SACKCLOTH AND ASHES
Just at dusk one cold, rainy night late in August, a shabby, weary, wet,
old man plodded through the dripping woods, across the stone bridge, and
up the road toward Parker. He had come a long way through mud and
moisture, and was very tired, yet the first three farmhouses he passed
by with scarcely a glance. But as he neared the fourth one, he eagerly
scanned the place as if familiar with its surroundings, and listened
intently for the sound of voices, seeming disappointed at the result,
for apparently not a creature was stirring indoors or out. Not even old
Towzer came to challenge him as he unlatched the gate and approached the
house, and not a ray of light shone out into the darkness from window or
door, though it was yet early evening. The place was as silent as a
grave. Puzzled, the man made a circuit of the cottage, but neither saw
nor heard anything of the occupants.
"I wonder what has happened," he thought to himself. "Guess I won't
knock, it might scare them if they have gone to bed. Maybe they are away
visiting. I will just slip into the barn and go to bed in the hay. Lucky
I had a big dinner, I am not in the least hungry now, and if they are
at home I can get breakfast here in the morning--I guess."
He had tramped many long miles since dawn, trying to reach this town
before nightfall, and was so worn out with his exertions that he fell
asleep almost as soon as he had burrowed a comfortable bed in the
sweet-scented hay, nor did he awake until the new day was several hours
old. The sun was shining--he could tell that from the bright light in
the barn, but it was not the sunshine which had awakened him.
The first thing he was conscious of as he opened his eyes to unfamiliar
surroundings was the sound of voices close by, and the patter of feet on
the loose boards overhead. Cautiously he lifted himself on his elbow and
looked about him, but at first he saw only an untidy confusion of garden
tools, boxes, bags and other truck, piled promiscuously about wherever
space would accommodate them. Then as his eyes became more accustomed to
the light, he discovered a slender, brown-haired girl in a faded, dingy,
calico gown huddled on top of a pile of empty grain sacks in the darkest
corner of the barn. Her face was turned from him, but from her attitude
and the sound of an occasional sniff, he judged that she had been
crying. Her companion on the rafters overhead was out of range of his
vision; but as she scrambled noisily over the loose board floor, which
extended only half way across the building, he could catch a glimpse of
red now and then, and once a bare, brown foot appeared in view, but that
was all. Not daring to make his presence known for fear of frightening
the two sisters, he drew silently back into his hiding place to await
their departure.
Sniff, sniff, sniff! The slender shoulders of the girl in the corner
began to heave, and she buried her face deeper among the grain sacks.
Silence on the rafters for a brief moment; then a voice said severely,
"'F I was you, Faith Greenfield, I'd stop crying and go into the house
and help Gail. She is trying to do the washing herself so's to save
money."
"'F I was you, Peace Greenfield," was the tart reply, "I'd try to mind
my business once in a while, and not be forever poking my nose into
other folks' affairs."
"Guess this is my affair as much as 'tis yours!" answered Peace sharply,
and the listener in the hay below fancied there was the suggestion of a
sob in her voice.
"It's none of your affair if I want to come out here by myself, but you
can't even let me alone here. You are always snooping around to see what
I am doing."
"I am _not_ snooping!" was the indignant denial. "I'm hunting eggs for
breakfast, and I was here first, 'cause I saw you come in bawling."
"Bawling!" Faith leaped to her feet in wild fury. "You know well enough
why I am crying. You would be crying, too, if you cared like I do."
"I can cry with my heart without stopping to cry with my eyes," Peace
answered soberly. "I haven't time to sit down and bawl. Someone's got to
run errands and help Gail. S'posing we all sat up and cried all the time
like you are doing. Who would get breakfast and dinner and supper, I'd
like to know? And who would 'tend to the work?"
"Who wants any breakfast or dinner or supper? I am sure I don't! I
haven't the heart to eat. I _can't_ eat!"
"Dr. Bainbridge told us we must, and so did Mr. Strong; and he told us
to keep busy, too. It helps you to forget the ache if you work."
"Forget! You don't care; that's why--" There was a sudden movement on
the rafters above, and an egg came hurtling through the barn, smashing
on the wall close by Faith's head--so close that a shower of little
yellow spatters flew over her face and dress. "Peace Greenfield!"
"You haven't got half what you deserve," said a tense, hard voice from
above. "I ought to have slung the whole batch, even if we'd had to go
without breakfast. I'd like to know how _you_ can tell whether you care
more than the rest of us. You think you are the only one that knows how
to be sorry."
There was a sudden silence--deep, ominous, it seemed to the man in the
hay, and he ventured to peep out at the combatants, but all he saw was
Faith standing rigid and white-faced in the corner. When she spoke, her
voice was frigid in its intensity.
"Come down from those beams, Peace Greenfield, and take the rest of
those eggs to the house!"
"I am coming down as fast as I can," began Peace's voice, equally
frigid. Then there was a sound of ripping, a dreadful clatter, a dull
thud, and Faith rushed forward with the agonized scream, "Oh, Peace,
Peace, are you hurt? I am sorry I was ugly! You _do_ care! Open your
eyes, Peace! Oh-h-h-h!"
The tramp started up in dismay, to behold Peace huddled in a heap at the
foot of the ladder, with frantic Faith bending over her. Before he had
stepped from the haymow, however, there was a rush of feet from without,
and four frightened girls dashed into the barn, followed by a tall,
young man in clerical garb; and the shabby figure slunk back into his
hiding place without making his presence known.
"What's the matter?"
"How did it happen?"
"Is she dead?"
"Run for the doctor!" cried the excited voices.
"Oh, Gail, I've killed her, I've killed her!" sobbed Faith.
"Stand back, girls," quietly commanded the minister, pushing the
trembling quartette almost roughly aside. "Let me examine her. Perhaps
she is only--"
"I'm every bit all right," exclaimed Peace crossly, winking her brown
eyes dazedly. "The fall _stunted_ me, I guess. I lit on my head. So did
the eggs. Mercy me! What a mess!"
"But look at her face!" wailed frightened and penitent Faith. "She has
turned black, and so have her hands!"
She certainly _had_ changed her color.
At Faith's despairing cry, the victim of the fall raised one of her
brown hands and looked at it fixedly; then said briefly, "That's ashes.
It's on my face, too. It will wash off, won't it?"
Without reply, the minister lifted her to her feet and drew her into the
doorway where the sunlight fell upon her. The sisters looked at the
grotesque picture, and exclamations of horror and dismay burst from
their lips.
"Peace, what have you done to yourself?"
"Are you sick?"
"What have you got on?"
She presented a strange appearance, truly, draped in dirty, ragged
burlap, with face, hands and hair covered with ashes, and smeared from
head to foot with broken eggs and bits of eggshell.
The tramp hid his face in the hay to stifle his chuckles, the minister
covered his twitching lips with his hands, but the little group of
sisters gazed at the apparition with only horror in their eyes.
Then, to everyone's amazement, Peace began to cry. In an instant Gail
had slipped her arms around her, and had drawn the brown head down on
her shoulder, where for a moment the child sobbed heartbrokenly. Then,
with a mighty gulp, she swallowed back her grief and explained, "I heard
Hope reading about the people who put on ash-cloth and sashes--I mean
sackcloth and ashes whenever any one of their family died, so's the
angels would let the soul into heaven. No one did that when papa
died--and we don't know whether he ever got to heaven or not--but he's a
man and could take care of himself, s'posing he didn't get in. With
mother it's different, though. She's a ninvalid, and I couldn't bear to
think of her outside the gates all alone with none of us to take care of
her--so I put on potato sacks--that's sackcloth, ain't it?--and ashes.
The eggs got there by mistake. They were whole when I began to climb
down that ladder."
The picture was so ludicrous, the explanation so piteous, that between
their wild desire to laugh and the stronger desire to cry, it was a
hysterical group who closed in once more about the grotesque little
figure, while the earnest-hearted, sympathetic young preacher swept away
Peace's fears, and gave her the comfort and assurance she sought.
"Sackcloth and ashes were merely outward signs of mourning for nations
in ages past," he told her. "It didn't help anyone get into heaven. It
didn't even show how great were their sorrow and grief; and when people
came to realize that, they ceased to follow the custom. God knows how
sorrowful we are, for He can read our very thoughts. It doesn't need
sackcloth and ashes to carry our loved ones home, dear. They lived good,
noble, true lives in His sight while they were here on earth, and now He
has taken them home--inside the Gates--to live with Him always."
"You are sure?" hiccoughed Peace.
"Perfectly sure! The Bible tells us so."
"Where? I want to see for myself."
He drew a worn Testament from his pocket, turned to the Fourteenth
Chapter of St. John, and slowly, impressively read those beautiful
words, "In my Father's house are many mansions," explaining his
understanding of the passage so clearly, so comfortingly that finally
the tears were dried and the aching hearts soothed.
At length the grief-stricken company repaired to the house for their
belated breakfast, while the tramp, touched to the quick by the pathos
of the scene he had just witnessed, made his way across the fields and
through the woods, leaving only a crumpled ten-dollar bill among the
grain sacks to tell of his visit.