The Alchemist's Secret Part 1

The Alchemist's Secret.

by Isabel Cecilia Williams.

THE Pa.s.sING OF TONY.

"Last mail in, Mis' Bas...o...b.."

"Last mail's in, Tony."

"Be there anything for me to-night?"

Widow Bas...o...b..knew perfectly well there was not, but she reached for a small pile of letters in a pigeonhole on her right and glanced over them rapidly. Her sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as she smiled on the little old man before her.

"Sorry, Tony, there's nothing for you to-night."

"Thank you, Mis' Bas...o...b.. p'raps it'll come to-morrow," and Tony turned away with a sigh and moved towards the door.

A group of men were gathered around the stove, smoking and exchanging the gossip of the town. These greeted him kindly as he pa.s.sed and he returned the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, the old man stopped to give his woolen m.u.f.fler one more turn around his neck.

"Purty cold snap, this," he remarked to the company in general. "Looks as if we'd have snow 'fore mornin' and a white Christmas after all.

Good-night, Mis' Bas...o...b.. good-night boys. A merry Christmas to you all!" and Tony stepped out into the frosty air of the December evening.

He sighed again as he turned up over the hill to the left and started for home. It had been a long, cold walk down to the village, and it would be equally long and even colder on the way back, for a sharp wind was blowing directly in his face. It was a bad night for an old man like Tony to be abroad and he was almost sorry that he had ventured out. But there was his promise to Martha; it would never do to break that. Martha had always been of a more hopeful turn of mind than he, anyway. While she was still alive she had imparted to him the same spirit of trust and hopefulness which shone in her steady gray eyes, but since G.o.d had taken Martha and left him all alone in the world of care and trouble, life had been hard indeed.

He had promised Martha never to omit the daily visit to the post-office to inquire for the letter which, thus far, had failed to arrive. Martha had been so sure that Sallie would write to them some day; Sallie, their handsome, wilful daughter, who had pa.s.sed out of their lives nearly fifteen years before. He never blamed Sallie for wanting to leave them; what could a tiny village like this offer to one as clever, as pretty, as ambitious as Sallie had been? The neighbors had said many unkind things of Sallie but he heeded them not. They had called her vain, idle and silly; they said the folks at the big house had spoiled her and put notions into her head. They told him he did a foolish thing when he allowed her to go as maid to the lady of the big house over on the sh.o.r.es of the lake, and to go down to the city with the family when they moved home in the autumn. To tell the truth, poor Tony had little voice in the matter. Sallie, as usual, had taken affairs into her own hands and decided for herself.

Nearly fifteen years! It was a long, long time; and never a word from the truant since the day she had left the village. Martha had waited, at first impatiently, then anxiously, and finally with a pathetic hopefulness that was more than half a.s.sumed. It was she who had insisted that Tony must go to the office every day, and during those long years, every evening, rain or s.h.i.+ne, the same little scene was enacted in the village post-office. Every evening he had the same story of failure to report.

"No letter to-night, mother."

"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would sigh and clasp her hands in her lap.

Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying for the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of G.o.d to keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had left, four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a very short s.p.a.ce of time.

Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the world; for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might be at rest in G.o.d's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, surely, some word would have come from her. She must have known how anxiously they would watch for news of her, and certainly she would not be so heartless as to keep silence all this long time.

Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to reach them. Well, whatever the trouble was, Tony had long since given up all hope of hearing from her, but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made his nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it not been for that promise he would certainly not take that long walk day after day, in summer heat and winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony's heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the walk home always seemed twice as long as the walk down, after hearing those depressing words "No letter to-night, Tony."

Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost more than the old man's failing strength had been able to support. How often he wished he had not been obliged to sell La.s.sie. She was the last of his horses to go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There was nothing left to him now but the old house, and that was in such a state of dilapidation as to be really unfit for habitation. In the old days, his dogs and his horses were better housed than he was now; in the old days, when his farm was one of the most prosperous in that section of the country. It was lonely indeed since Martha went away, but he was glad she had not lived to see him brought to this pa.s.s. He was glad he had been able to surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do so he had been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he owned, one after another.

But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her room by illness for many years before G.o.d had sent her release from pain.

Thank G.o.d, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without worrying over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always cheerful; her favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to care for her, in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's appet.i.te; fresh eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had come from their own farm.

It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing there.

Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where she could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he would glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes fixed upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and out through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village and thence to the city beyond. He knew her mind had gone out into the wide, busy world, of which an occasional echo would reach them, gone out in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl who had pa.s.sed down that country road so many years ago never to return. To the very end, Martha had never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for the return of the wanderer, or at least for some word of a.s.surance that all was well with her.

By the time Tony reached the dismantled farmhouse the snow was falling thickly, silently, on all around.

"Twill be a bad storm," thought Tony. "G.o.d pity any who are abroad this night."

Pus.h.i.+ng open the kitchen door he entered quickly, divesting himself of cap, m.u.f.fler, and ragged overcoat, and hanging them near the stove to dry. He lighted the lamp and threw some wood upon the fire which had burned low. Then, turning, he spied for the first time, a basket upon the table. A pleased smile overspread his face. So they had not forgotten, after all! How he and Martha had always watched for that Christmas basket from Cousin John's folks over at the market town! It was not so much the value of the gift, for John was not over-plentifully blessed with the goods of this world and had a large family dependent upon him. It was more the fact of being remembered kindly, the knowledge that there was still some one who thought of them occasionally.

He commenced unpacking the basket and arranging the contents upon the table: home-baked bread, pies, cakes; a package of tea, another of tobacco; oranges, nuts, candy; warm mittens and socks that John's wife had knit for him. She was a good woman, John's wife, kind-hearted and thoughtful; she must have guessed how badly he needed socks and mittens now that Martha was no longer there to make them for him. He started for the cupboard, a pie in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other, then stopped in the middle of the room and eyed them meditatively. What was it Martha used to say?

"Never, never let Christmas pa.s.s without doing something for some one.

No matter how poor one may be, Tony, they're always others poorer still.

If it be no more'n a loaf of bread, give something to the poor at Christmas time in the name of the little Babe that had none but the shepherds to do a hand's turn for Him."

Each year he and Martha had found some one to whom they gave in the Christ-Child's name, for the sake of the girl who was never absent from their thoughts by day or by night. Even last year, as poor as he was, he had met with one more needy still and sent him on his way rejoicing--a poor lad, out of work, out of money, tramping from city to city in search of employment. They had taken him in for Sallie's sake, given him food and shelter, and when the boy left the farm a silver dollar, nearly the last of Tony's small store, was pressed into his hand. The dollar had been returned, for at the next town the object of Tony's charity had found steady work. That was last year. This Christmas he was not doing a thing for any one; he had forgotten completely, probably because Martha was not there to remind him.

He placed the bread and the pie back upon the table and stood looking at them long and earnestly. He knew of one who needed them far more than he did, a poor widow over in "the hollow," whose five small children, sickly, starved little creatures, were more than half the time crying with cold and hunger. He opened the package of tobacco, filled his pipe and sat down in his chair by the stove to smoke and think.

How those poor children would enjoy the bread and pies and cakes which John's wife had sent him! Poor little things, they seldom, if ever, tasted fare like that. He really did not need them; he managed to get along pretty well and the neighbors were all good to him; especially since Martha died. He would really be glad to give those children something, but he was so tired, so tired, and it was quite a walk over to the hollow.

Then, the storm! How the wind shrieked and tore around the house, and how steadily the snow beat against the window panes! It was warm and comfortable there by the fire, but outside----. And he was unusually tired to-night; that walk to the village had been almost too much for him. Besides, he must be up in time for first Ma.s.s in the morning; he had never missed first Ma.s.s and Holy Communion on Christmas since the day he and Martha were married. Year after year, they had knelt side by side at G.o.d's altar; for many years Sallie had knelt there with him; now he was all alone but he meant to continue the custom for Martha's sake.

How the storm did rage, to be sure; but those poor children, those poor little children! Perhaps somewhere in the wide world his Sallie was in need of help and comfort this night and those who might give it to her were too tired or too lazy. He guessed that was the trouble, he was growing lazy in his old age. Well, he would do this for Sallie; it would be one more little sacrifice added to the many which he and Martha had offered for their wandering child, that G.o.d might keep guard over her wherever she might be. Yes, he would do it for Sallie's sake and to please Martha. From Heaven she was watching him and would know that to please her and for the sake of their child he was going to brave the storm once more and carry a little Christmas happiness to those poor children over in the hollow. The walk over and back again would not hurt him; he was growing old and lazy, that was all.

But first he must light the lamp. Dear, dear, he was growing forgetful as well as lazy. He had nearly forgotten to light Sallie's lamp. What would Martha say to that? Every night as soon as dusk had fallen, Martha had insisted upon placing a lamp in the window of what had once been Sallie's room. If the child came back unexpectedly, she would see the light s.h.i.+ning from her window and know they were waiting and watching for her. The room itself was as she had left it years ago, her clothes still hanging in the closet, her slippers laid ready for the tired feet to slip into them, the fire on the hearth all prepared against the day of her home-coming, and by night the lamp in the window s.h.i.+ning a welcome that could be seen afar down the road that led from the village.

He must light Sallie's lamp, then off once more into the storm and darkness to carry a bit of Christmas cheer to the little home in the hollow.

Nearly an hour later, a thoroughly worn-out but very happy old man sat by the stove in the farmhouse kitchen. He was too tired even to light his pipe; he simply sat there and tried to rest. It had been a hard fight against the storm, but how pleased those poor little children were! Well, he had done it for Sallie, just one more little sacrifice for Sallie who was somewhere out there in the cold, weary world, far from the home of her childhood, far from the ones who loved her best.

Sallie gone? Sallie far away in the storm and darkness? Why no, of course not. Sallie was only a little child sleeping quietly in her own little room. See, the door was ajar and a ray of light from the lamp in Sallie's room was streaming across the kitchen floor. He must go in and extinguish the light before it awakened the sleeping child. Why had Martha left the lamp burning? Surely she must know it would disturb the child. Well, as soon as he was rested he would go and put it out.

How tired, how tired he did feel! He'd worked pretty hard to-day, and the sun had been hot, so hot. Well, never mind, the hay was all cut now, a few more days like this and his barn would be filled with the finest hay in the country. A few more years like this one and he would be the richest farmer hereabouts. For himself, he did not care, and Martha had simple tastes like his own. But there was Sallie. She was only a wee tot now but she would be a woman some day. They must give Sallie all the advantages they had missed; they must lay by money against the time when Sallie would be a grown up woman and want things like other girls of her age.

What ailed him, anyway, that a day's work in the hay field should make him feel like this, so tired, so very tired?

He felt a little better now; he would rest a few moments more, then be off home to supper and to Martha and Sallie. But who was that calling to him? Why, Martha, to be sure, standing there by the five-barred gate.

She had come to meet him with their baby in her arms. That was strange; it was not Sallie, it was their first-born, the boy with his mother's eyes who had blessed their home for only a few short months and then been laid to rest in the churchyard on the hill. The other little tots were with her, three of them, clinging closely to her skirts. They were all smiling and holding out their hands to him in invitation. But Sallie, where was Sallie? Once more Martha called his name. At the sound of her voice all the wonder, all the worriment, fled from Tony's heart.

"Coming, Mother, coming," he called happily, and the smile upon Martha's face was reflected on his own.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear; the storm had pa.s.sed in the night. Something else had pa.s.sed, too--the soul of an aged farmer. It was not until the next day they found him, still sitting in the lounging chair by the stove in which only a small heap of charred ashes remained.

They looked upon that serenely smiling face, then from one to another, and sadly shook their heads. One of their number stepped forward and with trembling fingers placed in the stiff, cold hand of old Tony, the letter for which he had watched through long and weary years, the letter that had come too late.

Too late? Nay, not so. Those standing by could not see, as Tony saw, the woman who lay dying in the great hospital down in the city. They could not see, as Tony saw, the last rites of the Church administered, the Sisters of Charity bending near praying, praying for that soul about to depart upon its last long journey. They could not hear, as Tony heard, the pale lips speaking their final words:

"You wrote the letter, Sister?"

"I wrote the letter, dear. It must have reached them by now."

"You told them I was dying? You asked them to forgive?"

"I told them all and I'm sure they have forgiven already."