Old Lady Number 31 - Louise Forsslund
He grinned as he pictured Abe's dismay on returning to the Station to
find him gone. Still, he reflected, maybe Abe would have a better time
alone with the young fellows; he had grown so plagued young himself all
of a sudden. Samuel surely need not worry about him.
More and more good-natured grew Samuel's face, until a sociable rabbit,
peeping at him from behind a bush, decided to run a race with the old
gentleman, and hopped fearlessly out into the open.
"Ah, yew young rascal!" cried Samuel. "Yew're the feller that eat up all
my winter cabbages."
At this uncanny reading of his mind, Mr. Cottontail darted off into the
woods again to seek out his mate and inform her that their guilt had
been discovered.
Finally, Samuel came to the break in the woodland, an open field of rye,
green as springtime grass, and his own exquisitely neat abode beckoning
across the gray rail-fence to him.
How pretty Blossy's geraniums looked in the sitting-room windows! Even
at this distance, too, he could see that she had not forgotten to water
his pet abutilon and begonias. How welcome in the midst of this flurry
of snow--how welcome to his eye was that smoke coming out of the
chimneys! All the distress of his trip away from home seemed worth while
now for the joy of coming back.
Before he had taken down the fence-rail and turned into the path which
led to his back door, he was straining his ears for the sound of
Blossy's voice gossiping with Angy. Not hearing it, he hurried the
faster.
The kitchen door was locked. The key was not under the mat; it was not
in the safe on the porch, behind the stone pickle-pot. He tried the door
again, and then peered in at the window.
Not even the cat could be discerned. The kitchen was set in order, the
breakfast dishes put away, and there was no sign of any baking or
preparations for dinner.
He knocked, knocked loudly. No answer. He went to a side door, to the
front entrance, and found the whole house locked, and no key to be
discovered. It was still early in the morning, earlier than Blossy would
have been likely to set out upon an errand or to spend the day; and
then, too, she was not one to risk her health in such chilly, damp
weather, with every sign of a heavy storm.
Samuel became alarmed. He called sharply, "Blossy!" No answer. "Mis'
Rose!" No answer. "Ezra!" And still no sound in reply.
His alarm increased. He went to the barn; that was locked and Ezra
nowhere in sight. By standing on tiptoe, however, and peeping through a
crack in the boards, he found that his horse and the two-seated surrey
were missing.
"Waal, I never," grumbled Samuel, conscious once more of all his
physical discomforts. "The minute my back's turned, they go
a-gallivantin'. I bet yer," he added after a moment's thought, "I bet
yer it's that air Angy Rose. She's got ter git an' gad every second same
as Abe, an' my poor wife has been drug along with her."
There was nothing left for him to do but seek refuge in his shop and
await their return. Like nearly every other bayman, he had a one-room
shanty, which he called the "shop," and where he played at building
boats, and weaving nets, and making oars and tongs.
This structure stood to the north of the house, and fortunately had an
old, discarded kitchen stove in it. There, if the wanderers had not
taken that key also, he could build a fire, and stretch out before it on
a bundle of sail-cloth.
He gave a start of surprise, however, as he approached the place; for
surely that was smoke coming out of the chimney!
Ezra must have gone out with the horse, and Blossy must be entertaining
Angy in some outlandish way demanded by the idiosyncrasies of the Rose
temperament.
Samuel flung open the door, and strode in; but only to pause on the
threshold, struck dumb. Blossy was not there, Angy was not there, nor
any one belonging to the household. But sitting on that very bundle of
canvas, stretching his lean hands over the stove, with Samuel's cat on
his lap, was the "Old Hoss"--Abraham Rose!
XIX
EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH
The cat jumped off Abe's lap, running to Samuel with a mew of
recognition. Abe turned his head, and made a startled ejaculation.
"Sam'l Darby," he said stubbornly, "ef yew've come tew drag me back to
that air Beach, yew 're wastin' time. I won't go!"
Samuel closed the door and hung his damp coat and cap over a suit of old
oilskins. He came to the fire, taking off his mittens and blowing on his
fingers, the suspicious and condemnatory tail of his eye on Abraham.
"Haow'd yew git here?" he burst forth. "What yew bin an' done with my
wife, an' my horse, an' my man, an' my kerridge? Haow'd yew git here?
What'd yew come fer? When'd yew git here?"
"What'd yew come fer?" retorted Abe with some spirit. "Haow'd yew git
here?"
"None o' yer durn' business."
A glimmer of the old twinkle came back into Abe's eye, and he began to
chuckle.
"I guess we might as waal tell the truth, Sam'l. We both tried to be so
all-fired young yesterday that we got played out, an' concluded
unanermous that the best place fer a A No. 1 spree was ter hum."
Samuel gave a weak smile, and drawing up a stool took the cat upon his
knee.
"Yes," he confessed grudgingly, "I found out fer one that I hain't no
spring lamb."
"Ner me, nuther," Abe's old lips trembled. "I had eyester-stew an' drunk
coffee in the middle o' the night; then the four-o'clock patrol wakes me
up ag'in. 'Here, be a sport,' they says, an' sticks a piece o' hot
mince-pie under my nose. Then I was so oneasy I couldn't sleep. Daybreak
I got up, an' went fer a walk ter limber up my belt, an' I sorter
wandered over ter the bay side, an' not a mile out I see tew men with
one o' them big fishin'-scooters a-haulin' in their net. An' I walked a
ways out on the ice, a-signalin' with my bandana han'kercher; an' arter
a time they seen me. 'T was Cap'n Ely from Injun Head an' his boy. Haow
them young 'uns dew grow! Las' time I see that kid, he wa' n't knee-high
tew a grasshopper.
"Waal, I says tew 'em, I says: 'Want ter drop a passenger at Twin
Coves?' 'Yes, yes,' they says. 'Jump in.' An' so, Sam'I, I gradooated
from yer school o' hardenin' on top a ton o' squirmin' fish, more er
less. I thought I'd come an' git Angy," he ended with a sigh, "an' yer
hired man 'd drive us back ter Shoreville; but thar wa' n't nobody hum
but a mewin' cat, an' the only place I could git inter was this here
shop. Wonder whar the gals has gone?"
No mention of the alarm that he must by this time have caused at the
Station. No consciousness of having committed any breach against the
laws of hospitality. But there was that in the old man's face, in his
worn and wistful look, which curbed Samuel's tongue and made him
understand that as a little child misses his mother so Abe had missed
Angy, and as a little homesick child comes running back to the place he
knows best so Abe was hastening back to the shelter he had scorned.
So, with an effort, Samuel held his peace, merely resolving that as soon
as he could get to a telephone he would inform their late hosts of Abe's
safety.
There was no direct way of telephoning; but a message could be sent to
the Quogue Station, and from there forwarded to Bleak Hill.
"I've had my lesson," said Abe. "The place fer old folks is with old
folks."
"But"--Samuel recovered his authoritative manner--"the place fer an old
man ain't with old hens. Naow, Abe, ef yew think yew kin behave yerself
an' not climb the flagpole or jump over the roof, I want yer to stay
right here, yew an' Angy both, an' spend yer week out. Yes, yes," as Abe
would have thanked him. "I take it," plunging his hand into his pocket,
"yew ain't stowed away nothin' since that mince-pie; but I can't offer
yer nothin' to eat till Blossy gits back an' opens up the house, 'cept
these here pepp'mints. They're fine; try 'em."
With one of those freakish turns of the weather that takes the conceit
out of all weather-prophets, the snow had now ceased to fall, the sun
was struggling out of the clouds, and the wind was swinging around to
the west.
Neither of the old men could longer fret about their wives being caught
in a heavy snow; but, nevertheless, their anxiety concerning the
whereabouts of the women did not cease, and the homesickness which Abe
felt for Angy, and Samuel for Blossy, rather increased than diminished
as one sat on the roll of canvas and the other crouched on his stool,
and both hugged the fire, and both felt very old, and very lame, and
very tired and sore.
Toward noontime they heard the welcome sound of wheels, and on rushing
to the door saw Ezra driving alone to the barn. He did not note their
appearance in the doorway of the shop; but they could see from the look
on his face that nothing had gone amiss.
Samuel heard the shutting of the kitchen door, and knew that Blossy was
at home, and a strange shyness submerged of a sudden his eagerness to
see her.
What would she say to this unexpected return? Would she laugh at him, or
be disappointed?
"Yew go fust," he urged Abe, "an' tell my wife that I've got the
chilblains an' lumbago so bad I can't hardly git tew the house, an' I
had ter come hum fer my 'St. Jerushy Ile' an' her receipt fer frosted
feet."
XX
THE FATTED CALF
Abe had no such qualms as Samuel. He wanted to see Angy that minute, and
he did not care if she did know why he had returned.
He fairly ran to the back door under the grape arbor, so that Samuel,
observing his gait, was seized with a fear that he might be that young
Abe of the Beach, during his visit, after all.
Abraham rushed into the kitchen without stopping to knock. "I'm back,
Mother," he cried, as if that were all the joyful explanation needed.
She was struggling with the strings of her bonnet before the
looking-glass which adorned Blossy's parlor-kitchen. She turned to him
with a little cry, and he saw that her face had changed
marvelously--grown young, grown glad, grown soft and fresh with a new
excited spirit of jubilant thanksgiving.
"Oh, Father! Weren't yew s'prised tew git the telephone? I knowed yew'd
come a-flyin' back."
Blossy appeared from the room beyond, and slipped past them, knowing
intuitively where she would find her lord and master; but neither of
them observed her entrance or her exit.
Angy clung to Abe, and Abe held her close. What had happened to her, the
undemonstrative old wife? What made her so happy, and yet tremble so?
Why did she cry, wetting his cheek with her tears, when she was so
palpably glad? Why had she telephoned for him, unless she, too, had
missed him as he had missed her?
Recalling his memories of last night, the memories of that long-ago
honeymoon-time, he murmured into his gray beard, "Dearest!"
She did not seem to think he was growing childish. She was not even
surprised. At last she said, half between sobbing and laughing:
"Oh, Abe, ain't God been good to us? Ain't it jist bewtiful to be rich?
Rich!" she cried. "Rich!"
Abe sat down suddenly, and covered his face with his hands. In a flash
he understood, and he could not let even Angy see him in the light of
the revelation.
"The minin' stock!" he muttered; and then low to himself, in an awed
whisper: "Tenafly Gold! The minin' stock!"
After a while he recovered himself sufficiently to explain that he had
not received the telephone message, and therefore knew nothing.
"Did I git a offer, Mother?"
"A offer of fifteen dollars a share. The letter come last night fer yew,
an' I--"
"Fifteen dollars a share!" He was astounded. "An' we've got five
thousand shares! Fifteen dollars, an' I paid ninety cents! Angy, ef ever
I ketch yew fishin' yer winter bunnit out of a charity barrel ag'in,
I'll--Fifteen dollars!"
"But that ain't the best of it," interrupted Angy. "I couldn't sleep a
wink, an' Blossy says not ter send word tew yew, 'cuz mebbe 't was a
joke, an' to wait till mornin' an' go see Sam'l's lawyer down ter Injun
Head. That's whar we've jest come from, an' we telephoned ter Quogue
Station from thar. An' the lawyer at fust he didn't 'pear tew think very
much of it; but Blossy, she got him ter call up some broker feller in
'York, an' 'Gee whizz!' he says, turnin' 'round all excited from the
'phone. 'Tenafly Gold is sellin' fer twenty dollars on the Curb right
this minute!' An' he says, says he: 'Yew git yer husband, an' bring that
air stock over this arternoon; an',' says he, 'I'll realize on it fer
yer ter-morrer mornin'.'"
Abe stared at his wife, at her shining silk dress with its darns and
careful patches, at her rough, worn hands, and at the much mended lace
over her slender wrists.
"That mine was closed down eighteen years ago; they must 'a' opened it
up ag'in"; he spoke dully, as one stunned. Then with a sudden burst of
energy, his eyes still on his wife's figure: "Mother, that dress o'
yourn is a disgrace fer the wife of a financierer. Yew better git a new
silk fer yerself an' Miss Abigail, tew, fust thing. Her Sunday one
hain't nothin' extry."
"But yer old beaver, Abe!" Angy protested. "It looks as ef it come out
o'the Ark!"
"Last Sunday yew said it looked splendid"; his tone was absent-minded
again. He seemed almost to ramble in his speech. "We must see that
Ishmael gits fixed up comfortable in the Old Men's Home; yew remember
haow he offered us all his pennies that day we broke up housekeepin'.
An' we must do somethin' handsome fer the Darbys, tew. Ef it hadn't been
fer Sam'l, I might be dead naow, an' never know nothin' erbout this here
streak o' luck. Tenafly Gold," he continued to mutter. "They must 'a'
struck a new lead. An' folks said I was a fool tew invest."
His face lightened. The weight of the shock passed. He threw off the awe
of the glad news. He smiled the smile of a happy child.
"Naow, Mother, we kin buy back our old chair, the rocker with the red
roses onto it. Seems ter me them roses must 'a' knowed all the time
that this was a-goin' ter happen. They was jest as pert an' sassy that
last day--"
Angy laughed. She laughed softly and with unutterable pride in her
husband.
"Why, Father, don't yer see yew kin buy back the old chair, an' the old
place, too, an' then have plenty ter spare?"
"So we kin, Mother, so we kin"; he nodded his head, surprised. He
plunged his hands into his pockets, as if expecting to find them filled
with gold. "Wonder ef Sam'l wouldn't lend me a dollar or so in small
change. Ef I only had somethin' ter jingle, mebbe I could git closer to
this fac'." He drew her to him, and gave her waist a jovial squeeze.
"Hy-guy, Mother, we're rich! Hain't it splendid?"
Their laughter rang out together--trembling, near-to-tears laughter.
The old place, the old chair, the old way, and--plenty! Plenty to mend
the shingles. Aye, plenty to rebuild the house, if they chose. Plenty
with which to win back the smiles of Angy's garden. The dreadful dream
of need, and lack, and want, of feeding at the hand of charity, was gone
by.
Plenty! Ah, the goodness and greatness of God! Plenty! Abe wanted to cry
it out from the housetops. He wanted all the world to hear. He wished
that he might gather his wealth together and drop it piece by piece
among the multitude. To give where he had been given, to blossom with
abundance where he had withered with penury!
The little wife read his thoughts. "We'll save jest enough fer ourselves
ter keep us in comfort the rest of our lives an' bury us decent."
They were quiet a long while, both sitting with bowed heads as if in
prayer; but presently Angy raised her face with an exclamation of
dismay:
"Don't it beat all, that it happened jest tew late ter git in this
week's 'Shoreville Herald'!"
"Tew late?" exclaimed the new-fledged capitalist. "Thar hain't nothin'
tew late fer a man with money. We'll hire the editor tew git out another
paper, fust thing ter-morrer!"
XXI
"OUR BELOVED BROTHER"
The services of the "Shoreville Herald," however, were not required to
spread the news. The happiest and proudest couple on Long Island saw
their names with the story of their sudden accession to wealth in a
great New York daily the very next morning.
A tall, old gentleman with a real "barber's hair-cut," a shining, new
high hat, a suit of "store clothes" which fitted as if they had been
made for him, a pair of fur gloves, and brand-new ten-dollar boots; and
a remarkably pretty, old lady in a violet bonnet, a long black velvet
cape, with new shoes as well as new kid gloves, and a big silver-fox
muff--this was the couple that found the paper spread out on the hall
table at the Old Ladies' Home, with the sisters gathered around it,
peering at it, weeping over it, laughing, both sorrowing and rejoicing.
"This'll be good-by ter Brother Abe," Aunt Nancy had sniffed when the
news came over the telephone the day before; and though Miss Abigail had
assured her that she knew Abe would come to see them real often, the
matriarch still failed to be consoled.
"Hain't you noticed, gals," she persisted, "that thar hain't been a
death in the house sence we took him in? An' I missed my reg'lar spell
o' bronchitis last winter an' this one tew--so fur," she added dismally,
and began to cough and lay her hands against her chest. "That was allus
the way when I was a young 'un," she continued after a while; "I never
had a pet dog or cat or even a tame chicken that it didn't up an' run
erway sooner or later. This here loss, gals, 'll be the death o' me!
Naow, mark my words!"
Then followed a consultation among the younger sisters, the result of
which was that they met Abe in the morning with a unanimous petition.
They could neither ask nor expect him to remain; that was impossible,
but--
"Hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!" cried Abe, waving an imaginary flag as
he entered. "Sam'l dropped us at the gate. Him an' Blossy went on ter
see Holmes tew dicker erbout buyin' back the old place. Takes Blossy an'
Sam'l tew dew business. They picked out my clothes between them yist'day
arternoon deown ter Injun village, in the Emporium. Haow yew like 'em?
Splendid, eh? See my yaller silk handkerchief, tew? We jest dropped in
ter git our things. We thought mebbe yew'd want ter slick up the room
an' git ready fer the new--"
He was allowed to say no more. The sisters, who had been kissing and
hugging Angy one by one, now swooped upon him. He was hugged, too, with
warm, generous congratulation, his hands were both shaken until they
ached, and his clothes and Angy's silently admired. But no one said a
word, for not one of the sisters was able to speak. Angy, thinking that
she divined a touch of jealousy, hastened to throw off her wrap and
display the familiar old worn silk gown beneath.
"I told Abe I jest wouldn't git a new silk until you each had one made
tew. Blossy sent for the samples. Blossy--"
"All I need's a shroud," interrupted Aunt Nancy grimly.
Angy and Abe both stared at her. She did look gray this morning. She did
seem feeble and her cough did sound hollow. The other sisters glanced
also at Aunt Nancy, and Sarah Jane took her hand, while she nudged Mrs.
Homan with her free elbow and Mrs. Homan nudged Ruby Lee and Ruby Lee
glanced at Lazy Daisy and Lazy Daisy drawled out meaningly:
"Miss Abigail!"
Then Miss Abigail, twisting the edge of her apron nervously, spoke:
"Much obliged to you I be in behalf o' all the sisters, Brother Abe an'
ter Angy tew. We know yew'll treat us right. We know that yew," resting
her eyes on Abe's face, "will prove ter be the 'angel unawares' that we
been entertainin', but we don't want yew ter waste yer money on a
cart-load o' silk dresses. All we ask o' yew is jest ernough tew allow
us ter advertise fer another brother member ter take yer place."
Who could describe the expression that flashed across Abe's face?--hurt
astonishment, wounded pride, jealous incomprehension.
"Ter take my place!" he glanced about the hall defiantly. Who dared to
enter there and take his place?--_his place_!
"This is a old ladies' home," he protested. "What right you got a-takin'
in a good-fer-nuthin' old man? Mebbe he'd rob yew er kill yew! When men
git ter rampagin', yew can't tell what they might dew."
Sarah Jane nodded her head knowingly, as if to exclaim:
"I told yer so!"
But Miss Abigail hurriedly explained that it was a man and wife that
they wanted. She blushed as she added that of course they would not
take a man without his wife.
"No, indeed! That'd be highly improper," smirked Ruby Lee.
Then Abe went stamping to the stairway, saying sullenly:
"All right. I'll give yew all the money yew want fer advertisin', an'
yew kin say he'll be clothed an' dressed proper, tew, an' supplied with
terbaccer an' readin'-matter besides; but jest wait till the directors
read that advertisement! They had me here sorter pertendin' ter be
unbeknownst. Come on, Angy. Let 's go up-stairs an' git our things.
Let's--"
Aunt Nancy half arose from her chair, resting her two shaking hands on
the arms of it.
"Brother Abe," she called quaveringly after the couple, "I guess yew
kin afford ter fix up any objections o' the directors."
Angy pressed her husband's arm as she joined him in the upper hall.
"Don't yer see, Abe. They don't realize that that poor old gentleman,
whoever he may be, won't be yew. They jest know that _yew_ was _yew_;
an' they want ter git another jest as near like yew as they kin."
Abe grunted, yet nevertheless went half-way down-stairs again to call
more graciously to the sisters that he would give them a reference any
time for knowing how to treat a man just right.
"That feller'll be lucky, gals," he added in tremulous tones. "I hope
he'll appreciate yew as I allers done."
Then Abe went to join Angy in the room which the sisters had given to
him that bitter day when the cry of his heart had been very like unto:
"_Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani_!"
After all, what was there of his and Angy's here? Their garments they
did not need now. They would leave them behind for the other old couple
that was to come. There was nothing else but some simple gifts. He took
up a pair of red wristlets that Mrs. Homan had knit, and tucked them in
his new overcoat pocket. He also took Abigail's bottle of "Jockey Club"
which he had despised so a few days ago, and tucked that in his
watch-pocket. When he bought himself a watch, he would buy a new clock
for the dining-room down-stairs, too,--a clock with no such asthmatic
strike as the present one possessed. All his personal belongings--every
one of them gifts--he found room for in his pockets. Angy had even less
than he. Yet they had come practically with nothing--and compared with
that nothing, what they carried now seemed much. Angy hesitated over the
pillow-shams. Did they belong to them or to the new couple to come? Abe
gazed at the shams too. They had been given to him and Angy last
Christmas by all the sisters. They were white muslin with white cambric
frills, and in their centers was embroidered in turkey-red cotton,
"Mother," on one pillow, "Father," on the other. Every sister in the
Home had taken at least one stitch in the names.
Father and Mother--not Angy and Abe! Why Father and Mother? A year ago
no one could have foreseen the fortune, nor have prophesied the
possession of the room by another elderly couple.
Angy drew near to Abe, and Abe to Angy. They locked arms and stood
looking at the pillows. He saw, and she saw, the going back to the old
bedroom in the old home across the woods and over the field--the going
back. And in sharp contrast they each recalled the first time that they
had stepped beneath that roof nearly half a century ago,--the first
home-coming,--when her mother-heart and his father-heart had been filled
with the hope of children--children to bless their marriage, children to
complete their home, children to love, children to feed them with love
in return.
"Let's adopt some leetle folks," said Angy, half in a whisper. "I'm
afeard the old place'll seem lonesome without--"
"Might better adopt the sisters"; he spoke almost gruffly. "I allers did
think young 'uns would be the most comfort tew yew after they growed
up."
"A baby is dretful cunnin'," Angy persisted. "But," she added sadly, "I
don't suppose a teethin' mite would find much in common with us."
"Anyway," vowed Abe, suddenly beginning to unfasten the pillow-shams,
"these belong ter us, an' I'm a-goin' ter take 'em."
They went down-stairs silently, the shams wrapped in a newspaper
carried under his arm.
"Waal, naow,"--he tried to speak cheerfully as they rejoined the others,
and he pushed his way toward the dining-room,--"I'll go an' git my cup
an' sasser."
But Miss Abigail blocked the door, again blushing, again confused.
"That 'Tew-our-Beloved-Brother' cup," she said gently, her eyes not
meeting the wound in his, "we 'bout concluded yew'd better leave here
fer the one what answers the ad. Yew got so much naow, an' him--"
She did not finish. She could not. She felt rather than saw the blazing
of Abe's old eyes. Then the fire beneath his brows died out and a mist
obscured his sight.
"Gals," he asked humbly, "would yew ruther have a new 'beloved
brother'?"