MOTHER BARTLETT.
The little house, unpainted like many others, had no fenced enclosure
on this side. A wide field stretched away from the back door, lying
partly upon a hill-side; and several cattle were pasturing in it. Farm
fields and meadows were all around, except where this one hill rose up
behind the house. It was wooded at the top; below, the ranks of a
cornfield sloped aspiringly up its base. A narrow footpath, which only
the tread of feet kept free from weeds and grass, went off obliquely to
a little enclosed garden, which lay beyond the corner of the house in
some arbitrary and independent way, not adjoining it at all. It was a
sweet bit of country, soft and mellow under the summer sun; still as
grasshoppers and the tinkle of a cowbell could make it; and very far
from most of the improvements of the nineteenth century. But the smell
of the pasture and the fragrance that came from the fresh shades of the
wood, and the freedom of the broad fields of pure ether, made it rich
with some of nature's homely wealth; which is not by any means the
worst there is. Diana knew the place very well; her eyes were looking
now for the mistress of it. And not long. In the out-of-the-way lying
garden she discerned her white cap; and at the gate met her bringing a
head of lettuce in her hands.
"I knew you liked it, dear," she said, "and I had forgot all about it;
and then it flashed on me, and I thought, Diana will like to have it
for her dinner; and I guess it'll have time to cool. Just put it in a
tin pail, dear, and hang it down in the well; and it'll be fresh."
This was done, and Diana came in and took a seat by her old friend.
"You needn't do that for me, Mother Bartlett. I don't care what I have
to eat."
"Most folks like what is good," said the old lady; "suppos'n they know
it."
"Yes, and so do I, but"--
"I made a pot-pie for ye," the old lady went on contentedly.
"And I suppose you have left nothing at all for me to do, as usual. It
is too bad, Mother Bartlett."
"You shall do all the rest," said her friend; "and now you may talk to
me."
She was a trim little old woman, not near so tall as her visitor; very
wrinkled, but fresh-skinned, and with a quick grey eye. Her dress was a
common working dress of some dark stuff; coarse, but tidy and
nice-looking; her cap white and plain; she sat in her arm-chair,
setting her little feet to the fire, and her fingers merrily clicking
her needles together; a very comfortable vision. The kitchen and its
furniture were as neat as a pin.
"I don't see how you manage, Mother Bartlett," Diana went on, glancing
around. "You ought to have some one to live with you and help you. It
looks as if you had half a dozen."
"Not much," said the old lady, laughing. "A half dozen would soon make
a muss, of one sort or another. There's nothin' like having nobody."
"But you might be sick."
"I might be;--but I ain't," said Mrs. Bartlett, running one end of a
knitting-needle under her cap and looking placidly at Diana.
"But you might want somebody."
"When I do I send for 'em. I sent for you to-day, child; and here you
are."
"But you are quite well to-day?" said Diana a little anxiously.
"I am always well. Never better."
"How old are you, Mother Bartlett?"
"Seventy-three years, child."
"Well, I do think you oughtn't to be here alone. It don't seem right,
and I don't think it is right."
"What's to do, child? There ain't nary one to come and live with me.
They're all gone but Joe. My Lord knows I'm an old woman seventy-three
years of age."
"What then, Mother Bartlett?" Diana asked curiously.
"He'll take care of me, my dear."
"But then, we ought to take care of ourselves," said Diana. "Now if Joe
would marry somebody"--
"Joe ain't lucky in that line," said the old lady laughing again. "And
may be what he might like, I mightn't. Before you go to wishin' for
changes, you'd better know what they'll be. I'm content child. There
ain't a thing on earth I want that I haven't got. Now what's the news?"
Diana began and told her the whole story of the sewing meeting and the
accident and the nursing of the injured girl. Mrs. Bartlett had an
intense interest in every particular; and what Diana failed to
remember, her questions brought out.
"And how do you like the new minister?"
"Haven't you seen him yet?"
"Nay. He hain't been down my way yet. In good time he will. He's had
sick folks to see arter, Joe told me; old Jemmy Claflin, and Joe
Simmons' boy; and Mis' Atwood, and Eliza."
"I think you'll like him," said Diana slowly. "He's not like any
minister ever _I_ saw."
"What's the odds?"
"It isn't so easy to tell. He don't look like a minister, for one
thing; nor he don't talk like one; not a bit."
"Have we got a gay parson, then?" said the old lady, slightly raising
her eyebrows.
"Gay? O no! not in the way you mean. In one way he _is_ gay; he is very
pleasant; not stiff or grum, like Mr. Hardenburgh; and he is amusing
too, in a quiet way, but he _is_ amusing; he is so cool and so quick. O
no, he's not gay in the way you mean. I guess he's good."
"Do you like him?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.
"Yes," said Diana, thinking of the night of Eliza Delamater's accident.
"He is very queer."
"I don't seem to make him out by your telling, child. I'll have to
wait, I guess. I've got no sort of an idea of him, so far. Now, dear,
if you'll set the table--dinner's ready; and then we'll have some
reading."
Diana drew out a small deal table to the middle of the floor, and set
on it the delf plates and cups and saucers, the little saltcellar of
the same ware, and the knives and forks that were never near Sheffield;
in fact, were never steel. But the lettuce came out of the well crisp
and fresh and cool; and Mrs. Bartlett's pot-pie crust came out of the
pot as spongy and light as possible; and the loaf of "seconds" bread
was sweet as it is hard for bread to be that is not made near the mill;
and if you and I had been there, I promise you we would not have minded
the knives and forks, or the cups either. Mrs. Bartlett's tea was not
of corresponding quality, for it came from a country store. However,
the cream went far to mend even that. The back door was open for the
heat; and the hill-side could be seen through the doorway and part of
the soft green meadow slope; and the grasshopper's song and the bell
tinkle were not bad music.
"And who was that came with you, dear?" Mrs. Bartlett asked as they sat
at table.
"With me? Did you see me come?"
"Surely. I was in the garden. What should hinder me? Who was it druv
you, dear?"
"It was an accident. Young Mr. Knowlton had got into some trouble with
his horse, riding out our way, and came to ask how he could get home.
So I brought him."
"That's Evan Knowlton! him they are making a soldier of?"
"He's made. He's done with his education. He is at home now."
"Ain't goin' to be a soldier after all?"
"O yes; he _is_ a soldier; but he has got a leave, to be home for
awhile."
"Well, what sort is he? I don't see what they wanted to make a soldier
of him for; his grand'ther would ha' been the better o' his help on the
farm, seems to me; and now he'll be off to the ends o' the earth, and
doin' nobody knows what. It's the wisdom o' this world. But how has he
turned out, Die?"
"I don't know; well, I should think."
"And his sisters at home would ha' been the better of him. By-and-by
Mr. Bowdoin will die; and then who'll look after the farm, or the
girls?"
"Still, mother, it's something more and something better to be
educated, as he is, and to know the world and all sorts of things, as
he does, than just to live on the farm here in the mountains, and raise
corn and eat it, and nothing else. Isn't it?"
"Why should it be better, child?"
"It is nice to be educated," said Diana softly. And she thought much
more than she said.
"A man can get as much edication as he can hold, and live on a farm
too. I've seen sich. Some folks can't do no better than hoe--corn like
my Joe. But there ain't no necessity for that. But arter all, what does
folks live for, Diana?"
"I never could make out, Mother Bartlett."
The old lady looked at her thoughtfully and wistfully, but said no
more. Diana cleared the table and washed the few dishes; and when all
was straight again, took out a newspaper she had brought from home, and
she and the old lady settled themselves for an afternoon of enjoyment.
For it was that to both parties. At home Diana cared little about the
paper; here it was quite another thing. Mrs. Bartlett wanted to hear
all there was in it; public doings, foreign doings, city news, editor's
gossip; and even the advertisements came in for their share of
pleasure-giving. New inventions had an interest; tokens of the world's
movements, or the world's wants, in other notices, were found
suggestive of thought or provocative of wonder. Sitting with her feet
put towards the fire, her knitting in her hands, the quick grey eyes
studied Diana's face as she read, never needing to give their
supervision to the fingers; and the coarse blue yarn stocking, which
was doubtless destined for Joe, grew visibly in length while the eyes
and thoughts of the knitter were busy elsewhere. The newspaper filled
a good part of the afternoon; for the reading was often interrupted
for talk which grew out of it. When at last it was done, and Mrs.
Bartlett's eyes returned to the fire, there were a few minutes of
stillness; then she said gently,
"Now, our other reading, dear?"
"You like this the best, Mother Bartlett, don't you?" said Diana, as
she rose and brought from the inner room a large volume; _the_ Book, as
any one might know at a glance; carefully covered with a sewn cover of
coarse cloth. "Where shall I read now?"
The place indicated was the beginning of the Revelation, a favourite
book with the old lady. And as she listened, the knitting grew slower;
though, true to the instinctive habit of doing something, the fingers
never ceased absolutely their work. But they moved slowly; and the old
lady's eyes, no longer on the fire, went out of the open window, and
gazed with a far-away gaze that went surely beyond the visible heaven;
so wrapt and steady it was. Diana, sitting on a low seat at her feet,
glanced up sometimes; but seeing that gaze, looked down and went on
again with her reading and would not break the spell. At last, having
read several chapters without a word of interruption, she stopped. The
old lady's eyes came back to her knitting, which began to go a little
faster.
"Do you like all this so much?" Diana asked. "I know you do; but I
can't see why you do. You can't understand it."
"I guess I do," said the old lady. "I seem to, anyhow. It's queer if I
don't."
"But you can't make anything of all those horses?"
"Why, it's just what you've been readin' about all the afternoon."
"In the newspaper!" cried Diana.
"It's many a year that I've been lookin' at it," said the old lady;
"ever sen I heard it all explained by a good minister. I've been
lookin' at it ever sen." She spoke dreamily.
"It's all words and words to me," said Diana.
"There's a blessin' belongs to studyin' them words, though. Those
horses are the works and judgments of the Lord that are goin' on in all
the earth, to prepare the way of his comin'."
"Whose coming?"
"The Lord's comin'," said the old lady solemnly. "The white horse,
that's victory; that's goin' on conquering and to conquer; that's the
truth and power of the Lord bringin' his kingdom. The red horse, that's
war; ah, how that red horse has tramped round the world! he's left the
marks of his hoofs on our own ground not long sen; and now you've been
readin' to me about his goin's on elsewhere. The black horse, that's
famine; and not downright starvation, the minister said, but just want;
grindin' and pressin' people down. Ain't there enough o' that in the
world? not just so bad in Pleasant Valley, but all over. And the pale
horse--what is it the book calls him?--that's death; and he comes to
Pleasant Valley as he comes everywhere. They've been goin', those four,
ever sen the world was a world o' fallen men."
"But what do they do to prepare the way for the Lord's coming?" said
Diana.
"What do I know? _That_'ll be known when the book shall come to be
read, I s'pose. I'm waitin'. I'll know by and by"--
"Only I can seem to see so much as this," the old lady went on after a
pause. "The Lord won't have folk to settle down accordin' to their will
into a contented forgetfulness o' him; so he won't let there be peace
till the King o' Peace comes. O, I'd be glad if he'd come!"
"But that will be the end of the world," said Diana.
"Well," said Mrs. Bartlett, "it might be the end of the world for all I
care; if it would bring Him. What do I live for?"
"You know I don't understand you, Mother Bartlett," said Diana gently.
"Well, what do you live for, child?"
"I don't know," said Diana slowly. "Nothing. I help mother make butter
and cheese; and I make my clothes, and do the housework. And next year
it'll be the same thing; and the next year after that. It don't amount
to anything."
"And do you think the Lord made you--you pretty creatur!"--said the old
lady, softly passing her hand down the side of Diana's face,--"for
nothin' better than to make cheese and butter?"
Diana smiled and blushed brightly at her old friend, a lovely child's
smile.
"I may come to be married, you know, one of these days! But after all,
_that_ don't make any difference. It's the same thing, married or not
married. People all do the same things, day after day, till they die."
"If that was all"--said the old lady meditatively, looking into the
fire and knitting slowly.
"It _is_ all; except that here and there there is somebody who knows
more and can do something better; I suppose life is something more to
them. But they are mostly men."
"Edication's a fine thing," Mrs. Bartlett went on in the same manner;
"but there's two sorts. There's two sorts, Diana. I hain't got
much,--o' one kind; I never had no chance to get it, so I've done
without it. And now my life's so near done, it don't seem much matter.
But there's the other sort, that ain't learned at no 'cademy. The Lord
put me into _his_ school forty-four years ago--where he puts all his
children; and if they learn their lessons, he takes 'em up and
up,--some o' the lessons is hard to learn,--but he takes 'em up and up;
till life ain't a puzzle no longer, and they begin to know the language
o' heaven, where his courts be. And that's edication that's worth
havin',--when one's just goin' there, as I be."
"How do you get into that school, Mother Bartlett?" Diana asked
thoughtfully, and yet with her mind not all upon what she was saying,
"You are in it, my dear. The good Lord sends his lessons and his
teachers to every one; but it's no use to most folks; they won't take
no notice."
"What 'teachers'?" said Diana, smiling.
"There's a host of them," said Mrs. Bartlett; "and of all sorts. Why, I
seem to be in the midst of 'em, Diana. The sun is a teacher to me every
day; and the clouds, and the air, and the colours. The hill and the
pasture ahint the house,--I've learned a heap of lessons from 'em. And
I'm learnin' 'em all the time, till I seem to be rich with what they're
tellin' me. So rich, some days I 'most wonder at myself. No doubt, to
hear all them voices, one must hear the voice o' the Word. And then
there's many other voices; but they don't come just so to all. I could
tell you some o' mine; but the ones that'll come to you'll be sure to
be different; so you couldn't learn from _them_, child. And folks
thinks I'm a lonesome old woman!"
"Well, how can they help it?" said Diana.
"It's nat'ral," said Mrs. Bartlett.
"I can't help your seeming so to me."
"That _ain't_ nat'ral, for you had ought to know better. They think,
folks does,--I know,--I'm a poor lone old woman, just going to die."
"But isn't that nearly true?" said Diana gently.
There was a slight glad smile on the withered lips as Mrs. Bartlett
turned towards her.
"You have the book there on your lap, dear. Just find the eleventh
chapter of the Gospel of John, and read the twenty-fifth and
twenty-sixth verses. And when you feel inclined to think that o' me
agin, just wait till you know what they mean."
Diana found and read:--
"'Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whoesoever
liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.'"