HOW SHE FOUND PEACE
NEXT day her hair was quite white, as if it had been snowed on in the
night. But she was herself again, and went quietly about the house,
doing all that had to be done, and waiting on Rachel, who lay moaning
and crying in her darkened room, exhausted after a night of hysterical
passion. Grandmother brought the breakfast tray, and bathed her face
and hands and brushed her hair, in silence; she seemed unconscious of
her sobs and tears.
“I think you might say something, Grandmother!” Rachel whimpered.
“It’s dreadful enough, without your going about looking like a stone
image. It isn’t your baby that—oh, dear! and just as I was getting so
fond of her. She was just getting to the interesting age. Oh, it’s too
awful; isn’t it, Grandmother?”
Grandmother did not heed her, but went on brushing the heavy black hair
mechanically.
“I know you were fond of her,” said Rachel, “and I sha’n’t say a word
about your keeping her away from me so much. But of course you can’t
pretend to feel what I do, Grandmother. You’ve never had a child, you
don’t know what a mother feels. You’ve never had anything to feel,
really, all your life. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and Manuel takes it so hard;
I’m sure I don’t know what is going to become of us. Grandmother, if
you are going to be like a wooden stick, I wish you’d go away and send
Manuel to me.”
Grandmother went without a word. At the door she met the kind old
minister, the same who christened Baby Faith—ah, how long ago? She
led him aside to the hall window, and with one hand on his arm pointed
upward with the other.
“He let it happen. He sent the little life, and then let it be crushed
out like the life of a fly or a worm. Why?”
Her eyes looked through and through him, but the wise old eyes looked
back steadily and kindly.
“Daughter,” he said. “His great laws are not made to be broken. When
we transgress them, it is ourselves we break, against their divine and
unchangeable order.”
Grandmother’s head dropped on her bosom. “I see!” she said.
She stood there quietly for awhile after he had gone in to see Rachel;
then she went to find Manuel.
Manuel was sitting in the kitchen, his head in his hands, staring
moodily before him. He looked up as Grandmother came in, looked at her
with haggard eyes, then dropped his head again.
“Go away!” he said hoarsely. “Go away, you white thing! What have you
to do with murderers?”
“I never saw one,” said Grandmother simply. “Poor Manuel, come out into
the garden. It isn’t good for you to sit here and brood.”
“One place is as good as another,” said Manuel. “Leave me alone in the
hell we have made, she and I.”
Grandmother did not speak for a time; then she said, “Manuel, God’s
will must be done in hell as much as anywhere else.”
“God!” said Manuel; and he laughed, an ugly laugh. “Do you still
believe in God after yesterday?”
“Oh, so much more!” said Grandmother; and she added softly as if she
were saying over a lesson that she had learned by heart, “His great
laws may not be broken. When we transgress them, it is ourselves we
break—Come, Manuel, come out into the sunshine.”
She spoke as to a child, and like a child he obeyed, and followed her
out into the blossoming garden, all life and color and fragrance. As
the glory shone upon him, the young man staggered on the threshold and
uttered a groan; then he glanced at Grandmother. “Your hair is as white
as snow!” he said.
“Is it?” said Grandmother. “It doesn’t matter. We must gather flowers,
all the brightest flowers, Manuel, for Little One. She liked the gay
ones best, and there is nothing else to do—now.”
She moved away slowly, among her flowers; she had grown heavy-footed
since yesterday; and the man followed her with hanging head.
* * * * *
The thing that was between them, instead of drawing Rachel and her
husband together, seemed to turn them against each other. There were
bitter words, words that pierced and stung like poisoned arrows; and
every quarrel left Rachel more hysterical, Manuel more gloomy and
silent, brooding over that sweet past that had been flung into the dust.
Grandmother would come out of her dream and try hard to make peace,
and she could always quiet Manuel, but that often exasperated Rachel
the more. When the bitter tongue was turned against her she did not
seem to hear, but lapsed again into the listless half-dreaming state
in which she lived now, moving softly, doing with exquisite care
everything that was to be done, but seeming little conscious of what
was going on around her.
Then came the day when Rachel rushed wild-eyed into her room, as she
sat sewing by the empty cradle.
“Grandmother,” she cried; “something is the matter with Manuel.
He’s—sick; he won’t speak to me. Go and see what is the matter, quick!”
Grandmother went into the kitchen. Manuel was sitting by the table
as he was that other day, his head in his hands. He looked up and
smiled at her, a dull, foolish smile. “Grandmother,” he said thickly,
“I’m glad—see you. I sent the other one away. She’s no good; I’ve
had enough of her. No good! but you, Grandmother—you weren’t always
Grandmother; what’s your other name? I know—Pitia! give me a kiss,
Pitia! I always liked you best, you know.”
He rose and staggered toward her. She recoiled, her arms stretched out,
her face alight with anguish. “Don’t come a step nearer!” she cried.
“Manuel—not a step!”
He stopped and stared at her stupidly. Suddenly, swiftly, her face
changed, softened into pity and tenderness “Poor Manuel!” she said.
“Poor boy! come out into the air; come with me!” Again the quiet hand
rested on his arm, compelling him, again he stumbled out into the good
clear blessed sunshine. Poor Manuel!
Grandmother brought water and bathed his aching head, and made him lie
down under the great russet-apple tree where the shade was thick and
cool, and bade him sleep till the headache was over. Then she came back
to Rachel, who watched half-jealous, half-terrified, from the hall
window.
What need to dwell on the time that followed? Manuel had found the
thing that—for the moment—deadened the pain at his heart and dulled
his ears to Rachel’s reproaches and complaints.
Some latent poison in the blood—who can read these mysteries?—made
the drink a fire that consumed him. He wasted away, and hugged his
destroyer ever closer to him. Grandmother battled for his life, as she
had for that other sweet life which was the light of her own; Rachel
looked on terrified and helpless.
Then came the winter night when he fell down senseless by the garden
gate and lay there all night, while the women watched and waited in the
house. It was Grandmother who found him. She had persuaded Rachel to
lie down, and then thrown a cloak over her wrapper and crept out in the
gray iron-bound dawn to look down the road for one who might be coming
stumbling along, and might need help to gain the house; and she saw the
frozen face glimmering up from the snow-bank where he lay.
There was one cry; a long low cry that shivered through the still
frosty air; but no one heard.
How could she carry him in? We never knew; she never spoke of it;
but no one else saw him till he was laid decently in his bed and the
staring eyes closed. Then she called his wife.
The doctor came again, and good Mrs. Peace, and all was done that might
be; but it was a bitter night, and all was over, as Grandmother knew at
the first sight of that glimmering face. Poor Manuel! A fire of straw,
as Mother Peace said.
It was after this that Grandmother had the long illness; when she lay
for weeks speechless and motionless, with barely strength enough to
move her little finger for “Yes” or “No” when we asked her a question.
I helped Mrs. Peace and Anne with the nursing. Rachel had gone away
to her mother’s people. Sometimes, indeed many times, we thought she
was gone; she lay so still; and we could not catch even the slightest
flutter of breath. I remember those nights so well; one moonlight night
in particular. We knew how she loved the moonlight, and opened the
shutters wide. It was a cold still night, the snow silver white under
the moon. The light poured in full and strong on the bed where she lay
like an ivory statue, and turned the ivory to silver. I thought she
was dying then, and thought what a beautiful way to die, the heavenly
spirit mounting along the moon-path, leaving that perfect image there
at rest.
[Illustration: “SHE LAY LIKE AN IVORY STATUE.”]
That was in February. April found her still lying there, just
breathing, no more. The doctor gave a little hope, now; she might slip
away any time, he said, but still it had lasted so long, there must be
a reserve of strength; it was possible that she might come through it.
One bright warm April day we had opened the windows, and the air came
in sweet and fresh, and the robins were singing loud and merry in the
budding apple-trees.
Suddenly from the road outside came a child’s laugh; sweet and clear it
rang out like a silver bell, and at the sound the ivory figure in the
bed moved. A slight shiver rippled through it from head to foot. The
eyes opened and looked at us, clear and calm.
Dear Anne Peace knelt down beside the bed and took the slender
transparent hands in hers, the tears running down her face.
“Grandmother,” she said, “you are going to get well now—for the
children! Spring has come, Grandmother dear, and the children need you!”
She did get well. Slowly but surely life and strength returned; by
June she was in the garden again with the children around her. Not
the same, not the light-foot girl who frolicked and ran with the other
children, but as you all remember her; serene, clear-eyed, cheerful,
full of wisdom, grace, tenderness. Grandmother! who in this village
does not remember her? To you young people she seemed an old woman,
with her snow-white hair and ivory face, drawn into deep patient lines.
She was not fifty when she died.
During the twenty years she had yet to live, what a benediction her
days were to old and young!
People came to her with their joys and their sorrows. Strangers came,
from outlying places, and brought their troubles to her; they had
heard, no one knows how, that she had power and wisdom beyond that
of other women. I met one of these strangers once. I was going in to
see Grandmother, and I met a lady coming away; a handsome lady, richly
dressed. She had been weeping, but her face was full of light.
She looked at me. “Young woman,” she said, “do you live near here?”
“Yes, madam,” I said; “close by, in that brown cottage.”
“Yours is a high privilege,” she said, “to dwell so near to heaven.”
She looked back to the house and kissed her hand to it; then beckoned,
and a fine carriage came up and she drove away. I never knew who she
was.
I found Grandmother sitting quietly with her knitting, by the empty
cradle.
“What did you say to that lady, Grandmother?” I asked, though I knew
next moment I should not have done it.
“I told her an old lesson, my dear,” said Grandmother; “a lesson I
learned long ago.”
Once it was Saturday Nelly who came; Nelly, now grown a woman—if it
could be called growing.
“Grandmother,” she said, “look at me, and tell me what you see.”
Grandmother looked into the pale drawn face with its strange eyes.
“Nelly dear,” she said, “I see a face that I love, a face full of truth
and goodness.”
“You see a monster!” said the poor girl. She made a passionate gesture
toward a mirror that hung opposite them; indeed, the glass showed a
strange contrast.
“Look!” she said. “Look, Grandmother, and tell me! When one is shut up
in a prison like that, full of pain and horror—hasn’t one a right to
get out if one can?”
Seeing the wonder in Grandmother’s face she hurried on. “Father’s dead;
poor father! I would not let myself think of it while he was living.
He is dead, and there is no one else—except you, Angel, and you would
understand, wouldn’t you? If I put this thing to sleep”—she struck her
heart fiercely—“and slipped out of prison—Grandmother, what harm
would it do? what harm _could_ it do?”
“Nelly! Nelly dear,” said Grandmother, “you couldn’t—could you—go
with your lesson half-learned? Such a strange, wonderful lesson,
Nelly, and you have been learning so well. To go there, and when they
asked you, have to say ‘I didn’t finish, I left it half-done, because
I didn’t like it;’ _could_ you do that, do you think, Nelly dear?
because—it wouldn’t be ready at the other end either, don’t you see,
darling? It wouldn’t fit in. You haven’t thought of that, have you,
Nelly?”
Nelly hid her face in her hands, and there was a long silence.
Presently she spoke, low and trembling.
“Grandmother—suppose there wasn’t any other end! Suppose I couldn’t
see—suppose I didn’t believe there was—anything more—when this
hateful thing”—she plucked at her poor twisted body as if she would
have torn it—“is buried out of sight with the other worms! what then?”
“Oh, Nelly!” said Grandmother softly. “Nelly dear! if it were so; if
this were the only lesson, mustn’t we try all the harder to learn it
well? if this should be our only chance to help and love and tend and
cheer, would we give up one minute of the time? Oh, no! Nelly, no!
Think a little, my dear! think a little!”
We all remember Saturday Nelly, in the little shop that Grandmother
set up for her, selling sweeties to the children, selling thread and
needles and tape, tending her birds and flowers, the cheeriest, gayest
little soul in the village. Her shop was a kind of centre of merry
innocent chatter for young and old; it was full from morning to night.
We never thought much about Nelly’s looks except when we spoke of
Grandmother; then her face grew beautiful.
I think the children loved Grandmother better even than in her
girl-days.
The Saturday feasts were quieter, but still full of light and joy, and
the stories—well, they were like no other stories that ever were told.
“And oh! the words that fell from her mouth,
Were words of wisdom and of truth.”
So she lived, blessing and blessed, twenty more heavenly years; and so,
when God called her, she died. We found her one morning sitting by the
little cradle, her head resting on it, and a white rose in her quiet
hand. When we raised her face and looked at it, there was no need to
ask whither the spirit had gone.
* * * * *
And Rachel? A year after Manuel died, she married a man from a
neighboring village, a masterful man who broke her over his knee like a
willow switch, and whom she adored for the rest of her life. She bore
him sons and daughters, and grew—comparatively—cheerful and placid.
She came to see Grandmother now and then, and marvelled at her.
“How you do age, Grandmother!” she would say. “And you without a care
in the world. I wonder what would have happened if you had really
lived, as I have!”
THE END.