CHANGE
Within a few minutes the farmhouse took on the air of almost hysterical
activity which follows upon a sudden death. Mrs. Sassaman, after
sinking upon a chair and giving a few tearful gasps, went to her room
to change her dress, so that she might set to work. The tenant farmer
drove away to carry the startling news to Grandfather and Matthew,
and his wife panted up the hill and sat waiting in the kitchen until
Mrs. Sassaman should be ready to give her the detailed information for
which her soul longed. But Mrs. Sassaman had too exalted a sense of
her own importance to gossip. There were, moreover, many things to be
done at once, the house to be put in perfect order, funeral meats to be
baked, the bees to be told of their master's death, and all the jars of
preserves in the cellar to be turned.
Matthew returned with Calvin bringing word that Grandfather would
follow with Amos. Having had no active exercise, Matthew had grown
stout and looked nearer thirty than twenty. He kissed Ellen and they
sat silently until Grandfather arrived.
"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the
Lord." It was Grandfather's accustomed salutation on entering a house
of mourning. He spoke with a long sigh which expressed his apprehension
about the fate of his son-in-law.
In spite of his misgivings he planned to bury Levis's body in the
little cemetery beside his wife. Wednesday afternoon would be a
suitable time and he would preach the sermon himself. For a half-hour
the three men and Ellen sat together in the parlor. Frequently Matthew
glanced at Ellen, then away. God had strangely given him his heart's
desire, but he could not help pitying Ellen. He felt very solemn and
important.
"I don't think that bright tie looks well under the circumstances,
Ellen," he said gently.
Ellen rose and went upstairs. As she reached the upper step she heard
the door of her father's office open and the undertaker come into the
hall. At once the three black figures crossed to the office. She heard
whispers and the door was closed.
She did not know whether an hour had passed or only a few minutes when
she heard her name called solemnly. Grandfather stood by the parlor
table, a tablet in his hand. His black eyes gleamed, his old hand
shook. Matthew's eyes were bent upon the floor and Amos looked at Ellen
in a frightened way.
Grandfather stepped between Ellen and the door and closed it. It seemed
to her that she was shut into prison with three jailers.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"That is what we have to ask you, Ellen," said Grandfather. "What is
this paper?"
Ellen recognized the writing which she had begun at her father's
command.
"That is mine, Grandfather. Please give it to me."
Grandfather held out the paper so that she might read, but he did not
relinquish it.
"Did you write those words?"
"Yes."
"Who is this friend?"
"He is a friend of Father's who was here this afternoon."
"What is his name?"
"I don't know."
"Where does he live?"
"I don't know."
"Does he know anything of this?"
"No."
"You didn't write this after your father died, Ellen?"
The words at first merely paralyzed. When their import was clear, she
could say nothing. Her silence was to Grandfather condemning--alas, for
the human soul which is unsupported by Christian principles!
"Why, no!" she cried at last. "Of course not! He started to dictate it
to me, but before he had finished he felt better and thought it might
be postponed."
"You knew you were writing words which would take your brother's
property away?"
"No," said Ellen. "It was my father's property."
She saw a glance pass from Matthew to Grandfather. Both sincerely
believed that God had prevented Levis from doing a deed of injustice.
"It wasn't sisterly to write such words!"
"I didn't mean to be unsisterly," protested Ellen. "Father wanted me to
be educated. He said that Matthew could get along well."
Grandfather tore the upper sheet from the tablet and put it into his
pocket.
"We should have very little respect in the community if such a thing
were known."
Now Amos found his tongue. He leaned forward, his cheeks crimson.
"Ellen could not be dishonest," he said.
Grandfather looked at him in amazement.
"The women make serious mistakes, and Ellen has made one. They act
before they think. Now I will take the first watch to-night."
Ellen crept slowly up the back stairway and closed her door. Tears came
in a flood, hot, blinding, choking, drowning all thought, preventing
realization of the seriousness of her bereavement. After a long time
she fell asleep.
In the two days preceding the funeral she made plans. Only thus could
she keep her composure and continue to feel a connection with her
father. It was now June. She would stay until September, then she would
go to college, as he had intended. Matthew would doubtless come here
to live and would bring, alas! Millie with him. But she must reconcile
herself; since she was going to have her way, Matthew should have his.
She lived through the funeral service with few tears. The house was
thronged, and the line of carriages and automobiles extended far down
the road. Levis had lived differently from his neighbors and there was
much curiosity about his house. He had used it all, treating the parlor
as though it were no more precious than the kitchen, and drawing no
shades to keep carpets from fading. There were a few strangers present,
members of the county medical society to whom Levis's connections by
marriage were vaguely interesting.
Grandfather preached upon the certainty of death and the necessity
for preparation, and made no allusion to Levis's heresies. When they
returned to the house Ellen expected that he and Amos and Matthew would
return to the Kloster. But instead all went into the office.
"Ellen!" called Grandfather.
Ellen went unwillingly and sat down on a chair near the door. She
dreaded argument, it could only cause ill-feeling. Her plans were made.
"Ellen, death brings changes with it. It will bring change to you."
There was a gloating affection in Grandfather's voice. He believed that
God was bringing Ellen back to him.
"Yes," said Ellen quickly, determined not to cry.
"When the father goes, we must consider the property. Now your mother
had this farm, inherited from her aunt for whom she was named, and she
left it to your father to go after his death to you and Matthew, share
and share alike."
"Yes," said Ellen.
"It is only natural that Matthew should want to move on his property
now."
"Yes," said Ellen. "Of course."
"It is Matthew's intention to be married."
"Yes," said Ellen faintly.
"He has chosen a modest and pious young woman of his own faith who will
doubtless be a blessing to him. He wishes to be married soon."
"I'm glad if Matthew is happy." Ellen's eyes sought Matthew's timidly.
"Then he will come here."
"When will that be?"
"I had thought not till spring," said Matthew for himself. "But now it
will be sooner, perhaps in a few weeks." That portion of his cheeks
which remained uncovered glowed brightly. He had waited long to possess
Millie and the delay was disturbing his regular and calm mental
processes.
"Not so soon as that!" cried Ellen, in amazement.
"Yes," said Matthew firmly. "Father is gone and things are changed and
the sooner we get used to the new ways the better."
"But Calvin will be here till April!"
"I shall continue to employ him. I have talked with him already."
Ellen's face paled.
"I thought I'd stay here with Mrs. Sassaman till September. Then we
could have the house ready for you before I go."
Matthew changed his position, settling himself more firmly in his
chair. Ellen would have to do as he said; God was blessing her by
giving her no choice.
"Now, Ellen, let us talk this out. The farm belongs to you and
me--isn't it sensible that we stay here and work it? Millie isn't such
a strong person as some and she may be from time to time laid up, and
then there would have to be hired help. Isn't it foolish to hire a
woman when you are well and strong?"
"Oh, but, Matthew, I'm going to college! It's all settled! You know
that I'm to go to college!"
Silence was Matthew's answer. It was a pity that Ellen was still
stubborn. Grandfather took off his spectacles.
"Ellen," he began patiently, "you don't understand business matters.
The farm is much run down and Matthew means to build it up. If he gives
it the attention it should have, and makes new fences, and gets the
implements and lime and everything needed, there won't be any extra
income for five years anyhow."
"Then I shall be too old to go to college!"
"You know already far more than is necessary."
"But if I'm not willing to stay here, if I think it's wrong, if I
_refuse_?" Ellen's voice was still steady.
"I don't wish to be hard on you, Ellen. My heart yearns over you. But
I'm your natural guardian and I have control over your property. I
think that Matthew's plan is correct, and that it should be carried
out. You can't expect him in these first years to run a farm and raise
a family and pay an income besides!"
"But there was Father's will that he wished me to write," said Ellen,
still steadily. "His last thought was that I should be educated."
"It is this way, Ellen. Your father left no real will. He had about
five thousand dollars saved. Now half of five thousand is two thousand
five hundred, and the income on that is only a little over a hundred
dollars a year. That would not take you far."
"But he thought it was enough!"
"He meant to let you spend the principal, Ellen. That cannot be now."
Ellen knitted her brows.
"I'll sell Matthew my part of the farm."
Grandfather shook his head.
"We couldn't let you do that. The farm will be worth much more in five
years than now. If we did such a thing our neighbors would reproach us
because we hadn't dealt fairly with you."
"Let me have my two thousand five hundred dollars," begged Ellen. Here
was light in darkness! "That is all I need; that will see me through."
Grandfather shook his head.
"I can't consent to that, either, Ellen. That must be held against a
rainy day and meanwhile its income must go into the farm. My child, try
to accept your lot! You have a home, comfort, everything you need, and
if you stand by Matthew you will have more than you need."
"I think families should be alone!" Ellen cried desperately. "If I were
Millie I wouldn't want any one to help run my house."
"You don't know Millie," said Matthew earnestly. "She has no proud
ideas and she's very willing to have you help her. I have laid the
matter before her."
Grandfather went to speak to Calvin and Amos followed him. Matthew
would have followed also, but Ellen called him back. She stood by her
father's desk, facing his unwilling gaze.
"Is it possible, Matthew, that you won't help me go to school? Couldn't
you lend me money? You have the farm as security."
"You're not of age. You'd have to have Grandfather's consent, and that
he wouldn't give. Besides, to be frank with you, I've had experience
with advanced schooling and I couldn't help you to it under any
circumstances. It begets pride of intellect, it leads young people away
from God, it is a curse."
Suddenly Ellen looked at her brother with a detached curiosity, as her
father had looked at him. When he had gone she went up to her room. Its
loneliness was intolerable, and still more difficult to bear was the
sound of the evensong of birds, the sight of the young moon rising
over the woodland, and the echo of a laugh from the road. She went
down to the kitchen. Mrs. Sassaman was on the porch, her handkerchief
pressed to her eyes, swaying back and forth in her rocking-chair: Ellen
determined to go and sit on the step and lay her head against her knee.
Instead she turned and went back to her room and sat down at the
window. She would not give way to mourning with Mrs. Sassaman, kind
though she was. This was no time to mourn; she must think, must find
some avenue of escape. Wisdom and peace of mind came from learning--her
father had had both--learning she must have to lift her from despair.
Suddenly her heart leaped. The mysterious visitor to whom her father
meant to entrust her--who and where was he? He had said that he lived
not far away. Lancaster, Harrisburg, Reading, York were not far
away--even Philadelphia was not much more than fifty miles. But she did
not know his name, she had not observed which way his car had turned
at the foot of the lane. And he was sailing at once for Europe! But he
might read of her father's death in the newspaper before he sailed or
later in one of the medical journals which published obituaries. Here
was a gleam of hope! Her immaturity resented grief, repudiated it,
would not harbor it. She paced up and down the room, now making wild
plans, now crying. She had not yet realized what had happened and she
still had high hopes of life.