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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/20486-8.txt b/20486-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8857b1a --- /dev/null +++ b/20486-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8735 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tiverton Tales, by Alice Brown + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tiverton Tales + +Author: Alice Brown + +Release Date: January 30, 2007 [EBook #20486] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIVERTON TALES *** + + + + +Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Paul Stephen, Ted Garvin +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + + +TIVERTON TALES + +BY ALICE BROWN + +[Illustration: Publisher icon] + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY + +The Riverside Press, Cambridge + +1899 + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY ALICE BROWN + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + +TO M. H. R. + +A MASTER MAGICIAN + + +CONTENTS + + +DOORYARDS + +A MARCH WIND + +THE MORTUARY CHEST + +HORN-O'-THE-MOON + +A STOLEN FESTIVAL + +A LAST ASSEMBLING + +THE WAY OF PEACE + +THE EXPERIENCE OF HANNAH PRIME + +HONEY AND MYRRH + +A SECOND MARRIAGE + +THE FLAT-IRON LOT + +THE END OF ALL LIVING + + + + +TIVERTON TALES + + + + +DOORYARDS + + +Tiverton has breezy, upland roads, and damp, sweet valleys; but should +you tarry there a summer long, you might find it wasteful to take many +excursions abroad. For, having once received the freedom of family +living, you will own yourself disinclined to get beyond dooryards, those +outer courts of domesticity. Homely joys spill over into them, and, when +children are afoot, surge and riot there. In them do the common +occupations of life find niche and channel. While bright weather holds, +we wash out of doors on a Monday morning, the wash-bench in the solid +block of shadow thrown by the house. We churn there, also, at the hour +when Sweet-Breath, the cow, goes afield, modestly unconscious of her own +sovereignty over the time. There are all the varying fortunes of +butter-making recorded. Sometimes it comes merrily to the tune of + +"Come, butter, come! Peter stands a-waiting at the gate, Waiting for his +butter-cake. Come, butter, come!" + +chanted in time with the dasher; again it doth willfully refuse, and +then, lest it be too cool, we contribute a dash of hot water, or too +hot, and we lend it a dash of cold. Or we toss in a magical handful of +salt, to encourage it. Possibly, if we be not the thriftiest of +householders, we feed the hens here in the yard, and then "shoo" them +away, when they would fain take profligate dust-baths under the syringa, +leaving unsightly hollows. But however, and with what complexion, our +dooryards may face the later year, they begin it with purification. Here +are they an unfailing index of the severer virtues; for, in Tiverton, +there is no housewife who, in her spring cleaning, omits to set in order +this outer pale of the temple. Long before the merry months are well +under way, or the cows go kicking up their heels to pasture, or plants +are taken from the south window and clapped into chilly ground, orderly +passions begin to riot within us, and we "clear up" our yards. We +gather stray chips, and pieces of bone brought in by the scavenger dog, +who sits now with his tail tucked under him, oblivious of such vagrom +ways. We rake the grass, and then, gilding refined gold, we sweep it. +There is a tradition that Miss Lois May once went to the length of +trimming her grass about the doorstone and clothes-pole with embroidery +scissors; but that was a too-hasty encomium bestowed by a widower whom +she rejected next week, and who qualified his statement by saying they +were pruning-shears. + +After this preliminary skirmishing arises much anxious inspection of +ancient shrubs and the faithful among old-fashioned plants, to see +whether they have "stood the winter." The fresh, brown "piny" heads are +brooded over with a motherly care; wormwood roots are loosened, and the +horse-radish plant is given a thrifty touch. There is more than the +delight of occupation in thus stirring the wheels of the year. We are +Nature's poor handmaidens, and our labor gives us joy. + +But sweet as these homespun spots can make themselves, in their mixture +of thrift and prodigality, they are dearer than ever at the points where +they register family traits, and so touch the humanity of us all. Here +is imprinted the story of the man who owns the farm, that of the father +who inherited it, and the grandfather who reclaimed it from waste; here +have they and their womenkind set the foot of daily living and traced +indelible paths. They have left here the marks of tragedy, of pathos, or +of joy. One yard has a level bit of grassless ground between barn and +pump, and you may call it a battlefield, if you will, since famine and +desire have striven there together. Or, if you choose to read fine +meanings into threadbare things, you may see in it a field of the cloth +of gold, where simple love of life and childlike pleasure met and +sparkled for no eye to see. It was a croquet ground, laid out in the +days when croquet first inundated the land, and laid out by a woman. +This was Della Smith, the mother of two grave children, and the wife of +a farmer who never learned to smile. Eben was duller than the ox which +ploughs all day long for his handful of hay at night and his heavy +slumber; but Della, though she carried her end of the yoke with a +gallant spirit, had dreams and desires forever bursting from brown +shells, only to live a moment in the air, and then, like bubbles, die. +She had a perpetual appetite for joy. When the circus came to town, she +walked miles to see the procession; and, in a dream of satisfied +delight, dropped potatoes all the afternoon, to make up. Once, a +hand-organ and monkey strayed that way, and it was she alone who +followed them; for the children were little, and all the saner +house-mothers contented themselves with leaning over the gates till the +wandering train had passed. But Della drained her draught of joy to the +dregs, and then tilted her cup anew. With croquet came her supremest +joy,--one that leavened her days till God took her, somewhere, we hope, +where there is playtime. Della had no money to buy a croquet set, but +she had something far better, an alert and undiscouraged mind. On one +dizzy afternoon, at a Fourth of July picnic, when wickets had been set +up near the wood, she had played with the minister, and beaten him. The +game opened before her an endless vista of delight. She saw herself +perpetually knocking red-striped balls through an eternity of wickets; +and she knew that here was the one pastime of which no soul could tire. +Afterwards, driving home with her husband and two children, still in a +daze of satisfied delight, she murmured absently:-- + +"Wonder how much they cost?" + +"What?" asked Eben, and Della turned, flushed scarlet, and replied:-- + +"Oh, nothin'!" + +That night, she lay awake for one rapt hour, and then she slept the +sleep of conquerors. In the morning, after Eben had gone safely off to +work, and the children were still asleep, she began singing, in a +monotonous, high voice, and took her way out of doors. She always sang +at moments when she purposed leaping the bounds of domestic custom. Even +Eben had learned that, dull as he was. If he heard that guilty crooning +from the buttery, he knew she might be breaking extra eggs, or using +more sugar than was conformable. + +"What you doin' of?" he was accustomed to call. But Della never +answered, and he did not interfere. The question was a necessary +concession to marital authority; he had no wish to curb her ways. + +Della scudded about the yard like a willful wind. She gathered withes +from a waiting pile, and set them in that one level space for wickets. +Then she took a handsaw, and, pale about the lips, returned to the house +and to her bedroom. She had made her choice. She was sacrificing old +associations to her present need; and, one after another, she sawed the +ornamenting balls from her mother's high-post bedstead. Perhaps the one +element of tragedy lay in the fact that Della was no mechanician, and +she had not foreseen that, having one flat side, her balls might decline +to roll. But that dismay was brief. A weaker soul would have flinched; +to Della it was a futile check, a pebble under the wave. She laid her +balls calmly aside. Some day she would whittle them into shape; for +there were always coming to Della days full of roomy leisure and large +content. Meanwhile apples would serve her turn,--good alike to draw a +weary mind out of its channel or teach the shape of spheres. And so, +with two russets for balls and the clothes-slice for a mallet (the heavy +sledge-hammer having failed), Della serenely, yet in triumph, played her +first game against herself. + +"Don't you drive over them wickets!" she called imperiously, when Eben +came up from the lot in his dingle cart. + +"Them what?" returned he, and Della had to go out to explain. He looked +at them gravely; hers had been a ragged piece of work. + +"What under the sun 'd you do that for?" he inquired. "The young ones +wouldn't turn their hand over for 't. They ain't big enough." + +"Well, I be," said Della briefly. "Don't you drive over 'em." + +Eben looked at her and then at his path to the barn, and he turned his +horse aside. + +Thereafter, until we got used to it, we found a vivid source of interest +in seeing Della playing croquet, and always playing alone. That was a +very busy summer, because the famous drought came then, and water had to +be carried for weary rods from spring and river. Sometimes Della did not +get her playtime till three in the afternoon, sometimes not till after +dark; but she was faithful to her joy. The croquet ground suffered +varying fortunes. It might happen that the balls were potatoes, when +apples failed to be in season; often her wickets broke, and stood up in +two ragged horns. Sometimes one fell away altogether, and Della, like +the planets, kept an unseen track. Once or twice, the mistaken +benevolence of others gave her real distress. The minister's daughter, +noting her solitary game, mistook it for forlornness, and, in the warmth +of her maiden heart, came to ask if she might share. It was a timid +though official benevolence; but Della's bright eyes grew dark. She +clung to her kitchen chair. + +"I guess I won't," she said, and, in some dim way, everybody began to +understand that this was but an intimate and solitary joy. She had grown +so used to spreading her banquets for one alone that she was frightened +at the sight of other cups upon the board; for although loneliness +begins in pain, by and by, perhaps, it creates its own species of sad +and shy content. + +Della did not have a long life; and that was some relief to us who were +not altogether satisfied with her outlook here. The place she left need +not be always desolate. There was a good maiden sister to keep the +house, and Eben and the children would be but briefly sorry. They could +recover their poise; he with the health of a simple mind, and they as +children will. Yet he was truly stunned by the blow; and I hoped, on the +day of the funeral, that he did not see what I did. When we went out to +get our horse and wagon, I caught my foot in something which at once +gave way. I looked down--at a broken wicket and a withered apple by the +stake. + +Quite at the other end of the town is a dooryard which, in my own mind, +at least, I call the traveling garden. Miss Nancy, its presiding +mistress, is the victim of a love of change; and since she may not +wander herself, she transplants shrubs and herbs from nook to nook. No +sooner does a green thing get safely rooted than Miss Nancy snatches it +up and sets it elsewhere. Her yard is a varying pageant of plants in all +stages of misfortune. Here is a shrub, with faded leaves, torn from the +lap of prosperity in a well-sunned corner to languish under different +conditions. There stands a hardy bush, shrinking, one might guess, under +all its bravery of new spring green, from the premonition that Miss +Nancy may move it to-morrow. Even the ladies'-delights have their months +of garish prosperity, wherein they sicken like country maids; for no +sooner do they get their little feet settled in a dark, still corner +than they are summoned out of it, to sunlight bright and strong. Miss +Nancy lives with a bedridden father, who has grown peevish through long +patience; can it be that slow, senile decay which has roused in her a +fierce impatience against the sluggishness of life, and that she hurries +her plants into motion because she herself must halt? Her father does +not theorize about it. He says, "Nancy never has no luck with plants." +And that, indeed, is true. + +There is another dooryard with its infallible index finger pointing to +tell a tale. You can scarcely thread your way through it for vehicles of +all sorts congregated there to undergo slow decomposition at the hands +of wind and weather. This farmer is a tradesman by nature, and though, +for thrift's sake, his fields must be tilled, he is yet inwardly +constrained to keep on buying and selling, albeit to no purpose. He is +everlastingly swapping and bargaining, giving play to a faculty which +might, in its legitimate place, have worked out the definite and +tangible, but which now goes automatically clicking on under vain +conditions. The house, too, is overrun with useless articles, presently +to be exchanged for others as unavailing, and in the farmer's pocket +ticks a watch which to-morrow will replace with another more problematic +still. But in the yard are the undisputable evidences of his wild +unthrift. Old rusty mowing-machines, buggies with torn and flapping +canvas, sleighs ready to yawn at every crack, all are here: poor +relations in a broken-down family. But children love this yard. They +come, hand in hand, with a timid confidence in their right, and ask at +the back door for the privilege of playing in it. They take long, +entrancing journeys in the mouldy old chaise; they endure Siberian +nights of sleighing, and throw out their helpless dolls to the pursuing +wolves; or the more mercantile-minded among the boys mount a +three-wheeled express wagon, and drive noisily away to traffic upon the +road. This, in its dramatic possibilities, is not a yard to be despised. + +Not far away are two neighboring houses once held in affectionate +communion by a straight path through the clover and a gap in the wall. +This was the road to much friendly gossip, and there were few bright +days which did not find two matrons met at the wall, their heads +together over some amiable yarn. But now one house is closed, its +windows boarded up, like eyes shut down forever, and the grass has grown +over the little path: a line erased, perhaps never to be renewed. It is +easier to wipe out a story from nature than to wipe it from the heart; +and these mutilated pages of the outer life perpetually renew in us the +pangs of loss and grief. + +But not all our dooryard reminiscences are instinct with pain. Do I not +remember one swept and garnished plot, never defiled by weed or +disordered with ornamental plants, where stood old Deacon Pitts, upon an +historic day, and woke the echoes with a herald's joy? Deacon Pitts had +the ghoulish delight of the ennuied country mind in funerals and the +mortality of man; and this morning the butcher had brought him news of +death in a neighboring town. The butcher had gone by, and I was going; +but Deacon Pitts stood there, dramatically intent upon his mournful +morsel. I judged that he was pondering on the possibility of attending +the funeral without the waste of too much precious time now due the +crops. Suddenly, as he turned back toward the house, bearing a pan of +liver, his pondering eye caught sight of his aged wife toiling across +the fields, laden with pennyroyal. He set the pan down hastily--yea, +even before the advancing cat!--and made a trumpet of his hands. + +"Sarah!" he called piercingly. "Sarah! Mr. Amasa Blake's passed away! +Died yesterday!" + +I do not know whether he was present at that funeral, but it would be +strange if he were not; for time and tide both served him, and he was +always on the spot. Indeed, one day he reached a house of mourning in +such season that he found the rooms quite empty, and was forced to wait +until the bereaved family should assemble. There they sat, he and his +wife, a portentous couple in their dead black and anticipatory gloom, +until even their patience had well-nigh fled. And then an arriving +mourner overheard the deacon, as he bent forward and challenged his wife +in a suspicious and discouraged whisper:-- + +"Say, Sarah, ye don't s'pose it's all goin' to fush out, do ye?" + +They had their funeral. + +To the childish memory, so many of the yards are redolent now of wonder +and a strange, sweet fragrance of the fancy not to be described! One, +where lived a notable cook, had, in a quiet corner, a little grove of +caraway. It seemed mysteriously connected with the oak-leaf cookies, +which only she could make; and the child, brushing through the delicate +bushes grown above his head, used to feel vaguely that, on some +fortunate day, cookies would be found there, "a-blowin' and a-growin'." +That he had seen them stirred and mixed and taken from the oven was an +empty matter; the cookies belonged to the caraway grove, and there they +hang ungathered still. In the very same yard was a hogshead filled with +rainwater, where insects came daily to their death and floated +pathetically in a film of gauzy wings. The child feared this innocent +black pool, feared it too much to let it alone; and day by day he would +hang upon the rim with trembling fingers, and search the black, smooth +depths, with all Ophelia's pangs. And to this moment, no rushing river +is half so ministrant to dread as is a still, dull hogshead, where +insects float and fly. + +These are our dooryards. I wish we lived in them more; that there were +vines to sing under, and shade enough for the table, with its wheaten +loaf and good farm butter, and its smoking tea. But all that may come +when we give up our frantic haste, and sit down to look, and breathe, +and listen. + + + + +A MARCH WIND + + +When the clouds hung low, or chimneys refused to draw, or the bread +soured over night, a pessimistic public, turning for relief to the local +drama, said that Amelia Titcomb had married a tramp. But as soon as the +heavens smiled again, it was conceded that she must have been getting +lonely in her middle age, and that she had taken the way of wisdom so to +furbish up mansions for the coming years. Whatever was set down on +either side of the page, Amelia did not care. She was whole-heartedly +content with her husband and their farm. + +It had happened, one autumn day, that she was trying, all alone, to +clean out the cistern. This was while she was still Amelia Titcomb, +innocent that there lived a man in the world who could set his foot upon +her maiden state, and flourish there. She was an impatient creature. She +never could delay for a fostering time to put her plants into the +ground, and her fall cleaning was done long before the flies were gone. +So, to-day, while other house mistresses sat cosily by the fire, +awaiting a milder season, she was toiling up and down the ladder set in +the cistern, dipping pails of sediment from the bottom, and, hardy as +she was, almost repenting her of a too-fierce desire. Her thick brown +hair was roughened and blown about her face, her cheeks bloomed out in a +frosty pink, and the plaid kerchief, tied in a hard knot under her chin, +seemed foolishly ineffectual against the cold. Her hands ached, holding +the pail, and she rebelled inwardly against the inclemency of the time. +It never occurred to her that she could have put off this exacting job. +She would sooner have expected Heaven to put off the weather. Just as +she reached the top of the cistern, and lifted her pail of refuse over +the edge, a man appeared from the other side of the house, and stood +confronting her. He was tall and gaunt, and his deeply graven face was +framed by grizzled hair. Amelia had a rapid thought that he was not so +old as he looked; experience, rather than years, must have wrought its +trace upon him. He was leading a little girl, dressed with a very patent +regard for warmth, and none for beauty. Amelia, with a quick, feminine +glance, noted that the child's bungled skirt and hideous waist had been +made from an old army overcoat. The little maid's brown eyes were sweet +and seeking; they seemed to petition for something. Amelia's heart did +not respond at that time, she had no reason for thinking she was fond of +children. Yet she felt a curious disturbance at sight of the pair. She +afterwards explained it adequately to the man, by asserting that they +looked as odd as Dick's hatband. + +"Want any farmwork done?" asked he. "Enough to pay for a night's +lodgin'?" His voice sounded strangely soft from one so large and rugged. +It hinted at unused possibilities. But though Amelia felt impressed, she +was conscious of little more than her own cold and stiffness, and she +answered sharply,-- + +"No, I don't. I don't calculate to hire, except in hayin' time, an' then +I don't take tramps." + +The man dropped the child's hand, and pushed her gently to one side. + +"Stan' there, Rosie," said he. Then he went forward, and drew the pail +from Amelia's unwilling grasp. "Where do you empt' it?" he asked. +"There? It ought to be carried further. You don't want to let it gully +down into that beet bed. Here, I'll see to it." + +Perhaps this was the very first time in Amelia's life that a man had +offered her an unpaid service for chivalry alone. And somehow, though +she might have scoffed, knowing what the tramp had to gain, she believed +in him and in his kindliness. The little girl stood by, as if she were +long used to doing as she had been told, with no expectation of +difficult reasons; and the man, as soberly, went about his task. He +emptied the cistern, and cleansed it, with plentiful washings. Then, as +if guessing by instinct what he should find, he went into the kitchen, +where were two tubs full of the water which Amelia had pumped up at the +start. It had to be carried back again to the cistern; and when the job +was quite finished, he opened the bulkhead, set the tubs in the cellar, +and then, covering the cistern and cellar-case, rubbed his cold hands on +his trousers, and turned to the child. + +"Come, Rosie," said he, "we'll be goin'." + +It was a very effective finale, but still Amelia suspected no trickery. +The situation seemed to her, just as the two new actors did, entirely +simple, like the course of nature. Only, the day was a little warmer +because they had appeared. She had a new sensation of welcome company. +So it was that, quite to her own surprise, she answered as quickly as he +spoke, and her reply also seemed an inevitable part of the drama:-- + +"Walk right in. It's 'most dinner-time, an' I'll put on the pot." The +two stepped in before her, and they did not go away. + +Amelia herself never quite knew how it happened; but, like all the other +natural things of life, this had no need to be explained. At first, +there were excellent reasons for delay. The man, whose name proved to be +Enoch Willis, was a marvelous hand at a blow, and she kept him a week, +splitting some pine knots that defied her and the boy who ordinarily +chopped her wood. At the end of the week, Amelia confessed that she was +"terrible tired seein' Rosie round in that gormin' kind of a dress;" so +she cut and fitted her a neat little gown from her own red cashmere. +That was the second reason. Then the neighbors heard of the mysterious +guest, and dropped in, to place and label him. At first, following the +lead of undiscouraged fancy, they declared that he must be some of +cousin Silas's connections from Omaha; but even before Amelia had time +to deny that, his ignorance of local tradition denied it for him. He +must have heard of this or that, by way of cousin Silas; but he owned to +nothing defining place or time, save that he had been in the war--"all +through it." He seemed to be a man quite weary of the past and +indifferent to the future. After a half hour's talk with him, +unseasonable callers were likely to withdraw, perhaps into the pantry, +whither Amelia had retreated to escape catechism, and remark jovially, +"Well, 'Melia, you ain't told us who your company is!" + +"Mr. Willis," said Amelia. She was emulating his habit of reserve. It +made a part of her new loyalty. + +Even to her, Enoch had told no tales; and strangely enough, she was +quite satisfied. She trusted him. He did say that Rosie's mother was +dead; for the last five years, he said, she had been out of her mind. At +that, Amelia's heart gave a fierce, amazing leap. It struck a note she +never knew, and wakened her to life and longing. She was glad Rosie's +mother had not made him too content. He went on a step or two into the +story of his life. His wife's last illness had eaten up the little +place, and after she went, he got no work. So, he tramped. He must go +again. Amelia's voice sounded sharp and thin, even to her, as she +answered,-- + +"Go! I dunno what you want to do that for. Rosie's terrible contented +here." + +His brown eyes turned upon her in a kindly glance. + +"I've got to make a start somewhere," said he. "I've been thinkin' a +machine shop's the best thing. I shall have to depend on somethin' +better'n days' works." + +Amelia flushed the painful red of emotion without beauty. + +"I dunno what we're all comin' to," said she brokenly. + +Then the tramp knew. He put his gnarled hand over one of hers. Rosie +looked up curiously from the speckled beans she was counting into a bag, +and then went on singing to herself an unformed, baby song. "Folks'll +talk," said Enoch gently. "They do now. A man an' woman ain't never too +old to be hauled up, an' made to answer for livin'. If I was younger, +an' had suthin' to depend on, you'd see; but I'm no good now. The better +part o' my life's gone." + +Amelia flashed at him a pathetic look, half agony over her own lost +pride, and all a longing of maternal love. + +"I don't want you should be younger," said she. And next week they were +married. + +Comment ran races with itself, and brought up nowhere. The treasuries of +local speech were all too poor to clothe so wild a venture. It was +agreed that there's no fool like an old fool, and that folks who ride to +market may come home afoot. Everybody forgot that Amelia had had no +previous romance, and dismally pictured her as going through the woods, +and getting a crooked stick at last. Even the milder among her judges +were not content with prophesying the betrayal of her trust alone. They +argued from the tramp nature to inevitable results, and declared it +would be a mercy if she were not murdered in her bed. According to the +popular mind, a tramp is a distinct species, with latent tendencies +toward crime. It was recalled that a white woman had, in the old days, +married a comely Indian, whose first drink of fire-water, after six +months of blameless happiness, had sent him raging home, to kill her "in +her tracks." Could a tramp, pledged to the traditions of an awful +brotherhood, do less? No, even in honor, no! Amelia never knew how the +tide of public apprehension surged about her, nor how her next-door +neighbor looked anxiously out, the first thing on rising, to exclaim, +with a sigh of relief, and possibly a dramatic pang, "There! her smoke's +a-goin'." + +Meantime, the tramp fell into all the usages of life indoors; and +without, he worked revolution. He took his natural place at the head of +affairs, and Amelia stood by, rejoicing. Her besetting error of doing +things at the wrong moment had disarranged great combinations as well as +small. Her impetuosity was constantly misleading her, bidding her try, +this one time, whether harvest might not follow faster on the steps of +spring. Enoch's mind was of another cast. For him, tradition reigned, +and law was ever laying out the way. Some months after their marriage, +Amelia had urged him to take away the winter banking about the house, +for no reason save that the Mardens clung to theirs; but he only replied +that he'd known of cold snaps way on into May, and he guessed there was +no particular hurry. The very next day brought a bitter air, laden with +sleet, and Amelia, shivering at the open door, exulted in her feminine +soul at finding him triumphant on his own ground. Enoch seemed, as +usual, unconscious of victory. His immobility had no personal flavor. He +merely acted from an inevitable devotion to the laws of life; and +however often they might prove him right, he never seemed to reason that +Amelia was consequently wrong. Perhaps that was what made it so pleasant +to live with him. + +It was "easy sleddin'" now. Amelia grew very young. Her cheeks gained a +bloom, her eyes brightened. She even, as the matrons noticed, took to +crimping her hair. They looked on with a pitying awe. It seemed a +fearsome thing, to do so much for a tramp who would only kill you in the +end. Amelia stepped deftly about the house. She was a large woman, whose +ways had been devoid of grace; but now the richness of her spiritual +condition informed her with a charm. She crooned a little about her +work. Singing voice she had none, but she grew into a way of putting +words together, sometimes a line from the psalms, sometimes a name she +loved, and chanting the sounds, in unrecorded melody. Meanwhile, little +Rosie, always irreproachably dressed, with a jealous care lest she fall +below the popular standard, roamed in and out of the house, and +lightened its dull intervals. She, like the others, grew at once very +happy, because, like them, she accepted her place without a qualm, as if +it had been hers from the beginning. They were simple natures, and when +their joy came, they knew how to meet it. + +But if Enoch was content to follow the beaten ways of life, there was +one window through which he looked into the upper heaven of all: thereby +he saw what it is to create. He was a born mechanician. A revolving +wheel would set him to dreaming, and still him to that lethargy of mind +which is an involuntary sharing in the things that are. He could lose +himself in the life of rhythmic motion; and when he discovered rusted +springs, or cogs unprepared to fulfill their purpose, he fell upon them +with the ardor of a worshiper, and tried to set them right. Amelia +thought he should have invented something, and he confessed that he had +invented many things, but somehow failed in getting them on the market. +That process he mentioned with the indifference of a man to whom a +practical outcome is vague, and who finds in the ideal a bright reality. +Even Amelia could see that to be a maker was his joy; to reap rewards of +making was another and a lower task. + +One cold day in the early spring, he went "up garret" to hunt out an old +saddle, gathering mildew there, and came upon a greater treasure, a +disabled clock. He stepped heavily down, bearing it aloft in both hands. + +"See here, 'Melia," asked he, "why don't this go?" + +Amelia was scouring tins on the kitchen table. There was a teasing wind +outside, with a flurry of snow, and she had acknowledged that the +irritating weather made her as nervous as a witch. So she had taken to a +job to quiet herself. + +"That clock?" she replied. "That was gran'ther Eli's. It give up +strikin', an' then the hands stuck, an' I lost all patience with it. So +I bought this nickel one, an' carted t' other off into the attic. 'T +ain't worth fixin'." + +"Worth it!" repeated Enoch. "Well, I guess I'll give it a chance." + +He drew a chair to the stove, and there hesitated. "Say, 'Melia," said +he, "should you jest as soon I'd bring in that old shoemaker's bench out +o' the shed? It's low, an' I could reach my tools off'n the floor." + +Amelia lacked the discipline of contact with her kind, but she was +nevertheless smooth as silk in her new wifehood. + +"Law, yes, bring it along," said she. "It's a good day to clutter up. +The' won't be nobody in." + +So, while Enoch laid apart the clock with a delicacy of touch known only +to square, mechanical fingers, and Rosie played with the button-box on +the floor, assorting colors and matching white with white, Amelia +scoured the tins. Her energy kept pace with the wind; it whirled in +gusts and snatches, yet her precision never failed. + +"Made up your mind which cow to sell?" she asked, opening a discussion +still unsettled, after days of animated talk. + +"Ain't much to choose," said Enoch. He had frankly set Amelia right on +the subject of livestock; and she smilingly acquiesced in his larger +knowledge. "Elbridge True's got a mighty nice Alderney, an' if he's +goin' to sell milk another year, he'll be glad to get two good milkers +like these. What he wants is ten quarts apiece, no matter if it's +bluer'n a whetstone. I guess I can swap off with him; but I don't want +to run arter him. I put the case last Thursday. Mebbe he'll drop round." + +"Well," concluded Amelia, "I guess you're pretty sure to do what's +right." + +The forenoon galloped fast, and it was half past eleven before she +thought of dinner. + +"Why," said she, "ain't it butcher day? I've been lottin' on a piece o' +liver." + +"Butcher day is Thursday," said Enoch. "You've lost count." + +"My land!" responded Amelia. "Well, I guess we can put up with some +fried pork an' apples." There came a long, insistent knock at the outer +door. "Good heavens! Who's there! Rosie, you run to the side-light, an' +peek. It can't be a neighbor. They'd come right in. I hope my soul it +ain't company, a day like this." + +Rosie got on her fat legs with difficulty. She held her pinafore full of +buttons, but disaster lies in doing too many things at once; there came +a slip, a despairing clutch, and the buttons fell over the floor. There +were a great many round ones, and they rolled very fast. Amelia washed +the sand from her parboiled fingers, and drew a nervous breath. She had +a presentiment of coming ill, painfully heightened by her consciousness +that the kitchen was "riding out," and that she and her family rode with +it. Rosie came running back from her peephole, husky with importance. +The errant buttons did not trouble her. She had an eternity of time +wherein to pick them up; and, indeed, the chances were that some tall, +benevolent being would do it for her. + +"It's a man," she said. "He's got on a light coat with bright buttons, +and a fuzzy hat. He's got a big nose." + +Now, indeed, despair entered into Amelia, and sat enthroned. She sank +down on a straight-backed chair, and put her hands on her knees, while +the knock came again, a little querulously. + +"Enoch," said she, "do you know what's happened? That's cousin Josiah +Pease out there." Her voice bore the tragedy of a thousand past +encounters; but that Enoch could not know. + +"Is it?" asked he, with but a mild appearance of interest. "Want me to +go to the door?" + +"Go to the door!" echoed Amelia, so stridently that he looked up at her +again. "No; I don't want anybody should go to the door till this room's +cleared up. If 't w'an't so everlastin' cold, I'd take him right into +the clock-room, an' blaze a fire; but he'd see right through that. You +gether up them tools an' things, an' I'll help carry out the bench." + +If Enoch had not just then been absorbed in a delicate combination of +brass, he might have spoken more sympathetically. As it was, he seemed +kindly, but remote. + +"Look out!" said he, "you'll joggle. No, I guess I won't move. If he's +any kind of a man, he'll know what 't is to clean a clock." + +Amelia was not a crying woman, but the hot tears stood in her eyes. She +was experiencing, for the first time, that helpless pang born from the +wounding of pride in what we love. + +"Don't you see, Enoch?" she insisted. "This room looks like the Old +Boy--an' so do you--an' he'll go home an' tell all the folks at the +Ridge. Why, he's heard we're married, an' come over here to spy out the +land. He hates the cold. He never stirs till 'way on into June; an' now +he's come to find out." + +"Find out what?" inquired Enoch absorbedly. "Well, if you're anyways put +to 't, you send him to me." That manly utterance enunciated from a +"best-room" sofa, by an Enoch clad in his Sunday suit, would have +filled Amelia with rapture; she could have leaned on it as on the Tables +of the Law. But, alas! the scene-setting was meagre, and though Enoch +was very clean, he had no good clothes. He had pointedly refused to buy +them with his wife's money until he should have worked on the farm to a +corresponding amount. She had loved him for it; but every day his outer +poverty hurt her pride. "I guess you better ask him in," concluded +Enoch. "Don't you let him bother you." + +Amelia turned about with the grand air of a woman repulsed. + +"He _don't_ bother me," said she, "an' I _will_ let him in." She walked +to the door, stepping on buttons as she went, and conscious, when she +broke them, of a bitter pleasure. It added to her martyrdom. + +She flung open the door, and called herself a fool in the doing; for the +little old man outside was in the act of turning away. In another +instant, she might have escaped. But he was only too eager to come back +again, and it seemed to Amelia as if he would run over her, in his +desire to get in. + +"There! there! 'Melia," said he, pushing past her, "can't stop to talk +till I git near the fire. Guess you were settin' in the kitchen, wa'n't +ye? Don't make no stranger o' me. That your man?" + +She had shut the door, and entered, exasperated anew by the rising wind. +"That's my husband," said she coldly. "Enoch, here's cousin Josiah +Pease." + +Enoch looked up benevolently over his spectacles, and put out a horny +left hand, the while the other guarded his heap of treasures. "Pleased +to meet you, sir," said he. "You see I'm tinkerin' a clock." + +To Enoch, the explanation was enough. All the simple conventions of his +life might well wait upon a reason potent as this. Josiah Pease went to +the stove, and stood holding his tremulous hands over a cover. He was a +little man, eclipsed in a butternut coat of many capes, and his +parchment face shaded gradually up from it, as if into a harder medium. +His eyes were light, and they had an exceedingly uncomfortable way of +darting from one thing to another, like some insect born to spear and +sting. His head was entirely bald, all save a thin fringe of hair not +worth mentioning, since it disappeared so effectually beneath his +collar; and his general antiquity was grotesquely emphasized by two sets +of aggressive teeth, displaying their falsity from every crown. + +Amelia took out the broom, and began sweeping up buttons. She had an +acrid consciousness that by sacrificing them she was somehow completing +the tragedy of her day. Rosie gave a little cry; but Amelia pointed to +the corner where stood the child's chair, exhumed from the attic, after +forty years of rest. "You set there," she said, in an undertone, "an' +keep still." + +Rosie obeyed without a word. Such an atmosphere had not enveloped her +since she entered this wonderful house. Remembering vaguely the days +when her own mother had "spells," and she and her father effaced +themselves until times should change, she folded her little hands, and +lapsed back into a condition of mental servitude. + +Meanwhile, Amelia followed nervously in the track of Enoch's talk with +cousin Josiah, though her mind kept its undercurrent of foolish musing. +Like all of us, snatched up by the wheels of great emergencies, she +caught at trifles while they whirled her round. Here were +"soldier-buttons." All the other girls had collected them, though she, +having no lover in the war, had traded for her few. Here were the +gold-stones that held her changeable silk, there the little clouded +pearls from her sister's raglan. Annie had died in youth; its glamour +still enwrapped her. Poor Annie! But Rosie had seemed to bring her back. +Amelia swept litter, buttons and all, into the dustpan, and marched to +the stove to throw her booty in. Nobody marked her save Rosie, whose +playthings were endangered; but Enoch's very obtuseness to the situation +was what stayed her hand. She carried the dustpan away into a closet, +and came back, to gather up her tins. A cold rage of nervousness beset +her, so overpowering that she herself was amazed at it. + +Meantime, Josiah Pease had divested himself of his coat, and drawn the +grandfather chair into a space behind the stove. + +"You a clock-mender by trade?" he asked of Enoch. + +"No," said Enoch absently, "I ain't got any reg'lar trade." + +"Jest goin' round the country?" amended cousin Josiah, with the +preliminary insinuation Amelia knew so well. He was, it had been said, +in the habit of inventing lies, and challenging other folks to stick to +'em. But Enoch made no reply. He went soberly on with his work. + +"Law, 'Melia, to think o' your bein' married," continued Josiah, turning +to her. "I never should ha' thought that o' you." + +"I never thought it of myself," said Amelia tartly. "You don't know what +you'll do till you're tried." + +"No! no!" said Josiah Pease. "Never in the world. You remember Sally +Flint, how plain-spoken she is? Well, Betsy Marden's darter Ann rode +down to the poor-house t' other day with some sweet trade, an' took a +young sprig with her. He turned his back a minute, to look out o' +winder, an' Sally spoke right up, as ye might say, afore him. 'That +your beau?' says she. Well, o' course Ann couldn't own it, an' him right +there, so to speak. So she shook her head. 'Well, I'm glad on 't,' says +Sally. 'If I couldn't have anything to eat, I'd have suthin' to look +at!' He was the most unsignifyin'est creatur' you ever put your eyes on. +But they say Ann's started in on her clo'es." + +Amelia's face had grown scarlet. "I dunno's any such speech is called +for here," said she, in a furious self-betrayal. Josiah Pease had always +been able to storm her reserves. + +"Law, no," answered he comfortably. "It come into my mind,--that's all." + +She looked at Enoch with a passionate sympathy, knowing too well how the +hidden sting was intended to work. But Enoch had not heard. He was +absorbed in a finer problem of brass and iron; and though Amelia had +wished to save him from hurt, in that instant she scorned him for his +blindness. "I guess I shall have to ask you to move," she said to her +husband coldly. "I've got to git to that stove, if we're goin' to have +any dinner to-day." + +It seemed to her that even Enoch might take the hint, and clear away his +rubbish. Her feelings might have been assuaged by a clean hearth and +some acquiescence in her own mood. But he only moved back a little, and +went on fitting and musing. He was not thinking of her in the least, +nor even of Josiah Pease. His mind had entered its brighter, more +alluring world. She began to fry her pork and apples, with a perfunctory +attempt at conversation. "You don't often git round so early in the +spring," said she. + +"No," returned cousin Josiah. "I kind o' got started out, this time, I +don't rightly know why. I guess I've had you in mind more of late, for +some Tiverton folks come over our way, tradin', an' they brought all the +news. It sort o' stirred me up to come." + +Amelia turned her apples vigorously, well aware that the slices were +breaking. That made a part of her bitter day. + +"Folks needn't take the trouble to carry news about me," she said. There +was an angry gleam in her eyes. "If anybody wants to know anything, let +'em come right here, an' I'll settle 'em." The ring of her voice +penetrated even to Enoch's perception, and he looked up in mild +surprise. She seemed to have thrown open, for an instant, a little +window into a part of her nature he had never seen. + +"How good them apples smell!" said Josiah innocently. "Last time I had +'em was down to cousin Amasa True's, he that married his third wife, an' +she run through all he had. I went down to see 'em arter the +vandoo,--you know they got red o' most everything,--an' they had fried +pork an' apples for dinner. Old Bashaby dropped in. 'Law!' says she. +'Fried pork an' apples! Well, I call that livin' pretty nigh the wind!'" +Josiah chuckled. He was very warm now, and the savory smell of the dish +he decried was mounting to what served him for fancy. "'Melia, you ain't +never had your teeth out, have ye?" he asked, as one who spoke from +richer memories. + +"I guess my teeth'll last me as long as I want 'em," said Amelia curtly. + +"Well, I didn't know. They looked real white an' firm last time I see +'em, but you never can tell how they be underneath. I knew the folks +would ask me when I got home. I thought I'd speak." + +"Dinner's ready," said Amelia. She turned an alien look upon her +husband. "You want to wash your hands?" + +Enoch rose cheerfully. He had got to a hopeful place with the clock. + +"Set ri' down," said he. "Don't wait a minute. I'll be along." + +So Amelia and the guest began their meal, while little Rosie climbed, +rather soberly, into her higher chair, and held out her plate. + +"You wait," said Amelia harshly. "Can't you let other folks eat a +mouthful before you have to have yours?" Yet as she said it, she +remembered, with a remorseful pang, that she had always helped the child +first; it had been so sweet to see her pleased and satisfied. + +Josiah was never talkative during meals. Not being absolute master of +his teeth, his mind dwelt with them. Amelia remembered that, with a +malicious satisfaction. But he could not be altogether dumb. That, +people said, would never happen to Josiah Pease while he was above +ground. + +"That his girl?" he asked, indicating Rosie with his knife, in a +gustatory pause. + +"Whose?" inquired Amelia willfully. + +"His." He pointed again, this time to the back room, where Enoch was +still washing his hands. + +"Yes." + +"Mother dead?" + +Amelia sprang from her chair, while Rosie looked at her with the +frightened glance of a child to whom some half-forgotten grief has +suddenly returned. + +"Josiah Pease!" said Amelia. "I never thought a poor, insignificant +creatur' like you could rile me so,--when I know what you're doin' it +for, too. But you've brought it about. Her mother dead? Ain't I been an' +married her father?" + +"Law, Amelia, do se' down!" said Josiah indulgently. There was a +mince-pie warming on the back of the stove. He saw it there. "I didn't +mean nuthin'. I'll be bound you thought she's dead, or you wouldn't ha' +took such a step. I only meant, did ye see her death in the paper, for +example, or anything like that?" + +"'Melia," called Enoch, from the doorway, "I won't come in to dinner +jest now. Elbridge True's drove into the yard. I guess he's got it in +mind to talk it over about them cows. I don't want to lose the chance." + +"All right," answered Amelia. She took her seat again, while Enoch's +footsteps went briskly out through the shed. With the clanging of the +door, she felt secure. If she had to deal with Josiah Pease, she could +do it better alone, clutching at the certainty that was with her from of +old, that, if you could only keep your temper with cousin Josiah, you +had one chance of victory. Flame out at him, and you were lost. "Some +more potatoes?" asked she, with a deceptive calm. + +"Don't care if I do," returned Josiah, selecting greedily, his fork +hovering in air. "Little mite watery, ain't they? Dig 'em yourself?" + +"We dug 'em," said Amelia coldly. + +Rosie stepped down from her chair, unnoticed. To Amelia, she was then no +bigger than some little winged thing flitting about the room in time of +tragedy. Our greatest emotions sometimes stay unnamed. At that moment, +Amelia was swayed by as tumultuous a love as ever animated damsel of +verse or story; but it merely seemed to her that she was an ill-used +woman, married to a man for whom she was called on to be ashamed. Rosie +tiptoed into the entry, put on her little shawl and hood, and stole out +to play in the corn-house. When domestic squalls were gathering, she +knew where to go. The great outdoors was safer. Her past had taught her +that. + +"Don't like to eat with folks, does he? Well, it's all in what you're +brought up to." + +Amelia was ready with her counter-charge. "Have some tea?" + +She poured it as if it were poison, and Josiah became conscious of her +tragic self-control. + +"You ain't eat a thing," said he, with an ostentatious kindliness. He +bent forward a little, with the air of inviting a confidence. "Got +suthin' on your mind, ain't you, 'Melia?" he whispered. "Kind o' +worried? Find he's a drinkin' man?" + +Amelia was not to be beguiled, even by that anger which veils itself as +justice. She looked at him steadily, with scorching eyes. + +"You ain't took any sugar," said she. "There 't is, settin' by you. Help +yourself." + +Josiah addressed himself to his tea, and then Amelia poured him another +cup. She had some fierce satisfaction in making it good and strong. It +seemed to her that she was heartening her adversary for the fray, and +she took pleasure in doing it effectually. So great was the spirit +within her that she knew he could not be too valiant, for her keener joy +in laying him low. Then they rose from the table, and Josiah took his +old place by the stove, while Amelia began carrying the dishes to the +sink. Her mind was a little hazy now; her next move must depend on his, +and cousin Josiah, somewhat drowsy from his good dinner, was not at once +inclined to talk. Suddenly he raised his head snakily from those sunken +shoulders, and pointed a lean finger to the window. + +"'Melia!" cried he sharply. "I'll be buttered if he ain't been and +traded off both your cows. My Lord! be you goin' to stan' there an' let +them two cows go?" + +Amelia gave one swift glance from the window, following the path marked +out by that insinuating index. It was true. Elbridge was driving her two +cows out of the yard, and her husband stood by, watching him. She walked +quietly into the entry, and Josiah laid his old hands together in the +rapturous certainty that she was going to open the door, and send her +anger forth. But Amelia only took down his butternut coat from the nail, +and returned with it, holding it ready for him to insert his arms. + +"Here's your coat," said she, with that strange, deceptive calmness. +"Stan' up, an' I'll help you put it on." + +Josiah looked at her with helplessly open mouth, and eyes so vacuous +that Amelia felt, even at that moment, the grim humor of his plight. + +"I was in hopes he'd harness up"--he began, but she ruthlessly cut him +short. + +"Stan' up! Here, put t' other arm in fust. This han'kercher yours? Goes +round your neck? There 't is. Here's your hat. Got any mittens? There +they be, in your pocket. This way. This is the door you come in, an' +this is the door you'll go out of." She preceded him, her head thrown +up, her shoulders back. Amelia had no idea of dramatic values, but she +was playing an effective part. She reached the door and flung it open, +but Josiah, a poor figure in its huddled capes, still stood abjectly in +the middle of the kitchen. "Come!" she called peremptorily. "Come, +Josiah Pease! Out you go." And Josiah went, though, contrary to his +usual habit, he did not talk. He quavered uncertainly down the steps, +and Amelia called a halt. "Josiah Pease!" + +He turned, and looked up at her. His mouth had dropped, and he was +nothing but a very helpless old child. Vicious as he was, Amelia +realized the mental poverty of her adversary, and despised herself for +despising him. "Josiah Pease!" she repeated. "This is the end. Don't you +darken my doors ag'in. I've done with you,--egg an' bird!" She closed +the door, shutting out Josiah and the keen spring wind, and went back to +the window, to watch him down the drive. His back looked poor and mean. +It emphasized the pettiness of her victory. Even at that moment, she +realized that it was the poorer part of her which had resented attack on +a citadel which should be impregnable as time itself. Just then Enoch +stepped into the kitchen behind her, and his voice jarred upon her +tingling nerves. + +"Well," said he, more jovially than he was wont to speak, "I guess I've +made a good trade for ye. Company gone? Come here an' se' down while I +eat, an' I'll tell ye all about it." + +Amelia turned about and walked slowly up to him, by no volition of her +conscious self. Again love, that august creature, veiled itself in an +unjust anger, because it was love and nothing else. + +"You've made a good bargain, have you?" she repeated. "You've sold my +cows, an' had 'em drove off the place without if or but. That's what you +call a good bargain!" Her voice frightened her. It amazed the man who +heard. These two middle-aged people were waking up to passions neither +had felt in youth. Life was strong in them because love was there. + +"Why, 'Melia!" said the man. "Why, 'Melia!" + +Amelia was hurried on before the wind of her destiny. Her voice grew +sharper. Little white stripes, like the lashes from a whip, showed +themselves on her cheeks. She seemed to be speaking from a dream, which +left her no will save that of speaking. + +"It's been so ever sence you set foot in this house. Have I had my say +once? Have I been mistress on my own farm? No! You took the head o' +things, an' you've kep' it. What's mine is yours." + +Her triumph over Josiah seemed to be strangely repeated; the scene was +almost identical. The man before her stood with his hands hanging by his +sides, the fingers limp, in an attitude of the profoundest patience. He +was thinking things out. She knew that. Her hurrying mind anticipated +all he might have said, and would not. And because he had too abiding a +gentleness to say it, the insanity of her anger rose anew. "I'm the +laughin'-stock o' the town," she went on bitterly. "There ain't a man or +woman in it that don't say I've married a tramp." + +Enoch winced, with a sharp, brief quiver of the lips; but before she +could dwell upon the sight, to the resurrection of her tenderness, he +turned away from her, and went over to the bench. + +"I guess I'll move this back where't was," he said, in a very still +voice, and Amelia stood watching him, conscious of a new and bitterer +pang: a fierce contempt that he could go on with his poor, methodical +way of living, when greater issues waited at the door. He moved the +bench into its old place, gathered up the clock, with its dismantled +machinery, and carried it into the attic. She heard his step on the +stairs, regular and unhalting, and despised him again; but in all those +moments, the meaning of his movements had not struck her. When he came +back, he brought in the broom; and while he swept up the fragments of +his work, Amelia stood and watched him. He carried the dustpan and broom +away to their places, but he did not reenter the room. He spoke to her +from the doorway, and she could not see his face. + +"I guess you won't mind if I leave the clock as 't is. It needs some new +cogs, an' if anybody should come along, he wouldn't find it any the +worse for what I've done. I've jest thought it over about the cows, an' +I guess I'll leave that, too, jest as it is. I made you a good bargain, +an' when you come to think it over, I guess you'd ruther it'd stan' so +than run the resk of havin' folks make a handle of it. Good-by, 'Melia. +You've been good to me,--better'n anybody ever was in the world." + +She heard his step, swift and steady, through the shed and out at the +door. He was gone. Amelia turned to the window, to look after him, and +then, finding he had not taken the driveway, she ran into the bedroom, +to gaze across the fields. There he was, a lonely figure, striking +vigorously out. He seemed glad to go; and seeing his haste, her heart +hardened against him. She gave a little disdainful laugh. + +"Well," said Amelia, "_that's_ over. I'll wash my dishes now." + +Coming back into the kitchen, with an assured step, she moved calmly +about her work, as if the world were there to see. Her pride enveloped +her like a garment. She handled the dishes as if she scorned them, yet +her method and care were exquisite. Presently there came a little +imperative pounding at the side door. It was Rosie. She had forgotten +the cloudy atmosphere of the house, and being cold, had come, in all her +old, imperious certainty of love and warmth, to be let in. Amelia +stopped short in her work, and an ugly frown roughened her brow. Josiah +Pease, with all his evil imaginings, seemed to be at her side, his lean +forefinger pointing out the baseness of mankind. In that instant, she +realized where Enoch had gone. He meant to take the three o'clock train +where it halted, down at the Crossing, and he had left the child behind. +Tearing off her apron, she threw it over her head. She ran to the door, +and, opening it, almost knocked the child down, in her haste to be out +and away. Rosie had lifted her frosty face in a smile of welcome, but +Amelia did not see it. She gathered the child in her arms, and hurried +down the steps, through the bars, and along the narrow path toward the +pine woods. The sharp brown stubble of the field merged into the thin +grasses of the greener lowland, and she heard the trickling of the +little dark brook, where gentians lived in the fall, and where, still +earlier, the cardinal flower and forget-me-not crowded in lavish color. +She knew every inch of the way; her feet had an intelligence of their +own. The farm was a part of her inherited life; but at that moment, she +prized it as nothing beside that newly discovered wealth which she was +rushing to cast away. Rosie had not striven in the least against her +capture. She knew too much of life, in some patient fashion, to resist +it, in any of its phases. She put her arms about Amelia's neck, to cling +the closer, and Amelia, turning her face while she staggered on, set her +lips passionately to the little sleeve. + +"You cold?" asked she--"_dear_?" But she told herself it was a kiss of +farewell. + +She stepped deftly over the low stone wall into the Marden woods, and +took the slippery downward path, over pine needles. Sometimes a rounded +root lay above the surface, and she stumbled on it; but the child only +tightened her grasp. Amelia walked and ran with the prescience of those +without fear; for her eyes were unseeing, and her thoughts hurrying +forward, she depicted to herself the little drama at its close. She +would be at the Crossing and away again, before the train came in; +nobody need guess her trouble. Enoch must be there, waiting. She would +drop the child at his side,--the child he had deserted,--and before he +could say a word, turn back to her desolate home. And at the thought, +she kissed the little sleeve again, and thought how good it would be if +she could only be there again, though alone, in the shielding walls of +her house, and the parting were over and done. She felt her breath come +chokingly. + +"You'll have to walk a minute," she whispered, setting the child down at +her side. "There's time enough. I can't hurry." + +At that instant, she felt the slight warning of the ground beneath her +feet, shaken by another step, and saw, through the pines, her husband +running toward her. Rosie started to meet him, with a little cry, but +Amelia thrust her aside, and hurried swiftly on in advance, her eyes +feeding upon his face. It had miraculously changed. Sorrow, the great +despair of life, had eaten into it, and aged it more than years of +patient want. His eyes were like lamps burned low, and the wrinkles +under them had guttered into misery. But to Amelia, his look had all +the sweet familiarity of faces we shall see in Paradise. She did not +stop to interpret his meeting glance, nor ask him to read hers. Coming +upon him like a whirlwind, she put both her shaking hands on his +shoulders, and laid her wet face to his. + +"Enoch! Enoch!" she cried sharply, "in the name of God, come home with +me!" + +She felt him trembling under her hands, but he only put up his own, and +very gently loosed the passionate grasp. "There! there!" he said, in a +whisper. "Don't feel so bad. It's all right. I jest turned back for +Rosie. Mebbe you won't believe it, but I forgot all about her." + +He lowered his voice, for Rosie had gone close to him, and laid her +hands clingingly upon his coat. She did not understand, but she could +wait. A branch had almost barred the path, and Amelia, her dull gaze +fallen, noted idly how bright the moss had kept, and how the scarlet +cups enriched it. Her strength would not sustain her, void of his, and +she sank down on the wood, her hands laid limply in her lap. "Enoch," +she said, from her new sense of the awe of life, "don't lay up anything +ag'inst me. You couldn't if you knew." + +"Knew what?" asked Enoch gently. He did not forget that circumstance had +laid a blow at the roots of his being; but he could not turn away while +she still suffered. + +Amelia began, stumblingly,-- + +"He talked about you. I couldn't stan' it." + +"Did you believe it?" he queried sternly. + +"There wa'n't anything to believe. That's neither here nor there. +But--Enoch, if anybody should cut my right hand off--Enoch"--Her voice +fell brokenly. She was a New England woman, accustomed neither to +analyze nor talk. She could only suffer in the elemental way of dumb +things who sometimes need a language of the heart. One thing she knew. +The man was hers; and if she reft herself away from him, then she must +die. + +He had taken Rosie's hand, and Amelia was aware that he turned away. + +"I don't want to bring up anything," he said hesitatingly, "but I +couldn't stan' bein' any less'n other men would, jest because the woman +had the money, an' I hadn't. I dunno's 't was exactly fair about the +cows, but somehow you kind o' set me at the head o' things, in the +beginnin', an' it never come into my mind"-- + +Amelia sat looking wanly past him. She began to see how slightly +argument would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from +her and left her young. + +"Enoch," she said vigorously, "you've got to take me. Somehow, you've +got to. Talkin' won't make you see that what I said never meant no more +than the wind that blows. But you've got to keep me, or remember, all +your life, how you murdered me by goin' away. The farm's come between +us. Le's leave it! It's 'most time for the cars. You take me with you +now. If you tramp, I'll tramp. If you work out, so 'll I. But where you +go, I've got to go, too." + +Some understanding of her began to creep upon him; he dropped the +child's hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch, in these latter days of his +life, had forgotten how to smile; but now a sudden, mirthful gleam +struck upon his face, and lighted it with the candles of hope. He stood +beside her, and Amelia did not look at him. + +"Would you go with me, 'Melia?" he asked. + +"I'm goin'," said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could +not abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous +judgment. + +"S'pose I don't ask you?" + +"I'll foller on behind." + +"Don't ye want to go home, an' lock up, an' git a bunnit?" + +She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head. + +"No." + +"Don't ye want to leave the key with some o' the neighbors?" + +"I don't want anything in the world but you," owned Amelia shamelessly. + +Enoch bent suddenly, and drew her to her feet. "'Melia," said he, "you +look up here." + +She raised her drawn face and looked at him, not because she wished, but +because she must. In her abasement, there was no obedience which she +would deny him. But she could only see that he was strangely happy, and +so the more removed from her own despair. Enoch swiftly passed his arm +about her, and turned her homeward. He laughed a little. Being a man, he +must laugh when that bitter ache in the throat presaged more bitter +tears. + +"Come, 'Melia," said he, "come along home, an' I'll tell you all about +the cows. I made a real good bargain. Come, Rosie." + +Amelia could not answer. It seemed to her as if love had dealt with her +as she had not deserved; and she went on, exalted, afraid of breaking +the moment, and knowing only that he was hers again. But just before +they left the shadow of the woods, he stopped, holding her still, and +their hearts beat together. + +"'Melia," said he brokenly, "I guess I never told you in so many words, +but it's the truth: if God Almighty was to make me a woman, I'd have her +you, not a hair altered. I never cared a straw for any other. I know +that now. You're all there is in the world." + +When they walked up over the brown field, the sun lay very warmly there +with a promise of spring fulfilled. The wind had miraculously died, and +soft clouds ran over the sky in flocks. Rosie danced on ahead, singing +her queer little song, and Enoch struggled with himself to speak the +word his wife might wish. + +"'Melia," said he at last, "there ain't anything in my life I couldn't +tell you. I jest ain't dwelt on it, that's all. If you want to have me +go over it--" + +"I don't want anything," said Amelia firmly. Her eyes were suffused, and +yet lambent. The light in them seemed to be drinking up their tears. Her +steps, she knew, were set within a shining way. At the door only she +paused and fixed him with a glance. "Enoch," said she threateningly, +"whose cows were them you sold to-day?" + +He opened his lips, but she looked him down. One word he rejected, and +then another. His cheeks wrinkled up into obstinate smiling, and he made +the grimace of a child over its bitter draught. + +"'Melia, it ain't fair," he complained. "No, it ain't. I'll take one of +'em, if you say so, or I'll own it don't make a mite o' difference whose +they be. But as to lyin'--" + +"Say it!" commanded Amelia. "Whose were they?" + +"Mine!" said Enoch. They broke into laughter, like children, and held +each other's hands. + +"I ain't had a mite o' dinner," said Amelia happily, as they stepped +together into the kitchen. "Nor you! An' Rosie didn't eat her pie. You +blaze up the fire, an' I'll fry some eggs." + + + + +THE MORTUARY CHEST + + +"Now we've got red o' the men-folks," said Mrs. Robbins, "le's se' down +an' talk it over." The last man of all the crowd accustomed to seek the +country store at noontime was closing the church door behind him as she +spoke. "Here, Ezry," she called after him, "you hurry up, or you won't +git there afore cockcrow to-morrer, an' I wouldn't have that letter miss +for a good deal." + +Mrs. Robbins was slight, and hung on wires,--so said her neighbors. They +also remarked that her nose was as picked as a pin, and that anybody +with them freckles and that red hair was sure to be smart. You could +always tell. Mrs. Robbins knew her reputation for extreme acuteness, and +tried to live up to it. + +"Law! don't you go to stirrin' on him up," said Mrs. Solomon Page +comfortably, putting on the cover of her butter-box, which had contained +the family lunch. "If the store's closed, he can slip the letter into +the box, an' three cents with it, an' they'll put a stamp on in the +mornin'." + +By this time, there was a general dusting of crumbs from Sunday gowns, a +settling of boxes and baskets, and the feminine portion of the East +Tiverton congregation, according to ancient custom, passed into the pews +nearest the stove, and arranged itself more compactly for the midday +gossip. This was a pleasant interlude in the religious decorum of the +day; no Sunday came when the men did not trail off to the store for +their special council, and the women, with a restful sense of sympathy +alloyed by no disturbing element, settled down for an exclusively +feminine view of the universe. Mrs. Page took the head of the pew, and +disposed her portly frame so as to survey the scene with ease. She was a +large woman, with red cheeks and black, shining hair. One powerful arm +lay along the back of the pew, and, as she talked, she meditatively beat +the rail in time. Her sister, Mrs. Ellison, according to an intermittent +custom, had come over from Saltash to attend church, and incidentally to +indulge in a family chat. It was said that Tilly rode over about jes' so +often to get the Tiverton news for her son Leonard, who furnished local +items to the Sudleigh "Star;" and, indeed, she made no secret of sitting +down in social conclave with a bit of paper and a worn pencil in hand, +to jog her memory. She, too, had smooth black hair, but her dark eyes +were illumined by no steadfast glow; they snapped and shone with alert +intelligence, and her great forehead dominated the rest of her face, +scarred with a thousand wrinkles by intensity of nature rather than by +time. A pleasant warmth had diffused itself over the room, so cold +during the morning service that foot-stoves had been in requisition. +Bonnet strings were thrown back and shawls unpinned. The little world +relaxed and lay at ease. + +"What's the news over your way, sister?" asked Mrs. Ellison, as an +informal preliminary. + +"Tilly don't want to give; she'd ruther take," said Mrs. Baxter, before +the other could answer. "She's like old Mis' Pepper. Seliny Hazlitt went +over there, when she was fust married an' come to the neighborhood, an' +asked her if she'd got a sieve to put squash through. Poor Seliny! she +didn't know a sieve from a colander, in them days." + +"I guess she found out soon enough," volunteered Mrs. Page. "_He_ was +one o' them kind o' men that can keep house as well as a woman. I'd +ruther live with a born fool." + +"Well, old Mis' Pepper she ris up an' smoothed down her apron (recollect +them little dots she used to wear?--made her look as broad as a barn +door!), an' she says, 'Yes, we've got a sieve for flour, an' a sieve for +meal, an' a sieve for rye, an' a sieve for blue-monge, an' we could have +a sieve for squash if we was a mind to, _but I don't wish to lend_.' +That's the way with Tilly. She's terrible cropein' about news, but she +won't lend." + +"How's your cistern?" asked Mrs. John Cole, who, with an exclusively +practical turn of mind, saw no reason why talk should be consecutive. +"Got all the water you want?" + +"Yes," said Mrs. Page; "that last rain filled it up higher'n it's been +sence November." + +But Mrs. Ellison was not to be thrown off the track. + +"Ain't there been consid'able talk over here about Parson Bond?" she +asked. + +Miss Sally Ware, a plump and pleasing maiden lady, whose gold beads lay +in a crease especially designed for them, stirred uneasily in her seat +and gave her sisters an appealing glance. But she did not speak, beyond +uttering a little dissentient noise in her throat. She was loyal to her +minister. An embarrassed silence fell like a vapor over the assemblage. +Everybody longed to talk; nobody wanted the responsibility of beginning. +Mrs. Page was the first to gather her forces. + +"Now, Tilly," said she, with decision, "you ain't comin' over here to +tole us into haulin' our own pastor over the coals, unless you'll say +right out you won't pass it on to Saltash folks. As for puttin' it in +the paper, it ain't the kind you can." + +Tilly's eyes burned. + +"I guess I know when to speak an' when not to," she remarked. "Now don't +beat about the bush; the men-folks'll be back to-rights. I never in my +life give Len a mite o' news he couldn't ha' picked up for himself." + +"Well, some master silly pieces have got into the paper, fust an' last," +said Mrs. Robbins. "Recollect how your Len come 'way over here to git +his shoes cobbled, the week arter Tom Brewer moved int' the Holler, an' +folks hadn't got over swappin' the queer things he said? an' when Tom +got the shoes done afore he promised, Len says to him, 'You're better'n +your word.' 'Well,' says Tom, 'I flew at 'em with all the venom o' my +specie.' An' it wa'n't a fortnight afore that speech come out in a New +York paper, an' then the Sudleigh 'Star' got hold on 't, an' so 't went. +If folks want that kind o' thing, they can git a plenty, _I_ say." She +set her lips defiantly, and looked round on the assembled group. This +was something she had meant to mention; now she had done it. + +The informal meeting was aghast. A flavor of robust humor was accustomed +to enliven it, but not of a sort to induce dissension. + +"There! there!" murmured Sally Ware. "It's the Sabbath day!" + +"Well, nobody's breakin' of it, as I know of," said Mrs. Ellison. Her +eyes were brighter than usual, but she composed herself into a careful +disregard of annoyance. When desire of news assailed her, she could +easily conceal her personal resentments, cannily sacrificing small +issues to great. "I guess there's no danger o' Parson Bond's gittin' +into the paper, so long's he behaves himself; but if anybody's got eyes, +they can't help seein'. I hadn't been in the Bible class five minutes +afore I guessed how he was carryin' on. Has he begun to go with Isabel +North, an' his wife not cold in her grave?" + +"Well, I think, for my part, he does want Isabel," said Mrs. Robbins +sharply, "an' I say it's a sin an' a shame. Why, she ain't twenty, an' +he's sixty if he's a day. My soul! Sally Ware, you better be settin' +your cap for my William Henry. He's 'most nineteen." + +Miss Ware flushed, and her plump hands tightened upon each other under +her shawl. She was never entirely at ease in the atmosphere of these +assured married women; it was always a little bracing. + +"Well, how's she take it?" asked Tilly, turning from one to the other. +"Tickled to death, I s'pose?" + +"Well, I guess she ain't!" broke in a younger woman, whose wedding +finery was not yet outworn. "She's most sick over it, and so she has +been ever since her sister married and went away. I believe she'd hate +the sight of him, if 't wasn't the minister; but _'t is_ the minister, +and when she's put face to face with him, she can't help saying yes and +no." + +"I dunno'," said Mrs. Page, with her unctuous laugh. "Remember the +party over to Tiverton t' other night, an' them tarts? You see, Rosanna +Maria Pike asked us all over; an' you know how flaky her pie-crust is. +Well, the minister was stan'in' side of Isabel when the tarts was +passed. He was sort o' shinin' up to her that night, an' I guess he felt +a mite twittery; so when the tarts come to him, he reached out kind o' +delicate, with his little finger straight out, an' tried to take one. +An' a ring o' crust come off on his finger. Then he tried it ag'in, an' +got another ring. Everybody'd ha' laughed, if it hadn't been the +minister; but Isabel she tickled right out, an' says, 'You don't take +jelly, do you, Mr. Bond?' An' he turned as red as fire, an' says, 'No, I +thank you.'" + +"She wouldn't ha' said it, if she hadn't ha' been so nervous," remarked +Miss Sally, taking a little parcel of peppermints from her pocket, and +proceeding to divide them. + +"No, I don't s'pose she would," owned Mrs. Page reflectively. "But if +what they say is true, she's been pretty sassy to him, fust an' last. +Why, you know, no matter how the parson begins his prayer, he's sure to +end up on one line: 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live +by the dim light of natur'.' 'Lisha Cole, when he come home from +Illinois, walked over here to meetin', to surprise some o' the folks. He +waited in the entry to ketch 'em comin' out, an' the fust word he heard +was, 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live by the dim light +of natur'.' 'Lisha said he'd had time to be shipwrecked (you know he +went to California fust an' made the v'yage), an' be married twice, an' +lay by enough to keep him, and come home poor; but when he heard that, +he felt as if the world hadn't moved sence he started." + +Sally Ware dropped her mitten, to avoid listening and the necessity of +reply; it was too evident that the conversational tone was becoming +profane. But Mrs. Page's eyes were gleaming with pure dramatic joy, and +she continued:-- + +"Well, a fortnight or so ago he went over to see Isabel, an' Sadie an' +her husband happened to be there. They were all settin' purrin' in the +dark, because they'd forgot to send for any kerosene. 'No light?' says +he, hittin' his head ag'inst the chimbly-piece goin' in,--'no light?' +'No,' says Isabel, 'none but the dim light of natur'.'" + +There was a chime of delighted laughter in many keys. The company felt +the ease of unrestricted speech. They wished the nooning might be +indefinitely prolonged. + +"Sometimes I think she sets out to make him believe she's wuss 'n she +is," remarked Mrs. Cole. "Remember how she carried on last Sabbath?" + +"I guess so!" returned Mrs. Page. "You see, Tilly, he's kind o' pushin' +her for'ard to make her seem more suitable,--he'd like to have her as +old as the hills!--an' nothin' would do but she must go into the Bible +class. Ain't a member that's under fifty, but there that little young +thing sets, cheeks red as a beet, an' the elder asks her questions, when +he gits to her, as if he was coverin' on her over with cotton wool. +Well, last Sabbath old Deacon Pitts--le's see, there ain't any o' his +folks present, be they?--well, he was late, an' he hadn't looked at his +lesson besides. 'T was the fust chapter in Ruth, where it begins, 'In +the days when the judges ruled.' You recollect Naomi told the two +darters they'd got to set sail, an' then the Bible says, 'they lifted up +their voice an' wept.' 'Who wept?' says the parson to Deacon Pitts, +afore he'd got fairly se' down. The deacon he opened his Bible, an' +whirled over the leaves. 'Who wept, Brother Pitts?' says the parson over +ag'in. Somebody found the deacon the place, an' p'inted. He was growin' +redder an' redder, an' his spe'tacles kep' slippin' down, but he did +manage to see the chapter begun suthin' about the judges. Well, by that +time parson spoke out sort o' sharp. 'Brother Pitts,' says he, 'who +wept?' The deacon see 't he'd got to put some kind of a face on 't, an' +he looked up an' spoke out, as bold as brass. 'I conclude,' says +he,--'I conclude 't was the judges!'" + +Even Miss Ware smiled a little, and adjusted her gold beads. The others +laughed out rich and free. + +"Well, what'd that have to do with Isabel?" asked Mrs. Ellison, who +never forgot the main issue. + +"Why, everybody else drawed down their faces, an' tried to keep 'em +straight, but Isabel, she begun to laugh, an' she laughed till the tears +streamed down her cheeks. Deacon Pitts was real put out, for him, an' +the parson tried not to take no notice. But it went so fur he couldn't +help it, an' so he says, 'Miss Isabel, I'm real pained,' says he. But 't +was jest as you'd cuff the kitten for snarlin' up your yarn." + +"Well, what's Isabel goin' to do?" asked Mrs. Ellison. "S'pose she'll +marry him?" + +"Why, she won't unless he tells her to. If he does, I dunno but she'll +think she's got to." + +"I say it's a shame," put in Mrs. Robbins incisively; "an' Isabel with +everything all fixed complete so 't she could have a good time. Her +sister's well married, an' Isabel stays every night with her. Them two +girls have been together ever sence their father died. An' here she's +got the school, an' she's goin' to Sudleigh every Saturday to take +lessons in readin', an' she'd be as happy as a cricket, if on'y he'd +let her alone." + +"She reads real well," said Mrs. Ellison. "She come over to our sociable +an' read for us. She could turn herself into anybody she'd a mind to. +Len wrote a notice of it for the 'Star.' That's the only time we've had +oysters over our way." + +"I'd let it be the last," piped up a thin old lady, with a long figured +veil over her face. "It's my opinion oysters lead to dancin'." + +"Well, let 'em lead," said optimistic Mrs. Page. "I guess we needn't +foller." + +"Them that have got rheumatism in their knees can stay behind," said the +young married woman, drawn by the heat of the moment into a daring at +once to be repented. "Mrs. Ellison, you're getting ahead of us over in +your parish. They say you sing out of sheet music." + +"Yes, they do say so," interrupted the old lady under the figured veil. +"If there's any worship in sheet music, I'd like to know it!" + +"Come, come!" said peace-loving Mrs. Page; "there's the men filin' in. +We mustn't let 'em see us squabblin'. They think we're a lot o' cacklin' +hens anyway, tickled to death over a piece o' chalk. There's Isabel, +now. She's goin' to look like her aunt Mary Ellen, over to Saltash." + +Isabel preceded the men, who were pausing for a word at the door, and +went down the aisle to her pew. She bowed to one and another, in +passing, and her color rose. They could not altogether restrain their +guiltily curious gaze, and Isabel knew she had been talked over. She was +a healthy-looking girl, with clear blue eyes and a quantity of soft +brown hair. Her face was rather large-featured, and one could see that, +if the world went well with her, she would be among those who develop +beauty in middle life. + +The group of dames dispersed to their several pews, and settled their +faces into expressions more becoming a Sunday mood. The village folk, +who had time for a hot dinner, dropped in, one by one, and by and by the +parson came,--a gaunt man, with thick red-brown hair streaked with dull +gray, and red-brown, sanguine eyes. He was much beloved, but something +impulsive and unevenly balanced in his nature led even his people to +regard him with more or less patronage. He kept his eyes rigorously +averted from Isabel's pew, in passing; but when he reached the pulpit, +and began unpinning his heavy gray shawl, he did glance at her, and his +face grew warm. But Isabel did not look at him, and all through the +service she sat with a haughty pose of the head, gazing down into her +lap. When it was over, she waited for no one, since her sister was not +at church, but sped away down the snowy road. + +The next day, Isabel stayed after school, and so it was in the wintry +twilight that she walked home, guarded by the few among her flock who +had been kept to learn the inner significance of common fractions. +Approaching her own house, she quickened her steps, for there before the +gate (taken from its hinges and resting for the winter) stood a blue +pung. The horse was dozing, his Roman nose sunken almost to the snow at +his feet. He looked as if he had come to stay. Isabel withdrew her hand +from the persistent little fingers clinging to it. + +"Good-night, children," said she. "I guess I've got company. I must +hurry in. Come bright and early to-morrow." + +The little group marched away, swathed in comforters, each child +carrying the dinner-pail with an easy swing. Their reddened faces +lighted over the chorusing good-nights, and they kept looking back, +while Isabel ran up the icy path to her own door. It was opened from +within, before she reached it, and a tall, florid woman, with smoothly +banded hair, stood there to receive her. Though she had a powerful +frame, she gave one at the outset an impression of weak gentleness, and +the hands she extended, albeit cordial, were somewhat limp. She wore her +bonnet still, though she had untied the strings and thrown them back; +and her ample figure was tightly laced under a sontag. + +"Why, aunt Luceba!" cried Isabel, radiant. "I'm as glad as I can be. +When did you rain down?" + +"Be you glad?" returned aunt Luceba, her somewhat anxious look relaxing +into a smile. "Well, I'm pleased if you be. Fact is, I run away, an' I'm +jest comin' to myself, an' wonderin' what under the sun set me out to do +it." + +"Run away!" repeated Isabel, drawing her in, and at once peeping into +the stove. "Oh, you fixed the fire, didn't you? It keeps real well. I +put on coal in the morning, and then again at night." + +"Isabel," began her aunt, standing by the stove, and drumming on it with +agitated fingers, "I hate to have you live as you do. Why under the sun +can't you come over to Saltash, an' stay with us?" + +Isabel had thrown off her shawl and hat, and was standing on the other +side of the stove; she was tingling with cold and youthful spirits. + +"I'm keeping school," said she. "School can't keep without me. And I'm +going over to Sudleigh, every Saturday, to take elocution lessons. I'm +having my own way, and I'm happy as a clam. Now, why can't you come and +live with me? You said you would, the very day aunt Eliza died." + +"I know I did," owned the visitor, lowering her voice, and casting a +glance over her shoulder. "But I never had an idea then how Mary Ellen +'d feel about it. She said she wouldn't live in this town, not if she +was switched. I dunno why she's so ag'in' it, but she seems to be, an' +there 't is!" + +"Why, aunt Luceba!" Isabel had left her position to draw forward a +chair. "What's that?" She pointed to the foot of the lounge, where, half +hidden in shadow, stood a large, old-fashioned blue chest. + +"'Sh! that's it! that's what I come for. It's her chist." + +"Whose?" + +"Your aunt 'Liza's." She looked Isabel in the face with an absurd +triumph and awe. She had done a brave deed, the nature of which was not +at once apparent. + +"What's in it?" asked Isabel, walking over to it. + +"Don't you touch it!" cried her aunt, in agitation. "I wouldn't have you +meddle with it--But there! it's locked. I al'ays forgit that. I feel as +if the things could git out an' walk. Here! you let it alone, an' +byme-by we'll open it. Se' down here on the lounge. There, now! I guess +I can tell ye. It was sister 'Liza's chist, an' she kep' it up attic. +She begun it when we wa'n't more'n girls goin' to Number Six, an' she's +been fillin' on 't ever sence." + +"Begun it! You talk as if 't was a quilt!" Isabel began to laugh. + +"Now don't!" said her aunt, in great distress. "Don't ye! I s'pose 't +was because we was such little girls an' all when 'Liza started it, but +it makes me as nervous as a witch, an' al'ays did. You see, 'Liza was a +great hand for deaths an' buryin's; an' as for funerals, she'd ruther go +to 'em than eat. I'd say that if she was here this minute, for more'n +once I said it to her face. Well, everybody 't died, she saved suthin' +they wore or handled the last thing, an' laid it away in this chist; an' +last time I see it opened, 't was full, an' she kind o' smacked her +lips, an' said she should have to begin another. But the very next week +she was took away." + +"Aunt Luceba," said Isabel suddenly, "was aunt Eliza hard to live with? +Did you and aunt Mary Ellen have to toe the mark?" + +"Don't you say one word," answered her aunt hastily. "That's all past +an' gone. There ain't no way of settlin' old scores but buryin' of 'em. +She was older'n we were, an' on'y a step-sister, arter all. We must +think o' that. Well, I must come to the end o' my story, an' then we'll +open the chist. Next day arter we laid her away, it come into my head, +'Now we can burn up them things.' It may ha' been wicked, but there 't +was, an' the thought kep' arter me, till all I could think of was the +chist; an' byme-by I says to Mary Ellen, one mornin', 'Le's open it +to-day an' make a burnfire!' An' Mary Ellen she turned as white as a +sheet, an' dropped her spoon into her sasser, an' she says: 'Not yet! +Luceba, don't you ask me to touch it yet.' An' I found out, though she +never 'd say another word, that it unset her more'n it did me. One day, +I come on her up attic stan'in' over it with the key in her hand, an' +she turned round as if I'd ketched her stealin', an' slipped off +downstairs. An' this arternoon, she went into Tilly Ellison's with her +work, an' it come to me all of a sudden how I'd git Tim Yatter to +harness an' load the chist onto the pung, an' I'd bring it over here, +an' we'd look it over together; an' then, if there's nothin' in it but +what I think, I'd leave it behind, an' maybe you or Sadie 'd burn it. +John Cole happened to ride by, and he helped me in with it. I ain't +a-goin' to have Mary Ellen worried. She's different from me. She went to +school, same's you have, an' she's different somehow. She's been meddled +with all her life, an' I'll be whipped if she sha'n't make a new start. +Should you jest as lieves ask Sadie or John?" + +"Why, yes," said Isabel wonderingly; "or do it myself. I don't see why +you care." + +Aunt Luceba wiped her beaded face with a large handkerchief. + +"I dunno either," she owned, in an exhausted voice. "I guess it's al'ays +little things you can't stand. Big ones you can butt ag'inst. There! I +feel better, now I've told ye. Here's the key. Should you jest as soon +open it?" + +Isabel drew the chest forward with a vigorous pull of her sturdy arm. +She knelt before it and inserted the key. Aunt Luceba rose and leaned +over her shoulder, gazing with the fascination of horror. At the moment +the lid was lifted, a curious odor filled the room. + +"My soul!" exclaimed Aunt Luceba. "O my soul!" She seemed incapable of +saying more; and Isabel, awed in spite of herself, asked, in a +whisper:-- + +"What's that smell? I know, but I can't think." + +"You take out that parcel," said aunt Luceba, beginning to fan herself +with her handkerchief. "That little one down there 't the end. It's +that. My soul! how things come back! Talk about spirits! There's no need +of 'em! _Things_ are full bad enough!" + +Isabel lifted out a small brown paper package, labeled in a cramped +handwriting. She held it to the fading light. "'Slippery elm left by my +dear father from his last illness,'" she read, with difficulty. '"The +broken piece used by him on the day of his death.'" + +"My land!" exclaimed aunt Luceba weakly. "Now what'd she want to keep +that for? He had it round all that winter, an' he used to give us a +little mite, to please us. Oh, dear! it smells like death. Well, le's +lay it aside an' git on. The light's goin', an' I must jog along. Take +out that dress. I guess I know what 't is, though I can't hardly believe +it." + +Isabel took out a black dress, made with a full, gathered skirt and an +old-fashioned waist. "'Dress made ready for aunt Mercy,'" she read, +"'before my dear uncle bought her a robe.' But, auntie," she added, +"there's no back breadth!" + +"I know it! I know it! She was so large they had to cut it out, for fear +'t wouldn't go into the coffin; an' Monroe Giles said she was a real +particular woman, an' he wondered how she'd feel to have the back +breadth of her quilted petticoat showin' in heaven. I declare I'm 'most +sick! What's in that pasteboard box?" + +It was a shriveled object, black with long-dried mould. + +"'Lemon held by Timothy Marden in his hand just before he died.' Aunt +Luceba," said Isabel, turning with a swift impulse, "I think aunt Eliza +was a horror!" + +"Don't you say it, if you do think it," said her aunt, sinking into a +chair and rocking vigorously. "Le's git through with it as quick 's we +can. Ain't that a bandbox? Yes, that's great-aunt Isabel's leghorn +bunnit. You was named for her, you know. An' there's cousin Hattie's +cashmere shawl, an' Obed's spe'tacles. An' if there ain't old Mis' +Eaton's false front! Don't you read no more. I don't care what they're +marked. Move that box a mite. My soul! There's ma'am's checked apron I +bought her to the fair! Them are all her things down below." She got up +and walked to the window, looking into the chestnut branches, with +unseeing eyes. She turned about presently, and her cheeks were wet. +"There!" she said; "I guess we needn't look no more. Should you jest as +soon burn 'em?" + +"Yes," answered Isabel. She was crying a little, too. "Of course I will, +auntie. I'll put 'em back now. But when you're gone, I'll do it; perhaps +not till Saturday, but I will then." + +She folded the articles, and softly laid them away. They were no longer +gruesome, since even a few of them could recall the beloved and still +remembered dead. As she was gently closing the lid, she felt a hand on +her shoulder. Aunt Luceba was standing there, trembling a little, though +the tears had gone from her face. + +"Isabel," said she, in a whisper, "you needn't burn the apron, when you +do the rest. Save it careful. I should like to put it away among my +things." + +Isabel nodded. She remembered her grandmother, a placid, hopeful woman, +whose every deed breathed the fragrance of godly living. + +"There!" said her aunt, turning away with the air of one who thrusts +back the too insistent past, lest it dominate her quite. "It's gittin' +along towards dark, an' I must put for home. I guess that hoss thinks +he's goin' to be froze to the ground. You wrop up my soap-stone while I +git on my shawl. Land! don't it smell hot? I wisht I hadn't been so spry +about puttin' on 't into the oven." She hurried on her things; and +Isabel, her hair blowing about her face, went out to uncover the horse +and speed the departure. The reins in her hands, aunt Luceba bent +forward once more to add, "Isabel, if there's one thing left for me to +say, to tole you over to live with us, I want to say it." + +Isabel laughed. "I know it," she answered brightly. "And if there's +anything I can say to make you and aunt Mary Ellen come over here"-- + +Aunt Luceba shook her head ponderously, and clucked at the horse. "Fur's +I'm concerned, it's settled now. I'd come, an' be glad. But there's Mary +Ellen! Go 'long!" She went jangling away along the country road to the +music of old-fashioned bells. + +Isabel ran into the house, and, with one look at the chest, set about +preparing her supper. She was enjoying her life of perfect freedom with +a kind of bravado, inasmuch as it seemed an innocent delight of which +nobody approved. If the two aunts would come to live with her, so much +the better; but since they refused, she scorned the descent to any +domestic expedient. Indeed, she would have been glad to sleep, as well +as to eat, in the lonely house; but to that her sister would never +consent, and though she had compromised by going to Sadie's for the +night, she always returned before breakfast. She put up a leaf of the +table standing by the wall, and arranged her simple supper there, +uttering aloud as she did so fragments of her lesson, or dramatic +sentences which had caught her fancy in reading or in speech. Finally, +as she was dipping her cream toast, she caught herself saying, over and +over, "My soul!" in the tremulous tone her aunt had used at that moment +of warm emotion. She could not make it quite her own, and she tried +again and again, like a faithful parrot. Then of a sudden the human +power and pity of it flashed upon her, and she reddened, +conscience-smitten, though no one was by to hear. She set her dish upon +the table with indignant emphasis. + +"I'm ashamed of myself!" said Isabel, and she sat down to her delicate +repast, and forced herself, while she ate with a cordial relish, to fix +her mind on what seemed to her things common as compared with her +beloved ambition. Isabel often felt that she was too much absorbed in +reading, and that, somehow or other, God would come to that conclusion +also, and take away her wicked facility. + +The dark seemed to drift quickly down, that night, because her supper +had been delayed, and she washed her dishes by lamplight. When she had +quite finished, and taken off her apron, she stood a moment over the +chest, before sitting down to her task of memorizing verse. She was +wondering whether she might not burn a few of the smaller things +to-night; yet somehow, although she was quite free from aunt Luceba's +awe of them, she did feel that the act must be undertaken with a certain +degree of solemnity. It ought not to be accomplished over the remnants +of a fire built for cooking; it should, moreover, be to the +accompaniment of a serious mood in herself. She turned away, but at that +instant there came a jingle of bells. It stopped at the gate. Isabel +went into the dark entry, and pressed her face against the side-light. +It was the parson. She knew him at once; no one in Tiverton could ever +mistake that stooping figure, draped in a shawl. Isabel always hated him +the more when she thought of his shawl. It flashed upon her then, as it +often did when revulsion came over her, how much she had loved him until +he had conceived this altogether horrible attachment for her. It was +like a cherished friend who had begun to cut undignified capers. More +than that, there lurked a certain cruelty in it, because he seemed to +be trading on her inherited reverence for his office. If he should ask +her to marry him, he was the minister, and how could she refuse? Unless, +indeed, there were somebody else in the room, to give her courage, and +that was hardly to be expected. Isabel began casting wildly about her +for help. Her thoughts ran in a rushing current, and even in the midst +of her tragic despair some sense of the foolishness of it smote her like +a comic note, and she could have laughed hysterically. + +"But I can't help it," she said aloud, "I am afraid. I can't put out the +light. He's seen it. I can't slip out the back door. He'd hear me on the +crust. He'll--ask me--to-night! Oh, he will! he will! and I said to +myself I'd be cunning and never give him a chance. Oh, why couldn't aunt +Luceba have stayed? My soul! my soul!" And then the dramatic fibre, +always awake in her, told her that she had found the tone she sought. + +He was blanketing his horse, and Isabel had flown into the sitting-room. +Her face was alive with resolution and a kind of joy. She had thought. +She threw open the chest, with a trembling hand, and pulled out the +black dress. + +"I'm sorry," she said, as she slipped it on over her head, and speaking +as if she addressed some unseen guardian, "but I can't help it. If you +don't want your things used, you keep him from coming in!" + +The parson knocked at the door. Isabel took no notice. She was putting +on the false front, the horn spectacles, the cashmere shawl, and the +leghorn bonnet, with its long veil. She threw back the veil, and closed +the chest. The parson knocked again. She heard him kicking the snow from +his feet against the scraper. It might have betokened a decent care for +her floors. It sounded to Isabel like a lover's haste, and smote her +anew with that fear which is the forerunner of action. She blew out the +lamp, and lighted a candle. Then she went to the door, schooling herself +in desperation to remember this, to remember that, to remember, above +all things, that her under dress was red and that her upper one had no +back breadth. She threw open the door. + +"Good-evening"--said the parson. He was about to add "Miss Isabel," but +the words stuck in his throat. + +"She ain't to home," answered Isabel. "My niece ain't to home." + +The parson had bent forward, and was eyeing her curiously, yet with +benevolence. He knew all the residents within a large radius, and he +expected, at another word from the shadowy masker, to recognize her +also. "Will she be away long?" he hesitated. + +"I guess she will," answered Isabel promptly. "She ain't to be relied +on. I never found her so." Her spirits had risen. She knew how exactly +she was imitating aunt Luceba's mode of speech. The tones were +dramatically exact, albeit of a more resonant quality. "Auntie's voice +is like suet," she thought. "Mine is vinegar. _But I've got it!_" A +merry devil assailed her, the child of dramatic triumph. She spoke with +decision: "Won't you come in?" + +The parson crossed the sill, and waited courteously for her to precede +him; but Isabel thought, in time, of her back breadth, and stood aside. + +"You go fust," said she, "an' I'll shet the door." + +He made his way into the ill-lighted sitting-room, and began to unpin +his shawl. + +"I ain't had my bunnit off sence I come," announced Isabel, entering +with some bustle, and taking her stand, until he should be seated, +within the darkest corner of the hearth. "I've had to turn to an' clear +up, or I shouldn't ha' found a spot as big as a hin's egg to sleep in +to-night. Maybe you don't know it, but my niece Isabel's got no more +faculty about a house 'n I have for preachin'--not a mite." + +The parson had seated himself by the stove, and was laboriously removing +his arctics. Isabel's eyes danced behind her spectacles as she thought +how large and ministerial they were. She could not see them, for the +spectacles dazzled her, but she remembered exactly how they looked. +Everything about him filled her with glee, now that she was safe, though +within his reach. "'Now, infidel,'" she said noiselessly, "'I have thee +on the hip!'" + +The parson had settled himself in his accustomed attitude when making +parochial calls. He put the tips of his fingers together, and opened +conversation in his tone of mild good-will:-- + +"I don't seem to be able to place you. A relative of Miss Isabel's, did +you say?" + +She laughed huskily. She was absorbed in putting more suet into her +voice. + +"You make me think of uncle Peter Nudd," she replied, "when he was took +up into Bunker Hill Monument. Albert took him, one o' the boys that +lived in Boston. Comin' down, they met a woman Albert knew, an' he +bowed. Uncle Peter looked round arter her, an' then he says to Albert, +'I dunno 's I rightly remember who that is!'" + +The parson uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The old +lady began to seem to him a thought too discursive, if not hilarious. + +"I know so many of the people in the various parishes"--he began, but he +was interrupted without compunction. + +"You never'd know me. I'm from out West. Isabel's father's brother +married my uncle--no, I would say my step-niece. An' so I'm her aunt. By +adoption, 't ennyrate. We al'ays call it so, leastways when we're +writin' back an' forth. An' I've heard how Isabel was goin' on, an' so I +ketched up my bunnit, an' put for Tiverton. 'If she ever needed her own +aunt,' says I--'her aunt by adoption--she needs her now.'" + +Once or twice, during the progress of this speech, the visitor had +shifted his position, as if ill at ease. Now he bent forward, and peered +at his hostess. + +"Isabel is well?" he began tentatively. + +"Well enough! But, my sakes! I'd ruther she'd be sick abed or paraletic +than carry on as she does. Slack? My soul! I wisht you could see her +sink closet! I wisht you could take one look over the dirty dishes she +leaves round, not washed from one week's end to another!" + +"But she's always neat. She looks like an--an angel!" + +Isabel could not at once suppress the gratified note which crept of +itself into her voice. + +"That's the outside o' the cup an' platter," she said knowingly. "I +thank my stars she ain't likely to marry. She'd turn any man's house +upside down inside of a week." + +The parson made a deprecating noise in his throat. He seemed about to +say something, and thought better of it. + +"It may be," he hesitated, after a moment,--"it may be her studies take +up too much of her time. I have always thought these elocution +lessons"-- + +"Oh, my land!" cried Isabel, in passionate haste. She leaned forward as +if she would implore him. "That's her only salvation. That's the makin' +of her. If you stop her off there, I dunno but she'd jine a circus or +take to drink! Don't you dast to do it! I'm in the family, an' I know." + +The parson tried vainly to struggle out of his bewilderment. + +"But," said he, "may I ask how you heard these reports? Living in +Illinois, as you do--did you say Illinois or Iowa?" + +"Neither," answered Isabel desperately. "'Way out on the plains. It's +the last house afore you come to the Rockies. Law! you can't tell how a +story gits started, nor how fast it will travel. 'T ain't like a gale o' +wind; the weather bureau ain't been invented that can cal'late it. I +heard of a man once that told a lie in California, an' 'fore the week +was out it broke up his engagement in New Hampshire. There's the +'tater-bug--think how that travels! So with this. The news broke out in +Missouri, an' here I be." + +"I hope you will be able to remain." + +"Only to-night," she said in haste. More and more nervous, she was +losing hold on the sequence of her facts. "I'm like mortal life, here +to-day an' there to-morrer. In the mornin' I sha'n't be found." ("But +Isabel will," she thought, from a remorse which had come too late, "and +she'll have to lie, or run away. Or cut a hole in the ice and drown +herself!") + +"I'm sorry to have her lose so much of your visit," began the parson +courteously, but still perplexing himself over the whimsies of an old +lady who flew on from the West, and made nothing of flying back. "If I +could do anything towards finding her"-- + +"I know where she is," said Isabel unhappily. "She's as well on 't as +she can be, under the circumstances. There's on'y one thing you could +do. If you should be willin' to keep it dark't you've seen me, I should +be real beholden to ye. You know there ain't no time to call in the +neighborhood, an' such things make talk, an' all. An' if you don't speak +out to Isabel, so much the better. Poor creatur', she's got enough to +bear without that!" Her voice dropped meltingly in the keenness of her +sympathy for the unfortunate girl who, embarrassed enough before, had +deliberately set for herself another snare. "I feel for Isabel," she +continued, in the hope of impressing him with the necessity for silence +and inaction. "I do feel for her! Oh, gracious me! What's that?" + +A decided rap had sounded at the front door. The parson rose also, +amazed at her agitation. + +"Somebody knocked," he said. "Shall I go to the door?" + +"Oh, not yet, not yet!" cried Isabel, clasping her hands under her +cashmere shawl. "Oh, what shall I do?" + +Her natural voice had asserted itself, but, strangely enough, the parson +did not comprehend. The entire scene was too bewildering. There came a +second knock. He stepped toward the door, but Isabel darted in front of +him. She forgot her back breadth, and even through that dim twilight the +scarlet of her gown shone ruddily out. She placed herself before the +door. + +"Don't you go!" she entreated hoarsely. "Let me think what I can say." + +Then the parson had his first inkling that the strange visitor must be +mad. He wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and the idea +speedily coupled itself with Isabel's strange disappearance. He stepped +forward and grasped her arm, trembling under the cashmere shawl. + +"Woman," he demanded sternly, "what have you done with Isabel North?" + +Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice repeated, brought her to +herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the +parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate. + +"Poor soul!" said he soothingly. "Poor soul! sit down here by the stove +and be calm--be calm!" + +Isabel was overcome anew. + +"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let +me be!" + +She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again. +Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she +called. + +"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness. "Open the +door." + +"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she +continued. "Only a minute!" + +She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door. The +act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey in +such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to be +refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it. + +"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take +off these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!" +Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile. + +"Isabel!" gasped the parson. + +"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!" + +The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the +mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue +chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss +me the shawl. Now if you say one word--Oh, parson, if you only will keep +still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And leaving +him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door. + +"Well," said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, "I'm afraid your hinges want +greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?" She put up her face and +kissed her niece. Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so small, +that she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life with a +gentle grace. "I heard voices," she said, walking into the sitting-room. +"Sadie here?" + +The parson had stepped forward, more bent than usual, for he was peering +down into her face. + +"Mary Ellen!" he exclaimed. + +The little woman looked up at him--very sadly, Isabel thought. + +"Yes, William," she answered. But she was untying her bonnet, and she +did not offer to shake hands. + +Isabel stood by with downcast eyes, waiting to take her things, and +aunt Mary Ellen looked searchingly up at her as she laid her mittens on +the pile. The girl, without a word, went into the bedroom, and her aunt +followed her. + +"Isabel," said she rapidly, "I saw the chest. Have you burnt the +things?" + +"No," answered Isabel in wonder. "No." + +"Then don't you! don't you touch 'em for the world." She went back into +the sitting-room, and Isabel followed. The candle was guttering, and +aunt Mary Ellen pushed it toward her. "I don't know where the snuffers +are," she said. "Lamp smoke?" + +Isabel did not answer, but she lighted the lamp. She had never seen her +aunt so full of decision, so charged with an unfamiliar power. She felt +as if strange things were about to happen. The parson was standing +awkwardly. He wondered whether he ought to go. Aunt Mary Ellen smoothed +her brown hair with both hands, sat down, and pointed to his chair. + +"Sit a spell," she said. "I guess I shall have something to talk over +with you." + +The parson sat down. He tried to put his fingers together, but they +trembled, and he clasped his hands instead. + +"It's a long time since we've seen you in Tiverton," he began. + +"It would have been longer," she answered, "but I felt as if my niece +needed me." + +Here Isabel, to her own surprise, gave a little sob, and then another. +She began crying angrily into her handkerchief. + +"Isabel," said her aunt, "is there a fire in the kitchen?" + +"Yes," sobbed the girl. + +"Well, you go out there and lie down on the lounge till you feel better. +Cover you over, and don't be cold. I'll call you when there's anything +for you to do." + +Tall Isabel rose and walked out, wiping her eyes. Her little aunt sat +mistress of the field. For many minutes there was silence, and the clock +ticked. The parson felt something rising in his throat. He blew his nose +vigorously. + +"Mary Ellen"--he began. "But I don't know as you want me to call you +so!" + +"You can call me anything you're a mind to," she answered calmly. She +was near-sighted, and had always worn spectacles. She took them off and +laid them on her knee. The parson moved involuntarily in his chair. He +remembered how she had used to do that when they were talking +intimately, so that his eager look might not embarrass her. "Nothing +makes much difference when folks get to be as old as you and I are." + +"I don't feel old," said the parson resentfully. "I do _not_! And you +don't look so." + +"Well, I am. We're past our youth. We've got to the point where the +only way to renew it is to look out for the young ones." + +The parson had always had with her a way of reading her thought and +bursting out boyishly into betrayal of his own. + +"Mary Ellen," he cried, "I never should have explained it so, but Isabel +looks like you!" + +She smiled sadly. "I guess men make themselves think 'most anything they +want to," she answered. "There may be a family look, but I can't see it. +She's tall, too, and I was always a pint o' cider--so father said." + +"She's got the same look in her eyes," pursued the parson hotly. "I've +always thought so, ever since she was a little girl." + +"If you begun to notice it then," she responded, with the same gentle +calm, "you'd better by half ha' been thinking of your own wife and her +eyes. I believe they were black." + +"Mary Ellen, how hard you are on me! You did't use to be. You never were +hard on anybody. You wouldn't have hurt a fly." + +Her face contracted slightly. "Perhaps I wouldn't! perhaps I wouldn't! +But I've had a good deal to bear this afternoon, and maybe I do feel a +little different towards you from what I ever have felt. I've been +hearing a loose-tongued woman tell how my own niece has been made +town-talk because a man old enough to know better was running after +her. I said, years ago, I never would come into this place while you +was in it; but when I heard that, I felt as if Providence had marked out +the way. I knew I was the one to step into the breach. So I had Tim +harness up and bring me over, and here I am. William, I don't want you +should make a mistake at your time of life!" + +The minister seemed already a younger man. A strong color had risen in +his face. He felt in her presence a fine exhilaration denied him through +all the years without her. Who could say whether it was the woman +herself or the resurrected spirit of their youth? He did not feel like +answering her. It was enough to hear her voice. He leaned forward, +looking at her with something piteous in his air. + +"Mary Ellen," he ventured, "you might as well say 'another mistake.' I +did make one. You know it, and I know it." + +She looked at him with a frank affection, entirely maternal. "Yes, +William," she said, with the same gentle firmness in her voice, "we've +passed so far beyond those things that we can speak out and feel no +shame. You did make a mistake. I don't know as 't would be called so to +break with me, but it was to marry where you did. You never cared about +her. You were good to her. You always would be, William; but 't was a +shame to put her there." + +The parson had locked his hands upon his knees. He looked at them, and +sad lines of recollection deepened in his face. + +"I was desperate," he said at length, in a low tone. "I had lost you. +Some men take to drink, but that never tempted me. Besides, I was a +minister. I was just ordained. Mary Ellen, do you remember that day?" + +"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember." She had leaned back in her +chair, and her eyes were fixed upon vacancy with the suffused look of +tears forbidden to fall. + +"You wore a white dress," went on the parson, "and a bunch of Provence +roses. It was June. Your sister always thought you dressed too gay, but +you said to her, 'I guess I can wear what I want to, to-day of all +times.'" + +"We won't talk about her. Yes, I remember." + +"And, as God is my witness, I couldn't feel solemn, I was so glad! I was +a minister, and my girl--the girl that was going to marry me--sat down +there where I could see her, dressed in white. I always thought of you +afterwards with that white dress on. You've stayed with me all my life, +just that way." + +Mary Ellen put up her hand with a quick gesture to hide her middle-aged +face. With a thought as quick, she folded it resolutely upon the other +in her lap. "Yes, William," she said. "I was a girl then. I wore white +a good deal." + +But the parson hardly heeded her. He was far away. "Mary Ellen," he +broke out suddenly, a smile running warmly over his face, and creasing +his dry, hollow cheeks, "do you remember that other sermon, my trial +one? I read it to you, and then I read it to Parson Sibley. And do you +remember what he said?" + +"Yes, I remember. I didn't suppose you did." Her cheeks were pink. The +corners of her mouth grew exquisitely tender. + +"You knew I did! 'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; +thou hast doves' eyes.' I took that text because I couldn't think of +anything else all summer. I remember now it seemed to me as if I was in +a garden--always in a garden. The moon was pretty bright, that summer. +There were more flowers blooming than common. It must have been a good +year. And I wrote my sermon lying out in the pine woods, down where you +used to sit hemming on your things. And I thought it was the Church, but +do all I could, it was a girl--or an angel!" + +"No, no!" cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty. + +"And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you stopped +sewing, and looked off into the trees; and you said 't was beautiful. +But I carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just how +he looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles pushed +up on his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the +dictionary put in a certain place on his table because he found he'd got +used to drumming on the Bible, and he was a very particular man. And +when I got through reading the sermon, his face wrinkled all up, though +he didn't laugh out loud, and he came over to me and put his hand on my +shoulder. 'William,' says he, 'you go home and write a doctrinal sermon, +the stiffest you can. _This one's about a girl._ You might give it to +Mary Ellen North for a wedding-present.'" + +The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of memory. +But Mary Ellen did not smile. + +"Yes," she repeated softly, "I remember." + +"And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I +could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the +sermon in your work-basket. I've often wished, in the light of what came +afterwards--I've often wished I'd kept it. Somehow 't would have brought +me nearer to you." + +It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted +herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face. + +"Mary Ellen," the parson burst forth, "I know how I took what came on us +the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you just as +lieves tell me?" + +She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone +brilliantly, though indeed they were doves' eyes. + +"I'll tell you," said she. "I couldn't have told you ten years ago,--no, +nor five! but now it's an old woman talking to an old man. I was given +to understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I don't +know what tale was carried to you"-- + +"She said you'd say 'yes' to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I'd give +you a chance!" + +"I knew 't was something as shallow as that. Well, I'll tell you how I +took it. I put up my head and laughed. I said, 'When William Bond wants +to break with me, he'll say so.' And the next day you did say so." + +The parson wrung his hands in an involuntary gesture of appeal. + +"Minnie! Minnie!" he cried, "why didn't you save me? What made you let +me _be_ a fool?" + +She met his gaze with a tenderness so great that the words lost all +their sting. + +"You always were, William," she said quietly. "Always rushing at things +like Job's charger, and having to rush back again. Never once have I +read that without thinking of you. That's why you fixed up an angel out +of poor little Isabel." + +The parson made a fine gesture of dissent. He had forgotten Isabel. + +"Do you want to know what else I did?" Her voice grew hard and +unfamiliar. "I'll tell you. I went to my sister Eliza, and I said: 'Some +way or another, you've spoilt my life. I'll forgive you just as soon as +I can--maybe before you die, maybe not. You come with me!' and I went up +garret, where she kept the chest with things in it that belonged to them +that had died. There it sets now. I stood over it with her. 'I'm going +to put my dead things in here,' I said. 'If you touch a finger to 'em, +I'll get up in meeting and tell what you've done. I'm going to put in +everything left from what you've murdered; and every time you come here, +you'll remember you were a murderer.' I frightened her. I'm glad I did. +She's dead and gone, and I've forgiven her; but I'm glad now!" + +The parson looked at her with amazement. She seemed on fire. All the +smouldering embers of a life denied had blazed at last. She put on her +glasses and walked over to the chest. + +"Here!" she continued; "let's uncover the dead. I've tried to do it ever +since she died, so the other things could be burned; but my courage +failed me. Could you turn these screws, if I should get you a knife? +They're in tight. I put 'em in myself, and she stood by." + +The little lid of the till had been screwed fast. The two middle-aged +people bent over it together, trying first the scissors and then the +broken blade of the parson's old knife. The screws came slowly. When +they were all out, he stood back a pace and gazed at her. Mary Ellen +looked no longer alert and vivified. Her face was haggard. + +"I shut it," she said, in a whisper. "You lift it up." + +The parson lifted the lid. There they lay, her poor little relics,--a +folded manuscript, an old-fashioned daguerreotype, and a tiny locket. +The parson could not see. His hand shook as he took them solemnly out +and gave them to her. She bent over the picture, and looked at it, as we +search the faces of the dead. He followed her to the light, and, wiping +his glasses, looked also. + +"That was my picture," he said musingly. "I never've had one since. And +that was mother's locket. It had"--He paused and looked at her. + +"Yes," said Mary Ellen softly; "it's got it now." She opened the little +trinket; a warm, thick lock of hair lay within, and she touched it +gently with her finger. "Should you like the locket, because 't was your +mother's?" + +She hesitated; and though the parson's tone halted also, he answered at +once:-- + +"No, Mary Ellen, not if you'll keep it. I should rather think 'twas with +you." + +She put her two treasures in her pocket, and gave him the other. + +"I guess that's your share," she said, smiling faintly. "Don't read it +here. Just take it away with you." + +The manuscript had been written in the cramped and awkward hand of his +youth, and the ink upon the paper was faded after many years. He turned +the pages, a smile coming now and then. + +"'Thou hast doves' eyes,'" he read,--"'thou hast doves' eyes!'" He +murmured a sentence here and there. "Mary Ellen," he said at last, +shaking his head over the manuscript in a droll despair, "it isn't a +sermon. Parson Sibley had the rights of it. It's a love-letter!" And the +two old people looked in each other's wet eyes and smiled. + +The woman was the first to turn away. + +"There!" said she, closing the lid of the chest; "we've said enough. +We've wiped out old scores. We've talked more about ourselves than we +ever shall again; for if old age brings anything, it's thinking of other +people--them that have got life before 'em. These your rubbers?" + +The parson put them on, with a dazed obedience. His hand shook in +buckling them. Mary Ellen passed him his coat, but he noticed that she +did not offer to hold it for him. There was suddenly a fine remoteness +in her presence, as if a frosty air had come between them. The parson +put the sermon in his inner pocket, and buttoned his coat tightly over +it. Then he pinned on his shawl. At the door he turned. + +"Mary Ellen," said he pleadingly, "don't you ever want to see the sermon +again? Shouldn't you like to read it over?" + +She hesitated. It seemed for a moment as if she might not answer at all. +Then she remembered that they were old folks, and need not veil the +truth. + +"I guess I know it 'most all by heart," she said quietly. "Besides, I +took a copy before I put it in there. Good-night!" + +"Good-night!" answered the parson joyously. He closed the door behind +him and went crunching down the icy path. When he had unfastened the +horse and sat tucking the buffalo-robe around him, the front door was +opened in haste, and a dark figure came flying down the walk. + +"Mr. Bond!" thrilled a voice. + +"Whoa!" called the parson excitedly. He was throwing back the robe to +leap from the sleigh when the figure reached him. "Oh!" said he; +"Isabel!" + +She was breathing hard with excitement and the determination grown up in +her mind during that last half hour of her exile in the kitchen. + +"Parson,"--forgetting a more formal address, and laying her hand on his +knee,--"I've got to say it! Won't you please forgive me? Won't you, +please? I can't explain it"-- + +"Bless your heart, child!" answered the parson cordially; "you needn't +try to. I guess I made you nervous." + +"Yes," agreed Isabel, with a sigh of relief, "I guess you did." And the +parson drove away. + +Isabel ran, light of heart and foot, back into the warm sitting-room, +where aunt Mary Ellen was standing just where he had left her. She had +her glasses off, and she looked at Isabel with a smile so vivid that the +girl caught her breath, and wondered within herself how aunt Mary Ellen +had looked when she was young. + +"Isabel," said she, "you come here and give me a corner of your apron to +wipe my glasses. I guess it's drier 'n my handkerchief." + + + + +HORN O' THE MOON + + +If you drive along Tiverton Street, and then turn to the left, down the +Gully Road, you journey, for the space of a mile or so, through a +bewildering succession of damp greenery, with noisy brooks singing songs +below you, on either side, and the treetops on the level with your +horse's feet. Few among the older inhabitants ever take this drive, save +from necessity, because it is conceded that the dampness there is +enough, even in summer, to "give you your death o' cold;" and as for the +young, to them the place wears an eerie look, with its miniature +suggestion of impassable gulfs and roaring torrents. Yet no youth +reaches his majority without exploring the Gully. He who goes alone is +the more a hero; but even he had best leave two or three trusty comrades +reasonably near, not only to listen, should he call, but to stand his +witnesses when he afterwards declares where he has been. It is a +fearsome thing to explore that lower stratum of this round world, so +close to the rushing brook that it drowns your thoughts, though not your +apprehensions, and to go slipping about over wet boulders and among +dripping ferns; but your fears are fears of the spirit. They are +inherited qualms. You shiver because your grandfathers and fathers and +uncles have shivered there before you. If you are very brave indeed, and +naught but the topmost round of destiny will content you, possibly you +penetrate still further into green abysses, and come upon the pool +where, tradition says, an ancient trout has his impregnable habitation. +Apparently, nobody questions that the life of a trout may be +indefinitely prolonged, under the proper conditions of a retired dusk; +and the same fish that served our grandfathers for a legend now enlivens +our childish days. When you meet a youngster, ostentatiously setting +forth for the Gully Road, with bait-box and pole, you need not ask where +he is going; though if you have any human sympathy in the pride of life, +you will not deny him his answer:-- + +"Down to have a try for the old trout!" + +The pool has been still for many years. Not within the memory of aged +men has the trout turned fin or flashed a speckled side; but he is to +this day an historical present. He has lived, and therefore he lives +always. + +Those who do not pause upon the Gully Road, but keep straight on into +the open, will come into the old highway leading up and up to Horn o' +the Moon. It is an unshaded, gravelly track, pointing duly up-hill for +three long miles; and it has become a sober way to most of us, in this +generation: for we never take it unless we go on the solemn errand of +getting Mary Dunbar, that famous nurse, to care for our sick or dead. +There is a tradition that a summer visitor once hired a "shay," and +drove, all by herself, up to Horn o' the Moon, drawn on by the elusive +splendor of its name. But she met such a dissuading flood of comment by +the way as to startle her into the state of mind commonly associated +with the Gully Road. Farmers, haying in the field, came forward, to lean +on the fence, and call excitedly,-- + +"Where ye goin'?" + +"Horn o' the Moon," replied she, having learned in Tiverton the value of +succinct replies. + +"Who's sick?" + +"Nobody." + +"Got any folks up there?" + +"No. Going to see the place." + +The effect of this varied. Some looked in amazement; one ventured to +say, "Well, that's the beater!" and another dropped into the cabalistic +remark which cannot be defined, but which has its due significance, +"Well, you _must_ be sent for!" The result of all this running +commentary was such that, when the visitor reached the top of the hill +where Horn o' the Moon lies, encircled by other lesser heights, she was +stricken by its exceeding desolation, and had no heart to cast more than +a glance at the noble view below. She turned her horse, and trotted, +recklessly and with many stumblings, down again into friendly Tiverton. + +Horn o' the Moon is unique in its melancholy. It has so few trees, and +those of so meagre and wind-swept a nature, that it might as well be +entirely bald. No apples grow there; and in the autumn, the inhabitants +make a concerted sally down into Tiverton Street, to purchase their +winter stock, such of them as can afford it. The poorer folk--and they +are all poor enough--buy windfalls, and string them to dry; and so +common is dried-apple-pie among them that, when a Tivertonian finds this +makeshift appearing too frequently on his table, he has only to remark, +"I should think this was Horn o' the Moon!" and it disappears, to return +no more until the slur is somewhat outworn. + +There is very little grass at the top of the lonely height, and that of +a husky, whispering sort, in thin ribbons that flutter low little songs +in the breeze. They never cease; for, at Horn o' the Moon, there is +always a wind blowing, differing in quality with the season. Sometimes +it is a sighing wind from other heights, happier in that they are sweet +with firs. Sometimes it is exasperating enough to make the March +breezes below seem tender; then it tosses about in snatching gusts, +buffeting, and slapping, and excoriating him who stands in its way. +Somehow, all the peculiarities of Horn o' the Moon seem referable, in a +mysterious fashion, to the wind. The people speak in high, strenuous +voices, striving to hold their own against its wicked strength. Most of +them are deaf. Is that because the air beats ceaselessly against the +porches of their ears? They are a stunted race; for they have grown into +the habit of holding the head low, and plunging forward against that +battling element. Even the fowl at Horn o' the Moon are not of the +ordinary sort. Their feathers grow the wrong way, standing up in a +ragged and disorderly fashion; and they, too, have the effect of having +been blown about and disarranged, until nature yielded, and agreed to +their permanent roughness. + +Moreover, all the people are old or middle-aged and possibly that is +why, again, the settlement is so desolate. It is a disgrace for us below +to marry with Horn o' the Mooners, though they are a sober folk; and now +it happens that everybody up there is the cousin of everybody else. The +race is dying out, we say, as if we considered it a distinct species; +and we agree that it would have been wiped away long ago, by weight of +its own eccentricity, had not Mary Dunbar been the making of it. She is +the one righteous among many. She is the good nurse whom we all go to +seek, in our times of trouble, and she perpetually saves her city from +the odium of the world. + +Mary was born in Tiverton Street. We are glad to remember that, we who +condemn by the wholesale, and are assured that no good can come out of +Nazareth. When she was a girl of eighteen, her father and mother died; +and she fell into a state of spiritual exaltation, wherein she dreamed +dreams, and had periods of retirement within her house, communing with +other intelligences. We said Mary had lost her mind; but that was +difficult to believe, since no more wholesome type of womanhood had ever +walked our streets. She was very tall, built on the lines of a beauty +transcending our meagre strain. Nobody approved of those broad shoulders +and magnificent arms. We said it was a shame for any girl to be so +overgrown; yet our eyes followed her, delighted by the harmony of line +and action. Then we whispered that she was as big as a moose, and that, +if we had such arms, we never'd go out without a shawl. Her "mittins" +must be wide enough for any man! + +Mary did everything perfectly. She walked as if she went to meet the +morning, and must salute it worthily. She carried a weight as a goddess +might bear the infant Bacchus; and her small head, poised upon that +round throat, wore the crown of simplicity, and not of pride. But we +only told how strong she was, and how much she could lift. We loved +Mary, but sensibility had to shrink from those great proportions and +that elemental strength. + +One snowy morning, Mary's spiritual vision called her out of our midst, +to which she never came back save as we needed her. The world was very +white that day, when she rose, in her still house, dressed herself +hastily, and roused a neighbor, begging him to harness, and drive her up +to Horn o' the Moon. Folks were sick there, with nobody to take care of +them. The neighbor reasoned, and then refused, as one might deny a +person, however beloved, who lives by the intuitions of an unseen world. +Mary went home again, and, as he believed, to stay. But she had not +hesitated in her allegiance to the heavenly voice. Somehow, through the +blinding snow and unbroken road, she ploughed her way up to Horn o' the +Moon, where she found an epidemic of diphtheria; and there she stayed. +We marveled over her guessing how keenly she was needed; but since she +never explained, it began to be noised abroad that some wandering +peddler told her. That accounted for everything and Mary had no time for +talk. She was too busy, watching with the sick, and going about from +house to house, cooking delicate gruels and broiling chicken for those +who were getting well. It is said that she even did the barn work, and +milked the cows, during that tragic time. We were not surprised. Mary +was a great worker, and she was fond of "creatur's." + +Whether she came to care for these stolid people on the height, or +whether the vision counseled her, Mary gave up her house in the village, +and bought a little old dwelling under an overhanging hillside, at Horn +o' the Moon. It was a nest built into the rock, its back sitting snugly +there. The dark came down upon it quickly. In winter, the sun was gone +from the little parlor as early as three o'clock; but Mary did not mind. +That house was her temporary shell; she only slept in it in the +intervals of hurrying away, with blessed feet, to tend the sick, and +hold the dying in untiring arms. I shall never forget how, one morning, +I saw her come out of the door, and stand silent, looking toward the +rosy east. There was the dawn, and there was she, its priestess, while +all around her slept. I should not have been surprised had her lips, +parted already in a mysterious smile, opened still further in a +prophetic chanting to the sun. But Mary saw me, and the alert, answering +look of one who is a messenger flashed swiftly over her face. She +advanced like the leader of a triumphal procession. + +"Anybody want me?" she called. "I'll get my bunnit." + +It was when she was twenty, and not more than settled in the little +house at Horn o' the Moon, that her story came to her. The Veaseys were +her neighbors, perhaps five doors away; and one summer morning, Johnnie +Veasey came home from sea. He brought no money, no coral from foreign +parts, nor news of grapes in Eshcol. He simply came empty-handed, as he +always did, bearing only, to vouch for his wanderings, a tanned face, +and the bright, red-brown eyes that had surely looked on things we never +saw. Adam Veasey, his brother, had been paralyzed for years. He sat all +day in the chimney corner, looking at his shaking hands, and telling how +wide a swathe he could cut before he was afflicted. Mattie, Adam's wife, +had long dealt with the problem of an unsupported existence. She had +turned into a flitting little creature with eager eyes, who made it her +business to prey upon a more prosperous world. Mattie never went about +without a large extra pocket attached to her waist; into this, she could +slip a few carrots, a couple of doughnuts, or even a loaf of bread. She +laid a lenient tax upon the neighbors and the town below. Was there a +frying of doughnuts at Horn o' the Moon? No sooner had the odor risen +upon the air, than Mattie stood on the spot, dumbly insistent on her +toll. Her very clothes smelled of food; and it was said that, in +fly-time, it was a sight to see her walk abroad, because of the hordes +of insects settling here and there on her odoriferous gown. When Johnnie +Veasey appeared, Mattie's soul rose in arms. Their golden chance had +come at last. + +"You got paid off?" she asked him, three minutes after his arrival, and +Johnnie owned, with the cheerfulness of those rich only in hope, that he +did get paid, and lost it all, the first night on shore. He got into the +wrong boarding-house, he said. It was the old number, but new folks. + +Mattie acquiesced, with a sigh. He would make his visit and go again, +and, that time, perhaps fortune might attend him. So she went over to +old Mrs. Hardy's, to borrow a "riz loaf," and the wanderer was feasted, +according to her little best. + +Johnnie stayed, and Horn o' the Moon roused itself, finding that he had +brought the antipodes with him. He was the teller of tales. He described +what he had seen, and then, by easy transitions, what others had known +and he had only heard, until the intelligence of these stunted, +wind-blown creatures, on their island hill, took fire; and every man +vowed he wished he had gone to sea, before it was too late, or even to +California, when the gold craze was on. Johnnie had the tongue of the +improvisator, and he loved a listener. He liked to sit out on a log, in +the sparse shadow of the one little grove the hill possessed, and, with +the whispering leaves above him tattling uncomprehended sayings brought +them by the wind, gather the old men about him, and talk them blind. As +he sat there, Mary came walking swiftly by, a basket in her hand. +Johnnie came bolt upright, and took off his cap. He looked amazingly +young and fine, and Mary blushed as she went by. + +"Who's that?" asked Johnnie of the village fathers. + +"That's only Mary Dunbar. Guess you ain't been here sence she moved up." + +Johnnie watched her walking away, for the rhythm of her motion attracted +him. He did not think her pretty; no one ever thought that. + +It happened, then, that he spent two or three evenings at the Hardys', +where Mary went, every night, to rub grandmother and put her to bed; and +while she sat there in the darkened room, soothing the old woman for her +dreary vigil, she heard his golden tales of people in strange lands. It +seemed very wonderful to Mary. She had not dreamed there were such lands +in all the world; and when she hurried home, it was to hunt out her old +geography, and read it until after midnight. She followed rivers to +their sources, and dwelt upon mountains with amazing names. She was +seeing the earth and its fullness, and her heart beat fast. + +Next day she went away for a long case, giving only one little sigh in +the going, to the certainty that, when she came back, Johnnie Veasey +would be off on another voyage to lands beyond the sea. Mary was not of +the sort who cry for the moon just because they have seen it. She had +simply begun to read a fairy tale, and somebody had taken it away from +her and put it high on the shelf. But on the very first morning after +her return, when she rose early, longing for the blissful air of her own +bleak solitude, Mattie Veasey stood there at her door. Mary had but one +first question for every comer:-- + +"Anybody sick?" + +"You let me step in," answered Mattie, a determined foot on the sill. "I +want to tell you how things stand." + +It was evident that Mattie was going on a journey. She was an exposition +of the domestic resources of Horn o' the Moon. Her dress came to the +tops of her boots. It was the plaid belonging to Stella Hardy, who had +died in her teens. It hooked behind; but that was no matter, for the +enveloping shawl, belonging to old Mrs. Titcomb, concealed that youthful +eccentricity. Her shoes--congress, with world-weary elastics at the +side--were her own, inherited from an aunt; and her bonnet was a rusty +black, with a mourning veil. There was, at that time, but one new +bonnet at Horn o' the Moon, and its owner had sighed, when Mattie +proposed for it, brazenly saying that she guessed nobody'd want anything +that set so fur back. Whereupon the suppliant sought out Mrs. Pillsbury, +whose mourning headgear, bought in a brief season of prosperity, nine +years before, had become, in a manner, village property. It was as duly +in public requisition as the hearse; and its owner cherished a +melancholy pride in this official state. She never felt as if she owned +it,--only that she was the keeper of a sacred trust; and Mattie, in +asking for it, knew that she demanded no more than her due, as a citizen +should. It was an impersonal matter between her and the bonnet; and +though she should wear it on a secular errand, the veil did not signify. +She knew everybody else knew whose bonnet it was; and that if anybody +supposed she had met with a loss, they had only to ask, and she to +answer. So, in the consciousness of an armor calculated to meet the +world, she skillfully brought her congress boots into Mary's kitchen, +and sat down, her worn little hands clasped under the shawl. + +"You've just got home," said she. "I s'pose you ain't heard what's +happened to Johnnie?" + +Mary rose, a hand upon her chair. + +"No! no! He don't want no nussin'. You set down. I can't talk so--ready +to jump an' run. My! how good that tea does smell!" + +Mary brought a cup, and placed it at her hand, with the deft manner of +those who have learned to serve. Mattie sugared it, and tasted, and +sugared again. + +"My! how good that is!" she repeated. "You don't steep it to rags, as +some folks do. I have to, we're so nigh the wind. Well, you hadn't been +gone long before Johnnie had a kind of a fall. 'T wa'n't much of a one, +neither,--down the ledge. I dunno how he done it--he climbs like a +cat--seems as if the Old Boy was in it--but half his body he can't move. +Palsy, I s'pose; numb, not shakin', like Adam's." + +Mary listened gravely, her hands on her knees. + +"How long's he been so?" + +"Nigh on to five weeks." + +"Had the doctor?" + +"Yes, we called in that herb-man over to Saltash, an' he says there +ain't no chance for him. He's goin' to be like Adam, only wuss. An' +I've been down to the Poor Farm, to tell 'em they've got to take him +in." Her little hands worked; her eager eyes ate their way into the +heart. Mary could see exactly how she had had her way with the +selectmen. "I told 'em they'd got to," she repeated. "He ain't got no +money, an' we ain't got nuthin', an' have two paraletics on my hands I +can't. So they told me they'd give me word to-day; an' I'm goin' down +to settle it. I'm in hopes they'll bring me back, an' take him along +down." + +"Yes," answered Mary gravely. "Yes." + +"Well, now I've come to the beginnin' o' my story." Mattie took that +last delicious sip of tea at the bottom of the cup. "He's layin' in bed, +an' Adam's settin' by the stove; an' I wanted to know if you wouldn't +run in, long towards noon, an' warm up suthin' for 'em." + +"Yes, indeed," said Mary Dunbar. "I'll be there." + +She rose, and Mattie, albeit she dearly loved to gossip, felt that she +must rise, too, and be on her way. She tried to amplify on what she had +already said, but Mary did not seem to be listening; so, treading +carefully, lest the dust and dew beset her precious shoes, she took her +way down the hill, like a busy little ant, born to scurry and gather. + +Mary looked hastily about the room, to see if its perfect order needed a +farewell touch; and then she drank her cup of tea, and stepped out into +the morning. The air was fresh and sweet. She wore no shawl, and the +wind lifted the little brown rings on her forehead, and curled them +closer. Mary held a hand upon them, and hurried on. She had no more +thought of appearances than a woman in a desert land, or in the desert +made by lack of praise; for she knew no one looked at her. To be clean +and swift was all her life demanded. + +Adam sat by the stove, where the ashes were still warm. It was not a day +for fires, but he loved his accustomed corner. He was a middle-aged man, +old with the suffering which is not of years, and the pathos of his +stricken state hung about him, from his unkempt beard to the dusty black +clothing which had been the Tiverton minister's outworn suit. One would +have said he belonged to the generation before his brother. + +"That you, Mary?" he asked, in his shaking voice. "Now, ain't that good? +Come to set a spell?" + +"Where is he?" responded Mary, in a swift breathlessness quite new to +her. + +"In there. We put up a bed in the clock-room." + +It was the unfinished part of the house. The Veaseys had always meant to +plaster, but that consummation was still afar. The laths showed +meagrely; it was a skeleton of a room,--and, sunken in the high +feather-bed between the two windows, lay Johnnie Veasey, his buoyancy +all gone, his face quite piteous to see, now that its tan had faded. +Mary went up to the bed-side, and laid one cool, strong hand upon his +wrist. His eyes sought her with a wild entreaty; but she knew, although +he seemed to suffer, that this was the misery of delirium, and not the +conscious mind. Adam had come trembling to the door, and stood there, +one hand beating its perpetual tattoo upon the wall. Mary looked up at +him with that abstracted gaze with which we weigh and judge. + +"He's feverish," said she. "Mattie didn't tell me that. How long's he +been so?" + +"I dunno. I guess a matter o' two days." + +"Two days?" + +"Well, it might be off an' on ever sence he fell." Adam was helpless. He +depended upon Mattie, and Mattie was not there. + +"What did the doctor leave?" + +Adam looked about him. "'T was the herb doctor," he said. "He had her +steep some trade in a bowl." + +Mary Dunbar drew her hand away, and walked two or three times up and +down the bare, bleak room. The seeking eyes were following her. She knew +how little their distended agony might mean; but nevertheless they +carried an entreaty. They leaned upon her, as the world, her sick world, +was wont to lean. Mary was, in many things, a child; but her attitude +had grown to be maternal. Suddenly she turned to Adam, where he stood, +shaking and hesitating, in the doorway. + +"You goin' to send him off?" + +"'Pears as if that's the only way," shuffled Adam. + +"To-day?" + +"Well, I dunno's they'll come"-- + +Mary walked past him, her mind assured. + +"There, that'll do," said she. "You set down in your corner. I'll be +back byme-by." + +She hurried out into the bleak world which was her home, and, at that +moment, it looked very fair and new. The birds were singing, loudly as +they ever sang up here where there were few leaves to nest in. Mary +stopped an instant to listen, and lifted her face wordlessly to the +clear blue sky. It seemed as if she had been given a gift. There, before +one of the houses, she called aloud, with a long, lingering note, +"Jacob!" and Jacob Pease rose from his milking-stool, and came forward. +Jacob was tall and snuff-colored, a widower of three years' standing. +There was a theory that he wanted Mary, and lacked the courage to ask +her. + +"That you, Mary Dunbar?" said he. "Anything on hand?" + +"I want you to come and help me lift," answered Mary. + +Jacob set down his milk pail, and followed her into the Veaseys' +kitchen. She drew out the tin basin, and filled it at the sink. + +"Wash your hands," said she. "Adam, you set where you generally do. +You'll be in the way." + +Jacob followed her into the sick-room, and Adam weakly shuffled in +behind. + +"For the land's sake!" he began, but Mary was at the head of the bed, +and Jacob at the foot. + +"I'll carry his shoulders," she said, in the voice that admits no demur. +"You take his feet and legs. Sort o' fold the feather-bed up round him, +or we never shall get him through the door." + +"Which way?" asked Jacob, still entirely at rest on a greater mind. + +"Out!" commanded Mary,--"out the front door." + +Adam, in describing that dramatic moment, always declared that nobody +but Mary Dunbar could have engineered a feather-bed through the narrow +passage, without sticking midway. He recalled an incident of his boyhood +when, in the Titcomb fire, the whole family had spent every available +instant before the falling of the roof, in trying to push the +second-best bed through the attic window, only to leave it there to +burn. But Mary Dunbar took her patient through the doorway as Napoleon +marched over the Alps; she went with him down the road toward her own +little house under the hill. Only then did Adam, still shuffling on +behind, collect his intelligence sufficiently to shout after her,-- + +"Mary, what under the sun be you doin' of? What you want me to tell +Mattie? S'pose she brings the selec'men, Mary Dunbar!" + +She made no reply, even by a glance. She walked straight on, as if her +burden lightened, and into her own cave-like house and her little neat +bedroom. + +"Lay him down jest as he is," she said to Jacob. "We won't try to shift +him to-day. Let him get over this." + +Jacob stretched himself, after his load, put his hands in his pockets, +and made up his mouth into a soundless whistle. + +"Yes! well!" said he. "Guess I better finish milkin'." + +Mary put her patient "to-rights," and set some herb drink on the back of +the stove. Presently the little room was filled with the steamy odor of +a bitter healing, and she was on the battlefield where she loved to +conquer. In spite of her heaven-born instinct, she knew very little +about doctors and their ways of cure. Earth secrets were hers, some of +them inherited and some guessed at, and luckily she had never been +involved in those greater issues to be dealt with only by an exalted +science. Later in her life, she was to get acquainted with the young +doctor, down in Tiverton Street, and hear from him what things were +doing in his world. She was to learn that a hospital is not a slaughter +house incarnadined with writhing victims, as some of us had thought. She +was even to witness the magic of a great surgeon; though that was in her +old age, when her attitude toward medicine had become one of humble +thankfulness that, in all her daring, she had done no harm. To-day, she +thought she could set a bone or break up a fever; and there was no doubt +in her mind that, if other deeds were demanded of her, she should be led +in the one true way. So she sat down by her patient, and was watching +there, hopeful of moisture on his palm, when Mattie broke into the front +room, impetuous as the wind. Mary rose and stepped out to meet her, +shutting the door as she went. Passing the window, she saw the +selectmen, in the vehicle known as a long-reach, waiting at the gate. + +"Hush, Mattie!" said she, "you'll wake him." + +Mattie, in her ill-assorted respectabilities of dress, seemed to have +been involved but recently in some bacchanalian orgie. Her shawl was +dragged to one side, and her bonnet sat rakishly. She was intoxicated +with her own surprise. + +"Mary Dunbar!" cried she, "I'd like to know the meanin' of all this +go-round!" + +"There!" answered Mary, with a quietude like that of the sea at ebb, "I +can't stop to talk. I'll settle it with the selec'men. You come, too." + +Mattie's eyes were seeking the bedroom. Leave her alone, and her feet +would follow. "You come along," repeated Mary, and Mattie came. + +When the three selectmen saw Mary Dunbar stepping down the little slope, +they gathered about them all their official dignity. Ebenezer Tolman sat +a little straighter than usual, and uttered a portentous cough. Lothrop +Wilson, mild by nature, and rather prone to whiffling in times of +difficulty, frowned, with conscious effort; but that was only because he +knew, in his own soul, how loyally he loved the under-dog, let justice +go as it might. Then there was Eli Pike, occupying himself in pulling a +rein from beneath the horse's tail. These two hated warfare, and were +nervously conscious that, should they fail in firmness, Ebenezer would +deal with them. Mary went swiftly up to the wagon, and laid one hand +upon the wheel. + +"I've got John Veasey in my house," she began rapidly. "I can't stop to +talk. He's pretty sick." + +Ebenezer cleared his throat again. + +"We understood his folks had put him on the town," said he. + +Mattie made a little eager sound, and then stopped. + +"He ain't on the town yet," said Mary. "He's in my bedroom. An' there +he's goin' to stay. I've took this job." She turned away from them, +erect in her decision, and went up the path. Eli Pike looked after her, +with an understanding sympathy. He was the man who had walked two +miles, one night, to shoot a fox, trapped, and left there helpless with +a broken leg. Lothrop gazed straight ahead, and said nothing. + +"Look here!" called Ebenezer. "Mary! Mary! you look here!" + +Mary turned about at the door. She was magnificent in her height and +dignity. Even Ebenezer felt almost ashamed of what he had to say; but +still the public purse must be regarded. + +"You can't bring in a bill for services," he announced. "If he's on the +town, he'll have to go right into the Poorhouse with the rest." + +Mary made no answer. She stood there a second, looking at him, and he +remarked to Eli, "I guess you might drive on." + +But Mattie, following Mary up to the house, to talk it over, tried the +door in vain. + +"My land!" she ejaculated, "if she ain't bolted it!" So the nurse and +her patient were left to themselves. + +As to the rest of the story, I tell it as we hear it still in Tiverton. +At first, it was reckoned among the miracles; but when the new doctor +came, he explained that it accorded quite honestly with the course of +violated nature, and that, with some slight pruning here and there, the +case might figure in his books. What science would say about it, I do +not know; tradition was quite voluble. + +It proved a very long time before Johnnie grew better, and in all those +days Mary Dunbar was a happy woman. She stepped about the house, setting +it in order, watching her charge, and making delicate possets for him to +take. When the "herb-man" came, she turned him away from the door with a +regal courtesy. It was not so much that she despised his knowledge, as +that he knew no more than she, and this was her patient. The young +doctor in Tiverton told her afterwards that she had done a dangerous +thing in not calling in some accredited wearer of the cloth; but Mary +did not think of that. She went on her way of innocence, delightfully +content. And all those days, Johnnie Veasey, as soon as he came out of +his fever, lay there and watched her with eyes full of a listless +wonder. He was still in that borderland of helplessness where the +unusual seems only a part of the new condition of things. Neighbors +called, and Mary refused them entrance, with a finality which admitted +no appeal. + +"I've got sickness here," she would say, standing in the doorway +confronting them. "He's too weak to see anybody. I guess I won't ask you +in." + +But one day, the minister appeared, his fat gray horse climbing +painfully up from the Gully Road. It was a warm afternoon; and as soon +as Mary saw him, she went out of her house, and closed the door behind +her. When he had tied his horse, he came toward her, brushing the dust +of the road from his irreproachable black. He was a new minister, and +very particular. Mary shook hands with him, and then seated herself on +the step. + +"Won't you set down here?" she asked. "I've got sickness, an' I can't +have talkin' any nearer. I'm glad it's a warm day." + +The minister looked at the step, and then at Mary. He felt as if his +dignity had been mildly assaulted, and he preferred to stand. + +"I should like to offer prayer for the young man," he said. "I had hoped +to see him." + +Mary smiled at him in that impersonal way of hers. + +"I don't let anybody see him," said she. "I guess we shall all have to +pray by ourselves." + +The minister was somewhat nettled. He was young enough to feel the +slight to his official position; and moreover, there were things which +his rigid young wife, primed by the wonder of the town, had enjoined +upon him to say. He flushed to the roots of his smooth brown hair. + +"I suppose you know," said he, "that you're taking a very peculiar +stand." + +Mary turned her head, to listen. She thought she heard her patient +breathing, and her mind was with him. + +"You seem," said the minister, "to have taken in a man who has no claim +on you, instead of letting him stay with his people. If you are going to +marry him, let me advise you to do it now, and not wait for him to get +well. The opinion of the world is, in a measure, to be +respected,--though only in a measure." + +Mary had risen to go in, but now she turned upon him. + +"Married!" she repeated; and then again, in a hushed voice,--"married!" + +"Yes," replied the minister testily, standing by his guns, "married." + +Mary looked at him a moment, and then again she moved away. She glanced +round at him, as she entered the door, and said very gently, "I guess +you better go now. Good-day." + +She closed the door, and the minister heard her bolt it. He told his +wife briefly, on reaching home, that there wasn't much chance to talk +with Mary, and perhaps the less there was said about it the better. + +But as Mary sat down by her patient's bed, her face settled into +sadness, because she was thinking about the world. It had not, +heretofore, been one of her recognized planets; now that it had swung +her way, she marveled at it. + +The very next night, while she was eating her supper in the kitchen, the +door opened, and Mattie walked in. Mattie had been washing late that +afternoon. She always washed at odd times, and often in dull weather +her undried clothes hung for days upon the line. She was "all beat out," +for she had begun at three, and steamed through her work, to have an +early supper at five. + +"There, Mary Dunbar!" cried she; "I said I'd do it, an' I have. There +ain't a neighbor got into this house for weeks, an' folks that want you +to go nussin' have been turned away. I says to Adam, this very +afternoon, 'I'll be whipped if I don't git in an' see what's goin' on!' +There's some will have it Johnnie's got well, an' drove away without +saying good-by to his own folks, an' some say he ain't likely to live, +an' there he lays without a last word to his own brother! As for the +childern, they've got an idea suthin' 's been done to uncle Johnnie, an' +you can't mention him but they cry." + +Mary rose calmly and began clearing her table. "I guess I wouldn't +mention him, then," said she. + +A muffled sound came from the bedroom. It might have been laughter. Then +there was a little crack, and Mary involuntarily looked at the lamp +chimney. She hurried into the bedroom, and stopped short at sight of her +patient, lying there in the light of the flickering fire. His face had +flushed, and his eyes were streaming. + +"I laughed so," he said chokingly. "She always makes me. And something +snapped into place in my neck. I don't know what it was,--but _I can +move_!" + +He held out his hand to her. Mary did not touch it; she only stood +looking at him with a wonderful gaze of pride and recognition, and yet a +strange timidity. She, too, flushed, and tears stood in her eyes. + +"I'll go and tell Mattie," said she, turning toward the door. "You want +to see her?" + +"For God's sake, no! not till I'm on my feet." He was still laughing. "I +guess I can get up to-morrow." + +Mary went swiftly out, and shut the door behind her. + +"I guess you better not see him to-night," she said. "You can come in +to-morrer. I shouldn't wonder if he'd be up then." + +"I told Adam"--began Mattie, but Mary put a hand on her thin little arm, +and held it there. + +"I'd rather talk to-morrer," said she gently. "Don't you come in before +'leven; but you come. Tell Adam to, if he wants. I guess your brother'll +be gettin' away before long." She opened the outer door, and Mattie had +no volition but to go. "It's a nice night, ain't it?" called Mary +cheerfully, after her. "Seems as if there never was so many stars." + +Then she went back into the kitchen, and with the old thrift and +exactitude prepared her patient's supper. He was sitting upright, +bolstered against the head of the bed; and he looked like a great +mischievous boy, who had, in some way, gained a long-desired prize. + +"See here!" he called. "Tell me I can't get up to-morrow? Why, I could +walk!" + +They had a very merry time while he ate. Mary remembered that +afterwards, with a bruised wonder that laughter comes so cheap. Johnnie +talked incessantly, not any more of the wonders of the deep, but what he +meant to do when he got into the world again. + +"How'd I come here in your house, any way?" he asked. "Mattie and Adam +put me here to get rid of me? Tell me all over again." + +"I take care of folks, you know," answered Mary briefly. "I have, for +more'n two years. It's my business." + +Johnnie looked at her a moment, crimsoning as he tried to speak. + +"What you goin' to ask?" + +Mary started. Then she answered steadily,-- + +"That's all right. I don't ask much, anyway; but when folks don't have +ready money, I never ask anything. There, you mustn't talk no more, even +if you are well. I've got to wash these dishes." + +She left him to his meditations, and only once more that evening did +they speak together. When she came to the door, to say good-night, he +was flat among his pillows, listening for her. + +"Say!" he called, "you come in. No, you needn't unless you want to; but +if ever I earn another cent of money, you'll see. And I ain't the only +friend you've got. There's a girl down in Southport would do anything in +the world for you, if she only knew." + +Next morning, Johnnie walked weakly out of doors, despite his nurse's +cautions; for, not knowing what had happened to him, she was in a +wearying dark as to whether it might not happen again. After his +breakfast, he got a ride with Jacob Pease, who was going down Sudleigh +way, and Jacob came back without him. He bore a message, full of +gratitude, to Mary. At Sudleigh, Johnnie had telegraphed, to find out +whether the ship Firewing was still in port; and he had heard that he +must lose no time in joining her. He should never forget what Mary had +done for him. So Jacob said; but he was a man of tepid words, and +perhaps he remembered the message too coldly. + +When Mattie came over, that afternoon, to make her call, she found the +house closed. Mary had gone on foot down into Tiverton, where old Mrs. +Lamson, who was sick with a fever, lay still in need. It was many weeks +before she came home again to Horn o' the Moon; and then Grandfather +Sinclair had broken his leg, so that interest in her miracle became +temporarily inactive. + +Two years had gone when there came to her a little package, through the +Tiverton mail. It was tied with the greatest caution, and directed in a +straggling hand. Mary opened it just as she struck into the Gully Road, +on her way home. Inside was a little purse, and three gold pieces. She +paused there, under the branches, the purse in one hand, and the gold +lying within her other palm. For a long time she stood looking at them, +her face set in that patient sadness seen in those whose only holding is +the past. It was all over and done, and yet it had never been at all. +She thought a little about herself, and that was very rare, for Mary. +She was not the poorer for what her soul desired; she was infinitely the +richer, and she remembered the girl at Southport, not with the pang that +once afflicted her heart, but with a warm, outrushing sense of womanly +sympathy. If he had money, perhaps he could marry. Perhaps he was +married now. Coming out of the Gully Road, she opened the purse again, +and the sun struck richly upon the gold within. Mary smiled a little, +wanly, but still with a sense of the good, human kinship in life. + +"I won't ever spend 'em," she said to herself. "I'll keep 'em to bury +me." + + + + +A STOLEN FESTIVAL + + +David Macy's house stood on the spur of a breezy upland at the end of a +road. The far-away neighbors, who lived on the main highway and could +see the passin', often thanked their stars that they had been called to +no such isolation; you might, said they, as well be set down in the +middle of a pastur'. They wondered how David's Letty could stand it. She +had been married 'most a year, and before that she was forever on the +go. But there! if David Macy had told her the sun rose in the west, +she'd ha' looked out for it there every identical mornin'. + +The last proposition had some color in it; for Letty was very much in +love. To an impartial view, David was a stalwart fellow with clear gray +eyes and square shoulders, a prosperous yeoman of the fibre to which +America owes her being. But according to Letty he was something +superhuman in poise and charm. David had no conception of his heroic +responsibilities; nothing could have puzzled him more than to guess how +the ideal of him grew and strengthened in her maiden mind, and how her +after-worship exalted it into something thrilling and passionate, not +to be described even by a tongue more facile than hers. Letty had a +vivid nature, capable of responding to those delicate influences which +move to spiritual issues. There were throes of love within her, of +aspiration, of an ineffable delight in being. She never tried to +understand them, nor did she talk about them; but then, she never tried +to paint the sky or copy the robin's song. Life was very mysterious; but +one thing was quite as mysterious as another. She did sometimes brood +for a moment over the troubled sense that, in some fashion, she spoke in +another key from "other folks," who did not appear to know that joy is +not altogether joy, but three-quarters pain, and who had never learned +how it brings its own aching sense of incompleteness; but that only +seemed to her a part of the general wonder of things. There had been one +strange May morning in her life when she went with her husband into the +woods, to hunt up a wild steer. She knew every foot of the place, and +yet one turn of the path brought them into the heart of a picture +thrillingly new with the unfamiliarity of pure and living beauty. The +evergreens enfolded them in a palpable dusk; but entrancingly near, +shimmering under a sunny gleam, stood a company of birches in their +first spring wear. They were trembling, not so much under the breeze as +from the hurrying rhythm of the year. Their green was vivid enough to +lave the vision in light; and Letty looked beyond it to a brighter vista +still. There, in an opening, lay a bank of violets, springing in the +sun. Their blue was a challenge to the skyey blue above; it pierced the +sight, awaking new longings and strange memories. It seemed to Letty as +if some invisible finger touched her on the heart and made her pause. +Then David turned, smiling kindly upon her, and she ran to him with a +little cry, and put her arms about his neck. + +"What is it?" he asked, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. "What is +it, little child?" + +"Oh, it's nothin'!" said Letty chokingly. "It's only--I like you so!" + +The halting thought had no purple wherein to clothe itself; but it meant +as much as if she had read the poets until great words had become +familiar, and she could say "love." He was the spring day, the sun, the +blue of the sky, the quiver of leaves; and she felt it, and had a pain +at her heart. + +Now, on an autumn morning, David was standing within the great space in +front of the barn, greasing the wheels preliminary to a drive to market; +and Letty stood beside him, bareheaded, her breakfast dishes forgotten. +She was a round thing, with quick movements not ordinarily belonging to +one so plump; her black hair was short, and curled roughly, and there +were freckles on her little snub nose. David looked up at her red cheeks +and the merry shine of her eyes, and smiled upon her. + +"You look pretty nice this mornin'," he remarked. + +Letty gave a little dancing step and laughed. The sun was bright; there +was a purple haze over the hills, and the nearer woods were yellow. The +world was a jewel newly set for her. + +"I _am_ nice!" said she. "David, do you know our anniversary's comin' +on? It's 'most a year since we were married,--a year the fifteenth." + +David loosened the last wheel, and rose to look at her. + +"Sho!" said he, with great interest. "Is that so? Well, 't was a good +bargain. Best trade I ever made in _my_ life!" + +"And we've got to celebrate," said Letty masterfully. "I'll tell you +how. I've had it all planned for a month. We'll get up at four, have our +breakfast, ride over to Star Pond, and picnic all day long. We'll take a +boat and go out rowin', and we'll eat our dinner on the water!" + +David smiled back at her, and then, with a sudden recollection, pursed +his lips. + +"I'm awful sorry, Letty," he said honestly, "but I've got to go over to +Long Pastur' an' do that fencin', or I can't put the cattle in there +before we turn 'em into the shack. You know that fence was all done up +in the spring, but that cussed breachy cow o' Tolman's hooked it down; +an' if I wait for him to do it--well, you know what he is!" + +"Oh, you can put off your fencin'!" cried Letty. "Only one day! Oh, you +can!" + +"I could 'most any other time," said David, with reason, "but here it is +'most Saturday, an' next week the thrashin'-machine's comin'. I'm awful +sorry, Letty. I am, honest!" + +Letty turned half round like a troubled child, and began grinding one +heel into the turf. She was conscious of an odd mortification. It was +not, said her heart, that the thing itself was so dear to her; it was +only that David ought to want immeasurably to do it. She always put +great stress upon the visible signs of an invisible bond, and she would +be long in getting over her demand for the unreason of love. + +David threw down the monkey-wrench, and put an arm about her waist. + +"Come, now, you don't care, do you?" he asked lovingly. "One day's the +same as another, now ain't it?" + +"Is it?" said Letty, a smile running over her face and into her wet +eyes. "Well, then, le's have Fourth o' July fireworks next Sunday +mornin'!" + +David looked a little hurt; but that was only because he was puzzled. +His sense of humor wore a different complexion from Letty's. He liked a +joke, and he could tell a good story, but they must lie within the logic +of fun. Letty could put her own interpretation on her griefs, and twist +them into shapes calculated to send her into hysterical mirth. + +"You see," said David soothingly, "we're goin' to be together as long as +we live. It ain't as if we'd got to rake an' scrape an' plan to git a +minute alone, as it used to be, now is it? An' after the fencin' 's +done, an' the thrashin', an' we've got nothin' on our minds, we'll take +both horses an' go to Star Pond. Come, now! Be a good girl!" + +The world seemed very quiet because Letty was holding silence, and he +looked anxiously down at the top of her head. Then she relented a little +and turned her face up to his--her rebellious eyes and unsteady mouth. +But meeting the loving honesty of his look, her heart gave a great bound +of allegiance, and she laughed aloud. + +"There!" she said. "Have it so. I won't say another word. _I_ don't +care!" + +These were David's unconscious victories, born, not of his strength or +tyranny, but out of the woman's maternal comprehension, her lavish +concession of all the small things of life to the one great code. She +had taken him for granted, and thenceforth judged him by the intention +and not the act. + +David was bending to kiss her, but he stopped midway, and his arm fell. + +"There's Debby Low," said he. "By jinks! I ain't more'n half a man when +she's round, she makes me feel so sheepish. I guess it's that eye o' +her'n. It goes through ye like a needle." + +Letty laughed light-heartedly, and looked down the path across the lot. +Debby, a little, bent old woman, was toiling slowly along, a large +carpet-bag swinging from one hand. Letty drew a long breath and tried to +feel resigned. + +"She's got on her black alpaca," said she. "She's comin' to spend the +day!" + +David answered her look with one of commiseration, and, gathering up his +wrench and oil, "put for" the barn. + +"I'd stay, if I could do any good," he said hastily, "but I can't. I +might as well stan' from under." + +Debby threw her empty carpet-bag over the stone wall, and followed it, +clambering slowly and painfully. Her large feet were clad in congress +boots; and when she had alighted, she regarded them with deep affection, +and slowly wiped them upon either ankle, a stork-like process at which +David, safe in the barn, could afford to smile. + +"If it don't rain soon," she called fretfully, "I guess you'll find +yourselves alone an' forsaken, like pelicans in the wilderness. Anybody +must want to see ye to traipse up through that lot as I've been doin', +an' git their best clo'es all over dirt." + +"You could ha' come in the road," said Letty, smiling. Letty had a very +sweet temper, and she had early learned that it takes all sorts o' folks +to make a world. It was a part of her leisurely and generous scheme of +life to live and let live. + +"Ain't the road dustier 'n the path?" inquired Debby contradictorily. +"My stars! I guess 't is. Well, now, what do you s'pose brought me up +here this mornin'?" + +Letty's eyes involuntarily sought the bag, whose concave sides flapped +hungrily together; but she told her lie with cheerfulness. "I don't +know." + +"I guess ye don't. No, I ain't comin' in. I'm goin' over to Mis' +Tolman's, to spend the day. I'm in hopes she's got b'iled dish. You look +here!" She opened the bag, and searched portentously, the while Letty, +in some unworthy interest, regarded the smooth, thick hair under her +large poke-bonnet. Debby had an original fashion of coloring it; and +this no one had suspected until her little grandson innocently revealed +the secret. She rubbed it with a candle, in unconscious imitation of an +actor's make-up, and then powdered it with soot from the kettle. "I +believe to my soul she does!" said Letty to herself. + +But Debby, breathing hard, had taken something from the bag, and was +holding it out on the end of a knotted finger. + +"There!" she said, "ain't that your'n? Vianna said 't was your +engagement ring." + +Letty flushed scarlet, and snatched the ring tremblingly. She gave an +involuntary look at the barn, where David was whistling a merry stave. + +"Oh, my!" she breathed. "Where'd you find it?" + +"Well, that's the question!" returned Debby triumphantly. "Where'd ye +lose it?" + +But Letty had no mind to tell. She slipped the ring on her finger, and +looked obstinate. + +"Can't I get you somethin' to put in your bag?" she asked cannily. Debby +was diverted, though only for the moment. + +"I should like a mite o' pork," she answered, lowering her voice and +giving a glance, in her turn, at the barn. "I s'pose ye don't want _him_ +to know of it?" + +"I should like to be told why!" flamed Letty, in an indignation +disproportioned to its cause. Debby had unconsciously hit the raw. "Do +you s'pose I'd do anything David can't hear?" + +"Law, I didn't know," said Debby, as if the matter were of very little +consequence. "Mis' Peleg Chase, she gi'n me a beef-bone, t' other day, +an' she says, 'Don't ye tell _him_!' An' Mis' Squire Hill gi'n me a +pail o' lard; but she hid it underneath the fence, an' made me come for +'t after dark. I dunno how you're goin' to git along with men-folks, if +ye offer 'em the whip-hand. They'll take it, anyways. Well, don't you +want to know where I come on this ring?" + +Letty had taken a few hasty steps toward the house. "Yes, I do," owned +she, turning about. "Where was it?" + +"Well, Sammy was in swimmin', an' he dove into the Old Hole, to see'f't +had any bottom to 't. Vianna made him vow he wouldn't go in whilst he +had that rash; but he come home with his shirt wrong side out, an' she +made him own up. But he'd ha' told anyway, he was so possessed to show +that ring. He see suthin' gleamin' on a willer root nigh the bank, an' +he dove, an' there 't was. I told Sammy mebbe you'd give him suthin' +for't, an' he said there wa'n't nothin' in the world he wanted but a +mite o' David's solder, out in the shed-chamber." + +"He shall have it," said Letty hastily. "I'll get it now. Don't you say +anything!" And then she knew she had used the formula she detested, and +that she was no better than Mrs. Peleg Chase, or the wife of Squire +Hill. + +She ran frowning into the house, and down and up from kitchen to cellar. +Presently she reappeared, panting, with a great tin pan borne before +her like a laden salver. She set it down at Debby's feet, and began +packing its contents into the yawning bag. + +"There!" she said, working with haste. "There's the solder, all of it. +And here's some of our sweet corn. We planted late." + +Debby took an ear from the pan, and, tearing open the husk, tried a +kernel with a critical thumb. + +"Tough, ain't it?" she remarked, disparagingly. "Likely to be, this time +o' year. Is that the pork?" + +It was a generous cube, swathed in a fresh white cloth. + +"Yes, it is," said Letty breathlessly, thrusting it in and shutting the +bag. "There!" + +"Streak o' fat an' streak o' lean?" inquired Debby remorselessly. + +"It's the best we've got; that's all I can say. Now I've got to speak to +David before he harnesses. Good-by!" + +In a fever of impatience, she fled away to the barn. + +"Well, if ever!" ejaculated Debby, lifting the bag and turning slowly +about, to take her homeward path. "Great doin's, _I_ say!" And she made +no reply when Letty, prompted by a tardy conscience, stopped in the barn +doorway and called to her, "Tell Sammy I'm much obliged. Tell him I +shall make turn-overs to-morrow." Debby was thinking of the pork, and +the likelihood of its being properly diversified. + +Letty swept into the barn like a hurrying wind. The horses backed, and +laid their ears flat, and David, grooming one of them, gentled him and +inquired of him confidentially what was the matter. + +"Oh, David, come out here! please come out!" called Letty breathlessly. +"I've got to see you." + +David appeared, with some wonderment on his face, and Letty precipitated +herself upon him, mindless of curry-comb and horse-hairs and the fact +that she was presently to do butter. "David," she cried, "I can't stand +it. I've got to tell you. You know this ring?" + +David looked at it, interested and yet perplexed. + +"Seems if I'd seen you wear it," said he. + +Letty gave way, and laughed hysterically. + +"Seems if you had!" she repeated. "I've wore it over a year. There ain't +a girl in town but knows it. I showed it to 'em all. I told 'em 't was +my engagement ring." + +David looked at it, and then at her. She seemed to him a little mad. He +could quiet the horses, but not a woman, in so vague an exigency. + +"What made you tell 'em that?" he asked, at a venture. + +"Don't you see? There wasn't one of 'em that was engaged but had a +ring--and presents, David--and they knew I never had anything, or I'd +have showed 'em." + +David was not a dull man; he had very sound views on the tariff, and, +though social questions might thrive outside his world, the town blessed +him for an able citizen. But he felt troubled; he was condemned, and it +was the world's voice which had condemned him. + +"I don't know's I ever did give you anything, Letty," he said, with a +new pain stirring in his face. "I don't b'lieve I ever thought of it. It +wasn't that I begrudged anything." + +"Oh, my soul, no!" cried Letty, in an agony of her own. "I knew how 't +was. It wa'n't your way, but they didn't know that. And I couldn't have +'em thinkin' what they did think, now could I? So I bought me--David, I +bought me that high comb I used to wear, and--and a blue +handkerchief--and a thimble--and--and--this ring. And I said you give +'em to me. And I trusted to chance for your never findin' it out. But I +always hated the things; and as soon as we were married, I broke the +comb, and burnt up the handkerchief, and hammered the thimble into a +little wad, and buried it. But I didn't dare to stop wearin' the ring, +for fear folks would notice. Then t' other day I felt so about it I knew +the time had come, and I went down to the Old Hole and threw it in. And +now that hateful Sammy's found it and brought it back, and I've sent +him your solder, and Debby's promised me she wouldn't tell you about the +pork, and I--I'm no better than the rest of 'em that lie and lie and +don't let their men-folks know!" Letty was sobbing bitterly, and David +drew her into his arms and laid his cheek down on her hair. His heart +was aching too. They had all the passionate sorrow of children over some +grief not understood. + +"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked at length. + +"When?" said Letty chokingly. + +"Then--when folks expected things--before we were married." + +"Oh, David, I couldn't!" + +"No," said David sadly, "I s'pose you couldn't." + +Letty had been holding one hand very tightly clenched. It was a plump +hand, with deep dimples and firm, short fingers. She unclasped it, and +stretched out toward him a wet, pink palm. + +"There!" she said despairingly. "There's the ring." + +Again David felt his inadequacy to the situation. "Don't you want to +wear it?" he hesitated. "It's real pretty. What's that red stone?" + +"I hate it!" cried Letty viciously. "It's a garnet. Oh, David, don't you +ever let me set eyes on it again!" + +David took it slowly from her hand. He drew out his pocket-book, opened +it, and dropped the ring inside. "There!" he said, "I guess't won't do +me no hurt to come acrost it once in a while." Then they kissed each +other again, like two children; Letty's tears wet his face, and he felt +them bitterer than if they had been his own. + +But for Letty the air had cleared. Now, she felt, there was no trouble +in her path. She had all the irresponsible joy of one who has had a +secret, and feels the burden roll away. She was like Christian without +his pack. She put her hands on David's shoulders, and looked at him +radiantly. + +"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "I'm just as wicked as I was before; but +it don't seem to make any difference, now you know it!" + +Though David also smiled, he was regarding her with a troubled wonder. +He never expected to follow these varying moods. They were like +swallow-flights, and he was content to see the sun upon their wings. So +he drove thoughtfully off, and Letty went back to her work with a +singing heart. She was not quite sure that it was right to be happy +again, all at once, but she could not still her blood. To be forgiven, +to find herself free from the haunting consciousness that she could +deceive the creature to whom she held such passionate allegiance--this +was enough to shape a new heaven and a new earth. Her simple household +duties took on the significance of noble ceremonies. She sang as she +went about them, and the words were those of a joyous hymn. She seemed +to be serving in a temple, making it clean and fragrant in the name of +love. + + * * * * * + +Saturday was a day born of heavenly intentions. Letty ran out behind the +house, where the ground rose abruptly, and looked off, entranced, into +the blue distance. It was the stillest day of all the fall. Not a breath +stirred about her; but in the maple grove at the side of the house, +where the trees had turned early under the chill of an unseasonable +night, yellow leaves were sifting down without a sound. Goldenrod was +growing dull, clematis had ripened into feathery spray, and she knew how +the closed gentians were painting great purple dashes by the side of the +road. "Oh!" she cried aloud, in rapture. It was her wedding day; a year +ago the sun had shone as warmly and benignantly as he was shining now, +and the same haze had risen, like an exhalation, from the hills. She saw +a special omen in it, and felt herself the child of happy fortune, to be +so mothered by the great blue sky. Then she ran in to give David his +breakfast, and tell him, as they sat down, that it was their wedding +morning. As she went, she tore a spray of blood-red woodbine from the +wall, and bound it round her waist. + +But David was not ready for breakfast; he was talking with a man at the +barn, and half an hour later came hurrying in to his retarded meal. + +"I've got to eat an' run," said he; "Job Fisher kep' me. It's about that +ma'sh. But the time wa'n't wasted. He'll sell ten acres for twenty +dollars less'n he said last week. Too bad to keep you waitin'! You'd +ought to eat yours while 't was hot." + +Letty, with a little smile all to herself, sat demurely down and poured +coffee; this was no time to talk of anniversaries. David ate in haste, +and said good-by. + +"I'm goin' down the lot to get my withes," said he. "Whilst I'm gone, +you put me up a mite o' luncheon. I sha'n't lay off to come home till +night." + +"Oh, David!" said Letty, with a little cry. Then the same knowing smile +crept over her face. "No, I sha'n't," added she willfully. "I'm goin' to +bring it to you." + +"Fetch me my dinner? Why, it's a mile and a half 'cross lots! I guess +you won't!" + +"You go right along, David," said Letty decisively. "I don't want to +hear another word. I ain't seen the Long Pastur' this summer, and I'm +comin'. Good-by!" She disappeared down the cellar stairs with the +butter-plate poised on a pyramid of dishes, and David, having no time to +argue, went off to his work. + +About ten o'clock Letty took her way down to the Long Pasture; she was a +very happy woman, and she could hold her happiness before her face, +regarding it frankly and with a full delight. The material joys of life +might seem to escape her; but she could have them, after all. The great +universe, warm with sun and warm with love, was on her side. Even the +day seemed something tangible in gracious being; and as Letty trudged +along, her basket on her arm, she reasoned upon her own riches and owned +she had enough. David was not like anybody else; but he was better than +anybody else, and he was hers. Even his faults were dearer than other +men's virtues. She heard the sound of his axe upon the stakes, breaking +the lovely stillness with a significance lovelier still. + +"David!" she called, long before reaching the little brook that runs +beneath the bank, and he leaped the fence and came to meet her. "David!" +she repeated, and looked up in his face with eyes so solemn and so full +of light that he held her still a moment to look at her. + +"Letty," he said, "you're real pretty!" And then they both laughed, and +walked on together through the shade. + +The day knit up its sweet, long minutes full of the serious beauty of +the woods. David worked hard, and for a time Letty lingered near him; +then she strayed away, and came back to him, from moment to moment, +with wonderful treasures. Now it was cress from the spring, now a +palm-full of partridge berries, or a cluster of checkerberry leaves for +a "cud," or a bit of wood-sorrel. By and by the fall stillness gave out +a breath of heat, and the sun stood high overhead. Letty spread out her +dinner, and David made her a fire among the rocks. The smoke rose in a +blue efflorescence; and with the sweet tang of burning wood yet in the +air, they sat down side by side, drinking from one cup, and smiling over +the foolish nothings of familiar talk. At the end of the meal, Letty +took a parcel from the basket, something wrapped in a very fine white +napkin. She flushed a little, unrolling it, and her eyes deepened. + +"What's all this?" asked David, sniffing the air. "Fruit-cake?" + +Letty nodded without looking at him; there was a telltale quivering in +her face. She divided the cake carefully, and gave her husband half. +David had lain back on a piny bank; and as he ate, his eyes followed the +treetops, swaying a little now in a rhythmic wind. But Letty ate her +piece as if it were sacramental bread. She put out her hand to him, and +he stroked the short, faithful fingers, and then held them close. He +smiled at her; and for a moment he mused again over that starry light in +her eyes. Then his lids fell, and he had a little nap, while Letty sat +and dreamed back over the hours, a year and more ago, when her mother's +house smelled of spices, and this cake was baked for her wedding day. + +When they went home again, side by side, the fencing was all done, and +David had an after-consciousness of happy playtime. He carried the +basket, with his axe, and Letty, like an untired little dog, took brief +excursions of discovery here and there, and came back to his side with +her weedy treasures. Once--was it something in the air?--he called to +her:-- + +"Say, Letty, wa'n't it about this kind o' weather the day we were +married?" + +But Letty gave a little cry, and pointed out a frail white butterfly on +a mullein leaf. "See there, David! how cold he looks! I'd like to take +him along. He'll freeze to-night." David forgot his question, and she +was glad. Some inner voice was at her heart, warning her to leave the +day unspoiled. Her joy lay in remembering; it seemed a small thing to +her that he should forget. + +"We've had a real good time," he said, as he gave her the basket at the +kitchen door. "Now, as soon as thrashin' 's done, we'll go to Star +Pond." + +After supper they covered up the squashes, for fear of a frost; and then +they stood for a moment in the field, and looked at the harvest moon, +risen in a great effrontery of splendor. + +"Letty," asked David suddenly, "shouldn't you like to put on your little +ring? It's right here in my pocket." + +"No! no!" said Letty hastily. "I never want to set eyes on it again." + +"I guess I'll get you another one 't you could wear. I looked t' other +day when I went to market; but there was so many I didn't das't to make +a choice unless you was with me." + +Letty clung to him passionately. "Oh, David," she cried, with a break in +her voice, "I don't want any rings. I want just you." + +David put out one hand and softly touched the little blue kerchief about +her head. "Anyway," he said, "we won't have any more secrets from one +another, will we?" + +Letty gave a little start, and she caught her breath before answering:-- + +"No, we won't--not unless they're nice ones!" + + + + +A LAST ASSEMBLING + + +This happened in what Dilly Joyce, in deference to a form of speech, was +accustomed to call her young days; though really her spirit seemed to +renew itself with every step, and her body was to the last a willing +instrument. She lived in a happy completeness which allowed her to carry +on the joys of youth into the maturity of years. But things did happen +to her from twenty to thirty-five which could never happen again. When +Dilly was a girl, she fell in love, and was very heartily and honestly +loved back again. She had been born into such willing harmony with +natural laws, that this in itself seemed to belong to her life. It +partook rather of the faithfulness of the seasons than of human tragedy +or strenuous overthrow. Even so early she felt great delight in natural +things; and when her heart turned to Jethro Moore, she had no doubt +whatever of the straightness of its path. She trusted all the primal +instincts without knowing she trusted them. She was thirsty; here was +water, and she drank. Jethro was a little older than she, the son of a +minister in a neighboring town. His father had marked out his plan of +life; but Jethro had had enough to do with the church on hot summer +Sundays, when "fourthly" and "sixthly" lulled him into a pleasing coma, +and when even the shimmer of Mrs. Chase's shot silk failed to awaken his +deep eyes to their accustomed delight in fabric and color. To him, the +church was a concrete and very dull institution: to his father, it was a +city set on a hill, whence a shining path led direct to God's New +Jerusalem. Therefore it was easy enough for the boy to say he preferred +business, and that he wanted uncle Silas to take him into his upholstery +shop; and he never, so long as he lived, understood his father's tragic +silence over the choice. He had broken the succession in a line of +priests; but it seemed to him that he had simply told what he wanted to +do for a living. So he went away to the city, and news came flying back +of his wonderful fitness for the trade. He understood colors, fabrics, +design; he had been sent abroad for ideas, and finally he was dispatched +to the Chicago house, to oversee the business there. Thus it was many +years before Dilly met him again; but they remained honestly faithful, +each from a lovely simplicity of nature, but a simplicity quite +different in kind. Jethro did not grow rich very fast (uncle Silas saw +to that), but he did prosper; and he was ready to marry his girl long +before she owned herself ready to marry him. She took care of a +succession of aged relatives, all afflicted by a strange and interesting +diversity of trying diseases; and then, after the last death, she +settled down, quite poor, in a little house on the Tiverton Road, and +"went out nussin'," the profession for which her previous life had +fitted her. With a careless generosity, she made over to her brother the +old farmhouse where they were born, because he had a family and needed +it. But he died, and was soon followed by his wife and child; and now +Dilly was quite alone with the house and the family debts. The time had +come, wrote Jethro, for them to marry. She was free, at last, and he had +enough. Would she take him, now? Dilly answered quite frankly and from a +serenity born of faith in the path before her and a certainty that no +feet need slip. She was ready, she wrote. She hoped he was willing she +should sell the old place, to pay Tom's debts. That would leave her +without a cent; but since he was coming for her, and she needn't go to +Chicago alone, she didn't know that there was anything to worry about. +He would buy her ticket. There was an ineffable simplicity about Dilly. +She had no respect whatever for money, save as a puzzling means to a few +necessary ends. And now the place had been sold, and Jethro was coming +in a month. Meanwhile Dilly was to pack up the few family effects she +could afford to keep, and the rest would go by auction. + +Little as she was accustomed to dread experiences which came in the +inevitable order of nature, she did think of the last day and night in +the old house as something of an ordeal. People felt that the human +meant very little to Dilly; but that was not true. It was only true that +she held herself remote from personal intimacies; but all the fine, +invisible bonds of race and family took hold of her like irresistible +factors, and welded her to the universe anew. + +As she started out from her little house, this summer morning, and began +her three-mile walk to the old homestead, she felt as if some solemn +event in her life were about to happen; her heart beat higher, and +brought about the suffocating feeling of a hand laid upon the throat. +She was a slight creature, with a delicate face and fine black hair. Her +slender body seemed all made for action, and the poise of an assured +motion dwelt in it and wrapped about its angularity like a gracious +charm. She was walking down a lane, her short skirts brushed by the +morning dew. She chose to go 'cross lots, not because in this case it +was nearer than the road, but because it seemed impossible to go another +way. Yet never in her life had she seen less of the outward garment of +things than she was seeing this morning. A flouting bobolink flew from +stake to stake in front of her, and bubbled out in melody. She heard a +scythe swishing in a neighboring field, and the musical call of the +mowing-machine afar, and she did not look up. Dumb to the beautiful +outer world, she was broad awake to human souls: the souls of the +Joyces, alive so long before her and stretching back into an unknown +past. They had lived, one after another, in the old house, since +colonial times; and now, after this quiet act of a concluding drama, +Dilly was going to lower the curtain, and sweep them from the stage. + +Her mind was peopled with figures. She thought of Jethro, too. He seemed +to be coming ever nearer and nearer. She could hear his tread marching +into her life, and could see his face. It was very moving, as she +remembered it. A long line of scholarly forbears had dowered him with a +refinement and grace quite startling in this unornamented spot, and some +old Acadian ancestor had lent him beauty. His eyes were dark, and they +held an unfathomable melancholy. The line of his forehead and nose ran +haughtily and yet delicate; and even after years of absence, Dilly +sometimes caught her breath when she thought of the way his head was set +upon his shoulders. She had never in her life seen a man or woman who +was entirely beautiful, and he saturated her longing like a prodigal +stream. + +She was a little dazed when she climbed the low stone wall, crossed the +road, and came into the grassy wilderness of the Joyce back yard. Nature +had triumphed riotously, as she will when niggardly thrift is away. The +grass lay rich and shining, lodged by last night's shower, and gate and +cellar-case were choked by it. The cinnamon roses bloomed in a spicy +hardiness of pink, and the gnarled apple-trees had shed their broken +branches, and were covered with little green buttons of fruit. Dilly +stopped to look about her, and her eyes filled. The tears were hot; they +hurt her, and so recalled her to the needs of life. + +"There!" she said, "I mustn't do so!"--and she walked straight forward +through the open shed, and fitted her key in the lock. The door sagged; +but she pushed it open and stepped in. The deserted kitchen lay there in +desolate order, and the old Willard clock slept upon the wall. Dilly +hastily pushed a chair before it (this was the only chair old Daniel +Joyce would allow the children to climb in) and wound the clock. It +began ticking slowly, with the old, remembered sound. Somehow it seemed +beautiful to Dilly that the clock should speak with the voice of all +those years agone; it was a kind of loyalty which appealed to the soul +like a piercing miracle. Then she ran through to the sitting-room, and +started the old eight-day in the corner; and the house breathed and was +alive again. She threw open the windows, all save those on the Dilloway +side (lest kindly neighbors should discover she was at home), and the +soft rose-scented air flooded the rooms like an invisible presence, and +bore out the smell of age upon gracious wings. Now, Dilly worked fast +and steadily, lest some human thing should come upon her. She tied up +bedclothes, and opened long-closed cupboards. She made careful piles of +clothing from the attic; and finally, her mind a little tired, she sat +down on the floor and began looking over papers and daguerreotypes from +her father's desk. Just as she had lost herself in the ancient history +of which they were the signs, there came a knock at the back door. So +assured had become her idea of a continued housekeeping, that the +summons did not seem in the least strange. The house lived again; it had +thrown open its arms to human kind. + +"Come in!" she called; and a light step sounded in the kitchen and +crossed the sill. It was a man, dark-eyed and very handsome. "Oh!" +murmured Dilly, catching her breath and holding both hands clasped upon +the papers in her lap. "Jethro!" + +The stranger was much moved, and his black eyes deepened. He looked at +her kindly, perhaps lovingly, too. "Yes," he said, at last. "So you'd +know me?" + +Dilly got lightly up, and the papers fell about her in a shower; yet she +made no motion toward him. "Oh, yes," she said softly, "I should know +you. You ain't changed at all." + +That was not true. He looked ten years older than his real age; yet time +had only dowered him with a finer grace and charm. All the lines in his +face were those of gentleness and truth. His mouth had the old delicate +curves. One meeting him that day might have said, with a throb of +involuntary homage, "How beautiful he must have been when he was young!" +But to Dilly he bore even a more subtile distinction than in that +far-away time; he had ripened into something harmonizing with her own +years. He came forward a little, and held out both hands; but Dilly did +not take them, and he dropped the left one. Then she laid her fingers +lightly in his, and they greeted each other like old acquaintances. A +flush rose in her smooth brown cheek. Her eyes grew bright with that +startled questioning which is of the woods. He looked at her the more +intently, and his breath quickened. She had none of the blossomy charm +of more robust womanhood; but he recognized the old gypsy element which +had once bewitched him, and felt he loved her still. + +"Well," he said, and his voice shook a little, "are you glad to see me?" + +Dilly moved back, and sat down in her mother's little sewing-chair by +the desk. "I don't know as I can tell," she answered. "This is a strange +day." + +Jethro nodded. "I meant to surprise you," he said. "So I never wrote I +was coming on so soon. I was real disappointed to find your house shut +up; but the neighbors told me where you'd gone, and what you'd gone for. +Then I walked over here." + +Dilly's face brightened all over with a responsive smile. "Did you come +through the woods?" she asked. "What made you?" + +"Why, I knew you'd go that way," he answered. "I thought you'd get +wool-gathering over some weed or another, and maybe I'd overtake you." + +They both laughed, and the ice was broken. Dilly got briskly up and +gathered a drawer-full of papers into her apron. + +"I can't stop workin'," she said. "I want to fix it so's not to stay +here more'n one night. Now you talk! I know what these are. I can run +'em over an' listen too." + +"I think't was real good of you to turn in the place to Tom's folks," +said Jethro, also seating himself, and, as Dilly saw with a start, as if +it were an omen, in her father's great chair. "Not that you'll ever need +it, Dilly. You won't want for a thing. I've done real well." + +Dilly's long fingers assorted papers and laid them at either side, with +a neat precision. She looked up at him then, and her eyes had again the +quick, inquiring glance of some wild creature in a situation foreign to +its habits. + +"Well," she said, "well! I guess I don't resk anything. An' if I +did--why, I'd resk it!" + +Jethro bent forward a little. He was smiling, and Dilly met the glance, +half fascinated. She wondered that she could forget his smile; and yet +she had forgotten it. Like running water, it was never twice the same. + +"Dilly," said he, much moved, "you'll have a good time from this out, if +ever a woman did. You'll keep house in a brick block, where the cars run +by your door, and you can hire two girls." + +"Oh, my!" breathed Dilly. A quick look of trouble darkened her face, as +a shadow sweeps across the field. + +"What is it?" asked Jethro, in some alarm. "Don't you like what I said?" + +Dilly smiled, though her eyes were still apprehensive. + +"It ain't that," she answered slowly, striving in her turn to be kind. +"Only I guess I never happened to think before just how't would be. I +never spec'lated much on keepin' house." + +"But somebody'd have to keep it," said Jethro good-naturedly, smiling on +her. "We can get good help. You'll like to have a real home table, and +you can invite company every day, if you say so. I never was close, +Dilly,--you know that. I sha'n't make you account for things." + +Dilly got up, and, still holding her papers in her apron, walked +swiftly to the window. There she stood, a moment, looking out into the +orchard, where the grass lay tangled under the neglected, happy trees. +Her eyes traveled mechanically from one to another. She knew them all. +That was the "sopsyvine," its red fruitage fast coming on; there was the +Porter she had seen her father graft; and down in the corner grew the +August sweet. Life out there looked so still and sane and homely. She +knew no city streets,--yet the thought of them sounded like a pursuit. +She turned about, and came back to her chair. + +"I guess I never dreamt how you lived, Jethro," she said gently. "But it +don't make no matter. You're contented with it." + +"I ain't a rich man," said Jethro, with some quiet pride; "but I've got +enough. Yes, I like my business; and city life suits me. You'll fall in +with it, too." + +Then silence settled between them; but that never troubled Dilly. She +was used to long musings on her walks to and from her patients, and in +her watching beside their beds. Conversation seemed to her a very +spurious thing when there is nothing to say. + +"What you thinking about?" he asked suddenly. + +Dilly looked up at him with her bright, truth-telling glance. "I was +thinkin'," she answered, with a clarity never ruthless, because it was +so sweet,--"I was thinkin' you make me homesick, somehow or another." + +Jethro looked at her doubtfully, and then, as she smiled at him, he +smiled also. + +"I don't believe it's me," he said, confidently. "It's because you're +going over things here. It's the old house." + +"Maybe," said Dilly, nodding and tying her last bundle of papers. "But I +don't know. I never had quite such feelin's before. It's the nearest to +bein' afraid of anything I've come acrost. I guess I shall have to run +out into the lot an' take my bearin's." + +Jethro got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked about the room. +He was very gentle, but he did at heart cherish the masculine theory +that the unusual in woman is never to be judged by rules. + +"But it is a queer kind of a day," owned Dilly, pushing in the last +drawer. "Why, Jethro!" She faced him, and her voice broke in excitement. +"You don't know, I ain't begun to tell you, how queer it seems to me. +Why, I've dreaded this day for weeks! but when it come nigh, it begun to +seem to me like a joyful thing. I felt as if they all knew of it: them +that was gone. It seemed as if they stood 'round me, ready to uphold me +in what I was doin'. I shouldn't be surprised if they were all here now. +I don't feel a mite alone." + +Her voice shook with excitement; her eyes were big and black. Jethro +came up to her, and laid a kindly hand on her shoulder. It was a fine +hand, long and shapely, and Dilly, looking down at it, remembered, with +a strange regretfulness, how she had once loved its lines. + +"There, poor girl!" he said, "you're tired thinking about it. No wonder +you've got fancies. I guess the ghosts won't trouble us. There's nothing +here worse than ourselves." And again, in spite of the Joyces, Dilly +felt homesick and alone. + +There came a soft thudding sound upon the kitchen floor, and she turned, +alert, to listen. This was Mrs. Eli Pike in her carpet slippers; she had +stood so much over soap-making that week that her feet had taken to +swelling. She was no older than Dilly, but she had seemed matronly in +her teens. She looked very large, as she padded forward through the +doorway, and her pink face and double chin seemed to exude kindliness as +she came. + +"There, Dilly Joyce! if this ain't jest like you!" she exclaimed. "Creep +in here an' not let anybody know! Why, Jethro, that you? Recognize you! +Well, I guess I should!" + +She included them both in a neighborly glance, and Dilly was very +grateful. Yet it seemed to her that now, at last, she might break down +and cry. The tone of olden friendliness was hard to bear, when no other +voices answered. She could endure the silent house, but not the +intercourse of a life so sadly changed. + +"There!" continued Mrs. Pike, with a nod, "I guess I know! You're tired +to pieces with this pickin' and sortin', an' you're comin' over to +dinner, both on ye. Eli's dressed a hin. I had to wring her neck. _He_ +wouldn't ha' done it; you know that, Dilly! An' I've been beatin' up +eggs. Now don't you say one word. You be there by twelve. Jethro, you +got a watch? You see 't she starts, now!" And Mrs. Pike marched away +victorious, her apron over her head, and waving one hand before her as +she went. She had once been stung by bees, on just such a morning as +this, and she had a set theory that they infested all strange dooryards. + +Dilly felt as if even the Joyces could not save her day in its solemn +significance unless, indeed, they should appear in their proper persons. +She thought of her bread and butter and boiled eggs, lying in her little +bundle, and the simple meal seemed as unattainable as if it were some +banquet dreamed of in delirium. It was of one piece with cars going by +the house, and two maid-servants to correct. To Dilly, a car meant a +shrieking monster propelled by steam: yet not even that drove her to +such insanity of revulsion as the two servants. They alone made her +coming life seem like one eternal school, with the committee ever on +the platform, and no recess. But she worked very meekly and soberly, and +Jethro took off his coat and helped her; then, just before twelve, they +washed their hands and went across the orchard to Mrs. Pike's. + +The rest of the day seemed to Dilly like a confused though not an +unfamiliar dream. She knew that the dinner was very good, and that it +choked her, so that Mrs. Pike, alert in her first pride of housekeeping, +was quite cordially harsh with her for not eating more; and that Jethro +talked about Chicago; and Eli Pike, older than his wife and graver, said +"Do tell!" now and again, and seemed to picture in his mind the outlines +of city living. She escaped from the table as soon as possible, under +pretext of the work to be done, and slipped back to the empty house; and +there Jethro found her, and began helping her again. + +The still afternoon settled down in its grooves of beauty, and its very +loveliness gave Dilly a pain at the heart. She remembered that this was +the hour when her mother used to yawn over her long seam, or her +knitting, and fall asleep by the window, while the bees droned outside +in the jessamine, and a humming-bird--there had always been one, year +after year, and Dilly could never get over the impression that it was +the same bird--hovered on his invisible perch and thrilled his wings +divinely. Then the day slipped over an unseen height, and fell into a +sheltered calm. The work was not done, and they had to go over to Mrs. +Pike's again to supper, and to spend the night. Dilly longed to stretch +herself on the old kitchen lounge in her own home; but Mrs. Pike told +her plainly that she was crazy, and Jethro, with a kindly authority, +bade her yield. And because words were like weapons that returned upon +her to hurt her anew, she did yield, and talked patiently to one and +another neighbor as they came in to see Jethro, and to inquire when he +meant to be married. + +"Soon," said Jethro, with assurance. "As soon as Dilly makes up her +mind." + +All that evening, Eli Pike sat on the steps, where he could hear the +talk in the sitting-room without losing the whippoorwill's song from the +Joyce orchard, and Dilly longed to slip out and sit quietly beside him. +He would know. But she could only be civil and grateful, and when half +past eight came, take her lamp and go up to bed. Jethro was given the +best chamber, because he had succeeded and came from Chicago; but Dilly +had a little room that looked straight out across the treetops down to +her own home. + +At first, after closing the door behind her, she felt only the great +blessedness of being alone. She put out the light and threw herself, as +she was, face downwards on the bed. There she lay for long moments, +suffering; and this was one of the few times in her life when she was +forced to feel that human pain which is like a stab in the heart. For +she was one of those wise creatures who give themselves long spaces of +silence, and so heal them quickly of their wounds, like the sage little +animals that slip away from combat, to cure their hurt with leaves. +Presently, a great sense of rest enfolded her, a rest ineffably precious +because it was so soon to be over. It was like great riches lent only +for a time. Outside this familiar quiet was the world, thrilled by a +terrifying life pressing upon her and calling. She longed to put her +hands before her eyes, and shut out the possibility of meeting its +garish glory; she did cover her ears, lest its cry should pierce them +and she could not resist. And so she lay there shivering, until a +strange inviting that was peace and not commotion seemed to approach her +from another side, and her inner self became conscious of unheard +voices. They were not clamorous, but sweet, and they drowned her will, +and drew her to themselves. She got softly up, and, going to the +darkened window, looked out across the orchard. There, in the greenness, +lay the old house. It called on her to come. It seemed to Dilly that she +could not make haste enough to be there. She slipped softly down the +narrow stairway, and across the kitchen, where the shadows of the +moonlit windows lay upon the floor. A great excitement thrilled her +blood; and though quite safe from discovery, she was not wholly at ease +until she had entered the orchard path, and knew her feet were wet with +dew, and heard the whippoorwill, so near now that she might have +startled him from his neighboring tree. No other bird note could have +fitted her mood so well. The wild melancholy of his tone, his home in +the night, and the omens blended with his song seemed to remove him from +the world as she herself was removed; and she hastened on with a fine +exaltation, fitted her key again in the lock, and shut the door behind +her. + +As soon as Dilly had entered the sitting-room, where the old desk stood +in its place, and the clock was ticking, she felt as if all her +confusion and trouble were over. She smiled to herself in the darkness. +She had come home, and it was very good. They had begun with the attic, +in their rearranging, and this room remained unchanged. It had been her +wish to keep it, in its sweet familiarity, unaltered till the last. She +drew forward her father's chair, and sat down in it, with luxurious +abandonment, to rest. Her mother's little cricket was by her side, and +she put her feet on it and exhaled a long sigh of content. Her eyes +rested on the dark cavern which was the fireplace; and there fell upon +her a sweet sense of completed bliss, as if it were alight and she could +watch the dancing flames. And suddenly Dilly was aware that the Joyces +were all about her. + +She had been sure, in her coming through the woods, that they knew and +cared; now she was certain that, in some fashion, they recognized their +bondage and loyalty to the place, as she recognized her own, and that +they upheld her to her task. She thought them over, as she sat there, +and saw their souls more keenly than if she had met them, men and women, +face to face. There was the shoe-maker among them, who, generations +back, was sitting on his bench when news came of the battle of +Lexington, and who threw down hammer and last, and ran wildly out into +the woods, where he stayed three days and nights, calling with a loud +voice upon Almighty God to save him from ill-doing. Then he had drowned +himself in a little brook too shallow for the death of any but a +desperate man. He had been the disgrace of the Joyces; they dared not +think of him, and they know, even to this day, that he is remembered +among their townsmen as the Joyce who was a coward, and killed himself +rather than go to war. But here he stood--was it the man, or some secret +intelligence of him?--and Dilly, out of all his race, was the one to +comprehend him. She saw, with a thrill of passionate sympathy, how he +had believed with all his soul in the wickedness of war, and how the +wound to his country so roused in him the desire of blood that he fled +away and prayed his God to save him from mortal guilt,--and how, finding +that he saw with an overwhelming delight the red of anticipated +slaughter, and knew his traitorous feet were bearing him to the ranks, +he chose the death of the body rather than sin against the soul. And +Dilly was glad; the blood in her own veins ran purer for his sake. + +There was old Delilah Joyce, who went into a decline for love, and +wasted quite away. She had been one of those tragic fugitives on the +island of being, driven out into the storm of public sympathy to be +beaten and undone; for she was left on her wedding day by her lover, who +vowed he loved her no more. But now Dilly saw her without the pathetic +bravery of her silken gown which was never worn, and knew her for a +woman serene and glad. That very day she had unfolded the gown in the +attic, where it had lain, year upon year, wrapped about by the poignant +sympathy of her kin, a perpetual reminder of the hurts and faithlessness +of life. It had become a relic, set aside from modern use. She felt now +as if she could even wear it herself, though silk was not for her, or +deck some little child in its shot and shimmering gayety. For it came +to her, with a glad rush of acquiescent joy, that all his life, the man, +though blinded by illusion, had been true to her whom he had left; and +that, instead of being poor, she was very rich. It was from that moment +that Dilly began to understand that the soul does not altogether weld +its own bonds, but that they lie in the secret core of things, as the +planet rushes on its appointed way. + +There was Annette Joyce, who married a Stackpole, and, to the disgust of +her kin, clung to him through one debauch after another, until the world +found out that Annette "couldn't have much sense of decency herself, or +she wouldn't put up with such things." But on this one night Dilly found +out that Annette's life had been a continual laying hold of Eternal +Being, not for herself, but for the creature she loved; that she had +shown the insolence and audacity of a thousand spirits in one, besieging +high heaven and crying in the ear of God: "I demand of Thee this soul +that Thou hast made." And somehow Dilly knew now that she was of those +who overcome. + +So the line stretched on, until she was aware of souls of which she had +never heard; and she knew that, faulty as their deeds might be, they had +striven, and the strife was not in vain. She felt herself to be one drop +in a mighty river, flowing into the water which is the sum of life; and +she was content to be absorbed in that great stream. There was human +comfort in the moment, too; for all about her were those whom she had +seen with her bodily eyes, and their presence brought an infinite cheer +and rest. Dilly felt the safety of the universe; she smiled lovingly +over the preciousness of all its homely ways. She thought of the +twilights when she had sat on the doorstone, eating huckleberries and +milk, and seeing the sun drop down the west; she remembered one night +when her little cat came home, after it had been lost, and felt the warm +touch of its fur against her hand. She saw how the great chain of things +is held by such slender links, and how there is nothing that is not most +sacred and most good. The hum of summer life outside the window seemed +to her the life in her own veins, and she knew that nothing dwells apart +from anything else, and that, whether we wot of it or not, we are of one +blood. + +The night went on to that solemn hush that comes before the dawn. Dilly +felt the presence of the day, and what it would demand of her; but now +she did not fear. For Jethro, too, had been with her; and at last she +understood his power over her and could lay it away like a jewel in a +case, a precious thing, and yet not to be worn. She saw him, also, in +his stream of being, as she was swept along through hers, and knew how +that old race had given him a beauty which was not his, but +theirs,--and how, in the melancholy of his eyes, she loved a soul long +passed, and in the wonder of his hand the tender lines of other hands, +waving to fiery action. He was an inheritor; and she had loved, not him, +but his inheritance. + +Now it was the later dusk of night, and the cocks crowed loudly in a +clear diminuendo, dying far away. Dilly pressed her hands upon her eyes, +and came awake to the outer world. She looked about the room with a warm +smile, and reviewed, in feeling, her happy night. It was no longer hard +to dismantle the place. The room, the house, the race were hers forever; +she had learned the abidingness of what is real. When she closed the +door behind her, she touched the casing as if she loved it, and, +crossing the orchard, she felt as if all the trees could say: "We know, +you and we!" + +As she entered the Pike farmyard, Eli was just going to milking, with +clusters of shining pails. + +"You're up early," said he. "Well, there's nothin' like the mornin'!" + +"No," answered Dilly, smiling at him with the radiance of one who +carries good news, "except night-time! There's a good deal in that!" And +while Eli went gravely on, pondering according to his wont, she ran up +to smooth her tumbled bed. + +After breakfast, while Mrs. Pike was carrying away the dishes, Dilly +called Jethro softly to one side. + +"You come out in the orchard. I want to speak to you." + +Her voice thrilled with something like the gladness of confidence, and +Jethro's own face brightened. Dilly read that vivid anticipation, and +caught her breath. Though she knew it now, the old charm would never be +quite gone. She took his hand and drew him forward. She seemed like a +child, unaffected and not afraid. Out in the path, under the oldest tree +of all, she dropped his hand and faced him. + +"Jethro," she said, "we can't do it. We can't get married." + +He looked at her amazed. She seemed to be telling good news instead of +bad. She gazed up at him smilingly. He could not understand. + +"Don't you care about me?" he asked at length, haltingly; and again +Dilly smiled at him in the same warm confidence. + +"Oh, yes," she said eagerly. "I do care, ever and ever so much. But it's +your folks I care about. It ain't you. I've found it all out, Jethro. +Things don't al'ays belong to us. Sometimes they belong to them that +have gone before; an' half the time we don't know it." + +Jethro laid a gentle hand upon her arm. "You're all tired out," he said +soothingly. "Now you give up picking over things, and let me hire +somebody. I'll be glad to." + +But Dilly withdrew a little from his touch. "You're real good, Jethro," +she answered steadily. She had put aside her exaltation, and was her old +self, full of common-sense and kindly strength. "But I don't feel tired, +an' I ain't a mite crazed. All you can do is to ride over to town with +Eli--he's goin' after he feeds the pigs--an' take the cars from there. +It's all over, Jethro. It is, truly. I ain't so sorry as I might be; for +it's borne in on me you won't care this way long. An' you needn't, dear; +for nothin' between us is changed a mite. The only trouble is, it ain't +the kind of thing we thought." + +She looked in his eyes with a long, bright farewell glance, and turned +away. She had left behind her something which was very fine and +beautiful; but she could not mourn. And all that morning, about the +house, she sang little snatches of song, and was content. The Joyces had +done their work, and she was doing hers. + + + + +THE WAY OF PEACE + + +It was two weeks after her mother's funeral when Lucy Ann Cummings sat +down and considered. The web of a lifelong service and devotion still +clung about her, but she was bereft of the creature for whom it had been +spun. Now she was quite alone, save for her two brothers and the cousins +who lived in other townships, and they all had homes of their own. Lucy +Ann sat still, and thought about her life. Brother Ezra and brother John +would be good to her. They always had been. Their solicitude redoubled +with her need, and they had even insisted on leaving Annabel, John's +daughter, to keep her company after the funeral. Lucy Ann thought +longingly of the healing which lay in the very loneliness of her little +house; but she yielded, with a patient sigh. John and Ezra were +men-folks, and doubtless they knew best. + +A little more than a week had gone when school "took up," rather earlier +than had been intended, and Annabel went away in haste, to teach. Then +Lucy Ann drew her first long breath. She had resisted many a kindly +office from her niece, with the crafty innocence of the gentle who can +only parry and never thrust. When Annabel wanted to help in packing away +grandma's things, aunt Lucy agreed, half-heartedly, and then deferred +the task from day to day. In reality, Lucy Ann never meant to pack them +away at all. She could not imagine her home without them; but that, +Annabel would not understand, and her aunt pushed aside the moment, +reasoning that something is pretty sure to happen if you put things off +long enough. And something did; Annabel went away. It was then that Lucy +Ann took a brief draught of the cup of peace. + +Long before her mother's death, when they both knew how inevitably it +was coming, Lucy Ann had, one day, a little shock of surprise. She was +standing before the glass, coiling her crisp gray hair, and thinking +over and over the words the doctor had used, the night before, when he +told her how near the end might be. Her delicate face fell into deeper +lines. Her mouth dropped a little at the corners; her faded brown eyes +were hot with tears, and stopping to wipe them, she caught sight of +herself in the glass. + +"Why," she said aloud, "I look jest like mother!" + +And so she did, save that it was the mother of five years ago, before +disease had corroded the dear face, and patience wrought its tracery +there. + +"Well," she continued, smiling a little at the poverty of her state, "I +shall be a real comfort to me when mother's gone!" + +Now that her moment of solitude had struck, grief came also. It glided +in, and sat down by her, to go forth no more, save perhaps under its +other guise of a patient hope. She rocked back and forth in her chair, +and moaned a little to herself. + +"Oh, I never can bear it!" she said pathetically, under her breath. "I +never can bear it in the world!" + +The tokens of illness were all put away. Her mother's bedroom lay cold +in an unsmiling order. The ticking of the clock emphasized the +inexorable silence of the house. Once Lucy Ann thought she heard a +little rustle and stir. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, +coming from the bedroom, where one movement of the clothes had always +been enough to summon her with flying feet. She caught her breath, and +held it, to listen. She was ready, undisturbed, for any sign. But a +great fly buzzed drowsily on the pane, and the fire crackled with +accentuated life. She was quite alone. She put her hand to her heart, in +that gesture of grief which is so entirely natural when we feel the stab +of destiny; and then she went wanly into the sitting-room, looking about +her for some pretense of duty to solace her poor mind. There again she +caught sight of herself in the glass. + +"Oh, my!" breathed Lucy Ann. Low as they were, the words held a fullness +of joy. + +Her face had been aging through these days of grief; it had grown more +and more like her mother's. She felt as if a hand had been stretched out +to her, holding a gift, and at that moment something told her how to +make the gift enduring. Running over to the little table where her +mother's work-basket stood, as it had been, undisturbed, she took out a +pair of scissors, and went back to the glass. There she let down her +thick gray hair, parted it carefully on the sides, and cut off lock +after lock about her face. She looked a caricature of her sober self. +But she was well used to curling hair like this, drawing its crisp +silver into shining rings; and she stood patiently before the glass and +coaxed her own locks into just such fashion as had framed the older +face. It was done, and Lucy Ann looked at herself with a smile all +suffused by love and longing. She was not herself any more; she had gone +back a generation, and chosen a warmer niche. She could have kissed her +face in the glass, it was so like that other dearer one. She did finger +the little curls, with a reminiscent passion, not daring to think of the +darkness where the others had been shut; and, at that instant, she felt +very rich. The change suggested a more faithful portraiture, and she +went up into the spare room and looked through the closet where her +mother's clothes had been hanging so long, untouched. Selecting a purple +thibet, with a little white sprig, she slipped off her own dress, and +stepped into it. She crossed a muslin kerchief on her breast, and pinned +it with the cameo her mother had been used to wear. It was impossible to +look at herself in the doing; but when the deed was over, she went again +to the glass and stood there, held by a wonder beyond her will. She had +resurrected the creature she loved; this was an enduring portrait, +perpetuating, in her own life, another life as well. + +"I'll pack away my own clo'es to-morrer," said Lucy Ann to herself. +"Them are the ones to be put aside." + +She went downstairs, hushed and tremulous, and seated herself again, her +thin hands crossed upon her lap; and there she stayed, in a pleasant +dream, not of the future, and not even of the past, but face to face +with a recognition of wonderful possibilities. She had dreaded her +loneliness with the ache that is despair; but she was not lonely any +more. She had been allowed to set up a little model of the tabernacle +where she had worshiped; and, having that, she ceased to be afraid. To +sit there, clothed in such sweet familiarity of line and likeness, had +tightened her grasp upon the things that are. She did not seem to +herself altogether alive, nor was her mother dead. They had been fused, +by some wonderful alchemy; and instead of being worlds apart, they were +at one. So, John Cummings, her brother, stepping briskly in, after tying +his horse at the gate, came upon her unawares, and started, with a +hoarse, thick cry. It was in the dusk of evening; and, seeing her +outline against the window, he stepped back against the wall and leaned +there a moment, grasping at the casing with one hand. "Good God!" he +breathed, at last, "I thought 't was mother!" + +Lucy Ann rose, and went forward to meet him. + +"Then it's true," said she. "I'm so pleased. Seems as if I could git +along, if I could look a little mite like her." + +John stood staring at her, frowning in his bewilderment. + +"What have you done to yourself?" he asked. "Put on her clo'es?" + +"Yes," said Lucy Ann, "but that ain't all. I guess I do resemble mother, +though we ain't any of us had much time to think about it. Well, I _am_ +pleased. I took out that daguerreotype she had, down Saltash way, though +it don't favor her as she was at the end. But if I can take a glimpse of +myself in the glass, now and then, mebbe I can git along." + +They sat down together in the dark, and mused over old memories. John +had always understood Lucy Ann better than the rest. When she gave up +Simeon Bascom to stay at home with her mother, he never pitied her much; +he knew she had chosen the path she loved. The other day, even, some one +had wondered that she could have heard the funeral service so unmoved; +but he, seeing how her face had seemed to fade and wither at every word, +guessed what pain was at her heart. So, though his wife had sent him +over to ask how Lucy Ann was getting on, he really found out very +little, and felt how painfully dumb he must be when he got home. Lucy +Ann was pretty well, he thought he might say. She'd got to looking a +good deal like mother. + +They took their "blindman's holiday," Lucy Ann once in a while putting a +stick on the leaping blaze, and, when John questioned her, giving a +low-toned reply. Even her voice had changed. It might have come from +that bedroom, in one of the pauses between hours of pain, and neither +would have been surprised. + +"What makes you burn beech?" asked John, when a shower of sparks came +crackling at them. + +"I don't know," she answered. "Seems kind o' nat'ral. Some of it got +into the last cord we bought, an' one night it snapped out, an' most +burnt up mother's nightgown an' cap while I was warmin' 'em. We had a +real time of it. She scolded me, an' then she laughed, an' I +laughed--an' so, when I see a stick or two o' beech to-day, I kind o' +picked it out a-purpose." + +John's horse stamped impatiently from the gate, and John, too, knew it +was time to go. His errand was not done, and he balked at it. + +"Lucy Ann," said he, with the bluntness of resolve, "what you goin' to +do?" + +Lucy Ann looked sweetly at him through the dark. She had expected that. +She smoothed her mother's dress with one hand, and it gave her courage. + +"Do?" said she; "why, I ain't goin' to do nothin'. I've got enough to +pull through on." + +"Yes, but where you goin' to live?" + +"Here." + +"Alone?" + +"I don't feel so very much alone," said she, smiling to herself. At that +moment she did not. All sorts of sweet possibilities had made themselves +real. They comforted her, like the presence of love. + +John felt himself a messenger. He was speaking for others that with +which his soul did not accord. + +"The fact is," said he, "they're all terrible set ag'inst it. They say +you're gittin' along in years. So you be. So are we all. But they will +have it, it ain't right for you to live on here alone. Mary says she +should be scairt to death. She wants you should come an' make it your +home with us." + +"Yes, I dunno but Mary would be scairt," said Lucy Ann placidly. "But I +ain't. She's real good to ask me; but I can't do it, no more'n she could +leave you an' the children an' come over here to stay with me. Why, +John, this is my home!" + +Her voice sank upon a note of passion. It trembled with memories of dewy +mornings and golden eves. She had not grown here, through all her youth +and middle life, like moss upon a rock, without fitting into the hollows +and softening the angles of her poor habitation. She had drunk the +sunlight and the rains of one small spot, and she knew how both would +fall. The place, its sky and clouds and breezes, belonged to her: but +she belonged to it as well. + +John stood between two wills, his own and that of those who had sent +him. Left to himself, he would not have harassed her. To him, also, +wedded to a hearth where he found warmth and peace, it would have been +sweet to live there always, though alone, and die by the light of its +dying fire. But Mary thought otherwise, and in matters of worldly +judgment he could only yield. + +"I don't want you should make a mistake," said he. "Mebbe you an' I +don't look for'ard enough. They say you'll repent it if you stay, an' +there'll be a hurrah-boys all round. What say to makin' us a visit? +That'll kind o' stave it off, an' then we can see what's best to be +done." + +Lucy Ann put her hands to her delicate throat, where her mother's gold +beads lay lightly, with a significant touch. She, like John, had an +innate gentleness of disposition. She distrusted her own power to judge. + +"Maybe I might," said she faintly. "Oh, John, do you think I've got to?" + +"It needn't be for long," answered John briefly, though he felt his eyes +moist with pity of her. "Mebbe you could stay a month?" + +"Oh, I couldn't do that!" cried Lucy Ann, in wild denial. "I never could +in the world. If you'll make it a fortnight, an' harness up yourself, +an' bring me home, mebbe I might." + +John gave his word, but when he took his leave of her, she leaned +forward into the dark, where the impatient horse was fretting, and made +her last condition. + +"You'll let me turn the key on things here jest as they be? You won't +ask me to break up nuthin'?" + +"Break up!" repeated John, with the intensity of an oath. "I guess you +needn't. If anybody puts that on you, you send 'em to me." + +So Lucy Ann packed her mother's dresses into a little hair trunk that +had stood in the attic unused for many years, and went away to make her +visit. When she drove up to the house, sitting erect and slender in her +mother's cashmere shawl and black bonnet, Mary, watching from the +window, gave a little cry, as at the risen dead. John had told her +about Lucy Ann's transformation, but she put it all aside as a crazy +notion, not likely to last: now it seemed less a pathetic masquerade +than a strange bypath taken by nature itself. + +The children regarded it with awe, and half the time called Lucy Ann +"grandma." That delighted her. Whenever they did it, she looked up to +say, with her happiest smile,-- + +"There! that's complete. You'll remember grandma, won't you? We mustn't +ever forget her." + +Here, in this warm-hearted household, anxious to do her service in a way +that was not her own, she had some happiness, of a tremulous kind; but +it was all built up of her trust in a speedy escape. She knit mittens, +and sewed long seams; and every day her desire to fill the time was +irradiated by the certainty that twelve hours more were gone. A few more +patient intervals, and she should be at home. Sometimes, as the end of +her visit drew nearer, she woke early in the morning with a sensation of +irresponsible joy, and wondered, for an instant, what had happened to +her. Then it always came back, with an inward flooding she had scarcely +felt even in her placid youth. At home there would be so many things to +do, and, above all, such munificent leisure! For there she would feel no +need of feverish action to pass the time. The hours would take care of +themselves; they would fleet by, while she sat, her hands folded, +communing with old memories. + +The day came, and the end of her probation. She trembled a good deal, +packing her trunk in secret, to escape Mary's remonstrances; but John +stood by her, and she was allowed to go. + +"You'll get sick of it," called Mary after them. "I guess you'll be glad +enough to see the children again, an' they will you. Mind, you've got to +come back an' spend the winter." + +Lucy Ann nodded happily. She could agree to anything sufficiently +remote; and the winter was not yet here. + +The first day in the old house seemed to her like new birth in Paradise. +She wandered about, touching chairs and tables and curtains, the +manifest symbols of an undying past. There were loving duties to be +done, but she could not do them yet. She had to look her pleasure in the +face, and learn its lineaments. + +Next morning came brother Ezra, and Lucy Ann hurried to meet him with an +exaggerated welcome. Life was never very friendly to Ezra, and those who +belonged to him had to be doubly kind. They could not change his luck, +but they might sweeten it. They said the world had not gone well with +him; though sometimes it was hinted that Ezra, being out of gear, could +not go with the world. All the rivers ran away from him, and went to +turn some other mill. He was ungrudging of John's prosperity, but still +he looked at it in some disparagement, and shook his head. His cheeks +were channeled long before youth was over; his feet were weary with +honest serving, and his hands grown hard with toil. Yet he had not +arrived, and John was at the goal before him. + +"We heard you'd been stayin' with John's folks," said he to Lucy Ann. +"Leastways, Abby did, an' she thinks mebbe you've got a little time for +us now, though we ain't nothin' to offer compared to what you're used to +over there." + +"I'll come," said Lucy Ann promptly. "Yes, I'll come, an' be glad to." + +It was part of her allegiance to the one who had gone. + +"Ezra needs bracin'," she heard her mother say, in many a sick-room +gossip. "He's got to be flattered up, an' have some grit put into him." + +It was many weeks before Lucy Ann came home again. Cousin Rebecca, in +Saltash, sent her a cordial letter of invitation for just as long as she +felt like staying; and the moneyed cousin at the Ridge wrote in like +manner, following her note by a telegram, intimating that she would not +take no for an answer. Lucy Ann frowned in alarm when the first letter +came, and studied it by daylight and in her musings at night, as if some +comfort might lurk between the lines. She was tempted to throw it in +the fire, not answered at all. Still, there was a reason for going. This +cousin had a broken hip, she needed company, and the flavor of old +times. The other had married a "drinkin' man," and might feel hurt at +being refused. So, fortifying herself with some inner resolution she +never confessed, Lucy Ann set her teeth and started out on a visiting +campaign. John was amazed. He drove over to see her while she was +spending a few days with an aunt in Sudleigh. + +"When you been home last, Lucy Ann?" asked he. + +A little flush came into her face, and she winked bravely. + +"I ain't been home at all," said she, in a low tone. "Not sence August." + +John groped vainly in mental depths for other experiences likely to +illuminate this. He concluded that he had not quite understood Lucy Ann +and her feeling about home; but that was neither here nor there. + +"Well," he remarked, rising to go, "you're gittin' to be quite a +visitor." + +"I'm tryin' to learn how," said Lucy Ann, almost gayly. "I've been +a-cousinin' so long, I sha'n't know how to do anything else." + +But now the middle of November had come, and she was again in her own +house. Cousin Titcomb had brought her there and driven away, concerned +that he must leave her in a cold kitchen, and only deterred by a looming +horse-trade from staying to build a fire. Lucy Ann bade him good-by, +with a gratitude which was not for her visit, but all for getting home; +and when he uttered that terrifying valedictory known as "coming again," +she could meet it cheerfully. She even stood in the door, watching him +away; and not until the rattle of his wheels had ceased on the frozen +road, did she return to her kitchen and stretch her shawled arms +pathetically upward. + +"I thank my heavenly Father!" said Lucy Ann, with the fervency of a +great experience. + +She built her fire, and then unpacked her little trunk, and hung up the +things in the bedroom where her mother's presence seemed still to cling. + +"I'll sleep here now," she said to herself. "I won't go out of this no +more." + +Then all the little homely duties of the hour cried out upon her, like +children long neglected; and, with the luxurious leisure of those who +may prolong a pleasant task, she set her house in order. She laid out a +programme to occupy her days. The attic should be cleaned to-morrow. In +one day? Nay, why not three, to hold Time still, and make him wait her +pleasure? Then there were the chambers, and the living-rooms below. She +felt all the excited joy of youth; she was tasting anticipation at its +best. + +"It'll take me a week," said she. "That will be grand." She could hardly +wait even for the morrow's sun; and that night she slept like those of +whom much is to be required, and who must wake in season. Morning came, +and mid-forenoon, and while she stepped about under the roof where dust +had gathered and bitter herbs told tales of summers past, John drove +into the yard. Lucy Ann threw up the attic window and leaned out. + +"You put your horse up, an' I'll be through here in a second," she +called. "The barn's open." + +John was in a hurry. + +"I've got to go over to Sudleigh, to meet the twelve o'clock," said he. +"Harold's comin'. I only wanted to say I'll be over after you the night +before Thanksgivin'. Mary wants you should be sure to be there to +breakfast. You all right? Cephas said you seemed to have a proper good +time with them." + +John turned skillfully on the little green and drove away. Lucy Ann +stayed at the window watching him, the breeze lifting her gray curls, +and the sun smiling at her. She withdrew slowly into the attic, and sank +down upon the floor, close by the window. She sat there and thought, and +the wind still struck upon her unheeded. Was she always to be subject to +the tyranny of those who had set up their hearth-stones in a more +enduring form? Was her home not a home merely because there were no men +and children in it? She drew her breath sharply, and confronted certain +problems of the greater world, not knowing what they were. To Lucy Ann +they did not seem problems at all. They were simply touches on the +individual nerve, and she felt the pain. Her own inner self throbbed in +revolt, but she never guessed that any other part of nature was +throbbing with it. Then she went about her work, with the patience of +habit. It was well that the attic should be cleaned, though the savor of +the task was gone. + +Next day, she walked to Sudleigh, with a basket on her arm. Often she +sent her little errands by the neighbors; but to-day she was uneasy, and +it seemed as if the walk might do her good. She wanted some soda and +some needles and thread. She tried to think they were very important, +though some sense of humor told her grimly that household goods are of +slight use to one who goes a-cousining. Her day at John's would be +prolonged to seven; nay, why not a month, when the winter itself was not +too great a tax for them to lay upon her? In her deserted house, soda +would lose its strength, and even cloves decay. Lucy Ann felt her will +growing very weak within her; indeed, at that time, she was hardly +conscious of having any will at all. + +It was Saturday, and John and Ezra were almost sure to be in town. She +thought of that, and how pleasant it would be to hear from the folks: so +much pleasanter than to be always facing them on their own ground, and +never on hers. At the grocery she came upon Ezra, mounted on a +wagon-load of meal-bags, and just gathering up the reins. + +"Hullo!" he called. "You didn't walk?" + +"Oh, I jest clipped it over," returned Lucy Ann carelessly. "I'm goin' +to git a ride home. I see Marden's wagon when I come by the +post-office." + +"Well, I hadn't any expectation o' your bein' here," said Ezra. "I meant +to ride round to-morrer. We want you to spend Thanksgivin' Day with us. +I'll come over arter you." + +"Oh, Ezra!" said Lucy Ann, quite sincerely, with her concession to his +lower fortunes, "why didn't you say so! John's asked me." + +"The dogs!" said Ezra. It was his deepest oath. Then he drew a sigh. +"Well," he concluded, "that's our luck. We al'ays come out the leetle +end o' the horn. Abby'll be real put out. She 'lotted on it. Well, +John's inside there. He's buyin' up 'bout everything there is. You'll +git more'n you would with us." + +He drove gloomily away, and Lucy Ann stepped into the store, musing. She +was rather sorry not to go to Ezra's, if he cared. It almost seemed as +if she might ask John to let her take the plainer way. John would +understand. She saw him at once where he stood, prosperous and hale, in +his great-coat, reading items from a long memorandum, while Jonathan +Stevens weighed and measured. The store smelled of spice, and the clerk +that minute spilled some cinnamon. Its fragrance struck upon Lucy Ann +like a call from some far-off garden, to be entered if she willed. She +laid a hand on her brother's arm, and her lips opened to words she had +not chosen:-- + +"John, you shouldn't ha' drove away so quick, t' other day. You jest +flung out your invitation an' run. You never give me no time to answer. +Ezra's asked me to go there." + +"Well, if that ain't smart!" returned John. "Put in ahead, did he? Well, +I guess it's the fust time he ever got round. I'm terrible sorry, Lucy. +The children won't think it's any kind of a Thanksgivin' without you. +Somehow they've got it into their heads it's grandma comin'. They can't +seem to understand the difference." + +"Well, you tell 'em I guess grandma's kind o' pleased for me to plan it +as I have," said Lucy Ann, almost gayly. Her face wore a strange, +excited look. She breathed a little faster. She saw a pleasant way +before her, and her feet seemed to be tending toward it without her own +volition. "You give my love to 'em. I guess they'll have a proper nice +time." + +She lingered about the store until John had gone, and then went forward +to the counter. The storekeeper looked at her respectfully. Everybody +had a great liking for Lucy Ann. She had been a faithful daughter, and +now that she seemed, in so mysterious a way, to be growing like her +mother, even men of her own age regarded her with deference. + +"Mr. Stevens," said she, "I didn't bring so much money with me as I +might if I'd had my wits about me. Should you jest as soon trust me for +some Thanksgivin' things?" + +"Certain," replied Jonathan. "Clean out the store, if you want. Your +credit's good." He, too, felt the beguilement of the time. + +"I want some things," repeated Lucy Ann, with determination. "Some +cinnamon an' some mace--there! I'll tell you, while you weigh." + +It seemed to her that she was buying the spice islands of the world; and +though the money lay at home in her drawer, honestly ready to pay, the +recklessness of credit gave her an added joy. The store had its market, +also, at Thanksgiving time, and she bargained for a turkey. It could be +sent her, the day before, by some of the neighbors. When she left the +counter, her arms and her little basket were filled with bundles. Joshua +Marden was glad to take them. + +"No, I won't ride," said Lucy Ann. "Much obliged to _you_. Jest leave +the things inside the fence. I'd ruther walk. I don't git out any too +often." + +She took her way home along the brown road, stepping lightly and +swiftly, and full of busy thoughts. Flocks of birds went whirring by +over the yellowed fields. Lucy Ann could have called out to them, in +joyous understanding, they looked so free. She, too, seemed to be flying +on the wings of a fortunate wind. + +All that week she scrubbed and regulated, and took a thousand capable +steps as briskly as those who work for the home-coming of those they +love. The neighbors dropped in, one after another, to ask where she was +going to spend Thanksgiving. Some of them said, "Won't you pass the day +with us?" but Lucy Ann replied blithely:-- + +"Oh, John's invited me there!" + +All that week, too, she answered letters, in her cramped and careful +hand; for cousins had bidden her to the feast. Over the letters she had +many a troubled pause, for one cousin lived near Ezra, and had to be +told that John had invited her; and to three others, dangerously within +hail of each, she made her excuse a turncoat, to fit the time. Duplicity +in black and white did hurt her a good deal, and she sometimes stopped, +in the midst of her slow transcription, to look up piteously and say +aloud:-- + +"I hope I shall be forgiven!" But by the time the stamp was on, and the +pencil ruling erased, her heart was light again. If she had sinned, she +was finding the path intoxicatingly pleasant. + +Through all the days before the festival, no house exhaled a sweeter +savor than this little one on the green. Lucy Ann did her miniature +cooking with great seriousness and care. She seemed to be dwelling in a +sacred isolation, yet not altogether alone, but with her mother and all +their bygone years. Standing at her table, mixing and tasting, she +recalled stories her mother had told her, until, at moments, it seemed +as if she not only lived her own life, but some previous one, through +that being whose blood ran with hers. She was realizing that ineffable +sense of possession born out of knowledge that the enduring part of a +personality is ours forever, and that love is an unquenched fire, fed by +memory as well as hope. + +On Thanksgiving morning, Lucy Ann lay in bed a little later, because +that had been the family custom. Then she rose to her exquisite house, +and got breakfast ready, according to the unswerving programme of the +day. Fried chicken and mince pie: she had had them as a child, and now +they were scrupulously prepared. After breakfast, she sat down in the +sunshine, and watched the people go by to service in Tiverton Church. +Lucy Ann would have liked going, too; but there would be inconvenient +questioning, as there always must be when we meet our kind. She would +stay undisturbed in her seclusion, keeping her festival alone. The +morning was still young when she put her turkey in the oven, and made +the vegetables ready. Lucy Ann was not very fond of vegetables, but +there had to be just so many--onions, turnips, and squash baked with +molasses--for her mother was a Cape woman, preserving the traditions of +dear Cape dishes. All that forenoon, the little house throbbed with a +curious sense of expectancy. Lucy Ann was preparing so many things that +it seemed as if somebody must surely keep her company; but when +dinner-time struck, and she was still alone, there came no lull in her +anticipation. Peace abode with her, and wrought its own fair work. She +ate her dinner slowly, with meditation and a thankful heart. She did not +need to hear the minister's careful catalogue of mercies received. She +was at home; that was enough. + +After dinner, when she had done up the work, and left the kitchen +without spot or stain, she went upstairs, and took out her mother's +beautiful silk poplin, the one saved for great occasions, and only left +behind because she had chosen to be buried in her wedding gown. Lucy Ann +put it on with careful hands, and then laid about her neck the wrought +collar she had selected the day before. She looked at herself in the +glass, and arranged a gray curl with anxious scrutiny. No girl adorning +for her bridal could have examined every fold and line with a more +tender care. She stood there a long, long moment, and approved herself. + +"It's a wonder," she said reverently. "It's the greatest mercy anybody +ever had." + +The afternoon waned, though not swiftly; for Time does not always gallop +when happiness pursues. Lucy Ann could almost hear the gliding of his +rhythmic feet. She did the things set aside for festivals, or the days +when we have company. She looked over the photograph album, and turned +the pages of the "Ladies' Wreath." When she opened the case containing +that old daguerreotype, she scanned it with a little distasteful smile, +and then glanced up at her own image in the glass, nodding her head in +thankful peace. She was the enduring portrait. In herself, she might +even see her mother grow very old. So the hours slipped on into dusk, +and she sat there with her dream, knowing, though it was only a dream, +how sane it was, and good. When wheels came rattling into the yard, she +awoke with a start, and John's voice, calling to her in an inexplicable +alarm, did not disturb her. She had had her day. Not all the family +fates could take it from her now. John kept calling, even while his wife +and children were climbing down, unaided, from the great carryall. His +voice proclaimed its own story, and Lucy Ann heard it with surprise. + +"Lucy! Lucy Ann!" he cried. "You here? You show yourself, if you're all +right." + +Before they reached the front door, Lucy Ann had opened it and stood +there, gently welcoming. + +"Yes, here I be," said she. "Come right in, all of ye. Why, if that +ain't Ezra, too, an' his folks, turnin' into the lane. When 'd you plan +it?" + +"Plan it! we didn't plan it!" said Mary testily. She put her hand on +Lucy Ann's shoulder, to give her a little shake; but, feeling mother's +poplin, she forbore. + +Lucy Ann retreated before them into the house, and they all trooped in +after her. Ezra's family, too, were crowding in at the doorway; and the +brothers, who had paused only to hitch the horses, filled up the way +behind. Mary, by a just self-election, was always the one to speak. + +"I declare, Lucy!" cried she, "if ever I could be tried with you, I +should be now. Here we thought you was at Ezra's, an' Ezra's folks +thought you was with us; an' if we hadn't harnessed up, an' drove over +there in the afternoon, for a kind of a surprise party, we should ha' +gone to bed thinkin' you was somewhere, safe an' sound. An' here you've +been, all day long, in this lonesome house!" + +"You let me git a light," said Lucy Ann calmly. "You be takin' off your +things, an' se' down." She began lighting the tall astral lamp on the +table, and its prisms danced and swung. Lucy Ann's delicate hand did not +tremble; and when the flame burned up through the shining chimney, more +than one started, at seeing how exactly she resembled grandma, in the +days when old Mrs. Cummings had ruled her own house. Perhaps it was the +royalty of the poplin that enwrapped her; but Lucy Ann looked very +capable of holding her own. She was facing them all, one hand resting on +the table, and a little smile flickering over her face. + +"I s'pose I was a poor miserable creatur' to git out of it that way," +said she. "If I'd felt as I do now, I needn't ha' done it. I could ha' +spoke up. But then it seemed as if there wa'n't no other way. I jest +wanted my Thanksgivin' in my own home, an' so I throwed you off the +track the best way I could. I dunno's I lied. I dunno whether I did or +not; but I guess, anyway, I shall be forgiven for it." + +Ezra spoke first: "Well, if you didn't want to come"-- + +"Want to come!" broke in John. "Of course she don't want to come! She +wants to stay in her own home, an' call her soul her own--don't you, +Lucy?" + +Lucy Ann glanced at him with her quick, grateful smile. + +"I'm goin' to, now," she said gently, and they knew she meant it. + +But, looking about among them, Lucy Ann was conscious of a little hurt +unhealed; she had thrown their kindness back. + +"I guess I can't tell exactly how it is," she began hesitatingly; "but +you see my home's my own, jest as yours is. You couldn't any of you go +round cousinin', without feelin' you was tore up by the roots. You've +all been real good to me, wantin' me to come, an' I s'pose I should make +an awful towse if I never was asked; but now I've got all my visitin' +done up, cousins an' all, an' I'm goin' to be to home a spell. An' I do +admire to have company," added Lucy Ann, a bright smile breaking over +her face. "Mother did, you know, an' I guess I take arter her. Now you +lay off your things, an' I'll put the kettle on. I've got more pies 'n +you could shake a stick at, an' there's a whole loaf o' fruit-cake, a +year old." + +Mary, taking off her shawl, wiped her eyes surreptitiously on a corner +of it, and Abby whispered to her husband, "Dear creatur'!" John and Ezra +turned, by one consent, to put the horses in the barn; and the children, +conscious that some mysterious affair had been settled, threw themselves +into the occasion with an irresponsible delight. The room became at once +vocal with talk and laughter, and Lucy Ann felt, with a swelling heart, +what a happy universe it is where so many bridges lie between this +world and that unknown state we call the next. But no moment of that +evening was half so sweet to her as the one when little John, the +youngest child of all, crept up to her and pulled at her poplin skirt, +until she bent down to hear. + +"Grandma," said he, "when 'd you get well?" + + + + +THE EXPERIENCE OF HANNAH PRIME + + +Tiverton Hollow had occasionally an evening meeting; this came about +naturally whenever religious zeal burned high, or when the congregation +felt, with some uneasiness, that it had remained too long aloof from +spiritual things. To-night, the schoolhouse had been designated for an +assembling place, and the neighborhood trooped thither, animated by an +excited importance, and doing justice to the greatness of the occasion +by "dressing up." Farmers had laid aside their ordinary mood, with +overalls and jumpers, and donned an uncomfortable solemnity, an enforced +attitude of theological reflection, with their stocks. Wives had urged +their patient fingers into cotton gloves, and in cashmere shawls, and +bonnets retrimmed with reference to this year's style, pressed into the +uncomfortable chairs, and folded their hands upon the desks before them +in a sweet seriousness not unmingled with the desire of thriftily +completing a duty no less exigent than pickle-making, or the work of +spring and fall. Last came the boys, clattering with awkward haste over +the dusty floor which had known the touch of their bare feet on other +days. They looked about the room with some awe and a puzzled acceptance +of its being the same, yet not the same. It was their own. There were +the maps of North and South America; the yellowed evergreens, relic of +"Last Day," still festooned the windows, and an intricate "sum," there +explained to the uncomprehending admiration of the village fathers, +still adorned the blackboard. Yet the room had strangely transformed +itself into an alien temple, invaded by theology and the breath of an +unknown world. But though sobered, they were not cast down; for the +occasion was enlivened, in their case, by a heaven-defying profligacy of +intent. Every one of them knew that Sammy Forbes had in his pocket a +pack of cards, which he meant to drop, by wicked but careless design, +just when Deacon Pitts led in prayer, and that Tom Drake was master of a +concealed pea-shooter, which he had sworn, with all the asseverations +held sacred by boys, to use at some dramatic moment. All the band were +aware that neither of these daring deeds would be done. The prospective +actors themselves knew it; but it was a darling joy to contemplate the +remote possibility thereof. + +Deacon Pitts opened the meeting, reminding his neighbors how precious a +privilege it is for two or three to be gathered together. His companion +had not been able to come. (The entire neighborhood knew that Mrs. +Pitts had been laid low by an attack of erysipelas, and that she was, at +the moment, in a dark bedroom at home, helpless under elderblow.) + +"She lays there on a bed of pain," said the deacon. "But she says to me, +'You go. Better the house o' mournin' than the house o' feastin',' she +says. Oh, my friends! what can be more blessed than the counsel of an +aged and feeble companion?" + +The deacon sat down, and Tom Drake, his finger on the pea-shooter, +assured himself, in acute mental triumph, that he had almost done it +that time. + +Then followed certain incidents eminently pleasing to the boys. To their +unbounded relief, Sarah Frances Giles rose to speak, weeping as she +began. She always wept at prayer meeting, though at the very moment of +asserting her joy that she cherished a hope, and her gratitude that she +was so nearly at an end of this earthly pilgrimage and ready to take her +stand on the sea of glass mingled with fire. The boys reveled in her +testimony. They were in a state of bitter uneasiness before she rose, +and gnawed with a consuming impatience until she began to cry. Then they +wondered if she could possibly leave out the sea of glass; and when it +duly came, they gave a sigh of satiated bliss and sank into acquiescence +in whatever might happen. This was a rich occasion to their souls, for +Silas Marden, who was seldom moved by the spirit, fell upon his knees to +pray; but at the same unlucky instant, his sister-in-law, for whom he +cherished an unbounded scorn, rose (being "nigh-eyed" and ignorant of +his priority) and began to speak. For a moment, the two held on +together, "neck and neck," as the happy boys afterward remembered, and +then Silas got up, dusted his knees, and sat down, not to rise again at +any spiritual call. "An' a madder man you never see," cried all the +Hollow next day, in shocked but gleeful memory. + +Taking it all in all, the meeting had thus far mirrored others of its +class. If the droning experiences were devoid of all human passion, it +was chiefly because they had to be expressed in the phrases of strict +theological usage. There was an unspoken agreement that feelings of this +sort should be described in a certain way. They were not the affairs of +the hearth and market; they were matters pertaining to that awful entity +called the soul, and must be dressed in the fine linen which she had +herself elected to wear. + +Suddenly, in a wearisome pause, when minds had begun to stray toward the +hayfield and to-morrow's churning, the door was pushed open, and the +Widow Prime walked in. She was quite unused to seeking her kind, and the +little assembly at once awoke, under the stimulus of surprise. They +knew quite well where she had been walking: to Sudleigh Jail, to visit +her only son, lying there for the third time, not, as usual, for +drunkenness, but for house-breaking. She was a wiry woman, a mass of +muscles animated by an eager energy. Her very hands seemed knotted with +clenching themselves in nervous spasms. Her eyes were black, seeking, +and passionate, and her face had been scored by fine wrinkles, the marks +of anxiety and grief. Her chocolate calico was very clean, and her +palm-leaf shawl and black bonnet were decent in their poverty. The vague +excitement created by her coming continued in a rustling like that of +leaves. The troubles of Hannah Prime's life had been very bitter--so +bitter that she had, as Deacon Pitts once said, after undertaking her +conversion, turned from "me and the house of God." A quickening thought +sprang up now in the little assembly that she was "under conviction," +and that it had become the present duty of every professor to lead her +to the throne of grace. This was an exigency for which none were +prepared. At so strenuous a challenge, the old conventional ways of +speech fell down and collapsed before them, like creatures filled with +air. Who should minister to one set outside their own comfortable lives +by bitter sorrow and wounded pride? What could they offer a woman who +had, in one way or another, sworn to curse God and die? It was Deacon +Pitts who spoke, but in a tone hushed to the key of the unexpected. + +"Has any one an experience to offer? Will any brother or sister lead in +prayer?" + +The silence was growing into a thing to be recognized and conquered, +when, to the wonder of her neighbors, Hannah Prime herself rose. She +looked slowly about the room, gazing into every face as if to challenge +an honest understanding. Then she began speaking in a low voice thrilled +by an emotion not yet explained. Unused to expressing herself in public, +she seemed to be feeling her way. The silence, pride, endurance, which +had been her armor for many years, were no longer apparent; she had +thrown down all her defenses with a grave composure, as if life suddenly +summoned her to higher issues. + +"I dunno's I've got an experience to offer," she said. "I dunno's it's +religion. I dunno what 't is. Mebbe you'd say it don't belong to a +meetin'. But when I come by an' see you all settin' here, it come over +me I'd like to tell somebody. Two weeks ago I was most crazy"--She +paused of necessity, for something broke in her voice. + +"That's the afternoon Jim was took," whispered a woman to her neighbor. +Hannah Prime went on. + +"I jest as soon tell it now. I can tell ye all together what I couldn't +say to one on ye alone; an' if anybody speaks to me about it +arterwards, they'll wish they hadn't. I was all by myself in the house. +I set down in my clock-room, about three in the arternoon, an' there I +set. I didn't git no supper. I couldn't. I set there an' heard the clock +tick. Byme-by it struck seven, an' that waked me up. I thought I'd gone +crazy. The figgers on the wall-paper provoked me most to death; an' that +red-an'-white tidy I made, the winter I was laid up, seemed to be +talkin' out loud. I got up an' run outdoor jest as fast as I could go. I +run out behind the house an' down the cart-path to that pile o' rocks +that overlooks the lake; an' there I got out o' breath an' dropped down +on a big rock. An' there I set, jest as still as I'd been settin' when I +was in the house." + +Here a little girl stirred in her seat, and her mother leaned forward +and shook her, with alarming energy. "I never was so hard with Mary L. +afore," she explained the next day, "but I was as nervous as a witch. I +thought, if I heard a pin drop, I should scream." + +"I dunno how long I set there," went on Hannah Prime, "but byme-by it +begun to come over me how still the lake was. 'Twas like glass; an' way +over where it runs in 'tween them islands, it burnt like fire. Then I +looked up a little further, to see what kind of a sky there was. 'T was +light green, with clouds in it, all fire, an' it begun to seem to me as +if it was a kind o' land an' water up there--like our'n, on'y not +solid. I set there an' looked at it; an' I picked out islands, an' +ma'sh-land, an' p'ints running out into the yeller-green sea. An' +everything grew stiller an' stiller. The loons struck up, down on the +lake, with that kind of a lonesome whinner; but that on'y made the rest +of it seem quieter. An' it begun to grow dark all 'round me. I dunno's I +ever noticed before jest how the dark comes. It sifted down like snow, +on'y you couldn't see it. Well, I set there, an' I tried to keep stiller +an' stiller, like everything else. Seemed as if I must. An' pretty soon +I knew suthin' was walkin' towards me over the lot. I kep' my eyes on +the sky; for I knew 'twould break suthin' if I turned my head, an' I +felt as if I couldn't bear to. An' It come walkin', walkin', without +takin' any steps or makin' any noise, till It come right up 'side o' me +an' stood still. I didn't turn round. I knew I mustn't. I dunno whether +It touched me; I dunno whether It said anything--but I know It made me a +new creatur'. I knew then I shouldn't be afraid o' things no more--nor +sorry. I found out 't was all right. 'I'm glad I'm alive,' I said. 'I'm +thankful!' Seemed to me I'd been dead for the last twenty year. I'd come +alive. + +"An' so I set there an' held my breath, for fear 'twould go. I dunno how +long, but the moon riz up over my left shoulder, an' the sky begun to +fade. An' then it come over me 'twas goin'. I knew 'twas terrible tender +of me, an' sorry, an' lovin', an' so I says, 'Don't you mind; I won't +forgit!' An' then It went. But that broke suthin', an' I turned an' see +my own shadder on the grass; an' I thought I see another, 'side of it. +Somehow that scairt me, an' I jumped up an' whipped it home without +lookin' behind me. Now that's my experience," said Hannah Prime, looking +her neighbors again in the face, with dauntless eyes. "I dunno what +'twas, but it's goin' to last. I ain't afraid no more, an' I ain't goin' +to be. There ain't nuthin' to worry about. Everything's bigger'n we +think." She folded her shawl more closely about her and moved toward the +door. There she again turned to her neighbors. + +"Good-night!" she said, and was gone. + +They sat quite still until the tread of her feet had ceased its beating +on the dusty road. Then, by one consent, they rose and moved slowly out. +There was no prayer that night, and "Lord dismiss us" was not sung. + + + + +HONEY AND MYRRH + + +The neighborhood, the township, and the world had been snowed in. Snow +drifted the road in hills and hollows, and hung in little eddying +wreaths, where the wind took it, on the pasture slopes. It made solid +banks in the dooryards, and buried the stone walls out of sight. The +lacework of its fantasy became daintily apparent in the conceits with +which it broidered over all the common objects familiar in homely lives. +The pump, in yards where that had supplanted the old-fashioned curb, +wore a heavy mob-cap. The vane on the barn was delicately sifted over, +and the top of every picket in the high front-yard fence had a fluffy +peak. But it was chiefly in the woods that the rapture and flavor of the +time ran riot in making beauty. There every fir branch swayed under a +tuft of white, and the brown refuse of the year was all hidden away. + +That morning, no one in Tiverton Hollow had gone out of the house, save +to shovel paths and do the necessary chores. The road lay untouched +until ten o'clock, when a selectman gave notice that it was an occasion +for "breakin' out," by starting with his team, and gathering oxen by +the way until a conquering procession ground through the drifts, the men +shoveling at intervals where the snow lay deepest, the oxen walking +swayingly, head to the earth, and the faint wreath of their breath +ascending and cooling on the air. It was "high times" in Tiverton Hollow +when a road needed opening; some idea of the old primitive way of +battling with the untouched forces of nature roused the people to an +exhilaration dashed by no uncertainty of victory. + +By afternoon, the excitement had quieted. The men had come in, reddened +by cold, and eaten their noon dinner in high spirits, retailing to the +less fortunate women-folk the stories swapped on the march. Then, as one +man, they succumbed to the drowsiness induced by a morning of wind in +the face, and sat by the stove under some pretense of reading the county +paper, but really to nod and doze, waking only to put another stick of +wood on the fire. So passed all the day before Christmas, and in the +evening the shining lamps were lighted (each with a strip of red flannel +in the oil, to give color), and the neighborhood rested in the tranquil +certainty that something had really come to pass, and that their +communication with the world was reëstablished. + +Susan Peavey sat by the fire, knitting on a red mitten, and the young +schoolmaster presided over the other hearth corner, reading very hard, +at intervals, and again sinking into a drowsy study of the flames. There +was an impression abroad in Tiverton that the schoolmaster was going to +be somebody, some time. He wrote for the papers. He was always receiving +through the mail envelopes marked "author's proofs," which, the +postmistress said, indicated that he was an author, whatever proofs +might be. She had an idea they might have something to do with +photographs; perhaps his picture was going into a book. It was very well +understood that teaching school at the Hollow, at seven dollars a week, +was an interlude in the life of one who would some day write a +spelling-book, or exercise senatorial rights at Washington. He was a +long-legged, pleasant looking youth, with a pale cheek, dark eyes, and +thick black hair, one lock of which, hanging low over his forehead, he +twisted while he read. He kept glancing up at Miss Susan and smiling at +her, whenever he could look away from his book and the fire, and she +smiled back. At last, after many such wordless messages, he spoke. + +"What lots of red mittens you do knit! Do you send them all away to that +society?" + +Miss Susan's needles clicked. + +"Every one," said she. + +She was a tall, large woman, well-knit, with no superfluous flesh. Her +head was finely set, and she carried it with a simple unconsciousness +better than dignity. Everybody in Tiverton thought it had been a great +cross to Susan Peavey to be so overgrown. They conceded that it was a +mystery she had not turned out "gormin'." But that was because Susan had +left her vanity behind with early youth, in the days when, all legs and +arms, she had given up the idea of beauty. Her face was strong-featured, +overspread by a healthy color, and her eyes looked frankly out, as if +assured of finding a very pleasant world. The sick always delighted in +Susan's nearness; her magnificent health and presence were like a +supporting tide, and she seemed to carry outdoor air in her very +garments. The schoolmaster still watched her. She rested and fascinated +him at once by her strength and homely charm. + +"I shall call you the Orphans' Friend," said he. + +She laid down her work. + +"Don't you say one word," she answered, with an air of abject +confession. "It don't interest me a mite! I give because it's my bounden +duty, but I'll be whipped if I want to knit warm mittens all my life, +an' fill poor barrels. Sometimes I wisht I could git a chance to provide +folks with what they don't need ruther'n what they do." + +"I don't see what you mean," said the schoolmaster. "Tell me." + +Miss Susan was looking at the hearth. A warmer flush than that of +firelight alone lay on her cheek. She bent forward and threw on a pine +knot. It blazed richly. Then she drew the cricket more securely under +her feet, and settled herself to gossip. + +"Anybody'd think I'd most talked myself out sence you come here to +board," said she, "but you're the beatemest for tolin' anybody on. I +never knew I had so much to say. But there! I guess we all have, if +there's anybody 't wants to listen. I never've said this to a livin' +soul, an' I guess it's sort o' heathenish to think, but I'm tired to +death o' fightin' ag'inst poverty, poverty! I s'pose it's there, fast +enough, though we're all so well on 't we don't realize it; an' I'm +goin' to do my part, an' be glad to, while I'm above ground. But I guess +heaven'll be a spot where we don't give folks what they need, but what +they don't." + +"There is something in your Bible," began the schoolmaster hesitatingly, +"about a box of precious ointment." He always said "your Bible," as if +church members held a proprietary right. + +"That's it!" replied Miss Susan, brightening. "That's what I al'ays +thought. Spill it all out, I say, an' make the world smell as sweet as +honey. My! but I do have great projicks settin' here by the fire alone! +Great projicks!" + +"Tell me some!" + +"Well, I dunno's I can, all of a piece, so to speak; but when it gits +along towards eight o'clock, an' the room's all simmerin', an' the moon +lays out on the snow, it does seem as if we made a pretty poor spec' out +o' life. We don't seem to have no color in it. Why, don't you remember +'Solomon in all his glory'? I guess 't wouldn't ha' been put in jest +that way if there wa'n't somethin' in it. I s'pose he had crowns an' +rings an' purple velvet coats an' brocade satin weskits, an' all manner +o' things. Sometimes seems as I could see him walkin' straight in +through that door there." She was running a knitting needle back and +forth through her ball of yarn as she spoke, without noticing that some +one had been stamping the snow from his feet on the doorstone outside. +The door, after making some bluster of refusal, was pushed open, and on +the heels of her speech a man walked in. + +"My land!" cried Miss Susan, aghast. Then she and the schoolmaster, by +one accord, began to laugh. + +But the man did not look at them until he had scrupulously wiped his +feet on the husk mat, and stamped them anew. Then he turned down the +legs of his trousers, and carefully examined the lank green carpet-bag +he had been carrying. + +"I guess I trailed it through some o' the drifts," he remarked. "The +road's pretty narrer, this season o' the year." + +"You give us a real start," said Susan. "We thought be sure 't was +Solomon, an' mebbe the Queen o' Sheba follerin' arter. Why, Solon Slade, +you ain't walked way over to Tiverton Street!" + +"Yes, I have," asserted Solon. He was a slender, sad-colored man, +possibly of her own age, and he spoke in a very soft voice. He was +Susan's widowed brother-in-law, and the neighbors said he was clever, +but hadn't no more spunk'n a wet rag. + +Susan had risen and laid down her knitting. She approached the table and +rested one hand on it, a hawk-like brightness in her eyes. + +"What you got in that bag?" asked she. + +Solon was enjoying his certainty that he held the key to the situation. + +"I got a mite o' cheese," he answered, approaching the fire and +spreading his hands to the blaze. + +"You got anything else? Now, Solon, don't you keep me here on +tenter-hooks! You got a letter?" + +"Well," said Solon, "I thought I might as well look into the post-office +an' see." + +"You thought so! You went a-purpose! An' you walked because you al'ays +was half shackled about takin' horses out in bad goin'. You hand me over +that letter!" + +Solon approached the table, a furtive twinkle in his blue eyes. He +lifted the bag and opened it slowly. First, he took out a wedge-shaped +package. + +"That's the cheese," said he. "Herb." + +"My land!" ejaculated Miss Susan, while the schoolmaster looked on and +smiled. "You better ha' come to me for cheese. I've got a plenty, tansy +an' sage, an' you know it. I see it! There! you gi' me holt on 't!" It +was a fugitive white gleam in the bottom of the bag; she pounced upon it +and brought up a letter. Midway in the act of tearing it open, she +paused and looked at Solon with droll entreaty. "It's your letter, by +rights!" she added tentatively. + +"Law!" said he, "I dunno who it's directed to, but I guess it's as much +your'n as anybody's." + +Miss Susan spread open the sheets with an air of breathless delight. She +bent nearer the lamp. "'Dear father and auntie,'" she began. + +"There!" remarked Solon, in quiet satisfaction, still warming his hands +at the blaze. "There! you see _'t is_ to both." + +"My! how she does run the words together! Here!" Miss Susan passed it to +the schoolmaster. "You read it. It's from Jenny. You know she's away to +school, an' we didn't think best for her to come home Christmas. I knew +she'd write for Christmas. Solon, I told you so!" + +The schoolmaster took the letter, and read it aloud. It was a simple +little message, full of contentment and love and a girl's new delight in +life. When he had finished, the two older people busied themselves a +moment without speaking, Solon in picking up a chip from the hearth, and +Susan in mechanically smoothing the mammoth roses on the side of the +carpet-bag. + +"Well, I 'most wish we'd had her come home," said he at last, clearing +his throat. + +"No, you don't either," answered Miss Susan promptly. "Not with this +snow, an' comin' out of a house where it's het up, into cold beds an' +all. Now I'm goin' to git you a mite o' pie an' some hot tea." + +She set forth a prodigal supper on a leaf of the table, and Solon +silently worked his will upon it, the schoolmaster eating a bit for +company. Then Solon took his way home to the house across the yard, and +she watched at the window till she saw the light blaze up through his +panes. That accomplished, she turned back with a long breath and began +clearing up. + +"I'm worried to death to have him over there all by himself," said she. +"S'pose he should be sick in the night!" + +"You'd go over," answered the schoolmaster easily. + +"Well, s'pose he couldn't git me no word?" + +"Oh, you'd know it! You're that sort." + +Miss Susan laughed softly, and so seemed to put away her recurrent +anxiety. She came back to her knitting. + +"How long has his wife been dead?" asked the schoolmaster. + +"Two year. He an' Jenny got along real well together, but sence +September, when she went away, I guess he's found it pretty dull +pickin'. I do all I can, but land! 't ain't like havin' a woman in the +house from sunrise to set." + +"There's nothing like that," agreed the wise young schoolmaster. "Now +let's play some more. Let's plan what we'd like to do to-morrow for all +the folks we know, and let's not give them a thing they need, but just +the ones they'd like." + +Miss Susan put down her knitting again. She never could talk to the +schoolmaster and keep at work. It made her dreamy, exactly as it did to +sit in the hot summer sunshine, with the droning of bees in the air. + +"Well," said she, "there's old Ann Wheeler that lives over on the +turnpike. She don't want for nothin', but she keeps her things packed +away up garret, an' lives like a pig." + +"'Sold her bed and lay in the straw.'" + +"That's it, on'y she won't sell nuthin'. I'd give her a house all +winders, so 't she couldn't help lookin' out, an' velvet carpets 't +she'd got to walk on." + +"Well, there's Cap'n Ben. The boys say he's out of his head a good deal +now; he fancies himself at sea and in foreign countries." + +"Yes, so they say. Well, I'd let him set down a spell in Solomon's +temple an' look round him. My sake! do you remember about the temple? +Why, the nails was all gold. Don't you wish we'd lived in them times? +Jest think about the wood they had--cedars o' Lebanon an' fir-trees. You +know how he set folks to workin' in the mountains. I've al'ays thought +I'd like to ben up on them mountains an' heard the axes ringin' an' +listened to the talk. An' then there was pomegranates an' cherubim, an' +as for silver an' gold, they were as common as dirt. When I was a little +girl, I learnt them chapters, an' sometimes now, when I'm settin' by the +fire, I say over that verse about the 'man of Tyre, skillful to work in +gold, and in silver, in brass, in iron, in stone, and in timber, in +purple, in blue, and in fine linen, and in crimson.' My! ain't it rich?" + +She drew a long breath of surfeited enjoyment. The schoolmaster's eyes +burned under his heavy brows. + +"Then things smelt so good in them days," continued Miss Susan. "They +had myrrh an' frankincense, an' I dunno what all. I never make my +mincemeat 'thout snuffin' at the spice-box to freshen up my mind. No +matter where I start, some way or another I al'ays git back to Solomon. +Well, if Cap'n Ben wants to see foreign countries, I guess he'd be glad +to set a spell in the temple. Le's have on another stick--that big one +there by you. My! it's the night afore Christmas, ain't it? Seems if I +couldn't git a big enough blaze. Pile it on. I guess I'd as soon set the +chimbly afire as not!" + +There was something overflowing and heady in her enjoyment. It +exhilarated the schoolmaster, and he lavished stick after stick on the +ravening flames. The maple hardened into coals brighter than its own +panoply of autumn; the delicate bark of the birch flared up and +perished. + +"Miss Susan," said he, "don't you want to see all the people in the +world?" + +"Oh, I dunno! I'd full as lieves set here an' think about 'em. I can fix +'em up full as well in my mind, an' perhaps they suit me better'n if I +could see 'em. Sometimes I set 'em walkin' through this kitchen, kings +an' queens an' all. My! how they do shine, all over precious stones. I +never see a di'mond, but I guess I know pretty well how 't would look." + +"Suppose we could give a Christmas dinner,--what should we have?" + +"We'd have oxen roasted whole, an' honey--an'--but that's as fur as I +can git." + +The schoolmaster had a treasury of which she had never learned, and he +said musically:-- + +... "'a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies +soother than the creamy curd, And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon; +Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spicéd dainties, +every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.'" + +"Yes, that has a real nice sound. It ain't like the Bible, but it's +nice." + +They sat and dreamed and the fire flared up into living arabesques and +burnt blue in corners. A stick parted and fell into ash, and Miss Susan +came awake. She had the air of rousing herself with vigor. + +"There!" said she, "sometimes I think it's most sinful to make believe, +it's so hard to wake yourself up. Arter all this, I dunno but when Solon +comes for the pigs' kittle to-morrer, I shall ketch myself sayin', +'Here's the frankincense!'" + +They laughed together, and the schoolmaster rose to light his lamp. He +paused on his way to the stairs, and came back to set it down again. + +"There are lots of people we haven't provided for," he said. "We haven't +even thought what we'd give Jenny." + +"I guess Jenny's got her heart's desire." Miss Susan nodded sagely. +"I've sent her a box, with a fruit-cake an' pickles and cheese. She's +all fixed out." + +The schoolmaster hesitated, and turned the lamp-wick up and down. Then +he spoke, somewhat timidly, "What should you like to give her father?" + +Miss Susan's face clouded with that dreamy look which sometimes settled +upon her eyes like haze. + +"Well," said she, "I guess whatever I should give him 'd only make him +laugh." + +"Flowers--and velvet--and honey--and myrrh?" + +"Yes," answered Miss Susan with gravity. "Perhaps it's jest as well some +things ain't to be had at the shops." + +The schoolmaster took up his lamp again and walked to the door. + +"We never can tell," he said. "It may be people want things awfully +without knowing it. And suppose they do laugh! They'd better laugh than +cry. _I_ should give all I could. Good-night." + +Miss Susan banked up the fire and set her rising of dough on the hearth, +after a discriminating peep to see whether it was getting on too fast. +After that, she covered her plants by the window and blew out the light, +so that the moon should have its way. She lingered for a moment, looking +out into a glittering world. Not a breath stirred. The visible universe +lay asleep, and only beauty waked. She was aching with a tumultuous +emotion--the sense that life might be very fair and shining, if we only +dared to shape it as it seems to us in dreams. The loveliness and +repose of the earth appealed to her like a challenge; they alone made it +seem possible for her also to dare. + +Next morning, she rose earlier than usual, while the schoolmaster was +still fast bound in sleep. She stayed only to start her kitchen fire, +and then stood motionless a moment for a last decision. The great white +day was beginning outside with slow, unconscious royalty. The pale +winter dawn yielded to a flush of rose; nothing in the aspect of the +heavens contradicted the promise of the night before. It seemed to her a +wonderful day, dramatic, visible in peace, because, on that morning, all +the world was thinking of the world and not of individual desires. She +went to the bureau drawer in the sitting-room and looked, a little +scornfully, at two packages hidden there. Handkerchiefs for the +schoolmaster, stockings and gloves for Solon! Shutting the drawer, she +hurried out into the kitchen, snatching her scissors from the +work-basket by the way. She gave herself no time to think, but went up +to her flower-stand and began to cut the geranium blossoms and the rose. +The fuchsias hung in flaunting grace. They were dearer to her than all. +She snipped them recklessly, and because the bunch seemed meagre still, +broke the top from her sweet-scented geranium and disposed the flowers +hastily in the midst. Her posy was sweet-smelling and good; it spoke to +the heart. Putting a shawl over her head, she rolled the flowers in her +apron from the frost, and stepped out into the brilliant day. The little +cross-track between her house and the other was snowed up; but she took +the road and, hurrying between banks of carven whiteness, went up +Solon's path to the side door. She walked in upon him where he was +standing over the kitchen stove, warming his hands at the first blaze. +Susan's cheeks were red with the challenge of the stinging air, but she +had the look of one who, living by a larger law, has banished the +foolishness of fear. She walked straight up to him and proffered him her +flowers. + +"Here, Solon," she said, "it's Christmas. I brought you these." + +Solon looked at her and at them, in slow surprise. He put out both hands +and took them awkwardly. + +"Well!" he said. "Well!" + +Susan was smiling at him. It seemed to her at that moment that the world +was a very rich place, because you may take all you want and give all +you choose, while nobody is the wiser. + +"Well," remarked Solon again, "I guess I'll put 'em into water." He laid +them down on a chair. "Susan, do you remember that time I walked over to +Pine Hill to pick you some mayflowers, when you was gittin' over the +lung fever?" + +She nodded. + +"Susan," said he desperately, "what if I should ask you to forgit old +scores an' begin all over?" + +"I ain't laid up anything," answered Susan, looking him full in the face +with her brilliant smile. + +"There's suthin' I've wanted to tell ye, this two year. I never s'posed +you knew, but that night I kissed your sister in the entry an' asked +her, I thought 'twas you." + +"Yes, I knew that well enough. I was in the buttery and heard it all. +There, le's not talk about it." + +Solon came a step nearer. + +"But will you, Susan?" he persisted. "Will you? I know Jenny'd like it." + +"I guess she would, too," said Susan. "There! we don't need to talk no +further! You come over to breakfast, won't you? I'm goin' to fry +chicken. It's Christmas mornin'." She nodded at him and went out, +walking perhaps more proudly than usual down the shining path. Solon, +regardless of his cooling kitchen, stood at the door and watched her. +Solon never said very much, but he felt as if life were beginning all +over again, just as he had wished to make it at the very start. He +forgot his gray hair and furrowed face, just as he forgot the cold and +snow. It was the spring of the year. + +When Miss Susan entered her kitchen, the schoolmaster had come down and +was putting a stick of wood into the stove. + +"Merry Christmas!" he called, "and here's something for you." + +A long white package lay on the table at the end where her plate was +always set. She opened it with delicate touches, it seemed so precious. + +"My sake!" said she. "It's a fan!" She lifted it out, and the fragrance +of an Eastern wood filled all the room. She swept open the feathers. +They were white and wonderful. + +"It was never used except by one very beautiful woman," said the +schoolmaster, without looking at her. "She was a good deal older than I; +but somehow she seemed to belong to me. She died, and I thought I should +like to have you keep this." + +Susan was waving it back and forth before her face, stirring the air to +fragrance. Her eyes were full of dreams. "My! ain't it rich!" she +murmured. "The Queen o' Sheba never had no better. An' Solon's comin' +over to breakfast." + + + + +A SECOND MARRIAGE + + +Amelia Porter sat by her great open fireplace, where the round, +consequential black kettle hung from the crane, and breathed out a +steamy cloud to be at once licked up and absorbed by the heat from a +snatching flame below. It was exactly a year and a day since her +husband's death, and she had packed herself away in his own corner of +the settle, her hands clasped across her knees, and her red-brown eyes +brooding on the nearer embers. She was not definitely speculating on her +future, nor had she any heart for retracing the dull and gentle past. +She had simply relaxed hold on her mind; and so, escaping her, it had +gone wandering off into shadowy prophecies of the immediate years. For, +as Amelia had been telling herself for the last three months, since she +had begun to outgrow the habit of a dual life, she was not old. Whenever +she looked in the glass, she could not help noting how free from +wrinkles her swarthy face had been kept, and that the line of her mouth +was still scarlet over white, even teeth. Her crisp black hair, curling +in those tight fine rolls which a bashful admirer had once commended as +"full of little jerks," showed not a trace of gray. All this evidence +of her senses read her a fair tale of the possibilities of the morrow; +and without once saying, "I will take up a new life," she did tacitly +acknowledge that life was not over. + +It was a "snapping cold" night of early spring, so misplaced as to bring +with it a certain dramatic excitement. The roads were frozen hard, and +shone like silver in the ruts. All day sleds had gone creaking past, set +to that fine groaning which belongs to the music of the year. The +drivers' breath ascended in steam, the while they stamped down the +probability of freezing, and yelled to Buck and Broad until that inner +fervor raised them one degree in warmth. The smoking cattle held their +noses low, and swayed beneath the yoke. + +Amelia, shut snugly in her winter-tight house, had felt the power of the +day without sharing its discomforts; and her eyes deepened and burned +with a sense of the movement and warmth of living. To-night, under the +spell of some vague expectancy, she had sat still for a long time, her +sewing laid aside and her room scrupulously in order. She was waiting +for what was not to be acknowledged even to her own intimate self. But +as the clock struck nine, she roused herself, and shook off her mood in +impatience and a disappointment which she would not own. She looked +about the room, as she often had of late, and began to enumerate its +possibilities in case she should desire to have it changed. Amelia never +went so far as to say that change should be; she only felt that she had +still a right to speculate upon it, as she had done for many years, as a +form of harmless enjoyment. While every other house in the neighborhood +had gone from the consistently good to the prosperously bad in the +matter of refurnishing, John Porter had kept his precisely as his +grandfather had left it to him. Amelia had never once complained; she +had observed toward her husband an unfailing deference, due, she felt, +to his twenty years' seniority; perhaps, also, it stood in her own mind +as the only amends she could offer him for having married him without +love. It was her father who made the match; and Amelia had succumbed, +not through the obedience claimed by parents of an elder day, but from +hot jealousy and the pique inevitably born of it. Laurie Morse had kept +the singing-school that winter. He had loved Amelia; he had bound +himself to her by all the most holy vows sworn from aforetime, and then, +in some wanton exhibit of power--gone home with another girl. And for +Amelia's responsive throb of feminine anger, she had spent fifteen years +of sober country living with a man who had wrapped her about with the +quiet tenderness of a strong nature, but who was not of her own +generation either in mind or in habit; and Laurie had kept a +music-store in Saltash, seven miles away, and remained unmarried. + +Now Amelia looked about the room, and mentally displaced the furniture, +as she had done so many times while she and her husband sat there +together. The settle could be taken to the attic. She had not the heart +to carry out one secret resolve indulged in moments of impatient +bitterness,--to split it up for firewood. But it could at least be +exiled. She would have a good cook-stove, and the great fireplace should +be walled up. The tin kitchen, sitting now beside the hearth in shining +quaintness, should also go into the attic. The old clock--But at that +instant the clash of bells shivered the frosty air, and Amelia threw her +vain imaginings aside like a garment, and sprang to her feet. She +clasped her hands in a spontaneous gesture of rapt attention; and when +the sound paused at her gate, with one or two sweet, lingering clingles, +"I knew it!" she said aloud. Yet she did not go to the window to look +into the moonlit night. Standing there in the middle of the room, she +awaited the knock which was not long in coming. It was imperative, +insistent. Amelia, who had a spirit responsive to the dramatic +exigencies of life, felt a little flush spring into her face, so hot +that, on the way to the door, she involuntarily put her hand to her +cheek and held it there. The door came open grumblingly. It sagged upon +the hinges, but, well-used to its vagaries, she overcame it with a +regardless haste. + +"Come in," she said, at once, to the man on the step. "It's cold. Oh, +come in!" + +He stepped inside the entry, removing his fur cap, and disclosing a +youthful face charged with that radiance which made him, at thirty-five, +almost the counterpart of his former self. It may have come only from +the combination of curly brown hair, blue eyes, and an aspiring lift of +the chin, but it always seemed to mean a great deal more. In the +kitchen, he threw off his heavy coat, while Amelia, bright-eyed and +breathing quickly, stood by, quite silent. Then he looked at her. + +"You expected me, didn't you?" he asked. + +A warmer color surged into her cheeks. "I didn't know," she said +perversely. + +"I guess you did. It's one day over a year. You knew I'd wait a year." + +"It ain't a year over the services," said Amelia, trying to keep the +note of vital expectancy out of her voice. "It won't be that till +Friday." + +"Well, Saturday I'll come again." He went over to the fire and stretched +out his hands to the blaze. "Come here," he said imperatively, "while I +talk to you." + +Amelia stepped forward obediently, like a good little child. The old +fascination was still as dominant as at its birth, sixteen years ago. +She realized, with a strong, splendid sense of the eternity of things, +that always, even while it would have been treason to recognize it, she +had known how ready it was to rise and live again. All through her +married years, she had sternly drugged it and kept it sleeping. Now it +had a right to breathe, and she gloried in it. + +"I said to myself I wouldn't come to-day," went on Laurie, without +looking at her. A new and excited note had come into his voice, +responsive to her own. He gazed down at the fire, musing the while he +spoke. "Then I found I couldn't help it. That's why I'm so late. I +stayed in the shop till seven, and some fellows come in and wanted me to +play. I took up the fiddle, and begun. But I hadn't more'n drew a note +before I laid it down and put for the door. 'Dick, you keep shop,' says +I. And I harnessed up, and drove like the devil." + +Amelia felt warm with life and hope; she was taking up her youth just +where the story ended. + +"You ain't stopped swearin' yet!" she remarked, with a little excited +laugh. Then, from an undercurrent of exhilaration, it occurred to her +that she had never laughed so in all these years. + +"Well," said Laurie abruptly, turning upon her, "how am I goin' to start +out? Shall we hark back to old scores? I know what come between us. So +do you. Have we got to talk it out, or can we begin now?" + +"Begin now," replied Amelia faintly. Her breath choked her. He stretched +out his arms to her in sudden passion. His hands touched her sleeves +and, with an answering rapidity of motion, she drew back. She shrank +within herself, and her face gathered a look of fright. "No! no! no!" +she cried strenuously. + +His arms fell at his sides, and he looked at her in amazement. + +"What's the matter?" he demanded. + +Amelia had retreated, until she stood now with one hand on the table. +She could not look at him, and when she answered, her voice shook. + +"There's nothin' the matter," she answered. "Only you mustn't--yet." + +A shade of relief passed over his face, and he smiled. + +"There, there!" he said, "never you mind. I understand. But if I come +over the last of the week, I guess it will be different. Won't it be +different, Milly?" + +"Yes," she owned, with a little sob in her throat, "it will be +different." + +Thrown out of his niche of easy friendliness with circumstance, he stood +there in irritated consciousness that here was some subtile barrier +which he had not foreseen. Ever since John Porter's death, there had +been strengthening in him a joyous sense that Milly's life and his own +must have been running parallel all this time, and that it needed only a +little widening of channels to make them join. His was no crass +certainty of finding her ready to drop into his hand; it was rather a +childlike, warm-hearted faith in the permanence of her affection for +him, and perhaps, too, a shrewd estimate of his own lingering youth +compared with John Porter's furrowed face and his fifty-five years. But +now, with this new whiffling of the wind, he could only stand rebuffed +and recognize his own perplexity. + +"You do care, don't you, Milly?" he asked, with a boy's frank ardor. +"You want me to come again?" + +All her own delight in youth and the warm naturalness of life had rushed +back upon her. + +"Yes," she answered eagerly. "I'll tell you the truth. I always did tell +you the truth. I do want you to come." + +"But you don't want me to-night!" He lifted his brows, pursing his lips +whimsically; and Amelia laughed. + +"No," said she, with a little defiant movement of her own crisp head, "I +don't know as I do want you to-night!" + +Laurie shook himself into his coat. "Well," he said, on his way to the +door, "I'll be round Saturday, whether or no. And Milly," he added +significantly, his hand on the latch, "you've got to like me then!" + +Amelia laughed. "I guess there won't be no trouble!" she called after +him daringly. + +She stood there in the biting wind, while he uncovered the horse and +drove away. Then she went shaking back to her fire; but it was not +altogether from cold. The sense of the consistency of love and youth, +the fine justice with which nature was paying an old debt, had raised +her to a stature above her own. She stood there under the mantel, and +held by it while she trembled. For the first time, her husband had gone +utterly out of her life. It was as though he had not been. + +"Saturday!" she said to herself. "Saturday! Three days till then!" + +Next morning, the spring asserted itself,--there came a whiff of wind +from the south and a feeling of thaw. The sled-runners began to cut +through to the frozen ground, and about the tree-trunks, where thin +crusts of ice were sparkling, came a faint musical sound of trickling +drops. The sun was regnant, and little brown birds flew cheerily over +the snow and talked of nests. + +Amelia finished her housework by nine o'clock, and then sat down in her +low rocker by the south window, sewing in thrifty haste. The sun fell +hotly through the panes, and when she looked up, the glare met her eyes. +She seemed to be sitting in a golden shower, and she liked it. No +sunlight ever made her blink, or screw her face into wrinkles. She +throve in it like a rose-tree. At ten o'clock, one of the slow-moving +sleds, out that day in premonition of a "spell o' weather," swung +laboriously into her yard and ground its way up to the side-door. The +sled was empty, save for a rocking-chair where sat an enormous woman +enveloped in shawls, her broad face surrounded by a pumpkin hood. Her +dark brown front came low over her forehead, and she wore spectacles +with wide bows, which gave her an added expression of benevolence. She +waved a mittened hand to Amelia when their eyes met, and her heavy face +broke up into smiles. + +"Here I be!" she called in a thick, gurgling voice, as Amelia hastened +out, her apron thrown over her head. "Didn't expect me, did ye? Nobody +looks for an old rheumatic creatur'. She's more out o' the runnin' 'n a +last year's bird's-nest." + +"Why, aunt Ann!" cried Amelia, in unmistakable joy. "I'm tickled to +death to see you. Here, Amos, I'll help get her out." + +The driver, a short, thick-set man of neutral, ashy tints and a +sprinkling of hair and beard, trudged round the oxen and drew the +rocking-chair forward without a word. He never once looked in Amelia's +direction, and she seemed not to expect it; but he had scarcely laid +hold of the chair when aunt Ann broke forth:-- + +"Now, Amos, ain't you goin' to take no notice of 'Melia, no more'n if +she wa'n't here? She ain't a bump on a log, nor you a born fool." + +Amos at once relinquished his sway over the chair, and stood looking +abstractedly at the oxen, who, with their heads low, had already fallen +into that species of day-dream whereby they compensate themselves for +human tyranny. They were waiting for Amos, and Amos, in obedience to +some inward resolve, waited for commotion to cease. + +"If ever I was ashamed, I be now!" continued aunt Ann, still with an +expression of settled good-nature, and in a voice all jollity though +raised conscientiously to a scolding pitch. "To think I should bring +such a creatur' into the world, an' set by to see him treat his own +relations like the dirt under his feet!" + +Amelia laughed. She was exhilarated by the prospect of company, and this +domestic whirlpool had amused her from of old. + +"Law, aunt Ann," she said, "you let Amos alone. He and I are old +cronies. We understand one another. Here, Amos, catch hold! We shall all +get our deaths out here, if we don't do nothin' but stand still and +squabble." + +The immovable Amos had only been awaiting his cue. He lifted the laden +chair with perfect ease to one of the piazza steps, and then to another; +when it had reached the topmost level, he dragged it over the sill into +the kitchen, and, leaving his mother sitting in colossal triumph by the +fire, turned about and took his silent way to the outer world. + +"Amos," called aunt Ann, "do you mean to say you're goin' to walk out o' +this house without speakin' a civil word to anybody? Do you mean to say +that?" + +"I don't mean to say nothin'," confided Amos to his worsted muffler, as +he took up his goad, and began backing the oxen round. + +Undisturbed and not at all daunted by a reply for which she had not even +listened, aunt Ann raised her voice in cheerful response: "Well, you be +along 'tween three an' four, an' you'll find me ready." + +"Mercy, aunt Ann!" said Amelia, beginning to unwind the visitor's wraps, +"what makes you keep houndin' Amos that way? If he hasn't spoke for +thirty-five years, it ain't likely he's goin' to begin now." + +Aunt Ann was looking about her with an expression of beaming delight in +unfamiliar surroundings. She laughed a rich, unctuous laugh, and +stretched her hands to the blaze. + +"Law," she said contentedly, "of course it ain't goin' to do no good. +Who ever thought 't would? But I've been at that boy all these years to +make him like other folks, an' I ain't goin' to stop now. He never shall +say his own mother didn't know her duty towards him. Well, 'Melia, you +_air_ kind o' snug here, arter all! Here, you hand me my bag, an' I'll +knit a stitch. I ain't a mite cold." + +Amelia was bustling about the fire, her mind full of the possibilities +of a company dinner. + +"How's your limbs?" she asked, while aunt Ann drew out a long stocking, +and began to knit with an amazing rapidity of which her fat fingers gave +no promise. + +"Well, I ain't allowed to forgit 'em very often," she replied +comfortably. "Rheumatiz is my cross, an' I've got to bear it. Sometimes +I wish 't had gone into my hands ruther 'n my feet, an' I could ha' got +round. But there! if 't ain't one thing, it's another. Mis' Eben Smith's +got eight young ones down with the whoopin'-cough. Amos dragged me over +there yisterday; an' when I heerd 'em tryin' to see which could bark the +loudest, I says, 'Give me the peace o' Jerusalem in my own house, even +if I don't stir a step for the next five year no more'n I have for the +last.' I dunno what 't would be if I hadn't a darter. I've been greatly +blessed." + +The talk went on in pleasant ripples, while Amelia moved back and forth +from pantry to table. She brought out the mixing-board, and began to put +her bread in the pans, while the tin kitchen stood in readiness by the +hearth. The sunshine flooded all the room, and lay insolently on the +paling fire; the Maltese cat sat in the broadest shaft of all, and, +having lunched from her full saucer in the corner, made her second +toilet for the day. + +"'Melia," said aunt Ann suddenly, looking down over her glasses at the +tin kitchen, "ain't it a real cross to bake in that thing?" + +"I always had it in mind to buy me a range," answered Amelia reservedly, +"but somehow we never got to it." + +"That's the only thing I ever had ag'inst John. He was as grand a man as +ever was, but he did set everything by such truck. Don't turn out the +old things, I say, no more'n the old folks; but when it comes to makin' +a woman stan' quiddlin' round doin' work back side foremost, that beats +me." + +"He'd have got me a stove in a minute," burst forth Amelia in haste, +"only he never knew I wanted it!" + +"More fool you not to ha' said so!" commented aunt Ann, unwinding her +ball. "Well, I s'pose he would. John wa'n't like the common run o' men. +Great strong creatur' he was, but there was suthin' about him as soft as +a woman. His mother used to say his eyes 'd fill full o' tears when he +broke up a settin' hen. He was a good husband to you,--a good provider +an' a good friend." + +Amelia was putting down her bread for its last rising, and her face +flushed. + +"Yes," she said gently, "he _was_ good." + +"But there!" continued aunt Ann, dismissing all lighter considerations, +"I dunno's that's any reason why you should bake in a tin kitchen, nor +why you should need to heat up the brick oven every week, when 't was +only done to please him, an' he ain't here to know. Now, 'Melia, le's +see what you could do. When you got the range in, 't would alter this +kitchen all over. Why don't you tear down that old-fashioned mantelpiece +in the fore-room?" + +"I could have a marble one," responded Amelia in a low voice. She had +taken her sewing again, and she bent her head over it as if she were +ashamed. A flush had risen in her cheeks, and her hand trembled. + +"Wide marble! real low down!" confirmed aunt Ann, in a tone of triumph. +"So fur as that goes, you could have a marble-top table." She laid down +her knitting, and looked about her, a spark of excited anticipation in +her eyes. All the habits of a lifetime urged her on to arrange and +rearrange, in pursuit of domestic perfection. People used to say, in her +first married days, that Ann Doby wasted more time in planning +conveniences about her house than she ever saved by them "arter she got +'em." In her active years, she was, in local phrase, "a driver." Up and +about early and late, she directed and managed until her house seemed to +be a humming hive of industry and thrift. Yet there was never anything +too urgent in that sway. Her beaming good-humor acted as a buffer +between her and the doers of her will; and though she might scold, she +never rasped and irritated. Nor had she really succumbed in the least to +the disease which had practically disabled her. It might confine her to +a chair and render her dependent upon the service of others, but over +it, also, was she spiritual victor. She could sit in her kitchen and +issue orders; and her daughter, with no initiative genius of her own, +had all aunt Ann's love of "springin' to it." She cherished, besides, a +worshipful admiration for her mother; so that she asked no more than to +act as the humble hand under that directing head. It was Amos who +tacitly rebelled. When a boy in school, he virtually gave up talking, +and thereafter opened his lips only when some practical exigency was to +be filled. But once did he vouchsafe a reason for that eccentricity. It +was in his fifteenth year, as aunt Ann remembered well, when the +minister had called; and Amos, in response to some remark about his hope +of salvation, had looked abstractedly out of the window. + +"I'd be ashamed," announced aunt Ann, after the minister had +gone,--"Amos, I _would_ be ashamed, if I couldn't open my head to a +minister o' the gospel!" + +"If one head's open permanent in a house, I guess that fills the bill," +said Amos, getting up to seek the woodpile. "I ain't goin' to interfere +with nobody else's contract." + +His mother looked after him with gaping lips, and, for the space of half +an hour, spoke no word. + +To-day she saw before her an alluring field of action; the prospect +roused within her energies never incapable of responding to a spur. + +"My soul, 'Melia!" she exclaimed, looking about the kitchen with a +dominating eye, "how I should like to git hold o' this house! I al'ays +did have a hankerin' that way, an' I don't mind tellin' ye. You could +change it all round complete." + +"It's a good house," said Amelia evasively, taking quick, even stitches, +but listening hungrily to the voice of outside temptation. It seemed to +confirm all the long-suppressed ambitions of her own heart. + +"You're left well on 't," continued aunt Ann, her shrewd blue eyes +taking on a speculative look. "I'm glad you sold the stock. A woman +never undertakes man's work but she comes out the little eend o' the +horn. The house is enough, if you keep it nice. Now, you've got that +money laid away, an' all he left you besides. You could live in the +village, if you was a mind to." + +A deep flush struck suddenly into Amelia's cheek. She thought of Saltash +and Laurie Morse. + +"I don't want to live in the village," she said sharply, thus reproving +her own errant mind. "I like my home." + +"Law, yes, of course ye do," replied aunt Ann easily, returning to her +knitting. "I was only spec'latin'. The land, 'Melia, what you doin' of? +Repairin' an old coat?" + +Amelia bent lower over her sewing. "'T was his," she answered in a voice +almost inaudible. "I put a patch on it last night by lamplight, and when +daytime come, I found it was purple. So I'm takin' it off, and puttin' +on a black one to match the stuff." + +"Goin' to give it away?" + +"No, I ain't," returned Amelia, again with that sharp, remonstrant note +in her voice. "What makes you think I'd do such a thing as that?" + +"Law, I didn't mean no harm. You said you was repairin' on 't,--that's +all." + +Amelia was ashamed of her momentary outbreak. She looked up and smiled +sunnily. + +"Well, I suppose it _is_ foolish," she owned,--"too foolish to tell. But +I've been settin' all his clothes in order to lay 'em aside at last. I +kind o' like to do it." + +Aunt Ann wagged her head, and ran a knitting-needle up under her cap on +a voyage of discovery. + +"You think so now," she said wisely, "but you'll see some time it's +better by fur to give 'em away while ye can. The time never'll come when +it's any easier. My soul, 'Melia, how I should like to git up into your +chambers! It's six year now sence I've seen 'em." + +Amelia laid down her work and considered the possibility. + +"I don't know how in the world I could h'ist you up there," she +remarked, from an evident background of hospitable good-will. + +"H'ist me up? I guess you couldn't! You'd need a tackle an' falls. Amos +has had to come to draggin' me round by degrees, an' I don't go off the +lower floor. Be them chambers jest the same, 'Melia?" + +"Oh, yes, they're just the same. Everything is. You know he didn't like +changes." + +"Blue spread on the west room bed?" + +"Yes." + +"Spinnin'-wheels out in the shed chamber, where his gran'mother Hooper +kep' 'em?" + +"Yes." + +"Say, 'Melia, do you s'pose that little still's up attic he used to have +such a royal good time with, makin' essences?" + +Amelia's eyes filled suddenly with hot, unmanageable tears. + +"Yes," she said; "we used it only two summers ago. I come across it +yesterday. Seemed as if I could smell the peppermint I brought in for +him to pick over. He was too sick to go out much then." + +Aunt Ann had laid down her work again, and was gazing into vistas of +rich enjoyment. + +"I'll be whipped if I shouldn't like to see that little still!" + +"I'll go up and bring it down after dinner," said Amelia soberly, +folding her work and taking off her thimble. "I'd just as soon as not." + +All through the dinner hour aunt Ann kept up an inspiring stream of +question and reminiscence. + +"You _be_ a good cook, 'Melia, an' no mistake," she remarked, breaking +her brown hot biscuit. "This your same kind o' bread, made without +yeast?" + +"Yes," answered Amelia, pouring the tea. "I save a mite over from the +last risin'." + +Aunt Ann smelled the biscuit critically. "Well, it makes proper nice +bread," she said, "but seems to me that's a terrible shif'less way to go +about it. However 'd you happen to git hold on 't? You wa'n't never +brought up to 't." + +"His mother used to make it so. 'T was no great trouble, and 't would +have worried him if I'd changed." + +When the lavender-sprigged china had been washed and the hearth swept +up, the room fell into its aspect of afternoon repose. The cat, after +another serious ablution, sprang up into a chair drawn close to the +fireplace, and coiled herself symmetrically on the faded patchwork +cushion. Amelia stroked her in passing. She liked to see puss +appropriate that chair; her purr from it renewed the message of domestic +content. + +"Now," said Amelia, "I'll get the still." + +"Bring down anything else that's ancient!" called aunt Ann. "We've +pretty much got red o' such things over t' our house, but I kind o' like +to see 'em." + +When Amelia returned, she staggered under a miscellaneous burden: the +still, some old swifts for winding yarn, and a pair of wool-cards. + +"I don't believe you know so much about cardin' wool as I do," she said, +in some triumph, regarding the cards with the saddened gaze of one who +recalls an occupation never to be resumed. "You see, you dropped all +such work when new things come in. I kept right on because he wanted me +to." + +Aunt Ann was abundantly interested and amused. + +"Well, now, if ever!" she repeated over and over again. "If this don't +carry me back! Seems if I could hear the wheel hummin' an' gramma Balch +steppin' back an' forth as stiddy as a clock. It's been a good while +sence I've thought o' such old days." + +"If it's old days you want"--began Amelia, and she sped upstairs with a +fresh light of resolution in her eyes. + +It was a long time before she returned,--so long that aunt Ann exhausted +the still, and turned again to her thrifty knitting. Then there came a +bumping noise on the stairs, and Amelia's shuffling tread. + +"What under the sun be you doin' of?" called her aunt, listening, with +her head on one side. "Don't you fall, 'Melia! Whatever 't is, I can't +help ye." + +But the stairway door yielded to pressure from within: and first a rim +of wood appeared, and then Amelia, scarlet and breathless, staggering +under a spinning-wheel. + +"Forever!" ejaculated aunt Ann, making one futile effort to rise, like +some cumbersome fowl whose wings are clipped. "My land alive! you'll +break a blood-vessel, an' then where'll ye be?" + +Amelia triumphantly drew the wheel to the middle of the floor, and then +blew upon her dusty hands and smoothed her tumbled hair. She took off +her apron and wiped the wheel with it rather tenderly, as if an ordinary +duster would not do. + +"There!" she said. "Here's some rolls right here in the bedroom. I +carded them myself, but I never expected to spin any more." + +She adjusted a roll to the spindle, and, quite forgetting aunt Ann, +began stepping back and forth in a rhythmical march of feminine service. +The low hum of her spinning filled the air, and she seemed to be wrapped +about by an atmosphere of remoteness and memory. Even aunt Ann was +impressed by it; and once, beginning to speak, she looked at Amelia's +face, and stopped. The purring silence continued, lulling all lesser +energies to sleep, until Amelia, pausing to adjust her thread, found her +mood broken by actual stillness, and gazed about her like one awakened +from dreams. + +"There!" she said, recalling herself. "Ain't that a good smooth thread? +I've sold lots of yarn. They ask for it in Sudleigh." + +"'Tis so!" confirmed aunt Ann cordially. "An' you've al'ays dyed it +yourself, too!" + +"Yes, a good blue; sometimes tea-color. There, now, you can't say you +ain't heard a spinnin'-wheel once more!" + +Amelia moved the wheel to the side of the room, and went gravely back to +her chair. Her energy had fled, leaving her hushed and tremulous. But +not for that did aunt Ann relinquish her quest for the betterment of the +domestic world. Her tongue clicked the faster as Amelia's halted. She +put away her work altogether, and sat, with wagging head and eloquent +hands, still holding forth on the changes which might be wrought in the +house: a bay window here, a sofa there, new chairs, tables, and +furnishings. Amelia's mind swam in a sea of green rep, and she found +herself looking up from time to time at her mellowed four walls, to see +if they sparkled in desirable yet somewhat terrifying gilt paper. + +At four o'clock, when Amos swung into the yard with the oxen, she was +remorsefully conscious of heaving a sigh of relief; and she bade him in +to the cup of tea ready for him by the fire with a sympathetic sense +that too little was made of Amos, and that perhaps only she, at that +moment, understood his habitual frame of mind. He drank his tea in +silence, the while aunt Ann, with much relish, consumed doughnuts and +cheese, having spread a wide handkerchief in her lap to catch the +crumbs. Amos never varied in his rôle of automaton; and Amelia talked +rapidly, in the hope of protecting him from verbal avalanches. But she +was not to succeed. At the very moment of parting, aunt Ann, enthroned +in her chair, with a clogging stick under the rockers, called a halt, +just as the oxen gave their tremulous preparatory heave. + +"Amos!" cried she, "I'll be whipped if you've spoke one word to 'Melia +this livelong day! If you ain't ashamed, I be! If you can't speak, I +can!" + +Amos paused, with his habitual resignation to circumstances, but Amelia +sped forward and clapped him cordially on the arm; with the other hand, +she dealt one of the oxen a futile blow. + +"Huddup, Bright!" she called, with a swift, smiling look at Amos. Even +in kindness she would not do him the wrong of an unnecessary word. +"Good-by, aunt Ann! Come again!" + +Amos turned half about, the goad over his shoulder. His dull-seeming +eyes had opened to a gleam of human feeling, betraying how bright and +keen they were. Some hidden spring had been touched, though only they +would tell its story. Amelia thought it was gratitude. And then aunt +Ann, nodding her farewells in assured contentment with herself and all +the world, was drawn slowly out of the yard. + +When Amelia went indoors and warmed her chilled hands at the fire, the +silence seemed to her benignant. What was loneliness before had +miraculously translated itself into peace. That worldly voice, strangely +clothing her own longings with form and substance, had been stilled; +only the clock, rich in the tranquillity of age, ticked on, and the cat +stretched herself and curled up again. Amelia sat down in the waning +light and took a last stitch in her work; she looked the coat over +critically with an artistic satisfaction, and then hung it behind the +door in its accustomed place, where it had remained undisturbed now for +many months. She ate soberly and sparingly of her early supper, and +then, leaving the lamp on a side-table, where it brought out great +shadows in the room, she took a little cricket and sat down by the fire. +There she had mused many an evening which seemed to her less dull than +the general course of her former life, while her husband occupied the +hearthside chair and told her stories of the war. He had a childlike +clearness and simplicity of speech, and a self-forgetful habit of +reminiscence. The war was the war to him, not a theatre for boastful +individual action; but Amelia remembered now that he had seemed to hold +heroic proportions in relation to that immortal past. One could hardly +bring heroism into the potato-field and the cow-house; but after this +lapse of time, it began to dawn upon her that the man who had fought at +Gettysburg and the man who marked out for her the narrow rut of an +unchanging existence were one and the same. And as if the moment had +come for an expected event, she heard again the jangling of bells +without, and the old vivid color rushed into her cheeks, reddened before +by the fire-shine. It was as though the other night had been a +rehearsal, and as if now she knew what was coming. Yet she only clasped +her hands more tightly about her knees and waited, the while her heart +hurried its time. The knocker fell twice, with a resonant clang. She did +not move. It beat again, the more insistently. Then the heavy outer door +was pushed open, and Laurie Morse came in, looking exactly as she knew +he would look--half angry, wholly excited, and dowered with the beauty +of youth recalled. He took off his cap and stood before her. + +"Why didn't you come?" he asked imperatively. "Why didn't you let me +in?" + +The old wave of irresponsible joy rose in her at his presence; yet it +was now not so much a part of her real self as a delight in some +influence which might prove foreign to her. She answered him, as she was +always impelled to do, dramatically, as if he gave her the cue, calling +for words which might be her sincere expression, and might not. + +"If you wanted it enough, you could get in," she said perversely, with +an alluring coquetry in her mien. "The door was unfastened." + +"I did want to enough," he responded. A new light came into his eyes. He +held out his hands toward her. "Get up off that cricket!" he commanded. +"Come here!" + +Amelia rose with a swift, feminine motion, but she stepped backward, one +hand upon her heart. She thought its beating could be heard. + +"It ain't Saturday," she whispered. + +"No, it ain't. But I couldn't wait. You knew I couldn't. You knew I'd +come to-night." + +The added years had had their effect on him; possibly, too, there had +been growing up in him the strength of a long patience. He was not an +heroic type of man; but noting the sudden wrinkles in his face and the +firmness of his mouth, Amelia conceived a swift respect for him which +she had never felt in the days of their youth. + +"Am I goin' to stay," he asked sternly, "or shall I go home?" + +As if in dramatic accord with his words, the bells jangled loudly at the +gate. Should he go or stay? + +"I suppose," said Amelia faintly, "you're goin' to stay." + +Laurie laid down his cap, and pulled off his coat. He looked about +impatiently, and then, moving toward the nail by the door, he lifted the +coat to place it over that other one hanging there. Amelia had watched +him absently, thinking only, with a hungry anticipation, how much she +had needed him; but as the garment touched her husband's, the real woman +burst through the husk of her outer self, and came to life with an +intensity that was pain. She sprang forward. + +"No! no!" she cried, the words ringing wildly in her own ears. "No! no! +don't you hang it there! Don't you! don't you!" She swept him aside, and +laid her hands upon the old patched garment on the nail. It was as if +they blessed it, and as if they defended it also. Her eyes burned with +the horror of witnessing some irrevocable deed. + +Laurie stepped back in pure surprise. "No, of course not," said he. +"I'll put it on a chair. Why, what's the matter, Milly? I guess you're +nervous. Come back to the fire. Here, sit down where you were, and let's +talk." + +The cat, roused by a commotion which was insulting to her egotism, +jumped down from the cushion, stretched into a fine curve, and made a +silhouette of herself in a corner of the hearth. Amelia, a little +ashamed, and not very well understanding what it was all about, came +back, with shaking limbs, and dropped upon the settle, striving now to +remember the conventionalities of saner living. Laurie was a kind man. +At this moment, he thought only of reassuring her. He drew forward the +chair left vacant by the cat, and beat up the cushion. + +"There," said he, "I'll take this, and we'll talk." + +Amelia recovered herself with a spring. She came up straight and tall, a +concluded resolution in every muscle. She laid a hand upon his arm. + +"Don't you sit there!" said she. "Don't you!" + +"Why, Amelia!" he ejaculated, in a vain perplexity. "Why, Milly!" + +She moved the chair back out of his grasp, and turned to him again. + +"I understand it now," she went on rapidly. "I know just what I feel and +think, and I thank my God it ain't too late. Don't you see I can't bear +to have your clothes hang where his belong? Don't you see 't would kill +me to have you sit in his chair? When I find puss there, it's a comfort. +If 't was you--I don't know but I might do you a mischief!" Her voice +sank, in awe of herself and her own capacity for passionate emotion. + +Laurie Morse had much swift understanding of the human heart. His own +nature partook of the feminine, and he shared its intuitions and its +fears. + +"I never should lay that up against you, Milly," he said kindly. "But we +wouldn't have these things. You'd come to Saltash with me, and we'd +furnish all new." + +"Not have these things!" called Amelia, with a ringing note of +dismay,--"not have these things he set by as he did his life! Why, what +do you think I'm made of, after fifteen years? What did _I_ think I was +made of, even to guess I could? You don't know what women are like, +Laurie Morse,--you don't know!" + +She broke down in piteous weeping. Even then it seemed to her that it +would be good to find herself comforted with warm human sympathy; but +not a thought of its possibility remained in her mind. She saw the +boundaries beyond which she must not pass. Though the desert were arid +on this side, it was her desert, and there in her tent must she abide. +She began speaking again between sobbing breaths:-- + +"I did have a dull life. I used up all my young days doin' the same +things over and over, when I wanted somethin' different. It _was_ dull; +but if I could have it all over again, I'd work my fingers to the bone. +I don't know how it would have been if you and I'd come together then, +and had it all as we planned; but now I'm a different woman. I can't any +more go back than you could turn Sudleigh River, and coax it to run +up-hill. I don't know whether 't was meant my life should make me a +different woman; but I _am_ different, and such as I am, I'm his woman. +Yes, till I die, till I'm laid in the ground 'longside of him!" Her +voice had an assured ring of triumph, as if she were taking again an +indissoluble marriage oath. + +Laurie had grown very pale. There were forlorn hollows under his eyes; +now he looked twice his age. + +"I didn't suppose you kept a place for me," he said, with an unconscious +dignity. "That wouldn't have been right, and him alive. And I didn't +wait for dead men's shoes. But somehow I thought there was something +between you and me that couldn't be outlived." + +Amelia looked at him with a frank sweetness which transfigured her face +into spiritual beauty. + +"I thought so, too," she answered, with that simplicity ever attending +our approximation to the truth. "I never once said it to myself; but all +this year, 'way down in my heart, I knew you'd come back. And I wanted +you to come. I guess I'd got it all planned out how we'd make up for +what we'd lost, and build up a new life. But so far as I go, I guess I +didn't lose by what I've lived through. I guess I gained somethin' I'd +sooner give up my life than even lose the memory of." + +So absorbed was she in her own spiritual inheritance that she quite +forgot his pain. She gazed past him with an unseeing look; and striving +to meet and recall it, he faced the vision of their divided lives. +To-morrow Amelia would remember his loss and mourn over it with maternal +pangs; to-night she was oblivious of all but her own. Great human +experiences are costly things; they demand sacrifice, not only of +ourselves, but of those who are near us. The room was intolerable to +Laurie. He took his hat and coat, and hurried out. Amelia heard the +dragging door closed behind him. She realized, with the numbness born of +supreme emotion, that he was putting on his coat outside in the cold; +and she did not mind. The bells stirred, and went clanging away. Then +she drew a long breath, and bowed her head on her hands in an +acquiescence that was like prayer. + +It seemed a long time to Amelia before she awoke again to temporal +things. She rose, smiling, to her feet, and looked about her as if her +eyes caressed every corner of the homely room. She picked up puss in a +round, comfortable ball, and carried her back to the hearthside chair; +there she stroked her until her touchy ladyship had settled down again +to purring content. Then Amelia, still smiling, and with an absent look, +as if her mind wandered through lovely possibilities of a sort which +can never be undone, drew forth the spinning-wheel, and fitted a roll to +the spindle. She began stepping back and forth as if she moved to the +measure of an unheard song, and the pleasant hum of her spinning broke +delicately upon the ear. It seemed to waken all the room into new +vibrations of life. The clock ticked with an assured peace, as if +knowing it marked eternal hours. The flames waved softly upward without +their former crackle and sheen; and the moving shadows were gentle and +rhythmic ones come to keep the soul company. Amelia felt her thread +lovingly. + +"I guess I'll dye it blue," she said, with a tenderness great enough to +compass inanimate things. "He always set by blue, didn't he, puss?" + + + + +THE FLAT-IRON LOT + + +The fields were turning brown, and in the dusty gray of the roadside, +closed gentians gloomed, and the aster burned like a purple star. It was +the finest autumn for many years. People said, with every clear day, +"Now this must be a weather-breeder;" but still the storm delayed. Then +they anxiously scanned the heavens, as if, weeks beforehand, the signs +of the time might be written there; for this was the fall of all others +when wind and sky should be kind to Tiverton. She was going to celebrate +her two hundred and fiftieth anniversary, and she was big with the +importance of it. + +On a still afternoon, over three weeks before that happy day, a slender +old man walked erectly along the country road. He carried a cane over +his shoulder, and, slung upon it, a small black leather bag, bearing the +words, painted in careful letters, "Clocks repaired by N. Oldfield." As +he went on, he cast a glance, now and then, to either side, from +challenging blue eyes, strong yet in the indomitable quality of youth. +He knew every varying step of the road, and could have numbered, from +memory, the trees and bushes that fringed its length; and now, after a +week's absence, he swept the landscape with the air of a manorial lord, +to see what changes might have slipped in unawares. At one point, a flat +triangular stone had been tilted up on edge, and an unpracticed hand had +scrawled on it, in chalk, "4 M to Sudleigh." The old man stopped, took +the bag from his shoulder, and laid it tenderly on a stone of the wall. +Then, with straining hands, he pulled the rock down into the worn spot +where it had lain, and gave a sigh of relief when it settled into its +accustomed place, and the tall grass received it tremulously. Now he +opened his bag, took from it a cloth, carefully folded, and rubbed the +rock until those defiling chalk marks were partially effaced. + +"Little varmints!" he said, apostrophizing the absent school children +who had wrought the deed. "Can't they let nothin' alone?" He took up his +bag, and went on. + +Nicholas Oldfield, as he walked the road that day, was a familiar figure +to all the county round. He had a smooth, carefully shaven face, with a +fine outline of nose and chin, and his straight gray hair shone from +faithful brushing. He was almost aggressively clean. Even his blue eyes +had the appearance of having just been washed, like a spring day after a +shower. It was a frequent remark that he looked as if he had come out +of a bandbox; and one critic even went so far as to assert that on +Sundays he sandpapered his eyes and gave a little extra polish to his +bones. But these were calumnies; though to-day his suit of home-made +blue was quite speckless, and the checked gingham neckerchief, which +made his ordinary wear, still kept its stiff, starched creases. + +"Dirt don't stick to _you_, Mr. Oldfield," once said a seeking widow. +"Your washing can't be much. I guess anybody 'd be glad to undertake it +for you." Mr. Oldfield nodded gravely, as one receiving the tribute +which was justly his, and continued to do his washing himself. + +As he walked the dusty road, bearing his little bag, so he had walked it +for years, sometimes within a few miles of home, and again at the +extreme limit of the county edge. The clocks of the region were all his +clients, some regarded with compassion ("ramshackle things" that needed +perpetual tinkering) and others with a holy awe. "The only thing +Nicholas Oldfield bows the knee before is a double-back-action clock a +thousand years old," said Brad Freeman, the regardless. "That's how he +reads Ancient of Days." The justice of the remark was acknowledged, +though, as touching Mr. Oldfield, it was felt to be striking rather too +keenly at the root of things. For Nicholas Oldfield was looked upon +with a respect not so much inspired by his outward circumstances as by +his method of taking them. There are, indeed, ways and ways among us who +serve the public. When Tom O'Neil went round peddling essences, children +saw him from afar, ran to meet him, and, falling on his pack, besought +him for "two-three-drops-o'-c'logne" with such fervor that the mothers +had to haul them off by main force, in order themselves to approach his +redolence; but when the clock-mender appeared, with his little bag, +propriety walked before him, and the naughtiest scion of the flock would +come soberly in, to announce:-- + +"Mother, here's Mr. Oldfield." + +It is true that this little old man did exemplify the dignity and +restraint of life to such a degree that, had it not been for his one +colossal weakness, the town might have condemned him, in good old +Athenian fashion. Clock-mending was a legitimate industry; but there +were those who felt it to be, in his case, a mere pretext for nosing +round and identifying ridiculous old things which nobody prized until +Nicholas Oldfield told them it was conformable so to do. Some believed +him and some did not; but it was known that a MacDonough's Victory +tea-set drove him to an almost outspoken rapture, and that the mere +mention of the Bay Psalm Book (a copy of which he sought with the +haggard fervor of one who worships but has ceased to hope) was enough +to make him "wild as a hawk." Old papers, too, drew him by their very +mildew; and when his townsfolk were in danger of respecting him too +tediously, they recalled these amiable puerilities, drew a breath of +relief, and marked his value down. + +Many facts in his life were not in the least understood, because he +never saw the possibility of talking about them. For example, when at +the marriage of his son, Young Nick, he made over the farm, and kept his +own residence in the little gambrel-roofed house where he had been born, +and his father and grandfather before him, the act was, for a time, +regarded somewhat gloomily by the public at large. There were Young Nick +and his Hattie, living in the big new house, with its spacious piazza +and cool green blinds; there the two daughters were born and bred, and +the elder of them was married. The new house had its hired girl and man; +and meantime the other Nicholas (nobody ever dreamed of calling him Old +Nick) was cooking his own meals, and even, of a Saturday, scouring his +kitchen floor. It was easy to see in him the pathetic symbol of a bygone +generation relegated to the past. A little wave of sympathy crept to his +very feet, and then, finding itself unnoted, ebbed away again. Only one +village censor dared speak, saying slyly to Young Nick's Hattie:-- + +"Ain't no room for grandpa in the new house, is there?" + +Hattie opened her eyes wide at this discovery, though now she realized +that echoes of a like benevolence had reached her ears before. She went +home very early from the quilting, and that night she said to her +husband, as they sat on the doorstone, waiting for the milk to cool:-- + +"Nicholas, little things I've got hold of, first an' last, make me +conclude folks pity father. Do you s'pose they do?" + +Young Nick selected a fat plantain spike, and began stripping the seeds. + +"Well, I dunno what for," said he, after consideration. "Father seems to +be pretty rugged." + +Hattie was one of those who find no quicker remedy than that of +plentiful speech; and later in the evening, she sped over to the little +house, across the dewy orchard. Mr. Oldfield had come home only that +afternoon, and now he had drawn up at his kitchen table, which was +covered by a hand-woven cloth, beautifully ironed, and set with +old-fashioned dishes. He had hot biscuits and apple-pie, and the odor of +them rose soothingly to Hattie's nostrils, dissipating, for a moment, +her consciousness of tragedy and wrong. A man could not be quite forlorn +who cooked such "victuals," and sat before them so serenely. + +"See here, father," said she, with the desperation of speaking her mind +for the first time to one from whom she had hitherto kept awesomely +remote; "when we moved into the new house, I dunno's there was any talk +about your comin', too. I guess it never entered into our heads you'd do +anything but to stick to the old place. An' now, after it's all past an' +gone, the neighbors say"-- + +Nicholas Oldfield had been smiling his slight, dry smile. At this point, +he took up a knife, and cut a careful triangle of pie. He did all these +things as if each one were very important. + +"Here, Hattie," said he, "you taste o' this dried apple. I put a mite o' +lemon in." + +Hattie, somehow abashed by the mental impact of the little man, ate her +pie meekly, and thenceforth waived the larger issue. All the same, she +knew the neighbors "pitied father," and that they would continue to pity +him so long as he lived alone in the little peaceful house, doing his +own washing and making his own pie. + +To-night was a duplication of many another when Nicholas Oldfield had +turned the corner and come in sight of his own home; but often as it had +been repeated, the experience was never the same. Some would have named +his springing emotion delight; but it neither quickened his pace nor +made him draw his breath the faster. Perhaps he even walked a little +more slowly, to enjoy the taste, for he was a saving man. There was the +little house, white as paint could make it, and snug in bowering +foliage. He noted, with an approving eye, that the dahlias in the front +yard, set in stiff nodding rows, were holding their own bravely against +the dry fall weather, and that the asters were blooming profusely, +purple and pink. A rare softness came over his features when he stepped +into the yard; and though he examined the roof critically in passing, it +was with the eye of love. He fitted the key in the lock; the sound of +its turning made music in his ears, and, setting his foot upon the sill, +he was a man for whom that little was enough. Nicholas Oldfield was at +home. + +He laid down his bag, and went, without an instant's pause, straight +through to the sitting-room, and stood before the tall eight-day clock. +He put his hand on the woodwork, as if it might have been the shoulder +of a friend, and looked up understandingly in its face. + +"Well, here we be," said he. "You'd ha' hil' out till mornin', though." + +For wherever he might travel, he always made it a point to be home in +time to wind the clocks; and however early he might hurry away again, +under stress of some antiquarian impulse, they were left alive and +pulsing behind him. There was one in each room, besides the tall +eight-day in the parlor, and they were all soft-voiced and leisurely, +reminiscent of another age than ours. Though three of them had been +inherited, it almost seemed as if Nicholas must have selected the entire +company, so harmonious were they, so serenely fitted to the calm decorum +of his own desires. + +In half an hour he had accomplished many things, and his fire sent a +spiral breath toward heaven. The dark old kitchen lay open, door and +window, to the still opulent sun, and from the pantry and a corner +cupboard came gleams of color, to delight the eye. Here were riches, +indeed: old India china, an unbroken set of Sheltered Peasant, and, on +the top shelf, little mugs and cups of a pink lustre, soft and sweet as +flowers. Many a collector had wooed Nicholas Oldfield to part with his +china (for the fame of it had spread afar,) but his only response to +solicitation was to open the doors more widely on his treasures, +remarking, without emphasis:-- + +"I guess they might as well stay where they be." + +So passive was he, that many among merchants judged they had impressed +him, and returned again and again to the charge; but when they found +always the same imperturbable front, the same mild neutrality of +demeanor, they melted sadly away, and were seen no more, leaving their +places to be taken by others equally hopeful and as sure to be betrayed. + +One creature only was capable of rousing Nicholas Oldfield from that +calm wherein he went ticking on through life. She it was who, by some +natal likeness, understood him wholly; and to-night, just as he was +sitting down to his supper of "cream o' tartar" biscuits and smoking +tea, her clear voice broke upon his solitude. + +"Gran'ther," called Mary Oldfield from the door, "mother says, 'Won't +you come over to supper?' She saw your smoke." + +Nicholas pushed back his chair a little; he felt himself completed. + +"You had yours?" he asked, in his usual even tones. + +"No. I waited for you." + +"Then you come right in an' git it. Take your mug--here, I'll reach it +down for ye--an' there's the Good-Girl plate." + +Mary Oldfield was a tall, pleasant looking maid of sixteen, and standing +quietly by, while her grandfather got out her own plate and mug, she was +an amazingly faithful copy of him. They smiled a little at each other, +in sitting down, but there was no closer greeting between them. They +were exceedingly well content to be together again, and this was so +simple and natural a state that there was nothing to say about it. Only +Nicholas looked at her from time to time--her capable brown hands and +careful braids of hair,--and nodded briefly, as he had a way of nodding +at his clocks. + +"You know what I told you, Mary, about the Flat-Iron Lot?" he asked, +while Mary buttered her biscuit. + +She looked at him in assent. + +"Well, I've proved it." + +"You don't say!" + +Mary had certain antique methods of speech, which the new-fangled school +teacher, not liking to pronounce them vulgar, had tactfully dubbed +"obsolete." "If we used 'em all the time they wouldn't get obsolete, +would they?" asked Mary; and the school teacher, being a logical person, +made no answer. So Mary went on plying them with a conscientious +calmness like one determined to keep a precious and misprized metal in +circulation. She even called Nicholas gran'ther, because he liked it, +and because he had called his own grandfather so. + +"Ye see," said Nicholas, "the fust rec'ids were missin'. 'Burnt up!' +says that town clerk over to Sudleigh. 'Burnt when the old meetin'-house +ketched fire, arter the Injun raid.' 'Burnt up!' thinks I. 'The cat's +foot! I guess so, when the communion service was carried over fifteen +mile an' left in a potato sullar.' So I says to myself, 'What become o' +that fust communion set?' Why, before the meetin'-house was repaired, +they all rode over to what's now Saltash, to worship in Square +Billin's's kitchen. Now, when Square Billin's died of a fever, that same +winter, they hove all his books into that old lumber-room over Sudleigh +court-house. So, when I was fixin' up the court-house clock, t' other +day, I clim' up to that room, an' shet myself in there. An', Mary, I +found them rec'ids!" He looked at her with that complete and +awe-stricken triumph which nobody else had ever seen upon his face. Her +own reflected it. + +"Where are they, gran'ther?" asked Mary. But she was the more excited; +she could only whisper. + +"They're loose sheets o' paper," returned Nicholas, "an' _they're in my +bag_!" + +Mary made an involuntary movement toward the bag, which lay, innocently +secretive, on a neighboring chair. Even its advertising legend had a +knowing look. Nicholas followed her glance. + +"No," said he firmly, "not now. We'll read 'em all over this evenin', +when I've done the dishes. But, Mary, I'll tell ye this much: it's got +the whole story of the settlers comin' into town, an' which way they +come, an' all about it, writ down by Simeon Gerry, the fust minister, +the one that killed five Injuns, stoppin' to load an' fire, an' then +opened on the rest with bilin' fat. An', Mary, the fust settler of all +was Nicholas Oldfield, haulin' his wife on a kind of a drag made o' +withes; an' the path they took led straight over our Flat-Iron Lot. An', +Mary, 't was there they rested, an' offered up prayer to God." + +"O my soul, gran'ther!" breathed Mary, clasping her little brown hands. +"O my soul!" Her face grew curiously mature. It seemed to mirror his. +She leaned forward, in a deadly earnestness. "Gran'ther," said she, "did +they settle here first? Or--or was it Sudleigh?" + +Now, indeed, was Nicholas Oldfield the herald of news good both to tell +and hear. + +"The fust settlement," said he, as if he read it from the book of fate, +"was made in Tiverton, on the sixteenth day of the month; the second in +Sudleigh, on the twenty-fifth." + +"So, when you guessed at the date, and told parson to have the +celebration then, you got it right?" + +"I got it right," replied Nicholas quietly. "But pa'son shall see the +rec'ids, an' I'll recommend him to put 'em under lock an' key." + +The two sat there and looked at each other, with an outwelling of great +content. Then Mary passed her mug, and while Nicholas filled it, he gave +her an oft-repeated charge:-- + +"Don't you open your head now, Mary. All this is between you an' me. +I'll just mention it to pa'son, an' make up my mind whether he sees the +meanin' on 't. But don't you say one word to your father an' mother. To +them it don't signify." + +Mary nodded wisely. She knew, with the philosophy of a much older +experience, that she and gran'ther lived alone in a nest of kindly +aliens. As if their mention evoked a foreign presence, her mother's +voice sounded that instant from the door:-- + +"Mary, why under the sun didn't you come back? I sent word for you to +run over with her, father, an' have some supper. Well, if you two ain't +thick!" + +"We're havin' a dish o' discourse," returned Nicholas quietly. + +Young Nick's Hattie was forty-five, but she looked much younger. Extreme +plumpness had insured her against wrinkles, and her light brown hair was +banded smoothly back. Hattie's originality lay in a desire for color, +and therein she overstepped the bounds of all decorum. It was customary +to see her barred across with enormous plaids, or stripes going the +broad way; and so long had she lived under such insignia that no one +would have known her without them. She came in with soft, heavy +footfalls, and sat down in the little rocking-chair at Mr. Oldfield's +right hand. She smiled at him, somewhat nervously. + +"Well, father," said she, "you got home!" + +Nicholas helped himself to another half cup of tea, after holding the +teapot tentatively across to Mary's mug. + +"Yes," he answered, in his dry and gentle fashion, "I've got home." + +Hattie began rocking, in a rapid staccato, to punctuate her speech. + +"Well," she began, "I'll say my say an' done with it. There's goin' to +be a town-meetin' to-night, an' Nicholas sent me over to mention it. +'Father'll want to be on hand,' says he." + +Mr. Oldfield pushed back his cup, and then his chair. He bent his keen +blue eyes upon her. + +"Town meetin' this time o' year?" said he. "What for?" + +"Oh, it's about the celebration. Old Mr. Eaton"-- + +"What Eaton?" + +"William W." + +"He that went away in war time, an' made money in wool? Old War-Wool +Eaton?" + +Nicholas nodded, at her assent, and his look blackened. He knew what was +coming. + +"Well, he sent word he meant to give us a clock, same as he had other +towns, an' he wanted we should have it up before the celebration." + +"Yes," said Nicholas Oldfield, "he'll give us a clock, will he? I knew +he would. I've said 'twas comin'. He give one to Saltash; he's gi'n 'em +all over the county. Do you know what them clocks be? They've got +letters round the dial, in place o' figgers; an' the letters spell out, +'In Memory of Me.' An' down to Saltash they've gi'n up sayin' it's +quarter arter twelve, or the like o' that. They say it's O minutes past +I." + +He glared at her. Young Nick's Hattie thought she had never heard father +speak with such bitterness; and indeed it was true. Never before had he +been assailed on his own ground; it seemed as if the whole township now +conspired to bait him. + +"Well" she remarked weakly, "I dunno's it does any hurt, so long as they +can tell what they mean by it." + +Nicholas threw her a pitying glance. He scorned to waste eternal truth +on one so dull. + +"Well," she went on, in desperation, "that ain't all, neither. I might +as well say the whole, an' done with it. He wants 'em to set up the +clock on the meetin'-house; an' seeing the tower mightn't be firm +enough, he'll build it up higher, an' give 'em a new bell." + +Now, indeed, Nicholas Oldfield was in the case of Shylock, when he +learned his daughter's limit of larceny. "The curse never fell upon our +nation till now," so he might have quoted. "I never felt it till now." + +He rose from his chair. + +"In the name of God Almighty," he asked solemnly, "what do they want of +a new bell?" + +Young Nick's Hattie gave an involuntary cry. + +"O father!" she entreated, "don't say such words. I never see you take +on so. What under the sun has got into you?" + +Nicholas made no reply. Slowly and methodically he was putting the +dishes into the wooden sink. When he touched Mary's pink mug, his +fingers trembled a little; but he did not look at her. He knew she +understood. Young Nick's Hattie rolled her hands nervously in her apron, +and then unrolled them, and smoothed the apron down. She gathered +herself desperately. + +"Well, father," she said, "I've got another arrant. I said I'd do it, +an' I will; but I dunno how you'll take it." + +"O mother!" cried Mary, "don't!" + +"What is it?" asked Nicholas, folding the tablecloth in careful creases. +"Say your say an' git it over." + +Hattie rocked faster and faster. Even in the stress of the moment +Nicholas remembered that the old chair was well made, and true to its +equilibrium. + +"Well," said she, "Luella an' Freeman Henry come over here this very +day, an' Freeman Henry's possessed you should sell him the Flat-Iron +Lot." + +"Wants the Flat-Iron Lot, does he?" inquired Nicholas grimly. "What's he +made up his mind to do with it?" + +"He wants to build," answered Hattie, momentarily encouraged. "He says +he'll be glad to ride over to work, every mornin' of his life, if he can +only feel 't he's settled in Tiverton for good. An' there's that lot on +high ground, right near the meetin'-house, as sightly a place as ever +was, an' no good to you,--there ain't half a load o' hay cut there in a +season,--an' he'd pay the full vally"-- + +"Stop!" called Nicholas; and though his tone was conversational, Hattie +paused, open-mouthed, in full swing. He turned and faced her. "Hattie," +said he, "did you know that the fust settlers of this town had anything +to do with that lot o' land?" + +"No, I didn't know it," answered Hattie blankly. + +"I guess you didn't," concurred Nicholas. He had gone back to his old +gentleness of voice. "An' 't wouldn't ha' meant nothin' to ye, if ye had +known it. Now, you harken to me! It's my last word. That Flat-Iron Lot +stays under this name so long as I'm above ground. When I'm gone, you +can do as ye like. Now, I don't want to hurry ye, but I'm goin' down to +vote." + +Hattie rose, abashed and nearly terrified. "Well!" said she vacantly. +"Well!" Nicholas had taken the broom, under pretext of brushing up the +crumbs, and he seemed literally to be sweeping her away. It was a wind +of destiny; and scudding softly and heavily before it, she disappeared +in the gathering dusk. + +"Mary!" she called from the gate, "Mary! Guess you better come along +with me." + +Mary did not hear. She was standing by Nicholas, holding the edge of his +sleeve. The unaccustomed action was significant; it bespoke a passionate +loyalty. Her blue eyes were on fire, and two hot tears stood in them, +unstanched. "O gran'ther!" she cried, "don't you let 'em have it. I wish +I was father. I'd see!" + +Nicholas Oldfield stood quite still, obedient to that touch upon his +arm. + +"It's the name, Mary," said he. "Why, Freeman Henry's a Titcomb! He +can't help that. But he needn't think he can buy Oldfield land, an' set +up a house there, as if 't was all in the day's work. Why, Mary, I meant +to leave that land to you! An' p'raps you won't marry. Nobody knows. +Then, 't would stand in the name a mite longer." + +Mary blushed a little, but her eyes never wavered. + +"No, gran'ther," said she firmly, "I sha'n't ever marry anybody." + +"Well, ye can't tell," responded Nicholas, with a sigh. "Ye can't tell. +He might take your name if he wanted ye enough; but I should call it a +poor tool that would do that." + +He sighed again, as he reached for his hat, and Mary and he went out of +the house together, hand in hand. At the gate they parted, and Nicholas +took his way to the schoolhouse, where the town fathers were already +assembled. + +Since he passed over it that afternoon, the road had changed, responsive +to twilight and the coming dark. Nicholas knew it in all its phases, +from the dawn of spring, vocal with the peeping of frogs, to the revery +of winter, the silence of snow, and a hopeful glow in the west. Just +here, by the barberry bush at the corner, he had stood still under the +spell of Northern Lights. That was the night when his wife lay first in +Tiverton churchyard; and he remembered, as a part of the strangeness and +wonder of the time, how the north had streamed, and the neighboring +houses had been rosy red. But at this hour of the brooding, sultry fall, +there was a bitter fragrance in the air, and the world seemed tuned to +the somnolent sound of crickets, singing the fields to sleep. That one +little note brooded over the earth, and all the living things upon it: +hovering, and crooning, and lulling them to the rest decreed from of +old. The homely beauty of it smote upon him, though it could not cheer. +A hideous progress seemed to threaten, not alone the few details it +touched, but all the sweet, familiar things of life. Old War-Wool +Eaton, in assailing the town's historic peace, menaced also the crickets +and the breath of asters in the air. He was the rampant spirit of an +awful change. So, in the bitterness of revolt, Nicholas Oldfield marched +on, and stepped silently into the little schoolhouse, to meet his +fellows. They were standing about in groups, each laying down the law +according to his kind. The doors were wide open, and Nicholas felt as if +he had brought in with him the sounds of coming night. They kept him +sane, so that he could hold his own, as he might not have done in a room +full of winter brightness. + +"Hullo!" cried Caleb Rivers, in his neutral voice. "Here's Mr. Oldfield. +Well, Mr. Oldfield, there's a good deal on hand." + +"Called any votes?" asked Nicholas. + +"Well, no," said Caleb, scraping his chin. "I guess we're sort o' takin' +the sense o' the meetin'." + +"Good deal like a quiltin' so fur," remarked Brad Freeman indulgently. +"All gab an' no git there!" + +"They tell me," said Uncle Eli Pike, approaching Nicholas as if he had +something to confide, "that out west, where they have them new-fangled +clocks, they're all lighted up with 'lectricity." + +"Do they so?" asked Caleb, but Nicholas returned, with an unwonted +fierceness:-- + +"Does that go to the right spot with you? Do you want to see a +clock-face starin' over Tiverton, like a full moon, chargin' ye to keep +Old War-Wool Eaton in memory?" + +"Well, no," replied Eli gently, "I dunno's I do, an' I dunno _but_ I +do." + +"Might set a lantern back o' the dial, an' take turns lightin' on 't," +suggested Brad Freeman. + +"Might carve out a jack-o'-lantern like Old Eaton's face," supplemented +Tom O'Neil irreverently. + +"Well," concluded Rivers, "I guess, when all's said and done, we might +as well take the clock, an' bell, too. When a man makes a fair offer, +it's no more'n civil to close with it. Ye can't rightly heave it back +ag'in." + +"My argyment is," put in Ebenezer Tolman, who knew how to lay dollar by +dollar, "if he's willin' to do one thing for the town, he's willin' to +do another. S'pose he offered us a new brick meetin'-house--or a fancy +gate to the cemet'ry! Or s'pose he had it in mind to fill in that low +land, so 't we could bury there! Why, he could bring the town right up! +Or, take it t' other way round; he could put every dollar he's got into +Sudleigh." + +Nicholas Oldfield groaned, but in the stress of voices no one heard him. +He slipped about from one group to another, and always the sentiment was +the same. A few smiled at Old War-Wool Eaton, who desired so urgently +to be remembered, when no one was likely to forget him; but all agreed +that it was, at the worst, a harmless and natural folly. + +"Let him be remembered," said one, with a large impartiality. "'T won't +do us no hurt, an' we shall have the clock an' bell." + +Just as the meeting was called to order, Nicholas Oldfield stole away, +and no one missed him. The proceedings began with some animated +discussion, all tending one way. Cupidity had entered into the public +soul, and everybody professed himself willing to take the clock, lest, +by refusing, some golden future should be marred. Let Old Eaton have his +way, if thereby they might beguile him into paving theirs. Let the town +grow. Talk was very full and free; but when the moment came for taking a +vote, an unexpected sound broke roundly on the air. It was the bell of +the old church. One! it tolled. Each man looked at his neighbor. Had +death entered the village, and they unaware? Two! three! it went +solemnly on, the mellow cadence scarcely dying before another stroke +renewed it. The sexton was Simeon Pease, a little red-headed man, a +hunchback, abnormally strong. Suddenly he rose in amazement. His face +looked ashen. + +"Suthin's tollin' the bell!" he gasped. "The bell's a-tollin' an' _I +ain't there_!" + +A new element of mystery and terror sprang to life. + +"The sax'on's here!" whispered one and another. But nobody stirred, for +nobody would lose count. Twenty-three! the dead was young. Twenty-four! +and so it marched and marched, to thirty and thirty-five. They looked +about them, taking a swift inventory of familiar faces, and more than +one man felt a tightening about his heart, at thought of the women-folk +at home. The record climbed to middle-age, and tolled majestically +beyond it, like a life ripening to victorious close. Sixty! seventy! +eighty-one! + +"It ain't Pa'son True!" whispered an awe-struck voice. + +Then on it beat, to the completed century. + +The women of Tiverton, in afterwards weighing the immobility of their +public representatives under this mysterious clangor, dwelt upon the +fact with scorn. + +"Well, I should think you was smart!" cried sundry of them in turn. "Set +there like a bump on a log, an' wonder what's the matter! Never heard of +anything so numb in all my born days. If I was a man, I guess I'd see!" + +It was Brad Freeman who broke the spell, with a sudden thought and +cry,-- + +"By thunder! maybe's suthin's afire!" + +He leaped to his feet, and with long, loping strides made his way up +the hill to Tiverton church. The men, in one excited, surging rabble, +followed him. The women were before them. They, too, had heard the +tolling for the unknown dead, and had climbed a quicker way, leaving +fire and cradle behind. At the very moment when they were pressing, men +and women, to the open church door, the last lingering clang had ceased, +the bell lay humming itself to rest, and Nicholas Oldfield strode out +and faced them. By this time, factions had broken up, and each woman +instinctively sought her husband's side, assuring herself of protection +against the unresting things of the spirit. Young Nick's Hattie found +her lawful ally, with the rest. + +"My soul!" said she in a whisper, "it's father!" + +Nicholas touched her arm in warning, and stood silent. He felt that the +waters were troubled, as he had known them to be once or twice in his +boyhood. + +"He's got his mad up," remarked Young Nick to himself. "Stan' from +under!" + +Nicholas strode through the crowd, and it separated to let him pass. +There was about him at that moment an amazing physical energy, apparent +even in the dark. He seemed a different man, and one woman whispered to +another, "Why, that can't be Mr. Oldfield! It's a head taller." + +He walked across the green, and the crowd turned also, to follow him. +There, just opposite the church, lay his own Flat-Iron Lot, and he +stepped into it, over the low stone boundary, and turned about. + +"Don't ye come no nearer," called he. "This is my land. Don't ye set +foot on it." + +The Flat-Iron Lot was a triangular piece of ground, rich in drooping +elms, and otherwise varied only by a great boulder looming up within the +wall nearest the church. Nicholas paused for a moment where he was; then +with a thought of being the better heard, he turned, ran up the rough +side of the boulder, and faced his fellows. As he stood there, illumined +by the rising moon, he seemed colossal. + +"He'll break his infernal old neck!" said Brad Freeman admiringly. But +no one answered, for Nicholas Oldfield had begun to speak. + +"Don't ye set foot on my land!" he repeated. "Ye ain't wuth it. Do you +know what this land is? It belonged to a man that settled in a place +that knows enough to celebrate its foundin', but don't know enough to +prize what's fell to it. Do you know what I was doin' of, when I tolled +that bell? I'll tell ye. I tolled a hunderd an' ten strokes. That's the +age of the bell you're goin' to throw aside to flatter up a man that +made money out o' the war. A hunderd an' twelve years ago that bell was +cast in England; a hunderd an' ten years ago 't was sent over here." + +"Now, how's father know that?" whispered Hattie disparagingly. + +"I've cast my vote. Them hunderd an' ten strokes is all the voice I'll +have in the matter, or any matter, so long as I live in this +God-forsaken town. I'd ruther die than talk over a thing like that in +open meetin'. It's an insult to them that went before ye, an' fit hunger +and cold an' Injuns. I've got only one thing more to say," he continued, +and some fancied there came a little break in his voice. "When ye take +the old bell down, send her out to sea, an' sink her; or bury her deep +enough in the woods, so 't nobody'll git at her till the Judgment Day." + +With one descending step, he seemed to melt away into the darkness; and +though every one stood quite still, expectant, there was no sound, save +that of the crickets and the night. He had gone, and left them +trembling. Well as they knew him, he had all the effect of some strange +herald, freighted with wisdom from another sphere. + +"Well, I swear!" said Brad Freeman, at length, and as if a word could +shiver the spell, men and woman turned silently about and went down the +hill. When they reached a lower plane, they stopped to talk a little, +and once indoors, discussion had its way. Young Nick and Hattie had +walked side by side, feeling that the eyes of the town were on them, +reading their emblazoned names. But Mary marched behind them, solemnly +and alone. She held her head very high, knowing what her kinsfolk +thought: that gran'ther had disgraced them. A passionate protest rose +within her. + +That night, everybody watched the old house in the shade of the poplars, +to see if Nicholas had "lighted up." But the windows lay dark, and +little Mary, slipping over across the orchard, when her mother thought +her safe in bed, tried the door in vain. She pushed at it wildly, and +then ran round to the front, charging against the sentinel hollyhocks, +and letting the knocker fall with a desperate and repeated clang. The +noise she had herself evoked frightened her more than the stillness, and +she fled home again, crying softly, and pursued by all the unresponsive +presences of night. + +For weeks Tiverton lay in a state of hushed expectancy; one miracle +seemed to promise another. But Nicholas Oldfield's house was really +closed; the windows shone blankly at men and women who passed, +interrogating it. Young Nick and his Hattie had nothing to say, after +Hattie's one unguarded admission that she didn't know what possessed +father. The village felt that it had been arraigned before some high +tribunal, only to be found lacking. It had an irritated conviction that, +meaning no harm, it should not have been dealt with so harshly; and was +even moved to declare that, if Nicholas Oldfield knew so much about what +was past and gone, he needn't have waited till the trump o' doom to say +so. But, somehow, the affair of clock and bell could not be at once +revived, and a vague letter was dispatched to the prospective donor +stating that, in regard to his generous offer, no decision could at the +moment be reached; the town was too busy in preparing for its +celebration, which would take place in something over two weeks; after +that the question would be considered. The truth was that, at the bottom +of each heart, still lurked the natural cupidity of the loyal citizen +who will not see his town denied; but side by side with that desire for +the march of progress, walked the spectre of Nicholas Oldfield's wrath. +The trembling consciousness prevailed that he might at any moment +descend again, wrapped in that inexplicable atmosphere of loftier +meanings. + +Still, Tiverton was glad to put the question by, for she had enough to +do. The celebration knocked at the door, and no one was ready. Only Brad +Freeman, always behindhand, save at some momentary exigency of rod or +gun, was fulfilling the prophecy that the last shall be first. For he +had, out of the spontaneity of genius, elected to do one deed for that +great day, and his work was all but accomplished. In public conclave +assembled to discuss the parade, he had offered to make an elephant, to +lead the van. Tiverton roared, and then, finding him gravely silent, +remained, with gaping mouth, to hear his story. It seemed, then, that +Brad had always cherished one dear ambition. He would fain fashion an +elephant; and having never heard of Frankenstein, he lacked anticipation +of the dramatic finale likely to attend a meddling with the creative +powers. He did not confess, save once to his own wife, how many nights +he had lain awake, in their little dark bedroom, planning the anatomy of +the eastern lord; he simply said that he "wanted to make the critter," +and he thought he could do it. Immediately the town gave him to +understand that he had full power to draw upon the public treasury, to +the extent of one elephant; and the youth, who always flocked adoringly +about him, intimated that they were with him, heart and soul. Thereupon, +in Eli Pike's barn, selected as of goodly size, creation reveled, the +while a couple of men, chosen for their true eye and practiced hand, +went into the woods, and chopped down two beautiful slender trees for +tusks. For many a day now, the atmosphere of sacred art had hung about +that barn. Brad was a maker, and everybody felt it. Fired by no +tradition of the horse that went to the undoing of Troy, and with no +plan before him, he set his framework together, nailing with unerring +hand. Did he need a design, he who had brooded over his bliss these many +months when Tiverton thought he was "jest lazin' round?" Nay, it was to +be "all wrought out of the carver's brain," and the brain was ready. + +Often have I wished some worthy chronicler had been at hand when +Tiverton sat by at the making of the elephant; and then again I have +realized that, though the atmosphere was highly charged, it may have +been void of homely talk. For this was a serious moment, and even when +Brad gave sandpaper and glass into the hands of Lothrop Wilson, the +cooper, bidding him smooth and polish the tusks, there was no jealousy: +only a solemn sense that Mr. Wilson had been greatly favored. Brad's +wife sewed together a dark slate-colored cambric, for the elephant's +hide, and wet and wrinkled it, as her husband bade her, for the +shambling shoulders and flanks. It was she who made the ears, from a +pattern cunningly conceived; and she stuffed the legs with fine shavings +brought from the planing-mill at Sudleigh. Then there came an +intoxicating day when the trunk took shape, the glass-bottle eyes were +inserted, and Brad sprung upon a breathless world his one surprise. +Between the creature's fore-legs, he disclosed an opening, saying +meantime to the smallest Crane boy,-- + +"You crawl up there!" + +The Crane boy was not valiant, but he reasoned that it was better to +seek an unguessed fate within the elephant than to refuse immortal +glory. Trembling, he crept into the hole, and was eclipsed. + +"Now put your hand up an' grip that rope that's hangin' there," +commanded Brad. Perhaps he, too, trembled a little. The heart beats fast +when we approach a great fruition. + +"Pull it! Easy, now! easy!" + +The boy pulled, and the elephant moved his trunk. He stretched it out, +he drew it in. Never was such a miracle before. And Tiverton, drunk with +glory, clapped and shouted until the women-folk clutched their +sunbonnets and ran to see. No situation since the war had ever excited +such ferment. Brad was the hero of his town. But now arose a natural +rivalry, the reaction from great, impersonal joy in noble work. What +lad, on that final day, should ride within the elephant, and move his +trunk? The Crane boy contended passionately that he held the right of +possession. Had he not been selected first? Others wept at home and +argued the case abroad, until it became a common thing to see two young +scions of Tiverton grappling in dusty roadways, or stoning each other +from afar. The public accommodated itself to such spectacles, and +grown-up relatives, when they came upon little sons rolling over and +over, or sitting triumphantly, the one upon another's chest, would only +remark, as they gripped two shirt collars, and dragged the combatants +apart:-- + +"Now, what do you want to act so for? Brad'll pick out the one he thinks +best. He's got the say." + +In vain did mothers argue, at twilight time, when the little dusty legs +in overalls were still, and stubbed toes did their last wriggling for +the day, that the boy who moved the trunk could not possibly see the +rest of the procession. The candidates, to a boy, rejected that specious +plea. + +"What do I want to see anything for, if I can jest set inside that +elephant?" sobbed the Crane boy angrily. And under every roof the wail +was repeated in many keys. + +Meantime, the log cabin had been going steadily up, and a week before +the great day, it was completed. This was a typical scene-setting,--the +cabin of a first settler,--and through one wild leap of fancy it became +suddenly and dramatically dignified. + +"For the land's sake!" said aunt Lucindy, when she went by and saw it +standing, in modest worth, "ain't they goin' to _do_ anythin' with it? +Jest let it set there? Why under the sun don't they have a party of +Injuns tackle it?" + +The woman who heard repeated the remark as a sample of aunt Lucindy's +desire to have everything "all of a whew;" but when it came to the ears +of a certain young man who had sat brooding, in silent emulation, over +the birth of the elephant, he rose, with fire in his eye, and went to +seek his mates. Indians there should be, and he, by right of first +desire, should become their leader. Thereupon, turkey feathers came into +great demand, and wattled fowl, once glorious, went drooping dejectedly +about, while maidens sat in doorways sewing wampum and leggings for +their favored swains. The first rehearsal of this aboriginal drama was +not an entire success, because the leader, being unimaginative though +faithful, decreed that faces should be blackened with burnt cork; and +the result was a tribe of the African race, greatly astonished at their +own appearance in the family mirror. Then the doctor suggested walnut +juice, and all went conformably again. But each man wanted to be an +Indian, and no one professed himself willing to suffer the attack. + +"I'll stay in the cabin, if I can shoot, an' drop a redskin every time," +said Dana Marden stubbornly; but no redskin would consent to be dropped, +and naturally no settler could yield. It would ill befit that glorious +day to see the log cabin taken; but, on the other hand, what loyal +citizen could allow himself to be defeated, even as a skulking redman, +at the very hour of Tiverton's triumph? For a time a peaceful solution +was promised by the doctor, who proposed that a party of settlers on +horseback should come to the rescue, just when a settler's wife, within +the cabin, was in danger of immolation. That seemed logical and right, +and for days thereafter young men on astonished farm horses went +sweeping down Tiverton Street, alternately pursuing and pursued, while +Isabel North, as Priscilla, the Puritan maiden, trembled realistically +at the cabin door. Just why she was to be Priscilla, a daughter of +Massachusetts, Isabel never knew; the name had struck the popular fancy, +and she made her costume accordingly. But one day, when young Tiverton +was galloping about the town, to the sound of ecstatic yells, a farmer +drew up his horse to inquire:-- + +"Now see here! there's one thing that's got to be settled. When the day +comes, who's goin' to beat?" + +An Indian, his face scarlet with much sound, and his later state not yet +apparent, in that his wampum, blanket, and horsehair wig lay at home, on +the best-room bed, made answer hoarsely, "We be!" + +"Not by a long chalk!" returned the other, and the settlers growled in +unison. They had all a patriot's pride in upholding white blood against +red. + +"Well, by gum! then you can look out for your own Injuns!" returned +their chief. "_My_ last gun's fired." + +Settlers and Indians turned sulkily about; they rode home in two +separate factions, and the streets were stilled. Isabel North went +faithfully on, making her Priscilla dress, but it seemed, in those days, +as if she might remain in her log cabin, unattacked and undefended. +Tiverton was to be deprived of its one dramatic spectacle. Young men met +one another in the streets, remarked gloomily, "How are ye?" and passed +by. There were no more curdling yells at which even the oxen lifted +their dull ears; and one youth went so far as to pack his Indian suit +sadly away in the garret, as a jilted girl might lay aside her wedding +gown. It was a sullen and all but universal feud. + +Now in all this time two prominent citizens had let public opinion riot +as it would,--the minister and the doctor. The minister, a grave-faced, +brown-bearded young man, had seen fit to get run down, and have an +attack of slow fever, from which he was just recovering; and the doctor +had been spending most of his time in Saltash, with an epidemic of +mumps. But the mumps subsided, and the minister gained strength; so, +being public-spirited men, these two at once concerned themselves in +village affairs. The first thing the minister did was to call on +Nicholas Oldfield, and Young Nick's Hattie saw him there, knocking at +the front door. + +"Mary! Mary!" cried she, "if there ain't the young pa'son over to your +grandpa's. I dunno when anybody's called there, he's away so much. Like +as not he's heard how father carried on that night, an' now he's got +out, he's come right over, first thing, to tell him what folks think." + +Mary looked up from the serpentine braid she was crocheting. + +"Well, I guess he'd better not," she threatened. And her mother, +absorbed by curiosity, contented herself with the reproof implied in a +shaken head and pursed-up lips. + +A sad and curious change had befallen Mary. She looked older. One week +had dimmed her brightness, and little puckers between her eyes were +telling a story of anxious care. For gran'ther had been home without her +seeing him. Mary felt as if he had repudiated the town. She knew well +that he had not abandoned her with it, but she could guess what the loss +of larger issues meant to him. Young Nick, if he had been in the habit +of expressing himself, would have said that father's mad was still up. +Mary knew he was grieved, and she grieved also. She had not expected him +until the end of the week. Then watching wistfully, she saw the +darkness come, and knew next day would bring him; but the next day it +was the same. One placid afternoon, a quick thought assailed her, and +stained her cheek with crimson. She laid down the sheet which was her +"stent" of over-edge, and ran with flying feet to the little house. +Hanging by her hands upon the sill of the window nearest the clock, she +laid her ear to the glass. The clock was ticking serenely, as of old. +Gran'ther had been home to wind it. So he had come in the night, and +slipped away again in silence! + + * * * * * + +"There! he's gi'n it up!" cried Hattie, still watching the minister. +"He's turnin' down the path. My land! he's headed this way. He's comin' +here. You beat up that cushion, an' throw open the best-room door. My +soul! if your grandpa's goin' to set the whole town by the ears, I wisht +he'd come home an' fight his own battles!" + +Hattie did not look at her young daughter; but if she had looked, she +might have been amazed. Mary stood firm as iron; she was more than ever +a chip o' the old block. + +When the young minister had somewhat weakly climbed the two front steps, +he elected not to sit in the best room, for he was a little chilly, and +would like the sun. Presently he was installed in the new cane-backed +rocker, and Mrs. Oldfield had offered him some currant wine. + +"Though I dunno's you would," said she, anxiously flaunting a principle +righteous as his own. "I s'pose you're teetotal." + +The minister would not have wine, and he could not stay. + +"I've really come on business," said he. "Do you know anything about Mr. +Oldfield?" + +So strong was the family conviction that Nicholas had involved them in +disgrace, that Mary glanced up fiercely, and her mother gave an +apologetic cough. + +"Well," said Young Nick's Hattie, "I dunno's I know anything particular +about father." + +"Where is he, I mean," asked the minister. "I want to see him. I've got +to." + +"Gran'ther's gone away," announced Mary, looking up at him with hot and +loyal eyes. "We don't know where." Her fingers trembled, and she lost +her stitch. She was furious with herself for not being calmer. It seemed +as if gran'ther had a right to demand it of her. The minister bent his +brows impatiently. + +"Why, I depended on seeing Mr. Oldfield," said he, with the +fractiousness of a man recently ill. "This sickness of mine has put me +back tremendously. I've got to make the address, and I don't know what +to say. I meant to read town records and hunt up old stories; and then +when I was sick I thought, 'Never mind! Mr. Oldfield will have it all at +his tongue's end.' And now he isn't here, and I'm all at sea without +him." + +This was perhaps the first time that Young Nick's Hattie had ever looked +upon her father's pursuits with anything but a pitying eye. A frown of +perplexity grew between her brows. Her brain ached in expanding. Mary +leaned forward, her face irradiated with pure delight. + +"Why, yes," said she, at once accepting the minister for a friend, +"gran'ther could tell you, if he was here. He knows everything." + +"You see," continued the minister, now addressing her, "there are facts +enough that are common talk about the town, but we only half know them. +The first settlers came from Devon. Well, where did they enter the town? +From which point? Sudleigh side, or along by the river? I incline to the +river. The doctor says it would be a fine symbolic thing to take the +procession up to the church by the very way the first settlers came in. +But where was it? I don't know, and nobody does, unless it's Nicholas +Oldfield." + +Mary folded her hands, in proud composure. + +"Yes, sir," said she, "gran'ther knows. He could tell you, if he was +here." + +"I should like to inquire what makes you so certain, Mary Oldfield," +asked her mother, with the natural irritation of the unprepared. "I +should like to know how father's got hold of things pa'son and doctor +ain't neither of 'em heard of?" + +"Why," said the minister, rising, "he's simply crammed with town +legends. He can repeat them by the yard. He's a local historian. But +then, I needn't tell you that; you know what an untiring student he has +been." And he went away thoughtful and discouraged, omitting, as Hattie +realized with awe, to offer prayer. + +Mary stepped joyously about, getting supper and singing "Hearken, Ye +Sprightly!" in an exultant voice; but her mother brooded. It was not +until dusk, when the three sat before the clock-room fire, "blazed" +rather for company than warmth, that Young Nick's Hattie opened her +mouth and spoke. + +"Mary," said she, "how'd you find out your grandpa was such great +shakes?" + +Mary was in some things much older than her mother. She answered +demurely, "I don't know as I can say." + +"Nick," continued Hattie, turning to her spouse, "did you ever hear your +father was smarter'n the minister an' doctor put together, so 't they +had to run round beseechin' him to tell 'em how to act?" + +Nicholas knocked his pipe against the andiron, and rose, to lay it +carefully on the shelf. "I can't say's I did," he returned. Then he set +forth for Eli Pike's barn, where it was customary now to stand about the +elephant and prophesy what Tiverton might become. As for Hattie, +realizing how little light she was likely to borrow from those who were +nearest and dearest her, she remarked that she should like to shake them +both. + +The next day began a new and exciting era. It was bruited abroad that +the presence of Nicholas Oldfield was necessary for the success of the +celebration; and now young men but lately engaged in unprofitable +warfare rode madly over the county in search of him. They inquired for +him at taverns; they sought him in farmhouses where he had been wont to +lodge. He gained almost the terrible notoriety of an absconding cashier; +and the current issue of the Sudleigh "Star" wore a flaming headline, +"No Trace of Mr. Oldfield Yet!" + +Mary at first waxed merry over the pursuit. She knew very well why +gran'ther was staying away; and her pride grew insolent at seeing him +sought in vain. But when his loss flared out at her in sacred print, she +stared for a moment, and then, after that wide-eyed, piteous glance at +the possibilities of things, walked with a firm tread to her little +room. There she knelt down, and buried her face in the bed, being +careful, meanwhile, not to rumple the valance. At last she knew the +truth; he was dead, and village gossip seemed a small thing in +comparison. + +It would have been difficult, as time went on, to convince the rest of +the township that Mr. Oldfield was not in a better world. + +"They'd ha' found him, if he's above ground," said the fathers, full of +faith in the detective instinct of their coursing sons. It seemed +incredible that sons should ride so fast and far, and come to nothing. +"Never was known to go out o' the county, an' they've rid over it from +one eend to t' other. Must ha' made way with himself. He wa'n't quite +right, that time he tolled the bell." + +They found ominous parallels of peddlers who had been murdered in +byways, or stuck in swamps, and even cited a Tivertonian, of low degree, +who was once caught beneath the chin by a clothes-line, and remained +there, under the impression that he was being hanged, until the family +came out in the morning, and tilted him the other way. + +"But then," they added, "he was a drinkin' man, an' Mr. Oldfield never +was known to touch a drop, even when he had a tight cold." + +Dark as the occasion waxed, what with feuds and presentiments of ill, +there was some casual comfort in rolling this new tragedy as a sweet +morsel under the tongue, and a mournful pleasure in referring to the +night when poor Mr. Oldfield was last seen alive. So time went on to +the very eve of the celebration, and it was as well that the celebration +had never been. For kindly as Tiverton proved herself, in the main, and +closely welded in union against rival towns, now it seemed as if the +hand of every man were raised against his brother. Settlers and Indians +were still implacable; neither would ride, save each might slay the +other. The Crane boy tossed in bed, swollen to the eyes with an evil +tooth; and his exulting mates so besieged Brad Freeman for preferment, +that even that philosopher's patience gave way, and he said he'd be +hanged if he'd take the elephant out at all, if there was going to be +such a to-do about it. Even the minister sulked, though he wore a +pretense of dignity; for he had concocted a short address with very +little history in it, and that all hearsay, and the doctor had said +lightly, looking it over, "Well, old man, not much of it, is there? But +there's enough of it, such as it is." + +It was in vain for the doctor to declare that this was a colloquialism +which might mean much or little, as you chose to take it. The minister, +justly hurt, remarked that, when a man was in a tight place, he needed +the support of his friends, if he had any; and the doctor went whistling +drearily away, conscious that he could have said much worse about the +address, without doing it justice. + +The only earthly circumstance which seemed to be fulfilling its duty +toward Tiverton was the weather. That shone seraphically bright. The air +was never so soft, the skies were never so clear and far, and they were +looking down indulgently on all this earthly turmoil when, something +before midnight, on the fateful eve, Nicholas Oldfield went up the path +to his side-door, and stumbled over despairing Mary on the step. + +"What under the heavens"--he began; but Mary precipitated herself upon +him, and held him with both hands. The moral tension, which had held her +hopeless and rigid, gave way. She was sobbing wildly. + +"O gran'ther!" she moaned, over and over again. "O gran'ther!" + +Nicholas managed somehow to get the door open and walk in, hampered as +he was by the clinging arms of his tall girl. Then he sat down in the +big chair, taking Mary there too, and stroked her cheek. Perhaps he +could hardly have done it in the light, but at that moment it seemed +very natural. For a long time neither of them spoke. Mary had no words, +and it may be that Nicholas could not seek for them. At last she began, +catching her breath tremulously:-- + +"They've hunted everywhere, gran'ther. They've rode all over the county; +and after the celebration, they're going to--dr--drag the pond!" + +"Well, I guess I can go out o' the county if I want to," responded +Nicholas calmly. "I come across a sheet in them rec'ids that told about +a pewter communion set over to Rocky Ridge, an' I've found part on 't in +a tavern there. Who put 'em up to all this work? Your father?" + +"No," sobbed Mary. "The minister." + +"The minister? What's he want?" + +"He's got to write an address, and he wants you to tell him what to +say." + +Then, in the darkness of the room, a slow smile stole over Nicholas +Oldfield's face, but his voice remained quite grave. + +"Does, does he?" he remarked. "Well, he ain't the fust pa'son that's +needed a lift; but he's the fust one ever I knew to ask for it. I've got +nothin' for 'em, Mary. I come home to wind up the clocks; but I ain't +goin' to stand by a town that'll swaller a Memory-o'-Me timekeeper an' +murder the old bell. You can say I was here, an' they needn't go to +muddyin' up the ponds; but as to their doin's, they can carry 'em out as +they may. I've no part nor lot in 'em." + +Mary, in the weakness of her kind, was wiser than she knew. She drew her +arms about his neck, and clung to him the closer. All this talk of plots +and counter-plots seemed very trivial now that she had him back; and +being only a child, wearied with care and watching, she went fast +asleep on his shoulder. Nicholas felt tired too; but he thought he had +only dozed a little when he opened his eyes on a gleam of morning, and +saw the doctor come striding into the yard. + +"Your door's open!" called the doctor. "You must be at home to callers. +Morning, Mary! Either of you sick?" + +Mary, abashed, drew herself away, and slipped into the sitting-room, a +hand upon her tumbled hair; the doctor, wise in his honesty, slashed at +the situation without delay. + +"See here, Mr. Oldfield," said he, "whether you've slept or not, you've +got to come right over to parson's with me, and straighten him out. He's +all balled up. You are as bad as the rest of us. You think we don't know +enough to refuse a clock like a comic valentine, and you think we don't +prize that old bell. How are we going to prize things if nobody tells us +anything about them? And here's the town going to pieces over a +celebration it hasn't sense enough to plan, just because you're so +obstinate. Oh, come along! Hear that! The boys are beginning to toot, +and fire off their crackers, and Tiverton's going to the dogs, and +Sudleigh'll be glad of it! Come, Mr. Oldfield, come along!" + +Nicholas stood quite calmly looking through the window into the morning +dew and mist. He wore his habitual air of gentle indifference, and the +doctor saw in him those everlasting hills which persuasion may not +climb. Suddenly there was a rustling from the other room, and Mary +appeared in the doorway, standing there expectant. Her face was pink and +a little vague from sleep, but she looked very dear and good. Though +Nicholas had "lost himself" that night, he had kept time for thought; +and perhaps he realized how precious a thing it is to lay up treasure of +inheritance for one who loves us, and is truly of our kind. He turned +quite meekly to the doctor. + +"Should you think," he inquired, "should you think pa'son would be up +an' dressed?" + +Ten minutes thereafter, the two were knocking at the parson's door. + +Confused and turbulent as Tiverton had become, Nicholas Oldfield settled +her at once. Knowledge dripped from his finger-ends; he had it ready, +like oil to give a clock. Doctor and minister stood breathless while he +laid out the track for the procession by local marks they both knew +well. + +"They must ha' come into the town from som'er's nigh the old +cross-road," said he. "No, 't wa'n't where they made the river road. +Then they turned straight to one side--'t was thick woods then, you +understand--an' went up a little ways towards Horn o' the Moon. But they +concluded that wouldn't suit 'em, 't was so barren-like; an' they +wheeled round, took what's now the old turnpike, an' clim' right up +Tiverton Hill, through Tiverton Street that now is. An' there"--Nicholas +Oldfield's eyes burned like blue flame, and again he told the story of +the Flat-iron Lot. + +"Indeed!" cried the parson. "What a truly remarkable circumstance! We +might halt on that very spot, and offer prayer, before entering the +church." + +"'Pears as if that would be about the rights on't," said Nicholas +quietly. "That is, if anybody wanted to plan it out jest as 't was." He +could free his words from the pride of life, but not his voice; it +quivered and betrayed him. + +"Your idea would be to have the services before going down for the +Indian raid?" inquired the doctor. "They're all at logger-heads there." + +But Nicholas, hearing how neither faction would forego its glory, had +the remedy ready in a cranny of his brain. + +"Well," said he, "you know there was a raid in '53, when both sides gi'n +up an' run. A crazed creatur on a white horse galloped up an' dispersed +'em. He was all wropped up in a sheet, and carried a jack-o'-lantern on +a pole over his head, so 't he seemed more'n nine feet high. The +settlers thought 't was a spirit; an' as for the Injuns, Lord knows what +'t was to them. 'T any rate, the raid was over." + +"Heaven be praised!" cried the doctor fervently. "Allah is great, and +you, Mr. Oldfield, are his prophet. Stay here and coach the parson while +I start up the town." + +The doctor dashed home and mounted his horse. It was said that he did +some tall riding that day. From door to door he galloped, a lesser Paul +Revere, but sowing seeds of harmony. It was true that the soil was +ready. Indians in full costume were lurking down cellar or behind +kitchen doors, swearing they would never ride, but tremblingly eager to +be urged. Settlers, gloomily acquiescent in an unjust fate, brightened +at his heralding. The ghost was the thing. It took the popular fancy; +and everybody wondered, as after all illuminings of genius, why nobody +had thought of it before. Brad Freeman was unanimously elected to act +the part, as the only living man likely to manage a supplementary head +without rehearsal; and Pillsbury's white colt was hastily groomed for +the onslaught. Brad had at once seen the possibilities of the situation +and decided, with an unerring certainty, that as a jack-o'-lantern is +naught by day, the pumpkin face must be cunningly veiled. He was a busy +man that morning; for he not only had to arrange his own ghostly +progress, but settle the elephant on its platform, to be dragged by +vine-wreathed oxen, and also, at the doctor's instigation, to make the +sledge on which the first Nicholas Oldfield should draw his wife into +town. The doctor sought out Young Nick, and asked him to undertake the +part, as tribute to his illustrious name; but he was of a prudent nature +and declined. What if the town should laugh! "I guess I won't," said he. + +But Mary, regardless of maternal cacklings, sped after the doctor as he +turned his horse. + +"O doctor!" she besought, "let me be the first settler's wife! Please, +_please_ let me be Mary Oldfield!" + +The doctor was glad enough. All the tides of destiny were surging his +way. Even when he paused, in his progress, to pull the Crane boy's +tooth, it seemed to work out public harmony. For the victim, cannily +anxious to prove his valor, insisted on having the operation conducted +before the front window; and after it was accomplished, the squads of +boys waiting at the gate for his apotheosis or down-fall, gave an +unwilling yet delighted yell. He had not winced; and when, with the fire +of a dear ambition still shining in his eyes, he held up the tooth to +them, through the glass, they realized that he, and he only, could with +justice take the crown of that most glorious day. He must ride inside +the elephant. + +So it came to pass that when the procession wound slowly up from the +cross-road, preceded by the elephant, lifting his trunk at rhythmic +intervals, Nicholas Oldfield saw his little Mary, her eyes shining and +her cheeks aglow, sitting proudly upon a sledge, drawn by the handsomest +young man in town. A pang may have struck the old man's heart, realizing +that Phil Marden was so splendid in his strength, and that he wore so +sweet a look of invitation; but he remembered Mary's vow and was +content. A great pride and peace enwrapped him when the procession +halted at the Flat-Iron Lot, and the minister, lifting up his voice, +explained to the townspeople why they were called upon to pause. The +name of Oldfield sounded clearly on the air. + +"Now," said the minister, "let us pray." The petition went forth, and +Mr. Oldfield stood brooding there, his thoughts running back through a +long chain of ancestry to the Almighty, Who is the fount of all. + +When heads were covered again, and this little world began to surge into +the church, young Nick's Hattie moved closer to her husband and shot out +a sibilant whisper:-- + +"Did you know that?--about the Flat-Iron Lot?" + +Young Nick shook his head. He was entirely dazed. + +"Well," continued Hattie, full of awe, "I guess I never was nearer my +end than when I let myself be go-between for Freeman Henry. I wonder +father let me get out alive." + +The minister's address was very short and unpretending. He dwelt on the +sacredness of the past, and all its memories, and closed by saying that, +while we need not shrink from signs of progress, we should guard against +tampering with those ancient landmarks which serve as beacon lights, to +point the brighter way. Hearing that, every man steeled his heart +against Memory-of-Me clocks, and resolved to vote against them. Then the +minister explained that, since he had been unable to prepare a suitable +address, Mr. Oldfield had kindly consented to read some precious records +recently discovered by him. A little rustling breath went over the +audience. So this amiable lunacy had its bearing on the economy of life! +They were amazed, as may befall us at any judgment day, when grays are +strangely alchemized to white. + +Mr. Oldfield, unmoved as ever, save in a certain dominating quality of +presence, rose and stood before them, the records in his hands. He read +them firmly, explaining here and there, his simple speech untouched by +finer usage; and when the minister interposed a question, he dropped +into such quaintness of rich legendry that his hearers sat astounded. So +they were a part of the world! and not the world to-day, but the +universe in its making. + +It was long before Nicholas concluded; but the time seemed brief. He sat +down, and the minister took the floor. He thanked Mr. Oldfield and then +went on to say that, although it might be informal, he would suggest +that the town, with Mr. Oldfield's permission, place an inscription on +the boulder in the Flat-Iron Lot, stating why it was to be held +historically sacred. The town roared and stamped, but meanwhile Nicholas +Oldfield was quietly rising. + +"In that case, pa'son," said he, "I should like to state that it would +be my purpose to make over that lot to the town to be held as public +land forever." + +Again the village folk outdid themselves in applause, while Young Nick +muttered, "Well, I vum!" beneath his breath, and Hattie replied, +antiphonally, "My soul!" These were not the notes of mere surprise. They +were prayers for guidance in this exigency of finding a despised +intelligence exalted. + +The celebration went on to a victorious close. Who shall sing the +sweetness of Isabel North, as she sat by the log-cabin door, placidly +spinning flax, or the horror of the moment when, redskins swooping down +on her and settlers on them, the ghost swept in and put them all to +flight? Who will ever forget the exercises in the hall, when the +"Suwanee River" was sung by minstrels, to a set of tableaux representing +the "old folks" at their cabin door, "playin' wid my brudder" as a game +of stick-knife, and the "Swanny" River itself by a frieze of white +pasteboard swans in the background? There were patriotic songs, +accompanied by remarks laudatory of England; since it was justly felt +that our mother-land might be wounded if, on an occasion of this sort, +we fomented international differences by "America" or the reminiscent +triumph of "The Sword of Bunker Hill." A very noble sentiment pervaded +Tiverton when, at twilight, little groups of tired and very happy people +lingered here and there before "harnessing up" and betaking themselves +to their homes. The homes themselves meant more to them now, not as +shelters, but as sacred shrines; and many a glance sought out Nicholas +Oldfield standing quietly by--the reverential glance accorded those who +find out unsuspected wealth. Young Nick approached his father with an +awkwardness sitting more heavily upon him than usual. + +"Well," said he, "I'm mighty glad you gi'n 'em that lot." + +Old Nicholas nodded gravely, and at that moment Hattie came up, all in a +flutter. + +"Father," said she quite appealingly, "I wisht you'd come over to +supper. Luella an' Freeman Henry'll be there. It's a great day, an'"-- + +"Yes, I know 't is," answered Nicholas kindly. "I'm much obleeged, but +Mary's goin' to eat with me. Mebbe we might look in, along in the +evenin'. Come, Mary!" + +Mary, very sweet in her plain dress and white kerchief, was talking +with young Marden, her husband for the day; but she turned about +contentedly. + +"Yes, gran'ther," said she, without a look behind, "I'm coming!" + + + + +THE END OF ALL LIVING + + +The First Church of Tiverton stands on a hill, whence it overlooks the +little village, with one or two pine-shaded neighborhoods beyond, and, +when the air is clear, a thin blue line of upland delusively like the +sea. Set thus austerely aloft, it seems now a survival of the day when +men used to go to meeting gun in hand, and when one stayed, a lookout by +the door, to watch and listen. But this the present dwellers do not +remember. Conceding not a sigh to the holy and strenuous past, they +lament--and the more as they grow older--the stiff climb up the hill, +albeit to rest in so sweet a sanctuary at the top. For it is sweet +indeed. A soft little wind seems always to be stirring there, on summer +Sundays a messenger of good. It runs whispering about, and wafts in all +sorts of odors: honey of the milk-weed and wild rose, and a Christmas +tang of the evergreens just below. It carries away something, +too--scents calculated to bewilder the thrift-hunting bee: sometimes a +whiff of peppermint from an old lady's pew, but oftener the breath of +musk and southernwood, gathered in ancient gardens, and borne up here +to embroider the preacher's drowsy homilies, and remind us, when we +faint, of the keen savor of righteousness. + +Here in the church do we congregate from week to week; but behind it, on +a sloping hillside, is the last home of us all, the old burying-ground, +overrun with a briery tangle, and relieved by Nature's sweet and cunning +hand from the severe decorum set ordinarily about the dead. Our very +faithlessness has made it fair. There was a time when we were a little +ashamed of it. We regarded it with affection, indeed, but affection of +the sort accorded some rusty relative who has lain too supine in the rut +of years. Thus, with growing ambition came, in due course, the project +of a new burying-ground. This we dignified, even in common speech; it +was always grandly "the Cemetery." While it lay unrealized in the +distance, the home of our forbears fell into neglect, and Nature marched +in, according to her lavishness, and adorned what we ignored. The white +alder crept farther and farther from its bounds; tansy and wild rose +rioted in profusion, and soft patches of violets smiled to meet the +spring. Here were, indeed, great riches, "a little of everything" that +pasture life affords: a hardy bed of checkerberry, crimson strawberries +nodding on long stalks, and in one sequestered corner the beloved +Linnæa. It seemed a consecrated pasture shut off from daily use, and so +given up to pleasantness that you could scarcely walk there without +setting foot on some precious outgrowth of the spring, or pushing aside +a summer loveliness better made for wear. + +Ambition had its fulfillment. We bought our Cemetery, a large, green +tract, quite square, and lying open to the sun. But our pendulum had +swung too wide. Like many folk who suffer from one discomfort, we had +gone to the utmost extreme and courted another. We were tired of +climbing hills, and so we pressed too far into the lowland; and the +first grave dug in our Cemetery showed three inches of water at the +bottom. It was in "Prince's new lot," and there his young daughter was +to lie. But her lover had stood by while the men were making the grave; +and, looking into the ooze below, he woke to the thought of her fair +young body there. + +"God!" they heard him say, "she sha'n't lay so. Leave it as it is, an' +come up into the old buryin'-ground. There's room enough by me." + +The men, all mates of his, stopped work without a glance and followed +him; and up there in the dearer shrine her place was made. The father +said but a word at her changed estate. Neighbors had hurried in to bring +him the news; he went first to the unfinished grave in the Cemetery, and +then strode up the hill, where the men had not yet done. After watching +them for a while in silence, he turned aside; but he came back to drop a +trembling hand upon the lover's arm. + +"I guess," he said miserably, "she'd full as lieves lay here by you." + +And she will be quite beside him, though, in the beaten ways of earth, +others have come between. For years he lived silently and apart; but +when his mother died, and he and his father were left staring at the +dulled embers of life, he married a good woman, who perhaps does not +deify early dreams; yet she is tender of them, and at the death of her +own child it was she who went toiling up to the graveyard, to see that +its little place did not encroach too far. She gave no reason, but we +all knew it was because she meant to let her husband lie there by the +long-loved guest. + +Naturally enough, after this incident of the forsaken grave, we +conceived a strange horror of the new Cemetery, and it has remained +deserted to this day. It is nothing but a meadow now, with that one +little grassy hollow in it to tell a piteous tale. It is mown by any +farmer who chooses to take it for a price; but we regard it differently +from any other plot of ground. It is "the Cemetery," and always will be. +We wonder who has bought the grass. "Eli's got the Cemetery this year," +we say. And sometimes awe-stricken little squads of school children +lead one another there, hand in hand, to look at the grave where Annie +Prince was going to be buried when her beau took her away. They never +seem to connect that heart-broken wraith of a lover with the bent farmer +who goes to and fro driving the cows. He wears patched overalls, and has +sciatica in winter; but I have seen the gleam of youth awakened, though +remotely, in his eyes. I do not believe he ever quite forgets; there are +moments, now and then, at dusk or midnight, all his for poring over +those dulled pages of the past. + +After we had elected to abide by our old home, we voted an enlargement +of its bounds; and thereby hangs a tale of outlawed revenge. Long years +ago "old Abe Eaton" quarreled with his twin brother, and vowed, as the +last fiat of an eternal divorce, "I won't be buried in the same yard +with ye!" + +The brother died first; and because he lay within a little knoll beside +the fence, Abe willfully set a public seal on that iron oath by +purchasing a strip of land outside, wherein he should himself be buried. +Thus they would rest in a hollow correspondence, the fence between. It +all fell out as he ordained, for we in Tiverton are cheerfully willing +to give the dead their way. Lax enough is the helpless hand in the +fictitious stiffness of its grasp; and we are not the people to deny it +holding, by courtesy at least. Soon enough does the sceptre of +mortality crumble and fall. So Abe was buried according to his wish. But +when necessity commanded us to add unto ourselves another acre, we took +in his grave with it, and the fence, falling into decay, was never +renewed. There he lies, in affectionate decorum, beside the brother he +hated; and thus does the greater good wipe out the individual wrong. + +So now, as in ancient times, we toil steeply up here, with the dead upon +his bier; for not often in Tiverton do we depend on that uncouth +monstrosity, the hearse. It is not that we do not own one,--a rigid box +of that name has belonged to us now for many a year; and when Sudleigh +came out with a new one, plumes, trappings, and all, we broached the +idea of emulating her. But the project fell through after Brad Freeman's +contented remark that he guessed the old one would last us out. He +"never heard no complaint from anybody 't ever rode in it." That placed +our last journey on a homely, humorous basis, and we smiled, and +reflected that we preferred going up the hill borne by friendly hands, +with the light of heaven falling on our coffin-lids. + +The antiquary would set much store by our headstones, did he ever find +them out. Certain of them are very ancient, according to our ideas; for +they came over from England, and are now fallen into the grayness of +age. They are woven all over with lichens, and the blackberry binds +them fast. Well, too, for them! They need the grace of some such +veiling; for most of them are alive, even to this day, with warning +skulls, and awful cherubs compounded of bleak, bald faces and sparsely +feathered wings. One discovery, made there on a summer day, has not, I +fancy, been duplicated in another New England town. On six of the larger +tombstones are carved, below the grass level, a row of tiny imps, +grinning faces and humanized animals. Whose was the hand that wrought? +The Tivertonians know nothing about it. They say there was a certain old +Veasey who, some eighty odd years ago, used to steal into the graveyard +with his tools, and there, for love, scrape the mosses from the stones +and chip the letters clear. He liked to draw, "creatur's" especially, +and would trace them for children on their slates. He lived alone in a +little house long since fallen, and he would eat no meat. That is all +they know of him. I can guess but one thing more: that when no looker-on +was by, he pushed away the grass, and wrote his little jokes, safe in +the kindly tolerance of the dead. This was the identical soul who +should, in good old days, have been carving gargoyles and misereres; +here his only field was the obscurity of Tiverton churchyard, his only +monument these grotesqueries so cunningly concealed. + +We have epitaphs, too,--all our own as yet, for the world has not +discovered them. One couple lies in well-to-do respectability under a +tiny monument not much taller than the conventional gravestone, but +shaped on a pretentious model. + +"We'd ruther have it nice," said the builders, "even if there ain't much +of it." + +These were Eliza Marden and Peleg her husband, who worked from sun to +sun, with scant reward save that of pride in their own forehandedness. I +can imagine them as they drove to church in the open wagon, a couple +portentously large and prosperous: their one child, Hannah, sitting +between them, and glancing about her, in a flickering, intermittent way, +at the pleasant holiday world. Hannah was no worker; she liked a long +afternoon in the sun, her thin little hands busied about nothing +weightier than crochet; and her mother regarded her with a horrified +patience, as one who might some time be trusted to sow all her wild oats +of idleness. The well-mated pair died within the same year, and it was +Hannah who composed their epitaph, with an artistic accuracy, but a +defective sense of rhyme:-- + +"Here lies Eliza She was a striver Here lies Peleg He was a select Man" + +We townsfolk found something haunting and bewildering in the lines; they +drew, and yet they baffled us, with their suggested echoes luring only +to betray. Hannah never wrote anything else, but we always cherished the +belief that she could do "'most anything" with words and their +possibilities. Still, we accepted her one crowning achievement, and +never urged her to further proof. In Tiverton we never look genius in +the mouth. Nor did Hannah herself propose developing her gift. Relieved +from the spur of those two unquiet spirits who had begotten her, she +settled down to sit all day in the sun, learning new patterns of +crochet; and having cheerfully let her farm run down, she died at last +in a placid poverty. + +Then there was Desire Baker, who belonged to the era of colonial +hardship, and who, through a redundant punctuation, is relegated to a +day still more remote. For some stone-cutter, scornful of working by the +card, or born with an inordinate taste for periods, set forth, below her +_obiit_, the astounding statement:-- + +"The first woman. She made the journey to Boston. By stage." + +Here, too, are the ironies whereof departed life is prodigal. This is +the tidy lot of Peter Merrick, who had a desire to stand well with the +world, in leaving it, and whose purple and fine linen were embodied in +the pomp of death. He was a cobbler, and he put his small savings +together to erect a modest monument to his own memory. Every Sunday he +visited it, "after meetin'," and perhaps his day-dreams, as he sat +leather-aproned on his bench, were still of that white marble idealism. +The inscription upon it was full of significant blanks; they seemed an +interrogation of the destiny which governs man. + +"Here lies Peter Merrick----" ran the unfinished scroll, "and his wife +who died----" + +But ambitious Peter never lay there at all; for in his later prime, with +one flash of sharp desire to see the world, he went on a voyage to the +Banks, and was drowned. And his wife? The story grows somewhat +threadbare. She summoned his step-brother to settle the estate, and he, +a marble-cutter by trade, filled in the date of Peter's death with +letters English and illegible. In the process of their carving, the +widow stood by, hands folded under her apron from the midsummer sun. The +two got excellent well acquainted, and the stone-cutter prolonged his +stay. He came again in a little over a year, at Thanksgiving time, and +they were married. Which shows that nothing is certain in life,--no, not +the proprieties of our leaving it,--and that even there we must walk +softly, writing no boastful legend for time to annul. + +At one period a certain quatrain had a great run in Tiverton; it was the +epitaph of the day. Noting how it overspread that stony soil, you +picture to yourself the modest pride of its composer; unless indeed, it +had been copied from an older inscription in an English yard, and +transplanted through the heart and brain of some settler whose thoughts +were ever flitting back. Thus it runs in decorous metre:-- + +"Dear husband, now my life is passed, You have dearly loved me to the +last. Grieve not for me, but pity take On my dear children for my sake." + +But one sorrowing widower amended it, according to his wife's direction, +so that it bore a new and significant meaning. He was charged to + +"pity take On my dear parent for my sake." + +The lesson was patent. His mother-in-law had always lived with him, and +she was "difficult." Who knows how keenly the sick woman's mind ran on +the possibilities of reef and quicksand for the alien two left alone +without her guiding hand? So she set the warning of her love and fear to +be no more forgotten while she herself should be remembered. + +The husband was a silent man. He said very little about his intentions; +performance was enough for him. Therefore it happened that his "parent," +adopted perforce, knew nothing about this public charge until she came +upon it, on her first Sunday visit, surveying the new glory of the +stone. The story goes that she stood before it, a square, portentous +figure in black alpaca and warlike mitts, and that she uttered these +irrevocable words:-- + +"Pity on _me_! Well, I guess he won't! I'll go to the poor-farm fust!" + +And Monday morning, spite of his loyal dissuasions, she packed her "blue +chist," and drove off to a far-away cousin, who got her "nussin'" to do. +Another lesson from the warning finger of Death: let what was life not +dream that it can sway the life that is, after the two part company. + +Not always were mothers-in-law such breakers of the peace. There is a +story in Tiverton of one man who went remorsefully mad after his wife's +death, and whose mind dwelt unceasingly on the things he had denied her. +These were not many, yet the sum seemed to him colossal. It piled the +Ossa of his grief. Especially did he writhe under the remembrance of +certain blue dishes she had desired the week before her sudden death; +and one night, driven by an insane impulse to expiate his blindness, he +walked to town, bought them, and placed them in a foolish order about +her grave. It was a puerile, crazy deed, but no one smiled, not even the +little children who heard of it next day, on the way home from school, +and went trudging up there to see. To their stirring minds it seemed a +strange departure from the comfortable order of things, chiefly because +their elders stood about with furtive glances at one another and +murmurs of "Poor creatur'!" But one man, wiser than the rest, "harnessed +up," and went to tell the dead woman's mother, a mile away. Jonas was +"shackled;" he might "do himself a mischief." In the late afternoon, the +guest so summoned walked quietly into the silent house, where Jonas sat +by the window, beating one hand incessantly upon the sill, and staring +at the air. His sister, also, had come; she was frightened, however, and +had betaken herself to the bedroom, to sob. But in walked this little +plump, soft-footed woman, with her banded hair, her benevolent +spectacles, and her atmosphere of calm. + +"I guess I'll blaze a fire, Jonas," said she. "You step out an' git me a +mite o' kindlin'." + +The air of homely living enwrapped him once again, and mechanically, +with the inertia of old habit, he obeyed. They had a "cup o' tea" +together; and then, when the dishes were washed, and the peaceful +twilight began to settle down upon them like a sifting mist, she drew a +little rocking chair to the window where he sat opposite, and spoke. + +"Jonas," said she, in that still voice which had been harmonized by the +experiences of life, "arter dark, you jest go up an' bring home them +blue dishes. Mary's got an awful lot o' fun in her, an' if she ain't +laughin' over that, I'm beat. Now, Jonas, you do it! Do you s'pose she +wants them nice blue pieces out there through wind an' weather? She'd +ruther by half see 'em on the parlor cluzzet shelves; an' if you'll +fetch 'em home, I'll scallop some white paper, jest as she liked, an' +we'll set 'em up there." + +Jonas wakened a little from his mental swoon. Life seemed warmer, more +tangible, again. + +"Law, do go," said the mother soothingly. "She don't want the whole +township tramplin' up there to eye over her chiny. Make her as nervous +as a witch. Here's the ha'-bushel basket, an' some paper to put between +'em. You go, Jonas, an' I'll clear off the shelves." + +So Jonas, whether he was tired of guiding the impulses of his own +unquiet mind, or whether he had become a child again, glad to yield to +the maternal, as we all do in our grief, took the basket and went. He +stood by, still like a child, while this comfortable woman put the china +on the shelves, speaking warmly, as she worked, of the pretty curving of +the cups, and her belief that the pitcher was "one you could pour out +of." She stayed on at the house, and Jonas, through his sickness of the +mind, lay back upon her soothing will as a baby lies in its mother's +arms. But the china was never used, even when he had come to his normal +estate, and bought and sold as before. The mother's prescience was too +keen for that. + +Here in this ground are the ambiguities of life carried over into that +other state, its pathos and its small misunderstandings. This was a +much-married man whose last spouse had been a triple widow. Even to him +the situation proved mathematically complex, and the sumptuous stone to +her memory bears the dizzying legend that "Enoch Nudd who erects this +stone is her fourth husband and his fifth wife." Perhaps it was the +exigencies of space which brought about this amazing elision; but +surely, in its very apparent intention, there is only a modest pride. +For indubitably the much-married may plume themselves upon being also +the widely sought. If it is the crown of sex to be desired, here you +have it, under seal of the civil bond. No baseless, windy boasting that +"I might an if I would!" Nay, here be the marriage ties to testify. + +In this pleasant, weedy corner is a little white stone, not so long +erected. "I shall arise in thine image," runs the inscription; and +reading it, you shall remember that the dust within belonged to a little +hunchback, who played the fiddle divinely, and had beseeching eyes. With +that cry he escaped from the marred conditions of the clay. Here, too +(for this is a sort of bachelor nook), is the grave of a man whom we +unconsciously thrust into a permanent masquerade. Years and years ago he +broke into a house,--an unknown felony in our quiet limits,--and was +incontinently shot. The burglar lost his arm, and went about at first +under a cloud of disgrace and horror, which became, with healing of the +public conscience, a veil of sympathy. After his brief imprisonment +indoors, during the healing of the mutilated stump, he came forth among +us again, a man sadder and wiser in that he had learned how slow and +sure may be the road to wealth. He had sown his wild oats in one night's +foolish work, and now he settled down to doing such odd jobs as he might +with one hand. We got accustomed to his loss. Those of us who were +children when it happened never really discovered that it was disgrace +at all; we called it misfortune, and no one said us nay. Then one day it +occurred to us that he must have been shot "in the war," and so, all +unwittingly to himself, the silent man became a hero. We accepted him. +He was part of our poetic time, and when he died, we held him still in +remembrance among those who fell worthily. When Decoration Day was first +observed in Tiverton, one of us thought of him, and dropped some apple +blossoms on his grave; and so it had its posy like the rest, although it +bore no flag. It was the doctor who set us right there. "I wouldn't do +that," he said, withholding the hand of one unthinking child; and she +took back her flag. But she left the blossoms, and, being fond of +precedent, we still do the same; unless we stop to think, we know not +why. You may say there is here some perfidy to the republic and the +honored dead, or at least some laxity of morals. We are lax, indeed, but +possibly that is why we are so kind. We are not willing to "hurt folks' +feelings" even when they have migrated to another star; and a flower +more or less from the overplus given to men who made the greater choice +will do no harm, tossed to one whose soul may be sitting, like Lazarus, +at their riches' gate. + +But of all these fleeting legends made to hold the soul a moment on its +way, and keep it here in fickle permanence, one is more dramatic than +all, more charged with power and pathos. Years ago there came into +Tiverton an unknown man, very handsome, showing the marks of high +breeding, and yet in his bearing strangely solitary and remote. He wore +a cloak, and had a foreign look. He came walking into the town one +night, with dust upon his shoes, and we judged that he had been +traveling a long time. He had the appearance of one who was not nearly +at his journey's end, and would pass through the village, continuing on +a longer way. He glanced at no one, but we all stared at him. He seemed, +though we had not the words to put it so, an exiled prince. He went +straight through Tiverton Street until he came to the parsonage; and +something about it (perhaps its garden, hot with flowers, larkspur, +coreopsis, and the rest) detained his eye, and he walked in. Next day +the old doctor was there also with his little black case, but we were +none the wiser for that; for the old doctor was of the sort who intrench +themselves in a professional reserve. You might draw up beside the road +to question him, but you could as well deter the course of nature. He +would give the roan a flick, and his sulky would flash by. + +"What's the matter with so-and-so?" would ask a mousing neighbor. + +"He's sick," ran the laconic reply. + +"Goin' to die?" one daring querist ventured further. + +"Some time," said the doctor. + +But though he assumed a right to combat thus the outer world, no one was +gentler with a sick man or with those about him in their grief. To the +latter he would speak; but he used to say he drew his line at second +cousins. + +Into his hands and the true old parson's fell the stranger's confidence, +if confidence it were. He may have died solitary and unexplained; but no +matter what he said, his story was safe. In a week he was carried out +for burial; and so solemn was the parson's manner as he spoke a brief +service over him, so thrilling his enunciation of the words "our +brother," that we dared not even ask what else he should be called. And +we never knew. The headstone, set up by the parson, bore the words +"Peccator Maximus." For a long time we thought they made the stranger's +name, and judged that he must have been a foreigner; but a new +schoolmistress taught us otherwise. It was Latin, she said, and it meant +"the chiefest among sinners." When that report flew round, the parson +got wind of it, and then, in the pulpit one morning, he announced that +he felt it necessary to say that the words had been used "at our +brother's request," and that it was his own decision to write below +them, "For this cause came I into the world." + +We have accepted the stranger as we accept many things in Tiverton. +Parson and doctor kept his secret well. He is quite safe from our +questioning; but for years I expected a lady, always young and full of +grief, to seek out his grave and shrive him with her tears. She will not +appear now, unless she come as an old, old woman, to lie beside him. It +is too late. + +One more record of our vanished time,--this full of poesy only, and the +pathos of farewell. It was not the aged and heartsick alone who lay down +here to rest. We have been no more fortunate than others. Youth and +beauty came also, and returned no more. This, where the white rose-bush +grows untended, was the young daughter of a squire in far-off days: too +young to have known the pangs of love or the sweet desire of Death, save +that, in primrose time, he always paints himself so fair. I have +thought the inscription must have been borrowed from another grave, in +some yard shaded by yews and silent under the cawing of the rooks; +perhaps, from its stiffness, translated from a stately Latin verse. This +it is, snatched not too soon from oblivion; for a few more years will +wear it quite away:-- + +"Here lies the purple flower of a maid Having to envious Death due +tribute paid. Her sudden Loss her Parents did lament, And all her +Friends with grief their hearts did Rent. Life's short. Your wicked +Lives amend with care, For Mortals know we Dust and Shadows are." + +"The purple flower of a maid!" All the blossomy sweetness, the fragrant +lamenting of Lycidas, lies in that one line. Alas, poor +love-lies-bleeding! And yet not poor according to the barren pity we +accord the dead, but dowered with another youth set like a crown upon +the unstained front of this. Not going with sparse blossoms ripened or +decayed, but heaped with buds and dripping over in perfume. She seems so +sweet in her still loveliness, the empty promise of her balmy spring, +that for a moment fain are you to snatch her back into the pageant of +your day. Reading that phrase, you feel the earth is poorer for her +loss. And yet not so, since the world holds other greater worlds as +well. Elsewhere she may have grown to age and stature; but here she +lives yet in beauteous permanence,--as true a part of youth and joy and +rapture as the immortal figures on the Grecian Urn. While she was but a +flying phantom on the frieze of time, Death fixed her there forever,--a +haunting spirit in perennial bliss. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tiverton Tales, by Alice Brown + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIVERTON TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 20486-8.txt or 20486-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/4/8/20486/ + +Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Paul Stephen, Ted Garvin +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tiverton Tales + +Author: Alice Brown + +Release Date: January 30, 2007 [EBook #20486] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIVERTON TALES *** + + + + +Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Paul Stephen, Ted Garvin +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>TIVERTON TALES</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>ALICE BROWN</h2> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 124px;"> +<img src="images/001.png" width="124" height="160" alt="Publisher icon" title="Publisher icon" /> +</div> + +<h3>BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> + +HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY</h3> + +<h3><b>The Riverside Press, Cambridge</b></h3> + +<h4>1899</h4> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h4>COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY ALICE BROWN<br /> + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</h4> + +<h4>TO M. H. R.<br /> + +A MASTER MAGICIAN</h4> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> + +<tr><td align='left'></td><td align='right'>PAGE</td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Dooryards</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A March Wind</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_14'>14</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Mortuary Chest</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_52'>52</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Horn-o'-the-Moon</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_98'>98</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Stolen Festival</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_129'>129</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Last Assembling</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_150'>150</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Way of Peace</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_175'>175</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Experience of Hannah Prime </span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_203'>203</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Honey and Myrrh</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_212'>212</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Second Marriage</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_230'>230</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Flat-Iron Lot</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_263'>263</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The End of All Living</span></td> +<td align='right'><a href='#Page_319'>319</a></td></tr> + +</table></div> + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span> +<h2>TIVERTON TALES</h2> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>DOORYARDS</h2> + +<p>Tiverton has breezy, upland roads, and damp, sweet valleys; but should you +tarry there a summer long, you might find it wasteful to take many +excursions abroad. For, having once received the freedom of family living, +you will own yourself disinclined to get beyond dooryards, those outer +courts of domesticity. Homely joys spill over into them, and, when children +are afoot, surge and riot there. In them do the common occupations of life +find niche and channel. While bright weather holds, we wash out of doors on +a Monday morning, the wash-bench in the solid block of shadow thrown by the +house. We churn there, also, at the hour when Sweet-Breath, the cow, goes +afield, modestly unconscious of her own sovereignty over the time. There +are all the varying fortunes of butter-making recorded. Sometimes it comes +merrily to the tune of</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'>"Come, butter, come!<br /> +Peter stands a-waiting at the gate,<br /> +Waiting for his butter-cake.<br /> +Come, butter, come!"</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + +<p>chanted in time with the dasher; again it doth willfully refuse, and then, +lest it be too cool, we contribute a dash of hot water, or too hot, and we +lend it a dash of cold. Or we toss in a magical handful of salt, to +encourage it. Possibly, if we be not the thriftiest of householders, we +feed the hens here in the yard, and then "shoo" them away, when they would +fain take profligate dust-baths under the syringa, leaving unsightly +hollows. But however, and with what complexion, our dooryards may face the +later year, they begin it with purification. Here are they an unfailing +index of the severer virtues; for, in Tiverton, there is no housewife who, +in her spring cleaning, omits to set in order this outer pale of the +temple. Long before the merry months are well under way, or the cows go +kicking up their heels to pasture, or plants are taken from the south +window and clapped into chilly ground, orderly passions begin to riot +within us, and we "clear up" our yards. We gather stray chips, and pieces +of bone brought in by the scavenger dog, who sits now with his tail tucked +under him, oblivious of such vagrom ways. We rake the grass, and then, +gilding refined gold, we sweep it. There is a tradition that Miss Lois May +once went to the length of trimming her grass about the doorstone and +clothes-pole with embroidery scissors; but that was a too-hasty encomium +bestowed by a widower whom she rejected<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> next week, and who qualified his +statement by saying they were pruning-shears.</p> + +<p>After this preliminary skirmishing arises much anxious inspection of +ancient shrubs and the faithful among old-fashioned plants, to see whether +they have "stood the winter." The fresh, brown "piny" heads are brooded +over with a motherly care; wormwood roots are loosened, and the +horse-radish plant is given a thrifty touch. There is more than the delight +of occupation in thus stirring the wheels of the year. We are Nature's poor +handmaidens, and our labor gives us joy.</p> + +<p>But sweet as these homespun spots can make themselves, in their mixture of +thrift and prodigality, they are dearer than ever at the points where they +register family traits, and so touch the humanity of us all. Here is +imprinted the story of the man who owns the farm, that of the father who +inherited it, and the grandfather who reclaimed it from waste; here have +they and their womenkind set the foot of daily living and traced indelible +paths. They have left here the marks of tragedy, of pathos, or of joy. One +yard has a level bit of grassless ground between barn and pump, and you may +call it a battlefield, if you will, since famine and desire have striven +there together. Or, if you choose to read fine meanings into threadbare +things, you may see in it a field of the cloth of gold, where simple love +of life and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> childlike pleasure met and sparkled for no eye to see. It was +a croquet ground, laid out in the days when croquet first inundated the +land, and laid out by a woman. This was Della Smith, the mother of two +grave children, and the wife of a farmer who never learned to smile. Eben +was duller than the ox which ploughs all day long for his handful of hay at +night and his heavy slumber; but Della, though she carried her end of the +yoke with a gallant spirit, had dreams and desires forever bursting from +brown shells, only to live a moment in the air, and then, like bubbles, +die. She had a perpetual appetite for joy. When the circus came to town, +she walked miles to see the procession; and, in a dream of satisfied +delight, dropped potatoes all the afternoon, to make up. Once, a hand-organ +and monkey strayed that way, and it was she alone who followed them; for +the children were little, and all the saner house-mothers contented +themselves with leaning over the gates till the wandering train had passed. +But Della drained her draught of joy to the dregs, and then tilted her cup +anew. With croquet came her supremest joy,—one that leavened her days till +God took her, somewhere, we hope, where there is playtime. Della had no +money to buy a croquet set, but she had something far better, an alert and +undiscouraged mind. On one dizzy afternoon, at a Fourth of July picnic,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +when wickets had been set up near the wood, she had played with the +minister, and beaten him. The game opened before her an endless vista of +delight. She saw herself perpetually knocking red-striped balls through an +eternity of wickets; and she knew that here was the one pastime of which no +soul could tire. Afterwards, driving home with her husband and two +children, still in a daze of satisfied delight, she murmured absently:—</p> + +<p>"Wonder how much they cost?"</p> + +<p>"What?" asked Eben, and Della turned, flushed scarlet, and replied:—</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothin'!"</p> + +<p>That night, she lay awake for one rapt hour, and then she slept the sleep +of conquerors. In the morning, after Eben had gone safely off to work, and +the children were still asleep, she began singing, in a monotonous, high +voice, and took her way out of doors. She always sang at moments when she +purposed leaping the bounds of domestic custom. Even Eben had learned that, +dull as he was. If he heard that guilty crooning from the buttery, he knew +she might be breaking extra eggs, or using more sugar than was conformable.</p> + +<p>"What you doin' of?" he was accustomed to call. But Della never answered, +and he did not interfere. The question was a necessary concession to +marital authority; he had no wish to curb her ways.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<p>Della scudded about the yard like a willful wind. She gathered withes from +a waiting pile, and set them in that one level space for wickets. Then she +took a handsaw, and, pale about the lips, returned to the house and to her +bedroom. She had made her choice. She was sacrificing old associations to +her present need; and, one after another, she sawed the ornamenting balls +from her mother's high-post bedstead. Perhaps the one element of tragedy +lay in the fact that Della was no mechanician, and she had not foreseen +that, having one flat side, her balls might decline to roll. But that +dismay was brief. A weaker soul would have flinched; to Della it was a +futile check, a pebble under the wave. She laid her balls calmly aside. +Some day she would whittle them into shape; for there were always coming to +Della days full of roomy leisure and large content. Meanwhile apples would +serve her turn,—good alike to draw a weary mind out of its channel or +teach the shape of spheres. And so, with two russets for balls and the +clothes-slice for a mallet (the heavy sledge-hammer having failed), Delia +serenely, yet in triumph, played her first game against herself.</p> + +<p>"Don't you drive over them wickets!" she called imperiously, when Eben came +up from the lot in his dingle cart.</p> + +<p>"Them what?" returned he, and Della had to go out to explain. He looked at +them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> gravely; hers had been a ragged piece of work.</p> + +<p>"What under the sun 'd you do that for?" he inquired. "The young ones +wouldn't turn their hand over for 't. They ain't big enough."</p> + +<p>"Well, I be," said Della briefly. "Don't you drive over 'em."</p> + +<p>Eben looked at her and then at his path to the barn, and he turned his +horse aside.</p> + +<p>Thereafter, until we got used to it, we found a vivid source of interest in +seeing Della playing croquet, and always playing alone. That was a very +busy summer, because the famous drought came then, and water had to be +carried for weary rods from spring and river. Sometimes Della did not get +her playtime till three in the afternoon, sometimes not till after dark; +but she was faithful to her joy. The croquet ground suffered varying +fortunes. It might happen that the balls were potatoes, when apples failed +to be in season; often her wickets broke, and stood up in two ragged horns. +Sometimes one fell away altogether, and Delia, like the planets, kept an +unseen track. Once or twice, the mistaken benevolence of others gave her +real distress. The minister's daughter, noting her solitary game, mistook +it for forlornness, and, in the warmth of her maiden heart, came to ask if +she might share. It was a timid though official benevolence; but Della's +bright eyes grew dark. She clung to her kitchen chair.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I guess I won't," she said, and, in some dim way, everybody began to +understand that this was but an intimate and solitary joy. She had grown so +used to spreading her banquets for one alone that she was frightened at the +sight of other cups upon the board; for although loneliness begins in pain, +by and by, perhaps, it creates its own species of sad and shy content.</p> + +<p>Della did not have a long life; and that was some relief to us who were not +altogether satisfied with her outlook here. The place she left need not be +always desolate. There was a good maiden sister to keep the house, and Eben +and the children would be but briefly sorry. They could recover their +poise; he with the health of a simple mind, and they as children will. Yet +he was truly stunned by the blow; and I hoped, on the day of the funeral, +that he did not see what I did. When we went out to get our horse and +wagon, I caught my foot in something which at once gave way. I looked +down—at a broken wicket and a withered apple by the stake.</p> + +<p>Quite at the other end of the town is a dooryard which, in my own mind, at +least, I call the traveling garden. Miss Nancy, its presiding mistress, is +the victim of a love of change; and since she may not wander herself, she +transplants shrubs and herbs from nook to nook. No sooner does a green +thing get safely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> rooted than Miss Nancy snatches it up and sets it +elsewhere. Her yard is a varying pageant of plants in all stages of +misfortune. Here is a shrub, with faded leaves, torn from the lap of +prosperity in a well-sunned corner to languish under different conditions. +There stands a hardy bush, shrinking, one might guess, under all its +bravery of new spring green, from the premonition that Miss Nancy may move +it to-morrow. Even the ladies'-delights have their months of garish +prosperity, wherein they sicken like country maids; for no sooner do they +get their little feet settled in a dark, still corner than they are +summoned out of it, to sunlight bright and strong. Miss Nancy lives with a +bedridden father, who has grown peevish through long patience; can it be +that slow, senile decay which has roused in her a fierce impatience against +the sluggishness of life, and that she hurries her plants into motion +because she herself must halt? Her father does not theorize about it. He +says, "Nancy never has no luck with plants." And that, indeed, is true.</p> + +<p>There is another dooryard with its infallible index finger pointing to tell +a tale. You can scarcely thread your way through it for vehicles of all +sorts congregated there to undergo slow decomposition at the hands of wind +and weather. This farmer is a tradesman by nature, and though, for thrift's +sake, his fields must be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> tilled, he is yet inwardly constrained to keep on +buying and selling, albeit to no purpose. He is everlastingly swapping and +bargaining, giving play to a faculty which might, in its legitimate place, +have worked out the definite and tangible, but which now goes automatically +clicking on under vain conditions. The house, too, is overrun with useless +articles, presently to be exchanged for others as unavailing, and in the +farmer's pocket ticks a watch which to-morrow will replace with another +more problematic still. But in the yard are the undisputable evidences of +his wild unthrift. Old rusty mowing-machines, buggies with torn and +flapping canvas, sleighs ready to yawn at every crack, all are here: poor +relations in a broken-down family. But children love this yard. They come, +hand in hand, with a timid confidence in their right, and ask at the back +door for the privilege of playing in it. They take long, entrancing +journeys in the mouldy old chaise; they endure Siberian nights of +sleighing, and throw out their helpless dolls to the pursuing wolves; or +the more mercantile-minded among the boys mount a three-wheeled express +wagon, and drive noisily away to traffic upon the road. This, in its +dramatic possibilities, is not a yard to be despised.</p> + +<p>Not far away are two neighboring houses once held in affectionate communion +by a straight path through the clover and a gap in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> the wall. This was the +road to much friendly gossip, and there were few bright days which did not +find two matrons met at the wall, their heads together over some amiable +yarn. But now one house is closed, its windows boarded up, like eyes shut +down forever, and the grass has grown over the little path: a line erased, +perhaps never to be renewed. It is easier to wipe out a story from nature +than to wipe it from the heart; and these mutilated pages of the outer life +perpetually renew in us the pangs of loss and grief.</p> + +<p>But not all our dooryard reminiscences are instinct with pain. Do I not +remember one swept and garnished plot, never defiled by weed or disordered +with ornamental plants, where stood old Deacon Pitts, upon an historic day, +and woke the echoes with a herald's joy? Deacon Pitts had the ghoulish +delight of the ennuied country mind in funerals and the mortality of man; +and this morning the butcher had brought him news of death in a neighboring +town. The butcher had gone by, and I was going; but Deacon Pitts stood +there, dramatically intent upon his mournful morsel. I judged that he was +pondering on the possibility of attending the funeral without the waste of +too much precious time now due the crops. Suddenly, as he turned back +toward the house, bearing a pan of liver, his pondering eye caught sight of +his aged wife toiling across<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> the fields, laden with pennyroyal. He set the +pan down hastily—yea, even before the advancing cat!—and made a trumpet +of his hands.</p> + +<p>"Sarah!" he called piercingly. "Sarah! Mr. Amasa Blake's passed away! Died +yesterday!"</p> + +<p>I do not know whether he was present at that funeral, but it would be +strange if he were not; for time and tide both served him, and he was +always on the spot. Indeed, one day he reached a house of mourning in such +season that he found the rooms quite empty, and was forced to wait until +the bereaved family should assemble. There they sat, he and his wife, a +portentous couple in their dead black and anticipatory gloom, until even +their patience had well-nigh fled. And then an arriving mourner overheard +the deacon, as he bent forward and challenged his wife in a suspicious and +discouraged whisper:—</p> + +<p>"Say, Sarah, ye don't s'pose it's all goin' to fush out, do ye?"</p> + +<p>They had their funeral.</p> + +<p>To the childish memory, so many of the yards are redolent now of wonder and +a strange, sweet fragrance of the fancy not to be described! One, where +lived a notable cook, had, in a quiet corner, a little grove of caraway. It +seemed mysteriously connected with the oak-leaf cookies, which only she +could make;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> and the child, brushing through the delicate bushes grown +above his head, used to feel vaguely that, on some fortunate day, cookies +would be found there, "a-blowin' and a-growin'." That he had seen them +stirred and mixed and taken from the oven was an empty matter; the cookies +belonged to the caraway grove, and there they hang ungathered still. In the +very same yard was a hogshead filled with rainwater, where insects came +daily to their death and floated pathetically in a film of gauzy wings. The +child feared this innocent black pool, feared it too much to let it alone; +and day by day he would hang upon the rim with trembling fingers, and +search the black, smooth depths, with all Ophelia's pangs. And to this +moment, no rushing river is half so ministrant to dread as is a still, dull +hogshead, where insects float and fly.</p> + +<p>These are our dooryards. I wish we lived in them more; that there were +vines to sing under, and shade enough for the table, with its wheaten loaf +and good farm butter, and its smoking tea. But all that may come when we +give up our frantic haste, and sit down to look, and breathe, and listen.</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +<h2>A MARCH WIND</h2> +</div> + +<p>When the clouds hung low, or chimneys refused to draw, or the bread soured +over night, a pessimistic public, turning for relief to the local drama, +said that Amelia Titcomb had married a tramp. But as soon as the heavens +smiled again, it was conceded that she must have been getting lonely in her +middle age, and that she had taken the way of wisdom so to furbish up +mansions for the coming years. Whatever was set down on either side of the +page, Amelia did not care. She was whole-heartedly content with her husband +and their farm.</p> + +<p>It had happened, one autumn day, that she was trying, all alone, to clean +out the cistern. This was while she was still Amelia Titcomb, innocent that +there lived a man in the world who could set his foot upon her maiden +state, and flourish there. She was an impatient creature. She never could +delay for a fostering time to put her plants into the ground, and her fall +cleaning was done long before the flies were gone. So, to-day, while other +house mistresses sat cosily by the fire, awaiting a milder season, she was +toiling up and down the ladder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> set in the cistern, dipping pails of +sediment from the bottom, and, hardy as she was, almost repenting her of a +too-fierce desire. Her thick brown hair was roughened and blown about her +face, her cheeks bloomed out in a frosty pink, and the plaid kerchief, tied +in a hard knot under her chin, seemed foolishly ineffectual against the +cold. Her hands ached, holding the pail, and she rebelled inwardly against +the inclemency of the time. It never occurred to her that she could have +put off this exacting job. She would sooner have expected Heaven to put off +the weather. Just as she reached the top of the cistern, and lifted her +pail of refuse over the edge, a man appeared from the other side of the +house, and stood confronting her. He was tall and gaunt, and his deeply +graven face was framed by grizzled hair. Amelia had a rapid thought that he +was not so old as he looked; experience, rather than years, must have +wrought its trace upon him. He was leading a little girl, dressed with a +very patent regard for warmth, and none for beauty. Amelia, with a quick, +feminine glance, noted that the child's bungled skirt and hideous waist had +been made from an old army overcoat. The little maid's brown eyes were +sweet and seeking; they seemed to petition for something. Amelia's heart +did not respond at that time, she had no reason for thinking she was fond +of children. Yet she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> felt a curious disturbance at sight of the pair. She +afterwards explained it adequately to the man, by asserting that they +looked as odd as Dick's hatband.</p> + +<p>"Want any farmwork done?" asked he. "Enough to pay for a night's lodgin'?" +His voice sounded strangely soft from one so large and rugged. It hinted at +unused possibilities. But though Amelia felt impressed, she was conscious +of little more than her own cold and stiffness, and she answered sharply,—</p> + +<p>"No, I don't. I don't calculate to hire, except in hayin' time, an' then I +don't take tramps."</p> + +<p>The man dropped the child's hand, and pushed her gently to one side.</p> + +<p>"Stan' there, Rosie," said he. Then he went forward, and drew the pail from +Amelia's unwilling grasp. "Where do you empt' it?" he asked. "There? It +ought to be carried further. You don't want to let it gully down into that +beet bed. Here, I'll see to it."</p> + +<p>Perhaps this was the very first time in Amelia's life that a man had +offered her an unpaid service for chivalry alone. And somehow, though she +might have scoffed, knowing what the tramp had to gain, she believed in him +and in his kindliness. The little girl stood by, as if she were long used +to doing as she had been told, with no expectation of difficult reasons; +and the man, as soberly, went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> about his task. He emptied the cistern, and +cleansed it, with plentiful washings. Then, as if guessing by instinct what +he should find, he went into the kitchen, where were two tubs full of the +water which Amelia had pumped up at the start. It had to be carried back +again to the cistern; and when the job was quite finished, he opened the +bulkhead, set the tubs in the cellar, and then, covering the cistern and +cellar-case, rubbed his cold hands on his trousers, and turned to the +child.</p> + +<p>"Come, Rosie," said he, "we'll be goin'."</p> + +<p>It was a very effective finale, but still Amelia suspected no trickery. The +situation seemed to her, just as the two new actors did, entirely simple, +like the course of nature. Only, the day was a little warmer because they +had appeared. She had a new sensation of welcome company. So it was that, +quite to her own surprise, she answered as quickly as he spoke, and her +reply also seemed an inevitable part of the drama:—</p> + +<p>"Walk right in. It's 'most dinner-time, an' I'll put on the pot." The two +stepped in before her, and they did not go away.</p> + +<p>Amelia herself never quite knew how it happened; but, like all the other +natural things of life, this had no need to be explained. At first, there +were excellent reasons for delay. The man, whose name proved to be Enoch +Willis, was a marvelous hand at a blow, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> she kept him a week, splitting +some pine knots that defied her and the boy who ordinarily chopped her +wood. At the end of the week, Amelia confessed that she was "terrible tired +seein' Rosie round in that gormin' kind of a dress;" so she cut and fitted +her a neat little gown from her own red cashmere. That was the second +reason. Then the neighbors heard of the mysterious guest, and dropped in, +to place and label him. At first, following the lead of undiscouraged +fancy, they declared that he must be some of cousin Silas's connections +from Omaha; but even before Amelia had time to deny that, his ignorance of +local tradition denied it for him. He must have heard of this or that, by +way of cousin Silas; but he owned to nothing defining place or time, save +that he had been in the war—"all through it." He seemed to be a man quite +weary of the past and indifferent to the future. After a half hour's talk +with him, unseasonable callers were likely to withdraw, perhaps into the +pantry, whither Amelia had retreated to escape catechism, and remark +jovially, "Well, 'Melia, you ain't told us who your company is!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Willis," said Amelia. She was emulating his habit of reserve. It made +a part of her new loyalty.</p> + +<p>Even to her, Enoch had told no tales; and strangely enough, she was quite +satisfied. She trusted him. He did say that Rosie's mother<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> was dead; for +the last five years, he said, she had been out of her mind. At that, +Amelia's heart gave a fierce, amazing leap. It struck a note she never +knew, and wakened her to life and longing. She was glad Rosie's mother had +not made him too content. He went on a step or two into the story of his +life. His wife's last illness had eaten up the little place, and after she +went, he got no work. So, he tramped. He must go again. Amelia's voice +sounded sharp and thin, even to her, as she answered,—</p> + +<p>"Go! I dunno what you want to do that for. Rosie's terrible contented +here."</p> + +<p>His brown eyes turned upon her in a kindly glance.</p> + +<p>"I've got to make a start somewhere," said he. "I've been thinkin' a +machine shop's the best thing. I shall have to depend on somethin' better'n +days' works."</p> + +<p>Amelia flushed the painful red of emotion without beauty.</p> + +<p>"I dunno what we're all comin' to," said she brokenly.</p> + +<p>Then the tramp knew. He put his gnarled hand over one of hers. Rosie looked +up curiously from the speckled beans she was counting into a bag, and then +went on singing to herself an unformed, baby song. "Folks'll talk," said +Enoch gently. "They do now. A man an' woman ain't never too old to be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +hauled up, an' made to answer for livin'. If I was younger, an' had suthin' +to depend on, you'd see; but I'm no good now. The better part o' my life's +gone."</p> + +<p>Amelia flashed at him a pathetic look, half agony over her own lost pride, +and all a longing of maternal love.</p> + +<p>"I don't want you should be younger," said she. And next week they were +married.</p> + +<p>Comment ran races with itself, and brought up nowhere. The treasuries of +local speech were all too poor to clothe so wild a venture. It was agreed +that there's no fool like an old fool, and that folks who ride to market +may come home afoot. Everybody forgot that Amelia had had no previous +romance, and dismally pictured her as going through the woods, and getting +a crooked stick at last. Even the milder among her judges were not content +with prophesying the betrayal of her trust alone. They argued from the +tramp nature to inevitable results, and declared it would be a mercy if she +were not murdered in her bed. According to the popular mind, a tramp is a +distinct species, with latent tendencies toward crime. It was recalled that +a white woman had, in the old days, married a comely Indian, whose first +drink of fire-water, after six months of blameless happiness, had sent him +raging home, to kill her "in her tracks." Could a tramp, pledged to the +traditions of an awful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> brotherhood, do less? No, even in honor, no! Amelia +never knew how the tide of public apprehension surged about her, nor how +her next-door neighbor looked anxiously out, the first thing on rising, to +exclaim, with a sigh of relief, and possibly a dramatic pang, "There! her +smoke's a-goin'."</p> + +<p>Meantime, the tramp fell into all the usages of life indoors; and without, +he worked revolution. He took his natural place at the head of affairs, and +Amelia stood by, rejoicing. Her besetting error of doing things at the +wrong moment had disarranged great combinations as well as small. Her +impetuosity was constantly misleading her, bidding her try, this one time, +whether harvest might not follow faster on the steps of spring. Enoch's +mind was of another cast. For him, tradition reigned, and law was ever +laying out the way. Some months after their marriage, Amelia had urged him +to take away the winter banking about the house, for no reason save that +the Mardens clung to theirs; but he only replied that he'd known of cold +snaps way on into May, and he guessed there was no particular hurry. The +very next day brought a bitter air, laden with sleet, and Amelia, shivering +at the open door, exulted in her feminine soul at finding him triumphant on +his own ground. Enoch seemed, as usual, unconscious of victory. His +immobility had no personal flavor. He merely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> acted from an inevitable +devotion to the laws of life; and however often they might prove him right, +he never seemed to reason that Amelia was consequently wrong. Perhaps that +was what made it so pleasant to live with him.</p> + +<p>It was "easy sleddin'" now. Amelia grew very young. Her cheeks gained a +bloom, her eyes brightened. She even, as the matrons noticed, took to +crimping her hair. They looked on with a pitying awe. It seemed a fearsome +thing, to do so much for a tramp who would only kill you in the end. Amelia +stepped deftly about the house. She was a large woman, whose ways had been +devoid of grace; but now the richness of her spiritual condition informed +her with a charm. She crooned a little about her work. Singing voice she +had none, but she grew into a way of putting words together, sometimes a +line from the psalms, sometimes a name she loved, and chanting the sounds, +in unrecorded melody. Meanwhile, little Rosie, always irreproachably +dressed, with a jealous care lest she fall below the popular standard, +roamed in and out of the house, and lightened its dull intervals. She, like +the others, grew at once very happy, because, like them, she accepted her +place without a qualm, as if it had been hers from the beginning. They were +simple natures, and when their joy came, they knew how to meet it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> + +<p>But if Enoch was content to follow the beaten ways of life, there was one +window through which he looked into the upper heaven of all: thereby he saw +what it is to create. He was a born mechanician. A revolving wheel would +set him to dreaming, and still him to that lethargy of mind which is an +involuntary sharing in the things that are. He could lose himself in the +life of rhythmic motion; and when he discovered rusted springs, or cogs +unprepared to fulfill their purpose, he fell upon them with the ardor of a +worshiper, and tried to set them right. Amelia thought he should have +invented something, and he confessed that he had invented many things, but +somehow failed in getting them on the market. That process he mentioned +with the indifference of a man to whom a practical outcome is vague, and +who finds in the ideal a bright reality. Even Amelia could see that to be a +maker was his joy; to reap rewards of making was another and a lower task.</p> + +<p>One cold day in the early spring, he went "up garret" to hunt out an old +saddle, gathering mildew there, and came upon a greater treasure, a +disabled clock. He stepped heavily down, bearing it aloft in both hands.</p> + +<p>"See here, 'Melia," asked he, "why don't this go?"</p> + +<p>Amelia was scouring tins on the kitchen table. There was a teasing wind +outside, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> a flurry of snow, and she had acknowledged that the +irritating weather made her as nervous as a witch. So she had taken to a +job to quiet herself.</p> + +<p>"That clock?" she replied. "That was gran'ther Eli's. It give up strikin', +an' then the hands stuck, an' I lost all patience with it. So I bought this +nickel one, an' carted t' other off into the attic. 'T ain't worth fixin'."</p> + +<p>"Worth it!" repeated Enoch. "Well, I guess I'll give it a chance."</p> + +<p>He drew a chair to the stove, and there hesitated. "Say, 'Melia," said he, +"should you jest as soon I'd bring in that old shoemaker's bench out o' the +shed? It's low, an' I could reach my tools off'n the floor."</p> + +<p>Amelia lacked the discipline of contact with her kind, but she was +nevertheless smooth as silk in her new wifehood.</p> + +<p>"Law, yes, bring it along," said she. "It's a good day to clutter up. The' +won't be nobody in."</p> + +<p>So, while Enoch laid apart the clock with a delicacy of touch known only to +square, mechanical fingers, and Rosie played with the button-box on the +floor, assorting colors and matching white with white, Amelia scoured the +tins. Her energy kept pace with the wind; it whirled in gusts and snatches, +yet her precision never failed.</p> + +<p>"Made up your mind which cow to sell?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> she asked, opening a discussion +still unsettled, after days of animated talk.</p> + +<p>"Ain't much to choose," said Enoch. He had frankly set Amelia right on the +subject of livestock; and she smilingly acquiesced in his larger knowledge. +"Elbridge True's got a mighty nice Alderney, an' if he's goin' to sell milk +another year, he'll be glad to get two good milkers like these. What he +wants is ten quarts apiece, no matter if it's bluer'n a whetstone. I guess +I can swap off with him; but I don't want to run arter him. I put the case +last Thursday. Mebbe he'll drop round."</p> + +<p>"Well," concluded Amelia, "I guess you're pretty sure to do what's right."</p> + +<p>The forenoon galloped fast, and it was half past eleven before she thought +of dinner.</p> + +<p>"Why," said she, "ain't it butcher day? I've been lottin' on a piece o' +liver."</p> + +<p>"Butcher day is Thursday," said Enoch. "You've lost count."</p> + +<p>"My land!" responded Amelia. "Well, I guess we can put up with some fried +pork an' apples." There came a long, insistent knock at the outer door. +"Good heavens! Who's there! Rosie, you run to the side-light, an' peek. It +can't be a neighbor. They'd come right in. I hope my soul it ain't company, +a day like this."</p> + +<p>Rosie got on her fat legs with difficulty. She held her pinafore full of +buttons, but dis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>aster lies in doing too many things at once; there came a +slip, a despairing clutch, and the buttons fell over the floor. There were +a great many round ones, and they rolled very fast. Amelia washed the sand +from her parboiled fingers, and drew a nervous breath. She had a +presentiment of coming ill, painfully heightened by her consciousness that +the kitchen was "riding out," and that she and her family rode with it. +Rosie came running back from her peephole, husky with importance. The +errant buttons did not trouble her. She had an eternity of time wherein to +pick them up; and, indeed, the chances were that some tall, benevolent +being would do it for her.</p> + +<p>"It's a man," she said. "He's got on a light coat with bright buttons, and +a fuzzy hat. He's got a big nose."</p> + +<p>Now, indeed, despair entered into Amelia, and sat enthroned. She sank down +on a straight-backed chair, and put her hands on her knees, while the knock +came again, a little querulously.</p> + +<p>"Enoch," said she, "do you know what's happened? That's cousin Josiah Pease +out there." Her voice bore the tragedy of a thousand past encounters; but +that Enoch could not know.</p> + +<p>"Is it?" asked he, with but a mild appearance of interest. "Want me to go +to the door?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Go to the door!" echoed Amelia, so stridently that he looked up at her +again. "No; I don't want anybody should go to the door till this room's +cleared up. If 't w'an't so everlastin' cold, I'd take him right into the +clock-room, an' blaze a fire; but he'd see right through that. You gether +up them tools an' things, an' I'll help carry out the bench."</p> + +<p>If Enoch had not just then been absorbed in a delicate combination of +brass, he might have spoken more sympathetically. As it was, he seemed +kindly, but remote.</p> + +<p>"Look out!" said he, "you'll joggle. No, I guess I won't move. If he's any +kind of a man, he'll know what 't is to clean a clock."</p> + +<p>Amelia was not a crying woman, but the hot tears stood in her eyes. She was +experiencing, for the first time, that helpless pang born from the wounding +of pride in what we love.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see, Enoch?" she insisted. "This room looks like the Old +Boy—an' so do you—an' he'll go home an' tell all the folks at the Ridge. +Why, he's heard we're married, an' come over here to spy out the land. He +hates the cold. He never stirs till 'way on into June; an' now he's come to +find out."</p> + +<p>"Find out what?" inquired Enoch absorbedly. "Well, if you're anyways put to +'t, you send him to me." That manly utterance enunciated from a "best-room" +sofa, by an Enoch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> clad in his Sunday suit, would have filled Amelia with +rapture; she could have leaned on it as on the Tables of the Law. But, +alas! the scene-setting was meagre, and though Enoch was very clean, he had +no good clothes. He had pointedly refused to buy them with his wife's money +until he should have worked on the farm to a corresponding amount. She had +loved him for it; but every day his outer poverty hurt her pride. "I guess +you better ask him in," concluded Enoch. "Don't you let him bother you."</p> + +<p>Amelia turned about with the grand air of a woman repulsed.</p> + +<p>"He <i>don't</i> bother me," said she, "an' I <i>will</i> let him in." She walked to +the door, stepping on buttons as she went, and conscious, when she broke +them, of a bitter pleasure. It added to her martyrdom.</p> + +<p>She flung open the door, and called herself a fool in the doing; for the +little old man outside was in the act of turning away. In another instant, +she might have escaped. But he was only too eager to come back again, and +it seemed to Amelia as if he would run over her, in his desire to get in.</p> + +<p>"There! there! 'Melia," said he, pushing past her, "can't stop to talk till +I git near the fire. Guess you were settin' in the kitchen, wa'n't ye? +Don't make no stranger o' me. That your man?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>She had shut the door, and entered, exasperated anew by the rising wind. +"That's my husband," said she coldly. "Enoch, here's cousin Josiah Pease."</p> + +<p>Enoch looked up benevolently over his spectacles, and put out a horny left +hand, the while the other guarded his heap of treasures. "Pleased to meet +you, sir," said he. "You see I'm tinkerin' a clock."</p> + +<p>To Enoch, the explanation was enough. All the simple conventions of his +life might well wait upon a reason potent as this. Josiah Pease went to the +stove, and stood holding his tremulous hands over a cover. He was a little +man, eclipsed in a butternut coat of many capes, and his parchment face +shaded gradually up from it, as if into a harder medium. His eyes were +light, and they had an exceedingly uncomfortable way of darting from one +thing to another, like some insect born to spear and sting. His head was +entirely bald, all save a thin fringe of hair not worth mentioning, since +it disappeared so effectually beneath his collar; and his general antiquity +was grotesquely emphasized by two sets of aggressive teeth, displaying +their falsity from every crown.</p> + +<p>Amelia took out the broom, and began sweeping up buttons. She had an acrid +consciousness that by sacrificing them she was somehow completing the +tragedy of her day. Rosie gave a little cry; but Amelia pointed to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> the +corner where stood the child's chair, exhumed from the attic, after forty +years of rest. "You set there," she said, in an undertone, "an' keep +still."</p> + +<p>Rosie obeyed without a word. Such an atmosphere had not enveloped her since +she entered this wonderful house. Remembering vaguely the days when her own +mother had "spells," and she and her father effaced themselves until times +should change, she folded her little hands, and lapsed back into a +condition of mental servitude.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Amelia followed nervously in the track of Enoch's talk with +cousin Josiah, though her mind kept its undercurrent of foolish musing. +Like all of us, snatched up by the wheels of great emergencies, she caught +at trifles while they whirled her round. Here were "soldier-buttons." All +the other girls had collected them, though she, having no lover in the war, +had traded for her few. Here were the gold-stones that held her changeable +silk, there the little clouded pearls from her sister's raglan. Annie had +died in youth; its glamour still enwrapped her. Poor Annie! But Rosie had +seemed to bring her back. Amelia swept litter, buttons and all, into the +dustpan, and marched to the stove to throw her booty in. Nobody marked her +save Rosie, whose playthings were endangered; but Enoch's very obtuseness +to the situation was what stayed her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> hand. She carried the dustpan away +into a closet, and came back, to gather up her tins. A cold rage of +nervousness beset her, so overpowering that she herself was amazed at it.</p> + +<p>Meantime, Josiah Pease had divested himself of his coat, and drawn the +grandfather chair into a space behind the stove.</p> + +<p>"You a clock-mender by trade?" he asked of Enoch.</p> + +<p>"No," said Enoch absently, "I ain't got any reg'lar trade."</p> + +<p>"Jest goin' round the country?" amended cousin Josiah, with the preliminary +insinuation Amelia knew so well. He was, it had been said, in the habit of +inventing lies, and challenging other folks to stick to 'em. But Enoch made +no reply. He went soberly on with his work.</p> + +<p>"Law, 'Melia, to think o' your bein' married," continued Josiah, turning to +her. "I never should ha' thought that o' you."</p> + +<p>"I never thought it of myself," said Amelia tartly. "You don't know what +you'll do till you're tried."</p> + +<p>"No! no!" said Josiah Pease. "Never in the world. You remember Sally Flint, +how plain-spoken she is? Well, Betsy Marden's darter Ann rode down to the +poor-house t' other day with some sweet trade, an' took a young sprig with +her. He turned his back a minute, to look out o' winder, an' Sally spoke +right up,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> as ye might say, afore him. 'That your beau?' says she. Well, o' +course Ann couldn't own it, an' him right there, so to speak. So she shook +her head. 'Well, I'm glad on 't,' says Sally. 'If I couldn't have anything +to eat, I'd have suthin' to look at!' He was the most unsignifyin'est +creatur' you ever put your eyes on. But they say Ann's started in on her +clo'es."</p> + +<p>Amelia's face had grown scarlet. "I dunno's any such speech is called for +here," said she, in a furious self-betrayal. Josiah Pease had always been +able to storm her reserves.</p> + +<p>"Law, no," answered he comfortably. "It come into my mind,—that's all."</p> + +<p>She looked at Enoch with a passionate sympathy, knowing too well how the +hidden sting was intended to work. But Enoch had not heard. He was absorbed +in a finer problem of brass and iron; and though Amelia had wished to save +him from hurt, in that instant she scorned him for his blindness. "I guess +I shall have to ask you to move," she said to her husband coldly. "I've got +to git to that stove, if we're goin' to have any dinner to-day."</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that even Enoch might take the hint, and clear away his +rubbish. Her feelings might have been assuaged by a clean hearth and some +acquiescence in her own mood. But he only moved back a little, and went on +fitting and musing. He was not think<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>ing of her in the least, nor even of +Josiah Pease. His mind had entered its brighter, more alluring world. She +began to fry her pork and apples, with a perfunctory attempt at +conversation. "You don't often git round so early in the spring," said she.</p> + +<p>"No," returned cousin Josiah. "I kind o' got started out, this time, I +don't rightly know why. I guess I've had you in mind more of late, for some +Tiverton folks come over our way, tradin', an' they brought all the news. +It sort o' stirred me up to come."</p> + +<p>Amelia turned her apples vigorously, well aware that the slices were +breaking. That made a part of her bitter day.</p> + +<p>"Folks needn't take the trouble to carry news about me," she said. There +was an angry gleam in her eyes. "If anybody wants to know anything, let 'em +come right here, an' I'll settle 'em." The ring of her voice penetrated +even to Enoch's perception, and he looked up in mild surprise. She seemed +to have thrown open, for an instant, a little window into a part of her +nature he had never seen.</p> + +<p>"How good them apples smell!" said Josiah innocently. "Last time I had 'em +was down to cousin Amasa True's, he that married his third wife, an' she +run through all he had. I went down to see 'em arter the vandoo,—you know +they got red o' most everything,—an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> they had fried pork an' apples for +dinner. Old Bashaby dropped in. 'Law!' says she. 'Fried pork an' apples! +Well, I call that livin' pretty nigh the wind!'" Josiah chuckled. He was +very warm now, and the savory smell of the dish he decried was mounting to +what served him for fancy. "'Melia, you ain't never had your teeth out, +have ye?" he asked, as one who spoke from richer memories.</p> + +<p>"I guess my teeth'll last me as long as I want 'em," said Amelia curtly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't know. They looked real white an' firm last time I see 'em, +but you never can tell how they be underneath. I knew the folks would ask +me when I got home. I thought I'd speak."</p> + +<p>"Dinner's ready," said Amelia. She turned an alien look upon her husband. +"You want to wash your hands?"</p> + +<p>Enoch rose cheerfully. He had got to a hopeful place with the clock.</p> + +<p>"Set ri' down," said he. "Don't wait a minute. I'll be along."</p> + +<p>So Amelia and the guest began their meal, while little Rosie climbed, +rather soberly, into her higher chair, and held out her plate.</p> + +<p>"You wait," said Amelia harshly. "Can't you let other folks eat a mouthful +before you have to have yours?" Yet as she said it, she remembered, with a +remorseful pang, that she had always helped the child first; it had been so +sweet to see her pleased and satisfied.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> + +<p>Josiah was never talkative during meals. Not being absolute master of his +teeth, his mind dwelt with them. Amelia remembered that, with a malicious +satisfaction. But he could not be altogether dumb. That, people said, would +never happen to Josiah Pease while he was above ground.</p> + +<p>"That his girl?" he asked, indicating Rosie with his knife, in a gustatory +pause.</p> + +<p>"Whose?" inquired Amelia willfully.</p> + +<p>"His." He pointed again, this time to the back room, where Enoch was still +washing his hands.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Mother dead?"</p> + +<p>Amelia sprang from her chair, while Rosie looked at her with the frightened +glance of a child to whom some half-forgotten grief has suddenly returned.</p> + +<p>"Josiah Pease!" said Amelia. "I never thought a poor, insignificant +creatur' like you could rile me so,—when I know what you're doin' it for, +too. But you've brought it about. Her mother dead? Ain't I been an' married +her father?"</p> + +<p>"Law, Amelia, do se' down!" said Josiah indulgently. There was a mince-pie +warming on the back of the stove. He saw it there. "I didn't mean nuthin'. +I'll be bound you thought she's dead, or you wouldn't ha' took such a step. +I only meant, did ye see her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> death in the paper, for example, or anything +like that?"</p> + +<p>"'Melia," called Enoch, from the doorway, "I won't come in to dinner jest +now. Elbridge True's drove into the yard. I guess he's got it in mind to +talk it over about them cows. I don't want to lose the chance."</p> + +<p>"All right," answered Amelia. She took her seat again, while Enoch's +footsteps went briskly out through the shed. With the clanging of the door, +she felt secure. If she had to deal with Josiah Pease, she could do it +better alone, clutching at the certainty that was with her from of old, +that, if you could only keep your temper with cousin Josiah, you had one +chance of victory. Flame out at him, and you were lost. "Some more +potatoes?" asked she, with a deceptive calm.</p> + +<p>"Don't care if I do," returned Josiah, selecting greedily, his fork +hovering in air. "Little mite watery, ain't they? Dig 'em yourself?"</p> + +<p>"We dug 'em," said Amelia coldly.</p> + +<p>Rosie stepped down from her chair, unnoticed. To Amelia, she was then no +bigger than some little winged thing flitting about the room in time of +tragedy. Our greatest emotions sometimes stay unnamed. At that moment, +Amelia was swayed by as tumultuous a love as ever animated damsel of verse +or story; but it merely seemed to her that she was an ill-used woman, +married to a man for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> whom she was called on to be ashamed. Rosie tiptoed +into the entry, put on her little shawl and hood, and stole out to play in +the corn-house. When domestic squalls were gathering, she knew where to go. +The great outdoors was safer. Her past had taught her that.</p> + +<p>"Don't like to eat with folks, does he? Well, it's all in what you're +brought up to."</p> + +<p>Amelia was ready with her counter-charge. "Have some tea?"</p> + +<p>She poured it as if it were poison, and Josiah became conscious of her +tragic self-control.</p> + +<p>"You ain't eat a thing," said he, with an ostentatious kindliness. He bent +forward a little, with the air of inviting a confidence. "Got suthin' on +your mind, ain't you, 'Melia?" he whispered. "Kind o' worried? Find he's a +drinkin' man?"</p> + +<p>Amelia was not to be beguiled, even by that anger which veils itself as +justice. She looked at him steadily, with scorching eyes.</p> + +<p>"You ain't took any sugar," said she. "There 't is, settin' by you. Help +yourself."</p> + +<p>Josiah addressed himself to his tea, and then Amelia poured him another +cup. She had some fierce satisfaction in making it good and strong. It +seemed to her that she was heartening her adversary for the fray, and she +took pleasure in doing it effectually. So great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> was the spirit within her +that she knew he could not be too valiant, for her keener joy in laying him +low. Then they rose from the table, and Josiah took his old place by the +stove, while Amelia began carrying the dishes to the sink. Her mind was a +little hazy now; her next move must depend on his, and cousin Josiah, +somewhat drowsy from his good dinner, was not at once inclined to talk. +Suddenly he raised his head snakily from those sunken shoulders, and +pointed a lean finger to the window.</p> + +<p>"'Melia!" cried he sharply. "I'll be buttered if he ain't been and traded +off both your cows. My Lord! be you goin' to stan' there an' let them two +cows go?"</p> + +<p>Amelia gave one swift glance from the window, following the path marked out +by that insinuating index. It was true. Elbridge was driving her two cows +out of the yard, and her husband stood by, watching him. She walked quietly +into the entry, and Josiah laid his old hands together in the rapturous +certainty that she was going to open the door, and send her anger forth. +But Amelia only took down his butternut coat from the nail, and returned +with it, holding it ready for him to insert his arms.</p> + +<p>"Here's your coat," said she, with that strange, deceptive calmness. "Stan' +up, an' I'll help you put it on."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> + +<p>Josiah looked at her with helplessly open mouth, and eyes so vacuous that +Amelia felt, even at that moment, the grim humor of his plight.</p> + +<p>"I was in hopes he'd harness up"—he began, but she ruthlessly cut him +short.</p> + +<p>"Stan' up! Here, put t' other arm in fust. This han'kercher yours? Goes +round your neck? There 't is. Here's your hat. Got any mittens? There they +be, in your pocket. This way. This is the door you come in, an' this is the +door you'll go out of." She preceded him, her head thrown up, her shoulders +back. Amelia had no idea of dramatic values, but she was playing an +effective part. She reached the door and flung it open, but Josiah, a poor +figure in its huddled capes, still stood abjectly in the middle of the +kitchen. "Come!" she called peremptorily. "Come, Josiah Pease! Out you go." +And Josiah went, though, contrary to his usual habit, he did not talk. He +quavered uncertainly down the steps, and Amelia called a halt. "Josiah +Pease!"</p> + +<p>He turned, and looked up at her. His mouth had dropped, and he was nothing +but a very helpless old child. Vicious as he was, Amelia realized the +mental poverty of her adversary, and despised herself for despising him. +"Josiah Pease!" she repeated. "This is the end. Don't you darken my doors +ag'in. I've done with you,—egg an' bird!" She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> closed the door, shutting +out Josiah and the keen spring wind, and went back to the window, to watch +him down the drive. His back looked poor and mean. It emphasized the +pettiness of her victory. Even at that moment, she realized that it was the +poorer part of her which had resented attack on a citadel which should be +impregnable as time itself. Just then Enoch stepped into the kitchen behind +her, and his voice jarred upon her tingling nerves.</p> + +<p>"Well," said he, more jovially than he was wont to speak, "I guess I've +made a good trade for ye. Company gone? Come here an' se' down while I eat, +an' I'll tell ye all about it."</p> + +<p>Amelia turned about and walked slowly up to him, by no volition of her +conscious self. Again love, that august creature, veiled itself in an +unjust anger, because it was love and nothing else.</p> + +<p>"You've made a good bargain, have you?" she repeated. "You've sold my cows, +an' had 'em drove off the place without if or but. That's what you call a +good bargain!" Her voice frightened her. It amazed the man who heard. These +two middle-aged people were waking up to passions neither had felt in +youth. Life was strong in them because love was there.</p> + +<p>"Why, 'Melia!" said the man. "Why, 'Melia!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> + +<p>Amelia was hurried on before the wind of her destiny. Her voice grew +sharper. Little white stripes, like the lashes from a whip, showed +themselves on her cheeks. She seemed to be speaking from a dream, which +left her no will save that of speaking.</p> + +<p>"It's been so ever sence you set foot in this house. Have I had my say +once? Have I been mistress on my own farm? No! You took the head o' things, +an' you've kep' it. What's mine is yours."</p> + +<p>Her triumph over Josiah seemed to be strangely repeated; the scene was +almost identical. The man before her stood with his hands hanging by his +sides, the fingers limp, in an attitude of the profoundest patience. He was +thinking things out. She knew that. Her hurrying mind anticipated all he +might have said, and would not. And because he had too abiding a gentleness +to say it, the insanity of her anger rose anew. "I'm the laughin'-stock o' +the town," she went on bitterly. "There ain't a man or woman in it that +don't say I've married a tramp."</p> + +<p>Enoch winced, with a sharp, brief quiver of the lips; but before she could +dwell upon the sight, to the resurrection of her tenderness, he turned away +from her, and went over to the bench.</p> + +<p>"I guess I'll move this back where't was," he said, in a very still voice, +and Amelia stood<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> watching him, conscious of a new and bitterer pang: a +fierce contempt that he could go on with his poor, methodical way of +living, when greater issues waited at the door. He moved the bench into its +old place, gathered up the clock, with its dismantled machinery, and +carried it into the attic. She heard his step on the stairs, regular and +unhalting, and despised him again; but in all those moments, the meaning of +his movements had not struck her. When he came back, he brought in the +broom; and while he swept up the fragments of his work, Amelia stood and +watched him. He carried the dustpan and broom away to their places, but he +did not reenter the room. He spoke to her from the doorway, and she could +not see his face.</p> + +<p>"I guess you won't mind if I leave the clock as 't is. It needs some new +cogs, an' if anybody should come along, he wouldn't find it any the worse +for what I've done. I've jest thought it over about the cows, an' I guess +I'll leave that, too, jest as it is. I made you a good bargain, an' when +you come to think it over, I guess you'd ruther it'd stan' so than run the +resk of havin' folks make a handle of it. Good-by, 'Melia. You've been good +to me,—better'n anybody ever was in the world."</p> + +<p>She heard his step, swift and steady, through the shed and out at the door. +He was gone. Amelia turned to the window, to look after<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> him, and then, +finding he had not taken the driveway, she ran into the bedroom, to gaze +across the fields. There he was, a lonely figure, striking vigorously out. +He seemed glad to go; and seeing his haste, her heart hardened against him. +She gave a little disdainful laugh.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Amelia, "<i>that's</i> over. I'll wash my dishes now."</p> + +<p>Coming back into the kitchen, with an assured step, she moved calmly about +her work, as if the world were there to see. Her pride enveloped her like a +garment. She handled the dishes as if she scorned them, yet her method and +care were exquisite. Presently there came a little imperative pounding at +the side door. It was Rosie. She had forgotten the cloudy atmosphere of the +house, and being cold, had come, in all her old, imperious certainty of +love and warmth, to be let in. Amelia stopped short in her work, and an +ugly frown roughened her brow. Josiah Pease, with all his evil imaginings, +seemed to be at her side, his lean forefinger pointing out the baseness of +mankind. In that instant, she realized where Enoch had gone. He meant to +take the three o'clock train where it halted, down at the Crossing, and he +had left the child behind. Tearing off her apron, she threw it over her +head. She ran to the door, and, opening it, almost knocked the child down, +in her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> haste to be out and away. Rosie had lifted her frosty face in a +smile of welcome, but Amelia did not see it. She gathered the child in her +arms, and hurried down the steps, through the bars, and along the narrow +path toward the pine woods. The sharp brown stubble of the field merged +into the thin grasses of the greener lowland, and she heard the trickling +of the little dark brook, where gentians lived in the fall, and where, +still earlier, the cardinal flower and forget-me-not crowded in lavish +color. She knew every inch of the way; her feet had an intelligence of +their own. The farm was a part of her inherited life; but at that moment, +she prized it as nothing beside that newly discovered wealth which she was +rushing to cast away. Rosie had not striven in the least against her +capture. She knew too much of life, in some patient fashion, to resist it, +in any of its phases. She put her arms about Amelia's neck, to cling the +closer, and Amelia, turning her face while she staggered on, set her lips +passionately to the little sleeve.</p> + +<p>"You cold?" asked she—"<i>dear</i>?" But she told herself it was a kiss of +farewell.</p> + +<p>She stepped deftly over the low stone wall into the Marden woods, and took +the slippery downward path, over pine needles. Sometimes a rounded root lay +above the surface, and she stumbled on it; but the child only tightened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +her grasp. Amelia walked and ran with the prescience of those without fear; +for her eyes were unseeing, and her thoughts hurrying forward, she depicted +to herself the little drama at its close. She would be at the Crossing and +away again, before the train came in; nobody need guess her trouble. Enoch +must be there, waiting. She would drop the child at his side,—the child he +had deserted,—and before he could say a word, turn back to her desolate +home. And at the thought, she kissed the little sleeve again, and thought +how good it would be if she could only be there again, though alone, in the +shielding walls of her house, and the parting were over and done. She felt +her breath come chokingly.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to walk a minute," she whispered, setting the child down at +her side. "There's time enough. I can't hurry."</p> + +<p>At that instant, she felt the slight warning of the ground beneath her +feet, shaken by another step, and saw, through the pines, her husband +running toward her. Rosie started to meet him, with a little cry, but +Amelia thrust her aside, and hurried swiftly on in advance, her eyes +feeding upon his face. It had miraculously changed. Sorrow, the great +despair of life, had eaten into it, and aged it more than years of patient +want. His eyes were like lamps burned low, and the wrinkles under them had +guttered into misery. But to Amelia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> his look had all the sweet +familiarity of faces we shall see in Paradise. She did not stop to +interpret his meeting glance, nor ask him to read hers. Coming upon him +like a whirlwind, she put both her shaking hands on his shoulders, and laid +her wet face to his.</p> + +<p>"Enoch! Enoch!" she cried sharply, "in the name of God, come home with me!"</p> + +<p>She felt him trembling under her hands, but he only put up his own, and +very gently loosed the passionate grasp. "There! there!" he said, in a +whisper. "Don't feel so bad. It's all right. I jest turned back for Rosie. +Mebbe you won't believe it, but I forgot all about her."</p> + +<p>He lowered his voice, for Rosie had gone close to him, and laid her hands +clingingly upon his coat. She did not understand, but she could wait. A +branch had almost barred the path, and Amelia, her dull gaze fallen, noted +idly how bright the moss had kept, and how the scarlet cups enriched it. +Her strength would not sustain her, void of his, and she sank down on the +wood, her hands laid limply in her lap. "Enoch," she said, from her new +sense of the awe of life, "don't lay up anything ag'inst me. You couldn't +if you knew."</p> + +<p>"Knew what?" asked Enoch gently. He did not forget that circumstance had +laid a blow at the roots of his being; but he could not turn away while she +still suffered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> + +<p>Amelia began, stumblingly,—</p> + +<p>"He talked about you. I couldn't stan' it."</p> + +<p>"Did you believe it?" he queried sternly.</p> + +<p>"There wa'n't anything to believe. That's neither here nor there. +But—Enoch, if anybody should cut my right hand off—Enoch"—Her voice fell +brokenly. She was a New England woman, accustomed neither to analyze nor +talk. She could only suffer in the elemental way of dumb things who +sometimes need a language of the heart. One thing she knew. The man was +hers; and if she reft herself away from him, then she must die.</p> + +<p>He had taken Rosie's hand, and Amelia was aware that he turned away.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to bring up anything," he said hesitatingly, "but I couldn't +stan' bein' any less'n other men would, jest because the woman had the +money, an' I hadn't. I dunno's 't was exactly fair about the cows, but +somehow you kind o' set me at the head o' things, in the beginnin', an' it +never come into my mind"—</p> + +<p>Amelia sat looking wanly past him. She began to see how slightly argument +would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from her and left +her young.</p> + +<p>"Enoch," she said vigorously, "you've got to take me. Somehow, you've got +to. Talkin' won't make you see that what I said never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> meant no more than +the wind that blows. But you've got to keep me, or remember, all your life, +how you murdered me by goin' away. The farm's come between us. Le's leave +it! It's 'most time for the cars. You take me with you now. If you tramp, +I'll tramp. If you work out, so 'll I. But where you go, I've got to go, +too."</p> + +<p>Some understanding of her began to creep upon him; he dropped the child's +hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch, in these latter days of his life, had +forgotten how to smile; but now a sudden, mirthful gleam struck upon his +face, and lighted it with the candles of hope. He stood beside her, and +Amelia did not look at him.</p> + +<p>"Would you go with me, 'Melia?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I'm goin'," said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could not +abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous +judgment.</p> + +<p>"S'pose I don't ask you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll foller on behind."</p> + +<p>"Don't ye want to go home, an' lock up, an' git a bunnit?"</p> + +<p>She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Don't ye want to leave the key with some o' the neighbors?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't want anything in the world but you," owned Amelia shamelessly.</p> + +<p>Enoch bent suddenly, and drew her to her feet. "'Melia," said he, "you look +up here."</p> + +<p>She raised her drawn face and looked at him, not because she wished, but +because she must. In her abasement, there was no obedience which she would +deny him. But she could only see that he was strangely happy, and so the +more removed from her own despair. Enoch swiftly passed his arm about her, +and turned her homeward. He laughed a little. Being a man, he must laugh +when that bitter ache in the throat presaged more bitter tears.</p> + +<p>"Come, 'Melia," said he, "come along home, an' I'll tell you all about the +cows. I made a real good bargain. Come, Rosie."</p> + +<p>Amelia could not answer. It seemed to her as if love had dealt with her as +she had not deserved; and she went on, exalted, afraid of breaking the +moment, and knowing only that he was hers again. But just before they left +the shadow of the woods, he stopped, holding her still, and their hearts +beat together.</p> + +<p>"'Melia," said he brokenly, "I guess I never told you in so many words, but +it's the truth: if God Almighty was to make me a woman, I'd have her you, +not a hair altered. I never cared a straw for any other. I know that now. +You're all there is in the world."</p> + +<p>When they walked up over the brown field,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> the sun lay very warmly there +with a promise of spring fulfilled. The wind had miraculously died, and +soft clouds ran over the sky in flocks. Rosie danced on ahead, singing her +queer little song, and Enoch struggled with himself to speak the word his +wife might wish.</p> + +<p>"'Melia," said he at last, "there ain't anything in my life I couldn't tell +you. I jest ain't dwelt on it, that's all. If you want to have me go over +it—"</p> + +<p>"I don't want anything," said Amelia firmly. Her eyes were suffused, and +yet lambent. The light in them seemed to be drinking up their tears. Her +steps, she knew, were set within a shining way. At the door only she paused +and fixed him with a glance. "Enoch," said she threateningly, "whose cows +were them you sold to-day?"</p> + +<p>He opened his lips, but she looked him down. One word he rejected, and then +another. His cheeks wrinkled up into obstinate smiling, and he made the +grimace of a child over its bitter draught.</p> + +<p>"'Melia, it ain't fair," he complained. "No, it ain't. I'll take one of +'em, if you say so, or I'll own it don't make a mite o' difference whose +they be. But as to lyin'—"</p> + +<p>"Say it!" commanded Amelia. "Whose were they?"</p> + +<p>"Mine!" said Enoch. They broke into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> laughter, like children, and held each +other's hands.</p> + +<p>"I ain't had a mite o' dinner," said Amelia happily, as they stepped +together into the kitchen. "Nor you! An' Rosie didn't eat her pie. You +blaze up the fire, an' I'll fry some eggs."</p> + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +<h2>THE MORTUARY CHEST</h2> +</div> + +<p>"Now we've got red o' the men-folks," said Mrs. Robbins, "le's se' down an' +talk it over." The last man of all the crowd accustomed to seek the country +store at noontime was closing the church door behind him as she spoke. +"Here, Ezry," she called after him, "you hurry up, or you won't git there +afore cockcrow to-morrer, an' I wouldn't have that letter miss for a good +deal."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Robbins was slight, and hung on wires,—so said her neighbors. They +also remarked that her nose was as picked as a pin, and that anybody with +them freckles and that red hair was sure to be smart. You could always +tell. Mrs. Robbins knew her reputation for extreme acuteness, and tried to +live up to it.</p> + +<p>"Law! don't you go to stirrin' on him up," said Mrs. Solomon Page +comfortably, putting on the cover of her butter-box, which had contained +the family lunch. "If the store's closed, he can slip the letter into the +box, an' three cents with it, an' they'll put a stamp on in the mornin'."</p> + +<p>By this time, there was a general dusting of crumbs from Sunday gowns, a +settling of boxes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> and baskets, and the feminine portion of the East +Tiverton congregation, according to ancient custom, passed into the pews +nearest the stove, and arranged itself more compactly for the midday +gossip. This was a pleasant interlude in the religious decorum of the day; +no Sunday came when the men did not trail off to the store for their +special council, and the women, with a restful sense of sympathy alloyed by +no disturbing element, settled down for an exclusively feminine view of the +universe. Mrs. Page took the head of the pew, and disposed her portly frame +so as to survey the scene with ease. She was a large woman, with red cheeks +and black, shining hair. One powerful arm lay along the back of the pew, +and, as she talked, she meditatively beat the rail in time. Her sister, +Mrs. Ellison, according to an intermittent custom, had come over from +Saltash to attend church, and incidentally to indulge in a family chat. It +was said that Tilly rode over about jes' so often to get the Tiverton news +for her son Leonard, who furnished local items to the Sudleigh "Star;" and, +indeed, she made no secret of sitting down in social conclave with a bit of +paper and a worn pencil in hand, to jog her memory. She, too, had smooth +black hair, but her dark eyes were illumined by no steadfast glow; they +snapped and shone with alert intelligence, and her great forehead dominated +the rest of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> face, scarred with a thousand wrinkles by intensity of +nature rather than by time. A pleasant warmth had diffused itself over the +room, so cold during the morning service that foot-stoves had been in +requisition. Bonnet strings were thrown back and shawls unpinned. The +little world relaxed and lay at ease.</p> + +<p>"What's the news over your way, sister?" asked Mrs. Ellison, as an informal +preliminary.</p> + +<p>"Tilly don't want to give; she'd ruther take," said Mrs. Baxter, before the +other could answer. "She's like old Mis' Pepper. Seliny Hazlitt went over +there, when she was fust married an' come to the neighborhood, an' asked +her if she'd got a sieve to put squash through. Poor Seliny! she didn't +know a sieve from a colander, in them days."</p> + +<p>"I guess she found out soon enough," volunteered Mrs. Page. "<i>He</i> was one +o' them kind o' men that can keep house as well as a woman. I'd ruther live +with a born fool."</p> + +<p>"Well, old Mis' Pepper she ris up an' smoothed down her apron (recollect +them little dots she used to wear?—made her look as broad as a barn +door!), an' she says, 'Yes, we've got a sieve for flour, an' a sieve for +meal, an' a sieve for rye, an' a sieve for blue-monge, an' we could have a +sieve for squash if we was a mind to, <i>but I don't wish to lend</i>.' That's +the way with Tilly. She's terrible cropein' about news, but she won't +lend."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How's your cistern?" asked Mrs. John Cole, who, with an exclusively +practical turn of mind, saw no reason why talk should be consecutive. "Got +all the water you want?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mrs. Page; "that last rain filled it up higher'n it's been +sence November."</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Ellison was not to be thrown off the track.</p> + +<p>"Ain't there been consid'able talk over here about Parson Bond?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Miss Sally Ware, a plump and pleasing maiden lady, whose gold beads lay in +a crease especially designed for them, stirred uneasily in her seat and +gave her sisters an appealing glance. But she did not speak, beyond +uttering a little dissentient noise in her throat. She was loyal to her +minister. An embarrassed silence fell like a vapor over the assemblage. +Everybody longed to talk; nobody wanted the responsibility of beginning. +Mrs. Page was the first to gather her forces.</p> + +<p>"Now, Tilly," said she, with decision, "you ain't comin' over here to tole +us into haulin' our own pastor over the coals, unless you'll say right out +you won't pass it on to Saltash folks. As for puttin' it in the paper, it +ain't the kind you can."</p> + +<p>Tilly's eyes burned.</p> + +<p>"I guess I know when to speak an' when not to," she remarked. "Now don't +beat about the bush; the men-folks'll be back to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>-rights. I never in my +life give Len a mite o' news he couldn't ha' picked up for himself."</p> + +<p>"Well, some master silly pieces have got into the paper, fust an' last," +said Mrs. Robbins. "Recollect how your Len come 'way over here to git his +shoes cobbled, the week arter Tom Brewer moved int' the Holler, an' folks +hadn't got over swappin' the queer things he said? an' when Tom got the +shoes done afore he promised, Len says to him, 'You're better'n your word.' +'Well,' says Tom, 'I flew at 'em with all the venom o' my specie.' An' it +wa'n't a fortnight afore that speech come out in a New York paper, an' then +the Sudleigh 'Star' got hold on 't, an' so 't went. If folks want that kind +o' thing, they can git a plenty, <i>I</i> say." She set her lips defiantly, and +looked round on the assembled group. This was something she had meant to +mention; now she had done it.</p> + +<p>The informal meeting was aghast. A flavor of robust humor was accustomed to +enliven it, but not of a sort to induce dissension.</p> + +<p>"There! there!" murmured Sally Ware. "It's the Sabbath day!"</p> + +<p>"Well, nobody's breakin' of it, as I know of," said Mrs. Ellison. Her eyes +were brighter than usual, but she composed herself into a careful disregard +of annoyance. When desire of news assailed her, she could easily conceal +her personal resentments, cannily sacrificing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> small issues to great. "I +guess there's no danger o' Parson Bond's gittin' into the paper, so long's +he behaves himself; but if anybody's got eyes, they can't help seein'. I +hadn't been in the Bible class five minutes afore I guessed how he was +carryin' on. Has he begun to go with Isabel North, an' his wife not cold in +her grave?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I think, for my part, he does want Isabel," said Mrs. Robbins +sharply, "an' I say it's a sin an' a shame. Why, she ain't twenty, an' he's +sixty if he's a day. My soul! Sally Ware, you better be settin' your cap +for my William Henry. He's 'most nineteen."</p> + +<p>Miss Ware flushed, and her plump hands tightened upon each other under her +shawl. She was never entirely at ease in the atmosphere of these assured +married women; it was always a little bracing.</p> + +<p>"Well, how's she take it?" asked Tilly, turning from one to the other. +"Tickled to death, I s'pose?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess she ain't!" broke in a younger woman, whose wedding finery +was not yet outworn. "She's most sick over it, and so she has been ever +since her sister married and went away. I believe she'd hate the sight of +him, if 't wasn't the minister; but <i>'t is</i> the minister, and when she's +put face to face with him, she can't help saying yes and no."</p> + +<p>"I dunno'," said Mrs. Page, with her unc<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>tuous laugh. "Remember the party +over to Tiverton t' other night, an' them tarts? You see, Rosanna Maria +Pike asked us all over; an' you know how flaky her pie-crust is. Well, the +minister was stan'in' side of Isabel when the tarts was passed. He was sort +o' shinin' up to her that night, an' I guess he felt a mite twittery; so +when the tarts come to him, he reached out kind o' delicate, with his +little finger straight out, an' tried to take one. An' a ring o' crust come +off on his finger. Then he tried it ag'in, an' got another ring. +Everybody'd ha' laughed, if it hadn't been the minister; but Isabel she +tickled right out, an' says, 'You don't take jelly, do you, Mr. Bond?' An' +he turned as red as fire, an' says, 'No, I thank you.'"</p> + +<p>"She wouldn't ha' said it, if she hadn't ha' been so nervous," remarked +Miss Sally, taking a little parcel of peppermints from her pocket, and +proceeding to divide them.</p> + +<p>"No, I don't s'pose she would," owned Mrs. Page reflectively. "But if what +they say is true, she's been pretty sassy to him, fust an' last. Why, you +know, no matter how the parson begins his prayer, he's sure to end up on +one line: 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live by the dim +light of natur'.' 'Lisha Cole, when he come home from Illinois, walked over +here to meetin', to surprise some o' the folks. He waited in the entry to +ketch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> 'em comin' out, an' the fust word he heard was, 'Lord, we thank Thee +we have not been left to live by the dim light of natur'.' 'Lisha said he'd +had time to be shipwrecked (you know he went to California fust an' made +the v'yage), an' be married twice, an' lay by enough to keep him, and come +home poor; but when he heard that, he felt as if the world hadn't moved +sence he started."</p> + +<p>Sally Ware dropped her mitten, to avoid listening and the necessity of +reply; it was too evident that the conversational tone was becoming +profane. But Mrs. Page's eyes were gleaming with pure dramatic joy, and she +continued:—</p> + +<p>"Well, a fortnight or so ago he went over to see Isabel, an' Sadie an' her +husband happened to be there. They were all settin' purrin' in the dark, +because they'd forgot to send for any kerosene. 'No light?' says he, +hittin' his head ag'inst the chimbly-piece goin' in,—'no light?' 'No,' +says Isabel, 'none but the dim light of natur'.'"</p> + +<p>There was a chime of delighted laughter in many keys. The company felt the +ease of unrestricted speech. They wished the nooning might be indefinitely +prolonged.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I think she sets out to make him believe she's wuss 'n she is," +remarked Mrs. Cole. "Remember how she carried on last Sabbath?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I guess so!" returned Mrs. Page. "You see, Tilly, he's kind o' pushin' her +for'ard to make her seem more suitable,—he'd like to have her as old as +the hills!—an' nothin' would do but she must go into the Bible class. +Ain't a member that's under fifty, but there that little young thing sets, +cheeks red as a beet, an' the elder asks her questions, when he gits to +her, as if he was coverin' on her over with cotton wool. Well, last Sabbath +old Deacon Pitts—le's see, there ain't any o' his folks present, be +they?—well, he was late, an' he hadn't looked at his lesson besides. 'T +was the fust chapter in Ruth, where it begins, 'In the days when the judges +ruled.' You recollect Naomi told the two darters they'd got to set sail, +an' then the Bible says, 'they lifted up their voice an' wept.' 'Who wept?' +says the parson to Deacon Pitts, afore he'd got fairly se' down. The deacon +he opened his Bible, an' whirled over the leaves. 'Who wept, Brother +Pitts?' says the parson over ag'in. Somebody found the deacon the place, +an' p'inted. He was growin' redder an' redder, an' his spe'tacles kep' +slippin' down, but he did manage to see the chapter begun suthin' about the +judges. Well, by that time parson spoke out sort o' sharp. 'Brother Pitts,' +says he, 'who wept?' The deacon see 't he'd got to put some kind of a face +on 't, an' he looked up an' spoke out, as bold as brass.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> 'I conclude,' +says he,—'I conclude 't was the judges!'"</p> + +<p>Even Miss Ware smiled a little, and adjusted her gold beads. The others +laughed out rich and free.</p> + +<p>"Well, what'd that have to do with Isabel?" asked Mrs. Ellison, who never +forgot the main issue.</p> + +<p>"Why, everybody else drawed down their faces, an' tried to keep 'em +straight, but Isabel, she begun to laugh, an' she laughed till the tears +streamed down her cheeks. Deacon Pitts was real put out, for him, an' the +parson tried not to take no notice. But it went so fur he couldn't help it, +an' so he says, 'Miss Isabel, I'm real pained,' says he. But 't was jest as +you'd cuff the kitten for snarlin' up your yarn."</p> + +<p>"Well, what's Isabel goin' to do?" asked Mrs. Ellison. "S'pose she'll marry +him?"</p> + +<p>"Why, she won't unless he tells her to. If he does, I dunno but she'll +think she's got to."</p> + +<p>"I say it's a shame," put in Mrs. Robbins incisively; "an' Isabel with +everything all fixed complete so 't she could have a good time. Her +sister's well married, an' Isabel stays every night with her. Them two +girls have been together ever sence their father died. An' here she's got +the school, an' she's goin' to Sudleigh every Saturday to take les<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>sons in +readin', an' she'd be as happy as a cricket, if on'y he'd let her alone."</p> + +<p>"She reads real well," said Mrs. Ellison. "She come over to our sociable +an' read for us. She could turn herself into anybody she'd a mind to. Len +wrote a notice of it for the 'Star.' That's the only time we've had oysters +over our way."</p> + +<p>"I'd let it be the last," piped up a thin old lady, with a long figured +veil over her face. "It's my opinion oysters lead to dancin'."</p> + +<p>"Well, let 'em lead," said optimistic Mrs. Page. "I guess we needn't +foller."</p> + +<p>"Them that have got rheumatism in their knees can stay behind," said the +young married woman, drawn by the heat of the moment into a daring at once +to be repented. "Mrs. Ellison, you're getting ahead of us over in your +parish. They say you sing out of sheet music."</p> + +<p>"Yes, they do say so," interrupted the old lady under the figured veil. "If +there's any worship in sheet music, I'd like to know it!"</p> + +<p>"Come, come!" said peace-loving Mrs. Page; "there's the men filin' in. We +mustn't let 'em see us squabblin'. They think we're a lot o' cacklin' hens +anyway, tickled to death over a piece o' chalk. There's Isabel, now. She's +goin' to look like her aunt Mary Ellen, over to Saltash."</p> + +<p>Isabel preceded the men, who were pausing for a word at the door, and went +down the aisle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> to her pew. She bowed to one and another, in passing, and +her color rose. They could not altogether restrain their guiltily curious +gaze, and Isabel knew she had been talked over. She was a healthy-looking +girl, with clear blue eyes and a quantity of soft brown hair. Her face was +rather large-featured, and one could see that, if the world went well with +her, she would be among those who develop beauty in middle life.</p> + +<p>The group of dames dispersed to their several pews, and settled their faces +into expressions more becoming a Sunday mood. The village folk, who had +time for a hot dinner, dropped in, one by one, and by and by the parson +came,—a gaunt man, with thick red-brown hair streaked with dull gray, and +red-brown, sanguine eyes. He was much beloved, but something impulsive and +unevenly balanced in his nature led even his people to regard him with more +or less patronage. He kept his eyes rigorously averted from Isabel's pew, +in passing; but when he reached the pulpit, and began unpinning his heavy +gray shawl, he did glance at her, and his face grew warm. But Isabel did +not look at him, and all through the service she sat with a haughty pose of +the head, gazing down into her lap. When it was over, she waited for no +one, since her sister was not at church, but sped away down the snowy +road.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>The next day, Isabel stayed after school, and so it was in the wintry +twilight that she walked home, guarded by the few among her flock who had +been kept to learn the inner significance of common fractions. Approaching +her own house, she quickened her steps, for there before the gate (taken +from its hinges and resting for the winter) stood a blue pung. The horse +was dozing, his Roman nose sunken almost to the snow at his feet. He looked +as if he had come to stay. Isabel withdrew her hand from the persistent +little fingers clinging to it.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, children," said she. "I guess I've got company. I must hurry +in. Come bright and early to-morrow."</p> + +<p>The little group marched away, swathed in comforters, each child carrying +the dinner-pail with an easy swing. Their reddened faces lighted over the +chorusing good-nights, and they kept looking back, while Isabel ran up the +icy path to her own door. It was opened from within, before she reached it, +and a tall, florid woman, with smoothly banded hair, stood there to receive +her. Though she had a powerful frame, she gave one at the outset an +impression of weak gentleness, and the hands she extended, albeit cordial, +were somewhat limp. She wore her bonnet still, though she had untied the +strings and thrown them back; and her ample figure was tightly laced under +a sontag.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, aunt Luceba!" cried Isabel, radiant. "I'm as glad as I can be. When +did you rain down?"</p> + +<p>"Be you glad?" returned aunt Luceba, her somewhat anxious look relaxing +into a smile. "Well, I'm pleased if you be. Fact is, I run away, an' I'm +jest comin' to myself, an' wonderin' what under the sun set me out to do +it."</p> + +<p>"Run away!" repeated Isabel, drawing her in, and at once peeping into the +stove. "Oh, you fixed the fire, didn't you? It keeps real well. I put on +coal in the morning, and then again at night."</p> + +<p>"Isabel," began her aunt, standing by the stove, and drumming on it with +agitated fingers, "I hate to have you live as you do. Why under the sun +can't you come over to Saltash, an' stay with us?"</p> + +<p>Isabel had thrown off her shawl and hat, and was standing on the other side +of the stove; she was tingling with cold and youthful spirits.</p> + +<p>"I'm keeping school," said she. "School can't keep without me. And I'm +going over to Sudleigh, every Saturday, to take elocution lessons. I'm +having my own way, and I'm happy as a clam. Now, why can't you come and +live with me? You said you would, the very day aunt Eliza died."</p> + +<p>"I know I did," owned the visitor, lowering her voice, and casting a glance +over her shoulder. "But I never had an idea then how Mary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> Ellen 'd feel +about it. She said she wouldn't live in this town, not if she was switched. +I dunno why she's so ag'in' it, but she seems to be, an' there 't is!"</p> + +<p>"Why, aunt Luceba!" Isabel had left her position to draw forward a chair. +"What's that?" She pointed to the foot of the lounge, where, half hidden in +shadow, stood a large, old-fashioned blue chest.</p> + +<p>"'Sh! that's it! that's what I come for. It's her chist."</p> + +<p>"Whose?"</p> + +<p>"Your aunt 'Liza's." She looked Isabel in the face with an absurd triumph +and awe. She had done a brave deed, the nature of which was not at once +apparent.</p> + +<p>"What's in it?" asked Isabel, walking over to it.</p> + +<p>"Don't you touch it!" cried her aunt, in agitation. "I wouldn't have you +meddle with it—But there! it's locked. I al'ays forgit that. I feel as if +the things could git out an' walk. Here! you let it alone, an' byme-by +we'll open it. Se' down here on the lounge. There, now! I guess I can tell +ye. It was sister 'Liza's chist, an' she kep' it up attic. She begun it +when we wa'n't more'n girls goin' to Number Six, an' she's been fillin' on +'t ever sence."</p> + +<p>"Begun it! You talk as if 't was a quilt!" Isabel began to laugh.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Now don't!" said her aunt, in great distress. "Don't ye! I s'pose 't was +because we was such little girls an' all when 'Liza started it, but it +makes me as nervous as a witch, an' al'ays did. You see, 'Liza was a great +hand for deaths an' buryin's; an' as for funerals, she'd ruther go to 'em +than eat. I'd say that if she was here this minute, for more'n once I said +it to her face. Well, everybody 't died, she saved suthin' they wore or +handled the last thing, an' laid it away in this chist; an' last time I see +it opened, 't was full, an' she kind o' smacked her lips, an' said she +should have to begin another. But the very next week she was took away."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Luceba," said Isabel suddenly, "was aunt Eliza hard to live with? Did +you and aunt Mary Ellen have to toe the mark?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you say one word," answered her aunt hastily. "That's all past an' +gone. There ain't no way of settlin' old scores but buryin' of 'em. She was +older'n we were, an' on'y a step-sister, arter all. We must think o' that. +Well, I must come to the end o' my story, an' then we'll open the chist. +Next day arter we laid her away, it come into my head, 'Now we can burn up +them things.' It may ha' been wicked, but there 't was, an' the thought +kep' arter me, till all I could think of was the chist; an' byme-by I says +to Mary Ellen, one mornin', 'Le's open it to-day an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> make a burnfire!' An' +Mary Ellen she turned as white as a sheet, an' dropped her spoon into her +sasser, an' she says: 'Not yet! Luceba, don't you ask me to touch it yet.' +An' I found out, though she never 'd say another word, that it unset her +more'n it did me. One day, I come on her up attic stan'in' over it with the +key in her hand, an' she turned round as if I'd ketched her stealin', an' +slipped off downstairs. An' this arternoon, she went into Tilly Ellison's +with her work, an' it come to me all of a sudden how I'd git Tim Yatter to +harness an' load the chist onto the pung, an' I'd bring it over here, an' +we'd look it over together; an' then, if there's nothin' in it but what I +think, I'd leave it behind, an' maybe you or Sadie 'd burn it. John Cole +happened to ride by, and he helped me in with it. I ain't a-goin' to have +Mary Ellen worried. She's different from me. She went to school, same's you +have, an' she's different somehow. She's been meddled with all her life, +an' I'll be whipped if she sha'n't make a new start. Should you jest as +lieves ask Sadie or John?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," said Isabel wonderingly; "or do it myself. I don't see why you +care."</p> + +<p>Aunt Luceba wiped her beaded face with a large handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"I dunno either," she owned, in an exhausted voice. "I guess it's al'ays +little things you can't stand. Big ones you can butt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> ag'inst. There! I +feel better, now I've told ye. Here's the key. Should you jest as soon open +it?"</p> + +<p>Isabel drew the chest forward with a vigorous pull of her sturdy arm. She +knelt before it and inserted the key. Aunt Luceba rose and leaned over her +shoulder, gazing with the fascination of horror. At the moment the lid was +lifted, a curious odor filled the room.</p> + +<p>"My soul!" exclaimed Aunt Luceba. "O my soul!" She seemed incapable of +saying more; and Isabel, awed in spite of herself, asked, in a whisper:—</p> + +<p>"What's that smell? I know, but I can't think."</p> + +<p>"You take out that parcel," said aunt Luceba, beginning to fan herself with +her handkerchief. "That little one down there 't the end. It's that. My +soul! how things come back! Talk about spirits! There's no need of 'em! +<i>Things</i> are full bad enough!"</p> + +<p>Isabel lifted out a small brown paper package, labeled in a cramped +handwriting. She held it to the fading light. "'Slippery elm left by my +dear father from his last illness,'" she read, with difficulty. "'The +broken piece used by him on the day of his death.'"</p> + +<p>"My land!" exclaimed aunt Luceba weakly. "Now what'd she want to keep that +for? He had it round all that winter, an' he used to give us a little mite, +to please us. Oh, dear! it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> smells like death. Well, le's lay it aside an' +git on. The light's goin', an' I must jog along. Take out that dress. I +guess I know what 't is, though I can't hardly believe it."</p> + +<p>Isabel took out a black dress, made with a full, gathered skirt and an +old-fashioned waist. "'Dress made ready for aunt Mercy,'" she read, +"'before my dear uncle bought her a robe.' But, auntie," she added, +"there's no back breadth!"</p> + +<p>"I know it! I know it! She was so large they had to cut it out, for fear 't +wouldn't go into the coffin; an' Monroe Giles said she was a real +particular woman, an' he wondered how she'd feel to have the back breadth +of her quilted petticoat showin' in heaven. I declare I'm 'most sick! +What's in that pasteboard box?"</p> + +<p>It was a shriveled object, black with long-dried mould.</p> + +<p>"'Lemon held by Timothy Marden in his hand just before he died.' Aunt +Luceba," said Isabel, turning with a swift impulse, "I think aunt Eliza was +a horror!"</p> + +<p>"Don't you say it, if you do think it," said her aunt, sinking into a chair +and rocking vigorously. "Le's git through with it as quick 's we can. Ain't +that a bandbox? Yes, that's great-aunt Isabel's leghorn bunnit. You was +named for her, you know. An' there's cousin Hattie's cashmere shawl, an' +Obed's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> spe'tacles. An' if there ain't old Mis' Eaton's false front! Don't +you read no more. I don't care what they're marked. Move that box a mite. +My soul! There's ma'am's checked apron I bought her to the fair! Them are +all her things down below." She got up and walked to the window, looking +into the chestnut branches, with unseeing eyes. She turned about presently, +and her cheeks were wet. "There!" she said; "I guess we needn't look no +more. Should you jest as soon burn 'em?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Isabel. She was crying a little, too. "Of course I will, +auntie. I'll put 'em back now. But when you're gone, I'll do it; perhaps +not till Saturday, but I will then."</p> + +<p>She folded the articles, and softly laid them away. They were no longer +gruesome, since even a few of them could recall the beloved and still +remembered dead. As she was gently closing the lid, she felt a hand on her +shoulder. Aunt Luceba was standing there, trembling a little, though the +tears had gone from her face.</p> + +<p>"Isabel," said she, in a whisper, "you needn't burn the apron, when you do +the rest. Save it careful. I should like to put it away among my things."</p> + +<p>Isabel nodded. She remembered her grandmother, a placid, hopeful woman, +whose every deed breathed the fragrance of godly living.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There!" said her aunt, turning away with the air of one who thrusts back +the too insistent past, lest it dominate her quite. "It's gittin' along +towards dark, an' I must put for home. I guess that hoss thinks he's goin' +to be froze to the ground. You wrop up my soap-stone while I git on my +shawl. Land! don't it smell hot? I wisht I hadn't been so spry about +puttin' on 't into the oven." She hurried on her things; and Isabel, her +hair blowing about her face, went out to uncover the horse and speed the +departure. The reins in her hands, aunt Luceba bent forward once more to +add, "Isabel, if there's one thing left for me to say, to tole you over to +live with us, I want to say it."</p> + +<p>Isabel laughed. "I know it," she answered brightly. "And if there's +anything I can say to make you and aunt Mary Ellen come over here"—</p> + +<p>Aunt Luceba shook her head ponderously, and clucked at the horse. "Fur's +I'm concerned, it's settled now. I'd come, an' be glad. But there's Mary +Ellen! Go 'long!" She went jangling away along the country road to the +music of old-fashioned bells.</p> + +<p>Isabel ran into the house, and, with one look at the chest, set about +preparing her supper. She was enjoying her life of perfect freedom with a +kind of bravado, inasmuch as it seemed an innocent delight of which nobody<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +approved. If the two aunts would come to live with her, so much the better; +but since they refused, she scorned the descent to any domestic expedient. +Indeed, she would have been glad to sleep, as well as to eat, in the lonely +house; but to that her sister would never consent, and though she had +compromised by going to Sadie's for the night, she always returned before +breakfast. She put up a leaf of the table standing by the wall, and +arranged her simple supper there, uttering aloud as she did so fragments of +her lesson, or dramatic sentences which had caught her fancy in reading or +in speech. Finally, as she was dipping her cream toast, she caught herself +saying, over and over, "My soul!" in the tremulous tone her aunt had used +at that moment of warm emotion. She could not make it quite her own, and +she tried again and again, like a faithful parrot. Then of a sudden the +human power and pity of it flashed upon her, and she reddened, +conscience-smitten, though no one was by to hear. She set her dish upon the +table with indignant emphasis.</p> + +<p>"I'm ashamed of myself!" said Isabel, and she sat down to her delicate +repast, and forced herself, while she ate with a cordial relish, to fix her +mind on what seemed to her things common as compared with her beloved +ambition. Isabel often felt that she was too much absorbed in reading, and +that, somehow or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> other, God would come to that conclusion also, and take +away her wicked facility.</p> + +<p>The dark seemed to drift quickly down, that night, because her supper had +been delayed, and she washed her dishes by lamplight. When she had quite +finished, and taken off her apron, she stood a moment over the chest, +before sitting down to her task of memorizing verse. She was wondering +whether she might not burn a few of the smaller things to-night; yet +somehow, although she was quite free from aunt Luceba's awe of them, she +did feel that the act must be undertaken with a certain degree of +solemnity. It ought not to be accomplished over the remnants of a fire +built for cooking; it should, moreover, be to the accompaniment of a +serious mood in herself. She turned away, but at that instant there came a +jingle of bells. It stopped at the gate. Isabel went into the dark entry, +and pressed her face against the side-light. It was the parson. She knew +him at once; no one in Tiverton could ever mistake that stooping figure, +draped in a shawl. Isabel always hated him the more when she thought of his +shawl. It flashed upon her then, as it often did when revulsion came over +her, how much she had loved him until he had conceived this altogether +horrible attachment for her. It was like a cherished friend who had begun +to cut undignified capers. More than that, there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> lurked a certain cruelty +in it, because he seemed to be trading on her inherited reverence for his +office. If he should ask her to marry him, he was the minister, and how +could she refuse? Unless, indeed, there were somebody else in the room, to +give her courage, and that was hardly to be expected. Isabel began casting +wildly about her for help. Her thoughts ran in a rushing current, and even +in the midst of her tragic despair some sense of the foolishness of it +smote her like a comic note, and she could have laughed hysterically.</p> + +<p>"But I can't help it," she said aloud, "I am afraid. I can't put out the +light. He's seen it. I can't slip out the back door. He'd hear me on the +crust. He'll—ask me—to-night! Oh, he will! he will! and I said to myself +I'd be cunning and never give him a chance. Oh, why couldn't aunt Luceba +have stayed? My soul! my soul!" And then the dramatic fibre, always awake +in her, told her that she had found the tone she sought.</p> + +<p>He was blanketing his horse, and Isabel had flown into the sitting-room. +Her face was alive with resolution and a kind of joy. She had thought. She +threw open the chest, with a trembling hand, and pulled out the black +dress.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," she said, as she slipped it on over her head, and speaking as +if she addressed some unseen guardian, "but I can't help it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> If you don't +want your things used, you keep him from coming in!"</p> + +<p>The parson knocked at the door. Isabel took no notice. She was putting on +the false front, the horn spectacles, the cashmere shawl, and the leghorn +bonnet, with its long veil. She threw back the veil, and closed the chest. +The parson knocked again. She heard him kicking the snow from his feet +against the scraper. It might have betokened a decent care for her floors. +It sounded to Isabel like a lover's haste, and smote her anew with that +fear which is the forerunner of action. She blew out the lamp, and lighted +a candle. Then she went to the door, schooling herself in desperation to +remember this, to remember that, to remember, above all things, that her +under dress was red and that her upper one had no back breadth. She threw +open the door.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening"—said the parson. He was about to add "Miss Isabel," but the +words stuck in his throat.</p> + +<p>"She ain't to home," answered Isabel. "My niece ain't to home."</p> + +<p>The parson had bent forward, and was eyeing her curiously, yet with +benevolence. He knew all the residents within a large radius, and he +expected, at another word from the shadowy masker, to recognize her also. +"Will she be away long?" he hesitated.</p> + +<p>"I guess she will," answered Isabel promptly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> "She ain't to be relied on. +I never found her so." Her spirits had risen. She knew how exactly she was +imitating aunt Luceba's mode of speech. The tones were dramatically exact, +albeit of a more resonant quality. "Auntie's voice is like suet," she +thought. "Mine is vinegar. <i>But I've got it!</i>" A merry devil assailed her, +the child of dramatic triumph. She spoke with decision: "Won't you come +in?"</p> + +<p>The parson crossed the sill, and waited courteously for her to precede him; +but Isabel thought, in time, of her back breadth, and stood aside.</p> + +<p>"You go fust," said she, "an' I'll shet the door."</p> + +<p>He made his way into the ill-lighted sitting-room, and began to unpin his +shawl.</p> + +<p>"I ain't had my bunnit off sence I come," announced Isabel, entering with +some bustle, and taking her stand, until he should be seated, within the +darkest corner of the hearth. "I've had to turn to an' clear up, or I +shouldn't ha' found a spot as big as a hin's egg to sleep in to-night. +Maybe you don't know it, but my niece Isabel's got no more faculty about a +house 'n I have for preachin'—not a mite."</p> + +<p>The parson had seated himself by the stove, and was laboriously removing +his arctics. Isabel's eyes danced behind her spectacles as she thought how +large and ministerial they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> were. She could not see them, for the +spectacles dazzled her, but she remembered exactly how they looked. +Everything about him filled her with glee, now that she was safe, though +within his reach. "'Now, infidel,'" she said noiselessly, "'I have thee on +the hip!'"</p> + +<p>The parson had settled himself in his accustomed attitude when making +parochial calls. He put the tips of his fingers together, and opened +conversation in his tone of mild good-will:—</p> + +<p>"I don't seem to be able to place you. A relative of Miss Isabel's, did you +say?"</p> + +<p>She laughed huskily. She was absorbed in putting more suet into her voice.</p> + +<p>"You make me think of uncle Peter Nudd," she replied, "when he was took up +into Bunker Hill Monument. Albert took him, one o' the boys that lived in +Boston. Comin' down, they met a woman Albert knew, an' he bowed. Uncle +Peter looked round arter her, an' then he says to Albert, 'I dunno 's I +rightly remember who that is!'"</p> + +<p>The parson uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The old lady +began to seem to him a thought too discursive, if not hilarious.</p> + +<p>"I know so many of the people in the various parishes"—he began, but he +was interrupted without compunction.</p> + +<p>"You never'd know me. I'm from out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> West. Isabel's father's brother married +my uncle—no, I would say my step-niece. An' so I'm her aunt. By adoption, +'t ennyrate. We al'ays call it so, leastways when we're writin' back an' +forth. An' I've heard how Isabel was goin' on, an' so I ketched up my +bunnit, an' put for Tiverton. 'If she ever needed her own aunt,' says +I—'her aunt by adoption—she needs her now.'"</p> + +<p>Once or twice, during the progress of this speech, the visitor had shifted +his position, as if ill at ease. Now he bent forward, and peered at his +hostess.</p> + +<p>"Isabel is well?" he began tentatively.</p> + +<p>"Well enough! But, my sakes! I'd ruther she'd be sick abed or paraletic +than carry on as she does. Slack? My soul! I wisht you could see her sink +closet! I wisht you could take one look over the dirty dishes she leaves +round, not washed from one week's end to another!"</p> + +<p>"But she's always neat. She looks like an—an angel!"</p> + +<p>Isabel could not at once suppress the gratified note which crept of itself +into her voice.</p> + +<p>"That's the outside o' the cup an' platter," she said knowingly. "I thank +my stars she ain't likely to marry. She'd turn any man's house upside down +inside of a week."</p> + +<p>The parson made a deprecating noise in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> throat. He seemed about to say +something, and thought better of it.</p> + +<p>"It may be," he hesitated, after a moment,—"it may be her studies take up +too much of her time. I have always thought these elocution lessons"—</p> + +<p>"Oh, my land!" cried Isabel, in passionate haste. She leaned forward as if +she would implore him. "That's her only salvation. That's the makin' of +her. If you stop her off there, I dunno but she'd jine a circus or take to +drink! Don't you dast to do it! I'm in the family, an' I know."</p> + +<p>The parson tried vainly to struggle out of his bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"But," said he, "may I ask how you heard these reports? Living in Illinois, +as you do—did you say Illinois or Iowa?"</p> + +<p>"Neither," answered Isabel desperately. "'Way out on the plains. It's the +last house afore you come to the Rockies. Law! you can't tell how a story +gits started, nor how fast it will travel. 'T ain't like a gale o' wind; +the weather bureau ain't been invented that can cal'late it. I heard of a +man once that told a lie in California, an' 'fore the week was out it broke +up his engagement in New Hampshire. There's the 'tater-bug—think how that +travels! So with this. The news broke out in Missouri, an' here I be."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will be able to remain."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Only to-night," she said in haste. More and more nervous, she was losing +hold on the sequence of her facts. "I'm like mortal life, here to-day an' +there to-morrer. In the mornin' I sha'n't be found." ("But Isabel will," +she thought, from a remorse which had come too late, "and she'll have to +lie, or run away. Or cut a hole in the ice and drown herself!")</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry to have her lose so much of your visit," began the parson +courteously, but still perplexing himself over the whimsies of an old lady +who flew on from the West, and made nothing of flying back. "If I could do +anything towards finding her"—</p> + +<p>"I know where she is," said Isabel unhappily. "She's as well on 't as she +can be, under the circumstances. There's on'y one thing you could do. If +you should be willin' to keep it dark't you've seen me, I should be real +beholden to ye. You know there ain't no time to call in the neighborhood, +an' such things make talk, an' all. An' if you don't speak out to Isabel, +so much the better. Poor creatur', she's got enough to bear without that!" +Her voice dropped meltingly in the keenness of her sympathy for the +unfortunate girl who, embarrassed enough before, had deliberately set for +herself another snare. "I feel for Isabel," she continued, in the hope of +impressing him with the necessity for silence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> and inaction. "I do feel for +her! Oh, gracious me! What's that?"</p> + +<p>A decided rap had sounded at the front door. The parson rose also, amazed +at her agitation.</p> + +<p>"Somebody knocked," he said. "Shall I go to the door?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, not yet, not yet!" cried Isabel, clasping her hands under her cashmere +shawl. "Oh, what shall I do?"</p> + +<p>Her natural voice had asserted itself, but, strangely enough, the parson +did not comprehend. The entire scene was too bewildering. There came a +second knock. He stepped toward the door, but Isabel darted in front of +him. She forgot her back breadth, and even through that dim twilight the +scarlet of her gown shone ruddily out. She placed herself before the door.</p> + +<p>"Don't you go!" she entreated hoarsely. "Let me think what I can say."</p> + +<p>Then the parson had his first inkling that the strange visitor must be mad. +He wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and the idea speedily +coupled itself with Isabel's strange disappearance. He stepped forward and +grasped her arm, trembling under the cashmere shawl.</p> + +<p>"Woman," he demanded sternly, "what have you done with Isabel North?"</p> + +<p>Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> repeated, brought her to +herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the +parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate.</p> + +<p>"Poor soul!" said he soothingly. "Poor soul! sit down here by the stove and +be calm—be calm!"</p> + +<p>Isabel was overcome anew.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let me +be!"</p> + +<p>She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again. +Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she +called.</p> + +<p>"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness. "Open the +door."</p> + +<p>"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she continued. +"Only a minute!"</p> + +<p>She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door. The +act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey in such +awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to be refused. +Isabel felt equal to doing it.</p> + +<p>"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take off +these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!" Bonnet, +false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile.</p> + +<p>"Isabel!" gasped the parson.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!"</p> + +<p>The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the +mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue +chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss me +the shawl. Now if you say one word—Oh, parson, if you only will keep +still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And leaving him +standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door.</p> + +<p>"Well," said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, "I'm afraid your hinges want +greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?" She put up her face and +kissed her niece. Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so small, that +she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life with a gentle +grace. "I heard voices," she said, walking into the sitting-room. "Sadie +here?"</p> + +<p>The parson had stepped forward, more bent than usual, for he was peering +down into her face.</p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>The little woman looked up at him—very sadly, Isabel thought.</p> + +<p>"Yes, William," she answered. But she was untying her bonnet, and she did +not offer to shake hands.</p> + +<p>Isabel stood by with downcast eyes, waiting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> to take her things, and aunt +Mary Ellen looked searchingly up at her as she laid her mittens on the +pile. The girl, without a word, went into the bedroom, and her aunt +followed her.</p> + +<p>"Isabel," said she rapidly, "I saw the chest. Have you burnt the things?"</p> + +<p>"No," answered Isabel in wonder. "No."</p> + +<p>"Then don't you! don't you touch 'em for the world." She went back into the +sitting-room, and Isabel followed. The candle was guttering, and aunt Mary +Ellen pushed it toward her. "I don't know where the snuffers are," she +said. "Lamp smoke?"</p> + +<p>Isabel did not answer, but she lighted the lamp. She had never seen her +aunt so full of decision, so charged with an unfamiliar power. She felt as +if strange things were about to happen. The parson was standing awkwardly. +He wondered whether he ought to go. Aunt Mary Ellen smoothed her brown hair +with both hands, sat down, and pointed to his chair.</p> + +<p>"Sit a spell," she said. "I guess I shall have something to talk over with +you."</p> + +<p>The parson sat down. He tried to put his fingers together, but they +trembled, and he clasped his hands instead.</p> + +<p>"It's a long time since we've seen you in Tiverton," he began.</p> + +<p>"It would have been longer," she answered, "but I felt as if my niece +needed me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> + +<p>Here Isabel, to her own surprise, gave a little sob, and then another. She +began crying angrily into her handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"Isabel," said her aunt, "is there a fire in the kitchen?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," sobbed the girl.</p> + +<p>"Well, you go out there and lie down on the lounge till you feel better. +Cover you over, and don't be cold. I'll call you when there's anything for +you to do."</p> + +<p>Tall Isabel rose and walked out, wiping her eyes. Her little aunt sat +mistress of the field. For many minutes there was silence, and the clock +ticked. The parson felt something rising in his throat. He blew his nose +vigorously.</p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen"—he began. "But I don't know as you want me to call you so!"</p> + +<p>"You can call me anything you're a mind to," she answered calmly. She was +near-sighted, and had always worn spectacles. She took them off and laid +them on her knee. The parson moved involuntarily in his chair. He +remembered how she had used to do that when they were talking intimately, +so that his eager look might not embarrass her. "Nothing makes much +difference when folks get to be as old as you and I are."</p> + +<p>"I don't feel old," said the parson resentfully. "I do <i>not</i>! And you don't +look so."</p> + +<p>"Well, I am. We're past our youth.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> We've got to the point where the only +way to renew it is to look out for the young ones."</p> + +<p>The parson had always had with her a way of reading her thought and +bursting out boyishly into betrayal of his own.</p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen," he cried, "I never should have explained it so, but Isabel +looks like you!"</p> + +<p>She smiled sadly. "I guess men make themselves think 'most anything they +want to," she answered. "There may be a family look, but I can't see it. +She's tall, too, and I was always a pint o' cider—so father said."</p> + +<p>"She's got the same look in her eyes," pursued the parson hotly. "I've +always thought so, ever since she was a little girl."</p> + +<p>"If you begun to notice it then," she responded, with the same gentle calm, +"you'd better by half ha' been thinking of your own wife and her eyes. I +believe they were black."</p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen, how hard you are on me! You did't use to be. You never were +hard on anybody. You wouldn't have hurt a fly."</p> + +<p>Her face contracted slightly. "Perhaps I wouldn't! perhaps I wouldn't! But +I've had a good deal to bear this afternoon, and maybe I do feel a little +different towards you from what I ever have felt. I've been hearing a +loose-tongued woman tell how my own niece has been made town-talk because a +man old enough to know better was running after her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> I said, years ago, I +never would come into this place while you was in it; but when I heard +that, I felt as if Providence had marked out the way. I knew I was the one +to step into the breach. So I had Tim harness up and bring me over, and +here I am. William, I don't want you should make a mistake at your time of +life!"</p> + +<p>The minister seemed already a younger man. A strong color had risen in his +face. He felt in her presence a fine exhilaration denied him through all +the years without her. Who could say whether it was the woman herself or +the resurrected spirit of their youth? He did not feel like answering her. +It was enough to hear her voice. He leaned forward, looking at her with +something piteous in his air.</p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen," he ventured, "you might as well say 'another mistake.' I did +make one. You know it, and I know it."</p> + +<p>She looked at him with a frank affection, entirely maternal. "Yes, +William," she said, with the same gentle firmness in her voice, "we've +passed so far beyond those things that we can speak out and feel no shame. +You did make a mistake. I don't know as 't would be called so to break with +me, but it was to marry where you did. You never cared about her. You were +good to her. You always would be, William; but 't was a shame to put her +there."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + +<p>The parson had locked his hands upon his knees. He looked at them, and sad +lines of recollection deepened in his face.</p> + +<p>"I was desperate," he said at length, in a low tone. "I had lost you. Some +men take to drink, but that never tempted me. Besides, I was a minister. I +was just ordained. Mary Ellen, do you remember that day?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember." She had leaned back in her chair, +and her eyes were fixed upon vacancy with the suffused look of tears +forbidden to fall.</p> + +<p>"You wore a white dress," went on the parson, "and a bunch of Provence +roses. It was June. Your sister always thought you dressed too gay, but you +said to her, 'I guess I can wear what I want to, to-day of all times.'"</p> + +<p>"We won't talk about her. Yes, I remember."</p> + +<p>"And, as God is my witness, I couldn't feel solemn, I was so glad! I was a +minister, and my girl—the girl that was going to marry me—sat down there +where I could see her, dressed in white. I always thought of you afterwards +with that white dress on. You've stayed with me all my life, just that +way."</p> + +<p>Mary Ellen put up her hand with a quick gesture to hide her middle-aged +face. With a thought as quick, she folded it resolutely upon the other in +her lap. "Yes, William,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> she said. "I was a girl then. I wore white a good +deal."</p> + +<p>But the parson hardly heeded her. He was far away. "Mary Ellen," he broke +out suddenly, a smile running warmly over his face, and creasing his dry, +hollow cheeks, "do you remember that other sermon, my trial one? I read it +to you, and then I read it to Parson Sibley. And do you remember what he +said?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I remember. I didn't suppose you did." Her cheeks were pink. The +corners of her mouth grew exquisitely tender.</p> + +<p>"You knew I did! 'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; +thou hast doves' eyes.' I took that text because I couldn't think of +anything else all summer. I remember now it seemed to me as if I was in a +garden—always in a garden. The moon was pretty bright, that summer. There +were more flowers blooming than common. It must have been a good year. And +I wrote my sermon lying out in the pine woods, down where you used to sit +hemming on your things. And I thought it was the Church, but do all I +could, it was a girl—or an angel!"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty.</p> + +<p>"And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you stopped sewing, +and looked off into the trees; and you said 't was beauti<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>ful. But I +carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just how he +looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles pushed up on +his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the dictionary put in +a certain place on his table because he found he'd got used to drumming on +the Bible, and he was a very particular man. And when I got through reading +the sermon, his face wrinkled all up, though he didn't laugh out loud, and +he came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. 'William,' says he, +'you go home and write a doctrinal sermon, the stiffest you can. <i>This +one's about a girl.</i> You might give it to Mary Ellen North for a +wedding-present.'"</p> + +<p>The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of memory. +But Mary Ellen did not smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she repeated softly, "I remember."</p> + +<p>"And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I +could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the sermon +in your work-basket. I've often wished, in the light of what came +afterwards—I've often wished I'd kept it. Somehow 't would have brought me +nearer to you."</p> + +<p>It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted +herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen," the parson burst forth, "I know how I took what came on us +the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you just as +lieves tell me?"</p> + +<p>She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone brilliantly, +though indeed they were doves' eyes.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you," said she. "I couldn't have told you ten years ago,—no, +nor five! but now it's an old woman talking to an old man. I was given to +understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I don't know +what tale was carried to you"—</p> + +<p>"She said you'd say 'yes' to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I'd give you +a chance!"</p> + +<p>"I knew 't was something as shallow as that. Well, I'll tell you how I took +it. I put up my head and laughed. I said, 'When William Bond wants to break +with me, he'll say so.' And the next day you did say so."</p> + +<p>The parson wrung his hands in an involuntary gesture of appeal.</p> + +<p>"Minnie! Minnie!" he cried, "why didn't you save me? What made you let me +<i>be</i> a fool?"</p> + +<p>She met his gaze with a tenderness so great that the words lost all their +sting.</p> + +<p>"You always were, William," she said quietly. "Always rushing at things +like Job's charger, and having to rush back again. Never once have I read +that without thinking of you.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> That's why you fixed up an angel out of poor +little Isabel."</p> + +<p>The parson made a fine gesture of dissent. He had forgotten Isabel.</p> + +<p>"Do you want to know what else I did?" Her voice grew hard and unfamiliar. +"I'll tell you. I went to my sister Eliza, and I said: 'Some way or +another, you've spoilt my life. I'll forgive you just as soon as I +can—maybe before you die, maybe not. You come with me!' and I went up +garret, where she kept the chest with things in it that belonged to them +that had died. There it sets now. I stood over it with her. 'I'm going to +put my dead things in here,' I said. 'If you touch a finger to 'em, I'll +get up in meeting and tell what you've done. I'm going to put in everything +left from what you've murdered; and every time you come here, you'll +remember you were a murderer.' I frightened her. I'm glad I did. She's dead +and gone, and I've forgiven her; but I'm glad now!"</p> + +<p>The parson looked at her with amazement. She seemed on fire. All the +smouldering embers of a life denied had blazed at last. She put on her +glasses and walked over to the chest.</p> + +<p>"Here!" she continued; "let's uncover the dead. I've tried to do it ever +since she died, so the other things could be burned; but my courage failed +me. Could you turn these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> screws, if I should get you a knife? They're in +tight. I put 'em in myself, and she stood by."</p> + +<p>The little lid of the till had been screwed fast. The two middle-aged +people bent over it together, trying first the scissors and then the broken +blade of the parson's old knife. The screws came slowly. When they were all +out, he stood back a pace and gazed at her. Mary Ellen looked no longer +alert and vivified. Her face was haggard.</p> + +<p>"I shut it," she said, in a whisper. "You lift it up."</p> + +<p>The parson lifted the lid. There they lay, her poor little relics,—a +folded manuscript, an old-fashioned daguerreotype, and a tiny locket. The +parson could not see. His hand shook as he took them solemnly out and gave +them to her. She bent over the picture, and looked at it, as we search the +faces of the dead. He followed her to the light, and, wiping his glasses, +looked also.</p> + +<p>"That was my picture," he said musingly. "I never've had one since. And +that was mother's locket. It had"—He paused and looked at her.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mary Ellen softly; "it's got it now." She opened the little +trinket; a warm, thick lock of hair lay within, and she touched it gently +with her finger. "Should you like the locket, because 't was your +mother's?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> + +<p>She hesitated; and though the parson's tone halted also, he answered at +once:—</p> + +<p>"No, Mary Ellen, not if you'll keep it. I should rather think 'twas with +you."</p> + +<p>She put her two treasures in her pocket, and gave him the other.</p> + +<p>"I guess that's your share," she said, smiling faintly. "Don't read it +here. Just take it away with you."</p> + +<p>The manuscript had been written in the cramped and awkward hand of his +youth, and the ink upon the paper was faded after many years. He turned the +pages, a smile coming now and then.</p> + +<p>"'Thou hast doves' eyes,'" he read,—"'thou hast doves' eyes!'" He murmured +a sentence here and there. "Mary Ellen," he said at last, shaking his head +over the manuscript in a droll despair, "it isn't a sermon. Parson Sibley +had the rights of it. It's a love-letter!" And the two old people looked in +each other's wet eyes and smiled.</p> + +<p>The woman was the first to turn away.</p> + +<p>"There!" said she, closing the lid of the chest; "we've said enough. We've +wiped out old scores. We've talked more about ourselves than we ever shall +again; for if old age brings anything, it's thinking of other people—them +that have got life before 'em. These your rubbers?"</p> + +<p>The parson put them on, with a dazed obe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>dience. His hand shook in buckling +them. Mary Ellen passed him his coat, but he noticed that she did not offer +to hold it for him. There was suddenly a fine remoteness in her presence, +as if a frosty air had come between them. The parson put the sermon in his +inner pocket, and buttoned his coat tightly over it. Then he pinned on his +shawl. At the door he turned.</p> + +<p>"Mary Ellen," said he pleadingly, "don't you ever want to see the sermon +again? Shouldn't you like to read it over?"</p> + +<p>She hesitated. It seemed for a moment as if she might not answer at all. +Then she remembered that they were old folks, and need not veil the truth.</p> + +<p>"I guess I know it 'most all by heart," she said quietly. "Besides, I took +a copy before I put it in there. Good-night!"</p> + +<p>"Good-night!" answered the parson joyously. He closed the door behind him +and went crunching down the icy path. When he had unfastened the horse and +sat tucking the buffalo-robe around him, the front door was opened in +haste, and a dark figure came flying down the walk.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Bond!" thrilled a voice.</p> + +<p>"Whoa!" called the parson excitedly. He was throwing back the robe to leap +from the sleigh when the figure reached him. "Oh!" said he; "Isabel!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p>She was breathing hard with excitement and the determination grown up in +her mind during that last half hour of her exile in the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Parson,"—forgetting a more formal address, and laying her hand on his +knee,—"I've got to say it! Won't you please forgive me? Won't you, please? +I can't explain it"—</p> + +<p>"Bless your heart, child!" answered the parson cordially; "you needn't try +to. I guess I made you nervous."</p> + +<p>"Yes," agreed Isabel, with a sigh of relief, "I guess you did." And the +parson drove away.</p> + +<p>Isabel ran, light of heart and foot, back into the warm sitting-room, where +aunt Mary Ellen was standing just where he had left her. She had her +glasses off, and she looked at Isabel with a smile so vivid that the girl +caught her breath, and wondered within herself how aunt Mary Ellen had +looked when she was young.</p> + +<p>"Isabel," said she, "you come here and give me a corner of your apron to +wipe my glasses. I guess it's drier 'n my handkerchief."</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +<h2>HORN O' THE MOON</h2> +</div> + +<p>If you drive along Tiverton Street, and then turn to the left, down the +Gully Road, you journey, for the space of a mile or so, through a +bewildering succession of damp greenery, with noisy brooks singing songs +below you, on either side, and the treetops on the level with your horse's +feet. Few among the older inhabitants ever take this drive, save from +necessity, because it is conceded that the dampness there is enough, even +in summer, to "give you your death o' cold;" and as for the young, to them +the place wears an eerie look, with its miniature suggestion of impassable +gulfs and roaring torrents. Yet no youth reaches his majority without +exploring the Gully. He who goes alone is the more a hero; but even he had +best leave two or three trusty comrades reasonably near, not only to +listen, should he call, but to stand his witnesses when he afterwards +declares where he has been. It is a fearsome thing to explore that lower +stratum of this round world, so close to the rushing brook that it drowns +your thoughts, though not your apprehensions, and to go slipping about over +wet boulders and among dripping ferns;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> but your fears are fears of the +spirit. They are inherited qualms. You shiver because your grandfathers and +fathers and uncles have shivered there before you. If you are very brave +indeed, and naught but the topmost round of destiny will content you, +possibly you penetrate still further into green abysses, and come upon the +pool where, tradition says, an ancient trout has his impregnable +habitation. Apparently, nobody questions that the life of a trout may be +indefinitely prolonged, under the proper conditions of a retired dusk; and +the same fish that served our grandfathers for a legend now enlivens our +childish days. When you meet a youngster, ostentatiously setting forth for +the Gully Road, with bait-box and pole, you need not ask where he is going; +though if you have any human sympathy in the pride of life, you will not +deny him his answer:—</p> + +<p>"Down to have a try for the old trout!"</p> + +<p>The pool has been still for many years. Not within the memory of aged men +has the trout turned fin or flashed a speckled side; but he is to this day +an historical present. He has lived, and therefore he lives always.</p> + +<p>Those who do not pause upon the Gully Road, but keep straight on into the +open, will come into the old highway leading up and up to Horn o' the Moon. +It is an unshaded, gravelly track, pointing duly up-hill for three<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> long +miles; and it has become a sober way to most of us, in this generation: for +we never take it unless we go on the solemn errand of getting Mary Dunbar, +that famous nurse, to care for our sick or dead. There is a tradition that +a summer visitor once hired a "shay," and drove, all by herself, up to Horn +o' the Moon, drawn on by the elusive splendor of its name. But she met such +a dissuading flood of comment by the way as to startle her into the state +of mind commonly associated with the Gully Road. Farmers, haying in the +field, came forward, to lean on the fence, and call excitedly,—</p> + +<p>"Where ye goin'?"</p> + +<p>"Horn o' the Moon," replied she, having learned in Tiverton the value of +succinct replies.</p> + +<p>"Who's sick?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody."</p> + +<p>"Got any folks up there?"</p> + +<p>"No. Going to see the place."</p> + +<p>The effect of this varied. Some looked in amazement; one ventured to say, +"Well, that's the beater!" and another dropped into the cabalistic remark +which cannot be defined, but which has its due significance, "Well, you +<i>must</i> be sent for!" The result of all this running commentary was such +that, when the visitor reached the top of the hill where Horn o' the Moon +lies, encircled by other lesser<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> heights, she was stricken by its exceeding +desolation, and had no heart to cast more than a glance at the noble view +below. She turned her horse, and trotted, recklessly and with many +stumblings, down again into friendly Tiverton.</p> + +<p>Horn o' the Moon is unique in its melancholy. It has so few trees, and +those of so meagre and wind-swept a nature, that it might as well be +entirely bald. No apples grow there; and in the autumn, the inhabitants +make a concerted sally down into Tiverton Street, to purchase their winter +stock, such of them as can afford it. The poorer folk—and they are all +poor enough—buy windfalls, and string them to dry; and so common is +dried-apple-pie among them that, when a Tivertonian finds this makeshift +appearing too frequently on his table, he has only to remark, "I should +think this was Horn o' the Moon!" and it disappears, to return no more +until the slur is somewhat outworn.</p> + +<p>There is very little grass at the top of the lonely height, and that of a +husky, whispering sort, in thin ribbons that flutter low little songs in +the breeze. They never cease; for, at Horn o' the Moon, there is always a +wind blowing, differing in quality with the season. Sometimes it is a +sighing wind from other heights, happier in that they are sweet with firs. +Sometimes it is exasperating enough to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> make the March breezes below seem +tender; then it tosses about in snatching gusts, buffeting, and slapping, +and excoriating him who stands in its way. Somehow, all the peculiarities +of Horn o' the Moon seem referable, in a mysterious fashion, to the wind. +The people speak in high, strenuous voices, striving to hold their own +against its wicked strength. Most of them are deaf. Is that because the air +beats ceaselessly against the porches of their ears? They are a stunted +race; for they have grown into the habit of holding the head low, and +plunging forward against that battling element. Even the fowl at Horn o' +the Moon are not of the ordinary sort. Their feathers grow the wrong way, +standing up in a ragged and disorderly fashion; and they, too, have the +effect of having been blown about and disarranged, until nature yielded, +and agreed to their permanent roughness.</p> + +<p>Moreover, all the people are old or middle-aged and possibly that is why, +again, the settlement is so desolate. It is a disgrace for us below to +marry with Horn o' the Mooners, though they are a sober folk; and now it +happens that everybody up there is the cousin of everybody else. The race +is dying out, we say, as if we considered it a distinct species; and we +agree that it would have been wiped away long ago, by weight of its own +eccentricity, had not Mary Dunbar been the making<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> of it. She is the one +righteous among many. She is the good nurse whom we all go to seek, in our +times of trouble, and she perpetually saves her city from the odium of the +world.</p> + +<p>Mary was born in Tiverton Street. We are glad to remember that, we who +condemn by the wholesale, and are assured that no good can come out of +Nazareth. When she was a girl of eighteen, her father and mother died; and +she fell into a state of spiritual exaltation, wherein she dreamed dreams, +and had periods of retirement within her house, communing with other +intelligences. We said Mary had lost her mind; but that was difficult to +believe, since no more wholesome type of womanhood had ever walked our +streets. She was very tall, built on the lines of a beauty transcending our +meagre strain. Nobody approved of those broad shoulders and magnificent +arms. We said it was a shame for any girl to be so overgrown; yet our eyes +followed her, delighted by the harmony of line and action. Then we +whispered that she was as big as a moose, and that, if we had such arms, we +never'd go out without a shawl. Her "mittins" must be wide enough for any +man!</p> + +<p>Mary did everything perfectly. She walked as if she went to meet the +morning, and must salute it worthily. She carried a weight as a goddess +might bear the infant Bacchus; and her small head, poised upon that round +throat,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> wore the crown of simplicity, and not of pride. But we only told +how strong she was, and how much she could lift. We loved Mary, but +sensibility had to shrink from those great proportions and that elemental +strength.</p> + +<p>One snowy morning, Mary's spiritual vision called her out of our midst, to +which she never came back save as we needed her. The world was very white +that day, when she rose, in her still house, dressed herself hastily, and +roused a neighbor, begging him to harness, and drive her up to Horn o' the +Moon. Folks were sick there, with nobody to take care of them. The neighbor +reasoned, and then refused, as one might deny a person, however beloved, +who lives by the intuitions of an unseen world. Mary went home again, and, +as he believed, to stay. But she had not hesitated in her allegiance to the +heavenly voice. Somehow, through the blinding snow and unbroken road, she +ploughed her way up to Horn o' the Moon, where she found an epidemic of +diphtheria; and there she stayed. We marveled over her guessing how keenly +she was needed; but since she never explained, it began to be noised abroad +that some wandering peddler told her. That accounted for everything and +Mary had no time for talk. She was too busy, watching with the sick, and +going about from house to house, cooking delicate gruels and broiling +chicken for those who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> were getting well. It is said that she even did the +barn work, and milked the cows, during that tragic time. We were not +surprised. Mary was a great worker, and she was fond of "creatur's."</p> + +<p>Whether she came to care for these stolid people on the height, or whether +the vision counseled her, Mary gave up her house in the village, and bought +a little old dwelling under an overhanging hillside, at Horn o' the Moon. +It was a nest built into the rock, its back sitting snugly there. The dark +came down upon it quickly. In winter, the sun was gone from the little +parlor as early as three o'clock; but Mary did not mind. That house was her +temporary shell; she only slept in it in the intervals of hurrying away, +with blessed feet, to tend the sick, and hold the dying in untiring arms. I +shall never forget how, one morning, I saw her come out of the door, and +stand silent, looking toward the rosy east. There was the dawn, and there +was she, its priestess, while all around her slept. I should not have been +surprised had her lips, parted already in a mysterious smile, opened still +further in a prophetic chanting to the sun. But Mary saw me, and the alert, +answering look of one who is a messenger flashed swiftly over her face. She +advanced like the leader of a triumphal procession.</p> + +<p>"Anybody want me?" she called. "I'll get my bunnit."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was when she was twenty, and not more than settled in the little house +at Horn o' the Moon, that her story came to her. The Veaseys were her +neighbors, perhaps five doors away; and one summer morning, Johnnie Veasey +came home from sea. He brought no money, no coral from foreign parts, nor +news of grapes in Eshcol. He simply came empty-handed, as he always did, +bearing only, to vouch for his wanderings, a tanned face, and the bright, +red-brown eyes that had surely looked on things we never saw. Adam Veasey, +his brother, had been paralyzed for years. He sat all day in the chimney +corner, looking at his shaking hands, and telling how wide a swathe he +could cut before he was afflicted. Mattie, Adam's wife, had long dealt with +the problem of an unsupported existence. She had turned into a flitting +little creature with eager eyes, who made it her business to prey upon a +more prosperous world. Mattie never went about without a large extra pocket +attached to her waist; into this, she could slip a few carrots, a couple of +doughnuts, or even a loaf of bread. She laid a lenient tax upon the +neighbors and the town below. Was there a frying of doughnuts at Horn o' +the Moon? No sooner had the odor risen upon the air, than Mattie stood on +the spot, dumbly insistent on her toll. Her very clothes smelled of food; +and it was said that, in fly-time, it was a sight to see her walk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> abroad, +because of the hordes of insects settling here and there on her odoriferous +gown. When Johnnie Veasey appeared, Mattie's soul rose in arms. Their +golden chance had come at last.</p> + +<p>"You got paid off?" she asked him, three minutes after his arrival, and +Johnnie owned, with the cheerfulness of those rich only in hope, that he +did get paid, and lost it all, the first night on shore. He got into the +wrong boarding-house, he said. It was the old number, but new folks.</p> + +<p>Mattie acquiesced, with a sigh. He would make his visit and go again, and, +that time, perhaps fortune might attend him. So she went over to old Mrs. +Hardy's, to borrow a "riz loaf," and the wanderer was feasted, according to +her little best.</p> + +<p>Johnnie stayed, and Horn o' the Moon roused itself, finding that he had +brought the antipodes with him. He was the teller of tales. He described +what he had seen, and then, by easy transitions, what others had known and +he had only heard, until the intelligence of these stunted, wind-blown +creatures, on their island hill, took fire; and every man vowed he wished +he had gone to sea, before it was too late, or even to California, when the +gold craze was on. Johnnie had the tongue of the improvisator, and he loved +a listener. He liked to sit out on a log, in the sparse shadow of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> one +little grove the hill possessed, and, with the whispering leaves above him +tattling uncomprehended sayings brought them by the wind, gather the old +men about him, and talk them blind. As he sat there, Mary came walking +swiftly by, a basket in her hand. Johnnie came bolt upright, and took off +his cap. He looked amazingly young and fine, and Mary blushed as she went +by.</p> + +<p>"Who's that?" asked Johnnie of the village fathers.</p> + +<p>"That's only Mary Dunbar. Guess you ain't been here sence she moved up."</p> + +<p>Johnnie watched her walking away, for the rhythm of her motion attracted +him. He did not think her pretty; no one ever thought that.</p> + +<p>It happened, then, that he spent two or three evenings at the Hardys', +where Mary went, every night, to rub grandmother and put her to bed; and +while she sat there in the darkened room, soothing the old woman for her +dreary vigil, she heard his golden tales of people in strange lands. It +seemed very wonderful to Mary. She had not dreamed there were such lands in +all the world; and when she hurried home, it was to hunt out her old +geography, and read it until after midnight. She followed rivers to their +sources, and dwelt upon mountains with amazing names. She was seeing the +earth and its fullness, and her heart beat fast.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> + +<p>Next day she went away for a long case, giving only one little sigh in the +going, to the certainty that, when she came back, Johnnie Veasey would be +off on another voyage to lands beyond the sea. Mary was not of the sort who +cry for the moon just because they have seen it. She had simply begun to +read a fairy tale, and somebody had taken it away from her and put it high +on the shelf. But on the very first morning after her return, when she rose +early, longing for the blissful air of her own bleak solitude, Mattie +Veasey stood there at her door. Mary had but one first question for every +comer:—</p> + +<p>"Anybody sick?"</p> + +<p>"You let me step in," answered Mattie, a determined foot on the sill. "I +want to tell you how things stand."</p> + +<p>It was evident that Mattie was going on a journey. She was an exposition of +the domestic resources of Horn o' the Moon. Her dress came to the tops of +her boots. It was the plaid belonging to Stella Hardy, who had died in her +teens. It hooked behind; but that was no matter, for the enveloping shawl, +belonging to old Mrs. Titcomb, concealed that youthful eccentricity. Her +shoes—congress, with world-weary elastics at the side—were her own, +inherited from an aunt; and her bonnet was a rusty black, with a mourning +veil. There was, at that time, but one new bonnet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> at Horn o' the Moon, and +its owner had sighed, when Mattie proposed for it, brazenly saying that she +guessed nobody'd want anything that set so fur back. Whereupon the +suppliant sought out Mrs. Pillsbury, whose mourning headgear, bought in a +brief season of prosperity, nine years before, had become, in a manner, +village property. It was as duly in public requisition as the hearse; and +its owner cherished a melancholy pride in this official state. She never +felt as if she owned it,—only that she was the keeper of a sacred trust; +and Mattie, in asking for it, knew that she demanded no more than her due, +as a citizen should. It was an impersonal matter between her and the +bonnet; and though she should wear it on a secular errand, the veil did not +signify. She knew everybody else knew whose bonnet it was; and that if +anybody supposed she had met with a loss, they had only to ask, and she to +answer. So, in the consciousness of an armor calculated to meet the world, +she skillfully brought her congress boots into Mary's kitchen, and sat +down, her worn little hands clasped under the shawl.</p> + +<p>"You've just got home," said she. "I s'pose you ain't heard what's happened +to Johnnie?"</p> + +<p>Mary rose, a hand upon her chair.</p> + +<p>"No! no! He don't want no nussin'. You set down. I can't talk so—ready to +jump an' run. My! how good that tea does smell!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mary brought a cup, and placed it at her hand, with the deft manner of +those who have learned to serve. Mattie sugared it, and tasted, and sugared +again.</p> + +<p>"My! how good that is!" she repeated. "You don't steep it to rags, as some +folks do. I have to, we're so nigh the wind. Well, you hadn't been gone +long before Johnnie had a kind of a fall. 'T wa'n't much of a one, +neither,—down the ledge. I dunno how he done it—he climbs like a +cat—seems as if the Old Boy was in it—but half his body he can't move. +Palsy, I s'pose; numb, not shakin', like Adam's."</p> + +<p>Mary listened gravely, her hands on her knees.</p> + +<p>"How long's he been so?"</p> + +<p>"Nigh on to five weeks."</p> + +<p>"Had the doctor?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, we called in that herb-man over to Saltash, an' he says there ain't +no chance for him. He's goin' to be like Adam, only wuss. An' I've been +down to the Poor Farm, to tell 'em they've got to take him in." Her little +hands worked; her eager eyes ate their way into the heart. Mary could see +exactly how she had had her way with the selectmen. "I told 'em they'd got +to," she repeated. "He ain't got no money, an' we ain't got nuthin', an' +have two paraletics on my hands I can't. So they told me they'd give me +word to-day;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> an' I'm goin' down to settle it. I'm in hopes they'll bring +me back, an' take him along down."</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Mary gravely. "Yes."</p> + +<p>"Well, now I've come to the beginnin' o' my story." Mattie took that last +delicious sip of tea at the bottom of the cup. "He's layin' in bed, an' +Adam's settin' by the stove; an' I wanted to know if you wouldn't run in, +long towards noon, an' warm up suthin' for 'em."</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed," said Mary Dunbar. "I'll be there."</p> + +<p>She rose, and Mattie, albeit she dearly loved to gossip, felt that she must +rise, too, and be on her way. She tried to amplify on what she had already +said, but Mary did not seem to be listening; so, treading carefully, lest +the dust and dew beset her precious shoes, she took her way down the hill, +like a busy little ant, born to scurry and gather.</p> + +<p>Mary looked hastily about the room, to see if its perfect order needed a +farewell touch; and then she drank her cup of tea, and stepped out into the +morning. The air was fresh and sweet. She wore no shawl, and the wind +lifted the little brown rings on her forehead, and curled them closer. Mary +held a hand upon them, and hurried on. She had no more thought of +appearances than a woman in a desert land, or in the desert made by lack of +praise; for she knew no one looked at her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> To be clean and swift was all +her life demanded.</p> + +<p>Adam sat by the stove, where the ashes were still warm. It was not a day +for fires, but he loved his accustomed corner. He was a middle-aged man, +old with the suffering which is not of years, and the pathos of his +stricken state hung about him, from his unkempt beard to the dusty black +clothing which had been the Tiverton minister's outworn suit. One would +have said he belonged to the generation before his brother.</p> + +<p>"That you, Mary?" he asked, in his shaking voice. "Now, ain't that good? +Come to set a spell?"</p> + +<p>"Where is he?" responded Mary, in a swift breathlessness quite new to her.</p> + +<p>"In there. We put up a bed in the clock-room."</p> + +<p>It was the unfinished part of the house. The Veaseys had always meant to +plaster, but that consummation was still afar. The laths showed meagrely; +it was a skeleton of a room,—and, sunken in the high feather-bed between +the two windows, lay Johnnie Veasey, his buoyancy all gone, his face quite +piteous to see, now that its tan had faded. Mary went up to the bed-side, +and laid one cool, strong hand upon his wrist. His eyes sought her with a +wild entreaty; but she knew, although he seemed to suffer, that this was the +misery of delirium, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> not the conscious mind. Adam had come trembling to +the door, and stood there, one hand beating its perpetual tattoo upon the +wall. Mary looked up at him with that abstracted gaze with which we weigh +and judge.</p> + +<p>"He's feverish," said she. "Mattie didn't tell me that. How long's he been +so?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno. I guess a matter o' two days."</p> + +<p>"Two days?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it might be off an' on ever sence he fell." Adam was helpless. He +depended upon Mattie, and Mattie was not there.</p> + +<p>"What did the doctor leave?"</p> + +<p>Adam looked about him. "'T was the herb doctor," he said. "He had her steep +some trade in a bowl."</p> + +<p>Mary Dunbar drew her hand away, and walked two or three times up and down +the bare, bleak room. The seeking eyes were following her. She knew how +little their distended agony might mean; but nevertheless they carried an +entreaty. They leaned upon her, as the world, her sick world, was wont to +lean. Mary was, in many things, a child; but her attitude had grown to be +maternal. Suddenly she turned to Adam, where he stood, shaking and +hesitating, in the doorway.</p> + +<p>"You goin' to send him off?"</p> + +<p>"'Pears as if that's the only way," shuffled Adam.</p> + +<p>"To-day?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, I dunno's they'll come"—</p> + +<p>Mary walked past him, her mind assured.</p> + +<p>"There, that'll do," said she. "You set down in your corner. I'll be back +byme-by."</p> + +<p>She hurried out into the bleak world which was her home, and, at that +moment, it looked very fair and new. The birds were singing, loudly as they +ever sang up here where there were few leaves to nest in. Mary stopped an +instant to listen, and lifted her face wordlessly to the clear blue sky. It +seemed as if she had been given a gift. There, before one of the houses, +she called aloud, with a long, lingering note, "Jacob!" and Jacob Pease +rose from his milking-stool, and came forward. Jacob was tall and +snuff-colored, a widower of three years' standing. There was a theory that +he wanted Mary, and lacked the courage to ask her.</p> + +<p>"That you, Mary Dunbar?" said he. "Anything on hand?"</p> + +<p>"I want you to come and help me lift," answered Mary.</p> + +<p>Jacob set down his milk pail, and followed her into the Veaseys' kitchen. +She drew out the tin basin, and filled it at the sink.</p> + +<p>"Wash your hands," said she. "Adam, you set where you generally do. You'll +be in the way."</p> + +<p>Jacob followed her into the sick-room, and Adam weakly shuffled in behind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<p>"For the land's sake!" he began, but Mary was at the head of the bed, and +Jacob at the foot.</p> + +<p>"I'll carry his shoulders," she said, in the voice that admits no demur. +"You take his feet and legs. Sort o' fold the feather-bed up round him, or +we never shall get him through the door."</p> + +<p>"Which way?" asked Jacob, still entirely at rest on a greater mind.</p> + +<p>"Out!" commanded Mary,—"out the front door."</p> + +<p>Adam, in describing that dramatic moment, always declared that nobody but +Mary Dunbar could have engineered a feather-bed through the narrow passage, +without sticking midway. He recalled an incident of his boyhood when, in +the Titcomb fire, the whole family had spent every available instant before +the falling of the roof, in trying to push the second-best bed through the +attic window, only to leave it there to burn. But Mary Dunbar took her +patient through the doorway as Napoleon marched over the Alps; she went +with him down the road toward her own little house under the hill. Only +then did Adam, still shuffling on behind, collect his intelligence +sufficiently to shout after her,—</p> + +<p>"Mary, what under the sun be you doin' of? What you want me to tell Mattie? +S'pose she brings the selec'men, Mary Dunbar!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> + +<p>She made no reply, even by a glance. She walked straight on, as if her +burden lightened, and into her own cave-like house and her little neat +bedroom.</p> + +<p>"Lay him down jest as he is," she said to Jacob. "We won't try to shift him +to-day. Let him get over this."</p> + +<p>Jacob stretched himself, after his load, put his hands in his pockets, and +made up his mouth into a soundless whistle.</p> + +<p>"Yes! well!" said he. "Guess I better finish milkin'."</p> + +<p>Mary put her patient "to-rights," and set some herb drink on the back of +the stove. Presently the little room was filled with the steamy odor of a +bitter healing, and she was on the battlefield where she loved to conquer. +In spite of her heaven-born instinct, she knew very little about doctors +and their ways of cure. Earth secrets were hers, some of them inherited and +some guessed at, and luckily she had never been involved in those greater +issues to be dealt with only by an exalted science. Later in her life, she +was to get acquainted with the young doctor, down in Tiverton Street, and +hear from him what things were doing in his world. She was to learn that a +hospital is not a slaughter house incarnadined with writhing victims, as +some of us had thought. She was even to witness the magic of a great +surgeon; though that was in her old age, when her atti<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>tude toward medicine +had become one of humble thankfulness that, in all her daring, she had done +no harm. To-day, she thought she could set a bone or break up a fever; and +there was no doubt in her mind that, if other deeds were demanded of her, +she should be led in the one true way. So she sat down by her patient, and +was watching there, hopeful of moisture on his palm, when Mattie broke into +the front room, impetuous as the wind. Mary rose and stepped out to meet +her, shutting the door as she went. Passing the window, she saw the +selectmen, in the vehicle known as a long-reach, waiting at the gate.</p> + +<p>"Hush, Mattie!" said she, "you'll wake him."</p> + +<p>Mattie, in her ill-assorted respectabilities of dress, seemed to have been +involved but recently in some bacchanalian orgie. Her shawl was dragged to +one side, and her bonnet sat rakishly. She was intoxicated with her own +surprise.</p> + +<p>"Mary Dunbar!" cried she, "I'd like to know the meanin' of all this +go-round!"</p> + +<p>"There!" answered Mary, with a quietude like that of the sea at ebb, "I +can't stop to talk. I'll settle it with the selec'men. You come, too."</p> + +<p>Mattie's eyes were seeking the bedroom. Leave her alone, and her feet would +follow. "You come along," repeated Mary, and Mattie came.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> + +<p>When the three selectmen saw Mary Dunbar stepping down the little slope, +they gathered about them all their official dignity. Ebenezer Tolman sat a +little straighter than usual, and uttered a portentous cough. Lothrop +Wilson, mild by nature, and rather prone to whiffling in times of +difficulty, frowned, with conscious effort; but that was only because he +knew, in his own soul, how loyally he loved the under-dog, let justice go +as it might. Then there was Eli Pike, occupying himself in pulling a rein +from beneath the horse's tail. These two hated warfare, and were nervously +conscious that, should they fail in firmness, Ebenezer would deal with +them. Mary went swiftly up to the wagon, and laid one hand upon the wheel.</p> + +<p>"I've got John Veasey in my house," she began rapidly. "I can't stop to +talk. He's pretty sick."</p> + +<p>Ebenezer cleared his throat again.</p> + +<p>"We understood his folks had put him on the town," said he.</p> + +<p>Mattie made a little eager sound, and then stopped.</p> + +<p>"He ain't on the town yet," said Mary. "He's in my bedroom. An' there he's +goin' to stay. I've took this job." She turned away from them, erect in her +decision, and went up the path. Eli Pike looked after her, with an +understanding sympathy. He was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> the man who had walked two miles, one +night, to shoot a fox, trapped, and left there helpless with a broken leg. +Lothrop gazed straight ahead, and said nothing.</p> + +<p>"Look here!" called Ebenezer. "Mary! Mary! you look here!"</p> + +<p>Mary turned about at the door. She was magnificent in her height and +dignity. Even Ebenezer felt almost ashamed of what he had to say; but still +the public purse must be regarded.</p> + +<p>"You can't bring in a bill for services," he announced. "If he's on the +town, he'll have to go right into the Poorhouse with the rest."</p> + +<p>Mary made no answer. She stood there a second, looking at him, and he +remarked to Eli, "I guess you might drive on."</p> + +<p>But Mattie, following Mary up to the house, to talk it over, tried the door +in vain.</p> + +<p>"My land!" she ejaculated, "if she ain't bolted it!" So the nurse and her +patient were left to themselves.</p> + +<p>As to the rest of the story, I tell it as we hear it still in Tiverton. At +first, it was reckoned among the miracles; but when the new doctor came, he +explained that it accorded quite honestly with the course of violated +nature, and that, with some slight pruning here and there, the case might +figure in his books. What science would say about it, I do not know; +tradition was quite voluble.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> + +<p>It proved a very long time before Johnnie grew better, and in all those +days Mary Dunbar was a happy woman. She stepped about the house, setting it +in order, watching her charge, and making delicate possets for him to take. +When the "herb-man" came, she turned him away from the door with a regal +courtesy. It was not so much that she despised his knowledge, as that he +knew no more than she, and this was her patient. The young doctor in +Tiverton told her afterwards that she had done a dangerous thing in not +calling in some accredited wearer of the cloth; but Mary did not think of +that. She went on her way of innocence, delightfully content. And all those +days, Johnnie Veasey, as soon as he came out of his fever, lay there and +watched her with eyes full of a listless wonder. He was still in that +borderland of helplessness where the unusual seems only a part of the new +condition of things. Neighbors called, and Mary refused them entrance, with +a finality which admitted no appeal.</p> + +<p>"I've got sickness here," she would say, standing in the doorway +confronting them. "He's too weak to see anybody. I guess I won't ask you +in."</p> + +<p>But one day, the minister appeared, his fat gray horse climbing painfully +up from the Gully Road. It was a warm afternoon; and as soon as Mary saw +him, she went out of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> house, and closed the door behind her. When he +had tied his horse, he came toward her, brushing the dust of the road from +his irreproachable black. He was a new minister, and very particular. Mary +shook hands with him, and then seated herself on the step.</p> + +<p>"Won't you set down here?" she asked. "I've got sickness, an' I can't have +talkin' any nearer. I'm glad it's a warm day."</p> + +<p>The minister looked at the step, and then at Mary. He felt as if his +dignity had been mildly assaulted, and he preferred to stand.</p> + +<p>"I should like to offer prayer for the young man," he said. "I had hoped to +see him."</p> + +<p>Mary smiled at him in that impersonal way of hers.</p> + +<p>"I don't let anybody see him," said she. "I guess we shall all have to pray +by ourselves."</p> + +<p>The minister was somewhat nettled. He was young enough to feel the slight +to his official position; and moreover, there were things which his rigid +young wife, primed by the wonder of the town, had enjoined upon him to say. +He flushed to the roots of his smooth brown hair.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you know," said he, "that you're taking a very peculiar stand."</p> + +<p>Mary turned her head, to listen. She thought she heard her patient +breathing, and her mind was with him.</p> + +<p>"You seem," said the minister, "to have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> taken in a man who has no claim on +you, instead of letting him stay with his people. If you are going to marry +him, let me advise you to do it now, and not wait for him to get well. The +opinion of the world is, in a measure, to be respected,—though only in a +measure."</p> + +<p>Mary had risen to go in, but now she turned upon him.</p> + +<p>"Married!" she repeated; and then again, in a hushed voice,—"married!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," replied the minister testily, standing by his guns, "married."</p> + +<p>Mary looked at him a moment, and then again she moved away. She glanced +round at him, as she entered the door, and said very gently, "I guess you +better go now. Good-day."</p> + +<p>She closed the door, and the minister heard her bolt it. He told his wife +briefly, on reaching home, that there wasn't much chance to talk with Mary, +and perhaps the less there was said about it the better.</p> + +<p>But as Mary sat down by her patient's bed, her face settled into sadness, +because she was thinking about the world. It had not, heretofore, been one +of her recognized planets; now that it had swung her way, she marveled at +it.</p> + +<p>The very next night, while she was eating her supper in the kitchen, the +door opened, and Mattie walked in. Mattie had been washing late that +afternoon. She always washed at odd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> times, and often in dull weather her +undried clothes hung for days upon the line. She was "all beat out," for +she had begun at three, and steamed through her work, to have an early +supper at five.</p> + +<p>"There, Mary Dunbar!" cried she; "I said I'd do it, an' I have. There ain't +a neighbor got into this house for weeks, an' folks that want you to go +nussin' have been turned away. I says to Adam, this very afternoon, 'I'll +be whipped if I don't git in an' see what's goin' on!' There's some will +have it Johnnie's got well, an' drove away without saying good-by to his +own folks, an' some say he ain't likely to live, an' there he lays without +a last word to his own brother! As for the childern, they've got an idea +suthin' 's been done to uncle Johnnie, an' you can't mention him but they +cry."</p> + +<p>Mary rose calmly and began clearing her table. "I guess I wouldn't mention +him, then," said she.</p> + +<p>A muffled sound came from the bedroom. It might have been laughter. Then +there was a little crack, and Mary involuntarily looked at the lamp +chimney. She hurried into the bedroom, and stopped short at sight of her +patient, lying there in the light of the flickering fire. His face had +flushed, and his eyes were streaming.</p> + +<p>"I laughed so," he said chokingly. "She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> always makes me. And something +snapped into place in my neck. I don't know what it was,—but <i>I can +move</i>!"</p> + +<p>He held out his hand to her. Mary did not touch it; she only stood looking +at him with a wonderful gaze of pride and recognition, and yet a strange +timidity. She, too, flushed, and tears stood in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I'll go and tell Mattie," said she, turning toward the door. "You want to +see her?"</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, no! not till I'm on my feet." He was still laughing. "I +guess I can get up to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Mary went swiftly out, and shut the door behind her.</p> + +<p>"I guess you better not see him to-night," she said. "You can come in +to-morrer. I shouldn't wonder if he'd be up then."</p> + +<p>"I told Adam"—began Mattie, but Mary put a hand on her thin little arm, +and held it there.</p> + +<p>"I'd rather talk to-morrer," said she gently. "Don't you come in before +'leven; but you come. Tell Adam to, if he wants. I guess your brother'll be +gettin' away before long." She opened the outer door, and Mattie had no +volition but to go. "It's a nice night, ain't it?" called Mary cheerfully, +after her. "Seems as if there never was so many stars."</p> + +<p>Then she went back into the kitchen, and with the old thrift and exactitude +prepared her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> patient's supper. He was sitting upright, bolstered against +the head of the bed; and he looked like a great mischievous boy, who had, +in some way, gained a long-desired prize.</p> + +<p>"See here!" he called. "Tell me I can't get up to-morrow? Why, I could +walk!"</p> + +<p>They had a very merry time while he ate. Mary remembered that afterwards, +with a bruised wonder that laughter comes so cheap. Johnnie talked +incessantly, not any more of the wonders of the deep, but what he meant to +do when he got into the world again.</p> + +<p>"How'd I come here in your house, any way?" he asked. "Mattie and Adam put +me here to get rid of me? Tell me all over again."</p> + +<p>"I take care of folks, you know," answered Mary briefly. "I have, for +more'n two years. It's my business."</p> + +<p>Johnnie looked at her a moment, crimsoning as he tried to speak.</p> + +<p>"What you goin' to ask?"</p> + +<p>Mary started. Then she answered steadily,—</p> + +<p>"That's all right. I don't ask much, anyway; but when folks don't have ready +money, I never ask anything. There, you mustn't talk no more, even if you +are well. I've got to wash these dishes."</p> + +<p>She left him to his meditations, and only once more that evening did they +speak together. When she came to the door, to say good-night,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> he was flat +among his pillows, listening for her.</p> + +<p>"Say!" he called, "you come in. No, you needn't unless you want to; but if +ever I earn another cent of money, you'll see. And I ain't the only friend +you've got. There's a girl down in Southport would do anything in the world +for you, if she only knew."</p> + +<p>Next morning, Johnnie walked weakly out of doors, despite his nurse's +cautions; for, not knowing what had happened to him, she was in a wearying +dark as to whether it might not happen again. After his breakfast, he got a +ride with Jacob Pease, who was going down Sudleigh way, and Jacob came back +without him. He bore a message, full of gratitude, to Mary. At Sudleigh, +Johnnie had telegraphed, to find out whether the ship Firewing was still in +port; and he had heard that he must lose no time in joining her. He should +never forget what Mary had done for him. So Jacob said; but he was a man of +tepid words, and perhaps he remembered the message too coldly.</p> + +<p>When Mattie came over, that afternoon, to make her call, she found the +house closed. Mary had gone on foot down into Tiverton, where old Mrs. +Lamson, who was sick with a fever, lay still in need. It was many weeks +before she came home again to Horn o' the Moon; and then Grandfather +Sinclair had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> broken his leg, so that interest in her miracle became +temporarily inactive.</p> + +<p>Two years had gone when there came to her a little package, through the +Tiverton mail. It was tied with the greatest caution, and directed in a +straggling hand. Mary opened it just as she struck into the Gully Road, on +her way home. Inside was a little purse, and three gold pieces. She paused +there, under the branches, the purse in one hand, and the gold lying within +her other palm. For a long time she stood looking at them, her face set in +that patient sadness seen in those whose only holding is the past. It was +all over and done, and yet it had never been at all. She thought a little +about herself, and that was very rare, for Mary. She was not the poorer for +what her soul desired; she was infinitely the richer, and she remembered +the girl at Southport, not with the pang that once afflicted her heart, but +with a warm, outrushing sense of womanly sympathy. If he had money, perhaps +he could marry. Perhaps he was married now. Coming out of the Gully Road, +she opened the purse again, and the sun struck richly upon the gold within. +Mary smiled a little, wanly, but still with a sense of the good, human +kinship in life.</p> + +<p>"I won't ever spend 'em," she said to herself. "I'll keep 'em to bury me."</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +<h2>A STOLEN FESTIVAL</h2> +</div> + +<p>David Macy's house stood on the spur of a breezy upland at the end of a +road. The far-away neighbors, who lived on the main highway and could see +the passin', often thanked their stars that they had been called to no such +isolation; you might, said they, as well be set down in the middle of a +pastur'. They wondered how David's Letty could stand it. She had been +married 'most a year, and before that she was forever on the go. But there! +if David Macy had told her the sun rose in the west, she'd ha' looked out +for it there every identical mornin'.</p> + +<p>The last proposition had some color in it; for Letty was very much in love. +To an impartial view, David was a stalwart fellow with clear gray eyes and +square shoulders, a prosperous yeoman of the fibre to which America owes +her being. But according to Letty he was something superhuman in poise and +charm. David had no conception of his heroic responsibilities; nothing +could have puzzled him more than to guess how the ideal of him grew and +strengthened in her maiden mind, and how her after-worship exalted it into +something thrilling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> and passionate, not to be described even by a tongue +more facile than hers. Letty had a vivid nature, capable of responding to +those delicate influences which move to spiritual issues. There were throes +of love within her, of aspiration, of an ineffable delight in being. She +never tried to understand them, nor did she talk about them; but then, she +never tried to paint the sky or copy the robin's song. Life was very +mysterious; but one thing was quite as mysterious as another. She did +sometimes brood for a moment over the troubled sense that, in some fashion, +she spoke in another key from "other folks," who did not appear to know +that joy is not altogether joy, but three-quarters pain, and who had never +learned how it brings its own aching sense of incompleteness; but that only +seemed to her a part of the general wonder of things. There had been one +strange May morning in her life when she went with her husband into the +woods, to hunt up a wild steer. She knew every foot of the place, and yet +one turn of the path brought them into the heart of a picture thrillingly +new with the unfamiliarity of pure and living beauty. The evergreens +enfolded them in a palpable dusk; but entrancingly near, shimmering under a +sunny gleam, stood a company of birches in their first spring wear. They +were trembling, not so much under the breeze as from the hurrying rhythm of +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> year. Their green was vivid enough to lave the vision in light; and +Letty looked beyond it to a brighter vista still. There, in an opening, lay +a bank of violets, springing in the sun. Their blue was a challenge to the +skyey blue above; it pierced the sight, awaking new longings and strange +memories. It seemed to Letty as if some invisible finger touched her on the +heart and made her pause. Then David turned, smiling kindly upon her, and +she ran to him with a little cry, and put her arms about his neck.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he asked, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. "What is it, +little child?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's nothin'!" said Letty chokingly. "It's only—I like you so!"</p> + +<p>The halting thought had no purple wherein to clothe itself; but it meant as +much as if she had read the poets until great words had become familiar, +and she could say "love." He was the spring day, the sun, the blue of the +sky, the quiver of leaves; and she felt it, and had a pain at her heart.</p> + +<p>Now, on an autumn morning, David was standing within the great space in +front of the barn, greasing the wheels preliminary to a drive to market; +and Letty stood beside him, bareheaded, her breakfast dishes forgotten. She +was a round thing, with quick movements not ordinarily belonging to one so +plump; her black hair was short, and curled roughly, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> there were +freckles on her little snub nose. David looked up at her red cheeks and the +merry shine of her eyes, and smiled upon her.</p> + +<p>"You look pretty nice this mornin'," he remarked.</p> + +<p>Letty gave a little dancing step and laughed. The sun was bright; there was +a purple haze over the hills, and the nearer woods were yellow. The world +was a jewel newly set for her.</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> nice!" said she. "David, do you know our anniversary's comin' on? +It's 'most a year since we were married,—a year the fifteenth."</p> + +<p>David loosened the last wheel, and rose to look at her.</p> + +<p>"Sho!" said he, with great interest. "Is that so? Well, 't was a good +bargain. Best trade I ever made in <i>my</i> life!"</p> + +<p>"And we've got to celebrate," said Letty masterfully. "I'll tell you how. +I've had it all planned for a month. We'll get up at four, have our +breakfast, ride over to Star Pond, and picnic all day long. We'll take a +boat and go out rowin', and we'll eat our dinner on the water!"</p> + +<p>David smiled back at her, and then, with a sudden recollection, pursed his +lips.</p> + +<p>"I'm awful sorry, Letty," he said honestly, "but I've got to go over to +Long Pastur' an' do that fencin', or I can't put the cattle in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> there +before we turn 'em into the shack. You know that fence was all done up in +the spring, but that cussed breachy cow o' Tolman's hooked it down; an' if +I wait for him to do it—well, you know what he is!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you can put off your fencin'!" cried Letty. "Only one day! Oh, you +can!"</p> + +<p>"I could 'most any other time," said David, with reason, "but here it is +'most Saturday, an' next week the thrashin'-machine's comin'. I'm awful +sorry, Letty. I am, honest!"</p> + +<p>Letty turned half round like a troubled child, and began grinding one heel +into the turf. She was conscious of an odd mortification. It was not, said +her heart, that the thing itself was so dear to her; it was only that David +ought to want immeasurably to do it. She always put great stress upon the +visible signs of an invisible bond, and she would be long in getting over +her demand for the unreason of love.</p> + +<p>David threw down the monkey-wrench, and put an arm about her waist.</p> + +<p>"Come, now, you don't care, do you?" he asked lovingly. "One day's the same +as another, now ain't it?"</p> + +<p>"Is it?" said Letty, a smile running over her face and into her wet eyes. +"Well, then, le's have Fourth o' July fireworks next Sunday mornin'!"</p> + +<p>David looked a little hurt; but that was only because he was puzzled. His +sense of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> humor wore a different complexion from Letty's. He liked a joke, +and he could tell a good story, but they must lie within the logic of fun. +Letty could put her own interpretation on her griefs, and twist them into +shapes calculated to send her into hysterical mirth.</p> + +<p>"You see," said David soothingly, "we're goin' to be together as long as we +live. It ain't as if we'd got to rake an' scrape an' plan to git a minute +alone, as it used to be, now is it? An' after the fencin' 's done, an' the +thrashin', an' we've got nothin' on our minds, we'll take both horses an' +go to Star Pond. Come, now! Be a good girl!"</p> + +<p>The world seemed very quiet because Letty was holding silence, and he +looked anxiously down at the top of her head. Then she relented a little +and turned her face up to his—her rebellious eyes and unsteady mouth. But +meeting the loving honesty of his look, her heart gave a great bound of +allegiance, and she laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said. "Have it so. I won't say another word. <i>I</i> don't care!"</p> + +<p>These were David's unconscious victories, born, not of his strength or +tyranny, but out of the woman's maternal comprehension, her lavish +concession of all the small things of life to the one great code. She had +taken him for granted, and thenceforth judged him by the intention and not +the act.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> + +<p>David was bending to kiss her, but he stopped midway, and his arm fell.</p> + +<p>"There's Debby Low," said he. "By jinks! I ain't more'n half a man when +she's round, she makes me feel so sheepish. I guess it's that eye o' her'n. +It goes through ye like a needle."</p> + +<p>Letty laughed light-heartedly, and looked down the path across the lot. +Debby, a little, bent old woman, was toiling slowly along, a large +carpet-bag swinging from one hand. Letty drew a long breath and tried to +feel resigned.</p> + +<p>"She's got on her black alpaca," said she. "She's comin' to spend the day!"</p> + +<p>David answered her look with one of commiseration, and, gathering up his +wrench and oil, "put for" the barn.</p> + +<p>"I'd stay, if I could do any good," he said hastily, "but I can't. I might +as well stan' from under."</p> + +<p>Debby threw her empty carpet-bag over the stone wall, and followed it, +clambering slowly and painfully. Her large feet were clad in congress +boots; and when she had alighted, she regarded them with deep affection, +and slowly wiped them upon either ankle, a stork-like process at which +David, safe in the barn, could afford to smile.</p> + +<p>"If it don't rain soon," she called fretfully, "I guess you'll find +yourselves alone an' forsaken, like pelicans in the wilderness. Anybody<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +must want to see ye to traipse up through that lot as I've been doin', an' +git their best clo'es all over dirt."</p> + +<p>"You could ha' come in the road," said Letty, smiling. Letty had a very +sweet temper, and she had early learned that it takes all sorts o' folks to +make a world. It was a part of her leisurely and generous scheme of life to +live and let live.</p> + +<p>"Ain't the road dustier 'n the path?" inquired Debby contradictorily. "My +stars! I guess 't is. Well, now, what do you s'pose brought me up here this +mornin'?"</p> + +<p>Letty's eyes involuntarily sought the bag, whose concave sides flapped +hungrily together; but she told her lie with cheerfulness. "I don't know."</p> + +<p>"I guess ye don't. No, I ain't comin' in. I'm goin' over to Mis' Tolman's, +to spend the day. I'm in hopes she's got b'iled dish. You look here!" She +opened the bag, and searched portentously, the while Letty, in some +unworthy interest, regarded the smooth, thick hair under her large +poke-bonnet. Debby had an original fashion of coloring it; and this no one +had suspected until her little grandson innocently revealed the secret. She +rubbed it with a candle, in unconscious imitation of an actor's make-up, +and then powdered it with soot from the kettle. "I believe to my soul she +does!" said Letty to herself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> + +<p>But Debby, breathing hard, had taken something from the bag, and was +holding it out on the end of a knotted finger.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said, "ain't that your'n? Vianna said 't was your engagement +ring."</p> + +<p>Letty flushed scarlet, and snatched the ring tremblingly. She gave an +involuntary look at the barn, where David was whistling a merry stave.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my!" she breathed. "Where'd you find it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, that's the question!" returned Debby triumphantly. "Where'd ye lose +it?"</p> + +<p>But Letty had no mind to tell. She slipped the ring on her finger, and +looked obstinate.</p> + +<p>"Can't I get you somethin' to put in your bag?" she asked cannily. Debby +was diverted, though only for the moment.</p> + +<p>"I should like a mite o' pork," she answered, lowering her voice and giving +a glance, in her turn, at the barn. "I s'pose ye don't want <i>him</i> to know +of it?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to be told why!" flamed Letty, in an indignation +disproportioned to its cause. Debby had unconsciously hit the raw. "Do you +s'pose I'd do anything David can't hear?"</p> + +<p>"Law, I didn't know," said Debby, as if the matter were of very little +consequence. "Mis' Peleg Chase, she gi'n me a beef-bone, t' other day, an' +she says, 'Don't ye tell <i>him</i>!' An'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> Mis' Squire Hill gi'n me a pail o' +lard; but she hid it underneath the fence, an' made me come for 't after +dark. I dunno how you're goin' to git along with men-folks, if ye offer 'em +the whip-hand. They'll take it, anyways. Well, don't you want to know where +I come on this ring?"</p> + +<p>Letty had taken a few hasty steps toward the house. "Yes, I do," owned she, +turning about. "Where was it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, Sammy was in swimmin', an' he dove into the Old Hole, to see'f't had +any bottom to 't. Vianna made him vow he wouldn't go in whilst he had that +rash; but he come home with his shirt wrong side out, an' she made him own +up. But he'd ha' told anyway, he was so possessed to show that ring. He see +suthin' gleamin' on a willer root nigh the bank, an' he dove, an' there 't +was. I told Sammy mebbe you'd give him suthin' for 't, an' he said there +wa'n't nothin' in the world he wanted but a mite o' David's solder, out in +the shed-chamber."</p> + +<p>"He shall have it," said Letty hastily. "I'll get it now. Don't you say +anything!" And then she knew she had used the formula she detested, and +that she was no better than Mrs. Peleg Chase, or the wife of Squire Hill.</p> + +<p>She ran frowning into the house, and down and up from kitchen to cellar. +Presently she reappeared, panting, with a great tin pan borne<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> before her +like a laden salver. She set it down at Debby's feet, and began packing its +contents into the yawning bag.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said, working with haste. "There's the solder, all of it. And +here's some of our sweet corn. We planted late."</p> + +<p>Debby took an ear from the pan, and, tearing open the husk, tried a kernel +with a critical thumb.</p> + +<p>"Tough, ain't it?" she remarked, disparagingly. "Likely to be, this time o' +year. Is that the pork?"</p> + +<p>It was a generous cube, swathed in a fresh white cloth.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is," said Letty breathlessly, thrusting it in and shutting the +bag. "There!"</p> + +<p>"Streak o' fat an' streak o' lean?" inquired Debby remorselessly.</p> + +<p>"It's the best we've got; that's all I can say. Now I've got to speak to +David before he harnesses. Good-by!"</p> + +<p>In a fever of impatience, she fled away to the barn.</p> + +<p>"Well, if ever!" ejaculated Debby, lifting the bag and turning slowly +about, to take her homeward path. "Great doin's, <i>I</i> say!" And she made no +reply when Letty, prompted by a tardy conscience, stopped in the barn +doorway and called to her, "Tell Sammy I'm much obliged. Tell him I shall +make turn-overs to-morrow." Debby was thinking of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> pork, and the +likelihood of its being properly diversified.</p> + +<p>Letty swept into the barn like a hurrying wind. The horses backed, and laid +their ears flat, and David, grooming one of them, gentled him and inquired +of him confidentially what was the matter.</p> + +<p>"Oh, David, come out here! please come out!" called Letty breathlessly. +"I've got to see you."</p> + +<p>David appeared, with some wonderment on his face, and Letty precipitated +herself upon him, mindless of curry-comb and horse-hairs and the fact that +she was presently to do butter. "David," she cried, "I can't stand it. I've +got to tell you. You know this ring?"</p> + +<p>David looked at it, interested and yet perplexed.</p> + +<p>"Seems if I'd seen you wear it," said he.</p> + +<p>Letty gave way, and laughed hysterically.</p> + +<p>"Seems if you had!" she repeated. "I've wore it over a year. There ain't a +girl in town but knows it. I showed it to 'em all. I told 'em 't was my +engagement ring."</p> + +<p>David looked at it, and then at her. She seemed to him a little mad. He +could quiet the horses, but not a woman, in so vague an exigency.</p> + +<p>"What made you tell 'em that?" he asked, at a venture.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see? There wasn't one of 'em<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> that was engaged but had a +ring—and presents, David—and they knew I never had anything, or I'd have +showed 'em."</p> + +<p>David was not a dull man; he had very sound views on the tariff, and, +though social questions might thrive outside his world, the town blessed +him for an able citizen. But he felt troubled; he was condemned, and it was +the world's voice which had condemned him.</p> + +<p>"I don't know's I ever did give you anything, Letty," he said, with a new +pain stirring in his face. "I don't b'lieve I ever thought of it. It wasn't +that I begrudged anything."</p> + +<p>"Oh, my soul, no!" cried Letty, in an agony of her own. "I knew how 't was. +It wa'n't your way, but they didn't know that. And I couldn't have 'em +thinkin' what they did think, now could I? So I bought me—David, I bought +me that high comb I used to wear, and—and a blue handkerchief—and a +thimble—and—and—this ring. And I said you give 'em to me. And I trusted +to chance for your never findin' it out. But I always hated the things; and +as soon as we were married, I broke the comb, and burnt up the +handkerchief, and hammered the thimble into a little wad, and buried it. +But I didn't dare to stop wearin' the ring, for fear folks would notice. +Then t' other day I felt so about it I knew the time had come, and I went +down to the Old Hole and threw it in. And now that hateful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> Sammy's found +it and brought it back, and I've sent him your solder, and Debby's promised +me she wouldn't tell you about the pork, and I—I'm no better than the rest +of 'em that lie and lie and don't let their men-folks know!" Letty was +sobbing bitterly, and David drew her into his arms and laid his cheek down +on her hair. His heart was aching too. They had all the passionate sorrow +of children over some grief not understood.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked at length.</p> + +<p>"When?" said Letty chokingly.</p> + +<p>"Then—when folks expected things—before we were married."</p> + +<p>"Oh, David, I couldn't!"</p> + +<p>"No," said David sadly, "I s'pose you couldn't."</p> + +<p>Letty had been holding one hand very tightly clenched. It was a plump hand, +with deep dimples and firm, short fingers. She unclasped it, and stretched +out toward him a wet, pink palm.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said despairingly. "There's the ring."</p> + +<p>Again David felt his inadequacy to the situation. "Don't you want to wear +it?" he hesitated. "It's real pretty. What's that red stone?"</p> + +<p>"I hate it!" cried Letty viciously. "It's a garnet. Oh, David, don't you +ever let me set eyes on it again!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> + +<p>David took it slowly from her hand. He drew out his pocket-book, opened it, +and dropped the ring inside. "There!" he said, "I guess't won't do me no +hurt to come acrost it once in a while." Then they kissed each other again, +like two children; Letty's tears wet his face, and he felt them bitterer +than if they had been his own.</p> + +<p>But for Letty the air had cleared. Now, she felt, there was no trouble in +her path. She had all the irresponsible joy of one who has had a secret, +and feels the burden roll away. She was like Christian without his pack. +She put her hands on David's shoulders, and looked at him radiantly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "I'm just as wicked as I was before; but it +don't seem to make any difference, now you know it!"</p> + +<p>Though David also smiled, he was regarding her with a troubled wonder. He +never expected to follow these varying moods. They were like +swallow-flights, and he was content to see the sun upon their wings. So he +drove thoughtfully off, and Letty went back to her work with a singing +heart. She was not quite sure that it was right to be happy again, all at +once, but she could not still her blood. To be forgiven, to find herself +free from the haunting consciousness that she could deceive the creature to +whom she held such passionate allegiance—this was enough to shape a new +heaven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> and a new earth. Her simple household duties took on the +significance of noble ceremonies. She sang as she went about them, and the +words were those of a joyous hymn. She seemed to be serving in a temple, +making it clean and fragrant in the name of love.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Saturday was a day born of heavenly intentions. Letty ran out behind the +house, where the ground rose abruptly, and looked off, entranced, into the +blue distance. It was the stillest day of all the fall. Not a breath +stirred about her; but in the maple grove at the side of the house, where +the trees had turned early under the chill of an unseasonable night, yellow +leaves were sifting down without a sound. Goldenrod was growing dull, +clematis had ripened into feathery spray, and she knew how the closed +gentians were painting great purple dashes by the side of the road. "Oh!" +she cried aloud, in rapture. It was her wedding day; a year ago the sun had +shone as warmly and benignantly as he was shining now, and the same haze +had risen, like an exhalation, from the hills. She saw a special omen in +it, and felt herself the child of happy fortune, to be so mothered by the +great blue sky. Then she ran in to give David his breakfast, and tell him, +as they sat down, that it was their wedding morning. As she went, she tore +a spray of blood-red woodbine from the wall, and bound it round her waist.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> + +<p>But David was not ready for breakfast; he was talking with a man at the +barn, and half an hour later came hurrying in to his retarded meal.</p> + +<p>"I've got to eat an' run," said he; "Job Fisher kep' me. It's about that +ma'sh. But the time wa'n't wasted. He'll sell ten acres for twenty dollars +less'n he said last week. Too bad to keep you waitin'! You'd ought to eat +yours while 't was hot."</p> + +<p>Letty, with a little smile all to herself, sat demurely down and poured +coffee; this was no time to talk of anniversaries. David ate in haste, and +said good-by.</p> + +<p>"I'm goin' down the lot to get my withes," said he. "Whilst I'm gone, you +put me up a mite o' luncheon. I sha'n't lay off to come home till night."</p> + +<p>"Oh, David!" said Letty, with a little cry. Then the same knowing smile +crept over her face. "No, I sha'n't," added she willfully. "I'm goin' to +bring it to you."</p> + +<p>"Fetch me my dinner? Why, it's a mile and a half 'cross lots! I guess you +won't!"</p> + +<p>"You go right along, David," said Letty decisively. "I don't want to hear +another word. I ain't seen the Long Pastur' this summer, and I'm comin'. +Good-by!" She disappeared down the cellar stairs with the butter-plate +poised on a pyramid of dishes, and David, having no time to argue, went off +to his work.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p> + +<p>About ten o'clock Letty took her way down to the Long Pasture; she was a +very happy woman, and she could hold her happiness before her face, +regarding it frankly and with a full delight. The material joys of life +might seem to escape her; but she could have them, after all. The great +universe, warm with sun and warm with love, was on her side. Even the day +seemed something tangible in gracious being; and as Letty trudged along, +her basket on her arm, she reasoned upon her own riches and owned she had +enough. David was not like anybody else; but he was better than anybody +else, and he was hers. Even his faults were dearer than other men's +virtues. She heard the sound of his axe upon the stakes, breaking the +lovely stillness with a significance lovelier still.</p> + +<p>"David!" she called, long before reaching the little brook that runs +beneath the bank, and he leaped the fence and came to meet her. "David!" +she repeated, and looked up in his face with eyes so solemn and so full of +light that he held her still a moment to look at her.</p> + +<p>"Letty," he said, "you're real pretty!" And then they both laughed, and +walked on together through the shade.</p> + +<p>The day knit up its sweet, long minutes full of the serious beauty of the +woods. David worked hard, and for a time Letty lingered near him; then she +strayed away, and came<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> back to him, from moment to moment, with wonderful +treasures. Now it was cress from the spring, now a palm-full of partridge +berries, or a cluster of checkerberry leaves for a "cud," or a bit of +wood-sorrel. By and by the fall stillness gave out a breath of heat, and +the sun stood high overhead. Letty spread out her dinner, and David made +her a fire among the rocks. The smoke rose in a blue efflorescence; and with +the sweet tang of burning wood yet in the air, they sat down side by side, +drinking from one cup, and smiling over the foolish nothings of familiar +talk. At the end of the meal, Letty took a parcel from the basket, +something wrapped in a very fine white napkin. She flushed a little, +unrolling it, and her eyes deepened.</p> + +<p>"What's all this?" asked David, sniffing the air. "Fruit-cake?"</p> + +<p>Letty nodded without looking at him; there was a telltale quivering in her +face. She divided the cake carefully, and gave her husband half. David had +lain back on a piny bank; and as he ate, his eyes followed the treetops, +swaying a little now in a rhythmic wind. But Letty ate her piece as if it +were sacramental bread. She put out her hand to him, and he stroked the +short, faithful fingers, and then held them close. He smiled at her; and +for a moment he mused again over that starry light in her eyes. Then his +lids fell, and he had a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> little nap, while Letty sat and dreamed back over +the hours, a year and more ago, when her mother's house smelled of spices, +and this cake was baked for her wedding day.</p> + +<p>When they went home again, side by side, the fencing was all done, and +David had an after-consciousness of happy playtime. He carried the basket, +with his axe, and Letty, like an untired little dog, took brief excursions +of discovery here and there, and came back to his side with her weedy +treasures. Once—was it something in the air?—he called to her:—</p> + +<p>"Say, Letty, wa'n't it about this kind o' weather the day we were married?"</p> + +<p>But Letty gave a little cry, and pointed out a frail white butterfly on a +mullein leaf. "See there, David! how cold he looks! I'd like to take him +along. He'll freeze to-night." David forgot his question, and she was glad. +Some inner voice was at her heart, warning her to leave the day unspoiled. +Her joy lay in remembering; it seemed a small thing to her that he should +forget.</p> + +<p>"We've had a real good time," he said, as he gave her the basket at the +kitchen door. "Now, as soon as thrashin' 's done, we'll go to Star Pond."</p> + +<p>After supper they covered up the squashes, for fear of a frost; and then +they stood for a moment in the field, and looked at the harvest moon, risen +in a great effrontery of splendor.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Letty," asked David suddenly, "shouldn't you like to put on your little +ring? It's right here in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"No! no!" said Letty hastily. "I never want to set eyes on it again."</p> + +<p>"I guess I'll get you another one 't you could wear. I looked t' other day +when I went to market; but there was so many I didn't das't to make a +choice unless you was with me."</p> + +<p>Letty clung to him passionately. "Oh, David," she cried, with a break in +her voice, "I don't want any rings. I want just you."</p> + +<p>David put out one hand and softly touched the little blue kerchief about +her head. "Anyway," he said, "we won't have any more secrets from one +another, will we?"</p> + +<p>Letty gave a little start, and she caught her breath before answering:—</p> + +<p>"No, we won't—not unless they're nice ones!"</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +<h2>A LAST ASSEMBLING</h2> +</div> + +<p>This happened in what Dilly Joyce, in deference to a form of speech, was +accustomed to call her young days; though really her spirit seemed to renew +itself with every step, and her body was to the last a willing instrument. +She lived in a happy completeness which allowed her to carry on the joys of +youth into the maturity of years. But things did happen to her from twenty +to thirty-five which could never happen again. When Dilly was a girl, she +fell in love, and was very heartily and honestly loved back again. She had +been born into such willing harmony with natural laws, that this in itself +seemed to belong to her life. It partook rather of the faithfulness of the +seasons than of human tragedy or strenuous overthrow. Even so early she +felt great delight in natural things; and when her heart turned to Jethro +Moore, she had no doubt whatever of the straightness of its path. She +trusted all the primal instincts without knowing she trusted them. She was +thirsty; here was water, and she drank. Jethro was a little older than she, +the son of a minister in a neighboring town. His father had marked out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> his +plan of life; but Jethro had had enough to do with the church on hot summer +Sundays, when "fourthly" and "sixthly" lulled him into a pleasing coma, and +when even the shimmer of Mrs. Chase's shot silk failed to awaken his deep +eyes to their accustomed delight in fabric and color. To him, the church +was a concrete and very dull institution: to his father, it was a city set +on a hill, whence a shining path led direct to God's New Jerusalem. +Therefore it was easy enough for the boy to say he preferred business, and +that he wanted uncle Silas to take him into his upholstery shop; and he +never, so long as he lived, understood his father's tragic silence over the +choice. He had broken the succession in a line of priests; but it seemed to +him that he had simply told what he wanted to do for a living. So he went +away to the city, and news came flying back of his wonderful fitness for +the trade. He understood colors, fabrics, design; he had been sent abroad +for ideas, and finally he was dispatched to the Chicago house, to oversee +the business there. Thus it was many years before Dilly met him again; but +they remained honestly faithful, each from a lovely simplicity of nature, +but a simplicity quite different in kind. Jethro did not grow rich very +fast (uncle Silas saw to that), but he did prosper; and he was ready to +marry his girl long before she owned herself ready to marry him. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> took +care of a succession of aged relatives, all afflicted by a strange and +interesting diversity of trying diseases; and then, after the last death, +she settled down, quite poor, in a little house on the Tiverton Road, and +"went out nussin'," the profession for which her previous life had fitted +her. With a careless generosity, she made over to her brother the old +farmhouse where they were born, because he had a family and needed it. But +he died, and was soon followed by his wife and child; and now Dilly was +quite alone with the house and the family debts. The time had come, wrote +Jethro, for them to marry. She was free, at last, and he had enough. Would +she take him, now? Dilly answered quite frankly and from a serenity born of +faith in the path before her and a certainty that no feet need slip. She +was ready, she wrote. She hoped he was willing she should sell the old +place, to pay Tom's debts. That would leave her without a cent; but since +he was coming for her, and she needn't go to Chicago alone, she didn't know +that there was anything to worry about. He would buy her ticket. There was +an ineffable simplicity about Dilly. She had no respect whatever for money, +save as a puzzling means to a few necessary ends. And now the place had +been sold, and Jethro was coming in a month. Meanwhile Dilly was to pack up +the few family effects she could afford to keep, and the rest would go by +auction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> + +<p>Little as she was accustomed to dread experiences which came in the +inevitable order of nature, she did think of the last day and night in the +old house as something of an ordeal. People felt that the human meant very +little to Dilly; but that was not true. It was only true that she held +herself remote from personal intimacies; but all the fine, invisible bonds +of race and family took hold of her like irresistible factors, and welded +her to the universe anew.</p> + +<p>As she started out from her little house, this summer morning, and began +her three-mile walk to the old homestead, she felt as if some solemn event +in her life were about to happen; her heart beat higher, and brought about +the suffocating feeling of a hand laid upon the throat. She was a slight +creature, with a delicate face and fine black hair. Her slender body seemed +all made for action, and the poise of an assured motion dwelt in it and +wrapped about its angularity like a gracious charm. She was walking down a +lane, her short skirts brushed by the morning dew. She chose to go 'cross +lots, not because in this case it was nearer than the road, but because it +seemed impossible to go another way. Yet never in her life had she seen +less of the outward garment of things than she was seeing this morning. A +flouting bobolink flew from stake to stake in front of her, and bub<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>bled +out in melody. She heard a scythe swishing in a neighboring field, and the +musical call of the mowing-machine afar, and she did not look up. Dumb to +the beautiful outer world, she was broad awake to human souls: the souls of +the Joyces, alive so long before her and stretching back into an unknown +past. They had lived, one after another, in the old house, since colonial +times; and now, after this quiet act of a concluding drama, Dilly was going +to lower the curtain, and sweep them from the stage.</p> + +<p>Her mind was peopled with figures. She thought of Jethro, too. He seemed to +be coming ever nearer and nearer. She could hear his tread marching into +her life, and could see his face. It was very moving, as she remembered it. +A long line of scholarly forbears had dowered him with a refinement and +grace quite startling in this unornamented spot, and some old Acadian +ancestor had lent him beauty. His eyes were dark, and they held an +unfathomable melancholy. The line of his forehead and nose ran haughtily +and yet delicate; and even after years of absence, Dilly sometimes caught +her breath when she thought of the way his head was set upon his shoulders. +She had never in her life seen a man or woman who was entirely beautiful, +and he saturated her longing like a prodigal stream.</p> + +<p>She was a little dazed when she climbed the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> low stone wall, crossed the +road, and came into the grassy wilderness of the Joyce back yard. Nature +had triumphed riotously, as she will when niggardly thrift is away. The +grass lay rich and shining, lodged by last night's shower, and gate and +cellar-case were choked by it. The cinnamon roses bloomed in a spicy +hardiness of pink, and the gnarled apple-trees had shed their broken +branches, and were covered with little green buttons of fruit. Dilly +stopped to look about her, and her eyes filled. The tears were hot; they +hurt her, and so recalled her to the needs of life.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said, "I mustn't do so!"—and she walked straight forward +through the open shed, and fitted her key in the lock. The door sagged; but +she pushed it open and stepped in. The deserted kitchen lay there in +desolate order, and the old Willard clock slept upon the wall. Dilly +hastily pushed a chair before it (this was the only chair old Daniel Joyce +would allow the children to climb in) and wound the clock. It began ticking +slowly, with the old, remembered sound. Somehow it seemed beautiful to +Dilly that the clock should speak with the voice of all those years agone; +it was a kind of loyalty which appealed to the soul like a piercing +miracle. Then she ran through to the sitting-room, and started the old +eight-day in the corner; and the house breathed and was alive again. She +threw open<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> the windows, all save those on the Dilloway side (lest kindly +neighbors should discover she was at home), and the soft rose-scented air +flooded the rooms like an invisible presence, and bore out the smell of age +upon gracious wings. Now, Dilly worked fast and steadily, lest some human +thing should come upon her. She tied up bedclothes, and opened long-closed +cupboards. She made careful piles of clothing from the attic; and finally, +her mind a little tired, she sat down on the floor and began looking over +papers and daguerreotypes from her father's desk. Just as she had lost +herself in the ancient history of which they were the signs, there came a +knock at the back door. So assured had become her idea of a continued +housekeeping, that the summons did not seem in the least strange. The house +lived again; it had thrown open its arms to human kind.</p> + +<p>"Come in!" she called; and a light step sounded in the kitchen and crossed +the sill. It was a man, dark-eyed and very handsome. "Oh!" murmured Dilly, +catching her breath and holding both hands clasped upon the papers in her +lap. "Jethro!"</p> + +<p>The stranger was much moved, and his black eyes deepened. He looked at her +kindly, perhaps lovingly, too. "Yes," he said, at last. "So you'd know me?"</p> + +<p>Dilly got lightly up, and the papers fell about her in a shower; yet she +made no motion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> toward him. "Oh, yes," she said softly, "I should know you. +You ain't changed at all."</p> + +<p>That was not true. He looked ten years older than his real age; yet time +had only dowered him with a finer grace and charm. All the lines in his +face were those of gentleness and truth. His mouth had the old delicate +curves. One meeting him that day might have said, with a throb of +involuntary homage, "How beautiful he must have been when he was young!" +But to Dilly he bore even a more subtile distinction than in that far-away +time; he had ripened into something harmonizing with her own years. He came +forward a little, and held out both hands; but Dilly did not take them, and +he dropped the left one. Then she laid her fingers lightly in his, and they +greeted each other like old acquaintances. A flush rose in her smooth brown +cheek. Her eyes grew bright with that startled questioning which is of the +woods. He looked at her the more intently, and his breath quickened. She +had none of the blossomy charm of more robust womanhood; but he recognized +the old gypsy element which had once bewitched him, and felt he loved her +still.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said, and his voice shook a little, "are you glad to see me?"</p> + +<p>Dilly moved back, and sat down in her mother's little sewing-chair by the +desk. "I don't know as I can tell," she answered. "This is a strange day."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>Jethro nodded. "I meant to surprise you," he said. "So I never wrote I was +coming on so soon. I was real disappointed to find your house shut up; but +the neighbors told me where you'd gone, and what you'd gone for. Then I +walked over here."</p> + +<p>Dilly's face brightened all over with a responsive smile. "Did you come +through the woods?" she asked. "What made you?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I knew you'd go that way," he answered. "I thought you'd get +wool-gathering over some weed or another, and maybe I'd overtake you."</p> + +<p>They both laughed, and the ice was broken. Dilly got briskly up and +gathered a drawer-full of papers into her apron.</p> + +<p>"I can't stop workin'," she said. "I want to fix it so's not to stay here +more'n one night. Now you talk! I know what these are. I can run 'em over +an' listen too."</p> + +<p>"I think't was real good of you to turn in the place to Tom's folks," said +Jethro, also seating himself, and, as Dilly saw with a start, as if it were +an omen, in her father's great chair. "Not that you'll ever need it, Dilly. +You won't want for a thing. I've done real well."</p> + +<p>Dilly's long fingers assorted papers and laid them at either side, with a +neat precision. She looked up at him then, and her eyes had again the +quick, inquiring glance of some wild creature in a situation foreign to its +habits.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well," she said, "well! I guess I don't resk anything. An' if I did—why, +I'd resk it!"</p> + +<p>Jethro bent forward a little. He was smiling, and Dilly met the glance, +half fascinated. She wondered that she could forget his smile; and yet she +had forgotten it. Like running water, it was never twice the same.</p> + +<p>"Dilly," said he, much moved, "you'll have a good time from this out, if +ever a woman did. You'll keep house in a brick block, where the cars run by +your door, and you can hire two girls."</p> + +<p>"Oh, my!" breathed Dilly. A quick look of trouble darkened her face, as a +shadow sweeps across the field.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asked Jethro, in some alarm. "Don't you like what I said?"</p> + +<p>Dilly smiled, though her eyes were still apprehensive.</p> + +<p>"It ain't that," she answered slowly, striving in her turn to be kind. +"Only I guess I never happened to think before just how't would be. I never +spec'lated much on keepin' house."</p> + +<p>"But somebody'd have to keep it," said Jethro good-naturedly, smiling on +her. "We can get good help. You'll like to have a real home table, and you +can invite company every day, if you say so. I never was close, Dilly,—you +know that. I sha'n't make you account for things."</p> + +<p>Dilly got up, and, still holding her papers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> in her apron, walked swiftly +to the window. There she stood, a moment, looking out into the orchard, +where the grass lay tangled under the neglected, happy trees. Her eyes +traveled mechanically from one to another. She knew them all. That was the +"sopsyvine," its red fruitage fast coming on; there was the Porter she had +seen her father graft; and down in the corner grew the August sweet. Life +out there looked so still and sane and homely. She knew no city +streets,—yet the thought of them sounded like a pursuit. She turned about, +and came back to her chair.</p> + +<p>"I guess I never dreamt how you lived, Jethro," she said gently. "But it +don't make no matter. You're contented with it."</p> + +<p>"I ain't a rich man," said Jethro, with some quiet pride; "but I've got +enough. Yes, I like my business; and city life suits me. You'll fall in +with it, too."</p> + +<p>Then silence settled between them; but that never troubled Dilly. She was +used to long musings on her walks to and from her patients, and in her +watching beside their beds. Conversation seemed to her a very spurious +thing when there is nothing to say.</p> + +<p>"What you thinking about?" he asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>Dilly looked up at him with her bright, truth-telling glance. "I was +thinkin'," she answered, with a clarity never ruthless, because it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> so +sweet,—"I was thinkin' you make me homesick, somehow or another."</p> + +<p>Jethro looked at her doubtfully, and then, as she smiled at him, he smiled +also.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it's me," he said, confidently. "It's because you're going +over things here. It's the old house."</p> + +<p>"Maybe," said Dilly, nodding and tying her last bundle of papers. "But I +don't know. I never had quite such feelin's before. It's the nearest to +bein' afraid of anything I've come acrost. I guess I shall have to run out +into the lot an' take my bearin's."</p> + +<p>Jethro got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked about the room. He +was very gentle, but he did at heart cherish the masculine theory that the +unusual in woman is never to be judged by rules.</p> + +<p>"But it is a queer kind of a day," owned Dilly, pushing in the last drawer. +"Why, Jethro!" She faced him, and her voice broke in excitement. "You don't +know, I ain't begun to tell you, how queer it seems to me. Why, I've +dreaded this day for weeks! but when it come nigh, it begun to seem to me +like a joyful thing. I felt as if they all knew of it: them that was gone. +It seemed as if they stood 'round me, ready to uphold me in what I was +doin'. I shouldn't be surprised if they were all here now. I don't feel a +mite alone."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her voice shook with excitement; her eyes were big and black. Jethro came +up to her, and laid a kindly hand on her shoulder. It was a fine hand, long +and shapely, and Dilly, looking down at it, remembered, with a strange +regretfulness, how she had once loved its lines.</p> + +<p>"There, poor girl!" he said, "you're tired thinking about it. No wonder +you've got fancies. I guess the ghosts won't trouble us. There's nothing +here worse than ourselves." And again, in spite of the Joyces, Dilly felt +homesick and alone.</p> + +<p>There came a soft thudding sound upon the kitchen floor, and she turned, +alert, to listen. This was Mrs. Eli Pike in her carpet slippers; she had +stood so much over soap-making that week that her feet had taken to +swelling. She was no older than Dilly, but she had seemed matronly in her +teens. She looked very large, as she padded forward through the doorway, +and her pink face and double chin seemed to exude kindliness as she came.</p> + +<p>"There, Dilly Joyce! if this ain't jest like you!" she exclaimed. "Creep in +here an' not let anybody know! Why, Jethro, that you? Recognize you! Well, +I guess I should!"</p> + +<p>She included them both in a neighborly glance, and Dilly was very grateful. +Yet it seemed to her that now, at last, she might break down and cry. The +tone of olden friendliness was hard to bear, when no other voices<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +answered. She could endure the silent house, but not the intercourse of a +life so sadly changed.</p> + +<p>"There!" continued Mrs. Pike, with a nod, "I guess I know! You're tired to +pieces with this pickin' and sortin', an' you're comin' over to dinner, +both on ye. Eli's dressed a hin. I had to wring her neck. <i>He</i> wouldn't ha' +done it; you know that, Dilly! An' I've been beatin' up eggs. Now don't you +say one word. You be there by twelve. Jethro, you got a watch? You see 't +she starts, now!" And Mrs. Pike marched away victorious, her apron over her +head, and waving one hand before her as she went. She had once been stung +by bees, on just such a morning as this, and she had a set theory that they +infested all strange dooryards.</p> + +<p>Dilly felt as if even the Joyces could not save her day in its solemn +significance unless, indeed, they should appear in their proper persons. +She thought of her bread and butter and boiled eggs, lying in her little +bundle, and the simple meal seemed as unattainable as if it were some +banquet dreamed of in delirium. It was of one piece with cars going by the +house, and two maid-servants to correct. To Dilly, a car meant a shrieking +monster propelled by steam: yet not even that drove her to such insanity of +revulsion as the two servants. They alone made her coming life seem<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> like +one eternal school, with the committee ever on the platform, and no recess. +But she worked very meekly and soberly, and Jethro took off his coat and +helped her; then, just before twelve, they washed their hands and went +across the orchard to Mrs. Pike's.</p> + +<p>The rest of the day seemed to Dilly like a confused though not an +unfamiliar dream. She knew that the dinner was very good, and that it +choked her, so that Mrs. Pike, alert in her first pride of housekeeping, +was quite cordially harsh with her for not eating more; and that Jethro +talked about Chicago; and Eli Pike, older than his wife and graver, said +"Do tell!" now and again, and seemed to picture in his mind the outlines of +city living. She escaped from the table as soon as possible, under pretext +of the work to be done, and slipped back to the empty house; and there +Jethro found her, and began helping her again.</p> + +<p>The still afternoon settled down in its grooves of beauty, and its very +loveliness gave Dilly a pain at the heart. She remembered that this was the +hour when her mother used to yawn over her long seam, or her knitting, and +fall asleep by the window, while the bees droned outside in the jessamine, +and a humming-bird—there had always been one, year after year, and Dilly +could never get over the impression that it was the same bird—hovered on +his invisible perch and thrilled his wings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> divinely. Then the day slipped +over an unseen height, and fell into a sheltered calm. The work was not +done, and they had to go over to Mrs. Pike's again to supper, and to spend +the night. Dilly longed to stretch herself on the old kitchen lounge in her +own home; but Mrs. Pike told her plainly that she was crazy, and Jethro, +with a kindly authority, bade her yield. And because words were like +weapons that returned upon her to hurt her anew, she did yield, and talked +patiently to one and another neighbor as they came in to see Jethro, and to +inquire when he meant to be married.</p> + +<p>"Soon," said Jethro, with assurance. "As soon as Dilly makes up her mind."</p> + +<p>All that evening, Eli Pike sat on the steps, where he could hear the talk +in the sitting-room without losing the whippoorwill's song from the Joyce +orchard, and Dilly longed to slip out and sit quietly beside him. He would +know. But she could only be civil and grateful, and when half past eight +came, take her lamp and go up to bed. Jethro was given the best chamber, +because he had succeeded and came from Chicago; but Dilly had a little room +that looked straight out across the treetops down to her own home.</p> + +<p>At first, after closing the door behind her, she felt only the great +blessedness of being alone. She put out the light and threw her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>self, as +she was, face downwards on the bed. There she lay for long moments, +suffering; and this was one of the few times in her life when she was +forced to feel that human pain which is like a stab in the heart. For she +was one of those wise creatures who give themselves long spaces of silence, +and so heal them quickly of their wounds, like the sage little animals that +slip away from combat, to cure their hurt with leaves. Presently, a great +sense of rest enfolded her, a rest ineffably precious because it was so +soon to be over. It was like great riches lent only for a time. Outside +this familiar quiet was the world, thrilled by a terrifying life pressing +upon her and calling. She longed to put her hands before her eyes, and shut +out the possibility of meeting its garish glory; she did cover her ears, +lest its cry should pierce them and she could not resist. And so she lay +there shivering, until a strange inviting that was peace and not commotion +seemed to approach her from another side, and her inner self became +conscious of unheard voices. They were not clamorous, but sweet, and they +drowned her will, and drew her to themselves. She got softly up, and, going +to the darkened window, looked out across the orchard. There, in the +greenness, lay the old house. It called on her to come. It seemed to Dilly +that she could not make haste enough to be there. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> slipped softly down +the narrow stairway, and across the kitchen, where the shadows of the +moonlit windows lay upon the floor. A great excitement thrilled her blood; +and though quite safe from discovery, she was not wholly at ease until she +had entered the orchard path, and knew her feet were wet with dew, and +heard the whippoorwill, so near now that she might have startled him from +his neighboring tree. No other bird note could have fitted her mood so +well. The wild melancholy of his tone, his home in the night, and the omens +blended with his song seemed to remove him from the world as she herself +was removed; and she hastened on with a fine exaltation, fitted her key +again in the lock, and shut the door behind her.</p> + +<p>As soon as Dilly had entered the sitting-room, where the old desk stood in +its place, and the clock was ticking, she felt as if all her confusion and +trouble were over. She smiled to herself in the darkness. She had come +home, and it was very good. They had begun with the attic, in their +rearranging, and this room remained unchanged. It had been her wish to keep +it, in its sweet familiarity, unaltered till the last. She drew forward her +father's chair, and sat down in it, with luxurious abandonment, to rest. +Her mother's little cricket was by her side, and she put her feet on it and +exhaled a long sigh of content.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> Her eyes rested on the dark cavern which +was the fireplace; and there fell upon her a sweet sense of completed +bliss, as if it were alight and she could watch the dancing flames. And +suddenly Dilly was aware that the Joyces were all about her.</p> + +<p>She had been sure, in her coming through the woods, that they knew and +cared; now she was certain that, in some fashion, they recognized their +bondage and loyalty to the place, as she recognized her own, and that they +upheld her to her task. She thought them over, as she sat there, and saw +their souls more keenly than if she had met them, men and women, face to +face. There was the shoe-maker among them, who, generations back, was +sitting on his bench when news came of the battle of Lexington, and who +threw down hammer and last, and ran wildly out into the woods, where he +stayed three days and nights, calling with a loud voice upon Almighty God +to save him from ill-doing. Then he had drowned himself in a little brook +too shallow for the death of any but a desperate man. He had been the +disgrace of the Joyces; they dared not think of him, and they know, even to +this day, that he is remembered among their townsmen as the Joyce who was a +coward, and killed himself rather than go to war. But here he stood—was it +the man, or some secret intelligence of him?—and Dilly, out of all his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +race, was the one to comprehend him. She saw, with a thrill of passionate +sympathy, how he had believed with all his soul in the wickedness of war, +and how the wound to his country so roused in him the desire of blood that +he fled away and prayed his God to save him from mortal guilt,—and how, +finding that he saw with an overwhelming delight the red of anticipated +slaughter, and knew his traitorous feet were bearing him to the ranks, he +chose the death of the body rather than sin against the soul. And Dilly was +glad; the blood in her own veins ran purer for his sake.</p> + +<p>There was old Delilah Joyce, who went into a decline for love, and wasted +quite away. She had been one of those tragic fugitives on the island of +being, driven out into the storm of public sympathy to be beaten and +undone; for she was left on her wedding day by her lover, who vowed he +loved her no more. But now Dilly saw her without the pathetic bravery of +her silken gown which was never worn, and knew her for a woman serene and +glad. That very day she had unfolded the gown in the attic, where it had +lain, year upon year, wrapped about by the poignant sympathy of her kin, a +perpetual reminder of the hurts and faithlessness of life. It had become a +relic, set aside from modern use. She felt now as if she could even wear it +herself, though silk was not for her, or deck some little child in its shot +and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> shimmering gayety. For it came to her, with a glad rush of acquiescent +joy, that all his life, the man, though blinded by illusion, had been true +to her whom he had left; and that, instead of being poor, she was very +rich. It was from that moment that Dilly began to understand that the soul +does not altogether weld its own bonds, but that they lie in the secret +core of things, as the planet rushes on its appointed way.</p> + +<p>There was Annette Joyce, who married a Stackpole, and, to the disgust of +her kin, clung to him through one debauch after another, until the world +found out that Annette "couldn't have much sense of decency herself, or she +wouldn't put up with such things." But on this one night Dilly found out +that Annette's life had been a continual laying hold of Eternal Being, not +for herself, but for the creature she loved; that she had shown the +insolence and audacity of a thousand spirits in one, besieging high heaven +and crying in the ear of God: "I demand of Thee this soul that Thou hast +made." And somehow Dilly knew now that she was of those who overcome.</p> + +<p>So the line stretched on, until she was aware of souls of which she had +never heard; and she knew that, faulty as their deeds might be, they had +striven, and the strife was not in vain. She felt herself to be one drop in +a mighty river, flowing into the water which is the sum<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> of life; and she +was content to be absorbed in that great stream. There was human comfort in +the moment, too; for all about her were those whom she had seen with her +bodily eyes, and their presence brought an infinite cheer and rest. Dilly +felt the safety of the universe; she smiled lovingly over the preciousness +of all its homely ways. She thought of the twilights when she had sat on +the doorstone, eating huckleberries and milk, and seeing the sun drop down +the west; she remembered one night when her little cat came home, after it +had been lost, and felt the warm touch of its fur against her hand. She saw +how the great chain of things is held by such slender links, and how there +is nothing that is not most sacred and most good. The hum of summer life +outside the window seemed to her the life in her own veins, and she knew +that nothing dwells apart from anything else, and that, whether we wot of +it or not, we are of one blood.</p> + +<p>The night went on to that solemn hush that comes before the dawn. Dilly +felt the presence of the day, and what it would demand of her; but now she +did not fear. For Jethro, too, had been with her; and at last she +understood his power over her and could lay it away like a jewel in a case, +a precious thing, and yet not to be worn. She saw him, also, in his stream +of being, as she was swept along through hers, and knew how that old race +had given him a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> beauty which was not his, but theirs,—and how, in the +melancholy of his eyes, she loved a soul long passed, and in the wonder of +his hand the tender lines of other hands, waving to fiery action. He was an +inheritor; and she had loved, not him, but his inheritance.</p> + +<p>Now it was the later dusk of night, and the cocks crowed loudly in a clear +diminuendo, dying far away. Dilly pressed her hands upon her eyes, and came +awake to the outer world. She looked about the room with a warm smile, and +reviewed, in feeling, her happy night. It was no longer hard to dismantle +the place. The room, the house, the race were hers forever; she had learned +the abidingness of what is real. When she closed the door behind her, she +touched the casing as if she loved it, and, crossing the orchard, she felt +as if all the trees could say: "We know, you and we!"</p> + +<p>As she entered the Pike farmyard, Eli was just going to milking, with +clusters of shining pails.</p> + +<p>"You're up early," said he. "Well, there's nothin' like the mornin'!"</p> + +<p>"No," answered Dilly, smiling at him with the radiance of one who carries +good news, "except night-time! There's a good deal in that!" And while Eli +went gravely on, pondering according to his wont, she ran up to smooth her +tumbled bed.</p> + +<p>After breakfast, while Mrs. Pike was carrying<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> away the dishes, Dilly +called Jethro softly to one side.</p> + +<p>"You come out in the orchard. I want to speak to you."</p> + +<p>Her voice thrilled with something like the gladness of confidence, and +Jethro's own face brightened. Dilly read that vivid anticipation, and +caught her breath. Though she knew it now, the old charm would never be +quite gone. She took his hand and drew him forward. She seemed like a +child, unaffected and not afraid. Out in the path, under the oldest tree of +all, she dropped his hand and faced him.</p> + +<p>"Jethro," she said, "we can't do it. We can't get married."</p> + +<p>He looked at her amazed. She seemed to be telling good news instead of bad. +She gazed up at him smilingly. He could not understand.</p> + +<p>"Don't you care about me?" he asked at length, haltingly; and again Dilly +smiled at him in the same warm confidence.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," she said eagerly. "I do care, ever and ever so much. But it's +your folks I care about. It ain't you. I've found it all out, Jethro. +Things don't al'ays belong to us. Sometimes they belong to them that have +gone before; an' half the time we don't know it."</p> + +<p>Jethro laid a gentle hand upon her arm. "You're all tired out," he said +soothingly. "Now you give up picking over things, and let me hire somebody. +I'll be glad to."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>But Dilly withdrew a little from his touch. "You're real good, Jethro," she +answered steadily. She had put aside her exaltation, and was her old self, +full of common-sense and kindly strength. "But I don't feel tired, an' I +ain't a mite crazed. All you can do is to ride over to town with Eli—he's +goin' after he feeds the pigs—an' take the cars from there. It's all over, +Jethro. It is, truly. I ain't so sorry as I might be; for it's borne in on +me you won't care this way long. An' you needn't, dear; for nothin' between +us is changed a mite. The only trouble is, it ain't the kind of thing we +thought."</p> + +<p>She looked in his eyes with a long, bright farewell glance, and turned +away. She had left behind her something which was very fine and beautiful; +but she could not mourn. And all that morning, about the house, she sang +little snatches of song, and was content. The Joyces had done their work, +and she was doing hers.</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +<h2>THE WAY OF PEACE</h2> +</div> + +<p>It was two weeks after her mother's funeral when Lucy Ann Cummings sat down +and considered. The web of a lifelong service and devotion still clung +about her, but she was bereft of the creature for whom it had been spun. +Now she was quite alone, save for her two brothers and the cousins who +lived in other townships, and they all had homes of their own. Lucy Ann sat +still, and thought about her life. Brother Ezra and brother John would be +good to her. They always had been. Their solicitude redoubled with her +need, and they had even insisted on leaving Annabel, John's daughter, to +keep her company after the funeral. Lucy Ann thought longingly of the +healing which lay in the very loneliness of her little house; but she +yielded, with a patient sigh. John and Ezra were men-folks, and doubtless +they knew best.</p> + +<p>A little more than a week had gone when school "took up," rather earlier +than had been intended, and Annabel went away in haste, to teach. Then Lucy +Ann drew her first long breath. She had resisted many a kindly office from +her niece, with the crafty innocence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> the gentle who can only parry and +never thrust. When Annabel wanted to help in packing away grandma's things, +aunt Lucy agreed, half-heartedly, and then deferred the task from day to +day. In reality, Lucy Ann never meant to pack them away at all. She could +not imagine her home without them; but that, Annabel would not understand, +and her aunt pushed aside the moment, reasoning that something is pretty +sure to happen if you put things off long enough. And something did; +Annabel went away. It was then that Lucy Ann took a brief draught of the +cup of peace.</p> + +<p>Long before her mother's death, when they both knew how inevitably it was +coming, Lucy Ann had, one day, a little shock of surprise. She was standing +before the glass, coiling her crisp gray hair, and thinking over and over +the words the doctor had used, the night before, when he told her how near +the end might be. Her delicate face fell into deeper lines. Her mouth +dropped a little at the corners; her faded brown eyes were hot with tears, +and stopping to wipe them, she caught sight of herself in the glass.</p> + +<p>"Why," she said aloud, "I look jest like mother!"</p> + +<p>And so she did, save that it was the mother of five years ago, before +disease had corroded the dear face, and patience wrought its tracery +there.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well," she continued, smiling a little at the poverty of her state, "I +shall be a real comfort to me when mother's gone!"</p> + +<p>Now that her moment of solitude had struck, grief came also. It glided in, +and sat down by her, to go forth no more, save perhaps under its other +guise of a patient hope. She rocked back and forth in her chair, and moaned +a little to herself.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I never can bear it!" she said pathetically, under her breath. "I +never can bear it in the world!"</p> + +<p>The tokens of illness were all put away. Her mother's bedroom lay cold in +an unsmiling order. The ticking of the clock emphasized the inexorable +silence of the house. Once Lucy Ann thought she heard a little rustle and +stir. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, coming from the +bedroom, where one movement of the clothes had always been enough to summon +her with flying feet. She caught her breath, and held it, to listen. She +was ready, undisturbed, for any sign. But a great fly buzzed drowsily on +the pane, and the fire crackled with accentuated life. She was quite alone. +She put her hand to her heart, in that gesture of grief which is so +entirely natural when we feel the stab of destiny; and then she went wanly +into the sitting-room, looking about her for some pretense of duty to +solace her poor mind. There again she caught sight of herself in the +glass.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, my!" breathed Lucy Ann. Low as they were, the words held a fullness of +joy.</p> + +<p>Her face had been aging through these days of grief; it had grown more and +more like her mother's. She felt as if a hand had been stretched out to +her, holding a gift, and at that moment something told her how to make the +gift enduring. Running over to the little table where her mother's +work-basket stood, as it had been, undisturbed, she took out a pair of +scissors, and went back to the glass. There she let down her thick gray +hair, parted it carefully on the sides, and cut off lock after lock about +her face. She looked a caricature of her sober self. But she was well used +to curling hair like this, drawing its crisp silver into shining rings; and +she stood patiently before the glass and coaxed her own locks into just +such fashion as had framed the older face. It was done, and Lucy Ann looked +at herself with a smile all suffused by love and longing. She was not +herself any more; she had gone back a generation, and chosen a warmer +niche. She could have kissed her face in the glass, it was so like that +other dearer one. She did finger the little curls, with a reminiscent +passion, not daring to think of the darkness where the others had been +shut; and, at that instant, she felt very rich. The change suggested a more +faithful portraiture, and she went up into the spare room and looked +through the closet where her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> mother's clothes had been hanging so long, +untouched. Selecting a purple thibet, with a little white sprig, she +slipped off her own dress, and stepped into it. She crossed a muslin +kerchief on her breast, and pinned it with the cameo her mother had been +used to wear. It was impossible to look at herself in the doing; but when +the deed was over, she went again to the glass and stood there, held by a +wonder beyond her will. She had resurrected the creature she loved; this +was an enduring portrait, perpetuating, in her own life, another life as +well.</p> + +<p>"I'll pack away my own clo'es to-morrer," said Lucy Ann to herself. "Them +are the ones to be put aside."</p> + +<p>She went downstairs, hushed and tremulous, and seated herself again, her +thin hands crossed upon her lap; and there she stayed, in a pleasant dream, +not of the future, and not even of the past, but face to face with a +recognition of wonderful possibilities. She had dreaded her loneliness with +the ache that is despair; but she was not lonely any more. She had been +allowed to set up a little model of the tabernacle where she had worshiped; +and, having that, she ceased to be afraid. To sit there, clothed in such +sweet familiarity of line and likeness, had tightened her grasp upon the +things that are. She did not seem to herself altogether alive, nor was her +mother dead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> They had been fused, by some wonderful alchemy; and instead +of being worlds apart, they were at one. So, John Cummings, her brother, +stepping briskly in, after tying his horse at the gate, came upon her +unawares, and started, with a hoarse, thick cry. It was in the dusk of +evening; and, seeing her outline against the window, he stepped back +against the wall and leaned there a moment, grasping at the casing with one +hand. "Good God!" he breathed, at last, "I thought 't was mother!"</p> + +<p>Lucy Ann rose, and went forward to meet him.</p> + +<p>"Then it's true," said she. "I'm so pleased. Seems as if I could git along, +if I could look a little mite like her."</p> + +<p>John stood staring at her, frowning in his bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"What have you done to yourself?" he asked. "Put on her clo'es?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Lucy Ann, "but that ain't all. I guess I do resemble mother, +though we ain't any of us had much time to think about it. Well, I <i>am</i> +pleased. I took out that daguerreotype she had, down Saltash way, though it +don't favor her as she was at the end. But if I can take a glimpse of +myself in the glass, now and then, mebbe I can git along."</p> + +<p>They sat down together in the dark, and mused over old memories. John had +always understood Lucy Ann better than the rest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> When she gave up Simeon +Bascom to stay at home with her mother, he never pitied her much; he knew +she had chosen the path she loved. The other day, even, some one had +wondered that she could have heard the funeral service so unmoved; but he, +seeing how her face had seemed to fade and wither at every word, guessed +what pain was at her heart. So, though his wife had sent him over to ask +how Lucy Ann was getting on, he really found out very little, and felt how +painfully dumb he must be when he got home. Lucy Ann was pretty well, he +thought he might say. She'd got to looking a good deal like mother.</p> + +<p>They took their "blindman's holiday," Lucy Ann once in a while putting a +stick on the leaping blaze, and, when John questioned her, giving a +low-toned reply. Even her voice had changed. It might have come from that +bedroom, in one of the pauses between hours of pain, and neither would have +been surprised.</p> + +<p>"What makes you burn beech?" asked John, when a shower of sparks came +crackling at them.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she answered. "Seems kind o' nat'ral. Some of it got into +the last cord we bought, an' one night it snapped out, an' most burnt up +mother's nightgown an' cap while I was warmin' 'em. We had a real time of +it. She scolded me, an' then she laughed, an' I laughed—an' so, when I see +a stick or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> two o' beech to-day, I kind o' picked it out a-purpose."</p> + +<p>John's horse stamped impatiently from the gate, and John, too, knew it was +time to go. His errand was not done, and he balked at it.</p> + +<p>"Lucy Ann," said he, with the bluntness of resolve, "what you goin' to do?"</p> + +<p>Lucy Ann looked sweetly at him through the dark. She had expected that. She +smoothed her mother's dress with one hand, and it gave her courage.</p> + +<p>"Do?" said she; "why, I ain't goin' to do nothin'. I've got enough to pull +through on."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but where you goin' to live?"</p> + +<p>"Here."</p> + +<p>"Alone?"</p> + +<p>"I don't feel so very much alone," said she, smiling to herself. At that +moment she did not. All sorts of sweet possibilities had made themselves +real. They comforted her, like the presence of love.</p> + +<p>John felt himself a messenger. He was speaking for others that with which +his soul did not accord.</p> + +<p>"The fact is," said he, "they're all terrible set ag'inst it. They say +you're gittin' along in years. So you be. So are we all. But they will have +it, it ain't right for you to live on here alone. Mary says she should be +scairt to death. She wants you should come an' make it your home with us."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, I dunno but Mary would be scairt," said Lucy Ann placidly. "But I +ain't. She's real good to ask me; but I can't do it, no more'n she could +leave you an' the children an' come over here to stay with me. Why, John, +this is my home!"</p> + +<p>Her voice sank upon a note of passion. It trembled with memories of dewy +mornings and golden eves. She had not grown here, through all her youth and +middle life, like moss upon a rock, without fitting into the hollows and +softening the angles of her poor habitation. She had drunk the sunlight and +the rains of one small spot, and she knew how both would fall. The place, +its sky and clouds and breezes, belonged to her: but she belonged to it as +well.</p> + +<p>John stood between two wills, his own and that of those who had sent him. +Left to himself, he would not have harassed her. To him, also, wedded to a +hearth where he found warmth and peace, it would have been sweet to live +there always, though alone, and die by the light of its dying fire. But +Mary thought otherwise, and in matters of worldly judgment he could only +yield.</p> + +<p>"I don't want you should make a mistake," said he. "Mebbe you an' I don't +look for'ard enough. They say you'll repent it if you stay, an' there'll be +a hurrah-boys all round. What say to makin' us a visit? That'll kind o' +stave it off, an' then we can see what's best to be done."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lucy Ann put her hands to her delicate throat, where her mother's gold +beads lay lightly, with a significant touch. She, like John, had an innate +gentleness of disposition. She distrusted her own power to judge.</p> + +<p>"Maybe I might," said she faintly. "Oh, John, do you think I've got to?"</p> + +<p>"It needn't be for long," answered John briefly, though he felt his eyes +moist with pity of her. "Mebbe you could stay a month?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I couldn't do that!" cried Lucy Ann, in wild denial. "I never could in +the world. If you'll make it a fortnight, an' harness up yourself, an' +bring me home, mebbe I might."</p> + +<p>John gave his word, but when he took his leave of her, she leaned forward +into the dark, where the impatient horse was fretting, and made her last +condition.</p> + +<p>"You'll let me turn the key on things here jest as they be? You won't ask +me to break up nuthin'?"</p> + +<p>"Break up!" repeated John, with the intensity of an oath. "I guess you +needn't. If anybody puts that on you, you send 'em to me."</p> + +<p>So Lucy Ann packed her mother's dresses into a little hair trunk that had +stood in the attic unused for many years, and went away to make her visit. +When she drove up to the house, sitting erect and slender in her mother's +cashmere shawl and black bonnet, Mary, watching from the window, gave a +little cry, as at the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> risen dead. John had told her about Lucy Ann's +transformation, but she put it all aside as a crazy notion, not likely to +last: now it seemed less a pathetic masquerade than a strange bypath taken +by nature itself.</p> + +<p>The children regarded it with awe, and half the time called Lucy Ann +"grandma." That delighted her. Whenever they did it, she looked up to say, +with her happiest smile,—</p> + +<p>"There! that's complete. You'll remember grandma, won't you? We mustn't +ever forget her."</p> + +<p>Here, in this warm-hearted household, anxious to do her service in a way +that was not her own, she had some happiness, of a tremulous kind; but it +was all built up of her trust in a speedy escape. She knit mittens, and +sewed long seams; and every day her desire to fill the time was irradiated +by the certainty that twelve hours more were gone. A few more patient +intervals, and she should be at home. Sometimes, as the end of her visit +drew nearer, she woke early in the morning with a sensation of +irresponsible joy, and wondered, for an instant, what had happened to her. +Then it always came back, with an inward flooding she had scarcely felt +even in her placid youth. At home there would be so many things to do, and, +above all, such munificent leisure! For there she would feel no need of +feverish action to pass the time. The hours would take care<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> of themselves; +they would fleet by, while she sat, her hands folded, communing with old +memories.</p> + +<p>The day came, and the end of her probation. She trembled a good deal, +packing her trunk in secret, to escape Mary's remonstrances; but John stood +by her, and she was allowed to go.</p> + +<p>"You'll get sick of it," called Mary after them. "I guess you'll be glad +enough to see the children again, an' they will you. Mind, you've got to +come back an' spend the winter."</p> + +<p>Lucy Ann nodded happily. She could agree to anything sufficiently remote; +and the winter was not yet here.</p> + +<p>The first day in the old house seemed to her like new birth in Paradise. +She wandered about, touching chairs and tables and curtains, the manifest +symbols of an undying past. There were loving duties to be done, but she +could not do them yet. She had to look her pleasure in the face, and learn +its lineaments.</p> + +<p>Next morning came brother Ezra, and Lucy Ann hurried to meet him with an +exaggerated welcome. Life was never very friendly to Ezra, and those who +belonged to him had to be doubly kind. They could not change his luck, but +they might sweeten it. They said the world had not gone well with him; +though sometimes it was hinted that Ezra, being out of gear, could not go +with the world. All the rivers ran away from him, and went to turn some +other mill.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> He was ungrudging of John's prosperity, but still he looked at +it in some disparagement, and shook his head. His cheeks were channeled +long before youth was over; his feet were weary with honest serving, and +his hands grown hard with toil. Yet he had not arrived, and John was at the +goal before him.</p> + +<p>"We heard you'd been stayin' with John's folks," said he to Lucy Ann. +"Leastways, Abby did, an' she thinks mebbe you've got a little time for us +now, though we ain't nothin' to offer compared to what you're used to over +there."</p> + +<p>"I'll come," said Lucy Ann promptly. "Yes, I'll come, an' be glad to."</p> + +<p>It was part of her allegiance to the one who had gone.</p> + +<p>"Ezra needs bracin'," she heard her mother say, in many a sick-room gossip. +"He's got to be flattered up, an' have some grit put into him."</p> + +<p>It was many weeks before Lucy Ann came home again. Cousin Rebecca, in +Saltash, sent her a cordial letter of invitation for just as long as she +felt like staying; and the moneyed cousin at the Ridge wrote in like +manner, following her note by a telegram, intimating that she would not +take no for an answer. Lucy Ann frowned in alarm when the first letter +came, and studied it by daylight and in her musings at night, as if some +comfort might lurk between<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> the lines. She was tempted to throw it in the +fire, not answered at all. Still, there was a reason for going. This cousin +had a broken hip, she needed company, and the flavor of old times. The +other had married a "drinkin' man," and might feel hurt at being refused. +So, fortifying herself with some inner resolution she never confessed, Lucy +Ann set her teeth and started out on a visiting campaign. John was amazed. +He drove over to see her while she was spending a few days with an aunt in +Sudleigh.</p> + +<p>"When you been home last, Lucy Ann?" asked he.</p> + +<p>A little flush came into her face, and she winked bravely.</p> + +<p>"I ain't been home at all," said she, in a low tone. "Not sence August."</p> + +<p>John groped vainly in mental depths for other experiences likely to +illuminate this. He concluded that he had not quite understood Lucy Ann and +her feeling about home; but that was neither here nor there.</p> + +<p>"Well," he remarked, rising to go, "you're gittin' to be quite a visitor."</p> + +<p>"I'm tryin' to learn how," said Lucy Ann, almost gayly. "I've been +a-cousinin' so long, I sha'n't know how to do anything else."</p> + +<p>But now the middle of November had come, and she was again in her own +house. Cousin Titcomb had brought her there and driven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> away, concerned +that he must leave her in a cold kitchen, and only deterred by a looming +horse-trade from staying to build a fire. Lucy Ann bade him good-by, with a +gratitude which was not for her visit, but all for getting home; and when +he uttered that terrifying valedictory known as "coming again," she could +meet it cheerfully. She even stood in the door, watching him away; and not +until the rattle of his wheels had ceased on the frozen road, did she +return to her kitchen and stretch her shawled arms pathetically upward.</p> + +<p>"I thank my heavenly Father!" said Lucy Ann, with the fervency of a great +experience.</p> + +<p>She built her fire, and then unpacked her little trunk, and hung up the +things in the bedroom where her mother's presence seemed still to cling.</p> + +<p>"I'll sleep here now," she said to herself. "I won't go out of this no +more."</p> + +<p>Then all the little homely duties of the hour cried out upon her, like +children long neglected; and, with the luxurious leisure of those who may +prolong a pleasant task, she set her house in order. She laid out a +programme to occupy her days. The attic should be cleaned to-morrow. In one +day? Nay, why not three, to hold Time still, and make him wait her +pleasure? Then there were the chambers, and the living-rooms below. She +felt all the excited joy of youth; she was tasting anticipation at its +best.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It'll take me a week," said she. "That will be grand." She could hardly +wait even for the morrow's sun; and that night she slept like those of whom +much is to be required, and who must wake in season. Morning came, and +mid-forenoon, and while she stepped about under the roof where dust had +gathered and bitter herbs told tales of summers past, John drove into the +yard. Lucy Ann threw up the attic window and leaned out.</p> + +<p>"You put your horse up, an' I'll be through here in a second," she called. +"The barn's open."</p> + +<p>John was in a hurry.</p> + +<p>"I've got to go over to Sudleigh, to meet the twelve o'clock," said he. +"Harold's comin'. I only wanted to say I'll be over after you the night +before Thanksgivin'. Mary wants you should be sure to be there to +breakfast. You all right? Cephas said you seemed to have a proper good time +with them."</p> + +<p>John turned skillfully on the little green and drove away. Lucy Ann stayed +at the window watching him, the breeze lifting her gray curls, and the sun +smiling at her. She withdrew slowly into the attic, and sank down upon the +floor, close by the window. She sat there and thought, and the wind still +struck upon her unheeded. Was she always to be subject to the tyranny of +those who had set up their hearth-stones in a more enduring form? Was her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +home not a home merely because there were no men and children in it? She +drew her breath sharply, and confronted certain problems of the greater +world, not knowing what they were. To Lucy Ann they did not seem problems +at all. They were simply touches on the individual nerve, and she felt the +pain. Her own inner self throbbed in revolt, but she never guessed that any +other part of nature was throbbing with it. Then she went about her work, +with the patience of habit. It was well that the attic should be cleaned, +though the savor of the task was gone.</p> + +<p>Next day, she walked to Sudleigh, with a basket on her arm. Often she sent +her little errands by the neighbors; but to-day she was uneasy, and it +seemed as if the walk might do her good. She wanted some soda and some +needles and thread. She tried to think they were very important, though +some sense of humor told her grimly that household goods are of slight use +to one who goes a-cousining. Her day at John's would be prolonged to seven; +nay, why not a month, when the winter itself was not too great a tax for +them to lay upon her? In her deserted house, soda would lose its strength, +and even cloves decay. Lucy Ann felt her will growing very weak within her; +indeed, at that time, she was hardly conscious of having any will at all.</p> + +<p>It was Saturday, and John and Ezra were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> almost sure to be in town. She +thought of that, and how pleasant it would be to hear from the folks: so +much pleasanter than to be always facing them on their own ground, and +never on hers. At the grocery she came upon Ezra, mounted on a wagon-load +of meal-bags, and just gathering up the reins.</p> + +<p>"Hullo!" he called. "You didn't walk?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I jest clipped it over," returned Lucy Ann carelessly. "I'm goin' to +git a ride home. I see Marden's wagon when I come by the post-office."</p> + +<p>"Well, I hadn't any expectation o' your bein' here," said Ezra. "I meant to +ride round to-morrer. We want you to spend Thanksgivin' Day with us. I'll +come over arter you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ezra!" said Lucy Ann, quite sincerely, with her concession to his +lower fortunes, "why didn't you say so! John's asked me."</p> + +<p>"The dogs!" said Ezra. It was his deepest oath. Then he drew a sigh. +"Well," he concluded, "that's our luck. We al'ays come out the leetle end +o' the horn. Abby'll be real put out. She 'lotted on it. Well, John's +inside there. He's buyin' up 'bout everything there is. You'll git more'n +you would with us."</p> + +<p>He drove gloomily away, and Lucy Ann stepped into the store, musing. She +was rather sorry not to go to Ezra's, if he cared.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> It almost seemed as if +she might ask John to let her take the plainer way. John would understand. +She saw him at once where he stood, prosperous and hale, in his great-coat, +reading items from a long memorandum, while Jonathan Stevens weighed and +measured. The store smelled of spice, and the clerk that minute spilled +some cinnamon. Its fragrance struck upon Lucy Ann like a call from some +far-off garden, to be entered if she willed. She laid a hand on her +brother's arm, and her lips opened to words she had not chosen:—</p> + +<p>"John, you shouldn't ha' drove away so quick, t' other day. You jest flung +out your invitation an' run. You never give me no time to answer. Ezra's +asked me to go there."</p> + +<p>"Well, if that ain't smart!" returned John. "Put in ahead, did he? Well, I +guess it's the fust time he ever got round. I'm terrible sorry, Lucy. The +children won't think it's any kind of a Thanksgivin' without you. Somehow +they've got it into their heads it's grandma comin'. They can't seem to +understand the difference."</p> + +<p>"Well, you tell 'em I guess grandma's kind o' pleased for me to plan it as +I have," said Lucy Ann, almost gayly. Her face wore a strange, excited +look. She breathed a little faster. She saw a pleasant way before her, and +her feet seemed to be tending toward it without her own volition. "You give +my love<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> to 'em. I guess they'll have a proper nice time."</p> + +<p>She lingered about the store until John had gone, and then went forward to +the counter. The storekeeper looked at her respectfully. Everybody had a +great liking for Lucy Ann. She had been a faithful daughter, and now that +she seemed, in so mysterious a way, to be growing like her mother, even men +of her own age regarded her with deference.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Stevens," said she, "I didn't bring so much money with me as I might +if I'd had my wits about me. Should you jest as soon trust me for some +Thanksgivin' things?"</p> + +<p>"Certain," replied Jonathan. "Clean out the store, if you want. Your +credit's good." He, too, felt the beguilement of the time.</p> + +<p>"I want some things," repeated Lucy Ann, with determination. "Some cinnamon +an' some mace—there! I'll tell you, while you weigh."</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that she was buying the spice islands of the world; and +though the money lay at home in her drawer, honestly ready to pay, the +recklessness of credit gave her an added joy. The store had its market, +also, at Thanksgiving time, and she bargained for a turkey. It could be +sent her, the day before, by some of the neighbors. When she left the +counter, her arms and her little basket were filled with bundles. Joshua +Marden was glad to take them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, I won't ride," said Lucy Ann. "Much obliged to <i>you</i>. Jest leave the +things inside the fence. I'd ruther walk. I don't git out any too often."</p> + +<p>She took her way home along the brown road, stepping lightly and swiftly, +and full of busy thoughts. Flocks of birds went whirring by over the +yellowed fields. Lucy Ann could have called out to them, in joyous +understanding, they looked so free. She, too, seemed to be flying on the +wings of a fortunate wind.</p> + +<p>All that week she scrubbed and regulated, and took a thousand capable steps +as briskly as those who work for the home-coming of those they love. The +neighbors dropped in, one after another, to ask where she was going to +spend Thanksgiving. Some of them said, "Won't you pass the day with us?" +but Lucy Ann replied blithely:—</p> + +<p>"Oh, John's invited me there!"</p> + +<p>All that week, too, she answered letters, in her cramped and careful hand; +for cousins had bidden her to the feast. Over the letters she had many a +troubled pause, for one cousin lived near Ezra, and had to be told that +John had invited her; and to three others, dangerously within hail of each, +she made her excuse a turncoat, to fit the time. Duplicity in black and +white did hurt her a good deal, and she sometimes stopped, in the midst of +her slow transcription, to look up piteously and say aloud:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"I hope I shall be forgiven!" But by the time the stamp was on, and the +pencil ruling erased, her heart was light again. If she had sinned, she was +finding the path intoxicatingly pleasant.</p> + +<p>Through all the days before the festival, no house exhaled a sweeter savor +than this little one on the green. Lucy Ann did her miniature cooking with +great seriousness and care. She seemed to be dwelling in a sacred +isolation, yet not altogether alone, but with her mother and all their +bygone years. Standing at her table, mixing and tasting, she recalled +stories her mother had told her, until, at moments, it seemed as if she not +only lived her own life, but some previous one, through that being whose +blood ran with hers. She was realizing that ineffable sense of possession +born out of knowledge that the enduring part of a personality is ours +forever, and that love is an unquenched fire, fed by memory as well as +hope.</p> + +<p>On Thanksgiving morning, Lucy Ann lay in bed a little later, because that +had been the family custom. Then she rose to her exquisite house, and got +breakfast ready, according to the unswerving programme of the day. Fried +chicken and mince pie: she had had them as a child, and now they were +scrupulously prepared. After breakfast, she sat down in the sunshine, and +watched the people go by to service in Tiverton Church. Lucy Ann would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +have liked going, too; but there would be inconvenient questioning, as +there always must be when we meet our kind. She would stay undisturbed in +her seclusion, keeping her festival alone. The morning was still young when +she put her turkey in the oven, and made the vegetables ready. Lucy Ann was +not very fond of vegetables, but there had to be just so many—onions, +turnips, and squash baked with molasses—for her mother was a Cape woman, +preserving the traditions of dear Cape dishes. All that forenoon, the +little house throbbed with a curious sense of expectancy. Lucy Ann was +preparing so many things that it seemed as if somebody must surely keep her +company; but when dinner-time struck, and she was still alone, there came +no lull in her anticipation. Peace abode with her, and wrought its own fair +work. She ate her dinner slowly, with meditation and a thankful heart. She +did not need to hear the minister's careful catalogue of mercies received. +She was at home; that was enough.</p> + +<p>After dinner, when she had done up the work, and left the kitchen without +spot or stain, she went upstairs, and took out her mother's beautiful silk +poplin, the one saved for great occasions, and only left behind because she +had chosen to be buried in her wedding gown. Lucy Ann put it on with +careful hands, and then laid about her neck the wrought collar she had +selected the day before. She looked at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> herself in the glass, and arranged +a gray curl with anxious scrutiny. No girl adorning for her bridal could +have examined every fold and line with a more tender care. She stood there +a long, long moment, and approved herself.</p> + +<p>"It's a wonder," she said reverently. "It's the greatest mercy anybody ever +had."</p> + +<p>The afternoon waned, though not swiftly; for Time does not always gallop +when happiness pursues. Lucy Ann could almost hear the gliding of his +rhythmic feet. She did the things set aside for festivals, or the days when +we have company. She looked over the photograph album, and turned the pages +of the "Ladies' Wreath." When she opened the case containing that old +daguerreotype, she scanned it with a little distasteful smile, and then +glanced up at her own image in the glass, nodding her head in thankful +peace. She was the enduring portrait. In herself, she might even see her +mother grow very old. So the hours slipped on into dusk, and she sat there +with her dream, knowing, though it was only a dream, how sane it was, and +good. When wheels came rattling into the yard, she awoke with a start, and +John's voice, calling to her in an inexplicable alarm, did not disturb her. +She had had her day. Not all the family fates could take it from her now. +John kept calling, even while his wife and children were climbing down, +unaided, from the great carryall. His voice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> proclaimed its own story, and +Lucy Ann heard it with surprise.</p> + +<p>"Lucy! Lucy Ann!" he cried. "You here? You show yourself, if you're all +right."</p> + +<p>Before they reached the front door, Lucy Ann had opened it and stood there, +gently welcoming.</p> + +<p>"Yes, here I be," said she. "Come right in, all of ye. Why, if that ain't +Ezra, too, an' his folks, turnin' into the lane. When 'd you plan it?"</p> + +<p>"Plan it! we didn't plan it!" said Mary testily. She put her hand on Lucy +Ann's shoulder, to give her a little shake; but, feeling mother's poplin, +she forbore.</p> + +<p>Lucy Ann retreated before them into the house, and they all trooped in +after her. Ezra's family, too, were crowding in at the doorway; and the +brothers, who had paused only to hitch the horses, filled up the way +behind. Mary, by a just self-election, was always the one to speak.</p> + +<p>"I declare, Lucy!" cried she, "if ever I could be tried with you, I should +be now. Here we thought you was at Ezra's, an' Ezra's folks thought you was +with us; an' if we hadn't harnessed up, an' drove over there in the +afternoon, for a kind of a surprise party, we should ha' gone to bed +thinkin' you was somewhere, safe an' sound. An' here you've been, all day +long, in this lonesome house!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You let me git a light," said Lucy Ann calmly. "You be takin' off your +things, an' se' down." She began lighting the tall astral lamp on the +table, and its prisms danced and swung. Lucy Ann's delicate hand did not +tremble; and when the flame burned up through the shining chimney, more +than one started, at seeing how exactly she resembled grandma, in the days +when old Mrs. Cummings had ruled her own house. Perhaps it was the royalty +of the poplin that enwrapped her; but Lucy Ann looked very capable of +holding her own. She was facing them all, one hand resting on the table, +and a little smile flickering over her face.</p> + +<p>"I s'pose I was a poor miserable creatur' to git out of it that way," said +she. "If I'd felt as I do now, I needn't ha' done it. I could ha' spoke up. +But then it seemed as if there wa'n't no other way. I jest wanted my +Thanksgivin' in my own home, an' so I throwed you off the track the best +way I could. I dunno's I lied. I dunno whether I did or not; but I guess, +anyway, I shall be forgiven for it."</p> + +<p>Ezra spoke first: "Well, if you didn't want to come"—</p> + +<p>"Want to come!" broke in John. "Of course she don't want to come! She wants +to stay in her own home, an' call her soul her own—don't you, Lucy?"</p> + +<p>Lucy Ann glanced at him with her quick, grateful smile.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm goin' to, now," she said gently, and they knew she meant it.</p> + +<p>But, looking about among them, Lucy Ann was conscious of a little hurt +unhealed; she had thrown their kindness back.</p> + +<p>"I guess I can't tell exactly how it is," she began hesitatingly; "but you +see my home's my own, jest as yours is. You couldn't any of you go round +cousinin', without feelin' you was tore up by the roots. You've all been +real good to me, wantin' me to come, an' I s'pose I should make an awful +towse if I never was asked; but now I've got all my visitin' done up, +cousins an' all, an' I'm goin' to be to home a spell. An' I do admire to +have company," added Lucy Ann, a bright smile breaking over her face. +"Mother did, you know, an' I guess I take arter her. Now you lay off your +things, an' I'll put the kettle on. I've got more pies 'n you could shake a +stick at, an' there's a whole loaf o' fruit-cake, a year old."</p> + +<p>Mary, taking off her shawl, wiped her eyes surreptitiously on a corner of +it, and Abby whispered to her husband, "Dear creatur'!" John and Ezra +turned, by one consent, to put the horses in the barn; and the children, +conscious that some mysterious affair had been settled, threw themselves +into the occasion with an irresponsible delight. The room became at once +vocal with talk and laughter, and Lucy Ann felt, with a swelling heart, +what a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> happy universe it is where so many bridges lie between this world +and that unknown state we call the next. But no moment of that evening was +half so sweet to her as the one when little John, the youngest child of +all, crept up to her and pulled at her poplin skirt, until she bent down to +hear.</p> + +<p>"Grandma," said he, "when 'd you get well?"</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +<h2>THE EXPERIENCE OF HANNAH PRIME</h2> +</div> + +<p>Tiverton Hollow had occasionally an evening meeting; this came about +naturally whenever religious zeal burned high, or when the congregation +felt, with some uneasiness, that it had remained too long aloof from +spiritual things. To-night, the schoolhouse had been designated for an +assembling place, and the neighborhood trooped thither, animated by an +excited importance, and doing justice to the greatness of the occasion by +"dressing up." Farmers had laid aside their ordinary mood, with overalls +and jumpers, and donned an uncomfortable solemnity, an enforced attitude of +theological reflection, with their stocks. Wives had urged their patient +fingers into cotton gloves, and in cashmere shawls, and bonnets retrimmed +with reference to this year's style, pressed into the uncomfortable chairs, +and folded their hands upon the desks before them in a sweet seriousness +not unmingled with the desire of thriftily completing a duty no less +exigent than pickle-making, or the work of spring and fall. Last came the +boys, clattering with awkward haste over the dusty floor which had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> known +the touch of their bare feet on other days. They looked about the room with +some awe and a puzzled acceptance of its being the same, yet not the same. +It was their own. There were the maps of North and South America; the +yellowed evergreens, relic of "Last Day," still festooned the windows, and +an intricate "sum," there explained to the uncomprehending admiration of +the village fathers, still adorned the blackboard. Yet the room had +strangely transformed itself into an alien temple, invaded by theology and +the breath of an unknown world. But though sobered, they were not cast +down; for the occasion was enlivened, in their case, by a heaven-defying +profligacy of intent. Every one of them knew that Sammy Forbes had in his +pocket a pack of cards, which he meant to drop, by wicked but careless +design, just when Deacon Pitts led in prayer, and that Tom Drake was master +of a concealed pea-shooter, which he had sworn, with all the asseverations +held sacred by boys, to use at some dramatic moment. All the band were +aware that neither of these daring deeds would be done. The prospective +actors themselves knew it; but it was a darling joy to contemplate the +remote possibility thereof.</p> + +<p>Deacon Pitts opened the meeting, reminding his neighbors how precious a +privilege it is for two or three to be gathered together. His companion had +not been able to come. (The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> entire neighborhood knew that Mrs. Pitts had +been laid low by an attack of erysipelas, and that she was, at the moment, +in a dark bedroom at home, helpless under elderblow.)</p> + +<p>"She lays there on a bed of pain," said the deacon. "But she says to me, +'You go. Better the house o' mournin' than the house o' feastin',' she +says. Oh, my friends! what can be more blessed than the counsel of an aged +and feeble companion?"</p> + +<p>The deacon sat down, and Tom Drake, his finger on the pea-shooter, assured +himself, in acute mental triumph, that he had almost done it that time.</p> + +<p>Then followed certain incidents eminently pleasing to the boys. To their +unbounded relief, Sarah Frances Giles rose to speak, weeping as she began. +She always wept at prayer meeting, though at the very moment of asserting +her joy that she cherished a hope, and her gratitude that she was so nearly +at an end of this earthly pilgrimage and ready to take her stand on the sea +of glass mingled with fire. The boys reveled in her testimony. They were in +a state of bitter uneasiness before she rose, and gnawed with a consuming +impatience until she began to cry. Then they wondered if she could possibly +leave out the sea of glass; and when it duly came, they gave a sigh of +satiated bliss and sank into acquiescence in whatever might happen. This +was a rich occasion to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> their souls, for Silas Marden, who was seldom moved +by the spirit, fell upon his knees to pray; but at the same unlucky +instant, his sister-in-law, for whom he cherished an unbounded scorn, rose +(being "nigh-eyed" and ignorant of his priority) and began to speak. For a +moment, the two held on together, "neck and neck," as the happy boys +afterward remembered, and then Silas got up, dusted his knees, and sat +down, not to rise again at any spiritual call. "An' a madder man you never +see," cried all the Hollow next day, in shocked but gleeful memory.</p> + +<p>Taking it all in all, the meeting had thus far mirrored others of its +class. If the droning experiences were devoid of all human passion, it was +chiefly because they had to be expressed in the phrases of strict +theological usage. There was an unspoken agreement that feelings of this +sort should be described in a certain way. They were not the affairs of the +hearth and market; they were matters pertaining to that awful entity called +the soul, and must be dressed in the fine linen which she had herself +elected to wear.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, in a wearisome pause, when minds had begun to stray toward the +hayfield and to-morrow's churning, the door was pushed open, and the Widow +Prime walked in. She was quite unused to seeking her kind, and the little +assembly at once awoke, under the stimulus of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> surprise. They knew quite +well where she had been walking: to Sudleigh Jail, to visit her only son, +lying there for the third time, not, as usual, for drunkenness, but for +house-breaking. She was a wiry woman, a mass of muscles animated by an +eager energy. Her very hands seemed knotted with clenching themselves in +nervous spasms. Her eyes were black, seeking, and passionate, and her face +had been scored by fine wrinkles, the marks of anxiety and grief. Her +chocolate calico was very clean, and her palm-leaf shawl and black bonnet +were decent in their poverty. The vague excitement created by her coming +continued in a rustling like that of leaves. The troubles of Hannah Prime's +life had been very bitter—so bitter that she had, as Deacon Pitts once +said, after undertaking her conversion, turned from "me and the house of +God." A quickening thought sprang up now in the little assembly that she +was "under conviction," and that it had become the present duty of every +professor to lead her to the throne of grace. This was an exigency for +which none were prepared. At so strenuous a challenge, the old conventional +ways of speech fell down and collapsed before them, like creatures filled +with air. Who should minister to one set outside their own comfortable +lives by bitter sorrow and wounded pride? What could they offer a woman who +had, in one way or another, sworn to curse God and die? It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> was Deacon +Pitts who spoke, but in a tone hushed to the key of the unexpected.</p> + +<p>"Has any one an experience to offer? Will any brother or sister lead in +prayer?"</p> + +<p>The silence was growing into a thing to be recognized and conquered, when, +to the wonder of her neighbors, Hannah Prime herself rose. She looked +slowly about the room, gazing into every face as if to challenge an honest +understanding. Then she began speaking in a low voice thrilled by an +emotion not yet explained. Unused to expressing herself in public, she +seemed to be feeling her way. The silence, pride, endurance, which had been +her armor for many years, were no longer apparent; she had thrown down all +her defenses with a grave composure, as if life suddenly summoned her to +higher issues.</p> + +<p>"I dunno's I've got an experience to offer," she said. "I dunno's it's +religion. I dunno what 't is. Mebbe you'd say it don't belong to a meetin'. +But when I come by an' see you all settin' here, it come over me I'd like +to tell somebody. Two weeks ago I was most crazy"—She paused of necessity, +for something broke in her voice.</p> + +<p>"That's the afternoon Jim was took," whispered a woman to her neighbor. +Hannah Prime went on.</p> + +<p>"I jest as soon tell it now. I can tell ye all together what I couldn't say +to one on ye alone;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> an' if anybody speaks to me about it arterwards, +they'll wish they hadn't. I was all by myself in the house. I set down in +my clock-room, about three in the arternoon, an' there I set. I didn't git +no supper. I couldn't. I set there an' heard the clock tick. Byme-by it +struck seven, an' that waked me up. I thought I'd gone crazy. The figgers +on the wall-paper provoked me most to death; an' that red-an'-white tidy I +made, the winter I was laid up, seemed to be talkin' out loud. I got up an' +run outdoor jest as fast as I could go. I run out behind the house an' down +the cart-path to that pile o' rocks that overlooks the lake; an' there I +got out o' breath an' dropped down on a big rock. An' there I set, jest as +still as I'd been settin' when I was in the house."</p> + +<p>Here a little girl stirred in her seat, and her mother leaned forward and +shook her, with alarming energy. "I never was so hard with Mary L. afore," +she explained the next day, "but I was as nervous as a witch. I thought, if +I heard a pin drop, I should scream."</p> + +<p>"I dunno how long I set there," went on Hannah Prime, "but byme-by it begun +to come over me how still the lake was. 'Twas like glass; an' way over +where it runs in 'tween them islands, it burnt like fire. Then I looked up +a little further, to see what kind of a sky there was. 'T was light green, +with clouds in it, all fire, an' it begun to seem to me as if it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> was a +kind o' land an' water up there—like our'n, on'y not solid. I set there +an' looked at it; an' I picked out islands, an' ma'sh-land, an' p'ints +running out into the yeller-green sea. An' everything grew stiller an' +stiller. The loons struck up, down on the lake, with that kind of a +lonesome whinner; but that on'y made the rest of it seem quieter. An' it +begun to grow dark all 'round me. I dunno's I ever noticed before jest how +the dark comes. It sifted down like snow, on'y you couldn't see it. Well, I +set there, an' I tried to keep stiller an' stiller, like everything else. +Seemed as if I must. An' pretty soon I knew suthin' was walkin' towards me +over the lot. I kep' my eyes on the sky; for I knew 'twould break suthin' +if I turned my head, an' I felt as if I couldn't bear to. An' It come +walkin', walkin', without takin' any steps or makin' any noise, till It +come right up 'side o' me an' stood still. I didn't turn round. I knew I +mustn't. I dunno whether It touched me; I dunno whether It said +anything—but I know It made me a new creatur'. I knew then I shouldn't be +afraid o' things no more—nor sorry. I found out 't was all right. 'I'm +glad I'm alive,' I said. 'I'm thankful!' Seemed to me I'd been dead for the +last twenty year. I'd come alive.</p> + +<p>"An' so I set there an' held my breath, for fear 'twould go. I dunno how +long, but the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> moon riz up over my left shoulder, an' the sky begun to +fade. An' then it come over me 'twas goin'. I knew 'twas terrible tender of +me, an' sorry, an' lovin', an' so I says, 'Don't you mind; I won't forgit!' +An' then It went. But that broke suthin', an' I turned an' see my own +shadder on the grass; an' I thought I see another, 'side of it. Somehow +that scairt me, an' I jumped up an' whipped it home without lookin' behind +me. Now that's my experience," said Hannah Prime, looking her neighbors +again in the face, with dauntless eyes. "I dunno what 'twas, but it's goin' +to last. I ain't afraid no more, an' I ain't goin' to be. There ain't +nuthin' to worry about. Everything's bigger'n we think." She folded her +shawl more closely about her and moved toward the door. There she again +turned to her neighbors.</p> + +<p>"Good-night!" she said, and was gone.</p> + +<p>They sat quite still until the tread of her feet had ceased its beating on +the dusty road. Then, by one consent, they rose and moved slowly out. There +was no prayer that night, and "Lord dismiss us" was not sung.</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +<h2>HONEY AND MYRRH</h2> +</div> + +<p>The neighborhood, the township, and the world had been snowed in. Snow +drifted the road in hills and hollows, and hung in little eddying wreaths, +where the wind took it, on the pasture slopes. It made solid banks in the +dooryards, and buried the stone walls out of sight. The lacework of its +fantasy became daintily apparent in the conceits with which it broidered +over all the common objects familiar in homely lives. The pump, in yards +where that had supplanted the old-fashioned curb, wore a heavy mob-cap. The +vane on the barn was delicately sifted over, and the top of every picket in +the high front-yard fence had a fluffy peak. But it was chiefly in the +woods that the rapture and flavor of the time ran riot in making beauty. +There every fir branch swayed under a tuft of white, and the brown refuse +of the year was all hidden away.</p> + +<p>That morning, no one in Tiverton Hollow had gone out of the house, save to +shovel paths and do the necessary chores. The road lay untouched until ten +o'clock, when a selectman gave notice that it was an occasion for "breakin' +out," by starting with his team, and gathering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> oxen by the way until a +conquering procession ground through the drifts, the men shoveling at +intervals where the snow lay deepest, the oxen walking swayingly, head to +the earth, and the faint wreath of their breath ascending and cooling on +the air. It was "high times" in Tiverton Hollow when a road needed opening; +some idea of the old primitive way of battling with the untouched forces of +nature roused the people to an exhilaration dashed by no uncertainty of +victory.</p> + +<p>By afternoon, the excitement had quieted. The men had come in, reddened by +cold, and eaten their noon dinner in high spirits, retailing to the less +fortunate women-folk the stories swapped on the march. Then, as one man, +they succumbed to the drowsiness induced by a morning of wind in the face, +and sat by the stove under some pretense of reading the county paper, but +really to nod and doze, waking only to put another stick of wood on the +fire. So passed all the day before Christmas, and in the evening the +shining lamps were lighted (each with a strip of red flannel in the oil, to +give color), and the neighborhood rested in the tranquil certainty that +something had really come to pass, and that their communication with the +world was reëstablished.</p> + +<p>Susan Peavey sat by the fire, knitting on a red mitten, and the young +schoolmaster presided over the other hearth corner, reading<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> very hard, at +intervals, and again sinking into a drowsy study of the flames. There was +an impression abroad in Tiverton that the schoolmaster was going to be +somebody, some time. He wrote for the papers. He was always receiving +through the mail envelopes marked "author's proofs," which, the +postmistress said, indicated that he was an author, whatever proofs might +be. She had an idea they might have something to do with photographs; +perhaps his picture was going into a book. It was very well understood that +teaching school at the Hollow, at seven dollars a week, was an interlude in +the life of one who would some day write a spelling-book, or exercise +senatorial rights at Washington. He was a long-legged, pleasant looking +youth, with a pale cheek, dark eyes, and thick black hair, one lock of +which, hanging low over his forehead, he twisted while he read. He kept +glancing up at Miss Susan and smiling at her, whenever he could look away +from his book and the fire, and she smiled back. At last, after many such +wordless messages, he spoke.</p> + +<p>"What lots of red mittens you do knit! Do you send them all away to that +society?"</p> + +<p>Miss Susan's needles clicked.</p> + +<p>"Every one," said she.</p> + +<p>She was a tall, large woman, well-knit, with no superfluous flesh. Her head +was finely set, and she carried it with a simple unconscious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>ness better +than dignity. Everybody in Tiverton thought it had been a great cross to +Susan Peavey to be so overgrown. They conceded that it was a mystery she +had not turned out "gormin'." But that was because Susan had left her +vanity behind with early youth, in the days when, all legs and arms, she +had given up the idea of beauty. Her face was strong-featured, overspread +by a healthy color, and her eyes looked frankly out, as if assured of +finding a very pleasant world. The sick always delighted in Susan's +nearness; her magnificent health and presence were like a supporting tide, +and she seemed to carry outdoor air in her very garments. The schoolmaster +still watched her. She rested and fascinated him at once by her strength +and homely charm.</p> + +<p>"I shall call you the Orphans' Friend," said he.</p> + +<p>She laid down her work.</p> + +<p>"Don't you say one word," she answered, with an air of abject confession. +"It don't interest me a mite! I give because it's my bounden duty, but I'll +be whipped if I want to knit warm mittens all my life, an' fill poor +barrels. Sometimes I wisht I could git a chance to provide folks with what +they don't need ruther'n what they do."</p> + +<p>"I don't see what you mean," said the schoolmaster. "Tell me."</p> + +<p>Miss Susan was looking at the hearth. A<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> warmer flush than that of +firelight alone lay on her cheek. She bent forward and threw on a pine +knot. It blazed richly. Then she drew the cricket more securely under her +feet, and settled herself to gossip.</p> + +<p>"Anybody'd think I'd most talked myself out sence you come here to board," +said she, "but you're the beatemest for tolin' anybody on. I never knew I +had so much to say. But there! I guess we all have, if there's anybody 't +wants to listen. I never've said this to a livin' soul, an' I guess it's +sort o' heathenish to think, but I'm tired to death o' fightin' ag'inst +poverty, poverty! I s'pose it's there, fast enough, though we're all so +well on 't we don't realize it; an' I'm goin' to do my part, an' be glad +to, while I'm above ground. But I guess heaven'll be a spot where we don't +give folks what they need, but what they don't."</p> + +<p>"There is something in your Bible," began the schoolmaster hesitatingly, +"about a box of precious ointment." He always said "your Bible," as if +church members held a proprietary right.</p> + +<p>"That's it!" replied Miss Susan, brightening. "That's what I al'ays +thought. Spill it all out, I say, an' make the world smell as sweet as +honey. My! but I do have great projicks settin' here by the fire alone! +Great projicks!"</p> + +<p>"Tell me some!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I dunno's I can, all of a piece, so to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> speak; but when it gits +along towards eight o'clock, an' the room's all simmerin', an' the moon +lays out on the snow, it does seem as if we made a pretty poor spec' out o' +life. We don't seem to have no color in it. Why, don't you remember +'Solomon in all his glory'? I guess 't wouldn't ha' been put in jest that +way if there wa'n't somethin' in it. I s'pose he had crowns an' rings an' +purple velvet coats an' brocade satin weskits, an' all manner o' things. +Sometimes seems as I could see him walkin' straight in through that door +there." She was running a knitting needle back and forth through her ball +of yarn as she spoke, without noticing that some one had been stamping the +snow from his feet on the doorstone outside. The door, after making some +bluster of refusal, was pushed open, and on the heels of her speech a man +walked in.</p> + +<p>"My land!" cried Miss Susan, aghast. Then she and the schoolmaster, by one +accord, began to laugh.</p> + +<p>But the man did not look at them until he had scrupulously wiped his feet +on the husk mat, and stamped them anew. Then he turned down the legs of his +trousers, and carefully examined the lank green carpet-bag he had been +carrying.</p> + +<p>"I guess I trailed it through some o' the drifts," he remarked. "The road's +pretty narrer, this season o' the year."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You give us a real start," said Susan. "We thought be sure 't was Solomon, +an' mebbe the Queen o' Sheba follerin' arter. Why, Solon Slade, you ain't +walked way over to Tiverton Street!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have," asserted Solon. He was a slender, sad-colored man, possibly +of her own age, and he spoke in a very soft voice. He was Susan's widowed +brother-in-law, and the neighbors said he was clever, but hadn't no more +spunk'n a wet rag.</p> + +<p>Susan had risen and laid down her knitting. She approached the table and +rested one hand on it, a hawk-like brightness in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"What you got in that bag?" asked she.</p> + +<p>Solon was enjoying his certainty that he held the key to the situation.</p> + +<p>"I got a mite o' cheese," he answered, approaching the fire and spreading +his hands to the blaze.</p> + +<p>"You got anything else? Now, Solon, don't you keep me here on tenter-hooks! +You got a letter?"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Solon, "I thought I might as well look into the post-office +an' see."</p> + +<p>"You thought so! You went a-purpose! An' you walked because you al'ays was +half shackled about takin' horses out in bad goin'. You hand me over that +letter!"</p> + +<p>Solon approached the table, a furtive twinkle in his blue eyes. He lifted +the bag and opened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> it slowly. First, he took out a wedge-shaped package.</p> + +<p>"That's the cheese," said he. "Herb."</p> + +<p>"My land!" ejaculated Miss Susan, while the schoolmaster looked on and +smiled. "You better ha' come to me for cheese. I've got a plenty, tansy an' +sage, an' you know it. I see it! There! you gi' me holt on 't!" It was a +fugitive white gleam in the bottom of the bag; she pounced upon it and +brought up a letter. Midway in the act of tearing it open, she paused and +looked at Solon with droll entreaty. "It's your letter, by rights!" she +added tentatively.</p> + +<p>"Law!" said he, "I dunno who it's directed to, but I guess it's as much +your'n as anybody's."</p> + +<p>Miss Susan spread open the sheets with an air of breathless delight. She +bent nearer the lamp. "'Dear father and auntie,'" she began.</p> + +<p>"There!" remarked Solon, in quiet satisfaction, still warming his hands at +the blaze. "There! you see <i>'t is</i> to both."</p> + +<p>"My! how she does run the words together! Here!" Miss Susan passed it to +the schoolmaster. "You read it. It's from Jenny. You know she's away to +school, an' we didn't think best for her to come home Christmas. I knew +she'd write for Christmas. Solon, I told you so!"</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster took the letter, and read it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> aloud. It was a simple +little message, full of contentment and love and a girl's new delight in +life. When he had finished, the two older people busied themselves a moment +without speaking, Solon in picking up a chip from the hearth, and Susan in +mechanically smoothing the mammoth roses on the side of the carpet-bag.</p> + +<p>"Well, I 'most wish we'd had her come home," said he at last, clearing his +throat.</p> + +<p>"No, you don't either," answered Miss Susan promptly. "Not with this snow, +an' comin' out of a house where it's het up, into cold beds an' all. Now +I'm goin' to git you a mite o' pie an' some hot tea."</p> + +<p>She set forth a prodigal supper on a leaf of the table, and Solon silently +worked his will upon it, the schoolmaster eating a bit for company. Then +Solon took his way home to the house across the yard, and she watched at +the window till she saw the light blaze up through his panes. That +accomplished, she turned back with a long breath and began clearing up.</p> + +<p>"I'm worried to death to have him over there all by himself," said she. +"S'pose he should be sick in the night!"</p> + +<p>"You'd go over," answered the schoolmaster easily.</p> + +<p>"Well, s'pose he couldn't git me no word?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you'd know it! You're that sort."</p> + +<p>Miss Susan laughed softly, and so seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> to put away her recurrent +anxiety. She came back to her knitting.</p> + +<p>"How long has his wife been dead?" asked the schoolmaster.</p> + +<p>"Two year. He an' Jenny got along real well together, but sence September, +when she went away, I guess he's found it pretty dull pickin'. I do all I +can, but land! 't ain't like havin' a woman in the house from sunrise to +set."</p> + +<p>"There's nothing like that," agreed the wise young schoolmaster. "Now let's +play some more. Let's plan what we'd like to do to-morrow for all the folks +we know, and let's not give them a thing they need, but just the ones +they'd like."</p> + +<p>Miss Susan put down her knitting again. She never could talk to the +schoolmaster and keep at work. It made her dreamy, exactly as it did to sit +in the hot summer sunshine, with the droning of bees in the air.</p> + +<p>"Well," said she, "there's old Ann Wheeler that lives over on the turnpike. +She don't want for nothin', but she keeps her things packed away up garret, +an' lives like a pig."</p> + +<p>"'Sold her bed and lay in the straw.'"</p> + +<p>"That's it, on'y she won't sell nuthin'. I'd give her a house all winders, +so 't she couldn't help lookin' out, an' velvet carpets 't she'd got to +walk on."</p> + +<p>"Well, there's Cap'n Ben. The boys say<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> he's out of his head a good deal +now; he fancies himself at sea and in foreign countries."</p> + +<p>"Yes, so they say. Well, I'd let him set down a spell in Solomon's temple +an' look round him. My sake! do you remember about the temple? Why, the +nails was all gold. Don't you wish we'd lived in them times? Jest think +about the wood they had—cedars o' Lebanon an' fir-trees. You know how he +set folks to workin' in the mountains. I've al'ays thought I'd like to ben +up on them mountains an' heard the axes ringin' an' listened to the talk. +An' then there was pomegranates an' cherubim, an' as for silver an' gold, +they were as common as dirt. When I was a little girl, I learnt them +chapters, an' sometimes now, when I'm settin' by the fire, I say over that +verse about the 'man of Tyre, skillful to work in gold, and in silver, in +brass, in iron, in stone, and in timber, in purple, in blue, and in fine +linen, and in crimson.' My! ain't it rich?"</p> + +<p>She drew a long breath of surfeited enjoyment. The schoolmaster's eyes +burned under his heavy brows.</p> + +<p>"Then things smelt so good in them days," continued Miss Susan. "They had +myrrh an' frankincense, an' I dunno what all. I never make my mincemeat +'thout snuffin' at the spice-box to freshen up my mind. No matter where I +start, some way or another I al'ays git back to Solomon. Well, if Cap'n Ben +wants to see<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> foreign countries, I guess he'd be glad to set a spell in the +temple. Le's have on another stick—that big one there by you. My! it's the +night afore Christmas, ain't it? Seems if I couldn't git a big enough +blaze. Pile it on. I guess I'd as soon set the chimbly afire as not!"</p> + +<p>There was something overflowing and heady in her enjoyment. It exhilarated +the schoolmaster, and he lavished stick after stick on the ravening flames. +The maple hardened into coals brighter than its own panoply of autumn; the +delicate bark of the birch flared up and perished.</p> + +<p>"Miss Susan," said he, "don't you want to see all the people in the world?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I dunno! I'd full as lieves set here an' think about 'em. I can fix +'em up full as well in my mind, an' perhaps they suit me better'n if I +could see 'em. Sometimes I set 'em walkin' through this kitchen, kings an' +queens an' all. My! how they do shine, all over precious stones. I never +see a di'mond, but I guess I know pretty well how 't would look."</p> + +<p>"Suppose we could give a Christmas dinner,—what should we have?"</p> + +<p>"We'd have oxen roasted whole, an' honey—an'—but that's as fur as I can +git."</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster had a treasury of which she had never learned, and he said +musically:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>—</p> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 14em;">... "'a heap</span><br /> +Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;<br /> +With jellies soother than the creamy curd,<br /> +And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon;<br /> +Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd<br /> +From Fez; and spicéd dainties, every one,<br /> +From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.'"</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>"Yes, that has a real nice sound. It ain't like the Bible, but it's nice."</p> + +<p>They sat and dreamed and the fire flared up into living arabesques and +burnt blue in corners. A stick parted and fell into ash, and Miss Susan +came awake. She had the air of rousing herself with vigor.</p> + +<p>"There!" said she, "sometimes I think it's most sinful to make believe, +it's so hard to wake yourself up. Arter all this, I dunno but when Solon +comes for the pigs' kittle to-morrer, I shall ketch myself sayin', 'Here's +the frankincense!'"</p> + +<p>They laughed together, and the schoolmaster rose to light his lamp. He +paused on his way to the stairs, and came back to set it down again.</p> + +<p>"There are lots of people we haven't provided for," he said. "We haven't +even thought what we'd give Jenny."</p> + +<p>"I guess Jenny's got her heart's desire." Miss Susan nodded sagely. "I've +sent her a box, with a fruit-cake an' pickles and cheese. She's all fixed +out."</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster hesitated, and turned the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> lamp-wick up and down. Then he +spoke, somewhat timidly, "What should you like to give her father?"</p> + +<p>Miss Susan's face clouded with that dreamy look which sometimes settled +upon her eyes like haze.</p> + +<p>"Well," said she, "I guess whatever I should give him 'd only make him +laugh."</p> + +<p>"Flowers—and velvet—and honey—and myrrh?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Miss Susan with gravity. "Perhaps it's jest as well some +things ain't to be had at the shops."</p> + +<p>The schoolmaster took up his lamp again and walked to the door.</p> + +<p>"We never can tell," he said. "It may be people want things awfully without +knowing it. And suppose they do laugh! They'd better laugh than cry. <i>I</i> +should give all I could. Good-night."</p> + +<p>Miss Susan banked up the fire and set her rising of dough on the hearth, +after a discriminating peep to see whether it was getting on too fast. +After that, she covered her plants by the window and blew out the light, so +that the moon should have its way. She lingered for a moment, looking out +into a glittering world. Not a breath stirred. The visible universe lay +asleep, and only beauty waked. She was aching with a tumultuous +emotion—the sense that life might be very fair and shining, if we only +dared<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> to shape it as it seems to us in dreams. The loveliness and repose +of the earth appealed to her like a challenge; they alone made it seem +possible for her also to dare.</p> + +<p>Next morning, she rose earlier than usual, while the schoolmaster was still +fast bound in sleep. She stayed only to start her kitchen fire, and then +stood motionless a moment for a last decision. The great white day was +beginning outside with slow, unconscious royalty. The pale winter dawn +yielded to a flush of rose; nothing in the aspect of the heavens +contradicted the promise of the night before. It seemed to her a wonderful +day, dramatic, visible in peace, because, on that morning, all the world +was thinking of the world and not of individual desires. She went to the +bureau drawer in the sitting-room and looked, a little scornfully, at two +packages hidden there. Handkerchiefs for the schoolmaster, stockings and +gloves for Solon! Shutting the drawer, she hurried out into the kitchen, +snatching her scissors from the work-basket by the way. She gave herself no +time to think, but went up to her flower-stand and began to cut the +geranium blossoms and the rose. The fuchsias hung in flaunting grace. They +were dearer to her than all. She snipped them recklessly, and because the +bunch seemed meagre still, broke the top from her sweet-scented geranium +and disposed the flowers hastily in the midst. Her posy was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> sweet-smelling +and good; it spoke to the heart. Putting a shawl over her head, she rolled +the flowers in her apron from the frost, and stepped out into the brilliant +day. The little cross-track between her house and the other was snowed up; +but she took the road and, hurrying between banks of carven whiteness, went +up Solon's path to the side door. She walked in upon him where he was +standing over the kitchen stove, warming his hands at the first blaze. +Susan's cheeks were red with the challenge of the stinging air, but she had +the look of one who, living by a larger law, has banished the foolishness +of fear. She walked straight up to him and proffered him her flowers.</p> + +<p>"Here, Solon," she said, "it's Christmas. I brought you these."</p> + +<p>Solon looked at her and at them, in slow surprise. He put out both hands +and took them awkwardly.</p> + +<p>"Well!" he said. "Well!"</p> + +<p>Susan was smiling at him. It seemed to her at that moment that the world +was a very rich place, because you may take all you want and give all you +choose, while nobody is the wiser.</p> + +<p>"Well," remarked Solon again, "I guess I'll put 'em into water." He laid +them down on a chair. "Susan, do you remember that time I walked over to +Pine Hill to pick you some mayflowers, when you was gittin' over the lung +fever?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"Susan," said he desperately, "what if I should ask you to forgit old +scores an' begin all over?"</p> + +<p>"I ain't laid up anything," answered Susan, looking him full in the face +with her brilliant smile.</p> + +<p>"There's suthin' I've wanted to tell ye, this two year. I never s'posed you +knew, but that night I kissed your sister in the entry an' asked her, I +thought 'twas you."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I knew that well enough. I was in the buttery and heard it all. +There, le's not talk about it."</p> + +<p>Solon came a step nearer.</p> + +<p>"But will you, Susan?" he persisted. "Will you? I know Jenny'd like it."</p> + +<p>"I guess she would, too," said Susan. "There! we don't need to talk no +further! You come over to breakfast, won't you? I'm goin' to fry chicken. +It's Christmas mornin'." She nodded at him and went out, walking perhaps +more proudly than usual down the shining path. Solon, regardless of his +cooling kitchen, stood at the door and watched her. Solon never said very +much, but he felt as if life were beginning all over again, just as he had +wished to make it at the very start. He forgot his gray hair and furrowed +face, just as he forgot the cold and snow. It was the spring of the year.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> + +<p>When Miss Susan entered her kitchen, the schoolmaster had come down and was +putting a stick of wood into the stove.</p> + +<p>"Merry Christmas!" he called, "and here's something for you."</p> + +<p>A long white package lay on the table at the end where her plate was always +set. She opened it with delicate touches, it seemed so precious.</p> + +<p>"My sake!" said she. "It's a fan!" She lifted it out, and the fragrance of +an Eastern wood filled all the room. She swept open the feathers. They were +white and wonderful.</p> + +<p>"It was never used except by one very beautiful woman," said the +schoolmaster, without looking at her. "She was a good deal older than I; +but somehow she seemed to belong to me. She died, and I thought I should +like to have you keep this."</p> + +<p>Susan was waving it back and forth before her face, stirring the air to +fragrance. Her eyes were full of dreams. "My! ain't it rich!" she murmured. +"The Queen o' Sheba never had no better. An' Solon's comin' over to +breakfast."</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +<h2>A SECOND MARRIAGE</h2> +</div> + +<p>Amelia Porter sat by her great open fireplace, where the round, +consequential black kettle hung from the crane, and breathed out a steamy +cloud to be at once licked up and absorbed by the heat from a snatching +flame below. It was exactly a year and a day since her husband's death, and +she had packed herself away in his own corner of the settle, her hands +clasped across her knees, and her red-brown eyes brooding on the nearer +embers. She was not definitely speculating on her future, nor had she any +heart for retracing the dull and gentle past. She had simply relaxed hold +on her mind; and so, escaping her, it had gone wandering off into shadowy +prophecies of the immediate years. For, as Amelia had been telling herself +for the last three months, since she had begun to outgrow the habit of a +dual life, she was not old. Whenever she looked in the glass, she could not +help noting how free from wrinkles her swarthy face had been kept, and that +the line of her mouth was still scarlet over white, even teeth. Her crisp +black hair, curling in those tight fine rolls which a bashful admirer had +once commended as "full of little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> jerks," showed not a trace of gray. All +this evidence of her senses read her a fair tale of the possibilities of +the morrow; and without once saying, "I will take up a new life," she did +tacitly acknowledge that life was not over.</p> + +<p>It was a "snapping cold" night of early spring, so misplaced as to bring +with it a certain dramatic excitement. The roads were frozen hard, and +shone like silver in the ruts. All day sleds had gone creaking past, set to +that fine groaning which belongs to the music of the year. The drivers' +breath ascended in steam, the while they stamped down the probability of +freezing, and yelled to Buck and Broad until that inner fervor raised them +one degree in warmth. The smoking cattle held their noses low, and swayed +beneath the yoke.</p> + +<p>Amelia, shut snugly in her winter-tight house, had felt the power of the +day without sharing its discomforts; and her eyes deepened and burned with +a sense of the movement and warmth of living. To-night, under the spell of +some vague expectancy, she had sat still for a long time, her sewing laid +aside and her room scrupulously in order. She was waiting for what was not +to be acknowledged even to her own intimate self. But as the clock struck +nine, she roused herself, and shook off her mood in impatience and a +disappointment which she would not own. She looked about the room, as she +often had of late, and began to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> enumerate its possibilities in case she +should desire to have it changed. Amelia never went so far as to say that +change should be; she only felt that she had still a right to speculate +upon it, as she had done for many years, as a form of harmless enjoyment. +While every other house in the neighborhood had gone from the consistently +good to the prosperously bad in the matter of refurnishing, John Porter had +kept his precisely as his grandfather had left it to him. Amelia had never +once complained; she had observed toward her husband an unfailing +deference, due, she felt, to his twenty years' seniority; perhaps, also, it +stood in her own mind as the only amends she could offer him for having +married him without love. It was her father who made the match; and Amelia +had succumbed, not through the obedience claimed by parents of an elder +day, but from hot jealousy and the pique inevitably born of it. Laurie +Morse had kept the singing-school that winter. He had loved Amelia; he had +bound himself to her by all the most holy vows sworn from aforetime, and +then, in some wanton exhibit of power—gone home with another girl. And for +Amelia's responsive throb of feminine anger, she had spent fifteen years of +sober country living with a man who had wrapped her about with the quiet +tenderness of a strong nature, but who was not of her own generation either +in mind or in habit; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> Laurie had kept a music-store in Saltash, seven +miles away, and remained unmarried.</p> + +<p>Now Amelia looked about the room, and mentally displaced the furniture, as +she had done so many times while she and her husband sat there together. +The settle could be taken to the attic. She had not the heart to carry out +one secret resolve indulged in moments of impatient bitterness,—to split +it up for firewood. But it could at least be exiled. She would have a good +cook-stove, and the great fireplace should be walled up. The tin kitchen, +sitting now beside the hearth in shining quaintness, should also go into +the attic. The old clock—But at that instant the clash of bells shivered +the frosty air, and Amelia threw her vain imaginings aside like a garment, +and sprang to her feet. She clasped her hands in a spontaneous gesture of +rapt attention; and when the sound paused at her gate, with one or two +sweet, lingering clingles, "I knew it!" she said aloud. Yet she did not go +to the window to look into the moonlit night. Standing there in the middle +of the room, she awaited the knock which was not long in coming. It was +imperative, insistent. Amelia, who had a spirit responsive to the dramatic +exigencies of life, felt a little flush spring into her face, so hot that, +on the way to the door, she involuntarily put her hand to her cheek and +held it there. The door came open grumblingly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> It sagged upon the hinges, +but, well-used to its vagaries, she overcame it with a regardless haste.</p> + +<p>"Come in," she said, at once, to the man on the step. "It's cold. Oh, come +in!"</p> + +<p>He stepped inside the entry, removing his fur cap, and disclosing a +youthful face charged with that radiance which made him, at thirty-five, +almost the counterpart of his former self. It may have come only from the +combination of curly brown hair, blue eyes, and an aspiring lift of the +chin, but it always seemed to mean a great deal more. In the kitchen, he +threw off his heavy coat, while Amelia, bright-eyed and breathing quickly, +stood by, quite silent. Then he looked at her.</p> + +<p>"You expected me, didn't you?" he asked.</p> + +<p>A warmer color surged into her cheeks. "I didn't know," she said +perversely.</p> + +<p>"I guess you did. It's one day over a year. You knew I'd wait a year."</p> + +<p>"It ain't a year over the services," said Amelia, trying to keep the note +of vital expectancy out of her voice. "It won't be that till Friday."</p> + +<p>"Well, Saturday I'll come again." He went over to the fire and stretched +out his hands to the blaze. "Come here," he said imperatively, "while I +talk to you."</p> + +<p>Amelia stepped forward obediently, like a good little child. The old +fascination was still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> as dominant as at its birth, sixteen years ago. She +realized, with a strong, splendid sense of the eternity of things, that +always, even while it would have been treason to recognize it, she had +known how ready it was to rise and live again. All through her married +years, she had sternly drugged it and kept it sleeping. Now it had a right +to breathe, and she gloried in it.</p> + +<p>"I said to myself I wouldn't come to-day," went on Laurie, without looking +at her. A new and excited note had come into his voice, responsive to her +own. He gazed down at the fire, musing the while he spoke. "Then I found I +couldn't help it. That's why I'm so late. I stayed in the shop till seven, +and some fellows come in and wanted me to play. I took up the fiddle, and +begun. But I hadn't more'n drew a note before I laid it down and put for +the door. 'Dick, you keep shop,' says I. And I harnessed up, and drove like +the devil."</p> + +<p>Amelia felt warm with life and hope; she was taking up her youth just where +the story ended.</p> + +<p>"You ain't stopped swearin' yet!" she remarked, with a little excited +laugh. Then, from an undercurrent of exhilaration, it occurred to her that +she had never laughed so in all these years.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Laurie abruptly, turning upon her, "how am I goin' to start +out? Shall we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> hark back to old scores? I know what come between us. So do +you. Have we got to talk it out, or can we begin now?"</p> + +<p>"Begin now," replied Amelia faintly. Her breath choked her. He stretched +out his arms to her in sudden passion. His hands touched her sleeves and, +with an answering rapidity of motion, she drew back. She shrank within +herself, and her face gathered a look of fright. "No! no! no!" she cried +strenuously.</p> + +<p>His arms fell at his sides, and he looked at her in amazement.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>Amelia had retreated, until she stood now with one hand on the table. She +could not look at him, and when she answered, her voice shook.</p> + +<p>"There's nothin' the matter," she answered. "Only you mustn't—yet."</p> + +<p>A shade of relief passed over his face, and he smiled.</p> + +<p>"There, there!" he said, "never you mind. I understand. But if I come over +the last of the week, I guess it will be different. Won't it be different, +Milly?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she owned, with a little sob in her throat, "it will be different."</p> + +<p>Thrown out of his niche of easy friendliness with circumstance, he stood +there in irritated consciousness that here was some subtile barrier which +he had not foreseen. Ever since John<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> Porter's death, there had been +strengthening in him a joyous sense that Milly's life and his own must have +been running parallel all this time, and that it needed only a little +widening of channels to make them join. His was no crass certainty of +finding her ready to drop into his hand; it was rather a childlike, +warm-hearted faith in the permanence of her affection for him, and perhaps, +too, a shrewd estimate of his own lingering youth compared with John +Porter's furrowed face and his fifty-five years. But now, with this new +whiffling of the wind, he could only stand rebuffed and recognize his own +perplexity.</p> + +<p>"You do care, don't you, Milly?" he asked, with a boy's frank ardor. "You +want me to come again?"</p> + +<p>All her own delight in youth and the warm naturalness of life had rushed +back upon her.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered eagerly. "I'll tell you the truth. I always did tell +you the truth. I do want you to come."</p> + +<p>"But you don't want me to-night!" He lifted his brows, pursing his lips +whimsically; and Amelia laughed.</p> + +<p>"No," said she, with a little defiant movement of her own crisp head, "I +don't know as I do want you to-night!"</p> + +<p>Laurie shook himself into his coat. "Well," he said, on his way to the +door, "I'll be round Saturday, whether or no. And Milly," he added<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +significantly, his hand on the latch, "you've got to like me then!"</p> + +<p>Amelia laughed. "I guess there won't be no trouble!" she called after him +daringly.</p> + +<p>She stood there in the biting wind, while he uncovered the horse and drove +away. Then she went shaking back to her fire; but it was not altogether +from cold. The sense of the consistency of love and youth, the fine justice +with which nature was paying an old debt, had raised her to a stature above +her own. She stood there under the mantel, and held by it while she +trembled. For the first time, her husband had gone utterly out of her life. +It was as though he had not been.</p> + +<p>"Saturday!" she said to herself. "Saturday! Three days till then!"</p> + +<p>Next morning, the spring asserted itself,—there came a whiff of wind from +the south and a feeling of thaw. The sled-runners began to cut through to +the frozen ground, and about the tree-trunks, where thin crusts of ice were +sparkling, came a faint musical sound of trickling drops. The sun was +regnant, and little brown birds flew cheerily over the snow and talked of +nests.</p> + +<p>Amelia finished her housework by nine o'clock, and then sat down in her low +rocker by the south window, sewing in thrifty haste. The sun fell hotly +through the panes, and when she looked up, the glare met her eyes. She +seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> to be sitting in a golden shower, and she liked it. No sunlight +ever made her blink, or screw her face into wrinkles. She throve in it like +a rose-tree. At ten o'clock, one of the slow-moving sleds, out that day in +premonition of a "spell o' weather," swung laboriously into her yard and +ground its way up to the side-door. The sled was empty, save for a +rocking-chair where sat an enormous woman enveloped in shawls, her broad +face surrounded by a pumpkin hood. Her dark brown front came low over her +forehead, and she wore spectacles with wide bows, which gave her an added +expression of benevolence. She waved a mittened hand to Amelia when their +eyes met, and her heavy face broke up into smiles.</p> + +<p>"Here I be!" she called in a thick, gurgling voice, as Amelia hastened out, +her apron thrown over her head. "Didn't expect me, did ye? Nobody looks for +an old rheumatic creatur'. She's more out o' the runnin' 'n a last year's +bird's-nest."</p> + +<p>"Why, aunt Ann!" cried Amelia, in unmistakable joy. "I'm tickled to death +to see you. Here, Amos, I'll help get her out."</p> + +<p>The driver, a short, thick-set man of neutral, ashy tints and a sprinkling +of hair and beard, trudged round the oxen and drew the rocking-chair +forward without a word. He never once looked in Amelia's direction, and she +seemed not to expect it; but he had scarcely laid hold of the chair when +aunt Ann broke forth:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"Now, Amos, ain't you goin' to take no notice of 'Melia, no more'n if she +wa'n't here? She ain't a bump on a log, nor you a born fool."</p> + +<p>Amos at once relinquished his sway over the chair, and stood looking +abstractedly at the oxen, who, with their heads low, had already fallen +into that species of day-dream whereby they compensate themselves for human +tyranny. They were waiting for Amos, and Amos, in obedience to some inward +resolve, waited for commotion to cease.</p> + +<p>"If ever I was ashamed, I be now!" continued aunt Ann, still with an +expression of settled good-nature, and in a voice all jollity though raised +conscientiously to a scolding pitch. "To think I should bring such a +creatur' into the world, an' set by to see him treat his own relations like +the dirt under his feet!"</p> + +<p>Amelia laughed. She was exhilarated by the prospect of company, and this +domestic whirlpool had amused her from of old.</p> + +<p>"Law, aunt Ann," she said, "you let Amos alone. He and I are old cronies. +We understand one another. Here, Amos, catch hold! We shall all get our +deaths out here, if we don't do nothin' but stand still and squabble."</p> + +<p>The immovable Amos had only been awaiting his cue. He lifted the laden +chair with perfect ease to one of the piazza steps, and then to another; +when it had reached the top<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>most level, he dragged it over the sill into +the kitchen, and, leaving his mother sitting in colossal triumph by the +fire, turned about and took his silent way to the outer world.</p> + +<p>"Amos," called aunt Ann, "do you mean to say you're goin' to walk out o' +this house without speakin' a civil word to anybody? Do you mean to say +that?"</p> + +<p>"I don't mean to say nothin'," confided Amos to his worsted muffler, as he +took up his goad, and began backing the oxen round.</p> + +<p>Undisturbed and not at all daunted by a reply for which she had not even +listened, aunt Ann raised her voice in cheerful response: "Well, you be +along 'tween three an' four, an' you'll find me ready."</p> + +<p>"Mercy, aunt Ann!" said Amelia, beginning to unwind the visitor's wraps, +"what makes you keep houndin' Amos that way? If he hasn't spoke for +thirty-five years, it ain't likely he's goin' to begin now."</p> + +<p>Aunt Ann was looking about her with an expression of beaming delight in +unfamiliar surroundings. She laughed a rich, unctuous laugh, and stretched +her hands to the blaze.</p> + +<p>"Law," she said contentedly, "of course it ain't goin' to do no good. Who +ever thought 't would? But I've been at that boy all these years to make +him like other folks, an' I ain't goin' to stop now. He never shall say his +own mother didn't know her duty towards him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> Well, 'Melia, you <i>air</i> kind +o' snug here, arter all! Here, you hand me my bag, an' I'll knit a stitch. +I ain't a mite cold."</p> + +<p>Amelia was bustling about the fire, her mind full of the possibilities of a +company dinner.</p> + +<p>"How's your limbs?" she asked, while aunt Ann drew out a long stocking, and +began to knit with an amazing rapidity of which her fat fingers gave no +promise.</p> + +<p>"Well, I ain't allowed to forgit 'em very often," she replied comfortably. +"Rheumatiz is my cross, an' I've got to bear it. Sometimes I wish 't had +gone into my hands ruther 'n my feet, an' I could ha' got round. But there! +if 't ain't one thing, it's another. Mis' Eben Smith's got eight young ones +down with the whoopin'-cough. Amos dragged me over there yisterday; an' +when I heerd 'em tryin' to see which could bark the loudest, I says, 'Give +me the peace o' Jerusalem in my own house, even if I don't stir a step for +the next five year no more'n I have for the last.' I dunno what 't would be +if I hadn't a darter. I've been greatly blessed."</p> + +<p>The talk went on in pleasant ripples, while Amelia moved back and forth +from pantry to table. She brought out the mixing-board, and began to put +her bread in the pans, while the tin kitchen stood in readiness by the +hearth. The sunshine flooded all the room, and lay insolently on the paling +fire; the Maltese cat sat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> in the broadest shaft of all, and, having +lunched from her full saucer in the corner, made her second toilet for the +day.</p> + +<p>"'Melia," said aunt Ann suddenly, looking down over her glasses at the tin +kitchen, "ain't it a real cross to bake in that thing?"</p> + +<p>"I always had it in mind to buy me a range," answered Amelia reservedly, +"but somehow we never got to it."</p> + +<p>"That's the only thing I ever had ag'inst John. He was as grand a man as +ever was, but he did set everything by such truck. Don't turn out the old +things, I say, no more'n the old folks; but when it comes to makin' a woman +stan' quiddlin' round doin' work back side foremost, that beats me."</p> + +<p>"He'd have got me a stove in a minute," burst forth Amelia in haste, "only +he never knew I wanted it!"</p> + +<p>"More fool you not to ha' said so!" commented aunt Ann, unwinding her ball. +"Well, I s'pose he would. John wa'n't like the common run o' men. Great +strong creatur' he was, but there was suthin' about him as soft as a woman. +His mother used to say his eyes 'd fill full o' tears when he broke up a +settin' hen. He was a good husband to you,—a good provider an' a good +friend."</p> + +<p>Amelia was putting down her bread for its last rising, and her face +flushed.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said gently, "he <i>was</i> good."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But there!" continued aunt Ann, dismissing all lighter considerations, "I +dunno's that's any reason why you should bake in a tin kitchen, nor why you +should need to heat up the brick oven every week, when 't was only done to +please him, an' he ain't here to know. Now, 'Melia, le's see what you could +do. When you got the range in, 't would alter this kitchen all over. Why +don't you tear down that old-fashioned mantelpiece in the fore-room?"</p> + +<p>"I could have a marble one," responded Amelia in a low voice. She had taken +her sewing again, and she bent her head over it as if she were ashamed. A +flush had risen in her cheeks, and her hand trembled.</p> + +<p>"Wide marble! real low down!" confirmed aunt Ann, in a tone of triumph. "So +fur as that goes, you could have a marble-top table." She laid down her +knitting, and looked about her, a spark of excited anticipation in her +eyes. All the habits of a lifetime urged her on to arrange and rearrange, +in pursuit of domestic perfection. People used to say, in her first married +days, that Ann Doby wasted more time in planning conveniences about her +house than she ever saved by them "arter she got 'em." In her active years, +she was, in local phrase, "a driver." Up and about early and late, she +directed and managed until her house seemed to be a humming hive of +industry and thrift. Yet there was never anything too urgent in that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> sway. +Her beaming good-humor acted as a buffer between her and the doers of her +will; and though she might scold, she never rasped and irritated. Nor had +she really succumbed in the least to the disease which had practically +disabled her. It might confine her to a chair and render her dependent upon +the service of others, but over it, also, was she spiritual victor. She +could sit in her kitchen and issue orders; and her daughter, with no +initiative genius of her own, had all aunt Ann's love of "springin' to it." +She cherished, besides, a worshipful admiration for her mother; so that she +asked no more than to act as the humble hand under that directing head. It +was Amos who tacitly rebelled. When a boy in school, he virtually gave up +talking, and thereafter opened his lips only when some practical exigency +was to be filled. But once did he vouchsafe a reason for that eccentricity. +It was in his fifteenth year, as aunt Ann remembered well, when the +minister had called; and Amos, in response to some remark about his hope of +salvation, had looked abstractedly out of the window.</p> + +<p>"I'd be ashamed," announced aunt Ann, after the minister had gone,—"Amos, +I <i>would</i> be ashamed, if I couldn't open my head to a minister o' the +gospel!"</p> + +<p>"If one head's open permanent in a house, I guess that fills the bill," +said Amos, getting up to seek the woodpile. "I ain't goin' to interfere +with nobody else's contract."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> + +<p>His mother looked after him with gaping lips, and, for the space of half an +hour, spoke no word.</p> + +<p>To-day she saw before her an alluring field of action; the prospect roused +within her energies never incapable of responding to a spur.</p> + +<p>"My soul, 'Melia!" she exclaimed, looking about the kitchen with a +dominating eye, "how I should like to git hold o' this house! I al'ays did +have a hankerin' that way, an' I don't mind tellin' ye. You could change it +all round complete."</p> + +<p>"It's a good house," said Amelia evasively, taking quick, even stitches, +but listening hungrily to the voice of outside temptation. It seemed to +confirm all the long-suppressed ambitions of her own heart.</p> + +<p>"You're left well on 't," continued aunt Ann, her shrewd blue eyes taking +on a speculative look. "I'm glad you sold the stock. A woman never +undertakes man's work but she comes out the little eend o' the horn. The +house is enough, if you keep it nice. Now, you've got that money laid away, +an' all he left you besides. You could live in the village, if you was a +mind to."</p> + +<p>A deep flush struck suddenly into Amelia's cheek. She thought of Saltash +and Laurie Morse.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to live in the village," she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> said sharply, thus reproving +her own errant mind. "I like my home."</p> + +<p>"Law, yes, of course ye do," replied aunt Ann easily, returning to her +knitting. "I was only spec'latin'. The land, 'Melia, what you doin' of? +Repairin' an old coat?"</p> + +<p>Amelia bent lower over her sewing. "'T was his," she answered in a voice +almost inaudible. "I put a patch on it last night by lamplight, and when +daytime come, I found it was purple. So I'm takin' it off, and puttin' on a +black one to match the stuff."</p> + +<p>"Goin' to give it away?"</p> + +<p>"No, I ain't," returned Amelia, again with that sharp, remonstrant note in +her voice. "What makes you think I'd do such a thing as that?"</p> + +<p>"Law, I didn't mean no harm. You said you was repairin' on 't,—that's +all."</p> + +<p>Amelia was ashamed of her momentary outbreak. She looked up and smiled +sunnily.</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose it <i>is</i> foolish," she owned,—"too foolish to tell. But +I've been settin' all his clothes in order to lay 'em aside at last. I kind +o' like to do it."</p> + +<p>Aunt Ann wagged her head, and ran a knitting-needle up under her cap on a +voyage of discovery.</p> + +<p>"You think so now," she said wisely, "but you'll see some time it's better +by fur to give 'em away while ye can. The time never'll come when it's any +easier. My soul, 'Melia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> how I should like to git up into your chambers! +It's six year now sence I've seen 'em."</p> + +<p>Amelia laid down her work and considered the possibility.</p> + +<p>"I don't know how in the world I could h'ist you up there," she remarked, +from an evident background of hospitable good-will.</p> + +<p>"H'ist me up? I guess you couldn't! You'd need a tackle an' falls. Amos has +had to come to draggin' me round by degrees, an' I don't go off the lower +floor. Be them chambers jest the same, 'Melia?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, they're just the same. Everything is. You know he didn't like +changes."</p> + +<p>"Blue spread on the west room bed?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Spinnin'-wheels out in the shed chamber, where his gran'mother Hooper kep' +'em?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Say, 'Melia, do you s'pose that little still's up attic he used to have +such a royal good time with, makin' essences?"</p> + +<p>Amelia's eyes filled suddenly with hot, unmanageable tears.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said; "we used it only two summers ago. I come across it +yesterday. Seemed as if I could smell the peppermint I brought in for him +to pick over. He was too sick to go out much then."</p> + +<p>Aunt Ann had laid down her work again, and was gazing into vistas of rich +enjoyment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'll be whipped if I shouldn't like to see that little still!"</p> + +<p>"I'll go up and bring it down after dinner," said Amelia soberly, folding +her work and taking off her thimble. "I'd just as soon as not."</p> + +<p>All through the dinner hour aunt Ann kept up an inspiring stream of +question and reminiscence.</p> + +<p>"You <i>be</i> a good cook, 'Melia, an' no mistake," she remarked, breaking her +brown hot biscuit. "This your same kind o' bread, made without yeast?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Amelia, pouring the tea. "I save a mite over from the last +risin'."</p> + +<p>Aunt Ann smelled the biscuit critically. "Well, it makes proper nice +bread," she said, "but seems to me that's a terrible shif'less way to go +about it. However 'd you happen to git hold on 't? You wa'n't never brought +up to 't."</p> + +<p>"His mother used to make it so. 'T was no great trouble, and 't would have +worried him if I'd changed."</p> + +<p>When the lavender-sprigged china had been washed and the hearth swept up, +the room fell into its aspect of afternoon repose. The cat, after another +serious ablution, sprang up into a chair drawn close to the fireplace, and +coiled herself symmetrically on the faded patchwork cushion. Amelia stroked +her in passing. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> liked to see puss appropriate that chair; her purr +from it renewed the message of domestic content.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Amelia, "I'll get the still."</p> + +<p>"Bring down anything else that's ancient!" called aunt Ann. "We've pretty +much got red o' such things over t' our house, but I kind o' like to see +'em."</p> + +<p>When Amelia returned, she staggered under a miscellaneous burden: the +still, some old swifts for winding yarn, and a pair of wool-cards.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you know so much about cardin' wool as I do," she said, in +some triumph, regarding the cards with the saddened gaze of one who recalls +an occupation never to be resumed. "You see, you dropped all such work when +new things come in. I kept right on because he wanted me to."</p> + +<p>Aunt Ann was abundantly interested and amused.</p> + +<p>"Well, now, if ever!" she repeated over and over again. "If this don't +carry me back! Seems if I could hear the wheel hummin' an' gramma Balch +steppin' back an' forth as stiddy as a clock. It's been a good while sence +I've thought o' such old days."</p> + +<p>"If it's old days you want"—began Amelia, and she sped upstairs with a +fresh light of resolution in her eyes.</p> + +<p>It was a long time before she returned,—so long that aunt Ann exhausted +the still, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> turned again to her thrifty knitting. Then there came a +bumping noise on the stairs, and Amelia's shuffling tread.</p> + +<p>"What under the sun be you doin' of?" called her aunt, listening, with her +head on one side. "Don't you fall, 'Melia! Whatever 't is, I can't help +ye."</p> + +<p>But the stairway door yielded to pressure from within: and first a rim of +wood appeared, and then Amelia, scarlet and breathless, staggering under a +spinning-wheel.</p> + +<p>"Forever!" ejaculated aunt Ann, making one futile effort to rise, like some +cumbersome fowl whose wings are clipped. "My land alive! you'll break a +blood-vessel, an' then where'll ye be?"</p> + +<p>Amelia triumphantly drew the wheel to the middle of the floor, and then +blew upon her dusty hands and smoothed her tumbled hair. She took off her +apron and wiped the wheel with it rather tenderly, as if an ordinary duster +would not do.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said. "Here's some rolls right here in the bedroom. I carded +them myself, but I never expected to spin any more."</p> + +<p>She adjusted a roll to the spindle, and, quite forgetting aunt Ann, began +stepping back and forth in a rhythmical march of feminine service. The low +hum of her spinning filled the air, and she seemed to be wrapped about by +an atmosphere of remoteness and memory. Even aunt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> Ann was impressed by it; +and once, beginning to speak, she looked at Amelia's face, and stopped. The +purring silence continued, lulling all lesser energies to sleep, until +Amelia, pausing to adjust her thread, found her mood broken by actual +stillness, and gazed about her like one awakened from dreams.</p> + +<p>"There!" she said, recalling herself. "Ain't that a good smooth thread? +I've sold lots of yarn. They ask for it in Sudleigh."</p> + +<p>"'Tis so!" confirmed aunt Ann cordially. "An' you've al'ays dyed it +yourself, too!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a good blue; sometimes tea-color. There, now, you can't say you ain't +heard a spinnin'-wheel once more!"</p> + +<p>Amelia moved the wheel to the side of the room, and went gravely back to +her chair. Her energy had fled, leaving her hushed and tremulous. But not +for that did aunt Ann relinquish her quest for the betterment of the +domestic world. Her tongue clicked the faster as Amelia's halted. She put +away her work altogether, and sat, with wagging head and eloquent hands, +still holding forth on the changes which might be wrought in the house: a +bay window here, a sofa there, new chairs, tables, and furnishings. +Amelia's mind swam in a sea of green rep, and she found herself looking up +from time to time at her mellowed four walls, to see if they sparkled in +desirable yet somewhat terrifying gilt paper.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> + +<p>At four o'clock, when Amos swung into the yard with the oxen, she was +remorsefully conscious of heaving a sigh of relief; and she bade him in to +the cup of tea ready for him by the fire with a sympathetic sense that too +little was made of Amos, and that perhaps only she, at that moment, +understood his habitual frame of mind. He drank his tea in silence, the +while aunt Ann, with much relish, consumed doughnuts and cheese, having +spread a wide handkerchief in her lap to catch the crumbs. Amos never +varied in his rôle of automaton; and Amelia talked rapidly, in the hope of +protecting him from verbal avalanches. But she was not to succeed. At the +very moment of parting, aunt Ann, enthroned in her chair, with a clogging +stick under the rockers, called a halt, just as the oxen gave their +tremulous preparatory heave.</p> + +<p>"Amos!" cried she, "I'll be whipped if you've spoke one word to 'Melia this +livelong day! If you ain't ashamed, I be! If you can't speak, I can!"</p> + +<p>Amos paused, with his habitual resignation to circumstances, but Amelia +sped forward and clapped him cordially on the arm; with the other hand, she +dealt one of the oxen a futile blow.</p> + +<p>"Huddup, Bright!" she called, with a swift, smiling look at Amos. Even in +kindness she would not do him the wrong of an unnecessary word. "Good-by, +aunt Ann! Come again!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p> + +<p>Amos turned half about, the goad over his shoulder. His dull-seeming eyes +had opened to a gleam of human feeling, betraying how bright and keen they +were. Some hidden spring had been touched, though only they would tell its +story. Amelia thought it was gratitude. And then aunt Ann, nodding her +farewells in assured contentment with herself and all the world, was drawn +slowly out of the yard.</p> + +<p>When Amelia went indoors and warmed her chilled hands at the fire, the +silence seemed to her benignant. What was loneliness before had +miraculously translated itself into peace. That worldly voice, strangely +clothing her own longings with form and substance, had been stilled; only +the clock, rich in the tranquillity of age, ticked on, and the cat +stretched herself and curled up again. Amelia sat down in the waning light +and took a last stitch in her work; she looked the coat over critically +with an artistic satisfaction, and then hung it behind the door in its +accustomed place, where it had remained undisturbed now for many months. +She ate soberly and sparingly of her early supper, and then, leaving the +lamp on a side-table, where it brought out great shadows in the room, she +took a little cricket and sat down by the fire. There she had mused many an +evening which seemed to her less dull than the general course of her former +life, while her husband occupied the hearthside chair and told<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> her stories +of the war. He had a childlike clearness and simplicity of speech, and a +self-forgetful habit of reminiscence. The war was the war to him, not a +theatre for boastful individual action; but Amelia remembered now that he +had seemed to hold heroic proportions in relation to that immortal past. +One could hardly bring heroism into the potato-field and the cow-house; but +after this lapse of time, it began to dawn upon her that the man who had +fought at Gettysburg and the man who marked out for her the narrow rut of +an unchanging existence were one and the same. And as if the moment had +come for an expected event, she heard again the jangling of bells without, +and the old vivid color rushed into her cheeks, reddened before by the +fire-shine. It was as though the other night had been a rehearsal, and as +if now she knew what was coming. Yet she only clasped her hands more +tightly about her knees and waited, the while her heart hurried its time. +The knocker fell twice, with a resonant clang. She did not move. It beat +again, the more insistently. Then the heavy outer door was pushed open, and +Laurie Morse came in, looking exactly as she knew he would look—half +angry, wholly excited, and dowered with the beauty of youth recalled. He +took off his cap and stood before her.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you come?" he asked imperatively. "Why didn't you let me in?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p> + +<p>The old wave of irresponsible joy rose in her at his presence; yet it was +now not so much a part of her real self as a delight in some influence +which might prove foreign to her. She answered him, as she was always +impelled to do, dramatically, as if he gave her the cue, calling for words +which might be her sincere expression, and might not.</p> + +<p>"If you wanted it enough, you could get in," she said perversely, with an +alluring coquetry in her mien. "The door was unfastened."</p> + +<p>"I did want to enough," he responded. A new light came into his eyes. He +held out his hands toward her. "Get up off that cricket!" he commanded. +"Come here!"</p> + +<p>Amelia rose with a swift, feminine motion, but she stepped backward, one +hand upon her heart. She thought its beating could be heard.</p> + +<p>"It ain't Saturday," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"No, it ain't. But I couldn't wait. You knew I couldn't. You knew I'd come +to-night."</p> + +<p>The added years had had their effect on him; possibly, too, there had been +growing up in him the strength of a long patience. He was not an heroic +type of man; but noting the sudden wrinkles in his face and the firmness of +his mouth, Amelia conceived a swift respect for him which she had never +felt in the days of their youth.</p> + +<p>"Am I goin' to stay," he asked sternly, "or shall I go home?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> + +<p>As if in dramatic accord with his words, the bells jangled loudly at the +gate. Should he go or stay?</p> + +<p>"I suppose," said Amelia faintly, "you're goin' to stay."</p> + +<p>Laurie laid down his cap, and pulled off his coat. He looked about +impatiently, and then, moving toward the nail by the door, he lifted the +coat to place it over that other one hanging there. Amelia had watched him +absently, thinking only, with a hungry anticipation, how much she had +needed him; but as the garment touched her husband's, the real woman burst +through the husk of her outer self, and came to life with an intensity that +was pain. She sprang forward.</p> + +<p>"No! no!" she cried, the words ringing wildly in her own ears. "No! no! +don't you hang it there! Don't you! don't you!" She swept him aside, and +laid her hands upon the old patched garment on the nail. It was as if they +blessed it, and as if they defended it also. Her eyes burned with the +horror of witnessing some irrevocable deed.</p> + +<p>Laurie stepped back in pure surprise. "No, of course not," said he. "I'll +put it on a chair. Why, what's the matter, Milly? I guess you're nervous. +Come back to the fire. Here, sit down where you were, and let's talk."</p> + +<p>The cat, roused by a commotion which was insulting to her egotism, jumped +down from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> cushion, stretched into a fine curve, and made a silhouette +of herself in a corner of the hearth. Amelia, a little ashamed, and not +very well understanding what it was all about, came back, with shaking +limbs, and dropped upon the settle, striving now to remember the +conventionalities of saner living. Laurie was a kind man. At this moment, +he thought only of reassuring her. He drew forward the chair left vacant by +the cat, and beat up the cushion.</p> + +<p>"There," said he, "I'll take this, and we'll talk."</p> + +<p>Amelia recovered herself with a spring. She came up straight and tall, a +concluded resolution in every muscle. She laid a hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Don't you sit there!" said she. "Don't you!"</p> + +<p>"Why, Amelia!" he ejaculated, in a vain perplexity. "Why, Milly!"</p> + +<p>She moved the chair back out of his grasp, and turned to him again.</p> + +<p>"I understand it now," she went on rapidly. "I know just what I feel and +think, and I thank my God it ain't too late. Don't you see I can't bear to +have your clothes hang where his belong? Don't you see 't would kill me to +have you sit in his chair? When I find puss there, it's a comfort. If 't +was you—I don't know but I might do you a mischief!" Her voice sank, in +awe of herself and her own capacity for passionate emotion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> + +<p>Laurie Morse had much swift understanding of the human heart. His own +nature partook of the feminine, and he shared its intuitions and its fears.</p> + +<p>"I never should lay that up against you, Milly," he said kindly. "But we +wouldn't have these things. You'd come to Saltash with me, and we'd furnish +all new."</p> + +<p>"Not have these things!" called Amelia, with a ringing note of +dismay,—"not have these things he set by as he did his life! Why, what do +you think I'm made of, after fifteen years? What did <i>I</i> think I was made +of, even to guess I could? You don't know what women are like, Laurie +Morse,—you don't know!"</p> + +<p>She broke down in piteous weeping. Even then it seemed to her that it would +be good to find herself comforted with warm human sympathy; but not a +thought of its possibility remained in her mind. She saw the boundaries +beyond which she must not pass. Though the desert were arid on this side, +it was her desert, and there in her tent must she abide. She began speaking +again between sobbing breaths:—</p> + +<p>"I did have a dull life. I used up all my young days doin' the same things +over and over, when I wanted somethin' different. It <i>was</i> dull; but if I +could have it all over again, I'd work my fingers to the bone. I don't know +how it would have been if you and I'd come<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> together then, and had it all +as we planned; but now I'm a different woman. I can't any more go back than +you could turn Sudleigh River, and coax it to run up-hill. I don't know +whether 't was meant my life should make me a different woman; but I <i>am</i> +different, and such as I am, I'm his woman. Yes, till I die, till I'm laid +in the ground 'longside of him!" Her voice had an assured ring of triumph, +as if she were taking again an indissoluble marriage oath.</p> + +<p>Laurie had grown very pale. There were forlorn hollows under his eyes; now +he looked twice his age.</p> + +<p>"I didn't suppose you kept a place for me," he said, with an unconscious +dignity. "That wouldn't have been right, and him alive. And I didn't wait +for dead men's shoes. But somehow I thought there was something between you +and me that couldn't be outlived."</p> + +<p>Amelia looked at him with a frank sweetness which transfigured her face +into spiritual beauty.</p> + +<p>"I thought so, too," she answered, with that simplicity ever attending our +approximation to the truth. "I never once said it to myself; but all this +year, 'way down in my heart, I knew you'd come back. And I wanted you to +come. I guess I'd got it all planned out how we'd make up for what we'd +lost, and build up a new life. But so far as I go, I guess I didn't lose by +what I've lived through. I guess I gained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> somethin' I'd sooner give up my +life than even lose the memory of."</p> + +<p>So absorbed was she in her own spiritual inheritance that she quite forgot +his pain. She gazed past him with an unseeing look; and striving to meet +and recall it, he faced the vision of their divided lives. To-morrow Amelia +would remember his loss and mourn over it with maternal pangs; to-night she +was oblivious of all but her own. Great human experiences are costly +things; they demand sacrifice, not only of ourselves, but of those who are +near us. The room was intolerable to Laurie. He took his hat and coat, and +hurried out. Amelia heard the dragging door closed behind him. She +realized, with the numbness born of supreme emotion, that he was putting on +his coat outside in the cold; and she did not mind. The bells stirred, and +went clanging away. Then she drew a long breath, and bowed her head on her +hands in an acquiescence that was like prayer.</p> + +<p>It seemed a long time to Amelia before she awoke again to temporal things. +She rose, smiling, to her feet, and looked about her as if her eyes +caressed every corner of the homely room. She picked up puss in a round, +comfortable ball, and carried her back to the hearthside chair; there she +stroked her until her touchy ladyship had settled down again to purring +content. Then Amelia, still smiling, and with an absent look, as if her +mind wandered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> through lovely possibilities of a sort which can never be +undone, drew forth the spinning-wheel, and fitted a roll to the spindle. +She began stepping back and forth as if she moved to the measure of an +unheard song, and the pleasant hum of her spinning broke delicately upon +the ear. It seemed to waken all the room into new vibrations of life. The +clock ticked with an assured peace, as if knowing it marked eternal hours. +The flames waved softly upward without their former crackle and sheen; and +the moving shadows were gentle and rhythmic ones come to keep the soul +company. Amelia felt her thread lovingly.</p> + +<p>"I guess I'll dye it blue," she said, with a tenderness great enough to +compass inanimate things. "He always set by blue, didn't he, puss?"</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +<h2>THE FLAT-IRON LOT</h2> +</div> + +<p>The fields were turning brown, and in the dusty gray of the roadside, +closed gentians gloomed, and the aster burned like a purple star. It was +the finest autumn for many years. People said, with every clear day, "Now +this must be a weather-breeder;" but still the storm delayed. Then they +anxiously scanned the heavens, as if, weeks beforehand, the signs of the +time might be written there; for this was the fall of all others when wind +and sky should be kind to Tiverton. She was going to celebrate her two +hundred and fiftieth anniversary, and she was big with the importance of +it.</p> + +<p>On a still afternoon, over three weeks before that happy day, a slender old +man walked erectly along the country road. He carried a cane over his +shoulder, and, slung upon it, a small black leather bag, bearing the words, +painted in careful letters, "Clocks repaired by N. Oldfield." As he went +on, he cast a glance, now and then, to either side, from challenging blue +eyes, strong yet in the indomitable quality of youth. He knew every varying +step of the road, and could have numbered, from memory,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> the trees and +bushes that fringed its length; and now, after a week's absence, he swept +the landscape with the air of a manorial lord, to see what changes might +have slipped in unawares. At one point, a flat triangular stone had been +tilted up on edge, and an unpracticed hand had scrawled on it, in chalk, "4 +M to Sudleigh." The old man stopped, took the bag from his shoulder, and +laid it tenderly on a stone of the wall. Then, with straining hands, he +pulled the rock down into the worn spot where it had lain, and gave a sigh +of relief when it settled into its accustomed place, and the tall grass +received it tremulously. Now he opened his bag, took from it a cloth, +carefully folded, and rubbed the rock until those defiling chalk marks were +partially effaced.</p> + +<p>"Little varmints!" he said, apostrophizing the absent school children who +had wrought the deed. "Can't they let nothin' alone?" He took up his bag, +and went on.</p> + +<p>Nicholas Oldfield, as he walked the road that day, was a familiar figure to +all the county round. He had a smooth, carefully shaven face, with a fine +outline of nose and chin, and his straight gray hair shone from faithful +brushing. He was almost aggressively clean. Even his blue eyes had the +appearance of having just been washed, like a spring day after a shower. It +was a frequent remark that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> he looked as if he had come out of a bandbox; +and one critic even went so far as to assert that on Sundays he sandpapered +his eyes and gave a little extra polish to his bones. But these were +calumnies; though to-day his suit of home-made blue was quite speckless, +and the checked gingham neckerchief, which made his ordinary wear, still +kept its stiff, starched creases.</p> + +<p>"Dirt don't stick to <i>you</i>, Mr. Oldfield," once said a seeking widow. "Your +washing can't be much. I guess anybody 'd be glad to undertake it for you." +Mr. Oldfield nodded gravely, as one receiving the tribute which was justly +his, and continued to do his washing himself.</p> + +<p>As he walked the dusty road, bearing his little bag, so he had walked it +for years, sometimes within a few miles of home, and again at the extreme +limit of the county edge. The clocks of the region were all his clients, +some regarded with compassion ("ramshackle things" that needed perpetual +tinkering) and others with a holy awe. "The only thing Nicholas Oldfield +bows the knee before is a double-back-action clock a thousand years old," +said Brad Freeman, the regardless. "That's how he reads Ancient of Days." +The justice of the remark was acknowledged, though, as touching Mr. +Oldfield, it was felt to be striking rather too keenly at the root of +things. For Nicholas Oldfield was looked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> upon with a respect not so much +inspired by his outward circumstances as by his method of taking them. +There are, indeed, ways and ways among us who serve the public. When Tom +O'Neil went round peddling essences, children saw him from afar, ran to +meet him, and, falling on his pack, besought him for "two-three-drops-o' +-c'logne" with such fervor that the mothers had to haul them off by main +force, in order themselves to approach his redolence; but when the +clock-mender appeared, with his little bag, propriety walked before him, +and the naughtiest scion of the flock would come soberly in, to +announce:—</p> + +<p>"Mother, here's Mr. Oldfield."</p> + +<p>It is true that this little old man did exemplify the dignity and restraint +of life to such a degree that, had it not been for his one colossal +weakness, the town might have condemned him, in good old Athenian fashion. +Clock-mending was a legitimate industry; but there were those who felt it +to be, in his case, a mere pretext for nosing round and identifying +ridiculous old things which nobody prized until Nicholas Oldfield told them +it was conformable so to do. Some believed him and some did not; but it was +known that a MacDonough's Victory tea-set drove him to an almost outspoken +rapture, and that the mere mention of the Bay Psalm Book (a copy of which +he sought with the haggard fervor of one who worships<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> but has ceased to +hope) was enough to make him "wild as a hawk." Old papers, too, drew him by +their very mildew; and when his townsfolk were in danger of respecting him +too tediously, they recalled these amiable puerilities, drew a breath of +relief, and marked his value down.</p> + +<p>Many facts in his life were not in the least understood, because he never +saw the possibility of talking about them. For example, when at the +marriage of his son, Young Nick, he made over the farm, and kept his own +residence in the little gambrel-roofed house where he had been born, and +his father and grandfather before him, the act was, for a time, regarded +somewhat gloomily by the public at large. There were Young Nick and his +Hattie, living in the big new house, with its spacious piazza and cool +green blinds; there the two daughters were born and bred, and the elder of +them was married. The new house had its hired girl and man; and meantime +the other Nicholas (nobody ever dreamed of calling him Old Nick) was +cooking his own meals, and even, of a Saturday, scouring his kitchen floor. +It was easy to see in him the pathetic symbol of a bygone generation +relegated to the past. A little wave of sympathy crept to his very feet, +and then, finding itself unnoted, ebbed away again. Only one village censor +dared speak, saying slyly to Young Nick's Hattie:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"Ain't no room for grandpa in the new house, is there?"</p> + +<p>Hattie opened her eyes wide at this discovery, though now she realized that +echoes of a like benevolence had reached her ears before. She went home +very early from the quilting, and that night she said to her husband, as +they sat on the doorstone, waiting for the milk to cool:—</p> + +<p>"Nicholas, little things I've got hold of, first an' last, make me conclude +folks pity father. Do you s'pose they do?"</p> + +<p>Young Nick selected a fat plantain spike, and began stripping the seeds.</p> + +<p>"Well, I dunno what for," said he, after consideration. "Father seems to be +pretty rugged."</p> + +<p>Hattie was one of those who find no quicker remedy than that of plentiful +speech; and later in the evening, she sped over to the little house, across +the dewy orchard. Mr. Oldfield had come home only that afternoon, and now +he had drawn up at his kitchen table, which was covered by a hand-woven +cloth, beautifully ironed, and set with old-fashioned dishes. He had hot +biscuits and apple-pie, and the odor of them rose soothingly to Hattie's +nostrils, dissipating, for a moment, her consciousness of tragedy and +wrong. A man could not be quite forlorn who cooked such "victuals," and sat +before them so serenely.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> + +<p>"See here, father," said she, with the desperation of speaking her mind for +the first time to one from whom she had hitherto kept awesomely remote; +"when we moved into the new house, I dunno's there was any talk about your +comin', too. I guess it never entered into our heads you'd do anything but +to stick to the old place. An' now, after it's all past an' gone, the +neighbors say"—</p> + +<p>Nicholas Oldfield had been smiling his slight, dry smile. At this point, he +took up a knife, and cut a careful triangle of pie. He did all these things +as if each one were very important.</p> + +<p>"Here, Hattie," said he, "you taste o' this dried apple. I put a mite o' +lemon in."</p> + +<p>Hattie, somehow abashed by the mental impact of the little man, ate her pie +meekly, and thenceforth waived the larger issue. All the same, she knew the +neighbors "pitied father," and that they would continue to pity him so long +as he lived alone in the little peaceful house, doing his own washing and +making his own pie.</p> + +<p>To-night was a duplication of many another when Nicholas Oldfield had +turned the corner and come in sight of his own home; but often as it had +been repeated, the experience was never the same. Some would have named his +springing emotion delight; but it neither quickened his pace nor made him +draw his breath<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> the faster. Perhaps he even walked a little more slowly, +to enjoy the taste, for he was a saving man. There was the little house, +white as paint could make it, and snug in bowering foliage. He noted, with +an approving eye, that the dahlias in the front yard, set in stiff nodding +rows, were holding their own bravely against the dry fall weather, and that +the asters were blooming profusely, purple and pink. A rare softness came +over his features when he stepped into the yard; and though he examined the +roof critically in passing, it was with the eye of love. He fitted the key +in the lock; the sound of its turning made music in his ears, and, setting +his foot upon the sill, he was a man for whom that little was enough. +Nicholas Oldfield was at home.</p> + +<p>He laid down his bag, and went, without an instant's pause, straight +through to the sitting-room, and stood before the tall eight-day clock. He +put his hand on the woodwork, as if it might have been the shoulder of a +friend, and looked up understandingly in its face.</p> + +<p>"Well, here we be," said he. "You'd ha' hil' out till mornin', though."</p> + +<p>For wherever he might travel, he always made it a point to be home in time +to wind the clocks; and however early he might hurry away again, under +stress of some antiquarian impulse, they were left alive and pulsing behind +him. There was one in each room, besides<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> the tall eight-day in the parlor, +and they were all soft-voiced and leisurely, reminiscent of another age +than ours. Though three of them had been inherited, it almost seemed as if +Nicholas must have selected the entire company, so harmonious were they, so +serenely fitted to the calm decorum of his own desires.</p> + +<p>In half an hour he had accomplished many things, and his fire sent a spiral +breath toward heaven. The dark old kitchen lay open, door and window, to +the still opulent sun, and from the pantry and a corner cupboard came +gleams of color, to delight the eye. Here were riches, indeed: old India +china, an unbroken set of Sheltered Peasant, and, on the top shelf, little +mugs and cups of a pink lustre, soft and sweet as flowers. Many a collector +had wooed Nicholas Oldfield to part with his china (for the fame of it had +spread afar,) but his only response to solicitation was to open the doors +more widely on his treasures, remarking, without emphasis:—</p> + +<p>"I guess they might as well stay where they be."</p> + +<p>So passive was he, that many among merchants judged they had impressed him, +and returned again and again to the charge; but when they found always the +same imperturbable front, the same mild neutrality of demeanor, they melted +sadly away, and were seen no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> more, leaving their places to be taken by +others equally hopeful and as sure to be betrayed.</p> + +<p>One creature only was capable of rousing Nicholas Oldfield from that calm +wherein he went ticking on through life. She it was who, by some natal +likeness, understood him wholly; and to-night, just as he was sitting down +to his supper of "cream o' tartar" biscuits and smoking tea, her clear +voice broke upon his solitude.</p> + +<p>"Gran'ther," called Mary Oldfield from the door, "mother says, 'Won't you +come over to supper?' She saw your smoke."</p> + +<p>Nicholas pushed back his chair a little; he felt himself completed.</p> + +<p>"You had yours?" he asked, in his usual even tones.</p> + +<p>"No. I waited for you."</p> + +<p>"Then you come right in an' git it. Take your mug—here, I'll reach it down +for ye—an' there's the Good-Girl plate."</p> + +<p>Mary Oldfield was a tall, pleasant looking maid of sixteen, and standing +quietly by, while her grandfather got out her own plate and mug, she was an +amazingly faithful copy of him. They smiled a little at each other, in +sitting down, but there was no closer greeting between them. They were +exceedingly well content to be together again, and this was so simple and +natural a state that there was nothing to say about it. Only Nicholas +looked at her from time to time—her capable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> brown hands and careful +braids of hair,—and nodded briefly, as he had a way of nodding at his +clocks.</p> + +<p>"You know what I told you, Mary, about the Flat-Iron Lot?" he asked, while +Mary buttered her biscuit.</p> + +<p>She looked at him in assent.</p> + +<p>"Well, I've proved it."</p> + +<p>"You don't say!"</p> + +<p>Mary had certain antique methods of speech, which the new-fangled school +teacher, not liking to pronounce them vulgar, had tactfully dubbed +"obsolete." "If we used 'em all the time they wouldn't get obsolete, would +they?" asked Mary; and the school teacher, being a logical person, made no +answer. So Mary went on plying them with a conscientious calmness like one +determined to keep a precious and misprized metal in circulation. She even +called Nicholas gran'ther, because he liked it, and because he had called +his own grandfather so.</p> + +<p>"Ye see," said Nicholas, "the fust rec'ids were missin'. 'Burnt up!' says +that town clerk over to Sudleigh. 'Burnt when the old meetin'-house ketched +fire, arter the Injun raid.' 'Burnt up!' thinks I. 'The cat's foot! I guess +so, when the communion service was carried over fifteen mile an' left in a +potato sullar.' So I says to myself, 'What become o' that fust communion +set?' Why,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> before the meetin'-house was repaired, they all rode over to +what's now Saltash, to worship in Square Billin's's kitchen. Now, when +Square Billin's died of a fever, that same winter, they hove all his books +into that old lumber-room over Sudleigh court-house. So, when I was fixin' +up the court-house clock, t' other day, I clim' up to that room, an' shet +myself in there. An', Mary, I found them rec'ids!" He looked at her with +that complete and awe-stricken triumph which nobody else had ever seen upon +his face. Her own reflected it.</p> + +<p>"Where are they, gran'ther?" asked Mary. But she was the more excited; she +could only whisper.</p> + +<p>"They're loose sheets o' paper," returned Nicholas, "an' <i>they're in my +bag</i>!"</p> + +<p>Mary made an involuntary movement toward the bag, which lay, innocently +secretive, on a neighboring chair. Even its advertising legend had a +knowing look. Nicholas followed her glance.</p> + +<p>"No," said he firmly, "not now. We'll read 'em all over this evenin', when +I've done the dishes. But, Mary, I'll tell ye this much: it's got the whole +story of the settlers comin' into town, an' which way they come, an' all +about it, writ down by Simeon Gerry, the fust minister, the one that killed +five Injuns, stoppin' to load an' fire, an' then opened on the rest with +bilin' fat. An', Mary, the fust set<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>tler of all was Nicholas Oldfield, +haulin' his wife on a kind of a drag made o' withes; an' the path they took +led straight over our Flat-Iron Lot. An', Mary, 't was there they rested, +an' offered up prayer to God."</p> + +<p>"O my soul, gran'ther!" breathed Mary, clasping her little brown hands. "O +my soul!" Her face grew curiously mature. It seemed to mirror his. She +leaned forward, in a deadly earnestness. "Gran'ther," said she, "did they +settle here first? Or—or was it Sudleigh?"</p> + +<p>Now, indeed, was Nicholas Oldfield the herald of news good both to tell and +hear.</p> + +<p>"The fust settlement," said he, as if he read it from the book of fate, +"was made in Tiverton, on the sixteenth day of the month; the second in +Sudleigh, on the twenty-fifth."</p> + +<p>"So, when you guessed at the date, and told parson to have the celebration +then, you got it right?"</p> + +<p>"I got it right," replied Nicholas quietly. "But pa'son shall see the +rec'ids, an' I'll recommend him to put 'em under lock an' key."</p> + +<p>The two sat there and looked at each other, with an outwelling of great +content. Then Mary passed her mug, and while Nicholas filled it, he gave +her an oft-repeated charge:—</p> + +<p>"Don't you open your head now, Mary. All this is between you an' me. I'll +just mention it to pa'son, an' make up my mind whether<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> he sees the meanin' +on 't. But don't you say one word to your father an' mother. To them it +don't signify."</p> + +<p>Mary nodded wisely. She knew, with the philosophy of a much older +experience, that she and gran'ther lived alone in a nest of kindly aliens. +As if their mention evoked a foreign presence, her mother's voice sounded +that instant from the door:—</p> + +<p>"Mary, why under the sun didn't you come back? I sent word for you to run +over with her, father, an' have some supper. Well, if you two ain't thick!"</p> + +<p>"We're havin' a dish o' discourse," returned Nicholas quietly.</p> + +<p>Young Nick's Hattie was forty-five, but she looked much younger. Extreme +plumpness had insured her against wrinkles, and her light brown hair was +banded smoothly back. Hattie's originality lay in a desire for color, and +therein she overstepped the bounds of all decorum. It was customary to see +her barred across with enormous plaids, or stripes going the broad way; and +so long had she lived under such insignia that no one would have known her +without them. She came in with soft, heavy footfalls, and sat down in the +little rocking-chair at Mr. Oldfield's right hand. She smiled at him, +somewhat nervously.</p> + +<p>"Well, father," said she, "you got home!"</p> + +<p>Nicholas helped himself to another half cup<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> of tea, after holding the +teapot tentatively across to Mary's mug.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, in his dry and gentle fashion, "I've got home."</p> + +<p>Hattie began rocking, in a rapid staccato, to punctuate her speech.</p> + +<p>"Well," she began, "I'll say my say an' done with it. There's goin' to be a +town-meetin' to-night, an' Nicholas sent me over to mention it. 'Father'll +want to be on hand,' says he."</p> + +<p>Mr. Oldfield pushed back his cup, and then his chair. He bent his keen blue +eyes upon her.</p> + +<p>"Town meetin' this time o' year?" said he. "What for?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's about the celebration. Old Mr. Eaton"—</p> + +<p>"What Eaton?"</p> + +<p>"William W."</p> + +<p>"He that went away in war time, an' made money in wool? Old War-Wool +Eaton?"</p> + +<p>Nicholas nodded, at her assent, and his look blackened. He knew what was +coming.</p> + +<p>"Well, he sent word he meant to give us a clock, same as he had other +towns, an' he wanted we should have it up before the celebration."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Nicholas Oldfield, "he'll give us a clock, will he? I knew he +would. I've said 'twas comin'. He give one to Saltash; he's gi'n 'em all +over the county. Do you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> know what them clocks be? They've got letters +round the dial, in place o' figgers; an' the letters spell out, 'In Memory +of Me.' An' down to Saltash they've gi'n up sayin' it's quarter arter +twelve, or the like o' that. They say it's O minutes past I."</p> + +<p>He glared at her. Young Nick's Hattie thought she had never heard father +speak with such bitterness; and indeed it was true. Never before had he +been assailed on his own ground; it seemed as if the whole township now +conspired to bait him.</p> + +<p>"Well" she remarked weakly, "I dunno's it does any hurt, so long as they +can tell what they mean by it."</p> + +<p>Nicholas threw her a pitying glance. He scorned to waste eternal truth on +one so dull.</p> + +<p>"Well," she went on, in desperation, "that ain't all, neither. I might as +well say the whole, an' done with it. He wants 'em to set up the clock on +the meetin'-house; an' seeing the tower mightn't be firm enough, he'll +build it up higher, an' give 'em a new bell."</p> + +<p>Now, indeed, Nicholas Oldfield was in the case of Shylock, when he learned +his daughter's limit of larceny. "The curse never fell upon our nation till +now," so he might have quoted. "I never felt it till now."</p> + +<p>He rose from his chair.</p> + +<p>"In the name of God Almighty," he asked solemnly, "what do they want of a +new bell?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span></p> + +<p>Young Nick's Hattie gave an involuntary cry.</p> + +<p>"O father!" she entreated, "don't say such words. I never see you take on +so. What under the sun has got into you?"</p> + +<p>Nicholas made no reply. Slowly and methodically he was putting the dishes +into the wooden sink. When he touched Mary's pink mug, his fingers trembled +a little; but he did not look at her. He knew she understood. Young Nick's +Hattie rolled her hands nervously in her apron, and then unrolled them, and +smoothed the apron down. She gathered herself desperately.</p> + +<p>"Well, father," she said, "I've got another arrant. I said I'd do it, an' I +will; but I dunno how you'll take it."</p> + +<p>"O mother!" cried Mary, "don't!"</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asked Nicholas, folding the tablecloth in careful creases. +"Say your say an' git it over."</p> + +<p>Hattie rocked faster and faster. Even in the stress of the moment Nicholas +remembered that the old chair was well made, and true to its equilibrium.</p> + +<p>"Well," said she, "Luella an' Freeman Henry come over here this very day, +an' Freeman Henry's possessed you should sell him the Flat-Iron Lot."</p> + +<p>"Wants the Flat-Iron Lot, does he?" inquired Nicholas grimly. "What's he +made up his mind to do with it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He wants to build," answered Hattie, momentarily encouraged. "He says +he'll be glad to ride over to work, every mornin' of his life, if he can +only feel 't he's settled in Tiverton for good. An' there's that lot on +high ground, right near the meetin'-house, as sightly a place as ever was, +an' no good to you,—there ain't half a load o' hay cut there in a +season,—an' he'd pay the full vally"—</p> + +<p>"Stop!" called Nicholas; and though his tone was conversational, Hattie +paused, open-mouthed, in full swing. He turned and faced her. "Hattie," +said he, "did you know that the fust settlers of this town had anything to +do with that lot o' land?"</p> + +<p>"No, I didn't know it," answered Hattie blankly.</p> + +<p>"I guess you didn't," concurred Nicholas. He had gone back to his old +gentleness of voice. "An' 't wouldn't ha' meant nothin' to ye, if ye had +known it. Now, you harken to me! It's my last word. That Flat-Iron Lot +stays under this name so long as I'm above ground. When I'm gone, you can +do as ye like. Now, I don't want to hurry ye, but I'm goin' down to vote."</p> + +<p>Hattie rose, abashed and nearly terrified. "Well!" said she vacantly. +"Well!" Nicholas had taken the broom, under pretext of brushing up the +crumbs, and he seemed literally to be sweeping her away. It was a wind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> of +destiny; and scudding softly and heavily before it, she disappeared in the +gathering dusk.</p> + +<p>"Mary!" she called from the gate, "Mary! Guess you better come along with +me."</p> + +<p>Mary did not hear. She was standing by Nicholas, holding the edge of his +sleeve. The unaccustomed action was significant; it bespoke a passionate +loyalty. Her blue eyes were on fire, and two hot tears stood in them, +unstanched. "O gran'ther!" she cried, "don't you let 'em have it. I wish I +was father. I'd see!"</p> + +<p>Nicholas Oldfield stood quite still, obedient to that touch upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"It's the name, Mary," said he. "Why, Freeman Henry's a Titcomb! He can't +help that. But he needn't think he can buy Oldfield land, an' set up a +house there, as if 't was all in the day's work. Why, Mary, I meant to +leave that land to you! An' p'raps you won't marry. Nobody knows. Then, 't +would stand in the name a mite longer."</p> + +<p>Mary blushed a little, but her eyes never wavered.</p> + +<p>"No, gran'ther," said she firmly, "I sha'n't ever marry anybody."</p> + +<p>"Well, ye can't tell," responded Nicholas, with a sigh. "Ye can't tell. He +might take your name if he wanted ye enough; but I should call it a poor +tool that would do that."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> + +<p>He sighed again, as he reached for his hat, and Mary and he went out of the +house together, hand in hand. At the gate they parted, and Nicholas took +his way to the schoolhouse, where the town fathers were already assembled.</p> + +<p>Since he passed over it that afternoon, the road had changed, responsive to +twilight and the coming dark. Nicholas knew it in all its phases, from the +dawn of spring, vocal with the peeping of frogs, to the revery of winter, +the silence of snow, and a hopeful glow in the west. Just here, by the +barberry bush at the corner, he had stood still under the spell of Northern +Lights. That was the night when his wife lay first in Tiverton churchyard; +and he remembered, as a part of the strangeness and wonder of the time, how +the north had streamed, and the neighboring houses had been rosy red. But +at this hour of the brooding, sultry fall, there was a bitter fragrance in +the air, and the world seemed tuned to the somnolent sound of crickets, +singing the fields to sleep. That one little note brooded over the earth, +and all the living things upon it: hovering, and crooning, and lulling them +to the rest decreed from of old. The homely beauty of it smote upon him, +though it could not cheer. A hideous progress seemed to threaten, not alone +the few details it touched, but all the sweet, familiar things of life. Old +War-Wool<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> Eaton, in assailing the town's historic peace, menaced also the +crickets and the breath of asters in the air. He was the rampant spirit of +an awful change. So, in the bitterness of revolt, Nicholas Oldfield marched +on, and stepped silently into the little schoolhouse, to meet his fellows. +They were standing about in groups, each laying down the law according to +his kind. The doors were wide open, and Nicholas felt as if he had brought +in with him the sounds of coming night. They kept him sane, so that he +could hold his own, as he might not have done in a room full of winter +brightness.</p> + +<p>"Hullo!" cried Caleb Rivers, in his neutral voice. "Here's Mr. Oldfield. +Well, Mr. Oldfield, there's a good deal on hand."</p> + +<p>"Called any votes?" asked Nicholas.</p> + +<p>"Well, no," said Caleb, scraping his chin. "I guess we're sort o' takin' +the sense o' the meetin'."</p> + +<p>"Good deal like a quiltin' so fur," remarked Brad Freeman indulgently. "All +gab an' no git there!"</p> + +<p>"They tell me," said Uncle Eli Pike, approaching Nicholas as if he had +something to confide, "that out west, where they have them new-fangled +clocks, they're all lighted up with 'lectricity."</p> + +<p>"Do they so?" asked Caleb, but Nicholas returned, with an unwonted +fierceness:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"Does that go to the right spot with you? Do you want to see a clock-face +starin' over Tiverton, like a full moon, chargin' ye to keep Old War-Wool +Eaton in memory?"</p> + +<p>"Well, no," replied Eli gently, "I dunno's I do, an' I dunno <i>but</i> I do."</p> + +<p>"Might set a lantern back o' the dial, an' take turns lightin' on 't," +suggested Brad Freeman.</p> + +<p>"Might carve out a jack-o'-lantern like Old Eaton's face," supplemented Tom +O'Neil irreverently.</p> + +<p>"Well," concluded Rivers, "I guess, when all's said and done, we might as +well take the clock, an' bell, too. When a man makes a fair offer, it's no +more'n civil to close with it. Ye can't rightly heave it back ag'in."</p> + +<p>"My argyment is," put in Ebenezer Tolman, who knew how to lay dollar by +dollar, "if he's willin' to do one thing for the town, he's willin' to do +another. S'pose he offered us a new brick meetin'-house—or a fancy gate to +the cemet'ry! Or s'pose he had it in mind to fill in that low land, so 't +we could bury there! Why, he could bring the town right up! Or, take it +t' other way round; he could put every dollar he's got into Sudleigh."</p> + +<p>Nicholas Oldfield groaned, but in the stress of voices no one heard him. He +slipped about from one group to another, and always the sentiment was the +same. A few smiled at Old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> War-Wool Eaton, who desired so urgently to be +remembered, when no one was likely to forget him; but all agreed that it +was, at the worst, a harmless and natural folly.</p> + +<p>"Let him be remembered," said one, with a large impartiality. "'T won't do +us no hurt, an' we shall have the clock an' bell."</p> + +<p>Just as the meeting was called to order, Nicholas Oldfield stole away, and +no one missed him. The proceedings began with some animated discussion, all +tending one way. Cupidity had entered into the public soul, and everybody +professed himself willing to take the clock, lest, by refusing, some golden +future should be marred. Let Old Eaton have his way, if thereby they might +beguile him into paving theirs. Let the town grow. Talk was very full and +free; but when the moment came for taking a vote, an unexpected sound broke +roundly on the air. It was the bell of the old church. One! it tolled. Each +man looked at his neighbor. Had death entered the village, and they +unaware? Two! three! it went solemnly on, the mellow cadence scarcely dying +before another stroke renewed it. The sexton was Simeon Pease, a little +red-headed man, a hunchback, abnormally strong. Suddenly he rose in +amazement. His face looked ashen.</p> + +<p>"Suthin's tollin' the bell!" he gasped. "The bell's a-tollin' an' <i>I ain't +there</i>!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> + +<p>A new element of mystery and terror sprang to life.</p> + +<p>"The sax'on's here!" whispered one and another. But nobody stirred, for +nobody would lose count. Twenty-three! the dead was young. Twenty-four! and +so it marched and marched, to thirty and thirty-five. They looked about +them, taking a swift inventory of familiar faces, and more than one man +felt a tightening about his heart, at thought of the women-folk at home. +The record climbed to middle-age, and tolled majestically beyond it, like a +life ripening to victorious close. Sixty! seventy! eighty-one!</p> + +<p>"It ain't Pa'son True!" whispered an awe-struck voice.</p> + +<p>Then on it beat, to the completed century.</p> + +<p>The women of Tiverton, in afterwards weighing the immobility of their +public representatives under this mysterious clangor, dwelt upon the fact +with scorn.</p> + +<p>"Well, I should think you was smart!" cried sundry of them in turn. "Set +there like a bump on a log, an' wonder what's the matter! Never heard of +anything so numb in all my born days. If I was a man, I guess I'd see!"</p> + +<p>It was Brad Freeman who broke the spell, with a sudden thought and cry,—</p> + +<p>"By thunder! maybe's suthin's afire!"</p> + +<p>He leaped to his feet, and with long, loping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> strides made his way up the +hill to Tiverton church. The men, in one excited, surging rabble, followed +him. The women were before them. They, too, had heard the tolling for the +unknown dead, and had climbed a quicker way, leaving fire and cradle +behind. At the very moment when they were pressing, men and women, to the +open church door, the last lingering clang had ceased, the bell lay humming +itself to rest, and Nicholas Oldfield strode out and faced them. By this +time, factions had broken up, and each woman instinctively sought her +husband's side, assuring herself of protection against the unresting things +of the spirit. Young Nick's Hattie found her lawful ally, with the rest.</p> + +<p>"My soul!" said she in a whisper, "it's father!"</p> + +<p>Nicholas touched her arm in warning, and stood silent. He felt that the +waters were troubled, as he had known them to be once or twice in his +boyhood.</p> + +<p>"He's got his mad up," remarked Young Nick to himself. "Stan' from under!"</p> + +<p>Nicholas strode through the crowd, and it separated to let him pass. There +was about him at that moment an amazing physical energy, apparent even in +the dark. He seemed a different man, and one woman whispered to another, +"Why, that can't be Mr. Oldfield! It's a head taller."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> + +<p>He walked across the green, and the crowd turned also, to follow him. +There, just opposite the church, lay his own Flat-Iron Lot, and he stepped +into it, over the low stone boundary, and turned about.</p> + +<p>"Don't ye come no nearer," called he. "This is my land. Don't ye set foot +on it."</p> + +<p>The Flat-Iron Lot was a triangular piece of ground, rich in drooping elms, +and otherwise varied only by a great boulder looming up within the wall +nearest the church. Nicholas paused for a moment where he was; then with a +thought of being the better heard, he turned, ran up the rough side of the +boulder, and faced his fellows. As he stood there, illumined by the rising +moon, he seemed colossal.</p> + +<p>"He'll break his infernal old neck!" said Brad Freeman admiringly. But no +one answered, for Nicholas Oldfield had begun to speak.</p> + +<p>"Don't ye set foot on my land!" he repeated. "Ye ain't wuth it. Do you know +what this land is? It belonged to a man that settled in a place that knows +enough to celebrate its foundin', but don't know enough to prize what's +fell to it. Do you know what I was doin' of, when I tolled that bell? I'll +tell ye. I tolled a hunderd an' ten strokes. That's the age of the bell +you're goin' to throw aside to flatter up a man that made money out o' the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> +war. A hunderd an' twelve years ago that bell was cast in England; a +hunderd an' ten years ago 't was sent over here."</p> + +<p>"Now, how's father know that?" whispered Hattie disparagingly.</p> + +<p>"I've cast my vote. Them hunderd an' ten strokes is all the voice I'll have +in the matter, or any matter, so long as I live in this God-forsaken town. +I'd ruther die than talk over a thing like that in open meetin'. It's an +insult to them that went before ye, an' fit hunger and cold an' Injuns. +I've got only one thing more to say," he continued, and some fancied there +came a little break in his voice. "When ye take the old bell down, send her +out to sea, an' sink her; or bury her deep enough in the woods, so 't +nobody'll git at her till the Judgment Day."</p> + +<p>With one descending step, he seemed to melt away into the darkness; and +though every one stood quite still, expectant, there was no sound, save +that of the crickets and the night. He had gone, and left them trembling. +Well as they knew him, he had all the effect of some strange herald, +freighted with wisdom from another sphere.</p> + +<p>"Well, I swear!" said Brad Freeman, at length, and as if a word could +shiver the spell, men and woman turned silently about and went down the +hill. When they reached a lower plane, they stopped to talk a little, and +once<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> indoors, discussion had its way. Young Nick and Hattie had walked +side by side, feeling that the eyes of the town were on them, reading their +emblazoned names. But Mary marched behind them, solemnly and alone. She +held her head very high, knowing what her kinsfolk thought: that gran'ther +had disgraced them. A passionate protest rose within her.</p> + +<p>That night, everybody watched the old house in the shade of the poplars, to +see if Nicholas had "lighted up." But the windows lay dark, and little +Mary, slipping over across the orchard, when her mother thought her safe in +bed, tried the door in vain. She pushed at it wildly, and then ran round to +the front, charging against the sentinel hollyhocks, and letting the +knocker fall with a desperate and repeated clang. The noise she had herself +evoked frightened her more than the stillness, and she fled home again, +crying softly, and pursued by all the unresponsive presences of night.</p> + +<p>For weeks Tiverton lay in a state of hushed expectancy; one miracle seemed +to promise another. But Nicholas Oldfield's house was really closed; the +windows shone blankly at men and women who passed, interrogating it. Young +Nick and his Hattie had nothing to say, after Hattie's one unguarded +admission that she didn't know what possessed father. The village felt that +it had been arraigned be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>fore some high tribunal, only to be found lacking. +It had an irritated conviction that, meaning no harm, it should not have +been dealt with so harshly; and was even moved to declare that, if Nicholas +Oldfield knew so much about what was past and gone, he needn't have waited +till the trump o' doom to say so. But, somehow, the affair of clock and +bell could not be at once revived, and a vague letter was dispatched to the +prospective donor stating that, in regard to his generous offer, no +decision could at the moment be reached; the town was too busy in preparing +for its celebration, which would take place in something over two weeks; +after that the question would be considered. The truth was that, at the +bottom of each heart, still lurked the natural cupidity of the loyal +citizen who will not see his town denied; but side by side with that desire +for the march of progress, walked the spectre of Nicholas Oldfield's wrath. +The trembling consciousness prevailed that he might at any moment descend +again, wrapped in that inexplicable atmosphere of loftier meanings.</p> + +<p>Still, Tiverton was glad to put the question by, for she had enough to do. +The celebration knocked at the door, and no one was ready. Only Brad +Freeman, always behindhand, save at some momentary exigency of rod or gun, +was fulfilling the prophecy that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> last shall be first. For he had, out +of the spontaneity of genius, elected to do one deed for that great day, +and his work was all but accomplished. In public conclave assembled to +discuss the parade, he had offered to make an elephant, to lead the van. +Tiverton roared, and then, finding him gravely silent, remained, with +gaping mouth, to hear his story. It seemed, then, that Brad had always +cherished one dear ambition. He would fain fashion an elephant; and having +never heard of Frankenstein, he lacked anticipation of the dramatic finale +likely to attend a meddling with the creative powers. He did not confess, +save once to his own wife, how many nights he had lain awake, in their +little dark bedroom, planning the anatomy of the eastern lord; he simply +said that he "wanted to make the critter," and he thought he could do it. +Immediately the town gave him to understand that he had full power to draw +upon the public treasury, to the extent of one elephant; and the youth, who +always flocked adoringly about him, intimated that they were with him, +heart and soul. Thereupon, in Eli Pike's barn, selected as of goodly size, +creation reveled, the while a couple of men, chosen for their true eye and +practiced hand, went into the woods, and chopped down two beautiful slender +trees for tusks. For many a day now, the atmosphere of sacred art had hung +about that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> barn. Brad was a maker, and everybody felt it. Fired by no +tradition of the horse that went to the undoing of Troy, and with no plan +before him, he set his framework together, nailing with unerring hand. Did +he need a design, he who had brooded over his bliss these many months when +Tiverton thought he was "jest lazin' round?" Nay, it was to be "all +wrought out of the carver's brain," and the brain was ready.</p> + +<p>Often have I wished some worthy chronicler had been at hand when Tiverton +sat by at the making of the elephant; and then again I have realized that, +though the atmosphere was highly charged, it may have been void of homely +talk. For this was a serious moment, and even when Brad gave sandpaper and +glass into the hands of Lothrop Wilson, the cooper, bidding him smooth and +polish the tusks, there was no jealousy: only a solemn sense that Mr. +Wilson had been greatly favored. Brad's wife sewed together a dark +slate-colored cambric, for the elephant's hide, and wet and wrinkled it, as +her husband bade her, for the shambling shoulders and flanks. It was she +who made the ears, from a pattern cunningly conceived; and she stuffed the +legs with fine shavings brought from the planing-mill at Sudleigh. Then +there came an intoxicating day when the trunk took shape, the glass-bottle +eyes were inserted, and Brad sprung upon a breathless world his one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +surprise. Between the creature's fore-legs, he disclosed an opening, saying +meantime to the smallest Crane boy,—</p> + +<p>"You crawl up there!"</p> + +<p>The Crane boy was not valiant, but he reasoned that it was better to seek +an unguessed fate within the elephant than to refuse immortal glory. +Trembling, he crept into the hole, and was eclipsed.</p> + +<p>"Now put your hand up an' grip that rope that's hangin' there," commanded +Brad. Perhaps he, too, trembled a little. The heart beats fast when we +approach a great fruition.</p> + +<p>"Pull it! Easy, now! easy!"</p> + +<p>The boy pulled, and the elephant moved his trunk. He stretched it out, he +drew it in. Never was such a miracle before. And Tiverton, drunk with +glory, clapped and shouted until the women-folk clutched their sunbonnets +and ran to see. No situation since the war had ever excited such ferment. +Brad was the hero of his town. But now arose a natural rivalry, the +reaction from great, impersonal joy in noble work. What lad, on that final +day, should ride within the elephant, and move his trunk? The Crane boy +contended passionately that he held the right of possession. Had he not +been selected first? Others wept at home and argued the case abroad, until +it became a common thing to see two young scions of Tiverton grappling in +dusty roadways,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> or stoning each other from afar. The public accommodated +itself to such spectacles, and grown-up relatives, when they came upon +little sons rolling over and over, or sitting triumphantly, the one upon +another's chest, would only remark, as they gripped two shirt collars, and +dragged the combatants apart:—</p> + +<p>"Now, what do you want to act so for? Brad'll pick out the one he thinks +best. He's got the say."</p> + +<p>In vain did mothers argue, at twilight time, when the little dusty legs in +overalls were still, and stubbed toes did their last wriggling for the day, +that the boy who moved the trunk could not possibly see the rest of the +procession. The candidates, to a boy, rejected that specious plea.</p> + +<p>"What do I want to see anything for, if I can jest set inside that +elephant?" sobbed the Crane boy angrily. And under every roof the wail was +repeated in many keys.</p> + +<p>Meantime, the log cabin had been going steadily up, and a week before the +great day, it was completed. This was a typical scene-setting,—the cabin +of a first settler,—and through one wild leap of fancy it became suddenly +and dramatically dignified.</p> + +<p>"For the land's sake!" said aunt Lucindy, when she went by and saw it +standing, in modest worth, "ain't they goin' to <i>do</i> anythin' with it? Jest +let it set there? Why under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> the sun don't they have a party of Injuns +tackle it?"</p> + +<p>The woman who heard repeated the remark as a sample of aunt Lucindy's +desire to have everything "all of a whew;" but when it came to the ears of +a certain young man who had sat brooding, in silent emulation, over the +birth of the elephant, he rose, with fire in his eye, and went to seek his +mates. Indians there should be, and he, by right of first desire, should +become their leader. Thereupon, turkey feathers came into great demand, and +wattled fowl, once glorious, went drooping dejectedly about, while maidens +sat in doorways sewing wampum and leggings for their favored swains. The +first rehearsal of this aboriginal drama was not an entire success, because +the leader, being unimaginative though faithful, decreed that faces should +be blackened with burnt cork; and the result was a tribe of the African +race, greatly astonished at their own appearance in the family mirror. Then +the doctor suggested walnut juice, and all went conformably again. But each +man wanted to be an Indian, and no one professed himself willing to suffer +the attack.</p> + +<p>"I'll stay in the cabin, if I can shoot, an' drop a redskin every time," +said Dana Marden stubbornly; but no redskin would consent to be dropped, +and naturally no settler could yield. It would ill befit that glorious day +to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> see the log cabin taken; but, on the other hand, what loyal citizen +could allow himself to be defeated, even as a skulking redman, at the very +hour of Tiverton's triumph? For a time a peaceful solution was promised by +the doctor, who proposed that a party of settlers on horseback should come +to the rescue, just when a settler's wife, within the cabin, was in danger +of immolation. That seemed logical and right, and for days thereafter young +men on astonished farm horses went sweeping down Tiverton Street, +alternately pursuing and pursued, while Isabel North, as Priscilla, the +Puritan maiden, trembled realistically at the cabin door. Just why she was +to be Priscilla, a daughter of Massachusetts, Isabel never knew; the name +had struck the popular fancy, and she made her costume accordingly. But one +day, when young Tiverton was galloping about the town, to the sound of +ecstatic yells, a farmer drew up his horse to inquire:—</p> + +<p>"Now see here! there's one thing that's got to be settled. When the day +comes, who's goin' to beat?"</p> + +<p>An Indian, his face scarlet with much sound, and his later state not yet +apparent, in that his wampum, blanket, and horsehair wig lay at home, on +the best-room bed, made answer hoarsely, "We be!"</p> + +<p>"Not by a long chalk!" returned the other, and the settlers growled in +unison. They had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> all a patriot's pride in upholding white blood against +red.</p> + +<p>"Well, by gum! then you can look out for your own Injuns!" returned their +chief. "<i>My</i> last gun's fired."</p> + +<p>Settlers and Indians turned sulkily about; they rode home in two separate +factions, and the streets were stilled. Isabel North went faithfully on, +making her Priscilla dress, but it seemed, in those days, as if she might +remain in her log cabin, unattacked and undefended. Tiverton was to be +deprived of its one dramatic spectacle. Young men met one another in the +streets, remarked gloomily, "How are ye?" and passed by. There were no more +curdling yells at which even the oxen lifted their dull ears; and one youth +went so far as to pack his Indian suit sadly away in the garret, as a +jilted girl might lay aside her wedding gown. It was a sullen and all but +universal feud.</p> + +<p>Now in all this time two prominent citizens had let public opinion riot as +it would,—the minister and the doctor. The minister, a grave-faced, +brown-bearded young man, had seen fit to get run down, and have an attack +of slow fever, from which he was just recovering; and the doctor had been +spending most of his time in Saltash, with an epidemic of mumps. But the +mumps subsided, and the minister gained strength; so, being +public<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>-spirited men, these two at once concerned themselves in village +affairs. The first thing the minister did was to call on Nicholas Oldfield, +and Young Nick's Hattie saw him there, knocking at the front door.</p> + +<p>"Mary! Mary!" cried she, "if there ain't the young pa'son over to your +grandpa's. I dunno when anybody's called there, he's away so much. Like as +not he's heard how father carried on that night, an' now he's got out, he's +come right over, first thing, to tell him what folks think."</p> + +<p>Mary looked up from the serpentine braid she was crocheting.</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess he'd better not," she threatened. And her mother, absorbed +by curiosity, contented herself with the reproof implied in a shaken head +and pursed-up lips.</p> + +<p>A sad and curious change had befallen Mary. She looked older. One week had +dimmed her brightness, and little puckers between her eyes were telling a +story of anxious care. For gran'ther had been home without her seeing him. +Mary felt as if he had repudiated the town. She knew well that he had not +abandoned her with it, but she could guess what the loss of larger issues +meant to him. Young Nick, if he had been in the habit of expressing +himself, would have said that father's mad was still up. Mary knew he was +grieved, and she grieved also. She had not expected him until the end<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> of +the week. Then watching wistfully, she saw the darkness come, and knew next +day would bring him; but the next day it was the same. One placid +afternoon, a quick thought assailed her, and stained her cheek with +crimson. She laid down the sheet which was her "stent" of over-edge, and +ran with flying feet to the little house. Hanging by her hands upon the +sill of the window nearest the clock, she laid her ear to the glass. The +clock was ticking serenely, as of old. Gran'ther had been home to wind it. +So he had come in the night, and slipped away again in silence!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"There! he's gi'n it up!" cried Hattie, still watching the minister. "He's +turnin' down the path. My land! he's headed this way. He's comin' here. You +beat up that cushion, an' throw open the best-room door. My soul! if your +grandpa's goin' to set the whole town by the ears, I wisht he'd come home +an' fight his own battles!"</p> + +<p>Hattie did not look at her young daughter; but if she had looked, she might +have been amazed. Mary stood firm as iron; she was more than ever a chip o' +the old block.</p> + +<p>When the young minister had somewhat weakly climbed the two front steps, he +elected not to sit in the best room, for he was a little chilly, and would +like the sun. Presently he was installed in the new cane-backed rocker,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +and Mrs. Oldfield had offered him some currant wine.</p> + +<p>"Though I dunno's you would," said she, anxiously flaunting a principle +righteous as his own. "I s'pose you're teetotal."</p> + +<p>The minister would not have wine, and he could not stay.</p> + +<p>"I've really come on business," said he. "Do you know anything about Mr. +Oldfield?"</p> + +<p>So strong was the family conviction that Nicholas had involved them in +disgrace, that Mary glanced up fiercely, and her mother gave an apologetic +cough.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Young Nick's Hattie, "I dunno's I know anything particular +about father."</p> + +<p>"Where is he, I mean," asked the minister. "I want to see him. I've got +to."</p> + +<p>"Gran'ther's gone away," announced Mary, looking up at him with hot and +loyal eyes. "We don't know where." Her fingers trembled, and she lost her +stitch. She was furious with herself for not being calmer. It seemed as if +gran'ther had a right to demand it of her. The minister bent his brows +impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Why, I depended on seeing Mr. Oldfield," said he, with the fractiousness +of a man recently ill. "This sickness of mine has put me back tremendously. +I've got to make the address, and I don't know what to say. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> meant to +read town records and hunt up old stories; and then when I was sick I +thought, 'Never mind! Mr. Oldfield will have it all at his tongue's end.' +And now he isn't here, and I'm all at sea without him."</p> + +<p>This was perhaps the first time that Young Nick's Hattie had ever looked +upon her father's pursuits with anything but a pitying eye. A frown of +perplexity grew between her brows. Her brain ached in expanding. Mary +leaned forward, her face irradiated with pure delight.</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," said she, at once accepting the minister for a friend, +"gran'ther could tell you, if he was here. He knows everything."</p> + +<p>"You see," continued the minister, now addressing her, "there are facts +enough that are common talk about the town, but we only half know them. The +first settlers came from Devon. Well, where did they enter the town? From +which point? Sudleigh side, or along by the river? I incline to the river. +The doctor says it would be a fine symbolic thing to take the procession up +to the church by the very way the first settlers came in. But where was it? +I don't know, and nobody does, unless it's Nicholas Oldfield."</p> + +<p>Mary folded her hands, in proud composure.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," said she, "gran'ther knows. He could tell you, if he was here."</p> + +<p>"I should like to inquire what makes you so certain, Mary Oldfield," asked +her mother,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> with the natural irritation of the unprepared. "I should like +to know how father's got hold of things pa'son and doctor ain't neither of +'em heard of?"</p> + +<p>"Why," said the minister, rising, "he's simply crammed with town legends. +He can repeat them by the yard. He's a local historian. But then, I needn't +tell you that; you know what an untiring student he has been." And he went +away thoughtful and discouraged, omitting, as Hattie realized with awe, to +offer prayer.</p> + +<p>Mary stepped joyously about, getting supper and singing "Hearken, Ye +Sprightly!" in an exultant voice; but her mother brooded. It was not until +dusk, when the three sat before the clock-room fire, "blazed" rather for +company than warmth, that Young Nick's Hattie opened her mouth and spoke.</p> + +<p>"Mary," said she, "how'd you find out your grandpa was such great shakes?"</p> + +<p>Mary was in some things much older than her mother. She answered demurely, +"I don't know as I can say."</p> + +<p>"Nick," continued Hattie, turning to her spouse, "did you ever hear your +father was smarter'n the minister an' doctor put together, so 't they had +to run round beseechin' him to tell 'em how to act?"</p> + +<p>Nicholas knocked his pipe against the andiron, and rose, to lay it +carefully on the shelf.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> "I can't say's I did," he returned. Then he set +forth for Eli Pike's barn, where it was customary now to stand about the +elephant and prophesy what Tiverton might become. As for Hattie, realizing +how little light she was likely to borrow from those who were nearest and +dearest her, she remarked that she should like to shake them both.</p> + +<p>The next day began a new and exciting era. It was bruited abroad that the +presence of Nicholas Oldfield was necessary for the success of the +celebration; and now young men but lately engaged in unprofitable warfare +rode madly over the county in search of him. They inquired for him at +taverns; they sought him in farmhouses where he had been wont to lodge. He +gained almost the terrible notoriety of an absconding cashier; and the +current issue of the Sudleigh "Star" wore a flaming headline, "No Trace of +Mr. Oldfield Yet!"</p> + +<p>Mary at first waxed merry over the pursuit. She knew very well why +gran'ther was staying away; and her pride grew insolent at seeing him +sought in vain. But when his loss flared out at her in sacred print, she +stared for a moment, and then, after that wide-eyed, piteous glance at the +possibilities of things, walked with a firm tread to her little room. There +she knelt down, and buried her face in the bed, being careful, meanwhile, +not to rumple the valance. At last she knew the truth; he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> dead, and +village gossip seemed a small thing in comparison.</p> + +<p>It would have been difficult, as time went on, to convince the rest of the +township that Mr. Oldfield was not in a better world.</p> + +<p>"They'd ha' found him, if he's above ground," said the fathers, full of +faith in the detective instinct of their coursing sons. It seemed +incredible that sons should ride so fast and far, and come to nothing. +"Never was known to go out o' the county, an' they've rid over it from one +eend to t' other. Must ha' made way with himself. He wa'n't quite right, +that time he tolled the bell."</p> + +<p>They found ominous parallels of peddlers who had been murdered in byways, +or stuck in swamps, and even cited a Tivertonian, of low degree, who was +once caught beneath the chin by a clothes-line, and remained there, under +the impression that he was being hanged, until the family came out in the +morning, and tilted him the other way.</p> + +<p>"But then," they added, "he was a drinkin' man, an' Mr. Oldfield never was +known to touch a drop, even when he had a tight cold."</p> + +<p>Dark as the occasion waxed, what with feuds and presentiments of ill, there +was some casual comfort in rolling this new tragedy as a sweet morsel under +the tongue, and a mournful pleasure in referring to the night when poor Mr. +Oldfield was last seen alive. So time went on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> to the very eve of the +celebration, and it was as well that the celebration had never been. For +kindly as Tiverton proved herself, in the main, and closely welded in union +against rival towns, now it seemed as if the hand of every man were raised +against his brother. Settlers and Indians were still implacable; neither +would ride, save each might slay the other. The Crane boy tossed in bed, +swollen to the eyes with an evil tooth; and his exulting mates so besieged +Brad Freeman for preferment, that even that philosopher's patience gave +way, and he said he'd be hanged if he'd take the elephant out at all, if +there was going to be such a to-do about it. Even the minister sulked, +though he wore a pretense of dignity; for he had concocted a short address +with very little history in it, and that all hearsay, and the doctor had +said lightly, looking it over, "Well, old man, not much of it, is there? +But there's enough of it, such as it is."</p> + +<p>It was in vain for the doctor to declare that this was a colloquialism +which might mean much or little, as you chose to take it. The minister, +justly hurt, remarked that, when a man was in a tight place, he needed the +support of his friends, if he had any; and the doctor went whistling +drearily away, conscious that he could have said much worse about the +address, without doing it justice.</p> + +<p>The only earthly circumstance which seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> to be fulfilling its duty +toward Tiverton was the weather. That shone seraphically bright. The air +was never so soft, the skies were never so clear and far, and they were +looking down indulgently on all this earthly turmoil when, something before +midnight, on the fateful eve, Nicholas Oldfield went up the path to his +side-door, and stumbled over despairing Mary on the step.</p> + +<p>"What under the heavens"—he began; but Mary precipitated herself upon him, +and held him with both hands. The moral tension, which had held her +hopeless and rigid, gave way. She was sobbing wildly.</p> + +<p>"O gran'ther!" she moaned, over and over again. "O gran'ther!"</p> + +<p>Nicholas managed somehow to get the door open and walk in, hampered as he +was by the clinging arms of his tall girl. Then he sat down in the big +chair, taking Mary there too, and stroked her cheek. Perhaps he could +hardly have done it in the light, but at that moment it seemed very +natural. For a long time neither of them spoke. Mary had no words, and it +may be that Nicholas could not seek for them. At last she began, catching +her breath tremulously:—</p> + +<p>"They've hunted everywhere, gran'ther. They've rode all over the county; +and after the celebration, they're going to—dr—drag the pond!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, I guess I can go out o' the county if I want to," responded Nicholas +calmly. "I come across a sheet in them rec'ids that told about a pewter +communion set over to Rocky Ridge, an' I've found part on 't in a tavern +there. Who put 'em up to all this work? Your father?"</p> + +<p>"No," sobbed Mary. "The minister."</p> + +<p>"The minister? What's he want?"</p> + +<p>"He's got to write an address, and he wants you to tell him what to say."</p> + +<p>Then, in the darkness of the room, a slow smile stole over Nicholas +Oldfield's face, but his voice remained quite grave.</p> + +<p>"Does, does he?" he remarked. "Well, he ain't the fust pa'son that's needed +a lift; but he's the fust one ever I knew to ask for it. I've got nothin' +for 'em, Mary. I come home to wind up the clocks; but I ain't goin' to +stand by a town that'll swaller a Memory-o'-Me timekeeper an' murder the +old bell. You can say I was here, an' they needn't go to muddyin' up the +ponds; but as to their doin's, they can carry 'em out as they may. I've no +part nor lot in 'em."</p> + +<p>Mary, in the weakness of her kind, was wiser than she knew. She drew her +arms about his neck, and clung to him the closer. All this talk of plots +and counter-plots seemed very trivial now that she had him back; and being +only a child, wearied with care and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> watching, she went fast asleep on his +shoulder. Nicholas felt tired too; but he thought he had only dozed a +little when he opened his eyes on a gleam of morning, and saw the doctor +come striding into the yard.</p> + +<p>"Your door's open!" called the doctor. "You must be at home to callers. +Morning, Mary! Either of you sick?"</p> + +<p>Mary, abashed, drew herself away, and slipped into the sitting-room, a hand +upon her tumbled hair; the doctor, wise in his honesty, slashed at the +situation without delay.</p> + +<p>"See here, Mr. Oldfield," said he, "whether you've slept or not, you've got +to come right over to parson's with me, and straighten him out. He's all +balled up. You are as bad as the rest of us. You think we don't know enough +to refuse a clock like a comic valentine, and you think we don't prize that +old bell. How are we going to prize things if nobody tells us anything +about them? And here's the town going to pieces over a celebration it +hasn't sense enough to plan, just because you're so obstinate. Oh, come +along! Hear that! The boys are beginning to toot, and fire off their +crackers, and Tiverton's going to the dogs, and Sudleigh'll be glad of it! +Come, Mr. Oldfield, come along!"</p> + +<p>Nicholas stood quite calmly looking through the window into the morning dew +and mist. He wore his habitual air of gentle indifference,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> and the doctor +saw in him those everlasting hills which persuasion may not climb. Suddenly +there was a rustling from the other room, and Mary appeared in the doorway, +standing there expectant. Her face was pink and a little vague from sleep, +but she looked very dear and good. Though Nicholas had "lost himself" that +night, he had kept time for thought; and perhaps he realized how precious a +thing it is to lay up treasure of inheritance for one who loves us, and is +truly of our kind. He turned quite meekly to the doctor.</p> + +<p>"Should you think," he inquired, "should you think pa'son would be up an' +dressed?"</p> + +<p>Ten minutes thereafter, the two were knocking at the parson's door.</p> + +<p>Confused and turbulent as Tiverton had become, Nicholas Oldfield settled +her at once. Knowledge dripped from his finger-ends; he had it ready, like +oil to give a clock. Doctor and minister stood breathless while he laid out +the track for the procession by local marks they both knew well.</p> + +<p>"They must ha' come into the town from som'er's nigh the old cross-road," +said he. "No, 't wa'n't where they made the river road. Then they turned +straight to one side—'t was thick woods then, you understand—an' went up +a little ways towards Horn o' the Moon. But they concluded that wouldn't +suit 'em,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> 't was so barren-like; an' they wheeled round, took what's now +the old turnpike, an' clim' right up Tiverton Hill, through Tiverton Street +that now is. An' there"—Nicholas Oldfield's eyes burned like blue flame, +and again he told the story of the Flat-iron Lot.</p> + +<p>"Indeed!" cried the parson. "What a truly remarkable circumstance! We might +halt on that very spot, and offer prayer, before entering the church."</p> + +<p>"'Pears as if that would be about the rights on 't," said Nicholas quietly. +"That is, if anybody wanted to plan it out jest as 't was." He could free +his words from the pride of life, but not his voice; it quivered and +betrayed him.</p> + +<p>"Your idea would be to have the services before going down for the Indian +raid?" inquired the doctor. "They're all at logger-heads there."</p> + +<p>But Nicholas, hearing how neither faction would forego its glory, had the +remedy ready in a cranny of his brain.</p> + +<p>"Well," said he, "you know there was a raid in '53, when both sides gi'n up +an' run. A crazed creatur on a white horse galloped up an' dispersed 'em. +He was all wropped up in a sheet, and carried a jack-o'-lantern on a pole +over his head, so 't he seemed more'n nine feet high. The settlers thought +'t was a spirit; an' as for the Injuns, Lord knows what 't was to them. 'T +any rate, the raid was over."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Heaven be praised!" cried the doctor fervently. "Allah is great, and you, +Mr. Oldfield, are his prophet. Stay here and coach the parson while I start +up the town."</p> + +<p>The doctor dashed home and mounted his horse. It was said that he did some +tall riding that day. From door to door he galloped, a lesser Paul Revere, +but sowing seeds of harmony. It was true that the soil was ready. Indians +in full costume were lurking down cellar or behind kitchen doors, swearing +they would never ride, but tremblingly eager to be urged. Settlers, +gloomily acquiescent in an unjust fate, brightened at his heralding. The +ghost was the thing. It took the popular fancy; and everybody wondered, as +after all illuminings of genius, why nobody had thought of it before. Brad +Freeman was unanimously elected to act the part, as the only living man +likely to manage a supplementary head without rehearsal; and Pillsbury's +white colt was hastily groomed for the onslaught. Brad had at once seen the +possibilities of the situation and decided, with an unerring certainty, +that as a jack-o'-lantern is naught by day, the pumpkin face must be +cunningly veiled. He was a busy man that morning; for he not only had to +arrange his own ghostly progress, but settle the elephant on its platform, +to be dragged by vine-wreathed oxen, and also, at the doctor's instigation, +to make the sledge on which the first Nicholas<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> Oldfield should draw his +wife into town. The doctor sought out Young Nick, and asked him to +undertake the part, as tribute to his illustrious name; but he was of a +prudent nature and declined. What if the town should laugh! "I guess I +won't," said he.</p> + +<p>But Mary, regardless of maternal cacklings, sped after the doctor as he +turned his horse.</p> + +<p>"O doctor!" she besought, "let me be the first settler's wife! Please, +<i>please</i> let me be Mary Oldfield!"</p> + +<p>The doctor was glad enough. All the tides of destiny were surging his way. +Even when he paused, in his progress, to pull the Crane boy's tooth, it +seemed to work out public harmony. For the victim, cannily anxious to prove +his valor, insisted on having the operation conducted before the front +window; and after it was accomplished, the squads of boys waiting at the +gate for his apotheosis or down-fall, gave an unwilling yet delighted yell. +He had not winced; and when, with the fire of a dear ambition still shining +in his eyes, he held up the tooth to them, through the glass, they realized +that he, and he only, could with justice take the crown of that most +glorious day. He must ride inside the elephant.</p> + +<p>So it came to pass that when the procession wound slowly up from the +cross-road, preceded by the elephant, lifting his trunk at rhythmic +intervals, Nicholas Oldfield saw his little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> Mary, her eyes shining and her +cheeks aglow, sitting proudly upon a sledge, drawn by the handsomest young +man in town. A pang may have struck the old man's heart, realizing that +Phil Marden was so splendid in his strength, and that he wore so sweet a +look of invitation; but he remembered Mary's vow and was content. A great +pride and peace enwrapped him when the procession halted at the Flat-Iron +Lot, and the minister, lifting up his voice, explained to the townspeople +why they were called upon to pause. The name of Oldfield sounded clearly on +the air.</p> + +<p>"Now," said the minister, "let us pray." The petition went forth, and Mr. +Oldfield stood brooding there, his thoughts running back through a long +chain of ancestry to the Almighty, Who is the fount of all.</p> + +<p>When heads were covered again, and this little world began to surge into +the church, young Nick's Hattie moved closer to her husband and shot out a +sibilant whisper:—</p> + +<p>"Did you know that?—about the Flat-Iron Lot?"</p> + +<p>Young Nick shook his head. He was entirely dazed.</p> + +<p>"Well," continued Hattie, full of awe, "I guess I never was nearer my end +than when I let myself be go-between for Freeman Henry. I wonder father let +me get out alive."</p> + +<p>The minister's address was very short and un<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>pretending. He dwelt on the +sacredness of the past, and all its memories, and closed by saying that, +while we need not shrink from signs of progress, we should guard against +tampering with those ancient landmarks which serve as beacon lights, to +point the brighter way. Hearing that, every man steeled his heart against +Memory-of-Me clocks, and resolved to vote against them. Then the minister +explained that, since he had been unable to prepare a suitable address, Mr. +Oldfield had kindly consented to read some precious records recently +discovered by him. A little rustling breath went over the audience. So this +amiable lunacy had its bearing on the economy of life! They were amazed, as +may befall us at any judgment day, when grays are strangely alchemized to +white.</p> + +<p>Mr. Oldfield, unmoved as ever, save in a certain dominating quality of +presence, rose and stood before them, the records in his hands. He read +them firmly, explaining here and there, his simple speech untouched by +finer usage; and when the minister interposed a question, he dropped into +such quaintness of rich legendry that his hearers sat astounded. So they +were a part of the world! and not the world to-day, but the universe in its +making.</p> + +<p>It was long before Nicholas concluded; but the time seemed brief. He sat +down, and the minister took the floor. He thanked Mr. Old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>field and then +went on to say that, although it might be informal, he would suggest that +the town, with Mr. Oldfield's permission, place an inscription on the +boulder in the Flat-Iron Lot, stating why it was to be held historically +sacred. The town roared and stamped, but meanwhile Nicholas Oldfield was +quietly rising.</p> + +<p>"In that case, pa'son," said he, "I should like to state that it would be +my purpose to make over that lot to the town to be held as public land +forever."</p> + +<p>Again the village folk outdid themselves in applause, while Young Nick +muttered, "Well, I vum!" beneath his breath, and Hattie replied, +antiphonally, "My soul!" These were not the notes of mere surprise. They +were prayers for guidance in this exigency of finding a despised +intelligence exalted.</p> + +<p>The celebration went on to a victorious close. Who shall sing the sweetness +of Isabel North, as she sat by the log-cabin door, placidly spinning flax, +or the horror of the moment when, redskins swooping down on her and +settlers on them, the ghost swept in and put them all to flight? Who will +ever forget the exercises in the hall, when the "Suwanee River" was sung by +minstrels, to a set of tableaux representing the "old folks" at their cabin +door, "playin' wid my brudder" as a game of stick-knife, and the "Swanny" +River itself by a frieze of white pasteboard swans in the background? +There<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> were patriotic songs, accompanied by remarks laudatory of England; +since it was justly felt that our mother-land might be wounded if, on an +occasion of this sort, we fomented international differences by "America" +or the reminiscent triumph of "The Sword of Bunker Hill." A very noble +sentiment pervaded Tiverton when, at twilight, little groups of tired and +very happy people lingered here and there before "harnessing up" and +betaking themselves to their homes. The homes themselves meant more to them +now, not as shelters, but as sacred shrines; and many a glance sought out +Nicholas Oldfield standing quietly by—the reverential glance accorded +those who find out unsuspected wealth. Young Nick approached his father +with an awkwardness sitting more heavily upon him than usual.</p> + +<p>"Well," said he, "I'm mighty glad you gi'n 'em that lot."</p> + +<p>Old Nicholas nodded gravely, and at that moment Hattie came up, all in a +flutter.</p> + +<p>"Father," said she quite appealingly, "I wisht you'd come over to supper. +Luella an' Freeman Henry'll be there. It's a great day, an'"—</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know 't is," answered Nicholas kindly. "I'm much obleeged, but +Mary's goin' to eat with me. Mebbe we might look in, along in the evenin'. +Come, Mary!"</p> + +<p>Mary, very sweet in her plain dress and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> white kerchief, was talking with +young Marden, her husband for the day; but she turned about contentedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, gran'ther," said she, without a look behind, "I'm coming!"</p> + + +<div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> +<h2>THE END OF ALL LIVING</h2> +</div> + +<p>The First Church of Tiverton stands on a hill, whence it overlooks the +little village, with one or two pine-shaded neighborhoods beyond, and, when +the air is clear, a thin blue line of upland delusively like the sea. Set +thus austerely aloft, it seems now a survival of the day when men used to +go to meeting gun in hand, and when one stayed, a lookout by the door, to +watch and listen. But this the present dwellers do not remember. Conceding +not a sigh to the holy and strenuous past, they lament—and the more as +they grow older—the stiff climb up the hill, albeit to rest in so sweet a +sanctuary at the top. For it is sweet indeed. A soft little wind seems +always to be stirring there, on summer Sundays a messenger of good. It runs +whispering about, and wafts in all sorts of odors: honey of the milk-weed +and wild rose, and a Christmas tang of the evergreens just below. It +carries away something, too—scents calculated to bewilder the +thrift-hunting bee: sometimes a whiff of peppermint from an old lady's pew, +but oftener the breath of musk and southernwood, gathered in ancient +gardens, and borne up here to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> embroider the preacher's drowsy homilies, +and remind us, when we faint, of the keen savor of righteousness.</p> + +<p>Here in the church do we congregate from week to week; but behind it, on a +sloping hillside, is the last home of us all, the old burying-ground, +overrun with a briery tangle, and relieved by Nature's sweet and cunning +hand from the severe decorum set ordinarily about the dead. Our very +faithlessness has made it fair. There was a time when we were a little +ashamed of it. We regarded it with affection, indeed, but affection of the +sort accorded some rusty relative who has lain too supine in the rut of +years. Thus, with growing ambition came, in due course, the project of a +new burying-ground. This we dignified, even in common speech; it was always +grandly "the Cemetery." While it lay unrealized in the distance, the home +of our forbears fell into neglect, and Nature marched in, according to her +lavishness, and adorned what we ignored. The white alder crept farther and +farther from its bounds; tansy and wild rose rioted in profusion, and soft +patches of violets smiled to meet the spring. Here were, indeed, great +riches, "a little of everything" that pasture life affords: a hardy bed of +checkerberry, crimson strawberries nodding on long stalks, and in one +sequestered corner the beloved Linnæa. It seemed a consecrated pasture<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> +shut off from daily use, and so given up to pleasantness that you could +scarcely walk there without setting foot on some precious outgrowth of the +spring, or pushing aside a summer loveliness better made for wear.</p> + +<p>Ambition had its fulfillment. We bought our Cemetery, a large, green tract, +quite square, and lying open to the sun. But our pendulum had swung too +wide. Like many folk who suffer from one discomfort, we had gone to the +utmost extreme and courted another. We were tired of climbing hills, and so +we pressed too far into the lowland; and the first grave dug in our +Cemetery showed three inches of water at the bottom. It was in "Prince's +new lot," and there his young daughter was to lie. But her lover had stood +by while the men were making the grave; and, looking into the ooze below, +he woke to the thought of her fair young body there.</p> + +<p>"God!" they heard him say, "she sha'n't lay so. Leave it as it is, an' come +up into the old buryin'-ground. There's room enough by me."</p> + +<p>The men, all mates of his, stopped work without a glance and followed him; +and up there in the dearer shrine her place was made. The father said but a +word at her changed estate. Neighbors had hurried in to bring him the news; +he went first to the unfinished grave in the Cemetery, and then strode up +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> hill, where the men had not yet done. After watching them for a while +in silence, he turned aside; but he came back to drop a trembling hand upon +the lover's arm.</p> + +<p>"I guess," he said miserably, "she'd full as lieves lay here by you."</p> + +<p>And she will be quite beside him, though, in the beaten ways of earth, +others have come between. For years he lived silently and apart; but when +his mother died, and he and his father were left staring at the dulled +embers of life, he married a good woman, who perhaps does not deify early +dreams; yet she is tender of them, and at the death of her own child it was +she who went toiling up to the graveyard, to see that its little place did +not encroach too far. She gave no reason, but we all knew it was because +she meant to let her husband lie there by the long-loved guest.</p> + +<p>Naturally enough, after this incident of the forsaken grave, we conceived a +strange horror of the new Cemetery, and it has remained deserted to this +day. It is nothing but a meadow now, with that one little grassy hollow in +it to tell a piteous tale. It is mown by any farmer who chooses to take it +for a price; but we regard it differently from any other plot of ground. It +is "the Cemetery," and always will be. We wonder who has bought the grass. +"Eli's got the Cemetery this year," we say. And sometimes awe-stricken +little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> squads of school children lead one another there, hand in hand, to +look at the grave where Annie Prince was going to be buried when her beau +took her away. They never seem to connect that heart-broken wraith of a +lover with the bent farmer who goes to and fro driving the cows. He wears +patched overalls, and has sciatica in winter; but I have seen the gleam of +youth awakened, though remotely, in his eyes. I do not believe he ever +quite forgets; there are moments, now and then, at dusk or midnight, all +his for poring over those dulled pages of the past.</p> + +<p>After we had elected to abide by our old home, we voted an enlargement of +its bounds; and thereby hangs a tale of outlawed revenge. Long years ago +"old Abe Eaton" quarreled with his twin brother, and vowed, as the last +fiat of an eternal divorce, "I won't be buried in the same yard with ye!"</p> + +<p>The brother died first; and because he lay within a little knoll beside the +fence, Abe willfully set a public seal on that iron oath by purchasing a +strip of land outside, wherein he should himself be buried. Thus they would +rest in a hollow correspondence, the fence between. It all fell out as he +ordained, for we in Tiverton are cheerfully willing to give the dead their +way. Lax enough is the helpless hand in the fictitious stiffness of its +grasp; and we are not the people to deny it holding, by cour<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span>tesy at least. +Soon enough does the sceptre of mortality crumble and fall. So Abe was +buried according to his wish. But when necessity commanded us to add unto +ourselves another acre, we took in his grave with it, and the fence, +falling into decay, was never renewed. There he lies, in affectionate +decorum, beside the brother he hated; and thus does the greater good wipe +out the individual wrong.</p> + +<p>So now, as in ancient times, we toil steeply up here, with the dead upon +his bier; for not often in Tiverton do we depend on that uncouth +monstrosity, the hearse. It is not that we do not own one,—a rigid box of +that name has belonged to us now for many a year; and when Sudleigh came +out with a new one, plumes, trappings, and all, we broached the idea of +emulating her. But the project fell through after Brad Freeman's contented +remark that he guessed the old one would last us out. He "never heard no +complaint from anybody 't ever rode in it." That placed our last journey on +a homely, humorous basis, and we smiled, and reflected that we preferred +going up the hill borne by friendly hands, with the light of heaven falling +on our coffin-lids.</p> + +<p>The antiquary would set much store by our headstones, did he ever find them +out. Certain of them are very ancient, according to our ideas; for they +came over from England, and are now fallen into the grayness of age. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> +are woven all over with lichens, and the blackberry binds them fast. Well, +too, for them! They need the grace of some such veiling; for most of them +are alive, even to this day, with warning skulls, and awful cherubs +compounded of bleak, bald faces and sparsely feathered wings. One +discovery, made there on a summer day, has not, I fancy, been duplicated in +another New England town. On six of the larger tombstones are carved, below +the grass level, a row of tiny imps, grinning faces and humanized animals. +Whose was the hand that wrought? The Tivertonians know nothing about it. +They say there was a certain old Veasey who, some eighty odd years ago, +used to steal into the graveyard with his tools, and there, for love, +scrape the mosses from the stones and chip the letters clear. He liked to +draw, "creatur's" especially, and would trace them for children on their +slates. He lived alone in a little house long since fallen, and he would +eat no meat. That is all they know of him. I can guess but one thing more: +that when no looker-on was by, he pushed away the grass, and wrote his +little jokes, safe in the kindly tolerance of the dead. This was the +identical soul who should, in good old days, have been carving gargoyles +and misereres; here his only field was the obscurity of Tiverton +churchyard, his only monument these grotesqueries so cunningly concealed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span></p> + +<p>We have epitaphs, too,—all our own as yet, for the world has not +discovered them. One couple lies in well-to-do respectability under a tiny +monument not much taller than the conventional gravestone, but shaped on a +pretentious model.</p> + +<p>"We'd ruther have it nice," said the builders, "even if there ain't much of +it."</p> + +<p>These were Eliza Marden and Peleg her husband, who worked from sun to sun, +with scant reward save that of pride in their own forehandedness. I can +imagine them as they drove to church in the open wagon, a couple +portentously large and prosperous: their one child, Hannah, sitting between +them, and glancing about her, in a flickering, intermittent way, at the +pleasant holiday world. Hannah was no worker; she liked a long afternoon in +the sun, her thin little hands busied about nothing weightier than crochet; +and her mother regarded her with a horrified patience, as one who might +some time be trusted to sow all her wild oats of idleness. The well-mated +pair died within the same year, and it was Hannah who composed their +epitaph, with an artistic accuracy, but a defective sense of rhyme:—</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'>"Here lies Eliza<br /> +She was a striver<br /> +Here lies Peleg<br /> +He was a select<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Man"</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> + +<p>We townsfolk found something haunting and bewildering in the lines; they +drew, and yet they baffled us, with their suggested echoes luring only to +betray. Hannah never wrote anything else, but we always cherished the +belief that she could do "'most anything" with words and their +possibilities. Still, we accepted her one crowning achievement, and never +urged her to further proof. In Tiverton we never look genius in the mouth. +Nor did Hannah herself propose developing her gift. Relieved from the spur +of those two unquiet spirits who had begotten her, she settled down to sit +all day in the sun, learning new patterns of crochet; and having cheerfully +let her farm run down, she died at last in a placid poverty.</p> + +<p>Then there was Desire Baker, who belonged to the era of colonial hardship, +and who, through a redundant punctuation, is relegated to a day still more +remote. For some stone-cutter, scornful of working by the card, or born +with an inordinate taste for periods, set forth, below her <i>obiit</i>, the +astounding statement:—</p> + +<p>"The first woman. She made the journey to Boston. By stage."</p> + +<p>Here, too, are the ironies whereof departed life is prodigal. This is the +tidy lot of Peter Merrick, who had a desire to stand well with the world, +in leaving it, and whose purple and fine linen were embodied in the pomp of +death. He was a cobbler, and he put his small savings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> together to erect a +modest monument to his own memory. Every Sunday he visited it, "after +meetin'," and perhaps his day-dreams, as he sat leather-aproned on his +bench, were still of that white marble idealism. The inscription upon it +was full of significant blanks; they seemed an interrogation of the destiny +which governs man.</p> + +<p>"Here lies Peter Merrick——" ran the unfinished scroll, "and his wife who +died——"</p> + +<p>But ambitious Peter never lay there at all; for in his later prime, with +one flash of sharp desire to see the world, he went on a voyage to the +Banks, and was drowned. And his wife? The story grows somewhat threadbare. +She summoned his step-brother to settle the estate, and he, a marble-cutter +by trade, filled in the date of Peter's death with letters English and +illegible. In the process of their carving, the widow stood by, hands +folded under her apron from the midsummer sun. The two got excellent well +acquainted, and the stone-cutter prolonged his stay. He came again in a +little over a year, at Thanksgiving time, and they were married. Which +shows that nothing is certain in life,—no, not the proprieties of our +leaving it,—and that even there we must walk softly, writing no boastful +legend for time to annul.</p> + +<p>At one period a certain quatrain had a great run in Tiverton; it was the +epitaph of the day. Noting how it overspread that stony soil, you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> picture +to yourself the modest pride of its composer; unless indeed, it had been +copied from an older inscription in an English yard, and transplanted +through the heart and brain of some settler whose thoughts were ever +flitting back. Thus it runs in decorous metre:—</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'>"Dear husband, now my life is passed,<br /> +You have dearly loved me to the last.<br /> +Grieve not for me, but pity take<br /> +On my dear children for my sake."</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>But one sorrowing widower amended it, according to his wife's direction, so +that it bore a new and significant meaning. He was charged to</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 9em;">"pity take</span><br /> +On my dear parent for my sake."</td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<p>The lesson was patent. His mother-in-law had always lived with him, and she +was "difficult." Who knows how keenly the sick woman's mind ran on the +possibilities of reef and quicksand for the alien two left alone without +her guiding hand? So she set the warning of her love and fear to be no more +forgotten while she herself should be remembered.</p> + +<p>The husband was a silent man. He said very little about his intentions; +performance was enough for him. Therefore it happened that his "parent," +adopted perforce, knew nothing about this public charge until she came upon +it, on her first Sunday visit, surveying the new glory of the stone. The +story goes that she stood before it, a square, portentous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> figure in black +alpaca and warlike mitts, and that she uttered these irrevocable words:—</p> + +<p>"Pity on <i>me</i>! Well, I guess he won't! I'll go to the poor-farm fust!"</p> + +<p>And Monday morning, spite of his loyal dissuasions, she packed her "blue +chist," and drove off to a far-away cousin, who got her "nussin'" to do. +Another lesson from the warning finger of Death: let what was life not +dream that it can sway the life that is, after the two part company.</p> + +<p>Not always were mothers-in-law such breakers of the peace. There is a story +in Tiverton of one man who went remorsefully mad after his wife's death, +and whose mind dwelt unceasingly on the things he had denied her. These +were not many, yet the sum seemed to him colossal. It piled the Ossa of his +grief. Especially did he writhe under the remembrance of certain blue +dishes she had desired the week before her sudden death; and one night, +driven by an insane impulse to expiate his blindness, he walked to town, +bought them, and placed them in a foolish order about her grave. It was a +puerile, crazy deed, but no one smiled, not even the little children who +heard of it next day, on the way home from school, and went trudging up +there to see. To their stirring minds it seemed a strange departure from +the comfortable order of things, chiefly because their elders stood about +with furtive glances at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> one another and murmurs of "Poor creatur'!" But +one man, wiser than the rest, "harnessed up," and went to tell the dead +woman's mother, a mile away. Jonas was "shackled;" he might "do himself a +mischief." In the late afternoon, the guest so summoned walked quietly into +the silent house, where Jonas sat by the window, beating one hand +incessantly upon the sill, and staring at the air. His sister, also, had +come; she was frightened, however, and had betaken herself to the bedroom, +to sob. But in walked this little plump, soft-footed woman, with her banded +hair, her benevolent spectacles, and her atmosphere of calm.</p> + +<p>"I guess I'll blaze a fire, Jonas," said she. "You step out an' git me a +mite o' kindlin'."</p> + +<p>The air of homely living enwrapped him once again, and mechanically, with +the inertia of old habit, he obeyed. They had a "cup o' tea" together; and +then, when the dishes were washed, and the peaceful twilight began to +settle down upon them like a sifting mist, she drew a little rocking chair +to the window where he sat opposite, and spoke.</p> + +<p>"Jonas," said she, in that still voice which had been harmonized by the +experiences of life, "arter dark, you jest go up an' bring home them blue +dishes. Mary's got an awful lot o' fun in her, an' if she ain't laughin' +over that, I'm beat. Now, Jonas, you do it! Do you s'pose she wants them +nice blue pieces out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> there through wind an' weather? She'd ruther by half +see 'em on the parlor cluzzet shelves; an' if you'll fetch 'em home, I'll +scallop some white paper, jest as she liked, an' we'll set 'em up there."</p> + +<p>Jonas wakened a little from his mental swoon. Life seemed warmer, more +tangible, again.</p> + +<p>"Law, do go," said the mother soothingly. "She don't want the whole +township tramplin' up there to eye over her chiny. Make her as nervous as a +witch. Here's the ha'-bushel basket, an' some paper to put between 'em. You +go, Jonas, an' I'll clear off the shelves."</p> + +<p>So Jonas, whether he was tired of guiding the impulses of his own unquiet +mind, or whether he had become a child again, glad to yield to the +maternal, as we all do in our grief, took the basket and went. He stood by, +still like a child, while this comfortable woman put the china on the +shelves, speaking warmly, as she worked, of the pretty curving of the cups, +and her belief that the pitcher was "one you could pour out of." She stayed +on at the house, and Jonas, through his sickness of the mind, lay back upon +her soothing will as a baby lies in its mother's arms. But the china was +never used, even when he had come to his normal estate, and bought and sold +as before. The mother's prescience was too keen for that.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p> + +<p>Here in this ground are the ambiguities of life carried over into that +other state, its pathos and its small misunderstandings. This was a +much-married man whose last spouse had been a triple widow. Even to him the +situation proved mathematically complex, and the sumptuous stone to her +memory bears the dizzying legend that "Enoch Nudd who erects this stone is +her fourth husband and his fifth wife." Perhaps it was the exigencies of +space which brought about this amazing elision; but surely, in its very +apparent intention, there is only a modest pride. For indubitably the +much-married may plume themselves upon being also the widely sought. If it +is the crown of sex to be desired, here you have it, under seal of the +civil bond. No baseless, windy boasting that "I might an if I would!" Nay, +here be the marriage ties to testify.</p> + +<p>In this pleasant, weedy corner is a little white stone, not so long +erected. "I shall arise in thine image," runs the inscription; and reading +it, you shall remember that the dust within belonged to a little hunchback, +who played the fiddle divinely, and had beseeching eyes. With that cry he +escaped from the marred conditions of the clay. Here, too (for this is a +sort of bachelor nook), is the grave of a man whom we unconsciously thrust +into a permanent masquerade. Years and years ago he broke into a house,—an +unknown felony in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> our quiet limits,—and was incontinently shot. The +burglar lost his arm, and went about at first under a cloud of disgrace and +horror, which became, with healing of the public conscience, a veil of +sympathy. After his brief imprisonment indoors, during the healing of the +mutilated stump, he came forth among us again, a man sadder and wiser in +that he had learned how slow and sure may be the road to wealth. He had +sown his wild oats in one night's foolish work, and now he settled down to +doing such odd jobs as he might with one hand. We got accustomed to his +loss. Those of us who were children when it happened never really +discovered that it was disgrace at all; we called it misfortune, and no one +said us nay. Then one day it occurred to us that he must have been shot "in +the war," and so, all unwittingly to himself, the silent man became a hero. +We accepted him. He was part of our poetic time, and when he died, we held +him still in remembrance among those who fell worthily. When Decoration Day +was first observed in Tiverton, one of us thought of him, and dropped some +apple blossoms on his grave; and so it had its posy like the rest, although +it bore no flag. It was the doctor who set us right there. "I wouldn't do +that," he said, withholding the hand of one unthinking child; and she took +back her flag. But she left the blossoms, and, being fond of precedent, we +still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> do the same; unless we stop to think, we know not why. You may say +there is here some perfidy to the republic and the honored dead, or at +least some laxity of morals. We are lax, indeed, but possibly that is why +we are so kind. We are not willing to "hurt folks' feelings" even when they +have migrated to another star; and a flower more or less from the overplus +given to men who made the greater choice will do no harm, tossed to one +whose soul may be sitting, like Lazarus, at their riches' gate.</p> + +<p>But of all these fleeting legends made to hold the soul a moment on its +way, and keep it here in fickle permanence, one is more dramatic than all, +more charged with power and pathos. Years ago there came into Tiverton an +unknown man, very handsome, showing the marks of high breeding, and yet in +his bearing strangely solitary and remote. He wore a cloak, and had a +foreign look. He came walking into the town one night, with dust upon his +shoes, and we judged that he had been traveling a long time. He had the +appearance of one who was not nearly at his journey's end, and would pass +through the village, continuing on a longer way. He glanced at no one, but +we all stared at him. He seemed, though we had not the words to put it so, +an exiled prince. He went straight through Tiverton Street until he came to +the parsonage; and something about it (perhaps its garden, hot<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> with +flowers, larkspur, coreopsis, and the rest) detained his eye, and he walked +in. Next day the old doctor was there also with his little black case, but +we were none the wiser for that; for the old doctor was of the sort who +intrench themselves in a professional reserve. You might draw up beside the +road to question him, but you could as well deter the course of nature. He +would give the roan a flick, and his sulky would flash by.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with so-and-so?" would ask a mousing neighbor.</p> + +<p>"He's sick," ran the laconic reply.</p> + +<p>"Goin' to die?" one daring querist ventured further.</p> + +<p>"Some time," said the doctor.</p> + +<p>But though he assumed a right to combat thus the outer world, no one was +gentler with a sick man or with those about him in their grief. To the +latter he would speak; but he used to say he drew his line at second +cousins.</p> + +<p>Into his hands and the true old parson's fell the stranger's confidence, if +confidence it were. He may have died solitary and unexplained; but no +matter what he said, his story was safe. In a week he was carried out for +burial; and so solemn was the parson's manner as he spoke a brief service +over him, so thrilling his enunciation of the words "our brother," that we +dared not even ask what else he should be called. And we never knew. The +headstone,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> set up by the parson, bore the words "Peccator Maximus." For a +long time we thought they made the stranger's name, and judged that he must +have been a foreigner; but a new schoolmistress taught us otherwise. It was +Latin, she said, and it meant "the chiefest among sinners." When that +report flew round, the parson got wind of it, and then, in the pulpit one +morning, he announced that he felt it necessary to say that the words had +been used "at our brother's request," and that it was his own decision to +write below them, "For this cause came I into the world."</p> + +<p>We have accepted the stranger as we accept many things in Tiverton. Parson +and doctor kept his secret well. He is quite safe from our questioning; but +for years I expected a lady, always young and full of grief, to seek out +his grave and shrive him with her tears. She will not appear now, unless +she come as an old, old woman, to lie beside him. It is too late.</p> + +<p>One more record of our vanished time,—this full of poesy only, and the +pathos of farewell. It was not the aged and heartsick alone who lay down +here to rest. We have been no more fortunate than others. Youth and beauty +came also, and returned no more. This, where the white rose-bush grows +untended, was the young daughter of a squire in far-off days: too young to +have known the pangs of love or the sweet desire of Death, save that, in +primrose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> time, he always paints himself so fair. I have thought the +inscription must have been borrowed from another grave, in some yard shaded +by yews and silent under the cawing of the rooks; perhaps, from its +stiffness, translated from a stately Latin verse. This it is, snatched not +too soon from oblivion; for a few more years will wear it quite away:—</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'>"Here lies the purple flower of a maid<br /> +Having to envious Death due tribute paid.<br /> +Her sudden Loss her Parents did lament,<br /> +And all her Friends with grief their hearts did Rent.<br /> +Life's short. Your wicked Lives amend with care,<br /> +For Mortals know we Dust and Shadows are."</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>"The purple flower of a maid!" All the blossomy sweetness, the fragrant +lamenting of Lycidas, lies in that one line. Alas, poor love-lies-bleeding! +And yet not poor according to the barren pity we accord the dead, but +dowered with another youth set like a crown upon the unstained front of +this. Not going with sparse blossoms ripened or decayed, but heaped with +buds and dripping over in perfume. She seems so sweet in her still +loveliness, the empty promise of her balmy spring, that for a moment fain +are you to snatch her back into the pageant of your day. Reading that +phrase, you feel the earth is poorer for her loss. And yet not so, since +the world holds other greater worlds as well. Elsewhere she may have grown +to age and stature; but here she lives yet in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> beauteous permanence,—as +true a part of youth and joy and rapture as the immortal figures on the +Grecian Urn. While she was but a flying phantom on the frieze of time, +Death fixed her there forever,—a haunting spirit in perennial bliss.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tiverton Tales, by Alice Brown + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIVERTON TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 20486-h.htm or 20486-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/4/8/20486/ + +Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Paul Stephen, Ted Garvin +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tiverton Tales + +Author: Alice Brown + +Release Date: January 30, 2007 [EBook #20486] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIVERTON TALES *** + + + + +Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Paul Stephen, Ted Garvin +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + + +TIVERTON TALES + +BY ALICE BROWN + +[Illustration: Publisher icon] + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY + +The Riverside Press, Cambridge + +1899 + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY ALICE BROWN + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + +TO M. H. R. + +A MASTER MAGICIAN + + +CONTENTS + + +DOORYARDS + +A MARCH WIND + +THE MORTUARY CHEST + +HORN-O'-THE-MOON + +A STOLEN FESTIVAL + +A LAST ASSEMBLING + +THE WAY OF PEACE + +THE EXPERIENCE OF HANNAH PRIME + +HONEY AND MYRRH + +A SECOND MARRIAGE + +THE FLAT-IRON LOT + +THE END OF ALL LIVING + + + + +TIVERTON TALES + + + + +DOORYARDS + + +Tiverton has breezy, upland roads, and damp, sweet valleys; but should +you tarry there a summer long, you might find it wasteful to take many +excursions abroad. For, having once received the freedom of family +living, you will own yourself disinclined to get beyond dooryards, those +outer courts of domesticity. Homely joys spill over into them, and, when +children are afoot, surge and riot there. In them do the common +occupations of life find niche and channel. While bright weather holds, +we wash out of doors on a Monday morning, the wash-bench in the solid +block of shadow thrown by the house. We churn there, also, at the hour +when Sweet-Breath, the cow, goes afield, modestly unconscious of her own +sovereignty over the time. There are all the varying fortunes of +butter-making recorded. Sometimes it comes merrily to the tune of + +"Come, butter, come! Peter stands a-waiting at the gate, Waiting for his +butter-cake. Come, butter, come!" + +chanted in time with the dasher; again it doth willfully refuse, and +then, lest it be too cool, we contribute a dash of hot water, or too +hot, and we lend it a dash of cold. Or we toss in a magical handful of +salt, to encourage it. Possibly, if we be not the thriftiest of +householders, we feed the hens here in the yard, and then "shoo" them +away, when they would fain take profligate dust-baths under the syringa, +leaving unsightly hollows. But however, and with what complexion, our +dooryards may face the later year, they begin it with purification. Here +are they an unfailing index of the severer virtues; for, in Tiverton, +there is no housewife who, in her spring cleaning, omits to set in order +this outer pale of the temple. Long before the merry months are well +under way, or the cows go kicking up their heels to pasture, or plants +are taken from the south window and clapped into chilly ground, orderly +passions begin to riot within us, and we "clear up" our yards. We +gather stray chips, and pieces of bone brought in by the scavenger dog, +who sits now with his tail tucked under him, oblivious of such vagrom +ways. We rake the grass, and then, gilding refined gold, we sweep it. +There is a tradition that Miss Lois May once went to the length of +trimming her grass about the doorstone and clothes-pole with embroidery +scissors; but that was a too-hasty encomium bestowed by a widower whom +she rejected next week, and who qualified his statement by saying they +were pruning-shears. + +After this preliminary skirmishing arises much anxious inspection of +ancient shrubs and the faithful among old-fashioned plants, to see +whether they have "stood the winter." The fresh, brown "piny" heads are +brooded over with a motherly care; wormwood roots are loosened, and the +horse-radish plant is given a thrifty touch. There is more than the +delight of occupation in thus stirring the wheels of the year. We are +Nature's poor handmaidens, and our labor gives us joy. + +But sweet as these homespun spots can make themselves, in their mixture +of thrift and prodigality, they are dearer than ever at the points where +they register family traits, and so touch the humanity of us all. Here +is imprinted the story of the man who owns the farm, that of the father +who inherited it, and the grandfather who reclaimed it from waste; here +have they and their womenkind set the foot of daily living and traced +indelible paths. They have left here the marks of tragedy, of pathos, or +of joy. One yard has a level bit of grassless ground between barn and +pump, and you may call it a battlefield, if you will, since famine and +desire have striven there together. Or, if you choose to read fine +meanings into threadbare things, you may see in it a field of the cloth +of gold, where simple love of life and childlike pleasure met and +sparkled for no eye to see. It was a croquet ground, laid out in the +days when croquet first inundated the land, and laid out by a woman. +This was Della Smith, the mother of two grave children, and the wife of +a farmer who never learned to smile. Eben was duller than the ox which +ploughs all day long for his handful of hay at night and his heavy +slumber; but Della, though she carried her end of the yoke with a +gallant spirit, had dreams and desires forever bursting from brown +shells, only to live a moment in the air, and then, like bubbles, die. +She had a perpetual appetite for joy. When the circus came to town, she +walked miles to see the procession; and, in a dream of satisfied +delight, dropped potatoes all the afternoon, to make up. Once, a +hand-organ and monkey strayed that way, and it was she alone who +followed them; for the children were little, and all the saner +house-mothers contented themselves with leaning over the gates till the +wandering train had passed. But Della drained her draught of joy to the +dregs, and then tilted her cup anew. With croquet came her supremest +joy,--one that leavened her days till God took her, somewhere, we hope, +where there is playtime. Della had no money to buy a croquet set, but +she had something far better, an alert and undiscouraged mind. On one +dizzy afternoon, at a Fourth of July picnic, when wickets had been set +up near the wood, she had played with the minister, and beaten him. The +game opened before her an endless vista of delight. She saw herself +perpetually knocking red-striped balls through an eternity of wickets; +and she knew that here was the one pastime of which no soul could tire. +Afterwards, driving home with her husband and two children, still in a +daze of satisfied delight, she murmured absently:-- + +"Wonder how much they cost?" + +"What?" asked Eben, and Della turned, flushed scarlet, and replied:-- + +"Oh, nothin'!" + +That night, she lay awake for one rapt hour, and then she slept the +sleep of conquerors. In the morning, after Eben had gone safely off to +work, and the children were still asleep, she began singing, in a +monotonous, high voice, and took her way out of doors. She always sang +at moments when she purposed leaping the bounds of domestic custom. Even +Eben had learned that, dull as he was. If he heard that guilty crooning +from the buttery, he knew she might be breaking extra eggs, or using +more sugar than was conformable. + +"What you doin' of?" he was accustomed to call. But Della never +answered, and he did not interfere. The question was a necessary +concession to marital authority; he had no wish to curb her ways. + +Della scudded about the yard like a willful wind. She gathered withes +from a waiting pile, and set them in that one level space for wickets. +Then she took a handsaw, and, pale about the lips, returned to the house +and to her bedroom. She had made her choice. She was sacrificing old +associations to her present need; and, one after another, she sawed the +ornamenting balls from her mother's high-post bedstead. Perhaps the one +element of tragedy lay in the fact that Della was no mechanician, and +she had not foreseen that, having one flat side, her balls might decline +to roll. But that dismay was brief. A weaker soul would have flinched; +to Della it was a futile check, a pebble under the wave. She laid her +balls calmly aside. Some day she would whittle them into shape; for +there were always coming to Della days full of roomy leisure and large +content. Meanwhile apples would serve her turn,--good alike to draw a +weary mind out of its channel or teach the shape of spheres. And so, +with two russets for balls and the clothes-slice for a mallet (the heavy +sledge-hammer having failed), Della serenely, yet in triumph, played her +first game against herself. + +"Don't you drive over them wickets!" she called imperiously, when Eben +came up from the lot in his dingle cart. + +"Them what?" returned he, and Della had to go out to explain. He looked +at them gravely; hers had been a ragged piece of work. + +"What under the sun 'd you do that for?" he inquired. "The young ones +wouldn't turn their hand over for 't. They ain't big enough." + +"Well, I be," said Della briefly. "Don't you drive over 'em." + +Eben looked at her and then at his path to the barn, and he turned his +horse aside. + +Thereafter, until we got used to it, we found a vivid source of interest +in seeing Della playing croquet, and always playing alone. That was a +very busy summer, because the famous drought came then, and water had to +be carried for weary rods from spring and river. Sometimes Della did not +get her playtime till three in the afternoon, sometimes not till after +dark; but she was faithful to her joy. The croquet ground suffered +varying fortunes. It might happen that the balls were potatoes, when +apples failed to be in season; often her wickets broke, and stood up in +two ragged horns. Sometimes one fell away altogether, and Della, like +the planets, kept an unseen track. Once or twice, the mistaken +benevolence of others gave her real distress. The minister's daughter, +noting her solitary game, mistook it for forlornness, and, in the warmth +of her maiden heart, came to ask if she might share. It was a timid +though official benevolence; but Della's bright eyes grew dark. She +clung to her kitchen chair. + +"I guess I won't," she said, and, in some dim way, everybody began to +understand that this was but an intimate and solitary joy. She had grown +so used to spreading her banquets for one alone that she was frightened +at the sight of other cups upon the board; for although loneliness +begins in pain, by and by, perhaps, it creates its own species of sad +and shy content. + +Della did not have a long life; and that was some relief to us who were +not altogether satisfied with her outlook here. The place she left need +not be always desolate. There was a good maiden sister to keep the +house, and Eben and the children would be but briefly sorry. They could +recover their poise; he with the health of a simple mind, and they as +children will. Yet he was truly stunned by the blow; and I hoped, on the +day of the funeral, that he did not see what I did. When we went out to +get our horse and wagon, I caught my foot in something which at once +gave way. I looked down--at a broken wicket and a withered apple by the +stake. + +Quite at the other end of the town is a dooryard which, in my own mind, +at least, I call the traveling garden. Miss Nancy, its presiding +mistress, is the victim of a love of change; and since she may not +wander herself, she transplants shrubs and herbs from nook to nook. No +sooner does a green thing get safely rooted than Miss Nancy snatches it +up and sets it elsewhere. Her yard is a varying pageant of plants in all +stages of misfortune. Here is a shrub, with faded leaves, torn from the +lap of prosperity in a well-sunned corner to languish under different +conditions. There stands a hardy bush, shrinking, one might guess, under +all its bravery of new spring green, from the premonition that Miss +Nancy may move it to-morrow. Even the ladies'-delights have their months +of garish prosperity, wherein they sicken like country maids; for no +sooner do they get their little feet settled in a dark, still corner +than they are summoned out of it, to sunlight bright and strong. Miss +Nancy lives with a bedridden father, who has grown peevish through long +patience; can it be that slow, senile decay which has roused in her a +fierce impatience against the sluggishness of life, and that she hurries +her plants into motion because she herself must halt? Her father does +not theorize about it. He says, "Nancy never has no luck with plants." +And that, indeed, is true. + +There is another dooryard with its infallible index finger pointing to +tell a tale. You can scarcely thread your way through it for vehicles of +all sorts congregated there to undergo slow decomposition at the hands +of wind and weather. This farmer is a tradesman by nature, and though, +for thrift's sake, his fields must be tilled, he is yet inwardly +constrained to keep on buying and selling, albeit to no purpose. He is +everlastingly swapping and bargaining, giving play to a faculty which +might, in its legitimate place, have worked out the definite and +tangible, but which now goes automatically clicking on under vain +conditions. The house, too, is overrun with useless articles, presently +to be exchanged for others as unavailing, and in the farmer's pocket +ticks a watch which to-morrow will replace with another more problematic +still. But in the yard are the undisputable evidences of his wild +unthrift. Old rusty mowing-machines, buggies with torn and flapping +canvas, sleighs ready to yawn at every crack, all are here: poor +relations in a broken-down family. But children love this yard. They +come, hand in hand, with a timid confidence in their right, and ask at +the back door for the privilege of playing in it. They take long, +entrancing journeys in the mouldy old chaise; they endure Siberian +nights of sleighing, and throw out their helpless dolls to the pursuing +wolves; or the more mercantile-minded among the boys mount a +three-wheeled express wagon, and drive noisily away to traffic upon the +road. This, in its dramatic possibilities, is not a yard to be despised. + +Not far away are two neighboring houses once held in affectionate +communion by a straight path through the clover and a gap in the wall. +This was the road to much friendly gossip, and there were few bright +days which did not find two matrons met at the wall, their heads +together over some amiable yarn. But now one house is closed, its +windows boarded up, like eyes shut down forever, and the grass has grown +over the little path: a line erased, perhaps never to be renewed. It is +easier to wipe out a story from nature than to wipe it from the heart; +and these mutilated pages of the outer life perpetually renew in us the +pangs of loss and grief. + +But not all our dooryard reminiscences are instinct with pain. Do I not +remember one swept and garnished plot, never defiled by weed or +disordered with ornamental plants, where stood old Deacon Pitts, upon an +historic day, and woke the echoes with a herald's joy? Deacon Pitts had +the ghoulish delight of the ennuied country mind in funerals and the +mortality of man; and this morning the butcher had brought him news of +death in a neighboring town. The butcher had gone by, and I was going; +but Deacon Pitts stood there, dramatically intent upon his mournful +morsel. I judged that he was pondering on the possibility of attending +the funeral without the waste of too much precious time now due the +crops. Suddenly, as he turned back toward the house, bearing a pan of +liver, his pondering eye caught sight of his aged wife toiling across +the fields, laden with pennyroyal. He set the pan down hastily--yea, +even before the advancing cat!--and made a trumpet of his hands. + +"Sarah!" he called piercingly. "Sarah! Mr. Amasa Blake's passed away! +Died yesterday!" + +I do not know whether he was present at that funeral, but it would be +strange if he were not; for time and tide both served him, and he was +always on the spot. Indeed, one day he reached a house of mourning in +such season that he found the rooms quite empty, and was forced to wait +until the bereaved family should assemble. There they sat, he and his +wife, a portentous couple in their dead black and anticipatory gloom, +until even their patience had well-nigh fled. And then an arriving +mourner overheard the deacon, as he bent forward and challenged his wife +in a suspicious and discouraged whisper:-- + +"Say, Sarah, ye don't s'pose it's all goin' to fush out, do ye?" + +They had their funeral. + +To the childish memory, so many of the yards are redolent now of wonder +and a strange, sweet fragrance of the fancy not to be described! One, +where lived a notable cook, had, in a quiet corner, a little grove of +caraway. It seemed mysteriously connected with the oak-leaf cookies, +which only she could make; and the child, brushing through the delicate +bushes grown above his head, used to feel vaguely that, on some +fortunate day, cookies would be found there, "a-blowin' and a-growin'." +That he had seen them stirred and mixed and taken from the oven was an +empty matter; the cookies belonged to the caraway grove, and there they +hang ungathered still. In the very same yard was a hogshead filled with +rainwater, where insects came daily to their death and floated +pathetically in a film of gauzy wings. The child feared this innocent +black pool, feared it too much to let it alone; and day by day he would +hang upon the rim with trembling fingers, and search the black, smooth +depths, with all Ophelia's pangs. And to this moment, no rushing river +is half so ministrant to dread as is a still, dull hogshead, where +insects float and fly. + +These are our dooryards. I wish we lived in them more; that there were +vines to sing under, and shade enough for the table, with its wheaten +loaf and good farm butter, and its smoking tea. But all that may come +when we give up our frantic haste, and sit down to look, and breathe, +and listen. + + + + +A MARCH WIND + + +When the clouds hung low, or chimneys refused to draw, or the bread +soured over night, a pessimistic public, turning for relief to the local +drama, said that Amelia Titcomb had married a tramp. But as soon as the +heavens smiled again, it was conceded that she must have been getting +lonely in her middle age, and that she had taken the way of wisdom so to +furbish up mansions for the coming years. Whatever was set down on +either side of the page, Amelia did not care. She was whole-heartedly +content with her husband and their farm. + +It had happened, one autumn day, that she was trying, all alone, to +clean out the cistern. This was while she was still Amelia Titcomb, +innocent that there lived a man in the world who could set his foot upon +her maiden state, and flourish there. She was an impatient creature. She +never could delay for a fostering time to put her plants into the +ground, and her fall cleaning was done long before the flies were gone. +So, to-day, while other house mistresses sat cosily by the fire, +awaiting a milder season, she was toiling up and down the ladder set in +the cistern, dipping pails of sediment from the bottom, and, hardy as +she was, almost repenting her of a too-fierce desire. Her thick brown +hair was roughened and blown about her face, her cheeks bloomed out in a +frosty pink, and the plaid kerchief, tied in a hard knot under her chin, +seemed foolishly ineffectual against the cold. Her hands ached, holding +the pail, and she rebelled inwardly against the inclemency of the time. +It never occurred to her that she could have put off this exacting job. +She would sooner have expected Heaven to put off the weather. Just as +she reached the top of the cistern, and lifted her pail of refuse over +the edge, a man appeared from the other side of the house, and stood +confronting her. He was tall and gaunt, and his deeply graven face was +framed by grizzled hair. Amelia had a rapid thought that he was not so +old as he looked; experience, rather than years, must have wrought its +trace upon him. He was leading a little girl, dressed with a very patent +regard for warmth, and none for beauty. Amelia, with a quick, feminine +glance, noted that the child's bungled skirt and hideous waist had been +made from an old army overcoat. The little maid's brown eyes were sweet +and seeking; they seemed to petition for something. Amelia's heart did +not respond at that time, she had no reason for thinking she was fond of +children. Yet she felt a curious disturbance at sight of the pair. She +afterwards explained it adequately to the man, by asserting that they +looked as odd as Dick's hatband. + +"Want any farmwork done?" asked he. "Enough to pay for a night's +lodgin'?" His voice sounded strangely soft from one so large and rugged. +It hinted at unused possibilities. But though Amelia felt impressed, she +was conscious of little more than her own cold and stiffness, and she +answered sharply,-- + +"No, I don't. I don't calculate to hire, except in hayin' time, an' then +I don't take tramps." + +The man dropped the child's hand, and pushed her gently to one side. + +"Stan' there, Rosie," said he. Then he went forward, and drew the pail +from Amelia's unwilling grasp. "Where do you empt' it?" he asked. +"There? It ought to be carried further. You don't want to let it gully +down into that beet bed. Here, I'll see to it." + +Perhaps this was the very first time in Amelia's life that a man had +offered her an unpaid service for chivalry alone. And somehow, though +she might have scoffed, knowing what the tramp had to gain, she believed +in him and in his kindliness. The little girl stood by, as if she were +long used to doing as she had been told, with no expectation of +difficult reasons; and the man, as soberly, went about his task. He +emptied the cistern, and cleansed it, with plentiful washings. Then, as +if guessing by instinct what he should find, he went into the kitchen, +where were two tubs full of the water which Amelia had pumped up at the +start. It had to be carried back again to the cistern; and when the job +was quite finished, he opened the bulkhead, set the tubs in the cellar, +and then, covering the cistern and cellar-case, rubbed his cold hands on +his trousers, and turned to the child. + +"Come, Rosie," said he, "we'll be goin'." + +It was a very effective finale, but still Amelia suspected no trickery. +The situation seemed to her, just as the two new actors did, entirely +simple, like the course of nature. Only, the day was a little warmer +because they had appeared. She had a new sensation of welcome company. +So it was that, quite to her own surprise, she answered as quickly as he +spoke, and her reply also seemed an inevitable part of the drama:-- + +"Walk right in. It's 'most dinner-time, an' I'll put on the pot." The +two stepped in before her, and they did not go away. + +Amelia herself never quite knew how it happened; but, like all the other +natural things of life, this had no need to be explained. At first, +there were excellent reasons for delay. The man, whose name proved to be +Enoch Willis, was a marvelous hand at a blow, and she kept him a week, +splitting some pine knots that defied her and the boy who ordinarily +chopped her wood. At the end of the week, Amelia confessed that she was +"terrible tired seein' Rosie round in that gormin' kind of a dress;" so +she cut and fitted her a neat little gown from her own red cashmere. +That was the second reason. Then the neighbors heard of the mysterious +guest, and dropped in, to place and label him. At first, following the +lead of undiscouraged fancy, they declared that he must be some of +cousin Silas's connections from Omaha; but even before Amelia had time +to deny that, his ignorance of local tradition denied it for him. He +must have heard of this or that, by way of cousin Silas; but he owned to +nothing defining place or time, save that he had been in the war--"all +through it." He seemed to be a man quite weary of the past and +indifferent to the future. After a half hour's talk with him, +unseasonable callers were likely to withdraw, perhaps into the pantry, +whither Amelia had retreated to escape catechism, and remark jovially, +"Well, 'Melia, you ain't told us who your company is!" + +"Mr. Willis," said Amelia. She was emulating his habit of reserve. It +made a part of her new loyalty. + +Even to her, Enoch had told no tales; and strangely enough, she was +quite satisfied. She trusted him. He did say that Rosie's mother was +dead; for the last five years, he said, she had been out of her mind. At +that, Amelia's heart gave a fierce, amazing leap. It struck a note she +never knew, and wakened her to life and longing. She was glad Rosie's +mother had not made him too content. He went on a step or two into the +story of his life. His wife's last illness had eaten up the little +place, and after she went, he got no work. So, he tramped. He must go +again. Amelia's voice sounded sharp and thin, even to her, as she +answered,-- + +"Go! I dunno what you want to do that for. Rosie's terrible contented +here." + +His brown eyes turned upon her in a kindly glance. + +"I've got to make a start somewhere," said he. "I've been thinkin' a +machine shop's the best thing. I shall have to depend on somethin' +better'n days' works." + +Amelia flushed the painful red of emotion without beauty. + +"I dunno what we're all comin' to," said she brokenly. + +Then the tramp knew. He put his gnarled hand over one of hers. Rosie +looked up curiously from the speckled beans she was counting into a bag, +and then went on singing to herself an unformed, baby song. "Folks'll +talk," said Enoch gently. "They do now. A man an' woman ain't never too +old to be hauled up, an' made to answer for livin'. If I was younger, +an' had suthin' to depend on, you'd see; but I'm no good now. The better +part o' my life's gone." + +Amelia flashed at him a pathetic look, half agony over her own lost +pride, and all a longing of maternal love. + +"I don't want you should be younger," said she. And next week they were +married. + +Comment ran races with itself, and brought up nowhere. The treasuries of +local speech were all too poor to clothe so wild a venture. It was +agreed that there's no fool like an old fool, and that folks who ride to +market may come home afoot. Everybody forgot that Amelia had had no +previous romance, and dismally pictured her as going through the woods, +and getting a crooked stick at last. Even the milder among her judges +were not content with prophesying the betrayal of her trust alone. They +argued from the tramp nature to inevitable results, and declared it +would be a mercy if she were not murdered in her bed. According to the +popular mind, a tramp is a distinct species, with latent tendencies +toward crime. It was recalled that a white woman had, in the old days, +married a comely Indian, whose first drink of fire-water, after six +months of blameless happiness, had sent him raging home, to kill her "in +her tracks." Could a tramp, pledged to the traditions of an awful +brotherhood, do less? No, even in honor, no! Amelia never knew how the +tide of public apprehension surged about her, nor how her next-door +neighbor looked anxiously out, the first thing on rising, to exclaim, +with a sigh of relief, and possibly a dramatic pang, "There! her smoke's +a-goin'." + +Meantime, the tramp fell into all the usages of life indoors; and +without, he worked revolution. He took his natural place at the head of +affairs, and Amelia stood by, rejoicing. Her besetting error of doing +things at the wrong moment had disarranged great combinations as well as +small. Her impetuosity was constantly misleading her, bidding her try, +this one time, whether harvest might not follow faster on the steps of +spring. Enoch's mind was of another cast. For him, tradition reigned, +and law was ever laying out the way. Some months after their marriage, +Amelia had urged him to take away the winter banking about the house, +for no reason save that the Mardens clung to theirs; but he only replied +that he'd known of cold snaps way on into May, and he guessed there was +no particular hurry. The very next day brought a bitter air, laden with +sleet, and Amelia, shivering at the open door, exulted in her feminine +soul at finding him triumphant on his own ground. Enoch seemed, as +usual, unconscious of victory. His immobility had no personal flavor. He +merely acted from an inevitable devotion to the laws of life; and +however often they might prove him right, he never seemed to reason that +Amelia was consequently wrong. Perhaps that was what made it so pleasant +to live with him. + +It was "easy sleddin'" now. Amelia grew very young. Her cheeks gained a +bloom, her eyes brightened. She even, as the matrons noticed, took to +crimping her hair. They looked on with a pitying awe. It seemed a +fearsome thing, to do so much for a tramp who would only kill you in the +end. Amelia stepped deftly about the house. She was a large woman, whose +ways had been devoid of grace; but now the richness of her spiritual +condition informed her with a charm. She crooned a little about her +work. Singing voice she had none, but she grew into a way of putting +words together, sometimes a line from the psalms, sometimes a name she +loved, and chanting the sounds, in unrecorded melody. Meanwhile, little +Rosie, always irreproachably dressed, with a jealous care lest she fall +below the popular standard, roamed in and out of the house, and +lightened its dull intervals. She, like the others, grew at once very +happy, because, like them, she accepted her place without a qualm, as if +it had been hers from the beginning. They were simple natures, and when +their joy came, they knew how to meet it. + +But if Enoch was content to follow the beaten ways of life, there was +one window through which he looked into the upper heaven of all: thereby +he saw what it is to create. He was a born mechanician. A revolving +wheel would set him to dreaming, and still him to that lethargy of mind +which is an involuntary sharing in the things that are. He could lose +himself in the life of rhythmic motion; and when he discovered rusted +springs, or cogs unprepared to fulfill their purpose, he fell upon them +with the ardor of a worshiper, and tried to set them right. Amelia +thought he should have invented something, and he confessed that he had +invented many things, but somehow failed in getting them on the market. +That process he mentioned with the indifference of a man to whom a +practical outcome is vague, and who finds in the ideal a bright reality. +Even Amelia could see that to be a maker was his joy; to reap rewards of +making was another and a lower task. + +One cold day in the early spring, he went "up garret" to hunt out an old +saddle, gathering mildew there, and came upon a greater treasure, a +disabled clock. He stepped heavily down, bearing it aloft in both hands. + +"See here, 'Melia," asked he, "why don't this go?" + +Amelia was scouring tins on the kitchen table. There was a teasing wind +outside, with a flurry of snow, and she had acknowledged that the +irritating weather made her as nervous as a witch. So she had taken to a +job to quiet herself. + +"That clock?" she replied. "That was gran'ther Eli's. It give up +strikin', an' then the hands stuck, an' I lost all patience with it. So +I bought this nickel one, an' carted t' other off into the attic. 'T +ain't worth fixin'." + +"Worth it!" repeated Enoch. "Well, I guess I'll give it a chance." + +He drew a chair to the stove, and there hesitated. "Say, 'Melia," said +he, "should you jest as soon I'd bring in that old shoemaker's bench out +o' the shed? It's low, an' I could reach my tools off'n the floor." + +Amelia lacked the discipline of contact with her kind, but she was +nevertheless smooth as silk in her new wifehood. + +"Law, yes, bring it along," said she. "It's a good day to clutter up. +The' won't be nobody in." + +So, while Enoch laid apart the clock with a delicacy of touch known only +to square, mechanical fingers, and Rosie played with the button-box on +the floor, assorting colors and matching white with white, Amelia +scoured the tins. Her energy kept pace with the wind; it whirled in +gusts and snatches, yet her precision never failed. + +"Made up your mind which cow to sell?" she asked, opening a discussion +still unsettled, after days of animated talk. + +"Ain't much to choose," said Enoch. He had frankly set Amelia right on +the subject of livestock; and she smilingly acquiesced in his larger +knowledge. "Elbridge True's got a mighty nice Alderney, an' if he's +goin' to sell milk another year, he'll be glad to get two good milkers +like these. What he wants is ten quarts apiece, no matter if it's +bluer'n a whetstone. I guess I can swap off with him; but I don't want +to run arter him. I put the case last Thursday. Mebbe he'll drop round." + +"Well," concluded Amelia, "I guess you're pretty sure to do what's +right." + +The forenoon galloped fast, and it was half past eleven before she +thought of dinner. + +"Why," said she, "ain't it butcher day? I've been lottin' on a piece o' +liver." + +"Butcher day is Thursday," said Enoch. "You've lost count." + +"My land!" responded Amelia. "Well, I guess we can put up with some +fried pork an' apples." There came a long, insistent knock at the outer +door. "Good heavens! Who's there! Rosie, you run to the side-light, an' +peek. It can't be a neighbor. They'd come right in. I hope my soul it +ain't company, a day like this." + +Rosie got on her fat legs with difficulty. She held her pinafore full of +buttons, but disaster lies in doing too many things at once; there came +a slip, a despairing clutch, and the buttons fell over the floor. There +were a great many round ones, and they rolled very fast. Amelia washed +the sand from her parboiled fingers, and drew a nervous breath. She had +a presentiment of coming ill, painfully heightened by her consciousness +that the kitchen was "riding out," and that she and her family rode with +it. Rosie came running back from her peephole, husky with importance. +The errant buttons did not trouble her. She had an eternity of time +wherein to pick them up; and, indeed, the chances were that some tall, +benevolent being would do it for her. + +"It's a man," she said. "He's got on a light coat with bright buttons, +and a fuzzy hat. He's got a big nose." + +Now, indeed, despair entered into Amelia, and sat enthroned. She sank +down on a straight-backed chair, and put her hands on her knees, while +the knock came again, a little querulously. + +"Enoch," said she, "do you know what's happened? That's cousin Josiah +Pease out there." Her voice bore the tragedy of a thousand past +encounters; but that Enoch could not know. + +"Is it?" asked he, with but a mild appearance of interest. "Want me to +go to the door?" + +"Go to the door!" echoed Amelia, so stridently that he looked up at her +again. "No; I don't want anybody should go to the door till this room's +cleared up. If 't w'an't so everlastin' cold, I'd take him right into +the clock-room, an' blaze a fire; but he'd see right through that. You +gether up them tools an' things, an' I'll help carry out the bench." + +If Enoch had not just then been absorbed in a delicate combination of +brass, he might have spoken more sympathetically. As it was, he seemed +kindly, but remote. + +"Look out!" said he, "you'll joggle. No, I guess I won't move. If he's +any kind of a man, he'll know what 't is to clean a clock." + +Amelia was not a crying woman, but the hot tears stood in her eyes. She +was experiencing, for the first time, that helpless pang born from the +wounding of pride in what we love. + +"Don't you see, Enoch?" she insisted. "This room looks like the Old +Boy--an' so do you--an' he'll go home an' tell all the folks at the +Ridge. Why, he's heard we're married, an' come over here to spy out the +land. He hates the cold. He never stirs till 'way on into June; an' now +he's come to find out." + +"Find out what?" inquired Enoch absorbedly. "Well, if you're anyways put +to 't, you send him to me." That manly utterance enunciated from a +"best-room" sofa, by an Enoch clad in his Sunday suit, would have +filled Amelia with rapture; she could have leaned on it as on the Tables +of the Law. But, alas! the scene-setting was meagre, and though Enoch +was very clean, he had no good clothes. He had pointedly refused to buy +them with his wife's money until he should have worked on the farm to a +corresponding amount. She had loved him for it; but every day his outer +poverty hurt her pride. "I guess you better ask him in," concluded +Enoch. "Don't you let him bother you." + +Amelia turned about with the grand air of a woman repulsed. + +"He _don't_ bother me," said she, "an' I _will_ let him in." She walked +to the door, stepping on buttons as she went, and conscious, when she +broke them, of a bitter pleasure. It added to her martyrdom. + +She flung open the door, and called herself a fool in the doing; for the +little old man outside was in the act of turning away. In another +instant, she might have escaped. But he was only too eager to come back +again, and it seemed to Amelia as if he would run over her, in his +desire to get in. + +"There! there! 'Melia," said he, pushing past her, "can't stop to talk +till I git near the fire. Guess you were settin' in the kitchen, wa'n't +ye? Don't make no stranger o' me. That your man?" + +She had shut the door, and entered, exasperated anew by the rising wind. +"That's my husband," said she coldly. "Enoch, here's cousin Josiah +Pease." + +Enoch looked up benevolently over his spectacles, and put out a horny +left hand, the while the other guarded his heap of treasures. "Pleased +to meet you, sir," said he. "You see I'm tinkerin' a clock." + +To Enoch, the explanation was enough. All the simple conventions of his +life might well wait upon a reason potent as this. Josiah Pease went to +the stove, and stood holding his tremulous hands over a cover. He was a +little man, eclipsed in a butternut coat of many capes, and his +parchment face shaded gradually up from it, as if into a harder medium. +His eyes were light, and they had an exceedingly uncomfortable way of +darting from one thing to another, like some insect born to spear and +sting. His head was entirely bald, all save a thin fringe of hair not +worth mentioning, since it disappeared so effectually beneath his +collar; and his general antiquity was grotesquely emphasized by two sets +of aggressive teeth, displaying their falsity from every crown. + +Amelia took out the broom, and began sweeping up buttons. She had an +acrid consciousness that by sacrificing them she was somehow completing +the tragedy of her day. Rosie gave a little cry; but Amelia pointed to +the corner where stood the child's chair, exhumed from the attic, after +forty years of rest. "You set there," she said, in an undertone, "an' +keep still." + +Rosie obeyed without a word. Such an atmosphere had not enveloped her +since she entered this wonderful house. Remembering vaguely the days +when her own mother had "spells," and she and her father effaced +themselves until times should change, she folded her little hands, and +lapsed back into a condition of mental servitude. + +Meanwhile, Amelia followed nervously in the track of Enoch's talk with +cousin Josiah, though her mind kept its undercurrent of foolish musing. +Like all of us, snatched up by the wheels of great emergencies, she +caught at trifles while they whirled her round. Here were +"soldier-buttons." All the other girls had collected them, though she, +having no lover in the war, had traded for her few. Here were the +gold-stones that held her changeable silk, there the little clouded +pearls from her sister's raglan. Annie had died in youth; its glamour +still enwrapped her. Poor Annie! But Rosie had seemed to bring her back. +Amelia swept litter, buttons and all, into the dustpan, and marched to +the stove to throw her booty in. Nobody marked her save Rosie, whose +playthings were endangered; but Enoch's very obtuseness to the situation +was what stayed her hand. She carried the dustpan away into a closet, +and came back, to gather up her tins. A cold rage of nervousness beset +her, so overpowering that she herself was amazed at it. + +Meantime, Josiah Pease had divested himself of his coat, and drawn the +grandfather chair into a space behind the stove. + +"You a clock-mender by trade?" he asked of Enoch. + +"No," said Enoch absently, "I ain't got any reg'lar trade." + +"Jest goin' round the country?" amended cousin Josiah, with the +preliminary insinuation Amelia knew so well. He was, it had been said, +in the habit of inventing lies, and challenging other folks to stick to +'em. But Enoch made no reply. He went soberly on with his work. + +"Law, 'Melia, to think o' your bein' married," continued Josiah, turning +to her. "I never should ha' thought that o' you." + +"I never thought it of myself," said Amelia tartly. "You don't know what +you'll do till you're tried." + +"No! no!" said Josiah Pease. "Never in the world. You remember Sally +Flint, how plain-spoken she is? Well, Betsy Marden's darter Ann rode +down to the poor-house t' other day with some sweet trade, an' took a +young sprig with her. He turned his back a minute, to look out o' +winder, an' Sally spoke right up, as ye might say, afore him. 'That +your beau?' says she. Well, o' course Ann couldn't own it, an' him right +there, so to speak. So she shook her head. 'Well, I'm glad on 't,' says +Sally. 'If I couldn't have anything to eat, I'd have suthin' to look +at!' He was the most unsignifyin'est creatur' you ever put your eyes on. +But they say Ann's started in on her clo'es." + +Amelia's face had grown scarlet. "I dunno's any such speech is called +for here," said she, in a furious self-betrayal. Josiah Pease had always +been able to storm her reserves. + +"Law, no," answered he comfortably. "It come into my mind,--that's all." + +She looked at Enoch with a passionate sympathy, knowing too well how the +hidden sting was intended to work. But Enoch had not heard. He was +absorbed in a finer problem of brass and iron; and though Amelia had +wished to save him from hurt, in that instant she scorned him for his +blindness. "I guess I shall have to ask you to move," she said to her +husband coldly. "I've got to git to that stove, if we're goin' to have +any dinner to-day." + +It seemed to her that even Enoch might take the hint, and clear away his +rubbish. Her feelings might have been assuaged by a clean hearth and +some acquiescence in her own mood. But he only moved back a little, and +went on fitting and musing. He was not thinking of her in the least, +nor even of Josiah Pease. His mind had entered its brighter, more +alluring world. She began to fry her pork and apples, with a perfunctory +attempt at conversation. "You don't often git round so early in the +spring," said she. + +"No," returned cousin Josiah. "I kind o' got started out, this time, I +don't rightly know why. I guess I've had you in mind more of late, for +some Tiverton folks come over our way, tradin', an' they brought all the +news. It sort o' stirred me up to come." + +Amelia turned her apples vigorously, well aware that the slices were +breaking. That made a part of her bitter day. + +"Folks needn't take the trouble to carry news about me," she said. There +was an angry gleam in her eyes. "If anybody wants to know anything, let +'em come right here, an' I'll settle 'em." The ring of her voice +penetrated even to Enoch's perception, and he looked up in mild +surprise. She seemed to have thrown open, for an instant, a little +window into a part of her nature he had never seen. + +"How good them apples smell!" said Josiah innocently. "Last time I had +'em was down to cousin Amasa True's, he that married his third wife, an' +she run through all he had. I went down to see 'em arter the +vandoo,--you know they got red o' most everything,--an' they had fried +pork an' apples for dinner. Old Bashaby dropped in. 'Law!' says she. +'Fried pork an' apples! Well, I call that livin' pretty nigh the wind!'" +Josiah chuckled. He was very warm now, and the savory smell of the dish +he decried was mounting to what served him for fancy. "'Melia, you ain't +never had your teeth out, have ye?" he asked, as one who spoke from +richer memories. + +"I guess my teeth'll last me as long as I want 'em," said Amelia curtly. + +"Well, I didn't know. They looked real white an' firm last time I see +'em, but you never can tell how they be underneath. I knew the folks +would ask me when I got home. I thought I'd speak." + +"Dinner's ready," said Amelia. She turned an alien look upon her +husband. "You want to wash your hands?" + +Enoch rose cheerfully. He had got to a hopeful place with the clock. + +"Set ri' down," said he. "Don't wait a minute. I'll be along." + +So Amelia and the guest began their meal, while little Rosie climbed, +rather soberly, into her higher chair, and held out her plate. + +"You wait," said Amelia harshly. "Can't you let other folks eat a +mouthful before you have to have yours?" Yet as she said it, she +remembered, with a remorseful pang, that she had always helped the child +first; it had been so sweet to see her pleased and satisfied. + +Josiah was never talkative during meals. Not being absolute master of +his teeth, his mind dwelt with them. Amelia remembered that, with a +malicious satisfaction. But he could not be altogether dumb. That, +people said, would never happen to Josiah Pease while he was above +ground. + +"That his girl?" he asked, indicating Rosie with his knife, in a +gustatory pause. + +"Whose?" inquired Amelia willfully. + +"His." He pointed again, this time to the back room, where Enoch was +still washing his hands. + +"Yes." + +"Mother dead?" + +Amelia sprang from her chair, while Rosie looked at her with the +frightened glance of a child to whom some half-forgotten grief has +suddenly returned. + +"Josiah Pease!" said Amelia. "I never thought a poor, insignificant +creatur' like you could rile me so,--when I know what you're doin' it +for, too. But you've brought it about. Her mother dead? Ain't I been an' +married her father?" + +"Law, Amelia, do se' down!" said Josiah indulgently. There was a +mince-pie warming on the back of the stove. He saw it there. "I didn't +mean nuthin'. I'll be bound you thought she's dead, or you wouldn't ha' +took such a step. I only meant, did ye see her death in the paper, for +example, or anything like that?" + +"'Melia," called Enoch, from the doorway, "I won't come in to dinner +jest now. Elbridge True's drove into the yard. I guess he's got it in +mind to talk it over about them cows. I don't want to lose the chance." + +"All right," answered Amelia. She took her seat again, while Enoch's +footsteps went briskly out through the shed. With the clanging of the +door, she felt secure. If she had to deal with Josiah Pease, she could +do it better alone, clutching at the certainty that was with her from of +old, that, if you could only keep your temper with cousin Josiah, you +had one chance of victory. Flame out at him, and you were lost. "Some +more potatoes?" asked she, with a deceptive calm. + +"Don't care if I do," returned Josiah, selecting greedily, his fork +hovering in air. "Little mite watery, ain't they? Dig 'em yourself?" + +"We dug 'em," said Amelia coldly. + +Rosie stepped down from her chair, unnoticed. To Amelia, she was then no +bigger than some little winged thing flitting about the room in time of +tragedy. Our greatest emotions sometimes stay unnamed. At that moment, +Amelia was swayed by as tumultuous a love as ever animated damsel of +verse or story; but it merely seemed to her that she was an ill-used +woman, married to a man for whom she was called on to be ashamed. Rosie +tiptoed into the entry, put on her little shawl and hood, and stole out +to play in the corn-house. When domestic squalls were gathering, she +knew where to go. The great outdoors was safer. Her past had taught her +that. + +"Don't like to eat with folks, does he? Well, it's all in what you're +brought up to." + +Amelia was ready with her counter-charge. "Have some tea?" + +She poured it as if it were poison, and Josiah became conscious of her +tragic self-control. + +"You ain't eat a thing," said he, with an ostentatious kindliness. He +bent forward a little, with the air of inviting a confidence. "Got +suthin' on your mind, ain't you, 'Melia?" he whispered. "Kind o' +worried? Find he's a drinkin' man?" + +Amelia was not to be beguiled, even by that anger which veils itself as +justice. She looked at him steadily, with scorching eyes. + +"You ain't took any sugar," said she. "There 't is, settin' by you. Help +yourself." + +Josiah addressed himself to his tea, and then Amelia poured him another +cup. She had some fierce satisfaction in making it good and strong. It +seemed to her that she was heartening her adversary for the fray, and +she took pleasure in doing it effectually. So great was the spirit +within her that she knew he could not be too valiant, for her keener joy +in laying him low. Then they rose from the table, and Josiah took his +old place by the stove, while Amelia began carrying the dishes to the +sink. Her mind was a little hazy now; her next move must depend on his, +and cousin Josiah, somewhat drowsy from his good dinner, was not at once +inclined to talk. Suddenly he raised his head snakily from those sunken +shoulders, and pointed a lean finger to the window. + +"'Melia!" cried he sharply. "I'll be buttered if he ain't been and +traded off both your cows. My Lord! be you goin' to stan' there an' let +them two cows go?" + +Amelia gave one swift glance from the window, following the path marked +out by that insinuating index. It was true. Elbridge was driving her two +cows out of the yard, and her husband stood by, watching him. She walked +quietly into the entry, and Josiah laid his old hands together in the +rapturous certainty that she was going to open the door, and send her +anger forth. But Amelia only took down his butternut coat from the nail, +and returned with it, holding it ready for him to insert his arms. + +"Here's your coat," said she, with that strange, deceptive calmness. +"Stan' up, an' I'll help you put it on." + +Josiah looked at her with helplessly open mouth, and eyes so vacuous +that Amelia felt, even at that moment, the grim humor of his plight. + +"I was in hopes he'd harness up"--he began, but she ruthlessly cut him +short. + +"Stan' up! Here, put t' other arm in fust. This han'kercher yours? Goes +round your neck? There 't is. Here's your hat. Got any mittens? There +they be, in your pocket. This way. This is the door you come in, an' +this is the door you'll go out of." She preceded him, her head thrown +up, her shoulders back. Amelia had no idea of dramatic values, but she +was playing an effective part. She reached the door and flung it open, +but Josiah, a poor figure in its huddled capes, still stood abjectly in +the middle of the kitchen. "Come!" she called peremptorily. "Come, +Josiah Pease! Out you go." And Josiah went, though, contrary to his +usual habit, he did not talk. He quavered uncertainly down the steps, +and Amelia called a halt. "Josiah Pease!" + +He turned, and looked up at her. His mouth had dropped, and he was +nothing but a very helpless old child. Vicious as he was, Amelia +realized the mental poverty of her adversary, and despised herself for +despising him. "Josiah Pease!" she repeated. "This is the end. Don't you +darken my doors ag'in. I've done with you,--egg an' bird!" She closed +the door, shutting out Josiah and the keen spring wind, and went back to +the window, to watch him down the drive. His back looked poor and mean. +It emphasized the pettiness of her victory. Even at that moment, she +realized that it was the poorer part of her which had resented attack on +a citadel which should be impregnable as time itself. Just then Enoch +stepped into the kitchen behind her, and his voice jarred upon her +tingling nerves. + +"Well," said he, more jovially than he was wont to speak, "I guess I've +made a good trade for ye. Company gone? Come here an' se' down while I +eat, an' I'll tell ye all about it." + +Amelia turned about and walked slowly up to him, by no volition of her +conscious self. Again love, that august creature, veiled itself in an +unjust anger, because it was love and nothing else. + +"You've made a good bargain, have you?" she repeated. "You've sold my +cows, an' had 'em drove off the place without if or but. That's what you +call a good bargain!" Her voice frightened her. It amazed the man who +heard. These two middle-aged people were waking up to passions neither +had felt in youth. Life was strong in them because love was there. + +"Why, 'Melia!" said the man. "Why, 'Melia!" + +Amelia was hurried on before the wind of her destiny. Her voice grew +sharper. Little white stripes, like the lashes from a whip, showed +themselves on her cheeks. She seemed to be speaking from a dream, which +left her no will save that of speaking. + +"It's been so ever sence you set foot in this house. Have I had my say +once? Have I been mistress on my own farm? No! You took the head o' +things, an' you've kep' it. What's mine is yours." + +Her triumph over Josiah seemed to be strangely repeated; the scene was +almost identical. The man before her stood with his hands hanging by his +sides, the fingers limp, in an attitude of the profoundest patience. He +was thinking things out. She knew that. Her hurrying mind anticipated +all he might have said, and would not. And because he had too abiding a +gentleness to say it, the insanity of her anger rose anew. "I'm the +laughin'-stock o' the town," she went on bitterly. "There ain't a man or +woman in it that don't say I've married a tramp." + +Enoch winced, with a sharp, brief quiver of the lips; but before she +could dwell upon the sight, to the resurrection of her tenderness, he +turned away from her, and went over to the bench. + +"I guess I'll move this back where't was," he said, in a very still +voice, and Amelia stood watching him, conscious of a new and bitterer +pang: a fierce contempt that he could go on with his poor, methodical +way of living, when greater issues waited at the door. He moved the +bench into its old place, gathered up the clock, with its dismantled +machinery, and carried it into the attic. She heard his step on the +stairs, regular and unhalting, and despised him again; but in all those +moments, the meaning of his movements had not struck her. When he came +back, he brought in the broom; and while he swept up the fragments of +his work, Amelia stood and watched him. He carried the dustpan and broom +away to their places, but he did not reenter the room. He spoke to her +from the doorway, and she could not see his face. + +"I guess you won't mind if I leave the clock as 't is. It needs some new +cogs, an' if anybody should come along, he wouldn't find it any the +worse for what I've done. I've jest thought it over about the cows, an' +I guess I'll leave that, too, jest as it is. I made you a good bargain, +an' when you come to think it over, I guess you'd ruther it'd stan' so +than run the resk of havin' folks make a handle of it. Good-by, 'Melia. +You've been good to me,--better'n anybody ever was in the world." + +She heard his step, swift and steady, through the shed and out at the +door. He was gone. Amelia turned to the window, to look after him, and +then, finding he had not taken the driveway, she ran into the bedroom, +to gaze across the fields. There he was, a lonely figure, striking +vigorously out. He seemed glad to go; and seeing his haste, her heart +hardened against him. She gave a little disdainful laugh. + +"Well," said Amelia, "_that's_ over. I'll wash my dishes now." + +Coming back into the kitchen, with an assured step, she moved calmly +about her work, as if the world were there to see. Her pride enveloped +her like a garment. She handled the dishes as if she scorned them, yet +her method and care were exquisite. Presently there came a little +imperative pounding at the side door. It was Rosie. She had forgotten +the cloudy atmosphere of the house, and being cold, had come, in all her +old, imperious certainty of love and warmth, to be let in. Amelia +stopped short in her work, and an ugly frown roughened her brow. Josiah +Pease, with all his evil imaginings, seemed to be at her side, his lean +forefinger pointing out the baseness of mankind. In that instant, she +realized where Enoch had gone. He meant to take the three o'clock train +where it halted, down at the Crossing, and he had left the child behind. +Tearing off her apron, she threw it over her head. She ran to the door, +and, opening it, almost knocked the child down, in her haste to be out +and away. Rosie had lifted her frosty face in a smile of welcome, but +Amelia did not see it. She gathered the child in her arms, and hurried +down the steps, through the bars, and along the narrow path toward the +pine woods. The sharp brown stubble of the field merged into the thin +grasses of the greener lowland, and she heard the trickling of the +little dark brook, where gentians lived in the fall, and where, still +earlier, the cardinal flower and forget-me-not crowded in lavish color. +She knew every inch of the way; her feet had an intelligence of their +own. The farm was a part of her inherited life; but at that moment, she +prized it as nothing beside that newly discovered wealth which she was +rushing to cast away. Rosie had not striven in the least against her +capture. She knew too much of life, in some patient fashion, to resist +it, in any of its phases. She put her arms about Amelia's neck, to cling +the closer, and Amelia, turning her face while she staggered on, set her +lips passionately to the little sleeve. + +"You cold?" asked she--"_dear_?" But she told herself it was a kiss of +farewell. + +She stepped deftly over the low stone wall into the Marden woods, and +took the slippery downward path, over pine needles. Sometimes a rounded +root lay above the surface, and she stumbled on it; but the child only +tightened her grasp. Amelia walked and ran with the prescience of those +without fear; for her eyes were unseeing, and her thoughts hurrying +forward, she depicted to herself the little drama at its close. She +would be at the Crossing and away again, before the train came in; +nobody need guess her trouble. Enoch must be there, waiting. She would +drop the child at his side,--the child he had deserted,--and before he +could say a word, turn back to her desolate home. And at the thought, +she kissed the little sleeve again, and thought how good it would be if +she could only be there again, though alone, in the shielding walls of +her house, and the parting were over and done. She felt her breath come +chokingly. + +"You'll have to walk a minute," she whispered, setting the child down at +her side. "There's time enough. I can't hurry." + +At that instant, she felt the slight warning of the ground beneath her +feet, shaken by another step, and saw, through the pines, her husband +running toward her. Rosie started to meet him, with a little cry, but +Amelia thrust her aside, and hurried swiftly on in advance, her eyes +feeding upon his face. It had miraculously changed. Sorrow, the great +despair of life, had eaten into it, and aged it more than years of +patient want. His eyes were like lamps burned low, and the wrinkles +under them had guttered into misery. But to Amelia, his look had all +the sweet familiarity of faces we shall see in Paradise. She did not +stop to interpret his meeting glance, nor ask him to read hers. Coming +upon him like a whirlwind, she put both her shaking hands on his +shoulders, and laid her wet face to his. + +"Enoch! Enoch!" she cried sharply, "in the name of God, come home with +me!" + +She felt him trembling under her hands, but he only put up his own, and +very gently loosed the passionate grasp. "There! there!" he said, in a +whisper. "Don't feel so bad. It's all right. I jest turned back for +Rosie. Mebbe you won't believe it, but I forgot all about her." + +He lowered his voice, for Rosie had gone close to him, and laid her +hands clingingly upon his coat. She did not understand, but she could +wait. A branch had almost barred the path, and Amelia, her dull gaze +fallen, noted idly how bright the moss had kept, and how the scarlet +cups enriched it. Her strength would not sustain her, void of his, and +she sank down on the wood, her hands laid limply in her lap. "Enoch," +she said, from her new sense of the awe of life, "don't lay up anything +ag'inst me. You couldn't if you knew." + +"Knew what?" asked Enoch gently. He did not forget that circumstance had +laid a blow at the roots of his being; but he could not turn away while +she still suffered. + +Amelia began, stumblingly,-- + +"He talked about you. I couldn't stan' it." + +"Did you believe it?" he queried sternly. + +"There wa'n't anything to believe. That's neither here nor there. +But--Enoch, if anybody should cut my right hand off--Enoch"--Her voice +fell brokenly. She was a New England woman, accustomed neither to +analyze nor talk. She could only suffer in the elemental way of dumb +things who sometimes need a language of the heart. One thing she knew. +The man was hers; and if she reft herself away from him, then she must +die. + +He had taken Rosie's hand, and Amelia was aware that he turned away. + +"I don't want to bring up anything," he said hesitatingly, "but I +couldn't stan' bein' any less'n other men would, jest because the woman +had the money, an' I hadn't. I dunno's 't was exactly fair about the +cows, but somehow you kind o' set me at the head o' things, in the +beginnin', an' it never come into my mind"-- + +Amelia sat looking wanly past him. She began to see how slightly +argument would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from +her and left her young. + +"Enoch," she said vigorously, "you've got to take me. Somehow, you've +got to. Talkin' won't make you see that what I said never meant no more +than the wind that blows. But you've got to keep me, or remember, all +your life, how you murdered me by goin' away. The farm's come between +us. Le's leave it! It's 'most time for the cars. You take me with you +now. If you tramp, I'll tramp. If you work out, so 'll I. But where you +go, I've got to go, too." + +Some understanding of her began to creep upon him; he dropped the +child's hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch, in these latter days of his +life, had forgotten how to smile; but now a sudden, mirthful gleam +struck upon his face, and lighted it with the candles of hope. He stood +beside her, and Amelia did not look at him. + +"Would you go with me, 'Melia?" he asked. + +"I'm goin'," said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could +not abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous +judgment. + +"S'pose I don't ask you?" + +"I'll foller on behind." + +"Don't ye want to go home, an' lock up, an' git a bunnit?" + +She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head. + +"No." + +"Don't ye want to leave the key with some o' the neighbors?" + +"I don't want anything in the world but you," owned Amelia shamelessly. + +Enoch bent suddenly, and drew her to her feet. "'Melia," said he, "you +look up here." + +She raised her drawn face and looked at him, not because she wished, but +because she must. In her abasement, there was no obedience which she +would deny him. But she could only see that he was strangely happy, and +so the more removed from her own despair. Enoch swiftly passed his arm +about her, and turned her homeward. He laughed a little. Being a man, he +must laugh when that bitter ache in the throat presaged more bitter +tears. + +"Come, 'Melia," said he, "come along home, an' I'll tell you all about +the cows. I made a real good bargain. Come, Rosie." + +Amelia could not answer. It seemed to her as if love had dealt with her +as she had not deserved; and she went on, exalted, afraid of breaking +the moment, and knowing only that he was hers again. But just before +they left the shadow of the woods, he stopped, holding her still, and +their hearts beat together. + +"'Melia," said he brokenly, "I guess I never told you in so many words, +but it's the truth: if God Almighty was to make me a woman, I'd have her +you, not a hair altered. I never cared a straw for any other. I know +that now. You're all there is in the world." + +When they walked up over the brown field, the sun lay very warmly there +with a promise of spring fulfilled. The wind had miraculously died, and +soft clouds ran over the sky in flocks. Rosie danced on ahead, singing +her queer little song, and Enoch struggled with himself to speak the +word his wife might wish. + +"'Melia," said he at last, "there ain't anything in my life I couldn't +tell you. I jest ain't dwelt on it, that's all. If you want to have me +go over it--" + +"I don't want anything," said Amelia firmly. Her eyes were suffused, and +yet lambent. The light in them seemed to be drinking up their tears. Her +steps, she knew, were set within a shining way. At the door only she +paused and fixed him with a glance. "Enoch," said she threateningly, +"whose cows were them you sold to-day?" + +He opened his lips, but she looked him down. One word he rejected, and +then another. His cheeks wrinkled up into obstinate smiling, and he made +the grimace of a child over its bitter draught. + +"'Melia, it ain't fair," he complained. "No, it ain't. I'll take one of +'em, if you say so, or I'll own it don't make a mite o' difference whose +they be. But as to lyin'--" + +"Say it!" commanded Amelia. "Whose were they?" + +"Mine!" said Enoch. They broke into laughter, like children, and held +each other's hands. + +"I ain't had a mite o' dinner," said Amelia happily, as they stepped +together into the kitchen. "Nor you! An' Rosie didn't eat her pie. You +blaze up the fire, an' I'll fry some eggs." + + + + +THE MORTUARY CHEST + + +"Now we've got red o' the men-folks," said Mrs. Robbins, "le's se' down +an' talk it over." The last man of all the crowd accustomed to seek the +country store at noontime was closing the church door behind him as she +spoke. "Here, Ezry," she called after him, "you hurry up, or you won't +git there afore cockcrow to-morrer, an' I wouldn't have that letter miss +for a good deal." + +Mrs. Robbins was slight, and hung on wires,--so said her neighbors. They +also remarked that her nose was as picked as a pin, and that anybody +with them freckles and that red hair was sure to be smart. You could +always tell. Mrs. Robbins knew her reputation for extreme acuteness, and +tried to live up to it. + +"Law! don't you go to stirrin' on him up," said Mrs. Solomon Page +comfortably, putting on the cover of her butter-box, which had contained +the family lunch. "If the store's closed, he can slip the letter into +the box, an' three cents with it, an' they'll put a stamp on in the +mornin'." + +By this time, there was a general dusting of crumbs from Sunday gowns, a +settling of boxes and baskets, and the feminine portion of the East +Tiverton congregation, according to ancient custom, passed into the pews +nearest the stove, and arranged itself more compactly for the midday +gossip. This was a pleasant interlude in the religious decorum of the +day; no Sunday came when the men did not trail off to the store for +their special council, and the women, with a restful sense of sympathy +alloyed by no disturbing element, settled down for an exclusively +feminine view of the universe. Mrs. Page took the head of the pew, and +disposed her portly frame so as to survey the scene with ease. She was a +large woman, with red cheeks and black, shining hair. One powerful arm +lay along the back of the pew, and, as she talked, she meditatively beat +the rail in time. Her sister, Mrs. Ellison, according to an intermittent +custom, had come over from Saltash to attend church, and incidentally to +indulge in a family chat. It was said that Tilly rode over about jes' so +often to get the Tiverton news for her son Leonard, who furnished local +items to the Sudleigh "Star;" and, indeed, she made no secret of sitting +down in social conclave with a bit of paper and a worn pencil in hand, +to jog her memory. She, too, had smooth black hair, but her dark eyes +were illumined by no steadfast glow; they snapped and shone with alert +intelligence, and her great forehead dominated the rest of her face, +scarred with a thousand wrinkles by intensity of nature rather than by +time. A pleasant warmth had diffused itself over the room, so cold +during the morning service that foot-stoves had been in requisition. +Bonnet strings were thrown back and shawls unpinned. The little world +relaxed and lay at ease. + +"What's the news over your way, sister?" asked Mrs. Ellison, as an +informal preliminary. + +"Tilly don't want to give; she'd ruther take," said Mrs. Baxter, before +the other could answer. "She's like old Mis' Pepper. Seliny Hazlitt went +over there, when she was fust married an' come to the neighborhood, an' +asked her if she'd got a sieve to put squash through. Poor Seliny! she +didn't know a sieve from a colander, in them days." + +"I guess she found out soon enough," volunteered Mrs. Page. "_He_ was +one o' them kind o' men that can keep house as well as a woman. I'd +ruther live with a born fool." + +"Well, old Mis' Pepper she ris up an' smoothed down her apron (recollect +them little dots she used to wear?--made her look as broad as a barn +door!), an' she says, 'Yes, we've got a sieve for flour, an' a sieve for +meal, an' a sieve for rye, an' a sieve for blue-monge, an' we could have +a sieve for squash if we was a mind to, _but I don't wish to lend_.' +That's the way with Tilly. She's terrible cropein' about news, but she +won't lend." + +"How's your cistern?" asked Mrs. John Cole, who, with an exclusively +practical turn of mind, saw no reason why talk should be consecutive. +"Got all the water you want?" + +"Yes," said Mrs. Page; "that last rain filled it up higher'n it's been +sence November." + +But Mrs. Ellison was not to be thrown off the track. + +"Ain't there been consid'able talk over here about Parson Bond?" she +asked. + +Miss Sally Ware, a plump and pleasing maiden lady, whose gold beads lay +in a crease especially designed for them, stirred uneasily in her seat +and gave her sisters an appealing glance. But she did not speak, beyond +uttering a little dissentient noise in her throat. She was loyal to her +minister. An embarrassed silence fell like a vapor over the assemblage. +Everybody longed to talk; nobody wanted the responsibility of beginning. +Mrs. Page was the first to gather her forces. + +"Now, Tilly," said she, with decision, "you ain't comin' over here to +tole us into haulin' our own pastor over the coals, unless you'll say +right out you won't pass it on to Saltash folks. As for puttin' it in +the paper, it ain't the kind you can." + +Tilly's eyes burned. + +"I guess I know when to speak an' when not to," she remarked. "Now don't +beat about the bush; the men-folks'll be back to-rights. I never in my +life give Len a mite o' news he couldn't ha' picked up for himself." + +"Well, some master silly pieces have got into the paper, fust an' last," +said Mrs. Robbins. "Recollect how your Len come 'way over here to git +his shoes cobbled, the week arter Tom Brewer moved int' the Holler, an' +folks hadn't got over swappin' the queer things he said? an' when Tom +got the shoes done afore he promised, Len says to him, 'You're better'n +your word.' 'Well,' says Tom, 'I flew at 'em with all the venom o' my +specie.' An' it wa'n't a fortnight afore that speech come out in a New +York paper, an' then the Sudleigh 'Star' got hold on 't, an' so 't went. +If folks want that kind o' thing, they can git a plenty, _I_ say." She +set her lips defiantly, and looked round on the assembled group. This +was something she had meant to mention; now she had done it. + +The informal meeting was aghast. A flavor of robust humor was accustomed +to enliven it, but not of a sort to induce dissension. + +"There! there!" murmured Sally Ware. "It's the Sabbath day!" + +"Well, nobody's breakin' of it, as I know of," said Mrs. Ellison. Her +eyes were brighter than usual, but she composed herself into a careful +disregard of annoyance. When desire of news assailed her, she could +easily conceal her personal resentments, cannily sacrificing small +issues to great. "I guess there's no danger o' Parson Bond's gittin' +into the paper, so long's he behaves himself; but if anybody's got eyes, +they can't help seein'. I hadn't been in the Bible class five minutes +afore I guessed how he was carryin' on. Has he begun to go with Isabel +North, an' his wife not cold in her grave?" + +"Well, I think, for my part, he does want Isabel," said Mrs. Robbins +sharply, "an' I say it's a sin an' a shame. Why, she ain't twenty, an' +he's sixty if he's a day. My soul! Sally Ware, you better be settin' +your cap for my William Henry. He's 'most nineteen." + +Miss Ware flushed, and her plump hands tightened upon each other under +her shawl. She was never entirely at ease in the atmosphere of these +assured married women; it was always a little bracing. + +"Well, how's she take it?" asked Tilly, turning from one to the other. +"Tickled to death, I s'pose?" + +"Well, I guess she ain't!" broke in a younger woman, whose wedding +finery was not yet outworn. "She's most sick over it, and so she has +been ever since her sister married and went away. I believe she'd hate +the sight of him, if 't wasn't the minister; but _'t is_ the minister, +and when she's put face to face with him, she can't help saying yes and +no." + +"I dunno'," said Mrs. Page, with her unctuous laugh. "Remember the +party over to Tiverton t' other night, an' them tarts? You see, Rosanna +Maria Pike asked us all over; an' you know how flaky her pie-crust is. +Well, the minister was stan'in' side of Isabel when the tarts was +passed. He was sort o' shinin' up to her that night, an' I guess he felt +a mite twittery; so when the tarts come to him, he reached out kind o' +delicate, with his little finger straight out, an' tried to take one. +An' a ring o' crust come off on his finger. Then he tried it ag'in, an' +got another ring. Everybody'd ha' laughed, if it hadn't been the +minister; but Isabel she tickled right out, an' says, 'You don't take +jelly, do you, Mr. Bond?' An' he turned as red as fire, an' says, 'No, I +thank you.'" + +"She wouldn't ha' said it, if she hadn't ha' been so nervous," remarked +Miss Sally, taking a little parcel of peppermints from her pocket, and +proceeding to divide them. + +"No, I don't s'pose she would," owned Mrs. Page reflectively. "But if +what they say is true, she's been pretty sassy to him, fust an' last. +Why, you know, no matter how the parson begins his prayer, he's sure to +end up on one line: 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live +by the dim light of natur'.' 'Lisha Cole, when he come home from +Illinois, walked over here to meetin', to surprise some o' the folks. He +waited in the entry to ketch 'em comin' out, an' the fust word he heard +was, 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live by the dim light +of natur'.' 'Lisha said he'd had time to be shipwrecked (you know he +went to California fust an' made the v'yage), an' be married twice, an' +lay by enough to keep him, and come home poor; but when he heard that, +he felt as if the world hadn't moved sence he started." + +Sally Ware dropped her mitten, to avoid listening and the necessity of +reply; it was too evident that the conversational tone was becoming +profane. But Mrs. Page's eyes were gleaming with pure dramatic joy, and +she continued:-- + +"Well, a fortnight or so ago he went over to see Isabel, an' Sadie an' +her husband happened to be there. They were all settin' purrin' in the +dark, because they'd forgot to send for any kerosene. 'No light?' says +he, hittin' his head ag'inst the chimbly-piece goin' in,--'no light?' +'No,' says Isabel, 'none but the dim light of natur'.'" + +There was a chime of delighted laughter in many keys. The company felt +the ease of unrestricted speech. They wished the nooning might be +indefinitely prolonged. + +"Sometimes I think she sets out to make him believe she's wuss 'n she +is," remarked Mrs. Cole. "Remember how she carried on last Sabbath?" + +"I guess so!" returned Mrs. Page. "You see, Tilly, he's kind o' pushin' +her for'ard to make her seem more suitable,--he'd like to have her as +old as the hills!--an' nothin' would do but she must go into the Bible +class. Ain't a member that's under fifty, but there that little young +thing sets, cheeks red as a beet, an' the elder asks her questions, when +he gits to her, as if he was coverin' on her over with cotton wool. +Well, last Sabbath old Deacon Pitts--le's see, there ain't any o' his +folks present, be they?--well, he was late, an' he hadn't looked at his +lesson besides. 'T was the fust chapter in Ruth, where it begins, 'In +the days when the judges ruled.' You recollect Naomi told the two +darters they'd got to set sail, an' then the Bible says, 'they lifted up +their voice an' wept.' 'Who wept?' says the parson to Deacon Pitts, +afore he'd got fairly se' down. The deacon he opened his Bible, an' +whirled over the leaves. 'Who wept, Brother Pitts?' says the parson over +ag'in. Somebody found the deacon the place, an' p'inted. He was growin' +redder an' redder, an' his spe'tacles kep' slippin' down, but he did +manage to see the chapter begun suthin' about the judges. Well, by that +time parson spoke out sort o' sharp. 'Brother Pitts,' says he, 'who +wept?' The deacon see 't he'd got to put some kind of a face on 't, an' +he looked up an' spoke out, as bold as brass. 'I conclude,' says +he,--'I conclude 't was the judges!'" + +Even Miss Ware smiled a little, and adjusted her gold beads. The others +laughed out rich and free. + +"Well, what'd that have to do with Isabel?" asked Mrs. Ellison, who +never forgot the main issue. + +"Why, everybody else drawed down their faces, an' tried to keep 'em +straight, but Isabel, she begun to laugh, an' she laughed till the tears +streamed down her cheeks. Deacon Pitts was real put out, for him, an' +the parson tried not to take no notice. But it went so fur he couldn't +help it, an' so he says, 'Miss Isabel, I'm real pained,' says he. But 't +was jest as you'd cuff the kitten for snarlin' up your yarn." + +"Well, what's Isabel goin' to do?" asked Mrs. Ellison. "S'pose she'll +marry him?" + +"Why, she won't unless he tells her to. If he does, I dunno but she'll +think she's got to." + +"I say it's a shame," put in Mrs. Robbins incisively; "an' Isabel with +everything all fixed complete so 't she could have a good time. Her +sister's well married, an' Isabel stays every night with her. Them two +girls have been together ever sence their father died. An' here she's +got the school, an' she's goin' to Sudleigh every Saturday to take +lessons in readin', an' she'd be as happy as a cricket, if on'y he'd +let her alone." + +"She reads real well," said Mrs. Ellison. "She come over to our sociable +an' read for us. She could turn herself into anybody she'd a mind to. +Len wrote a notice of it for the 'Star.' That's the only time we've had +oysters over our way." + +"I'd let it be the last," piped up a thin old lady, with a long figured +veil over her face. "It's my opinion oysters lead to dancin'." + +"Well, let 'em lead," said optimistic Mrs. Page. "I guess we needn't +foller." + +"Them that have got rheumatism in their knees can stay behind," said the +young married woman, drawn by the heat of the moment into a daring at +once to be repented. "Mrs. Ellison, you're getting ahead of us over in +your parish. They say you sing out of sheet music." + +"Yes, they do say so," interrupted the old lady under the figured veil. +"If there's any worship in sheet music, I'd like to know it!" + +"Come, come!" said peace-loving Mrs. Page; "there's the men filin' in. +We mustn't let 'em see us squabblin'. They think we're a lot o' cacklin' +hens anyway, tickled to death over a piece o' chalk. There's Isabel, +now. She's goin' to look like her aunt Mary Ellen, over to Saltash." + +Isabel preceded the men, who were pausing for a word at the door, and +went down the aisle to her pew. She bowed to one and another, in +passing, and her color rose. They could not altogether restrain their +guiltily curious gaze, and Isabel knew she had been talked over. She was +a healthy-looking girl, with clear blue eyes and a quantity of soft +brown hair. Her face was rather large-featured, and one could see that, +if the world went well with her, she would be among those who develop +beauty in middle life. + +The group of dames dispersed to their several pews, and settled their +faces into expressions more becoming a Sunday mood. The village folk, +who had time for a hot dinner, dropped in, one by one, and by and by the +parson came,--a gaunt man, with thick red-brown hair streaked with dull +gray, and red-brown, sanguine eyes. He was much beloved, but something +impulsive and unevenly balanced in his nature led even his people to +regard him with more or less patronage. He kept his eyes rigorously +averted from Isabel's pew, in passing; but when he reached the pulpit, +and began unpinning his heavy gray shawl, he did glance at her, and his +face grew warm. But Isabel did not look at him, and all through the +service she sat with a haughty pose of the head, gazing down into her +lap. When it was over, she waited for no one, since her sister was not +at church, but sped away down the snowy road. + +The next day, Isabel stayed after school, and so it was in the wintry +twilight that she walked home, guarded by the few among her flock who +had been kept to learn the inner significance of common fractions. +Approaching her own house, she quickened her steps, for there before the +gate (taken from its hinges and resting for the winter) stood a blue +pung. The horse was dozing, his Roman nose sunken almost to the snow at +his feet. He looked as if he had come to stay. Isabel withdrew her hand +from the persistent little fingers clinging to it. + +"Good-night, children," said she. "I guess I've got company. I must +hurry in. Come bright and early to-morrow." + +The little group marched away, swathed in comforters, each child +carrying the dinner-pail with an easy swing. Their reddened faces +lighted over the chorusing good-nights, and they kept looking back, +while Isabel ran up the icy path to her own door. It was opened from +within, before she reached it, and a tall, florid woman, with smoothly +banded hair, stood there to receive her. Though she had a powerful +frame, she gave one at the outset an impression of weak gentleness, and +the hands she extended, albeit cordial, were somewhat limp. She wore her +bonnet still, though she had untied the strings and thrown them back; +and her ample figure was tightly laced under a sontag. + +"Why, aunt Luceba!" cried Isabel, radiant. "I'm as glad as I can be. +When did you rain down?" + +"Be you glad?" returned aunt Luceba, her somewhat anxious look relaxing +into a smile. "Well, I'm pleased if you be. Fact is, I run away, an' I'm +jest comin' to myself, an' wonderin' what under the sun set me out to do +it." + +"Run away!" repeated Isabel, drawing her in, and at once peeping into +the stove. "Oh, you fixed the fire, didn't you? It keeps real well. I +put on coal in the morning, and then again at night." + +"Isabel," began her aunt, standing by the stove, and drumming on it with +agitated fingers, "I hate to have you live as you do. Why under the sun +can't you come over to Saltash, an' stay with us?" + +Isabel had thrown off her shawl and hat, and was standing on the other +side of the stove; she was tingling with cold and youthful spirits. + +"I'm keeping school," said she. "School can't keep without me. And I'm +going over to Sudleigh, every Saturday, to take elocution lessons. I'm +having my own way, and I'm happy as a clam. Now, why can't you come and +live with me? You said you would, the very day aunt Eliza died." + +"I know I did," owned the visitor, lowering her voice, and casting a +glance over her shoulder. "But I never had an idea then how Mary Ellen +'d feel about it. She said she wouldn't live in this town, not if she +was switched. I dunno why she's so ag'in' it, but she seems to be, an' +there 't is!" + +"Why, aunt Luceba!" Isabel had left her position to draw forward a +chair. "What's that?" She pointed to the foot of the lounge, where, half +hidden in shadow, stood a large, old-fashioned blue chest. + +"'Sh! that's it! that's what I come for. It's her chist." + +"Whose?" + +"Your aunt 'Liza's." She looked Isabel in the face with an absurd +triumph and awe. She had done a brave deed, the nature of which was not +at once apparent. + +"What's in it?" asked Isabel, walking over to it. + +"Don't you touch it!" cried her aunt, in agitation. "I wouldn't have you +meddle with it--But there! it's locked. I al'ays forgit that. I feel as +if the things could git out an' walk. Here! you let it alone, an' +byme-by we'll open it. Se' down here on the lounge. There, now! I guess +I can tell ye. It was sister 'Liza's chist, an' she kep' it up attic. +She begun it when we wa'n't more'n girls goin' to Number Six, an' she's +been fillin' on 't ever sence." + +"Begun it! You talk as if 't was a quilt!" Isabel began to laugh. + +"Now don't!" said her aunt, in great distress. "Don't ye! I s'pose 't +was because we was such little girls an' all when 'Liza started it, but +it makes me as nervous as a witch, an' al'ays did. You see, 'Liza was a +great hand for deaths an' buryin's; an' as for funerals, she'd ruther go +to 'em than eat. I'd say that if she was here this minute, for more'n +once I said it to her face. Well, everybody 't died, she saved suthin' +they wore or handled the last thing, an' laid it away in this chist; an' +last time I see it opened, 't was full, an' she kind o' smacked her +lips, an' said she should have to begin another. But the very next week +she was took away." + +"Aunt Luceba," said Isabel suddenly, "was aunt Eliza hard to live with? +Did you and aunt Mary Ellen have to toe the mark?" + +"Don't you say one word," answered her aunt hastily. "That's all past +an' gone. There ain't no way of settlin' old scores but buryin' of 'em. +She was older'n we were, an' on'y a step-sister, arter all. We must +think o' that. Well, I must come to the end o' my story, an' then we'll +open the chist. Next day arter we laid her away, it come into my head, +'Now we can burn up them things.' It may ha' been wicked, but there 't +was, an' the thought kep' arter me, till all I could think of was the +chist; an' byme-by I says to Mary Ellen, one mornin', 'Le's open it +to-day an' make a burnfire!' An' Mary Ellen she turned as white as a +sheet, an' dropped her spoon into her sasser, an' she says: 'Not yet! +Luceba, don't you ask me to touch it yet.' An' I found out, though she +never 'd say another word, that it unset her more'n it did me. One day, +I come on her up attic stan'in' over it with the key in her hand, an' +she turned round as if I'd ketched her stealin', an' slipped off +downstairs. An' this arternoon, she went into Tilly Ellison's with her +work, an' it come to me all of a sudden how I'd git Tim Yatter to +harness an' load the chist onto the pung, an' I'd bring it over here, +an' we'd look it over together; an' then, if there's nothin' in it but +what I think, I'd leave it behind, an' maybe you or Sadie 'd burn it. +John Cole happened to ride by, and he helped me in with it. I ain't +a-goin' to have Mary Ellen worried. She's different from me. She went to +school, same's you have, an' she's different somehow. She's been meddled +with all her life, an' I'll be whipped if she sha'n't make a new start. +Should you jest as lieves ask Sadie or John?" + +"Why, yes," said Isabel wonderingly; "or do it myself. I don't see why +you care." + +Aunt Luceba wiped her beaded face with a large handkerchief. + +"I dunno either," she owned, in an exhausted voice. "I guess it's al'ays +little things you can't stand. Big ones you can butt ag'inst. There! I +feel better, now I've told ye. Here's the key. Should you jest as soon +open it?" + +Isabel drew the chest forward with a vigorous pull of her sturdy arm. +She knelt before it and inserted the key. Aunt Luceba rose and leaned +over her shoulder, gazing with the fascination of horror. At the moment +the lid was lifted, a curious odor filled the room. + +"My soul!" exclaimed Aunt Luceba. "O my soul!" She seemed incapable of +saying more; and Isabel, awed in spite of herself, asked, in a +whisper:-- + +"What's that smell? I know, but I can't think." + +"You take out that parcel," said aunt Luceba, beginning to fan herself +with her handkerchief. "That little one down there 't the end. It's +that. My soul! how things come back! Talk about spirits! There's no need +of 'em! _Things_ are full bad enough!" + +Isabel lifted out a small brown paper package, labeled in a cramped +handwriting. She held it to the fading light. "'Slippery elm left by my +dear father from his last illness,'" she read, with difficulty. '"The +broken piece used by him on the day of his death.'" + +"My land!" exclaimed aunt Luceba weakly. "Now what'd she want to keep +that for? He had it round all that winter, an' he used to give us a +little mite, to please us. Oh, dear! it smells like death. Well, le's +lay it aside an' git on. The light's goin', an' I must jog along. Take +out that dress. I guess I know what 't is, though I can't hardly believe +it." + +Isabel took out a black dress, made with a full, gathered skirt and an +old-fashioned waist. "'Dress made ready for aunt Mercy,'" she read, +"'before my dear uncle bought her a robe.' But, auntie," she added, +"there's no back breadth!" + +"I know it! I know it! She was so large they had to cut it out, for fear +'t wouldn't go into the coffin; an' Monroe Giles said she was a real +particular woman, an' he wondered how she'd feel to have the back +breadth of her quilted petticoat showin' in heaven. I declare I'm 'most +sick! What's in that pasteboard box?" + +It was a shriveled object, black with long-dried mould. + +"'Lemon held by Timothy Marden in his hand just before he died.' Aunt +Luceba," said Isabel, turning with a swift impulse, "I think aunt Eliza +was a horror!" + +"Don't you say it, if you do think it," said her aunt, sinking into a +chair and rocking vigorously. "Le's git through with it as quick 's we +can. Ain't that a bandbox? Yes, that's great-aunt Isabel's leghorn +bunnit. You was named for her, you know. An' there's cousin Hattie's +cashmere shawl, an' Obed's spe'tacles. An' if there ain't old Mis' +Eaton's false front! Don't you read no more. I don't care what they're +marked. Move that box a mite. My soul! There's ma'am's checked apron I +bought her to the fair! Them are all her things down below." She got up +and walked to the window, looking into the chestnut branches, with +unseeing eyes. She turned about presently, and her cheeks were wet. +"There!" she said; "I guess we needn't look no more. Should you jest as +soon burn 'em?" + +"Yes," answered Isabel. She was crying a little, too. "Of course I will, +auntie. I'll put 'em back now. But when you're gone, I'll do it; perhaps +not till Saturday, but I will then." + +She folded the articles, and softly laid them away. They were no longer +gruesome, since even a few of them could recall the beloved and still +remembered dead. As she was gently closing the lid, she felt a hand on +her shoulder. Aunt Luceba was standing there, trembling a little, though +the tears had gone from her face. + +"Isabel," said she, in a whisper, "you needn't burn the apron, when you +do the rest. Save it careful. I should like to put it away among my +things." + +Isabel nodded. She remembered her grandmother, a placid, hopeful woman, +whose every deed breathed the fragrance of godly living. + +"There!" said her aunt, turning away with the air of one who thrusts +back the too insistent past, lest it dominate her quite. "It's gittin' +along towards dark, an' I must put for home. I guess that hoss thinks +he's goin' to be froze to the ground. You wrop up my soap-stone while I +git on my shawl. Land! don't it smell hot? I wisht I hadn't been so spry +about puttin' on 't into the oven." She hurried on her things; and +Isabel, her hair blowing about her face, went out to uncover the horse +and speed the departure. The reins in her hands, aunt Luceba bent +forward once more to add, "Isabel, if there's one thing left for me to +say, to tole you over to live with us, I want to say it." + +Isabel laughed. "I know it," she answered brightly. "And if there's +anything I can say to make you and aunt Mary Ellen come over here"-- + +Aunt Luceba shook her head ponderously, and clucked at the horse. "Fur's +I'm concerned, it's settled now. I'd come, an' be glad. But there's Mary +Ellen! Go 'long!" She went jangling away along the country road to the +music of old-fashioned bells. + +Isabel ran into the house, and, with one look at the chest, set about +preparing her supper. She was enjoying her life of perfect freedom with +a kind of bravado, inasmuch as it seemed an innocent delight of which +nobody approved. If the two aunts would come to live with her, so much +the better; but since they refused, she scorned the descent to any +domestic expedient. Indeed, she would have been glad to sleep, as well +as to eat, in the lonely house; but to that her sister would never +consent, and though she had compromised by going to Sadie's for the +night, she always returned before breakfast. She put up a leaf of the +table standing by the wall, and arranged her simple supper there, +uttering aloud as she did so fragments of her lesson, or dramatic +sentences which had caught her fancy in reading or in speech. Finally, +as she was dipping her cream toast, she caught herself saying, over and +over, "My soul!" in the tremulous tone her aunt had used at that moment +of warm emotion. She could not make it quite her own, and she tried +again and again, like a faithful parrot. Then of a sudden the human +power and pity of it flashed upon her, and she reddened, +conscience-smitten, though no one was by to hear. She set her dish upon +the table with indignant emphasis. + +"I'm ashamed of myself!" said Isabel, and she sat down to her delicate +repast, and forced herself, while she ate with a cordial relish, to fix +her mind on what seemed to her things common as compared with her +beloved ambition. Isabel often felt that she was too much absorbed in +reading, and that, somehow or other, God would come to that conclusion +also, and take away her wicked facility. + +The dark seemed to drift quickly down, that night, because her supper +had been delayed, and she washed her dishes by lamplight. When she had +quite finished, and taken off her apron, she stood a moment over the +chest, before sitting down to her task of memorizing verse. She was +wondering whether she might not burn a few of the smaller things +to-night; yet somehow, although she was quite free from aunt Luceba's +awe of them, she did feel that the act must be undertaken with a certain +degree of solemnity. It ought not to be accomplished over the remnants +of a fire built for cooking; it should, moreover, be to the +accompaniment of a serious mood in herself. She turned away, but at that +instant there came a jingle of bells. It stopped at the gate. Isabel +went into the dark entry, and pressed her face against the side-light. +It was the parson. She knew him at once; no one in Tiverton could ever +mistake that stooping figure, draped in a shawl. Isabel always hated him +the more when she thought of his shawl. It flashed upon her then, as it +often did when revulsion came over her, how much she had loved him until +he had conceived this altogether horrible attachment for her. It was +like a cherished friend who had begun to cut undignified capers. More +than that, there lurked a certain cruelty in it, because he seemed to +be trading on her inherited reverence for his office. If he should ask +her to marry him, he was the minister, and how could she refuse? Unless, +indeed, there were somebody else in the room, to give her courage, and +that was hardly to be expected. Isabel began casting wildly about her +for help. Her thoughts ran in a rushing current, and even in the midst +of her tragic despair some sense of the foolishness of it smote her like +a comic note, and she could have laughed hysterically. + +"But I can't help it," she said aloud, "I am afraid. I can't put out the +light. He's seen it. I can't slip out the back door. He'd hear me on the +crust. He'll--ask me--to-night! Oh, he will! he will! and I said to +myself I'd be cunning and never give him a chance. Oh, why couldn't aunt +Luceba have stayed? My soul! my soul!" And then the dramatic fibre, +always awake in her, told her that she had found the tone she sought. + +He was blanketing his horse, and Isabel had flown into the sitting-room. +Her face was alive with resolution and a kind of joy. She had thought. +She threw open the chest, with a trembling hand, and pulled out the +black dress. + +"I'm sorry," she said, as she slipped it on over her head, and speaking +as if she addressed some unseen guardian, "but I can't help it. If you +don't want your things used, you keep him from coming in!" + +The parson knocked at the door. Isabel took no notice. She was putting +on the false front, the horn spectacles, the cashmere shawl, and the +leghorn bonnet, with its long veil. She threw back the veil, and closed +the chest. The parson knocked again. She heard him kicking the snow from +his feet against the scraper. It might have betokened a decent care for +her floors. It sounded to Isabel like a lover's haste, and smote her +anew with that fear which is the forerunner of action. She blew out the +lamp, and lighted a candle. Then she went to the door, schooling herself +in desperation to remember this, to remember that, to remember, above +all things, that her under dress was red and that her upper one had no +back breadth. She threw open the door. + +"Good-evening"--said the parson. He was about to add "Miss Isabel," but +the words stuck in his throat. + +"She ain't to home," answered Isabel. "My niece ain't to home." + +The parson had bent forward, and was eyeing her curiously, yet with +benevolence. He knew all the residents within a large radius, and he +expected, at another word from the shadowy masker, to recognize her +also. "Will she be away long?" he hesitated. + +"I guess she will," answered Isabel promptly. "She ain't to be relied +on. I never found her so." Her spirits had risen. She knew how exactly +she was imitating aunt Luceba's mode of speech. The tones were +dramatically exact, albeit of a more resonant quality. "Auntie's voice +is like suet," she thought. "Mine is vinegar. _But I've got it!_" A +merry devil assailed her, the child of dramatic triumph. She spoke with +decision: "Won't you come in?" + +The parson crossed the sill, and waited courteously for her to precede +him; but Isabel thought, in time, of her back breadth, and stood aside. + +"You go fust," said she, "an' I'll shet the door." + +He made his way into the ill-lighted sitting-room, and began to unpin +his shawl. + +"I ain't had my bunnit off sence I come," announced Isabel, entering +with some bustle, and taking her stand, until he should be seated, +within the darkest corner of the hearth. "I've had to turn to an' clear +up, or I shouldn't ha' found a spot as big as a hin's egg to sleep in +to-night. Maybe you don't know it, but my niece Isabel's got no more +faculty about a house 'n I have for preachin'--not a mite." + +The parson had seated himself by the stove, and was laboriously removing +his arctics. Isabel's eyes danced behind her spectacles as she thought +how large and ministerial they were. She could not see them, for the +spectacles dazzled her, but she remembered exactly how they looked. +Everything about him filled her with glee, now that she was safe, though +within his reach. "'Now, infidel,'" she said noiselessly, "'I have thee +on the hip!'" + +The parson had settled himself in his accustomed attitude when making +parochial calls. He put the tips of his fingers together, and opened +conversation in his tone of mild good-will:-- + +"I don't seem to be able to place you. A relative of Miss Isabel's, did +you say?" + +She laughed huskily. She was absorbed in putting more suet into her +voice. + +"You make me think of uncle Peter Nudd," she replied, "when he was took +up into Bunker Hill Monument. Albert took him, one o' the boys that +lived in Boston. Comin' down, they met a woman Albert knew, an' he +bowed. Uncle Peter looked round arter her, an' then he says to Albert, +'I dunno 's I rightly remember who that is!'" + +The parson uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The old +lady began to seem to him a thought too discursive, if not hilarious. + +"I know so many of the people in the various parishes"--he began, but he +was interrupted without compunction. + +"You never'd know me. I'm from out West. Isabel's father's brother +married my uncle--no, I would say my step-niece. An' so I'm her aunt. By +adoption, 't ennyrate. We al'ays call it so, leastways when we're +writin' back an' forth. An' I've heard how Isabel was goin' on, an' so I +ketched up my bunnit, an' put for Tiverton. 'If she ever needed her own +aunt,' says I--'her aunt by adoption--she needs her now.'" + +Once or twice, during the progress of this speech, the visitor had +shifted his position, as if ill at ease. Now he bent forward, and peered +at his hostess. + +"Isabel is well?" he began tentatively. + +"Well enough! But, my sakes! I'd ruther she'd be sick abed or paraletic +than carry on as she does. Slack? My soul! I wisht you could see her +sink closet! I wisht you could take one look over the dirty dishes she +leaves round, not washed from one week's end to another!" + +"But she's always neat. She looks like an--an angel!" + +Isabel could not at once suppress the gratified note which crept of +itself into her voice. + +"That's the outside o' the cup an' platter," she said knowingly. "I +thank my stars she ain't likely to marry. She'd turn any man's house +upside down inside of a week." + +The parson made a deprecating noise in his throat. He seemed about to +say something, and thought better of it. + +"It may be," he hesitated, after a moment,--"it may be her studies take +up too much of her time. I have always thought these elocution +lessons"-- + +"Oh, my land!" cried Isabel, in passionate haste. She leaned forward as +if she would implore him. "That's her only salvation. That's the makin' +of her. If you stop her off there, I dunno but she'd jine a circus or +take to drink! Don't you dast to do it! I'm in the family, an' I know." + +The parson tried vainly to struggle out of his bewilderment. + +"But," said he, "may I ask how you heard these reports? Living in +Illinois, as you do--did you say Illinois or Iowa?" + +"Neither," answered Isabel desperately. "'Way out on the plains. It's +the last house afore you come to the Rockies. Law! you can't tell how a +story gits started, nor how fast it will travel. 'T ain't like a gale o' +wind; the weather bureau ain't been invented that can cal'late it. I +heard of a man once that told a lie in California, an' 'fore the week +was out it broke up his engagement in New Hampshire. There's the +'tater-bug--think how that travels! So with this. The news broke out in +Missouri, an' here I be." + +"I hope you will be able to remain." + +"Only to-night," she said in haste. More and more nervous, she was +losing hold on the sequence of her facts. "I'm like mortal life, here +to-day an' there to-morrer. In the mornin' I sha'n't be found." ("But +Isabel will," she thought, from a remorse which had come too late, "and +she'll have to lie, or run away. Or cut a hole in the ice and drown +herself!") + +"I'm sorry to have her lose so much of your visit," began the parson +courteously, but still perplexing himself over the whimsies of an old +lady who flew on from the West, and made nothing of flying back. "If I +could do anything towards finding her"-- + +"I know where she is," said Isabel unhappily. "She's as well on 't as +she can be, under the circumstances. There's on'y one thing you could +do. If you should be willin' to keep it dark't you've seen me, I should +be real beholden to ye. You know there ain't no time to call in the +neighborhood, an' such things make talk, an' all. An' if you don't speak +out to Isabel, so much the better. Poor creatur', she's got enough to +bear without that!" Her voice dropped meltingly in the keenness of her +sympathy for the unfortunate girl who, embarrassed enough before, had +deliberately set for herself another snare. "I feel for Isabel," she +continued, in the hope of impressing him with the necessity for silence +and inaction. "I do feel for her! Oh, gracious me! What's that?" + +A decided rap had sounded at the front door. The parson rose also, +amazed at her agitation. + +"Somebody knocked," he said. "Shall I go to the door?" + +"Oh, not yet, not yet!" cried Isabel, clasping her hands under her +cashmere shawl. "Oh, what shall I do?" + +Her natural voice had asserted itself, but, strangely enough, the parson +did not comprehend. The entire scene was too bewildering. There came a +second knock. He stepped toward the door, but Isabel darted in front of +him. She forgot her back breadth, and even through that dim twilight the +scarlet of her gown shone ruddily out. She placed herself before the +door. + +"Don't you go!" she entreated hoarsely. "Let me think what I can say." + +Then the parson had his first inkling that the strange visitor must be +mad. He wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and the idea +speedily coupled itself with Isabel's strange disappearance. He stepped +forward and grasped her arm, trembling under the cashmere shawl. + +"Woman," he demanded sternly, "what have you done with Isabel North?" + +Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice repeated, brought her to +herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the +parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate. + +"Poor soul!" said he soothingly. "Poor soul! sit down here by the stove +and be calm--be calm!" + +Isabel was overcome anew. + +"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let +me be!" + +She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again. +Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she +called. + +"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness. "Open the +door." + +"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she +continued. "Only a minute!" + +She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door. The +act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey in +such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to be +refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it. + +"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take +off these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!" +Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile. + +"Isabel!" gasped the parson. + +"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!" + +The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the +mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue +chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss +me the shawl. Now if you say one word--Oh, parson, if you only will keep +still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And leaving +him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door. + +"Well," said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, "I'm afraid your hinges want +greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?" She put up her face and +kissed her niece. Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so small, +that she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life with a +gentle grace. "I heard voices," she said, walking into the sitting-room. +"Sadie here?" + +The parson had stepped forward, more bent than usual, for he was peering +down into her face. + +"Mary Ellen!" he exclaimed. + +The little woman looked up at him--very sadly, Isabel thought. + +"Yes, William," she answered. But she was untying her bonnet, and she +did not offer to shake hands. + +Isabel stood by with downcast eyes, waiting to take her things, and +aunt Mary Ellen looked searchingly up at her as she laid her mittens on +the pile. The girl, without a word, went into the bedroom, and her aunt +followed her. + +"Isabel," said she rapidly, "I saw the chest. Have you burnt the +things?" + +"No," answered Isabel in wonder. "No." + +"Then don't you! don't you touch 'em for the world." She went back into +the sitting-room, and Isabel followed. The candle was guttering, and +aunt Mary Ellen pushed it toward her. "I don't know where the snuffers +are," she said. "Lamp smoke?" + +Isabel did not answer, but she lighted the lamp. She had never seen her +aunt so full of decision, so charged with an unfamiliar power. She felt +as if strange things were about to happen. The parson was standing +awkwardly. He wondered whether he ought to go. Aunt Mary Ellen smoothed +her brown hair with both hands, sat down, and pointed to his chair. + +"Sit a spell," she said. "I guess I shall have something to talk over +with you." + +The parson sat down. He tried to put his fingers together, but they +trembled, and he clasped his hands instead. + +"It's a long time since we've seen you in Tiverton," he began. + +"It would have been longer," she answered, "but I felt as if my niece +needed me." + +Here Isabel, to her own surprise, gave a little sob, and then another. +She began crying angrily into her handkerchief. + +"Isabel," said her aunt, "is there a fire in the kitchen?" + +"Yes," sobbed the girl. + +"Well, you go out there and lie down on the lounge till you feel better. +Cover you over, and don't be cold. I'll call you when there's anything +for you to do." + +Tall Isabel rose and walked out, wiping her eyes. Her little aunt sat +mistress of the field. For many minutes there was silence, and the clock +ticked. The parson felt something rising in his throat. He blew his nose +vigorously. + +"Mary Ellen"--he began. "But I don't know as you want me to call you +so!" + +"You can call me anything you're a mind to," she answered calmly. She +was near-sighted, and had always worn spectacles. She took them off and +laid them on her knee. The parson moved involuntarily in his chair. He +remembered how she had used to do that when they were talking +intimately, so that his eager look might not embarrass her. "Nothing +makes much difference when folks get to be as old as you and I are." + +"I don't feel old," said the parson resentfully. "I do _not_! And you +don't look so." + +"Well, I am. We're past our youth. We've got to the point where the +only way to renew it is to look out for the young ones." + +The parson had always had with her a way of reading her thought and +bursting out boyishly into betrayal of his own. + +"Mary Ellen," he cried, "I never should have explained it so, but Isabel +looks like you!" + +She smiled sadly. "I guess men make themselves think 'most anything they +want to," she answered. "There may be a family look, but I can't see it. +She's tall, too, and I was always a pint o' cider--so father said." + +"She's got the same look in her eyes," pursued the parson hotly. "I've +always thought so, ever since she was a little girl." + +"If you begun to notice it then," she responded, with the same gentle +calm, "you'd better by half ha' been thinking of your own wife and her +eyes. I believe they were black." + +"Mary Ellen, how hard you are on me! You did't use to be. You never were +hard on anybody. You wouldn't have hurt a fly." + +Her face contracted slightly. "Perhaps I wouldn't! perhaps I wouldn't! +But I've had a good deal to bear this afternoon, and maybe I do feel a +little different towards you from what I ever have felt. I've been +hearing a loose-tongued woman tell how my own niece has been made +town-talk because a man old enough to know better was running after +her. I said, years ago, I never would come into this place while you +was in it; but when I heard that, I felt as if Providence had marked out +the way. I knew I was the one to step into the breach. So I had Tim +harness up and bring me over, and here I am. William, I don't want you +should make a mistake at your time of life!" + +The minister seemed already a younger man. A strong color had risen in +his face. He felt in her presence a fine exhilaration denied him through +all the years without her. Who could say whether it was the woman +herself or the resurrected spirit of their youth? He did not feel like +answering her. It was enough to hear her voice. He leaned forward, +looking at her with something piteous in his air. + +"Mary Ellen," he ventured, "you might as well say 'another mistake.' I +did make one. You know it, and I know it." + +She looked at him with a frank affection, entirely maternal. "Yes, +William," she said, with the same gentle firmness in her voice, "we've +passed so far beyond those things that we can speak out and feel no +shame. You did make a mistake. I don't know as 't would be called so to +break with me, but it was to marry where you did. You never cared about +her. You were good to her. You always would be, William; but 't was a +shame to put her there." + +The parson had locked his hands upon his knees. He looked at them, and +sad lines of recollection deepened in his face. + +"I was desperate," he said at length, in a low tone. "I had lost you. +Some men take to drink, but that never tempted me. Besides, I was a +minister. I was just ordained. Mary Ellen, do you remember that day?" + +"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember." She had leaned back in her +chair, and her eyes were fixed upon vacancy with the suffused look of +tears forbidden to fall. + +"You wore a white dress," went on the parson, "and a bunch of Provence +roses. It was June. Your sister always thought you dressed too gay, but +you said to her, 'I guess I can wear what I want to, to-day of all +times.'" + +"We won't talk about her. Yes, I remember." + +"And, as God is my witness, I couldn't feel solemn, I was so glad! I was +a minister, and my girl--the girl that was going to marry me--sat down +there where I could see her, dressed in white. I always thought of you +afterwards with that white dress on. You've stayed with me all my life, +just that way." + +Mary Ellen put up her hand with a quick gesture to hide her middle-aged +face. With a thought as quick, she folded it resolutely upon the other +in her lap. "Yes, William," she said. "I was a girl then. I wore white +a good deal." + +But the parson hardly heeded her. He was far away. "Mary Ellen," he +broke out suddenly, a smile running warmly over his face, and creasing +his dry, hollow cheeks, "do you remember that other sermon, my trial +one? I read it to you, and then I read it to Parson Sibley. And do you +remember what he said?" + +"Yes, I remember. I didn't suppose you did." Her cheeks were pink. The +corners of her mouth grew exquisitely tender. + +"You knew I did! 'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; +thou hast doves' eyes.' I took that text because I couldn't think of +anything else all summer. I remember now it seemed to me as if I was in +a garden--always in a garden. The moon was pretty bright, that summer. +There were more flowers blooming than common. It must have been a good +year. And I wrote my sermon lying out in the pine woods, down where you +used to sit hemming on your things. And I thought it was the Church, but +do all I could, it was a girl--or an angel!" + +"No, no!" cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty. + +"And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you stopped +sewing, and looked off into the trees; and you said 't was beautiful. +But I carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just how +he looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles pushed +up on his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the +dictionary put in a certain place on his table because he found he'd got +used to drumming on the Bible, and he was a very particular man. And +when I got through reading the sermon, his face wrinkled all up, though +he didn't laugh out loud, and he came over to me and put his hand on my +shoulder. 'William,' says he, 'you go home and write a doctrinal sermon, +the stiffest you can. _This one's about a girl._ You might give it to +Mary Ellen North for a wedding-present.'" + +The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of memory. +But Mary Ellen did not smile. + +"Yes," she repeated softly, "I remember." + +"And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I +could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the +sermon in your work-basket. I've often wished, in the light of what came +afterwards--I've often wished I'd kept it. Somehow 't would have brought +me nearer to you." + +It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted +herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face. + +"Mary Ellen," the parson burst forth, "I know how I took what came on us +the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you just as +lieves tell me?" + +She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone +brilliantly, though indeed they were doves' eyes. + +"I'll tell you," said she. "I couldn't have told you ten years ago,--no, +nor five! but now it's an old woman talking to an old man. I was given +to understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I don't +know what tale was carried to you"-- + +"She said you'd say 'yes' to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I'd give +you a chance!" + +"I knew 't was something as shallow as that. Well, I'll tell you how I +took it. I put up my head and laughed. I said, 'When William Bond wants +to break with me, he'll say so.' And the next day you did say so." + +The parson wrung his hands in an involuntary gesture of appeal. + +"Minnie! Minnie!" he cried, "why didn't you save me? What made you let +me _be_ a fool?" + +She met his gaze with a tenderness so great that the words lost all +their sting. + +"You always were, William," she said quietly. "Always rushing at things +like Job's charger, and having to rush back again. Never once have I +read that without thinking of you. That's why you fixed up an angel out +of poor little Isabel." + +The parson made a fine gesture of dissent. He had forgotten Isabel. + +"Do you want to know what else I did?" Her voice grew hard and +unfamiliar. "I'll tell you. I went to my sister Eliza, and I said: 'Some +way or another, you've spoilt my life. I'll forgive you just as soon as +I can--maybe before you die, maybe not. You come with me!' and I went up +garret, where she kept the chest with things in it that belonged to them +that had died. There it sets now. I stood over it with her. 'I'm going +to put my dead things in here,' I said. 'If you touch a finger to 'em, +I'll get up in meeting and tell what you've done. I'm going to put in +everything left from what you've murdered; and every time you come here, +you'll remember you were a murderer.' I frightened her. I'm glad I did. +She's dead and gone, and I've forgiven her; but I'm glad now!" + +The parson looked at her with amazement. She seemed on fire. All the +smouldering embers of a life denied had blazed at last. She put on her +glasses and walked over to the chest. + +"Here!" she continued; "let's uncover the dead. I've tried to do it ever +since she died, so the other things could be burned; but my courage +failed me. Could you turn these screws, if I should get you a knife? +They're in tight. I put 'em in myself, and she stood by." + +The little lid of the till had been screwed fast. The two middle-aged +people bent over it together, trying first the scissors and then the +broken blade of the parson's old knife. The screws came slowly. When +they were all out, he stood back a pace and gazed at her. Mary Ellen +looked no longer alert and vivified. Her face was haggard. + +"I shut it," she said, in a whisper. "You lift it up." + +The parson lifted the lid. There they lay, her poor little relics,--a +folded manuscript, an old-fashioned daguerreotype, and a tiny locket. +The parson could not see. His hand shook as he took them solemnly out +and gave them to her. She bent over the picture, and looked at it, as we +search the faces of the dead. He followed her to the light, and, wiping +his glasses, looked also. + +"That was my picture," he said musingly. "I never've had one since. And +that was mother's locket. It had"--He paused and looked at her. + +"Yes," said Mary Ellen softly; "it's got it now." She opened the little +trinket; a warm, thick lock of hair lay within, and she touched it +gently with her finger. "Should you like the locket, because 't was your +mother's?" + +She hesitated; and though the parson's tone halted also, he answered at +once:-- + +"No, Mary Ellen, not if you'll keep it. I should rather think 'twas with +you." + +She put her two treasures in her pocket, and gave him the other. + +"I guess that's your share," she said, smiling faintly. "Don't read it +here. Just take it away with you." + +The manuscript had been written in the cramped and awkward hand of his +youth, and the ink upon the paper was faded after many years. He turned +the pages, a smile coming now and then. + +"'Thou hast doves' eyes,'" he read,--"'thou hast doves' eyes!'" He +murmured a sentence here and there. "Mary Ellen," he said at last, +shaking his head over the manuscript in a droll despair, "it isn't a +sermon. Parson Sibley had the rights of it. It's a love-letter!" And the +two old people looked in each other's wet eyes and smiled. + +The woman was the first to turn away. + +"There!" said she, closing the lid of the chest; "we've said enough. +We've wiped out old scores. We've talked more about ourselves than we +ever shall again; for if old age brings anything, it's thinking of other +people--them that have got life before 'em. These your rubbers?" + +The parson put them on, with a dazed obedience. His hand shook in +buckling them. Mary Ellen passed him his coat, but he noticed that she +did not offer to hold it for him. There was suddenly a fine remoteness +in her presence, as if a frosty air had come between them. The parson +put the sermon in his inner pocket, and buttoned his coat tightly over +it. Then he pinned on his shawl. At the door he turned. + +"Mary Ellen," said he pleadingly, "don't you ever want to see the sermon +again? Shouldn't you like to read it over?" + +She hesitated. It seemed for a moment as if she might not answer at all. +Then she remembered that they were old folks, and need not veil the +truth. + +"I guess I know it 'most all by heart," she said quietly. "Besides, I +took a copy before I put it in there. Good-night!" + +"Good-night!" answered the parson joyously. He closed the door behind +him and went crunching down the icy path. When he had unfastened the +horse and sat tucking the buffalo-robe around him, the front door was +opened in haste, and a dark figure came flying down the walk. + +"Mr. Bond!" thrilled a voice. + +"Whoa!" called the parson excitedly. He was throwing back the robe to +leap from the sleigh when the figure reached him. "Oh!" said he; +"Isabel!" + +She was breathing hard with excitement and the determination grown up in +her mind during that last half hour of her exile in the kitchen. + +"Parson,"--forgetting a more formal address, and laying her hand on his +knee,--"I've got to say it! Won't you please forgive me? Won't you, +please? I can't explain it"-- + +"Bless your heart, child!" answered the parson cordially; "you needn't +try to. I guess I made you nervous." + +"Yes," agreed Isabel, with a sigh of relief, "I guess you did." And the +parson drove away. + +Isabel ran, light of heart and foot, back into the warm sitting-room, +where aunt Mary Ellen was standing just where he had left her. She had +her glasses off, and she looked at Isabel with a smile so vivid that the +girl caught her breath, and wondered within herself how aunt Mary Ellen +had looked when she was young. + +"Isabel," said she, "you come here and give me a corner of your apron to +wipe my glasses. I guess it's drier 'n my handkerchief." + + + + +HORN O' THE MOON + + +If you drive along Tiverton Street, and then turn to the left, down the +Gully Road, you journey, for the space of a mile or so, through a +bewildering succession of damp greenery, with noisy brooks singing songs +below you, on either side, and the treetops on the level with your +horse's feet. Few among the older inhabitants ever take this drive, save +from necessity, because it is conceded that the dampness there is +enough, even in summer, to "give you your death o' cold;" and as for the +young, to them the place wears an eerie look, with its miniature +suggestion of impassable gulfs and roaring torrents. Yet no youth +reaches his majority without exploring the Gully. He who goes alone is +the more a hero; but even he had best leave two or three trusty comrades +reasonably near, not only to listen, should he call, but to stand his +witnesses when he afterwards declares where he has been. It is a +fearsome thing to explore that lower stratum of this round world, so +close to the rushing brook that it drowns your thoughts, though not your +apprehensions, and to go slipping about over wet boulders and among +dripping ferns; but your fears are fears of the spirit. They are +inherited qualms. You shiver because your grandfathers and fathers and +uncles have shivered there before you. If you are very brave indeed, and +naught but the topmost round of destiny will content you, possibly you +penetrate still further into green abysses, and come upon the pool +where, tradition says, an ancient trout has his impregnable habitation. +Apparently, nobody questions that the life of a trout may be +indefinitely prolonged, under the proper conditions of a retired dusk; +and the same fish that served our grandfathers for a legend now enlivens +our childish days. When you meet a youngster, ostentatiously setting +forth for the Gully Road, with bait-box and pole, you need not ask where +he is going; though if you have any human sympathy in the pride of life, +you will not deny him his answer:-- + +"Down to have a try for the old trout!" + +The pool has been still for many years. Not within the memory of aged +men has the trout turned fin or flashed a speckled side; but he is to +this day an historical present. He has lived, and therefore he lives +always. + +Those who do not pause upon the Gully Road, but keep straight on into +the open, will come into the old highway leading up and up to Horn o' +the Moon. It is an unshaded, gravelly track, pointing duly up-hill for +three long miles; and it has become a sober way to most of us, in this +generation: for we never take it unless we go on the solemn errand of +getting Mary Dunbar, that famous nurse, to care for our sick or dead. +There is a tradition that a summer visitor once hired a "shay," and +drove, all by herself, up to Horn o' the Moon, drawn on by the elusive +splendor of its name. But she met such a dissuading flood of comment by +the way as to startle her into the state of mind commonly associated +with the Gully Road. Farmers, haying in the field, came forward, to lean +on the fence, and call excitedly,-- + +"Where ye goin'?" + +"Horn o' the Moon," replied she, having learned in Tiverton the value of +succinct replies. + +"Who's sick?" + +"Nobody." + +"Got any folks up there?" + +"No. Going to see the place." + +The effect of this varied. Some looked in amazement; one ventured to +say, "Well, that's the beater!" and another dropped into the cabalistic +remark which cannot be defined, but which has its due significance, +"Well, you _must_ be sent for!" The result of all this running +commentary was such that, when the visitor reached the top of the hill +where Horn o' the Moon lies, encircled by other lesser heights, she was +stricken by its exceeding desolation, and had no heart to cast more than +a glance at the noble view below. She turned her horse, and trotted, +recklessly and with many stumblings, down again into friendly Tiverton. + +Horn o' the Moon is unique in its melancholy. It has so few trees, and +those of so meagre and wind-swept a nature, that it might as well be +entirely bald. No apples grow there; and in the autumn, the inhabitants +make a concerted sally down into Tiverton Street, to purchase their +winter stock, such of them as can afford it. The poorer folk--and they +are all poor enough--buy windfalls, and string them to dry; and so +common is dried-apple-pie among them that, when a Tivertonian finds this +makeshift appearing too frequently on his table, he has only to remark, +"I should think this was Horn o' the Moon!" and it disappears, to return +no more until the slur is somewhat outworn. + +There is very little grass at the top of the lonely height, and that of +a husky, whispering sort, in thin ribbons that flutter low little songs +in the breeze. They never cease; for, at Horn o' the Moon, there is +always a wind blowing, differing in quality with the season. Sometimes +it is a sighing wind from other heights, happier in that they are sweet +with firs. Sometimes it is exasperating enough to make the March +breezes below seem tender; then it tosses about in snatching gusts, +buffeting, and slapping, and excoriating him who stands in its way. +Somehow, all the peculiarities of Horn o' the Moon seem referable, in a +mysterious fashion, to the wind. The people speak in high, strenuous +voices, striving to hold their own against its wicked strength. Most of +them are deaf. Is that because the air beats ceaselessly against the +porches of their ears? They are a stunted race; for they have grown into +the habit of holding the head low, and plunging forward against that +battling element. Even the fowl at Horn o' the Moon are not of the +ordinary sort. Their feathers grow the wrong way, standing up in a +ragged and disorderly fashion; and they, too, have the effect of having +been blown about and disarranged, until nature yielded, and agreed to +their permanent roughness. + +Moreover, all the people are old or middle-aged and possibly that is +why, again, the settlement is so desolate. It is a disgrace for us below +to marry with Horn o' the Mooners, though they are a sober folk; and now +it happens that everybody up there is the cousin of everybody else. The +race is dying out, we say, as if we considered it a distinct species; +and we agree that it would have been wiped away long ago, by weight of +its own eccentricity, had not Mary Dunbar been the making of it. She is +the one righteous among many. She is the good nurse whom we all go to +seek, in our times of trouble, and she perpetually saves her city from +the odium of the world. + +Mary was born in Tiverton Street. We are glad to remember that, we who +condemn by the wholesale, and are assured that no good can come out of +Nazareth. When she was a girl of eighteen, her father and mother died; +and she fell into a state of spiritual exaltation, wherein she dreamed +dreams, and had periods of retirement within her house, communing with +other intelligences. We said Mary had lost her mind; but that was +difficult to believe, since no more wholesome type of womanhood had ever +walked our streets. She was very tall, built on the lines of a beauty +transcending our meagre strain. Nobody approved of those broad shoulders +and magnificent arms. We said it was a shame for any girl to be so +overgrown; yet our eyes followed her, delighted by the harmony of line +and action. Then we whispered that she was as big as a moose, and that, +if we had such arms, we never'd go out without a shawl. Her "mittins" +must be wide enough for any man! + +Mary did everything perfectly. She walked as if she went to meet the +morning, and must salute it worthily. She carried a weight as a goddess +might bear the infant Bacchus; and her small head, poised upon that +round throat, wore the crown of simplicity, and not of pride. But we +only told how strong she was, and how much she could lift. We loved +Mary, but sensibility had to shrink from those great proportions and +that elemental strength. + +One snowy morning, Mary's spiritual vision called her out of our midst, +to which she never came back save as we needed her. The world was very +white that day, when she rose, in her still house, dressed herself +hastily, and roused a neighbor, begging him to harness, and drive her up +to Horn o' the Moon. Folks were sick there, with nobody to take care of +them. The neighbor reasoned, and then refused, as one might deny a +person, however beloved, who lives by the intuitions of an unseen world. +Mary went home again, and, as he believed, to stay. But she had not +hesitated in her allegiance to the heavenly voice. Somehow, through the +blinding snow and unbroken road, she ploughed her way up to Horn o' the +Moon, where she found an epidemic of diphtheria; and there she stayed. +We marveled over her guessing how keenly she was needed; but since she +never explained, it began to be noised abroad that some wandering +peddler told her. That accounted for everything and Mary had no time for +talk. She was too busy, watching with the sick, and going about from +house to house, cooking delicate gruels and broiling chicken for those +who were getting well. It is said that she even did the barn work, and +milked the cows, during that tragic time. We were not surprised. Mary +was a great worker, and she was fond of "creatur's." + +Whether she came to care for these stolid people on the height, or +whether the vision counseled her, Mary gave up her house in the village, +and bought a little old dwelling under an overhanging hillside, at Horn +o' the Moon. It was a nest built into the rock, its back sitting snugly +there. The dark came down upon it quickly. In winter, the sun was gone +from the little parlor as early as three o'clock; but Mary did not mind. +That house was her temporary shell; she only slept in it in the +intervals of hurrying away, with blessed feet, to tend the sick, and +hold the dying in untiring arms. I shall never forget how, one morning, +I saw her come out of the door, and stand silent, looking toward the +rosy east. There was the dawn, and there was she, its priestess, while +all around her slept. I should not have been surprised had her lips, +parted already in a mysterious smile, opened still further in a +prophetic chanting to the sun. But Mary saw me, and the alert, answering +look of one who is a messenger flashed swiftly over her face. She +advanced like the leader of a triumphal procession. + +"Anybody want me?" she called. "I'll get my bunnit." + +It was when she was twenty, and not more than settled in the little +house at Horn o' the Moon, that her story came to her. The Veaseys were +her neighbors, perhaps five doors away; and one summer morning, Johnnie +Veasey came home from sea. He brought no money, no coral from foreign +parts, nor news of grapes in Eshcol. He simply came empty-handed, as he +always did, bearing only, to vouch for his wanderings, a tanned face, +and the bright, red-brown eyes that had surely looked on things we never +saw. Adam Veasey, his brother, had been paralyzed for years. He sat all +day in the chimney corner, looking at his shaking hands, and telling how +wide a swathe he could cut before he was afflicted. Mattie, Adam's wife, +had long dealt with the problem of an unsupported existence. She had +turned into a flitting little creature with eager eyes, who made it her +business to prey upon a more prosperous world. Mattie never went about +without a large extra pocket attached to her waist; into this, she could +slip a few carrots, a couple of doughnuts, or even a loaf of bread. She +laid a lenient tax upon the neighbors and the town below. Was there a +frying of doughnuts at Horn o' the Moon? No sooner had the odor risen +upon the air, than Mattie stood on the spot, dumbly insistent on her +toll. Her very clothes smelled of food; and it was said that, in +fly-time, it was a sight to see her walk abroad, because of the hordes +of insects settling here and there on her odoriferous gown. When Johnnie +Veasey appeared, Mattie's soul rose in arms. Their golden chance had +come at last. + +"You got paid off?" she asked him, three minutes after his arrival, and +Johnnie owned, with the cheerfulness of those rich only in hope, that he +did get paid, and lost it all, the first night on shore. He got into the +wrong boarding-house, he said. It was the old number, but new folks. + +Mattie acquiesced, with a sigh. He would make his visit and go again, +and, that time, perhaps fortune might attend him. So she went over to +old Mrs. Hardy's, to borrow a "riz loaf," and the wanderer was feasted, +according to her little best. + +Johnnie stayed, and Horn o' the Moon roused itself, finding that he had +brought the antipodes with him. He was the teller of tales. He described +what he had seen, and then, by easy transitions, what others had known +and he had only heard, until the intelligence of these stunted, +wind-blown creatures, on their island hill, took fire; and every man +vowed he wished he had gone to sea, before it was too late, or even to +California, when the gold craze was on. Johnnie had the tongue of the +improvisator, and he loved a listener. He liked to sit out on a log, in +the sparse shadow of the one little grove the hill possessed, and, with +the whispering leaves above him tattling uncomprehended sayings brought +them by the wind, gather the old men about him, and talk them blind. As +he sat there, Mary came walking swiftly by, a basket in her hand. +Johnnie came bolt upright, and took off his cap. He looked amazingly +young and fine, and Mary blushed as she went by. + +"Who's that?" asked Johnnie of the village fathers. + +"That's only Mary Dunbar. Guess you ain't been here sence she moved up." + +Johnnie watched her walking away, for the rhythm of her motion attracted +him. He did not think her pretty; no one ever thought that. + +It happened, then, that he spent two or three evenings at the Hardys', +where Mary went, every night, to rub grandmother and put her to bed; and +while she sat there in the darkened room, soothing the old woman for her +dreary vigil, she heard his golden tales of people in strange lands. It +seemed very wonderful to Mary. She had not dreamed there were such lands +in all the world; and when she hurried home, it was to hunt out her old +geography, and read it until after midnight. She followed rivers to +their sources, and dwelt upon mountains with amazing names. She was +seeing the earth and its fullness, and her heart beat fast. + +Next day she went away for a long case, giving only one little sigh in +the going, to the certainty that, when she came back, Johnnie Veasey +would be off on another voyage to lands beyond the sea. Mary was not of +the sort who cry for the moon just because they have seen it. She had +simply begun to read a fairy tale, and somebody had taken it away from +her and put it high on the shelf. But on the very first morning after +her return, when she rose early, longing for the blissful air of her own +bleak solitude, Mattie Veasey stood there at her door. Mary had but one +first question for every comer:-- + +"Anybody sick?" + +"You let me step in," answered Mattie, a determined foot on the sill. "I +want to tell you how things stand." + +It was evident that Mattie was going on a journey. She was an exposition +of the domestic resources of Horn o' the Moon. Her dress came to the +tops of her boots. It was the plaid belonging to Stella Hardy, who had +died in her teens. It hooked behind; but that was no matter, for the +enveloping shawl, belonging to old Mrs. Titcomb, concealed that youthful +eccentricity. Her shoes--congress, with world-weary elastics at the +side--were her own, inherited from an aunt; and her bonnet was a rusty +black, with a mourning veil. There was, at that time, but one new +bonnet at Horn o' the Moon, and its owner had sighed, when Mattie +proposed for it, brazenly saying that she guessed nobody'd want anything +that set so fur back. Whereupon the suppliant sought out Mrs. Pillsbury, +whose mourning headgear, bought in a brief season of prosperity, nine +years before, had become, in a manner, village property. It was as duly +in public requisition as the hearse; and its owner cherished a +melancholy pride in this official state. She never felt as if she owned +it,--only that she was the keeper of a sacred trust; and Mattie, in +asking for it, knew that she demanded no more than her due, as a citizen +should. It was an impersonal matter between her and the bonnet; and +though she should wear it on a secular errand, the veil did not signify. +She knew everybody else knew whose bonnet it was; and that if anybody +supposed she had met with a loss, they had only to ask, and she to +answer. So, in the consciousness of an armor calculated to meet the +world, she skillfully brought her congress boots into Mary's kitchen, +and sat down, her worn little hands clasped under the shawl. + +"You've just got home," said she. "I s'pose you ain't heard what's +happened to Johnnie?" + +Mary rose, a hand upon her chair. + +"No! no! He don't want no nussin'. You set down. I can't talk so--ready +to jump an' run. My! how good that tea does smell!" + +Mary brought a cup, and placed it at her hand, with the deft manner of +those who have learned to serve. Mattie sugared it, and tasted, and +sugared again. + +"My! how good that is!" she repeated. "You don't steep it to rags, as +some folks do. I have to, we're so nigh the wind. Well, you hadn't been +gone long before Johnnie had a kind of a fall. 'T wa'n't much of a one, +neither,--down the ledge. I dunno how he done it--he climbs like a +cat--seems as if the Old Boy was in it--but half his body he can't move. +Palsy, I s'pose; numb, not shakin', like Adam's." + +Mary listened gravely, her hands on her knees. + +"How long's he been so?" + +"Nigh on to five weeks." + +"Had the doctor?" + +"Yes, we called in that herb-man over to Saltash, an' he says there +ain't no chance for him. He's goin' to be like Adam, only wuss. An' +I've been down to the Poor Farm, to tell 'em they've got to take him +in." Her little hands worked; her eager eyes ate their way into the +heart. Mary could see exactly how she had had her way with the +selectmen. "I told 'em they'd got to," she repeated. "He ain't got no +money, an' we ain't got nuthin', an' have two paraletics on my hands I +can't. So they told me they'd give me word to-day; an' I'm goin' down +to settle it. I'm in hopes they'll bring me back, an' take him along +down." + +"Yes," answered Mary gravely. "Yes." + +"Well, now I've come to the beginnin' o' my story." Mattie took that +last delicious sip of tea at the bottom of the cup. "He's layin' in bed, +an' Adam's settin' by the stove; an' I wanted to know if you wouldn't +run in, long towards noon, an' warm up suthin' for 'em." + +"Yes, indeed," said Mary Dunbar. "I'll be there." + +She rose, and Mattie, albeit she dearly loved to gossip, felt that she +must rise, too, and be on her way. She tried to amplify on what she had +already said, but Mary did not seem to be listening; so, treading +carefully, lest the dust and dew beset her precious shoes, she took her +way down the hill, like a busy little ant, born to scurry and gather. + +Mary looked hastily about the room, to see if its perfect order needed a +farewell touch; and then she drank her cup of tea, and stepped out into +the morning. The air was fresh and sweet. She wore no shawl, and the +wind lifted the little brown rings on her forehead, and curled them +closer. Mary held a hand upon them, and hurried on. She had no more +thought of appearances than a woman in a desert land, or in the desert +made by lack of praise; for she knew no one looked at her. To be clean +and swift was all her life demanded. + +Adam sat by the stove, where the ashes were still warm. It was not a day +for fires, but he loved his accustomed corner. He was a middle-aged man, +old with the suffering which is not of years, and the pathos of his +stricken state hung about him, from his unkempt beard to the dusty black +clothing which had been the Tiverton minister's outworn suit. One would +have said he belonged to the generation before his brother. + +"That you, Mary?" he asked, in his shaking voice. "Now, ain't that good? +Come to set a spell?" + +"Where is he?" responded Mary, in a swift breathlessness quite new to +her. + +"In there. We put up a bed in the clock-room." + +It was the unfinished part of the house. The Veaseys had always meant to +plaster, but that consummation was still afar. The laths showed +meagrely; it was a skeleton of a room,--and, sunken in the high +feather-bed between the two windows, lay Johnnie Veasey, his buoyancy +all gone, his face quite piteous to see, now that its tan had faded. +Mary went up to the bed-side, and laid one cool, strong hand upon his +wrist. His eyes sought her with a wild entreaty; but she knew, although +he seemed to suffer, that this was the misery of delirium, and not the +conscious mind. Adam had come trembling to the door, and stood there, +one hand beating its perpetual tattoo upon the wall. Mary looked up at +him with that abstracted gaze with which we weigh and judge. + +"He's feverish," said she. "Mattie didn't tell me that. How long's he +been so?" + +"I dunno. I guess a matter o' two days." + +"Two days?" + +"Well, it might be off an' on ever sence he fell." Adam was helpless. He +depended upon Mattie, and Mattie was not there. + +"What did the doctor leave?" + +Adam looked about him. "'T was the herb doctor," he said. "He had her +steep some trade in a bowl." + +Mary Dunbar drew her hand away, and walked two or three times up and +down the bare, bleak room. The seeking eyes were following her. She knew +how little their distended agony might mean; but nevertheless they +carried an entreaty. They leaned upon her, as the world, her sick world, +was wont to lean. Mary was, in many things, a child; but her attitude +had grown to be maternal. Suddenly she turned to Adam, where he stood, +shaking and hesitating, in the doorway. + +"You goin' to send him off?" + +"'Pears as if that's the only way," shuffled Adam. + +"To-day?" + +"Well, I dunno's they'll come"-- + +Mary walked past him, her mind assured. + +"There, that'll do," said she. "You set down in your corner. I'll be +back byme-by." + +She hurried out into the bleak world which was her home, and, at that +moment, it looked very fair and new. The birds were singing, loudly as +they ever sang up here where there were few leaves to nest in. Mary +stopped an instant to listen, and lifted her face wordlessly to the +clear blue sky. It seemed as if she had been given a gift. There, before +one of the houses, she called aloud, with a long, lingering note, +"Jacob!" and Jacob Pease rose from his milking-stool, and came forward. +Jacob was tall and snuff-colored, a widower of three years' standing. +There was a theory that he wanted Mary, and lacked the courage to ask +her. + +"That you, Mary Dunbar?" said he. "Anything on hand?" + +"I want you to come and help me lift," answered Mary. + +Jacob set down his milk pail, and followed her into the Veaseys' +kitchen. She drew out the tin basin, and filled it at the sink. + +"Wash your hands," said she. "Adam, you set where you generally do. +You'll be in the way." + +Jacob followed her into the sick-room, and Adam weakly shuffled in +behind. + +"For the land's sake!" he began, but Mary was at the head of the bed, +and Jacob at the foot. + +"I'll carry his shoulders," she said, in the voice that admits no demur. +"You take his feet and legs. Sort o' fold the feather-bed up round him, +or we never shall get him through the door." + +"Which way?" asked Jacob, still entirely at rest on a greater mind. + +"Out!" commanded Mary,--"out the front door." + +Adam, in describing that dramatic moment, always declared that nobody +but Mary Dunbar could have engineered a feather-bed through the narrow +passage, without sticking midway. He recalled an incident of his boyhood +when, in the Titcomb fire, the whole family had spent every available +instant before the falling of the roof, in trying to push the +second-best bed through the attic window, only to leave it there to +burn. But Mary Dunbar took her patient through the doorway as Napoleon +marched over the Alps; she went with him down the road toward her own +little house under the hill. Only then did Adam, still shuffling on +behind, collect his intelligence sufficiently to shout after her,-- + +"Mary, what under the sun be you doin' of? What you want me to tell +Mattie? S'pose she brings the selec'men, Mary Dunbar!" + +She made no reply, even by a glance. She walked straight on, as if her +burden lightened, and into her own cave-like house and her little neat +bedroom. + +"Lay him down jest as he is," she said to Jacob. "We won't try to shift +him to-day. Let him get over this." + +Jacob stretched himself, after his load, put his hands in his pockets, +and made up his mouth into a soundless whistle. + +"Yes! well!" said he. "Guess I better finish milkin'." + +Mary put her patient "to-rights," and set some herb drink on the back of +the stove. Presently the little room was filled with the steamy odor of +a bitter healing, and she was on the battlefield where she loved to +conquer. In spite of her heaven-born instinct, she knew very little +about doctors and their ways of cure. Earth secrets were hers, some of +them inherited and some guessed at, and luckily she had never been +involved in those greater issues to be dealt with only by an exalted +science. Later in her life, she was to get acquainted with the young +doctor, down in Tiverton Street, and hear from him what things were +doing in his world. She was to learn that a hospital is not a slaughter +house incarnadined with writhing victims, as some of us had thought. She +was even to witness the magic of a great surgeon; though that was in her +old age, when her attitude toward medicine had become one of humble +thankfulness that, in all her daring, she had done no harm. To-day, she +thought she could set a bone or break up a fever; and there was no doubt +in her mind that, if other deeds were demanded of her, she should be led +in the one true way. So she sat down by her patient, and was watching +there, hopeful of moisture on his palm, when Mattie broke into the front +room, impetuous as the wind. Mary rose and stepped out to meet her, +shutting the door as she went. Passing the window, she saw the +selectmen, in the vehicle known as a long-reach, waiting at the gate. + +"Hush, Mattie!" said she, "you'll wake him." + +Mattie, in her ill-assorted respectabilities of dress, seemed to have +been involved but recently in some bacchanalian orgie. Her shawl was +dragged to one side, and her bonnet sat rakishly. She was intoxicated +with her own surprise. + +"Mary Dunbar!" cried she, "I'd like to know the meanin' of all this +go-round!" + +"There!" answered Mary, with a quietude like that of the sea at ebb, "I +can't stop to talk. I'll settle it with the selec'men. You come, too." + +Mattie's eyes were seeking the bedroom. Leave her alone, and her feet +would follow. "You come along," repeated Mary, and Mattie came. + +When the three selectmen saw Mary Dunbar stepping down the little slope, +they gathered about them all their official dignity. Ebenezer Tolman sat +a little straighter than usual, and uttered a portentous cough. Lothrop +Wilson, mild by nature, and rather prone to whiffling in times of +difficulty, frowned, with conscious effort; but that was only because he +knew, in his own soul, how loyally he loved the under-dog, let justice +go as it might. Then there was Eli Pike, occupying himself in pulling a +rein from beneath the horse's tail. These two hated warfare, and were +nervously conscious that, should they fail in firmness, Ebenezer would +deal with them. Mary went swiftly up to the wagon, and laid one hand +upon the wheel. + +"I've got John Veasey in my house," she began rapidly. "I can't stop to +talk. He's pretty sick." + +Ebenezer cleared his throat again. + +"We understood his folks had put him on the town," said he. + +Mattie made a little eager sound, and then stopped. + +"He ain't on the town yet," said Mary. "He's in my bedroom. An' there +he's goin' to stay. I've took this job." She turned away from them, +erect in her decision, and went up the path. Eli Pike looked after her, +with an understanding sympathy. He was the man who had walked two +miles, one night, to shoot a fox, trapped, and left there helpless with +a broken leg. Lothrop gazed straight ahead, and said nothing. + +"Look here!" called Ebenezer. "Mary! Mary! you look here!" + +Mary turned about at the door. She was magnificent in her height and +dignity. Even Ebenezer felt almost ashamed of what he had to say; but +still the public purse must be regarded. + +"You can't bring in a bill for services," he announced. "If he's on the +town, he'll have to go right into the Poorhouse with the rest." + +Mary made no answer. She stood there a second, looking at him, and he +remarked to Eli, "I guess you might drive on." + +But Mattie, following Mary up to the house, to talk it over, tried the +door in vain. + +"My land!" she ejaculated, "if she ain't bolted it!" So the nurse and +her patient were left to themselves. + +As to the rest of the story, I tell it as we hear it still in Tiverton. +At first, it was reckoned among the miracles; but when the new doctor +came, he explained that it accorded quite honestly with the course of +violated nature, and that, with some slight pruning here and there, the +case might figure in his books. What science would say about it, I do +not know; tradition was quite voluble. + +It proved a very long time before Johnnie grew better, and in all those +days Mary Dunbar was a happy woman. She stepped about the house, setting +it in order, watching her charge, and making delicate possets for him to +take. When the "herb-man" came, she turned him away from the door with a +regal courtesy. It was not so much that she despised his knowledge, as +that he knew no more than she, and this was her patient. The young +doctor in Tiverton told her afterwards that she had done a dangerous +thing in not calling in some accredited wearer of the cloth; but Mary +did not think of that. She went on her way of innocence, delightfully +content. And all those days, Johnnie Veasey, as soon as he came out of +his fever, lay there and watched her with eyes full of a listless +wonder. He was still in that borderland of helplessness where the +unusual seems only a part of the new condition of things. Neighbors +called, and Mary refused them entrance, with a finality which admitted +no appeal. + +"I've got sickness here," she would say, standing in the doorway +confronting them. "He's too weak to see anybody. I guess I won't ask you +in." + +But one day, the minister appeared, his fat gray horse climbing +painfully up from the Gully Road. It was a warm afternoon; and as soon +as Mary saw him, she went out of her house, and closed the door behind +her. When he had tied his horse, he came toward her, brushing the dust +of the road from his irreproachable black. He was a new minister, and +very particular. Mary shook hands with him, and then seated herself on +the step. + +"Won't you set down here?" she asked. "I've got sickness, an' I can't +have talkin' any nearer. I'm glad it's a warm day." + +The minister looked at the step, and then at Mary. He felt as if his +dignity had been mildly assaulted, and he preferred to stand. + +"I should like to offer prayer for the young man," he said. "I had hoped +to see him." + +Mary smiled at him in that impersonal way of hers. + +"I don't let anybody see him," said she. "I guess we shall all have to +pray by ourselves." + +The minister was somewhat nettled. He was young enough to feel the +slight to his official position; and moreover, there were things which +his rigid young wife, primed by the wonder of the town, had enjoined +upon him to say. He flushed to the roots of his smooth brown hair. + +"I suppose you know," said he, "that you're taking a very peculiar +stand." + +Mary turned her head, to listen. She thought she heard her patient +breathing, and her mind was with him. + +"You seem," said the minister, "to have taken in a man who has no claim +on you, instead of letting him stay with his people. If you are going to +marry him, let me advise you to do it now, and not wait for him to get +well. The opinion of the world is, in a measure, to be +respected,--though only in a measure." + +Mary had risen to go in, but now she turned upon him. + +"Married!" she repeated; and then again, in a hushed voice,--"married!" + +"Yes," replied the minister testily, standing by his guns, "married." + +Mary looked at him a moment, and then again she moved away. She glanced +round at him, as she entered the door, and said very gently, "I guess +you better go now. Good-day." + +She closed the door, and the minister heard her bolt it. He told his +wife briefly, on reaching home, that there wasn't much chance to talk +with Mary, and perhaps the less there was said about it the better. + +But as Mary sat down by her patient's bed, her face settled into +sadness, because she was thinking about the world. It had not, +heretofore, been one of her recognized planets; now that it had swung +her way, she marveled at it. + +The very next night, while she was eating her supper in the kitchen, the +door opened, and Mattie walked in. Mattie had been washing late that +afternoon. She always washed at odd times, and often in dull weather +her undried clothes hung for days upon the line. She was "all beat out," +for she had begun at three, and steamed through her work, to have an +early supper at five. + +"There, Mary Dunbar!" cried she; "I said I'd do it, an' I have. There +ain't a neighbor got into this house for weeks, an' folks that want you +to go nussin' have been turned away. I says to Adam, this very +afternoon, 'I'll be whipped if I don't git in an' see what's goin' on!' +There's some will have it Johnnie's got well, an' drove away without +saying good-by to his own folks, an' some say he ain't likely to live, +an' there he lays without a last word to his own brother! As for the +childern, they've got an idea suthin' 's been done to uncle Johnnie, an' +you can't mention him but they cry." + +Mary rose calmly and began clearing her table. "I guess I wouldn't +mention him, then," said she. + +A muffled sound came from the bedroom. It might have been laughter. Then +there was a little crack, and Mary involuntarily looked at the lamp +chimney. She hurried into the bedroom, and stopped short at sight of her +patient, lying there in the light of the flickering fire. His face had +flushed, and his eyes were streaming. + +"I laughed so," he said chokingly. "She always makes me. And something +snapped into place in my neck. I don't know what it was,--but _I can +move_!" + +He held out his hand to her. Mary did not touch it; she only stood +looking at him with a wonderful gaze of pride and recognition, and yet a +strange timidity. She, too, flushed, and tears stood in her eyes. + +"I'll go and tell Mattie," said she, turning toward the door. "You want +to see her?" + +"For God's sake, no! not till I'm on my feet." He was still laughing. "I +guess I can get up to-morrow." + +Mary went swiftly out, and shut the door behind her. + +"I guess you better not see him to-night," she said. "You can come in +to-morrer. I shouldn't wonder if he'd be up then." + +"I told Adam"--began Mattie, but Mary put a hand on her thin little arm, +and held it there. + +"I'd rather talk to-morrer," said she gently. "Don't you come in before +'leven; but you come. Tell Adam to, if he wants. I guess your brother'll +be gettin' away before long." She opened the outer door, and Mattie had +no volition but to go. "It's a nice night, ain't it?" called Mary +cheerfully, after her. "Seems as if there never was so many stars." + +Then she went back into the kitchen, and with the old thrift and +exactitude prepared her patient's supper. He was sitting upright, +bolstered against the head of the bed; and he looked like a great +mischievous boy, who had, in some way, gained a long-desired prize. + +"See here!" he called. "Tell me I can't get up to-morrow? Why, I could +walk!" + +They had a very merry time while he ate. Mary remembered that +afterwards, with a bruised wonder that laughter comes so cheap. Johnnie +talked incessantly, not any more of the wonders of the deep, but what he +meant to do when he got into the world again. + +"How'd I come here in your house, any way?" he asked. "Mattie and Adam +put me here to get rid of me? Tell me all over again." + +"I take care of folks, you know," answered Mary briefly. "I have, for +more'n two years. It's my business." + +Johnnie looked at her a moment, crimsoning as he tried to speak. + +"What you goin' to ask?" + +Mary started. Then she answered steadily,-- + +"That's all right. I don't ask much, anyway; but when folks don't have +ready money, I never ask anything. There, you mustn't talk no more, even +if you are well. I've got to wash these dishes." + +She left him to his meditations, and only once more that evening did +they speak together. When she came to the door, to say good-night, he +was flat among his pillows, listening for her. + +"Say!" he called, "you come in. No, you needn't unless you want to; but +if ever I earn another cent of money, you'll see. And I ain't the only +friend you've got. There's a girl down in Southport would do anything in +the world for you, if she only knew." + +Next morning, Johnnie walked weakly out of doors, despite his nurse's +cautions; for, not knowing what had happened to him, she was in a +wearying dark as to whether it might not happen again. After his +breakfast, he got a ride with Jacob Pease, who was going down Sudleigh +way, and Jacob came back without him. He bore a message, full of +gratitude, to Mary. At Sudleigh, Johnnie had telegraphed, to find out +whether the ship Firewing was still in port; and he had heard that he +must lose no time in joining her. He should never forget what Mary had +done for him. So Jacob said; but he was a man of tepid words, and +perhaps he remembered the message too coldly. + +When Mattie came over, that afternoon, to make her call, she found the +house closed. Mary had gone on foot down into Tiverton, where old Mrs. +Lamson, who was sick with a fever, lay still in need. It was many weeks +before she came home again to Horn o' the Moon; and then Grandfather +Sinclair had broken his leg, so that interest in her miracle became +temporarily inactive. + +Two years had gone when there came to her a little package, through the +Tiverton mail. It was tied with the greatest caution, and directed in a +straggling hand. Mary opened it just as she struck into the Gully Road, +on her way home. Inside was a little purse, and three gold pieces. She +paused there, under the branches, the purse in one hand, and the gold +lying within her other palm. For a long time she stood looking at them, +her face set in that patient sadness seen in those whose only holding is +the past. It was all over and done, and yet it had never been at all. +She thought a little about herself, and that was very rare, for Mary. +She was not the poorer for what her soul desired; she was infinitely the +richer, and she remembered the girl at Southport, not with the pang that +once afflicted her heart, but with a warm, outrushing sense of womanly +sympathy. If he had money, perhaps he could marry. Perhaps he was +married now. Coming out of the Gully Road, she opened the purse again, +and the sun struck richly upon the gold within. Mary smiled a little, +wanly, but still with a sense of the good, human kinship in life. + +"I won't ever spend 'em," she said to herself. "I'll keep 'em to bury +me." + + + + +A STOLEN FESTIVAL + + +David Macy's house stood on the spur of a breezy upland at the end of a +road. The far-away neighbors, who lived on the main highway and could +see the passin', often thanked their stars that they had been called to +no such isolation; you might, said they, as well be set down in the +middle of a pastur'. They wondered how David's Letty could stand it. She +had been married 'most a year, and before that she was forever on the +go. But there! if David Macy had told her the sun rose in the west, +she'd ha' looked out for it there every identical mornin'. + +The last proposition had some color in it; for Letty was very much in +love. To an impartial view, David was a stalwart fellow with clear gray +eyes and square shoulders, a prosperous yeoman of the fibre to which +America owes her being. But according to Letty he was something +superhuman in poise and charm. David had no conception of his heroic +responsibilities; nothing could have puzzled him more than to guess how +the ideal of him grew and strengthened in her maiden mind, and how her +after-worship exalted it into something thrilling and passionate, not +to be described even by a tongue more facile than hers. Letty had a +vivid nature, capable of responding to those delicate influences which +move to spiritual issues. There were throes of love within her, of +aspiration, of an ineffable delight in being. She never tried to +understand them, nor did she talk about them; but then, she never tried +to paint the sky or copy the robin's song. Life was very mysterious; but +one thing was quite as mysterious as another. She did sometimes brood +for a moment over the troubled sense that, in some fashion, she spoke in +another key from "other folks," who did not appear to know that joy is +not altogether joy, but three-quarters pain, and who had never learned +how it brings its own aching sense of incompleteness; but that only +seemed to her a part of the general wonder of things. There had been one +strange May morning in her life when she went with her husband into the +woods, to hunt up a wild steer. She knew every foot of the place, and +yet one turn of the path brought them into the heart of a picture +thrillingly new with the unfamiliarity of pure and living beauty. The +evergreens enfolded them in a palpable dusk; but entrancingly near, +shimmering under a sunny gleam, stood a company of birches in their +first spring wear. They were trembling, not so much under the breeze as +from the hurrying rhythm of the year. Their green was vivid enough to +lave the vision in light; and Letty looked beyond it to a brighter vista +still. There, in an opening, lay a bank of violets, springing in the +sun. Their blue was a challenge to the skyey blue above; it pierced the +sight, awaking new longings and strange memories. It seemed to Letty as +if some invisible finger touched her on the heart and made her pause. +Then David turned, smiling kindly upon her, and she ran to him with a +little cry, and put her arms about his neck. + +"What is it?" he asked, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. "What is +it, little child?" + +"Oh, it's nothin'!" said Letty chokingly. "It's only--I like you so!" + +The halting thought had no purple wherein to clothe itself; but it meant +as much as if she had read the poets until great words had become +familiar, and she could say "love." He was the spring day, the sun, the +blue of the sky, the quiver of leaves; and she felt it, and had a pain +at her heart. + +Now, on an autumn morning, David was standing within the great space in +front of the barn, greasing the wheels preliminary to a drive to market; +and Letty stood beside him, bareheaded, her breakfast dishes forgotten. +She was a round thing, with quick movements not ordinarily belonging to +one so plump; her black hair was short, and curled roughly, and there +were freckles on her little snub nose. David looked up at her red cheeks +and the merry shine of her eyes, and smiled upon her. + +"You look pretty nice this mornin'," he remarked. + +Letty gave a little dancing step and laughed. The sun was bright; there +was a purple haze over the hills, and the nearer woods were yellow. The +world was a jewel newly set for her. + +"I _am_ nice!" said she. "David, do you know our anniversary's comin' +on? It's 'most a year since we were married,--a year the fifteenth." + +David loosened the last wheel, and rose to look at her. + +"Sho!" said he, with great interest. "Is that so? Well, 't was a good +bargain. Best trade I ever made in _my_ life!" + +"And we've got to celebrate," said Letty masterfully. "I'll tell you +how. I've had it all planned for a month. We'll get up at four, have our +breakfast, ride over to Star Pond, and picnic all day long. We'll take a +boat and go out rowin', and we'll eat our dinner on the water!" + +David smiled back at her, and then, with a sudden recollection, pursed +his lips. + +"I'm awful sorry, Letty," he said honestly, "but I've got to go over to +Long Pastur' an' do that fencin', or I can't put the cattle in there +before we turn 'em into the shack. You know that fence was all done up +in the spring, but that cussed breachy cow o' Tolman's hooked it down; +an' if I wait for him to do it--well, you know what he is!" + +"Oh, you can put off your fencin'!" cried Letty. "Only one day! Oh, you +can!" + +"I could 'most any other time," said David, with reason, "but here it is +'most Saturday, an' next week the thrashin'-machine's comin'. I'm awful +sorry, Letty. I am, honest!" + +Letty turned half round like a troubled child, and began grinding one +heel into the turf. She was conscious of an odd mortification. It was +not, said her heart, that the thing itself was so dear to her; it was +only that David ought to want immeasurably to do it. She always put +great stress upon the visible signs of an invisible bond, and she would +be long in getting over her demand for the unreason of love. + +David threw down the monkey-wrench, and put an arm about her waist. + +"Come, now, you don't care, do you?" he asked lovingly. "One day's the +same as another, now ain't it?" + +"Is it?" said Letty, a smile running over her face and into her wet +eyes. "Well, then, le's have Fourth o' July fireworks next Sunday +mornin'!" + +David looked a little hurt; but that was only because he was puzzled. +His sense of humor wore a different complexion from Letty's. He liked a +joke, and he could tell a good story, but they must lie within the logic +of fun. Letty could put her own interpretation on her griefs, and twist +them into shapes calculated to send her into hysterical mirth. + +"You see," said David soothingly, "we're goin' to be together as long as +we live. It ain't as if we'd got to rake an' scrape an' plan to git a +minute alone, as it used to be, now is it? An' after the fencin' 's +done, an' the thrashin', an' we've got nothin' on our minds, we'll take +both horses an' go to Star Pond. Come, now! Be a good girl!" + +The world seemed very quiet because Letty was holding silence, and he +looked anxiously down at the top of her head. Then she relented a little +and turned her face up to his--her rebellious eyes and unsteady mouth. +But meeting the loving honesty of his look, her heart gave a great bound +of allegiance, and she laughed aloud. + +"There!" she said. "Have it so. I won't say another word. _I_ don't +care!" + +These were David's unconscious victories, born, not of his strength or +tyranny, but out of the woman's maternal comprehension, her lavish +concession of all the small things of life to the one great code. She +had taken him for granted, and thenceforth judged him by the intention +and not the act. + +David was bending to kiss her, but he stopped midway, and his arm fell. + +"There's Debby Low," said he. "By jinks! I ain't more'n half a man when +she's round, she makes me feel so sheepish. I guess it's that eye o' +her'n. It goes through ye like a needle." + +Letty laughed light-heartedly, and looked down the path across the lot. +Debby, a little, bent old woman, was toiling slowly along, a large +carpet-bag swinging from one hand. Letty drew a long breath and tried to +feel resigned. + +"She's got on her black alpaca," said she. "She's comin' to spend the +day!" + +David answered her look with one of commiseration, and, gathering up his +wrench and oil, "put for" the barn. + +"I'd stay, if I could do any good," he said hastily, "but I can't. I +might as well stan' from under." + +Debby threw her empty carpet-bag over the stone wall, and followed it, +clambering slowly and painfully. Her large feet were clad in congress +boots; and when she had alighted, she regarded them with deep affection, +and slowly wiped them upon either ankle, a stork-like process at which +David, safe in the barn, could afford to smile. + +"If it don't rain soon," she called fretfully, "I guess you'll find +yourselves alone an' forsaken, like pelicans in the wilderness. Anybody +must want to see ye to traipse up through that lot as I've been doin', +an' git their best clo'es all over dirt." + +"You could ha' come in the road," said Letty, smiling. Letty had a very +sweet temper, and she had early learned that it takes all sorts o' folks +to make a world. It was a part of her leisurely and generous scheme of +life to live and let live. + +"Ain't the road dustier 'n the path?" inquired Debby contradictorily. +"My stars! I guess 't is. Well, now, what do you s'pose brought me up +here this mornin'?" + +Letty's eyes involuntarily sought the bag, whose concave sides flapped +hungrily together; but she told her lie with cheerfulness. "I don't +know." + +"I guess ye don't. No, I ain't comin' in. I'm goin' over to Mis' +Tolman's, to spend the day. I'm in hopes she's got b'iled dish. You look +here!" She opened the bag, and searched portentously, the while Letty, +in some unworthy interest, regarded the smooth, thick hair under her +large poke-bonnet. Debby had an original fashion of coloring it; and +this no one had suspected until her little grandson innocently revealed +the secret. She rubbed it with a candle, in unconscious imitation of an +actor's make-up, and then powdered it with soot from the kettle. "I +believe to my soul she does!" said Letty to herself. + +But Debby, breathing hard, had taken something from the bag, and was +holding it out on the end of a knotted finger. + +"There!" she said, "ain't that your'n? Vianna said 't was your +engagement ring." + +Letty flushed scarlet, and snatched the ring tremblingly. She gave an +involuntary look at the barn, where David was whistling a merry stave. + +"Oh, my!" she breathed. "Where'd you find it?" + +"Well, that's the question!" returned Debby triumphantly. "Where'd ye +lose it?" + +But Letty had no mind to tell. She slipped the ring on her finger, and +looked obstinate. + +"Can't I get you somethin' to put in your bag?" she asked cannily. Debby +was diverted, though only for the moment. + +"I should like a mite o' pork," she answered, lowering her voice and +giving a glance, in her turn, at the barn. "I s'pose ye don't want _him_ +to know of it?" + +"I should like to be told why!" flamed Letty, in an indignation +disproportioned to its cause. Debby had unconsciously hit the raw. "Do +you s'pose I'd do anything David can't hear?" + +"Law, I didn't know," said Debby, as if the matter were of very little +consequence. "Mis' Peleg Chase, she gi'n me a beef-bone, t' other day, +an' she says, 'Don't ye tell _him_!' An' Mis' Squire Hill gi'n me a +pail o' lard; but she hid it underneath the fence, an' made me come for +'t after dark. I dunno how you're goin' to git along with men-folks, if +ye offer 'em the whip-hand. They'll take it, anyways. Well, don't you +want to know where I come on this ring?" + +Letty had taken a few hasty steps toward the house. "Yes, I do," owned +she, turning about. "Where was it?" + +"Well, Sammy was in swimmin', an' he dove into the Old Hole, to see'f't +had any bottom to 't. Vianna made him vow he wouldn't go in whilst he +had that rash; but he come home with his shirt wrong side out, an' she +made him own up. But he'd ha' told anyway, he was so possessed to show +that ring. He see suthin' gleamin' on a willer root nigh the bank, an' +he dove, an' there 't was. I told Sammy mebbe you'd give him suthin' +for't, an' he said there wa'n't nothin' in the world he wanted but a +mite o' David's solder, out in the shed-chamber." + +"He shall have it," said Letty hastily. "I'll get it now. Don't you say +anything!" And then she knew she had used the formula she detested, and +that she was no better than Mrs. Peleg Chase, or the wife of Squire +Hill. + +She ran frowning into the house, and down and up from kitchen to cellar. +Presently she reappeared, panting, with a great tin pan borne before +her like a laden salver. She set it down at Debby's feet, and began +packing its contents into the yawning bag. + +"There!" she said, working with haste. "There's the solder, all of it. +And here's some of our sweet corn. We planted late." + +Debby took an ear from the pan, and, tearing open the husk, tried a +kernel with a critical thumb. + +"Tough, ain't it?" she remarked, disparagingly. "Likely to be, this time +o' year. Is that the pork?" + +It was a generous cube, swathed in a fresh white cloth. + +"Yes, it is," said Letty breathlessly, thrusting it in and shutting the +bag. "There!" + +"Streak o' fat an' streak o' lean?" inquired Debby remorselessly. + +"It's the best we've got; that's all I can say. Now I've got to speak to +David before he harnesses. Good-by!" + +In a fever of impatience, she fled away to the barn. + +"Well, if ever!" ejaculated Debby, lifting the bag and turning slowly +about, to take her homeward path. "Great doin's, _I_ say!" And she made +no reply when Letty, prompted by a tardy conscience, stopped in the barn +doorway and called to her, "Tell Sammy I'm much obliged. Tell him I +shall make turn-overs to-morrow." Debby was thinking of the pork, and +the likelihood of its being properly diversified. + +Letty swept into the barn like a hurrying wind. The horses backed, and +laid their ears flat, and David, grooming one of them, gentled him and +inquired of him confidentially what was the matter. + +"Oh, David, come out here! please come out!" called Letty breathlessly. +"I've got to see you." + +David appeared, with some wonderment on his face, and Letty precipitated +herself upon him, mindless of curry-comb and horse-hairs and the fact +that she was presently to do butter. "David," she cried, "I can't stand +it. I've got to tell you. You know this ring?" + +David looked at it, interested and yet perplexed. + +"Seems if I'd seen you wear it," said he. + +Letty gave way, and laughed hysterically. + +"Seems if you had!" she repeated. "I've wore it over a year. There ain't +a girl in town but knows it. I showed it to 'em all. I told 'em 't was +my engagement ring." + +David looked at it, and then at her. She seemed to him a little mad. He +could quiet the horses, but not a woman, in so vague an exigency. + +"What made you tell 'em that?" he asked, at a venture. + +"Don't you see? There wasn't one of 'em that was engaged but had a +ring--and presents, David--and they knew I never had anything, or I'd +have showed 'em." + +David was not a dull man; he had very sound views on the tariff, and, +though social questions might thrive outside his world, the town blessed +him for an able citizen. But he felt troubled; he was condemned, and it +was the world's voice which had condemned him. + +"I don't know's I ever did give you anything, Letty," he said, with a +new pain stirring in his face. "I don't b'lieve I ever thought of it. It +wasn't that I begrudged anything." + +"Oh, my soul, no!" cried Letty, in an agony of her own. "I knew how 't +was. It wa'n't your way, but they didn't know that. And I couldn't have +'em thinkin' what they did think, now could I? So I bought me--David, I +bought me that high comb I used to wear, and--and a blue +handkerchief--and a thimble--and--and--this ring. And I said you give +'em to me. And I trusted to chance for your never findin' it out. But I +always hated the things; and as soon as we were married, I broke the +comb, and burnt up the handkerchief, and hammered the thimble into a +little wad, and buried it. But I didn't dare to stop wearin' the ring, +for fear folks would notice. Then t' other day I felt so about it I knew +the time had come, and I went down to the Old Hole and threw it in. And +now that hateful Sammy's found it and brought it back, and I've sent +him your solder, and Debby's promised me she wouldn't tell you about the +pork, and I--I'm no better than the rest of 'em that lie and lie and +don't let their men-folks know!" Letty was sobbing bitterly, and David +drew her into his arms and laid his cheek down on her hair. His heart +was aching too. They had all the passionate sorrow of children over some +grief not understood. + +"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked at length. + +"When?" said Letty chokingly. + +"Then--when folks expected things--before we were married." + +"Oh, David, I couldn't!" + +"No," said David sadly, "I s'pose you couldn't." + +Letty had been holding one hand very tightly clenched. It was a plump +hand, with deep dimples and firm, short fingers. She unclasped it, and +stretched out toward him a wet, pink palm. + +"There!" she said despairingly. "There's the ring." + +Again David felt his inadequacy to the situation. "Don't you want to +wear it?" he hesitated. "It's real pretty. What's that red stone?" + +"I hate it!" cried Letty viciously. "It's a garnet. Oh, David, don't you +ever let me set eyes on it again!" + +David took it slowly from her hand. He drew out his pocket-book, opened +it, and dropped the ring inside. "There!" he said, "I guess't won't do +me no hurt to come acrost it once in a while." Then they kissed each +other again, like two children; Letty's tears wet his face, and he felt +them bitterer than if they had been his own. + +But for Letty the air had cleared. Now, she felt, there was no trouble +in her path. She had all the irresponsible joy of one who has had a +secret, and feels the burden roll away. She was like Christian without +his pack. She put her hands on David's shoulders, and looked at him +radiantly. + +"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "I'm just as wicked as I was before; but +it don't seem to make any difference, now you know it!" + +Though David also smiled, he was regarding her with a troubled wonder. +He never expected to follow these varying moods. They were like +swallow-flights, and he was content to see the sun upon their wings. So +he drove thoughtfully off, and Letty went back to her work with a +singing heart. She was not quite sure that it was right to be happy +again, all at once, but she could not still her blood. To be forgiven, +to find herself free from the haunting consciousness that she could +deceive the creature to whom she held such passionate allegiance--this +was enough to shape a new heaven and a new earth. Her simple household +duties took on the significance of noble ceremonies. She sang as she +went about them, and the words were those of a joyous hymn. She seemed +to be serving in a temple, making it clean and fragrant in the name of +love. + + * * * * * + +Saturday was a day born of heavenly intentions. Letty ran out behind the +house, where the ground rose abruptly, and looked off, entranced, into +the blue distance. It was the stillest day of all the fall. Not a breath +stirred about her; but in the maple grove at the side of the house, +where the trees had turned early under the chill of an unseasonable +night, yellow leaves were sifting down without a sound. Goldenrod was +growing dull, clematis had ripened into feathery spray, and she knew how +the closed gentians were painting great purple dashes by the side of the +road. "Oh!" she cried aloud, in rapture. It was her wedding day; a year +ago the sun had shone as warmly and benignantly as he was shining now, +and the same haze had risen, like an exhalation, from the hills. She saw +a special omen in it, and felt herself the child of happy fortune, to be +so mothered by the great blue sky. Then she ran in to give David his +breakfast, and tell him, as they sat down, that it was their wedding +morning. As she went, she tore a spray of blood-red woodbine from the +wall, and bound it round her waist. + +But David was not ready for breakfast; he was talking with a man at the +barn, and half an hour later came hurrying in to his retarded meal. + +"I've got to eat an' run," said he; "Job Fisher kep' me. It's about that +ma'sh. But the time wa'n't wasted. He'll sell ten acres for twenty +dollars less'n he said last week. Too bad to keep you waitin'! You'd +ought to eat yours while 't was hot." + +Letty, with a little smile all to herself, sat demurely down and poured +coffee; this was no time to talk of anniversaries. David ate in haste, +and said good-by. + +"I'm goin' down the lot to get my withes," said he. "Whilst I'm gone, +you put me up a mite o' luncheon. I sha'n't lay off to come home till +night." + +"Oh, David!" said Letty, with a little cry. Then the same knowing smile +crept over her face. "No, I sha'n't," added she willfully. "I'm goin' to +bring it to you." + +"Fetch me my dinner? Why, it's a mile and a half 'cross lots! I guess +you won't!" + +"You go right along, David," said Letty decisively. "I don't want to +hear another word. I ain't seen the Long Pastur' this summer, and I'm +comin'. Good-by!" She disappeared down the cellar stairs with the +butter-plate poised on a pyramid of dishes, and David, having no time to +argue, went off to his work. + +About ten o'clock Letty took her way down to the Long Pasture; she was a +very happy woman, and she could hold her happiness before her face, +regarding it frankly and with a full delight. The material joys of life +might seem to escape her; but she could have them, after all. The great +universe, warm with sun and warm with love, was on her side. Even the +day seemed something tangible in gracious being; and as Letty trudged +along, her basket on her arm, she reasoned upon her own riches and owned +she had enough. David was not like anybody else; but he was better than +anybody else, and he was hers. Even his faults were dearer than other +men's virtues. She heard the sound of his axe upon the stakes, breaking +the lovely stillness with a significance lovelier still. + +"David!" she called, long before reaching the little brook that runs +beneath the bank, and he leaped the fence and came to meet her. "David!" +she repeated, and looked up in his face with eyes so solemn and so full +of light that he held her still a moment to look at her. + +"Letty," he said, "you're real pretty!" And then they both laughed, and +walked on together through the shade. + +The day knit up its sweet, long minutes full of the serious beauty of +the woods. David worked hard, and for a time Letty lingered near him; +then she strayed away, and came back to him, from moment to moment, +with wonderful treasures. Now it was cress from the spring, now a +palm-full of partridge berries, or a cluster of checkerberry leaves for +a "cud," or a bit of wood-sorrel. By and by the fall stillness gave out +a breath of heat, and the sun stood high overhead. Letty spread out her +dinner, and David made her a fire among the rocks. The smoke rose in a +blue efflorescence; and with the sweet tang of burning wood yet in the +air, they sat down side by side, drinking from one cup, and smiling over +the foolish nothings of familiar talk. At the end of the meal, Letty +took a parcel from the basket, something wrapped in a very fine white +napkin. She flushed a little, unrolling it, and her eyes deepened. + +"What's all this?" asked David, sniffing the air. "Fruit-cake?" + +Letty nodded without looking at him; there was a telltale quivering in +her face. She divided the cake carefully, and gave her husband half. +David had lain back on a piny bank; and as he ate, his eyes followed the +treetops, swaying a little now in a rhythmic wind. But Letty ate her +piece as if it were sacramental bread. She put out her hand to him, and +he stroked the short, faithful fingers, and then held them close. He +smiled at her; and for a moment he mused again over that starry light in +her eyes. Then his lids fell, and he had a little nap, while Letty sat +and dreamed back over the hours, a year and more ago, when her mother's +house smelled of spices, and this cake was baked for her wedding day. + +When they went home again, side by side, the fencing was all done, and +David had an after-consciousness of happy playtime. He carried the +basket, with his axe, and Letty, like an untired little dog, took brief +excursions of discovery here and there, and came back to his side with +her weedy treasures. Once--was it something in the air?--he called to +her:-- + +"Say, Letty, wa'n't it about this kind o' weather the day we were +married?" + +But Letty gave a little cry, and pointed out a frail white butterfly on +a mullein leaf. "See there, David! how cold he looks! I'd like to take +him along. He'll freeze to-night." David forgot his question, and she +was glad. Some inner voice was at her heart, warning her to leave the +day unspoiled. Her joy lay in remembering; it seemed a small thing to +her that he should forget. + +"We've had a real good time," he said, as he gave her the basket at the +kitchen door. "Now, as soon as thrashin' 's done, we'll go to Star +Pond." + +After supper they covered up the squashes, for fear of a frost; and then +they stood for a moment in the field, and looked at the harvest moon, +risen in a great effrontery of splendor. + +"Letty," asked David suddenly, "shouldn't you like to put on your little +ring? It's right here in my pocket." + +"No! no!" said Letty hastily. "I never want to set eyes on it again." + +"I guess I'll get you another one 't you could wear. I looked t' other +day when I went to market; but there was so many I didn't das't to make +a choice unless you was with me." + +Letty clung to him passionately. "Oh, David," she cried, with a break in +her voice, "I don't want any rings. I want just you." + +David put out one hand and softly touched the little blue kerchief about +her head. "Anyway," he said, "we won't have any more secrets from one +another, will we?" + +Letty gave a little start, and she caught her breath before answering:-- + +"No, we won't--not unless they're nice ones!" + + + + +A LAST ASSEMBLING + + +This happened in what Dilly Joyce, in deference to a form of speech, was +accustomed to call her young days; though really her spirit seemed to +renew itself with every step, and her body was to the last a willing +instrument. She lived in a happy completeness which allowed her to carry +on the joys of youth into the maturity of years. But things did happen +to her from twenty to thirty-five which could never happen again. When +Dilly was a girl, she fell in love, and was very heartily and honestly +loved back again. She had been born into such willing harmony with +natural laws, that this in itself seemed to belong to her life. It +partook rather of the faithfulness of the seasons than of human tragedy +or strenuous overthrow. Even so early she felt great delight in natural +things; and when her heart turned to Jethro Moore, she had no doubt +whatever of the straightness of its path. She trusted all the primal +instincts without knowing she trusted them. She was thirsty; here was +water, and she drank. Jethro was a little older than she, the son of a +minister in a neighboring town. His father had marked out his plan of +life; but Jethro had had enough to do with the church on hot summer +Sundays, when "fourthly" and "sixthly" lulled him into a pleasing coma, +and when even the shimmer of Mrs. Chase's shot silk failed to awaken his +deep eyes to their accustomed delight in fabric and color. To him, the +church was a concrete and very dull institution: to his father, it was a +city set on a hill, whence a shining path led direct to God's New +Jerusalem. Therefore it was easy enough for the boy to say he preferred +business, and that he wanted uncle Silas to take him into his upholstery +shop; and he never, so long as he lived, understood his father's tragic +silence over the choice. He had broken the succession in a line of +priests; but it seemed to him that he had simply told what he wanted to +do for a living. So he went away to the city, and news came flying back +of his wonderful fitness for the trade. He understood colors, fabrics, +design; he had been sent abroad for ideas, and finally he was dispatched +to the Chicago house, to oversee the business there. Thus it was many +years before Dilly met him again; but they remained honestly faithful, +each from a lovely simplicity of nature, but a simplicity quite +different in kind. Jethro did not grow rich very fast (uncle Silas saw +to that), but he did prosper; and he was ready to marry his girl long +before she owned herself ready to marry him. She took care of a +succession of aged relatives, all afflicted by a strange and interesting +diversity of trying diseases; and then, after the last death, she +settled down, quite poor, in a little house on the Tiverton Road, and +"went out nussin'," the profession for which her previous life had +fitted her. With a careless generosity, she made over to her brother the +old farmhouse where they were born, because he had a family and needed +it. But he died, and was soon followed by his wife and child; and now +Dilly was quite alone with the house and the family debts. The time had +come, wrote Jethro, for them to marry. She was free, at last, and he had +enough. Would she take him, now? Dilly answered quite frankly and from a +serenity born of faith in the path before her and a certainty that no +feet need slip. She was ready, she wrote. She hoped he was willing she +should sell the old place, to pay Tom's debts. That would leave her +without a cent; but since he was coming for her, and she needn't go to +Chicago alone, she didn't know that there was anything to worry about. +He would buy her ticket. There was an ineffable simplicity about Dilly. +She had no respect whatever for money, save as a puzzling means to a few +necessary ends. And now the place had been sold, and Jethro was coming +in a month. Meanwhile Dilly was to pack up the few family effects she +could afford to keep, and the rest would go by auction. + +Little as she was accustomed to dread experiences which came in the +inevitable order of nature, she did think of the last day and night in +the old house as something of an ordeal. People felt that the human +meant very little to Dilly; but that was not true. It was only true that +she held herself remote from personal intimacies; but all the fine, +invisible bonds of race and family took hold of her like irresistible +factors, and welded her to the universe anew. + +As she started out from her little house, this summer morning, and began +her three-mile walk to the old homestead, she felt as if some solemn +event in her life were about to happen; her heart beat higher, and +brought about the suffocating feeling of a hand laid upon the throat. +She was a slight creature, with a delicate face and fine black hair. Her +slender body seemed all made for action, and the poise of an assured +motion dwelt in it and wrapped about its angularity like a gracious +charm. She was walking down a lane, her short skirts brushed by the +morning dew. She chose to go 'cross lots, not because in this case it +was nearer than the road, but because it seemed impossible to go another +way. Yet never in her life had she seen less of the outward garment of +things than she was seeing this morning. A flouting bobolink flew from +stake to stake in front of her, and bubbled out in melody. She heard a +scythe swishing in a neighboring field, and the musical call of the +mowing-machine afar, and she did not look up. Dumb to the beautiful +outer world, she was broad awake to human souls: the souls of the +Joyces, alive so long before her and stretching back into an unknown +past. They had lived, one after another, in the old house, since +colonial times; and now, after this quiet act of a concluding drama, +Dilly was going to lower the curtain, and sweep them from the stage. + +Her mind was peopled with figures. She thought of Jethro, too. He seemed +to be coming ever nearer and nearer. She could hear his tread marching +into her life, and could see his face. It was very moving, as she +remembered it. A long line of scholarly forbears had dowered him with a +refinement and grace quite startling in this unornamented spot, and some +old Acadian ancestor had lent him beauty. His eyes were dark, and they +held an unfathomable melancholy. The line of his forehead and nose ran +haughtily and yet delicate; and even after years of absence, Dilly +sometimes caught her breath when she thought of the way his head was set +upon his shoulders. She had never in her life seen a man or woman who +was entirely beautiful, and he saturated her longing like a prodigal +stream. + +She was a little dazed when she climbed the low stone wall, crossed the +road, and came into the grassy wilderness of the Joyce back yard. Nature +had triumphed riotously, as she will when niggardly thrift is away. The +grass lay rich and shining, lodged by last night's shower, and gate and +cellar-case were choked by it. The cinnamon roses bloomed in a spicy +hardiness of pink, and the gnarled apple-trees had shed their broken +branches, and were covered with little green buttons of fruit. Dilly +stopped to look about her, and her eyes filled. The tears were hot; they +hurt her, and so recalled her to the needs of life. + +"There!" she said, "I mustn't do so!"--and she walked straight forward +through the open shed, and fitted her key in the lock. The door sagged; +but she pushed it open and stepped in. The deserted kitchen lay there in +desolate order, and the old Willard clock slept upon the wall. Dilly +hastily pushed a chair before it (this was the only chair old Daniel +Joyce would allow the children to climb in) and wound the clock. It +began ticking slowly, with the old, remembered sound. Somehow it seemed +beautiful to Dilly that the clock should speak with the voice of all +those years agone; it was a kind of loyalty which appealed to the soul +like a piercing miracle. Then she ran through to the sitting-room, and +started the old eight-day in the corner; and the house breathed and was +alive again. She threw open the windows, all save those on the Dilloway +side (lest kindly neighbors should discover she was at home), and the +soft rose-scented air flooded the rooms like an invisible presence, and +bore out the smell of age upon gracious wings. Now, Dilly worked fast +and steadily, lest some human thing should come upon her. She tied up +bedclothes, and opened long-closed cupboards. She made careful piles of +clothing from the attic; and finally, her mind a little tired, she sat +down on the floor and began looking over papers and daguerreotypes from +her father's desk. Just as she had lost herself in the ancient history +of which they were the signs, there came a knock at the back door. So +assured had become her idea of a continued housekeeping, that the +summons did not seem in the least strange. The house lived again; it had +thrown open its arms to human kind. + +"Come in!" she called; and a light step sounded in the kitchen and +crossed the sill. It was a man, dark-eyed and very handsome. "Oh!" +murmured Dilly, catching her breath and holding both hands clasped upon +the papers in her lap. "Jethro!" + +The stranger was much moved, and his black eyes deepened. He looked at +her kindly, perhaps lovingly, too. "Yes," he said, at last. "So you'd +know me?" + +Dilly got lightly up, and the papers fell about her in a shower; yet she +made no motion toward him. "Oh, yes," she said softly, "I should know +you. You ain't changed at all." + +That was not true. He looked ten years older than his real age; yet time +had only dowered him with a finer grace and charm. All the lines in his +face were those of gentleness and truth. His mouth had the old delicate +curves. One meeting him that day might have said, with a throb of +involuntary homage, "How beautiful he must have been when he was young!" +But to Dilly he bore even a more subtile distinction than in that +far-away time; he had ripened into something harmonizing with her own +years. He came forward a little, and held out both hands; but Dilly did +not take them, and he dropped the left one. Then she laid her fingers +lightly in his, and they greeted each other like old acquaintances. A +flush rose in her smooth brown cheek. Her eyes grew bright with that +startled questioning which is of the woods. He looked at her the more +intently, and his breath quickened. She had none of the blossomy charm +of more robust womanhood; but he recognized the old gypsy element which +had once bewitched him, and felt he loved her still. + +"Well," he said, and his voice shook a little, "are you glad to see me?" + +Dilly moved back, and sat down in her mother's little sewing-chair by +the desk. "I don't know as I can tell," she answered. "This is a strange +day." + +Jethro nodded. "I meant to surprise you," he said. "So I never wrote I +was coming on so soon. I was real disappointed to find your house shut +up; but the neighbors told me where you'd gone, and what you'd gone for. +Then I walked over here." + +Dilly's face brightened all over with a responsive smile. "Did you come +through the woods?" she asked. "What made you?" + +"Why, I knew you'd go that way," he answered. "I thought you'd get +wool-gathering over some weed or another, and maybe I'd overtake you." + +They both laughed, and the ice was broken. Dilly got briskly up and +gathered a drawer-full of papers into her apron. + +"I can't stop workin'," she said. "I want to fix it so's not to stay +here more'n one night. Now you talk! I know what these are. I can run +'em over an' listen too." + +"I think't was real good of you to turn in the place to Tom's folks," +said Jethro, also seating himself, and, as Dilly saw with a start, as if +it were an omen, in her father's great chair. "Not that you'll ever need +it, Dilly. You won't want for a thing. I've done real well." + +Dilly's long fingers assorted papers and laid them at either side, with +a neat precision. She looked up at him then, and her eyes had again the +quick, inquiring glance of some wild creature in a situation foreign to +its habits. + +"Well," she said, "well! I guess I don't resk anything. An' if I +did--why, I'd resk it!" + +Jethro bent forward a little. He was smiling, and Dilly met the glance, +half fascinated. She wondered that she could forget his smile; and yet +she had forgotten it. Like running water, it was never twice the same. + +"Dilly," said he, much moved, "you'll have a good time from this out, if +ever a woman did. You'll keep house in a brick block, where the cars run +by your door, and you can hire two girls." + +"Oh, my!" breathed Dilly. A quick look of trouble darkened her face, as +a shadow sweeps across the field. + +"What is it?" asked Jethro, in some alarm. "Don't you like what I said?" + +Dilly smiled, though her eyes were still apprehensive. + +"It ain't that," she answered slowly, striving in her turn to be kind. +"Only I guess I never happened to think before just how't would be. I +never spec'lated much on keepin' house." + +"But somebody'd have to keep it," said Jethro good-naturedly, smiling on +her. "We can get good help. You'll like to have a real home table, and +you can invite company every day, if you say so. I never was close, +Dilly,--you know that. I sha'n't make you account for things." + +Dilly got up, and, still holding her papers in her apron, walked +swiftly to the window. There she stood, a moment, looking out into the +orchard, where the grass lay tangled under the neglected, happy trees. +Her eyes traveled mechanically from one to another. She knew them all. +That was the "sopsyvine," its red fruitage fast coming on; there was the +Porter she had seen her father graft; and down in the corner grew the +August sweet. Life out there looked so still and sane and homely. She +knew no city streets,--yet the thought of them sounded like a pursuit. +She turned about, and came back to her chair. + +"I guess I never dreamt how you lived, Jethro," she said gently. "But it +don't make no matter. You're contented with it." + +"I ain't a rich man," said Jethro, with some quiet pride; "but I've got +enough. Yes, I like my business; and city life suits me. You'll fall in +with it, too." + +Then silence settled between them; but that never troubled Dilly. She +was used to long musings on her walks to and from her patients, and in +her watching beside their beds. Conversation seemed to her a very +spurious thing when there is nothing to say. + +"What you thinking about?" he asked suddenly. + +Dilly looked up at him with her bright, truth-telling glance. "I was +thinkin'," she answered, with a clarity never ruthless, because it was +so sweet,--"I was thinkin' you make me homesick, somehow or another." + +Jethro looked at her doubtfully, and then, as she smiled at him, he +smiled also. + +"I don't believe it's me," he said, confidently. "It's because you're +going over things here. It's the old house." + +"Maybe," said Dilly, nodding and tying her last bundle of papers. "But I +don't know. I never had quite such feelin's before. It's the nearest to +bein' afraid of anything I've come acrost. I guess I shall have to run +out into the lot an' take my bearin's." + +Jethro got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked about the room. +He was very gentle, but he did at heart cherish the masculine theory +that the unusual in woman is never to be judged by rules. + +"But it is a queer kind of a day," owned Dilly, pushing in the last +drawer. "Why, Jethro!" She faced him, and her voice broke in excitement. +"You don't know, I ain't begun to tell you, how queer it seems to me. +Why, I've dreaded this day for weeks! but when it come nigh, it begun to +seem to me like a joyful thing. I felt as if they all knew of it: them +that was gone. It seemed as if they stood 'round me, ready to uphold me +in what I was doin'. I shouldn't be surprised if they were all here now. +I don't feel a mite alone." + +Her voice shook with excitement; her eyes were big and black. Jethro +came up to her, and laid a kindly hand on her shoulder. It was a fine +hand, long and shapely, and Dilly, looking down at it, remembered, with +a strange regretfulness, how she had once loved its lines. + +"There, poor girl!" he said, "you're tired thinking about it. No wonder +you've got fancies. I guess the ghosts won't trouble us. There's nothing +here worse than ourselves." And again, in spite of the Joyces, Dilly +felt homesick and alone. + +There came a soft thudding sound upon the kitchen floor, and she turned, +alert, to listen. This was Mrs. Eli Pike in her carpet slippers; she had +stood so much over soap-making that week that her feet had taken to +swelling. She was no older than Dilly, but she had seemed matronly in +her teens. She looked very large, as she padded forward through the +doorway, and her pink face and double chin seemed to exude kindliness as +she came. + +"There, Dilly Joyce! if this ain't jest like you!" she exclaimed. "Creep +in here an' not let anybody know! Why, Jethro, that you? Recognize you! +Well, I guess I should!" + +She included them both in a neighborly glance, and Dilly was very +grateful. Yet it seemed to her that now, at last, she might break down +and cry. The tone of olden friendliness was hard to bear, when no other +voices answered. She could endure the silent house, but not the +intercourse of a life so sadly changed. + +"There!" continued Mrs. Pike, with a nod, "I guess I know! You're tired +to pieces with this pickin' and sortin', an' you're comin' over to +dinner, both on ye. Eli's dressed a hin. I had to wring her neck. _He_ +wouldn't ha' done it; you know that, Dilly! An' I've been beatin' up +eggs. Now don't you say one word. You be there by twelve. Jethro, you +got a watch? You see 't she starts, now!" And Mrs. Pike marched away +victorious, her apron over her head, and waving one hand before her as +she went. She had once been stung by bees, on just such a morning as +this, and she had a set theory that they infested all strange dooryards. + +Dilly felt as if even the Joyces could not save her day in its solemn +significance unless, indeed, they should appear in their proper persons. +She thought of her bread and butter and boiled eggs, lying in her little +bundle, and the simple meal seemed as unattainable as if it were some +banquet dreamed of in delirium. It was of one piece with cars going by +the house, and two maid-servants to correct. To Dilly, a car meant a +shrieking monster propelled by steam: yet not even that drove her to +such insanity of revulsion as the two servants. They alone made her +coming life seem like one eternal school, with the committee ever on +the platform, and no recess. But she worked very meekly and soberly, and +Jethro took off his coat and helped her; then, just before twelve, they +washed their hands and went across the orchard to Mrs. Pike's. + +The rest of the day seemed to Dilly like a confused though not an +unfamiliar dream. She knew that the dinner was very good, and that it +choked her, so that Mrs. Pike, alert in her first pride of housekeeping, +was quite cordially harsh with her for not eating more; and that Jethro +talked about Chicago; and Eli Pike, older than his wife and graver, said +"Do tell!" now and again, and seemed to picture in his mind the outlines +of city living. She escaped from the table as soon as possible, under +pretext of the work to be done, and slipped back to the empty house; and +there Jethro found her, and began helping her again. + +The still afternoon settled down in its grooves of beauty, and its very +loveliness gave Dilly a pain at the heart. She remembered that this was +the hour when her mother used to yawn over her long seam, or her +knitting, and fall asleep by the window, while the bees droned outside +in the jessamine, and a humming-bird--there had always been one, year +after year, and Dilly could never get over the impression that it was +the same bird--hovered on his invisible perch and thrilled his wings +divinely. Then the day slipped over an unseen height, and fell into a +sheltered calm. The work was not done, and they had to go over to Mrs. +Pike's again to supper, and to spend the night. Dilly longed to stretch +herself on the old kitchen lounge in her own home; but Mrs. Pike told +her plainly that she was crazy, and Jethro, with a kindly authority, +bade her yield. And because words were like weapons that returned upon +her to hurt her anew, she did yield, and talked patiently to one and +another neighbor as they came in to see Jethro, and to inquire when he +meant to be married. + +"Soon," said Jethro, with assurance. "As soon as Dilly makes up her +mind." + +All that evening, Eli Pike sat on the steps, where he could hear the +talk in the sitting-room without losing the whippoorwill's song from the +Joyce orchard, and Dilly longed to slip out and sit quietly beside him. +He would know. But she could only be civil and grateful, and when half +past eight came, take her lamp and go up to bed. Jethro was given the +best chamber, because he had succeeded and came from Chicago; but Dilly +had a little room that looked straight out across the treetops down to +her own home. + +At first, after closing the door behind her, she felt only the great +blessedness of being alone. She put out the light and threw herself, as +she was, face downwards on the bed. There she lay for long moments, +suffering; and this was one of the few times in her life when she was +forced to feel that human pain which is like a stab in the heart. For +she was one of those wise creatures who give themselves long spaces of +silence, and so heal them quickly of their wounds, like the sage little +animals that slip away from combat, to cure their hurt with leaves. +Presently, a great sense of rest enfolded her, a rest ineffably precious +because it was so soon to be over. It was like great riches lent only +for a time. Outside this familiar quiet was the world, thrilled by a +terrifying life pressing upon her and calling. She longed to put her +hands before her eyes, and shut out the possibility of meeting its +garish glory; she did cover her ears, lest its cry should pierce them +and she could not resist. And so she lay there shivering, until a +strange inviting that was peace and not commotion seemed to approach her +from another side, and her inner self became conscious of unheard +voices. They were not clamorous, but sweet, and they drowned her will, +and drew her to themselves. She got softly up, and, going to the +darkened window, looked out across the orchard. There, in the greenness, +lay the old house. It called on her to come. It seemed to Dilly that she +could not make haste enough to be there. She slipped softly down the +narrow stairway, and across the kitchen, where the shadows of the +moonlit windows lay upon the floor. A great excitement thrilled her +blood; and though quite safe from discovery, she was not wholly at ease +until she had entered the orchard path, and knew her feet were wet with +dew, and heard the whippoorwill, so near now that she might have +startled him from his neighboring tree. No other bird note could have +fitted her mood so well. The wild melancholy of his tone, his home in +the night, and the omens blended with his song seemed to remove him from +the world as she herself was removed; and she hastened on with a fine +exaltation, fitted her key again in the lock, and shut the door behind +her. + +As soon as Dilly had entered the sitting-room, where the old desk stood +in its place, and the clock was ticking, she felt as if all her +confusion and trouble were over. She smiled to herself in the darkness. +She had come home, and it was very good. They had begun with the attic, +in their rearranging, and this room remained unchanged. It had been her +wish to keep it, in its sweet familiarity, unaltered till the last. She +drew forward her father's chair, and sat down in it, with luxurious +abandonment, to rest. Her mother's little cricket was by her side, and +she put her feet on it and exhaled a long sigh of content. Her eyes +rested on the dark cavern which was the fireplace; and there fell upon +her a sweet sense of completed bliss, as if it were alight and she could +watch the dancing flames. And suddenly Dilly was aware that the Joyces +were all about her. + +She had been sure, in her coming through the woods, that they knew and +cared; now she was certain that, in some fashion, they recognized their +bondage and loyalty to the place, as she recognized her own, and that +they upheld her to her task. She thought them over, as she sat there, +and saw their souls more keenly than if she had met them, men and women, +face to face. There was the shoe-maker among them, who, generations +back, was sitting on his bench when news came of the battle of +Lexington, and who threw down hammer and last, and ran wildly out into +the woods, where he stayed three days and nights, calling with a loud +voice upon Almighty God to save him from ill-doing. Then he had drowned +himself in a little brook too shallow for the death of any but a +desperate man. He had been the disgrace of the Joyces; they dared not +think of him, and they know, even to this day, that he is remembered +among their townsmen as the Joyce who was a coward, and killed himself +rather than go to war. But here he stood--was it the man, or some secret +intelligence of him?--and Dilly, out of all his race, was the one to +comprehend him. She saw, with a thrill of passionate sympathy, how he +had believed with all his soul in the wickedness of war, and how the +wound to his country so roused in him the desire of blood that he fled +away and prayed his God to save him from mortal guilt,--and how, finding +that he saw with an overwhelming delight the red of anticipated +slaughter, and knew his traitorous feet were bearing him to the ranks, +he chose the death of the body rather than sin against the soul. And +Dilly was glad; the blood in her own veins ran purer for his sake. + +There was old Delilah Joyce, who went into a decline for love, and +wasted quite away. She had been one of those tragic fugitives on the +island of being, driven out into the storm of public sympathy to be +beaten and undone; for she was left on her wedding day by her lover, who +vowed he loved her no more. But now Dilly saw her without the pathetic +bravery of her silken gown which was never worn, and knew her for a +woman serene and glad. That very day she had unfolded the gown in the +attic, where it had lain, year upon year, wrapped about by the poignant +sympathy of her kin, a perpetual reminder of the hurts and faithlessness +of life. It had become a relic, set aside from modern use. She felt now +as if she could even wear it herself, though silk was not for her, or +deck some little child in its shot and shimmering gayety. For it came +to her, with a glad rush of acquiescent joy, that all his life, the man, +though blinded by illusion, had been true to her whom he had left; and +that, instead of being poor, she was very rich. It was from that moment +that Dilly began to understand that the soul does not altogether weld +its own bonds, but that they lie in the secret core of things, as the +planet rushes on its appointed way. + +There was Annette Joyce, who married a Stackpole, and, to the disgust of +her kin, clung to him through one debauch after another, until the world +found out that Annette "couldn't have much sense of decency herself, or +she wouldn't put up with such things." But on this one night Dilly found +out that Annette's life had been a continual laying hold of Eternal +Being, not for herself, but for the creature she loved; that she had +shown the insolence and audacity of a thousand spirits in one, besieging +high heaven and crying in the ear of God: "I demand of Thee this soul +that Thou hast made." And somehow Dilly knew now that she was of those +who overcome. + +So the line stretched on, until she was aware of souls of which she had +never heard; and she knew that, faulty as their deeds might be, they had +striven, and the strife was not in vain. She felt herself to be one drop +in a mighty river, flowing into the water which is the sum of life; and +she was content to be absorbed in that great stream. There was human +comfort in the moment, too; for all about her were those whom she had +seen with her bodily eyes, and their presence brought an infinite cheer +and rest. Dilly felt the safety of the universe; she smiled lovingly +over the preciousness of all its homely ways. She thought of the +twilights when she had sat on the doorstone, eating huckleberries and +milk, and seeing the sun drop down the west; she remembered one night +when her little cat came home, after it had been lost, and felt the warm +touch of its fur against her hand. She saw how the great chain of things +is held by such slender links, and how there is nothing that is not most +sacred and most good. The hum of summer life outside the window seemed +to her the life in her own veins, and she knew that nothing dwells apart +from anything else, and that, whether we wot of it or not, we are of one +blood. + +The night went on to that solemn hush that comes before the dawn. Dilly +felt the presence of the day, and what it would demand of her; but now +she did not fear. For Jethro, too, had been with her; and at last she +understood his power over her and could lay it away like a jewel in a +case, a precious thing, and yet not to be worn. She saw him, also, in +his stream of being, as she was swept along through hers, and knew how +that old race had given him a beauty which was not his, but +theirs,--and how, in the melancholy of his eyes, she loved a soul long +passed, and in the wonder of his hand the tender lines of other hands, +waving to fiery action. He was an inheritor; and she had loved, not him, +but his inheritance. + +Now it was the later dusk of night, and the cocks crowed loudly in a +clear diminuendo, dying far away. Dilly pressed her hands upon her eyes, +and came awake to the outer world. She looked about the room with a warm +smile, and reviewed, in feeling, her happy night. It was no longer hard +to dismantle the place. The room, the house, the race were hers forever; +she had learned the abidingness of what is real. When she closed the +door behind her, she touched the casing as if she loved it, and, +crossing the orchard, she felt as if all the trees could say: "We know, +you and we!" + +As she entered the Pike farmyard, Eli was just going to milking, with +clusters of shining pails. + +"You're up early," said he. "Well, there's nothin' like the mornin'!" + +"No," answered Dilly, smiling at him with the radiance of one who +carries good news, "except night-time! There's a good deal in that!" And +while Eli went gravely on, pondering according to his wont, she ran up +to smooth her tumbled bed. + +After breakfast, while Mrs. Pike was carrying away the dishes, Dilly +called Jethro softly to one side. + +"You come out in the orchard. I want to speak to you." + +Her voice thrilled with something like the gladness of confidence, and +Jethro's own face brightened. Dilly read that vivid anticipation, and +caught her breath. Though she knew it now, the old charm would never be +quite gone. She took his hand and drew him forward. She seemed like a +child, unaffected and not afraid. Out in the path, under the oldest tree +of all, she dropped his hand and faced him. + +"Jethro," she said, "we can't do it. We can't get married." + +He looked at her amazed. She seemed to be telling good news instead of +bad. She gazed up at him smilingly. He could not understand. + +"Don't you care about me?" he asked at length, haltingly; and again +Dilly smiled at him in the same warm confidence. + +"Oh, yes," she said eagerly. "I do care, ever and ever so much. But it's +your folks I care about. It ain't you. I've found it all out, Jethro. +Things don't al'ays belong to us. Sometimes they belong to them that +have gone before; an' half the time we don't know it." + +Jethro laid a gentle hand upon her arm. "You're all tired out," he said +soothingly. "Now you give up picking over things, and let me hire +somebody. I'll be glad to." + +But Dilly withdrew a little from his touch. "You're real good, Jethro," +she answered steadily. She had put aside her exaltation, and was her old +self, full of common-sense and kindly strength. "But I don't feel tired, +an' I ain't a mite crazed. All you can do is to ride over to town with +Eli--he's goin' after he feeds the pigs--an' take the cars from there. +It's all over, Jethro. It is, truly. I ain't so sorry as I might be; for +it's borne in on me you won't care this way long. An' you needn't, dear; +for nothin' between us is changed a mite. The only trouble is, it ain't +the kind of thing we thought." + +She looked in his eyes with a long, bright farewell glance, and turned +away. She had left behind her something which was very fine and +beautiful; but she could not mourn. And all that morning, about the +house, she sang little snatches of song, and was content. The Joyces had +done their work, and she was doing hers. + + + + +THE WAY OF PEACE + + +It was two weeks after her mother's funeral when Lucy Ann Cummings sat +down and considered. The web of a lifelong service and devotion still +clung about her, but she was bereft of the creature for whom it had been +spun. Now she was quite alone, save for her two brothers and the cousins +who lived in other townships, and they all had homes of their own. Lucy +Ann sat still, and thought about her life. Brother Ezra and brother John +would be good to her. They always had been. Their solicitude redoubled +with her need, and they had even insisted on leaving Annabel, John's +daughter, to keep her company after the funeral. Lucy Ann thought +longingly of the healing which lay in the very loneliness of her little +house; but she yielded, with a patient sigh. John and Ezra were +men-folks, and doubtless they knew best. + +A little more than a week had gone when school "took up," rather earlier +than had been intended, and Annabel went away in haste, to teach. Then +Lucy Ann drew her first long breath. She had resisted many a kindly +office from her niece, with the crafty innocence of the gentle who can +only parry and never thrust. When Annabel wanted to help in packing away +grandma's things, aunt Lucy agreed, half-heartedly, and then deferred +the task from day to day. In reality, Lucy Ann never meant to pack them +away at all. She could not imagine her home without them; but that, +Annabel would not understand, and her aunt pushed aside the moment, +reasoning that something is pretty sure to happen if you put things off +long enough. And something did; Annabel went away. It was then that Lucy +Ann took a brief draught of the cup of peace. + +Long before her mother's death, when they both knew how inevitably it +was coming, Lucy Ann had, one day, a little shock of surprise. She was +standing before the glass, coiling her crisp gray hair, and thinking +over and over the words the doctor had used, the night before, when he +told her how near the end might be. Her delicate face fell into deeper +lines. Her mouth dropped a little at the corners; her faded brown eyes +were hot with tears, and stopping to wipe them, she caught sight of +herself in the glass. + +"Why," she said aloud, "I look jest like mother!" + +And so she did, save that it was the mother of five years ago, before +disease had corroded the dear face, and patience wrought its tracery +there. + +"Well," she continued, smiling a little at the poverty of her state, "I +shall be a real comfort to me when mother's gone!" + +Now that her moment of solitude had struck, grief came also. It glided +in, and sat down by her, to go forth no more, save perhaps under its +other guise of a patient hope. She rocked back and forth in her chair, +and moaned a little to herself. + +"Oh, I never can bear it!" she said pathetically, under her breath. "I +never can bear it in the world!" + +The tokens of illness were all put away. Her mother's bedroom lay cold +in an unsmiling order. The ticking of the clock emphasized the +inexorable silence of the house. Once Lucy Ann thought she heard a +little rustle and stir. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, +coming from the bedroom, where one movement of the clothes had always +been enough to summon her with flying feet. She caught her breath, and +held it, to listen. She was ready, undisturbed, for any sign. But a +great fly buzzed drowsily on the pane, and the fire crackled with +accentuated life. She was quite alone. She put her hand to her heart, in +that gesture of grief which is so entirely natural when we feel the stab +of destiny; and then she went wanly into the sitting-room, looking about +her for some pretense of duty to solace her poor mind. There again she +caught sight of herself in the glass. + +"Oh, my!" breathed Lucy Ann. Low as they were, the words held a fullness +of joy. + +Her face had been aging through these days of grief; it had grown more +and more like her mother's. She felt as if a hand had been stretched out +to her, holding a gift, and at that moment something told her how to +make the gift enduring. Running over to the little table where her +mother's work-basket stood, as it had been, undisturbed, she took out a +pair of scissors, and went back to the glass. There she let down her +thick gray hair, parted it carefully on the sides, and cut off lock +after lock about her face. She looked a caricature of her sober self. +But she was well used to curling hair like this, drawing its crisp +silver into shining rings; and she stood patiently before the glass and +coaxed her own locks into just such fashion as had framed the older +face. It was done, and Lucy Ann looked at herself with a smile all +suffused by love and longing. She was not herself any more; she had gone +back a generation, and chosen a warmer niche. She could have kissed her +face in the glass, it was so like that other dearer one. She did finger +the little curls, with a reminiscent passion, not daring to think of the +darkness where the others had been shut; and, at that instant, she felt +very rich. The change suggested a more faithful portraiture, and she +went up into the spare room and looked through the closet where her +mother's clothes had been hanging so long, untouched. Selecting a purple +thibet, with a little white sprig, she slipped off her own dress, and +stepped into it. She crossed a muslin kerchief on her breast, and pinned +it with the cameo her mother had been used to wear. It was impossible to +look at herself in the doing; but when the deed was over, she went again +to the glass and stood there, held by a wonder beyond her will. She had +resurrected the creature she loved; this was an enduring portrait, +perpetuating, in her own life, another life as well. + +"I'll pack away my own clo'es to-morrer," said Lucy Ann to herself. +"Them are the ones to be put aside." + +She went downstairs, hushed and tremulous, and seated herself again, her +thin hands crossed upon her lap; and there she stayed, in a pleasant +dream, not of the future, and not even of the past, but face to face +with a recognition of wonderful possibilities. She had dreaded her +loneliness with the ache that is despair; but she was not lonely any +more. She had been allowed to set up a little model of the tabernacle +where she had worshiped; and, having that, she ceased to be afraid. To +sit there, clothed in such sweet familiarity of line and likeness, had +tightened her grasp upon the things that are. She did not seem to +herself altogether alive, nor was her mother dead. They had been fused, +by some wonderful alchemy; and instead of being worlds apart, they were +at one. So, John Cummings, her brother, stepping briskly in, after tying +his horse at the gate, came upon her unawares, and started, with a +hoarse, thick cry. It was in the dusk of evening; and, seeing her +outline against the window, he stepped back against the wall and leaned +there a moment, grasping at the casing with one hand. "Good God!" he +breathed, at last, "I thought 't was mother!" + +Lucy Ann rose, and went forward to meet him. + +"Then it's true," said she. "I'm so pleased. Seems as if I could git +along, if I could look a little mite like her." + +John stood staring at her, frowning in his bewilderment. + +"What have you done to yourself?" he asked. "Put on her clo'es?" + +"Yes," said Lucy Ann, "but that ain't all. I guess I do resemble mother, +though we ain't any of us had much time to think about it. Well, I _am_ +pleased. I took out that daguerreotype she had, down Saltash way, though +it don't favor her as she was at the end. But if I can take a glimpse of +myself in the glass, now and then, mebbe I can git along." + +They sat down together in the dark, and mused over old memories. John +had always understood Lucy Ann better than the rest. When she gave up +Simeon Bascom to stay at home with her mother, he never pitied her much; +he knew she had chosen the path she loved. The other day, even, some one +had wondered that she could have heard the funeral service so unmoved; +but he, seeing how her face had seemed to fade and wither at every word, +guessed what pain was at her heart. So, though his wife had sent him +over to ask how Lucy Ann was getting on, he really found out very +little, and felt how painfully dumb he must be when he got home. Lucy +Ann was pretty well, he thought he might say. She'd got to looking a +good deal like mother. + +They took their "blindman's holiday," Lucy Ann once in a while putting a +stick on the leaping blaze, and, when John questioned her, giving a +low-toned reply. Even her voice had changed. It might have come from +that bedroom, in one of the pauses between hours of pain, and neither +would have been surprised. + +"What makes you burn beech?" asked John, when a shower of sparks came +crackling at them. + +"I don't know," she answered. "Seems kind o' nat'ral. Some of it got +into the last cord we bought, an' one night it snapped out, an' most +burnt up mother's nightgown an' cap while I was warmin' 'em. We had a +real time of it. She scolded me, an' then she laughed, an' I +laughed--an' so, when I see a stick or two o' beech to-day, I kind o' +picked it out a-purpose." + +John's horse stamped impatiently from the gate, and John, too, knew it +was time to go. His errand was not done, and he balked at it. + +"Lucy Ann," said he, with the bluntness of resolve, "what you goin' to +do?" + +Lucy Ann looked sweetly at him through the dark. She had expected that. +She smoothed her mother's dress with one hand, and it gave her courage. + +"Do?" said she; "why, I ain't goin' to do nothin'. I've got enough to +pull through on." + +"Yes, but where you goin' to live?" + +"Here." + +"Alone?" + +"I don't feel so very much alone," said she, smiling to herself. At that +moment she did not. All sorts of sweet possibilities had made themselves +real. They comforted her, like the presence of love. + +John felt himself a messenger. He was speaking for others that with +which his soul did not accord. + +"The fact is," said he, "they're all terrible set ag'inst it. They say +you're gittin' along in years. So you be. So are we all. But they will +have it, it ain't right for you to live on here alone. Mary says she +should be scairt to death. She wants you should come an' make it your +home with us." + +"Yes, I dunno but Mary would be scairt," said Lucy Ann placidly. "But I +ain't. She's real good to ask me; but I can't do it, no more'n she could +leave you an' the children an' come over here to stay with me. Why, +John, this is my home!" + +Her voice sank upon a note of passion. It trembled with memories of dewy +mornings and golden eves. She had not grown here, through all her youth +and middle life, like moss upon a rock, without fitting into the hollows +and softening the angles of her poor habitation. She had drunk the +sunlight and the rains of one small spot, and she knew how both would +fall. The place, its sky and clouds and breezes, belonged to her: but +she belonged to it as well. + +John stood between two wills, his own and that of those who had sent +him. Left to himself, he would not have harassed her. To him, also, +wedded to a hearth where he found warmth and peace, it would have been +sweet to live there always, though alone, and die by the light of its +dying fire. But Mary thought otherwise, and in matters of worldly +judgment he could only yield. + +"I don't want you should make a mistake," said he. "Mebbe you an' I +don't look for'ard enough. They say you'll repent it if you stay, an' +there'll be a hurrah-boys all round. What say to makin' us a visit? +That'll kind o' stave it off, an' then we can see what's best to be +done." + +Lucy Ann put her hands to her delicate throat, where her mother's gold +beads lay lightly, with a significant touch. She, like John, had an +innate gentleness of disposition. She distrusted her own power to judge. + +"Maybe I might," said she faintly. "Oh, John, do you think I've got to?" + +"It needn't be for long," answered John briefly, though he felt his eyes +moist with pity of her. "Mebbe you could stay a month?" + +"Oh, I couldn't do that!" cried Lucy Ann, in wild denial. "I never could +in the world. If you'll make it a fortnight, an' harness up yourself, +an' bring me home, mebbe I might." + +John gave his word, but when he took his leave of her, she leaned +forward into the dark, where the impatient horse was fretting, and made +her last condition. + +"You'll let me turn the key on things here jest as they be? You won't +ask me to break up nuthin'?" + +"Break up!" repeated John, with the intensity of an oath. "I guess you +needn't. If anybody puts that on you, you send 'em to me." + +So Lucy Ann packed her mother's dresses into a little hair trunk that +had stood in the attic unused for many years, and went away to make her +visit. When she drove up to the house, sitting erect and slender in her +mother's cashmere shawl and black bonnet, Mary, watching from the +window, gave a little cry, as at the risen dead. John had told her +about Lucy Ann's transformation, but she put it all aside as a crazy +notion, not likely to last: now it seemed less a pathetic masquerade +than a strange bypath taken by nature itself. + +The children regarded it with awe, and half the time called Lucy Ann +"grandma." That delighted her. Whenever they did it, she looked up to +say, with her happiest smile,-- + +"There! that's complete. You'll remember grandma, won't you? We mustn't +ever forget her." + +Here, in this warm-hearted household, anxious to do her service in a way +that was not her own, she had some happiness, of a tremulous kind; but +it was all built up of her trust in a speedy escape. She knit mittens, +and sewed long seams; and every day her desire to fill the time was +irradiated by the certainty that twelve hours more were gone. A few more +patient intervals, and she should be at home. Sometimes, as the end of +her visit drew nearer, she woke early in the morning with a sensation of +irresponsible joy, and wondered, for an instant, what had happened to +her. Then it always came back, with an inward flooding she had scarcely +felt even in her placid youth. At home there would be so many things to +do, and, above all, such munificent leisure! For there she would feel no +need of feverish action to pass the time. The hours would take care of +themselves; they would fleet by, while she sat, her hands folded, +communing with old memories. + +The day came, and the end of her probation. She trembled a good deal, +packing her trunk in secret, to escape Mary's remonstrances; but John +stood by her, and she was allowed to go. + +"You'll get sick of it," called Mary after them. "I guess you'll be glad +enough to see the children again, an' they will you. Mind, you've got to +come back an' spend the winter." + +Lucy Ann nodded happily. She could agree to anything sufficiently +remote; and the winter was not yet here. + +The first day in the old house seemed to her like new birth in Paradise. +She wandered about, touching chairs and tables and curtains, the +manifest symbols of an undying past. There were loving duties to be +done, but she could not do them yet. She had to look her pleasure in the +face, and learn its lineaments. + +Next morning came brother Ezra, and Lucy Ann hurried to meet him with an +exaggerated welcome. Life was never very friendly to Ezra, and those who +belonged to him had to be doubly kind. They could not change his luck, +but they might sweeten it. They said the world had not gone well with +him; though sometimes it was hinted that Ezra, being out of gear, could +not go with the world. All the rivers ran away from him, and went to +turn some other mill. He was ungrudging of John's prosperity, but still +he looked at it in some disparagement, and shook his head. His cheeks +were channeled long before youth was over; his feet were weary with +honest serving, and his hands grown hard with toil. Yet he had not +arrived, and John was at the goal before him. + +"We heard you'd been stayin' with John's folks," said he to Lucy Ann. +"Leastways, Abby did, an' she thinks mebbe you've got a little time for +us now, though we ain't nothin' to offer compared to what you're used to +over there." + +"I'll come," said Lucy Ann promptly. "Yes, I'll come, an' be glad to." + +It was part of her allegiance to the one who had gone. + +"Ezra needs bracin'," she heard her mother say, in many a sick-room +gossip. "He's got to be flattered up, an' have some grit put into him." + +It was many weeks before Lucy Ann came home again. Cousin Rebecca, in +Saltash, sent her a cordial letter of invitation for just as long as she +felt like staying; and the moneyed cousin at the Ridge wrote in like +manner, following her note by a telegram, intimating that she would not +take no for an answer. Lucy Ann frowned in alarm when the first letter +came, and studied it by daylight and in her musings at night, as if some +comfort might lurk between the lines. She was tempted to throw it in +the fire, not answered at all. Still, there was a reason for going. This +cousin had a broken hip, she needed company, and the flavor of old +times. The other had married a "drinkin' man," and might feel hurt at +being refused. So, fortifying herself with some inner resolution she +never confessed, Lucy Ann set her teeth and started out on a visiting +campaign. John was amazed. He drove over to see her while she was +spending a few days with an aunt in Sudleigh. + +"When you been home last, Lucy Ann?" asked he. + +A little flush came into her face, and she winked bravely. + +"I ain't been home at all," said she, in a low tone. "Not sence August." + +John groped vainly in mental depths for other experiences likely to +illuminate this. He concluded that he had not quite understood Lucy Ann +and her feeling about home; but that was neither here nor there. + +"Well," he remarked, rising to go, "you're gittin' to be quite a +visitor." + +"I'm tryin' to learn how," said Lucy Ann, almost gayly. "I've been +a-cousinin' so long, I sha'n't know how to do anything else." + +But now the middle of November had come, and she was again in her own +house. Cousin Titcomb had brought her there and driven away, concerned +that he must leave her in a cold kitchen, and only deterred by a looming +horse-trade from staying to build a fire. Lucy Ann bade him good-by, +with a gratitude which was not for her visit, but all for getting home; +and when he uttered that terrifying valedictory known as "coming again," +she could meet it cheerfully. She even stood in the door, watching him +away; and not until the rattle of his wheels had ceased on the frozen +road, did she return to her kitchen and stretch her shawled arms +pathetically upward. + +"I thank my heavenly Father!" said Lucy Ann, with the fervency of a +great experience. + +She built her fire, and then unpacked her little trunk, and hung up the +things in the bedroom where her mother's presence seemed still to cling. + +"I'll sleep here now," she said to herself. "I won't go out of this no +more." + +Then all the little homely duties of the hour cried out upon her, like +children long neglected; and, with the luxurious leisure of those who +may prolong a pleasant task, she set her house in order. She laid out a +programme to occupy her days. The attic should be cleaned to-morrow. In +one day? Nay, why not three, to hold Time still, and make him wait her +pleasure? Then there were the chambers, and the living-rooms below. She +felt all the excited joy of youth; she was tasting anticipation at its +best. + +"It'll take me a week," said she. "That will be grand." She could hardly +wait even for the morrow's sun; and that night she slept like those of +whom much is to be required, and who must wake in season. Morning came, +and mid-forenoon, and while she stepped about under the roof where dust +had gathered and bitter herbs told tales of summers past, John drove +into the yard. Lucy Ann threw up the attic window and leaned out. + +"You put your horse up, an' I'll be through here in a second," she +called. "The barn's open." + +John was in a hurry. + +"I've got to go over to Sudleigh, to meet the twelve o'clock," said he. +"Harold's comin'. I only wanted to say I'll be over after you the night +before Thanksgivin'. Mary wants you should be sure to be there to +breakfast. You all right? Cephas said you seemed to have a proper good +time with them." + +John turned skillfully on the little green and drove away. Lucy Ann +stayed at the window watching him, the breeze lifting her gray curls, +and the sun smiling at her. She withdrew slowly into the attic, and sank +down upon the floor, close by the window. She sat there and thought, and +the wind still struck upon her unheeded. Was she always to be subject to +the tyranny of those who had set up their hearth-stones in a more +enduring form? Was her home not a home merely because there were no men +and children in it? She drew her breath sharply, and confronted certain +problems of the greater world, not knowing what they were. To Lucy Ann +they did not seem problems at all. They were simply touches on the +individual nerve, and she felt the pain. Her own inner self throbbed in +revolt, but she never guessed that any other part of nature was +throbbing with it. Then she went about her work, with the patience of +habit. It was well that the attic should be cleaned, though the savor of +the task was gone. + +Next day, she walked to Sudleigh, with a basket on her arm. Often she +sent her little errands by the neighbors; but to-day she was uneasy, and +it seemed as if the walk might do her good. She wanted some soda and +some needles and thread. She tried to think they were very important, +though some sense of humor told her grimly that household goods are of +slight use to one who goes a-cousining. Her day at John's would be +prolonged to seven; nay, why not a month, when the winter itself was not +too great a tax for them to lay upon her? In her deserted house, soda +would lose its strength, and even cloves decay. Lucy Ann felt her will +growing very weak within her; indeed, at that time, she was hardly +conscious of having any will at all. + +It was Saturday, and John and Ezra were almost sure to be in town. She +thought of that, and how pleasant it would be to hear from the folks: so +much pleasanter than to be always facing them on their own ground, and +never on hers. At the grocery she came upon Ezra, mounted on a +wagon-load of meal-bags, and just gathering up the reins. + +"Hullo!" he called. "You didn't walk?" + +"Oh, I jest clipped it over," returned Lucy Ann carelessly. "I'm goin' +to git a ride home. I see Marden's wagon when I come by the +post-office." + +"Well, I hadn't any expectation o' your bein' here," said Ezra. "I meant +to ride round to-morrer. We want you to spend Thanksgivin' Day with us. +I'll come over arter you." + +"Oh, Ezra!" said Lucy Ann, quite sincerely, with her concession to his +lower fortunes, "why didn't you say so! John's asked me." + +"The dogs!" said Ezra. It was his deepest oath. Then he drew a sigh. +"Well," he concluded, "that's our luck. We al'ays come out the leetle +end o' the horn. Abby'll be real put out. She 'lotted on it. Well, +John's inside there. He's buyin' up 'bout everything there is. You'll +git more'n you would with us." + +He drove gloomily away, and Lucy Ann stepped into the store, musing. She +was rather sorry not to go to Ezra's, if he cared. It almost seemed as +if she might ask John to let her take the plainer way. John would +understand. She saw him at once where he stood, prosperous and hale, in +his great-coat, reading items from a long memorandum, while Jonathan +Stevens weighed and measured. The store smelled of spice, and the clerk +that minute spilled some cinnamon. Its fragrance struck upon Lucy Ann +like a call from some far-off garden, to be entered if she willed. She +laid a hand on her brother's arm, and her lips opened to words she had +not chosen:-- + +"John, you shouldn't ha' drove away so quick, t' other day. You jest +flung out your invitation an' run. You never give me no time to answer. +Ezra's asked me to go there." + +"Well, if that ain't smart!" returned John. "Put in ahead, did he? Well, +I guess it's the fust time he ever got round. I'm terrible sorry, Lucy. +The children won't think it's any kind of a Thanksgivin' without you. +Somehow they've got it into their heads it's grandma comin'. They can't +seem to understand the difference." + +"Well, you tell 'em I guess grandma's kind o' pleased for me to plan it +as I have," said Lucy Ann, almost gayly. Her face wore a strange, +excited look. She breathed a little faster. She saw a pleasant way +before her, and her feet seemed to be tending toward it without her own +volition. "You give my love to 'em. I guess they'll have a proper nice +time." + +She lingered about the store until John had gone, and then went forward +to the counter. The storekeeper looked at her respectfully. Everybody +had a great liking for Lucy Ann. She had been a faithful daughter, and +now that she seemed, in so mysterious a way, to be growing like her +mother, even men of her own age regarded her with deference. + +"Mr. Stevens," said she, "I didn't bring so much money with me as I +might if I'd had my wits about me. Should you jest as soon trust me for +some Thanksgivin' things?" + +"Certain," replied Jonathan. "Clean out the store, if you want. Your +credit's good." He, too, felt the beguilement of the time. + +"I want some things," repeated Lucy Ann, with determination. "Some +cinnamon an' some mace--there! I'll tell you, while you weigh." + +It seemed to her that she was buying the spice islands of the world; and +though the money lay at home in her drawer, honestly ready to pay, the +recklessness of credit gave her an added joy. The store had its market, +also, at Thanksgiving time, and she bargained for a turkey. It could be +sent her, the day before, by some of the neighbors. When she left the +counter, her arms and her little basket were filled with bundles. Joshua +Marden was glad to take them. + +"No, I won't ride," said Lucy Ann. "Much obliged to _you_. Jest leave +the things inside the fence. I'd ruther walk. I don't git out any too +often." + +She took her way home along the brown road, stepping lightly and +swiftly, and full of busy thoughts. Flocks of birds went whirring by +over the yellowed fields. Lucy Ann could have called out to them, in +joyous understanding, they looked so free. She, too, seemed to be flying +on the wings of a fortunate wind. + +All that week she scrubbed and regulated, and took a thousand capable +steps as briskly as those who work for the home-coming of those they +love. The neighbors dropped in, one after another, to ask where she was +going to spend Thanksgiving. Some of them said, "Won't you pass the day +with us?" but Lucy Ann replied blithely:-- + +"Oh, John's invited me there!" + +All that week, too, she answered letters, in her cramped and careful +hand; for cousins had bidden her to the feast. Over the letters she had +many a troubled pause, for one cousin lived near Ezra, and had to be +told that John had invited her; and to three others, dangerously within +hail of each, she made her excuse a turncoat, to fit the time. Duplicity +in black and white did hurt her a good deal, and she sometimes stopped, +in the midst of her slow transcription, to look up piteously and say +aloud:-- + +"I hope I shall be forgiven!" But by the time the stamp was on, and the +pencil ruling erased, her heart was light again. If she had sinned, she +was finding the path intoxicatingly pleasant. + +Through all the days before the festival, no house exhaled a sweeter +savor than this little one on the green. Lucy Ann did her miniature +cooking with great seriousness and care. She seemed to be dwelling in a +sacred isolation, yet not altogether alone, but with her mother and all +their bygone years. Standing at her table, mixing and tasting, she +recalled stories her mother had told her, until, at moments, it seemed +as if she not only lived her own life, but some previous one, through +that being whose blood ran with hers. She was realizing that ineffable +sense of possession born out of knowledge that the enduring part of a +personality is ours forever, and that love is an unquenched fire, fed by +memory as well as hope. + +On Thanksgiving morning, Lucy Ann lay in bed a little later, because +that had been the family custom. Then she rose to her exquisite house, +and got breakfast ready, according to the unswerving programme of the +day. Fried chicken and mince pie: she had had them as a child, and now +they were scrupulously prepared. After breakfast, she sat down in the +sunshine, and watched the people go by to service in Tiverton Church. +Lucy Ann would have liked going, too; but there would be inconvenient +questioning, as there always must be when we meet our kind. She would +stay undisturbed in her seclusion, keeping her festival alone. The +morning was still young when she put her turkey in the oven, and made +the vegetables ready. Lucy Ann was not very fond of vegetables, but +there had to be just so many--onions, turnips, and squash baked with +molasses--for her mother was a Cape woman, preserving the traditions of +dear Cape dishes. All that forenoon, the little house throbbed with a +curious sense of expectancy. Lucy Ann was preparing so many things that +it seemed as if somebody must surely keep her company; but when +dinner-time struck, and she was still alone, there came no lull in her +anticipation. Peace abode with her, and wrought its own fair work. She +ate her dinner slowly, with meditation and a thankful heart. She did not +need to hear the minister's careful catalogue of mercies received. She +was at home; that was enough. + +After dinner, when she had done up the work, and left the kitchen +without spot or stain, she went upstairs, and took out her mother's +beautiful silk poplin, the one saved for great occasions, and only left +behind because she had chosen to be buried in her wedding gown. Lucy Ann +put it on with careful hands, and then laid about her neck the wrought +collar she had selected the day before. She looked at herself in the +glass, and arranged a gray curl with anxious scrutiny. No girl adorning +for her bridal could have examined every fold and line with a more +tender care. She stood there a long, long moment, and approved herself. + +"It's a wonder," she said reverently. "It's the greatest mercy anybody +ever had." + +The afternoon waned, though not swiftly; for Time does not always gallop +when happiness pursues. Lucy Ann could almost hear the gliding of his +rhythmic feet. She did the things set aside for festivals, or the days +when we have company. She looked over the photograph album, and turned +the pages of the "Ladies' Wreath." When she opened the case containing +that old daguerreotype, she scanned it with a little distasteful smile, +and then glanced up at her own image in the glass, nodding her head in +thankful peace. She was the enduring portrait. In herself, she might +even see her mother grow very old. So the hours slipped on into dusk, +and she sat there with her dream, knowing, though it was only a dream, +how sane it was, and good. When wheels came rattling into the yard, she +awoke with a start, and John's voice, calling to her in an inexplicable +alarm, did not disturb her. She had had her day. Not all the family +fates could take it from her now. John kept calling, even while his wife +and children were climbing down, unaided, from the great carryall. His +voice proclaimed its own story, and Lucy Ann heard it with surprise. + +"Lucy! Lucy Ann!" he cried. "You here? You show yourself, if you're all +right." + +Before they reached the front door, Lucy Ann had opened it and stood +there, gently welcoming. + +"Yes, here I be," said she. "Come right in, all of ye. Why, if that +ain't Ezra, too, an' his folks, turnin' into the lane. When 'd you plan +it?" + +"Plan it! we didn't plan it!" said Mary testily. She put her hand on +Lucy Ann's shoulder, to give her a little shake; but, feeling mother's +poplin, she forbore. + +Lucy Ann retreated before them into the house, and they all trooped in +after her. Ezra's family, too, were crowding in at the doorway; and the +brothers, who had paused only to hitch the horses, filled up the way +behind. Mary, by a just self-election, was always the one to speak. + +"I declare, Lucy!" cried she, "if ever I could be tried with you, I +should be now. Here we thought you was at Ezra's, an' Ezra's folks +thought you was with us; an' if we hadn't harnessed up, an' drove over +there in the afternoon, for a kind of a surprise party, we should ha' +gone to bed thinkin' you was somewhere, safe an' sound. An' here you've +been, all day long, in this lonesome house!" + +"You let me git a light," said Lucy Ann calmly. "You be takin' off your +things, an' se' down." She began lighting the tall astral lamp on the +table, and its prisms danced and swung. Lucy Ann's delicate hand did not +tremble; and when the flame burned up through the shining chimney, more +than one started, at seeing how exactly she resembled grandma, in the +days when old Mrs. Cummings had ruled her own house. Perhaps it was the +royalty of the poplin that enwrapped her; but Lucy Ann looked very +capable of holding her own. She was facing them all, one hand resting on +the table, and a little smile flickering over her face. + +"I s'pose I was a poor miserable creatur' to git out of it that way," +said she. "If I'd felt as I do now, I needn't ha' done it. I could ha' +spoke up. But then it seemed as if there wa'n't no other way. I jest +wanted my Thanksgivin' in my own home, an' so I throwed you off the +track the best way I could. I dunno's I lied. I dunno whether I did or +not; but I guess, anyway, I shall be forgiven for it." + +Ezra spoke first: "Well, if you didn't want to come"-- + +"Want to come!" broke in John. "Of course she don't want to come! She +wants to stay in her own home, an' call her soul her own--don't you, +Lucy?" + +Lucy Ann glanced at him with her quick, grateful smile. + +"I'm goin' to, now," she said gently, and they knew she meant it. + +But, looking about among them, Lucy Ann was conscious of a little hurt +unhealed; she had thrown their kindness back. + +"I guess I can't tell exactly how it is," she began hesitatingly; "but +you see my home's my own, jest as yours is. You couldn't any of you go +round cousinin', without feelin' you was tore up by the roots. You've +all been real good to me, wantin' me to come, an' I s'pose I should make +an awful towse if I never was asked; but now I've got all my visitin' +done up, cousins an' all, an' I'm goin' to be to home a spell. An' I do +admire to have company," added Lucy Ann, a bright smile breaking over +her face. "Mother did, you know, an' I guess I take arter her. Now you +lay off your things, an' I'll put the kettle on. I've got more pies 'n +you could shake a stick at, an' there's a whole loaf o' fruit-cake, a +year old." + +Mary, taking off her shawl, wiped her eyes surreptitiously on a corner +of it, and Abby whispered to her husband, "Dear creatur'!" John and Ezra +turned, by one consent, to put the horses in the barn; and the children, +conscious that some mysterious affair had been settled, threw themselves +into the occasion with an irresponsible delight. The room became at once +vocal with talk and laughter, and Lucy Ann felt, with a swelling heart, +what a happy universe it is where so many bridges lie between this +world and that unknown state we call the next. But no moment of that +evening was half so sweet to her as the one when little John, the +youngest child of all, crept up to her and pulled at her poplin skirt, +until she bent down to hear. + +"Grandma," said he, "when 'd you get well?" + + + + +THE EXPERIENCE OF HANNAH PRIME + + +Tiverton Hollow had occasionally an evening meeting; this came about +naturally whenever religious zeal burned high, or when the congregation +felt, with some uneasiness, that it had remained too long aloof from +spiritual things. To-night, the schoolhouse had been designated for an +assembling place, and the neighborhood trooped thither, animated by an +excited importance, and doing justice to the greatness of the occasion +by "dressing up." Farmers had laid aside their ordinary mood, with +overalls and jumpers, and donned an uncomfortable solemnity, an enforced +attitude of theological reflection, with their stocks. Wives had urged +their patient fingers into cotton gloves, and in cashmere shawls, and +bonnets retrimmed with reference to this year's style, pressed into the +uncomfortable chairs, and folded their hands upon the desks before them +in a sweet seriousness not unmingled with the desire of thriftily +completing a duty no less exigent than pickle-making, or the work of +spring and fall. Last came the boys, clattering with awkward haste over +the dusty floor which had known the touch of their bare feet on other +days. They looked about the room with some awe and a puzzled acceptance +of its being the same, yet not the same. It was their own. There were +the maps of North and South America; the yellowed evergreens, relic of +"Last Day," still festooned the windows, and an intricate "sum," there +explained to the uncomprehending admiration of the village fathers, +still adorned the blackboard. Yet the room had strangely transformed +itself into an alien temple, invaded by theology and the breath of an +unknown world. But though sobered, they were not cast down; for the +occasion was enlivened, in their case, by a heaven-defying profligacy of +intent. Every one of them knew that Sammy Forbes had in his pocket a +pack of cards, which he meant to drop, by wicked but careless design, +just when Deacon Pitts led in prayer, and that Tom Drake was master of a +concealed pea-shooter, which he had sworn, with all the asseverations +held sacred by boys, to use at some dramatic moment. All the band were +aware that neither of these daring deeds would be done. The prospective +actors themselves knew it; but it was a darling joy to contemplate the +remote possibility thereof. + +Deacon Pitts opened the meeting, reminding his neighbors how precious a +privilege it is for two or three to be gathered together. His companion +had not been able to come. (The entire neighborhood knew that Mrs. +Pitts had been laid low by an attack of erysipelas, and that she was, at +the moment, in a dark bedroom at home, helpless under elderblow.) + +"She lays there on a bed of pain," said the deacon. "But she says to me, +'You go. Better the house o' mournin' than the house o' feastin',' she +says. Oh, my friends! what can be more blessed than the counsel of an +aged and feeble companion?" + +The deacon sat down, and Tom Drake, his finger on the pea-shooter, +assured himself, in acute mental triumph, that he had almost done it +that time. + +Then followed certain incidents eminently pleasing to the boys. To their +unbounded relief, Sarah Frances Giles rose to speak, weeping as she +began. She always wept at prayer meeting, though at the very moment of +asserting her joy that she cherished a hope, and her gratitude that she +was so nearly at an end of this earthly pilgrimage and ready to take her +stand on the sea of glass mingled with fire. The boys reveled in her +testimony. They were in a state of bitter uneasiness before she rose, +and gnawed with a consuming impatience until she began to cry. Then they +wondered if she could possibly leave out the sea of glass; and when it +duly came, they gave a sigh of satiated bliss and sank into acquiescence +in whatever might happen. This was a rich occasion to their souls, for +Silas Marden, who was seldom moved by the spirit, fell upon his knees to +pray; but at the same unlucky instant, his sister-in-law, for whom he +cherished an unbounded scorn, rose (being "nigh-eyed" and ignorant of +his priority) and began to speak. For a moment, the two held on +together, "neck and neck," as the happy boys afterward remembered, and +then Silas got up, dusted his knees, and sat down, not to rise again at +any spiritual call. "An' a madder man you never see," cried all the +Hollow next day, in shocked but gleeful memory. + +Taking it all in all, the meeting had thus far mirrored others of its +class. If the droning experiences were devoid of all human passion, it +was chiefly because they had to be expressed in the phrases of strict +theological usage. There was an unspoken agreement that feelings of this +sort should be described in a certain way. They were not the affairs of +the hearth and market; they were matters pertaining to that awful entity +called the soul, and must be dressed in the fine linen which she had +herself elected to wear. + +Suddenly, in a wearisome pause, when minds had begun to stray toward the +hayfield and to-morrow's churning, the door was pushed open, and the +Widow Prime walked in. She was quite unused to seeking her kind, and the +little assembly at once awoke, under the stimulus of surprise. They +knew quite well where she had been walking: to Sudleigh Jail, to visit +her only son, lying there for the third time, not, as usual, for +drunkenness, but for house-breaking. She was a wiry woman, a mass of +muscles animated by an eager energy. Her very hands seemed knotted with +clenching themselves in nervous spasms. Her eyes were black, seeking, +and passionate, and her face had been scored by fine wrinkles, the marks +of anxiety and grief. Her chocolate calico was very clean, and her +palm-leaf shawl and black bonnet were decent in their poverty. The vague +excitement created by her coming continued in a rustling like that of +leaves. The troubles of Hannah Prime's life had been very bitter--so +bitter that she had, as Deacon Pitts once said, after undertaking her +conversion, turned from "me and the house of God." A quickening thought +sprang up now in the little assembly that she was "under conviction," +and that it had become the present duty of every professor to lead her +to the throne of grace. This was an exigency for which none were +prepared. At so strenuous a challenge, the old conventional ways of +speech fell down and collapsed before them, like creatures filled with +air. Who should minister to one set outside their own comfortable lives +by bitter sorrow and wounded pride? What could they offer a woman who +had, in one way or another, sworn to curse God and die? It was Deacon +Pitts who spoke, but in a tone hushed to the key of the unexpected. + +"Has any one an experience to offer? Will any brother or sister lead in +prayer?" + +The silence was growing into a thing to be recognized and conquered, +when, to the wonder of her neighbors, Hannah Prime herself rose. She +looked slowly about the room, gazing into every face as if to challenge +an honest understanding. Then she began speaking in a low voice thrilled +by an emotion not yet explained. Unused to expressing herself in public, +she seemed to be feeling her way. The silence, pride, endurance, which +had been her armor for many years, were no longer apparent; she had +thrown down all her defenses with a grave composure, as if life suddenly +summoned her to higher issues. + +"I dunno's I've got an experience to offer," she said. "I dunno's it's +religion. I dunno what 't is. Mebbe you'd say it don't belong to a +meetin'. But when I come by an' see you all settin' here, it come over +me I'd like to tell somebody. Two weeks ago I was most crazy"--She +paused of necessity, for something broke in her voice. + +"That's the afternoon Jim was took," whispered a woman to her neighbor. +Hannah Prime went on. + +"I jest as soon tell it now. I can tell ye all together what I couldn't +say to one on ye alone; an' if anybody speaks to me about it +arterwards, they'll wish they hadn't. I was all by myself in the house. +I set down in my clock-room, about three in the arternoon, an' there I +set. I didn't git no supper. I couldn't. I set there an' heard the clock +tick. Byme-by it struck seven, an' that waked me up. I thought I'd gone +crazy. The figgers on the wall-paper provoked me most to death; an' that +red-an'-white tidy I made, the winter I was laid up, seemed to be +talkin' out loud. I got up an' run outdoor jest as fast as I could go. I +run out behind the house an' down the cart-path to that pile o' rocks +that overlooks the lake; an' there I got out o' breath an' dropped down +on a big rock. An' there I set, jest as still as I'd been settin' when I +was in the house." + +Here a little girl stirred in her seat, and her mother leaned forward +and shook her, with alarming energy. "I never was so hard with Mary L. +afore," she explained the next day, "but I was as nervous as a witch. I +thought, if I heard a pin drop, I should scream." + +"I dunno how long I set there," went on Hannah Prime, "but byme-by it +begun to come over me how still the lake was. 'Twas like glass; an' way +over where it runs in 'tween them islands, it burnt like fire. Then I +looked up a little further, to see what kind of a sky there was. 'T was +light green, with clouds in it, all fire, an' it begun to seem to me as +if it was a kind o' land an' water up there--like our'n, on'y not +solid. I set there an' looked at it; an' I picked out islands, an' +ma'sh-land, an' p'ints running out into the yeller-green sea. An' +everything grew stiller an' stiller. The loons struck up, down on the +lake, with that kind of a lonesome whinner; but that on'y made the rest +of it seem quieter. An' it begun to grow dark all 'round me. I dunno's I +ever noticed before jest how the dark comes. It sifted down like snow, +on'y you couldn't see it. Well, I set there, an' I tried to keep stiller +an' stiller, like everything else. Seemed as if I must. An' pretty soon +I knew suthin' was walkin' towards me over the lot. I kep' my eyes on +the sky; for I knew 'twould break suthin' if I turned my head, an' I +felt as if I couldn't bear to. An' It come walkin', walkin', without +takin' any steps or makin' any noise, till It come right up 'side o' me +an' stood still. I didn't turn round. I knew I mustn't. I dunno whether +It touched me; I dunno whether It said anything--but I know It made me a +new creatur'. I knew then I shouldn't be afraid o' things no more--nor +sorry. I found out 't was all right. 'I'm glad I'm alive,' I said. 'I'm +thankful!' Seemed to me I'd been dead for the last twenty year. I'd come +alive. + +"An' so I set there an' held my breath, for fear 'twould go. I dunno how +long, but the moon riz up over my left shoulder, an' the sky begun to +fade. An' then it come over me 'twas goin'. I knew 'twas terrible tender +of me, an' sorry, an' lovin', an' so I says, 'Don't you mind; I won't +forgit!' An' then It went. But that broke suthin', an' I turned an' see +my own shadder on the grass; an' I thought I see another, 'side of it. +Somehow that scairt me, an' I jumped up an' whipped it home without +lookin' behind me. Now that's my experience," said Hannah Prime, looking +her neighbors again in the face, with dauntless eyes. "I dunno what +'twas, but it's goin' to last. I ain't afraid no more, an' I ain't goin' +to be. There ain't nuthin' to worry about. Everything's bigger'n we +think." She folded her shawl more closely about her and moved toward the +door. There she again turned to her neighbors. + +"Good-night!" she said, and was gone. + +They sat quite still until the tread of her feet had ceased its beating +on the dusty road. Then, by one consent, they rose and moved slowly out. +There was no prayer that night, and "Lord dismiss us" was not sung. + + + + +HONEY AND MYRRH + + +The neighborhood, the township, and the world had been snowed in. Snow +drifted the road in hills and hollows, and hung in little eddying +wreaths, where the wind took it, on the pasture slopes. It made solid +banks in the dooryards, and buried the stone walls out of sight. The +lacework of its fantasy became daintily apparent in the conceits with +which it broidered over all the common objects familiar in homely lives. +The pump, in yards where that had supplanted the old-fashioned curb, +wore a heavy mob-cap. The vane on the barn was delicately sifted over, +and the top of every picket in the high front-yard fence had a fluffy +peak. But it was chiefly in the woods that the rapture and flavor of the +time ran riot in making beauty. There every fir branch swayed under a +tuft of white, and the brown refuse of the year was all hidden away. + +That morning, no one in Tiverton Hollow had gone out of the house, save +to shovel paths and do the necessary chores. The road lay untouched +until ten o'clock, when a selectman gave notice that it was an occasion +for "breakin' out," by starting with his team, and gathering oxen by +the way until a conquering procession ground through the drifts, the men +shoveling at intervals where the snow lay deepest, the oxen walking +swayingly, head to the earth, and the faint wreath of their breath +ascending and cooling on the air. It was "high times" in Tiverton Hollow +when a road needed opening; some idea of the old primitive way of +battling with the untouched forces of nature roused the people to an +exhilaration dashed by no uncertainty of victory. + +By afternoon, the excitement had quieted. The men had come in, reddened +by cold, and eaten their noon dinner in high spirits, retailing to the +less fortunate women-folk the stories swapped on the march. Then, as one +man, they succumbed to the drowsiness induced by a morning of wind in +the face, and sat by the stove under some pretense of reading the county +paper, but really to nod and doze, waking only to put another stick of +wood on the fire. So passed all the day before Christmas, and in the +evening the shining lamps were lighted (each with a strip of red flannel +in the oil, to give color), and the neighborhood rested in the tranquil +certainty that something had really come to pass, and that their +communication with the world was reestablished. + +Susan Peavey sat by the fire, knitting on a red mitten, and the young +schoolmaster presided over the other hearth corner, reading very hard, +at intervals, and again sinking into a drowsy study of the flames. There +was an impression abroad in Tiverton that the schoolmaster was going to +be somebody, some time. He wrote for the papers. He was always receiving +through the mail envelopes marked "author's proofs," which, the +postmistress said, indicated that he was an author, whatever proofs +might be. She had an idea they might have something to do with +photographs; perhaps his picture was going into a book. It was very well +understood that teaching school at the Hollow, at seven dollars a week, +was an interlude in the life of one who would some day write a +spelling-book, or exercise senatorial rights at Washington. He was a +long-legged, pleasant looking youth, with a pale cheek, dark eyes, and +thick black hair, one lock of which, hanging low over his forehead, he +twisted while he read. He kept glancing up at Miss Susan and smiling at +her, whenever he could look away from his book and the fire, and she +smiled back. At last, after many such wordless messages, he spoke. + +"What lots of red mittens you do knit! Do you send them all away to that +society?" + +Miss Susan's needles clicked. + +"Every one," said she. + +She was a tall, large woman, well-knit, with no superfluous flesh. Her +head was finely set, and she carried it with a simple unconsciousness +better than dignity. Everybody in Tiverton thought it had been a great +cross to Susan Peavey to be so overgrown. They conceded that it was a +mystery she had not turned out "gormin'." But that was because Susan had +left her vanity behind with early youth, in the days when, all legs and +arms, she had given up the idea of beauty. Her face was strong-featured, +overspread by a healthy color, and her eyes looked frankly out, as if +assured of finding a very pleasant world. The sick always delighted in +Susan's nearness; her magnificent health and presence were like a +supporting tide, and she seemed to carry outdoor air in her very +garments. The schoolmaster still watched her. She rested and fascinated +him at once by her strength and homely charm. + +"I shall call you the Orphans' Friend," said he. + +She laid down her work. + +"Don't you say one word," she answered, with an air of abject +confession. "It don't interest me a mite! I give because it's my bounden +duty, but I'll be whipped if I want to knit warm mittens all my life, +an' fill poor barrels. Sometimes I wisht I could git a chance to provide +folks with what they don't need ruther'n what they do." + +"I don't see what you mean," said the schoolmaster. "Tell me." + +Miss Susan was looking at the hearth. A warmer flush than that of +firelight alone lay on her cheek. She bent forward and threw on a pine +knot. It blazed richly. Then she drew the cricket more securely under +her feet, and settled herself to gossip. + +"Anybody'd think I'd most talked myself out sence you come here to +board," said she, "but you're the beatemest for tolin' anybody on. I +never knew I had so much to say. But there! I guess we all have, if +there's anybody 't wants to listen. I never've said this to a livin' +soul, an' I guess it's sort o' heathenish to think, but I'm tired to +death o' fightin' ag'inst poverty, poverty! I s'pose it's there, fast +enough, though we're all so well on 't we don't realize it; an' I'm +goin' to do my part, an' be glad to, while I'm above ground. But I guess +heaven'll be a spot where we don't give folks what they need, but what +they don't." + +"There is something in your Bible," began the schoolmaster hesitatingly, +"about a box of precious ointment." He always said "your Bible," as if +church members held a proprietary right. + +"That's it!" replied Miss Susan, brightening. "That's what I al'ays +thought. Spill it all out, I say, an' make the world smell as sweet as +honey. My! but I do have great projicks settin' here by the fire alone! +Great projicks!" + +"Tell me some!" + +"Well, I dunno's I can, all of a piece, so to speak; but when it gits +along towards eight o'clock, an' the room's all simmerin', an' the moon +lays out on the snow, it does seem as if we made a pretty poor spec' out +o' life. We don't seem to have no color in it. Why, don't you remember +'Solomon in all his glory'? I guess 't wouldn't ha' been put in jest +that way if there wa'n't somethin' in it. I s'pose he had crowns an' +rings an' purple velvet coats an' brocade satin weskits, an' all manner +o' things. Sometimes seems as I could see him walkin' straight in +through that door there." She was running a knitting needle back and +forth through her ball of yarn as she spoke, without noticing that some +one had been stamping the snow from his feet on the doorstone outside. +The door, after making some bluster of refusal, was pushed open, and on +the heels of her speech a man walked in. + +"My land!" cried Miss Susan, aghast. Then she and the schoolmaster, by +one accord, began to laugh. + +But the man did not look at them until he had scrupulously wiped his +feet on the husk mat, and stamped them anew. Then he turned down the +legs of his trousers, and carefully examined the lank green carpet-bag +he had been carrying. + +"I guess I trailed it through some o' the drifts," he remarked. "The +road's pretty narrer, this season o' the year." + +"You give us a real start," said Susan. "We thought be sure 't was +Solomon, an' mebbe the Queen o' Sheba follerin' arter. Why, Solon Slade, +you ain't walked way over to Tiverton Street!" + +"Yes, I have," asserted Solon. He was a slender, sad-colored man, +possibly of her own age, and he spoke in a very soft voice. He was +Susan's widowed brother-in-law, and the neighbors said he was clever, +but hadn't no more spunk'n a wet rag. + +Susan had risen and laid down her knitting. She approached the table and +rested one hand on it, a hawk-like brightness in her eyes. + +"What you got in that bag?" asked she. + +Solon was enjoying his certainty that he held the key to the situation. + +"I got a mite o' cheese," he answered, approaching the fire and +spreading his hands to the blaze. + +"You got anything else? Now, Solon, don't you keep me here on +tenter-hooks! You got a letter?" + +"Well," said Solon, "I thought I might as well look into the post-office +an' see." + +"You thought so! You went a-purpose! An' you walked because you al'ays +was half shackled about takin' horses out in bad goin'. You hand me over +that letter!" + +Solon approached the table, a furtive twinkle in his blue eyes. He +lifted the bag and opened it slowly. First, he took out a wedge-shaped +package. + +"That's the cheese," said he. "Herb." + +"My land!" ejaculated Miss Susan, while the schoolmaster looked on and +smiled. "You better ha' come to me for cheese. I've got a plenty, tansy +an' sage, an' you know it. I see it! There! you gi' me holt on 't!" It +was a fugitive white gleam in the bottom of the bag; she pounced upon it +and brought up a letter. Midway in the act of tearing it open, she +paused and looked at Solon with droll entreaty. "It's your letter, by +rights!" she added tentatively. + +"Law!" said he, "I dunno who it's directed to, but I guess it's as much +your'n as anybody's." + +Miss Susan spread open the sheets with an air of breathless delight. She +bent nearer the lamp. "'Dear father and auntie,'" she began. + +"There!" remarked Solon, in quiet satisfaction, still warming his hands +at the blaze. "There! you see _'t is_ to both." + +"My! how she does run the words together! Here!" Miss Susan passed it to +the schoolmaster. "You read it. It's from Jenny. You know she's away to +school, an' we didn't think best for her to come home Christmas. I knew +she'd write for Christmas. Solon, I told you so!" + +The schoolmaster took the letter, and read it aloud. It was a simple +little message, full of contentment and love and a girl's new delight in +life. When he had finished, the two older people busied themselves a +moment without speaking, Solon in picking up a chip from the hearth, and +Susan in mechanically smoothing the mammoth roses on the side of the +carpet-bag. + +"Well, I 'most wish we'd had her come home," said he at last, clearing +his throat. + +"No, you don't either," answered Miss Susan promptly. "Not with this +snow, an' comin' out of a house where it's het up, into cold beds an' +all. Now I'm goin' to git you a mite o' pie an' some hot tea." + +She set forth a prodigal supper on a leaf of the table, and Solon +silently worked his will upon it, the schoolmaster eating a bit for +company. Then Solon took his way home to the house across the yard, and +she watched at the window till she saw the light blaze up through his +panes. That accomplished, she turned back with a long breath and began +clearing up. + +"I'm worried to death to have him over there all by himself," said she. +"S'pose he should be sick in the night!" + +"You'd go over," answered the schoolmaster easily. + +"Well, s'pose he couldn't git me no word?" + +"Oh, you'd know it! You're that sort." + +Miss Susan laughed softly, and so seemed to put away her recurrent +anxiety. She came back to her knitting. + +"How long has his wife been dead?" asked the schoolmaster. + +"Two year. He an' Jenny got along real well together, but sence +September, when she went away, I guess he's found it pretty dull +pickin'. I do all I can, but land! 't ain't like havin' a woman in the +house from sunrise to set." + +"There's nothing like that," agreed the wise young schoolmaster. "Now +let's play some more. Let's plan what we'd like to do to-morrow for all +the folks we know, and let's not give them a thing they need, but just +the ones they'd like." + +Miss Susan put down her knitting again. She never could talk to the +schoolmaster and keep at work. It made her dreamy, exactly as it did to +sit in the hot summer sunshine, with the droning of bees in the air. + +"Well," said she, "there's old Ann Wheeler that lives over on the +turnpike. She don't want for nothin', but she keeps her things packed +away up garret, an' lives like a pig." + +"'Sold her bed and lay in the straw.'" + +"That's it, on'y she won't sell nuthin'. I'd give her a house all +winders, so 't she couldn't help lookin' out, an' velvet carpets 't +she'd got to walk on." + +"Well, there's Cap'n Ben. The boys say he's out of his head a good deal +now; he fancies himself at sea and in foreign countries." + +"Yes, so they say. Well, I'd let him set down a spell in Solomon's +temple an' look round him. My sake! do you remember about the temple? +Why, the nails was all gold. Don't you wish we'd lived in them times? +Jest think about the wood they had--cedars o' Lebanon an' fir-trees. You +know how he set folks to workin' in the mountains. I've al'ays thought +I'd like to ben up on them mountains an' heard the axes ringin' an' +listened to the talk. An' then there was pomegranates an' cherubim, an' +as for silver an' gold, they were as common as dirt. When I was a little +girl, I learnt them chapters, an' sometimes now, when I'm settin' by the +fire, I say over that verse about the 'man of Tyre, skillful to work in +gold, and in silver, in brass, in iron, in stone, and in timber, in +purple, in blue, and in fine linen, and in crimson.' My! ain't it rich?" + +She drew a long breath of surfeited enjoyment. The schoolmaster's eyes +burned under his heavy brows. + +"Then things smelt so good in them days," continued Miss Susan. "They +had myrrh an' frankincense, an' I dunno what all. I never make my +mincemeat 'thout snuffin' at the spice-box to freshen up my mind. No +matter where I start, some way or another I al'ays git back to Solomon. +Well, if Cap'n Ben wants to see foreign countries, I guess he'd be glad +to set a spell in the temple. Le's have on another stick--that big one +there by you. My! it's the night afore Christmas, ain't it? Seems if I +couldn't git a big enough blaze. Pile it on. I guess I'd as soon set the +chimbly afire as not!" + +There was something overflowing and heady in her enjoyment. It +exhilarated the schoolmaster, and he lavished stick after stick on the +ravening flames. The maple hardened into coals brighter than its own +panoply of autumn; the delicate bark of the birch flared up and +perished. + +"Miss Susan," said he, "don't you want to see all the people in the +world?" + +"Oh, I dunno! I'd full as lieves set here an' think about 'em. I can fix +'em up full as well in my mind, an' perhaps they suit me better'n if I +could see 'em. Sometimes I set 'em walkin' through this kitchen, kings +an' queens an' all. My! how they do shine, all over precious stones. I +never see a di'mond, but I guess I know pretty well how 't would look." + +"Suppose we could give a Christmas dinner,--what should we have?" + +"We'd have oxen roasted whole, an' honey--an'--but that's as fur as I +can git." + +The schoolmaster had a treasury of which she had never learned, and he +said musically:-- + +... "'a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies +soother than the creamy curd, And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon; +Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, +every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.'" + +"Yes, that has a real nice sound. It ain't like the Bible, but it's +nice." + +They sat and dreamed and the fire flared up into living arabesques and +burnt blue in corners. A stick parted and fell into ash, and Miss Susan +came awake. She had the air of rousing herself with vigor. + +"There!" said she, "sometimes I think it's most sinful to make believe, +it's so hard to wake yourself up. Arter all this, I dunno but when Solon +comes for the pigs' kittle to-morrer, I shall ketch myself sayin', +'Here's the frankincense!'" + +They laughed together, and the schoolmaster rose to light his lamp. He +paused on his way to the stairs, and came back to set it down again. + +"There are lots of people we haven't provided for," he said. "We haven't +even thought what we'd give Jenny." + +"I guess Jenny's got her heart's desire." Miss Susan nodded sagely. +"I've sent her a box, with a fruit-cake an' pickles and cheese. She's +all fixed out." + +The schoolmaster hesitated, and turned the lamp-wick up and down. Then +he spoke, somewhat timidly, "What should you like to give her father?" + +Miss Susan's face clouded with that dreamy look which sometimes settled +upon her eyes like haze. + +"Well," said she, "I guess whatever I should give him 'd only make him +laugh." + +"Flowers--and velvet--and honey--and myrrh?" + +"Yes," answered Miss Susan with gravity. "Perhaps it's jest as well some +things ain't to be had at the shops." + +The schoolmaster took up his lamp again and walked to the door. + +"We never can tell," he said. "It may be people want things awfully +without knowing it. And suppose they do laugh! They'd better laugh than +cry. _I_ should give all I could. Good-night." + +Miss Susan banked up the fire and set her rising of dough on the hearth, +after a discriminating peep to see whether it was getting on too fast. +After that, she covered her plants by the window and blew out the light, +so that the moon should have its way. She lingered for a moment, looking +out into a glittering world. Not a breath stirred. The visible universe +lay asleep, and only beauty waked. She was aching with a tumultuous +emotion--the sense that life might be very fair and shining, if we only +dared to shape it as it seems to us in dreams. The loveliness and +repose of the earth appealed to her like a challenge; they alone made it +seem possible for her also to dare. + +Next morning, she rose earlier than usual, while the schoolmaster was +still fast bound in sleep. She stayed only to start her kitchen fire, +and then stood motionless a moment for a last decision. The great white +day was beginning outside with slow, unconscious royalty. The pale +winter dawn yielded to a flush of rose; nothing in the aspect of the +heavens contradicted the promise of the night before. It seemed to her a +wonderful day, dramatic, visible in peace, because, on that morning, all +the world was thinking of the world and not of individual desires. She +went to the bureau drawer in the sitting-room and looked, a little +scornfully, at two packages hidden there. Handkerchiefs for the +schoolmaster, stockings and gloves for Solon! Shutting the drawer, she +hurried out into the kitchen, snatching her scissors from the +work-basket by the way. She gave herself no time to think, but went up +to her flower-stand and began to cut the geranium blossoms and the rose. +The fuchsias hung in flaunting grace. They were dearer to her than all. +She snipped them recklessly, and because the bunch seemed meagre still, +broke the top from her sweet-scented geranium and disposed the flowers +hastily in the midst. Her posy was sweet-smelling and good; it spoke to +the heart. Putting a shawl over her head, she rolled the flowers in her +apron from the frost, and stepped out into the brilliant day. The little +cross-track between her house and the other was snowed up; but she took +the road and, hurrying between banks of carven whiteness, went up +Solon's path to the side door. She walked in upon him where he was +standing over the kitchen stove, warming his hands at the first blaze. +Susan's cheeks were red with the challenge of the stinging air, but she +had the look of one who, living by a larger law, has banished the +foolishness of fear. She walked straight up to him and proffered him her +flowers. + +"Here, Solon," she said, "it's Christmas. I brought you these." + +Solon looked at her and at them, in slow surprise. He put out both hands +and took them awkwardly. + +"Well!" he said. "Well!" + +Susan was smiling at him. It seemed to her at that moment that the world +was a very rich place, because you may take all you want and give all +you choose, while nobody is the wiser. + +"Well," remarked Solon again, "I guess I'll put 'em into water." He laid +them down on a chair. "Susan, do you remember that time I walked over to +Pine Hill to pick you some mayflowers, when you was gittin' over the +lung fever?" + +She nodded. + +"Susan," said he desperately, "what if I should ask you to forgit old +scores an' begin all over?" + +"I ain't laid up anything," answered Susan, looking him full in the face +with her brilliant smile. + +"There's suthin' I've wanted to tell ye, this two year. I never s'posed +you knew, but that night I kissed your sister in the entry an' asked +her, I thought 'twas you." + +"Yes, I knew that well enough. I was in the buttery and heard it all. +There, le's not talk about it." + +Solon came a step nearer. + +"But will you, Susan?" he persisted. "Will you? I know Jenny'd like it." + +"I guess she would, too," said Susan. "There! we don't need to talk no +further! You come over to breakfast, won't you? I'm goin' to fry +chicken. It's Christmas mornin'." She nodded at him and went out, +walking perhaps more proudly than usual down the shining path. Solon, +regardless of his cooling kitchen, stood at the door and watched her. +Solon never said very much, but he felt as if life were beginning all +over again, just as he had wished to make it at the very start. He +forgot his gray hair and furrowed face, just as he forgot the cold and +snow. It was the spring of the year. + +When Miss Susan entered her kitchen, the schoolmaster had come down and +was putting a stick of wood into the stove. + +"Merry Christmas!" he called, "and here's something for you." + +A long white package lay on the table at the end where her plate was +always set. She opened it with delicate touches, it seemed so precious. + +"My sake!" said she. "It's a fan!" She lifted it out, and the fragrance +of an Eastern wood filled all the room. She swept open the feathers. +They were white and wonderful. + +"It was never used except by one very beautiful woman," said the +schoolmaster, without looking at her. "She was a good deal older than I; +but somehow she seemed to belong to me. She died, and I thought I should +like to have you keep this." + +Susan was waving it back and forth before her face, stirring the air to +fragrance. Her eyes were full of dreams. "My! ain't it rich!" she +murmured. "The Queen o' Sheba never had no better. An' Solon's comin' +over to breakfast." + + + + +A SECOND MARRIAGE + + +Amelia Porter sat by her great open fireplace, where the round, +consequential black kettle hung from the crane, and breathed out a +steamy cloud to be at once licked up and absorbed by the heat from a +snatching flame below. It was exactly a year and a day since her +husband's death, and she had packed herself away in his own corner of +the settle, her hands clasped across her knees, and her red-brown eyes +brooding on the nearer embers. She was not definitely speculating on her +future, nor had she any heart for retracing the dull and gentle past. +She had simply relaxed hold on her mind; and so, escaping her, it had +gone wandering off into shadowy prophecies of the immediate years. For, +as Amelia had been telling herself for the last three months, since she +had begun to outgrow the habit of a dual life, she was not old. Whenever +she looked in the glass, she could not help noting how free from +wrinkles her swarthy face had been kept, and that the line of her mouth +was still scarlet over white, even teeth. Her crisp black hair, curling +in those tight fine rolls which a bashful admirer had once commended as +"full of little jerks," showed not a trace of gray. All this evidence +of her senses read her a fair tale of the possibilities of the morrow; +and without once saying, "I will take up a new life," she did tacitly +acknowledge that life was not over. + +It was a "snapping cold" night of early spring, so misplaced as to bring +with it a certain dramatic excitement. The roads were frozen hard, and +shone like silver in the ruts. All day sleds had gone creaking past, set +to that fine groaning which belongs to the music of the year. The +drivers' breath ascended in steam, the while they stamped down the +probability of freezing, and yelled to Buck and Broad until that inner +fervor raised them one degree in warmth. The smoking cattle held their +noses low, and swayed beneath the yoke. + +Amelia, shut snugly in her winter-tight house, had felt the power of the +day without sharing its discomforts; and her eyes deepened and burned +with a sense of the movement and warmth of living. To-night, under the +spell of some vague expectancy, she had sat still for a long time, her +sewing laid aside and her room scrupulously in order. She was waiting +for what was not to be acknowledged even to her own intimate self. But +as the clock struck nine, she roused herself, and shook off her mood in +impatience and a disappointment which she would not own. She looked +about the room, as she often had of late, and began to enumerate its +possibilities in case she should desire to have it changed. Amelia never +went so far as to say that change should be; she only felt that she had +still a right to speculate upon it, as she had done for many years, as a +form of harmless enjoyment. While every other house in the neighborhood +had gone from the consistently good to the prosperously bad in the +matter of refurnishing, John Porter had kept his precisely as his +grandfather had left it to him. Amelia had never once complained; she +had observed toward her husband an unfailing deference, due, she felt, +to his twenty years' seniority; perhaps, also, it stood in her own mind +as the only amends she could offer him for having married him without +love. It was her father who made the match; and Amelia had succumbed, +not through the obedience claimed by parents of an elder day, but from +hot jealousy and the pique inevitably born of it. Laurie Morse had kept +the singing-school that winter. He had loved Amelia; he had bound +himself to her by all the most holy vows sworn from aforetime, and then, +in some wanton exhibit of power--gone home with another girl. And for +Amelia's responsive throb of feminine anger, she had spent fifteen years +of sober country living with a man who had wrapped her about with the +quiet tenderness of a strong nature, but who was not of her own +generation either in mind or in habit; and Laurie had kept a +music-store in Saltash, seven miles away, and remained unmarried. + +Now Amelia looked about the room, and mentally displaced the furniture, +as she had done so many times while she and her husband sat there +together. The settle could be taken to the attic. She had not the heart +to carry out one secret resolve indulged in moments of impatient +bitterness,--to split it up for firewood. But it could at least be +exiled. She would have a good cook-stove, and the great fireplace should +be walled up. The tin kitchen, sitting now beside the hearth in shining +quaintness, should also go into the attic. The old clock--But at that +instant the clash of bells shivered the frosty air, and Amelia threw her +vain imaginings aside like a garment, and sprang to her feet. She +clasped her hands in a spontaneous gesture of rapt attention; and when +the sound paused at her gate, with one or two sweet, lingering clingles, +"I knew it!" she said aloud. Yet she did not go to the window to look +into the moonlit night. Standing there in the middle of the room, she +awaited the knock which was not long in coming. It was imperative, +insistent. Amelia, who had a spirit responsive to the dramatic +exigencies of life, felt a little flush spring into her face, so hot +that, on the way to the door, she involuntarily put her hand to her +cheek and held it there. The door came open grumblingly. It sagged upon +the hinges, but, well-used to its vagaries, she overcame it with a +regardless haste. + +"Come in," she said, at once, to the man on the step. "It's cold. Oh, +come in!" + +He stepped inside the entry, removing his fur cap, and disclosing a +youthful face charged with that radiance which made him, at thirty-five, +almost the counterpart of his former self. It may have come only from +the combination of curly brown hair, blue eyes, and an aspiring lift of +the chin, but it always seemed to mean a great deal more. In the +kitchen, he threw off his heavy coat, while Amelia, bright-eyed and +breathing quickly, stood by, quite silent. Then he looked at her. + +"You expected me, didn't you?" he asked. + +A warmer color surged into her cheeks. "I didn't know," she said +perversely. + +"I guess you did. It's one day over a year. You knew I'd wait a year." + +"It ain't a year over the services," said Amelia, trying to keep the +note of vital expectancy out of her voice. "It won't be that till +Friday." + +"Well, Saturday I'll come again." He went over to the fire and stretched +out his hands to the blaze. "Come here," he said imperatively, "while I +talk to you." + +Amelia stepped forward obediently, like a good little child. The old +fascination was still as dominant as at its birth, sixteen years ago. +She realized, with a strong, splendid sense of the eternity of things, +that always, even while it would have been treason to recognize it, she +had known how ready it was to rise and live again. All through her +married years, she had sternly drugged it and kept it sleeping. Now it +had a right to breathe, and she gloried in it. + +"I said to myself I wouldn't come to-day," went on Laurie, without +looking at her. A new and excited note had come into his voice, +responsive to her own. He gazed down at the fire, musing the while he +spoke. "Then I found I couldn't help it. That's why I'm so late. I +stayed in the shop till seven, and some fellows come in and wanted me to +play. I took up the fiddle, and begun. But I hadn't more'n drew a note +before I laid it down and put for the door. 'Dick, you keep shop,' says +I. And I harnessed up, and drove like the devil." + +Amelia felt warm with life and hope; she was taking up her youth just +where the story ended. + +"You ain't stopped swearin' yet!" she remarked, with a little excited +laugh. Then, from an undercurrent of exhilaration, it occurred to her +that she had never laughed so in all these years. + +"Well," said Laurie abruptly, turning upon her, "how am I goin' to start +out? Shall we hark back to old scores? I know what come between us. So +do you. Have we got to talk it out, or can we begin now?" + +"Begin now," replied Amelia faintly. Her breath choked her. He stretched +out his arms to her in sudden passion. His hands touched her sleeves +and, with an answering rapidity of motion, she drew back. She shrank +within herself, and her face gathered a look of fright. "No! no! no!" +she cried strenuously. + +His arms fell at his sides, and he looked at her in amazement. + +"What's the matter?" he demanded. + +Amelia had retreated, until she stood now with one hand on the table. +She could not look at him, and when she answered, her voice shook. + +"There's nothin' the matter," she answered. "Only you mustn't--yet." + +A shade of relief passed over his face, and he smiled. + +"There, there!" he said, "never you mind. I understand. But if I come +over the last of the week, I guess it will be different. Won't it be +different, Milly?" + +"Yes," she owned, with a little sob in her throat, "it will be +different." + +Thrown out of his niche of easy friendliness with circumstance, he stood +there in irritated consciousness that here was some subtile barrier +which he had not foreseen. Ever since John Porter's death, there had +been strengthening in him a joyous sense that Milly's life and his own +must have been running parallel all this time, and that it needed only a +little widening of channels to make them join. His was no crass +certainty of finding her ready to drop into his hand; it was rather a +childlike, warm-hearted faith in the permanence of her affection for +him, and perhaps, too, a shrewd estimate of his own lingering youth +compared with John Porter's furrowed face and his fifty-five years. But +now, with this new whiffling of the wind, he could only stand rebuffed +and recognize his own perplexity. + +"You do care, don't you, Milly?" he asked, with a boy's frank ardor. +"You want me to come again?" + +All her own delight in youth and the warm naturalness of life had rushed +back upon her. + +"Yes," she answered eagerly. "I'll tell you the truth. I always did tell +you the truth. I do want you to come." + +"But you don't want me to-night!" He lifted his brows, pursing his lips +whimsically; and Amelia laughed. + +"No," said she, with a little defiant movement of her own crisp head, "I +don't know as I do want you to-night!" + +Laurie shook himself into his coat. "Well," he said, on his way to the +door, "I'll be round Saturday, whether or no. And Milly," he added +significantly, his hand on the latch, "you've got to like me then!" + +Amelia laughed. "I guess there won't be no trouble!" she called after +him daringly. + +She stood there in the biting wind, while he uncovered the horse and +drove away. Then she went shaking back to her fire; but it was not +altogether from cold. The sense of the consistency of love and youth, +the fine justice with which nature was paying an old debt, had raised +her to a stature above her own. She stood there under the mantel, and +held by it while she trembled. For the first time, her husband had gone +utterly out of her life. It was as though he had not been. + +"Saturday!" she said to herself. "Saturday! Three days till then!" + +Next morning, the spring asserted itself,--there came a whiff of wind +from the south and a feeling of thaw. The sled-runners began to cut +through to the frozen ground, and about the tree-trunks, where thin +crusts of ice were sparkling, came a faint musical sound of trickling +drops. The sun was regnant, and little brown birds flew cheerily over +the snow and talked of nests. + +Amelia finished her housework by nine o'clock, and then sat down in her +low rocker by the south window, sewing in thrifty haste. The sun fell +hotly through the panes, and when she looked up, the glare met her eyes. +She seemed to be sitting in a golden shower, and she liked it. No +sunlight ever made her blink, or screw her face into wrinkles. She +throve in it like a rose-tree. At ten o'clock, one of the slow-moving +sleds, out that day in premonition of a "spell o' weather," swung +laboriously into her yard and ground its way up to the side-door. The +sled was empty, save for a rocking-chair where sat an enormous woman +enveloped in shawls, her broad face surrounded by a pumpkin hood. Her +dark brown front came low over her forehead, and she wore spectacles +with wide bows, which gave her an added expression of benevolence. She +waved a mittened hand to Amelia when their eyes met, and her heavy face +broke up into smiles. + +"Here I be!" she called in a thick, gurgling voice, as Amelia hastened +out, her apron thrown over her head. "Didn't expect me, did ye? Nobody +looks for an old rheumatic creatur'. She's more out o' the runnin' 'n a +last year's bird's-nest." + +"Why, aunt Ann!" cried Amelia, in unmistakable joy. "I'm tickled to +death to see you. Here, Amos, I'll help get her out." + +The driver, a short, thick-set man of neutral, ashy tints and a +sprinkling of hair and beard, trudged round the oxen and drew the +rocking-chair forward without a word. He never once looked in Amelia's +direction, and she seemed not to expect it; but he had scarcely laid +hold of the chair when aunt Ann broke forth:-- + +"Now, Amos, ain't you goin' to take no notice of 'Melia, no more'n if +she wa'n't here? She ain't a bump on a log, nor you a born fool." + +Amos at once relinquished his sway over the chair, and stood looking +abstractedly at the oxen, who, with their heads low, had already fallen +into that species of day-dream whereby they compensate themselves for +human tyranny. They were waiting for Amos, and Amos, in obedience to +some inward resolve, waited for commotion to cease. + +"If ever I was ashamed, I be now!" continued aunt Ann, still with an +expression of settled good-nature, and in a voice all jollity though +raised conscientiously to a scolding pitch. "To think I should bring +such a creatur' into the world, an' set by to see him treat his own +relations like the dirt under his feet!" + +Amelia laughed. She was exhilarated by the prospect of company, and this +domestic whirlpool had amused her from of old. + +"Law, aunt Ann," she said, "you let Amos alone. He and I are old +cronies. We understand one another. Here, Amos, catch hold! We shall all +get our deaths out here, if we don't do nothin' but stand still and +squabble." + +The immovable Amos had only been awaiting his cue. He lifted the laden +chair with perfect ease to one of the piazza steps, and then to another; +when it had reached the topmost level, he dragged it over the sill into +the kitchen, and, leaving his mother sitting in colossal triumph by the +fire, turned about and took his silent way to the outer world. + +"Amos," called aunt Ann, "do you mean to say you're goin' to walk out o' +this house without speakin' a civil word to anybody? Do you mean to say +that?" + +"I don't mean to say nothin'," confided Amos to his worsted muffler, as +he took up his goad, and began backing the oxen round. + +Undisturbed and not at all daunted by a reply for which she had not even +listened, aunt Ann raised her voice in cheerful response: "Well, you be +along 'tween three an' four, an' you'll find me ready." + +"Mercy, aunt Ann!" said Amelia, beginning to unwind the visitor's wraps, +"what makes you keep houndin' Amos that way? If he hasn't spoke for +thirty-five years, it ain't likely he's goin' to begin now." + +Aunt Ann was looking about her with an expression of beaming delight in +unfamiliar surroundings. She laughed a rich, unctuous laugh, and +stretched her hands to the blaze. + +"Law," she said contentedly, "of course it ain't goin' to do no good. +Who ever thought 't would? But I've been at that boy all these years to +make him like other folks, an' I ain't goin' to stop now. He never shall +say his own mother didn't know her duty towards him. Well, 'Melia, you +_air_ kind o' snug here, arter all! Here, you hand me my bag, an' I'll +knit a stitch. I ain't a mite cold." + +Amelia was bustling about the fire, her mind full of the possibilities +of a company dinner. + +"How's your limbs?" she asked, while aunt Ann drew out a long stocking, +and began to knit with an amazing rapidity of which her fat fingers gave +no promise. + +"Well, I ain't allowed to forgit 'em very often," she replied +comfortably. "Rheumatiz is my cross, an' I've got to bear it. Sometimes +I wish 't had gone into my hands ruther 'n my feet, an' I could ha' got +round. But there! if 't ain't one thing, it's another. Mis' Eben Smith's +got eight young ones down with the whoopin'-cough. Amos dragged me over +there yisterday; an' when I heerd 'em tryin' to see which could bark the +loudest, I says, 'Give me the peace o' Jerusalem in my own house, even +if I don't stir a step for the next five year no more'n I have for the +last.' I dunno what 't would be if I hadn't a darter. I've been greatly +blessed." + +The talk went on in pleasant ripples, while Amelia moved back and forth +from pantry to table. She brought out the mixing-board, and began to put +her bread in the pans, while the tin kitchen stood in readiness by the +hearth. The sunshine flooded all the room, and lay insolently on the +paling fire; the Maltese cat sat in the broadest shaft of all, and, +having lunched from her full saucer in the corner, made her second +toilet for the day. + +"'Melia," said aunt Ann suddenly, looking down over her glasses at the +tin kitchen, "ain't it a real cross to bake in that thing?" + +"I always had it in mind to buy me a range," answered Amelia reservedly, +"but somehow we never got to it." + +"That's the only thing I ever had ag'inst John. He was as grand a man as +ever was, but he did set everything by such truck. Don't turn out the +old things, I say, no more'n the old folks; but when it comes to makin' +a woman stan' quiddlin' round doin' work back side foremost, that beats +me." + +"He'd have got me a stove in a minute," burst forth Amelia in haste, +"only he never knew I wanted it!" + +"More fool you not to ha' said so!" commented aunt Ann, unwinding her +ball. "Well, I s'pose he would. John wa'n't like the common run o' men. +Great strong creatur' he was, but there was suthin' about him as soft as +a woman. His mother used to say his eyes 'd fill full o' tears when he +broke up a settin' hen. He was a good husband to you,--a good provider +an' a good friend." + +Amelia was putting down her bread for its last rising, and her face +flushed. + +"Yes," she said gently, "he _was_ good." + +"But there!" continued aunt Ann, dismissing all lighter considerations, +"I dunno's that's any reason why you should bake in a tin kitchen, nor +why you should need to heat up the brick oven every week, when 't was +only done to please him, an' he ain't here to know. Now, 'Melia, le's +see what you could do. When you got the range in, 't would alter this +kitchen all over. Why don't you tear down that old-fashioned mantelpiece +in the fore-room?" + +"I could have a marble one," responded Amelia in a low voice. She had +taken her sewing again, and she bent her head over it as if she were +ashamed. A flush had risen in her cheeks, and her hand trembled. + +"Wide marble! real low down!" confirmed aunt Ann, in a tone of triumph. +"So fur as that goes, you could have a marble-top table." She laid down +her knitting, and looked about her, a spark of excited anticipation in +her eyes. All the habits of a lifetime urged her on to arrange and +rearrange, in pursuit of domestic perfection. People used to say, in her +first married days, that Ann Doby wasted more time in planning +conveniences about her house than she ever saved by them "arter she got +'em." In her active years, she was, in local phrase, "a driver." Up and +about early and late, she directed and managed until her house seemed to +be a humming hive of industry and thrift. Yet there was never anything +too urgent in that sway. Her beaming good-humor acted as a buffer +between her and the doers of her will; and though she might scold, she +never rasped and irritated. Nor had she really succumbed in the least to +the disease which had practically disabled her. It might confine her to +a chair and render her dependent upon the service of others, but over +it, also, was she spiritual victor. She could sit in her kitchen and +issue orders; and her daughter, with no initiative genius of her own, +had all aunt Ann's love of "springin' to it." She cherished, besides, a +worshipful admiration for her mother; so that she asked no more than to +act as the humble hand under that directing head. It was Amos who +tacitly rebelled. When a boy in school, he virtually gave up talking, +and thereafter opened his lips only when some practical exigency was to +be filled. But once did he vouchsafe a reason for that eccentricity. It +was in his fifteenth year, as aunt Ann remembered well, when the +minister had called; and Amos, in response to some remark about his hope +of salvation, had looked abstractedly out of the window. + +"I'd be ashamed," announced aunt Ann, after the minister had +gone,--"Amos, I _would_ be ashamed, if I couldn't open my head to a +minister o' the gospel!" + +"If one head's open permanent in a house, I guess that fills the bill," +said Amos, getting up to seek the woodpile. "I ain't goin' to interfere +with nobody else's contract." + +His mother looked after him with gaping lips, and, for the space of half +an hour, spoke no word. + +To-day she saw before her an alluring field of action; the prospect +roused within her energies never incapable of responding to a spur. + +"My soul, 'Melia!" she exclaimed, looking about the kitchen with a +dominating eye, "how I should like to git hold o' this house! I al'ays +did have a hankerin' that way, an' I don't mind tellin' ye. You could +change it all round complete." + +"It's a good house," said Amelia evasively, taking quick, even stitches, +but listening hungrily to the voice of outside temptation. It seemed to +confirm all the long-suppressed ambitions of her own heart. + +"You're left well on 't," continued aunt Ann, her shrewd blue eyes +taking on a speculative look. "I'm glad you sold the stock. A woman +never undertakes man's work but she comes out the little eend o' the +horn. The house is enough, if you keep it nice. Now, you've got that +money laid away, an' all he left you besides. You could live in the +village, if you was a mind to." + +A deep flush struck suddenly into Amelia's cheek. She thought of Saltash +and Laurie Morse. + +"I don't want to live in the village," she said sharply, thus reproving +her own errant mind. "I like my home." + +"Law, yes, of course ye do," replied aunt Ann easily, returning to her +knitting. "I was only spec'latin'. The land, 'Melia, what you doin' of? +Repairin' an old coat?" + +Amelia bent lower over her sewing. "'T was his," she answered in a voice +almost inaudible. "I put a patch on it last night by lamplight, and when +daytime come, I found it was purple. So I'm takin' it off, and puttin' +on a black one to match the stuff." + +"Goin' to give it away?" + +"No, I ain't," returned Amelia, again with that sharp, remonstrant note +in her voice. "What makes you think I'd do such a thing as that?" + +"Law, I didn't mean no harm. You said you was repairin' on 't,--that's +all." + +Amelia was ashamed of her momentary outbreak. She looked up and smiled +sunnily. + +"Well, I suppose it _is_ foolish," she owned,--"too foolish to tell. But +I've been settin' all his clothes in order to lay 'em aside at last. I +kind o' like to do it." + +Aunt Ann wagged her head, and ran a knitting-needle up under her cap on +a voyage of discovery. + +"You think so now," she said wisely, "but you'll see some time it's +better by fur to give 'em away while ye can. The time never'll come when +it's any easier. My soul, 'Melia, how I should like to git up into your +chambers! It's six year now sence I've seen 'em." + +Amelia laid down her work and considered the possibility. + +"I don't know how in the world I could h'ist you up there," she +remarked, from an evident background of hospitable good-will. + +"H'ist me up? I guess you couldn't! You'd need a tackle an' falls. Amos +has had to come to draggin' me round by degrees, an' I don't go off the +lower floor. Be them chambers jest the same, 'Melia?" + +"Oh, yes, they're just the same. Everything is. You know he didn't like +changes." + +"Blue spread on the west room bed?" + +"Yes." + +"Spinnin'-wheels out in the shed chamber, where his gran'mother Hooper +kep' 'em?" + +"Yes." + +"Say, 'Melia, do you s'pose that little still's up attic he used to have +such a royal good time with, makin' essences?" + +Amelia's eyes filled suddenly with hot, unmanageable tears. + +"Yes," she said; "we used it only two summers ago. I come across it +yesterday. Seemed as if I could smell the peppermint I brought in for +him to pick over. He was too sick to go out much then." + +Aunt Ann had laid down her work again, and was gazing into vistas of +rich enjoyment. + +"I'll be whipped if I shouldn't like to see that little still!" + +"I'll go up and bring it down after dinner," said Amelia soberly, +folding her work and taking off her thimble. "I'd just as soon as not." + +All through the dinner hour aunt Ann kept up an inspiring stream of +question and reminiscence. + +"You _be_ a good cook, 'Melia, an' no mistake," she remarked, breaking +her brown hot biscuit. "This your same kind o' bread, made without +yeast?" + +"Yes," answered Amelia, pouring the tea. "I save a mite over from the +last risin'." + +Aunt Ann smelled the biscuit critically. "Well, it makes proper nice +bread," she said, "but seems to me that's a terrible shif'less way to go +about it. However 'd you happen to git hold on 't? You wa'n't never +brought up to 't." + +"His mother used to make it so. 'T was no great trouble, and 't would +have worried him if I'd changed." + +When the lavender-sprigged china had been washed and the hearth swept +up, the room fell into its aspect of afternoon repose. The cat, after +another serious ablution, sprang up into a chair drawn close to the +fireplace, and coiled herself symmetrically on the faded patchwork +cushion. Amelia stroked her in passing. She liked to see puss +appropriate that chair; her purr from it renewed the message of domestic +content. + +"Now," said Amelia, "I'll get the still." + +"Bring down anything else that's ancient!" called aunt Ann. "We've +pretty much got red o' such things over t' our house, but I kind o' like +to see 'em." + +When Amelia returned, she staggered under a miscellaneous burden: the +still, some old swifts for winding yarn, and a pair of wool-cards. + +"I don't believe you know so much about cardin' wool as I do," she said, +in some triumph, regarding the cards with the saddened gaze of one who +recalls an occupation never to be resumed. "You see, you dropped all +such work when new things come in. I kept right on because he wanted me +to." + +Aunt Ann was abundantly interested and amused. + +"Well, now, if ever!" she repeated over and over again. "If this don't +carry me back! Seems if I could hear the wheel hummin' an' gramma Balch +steppin' back an' forth as stiddy as a clock. It's been a good while +sence I've thought o' such old days." + +"If it's old days you want"--began Amelia, and she sped upstairs with a +fresh light of resolution in her eyes. + +It was a long time before she returned,--so long that aunt Ann exhausted +the still, and turned again to her thrifty knitting. Then there came a +bumping noise on the stairs, and Amelia's shuffling tread. + +"What under the sun be you doin' of?" called her aunt, listening, with +her head on one side. "Don't you fall, 'Melia! Whatever 't is, I can't +help ye." + +But the stairway door yielded to pressure from within: and first a rim +of wood appeared, and then Amelia, scarlet and breathless, staggering +under a spinning-wheel. + +"Forever!" ejaculated aunt Ann, making one futile effort to rise, like +some cumbersome fowl whose wings are clipped. "My land alive! you'll +break a blood-vessel, an' then where'll ye be?" + +Amelia triumphantly drew the wheel to the middle of the floor, and then +blew upon her dusty hands and smoothed her tumbled hair. She took off +her apron and wiped the wheel with it rather tenderly, as if an ordinary +duster would not do. + +"There!" she said. "Here's some rolls right here in the bedroom. I +carded them myself, but I never expected to spin any more." + +She adjusted a roll to the spindle, and, quite forgetting aunt Ann, +began stepping back and forth in a rhythmical march of feminine service. +The low hum of her spinning filled the air, and she seemed to be wrapped +about by an atmosphere of remoteness and memory. Even aunt Ann was +impressed by it; and once, beginning to speak, she looked at Amelia's +face, and stopped. The purring silence continued, lulling all lesser +energies to sleep, until Amelia, pausing to adjust her thread, found her +mood broken by actual stillness, and gazed about her like one awakened +from dreams. + +"There!" she said, recalling herself. "Ain't that a good smooth thread? +I've sold lots of yarn. They ask for it in Sudleigh." + +"'Tis so!" confirmed aunt Ann cordially. "An' you've al'ays dyed it +yourself, too!" + +"Yes, a good blue; sometimes tea-color. There, now, you can't say you +ain't heard a spinnin'-wheel once more!" + +Amelia moved the wheel to the side of the room, and went gravely back to +her chair. Her energy had fled, leaving her hushed and tremulous. But +not for that did aunt Ann relinquish her quest for the betterment of the +domestic world. Her tongue clicked the faster as Amelia's halted. She +put away her work altogether, and sat, with wagging head and eloquent +hands, still holding forth on the changes which might be wrought in the +house: a bay window here, a sofa there, new chairs, tables, and +furnishings. Amelia's mind swam in a sea of green rep, and she found +herself looking up from time to time at her mellowed four walls, to see +if they sparkled in desirable yet somewhat terrifying gilt paper. + +At four o'clock, when Amos swung into the yard with the oxen, she was +remorsefully conscious of heaving a sigh of relief; and she bade him in +to the cup of tea ready for him by the fire with a sympathetic sense +that too little was made of Amos, and that perhaps only she, at that +moment, understood his habitual frame of mind. He drank his tea in +silence, the while aunt Ann, with much relish, consumed doughnuts and +cheese, having spread a wide handkerchief in her lap to catch the +crumbs. Amos never varied in his role of automaton; and Amelia talked +rapidly, in the hope of protecting him from verbal avalanches. But she +was not to succeed. At the very moment of parting, aunt Ann, enthroned +in her chair, with a clogging stick under the rockers, called a halt, +just as the oxen gave their tremulous preparatory heave. + +"Amos!" cried she, "I'll be whipped if you've spoke one word to 'Melia +this livelong day! If you ain't ashamed, I be! If you can't speak, I +can!" + +Amos paused, with his habitual resignation to circumstances, but Amelia +sped forward and clapped him cordially on the arm; with the other hand, +she dealt one of the oxen a futile blow. + +"Huddup, Bright!" she called, with a swift, smiling look at Amos. Even +in kindness she would not do him the wrong of an unnecessary word. +"Good-by, aunt Ann! Come again!" + +Amos turned half about, the goad over his shoulder. His dull-seeming +eyes had opened to a gleam of human feeling, betraying how bright and +keen they were. Some hidden spring had been touched, though only they +would tell its story. Amelia thought it was gratitude. And then aunt +Ann, nodding her farewells in assured contentment with herself and all +the world, was drawn slowly out of the yard. + +When Amelia went indoors and warmed her chilled hands at the fire, the +silence seemed to her benignant. What was loneliness before had +miraculously translated itself into peace. That worldly voice, strangely +clothing her own longings with form and substance, had been stilled; +only the clock, rich in the tranquillity of age, ticked on, and the cat +stretched herself and curled up again. Amelia sat down in the waning +light and took a last stitch in her work; she looked the coat over +critically with an artistic satisfaction, and then hung it behind the +door in its accustomed place, where it had remained undisturbed now for +many months. She ate soberly and sparingly of her early supper, and +then, leaving the lamp on a side-table, where it brought out great +shadows in the room, she took a little cricket and sat down by the fire. +There she had mused many an evening which seemed to her less dull than +the general course of her former life, while her husband occupied the +hearthside chair and told her stories of the war. He had a childlike +clearness and simplicity of speech, and a self-forgetful habit of +reminiscence. The war was the war to him, not a theatre for boastful +individual action; but Amelia remembered now that he had seemed to hold +heroic proportions in relation to that immortal past. One could hardly +bring heroism into the potato-field and the cow-house; but after this +lapse of time, it began to dawn upon her that the man who had fought at +Gettysburg and the man who marked out for her the narrow rut of an +unchanging existence were one and the same. And as if the moment had +come for an expected event, she heard again the jangling of bells +without, and the old vivid color rushed into her cheeks, reddened before +by the fire-shine. It was as though the other night had been a +rehearsal, and as if now she knew what was coming. Yet she only clasped +her hands more tightly about her knees and waited, the while her heart +hurried its time. The knocker fell twice, with a resonant clang. She did +not move. It beat again, the more insistently. Then the heavy outer door +was pushed open, and Laurie Morse came in, looking exactly as she knew +he would look--half angry, wholly excited, and dowered with the beauty +of youth recalled. He took off his cap and stood before her. + +"Why didn't you come?" he asked imperatively. "Why didn't you let me +in?" + +The old wave of irresponsible joy rose in her at his presence; yet it +was now not so much a part of her real self as a delight in some +influence which might prove foreign to her. She answered him, as she was +always impelled to do, dramatically, as if he gave her the cue, calling +for words which might be her sincere expression, and might not. + +"If you wanted it enough, you could get in," she said perversely, with +an alluring coquetry in her mien. "The door was unfastened." + +"I did want to enough," he responded. A new light came into his eyes. He +held out his hands toward her. "Get up off that cricket!" he commanded. +"Come here!" + +Amelia rose with a swift, feminine motion, but she stepped backward, one +hand upon her heart. She thought its beating could be heard. + +"It ain't Saturday," she whispered. + +"No, it ain't. But I couldn't wait. You knew I couldn't. You knew I'd +come to-night." + +The added years had had their effect on him; possibly, too, there had +been growing up in him the strength of a long patience. He was not an +heroic type of man; but noting the sudden wrinkles in his face and the +firmness of his mouth, Amelia conceived a swift respect for him which +she had never felt in the days of their youth. + +"Am I goin' to stay," he asked sternly, "or shall I go home?" + +As if in dramatic accord with his words, the bells jangled loudly at the +gate. Should he go or stay? + +"I suppose," said Amelia faintly, "you're goin' to stay." + +Laurie laid down his cap, and pulled off his coat. He looked about +impatiently, and then, moving toward the nail by the door, he lifted the +coat to place it over that other one hanging there. Amelia had watched +him absently, thinking only, with a hungry anticipation, how much she +had needed him; but as the garment touched her husband's, the real woman +burst through the husk of her outer self, and came to life with an +intensity that was pain. She sprang forward. + +"No! no!" she cried, the words ringing wildly in her own ears. "No! no! +don't you hang it there! Don't you! don't you!" She swept him aside, and +laid her hands upon the old patched garment on the nail. It was as if +they blessed it, and as if they defended it also. Her eyes burned with +the horror of witnessing some irrevocable deed. + +Laurie stepped back in pure surprise. "No, of course not," said he. +"I'll put it on a chair. Why, what's the matter, Milly? I guess you're +nervous. Come back to the fire. Here, sit down where you were, and let's +talk." + +The cat, roused by a commotion which was insulting to her egotism, +jumped down from the cushion, stretched into a fine curve, and made a +silhouette of herself in a corner of the hearth. Amelia, a little +ashamed, and not very well understanding what it was all about, came +back, with shaking limbs, and dropped upon the settle, striving now to +remember the conventionalities of saner living. Laurie was a kind man. +At this moment, he thought only of reassuring her. He drew forward the +chair left vacant by the cat, and beat up the cushion. + +"There," said he, "I'll take this, and we'll talk." + +Amelia recovered herself with a spring. She came up straight and tall, a +concluded resolution in every muscle. She laid a hand upon his arm. + +"Don't you sit there!" said she. "Don't you!" + +"Why, Amelia!" he ejaculated, in a vain perplexity. "Why, Milly!" + +She moved the chair back out of his grasp, and turned to him again. + +"I understand it now," she went on rapidly. "I know just what I feel and +think, and I thank my God it ain't too late. Don't you see I can't bear +to have your clothes hang where his belong? Don't you see 't would kill +me to have you sit in his chair? When I find puss there, it's a comfort. +If 't was you--I don't know but I might do you a mischief!" Her voice +sank, in awe of herself and her own capacity for passionate emotion. + +Laurie Morse had much swift understanding of the human heart. His own +nature partook of the feminine, and he shared its intuitions and its +fears. + +"I never should lay that up against you, Milly," he said kindly. "But we +wouldn't have these things. You'd come to Saltash with me, and we'd +furnish all new." + +"Not have these things!" called Amelia, with a ringing note of +dismay,--"not have these things he set by as he did his life! Why, what +do you think I'm made of, after fifteen years? What did _I_ think I was +made of, even to guess I could? You don't know what women are like, +Laurie Morse,--you don't know!" + +She broke down in piteous weeping. Even then it seemed to her that it +would be good to find herself comforted with warm human sympathy; but +not a thought of its possibility remained in her mind. She saw the +boundaries beyond which she must not pass. Though the desert were arid +on this side, it was her desert, and there in her tent must she abide. +She began speaking again between sobbing breaths:-- + +"I did have a dull life. I used up all my young days doin' the same +things over and over, when I wanted somethin' different. It _was_ dull; +but if I could have it all over again, I'd work my fingers to the bone. +I don't know how it would have been if you and I'd come together then, +and had it all as we planned; but now I'm a different woman. I can't any +more go back than you could turn Sudleigh River, and coax it to run +up-hill. I don't know whether 't was meant my life should make me a +different woman; but I _am_ different, and such as I am, I'm his woman. +Yes, till I die, till I'm laid in the ground 'longside of him!" Her +voice had an assured ring of triumph, as if she were taking again an +indissoluble marriage oath. + +Laurie had grown very pale. There were forlorn hollows under his eyes; +now he looked twice his age. + +"I didn't suppose you kept a place for me," he said, with an unconscious +dignity. "That wouldn't have been right, and him alive. And I didn't +wait for dead men's shoes. But somehow I thought there was something +between you and me that couldn't be outlived." + +Amelia looked at him with a frank sweetness which transfigured her face +into spiritual beauty. + +"I thought so, too," she answered, with that simplicity ever attending +our approximation to the truth. "I never once said it to myself; but all +this year, 'way down in my heart, I knew you'd come back. And I wanted +you to come. I guess I'd got it all planned out how we'd make up for +what we'd lost, and build up a new life. But so far as I go, I guess I +didn't lose by what I've lived through. I guess I gained somethin' I'd +sooner give up my life than even lose the memory of." + +So absorbed was she in her own spiritual inheritance that she quite +forgot his pain. She gazed past him with an unseeing look; and striving +to meet and recall it, he faced the vision of their divided lives. +To-morrow Amelia would remember his loss and mourn over it with maternal +pangs; to-night she was oblivious of all but her own. Great human +experiences are costly things; they demand sacrifice, not only of +ourselves, but of those who are near us. The room was intolerable to +Laurie. He took his hat and coat, and hurried out. Amelia heard the +dragging door closed behind him. She realized, with the numbness born of +supreme emotion, that he was putting on his coat outside in the cold; +and she did not mind. The bells stirred, and went clanging away. Then +she drew a long breath, and bowed her head on her hands in an +acquiescence that was like prayer. + +It seemed a long time to Amelia before she awoke again to temporal +things. She rose, smiling, to her feet, and looked about her as if her +eyes caressed every corner of the homely room. She picked up puss in a +round, comfortable ball, and carried her back to the hearthside chair; +there she stroked her until her touchy ladyship had settled down again +to purring content. Then Amelia, still smiling, and with an absent look, +as if her mind wandered through lovely possibilities of a sort which +can never be undone, drew forth the spinning-wheel, and fitted a roll to +the spindle. She began stepping back and forth as if she moved to the +measure of an unheard song, and the pleasant hum of her spinning broke +delicately upon the ear. It seemed to waken all the room into new +vibrations of life. The clock ticked with an assured peace, as if +knowing it marked eternal hours. The flames waved softly upward without +their former crackle and sheen; and the moving shadows were gentle and +rhythmic ones come to keep the soul company. Amelia felt her thread +lovingly. + +"I guess I'll dye it blue," she said, with a tenderness great enough to +compass inanimate things. "He always set by blue, didn't he, puss?" + + + + +THE FLAT-IRON LOT + + +The fields were turning brown, and in the dusty gray of the roadside, +closed gentians gloomed, and the aster burned like a purple star. It was +the finest autumn for many years. People said, with every clear day, +"Now this must be a weather-breeder;" but still the storm delayed. Then +they anxiously scanned the heavens, as if, weeks beforehand, the signs +of the time might be written there; for this was the fall of all others +when wind and sky should be kind to Tiverton. She was going to celebrate +her two hundred and fiftieth anniversary, and she was big with the +importance of it. + +On a still afternoon, over three weeks before that happy day, a slender +old man walked erectly along the country road. He carried a cane over +his shoulder, and, slung upon it, a small black leather bag, bearing the +words, painted in careful letters, "Clocks repaired by N. Oldfield." As +he went on, he cast a glance, now and then, to either side, from +challenging blue eyes, strong yet in the indomitable quality of youth. +He knew every varying step of the road, and could have numbered, from +memory, the trees and bushes that fringed its length; and now, after a +week's absence, he swept the landscape with the air of a manorial lord, +to see what changes might have slipped in unawares. At one point, a flat +triangular stone had been tilted up on edge, and an unpracticed hand had +scrawled on it, in chalk, "4 M to Sudleigh." The old man stopped, took +the bag from his shoulder, and laid it tenderly on a stone of the wall. +Then, with straining hands, he pulled the rock down into the worn spot +where it had lain, and gave a sigh of relief when it settled into its +accustomed place, and the tall grass received it tremulously. Now he +opened his bag, took from it a cloth, carefully folded, and rubbed the +rock until those defiling chalk marks were partially effaced. + +"Little varmints!" he said, apostrophizing the absent school children +who had wrought the deed. "Can't they let nothin' alone?" He took up his +bag, and went on. + +Nicholas Oldfield, as he walked the road that day, was a familiar figure +to all the county round. He had a smooth, carefully shaven face, with a +fine outline of nose and chin, and his straight gray hair shone from +faithful brushing. He was almost aggressively clean. Even his blue eyes +had the appearance of having just been washed, like a spring day after a +shower. It was a frequent remark that he looked as if he had come out +of a bandbox; and one critic even went so far as to assert that on +Sundays he sandpapered his eyes and gave a little extra polish to his +bones. But these were calumnies; though to-day his suit of home-made +blue was quite speckless, and the checked gingham neckerchief, which +made his ordinary wear, still kept its stiff, starched creases. + +"Dirt don't stick to _you_, Mr. Oldfield," once said a seeking widow. +"Your washing can't be much. I guess anybody 'd be glad to undertake it +for you." Mr. Oldfield nodded gravely, as one receiving the tribute +which was justly his, and continued to do his washing himself. + +As he walked the dusty road, bearing his little bag, so he had walked it +for years, sometimes within a few miles of home, and again at the +extreme limit of the county edge. The clocks of the region were all his +clients, some regarded with compassion ("ramshackle things" that needed +perpetual tinkering) and others with a holy awe. "The only thing +Nicholas Oldfield bows the knee before is a double-back-action clock a +thousand years old," said Brad Freeman, the regardless. "That's how he +reads Ancient of Days." The justice of the remark was acknowledged, +though, as touching Mr. Oldfield, it was felt to be striking rather too +keenly at the root of things. For Nicholas Oldfield was looked upon +with a respect not so much inspired by his outward circumstances as by +his method of taking them. There are, indeed, ways and ways among us who +serve the public. When Tom O'Neil went round peddling essences, children +saw him from afar, ran to meet him, and, falling on his pack, besought +him for "two-three-drops-o'-c'logne" with such fervor that the mothers +had to haul them off by main force, in order themselves to approach his +redolence; but when the clock-mender appeared, with his little bag, +propriety walked before him, and the naughtiest scion of the flock would +come soberly in, to announce:-- + +"Mother, here's Mr. Oldfield." + +It is true that this little old man did exemplify the dignity and +restraint of life to such a degree that, had it not been for his one +colossal weakness, the town might have condemned him, in good old +Athenian fashion. Clock-mending was a legitimate industry; but there +were those who felt it to be, in his case, a mere pretext for nosing +round and identifying ridiculous old things which nobody prized until +Nicholas Oldfield told them it was conformable so to do. Some believed +him and some did not; but it was known that a MacDonough's Victory +tea-set drove him to an almost outspoken rapture, and that the mere +mention of the Bay Psalm Book (a copy of which he sought with the +haggard fervor of one who worships but has ceased to hope) was enough +to make him "wild as a hawk." Old papers, too, drew him by their very +mildew; and when his townsfolk were in danger of respecting him too +tediously, they recalled these amiable puerilities, drew a breath of +relief, and marked his value down. + +Many facts in his life were not in the least understood, because he +never saw the possibility of talking about them. For example, when at +the marriage of his son, Young Nick, he made over the farm, and kept his +own residence in the little gambrel-roofed house where he had been born, +and his father and grandfather before him, the act was, for a time, +regarded somewhat gloomily by the public at large. There were Young Nick +and his Hattie, living in the big new house, with its spacious piazza +and cool green blinds; there the two daughters were born and bred, and +the elder of them was married. The new house had its hired girl and man; +and meantime the other Nicholas (nobody ever dreamed of calling him Old +Nick) was cooking his own meals, and even, of a Saturday, scouring his +kitchen floor. It was easy to see in him the pathetic symbol of a bygone +generation relegated to the past. A little wave of sympathy crept to his +very feet, and then, finding itself unnoted, ebbed away again. Only one +village censor dared speak, saying slyly to Young Nick's Hattie:-- + +"Ain't no room for grandpa in the new house, is there?" + +Hattie opened her eyes wide at this discovery, though now she realized +that echoes of a like benevolence had reached her ears before. She went +home very early from the quilting, and that night she said to her +husband, as they sat on the doorstone, waiting for the milk to cool:-- + +"Nicholas, little things I've got hold of, first an' last, make me +conclude folks pity father. Do you s'pose they do?" + +Young Nick selected a fat plantain spike, and began stripping the seeds. + +"Well, I dunno what for," said he, after consideration. "Father seems to +be pretty rugged." + +Hattie was one of those who find no quicker remedy than that of +plentiful speech; and later in the evening, she sped over to the little +house, across the dewy orchard. Mr. Oldfield had come home only that +afternoon, and now he had drawn up at his kitchen table, which was +covered by a hand-woven cloth, beautifully ironed, and set with +old-fashioned dishes. He had hot biscuits and apple-pie, and the odor of +them rose soothingly to Hattie's nostrils, dissipating, for a moment, +her consciousness of tragedy and wrong. A man could not be quite forlorn +who cooked such "victuals," and sat before them so serenely. + +"See here, father," said she, with the desperation of speaking her mind +for the first time to one from whom she had hitherto kept awesomely +remote; "when we moved into the new house, I dunno's there was any talk +about your comin', too. I guess it never entered into our heads you'd do +anything but to stick to the old place. An' now, after it's all past an' +gone, the neighbors say"-- + +Nicholas Oldfield had been smiling his slight, dry smile. At this point, +he took up a knife, and cut a careful triangle of pie. He did all these +things as if each one were very important. + +"Here, Hattie," said he, "you taste o' this dried apple. I put a mite o' +lemon in." + +Hattie, somehow abashed by the mental impact of the little man, ate her +pie meekly, and thenceforth waived the larger issue. All the same, she +knew the neighbors "pitied father," and that they would continue to pity +him so long as he lived alone in the little peaceful house, doing his +own washing and making his own pie. + +To-night was a duplication of many another when Nicholas Oldfield had +turned the corner and come in sight of his own home; but often as it had +been repeated, the experience was never the same. Some would have named +his springing emotion delight; but it neither quickened his pace nor +made him draw his breath the faster. Perhaps he even walked a little +more slowly, to enjoy the taste, for he was a saving man. There was the +little house, white as paint could make it, and snug in bowering +foliage. He noted, with an approving eye, that the dahlias in the front +yard, set in stiff nodding rows, were holding their own bravely against +the dry fall weather, and that the asters were blooming profusely, +purple and pink. A rare softness came over his features when he stepped +into the yard; and though he examined the roof critically in passing, it +was with the eye of love. He fitted the key in the lock; the sound of +its turning made music in his ears, and, setting his foot upon the sill, +he was a man for whom that little was enough. Nicholas Oldfield was at +home. + +He laid down his bag, and went, without an instant's pause, straight +through to the sitting-room, and stood before the tall eight-day clock. +He put his hand on the woodwork, as if it might have been the shoulder +of a friend, and looked up understandingly in its face. + +"Well, here we be," said he. "You'd ha' hil' out till mornin', though." + +For wherever he might travel, he always made it a point to be home in +time to wind the clocks; and however early he might hurry away again, +under stress of some antiquarian impulse, they were left alive and +pulsing behind him. There was one in each room, besides the tall +eight-day in the parlor, and they were all soft-voiced and leisurely, +reminiscent of another age than ours. Though three of them had been +inherited, it almost seemed as if Nicholas must have selected the entire +company, so harmonious were they, so serenely fitted to the calm decorum +of his own desires. + +In half an hour he had accomplished many things, and his fire sent a +spiral breath toward heaven. The dark old kitchen lay open, door and +window, to the still opulent sun, and from the pantry and a corner +cupboard came gleams of color, to delight the eye. Here were riches, +indeed: old India china, an unbroken set of Sheltered Peasant, and, on +the top shelf, little mugs and cups of a pink lustre, soft and sweet as +flowers. Many a collector had wooed Nicholas Oldfield to part with his +china (for the fame of it had spread afar,) but his only response to +solicitation was to open the doors more widely on his treasures, +remarking, without emphasis:-- + +"I guess they might as well stay where they be." + +So passive was he, that many among merchants judged they had impressed +him, and returned again and again to the charge; but when they found +always the same imperturbable front, the same mild neutrality of +demeanor, they melted sadly away, and were seen no more, leaving their +places to be taken by others equally hopeful and as sure to be betrayed. + +One creature only was capable of rousing Nicholas Oldfield from that +calm wherein he went ticking on through life. She it was who, by some +natal likeness, understood him wholly; and to-night, just as he was +sitting down to his supper of "cream o' tartar" biscuits and smoking +tea, her clear voice broke upon his solitude. + +"Gran'ther," called Mary Oldfield from the door, "mother says, 'Won't +you come over to supper?' She saw your smoke." + +Nicholas pushed back his chair a little; he felt himself completed. + +"You had yours?" he asked, in his usual even tones. + +"No. I waited for you." + +"Then you come right in an' git it. Take your mug--here, I'll reach it +down for ye--an' there's the Good-Girl plate." + +Mary Oldfield was a tall, pleasant looking maid of sixteen, and standing +quietly by, while her grandfather got out her own plate and mug, she was +an amazingly faithful copy of him. They smiled a little at each other, +in sitting down, but there was no closer greeting between them. They +were exceedingly well content to be together again, and this was so +simple and natural a state that there was nothing to say about it. Only +Nicholas looked at her from time to time--her capable brown hands and +careful braids of hair,--and nodded briefly, as he had a way of nodding +at his clocks. + +"You know what I told you, Mary, about the Flat-Iron Lot?" he asked, +while Mary buttered her biscuit. + +She looked at him in assent. + +"Well, I've proved it." + +"You don't say!" + +Mary had certain antique methods of speech, which the new-fangled school +teacher, not liking to pronounce them vulgar, had tactfully dubbed +"obsolete." "If we used 'em all the time they wouldn't get obsolete, +would they?" asked Mary; and the school teacher, being a logical person, +made no answer. So Mary went on plying them with a conscientious +calmness like one determined to keep a precious and misprized metal in +circulation. She even called Nicholas gran'ther, because he liked it, +and because he had called his own grandfather so. + +"Ye see," said Nicholas, "the fust rec'ids were missin'. 'Burnt up!' +says that town clerk over to Sudleigh. 'Burnt when the old meetin'-house +ketched fire, arter the Injun raid.' 'Burnt up!' thinks I. 'The cat's +foot! I guess so, when the communion service was carried over fifteen +mile an' left in a potato sullar.' So I says to myself, 'What become o' +that fust communion set?' Why, before the meetin'-house was repaired, +they all rode over to what's now Saltash, to worship in Square +Billin's's kitchen. Now, when Square Billin's died of a fever, that same +winter, they hove all his books into that old lumber-room over Sudleigh +court-house. So, when I was fixin' up the court-house clock, t' other +day, I clim' up to that room, an' shet myself in there. An', Mary, I +found them rec'ids!" He looked at her with that complete and +awe-stricken triumph which nobody else had ever seen upon his face. Her +own reflected it. + +"Where are they, gran'ther?" asked Mary. But she was the more excited; +she could only whisper. + +"They're loose sheets o' paper," returned Nicholas, "an' _they're in my +bag_!" + +Mary made an involuntary movement toward the bag, which lay, innocently +secretive, on a neighboring chair. Even its advertising legend had a +knowing look. Nicholas followed her glance. + +"No," said he firmly, "not now. We'll read 'em all over this evenin', +when I've done the dishes. But, Mary, I'll tell ye this much: it's got +the whole story of the settlers comin' into town, an' which way they +come, an' all about it, writ down by Simeon Gerry, the fust minister, +the one that killed five Injuns, stoppin' to load an' fire, an' then +opened on the rest with bilin' fat. An', Mary, the fust settler of all +was Nicholas Oldfield, haulin' his wife on a kind of a drag made o' +withes; an' the path they took led straight over our Flat-Iron Lot. An', +Mary, 't was there they rested, an' offered up prayer to God." + +"O my soul, gran'ther!" breathed Mary, clasping her little brown hands. +"O my soul!" Her face grew curiously mature. It seemed to mirror his. +She leaned forward, in a deadly earnestness. "Gran'ther," said she, "did +they settle here first? Or--or was it Sudleigh?" + +Now, indeed, was Nicholas Oldfield the herald of news good both to tell +and hear. + +"The fust settlement," said he, as if he read it from the book of fate, +"was made in Tiverton, on the sixteenth day of the month; the second in +Sudleigh, on the twenty-fifth." + +"So, when you guessed at the date, and told parson to have the +celebration then, you got it right?" + +"I got it right," replied Nicholas quietly. "But pa'son shall see the +rec'ids, an' I'll recommend him to put 'em under lock an' key." + +The two sat there and looked at each other, with an outwelling of great +content. Then Mary passed her mug, and while Nicholas filled it, he gave +her an oft-repeated charge:-- + +"Don't you open your head now, Mary. All this is between you an' me. +I'll just mention it to pa'son, an' make up my mind whether he sees the +meanin' on 't. But don't you say one word to your father an' mother. To +them it don't signify." + +Mary nodded wisely. She knew, with the philosophy of a much older +experience, that she and gran'ther lived alone in a nest of kindly +aliens. As if their mention evoked a foreign presence, her mother's +voice sounded that instant from the door:-- + +"Mary, why under the sun didn't you come back? I sent word for you to +run over with her, father, an' have some supper. Well, if you two ain't +thick!" + +"We're havin' a dish o' discourse," returned Nicholas quietly. + +Young Nick's Hattie was forty-five, but she looked much younger. Extreme +plumpness had insured her against wrinkles, and her light brown hair was +banded smoothly back. Hattie's originality lay in a desire for color, +and therein she overstepped the bounds of all decorum. It was customary +to see her barred across with enormous plaids, or stripes going the +broad way; and so long had she lived under such insignia that no one +would have known her without them. She came in with soft, heavy +footfalls, and sat down in the little rocking-chair at Mr. Oldfield's +right hand. She smiled at him, somewhat nervously. + +"Well, father," said she, "you got home!" + +Nicholas helped himself to another half cup of tea, after holding the +teapot tentatively across to Mary's mug. + +"Yes," he answered, in his dry and gentle fashion, "I've got home." + +Hattie began rocking, in a rapid staccato, to punctuate her speech. + +"Well," she began, "I'll say my say an' done with it. There's goin' to +be a town-meetin' to-night, an' Nicholas sent me over to mention it. +'Father'll want to be on hand,' says he." + +Mr. Oldfield pushed back his cup, and then his chair. He bent his keen +blue eyes upon her. + +"Town meetin' this time o' year?" said he. "What for?" + +"Oh, it's about the celebration. Old Mr. Eaton"-- + +"What Eaton?" + +"William W." + +"He that went away in war time, an' made money in wool? Old War-Wool +Eaton?" + +Nicholas nodded, at her assent, and his look blackened. He knew what was +coming. + +"Well, he sent word he meant to give us a clock, same as he had other +towns, an' he wanted we should have it up before the celebration." + +"Yes," said Nicholas Oldfield, "he'll give us a clock, will he? I knew +he would. I've said 'twas comin'. He give one to Saltash; he's gi'n 'em +all over the county. Do you know what them clocks be? They've got +letters round the dial, in place o' figgers; an' the letters spell out, +'In Memory of Me.' An' down to Saltash they've gi'n up sayin' it's +quarter arter twelve, or the like o' that. They say it's O minutes past +I." + +He glared at her. Young Nick's Hattie thought she had never heard father +speak with such bitterness; and indeed it was true. Never before had he +been assailed on his own ground; it seemed as if the whole township now +conspired to bait him. + +"Well" she remarked weakly, "I dunno's it does any hurt, so long as they +can tell what they mean by it." + +Nicholas threw her a pitying glance. He scorned to waste eternal truth +on one so dull. + +"Well," she went on, in desperation, "that ain't all, neither. I might +as well say the whole, an' done with it. He wants 'em to set up the +clock on the meetin'-house; an' seeing the tower mightn't be firm +enough, he'll build it up higher, an' give 'em a new bell." + +Now, indeed, Nicholas Oldfield was in the case of Shylock, when he +learned his daughter's limit of larceny. "The curse never fell upon our +nation till now," so he might have quoted. "I never felt it till now." + +He rose from his chair. + +"In the name of God Almighty," he asked solemnly, "what do they want of +a new bell?" + +Young Nick's Hattie gave an involuntary cry. + +"O father!" she entreated, "don't say such words. I never see you take +on so. What under the sun has got into you?" + +Nicholas made no reply. Slowly and methodically he was putting the +dishes into the wooden sink. When he touched Mary's pink mug, his +fingers trembled a little; but he did not look at her. He knew she +understood. Young Nick's Hattie rolled her hands nervously in her apron, +and then unrolled them, and smoothed the apron down. She gathered +herself desperately. + +"Well, father," she said, "I've got another arrant. I said I'd do it, +an' I will; but I dunno how you'll take it." + +"O mother!" cried Mary, "don't!" + +"What is it?" asked Nicholas, folding the tablecloth in careful creases. +"Say your say an' git it over." + +Hattie rocked faster and faster. Even in the stress of the moment +Nicholas remembered that the old chair was well made, and true to its +equilibrium. + +"Well," said she, "Luella an' Freeman Henry come over here this very +day, an' Freeman Henry's possessed you should sell him the Flat-Iron +Lot." + +"Wants the Flat-Iron Lot, does he?" inquired Nicholas grimly. "What's he +made up his mind to do with it?" + +"He wants to build," answered Hattie, momentarily encouraged. "He says +he'll be glad to ride over to work, every mornin' of his life, if he can +only feel 't he's settled in Tiverton for good. An' there's that lot on +high ground, right near the meetin'-house, as sightly a place as ever +was, an' no good to you,--there ain't half a load o' hay cut there in a +season,--an' he'd pay the full vally"-- + +"Stop!" called Nicholas; and though his tone was conversational, Hattie +paused, open-mouthed, in full swing. He turned and faced her. "Hattie," +said he, "did you know that the fust settlers of this town had anything +to do with that lot o' land?" + +"No, I didn't know it," answered Hattie blankly. + +"I guess you didn't," concurred Nicholas. He had gone back to his old +gentleness of voice. "An' 't wouldn't ha' meant nothin' to ye, if ye had +known it. Now, you harken to me! It's my last word. That Flat-Iron Lot +stays under this name so long as I'm above ground. When I'm gone, you +can do as ye like. Now, I don't want to hurry ye, but I'm goin' down to +vote." + +Hattie rose, abashed and nearly terrified. "Well!" said she vacantly. +"Well!" Nicholas had taken the broom, under pretext of brushing up the +crumbs, and he seemed literally to be sweeping her away. It was a wind +of destiny; and scudding softly and heavily before it, she disappeared +in the gathering dusk. + +"Mary!" she called from the gate, "Mary! Guess you better come along +with me." + +Mary did not hear. She was standing by Nicholas, holding the edge of his +sleeve. The unaccustomed action was significant; it bespoke a passionate +loyalty. Her blue eyes were on fire, and two hot tears stood in them, +unstanched. "O gran'ther!" she cried, "don't you let 'em have it. I wish +I was father. I'd see!" + +Nicholas Oldfield stood quite still, obedient to that touch upon his +arm. + +"It's the name, Mary," said he. "Why, Freeman Henry's a Titcomb! He +can't help that. But he needn't think he can buy Oldfield land, an' set +up a house there, as if 't was all in the day's work. Why, Mary, I meant +to leave that land to you! An' p'raps you won't marry. Nobody knows. +Then, 't would stand in the name a mite longer." + +Mary blushed a little, but her eyes never wavered. + +"No, gran'ther," said she firmly, "I sha'n't ever marry anybody." + +"Well, ye can't tell," responded Nicholas, with a sigh. "Ye can't tell. +He might take your name if he wanted ye enough; but I should call it a +poor tool that would do that." + +He sighed again, as he reached for his hat, and Mary and he went out of +the house together, hand in hand. At the gate they parted, and Nicholas +took his way to the schoolhouse, where the town fathers were already +assembled. + +Since he passed over it that afternoon, the road had changed, responsive +to twilight and the coming dark. Nicholas knew it in all its phases, +from the dawn of spring, vocal with the peeping of frogs, to the revery +of winter, the silence of snow, and a hopeful glow in the west. Just +here, by the barberry bush at the corner, he had stood still under the +spell of Northern Lights. That was the night when his wife lay first in +Tiverton churchyard; and he remembered, as a part of the strangeness and +wonder of the time, how the north had streamed, and the neighboring +houses had been rosy red. But at this hour of the brooding, sultry fall, +there was a bitter fragrance in the air, and the world seemed tuned to +the somnolent sound of crickets, singing the fields to sleep. That one +little note brooded over the earth, and all the living things upon it: +hovering, and crooning, and lulling them to the rest decreed from of +old. The homely beauty of it smote upon him, though it could not cheer. +A hideous progress seemed to threaten, not alone the few details it +touched, but all the sweet, familiar things of life. Old War-Wool +Eaton, in assailing the town's historic peace, menaced also the crickets +and the breath of asters in the air. He was the rampant spirit of an +awful change. So, in the bitterness of revolt, Nicholas Oldfield marched +on, and stepped silently into the little schoolhouse, to meet his +fellows. They were standing about in groups, each laying down the law +according to his kind. The doors were wide open, and Nicholas felt as if +he had brought in with him the sounds of coming night. They kept him +sane, so that he could hold his own, as he might not have done in a room +full of winter brightness. + +"Hullo!" cried Caleb Rivers, in his neutral voice. "Here's Mr. Oldfield. +Well, Mr. Oldfield, there's a good deal on hand." + +"Called any votes?" asked Nicholas. + +"Well, no," said Caleb, scraping his chin. "I guess we're sort o' takin' +the sense o' the meetin'." + +"Good deal like a quiltin' so fur," remarked Brad Freeman indulgently. +"All gab an' no git there!" + +"They tell me," said Uncle Eli Pike, approaching Nicholas as if he had +something to confide, "that out west, where they have them new-fangled +clocks, they're all lighted up with 'lectricity." + +"Do they so?" asked Caleb, but Nicholas returned, with an unwonted +fierceness:-- + +"Does that go to the right spot with you? Do you want to see a +clock-face starin' over Tiverton, like a full moon, chargin' ye to keep +Old War-Wool Eaton in memory?" + +"Well, no," replied Eli gently, "I dunno's I do, an' I dunno _but_ I +do." + +"Might set a lantern back o' the dial, an' take turns lightin' on 't," +suggested Brad Freeman. + +"Might carve out a jack-o'-lantern like Old Eaton's face," supplemented +Tom O'Neil irreverently. + +"Well," concluded Rivers, "I guess, when all's said and done, we might +as well take the clock, an' bell, too. When a man makes a fair offer, +it's no more'n civil to close with it. Ye can't rightly heave it back +ag'in." + +"My argyment is," put in Ebenezer Tolman, who knew how to lay dollar by +dollar, "if he's willin' to do one thing for the town, he's willin' to +do another. S'pose he offered us a new brick meetin'-house--or a fancy +gate to the cemet'ry! Or s'pose he had it in mind to fill in that low +land, so 't we could bury there! Why, he could bring the town right up! +Or, take it t' other way round; he could put every dollar he's got into +Sudleigh." + +Nicholas Oldfield groaned, but in the stress of voices no one heard him. +He slipped about from one group to another, and always the sentiment was +the same. A few smiled at Old War-Wool Eaton, who desired so urgently +to be remembered, when no one was likely to forget him; but all agreed +that it was, at the worst, a harmless and natural folly. + +"Let him be remembered," said one, with a large impartiality. "'T won't +do us no hurt, an' we shall have the clock an' bell." + +Just as the meeting was called to order, Nicholas Oldfield stole away, +and no one missed him. The proceedings began with some animated +discussion, all tending one way. Cupidity had entered into the public +soul, and everybody professed himself willing to take the clock, lest, +by refusing, some golden future should be marred. Let Old Eaton have his +way, if thereby they might beguile him into paving theirs. Let the town +grow. Talk was very full and free; but when the moment came for taking a +vote, an unexpected sound broke roundly on the air. It was the bell of +the old church. One! it tolled. Each man looked at his neighbor. Had +death entered the village, and they unaware? Two! three! it went +solemnly on, the mellow cadence scarcely dying before another stroke +renewed it. The sexton was Simeon Pease, a little red-headed man, a +hunchback, abnormally strong. Suddenly he rose in amazement. His face +looked ashen. + +"Suthin's tollin' the bell!" he gasped. "The bell's a-tollin' an' _I +ain't there_!" + +A new element of mystery and terror sprang to life. + +"The sax'on's here!" whispered one and another. But nobody stirred, for +nobody would lose count. Twenty-three! the dead was young. Twenty-four! +and so it marched and marched, to thirty and thirty-five. They looked +about them, taking a swift inventory of familiar faces, and more than +one man felt a tightening about his heart, at thought of the women-folk +at home. The record climbed to middle-age, and tolled majestically +beyond it, like a life ripening to victorious close. Sixty! seventy! +eighty-one! + +"It ain't Pa'son True!" whispered an awe-struck voice. + +Then on it beat, to the completed century. + +The women of Tiverton, in afterwards weighing the immobility of their +public representatives under this mysterious clangor, dwelt upon the +fact with scorn. + +"Well, I should think you was smart!" cried sundry of them in turn. "Set +there like a bump on a log, an' wonder what's the matter! Never heard of +anything so numb in all my born days. If I was a man, I guess I'd see!" + +It was Brad Freeman who broke the spell, with a sudden thought and +cry,-- + +"By thunder! maybe's suthin's afire!" + +He leaped to his feet, and with long, loping strides made his way up +the hill to Tiverton church. The men, in one excited, surging rabble, +followed him. The women were before them. They, too, had heard the +tolling for the unknown dead, and had climbed a quicker way, leaving +fire and cradle behind. At the very moment when they were pressing, men +and women, to the open church door, the last lingering clang had ceased, +the bell lay humming itself to rest, and Nicholas Oldfield strode out +and faced them. By this time, factions had broken up, and each woman +instinctively sought her husband's side, assuring herself of protection +against the unresting things of the spirit. Young Nick's Hattie found +her lawful ally, with the rest. + +"My soul!" said she in a whisper, "it's father!" + +Nicholas touched her arm in warning, and stood silent. He felt that the +waters were troubled, as he had known them to be once or twice in his +boyhood. + +"He's got his mad up," remarked Young Nick to himself. "Stan' from +under!" + +Nicholas strode through the crowd, and it separated to let him pass. +There was about him at that moment an amazing physical energy, apparent +even in the dark. He seemed a different man, and one woman whispered to +another, "Why, that can't be Mr. Oldfield! It's a head taller." + +He walked across the green, and the crowd turned also, to follow him. +There, just opposite the church, lay his own Flat-Iron Lot, and he +stepped into it, over the low stone boundary, and turned about. + +"Don't ye come no nearer," called he. "This is my land. Don't ye set +foot on it." + +The Flat-Iron Lot was a triangular piece of ground, rich in drooping +elms, and otherwise varied only by a great boulder looming up within the +wall nearest the church. Nicholas paused for a moment where he was; then +with a thought of being the better heard, he turned, ran up the rough +side of the boulder, and faced his fellows. As he stood there, illumined +by the rising moon, he seemed colossal. + +"He'll break his infernal old neck!" said Brad Freeman admiringly. But +no one answered, for Nicholas Oldfield had begun to speak. + +"Don't ye set foot on my land!" he repeated. "Ye ain't wuth it. Do you +know what this land is? It belonged to a man that settled in a place +that knows enough to celebrate its foundin', but don't know enough to +prize what's fell to it. Do you know what I was doin' of, when I tolled +that bell? I'll tell ye. I tolled a hunderd an' ten strokes. That's the +age of the bell you're goin' to throw aside to flatter up a man that +made money out o' the war. A hunderd an' twelve years ago that bell was +cast in England; a hunderd an' ten years ago 't was sent over here." + +"Now, how's father know that?" whispered Hattie disparagingly. + +"I've cast my vote. Them hunderd an' ten strokes is all the voice I'll +have in the matter, or any matter, so long as I live in this +God-forsaken town. I'd ruther die than talk over a thing like that in +open meetin'. It's an insult to them that went before ye, an' fit hunger +and cold an' Injuns. I've got only one thing more to say," he continued, +and some fancied there came a little break in his voice. "When ye take +the old bell down, send her out to sea, an' sink her; or bury her deep +enough in the woods, so 't nobody'll git at her till the Judgment Day." + +With one descending step, he seemed to melt away into the darkness; and +though every one stood quite still, expectant, there was no sound, save +that of the crickets and the night. He had gone, and left them +trembling. Well as they knew him, he had all the effect of some strange +herald, freighted with wisdom from another sphere. + +"Well, I swear!" said Brad Freeman, at length, and as if a word could +shiver the spell, men and woman turned silently about and went down the +hill. When they reached a lower plane, they stopped to talk a little, +and once indoors, discussion had its way. Young Nick and Hattie had +walked side by side, feeling that the eyes of the town were on them, +reading their emblazoned names. But Mary marched behind them, solemnly +and alone. She held her head very high, knowing what her kinsfolk +thought: that gran'ther had disgraced them. A passionate protest rose +within her. + +That night, everybody watched the old house in the shade of the poplars, +to see if Nicholas had "lighted up." But the windows lay dark, and +little Mary, slipping over across the orchard, when her mother thought +her safe in bed, tried the door in vain. She pushed at it wildly, and +then ran round to the front, charging against the sentinel hollyhocks, +and letting the knocker fall with a desperate and repeated clang. The +noise she had herself evoked frightened her more than the stillness, and +she fled home again, crying softly, and pursued by all the unresponsive +presences of night. + +For weeks Tiverton lay in a state of hushed expectancy; one miracle +seemed to promise another. But Nicholas Oldfield's house was really +closed; the windows shone blankly at men and women who passed, +interrogating it. Young Nick and his Hattie had nothing to say, after +Hattie's one unguarded admission that she didn't know what possessed +father. The village felt that it had been arraigned before some high +tribunal, only to be found lacking. It had an irritated conviction that, +meaning no harm, it should not have been dealt with so harshly; and was +even moved to declare that, if Nicholas Oldfield knew so much about what +was past and gone, he needn't have waited till the trump o' doom to say +so. But, somehow, the affair of clock and bell could not be at once +revived, and a vague letter was dispatched to the prospective donor +stating that, in regard to his generous offer, no decision could at the +moment be reached; the town was too busy in preparing for its +celebration, which would take place in something over two weeks; after +that the question would be considered. The truth was that, at the bottom +of each heart, still lurked the natural cupidity of the loyal citizen +who will not see his town denied; but side by side with that desire for +the march of progress, walked the spectre of Nicholas Oldfield's wrath. +The trembling consciousness prevailed that he might at any moment +descend again, wrapped in that inexplicable atmosphere of loftier +meanings. + +Still, Tiverton was glad to put the question by, for she had enough to +do. The celebration knocked at the door, and no one was ready. Only Brad +Freeman, always behindhand, save at some momentary exigency of rod or +gun, was fulfilling the prophecy that the last shall be first. For he +had, out of the spontaneity of genius, elected to do one deed for that +great day, and his work was all but accomplished. In public conclave +assembled to discuss the parade, he had offered to make an elephant, to +lead the van. Tiverton roared, and then, finding him gravely silent, +remained, with gaping mouth, to hear his story. It seemed, then, that +Brad had always cherished one dear ambition. He would fain fashion an +elephant; and having never heard of Frankenstein, he lacked anticipation +of the dramatic finale likely to attend a meddling with the creative +powers. He did not confess, save once to his own wife, how many nights +he had lain awake, in their little dark bedroom, planning the anatomy of +the eastern lord; he simply said that he "wanted to make the critter," +and he thought he could do it. Immediately the town gave him to +understand that he had full power to draw upon the public treasury, to +the extent of one elephant; and the youth, who always flocked adoringly +about him, intimated that they were with him, heart and soul. Thereupon, +in Eli Pike's barn, selected as of goodly size, creation reveled, the +while a couple of men, chosen for their true eye and practiced hand, +went into the woods, and chopped down two beautiful slender trees for +tusks. For many a day now, the atmosphere of sacred art had hung about +that barn. Brad was a maker, and everybody felt it. Fired by no +tradition of the horse that went to the undoing of Troy, and with no +plan before him, he set his framework together, nailing with unerring +hand. Did he need a design, he who had brooded over his bliss these many +months when Tiverton thought he was "jest lazin' round?" Nay, it was to +be "all wrought out of the carver's brain," and the brain was ready. + +Often have I wished some worthy chronicler had been at hand when +Tiverton sat by at the making of the elephant; and then again I have +realized that, though the atmosphere was highly charged, it may have +been void of homely talk. For this was a serious moment, and even when +Brad gave sandpaper and glass into the hands of Lothrop Wilson, the +cooper, bidding him smooth and polish the tusks, there was no jealousy: +only a solemn sense that Mr. Wilson had been greatly favored. Brad's +wife sewed together a dark slate-colored cambric, for the elephant's +hide, and wet and wrinkled it, as her husband bade her, for the +shambling shoulders and flanks. It was she who made the ears, from a +pattern cunningly conceived; and she stuffed the legs with fine shavings +brought from the planing-mill at Sudleigh. Then there came an +intoxicating day when the trunk took shape, the glass-bottle eyes were +inserted, and Brad sprung upon a breathless world his one surprise. +Between the creature's fore-legs, he disclosed an opening, saying +meantime to the smallest Crane boy,-- + +"You crawl up there!" + +The Crane boy was not valiant, but he reasoned that it was better to +seek an unguessed fate within the elephant than to refuse immortal +glory. Trembling, he crept into the hole, and was eclipsed. + +"Now put your hand up an' grip that rope that's hangin' there," +commanded Brad. Perhaps he, too, trembled a little. The heart beats fast +when we approach a great fruition. + +"Pull it! Easy, now! easy!" + +The boy pulled, and the elephant moved his trunk. He stretched it out, +he drew it in. Never was such a miracle before. And Tiverton, drunk with +glory, clapped and shouted until the women-folk clutched their +sunbonnets and ran to see. No situation since the war had ever excited +such ferment. Brad was the hero of his town. But now arose a natural +rivalry, the reaction from great, impersonal joy in noble work. What +lad, on that final day, should ride within the elephant, and move his +trunk? The Crane boy contended passionately that he held the right of +possession. Had he not been selected first? Others wept at home and +argued the case abroad, until it became a common thing to see two young +scions of Tiverton grappling in dusty roadways, or stoning each other +from afar. The public accommodated itself to such spectacles, and +grown-up relatives, when they came upon little sons rolling over and +over, or sitting triumphantly, the one upon another's chest, would only +remark, as they gripped two shirt collars, and dragged the combatants +apart:-- + +"Now, what do you want to act so for? Brad'll pick out the one he thinks +best. He's got the say." + +In vain did mothers argue, at twilight time, when the little dusty legs +in overalls were still, and stubbed toes did their last wriggling for +the day, that the boy who moved the trunk could not possibly see the +rest of the procession. The candidates, to a boy, rejected that specious +plea. + +"What do I want to see anything for, if I can jest set inside that +elephant?" sobbed the Crane boy angrily. And under every roof the wail +was repeated in many keys. + +Meantime, the log cabin had been going steadily up, and a week before +the great day, it was completed. This was a typical scene-setting,--the +cabin of a first settler,--and through one wild leap of fancy it became +suddenly and dramatically dignified. + +"For the land's sake!" said aunt Lucindy, when she went by and saw it +standing, in modest worth, "ain't they goin' to _do_ anythin' with it? +Jest let it set there? Why under the sun don't they have a party of +Injuns tackle it?" + +The woman who heard repeated the remark as a sample of aunt Lucindy's +desire to have everything "all of a whew;" but when it came to the ears +of a certain young man who had sat brooding, in silent emulation, over +the birth of the elephant, he rose, with fire in his eye, and went to +seek his mates. Indians there should be, and he, by right of first +desire, should become their leader. Thereupon, turkey feathers came into +great demand, and wattled fowl, once glorious, went drooping dejectedly +about, while maidens sat in doorways sewing wampum and leggings for +their favored swains. The first rehearsal of this aboriginal drama was +not an entire success, because the leader, being unimaginative though +faithful, decreed that faces should be blackened with burnt cork; and +the result was a tribe of the African race, greatly astonished at their +own appearance in the family mirror. Then the doctor suggested walnut +juice, and all went conformably again. But each man wanted to be an +Indian, and no one professed himself willing to suffer the attack. + +"I'll stay in the cabin, if I can shoot, an' drop a redskin every time," +said Dana Marden stubbornly; but no redskin would consent to be dropped, +and naturally no settler could yield. It would ill befit that glorious +day to see the log cabin taken; but, on the other hand, what loyal +citizen could allow himself to be defeated, even as a skulking redman, +at the very hour of Tiverton's triumph? For a time a peaceful solution +was promised by the doctor, who proposed that a party of settlers on +horseback should come to the rescue, just when a settler's wife, within +the cabin, was in danger of immolation. That seemed logical and right, +and for days thereafter young men on astonished farm horses went +sweeping down Tiverton Street, alternately pursuing and pursued, while +Isabel North, as Priscilla, the Puritan maiden, trembled realistically +at the cabin door. Just why she was to be Priscilla, a daughter of +Massachusetts, Isabel never knew; the name had struck the popular fancy, +and she made her costume accordingly. But one day, when young Tiverton +was galloping about the town, to the sound of ecstatic yells, a farmer +drew up his horse to inquire:-- + +"Now see here! there's one thing that's got to be settled. When the day +comes, who's goin' to beat?" + +An Indian, his face scarlet with much sound, and his later state not yet +apparent, in that his wampum, blanket, and horsehair wig lay at home, on +the best-room bed, made answer hoarsely, "We be!" + +"Not by a long chalk!" returned the other, and the settlers growled in +unison. They had all a patriot's pride in upholding white blood against +red. + +"Well, by gum! then you can look out for your own Injuns!" returned +their chief. "_My_ last gun's fired." + +Settlers and Indians turned sulkily about; they rode home in two +separate factions, and the streets were stilled. Isabel North went +faithfully on, making her Priscilla dress, but it seemed, in those days, +as if she might remain in her log cabin, unattacked and undefended. +Tiverton was to be deprived of its one dramatic spectacle. Young men met +one another in the streets, remarked gloomily, "How are ye?" and passed +by. There were no more curdling yells at which even the oxen lifted +their dull ears; and one youth went so far as to pack his Indian suit +sadly away in the garret, as a jilted girl might lay aside her wedding +gown. It was a sullen and all but universal feud. + +Now in all this time two prominent citizens had let public opinion riot +as it would,--the minister and the doctor. The minister, a grave-faced, +brown-bearded young man, had seen fit to get run down, and have an +attack of slow fever, from which he was just recovering; and the doctor +had been spending most of his time in Saltash, with an epidemic of +mumps. But the mumps subsided, and the minister gained strength; so, +being public-spirited men, these two at once concerned themselves in +village affairs. The first thing the minister did was to call on +Nicholas Oldfield, and Young Nick's Hattie saw him there, knocking at +the front door. + +"Mary! Mary!" cried she, "if there ain't the young pa'son over to your +grandpa's. I dunno when anybody's called there, he's away so much. Like +as not he's heard how father carried on that night, an' now he's got +out, he's come right over, first thing, to tell him what folks think." + +Mary looked up from the serpentine braid she was crocheting. + +"Well, I guess he'd better not," she threatened. And her mother, +absorbed by curiosity, contented herself with the reproof implied in a +shaken head and pursed-up lips. + +A sad and curious change had befallen Mary. She looked older. One week +had dimmed her brightness, and little puckers between her eyes were +telling a story of anxious care. For gran'ther had been home without her +seeing him. Mary felt as if he had repudiated the town. She knew well +that he had not abandoned her with it, but she could guess what the loss +of larger issues meant to him. Young Nick, if he had been in the habit +of expressing himself, would have said that father's mad was still up. +Mary knew he was grieved, and she grieved also. She had not expected him +until the end of the week. Then watching wistfully, she saw the +darkness come, and knew next day would bring him; but the next day it +was the same. One placid afternoon, a quick thought assailed her, and +stained her cheek with crimson. She laid down the sheet which was her +"stent" of over-edge, and ran with flying feet to the little house. +Hanging by her hands upon the sill of the window nearest the clock, she +laid her ear to the glass. The clock was ticking serenely, as of old. +Gran'ther had been home to wind it. So he had come in the night, and +slipped away again in silence! + + * * * * * + +"There! he's gi'n it up!" cried Hattie, still watching the minister. +"He's turnin' down the path. My land! he's headed this way. He's comin' +here. You beat up that cushion, an' throw open the best-room door. My +soul! if your grandpa's goin' to set the whole town by the ears, I wisht +he'd come home an' fight his own battles!" + +Hattie did not look at her young daughter; but if she had looked, she +might have been amazed. Mary stood firm as iron; she was more than ever +a chip o' the old block. + +When the young minister had somewhat weakly climbed the two front steps, +he elected not to sit in the best room, for he was a little chilly, and +would like the sun. Presently he was installed in the new cane-backed +rocker, and Mrs. Oldfield had offered him some currant wine. + +"Though I dunno's you would," said she, anxiously flaunting a principle +righteous as his own. "I s'pose you're teetotal." + +The minister would not have wine, and he could not stay. + +"I've really come on business," said he. "Do you know anything about Mr. +Oldfield?" + +So strong was the family conviction that Nicholas had involved them in +disgrace, that Mary glanced up fiercely, and her mother gave an +apologetic cough. + +"Well," said Young Nick's Hattie, "I dunno's I know anything particular +about father." + +"Where is he, I mean," asked the minister. "I want to see him. I've got +to." + +"Gran'ther's gone away," announced Mary, looking up at him with hot and +loyal eyes. "We don't know where." Her fingers trembled, and she lost +her stitch. She was furious with herself for not being calmer. It seemed +as if gran'ther had a right to demand it of her. The minister bent his +brows impatiently. + +"Why, I depended on seeing Mr. Oldfield," said he, with the +fractiousness of a man recently ill. "This sickness of mine has put me +back tremendously. I've got to make the address, and I don't know what +to say. I meant to read town records and hunt up old stories; and then +when I was sick I thought, 'Never mind! Mr. Oldfield will have it all at +his tongue's end.' And now he isn't here, and I'm all at sea without +him." + +This was perhaps the first time that Young Nick's Hattie had ever looked +upon her father's pursuits with anything but a pitying eye. A frown of +perplexity grew between her brows. Her brain ached in expanding. Mary +leaned forward, her face irradiated with pure delight. + +"Why, yes," said she, at once accepting the minister for a friend, +"gran'ther could tell you, if he was here. He knows everything." + +"You see," continued the minister, now addressing her, "there are facts +enough that are common talk about the town, but we only half know them. +The first settlers came from Devon. Well, where did they enter the town? +From which point? Sudleigh side, or along by the river? I incline to the +river. The doctor says it would be a fine symbolic thing to take the +procession up to the church by the very way the first settlers came in. +But where was it? I don't know, and nobody does, unless it's Nicholas +Oldfield." + +Mary folded her hands, in proud composure. + +"Yes, sir," said she, "gran'ther knows. He could tell you, if he was +here." + +"I should like to inquire what makes you so certain, Mary Oldfield," +asked her mother, with the natural irritation of the unprepared. "I +should like to know how father's got hold of things pa'son and doctor +ain't neither of 'em heard of?" + +"Why," said the minister, rising, "he's simply crammed with town +legends. He can repeat them by the yard. He's a local historian. But +then, I needn't tell you that; you know what an untiring student he has +been." And he went away thoughtful and discouraged, omitting, as Hattie +realized with awe, to offer prayer. + +Mary stepped joyously about, getting supper and singing "Hearken, Ye +Sprightly!" in an exultant voice; but her mother brooded. It was not +until dusk, when the three sat before the clock-room fire, "blazed" +rather for company than warmth, that Young Nick's Hattie opened her +mouth and spoke. + +"Mary," said she, "how'd you find out your grandpa was such great +shakes?" + +Mary was in some things much older than her mother. She answered +demurely, "I don't know as I can say." + +"Nick," continued Hattie, turning to her spouse, "did you ever hear your +father was smarter'n the minister an' doctor put together, so 't they +had to run round beseechin' him to tell 'em how to act?" + +Nicholas knocked his pipe against the andiron, and rose, to lay it +carefully on the shelf. "I can't say's I did," he returned. Then he set +forth for Eli Pike's barn, where it was customary now to stand about the +elephant and prophesy what Tiverton might become. As for Hattie, +realizing how little light she was likely to borrow from those who were +nearest and dearest her, she remarked that she should like to shake them +both. + +The next day began a new and exciting era. It was bruited abroad that +the presence of Nicholas Oldfield was necessary for the success of the +celebration; and now young men but lately engaged in unprofitable +warfare rode madly over the county in search of him. They inquired for +him at taverns; they sought him in farmhouses where he had been wont to +lodge. He gained almost the terrible notoriety of an absconding cashier; +and the current issue of the Sudleigh "Star" wore a flaming headline, +"No Trace of Mr. Oldfield Yet!" + +Mary at first waxed merry over the pursuit. She knew very well why +gran'ther was staying away; and her pride grew insolent at seeing him +sought in vain. But when his loss flared out at her in sacred print, she +stared for a moment, and then, after that wide-eyed, piteous glance at +the possibilities of things, walked with a firm tread to her little +room. There she knelt down, and buried her face in the bed, being +careful, meanwhile, not to rumple the valance. At last she knew the +truth; he was dead, and village gossip seemed a small thing in +comparison. + +It would have been difficult, as time went on, to convince the rest of +the township that Mr. Oldfield was not in a better world. + +"They'd ha' found him, if he's above ground," said the fathers, full of +faith in the detective instinct of their coursing sons. It seemed +incredible that sons should ride so fast and far, and come to nothing. +"Never was known to go out o' the county, an' they've rid over it from +one eend to t' other. Must ha' made way with himself. He wa'n't quite +right, that time he tolled the bell." + +They found ominous parallels of peddlers who had been murdered in +byways, or stuck in swamps, and even cited a Tivertonian, of low degree, +who was once caught beneath the chin by a clothes-line, and remained +there, under the impression that he was being hanged, until the family +came out in the morning, and tilted him the other way. + +"But then," they added, "he was a drinkin' man, an' Mr. Oldfield never +was known to touch a drop, even when he had a tight cold." + +Dark as the occasion waxed, what with feuds and presentiments of ill, +there was some casual comfort in rolling this new tragedy as a sweet +morsel under the tongue, and a mournful pleasure in referring to the +night when poor Mr. Oldfield was last seen alive. So time went on to +the very eve of the celebration, and it was as well that the celebration +had never been. For kindly as Tiverton proved herself, in the main, and +closely welded in union against rival towns, now it seemed as if the +hand of every man were raised against his brother. Settlers and Indians +were still implacable; neither would ride, save each might slay the +other. The Crane boy tossed in bed, swollen to the eyes with an evil +tooth; and his exulting mates so besieged Brad Freeman for preferment, +that even that philosopher's patience gave way, and he said he'd be +hanged if he'd take the elephant out at all, if there was going to be +such a to-do about it. Even the minister sulked, though he wore a +pretense of dignity; for he had concocted a short address with very +little history in it, and that all hearsay, and the doctor had said +lightly, looking it over, "Well, old man, not much of it, is there? But +there's enough of it, such as it is." + +It was in vain for the doctor to declare that this was a colloquialism +which might mean much or little, as you chose to take it. The minister, +justly hurt, remarked that, when a man was in a tight place, he needed +the support of his friends, if he had any; and the doctor went whistling +drearily away, conscious that he could have said much worse about the +address, without doing it justice. + +The only earthly circumstance which seemed to be fulfilling its duty +toward Tiverton was the weather. That shone seraphically bright. The air +was never so soft, the skies were never so clear and far, and they were +looking down indulgently on all this earthly turmoil when, something +before midnight, on the fateful eve, Nicholas Oldfield went up the path +to his side-door, and stumbled over despairing Mary on the step. + +"What under the heavens"--he began; but Mary precipitated herself upon +him, and held him with both hands. The moral tension, which had held her +hopeless and rigid, gave way. She was sobbing wildly. + +"O gran'ther!" she moaned, over and over again. "O gran'ther!" + +Nicholas managed somehow to get the door open and walk in, hampered as +he was by the clinging arms of his tall girl. Then he sat down in the +big chair, taking Mary there too, and stroked her cheek. Perhaps he +could hardly have done it in the light, but at that moment it seemed +very natural. For a long time neither of them spoke. Mary had no words, +and it may be that Nicholas could not seek for them. At last she began, +catching her breath tremulously:-- + +"They've hunted everywhere, gran'ther. They've rode all over the county; +and after the celebration, they're going to--dr--drag the pond!" + +"Well, I guess I can go out o' the county if I want to," responded +Nicholas calmly. "I come across a sheet in them rec'ids that told about +a pewter communion set over to Rocky Ridge, an' I've found part on 't in +a tavern there. Who put 'em up to all this work? Your father?" + +"No," sobbed Mary. "The minister." + +"The minister? What's he want?" + +"He's got to write an address, and he wants you to tell him what to +say." + +Then, in the darkness of the room, a slow smile stole over Nicholas +Oldfield's face, but his voice remained quite grave. + +"Does, does he?" he remarked. "Well, he ain't the fust pa'son that's +needed a lift; but he's the fust one ever I knew to ask for it. I've got +nothin' for 'em, Mary. I come home to wind up the clocks; but I ain't +goin' to stand by a town that'll swaller a Memory-o'-Me timekeeper an' +murder the old bell. You can say I was here, an' they needn't go to +muddyin' up the ponds; but as to their doin's, they can carry 'em out as +they may. I've no part nor lot in 'em." + +Mary, in the weakness of her kind, was wiser than she knew. She drew her +arms about his neck, and clung to him the closer. All this talk of plots +and counter-plots seemed very trivial now that she had him back; and +being only a child, wearied with care and watching, she went fast +asleep on his shoulder. Nicholas felt tired too; but he thought he had +only dozed a little when he opened his eyes on a gleam of morning, and +saw the doctor come striding into the yard. + +"Your door's open!" called the doctor. "You must be at home to callers. +Morning, Mary! Either of you sick?" + +Mary, abashed, drew herself away, and slipped into the sitting-room, a +hand upon her tumbled hair; the doctor, wise in his honesty, slashed at +the situation without delay. + +"See here, Mr. Oldfield," said he, "whether you've slept or not, you've +got to come right over to parson's with me, and straighten him out. He's +all balled up. You are as bad as the rest of us. You think we don't know +enough to refuse a clock like a comic valentine, and you think we don't +prize that old bell. How are we going to prize things if nobody tells us +anything about them? And here's the town going to pieces over a +celebration it hasn't sense enough to plan, just because you're so +obstinate. Oh, come along! Hear that! The boys are beginning to toot, +and fire off their crackers, and Tiverton's going to the dogs, and +Sudleigh'll be glad of it! Come, Mr. Oldfield, come along!" + +Nicholas stood quite calmly looking through the window into the morning +dew and mist. He wore his habitual air of gentle indifference, and the +doctor saw in him those everlasting hills which persuasion may not +climb. Suddenly there was a rustling from the other room, and Mary +appeared in the doorway, standing there expectant. Her face was pink and +a little vague from sleep, but she looked very dear and good. Though +Nicholas had "lost himself" that night, he had kept time for thought; +and perhaps he realized how precious a thing it is to lay up treasure of +inheritance for one who loves us, and is truly of our kind. He turned +quite meekly to the doctor. + +"Should you think," he inquired, "should you think pa'son would be up +an' dressed?" + +Ten minutes thereafter, the two were knocking at the parson's door. + +Confused and turbulent as Tiverton had become, Nicholas Oldfield settled +her at once. Knowledge dripped from his finger-ends; he had it ready, +like oil to give a clock. Doctor and minister stood breathless while he +laid out the track for the procession by local marks they both knew +well. + +"They must ha' come into the town from som'er's nigh the old +cross-road," said he. "No, 't wa'n't where they made the river road. +Then they turned straight to one side--'t was thick woods then, you +understand--an' went up a little ways towards Horn o' the Moon. But they +concluded that wouldn't suit 'em, 't was so barren-like; an' they +wheeled round, took what's now the old turnpike, an' clim' right up +Tiverton Hill, through Tiverton Street that now is. An' there"--Nicholas +Oldfield's eyes burned like blue flame, and again he told the story of +the Flat-iron Lot. + +"Indeed!" cried the parson. "What a truly remarkable circumstance! We +might halt on that very spot, and offer prayer, before entering the +church." + +"'Pears as if that would be about the rights on't," said Nicholas +quietly. "That is, if anybody wanted to plan it out jest as 't was." He +could free his words from the pride of life, but not his voice; it +quivered and betrayed him. + +"Your idea would be to have the services before going down for the +Indian raid?" inquired the doctor. "They're all at logger-heads there." + +But Nicholas, hearing how neither faction would forego its glory, had +the remedy ready in a cranny of his brain. + +"Well," said he, "you know there was a raid in '53, when both sides gi'n +up an' run. A crazed creatur on a white horse galloped up an' dispersed +'em. He was all wropped up in a sheet, and carried a jack-o'-lantern on +a pole over his head, so 't he seemed more'n nine feet high. The +settlers thought 't was a spirit; an' as for the Injuns, Lord knows what +'t was to them. 'T any rate, the raid was over." + +"Heaven be praised!" cried the doctor fervently. "Allah is great, and +you, Mr. Oldfield, are his prophet. Stay here and coach the parson while +I start up the town." + +The doctor dashed home and mounted his horse. It was said that he did +some tall riding that day. From door to door he galloped, a lesser Paul +Revere, but sowing seeds of harmony. It was true that the soil was +ready. Indians in full costume were lurking down cellar or behind +kitchen doors, swearing they would never ride, but tremblingly eager to +be urged. Settlers, gloomily acquiescent in an unjust fate, brightened +at his heralding. The ghost was the thing. It took the popular fancy; +and everybody wondered, as after all illuminings of genius, why nobody +had thought of it before. Brad Freeman was unanimously elected to act +the part, as the only living man likely to manage a supplementary head +without rehearsal; and Pillsbury's white colt was hastily groomed for +the onslaught. Brad had at once seen the possibilities of the situation +and decided, with an unerring certainty, that as a jack-o'-lantern is +naught by day, the pumpkin face must be cunningly veiled. He was a busy +man that morning; for he not only had to arrange his own ghostly +progress, but settle the elephant on its platform, to be dragged by +vine-wreathed oxen, and also, at the doctor's instigation, to make the +sledge on which the first Nicholas Oldfield should draw his wife into +town. The doctor sought out Young Nick, and asked him to undertake the +part, as tribute to his illustrious name; but he was of a prudent nature +and declined. What if the town should laugh! "I guess I won't," said he. + +But Mary, regardless of maternal cacklings, sped after the doctor as he +turned his horse. + +"O doctor!" she besought, "let me be the first settler's wife! Please, +_please_ let me be Mary Oldfield!" + +The doctor was glad enough. All the tides of destiny were surging his +way. Even when he paused, in his progress, to pull the Crane boy's +tooth, it seemed to work out public harmony. For the victim, cannily +anxious to prove his valor, insisted on having the operation conducted +before the front window; and after it was accomplished, the squads of +boys waiting at the gate for his apotheosis or down-fall, gave an +unwilling yet delighted yell. He had not winced; and when, with the fire +of a dear ambition still shining in his eyes, he held up the tooth to +them, through the glass, they realized that he, and he only, could with +justice take the crown of that most glorious day. He must ride inside +the elephant. + +So it came to pass that when the procession wound slowly up from the +cross-road, preceded by the elephant, lifting his trunk at rhythmic +intervals, Nicholas Oldfield saw his little Mary, her eyes shining and +her cheeks aglow, sitting proudly upon a sledge, drawn by the handsomest +young man in town. A pang may have struck the old man's heart, realizing +that Phil Marden was so splendid in his strength, and that he wore so +sweet a look of invitation; but he remembered Mary's vow and was +content. A great pride and peace enwrapped him when the procession +halted at the Flat-Iron Lot, and the minister, lifting up his voice, +explained to the townspeople why they were called upon to pause. The +name of Oldfield sounded clearly on the air. + +"Now," said the minister, "let us pray." The petition went forth, and +Mr. Oldfield stood brooding there, his thoughts running back through a +long chain of ancestry to the Almighty, Who is the fount of all. + +When heads were covered again, and this little world began to surge into +the church, young Nick's Hattie moved closer to her husband and shot out +a sibilant whisper:-- + +"Did you know that?--about the Flat-Iron Lot?" + +Young Nick shook his head. He was entirely dazed. + +"Well," continued Hattie, full of awe, "I guess I never was nearer my +end than when I let myself be go-between for Freeman Henry. I wonder +father let me get out alive." + +The minister's address was very short and unpretending. He dwelt on the +sacredness of the past, and all its memories, and closed by saying that, +while we need not shrink from signs of progress, we should guard against +tampering with those ancient landmarks which serve as beacon lights, to +point the brighter way. Hearing that, every man steeled his heart +against Memory-of-Me clocks, and resolved to vote against them. Then the +minister explained that, since he had been unable to prepare a suitable +address, Mr. Oldfield had kindly consented to read some precious records +recently discovered by him. A little rustling breath went over the +audience. So this amiable lunacy had its bearing on the economy of life! +They were amazed, as may befall us at any judgment day, when grays are +strangely alchemized to white. + +Mr. Oldfield, unmoved as ever, save in a certain dominating quality of +presence, rose and stood before them, the records in his hands. He read +them firmly, explaining here and there, his simple speech untouched by +finer usage; and when the minister interposed a question, he dropped +into such quaintness of rich legendry that his hearers sat astounded. So +they were a part of the world! and not the world to-day, but the +universe in its making. + +It was long before Nicholas concluded; but the time seemed brief. He sat +down, and the minister took the floor. He thanked Mr. Oldfield and then +went on to say that, although it might be informal, he would suggest +that the town, with Mr. Oldfield's permission, place an inscription on +the boulder in the Flat-Iron Lot, stating why it was to be held +historically sacred. The town roared and stamped, but meanwhile Nicholas +Oldfield was quietly rising. + +"In that case, pa'son," said he, "I should like to state that it would +be my purpose to make over that lot to the town to be held as public +land forever." + +Again the village folk outdid themselves in applause, while Young Nick +muttered, "Well, I vum!" beneath his breath, and Hattie replied, +antiphonally, "My soul!" These were not the notes of mere surprise. They +were prayers for guidance in this exigency of finding a despised +intelligence exalted. + +The celebration went on to a victorious close. Who shall sing the +sweetness of Isabel North, as she sat by the log-cabin door, placidly +spinning flax, or the horror of the moment when, redskins swooping down +on her and settlers on them, the ghost swept in and put them all to +flight? Who will ever forget the exercises in the hall, when the +"Suwanee River" was sung by minstrels, to a set of tableaux representing +the "old folks" at their cabin door, "playin' wid my brudder" as a game +of stick-knife, and the "Swanny" River itself by a frieze of white +pasteboard swans in the background? There were patriotic songs, +accompanied by remarks laudatory of England; since it was justly felt +that our mother-land might be wounded if, on an occasion of this sort, +we fomented international differences by "America" or the reminiscent +triumph of "The Sword of Bunker Hill." A very noble sentiment pervaded +Tiverton when, at twilight, little groups of tired and very happy people +lingered here and there before "harnessing up" and betaking themselves +to their homes. The homes themselves meant more to them now, not as +shelters, but as sacred shrines; and many a glance sought out Nicholas +Oldfield standing quietly by--the reverential glance accorded those who +find out unsuspected wealth. Young Nick approached his father with an +awkwardness sitting more heavily upon him than usual. + +"Well," said he, "I'm mighty glad you gi'n 'em that lot." + +Old Nicholas nodded gravely, and at that moment Hattie came up, all in a +flutter. + +"Father," said she quite appealingly, "I wisht you'd come over to +supper. Luella an' Freeman Henry'll be there. It's a great day, an'"-- + +"Yes, I know 't is," answered Nicholas kindly. "I'm much obleeged, but +Mary's goin' to eat with me. Mebbe we might look in, along in the +evenin'. Come, Mary!" + +Mary, very sweet in her plain dress and white kerchief, was talking +with young Marden, her husband for the day; but she turned about +contentedly. + +"Yes, gran'ther," said she, without a look behind, "I'm coming!" + + + + +THE END OF ALL LIVING + + +The First Church of Tiverton stands on a hill, whence it overlooks the +little village, with one or two pine-shaded neighborhoods beyond, and, +when the air is clear, a thin blue line of upland delusively like the +sea. Set thus austerely aloft, it seems now a survival of the day when +men used to go to meeting gun in hand, and when one stayed, a lookout by +the door, to watch and listen. But this the present dwellers do not +remember. Conceding not a sigh to the holy and strenuous past, they +lament--and the more as they grow older--the stiff climb up the hill, +albeit to rest in so sweet a sanctuary at the top. For it is sweet +indeed. A soft little wind seems always to be stirring there, on summer +Sundays a messenger of good. It runs whispering about, and wafts in all +sorts of odors: honey of the milk-weed and wild rose, and a Christmas +tang of the evergreens just below. It carries away something, +too--scents calculated to bewilder the thrift-hunting bee: sometimes a +whiff of peppermint from an old lady's pew, but oftener the breath of +musk and southernwood, gathered in ancient gardens, and borne up here +to embroider the preacher's drowsy homilies, and remind us, when we +faint, of the keen savor of righteousness. + +Here in the church do we congregate from week to week; but behind it, on +a sloping hillside, is the last home of us all, the old burying-ground, +overrun with a briery tangle, and relieved by Nature's sweet and cunning +hand from the severe decorum set ordinarily about the dead. Our very +faithlessness has made it fair. There was a time when we were a little +ashamed of it. We regarded it with affection, indeed, but affection of +the sort accorded some rusty relative who has lain too supine in the rut +of years. Thus, with growing ambition came, in due course, the project +of a new burying-ground. This we dignified, even in common speech; it +was always grandly "the Cemetery." While it lay unrealized in the +distance, the home of our forbears fell into neglect, and Nature marched +in, according to her lavishness, and adorned what we ignored. The white +alder crept farther and farther from its bounds; tansy and wild rose +rioted in profusion, and soft patches of violets smiled to meet the +spring. Here were, indeed, great riches, "a little of everything" that +pasture life affords: a hardy bed of checkerberry, crimson strawberries +nodding on long stalks, and in one sequestered corner the beloved +Linnaea. It seemed a consecrated pasture shut off from daily use, and so +given up to pleasantness that you could scarcely walk there without +setting foot on some precious outgrowth of the spring, or pushing aside +a summer loveliness better made for wear. + +Ambition had its fulfillment. We bought our Cemetery, a large, green +tract, quite square, and lying open to the sun. But our pendulum had +swung too wide. Like many folk who suffer from one discomfort, we had +gone to the utmost extreme and courted another. We were tired of +climbing hills, and so we pressed too far into the lowland; and the +first grave dug in our Cemetery showed three inches of water at the +bottom. It was in "Prince's new lot," and there his young daughter was +to lie. But her lover had stood by while the men were making the grave; +and, looking into the ooze below, he woke to the thought of her fair +young body there. + +"God!" they heard him say, "she sha'n't lay so. Leave it as it is, an' +come up into the old buryin'-ground. There's room enough by me." + +The men, all mates of his, stopped work without a glance and followed +him; and up there in the dearer shrine her place was made. The father +said but a word at her changed estate. Neighbors had hurried in to bring +him the news; he went first to the unfinished grave in the Cemetery, and +then strode up the hill, where the men had not yet done. After watching +them for a while in silence, he turned aside; but he came back to drop a +trembling hand upon the lover's arm. + +"I guess," he said miserably, "she'd full as lieves lay here by you." + +And she will be quite beside him, though, in the beaten ways of earth, +others have come between. For years he lived silently and apart; but +when his mother died, and he and his father were left staring at the +dulled embers of life, he married a good woman, who perhaps does not +deify early dreams; yet she is tender of them, and at the death of her +own child it was she who went toiling up to the graveyard, to see that +its little place did not encroach too far. She gave no reason, but we +all knew it was because she meant to let her husband lie there by the +long-loved guest. + +Naturally enough, after this incident of the forsaken grave, we +conceived a strange horror of the new Cemetery, and it has remained +deserted to this day. It is nothing but a meadow now, with that one +little grassy hollow in it to tell a piteous tale. It is mown by any +farmer who chooses to take it for a price; but we regard it differently +from any other plot of ground. It is "the Cemetery," and always will be. +We wonder who has bought the grass. "Eli's got the Cemetery this year," +we say. And sometimes awe-stricken little squads of school children +lead one another there, hand in hand, to look at the grave where Annie +Prince was going to be buried when her beau took her away. They never +seem to connect that heart-broken wraith of a lover with the bent farmer +who goes to and fro driving the cows. He wears patched overalls, and has +sciatica in winter; but I have seen the gleam of youth awakened, though +remotely, in his eyes. I do not believe he ever quite forgets; there are +moments, now and then, at dusk or midnight, all his for poring over +those dulled pages of the past. + +After we had elected to abide by our old home, we voted an enlargement +of its bounds; and thereby hangs a tale of outlawed revenge. Long years +ago "old Abe Eaton" quarreled with his twin brother, and vowed, as the +last fiat of an eternal divorce, "I won't be buried in the same yard +with ye!" + +The brother died first; and because he lay within a little knoll beside +the fence, Abe willfully set a public seal on that iron oath by +purchasing a strip of land outside, wherein he should himself be buried. +Thus they would rest in a hollow correspondence, the fence between. It +all fell out as he ordained, for we in Tiverton are cheerfully willing +to give the dead their way. Lax enough is the helpless hand in the +fictitious stiffness of its grasp; and we are not the people to deny it +holding, by courtesy at least. Soon enough does the sceptre of +mortality crumble and fall. So Abe was buried according to his wish. But +when necessity commanded us to add unto ourselves another acre, we took +in his grave with it, and the fence, falling into decay, was never +renewed. There he lies, in affectionate decorum, beside the brother he +hated; and thus does the greater good wipe out the individual wrong. + +So now, as in ancient times, we toil steeply up here, with the dead upon +his bier; for not often in Tiverton do we depend on that uncouth +monstrosity, the hearse. It is not that we do not own one,--a rigid box +of that name has belonged to us now for many a year; and when Sudleigh +came out with a new one, plumes, trappings, and all, we broached the +idea of emulating her. But the project fell through after Brad Freeman's +contented remark that he guessed the old one would last us out. He +"never heard no complaint from anybody 't ever rode in it." That placed +our last journey on a homely, humorous basis, and we smiled, and +reflected that we preferred going up the hill borne by friendly hands, +with the light of heaven falling on our coffin-lids. + +The antiquary would set much store by our headstones, did he ever find +them out. Certain of them are very ancient, according to our ideas; for +they came over from England, and are now fallen into the grayness of +age. They are woven all over with lichens, and the blackberry binds +them fast. Well, too, for them! They need the grace of some such +veiling; for most of them are alive, even to this day, with warning +skulls, and awful cherubs compounded of bleak, bald faces and sparsely +feathered wings. One discovery, made there on a summer day, has not, I +fancy, been duplicated in another New England town. On six of the larger +tombstones are carved, below the grass level, a row of tiny imps, +grinning faces and humanized animals. Whose was the hand that wrought? +The Tivertonians know nothing about it. They say there was a certain old +Veasey who, some eighty odd years ago, used to steal into the graveyard +with his tools, and there, for love, scrape the mosses from the stones +and chip the letters clear. He liked to draw, "creatur's" especially, +and would trace them for children on their slates. He lived alone in a +little house long since fallen, and he would eat no meat. That is all +they know of him. I can guess but one thing more: that when no looker-on +was by, he pushed away the grass, and wrote his little jokes, safe in +the kindly tolerance of the dead. This was the identical soul who +should, in good old days, have been carving gargoyles and misereres; +here his only field was the obscurity of Tiverton churchyard, his only +monument these grotesqueries so cunningly concealed. + +We have epitaphs, too,--all our own as yet, for the world has not +discovered them. One couple lies in well-to-do respectability under a +tiny monument not much taller than the conventional gravestone, but +shaped on a pretentious model. + +"We'd ruther have it nice," said the builders, "even if there ain't much +of it." + +These were Eliza Marden and Peleg her husband, who worked from sun to +sun, with scant reward save that of pride in their own forehandedness. I +can imagine them as they drove to church in the open wagon, a couple +portentously large and prosperous: their one child, Hannah, sitting +between them, and glancing about her, in a flickering, intermittent way, +at the pleasant holiday world. Hannah was no worker; she liked a long +afternoon in the sun, her thin little hands busied about nothing +weightier than crochet; and her mother regarded her with a horrified +patience, as one who might some time be trusted to sow all her wild oats +of idleness. The well-mated pair died within the same year, and it was +Hannah who composed their epitaph, with an artistic accuracy, but a +defective sense of rhyme:-- + +"Here lies Eliza She was a striver Here lies Peleg He was a select Man" + +We townsfolk found something haunting and bewildering in the lines; they +drew, and yet they baffled us, with their suggested echoes luring only +to betray. Hannah never wrote anything else, but we always cherished the +belief that she could do "'most anything" with words and their +possibilities. Still, we accepted her one crowning achievement, and +never urged her to further proof. In Tiverton we never look genius in +the mouth. Nor did Hannah herself propose developing her gift. Relieved +from the spur of those two unquiet spirits who had begotten her, she +settled down to sit all day in the sun, learning new patterns of +crochet; and having cheerfully let her farm run down, she died at last +in a placid poverty. + +Then there was Desire Baker, who belonged to the era of colonial +hardship, and who, through a redundant punctuation, is relegated to a +day still more remote. For some stone-cutter, scornful of working by the +card, or born with an inordinate taste for periods, set forth, below her +_obiit_, the astounding statement:-- + +"The first woman. She made the journey to Boston. By stage." + +Here, too, are the ironies whereof departed life is prodigal. This is +the tidy lot of Peter Merrick, who had a desire to stand well with the +world, in leaving it, and whose purple and fine linen were embodied in +the pomp of death. He was a cobbler, and he put his small savings +together to erect a modest monument to his own memory. Every Sunday he +visited it, "after meetin'," and perhaps his day-dreams, as he sat +leather-aproned on his bench, were still of that white marble idealism. +The inscription upon it was full of significant blanks; they seemed an +interrogation of the destiny which governs man. + +"Here lies Peter Merrick----" ran the unfinished scroll, "and his wife +who died----" + +But ambitious Peter never lay there at all; for in his later prime, with +one flash of sharp desire to see the world, he went on a voyage to the +Banks, and was drowned. And his wife? The story grows somewhat +threadbare. She summoned his step-brother to settle the estate, and he, +a marble-cutter by trade, filled in the date of Peter's death with +letters English and illegible. In the process of their carving, the +widow stood by, hands folded under her apron from the midsummer sun. The +two got excellent well acquainted, and the stone-cutter prolonged his +stay. He came again in a little over a year, at Thanksgiving time, and +they were married. Which shows that nothing is certain in life,--no, not +the proprieties of our leaving it,--and that even there we must walk +softly, writing no boastful legend for time to annul. + +At one period a certain quatrain had a great run in Tiverton; it was the +epitaph of the day. Noting how it overspread that stony soil, you +picture to yourself the modest pride of its composer; unless indeed, it +had been copied from an older inscription in an English yard, and +transplanted through the heart and brain of some settler whose thoughts +were ever flitting back. Thus it runs in decorous metre:-- + +"Dear husband, now my life is passed, You have dearly loved me to the +last. Grieve not for me, but pity take On my dear children for my sake." + +But one sorrowing widower amended it, according to his wife's direction, +so that it bore a new and significant meaning. He was charged to + +"pity take On my dear parent for my sake." + +The lesson was patent. His mother-in-law had always lived with him, and +she was "difficult." Who knows how keenly the sick woman's mind ran on +the possibilities of reef and quicksand for the alien two left alone +without her guiding hand? So she set the warning of her love and fear to +be no more forgotten while she herself should be remembered. + +The husband was a silent man. He said very little about his intentions; +performance was enough for him. Therefore it happened that his "parent," +adopted perforce, knew nothing about this public charge until she came +upon it, on her first Sunday visit, surveying the new glory of the +stone. The story goes that she stood before it, a square, portentous +figure in black alpaca and warlike mitts, and that she uttered these +irrevocable words:-- + +"Pity on _me_! Well, I guess he won't! I'll go to the poor-farm fust!" + +And Monday morning, spite of his loyal dissuasions, she packed her "blue +chist," and drove off to a far-away cousin, who got her "nussin'" to do. +Another lesson from the warning finger of Death: let what was life not +dream that it can sway the life that is, after the two part company. + +Not always were mothers-in-law such breakers of the peace. There is a +story in Tiverton of one man who went remorsefully mad after his wife's +death, and whose mind dwelt unceasingly on the things he had denied her. +These were not many, yet the sum seemed to him colossal. It piled the +Ossa of his grief. Especially did he writhe under the remembrance of +certain blue dishes she had desired the week before her sudden death; +and one night, driven by an insane impulse to expiate his blindness, he +walked to town, bought them, and placed them in a foolish order about +her grave. It was a puerile, crazy deed, but no one smiled, not even the +little children who heard of it next day, on the way home from school, +and went trudging up there to see. To their stirring minds it seemed a +strange departure from the comfortable order of things, chiefly because +their elders stood about with furtive glances at one another and +murmurs of "Poor creatur'!" But one man, wiser than the rest, "harnessed +up," and went to tell the dead woman's mother, a mile away. Jonas was +"shackled;" he might "do himself a mischief." In the late afternoon, the +guest so summoned walked quietly into the silent house, where Jonas sat +by the window, beating one hand incessantly upon the sill, and staring +at the air. His sister, also, had come; she was frightened, however, and +had betaken herself to the bedroom, to sob. But in walked this little +plump, soft-footed woman, with her banded hair, her benevolent +spectacles, and her atmosphere of calm. + +"I guess I'll blaze a fire, Jonas," said she. "You step out an' git me a +mite o' kindlin'." + +The air of homely living enwrapped him once again, and mechanically, +with the inertia of old habit, he obeyed. They had a "cup o' tea" +together; and then, when the dishes were washed, and the peaceful +twilight began to settle down upon them like a sifting mist, she drew a +little rocking chair to the window where he sat opposite, and spoke. + +"Jonas," said she, in that still voice which had been harmonized by the +experiences of life, "arter dark, you jest go up an' bring home them +blue dishes. Mary's got an awful lot o' fun in her, an' if she ain't +laughin' over that, I'm beat. Now, Jonas, you do it! Do you s'pose she +wants them nice blue pieces out there through wind an' weather? She'd +ruther by half see 'em on the parlor cluzzet shelves; an' if you'll +fetch 'em home, I'll scallop some white paper, jest as she liked, an' +we'll set 'em up there." + +Jonas wakened a little from his mental swoon. Life seemed warmer, more +tangible, again. + +"Law, do go," said the mother soothingly. "She don't want the whole +township tramplin' up there to eye over her chiny. Make her as nervous +as a witch. Here's the ha'-bushel basket, an' some paper to put between +'em. You go, Jonas, an' I'll clear off the shelves." + +So Jonas, whether he was tired of guiding the impulses of his own +unquiet mind, or whether he had become a child again, glad to yield to +the maternal, as we all do in our grief, took the basket and went. He +stood by, still like a child, while this comfortable woman put the china +on the shelves, speaking warmly, as she worked, of the pretty curving of +the cups, and her belief that the pitcher was "one you could pour out +of." She stayed on at the house, and Jonas, through his sickness of the +mind, lay back upon her soothing will as a baby lies in its mother's +arms. But the china was never used, even when he had come to his normal +estate, and bought and sold as before. The mother's prescience was too +keen for that. + +Here in this ground are the ambiguities of life carried over into that +other state, its pathos and its small misunderstandings. This was a +much-married man whose last spouse had been a triple widow. Even to him +the situation proved mathematically complex, and the sumptuous stone to +her memory bears the dizzying legend that "Enoch Nudd who erects this +stone is her fourth husband and his fifth wife." Perhaps it was the +exigencies of space which brought about this amazing elision; but +surely, in its very apparent intention, there is only a modest pride. +For indubitably the much-married may plume themselves upon being also +the widely sought. If it is the crown of sex to be desired, here you +have it, under seal of the civil bond. No baseless, windy boasting that +"I might an if I would!" Nay, here be the marriage ties to testify. + +In this pleasant, weedy corner is a little white stone, not so long +erected. "I shall arise in thine image," runs the inscription; and +reading it, you shall remember that the dust within belonged to a little +hunchback, who played the fiddle divinely, and had beseeching eyes. With +that cry he escaped from the marred conditions of the clay. Here, too +(for this is a sort of bachelor nook), is the grave of a man whom we +unconsciously thrust into a permanent masquerade. Years and years ago he +broke into a house,--an unknown felony in our quiet limits,--and was +incontinently shot. The burglar lost his arm, and went about at first +under a cloud of disgrace and horror, which became, with healing of the +public conscience, a veil of sympathy. After his brief imprisonment +indoors, during the healing of the mutilated stump, he came forth among +us again, a man sadder and wiser in that he had learned how slow and +sure may be the road to wealth. He had sown his wild oats in one night's +foolish work, and now he settled down to doing such odd jobs as he might +with one hand. We got accustomed to his loss. Those of us who were +children when it happened never really discovered that it was disgrace +at all; we called it misfortune, and no one said us nay. Then one day it +occurred to us that he must have been shot "in the war," and so, all +unwittingly to himself, the silent man became a hero. We accepted him. +He was part of our poetic time, and when he died, we held him still in +remembrance among those who fell worthily. When Decoration Day was first +observed in Tiverton, one of us thought of him, and dropped some apple +blossoms on his grave; and so it had its posy like the rest, although it +bore no flag. It was the doctor who set us right there. "I wouldn't do +that," he said, withholding the hand of one unthinking child; and she +took back her flag. But she left the blossoms, and, being fond of +precedent, we still do the same; unless we stop to think, we know not +why. You may say there is here some perfidy to the republic and the +honored dead, or at least some laxity of morals. We are lax, indeed, but +possibly that is why we are so kind. We are not willing to "hurt folks' +feelings" even when they have migrated to another star; and a flower +more or less from the overplus given to men who made the greater choice +will do no harm, tossed to one whose soul may be sitting, like Lazarus, +at their riches' gate. + +But of all these fleeting legends made to hold the soul a moment on its +way, and keep it here in fickle permanence, one is more dramatic than +all, more charged with power and pathos. Years ago there came into +Tiverton an unknown man, very handsome, showing the marks of high +breeding, and yet in his bearing strangely solitary and remote. He wore +a cloak, and had a foreign look. He came walking into the town one +night, with dust upon his shoes, and we judged that he had been +traveling a long time. He had the appearance of one who was not nearly +at his journey's end, and would pass through the village, continuing on +a longer way. He glanced at no one, but we all stared at him. He seemed, +though we had not the words to put it so, an exiled prince. He went +straight through Tiverton Street until he came to the parsonage; and +something about it (perhaps its garden, hot with flowers, larkspur, +coreopsis, and the rest) detained his eye, and he walked in. Next day +the old doctor was there also with his little black case, but we were +none the wiser for that; for the old doctor was of the sort who intrench +themselves in a professional reserve. You might draw up beside the road +to question him, but you could as well deter the course of nature. He +would give the roan a flick, and his sulky would flash by. + +"What's the matter with so-and-so?" would ask a mousing neighbor. + +"He's sick," ran the laconic reply. + +"Goin' to die?" one daring querist ventured further. + +"Some time," said the doctor. + +But though he assumed a right to combat thus the outer world, no one was +gentler with a sick man or with those about him in their grief. To the +latter he would speak; but he used to say he drew his line at second +cousins. + +Into his hands and the true old parson's fell the stranger's confidence, +if confidence it were. He may have died solitary and unexplained; but no +matter what he said, his story was safe. In a week he was carried out +for burial; and so solemn was the parson's manner as he spoke a brief +service over him, so thrilling his enunciation of the words "our +brother," that we dared not even ask what else he should be called. And +we never knew. The headstone, set up by the parson, bore the words +"Peccator Maximus." For a long time we thought they made the stranger's +name, and judged that he must have been a foreigner; but a new +schoolmistress taught us otherwise. It was Latin, she said, and it meant +"the chiefest among sinners." When that report flew round, the parson +got wind of it, and then, in the pulpit one morning, he announced that +he felt it necessary to say that the words had been used "at our +brother's request," and that it was his own decision to write below +them, "For this cause came I into the world." + +We have accepted the stranger as we accept many things in Tiverton. +Parson and doctor kept his secret well. He is quite safe from our +questioning; but for years I expected a lady, always young and full of +grief, to seek out his grave and shrive him with her tears. She will not +appear now, unless she come as an old, old woman, to lie beside him. It +is too late. + +One more record of our vanished time,--this full of poesy only, and the +pathos of farewell. It was not the aged and heartsick alone who lay down +here to rest. We have been no more fortunate than others. Youth and +beauty came also, and returned no more. This, where the white rose-bush +grows untended, was the young daughter of a squire in far-off days: too +young to have known the pangs of love or the sweet desire of Death, save +that, in primrose time, he always paints himself so fair. I have +thought the inscription must have been borrowed from another grave, in +some yard shaded by yews and silent under the cawing of the rooks; +perhaps, from its stiffness, translated from a stately Latin verse. This +it is, snatched not too soon from oblivion; for a few more years will +wear it quite away:-- + +"Here lies the purple flower of a maid Having to envious Death due +tribute paid. Her sudden Loss her Parents did lament, And all her +Friends with grief their hearts did Rent. Life's short. Your wicked +Lives amend with care, For Mortals know we Dust and Shadows are." + +"The purple flower of a maid!" All the blossomy sweetness, the fragrant +lamenting of Lycidas, lies in that one line. Alas, poor +love-lies-bleeding! And yet not poor according to the barren pity we +accord the dead, but dowered with another youth set like a crown upon +the unstained front of this. Not going with sparse blossoms ripened or +decayed, but heaped with buds and dripping over in perfume. She seems so +sweet in her still loveliness, the empty promise of her balmy spring, +that for a moment fain are you to snatch her back into the pageant of +your day. Reading that phrase, you feel the earth is poorer for her +loss. And yet not so, since the world holds other greater worlds as +well. Elsewhere she may have grown to age and stature; but here she +lives yet in beauteous permanence,--as true a part of youth and joy and +rapture as the immortal figures on the Grecian Urn. While she was but a +flying phantom on the frieze of time, Death fixed her there forever,--a +haunting spirit in perennial bliss. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tiverton Tales, by Alice Brown + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIVERTON TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 20486.txt or 20486.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/4/8/20486/ + +Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Paul Stephen, Ted Garvin +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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