HOW SHE SANG GRANDFATHER TO SLEEP
GRANDFATHER began to fail. He complained of no pain or distress; but
his stately figure seemed to shrink, and his head that he used to hold
so high was now bowed on his breast, and he began to creep and shuffle
in his walk. Widow Peace said the change had begun when he came back
from the vain search for his graceless son, and I think it was true.
“He won’t more than last out the winter,” said Mrs. Peace, “if he does
that. The Merions don’t run much above seventy.”
“Don’t, mother!” said Anne.
“Don’ting won’t stop the course of nature,” said her mother, “nor yet
is it proper you should say ‘Don’t’ to me, Anne Peace.”
“I beg your pardon, mother; I meant no harm.”
“No more you did, daughter. You may hand me the tape measure. Anne, if
you can tell me how to cut this dress so as to make Mis’ Broadback look
like anything besides Behemoth in the Bible I shall be obliged to you.”
“You’re real funny, mother!” said Anne, who never quite understood her
parent.
“Fun keeps the fiddle going!” said Mrs. Peace. “You may cut them gores
if you’re a mind to, Anne. There’s Rachel and Manuel goin’ off again.
S’pose they’re goin’ to make a match of it?”
“Oh, mother!” said little Anne.
“‘Oh,’ said the owl, and set up a hootin’,
But Jabez kept still when he done the shootin’.”
What does Grandmother do these days? I haven’t seen her go out of the
gate for a week and more. You were over this morning, wasn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Anne. “Oh, mother, she just sits by Grandfather all the
time—when her work is done, that’s to say; Grandmother never slights
anything; sits by him all day, reading to him when he’s awake, or
talking, or singing those little songs he likes; and when he drops off
asleep she just reaches for her sewing and sits and waits till he wakes
up. And she’s growing so white and thin—there! it just makes me ache
to see her. I said to her ‘Grandmother,’ I said, ‘when he drops off
asleep that way, you’d ought to slip out into the garden for a mouthful
of air, even if you don’t go no further. Rachel can stay round,’ I
said, ‘case he should want anything,’ I said. But she just shook her
head. ‘No, Anne!’ she says. ‘I must be here,’ she says. ‘He has been so
good to me; so good to me; he must always find me here when he wants
me.’
“And sure enough, mother, directly he woke up, before he opened his
eyes he says ‘You here, Grandmother?’ kinder restless like, and she
says ‘Yes, Grandfather, right here!’ and laid her hand on his and began
to sing, and he smiled real happy and contented, said he didn’t want
anything except just to know that she was there. But, mother, ’tis a
sweet pretty sight now, to see them two together. Of course he’s an
old man and she’s a young girl, but yet—well, they aren’t like other
folks, neither one of them. What makes you look like that, mother?”
“Nobody ever was like other folks that ever I heard of,” said Widow
Peace rather grimly. “Now you be quiet, Anne Peace. Here comes Rachel.”
Rachel Merion came flying in, splendid in her scarlet dress. “How do,
Mis’ Peace?” she said. “Anne, will you lend me that mantilla pattern?
I want to make one out of some of that black lace Grandmother Willard
had. Will you, Anne? hurry up, I can’t wait.”
Mrs. Peace looked at her with mild severity. “Rachel,” she said; “sit
down a spell. I want to speak to you.”
“Oh, I can’t, Mis’ Peace!” said Rachel. “Manuel’s waiting for me
outside.”
“Manuel _can_ wait,” said Mrs. Peace. “It’ll do him good. Sit down,
Rachel!”
“I’d full as lives stand, thank you,” said Rachel sullenly.
“I asked you to sit down,” said Mrs. Peace quietly; and Rachel sat down
with a flounce on the edge of a chair, and listened with lowering brows.
“I want to speak to you about Grandmother,” said the little widow. “She
isn’t well; Anne sees it, and I see it. She’s outdoing her strength,
caring for Grandfather all day long, and I think you’d ought to help
her more than what you do.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed under their black brows.
“She wanted him,” she said, “and she got him; now let her see to him. I
don’t feel no call to take care of Grandfather; he isn’t my husband.”
Anne’s soft eyes glowed with indignation. She was about to speak, her
mother motioned her to silence. “Rachel Merion,” she said. “You’d ought
to be slapped, and I’ve a good part of a mind to do it. You’re careless
and shiftless, and heathen; and you’ll neither do good nor get it in
this world till you get a human heart in your bosom. Grandmother is
worth twenty of you, and I pay her no compliment either in saying it;
it shows what she is, that she has put up with your actions so long.
I wouldn’t have, not a single week. I’d have drove you out with a
broomstick, Rachel, and give you time to learn manners before I let you
in again. There! now I’ve said my say, and you can go.”
As Anne said, it was a pretty sight there, in the Merion kitchen. The
good old man sat in his great armchair, dozing or dreaming the hours
away, less and less inclined to stir as the weeks went on; and always
beside him was the slight figure in the clear print dress, watching,
waiting, tending; yes, it was pretty enough.
“Sing, Grandmother!” he would say now and then; and Grandmother would
sing in her low sweet voice, like a flute:
“Sweet sleep to fold me,
Sweet dreams to hold me;
Listen, oh! listen!
This the angels told me.
Fair grow the trees there,
Soft blows the breeze there,
Golden ways, golden days,
When will ye enfold me?”
Or that quaint little old song that he specially liked:
“As I went walking, walking,
I heard St. Michael talking,
He spoke to sweet St. Gabriel,
The one who loves my soul so well,
‘Oh, brother, tell me here,
Why hold that soul so dear?’
‘Because, alas, since e’er ‘twas born,
I feel the piercing of its thorn.’”
Or it would be the song of the river, and that she loved to sing,
because Grandfather would fall asleep to the soft lulling time of it:
“Flow, flow, flow down river,
Carry me down to the sea!
Ropes of silk and a cedar paddle,
For to set my spirit free.
Roll, roll, rolling billow;
Smooth, smooth my sleepy pillow:
Silver sails and a cedar paddle,
For to set my spirit free!
“Long, long work and weeping,
Trying for to do my best:
Soon, soon, time for sleeping;
Cover me up to rest!
Roll, roll, rolling billow,
Smooth, smooth my sleepy pillow,
Golden masts and a cedar paddle,
For to set my spirit free!”
One day she was singing this, softer and softer, till she thought
Grandfather was fast asleep. Lower and lower sank the lulling voice,
till at length it died away in a sigh. Then she sat silent, looking
at him; at the good white head, the broad forehead, with its strong
lines of toil and thought, all the kind face that she knew and loved
well now. She sighed again, not knowing that she did; and at that
Grandfather opened his eyes without stirring and looked at her—oh, so
kindly!
“Little Grandmother,” he said. “You know I am going soon?”
“Yes, Grandfather!” said she.
“You have been a good, good child,” said Grandfather; “a good and
faithful child, and when I go my blessing stays with you. You are
young, and I want you to be happy. Perhaps you will like to marry
Manuel, my dear?”
Grandmother lifted her clear eyes to his.
“Yes, Grandfather!” she said.
“He is not good enough for you,” said Grandfather, “but—well! well!
you are both young, both young, and youth is a great thing. I was young
myself—a long, long time ago, my dear.” He was silent.
Grandmother knelt down beside him, and took his hand in her own two,
stroking it and singing softly.
“Silver sails and a cedar paddle,
For to set my spirit free.”
Presently he looked up, and spoke hurriedly, in a strange, confused
voice.
“Mary!” he said. “Are you there?”
Now Mary was the name of the wife of his youth. Grandmother was silent.
“Are you there, Mary?” asked the old man impatiently. “‘Tis so dark I
can’t see you.”
“Yes, I am here!” said Grandmother.
“‘Tis time to light up!” said Grandfather. “We mustn’t sit here in the
dark like old folks, Mary. Let me get up and light the lamps.”
The afternoon light fell clear on his face with its open sightless
eyes, and on the angel face turned up to it in faithful love.
“Wait just a little, John,” said Grandmother. “I—I love the twilight;
’tis restful. Let—let me rest a bit before we light up, won’t you?”
“Surely, Mary; surely, my dear. We’ll rest together then; I—I am tired
too, I—think.”
There was a long silence. The light was growing softer, fainter; the
old clock ticked steadily; a coal tinkled from the fire.
“Mary—you are there?”
“Yes, dear!”
“Song—the sleepy song; I think I shall sleep.”
Hush! rest, dear white head, on my breast; close, poor eyes that cannot
see the light. Rest, rest, in the quiet twilight!
“Roll, roll, rolling billow,
Smooth, smooth my sleepy pillow,
Golden mast and a cedar paddle,
For to set my spirit free!”