PAINFUL DISCLOSURES.
Something about the strange inmate had affected the mad poet, long a
dweller in the poorhouse, as unusual in that establishment. These
fancies he had versified, and having written the result down on a
half-sheet of paper, he folded it into a narrow strip, and then twisted
it into an almost impossible knot, and handed it to the person nearest
concerned.
Johanson read with astonishment:--
"It striketh me
That you should be
A gentleman,
And drive a span,
Live high, drink wine,
Ask folks to dine,
And make a dash.
With poorhouse trash
You should not be--
With folks like me."
In return, the reply was promptly put under the poor poet's door:--
"Of who I am, or where belong,
Please do not whisper in your song."
These communications were followed by a few days of unusual silence
between the neighbours. The mad poet did not like being answered in
rhyme. Of versification he considered himself the inventor, and as
having therefore an exclusive right to use it, in conversation or on
paper.
At last Johanson made up his mind what course to pursue in the matter.
He went to the poet in a friendly way, and said to him, "I take you to
be a gentleman who knows how to keep a secret, and does not mention what
he can guess out concerning other people's matters. I know your
principles about your post-bag. I have heard that you never even read
the address of a letter to be sent off, or the post-mark of one to be
delivered. Now I call that a high sense of honour."
"Just decency
It seems to me,"
broke in the poet.
Johanson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on: "Now you
keep anything you suspect about me, anything you can't understand in my
ways, just as secret as if it were written on the back of a letter. You
will, I am sure. So now let us shake hands upon it." They did, and were
established as better friends than before.
The weather had become extremely cold, but the poorhouse poet went on
his rounds, persisting in being dressed as in the autumn.
It had been snowing all night, and the cold was excessive. Johanson was
awakened by an unusual chill in the air. A long point of snow lay along
the floor of his room, as it had drifted in under the not over-tight
door. He dressed and hurried out. The vestibule was one snow-bank, and
the outside door was wide open. He pushed his way into the poet's room.
It was empty. It was plain that the poor fellow had been out on his
usual rounds, and had not returned to put up the outer bars, as was his
nightly custom; for the old locks were not to be relied upon. He
probably had not been able to force his way through the heavy drifts and
the wild storm which was still raging.
The cellar-master was a late sleeper. He woke now to see Johanson
hurrying about, evidently making ready for a trip.
"What are you doing? You are letting the cold in here, sir," said the
old fellow, only half awake.
"The poet is missing. He didn't come home last night. I shall go and
look him up. Have you any whisky? You have, I know. I saw Gull bring you
in a bottle last night. Let me have it, will you?"
"Yes; a pull will keep you up," was the answer.
"I don't want it for me," said Johanson hastily; "it has pulled me down
low enough. I'll never taste it again. But that poor fellow, he may need
it, if I find him."
"You are not going to risk yourself out looking for _him_!" said the
cellar-master, now fairly awake. "_You_ are right down crazy. Quiet
yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You
don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it."
"Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been
in an earthquake? Have you been out in a blizzard, with no house within
miles?"
"No, no, no!" was the threefold reply.
"I've tried them all," said Johanson, "and I am not afraid of a little
snow. Lend me your stick, and I'm off."
Off he was, but not to return through the long morning. Towards noon, a
party who had been out with a snow-plough and a sledge came back,
bearing two bodies carefully covered.
The poet was still and white. He had been found lying under a rock, in a
tiny natural cave. On a ledge near him, in some lightly-sifted snow, he
had traced with his finger:--
"I must be ill,
I've such a chill.
Here I'll die,
Nobody by.
Who'll cry?
Not I!
The bag'll be found,
It's safe and sound.
There'll be no snow
Where I shall go;
There'll be no storm,
It will be warm.
Good-night!
Good-night!"
It was good-night indeed for the poorhouse poet. In his pocket was found
a worn scrap of paper, on which was pencilled his simple creed:--
"The tickets buy
For when we die,
For where we go
We fix below.
Death clears the track;
We can't come back!
"Somehow, I guess,
If we confess,
And say, 'Forgive!'
Up there we'll live.
Conductors quail,
And kings prevail.
When God has said,
'Alive or dead,
I own that man,'
He save him can."
In Johanson there still was life. He had been found lying close to the
dead poet, as if trying to share with him his little remaining vital
warmth. The doctor, the pastor's wife, and Gull were soon doing all that
was possible to call him back to life. In a few days he was almost well,
for broken down though he was, he still had some of the vigour of his
naturally strong constitution.
The funeral was over. Johanson was apparently dozing, lying on his sofa,
now in its form for the day; while Gull and the cellar-master were
chatting together in low, whispering tones.
Gull, who had prepared the body of the poorhouse poet for interment, now
talked over all the items of the expense with evident satisfaction, and
concluded by saying, "It was a beautiful corpse. It really was a
pleasure to lay him out, he looked so sweet and quiet when it was all
done."
The cellar-master, who had been helped into a sleigh to attend, remarked
that it was a charming funeral; he did not know when he had enjoyed
himself so much as on the late occasion.
"What luck he had to come in for the bell!" said Gull; "he was just in
the nick of time. It was really quite a grand funeral, with the three
coffins--the baby and the old woman and our young man--and the mourners
for all. The pastor did it beautiful too, and the bell sounded so
solemn. It is, of course, another thing when the big bell is rung for
some high body that is carried out. We may be thankful that we have the
little bell rung once a week for poor folks' funerals in this parish; it
is not so everywhere."
"It would seem more solemn to see the pastor in his black gloves if he
didn't wear them always," said the cellar-master. "Why does he do it? I
never happened to meet anybody that knew. He's still-like himself, and
nobody likes to ask him questions. Some people say it is to make him
look grand with fine folks, and to kind of put down them that have bare
hands used to work."
"Don't you know about his hands?" asked Gull, with surprise. "I've known
it so many years, it seems as if everybody must have heard that."
"I don't happen to have inquired into the matter," said the
cellar-master, somewhat humiliated. "I have never been one to gossip."
"Why, I was there when it happened," broke out Gull, eager to tell her
story to a new listener. "He was stable-boy when I was housemaid at the
major's. My lady was sitting in the carriage one day, and Lars--we
called him Lars then--was standing holding the horses. My lady had sent
the coachman in for his cape, for it was getting cold--just like her.
The horses took fright at a travelling music-man who came along, and
must begin just then to play. Off they started full run, dragging Lars,
who hung on to the reins until they stopped. He'd have held on to those
reins, I'm sure, till he died (what he began he always stuck to); and my
lady sitting there in the carriage half scared to death. The fingers on
his left hand were cut to the bones. They were long healing, and a sight
to be seen then at the best. The right wasn't much better, dragged along
the road as it had been. My lady always liked Lars after that. He had
always been for reading; and when he took it into his head he wanted to
be a priest, she helped him, and other folks helped him too. He changed
his name, as poor fellows do when they go to Upsala. When my lady and
the major were taken off so sudden with the fever, he kept on at his
learning. He wouldn't have given up if he'd had to starve. But he
didn't, for one way and another he got on. And then what a wife he
picked up, and a little money with her too; not that it's enough to wipe
out old scores. Those Upsala debts hang after him, as they have after
many another. He's got them all in one hand now, they say, so that he
hasn't to pay on them more than once a year, and that time is just
coming on. You can see it in him as well as you can see in the west when
there'll be snow next morning. He's rubbed through so far, but it sits
heavy. I'm not in their kitchen for an odd bit of work now and then for
nothing. I see what I see, and I hear what I hear. Beda is lonely like,
and she's pleased to have somebody to talk out to. What if the pastor
and his wife should find out who's who!" she continued, pointing over
her shoulder at the supposed sleeper.
The cellar-master gave a stupid look at her mysterious face.
"That's the major's son over there," she whispered--"Alf, who ran off
and never came back. I must tell somebody, if I should die for it. But
you mustn't breathe it to a living soul."
"Not that beautiful young fellow! No, no; you don't make me believe
that. Don't I remember him? This one isn't a bit like him--an ugly,
worthless-looking old tramp. He was a wild chap, Alf. My wife used to
tell me it was a shame to let him come there and drink--drink down a
glass as if he couldn't swallow it quick enough, and then another, and
then go out to the stable-boy, who was there to help him home. But
that's not Alf. I'd know that handsome fellow anywhere among a million."
"But that _is_ Alf," she whispered. "When he was almost frozen to death,
the doctor told me to open his breast and rub him well; and I did. But
what did I find there, hanging on to a black string, but his mother's
picture, in a little locket she gave him when he was a little fellow;
and he was so fond of it then he would wear it outside his clothes,
where everybody could see, he said. He's willing enough to hide it now;
he don't want to shame such parents, and that's the only good thing I
see about him. I found it out, and I know it; but I won't tell anybody
but you."
"That's Alf! And I helped to make him so! My wife said I'd rue the day.
Now I do. It's very fine to be called 'cellar-master' when you sit fast
in the poorhouse; but it's a bad business dragging people down. Think
what Alf was and see what he is! I don't want to talk any more to-day.
You go, Gull. I've got something to think about."
Johanson, lost in his own thoughts, had not noticed the whispered
conversation till his own name of the past was mentioned. After that, in
bitter repentance he heard the galling words that penetrated his inmost
soul. Now he understood Gull's new politeness to him, and the kindly
willingness with which she saved him in his degradation, for his
mother's sake. She could not treat him like a common tenant of the
poorhouse, and he was sure she would keep his secret. With the
cellar-master it might be a different thing. That his companions knew
him was an added humiliation. He had deserved it all; but there was One
who had called Himself the Friend of sinners, and that Friend had
received even him, a poor prodigal who had returned to his Father's
house.