THE FORESTRY BUILDING.
The old man Marlowe and Susan take a seat on the great stone step, close to the feet of the serene old woman. Marlowe looks into her face.
Her lip quivered.
“You bought that cradle,” said she. “Were you ever here before?”
“Yes, many years ago. I used to know your father.”
“You did!—and my mother, too?”
“Yes; they were good people.”
“They are buried over there, under the savin-bushes,” said the old woman. “I was rocked in that there cradle, and my twin brother, who went out West. I wish that he could have had that cradle. I think of him all the time of late. He and a little granddaughter are all that’s left. The auctioneer spoke true—he did; there’s been many a prayer made over that cradle, and now it is gone out of the family. I’ve prayed that it might not be so. It will all be right by-and-by. The Lord is tedious, but He’s sure. I almost lose my faith sometimes, and I can hardly keep back my tears now. Why did you come here, stranger?”
“To spend Thanksgiving. I used to live in this town.”
“Have you any relations here?”
“Yes, a sister. I came to visit her, and I want to buy some of the old furniture; it looks so natural.”
“There’s to be no more Thanksgivings for me in this world. Stranger, it does seem rather hard. I’ve always been industrious, and have done my best. Stranger, it is hard when a poor lone woman like me, that never did any one harm, can neither die nor live. Did you ever have any trouble, stranger? You have? Then you do feel for me, don’t you? The Lord forgive me!”
The voice of the auctioneer rang out, “How much am I offered?”
“Fifty cents,” says old Marlowe, looking at the two chairs as the auctioneer held one up in either hand.
“Fifty cents for two family chairs for children at the table. Oak—good as ever—fifty cents! Going, going, going, at fifty cents. Is that all? Fifty cents? Do I hear sixty? Sixty—do I hear it? Going, going; once—do I hear it? Twice—do I hear it? Three times—do I hear it? Are you all done? Fifty cents. Sold to—What shall I call you, stranger?”
“Cash,” said the old man.
“Cash again,” said the auctioneer.
The old woman touches Marlowe on the shoulder: “Have you any children?”
“No, my good woman. Only my grandchild here.”
“What is her name?”
“Susan.”
“That is my name, stranger. My twin brother and I used to sit in those chairs. I wish I were able to save some of these things for him. It is hard, isn’t it, stranger? But you and I will never be young again. The withered stalk never blooms any more. I’ve ’most got through.”
She looked out over the sunny fields in the last glow of the Indian-summer days.
“Stranger, you came home to spend Thanksgiving. I’ll have my next Thanksgiving in a better world than this. I did hope to see my twin brother once more, but that can never be. The sun that goes down will find me a burden to the world. There’s the old clock; they’re going to sell that, too. It struck on the day that I was born, and at all the weddings and funerals and Thanksgiving days. Are you going to buy that, too? I wish you would. I have a good feeling for you,—somehow I’m drawn towards you. I feel as though you felt for me. I’ve wound that clock myself nigh on to sixty years.”
“The old eight-day clock comes next. Many a day that clock has seen, and it is good yet. How much am I offered for the old family clock? Start it, some one. I’ll give five dollars for it myself.”
“Six,” said the old man on the door-step.
“Are you going to buy that, too?” said old Susan. “I’m proper glad to hear ye bid on that. How many times I’ve heard it strike one at the family funerals, and then seen the minister rise beside the coffin and say, ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.’ I used to hear it strike one at night, when I watched with my twin brother Martin, who went West, in the weeks and weeks when he laid between life and death with the typhus fever. I wish that he could be here to-day.
“Stranger, do you know of what I’ve been thinkin’? Of course you don’t. I’ve just been wishing like, dreaming like, that brother Martin would come here, as you have come, and would bid off the old farm, and that I might die here at last in peace—where they all died. I’ve been dreamin’ just that dream. It comes to me. Oh, what a Thanksgiving this old heart would have, could such a dream as that come true!”
“Six dollars I am offered. Six, six, six. Going, going, going. Do I hear seven?”
“Seven,” bid a neighbor.
“Seven—do I hear ten? Seven dollars am I offered. Yes, once eight, and nine. Do I hear ten? Ten, ten, ten—do I hear it?”
“Ten,” said the old man on the step.
“Ten I am offered. Do I hear the twelve? Ten, ten, ten. Going, going, going, at ten dollars. Once—do I hear it? Twice—do I hear it? Third and last call. Going at ten dollars, to—”
“Cash,” said the old man.
“Stranger,” said the auctioneer, “what shall we do with these things that you have bought?”
The crowd gathered densely about the door-step to hear the reply.
“You may leave them right where they are. I have a good use for them.”
The parlor looking-glass was next offered. The old man on the step bought that also. Then the old empty parrot-cage, and he bought that.
“I’m glad that you have bought the lookin’-glass,” said old Susan. “What if all the faces that have looked into it could appear again! What if I could see there my father and mother young again—and Martin! What does make me think so much of Martin of late? Seems as though sometimes he was hoverin’ around me. There, they are going to sell the Concord musket and the dinner-horn! How many times I’ve blown that old horn just at twelve o’clock, to call the folks to dinner! Martin learned me how to blow it when he was a boy. We used to blow a sea-shell at first.”
The sale continued without any regard to the order of the value of the articles,—the parlor furniture, old school-books and almanacs, china and pewter mugs. The old man on the step bought them all.
Mysterious looks began to pass from one to another of the country folks. Why was the quiet old man buying all those things? What was he going to do with them? Would he buy the house and farm? Had he any interest in the poor old woman who was watching him now with straining nerves and intense interest?
After the sale of the furniture the auctioneer said: “We will next offer the house and farm. The old woman will show you the deeds. There is no encumbrance on the property. We will stop the sale for an hour. Then you will be ready for the finish. Stranger, where shall we put all these things that you have been buying?”
“I’ll tell you later; I’m not ready to answer yet. Never mind me—don’t crowd around me, friends. I’m an honest man. Go and take your lunches under the trees.”
There was a jingle of bells on the clear bright air. The bread-cart man was coming. The people bought gingerbread and bunns, and lounged under the cool trees in a spot of ground where stood a large and a small grindstone, and overhead hung scythes and corn-knives. There was a buzzing of voices, and talking in a suppressed tone, and great inquiry about the stranger who simply called himself “Cash,” and who was purchasing everything.
The old woman now tried to find out the secret of the stranger’s interest in these things.
“You and I must be about the same age,” she said.
“Yes,” said the old man; “the same suns have lighted us both. They used to tell a ghost-story about the chambers here. My girl has often asked me about them. Did you ever see anything strange upstairs?”
“No; but I found, just before the auction, some papers hidden behind a board. They read mighty curious, and were signed with what the writing said was blood.”
“You don’t say?” said the old man, starting. “What were they?”
“It was a covenant that some one had made with the Lord. I think that it was Martin’s. Seemed as though his father asked him to make it. It promised many things. There was one thing in it that made me write to him. Whoever made it promised to be faithful to me. The signature was faded. It was made on the day that the writer was propounded for church.”
Martin Marlowe’s face fell. Had he been true to that covenant that he remembered so vividly?
“Say, stranger,” said old Susan, “I hope you will excuse me; but what may your name be?”
“Never mind my family history now. I will tell you later more about myself. What was the story about the haunted chamber? Tell it to my girl here.”
“About Rachel, who raised red peppers, and used to appear with a calash over her head?”
“Yes. That ghost was the terror of all the children and hired people. Rachel was an old maiden lady. She used to have charge of the balm bed, the sage bed, and the pepper bed, and the dried apples and red peppers, and sold them to get money for the church and her clothes. She ground the red peppers in the garret, and to keep the pepper dust from burning out her eyes, she used a calash, which was a great bonnet, with whalebone ribs, that stood up from the head all around as though it were hung on the air, and over the calash she wore a long green veil. She put over her body a long white nightgown; and when we went up to the top of the garret stairs to see her pound, she looked kind of awful and scary, like a picture in the old ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ When I heard that she had come back to haunt the old herb-room in the garret, and I pictured in my mind how she used to look, it fairly made my flesh creep. Of all ghosts I wouldn’t have liked to see old Rachel with her calash like a shay’s top and her pound, pound, pound. She used to punish me when I was a boy by snapping her thumb and finger on the top of my head. I remember it all as though it were yesterday. I once went up to the herb-room to get some—”
ENTRANCE TO EGYPTIAN THEATRE, STREET IN CAIRO.
“Not herbs, my good friend,” said Susan.
“No; some preserves or cake. They used to keep the goodies there, and I had been going there pretty often in a quiet way, when I felt, just as I was bending over the marmalade-jar, a snap on the top of my head, and I looked up suddenly, and there was the most awful sight that I ever saw,—old Rachael herself, in her white nightgown, calash, and all. I scooted after the first glance, and rolled over and over down the first flight of stairs, and leaped down the second. No barn or chimney swift could have gone quicker. I didn’t sleep much for a long time after that, and I never dared to tell the story, because I was at the marmalade-jar when she appeared. I never told it to anybody until after I went away.
“I used to lay awake until morning, and when I heard the wings of the swallows in the chimney my heart would beat like a trip-hammer, for I thought it was old Rachael and her pepper-mill. When the fowls crowed for day I would feel safe again, for no ghost ever could appear after the cock crew in the morning, so the old folks said. Susan, what do you think that ghost was?”
“Oh, my good friend, how can I tell it now? I think—oh, I know it was poor old grandmother! She scared Martin once in that way to keep him—oh, how can I say it?—to keep him from getting at her plum-cake.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me so, and told me never to tell.”
The two looked at each other.
“That accounts for it. I always thought it was kind o’ strange that they should have whalebone calashes in another world.”
“Stranger, how familiar you seem to be with this old place, the swallows in the chimney and all! You say you used to know our folks. Any relation?”
“I used to work for your father.”
“Did ye?”
The two looked at each other—after fifty years.
“Somehow I almost feel related,” said old Susan.
The shining hour of noon was now passed. The auctioneer rang his bell.
“Are you ready for the sale of the farm? Thirty acres and the house and buildings. Clear deed. How much am I offered? Some one start the farm. Been in the same family one hundred and thirty years. How much am I offered?”
“Five hundred dollars,” said a well-to-do-looking farmer named Pool.
“Five hundred dollars. Do I hear the six? Five hundred dollars am I offered. Do I hear the six? Five hundred dollars.”
“Six,” bid another.
“Seven,” another.
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
“Nine hundred dollars I am offered. Do I hear the thousand? Nine hundred dollars. Nine, nine, nine. Going, going, nine hundred dollars. One thousand—do I hear it? Nine hundred dollars. Are you all done? Going, going—”
“One thousand dollars.”
The voice came from the old man on the step. Old Susan rocked violently, and appeared greatly agitated. The people gathered in a close mass around the door-step, all eyes fixed upon the venerable stranger.
“One thousand dollars. Do I hear eleven hundred? One thousand dollars am I offered. Going, going, going. Once, twice, third and last call, going, going, going, for one thousand dollars. The hammer is about to fall. One th-o-u-s-a-n-d dollars. Sold.”
There was a deep silence that followed the fall of the hammer.
“Gone,” said the old woman, and she threw her apron over her white head and bent over, adding: “I am homeless now. I never thought to see a day like this.”
“What is to be done with these things?” asked the auctioneer.
The old man rises. His girl stands up beside him.
“Susan,” said he.
Old Susan uncovered her pitiful face.
“Susan, what will you have done with these things? I have bought them for you.”
Susan stops her rocking. She looks dazed. Her face is upturned, and her blue eye looks piercingly into the eye of the tall old man.
“I would have you have them. You do pity me, don’t you? It will do me good to think that you have them. You have spoken to me kindly.”
“The furniture shall all be brought back into the house again,” says the quiet old man. “The cradle, clock, and looking-glass shall all be placed where they were before.”
“To whom are the papers to be made out?” asks the auctioneer.
“My good friend, we shall need no new deeds. The old ones will do. I used to know the family when I was a boy, and Susan’s father and mother did much for me. To-morrow is Thanksgiving, and I shall spend it here. I’m going to be good to Susan for the old folks’ sake.”
He bends over old Susan. She sits like one dead. He takes her withered hand, stoops down and kisses her, and says,—
“I’ll let the place to her.”
There was a silence in the air that Indian-summer afternoon, and for many minutes the silence was unbroken. A woodpecker tapped a hollow tree at last, and a sea-bird on wide wings went screaming by.
“Let the place to me?” says old Susan. “Stranger, you are good, like one sent forth out of the doors of heaven, but I have no money. I must be plain, stranger. I have no money, and how are these old hands to earn any? Look at them. Their work is done.”
She bends her gray head.
“Stranger, I want to say something to you in private. I have something on my soul, and it troubles me. They have kept back a part of the price.”
“What?”
“The neighbors, some of them, the Brewster boys, they’ve driven away my Thanksgiving turkeys.”
“Why, my good woman?”
“So that the auctioneer should not sell them. The neighbors said that my Thanksgiving turkeys should not be sold. Now that was kind in ’em, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t quite right. I’ve always done just the thing that I thought to be right. My motto has been, ‘I will be what I ought to be.’ I’m poor, stranger, but, except the turkeys, my conscience is clear. My folks were all good people, as you know, if you used to work here when a boy, notwithstanding that grandmother used to keep the children away from the herb-room with old Rachel’s gown and calash. Now, stranger, what would you do? The folks here wouldn’t like it if I were to tell the auctioneer; they’re too good to me. But I must tell now; I must be honest, stranger. You are so good to me. I don’t understand it. It is all a wonderment; but the Lord will make it plain. Seems as though I was dreaming.”
She looks out over the hills, which are flaming with autumn glows. She starts.
“Stranger, there’s one other thing that I want to tell you. There’s another thing that I’ve kept back. But that is honest. My twin brother Martin had a violin, and he left it here. I’ve felt that it isn’t theirs; it’s his. He used to sing in the church over there. You may see the steeple now. And he used to play on the violin.”
There was a new movement among the people in the yard. One of the neighbors came up to the steps.
“It’s too bad, Susan; they’ve found those turkeys. The dog scented ’em out, and he’s driving ’em home. It is too bad; they might have left ye a Thanksgiving dinner.”
There was great gobbling in the hillside pasture. A flock of turkeys, one of which was white, was half running and half flying towards the house, followed by the auctioneer’s dog. One of the gobblers had lost his tail feathers, and he flew up in a zigzag way, and alighted in a maple-tree. Another turkey followed him, flying heavily and clumsily, and crying, almost like a human voice, “Quit! quit!”
“Stranger,” said old Susan, “seems’s though that turkey spoke, as Balaam’s turkey, if he had one, might have done. Stranger, I raised them turkeys myself, and I hoped that I might have one myself; and that perhaps—I dreamed of it, stranger—perhaps my twin brother Martin, who went out West, might be here, and that we might have one of them for Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll buy the turkeys for you.”
“You—well, you are proper good. But I don’t understand these things. I’ve never been used to receiving anything from strangers, though the neighbors have always been good to me. They tried not to have the farm sold, but it was the law. Stranger, it had to be—it was the law.”
The auctioneer mounted the bench again, rang his bell, and swung his hammer.
“There’s one thing we’ve overlooked. Hear, all! Here are the things that everybody wants. Turkeys—to-morrow is Thanksgiving. A fine lot of fat turkeys, and a white one. Just look at that fat old gobbler up in that tree! One seldom sees a finer bird than that. And look at that hen-turkey—”
“Quit! quit!” exclaimed the beautiful bird, in great astonishment, on seeing all eyes turned towards her.
“That’s the mother turkey,” said old Susan. “She’s lost her family before. She is a cosset turkey. I raised her in the chimney-corner. She is used to coming into the house to be fed.”
“How much am I offered for this fine lot of turkeys? Just a dozen of them. Twelve dollars. I am offered twelve dollars. Do I hear the thirteen? Twelve dollars, twelve dollars. Thirteen—thirteen I am offered. Thirteen—fourteen. Fifteen—do I hear it? Fourteen dollars. Going, going, going. Once, do I hear it? Twice, do I hear it? Third and last call—f-o-u-r-t-e-e-n dollars.”
He lifted his hammer.
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen dollars—fifteen I am offered. Going, going, going, for fifteen dollars. Are you all done? Going for fifteen dollars to—”
“Martin Marlowe,” said the old man in a firm voice.
He stood up and uncovered his white head. Old Susan’s form dropped together as though she had been smitten. She buried her face in her lap, and sobbed as she used to do in childhood.
The neighbors gather silently around the door-step, among the myrtles and bouncing-bet. Some are whispering, some laughing, and a few are crying.
“Susan,” says the old man, “get me my violin.”
The old woman sent for the instrument, and the old man saw that it had not been wholly out of use. He tuned it, and lifted it into the air. “Susan, we used to sing together in church, over there. What did we use to say on Thanksgiving days?
“I remember, neighbors. I’m going to play that hymn. My voice is almost gone, but I want you to sing it with me.”
He lifts the bow. “Tune—‘Hamburg.’”
The music floated out on the mellow autumn air, the violin playing as in the old church days. Before the people ran the river to the sea. The air was still; nature seemed listening.
“God is the Refuge of His saints
When storms of sharp distress invade;
Ere we can offer our complaints,
Behold Him present with His aid.
“Let mountains from their seats be hurled
Down to the deep and buried there,
Convulsions shake the solid world,
Our faith shall never yield to fear.
“Loud may the troubled ocean roar,
In sacred peace our souls abide,
While every nation, every shore,
Trembles and dreads the swelling tide.
“There is a stream whose gentle flow
Supplies the city of our God,
Life, love, and joy still gliding through,
And watering our divine abode.
“That sacred stream, thy Holy Word,
Our grief allays, our fear controls;
Sweet peace thy promises afford,
And give new strength to fainting souls.
“Zion enjoys her Monarch’s love,
Secure against a threatening hour;
Nor can her firm foundation move,
Built on His truth, and armed with power.”
“Now sing the Doxology!” He lifted his bow again. People turn aside their faces to hide their tears. Then the strains of thanksgiving rose up under the glimmering trees. And old Susan stood up and sung.
It is near sunset now. The red sky shines through the skeleton limbs of the still trees. The crows are cawing afar over a dead corn-field. The jaws are calling in the savin-bushes. Old Susan looks into her brother’s face. She takes little Susan by the hand.
A bird comes flying through the air out of the woods and alights on the top of an elm. It has a red breast, which shines in the sunset. It lifts its brown wings joyfully and begins to sing.
It was the last song of the robin.[1]
[1]This story is used by permission of Messrs. Harper and Brothers. I wrote it originally for the Thanksgiving number of “Harper’s Weekly,” 1893.
ELECTRICITY AND MINES BUILDINGS.