Miss Sally, taking a little parcel of peppermints from her pocket, and
proceeding to divide them.
"No, I don't s'pose she would," owned Mrs. Page reflectively. "But if
what they say is true, she's been pretty sassy to him, fust an' last.
Why, you know, no matter how the parson begins his prayer, he's sure to
end up on one line: 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live
by the dim light of natur'.' 'Lisha Cole, when he come home from
Illinois, walked over here to meetin', to surprise some o' the folks. He
waited in the entry to ketch 'em comin' out, an' the fust word he heard
was, 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live by the dim light
of natur'.' 'Lisha said he'd had time to be shipwrecked (you know he
went to California fust an' made the v'yage), an' be married twice, an'
lay by enough to keep him, and come home poor; but when he heard that,
he felt as if the world hadn't moved sence he started."
Sally Ware dropped her mitten, to avoid listening and the necessity of
reply; it was too evident that the conversational tone was becoming
profane. But Mrs. Page's eyes were gleaming with pure dramatic joy, and
she continued:--
"Well, a fortnight or so ago he went over to see Isabel, an' Sadie an'
her husband happened to be there. They were all settin' purrin' in the
dark, because they'd forgot to send for any kerosene. 'No light?' says
he, hittin' his head ag'inst the chimbly-piece goin' in,--'no light?'
'No,' says Isabel, 'none but the dim light of natur'.'"
There was a chime of delighted laughter in many keys. The company felt
the ease of unrestricted speech. They wished the nooning might be
indefinitely prolonged.
"Sometimes I think she sets out to make him believe she's wuss 'n she
is," remarked Mrs. Cole. "Remember how she carried on last Sabbath?"
"I guess so!" returned Mrs. Page. "You see, Tilly, he's kind o' pushin'
her for'ard to make her seem more suitable,--he'd like to have her as
old as the hills!--an' nothin' would do but she must go into the Bible
class. Ain't a member that's under fifty, but there that little young
thing sets, cheeks red as a beet, an' the elder asks her questions, when
he gits to her, as if he was coverin' on her over with cotton wool.
Well, last Sabbath old Deacon Pitts--le's see, there ain't any o' his
folks present, be they?--well, he was late, an' he hadn't looked at his
lesson besides. 'T was the fust chapter in Ruth, where it begins, 'In
the days when the judges ruled.' You recollect Naomi told the two
darters they'd got to set sail, an' then the Bible says, 'they lifted up
their voice an' wept.' 'Who wept?' says the parson to Deacon Pitts,
afore he'd got fairly se' down. The deacon he opened his Bible, an'
whirled over the leaves. 'Who wept, Brother Pitts?' says the parson over
ag'in. Somebody found the deacon the place, an' p'inted. He was growin'
redder an' redder, an' his spe'tacles kep' slippin' down, but he did
manage to see the chapter begun suthin' about the judges. Well, by that
time parson spoke out sort o' sharp. 'Brother Pitts,' says he, 'who
wept?' The deacon see 't he'd got to put some kind of a face on 't, an'
he looked up an' spoke out, as bold as brass. 'I conclude,' says
he,--'I conclude 't was the judges!'"
Even Miss Ware smiled a little, and adjusted her gold beads. The others
laughed out rich and free.
"Well, what'd that have to do with Isabel?" asked Mrs. Ellison, who
never forgot the main issue.
"Why, everybody else drawed down their faces, an' tried to keep 'em
straight, but Isabel, she begun to laugh, an' she laughed till the tears
streamed down her cheeks. Deacon Pitts was real put out, for him, an'
the parson tried not to take no notice. But it went so fur he couldn't
help it, an' so he says, 'Miss Isabel, I'm real pained,' says he. But 't
was jest as you'd cuff the kitten for snarlin' up your yarn."
"Well, what's Isabel goin' to do?" asked Mrs. Ellison. "S'pose she'll
marry him?"
"Why, she won't unless he tells her to. If he does, I dunno but she'll
think she's got to."
"I say it's a shame," put in Mrs. Robbins incisively; "an' Isabel with
everything all fixed complete so 't she could have a good time. Her
sister's well married, an' Isabel stays every night with her. Them two
girls have been together ever sence their father died. An' here she's
got the school, an' she's goin' to Sudleigh every Saturday to take
lessons in readin', an' she'd be as happy as a cricket, if on'y he'd
let her alone."
"She reads real well," said Mrs. Ellison. "She come over to our sociable
an' read for us. She could turn herself into anybody she'd a mind to.
Len wrote a notice of it for the 'Star.' That's the only time we've had
oysters over our way."
"I'd let it be the last," piped up a thin old lady, with a long figured
veil over her face. "It's my opinion oysters lead to dancin'."
"Well, let 'em lead," said optimistic Mrs. Page. "I guess we needn't
foller."
"Them that have got rheumatism in their knees can stay behind," said the
young married woman, drawn by the heat of the moment into a daring at
once to be repented. "Mrs. Ellison, you're getting ahead of us over in
your parish. They say you sing out of sheet music."
"Yes, they do say so," interrupted the old lady under the figured veil.
"If there's any worship in sheet music, I'd like to know it!"
"Come, come!" said peace-loving Mrs. Page; "there's the men filin' in.
We mustn't let 'em see us squabblin'. They think we're a lot o' cacklin'
hens anyway, tickled to death over a piece o' chalk. There's Isabel,
now. She's goin' to look like her aunt Mary Ellen, over to Saltash."
Isabel preceded the men, who were pausing for a word at the door, and
went down the aisle to her pew. She bowed to one and another, in
passing, and her color rose. They could not altogether restrain their
guiltily curious gaze, and Isabel knew she had been talked over. She was
a healthy-looking girl, with clear blue eyes and a quantity of soft
brown hair. Her face was rather large-featured, and one could see that,
if the world went well with her, she would be among those who develop
beauty in middle life.
The group of dames dispersed to their several pews, and settled their
faces into expressions more becoming a Sunday mood. The village folk,
who had time for a hot dinner, dropped in, one by one, and by and by the
parson came,--a gaunt man, with thick red-brown hair streaked with dull
gray, and red-brown, sanguine eyes. He was much beloved, but something
impulsive and unevenly balanced in his nature led even his people to
regard him with more or less patronage. He kept his eyes rigorously
averted from Isabel's pew, in passing; but when he reached the pulpit,
and began unpinning his heavy gray shawl, he did glance at her, and his
face grew warm. But Isabel did not look at him, and all through the
service she sat with a haughty pose of the head, gazing down into her
lap. When it was over, she waited for no one, since her sister was not
at church, but sped away down the snowy road.
The next day, Isabel stayed after school, and so it was in the wintry
twilight that she walked home, guarded by the few among her flock who
had been kept to learn the inner significance of common fractions.
Approaching her own house, she quickened her steps, for there before the
gate (taken from its hinges and resting for the winter) stood a blue
pung. The horse was dozing, his Roman nose sunken almost to the snow at
his feet. He looked as if he had come to stay. Isabel withdrew her hand
from the persistent little fingers clinging to it.
"Good-night, children," said she. "I guess I've got company. I must
hurry in. Come bright and early to-morrow."
The little group marched away, swathed in comforters, each child
carrying the dinner-pail with an easy swing. Their reddened faces
lighted over the chorusing good-nights, and they kept looking back,
while Isabel ran up the icy path to her own door. It was opened from
within, before she reached it, and a tall, florid woman, with smoothly
banded hair, stood there to receive her. Though she had a powerful
frame, she gave one at the outset an impression of weak gentleness, and
the hands she extended, albeit cordial, were somewhat limp. She wore her
bonnet still, though she had untied the strings and thrown them back;
and her ample figure was tightly laced under a sontag.
"Why, aunt Luceba!" cried Isabel, radiant. "I'm as glad as I can be.
When did you rain down?"
"Be you glad?" returned aunt Luceba, her somewhat anxious look relaxing
into a smile. "Well, I'm pleased if you be. Fact is, I run away, an' I'm
jest comin' to myself, an' wonderin' what under the sun set me out to do
it."
"Run away!" repeated Isabel, drawing her in, and at once peeping into
the stove. "Oh, you fixed the fire, didn't you? It keeps real well. I
put on coal in the morning, and then again at night."
"Isabel," began her aunt, standing by the stove, and drumming on it with
agitated fingers, "I hate to have you live as you do. Why under the sun
can't you come over to Saltash, an' stay with us?"
Isabel had thrown off her shawl and hat, and was standing on the other
side of the stove; she was tingling with cold and youthful spirits.
"I'm keeping school," said she. "School can't keep without me. And I'm
going over to Sudleigh, every Saturday, to take elocution lessons. I'm
having my own way, and I'm happy as a clam. Now, why can't you come and
live with me? You said you would, the very day aunt Eliza died."
"I know I did," owned the visitor, lowering her voice, and casting a
glance over her shoulder. "But I never had an idea then how Mary Ellen
'd feel about it. She said she wouldn't live in this town, not if she
was switched. I dunno why she's so ag'in' it, but she seems to be, an'
there 't is!"
"Why, aunt Luceba!" Isabel had left her position to draw forward a
chair. "What's that?" She pointed to the foot of the lounge, where, half
hidden in shadow, stood a large, old-fashioned blue chest.
"'Sh! that's it! that's what I come for. It's her chist."
"Whose?"
"Your aunt 'Liza's." She looked Isabel in the face with an absurd
triumph and awe. She had done a brave deed, the nature of which was not
at once apparent.
"What's in it?" asked Isabel, walking over to it.
"Don't you touch it!" cried her aunt, in agitation. "I wouldn't have you
meddle with it--But there! it's locked. I al'ays forgit that. I feel as
if the things could git out an' walk. Here! you let it alone, an'
byme-by we'll open it. Se' down here on the lounge. There, now! I guess
I can tell ye. It was sister 'Liza's chist, an' she kep' it up attic.
She begun it when we wa'n't more'n girls goin' to Number Six, an' she's
been fillin' on 't ever sence."
"Begun it! You talk as if 't was a quilt!" Isabel began to laugh.
"Now don't!" said her aunt, in great distress. "Don't ye! I s'pose 't
was because we was such little girls an' all when 'Liza started it, but
it makes me as nervous as a witch, an' al'ays did. You see, 'Liza was a
great hand for deaths an' buryin's; an' as for funerals, she'd ruther go
to 'em than eat. I'd say that if she was here this minute, for more'n
once I said it to her face. Well, everybody 't died, she saved suthin'
they wore or handled the last thing, an' laid it away in this chist; an'
last time I see it opened, 't was full, an' she kind o' smacked her
lips, an' said she should have to begin another. But the very next week
she was took away."
"Aunt Luceba," said Isabel suddenly, "was aunt Eliza hard to live with?
Did you and aunt Mary Ellen have to toe the mark?"
"Don't you say one word," answered her aunt hastily. "That's all past
an' gone. There ain't no way of settlin' old scores but buryin' of 'em.
She was older'n we were, an' on'y a step-sister, arter all. We must
think o' that. Well, I must come to the end o' my story, an' then we'll
open the chist. Next day arter we laid her away, it come into my head,
'Now we can burn up them things.' It may ha' been wicked, but there 't
was, an' the thought kep' arter me, till all I could think of was the
chist; an' byme-by I says to Mary Ellen, one mornin', 'Le's open it
to-day an' make a burnfire!' An' Mary Ellen she turned as white as a
sheet, an' dropped her spoon into her sasser, an' she says: 'Not yet!
Luceba, don't you ask me to touch it yet.' An' I found out, though she
never 'd say another word, that it unset her more'n it did me. One day,
I come on her up attic stan'in' over it with the key in her hand, an'
she turned round as if I'd ketched her stealin', an' slipped off
downstairs. An' this arternoon, she went into Tilly Ellison's with her
work, an' it come to me all of a sudden how I'd git Tim Yatter to
harness an' load the chist onto the pung, an' I'd bring it over here,
an' we'd look it over together; an' then, if there's nothin' in it but
what I think, I'd leave it behind, an' maybe you or Sadie 'd burn it.
John Cole happened to ride by, and he helped me in with it. I ain't
a-goin' to have Mary Ellen worried. She's different from me. She went to
school, same's you have, an' she's different somehow. She's been meddled
with all her life, an' I'll be whipped if she sha'n't make a new start.
Should you jest as lieves ask Sadie or John?"
"Why, yes," said Isabel wonderingly; "or do it myself. I don't see why
you care."
Aunt Luceba wiped her beaded face with a large handkerchief.
"I dunno either," she owned, in an exhausted voice. "I guess it's al'ays
little things you can't stand. Big ones you can butt ag'inst. There! I
feel better, now I've told ye. Here's the key. Should you jest as soon
open it?"
Isabel drew the chest forward with a vigorous pull of her sturdy arm.
She knelt before it and inserted the key. Aunt Luceba rose and leaned
over her shoulder, gazing with the fascination of horror. At the moment
the lid was lifted, a curious odor filled the room.
"My soul!" exclaimed Aunt Luceba. "O my soul!" She seemed incapable of
saying more; and Isabel, awed in spite of herself, asked, in a
whisper:--
"What's that smell? I know, but I can't think."
"You take out that parcel," said aunt Luceba, beginning to fan herself
with her handkerchief. "That little one down there 't the end. It's
that. My soul! how things come back! Talk about spirits! There's no need
of 'em! _Things_ are full bad enough!"
Isabel lifted out a small brown paper package, labeled in a cramped
handwriting. She held it to the fading light. "'Slippery elm left by my
dear father from his last illness,'" she read, with difficulty. '"The
broken piece used by him on the day of his death.'"
"My land!" exclaimed aunt Luceba weakly. "Now what'd she want to keep
that for? He had it round all that winter, an' he used to give us a
little mite, to please us. Oh, dear! it smells like death. Well, le's
lay it aside an' git on. The light's goin', an' I must jog along. Take
out that dress. I guess I know what 't is, though I can't hardly believe
it."
Isabel took out a black dress, made with a full, gathered skirt and an
old-fashioned waist. "'Dress made ready for aunt Mercy,'" she read,
"'before my dear uncle bought her a robe.' But, auntie," she added,
"there's no back breadth!"
"I know it! I know it! She was so large they had to cut it out, for fear
't wouldn't go into the coffin; an' Monroe Giles said she was a real
particular woman, an' he wondered how she'd feel to have the back
breadth of her quilted petticoat showin' in heaven. I declare I'm 'most
sick! What's in that pasteboard box?"
It was a shriveled object, black with long-dried mould.
"'Lemon held by Timothy Marden in his hand just before he died.' Aunt
Luceba," said Isabel, turning with a swift impulse, "I think aunt Eliza
was a horror!"
"Don't you say it, if you do think it," said her aunt, sinking into a
chair and rocking vigorously. "Le's git through with it as quick 's we
can. Ain't that a bandbox? Yes, that's great-aunt Isabel's leghorn
bunnit. You was named for her, you know. An' there's cousin Hattie's
cashmere shawl, an' Obed's spe'tacles. An' if there ain't old Mis'
Eaton's false front! Don't you read no more. I don't care what they're
marked. Move that box a mite. My soul! There's ma'am's checked apron I
bought her to the fair! Them are all her things down below." She got up
and walked to the window, looking into the chestnut branches, with
unseeing eyes. She turned about presently, and her cheeks were wet.
"There!" she said; "I guess we needn't look no more. Should you jest as
soon burn 'em?"
"Yes," answered Isabel. She was crying a little, too. "Of course I will,
auntie. I'll put 'em back now. But when you're gone, I'll do it; perhaps
not till Saturday, but I will then."
She folded the articles, and softly laid them away. They were no longer
gruesome, since even a few of them could recall the beloved and still
remembered dead. As she was gently closing the lid, she felt a hand on
her shoulder. Aunt Luceba was standing there, trembling a little, though
the tears had gone from her face.
"Isabel," said she, in a whisper, "you needn't burn the apron, when you
do the rest. Save it careful. I should like to put it away among my
things."
Isabel nodded. She remembered her grandmother, a placid, hopeful woman,
whose every deed breathed the fragrance of godly living.
"There!" said her aunt, turning away with the air of one who thrusts
back the too insistent past, lest it dominate her quite. "It's gittin'
along towards dark, an' I must put for home. I guess that hoss thinks
he's goin' to be froze to the ground. You wrop up my soap-stone while I
git on my shawl. Land! don't it smell hot? I wisht I hadn't been so spry
about puttin' on 't into the oven." She hurried on her things; and
Isabel, her hair blowing about her face, went out to uncover the horse
and speed the departure. The reins in her hands, aunt Luceba bent
forward once more to add, "Isabel, if there's one thing left for me to
say, to tole you over to live with us, I want to say it."
Isabel laughed. "I know it," she answered brightly. "And if there's
anything I can say to make you and aunt Mary Ellen come over here"--
Aunt Luceba shook her head ponderously, and clucked at the horse. "Fur's
I'm concerned, it's settled now. I'd come, an' be glad. But there's Mary
Ellen! Go 'long!" She went jangling away along the country road to the
music of old-fashioned bells.
Isabel ran into the house, and, with one look at the chest, set about
preparing her supper. She was enjoying her life of perfect freedom with
a kind of bravado, inasmuch as it seemed an innocent delight of which
nobody approved. If the two aunts would come to live with her, so much
the better; but since they refused, she scorned the descent to any
domestic expedient. Indeed, she would have been glad to sleep, as well
as to eat, in the lonely house; but to that her sister would never
consent, and though she had compromised by going to Sadie's for the
night, she always returned before breakfast. She put up a leaf of the
table standing by the wall, and arranged her simple supper there,
uttering aloud as she did so fragments of her lesson, or dramatic
sentences which had caught her fancy in reading or in speech. Finally,
as she was dipping her cream toast, she caught herself saying, over and
over, "My soul!" in the tremulous tone her aunt had used at that moment
of warm emotion. She could not make it quite her own, and she tried
again and again, like a faithful parrot. Then of a sudden the human
power and pity of it flashed upon her, and she reddened,
conscience-smitten, though no one was by to hear. She set her dish upon
the table with indignant emphasis.
"I'm ashamed of myself!" said Isabel, and she sat down to her delicate
repast, and forced herself, while she ate with a cordial relish, to fix
her mind on what seemed to her things common as compared with her
beloved ambition. Isabel often felt that she was too much absorbed in
reading, and that, somehow or other, God would come to that conclusion
also, and take away her wicked facility.
The dark seemed to drift quickly down, that night, because her supper
had been delayed, and she washed her dishes by lamplight. When she had
quite finished, and taken off her apron, she stood a moment over the
chest, before sitting down to her task of memorizing verse. She was
wondering whether she might not burn a few of the smaller things
to-night; yet somehow, although she was quite free from aunt Luceba's
awe of them, she did feel that the act must be undertaken with a certain
degree of solemnity. It ought not to be accomplished over the remnants
of a fire built for cooking; it should, moreover, be to the
accompaniment of a serious mood in herself. She turned away, but at that
instant there came a jingle of bells. It stopped at the gate. Isabel
went into the dark entry, and pressed her face against the side-light.
It was the parson. She knew him at once; no one in Tiverton could ever
mistake that stooping figure, draped in a shawl. Isabel always hated him
the more when she thought of his shawl. It flashed upon her then, as it
often did when revulsion came over her, how much she had loved him until
he had conceived this altogether horrible attachment for her. It was
like a cherished friend who had begun to cut undignified capers. More
than that, there lurked a certain cruelty in it, because he seemed to
be trading on her inherited reverence for his office. If he should ask
her to marry him, he was the minister, and how could she refuse? Unless,
indeed, there were somebody else in the room, to give her courage, and
that was hardly to be expected. Isabel began casting wildly about her
for help. Her thoughts ran in a rushing current, and even in the midst
of her tragic despair some sense of the foolishness of it smote her like
a comic note, and she could have laughed hysterically.
"But I can't help it," she said aloud, "I am afraid. I can't put out the
light. He's seen it. I can't slip out the back door. He'd hear me on the
crust. He'll--ask me--to-night! Oh, he will! he will! and I said to
myself I'd be cunning and never give him a chance. Oh, why couldn't aunt
Luceba have stayed? My soul! my soul!" And then the dramatic fibre,
always awake in her, told her that she had found the tone she sought.
He was blanketing his horse, and Isabel had flown into the sitting-room.
Her face was alive with resolution and a kind of joy. She had thought.
She threw open the chest, with a trembling hand, and pulled out the
black dress.
"I'm sorry," she said, as she slipped it on over her head, and speaking
as if she addressed some unseen guardian, "but I can't help it. If you
don't want your things used, you keep him from coming in!"
The parson knocked at the door. Isabel took no notice. She was putting
on the false front, the horn spectacles, the cashmere shawl, and the
leghorn bonnet, with its long veil. She threw back the veil, and closed
the chest. The parson knocked again. She heard him kicking the snow from
his feet against the scraper. It might have betokened a decent care for
her floors. It sounded to Isabel like a lover's haste, and smote her
anew with that fear which is the forerunner of action. She blew out the
lamp, and lighted a candle. Then she went to the door, schooling herself
in desperation to remember this, to remember that, to remember, above
all things, that her under dress was red and that her upper one had no
back breadth. She threw open the door.
"Good-evening"--said the parson. He was about to add "Miss Isabel," but
the words stuck in his throat.
"She ain't to home," answered Isabel. "My niece ain't to home."
The parson had bent forward, and was eyeing her curiously, yet with
benevolence. He knew all the residents within a large radius, and he
expected, at another word from the shadowy masker, to recognize her
also. "Will she be away long?" he hesitated.
"I guess she will," answered Isabel promptly. "She ain't to be relied
on. I never found her so." Her spirits had risen. She knew how exactly
she was imitating aunt Luceba's mode of speech. The tones were
dramatically exact, albeit of a more resonant quality. "Auntie's voice
is like suet," she thought. "Mine is vinegar. _But I've got it!_" A
merry devil assailed her, the child of dramatic triumph. She spoke with
decision: "Won't you come in?"
The parson crossed the sill, and waited courteously for her to precede
him; but Isabel thought, in time, of her back breadth, and stood aside.
"You go fust," said she, "an' I'll shet the door."
He made his way into the ill-lighted sitting-room, and began to unpin
his shawl.