From her dormer window, Anna Barly peered out at the wet, gray morning. The ground was sopping, the trees black with the night's drenching. In the orchard a sparrow sang an uncertain song; and she heard the comfortable drip, drip, drip from the eaves. It was damp and fresh at the window; the breeze, cold and fragrant after rain, made her shiver. She drew her wrapper closer about her throat, and sat staring out across the sodden lawn, with idle thoughts for company.
She thought that she was young, and that the world was old: that rain belonged to youth. Old age should sit in the sun, but youth was best of all in bad weather. "There's no telling where you are in the rain. And there's no one spying, for every one's indoors, keeping dry." Yes, youth is quite a person in the rain.
With slim, lazy fingers, she began to braid her long, fair hair. It seemed to her that folks were always peering and prying, to make sure that every one else was like themselves. "You're doing different than what I did," they said.
Anna wanted to "do different." Yet she was without courage or wisdom. And because she was sulky and heedless, Mrs. Ploughman called her Sara Barly's rebellious daughter. As Mrs. Ploughman belonged to the Methodist side of the town, Mrs. Tomkins was usually ready to disagree with her. But on this occasion, all Mrs. Tomkins could think to say, was: "Well, that's queer."
"But what's she got to be rebellious over?" she asked, peering brightly at Mrs. Ploughman.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Ploughman, "she's sorry she wasn't born a boy."
"Well," cried Mrs. Tomkins, "I never heard of such a thing."
"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins," said Mrs. Ploughman.
"And plenty I never hope to hear," said Mrs. Tomkins promptly. "My life!"
After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework. She took a hand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumbling everything into the closet and shutting the door. Then she went into the kitchen to help with the lunch. When Mrs. Barly saw her dreaming over the carrots, she asked:
"What are you gaping at now?"
"Nothing."
Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed. "You're not feeble-minded, I hope," she said.
"No, I'm not," said Anna.
"I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Barly.
When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that she was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinking of Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although she said to herself: "I am not in love with any one." Sometimes she thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman. However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over his death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour feelings.
In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again after breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp and searching. From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops rained down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing above the woods, now light, now dark.
She was disappointed because life was no different than it was. She had hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before the war, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths in her hair. But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she was sad because she was no longer able to be gay. As she passed the little cottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself: "Yes, you've seen something of life. But not what I want to see, exactly. Look at you." Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothing more to live for. "There you are," she said, "and there you'll be. Life doesn't mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you're concerned.
"You, God," she cried, "put something in my way, just once."
At that moment Juliet, who had been peeking out from behind the house, came skipping down the path to the road. As she drew near, her progress became slower; finally she stood still, and balanced herself on one leg, like a stork.
"Hello," she said. Then she looked up and down the road, to see what there was to talk about.
"I have a little house Mr. Jeminy made me out of boxes," she said at last.
"No," said Anna.
"Well, that's a fact," said Juliet, who had once heard Mr. Frye say,"Well, that's a fact," to Mr. Crabbe.
"My goodness," said Anna, "isn't that elegant?" And she looked down atJuliet, who was staring solemnly up at her.
"Yes, it is," said Juliet.
"What were you doing," asked Anna, "when I came along?"
"I was playing going to Milford," said Juliet. "Do you want to play with me?"
It seemed to Juliet that playing was something for any one to do.
Anna began to laugh. She had a mind to say, "Do you think I'm as little as you are?" But instead, she found herself thinking, "Oh, my, wouldn't it be fun."
"Why," she cried, "I declare, I do want to play with you."
"All right," said Juliet. And she turned soberly back to the barn, behind the house. But Anna sat down in the grass. "Just you wait," she said, "till I get my shoes and stockings off. I'm going to play proper."
Presently their happy voices, linked in laughter, rose from behind the house, where Juliet was showing Anna how to play store. She tied her apron around her little belly, and came forward rubbing her hands. "Would you like some nice licorice?" she asked. "Everything's very dear."
When she was tired of playing store, she began to imitate old Mrs. Tomkins, the carpenter's wife. "This is the way to have the rheumatism," she said. And she hopped around on one foot.
After they were through playing, they sat quietly together in the hay, in the barn, without anything more to say. Anna was warm and happy; she wanted to hug Juliet, to hold her tight, to rock up and down with her. "There," she thought, "if I only had one like her."
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, to tease her.
"I was just thinking," said Juliet, "it's fun to play with people."
Anna felt her heart give a sudden twist. "Why, you dear, odd little thing," she cried. And taking the child in her arms, she covered the tiny head with kisses. But Juliet drew away.
"I'm not little," she said. "I'm old."
"So am I old," said Anna. She felt the joy run out of her; it left her empty. "I expect everybody in the world is old," she said. She watched her hands move about in the hay like great spiders.
"Is it fun to be old, do you think?" asked Juliet.
"I don't know," said Anna. "I don't expect it is, much."
"Mother is old," said Juliet. "What do old people do?"
Anna looked out through the barn door across the wet fields, the drenched hillsides, shrouded in mist. "I don't know," she said. And she got up to go home.
"Well, good-by," said Juliet.
Just then Mrs. Wicket came in from the road, with a basket on her arm. When she saw Anna standing in front of the barn she grew pink and confused. For she thought that Anna had come to call on her. "Good afternoon," she said. "I was out. I'm real sorry. Won't you come in?"
"Oh, no," said Anna. "I was going on . . . I only stopped for a minute. . . ."
And without another word she ran down the path, and out of the gate. Mrs. Wicket stood looking after her in silence. Then, with a sigh, she turned, and went indoors. But Anna ran and ran until she was tired. As she ran she kept saying to herself, over and over, "I won't be like that, I won't, I won't."
It seemed to her as though she were running away from Hillsboro itself, running away from Mrs. Wicket, from her mother, from Thomas Frye, from Anna Barly, from everything she wouldn't be. . . .
"I won't," she cried, "I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't."
"Never."
Mr. Jeminy, who was seated on his coat by the side of the road, got up with a smile. "Well, Anna Barly," he said.
"Ak," she whispered, clapping both hands to her mouth, "how you scared me." She could feel her heart beating with fright; her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She stood staring at Mr. Jeminy, who stared gravely back at her. "Are you going to run away from me, too?" he asked, at last.
"No," said Anna. Then, all at once, she burst out crying. "I can't help it," she cried, between her sobs. "I can't help it. Don't look at me."
"No," said Mr. Jeminy, "I won't." And he gazed up at the tree tops, dark and sharp against the cold, gray sky.
Anna cried herself out. Then pale and ashamed, she started home again with Mr. Jeminy. "I don't know what got into me," she said. "I don't know what you'll think."
"I think," declared Mr. Jeminy, looking up at the sky, "I think—why, I think this wet weather will pass, Anna Barly. Yes, to-morrow will be cold and clear."
Anna did not answer him. She was tired; she had played, she had cried, now she wanted to rest.
In Frye's General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a game of checkers. They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard, and stroked their chins. Farmer Barly stood watching them. He puffed on his pipe, and nodded his head at every move. But all the while he was thinking about Anna. "Pretty near time she was settling down," he thought.
Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor. It was not that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping. "Let me do the taking," he would have said, "and you can do the winning." When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy. He felt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure. "You're too spry for me," he said. "You're like a flea. Well. . . ."
"It's your turn, Mr. F.," said Mr. Crabbe.
Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste. There were no more jumps for him to make. He pushed a round black checker forward.
"There you are," he said.
"Here I go," declared Mr. Crabbe. And he began hopping again.
Mr. Frye shook his head. "I don't know as I'm feeling very good to-day," he told Farmer Barly.
As he was speaking, Anna Barly entered the store, on her way home.Thomas Frye, who was behind the counter, came forward to meet her.When she saw him, her cheeks, which were pale, grew red. "He can see Iwas crying," she thought. "Well, I don't care. I hate him. What didI stop for?"
She remembered that her mother had wanted a spool of white cotton."Number eleven," she said.
When she saw her father and Mr. Frye in the corner, she grew sulkier than ever. "They're just laying to settle me down," she thought. And turning to hide her face, still stained with tears, she made believe to wave to some one, out the window.
Mr. Crabbe took another man. "Tsck," said Mr. Frye; "maybe I'd better go and see what Anna wants. Thomas don't appear to know what he's about."
"Leave them be," said Mr. Crabbe, "leave them be." And he winked first at Mr. Barly, and then at Mr. Frye. "Don't go spoiling things," he said.
Mr. Frye allowed his mouth to droop in a thin smile. "Young people are slow to-day," he remarked. "They act like they had something on their minds. Green fruit . . . slow to ripe. In my time we went at it smarter." And he looked thoughtfully at Anna Barly. He saw her in the form of acres of land, live stock, farm buildings, and money in the bank. "Molasses," he thought; "yes, sir, molasses. Maple sugar." But when he looked at his son Thomas, he frowned. "Go on," he wanted to say, "go on, you slowpoke."
Farmer Barly also frowned at Thomas Frye. He felt that he was being hurried. "She's well enough where she is," he thought. "She's young yet. A year or two more . . ."
"Well," said Mr. Crabbe, "I look forward to the day." And he waved his hand kindly in the air. "It's your move, Mr. F."
Mr. Frye arose, and walked toward the door, where Thomas was biddingAnna good-by. "See you to-night," Thomas whispered; "heh, Anna?"
"Please yourself," said Anna. And off she went, without looking at Mr. Frye, who had come to speak to her. When she was gone, Mr. Frye gave his son a keen glance. In it was both curiosity and malice. But Thomas turned away. It seemed to him that women must have been easier to understand when his father was young. For no one could understand them now.
While the storekeeper's back was turned, Mr. Crabbe rearranged the checkerboard. He took up two of Mr. Frye's men and put them in his pocket. Then he winked at Mr. Barly, as though to say: "I'm just a leetle too smart for him."
Farmer Barly winked back. It amused him to have Mr. Frye beaten unfairly. Mr. Frye wanted to get his daughter away from him. "Well," he said in his mind, to Mr. Frye, "just go easy. Just go easy, Mr. Frye." And he winked again at Mr. Crabbe. "That's right," he said, "give it to him."
When Mr. Jeminy left Anna, at the edge of the village, he went to call on Grandmother Ploughman. He found her in the company of old Mrs. Crabbe, who had brought her knitting over, for society's sake. Mrs. Ploughman received him with quiet dignity, due to a sense of the wrong she had suffered, for which she blamed Mrs. Wicket, and the Democratic Party. Mr. Ploughman, she often said, had been a good Republican all his life. Unfortunately, he was dead; otherwise, things would have been different.
It seemed to her that the country was being run by a set of villains. "The world is in a bad way," she declared. "I don't know what we're coming to." And an expression of bleak satisfaction illuminated her face, wrinkled with age.
"Yes," said Mr. Jeminy, "these are unhappy times. I am afraid we are leaving behind us a difficult task for those who follow. They had a right to expect better things of us, Mrs. Ploughman."
"I've not left anything behind," said Mrs. Ploughman decidedly; "not yet."
"I should hope not," ejaculated Mrs. Crabbe. "No."
"It's the young," said Mrs. Ploughman, "who get the old into trouble. Nothing ever suits them until they're in mischief; and then it's up to their elders to pull them out again. I know, for I've seen it, father and son."
"It is the old," said Mr. Jeminy, "who get the young into trouble."
"Is it, indeed?" said Mrs. Ploughman.
"Well, I don't believe it." And she gave Mr. Jeminy a bright, peaked look.
"Then," she continued, "when you've done for them, year in and year out, off they go, and that's the end of it."
"Ah, yes," croaked Mrs. Crabbe; "off they go."
"If it isn't one thing," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's another. Trouble and death—that's a woman's lot in this world, like the Good Book says."
"Death is the end of everything," remarked Mrs. Crabbe.
"I'm not afraid to die," Mrs. Ploughman declared. "There's things to do the other side of the grave, same as here. And it's a joy to do them, in the light of the Lord. I can tell you, Mrs. Crabbe, I won't be sorry to go. My folks are waiting there for me." Her voice trembled, and she rocked up and down to compose herself. "He needn't try to mix me up," she thought to herself; "not in my own home. No."
"Then," said Mr. Jeminy, "you believe in an after life, Mrs. Ploughman?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Ploughman firmly, directing her remarks to Mrs. Crabbe, "I do. I believe there's a life hereafter, when our sorrows will be repaid us. There weren't all those hearts broke for nothing, Mrs. Crabbe, nor for what's going on here now, with strikes, and famine, and bloody murders."
"That's real edifying, Mrs. Ploughman," said Mrs. Crabbe, "real edifying. Yes," she exclaimed with energy, "these are terrible times. Now they give me tea without sugar in it. For there's no sugar to be had. Well, I won't drink it. I spit it out, when nobody's looking."
And she plied her needles with vigor, to show what she thought of such an arrangement.
"As I was saying," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's the young who get the old into trouble. And artful folk, who'd ought to know better, with the life they've had. I've had no peace in this life. But I'll have it hereafter."
At this reflection upon Mrs. Wicket, Mr. Jeminy rose to go. "You are right," he said; "no one will disturb you." And he went home to Mrs. Grumble.
"Where have you been all day?" she demanded.
Mr. Jeminy smiled. He knew that Mrs. Grumble thought he had been spending the afternoon at Mrs. Wicket's. "I have been to call on Mrs. Ploughman," he said. "There I met old Mrs. Crabbe."
Then Mrs. Grumble hurried out into the garden to pick a mess of young beans for supper, because Mr. Jeminy liked them better than squash. The bowl of squash she returned to the ice box. "I'll eat it myself, to-morrow," she thought.
"Supper will be a little late," she said to Mr. Jeminy, "because the stove won't draw in wet weather."
Mr. Jeminy, clad in a pair of brown, earthy overalls, a blue, cotton shirt, and a straw hat, full of holes, was helping Mr. Tomkins dig potatoes, up on Barly Hill. From the field on the slopes above the village, he could see the hills across the valley, misted in the sun. Above him stretched the shining sky, thronged with its winds, the low clouds of early autumn trailing their shadows across the woods. All was peace; he saw September's yellow fields, and felt, on his face, the cool fall wind, with its smoke of burning leaves, mingled with the odor of spaded earth, and fresh manure.
With every toss of his fork he covered with earth the little piles of straw and ordure which Mr. Tomkins had spread on the ground. As he advanced in this manner, small flocks of sparrows rose before him, and flew away with dissatisfied cries. "Come," he said to them, "the world does not belong to you. I believe you have never read the works of Epictetus, who says, 'true education lies in learning to distinguish what is ours, from what does not belong to us.' However, you have a more modern spirit; for you believe that whatever you see belongs to you, providing you are able to get hold of it."
He was happy; in the warm, noon-day drowse, he felt, like Abraham, the grace of God within him, and found even in the humblest sparrow enough to afford him an opportunity to discuss morals with himself.
"There'll be potatoes," said Mr. Tomkins, "enough to last all winter for the two of us. That's riches, Jeminy; where's your talk now of the world being poor?"
"Some of these potatoes," said Mr. Jeminy, bending over, "are rotted from the wet weather."
"To-morrow," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll borrow a harrow from Farmer Barly.And next spring I'll plant corn here on the hill. Table corn, that is.Then we'll have a corn-husking, Jeminy; you and I, and the rest of theyoung ones." And he burst out laughing, in his high, cracked voice.
"Do you remember the last corn-husking?" asked Mr. Jeminy. "It was in the autumn before the war. Anna Barly and Alec Stove lost themselves in the woods. And Elsie Cobbler burned her fingers. How she cried and carried on; Anna came running back, to see what it was all about. But before the evening was over, she was off again, with Noel Ploughman."
Mr. Tomkins nodded his head. Timid in the presence of Mr. Jeminy's books, he was happy and hearty in his own potato patch. "I remember," he said. "I remember more than you do, Jeminy. I can look back to the first husking bee I ever was at. That was in '62. A year later I shouldered a gun, and went off with the drafts of '63. Your speaking of Noel put me in mind of it.
"When I got home again," he continued, "there was nothing for me to do. In those days folks did their own work. Then there was time for everything. But the days are not as long as they used to be when I was young. Now there's no time for anything.
"But Noel was a good man. He was handy, and amiable. He could lay a roof, or mend a thresher, it was all the same to him. What do you think, Jeminy? Anna Barly won't forget him in a hurry—heh?"
"No," said Mr. Jeminy; "no, Anna won't forget him in a hurry. That is as it should be, William. She believes that she has suffered. And if she fools herself a little, I, for one, would be inclined to forgive her."
"She won't fool herself any," said Mr. Tomkins; "not Anna. Wait and see."
The shadows of late afternoon stretched half across the field when Mr. Jeminy laid down his fork, and started to return home. As he followed Mr. Tomkins down the hill, he saw the tops of the clouds lighted by the descending sun, and heard, across the valley, the harsh notes of a cow's horn, calling the hands on Ploughman's Farm in from the fields.
He stopped a moment at a shadowy spring, hidden away among the ferns, for a cup of cold, clear water. Holding the cup, made of tin, to his lips, he observed:
"Thus, of old, the farmer stooped to refresh himself. When he was done, he gave thanks to the rustic god, who watched his house, and protected his flocks. They were the best of friends; each was modest and reasonable. To-day God is like a dead ancestor; there is no way to argue with him."
"I'm glad," said Mr. Tomkins, "that the minister isn't here to listen to you. Come along now; I've plenty still to do before supper. The widow Wicket's gate is down. But I've promised to set a fence for Farmer Barly first."
"You need help, William," remarked Mr. Jeminy thoughtfully; "you need help. I must see what I can do." And he went home, down the hill, after Mr. Tomkins.
The next day he started out early in the morning. When Mrs. Grumble asked him where he was going, he replied, "I must step over to Mr. Tomkins, to help him with something."
From Mr. Tomkins he borrowed a saw, a plane, a hammer, and a box of nails. Then he hurried off to mend Mrs. Wicket's gate. On the way he stopped to gather an armful of goldenrod for his friend, and also to pick a yellow aster for himself, from Mrs. Cobbler's garden.
When he arrived at Mrs. Wicket's cottage, the widow's pale face and listless manner, filled him with alarm. "I've been up with Juliet," she said. "The child has a touch of croup. It's nothing. She's better this morning." And she gave him her hand, still cold with the chill of night.
"Good heavens," exclaimed Mr. Jeminy; "I am sure Mrs. Grumble would have been glad to keep you company."
Mrs. Wicket smiled. But she did not answer this declaration, which Mr.Jeminy knew in his heart to be untrue.
Putting down his tools, he began to examine the gate. "Hm," he said. "Hm. Yes, I'll soon have this fixed for you." Mrs. Wicket stood watching him with a gentle smile. "You're very kind," she said. "It's very kind of you, Mr. Jeminy. Most folks are too proud to turn a hand for me, no matter what was to happen."
"Tut," said Mr. Jeminy.
"Well, it's a fact," said Mrs. Wicket gravely. "I've never felt loneliness like I do here. Not ever. Because I've had trouble, Mr. Jeminy, and known sorrow, folks leave me alone. I'd go away . . . only where would I go?"
"Sorrow," said Mr. Jeminy, "is a good friend, Mrs. Wicket. Sorrow and poverty are close to our hearts. They teach the spirit to be resolute and indulgent.
"One must also learn," he added, "to bear sorrow without being vexed by it."
"I've never had sorrow without being vexed by it," said Mrs. Wicket. "To my way of thinking, sorrow comes so full of troubles, it's hard to tell what's one, and what's the other."
"Sorrow," said Mr. Jeminy, "comes only to the humble and the wise. It is the emotion of a gentle and courageous spirit. But wherever trouble is found, there is also to be found envy, pride, and vanity. It is good to be humble, Mrs. Wicket; in humility lie the forces of peace. The humble heart is an impregnable fortress."
And he tapped his breast, as though to say, "Here is a whole army."
"Yes," she mused, "yes . . . but the heart's liable to break, too, after a while."
"Not the humble heart," said Mr. Jeminy firmly. "No . . . you cannot break the humble heart."
Mrs. Wicket stood gazing at the ground, twisting her apron with her hands. On her face was a look of pity for Mr. Jeminy, because she had heard that he was not to teach school any longer. "It will be a hard blow to him," she thought.
"Few," continued Mr. Jeminy, "go very long without their share of sorrow. And sorrow is not a light thing to bear, Mrs. Wicket. Poverty, also, falls to the lot of most of us; and it is not easy to be poor. Yet to be poor, to be sad, and to be brave, is indeed the best of life. He who wants little for himself, is a happy man. If he is wise, he will pity those who have more than they need. He will not envy them; he will see the trouble they are making for themselves. There is no end of pity in this world, Mrs. Wicket; like love, it makes rich men of us all."
Mrs. Wicket nodded her head. "Yes," she said, "it's a blessing to feel pity. It makes you strong, like. The humble heart is a power of strength."
And she went back to Juliet, who had begun to cough again. Left to himself, Mr. Jeminy regarded the gate-post with a thoughtful air. But inwardly he was very much pleased with himself.
That year they kept harvest home before September was fairly done. In the meadows the hay, gathered in stacks, shone in the moonlight like little hills of snow; and in the shadows the crickets hopped and sang, repeating with shrill voices, the murmurs of lovers, hidden in the woods.
Anna Barly and her friends watched the moon come up along the road to Adams' Forge. In Ezra Adams' haywagon they were singing the harvest in. Their voices rolled across the fields in lovely glees, rose in the old, familiar songs, broke into laughter, and died away in whispers. Thus they renewed their interrupted youth, and celebrated the return of peace.
It was a cold, still night, with dew white as frost over the ground. Anna, huddled in the hay, could see her breath go out in fog; while the moon, shining in her face, seemed to veil in shadow the forms of her companions—Elsie Cobbler with her round, soft elbow over Brandon Adam's face, Susie Ploughman murmuring to Alec Stove . . . She was chilly and wakeful; and watching the moon through miles of empty sky, heard, as if from far away, the singing up front, back of the driver's seat, and Thomas, whispering at her side.
"What a grand night. Clear as a bell."
"Yes," said Anna, "It's lovely."
She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face lifted to the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse, familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky, filled her with longing and regret. She closed her eyes; was it Noel, there, or Thomas? It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held, to be hugged to her breast.
"Listen . . . they're singing Love's Old Sweet Song."
The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery, urgent. She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance of her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Then silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. The figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a dream. Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna, over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in the shadows, and shadows unheard all around him.
"I could go on like this till the end of time."
"Could you?"
"I could ride like this forever and ever."
Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of the wagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"
"That's what I mean."
His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "I know," said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming in the moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . what was the difference? "Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at my breath; there's a regular fog of it."
"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly about her. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you." And at that moment, with all her heart, Anna wanted to belong to some one, wanted some one to belong to her . . .
"Thanks, Tom—dear."
The haywagon crossed the first rise, south of the village. Below the road, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silver in the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, with Barly's lamp burning as bright for all the distance, as if it hung just over those trees, still, and faint with shadows.
"See," said Anna, "there's our light."
But Thomas did not even lift his head to look. In the chilly, solemn, night air, he was warm and drowsy with his own silence, which being all too full of things to say was like to turn him into sugar with pure sorrow. And Anna, her round lips parted with desire, waited for him to speak, and held his hand tighter and tighter.
"Starlight," she murmured, "starbright, very first star I see to-night, wish I may, wish I might . . ."
"Sky's full of stars," said Thomas.
"Do you know what I wished?"
"Do I?"
"Don't you?"
He looked at her in silence; awkwardly, then, she drew him down, until her lips brushed his cheek.
"Look at Elsie," she murmured. "Did you ever?"
But Thomas would not look at Elsie; not until Anna had told him her wish. "Wish I may, wish I might . . ."
"Have the wish . . ."
But she would only whisper it in his ear.
Miles away, in Mrs. Wicket's cottage, Mr. Jeminy sat dreaming, and rocking up and down. He had come to keep an eye on Juliet, so that Mrs. Wicket could sit with Mrs. Tomkins, who was feeling poorly. While Juliet, at his feet, played with her dolls, Mr. Jeminy gave himself up to reflection. He thought: "The little insects which run about my garden paths at home, and eat what I had intended for myself, are not more lonely than I am. For here, within the walls of my mind, there is only myself. And you, Anna Barly, you cannot give poor Thomas Frye what he wishes. Do not deceive yourself; when you are gone, he will be as lonely as before. Come, confess, in your heart that pleases you; you would not have it otherwise. We are all lenders and borrowers until we die; it is only the dead who give."
When Juliet was tired of playing, she put her dolls to bed, and settled herself in Mr. Jeminy's lap. There, while the lamplight danced across the walls, drowsy with sleep, she ended her day. "Tell me a story. Tell me about the big, white bull, who swam over the sea."
"Hm . . . well . . . once upon a time there was a great white bull . . ."
Then Mr. Jeminy rehearsed again the story of long, long ago, while the bright eyes closed, and the tired head drooped lower and lower; while the autumn moon rose up above the hills, and the haywagon rumbled along the road, to the sound of laughter and cries.
But Thomas Frye and Anna Barly were no longer seated in the hay, watching the harvest in. Unobserved by the others, they had stolen away before the wagon reached Milford. Now they were lying in a field, looking up at the stars, quieter than the crickets, which were singing all about them.
September's round moon waned; Indian summer was over. One morning in October Miss Beal, the dressmaker, had taken her sewing to Mr. Jeminy's, in order to spend the day with Mrs. Grumble. There, as she sat rocking up and down in the kitchen, the fall wind brought to her nose the odor of grapes ripening in the sun. The corn stood gathered in the fields, and in the yellow barley stubble the grasshopper, old and brown, leaped full of love upon his neighbor. Mrs. Grumble, beside a pile of Mr. Jeminy's winter clothes, sorted, mended, and darned, while the sun fell through the window, bright and hot across her shoulders. She kept one eye on the oven where her biscuits were baking, counted stitches, and listened to Miss Beal, who tilted solemnly forward in her chair when she had anything to say, and moved solemnly back again when it was over.
"Mrs. Stove," declared Miss Beal, leaning forward and looking up at Mrs. Grumble, "won't have a new dress this year. Well, she's right, material is dreadful to get. As I said to her: Mrs. Stove, your old dress will do; just let me fix it up a little. No, she says, she'll wear it as it is."
"Look at me," said Mrs. Grumble. "Here's an old rag. But I get along."
"Indeed you do," said Miss Beal. "Still," she added, speaking for herself, "one has to live."
"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Grumble airily.
"Goodness," exclaimed the dressmaker. "Gracious, Mrs. Grumble."
"I declare," avowed Mrs. Grumble, "what with things costing what they do, and every one so mean, I'd die as glad as not, out of spite."
"I wouldn't want to die," said Miss Beal slowly. "It's too awful. I want to stay alive, looking around."
"You're just as curious," said Mrs. Grumble. "Well, there, I'm not.Men are a bad lot. You can't trust a one of them. Not for long."
"Yes," sighed Miss Beal, "there's a good deal I want to see. I'd like to see Niagara Falls, Mrs. Grumble."
"Lor'," said Mrs. Grumble, "a lot of water."
"All coming down," said the dressmaker, "crashing and falling."
"I'd rather see a circus," declared Mrs. Grumble.
"Would you now?" asked Miss Beal, and her fingers ran in and out, in and out, faster than ever, "would you, now? Well, then . . . there's a fair at Milford this blessed afternoon."
"Would you go along?" asked Mrs. Grumble.
"Glory," said Miss Beal.
"I was going anyhow," said Mrs. Grumble.
Then Miss Beal began to giggle. "Well, I declare," she remarked, "I feel that young."
"Go away," said Mrs. Grumble; "to hear you talk . . ." She was in the best of humor.
"All the young folks will be there," said Miss Beal. "I heard as howAlec Stove was going with Susie Ploughman. And there's ThomasFrye . . . and Anna Barly . . ."
"Yes," said Mrs. Grumble.
Miss Beal held up her thread against the light. "There's a queer thing," she admitted. "I can't make head nor tail of it. Do you think there's an understanding between them, Mrs. Grumble?"
"If there is," said Mrs. Grumble, "then Thomas has more sense than I gave him credit for. Because how any one could have an understanding with that wild thing, is more than I can see."
"How she carries on," agreed Miss Beal, "first with Noel, when he was alive, and now with him."
"Ah," remarked Mrs. Grumble, "those are the new ideas. She has her head full of them. Only the other day, down to the store, I heard her say to Mr. Frye: 'It's the old who are always getting the young into trouble.'"
"Just think of that," said Miss Beal.
"To my way of thinking," continued Mrs. Grumble, "the shoe is on the other foot. What with the young folks growing up so wild, we must all be as busy as thieves to keep what belongs to us."
"And what belongs to us, Mrs. Grumble?" asked the dressmaker, lifting from her lap a dress designed for Mrs. Sneath, the butcher's wife.
"No more than what we can get," replied Mrs. Grumble, with a shake of her head. "And that's little enough."
"Then," said Miss Beal, "what do you think Anna Barly meant by saying 'twas the old had got her into trouble?"
"Why, bless your soul," said Mrs. Grumble.
Miss Beal, from the front of her chair, regarded her friend with round and serious eyes. "I don't rightly know, Mrs. Grumble," she said, "but I came on her yesterday, and I declare if she hadn't been crying. Last night I dreamed old Mrs. Tomkins died. And you know, Mrs. Grumble, dream of the dead . . ."
"Go away," said Mrs. Grumble.
"Mind," quoth Miss Beal, "I don't mean to say there's anything as shouldn't be. Still, nothing would surprise me."
"There's no use talking," cried Mrs. Grumble, "because I don't believe a word of it." But she felt it her duty to add: "For all I never saw Anna look so poorly."
"A touch of influenza," answered Miss Beal, "so Sara Barly says. Lord save us: a big healthy girl like Anna."
"It's the healthy ones who get it," said Mrs. Grumble with a sigh."God moves in a mysterious way."
"His wonders to perform."
Mrs. Grumble arose and placed a kettle of water on the stove. "We'll have some tea," she said, "and I'll cook you some fritters. Jeminy is out. Then we'll go to the fair."
"Glory," said Miss Beal.
After lunch the two women put on their bonnets and went to take their seats in the Milford stage. As the wagon set out, creaking and crowded, everyone began to talk; and so, with cheeks reddened by the wind, rolled, still talking, into Milford.
The fair grounds were in a meadow, bounded on one side by a stream, and, beyond it, a wood already brown and blue with cold. Over the dead grass the bright colors of the fair shone in the sun; one could hear the music and the voices almost a mile away. On the other side of the field rose a gentle slope covered with goldenrod and white and purple blooms in which the bees and wasps were still busy. There, above the crowd of men and women, the happy insects were bringing to a close their own bazaar, begun amid the showers of early spring. Here was the bee, with his milch-cow, the ant with her souvenir, and the mild cricket, amused like Miss Beal by everything. Here, also, the wealthy spider, slung upon her twig, waited in patience for the homeless fly. And as, in comfort, she fed upon his juices, she exclaimed: "The right to fasten my web to this twig is a serious matter. For without me the fly would be wasted, and would not obtain a proper burial."
"I am very comfortable here," she added, "and I believe I have a right to this place, which, but for me, would be only a twig, and of no use to anybody."
Below, in the meadow, our two friends went arm in arm about the fair grounds; Miss Beal bought, as her first purchase, a spool of ribbon; and Mrs. Grumble had her fortune told. They rode on the carousel, all the while thinking: "This is really too silly." As Mrs. Grumble climbed down from her wooden horse, she said to herself: "I'm having as good a time as that little girl with the pigtails, who is going around for the fifth time."
If they turned west, their eyes were filled with the afternoon sun; when they looked east, they saw the maples, yellow and green, against the farther woods, the autumn sky, swept by its bright winds. All about them men and women rejoiced in the sunshine, told each other it was a fine day, and looked for some cause of dispute.
"The races are going to begin," said Mrs. Grumble, and taking her friend by the arm, made her way toward the track, where she could see the horses going gravely up and down. "There is a good one," she said; "see how he jumps about."
The drivers wheeled into line, and sped away with a rush; the band played and the spectators shouted.
"Oh, my," said Miss Beal, "look there." And she pointed to where Mr. Jeminy, close to the fence, was dancing up and down, waving his hat in the air. "Why, the old fool," said Mrs. Grumble.
"At his age," echoed Miss Beal.
But it did not amuse Mrs. Grumble to hear anyone else find fault with Mr. Jeminy. "He's enjoying himself," she said. "I don't know as how we've any call to make remarks."
"I only said 'at his age,'" replied Miss Beal hastily. But when she thought it over, it occurred to her that she was right, and Mrs. Grumble was wrong. Without courage on her own account, she was able to defend with energy the general opinion. "I said 'at his age,'" she repeated more firmly.
Mrs. Grumble folded her hands, and assumed a forbidding expression. "I expect," she said, "that Mr. Jeminy is old enough to do as he pleases."
"Maybe he is," answered the dressmaker, nettled by her friend's tone, "maybe he is. And maybe there's others old enough to know what's right in a man of his years, Mrs. Grumble."
"At any rate," remarked Mrs. Grumble, "it's not for you to say."
"It's not alone me is saying it," replied Miss Beal. "What's more," she added, "for all I don't like to repeat this to you, Mrs. Grumble, there's many think Mr. Jeminy is too old to teach school any longer. There's some would like to see a young woman at the schoolhouse."
"Oh," said Mrs. Grumble.
Miss Beal laid her hand on her friend's arm in a gesture at once triumphant and consoling. "Never you mind," she said; "trouble comes to all."
Mr. Jeminy went home from the fair with a light heart. He started early, because he liked to walk; and he carried in his hand a bit of lace for Mrs. Grumble. As he went down the road, beneath the turning leaves, and through the shadows cast by the descending sun, he began to sing, out of the fullness of his heart, the following song:
The Lord of all things,With liberalitee,Maketh the small birds,To sing on every tree.
The Lord of all things,He maketh also me;Giveth me no wings,Giveth me no words.
When Mr. Jeminy had sung as much as he liked, he went on to say: "In autumn the birds go south by easy stages; to-day their songs are departed from these woods, where there is none left but the catbird, to creak upon the bough. Soon snow will cover the earth, in which nothing is growing. But you, happy song birds, will build your nests far away, in green and windy trees, and your quarrels will fill distant valleys with music."
When Mr. Jeminy was nearly home he looked behind him and saw ThomasFrye and Anna Barly returning from the fair. He drew aside to let thempass, and with the sun shining in his eyes, he thought to himself,"Only the young are happy to-day."
A fortnight later, the dress-maker was called in haste to Barly Farm, to sew coarse and fine linen, and a dress for Anna to be married in. But it all had to be done within the week, towels, sheets, pillow-cases, table-cloths, and aprons. "More than a body could sew in a month," she declared. For Anna was going to have a baby. "Do what you can," said Mrs. Barly, "and we'll have to get along with that." And so we find Miss Beal at the farm by eight each morning, wishing the day were longer, to enable her tongue to catch up to her fingers; for she thought that she knew a thing or two, and could see what was directly in front of her nose. "I'm nobody's fool," she said, as she guided the cloth, snapped the thread, and rocked the treadle of the sewing machine; and she sang to herself from morning to evening. As the only songs she knew were from the hymnal, she sang, with a heart overflowing with praise:
Ah how shall fallen manBe just before his God?If He contend in righteousness,We sink beneath His rod. Amen.
or again:
Who place on Sion's God their trustLike Sion's rock shall stand,Like her immovable be fixedBy His almighty hand. Amen.
She was happy; it seemed to her that God, to whom she lifted up her prayers, was wise and active, watching every sparrow. She was satisfied that young folks were no better off than in her own day, but might expect to find themselves, if they fell from grace, as wretched as in the past. When Sara Barly had made the dress-maker comfortable in the spare room, she went down to the kitchen in search of Anna. But Anna was in the barn with Tabitha, the cat, whose new-born kittens filled her with glee. Mrs. Barly stood in the middle of the kitchen, as idle as her pots, and looked out through the window at the brown and yellow fields. When she had tied her apron on, she felt dull and tired; it seemed to her as if she were no longer virtuous, yet had not received anything in return for what she had given. And because she felt as if she had been cheated, she, also, lifted up her voice to God. "Oh, God," she said, "all my life I never did anything like that."
By way of answer, she heard the low hum of the sewing machine, and the alleluias of the dressmaker, singing as though she were in church.
Farmer Barly was down in the south pasture, with the schoolmaster's friend, Mr. Tomkins; he wanted to put up a swinging gate between the south field and the road. But all at once he felt like saying: "I don't want a gate at all; I want a fence to shut people out." For when he thought of Anna, in the gay autumn weather, he felt old and moldy.
"A bad year," said Mr. Tomkins; "still, I guess you're not worrying. I understand you put a silo in your barn. But I suppose you have your own reasons for doing it. A good year for cows, what with the grass. I hear you're thinking of buying Crabbe's Jersey bull. A fine animal; I'd like him myself."
"You're welcome to him," said Mr. Barly.
"Ah," said Mr. Tomkins, "he's beyond me, Mr. Barly, beyond my means.I'm not a rich man. But I have my health."
"What are riches?" asked Mr. Barly. "They're a source of trouble, Mr.Tomkins. They teach a young girl to waste her time."
"Well, trouble," said Mr. Tomkins.
"But what's trouble? Between you and me, a bit of trouble is good for us all. Then we're liable to know better."
Mr. Barly shook his head wearily. "I don't know," he said; "folks are queer crotchets."
"Why, then," said Mr. Tomkins, "so they are; and so would I be, as crotchety as you like, if I owned anything beyond the | little I have."
"Small good it would do you," said Mr. Barly. "Life is a heavy cross, having or not having, what with other people doing as they please." And taking leave of Mr. Tomkins, he went home, thinking that in a world where people robbed their neighbors, it were better not to possess anything.
As he passed the potato patch, he heard Abner singing, without much tune to his voice, a song he had learned in the army. "Ay," muttered Mr. Barly, "go on—sing. You've learned that much, anyway. I may as well sing, myself, for all the good I've ever had attending to my business. I'll sing a good one; then I'll be right along with everybody, and let come what may."
Anna, too, heard Abner singing, as she knelt in front of the basket where the mother cat lay with her four blind kittens. "You see, Tabby," she said, "people still sing. A lot of them learned to sing in the war, and now they're home, they may as well sing as cry. Oh, Tabby, I wanted to sing, too . . . now look at me.
"I went out so grand," she said. "I was going to find all sorts of things. But what did I find?"
At that moment, John Henry entered the barn, smoking his corncob pipe. When the smell of smoke reached Anna, she grew weak and ill, and stumbling back to the house, went upstairs to rest. But even to climb the stairs made her catch her breath. Now, before breakfast of a morning, she was deathly sick; afterwards she was tired, and ready to cry over anything. Poor Anna; she was dumb with shame. "I'm worse than Mrs. Wicket," she said to herself, over and over again. "I'm worse than Mrs. Wicket. My life is ruined. I'd be better dead."
And what of honest Thomas? He was pale with fright. It seemed to him as if the devil had reached up, and caught him by the leg. He was in for it. But like a fly in a web, he could not believe that it was not some other fly. "Oh, God," he prayed, "look down . . . say something to me."
When Mr. Jeminy was told that Thomas Frye and Anna Barly were to be married, he exclaimed: "What a shame.
"Yes," he continued with energy, "what a shame, Mrs. Grumble. They did as they were bid. Now they know that love is a trap to catch the young, and tie them up once and for all, close to the kitchen sink."
"No one bade them do what they'd no right to do," said Mrs. Grumble.
"They did," replied Mr. Jeminy sensibly, "only what they were meant to do. Youth was not made for the chimney corner, Mrs. Grumble. And love is not all one piece. We make it so, because we are timid and indolent. We like to think that one rule fits everything; that everything is simple and familiar. Even God, Mrs. Grumble, in your opinion, is an old man, like myself."
"He is not," said Mrs. Grumble.
"Yes," continued Mr. Jeminy, "you believe that God is an old man, insulted by everything. Now he has been insulted by Anna Barly, who did as she had a mind to. Well, well . . ."
"No matter," said Mrs. Grumble comfortably, "there's the baby; you can't get around that."
"Mrs. Grumble," said Mr. Jeminy earnestly, "I am going to Farmer Barly. I am going to say to him, 'Let me have Anna's baby, and we'll say no more about it.' Yes, that is what I am going to do."
"Well," gasped Mrs. Grumble, throwing herself back in her chair, "well, I never . . . so that's it . . . I can tell you this: the day that baby comes into this house, I go out of it. Why, who ever heard of such a thing? No, indeed."
"There," she thought to herself, "that's what comes of people like Mrs.Wicket."
"Mrs. Grumble," said Mr. Jeminy.
"I've no more to say," said Mrs. Grumble.
"Mrs. Grumble," pleaded Mr. Jeminy, "I am an old man. There is nothing left for me to do in the world any more. I am sure you would be pleased with Anna's baby. Let us do this much for youth; for the new world."
"I declare," cried Mrs. Grumble, "you'll drive me clean out of my wits. The new world . . . you mean Sodom and Gomorrah, more like. The new world . . . sakes alive."
"Mrs. Grumble," said Mr. Jeminy, "the old world is dead and gone. Let the young be free to build a new world. It will be happier than ours. It will be a world of love, and candor. Perhaps it will be also a world of poverty. That would not do any harm, Mrs. Grumble."
"A fine world," said Mrs. Grumble. "At least, I won't live to see much of it, I've that to be thankful for."
"Finer than what it is," retorted Mr. Jeminy, losing his temper, "finer than what it is. Not the same, sad pattern."
"The old pattern is good enough for me," replied Mrs. Grumble.
"You're a fossil," said Mr. Jeminy.
Then Mrs. Grumble raised her voice in prayer. "Lord," she prayed, "don't let me forget myself. Because if I do . . ."
"Yes, that's it," cried Mr. Jeminy, "stop up your ears . . ." And out he went in a rage. Mrs. Grumble, left alone, looked after him with flashing eyes and a heaving bosom. "Oh," she breathed, "if I could only lay my hands on him."
But when she did, at last, lay hands on him, it was not in the way she looked for, as she sat rocking up and down, waiting for him to come home again.
Mr. Jeminy came slowly out of the post-office, and turned up the road leading to his house. In one hand, crumpled in his pocket, he held his dismissal from Hillsboro school: "On account of age," it said. Next morning, at nine o'clock, the new teacher was coming to take over the little schoolhouse, with its splintered desks, the dusty blackboard, and the colored maps.
As he walked, the sun sank in the west, and evening crept up the road after him. The air was damp; he could see his breath pass out in fog before his face. The wind, blowing above his head, showered down the last dried, yellow leaves upon his path; before him he saw the chilly sky with its faint, lonely star, and over him the half moon, like a slice; and he heard the autumn wind, steady and cold. "You fields," he said, "you trees, you meadows and little paths, I do not believe you wanted to dismiss me. You must have enjoyed the daisy chains my pupils used to weave for you in the spring. Now they will learn the use of figures and percents, and the names of cities I have forgot. I will never hear again the voices of children at the playhour come tumbling in through the school windows. For at my age one does not begin to teach again. But it is ridiculous to say that I am an old man."
It grew darker and darker, the trees creaked and popped in the cold, or groaned like bass viols; and all along the roadside Mr. Jeminy could see the feeble glimmer of fireflies, fallen among the leaves. He said to them, "Little creatures, my flame is also spent. But I do not intend, like you, to lie by the roadside in the wind, and keep myself warm with memories. Now I am going where I can be of use to others. For I am brisk and tough, and do not hope to gain by my efforts more than I deserve."
Thus, following his thoughts, Mr. Jeminy passed, without knowing it, the house where Mrs. Grumble, sitting by the stove, awaited his return. The moon, riding out the wind above his head, peered down at him between the branches, as he stepped from shadow into moonlight, and again into shadow. Under the trees the dry, fallen leaves stirred about his feet, and other leaves, which he could not see, fell near him in the dark. As he passed the little orchard belonging to Mrs. Wicket, he heard the ripe apples dropping in the night.
In the gray of dawn, he found himself approaching a farmhouse somewhere south of Milford, whose lighted lamp, pale yellow in the early twilight, drew him from the road, across the fields. As he turned through the tumbled gate, a woman came to the door, her dress billowing back from her in the breeze.
"Come in, old man," she said.
In Mrs. Tomkin's garden the hydrangeas were already pink with frost, and the leaves of the maples, fallen upon the ground, covered the earth with patches of yellow and red. By the side of the road, piles of leaves, raked together by Mr. Tomkins, were set on fire; they burned with a crackle and a roar, and gave off an odor at once pungent and regretful, which mingled in the fresh autumn air with the fragrance of grapes and cider, as the last apples of the season, too old and ripe to keep, went to the press back of the barn.
Juliet liked to play in Mrs. Tomkins' garden, where the hens, each anxious to be not the first, but the second, ran after each other as though to say, "You go and see, and I'll come and look."
Now she sat on the steps of Mrs. Tomkins' porch with her doll Sara, while her mother, Mrs. Wicket, watched at the bedside of Mrs. Grumble, who was very ill. Juliet did not realize how ill she was; she thought Mrs. Grumble might have croup. But Mrs. Ploughman, who sat on the porch with Mrs. Tomkins, knew that Mrs. Grumble had pneumonia. "Got," she explained, "by setting up that night, when Mr. Jeminy never came home."
"No," said Mrs. Tomkins, "he never came home. If it had been me, in Mrs. Grumble's place, I'd have gone to bed, instead of parading around with a lantern all night, catching my death."
"Mr. Jeminy," said Mrs. Ploughman, "was a queer man, and no mistake. I remember the day he stepped in to pay me a call. Mrs. Crabbe was with me. 'Mrs. Ploughman,' he said, 'and you, Mrs. Crabbe, we're leaving a lot of trouble behind us.' Fancy that, Mrs. Tomkins—as though I'd up and go any minute. 'Mr. Jeminy,' I said, 'I'm not afraid to die. When my time comes, I'll go joyfully.'"
"No doubt you will," said Mrs. Tomkins comfortably.
"Well," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's a good thing, in my opinion, he was made to give up teaching school. It's a wonder the children know anything at all, Mrs. Tomkins. I declare, it used to mix me up something terrible, just to listen to him."
Mrs. Tomkins gazed at her sewing with thoughtful pleasure. "It was a hard blow to him," she said. "He did his best. Maybe he was a little queer. But he harmed no one. He used to tell the children stories.
"How is Mrs. Grumble," she asked, "to-day?"
"Weak," said Mrs. Ploughman; "very weak, out of her mind part of the time with the fever."
"Do you calculate she'll die, Mrs. Ploughman?"
"I don't know. But I don't calculate she'll live, Mrs. Tomkins. Still, we must hope for the best. This is the way it was; first the influenza, and then the pneumony. Double pneumony, the doctor says. There's a lot of it around again, like last year. It takes the young and the hardy. It won't get me. No.
"There's nothing to do for it," she added, "nothing, that is, beyond nursing."
"If it wasn't for Mrs. Wicket," said Mrs. Tomkins, "I expect she'd have been dead before this. Mrs. Wicket's a capable woman in things like that. Capabler than Miss Beal. There was no one else ever made me so comfortable. I have to say that about her; Mrs. Grumble's getting the best of care. And I'm looking after Juliet. Not that she's any trouble; she's as quiet as a mouse, playing all day long with her dolls."
But Mrs. Ploughman could not find it in her heart to forgive Mrs. Wicket for having been the cause of her grandson Noel's death. "Yes," she said, "I expect Mrs. Grumble's getting good care. But when a body's dying, 'tisn't so much care you want, as salvation. I wouldn't want any Jezebel hanging over my deathbed, Mrs. Tomkins, thank you."
Mrs. Tomkins, who attended each Sunday the little Baptist church at Adams' Forge, did not believe that she and Mrs. Ploughman would meet in heaven. However, she did not choose this moment to mention it. "It may be as you say, Mrs. Ploughman," she remarked, "or it may be that we've been too hard oh Mrs. Wicket. Mind you, I don't speak for her life with that bad egg of Eben Wicket's. But we ought to forgive others as we would have others forgive us."
"You needn't quote Gospels to me," declared Mrs. Ploughman; "I'm as easy to forgive as the next one, where there's a reason for it. I don't hold it against Mrs. Wicket that she drove my Noel to his death. No. I forgive her for it. And I don't blame Mr. Jeminy for going off, if he had a mind to, and leaving Mrs. Grumble to catch the pneumony."
"No," said Mrs. Tomkins.
"But there's this much queer," said Mrs. Ploughman: "The way she takes on in the fever. She does nothing but call him back, Mrs. Tomkins. 'Mr. Jeminy,' she hollers, 'where's the old rascal?' she says. Then she goes on about his being in some trouble, and she has to get him out of it. 'He's in the toils,' she says; 'he's with the scarlet woman.'"
"My life!" exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins.
"I declare," said Mrs. Ploughman, "I wouldn't be Mrs. Wicket, or MissBeal, not for a thousand dollars."
Mrs. Tomkins sighed. "It's real sad," she said. "I'd like to find Mr. Jeminy; it would ease the old woman's last hours. But he's likely far away by this time. And there's no one could spare the time to go after him, even if a body knew where he was. Though I've an idea he went south, through Milford. Walking, I should say."
"The ole vagabone," exclaimed Mrs. Ploughman.
"Yes," Mrs. Tomkins declared with energy, "it's a wicked sin, Mrs.Ploughman, for him to be away now, and Mrs. Grumble taken down mortal.He's been a good friend to William for nigh on twenty years. I'd goafter him myself, if it weren't for my rheumatism."
"Well," said Mrs. Ploughman, "I never heard of such a thing."
"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Ploughman," said Mrs. Tomkins.And folding her hands, she gazed at her friend with quiet satisfaction.
Little Juliet, playing on the steps with her doll Sara, missed none of this conversation, only a part of which, however, she understood. While she dressed and undressed her child, made of rags and sawdust, put her to sleep and woke her up again, she was listening with attention first to Mrs. Tomkins, and then to Mrs. Ploughman.
"Let's play you're Mrs. Grumble," she told Sara. And she covered the doll with her handkerchief. Sara did not mind the square piece of cambric, which Juliet often used to carry small handfuls of earth from one place to another. "I'm mother," said Juliet. Rising to her feet, she went out into the garden, and returned again. "My dear Mrs. Grumble," she exclaimed, "how do you feel to-day?"
"Very poorly, thank you," replied Sara, in that curious squeak with which all of Juliet's children answered their mother.
"Well, that's too bad," said Juliet. "Where does it hurt you, Mrs. G.?"
"In the stummick," squeaked Sara.
Juliet shook her head soberly. "Dear me," she said. "Well, cheer up,Mrs. Grumble; what would you like to have?"
"Ice cream," said Sara hopefully, "and fritters."
"All right," said Juliet. She went back into the garden, whence she presently returned with a few dead leaves and some mud. "Here," she said; "here's the ice cream. And here's the fritters. Don't get sick, now, will you?"
"No," said Sara.
Her mother gazed at her with sympathy. "What else would you like?" she inquired.
"I'd like Mr. Jeminy," squeaked Sara. "He's in the toils."
"I'll go and see if I can find him," said Juliet. And she began to look about for a twig, or a small branch, suitable for Jeminy. But all at once she grew thoughtful. It had occurred to her that to look for Mr. Jeminy in the flesh would be a delightful adventure. It would please every one. She sat down on the porch steps to think it over.
In the first place, it would be necessary to slip off unobserved. For although Mrs. Tomkins, by her own account, would be glad to have Mr. Jeminy back again, Juliet felt that she could not explain to Mrs. Tomkins exactly what she intended to do. As for the trip, an umbrella in case of rain, and the company of Sara would be sufficient. Then it was only a question of walking in the direction of Milford, before she came on Mr. Jeminy in the middle of the road; so Mrs. Tomkins had said.
With Sara under her arm, she tiptoed around to the rear of the house, skipped through the yard, climbed the low fence, and hurried home. There she put on her best bonnet, and took her mother's umbrella from the closet. Then she went back to her own room and took down her penny bank. Holding it upside down, she began to shake it as hard as she could. But only five pennies fell out. "That's enough," she decided. It seemed to her that with five pennies she could buy almost anything.
When she went to bid good-by to her family, she decided that Sara was not the doll she would take along with her, after all. For Anna had a bonnet, whereas Sara had none. Anna also wore a new dress, made for her by Mrs. Wicket out of an old petticoat. Sara was better company, but Anna would be more respected along the road.
"I guess I'll take you, Anna," said Juliet. "No use your pulling a face, Sara," she added; "it won't get you anything. You can't go. So you may as well know it. Maybe if you're good, I'll bring you something back."
And off she went down the road to Milford, Anna under one arm and the umbrella under the other.