Surrender
AND so we came to the last evening. I had said nothing about my
interview with Silas Tunstall. I did not see that it would do any
good, and besides I knew that mother would not approve of it. More
than that, I had virtually promised him that it should remain between
ourselves. I realized that it was useless to struggle against fate,
and resigned myself to the inevitable. I cannot say that it was a
cheerful resignation, but I bore up as well as I could. It was a kind
of dreadful nightmare--those last two days. Mother was the bravest of
us all; Dick, gallant fellow that he was, managed to assume a cheerful
countenance; but Tom went about like a ghost, so white and forlorn that
even I, sore at heart as I was, could not help smiling at him. Jane
and Abner, too, showed their sorrow in a way that touched me. I came
upon Jane one evening, sitting on the kitchen steps, her apron over
her head, rocking back and forth, shaken with sobs. I tried to comfort
her--but what could I say--who was myself in such need of comfort!
On that last evening, Mr. and Mrs. Chester and Tom sat down with us to
dinner, as mother had all along insisted they should do; but in spite
of our persistent efforts at cheerfulness, or perhaps because of them,
it reminded me most forcibly of a funeral feast. I could fancy our
dearest friend lying dead in the next room.
No one referred to the morrow, but it was none the less in the thoughts
of all of us, and was not to be suppressed. Mr. Chester, at last, could
stand the strain no longer.
“It’s pretty evident what we’re all thinking about,” he said, “but
we mustn’t permit ourselves to take too gloomy a view of the future.
Remember that old, wise saying that ‘it’s always darkest just before
the dawn.’ Deep down in my heart, I believe that something will happen
to-morrow to set things right.”
“But what?” blurted out Tom. “What can happen, father?”
“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Chester. “I can’t imagine--but, after
all, things usually turn out all right in this world, if we just have
patience; and I’m sure that this muddle is going to turn out all right
too--I feel it in my bones. There’s one thing, Mrs. Truman. Have you
quite made up your mind not to try to break the will? I tell you
frankly that I believe it can be broken.”
“Oh, no,” answered mother, quickly; “there must be nothing of that
sort. I have quite made up my mind.”
Mr. Chester nodded.
“Then we must trust in providence,” he said.
“I always have,” said mother, simply. “And if it chooses that this
place shall not belong to us, I, at least, will not complain. After
all, we have no real right to it--relationship doesn’t give a right,
except in the eyes of the law. We never did anything to deserve it,
and I’ve sometimes thought that we would be stronger, and in the end
happier, if we didn’t get it. Gifts make paupers, sometimes.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Dick; “we can fight our own battles;” and he
looked around at us with such a light in his eyes that I could have
hugged him.
“Well,” said Mr. Chester, “I’m not one of those who think that
everything that happens is for the best; but I do believe that our
lives are what we make them, and that we can make them pretty much what
we please. I certainly don’t believe that your future depends upon this
legacy; and you’ve won half the battle already by learning to take
disappointment bravely. I had quite a shock to-day myself,” he added,
half laughing. “Look at that,” and he drew a bill from his pocket and
handed it to me. “What do you make of it?”
I unfolded it and looked at it.
“Why, it’s a five-dollar bill,” I said.
“So I thought,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But it’s not.”
“Do you mean it’s counterfeit?”
“I certainly do. Pass it around.”
It went from hand to hand around the table.
“Well,” commented mother, “I don’t blame you for being taken in. Anyone
would be.”
“It is a good imitation. The cashier at my bank had to look twice at
it before he was sure. And he was on the lookout, too. He said there’d
been a lot of them passed in New York and Philadelphia recently.”
“It certainly seems a quick way to get rich,” remarked Mrs. Chester.
“But not a very sure one,” said her husband. “In fact, it’s about the
riskiest way there is. Counterfeiters are always caught; Uncle Sam
keeps his whole secret service at work until he gets them,” and he
proceeded to tell us some stories of exploits which the secret service
had performed.
They distracted our thoughts for a while, but it was still far from
being a merry evening, and I am sure there were tears in the eyes of
all the others, as well as in mine, when our neighbours finally said
good-night.
* * * * *
The seventeenth of May dawned clear and warm--a very jewel of a
day--and as I sprang from bed and threw back the shutters, I forgot for
a moment, in contemplation of the beauty of the morning, that this was
the day of our banishment--that this was the last time I should ever
sleep in this room and look out upon this landscape. But only for a
moment, and then the thought of our approaching exile surged back over
me, and I looked out on garden and orchard with a melancholy all the
more acute because of their fresh, dewy loveliness.
I met Dick at the foot of the stairs, and together we left the house
and made a last tour of the place, saying good-bye to this spot and
that which we had learned to love. We looked at the chickens and at the
cows; at the old trees in the orchard, at the garden----
We made the tour silently, hand in hand; there was no need that we
should speak; but at last I could bear it no longer.
“Dick,” I said, chokingly, “let’s go back to the house; I don’t want to
see any more.”
“All right, Biffkins,” he assented. “I feel pretty much the same way
myself.”
So back to the house we went, where we found mother busily engaged in
packing up our belongings, assisted by Jane. That worthy woman was
plainly on the verge of despair, and restrained her tears only with the
greatest difficulty.
Mr. Chester was to come for us at nine o’clock, and the whole matter
would probably be settled before noon, so that we could take the
afternoon train back to the little house at Riverdale which had been
our home for fifteen years, but which, so it seemed to me, was home no
longer, and which, in any case, we were so soon to lose. The mortgage
would fall due in a very few days, now; and, of course, we had no means
to meet it. After that--well, I did not trust myself to think upon what
would happen after that.
We had two hours to wait, and those two hours live in my memory as
a kind of terrible nightmare. I moved about the house mechanically,
helping mother, black misery in my heart. I had thought that I had
given up hope two days before; but I realized that never until this
moment had I really despaired. Now I knew that hope was over, that this
was to be the end.
At last, there came the sound of wheels on the drive before the house,
and a moment later Mr. Chester came in for us. For an instant, I had
the wild hope that perhaps there was some provision of the will with
which we were not acquainted and which would yet save us--that the past
month had been merely a period of probation to test us, or perhaps a
punishment for our mutiny of eight years before; but a single glance
at Mr. Chester’s face crushed that hope in the bud. He was plainly as
miserable as any of us. He had given up hope, too.
“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I don’t need to go, do I? Please let me
wait for you here.”
“Why, my dear,” said mother, hesitatingly, “of course you may stay if
you wish; but--”
“I don’t want to see that hateful Silas Tunstall again,” I burst out.
“I just can’t stand it!” and then, in an instant, my self-control gave
way, the tears came despite me, and deep, rending sobs.
I was ashamed, too, for I saw Dick looking at me reproachfully; but
after all a girl isn’t a boy.
“You’d better go up-stairs, dear,” said mother kindly, “and lie down
till we come back. We’ll have to come back after our things. Have your
cry out--it will help you.”
I was glad to obey; so I kissed her and Dick good-bye and mounted the
stairs slowly. I felt as though my heart would break. I wanted to hide
myself, to shut out the world, and be alone with my misery. Blindly, I
opened the first door I came to, and entered the darkened bedchamber at
the front of the house, which had been grandaunt’s.
I heard them talking on the steps below, and I crept to the front
window, and peering out through the closed shutters, watched them
till they drove away. It seemed to me that my very heart went with
them--this, then, was the end--the end--the end--! In a very ecstasy of
despair, I threw myself upon the bed and buried my burning face in the
pillow! Oh, it was more than I could bear!