Part 6

And he got an answer to his letter. It told him very briefly not to worry, that she would be home at Christmas. It was signed “Emmy.”

For the wives had said among themselves that God would understand. Just as if they understood God! If He should take him, all would be well. If not, He would find a way.

It was because they thought God would understand that they had opened that pitiful letter of old Liebereich’s. He spoke of his loneliness; how he had waited for her without complaint; how, now, he could wait no longer. At the end he told her, with the imperiousness of a husband, that she _must_ come home. They read this; they saw the childish blots; they knew where his half-palsied hands had missed the line, then recovered it; finally they read the boyish signature—with dry eyes.

Then they wrote that reply.

I hope that neither you nor I could have done this—with dry eyes.

But the night before Christmas arrived, and old Liebereich’s wife had not come. Nevertheless, he had no doubt. No one had ever lied to him except Mrs. Krantz. And he had never lied. And here was her letter. There was her name.

They came in and found him reading the letter.

“My Emmy never fooled me yit,” he told them exultingly. “She’ll come. Only she’s late a little.”

He put the letter in their eyes.

“Don’t it say she’ll be home _at_ Christmas?”

And I hope that neither you nor I have ever had that happen to us—such a letter thrust into our eyes!

When they whispered among themselves he grew cunning, and pretended to sing, while he listened. What he heard made him think that she was already come, but was in hiding to surprise him. Something was to happen the moment he went to sleep. And he fancied that they meant to bring her in at that moment. Well, he liked that. No surprise he had ever planned himself was quite so fine. _Emmy_ was to be his Christmas gift!

But what they had spoken about was the paleness of his old face, and how he had recently “failed.” For he could not sleep now, or eat, for watching and waiting.

And old Liebereich carried his cunning on to a desperate end. He pretended to be prodigiously sleepy. Yet, when they would have hustled him off to bed, he suddenly and savagely rebelled, stamped his feet, and put them out of the house, in a specious fury they could not withstand.

“I kin put myself to bed,” he cried happily after them. “I ain’t no dog-gone baby. I won’t be bossed in my own house!”

But the moment he had closed the door upon them he laughed.

And when he pulled down the blinds he did not know that he shut out their peeping eyes.

It all had made him tired.

IV THE NIGHT-SHIRT WITH THE FEATHER-STITCHING OF BLUE

He unlocked the door by the fireplace, presently, and lighted two new candles. Then he got from the bottom drawer the night-shirt with the blue feather-stitching about the collar, and put it on. His trousers lay on the floor.

“Now,” he laughed defiantly, “what will Mrs. Schwalm say? Let her say it!”

For you must know that such things as this adorned night-shirt had been banished to the bottom drawer, since his commandeering, as far too frivolous for his years. You will also observe that old Liebereich expected Mrs. Schwalm to see him in this garment and to rebuke him. But it was about this that he was so very reckless. For at the moment of its discovery his wife would have arrived, and then, in his own words, they might all go to grass!

But this obliges me to speak of old Liebereich’s cunning plan, or, which perhaps is better, to let him tell it for you as he now told it to himself in the kitchen of the house he and Emmy had built.

“They’ll bring her in that door by the fireplace, all dressed for Christmas. And they’ll all be crowding in behind her to see what I’ll do. Well, they’ll see! Oh, they’ll see! I wish it would be early morning and the sun come through the door. I expect I kin wait that much longer. And mebby the bells’ll ring. They’ll sneak her right up to my bed, and then they’ll holler, ‘Merry Christmas, Liebereich! Wake up!’

“But I’ll fool ’em. I’ll hug Emmy right afore ’em all, and let ’em know that I’ve fooled ’em! And I’ll laugh at Mrs. Schwalm. So will Emmy. And after that—” Now what _could_ there be after that? “After that we’ll just be happy. That’s all.”

Meanwhile he tidied the room as it had never been tidied before, and then fixed his thick white hair about his face in the fashion which Emmy liked.

At last he held up both candles and looked at himself in the mirror, and there were pink spots on his cheek-bones, and the bit of blue about his neck went very well with his faded eyes. Old Liebereich wagged his head with the satisfaction of a dandy at what he saw.

Suddenly he started away from the mirror, then back to it. Then he laughed.

“I thought it was you, Emmy. And you looked like that first day when you saw your face in it. Sixteen. I wouldn’t like you to come back looking sixteen, and me eighty-four. No, I ain’t quite ready for you yit, Emmy; I must get clean sheets. But we ain’t far apart now no more!”

He went close to the mirror to whisper this. He still was not sure that he did not see her there.

And I hope that you and I have “seen things” in the mirror, though perhaps we are not eighty-four and have no Emmy.

Then he went on getting ready for her till he was very tired—more tired, he thought, than he had ever been.

Outside Mrs. Schwalm was whispering to Mrs. Krantz:

“No, they ain’t far apart! He’s mighty funny to-night. He is seeing things.”

At last he was ready to hang up their stockings on the brass nails which had been put into the mantel for this purpose when the house was built.

And, for something to surprise her, he took from behind that loose brick a gold coin. It had the date of 1825 on it. There was a hole in it, and through the hole a narrow blue ribbon.

But now he stopped and his heart heaved.

“It was to cut the baby’s teeth on.”

After a while:

“We was going to call him Billy if he was a boy—Emmy if she was a girl.”

Again:

“But there never was no baby.”

And then, at last:

“But there never was no baby.”

He put the coin in the toe of Emmy’s stocking and went to bed and closed his eyes—to watch. And his last words were:

“Tired—tired—tired—Emmy!”

He dozed and made himself wake so often, and nothing had happened, that he grew afraid and much more tired. And the red went out of his cheeks, and he could feel his face becoming very cold.

He dozed a long time, at last without waking.

Then they outside, seeing this, came in—all those neighbors—stealthily, whispering and going toward his bed. Some one brought a candle and held it so close to his eyes that it scorched and tortured him. He woke; he was tremendously terrified by their stealth, but he did not understand at all—he who had never had such thoughts as theirs.

They did not know that he was awake.

“He is better off,” said one of them.

“He died easy,” said another.

Then, suddenly, old Liebereich understood. He did not quiver. But his heart was bursting.

“I don’t know about that,” said a wary one.

Some one took Liebereich’s hand from under the covers.

“’Sh! He’s only asleep,” the voice whispered.

Another sighed a disappointment.

“Touch his feet,” said one.

This was done, and the same verdict reached. He was not yet dead.

“He still thinks she’ll come!”

There was a laugh somewhere.

“Look at the night-shirt!”

“How long is she dead now?”

They left him then, and he could breathe a moment. They put into his stocking some things they had brought—simple things—at the last a spiral of pink-and-white candy.

But there was no laughter—only silence. Once more they were doing their duty. And once more—for only the second sad time in his long life—old Liebereich understood.

“It ain’t much,” said a pitying one.

“It’s enough,” said another, crossly.

The last one said—to comfort both:

“He’ll never know no better.”

Then they came and looked at him again.

“Yes—only asleep.”

Another voice said:

“In the morning, I expect. Often they sleep away.”

A doubting young woman said:

“Mebby it just happened now and he ain’t cold yet.”

But her elders, who had seen death often, only frowned.

Then they went out.

Old Liebereich lay very still. He was icy cold. The feet and hands they had touched would not get warm. He felt yet their cold touch. Two tears stole down his cheeks. His heart was still filled to bursting. Yet he lay quite still. Presently something like content came and stayed, and smoothed the sorrow from his face, and made it beautiful.

V THE SECOND OPENING OF THE DOOR

Then, without the least warning, the door opened again, directly in his eyes, and everything was quite as he had fancied it. Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife dressed for Christmas. And she was well and happy—by the smiles on her face. And the morning had come, as he had wished; for, as the door opened, the sun behind her smote away the darkness, and it seemed as if she had come down to him on those sheaves of glittering javelins. And yes, closely crowding behind her, came the very people he knew would come, filling all the door and making a background for his picture. Such a background! He forgave them all at once. For he must have dreamed those other, sadder things. And, more,—and better still,—the bells of the little town were jangling out their Christmas madrigal. (You know how dear the bells are to Germans!)

[Illustration: “_Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife_”]

And old Liebereich, too, did everything just as he had planned it. He lay quietly in his bed until they shouted, “Merry Christmas, Liebereich! Wake up!” Then he rose and took his wife in his arms and laughed at them,—in the very faces of them all!—and told them how cunningly he had fooled them. Precisely as he had planned.

And he had two recollections of the moment. One was that Mrs. Schwalm _smiled_ when she saw the blue feather-stitched night-shirt; the other was that his wife was the prettiest of them all. After that came the vast happiness—all as he had planned.

For all of this, from the second opening of that door, old Liebereich had only dreamed. But, quite as they had said, he would never know better, for he never woke.

And when the neighbors indeed came through that door again in the morning, with guilt upon them, with stealth, wondering whether he were now dead, while it was yet dark, holding candles once more to his eyes, old Liebereich met them with such a beautiful, smiling, heaven-touched face that, one and all, they dropped to their knees. And their eyes were not dry.

And I am no longer sure of that philosophy, a few pages past, where we agreed that nothing could be better than to wait for old Liebereich’s wife—and Christmas.

Or maybe the German wives are right, and he is better off?

For perhaps he hears sweeter music than the Christmas bells; perhaps there is a more glorious light than the morning sun in that doorway; perhaps the background of his picture is crowded with fairer faces than those of his former neighbors. God knows! Perhaps immortal youth has, in truth, come. Perhaps he does, indeed, embrace his wife. Else what is the use of heaven? God knows!

“IUPITER TONANS”[5]

I THE SERIOUS INSOMNIA OF HIER RUHET

The Spring of The Thousand Years on the Island of Floresnik, in the South Pacific, has now a pink marble panel, with an ornamental border, put up by the Society for the Prevention of Disappointment, warning the traveller, in Gothic letters and seven languages, that he who drinks of it will sleep unchanged a thousand years.

But no such warning was there on the morning of the 15th of December, 1504, when the Iupiter Tonans, seventy-two guns, Admiral Hier Ruhet, from Amsterdam eighty-eight days, bore down upon the little island. The great new battleship had been separated from her consorts by the thick weather following the storm on the 12th of January of that year, and had now been out of her reckoning and without fresh water for twenty-three days.

There was little attempt at discipline as the great ship came to anchor. Indeed, none was needed. From Ruhet down to the ship’s boots, Jawrge, but one desire prevailed,—water.

Nor was there any waiting for boats. The crew waded or swam ashore and drank till they could drink no more. Nicht Wahr, the haughty first officer, dropped to the earth by the side of the third cook and put his face into the enchanting pool with him—jowl by jowl.

So that around the great spring, like the fringe on the admiral’s cap—which he had taken off to drink—was the crew of the Tonans. And when all were satisfied, the pool had nearly vanished.

“Ah, Nicht Wahr,” said the admiral, to his next in command, “now I am again filled up, thank God!” with which he rolled over on his back and disposed himself to sleep.

But he remembered then how the pool had lowered as they drank and cried out humorously to his men: “On your life, don’t no one but me go to sleep till the ship has had her drink. Fill everything!”

Again he turned upon his back, whispering to Nicht Wahr: “You know that my black beast is insomnia, and it has never been worse than recently. Therefore I must snatch my sleep when I can. I never felt so much like it in my life. Keep awake until the ship is filled—excuse me—don’t speak to me!—and don’t let me sleep after six o’clock.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Nicht Wahr, though his own eyelids were heavy. “But there will be no need of that, sir. You always wake first. Your sleeplessness is a great misfortune to us all.”

Ruhet was already asleep.

However, by threats and persuasion, and even beatings, Wahr kept the men at work until everything on the ship which could hold water was full. Then all dropped to sleep in their tracks.

II AND THE POLITE CANNON OF WEISS NICHT

Now it happened that, by reason of the admiral’s recent insomnia, he _did_ wake first—having slept but four hundred years and some odd months and weeks and days. And as he woke (the next morning, as he supposed) he swore with ecstasy—so fine did he feel.

“Wake up, you lazy lunkers!” he cried gayly to his men, making a prodigious yawn himself. “I feel like a fighting cock—” or words to that effect. I am not a nautical person. At all events he went on addressing them: “Unless all signs fail, something will happen this good day. By my bay mare’s currycomb, I pity the craft that the Tonans falls in with to-day. For, having drunken, we now need to eat, and there is not a rat aboard the Tonans that might serve us for food. Up with you!”

A few of the men who, like Ruhet, did not sleep well, struggled to wakefulness at his voice. But, as to the most of them, it required his heavy boot, and his nearly as heavy hand, to kick and cuff them to their senses. However, at last, all were awake, and so good had been the admiral’s rest that his temper still kept. And this was saying much for Ruhet.

Weiss Nicht, the second officer, came for orders, scarcely able to conceal his yawn, for he was one of the crew who was never troubled with insomnia, notwithstanding the fact that Ruhet had made it fashionable.

“Up anchor and away, Weiss Nicht. Some ship must furnish us meat to-day, and we will give them water in exchange.”

Each took a final drink from the spring, which now flowed full and free once more, and then went to their stations with as good a will as Ruhet himself. And it required this to get the sleepy ship under way.

For, having once drunk of the Spring of The Thousand Years, one is immune; its waters have no more power to cause sleep, but, on the contrary, produce such a delightful state of exhilaration as to approach mild intoxication. It was in this blissful state that they finally set sail.

Now, they were scarce an hour under way when this Weiss Nicht, who was the gunner’s mate on board, and many other things at other times and places, sighted, hull down, on the port quarter a small, strange craft painted green and scarcely to be distinguished from the water itself.

This he reported, as was his duty, to his superior, Nicht Wahr.

“Hah!” cried the proud and apparently learned Nicht Wahr, “it is a rowing barge upon which some one has built a small cabin to float about in. It is good for the sun and the rain—is a cabin like that.”

“And the night dews are bad,” agreed the gibing Weiss Nicht.

“Go on,” commanded Nicht Wahr, who hated the servile but critical second officer and gunner’s mate aboard. “They have no food. They can be of no use to us. To your station, Nicht!”

“But it moves, you fools!” thundered Ruhet, who had come on deck in time to hear the contention. “And it has neither sails like the Egyptian craft nor oars like the Roman. I wish I had it!”

“If your excellency will pardon Nicht Wahr,” said the apparently learned one, with a great bow, “he begs leave to doubt that it moves—much.”

“Hang you! Haven’t I got a couple of eyes?”

Now Nicht Wahr only bowed, but as he did so he turned and smiled pityingly to Weiss Nicht, as who should say: “Let him have his way. But, oh! Moves! Like this ship, for instance!”

And perhaps that is the reason he only answered (when Ruhet had said imperiously), “Well, then?”

“Excellency, perhaps they have in the hold little wheels turned by the rowers. There was talk of such a thing in Byzantium last year. Perhaps a knot a day.”

Now there had been no such talk at Byzantium. It was the reductio ad absurdum of the haughty and apparently learned Wahr. He winked at Nicht.

But Ruhet insisted all the more because of that saying of Wahr’s: “Ha-a! Is that so? It must be a pretty kind of toy, then. I want it.”

“So you shall,” said the second officer. “For does not the great admiral get everything he wants?”

“I have had no breakfast!”

“But you shall! Ay, before the day is done!” supplemented Wahr.

“Well, stop talking like a dictionary and get the toy for me. Then we’ll chase for food. Grace before meat, you know, aha, aha, ha!”

Nicht Wahr cast upon the unhappy Weiss Nicht a look of superior hatred; that he had by his impertinence rushed in where he had feared to tread, and had brought forth that bitter humor of Hier Ruhet’s.

“I desire, sir, that hereafter you will remain at your station to await my orders, or those of his excellency,” he said, “_I_ will get the toy for him.”

“Oh, Wahr, tut, tut!” laughed the admiral, in high glee, because of the success of his humor. “Oh, Nicht, tut, tut! You must live as brothers aboard.”

“Sir,” said the haughty next in command, “the discipline must be maintained!”

“Well, since I think of it, that is so,” admitted Hier Ruhet. “Get along, Nicht!”

Whereupon Nicht Wahr haughtily commanded Weiss Nicht in addition, that a gun be fired as politely as possible across the bows of the little craft, by the way of invitation for her to heave to—since the admiral desired her—

“In case she should be moving,” he said, with a great bow to the admiral.

“Politely, hah?” cried Ruhet. “I think that is a mistake. It is always better to skeer ’em. Hang politeness in a cannon!”

“It is not for that purpose, sir,” answered that wise mate, “that I do it—to be polite. But in order that we commit no act of piracy on the high seas.”

Then Wahr struck an attitude in which his back was very concave and his feet far apart. For he was a sea lawyer, he said.

III THE SOUP-SPRING

“Thunder and blazes!” cried Ruhet, looking about, “who will know it? There is not a soul in sight.”

“The law of nations first, sir. Second, our conscience. Both are everywhere.”

“Well, where are they?” and Ruhet looked about again as if they could somewhere be seen. “Hang bridle,” he cried to the gunner, “you just fire and don’t bother about being polite with your gun. If conscience and law are anywhere about here, they’ll let us know.”

The gunner did so at once, for he hated the first officer as much as the first officer hated him, when he bothered about hating anybody, and he loved his bluff and straight-forward admiral.

At once there broke out from the small craft a multitude of flags.

“I told you so, excellency,” said Nicht Wahr.

“Well, tell me again,” said Ruhet. “Hanged if I know what it was. I have a short memory.”

But the first officer held a haughty silence.

Now the first flags were exchanged for others, nearly all of redder hue.

“By the currycomb of Red Joshua, I think they are poking fun at us. Regular sport! If I were sure of that—”

“Pardon me, they are not, excellency,” said Nicht Wahr.

“They are so,” cried the savage admiral. “And by the roof of my father’s mouth, no one ever poked fun at Hier Ruhet and lived to poke more!”

“Let us have mercy upon them, master,” said the hypocritical Nicht Wahr, devoutly crossing his breast. “They are but children. This is but a child’s toy, as I told you. We must not kill children.” His tenderness appealed strongly to the admiral.

“No, nor cats,” answered Ruhet, at once convinced, “for both are unlucky. Especially for the children and cats—ha, ha! And, anyhow, I am getting hungrier every minute. That water is saline, I suppose. It makes one thirst. Go ahead. Hang the toy—I’m done wanting it.”

Now the cunning Nicht Wahr noticed that the little craft had broken out several flags of extremely sanguinary red, and he knew that he would be asked what it meant.

To beguile the admiral while he thought of some explanation he said: “Master, I have heard that near this spring of water there is another from which runs soup. Beautiful—thick—soup!”

Ruhet at once turned from the little craft—forgetting all about it—and shouted, “Where?”

But meanwhile the cunning Wahr had whispered to the much less cunning Nicht, “What do you suppose all that red means?”

Now, Nicht was one of those persons who are wiser than they seem. More there be who seem wiser than they are—including the apparently learned Wahr. But not of that sort was Nicht. Nicht was simple, yet learned.

“Sir,” he said, saluting, “that is a declaration of war. All savage nations use red to declare war.”