though I ain't much given to the same (_not_ meanin' second day's
washin's). I didn't know quite what I was goin' to say, but just then I
looked up Daphne Street, an' I see 'em all sprinkled along comin' from
the funeral--neighbours an' friends an' just folks--an' most of 'em
livin' in Friendship peaceful an'--barrin' slopovers--doin' the level
best they could. Not all of 'em hearin' the Bell, you understand, nor
knowin' it by name if they did hear. But in little ways, an' because it
was secunt nature, just helpin', helpin', helpin' ... Mis'
Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss, Liddy Ember, Abagail Arnold an' her
husband, that was alive then, hurryin' to open the home bakery to catch
the funeral trade on the funeral's way back, Amanda an' Timothy Toplady
rattlin' by in the wagon an' 'most likely scrappin' over the new
springs ... an' all of 'em salt good at heart.
"''Leven,' I says, out o' the fulness o' the lump in my throat, 'stay
here with us. Find somethin' honest you can do, an' stay here an' do it.
Mebbe,' I told her, 'you could start dressin' the Dead's hair. An'
_help_ us,' I says, 'help us.'
"She looked up in my eyes quick, an' my heart stood still. An' then it
sunk down an' down.
"'I want to go back ...' she says, 'I want to go back ...' but I'm glad
to remember that even for a minute I didn't doubt God's position,
because I remember thinkin' swift that if Him an' I had failed it wasn't
for no inscrutable reason o' His, but He was feelin' just as bad over it
as I was, an' worse.... 'I want to go back,' 'Leven finished up, 'an'
get Big Lil, too.'
"Oh, an' I tell you the song in me just crowded the rest o' me out of
existence. I felt like a psalm o' David, bein' sung. I hadn't dreamed
she'd be like that--I hadn't dreamed it. Why, some folks, Christian an'
in a pew, never come to the part o' their lives where they want to go
back an' get a Big Lil, too.
"We stood there a little while, an' I talked to her some, though I
declare I couldn't tell you what I said. You can't--when the psalm
feelin' comes. But we stood out there sort o' occupyin' April, till
after the big blue bowl o' feathery eggs had been popped in the big
black oven, an' it was rill dark.
"I forgot all about the shroud till we stepped in the house an' lit up,
an' I see it. An' then it was like the song in me gettin' words, an' it
come to me what it all was: How it rilly hadn't been Jennie's funeral so
much as it had been 'Leven's--the 'Leven that was. But I didn't tell
her--I never told her. An' she wore that shroud for most two years,
mornin's, about her work."
Calliope smiled a little, with her way of coming back to the moment from
the four great horizons.
"Land," she said, "sometimes I think I'll make some shrouds an' starch
'em up rill good, an' take 'em to the City an' offer to folks. An' say:
Here. Die--die. You've got to, some part o' you, before you can awake
an' put on your beautiful garments an' your strength. I told you, you
know," she added, "I guess sometimes I kind o' believe in craziness!"
XVIII
IN THE WILDERNESS A CEDAR
In answer to my summons Liddy Ember appeared before me one morning and
outspread a Vienna book of coloured fashion-plates.
"Dressmakin' 'd be a real drudgery for me," she said, "if it wasn't for
havin' the colour plates an' makin' what I can to look like 'em.
Sometimes I get a collar or a cuff that seems almost like the picture.
There's always somethin' in the way of a cedar," she added blithely.
"A cedar?" I repeated.
She nodded, her plain face lighting. "That's what Calliope use' to call
'em," she explained; "'I will plant in the wilderness the cedar,' you
know--in the Bible." And I did recall the phrase on Calliope's lips, as
if it were the theme of her.
From this one and that one, and now and then from her herself, I had
heard something of Calliope's love story. Indeed, all Friendship knew it
and spoke of it with no possibility of gossip or speculation, but with a
kind of genius for consideration. I did not know, however, that it was
of this that Liddy meant to speak, for she began her story far afield,
with some talk of Oldmoxon house, in which I lived, and of its former
tenants.
"Right here in this house is mixed up in it," she said; "I been thinkin'
about it all the way up. Not very many have lived here in the Oldmoxon
house, and the folks that lived here the year I mean come so quiet
nobody knew it until they was here--an' that ain't easy to do in
Friendship. First we knew they was in an' housekeepin'. Their accounts
was in the name of a Mis' Morgan. We see her now an' then on the
street--trim an' elderly an' no airs excep' she wouldn't open up a
conversation an' she wouldn't return her calls. 'Most everybody called
on her inside the two weeks, but the woman was never home an' she never
paid any attention. She didn't seem to have no men folks, an' she
settled her bills with checks, like she didn't have any ready money.
Little by little we all dropped her, which she ought to of expected.
Even when it got around that there was sickness in the house, nobody
went near, we feelin' as if we knew as good as the best what dignity
calls for.
"But Calliope didn't feel the same about it. Calliope hardly ever felt
the same about anything. That is, if it meant feelin' mean. She was a
woman that worked, like me, but yet she was wonderful differ'nt. That
was when we had our shop together in the house where we lived with the
boy--I'll come to him in a minute or two. Besides lace-makin', Calliope
had a piano an' taught in the fittin'-room--that was the same as the
dinin'-room. Six scholars took. Sometimes I think it was her knowin'
music that made her differ'nt.
"We two was sittin' on our porch that night in the first dark. I know a
full moon was up back o' the hollyhocks an' makin' its odd little
shadows up an' down the yard, an' we could smell the savoury bed. 'Every
time I breathe in, somethin' pleasant seems goin' on inside my head,' I
rec'lect Calliope's sayin'. But most o' the time we was still an' set
watchin' the house on the corner where the New People lived. They had a
hard French name an' so we kep' on callin' 'em just the 'New People.' He
was youngish an' she was younger an'--she wasn't goin' out anywheres
that summer. She was settin' on the porch that night waitin' for him to
come home. Before it got dark we'd noticed she had on a pretty white
dress an' a flower or two. It seemed sort o' nice--_that_ bein' so, an'
her waitin' there dressed so pretty. An' we sort o' set there waitin'
for him, too--like you will, you know.
"The boy was in the bed. He wa'n't no relation of Calliope's if you're
as strict as some, but accordin' to my idea he was closer than
that--closer than kin. He was the grandchild of the man Calliope had
been goin' to marry forty-some years before, when she was twenty-odd.
Calvert Oldmoxon he was--born an' bred up in this very house. He was
quite well off an'--barrin' he was always heathen selfish--it was a
splendid match for Calliope, but I never see a girl care so next to
nothin' about that. She was sheer crazy about him, an' he seemed just as
much so about her. An' then when everything was ready--Calliope's dress
done an' layin' on their best-room bed, the minister stayin' home from
conference to perform the ceremony, even the white cake made--off goes
Calvert Oldmoxon with Martha Boughton, a little high-fly that had just
moved to town. A new girl can marry anything she wants in Friendship if
she does it quick. So Calliope had to put up from Martha Boughton with
just what Jennie Crapwell had to take from Delia, more'n twenty-five
years afterwards.
"It was near thirty years before we see either of 'em again. Then, just
a little before I'm tellin' you about, a strange woman come here to town
one night with a little boy; an' she goes to the hotel, sick, an' sends
for Calliope. An' when Calliope gets to the hotel the woman was about
breathin' her last. An' it was Mis' Oldmoxon--Martha Boughton, if you
please, an' dyin' on the trip she'd made to ask Calliope to forgive her
for what she done.
"An' Calliope forgive her, but I don't imagine Calliope was thinkin'
much about her at the time. Hangin' round the bed was a little boy--the
livin', breathin' image of Calvert Oldmoxon himself. Calliope was
mad-daft over children anyway, though she was always kind o' shy o'
showin' it, like a good many women are that ain't married. I've seen her
pick one up an' gentle it close to her, but let anybody besides me come
in the room an' see her an' she'd turn a regular guilt-red. Calliope
never was one to let on. But I s'pose seein' that little boy there at
the hotel look so much like _him_ was kind o' unbalancin'. So what does
she do when Mis' Oldmoxon was cryin' about forgiveness but up an' ask
her what was goin' to be done with the boy after she was dead. Calliope
would be one to bring the word 'dead' right out, too, an' let the room
ring with it--though that ain't the custom in society. Now'days they lie
everybody 'way into the grave, givin' 'em to understand that their
recovery is certain, till there must be a lots o' dumfounded dead, shot
into the next world--you might say unbeknownst. But Calliope wasn't
mincin' matters. An' when it come out that the dyin' woman hadn't seen
Calvert Oldmoxon for thirty years an' didn't know where he was, an' that
the child was an orphan an' would go to collateral kin or some such
folks, Calliope plumps out to her to give her the child. The forgiveness
Calliope sort o' took for granted--like you will as you get older. An'
Mis' Oldmoxon seemed real willin' she should have him. So when Calliope
come home from the funeral--she'd rode alone with the little boy for
mourners--she just went to work an' lived for that child.
"'"In the wilderness the cedar," Liddy,' she says to me. 'More than one
of 'em. I've had 'em right along. My music scholars an' my lace-makin'
customers an' all. An', Liddy,' she says to me sort o' shy, 'ain't you
noticed,' she says, 'how many neighbours we've had move in an out that's
had children? So many o' the little things right around us! Seems like
they'd almost been born to me when they come acrost the street, so. An'
I've always thought o' that--"In the wilderness the cedar"' she says,
'an' they's always somethin' to be a cedar for me, seems though.'
"'Well,' says I, sort o' sceptical, 'mebbe that's because you always
plant 'em,' I says. 'I think it means that, too,' I told her. An' I knew
well enough Calliope was one to plant her cedars herself. Cedars o'
comfort, you know.
"I've seen a good many kinds o' mother-love--you do when you go round to
houses like I do. But I never see anything like Calliope. Seems though
she breathed that child for air. She always was one to pretend to
herself, an' I knew well enough she'd figured it out as if this was
_their_ child that might 'a' been, long ago. She sort o' played
mother--like you will; an' she lived her play. He was a real sweet
little fellow, too. He was one o' them big-eyed kind that don't laugh
easy, an' he was well-spoken, an' wonderful self-settled for a child o'
seven. He was always findin' time for you when you thought he was doin'
somethin' else--slidin' up to you an' puttin' up his hand in yours when
you thought he was playin' or asleep. An' that was what he done that
night when we set on the porch--comes slippin' out of his little bed an'
sets down between us on the top step, in his little night-things.
"'Calvert, honey,' Calliope says, 'you must run back an' play dreams.
Mother wants you to.'
"She'd taught him to call her mother--she'd had him about six months
then--an' some thought that was queer to do, seein' Calliope was her age
an' all. But I thought it was wonderful right.
"'I did play,' he says to her--he had a nice little way o' pressin' down
hard with his voice on one word an' lettin' the next run off his
tongue--'I did play dreams,' I rec'lect he says; 'I dreamed 'bout
robbers. Ain't robbers _distinct_?' he says.
"I didn't know what he meant till Calliope laughs an' says, 'Oh,
distinctly extinct!' I remembered it by the way the words kind o'
crackled.
"By then he was lookin' up to the stars--his little mind always lit here
an' there, like a grasshopper.
"'How can heaven begin,' he says, 'till everybody gets there?'
"Yes, he was a dear little chap. I like to think about him. An' I know
when he says that, Calliope just put her arms around him, an' her head
down, an' set sort o' rockin' back an' forth. An' she says:--
"'Oh, but I think it begins when we don't know.'
"After a while she took him back to bed, little round face lookin' over
her shoulder an' big, wide-apart, lonesome eyes an' little sort o'
crooked frown, for all the world like the other Calvert Oldmoxon. Just
as she come out an' set down again, we heard the click o' the gate
acrost at the corner house where the New People lived, an' it was the
New Husband got home. We see his wife's white dress get up to meet him,
an' they went in the house together, an' we see 'em standin' by the
lamp, lookin' at things. Seems though the whole night was sort
o'--gentle.
"All of a sudden Calliope unties her apron.
"'Let's dress up,' she says.
"'Dress up!' I says, laughin' some. 'Why, it must be goin' on half-past
eight,' I told her.
"'I don't care if it is,' she says; 'I'm goin' to dress up. It seems as
though I must.'
"She went inside, an' I followed her. Calliope an' I hadn't no men folks
to dress for, but, bein' dressmakers an' lace folks, we had good things
to wear. She put on the best thin dress she had--a gray book-muslin; an'
I took down a black lawn o' mine. It was such a beautiful night that I
'most knew what she meant. Sometimes you can't do much but fit yourself
in the scenery. But I always thought Calliope fit in no matter what she
had on. She was so little an' rosy, an' she always kep' her head up like
she was singin'.
"'Now what?' I says. For when you dress up, you can't set home. An' then
she says slow--an' you could 'a' knocked me over while I listened:--
"'I've been thinkin',' she says, 'that we ought to go up to Oldmoxon
house an see that sick person.'
"'Calliope!' I says, 'for the land. You don't want to be refused in!'
"'I don't know as I do an' I don't know but I do,' she answers me. 'I
feel like I wanted to be doin' somethin'.'
"With that she out in the kitchen an' begins to fill a basket.
Calliope's music didn't prevent her cookin' good, as it does some. She
put in I don't know what all good, an' she had me pick some hollyhocks
to take along. An' before I knew it, I was out on Daphne Street in the
moonlight headin' for Oldmoxon house here that no foot in Friendship had
stepped or set inside of in 'most six months.
"'They won't let us in,' I says, pos'tive.
"'Well,' Calliope says, 'seems though I'd like to walk up there a night
like this, anyway.'
"An' I wasn't the one to stop her, bein' I sort o' guessed that what
started her off was the New People. Those two livin' so near by--lookin'
forward to what they was lookin' forward to--so soon after the boy had
come to Calliope, an' all, had took hold of her terrible. She'd spent
hours handmakin' the little baby-bonnet she was goin' to give 'em. An'
then mebbe it was the night some, too, that made her want to come up
around this house--because you could 'most 'a' cut the moonlight with a
knife.
"They wa'n't any light in the big hall here when we rung the bell, but
they lit up an' let us in. Yes, they actually let us in. Mis' Morgan
come to the door herself.
"'Come right in,' she says, cordial. 'Come right upstairs.'
"Calliope says somethin' about our bein' glad they could see us.
"'Oh,' says Mis' Morgan, 'I had orders quite a while ago to let in
whoever asked. An' you're the first,' she says. 'You're the first.'
"An' then it come to us that this Mis' Morgan we'd all been tryin' to
call on was only what you might name the housekeeper. An' so it turned
out she was.
"The whole upper hall was dark, like puttin' a black skirt on over your
head. But the room we went in was cheerful, with a fire burnin' up. Only
it was awful littered up--old newspapers layin' round, used glasses
settin' here an' there, water-pitcher empty, an' the lamp-chimney was
smoked up, even. The woman said somethin' about us an' went out an' left
us with somebody settin' in a big chair by the fire, sick an' wrapped
up. An' when we looked over there, Calliope an' I stopped still. It was
a man.
"If it'd been me, I'd 'a' turned round an' got out. But Calliope was as
brave as two, an' she spoke up.
"'This must be the invalid,' she says, cheerful. 'We hope we see you at
the best.'
"The man stirs some an' looks over at us kind o' eager--he was oldish,
an' the firelight bein' in his eyes, he couldn't see us.
"'It isn't anybody to see me, is it?' he asks.
"At that Calliope steps forward--I remember how she looked in her pretty
gray dress with some light thing over her head, an' her starched white
skirts was rustlin' along under, soundin' so genteel she seemed to me
like strangers do. When he see her, the man made to get up, but he was
too weak for it.
"'Why, yes,' she answers him, 'if you're well enough to see anybody.'
"An' at that the man put his hands on his knees an' leaned sort o'
hunchin' forward.
"'Calliope!' he says.
"It was him, sure enough--Calvert Oldmoxon. Same big, wide-apart,
lonesome eyes an' kind o' crooked frown. His hair was gray, an' so was
his pointed beard, an' he was crool thin. But I'd 'a' known him
anywheres.
"Calliope, she just stood still. But when he reached out his hand, his
lips parted some like a child's an' his eyes lookin' up at her, she went
an' stood near him, by the table, an' she set her basket there an'
leaned down on the handle, like her strength was gone.
"'I never knew it was you here,' she says. 'Nobody knows,' she told him.
"'No,' he says, 'I've done my best they shouldn't know. Up till I got
sick. Since then--I--wanted folks,' he says.
"I kep' back by the door, an' I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He was
older than Calliope, but he had a young air. Like you don't have when
you stay in Friendship. An' he seemed to know how to be easy, sick as he
was. An' that ain't like Friendship, either. He an' Calliope had growed
opposite ways, seems though.
"'I'll go now,' says Calliope, not lookin' at him. 'I brought up some
things I baked. I didn't know but they'd taste good to whoever was sick
here.'
"With that he covers one hand over his eyes.
"'No,' he says, 'no, no, Calliope--don't go yet. It's you I come here to
Friendship to see,' he told her.
"'What could you have to say to me?' asks Calliope--dry as a bone in her
voice, but I see her eyes wasn't so dry. Leastwise, it may not have been
her eyes, but it was her look.
"Then he straightens up some. He was still good-lookin'. When you was
with him it use' to be that you sort o' wanted to stay--an' it seemed
the same way now. He was that kind.
"'Don't you think,' he says to her--an' it was like he was humble, but
it was like he was proud, too--'don't you think,' he says, 'that I ever
dreamed you could forgive me. I knew better than that,' he told her.
'It's what you must think o' me that's kep' me from sayin' to you what I
come here to say. But I'll tell you now,' he says, 'I'm sick an' alone
an' done for. An' what I come to see you about--is the boy.'
"'The boy,' Calliope says over, not understandin'; 'the boy.'
"'My God, yes,' says he. 'He's all I've got left in the world.
Calliope--I need the boy. I need him!'
"I rec'lect Calliope puttin' back that light thing from her head like it
smothered her. He laid back in his chair for a minute, white an' still.
An' then he says--only of course his words didn't sound the way mine
do:--
"'I robbed your life, Cally, an' I robbed my own. As soon as I knew it
an' couldn't bear it any longer, I went away alone--an' I've lived alone
all exceptin' since the little boy come. His mother, my son's wife,
died; an' I all but brought him up. I loved him as I never loved
anybody--but you,' he says, simple. 'But when his father died, of course
I hadn't any claim on the little fellow, I felt, when I'd been away from
the rest so long. _She_ took him with her. An' when I knew she'd left
him here I couldn't have kep' away,' he says, 'I couldn't. He's all I've
got left in the world. I all but brought him up. I must have him,
Cally--don't you see I must have him?' he says.
"Calliope looks down at him, wonderful calm an' still.
"'You've had your own child,' she told him slow; 'you've had a real
life. I'm just gettin' to mine--since I had the boy.'
"'But, good God,' he says, starin' up at her, 'you're a woman. An' one
child is the same as another to you, so be that it ain't your own.'
"Calliope looked almost as if he had struck at her, though he'd only
spoke a kind o' general male idea, an' he couldn't help _bein'_ a male.
An' she says back at him:--
"'But you're a man. An' bein' alive is one thing to you an' another
thing to me. Never let any man forget that,' she says, like I never
heard her speak before.
"Then I see the tears shinin' on his face. He was terrible weak. He
slips down in his chair an' sets starin' at the fire, his hands hangin'
limp over the arms like there wasn't none of him left. His face looked
tired to death, an' yet there was that somethin' about him like you
didn't want to leave him. I see Calliope lookin' at him--an' all of a
sudden it come to me that if I'd 'a' loved him as she use' to, I'd 'a'
walked over there an' then, an' sort o' gentled his hair, no matter
what.
"But Calliope, she turned sharp away from him an' begun lookin' around
the room, like she see it for the first time--smoky lamp-chimney, old
newspapers layin' 'round, used-up glasses, an' such like. The room was
one o' the kind when they ain't no women or children. An' then, when she
see all that, pretty soon she looked back at him, layin' sick in his
chair, alone an' done for, like he said. An' I see her take her arms in
her hands an' kind o' rock.
"'Ain't the little fellow a care to you, Cally?' he says then, wistful.
"She went over towards him, an' I see her pick up his pillow an' smooth
it some an' make to fix it better.
"'Yes,' she says then, 'you're right. He is a care. An' he's your
grandchild. You must take him with you just as soon as you're well
enough,' she says.
"He broke clear down then, an' he caught her hands an' laid his face on
'em. She stood wonderful calm, lookin' down at him--an' lookin'. An' I
laid the hollyhocks down on the rug or anywheres, an' somehow I got out
o' the room an' down the stairs. An' I set there in the lower hall an'
waited.
"She come herself in a minute. The big outside door was standin' open,
an' when I heard her step on the stairs I went on ahead out to the
porch, feelin' kind o' strange--like you will. But when Calliope come up
to me she was just the same as she always was, an' I might 'a' known she
would be. She isn't easy to understand--she's differ'nt--but when you
once get to expectin' folks to be differ'nt, you can depend on 'em some
that way, too.
"The moon was noon-high by then an' filterin' down through the leaves
wonderful soft, an' things was still--I remember thinkin' it was like
the hushin'-up before a bride comes in, but there wasn't any bride.
"When we come to our house--just as we begun to smell the savoury bed
clear out there on the walk--we heard something ... a little bit of a
noise that I couldn't put a name to, first. But, bless you, Calliope
could. She stopped short by the gate an' stood lookin' acrost the road
to the corner house where the New People lived. It was late for
Friendship, but upstairs in that house a lamp was burnin'. An' that room
was where the little noise come from--a little new cry.
"'Oh, Liddy,' Calliope says--her head up like she was singin'--'Oh,
Liddy--the New People have got their little child.'
"An' I see, though of course she didn't anywheres near realize it then,
that she was plantin' herself another cedar."
XIX
HERSELF
After all, it was as if I had first been told about refraction and then
had been shown a rainbow. For presently Calliope herself said something
to me of her having been twenty. One would as lief have broken the
reticence of a rainbow as that of Calliope, but rainbows are not always
reticent. I have known them suggest infinite things.
In June she spent a fortnight with me at Oldmoxon house, and I wanted
never to let her go. Often our talk was as irrelevant to patency as are
wings. That day I had been telling her some splendid inconsequent dream
of mine. It had to do with an affair of a wheelbarrow of roses, which I
was tying on my trees in the garden directly the original blossoms fell
off.
Calliope nodded in entire acceptance.