The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe: or, There's No Place Like Home

Hal read it again and again. Joseph Kenneth! Was that dear, laughing Joe, with his merry eyes, and the sauciest trick of winking in the corner of one; little Joe who had stood on his head, played circus, and, with the aid of a few old shawls, been lion, tiger, elephant, and camel; dear Joe, who had cuddled up in bed cold winter nights and almost smothered him, – Hal; who had made ghosts out of the bolster, and frightened Kit half to death! Why did he think of these foolish things now? Oh, this brave Joseph Kenneth never could be their little Joe! God surely would not give Granny this pain and anguish to bear at the last!

A hand was laid on Hal's shoulder.

"Oh! it can't be true" —

"There's just one chance out of a thousand. Hal, it seems to me the saddest thing I ever heard, and yet so grand. You see what the passengers said of him. Ah, I think he did not need to knock long at St. Peter's gate!"

The doctor wiped his eyes.

"But – never to have him – come back" —

"He has drifted into a better port, my dear boy: that must be our comfort. We shall all cross the river by and by; and it is never so hard for the one who goes, as for those who stay and bear the pain and loneliness. And some time it will be sweet to remember that he gave his brave young life for others."

Hal's eyes were tearless, and there was a hard, strained look in his face.

"Don't tell Granny now. She couldn't bear it."

"No;" and Hal's voice was full of pathetic grief.

"And oh, Hal, be comforted a little! I know there is an overwhelming anguish in it; but for the sake of those still left" —

"Yes." Hal's ashen lips quivered.

The doctor brushed away the soft hair tumbled about his forehead, and held the cold hand in his.

"God has some balm for every ache, my boy."

Hal sat there until Granny called for something, every moment growing more incredulous. But a heavy weight hung about his heart, even though he refused to believe. It seemed as if there could not be despairing certainty before to-morrow.

When Kit came home on Saturday night, and just threw his arms around Hal's neck, sobbing as if his heart had broken, it gave a strange reality to the grief and sorrow.

"I heard it on Monday, – the loss of 'The Argemone.' How proud Joe was of her! And my heart's been aching for you every day. The cruel thing of it all is, never to have him come home again."

Dot had to be taken into confidence then; but she was a discreet little thing, and quite to be trusted. She did not suffer so deeply, for Joe was only a pleasant dream to her; and she tried to comfort Hal with her sweet, winsome ways.

Granny did improve slowly. She began to sit up in the rocking-chair, walk to the window and look out, and occasionally smile, in her faint, wan fashion. They would never hear the merry chirruping laugh again, Hal thought.

But all the details of life had to be gone through with, as usual. There was the poultry to be prepared for market; for this source of their income could not be overlooked. In fact, Hal and Dot were not quite as economical managers as Granny; and then every thing was very high. They required more luxuries in sickness, and Hal would not stint. But, when this was gone, there would be the money for the flowers, and their little hoard in the bank still remained unbroken.

It was not any fear of want that troubled Hal. The old dreams and ambitions seemed to be slipping away. Sometimes even the idea of attaining to a green-house failed to charm; though he still loved his flowers passionately, and they comforted him as nothing else could have done.

One day Granny thought of Joe.

"Have we had a letter since my illness?" she asked.

"No," answered Hal faintly.

"Not since – let me see, – it was August."

Hal made no reply.

"Why – it's strange! He never did such a thing before! Hasn't any one heard?"

"I believe not." Hal turned his head, and went on with some writing.

"Seems to me you take it pretty easy," said Granny, a little vexed. "Joe never was the one to forget his home folks. Hal, something's happened: mark my words!"

Poor Hal brushed away a tear.

Then Granny gave Dot a mysterious confidence, and asked her to inquire of Mr. Terry.

"He always wrote to them, and they must know."

Dot said, in return, that they had not received a letter.

Granny then began to worry in desperate earnest, and besieged every visitor with questions and surmises. Hal was in a sore strait. Of course she must know sometime.

She made herself so nearly sick, that Dr. Meade saw the danger and harm, and felt that she had better know the truth.

"Will you tell her?" faltered Hal.

He undertook the sorrowful office. Tenderly, kindly, and yet it was a cruel wound.

"Oh, it cannot be!" she cried. "God wouldn't take him from me now that I'm old and sick and helpless! Let me see the paper."

They complied with her request, but the doctor had to read it. Her old eyes could not see a word.

"Oh, oh! Drowned in the sea! And I never wanted him to go! My poor darling! who was always so bright, so happy, and who loved his poor old Granny so well! Let me go back to bed now: I don't want to live. They're all up in heaven, —my Joe, and little Joe, and poor Dora. There is no use of staying here."

Hal soothed her with fondest love and caresses; but nothing could change the longing in her heart, the weary look in the eyes that seemed to be discerning the shore beyond, and the sad voice with its one refrain, "Poor, dear Joe!"

After that she failed rapidly. Hal scarcely left her. She used to ask him to read all the old letters over again, from the first boyish pride that so exulted in the trip to Albany. And she would recall some act of tenderness, or a gay prank at which they all had laughed.

One evening Hal felt unusually weary. There had been a warm rain for two days, with most un-December-like weather. A fire felt absolutely uncomfortable. He generally slept down on the lounge now, to be near if Granny wanted any thing. Before retiring he paid his flower-room a visit. Every thing was doing splendidly. So far business had not been very brisk; but that morning he had received an order for the next week, – Christmastide, – for all the flowers he could cut.

"Dear sweet children," he said, talking softly to himself. "If I could only have put some in his coffin, and on his grave! but to think of him lying in the sea, with the endless music over his head, and the shells tangled in his hair. O Joe! it doesn't seem a bit true, and I never can make it so."

Yet he knew in his heart that it was; and he tried to remember that Joe was up in heaven, past all pain and care, ready to welcome them as they came, one by one, – Granny first. It would be easier to give her up, because she was going to be with darling Joe.

He left the door against the hall open, it was so warm; then he took a last look at Granny, and dropped on his couch. It was a long while before he fell asleep, and then he slumbered soundly. Once he awoke with a shiver, and reached out for the blanket he had thrown off earlier in the night.

The light in the window roused him at length. How oddly it looked, and oh, how cold! Why, the panes were frosted with a thousand fairy devices! And then Hal sprang up, hurried into his clothes, and ran to the flower-room. The windows were white with frost, and the thick papers rolled to the top. Worst of all, the fire had gone out!

For a moment Hal stood in blank despair. His beautiful buds that were to be out in a few days, his tender, delicate plants! How had it happened? There must have been more ashes in the bottom of the stove than he thought; and the fire, being weak, had not kindled at all. He tore it out with eager hands. Not a spark remained. The stove was as cold as a stone.

But there was no time to waste in grief. Hal kindled his fire, and then began to drench his plants. Something might be saved.

Presently Dot's little feet pattered up the stairs.

"How we all slept!" she said. "And oh, dear! its as cold as Greenland, after the beautiful summer weather. But Hal, dear, what is the matter?"

"My fire went out."

"Will it hurt the plants?"

"Some of them;" and his voice had a great tremble in it.

"Oh, it is too bad, Hal! doesn't every thing seem to happen to us?" and tears sprang to the fond eyes.

Hal gave a long, pained sigh.

"Can't you save any of them?"

"Yes: some, I think. It might have been worse."

Dot kissed him tenderly, – it was all she could do. Then she ran down, and began to prepare breakfast.

The sun was rising; and Hal dropped the papers to keep it dark for the present, and allowed his fire to come on gradually. At first he began to take hope, for the flowers held up their heads crisply.

Alas! by noon they showed signs of drooping; and before night the buds of the tuberoses began to be slightly discolored. Poor Hal could have cried out of pure sorrow. He loved them all so dearly, and it almost seemed to him as if they suffered as well.

But the next day the ruin was plainly established. He went about with his scissors, clipping here and there. The heliotrope displayed a mass of blackened clusters; but it could be trimmed for new blossoming. Many of the more forward, choice rosebuds were ruined but the plants were not deeply injured. The bouvardias were quite spoiled; but the mignonette and alyssum were unharmed.

Hal cut a few the day before Christmas, and sent them over to Mr. Thomas. It was such a sore loss and disappointment, that it hung around him like a heavy burden. They had been counting on the money with so much pleasure.

"Never mind," exclaimed Dot cheerfully. "We will not have any extra Christmas. Granny will not be able to sit up, and there'll be no one home but Kit."

Hal brushed away a tear. To tell the truth, he felt miserably lonesome, and sick at heart. Every day the sense of loss grew upon him. He had given up hope for Granny; though she was no worse, and perhaps had improved a little in appetite. But then she did not care to get well. And the faces lost out of the home group made such a sad break.

They had received two more hopeful little notes from Charlie; but, if she was happy and prosperous, would she not be weaned away, like the one other. Joe, in his deep sea-grave, had always been tender and true.

"Christmas isn't much to us now," Hal answered, recalling the old gayety. "Yet it is too bad to put such black shadows in your life, my darling."

"The sun has never been so bright for me, you know," Dot said, in her sweet, soft voice, in which there was not a touch of complaint. "It seems as if the path had grown shady before I came to it, so I don't miss the gayety. And, while I can have you and Granny, I'll be quite satisfied."

"You are a comfort and a treasure. I'm so glad to have you, Dot, though you were a wee baby and always sick. Now and then a neighbor used to say, – 'What a blessing it would be if that child should die!' But Granny never thought so."

Dot nestled closer.

The morning had been cloudy, and about ten o'clock it commenced snowing. They did their housework, and prepared their simple dinner.

"I had resolved to go to town to-day, and buy some Christmas," said Hal. "I believe we never were quite so blue before."

"I don't suppose Kit will be able to get home this evening," Dot said slowly.

"No."

"Then we'll keep it by ourselves, Hal. It will not be so very bad."

"But to have no little gifts, – and Granny sick in bed" —

"It will not be a merry Christmas for us, dear; but there may be something pleasant in it."

Hal sighed sorrowfully. Oh, for the sweet, lost childhood!

CHAPTER XVIII

A SONG IN THE NIGHT

It snowed steadily all day; and evening closed around them in the midst of this soft, noiseless storm. The roads were beginning to be blocked up, the houses were hooded in ermine, and no one passed by the windows. Not a soul had been in that day. So, after the lamp was lighted, they drew closer together. Hal read a while from a book of poems that Mrs. Howard had lent him.

"It is nearly bed-time," he said at length.

"I don't feel a bit sleepy."

"Hal," began Granny, stretching out her thin hand, "don't leave me. I feel so strange."

"Worse, my own dear?"

"Not in pain, but sort of restful, as if I'd come to something – no, I'm not afraid, Hal. I've been praying all along that I might die, and maybe it's coming. I'm a poor old body, not worth much, – and Joe's there, you know."

She gave her head a feeble nod. Hal swallowed over a great sob.

"When will it be Christmas?"

"To-morrow."

"Maybe I'll be up among the angels, – a poor, ignorant, foolish old body like me! It's wonderful to think of! But Joe'll be there, to take his dear Granny by the hand, and keep her from stumbling, and making mistakes, and doing all the things that would shame or vex any one. And Christ loved us all, you know. He died for us. I think I've understood it better since Joe stood there on the ship, refusing to get into the boat lest he might swamp it. He died for some one: not in that fashion, for he didn't have any sins to bear, and wasn't reviled and wounded; but still he gave his sweet life, – his dear life that was so much to me."

Dot crept up to the bed.

"After I'm gone you and Dot'll love each other. It will be sad for a little while, but God will remember you, and bring you comfort. I've cried to him a' many times, when it's been dark all round; and, when all other friends fail, you'll find him true and strong. I've done the best I could. It's been poor enough; but then I never had learnin' and all that to help me. I took you when you were all little chaps, motherless and fatherless, and I've tried to keep you together. But they've strayed off, Hal. There's only you and Dot to give Granny a last kiss."

Dot was sobbing on Granny's pillow.

"Don't, deary, don't," in her quivering, entreating voice. "We must all die some time. God knows when it's best. And I ain't of any use now, my work's all done. I'd like to see 'em all again, Hal, – dear little things; only I never can believe they are all men and women. And, if Flossy comes back, give her my love. She was so pretty, with her long golden curls! I don't wonder the grand lady liked her. And Charlie, – Charlie was such a good girl all last summer, working like a woman! Yes – if I could only see 'em once more!"

Hal wiped away his fast falling tears. It seemed too hard that Granny's unselfish life should not be crowned at the last. To die here, almost alone!

"You remember the old Christmas, Hal? The last time we were all together! Ah, how sweet it was! And the presents, and the old shoe full!"

Granny's voice sunk to a tremble of delight.

"It was so happy, so merry! All of 'em laughing and talking, and their bright pretty faces full of fun. But – maybe – I'll see 'em all in heaven. Don't cry, Dot."

Hal drew her to his breast, and soothed her with tender kisses. Then he sat down in the old rocker, and took her on his knee.

"There never was such a Christmas, never! I was so glad to have you all, so proud of you! And I've done my best" —

"Yes, Granny, God, who watches over all things, will bear witness to that. You were mother and father to us. And how you have toiled and worried and made sacrifices, how you have loved us, will all be written in the Great Book. I'm glad you are going to have a reward there."

"I shall see Joe."

Then she was quiet for a long while.

"I can't remember any thing about the Christmas," said Dot with much perplexity.

"Tell her, Hal. I'll listen; and it will seem all fresh again," pleaded Granny in a faint, far-off voice.

"You were such a weeny little thing, and couldn't talk plain; but then you had always been sick."

"And cross," Kit says.

"You did use to cry – sometimes; and then at others you were like a little lamb. All children cry occasionally."

Dot felt, somehow, as if she had not outgrown the trick yet; but the tears fell close to Hal's heart.

"But about the Christmas?"

"Oh, yes!"

Then Hal began. The preparations beforehand, the secrecy and plotting, the stockings stuffed to overflowing, and the wildest of merriment the next morning. It appeared to Dot that she could see it like a picture.

"And O Hal, that we should be so lonely now! Hasn't God let us slip out of his mind for a little while?"

"I think not, my darling."

"But how can you always believe? Why did God let Joe die, when we wanted him so much; and Flossy go away? And all the other things, – the sweet pretty flowers that were frozen?"

"My dear child, we cannot answer the questions. Trials always appear very hard to those who have them to bear; but maybe God gives us one to save us from some other that would be a great deal harder. And with it there is grace to endure."

"As when you were hurt. I wonder that you could be so patient, Hal!" and the little arms crept up around his neck.

"It was part my nature, you know. I used to be sorry at school, that I wasn't like the other boys; for, somehow, I never was: but, when God knew what I would have to bear, he made me patient, and almost girlish, loving to stay in the house, and all that. If I'd been like Joe, I should have fretted sorely when I found I should never be able to go to sea. He was so full of life and energy, you know, so ambitious, that it would almost have killed him. It was best to have it happen to me."

Dot sighed, her small brain being greatly puzzled.

"But I don't see why every one cannot be happy and prosperous. Isn't there enough to go round to all?"

"God knows best. And, when it troubles me sorely, I think of the little Christ-child, who was born eighteen hundred years ago, all goodness and sweetness and meekness, and of the trials he had to bear for our sakes. All the lowly life, the reviling, the unbelief, the persecution, the being homeless, and sometimes almost friendless, and at the last the shameful death. We shall never have all that, my darling; and so we ought to bear our lesser sorrows patiently."

Dot made no answer.

"My darling," said Hal, glancing at the clock, "ought you not to go to bed? It is almost midnight."

"And you?" reaching up to kiss the dear face.

"I am going to stay here by Granny."

Dot looked into his face with great awe.

"Hal, I've never seen any one die; but I want to stay too. There's only just you and I; and she'll want us to kiss her for the last time, when the angels come."

Hal pressed the little face in his trembling hands, but could not deny the wistful eyes.

Then he rose, and looked at Granny. She had fallen into a peaceful slumber. It did not seem as if she could die just then; and yet, at this hour of rejoicing, some souls were slipping out of the world.

He came back to his seat, and to his little sister. Dot's head was pillowed on his knee, and presently she began to drowse. Poor little bairn!

So he kept his vigil by himself, thinking over the old days, when they were all here. Oh, if Granny could have seen them once more! If the brave and lovely men and women could come back to the old home-nest, all outgrown, – and he smiled sadly to himself, – just to clasp each other's hands, and glance into each other's eyes, to speak some word of comfort and blessing, to smooth the path of the dear heart yonder, who had given herself for them without stint or grudging, a holier sacrifice than even a mother's love.

His mind was sorely troubled when he thought of Florence. Since childhood she had "lain in the roses and lilies of life." They had borne the burden and sorrow, the trials, the deprivations, days of toil, nights of anxious care about the future. And it seemed as if none of them had been especially prospered. She had gone to luxury at a bound. Where was she to-night? Did any remembrance of them ever cross her soul, amid her wealth and pleasure?

Poor Joe again! It was the sad refrain to which his life would be forever set, like a strain of minor music. He loved Joe so dearly! There was such a soreness, such an aching and longing in his heart, that it sometimes seemed as if he could stretch out his arms, and search among the tangled seaweed until he found Joe, and lift him out of his cold bed. One bright dream broken off in the middle.

There had been so much to take up his attention this winter, that he had hardly felt anxious for Charlie. Her cheerful little notes were like stray sunbeams, and she had promised to come back. Ah, if it could only be in time to say good-by to Granny!

Now and then he shut his eyes, and breathed a tender prayer, – that God would keep them all; that, no matter how far they strayed from each other, they might never stray from him.

The lamp burned dimly in the room beyond. Granny still slept peacefully, and Dot's baby hand was fast clasped in his. All was still to awesomeness. Even the storm without must have ceased.

"Hal," called the dear voice.

Gently as he laid Dot down, the movement woke her.

"Give me a little drink, Hal, please," Granny asked.

He brought her some wine.

"I wonder if there is any thing that I could eat?"

"I left some chicken-broth on the stove to keep warm, and there is a little jelly."

"I've had such a nice sleep, Hal! I feel so rested! It was almost like being in heaven, for Joe seemed to have his arms around my neck. Is it morning?"

"Almost."

"Oh!" exclaimed Dot, "it is clear and beautiful, with hosts of stars! I wonder if any shepherd watches them and thinks" —

"'In Bethlehem of Judea,'" said Granny in a chanting tone. "'Unto you is born a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.'"

"How strange it seems! Christmas morning!"

Hal brought the chicken and the jelly. Granny ate remarkably for her. Then he placed his fingers on her pulse. It certainly was stronger.

"I do think she is better," he said to Dot, who had followed him to the kitchen.

"O Hal! maybe she won't die. I never saw anybody" —

"She was nervous last night, thinking so much of Joe," rejoined Hal softly in the pause that Dot did not finish.

"I'm so glad to have her better!"

"Children," Granny said when they came back, "it is Christmas morning, and you ought to sing. Everybody keeps Christmas."

Dot glanced up in tearful surprise. What was she thinking of, – angels in heaven?

"They sang on the plains of Judea, you know."

An awesome chill crept over Hal. Was this the change that sometimes preceded the last step over the narrow river? Had Granny received that solemn call?

"Sing," she said again. "Some of the bright Christmas hymns."

Hal's heart was throbbing up to his throat. He did not know whether he could trust his voice.

"What shall it be, Dot?"

She thought a moment. "'Wonderful Night,'" she answered. "But, oh! I feel more like crying. I can't help it."

The two voices rose tremblingly in the beautiful carol.

"Wonderful night,Wonderful night!Angels and shining immortals,Thronging the heavenly portals,Fling out their banner of light.Wonderful, wonderful night!"

They sang until they forgot sorrow and toil and poverty, and the great fear that overshadowed them. The soft voice of the child Dot growing stronger, and the pain in Hal's slipping away, changing into faith and trust. For, as he sung, he grew wonderfully calm, even hopeful.

"It's like heaven, children! I've been thinking it all over, and God does know best. If they were all here, it would be harder for me to go."

The two kissed each other amid fast falling tears. When they glanced up again a faint streak of dawn stole in at the window.

"How strange!" exclaimed Dot. "We have not been to bed at all, only I had a nap on your knee." Then very softly, —

"Merry Christmas, Hal."

"Merry Christmas to you, my little darling."

Then Hal looked at the fires, and hurried them up a trifle. How lovely it was without! Over the whole earth lay a mantle of whitest ermine. Tree and shrub were robed in fleecy garments, – arrayed for this Christmas morning. As the sun began to quiver in the east they sparkled with a thousand gems.

It seemed like the beginning of a new life. Why, he could not tell, but he never forgot the feeling of solemn sweetness that stole over him as he stood by the window in the flower-room, looking over to the infinite, fancying that earth and heaven met this morning; the fine gold of the one blending with the snowy whiteness of the other. So pure was the soul of the little child born eighteen hundred years ago.