FAREWELL TO WALLENCAMP.
Yet another week passed in Wallencamp before I was able to complete the
preparations for my departure.
One day, I set myself with a sort of listless fidelity to the summing up
of my accounts. I found, on deducting the amount of my actual expenses
from the sum total of my earnings in Wallencamp, that I had
sixty-two cents left!
The revelation caused me some surprise; strangely little perturbation of
spirit. I thought what tragic tales might sometimes lie hidden beneath a
seemingly dry and senseless combination of figures, while, in my own
case, I was merely struck with the justice of those figures.
For such eccentric and distracted services as I had rendered in
Wallencamp, the superintendent of schools had paid me in full at the
price stipulated, eight dollars per week.
On the other hand, the column of insolvency, I considered that the West
Wallen Doctor's bill was an expression of modesty itself. The sum due my
Dear Madeline for "board," at two dollars and a half per week, though I
trusted it was some compensation for the merely temporal advantages to be
enjoyed in Wallencamp, did not appear as an astounding aggregate. The
list of "minor details" was well portrayed, and presented an aspect of
clear use and value.
My once fond dream of a "private bank account" had gradually faded from
my memory. I saw the last spar in that fair wreck go down, now, without a
sigh. And the "loans solicited," in labored phrase, as "mere temporary
conveniences," from the friends at home--these, I was satisfied, must
remain only as the sweet continuation of a life-long debt. But how was I
to get home?
The combined fares on that route, I remembered, had amounted to something
over nine dollars! So the question haunted me, not restlessly, but with a
vague, tranquil, melancholy interest, as pertaining to the history of
some one who had lived and died a few years before; so long indeed, it
seemed to me, since I had performed the journey to Wallencamp.
I had not written home as to the day of my probable arrival, in this
yielding passively to the force of habit, which had ever constrained me
to plan my returns as "surprises" to my family and friends.
But for myself, I had fixed the day of my departure from Wallencamp, and,
in spite of the discovery made in regard to the insufficient state of my
finances, looked forward to that event without any trepidation, so that,
I remember--it was actually the day before the one fixed on, and still no
hope had dawned on the financial horizon,--when Grandma Keeler embraced
me with some tender words premonitory of our parting, I kissed her
gratefully, musing at the same time in dreamy, untroubled fashion: "Yes,
I must be going home to-morrow."
It was on this same day that we drove to "Wallen Town," Grandma and
Madeline and Becky and I. The excursion was one Grandma had planned
several weeks before, and I had no intention of making it the opportunity
which I finally did.
As we were passing a dingy-looking establishment, where some doubtful
articles of _virtu_ appeared in the window, an idea seized me, as new as
it was comprehensive of my difficulties.
I went in, ostensibly to purchase a watch-key, really to engage in
negotiations of a more serious and complicated nature. The proprietor of
the shop became the temporary guardian of my watch, while I was invested
with the funds necessary for my homeward journey. I learned, afterwards,
that this man had made an exception in the usually limited range of his
operations, in my favor, his establishment not being, by any means, that
of a pawnbroker, but, in every sense, of the most highly moral and
respectable nature.
He gave me such "ready cash" as his coffers would yield, with an
improvised pawnbroker's check, at the composition of which we had both
seriously and ingeniously labored. I can testify both to his honesty
and obligingness. He insisted on my taking with me, "jest to tell the
time o' day," a very large watch in a tarnished silver case.
Not wishing to seem to cast any disparagement on his wares, I became the
helpless recipient of this favor. The article in question was far too
large for my watch-pocket, and had a persistent habit of holding its
mouth wide open like a too weary shell-fish. On the interior of the case,
one on either side, were pasted photographs of individuals to me unknown,
male and female, their countenances such as the blinded eye of affection
alone, I thought, could have rendered mutually entertaining; and the
watch maintained, on all occasions, a system of chronology peculiarly its
own.
As we drove back to Wallencamp, Grandma Keeler, her great heart close to
Nature that sunny afternoon, beguiled the way with a gentle hilarity
which never shocked or offended, but Becky put her hand often in mine,
looking up with the old helpless, pleading expression in her eyes--Becky,
I knew, would remember longest.
Sometimes, as my hand wandered almost unconsciously to caress the
precious coin in my pocket, instead of the wild tract of stunted cedars
through which our road lay, I fancied I saw the great elms of Newtown,
the wide, straight street, the familiar house, an open door, and--ah! It
wasn't the first time I had been taken in at that door, the survivor of
wrecked ambition and misguided hope, only to hear my shortcomings made
tenderly light of, my most desperate follies lovingly ignored and
forgiven.
But I had meant that it should be so different this time! I had gone out
as a missionary; and deeper than ever in my consciousness, I must feel
the want and woe of the returning prodigal; the same old story, the
ever-recurring failure. It seemed as though all the wonder and impatience
might well go out of my despair.
Then as I lent myself more and more to the contemplation of that home
picture, how restful and happy it grew! but poor old Wallencamp--for we
were nearing the little settlement now, and the sun was fast
westering--poor, squalid, solitary, beautiful Wallencamp, as I looked
down upon it from the brow of Stony Hill, thrilled me with a troubled
sense of some diviner, some half-comprehended glory.
The crimson glow had not quite faded in the sky when I took my last walk
across the fields to where the new grave had been made on the hillside.
This is the new burying-ground of the Wallencampers; the old one lies
a mile farther up the river, near the Indian encampment. Here I saw more
than one simple slab, bearing the name of Cradlebow. Here little Bess
lies, too. The hill, meet for such sublime repose, looks ever calmly on
the humble, straggling homes of the Wallencampers below, and sees the
lonely river winding near, and hears, by night and day, the monody of
deeper waters.
I thought the voice of that great ocean of restlessness sounding along
the shore might quiet my unrest, but the beat of the waves, the growing
gloom of that still evening hour, oppressed me with a feeling unutterably
sad. I could not bear it, at last. It seemed as though another deep was
rising and breaking in my heart, the flood of proud, half-stifled passion
waking in one awful moment to overwhelm me. No light upon that sea--but
hope wronged, the mockery of death for yearning love, the unguided clash
of drifting human lives!
An agony of blindness swam before my eyes. I felt my weak hands clutching
at the grass, and gasped, as though it had been indeed in the blindness
and pain of physical death, the prayer wrung from my selfish need. But
the answer was of infinite love and compassion. It came to me then--not
as some grave revelation of truth to the "enlightened seeker," but like
the kiss or peace to a tired child, a door mysteriously opened to the
self-bound captive, to one ignorant, the light shining along a plain,
straight way. And the doubt and terror and anguish went out of the world;
even the sorrowless farewell of frozen lips changed to tender
benediction.
When I looked up at last, wondering, peaceful, my face wet with happy
tears, the stars had come out in the sky, and, down below, the windows of
the Ark were shining. The faint murmur of a song was borne up to me. The
Wallencampers had gathered at the Ark to celebrate our last "meeting"
together, and I went down to join them.
* * * * *
At what ghostly hour of the next morning Grandma Keeler awoke Grandpa to
the unusual exigencies of the occasion, I cannot say. It was necessary
for me to start very early from the Ark to take the train at West Wallen,
but when I descended the stairs, by candle-light, Grandpa Keeler had been
already washed and dyed and arrayed, as for the Sabbath, in his best.
Yes, and I was constrained to believe that he had even been instructed in
the mysteries of Sunday-school lore, for there was about him an air of
haggard and feverish excitement, and he glared at my familiar presence
with wild, unseeing eyes.
Memorable were the colloquies held that morning between Grandma and
Grandpa Keeler; Grandpa's tragic assumption of manly consequence, and
solemn fears lest we should miss the train, directed in astute syllables
of warning towards Grandma Keeler; Grandma's increased deliberation, and
imperturbable quietude of soul.
I recall the strange, unearthly aspect of the scenes enacted in the Ark
at that early hour, the fleeting vision of a morning repast which formed
some accidental part in the chaos of vaster proceedings.
Then, when the first faint signs of dawn were beginning to break through
the gray in the eastern sky, I bade farewell to the Ark forever,
lingering a moment on the old familiar doorstep for a last word with
those of the neighbors who had gathered there to see us off, for the
whole Keeler family accompanied me to the station.
There were others waiting at the gate to say good-bye, and at various
posts all the way down the lane. At the big white house, Emily came
running out, breathless. She whispered hurriedly in my ear; "There was a
message left. Ye wasn't well. I reckon 'twas a message. When fisherman
and that other one came up from the shore, day o' the storm, he came to
our house for Sim to take him to Wallen. He said it was better to be the
dead one than him. He was awful white, and Sim got harnessed, and just as
fisherman was goin' out, he left a message along o' me, though there
wasn't no names mentioned, and he talked queer; but he wanted as somebody
should know that he realized it all now, and he couldn't make up for it,
never; but it was go'n' to be new or nothin' for him, and they shouldn't
want for nothin', never, and kep' a sayin' more, and no message, exactly,
as ye could call a message, but I reckoned--I thought--may be--"
Emily's glowing eyes, fixed on my face, grew very wide and grave. I could
only press her hand in parting for Grandpa, growing impatient, had
succeeded in clucking Fanny on again.
We drove along the river road, and, passing through the Indian
encampment, there were more good-byes exchanged by the roadside.
Then climbing up "Sandy Slope," beyond the settlement, we heard the
shrill "Hullo!" of a familiar voice, and looking back, saw Bachelor Lot
running after us very swiftly, his head destitute of covering, and his
little wizened face glowing red as the celestial Mars in the distance. He
looked like some odd, fantastic toy that had been wound up and set going.
So he came up with us, and trying to conceal his breathlessness in polite
little "hums and haws," delivered aside, he offered me a huge bouquet,
composed, I should think, of every sort of wild-flower available on the
Cape at that season, and showing, in its arrangement, marks of the most
arduous striving after artistic effect. In the other hand, he held out to
me a basket of large, selected boxberries.
I accepted the gifts with unaffected delight, and thanked Bachelor Lot
warmly. I looked back at him, trudging cheerfully homeward through the
sand, so withered and small, with the gray in his hair, and his coat so
much too long for him--back to the poor brown house, which no tender love
had ever hallowed, or merry waiting laugh made bright for him; and I
wondered, along his life's way which looked so sad and desolate, what
hidden wild flowers God had strewed for him, that he seemed always so
humbly cheerful and content, and brought his best of offerings with a
smile to bless the happier lot of others.
For the rest of the way, the wild untenanted stretch was unbroken by any
incident; yet I remember no tedium by the way; and I believe that a trip
taken with Grandma and Grandpa Keeler through the most trackless desert
would inevitably have been made to teem with diversion. Those blessed
souls! I smile, looking back, but through tears, and with a reverence
and tenderness far deeper than the smile.
By the time we reached the West Wallen depot the sky had clouded over.
"A little shower comin' up," Grandma said, but Grandpa shook his head and
prophesied "a long, stiddy spell o' weather."
I persuaded my friends not to wait with me for the arrival of the train
which, owing to some discrepancy in the matter of time between Wallencamp
and West Wallen, would not be due for an hour or more.
I watched them out of sight, the last of my Wallencamp! How deeply, how
utterly it had grown into my life, so that now, in spite of the secret,
glad exultation I felt at the thought of going home, my heart went
running out after that quaint, receding vehicle, and aching sensibly.
On board the train at last, I began to experience something of the
sensation of one who awakens from a long sleep to the half-forgotten ways
of men and life with a vague, untroubled wonder as to the latest styles
in dress; or, like a traveller from a strange country, weary, and
way-worn, and out of date, who yet can smile, hugging in his breast the
happy secret of boundless wealth in the gold-mine he has discovered far
away.
I had neither umbrella, portmanteau, nor shawl-strap; such ordinary
paraphernalia of travel I remembered once to have possessed, and tried in
vain to recall the particular occasions on which they had been wrecked in
Wallencamp. I bore with me my bouquet, my basket of boxberries, some
small cedar trees for transplanting, and half of the largest clam-shell
the shores of Cape Cod had ever produced; this last a parting gift from
Lovell Barlow.
I was far from being troubled with the consciousness of anything quaint
or _bizarre_ in my appearance. I felt no mortification on account of
these treasures so intrinsically dear to my heart; but Grandma Keeler had
insisted on binding a mustard paste on my chest. It was a parting
request--I could not have refused--but in the close air of the car the
physical torture began to be extreme. Tears fell on the cedar spray at my
side, yet was I withal strangely, peacefully happy.
It was raining when I passed through Boston. Once more in the din of a
city, jolting noisily over the rough, uneven pavements, I found myself
wondering continually if the Keelers had reached home, and imagining how
the rain was falling gently, quietly, on the roof of the Ark.
At the next stage, at Hartford, I was half afraid that I should meet
brother or sister or some member of the family, and so have the complete
effect of my "surprise" destroyed; but I saw none of them. There were few
passengers on board the Newtown-bound train. It was raining still. I was
growing more and more glad at heart, and looking out with my arm pressed
against the window, when I heard a voice right over me--a soft, pitiful,
thrilling exclamation:--
"Great Heavens!"
I looked up and saw John Cable.
He sank slowly down into the seat in front of me and, for a moment,
neither of us spoke. I did not mind meeting John. I had not thought of
including him in the surprise. The sight of his familiar, friendly face
gave me a positive thrill of pleasure, but there was something in his
manner that kept me silent.
I said: "I am going to surprise them, John."
There was nothing offensive in the grave, swift glance with which John
Cable then took me in, me and my bouquet of wilted wild-flowers and my
small cedar trees, only a slow, solemn distinctness in his tone.
"You will succeed," he said. "Undoubtedly you will succeed."
Still I felt no resentment. A gentle, sorrowful perplexity filled my
breast.
"Why, do--I--look--very--very--unusual, John?" I questioned, and looking
in his face I wondered why, in the old days of careless jest and
repartee, he had never seemed so moved.
More words he said, but I could not bear them then, and tears from an
inward pain fell on the cedar spray, yet I was glad that I had not grown
so unusual that people would never like me any more.
Next, the surprise was a success, as John Cable had predicted, but that
was the one point in my career in which my genius had never failed me. My
surprises, though inclined to take something of the nature of an
accumulation of calamities, had never lacked the great element of
awe-producing wonder.
For the rest, I had known that I should be forgiven and received with the
usual _éclât_ of the returned prodigal into the family bosom--but to be
held up on successive days as an object of ever-increasing marvel and
interest, as one whose words and acts were endowed with a peculiar
significance, as the light of the social fireside, the enchanter of small
spell-bound audiences! Well, I had been spoiled so early in life that
little was needed to complete the wreck. I felt a deeper satisfaction
when, as I was meekly beseeching our Bridget's instruction in some
particular branch of the culinary art, that majestic female observed, as
she folded her arms and looked down on me complacently:--
"There's one thing I like better about you than I used to, miss--you do
have to wade through a great deal o' flour to larn a little plain cooking
but Job himself couldn't a' be'n no patienter." And it was indeed true
that my "Graham gems" never quite reached perfection, though they bore
with them marks of earnest and faithful endeavor.
I found new sources of interest everywhere, and in ways which I had
formerly regarded with aversion and disdain.
At the "Newtown Ladies' Charitable Sewing Society," I was elevated from
among the common stitchers and sewers, for faithfulness in service,--I
believe, though malicious fingers would point to the distortion of the
legs of little heathens' trousers--to a place on the "cutting circle."
From the cutting circle, it is needless to say, I was speedily exalted to
a presidential chair of easeful observation and general vague
superintendency.
Later, there was a revival of the "Literary Club." There John Cable and I
shone once more amid a group of familiar and undimmed luminaries. John
Cable never took up the exact thread of the discourse broken off so
abruptly on the day of my return, in the cars, but it was when coming
home from the club one evening that he expressed himself to the effect
that I had always been a great burden on his mind, ever since the first
day he led me to school, and, to be sure, I had shown signs of
improvement lately, but there was always a pardonable doubt as to what I
might do next, and it was wearing on him, and would I set his mind at
rest by allowing him, in some sense, to take the direction of my life
into his own hands?
John, though of adverse views, had been heatedly discussing the merits of
the Capital Punishment question at the club, so I was not surprised at
the unusual grace and flow of his address.
Years have passed since that evening. I have been very happy as John's
wife. If I wander in my story, be it said that little John is running a
model express-train on the floor over my head. Little John, when not
dreaming, exercises a vast amount of destructive physical force.
* * * * *
A little more than a year after I left Wallencamp, I heard of Grandma and
Grandpa Keeler's death. "Very quiet and peaceful," they said concerning
Grandma, but I had known what sort of a death-bed hers would be. Scarcely
a week after she had passed away, Grandpa Keeler followed her. I had it
from good authority that he kept about the house till the last. There was
a "rainy spell," and he stood often gazing out of the window "with a lost
look on his face," and once he said with a wistful, broken utterance and
a pathetic longing in his eyes that did away forever with any opprobrium
there might have been in connection with the term, that "it was gittin'
to be very lonely about the house without ma pesterin' on him."
Since then, I have not heard from Wallencamp. It is doubtful whether I
ever get another letter from that source. Though singularly gifted in the
epistolary art, it is but a dull and faint means of expression to the
souls of the Wallencampers--and _they_ will not forget. From the storms
that shake their earthly habitations, they pass to their sweet, wild rest
beside the sea; and by and by, when I meet them, I shall hear them sing.
End of Project Gutenberg's Cape Cod Folks, by Sarah P. McLean Greene