there came a letter edged with black and written in Mrs. Means's hand.
The children were at school when it came, and Jenny Miller, coming in
by chance to bring a pot of head-cheese of her mother's making, found
Miss Peace crouching in the corner of the sofa, weeping quietly, with
the letter lying on her lap.
"Why, Miss Peace," cried Jenny, frightened at the sight of tears in
those steadfast eyes, "What is the matter? Do tell me, dear! Why,
you're real cold in here. I do believe the fire has gone out. You've
had bad news, Miss Peace, have you? Do tell me, that's a dear soul,
and don't cry."
"Yes," said Anne Peace. "The fire is out, Jenny, and David is dead."
She held out the letter, saying something about
"privilege--think--rest;" but Jenny Miller was already on her knees,
putting kindlings into the stove at a reckless rate. Then, when the
fire was crackling merrily, she ran to fetch a shawl and wrapped it
round the poor trembling shoulders, and chafed the cold hands in her
own warm, young fingers. But soon Miss Peace grew uneasy; she was not
used to being "done for," having only the habit of doing for others.
She pointed eagerly to the letter. "Read it, Jenny," she said,
anxiously. "I--I am all right, dear. It's come rather sudden, that's
all, and those poor little children--but read the letter." The words
died away, and Jenny, sitting down beside her, took the paper and
read.
It began "Friend Anne," and went on to say that the writer's poor
husband died yesterday, and she was left, as she always knew she
should be, a widow with four children. It did seem to her as if he
might have been let die to home, instead of being carted all the way
down there and then have to send the remains back. She had to promise
him she would send them back, though it did seem a pity with the
beautiful "semetary" they had there, and full of Northern folks as it
would hold and the undertaker a perfect gentleman, if she ever saw
one. But the widow hoped she knew her duty, and she would not wish to
be thought wanting in anything.
Now she supposed they would want to know how David passed away, though
she had no "strenth" to write, not having had her clothes off for days
or, you might say, weeks, nor slep' one consektive hour the last ten
nights. Well, he had seemed to gain a little when they first came, but
it wasn't no real gain, for he lost it all again and more too. The
pounds just fell off from that man, it seemed as if you could see them
go. The last month he fairly pined away, and she thought right to let
the folks at home know that he was called to depart, but he wouldn't
hear to it. "He said, Delia, he said, if you want me to die easy, he
said, don't let on to no one at home but what I'm doing all right." So
she set by and held her peace, though it went against her conscience.
Last Monday he couldn't leave his bed, and she said, "David, she said,
you never will leave it till you're carried," and he said, p'raps
'twas so, but yet he wouldn't allow it, for fear of scaring the
children. So that night he sat up in bed and his arms went out and he
said "Home!" just that word, two or three times over, and dropped
back and was gone. There she was, a widow with four small children,
and what she should do she didn't know.
Away there in a strange land as you might say, if it _was_ all one
country, it did seem as if them as sent them might have thought of
that and let them stay at home among their own folks. Not but what
there was elegant folks there. Everybody hed been as kind as could be;
one lady who was in "morning" herself had lent her a bonnet to wear to
the funeral (for she wasn't one to send the remains off without
anything being said over them); it was a real handsome bonnet, and she
had taken a pattern of it, to have one made for herself. The lady was
from New York way, and real stylish.
Mrs. Means intended to stay on a spell, as the money was not all gone,
and her strength needed setting up, after all she had been through.
Mr. Tombs, the undertaker, said he never saw any one bear afflicktion
so; she told him she was used to it. He was a perfect gentleman, and a
widower himself, so he could feel for her. Miss Peace might be
thankful that she was never called on to bear afflicktion, with no one
but herself to look out for; not but what 'twas lonesome for her, and
Mrs. Means supposed she'd be glad enough to keep Georgie and Joey on
a spell longer for company. Tell them they are poor orphans now, with
no father to earn their bread. The writer wished her husband's remains
to be buried in his father's lot, as she had no money to buy one. Miss
Peace might see if any one felt to put up a moniment for David; he
hadn't an enemy in the world, and he never begredged a dollar when he
had it to give, for anything there was going. If he had thought a
little more about her, and less about everybody's cat and dog, she
might have something now to put bread in her children's mouths, let
alone her own. Not that she had any appetite, a flea wouldn't fatten
on what she ate. Lawyer Peters was his mother's third cousin if she
was living. He spent more on those girls of his than would clothe the
writer and her children for a year.
The remains went by the same boat with this letter, so Miss Peace
would know when to expect them. Mrs. Means looked to her to see that
David had a decent funeral; a handsome one she couldn't expect, folks
in Cyrus were close enough about all that didn't go on their own
backs, though she shouldn't wish it said.
So now there was no more, from Miss Peace's unfortunate friend, "the
Widow Means."
After reading this precious epistle, Jenny Miller found herself,
perhaps for the first time in her life, with nothing to say. She
could only sit and press her friend's hand, and thrill, as a girl
will, at the touch of a sorrow which she only now began dimly to
guess. It was Miss Peace who broke the silence, speaking in her usual
quiet tone.
"Thank you, Jenny, dear! I'm sure it was a privilege, having you come
in just now. David Means was kin to me, you know, and I always set by
him a great deal; and then the poor little children!" she faltered
again for an instant, but steadied her voice and went on: "You'd
better go home now, dear, for the fire is going beautiful, and I don't
need anything. I--I shall have to see to things for the funeral, you
know. And don't forget to thank your mother for the cheese. It looks
real good, and Georgie doos like it the best of anything for
breakfast. I guess I'll get on my bonnet, and go to see Abel Mound,
the sexton."
But here Jenny found her voice, and protested. Miss Peace should not
have anything at all to do with all that. 'Twasn't fitting she should,
as the nearest kin poor Mr. Means had in Cyrus. Her father would see
to it all, Jenny knew he would, and Doctor Brown would help him. She
would go herself and speak to the doctor this minute. Miss Peace would
have to be here to tell the children when they came home from school,
poor little things! and that was all she should do about it.
Anne Peace hesitated; and then Jenny had an inspiration, or, as she
put it in telling Tudie Peaslee afterwards, "a voice spoke to her."
"Miss Peace," she said timidly, "I--I don't suppose you would feel to
pick those flowers you were going to send over to Tupham for the
Sunday-school festival? I know they kind o' lot on the flowers you
send, 'cause they're always so fresh, and you do them up so pretty.
But if you don't feel to do it, I can send them word, or ask some one
else"--
"The idea!" cried Anne Peace, brightening up. "I forgot the flowers,
Jenny, I did so! I should be pleased to pick them, and I'll do it this
minute. There--there isn't anything I should like so well. And I do
thank you, dear, and if you really think your father wouldn't mind
seeing--I am sure it is a privilege to have such neighbours, I always
say. There couldn't anybody be more blessed in neighbours than I have
always been."
In ten minutes Miss Peace was at work in her garden, cutting,
trimming, tying up posies, and finding balm for her inward wound in
the touch of the rose-leaves, and in the smell of mignonette, David's
favourite flower. No one in Cyrus had such mignonette as Miss Peace,
and people thought she had some special receipt for making it grow and
blossom luxuriantly; but she always said no, it was only because she
set by it. Folks could most always grow the things they set most
store by, she thought.
So the Sunday-school festival at Tupham Corner was a perfect blaze of
flowers, and the minister in his speech made allusion to generous
friends in other parishes, who sent of their wealth to swell our
rejoicings, and of their garden produce to gladden our eyes; but while
the eyes of Tupham were being gladdened, Anne Peace was brushing
Joey's and Georgie's hair, and tying black ribbons under their little
chins, smiling at them through her tears, and bidding them be brave
for dear father's sake, who was gone to the best home now, and would
never be sick any more, or tired, or--or sad.
It was a quiet funeral: almost a cheerful one, the neighbours said, as
they saw the little room filled with bright flowers (they all seemed
to smell of mignonette, there was so much of it hidden among the
roses), and the serene face of the chief mourner, who stood at the
head of the coffin, with a child in either hand. It was an unusual
thing, people felt. Generally, at Cyrus funerals, the mourners stayed
up-stairs, leaving the neighbours to gather round the coffin in the
flower-scented room below; but it did not seem strange in Anne Peace,
somehow, and, after the first glance, no one could fancy any one else
standing there. The old minister, who had christened both David and
Anne on the same day, said a few gentle, cheering words, and the choir
sang "Lead, kindly Light;" then the procession went its quiet way to
the churchyard, and all was over.
Jenny Miller and the doctor followed Miss Peace home from the
churchyard, but made no attempt to speak to her. She seemed
unconscious of any one save the children, to whom she was talking in
low, cheerful tones. The doctor caught the words "rest," "home,"
"happiness;" and as she passed into the house he heard her say
distinctly: "Blessed privilege! My children now, my own! my own!"
"So they are!" said Doctor Brown, taking off his glasses to clear
them. "So they are, and so they will remain. I don't imagine Delia
will ever come back, do you, Jenny?"
"No," said Jenny, "I don't. She'll marry the undertaker before the
year is out."
And she did.
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved except for the
joining of common contractions.
Page 8: Added closing quotes: (you seemed all right when I went out.")
Page 9: Phoebe had oe ligature in original book. (you've heard me tell
how my Aunt Phoebe 'Lizabeth)
Page 56: Removed extra quotation mark before I: ("You are too good. I
didn't expect, I'm sure--well, you are kind!")
End of Project Gutenberg's "Some Say", by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards