For fifty years the meadow lot had been mowed and the side hill ploughed
at the nod of Jeremiah's head; and for the same fifty years the plums
had been preserved and the mince-meat chopped at the nod of his
wife's--and now the whole farm from the meadowlot to the mince-meat was
to pass into the hands of William, the only son, and William's wife,
Sarah Ellen.
"It'll be so much nicer, mother,--no care for you!" Sarah Ellen had
declared.
"And so much easier for you, father, too," William had added. "It's time
you rested. As for money--of course you'll have plenty in the
savings-bank for clothes and such things. You won't need much, anyhow,"
he finished, "for you'll get your living off the farm just as you always
have."
So the matter was settled, and the papers were made out. There was no
one to be considered, after all, but themselves, for William was the
only living son, and there had been no daughters.
For a time it was delightful. Jeremiah and Hester Whipple were like
children let out of school. They told themselves that they were people
of leisure now, and they forced themselves to lie abed half an hour
later than usual each day. They spent long hours in the attic looking
over old treasures, and they loitered about the garden and the barn with
no fear that it might be time to get dinner or to feed the stock.
Gradually, however, there came a change. A new restlessness entered
their lives, a restlessness that speedily became the worst kind of
homesickness--the homesickness of one who is already at home.
The extra half-hour was spent in bed as before--but now Hester lay with
one ear listening to make sure that Sarah Ellen _did_ let the cat
in for her early breakfast; and Jeremiah lay with his ear listening for
the squeak of the barn door which would tell him whether William was
early or, late that morning. There were the same long hours in the attic
and the garden, too--but in the attic Hester discovered her treasured
wax wreath (late of the parlor wall); and in the garden Jeremiah found
more weeds than _he_ had ever allowed to grow there, he was sure.
The farm had been in the hands of William and Sarah Ellen just six
months when the Huntersville Savings Bank closed its doors. It was the
old story of dishonesty and disaster, and when the smoke of Treasurer
Hilton's revolver cleared away there was found to be practically nothing
for the depositors. Perhaps on no one did the blow fall with more
staggering force than on Jeremiah Whipple.
"Why, Hester," he moaned, when he found himself alone with his wife,
"here I'm seventy-eight years old--an' no money! What am I goin' ter
do?"
"I know, dear," soothed Hester; "but 't ain't as bad for us as 'tis for
some. We've got the farm, you know; an'--"
"We hain't got the farm," cut in her husband sharply. "William an' Sarah
Ellen's got it."
"Yes, I know, but they--why, they're _us_, Jeremiah," reminded
Hester, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.
"Mebbe, Hester, mebbe," conceded Jeremiah; but he turned and looked out
of the window with gloomy eyes.
There came a letter to the farmhouse soon after this from Nathan Banks,
a favorite nephew, suggesting that "uncle and aunt" pay them a little
visit.
"Just the thing, father!" cried William. "Go--it'll do you both good!"
And after some little talk it was decided that the invitation should be
accepted.
Nathan Banks lived thirty miles away, but not until the night before the
Whipples were to start did it suddenly occur to Jeremiah that he had now
no money for railroad tickets. With a heightened color on his old cheeks
he mentioned the fact to William.
"Ye see, I--I s'pose I'll have ter come ter you," he apologized. "Them
won't take us!" And he looked ruefully at a few coins he had pulled from
his pocket. "They're all the cash I've got left."
William frowned a little and stroked his beard.
"Sure enough!" he muttered. "I forgot the tickets, too, father. 'T is
awkward--that bank blowing up; isn't it? Oh, I'll let you have it all
right, of course, and glad to, only it so happens that just now I--er,
how much is it, anyway?" he broke off abruptly.
"Why, I reckon a couple of dollars'll take us down, an' more, mebbe,"
stammered the old man, "only, of course, there's comin' back, and--"
"Oh, we don't have to reckon on that part now," interrupted William
impatiently, as he thrust his hands into his pockets and brought out a
bill and some change. "I can send you down some more when that time
comes. There, here's a two; if it doesn't take it all, what's left can
go toward bringing you back."
And he handed out the bill, and dropped the change into his pocket.
"Thank you, William," stammered the old man. "I--I'm sorry--"
"Oh, that's all right," cut in William cheerfully, with a wave of his
two hands. "Glad to do it, father; glad to do it!"
Mr. and Mrs. Whipple stayed some weeks with their nephew. But, much as
they enjoyed their visit, there came a day when home--regardless of
weeds that were present and wax wreaths that were absent--seemed to them
the one place in the world; and they would have gone there at once had
it not been for the railroad fares.
William had not sent down any more money, though his letters had been
kind, and had always spoken of the warm welcome that awaited them any
time they wished to come home.
Toward the end of the fifth week a bright idea came to Jeremiah.
"We'll go to Cousin Abby's," he announced gleefully to his wife. "Nathan
said last night he'd drive us over there any time. We'll go to-morrow,
an' we won't come back here at all--it'll be ten miles nearer home
there, an' it won't cost us a cent ter get there," he finished
triumphantly. And to Cousin Abby's they went.
So elated was Jeremiah with the result of his scheming that he set his
wits to work in good earnest, and in less than a week he had formulated
an itinerary that embraced the homes of two other cousins, an aunt of
Sarah Ellen's, and the niece of a brother-in-law, the latter being only
three miles from 'his own farmhouse--or rather William's farmhouse, as
he corrected himself bitterly. Before another month had passed, the
round of visits was accomplished, and the little old man and the little
old woman--having been carried to their destination in each case by
their latest host--finally arrived at the farmhouse door. They were
weary, penniless, and half-sick from being feasted and fêted at every
turn, but they were blissfully conscious that of no one had they been
obliged to beg the price of their journey home.
"We didn't write we were comin'," apologized Jeremiah faintly, as he
stumbled across the threshold and dropped into the nearest chair. "We
were goin' ter write from Keziah's, but we were so tired we hurried
right up an' come home. 'Tis nice ter get here; ain't it, Hester?" he
finished, settling back in his chair.
"'Nice'!" cried Hester tremulously, tugging at her bonnet strings.
"'Nice' ain't no name for it, Jeremiah. Why, Sarah Ellen, seems if I
don't want to do nothin' for a whole month but set in my own room an'
jest look 'round all day!"
"You poor dear--and that's all you shall do!" soothed Sarah Ellen; and
Hester sighed, content. For so many, many weeks now she had sat upon
strange chairs and looked out upon an unfamiliar world!
* * * * *
It was midwinter when Jeremiah's last pair of shoes gave out. "An' there
ain't a cent ter get any new ones, Hester," he exclaimed, ruefully eying
the ominously thin place in the sole.
"I know, Jeremiah, but there's William," murmured Hester. "I'm sure he--"
"Oh, of course, he'd give it to me," cried Jeremiah quickly; "but--I--I
sort of hate to ask."
"Pooh! I wouldn't think of that," declared Hester stoutly, but even as
she spoke, she tucked her own feet farther under her chair. "We gave
them the farm, and they understood they was to take care of us, of
course."
"Hm-m, yes, I know, I know. I'll ask him," murmured Jeremiah--but he did
not ask him until the ominously thin place in the sole had become a
hole, large, round, and unmistakable.
"Well, William," he began jocosely, trying to steady his shaking voice,
"guess them won't stand for it much longer!" And he held up the shoe,
sole uppermost.
"Well, I should say not!" laughed William; then his face changed. "Oh,
and you'll have to have the money for some new ones, of course. By
George! It does beat all how I keep forgetting about that bank!"
"I know, William, I'm sorry," stammered the old man miserably.
"Oh, I can let you have it all right, father, and glad to," assured
William, still frowning. "It's only that just at this time I'm a little
short, and--" He stopped abruptly and thrust his hands into his pockets.
"Hm-m," he vouchsafed after a minute. "Well, I'll tell you what--I
haven't got any now, but in a day or two I'll take you over to the
village and see what Skinner's got that will fit you. Oh, we'll have
some shoes, father, never fear!" he laughed. "You don't suppose I'm
going to let my father go barefoot!--eh?" And he laughed again.
Things wore out that winter in the most unaccountable fashion--at least
those belonging to Jeremiah and Hester did, especially undergarments.
One by one they came to mending, and one by one Hester mended them,
patch upon patch, until sometimes there was left scarcely a thread of
the original garment. Once she asked William for money to buy new ones,
but it happened that William was again short, and though the money she
had asked for came later, Hester did not make that same request again.
There were two things that Hester could not patch very successfully--her
shoes. She fried to patch them to be sure, but the coarse thread knotted
in her shaking old hands, and the bits of leather--cut from still older
shoes--slipped about and left her poor old thumb exposed to the sharp
prick of the needle, so that she finally gave it up in despair. She
tucked her feet still farther under her chair these days when Jeremiah
was near, and she pieced down two of her dress skirts so that they might
touch the floor all round. In spite of all this, however, Jeremiah saw,
one day--and understood.
"Hester," he cried sharply, "put out your foot."
Hester did not hear--apparently. She lowered the paper she was reading
and laughed a little hysterically.
"Such a good joke, Jeremiah!" she quavered. "Just let me read it. A man--"
"Hester, be them the best shoes you've got?" demanded Jeremiah.
And Hester, with a wisdom born of fifty years' experience of that
particular tone of voice, dropped her paper and her subterfuge, and said
gently: "Yes, Jeremiah."
There was a moment's pause; then Jeremiah sprang to his feet, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and paced the tiny bedroom from end to end.
"Hester, this thing's a-killin' me!" he blurted out at last. "Here I'm
seventy-eight years old--an' I hain't got money enough ter buy my wife a
pair of shoes!"
"But the farm, Jeremiah--"
"I tell ye the farm ain't mine," cut in Jeremiah savagely. "Look a-here,
Hester, how do you s'pose it feels to a man who's paid his own way since
he was a boy, bought a farm with his own money an' run it, brought up
his boys an' edyercated 'em--how do ye s'pose it feels fur that man ter
go ter his own son an' say: 'Please, sir, can't I have a nickel ter buy
me a pair o' shoestrings?' How do ye s'pose it feels? I tell ye, Hester,
I can't stand it--I jest can't! I'm goin' ter work."
"Jere-mi-ah!"
"Well, I am," repeated the old man doggedly. "You're goin' ter have some
shoes, an' I'm goin' ter earn 'em. See if I don't!" And he squared his
shoulders, and straightened his bent back as if already he felt the
weight of a welcome burden.
Spring came, and with it long sunny days and the smell of green things
growing. Jeremiah began to be absent day after day from the farmhouse.
The few tasks that he performed each morning were soon finished, and
after that he disappeared, not to return until night. William wondered a
little, but said nothing. Other and more important matters filled his
mind.
Only Hester noticed that the old man's step grew more languid and his
eye more dull; and only Hester knew that at night he was sometimes too
tired to sleep--that he could not "seem ter hit the bed," as he
expressed it.
It was at about this time that Hester began to make frequent visits to
the half-dozen farmhouses in the settlement about them. She began to be
wonderfully busy these days, too, knitting socks and mittens, or piecing
up quilts. Sarah Ellen asked her sometimes what she was doing, but
Hester's answers were always so cheery and bright that Sarah Ellen did
not realize that the point was always evaded and the subject changed.
It was in May that the inevitable happened. William came home one day to
find an excited, weeping wife who hurried him into the seclusion of
their own room.
"William, William," she moaned, "what shall we do? It's father and
mother; they've--oh, William, how can I tell you!" and she covered her
face with her hands.
William paled under his coat of tan. He gripped his wife's arm with
fingers that hurt.
"What is it--what's happened?" he asked hoarsely. "They aren't hurt
or--dead?"
"No, no," choked Sarah Ellen. "I didn't mean to frighten you. They're
all right that way. They--they've _gone to work_! William, what
_shall_ we do?"
Again William Whipple gripped his wife's arm with fingers that hurt.
"Sarah Ellen, quit that crying, for Heaven's sake! What does this mean?
What are you talking about?" he demanded.
Sarah Ellen sopped her eyes with her handkerchief and lifted her head.
"It was this morning. I was over to Maria Weston's," she explained
brokenly. "Maria dropped something about a quilt mother was piecing for
her, and when I asked her what in the world she meant, she looked queer,
and said she supposed I knew. Then she tried to change the subject; but
I wouldn't let her, and finally I got the whole story out of her."
"Yes, yes, go on," urged William impatiently, as Sarah Ellen paused for
breath.
"It seems mother came to her a while ago, and--and she went to others,
too. She asked if there wasn't some knitting or patchwork she could do
for them. She said she--she wanted to earn some money." Sarah Ellen's
voice broke over the last word, and William muttered something under his
breath. "She said they'd lost all they had in the bank," went on Sarah
Ellen hurriedly, "and that they didn't like to ask you for money."
"Why, I always let them have--" began William defensively; then he
stopped short, a slow red staining his face.
"Yes, I know you have," interposed Sarah Ellen eagerly; "and I said so
to Maria. But mother had already told her that, it seems. She said that
mother said you were always glad to give it to them when they asked for
it, but that it hurt father's pride to beg, so he'd gone to work to earn
some of his own."
"Father!" exclaimed William. "But I thought you said 'twas mother.
Surely father isn't knitting socks and mittens, is he?"
"No, no," cried Sarah Ellen. "I'm coming to that as fast as I can. You
see, 'twas father who went to work first. He's been doing all sorts of
little odd jobs, even to staying with the Snow children while their
folks went to town, and spading up Nancy Howe's flower beds for her. But
it's been wearing on him, and he was getting all tired out. Only think
of it, William--_working out--father and mother_! I just can't ever
hold up my head again! What _shall_ we do?"
"Do? Why, we'll stop it, of course," declared William savagely. "I guess
I can support my own father and mother without their working for a
living!"
"But it's money, William, that they want. Don't you see?"
"Well, we'll give them money, then. I always have, anyway,--when they
asked for it," finished William in an aggrieved voice.
Sarah Ellen shook her head.
"It won't do," she sighed. "It might have done once--but not now.
They've got to the point where they just can't accept money doled out to
them like that. Why, just think, 't was all theirs once!"
"Well, 'tis now--in a way."
"I know--but we haven't acted as if it were. I can see that now, when
it's too late."
"We'll give it back, then," cried William, his face clearing; "the whole
blamed farm!"
Sarah Ellen frowned. She shook her head slowly, then paused, a dawning
question in her eyes.
"You don't suppose--William, could we?" she cried with sudden eagerness.
"Well, we can try mighty hard," retorted the man grimly. "But we've got
to go easy, Sarah Ellen,--no bungling. We've got to spin some sort of a
yarn that won't break, nor have any weak places; and of course, as far
as the real work of the farm is concerned, we'll still do the most of
it. But the place'll be theirs. See?--theirs! _Working out_--good
Heavens!"
It must have been a week later that Jeremiah burst into his wife's room.
Hester sat by the window, bending over numberless scraps of blue, red,
and pink calico.
"Put it up, put it up, Hester," he panted joyously. "Ye hain't got to
sew no more, an' I hain't neither. The farm is ours!"
"Why, Jeremiah, what--how--"
"I don't know, Hester, no more than you do," laughed Jeremiah happily;
"only William says he's tired of runnin' things all alone, an' he wants
me to take hold again. They're goin' ter make out the papers right away;
an' say, Hester,"--the bent shoulders drew themselves erect with an air
of pride,--"I thought mebbe this afternoon we'd drive over ter
Huntersville an' get some shoes for you. Ye know you're always needin'
shoes!"