Part 25 (1/2)
The old man's eyes turned to Esther with a peculiar tenderness. ”No, I don't want for anything,” he said. ”Elsie manages everything just right, and Esther here seems to know what I need before I get a chance to speak of it. It's queer now how she puts me in mind of her mother,” he went on musingly. ”Sometimes I can't get it out of my mind that it's Lucia sitting right here by me. And I hain't been out of my head either, have I?”
The girl did not answer the question, but she stooped and kissed his forehead. ”It's nice to have you think I'm mother,” she said. ”Do it all you please.”
He smiled at her, then turned with a sudden wistfulness to his sister.
”Katharine,” he said, ”I've been thinking a lot about you, and how much harder 'twould be for you than 'tis for me, if you should be taken sick down there all by yourself. There wouldn't be anybody to take care of you as the folks take care of me. I wish you lived up here with us. I've wanted it this good while; and Elsie'd be willing, you know she would.”
”She wouldn't like it, Ruel, and you wouldn't either, after a little while,” said the old woman, her swift honesty throwing a note that was a trifle harsh into her voice. ”You and I never did see things the same way, and we should see 'em more contrariwise than ever, if we had to stand on just the same piece o' ground to look at 'em.”
The old man lifted his head with an obvious effort, and his breath came quick for a moment. ”No,” he said, ”we never did look at things just alike, you 'n' I, and I guess 'twas natural to us both to want to pull the other round to our way. But I've been thinking about that too, Katharine, and I'm-I'm afraid I've riled you up sometimes when I hadn't or' to. You've got just as good a right to your way of looking at things as I have to mine, and I'm afraid I've said things to you sometimes that warn't becoming.”
What she might have replied to this, if a neighbor, with Aunt Elsie, had not entered the room at that moment, is not certain. A pallor had swept suddenly across her face, and her eyes, wide and startled, were fixed with a frightened look upon her brother. She rose from her chair as the others drew near, and without responding to their greeting stepped swiftly outside the door. Then she beckoned to her niece with a trembling gesture.
”Elsie,” she whispered, when the other had crossed the threshold, ”I'll be obliged to you if you'll let Tom hitch up and drive me down to the house. I want to get a few things and come right back. If you don't mind I'll stay here a while. Ruel's a dreadful sick man.”
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE GET HOME
She had guessed the truth first, but they knew it, all of them, in a few days more. They knew that Ruel Saxon's feet were set on the downward path to the valley from which there is no return.
They did not send for Stella. She had her work, and there were enough in the home to do all that could be done for him. Still there was little pain, a growing weakness, and the mind wandering more and more often, but always peacefully, and oftenest over the years that lay far, far behind him. Of Esther he seemed almost to have lost knowledge. He called her Lucia constantly now, and liked no one so much at his bedside.
And she kept her place, with no regret for any employment she might have had in its stead. There came a letter from Mr. Philip Hadley, with messages for her grandfather, and though the latter but half understood as she read them, he seemed touched and pleased. The young man had learned, through a call on Stella, of the old gentleman's illness and the consequent delay in the carrying out of Esther's plan, and he wrote, earnestly hoping it might not be for long, with kindest expressions of sympathy for his aged friend.
And then there came another, but this Esther did not read aloud. The reading to herself alone left a troubled look in her eyes as she laid it down. It seemed that Mr. Hadley's plans had suffered change, too. His father was not bearing the Boston November well, and California for the winter was the doctor's prescription. He must go with them, the young man wrote, to see his father and mother well settled, but it would be only for a few weeks, and by the time he returned surely Esther herself would be in Boston. ”I confess,” he added, ”that anxious as I am to do what I can for my father, I could hardly bear it to be away from Boston if you were here now.”
They objected to her sitting up with her grandfather that night on the ground that she was not looking as well as usual, but Esther protested.
It was her turn, she pleaded. She had had the promise of staying with him till midnight, and indeed, she was perfectly able. So they let her have her way, and left her alone with him in the dear, familiar room, with the lamp burning low on the table, and everything ready to her hand. She could call the others in a moment if she needed them. He had been easier than usual during the day, sleeping most of the time, and again at moments seeming so like himself that, in spite of them all, she could not believe he was going away soon. Why should he? Life was sweet to him still, and his body, till now, had seemed strong and active. What was that length of years which people named with a shake of the head as they mentioned his illness? It was not years that counted in making men old. It was labor and loss and heartache. The labor was joy to one who loved it as he did, the simple labor of the fields, and of friendly service among his fellows. And of loss and heartache there could be none to sap the springs of life for one whose cheerful faith laid hold of the eternities like his. It was not time, surely it was not time yet, for the silver cord to be loosed which bound Ruel Saxon to his work and his friends.
So she said to herself with the easy hopefulness of youth, as she watched the old man lying there with his face on the pillow. He grew more restless as the hours went on. Memory, while all the other faculties lay sleeping, seemed to bestir itself with unwonted vigor.
Hymns, quaint and long-forgotten in the churches, rolled one after another from his lips, and Psalms, so many and with such unhesitating sureness, that the girl listened marvelling, and wondered if he knew them all.
Then there came a change in his voice, and his tone grew more appealing.
It was not recitation now, it was exhortation. He seemed to be warning sinners, pleading with fellow-Christians. Ah, she caught the meaning. He thought he was in prayer-meeting again, and the zeal of the place had eaten him up with its old delight and fervor. She smiled, remembering that last meeting, and bent her head closer to catch the words.
A strain of tenderness crept through them now. Solemnly and very slowly he repeated, ”Behold, I lay in Zion for a foundation a stone, a tried stone, a precious corner-stone, a sure foundation.” He paused for a moment, then, in a voice that was low but strangely clear, went on, ”Oh, my friends, do you mark the word? That precious stone, that head of the corner, is a _tried_ stone, tried through all the years and proven sure.
_Tried_”-he lingered on the word with unspeakable earnestness-”by whom?
By Abraham, by Moses, and by all the prophets, men who heard the voice of G.o.d and followed where it led them; tried by Peter, by James, and John, men who saw his face in the face of his Son, and leaned upon his breast and loved him; tried by all the host of martyrs, who laid down their lives for his sake, counting it gain for the joy that was set before them; tried by”-the voice sank almost to a whisper, and the names of old neighbors and friends fell lovingly one after another, the names of fellow-farers with him in the journey of life who had pa.s.sed to their rest before him. Listening intently, the girl knew them at the last for some of her own kindred, as he murmured softly, ”by Caleb Saxon, by Joel and Mary, by Rachel my wife,” and then, after longer pause, with his eyes opening wide and a tremor of unutterable joy and humility in the low glad murmur, ”_tried-by-me_.”
A smile flitted over his face, and the eyelids dropped. She thought he was asleep, and moved noiselessly away lest even her breathing should disturb him. It was almost an hour later, and the watch on the table told her it was time for his medicine, when she went again to his side.
”Grandfather,” she said, bending over him; but he did not stir. She laid her hand on his, and the chill struck to her heart. She started back, and for a moment stood in her place, almost as white and motionless as he. Then, with a cry, she flew out of the room, calling to the others to come, the others who, with all their haste, could never again in the old way catch word or look of his.
For he was gone. With that last word, the spirit so bright and eager-ah, yes! so impatient at moments, so p.r.o.ne to the hasty word, so open to the little vanities, but sound at the core, and steadfast to bear its part in sun and storm as any oak on the hills-had stolen away. It was of himself he had spoken last. They mused on it a little as she told them; but they knew it was of himself as the humble, the rich recipient of grace unspeakable, and in that great gladness had pa.s.sed on to the Giver.
They bent around him weeping, the older women, but Esther was too stunned for tears. She had been alone with Death and had caught no hint of his presence. She had never guessed that he could come and go as stealthily as this. There was nothing more that she could do, and they sent her away, not letting her reproach herself that she had not known.