until the desired friend was crossing the grass between the dusty road
and the steps. The visitor was out of breath, and did not respond to
the polite greeting of her hostess until she had recovered herself to
her satisfaction. Mrs. Crane made her the kind offer of a glass of
water or a few peppermints, but was answered only by a shake of the
head, so she resumed her work for a time until the silence should be
broken.
"I have come from the house of mourning," said Sarah Ellen Dow at
last, unexpectedly.
"You don't tell me that Sister Barsett"--
"She's left us this time, she's really gone," and the excited
news-bringer burst into tears. The poor soul was completely
overwrought; she looked tired and wan, as if she had spent her forces
in sympathy as well as hard work. She felt in her great bundle for a
pocket handkerchief, but was not successful in the search, and finally
produced a faded gingham apron with long, narrow strings, with which
she hastily dried her tears. The sad news appealed also to Mercy
Crane, who looked across to the apple-trees, and could not see them
for a dazzle of tears in her own eyes. The spectacle of Sarah Ellen
Dow going home with her humble workaday possessions, from the house
where she had gone in haste only a few days before to care for a sick
person well known to them both, was a very sad sight.
"You sent word yesterday that you should be returnin' early this
afternoon, and would stop. I presume I received the message as you
gave it?" asked Mrs. Crane, who was tenacious in such matters; "but I
do declare I never looked to hear she was gone."
"She's been failin' right along sence yisterday about this time," said
the nurse. "She's taken no notice to speak of, an' been eatin' the
vally o' nothin', I may say, sence I went there a-Tuesday. Her sisters
both come back yisterday, an' of course I was expected to give up
charge to them. They're used to sickness, an' both havin' such a name
for bein' great housekeepers!"
Sarah Ellen spoke with bitterness, but Mrs. Crane was reminded
instantly of her own affairs. "I feel condemned that I ain't begun my
own fall cleanin' yet," she said, with an ostentatious sigh.
"Plenty o' time to worry about that," her friend hastened to console
her.
"I do desire to have everything decent about my house," resumed Mrs.
Crane. "There's nobody to do anything but me. If I was to be taken
away sudden myself, I shouldn't want to have it said afterwards that
there was wisps under my sofy or--There! I can't dwell on my own
troubles with Sister Barsett's loss right before me. I can't seem to
believe she's really passed away; she always was saying she should go
in some o' these spells, but I deemed her to be troubled with narves."
Sarah Ellen Dow shook her head. "I'm all nerved up myself," she said
brokenly. "I made light of her sickness when I went there first, I'd
seen her what she called dreadful low so many times; but I saw her
looks this morning, an' I begun to believe her at last. Them sisters
o' hers is the master for unfeelin' hearts. Sister Barsett was
a-layin' there yisterday, an' one of 'em was a-settin' right by her
tellin' how difficult 't was for her to leave home, her niece was
goin' to graduate to the high school, an' they was goin' to have a
time in the evening, an' all the exercises promised to be extry
interesting. Poor Sister Barsett knew what she said an' looked at her
with contempt, an' then she give a glance at me an' closed up her eyes
as if 't was for the last time. I know she felt it."
Sarah Ellen Dow was more and more excited by a sense of bitter
grievance. Her rule of the afflicted household had evidently been
interfered with; she was not accustomed to be ignored and set aside at
such times. Her simple nature and uncommon ability found satisfaction
in the exercise of authority, but she had now left her post feeling
hurt and wronged, besides knowing something of the pain of honest
affliction.
"If it hadn't been for esteemin' Sister Barsett as I always have done,
I should have told 'em no, an' held to it, when they asked me to come
back an' watch to-night. 'T ain't for none o' their sakes, but Sister
Barsett was a good friend to me in her way." Sarah Ellen broke down
once more, and felt in her bundle again hastily, but the handkerchief
was again elusive, while a small object fell out upon the doorstep
with a bounce.
"'T ain't nothin' but a little taste-cake I spared out o' the loaf I
baked this mornin'," she explained, with a blush. "I was so shoved out
that I seemed to want to turn my hand to somethin' useful an' feel I
was still doin' for Sister Barsett. Try a little piece, won't you,
Mis' Crane? I thought it seemed light an' good."
They shared the taste-cake with serious enjoyment, and pronounced it
very good indeed when they had finished and shaken the crumbs out of
their laps. "There's nobody but you shall come an' do for me at the
last, if I can have my way about things," said Mercy Crane
impulsively. She meant it for a tribute to Miss Dow's character and
general ability, and as such it was meekly accepted.
"You're a younger person than I be, an' less wore," said Sarah Ellen,
but she felt better now that she had rested, and her conversational
powers seemed to be refreshed by her share of the little cake. "Doctor
Bangs has behaved real pretty, I can say that," she continued
presently in a mournful tone.
"Heretofore, in the sickness of Sister Barsett, I have always felt to
hope certain that she would survive; she's recovered from a sight o'
things in her day. She has been the first to have all the new diseases
that's visited this region. I know she had the spinal mergeetis months
before there was any other case about," observed Mrs. Crane with
satisfaction.
"An' the new throat troubles, all of 'em," agreed Sarah Ellen; "an'
has made trial of all the best patent medicines, an' could tell you
their merits as no one else could in this vicinity. She never was one
that depended on herbs alone, though she considered 'em extremely
useful in some cases. Everybody has their herb, as we know, but I'm
free to say that Sister Barsett sometimes done everything she could to
kill herself with such rovin' ways o' dosin'. She must see it now
she's gone an' can't stuff down no more invigorators." Sarah Ellen Dow
burst out suddenly with this, as if she could no longer contain her
honest opinion.
"There, there! you're all worked up," answered placid Mercy Crane,
looking more interested than ever.
"An' she was dreadful handy to talk religion to other folks, but I've
come to a realizin' sense that religion is somethin' besides opinions.
She an' Elder French has been mostly of one mind, but I don't know's
they've got hold of all the religion there is."
"Why, why, Sarah Ellen!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, but there was still
something in her tone that urged the speaker to further expression of
her feelings. The good creature was much excited, her face was clouded
with disapproval.
"I ain't forgettin' nothin' about their good points either," she went
on in a more subdued tone, and suddenly stopped.
"Preachin' 'll be done away with soon or late,--preachin' o' Elder
French's kind," announced Mercy Crane, after waiting to see if her
guest did not mean to say anything more. "I should like to read 'em
out that verse another fashion: 'Be ye doers o' the word, not
preachers only,' would hit it about right; but there, it's easy for
all of us to talk. In my early days I used to like to get out to
meetin' regular, because sure as I didn't I had bad luck all the week.
I didn't feel pacified 'less I'd been half a day, but I was out all
day the Sabbath before Mr. Barlow died as he did. So you mean to say
that Sister Barsett's really gone?"
Mrs. Crane's tone changed to one of real concern, and her manner
indicated that she had put the preceding conversation behind her with
decision.
"She was herself to the last," instantly responded Miss Dow. "I see
her put out a thumb an' finger from under the spread an' pinch up a
fold of her sister Deckett's dress, to try an' see if 'twas all wool.
I thought 'twa'n't all wool, myself, an' I know it now by the way she
looked. She was a very knowin' person about materials; we shall miss
poor Mis' Barsett in many ways, she was always the one to consult with
about matters o' dress."
"She passed away easy at the last, I hope?" asked Mrs. Crane with
interest.
"Why, I wa'n't there, if you'll believe it!" exclaimed Sarah Ellen,
flushing, and looking at her friend for sympathy. "Sister Barsett
revived up the first o' the afternoon, an' they sent for Elder French.
She took notice of him, and he exhorted quite a spell, an' then he
spoke o' there being need of air in the room, Mis' Deckett havin'
closed every window, an' she asked me of all folks if I hadn't better
step out; but Elder French come too, an' he was very reasonable, an'
had a word with me about Mis' Deckett an' Mis' Peak an' the way they
was workin' things. I told him right out how they never come near when
the rest of us was havin' it so hard with her along in the spring, but
now they thought she was re'lly goin' to die, they come settlin' down
like a pair o' old crows in a field to pick for what they could get. I
just made up my mind they should have all the care if they wanted it.
It didn't seem as if there was anything more I could do for Sister
Barsett, an' I set there in the kitchen within call an' waited, an'
when I heard 'em sayin', 'There, she's gone, she's gone!' and Mis'
Deckett a-weepin', I put on my bunnit and stepped myself out into the
road. I felt to repent after I had gone but a rod, but I was so worked
up, an' I thought they'd call me back, an' then I was put out because
they didn't, an' so here I be. I can't help it now." Sarah Ellen was
crying again; she and Mrs. Crane could not look at each other.
"Well, you set an' rest," said Mrs. Crane kindly, and with the merest
shadow of disapproval. "You set an' rest, an' by an' by, if you'd feel
better, you could go back an' just make a little stop an' inquire
about the arrangements. I wouldn't harbor no feelin's, if they be
inconsiderate folks. Sister Barsett has often deplored their actions
in my hearing an' wished she had sisters like other folks. With all
her faults she was a useful person an' a good neighbor," mourned Mercy
Crane sincerely. "She was one that always had somethin' interestin' to
tell, an' if it wa'n't for her dyin' spells an' all that sort o'
nonsense, she'd make a figger in the world, she would so. She walked
with an air always, Mis' Barsett did; you'd ask who she was if you
hadn't known, as she passed you by. How quick we forget the outs about
anybody that's gone! But I always feel grateful to anybody that's
friendly, situated as I be. I shall miss her runnin' over. I can seem
to see her now, coming over the rise in the road. But don't you get in
a way of takin' things too hard, Sarah Ellen! You've worked yourself
all to pieces since I saw you last; you're gettin' to be as lean as a
meetin'-house fly. Now, you're comin' in to have a cup o' tea with me,
an' then you'll feel better. I've got some new molasses gingerbread
that I baked this mornin'."
"I do feel beat out, Mis' Crane," acknowledged the poor little soul,
glad of a chance to speak, but touched by this unexpected mark of
consideration. "If I could ha' done as I wanted to I should be feelin'
well enough, but to be set aside an' ordered about, where I'd taken
the lead in sickness so much, an' knew how to deal with Sister Barsett
so well! She might be livin' now, perhaps"--
"Come; we'd better go in, 'tis gettin' damp," and the mistress of the
house rose so hurriedly as to seem bustling. "Don't dwell on Sister
Barsett an' her foolish folks no more; I wouldn't, if I was you."
They went into the front room, which was dim with the twilight of the
half-closed blinds and two great syringa bushes that grew against
them. Sarah Ellen put down her bundle and bestowed herself in the
large, cane-seated rocking-chair. Mrs. Crane directed her to stay
there awhile and rest, and then come out into the kitchen when she got
ready.
A cheerful clatter of dishes was heard at once upon Mrs. Crane's
disappearance. "I hope she's goin' to make one o' her nice
short-cakes, but I don't know's she'll think it quite worth while,"
thought the guest humbly. She desired to go out into the kitchen, but
it was proper behavior to wait until she should be called. Mercy Crane
was not a person with whom one could venture to take liberties.
Presently Sarah Ellen began to feel better. She did not often find
such a quiet place, or the quarter of an hour of idleness in which to
enjoy it, and was glad to make the most of this opportunity. Just now
she felt tired and lonely. She was a busy, unselfish, eager-minded
creature by nature, but now, while grief was sometimes uppermost in
her mind and sometimes a sense of wrong, every moment found her more
peaceful, and the great excitement little by little faded away.
"What a person poor Sister Barsett was to dread growing old so she
couldn't get about. I'm sure I shall miss her as much as anybody,"
said Mrs. Crane, suddenly opening the kitchen door, and letting in an
unmistakable and delicious odor of short-cake that revived still more
the drooping spirits of her guest. "An' a good deal of knowledge has
died with her," she added, coming into the room and seeming to make it
lighter.
"There, she knew a good deal, but she didn't know all, especially o'
doctorin'," insisted Sarah Ellen from the rocking-chair, with an
unexpected little laugh. "She used to lay down the law to me as if I
had neither sense nor experience, but when it came to her bad spells
she'd always send for me. It takes everybody to know everything, but
Sister Barsett was of an opinion that her information was sufficient
for the town. She was tellin' me the day I went there how she disliked
to have old Mis' Doubleday come an' visit with her, an' remarked that
she called Mis' Doubleday very officious. 'Went right down on her
knees an' prayed,' says she. 'Anybody would have thought I was a
heathen!' But I kind of pacified her feelin's, an' told her I supposed
the old lady meant well."
"Did she give away any of her things?--Mis' Barsett, I mean," inquired
Mrs. Crane.
"Not in my hearin'," replied Sarah Ellen Dow. "Except one day, the
first of the week, she told her oldest sister, Mis' Deckett,--'twas
that first day she rode over--that she might have her green quilted
petticoat; you see it was a rainy day, an' Mis' Deckett had complained
o' feelin' thin. She went right up an' got it, and put it on an' wore
it off, an' I'm sure I thought no more about it, until I heard Sister
Barsett groanin' dreadful in the night. I got right up to see what the
matter was, an' what do you think but she was wantin' that petticoat
back, and not thinking any too well o' Nancy Deckett for takin' it
when 'twas offered. 'Nancy never showed no sense o' propriety,' says
Sister Barsett; I just wish you'd heard her go on!
"If she had felt to remember me," continued Sarah Ellen, after they
had laughed a little, "I'd full as soon have some of her nice
crockery-ware. She told me once, years ago, when I was stoppin' to tea
with her an' we were havin' it real friendly, that she should leave me
her Britannia tea-set, but I ain't got it in writin', and I can't say
she's ever referred to the matter since. It ain't as if I had a home
o' my own to keep it in, but I should have thought a great deal of it
for her sake," and the speaker's voice faltered. "I must say that with
all her virtues she never was a first-class housekeeper, but I
wouldn't say it to any but a friend. You never eat no preserves o'
hers that wa'n't commencin' to work, an' you know as well as I how
little forethought she had about putting away her woolens. I sat
behind her once in meetin' when I was stoppin' with the Tremletts and
so occupied a seat in their pew, an' I see between ten an' a dozen
moth millers come workin' out o' her fitch-fur tippet. They was
flutterin' round her bonnet same's 'twas a lamp. I should be mortified
to death to have such a thing happen to me."
"Every housekeeper has her weak point; I've got mine as much as
anybody else," acknowledged Mercy Crane with spirit, "but you never
see no moth millers come workin' out o' me in a public place."
"Ain't your oven beginning to get overhet?" anxiously inquired Sarah
Ellen Dow, who was sitting more in the draught, and could not bear to
have any accident happen to the supper. Mrs. Crane flew to a
short-cake's rescue, and presently called her guest to the table.
The two women sat down to deep and brimming cups of tea. Sarah Ellen
noticed with great gratification that her hostess had put on two of
the best tea-cups and some citron-melon preserves. It was not an
every-day supper. She was used to hard fare, poor, hard-working Sarah
Ellen, and this handsome social attention did her good. Sister Crane
rarely entertained a friend, and it would be a pleasure to speak of
the tea-drinking for weeks to come.
"You've put yourself out quite a consid'able for me," she
acknowledged. "How pretty these cups is! You oughtn't to use 'em so
common as for me. I wish I had a home I could really call my own to
ask you to, but 't ain't never been so I could. Sometimes I wonder
what's goin' to become o' me when I get so I'm past work. Takin' care
o' sick folks an' bein' in houses where there's a sight goin' on an'
everybody in a hurry kind of wears on me now I'm most a-gittin' in
years. I was wishin' the other day that I could get with some
comfortable kind of a sick person, where I could live right along
quiet as other folks do, but folks never sends for me 'less they're
drove to it. I ain't laid up anything to really depend upon."
The situation appealed to Mercy Crane, well to do as she was and not
burdened with responsibilities. She stirred uneasily in her chair, but
could not bring herself to the point of offering Sarah Ellen the home
she coveted.
"Have some hot tea," she insisted, in a matter of fact tone, and Sarah
Ellen's face, which had been lighted by a sudden eager hopefulness,
grew dull and narrow again.
"Plenty, plenty, Mis' Crane," she said sadly, "'tis beautiful
tea,--you always have good tea;" but she could not turn her thoughts
from her own uncertain future. "None of our folks has ever lived to be
a burden," she said presently, in a pathetic tone, putting down her
cup. "My mother was thought to be doing well until four o'clock an'
was dead at ten. My Aunt Nancy came to our house well at twelve
o'clock an' died that afternoon; my father was sick but ten days.
There was dear sister Betsy, she did go in consumption, but 'twa'n't
an expensive sickness."
"I've thought sometimes about you, how you'd get past rovin' from
house to house one o' these days. I guess your friends will stand by
you." Mrs. Crane spoke with unwonted sympathy, and Sarah Ellen's heart
leaped with joy.
"You're real kind," she said simply. "There's nobody I set so much by.
But I shall miss Sister Barsett, when all's said an' done. She's asked
me many a time to stop with her when I wasn't doin' nothin'. We all
have our failin's, but she was a friendly creatur'. I sha'n't want to
see her laid away."
"Yes, I was thinkin' a few minutes ago that I shouldn't want to look
out an' see the funeral go by. She's one o' the old neighbors. I
s'pose I shall have to look, or I shouldn't feel right afterward,"
said Mrs. Crane mournfully. "If I hadn't got so kind of housebound,"
she added with touching frankness, "I'd just as soon go over with you
an' offer to watch this night."
"'T would astonish Sister Barsett so I don't know but she'd return."
Sarah Ellen's eyes danced with amusement; she could not resist her own
joke, and Mercy Crane herself had to smile.
"Now I must be goin', or 'twill be dark," said the guest, rising and
sighing after she had eaten her last crumb of gingerbread. "Yes, thank
ye, you're real good, I will come back if I find I ain't wanted. Look
what a pretty sky there is!" and the two friends went to the side door
and stood together in a moment of affectionate silence, looking out
toward the sunset across the wide fields. The country was still with
that deep rural stillness which seems to mean the absence of humanity.
Only the thrushes were singing far away in the walnut woods beyond the
orchard, and some crows were flying over and cawed once loudly, as if
they were speaking to the women at the door.
Just as the friends were parting, after most grateful acknowledgments
from Sarah Ellen Dow, some one came driving along the road in a hurry
and stopped.
"Who's that with you, Mis' Crane?" called one of their near neighbors.
"It's Sarah Ellen Dow," answered Mrs. Crane. "What's the matter?"
"I thought so, but I couldn't rightly see. Come, they are in a peck o'
trouble up to Sister Barsett's, wonderin' where you be," grumbled the
man. "They can't do nothin' with her; she's drove off everybody an'
keeps a-screechin' for you. Come, step along, Sarah Ellen, do!"
"Sister Barsett!" exclaimed both the women. Mercy Crane sank down upon
the doorstep, but Sarah Ellen stepped out upon the grass all of a
tremble, and went toward the wagon. "They said this afternoon that
Sister Barsett was gone," she managed to say. "What did they mean?"
"Gone where?" asked the impatient neighbor. "I expect 'twas one of her
spells. She's come to; they say she wants somethin' hearty for her
tea. Nobody can't take one step till you get there, neither."
Sarah Ellen was still dazed; she returned to the doorway, where Mercy
Crane sat shaking with laughter. "I don't know but we might as well
laugh as cry," she said in an aimless sort of way. "I know you too
well to think you're going to repeat a single word. Well, I'll get my
bonnet an' start; I expect I've got considerable to cope with, but I'm
well rested. Good-night, Mis' Crane, I certain did have a beautiful
tea, whatever the future may have in store."
She wore a solemn expression as she mounted into the wagon in haste
and departed, but she was far out of sight when Mercy Crane stopped
laughing and went into the house.
* * * * *
Decoration Day
I.
A week before the thirtieth of May, three friends--John Stover and
Henry Merrill and Asa Brown--happened to meet on Saturday evening at
Barton's store at the Plains. They were ready to enjoy this idle hour
after a busy week. After long easterly rains, the sun had at last come
out bright and clear, and all the Barlow farmers had been planting.
There was even a good deal of ploughing left to be done, the season
was so backward.
The three middle-aged men were old friends. They had been
school-fellows, and when they were hardly out of their boyhood the war
came on, and they enlisted in the same company, on the same day, and
happened to march away elbow to elbow. Then came the great experience
of a great war, and the years that followed their return from the
South had come to each almost alike. These men might have been members
of the same rustic household, they knew each other's history so well.