CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
So the weeks passed until one afternoon in early August, when James Mitchell was taken suddenly ill and Hilda sent for Anne. She found her mother sitting in the kitchen, crying helplessly as if she would never stop. Anne knelt beside her.
"Mamma. Dear. Don't. You mustn't; you'll get all worn out."
Through the running tears Hilda's frightened eyes clung to Anne.
"It—it was terrible. I've never been through such a thing in my life. I had such a time to get you. They—brought him home—oh, I wish Belle was here."
Anne took the shaking hands in hers and held them firmly.
"Mamma, you must stop crying. It won't do any good and I want to know. Who said it was a stroke?"
"Dr. Fletcher, the company doctor. Thank goodness the company gives a doctor. What would we do, Anne, if they didn't? What we'll do anyhow—I don't know. And I never would have dreamed of a stroke. Papa, of all people! He isn't the build. He isn't the kind that gets strokes. He——"
"But momsy dear, he has it. Don't, don't go worrying about other things. And the company has a doctor. Let's just take one thing at a time."
At the calm assurance of Anne, Hilda's sobs lessened. She wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron and spoke more quietly.
"I was just ready to go out, down town shopping at that cut-rate market—it's beef bargain day—when the phone rang and some one at the office said papa wasn't well and would be coming home. Of course I thought he had been killed and the girl got so impatient and ugly with me. I don't believe now they were at the office at all, because in a few moments, I had scarcely time to take off my things, the bell rang and they had him in a taxi. Oh—Anne—he was all kind of purplish; papa, who's too pale if anything, and his eyes were twisted like, but he knew me, and—and—he didn't want me to do anything for him. It—it—seemed to make him nervous just to have me near him, and he kept trying to say something and I couldn't understand."
"Can't—he—speak?" Anne's lips were dry but she kept her tone level for Hilda's comfort.
"He can now—but it's not like it was—although it may come back almost as good as ever, in time, the doctor says. But—Anne—he can't—ever work again and what shall we do? There's the lodge and perhaps they'll take up a little collection in the office—papa seemed always donating to collections for families, but then maybe he was only fibbing—and there's some small pension scheme they've just put through. But—it's so—scrappy and he'll need so many things."
Behind the fact of her father's illness, towering over the misfortune of his never again being able to speak quite clearly, or to walk unaided, loomed this ghastly reality—never again to work; never to draw a monthly salary again. All her childhood this possibility had existed in the background of life, as it existed in the background of all the lives she knew—the cessation of income, the wage-earner's power suddenly cut off. Dependents on unearned money. Life continuing with the source of supply not in one's own hands, beyond one's control. Now this fact was no longer in the background. It had stalked to the very front of life and demanded all their thought. Two aging people, dependent on others! Anne shivered away from it.
"Don't think about that now, mamma. Perhaps it won't be so bad as the doctor says. They're often mistaken. You know how little faith Belle has in them."
"If only Belle were here."
"But she isn't, mamma. You'll have to do the best you can with me."
"Don't be sharp with me, Annie. You know I don't mean it that way. I don't know what I would do without you. I could scarcely get to the phone quick enough to call you. But I wish we knew where Belle was. I haven't had a card ever since that one when they were just starting for Jerusalem or some other heathenish spot. She—she'll help if she can, but she never has anything laid aside. And that was one thing papa always did try to impress on you children—to look out for a rainy day. I hope you and Roger will never do that, Anne, live right up to the last cent, not with Rogie and all. It's a temptation when everything's all right, but the minute sickness comes——If only papa hadn't thought that miserly little lodge and his life insurance would be enough—if anything happened—we might have had a snug bit aside."
"He still has the life insurance, has he? You remember you used to be afraid sometimes—he'd try to raise money on it. You——"
"Oh—Anne——" Hilda clutched her in sudden fear. "I—I—suppose so. I never dared ask papa things like that. You don't suppose—he couldn't have—oh, Anne——"
"Hush, dear. I'm sorry I asked. Of course he has. He would surely have told you if he hadn't."
"He surely would have done nothing of the sort. It's exactly what he would not do. He would have thought he could make it up, get it back or something."
Anne rose and began taking off her things. "I'll stay to-night, momsy. I'll just go and phone Roger and Mrs. Horton. She can take Rogie for a day or two until we see how things are."
Hilda looked so relieved, almost cheerful, that Anne bent and kissed her.
"It will be all right, dear. We'll manage."
Hilda clung to her hand. "Annie—you don't really think—he might have——"
Anne took a sudden decision. "I'll ask him, mamma." It would be difficult enough the next few days without this constant, harping anxiety of her mother's.
"Annie! You can't ask him a thing like that. Not now. The doctor said he must have absolute rest, not be worried or annoyed in any way. He would think we were counting—Anne! It's horrible."
"I won't do it that way, moms. I won't do it at all if it doesn't work out. Please trust me."
"I do, Annie. And I would like to know. I sha'n't be able to think of anything else until I do. You won't be long phoning, will you?"
"Just a minute. Suppose you make some tea. I'd like a cup."
Happy to do something definite, more, to be told exactly what to do, Hilda began to make the tea.
Roger had come in and Anne told him briefly what had happened and that she would stay a day or two. He was not to phone as the bell might disturb James and the doctor had said he was to have absolute quiet. She would phone instead, the following evening.
The tea was made and they drank it, Hilda's spirit reviving in bounds at the knowledge she was not to be left alone in her dilemma. Anne tried to talk of other things, but again and again Hilda came back to the question—had James Mitchell disposed of his insurance? At last they heard a sound from the sick room.
"He's waking, Anne. Don't—don't tell him you can't understand what he says—it seemed to vex him so. He——"
"I won't vex him." Now that she was about to see her father, changed perhaps almost beyond recognition, Anne's voice shook. At this sign of weakness Hilda began again to cry. Anne went quickly out of the room.
At the sound of some one entering, James Mitchell tried to turn his head. He was very weak, and his neck seemed twisted and stiff, but his eyes moved and when he saw who it was they lit faintly.
"Annie," he said in a low, thick tone, but much more clearly than she had expected.
She sat down on the bed-edge and took his hand in hers. It was strange to be taking her father's hand, offering him any physical demonstration of affection. As if the act generated the impulse, a welling pity rose in Anne. His fingers closed on hers and he tried to nod.
"Don't try to talk, papa. Just rest. It will do you lots of good."
Anne was not sure whether the faintest smile of scorn touched his lips under the ragged gray mustache, or whether they were curved forever into that faint bitterness.
"I'm glad you've come, Annie. You can stay a while, can you?" It took him a long time to say this and Anne felt her nerves tighten between the words.
"As long as you need me. But you're not going to need me long. If you do as the doctor says, you'll soon be about. These things don't—don't mean anything permanent." Anne spoke cheerfully, but the dawning hope in her father's eyes shamed her to silence. She longed to turn her eyes away from that pitiful hope, but dared not.
"No—Annie—I won't get better." It begged again her assurance.
"Well, we'll do what the doctor says anyhow, papa."
"I've—never been sick——" James mumbled, "always—lived sensibly—just—my luck——"
"Don't worry about anything now, papa," Anne said soothingly, and disengaged her fingers.
"I—want—a drink, Annie."
She brought a glass of fresh, cold water, held it for him to drink and then, supporting him with one arm, deftly shook up the pillows and placed him comfortably on them.
"That—was fine—don't let mamma—she makes me nervous. She doesn't get what I say. Do I talk very thick, Annie?"
"No. I understand."
"Of course you do," he mumbled. He held her fingers again and she could not draw them away. Nor could she ask him about the insurance while he clung like that, so weak, so changed, so suddenly dependent upon her. And she had never loved him. She did not love him now. She could never love him. The tragedy lay in that—she never could. He might grow better. He might grow worse. She might be there a long time, doing the horrible, intimate things nurses did for hire, to Anne revolting, except for deep love. She would do them to save his nerves from Hilda, the woman with whom he had lived for more than thirty years; who did not understand his blurred speech, whose every motion disturbed him; Hilda, sitting in the kitchen waiting to hear whether he had gambled away her only hope of independence when he had gone.
Anne slipped her hand from his, covering its withdrawal by soft little taps on the back of his. She must ask him now, while her presence still held something of the unusual. In a few days he would have accepted her ministering. All the small tyranny of him would have risen in defiance of his dependence on them. She must do it now, or not at all. Without preamble, Anne asked quietly:
"Papa, things may be a little tight for the present. Do you think we might raise a little money on your life insurance? As soon as we can reach Belle——"
With sudden strength his fingers clutched her arm, and he gripped it until she felt the bones press into her flesh. His eyes were full of anger, fear, defiance. With a terrible effort he drew her down, motioning with his slightly twisted lips not to let Hilda hear.
"I haven't got—it—Annie. I—thought—I had a sure—thing—it was sure—and I staked—it's gone," he ended in a squeaking note of fear and anger.
Anne patted his shoulder and tried to speak cheerfully, "Never mind, papa. Never mind. Don't think about it."
That fearful squeak, like a mouse caught in a trap.
"Don't—tell—her, Annie. She'll fuss me about it and—I meant it right. It—was for her—I don't want anything for myself—it was a sure thing. Just my luck—any one would have taken—the tip."
And there was nothing Anne could find to say, although she seemed to be tearing her brain apart in an effort to find a thought. She could only whisper absently, over and over:
"Never mind, papa; we'll talk about it later." At last the monotony of repetition soothed him, and he freed her to tuck the clothes about him. But Anne could not bend to kiss him. With all her strength she tried. Her muscles would not obey. She stroked his cheek and, with an extra little pat, said good night and left him. Almost before she was out of the room he was asleep.
Anne went slowly the short distance from the bedroom to the kitchen. The door was ajar and she saw Hilda crocheting, a wad of lace in a soupbowl by her on the table. Years ago Anne and Belle had rebelled against the monstrosity of pineapple edging or star pattern upon their underclothes. Still Hilda persisted in "not wasting time." The darkest crannies of the Niche were filled with these rolls of crochet; they were even tucked away on the pantry shelves.
"One—two—three plain, and four chain," Hilda mumbled.
Anne went in and closed the door. "He did do it. He's lost the insurance, bet it away on a sure thing and it's gone."
"Oh—Anne——"
"Don't cry," Anne went on in the stern tone with which one handles an hysterical child. "It won't get it back. And if I were you I wouldn't say anything to him. It's done. He can't undo it now and he'll have time enough to wish it undone—lying—there—thinking about it."
Hilda forced back the tears. After a moment she heaved a sigh and picked up the edging again. Soon she was lost once more in the intricacies of one—two—three plain, and four chain.