The Story of the Gravelys
Marshall Saunders
Marshall Saunders
The Story of the Gravelys / A Tale for Girls
“A child’s needless tear is a blood-blot upon this earth.”
    —Cardinal Manning
CHAPTER I.
THE QUARREL
“I won’t live on my brother-in-law,” said the slight, dark girl.
“Yes, you will,” said the fair-haired beauty, her sister, who was standing over her in a somewhat theatrical attitude.
“I will not,” said Berty again. “You think because you have just been married you are going to run the family. I tell you, I will not do it. I will not live with you.”
“I don’t want to run the family, but I am a year and a half older than you, and I know what is for your good better than you do.”
“You do not—you butterfly!”
“Alberta Mary Francesca Gravely—you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said the beauty, in concentrated wrath.
“I’m not ashamed of myself,” replied her sister, scornfully. “I’m ashamed of you. You’re just as extravagant as you can be. You spend every cent of your husband’s income, and now you want to saddle him with a big boy, a girl, and an—”
“An old lady,” said Margaretta.
“Grandma isn’t old. She’s only sixty-five.”
“Sixty-five is old.”
“It is not.”
“Well, now, can you call her young?” said Margaretta. “Can you say she is a girl?”
“Yes,” replied Berty, obstinately, “I can call her a girl, or a duck, or anything I like, and I can call you a goose.”
“A goose!” repeated Mrs. Stanisfield, chokingly; “oh, this is too much. I wish my husband were here.”
“I wish he were,” said Berty, wickedly, “so he could be sorry he mar—”
“Children,” said a sudden voice, “what are you quarrelling about?”
Both girls turned their flushed faces toward the doorway. A little shrewd old lady stood there. This was Grandma, one of their bones of contention, and this particular bone in deep amusement wanted to laugh, but knew better than to do so.
“Won’t you sit down, Margaretta?” she said, calmly coming into the room and taking a chair near Berty, who was lounging provokingly on the foot of the bed.
It was Grandma’s bed, and they were in Grandma’s room. She had brought them up—her two dear orphan granddaughters, together with their brother Boniface.
“What are you quarrelling about?” repeated the little old lady, taking a silk stocking from her pocket, and beginning to knit in a leisurely way.
“We’re quarrelling about keeping the family together,” said Margaretta, vehemently, “and I find that family honour is nothing but a rag in Berty’s estimation.”
“Well, I’d rather have it a nice clean rag put out of sight,” said Berty, sharply, “than a great, big, red flag shaken in everybody’s face.”
“Sit down, Margaretta,” said Grandma, soothingly.
“Oh, I am too angry to sit down,” said Margaretta, shaking herself slightly. “I got your note saying you had lost your money. I came to sympathize and was met with insults. It’s dreadful!”
“Sit down, dear,” said Grandma, gently, pushing a rocking-chair toward her.
Margaretta took the chair, and, wiping her white forehead with a morsel of lace and muslin, glared angrily at her sister.
“Roger says,” she went on, excitedly, “that you are all—”
“All!” groaned Berty.
“All,” repeated Margaretta, furiously, “or one or two, whichever you like, to come and live with us. He insists.”
“No, you insist,” interrupted Berty. “He has too much sense.”
Margaretta gave a low cry. “Isn’t this ingratitude abominable—I hear of your misfortune, I come flying to your relief—”
“Dear child,” said Grandma, “I knew you’d come.”
“But what do you make of Berty, Grandma? Do say something cutting. You could if you tried. The trouble is, you don’t try.”
Grandma tried not to laugh. She, too, had a tiny handkerchief that she pressed against her face, but the merriment would break through.
“You laugh,” said Margaretta, in awe, “and you have just lost every cent