THE TRAMP 27
"HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY" 42
A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING 58
NANCY'S TALE 72
PATSY 88
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE 103
THE ELEVENTH HOUR 116
THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT 130
PETER 150
GOD'S WAY 165
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THE PASSING OF TONY.
"Last mail in, Mis' Bascomb?"
"Last mail's in, Tony."
"Be there anything for me to-night?"
Widow Bascomb knew perfectly well there was not, but she reached for a
small pile of letters in a pigeonhole on her right and glanced over them
rapidly. Her sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as she
smiled on the little old man before her.
"Sorry, Tony, there's nothing for you to-night."
"Thank you, Mis' Bascomb, p'raps it'll come to-morrow," and Tony turned
away with a sigh and moved towards the door.
A group of men were gathered around the stove, smoking and exchanging
the gossip of the town. These greeted him kindly as he passed and he
returned the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, the old
man stopped to give his woolen muffler one more turn around his neck.
"Purty cold snap, this," he remarked to the company in general. "Looks
as if we'd have snow 'fore mornin' and a white Christmas after all.
Good-night, Mis' Bascomb; good-night boys. A merry Christmas to you
all!" and Tony stepped out into the frosty air of the December evening.
He sighed again as he turned up over the hill to the left and started
for home. It had been a long, cold walk down to the village, and it
would be equally long and even colder on the way back, for a sharp wind
was blowing directly in his face. It was a bad night for an old man like
Tony to be abroad and he was almost sorry that he had ventured out. But
there was his promise to Martha; it would never do to break that. Martha
had always been of a more hopeful turn of mind than he, anyway. While
she was still alive she had imparted to him the same spirit of trust and
hopefulness which shone in her steady gray eyes, but since God had taken
Martha and left him all alone in the world of care and trouble, life had
been hard indeed.
He had promised Martha never to omit the daily visit to the post-office
to inquire for the letter which, thus far, had failed to arrive. Martha
had been so sure that Sallie would write to them some day; Sallie,
their handsome, wilful daughter, who had passed out of their lives
nearly fifteen years before. He never blamed Sallie for wanting to leave
them; what could a tiny village like this offer to one as clever, as
pretty, as ambitious as Sallie had been? The neighbors had said many
unkind things of Sallie but he heeded them not. They had called her
vain, idle and silly; they said the folks at the big house had spoiled
her and put notions into her head. They told him he did a foolish thing
when he allowed her to go as maid to the lady of the big house over on
the shores of the lake, and to go down to the city with the family when
they moved home in the autumn. To tell the truth, poor Tony had little
voice in the matter. Sallie, as usual, had taken affairs into her own
hands and decided for herself.
Nearly fifteen years! It was a long, long time; and never a word from
the truant since the day she had left the village. Martha had waited, at
first impatiently, then anxiously, and finally with a pathetic
hopefulness that was more than half assumed. It was she who had insisted
that Tony must go to the office every day, and during those long years,
every evening, rain or shine, the same little scene was enacted in the
village post-office. Every evening he had the same story of failure to
report.
"No letter to-night, mother."
"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would sigh
and clasp her hands in her lap.
Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying for
the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and
together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of God to
keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had left,
four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little
angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a very
short space of time.
Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the world;
for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might be at rest
in God's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, surely,
some word would have come from her. She must have known how anxiously
they would watch for news of her, and certainly she would not be so
heartless as to keep silence all this long time.
Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to reach them. Well,
whatever the trouble was, Tony had long since given up all hope of
hearing from her, but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made
his nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it not been for
that promise he would certainly not take that long walk day after day,
in summer heat and winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony's
heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the walk home always
seemed twice as long as the walk down, after hearing those depressing
words "No letter to-night, Tony."
Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost more than the
old man's failing strength had been able to support. How often he wished
he had not been obliged to sell Lassie. She was the last of his horses
to go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There was nothing left
to him now but the old house, and that was in such a state of
dilapidation as to be really unfit for habitation. In the old days, his
dogs and his horses were better housed than he was now; in the old days,
when his farm was one of the most prosperous in that section of the
country. It was lonely indeed since Martha went away, but he was glad
she had not lived to see him brought to this pass. He was glad he had
been able to surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do
so he had been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he
owned, one after another.
But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her room
by illness for many years before God had sent her release from pain.
Thank God, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without worrying
over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always cheerful; her
favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily
upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to care for her,
in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's appetite; fresh
eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had come from their
own farm.
It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save
that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which
stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that
garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing there.
Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large
chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where she
could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he would
glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that
sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes
fixed upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and
out through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village
and thence to the city beyond. He knew her mind had gone out into the
wide, busy world, of which an occasional echo would reach them, gone out
in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl who had passed
down that country road so many years ago never to return. To the very
end, Martha had never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for the return
of the wanderer, or at least for some word of assurance that all was
well with her.
By the time Tony reached the dismantled farmhouse the snow was falling
thickly, silently, on all around.
"Twill be a bad storm," thought Tony. "God pity any who are abroad this
night."
Pushing open the kitchen door he entered quickly, divesting himself of
cap, muffler, and ragged overcoat, and hanging them near the stove to
dry. He lighted the lamp and threw some wood upon the fire which had
burned low. Then, turning, he spied for the first time, a basket upon
the table. A pleased smile overspread his face. So they had not
forgotten, after all! How he and Martha had always watched for that
Christmas basket from Cousin John's folks over at the market town! It
was not so much the value of the gift, for John was not over-plentifully
blessed with the goods of this world and had a large family dependent
upon him. It was more the fact of being remembered kindly, the knowledge
that there was still some one who thought of them occasionally.
He commenced unpacking the basket and arranging the contents upon the
table: home-baked bread, pies, cakes; a package of tea, another of
tobacco; oranges, nuts, candy; warm mittens and socks that John's wife
had knit for him. She was a good woman, John's wife, kind-hearted and
thoughtful; she must have guessed how badly he needed socks and mittens
now that Martha was no longer there to make them for him. He started for
the cupboard, a pie in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other, then
stopped in the middle of the room and eyed them meditatively. What was
it Martha used to say?
"Never, never let Christmas pass without doing something for some one.
No matter how poor one may be, Tony, they're always others poorer still.
If it be no more'n a loaf of bread, give something to the poor at
Christmas time in the name of the little Babe that had none but the
shepherds to do a hand's turn for Him."
Each year he and Martha had found some one to whom they gave in the
Christ-Child's name, for the sake of the girl who was never absent from
their thoughts by day or by night. Even last year, as poor as he was, he
had met with one more needy still and sent him on his way rejoicing--a
poor lad, out of work, out of money, tramping from city to city in
search of employment. They had taken him in for Sallie's sake, given him
food and shelter, and when the boy left the farm a silver dollar, nearly
the last of Tony's small store, was pressed into his hand. The dollar
had been returned, for at the next town the object of Tony's charity had
found steady work. That was last year. This Christmas he was not doing
a thing for any one; he had forgotten completely, probably because
Martha was not there to remind him.
He placed the bread and the pie back upon the table and stood looking at
them long and earnestly. He knew of one who needed them far more than he
did, a poor widow over in "the hollow," whose five small children,
sickly, starved little creatures, were more than half the time crying
with cold and hunger. He opened the package of tobacco, filled his pipe
and sat down in his chair by the stove to smoke and think.
How those poor children would enjoy the bread and pies and cakes which
John's wife had sent him! Poor little things, they seldom, if ever,
tasted fare like that. He really did not need them; he managed to get
along pretty well and the neighbors were all good to him; especially
since Martha died. He would really be glad to give those children
something, but he was so tired, so tired, and it was quite a walk over
to the hollow.
Then, the storm! How the wind shrieked and tore around the house, and
how steadily the snow beat against the window panes! It was warm and
comfortable there by the fire, but outside----. And he was unusually
tired to-night; that walk to the village had been almost too much for
him. Besides, he must be up in time for first Mass in the morning; he
had never missed first Mass and Holy Communion on Christmas since the
day he and Martha were married. Year after year, they had knelt side by
side at God's altar; for many years Sallie had knelt there with him; now
he was all alone but he meant to continue the custom for Martha's
sake.
How the storm did rage, to be sure; but those poor children, those poor
little children! Perhaps somewhere in the wide world his Sallie was in
need of help and comfort this night and those who might give it to her
were too tired or too lazy. He guessed that was the trouble, he was
growing lazy in his old age. Well, he would do this for Sallie; it would
be one more little sacrifice added to the many which he and Martha had
offered for their wandering child, that God might keep guard over her
wherever she might be. Yes, he would do it for Sallie's sake and to
please Martha. From Heaven she was watching him and would know that to
please her and for the sake of their child he was going to brave the
storm once more and carry a little Christmas happiness to those poor
children over in the hollow. The walk over and back again would not hurt
him; he was growing old and lazy, that was all.
But first he must light the lamp. Dear, dear, he was growing forgetful
as well as lazy. He had nearly forgotten to light Sallie's lamp. What
would Martha say to that? Every night as soon as dusk had fallen, Martha
had insisted upon placing a lamp in the window of what had once been
Sallie's room. If the child came back unexpectedly, she would see the
light shining from her window and know they were waiting and watching
for her. The room itself was as she had left it years ago, her clothes
still hanging in the closet, her slippers laid ready for the tired feet
to slip into them, the fire on the hearth all prepared against the day
of her home-coming, and by night the lamp in the window shining a
welcome that could be seen afar down the road that led from the village.
He must light Sallie's lamp, then off once more into the storm and
darkness to carry a bit of Christmas cheer to the little home in the
hollow.
Nearly an hour later, a thoroughly worn-out but very happy old man sat
by the stove in the farmhouse kitchen. He was too tired even to light
his pipe; he simply sat there and tried to rest. It had been a hard
fight against the storm, but how pleased those poor little children
were! Well, he had done it for Sallie, just one more little sacrifice
for Sallie who was somewhere out there in the cold, weary world, far
from the home of her childhood, far from the ones who loved her best.
Sallie gone? Sallie far away in the storm and darkness? Why no, of
course not. Sallie was only a little child sleeping quietly in her own
little room. See, the door was ajar and a ray of light from the lamp in
Sallie's room was streaming across the kitchen floor. He must go in and
extinguish the light before it awakened the sleeping child. Why had
Martha left the lamp burning? Surely she must know it would disturb the
child. Well, as soon as he was rested he would go and put it out.
How tired, how tired he did feel! He'd worked pretty hard to-day, and
the sun had been hot, so hot. Well, never mind, the hay was all cut now,
a few more days like this and his barn would be filled with the finest
hay in the country. A few more years like this one and he would be the
richest farmer hereabouts. For himself, he did not care, and Martha had
simple tastes like his own. But there was Sallie. She was only a wee tot
now but she would be a woman some day. They must give Sallie all the
advantages they had missed; they must lay by money against the time when
Sallie would be a grown up woman and want things like other girls of her
age.
What ailed him, anyway, that a day's work in the hay field should make
him feel like this, so tired, so very tired?
He felt a little better now; he would rest a few moments more, then be
off home to supper and to Martha and Sallie. But who was that calling to
him? Why, Martha, to be sure, standing there by the five-barred gate.
She had come to meet him with their baby in her arms. That was strange;
it was not Sallie, it was their first-born, the boy with his mother's
eyes who had blessed their home for only a few short months and then
been laid to rest in the churchyard on the hill. The other little tots
were with her, three of them, clinging closely to her skirts. They were
all smiling and holding out their hands to him in invitation. But
Sallie, where was Sallie? Once more Martha called his name. At the sound
of her voice all the wonder, all the worriment, fled from Tony's heart.
"Coming, Mother, coming," he called happily, and the smile upon Martha's
face was reflected on his own.
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear; the storm had passed in the
night. Something else had passed, too--the soul of an aged farmer. It
was not until the next day they found him, still sitting in the lounging
chair by the stove in which only a small heap of charred ashes remained.
They looked upon that serenely smiling face, then from one to another,
and sadly shook their heads. One of their number stepped forward and
with trembling fingers placed in the stiff, cold hand of old Tony, the
letter for which he had watched through long and weary years, the letter
that had come too late.
Too late? Nay, not so. Those standing by could not see, as Tony saw, the
woman who lay dying in the great hospital down in the city. They could
not see, as Tony saw, the last rites of the Church administered, the
Sisters of Charity bending near praying, praying for that soul about to
depart upon its last long journey. They could not hear, as Tony heard,
the pale lips speaking their final words:
"You wrote the letter, Sister?"
"I wrote the letter, dear. It must have reached them by now."
"You told them I was dying? You asked them to forgive?"
"I told them all and I'm sure they have forgiven already."
"Dear father and mother! God bless them both! God have mercy upon me!"
They could not know, but Tony knew. Perhaps that explained the smile on
Tony's face, the smile they could not comprehend.