[Illustration: The MM Co.]
[Illustration: “_So they marched away to the tune of ‘The Girl I Left
Behind Me’_”]
[Illustration]
HEIMWEH
THE SIREN ✳ ✳ ✳ THE
LOADED GUN ✳ ✳ LIEBEREICH.
✳ “IUPITER
TONANS” ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ “SIS”.
THOR’S EMERALD ✳ ✳
GUILE ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳
_By_
JOHN LUTHER LONG
_Author of_ “MADAME BUTTERFLY” “NAUGHTY NAN” “MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM” “THE
FOX WOMAN” _Etc._
_ILLUSTRATED_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
_NEW YORK MCMV_
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
COPYRIGHT, 1905,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1905.
=Norwood Press=
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
WHETHER YOU BE SICK WITH
LONGING FOR THESE SQUALID
HOMES ON EARTH WHERE LOVE
IS NEVER SURE—OR FOR THOSE
SPLENDID MANSIONS IN OUR
FATHER’S HOUSE WHERE IT
WAITS ALWAYS—THESE ARE FOR
YOU ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈
[Music: Heimweh, Heimweh, himmlisches Sehnen,
Das nach Liebe, das nach Lieben
in der fernen Heimath krankt.]
THE CONTENTS
_HEIMWEH_
PAGE
I Life has no Future at Twenty-one 3
II Happiness is Better than Church 8
III Open the Door to Joy—Always 12
IV War is Glorious at the Beginning, but not at the End 16
V We go out to Fight under the Flag; we Return—under It 19
VI Growing Old is only an Idea—until we Know 22
VII Making Believe brings Things 27
VIII The End of Life is as its Beginning—Simple 31
IX Good Baskets must keep their Bottoms 35
X Things feel Heavier in Age 41
XI But the Poor-house may be One of the Mansions in Our Father’s
House 47
_THE SIREN_
PAGE
I Brassid 53
II On the Bottom of the Sea 63
III She may have had Brothers 68
IV But She was Best of All 72
V His Grandfather’s Courage made her want to love Him 77
VI Her Ancestors wore Scales 82
VII Strange that Love should make One Afraid 87
_THE LOADED GUN_
PAGE
I Three Gentlemen of Philadelphia 93
II An Ounce of Whiskey or an Ounce of Brains 97
III Calling a Man a Pig 103
IV He did not Know that it was Loaded 108
V A Fool and his Money 114
VI The Old Man’s Last Cent 116
VII Her Big Trump 121
_LIEBEREICH_
PAGE
I The House that he and Emmy Built 129
II Emmy and he were never Apart 136
III “Vergissnichtmein” 141
IV The Night-shirt with the Feather-stitching of Blue 145
V The Second Opening of the Door 152
“_IUPITER TONANS_”
PAGE
I The Serious Insomnia of Hier Ruhet 157
II And the Polite Cannon of Weiss Nicht 160
III The Soup-spring 166
IV Knock Wood 172
V And Shoot to make Holes 178
VI Who broke Hier Ruhet’s Leg? 183
VII Pooh! 191
“_SIS_”
PAGE
I Where the Orchards Smelled 197
II The Eyes that Wept till they went Blind 204
III The Golden Teapot with the Blue Rose 209
IV The Story at Last. Attend! 211
V Hiliary loved Both, and Both loved Him 215
VI She Believed in Miracles. Do you? 221
VII That was a Great Time for Kissing 225
VIII What may be Seen on a Doorstep 232
_THOR’S EMERALD_
PAGE
I The Shibboleth of Liberty 237
II When the Summer came Again 245
III The Land of the Brave 254
IV The Home of the Free 260
V The Quality of Justice 268
VI The Foolishness of Preaching 277
VII To a Higher Tribunal 285
VIII The Shadow of Death 288
_GUILE_
PAGE
I Chilly Wisdom 295
II Patchouly 301
III The Calyxlike Bonnet 306
IV The Fiddling of Fortune 312
V A Dangerous Train 317
VI Similia Similibus Curantur 322
VII The Ineffable Whirl 329
VIII The Length of a Minute 331
IX At Ten in the Morning 338
X By the Right of a Husband 340
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
“So they marched away to the tune of ‘The Girl I Left
Behind Me’” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“‘It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,’ said John to himself” 44
“‘I guess you’re the right sort,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Put
it there!’” 100
“She was on the floor there before him, her face
upraised to his” 126
“Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife” 152
“The entire ship’s company gathered and viewed it
curiously” 192
“‘I want to marry one of you girls, but hanged if I know
which one to ask’” 218
HEIMWEH[1]
I LIFE HAS NO FUTURE AT TWENTY-ONE
The neighbors called them “Betsy and John”—_her_ name first, always.
Perhaps because she was short and aggressive, he tall and inclined to
“lazy.” Only inclined to lazy, understand. For, no one had ever caught
him at it. Indeed, with a certain rustic intuition and much experience
of his kind, they knew it was “in him”—that he had been “born to it”—and
they liked him better for his constant vanquishment of the infirmity.
They would have liked him anyhow—he was a very likable fellow. But Betsy
they loved. Once in a while some zealous friend of John would contend
that he was the very incarnation of industry. John, when he came to know
of that sort of thing, always discouraged it—and did it firmly. He would
point to the nimble fingers of his wife—a thing he was always glad to
do—and say, sighing:
“It is _that_—_she_—_it_—makes me ashamed—to lazy.”
She was twenty, he barely twenty-one, when they were married. She was a
basket-maker, he a laborer. They lived in a little town on “the Border.”
Differing with the utmost good nature in everything but one—in that they
were exactly alike. They had no future—absolutely none! They refused to
have one. Strong with the vigor of youth—happy with the unreason of
happiness—content with what came—wishing for nothing they had
not—ambitious for nothing but a home—they lived but from day to day
again—sleeping soundly, working gayly, thinking not. Why should they be
vexed about a future—at twenty—twenty-one?
Once in a while they went hungry—and laughed about it. But, usually,
there was sufficient demand for her dainty wares; and he was digging
trenches in the streets of the adjoining town for the pipes of the new
gas company. He made as much as forty cents a day when he worked, while
she averaged nearly twice as much. You can see that there was no reason
why they should go hungry very often. And, indeed, once, when he felt
particularly opulent, John bought Betsy a gold-plated brooch for her
birthday. It was in 1835.
But did I say that there was one thing upon which they agreed—in that
rejected future? Yes. A home—they wanted a home—a roof over their heads,
they called it—that was all. But, even this was forgotten as the happy
years went by.
“Home is wherever _we_ are!” laughed Betsy.
Then came the children, and John began to talk and act and think like a
very proper father—even though Betsy laughed at him.
“Betsy,” said John, once upon a time, pulling down his face, “we’d ought
to begin thinking of the—” Betsy began to smile, but John went on, like
a husband and father doing his duty—“er—think of the—er—roof!”
He almost shouted the last word—it seemed so ridiculous when he came to
it.
“At twenty-two?” said Betsy.
John was rocking the cradle.
“But when a man gits to be a father—”
“_Papa!_” laughed Betsy at him, and John blushed and stopped.
But that wasn’t Betsy’s way—to chill John with an argument so
irrefutable—and at such a distance! She flung her basket away, snatched
the baby from the cradle, and, next, John had his whole family in his
lap. His wife was laughing, the baby was blinking, and John was very
happy.
“Roof!”—she was talking to the baby “do you know what that is? _I_
don’t. You haven’t any yet—neither have I. I’ve forgotten it. We are
going to have one, of course—after a while—if your papa wants
one—_now_—if he can’t wait—a minute—”
John put his hand on her mouth. She bit it and he kissed her. Then they
were tangled in an embrace for a moment—the baby getting the worst of
it.
“Look here,” said Betsy, then, “don’t you think you’ve got enough with
us? Roof!”
“Yes,” confessed John, shamefacedly, “I don’t want you to bother no more
about it.”
“I won’t,” said Betsy.
“We’ll have it—some day!” declared John, in his lazy way, “without any
bothering!”
II
HAPPINESS IS BETTER THAN CHURCH
Four more were born—boys all—goodly and ruddy—like their little mother.
But, one and all, they surprised and delighted her by growing tall like
their father.
“You see, John,” said Betsy, “they are going to be big like you, and
_good_ like me.”
Well, one by one, they went out into the world—but never very far from
the romping comrade-mother. Away from her the world was neither so gay
nor so tender. They never found another woman so altogether lovely.
There was no work for any of them on Sunday, so they would all come
home. Indeed, in the country of the Germans of Pennsylvania, no one ever
worked on Sunday in that day and generation. And such Sundays as they
were! No going to church, I fear—a heinous omission perhaps. But how
could they? There was gentle revelry in the little house from the first
moment—not a soul of them would have missed that for any church on
earth—and no church on earth would have done them so much good—then a
feast. Sometimes—when all had work and wages were good—a stewed turkey!
And, after it all, kisses and hugs and good-nights—till one thought it
would never end.
And, after they were gone, Betsy would cry—and John would take her in
his lap and say never a word—leaving her to fall asleep there.
But once, instead of sleeping, she sat up and took John by the throat.
“John! I’m glad they’re _not_ girls—_any_ of them.” For this used to be
a complaint of Betsy’s—that none of them were girls.
“Yes,” said John, meekly.
She gripped his throat a little tighter and shook him.
“They’d git married if they were. Girls always do. But boys often have
better sense. Ours have, anyhow.”
“We got married,” ventured John.
“Well—_of course_!” said Betsy, choking him.
But the thing was in her mind all the week. There seemed danger. The
next Sunday, at the table, she said:
“Look here! Why don’t some of yous git—git—married?”
Her hand shook as she dealt out the gravy and waited for their answer.
They looked from one to the other. No one knew.
“Funny,” laughed Ben, “but _I_ never thought of it.”
“Nor I,” said Bart.
“Hanged if I know,” piped Fred. “Don’t see no girls like you—”
“Can I marry you, mammy?” laughed Tom, putting his arm around her as she
came over to him. It was Tom she was most afraid of. For he was the
youngest—and to her he was little short of a god. He had rebellious
yellow hair and blue eyes—and little patches of whiskers were beginning
to grow on his face.
“Yes,” said his mother, sweeping his girlish lips with a kiss.
“Me, too,” said “old” Ben—and he got it.
And so on all around while John smiled in ecstasy.
“Boys,” said the little mother, “there ain’t no girl _I_ ever saw that’s
fit for any of yous—ain’t so, John?”
John, of course, said yes.
Tom got up, and, after turning her back to the rest wiped the tears from
his mother’s eyes.
“Boys,” announced the mother, “next Sunday there will be a turkey—and
oyster stuffing!”
As she said it she went over and let her arms glide gently around the
neck of Will, who had not spoken on the subject of marriage. He caught
her hands and drew her arms closer while he smiled up at her—a little
sadly. She kissed him on the great forehead, and he understood. There
had been a brief love affair for him, but it was over. Simply a
successful rival. He never spoke of it—nor did any one else. But at
least two—understood.
III
OPEN THE DOOR TO JOY—ALWAYS
But Betsy had caught John surreptitiously saving—to buy the roof, he
explained!
“We—we’re gitting old, you know,” he excused.
“Old!—”
Betsy caught up her dainty skirts—very high—and pirouetted before him.
“_Ein’, tswei, drei’, un’ fier. Dass macht sivve’_—”
She stopped a moment.
“John! Don’t you remember Eisenkrantz’s husking—where I first saw you?
Oh, John, what a gawk you were! And yit—and yit—John, do you remember
_how_ you danced that night? Come!”
She pulled him about with her in a very clumsy attempt at waltzing. Then
she pushed him off.
“Oh, _you are_ gitting old. But me—”
A few more mad whirls and she flung herself into his arms.
“Say, John, that’s better than any roof.”
“Er—what?” asked John, whose wits were often left behind by his wife’s.
She came close and shouted in his ear:
“Joy!”
“Oh!” said John, patting her pretty hair.
She slipped her arm about him. And then her voice was very soft and
loving.
“And our five boys! Such boys! Where is there another such five! If we
_should_ get old—if we _should_ need a roof—why, John—there are our five
handsome boys!”
She cried a little, and John asked her for the thousandth time why she
did it.
“Why does a woman cry? For joy and sorrow—life and death—good and evil!”
“Oh!” said John, once more.
“John!” His wife woke up and gripped his throat again. “Ben needs a new
horse,”—Ben was a huckster,—“Tom wants a drill,”—Tom was a farmer,—“and
Fred _must_ have a new Sunday suit. How much money have you saved, you
rascal?”
John told her. And Ben got his horse, Tom got his drill, and Fred got
his Sunday suit—and John saved no more.
But it was so—they were brave and loving fellows—all. And every
Sunday—when they were gone—it was a game of hide-and-seek for Betsy and
John—to find the money and presents they had left. Of course, they were
all at places where she might easily discover them. But she always went
shy of the most likely places at first—thus prolonging the
search—sometimes until she was quite tired. In the pocket of her
second-best dress (she always wore her best on Sunday)—in the frame of
her warped toilet mirror—in the drawers of her scratched dressing
bureau—in the loaves of her new bread!
Finally, when the boys all became prosperous, they made her stop weaving
baskets, and him stop laboring in the streets; all of them dressed well,
and they became quite a company of ladies and gentlemen. Neither John
nor Betsy was precisely happy afterward. Sunday was longer in coming.
But they sighed for their idleness, laughed for their happiness—and did
as the boys told them to do: sat still and looked pretty.
But there is such a thing as getting used even to idleness, and joy
comes whether we work or not—if we are wise enough to let it come. And
no one in that little cheap house ever shut the door on joy. So Betsy,
after a while, learned to wear her Sunday clothes all the week, and John
to shave every morning. And the door was kept open always to joy.
IV
WAR IS GLORIOUS AT THE BEGINNING BUT NOT AT THE END
Then, one day, in ’61, they formed in the town a “soldier company” to go
to the “front.” No one knew much about it—nor where the front was. No
one doubted that it was to be a great frolic—no one but Betsy. And
there, in the front rank, all together, as brothers should be, stood
Betsy’s five boys. And, as if this were not enough, there was John, too!
With yellow chevrons on his sleeves—and a sword at his side—brave as a
lion and proud as a major-general. Company corporal! Alas! perhaps the
privates, too, might have carried swords had there been enough to go
around.
John stood it as long as he could. For more than a week he swore that he
would stay at home and take care of Betsy. He was too old to frolic. But
he went to the drill ground every day. Once or twice he drilled with
them when some one was absent. He finally developed such a genius for
military affairs that the captain went to Betsy and voiced John’s
yearnings—it was for his country that he wanted to fight—it was his duty
to fight—it was a privilege to fight—it was a wife’s duty to let him
fight.
She let John go, too. For, after all, it was only a great frolic—they
told her!
So they marched away to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and the
little mother went home to wait. It was very lonely from the first hour,
and she willingly took up her work again. They scolded her when she
wept, so she tried not to weep. They told her she ought not only to be
willing to let them go, but be glad. She tried to think that she was
glad. But in her heart she rebelled dismally. “We are coming, Father
Abraham!” had been the cry—and her boys, too, had said, with a new light
in their faces, which she, a woman, did not, could not, would not,
understand, that they were going to fight for their country! Go and
fight for their country when they might work for _her_—when they might
have those Sunday feasts—when she could darn their stockings—mend their
clothes—have her arms about them—theirs about her—give them warm
beds—plenty of food—while the country would give them poor food—poor
clothes—the ground to sleep on—and no Sundays at home! She could not
understand it. No woman who is a mother can. She thought of possible
wounds on their splendid bodies—of them lying stark in the night upon
some shot-torn battle-field—of burial unknown in some vast trench—of
fever—and terrors—of hospitals—and even of the coming home—no more her
boys—no more! Soldiers, then, soldiers with rough beards and rough
voices. She never once thought of them coming home dead.
Alas! _her_ country was bounded by the Rhine. This was _their_ country!
But still, as they went, she prayed blindly:
“God bless you and keep you, my boys, and send you back to me as you
go—_good_ boys. Father Abraham, they are my all—everything on earth I
love. Send them back as you receive them.”
V
WE GO OUT TO FIGHT UNDER THE FLAG; WE RETURN—UNDER IT
It seemed cruel—it was cruel—that her prayer should be so utterly denied
her—that they should all be killed. But so it fell out.
One by one they came home to her and were laid away in the churchyard of
Saint Michael’s, in their pine coffins and faded uniforms, with the
honors of war. It was heart-breaking to have to follow them, one by one,
to their graves—to the same Dead March in Saul—to the same muffled
drums—to the cadenced tramp of soldiers—with the Stars and Stripes for
shroud—with all the solemn pomp of war.
She thought only of the beautiful thing in the coffin to which she had
given life. And each time she prayed dizzily—iterating it—so that God
might perhaps the better hear:
“Our Father, who art in heaven—keep the rest—keep the rest—keep John.”
The last of them died at Gettysburg—in the first day’s fight.
It was only a few miles away, and on the third of July he came home. On
the fourth, while cannons were bursting for joy, she was following once
more the soldiers to the tune of the Dead March. It was the last. She
had grown afraid to pray. But once more, at the open grave, she raised
her hands:
“Our Father, who art in heaven—keep John,” she begged, in whispers.
When she got home there was a letter for her. It spoke of the devotion
of her dead boys. It was almost as if the writer knew them—as she did.
This letter was signed “A. Lincoln,” and read:
“Dear Madam:
“I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of
the Adjutant-General of Pennsylvania that you are the mother of five
sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak
and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to
beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot
refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the
thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our heavenly
Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only
the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that
must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of
freedom.”
“But they are dead!” cried Betsy to the letter. She cared nothing for
the “cause” or for “freedom.” They were dead.
VI
GROWING OLD IS ONLY AN IDEA—UNTIL WE KNOW
And then, when the war was quite over, that last pitiful prayer was
answered, and John came marching home—from the grand review—with a
captain’s straps on his shoulders—a minié ball in his thigh—and a
perfectly proper sword—the gift of the United States of America! It is
quite certain that John was very proud of the sword—and perhaps even of
his limp.
And Betsy was as proud as he—quite. But not of the sword and limp.
These, in secret, she hated as much as she could hate. Perhaps I had
better say that she was only glad. You may be sure that his glory did
not keep her off.
“I don’t care if you _were_ in twenty-one battles. You are only my dear
old John.”
“Only your old John,” said the soldier.
“_Dear_, I said! And—and—you’ve got to make up for all the rest—one
multiplied by five, you know—_that_ dear.”
She suddenly sobbed.
“Eh?” said John. Then—“Oh!”
He sobbed, too.
“And, as for that limp—I will cure that, or my name is not Betsy.”
And more sobs.
But for all her trying, he limped the more.
So that long afterward she said:
“John—I haven’t done it, and my name’s still Betsy.”
But there was no more sobbing about it.
“It’s better,” prevaricated John.
“No,” said Betsy, “it ain’t. Something is gone. I can’t do things any
more.”
John thought a moment.
“Like when you reach out in the dark for something you know is there and
it ain’t and you shiver,” he said then. “I used to do that at night on
the ground—reach out for—you!”
“John!” cried Betsy, in her old manner, “I never heard you say so much
at one time before—nor so nice. What’s the matter?”
“_You_ don’t say so much,” said John. “_I’m_ evening up now.”
“Yes—yes—yes—dear John!” said Betsy, with a tear, she did not know for
what—quite. “I must talk more.”
“We’ve lost something and we’ve gained something—at another place,” John
went on. “I don’t know what it is—but it’s something.”
“John, I know, and I’ll tell you.”
She came and knelt at his side and tried to reach his neck with her
short arms.
“We’re falling in love again!”
John suddenly held her off and stared.
“By jiminy!”
“Yes. It was so long to wait—and there is nobody but you and me now—and
we have got to begin all over again. Don’t you see?” And the tears fell
again.
“No! I was always in love with you. No!”
And he was quite stubborn about it.
“Yes!” she cried.
“Yes,” John agreed.
“No!” she laughed.
“No,” laughed John.
After a moment she released herself, and, taking John by the throat in
the old fashion, said:
“And, John, we _will_ begin all over again. We’re not old! So there!”
She spread her skirts and whirled around on her toes.
“Not a day older than in ’35,” said John, with glistening eyes.
She flew upon him and took him again by the throat.
“John!” she cried, “that’s a little _too_ much!”
But John was not convinced—though she lifted her yellow hair and showed
him where the gray was creeping in.
“But it’s mighty sweet,” she conceded.
They did exactly as they had planned—began all over again. John was as
tender with her as he had been after that night of the husking. And
Betsy was as devoted to John as she had been in that halcyon time.
“Growing old is just an idea,” said the happy John, one day.
“Oh, of course,” agreed Betsy, busily plaiting withes, “until you
_know_!”
“Why, everything is just as it was thirty years ago—ain’t it, Betsy?”
“John,” laughed Betsy, trying to plunge upon him from her work, “did it
ever occur to you that your love-making nowadays consists largely of
recalling those other love-makings—in ’35, you know?”
John thought a moment.
“Why, so it is, Betsy—so it is.”
“All imagination.”
“That’s just as good—just as good,” said John, stubbornly. “It’s always
new.”
“Just as good,” laughed his wife, “when you don’t know no better—and we
don’t, John, do we?”
“No, thank God,” said John, “and I don’t want to.”
“So don’t I,” said his wife, laughing.
“Betsy,” asked John, “do you ever think of that roof any more?”
“Yes,” answered Betsy, trying to be serious, “and we’ll have it some of
these days—never fear.”
VII
MAKING BELIEVE BRINGS THINGS
For the next twenty years Betsy made baskets and John went in and out
with his pick and shovel. But they earned less and less. And then the
owner of their house died and left them to the tender mercy of his
heirs. These promptly began to inquire about the arrears of rent.
“I don’t know how much we are back, but I guess it’s a good deal,”
smiled Betsy.
John was troubled. “If we’d only kep’ on saving, we might own the house
by now, and—”
Betsy put her hand on his mouth—and some of the fingers into it.
“We made better use of it, John, ten thousand times better use of it!
John—we bought happiness with it! And they are all dead, now, back there
at Saint Michael’s. And there is not a thing to regret—not one. Oh,
thank God—thank God! If we had saved that money, there would be
something to regret. We would have to remember that one was denied
this—the other—that. But we’ll have the roof yet.”
John sniffled and let his arm go gently around her.
“Betsy—forgive me. I didn’t mean—”
“Why, John, dear,” said Betsy, smiling again, “in a little while we will
not need a house. John! ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions’!”
“Yes,” answered John, with a caress, awed by the light in his wife’s
pretty face. “Yes—yes.”
“Who would we leave it to when we die?”
“Just so!” cried John.
“And in the mansions our boys will be! And it will be Sunday always.”
When fall came the new owners turned them out—and Betsy’s dainty
house-things were given to the new tenant. They went to live in the
abandoned out-kitchen of a neighbor, and Betsy made John believe that
she had never been quite so happy. And, from making believe, it after a
while came to be true. She cried once or twice when John was away—the
little place was so bare and ugly. There did not seem any way to make a
home of it. But Betsy set to work to try—with only her small hands—and
occasionally John’s big ones—and almost no money—and surprised herself.
When it was done, she found that she had, somehow, sewn and woven her
own happiness into the curtains and carpets and furniture.
It took years to do it. Yet she was happy every hour of the time.
Betsy determined, one day, to celebrate the completion of her work. So
when John came home he was met by a glare of light from several borrowed
lamps, the smell of flowers gathered by Betsy herself in the fields, and
a “dinner!”—as Betsy proudly announced—instead of their usual supper.
John took off his old hat in the midst of it and gazed speechlessly.
Then he went back—outside—and wiped again the soles of his boots on the
door-mat Betsy had woven. Betsy laughed like a girl and pulled him
inside.
“Come! You have got to dance!”
Well—John never could dance. But she managed to make him whirl with her
dizzily through the two tiny rooms she had made.
“John! It’s beginning all over again! Going to housekeeping! I’m the
little bride. You can be the groom—if you like?”
“Yes,” mused John, very happily, “beginning all over again—going to
housekeeping—again. But something—is not—”
The cradle was there—they had always kept it—and John looked at that and
laughed guiltily.
“Not that, John—not that, John,” cried Betsy, plunging into his arms
with sobs. “Not that—not that—talk about the roof—if you
like—anything—but—not—_that_!”
VIII
THE END OF LIFE IS AS ITS BEGINNING—SIMPLE
Afterward life was again to them much the same. Only they learned to go
more and more to the churchyard on Sundays with homely garden flowers in
their hands. But, again, they were very happy. John still maintained
that they were renewing their youth. Betsy retorted that it was second
childhood. For there was now a quaver in John’s voice which Betsy heard
but never spoke of, and a tremor in Betsy’s hands which John saw and
never mentioned.
The next winter Betsy slipped on the ice and fell. To her surprise she
could not get up again. John carried her in and went for the doctor. She
had broken her thigh.
She smiled up at the physician very placidly when he shook his head.
“Doctor, you must—_must_ patch me up. John needs me.”
“John!” The doctor turned upon him where he slunk into a corner. John
hung his head. Betsy laughed almost joyously.
It was she who answered the doctor’s look.
“He couldn’t git along without me.”
She smiled at John, and John smiled back. The doctor caught them at
this.
“In the army?” he asked John.
“Yes,” came from the corner.
“Private?”
“Captain.”
“Oh!—”
He remembered him then. He turned and looked at him.
“You fought!”
John was silent. But Betsy’s face glowed. It was she who answered for
him. All about him and the five. It made John blush.
“Hum—wounded?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Three times.”
“Where?”
“Leg—thigh—arm.”
“That what makes you limp?”
“Guess so.”
“Let me look.”
John uncovered.
“Hum—why didn’t you see me long ago?”
“Dunno,” said John.
“Army surgeon. No charge to you.”
John said nothing.
“Ever apply for a pension?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“_Volunteered._”
“Hell of a reason—hum!” ended the surgeon, turning his back to him and
his face to the patient on the bed.
Presently he pulled on his gloves and started for the door. He stopped
and looked at John once more.
“Bullet in leg myself. Going to patch you both up. Army surgeon.
Entitled to my services. Didn’t apply for pension? You and I are the
only two who didn’t. By.”
The doctor did patch them up. But for Betsy there was to be no more
work—nor any dancing. The chubby hands could only lie quietly within
each other and wither. The agile feet could not lift themselves from the
floor unless John helped them.
John put away his pick and shovel.
“I’ll have to learn to make baskets,” said he.
Betsy raised her head from the pillow on her chair to laugh.
“Don’t you think I kin?”
She looked at his hands and laughed again.
“But we’ll have to try—if you’re willing. We got to do something.”
“Oh, I’m willing,” said John, hopefully.
“John!”
Two tears started down her face. John dried them and stroked the soft,
withered hands.
“Dear old John—to be my ’prentice!”
IX
GOOD BASKETS MUST KEEP THEIR BOTTOMS
It was true that his wits were dull and his hands clumsy, but there was
such pleasure in the learning that John did it very rapidly. And
whatever had gone before, and whatever was to come after, they were
certain that no part of their lives had been happier than this of John’s
apprenticeship at eighty to the trade of basket-making.
But his baskets were certainly clumsy as such hands were likely to make
them, and had, besides, a way of losing their handles and bottoms at
critical moments, which was, at least, unfortunate.
John discovered, after a while, that every purchase was simply so much
charity. And, thus far, they had lived proudly—with the wage-earner’s
terror of dependence. One day one of his customers told him, brutally,
about the insecurity of the baskets—and John decided at once that he
must do something else.
“No, John,” said Betsy, “make baskets. But make them for play—not for
use. For the school children. Their baskets do not need strong bottoms.”
John wanted to shout.
“I kin—I kin do that! They like me. The children like me.”
So John entered another phase of his strange life. And none that had
preceded it had been more beautiful. The house was always full of
children. And he could never be seen on the streets of the town without
two or more of them clinging to his hands and the skirts of his old
uniform coat. If he happened to meet them coming from school, they would
flock after him to his door—one or two—very carefully chosen—to sit on
either side of the little invalid’s chair and hear stories the most
wonderful outside of story-books. But for the sake of old times Betsy
would often have them all in—so that the little rooms were jammed with
them—and then they might romp about her as they pleased till John saw
that she was tired. Then he would put them all out.
These were the best friends they ever had—the children. But as customers
for his wares they were soon supplied and John was idle again. And it
was winter—and there was nothing to do and John had never asked for
charity and, he had often said, never would.
So there came a day when there was nothing in the house for the white
little wife to eat. As for John, he could not have told exactly when he
had broken his fast. They said nothing about it to each other—both
understood. Betsy even tried to lighten John’s grimness by a pitiful
little joke. She thought it would show John how brave she was.
“A drink, John, please. There is plenty of _water_, is there not?”
“Plenty of water—yes, plenty of water!” said John, in a way that made
Betsy tremble. For the first time John was terrible.
She sent him out that afternoon to hunt for work. He came back
unsuccessful and with a certain wildness in his eyes.
But there was a supper for them. A stew of meat steamed on the table.
John brought it and fed Betsy—wondering without question.
“You, too, John, dearest; you, too.”
Well—John was very hungry and he began to eat. Presently he noticed that
Betsy was crying softly. It was a long time before she succumbed to his
coaxing. But then she confessed:
“She said I ought to go to the poor-house.”
“Who?” shouted John, rising angrily.
“Mrs. Morrell, who brought the meat.”
John flung the bowl and its contents out of the window. Betsy was awed.
She had never seen him like that.
“John!” she coaxed softly.
“That’s what Miller told me. God! Said I wasn’t worth nothing to work no
more. I’ll show ’em—I’ll show ’em!”
But he didn’t show them—he could not. Age had come at last, and at last
he knew this. He earned nothing—and their hunger went on.
And, one evening, Betsy timidly resumed the hated subject.
“I’ve been thinking about it, John, dear, and she meant it very kind. It
is warm there, John, and there is plenty of food. John—”
“My God, Betsy, do you want to go—live on charity—do you at last want to
leave me—and live on charity—do you want to separate after sixty
years—and live on charity?—Oh, my God!”
“No—no—no! John, let us stay together now until—the end,” said Betsy.
“Forgive me. Only I’m such a burden to you—and it is so cold—”
John had another period of savage activity. It brought no work. But the
agitation shattered him. He went to bed, and when he rose again his
spirit was broken.
“John,” said Betsy to him then, with an angelic light on her face, “when
you get a little better we—will go.”
John only looked stern.
“I have thought it all over—it is best.”
“I will not go,” said John, quietly. “I am a soldier!”
“Yes, John, dear, but—”
“Betsy,” asked John, solemnly, “do you _want_ to go?”
He never knew what a hero she became before she answered:
“Yes—John—I—I want—to go. I’m so cold—and so hungry—”
“Very—well,” said John. But his hand shook so that he could not put it
to his eyes.
“Just till you get right on your feet again, John, darling, just till
you’re quite well. I’m such a burden to you now. We’re such a burden to
each other. Just till things are better with you. That will be soon, I
know it. Then, John, dear John, you shall come for me! Think of that! It
will be another home-coming! Another beginning! Another bride and
groom!”
John listened avidly. A new and more youthful light flashed into his
face.
“Betsy—do you mean that?”
“Mean it? Every word, John, every word!”
He savagely caught her hands.
“You will come back to me?”
“No,” said Betsy, “you shall bring me back!”
X
THINGS FEEL HEAVIER IN AGE
So, one day, a farm wagon, piled high with straw and pillows, came and
took her away. The last thing she said was:
“Dear John! we have lived together sixty years and you never gave me an
unkind word. Kiss me! And again! Oh, it’s like ’35, ain’t it? And, John,
come for me as soon as things are better with you. And if I can’t do
without you that long and send for you—will you come before?”
“Yes,” said John, chokingly. It was all he could say.
Betsy kept her face toward John—then toward the house—then the tallest
tree—then the steeple of the church—long after each had successively
disappeared from view. Then she bravely turned it toward the poor-house.
And John watched the wagon as it climbed hill after hill and disappeared
in valley after valley till it was lost to view.
John tried his pick and shovel again. But they were thick with rust and
very heavy. And the wounded doctor had just brought him a crutch—saying
that as he was having one made for himself he had also had one made for
John—though he could do without it. He smiled a little then and put away
forever his old and faithful tools. For a living he did what he could.
It was not much, and he and hunger came to be rare intimates.
But that youthful hope which Betsy’s last words had wrought, and its
almost savage vigor to do for her, did not depart from John.
After a while something went wrong with his head. He fancied that _she_
was still with him in the little house and always had been. Her dainty
old clothing was about everywhere to foster this. One night he dreamed
of her—that she was by his side. The dream was so real that he reached
out his arms—only to close them on the air. Then he understood for a
little that it had all been but a fancy. He lay for a long time
shuddering and passing now and then his arms through the empty
air—thinking that _might_ have been real and this the fancy. Toward
morning a wondrous thought came to him. He remembered that she had said
he was to come for her. He was to bring her back. There was to be
another beginning—another home-coming—another bride and groom. He did
not remember the rest—that he was to wait until his affairs had
improved, or until she sent for him.
He pictured it all in the vivid darkness—how he would suddenly appear
before her in his Sunday clothes—which meant his best uniform—and say
“Come!”
A wondrous voice echoed his own “Come!”
He flung himself out of the bed like a youth. He shaved with great
care—he wore no beard and had a clean fresh face—set everything in order
in the tiny rooms—pulled down the blinds, locked the door, and, taking
up his crutch, started away over the road the wagon had gone to the
poor-house.
He paused on the hills and looked backward as Betsy had done. The
blinking windows seemed to beckon him back. But he bravely said no to
them:
“I ain’t no deserter! I’m coming back—with her—with her. Don’t you
understand? With _her_! Bride and groom again.”
The windows seemed to understand, and stopped beckoning. He waved them a
farewell and went on.
It was a long road—forty dusty miles—and hilly. Each hill growing higher
and steeper as he approached the city—itself set upon a hill—where the
poor-house was. His progress was very slow—sometimes not more than half
a mile a day. But he never faltered.
“It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,” said John to himself. “Oh, when she
sees me! I shan’t care how many hills there were!”
His bundle was made up in a great red handkerchief, from which his sword
protruded, within which was his best uniform. Farm-houses were his
sleeping places—but that only. No more than one night for each, though
he might have stayed anywhere as long as he wished.
[Illustration: “_‘It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,’ said John to
himself_”]
“I’m going to bring her—her, you know, home. Bride and groom. She said
it. I heard her voice in the night.”
And this was always sufficient reason for refusing the dear, insidious
hospitality pressed everywhere upon him.
If night came and there was no farm-house near, he would nestle in the
straw of a wayside stack, under the stars, damp with the dew, to rise
with the sun in his face. He liked that, and could go on without
breakfast. It was all very beautiful.
His great climax grew upon him mile by mile, until it was the only thing
he had in his poor old head.
“She will be sitting this way—with her hands in her lap, like she always
sits now,” he would say to himself, “thinking of me. I expect she’s
thinking of me all the time. I’ll shave and put on my uniform and my
sword, and suddenly appear before her. Attention!—you know. Only I’ll
not _say_ that—so’s not to frighten her. Mebby she’ll be reading her
Bible. Then she’ll not see me till I’m right on top of her. Then I’ll
say, soft, so’s not to frighten her—about this a—way—‘B—E—T—S—Y!’” He
whispered it lovingly. “And she’ll just say ‘_John!_’” This was a sharp
cry of joy.
He never got further than this. It did not seem necessary. What could be
better? What could be beyond that?
His journey came to an end suddenly—as it seemed to John. It made him
gulp on something in his throat. One morning the spires of the city lay
close before him as if they had been conjured out of a dream. There it
was against the pink clouds, within the morning mists, glowing, like the
City of God as he had fancied it. He stood and gazed upon it, awed and
bewildered. He had not thought of it as beautiful. To him it was only
the city of the poor-house. Perhaps Betsy would not wish to leave a
place so beautiful.
He bravely cast out the unworthy thought. She would leave any place for
him. Heaven itself. With his faith renewed he went up into the city of
the spires.
XI
BUT THE POOR-HOUSE MAY BE ONE OF THE MANSIONS IN OUR FATHER’S HOUSE
And there he found the first unkindness of his long journey. No one
offered him a place to sleep or a bite to eat. And there he could not
see the sun when it rose in the morning. And what had become of the
glories of the city he had seen against the clouds? This one was not
glorious.
On the third day he found the poor-house. It was a splendid building on
the top of a hill. Before he quite reached it he did as he had planned.
There was a beautiful wood back of the place. Here, under the trees, he
shaved and put on his uniform. There was a spot of rust on the sword. He
smiled as he thought how Betsy would have chided him for that. He found
some soft earth and rubbed it off. The old clothing, and everything
else, he put back into the red handkerchief and hid the bundle under the
roots of the tree. Then he marched up to the great and beautiful
door—without his crutch—every inch a soldier once more.
A uniformed official led him in, and at last he was in the presence of
his wife. She was dead. Her hands were folded within each other as he
himself had often folded them. There were—on head and breast—the dainty
cap and kerchief which she herself had long provided against her burial.
On her dear face was the peace that passeth understanding. Indeed, she
smiled up at him as he looked.
Then John’s heart stopped. At Betsy’s side he died. And so quietly that
they who stood near never heard the sound of his gentle old voice.
They sleep together—Betsy and John. Not at Saint Michael’s with their
five boys. Of them nothing was known at the poor-house. Their graves are
in the burying-ground of the poor. There is a cheap stone upon which
somebody has carved only their names and this text:
“IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE ARE MANY MANSIONS”
because Betsy’s Bible, when they took it up, fell open at that
scripture—and her trembling finger had deeply marked the words as it
followed them day after day to aid her dimming sight.
THE SIREN[2]
I BRASSID
They tell yet, on the porches of the Crazy-Quilt House,—though it is two
years,—how savage Brassid met the laughing Sea-Lady, and how, at last,
he adored her laughter more the more she laughed at him, and how she
loved his savagery more the more savage he was to her.
And, then, on to the consequences of that laughter and that savagery,
which you are to know at the end.
Mrs. Mouthon—the lady who uses snuff—insists that it was all pretence:
that Brassid was _not_ savage—in his room, and that Miss Princeps never
laughed—in her room. Mrs. Mouthon’s room was between theirs.
Nevertheless, Miss Carat, who has the one deaf ear, contends that it is
absurd, absolutely absurd. For, she argues, why _should_ they have
pretended, in the first place, and why should they _not_, if they had
liked, in the last place? But, then, Miss Carat, the other five
first-class boarders whisper, always opposes anything which proceeds
from Mrs. Mouthon.
It seems that Brassid, weary and seeking seclusion, arrived on the last
train of a Wednesday night. The man who carried his bag up from the
little station told him that the Crazy-Quilt House was a sanatorium for
women with head-trouble. It appeared that Brassid and the porter, who
was also many other things at the hotel, would be the only men in the
house—a state of affairs which immediately created a subtle camaraderie
between the two men, though the porter was colored.
“Call me in time for the first train up to-morrow morning,” said
Brassid, as the friendly porter dragged himself out of his room.
“It goes at six o’clock, sir,” warned the porter, perhaps wishing to
detain him a little longer, for already the porter liked Brassid
amazingly. Did I mention that every one did this, in spite of his
ferocity?
“No matter,” said Brassid, shivering at the thought of the unearthly
hour—and of the ladies with head-trouble—Brassid, who composed poems in
bed until ten in the morning!
“All right, sir,” said the porter, as if warning Brassid that he would
regret it.
However, that was why Brassid appeared at the dinner-table in a
dinner-coat—because he knew that the invalid ladies would be there—and
that thus it would be easier for him.
There were six, and one vacant place—opposite. The lady on his left put
up her lorgnon in haste. The one at the top of the table put something
like a pepper-box into her ear and leaned to listen.
“Lovely weather!” said Brassid.
“Rheumatic weather!” said the lady with the pepper-box.
“It’s no such thing!” said the lady who took snuff. “It’s asthmatic!”
Something dropped with a small clatter into Brassid’s plate. The lady on
his left flung her lorgnon to her eyes. Miss Carat jammed her pepper-box
to her ear. Some one laughed, then checked it.
An old locket, in the fashion of a heart, lay in Brassid’s plate. A bit
of ribbon gave evidence of some severed attachment. Brassid was
hopelessly fitting back to its place a flake of blue enamel.
He tried to discourage the interest in his keepsake by covering it with
his napkin. Then he looked up. The vacant seat was occupied, and the
lady was trying to smother her laughter.
Brassid got red and crunched the napkin in a way which said plainly, “So
it was _you_ who laughed!”
She did it again.
He restored the piece of napery with a brave nonchalance, and took up
the locket.
The lady’s eyes retorted as plainly as her lips could have done, “Too
late!”
He remembered precisely how they did it,—out of the tops of their firm
white lids,—with a movement which was personal, a fascination which was
irresistible. He was to read other speeches of these eyes, often
repeated. But he was to read this one only once more.
Well, Brassid broke his guard and laughed with her.
“It is no laughing matter,” said the lady with the lorgnon, fixing the
lady who had laughed with its stare.
It was a critical moment: the lady who laughed might have retorted. But
nothing further happened—except to Brassid. He was falling in love.
“I think it is,” he said in her defence. And he said it with all
Brassid’s savagery.
“Oh, well, it’s _your_ souvenir,” said Mrs. Mouthon, odiously.
“It is,” said Brassid.
He sprung the little case open and showed them a savage face much like
his own. But there was a uniform with a high collar.
“My grandfather, the Indian-fighter. I wear it around my neck.”
And the lady opposite guiltily put her head down, permitting Brassid to
see the loveliest of blond crowns, and, now and then, the edge of her
smile; again, almost a laugh.
And so Brassid fell in love.
They cross-examined him with the precision and directness of barristers.
He informed them that he came from the city, and who his parents were,
and their parents, and theirs, all of whom seemed to be known to some of
the six. The lady opposite kept her head down, but the smile came and
went, nearer and nearer to laughter.
“Do you intend making some stay with us, sir?” inquired the lady with
the one deaf ear.
“It is quite possible,” said Brassid, and the lady opposite barely
restrained her inclination to look up. “It is such a delightful little
place, and the swimming must be fine.”
Now Miss Princeps did look up. She seemed a little startled, and, then,
did Brassid detect a bit of pleasure for her in his announcement? At the
same moment all of the six looked toward Miss Princeps and detected her.
Perhaps they more than detected her.
“Bill” (that was the porter) “said that you were going up on the morning
train.”
Brassid laughed.
“Do you, then, swim?” asked Mrs. Mouthon.
“I am a very good swimmer,” declared Brassid.
Again Miss Princeps looked up, sharply now, not caring that the six
again stared at her. She inspected Brassid with some care. She seemed
satisfied.
“Miss Princeps swims,” said Miss Carat.
Now the eyes of the lady opposite met the eyes of Brassid in a frank
stare. Brassid blushed, as we do when we think we have overstated our
accomplishments in the presence of some one who knows.
“There is nothing the matter with her,” one of the invalids said,
referring to head-troubles, and Brassid answered with tremendous
conviction:
“No!”
Before the meal was over the lady with the pepper-box asked Brassid’s
first name, and formally presented him, including the lady opposite. But
it was only as she rose to go and swept the table with a little smiling
bow that Brassid really saw her superbness.
When she had left the room he found himself still on his feet staring
out of the door whence she had vanished. They caught him in a sigh.
“Sit down!” commanded the lady who took snuff.
And they kept Brassid there and bullied him till he wanted to get up and
fight the lot of them man-fashion.