Jerome, A Poor Man Part 55

Ann was knitting fast, sitting over against a window thick with clinging shreds of snow. Her face was in the shadow, but she looked as if she had been crying. She did not speak when Jerome entered.

"What ails mother?" he whispered to Elmira, following her into the pantry when he had a chance.

"She's been telling a dream she had last night about father, and it made her feel bad. Hus.h.!.+"

When they were all seated at the supper-table, Ann, of her own accord, began to talk again of her dream.

"I've been tellin' your sister about a dream I had last night," said she, with a curious, tearful defiance, "an' I'm goin' to tell you. It won't hurt you any to have your poor father brought to mind once in a while."

"Of course you can tell it, mother, though I don't need that to bring father to mind. I was thinking about him all the way home," Jerome answered.

"Well, I guess you don't often think about him all the way home. I guess you and your sister both don't think about your poor father, that worked and slaved for you, enough to hurt you. I had a dream last night that I 'ain't been able to get out of my mind all day. I dreamt that I was in this room, an' it was stormin', jest as it is now. I could hear the wind whistlin' an' howlin', an' the windows were all thick with snow. I dreamt I had a little baby in my arms that was sick; it was cryin' an' moanin', an' I was walkin' up an'

down, up an' down, tryin' to quiet it. I didn't have my rheumatism, could walk as well as anybody. All of a sudden, as I was walkin', I smelt flowers, an' there on the hearth-stone was a rose-bush, all in bloom. I went up an' picked a rose, an' shook it in the baby's face to please it, an' then I heard a strange noise, that drowned out the wind in the chimney an' the baby's cryin'. It sounded like cattle bellowing, dreadful loud and mournful. I laid the baby down in the rockin'-chair, an' first thing I knew it wasn't there. Instead of it there was a most beautiful bird, like a dove, as white as snow. It flew 'round my head once, and then it was gone. I thought it went up chimney.

"The cattle bellowing sounded nearer, an' I could hear them trampin'.

I run to the front door, an' there they were, comin' down the road, hundreds of 'em, horns a-tossin' an' tails a-las.h.i.+n', flingin' up the snow like water. I clapped to the front door, an' bolted it, an' run into the parlor, an' looked out of the window, an' there on the other side, as plain as I ever see it in my life, was your father's face--there was my husband's face.

"He didn't look a day older than when he left, an' his eyes an' his mouth were smilin' as I hadn't seen 'em since he was a young man.

"'Oh, Able!' says I. 'Oh, Abel!' An' then the face wa'n't there, an'

I heard a noise behind me, an' looked around.

"I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that parlor. All the chairs an' the sofa were covered with my weddin'-dress, that was made over for Elmira; the window-curtains were made of it, an' the table-spread. Thinks I, 'How was there enough of that silk, when we had hard work to get Elmira's dress out?'

"Then I saw, in the middle of the room, a great long thing, all covered over with silk, an' I thought it was a coffin. I went up to it, an' there was Abel's hat on it, the one he wore when he went away. I took the hat off, an' the weddin'-silk, an' there was a coffin.

"I thought it was Abel's. I raised the lid and looked. The coffin was full of beautiful clear water, an' I could see through it the bottom, all covered with bright gold dollars. I leant over it, and there was my own face in the water, jest as plain as in a lookin'-gla.s.s, an'

there was Abel's beside it. Then I turned around quick, an' there was Abel--there was my husband, standin' there alive an' well. Then I woke up."

Ann ended with a hysterical sob. Jerome and Elmira exchanged terrified glances.

"That was a beautiful dream, mother," Jerome said, soothingly. "Now try to eat your supper."

"It's been so real all day. I feel as if--your father had come an'

gone again," Ann sobbed.

"Try and eat some of this milk-toast, mother; it's real nice," urged Elmira.

But Ann could eat no supper. She seemed completely unstrung, for some mysterious reason. They persuaded her to go to bed early; but she was not asleep when they went up-stairs, about ten o'clock, for she called out sharply to know if it was still snowing.

"No, mother," Jerome answered, "I have just looked out, and there are some stars overhead. I guess the storm is over."

"Oh, Jerome, you don't suppose mother is going to be sick, do you?"

Elmira whispered, when they were on the stairs.

"No, I guess she's only nervous about her dream. The storm may have something to do with it, too."

"Oh, Jerome, I feel exactly as if something was going to happen!"

"Nonsense," said Jerome, laughing. "You are nervous yourself. I'll give you and mother some valerian, both of you."

"Jerome, I am _sure_ something is going to happen."

"It would be strange if something didn't. Something is happening all over the earth with every breath we draw."

"Jerome, I mean to _us!_"

Jerome gave his sister a little push into her room. "Go to bed, and to sleep," said he, "and leave your door open if you're scared, and I'll leave mine."

Jerome himself could not get to sleep soon; once or twice Elmira spoke to him, and he called back rea.s.suringly, but his own nerves were at a severe tension. "What has got into us all?" he thought, impatiently. It was midnight before he lost himself, and he had slept hardly an hour when he wakened with a great start.

A wild clamor, which made his blood run cold, came from below. He leaped out of bed and pulled on his trousers, hearing all the while, as in a dream, his mother's voice shrilling higher and higher. "Oh, Abel, Abel, Abel! Oh, Abel!"

Elmira, with a shawl over her night-gown, bearing a flaring candle, rushed across the landing from her room. "Oh," she gasped, "what is it? what is it?"

"I guess mother has been dreaming again," Jerome replied, hoa.r.s.ely, but the thought was in his mind that his mother had gone mad.

"There's--cold air--coming--in," Elmira said, in her straining voice.

"The front door is--wide open."

At that Jerome pushed her aside and rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen.

There stood his mother over an old man, seated in her rocking-chair.

There she stood, pressing his white head against her breast, calling over and over again in a tone through whose present jubilation sounded the wail of past woe, "Oh, Abel, Abel, Abel!"

Jerome looked at them. He wondered, dazedly, if he were really there and awake, or asleep and dreaming up-stairs in his bed. Elmira came close beside him and clutched his arm--even that did not clear his bewildered perceptions into certainty. It is always easier for the normal mind, when confronted by astonis.h.i.+ng spectacles, to doubt its own accuracy rather than believe in them. "Do _you_ see him?" he whispered, sharply, to Elmira.

"Yes; who is it? _Who_ is it?"

Then Jerome, in his utter bewilderment, spoke out the secret which he had kept since childhood.

"It can't be father," said he--"it can't be. I found his hat on the sh.o.r.e of the Dead Hole. Father drowned himself there."

At the sound of his voice Ann turned around. "It's your father!" she cried out, sharply--"it's your father come home. Abel, here's the children."

Jerome eyed a small j.a.panned box, or trunk, on the floor, a stout stick, and a handkerchief parcel. He noted then clots of melting snow where the old man had trod. Somehow the sight of the snow did more to restore his faculties than anything else. "For Heaven's sake, let us go to work!" he cried to Elmira, "or he'll die. He's exhausted with tramping through the snow. Get some of that brandy in the cupboard, quick, while I start up the fire."

"Is it father? Oh, Jerome, is it father?"

"Mother says so. Get the brandy, quick."

Jerome stirred the fire into a blaze, and put on the kettle, then he went to his mother and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Now, mother,"

he said, "he must be put into a warm bed."

"Yes, put him into his own bed--his own bed!" shrieked his mother.

"Oh, Abel, dear soul, come and sleep in your own bed again, after all these years! Poor man, poor man, you've got home to your own bed!"

Jerome gave his mother's thin, vibrating shoulder a firm shake.