heard it in the step that lagging past my door, climbed to its task, its
hopeless task, again. I saw it in the cheek where hunger,--the hunger of
the common herd--had set its fangs upon the delicate bloom. To ask for
bread meant to receive a stone, a stone like unto the stones cast at
her, that one in old Jerusalem. Perhaps she hungered too; who dares
judge, since Christ himself refused to condemn.
She tried at shops at last, but no man wanted modest Quaker maids to
measure off their goods. The shop-girl's smile was part and parcel of
the bargain, and if the smile beguiled a serpent in man's clothing, why
the girl must look to that.
One night I sought her room, her tidy little nest--my poor solitary
birdling--and found her at her work, her old task of writing. She had
gone back to it. There were rings about the eyes where tears were
forbidden visitors. I took the poor head in my arms.
"Don't, Claudia," I cried. "The youth is all gone from your face."
"That's right," she said. "It left my heart long ago, and face and heart
should have a common correspondence."
And then she laughed, as if to cheat my old ears with the sound of
merriment.
"I needed stamps," she said. "The question rested, stamps _vs._ supper.
Like a true artist I made my choice for art. But see here. That
manuscript when it is finished, means _no more hunger_. Something tells
me it will succeed, and save me. So I have called it _Refuge_, and on it
I have staked my last hope."
She playfully tapped the tidy page, and laughed again. But her words had
a solemn earnestness about them to which her pale pinched face lent
something still of awe.
Day after day I watched her, as day after day the battle became too much
for her. Too much? I spoke too quickly when I said so. She was a mystery
to me. I felt but could not understand her life, and its grand,
heart-breaking changes. She had planned for something which she could
not reach. The doors to it were closed. Her starving woman's soul called
for food; the husks were offered in its stead; the bestial, grovelling,
brutish swine's husks. She refused them. Her soul would make no
compromise with swine. She was so strong, and _had_ been so full of hope
I could not understand her. You who have studied the tricks of the human
heart, you who have held your own while faith died in your bosom, or you
who have felt it stabbed and crushed _refuse_ to die, perhaps you can
understand that strange and fitful strength that came and went; that
outburst of hope, that silence of despair which made, in turn, my dear
one's torture.
One night I found her sitting in the moonlight with her face dropped
forward on the windowsill. So pure, so white, so frail of body, and so
strong of soul, she might have been some marble priestess waiting there
for God's breath to move in passion through the pulseless stone.
"Claudia, dear, are you asleep?" I whispered.
"No, I was thinking if the moon would ever shine upon the night when I
shall feel no more the pangs of hunger."
I took her in my arms and wept, although her eyes were strangely
tearless. She put out her hand and stroked away my tears.
"Don't, dear," she begged. "It is all right. It is only that there is no
place for me. The niche I wish to fill has never been chiseled in the
wall of this world's matters. It is God's mistake if one is made, and
God must look to it. I tell you, Gertie," and she rose up grandly in her
pride and in her wrath, "there are but two niches made for woman in this
world. There's but one choice, wife or harlot. The poor, who refuse
still to be vile, must step aside, since honest poverty by man's decree
is but a myth. There's no room in this world for such."
She was growing bitter, bitter, driving on, I thought, to that fatal
rock from which the wrecks of lost women cry back to rail at God who
would not save them from destruction, although they prayed aloud and
shrieked their agony up heavenward, straight to His ears. I think
sometimes I should not like to sit in God's stead when such women come
to face His judgment. Women who called, and called, and never had an
answer, and so went down, still calling.
It was thus _she_ called.
One day I came upon her where she had thrown herself upon a little
garden stool to rest. A book lay on her knee, her eyes upon the page;
and as I listened, for she read aloud, slowly, as when one reads to his
own heart, I caught the meaning of the poet's words as they had found
interpretation by her:--
"'For each man deems his own sand-house secure,
While life's wild waves are lulled; yet who can say,
If yet his faith's foundations do endure,
It is not that no wind hath blown that way?'"
She was silent a moment, then repeated the first line of the stanza
again, even more softly than before,
"'For each man deems his own sand-house secure.'"
Then, tossing the book aside, she burst out wildly, all the pent-up
patience, all the insulted and outraged womanhood within her, breaking
bonds at last. She lifted up her hand as if calling down from God a
curse, or offering at His register an oath. It might have been an oath,
indeed; who knows? Thinking of her since I think it _was_ an oath, made,
in that moment of her frenzy, betwixt her soul and God, and registered
with Him.
"Gertie," she said, "to-day a man offered me money. Offered me all I
asked, offered to make me his mistress. Do you hear? Do you? or has your
soul gone deaf as mine has? His mistress! I meet it everywhere. Yet why?
Because I am respectably poor. To-morrow the roof tumbles about my ears.
The mortgage closes. You and I alike are homeless. I went to him, my
father's friend, to whom, in dying, he entrusted me for guidance. I
begged of him that guidance, or, at the least, a little longer time upon
the mortgage. He laughed. 'Don't worry,' said he, 'and don't soil your
pretty hands with ink stains any further. Leave that for the printer, or
the devil. You and I will make an _easier_ trade.' Ease! ease! I tell
you 'tis these flowery beds of ease on which poor suffocated women wake
in hell. 'Soil' my soul and leave that for the 'devil,' too, his trade
meant. He put it in plain words, that gray-haired _guardian_ of a dead
friend's honor. Ease! _I_ did not ask for ease, but work. I am strong,
and young, and willing; but my 'sand-house' trembles with the lashing of
the tide on its foundation. O my God! what fools we women be to kick
against the pricks of fate."
"Each man deems his own sand-house secure."
I repeated the words when she had left me there with the echo of her
bitter rebellious words still ringing in my ears. I felt no anger and no
fear for her, only sorrow, sorrow. My poor, proud darling. Her father's
house had sheltered many; his hand had been open and his bounty free.
And yet not one reached out a hand to her. She might have begged, or
held a hireling's place. She was 'not too good for it,' the old friends
said (so few are friends to poverty), but yet none found such a place
for her.
Through my tears I saw her go down the garden walk, stopping to pluck a
handful of the large Jack roses growing near the gate and tuck them in
her belt, so that the dullish red blooms lay upon her heart, like blots
of blood against her soft white dress. I shuddered, and drew my hand
across my eyes. Blood! those old blood-roses rise before me now, in
dreams at night. I heard the latch lift and click again into its place,
and when I looked the child was gone.
* * * * *
She stayed a long while. Over all the garden and across the open
windows, the moon was shining when I heard her step upon the doorway. It
had a weary sound. Those feet which had begun so bravely were tired out
already. Still had I no fear for her. She might have stayed until the
gray dawn cleft the black of night and not one doubt of her could sting
my faith. She climbed the stairs wearily, as if old age had of a sudden
caught and cramped the young life in her feet; and listening thus I
swore a mighty oath against the thing called Fate.
She so young, so strong, so willing, so full of aspiration, so loyal to
faith and honor, with _every_ door barred against her. O my God! was
there none, not one human heart open to her cry? Was there but one
resource--one opening for her pure soul and her proud heart--the
harlot's door? O my God! my God! women are driven to it every day, every
day. Is it, indeed, the only door that opens to their knock? And would
she, too, seek it at last, when faith should be quite dead? No, never!
not while my palsied fingers could find strength to draw a knife across
her throat.
I arose, and went to find her in her room. The door stood slightly open,
and I entered, softly. Why so softly, I never could have told; only it
seemed the proper thing to do. She had thrown herself across the bed,
near by the open window. The moonlight flooded the room, showing me the
strong, pale face lying against the pillow. Her white dress fell about
her like a silverish shroud; and on the table near the window where she
had sat to finish her task lay a manuscript. The moonlight fell upon the
title page with mocking splendor. I stooped and read:
"'_Thou art our Refuge and our Strength._'"
Dear heart! dear, sad soul! She had sought her refuge and indeed found
strength. Strength! I brand him liar who calls it other.
One hand lay on the coverlid beside her, and one upon her breast half
hidden by the dark blood-roses covering her heart. And that heart when I
placed my hand over it--was still.
_Broken!_ who dares say _suicide_? I say it was the grandest blow that
weakness struck for virtue,--her life, offered in the name of outraged
womanhood. The choice lay open. Shame or suicide! and like the real
woman that she was, she made her choice for virtue. Conquered by fate,
overcome by adversity, those who should have been helpers turned
tempters. Who dares meet God in his soul and say she did not choose the
better part?
"'Thou art our Refuge and our Strength.'"
I whispered it above her grave and left her there, under the stars and
broken lily buds.
But when the grand Jack roses bloom, I always think of her, and
thinking, I ponder again the same old riddle, _Fate_, whose edict
swears, "No room for honest poverty; no niche for such as she." And
thinking thus I wonder,--where shall the blame rest? Whose shall the
crime be?
THE HEIRESS OF THE RIDGE.
NO-NAME PAPER.
The "Ridger" is quite a different person from the Mountaineer. He looks
upon the latter individual as a sodden and benighted unfortunate, whose
inaccessible habitation entitles him to the pity of the favored dwellers
on the "Ridge."
That the Ridge is but a low out-put of the Mountain, that it is barren
and isolated, does not disturb the comfortable theory of its
inhabitants. To the people of the Valley the Ridger is a twin brother of
the owner of the hut on the top-most peak of the range.
They look alike. Their bearing and habits are similar. To the Valley eye
their clothes are of the same material and cut; but to the Ridger
himself there is as wide a difference between him and his less favored
brother on the "mounting" as that to be found by the stroller on Fifth
Avenue when he gazes with profound contempt upon the egotistic biped who
plainly hopes to deceive the elect into a belief that he, also, belongs
to the charmed circle and has not simply "run over" from Jersey City, or
St. Louis, or New Bedford.
The Mountaineer is frequently a Tunker, the Ridger rarely. Therefore the
Ridger is likely to have a shaven face, and, for the younger contingent,
a mustache is the rule, a "goatee" the fashion. To the Tunker none of
these are permissible. The beard may not be cut, a mustache may not be
worn, and, with the first of these propositions in force it will be seen
at once that "a goatee" is quite out of the question.
When I say that the Ridger is likely to have a shaven face I do not
intend to convey the impression that he ever uses a razor. He shaves his
face with the scissors. His Tunker neighbor up the mountain performs the
same feat on his own upper lip. The result is effective and satisfactory
from both a religious and artistic outlook in the eyes of these
sticklers for fashion and dogma, albeit, it might be looked upon as more
or less disappointing by the habitués of the Union League Club or the
devotees at St. Thomas.
If the rivet, which at some previous date had held the two halves of the
scissors together, happens to be lost, or if it has worn so loose that
these members "do not speak as they pass by," a jack knife or even a
butcher's knife is no stranger to the tonsorial process of these
followers of the elusive god of style.
I do not know that I have ever met a Tunker so lost to a deep sense of
religious duty, or a Ridger sufficiently devoid of the pride of personal
appearance, that he would "go to town" without having first performed
this rite.
It is a serious business.
In the house of my old friend Jeb Hilson there had once been a "lookin'
glass" of no mean proportions, if those of his neighbors may be taken as
the standard, and how else do we measure elegance or style? It had
occupied a black frame, and a position on the wall directly over a
"toilet," which was the most conspicuous piece of furniture in the room.
At the present time there was nothing to tell the tale but a large nail
(from which hung a bunch of seed onions,) and the smoked outline of
something which had been nearly fourteen inches long and not far from
the same width. In front of this drab outline Jeb Hilson always stood to
shave. His memory was so tenacious that I never observed that he noticed
the absence of the glass. He gazed steadily at the wall and worked the
scissors so deftly that the stubble rained in little showers upon the
top of the "toilet" and within the open bosom of his tennis shirt. Not
that Jeb Hilson ever heard of tennis, or knew that he was clad in a
garment of so approved a metropolitan style and make; but that was the
pattern he had worn for many years, and it was the one which his women
folk were best able to reproduce. His flannel ones were gray, and his
trousers were belted about with a leather strap. For full dress
occasions he wore a white cotton shirt of the same pattern and a brown
homespun vest. This latter garment was seldom buttoned. Why hide the
glory of that shirt? If Jeb owned a coat I have never seen it. He
appeared to think it a useless garment.
I believe I did not say that Jeb Hilson was the leader of those who
eschewed all hair upon the face. Whether this was done to show a
profounder contempt for the Tunker superstition, or whether Jeb had a
secret pride in the outline of his mouth and chin, and a desire to give
full expression to their best effects, it would be hard to say. It is
certain, however, that his motives must have been powerful, for he
underwent untold torture to achieve his results. If the blades of the
scissors clicked past each other or wabbled apart too far to even click,
Jeb would resort to his knife and proceed to saw off the offending
beard.
"Hit air saw off er chaw off," he would remark laconically, as he tried
first one implement and then the other. "I wisht ter gracious thet theer
scisser leg'd stay whar't war put; but Lide trum the grape vines with
'em las' week an' they is wus sprung then they wus befo'. But wimmen
folks is all durn fools. I'd be right down glad ef the good Lord had a
saw fit ter give 'em a mite er sense. Some folks sez it would er spilt
'em, but I'm blame ef I kin see how they could er been wus spilt than
the way they is fixed now."
He gazed intently at the smoked image on the wall, and collecting,
between his thumb and finger, a pinch of hair on his upper lip began to
saw at it with his knife. His large yellow teeth were displayed, and the
appearance of a beak was so effectively presented by the protruded lip
that words came from behind it with the uncanny sound of a parrot; but
it did not occur to him to cease talking.
"I fromised" (his upper lip was drawn too far out to form the letter p,
or any with like requirements), "I fromised the young 'squire ter be at
the cote house ter day, an' I tole him thet I'd ast the jedge fer ter
'fint a gyardeen fer thet theer _de_mented widder uv Ike's."
He grasped a fresh bunch of stubble, shifted onto the other foot, turned
the side of his face to the smoked image of the one time mirror, and
rolled his eyes so that in case a glass had hung there he might have
been able to see one inch from his left ear. The shaving went steadily
on. So did the conversation.
"Ef I don't make considdable much hase I'm gwine ter be late, an' ef the
jedge don't 'pint a gyardeen fer thet theer Sabriny she's goin' fer ter
squander the hull uv her proppity. Thet theer wuthless Lige Tummun is
goin' fer ter git the hull uv hit. Thet's thes persisely what he's a
figgerin' fer in my erpinion. He hev thes persuaged her fer ter let him
hev the han'lin uv hit, an' she air a goin' ter live thar fer the res'er
her days; but I'd thes like ter know what's a goin' ter hinder him fum a
bouncin' her thes es soon es he onct gits holt er the hull er thet theer
proppity. An' then whose a goin' ter take keer uv her? Nobody air a
hankerin' fer ter take keer uv a _de_mented widder woman onless she air
got proppity. But I hain't a wantin' ter say much, fer they is folks
mean enough ter up an' think I mout be a try'n ter git holt er thet
proppity myse'f, an' have the han'lin uv hit; so I thes tole the young
'squire abouten hit, an' he thes rec'mended me fer ter thes go ter town
nex' cote day an' erply ter the jedge fer ter 'pint a gyardeen over
Sabriny."
The shaving was finished at last and the homespun "weskit" donned. He
stood in front of the smoked reminder while he performed this latter
feat, and, after staring intently at the wall, appeared to be perfectly
content with the result. Then he trudged away and joined the innumerable
host which would as soon think of staying away from town on court day as
it would think of standing on its head to pray.
All Ridgers of the masculine gender went to town on court day, and as
few Valley men failed to do the same--whether because they knew it would
be a good chance to see everybody in the county and talk politics, or
because few men were so destitute as to be without lawsuits of their
own,--certain it is that they all went and that it furnished topics of
conversation which lasted until court day rolled around again.
As I was a guest at the "young 'squire's" house I was privileged to hear
on the following day some further conversation on the subject of
Sabriny's guardian. I was sitting on the front porch with the sweet and
simple-hearted mother of the young 'squire when Jeb Hilson's lithe form
appeared.
Jeb was still in full dress. The fronts of his vest hung beneath his
long arms as he walked, and he wore his white cotton shirt, somewhat the
worse for its "Cote Day" experiences, it must be confessed. On his head
was one of those delightfully soft straw hats which the young men of the
valley buy by the dozen for fifty cents, wear until they get damp, or
for some other reason droop about the face and head like a "Havelock,"
and then cast aside for a new one. But a Ridger does not pay out five
cents recklessly. One of these straw coverings must last him all summer.
But for all that a Ridger must see, and therefore the front of the
drooping brim is sacrificed to stern necessity when it can no longer be
kept off of the face. The effect is unique. A soft straw crown, run to a
peak; a pendant wide brim touching the back and shoulders; a few
"frazzles" of straw on the forehead which tell where a brim once was;
for the Ridger cuts the front out with the same scissors or knife with
which he shaves, and with no more accuracy of outline. The young farmers
wear these broad straw hats to protect their faces and eyes from the
down-beating sun. The Ridger appears to wear them purely for ornament,
since the only protection which they offer in their new shape is to the
back of necks already so wrinkled and tanned that even a Virginia sun
could hardly penetrate to a discomforting degree.
Jeb nodded to me. Then he took his straw ornament by the top of the peak
and lifted it high above his head, so that he could bring it forward
without scraping his hair, and "made his manners" to the young
"'squire's" mother. He seated himself on the upper step of the wide
gallery, crossed his long legs, placed his straw ornament carefully on
his knee, with the pendant portion falling toward his foot, and began a
bit of diplomatic manoeuvring.
"Howdy, Miss Brady, howdy. I hope yo' health is tollible. I thes thought
I'd like t' see the young 'squire. Air he in? Hit air thes a leetle
bisness matter twixt him an' me, thes a leetle matter uv mo' er _less_
intrust' t' us both."
But the young 'squire was not at home. His mother indicated a
willingness to convey any message to him upon his return; but Jeb,
always contemptuous of women, was in a state of elusive subtlety.
Someone in town had lent wings to his already abnormally developed
caution in the matter of the application for the appointment of the
"gyardeen" for his weak-minded sister-in-law, and had hinted that he
might have to swear to her mental condition if he became the sponsor for
such a move. Jeb was wily. He had tasted of his brother's wife's wrath
on more occasions than one, and whatever his opinion may have been of
the strength of her mind, he entertained no doubts as to the vigor of
her temper when it was aroused. Jeb wanted to be appointed her
"gyardeen." He looked upon the "proppity" as a vast and important
financial trust. If he asked the judge to appoint a guardian, and
Sabriny knew that he had said that she was of defective
intellect--well--Jeb would face much to be allowed to handle that
$134.92. (This was the "proppity" in question. It was a "back" pension
and there was to be $2.11 per month henceforth.) But Jeb was not
foolhardy, and he had trudged back from town without having done what
the young "'squire" had advised, and Sabriny's "proppity" was in
jeopardy still.
"No," he said, wagging his head and looking slyly at the young 'squire's
mother. "No, I thes wanted ter see the young 'squire fer a leetle
private talk. I thes promised him fer ter do sompin, an' then I never
done it. Not as he'd _keer_; but I thes wanted ter make my part fa'r an'
squar'."
He espied a straw that had straggled out from the ragged cut in the
front of his hat. He took it firmly between thumb and finger and gave it
a quick sidewise jerk, whereupon it parted company forever with its
fellows. Jeb inserted this between two of his lower front teeth at their
very base. When it was firmly established he continued his conversation,
leaving his lower lip to struggle in vain to regain a position of
horizontal dignity. The straw was tenacious, and the lip was held at
bay. He did not want to tell his story to anyone but the young 'squire;
but an opportunity to display his mental vigor and business acumen to
the 'squire's mother did not present itself every day, and might he not
tell the tale, and yet not tell it? Could he not give an outline and
still conceal his own motives and desires? Certainly. Women were very
weak minded at best, and even the young 'squire's mother would not be
able to sound the depths of his subtle nature.
"The young 'squire, he tole me fer ter ast the jedge ter 'pint a
gyardeen over the proppity o' Sabriny, along o' her beein'--thet is ter
say--_wimmen_ bein' incompertent ter--thet is, Miss Brady, _mose_ wimmen
not havin' the 'bility fer ter hannel a large proppity--even if they
is--. I aint sayin' that Sabriny is diff'nt fum mose wimmen, you mine.
They is folks thet say her mine is--thet she aint adzackly right in her
head; but lawsy, _I_ aint sayin' thet; an' you mus' know thet wimmin'
aint in no way fit fer ter manage a proppity--a large proppity---more
especial if they is any man a-tryin' fer ter git hit away frum 'em."
"Why, is anybody trying to get poor Sabriny's money, Jeb?" asked the
young 'squire's mother in sympathetic wonder.
But Jeb had been warned that he would better not commit himself if he
hoped for fair sailing. He turned his straw over and put the stiff end
between his teeth again, glanced covertly about, concluded that the lady
was not setting a trap for him, and began again.
"I aint a sayin' as they is, an' I aint a swarin' thet they aint. Mebby
you mout o' heard uv Lige Tummun?"
"Yes, I have heard that he is a trifling fellow," said the young
'squire's mother. "I hope there is no way he can get Sabriny's little
pension."