Hope Trueblood

Introduction

On an evening, two weeks after the completion of The Sorry Tale, its invisible author gave to Mrs. Curran the following lines on the nameless waif :

What art thou? A sinful thing.

Builded up of what? Sinister, hidden wishes.

Broken troths, folly-love;

Broken hearts, heavy, heavy hearts;

Empty days, days of waiting, sunless days.

Thou wast a night, a dreaded night !

Thou wast the sign of sin.

Man iooketh upon thee and turneth him away,

Nor doth womankind smile upon thee.

But draw their cloak of virtue close.

And hide within it. They shut their eyes.

They hide from thee. They cast their pence

To build hideous walls to shut thee away.

They will not hear thee, for thou art

A sinful thing. And yet, I look upon thee.

Thou babe that laugheth unto answerless days;

That reacheth arms unto naughts; that waileth

Unto empty nights; that waiteth soothing

From hands that will not soothe, that comfort not;

That separate thee from thine, blindly looking not

Unto the sundered hearts, the sundered lives.

Seeing but the sin.

Man hath writ law, and God undoeth it ! The kingdom of earth is shut unto thee. Depart thee, then ; the open roadway waiteth, — And He, thy Father, thine own!

Un-named, a nameless thing ! I cry me loud : " Oh, Earth, hark ! Ye may not undo the writ of God ! That that is, through Him, IS ! He hath writ it!

iii iv INTRODUCTION

And ye who in folly begot, hark !

Ye have writ the script, the name, in Him. Earth in folly playeth and forgetteth. But He — never !

There had been nothing in the conversation of the evening to suggest this theme, nothing in the event of the day. But apparently the subject was on her mind; had been, perhaps, for some time, for a few evenings later she began the story which composes this volume. She gave no hint of her purpose, no intimation that she had any immediate work of consequence under consideration. After an hour of intimate conversation with two or three of her closest friends she plunged abruptly into the story. Before she had written fifty words there were exclamations of astonishment. i^Mrs. Curran looked up, round-eyed and wordless. For the first time in the more than four years' association with her, Patience was writing in plain English of the present day. Some of her poems have contained only those archaic forms that are still permissible to poets and preachers, but are none the less archaic. But this was prose, without any flavor of the antique except in the quaint turns of phrase that are characteristic of all the works of Patience Worth, and just an occasional archaic word, seemingly to remind the reader of the identity of the author. There were, however, few of the grammatical irregularities of her other productions. Apart from the individual peculiarities of style the language did not materially differ in form from that of any contemporary writer of standard English.

What was it? What did it mean? What was this new road she was setting out upon? She had written perhaps two hundred words when she interrupted herself to remark: '* I be a-wonderin\'' ''So are we/' chorused the little group about the board. She said no more at the moment but went on with the story, to exclaim, a little later : '' Lor', this be nay trick ! " Meaning, of course, that it presented no difficulties. Then, after a few more words of composition, she inquired demurely, '' What think ye I be

INTRODUCTION v

at ? " No one would hazard a guess. '' Tell us/' they urged. '* Ye need nay fear," she said. '' This be a wordish tale, yea, and a good un. This be a babe's puttin'." A little farther on she paused again to ask: ** Be ye a-likin' of it? " Being assured she continued, and wrote about two thousand words without interruption. No other information did she give at this, nor at any subsequent time, as to the nature or extent of the story, or as to the working out of the plot, except as revealed in the story itself. Not once did she give any one connected with the production the slightest hint that would help to a solution of the mystery in advance of the composition. The constant discussion of the possible development of the plot seemed to afford her amusement, but it influenced her only in a negative way. That is to say, if there was an expressed conviction that certain events would occur, they most certainly would not. It has been, from the first, an interesting, and often amusing, characteristic of Patience, that she will permit no one to say, with truth, that he has influenced the use of a word, a phrase, or an action in her compositions. Nor, once written, will any criticism induce her to alter the diction. She writes what she will as she will, and, kindly but firmly, she gives all and sundry to understand that she will permit no interference. Occasionally, but rarely, Mrs. Curran will allow her own mind to get in the way of the transmission and spells out a word of her coining, which Patience instantly repudiates, with a quaintly worded admonition.

But to return to the beginning of the story. It was quickly revealed that the scene was as modern as the tongue. Patience, in The Sorry Tale, had written of the Judea and Galilee and Rome of two thousand years ago. In other works she had shown a strange familiarity with medieval days and with the days of the Tudors and the Stuarts. Now, with the same intimacy of knowledge, she had stepped into an English village of apparently the mid- Victorian period, and with that air of personal acquaintance and personal presence that so impresses one in The Sorry Tale, she went on with the story from that beginning to its end, alvi INTRODUCTION

ways seeming to be absolutely sure of herself, sure of her knowledge, sure of her theme. With the same rapidity of composition, the same absence of hesitation, the same pauseless continuity of thought that distinguished her productions in older forms of English, she pressed the story to its completion, turning out as much as five thousand words in a single evening.

The primary purpose of the story is indicated in the poem here presented, but it has another purpose, and that is to add to the accumulation of the evidence of her personality. " Ye see,'' she says, speaking of this book, '' thy handmaid setteth her a suredly made roadway. Behold, the wise uns shall look upon her sorry put {The Sorry Tale) and wag. But she would fill up the lovin' hearts with this tale o' love. Then, thou shalt see, thy handmaid shall be as flesh afore the face o' man. Yea, and her words shall be more than man's flesh, for they may not become dusts."

C S. Y.

Chapter I

The glass had slipped thrice and the sands stood midway through, and still the bird hopped within its wicker. I think the glass had slipped through a score of years, rightfully set at each turning, and the bird had sung through some of these and mourned through others. The hearth's arch yawned sleepily upon the black woolen table cover, where yellow fruits cut of some cloth were sewn. It may have been that I fancied this, but nevertheless it yawned.

The wick had been lighted, as it had been the score of years, at the first coming of darkness. The kettle had been hung within the yawning hearth, and sent its steaming mists up the dark of the chimney's pit. I think the steam knew the chimney's pit, for it had so often climbed the way. The fire seemed fitful, sleeping almost to ash, then suddenly flaming up as though to see the trinkets upon the what-all or read the woolen sampler that told unto the coming guest : '' God is Love."

I may have fancied this, but I watched it long and I think I am right; although it may have been it but longed to reach the red deer that sped a purple field at the left. Still, there was the castle beneath glass, made of quills. No, I am sure it was not the castle ; for the deer was speeding o'er the purple way, and I think the fire feared that it might fall o'er the dizzy height.

I do not know that all of this matters, and yet when Mr. Passwater arose and coughed behind his long thin hand, I seemed to forget him and remember the fire. It was of more importance, but he insisted, coughing, and walked across the garlanded carpet that puffed beneath his feet and seemed to raise within one the sounds of golden fields.

He was a tall gentleman who looked much as a robin, his smalls tight upon his legs, and his rounded stomach vested in magenta and specked of snuff. He moved in a sort of hops, and his coat tails bobbed. As I remarked, he coughed as though to apologize, and walked to an inner room and knocked and called:

" Patricia ! My dear Patricia ! "

And was answered by a thin voice with a hook upon it. Mr. Passwater coughed suddenly and started, almost as though the door had been suddenly opened. Wheeling, he brought the great chair up to the hearth and set the hassock at its foot.

Miss Patricia opened the door primly, raised her skirts ever so slightly, and tripped into the lighted room. Her face had been young, I think, but she had forgotten it — not her face, but her youth. No, I think Miss Patricia's face was a thing that might whisper to one even in the dark. Of course I may fancy this, but it seems true. I am sure Miss Patricia had forgotten that her hair ever hung, for it was netted in as though bound of steel, and pinned back until her ears stood out pale and thin, showing the fire through them. Her eyes were bright and round, like a rat's, and her narrow chin was offset by two huge moles, sprigged of hair. I do not think that Miss Patricia ever forgot the moles, for she had a nervous habit of fingering them.

Her frock never wrinkled; indeed. Miss Patricia's back never bended. She sat upon the armchair straight, and her back never had been known to rest upon the tidy. She sat, as I remarked, and rested the bowl that filled her hands upon her thin knees.

Mr. Passwater watched her from the hearth's side, much as a robin might watch a worm. Miss Patricia was sorting candle ends, and her thin hands showed white at the knuckles as she pried out bits of wick and cast them into the basket upon the black table cover.

" Waste ! Waste ! " said Miss Patricia, " wilful waste ! My dear brother, why do you stand staring like a fool, when you may see that your sister would save you from ruin? Stand from the fire, Reuben, your woolens are smoking."

Mr. Passwater coughed and started as though a sudden pain had seized him. Miss Patricia rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, daintily rubbed her finger tips one upon the other, and stared in astonishment at the floor, starting up and all but spilling the candle ends.

'' Reuben Passwater ! Do you mean to say that you would tread upon this carpet with wet feet?"

Mr. Passwater stood meekly, his head bowed and his eyes seeking something to aid his agony. They seemed to seek the red deer and I fancy — of course it is but fancy — that he would have gladly gone o'er the dizzy height.

Miss Patricia stood rigid, her eyes round and her thin lips hung open. Mr. Passwater gulped and let his eyes seek the floor where they rested upon his wet feet, and suddenly looked therefrom, as though fright had overcome him; but Miss Patricia gave no sign of softening, and he murmured meekly:

'' But, my dear, my dear ! "

Miss Patricia tossed her head and sniffed:

*' Don't ' my dear ' me, Reuben Passwater. Sit down ! "

Mr. Passwater sat suddenly upon the hearth seat only to arise more suddenly, for Miss Patricia's knitting had been upon the seat. It was at this point that I snickered, and the bench upon which I sat within the shadow, creaked. Miss Patricia whirled and faced the shadow, her eyes straining to see what had made the sound. I quaked.

Miss Patricia came to the shadow, and my bench, slowly, her neck arched and her hands folded across her stomach, as I had seen them every Sabbath at the chapel since I could remember. She spoke no word to me, but reached out one thin hand and took me by the ear and led me forth to the light. I stood blinking. Miss Patricia stood waiting, I blinked more. Miss Patricia drew herself up and seemed to my youthful eyes to grow before me. Her thin lips snapped open and she suddenly shot the words:

'' Well ! what have you to say for yourself ? "

I quaked and looked to the red deer, but my eyes would not stay and sought timidly to Miss Patricia's face. This to my own undoing. Miss Patricia looked horrified and shook me by one shoulder:

'* Speak ! Speak, numbskull ! "

But my tongue was tied. I saw nothing but the two great moles. I seem to see myself now, as I write, scarce higher than the table hung of the black woolen scarf ; my small hands working in my woolen comforter; two flaxen braids hanging out of the folds of green wool; white and frightened, swallowing, and shutting my eyes not to see those moles work. Even do I feel the dry throat and the aching. Miss Patricia turned to Mr. Passwater and addressed him :

'' Look you, Reuben Passwater, this is the brat of the woman, Sally Trueblood."

Reuben squinted, his hands moved swiftly over his magenta waistcoat, and he remarked vaguely:

'' So it is. So it is. So it is."

Miss Patricia looked at Mr. Reuben Passwater in disgust and sneered:

'* So it is ! So it is ! Reuben Passwater, you are a fool. Since our pa died it seems that the family name is to fall upon a fool. Of course it is the woman's brat.''

Here I looked to Mr. Passwater, but he feared to look at me. I saw that he had two mild blue eyes, a small round head, a mouth too thick, and ears like his sister, Miss Patricia, thin and pale and outstanding; but he had not the moles. Again I turned my gaze to Miss Patricia only to be undone, for the moles would work. Miss Patricia perceived that I stared and shouted to me:

** What are you staring at? Come! what has brought you?"

Miss Patricia looked thunders upon me and shouted once more :

"What brought you?"

I stammered : *' Ma'am ? "

I swallowed hard and looked at the floor and timidly at Miss Patricia, and the moles worked.

'* Do they really move ? " I asked.

Miss Patricia shrieked : '' What ! "

" Move/' I replied solemnly.

Mr. Passwater made a sound. It may be but fancy, but I believe he laughed. Miss Patricia wheeled upon him. Mr. Passwater sighed and sat down upon the hearth's bench and stared into the fire. I stood waiting Miss Patricia's reply. She seemed to forget my query and stooped down to unwrap my comforter. Her hands were cold and hard. She scratched my chin and got her fingers mixed in my flaxen locks. All of this I stood, intently watching the moles.

Miss Patricia arose, brought forth a small hassock and a pewter plate, took me by the hand and led me to the hassock. I sat upon its edge and she put the cold pewter plate in my small pudgy hands. I remember that the plate was bright, brighter than any I had ever seen, and that it was heavy, and I wondered what she gave it to me for ; but I did not speak, thinking in my young mind that it was warm and Mr. Passwater was friendly. I waited.

" What brought you, now ? " said Miss Patricia, as she sat down and took up the jar of candle ends. I looked at her, but her head was turned and I answered :

'' Rudy Strong told me about them."

'' About what ? " asked Miss Patricia.

" The moles," I replied. '' He said they moved."

Miss Patricia turned, her jaw hung open and she crisply remarked : " Well ! "

'* They do," I sighed, fingering the pewter plate. '' But, I don't believe that your face sours the curds, nor that your tongue licks every pot in the village."

Miss Patricia arose suddenly and the candle ends bounded merrily in all ways. I stooped to gather them up, thinking what fine chewing they'd make. I bit one and it crumbled and the bits flew down my throat and I choked. Miss Patricia came to the rescue, beating upon my back, and, I may but fancy it, but it seemed that the beating upon my small back was overmuch. Miss Patricia shrieked to Mr. Passwater :

'' Reuben, bring a bowl of water ! "

Mr. Passwater looked dazed and his lips formed the words :

''Water? Yes, my dear, yes. Water."

And he moved slowly to an inner room to come back bearing the water and a flagon of port. Miss Patricia shoved the bowl's rim between my teeth and let the water pour over my frock's front, down my neck and even upon the carpet, and I choked once more.

" Look here," said Miss Patricia, *' youngens like you should be abed. Rudy Strong shall hear from this."

'' Yesum," I choked, '' yes — um."

" Sit down," said Miss Patricia.

'' Yesum," I answered, and sat upon the edge of the hassock. Miss Patricia went to the inner room and came back with a Scotch cake and a plum. These she put upon the pewter plate and gave to me. Then she seemed to forget that I was there and I sat munching the Scotch cake and protracting the occasion, thinking that the longer the cake lasted the plum would last.

Miss Patricia went to the fireside and sat beside Mr. Reuben Passwater. He was mulling port. He had removed his shoes and loosened his waistcoat. Miss Patricia spoke softly, and, as I write, I seem to smell the port and taste the crumbly cake and see the shadows and the moths that flickered about the lamp's wick. And bits of the conversation came idly to me, disconnected and meaning little, yet much.

'' The woman's a wanton." I remember Miss Patricia said this, and I bit the plum. Mr. Passwater seemed to listen, but never looked to Miss Patricia and his back was turned to me. '* It is shameful among Christians." I picked the crumbs carefully off the pewter plate and wondered

what was shameful. " Her mother- " Miss Patricia's

words sunk to whispers, and I swung my legs and licked my fingers. I do not remember that Mr. Passwater spoke, but there came to me Miss Patricia's words again.

" The man should be held up before the people. He is clothed in the garb of the hypocrite." I sucked the plum stone and wondered what a hypocrite was and if they were upon the road at night. " Sally Trueblood's brat ! " I looked to the sampler and read slowly, *' God is Love." And I wondered what a brat was.

Mr. Pass water seemed not to relish his port, and Miss Patricia sipped hers gingerly. I sneezed and Miss Patricia seemed not to hear me, but continued, '' Tis shameful."

I got from off the hassock and tiptoed over to the castle beneath the glass and stood wrapt. Beside it lay a book of prayer. It was thin and flat and black, and I knew it was Miss Patricia's. From this I went up to the what-all, and the lights played o'er it and I stood before it filled with wonder. Upon the third shelf was a china dog, with a babe upon its back. Oh, to touch this ! I turned stealthily and looked to Miss Patricia. She did not see. I reached forth one hand and tiptoed and it was mine. I hugged it close to make sure and the what-all shook and rattled. Miss Patricia was upon her feet in an instant and pounced upon me, taking me within her grasp so suddenly that I let fall the china dog. Miss Patricia gasped:

'' A thief ! My dear brother William's pet ! Oh, that the earth should be so sinful! Reuben Passwater, take this brat out of this house ! Shut her out ! "

And Miss Patricia shook me. I whimpered, and stooped to pick up the dog, tenderly, leaving my tears to fall upon it, and offered it to her hand sniffling. Miss Patricia took it and placed it upon the third shelf where it had stood and I backed away staring, my fingers within my mouth and the tears coursing down my cheeks. I knew what a thief was. Miss Patricia stared at me and looked at my feet, crying out :

" Why does your worthless mother leave you free in night's hour to visit Christian homes ? Your feet are upon the ground. Where are your better shoes ? "

" I haven't none, thanks. She has promised 'em at Mayin'."

This seemed to send Miss Patricia into a storm, for she rocked and shrieked and beat her bosom, crying out that the tongues of the village were lashes and that no Christian lo HOPE TRUEBLOOD

might dwell among them, stopping only to shout : ^' Take her away ! Take her away ! ''

Mr. Passwater stooped slowly and took up a shoe and put it on, then the other just as slowly. He arose and buttoned his vest, sighed, went for his greatcoat and made a sign to me to follow. We went out of a narrow hallway that smelled of mutton. Mr. Passwater opened the latch and we stepped into the night. I followed him, frightened, and he did not speak. I did not seem to fear Mr. Passwater, but the dark. He seemed silent, and, as I write, I see his dark form stooped and hear him step heavily and my light footfall following, pattering. I called :

''Mr. Passwater, they do move, don't they?''

He walked slowly for a long time, and I may fancy it, but I believe that he answered softly : '' Yes." I followed for a time and Mr. Passwater turned and stooped in the dark and asked :

" Where do you stay? "

" In the eaves of the Gray Eagle," I replied.

Mr. Passwater made a sound, a sort of long sound — '' U-u-u-m." We went upon our way. I was weary and I remember remarking:

" Mr. Passwater, your legs are long." And he suddenly stooped and took me up. I never before had been so high. Shall I ever forget it? I had seen the children of the village tossed so by their sires, but I had not a sire. I sighed and nestled down next to his shoulder, shutting my eyes and dreaming and — of course this is fancy, but it seemed to me that Reuben Passwater pressed his cheek to mine.

We had gone for some time so and I know that my tiny arms wound about his neck, but the dream ended.

We came to the Gray Eagle and, though I had not opened my eyes, I smelled it. It was dark and the dog barked and roused some fowls that set up sounds. Mr. Passwater loosened his hold upon me and I seemed to slip a great way down. I felt so small. My feet were numb and I reached up and held to his hand and pulled him down and I whispered :

HOPE TRUEBLOOD ii

" Mr. Passwater, I like her/'

He stood up and did not answer. I pulled him down once more and whispered: ''That beautiful worsted — did she do that?''

Mr. Passwater seemed not to understand. I whispered once more : " It says, ' God is Love.' Did she ? "

Mr. Passwater answered : '' No."

''Who then?" I asked.

"My mother."

" Are you a brat, Mr. Passwater ? You know she called me ' Sally Trueblood's brat.' What is a brat ? "

Mr. Passwater stooped down and took me to him and whispered soft : " A brat is an elf."

I knew what an elf was, for She had told me. I kissed Mr. Passwater upon the hand and sped to the dark doorway, calling out : " Good night ! " He seemed to tarry, then walked slowly into the dark, and of course even this may be fancy, but it seemed that the words came back soft to me, " Sarah Trueblood."

The dog barked as I slipped up the quaking stairway to the eaves and sought the cot. She slept and I sought her side and laid one small hand upon her. She sighed and caught my hand and kissed it, and I whispered, " Sarah Trueblood, I am your brat."

She did not answer and I made ready for sleep and lay wondering, seeming to see Miss Patricia's moles and I fell asleep listening. I thought it was blowing without, for a sighing sounded. But I know now she wept.

Chapter II

When I waked the rain roared upon the roof and the chill of night filled up the room. I sat up in my cot and rubbed my eyes open, yawned and looked to her cot. The light was still pale. I shivered and arose to hasten to her side. She lay huddled, shivering. I threw my small arms about her and let my lips press her cold cheek, saying:

'' Sally Trueblood, I love you."

She did not wake and I crept to her side beneath the covers that she might warm upon my body. I could not sleep, but lay watching a small hole in the roof where the rain dropped slowly through. I watched the gray-bright that showed through and knew that though it was raining the hour was late, and darkness was but the cloud.

Long we lay. I heard the dog arise and shake. He had slept next the hearth. I wondered why he might sleep there, and resolved in my small mind to watch the latch and wait the Gray Eagle's sleeping at some future time and sleep beside it, too. There was a high hearth in the Gray Eagle inn and it smoked in the wet tides; but when the days were crisp and cold it sparkled. I had watched from the doorstep and seen the shadows skip the walls and floors, and went upon wondrous travels in their changefulness.

I lay dreaming anew these dreams, and my back ached, for I feared to move lest I wake her. It was chill, and she coughed when the chill hung. Yes, this was a thing I knew too well; this, and that her cheeks flamed and her eyes seemed filled of tears. I turned my aching neck slowly to see her. Yes, her cheeks flamed and her lips were dry. I laid my cool hand upon them and touched her sweet locks that clung in damp curls unto her white brow. Her lids fluttered and opened and I kissed her and cried softly :

" Sally Trueblood, it is morning ! ''

17,

She did not smile, but this was no new thing. I waited, but she did not speak but lay gazing up to the roof as though she saw something there that I did not see.

'' I think," I whispered softly, laying my cheek to hers, "I think you are dreaming shadow-dreams, Sally Trueblood."

She did not smile. I stroked her burning cheek and wondered what to say. She drew herself up upon her elbow and coughed, and I seemed to feel within me, deep down, an aching. Suddenly I remembered and laughed, laughed until the empty eaves rattled, and I cried:

'' I know ! You are playing ! Look ! " And I puffed out my cheeks making a sound with my small fists, pushing out the air I had filled them with. She hid her eyes. ** Listen, Sally Trueblood, listen ! Hold out your white hand."

She held it forth — all too white and shaking. I kissed it.

'' Open up your eyes. Let me see the morning! "

She opened them slowly. Oh, the thing I saw not then is clear now !

*' I am hungry, Sally Trueblood, but listen ! I went last night to Miss Patricia's. You know, she has moles and they move, and she has Scotch cake and plums, and Mr. Reuben."

My mother suddenly arose and clung to the coverings, wrapping herself within them and coughing. She seemed like a slender reed in the wind, the cough swayed her so. I forgot Miss Patricia, for the doves awoke that nested in the chimney comer. I heard them coo and flutter and I sped to the spot, and found that they were wet. She busied at the cupboard and brought forth a cold mutton joint almost bare, and I knew that the Gray Eagle inn had souped.