CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW ULYSSES LOST AND FOUND HIS PENELOPE.

"And now I think I'll go and show him to Thankful," said Dolly, after they had talked a little more, and Ned had learned that "Busk ye" means "prepare," "get ready;" and as she got up from the hearth-rug Yarrow executed his first circling dance around his new mistress.

There was not a guest in the house, and the rising wind which began to moan and shriek around the north-east gables, and the thickening snow, were prophecies of a quiet evening within. For any chance wayfarer would be likely to put up for the night at some hospitable farm-house, rather than to push on to the tavern through the storm and darkness.

Dolly and Ned, followed by Yarrow, ran into the kitchen, while Cousin Kitty, who had an eye for the picturesque, stopped a moment in the open door to take in the whole cosey interior, with the pair sitting on either side of the fireplace. It was that hour when there always seemed to be a pause in the rush and hurry of the day; the hour when, the chores being in progress outside, and the supper well under way inside, there was nothing to do but to wait with knitting or sewing in hand, or even with folded hands, if one chose. It was the one brief daily interval of leisure in that busy household.

Between these two women sitting in the firelight and talking quietly together there was a marked contrast. Between the Little Madam, with her tiny, graceful figure, clad in her gown of soft white woollen, with her nun's coif bringing out by contrast the velvety blackness of her eyes, sitting by her flax-wheel diligently spinning like another Penelope, and Thankful, tall and angular, her dark gown of print, though scrupulously neat, without finish of lace or linen, her hair twisted in a defiant knot on top of her head, sitting bolt upright in the straightest of straight-backed chairs, and knitting for dear life on a pair of stout blue stockings--between these two the distance seemed wide indeed.

But in reality they were the warmest and closest of friends, and always had a great deal to say to each other. Perhaps because they were both lonely and in some sense apart from others. For Thankful, despite her unattractive exterior and porcupinish temper, had a history, having, like most of us, once possessed a youth--a youth of sunny hopes, with eyes as bright as any that read these pages. During that glad spring-time she had--following the traditions of both Old and New England--spun and woven a chestful of household linen; and when Cyrus Hatton should return from the last voyage he intended to make to the East Indies it was understood they were to be married. But Cyrus never came back; his ship, from the time she left Hong-Kong, was never heard from. She went down, doubtless, with all on board, in some fierce typhoon; and with the lapse of time the chest of household linen had grown yellow, and the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed girl had merged into the angular, crotchety, but withal tender-hearted woman with whom we have become partially acquainted in the progress of this story.

For all helpless creatures she had an almost infinite compassion, and to this feeling the Little Madam appealed strongly. For who could be more helpless than she, living in a sort of twilight with the past a blank?

Thankful often said she was "loony," which adjective puzzled Cousin Kitty.

"What does she mean, Auntie?" she asked Mrs. Park one day.

"Country people say, 'crazy as a loon,' you know," replied Mrs. Park, "and loony is the adjective of loon, I suppose."

"Pshaw!" said Cousin Kitty, "that's begging the question, Auntie. Why is a loon crazier than a coot, or any other sea-fowl, I beg to know?"

And Mrs. Park said, "I'm sure I don't know," absently. She was just then looking over flannels, with a view to making warm petticoats for the McLouds, and was more interested in that just then than in the derivation of "loony."

But Cousin Kitty pondered the question.

"I have it!" she exclaimed at last. "'Tisn't from loon at all. Loon, used in that sense, is only the corruption of Luna. Dialects are full of such corruptions. Luna--the moon--is said to take away people's senses, you know, especially when they sleep in the moonlight, and that's where Thankful gets her 'loony,' d'ye see, Auntie?" And Cousin Kitty felt all the pride of a discoverer in the realm of language, and Mrs. Park said, absently, "It's very likely." She was still considering the subject of the warm flannel petticoats.

The fireside _tête-à-tête_ was broken up by the entrance of Ned and Dolly, followed by Yarrow. Neither Thankful nor the Little Madam had seen the latter, as on his arrival by stage he had been conveyed directly to Cousin Kitty's room. He was duly admired and praised, to which praise and admiration he responded in true doggish fashion by prancing, cocking his silken ears, and waving his superb tail. He took to the Little Madam at once, as was to be expected, and Thankful secured his undying affection by giving him a huge lump of brown sugar. Having thus been cordially received into the bosom of the family, he stretched himself on the rug near the settle, in the warmest corner of the kitchen.

The chores were finished, supper was eaten, and the dishes washed, but instead of going into the sitting-room for an evening of reading and games, the three lingered in the kitchen. The hearth was swept up, a fresh relay of wood piled upon the iron dogs, and 'Zekle settled himself in one corner of the fireplace for his after-supper smoke. Tobacco-smoke was offensive to Thankful, so he always contrived to sit so the smoke from his pipe should pass off up the chimney.

Not long ago I read in the life of the distinguished Thomas Carlyle that he used to smoke in that way because tobacco-smoke gave Mrs. Carlyle a headache; and I suspect a good many smokers have found out that way to be rid of the dead odors of tobacco--those smokers, I mean, who are so fortunate as to have an open fireplace by which to smoke.

"Let's blow soap-bubbles a while," suggested Cousin Kitty. "That is, if Thankful will let us," she added, smiling upon the autocrat of the kitchen.

Thankful graciously assented, and she herself brought out the huge yellow mince-meat bowl in which to make the suds. Fresh clay pipes with which to blow the bubbles were to be had in abundance; for Thankful was always breaking 'Zekle's pipes--accidentally, of course--by knocking them off the mantle-piece or the jamb by the oven, where he always left them "clus t' th' edge," as she said. Whether broken accidentally or not, 'Zekle took the precaution to have a good store on hand, lest some night, thinking to take his usual smoke, he might find himself pipeless, and nothing for it but to pull on his boots again and tramp over to "Jacob's" for a pipe or go without. Out of this store he presented to each of the three a long pipe of purest white.

Presently the kitchen was gay with prismatic bubbles. They floated in the draught towards the fireplace; they rose up to the ceiling, breaking against its smoky surface. Yarrow, after watching them a while, seized one, and gave a whine of disappointment as it vanished in his grasp. Up and down the kitchen flew the three soap-bubble blowers, laughing and breathless, trying to see how many bubbles they could keep afloat at a time. 'Zekle watched the fun with a broad smile, Thankful's countenance relaxed over her knitting, and the Little Madam drew her wheel near the table whereon stood the bowl, so as to be in the thick of the sport. Only the Persian cat looked on with grave indifference. He had seen too much of life to be taken in by a soap-bubble. He fell asleep, and dreamed of mice and other substantial things.

The storm without increased in violence. Occasionally a strong blast swept down the chimney, sending tongues of flame out into the room. The gathering snow upon the windows crept up to the middle of the sash. The cow-boy coming in from the barn, whither he had been to give the cows their nightcap of sweet rowan, "guessed there'd be some diggin' t' do in the mornin'," and, taking his candle, went off to bed in the open chamber over the wood-room, where the snow already lay in little drifts upon the floor.

Still the mad romp went on, still the rainbow-hued bubbles floated up and burst, while merry shouts within alternated with wild storm-bursts without.

Presently, in a lull of both storm and merriment, a faint jingling of sleigh-bells was heard. They ceased just under the kitchen windows; they ceased in a confused jangle, as though the horse wearing them had fallen in the deep snow.

"I vum 'f there ain't a traveller! Must be druv t' be out 'n this weather." And 'Zekle, laying aside his pipe, took down the lantern and proceeded to light the candle. This proved to be a work of time. The lighter of fat pine first refused to burn, and then the candle-wick proved obstinate.

"That's b'cause you alwa's will pinch it out with y'r fingers," said Thankful, alluding to 'Zekle's habit of wetting his fingers in his mouth before pinching out the snuff of the blown-out candle.

Meanwhile a renewed jangling of bells indicated that the horse was scrambling up. No one, however, except 'Zekle and Thankful, paid any heed to the sound. Dolly had just succeeded in blowing an enormous bubble, and a fresh chase ensued around the kitchen.

Having at last lighted the candle, 'Zekle shut the old tin lantern and went out. It was a queer old lantern, with holes punched in the tin to let out the light, such as may be found to-day in country garrets, if indeed they may not still be in use in primitive districts.

The big bubble finally burst, and the blowers were standing around the bowl beginning anew, when the door opened, and 'Zekle came in with the traveller, who looked more like the popular conception of Santa Claus than anything else. He was clad in fur from top to toe, to every hair of which, apparently, a snow-flake clung. He advanced to the fire, took his stand upon the broad hearth, and shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, sending a shower of snow into the corner of the settle where lay the Persian cat, that awoke spitting.

The three standing around the yellow bowl dipped in their pipes, giving no heed at first to this by-play, for guests came as naturally to the old tavern as did the days and nights. But just as they were about to send off simultaneously three superb bubbles, their attention was distracted by the Little Madam.

She had risen from her wheel, and was standing with parted lips, gazing with all her soul in her eyes. As has been said before somewhere in the course of this story, and perhaps it has been said more than once, her eyes ordinarily had a bewildered, questioning look. She seemed to grope continually in the past. This expression was now intensified, as though something had struck with extraordinary force one of the always vibrating chords of her memory. One would have said that she was about to grasp a definite recollection.

Dolly and Ned, standing on either side of Cousin Kitty, grasped each an arm without speaking, and the eyes of the three followed hers and rested upon the stranger. He had drawn off his driving-gloves, and was now leisurely laying aside his long fur cloak. As he did so, he talked with 'Zekle, who was asking questions about the storm and the state of the roads. He spoke English with a foreign accent. He was tall and slight, and his hands, which he held to the fire for a moment, were small, muscular, and patrician. At last he took off his fur cap, which, drawn closely down, had entirely hidden his face with the exception of a drooping mustache, which fell over his mouth and was heavy with frost.

He then turned to greet the other inmates of the kitchen. As he did so his eyes fell on the Little Madam, who had now advanced into the middle of the room, still gazing fixedly at him.

For a brief second--an eternity it seemed to those who stood by--the two looked at each other. Over the countenance of the stranger passed an expression of intense astonishment, of incredulity, of recognition, of joy, one quickly following the other. He, too, stepped forward into the room.

"Anita!" he said, holding out his arms, and with a cry of supernal gladness the Little Madam flew to their shelter.

In that supreme moment three more of 'Zekle's pipes, dropping from nerveless hands, fell to the floor in irremediable smash, while Yarrow, springing to his feet, gazed doubtfully at the pair, not being able to decide whether he ought to fly at the stranger's throat, or circle about them in a welcoming dance.

Over the little figure lying motionless in his arms the stranger murmured a few words in a strange tongue, but there was no response. The recognition, that one glimpse into the closed past, had been too much for the frail little woman. She lay upon his arm with closed eyes, pale and sweet as an Easter lily.

"Is she dead?" he asked, fearfully.

"No," replied Thankful, recovering her scattered senses, which had been quite knocked out of her by this astonishing scene. She advanced promptly, reaching down, in passing, the "camphire" and opodeldoc bottles from the cupboard over the mantle-piece. "She's only fainted; fetch her right in here." And she led the way to. Mrs. Park's private sitting-room.

That good lady was not a little surprised at the sight of this unexpected and singular procession. 'Zekle still carried the old tin lantern in his hand, and Dolly and Ned followed closely in the rear in a state of fearful yet delightful expectancy. They scented afar off the coming story.

"Now we shall know all about it," Ned ventured to whisper to Dolly, as they stood back from the sofa whereon lay the Little Madam. "Who d'y' bet he is, anyhow?"

"Oh, don't, Ned," said Dolly, tearfully. "P'r'aps she's dead."

"No she isn't," was Ned's sturdy reply. "Didn't you ever see anybody faint before? Jerushy Potts fainted away once in meeting-time, an' fell an' hit her head an awful crack on the cricket, an' didn't know it--kept right on fainting. Oh, she'll come out all right. But, I say, I hope he'll tell pretty quick who he is, an' who she is, an' how she come in that boat an' don't know anything. Don't you, Dolly?"

"Ye-es," Dolly replied, still doubtful, but inclining to the indulgence of a little curiosity. "But see--her eyes are open!"

Yes, her eyes were open, and they were moving from one to another of the anxious faces about her, and each one saw in them a clear intelligence. After all these years of mental wanderings, the Little Madam had come to herself once more.

"The Lord be praised!" ejaculated Thankful, in a choked voice. "The dear soul 's all right." And the opodeldoc poured in a stream from the bottle, which, in her agitation, she held at an unsafe angle. But nobody noticed it. Other eyes besides hers were dim, and Ned caught himself sniffing, to his great disgust. He winked hard, however, and fixed his eyes on Anita. He wasn't going to break down if he could help it. It was well enough for Dolly to be wiping her eyes with her handkerchief--_she_ was a girl; but boys were made of different stuff.

Anita, as we may now call her, tried to rise from the sofa. "No, my dear, you had better rest a while," said Mrs. Park. She lay quietly for a few moments, with her eyes fixed upon her new-found friend. Her nun's coif had fallen off, and her rippling black hair lay in great waves of luminous darkness about her. The two talked together for a few moments in their own tongue, while Dolly and Ned were consumed with curiosity. Then she turned to Mrs. Park.

"Luis will tell you all about me," she said. "I remember now, but Luis will tell you."

And Luis did tell--how he and Anita grew up together in one of those sunny islands that lie midway between North and South America, where grow the orange and lemon and banana, and other luscious tropical fruits, where the jewelled humming-bird builds in bowers of orchids and hanging ferns, and the cicada strikes together his big black wings till they resound like a blacksmith's anvil.

(I am not telling you this just in the order in which Luis told it; that would be impossible. For right in the middle of a sentence, perhaps, he would turn to Anita and say something in their own tongue, and she, seeing Dolly's and Ned's curiosity, would ask him to repeat to them what he had told her. So, as you see, my telling of it must necessarily be mixed. What he said to her was concerning some incidents of their childhood, in this way wisely and gently trying to strengthen her returning memory. And as she listened to these, the light of happiness deepened in her eyes, and so lovely a color stole into her cheeks that Cousin Kitty could not refrain from whispering to Aunt Anna, "Our pale lily is fast turning into a blush rose." Most of his talk was addressed to Mrs. Park.)

Their fathers' estates joined, and were in the suburbs of a populous little city, the estates themselves running far back into the hills, with sugar plantations and coffee plantations. Luis and Anita used to wander up among those hills into the tangle of woods where lived the Imperial parrot, with its plumage of royal purple and green. "And do you remember, my Anita, the day we found the humming-bird on her nest, and sat down to watch her, and her little mate flew at my eyes, and we could not drive him quite away even with a stick, but he would perch on a twig near by, and every time we stirred so much as a finger he flew at us--the furious atom! and how his mate came down from her nest and soothed his ruffled temper with her coaxings.

"And there was the time we went with Henrique to get the wild bees' honey, and Henrique climbed up the tree--two hundred feet high it was, dear madam; you have none such in New England. He walked up on the strong vines of the parasites that covered its trunk, and he smoked out the bees, and sent us down great flakes of honey in his pannier, and the amber sirup he poured into the spathes of the mountain-palm--like your pea-pods, madam, only bigger, five feet long--and one of the spathes upset, my Anita, do you remember? and spilt the honey all over your head and your pretty dress, and how Dolores--"

"Ah, Dolores, my poor Dolores!" interrupted Anita, with a cry of pain. "She is no more alive--the dreadful earthquake!" and a shudder passed over her.

"No, no, my Anita, Dolores lives. She lives to welcome Anita. _She_ is not dead."

Dolores was Anita's old black nurse, he explained.

The houses of these two families, it seems, were close by the sea, the lovely tropical sea--the treacherous sea, which woos with its beauty and then destroys. But this they--the two children--did not know. They only knew that it was beautiful with its varying tints of amethyst and pearl and heavenly sapphire, and they played and swam in its waters.

So these two grew up together till they were seventeen, when Luis was sent to Cuba on business for his father--something about the coffee plantations and sugar plantations. And while he was away an earthquake visited this lovely and tranquil island, a fearful earthquake, and in an instant a part of the populous city, with the homes wherein dwelt the families of Luis and Anita, sunk without warning, and the sea, the lovely, treacherous, tropical sea, rolled over them.

That was what Luis found when he returned. Not a trace of those two happy homes, only the dimpling, sparkling, babbling sea. He inquired among the survivors from the earthquake if none of those whom he loved had escaped. "Not one," was the answer. And so he came away, for he could not stay on that now desolate island--came to New York, where his father had had business relations with a certain house, and there he had remained, working diligently, and accumulating much money for--nobody, he had thought, but now--and he looked at Anita.

And how did he chance to arrive here, at Park's Tavern, on this stormy night? He was on his way to visit a friend of the business house living in New Bedford--on the way from Boston, by way of Bridgewater, through which town he had gone to take a friend. And somehow in the blinding storm he had missed his way, and chance had brought him here to find his Anita, as one risen from the dead. Chance?--he corrected himself reverently. Evidently he thought, with the old dramatist,

"_Eternal God that chance did guide._"

Much to Ned's and Dolly's disappointment, he paused here. He had not yet explained the, to them, vital point. How came the Little Madam to be floating in mid-ocean when Skipper Joe picked her up? That was what they wanted to know. And Anita, with her keen perceptions, divined their wish. _That_ she only could explain; Luis knew nothing of that.

She remembered, she said, one morning after Luis had gone, taking out their little boat for a row around the island to a favorite flower-lined cove. Terrified by the sudden earthquake, she tried to return, and must have rowed near the spot where their old homes had sunk. The unfamiliar shore must have bewildered her. She remembered rowing hither and thither, seeking in vain for her lost home. And then her senses must have fled, and the winds and waves carried her where they pleased.

It was late when Luis finished his narrative, and Aunt Anna at once ordered Ned and Dolly off to bed, though Dolly never looked wider awake, and Ned protested he wasn't one bit sleepy, and didn't feel as if he ever should be again.

Cousin Kitty, the last to leave the room, re-opened the door after saying "Good-night," and put back her head.

"So Ulysses has found his Penelope, after all, Auntie," she said.

"As we hoped," was the smiling reply.