II

Quinbey had been right about the money in the bank. It was a tidy sum

to retain on deposit, and the bank officials had heartlessly refused to

pay any of it out to Mrs. Quinbey. She did not attempt to draw until

her sulks left her, which occurred after the jeweler, intent upon the

sale of a watch, had called upon her, and when the villagers had

informed her that Quinbey had gone fishing. Then, disappointed, and

somewhat worried over the future, she returned to the house on the

hill, and, as it was still cold, lit up the big base-burner from the

scanty stock of coal.

As the weeks grew into months and the fishing schooner did not return,

she did not, like the rest of the villagers, give her husband up as

lost--rather, she believed him alive, hoped for his return, and revised

her opinion of him.

Soon--yet long before the grocer, the butcher, and the coal man had

refused further credit--she realized that she loved the crude man she

had known but a month, but who had loved her for twenty years; and,

with tears streaming down her face, she prayed for his safety and

return with more fervency than for the beloved son at Andover. This

person wrote filial letters home, assuring her of protection and

support when he returned; but they brought her small comfort, for the

time was at hand when she must pay cash or go without the necessities

of life.

Then Sammy came home on his first vacation, and, learning of the money

in the bank, used his prestige and address to such advantage that he

persuaded the local authorities to declare Quinbey legally dead--an

easy matter on that coast of many wrecks.

Righteously indignant at the selfishness of the bank officials, he

induced his mother to withdraw the money--shrunk to eight thousand

dollars--from the bank, and allow him to take it to Boston, where, in a

larger and safer bank, it would draw interest, and on which she could

write checks in payment of her bills.

She consented, and Sammy departed with the money. But at Boston, before

reaching the bank, he traversed the highways and the byways of the big

city, imbibed certain and sundry liquids known to him only by name,

loved his fellow men, and met fellow men of like state of mind, who,

seeing a stranger, took him in.

He was stripped to empty pockets, spent a night in a cell, and only by

the help of another clergyman was he shipped back to Andover with a

letter to the president.

From here he wrote to his mother a garbled account of his adventures;

and, as the president of the college mercifully forbore writing her the

truth, the poor woman merely wept a little, prayed a little, and took

up her burden.

Her parents were old and indigent, unable to more than house her for a

few days at a time. As minister's wife, she had made no friends that

would help her now in a way befitting her position. As for herself,

with only a village education, she could not even teach, even though

able to found a school.

But every mother and daughter, sister and grand-ma'am in the village

was willing to give her work by the day for the mere pleasure of

gloating; and at this work she went bravely.

The sneers and insults she received soon limited her journeyings from

home, and she finally became the village wash-woman. The kitchen of the

house was turned into a laundry, and the big base-burner allowed to

grow cold; for she could not afford two fires.

In her laundry she worked, and in wintertime slept, and only on

Saturdays was she seen on the street, when, with deepening lines in her

face and a growing gray tinge to her hair, she struggled back and forth

with her basket of clothes. But she earned her living, and looked

forward hopefully to the return of her husband and assuredly to the

return of her son, who would care for her.

Sammy only came home on the first vacation; the next three he spent at

the homes of classmates. But at last the four years' course was ended,

and, with nowhere else to go, he appeared, an ordained minister of the

Gospel, but unattached.

The Reverend Samuel Simpson, as we must know him now, was twenty-four

years old, as pale as ever, fatter than ever, with a chin that, because

of the fat, seemed to recede still farther into his neck. His mother

rejoiced over him, was proud of him, and believed that her troubles

were now ended.

The villagers welcomed him, and the gray old pastor of the church once

presided over by his father invited him to preach. He did so,

delivering his one sermon; but the delivery and the sermon were not of

a character that would inspire the congregation to empty the pulpit for

him, so the young preacher went home to wait, as Quinbey had waited,

for that pulpit to become vacant by death.

But he deplored the coldness of the house, and ordered coal on credit

for the base-burner; also he deplored the hard labor of his mother,

assured her that the necessity for it would soon end, but did nothing

himself toward this end; for, in truth, there was nothing he could do

but preach; and the gray old pastor seemed as tenacious of life as his

own father had been.

The mother was content, however, except for the always present, but

lessening, hope that her husband would return, and happy in the company

of her educated and accomplished son. And so, as bravely as ever, she

carried her burden through the streets, not only on Saturdays now, but

on Wednesdays, because, with another mouth to feed, she must of needs

wash more clothes.

And so the time went on, the Reverend Samuel Simpson growing seedier of

raiment and fatter of body, enduring patiently the sneers and sarcasms

of the indignant men of the village, while the mother's face grew

thinner, her body weaker, and her once blond hair so gray that she

looked ten years beyond her age. Then, four years after the son's

return, the breaking point came. With the front of her garments

dripping wet, she stood erect from her tub, looked at him where he sat

near the kitchen fire--the base-burner had long been cold--and said:

"Sammy, you must go to work. I can do no more. It is killing me."

"But what can I do, mother dear?" he answered kindly.

"I do not know," she said weariedly. "Something, maybe, that will help.

You are educated. You might write for the Boston papers, or the

magazines. Or you might find a pulpit somewhere else, and send me some

money once in a while."

"What, and leave you alone, mother? Not for the world would I desert

you. You are my mother, and have cared for me. But I have thought of

writing. I have been thinking for years of a literary career, only I

have not been able to decide which branch of literature I am best

fitted for."

"Well, Sammy," said the mother, as she bent over her tub, "I cannot

decide for you; but something must be done."

"And I will do it, mother," he shouted loudly--so loudly that neither

heard the opening of the front door, nor the sound of heavy footsteps

coming toward the kitchen.

Then a big, dark-faced man, with hair as gray as her own, seized her

around the waist, lifted her into his arms, and rained kisses on her

face and lips while she screamed, then, as she recognized him, fainted

away. Still holding her, he lifted his foot, exerted a slight effort of

strength, and pushed the tubful of suds and clothes off its base,

upsetting it squarely over the head of the Reverend Samuel Simpson, who

nearly choked before getting himself clear.

"I've been hearing things about you down at the store," said Quinbey,

"and I'll 'tend to your case directly."

Then he carried the limp little woman into the bedroom, stripped off

her wet garments, and covered her warmly, while he kissed her back to

consciousness.

"Oh, John," she said, when she could speak, "I knew you'd come back,

but, oh, the long waiting! I've been punished, John, punished

bitterly."

"There'll be no more of it, Minnie," he said. "I've come home

rich--that is, rich for this town. Your work is ended. They told me at

the store about your son loafing on you all these years while you took

in washing. But how about the money in the bank? Couldn't you get it?"

"Oh, yes, John," she answered simply. "But Sammy took it to Boston to

deposit, and was robbed of it."

"Um-hum-m-m," grunted Quinbey. "The savings of twenty years at sea!"

Briefly she recounted Sammy's story of the wrong done him; but he made

no comment beyond saying that he would look into it.

"He's got to go to work," he added grimly. "I don't know what he can do

except preach, and perhaps he can't do that. I'll write to Andover and

get his record. But how about the house? It's cold. Out of coal?"

"We've got very little, John. We couldn't afford two fires."

Quinbey left her, and found his stepson in his room, changing his wet

clothing for dry.

"Take this money," he said, handing him a bill, "and go down to the

coal dock. Order a ton up here at once."

"I will, sir," answered Sammy, with dignity, "when I've recovered

somewhat from your extremely brutal treatment of me. I must be dry

before I go out on this cold day."

But he went out, shirtless and coatless, at the end of Quinbey's arm;

and, as it really was cold, he hurried on his errand, and returned.

Before long the base-burner was roaring, and Quinbey was recounting his

adventures to his happy-faced wife; while Sammy, in the kitchen,

finished up the wash. Later on he delivered it; but no more washing of

other folks' clothing was ever done in that house.

Quinbey wrote to Andover, and in a few days received a reply, which he

read to his wife. It was a true account of Sammy's mishap in Boston;

and, while Quinbey grinned--he could not smile--the mother wept

silently, but asked no forgiveness for her wayward son. And when he

rummaged a bureau, and brought forth an old jeweler's catalogue, asking

her to choose a watch for Sammy, she felt that it was granted; but she

did not yet know Quinbey.

Sammy wore the watch proudly; and for the rest of the cold weather the

three sat about the base-burner, while the color came back to the

little woman's face, and self-confidence to the shaken mind of Sammy.

He actually began to like his rough stepfather; and only an outsider

might have guessed, by the somber light in Quinbey's dark eyes when

they rested upon him, that he did not like his stepson.

In the spring, as soon as the frost and snow were gone, Quinbey

employed laborers to flatten the ground near his house to the extent of

a hundred feet by ten; then, with stakes, he laid out the plan of a

ship's deck. Next he contracted with spar makers, ship carpenters, and

ship chandlers for material and labor; and before June three masts were

erected, each with topmast, top-gallant, and royal mast, the standing

rigging of which was set up to strong posts driven into the ground;

then followed yards, canvas, and running gear, and soon a complete ship

of small dimensions, but without a hull, adorned the crest of the hill.

As Quinbey explained to the questioning villagers, he would go to sea

no more, but, having spent his life at sea, wanted a reminder--something

to look at--a plaything.

Sammy was an interested spectator of the work, and Quinbey was kind to

him, answering his questions, and even betraying some solicitude that

he should understand the rig of a ship, the names of the ropes and

sails, and the manner of handling them. He even went so far as to hire

a couple of sailors to climb aloft, to loose and furl canvas, again and

again, until Sammy understood.

Then the cold weather came on, and the base-burner was lit; and with

the cold weather came the snow, and the icy sleet, and the hurricane

gales from Greenland, striking the crest of that hill with a force that

threatened to tear the dummy ship from the ground. And on particularly

stormy nights, the villagers, snug in their warm beds, would waken for

a moment at a sound louder than the gale--the sound of Quinbey's voice,

which, in a calm, would carry a mile. And the voice would cry:

"All hands on deck to make sail. Out wi' you, you blasted lubber, and

lay aloft. Up wi' you, and loose that mainsail, and, when you've got it

loose, furl it. I'll show you how I earned that money. Up wi' you,

'fore I give you a rope's end."

And sometimes, in the lulls, they could hear Sammy's shrieks of pain,

and the thwack of the rope's end.