MISS HETTY'S TRAMP

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIV, Issue 13, 29 March 1906, Page 23

MISS HETTY'S TRAMP

Miss Hetty Bonsall lived alone in the house that had belonged to her forefathers for generations. <Not quite alone, either, for, she had one servant, Nora, who had been in the family since before Miss Hetty was born, and who remained with her, faithful and capable, when the last of her kindred were laid beneath the sod. Miss Hetty had never married, but she was not at all a blighted flower. Quick, reserved, gentle, and refined, as it was in her blood to be, she had mingled more or less with wiLh her friends and neighbors, until the great event happened in her life which made things different. Not suddenly, sharply, or cruelly so, yet decidedly and unmistakably different. Miss Hetty had become a Catholic. The only Catholics in Mapleton were servants, laborers, and factory hands, and when 'it ' happened, people shook their heads, and touched their foreheads oracularly, but sadly — needing no spoken word to express the thought that was in them. As time passed, and Miss Hetty — save in this one particular — continued to |be exactly her old self and the scarcely breathed theory a 9 to her sanity fell to pieces, her neighbors, still at a loss to account for her strange idiosyncrasy, endeavored to resume their old cordiality. But things were ' changed, and their mutual relations were never q.uite the same again. But if Miss Hetty noticed it — and she must have done so— she never made a sign. Her religion was so comforting and consoling that it made up for everything. Her conversion 1 had come about in a peculiar way. One evening as she sat watching Nora peeling apples for pies, she asked : ' Nora, how is it that you have always been a Catholic ? ' •' I was born one, Miss Hetty.' ' Nobody is ever born into a religion, Nora.' ' Well, my people were Catholics, and when she was dying mother made your mother promise to send me to the Sisters' Orphan Asylum. But she hated to see me go to an asylum, and kept me herself instead. She felt it her duty to have me taught the religion of my parents), and sent me over to Four Rivers to Mass every Sunday, besides having me instructed in my Catechism. She was a fine, good woman, Miss Hetty.' ' Indeed shel wap And you have cluing nobly to ycur faith, Nora. For a long time you were the only Catholic in Mapleton, weLen't you? ' 1 Yes. Miss Hetty.' ' And now you have a nice church, and a good priest, haven't you 9 ' ' Yes, Miss Hetty.' ' Norah, I am going to tell you something. I have never before breathed it to a living soul. You remember that year I went to the Conservatory at Boston ?' ' Yes, 1 remember it well.' ' I met a young gentleman there whom — I liked — very much. He was studying music. He was a Catholic. When I discovered it I couldn'it — well, I had a wrong idea of things then, and so it was ended.' ' And ,that is why you never married, Miss Hetty 9 ' ' I think it is,' rejoined Miss Hetty, with a little sigh. ' After a while I was not unhappy, but I could never see any one else whom I liked as well. Now you have my little secret. Something in the appearance of your new priest suggests him. Do you think I might call, Nora ? ' They were simple souls, both— the servant as simple as the mistress. ' I think you might,' said Nora, and Miss Hetty did. Something had stirred the slumbering past) in the spinster's heart. She did not know, she could not kno a w what had become of her youthful lover, but she found herself longing to learn something of the religion he had professed. The result wa,s that the close of the year found her a Catholic. Nora declared tha>t it was a reward for the kindly act of her conscientious pioIher. Miss Hetty rather leaned toward the same opinion, and Father Furlong said that Gcd no1? j; eld am acted. If Miss Hetty had not had the consolation of religion to sustain her, it is doubtful if she could have borne her subsequent misfortune. In less than a year after her conversion she became blind. She could no longer sew, but she could knit ; she could not read, but many times during the day the beads passed through her long, slim fingers, and no one ever heard her murmur.

Deep down in her virgin heart Miss Hetty had always treasured the memory of that youthful fancy, which if it had not been peremptorily and somewhat rudely nipped in the bud, would later, in all probability,

have died a natural death. There were various reasons why it should have been so. There had never been the slightest, declaration of love) on either side, not even so much as the pressure of a hand. But the timid admiration pictured in a certain pair of Irish eyes had more than once brought ai faint blush to the girlish cheek, and though the terrible discovery made, one Sunday morning on her way from the Congregational church, had caused her, as she thought it her bounden duty, to crush the sweet blossom of love beneath the heel of lenunciation, she 'had never actually known those agonies which are known in romance as the pangs pf disappointed love. There is hardly a doubt that Miss Hetty was what is vulgarly, but expressively, called ' a born old maid. 1 Nevertheless, she had cherished a tender recollection, enjoying rather than suffering a gentle sorrow so exiqjuisitely fanciful that it was not in any sense allied to pain. She had had her one little hour, and it had set her apart, in her own imagination, for sweet reniem|brance that cruld hardly foe called regret. Since she had been blind Miss Hetty always sat on the piazza overlooking the side garden, where Nora could sec her from the kitchen and attend to any of her needs. One evening_as she sat thus, busily knitting, the fleecy; clouds of gossamer wool dropping lightly and swiftly tlircugh her fingers, a shuffling step sounded on the gravel walk. ' Good morning, madam,' said a voice that had once been musical, and was still not unpleasant in its intonations , ' is there any job that a man might do about here to earn his dinner ? ' ' iWhat can you do ? ' replied Miss Hetty, letting her work drop into her lap, and glancing nervously about her, while a, slight pink flush mounted to her cheeks. ' Do not be alarmed, madame,' continuued the man, noticing her perturbation, and attributing it to the dread which many nervous women feel at the sight of an unknown wayfarer. ' I am not — alarmed,' faltered Miss Hetty, as her hands fluttered quickly above her work ; ' I am blind.' ' Blind ? ' echoed the stranger in a sympathetic tone. ' What a pity ! ' Then Miss Hetty called to Nora, -who was broiling steak, the appetising odor of which must have been grateful to a hungry man. ' 'Nora,' said Miss Hetty, when the old woman appeared, ' here is a— man, to whom I would like you to gi\e a good, satisfying meal. He is anxious to do 'some work in return for it. Have we anything — is there — any odd job — Nora 9 ' ' He might chop some kindling,' answered Nora. 'But I,' can't let my steak burn. Go to the kitchen steps, my good man,' she continued, ' and wait there till I dish up Miss Hetty's dinner.' But the tramp, for such he v/as in every line and furrow of his dissipated face and slouchy figure, had aheady taken off his cap and seated himself at Miss Hetty's feet. .Resting both hands on his kttees, and leaning his curly gii/y/led head upon them, he looked long and earnestly at the faded, flower-like face, from which beamed forth the pure white soul within. And as he ga/x'd his brows contracted in a frown, he compressed his loose, vacillating lips tcgether, and his bleared, bloodshot eyes grew moist. He must have had an unusually tender heart for a tramp, for he shook his head compassionately once- or twice, blinked his bleary eyes, and rose to his feet. ' I canl (weed a little just here while I wait,' he said. 'Do so,' replied Miss Hetty, who had resumed her knitting, and he fell to work. While he weeded he hummed snatches of tunes to himself, and again Miss Hetty's hands fluttered nervously through the ice-wool shawl she was making, while her soft brown sightless eyes, beneath their half-closed lids, became siffused with retrospective tears. ''-At dinner her manner was nervous and agitated ; Nora could not understand it. 'I do not think 1 vihall take a nap to-day,' Nora,' she said, when the meal was finished. ' I will just go back, with mv work, to the piazza.' ' Very, well, Miss,' said the faithful handmaiden, lead1 ing her to her accustomed place ;• ' bat do you feel just yourself ? You look feverish.' ' There is nothing the matter, Nora,' replied Miss Hetty. 'II 11I 1 prefer to sit here.' When Nora went back to her kitchen the tramp had ' finished his dinner. He sat, with one elbow on the table, surveying the comfortable room. ' That is Miss Bonsall 9 ' he inquired. 1 Yes, T renli^d Nora ; ' Miss Hetty Bonsall.' ' You and she occupy this large house alone ? ' he . continued. 'We do,' rejoined Nora sharply ; ' but we're not*one bit afraid of tramps and thieves. We have a big dog 1 that we let loose at night, and burglar alarms on all the doors and windows. And we have very good neighbors.'

The man smiled. 4 You needn't fly up like that,' he said. • You're a mighty 'tine cook, and 1 thank both you and your mistress for the good dinner 1 have just eaten. Do I look like a thief ? ' ' No, you don't replied Nora. ' But I'll tell you what you do look like.' • What is that 7 • ' A tramp and a ne'er-do-well, fallen from a gocd estate through drink and folly.' 1 You have guessed rightly,' he replied. ' That is precisely what 1 am.' Then the kind heart of the Irishwoman melted. ' Is it too late to turn over a new leaf ? ' she asked, ii^ a more gentle tone. The man's lips worked nervously for a moment. ' I am afraid it is,^ he said ; 'at leasit so I have long thought— until this morning. But— if I could be allowed to stay in a home like this — for a while at least, until I could prove myself — there might be a chance. I am handy — a sort of JacK-of-all-trades. I would make myself useful.' 'We don't need any one ; we have a boy to come in once or twice a week,' began Nora. But Miss Hetty spoke from the piazza. ' Let him stay, Nora. We will give him a chance. Tell him to stay.' ' You hear what she says ? ' said the old 'woman. ' God bless her kind heart. Now let us see what comes of it.' The man rose, stretched himself, heaved a long, 'deep sigh that was almost a groan. Then he took Tils battered cap from the ccrner of the kitchen chair where he had hung it and went back to his weeding. ' What is your name ? ' asked Miss Hetty from the piazza, after a while. ' Bartle — call me Bartle,' answered the new man-of-all-work, lifting his head from his task. Miss Hetty did not speak again. When the work was finished, and he turned to ask for further orders, the porch was| vacant. She had groped her way upstairs] and was lying on her bfd. Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep. There were tears on the lashes, tears that could not fall, precious pearl.s of remembrance born of that shadowy romance which had touched her life in her early spring, and which the voice of a stranger had vividly; recalled, after more than thirty years. What was it she had feared ? She would net even acknowledge it to her own soul, yet she had feared it. 'But now the dread had passed, she was herself again. 1 I was so glad, so glad,' she whispered, lying on her white bed, 'to hear that his name was Bartle'; a name altogether unknown to me. I have never heard it before.' For three months the tramp worked faithfully, and Nora daily vaunted his praises. 'He knows his business and he keeps his place, 1 she said. ' He's the qiuietest man, except for that way he has of humming to himself the queerest tunes. But I'm afraid he'll break' out some day.' ' Let us hope he will not,' Miss Hetty would rejoin, 1 and at any rate we shall not anticipate.' One day it came. Bartle had been lending a hand to some wood-cutters by Miss Hetty's kind permission. When he came home that evening Nora closed the door between the kitchen and the dining-room. ' You are drunk, Bartle,' she said. ' I am, Nora,' he responded. 1 Then out of this house you must go to-night. Miss Hetty has a mortal terror of a drunken man. You have been very ungrateful, Bartle.' 1 Right you are, Nora,' he answered ; ' right you are,' as his head fell, limply against Jhe wall. 1 Miss Hetty,' Nora announced to her mistress, sit-, ting at her supper. ' Bartle is drunk. I have told him to go.' Miss Hetty's eyes widened. She stood up. ' Oh, yes, yes, Nora,' she exclaimed, ',we cannot have a drunken man about. It is too bad — we had such hopes of him. Call some of the neighbors to take him away.' IHe is aWe to go himself,' rejoined Nora ; 'he is quiet enough.' 1 Very well. Send him away. I have .such a horror of a drunken man.' At that moment the organ-like tones of a wonderful bass voice came from the kitchen. It was singing the ' Drinking Song ' from the ' Huguenots/ Miss Hetty's hands, resting lightly on the table in front of her, began to tremble. With an intentness that seemed to carry her out of herself she listened until the song was finished. Then she leaned back in her tall chair as though exhausted, and said in a strained, unnatural voice :

'Do not send him away, Nora. Tell him Iq- go to bed. We will give him another chance.' Mistress and man had very little intercourse. Bartle took his orders 'from Nora, as was natuual under the peculiar circumstances of Miss Hetty's ailliction. But manyi and many a time he would pause m his work to cast a kindly, sympathetic glance, of which she was unconscious, on the cheerful, resigned, and still lovely face of her to whom he owed footi, shelter, and encouragement. One day Miss Hetty and Nora had gone to spend the afternoon with a friend in the country. They had hired ja carriage from 1 the livery stable,, and did not expect to return till late in the evening. The moon was flooding the piazza with light when they reached their own door. From the parlor came sounds of glorious music, played by a master hand. Half terrified, Nora made her mistress sit down. "I'll go and see what it is,' she said. 1 No, no, s^ray here. I want to listen,' replied Miss Hetty, grasping the old woman's hand tightly as she drew her down beside her. Waltz followed waltz, and rondo succeeded rondo. The mood of the player changed, and several selections from Chopin and Schumann were rendered in the most exquisite manner. Then suddenly a magnificent voice poured out the rollicking, tuneful notes* of ' Nancy Lee,' and Nora sprang to her feet. ' It's Bartle,' she cried. ' He's drunk again, and this time he shall go.' 1 No,' answered Miss Hetty, clinging like a child to the old servant. ' No,' she sobbed, while tears coursed down her cheeks. 'He must not go, he shall never gc — now. Be patient with him, Nora— for my sake— but first help me upstairs. Then lam sure you can prevail upon him to go to bed.' Perplexed, half indignant, fearful that the mind of her dearly beloved mistress was about to give way, yet true to her life-long tradition which had made obtedience to her mistress as willing as it was absolute, Nora obeyed. The next day Destiny cut with one sharp Mow the tangled skein which Nora had felt she would need all her wita to unravel. Coming downstairs alone, Miss Hetty slipped and fell, receiving injuries from which she never recovered . For several 1 clays she lay unconscious. This state was succeeded by intermittent periods of suffering. A woman was installed in Nora's place, and she devoted herself to taking care of her, mistress. One morning Miss Hetty asked : ' Is Bartle still here, Nora ? ' ' Yes, Miss Hetty, and doing fine. He's taken the pledge from Father Furlong. He ne\er told us he was a Catholic, did he ? ' 1 No, but I had thought for some time that he was.' ' I never dreamed of it. But he's been to confession and Holy Communion for the first time in twenty years, he told me, and he's promised to go regular.' 1 I am, very, very glad to hear that,' said Miss Hetty, and soon after seemed to fall asleep. One day it was the one before the last, she asked for Bartle. Nora summoned him. He came softly into the room, and sat down beside the bed. ' I wanted to talk witfr you a little, Bartle,' she said quite calmly. ' You know I cannot get well.' ' So tfiey tell me,' he answered, ■ but I don't want to believe it.' *' It is; |t/rue, however,' she ,conthiued, in the same quiet tone ; ' and I wanted Ito tell you— before I go, how pleased I was to hear that you were doing so well and had been to the Sacraments.' I 'God helping me, I shall never drink another drop,' he said. '* Bartl'e, ,1 have left you something in myi will, enough to enable you to take care of yourself in your old age. I have given it in trust to 'Father Furlong. You do net know why I have done this ? ' ' No, I certainly do not.' II Because you remind 'me of some one I once knew. It is your voice, especially, that recalls this friend, to ray recollections. I did not think there could have been two voices in the world so much alike.' Bartle did not speak. ' That man, my friend,' she resumed wi.th difficulty, 1 I have long lost si?ht of ; he promised to make a great success. But should it have fallen out that he did not, whether through circumstances or violent temptation or some inherent weakness, as iis often the case, who knows but that something might not have happened, or will haplpen at the end, to retrieve it all.' • That were impossible,' said Bartle bitterly. 'Or at least to encourage him for the rest of his days to be a "better man.' ' At least a 'better man,' he repeated sadly. * Tfiat we two old-time friends might once again bo

friends— in heaven.' Bartle rose. ' With iGod's help, in heaven,' he exclaimed fervently. She stretched forth her worn, transparent hands. ' Good-bye, John Redmond — good-bye — till heaven' ! ' He clasped them in his own, while hot tears iell from his eyes upcn the wasted fingers. ' Good-bye, good-<bye,' he gasped, and rushed sobbing from the zoom. Miss Hetty turned her face to the wall. She neither wept nor sobbed ; she had passed all that — herf soul was at peace. Nothing mattered now but what was to come after. The next morning she said quite complacently to her faithful nurse : ' Nora, in the top drawer of my desk you will find a little ivory box. There is nothing in it bait a withered rose. Lay it with me In my coffin. It was given me one day by the friend of whom I told you. I have always kept it. The cne I gave him in exchange was never so (treasured, I am sure,' she added with a wan little smile. ' Men do not cherish or remember things

as women do. You hear what I am saying, Nora ? ' •' Oh, Miss Hetty, I am listening, and 1 will do your bidding.' Twenty-four hours later, when they had dressed her for the grave, Nora took the withered leaves from the ivory receptacle where they had lain so long, and hid them between the loosely folded hands of her dead mistress. As she was leaving the room she met Baitle crossing the hall. 'Do you think I might see her now, 1 he asked reverently. ' Indeed you might,' was the reply ; ' she thought well of you, Bartle.' He went in and closed the door. A short but fervent prayer beside the blossom-strewn bier, a long, long, wistful look at the gentle face, saintly and beautiful in the embrace of that death which is the peace of God. Then Bartle turned slowly away. As he left the spot, something dropped from his fingers into the flowerbanked coffin. It was a withered rose. — ' Benzigcr's Magazine.'