"Will you buy any tape,Or lace for your cape,"
"Will you buy any tape,Or lace for your cape,"
ran the song with the plaintive strain which seemed out of place in so jocund an air:
"My dainty duck, my dear-a?Any silk, any thread,Any toys for your head,Of the new'st and finest, finest wear-a?
"My dainty duck, my dear-a?Any silk, any thread,Any toys for your head,Of the new'st and finest, finest wear-a?
As their voices dwelt upon the words, it appeared to be a bidding good-by to an old, familiar theme, well loved.
"Come to the pedler;Money's a meddler,That doth utter all men's ware-a."
"Come to the pedler;Money's a meddler,That doth utter all men's ware-a."
As you rode that day, my friend, had you indeed been passing upon the highway, you, too, would have felt the spirit of grief. It would have seemed as if a cloud had for the moment obscured the sun.
They were within a half of a mile of Oldmeadow when Jean François called a halt to his happy caravan. They drew up beneath a tree by the roadside. Whether Nance realized it or not, the pedler knew it to be the end. A week ago he would have laughed in derision had he been told that he would have taken anything so seriously, so painfully, as he now was, after this joyous lark, at the parting of the ways.
"Sit down, Nance."
She obeyed, without protest or interest, as an indifferent child.
"Nance, my little sister," said he, "we'll soon be home."
"Will we?" She could not see any use in lingering, now that the joy was all gone. She wished to hurry through the agony of the end and the sooner reach the adjustment which she thought would restore the old-time happiness. Why should he care to stop and tell her such painfully self-evident facts.... The sympathy which Jean François expected was not forthcoming.
"I've been thinking a great deal to-day," said he, "about the parson we had at camp the other evening."
"I thought that was all settled last night," she exclaimed in surprise.
"No, it is not, Nance. At least not yet.... He was right, I tell you. For him, in his work and his home lay his task and his happiness. There was the better part. He understood the road. His love of it made you his sister, me his brother. He will always be kinder, gentler, and purer of soul, Nance, because he knows the wander-longing. Yet it would be wrong for him to follow the patter an....I see it all. He is right. And O, the tenderness in his eyes."
"Yes," came disinterestedly from Nance, "he's right."
"It's best!" exclaimed Jean François, a trifle hurt at no more evidence of understanding.
"For him," she repeated firmly.
"For anybody," insisted the pedler.
"For who?" she asked in scorn.
"For me!" cried Jean François. "For me."
She looked at him for fully a minute with surprise upon her face. Then, with a curl upon her lips, yet a kinder note in her voice to soften the harshness of her words, she slowly, deliberately, replied:
"My good, good friend, Jean François, you lie!"
"Nance!"
"Jean François!"
"Very well, then," said he, with a shrug, "have your way.... As for you, however, my dear, the road can be no more for you."
He had been dreading saying this toher. It had been upon his lips a dozen times in the last few days, yet his uncertainty as to the wiseness of talking to her at all upon such a subject had kept his mouth closed.... He now continued:
"Like your tall, dark brother of the gentle eyes, your task lies in the better way."
"Dear old Jean François," came the reply, without resentment and with perfect understanding, "there you go preaching already! What do you know about my task? After all, dear-a, it is where my heart leads. If I should choose the merry pack, what of it? I think I should not mind turning back right now, would you? Nobody's seen us! No one knows! Come, my comrade, and away while the call is loud! What do you say? I am ready!"
"You impulsive jade," said he, evidently pleased, "would you banish me from Oldmeadow?"
"Not in a thousand years, you old goose," she replied with tenderness.
"But you will—you surely will, ifyou insist on sharing Columbine and Rogue with me. I'll have to discover another green field, another pair of children—"
"And I, Monsieur," she said with gaiety, "I shall again drop from the heavens into your top-o'-the-morning."
"Then I shall go back to my France and the sunny fields of Picardy."
"I love France," was her reply.
"Look!" exclaimed Jean François, pointing up the road.
A doctor's gig was approaching, driven at a rapid gait. Nance's heart almost stopped beating. There could be no doubt as to whom the vehicle belonged. It came nearer and the portly figure of old Doctor Felix Longstreet became evident, and, by his side, young Dr. Charles Reubelt King. Both were vainly trying to appear dignified and severe. Jean François was in the mood that could, with equal ease, pray, cry, or fight.
"With the help of the bon Dieu to fight like hell," he murmured gleefully, as he realized his pugnacious tendencies.
"Good-by for now, dear Jean François,"whispered Nance; "but another day ... another day.... O, God!"
The gig drew up and stopped with a jerk. Dr. King climbed out; the old doctor shouted in a voice which tried to be severe, yet was tempered with gladness, and trembled with relieved anxiety:
"Get right in here this minute, Nance Gwyn! Your Aunt Barbara has been intensely worried about you. As for me, you know I didn't care a tinker's damn. Charles, there, is a fool!"
Nance was driven rapidly into Oldmeadow, leaving Charles and Jean François to come leisurely with the caravan.
None of the folk of Oldmeadow saw much of me during the years I spent preparing myself to take care of their colics, rheumatism, and occasionally, I assure you, only when it was necessary, to cut off their legs. I also have taken as goodly care of their hearts, their gentle souls, and the love which they have bestowed upon me. You doubtless remember the years at Virginia in which I returned for a few short months each summer and exploited my erudition on the boys who remained at home. Also I strutted in conspicuous glory beside Nance, whom I duly treated with becoming condescension upon the part of one so wholly promising of greatness. Then they almost forgot me, though I felt I was needed betimes to tie tick-tacks upon tempting front doors, during my fouryears in the medical college. This was the period during which Nance was learning French and violin at some college in Boston.
Perhaps it was never before made known, but when I graduated I received a very delightful letter from Doctor Longstreet inviting me to come to Oldmeadow and really learn something about medicine! Meanwhile I was to gradually assume his practise so he might have the more time for his river.
"Then," he concluded, "when I shall have taken my immortal rod and crossed the river—praise God not into Indiana, but to some Virginia-like country, where pills are out of fashion and the only restriction worthy of mention is that the truth must needs be told about the fish you catch—you will have everything your own way here."
I might here mention that the only thing the old gentleman had against the river was that it did not flow between Virginia and Kentucky.
"Think of it," he would ejaculate; "so beautiful a river as ours and theYankees north of it! It will be different in the next world. Then Virginia shall be on one bank and Kentucky on the other. And Yankee Indiana—" But why speak here of the place to which Indiana is duly consigned for eternity.
At any rate, with a grateful and happy heart I accepted the invitation so generously given me by Doctor Longstreet and, in due time, promptly arrived ready for business.
I had been home less than two weeks. A great deal of this time, it is true, I had given to getting settled in the office of Doctor Longstreet. I had dined once with Nance, however, and had taken part in a few scrappy conversations. There was a slight reservedness upon her part toward me which seemed to be largely because of the almost continuous absence of several years. This I believed would shortly wear off.
One late afternoon we were strolling about her yard and talking of many things: of herself when she would permit it, of Jean François, of Monsieur l'AbbéPicot, and the happenings of Oldmeadow. Finally we leaned against the fence and gazed across the street at the silent old house of the pillars. Its owner was away and the place looked lonely.
"Well, I'm quite grown up now," smiled Nance jestingly, "and still I have not come into my possessions.... I wonder when, Charles?" she asked, much in her old-time manner.
"When this blessed old village that we have owned for so very long," I replied, with a meaning glance toward my shining new instrument case and pill-bag, which I always carried with me, "increases my collection of patients."
Like untried youth I was unconscious of limitations. That, if Nance wanted it, I could not make money enough to buy the place, never occurred to my dreaming brain.
"It would be really wicked, I suppose, to wish they would go on and get sick," she said, "but I do think they might have you in now and then for a little friendly, advisory chat about their rheumatism, rose-bushes, and the like, thatthey might learn how interesting you are."
Since I have had some years in which to think of this episode, I feel that there must have been a trifle of irony in her remark. At the time it appeared serious enough.
"Never mind, Nance," I replied, "my collection of friendships is sufficiently large at present. Anyhow, just think of a statement of account like this:
"To Dr. Charles Reubelt KingDr.Miss Jemimiah Appleblossom,Cr.
April 27, to one half-hour's chat on rose-bushes$10.00December 2, to fifteen minutes' conversation upon weather5.00Same date, one hour's rheumatism talk15.00Total$30.00Please remit."
"Well, it is all right, Charles, my friend. It will come, and meanwhile we can wait for the time.... Monsieur l'Abbé once said to me, 'Blessed are the makers of dreams, for theirs is to own a river, divers trees, many hills, even a village, and their abode shall be a house in the heart.'"
In my memory I call that the day of faith.
"Let's go over and sit upon the portico," I suggested. It met with her approval, and a few moments later we were beneath our beloved old pillars.
"I wonder where he is?" she asked.
"Who is?" I said, for I was not interested in any third parties.
"Monsieur l'Abbé," she replied.
"Doubtless in New Orleans," I answered. I might just as well have said New Guinea, for I had mentioned the first place which occurred to me.
Suddenly, from far above in the sunset sky, we heard the faint, plaintive cry of wild geese.
"O, it is the sign of the coming of Jean François," she cried. "He'll be here in less than a fortnight.... Have any of you heard from him?" she asked.
"Your grandfather," I replied, still not interested.
For fully half an hour we sat and looked upon the river, watching the nightfall. It is difficult to talk at such an hour. It brings out all of your sentiments. Old memories crowd your mind and the whole is made sweet by a note ofsadness.... Then Nance turned to me:
"You must tell me all about yourself, Charles, and your plans," she said, with a suddenly deepening interest.
Now what better could a man want? Here I was just out of college, young, untried, and bursting with hope. Was there anything of greater interest, I ask you, than my possibilities, my plans, my expectations? Nance was exceedingly wise. Immediately, and with enthusiasm, I launched into my attainments, and my dreams. With a sweet patience she sat and listened. (I am now inclined to think, Jean François, that, in imagination, she was with you and Rogue and Columbine somewhere upon the road.) Now I feel sure that I must have made a slight mistake in not at least hinting that if I hoped to make any money it was that I might use it to obtain the home of her heart's desire; that if I sought for honors, it was that I might take them to her, placing my triumphs at her feet as her due; and that, perhaps though illy defined in my own mind, all that I was—andit looked big to me, for had I not toiled for it?—and all that I hoped to be was because, from the old remembered days of childhood I had loved her with all of my life.... I did not hint this. Perhaps I was taking it for granted that she knew. Then you know how ambitious youth can become wrapped utterly in its expectations?... All of this I have since had ample time to see.
"It is time we returned, Charles," she at last broke in, arising from her seat.
We walked through the yard and across the street arm in arm. At the door I bade her good-night, as I had a hundred times before, by raising her flower-scented hand to my lips and kissing it while pressing her fingers ever so tenderly.
It all seemed quite the usual way, Jean François. Now wouldn't that pretty well indicate that a man had some privileges? Eh?
As for the trouble, I'll tell you how it began.
For a very long time I was quite at a loss to determine whether it was the red of her hair or the lips of her large and interesting mouth which caused me to love Nance Gwyn. Even to this day, as a lover of long standing, I am not always certain that I know the whys and wherefores of such an inconsistent mixture of passion and tenderness. There have been moments, such as when a wild whisp of it would come taunting my face with its soft caresses, or when my hands inadvertently must need touch it for a seemingly timeless instant, that I was very sure, as sure as I knew for some reason I loved her with all of my life, that it was her hair. Of one thing I have always been confident: I could never have loved a woman whose hair was other than the color of Nance's.
Of course there were times when Ithought it was for other things than the hair and the lips. Her feet, for example, when I came upon her wading in the Middleton's brook. This hurrying little stream ran through the heart of a small woodland pasture near town. It was in a leafy hollow and its course was over great flat rocks with occasionally sandy-bottomed pools worn by the fall of water. The place was a favorite summer-time haunt of the old days. It was cool, inviting, and dim with an abundance of fern, green moss, and tiny wild violets.
Now, in the first place, how was I to know Miss Nance Gwyn had sauntered down there in the middle of the afternoon? About five o'clock I came in, tired and hot, from a long drive to the country. So soon as I found no calls waiting for me, I thought of the pool in the Middleton's woods. Just before climbing the fence which would bring my destination into view, I heard one of Jean François' songs, but coming from the throat of the adorable Nance:
"It was a lover and his lass,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That o'er the green cornfield did pass,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring."Between the acres of the rye,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These pretty country folks would lie,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring."This carol they began that hour,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that life was but a flowerIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When the birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring."And therefore take the present timeWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,For love is crowned with the primeIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring."
"It was a lover and his lass,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That o'er the green cornfield did pass,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
"Between the acres of the rye,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These pretty country folks would lie,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
"This carol they began that hour,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that life was but a flowerIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When the birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
"And therefore take the present timeWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,For love is crowned with the primeIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring."
I shall steal upon her and surprise her, I thought. So I crept silently over the fence, stepped around a tree, and how should I know with what my eyes were to be greeted?
There she sat like a nymph upon a ledge of projecting rock, idly dabblingher feet in the shallow water of the pool. But that was not all. Her dress was gathered from beneath her and slightly raised above her knees, disclosing some very frilly, lacy lingerie. I stood as one dumbfounded. I did not know whether to run and doubtless get caught in my hurrying away, or to take it as a matter of course, boldly facing it out. While I was arriving at a decision she raised the slenderest, whitest, most adorable pink-soled foot it would be possible for any woman to possess, with dainty air from the water, bringing her knee beneath her chin, and placed her heel upon the rock upon which she sat. Then she reached behind her for a pair of flimsy silk stockings and some slippers. Never before or since have I seen a picture at once so innocent and yet so seductively beautiful.
All of this took place, you must understand, in a very few seconds. Just here, however, when I was preparing for as hasty and as silent a retreat as possible, she involuntarily raised her face and caught me full in the eyes.
"Hello, Nance," said I, careless like, as I came forward, "been wading?"
"Wading," she replied, hastily standing, with a look of mingled dismay and anger upon her face. "As for you, Mr. King, I think you had better go!"
"Nance," I began.
"Go!... Did you hear me? I say, go!" she exclaimed, trembling, her cheeks becoming sickly white.
I went precipitately and as I hurried to town I gave myself such a lecture as a man ever got. Yet, in spite of my reproach for an unfortunate incident which happened very innocently, I could not keep from my mind that I was now very sure of another reason why I loved her.
I shall not bore you with the details of my work in once more establishing confidence. And, at that, it was a sort of shaky, at-arms-length confidence. One morning, a few days after the episode of Middleton's brook, Nance came into my office, very properly and charmingly clad, and perched herself upon the top of her grandfather's writing-table. She was extremely saucy-looking, and inclined to be impudent. I came and stood by, looking down upon her. She was unusually pretty and tempting with an air of old-time daring in the tilt of her face.
At that moment I was sure I loved her for the three or four adorable little freckles upon her nose. The sight of these same scarcely perceptible beauty spots, which appeared regularly with the summer, carried me back to a day whenI had made fun of the sun's tampering with her complexion. In those days she chose to sniffle very pityingly, yet becomingly, in the vain attempt to make me repentant. As she sat before me, instead of the handsome young woman she was, I saw an awkward girl of eleven or twelve with spindling legs that were rather uncertain in their movements; long thin arms with small bony hands, all attached to a shapeless little body, the only redeeming feature of which was a truly promising face and wonderfully beautiful hair as red as burnished brass. I remembered that, on many occasions, there was mud between the toes of her bare feet, for she always had possessed a boy's propensity for puddling. This brought to mind the wading I had seen earlier in the week, and I admit I blushed at the contrast presented to my mind.
"Are you still web-footed?" I asked, with a reminiscent smile.
"When I grow to be a very old woman," she replied impudently, "I shall dabble in the puddles in my back yard; climb apple-trees in the spring; andhelp my boys make snow men at Christmas time."
Then I had but to see her merry, mischievous face to discover the Nance of my friend, the happy pedler. "Is it her feet or her hair," was rattling through my brain, "or is it the old-day Nance, or the beautiful, splendid young woman now sitting on her grandfather's desk?"
Here she picked up an open knife, a piece of pine from the window sill, drew her lips into a distractingly tempting pucker and began to whistle and whittle in imitation of one of the village's wise-acres at the store. I watched her for a moment with a heart which I was almost sure she could hear thumping away like a trip hammer. Hadn't I seen her whistle a thousand times, it seemed a thousand years ago, and gravely imitate every rheumatic old gentleman who occupied a chair in summer under the awning, or a box in winter behind the stove at Mr. Appleblossom's? Then all of a sudden I knew it was for her thumb. The big barlow had unceremoniously taken a whack at this adorable part ofher hand and, as she smilingly held it aloft, a tiny stream of blood oozed forth and fell on the handkerchief she held beneath it. It was really a mere trifle, but immediately I looked deeply concerned, hauled out my instrument case, and removed what I needed therefrom with much seriousness and dignity. Meantime as I bathed the injured member she looked on, though two tears stood in her eyes, with an impish grin which left no doubt but that she readily saw through my hypocrisy. Anyhow she let me use absorbent cotton, much adhesive plaster, and great yards of bandage with which to bind it. I was a very long time doing the work, and when I had it completed, as I have said before, I was sure it was for her thumb.
Now you know—at least if you are a woman and young and pretty—that a doctor, even if he is doing nothing more than dressing a thumb, may get unusually close to his patient without the least mischievous intentions. Therefore I am sure you will not blame me when I tell you that I was led to it by the softcaress of her perfumed hair as it now and then brushed dangerously against my cheek; the occasional touch of her knees bringing vividly annoying memories of a few days past, as I busied myself about her; and, as I bent above her, the healthful, sweet odor of her breath in my nostrils; these things, I say, with the alluring mystery of all of her, breathing, pulsating, hot, close beside me, overpowered me and I was trembling when she looked up to thank me. Then, before I knew it or had time to think, I had my arms about her, crushing her to me, and passionately kissing her lips.
It might not be telling things too much just to mention that she fought a brief little battle quite consistent with the temperament of her hair. Then, when she learned how strong and determined were my arms, suddenly she ceased to struggle, her eyes becoming friendly and timid. Ah, surely this was the moment that, while the glorious hair, the feet, the freckles, and the thumb did not lose caste, the heart within me crowned her lips!
"Now, strange to say," commented Dr. King to Jean François, "it was the next day she ran away.... You may understand why, but I do not."
"I do," was the laconic reply of the happy pedler.
We talked of "Children of the Open Air,"Who once on hill and valley lived aloof,Loving the sun, the wind, the sweet reproofOf storms, and all that makes the fair earth fair.Till, on a day, across the mystic barOf moonrise, came the "Children of the Roof,"Who find no balm 'neath evening's rosiest woof,No dews of peace beneath the Morning Star.We looked o'er London, where men wither and choke,Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,And lore of woods and wild-wind prophecies,Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smokeLeave never a meadow outside Paradise.—Theodore Watts-Dunton.
We talked of "Children of the Open Air,"Who once on hill and valley lived aloof,Loving the sun, the wind, the sweet reproofOf storms, and all that makes the fair earth fair.Till, on a day, across the mystic barOf moonrise, came the "Children of the Roof,"Who find no balm 'neath evening's rosiest woof,No dews of peace beneath the Morning Star.We looked o'er London, where men wither and choke,Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,And lore of woods and wild-wind prophecies,Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smokeLeave never a meadow outside Paradise.
—Theodore Watts-Dunton.
The snow had fallen all day in great, heavy, wet flakes until the trees, as if by the magic of Aladdin's lamp, were opulent crystal palaces, while the fence posts were white-cowled mendicants with bowed heads, begging without the gates. As night drew near the cold came with it, bitter and penetrating. A cutting north wind cleared the sky; the stars appeared, shimmering in distant glory, but barren of sympathy; the moon came climbing over the frozen hills, casting her wake upon the uninviting gray waters of the river; the leaping flames from ample cozy hearths flashed hospitable beacons far into the streets; while the crunching snow beneath hurried feet, or the rattle of the wagon of a belated traveler, caused the fireside dreamer to snuggle in his warm corner, thanking life for shelter and for food.
It was early evening. I sat alone by the glowing backlogs in the great fireplace of my office enjoying that delicious animal sensation which comes to one who, after having been all day in the cold, is now thoroughly warm, drowsy, and reasonably secure in the thought that one will not have to venture forth. As I sat and stared into the embers beneath the andirons my mind, released from the task of the day, naturally sought the channel of its dream-things.
Nance! was she not always in my mind, my heart? Was there ever a time, which the business of the moment did not demand, that I was not building a thousand fancies of her? I was yet childlike enough to imagine myself saving her life from some dangerous disease, telling her dramatically of my passion, and, in the end, receiving the reward of her hand. Aye, what dreams men dare to build!
My practise had so grown with the coming of winter that I did not get to see as much of her as I should have liked, but when I could I sought her and alwaysfound her my splendid, true friend. Yet some mysterious and inexpressible something in her personality and bearing withheld me, so, while she was all that was friendly, there was still a more sacred portal closed to me. What her inclinations and ambitions were I could not discover, save that she was diligently pursuing the study of folk-lore while showing a special interest in my patients. This was markedly so when any of them needed a womanly touch not to be found in their homes. Against my protest she nursed three severe cases entirely through to convalescence. The motherless child of Martin Farewil she brought through double pneumonia; old Sarah Boutwell, a widow, childless and seventy-six, after a lingering spell of fever, died in her arms; Elizabeth Book, a servant living alone on the outskirts of town, gave birth to a bastard, and would have suffered inhumanly from inattention had Nance, to the horror of Oldmeadow and the prostration of Aunt Barbara, not spent the greater part of a month with the woman.
Notwithstanding this task she had chosen she was just as much alive and as merry as of old. With it all she was becoming more serious and considerate. In fact the care-free, hoydenish girl seemed to have ripened into a strong-hearted, wholesome, healthful woman. She showed an unusual grasp of things, her relation to them, and their value to life. Her humor saved her from taking this new attitude too seriously.
Old Doctor Felix Longstreet, her immortal grandfather, now retired from active practise, had joined the autocratic group of cracker-barrel philosophers. Daily he hobbled with rheumatic legs over the flagstones, bowing gallantly to the women whom he passed, to my office, where he still maintained a desk. There, upon the sidewalk beneath the shade of the honey-locust trees in summer, by the fireplace in winter, he gave many charming dissertations upon politics, fishing, religion, when-I-was-a-boy, and medicine. God bless him for one of the finest gentlemen I ever knew.
Strange to say, Monsieur l'AbbéJacques Picot had not returned with September to his house of many pillars. Ever since anybody could remember each Maytime found the good Abbé bound for some other lands; each September, just as regularly as the children were gathered to school, found him again at home. We could always tell of his presence, for once each day he might be seen making his way through Oldmeadow bowing to right and left with easy grace, as he sought the river road for the outing he never failed to take, no matter what might be the condition of the weather. As a consequence, in the late afternoons of fall and winter, his figure, dressed with scrupulous neatness in the garb of a priest, wearing a broad-brimmed soft hat, became quite familiar to the dwellers in Oldmeadow. And while the dates of his annual leave-taking and return were not fixed, it was unusual for him to remain away into the new year. We were ignorant of the cause of his absence, which served on more occasions than one as a topic for conversation.
As for Jean François, of course he nevercame near us at all in winter. Some more gentle climate claimed his blessed presence with his happy caravan. Upon his return with Nance in June he had not remained in town more than a week. Just where he spent the remainder of the months he was accustomed to give to Oldmeadow common was another thing of which we were ignorant.
Thus while I sat dreaming of my heart's desire, there came a crunching of the snow, a hearty bursting open of the door, and Nance came stamping into the room followed by Doctor Longstreet puffing like a porpoise. I helped them off with their wraps, placed chairs at the coziest corners of the hearth, threw on a fresh backlog, gave the doctor a little nip of Bourbon, and sat down as close to Nance as the occasion would permit.
"The old house is lighted up," said the Doctor. "I suspect Monsieur l'Abbé has returned."
"Well, I'm glad," said I. "I wonder what has kept him so long?"
"That is what we came by to tell you about," was his answer. Here he clearedhis throat ostentatiously. I knew what was coming.
"My, my!" exclaimed he, "how this cold does get your rheumatism. Um, ah, and my throat is a trifle choked up, too, Charles. I am afraid I shall have to have—"
I passed the demijohn without comment.
"Um, ah Nance!" said he, quizzically, holding aloft a tiny glass filled to the brim, "that's the color of your hair, my dear! Prettiest color on earth? Eh, Charles?"
I gave hearty assent so far as concerned the hair.
"But one thing sweeter, Nance!" he continued, bowing as gallantly as his age would permit; "just one thing sweeter, more inspiring, more retiring, more hell-firing! Ah—ah—you know who she is, Charles?"
Again I bowed my assent, and Nance blushed confusedly.
"You had better tell your tale, Granddad," she admonished, "before it becomes retiring.... No telling, you'll be off on afish story in a moment. There is nothing which seems to make the fish you catch weigh more than a little nip of the inspiring—"
"Tut, tut, girl," said he, gathering himself together with amusing mock dignity, "I shall prove that you slander your old grandfather."
"The girl," he began, indicating Nance with a nod of the head, "went to Louisville Tuesday. She came back to-night on theSpreading Eagle. Old Captain Mead was in command. It was his first trip after several months spent south looking after the steamboat company's business during the recent yellow fever epidemic in Mississippi. He had been in Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and other places along the route attending to the paralyzed shipping interests and quarantined steamboats. It was in New Orleans that he heard of Monsieur l'Abbé. The priest was not working under the organized relief committee itself, but went here and there with undisciplined yet effective zeal. It seems, so the Captain was told, that this MonsieurPicot came driving into the city in a cart one day, made his way to the quarters occupied by those of his own nationality, sought information concerning where he might be of use, and set off again."
Nance, who had made several attempts to interrupt Doctor Longstreet, now succeeded.
"Charles, he practically laid down his life for the people. The constant work in all kinds of weather, mud and filth, living on insufficient food, has left him broken and with a miserable cough. Yet as much in need as he was, he worked heroically on, scarcely giving thought to himself. He was not attacked by the fever, but ruined his constitution by nursing those who did have it."
Then the doctor launched more specifically into the affair as related to Nance by the steamboat captain. When he had completed the story and they were leaving, Nance looked up at me with glistening, tearful, yet happy eyes, adding:
"They gave Monsieur Picot the sobriquet of 'the Little Abbé of the Church of the Street.'"
In the old days, you will remember, the Beau Brummel of a Southern steamboat was the captain. He was the pink of courtesy and gallantry, with all the pride of the gentleman of his day. The passengers were received into his cabin with the same hospitality he would have welcomed them ashore in his home. It was a distinction sought after, to eat at the table over which he presided. The lady to whom he offered his arm when dinner was announced was envied by the less fortunate, who must of necessity be content with the company of a less attractive escort.
Thus this master of the Ohio and Mississippi sidewheelers of forty or fifty years ago was to men, either at poker or in business, the soul of honor; to the young bucks the good fellow and manly; and, with apologies to St. Paul, all things toall women.... Such an officer of the old school was Sam L. Mead of theSpreading Eagle, who, while showing Nance first honors when upon her trip on his boat, told her of his experiences when quarantined by yellow fever.
"Who is that little priest with his robes tucked up, struggling through the street with the yelling dirty brat in his arms?" asked Captain Mead, who was watching the work of the relief corps, of the first passer-by.
"Little St. Jacques of the Streets," was the reply.
"He looks familiar," said the Captain; "what other name is he called?"
"Monsieur Picot, I believe," was the answer.
Monsieur l'Abbé Picot, traveling after a fashion purely his own, found himself in picturesque Louisiana at a time when the yellow fever was upon one of its infrequent but periodic outbreaks. For a time it seemed as if hell had been transferred. Suffering, sorrow, despair reigned in undisputed tyranny.... The Abbéhad sought the state, so he told himself, to pursue a long deferred inquiry into the life of the ancestor who had willed him the home in which he lived in Oldmeadow. When he found anguish, hunger, misery, and death upon every hand he turned with eagerness to a more compassionate task.
Once at it, he toiled incessantly. If he ever rested, no one knew of it. At any time of day or night he always could be found taking food to some half-starved child; carrying upon his back to a more comfortable quarter some old man or woman; cooling the burning bodies of the fever-stricken; bringing the sympathy of tender words and the helpful pressure of ministering hands to the grief-stricken, or shriving some dying adherent of his own religion. His lips wore a great, hopeful smile as he turned from call to call upon his strength. In his eyes shone the light of a mighty faith. Indeed, he had the face of a saint—St. Francis, no doubt. He possessed all the preternatural ability of making his love felt which has ever belonged to thosewondrous souls who give the greater gift. Some even thought that the touch of his strong rough hands had wrought things miraculous.... Had he not—but why tell of it to the unbelieving?
There are just two things of which I shall tell you that wisdom may be justified by her works. One was at Christmastide, the other some weeks later. To fully appreciate the first you must remember that everybody living where he was serving was destitute, needing the mere sustenances of life: bread, meat, shelter, water. When all ate no one had as much as he needed. There was just enough to keep them alive.
A few days before the happy time of holly, mystery, and good cheer, the Abbé, for the first time since he had begun his task, lost his smile. He seemed to be worried and depressed. He went about like a man carrying a weight almost greater than the strength of his heart. His co-workers felt it, and to the sufferers it seemed as if virtue had gone out of him. This continued until the morning of the twenty-fourth of December.
Had you been about that day you would have seen a weary old priest with shuffling reluctant steps leading an ugly, but good-humored, little ragged brown mare, for whom he showed unusual affection, through the streets. At the horse market where he sold her they secretly laughed at him, for did he not on parting whisper into her furry ears, shed tears upon her neck, and kiss her between her large brown eyes? Yet, strange as it may seem, as he turned into the street where grief was waiting for his compassionate hands, he wore the old-time smile and, beneath his breath, sang a queer outlandish tune. Nevertheless you still could not have fathomed the heart of St. Jacques of the Streets.
Early that night he again stole away and this time sought the garish stores all aglow with lights, tinsel, toys, and hurrying crowds. From place to place he went, dogging in and out of shops, gazing long into inviting windows, as if in search of some particular thing. At last he discovered a little Frenchman whose small business occupied a merehole in the wall. The shop was given to Frenchy trifles of much glitter, and brilliant paints galore. After a deal of gesticulation, more rapid talking and bargaining, the shopman and the Abbé began making a thousand small bundles with something bright and happy in each. Then, leaving a clerk in charge, after piling the stuff into a hand-cart, they set off for the district upon which despair battened most hideously. Monsieur l'Abbé Picot was playing Santa Claus to hundreds of starved, eager little hearts.
When some disgruntled man saw fit to grumble about the waste of money, one of the nurses, a big, brawny Irish laborer, promptly knocked him down, accompanying his blow with the startling scriptural reference:
"An' did ye niver hear of the allibister box, ye Dutch pig?"
As I have written, it was a week later when they discovered that he had not eaten his portion of food for many days. Watching him, they found that he conveyedit secretly to certain children whose mothers and fathers had died of the fever. When they confronted him with his neglect of himself, he lied.
"Lied like a gentleman, this little St. Jacques," said the Captain, who knew.
It was no use to remonstrate. He came to give his life and he was giving it. Who would dare to say this was not his privilege? And he had remained faithfully until the blessed cold had come and hell had withdrawn her flaming despair.
That is how, my friends, Monsieur l'Abbé Picot proved his heart.
It was eleven o'clock, or after, when I sat beside a roaring fire of recently renewed backlogs debating whether I should sleep upon the couch pulled close beside the fireplace, or bundle up and face the cold for five blocks to my home. I had arisen and was drawing the lounge toward the hearth when, again, after a crunching of the snow outside, there came a timid knock on the door. I opened to find a shivering, bent old man upon the threshold whom I recognized straightway as the servant at the old home of the many pillars. He hurriedly informed me in his cracked and high-pitched voice that I was wanted at once by Monsieur l'Abbé Picot, who was ill.
Ten minutes later, upon entering the big cheerful library, I found the man whom I now thought of as St. Jacques ofthe Streets seated by the fire in a great armchair drawn close to the blaze. His closely cropped head was supported by a pillow, a decanter of wine sat on the table beside him, while Prosper, the old servant, stood by to anticipate any wish. I was shocked at the appearance of the Abbé. I had never before thought of him as little, yet now I saw him not only small, but emaciated. While his countenance was cheerful, yet suffering and deprivation had left their cruel stamp upon him. He seemed slight, worn, and world-weary. He was excessively nervous. A slight fever caused a hectic flush in his sunken, close-shaven cheeks, and lent a preternatural brilliancy to his eyes.
"You will pardon me, Monsieur Doctor," he said politely, yet in a voice which startled me because of a note which was familiar to my ear, "for calling you out into such a night as this, but Prosper," indicating his servant by a wave of the hand, "threatened to take matters upon himself and, knowing something of the nature of his blisters and nostrums, I consented to your being consulted. It isterrible weather to make a man leave comfortable quarters, and I'm sorry."
Of course I assured him of my readiness to attend him. I told him that I thought there was nothing too severe for one to do if it might bring him relief. Upon examination I discovered Monsieur Picot much worse off than he believed himself to be.... While I was not quite sure, desiring to see other developments before fully making up my mind, I felt that my patient was in for a battle the successful outcome of which was equal to about one chance in a hundred.
"First thing, Monsieur," I said, after taking his temperature, his pulse, looking at the tongue, and asking a multitude of questions, "you must go to bed immediately."
"For the night, you mean?" he questioned, with eyes searching penetratingly into mine.
"For several days, Monsieur. It is absolutely necessary," I added, anticipating trouble upon that score.
With a shrug of his shoulders he threw up his hands, a thing which Ihad seen Jean François do a thousand times, with protest upon every feature. Then, appearing to suddenly lose courage, he gave up, letting his hands drop limply into his lap.
"Mon Dieu! If I must, I must.... Prosper, assist me."
We helped him into the adjoining bedroom and into the big four poster. He sank back among the pillows with an air of utter weariness. By a strong will he had kept himself up and about. He had exerted every power at his command to conquer his growing weakness. He had hoped to win and had determined, as a last resort, that stimulants and medicine would save the day. Then, when he discovered it to be beyond his strength, he surrendered completely. I looked into his face, outlined against the whiteness of the linen, and for the first time noticed that he appeared old. As aged as old Prosper himself, whose alarmed countenance stared questioningly at me upon every turn.
I prepared his medicine and yelled the directions into Prosper's deaf ears.Then I placed a chair by the bed and sat down, taking a thin fevered hand into my own.
"My friend," said I to the Abbé, "you must be very quiet. You need rest. A few weeks of peace and good food should start you well on toward recovery."
"One moment, Monsieur Doctor," said he with a weary gesture of the hand, "I've a request."
"Certainly. What is it?" I asked.
"Do you think I shall be ill for any length of time?"
"I shall know more about that to-morrow," was the reply.
"Yes, I know," he smiled. "But remember that I am not a child. I'm an old man—at least I feel it—and life is not as alluring as it was once. Tell me frankly, shall I be very sick?"
"It is more than likely, Monsieur," I answered.
"More than likely—more than likely," he repeated reflectively, "and who knows save the good God—and who knows?"
Here he ceased to talk, closed his eyes restfully, and became more quiet. Foran hour I sat and watched him. Had it not been for an occasional pressure of his fingers in my hand I should have thought him asleep. Finally he opened his eyes and with childlike sympathy sought mine.
"Monsieur Doctor," he said, "I have not yet made the request."
"O," I said with surprise. I had thought it referred to the duration of his illness.
"You say I shall die?" he said.
"No, I have not said so," I answered.
"Very well. We'll not discuss it. No matter.... But the request.... On my desk you will find an envelope upon which is the address of a dealer in horses in the city of New Orleans. Inside the envelope is three hundred dollars. It will be enough, I am sure.... That sum should pay a passage to New Orleans and return and buy a little mare, should it not, Monsieur?"
"It would be more than enough," I replied, puzzled.
"It is asking a great deal of you, Monsieur," he said with hesitancy.
"It is nothing.... Nothing would be too much," and I pressed the hand of the little St. Jacques in sympathy. I was beginning to understand.
"Thank you," he continued gratefully. "If—if I should die, Monsieur, would it be asking too much of you to go to that city and inquire of the dealer for the little mare left with him last twenty-fourth of December by the Abbé Picot? He will remember, and he promised me to keep her at my disposal for three months. Buy her from him, Monsieur, and bring her back here with you. She is a part of this estate and my will gives her into hands that love.... Would this be asking too much, Monsieur Doctor? It is a great deal."
"It shall be done," I assured him.
This was the nearest he ever came to telling anything to confirm the words of the Captain concerning the service which he gave his brothers of the south.
It was well into the morning when I arose to leave. After repeating directions to Prosper about the medicine andthe temperature of the room, I went to his bed, for he was not asleep.
"I shall call about noon," I said, "and hope to find you better."
"My friend," said he rather abruptly, "if I should need a nurse other than old Prosper, whom would you likely get for me?"
"I scarcely know," I answered. "You will need someone. Prosper has not the strength to give you constant attention.... Perhaps Miss Gwyn might help. She has often nursed cases for me. Living just across the street, I do not see why she would not at least run in now and then."
"Ah," he sighed with evident relief. "Could you—do you suppose she would come to-morrow? You see," he said with eagerness, "I may become too ill before long to tell her about the house. Prosper, you know, is such a deaf old curmudgeon. He's good enough. Do not think I do not love Prosper.... But do you think she would come?"
"I am sure she will come," I answered. "Especially if it is your request."
"I thank you. I think I should like it very much indeed to have her occasionally in to see me.... Good-night, Monsieur Doctor.... You are very kind."
Again he sank restfully into his pillows.
I waited for a moment by the library fire before wrapping myself securely against the cold. The wind roared in merciless gusts through the trees. The old house cracked and moaned as if shaken to the foundation by the blast. Just before stepping out into the night, I glanced through the half-open door at the children's little St. Jacques. He himself was sleeping as peacefully as a child.