Part 2

She flew upon him and took him again by the throat.

“John!” she cried, “that’s a little _too_ much!”

But John was not convinced—though she lifted her yellow hair and showed him where the gray was creeping in.

“But it’s mighty sweet,” she conceded.

They did exactly as they had planned—began all over again. John was as tender with her as he had been after that night of the husking. And Betsy was as devoted to John as she had been in that halcyon time.

“Growing old is just an idea,” said the happy John, one day.

“Oh, of course,” agreed Betsy, busily plaiting withes, “until you _know_!”

“Why, everything is just as it was thirty years ago—ain’t it, Betsy?”

“John,” laughed Betsy, trying to plunge upon him from her work, “did it ever occur to you that your love-making nowadays consists largely of recalling those other love-makings—in ’35, you know?”

John thought a moment.

“Why, so it is, Betsy—so it is.”

“All imagination.”

“That’s just as good—just as good,” said John, stubbornly. “It’s always new.”

“Just as good,” laughed his wife, “when you don’t know no better—and we don’t, John, do we?”

“No, thank God,” said John, “and I don’t want to.”

“So don’t I,” said his wife, laughing.

“Betsy,” asked John, “do you ever think of that roof any more?”

“Yes,” answered Betsy, trying to be serious, “and we’ll have it some of these days—never fear.”

VII MAKING BELIEVE BRINGS THINGS

For the next twenty years Betsy made baskets and John went in and out with his pick and shovel. But they earned less and less. And then the owner of their house died and left them to the tender mercy of his heirs. These promptly began to inquire about the arrears of rent.

“I don’t know how much we are back, but I guess it’s a good deal,” smiled Betsy.

John was troubled. “If we’d only kep’ on saving, we might own the house by now, and—”

Betsy put her hand on his mouth—and some of the fingers into it.

“We made better use of it, John, ten thousand times better use of it! John—we bought happiness with it! And they are all dead, now, back there at Saint Michael’s. And there is not a thing to regret—not one. Oh, thank God—thank God! If we had saved that money, there would be something to regret. We would have to remember that one was denied this—the other—that. But we’ll have the roof yet.”

John sniffled and let his arm go gently around her.

“Betsy—forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

“Why, John, dear,” said Betsy, smiling again, “in a little while we will not need a house. John! ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions’!”

“Yes,” answered John, with a caress, awed by the light in his wife’s pretty face. “Yes—yes.”

“Who would we leave it to when we die?”

“Just so!” cried John.

“And in the mansions our boys will be! And it will be Sunday always.”

When fall came the new owners turned them out—and Betsy’s dainty house-things were given to the new tenant. They went to live in the abandoned out-kitchen of a neighbor, and Betsy made John believe that she had never been quite so happy. And, from making believe, it after a while came to be true. She cried once or twice when John was away—the little place was so bare and ugly. There did not seem any way to make a home of it. But Betsy set to work to try—with only her small hands—and occasionally John’s big ones—and almost no money—and surprised herself. When it was done, she found that she had, somehow, sewn and woven her own happiness into the curtains and carpets and furniture.

It took years to do it. Yet she was happy every hour of the time.

Betsy determined, one day, to celebrate the completion of her work. So when John came home he was met by a glare of light from several borrowed lamps, the smell of flowers gathered by Betsy herself in the fields, and a “dinner!”—as Betsy proudly announced—instead of their usual supper.

John took off his old hat in the midst of it and gazed speechlessly. Then he went back—outside—and wiped again the soles of his boots on the door-mat Betsy had woven. Betsy laughed like a girl and pulled him inside.

“Come! You have got to dance!”

Well—John never could dance. But she managed to make him whirl with her dizzily through the two tiny rooms she had made.

“John! It’s beginning all over again! Going to housekeeping! I’m the little bride. You can be the groom—if you like?”

“Yes,” mused John, very happily, “beginning all over again—going to housekeeping—again. But something—is not—”

The cradle was there—they had always kept it—and John looked at that and laughed guiltily.

“Not that, John—not that, John,” cried Betsy, plunging into his arms with sobs. “Not that—not that—talk about the roof—if you like—anything—but—not—_that_!”

VIII THE END OF LIFE IS AS ITS BEGINNING—SIMPLE

Afterward life was again to them much the same. Only they learned to go more and more to the churchyard on Sundays with homely garden flowers in their hands. But, again, they were very happy. John still maintained that they were renewing their youth. Betsy retorted that it was second childhood. For there was now a quaver in John’s voice which Betsy heard but never spoke of, and a tremor in Betsy’s hands which John saw and never mentioned.

The next winter Betsy slipped on the ice and fell. To her surprise she could not get up again. John carried her in and went for the doctor. She had broken her thigh.

She smiled up at the physician very placidly when he shook his head.

“Doctor, you must—_must_ patch me up. John needs me.”

“John!” The doctor turned upon him where he slunk into a corner. John hung his head. Betsy laughed almost joyously.

It was she who answered the doctor’s look.

“He couldn’t git along without me.”

She smiled at John, and John smiled back. The doctor caught them at this.

“In the army?” he asked John.

“Yes,” came from the corner.

“Private?”

“Captain.”

“Oh!—”

He remembered him then. He turned and looked at him.

“You fought!”

John was silent. But Betsy’s face glowed. It was she who answered for him. All about him and the five. It made John blush.

“Hum—wounded?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“Three times.”

“Where?”

“Leg—thigh—arm.”

“That what makes you limp?”

“Guess so.”

“Let me look.”

John uncovered.

“Hum—why didn’t you see me long ago?”

“Dunno,” said John.

“Army surgeon. No charge to you.”

John said nothing.

“Ever apply for a pension?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“_Volunteered._”

“Hell of a reason—hum!” ended the surgeon, turning his back to him and his face to the patient on the bed.

Presently he pulled on his gloves and started for the door. He stopped and looked at John once more.

“Bullet in leg myself. Going to patch you both up. Army surgeon. Entitled to my services. Didn’t apply for pension? You and I are the only two who didn’t. By.”

The doctor did patch them up. But for Betsy there was to be no more work—nor any dancing. The chubby hands could only lie quietly within each other and wither. The agile feet could not lift themselves from the floor unless John helped them.

John put away his pick and shovel.

“I’ll have to learn to make baskets,” said he.

Betsy raised her head from the pillow on her chair to laugh.

“Don’t you think I kin?”

She looked at his hands and laughed again.

“But we’ll have to try—if you’re willing. We got to do something.”

“Oh, I’m willing,” said John, hopefully.

“John!”

Two tears started down her face. John dried them and stroked the soft, withered hands.

“Dear old John—to be my ’prentice!”

IX GOOD BASKETS MUST KEEP THEIR BOTTOMS

It was true that his wits were dull and his hands clumsy, but there was such pleasure in the learning that John did it very rapidly. And whatever had gone before, and whatever was to come after, they were certain that no part of their lives had been happier than this of John’s apprenticeship at eighty to the trade of basket-making.

But his baskets were certainly clumsy as such hands were likely to make them, and had, besides, a way of losing their handles and bottoms at critical moments, which was, at least, unfortunate.

John discovered, after a while, that every purchase was simply so much charity. And, thus far, they had lived proudly—with the wage-earner’s terror of dependence. One day one of his customers told him, brutally, about the insecurity of the baskets—and John decided at once that he must do something else.

“No, John,” said Betsy, “make baskets. But make them for play—not for use. For the school children. Their baskets do not need strong bottoms.”

John wanted to shout.

“I kin—I kin do that! They like me. The children like me.”

So John entered another phase of his strange life. And none that had preceded it had been more beautiful. The house was always full of children. And he could never be seen on the streets of the town without two or more of them clinging to his hands and the skirts of his old uniform coat. If he happened to meet them coming from school, they would flock after him to his door—one or two—very carefully chosen—to sit on either side of the little invalid’s chair and hear stories the most wonderful outside of story-books. But for the sake of old times Betsy would often have them all in—so that the little rooms were jammed with them—and then they might romp about her as they pleased till John saw that she was tired. Then he would put them all out.

These were the best friends they ever had—the children. But as customers for his wares they were soon supplied and John was idle again. And it was winter—and there was nothing to do and John had never asked for charity and, he had often said, never would.

So there came a day when there was nothing in the house for the white little wife to eat. As for John, he could not have told exactly when he had broken his fast. They said nothing about it to each other—both understood. Betsy even tried to lighten John’s grimness by a pitiful little joke. She thought it would show John how brave she was.

“A drink, John, please. There is plenty of _water_, is there not?”

“Plenty of water—yes, plenty of water!” said John, in a way that made Betsy tremble. For the first time John was terrible.

She sent him out that afternoon to hunt for work. He came back unsuccessful and with a certain wildness in his eyes.

But there was a supper for them. A stew of meat steamed on the table. John brought it and fed Betsy—wondering without question.

“You, too, John, dearest; you, too.”

Well—John was very hungry and he began to eat. Presently he noticed that Betsy was crying softly. It was a long time before she succumbed to his coaxing. But then she confessed:

“She said I ought to go to the poor-house.”

“Who?” shouted John, rising angrily.

“Mrs. Morrell, who brought the meat.”

John flung the bowl and its contents out of the window. Betsy was awed. She had never seen him like that.

“John!” she coaxed softly.

“That’s what Miller told me. God! Said I wasn’t worth nothing to work no more. I’ll show ’em—I’ll show ’em!”

But he didn’t show them—he could not. Age had come at last, and at last he knew this. He earned nothing—and their hunger went on.

And, one evening, Betsy timidly resumed the hated subject.

“I’ve been thinking about it, John, dear, and she meant it very kind. It is warm there, John, and there is plenty of food. John—”

“My God, Betsy, do you want to go—live on charity—do you at last want to leave me—and live on charity—do you want to separate after sixty years—and live on charity?—Oh, my God!”

“No—no—no! John, let us stay together now until—the end,” said Betsy. “Forgive me. Only I’m such a burden to you—and it is so cold—”

John had another period of savage activity. It brought no work. But the agitation shattered him. He went to bed, and when he rose again his spirit was broken.

“John,” said Betsy to him then, with an angelic light on her face, “when you get a little better we—will go.”

John only looked stern.

“I have thought it all over—it is best.”

“I will not go,” said John, quietly. “I am a soldier!”

“Yes, John, dear, but—”

“Betsy,” asked John, solemnly, “do you _want_ to go?”

He never knew what a hero she became before she answered:

“Yes—John—I—I want—to go. I’m so cold—and so hungry—”

“Very—well,” said John. But his hand shook so that he could not put it to his eyes.

“Just till you get right on your feet again, John, darling, just till you’re quite well. I’m such a burden to you now. We’re such a burden to each other. Just till things are better with you. That will be soon, I know it. Then, John, dear John, you shall come for me! Think of that! It will be another home-coming! Another beginning! Another bride and groom!”

John listened avidly. A new and more youthful light flashed into his face.

“Betsy—do you mean that?”

“Mean it? Every word, John, every word!”

He savagely caught her hands.

“You will come back to me?”

“No,” said Betsy, “you shall bring me back!”

X THINGS FEEL HEAVIER IN AGE

So, one day, a farm wagon, piled high with straw and pillows, came and took her away. The last thing she said was:

“Dear John! we have lived together sixty years and you never gave me an unkind word. Kiss me! And again! Oh, it’s like ’35, ain’t it? And, John, come for me as soon as things are better with you. And if I can’t do without you that long and send for you—will you come before?”

“Yes,” said John, chokingly. It was all he could say.

Betsy kept her face toward John—then toward the house—then the tallest tree—then the steeple of the church—long after each had successively disappeared from view. Then she bravely turned it toward the poor-house.

And John watched the wagon as it climbed hill after hill and disappeared in valley after valley till it was lost to view.

John tried his pick and shovel again. But they were thick with rust and very heavy. And the wounded doctor had just brought him a crutch—saying that as he was having one made for himself he had also had one made for John—though he could do without it. He smiled a little then and put away forever his old and faithful tools. For a living he did what he could. It was not much, and he and hunger came to be rare intimates.

But that youthful hope which Betsy’s last words had wrought, and its almost savage vigor to do for her, did not depart from John.

After a while something went wrong with his head. He fancied that _she_ was still with him in the little house and always had been. Her dainty old clothing was about everywhere to foster this. One night he dreamed of her—that she was by his side. The dream was so real that he reached out his arms—only to close them on the air. Then he understood for a little that it had all been but a fancy. He lay for a long time shuddering and passing now and then his arms through the empty air—thinking that _might_ have been real and this the fancy. Toward morning a wondrous thought came to him. He remembered that she had said he was to come for her. He was to bring her back. There was to be another beginning—another home-coming—another bride and groom. He did not remember the rest—that he was to wait until his affairs had improved, or until she sent for him.

He pictured it all in the vivid darkness—how he would suddenly appear before her in his Sunday clothes—which meant his best uniform—and say “Come!”

A wondrous voice echoed his own “Come!”

He flung himself out of the bed like a youth. He shaved with great care—he wore no beard and had a clean fresh face—set everything in order in the tiny rooms—pulled down the blinds, locked the door, and, taking up his crutch, started away over the road the wagon had gone to the poor-house.

He paused on the hills and looked backward as Betsy had done. The blinking windows seemed to beckon him back. But he bravely said no to them:

“I ain’t no deserter! I’m coming back—with her—with her. Don’t you understand? With _her_! Bride and groom again.”

The windows seemed to understand, and stopped beckoning. He waved them a farewell and went on.

It was a long road—forty dusty miles—and hilly. Each hill growing higher and steeper as he approached the city—itself set upon a hill—where the poor-house was. His progress was very slow—sometimes not more than half a mile a day. But he never faltered.

“It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,” said John to himself. “Oh, when she sees me! I shan’t care how many hills there were!”

His bundle was made up in a great red handkerchief, from which his sword protruded, within which was his best uniform. Farm-houses were his sleeping places—but that only. No more than one night for each, though he might have stayed anywhere as long as he wished.

[Illustration: “_‘It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,’ said John to himself_”]

“I’m going to bring her—her, you know, home. Bride and groom. She said it. I heard her voice in the night.”

And this was always sufficient reason for refusing the dear, insidious hospitality pressed everywhere upon him.

If night came and there was no farm-house near, he would nestle in the straw of a wayside stack, under the stars, damp with the dew, to rise with the sun in his face. He liked that, and could go on without breakfast. It was all very beautiful.

His great climax grew upon him mile by mile, until it was the only thing he had in his poor old head.

“She will be sitting this way—with her hands in her lap, like she always sits now,” he would say to himself, “thinking of me. I expect she’s thinking of me all the time. I’ll shave and put on my uniform and my sword, and suddenly appear before her. Attention!—you know. Only I’ll not _say_ that—so’s not to frighten her. Mebby she’ll be reading her Bible. Then she’ll not see me till I’m right on top of her. Then I’ll say, soft, so’s not to frighten her—about this a—way—‘B—E—T—S—Y!’” He whispered it lovingly. “And she’ll just say ‘_John!_’” This was a sharp cry of joy.

He never got further than this. It did not seem necessary. What could be better? What could be beyond that?

His journey came to an end suddenly—as it seemed to John. It made him gulp on something in his throat. One morning the spires of the city lay close before him as if they had been conjured out of a dream. There it was against the pink clouds, within the morning mists, glowing, like the City of God as he had fancied it. He stood and gazed upon it, awed and bewildered. He had not thought of it as beautiful. To him it was only the city of the poor-house. Perhaps Betsy would not wish to leave a place so beautiful.

He bravely cast out the unworthy thought. She would leave any place for him. Heaven itself. With his faith renewed he went up into the city of the spires.

XI BUT THE POOR-HOUSE MAY BE ONE OF THE MANSIONS IN OUR FATHER’S HOUSE

And there he found the first unkindness of his long journey. No one offered him a place to sleep or a bite to eat. And there he could not see the sun when it rose in the morning. And what had become of the glories of the city he had seen against the clouds? This one was not glorious.

On the third day he found the poor-house. It was a splendid building on the top of a hill. Before he quite reached it he did as he had planned. There was a beautiful wood back of the place. Here, under the trees, he shaved and put on his uniform. There was a spot of rust on the sword. He smiled as he thought how Betsy would have chided him for that. He found some soft earth and rubbed it off. The old clothing, and everything else, he put back into the red handkerchief and hid the bundle under the roots of the tree. Then he marched up to the great and beautiful door—without his crutch—every inch a soldier once more.

A uniformed official led him in, and at last he was in the presence of his wife. She was dead. Her hands were folded within each other as he himself had often folded them. There were—on head and breast—the dainty cap and kerchief which she herself had long provided against her burial. On her dear face was the peace that passeth understanding. Indeed, she smiled up at him as he looked.

Then John’s heart stopped. At Betsy’s side he died. And so quietly that they who stood near never heard the sound of his gentle old voice.

They sleep together—Betsy and John. Not at Saint Michael’s with their five boys. Of them nothing was known at the poor-house. Their graves are in the burying-ground of the poor. There is a cheap stone upon which somebody has carved only their names and this text:

“IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE ARE MANY MANSIONS”

because Betsy’s Bible, when they took it up, fell open at that scripture—and her trembling finger had deeply marked the words as it followed them day after day to aid her dimming sight.

THE SIREN[2]

I BRASSID

They tell yet, on the porches of the Crazy-Quilt House,—though it is two years,—how savage Brassid met the laughing Sea-Lady, and how, at last, he adored her laughter more the more she laughed at him, and how she loved his savagery more the more savage he was to her.

And, then, on to the consequences of that laughter and that savagery, which you are to know at the end.

Mrs. Mouthon—the lady who uses snuff—insists that it was all pretence: that Brassid was _not_ savage—in his room, and that Miss Princeps never laughed—in her room. Mrs. Mouthon’s room was between theirs.

Nevertheless, Miss Carat, who has the one deaf ear, contends that it is absurd, absolutely absurd. For, she argues, why _should_ they have pretended, in the first place, and why should they _not_, if they had liked, in the last place? But, then, Miss Carat, the other five first-class boarders whisper, always opposes anything which proceeds from Mrs. Mouthon.

It seems that Brassid, weary and seeking seclusion, arrived on the last train of a Wednesday night. The man who carried his bag up from the little station told him that the Crazy-Quilt House was a sanatorium for women with head-trouble. It appeared that Brassid and the porter, who was also many other things at the hotel, would be the only men in the house—a state of affairs which immediately created a subtle camaraderie between the two men, though the porter was colored.

“Call me in time for the first train up to-morrow morning,” said Brassid, as the friendly porter dragged himself out of his room.