My grandfather was one of these boys; in fact, he always used to say he
was the ringleader, but that may have been another form of his penance. As
he grew up he began to work into his father's business of tanning leather,
and by and by, when a man grown, he traveled down to a big tannery at
Newtonville, in Massachusetts, to learn some new processes in
leather-curing.
When grandfather got along to this part of the story he began stretching
his long legs faster and faster, until I was obliged to trot along,
panting. He always lived the hurried last part over again, and so did I,
although it happened so long before I was born.
One evening he was asked to tea by the mother of the prettiest girl in the
village--she afterward became my grandmother--and was taken into the "best
room" to see all the family curiosities. There were wax flowers and
silhouettes and relics of every description. Mrs. Hamilton spared him not
one of these wonders.
"This," she said, "is the chain that was made of my grandfather's hair. It
was finished and brought home on a Wednesday, and Thursday, the next day,
grandfather was burned up in the great tannery fire, and this was all my
grandmother had to remember him by. These are the front teeth of a savage
that my uncle Josiah Abijah killed in the South Sea Islands. Uncle Josiah
Abijah always said it was either him or the black man, but I have always
felt that it was murder, just the same, and this is the stick of
birch-wood that a sailor-man, who came here once to see my mother, killed
a bull moose with."
My grandmother has told me that never before or since did she see a human
face change as did grandfather's.
"What?" he shouted, and his voice cracked.
"Yes, it sounds queer, but it's so. It's the only time a moose was ever
seen here, and folks thought the wolves must have chased it till it was
crazy or tired out. This sailor-man, who happened to be here, saw it, ran
out, snatched up a stick from the wood-pile, and went at that great animal
all alone. Folks say he was the bravest man this town ever saw. He got
right up on its back--"
Grandmother said grandfather had turned so pale by this time that she
thought he was going to faint and he sat down as if somebody had knocked
him down. On the dusty road to the cemetery, however, he only strode along
the faster, half forgetting the little girl who dragged at his hand, and
turned a sympathetically agitated face up to his narrative.
Mrs. Hamilton went on through the whole incident, telling every single
thing just the way old Jed did. She showed the dark places on the
birch-bark where the blood had stained it, and she said the skull of the
animal, with its one horn sawed off, was over among the relics in her
aunt's home.
"My Aunt Maria was accounted a very good-looking woman in her day, and
there were those that thought she might have taken a second husband, if
the sailor had been so disposed. He was so brave and so honest, bringing
all that money from my uncle, the sea-captain, when goodness knows, he
might have run off with every cent of it, and nobody been any the wiser!"
At this grandfather gave a loud exclamation and stood up, shaking his head
as if he had the ague. He just couldn't believe his ears, he said.
"No! No! _No_! It can't be the same!" he said over and over. "Why, he said
it happened in Kennettown."
"Well, _now_!" said Mrs. Hamilton, surprised. "Where did you ever get hold
of _that_ old name? I didn't suppose a soul but some of our old folks
remembered that. Why, Newtonville wasn't named that but six months. Folks
got mad at the Kennetts for being so highfalutin' over having the town
named after them, and so 'twas changed back."
Grandfather said he'd no notion of another word she said after that. When
he went back to his room, he found a letter from home, telling him all the
news, and mentioning, among other things, that old Jedediah Chillingworth
wasn't expected to live much longer. Age had withered the little old man
until there wasn't enough of him left to go on living. Grandfather usually
reached this part of the story just as we arrived under the big maples
that stand on each side of the cemetery gate, and always stopped short to
say solemnly:
"Thank the _Lord_! I've two things to my credit. I never waited one minute
to start back to Hillsboro, and from that time on I wanted to do what was
right by the old man, even if it did turn out so different."
Then we went on into the cemetery, and paced slowly along the winding
paths as he continued:
"I got to Hillsboro late one night, and I'd 'most killed my horse to do
it. They said Jedediah was still alive, but wasn't expected to last till
morning. I went right up to his little old shack, without waiting to see
my folks or to get a mouthful to eat. A whole lot of the neighbors had
come in to watch with him, and even then, with the old dizzard actually
dying, they were making a fool of him.
"He was half propped up in bed--he wasn't bigger than my fist by that
time--with red spots in his cheeks, and his eyes like glass, and he was
just ending up that moose story. The folks were laughing and winking and
nudging one another in the ribs, just the way I used to. I was done up
with my long, hard ride, and some nervous, I guess, for it fair turned my
stomach to see them.
"I waited till they were all through laughing, and then I broke loose. I
just gave them a piece of my mind! 'Look-a-here, you fellows!' I said.
'You think you're awful smart, don't you, making fun of poor old Jed as he
lies a-dying? Now, listen to me. I've ridden forty miles over the
mountains to get here before he goes, and make every man jack of you beg
the old man's pardon. _That story's true_. I've just found out that every
word of it is absolutely, literally the way it happened. Newtonville,
where I'm staying in Massachusetts, used to be called Kennettown, and
Jedediah _did_ take the money there--yes, that exact sum we've laughed at
all these years. They call him the honestest man in the world over there.
They've got the stick of birch-wood, with the bloodstains on it, and the
moose's skull, with the horn sawed off, and there are lots of old people
who remember all about it. And I'm here to say I believe old Jed's been
telling the truth, not only about that, but about all his adventures.
I don't believe he's ever lied to us!'
"I felt so grand and magnanimous," grandfather went on, "to think how I
was making it up to the poor old man, and so set up over bringing a piece
of news that just paralyzed everybody with astonishment. They all jumped
up, yelling and carrying on. '_What_? That story _true_! Well, did you
ever! Wouldn't that beat all? To think old Jed's been telling--"
"And then we all thought of him, and started toward the bed to say how bad
we felt.
"I'll never forget how he looked. His eyes were fairly coming out of his
head, and his face was as white as paper. But that wasn't the dreadful
thing. What always comes back to me whenever I think of him is the
expression on his face. You could just see his heart breaking. He was so
hurt, so surprised, so ashamed, that it wasn't decent to look at him. But
we couldn't look away. We stood there, hanging our heads--I never felt so
mean in my life--while he tried to get breath enough to say something. And
then he screamed out--'twas dreadful to hear:
"'Why, didn't you fellers _believe_ me? Did you think I was _lyin_?'"
Here grandfather stopped and blew his nose, and I choked.
"Those were his last words. He had some kind of a spasm, and never came to
enough to know anything before he died. Those were the last words he said;
and though they told us that in the coffin he looked just as he always
had, only more quiet, with the foolish look gone, we were all of us
ashamed to look the dead man in the face."
Here grandfather laid the flowers on the unkempt grave, as if to serve as
an "Amen" to his confession.
After this I always went around and held his hand tightly, and we stood
very still. It was the solemnest time of the year.