Old Lady Number 31 - Louise Forsslund
OLD LADY NUMBER 31
BY LOUISE FORSSLUND
AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF SARAH," "THE SHIP OF DREAMS," ETC.
1909
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
I. THE TEA-TABLE
II. "GOOD-BY"
III. THE CANDIDATE
IV. ONE OF THEM
V. THE HEAD OF THE CORNER
VI. INDIAN SUMMER
VII. OLD LETTERS AND NEW
VIII. THE ANNIVERSARY
IX. A WINTER BUTTERFLY
X. THE TURN OF THE TIDE
XI. MENTAL TREATMENT
XII. "A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS"
XIII. THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE
XIV. CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS
XV. THE "HARDENING" PROCESS
XVI. "A REG'LAR HOSS"
XVII. THE DESERTER
XVIII. SAMUEL'S WELCOME
XIX. EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH
XX. THE FATTED CALF
XXI. "OUR BELOVED BROTHER"
I
THE TEA-TABLE
Angeline's slender, wiry form and small, glossy gray head bent over the
squat brown tea-pot as she shook out the last bit of leaf from the
canister. The canister was no longer hers, neither the tea-pot, nor even
the battered old pewter spoon with which she tapped the bottom of the
tin to dislodge the last flicker of tea-leaf dust. The three had been
sold at auction that day in response to the auctioneer's inquiry, "What
am I bid for the lot?"
Nothing in the familiar old kitchen was hers, Angeline reflected, except
Abraham, her aged husband, who was taking his last gentle ride in the
old rocking-chair--the old arm-chair with painted roses blooming as
brilliantly across its back as they had bloomed when the chair was first
purchased forty years ago. Those roses had come to be a source of
perpetual wonder to the old wife, an ever present example.
Neither time nor stress could wilt them in a single leaf. When Abe took
the first mortgage on the house in order to invest in an indefinitely
located Mexican gold-mine, the melodeon dropped one of its keys, but the
roses nodded on with the same old sunny hope; when Abe had to take the
second mortgage and Tenafly Gold became a forbidden topic of
conversation, the minute-hand fell off the parlor clock, but the flowers
on the back of the old chair blossomed on none the less serenely.
The soil grew more and more barren as the years went by; but still the
roses had kept fresh and young, so why, argued Angy, should not she? If
old age and the pinch of poverty had failed to conquer their valiant
spirit, why should she listen to the croaking tale? If they bloomed on
with the same crimson flaunt of color, though the rockers beneath them
had grown warped and the body of the chair creaked and groaned every
time one ventured to sit in it, why should she not ignore the stiffness
which the years seemed to bring to her joints, the complaints which her
body threatened every now and again to utter, and fare on herself, a
hardy perennial bravely facing life's winter-time?
Even this dreaded day had not taken one fraction of a shade from the
glory of the roses, as Angeline could see in the bud at one side of
Abraham's head and the full-blown flower below his right ear; so why
should she droop because the sale of her household goods had been
somewhat disappointing? _Somewhat?_ When the childless old couple, still
sailing under the banner of a charity-forbidding pride, became
practically reduced to their last copper, just as Abe's joints were
"loosenin' up" after a five years' siege of rheumatism, and decided to
sell all their worldly possessions, apart from their patched and
threadbare wardrobes and a few meager keepsakes, they had depended upon
raising at least two hundred dollars, one half of which was to secure
Abe a berth in the Old Men's Home at Indian Village, and the other half
to make Angeline comfortable for life, if a little lonely, in the Old
Ladies' Home in their own native hamlet of Shoreville. Both institutions
had been generously endowed by the same estate, and were separated by a
distance of but five miles.
"Might as waal be five hunderd, with my rheumatiz an' yer weak heart,"
Abraham had growled when Angy first proposed the plan as the only
dignified solution to their problem of living.
"But," the little wife had rejoined, "it'll be a mite o' comfort
a-knowin' a body's so near, even ef yer can't git tew 'em."
Now, another solution must be found to the problem; for the auction was
over, and instead of two hundred dollars they had succeeded in raising
but one hundred dollars and two cents.
"That air tew cents was fer the flour-sifter," inwardly mourned Angy,
"an' it was wuth double an' tribble, fer it's been a good friend ter me
fer nigh on ter eight year."
"Tew cents on the second hunderd," said Abe for the tenth time. "I've
counted it over an' over. One hunderd dollars an' tew pesky pennies. An'
I never hear a man tell so many lies in my life as that air auctioneer.
Yew'd 'a' thought he was sellin' out the Empery o' Rooshy. Hy-guy, it
sounded splendid. Fust off I thought he'd raise us more 'n we expected.
An' mebbe he would have tew, Angy," a bit ruefully, "ef yew'd 'a' let me
advertise a leetle sooner. I don't s'pose half Shoreville knows yit that
we was gwine ter have a auction sale." He watched the color rising in
her cheeks with a curious mixture of pride in her pride and regret at
its consequences. "It's no use a-talkin', Mother, Pride an' Poverty
makes oneasy bed-fellers."
He leaned back in the old chair, creaking out a dismal echo to the
auctioneer's, "Going, going, gone!" while the flush deepened in Angy's
cheek. Again she fastened her gaze upon the indomitable red rose which
hung a pendant ear-ring on the right side of Abraham's head.
"Yew wouldn't 'a' had folks a-comin' here ter bid jest out o' charity,
would yew?" she demanded. "An' anyhow," in a more gentle tone,--the
gently positive tone which she had acquired through forty years of
living with Abraham,--"we hain't so bad off with one hunderd dollars an'
tew cents, an'--beholden ter nobody! It's tew cents more 'n yew need ter
git yew inter the Old Men's, an' them extry tew cents'll pervide fer me
jest bewtiful." Abraham stopped rocking to stare hard at his resourceful
wife, an involuntary twinkle of amusement in his blue eyes. With
increased firmness, she repeated, "Jest bewtiful!" whereupon Abe,
scenting self-sacrifice on his wife's part, sat up straight and snapped,
"Haow so, haow so, Mother?"
"It'll buy a postage-stamp, won't it?"--she was fairly aggressive
now,--"an' thar's a envelop what wa'n't put up ter auction in the
cupboard an' a paper-bag I kin iron out,--ketch me a-gwine ter the
neighbors an' a-beggin' fer writin'-paper--an' I'll jest set daown an'
write a line ter Mis' Halsey. Her house hain't a stun's throw from the
Old Men's; an' I'll offer ter come an' take keer o' them air young 'uns
o' her'n fer my board an' keep an'--ten cents a week. I was a-gwine ter
say a quarter, but I don't want ter impose on nobody. Seein' that they
hain't over well-ter-do, I would go fer nothin', but I got ter have
somethin' ter keep up appearances on, so yew won't have no call ter feel
ashamed of me when I come a-visitin' ter the hum." Involuntarily, as she
spoke, Angy lifted her knotted old hand and smoothed back the hair from
her brow; for through all the struggling years she had kept a certain,
not unpleasing, girlish pride in her personal appearance.
Abraham had risen with creaks of his rheumatic joints, and was now
walking up and down the room, his feet lifted slowly and painfully with
every step, yet still his blue eyes flashing with the fire of indignant
protest.
"Me a-bunkin' comfortable in the Old Men's, an' yew a-takin' keer o'
them Halsey young 'uns fer ten cents a week! I wouldn't take keer o' 'em
fer ten cents a short breath. Thar be young 'uns an' young 'uns," he
elucidated, "but they be tartars! Yew'd be in yer grave afore the fust
frost; an' who's a-gwine ter bury yer--the taown?" His tone became
gentle and broken: "No, no, Angy. Yew be a good gal, an' dew jest as we
calc'lated on. Yew jine the Old Ladies'; yew've got friends over thar,
yew'll git erlong splendid. An' I'll git erlong tew. Yer know"--throwing
his shoulders back, he assumed the light, bantering tone so familiar to
his wife--"the poorhouse doors is always open. I'd jest admire ter go
thar. Thar's a rocking-chair in every room, and they say the grub is A
No. 1." He winked at her, smiling his broadest smile in his attempt to
deceive.
Both wink and smile, however, were lost upon Angy, who was busy
dividing the apple-sauce in such a way that Abe would have the larger
share without suspecting it, hoping the while that he would not notice
the absence of butter at this last home meal. She herself had never
believed in buttering bread when there was "sass" to eat with it; but
Abe's extravagant tastes had always carried him to the point of desiring
both butter and sauce as a relish to his loaf.
"Naow, fur 's I'm concerned," pursued Abe, "I hain't got nothin' agin
the poorhouse fer neither man ner woman. I'd as lief let yew go thar
'stid o' me; fer I know very well that's what yew're a-layin' out fer
ter do. Yes, yes, Mother, yew can't fool me. But think what folks would
say! Think what they would say! They 'd crow, 'Thar's Abe a-takin' his
comfort in the Old Men's Hum, an' Angeline, she's a-eatin' her heart out
in the poorhouse!'"
Angeline had, indeed, determined to be the one to go to the poorhouse;
but all her life long she had cared, perhaps to a faulty degree, for
"what folks would say." Above all, she cared now for what they had said
and what they still might say about her husband and this final ending to
his down-hill road. She rested her two hands on the table and looked
hard at the apple-sauce until it danced before her eyes. She could not
think with any degree of clearness. Vaguely she wondered if their supper
would dance out of sight before they could sit down to eat it. So many
of the good things of life had vanished ere she and Abe could touch
their lips to them. Then she felt his shaking hand upon her shoulder and
heard him mutter with husky tenderness:
"My dear, this is the fust chance since we've been married that I've had
to take the wust of it. Don't say a word agin it naow, Mother, don't
yer. I've brought yer ter this pass. Lemme bear the brunt o' it."
Ah, the greatest good of all had not vanished, and that was the love
they bore one to the other. The sunshine came flooding back into
Mother's heart. She lifted her face, beautiful, rosy, eternally young.
This was the man for whom she had gladly risked want and poverty, the
displeasure of her own people, almost half a century ago. Now at last
she could point him out to all her little world and say, "See, he gives
me the red side of the apple!" She lifted her eyes, two bright sapphires
swimming with the diamond dew of unshed, happy tears.
"I'm a-thinkin', Father," she twittered, "that naow me an' yew be
a-gwine so fur apart, we be a-gittin' closer tergether in sperit than we
've ever been afore."
Abe bent down stiffly to brush her cheek with his rough beard, and then,
awkward, as when a boy of sixteen he had first kissed her, shy, ashamed
at this approach to a return of the old-time love-making, he seated
himself at the small, bare table.
This warped, hill-and-dale table of the drop-leaves, which had been
brought from the attic only to-day after resting there for ten years,
had served as their first dining-table when the honeymoon was young. Abe
thoughtfully drummed his hand on the board, and as Angy brought the
tea-pot and sat down opposite him, he recalled:
"We had bread an' tea an' apple-sass the day we set up housekeeping dew
yew remember, Angy?"
"An' I burned the apple-sass," she supplemented, whereupon Abe chuckled,
and Angy went on with a thrill of genuine gladness over the fact that he
remembered the details of that long-ago honeymoon as well as she: "Yew
don't mind havin' no butter to-night, dew yer, Father?"
He recalled how he had said to her at that first simple home meal: "Yew
don't mind bein' poor with me, dew yer, Angy?" Now, with a silent shake
of his head, he stared at her, wondering how it would seem to eat at
table when her face no longer looked at him across the board, to sleep
at night when her faithful hand no longer lay within reach of his own.
She lifted her teacup, he lifted his, the two gazing at each other over
the brims, both half-distressed, half-comforted by the fact that Love
still remained their toast-master after the passing of all the years. Of
a sudden Angy exclaimed, "We fergot ter say grace." Shocked and
contrite, they covered their eyes with their trembling old hands and
murmured together, "Dear Lord, we thank Thee this day for our daily
bread."
Angy opened her eyes to find the red roses cheerfully facing her from
the back of the rocking-chair. A robin had hopped upon the window-sill
just outside the patched and rusty screen and was joyfully caroling to
her his views of life. Through the window vines in which the bird was
almost meshed the sunlight sifted softly into the stripped, bare, and
lonely room. Angy felt strangely encouraged and comforted. The roses
became symbolical to her of the "lilies of the field which toil not,
neither do they spin"; the robin was one of the "two sparrows sold for a
farthing, and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your
Father"; while the sunlight seemed to call out to the little old lady
who hoped and believed and loved much: "Fear ye not therefor. Ye are of
more value than many sparrows!"
II
"GOOD-BY"
When the last look of parting had been given to the old kitchen and the
couple passed out-of-doors, hushed and trembling, they presented an
incongruously brave, gala-day appearance. Both were dressed in their
best. To be sure, Abraham's Sunday suit had long since become his only,
every-day suit as well, but he wore his Sabbath-day hat, a beaver of
ancient design, with an air that cast its reflection over all his
apparel. Angeline had on a black silk gown as shiny as the freshly
polished stove she was leaving in her kitchen--a gown which testified
from its voluminous hem to the soft yellow net at the throat that
Angeline was as neat a mender and darner as could be found in Suffolk
county.
A black silk bonnet snuggled close to her head, from under its brim
peeping a single pink rose. Every spring for ten years Angeline had
renewed the youth of this rose by treating its petals with the tender
red dye of a budding oak.
Under the pink rose, a soft pink flush bloomed on either of the old
lady's cheeks. Her eyes flashed with unconquerable pride, and her
square, firm chin she held very high; for now, indeed, she was filled
with terror of what "folks would say" to this home-leaving, and it was a
bright June afternoon, too clear for an umbrella with which to hide
one's face from prying neighbors, too late in the day for a sunshade.
Angy tucked the green-black affair which served them as both under her
arm and swung Abe's figured old carpet-bag in her hand with the manner
of one setting out on a pleasant journey. Abe, though resting heavily on
his stout, crooked cane, dragged behind him Angy's little horsehair
trunk upon a creaking, old, unusually large, toy express-wagon which he
had bought at some forgotten auction long ago.
The husband and wife passed into the garden between borders of boxwood,
beyond which nodded the heads of Angy's carefully tended, out-door
"children"--her roses, her snowballs, her sweet-smelling syringas, her
wax-like bleeding-hearts, and her shrub of bridal-wreath.
"Jest a minute," she murmured, as Abe would have hastened on to the
gate. She bent her proud head and kissed with furtive, half-ashamed
passion a fluffy white spray of the bridal-wreath. Now overtopping the
husband's silk hat, the shrub had not come so high as his knee when they
two had planted it nearly a half-century ago.
"You're mine!" Angy's heart cried out to the shrub and to every growing
thing in the garden. "You're mine. I planted you, tended you, loved you
into growing. You're all the children I ever had, and I'm leaving you."
But the old wife did not pluck a single flower, for she could never
bear to see a blossom wither in her hand, while all she said aloud was:
"I'm glad 't was Mis' Holmes that bought in the house. They say she's a
great hand ter dig in the garden."
Angy's voice faltered. Abe did not answer. Something had caused a
swimming before his eyes which he did not wish his wife to see; so he
let fall the handle of the express-wagon and, bending his slow back,
plucked a sprig of "old-man." Though he could not have expressed his
sentiments in words, the garden brought poignant recollections of the
hopes and promises which had thrown their rose color about the young
days of his marriage. His hopes had never blossomed into fulfilment.
His promises to the little wife had been choked by the weeds of his own
inefficiency. Worse than this, the bursting into bloom of seeds of
selfish recklessness in himself was what had turned the garden of their
life into an arid waste. And now, in their dry and withered old age, he
and Angy were being torn up by the roots, flung as so much rubbish by
the roadside.
"Mother, I be dretful sorry ter take yew away from your posies,"
muttered Abraham as he arose with his green sprig in his hand.
With shaking fingers, Angy sought a pin hidden beneath her basque.
"Father, shall I pin yer 'old-man' in yer buttonhole?" she quavered.
Then as he stooped for her to arrange the posy, she whispered: "I
wouldn't care, 'cept fer what folks must say. Le' 's hurry before any
one sees us. I told everybody that we wa'n't a-gwine ter break up till
ter-morrer mornin'."
Fortunately, there was a way across lots to the Old Ladies' Home, an
unfrequented by-path over a field and through a bit of woodland, which
would bring the couple almost unobserved to a side gate.
Under ordinary circumstances, Angeline would never have taken this path;
for it exposed her carefully patched and newly polished shoes to
scratches, her fragile, worn silk skirt and stiff, white petticoat to
brambles. Moreover, the dragging of the loaded little wagon was more
difficult here for Abraham. But they both preferred the narrower,
rougher way to facing the curious eyes of all Shoreville now, the
pitying windows of the village street.
As the couple came to the edge of the woodland, they turned with one
accord and looked back for the last glimpse of the home. Blazing
gold-red against the kitchen window flamed the afternoon sunlight.
"Look a' that!" Angy cried eagerly, as one who beholds a promise in the
skies. "Jest see, Father; we couldn't 'a' made out that winder this fur
at all ef the sun hadn't struck it jest so. I declar' it seems almost as
ef we could see the rocker, tew. It's tew bad, Abe, that we had ter let
yer old rocker go. D'yew remember--?" She laid her hand on his arm, and
lifted her gaze, growing clouded and wistful, to his face. "When we
bought the chair, we thought mebbe some day I'd be rocking a leetle baby
in it. 'T was then, yew ricollec', we sorter got in the habit of callin'
each other 'father' an' 'mother.' I wonder ef the young 'uns had come--"
"Le' 's hurry," interrupted Abe almost gruffly. "Le' 's hurry."
They stumbled forward with bowed heads in silence, until of a sudden
they were startled by a surprised hail of recognition, and looked up to
find themselves confronted by a bent and gray old man, a village
character, a harmless, slightly demented public charge known as
"Ishmael" or "Captain Rover."
"Whar yew goin', Cap'n Rose?"
The old couple had drawn back at the sight of the gentle vagabond, and
Angy clutched at her husband's arm, her heart contracting at the thought
that he, too, had become a pauper.
"I'm a-takin' my wife ter jine the old ladies over thar ter the Hum,"
Abe answered, and would have passed on, shrinking from the sight of
himself as reflected in poor Ishmael.
But the "innocent" placed himself in their path.
"Yew ain't a-goin' ter jine 'em, tew?" he bantered.
Abe forced a laugh to his lips in response.
"No, no; I'm goin' over ter Yaphank ter board on the county."
Again the couple would have passed on, their faces flushed, their eyes
lowered, had not Ishmael flung out one hand to detain them while he
plunged the other hurriedly into his pocket.
"Here." He drew out a meager handful of nickels and pennies, his vacant
smile grown wistful. "Here, take it, Cap'n Rose. It's all I got. I can't
count it myself, but yew can. Don't yew think it's enough ter set yew up
in business, so yew won't have ter go ter the poorhouse? The poorhouse
is a bad place. I was there last winter. I don't like the poorhouse."
He rambled on of the poorhouse. Angy, panting for breath, one hand
against the smothering pain at her heart, was trying, with the other, to
drag "Father" along. "Father" was shaking his head at Ishmael, at the
proffered nickels and pennies--shaking his head and choking. At length
he found his voice, and was able to smile at his would-be benefactor
with even the ghost of a twinkle in his eye.
"Much obliged, Cap'n Rover; but yew keep yer money fer terbaccy. I ain't
so high-toned as yew. I'll take real comfort at the poorhouse. S' long;
thank yer. S' long."
Ishmael went on his way muttering to himself, unhappily jingling his
rejected alms; while Angy and Abe resumed their journey.
As they came to the gate of the Old Ladies' Home, Angy seized hold of
her husband's arm, and looking up into his face pleaded earnestly:
"Father, let's take the hunderd dollars fer a fambly tombstun an' go ter
the poorhouse tergether!"
He shook her off almost roughly and lifted the latch of the gate.
"Folks'd say we was crazy, Mother."
There was no one in sight as he dragged in the express-cart and laid
down the handle. Before him was a long, clean-swept path ending
apparently in a mass of shrubbery; to the left was a field of sweet corn
reaching to the hedge; to the right a strong and sturdy growth of pole
lima beans; and just within the entrance, beneath the sweeping plumes of
a weeping-willow tree, was a shabby but inviting green bench.
Abe's glance wandered from the bench to his wife's face. Angy could not
lift her eyes to him; with bowed head she was latching and unlatching
the gate through which he must pass. He looked at the sun and
thoughtfully made reckon of the time. There were still two hours before
he could take the train which--
"Lef 's go set deown a spell afore--" he faltered--"afore we say
good-by."
She made no answer. She told herself over and over that she must--simply
must--stop that "all-of-a-tremble" feeling which was going on inside of
her. She stepped from the gate to the bench blindly, with Abe's hand on
her arm, though, still blindly, with exaggerated care she placed his
carpet-bag on the grass beside her.
He laid down his cane, took off his high hat and wiped his brow. He
looked at her anxiously. Still she could not lift her blurred eyes, nor
could she check her trembling.
Seeing how she shook, he passed his arm around her shoulder. He
murmured something--what, neither he nor she knew--but the love of his
youth spoke in the murmur, and again fell the silence.
Angy's eyes cleared. She struggled to speak, aghast at the thought that
life itself might be done before ever they could have one hour together
again; but no words came. So much--so much to say! She reached out her
hand to where his rested upon his knee. Their fingers gripped, and each
felt a sense of dreary cheer to know that the touch was speaking what
the tongue could not utter.
Time passed swiftly. The silent hour sped on. The young blades of corn
gossiped gently along the field. Above, the branches of the willow
swished and swayed to the rhythm of the soft, south wind.
"How still, how still it is!" whispered the breeze.
"Rest, rest, rest!" was the lullaby swish of the willow.
The old wife nestled closer to Abraham until her head touched his
shoulder. He laid his cheek against her hair and the carefully preserved
old bonnet. Involuntarily she raised her hand, trained by the years of
pinching economy, to lift the fragile rose into a safer position. He
smiled at her action; then his arm closed about her spasmodically and he
swallowed a lump in his throat.
The afternoon was waning. Gradually over the turmoil of their hearts
stole the garden's June-time spirit of drowsy repose.
They leaned even closer to each other. The gray of the old man's hair
mingled with the gray beneath Angeline's little bonnet. Slowly his eyes
closed. Then even as Angy wondered who would watch over the slumbers of
his worn old age in the poorhouse, she, too, fell asleep.
III
THE CANDIDATE
The butcher's boy brought the tidings of the auction sale in at the
kitchen door of the Old Ladies' Home even while Angy and Abe were
lingering over their posies, and the inmates of the Home were waiting to
receive the old wife with the greater sympathy and the deeper spirit of
welcome from the fact that two of the twenty-nine members had known her
from girlhood, away back in the boarding-school days.
"Yop," said the boy, with one eye upon the stout matron, who was
critically examining the meat that he had brought. "Yop, the auction's
over, an' Cap'n Rose, he--Don't that cut suit you, Miss Abigail? You
won't find a better, nicer, tenderer, and more juicier piece of shoulder
this side of New York. Take it back, did you say? All right, ma'am, all
right!" His face assumed a look of resignation: these old ladies made
his life a martyrdom. He used to tell the "fellers" that he spent one
half his time carrying orders back and forth from the Old Ladies' Home.
But now, in spite of his meekness of manner, he did not intend to take
this cut back. So with Machiavellian skill he hastened on with his
gossip.