done for me!" And in turn Abe's unstrung vigor and feeble dependence
cried out as loudly: "I haven't a leg left to stand on. Behold what too
much woman has done for me!"
"Ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands?" inquired Abraham at last, wondering
at the long silence and the incomprehensible stare, his fears
accentuated by this seeming indication of a supreme and hopeless pity.
"Ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands? Er be yew afeard of ketchin' it,
tew?"
For a moment longer Samuel continued to stare, then of a sudden he
roared, "Git up!"
"Huh?" queried Abe, not believing his own ears. "Why, Cap'n Sam'l, don't
yew know that I'm a doomed man? I got the 'narvous hysterics.'"
"Yew got the pip!" retorted Captain Darby contemptuously, and trotting
quickly around to the side of the bed, he seized Abe by the shoulders
and began to drag him out upon the floor, crying again, "Git up!"
The sick man could account for this remarkable behavior in no way except
by concluding that his old captain had gone into senile dementia--oh,
cruel, cruel afflictions that life brings to old folks when life is
almost done! Well, thought Abe, he would rather be sick and die in his
right mind than go crazy. He began to whimper, whereupon Samuel threw
him back upon his pillows in disgust.
"Cryin'! Oh, I swan, he's cryin'!" Darby gave a short laugh pregnant
with scorn. "Abe Rose, dew yew know what ails yew?" he demanded fixing
his eyes fiercely upon the invalid. "Dew yew know what'll happen tew yew
ef yew don't git out o' this bed an' this here house? Either yer
beard'll fall out an' yew'll dwindle deown ter the size o' a baby or
yew'll turn into a downright old woman--Aunt Abraham!--won't that sound
nice? Or yew'll die or yew'll go crazy. _Git out er bed!_"
The patient shook his head and sank back, closing his eyes, more
exhausted than ever. And he himself had heard Angy warn this man in a
whisper not to "rile him up!" Remorselessly went on the rejuvenated
Darby:
"Hain't a-goin' ter git up, heh? Yew old mollycoddle! Yew baby! Old Lady
31! Kiffy calf! But I hain't a-blamin' yew; ef I had lived in this here
place a year an' a half, I'd be stark, starin' mad! Leetle
tootsie-wootsie! _Git up_!"
Abe had opened his eyes and was once more staring at the other, his mind
slowly coming to the light of the realization that Samuel might be more
sane than himself.
"That's what I told Angy all along," he ventured. "I told her, I says,
says I, 'Humbug! Foolishness! Ye 're a-makin' a reg'lar baby of me.
Why,' I says, 'what's the difference between me an' these here
women-folks except that I wear a beard an' smoke a pipe?'"
"Then why don't yew git up?" demanded the inexorable Samuel. "Git up an'
fool 'em; or, gosh-all-hemlock! they'll be measurin' yew fer yer coffin
next week. When I come inter the hall, what dew yew think these here
sisters o' yourn was a-discussin'? They was a-arguin' the p'int as to
whether they'd bury yew in a shroud or yer Sunday suit."
Abraham put one foot out of bed. Samuel took hold of his arm and with
this assistance the old man managed to get up entirely and stand, though
shaking as if with the palsy, upon the floor.
"Feel pooty good, don't yew?" demanded Samuel, but with less severity.
"A leetle soft, a leetle soft," muttered the other. "Gimme my cane.
Thar, ef one o' them women comes in the door I'll--I'll--" Abraham
raised his stick and shook it at the innocent air. "Whar's my pipe? Mis'
Homan, she went an' hid it last week."
After some searching, Samuel found the pipe in Abe's hat-box underneath
the old man's beaver, and produced from his own pocket a package of
tobacco, whereupon the two sat down for a quiet smoke, Samuel chuckling
to himself every now and again, Abe modestly seeking from time to time
to cover his bare legs with the skirt of his pink-striped night-robe,
not daring to reach for a blanket lest Samuel should call him names
again. With the very first puff of his pipe, the light had come back
into the invalid's eyes; with the second, the ashen hue completely left
his cheek; and when he had pulled the tenth time on the pipe, Abe was
ready to laugh at the sisters, the whole world, and even himself.
"Hy-guy, but it's splendid to feel like a man ag'in!"
The witch of Hawthorne's story never gazed more fondly at her
"Feathertop" than Samuel now gazed at Abraham puffing away on his pipe;
but he determined that Abraham's fate should not be as poor
"Feathertop's." Abe must remain a man.
"Naow look a-here, Abe," he began after a while, laying his hand on the
other's knee, "dew yew know that yew come put' nigh gittin' swamped in
the big breakers? Ef I hadn't come along an' throwed out the life-line,
yew--"
"Sam'l," interrupted the new Abraham, not without a touch of asperity,
"whar yew been these six months? A-leavin' me ter die of apron-strings
an' doctors! Of course I didn't 'spect nuthin' o' yew when yew was jist
a bachelor, an' we'd sort o' lost sight er each other fer many a year,
but arter yew got connected with the Hum by marriage sorter--"
"Connected with the Hum by marriage!" broke in Samuel with a snort of
indignant protest. "Me!" Words failed him. He stared at Abe with burning
eyes, but Abe only insisted sullenly:
"Whar yew an' Blossy been all this time?"
"Dew yew mean ter tell me, Abe Rose, that yew didn't know that Aunt
Nancy forbid Blossy the house 'cause she didn't go an' ask her
permission ter git spliced? Oh, I fergot," he added. "Yew'd gone
up-stairs ter take a nap that day we come back from the minister's."
Abraham flushed. He did not care to recall Samuel's wedding-day. He
hastened to ask the other what had decided him and Blossy to come to-day,
and was informed that Miss Abigail had written to tell Blossy that if
she ever expected to see her "Brother Abe" alive again, she must come
over to Shoreville at the earliest possible moment.
"Then I says ter Blossy," concluded Captain Darby, "I says, says I,
'Jest lemme see that air pore old hen-pecked Abe Rose. I'll kill him er
cure him!' I says. Here, yer pipe 's out. Light up ag'in!"
Abe struck the match with a trembling hand, unnerved once more by the
speculation as to what might have happened had Samuel's treatment worked
the other way.
"I left Blossy an' Aunt Nancy a-huggin' an' a-kissin' down-stairs."
Abe sighed: "Aunt Nancy allers was more bark than bite."
"Humph! Barkin' cats must be tryin' ter live with. Abe," he tapped the
old man's knee again, "dew yew know what yew need? A leetle vacation, a
change of air. Yew want ter cut loose from this all-fired old ladies'
shebang an' go sky-larkin'." Abe hung on Samuel's words, his eyes
a-twinkle with anticipation. "Yes--yes, go sky-larkin'! Won't we make
things hum?"
"Thar's hummin' an' hummin'," objected Abe, with a sudden show of
caution. "Miss Abigail thinks more o' wash-day than some folks does o'
heaven. Wharabouts dew yew cak'late on a-goin'?"
"Tew Bleak Hill!"
Abraham's face lost its cautious look, his eyes sparkled once more. Go
back to the Life-saving Station where he had worked in his lusty
youth--back to the sound of the surf upon the shore, back to the pines
and cedars of the Beach, out of the bondage of dry old lavender to the
goodly fragrance of balsam and sea-salt! Back to active life among men!
"Men, men, nawthin' but men!" Samuel exploded as if he had read the
other's thought. "Nawthin' but men fer a hull week, that's my
perscription fer yew! Haow dew yew feel naow, mate?"
For answer Abe made a quick spring out of his chair, and in his bare
feet commenced to dance a gentle, rheumatic-toe-considering breakdown,
crying, "Hy-guy, Cap'n Sam'l, you've saved my life!" While Darby clapped
his hands together, proud beyond measure at his success as the
emancipator of his woman-ridden friend.
Neither heard the door open nor saw Angy standing on the threshold, half
paralyzed with fear and amazement, thinking that she was witnessing the
mad delirium of a dying man, until she called out her husband's name.
At the sound of her frightened voice, Abe stopped short and reached for
the blanket with which to cover himself.
"Naow don't git skeered, Mother, don't git skeered," he abjured her.
"I'm all right in my head. Cap'n Sam'l here, he brung me some wonderful
medicine. He--"
"Blossy said you did!" interrupted Angy, a light of intense gratitude
flashing across her face as she turned eagerly to Darby. "Lemme see the
bottle."
"I chucked it out o' the winder," affirmed Samuel without winking, and
Abe hastened to draw Angy's attention back to himself.
"See, Mother, I kin stand as good as anybody; hain't got no fever; I
kin walk alone. Yew seen me dancin' jest naow, tew. An' ef I had that
pesky leetle banty rooster of a doctor here, I'd kick him all the way
deown-stairs. Cap'n Sam'l's wuth twenty-five o' him."
"Yew kept the perscription, didn't yer, cap'n?" demanded Angy. "Naow ef
he should be took ag'in an'--"
Samuel turned away and coughed.
"Mother, Mother," cried Abe, "shet the door an' come set deown er all
the sisters'll come a-pilin' in. I've had a invite, I have!"
Angy closed the door and came forward, her wary suspicious eye trailing
from the visitor to her husband.
"Hy-guy, ain't it splendid!" Abe burst forth. "Me an' Cap'n Sam'l here
is a-goin' over ter Bleak Hill fer a week."
"Bleak Hill in December!" Angy cried, aghast. "Naow, see here, Father,"
resolutely, "medicine er no medicine--"
"He's got ter git hardened up," firmly interposed Dr. Darby; "it'll be
the makin' o' him."
Angy turned on Samuel with ruffled feathers.
"He'll freeze ter death. Yew shan't--"
Here Abe's stubborn will, so rarely set against Angy's gentle
persistence, rose up in defiance:
"We're a-gwine on a reg'lar A No. 1 spree with the boys, an' no
women-folks is a-goin' ter stop us neither."
"When?" asked Angy faintly, feeling Abe's brow, but to her surprise
finding it cool and healthy.
"Ter-morrer!" proclaimed Samuel; whereupon Abe looked a little dubious
and lifted up his two feet, wrapped as they were in the blanket, to
determine the present strength of his legs.
"Don't yer think yer'd better make it day after ter-morrer?" he
ventured.
"Or 'long erbout May er June?" Angy hastily amended.
Samuel gave an exasperated grunt.
"See here, whose spree is this?" Abe demanded of the little old wife.
She sighed, then resolved on strategy:
"Naow, Abe, ef yew be bound an' possessed ter go ter the Beach, yew go;
but I'm a-goin' a-visitin' tew, an' I couldn't git the pair o' us ready
inside a week. I'm a-goin' deown ter see Blossy. She ast me jist naow,
pendin', she says, Cap'n Sam'l here cures Abe up ernough ter git him
off. I thought she was crazy then."
Samuel knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the window-sill and
arose to go.
"Waal," he said grudgingly, "make it a week from ter-day then, rain
shine, snow er blow, er a blizzard. Ef yer ever a-goin' ter git
hardened, Abe, naow's the time! I'll drive over 'long erbout ten o'clock
an' git somebody ter sail us from here; er ef the bay freezes over
'twixt naow an' then, ter take us in a scooter."
A "scooter," it may be explained, is an ice-boat peculiar to the Great
South Bay--a sort of modified dingy on runners.
"Yes--yes, a scooter," repeated Samuel, turning suddenly on Abe with the
sharp inquiry: "Air yew a-shiverin'? Hain't, eh? Waal then, a week from
ter-day, so be it!" he ended. "But me an' Blossy is a-comin' ter see yew
off an' on pooty frequent meanstwhile; an', Abe, ef ever I ketch yew
a-layin' abed, I'll leave yew ter yer own destruction."
XII
"A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS"
Angy's secret hope that Abe would change his mind and abandon the
projected trip to the Beach remained unfulfilled, in spite of the fact
that cold weather suddenly descended on the South Side, and the bay
became first "scummed" over with ice, and then frozen so solid that all
its usual craft disappeared, and the "scooters" took possession of the
field.
Abe and Samuel held stubbornly to their reckless intentions; and the
sisters, sharing Angy's anxiety, grew solicitous almost to the point of
active interference. They withheld nothing in the way of counsel,
criticism, or admonition which could be offered.
"Naow," said Mrs. Homan in her most commanding tones at the end of a
final discussion in the big hall, on the evening before the date set for
departure, "ef yew're bound, bent, an' determined, Brother Abe, to run
in the face of Providence, yew want tew mind one thing, an' wear yer
best set of flannels ter-morrer."
"Sho, thar hain't no danger of me ketchin' cold," decried Abe.
"I didn't say yer thickest set of flannels; I said yer best. When a man
gits throwed out onto the ice ker flump, the thickness of his clo'es
ain't goin' to help him much. The fust thing I allus taught my husbands
was to have everything clean an' whole on, when thar was any likelihood
of a sudden death."
"Yew 'spect me tew go an' prink up fer a sudden death?" thundered
Abraham. "I hain't never heard tell on a scooter a-killin' nobody yit;
it's them plagued ice-boats up State what--"
"That's all very well," persisted Mrs. Homan, not to be diverted from
her subject; "but when old Dr. Billings got run over by the train at
Mastic Crossin' on Fourth o' July eight year ago, his wife told me with
her own lips that she never would git over it, cuz he had his hull big
toe stickin' out o' the end of his stockin'. I tell yew, these days
we've got tew prepare fer a violent end."
The patient Angy somewhat tartly retorted, that during the last week
she had spent even more time upon Father's wardrobe than she had upon
her own; while Abe inwardly rejoiced to think that for seven days to
come--seven whole days--he and Angy would be free from the surveillance
of the sisters.
Mrs. Homan, in no way nonplussed, boomed on:
"Thar, I most fergot about his necktie. 'Course, they don't dress up
much at the Station; but jest the same that air tie o' yourn, Brother
Abe, is a disgrace. I told yew yew'd spile it a-wearin' it tew bed.
Naow, I got a red an' green plaid what belonged to my second stepson,
Henry O. He never would 'a' died o' pneumony, either, ef he'd a-took my
advice an' made himself a newspaper nightcap last time he substituted
with the 'Savers. An' yew kin have that necktie jest as well as not.
Naow, don't say a word; I'm better able to part with it 'n yew be not to
take it."
No one ever attempted the fruitless task of stopping Mrs. Homan once
fully launched; but when at last she permitted her back to rest against
her chair, folding her arms with the manner of one who makes a sacrifice
in a worthy cause, Abe broke into an explosive protest.
If any one fretted him in his somewhat fretful convalescence, it was
this grenadier member of the household, who since Blossy's marriage had
endeavored to fill the vacant post of "guardeen angel."
"Mis' Homan," he sputtered, rising to his feet, "I wouldn't wear a red
an' green plaid tie to a eel's funeral!"
Then with a somewhat ungracious "good-night" to the company in general,
he trudged across the hall and up the stairs, muttering something to
himself about a "passel of meddlers."
Well-meaning Miss Abigail, who had been nodding half asleep, roused
herself to call after him, and he paused unwillingly to heed.
"Naow, don't yew lose no sleep ter-night," she admonished, "a-worryin'
erbout the change in yer vittles. I told Cap'n Sam'l that hardtack an'
sech like wouldn't never do fer yer weak stummick, an' he promised me
faithful he'd send somebody tew the mainland every day fer milk."
"Dew yew think I be a baby?" shouted Abraham, turning on his heel. "I
know now what makes my teeth so sore lately," mumbling to himself; "it's
from this here arrer-root an' all these puddin'y messes. They need
hardenin', tew."
XIII
THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE
Abraham was up betimes in the morning to greet a day crisp and cold,
quiet, yet with sufficient breeze stirring the evergreens in the yard
outside to make him predict a speedy voyage.
The old man was nervous and excited, and, in spite of his buoyant
anticipations, somewhat oppressed, now that the day had actually come,
with a sense of timidity and fear. Still, he put on a bold face while
Angeline fastened his refractory collar and tied his cravat.
This was neither Mrs. Roman's offering nor Abe's own old, frayed tie,
but a new black one which had mysteriously been thrust through the crack
under the door during the night.
So, the last finishing touches having been put upon his toilet, and Angy
having made ready by lamplight for her own trip, even before the old man
was awake, there seemed nothing left to be done until the breakfast bell
should ring.
Abe sat down, and looking hard at his open carpet-bag wondered audibly
if they had "everythin' in." The last time they two had packed Abe's
wardrobe for a visit to Bleak Hill had been many years ago, when Samuel
Darby, though somewhat Abe's junior, was keeper of the Life-saving
Station, and Abe was to be gone for a whole season's duty. Then all of
his possessions had been stowed in a long, bolster-like canvas bag for
the short voyage.
Both Angy and her husband recalled that time now--the occasion of their
first, and almost of their last, real separation.
"A week'll pass in no time," murmured Angy very quickly, with a catch in
her voice. "Lookin' ahead, though, seven days seems awful long when yer
old; but--Oh, law, yes; a week'll pass in no time," she repeated. "Only
dew be keerful, Abe, an' don't take cold."
She perched herself on her little horsehair trunk which she had packed
to take to Blossy's, looking in her time-worn silk gown like a rusty
blackbird, and, like a bird, she bent her head first to one side and
then the other, surveying Abe in his "barrel clothes" with a critical
but complimentary eye.
"Wonder who made that necktie?" she questioned. "I'll bet yer 't was
Aunt Nancy; she's got a sharp tongue, but a lot of silk pieces an' a
tender spot in her heart fer yew, Abe. Ruby Lee says she never thought
yew'd bring her around; yew're dretful takin' in yer ways, Father,
thar's no use a-talkin'."
Abraham glanced at himself in the glass, and pulled at his beard, his
countenance not altogether free from a self-conscious vanity.
"I hain't sech a bad-lookin' feller when I'm dressed up, be I, Mother? I
dunno ez it's so much fer folks ter say I look like Abe Lincoln, after
all; he was dretful humbly."
"Father," Angy said coaxingly, "why don't yer put some o' that air
'sweet stuff' Miss Abigail give yer on yer hair? She'll feel real hurt
ef she don't smell it on yer when yew go down-stairs."
Abe made a wry face, took up the tiny bottle of "Jockey Club," and
rubbed a few drops on his hands. His hands would wash, and so he could
find some way of removing the odor before he reached the station
and--the men.
"I'll be some glad ter git away from these here fussy old hens fer a
spell," he grumbled, as he slammed the vial back on the bureau; but Angy
looked so reproachful and grieved that he felt ashamed of his
ingratitude, and asked with more gentleness:
"Yew goin' ter miss me, Mother?"
Then the old wife was ashamed to find herself shaking of a sudden, and
grown wretchedly afraid--afraid of the separation, afraid of the
"hardening" process, afraid of she knew not what.
"I'm glad 't ain't goin' ter be fer all winter this time," she said
simply; then arose to open the door in order that he might not see the
rush of tears to her foolish, old eyes.
According to the arrangement, Captain Darby was to drive over from Twin
Coves with his hired man, and Ezra, after taking the two old men to the
bay, was to return to the Home for Angy and her little trunk.
When Samuel drove up to the front door, he found Abe pacing the porch,
his coat-collar turned up about his neck, his shabby fur cap pulled over
his brow, his carpet-bag on the step, and, piled on the bench at the
side of the door, an assortment of woolen articles fully six feet high,
which afterward developed to be shawls, capes, hoods, comforters,
wristlets, leggings, nubias, fascinators, guernseys, blankets, and
coats.
Abe was fuming and indignant, scornful of the contributions, and vowing
that, though the sisters might regard a scooter as a freight
ocean-liner, he would carry nothing with him but what he wore and his
carpet-bag.
"An' right yer be," pronounced Samuel, with a glance at the laden bench
and a shake of his head which said as plainly as words, "Brother, from
what am I not delivering thee?"
The sisters came bustling out of the door, Mrs. Homan in the lead, Angy
submerged in the crowd, and from that moment there was such a fuss, so
much excitement, so many instructions and directions for the two
adventurers, that Abraham found himself in the carriage before he had
kissed Angy good-by.
He had shaken hands, perhaps not altogether graciously, with every one
else, even with the deaf-and-dumb gardener who came out of his
hiding-place to witness the setting-out. Being dared to by all the
younger sisters, he had waggishly brushed his beard against Aunt Nancy
Smith's cheek, and then he had taken his place beside Samuel without a
touch or word of parting to his wife.
He turned in his seat to wave to the group on the porch, his eyes
resting in a sudden hunger upon Angeline's frail, slender figure, as he
remembered. She knew that he had forgotten in the flurry of his
leave-taking, and she would have hastened down the steps to stop the
carriage; but all the old ladies were there to see, and she simply
stood, and gazed after the vehicle as it rolled away slowly behind the
jog trot of Samuel's safe, old calico-horse. She stood and looked,
holding her chin very high, and trying to check its unsteadiness.
A sense of loneliness and desolation fell over the Home. Piece by piece
the sisters put away all the clothing they had offered in vain to Abe.
They said that the house was already dull without his presence. Miss
Abigail began to plan what she should have for dinner the day of his
return.
No one seemed to notice Angy. She felt that her own departure would
create scarcely a stir; for, without Abraham, she was only one of a
group of poor, old women in a semi-charity home.
Slowly she started up the stairs for her bonnet and the old broche
shawl. When she reached the landing, where lay the knitted mat of the
three-star pattern, the matron called up to her in tragic tones:
"Angy Rose, I jest thought of it. He never kissed yew good-by!"
Angy turned, her small, slender feet sinking deep into one of the
woolly stars, her slim figure encircled by the light from the upper hall
window. She saw a dozen faces uplifted to her, and she answered with
quiet dignity:
"Abe wouldn't think of kissin' me afore folks."
Then quickly she turned again, and went to her room--their room--where
she seated herself at the window, and pressed her hand against her heart
which hurt with a new, strange, unfamiliar pain, a pain that she could
not have shown "afore folks."
XIV
CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS
The usual hardy pleasure-seekers that gather at the foot of Shore Lane
whenever the bay becomes a field of ice and a field of sport as well
were there to see the old men arrive, and as they stepped out of the
carriage there came forward from among the group gathered about the fire
on the beach the editor of the "Shoreville Herald."
Ever since his entrance into the Old Ladies' Home, Abe had never stopped
chafing in secret over the fact that until he died, and no doubt
received a worthy obituary, he might never again "have his name in the
paper."
In former days the successive editors of the local sheet had been
willing, nay, eager, to chronicle his doings and Angy's, whether Abe's
old enemy, rheumatism, won a new victory over him or Angy's second
cousin Ruth came from Riverhead to spend the day or--wonder indeed to
relate!--the old man mended his roof or painted the front fence. No
matter what happened of consequence to Captain and Mrs. Rose, Mr. Editor
had always been zealous to retail the news--before the auction sale of
their household effects marked the death of the old couple, and of Abe
especially, to the social world of Shoreville. What man would care to
read his name between the lines of such a news item as this?
The Old Ladies' Home is making preparations for its annual quilting
bee. Donations of worsted, cotton batting, and linings will be
gratefully received.