AN ECHO OF THE WAR
Having satisfied himself beyond all doubt that this little white house
was the proper destination of the letter, Joshua Hicks administered an
authoritative knock on the front door. The response came in the form of
a queer little old lady, who wore a very expectant look, a look almost
pathetically expectant. She was slight and wizened, and stood straight.
But her face was deeply wrinkled and her hair was snowy white.
There was something about her trim, erect little figure and white locks
and furrowed cheeks which aroused sympathy; it would be hard to say why.
Perhaps it was because her brisk little form suggested that she worked
hard, and her thin heavily veined hands and wrinkled face reminded one
that she ought not to work hard. There was a certain something about her
which suggested that she was fighting a brave fight and keeping a good
heart. At all events she wore a cheery smile.
"Joshua," she said, "I was kinder hoping to see you over to-day. It's
good of you to bring it yourself. I wanted to put my name on it so's you
could get me the money in Centerville when you go."
"Tain't your pension, Mis' Haskell," Joshua said. "Leastways, I never
seen no pensions come like this before. It's like as if it wuz a letter
turned inside out; all the writin' is on the outside."
"Jes' when I'm needing my pension most it don't come," she said, taking
the big envelope. "When I saw you prowling around in back I thought you
was the sheriff's man, mebbe. It give me a shock because--what's this?"
"Don't ask _me_, Mis' Haskell," said the postmaster. "It's for you,
I'm certain sure of that, and that's all I can say."
With trembling hand and a look of pathetic fear and apprehension, the
old lady started to tear open the envelope, saying the while, "You don't
reckon W. Harris is one of them smart lawyers up New York way, do you,
Joshua? I'm ready to get out when I have to. I've--I've stuck it out
alone, I always said I could fight, but I can't fight the law, Joshua.
They don't need to set no lawyers on me--they don't."
She opened the envelope, and unfolded a sheet of paper. It was old and
faded and wrinkled. She glanced at it, then grasped the door jam with
her thin, trembling hand, as if she feared she might fall.
"Tain't the law, is it?" Joshua Hicks inquired.
"You better be gone, Joshua," she said. "No, it ain't the
law--it's--it's something else. It ain't the law, Joshua."
"Is it any trouble?" he asked.
She answered, strangely agitated, "No, 'tain't no trouble, Joshua."
"They ain't a goin' to stop sendin' you your pension?"
"Not as I know of, Joshua, but jes' I want to be alone. It ain't no
trouble of money, Joshua, not this time...."
If it were no matter of money, then Joshua Hicks could not conjecture
what in the world it was, for there were only two things in old Mrs.
Haskell's life, and these were both concerned with money. One was the
monthly receipt of her pension, for in her small way she had helped to
make the world safe for democracy and all that sort of thing. The other
was the mortgage and interest on her little home which the pension could
not begin to take care of. Mrs. Haskell did not understand about this
mortgage at all, but the most important part of it she did understand,
and that was that pretty soon she was going to be put out. She did not
have to be a financier or a lawyer to understand that. She had tried to
beat this mortgage back by sewing and gardening and selling eggs, but
the interest had grown faster than the potatoes, the pen was mightier
than the needle and the mortgage had kept right on working while the
chickens had taken a vacation.
The mortgage had beaten poor old Mrs. Haskell at every turn. It had
bombarded her with notices and writs and summonses and things and she
had lost the fight. She had a sort of armistice with this mortgage, but
she knew there could be but one end to that armistice. The little war, a
very heroic little war, was as good as over. The little white house had
been made safe for the Liberty Realty Company.
For one brief, terrible moment, before the postmaster had departed, Mrs.
Haskell had feared that perhaps she had done something lawless in
connection with her little pension, signed her name in the wrong place
perhaps, and that W. Harris with all his high sounding names, was some
doughty governmental minion coming to apprehend her in true military
fashion. But if the paper contained in the envelope dispelled that fear,
at least it did not cheer her.
She returned into the house, her eyes brimming, the paper shaking in her
poor old hand. She groped her way to an old haircloth armchair in her
sitting room, and put on her spectacles. The moisture from her eyes
dimmed the glasses and she had to take them off and wipe them before
beginning to read.
She was quite alone in her little castle, or rather the Liberty Realty
Company's little castle. She wanted to be alone. It was very quiet.
Outside the birds could be heard twittering in the vine on the
ramshackle little porch. The kettle sang cheerily in the kitchen. There
was that musty indoor odor of the country homestead, the odor which
soldier boys remembered and longed for in trenches and dugouts. And
mingling with this was the fragrance of flowers coming in through the
open window. The dog with a collar strolled in, laid his head in the old
lady's lap, looked up into her eyes and listened. There were only those
two there, so she read the contents of the paper aloud.
_Dear Old Mother:_
I was hoping I might get down to Hicksville before we sail, but
guess I can't. They don't tell us much here but it seems to be
in the air that we'll sail in a day or two. Feeling pretty
disappointed because I wanted to see you again and say good-bye
and have just one good home-cooked meal. I'm sick of beans and
black coffee. Don't worry, you'll hear from me in France. I
don't suppose you'll be able to get the end of the porch fixed
up, but try to get the window put in before winter. I meant to
do that myself. Put a pail under the drain so the water won't
flood under the woodshed. Tell Don to be a good watch dog and be
sure to tie him outside at night.
I don't suppose you'll hear from me again till we get across.
Don't worry, pretty soon it will all be over and I'll come
marching home and you'll be telling people it was me that won
the war and I'll be glad to get a good squint at my old N. C.
hills. It will be over before you know it. Now you have to be
brave, see? Just like you were when dad died. Remember what you
said then? Now don't think this is good-bye just because I'm
sailing but remember the Atlantic Ocean isn't a one way street.
Just chalk that up on the wall, and speaking about oceans don't
forget about the water by the woodshed and do what I told you.
So now good-bye dear old Mum and don't worry, and I won't go
near Paris like you said. Hicksville is good enough for me.
Your loving son.
Old Mrs. Haskell read this letter twice. She had to clean her glasses
several times while doing so. Whatever of comfort the letter gave her
was expressed in tears. She arose, a straight, wizened little figure.
She went over to an old-fashioned whatnot which stood in the corner,
opened a plush album which lay there and turned the pages till she came
to a certain photograph. This she gazed at for fully five minutes, the
dog standing patiently at her side. Then she took a postal card which
had been laid between the two stiff cardboard leaves. This also she
gazed at though it contained but few words. It bore a date of more than
two years before. The printing, with its blank spaces filled, stated
that the War Department regretted to inform her that her son Joseph
Haskell had been killed in action on some date or other in the
"operations" west of some place or other.
She stooped down and patted the dog and he held up his head against the
almost threadbare material of her poor gown.
"He did write after--all--he did--Don," she sobbed. "He did--he wrote
before he went--away. I don't know who--W. Harris--I don't understand
it--but he _did_ write. See?" The dog seemed to understand.
Mrs. Haskell dried her eyes with her kitchen apron, folded the letter,
laid it with the post card, took a final pensive look at the photograph
and clasped the heavy plush covers over all three. Then she sat down by
the window and patted the dog with one thin hand while with the other
she lifted the kitchen apron again to those poor old eyes. Thus they sat
silently.
It was just an echo, a faint, belated echo of the great war....