(and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files)
or
SEARCHthe entire site withGoogle Site Search
| BROWSEthe site for other works by this author (and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files) or SEARCHthe entire site withGoogle Site Search |
Title: A Gentle Ghost and other storiesAuthor: Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0605531h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: August 2006Date most recently updated: August 2006This eBook was produced by: Richard ScottProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
GO TOProject Gutenberg of Australia HOME PAGE
Table of Contents
OUT in front of the cemetery stood a white horse and a coveredwagon. The horse was not tied, but she stood quite still, her fourfeet widely and ponderously planted, her meek white head hanging.Shadows of leaves danced on her back. There were many trees about thecemetery, and the foliage was unusually luxuriant for May. The fourwomen who had come in the covered wagon remarked it. "I never saw thetrees so forward as they are this year, seems to me," said one,gazing up at some magnificent gold-green branches over her head.
"I was sayin' so to Mary this mornin'," rejoined another. "They'reuncommon forward, I think."
They loitered along the narrow lanes between the lots: fourhomely, middle-aged women, with decorous and subdued enjoyment intheir worn faces. They read with peaceful curiosity and interest theinscriptions on the stones; they turned aside to look at the tender,newly blossomed spring bushes--the flowering almonds and the bridalwreaths. Once in a while they came to a new stone, which theyimmediately surrounded with eager criticism. There was a solemn hushwhen they reached a lot where some relatives of one of the party wereburied. She put a bunch of flowers on a grave, then she stood lookingat it with red eyes. The others grouped themselves deferentiallyaloof.
They did not meet any one in the cemetery until just before theyleft. When they had reached the rear and oldest portion of the yard,and were thinking of retracing their steps, they became suddenlyaware of a child sitting in a lot at their right. The lot held sevenold, leaning stones, dark and mossy, their inscriptions dimlytraceable. The child sat close to one, and she looked up at thestaring knot of women with a kind of innocent keenness, like a baby.Her face was small and fair and pinched. The women stood eyingher.
"What's your name, little girl?" asked one. She had a brightflower in her bonnet and a smart lift to her chin, and seemed thenatural spokeswoman of the party. Her name was Holmes. The childturned her head sideways and murmured something.
"What? We can't hear. Speak up; don't be afraid! What's yourname?" The woman nodded the bright flower over her, and spoke withsharp pleasantness.
"Nancy Wren," said the child, with a timid catch of herbreath.
"Wren?"
The child nodded. She kept her little pink, curving mouthparted.
"It's nobody I know," remarked the questioner, reflectively. "Iguess she comes from--over there." She made a significant motion ofher head towards the right. "Where do you live, Nancy?" sheasked.
The child also motioned towards the right.
"I thought so," said the woman. "How old are you?"
"Ten."
The women exchanged glances. "Are you sure you're tellin' thetruth?"
The child nodded.
"I never saw a girl so small for her age if she is," said onewoman to another.
"Yes," said Mrs. Holmes, looking at her critically; "she isdreadful small. She's considerable smaller than my Mary was. Is thereany of your folks buried in this lot?" said she, fairly hovering withaffability and determined graciousness.
The child's upturned face suddenly kindled. She began speakingwith a soft volubility that was an odd contrast to her previoushesitation.
"That's mother," said she, pointing to one of the stones, "an'that's father, an' there's John, an' Marg'ret, an' Mary, an' Susan,an' the baby, and here's--Jane."
The women stared at her in amazement. "Was it your--" began Mrs.Holmes; but another woman stepped forward, stoutly impetuous.
"Land! it's the Blake lot!" said she. "This child can't be anyrelation to 'em. You hadn't ought to talk so, Nancy."
"It's so," said the child, shyly persistent. She evidently hardlygrasped the force of the woman's remark.
They eyed her with increased bewilderment. "It can't be," said thewoman to the others. "Every one of them Blakes died years ago."
"I've seen Jane," volunteered the child, with a candid smile intheir faces.
Then the stout woman sank down on her knees beside Jane's stone,and peered hard at it.
"She died forty year ago this May," said she, with a gasp. "I usedto know her when I was a child. She was ten years old when she died.You ain't ever seen her. You hadn't ought to tell such stories."
"I ain't seen her for a long time," said the little girl.
"What made you say you'd seen her at all?" said Mrs. Holmes,sharply, thinking this was capitulation.
"I did use to see her a long time ago, an' she used to wear awhite dress, an' a wreath on her head. She used to come here an' playwith me."
The women looked at each other with pale, shocked faces; onenervous; one shivered. "She ain't quite right," she whispered. "Let'sgo." The women began filing away. Mrs. Holmes, who came last, stoodabout for a parting word to the child.
"You can't have seen her," said she, severely, "an' you are awicked girl to tell such stories. You mustn't do it again,remember."
Nancy stood with her hand on Jane's stone, looking at her. "Shedid," she repeated, with mild obstinacy.
"There's somethin' wrong about her, I guess," whispered Mrs.Holmes, rustling on after the others.
"I see she looked kind of queer the minute I set eyes on her,"said the nervous woman.
When the four reached the front of the cemetery they sat down torest for a few minutes. It was warm, and they had still quite a walk,nearly the whole width of the yard, to the other front corner wherethe horse and wagon were.
They sat down in a row on a bank; the stout woman wiped her face;Mrs. Holmes straightened her bonnet.
Directly opposite across the street stood two houses, so close toeach other that their walls almost touched. One was a large squarebuilding, glossily white, with green blinds; the other was low, witha facing of whitewashed stone-work reaching to its lower windows,which somehow gave it a disgraced and menial air; there were,moreover, no blinds.
At the side of the low building stretched a wide ploughed field,where several halting old figures were moving about planting. Therewas none of the brave hope of the sower about them. Even across theroad one could see the feeble stiffness of their attitudes, thehalf--palsied fling of their arms.
"I declare I shouldn't think them old men over there would everget that field planted," said Mrs. Holmes, energetically watchful. Inthe front door of the square white house sat a girl with bright hair.The yard was full of green light from two tall maple-trees, and thegirl's hair made a brilliant spot of color in the midst of it.
"That's Flora Dunn over there on the door-step, ain't it?" saidthe stout woman.
"Yes. I should think you could tell her by her red hair."
"I knew it. I should have thought Mr. Dunn would have hated tohave had their house so near the poor-house. I declare I should!"
"Oh, he wouldn't mind," said Mrs. Holmes; "he's as easy as oldTilly. It wouldn't have troubled him any if they'd set it right inhis front yard. But I guess she minded some. I heard she did. Johnsaid there wa'n't any need of it. The town wouldn't have set it sonear, if Mr. Dunn had set his foot down he wouldn't have it there. Is'pose they wanted to keep that big field on the side clear; but theywould have moved it along a little if he'd made a fuss. I tell youwhat 'tis, I've 'bout made up my mind--I dun know as it's Scripture,but I can't help it--if folks don't make a fuss they won't get theirrights in this world. If you jest lay still an' don't rise up, you'regoin' to get stepped on. If people like to be, they can; Idon't."
"I should have thought he'd have hated to have the poor-housequite so close," murmured the stout woman.
Suddenly Mrs. Holmes leaned forward and poked her head among theother three. She sat on the end of the row. "Say," said she, in amysterious whisper, "I want to know if you've heard the stories 'boutthe Dunn house?"
"No; what?" chorussed the other women, eagerly. They bent overtowards her till the four faces were in a knot.
"Well," said Mrs. Holmes, cautiously, with a glance at thebright-headed girl across the way--"I heard it pretty straight---theysay the house is haunted."
The stout woman sniffed and straightened herself. "Haunted!"repeated she.
"They say that ever since Jenny died there's been queer noises'round the house that they can't account for. You see that frontchamber over there, the one next to the poorhouse; well, that's theroom, they say."
The women all turned and looked at the chamber windows, where someruffled white curtains were fluttering.
"That's the chamber where Jenny used to sleep, you know," Mrs.Holmes went on; "an' she died there. Well, they said that beforeJenny died, Flora had always slept there with her, but she felt kindof bad about goin' back there, so she thought she'd take anotherroom. Well, there was the awfulest moanin' an' takin' on up inJenny's room, when she did, that Flora went back there to sleep."
"I shouldn't thought she could," whispered the nervous woman, whowas quite pale.
"The moanin' stopped jest as soon as she got in there with alight. You see Jenny was always terrible timid an' afraid to sleepalone, an' had a lamp burnin' all night, an' it seemed to them jestas if it really was her, I s'pose."
"I don't believe one word of it," said the stout woman, gettingup. "It makes me all out of patience to hear people talk such stuff,jest because the Dunns happen to live opposite a graveyard."
"I told it jest as I heard it," said Mrs. Holmes, stiffly.
"Oh, I ain't blamin' you; it's the folks that start such storiesthat I ain't got any patience with. Think of that dear, pretty littlesixteen-year-old girl hauntin' a house!"
"Well, I've told it jest as I heard it," repeated Mrs. Holmes,still in a tone of slight umbrage. "I don't ever take much stock insuch things myself."
The four women strolled along to the covered wagon and climbed in."I declare," said the stout woman, conciliatingly, "I dun know whenI've bad such an outin'. I feel as if it had done me good. I've beenwantin' to come down to the cemetery for a long time, but it's mostmore'n I want to walk. I feel real obliged to you, Mis' Holmes."
The others climbed in. Mrs. Holmes disclaimed all obligationsgracefully, established herself on the front seat, and shook thereins over the white horse. Then the party jogged along the road tothe village, past outlying farmhouses and rich green meadows, allfreckled gold with dandelions. Dandelions were in their height; thebuttercups had not yet come.
Flora Dunn, the girl on the door-step, glanced up when theystarted down the street; then she turned her eyes on her work; shewas sewing with nervous haste.
"Who were those folks, did you see, Flora?" called her mother, outof the sitting-room.
"I didn't notice," replied Flora, absently.
Just then the girl whom the women had met came lingeringly out ofthe cemetery and crossed the street.
"There's that poor little Wren girl," remarked the voice in thesitting-room.
"Yes," assented Flora. After a while she got up and entered thehouse. Her mother looked anxiously at her when she came into theroom.
"I'm all out of patience with you, Flora," said she. "You're jestas white as a sheet. You'll make yourself sick. You're actin'dreadful foolish."
Flora sank into a chair and sat staring straight ahead with astrained, pitiful gaze. "I can't help it; I can't do any different,"said she. "I shouldn't think you'd scold me, mother."
"Scold you; I ain't scoldin' you, child; but there ain't any sensein your doin' so. You'll make yourself sick, an' you're all I've gotleft. I can't have anything happen to you, Flora." Suddenly Mrs. Dunnburst out in a low wail, hiding her face in her hands.
"I don't see as you're much better yourself, mother," said Flora,heavily.
"I don't know as I am," sobbed her mother; "but I've got you toworry about besides--everything else. Oh, dear! oh, dear, dear!"
"I don't see any need of your worrying about me." Flora did notcry, but her face seemed to darken visibly with a gatheringmelancholy like a cloud. Her hair was beautiful, and she had acharming delicacy of complexion; but she was not handsome, herfeatures were too sharp, her expression too intense and nervous. Hermother looked like her as to the expression; the features were widelydifferent. It was as if both had passed through one corroding elementwhich had given them the similarity of scars. Certainly a strangerwould at once have noticed the strong resemblance between Mrs. Dunn'slarge, heavy-featured face and her daughter's thin, delicatelyoutlined one--a resemblance which three months ago had not beenperceptible.
"I see, if you don't," returned the mother. "I ain't blind."
"I don't see what you are blaming me for."
"I ain't blamin' you, but it seems to me that you might jest aswell let me go up there an' sleep as you."
Suddenly the girl also broke out into a wild cry. "I ain't goingto leave her. Poor little Jenny! poor little Jenny! You needn't tryto make me, mother; I won't!"
"Flora, don't!"
"I won't! I won't! I won't! Poor little Jenny! Oh, dear! oh,dear!"
"What if it is so? What if it is--her? Ain't she got me as well asyou? Can't her mother go to her?"
"I won't leave her. I won't! I won't!"
Suddenly Mrs. Dunn's calmness seemed to come uppermost, raised inthe scale by the weighty impetus of the other's distress. "Flora,"said she, with mournful solemnity, "you mustn't do so; it's wrong.You mustn't wear yourself all out over something that maybe you'llfind out wasn't so some time or other."
"Mother, don't you think it is--don't you?"
"I don't know what to think, Flora." Just then a door shutsomewhere in the back part of the house. "There's father," said Mrs.Dunn, getting up; "an' the fire ain't made."
Flora rose also, and went about helping her mother to get supper.Both suddenly settled into a rigidity of composure; their eyes werered, but their lips were steady. There was a resolute vein in theircharacters; they managed themselves with wrenches, and could be hardeven with their grief. They got tea ready for Mr. Dunn and his twohired men; then cleared it away, and sat down in the front room withtheir needlework. Mr. Dunn, a kindly, dull old man, was in there too,over his newspaper. Mrs. Dunn and Flora sewed intently, never takingtheir eyes from their work. Out in the next room stood a tall clock,which ticked loudly; just before it struck the hours it made always acurious grating noise. When it announced in this way the striking ofnine, Mrs. Dunn and Flora exchanged glances; the girl was pale, andher eyes looked larger. She began folding up her work. Suddenly a lowmoaning cry sounded through the house, seemingly from the roomoverhead. "There it is!" shrieked Flora. She caught up a lamp andran. Mrs. Dunn was following, when her husband, sitting near thedoor, caught bold of her dress with a bewildered air; he had beendozing. "What's the matter?" said he, vaguely.
"Don't you hear it? Didn't you hear it, father?"
The old man let go of her dress suddenly. "I didn't hear nothin',"said he.
"Hark!"
But the cry, in fact, had ceased. Flora could be heard movingabout in the room overhead, and that was all. In a moment Mrs. Dunnran up--stairs after her. The old man sat staring. "It's all dumfoolishness," he muttered, under his breath. Presently he fell todozing again, and his vacantly smiling face lopped forward. Mr. Dunn,slow-rained, patient, and unimaginative, had had his evening napsinterrupted after this manner for the last three months, and therewas as yet no cessation of his bewilderment. He dealt with thesimple, broad lights of life; the shadows were beyond hisspeculation. For his consciousness his daughter Jenny had died andgone to heaven; he was not capable of listening for her ghostly moansin her little chamber overhead, much less of hearing them with anycredulity.
When his wife came down-stairs finally she looked at him, sleepingthere, with a bitter feeling. She felt as if set about by an icy windof loneliness. Her daughter, who was after her own kind, was all theone to whom she could look for sympathy and understanding in thissubtle perplexity which had come upon her. And she would rather havedispensed with that sympathy, and heard alone those piteous, uncannycries, for she was wild with anxiety about Flora. The girl had neverbeen very strong. She looked at her distressfully when she came downthe next morning.
"Did you sleep any last night?" said she.
"Some," answered Flora.
Soon after breakfast they noticed the little Wren girl stealingacross the road to the cemetery again. "She goes over there all thetime," remarked Mrs. Dunn, "I b'lieve she runs away. See her lookbehind her."
"Yes," said Flora, apathetically.
It was nearly noon when they heard a voice from the next housecalling, "Nancy! Nancy! Nancy Wren!" The voice was loud andimperious, but slow and evenly modulated. It indicated well itsowner. A woman who could regulate her own angry voice could regulateother people. Mrs. Dunn and Flora heard it understandingly.
"That poor little thing will catch it when she gets home," saidMrs. Dunn.
"Nancy! Nancy! Nancy Wren!" called the voice again.
"I pity the child if Mrs. Gregg has to go after her. Mebbe she'sfell asleep over there. Flora, why don't you run over there an' gether?"
The voice rang out again. Flora got her hat and stole across thestreet a little below the house, so the calling woman should not seeher. When she got into the cemetery she called in her turn, lettingout her thin sweet voice cautiously. Finally she came directly uponthe child. She was in the Blake lot, her little slender body, in itsdingy cotton dress, curled up on the ground close to one of thegraves. No one but Nature tended those old graves now, and she seemedto be lapsing them gently back to her own lines, at her own will. Ofthe garden shrubs which had been planted about them not one was leftbut an old low-spraying white rose-bush, which had just gotten itsnew leaves. The Blake lot was at the very rear of the yard, where itverged upon a light wood, which was silently stealing its way overits own proper boundaries. At the back of the lot stood a thicket oflittle thin trees, with silvery twinkling leaves. The ground wasquite blue with houstonias.
The child raised her little fair head and stared at Flora, as ifjust awakened from sleep. She held her little pink mouth open, herinnocent blue eyes had a surprised look, as if she were suddenlygazing upon a new scene.
"Where's she gone?" asked she, in her sweet, feeble pipe.
"Where's who gone?"
"Jane."
"I don't know what you mean. Come, Nancy, you must go homenow."
"Didn't you see her?"
"I didn't see anybody," answered Flora, impatiently. "Come!"
"She was right here."
"What do you mean?"
"Jane was standin' right here. An' she had her white dress on, an'her wreath."
Flora shivered, and looked around her fearfully. The fancy of thechild was overlapping her own nature. There wasn't a soul here."You've been dreaming, child. Come!"
"No, I wasn't. I've seen them blue flowers an' the leaves winkin'all the time. Jane stood right there." The child pointed with hertiny finger to a spot at her side. "She hadn't come for a long timebefore," she added. "She's stayed down there." She pointed at thegrave nearest her.
"You mustn't talk so," said Flora, with tremulous severity. "Youmust get right up and come home. Mrs. Gregg has been calling you andcalling you. She won't like it."
Nancy turned quite pale around her little mouth, and sprang to herfeet. "Is Mis' Gregg comin'?"
"She will come if you don't hurry."
The child said not another word. She flew along ahead through thenarrow paths, and was in the almshouse door before Flora crossed thestreet.
"She's terrible afraid of Mrs. Gregg," she told her mother whenshe got home. Nancy had disturbed her own brooding a little, and shespoke more like herself.
"Poor little thing! I pity her," said Mrs. Dunn. Mrs. Dunn did notlike Mrs. Gregg.
Flora rarely told a story until she had ruminated awhile over itherself. It was afternoon, and the two were in the front room attheir sewing, before she told her mother about "Jane."
"Of course she must have been dreaming," Flora said.
"She must have been," rejoined her mother.
But the two looked at each other, and their eyes said more thantheir tongues. Here was a new marvel, new evidence of a kind whichthey had heretofore scented at, these two rigidly walking New Englandsouls; yet walking, after all, upon narrow paths through dark meadowsof mysticism. If they never lost their footing, the steaming damp ofthe meadows might come in their faces.
This fancy, delusion, superstition, whichever one might name it,of theirs had lasted now three months--ever since young Jenny Dunnhad died. There was apparently no reason why it should not last muchlonger, if delusion it were; the temperaments of these two women,naturally nervous and imaginative, overwrought now by long care andsorrow, would perpetuate it.
If it were not delusion, pray what exorcism, what spell of bookand bell, could lay the ghost of a little timid child who was afraidalone in the dark?
The days went on, and Flora still hurried up to her chamber at thestroke of nine. If she were a moment late, sometimes if she were not,that pitiful low wail sounded through the house.
The strange story spread gradually through the village. Mrs. Dunnand Flora were silent about it, but Gossip is herself of a ghostlynature, and minds not keys nor bars.
There was quite an excitement over it. People affected with morbidcuriosity and sympathy came to the house. One afternoon the ministercame and offered a prayer. Mrs. Dunn and Flora received them all witha certain reticence; they did not concur in their wishes to remainand hear the mysterious noises for themselves. People called them"dreadful close." They got more satisfaction out of Mr. Dunn, who wasperfectly ready to impart all the information in his power and hisown theories in the matter.
"I never heard a thing but once," said he, "an' then it soundedmore like a cat to me than anything. I guess mother and Flora airkinder nervous."
The spring was waxing late when Flora went up-stairs one nightwith the oil low in her lamp. She had neglected filling it that day.She did not notice it until she was undressed; then she thought toherself that she must blow it out. She always kept a lamp burning allnight, as she had in timid little Jenny's day. Flora herself wastimid now.
So she blew the light out. She had barely laid her head upon thepillow when the low moaning wail sounded through the room. Flora satup in bed and listened, her hands clinched. The moan gatheredstrength and volume; little broken words and sentences, the piteousejaculations of terror and distress, began to shape themselves out ofit.
Flora sprang out of bed, and stumbled towards her west window--theone on the almshouse side. She leaned her head out, listening amoment. Then she called her mother with wild vehemence. But hermother was already at the door with a lamp. When she entered, themoans ceased.
"Mother," shrieked Flora, "it ain't Jenny. It's somebody overthere--at the poor-house. Put the lamp out in the entry, and comeback here and listen."
Mrs. Dunn set out the lamp and came back, closing the door. It wasa few minutes first, but presently the cries recommenced.
"I'm goin' right over there," said Mrs. Dunn. "I'm goin' to dressmyself an' go over there. I'm goin' to have this affair siftednow."
"I'm going too," said Flora.
It was only half-past nine when the two stole into the almshouseyard. The light was not out in the room on the ground-floor, whichthe overseer's family used for a sitting-room. When they entered, theoverseer was there asleep in his chair, his wife sewing at the table,and an old woman in a pink cotton dress, apparently doing nothing.They all started, and stared at the intruders.
"Good-evenin'," said Mrs. Dunn, trying to speak composedly. "Wethought we'd come in; we got kind of started. Oh, there 'tis now!What is it, Mis' Gregg?"
In fact, at that moment, the wail, louder and more distinct, washeard.
"Why, it's Nancy," replied Mrs. Gregg, with dignified surprise.She was a large woman, with a masterly placidity about her. "I heardher a few minutes ago," she went on; "an' I was goin' up there to seeto her if she hadn't stopped."
Mr. Gregg, a heavy, saturnine old man, with a broad bristlingface, sat staring stupidly. The old woman in pink calico surveyedthem all with an impersonal grin.
"Nancy!" repeated Mrs. Dunn, looking at Mrs. Gregg. She had notfancied this woman very much, and the two had not fraternized,although they were such near neighbors. Indeed, Mrs. Gregg was not ofa sociable nature, and associated very little with anything but herown duties.
"Yes; Nancy Wren," she said, with gathering amazement. "She criesout this way 'most every night. She's ten years old, but she's asafraid of the dark as a baby. She's a queerchild. I guess mebbe she'snervous. I don't know but she's got notions into her head, stayin'over in the graveyard so much. She runs away over there every chanceshe can get, an' she goes over a queer rigmarole about playin' withJane, and her bein' dressed in white an' a wreath. I found out shemeant Jane Blake, that's buried in the Blake lot. I knew there wa'n'tany children round here, an' I thought I'd look into it. You know itsays 'Our Father,' an' 'Our Mother,' on the old folks' stones. An'there she was, callin' them father an' mother. You'd thought they wasright there. I've got 'most out o' patience with the child. I don'tknow nothin' about such kind of folks." The wail continued. "I'll goright up there," said Mrs. Gregg, determinately, taking a lamp.
Mrs. Dunn and Flora followed. When they entered the chamber towhich she led them they saw little Nancy sitting up in bed, her facepale and convulsed, her blue eyes streaming with tears, her littlepink mouth quivering.
"Nancy--" began Mrs. Gregg, in a weighty tone. But Mrs. Dunnsprang forward and threw her arms around the child.
"You got frightened, didn't you?" whispered she; and Nancy clungto her as if for life.
A great wave of joyful tenderness rolled up in the heart of thebereaved woman. It was not, after all, the lonely and fearfullywandering little spirit of her dear Jenny; she was peaceful andblessed, beyond all her girlish tumults and terrors; but it was thislittle living girl. She saw it all plainly now. Afterwards it seemedto her that any one but a woman with her nerves strained, and herimagination unhealthily keen through watching and sorrow, would haveseen it before.
She held Nancy tight, and soothed her. She felt almost as if sheheld her own Jenny. "I guess I'll take her home with me, if you don'tcare," she said to Mrs. Gregg.
"Why, I don't know as I've got any objections, if you want to,"answered Mrs. Gregg, with cold stateliness. "Nancy Wren has hadeverything done for her that I was able to do," she added, when Mrs.Dunn had wrapped up the child, and they were all on the stairs. "Iain't coaxed an' cuddled her, because it ain't my way. I never didwith my own children."
"Oh, I know you've done all you could," said Mrs. Dunn, withabstracted apology. "I jest thought I'd like to take her hometo-night. Don't you think I'm blamin' you, Mis' Gregg." She bent downand kissed the little tearful face on her shoulder: she was carryingNancy like a baby. Flora had hold of one of her little danglinghands.
"You shall go right up-stairs an' sleep with Flora," Mrs. Dunnwhispered in the child's ear, when they were going across the yard;"an' you shall have the lamp burnin' all night, an' I'll give you apiece of cake before you go."
It was the custom of the Dunns to visit the cemetery and carryflowers to Jenny's grave every Sunday afternoon. Next Sunday littleNancy went with them. She followed happily along, and did not seem tothink of the Blake lot. That pitiful fancy, if fancy it were, whichhad peopled her empty childish world with ghostly kindred, which hadled into it an angel playmate in white robe and crown, might lie atrest now. There was no more need for it. She had found her place in anest of living hearts, and she was getting her natural food of humanlove.
They had dressed Nancy in one of the little white frocks whichJenny had worn in her childhood, and her hat was trimmed with someribbon and rose-buds which had adorned one of the dead young girl'syears before.
It was a beautiful Sunday. After they left the cemetery theystrolled a little way down the road. The road lay between deep greenmeadows and cottage yards. It was not quite time for the roses, andthe lilacs were turning gray. The buttercups in the meadows hadblossomed out, but the dandelions had lost their yellow crowns, andtheir filmy skulls appeared. They stood like ghosts among crowds ofgolden buttercups; but none of the family thought of that; theirghosts were laid in peace.
MY name is Mrs. Elizabeth Jennings. I am a highly respectablewoman. I may style myself a gentlewoman, for in my youth I enjoyedadvantages. I was well brought up, and I graduated at a young ladies'seminary. I also married well. My husband was that most genteel ofall merchants, an apothecary. His shop was on the corner of the mainstreet in Rockton, the town where I was born, and where I lived untilthe death of my husband. My parents had died when I had been marrieda short time, so I was left quite alone in the world. I was notcompetent to carry on the apothecary business by myself, for I had noknowledge of drugs, and had a mortal terror of giving poisons insteadof medicines. Therefore I was obliged to sell at a considerablesacrifice, and the proceeds, some five thousand dollars, were all Ihad in the world. The income was not enough to support me in any kindof comfort, and I saw that I must in some way earn money. I thoughtat first of teaching, but I was no longer young, and methods hadchanged since my school days. What I was able to teach, nobody wishedto know. I could think of only one thing to do: take boarders. Butthe same objection to that business as to teaching held good inRockton. Nobody wished to board. My husband had rented a house with anumber of bedrooms, and I advertised, but nobody applied. Finally mycash was running very low, and I became desperate. I packed up myfurniture, rented a large house in this town and moved here. It was aventure attended with many risks. In the first place the rent wasexorbitant, in the next I was entirely unknown. However, I am aperson of considerable ingenuity, and have inventive power, and muchenterprise when the occasion presses. I advertised in a very originalmanner, although that actually took my last penny, that is, the lastpenny of my ready money, and I was forced to draw on my principal topurchase my first supplies, a thing which I had resolved never on anyaccount to do. But the great risk met with a reward, for I hadseveral applicants within two days after my advertisement appeared inthe paper. Within two weeks my boarding-house was well established, Ibecame very successful, and my success would have been uninterruptedhad it not been for the mysterious and bewildering occurrences whichI am about to relate. I am now forced to leave the house and rentanother. Some of my old boarders accompany me, some, with the mostunreasonable nervousness, refuse to be longer associated in any way,however indirectly, with the terrible and uncanny happenings which Ihave to relate. It remains to be seen whether my ill luck in thishouse will follow me into another, and whether my whole prosperity inlife will be forever shadowed by the Mystery of the Hall Bedroom.Instead of telling the strange story myself in my own words, I shallpresent the journal of Mr. George H. Wheatcroft. I shall show you theportions beginning on January 18 of the present year, the date whenhe took up his residence with me. Here it is:
"January 18, 1883. Here I am established in my new boardinghouse.I have, as befits my humble means, the hall bedroom, even the hallbedroom on the third floor. I have heard all my life of hallbedrooms, I have seen hall bedrooms, I have been in them, but neveruntil now, when I am actually established in one, did I comprehendwhat, at once, an ignominious and sternly uncompromising thing a hallbedroom is. It proves the ignominy of the dweller therein. No man atthirty-six (my age) would be domiciled in a hall bedroom, unless hewere himself ignominious, at least comparatively speaking. I amproved by this means incontrovertibly to have been left far behind inthe race. I see no reason why I should not live in this hall bedroomfor the rest of my life, that is, if I have money enough to pay thelandlady, and that seems probable, since my small funds are investedas safely as if I were an orphan-ward in charge of a pillar of asanctuary. After the valuables have been stolen, I have mostcarefully locked the stable door. I have experienced the revulsionwhich comes sooner or later to the adventurous soul who experiencesnothing but defeat and so-called ill luck. I have swung to theopposite extreme. I have lost in everything--I have lost in love, Ihave lost in money, I have lost in the struggle for preferment, Ihave lost in health and strength. I am now settled down in a hallbedroom to live upon my small income, and regain my health by mildpotations of the mineral waters here, if possible; if not, to livehere without my health--for mine is not a necessarily fatalmalady--until Providence shall take me out of my hall bedroom. Thereis no one place more than another where I care to live. There is notsufficient motive to take me away, even if the mineral waters do notbenefit me. So I am here and to stay in the hall bedroom. Thelandlady is civil, and even kind, as kind as a woman who has to keepher poor womanly eye upon the main chance can be. The struggle formoney always injures the fine grain of a woman; she is too fine athing to do it; she does not by nature belong with the gold grubbers,and it therefore lowers her; she steps from heights to claw andscrape and dig. But she can not help it oftentimes, poor thing, andher deterioration thereby is to be condoned. The landlady is all shecan be, taking her strain of adverse circumstances intoconsideration, and the table is good, even conscientiously so. Itlooks to me as if she were foolish enough to strive to give theboarders their money's worth, with the due regard for the main chancewhich is inevitable. However, that is of minor importance to me,since my diet is restricted.
"It is curious what an annoyance a restriction in diet can be evento a man who has considered himself somewhat indifferent togastronomic delights. There was to-day a pudding for dinner, which Icould not taste without penalty, but which I longed for. It was onlybecause it looked unlike any other pudding that I had ever seen, andassumed a mental and spiritual significance. It seemed to me,whimsically no doubt, as if tasting it might give me a new sensation,and consequently a new outlook. Trivial things may lead to largeresults: why should I not get a new outlook by means of a pudding?Life here stretches before me most monotonously, and I feet likeclutching at alleviations, though paradoxically, since I have settleddown with the utmost acquiescence. Still one can not immediatelyovercome and change radically all one's nature. Now I look at myselfcritically and search for the keynote to my whole self, and myactions, I have always been conscious of a reaching out, anoverweening desire for the new, the untried, for the broadness offurther horizons, the seas beyond seas, the thought beyond thought.This characteristic has been the primary cause of all my misfortunes.I have the soul of an explorer, and in nine out of ten cases thisleads to destruction. If I had possessed capital and sufficient push,I should have been one of the searchers after the North Pole. I havebeen an eager student of astronomy. I have studied botany withavidity, and have dreamed of new flora in unexplored parts of theworld, and the same with animal life and geology. I longed for richesin order to discover the power and sense of possession of the rich. Ilonged for love in order to discover the possibilities of theemotions. I longed for all that the mind of man could conceive asdesirable for man, not so much for purely selfish ends, as from aninsatiable thirst for knowledge of a universal trend. But I havelimitations, I do not quite understand of what nature--for whatmortal ever did quite understand his own limitations, since aknowledge of them would preclude their existence?--but they haveprevented my progress to any extent. Therefore behold me in my hallbedroom, settled at last into a groove of fate so deep that I havelost the sight of even my horizons. Just at present, as I write here,my horizon on the left, that is my physical horizon, is a wallcovered with cheap paper. The paper is an indeterminate pattern inwhite and gilt. There are a few photographs of my own hung about, andon the large wall space beside the bed there is a large oil paintingwhich belongs to my landlady. It has a massive tarnished gold frame,and, curiously enough, the painting itself is rather good. I have noidea who the artist could have been. It is of the conventionallandscape type in vogue some fifty years since, the type so fondlyreproduced in chromos--the winding river with the little boatoccupied by a pair of lovers, the cottage nestled among trees on theright shore, the gentle slope of the hills and the church spire inthe background--but still it is well done. It gives me the impressionof an artist without the slightest originality of design, but much oftechnique. But for some inexplicable reason the picture frets me. Ifind myself gazing at it when I do not wish to do so. It seems tocompel my attention like some intent face in the room. I shall askMrs. Jennings to have it removed. I will hang in its place somephotographs which I have in a trunk.
"January 26. I do not write regularly in my journal. I never did.I see no reason why I should. I see no reason why anyone should havethe slightest sense of duty in such a matter. Some days I havenothing which interests me sufficiently to write out, some days Ifeel either too ill or too indolent. For four days I have notwritten, from a mixture of all three reasons. Now, to-day I both feellike it and I have something to write. Also I am distinctly betterthan I have been. Perhaps the waters are benefiting me, or the changeof air. Or possibly it is something else more subtle. Possibly mymind has seized upon something new, a discovery which causes it toreact upon my failing body and serves as a stimulant. All I know is,I feel distinctly better, and am conscious of an acute interest indoing so, which is of late strange to me. I have been ratherindifferent, and sometimes have wondered if that were not the causerather than the result of my state of health. I have been socontinually balked that I have settled into a state of inertia. Ilean rather comfortably against my obstacles. After all, the worst ofthe pain always lies in the struggle. Give up and it is ratherpleasant than otherwise. If one did not kick, the pricks would not inthe least matter. However, for some reason, for the last few days, Iseem to have awakened from my state of quiescence. It means futuretrouble for me, no doubt, but in the meantime I am not sorry. Itbegan with the picture--the large oil painting. I went to Mrs.Jennings about it yesterday, and she, to my surprise--for I thoughtit a matter that could be easily arranged--objected to having itremoved. Her reasons were two; both simple, both sufficient,especially since I, after all, had no very strong desire either way.It seems that the picture does not belong to her. It hung here whenshe rented the house. She says if it is removed, a very large andunsightly discoloration of the wall-paper will be exposed, and shedoes not like to ask for new paper. The owner, an old man, istraveling abroad, the agent is curt, and she has only been in thehouse a very short time. Then it would mean a sad upheaval of myroom, which would disturb me. She also says that there is no place inthe house where she can store the picture, and there is not a vacantspace in another room for one so large. So I let the picture remain.It really, when I came to think of it, was very immaterial after all.But I got my photographs out of my trunk, and I hung them around thelarge picture. The wall is almost completely covered. I hung themyesterday afternoon, and last night I repeated a strange experiencewhich I have had in some degree every night since I have been here,but was not sure whether it deserved the name of experience, but wasnot rather one of those dreams in which one dreams one is awake. Butlast night it came again, and now I know. There is something verysingular about this room. I am very much interested. I will writedown for future reference the events of last night. Concerning thoseof the preceding nights since I have slept in this room, I willsimply say that they have been of a similar nature, but, as it were,only the preliminary stages, the prologue to what happened lastnight.
"I am not depending upon the mineral waters here as the one remedyfor my malady, which is sometimes of an acute nature, and indeedconstantly threatens me with considerable suffering unless bymedicine I can keep it in check. I will say that the medicine which Iemploy is not of the class commonly known as drugs. It is impossiblethat it can be held responsible for what I am about to transcribe. Mymind last night and every night since I have slept in this room wasin an absolutely normal state. I take this medicine, prescribed bythe specialist in whose charge I was before coming here, regularlyevery four hours while awake. As I am never a good sleeper, itfollows that I am enabled with no inconvenience to take any medicineduring the night with the same regularity as during the day. It is myhabit, therefore, to place my bottle and spoon where I can put myhand upon them easily without lighting the gas. Since I have been inthis room, I have placed the bottle of medicine upon my dresser atthe side of the room opposite the bed. I have done this rather thanplace it nearer, as once I jostled the bottle and spilled most of thecontents, and it is not easy for me to replace it, as it isexpensive. Therefore I placed it in security on the dresser, and,indeed, that is but three or four steps from my bed, the room beingso small. Last night I wakened as usual, and I knew, since I hadfallen asleep about eleven, that it must be in the neighborhood ofthree. I wake with almost clock-like regularity and it is nevernecessary for me to consult my watch.
"I had slept unusually well and without dreams, and I awoke fullyat once, with a feeling of refreshment to which I am not accustomed.I immediately got out of bed and began stepping across the room inthe direction of my dresser, on which I had set my medicine-bottleand spoon.
"To my utter amazement, the steps which had hitherto sufficed totake me across my room did not suffice to do so. I advanced severalpaces, and my outstretched hands touched nothing. I stopped and wenton again. I was sure that I was moving in a straight direction, andeven if I had not been I knew it was impossible to advance in anydirection in my tiny apartment without coming into collision eitherwith a wall or a piece of furniture. I continued to walk falteringly,as I have seen people on the stage: a step, then a long falter, thena sliding step. I kept my hands extended; they touched nothing. Istopped again. I had not the least sentiment of fear orconsternation. It was rather the very stupefaction of surprise. 'Howis this?' seemed thundering in my ears. 'What is this?'
"The room was perfectly dark. There was nowhere any glimmer, as isusually the case, even in a so-called dark room, from the walls,picture-frames, looking-glass or white objects. It was absolutegloom. The house stood in a quiet part of the town. There were manytrees about; the electric street lights were extinguished atmidnight; there was no moon and the sky was cloudy. I could notdistinguish my one window, which I thought strange, even on such adark night. Finally I changed my plan of motion and turned, as nearlyas I could estimate, at right angles. Now, I thought, I must reachsoon, if, I kept on, my writing-table underneath the window; or, if Iam going in the opposite direction, the hall door. I reached neither.I am telling the unvarnished truth when I say that I began to countmy steps and carefully measure my paces after that, and I traversed aspace clear of furniture at least twenty feet by thirty--a very largeapartment. And as I walked I was conscious that my naked feet werepressing something which gave rise to sensations the like of which Ihad never experienced before. As nearly as I can express it, it wasas if my feet pressed something as elastic as air or water, which wasin this case unyielding to my weight. It gave me a curious sensationof buoyancy and stimulation. At the same time this surface, ifsurface be the right name, which I trod, felt cool to my feet withthe coolness of vapor or fluidity, seeming to overlap the soles.Finally I stood still; my surprise was at last merging into a measureof consternation. 'Where am I?' I thought. 'What am I going to do?'Stories that I had heard of travelers being taken from their beds andconveyed into strange and dangerous places, Middle Age stories of theInquisition flashed through my brain. I knew all the time that for aman who had gone to bed in a commonplace hall bedroom in a verycommonplace little town such surmises were highly ridiculous, but itis hard for the human mind to grasp anything but a human explanationof phenomena. Almost anything seemed then, and seems now, morerational than an explanation bordering upon the supernatural, as weunderstand the supernatural. At last I called, though rather softly,'What does this mean?' I said quite aloud, 'Where am I? Who is here?Who is doing this? I tell you I will have no such nonsense. Speak, ifthere is anybody here.' But all was dead silence. Then suddenly alight flashed through the open transom of my door. Somebody had heardme--a man who rooms next door, a decent kind of man, also here forhis health. He turned on the gas in the hall and called to me.'What's the matter?' he asked, in an agitated, trembling voice. He isa nervous fellow.
"Directly, when the light flashed through my transom, I saw that Iwas in my familiar hall bedroom. I could see everything quitedistinctly--my tumbled bed, my writing-table, my dresser, my chair,my little wash-stand, my clothes hanging on a row of pegs, the oldpicture on the wall. The picture gleamed out with singulardistinctness in the light from the transom. The river seemed actuallyto run and ripple, and the boat to be gliding with the current. Igazed fascinated at it, as I replied to the anxious voice:
"'Nothing is the matter with me,' said I. 'Why?'
"'I thought I heard you speak,' said the man outside. 'I thoughtmaybe you were sick.'
"'No,' I called back. 'I am all right. I am trying to find mymedicine in the dark, that's all. I can see now you have lighted thegas.'
"'Nothing is the matter?'
"'No; sorry I disturbed you. Good-night.'
"'Good-night.' Then I heard the man's door shut after a minute'spause. He was evidently not quite satisfied. I took a pull at mymedicine-bottle, and got into bed. He had left the hall-gas burning.I did not go to sleep again for some time. Just before I did so, someone, probably Mrs. Jennings, came out in the hall and extinguishedthe gas. This morning when I awoke everything was as usual in myroom. I wonder if I shall have any such experience to-night.
"January 27. I shall write in my journal every day until thisdraws to some definite issue. Last night my strange experiencedeepened, as something tells me it will continue to do. I retiredquite early, at half-past ten. I took the precaution, on retiring, toplace beside my bed, on a chair, a box of safety matches, that Imight not be in the dilemma of the night before. I took my medicineon retiring; that made me due to wake at half-past two. I had notfallen asleep directly, but had had certainly three hours of sound,dreamless slumber when I awoke. I lay a few minutes hesitatingwhether or not to strike a safety match and light my way to thedresser, whereon stood my medicine-bottle. I hesitated, not because Ihad the least sensation of fear, but because of the same shrinkingfrom a nerve shock that leads one at times to dread the plunge intoan icy bath. It seemed much easier to me to strike that match andcross my hall bedroom to my dresser, take my dose, then returnquietly to my bed, than to risk the chance of floundering about insome unknown limbo either of fancy or reality.
"At last, however, the spirit of adventure, which has always beensuch a ruling one for me, conquered. I rose. I took the box of safetymatches in my hand, and started on, as I conceived, the straightcourse for my dresser, about five feet across from my bed. As before,I traveled and traveled and did not reach it. I advanced with gropinghands extended, setting one foot cautiously before the other, but Itouched nothing except the indefinite, unnameable surface which myfeet pressed. All of a sudden, though, I became aware of something.One of my senses was saluted, nay, more than that, hailed, withimperiousness, and that was, strangely enough, my sense of smell, butin a hitherto unknown fashion. It seemed as if the odor reached mymentality first. I reversed the usual process, which is, as Iunderstand it, like this: the odor when encountered strikes first theolfactory nerve, which transmits the intelligence to the brain. It isas if, to put it rudely, my nose met a rose, and then the nervebelonging to the sense said to my brain, 'Here is a rose.' This timemy brain said, 'Here is a rose,' and my sense then recognized it. Isay rose, but it was not a rose, that is, not the fragrance of anyrose which I had ever known. It was undoubtedly a flower-odor, androse came perhaps the nearest to it. My mind realized it first withwhat seemed a leap of rapture. 'What is this delight?' I askedmyself. And then the ravishing fragrance smote my sense. I breathedit in and it seemed to feed my thoughts, satisfying some hithertounknown hunger. Then I took a step further and another fragranceappeared, which I liken to lilies for lack of something better, andthen came violets, then mignonette. I can not describe theexperience, but it was a sheer delight, a rapture of sublimatedsense. I groped further and further, and always into new waves offragrance. I seemed to be wading breast-high through flower-beds ofParadise, but all the time I touched nothing with my groping hands.At last a sudden giddiness as of surfeit overcame me. I realized thatI might be in some unknown peril. I was distinctly afraid. I struckone of my safety matches, and I was in my hall bedroom, midwaybetween my bed and my dresser. I took my dose of medicine and went tobed, and after a while fell asleep and did not wake till morning.
"January 28. Last night I did not take my usual dose of medicine.In these days of new remedies and mysterious results upon certainorganizations, it occurred to me to wonder if possibly the drug mighthave, after all, something to do with my strange experience.
"I did not take my medicine. I put the bottle as usual on mydresser, since I feared if I interrupted further the customarysequence of affairs I might fail to wake. I placed my box of matcheson the chair beside the bed. I fell asleep about quarter past eleveno'clock, and I waked when the clock was striking two--a littleearlier than my wont. I did not hesitate this time. I rose at once,took my box of matches and proceeded as formerly. I walked whatseemed a great space without coming into collision with anything. Ikept sniffing for the wonderful fragrances of the night before, butthey did not recur. Instead, I was suddenly aware that I was tastingsomething, some morsel of sweetness hitherto unknown, and, as in thecase of the odor, the usual order seemed reversed, and it was as if Itasted it first in my mental consciousness. Then the sweetness rolledunder my tongue. I thought involuntarily of 'Sweeter than honey orthe honeycomb' of the Scripture. I thought of the Old Testamentmanna. An ineffable content as of satisfied hunger seized me. Istepped further, and a new savor was upon my palate. And so on. Itwas never cloying, though of such sharp sweetness that it fairlystung. It was the merging of a material sense into a spiritual one. Isaid to myself, 'I have lived my life and always have I gone hungryuntil now.' I could feel my brain act swiftly under the influence ofthis heavenly food as under a stimulant. Then suddenly I repeated theexperience of the night before. I grew dizzy, and an indefinite fearand shrinking were upon me. I struck my safety match and was back inmy hall bedroom. I returned to bed, and soon fell asleep. I did nottake my medicine. I am resolved not to do so longer. I am feelingmuch better.
"January 29. Last night to bed as usual, matches in place; fellasleep about eleven and waked at half-past one. I heard the half-hourstrike; I am waking earlier and earlier every night. I had not takenmy medicine, though it was on the dresser as usual. I again took mymatch-box in hand and started to cross the room, and, as always,traversed strange spaces, but this night, as seems fated to be thecase every night, my experience was different. Last night I neithersmelled nor tasted, but I heard--my Lord, I heard! The first sound ofwhich I was conscious was one like the constantly gathering andreceding murmur of a river, and it seemed to come from the wallbehind my bed where the old picture hangs. Nothing in nature except ariver gives that impression of at once advance and retreat. I couldnot mistake it. On, ever on, came the swelling murmur of the waves,past and ever past they died in the distance. Then I heard above themurmur of the river a song in an unknown tongue which I recognized asbeing unknown, yet which I understood; but the understanding was inmy brain, with no words of interpretation. The song had to do withme, but with me in unknown futures for which I had no images ofcomparison in the past; yet a sort of ecstasy as of a prophecy ofbliss filled my whole consciousness. The song never ceased, but as Imoved on I came into new sound-waves. There was the pealing of bellswhich might have been made of crystal, and might have summoned to thegates of heaven. There was music of strange instruments, greatharmonies pierced now and then by small whispers as of love, and itall filled me with a certainty of a future of bliss.
"At last I seemed the centre of a mighty orchestra whichconstantly deepened and increased until I seemed to feel myself beinglifted gently but mightily upon the waves of sound as upon the wavesof a sea. Then again the terror and the impulse to flee to my ownfamiliar scenes was upon me. I struck my match and was back in myhall bedroom. I do not see how I sleep at all after such wonders, butsleep I do. I slept dreamlessly until daylight this morning.
"January 30. I heard yesterday something with regard to my hallbedroom which affected me strangely. I can not for the life of me saywhether it intimidated me, filled me with the horror of the abnormal,or rather roused to a greater degree my spirit of adventure anddiscovery. I was down at the Cure, and was sitting on the verandasipping idly my mineral water, when somebody spoke my name. 'Mr.Wheatcroft?' said the voice politely, interrogatively, somewhatapollogetically, [sic] as if to provide for a possible mistake in myidentity. I turned and saw a gentleman whom I recognized at once. Iseldom forget names or faces. He was a Mr. Addison whom I had seenconsiderable of three years ago at a little summer hotel in themountains. It was one of those passing acquaintances which signifylittle one way or the other. If never renewed, you have no regret; ifrenewed, you accept the renewal with no hesitation. It is in everyway negative. But just now, in my feeble, friendless state, the sightof a face which beams with pleased remembrance is rather grateful. Ifelt distinctly glad to see the man. He sat down beside me. He alsohad a glass of the water. His health, while not as bad as mine,leaves much to be desired.
"Addison had often been in this town before. He had in fact livedhere at one time. He had remained at the Cure three years, taking thewaters daily. He therefore knows about all there is to be known aboutthe town, which is not very large. He asked me where I was staying,and when I told him the street, rather excitedly inquired the number.When I told him the number, which is 240, he gave a manifest start,and after one sharp glance at me sipped his water in silence for amoment. He had so evidently betrayed some ulterior knowledge withregard to my residence that I questioned him.
"'What do you know about 240 Pleasant Street?' said I.
"'Oh, nothing,' he replied, evasively, sipping his water.
"After a little while, however, he inquired, in what he evidentlytried to render a casual tone, what room I occupied. 'I once lived afew weeks at 240 Pleasant Street myself,' he said. 'That house alwayswas a boarding-house, I guess.'
"'It had stood vacant for a term of years before the presentoccupant rented it, I believe,' I remarked. Then I answered hisquestion. 'I have the hall bedroom on the third floor,' said I. 'Thequarters are pretty straitened, but comfortable enough as hallbedrooms go.'
"But Mr. Addison had showed such unmistakable consternation at myreply that then I persisted in my questioning as to the cause, and atlast he yielded and told me what he knew. He had hesitated bothbecause he shrank from displaying what I might consider an unmanlysuperstition, and because he did not wish to influence me beyond whatthe facts of the case warranted. 'Well, I will tell you, Wheatcroft,'he said. 'Briefly all I know is this: When last I heard of 240Pleasant Street it was not rented because of foul play which wassupposed to have taken place there, though nothing was ever proved.There were two disappearances, and--in each case--of an occupant ofthe hall bedroom which you now have. The first disappearance was of avery beautiful girl who had come here for her health and was said tobe the victim of a profound melancholy, induced by a lovedisappointment. She obtained board at 240 and occupied the hallbedroom about two weeks; then one morning she was gone, havingseemingly vanished into thin air. Her relatives were communicatedwith; she had not many, nor friends either, poor girl, and a thoroughsearch was made, but the last I knew she had never come to light.There were two or three arrests, but nothing ever came of them. Well,that was before my day here, but the second disappearance took placewhen I was in the house--a fine young fellow who had overworked incollege. He had to pay his own way. He had taken cold, had the grip,and that and the overwork about finished him, and he came on here fora month's rest and recuperation. He had been in that room about twoweeks, a little less, when one morning he wasn't there. Then therewas a great hullabaloo. It seems that he had let fall some hints tothe effect that there was something queer about the room, but, ofcourse, the police did not think much of that. They made arrestsright and left, but they never found him, and the arrested weredischarged, though some of them are probably under a cloud ofsuspicion to this day. Then the boarding-house was shut up. Six yearsago nobody would have boarded there, much less occupied that hallbedroom, but now I suppose new people have come in and the story hasdied out. I dare say your landlady will not thank me for revivingit.'
"I assured him that it would make no possible difference to me. Helooked at me sharply, and asked bluntly if I had seen anything wrongor unusual about the room. I replied, guarding myself from falsehoodwith a quibble, that I had seen nothing in the least unusual aboutthe room, as indeed I had not, and have not now, but that may come. Ifeel that that will come in due time. Last night I neither saw, norheard, nor smelled, nor tasted, but I felt. Last night, havingstarted again on my exploration of, God knows what, I had notadvanced a step before I touched something. My first sensation wasone of disappointment. 'It is the dresser, and I am at the end of itnow,' I thought. But I soon discovered that it was not the oldpainted dresser which I touched, but something carved, as nearly as Icould discover with my unskilled finger-tips, with winged things.There were certainly long keen curves of wings which seemed tooverlay an arabesque of fine leaf and flower work. I do not know whatthe object was that I touched. It may have been a chest. I may seemto be exaggerating when I say that it somehow failed or exceeded insome mysterious respect of being the shape of anything I had evertouched. I do not know what the material was. It was as smooth asivory, but it did not feel like ivory; there was a singular warmthabout it, as if it had stood long in hot sunlight. I continued, and Iencountered other objects I am inclined to think were pieces offurniture of fashions and possibly of uses unknown to me, and aboutthem all was the strange mystery as to shape. At last I came to whatwas evidently an open window of large area. I distinctly felt a soft,warm wind, yet with a crystal freshness, blow on my face. It was notthe window of my hall bedroom, that I know. Looking out, I could seenothing. I only felt the wind blowing on my face.
"Then suddenly, without any warning, my groping hands to the rightand left touched living beings, beings in the likeness of men andwomen, palpable creatures in palpable attire. I could feel the softsilken texture of their garments which swept around me, seeming tohalf infold me in clinging meshes like cobwebs. I was in a crowd ofthese people, whatever they were, and whoever they were, but,curiously enough, without seeing one of them I had a strong sense ofrecognition as I passed among them. Now and then a hand that I knewclosed softly over mine; once an arm passed around me. Then I beganto feel myself gently swept on and impelled by this softly movingthrong; their floating garments seemed to fairly wind me about, andagain a swift terror overcame me. I struck my match, and was back inmy hall bedroom. I wonder if I had not better keep my gas burningto-night? I wonder if it be possible that this is going too far? Iwonder what became of those other people, the man and the woman whooccupied this room? I wonder if I had better not stop where I am?
"January 31. Last night I saw--I saw more than I can describe,more than is lawful to describe. Something which nature has rightlyhidden has been revealed to me, but it is not for me to disclose toomuch of her secret. This much I will say, that doors and windows openinto an out-of-doors to which the outdoors which we know is but avestibule. And there is a river; there is something strange withrespect to that picture. There is a river upon which one could sailaway. It was flowing silently, for to-night I could only see. I sawthat I was right in thinking I recognized some of the people whom Iencountered the night before, though some were strange to me. It istrue that the girl who disappeared from the hall bedroom was verybeautiful. Everything which I saw last night was very beautiful to myone sense that could grasp it. I wonder what it would all be if allmy senses together were to grasp it? I wonder if I had better notkeep my gas burning to-night? I wonder--"
This finishes the journal which Mr. Wheatcroft left in his hallbedroom. The morning after the last entry he was gone. His friend,Mr. Addison, came here, and a search was made. They even tore downthe wall behind the picture, and they did find something rather queerfor a house that had been used for boarders, where you would think noroom would have been let run to waste. They found another room, along narrow one, the length of the hall bedroom, but narrower, hardlymore than a closet. There was no window, nor door, and all there wasin it was a sheet of paper covered with figures, as if somebody hadbeen doing sums.
They made a lot of talk about those figures, and they tried tomake out that the fifth dimension, whatever that is, was proved, butthey said afterward they didn't prove anything. They tried to makeout then that somebody had murdered poor Mr. Wheatcroft and hid thebody, and they arrested poor Mr. Addison, but they couldn't make outanything against him. They proved he was in the Cure all that nightand couldn't have done it. They don't know what became of Mr.Wheatcroft, and now they say two more disappeared from that same roombefore I rented the house.
The agent came and promised to put the new room they discoveredinto the hall bedroom and have everything new-papered and painted. Hetook away the picture; folks hinted there was something queer aboutthat, I don't know what. It looked innocent enough, and I guess heburned it up. He said if I would stay he would arrange it with theowner, who everybody says is a very queer man, so I should not haveto pay much if any rent. But I told him I couldn't stay if he was togive me the rent. That I wasn't afraid of anything myself, though Imust say I wouldn't want to put anybody in that hall bedroom withouttelling him all about it; but my boarders would leave, and I knew Icouldn't get any more. I told him I would rather have had a regularghost than what seemed to be a way of going out of the house tonowhere and never coming back again. I moved, and, as I said before,it remains to be seen whether my ill luck follows me to this house ornot. Anyway, it has no hall bedroom.
It was quite late in the evening, dark and rainy, when I arrived,and I suppose the first object in Ware, outside of my immediatepersonal surroundings, which arrested my attention was the Munsonhouse. When I looked out of my window the next morning it loomed updirectly opposite, across the road, dark and moist from the rain ofthe night before. There were so many elm-trees in front of it and infront of the house I was in, that the little pools of rain-water,still standing in the road here and there, did not glisten and shineat all, although the sun was bright and quite high. The house itselfstood back far enough to allow of a good square yard in front, andwas raised from the street-level the height of a face-wall. Three orfour steps led up to the front walk. On each side of the steps,growing near the edge of the wall, was an enormous lilac-tree in fullblossom. I could see them tossing their purple clusters between theelm branches: there was quite a wind blowing that morning. A hedge oflilacs, kept low by constant cropping, began at the bloominglilac-trees, and reached around the rest of the yard at the top ofthe face wall. The yard was gay with flowers, laid out in fantasticlittle beds, all bordered trimly with box. The house was one of thosesquare, solid, white-painted, green-blinded edifices which marked thewealth and importance of the dweller therein a half-century or soago, and still cast a dim halo of respect over his memory. It had nobeauty in itself, being boldly plain and glaring, like all of itskind but the green waving boughs of the elms and lilacs and theundulating shadows they cast toned it down, and gave it an air ofcoolness and quiet and lovely reserve. I began to feel a sort ofpleasant, idle curiosity concerning it as I stood there at my chamberwindow, and after breakfast, when I had gone into the sitting-room,whose front windows also faced that way, I took occasion to ask myhostess, who had come in with me, who lived there.
"Of course it is nobody I have ever seen or heard of," said I;"but I was looking at the house this morning, and have taken a fancyto know."
Mrs. Leonard gazed reflectively across at the house, and then atme. It was an odd way she always had before speaking.
"There's a maiden lady lives there," she answered, at length,turning her gaze from me to the house again, "all alone; that is, allalone except old Margaret. She's always been in the family--eversince Caroline was a baby, I guess: a faithful old creature as everlived, but she's pretty feeble now. I reckon Caroline has to dopretty much all the work, and I don't suppose she's much company, ormuch of anything but a care. There she comes now."
"Who?" said I, feeling a little bewildered.
"Why, Caroline--Caroline Munson."
A slim, straight little woman, with a white pitcher in her band,was descending the stone steps between the blooming lilac-treesopposite. She had on a lilac-colored calico dress and a white apron.She wore no hat or bonnet, and her gray hair seemed to be arranged ina cluster of soft little curls at the top of her head. Her face,across the street, looked like that of a woman of forty, fair andpleasing.
"She's going down to Mrs. Barnes's after milk," Mrs. Leonardexplained. "She always goes herself, every morning just about thistime. She never sends old Margaret; I reckon she ain't fit to go. Iguess she can do some things about the house, but when it comes totravelling outside Caroline has to do it herself."
Then Mrs. Leonard was called into the kitchen, and I thought overthe information, at once vague and definite, I had received, andwatched Miss Caroline Munson walk down the shady street. She had apretty, gentle gait.
About a week later I received an invitation to take tea with her.I was probably never more surprised in my life, as I had not theslightest acquaintance with her. I had sometimes happened to watchher morning pilgrimages down the street after milk, and occasionallyhad observed her working over her flower-beds in her front yard. Thatwas all, so far as I was concerned; and I did not suppose she knewthere was such a person as myself in existence. But Mrs. Leonard, whowas also bidden, explained it.
"It's Caroline's way," said she. "She's always had a sort of maniafor asking folks to tea. Why, I reckon there's hardly a fortnight, onan average, the year round, but what she invites somebody or other totea. I suppose she gets kind of dull, and there's a little excitementabout it, getting ready for company. Anyhow, she must like it, or shewouldn't ask people. She probably has heard you were going to boardhere this summer--Ware's a little place you know, and folks heareverything about each other--and thought she would invite you overwith me. You had better go; you'll enjoy it. It's a nice place to goto, and she's a beautiful cook, or Margaret is; I don't know whichdoes the cooking, but I guess they both have a hand in it. Anyhow,you'll have a pleasant time. We'll take our sewing, and go early--bythree o'clock. That's the way people go out to take tea in Ware."
So the next afternoon, at three o'clock, Mrs. Leonard and Isallied across the street to Miss Caroline Munson's. She met us atthe door, in response to a tap of the old-fashioned knocker. Hermanner of greeting us was charming from its very quaintness. Shehardly said three words, but showed at the same time a simplecourtesy and a pleased shyness, like a child overcome with thedelight of a tea-party in her honor. She ushered us into a beautifulold parlor on the right of the hall, and we seated ourselves with oursewing. The conversation was not very brisk nor very general so faras I was concerned. There was scarcely any topic of common interestto the three of us, probably. Mrs. Leonard was one of those women whoconverse only of matters pertaining to themselves or their own circleof acquaintances, and seldom digress. Miss Munson I could not judgeof as to conversational habits, of course; she seemed now to bemerely listening with a sort of gentle interest, scarcely saying aword herself, to Mrs. Leonard's remarks. I was a total stranger toWare and Ware people, and consequently could neither talk nor listento much purpose.
But I was interested in observing Miss Munson. She was a niceperson to observe, for if she was conscious of being an object ofscrutiny, she did not show it. Her eyes never flashed up and met minefixed upon her, with a suddenness startling and embarrassing to bothof us. I could stare at her as guilelessly and properly as I could ata flower.
Indeed, Miss Munson did make me think of a flower, and of oneprevalent in her front yard, too--a lilac: there was that same dullbloom about her, and a shy, antiquated grace. A lilac always doesseem a little older than some other flowers. Miss Munson, I could nowsee, was probably nearer fifty than forty. There were little linesand shadows in her face that one could not discern across the street.It seemed to me that she must have been very lovely in her youth,with that sort of loveliness which does not demand attention, butholds it with no effort. An exquisite, delicate young creature, sheought to have been, and had been, unless her present appearance toldlies.
Lilac seemed to be her favorite color for gowns, for she wore thatafternoon a delicious old-fashioned lilac muslin that looked as if ithad been laid away in lavender every winter for the last thirtyyears. The waist was cut surplice fashion, and she wore a dainty lacehandkerchief tucked into it. Take it altogether, I suppose I neverspent a pleasanter afternoon in my life, although it was pleasant ina quiet, uneventful sort of a way. There was an atmosphere of gentlegrace and comfort about everything about Miss Munson, about the room,and about the lookout from the high, deep-seated windows. There wasnot one vivid tint in that parlor; everything had the dimness of ageover it. All the brightness was gone out of the carpet. Large,shadowy figures sprawled over the floor, their indistinctness givingthem the suggestion of grace, and the polish on the mahoganyfurniture was too dull to reflect the light. The gilded scrolls onthe wall-paper no longer shone, and over some of the old engravingson the walls a half-transparent film that looked like mist hadspread. Outside, a cool green shadow lay over the garden, and soft,lazy puffs of lilac-scented air came in at the windows. Oh, it wasall lovely, and it was so little trouble to enjoy it.
I liked, too, the tea which came later. The dining-room was ascharming in its way as the parlor, large and dark and solid, withsome beautiful quaint pieces of furniture in it. The china was pinkand gold; and I fancied to myself that Miss Munson's grandmother hadspun the table linen, and put it away in a big chest, with roseleaves between the folds. I do believe the surroundings and thecircumstances imparted a subtle flavor to everything I tasted, whichgave rise to something higher than mere gustatory delight, or maybeit was my mood; but it certainly seemed to me that I had never beforeenjoyed a tea so much.
After that day, Miss Munson and I became very well acquainted. Igot into the habit of running over there very often; she seldom cameto see me. It was tacitly understood between us that it waspleasanter for me to do the visiting.
I do not know how she felt towards me--I think she liked me--but Ibegan to feel an exceeding, even a loving, interest in her. All thatI could think of sometimes, when with her, was a person walking in agarden and getting continually delicious little sniffs of violets, sothat he certainly knew they were near him, although they were hiddensomewhere under the leaves, and he could not see them. There wouldnot be a day that Miss Munson would not say things that were so manylittle hints of a rare sweetness and beauty of nature, which hershyness and quietness did not let appear all at once.
She was rather chary always of giving very broad glimpses ofherself. I was always more or less puzzled and evaded by her, thoughshe was evidently a sincere, childlike woman, with a liking forsimple pleasures. She took genuine delight in picking a little bunchof flowers in her garden for a neighbor, and in giving those littletea-parties. She was religious in an innocent, unquestioning way,too. I oftener than not found an open Bible near her when I came in,and she talked about praying as simply as one would aboutbreathing.
But the day before I left Ware she told me a very peculiar story,by which she displayed herself to me all at once in a fuller light,although she revealed such a character that I was, in one way, nonethe less puzzled. She and I were sitting in her parlor. She wasfeeling sad about my going, and perhaps that led her to confide inme. Anyway, she looked up, suddenly, after a little silence.
"Do you," she said, "believe in dreams?"
"That is a question I can't answer truthfully," I replied,laughing. "I don't really know whether I believe in dreams ornot."
"I don't know either," she said, slowly, and she shuddered alittle. "I have a mind to tell you," she went on, "about a dream Ihad once, and about something that happened to me afterwards. I neverdid tell any one, and I believe I would like to. That is, if youwould like to have me," she asked, as timidly as a child afraid ofgiving trouble.
I assured her that I would, and, after a little pause, she told methis:
"I was about twenty-two," she said, "and father and mother hadbeen dead, one four, the other six years. I was living alone herewith Margaret, as I have ever since. I have thought sometimes that itwas my living alone so much, and not going about with other girlsmore, that made me dream as much as I did, but I don't know. I alwaysused to have a great many dreams, and some of them seemed as if theymust mean something; but this particular one, in itself and in itseffect on my after-life, was very singular."
"It was in spring, and the lilacs were just in bloom, when Idreamed it. I thought I was walking down the road there under theelm-trees. I had on a lilac muslin gown, and I carried a basket offlowers on my arm. They were mostly white, or else the very faintestpink-lilies and roses. I had gone down the street a little way, whenI saw a young man coming towards me. He had on a broad-brimmed softhat and a velvet coat, and carried something that looked odd underhis arm. When he came nearer I could see that he had a handsome darkface, and that he was carrying an artist's easel. When he reached mehe stopped and looked down into my face and then at my basket offlowers. I stopped too--I could not seem to help it in my dream--andgazed down at the ground. I was afraid to look at him, and I trembledso that the lilies and roses in my basket quivered."
Finally he spoke. "Won't you give me one of your flowers," hesaid--'just one?'
I gathered courage to glance up at him then, and when his eyes metmine it did seem to me that I wanted to give him one of those flowersmore than anything else in the world. I looked into my basket, andhad my fingers on the stem of the finest lily there, when somethingcame whirring and fanning by my face and settled on my shoulder, andwhen I turned my head, with my heart beating loud, there was a whitedove.
"But, somehow, I seemed in my dream to forget all about the dovein a minute, and I looked away in the young man's face again, andlifted the lily from the basket as I did so.
"But his face did not look to me as it did before, though I stillwanted to give him the lily just as much. I stood still, gazing athim, for a moment; there was, in my dream, a sort of fascination overme which would not let me take my eyes from him. As I gazed, his facechanged more and more to me, till finally--I cannot explain it--itlooked at once beautiful and repulsive. I wanted at once to give himthe lily and would have died rather than give it to him, and I turnedand fled, with my basket of flowers and my dove on my shoulder, and agreat horror of something, I did not know what, in my heart. Then Iwoke up all of a tremble."
Miss Munson stopped. "What do you think of the dream?" she said,in a few minutes. "Do you think it possible that it could have hadany especial significance, or should you think it merely a sleepingvagary of a romantic, imaginative girl?"
"I think that would depend entirely upon after-events," Ianswered; "they might or might not prove its significance."
"Do you think so?" she said, eagerly. "Well, it seemed to me thatthey did, but the worst of it has been I have never been quitesure--never quite sure. But I will tell you, and you shall judge. Ayear from the time I dreamed that dream, I actually met that sameyoung man one morning in the street. I had on my lilac gown, and Iheld a sprig of lilac in my hand; I had broken it off the bush as Icame along. He almost stopped for a second when he came up to me, andlooked down into my face. I was terribly startled, for I recognizedat once the man of my dream, and I can't tell you how horrible anduncanny it all seemed for a minute. There was the same handsome darkface; there were the broad hat, and the velvet coat, and the easelunder the arm. Well, he passed on, and I did; but I was in a flutterall day, and his eyes seemed to be looking into mine continually.
"A few days afterwards he called upon me with Mrs. Graves, a ladywho used to live in Ware and take boarders: she moved away some yearsago. I learned that he was an artist. His name was--no, I will nottell you his name: he is from your city, and well known. He hadengaged board with Mrs. Graves for the summer. After that there wasscarcely a day but I saw him. We were both entirely free to seek eachother's society, and we were together a great deal. He used to takeme sketching with him, and he would come here at all hours of the dayas unconcernedly as a brother might. He would sit beside me in theparlor and watch me sew, and in the kitchen and watch me cook. He wasvery boyish and unconventional in his ways, and I used to think itcharming. We soon grew to care a great deal about each other, ofcourse, although he said nothing about it to me for a long time. Iknew from the first that I loved him dearly, but from the first therewas, as there was in my dream, a kind of horror of him along with thelove: it kept me from being entirely happy. The night before he wentaway he spoke. We had been to walk, and were standing here at mydoor. He asked me to marry him. I looked up in his face, and feltjust as I did in my dream about giving him the flower, when all of asudden his face looked different to me, just as it did in the dream.I cannot explain it. It was as if I saw no more of the kindness andthe love in it, only something else--evil--and the same horror cameover me.
"I don't know how I looked to him as I stood gazing up at him, buthe turned very pale, and started back. 'My God! Caroline,' he said,'what is it?'
"I don't know what I said, but it must have expressed my suddenrepulsion very strongly; for, after a few bitter words, he left me,and I went into the house. I never saw him again. I have seen hisname in the papers, and that is all.
"Now I want to know," Miss Munson went on, "if you think that mydream was really sent to me as a warning, or that I fancied it all,and wrecked--no, I won't say wrecked--dulled the happiness of mywhole life for a nervous whim?"
She looked questioningly at me, an expression at once serious andpitiful on her delicate face. I hardly knew what to say. It wasobvious that I could form no correct opinion unless I knew the man. Iwondered if I did. There was an artist of about the right age whom Ithought of. If he were the one--well, I think Miss Munson wasright.
She saw that I hesitated. "Never mind," she said, rising with herusual quiet, gentle smile on her lips, "you don't know any more thanI do, and I never shall know in this world. All I hope is that it waswhat God meant, and not what I imagined. We won't talk any more aboutit. I liked to tell you, for some reason or other, that is all. Now Iam going to take you into the garden and pick your last poesy foryou."
After I had gone down the stone steps with my hands full ofverbenas and pansies, I turned and looked up at her standing so mildand sweet between the lilac-trees, and said good-bye again. That wasthe last time I saw her.
The next summer when I came to Ware the blinds on the front of theMunson house were all closed, and the little flower-beds in the frontyard were untended; only the lilacs were in blossom, for they had theimmortal spring for their gardener.
"Miss Munson died last winter," said Mrs. Leonard lookingreflectively across the street. "She was laid out in a lilac-coloredcashmere gown; it was her request. She always wore lilac, you know.Well" (with a sigh), "I do believe that Caroline Munson, if she is anangel--and I suppose she is--doesn't look much more different fromwhat she did before than those lilacs over there do from last year'sones."
JOSEPH BAYLEY and his wife Ann came riding down from Salemvillage. They had started from their home in Newbury the day before,and had stayed overnight with their relative, Sergeant Thomas Putnam,in Salem village; they were on their way to the election in Boston.The road wound along through the woods from Salem to Lynn; it wassome time since they had passed a house.
May was nearly gone; the pinks and the blackberry vines were inflower. All the woods were full of an indefinite and compositefragrance, made up of the breaths of myriads of green plants and seenand unseen blossoms, like a very bouquet of spring. The newly leavedtrees cast shadows that were as much a part of the tender surprise ofthe spring as the new flowers. They flickered delicately beforeJoseph Bayley and his wife Ann on the grassy ridges of the road, butthey did not remark them. Their own fancies cast gigantic projectionswhich eclipsed the sweet show of the spring and almost their ownpersonalities. That year the leaves came out and the flowers bloomedin vain for the people in and about Salem village. There was epidemica disease of the mind which deafened and blinded to all save its ownpains.
Ann Bayley on the pillion snuggled closely against her husband'sback; her fearful eyes peered at the road around his shoulder. Shewas a young and handsome woman; she had on her best mantle ofsad-colored silk, and a fine black hood with a topknot, but she didnot think of that.
"Joseph, what is that in the road before us?" she whispered,timorously.
He pulled up the horse with a great jerk.
"Where?" he whispered back.
"There! there! at the right; just beyond that laurel thicket. 'Tissome what black, an' it moves. There! there! Oh, Joseph!"
Joseph Bayley sat stiff and straight in his saddle, like asoldier; his face was pale and stern, his eyes full of horror anddefiance.
"See you it?" Ann whispered again. "There! now it moves. What isit?"
"I see it," said Joseph, in a loud, bold voice. "An' whatever itbe, I will yield not to it; an' neither will you, goodwife."
Ann reached around and caught at the reins. "Let us go back," shemoaned, faintly. "Oh, Joseph, let us not pass it. My spirit faintswithin me. I see its back among the laurel blooms. 'Tis the blackbeast they tell of. Let us turn back, Joseph, let us turn back!"
"Be still, woman!" returned her husband, jerking the reins fromher hand. "What think ye 'twould profit us to turn back to Salemvillage? I trow if there be one black beast here, there is a fullherd of them there. There is naught left but to ride past it as bestwe may. Sit fast, an' listen you not to it, whatever it promise you."Joseph looked down the road towards the laurel bushes, his musclesnow as tense as a bow. Ann hid her face on his shoulder. Suddenly heshouted, with a great voice like a herald: "Away with ye, ye cursedbeast! away with ye! We are not of your kind; we are gospel folk. Wehave naught to do with you or your master. Away with ye!"
The horse leaped forward. There was a great cracking among thelaurel bushes at the right, a glossy black back and some white hornsheaved over thorn, then some black flanks plunged heavily out ofsight.
"Oh!" shrieked Ann, "has it gone? Goodman, has it gone?"
"The Lord hath delivered us from the snare of the enemy," answeredJoseph, solemnly.
"What looked it like, Joseph, what looked it like?"
"Like no beast that was saved in the ark."
"Had it fiery eyes?" asked Ann, trembling.
"'Tis well you did not see them."
"Ride fast! oh, ride fast!" Ann pleaded, clutching hard at herhusband's cloak. "It may follow on our track." The horse went downthe road at a quick trot. Ann kept peering back and starting at everysound in the woods. "Do you mind the tale Samuel Endicott told lastnight?" she said, shuddering. "How on his voyage to Barbadoes he,sitting on the windlass on a bright moonshining night, was shookviolently, and saw the appearance of that witch Goody Bradbury, witha white cap and a white neckcloth on her? It was a dreadfultale."
"It was naught to the sight of Mercy Lewis and Sergeant ThomasPutnam's daughter Ann, when they were set upon and nigh choked todeath by Goody Proctor. Know you that within a half-mile we must passthe Proctor house?"
Ann gave a shuddering sigh. "I would I were home again," shemoaned. "They said 'twas full of evil things, and that the black manhimself kept tavern there since Goodman Proctor and his wife were injail. Did you mind what Goodwife Putnam said of the black head, likea hog's, that Goodman Perley saw at the keeping-room window as hepassed, and the rumbling noises, and the yellow birds that flowaround the chimney and twittered in a psalm tune? Oh, Joseph, thereis a yellow bird now in the birch-tree-see! see!"
They had come into a little space where the woods were thinner.Joseph urged his horse forward.
"We will not slack our pace for any black beasts nor any yellowbirds," he cried, in a valiant voice.
There was a passing gleam of little yellow wings above thebirch-tree.
"He has flown away," said Ann. "'Tis best to front them as you do,goodman, but I have not the courage. That looked like a commonyellowbird; his wings shone like gold. Think you it has gone forwardto the Proctor house?"
"It matters not, so it but fly up before us," said JosephBayley.
He was somewhat older than Ann; fair-haired and fair-bearded, withblue eyes set so deeply under heavy brows that they looked black. Hisface was at once stern and nervous, showing not only the spirit ofwarfare against his foes, but the elements of strife withinhimself.
They rode on, and the woods grew thicker; the horse's hoofs madeonly a faint liquid pad on the mossy road. Suddenly he stopped andwhinnied. Ann clutched her husband's arm; they sat motionless,listening; the horse whinnied again.
Suddenly Joseph started violently, and stared into the woods onthe left, and Ann also. A long defile of dark evergreens stretched upthe hill, with mysterious depths of blue-black shadows between them;the air had an earthy dampness.
Joseph shook the reins fiercely over the horse's back, and shoutedto him in a loud voice.
"Did you see it?" gasped Ann, when they had come into a lighterplace. "Was it not a black man?"
"Fear not; we have outridden him," said her husband, setting histhin intense face proudly ahead.
"I would we were safe home in Newbury," Ann moaned. "I would wehad never set out. Think you not Dr. Mather will ride back fromBoston with us to keep the witches off? I will bide there forever, ifhe will not. I will never come this dreadful road again, else. Whatis that? Oh, what is that? 'Tis a voice coming out of the woods likea great roar. Joseph! What is that? That was a black cat run acrossthe road into the bushes. 'Twas a black cat. Joseph, let us turnback! No; the black man is behind us, and the beast. What shall wedo? What shall we do? Oh, oh, I begin to twitch like Ann and Mercylast night! My feet move, and I cannot stop them! Now there is a pinthrust in my arm! I am pinched! There are fingers at my throat!Joseph! Joseph!"
"Go to prayer, sweetheart," shouted Joseph. "Go to prayer. Be notafraid. 'Twill drive them away. Away with ye, Goody Bradbury! Away,Goody Proctor! Go to prayer, go to prayer!"
Joseph bent low in the saddle and lashed the horse, which sprangforward with a mighty bound; the green branches rushed in theirfaces. Joseph prayed in a loud voice. Ann clung to him convulsively,panting for breath. Suddenly they came out of the woods into acleared space.
"The Proctor house! the Proctor house!" Ann shrieked. "Mercy Lewissaid 'twas full of devils. What shall we do?" She hid her face on herhusband's shoulder, sobbing and praying.
The Proctor house stood at the left of the road; there were somepeach-trees in front of it, and their blossoms showed in a pink sprayagainst the gray unpainted walls. On one side of the house was thegreat barn, with its doors wide open; on the other, a deep ploughedfield, with the plough sticking in a furrow. John Proctor had beenarrested and thrown into jail for witchcraft in April, before hisspring planting was done.
Joseph Bayley reined in his horse opposite the Proctor house."Ann," he whispered, and his whisper was full of horror.
"What is it?" she returned, wildly.
"Ann, Goodman Proctor looks forth from the chamber window, andGoody Proctor stands outside by the well, and they are both in jailin Boston." Joseph's whole frame shook in a strange rigid fashion, asif his joints were locked. "Look, Ann!" he whispered.
"I cannot."
"Look!"
Ann turned her head. "Why," she said, and her voice was quitenatural and sweet, it had even a tone of glad relief in it, "I seenaught but a little maid in the door."
"See you not Goodman Proctor in the window?"
"Nay," said Ann, smiling; "I see naught but the little maid in thedoor. She is in a blue petticoat, and she has a yellow head, but herlittle cheeks are pale, I trow."
"See you not Goodwife Proctor in the yard by the well?" askedJoseph.
"Nay, goodman; I see naught but the little maid in the door. Shehas a fair face, but now she falls a-weeping. Oh, I fear lest she beall alone in the house."
"I tell you, Goodman Proctor and Goodwife Proctor are both there,"returned Joseph. "Think you I see not with my own eyes? GoodmanProctor has on a red cap, and Goodwife Proctor holds a spindle." Heurged on the horse with a sudden cry. "Now the prayers do stick in mythroat," he groaned. "I would we were out of this devil's nest!"
"Joseph," implored Ann, "prithee wait a minute! The little maid iscalling 'mother' after me. Saw you not how she favored our littleSusanna who died? Hear her! There was naught there but the littlemaid. Joseph, I pray you, stop."
"Nay; I'll ride till the nag drops," said Joseph Bayley, with alash. "This last be too much. I tell ye they are there, and they arealso in jail. 'Tis hellish work."
Ann said no more for a little space; a curve in the road hid theProctor house from sight. Suddenly she raised a great cry. "Oh! oh!"she screamed, "'tis gone; 'tis gone from my foot." Joseph stopped."What is gone?"
"My shoe; but now I missed it from my foot. I must alight, and goback for it."
Joseph started the horse again.
Ann caught at the reins. "Stop, goodman," she cried, imperatively."I tell you I must have my shoe."
"And I tell you I'll stop for no shoe in this place, were it madeof gold."
"Goodman, you know not what shoe 'tis. 'Tis one of my fine shoes,in which I have never taken steps. They have the crimson silklacings. I have even carried them in my hand to the meeting-house ona Sabbath, wearing my old ones, and only put them on at the door.Think you I will lose that shoe? Stop the nag."
But Joseph kept on grimly.
"Think you I will go barefoot or with one shoe into Boston?" saidAnn. "Know you that these shoes, which were a present from my mother,cost bravely? I trow you will needs loosen your purse strings wellbefore we pass the first shop in Boston. Well, go on, an' you will,when 'tis but a matter of my slipping down from the pillion andrunning back a few yards."
Joseph Bayley turned his horse about; but Ann remonstrated.
"Nay," said she; "I want not to go thus. I am tired of the saddle.I would like to feel my feet for a space."
Her husband looked around at her with wonder and suspicion. Darkthoughts came into his mind.
She laughed. "Nay," said she, "make no such face at me. I go notback to meet any black man nor sign any book. I go for my fine shoewith the crimson lacing."
"'Tis but a moment since you were afraid," said Joseph. "Have youno fear now?" His blue eyes looked sharply into hers.
She looked back at him soberly and innocently. "In truth, I feelno such fear as I did," she answered. "If I mistake not, your boldfront and your prayers drove away the evil ones. I will say a psalmas I go, and I trow naught will harm me."
Ann slipped lightly down from the pillion, and pulled off her oneremaining shoe and her stockings; they were her fine worked silkones, and she could not walk in them over the rough road. Then sheset forth very slowly, peering here and there in the undergrowthbeside the road, until she passed the curve and the reach of herhusband's eyes. Then she gathered up her crimson taffeta petticoatand ran like a deer, with long, graceful leaps, looking neither toright nor left, straight back to the Proctor house.
In the door of the house stood a tiny girl with a soft shock ofyellow hair. She wore a little straight blue gown, and her baby feetwere bare, curling over the sunny door-step. When she saw Ann comingshe started as if to run; then she stood still, her soft eyes wary,her mouth quivering.
Ann Bayley ran up quickly, and threw her arms around her, kneelingdown on the step.
"What is your name, little maid?" said she, in a loving, agitatedvoice.
"Abigail Proctor," replied the little maid, shyly, in her sweetchildish treble. Then she tried to free herself, but Ann held herfast.
"Nay, be not afraid, sweet," said she. "I love you. I once had alittle maid like you for my own. Tell me, dear heart, are you allalone in the house?"
Then the child fell to crying again, and clung around Ann'sneck.
"Is there anybody in the house, sweet?" Ann whispered, fondlingher, and pressing the wet baby cheek to her own. "The constables cameand took them," sobbed the little maid. "They put my poppet down thewell, and they pulled mother and Sarah down the road. They tookfather before that, and Mary Warren did gibe and point. Theconstables pulled Benjamin away too. I want my mother."
"Your mother shall come again," said Ann. "Take comfort, dearlittle heart, they cannot have the will to keep her long away. There,there, I tell you she shall come. You watch in the door, and you willsee her come down the road."
She smoothed back the little maid's yellow hair, and wiped thetears from her little face with a corner of her beautiful embroideredneckerchief. Then she saw that the face was all grimy with tears anddust, and she went over to the well, which was near the door, anddrew a bucket of water swiftly with her strong young arms; then shewet the corner of the neckerchief and scrubbed the little maid'sface, bidding her shut her eyes. Then she kissed her over andover.
"Now you are sweet and clean," said she. "Dear little heart, Ihave some sugar cakes in my bag for you, and then I must begone."
The little maid looked at her eagerly, her cheeks were waxen, andthe blue veins showed in her full childish forehead. Ann pulled somelittle cakes out of a red velvet satchel she wore at her waist, andAbigail reached out for one with a hungry cry. The tears sprang toAnn's eyes; she put the rest of the cakes in a little pile on thedoor-stone, and watched the child eat. Then she gathered her up inher arms.
"Good-bye, sweetheart," she said, kissing the soft tremblingmouth, the sweet hollow under the chin, and the clinging hands."Before long I shall come this way again, and do you stand in thedoor when I go past."
She put her down and hastened away, but little Abigail ran afterher. Ann stopped and knelt and fondled her again.
"Go back, deary," she pleaded; "go back, and eat the sugarcakes."
But this beautiful kind vision in the crimson taffeta, with therosy cheeks and sweet black eyes looking out from the French hood,with the gleam of gold and delicate embroidery between the silkenfolds of her mantilla, with the ways like her mother's, was more tolittle deserted Abigail Proctor than the sugar cakes, although shewas sorely hungry for them. She stood aloof with pitiful determinedeyes until Ann's back was turned, then, as she followed, Ann lookedaround and saw her and caught her up again.
"My dear heart, my dear heart," she said, and she was halfsobbing, "now must you go back, else I fear harm will come to you. Mygoodman is waiting for me yonder, and I know not what lie will do orsay. Nay; you must go buck. I would I could keep you, my littleAbigail, but you must go back." Ann Bayley put the little maid downand gave her a gentle push. "Go back," she said, smiling, with hereyes full of tears; "go back, and eat the sugar cakes."
Then she sped on swiftly; as she neared the curve in the road shethrust a band in her pocket, and drew forth a dainty shoe withdangling lacings of crimson silk. She glanced around with a smile anda backward wave of her hand the glowing crimson of her petticoatshowed for a minute through the green mist of the undergrowth; thenshe disappeared.
The little maid Abigail stood still in the road, gazing after her,her soft pink mouth open, her hands clutching at her blue petticoat,as if she would thus hold herself back from following. She heard thetramp of a horse's feet beyond the curve; then it died away. Sheturned about and went back to the house, with the tears rolling overher cheeks; but she did not sob aloud, as she would have done had hermother been near to hear. A pitiful conviction of the hopelessness ofall the appeals of grief was stealing over her childish mind. She hadbeen alone in the house three nights and two days, ever since hersister Sarah and her brother Benjamin had been arrested forwitchcraft and carried to jail. Long before that her parents, Johnand Elizabeth Proctor, had disappeared down the Boston road in chargeof the constables. None of the family was spared save this littleAbigail, who was deemed too young and insignificant to have dealingswith Satan, and was therefore not thrown into prison, but was leftalone in the desolate Proctor house in the midst of woods said to befull of evil spirits and witches, to die of fright or starvation asshe might. There was but little mercy shown the families of thoseaccused of witchcraft.
"Let some of Goody Proctor's familiars minister unto the brat,"one of the constables had said, with a stern laugh, when Abigail hadfollowed wailing after her brother and sister on the day of theirarrest.
"Yea," said another; "she can send her yellow-bird or her blackhog to keep her company. I wot her tears will be soon dried."
Then the stoutly tramping horses had borne out of sight andbearing the mocking faces of the constables; Sarah's fair agonizedone turned backward towards her little deserted sister, and Benjaminraised a brave youthful clamor of indignation.
"Let us loose!"' Abigail heard him shout; "let us loose, I tellye! Ye are fools, rather than we are witches; ye are fools andmurderers! Let us loose, I tell ye!"
Abigail waited long, thinking her brother's words would prevail;but neither he nor Sarah returned, and the sounds all died away, andshe went back to the house sobbing. The damp spring night wassettling down in a palpable mist, and the woods seemed full ofvoices. The little maid had heard enough of the terrible talk of theday to fill her innocent head with vague superstitious horror. Shethrew her apron over her head and fled blindly through the woods, andnow and then she fell down and bruised herself, and rose up lamentingsorely, with nobody to hear her.
As soon as she was in the house she shut the doors, and barredthem with the great bars that had been made as protection againstIndians, and now might wax useless against worse than savages,according to the belief of the colony.
All night long the little maid shrieked and sobbed, and called onher father and her mother and her sister and her brother. Men faringin the road betwixt Boston and Salem village heard her with horror,and fled past with psalm and prayer, their blood cold in their veins.They related the next day to the raging, terror-stricken people howat midnight the accursed Proctor house was full of flitting infernallights, and howling with devilish spirits, and added a death-dealingtale of some godly woman of the village who outrode their horses on abroomstick and disappeared in the Proctor house.
The next day the little maid unbarred the door, and stood therewatching up and down the road for her mother or some other to come.But they came not, although she watched all day. That night she didnot sob and call out; she had become afraid of her own voice, anddiscovered that it had no effect to bring her help. Then, too, earlyin the night, she heard noises about the house which frightened her,and made her think that perchance the dreadful black beast of whichshe had heard them discourse was abroad.
The next morning she found that the two horses and the cow andcalf were gone from the barn; also that there was left scarceanything for her to eat in the house. There had been some loaves ofbread, some boiled meat, and some cakes; now they were all gone, andalso all the meal from the chest, and the potatoes and pork from thecellar. But for that last she did not care, since she was not oldenough to make a fire and cook. She had left for food only a littlecold porridge in a blue bowl, and that she ate up at once and had nomore, and a little buttermilk in a crock, which, she being notover-fond of it, served her longer. But that was all she had had fora day and a night, until Goodwife Ann Bayley gave her the sugarcakes. These she ate up at once on her return to the house. Thenagain she stood watching in the door, but nothing passed along theroad save a partridge or a squirrel. It was accounted a bold thingfor any solitary traveler to come this way, save a witch, and she, itwas supposed, might find many comrades in the woods beside the roadand in the Proctor house, which was held to be a sort of devils'tavern. But now no witch came, nor any of her uncanny friends, unlessindeed the squirrel and the partridge were familiar demons indisguise. Nothing was too harmless and simple to escape thatimputation of the devil's mask.
Abigail took her little pewter porringer from the cupboard, andgot herself a drink of water from the bucketful that Goodwife Bayleyhad drawn; then she stood on a stone, and peered into the well,leaning over the curb. Her poppet was in there, her dear rag dollthat Sarah had made for her, and dressed in a beautiful silverbrocade made from a piece of a wedding-gown that was brought fromEngland. One of the constables had caught sight of little AbigailProctor's poppet, and being straightway filled with suspicion that itwas an image whereby Goody Proctor afflicted her victims by proxy,had seized it and thrown it into the well. The other constables hadchidden him for such rashness, saying it should have been carried toBoston and produced as evidence at the trial; and little Abigail hadshrieked out in a panic for her poppet.
She could see nothing of it now, and she went back to herwatching-place in the door.
In the afternoon she felt sorely hungry again, and searchedthrough the house for food; then she went out in the sunny fieldsbehind the house, and found some honeysuckles on the rocks, andsucked the honey greedily from their horns. On her return to thehouse she found a corn-cob, which she snatched up and folded in herapron, and began tending. She sat down in the doorway in her littlechair, which she dragged out of the keeping-room, and hugged the poorpoppet close, and crooned over it.
"Be not afraid," said she. "I'll not let the black beast harm you;I promise you I will not."
That night she formed a new plan for her solace and protection inthe lonely darkness. All the garments of her lost parents and sisterand brother that she could find she gathered together, and formed ina circle on the keeping-room floor; then she crept inside with hercorn-cob poppet, and lay there hugging it all night. The next day shewatched again in the door; but now she was weak and faint, and herlittle legs trembled so under her that she could not stand to watch,but sat in her small straight-backed chair, holding her poppet andpeering forth wistfully.
In the course of the day she made shift to creep out into thefields again, and lying flat on the sun-heated rocks, she sucked somemore honey drops from the honeysuckles. She found, too, on the edgeof the woods, some young wintergreen leaves, and she even pulled someblue violets and ate them. But the delicate, sweet, and aromatic farein the spring larder of nature was poor nourishment for a humanbaby.
Poor little Abigail Proctor could scarcely creep home, stillclinging fast to her poppet; scarcely lift herself into her chair inthe door; scarcely crawl inside her fairy-ring of her loved ones'belongings at night. She rolled herself tightly in an old cloak ofher father's, and it was a sweet and harmless outcome of the dreadfulsuperstition of the day, grafted on an innocent childish brain, thatit seemed to partake of the bodily presence of her father, andprotect her.
All night long, as she lay there, her mother cooked good meat andbroth and sweet cakes, and she ate her fill of them; but in themorning she was too weak to turn her little body over. She could notget to her watching-place in the door, but that made no difference toher, for she did not fairly know that she was not there. It seemed toher that she sat in her little chair looking up the road and down theroad; she saw the green branches weaving together, and hiding the skyto the northward and the southward; she saw the flushes of white androse in the flowering undergrowth; she saw the people coming andgoing. There were her father and mother now coming with store of foodand presents for her, now following the constables out of sight.There was that fine pageant passing, as she had seen it pass oncebefore, of the two magistrates, their worshipful masters JohnHathorne and Jonathan Corwin, with the marshal, constables, and aids,splendid and awe-inspiring in all their trappings of office, toexamine the accused in the Salem meeting-house. There were theministers Parris and Noyes coming, with severe malignant faces, toquestion her mother as to whether she had afflicted Mary Warren,their former maidservant, who was now bewitched. There went Benjamin,clamoring out boldly at his captors. There came Sarah with thepoppet, which she had drawn out of the well, shaking the water fromits silver brocade.
All this the little maid Abigail Proctor saw through herhalf-delirious fancy as she lay weakly on the keeping-room floor, butshe saw not the reality of her sister Sarah coming about four o'clockin the afternoon.
Sarah Proctor, tall and slender, in her limp bedraggled dress,with her fair severe face set in a circle of red shawl, which she hadpinned under her chin, came resolutely down the road from Boston,driving a black cow before her with a great green branch. She wasnearly fainting with weariness, but she set her dusty shoes downswiftly among the road weeds, and her face was as unyielding as anIndian's.
When she came in sight of the Proctor house she stopped a second."Abigail!" she called; "Abigail!"
There was no answer, and she went on more swiftly than before.When she reached the house she called again, "Abigail!" but did notwait except while she tied the black cow, by a rope which was aroundher neck, to a peach-tree. Then she ran in, and found the littlemaid, her sister Abigail, on the floor in the keeping-room.
She got down on her knees beside her, and Abigail smiled up in herface waveringly. She still thought herself in the door, and that shehad just seen her sister come down the road.
"Abigail, what have they done to you?" asked Sarah, in a sharpvoice; and the little maid only smiled.
"Abigail, Abigail, what is it?" Sarah took hold of the child'sshoulders and shook her; but she got no word back, only the smileceased, and the eyelids drooped faintly.
"Are you hungry, Abigail?"
The little maid shook her head softly.
"It cannot be that," said Sarah, as if half to herself; "there wasenough in the house; but what is it? Abigail, look at me; how long isit since you have eaten? Abigail!"
"Yesterday," whispered the little maid, dreamily.
"What did you eat then?"
"Some posies and leaves out in the field."
"What became of all the bread that was baked, and the cakes, andthe meat?"
"I--have forgot."
"No, you have not. Tell me, Abigail."
"The black beast came in the night and did eat it all up, and thecow, and calf, and the horses, too."
"The black beast!"
"I heard him in the night, and in the morning 'twas gone."
Sarah sprang up. "Robbers and murderers!" she cried, in a fiercevoice; but the little maid on the floor did not start; she shut hereyes again, and looked up and down the road.
Sarah got a bucket quickly, and went out in the yard to the cow.Down on her knees in the grass she went and milked; then she carriedin the bucket, strained the milk with trembling haste, and pouredsome into Abigail's little pewter porringer. "She was wont to love itwarm," she whispered, with white lips.
She bent close over the little maid, and raised her on one arm,while she put the porringer to her mouth. "Drink, Abigail," she said,with tender command. "'Tis warm--the way you love it."
The little maid tried to sip, but shut her mouth, and turned herhead with weak loathing, and Sarah could not compel her. She laid herback, and got a spoon and fed her a little, by dint of much pleadingto make her open her mouth and swallow.
Afterwards she undressed her, and put her to bed in thesouth-front room, but the child was so uneasy without the ring ofgarments which she had arranged, that Sarah was forced to put themaround her on the bed; then she fell asleep directly, and stood inher dream watching in the door.
Sarah herself stood in the door, looking up and down the road.There was the sound of a galloping horse in the distance; it camenearer and nearer. She went down to the road and stood waiting. Thehorse was reined in close to her, and the young man who rode himsprang off the saddle.
"It is you, Sarah; you are safe home," he cried, eagerly, andwould have put his arm about her; but she stood aloof sternly.
"For what else did you take me--my apparition?" she said, in ahard voice.
"Sweetheart!"
"Know you that I have but just come from the jail in Boston, whereI have lain fast chained for witchcraft? See you my fine apparel withthe prison air in it? Know you that they called me a witch, and saidthat I did afflict Mary Warren and the rest? I marvel not that youkept your distance, David Carr; I might perchance have hurt you, andthey might have accused you, since you were in fellowship with awitch. I marvel not at that. I would have no harm come to you, thoughfar greater than this came to me, but wherefore did you let my littlesister Abigail starve? That can I not suffer, coming from you,David."
The young man took her in his arms with a decided motion; andindeed she did not repulse him, but began to weep.
"Sarah," said he, earnestly, "I was in Ipswich. I knew naught ofyou and Benjamin being cried out upon until within this hour, when Ireturned home, and my mother told me. I knew not you were acquitted,and was on my way to Boston to you when I saw you at the gate. And asfor Abigail, I knew naught at all; and so 'twas with my mother, forshe but now wept when she said the poor little maid had been takenwith the rest. But you mean not that, sweetheart; she has not beenlet to starve?"
"They stole away the food in the night," said Sarah, "and thehorses and the cow and calf. I found the cow straying in the woodsbut now, on my way home, and drove her in and milked her; but Abigailwould take scarce a spoonful of the warm milk. She has had but littleto eat for three days, and has been distracted with fear, being leftalone. She has ever been but a delicate child, and now I fear she hasa fever on her, and will die, with her mother away."
"I will go for my mother, sweetheart," said David Carr,eagerly.
"Bring her under cover of night, then," said Sarah; "else she maybe suspected if she come to this witch tavern, as they call it. Oh,David, think you she will come? I am in a sore strait."
"I will bring her without fail, sweet, and a flask of wine also,and needments for the little maid," cried David. "Only do you keep upgood heart. Perchance, sweet, the child will amend soon, and theothers be soon acquit. Nay, weep not, poor lass! poor lass! Thou hastme, whatever else fail thee, poor solace though that be, and I willfetch thee my mother right speedily. She has ever set great store bythe little maid, and knows much about ailments; and I doubt not theywill be soon acquit."
"The say my mother will," answered Sarah, tearfully; "and Benjaminis acquit now, but had best keep for a season out of Salem village.But my father will not be acquit; he has spoken his mind too boldlybefore them all."
"Nay, sweetheart," said David Carr, mounting, "'twill all havepassed soon; 'Tis but a madness. Go in to the little maid, and be ofgood comfort."
Sarah went sobbing into the house, but her face was quite calmwhen she stood over little Abigail. The child was still asleep, andshe could arouse her only for a moment to take a few spoonfuls ofmilk; then she turned her head on her pillow with weary obstinacy,and shut her eyes again. She still held the poor corn-cob poppetfast.
Sarah washed herself, braided her hair, and changed her prisondress for a clean blue linen one; then she sat beside Abigail, andwaited for David Carr and his mother, who came within an hour.
Goodwife Carr was renowned through Salem village for her knowledgeof medicinal herbs and her nursing. She had a gentle sobriety anddecision of manner which placed her firmly in her neighbors'confidences, they seeing how she abode firmly in her own, and arguingfrom that. Then she had too the good fortune to have made no enemies,consequently her ability had not incurred for her the suspicion ofbeing a witch.
Goodwife Carr brought a goodly store of healing herbs, of breadand cakes and meat, and she brewed drinks, and bent her face, paleand soberly faithful, in her close white cap, untiringly over AbigailProctor. But the little maid never arose again. A fever, engenderedby starvation and fright and grief, had seized upon her, and she layin the bed with her little corn-cob baby a few days longer, and thendied.
They made a straight white gown for her, and dressed her in it,after washing her and smoothing her yellow hair; and she lay, lookinglonger and older than in life, all set about with flowers--pinks andlilacs and roses--from Goodwife Carr's garden, until she was buried.And they had the Ipswich minister come for the funeral, for DavidCarr cried out in a fury that Minister Parris, who had prosecutedthis witchcraft business, was her murderer, and blood would flow fromher little body if he stood beside it, and that it was the same withMinister Noyes; and Sarah Proctor's pale face had flushed up fiercelyin assent.
The morning after the little maid Abigail Proctor was buried,Joseph Bayley and his wife Ann came riding down the road from Boston,and they were in brave company, and needed to have but little fear ofwitches; for the great minister Cotton Mather rode with them, hisExcellency the Governor of the colony, two worshipful magistrates,and two other ministers--all on their way to a witch trial inSalem.
And is they neared the Proctor house there was much discourseconcerning it and the inmates thereof, many strange and dreadfulaccounts, and much godly denunciation. And as they reached the curvein the road they came suddenly insight of a young man and a tall fairmaid standing together at the side by some white-flowering bushes.And Sarah Proctor, even with her little sister Abigail dead and herparents in danger of death, was smiling for a second's space in DavidCarr's face, for the love and hope in tragedy that make God possible,and the selfishness of love that makes life possible, were upon herin spite of herself.
But when she saw the cavalcade approaching, saw the gleam of richraiment, and heard the tramp and jingling, the smile fadedstraightway from her face, and she stood behind David in the whitealder bushes. And David stood before her, and gazed with a stern anddefiant scowl at the gentry as they passed by. And the great CottonMather gazed back at that beautiful white face rising like anotherflower out of the bushes, and he speculated with himself if it werethe face of a witch.
But Goodwife Ann Bayley thought only on the little maid at thedoor. And when they came to the Proctor house she leaned eagerly fromthe pillion, and she smiled and kissed her hand.
"Why do you thus, Ann?" her husband asked, looking about ather.
"See you not the little maid in the door?" she whispered low, forfear of the goodly company. "I trow she looks better than she did.The roses are in her checks, and they have combed her yellow hair,and put a clean white gown on her. She holds a little doll, too."
"I see nobody," said Joseph Bayley, wonderingly.
"Nay, but she stands there. I never saw naught shine like her hairand her white gown; the sunlight lies full in the door. See! see! sheis smiling! I trow all her griefs be well over."
The cavalcade passed the Proctor house, but Goodwife Ann Bayley'ssweet face was turned backward until it was out of sight, towards thelittle maid in the door.
"I DON'T see how it happened, for my part," Mrs. Childs said."Paulina, you set the table."
"You counted up yesterday how many there'd be, and you saidtwelve; don't you know you did, mother? So I didn't count to-day. Ijust put on the plates," said Paulina, smilingly defensive.
Paulina had something of a helpless and gentle look when shesmiled. Her mouth was rather large, and the upper jaw full, so thesmile seemed hardly under her control. She was quite pretty; hercomplexion was so delicate and her eyes so pleasant. "Well, I don'tsee how I made such a blunder," her mother remarked further, as shewent on pouring tea.
On the opposite side of the table were a plate, a knife and fork,and a little dish of cranberry sauce, with an empty chair beforethem. There was no guest to fill it.
"It's a sign somebody's comin' that's hungry," Mrs. Childs'brother's wife said, with soft effusiveness which was out ofproportion to the words.
The brother was carving the turkey. Caleb Childs, the host, was anold man, and his hands trembled. Moreover, no one, he himself leastof all, ever had any confidence in his ability in such directions.Whenever he helped himself to gravy, his wife watched anxiously lestbe should spill it, and he always did. He spilled some to-day. Therewas a great spot on the beautiful clean table-cloth. Caleb set hiscup and saucer over it quickly, with a little clatter because of hisunsteady hand. Then he looked at his wife. He hoped she had not seen,but she had.
"You'd better have let John give you the gravy," she said, in astern aside.
John, rigidly solicitous, bent over the turkey. He carved slowlyand laboriously, but everybody had faith in him. The shoulders towhich a burden is shifted have the credit of being strong. His wife,in her best black dress, sat smilingly, with her head canted a littleto one side. It was a way she had when visiting. Ordinarily she didnot assume it at her sister-in-law's house, but this was an extraoccasion. Her fine manners spread their wings involuntarily. When shespoke about the sign, the young woman next her sniffed.
"I don't take any stock in signs," said she, with a bluntnesswhich seemed to crash through the other's airiness with such force asto almost hurt itself. She was a distant cousin of Mr. Childs. Herhusband and three children were with her. Mrs. Childs' unmarriedsister, Maria Stone, made up the eleven at the table. Maria's gauntface was unhealthily red about the pointed nose and the highcheek-bones; her eyes looked with a steady sharpness through herspectacles. "Well, it will be time enough to believe the sign whenthe twelfth one comes," said she, with a summary air. She had ajudicial way of speaking. She had taught school ever since she wassixteen, and now she was sixty. She had just given up teaching. Itwas to celebrate that, and her final home-coming, that her sister wasgiving a Christmas dinner instead of a Thanksgiving one this year.The school had been in session during Thanksgiving week.
Maria Stone had scarcely spoken when there was a knock on theouter door, which led directly into the room. They all started. Theywere a plain, unimaginative company, but for some reason a thrill ofsuperstitious and fantastic expectation ran through them. No onearose. They were all silent for a moment, listening and looking atthe empty chair in their midst. Then the knock came again.
"Go to the door, Paulina," said her mother.
The young girl looked at her half fearfully, but she rose at once,and went and opened the door. Everybody stretched around to see. Agirl stood on the stone step looking into the room. There she stood,and never said a word. Paulina looked around at her mother, with herinnocent, half-involuntary smile.
"Ask her what she wants," said Mrs. Childs.
"What do you want?" repeated Paulina, like a sweet echo.
Still the girl said nothing. A gust of north wind swept into theroom. John's wife shivered, then looked around to see if any one hadnoticed it.
"You must speak up quick an' tell what you want, so we can shutthe door; it's cold," said Mrs. Childs.
The girl's small sharp face was sheathed in an old worsted hood;her eyes glared out of it like a frightened cat's. Suddenly sheturned to go. She was evidently abashed by the company.
"Don't you want somethin' to eat?" Mrs. Childs asked, speaking uplouder.
"It ain't no matter." She just mumbled it.
"What?"
She would not repeat it. She was quite off the step by thistime.
"You make her come in, Paulina," said Maria Stone, suddenly. "Shewants something to eat, but she's half scared to death. You talk toher."
"Hadn't you better come in, and have something to eat?" saidPaulina, shyly persuasive.
"Tell her she can sit right down here by the stove, where it'swarm, and have a good plate of dinner," said Maria.
Paulina fluttered softly down to the stone step. The chillysnow-wind came right in her sweet, rosy face. "You can have a chairby the stove, where it's warm, and a good plate of dinner," saidshe.
The girl looked at her.
"Won't you come in?" said Paulina, of her own accord, and alwayssmiling.
The stranger made a little hesitating movement forward.
"Bring her in, quick! and shut the door," Maria called out then.And Paulina entered with the girl stealing timidly in her wake.
"Take off your hood an' shawl," Mrs. Childs said, "an' sit downhere by the stove, an' I'll give you some dinner." She spoke kindly.She was a warm-hearted woman, but she was rigidly built, and did not.relax too quickly into action.
But the cousin, who had been observing, with head alertly raised,interrupted. She cast a mischievous glance at John's wife--the emptychair was between them. "For pity's sake!" cried she; "you ain'tgoin' to shove her off in the corner? Why, here's this chair. She'sthe twelfth one. Here's where she ought to sit." There was a mixtureof heartiness and sport in the young woman's manner. She pulled thechair back from the table. "Come right over here," said she.
There was a slight flutter of consternation among the guests. Theywere all narrow-lived country people. Their customs had made deepergrooves in their roads; they were more fastidious and jealous oftheir social rights than many in higher positions. They eyed thisforlorn girl, in her in her faded and dingy woollens which flutteredairily and showed their pitiful thinness.
Mrs. Childs stood staring at the cousin. She did not think shecould be in earnest.
But she was. "Come," said she; "put some turkey in this plate,John."
"Why, it's jest as the rest of you say," Mrs. Childs said,finally, with hesitation. She looked embarrassed and doubtful.
"Say! Why, they say just as I do," the cousin went on. "Whyshouldn't they? Come right around here." She tapped the chairimpatiently.
The girl looked at Mrs. Childs. "You can go an' sit down therewhere she says," she said, slowly, in a constrained tone.
"Come," called the cousin again. And the girl took the emptychair, with the guests all smiling stiffly.
Mrs. Childs began filling a plate for the new-comer.
Now that her hood was removed, one could see her face moreplainly. It was thin, and of that pale brown tint which exposuregives to some blond skins. Still there was a tangible beauty whichshowed through all that. Her fair hair stood up softly, with a kindof airy roughness which caught the light. She was apparently aboutsixteen.
"What's your name?" inquired the school-mistress sister,suddenly.
The girl started. "Christine," she said, after a second.
"What?"
"Christine."
A little thrill ran around the table. The company looked at eachother. They were none of them conversant with the Christmas legends,but at that moment the universal sentiment of them seemed to seizeupon their fancies. The day, the mysterious appearance of the girl,the name, which was strange to their ears--all startled them, andgave them a vague sense of the supernatural. They, however, struggledagainst it with their matter-of-fact pride, and threw it offdirectly.
"Christine what?" Maria asked further.
The girl kept her scared eyes on Maria's face, but she made noreply.
"What's your other name? Why don't you speak?"
Suddenly she rose.
"What are you goin' to do?"
"I'd--ruther--go, I guess."
"What are you goin' for? You ain't had your dinner."
"I--can't tell it," whispered the girl.
"Can't tell your name?"
She shook her head.
"Sit down, and eat your dinner," said Maria.
There was a strong sentiment of disapprobation among the company.But when Christine's food was actually before her, and she seemed tosettle down upon it, like a bird, they viewed her with moretoleration. She was evidently half starved. Their discovery of thatfact gave them at once a fellow-feeling toward her on this feast-day,and a complacent sense of their own benevolence.
As the dinner progressed the spirits of the party appeared torise, and a certain jollity which was almost hilarity prevailed.Beyond providing the strange guest plentifully with food, they seemedto ignore her entirely. Still nothing was more certain than the factthat they did not. Every outburst of merriment was yielded to withthe most thorough sense of her presence, which appeared in somesubtle way to excite it. It was as if this forlorn twelfth guest werethe foreign element needed to produce a state of nervouseffervescence in those staid, decorous people who surrounded her.This taste of mystery and unusualness, once fairly admitted, althoughreluctantly, to their unaccustomed palates, served them as wine withtheir Christmas dinner.
It was late in the afternoon when they arose from the table.Christine went directly for her hood and shawl, and put them on. Theothers, talking among themselves, were stealthily observant of her.Christine began opening the door.
"Are you goin' home now?" asked Mrs. Childs.
"No, marm."
"Why not?"
"I ain't got any."
"Where did you come from?"
The girl looked at her. Then she unlatched the door.
"Stop!" Mrs. Childs cried, sharply. "What are you goin' for? Whydon't you answer?"
She stood still, but did not speak.
"Well, shut the door up, an' wait a minute," said Mrs. Childs.
She stood close to a window, and she stared out scrutinizingly.There was no house in sight. First came a great yard, then widestretches of fields; a desolate gray road curved around them on theleft. The sky was covered with still, low clouds; the sun had notshone out that day. The ground was all bare and rigid. Out in theyard some gray hens were huddled together in little groups forwarmth; their red combs showed out. Two crows flew up, away over onthe edge of the field.
"It's goin' to snow," said Mrs. Childs.
"I'm afeard it is," said Caleb, looking at the girl.
He gave a sort of silent sob, and brushed some tears out of hisold eyes with the back of his hands.
"See here a minute, Maria," said Mrs. Childs.
The two women whispered together; then Maria stepped in front ofthe girl, and stood, tall and stiff and impressive.
"Now see here," said she; "we want you to speak up and tell usyour other name, and where you came from, and not keep us waiting anylonger."
"I--can't." They guessed what she said from the motion of herhead. She opened the door entirely then and stepped out.
Suddenly Maria made one stride forward and seized her by hershoulders, which felt like knife-blades through the thin clothes."Well," said she, "we've been fussing long enough; we've got allthese dishes to clear away. It's bitter cold, and it's going to snow,and you ain't going out of this house one step to-night, no matterwhat you are. You'd ought to tell us who you are, and it ain't manyfolks that would keep you if you wouldn't; but we ain't goin' to haveyou found dead in the road, for our own credit. It ain't on youraccount. Now you just take those things off again, and go and sitdown in that chair."
Christine sat in the chair. Her pointed chin dipped down on herneck, whose poor little muscles showed above her dress, which saggedaway from it. She never looked up. The women cleared off the table,and cast curious glances at her.
After the dishes were washed and put away, the company were allassembled in the sitting-room for an hour or so; then they went home.The cousin, passing through the kitchen to join her husband, who waswaiting with his team at the door, ran hastily up to Christine.
"You stop at my house when you go to-morrow morning," said she."Mrs. Childs will tell you where 'tis-half a mile below here."
When the company were all gone, Mrs. Childs called Christine intothe sitting-room. "You'd better come in here and sit now," said she."I'm goin' to let the kitchen fire go down; I ain't goin' to getanother regular meal; I'm jest goin' to make a cup of tea on thesittin'-room stove by-an'-by."
The sitting-room was warm, and restrainedly comfortable with itsordinary village furnishings--its ingrain carpet, its little peakedclock on a corner of the high black shelf, its red-coveredcard-table, which had stood in the same spot for forty years. Therewas a little newspaper-covered stand, with some plants on it, beforea window. There was one red geranium in blossom.
Paulina was going out that evening. Soon after the company wentshe commenced to get ready, and her mother and aunt seemed to behelping her. Christine was alone in the sitting-room for the greaterpart of an hour.
Finally the three women came in, and Paulina stood before thesitting-room glass for a last look at herself. She had on her bestred cashmere, with some white lace around her throat. She had a redgeranium flower with some leaves in her hair. Paulina's brown hair,which was rather thin, was very silky. It was apt to part into littlesoft strands on her forehead. She wore it brushed smoothly back. Hermother would not allow her to curl it.
The two older women stood looking at her. "Don't you think shelooks nice, Christine?" Mrs. Childs asked, in a sudden overflow oflove and pride, which led her to ask sympathy from even this forlornsource.
"Yes, marm." Christine regarded Paulina, in her red cashmere andgeranium flower, with sharp, solemn eyes. When she really looked atany one, her gaze was as unflinching as that of a child.
There was a sudden roll of wheels in the yard.
"Willard's come!" said Mrs. Childs. "Run to the door an' tell himyou'll be right out, Paulina, an' I'll get your things ready."
After Paulina had been helped into her coat and hood, and thewheels had bowled out of the yard with a quick dash, the motherturned to Christine.
"My daughter's gone to a Christmas tree over to the church," saidshe. "That was Willard Morris that came for her. He's a real niceyoung man that lives about a mile from here."
Mrs. Childs' tone was at once gently patronizing and elated.
When Christine was shown to a little back bedroom that night,nobody dreamed how many times she was to occupy it. Maria and Mrs.Childs, who after the door was closed set a table against it softlyand erected a tiltish pyramid of milkpans, to serve as an alarm incase the strange guest should try to leave her room with evilintentions, were fully convinced that she would depart early on thefollowing morning.
"I dun know but I've run an awful risk keeping her," Mrs. Childssaid. "I don't like her not tellin' where she come from. Nobody knowsbut she belongs to a gang of burglars, an' they've kind of sent heron ahead to spy out things an' unlock the doors for 'em."
"I know it," said Maria. "I wouldn't have had her stay for athousand dollars if it hadn't looked so much like snow. Well, I'llget up an' start her off early in the morning."
But Maria Stone could not carry out this resolution. The nextmorning she was ill with a sudden and severe attack of erysipelas.Moreover, there was a hard snow-storm, the worst of the season; itwould have been barbarous to have turned the girl out-of-doors onsuch a morning. Moreover, she developed an unexpected capacity forusefulness. She assisted Pauline about the housework with timidalacrity, and Mrs. Childs could devote all her time to hersister.
"She takes right hold as if she was used to it," she told Maria."I'd rather keep her a while than not, if I only knew a little moreabout her."
"I don't believe but what I could get it out of her after a whileif I tried," said Maria, with her magisterial air, which illnesscould not subdue.
However, even Maria, with all her well-fostered imperiousness, hadno effect on the girl's resolution; she continued as much of amystery as ever. Still the days went on, then the weeks and months,and she remained in the Childs family.
None of them could tell exactly how it had been brought about. Themost definite course seemed to be that her arrival had apparentlybeen the signal for a general decline of health in the family. Mariahad hardly recovered when Caleb Childs was laid up with therheumatism; then Mrs. Childs had a long spell of exhaustion fromoverwork in nursing. Christine proved exceedingly useful in theseemergencies. Their need of her appeared to be the dominant, and onlyoutwardly evident, reason for her stay; still there was a deeper onewhich they themselves only faintly realized--this poor young girl,who was rendered almost repulsive to these honest downright folk byher persistent cloak of mystery, had somehow, in a very short time,melted herself, as it were, into their own lives. Christine asleep ofa night in her little back bedroom, Christine of a day stepping aboutthe house in one of Paulina's old gowns, became a part of theirexistence, and a part which was not far from the nature of asweetness to their senses.
She still retained her mild shyness of manner, and rarely spokeunless spoken to. Now that she was warmly sheltered and well fed, herbeauty became evident. She grew prettier every day. Her cheeks becamesoftly dimpled; her hair turned golden. Her language was rude andilliterate, but its very uncouthness had about it something of a softgrace.
She was really prettier than Paulina.
The two young girls were much together, but could hardly be saidto be intimate. There were few confidences between them, andconfidences are essential for the intimacy of young girls.
Willard Morris came regularly twice a week to see Paulina, andeverybody spoke of them as engaged to each other.
Along in August Mrs. Childs drove over to town one afternoon andbought a piece of cotton cloth and a little embroidery and lace. Thensome fine sewing went on, but with no comment in the household. Mrs.Childs had simply said, "I guess we may as well get a few things madeup for you, Paulina, you're getting rather short." And Paulina hadsewed all day long, with a gentle industry, when the work wasready.
There was a report that the marriage was to take place onThanksgiving Day. But about the first of October Willard Morrisstopped going to the Childs house. There was no explanation. Hesimply did not come as usual on Sunday night, nor the followingWednesday, nor the next Sunday. Paulina kindled her little parlorfire, whose sticks she had laid with maiden preciseness; she arrayedherself in her best gown and ribbons. When at nine o'clock Willardhad not come, she blew out the parlor lamp, shut up the parlor stove,and went to bed. Nothing was said before her, but there was much talkand surmise between Mrs. Childs and Maria, and a good deal of it wenton before Christine.
It was a little while after the affair of Cyrus Morris's note, andthey wondered if it could have anything to do with that. Cyrus Morriswas Willard's uncle, and the note affair had occasioned much distressin the Childs family for a month back. The note was for twenty-fivehundred dollars, and Cyrus Morris had given it to Caleb Childs. Thetime, which was two years, had expired on the first of September, andthen Caleb could not find the note.
He had kept it in his old-fashioned desk, which stood in onecorner of the kitchen. He searched there a day and half a night,pulling all the soiled, creasy old papers out of the drawers andpigeonholes before he would answer his wife's inquiries as to what behad lost.
Finally he broke down and told. "I've lost that note of Morris's,"said he. "I dun know what I'm goin' to do."
He stood looking gloomily at the desk with its piles of papers.His rough old chin dropped down on his breast.
The women were all in the kitchen, and they stopped andstared.
"Why, father," said his wife, "where have you put it?"
"I put it here in this top drawer, and it ain't there."
"Let me look," said Maria, in a confident tone. But even Maria'senergetic and self-assured researches failed. "Well, it ain't here,"said she. "I don't know what you've done with it."
"I don't believe you put it in that drawer, father," said hiswife.
"It was in there two weeks ago. I see it."
"Then you took it out afterwards."
"I ain't laid hands on't."
"You must have; it couldn't have gone off without hands. You knowyou're kind of forgetful, father."
"I guess I know when I've took a paper out of a drawer. I know aleetle somethin' yit."
"Well, I don't suppose there'll be any trouble about it, willthere?" said Mrs. Childs. "Of course he knows he give the note, an'had the money."
"I dun know as there'll be any trouble, but I'd ruther give ahundred dollar than had it happen."
After dinner Caleb shaved, put on his other coat and hat, andtrudged soberly up the road to Cyrus Morris's. Cyrus Morris was anelderly man, who had quite a local reputation for wealth and businessshrewdness. Caleb, who was lowly-natured and easily impressed byanother's importance, always made a call upon him quite a formalaffair, and shaved and dressed up. He was absent about an hourto-day. When he returned he went into the sitting-room, where thewomen sat with their sewing. He dropped into a chair, and lookedstraight ahead, with his forehead knitted.
The women dropped their work and looked at him, and then at eachother.
"What did he say, father?" Mrs. Childs asked at length.
"Say! He's a rascal, that's what he is, an' I'll tell him so,too."
"Ain't he goin' to pay it?"
"No, he ain't."
"Why, father, I don't believe it! You didn't get hold of itstraight," said his wife.
"You'll see."
"Why, what did he say?"
"He didn't say anything."
"Doesn't he remember he had the money and gave the note, and hasbeen paying interest on it?" queried Maria.
"He jest laughed, an' said 'twa'n't accordin' to law to pay unlessI showed the note an' give it up to him. He said he couldn't be surebut I'd want him to pay it over ag'in. I know where that noteis!"
Caleb's voice had deep meaning in it. The women stared at him.
"Where?"
"It's in Cyrus Morris's desk--that's where it is."
"Why, father, you're crazy!"
"No, I ain't crazy, nuther. I know what I'm talkin' about.I--"
"It's just where you put it," interrupted Maria, taking up hersewing with a switch; "and I wouldn't lay the blame onto anybodyelse."
"You'd ought to ha' looked out for a paper like that," said hiswife. "I guess I should if it had been me. If you've gone an' lostall that money through your carelessness, you've done it, that's allI've got to say. I don't see what we're goin' to do."
Caleb bent forward and fixed his eyes upon the women. He held uphis shaking hand impressively. "If you'll stop talkin' just aminute," said he, "I'll tell you what I was goin' to. Now I'd like toknow just one thing: Wa'n't Cyrus Morris alone in that kitchen asmuch as fifteen minutes a week ago to-day? Didn't you leave him therewhile you went to look arter me? Wa'n't the key in the desk? Answerme that!"
His wife looked at him with cold surprise and severity.
"I wouldn't talk in any such way as that if I was you, father,"said she. "It don't show a Christian spirit. It's jest layin' theblame of your own carelessness onto somebody else. You're all the onethat's to blame. An' when it comes to it, you'd never ought to letCyrus Morris have the money anyhow. I could have told you better. Iknew what kind of a man he was."
"He's a rascal," said Caleb, catching eagerly at the first note offoreign condemnation in his wife's words. "He'd ought to be put instate's-prison. I don't think much of his relations nuther. I don'twant nothin' to do with 'em, an' I don't want none of my folksto."
Paulina's soft cheeks flushed. Then she suddenly spoke out as shehad never spoken in her life.
"It doesn't make it out because he's a bad man that his relationsare," said she. "You haven't any right to speak so, father. And Iguess you won't stop me having anything to do with them, if you wantto."
She was all pink and trembling. Suddenly she burst out crying, andran out of the room.
"You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself, father," exclaimed Mrs.Childs.
"I didn't think of her takin' on it so," muttered Caleb, humbly."I didn't mean nothin'."
Caleb did not seem like himself through the following days. Hissimple old face took on an expression of strained thought, which madeit look strange. He was tottering on a height of mental effort andworry which was almost above the breathing capacity of his innocentand placid nature. Many a night he rose, lighted a candle, andtremulously fumbled over his desk until morning, in the vain hope offinding missing note.
One night, while he was so searching, some one touched him softlyon the arm.
He jumped and turned. It was Christine. She had stolen insilently.
"Oh, it's you!" said he.
"Ain't you found it?"
"Found it? No; an' I sha'n't, nuther." He turned away from her andpulled out another drawer. The girl stood watching him wistfully. "Itwas a big yellow paper," the old man went on--"a big yellow paper,an' I'd wrote on the back on't, 'Cyrus Morris's note.' An' theinterest he'd, paid was set down on the back on't, too."
"It's too bad you can't find it," said she.
"It ain't no use lookin'; it ain't here, an' that's the hull on't.It's in his desk. I ain't got no more doubt on't than nothin' atall."
"Where--does he keep his desk?"
"In his kitchen; it's jest like this one."
"Would this key open it?"
"I dun know but 'twould. But it ain't no use. I s'pose I'll haveto lose it." Caleb sobbed silently and wiped his eyes.
A few days later he came, all breathless, into the sitting room.He could hardly speak; but he held out a folded yellow paper, whichfluttered and blew in his unsteady hand like a yellow maple-leaf inan autumn gale.
"Look-a-here!" he gasped--"look-a-here!"
"Why, for goodness' sake, what's the matter?" cried Maria. She andMrs. Childs and Paulina were there, sewing peacefully.
"Jest look-a-here!"
"Why, for mercy's sake, what is it, father? Are you crazy?"
"It's--the note!"
"What note? Don't get so excited, father."
"Cyrus Morris's note. That's what note 'tis. Look-a-here!"
The women all arose and pressed around him, to look at it.
"Where did you find it, father?" asked his wife, who was quitepale.
"I suppose it was just where you put it," broke in Maria, withsarcastic emphasis.
"No, it wa'n't. No, it wa'n't, nuther. Don't you go to crowin' tooquick, Maria. That paper was just where I told you 'twas. What do youthink of that, hey?"
"Oh, father, you didn't!"
"It was layin' right there in his desk. That's where 'twas. Jestwhere I knew--" "Father, you didn't go over there an' take it!"
The three women stared at him with dilated eyes.
"No, I didn't."
"Who did?"
The old man jerked his head towards the kitchen door. "She."
"Who?"
"Christiny."
"How did she get it?" asked Maria, in her magisterial manner,which no astonishment could agitate.
"She saw Cyrus and Mis' Morris ride past, an' then she run overthere, an' she got in through the window an' got it; that's how."Caleb braced himself like a stubborn child, in case any exceptionwere taken to it all.
"It beats everything I ever heard," said Mrs. Childs, faintly.
"Next time you'll believe what I tell you!" said Caleb.
The whole family were in a state of delight over the recovery ofthe note; still Christine got rather hesitating gratitude. She wassharply questioned, and rather reproved than otherwise.
This theft, which could hardly be called a theft, aroused the olddistrust of her.
"It served him just right, and it wasn't stealing, because itdidn't belong to him; and I don't know what you would have done ifshe hadn't taken it," said Maria; "but, for all that, it went allover me."
"So it did over me," said her sister. "I felt just as you did, an'I felt as if it was real ungrateful too, when the poor child did itjust for us."
But there were no such misgivings for poor Caleb, with his money,and his triumph over iniquitous Cyrus Morris. He was wholly andunquestioningly grateful.
"It was a blessed day when we took that little girl in," he toldhis wife.
"I hope it'll prove so," said she.
Paulina took her lover's desertion quietly. She had just as manysoft smiles for every one; there was no alteration in her gentle,obliging ways. Still her mother used to listen at her door, and sheknew that she cried instead of sleeping many a night. She was notable to eat much, either, although she tried to with pleasantwillingness when her mother urged her.
After a while she was plainly grown thin, and her pretty color hadfaded. Her mother could not keep her eyes from her.
"Sometimes I think I'll go an' ask Willard myself what this kindof work means," she broke out with an abashed abruptness oneafternoon. She and Paulina happened to be alone in thesitting-room.
"You'll kill me if you do, mother," said Paulina. Then she beganto cry.
"Well, I won't do anything you don't want me to, of course," saidher mother. She pretended not to see that Paulina was crying.
Willard had stopped coming about the first of October; the timewore on until it was the first of December, and he had not once beento the house, and Paulina had not exchanged a word with him in themeantime.
One night she had a fainting-spell. She fell heavily whilecrossing the sitting-room floor. They got her on to the lounge, andshe soon revived; but her mother had lost all control of herself. Shecame out into the kitchen and paced the floor.
"Oh, my darlin'!" she wailed. "She's goin' to die. What shall Ido? All the child I've got in the world. An' he's killed her! Thatscamp! I wish I could get my hands on him. Oh, Paulina, Paulina, tothink it should come to this!"
Christine was in the room, and she listened with eyes dilated andlips parted. She was afraid that shrill wail would reach Paulina inthe next room.
"She'll hear you," she said, finally.
Mrs. Childs grew quieter at that, and presently Maria called herinto the sitting-room.
Christine stood thinking for a moment. Then she got her hood andshawl, put on her rubbers, and went out. She shut the door softly, sonobody should hear. When she stepped forth she plunged knee-deep intosnow. It was snowing hard, as it had been all day. It was a coldstorm, too; the wind was bitter. Christine waded out of the yard anddown the street. She was so small and light that she staggered whenshe tried to step firmly in some tracks ahead of her. There was afull moon behind the clouds, and there was a soft white light inspite of the storm. Christine kept on down the street, in thedirection of Willard Morris's house. It was a mile distant. Once in awhile she stopped and turned herself about, that the terrible windmight smite her back instead of her face. When she reached the houseshe waded painfully through the yard to the side-door and knocked.Pretty soon it opened, and Willard stood there in the entry, with alamp in his hand.
"Good-evening," said he, doubtfully, peering out.
"Good-evenin'." The light shone on Christine's face.
The snow clung to her soft hair, so it was quite white. Her cheekshad a deep, soft color, like roses; her blue eyes blinked a little inthe lamp-light, but seemed rather to flicker like jewels or stars.She panted softly through her parted lips. She stood there, with thesnow-flakes driving in light past her, and "She looks like an angel,"came swiftly into Willard Morris's head before he spoke.
"Oh, it's you," said he.
Christine nodded.
Then they stood waiting. "Why, won't you come in?" said Willard,finally, with an awkward blush. "I declare I never thought. I ain'tvery polite."
She shook her head. "No, thank you," said she.
"Did--you want to see mother?"
"No."
The young man stared at her in increasing perplexity. His ownfair, handsome young face got more and more flushed. His foreheadwrinkled. "Was there anything you wanted?"
"No, I guess not," Christine replied, with a slow softness.
Willard shifted the lamp into his other hand and sighed. "It's apretty hard storm," he remarked, with an air of forced patience.
"Yes."
"Didn't you find it terrible hard walking?"
"Some."
Willard was silent again. "See here, they're all well down at yourhouse, ain't they?" said he, finally. A look of anxious interest hadsprung into his eyes. He had begun to take alarm.
"I guess so."
Suddenly he spoke out impetuously. "Say, Christine, I don't knowwhat you came here for; you can tell me afterwards. I don't know whatyou'll think of me, but---Well, I want to know something. Say--well,I haven't been 'round for quite a while. You don't-suppose--they'vecared much, any of them?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I don't suppose you do, but--you might have noticed. Say,Christine, you don't think she--you know whom I mean--cared anythingabout my coming, do you?"
"I don't know," she said again, softly, with her eyes fixed warilyon his face.
"Well, I guess she didn't; she wouldn't have said what she did ifshe had."
Christine's eyes gave a sudden gleam. "What did she say?"
"Said she wouldn't have anything more to do with me," said theyoung man, bitterly. "She was afraid I would be up to just suchtricks as my uncle was, trying to cheat her father. That was too muchfor me. I wasn't going to stand that from any girl." He shook hishead angrily.
"She didn't say it."
"Yes, she did; her own father told my uncle so. Mother was in thenext room and heard it."
"No, she didn't say it," the girl repeated.
"How do you know?"
"I heard her say something different[,]" Christine told him.
"I'm going right up there," cried he, when he heard that.
"Wait a minute, and I'll go along with you."
"I dun know as you'd better--to-night," Christine said, lookingout towards the road evasively. "She--ain't been very wellto-night."
"Who? Paulina? What's the matter?"
"She had a faintin'-spell jest before I came out," answeredChristine, with stiff gravity.
"Oh! Is she real sick?"
"She was some better."
"Don't you suppose I could see her just a few minutes? I wouldn'tstay to tire her," said the young man, eagerly.
"I dun know."
"I must, anyhow."
Christine fixed her eyes on his with a solemn sharpness. "Whatmakes you want to?"
"What makes me want to? Why, I'd give ten years to see her fiveminutes."
"Well, mebbe you could come over a few minutes."
"Wait a minute!" cried Willard. "I'll get my hat."
"I'd better go first, I guess. The parlor fire'll be tolight."
"Then had I better wait?"
"I guess so."
"Then I'll be along in about an hour. Say, you haven't said whatyou wanted."
Christine was off the step.
"It ain't any matter," murmured she.
"Say--she didn't send you?"
"No, she didn't."
"I didn't mean that. I didn't suppose she did," said Willard, withan abashed air. "What did you want, Christine?"
"There's somethin' I want you to promise," said she, suddenly.
"What's that?"
"Don't you say anything about Mr. Childs."
"Why, how can I help it?"
"He's an old man, an' he was so worked up he didn't know what hewas sayin'. They'll all scold him. Don't say anything."
"Well, I won't say anything. I don't know what I'm going to tellher, though."
Christine turned to go.
"You didn't say what 'twas you wanted," called Willard again.
But she made no reply. She was pushing through the deep snow outof the yard.
It was quite early yet, only a few minutes after seven. It waseight when she reached home. She entered the house without any oneseeing her. She pulled off her snowy things, and went into thesitting-room.
Paulina was alone there. She was lying on the lounge. She was verypale, but she looked up and smiled when Christine entered.
Christine brought the fresh out-door air with her. Paulina noticedit. "Where have you been?" whispered she.
Then Christine bent over her, and talked fast in a low tone.
Presently Paulina raised herself and sat up. "Tonight?" cried she,in an eager whisper. Her cheeks grew red.
"Yes; I'll go make the parlor fire."
"It's all ready to light." Suddenly Paulina threw her arms aroundChristine and kissed her. Both girls blushed.
"I don't think I said one thing to him that you wouldn't havewanted me to," said Christine.
"You didn't--ask him to come?"
"No, I didn't, honest."
When Mrs. Childs entered, a few minutes later, she found herdaughter standing before the glass.
"Why, Paulina!" cried she.
"I feel a good deal better, mother," said Paulina.
"Ain't you goin' to bed?"
"I guess I won't quite yet."
"I've got it all ready for you. I thought you wouldn't feel likesittin' up."
"I guess I will; a little while."
Soon the door-bell rang with a sharp peal. Everybodyjumped--Paulina rose and went to the door.
Mrs. Childs and Maria, listening, heard Willard's familiar voice,then the opening of the parlor door.
"It's him!" gasped Mrs. Childs. She and Maria looked at eachother.
It was about two hours before the soft murmur of voices in theparlor ceased, the outer door closed with a thud, and Paulina cameinto the room. She was blushing and smiling, but she could not lookin any one's face at first.
"Well," said her mother, "who was it?"
"Willard. It's all right."
It was not long before the fine sewing was brought out again, andpresently two silk dresses were bought for Paulina. It was knownabout that she was to be married on Christmas Day. Christine assistedin the preparation. All the family called to mind afterwards theobedience so ready as to be loving which she yielded to theirbiddings during those few hurried weeks. She sewed, she made cake,she ran of errands, she wearied herself joyfully for the happiness ofthis other young girl.
About a week before the wedding, Christine, saying good-night whenabout to retire one evening, behaved strangely. They remembered itafterwards. She went up to Paulina and kissed her when sayinggood-night. It was something which she had never before done. Thenshe stood in the door, looking at them all. There was a sad, almost asolemn, expression on her fair girlish face.
"Why, what's the matter?" said Maria.
"Nothin'," said Christine. "Good-night."
That was the last time they ever saw her. The next morning Mrs.Childs, going to call her, found her room vacant. There was a greatalarm. When they did not find her in the house nor the neighborhood,people were aroused, and there was a search instigated. It wasprosecuted eagerly, but to no purpose. Paulina's wedding eveningcame, and Christine was still missing.
Paulina had been married, and was standing beside her husband, inthe midst of the chattering guests, when Caleb stole out of the room.He opened the north door, and stood looking out over the duskyfields. "Christiny!" he called; "Christiny!"
Presently he looked up at the deep sky, full of stars, and calledagain--"Christiny! Christiny!" But there was no answer save in light.When Christine stood in the sitting room door and said good-night,her friends had their last sight and sound of her. Their TwelfthGuest had departed from their hospitality forever.
The clothes-line was wound securely around the trunks of fourgnarled, crooked old apple-trees, which stood promiscuously about theyard back of the cottage. It was tree-blossoming time, but these weretoo aged and sapless to blossom freely, and there was only a whitebough here and there shaking itself triumphantly from among the rest,which had only their new green leaves. There was a branchoccasionally which had not even these, but pierced the tender greenand the flossy white in hard, gray nakedness. All over the yard, thegrass was young and green and short, and had not yet gotten anyfeathery heads. Once in a while there was a dandelion set closelydown among it.
The cottage was low, of a dark-red color, with white facingsaround the windows, which had no blinds, only green papercurtains.
The back door was in the centre of the house, and opened directlyinto the green yard, with hardly a pretence of a step, only a flat,oval stone before it.
Through this door, stepping cautiously on the stone, camepresently two tall, lank women in chocolate-colored calico gowns,with a basket of clothes between them. They set the basket underneaththe line on the grass, with a little clothespin bag beside it, andthen proceeded methodically to hang out the clothes. Everything of akind went together, and the best things on the outside line, whichcould be seen from the street in front of the cottage.
The two women were curiously alike. They were about the sameheight, and moved in the same way. Even their faces were so similarin feature and expression that it might have been a difficult matterto distinguish between them. All the difference, and that would havebeen scarcely apparent to an ordinary observer, was a difference ofdegree, if it might be so expressed. In one face the features wereboth bolder and sharper in outline, the eyes were a trifle larger andbrighter, and the whole expression more animated and decided than inthe other.
One woman's scanty drab hair was a shade darker than the other's,and the negative fairness of complexion, which generally accompaniesdrab hair, was in one relieved by a slight tinge of warm red on thecheeks.
This slightly intensified woman had been commonly considered themore attractive of the two, although in reality there was very littleto choose between the personal appearance of these twin sisters,Priscilla and Mary Brown. They moved about the clothesline, pinningthe sweet white linen on securely, their thick, white-stockingedankles showing beneath their limp calicoes as they stepped, and theirlarge feet in cloth slippers flattening down the short, green grass.Their sleeves were rolled up, displaying their long, thin, musculararms, which were sharply pointed at the elbows.
They were homely women; they were fifty and over now, but theynever could have been pretty in their teens, their features were tooirredeemably irregular for that. No youthful freshness of complexionor expression could have possibly done away with the impression thatthey gave. Their plainness had probably only been enhanced by thecontrast, and these women, to people generally, seemed better-lookingthan when they were young. There was an honesty and patience in bothfaces that showed all the plainer for their homeliness.
One, the sister with the darker hair, moved a little quicker thanthe other, and lifted the wet clothes from the basket to the linemore frequently. She was the first to speak, too, after they had beenhanging out the clothes for some little time in silence. She stoppedas she did so, with a wet pillow-case in her band, and looked upreflectively at the flowering apple-boughs overhead, and the blue skyshowing, between, while the sweet spring wind ruffled her scanty haira little.
"I wonder, Mary," said she, "if it would seem so very queer to diea mornin' like this, say. Don't you believe there's apple branchesa-hangin' over them walls made out of precious stones, like these,only there ain't any dead limbs among 'em, an' they're all coveredthick with flowers? An' I wonder if it would seem such an awfulchange to go from this air into the air of the New Jerusalem." Justthen a robin hidden somewhere in the trees began to sing. "I s'pose,"she went on, "that there's angels instead of robins, though, and theydon't roost up in trees to sing, but stand on the ground, with liliesgrowin' round their feet, maybe, up to their knees, or on the goldstones in the street, an' play on their harps to go with thesingin'."
The other sister gave a scared, awed look at her. "Lor, don't talkthat way, sister," said she. "What has got into you lately? You makeme crawl all over, talkin' so much about dyin'. You feel well, don'tyou?"
"Lor, yes," replied the other, laughing, and picking up aclothespin for her pillow-case; "I feel well enough, an' I don't knowwhat has got me to talkin' so much about dyin' lately, or thinkin'about it. I guess it's the spring weather. P'r'aps flowers growin'make anybody think of wings sproutin' kinder naterally. I won't talkso much about it if it bothers you, an' I don't know but it's sorternateral it should. Did you get the potatoes before we came out,sister?"--with an awkward and kindly effort to change thesubject.
"No," replied the other, stooping over the clothes-basket. Therewas such a film of tears in her dull blue eyes that she could notdistinguish one article from another.
"Well, I guess you had better go in an' get 'em, then they ain'tworth anything, this time of year, unless they soak a while, an I'llfinish hangin' out the clothes while you do it."
"Well, p'r'aps I'd better," the other woman replied, straighteningherself up from the clothes-basket. Then she went into the housewithout another word; but down in the damp cellar, a minute later,she sobbed over the potato barrel as if her heart would break. Hersister's remarks had filled her with a vague apprehension and griefwhich she could not throw off. And there was something littlesingular about it. Both these women had always been of a deeplyreligious cast of mind. They had studied the Bible faithfully, if notunderstandingly, and their religion had strongly tinctured theirdaily life. They knew almost as much about the Old Testament prophetsas they did about their neighbors; and that was saying a good deal oftwo single women in a New England country town. Still this religiouselement in their natures could hardly have been termed spirituality.It deviated from that as much as anything of religion--which is inone way spirituality itself--could.
Both sisters were eminently practical in all affairs of life, downto their very dreams, and Priscilla especially so. She had dealt inreligion with the bare facts of sin and repentance, future punishmentand reward. She fad dwelt very little, probably, upon the poeticsplendors of the Eternal City, and talked about them still less.Indeed, she had always been reticent about her religious convictions,and had said very little about them even to her sister.
The two women, with God in their thoughts every moment, seldom hadspoken his name to each other. For Priscilla to talk in the strainthat she had to-day, and for a week or two previous, off and on, was,from its extreme deviation from her usual custom, certainlystartling.
Poor Mary, sobbing over the potato barrel, thought it was a signof approaching death. She had a few superstitious-like grafts uponher practical, commonplace character.
She wiped her eyes finally, and went up-stairs with her tin basinof potatoes, which were carefully washed and put to soak by the timeher sister came in with the empty basket.
At twelve exactly the two sat down to dinner in the clean kitchen,which was one of the two rooms the cottage boasted. The narrow entryran from the front door to the back. On one side was the kitchen andliving-room; on the other, the room where the sisters slept. Therewere two small unfinished lofts overhead, reached by a step-ladderthrough a little scuttle in the entry ceiling: and that was all. Thesisters had earned the cottage and paid for it years before, byworking as tailoresses. They had, besides, quite a snug little sum inthe bank, which they had saved out of their hard earnings. There wasno need for Priscilla and Mary to work so hard, people said; but workhard they did, and work hard they would as long as they lived. Themere habit of work had become as necessary to them as breathing.
Just as soon as they had finished their meal and cleared away thedishes, they put on some clean starched purple prints, which weretheir afternoon dresses, and seated themselves with their work at thetwo front windows; the house faced southwest, so the sunlightstreamed through both. It was a very warm day for the season, and thewindows were open. Close to them in the yard outside stood greatclumps of lilac bushes. They grew on the other side of the front doortoo; a little later the low cottage would look half-buried in them.The shadows of their leaves made a dancing net-work over the freshlywashed yellow floor.
The two sisters sat there and sewed on some coarse vests all theafternoon. Neither made a remark often. The room, with its glossylittle cooking-stove, its eight-day clock on the mantel, itschintz-cushioned rocking-chairs, and the dancing shadows of the lilacleaves on its yellow floor, looked pleasant and peaceful.
Just before six o'clock a neighbor dropped in with her creampitcher to borrow some milk for tea, and she sat down for a minute'schat after she had got it filled. They had been talking a few momentson neighborhood topics, when all of a sudden Priscilla let her workfall and raised her hand. "Hush!" whispered she.
The other two stopped talking, and listened, staring at herwonderingly, but they could hear nothing.
"What is it, Miss Priscilla?" asked the neighbor, with round blueeyes. She was a pretty young thing, who had not been marriedlong.
"Hush! Don't speak. Don't you hear that beautiful music?" Her earwas inclined towards the open window, her hand still raisedwarningly, and her eyes fixed on the opposite wall beyond them.
Mary turned visibly paler than her usual dull paleness, andshuddered. "I don't hear any music," she said. "Do you, MissMoore?"
"No-o," replied the caller, her simple little face beginning toput on a scared look, from a vague sense of a mystery she could notfathom.
Mary Brown rose and went to the door, and looked eagerly up anddown the street. "There ain't no organ-man in sight anywhere," saidshe, returning, "an' I can't hear any music, an' Miss Moore can't,an' we're both sharp enough o' hearing'. [sic] You're jest imaginin'it, sister."
"I never imagined anything in my life," returned the other, "an'it ain't likely I'm goin' to begin now. It's the beautifulest music.It comes from over the orchard there. Can't you hear it? But it seemsto me it's growin' a little fainter like now. I guess it's movin'off, perhaps."
Mary Brown set her lips hard. The grief and anxiety she had feltlately turned suddenly to unreasoning anger against the cause of it;through her very love she fired with quick wrath at the belovedobject. Still she did not say much, only, "I guess it must be movin'off," with a laugh, which had an unpleasant ring in it.
After the neighbor had gone, however, she said more, standingbefore her sister with her arms folded squarely across her bosom."Now, Priscilla Brown," she exclaimed, "I think it's about time toput a stop to this. I've heard about enough of it. What do you s'poseMiss Moore thought of you? Next thing it'll be all over town thatyou're gettin' spiritual notions. To-day it's music that nobody elsecan hear, an' yesterday you smelled roses, and there ain't one inblossom this time o' year, and all the time you're talkin' aboutdyin'. For my part, I don't see why you ain't as likely to live as Iam. You're uncommon hearty on vittles. You ate a pretty good dinnerto-day for a dyin' person."
"I didn't say I was goin' to die," replied Priscilla, meekly: thetwo sisters seemed suddenly to have changed natures. "An' I'll trynot to talk so, if it plagues you. I told you I wouldn't thismornin', but the music kinder took me by surprise like, an' I thoughtmaybe you an' Miss Moore could hear it. I can jest hear it a littlebit now, like the dyin' away of a bell."
"There you go agin!" cried the other, sharply. "Do, for mercy'ssake, stop, Priscilla. There ain't no music."
"Well, I won't talk any more about it," she answered, patiently;and she rose and began setting the table for tea, while Mary sat downand resumed her sewing, drawing the thread through the cloth withquick, uneven jerks.
That night the pretty girl neighbor was aroused from her firstsleep by a distressed voice at her bedroom window, crying, "MissMoore! Miss Moore!"
She spoke to her husband, who opened the window. "What's wanted?"he asked, peering out into the darkness.
"Priscilla's sick," moaned the distressed voice; "awful sick.She's fainted, an' I can't bring her to. Go for the doctor--quick!quick! quick! The voice ended in a shriek on the last word, and thespeaker turned and ran back to the cottage, where, on the bed, lay apale, gaunt woman, who had not stirred since she left it. Immovablethrough all her sister's agony, she lay there, her features shapingthemselves out more and more from the shadows, the bedclothes thatcovered her limbs taking on an awful rigidity.
"She must have died in her sleep," the doctor said, when he came,"without a struggle."
When Mary Brown really understood that her sister was dead, sheleft her to the kindly ministrations of the good women who are alwaysready at such times in a country place, and went and sat by thekitchen window in the chair which her sister had occupied thatafternoon.
There the women found her when the last offices had been done forthe dead.
"Come home with me to-night," one said; "Miss Green will stay withher," with a turn of her head towards the opposite room, and anemphasis on the pronoun which distinguished it at once from oneapplied to a living person.
"No," said Mary Brown; "I'm a goin' to set here an' listen." Shehad the window wide open, leaning her head out into the chilly nightair.
The women looked at each other; one tapped her head, anothernodded hers. "Poor thing!" said a third.
"You see," went on Mary Brown, still speaking with her head leanedout of the window, "I was cross with her this afternoon because shetalked about hearin' music. I was cross, an' spoke up sharp to her,because I loved her, but I don't think she knew. I didn't want tothink she was goin' to die, but she was. An' she heard the music. Itwas true. An' now I'm a-goin' to set here an' listen till I hear ittoo, an' then I'll know she 'ain't laid up what I said agin me, an'that I'm a-goin' to die too."
They found it impossible to reason with her; there she sat tillmorning, with a pitying woman beside her, listening all in vain forunearthly melody.
Next day they sent for a widowed niece of the sisters, who came atonce, bringing her little boy with her. She was a kindly young woman,and took up her abode in the little cottage, and did the best shecould for her poor aunt, who, it soon became evident, would never bequite herself again. There she would sit at the kitchen window andlisten day after day. She took a great fancy to her niece's littleboy, and used often to hold him in her lap as she sat there. Once ina while she would ask him if he heard any music. "An innocent littlething like him might hear quicker than a hard, unbelievin' old womanlike me," she told his mother once.
She lived so for nearly a year after her sister died. It wasevident that she failed gradually and surely, though there was noapparent disease. It seemed to trouble her exceedingly that she neverheard the music she listened for. She had an idea that she could notdie unless she did, and her whole soul seemed filled with longing tojoin her beloved twin sister, and be assured of her forgiveness. Thissister-love was all she had ever felt, besides her love of God, inany strong degree; all the passion of devotion of which this homely,commonplace woman was capable was centred in that, and theunsatisfied strength of it was killing her. The weaker she grew, themore earnestly she listened. She was too feeble to sit up, but shewould not consent to lie in bed, and made them bolster her up withpillows in a rocking-chair by the window. At last she died, in thespring, a week or two before her sister had the preceding year. Theseason was a little more advanced this year, and the apple-trees wereblossomed out further than they were then. She died about ten o'clockin the morning. The day before, her niece had been called into theroom by a shrill cry of rapture from her: "I've heard it! I've heardit!" she cried. "A faint sound o' music, like the dyin' away of abell."
This site is full of FREE ebooks -Project Gutenberg Australia