Mr. Jeminy liked to call on Mrs. Wicket, whose little cottage, at the
edge of the village, on the way to Milford, had belonged to Eben Wicket
for nearly fifty years. Now it belonged to the widow of Eben's son,
John. Mr. Jeminy remembered John Wicket as a boy in school. He was a
rogue; his head was already so full of mischief, that it was impossible
to teach him anything. So he was not much wiser when he left school,
than when he entered it. However, Mr. Jeminy was satisfied with his
instruction. "With more knowledge," the old schoolmaster thought to
himself, "he might do a great deal of harm in the world. So perhaps it
is just as well for him to be ignorant." And he consoled himself with
this reflection.
A year later John Wicket ran away from home, taking with him the money
which his father kept in a stone jug in the kitchen. Old Mr. Wicket
refused to send after him. "I didn't need the money," he said, "and I
don't need him. Well, they're both gone."
But after a while, since his son was no longer there to plague him, he
began to feel proud of him. "An out and out scamp," he said, with
relish. "Never seen the like."
John Wicket was gone for three years, no one knew where. At last Eben
received news of him again. His son, who had been living all this time
in a nearby village, fell from a ladder and broke his neck. "Just,"
said Eben Wicket, "as I expected."
No one, however, expected to see his widow come to live with her
father-in-law. The old man himself went to fetch her and her year-old
child. She proved to be a small, plain body, with an air of fright
about her, as though life had surprised her. Out of respect for Eben,
as they put it, the gossips went to call. They found her shy, and
inclined to be silent; they drank their tea, and examined her with
curiosity, while she, for her part, seemed to want to hide away.
"As who wouldn't, in her place," said Mrs. Ploughman.
It was agreed that, having married an out-and-out rascal, she ought to
be willing to spend the remainder of her life quietly. So she was left
to herself, which seemed, on the face of it, to be about what she
wanted. She tended Eben's house, drove the one cow to pasture, and
sang to little Juliet from morning till night the songs she remembered
from her own childhood.
During that time no one had any fault to find with her, excepting old
Mrs. Crabbe, who thought she should have called her child Mary instead
of Juliet. "It's not a proper name," she said to Mrs. Tomkins. "It
isn't in the Bible, Mrs. Tomkins. You'd do as well to call the child
Salomy. Salomy's in the Bible."
When Eben Wicket died, early in 1917, he left his house and about an
acre of land to his daughter-in-law. She was poor; still, she had
enough to get along on. She was young, but every one thought of her as
a woman whose life was over. So when Noel Ploughman took to keeping
company with her, the gossips were all aflitter. It was June; the
regulars were on their way to France; and what with the war, and Mrs.
Wicket, the village had plenty to talk about. Old Mrs. Ploughman said
nothing, but regarded her friends with a gloomy and thoughtful air. On
the other hand, Miss Beal, the dressmaker, saw no reason to keep her
opinions to herself. "It's a scandal," she said to her friend Mrs.
Grumble; "what with Eben Wicket scarcely cold in his grave, and John a
thief, with his neck broke and heaven only knows what else besides."
Nevertheless, that summer Noel Ploughman's sober, honest face was often
to be seen in Mrs. Wicket's garden patch, among the beans and the
lettuces. Who can say what they found in one another to admire? In
his company she was both happy and regretful, while he, seeing her by
turns quiet and gay, could not determine which he found more charming.
They talked over the weather together, and discussed the crops. Love
comes slowly in the north; there is time for every one to take a hand
in it. August passed without either having mentioned what was in their
hearts. Then Mrs. Ploughman made up her mind to put an end to it. One
day, when Noel was in Milford, she came to call on Mrs. Wicket. One
can imagine what she said to the young woman, who was already a mother
and a widow. The next day Mrs. Wicket appeared in her garden, pale and
composed. Those who had occasion to pass the little cottage at the
edge of the village, remarked that she no longer hummed under her
breath the gay tunes of her childhood.
"Her sin has found her out," said Miss Beal. "She's fallen by the way."
"You'd think," said Mrs. Crabbe, "she'd behave herself a speck, after
the life she's had."
Mrs. Grumble also was of the opinion that Mrs. Wicket had done wrong in
allowing herself to care for Noel Ploughman. For it seemed to the
gossips that Mrs. Wicket's life was, by rights, no longer her own to do
with. She was the earthly remains of a sinner; she had no right to
enjoy herself.
Two days later Noel Ploughman enlisted, "for the duration of the war."
His grandmother accepted the congratulations of Mrs. Crabbe and the
sympathy of Mrs. Barly with equal satisfaction. It seemed to her that
she had done her duty as she saw it. But when Noel was killed in
France a year later, she felt that Mrs. Wicket had killed him. "Now,"
she croaked to Mrs. Crabbe, "I hope she's satisfied."
She seemed to be; she took the news of Noel's death with curious calm.
It was almost as if she had been expecting it, looking for it . . . one
might have thought she had been waiting for it. . . . After a while,
she began to sing again. Her voice, as she crooned to Juliet, was
musical, but quavery. It provoked the good women of the village, who
began to think that perhaps, after all, she had "had her way."
"There's this much about it," said Miss Beal; "no one else will have
him now."
Mrs. Grumble agreed with her. She disliked Mrs. Wicket because Mr.
Jeminy liked her. He pitied the young woman who had had the misfortune
to marry a thief, and he forgave her for wanting to be happy, because
it did not seem to him that to have been the wife of a good-for-nothing
was much to settle down on. In his opinion, life owed her more than
she had got.
"She is simple and kind," he said to Mrs. Grumble. "She has had very
little to give thanks for."
"She'll have more, then, if she can," replied Mrs. Grumble with a toss
of her head as though to say, "it's you who are simple."
And she looked the other way, when they met on the road. Mr. Jeminy,
on the other hand, often went to call at the little house at the edge
of the village. The young widow, who had no other callers, felt that
one friend was enough when he talked as much as Mr. Jeminy. While he
laid open before her the great books of the past, illuminating their
pages with his knowledge and reflections, she listened with an air of
tranquil pleasure. She counted the stitches on her sewing, and
answered "sakes alive," in the pauses.
One day in April she put on her best dress, and took the stage to
Milford. When she came home again, in the evening, she brought with
her a decorated shell for her friend. But it happened that Thomas Frye
also came home from Milford, by the same stage. That was what Mrs.
Grumble was waiting for. "Now she's at it again," said Mrs. Grumble.
"She's bound to have some one," she declared; "one or another, it's all
the same." And she gazed meaningly at Mr. Jeminy, who started at once
for his den, as though he were looking for something.
Then she was delighted with herself, and retired to the kitchen.
It was useless for Mr. Jeminy to retreat to his den. For sooner or
later, Mrs. Grumble always found something to do there. She would come
in with her broom and her mop, and look around. Then Mr. Jeminy would
walk hastily out of the house and descend to the village. There, it
would occur to him to call on Mrs. Wicket, because he happened to have
with him a book he thought she would like to look at, or a flower for
Juliet. Mrs. Wicket received each book with gratitude, and looked to
see if there were any pictures in it, before giving it back again.
Juliet, on the other hand, wished to know the names of all the flowers.
When Mr. Jeminy repeated their names in Latin, from the text-book on
botany, she clapped her hands, and jumped up and down, because it was
so comical.
Now, in August, Mr. Jeminy was building her a doll's house in Mrs.
Wicket's tumbledown barn. It was the sort of work he liked to engage
in; no one expected him to be accurate, it was only necessary to use
his imagination. But Juliet, swinging her legs on top of the feed bin,
regarded him with round and serious eyes. For in Juliet's opinion, Mr.
Jeminy was involved in a difficult task; and she was afraid he might
not be able to go through with it.
"How many rooms," she said, "is my doll's house going to have?"
"I had counted," said Mr. Jeminy, "on two." And he went over the
plans, using his hammer as a pointer. "Here is the bedroom," he said,
"and there is the kitchen. There's where the stove is going to be."
Juliet followed him without interest. It was apparent that she was
disappointed.
"Where's the parlor?" she demanded.
"Must there be a parlor?" asked Mr. Jeminy, in surprise.
"What do you think?" said Juliet. "I have to have a place for Anna to
keep company in."
Anna was the youngest of her three dolls; that is to say, Anna was
smaller than either Sara or Margaret. It seemed to Juliet that to be
without a parlor was to lack elegance. Mr. Jeminy rubbed his chin.
"Isn't Anna very young," he asked, "to keep company in the parlor?"
"No, she isn't," said Juliet.
Then, as Mr. Jeminy made no reply, she added, "She's six, going on
seven."
Mr. Jeminy sighed. "Is she indeed?" he remarked absently. "It is a
charming age. I wish I were able to see the world again through the
eyes of six, going on seven. What a noble world it would seem, full of
pleasant people."
"So," declared Juliet, "we have to have a parlor."
However, she could not sit still very long.
Presently she hopped down from the feed bin. "Look," she said, "this
is the way to fly." She began to dance about, waving her arms.
"This," she declared, "is the way the bees go." And she ran up and
down, crying "buzz, buzz."
She decided to play house, by herself. Arranging her three dolls, made
of rags and sawdust, on top of the bin, she stood before them, with her
fingers in her mouth. Then all at once she began to play.
"My goodness," she exclaimed, "I'm surprised at you. Look at your
clothes, every which way. Margaret, do sit up. And Sara--you'll be
the death of me, with all my work to do yet, and everything."
"How do you do, Mrs. Henry Stove," she added, addressing a three-legged
stool, "come right in and sit down.
"Terrible hot weather we're having. Worst I ever see."
She moved busily about, humming a song to herself. "I declare, it's
time you went to school, children," she said finally, stopping to look
at her family.
Without trouble, she became the school teacher. Propping her three
dolls more firmly against the wall, she took her stand directly in
front of them. "Do you know your lessons, children?" she asked. Then
she squeaked back to herself, "Yes, ma'am."
"Well, then, Margaret, what's the best cow for butter?"
Mr. Jeminy began to laugh. But almost at once he became serious and
confused. For it occurred to him that he did not know what cow was
best for butter. "This child," he thought, "who cannot tell me why it
is necessary to take two apples from four apples, is nevertheless able
to distinguish between one cow and another. She is wiser than I am."
He stood gazing thoughtfully at Juliet, and smiling. The sun of late
afternoon, already about to sink in the west, was shining through the
window, covered with dust and cobwebs. And Mr. Jeminy, watching the
dust dancing in the sun, thought to himself: "I should like to stay
here; it is peaceful and friendly. I should like to help Mrs. Wicket
plant her little garden in the spring, and plow it under in the autumn.
Now it is growing late and I must go home again."
Juliet had tired of her play. "Tell me a story," she said. "Tell me
about the war, Mr. Jeminy. Tell me about Noel Ploughman."
But Mr. Jeminy shook his head. "No," he said, "it is time to drive
your mother's cow home from the fields. Some other day I will tell you
about the great wars of old, fought for no other reason than glory and
empire, which disappointed no one, except the vanquished. But there is
no time now. Come; we will go for the cow together."
Hand in hand they went down the road toward Mr. Crabbe's field, where
Mrs. Wicket rented pasturage for her cow. The sun was sinking above
the trees; and they heard, about them, in the fields, the silence of
evening, the song of the crickets and cicadas.
They found the cows gathered at the pasture bars, with sweet, misty
breath, their bells clashing faintly as they moved. "Go 'long," cried
Juliet, switching her little rod, to single out her own. And to the
patter of hoofs and the tonkle of bells, they started home again.
Mrs. Wicket, in the kitchen, watched them from her window, in the
clear, fading light. "How good he is," she thought. And she turned,
with a smile and a sigh, to set the table for Juliet's supper.
Juliet was singing along the roadside. "A tisket," she sang, "a
tasket, a green and yellow basket . . ." And she chanted, to a tune of
her own, an old verse she had once heard Mr. Jeminy singing:
When I was a young man,
I said, bright and bold,
I would be a great one,
When I was old.
When I was a young man,
But that was long ago,
I sang the merry old songs
All men know.
When I was a young man,
When I was young and smart,
I think I broke a mirror,
Or a girl's heart.
Mr. Jeminy walked in the middle of the road, under the dying sky,
already lighted by the young moon, in the west. As he walked, the
fresh air of evening, blowing on his face, with its sweet odors, the
twilight notes of birds among the leaves, the faint acclaim of bells,
and Juliet's childish singing, filled his heart with unaccustomed
peace, moved him with gentle and deliberate joy. He remembered the
voices he had heard in the little schoolhouse in the spring.
"Jeminy, what are you doing?"
Then Mr. Jeminy raised his head to the sky, in which the first stars of
night were to be seen.
"I am very busy now," he said, proudly.
V