SUNSET.
One evening soon after that memorable Sunday, Job reached home rather
late. Putting Bess in the stall, he said a tender good-night, crossed
the square to the gate, and went up to the house to find it strangely
still. He pushed the door ajar and saw the old man leaning on his cane
in his arm-chair. His white locks were gilded by the setting sun. His
spectacles lay across the open Bible on the chair at his side. Job
spoke, but there was no answer. Stepping over to see if the old man
was asleep, he found he was indeed sleeping--the sleep that knows no
waking.
Just at sunset, as the long summer day was dying, reading that
precious Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," the weary
traveler on life's long journey had finished his course and gone to
the rest that remaineth for the children of God. Beside him, he had
laid the Book; he would need it no more--he had gone to see the Savior
"face to face." He had taken off his spectacles--the eyes that had
needed them here would not need them in that world to which he had
gone. On his staff he leaned, In the old farmhouse, the home of many
years, and gently as a little child falls asleep in its mother's arms,
he had leaned on God and gone to the better Home.
A feeling of utter loneliness came over Job. The last strong tie was
broken. That night he walked over the old place in the dim light, and
felt that heaven was coming to be more like home than earth.
* * * * *
"Waal, the old man's gone," Marshall Dean said, as he drew his chair
back from the table. "Mighty long wait we've had, Sally, but now we'll
get ready to move."
"Move!" cried his wife, "move! Marshall Dean, where is your common
sense? Don't you know the whole thing will go to that man that's no
kith nor kin of his, while we poor relations has to sit and starve!"
"Mother," said a voice, "I think Job Malden has a better right to the
place than we. He's been a better relation to the old man than all the
Deans together, if I do say it." It was Dan who spoke.
"Yes, that's the way! Bring up a son, and hear him talk back to his
mother!--that's the way it goes! Ever since ye got religion down there
at that gal's grave, ye've been a regular crank!"
The hot words stung, but Dan remained silent.
"I don't care, ma," said little Tom, "I think Job's nice, and if he's
boss I'm going up there every day."
"Yes, and he'll kick ye out, or do the way he did with Dan at the
Yellow Jacket--set a parcel of soldiers on to ye, just as if ye was a
dog!" sharply retorted Mrs. Dean.
Dan could keep silent no longer. "Mother, what right have you to talk
that way? I deserved all I got at the Yellow Jacket. And I shall never
forget that when my leg was hurt and the surgeon took it off, Job came
in and nursed me. No better man ever walked the earth than Job
Malden, and not one of the Dean family is worth mentioning in the
same breath."
* * * * *
The mother cut her bread in frowning silence, the father took his hat
and left the room, while little Ross said:
"Job brought me a lot of the prettiest flowers once when I was sick! I
wish he owned all the flowers, he's so good to me!"
Just then Baby Jim climbed into his mother's lap and said, "What's
'dead,' mamma? Where's Uncle Andy gone? Is you goin' there?" And the
peevish, selfish woman took the child in her arms and went out on the
sunny porch, wondering if indeed she was ever going there; whether
this something which, after all, she knew had so changed Dan for the
better, was for her.
Down at Squire Perkins' that night, a Chinese woman, kneeling by her
kitchen chair, prayed that riches might not conquer Job Malden, who by
the grace of God had stood so many of life's tests.
On the streets of Gold City they debated over the estate, wondering if
Andrew Malden had left anything for public charity, and whether the
new lord of Pine Tree Mountain would rebuild the mill and open the
Cove Mine. Pioneers of the hills met each other by the way and talked
of how fast changes were coming in Grizzly county--Yankee Sam gone,
Father Reynolds gone, and now Andy Malden. They shook their heads and
wondered what would become of things, with none but the youngsters
left.
Up at the ranch, Tony crept softly across the floor and, himself
unseen, looked in where Job sat by the still form of "old Marse."
It was over at last. Under the pines, close by his own boy and Jane,
they laid him. It was a strange funeral. Tony, Hans, Tim's father and
Sing bore the casket. A great throng was there. The man whom Grizzly
county had once hated was buried amid its tears. Job stood with bared
head as the preacher said, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and turned
quickly away, feeling that the old days were gone forever.
It seemed very strange that night to hear Tony say, "Marse Malden,
what's de work yo' hab for me?" He walked through the old house and
then went out again. The soul of the place was gone.
Job wondered what the outside world looked like; what God had in store
for him. He longed to leave the dead past behind him, and be out in
the world of action and mighty purpose. But he was in the memory-world
still; and as he slept that night, there came the friends of other
days--his blue-eyed mother, Yankee Sam, black-eyed Jane, wan-faced
Tim, the old man; across his dreams they came and went.
Last of all One came, the seamless robe enfolding Him, the dust
covering His scarred feet, the print of thorns on His brow, and He
whispered:
"Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world."