“But--yes, of course,” he said. “I--yes; but see here! I--I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask Molly.”

“Molly, Dr. Joe?”

“Yes,” he answered, with immense pride. “Girl I’m going to marry next month. Can’t very well make any arrangements without consulting Molly, you know!”

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

NOVEMBER, 1925 Vol. LXXXVI NUMBER 2

The Worst Joke in the World

A STORY WHICH THROWS A NEW AND INTERESTING LIGHT UPON THE TIME-HONORED PROBLEM OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Mrs. Champney was putting the very last things into her bag, and Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane sat watching her. The room in which she had lived for nearly four years was already strange and unfamiliar. The silver toilet articles were gone from the bureau. The cupboard door stood open, showing empty hooks and shelves. The little water colors of Italian scenes had vanished from the walls, and the books from the table. All those things were gone which had so charmed and interested Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane.

They were old ladies, and to them Jessica Champney at fifty was not old at all. With her gayety, her lively interest in life, and her dainty clothes, she seemed to them altogether young--girlish, even, in her enthusiastic moments, and always interesting. They loved and admired her, and were heavy-hearted at her going.

“You’ve forgotten the pussy cat, Jessica,” Mrs. Maxwell gravely remarked.

“Oh, so I have!” said Mrs. Champney.

Hanging beside the bureau was a black velvet kitten with a strip of sandpaper fastened across its back, and underneath it the inscription:

SCRATCH MY BACK

It was intended, of course, for striking matches. As Mrs. Champney never had occasion to strike a match, this little object was not remarkably useful. Nor, being a woman of taste, would she have admitted that it was in the least ornamental; but it was precious to her--so precious that a sob rose in her throat as she took it down from the wall.

She showed a bright enough face to the old ladies, however, as she carried the kitten across the room and laid it in the bag. She had often talked to these old friends about her past--about her two heavenly winters in Italy, about her girlhood “down East,” about all sorts of lively and amusing things that she had seen and done; but she had said very, very little about the period to which the velvet kitten belonged.

It had been given to her in the early days of her married life by a grateful and adoring cook. It had hung on the wall of her bedroom in that shabby, sunny old house in Connecticut where her three children had been born. She could not think of that room unmoved, and she did not care to talk of it to any one.

Not that it was sad to remember those bygone days. There was no trace of bitterness in the memory. It was all tender and beautiful, and sometimes she recalled things that made her laugh through the tears; but even those things she couldn’t talk about.

There was, for instance, that ridiculous morning when grandpa had come to see the baby, the unique and miraculous first baby. He had sat down in a chair and very gingerly taken the small bundle in his arms, and the chair had suddenly broken beneath his portly form. Down he crashed, his blue eyes staring wildly, his great white mustache fairly bristling with horror, the invaluable infant held aloft in both hands. If she had begun to tell about that, in the very middle of it another memory might have come--a recollection of the day when she had sat in that same room, the door locked, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes staring ahead of her at the years that must be lived without her husband, her friend and lover.

She had thought she could not bear that, but she had borne it; and the time had come when the memory of her husband was no longer an anguish and a futile regret, but a benediction. She had lived a happy life with her children. They were all married now, and in homes of their own, and she was glad that it should be so.

These four years alone had been happy, too. Her children wrote to her and visited her, and their family affairs were a source of endless interest. She had all sorts of other interests, too. She made friends readily; she was an energetic parish worker; she loved to read; she enjoyed a matinée now and then, or a concert, and the conversation of Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Deane.

With all her heart she had relished her freedom and her dignity. Her children were always asking her to come and live with one or the other of them, but she had always affectionately refused. She believed that it wasn’t wise and wasn’t right.

She had stayed on in this comfortable, old-fashioned boarding house in Stamford, cheerful and busy. It had been a delight beyond measure to her to send a little check now and then to one of her children, a present to a grandchild, some pretty thing that she had embroidered or crocheted to her daughters-in-law. Her elder son’s wife had written once that she was a “real fairy godmother,” and Mrs. Champney never forgot that. It was exactly what she wanted to be to them all--a gay, sympathetic, gracious fairy godmother.