Complete Story.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue I, 5 January 1901, Page 29

Complete Story.

By

JENNIE BROOKS.

She paused often in her work to gaze abstractedly out through the little window. Around it the honeysuckle climbed, and, swayed by the li°ht evening breeze, swung its blossoms in and out, filling the room with fragrance. A belated bee droned drowsily among the flowers, and in drunken languor staggered against the withered cheek of “young Miss Amory,” as she leaned out for a last o-lance across the darkening fields, vainly endeavouring to discern the long white road threading them on Its wav to the “buryin’ ground.” So lately had she travelled it that the rusty black bonnet, borrowed to grace the occasion, still lay on the dresser, where she had deposited it with much anxious care for the flimsy crepe. The sea sobbed faintly, and an “on shore wind carried on its wings the sweet sea smell. To-night the waves throbbed a solemn undertone to the weary, half-formulated ideas beating about in Miss Amory’s brain. The day had been one of almost holiday restfulness, without its gaiety, however, and Miss Amory, an honoured guest in her own house. Neighbours fluttered in and out from early dawn, passing the dark “settin’ room,” with its awesome tenant, and, on softly-treading feet going into the bedroom to note, for perhaps the hundredth time, how the mourner was bearing her woes. Now they were all gone, and from the burying ground old Hanley and Miss Amory returned to find the house empty. To-morrow would bring an unwonted amount of labour, and. turning with a regretful sigh from the window, Miss Amory vigorously polished the blue cup she was holding, and with an air of decision placed it on the table. Supreme authority was exciting, and she struck her first note of independence by adding to the frugal meal the unusual luxuries of broiled mackerel and baked potatoes.

Hanley’s surprise she stubbornly ignored as they .sat together eating, while through the satisfaction of this first meal persistently recurred the thought that had crept into her mind from the first moment of the “layin’ out’’ of her sister. Hanley, the old man, grown grizzled in the service of the two spinsters, had warned her against a “middle o’ the week berrial.” “'T upsets things so,” he said. “Tuesday ye’ll be a-gittin’ reddy, an’ that ’ll put off yer ironin’ ’tel a Thursday. Ef she’d only hed the luck to a-died a Monday stid o’ a Sunday, *t wouludn’t a-put ye out nigh so much, an’ ’t’s no sort o’ use a-holdin’ on o’ her tel a Wens-day, noways! Land o* love! Yer sister’s that stirrin’ she won’t like it herself alayin’ here when there’s things to be done! She’ll want to be up an’ a-doin’. ef ’tis only bein’ berried!” Yes, to-morrow would be a busy day, and, having finished her supper dishes, Miss Ainory sat on the low stone door-step in the dusk, conscious of a satisfaction that at least she could take her own time to the work, for, having given her sister an honoured “berrial,” she was entitled at last to consider herself. In the wide room behind her the spinning-wheel stood. How ceaselessly had it whirled under Hannah’s tireless hand! The moonlight shining in, threw the soft shadow of a twin wheel across the floor, and Miss Amory, gazing dreamily at the two, could scarcely realise the absence of her autocrat, who, for the first time in seventy years, had met one with a will even more imperative than her own, and yielded to his demands. “Young Miss Amory” could sit with idly-folded hands and hear no reproof; she could help herself at meals, and even revel in the delight of pouring her tea! Hannah was gone! Hannah, who had always been both head and foot of that little kitchen table. With stern, unyielding face she had carved the roast, and then shifting around to the side of the table, appropriated to herself the honour of “pouring,”

while Miss Amory waited in meek patience. Not a jot of her authority had ever been yielded. In a truly narrow path had she guided “young Miss Amory” since their motherless childhood, but how deeply had she loved her! In her eyes beauty of form, and all the graces of intellect, culminated in the quaint, deprecating little figure of her sister, and in her own quiet, stay-at-home life, Hannah gloated in awful pride over the appearance of Miss Amory when "meeting day” rolled around, or the “Sisters of Jericho’’ had a festival, or "tradin’ was to be done in the village of Mddle. Baxton.” She then presided over the mysteries of “young Miss Amory’s” toilet, and opened all doors before the progress of her idol, who, fine in alpaca and silk mitts, stepped stately out into the lane, her heart beating high at again showing the little world about her that good blood, though at ebb-tide, lingered in the veins of the Amorys. Hannah always held the door ajar, looking out like a grim until the apple orchard hid her sister from her loving old eyes Ah me! with the iron rule relaxed there departed also that stern affection, and at the thought Miss Amory sighed once more, then she dropped her face into her hands and communed with herself.

“It’s a sheer waste,’’ she muttered, presently, “an’ I ben a-thinkin’ ’bout it ever since Sunday, an’ I ain’t goin' to stan’ it, you may depend!” No reply came from out the quiet night, then a whippoorwill called sadly from the orchard, where the blossoms layin billows of pink aud white snow on ti.e hill sloping steeply before her to the waters of a small brook straggling under the arch of the old stone bridge. She raised her head and listened to the cry of the bird again repeated. How faint and far off sounded the surging sea! But Miss Amory did not yield to its spell, her brown, old face lost a little of its cowed look, as she straightened herself with an air of determination, and continued aloud: “I’m a-goin’ to do it, I be! *S no use thinkin’ any more. ’S the only way, an’ I’ve jes’ got to do it! Hanley,” she called loudly, rising from the step, “stir yourself up, ’s lime fer bed,” and as old Hanley shuttled off to his quarters in the attic, she closed the shutters and buttoned down the door-latch. Sleep was not in her mind, for, fully dressed, she lay stiffly down on the stuffy feather-bed, and with wide-open eyes made her plans in the soft darkness. The sweetnesg of apple blossoms heavy- with dew stole through the shutters, bringing a sudden memory of how Hannah loved them. “The smell o’ them blooms,” she had always said, “makes me think o’mother, dead nigh onto sixty years, an’ me a-fetehin’ her my pinafore full.” Young Miss Amory brushed her hand across her eyes, as if so she would wipe away all sentimental reminiscences and strengthen her determination. When the tall old clock raspingly whirred out eleven, she arose, and throwing over her frosty hair a nubia, crossing over her breast a plaid shawl and tying the ends securely behind her back, she crept silently out of the door. Hanley, deep in well-earned slumbers, heard nothing, and Miss Ainory needed him not. for she knew- quite well how to harness old Tom. But Tom. unused Io vagaries and midnight raids, refused the bridle and her blandishments. so she finally gave up her attempts. Tucking under her arm the bundle she had brought from the house, and seizing a lantern that was hpnging by the dooj-. she started bravely forth.

“Nothin’ hinders me now,” she whispered, “I be goin’ to do it fer a certainty I’ve walked it before, an’ I can walk it again, Tom or no Tom.” Down the lane, thence to the dusty

road, in the fading light of the moon now far in the i»est. With every step she gained assurance. "My," she said, softly, “smell them apple blows! Poor Hannah! Well, she’s had her day, an' land knows, 'twas a long one, an’ now it’s mine, it s mine! " she added, fiercely and aloud. "When'd 1 ever do a thing 1 wanted to. I'd like to know, 'less ’n she wanted me to? She oughtn’t to a made me promise, 't warn't fair. Jes' because I was afraid to argue with her. * did it. She don’t need it noways, an* 1 shouldn’t think ef she’s an angel she’d keer a mite about it now. She hadn’t ought to hanker after them things. Well, 1 haven't got that to settle, an’ the land knows 1 ain' got more’n a mite o’ mind left to settle anything with! Deary me! this road’s a sight longer than ’twas this afternoon, ’pears to me.”

Seeing a light in the house she was passing, she said, “Lem 's sick, one o’ them dizzy spells ag’in. Glad there's one house ’twixt here an’ there, ’s kind o' company.” .The white cemetery gate shone out of the dark, and, lifting the wooden latch, she stepped inside. Sturdily, and without hesitation, she strode over the grass billowed here and there above the snug house of a quiet sleeper The vault in this old burying ground, which lay, a green triangle, at the intersection of three roads in the valley, vvafi built or burrowed into the ground, and before its door at the end of a flight of stone steps leading down, “young Miss Amory" stopped. How the sound of the sea drummed in her ears, and how dark it was as the moon suddenly dropped below' the horizon, as she removed the first stone. I’he lock had long ago fallen away from the rotten wood, and the heavy door must be pushed from within, so, lifting stone after stone from the crumbling side. Miss Amory thrust In her hand and the door swung outward. Miss Amory waited to light her lantern, then, holding it above her head, she stepped bravely in. Directly in front of her was the cheaply-painted coffin of her sister, flanked in the background by the black and mouldering boxes which held her mother.her grandmother and grandfather. Her father lay in deep water off the Grand Banks. On either side two small coffins proclaimed a youthful kinship with the dead. On one of these she set her lantern, and for the first time she trembled, glaring fearfully at the latest addition to this secluded company. She coughed a little and looked about to accustom herself to her surroundings. The authoritative Hannah was again invested with majesty for her. “but,” she argued, standing staunchly to her colours. “she's had her day, an’ her day is done.” Here her courage reasserted itself, and. drawing from her voluminous pocket a chisel, she inserted it beneath the coffin lid. Clink, clink, and the lightly nailed wood yielded to the tap of the stone. Carefully she lifted the cover in her toil-strengthened arms, leaning it against the dark wall. There lay Hannah, just as she had seen her a few' hours previously. The relaxing hand of death gave a softness to the hard, old face, and the dim yellow- light mellowed it into a semblance of life. The drooping corners of the mouth held a suspicion of derisive mirth, as Miss Amory addressed the sleeper:

“Now, ( Hannah,” she began, persuasively, watching her, guardc.'llv. meanwhile, “ye know ye don’t need it —ye know ye don’t, an’ I do. 1 ain’t got a decent thing to wear to meetin’ er to the Daughters o’ Jericho, nuther. The alpaca’s about gone, an’ ye knew that, but mebbe ye forgot bein’ ’s ye was sick so long. But Ido wonder at ye, Hannah, a-makin me promise when ye always took such pride yerself in my goin’ out! Ye oughtn’t to a-made me promise, an’ I can’t stan’ it, nohow. 1 tell ye, I can’t. I brought along yer linsey, an’ ’s good’s new, an’ clean, too. an’ ye ain’t us’t to silk, an’ ye know it—ye ain’t never hed silk on yer back before—an’ I do need it so. Hannah—l’m a-goin’ to take it often ye now—ye needn’t say a word—sho! ve can’t anyway! I do’ know what made me so shifless as to promise, but I kep’ my word, an’ ye was berried in it, an’ now off it comes, an’ I’m a-goin’ to take my turn, fer it’s as much mine as yours, an’ ef ye got anything to sav agenst it, now’s yer time.”

A long pause, ami Miss Amery, leaning back against the wall, watched Hannah's lips, waiting a response.

Then her face brightened as she began again. “Sho. what a fool I be! Ye can't say nothin'- -'(tears like I don't seem to sense that! I can’t get used to doin' all the talkin' when yer about. Hannah! Now ye know mother left that dress to us both, an' ye’ve had yer share, haven’t ye? Ef ve’d only wore it when ye was alive ye’d had it longer, but that ain't my fault, an' so here goes.” And. suiting her action to her word, she quickly unfastened the dress and raising Hannah to a sitting posture, pushed it back off the stiffened arms, groaning with the combined effort of supporting the listless Hannah anti undressing her at the same time. Laying her down, she then drew the silk skirt off over the fc r, carefully folding it away. With mtteh difficulty she substituted the dress of homespun linsey-woolsey, ami, as she carefully smoothed down its folds, a pair of dark green slippers caught her eye. They were family heirlooms, dear to her heart. She clutched the feet they encased, exclaiming, in outraged wrath: "Well, I never! An' so they put them on ye, too. I didn’t know that la-fore! Well, ye don't need them, either.” turning to Hannah for the denial which did not eome. ami, realising that remonstrances were not »o be feared from that quarter, she hastily slipped off the coveted shoes, and pulling the rubbers from her own feet, reshod Hannah for her journey. “Now.” she said, in satisfied “ve look real eom'f’table. Silk’s cold, an’’ I hope ye will ’scuse me. Hannah, fer disturbin’ ye, but ye do know it's as much mine as yours, don’t ye? I done what I promised don’t ye forget that. I kinder hate to cover ye up--1 do soye look so pleasant like, but”—this hurriedly—“l got to go I can’t stay all night.’ Here the old woman nearly broke down. and. lest such a thiim should occur, she hastily transferred the lid to its proper place, shutting in the nonchalant Hannah., shutting out the purple and tine linen that had held royal allurements for her in ante-mor-tem days. Driving in the nails was a more gruesome task than drawing them out, and, as she pounded away, “young Miss Amory” continuously mumbled apologies to Hannah. Ihe chill air lietokening dawn greeted her. as with her bundle and lantern she emerged from the vault. Deftly replacing the stones, she hurried awav. and with every step her spirits rose. In serene triumph she marched along, for that unusual smile of Hannah's meant approval, and the lack of this hail been her only dread. The tall maples at her gate were tipped with sunlight as she passed beneath them, and the birds were candling madly. Fortunately Hanley was vet plunged in the slumber caused by the unaccustomed exertions of the previous day. and Miss Amory gained the house without being seen. Removing her muddy shoes, she set about getting the breakfast with joyous energy. She did not sigh this morning. and her tintiinely cheerfulness was uncanny. Ihe delayed ironing sped swiftly r»ider her eager hands, ami long before noon the gray silk was spread out before her on the bed, as she planned how it might be fitted to her own meagre proportions. So deeply she cogitated that when Hanlev. coming from the fields, gazed affrightedly in through a window, she was wholly unconscious of his scrutiny, but when on explaining to herself how the work must be done:

’ Twas jes’ right fer Hannah: her an mother must a-been ’bout of a size Now. ef I jes' lei out these gathers an' take it up at the top. it’ll do. Han nah ain't hurt it a mite." she chiq-kl ed, “ a-layin’ on it.”

The awestruck Hanley slunk quietly away, and when the dinner-horn blew, he lagged sadly in obeying- the summons. Had Miss Amory not been so absorbed in delightful' anticipation, the strange nervousness of her servitor would have warned her of something amiss.

It was one of the most beautiful of early spring days. Song sparrows chirped gayly in the hedge, bees buzzed lazily and the sunlight, glancing thiough the leaves, dropped on the floor in blots of gold. Young Miss Amory sewed happily, near the open door. The gray silk rustled crisply under the clumsy fingers, and trailed its length on the floor, as she lifted it this way ami that in the of reconstruction. Every wrinkle in her seamy old face curved contentedly over happy visions of the days to

come wherein she would shine resplendent. Wheels, rolling' softly up the lane, did not disturb her, and. until a shadow fell across her work, she was oblivious of any visitors but the birds ; then, tossing behind her chair the telltale garment, she sprang up, erect, defiant, her small figure, regal in its consciousness of at last standing on the throne of independence. A grim trio of “ selectmen ” confronted her, and the spokesman said, without preliminary : “ We have been informed that ye've robbed yer sister in her grave, an' we come to see jestice done,” his voice trembling with anger and vindictiveness.

“ Now, Miss Amory.” broke in more mildly gentle. Deacon Maynard, "jis own up to it, deary, an' we'll see ye through; the neighbours talkin’ 'bout mobbin’ ye, now it’s got ’round.” “Got round I” flung out the shaking lips, “ what's got ’round ? .My sister an’ me, we had it out last night 'bout this here dress, ef that's what ye mean, an’ it’s always been mine as much as hers, anyway ! Yes, I ber ried her in it ! She made me promise that, but she don’t need it now, does she ? An’ who told ye ? Who told ve? Hanley told ye! Hanley, a-shiv-erin’ back there behind ye ! Hanley we fed an’ kep’ year in an’ year out ever sence he’s too old to work ! Too old fer any good on earth! Take it back, ye say ? No, I be goin’ to keep it! Do ye hear me?” her voice rising shrilly. “What do ye know about Hannah an’ me. anyway ? Have ye been like me? Have ye been in su’jection to her all yer life ? Have ve done jes’ what she said, an" wore jes’ what she said, nigh onto sixtyfive year ? No. ye ain't ! no ! but. I been doin’ that ” —the ashen face quivered —“an’ to-day my heart’s so light!. I been so happy ! Hannah gone—an' I nursed her good—ye all know that, an’ ye know she took the silk dress with her. an' I jes’ couldn’t stan’ it, nohow ! But I give it to her, jist as she said, an' berried her in it, true, an' now ” —a bitter sense of being wronged fired her once more with courage, “an’ now 1 take it back !” and dropping into her chair, the little woman crushed the silk together, and, burying her face in its soft folds, broke into the slow, heavy crying of old age. The selectmen looked uncomfortable. They had heard rumours of Hannah’s maddening rule, but as town guardians, their business was to see this desecration atoned for, so. against her heart-broken pleadings, they gradually forced Miss Amory into the waggon, and, with the dress on her lap, she began her third trip to the burying ground within twenty four hours. In a quiet that accorded little with her outbreak at home. “ young Miss Amory ” submitted to be helped from the waggon and entered the vault. Her persecutors undertook the work of uncovering Hannah this time. With no apparent emotion. Miss Amory ehanged the garments of her sister, still smiling placidly, perhaps grateful, for the two unexpected peeps into this odd world. “Hannah,” whispered Miss Amory, as she laid her down, “ye ain't dead yet, be ye? Ye reached yer arm out after that dress ef ye didn’t say a word las’ night. Ye was thinkin' an’ yer knew ye had yer grip on me yet!” and, turning away with the old miserable look of subjugation on her face, Miss Amory left the vault, the selectmen, and sped off homeward. ’Twas a weary walk in the rosy sunset light, her tired feet dragging heavily through the sand. Just over the threshold of her home she paused 'suddenly, throwing up her hands in amaze. There, as if awaiting her. lay the gay. green slippers, forgotten since morning! An exultant light broke through the gloom of her face as she bounded across the floor and snatched them up triumphantly. exclaiming; “Ye fergot yer slippers, didn’t ye. Hannah? Ye fergot yer slippers that time ye reached, an’ ye was 'bliged to leave me somethin’ after all!”