IX
A GRAND WOMAN
There was but one topic discussed in the country-side that day, and thatwas the life and character of Agatha Webb.
Her history had not been a happy one. She and Philemon had come fromPortchester some twenty or more years before to escape the sorrowsassociated with their native town. They had left behind them six smallgraves in Portchester churchyard; but though evidences of theiraffliction were always to be seen in the countenances of either, theyhad entered with so much purpose into the life of their adopted townthat they had become persons of note there till Philemon's health beganto fail, when Agatha quit all outside work and devoted herselfexclusively to him. Of her character and winsome personality we cangather some idea from the various conversations carried on that day fromPortchester Green to the shipyards in Sutherlandtown.
In Deacon Brainerd's cottage, the discussion was concerning Agatha'slack of vanity; a virtue not very common at that time among the women ofthis busy seaport.
"For a woman so handsome," the good deacon was saying "(and I think Ican safely call her the finest-featured woman who ever trod thesestreets), she showed as little interest in dress as anyone I ever knew.Calico at home and calico at church, yet she looked as much of a lady inher dark-sprigged gowns as Mrs. Webster in her silks or Mrs. Parsons inher thousand-dollar sealskin."
As this was a topic within the scope of his eldest daughter'sintelligence she at once spoke up: "I never thought she needed to dressso plainly. I don't believe in such a show of poverty myself. If one istoo poor to go decent, all right; but they say she had more money thanmost anyone in town. I wonder who is going to get the benefit of it?"
"Why, Philemon, of course; that is, as long as he lives. He doubtlesshad the making of it."
"Is it true that he's gone clean out of his head since her death?"interposed a neighbour who had happened in.
"So they say. I believe widow Jones has taken him into her house."
"Do you think," asked a second daughter with becoming hesitation, "thathe had anything to do with her death? Some of the neighbours say hestruck her while in one of his crazy fits, while others declare she waskilled by some stranger, equally old and almost as infirm."
"We won't discuss the subject," objected the deacon. "Time will show whorobbed us of the greatest-hearted and most capable woman in theseparts."
"And will time show who killed Batsy?" It was a morsel of a girl whospoke; the least one of the family, but the brightest. "I'm sorry forBatsy; she always gave me cookies when I went to see Mrs. Webb."
"Batsy was a good girl for a Swede," allowed the deacon's wife, who hadnot spoken till now. "When she first came into town on the spars of thatwrecked ship we all remember, there was some struggle between Agatha andme as to which of us should have her. But I didn't like the task ofteaching her the name of every pot and pan she had to use in thekitchen, so I gave her up to Agatha; and it was fortunate I did, forI've never been able to understand her talk to this day."
"I could talk with her right well," lisped the little one. "She nevercalled things by their Swedish names unless she was worried; and I neverworried her."
"I wonder if she would have worshipped the ground under your feet, asshe did that under Agatha's?" asked the deacon, eying his wife with justthe suspicion of a malicious twinkle in his eye.
"I am not the greatest-hearted and most capable woman in town," retortedhis wife, clicking her needles as she went on knitting.
In Mr. Sprague's house on the opposite side of the road, Squire Fisherwas relating some old tales of bygone Portchester days. "I knew Agathawhen she was a girl," he avowed. "She had the grandest manners and themost enchanting smile of any rich or poor man's daughter between thecoast and Springfield. She did not dress in calico then. She wore thegayest clothes her father could buy. her, and old Jacob was not withoutmeans to make his daughter the leading figure in town. How we youngfellows did adore her, and what lengths we went to win one of herglorious smiles! Two of us, John and James Zabel, have lived bachelorsfor her sake to this very day; but I hadn't courage enough for that; Imarried and"--something between a sigh and a chuckle filled out thesentence.
"What made Philemon carry off the prize? His good looks?"
"Yes, or his good luck. It wasn't his snap; of that you may be sure.James Zabel had the snap, and he was her first choice, too, but he gotinto some difficulty--I never knew just what it was, but it was regardedas serious at the time--and that match was broken off. Afterwards shemarried Philemon. You see, I was out of it altogether; had never been init, perhaps; but there were three good years of my life in which Ithought of little else than Agatha. I admired her spirit, you see. Therewas something more taking in her ways than in her beauty, wonderful asthat was. She ruled us with a rod of iron, and yet we worshipped her. Ihave wondered to see her so meek of late. I never thought she would besatisfied with a brick-floored cottage and a husband of failing wits.But no one, to my knowledge, has ever heard a complaint from her lips;and the dignity of her afflicted wife-hood has far transcended thehaughtiness of those days when she had but to smile to have all theyouth of Portchester at her feet."
"I suppose it was the loss of so many children that reconciled her to aquiet life. A woman cannot close the eyes of six children, one after theother, without some modification taking place in her character."
"Yes, she and Philemon have been unfortunate; but she was a splendidlooking girl, boys. I never see such grand-looking women now."
In a little one-storied cottage on the hillside a woman was nursing ababy and talking at the same time of Agatha Webb.
"I shall never forget the night my first baby fell sick," she faltered;"I was just out of bed myself, and having no nearer neighbours then thannow, I was all alone on the hillside, Alec being away at sea. I was tooyoung to know much about sickness, but something told me that I musthave help before morning or my baby would die. Though I could just walkacross the floor, I threw a shawl around me, took my baby in my arms,and opened the door. A blinding gust of rain blew in. A terrible stormwas raging and I had not noticed it, I was so taken up with the child.
"I could not face that gale. Indeed, I was so weak I fell on my knees asit struck me and became dripping wet before I could drag myself inside.The baby began to moan and everything was turning dark before me, when Iheard a strong, sweet voice cry out in the roadway:
"'Is there room in this house for me till the storm has blown by? Icannot see my way down the hillside.'
"With a bursting heart I looked up. A woman was standing in the doorway,with the look of an angel in her eyes. I did not know her, but her facewas one to bring comfort to the saddest heart. Holding up my baby, Icried:
"'My baby is dying; I tried to go for the doctor, but my knees bentunder me. Help me, as you are a mother--I--- '
"I must have fallen again, for the next thing I remember I was lying bythe hearth, looking up into her face, which was bending over me. She waswhite as the rag I had tied about my baby's throat, and by the way herbreast heaved she was either very much frightened or very sorry.
"'I wish you had the help of anyone else,' said she. 'Babies perish inmy arms and wither at my breast. I cannot touch it, much as I yearn to.But let me see its face; perhaps I can tell you what is the matter withit.'
"I showed her the baby's face, and she bent over it, trembling verymuch, almost as much indeed as myself.
"'It is very sick,' she said, 'but if you will use the remedies Iadvise, I think you can save it.' And she told me what to do, and helpedme all she could; but she did not lay a finger on the little darling,though from the way she watched it I saw that her heart was set on hisgetting better. And he did; in an hour he was sleeping peacefully, andthe terrible weight was gone from my heart and from hers. When the stormstopped, and she could leave the house, she gave me a kiss; but the lookshe gave him meant more than kisses. God must have forgotten hergoodness to me that night when He let her die so pitiable a death."
At the minister's h
ouse they were commenting upon the look of serenityobservable in her dead face.
"I have known her for thirty years," her pastor declared, "and neverbefore have I seen her wear a look of real peace. It is wonderful,considering the circumstances. Do you think she was so weary of herlife's long struggle that she hailed any release from it, even that ofviolence?"
A young man, a lawyer, visiting them from New York, was the only one toanswer.
"I never saw the woman you are talking about," said he, "and knownothing of the circumstances of her death beyond what you have told me.But from the very incongruity between her expression and the violentnature of her death, I argue that there are depths to this crime whichhave not yet been sounded."
"What depths? It is a simple case of murder followed by theft. To besure we do not yet know the criminal, but money was his motive; that isclear enough."
"Are you ready to wager that that is all there is to it?"
This was a startling proposition to the minister.
"You forget my cloth," said he.
The young man smiled. "That is true. Pardon me. I was only anxious toshow how strong my conviction was against any such easy explanation of acrime marked by such contradictory features."
Two children on the Portchester road were exchanging boyish confidences.
"Do you know what I think about it?" asked one.
"Naw! How should I?"
"Wall, I think old Mrs. Webb got the likes of what she sent. Don't youknow she had six children once, and that she killed every one of them?"
"Killed'em--she?"
"Yes, I heard her tell granny once all about it. She said there was ablight on her house--I don't know what that is; but I guess it'ssomething big and heavy--and that it fell on every one of her children,as fast as they came, and killed 'em."
"Then I'm glad I ben't her child."
Very different were the recollections interchanged between twomiddle-aged Portchester women.
"She was drinking tea at my house when her sister Sairey came running inwith the news that the baby she had left at home wasn't quite right.That was her first child, you know."
"Yes, yes, for I was with her when that baby came," broke in the other,"and such joy as she showed when they told her it was alive and well Inever saw. I do not know why she didn't expect it to be alive, but shedidn't, and her happiness was just wonderful to see."
"Well, she didn't enjoy it long. The poor little fellow died young. ButI was telling you of the night when she first heard he was ailing.Philemon had been telling a good story, and we were all laughing, whenSairey came in. I can see Agatha now. She always had the most brillianteyes in the county, but that day they were superbly dazzling. Theychanged, though, at the sight of Sairey's face, and she jumped to meether just as if she knew what Sairey was going to say before ever a wordleft her lips. 'My baby!' (I can hear her yet.) 'Something is the matterwith the baby!' And though Sairey made haste to tell her that he wasonly ailing and not at all ill, she turned upon Philemon with a looknone of us ever quite understood; he changed so completely under it,just as she had under Sairey's; and to neither did the old happinessever return, for the child died within a week, and when the next came itdied also, and the next, till six small innocents lay buried in yonderold graveyard."
"I know; and sad enough it was too, especially as she and Philemon wereboth fond of children. Well, well, the ways of Providence are pastrinding out! And now she is gone and Philemon---"
"Ah, he'll follow her soon; he can't live without Agatha."
Nearer home, the old sexton was chattering about the six gravestonesraised in Portchester churchyard to these six dead infants. He had beensent there to choose a spot in which to lay the mother, and was full ofthe shock it gave him to see that line of little stones, telling of apast with which the good people of Sutherlandtown found it hard toassociate Philemon and Agatha Webb.
"I'm a digger of graves," he mused, half to himself and half to his oldwife watching him from the other side of the hearthstone. "I spend agood quarter of my time in the churchyard; but when I saw those sixlittle mounds, and read the inscriptions over them, I couldn't helpfeeling queer. Think of this! On the first tiny headstone I read thesewords:"
STEPHEN,
Son of Philemon and Agatha Webb,
Died, Aged Six Weeks.
God be merciful to me a sinner!
"Now what does that mean? Did you ever hear anyone say?"
"No," was his old wife's answer. "Perhaps she was one of those Calvinistfolks who believe babies go to hell if they are not baptised."
"But her children were all baptised. I've been told so; some of thembefore she was well out of her bed. 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'And the chick not six weeks old! Something queer about that, dame, if itdid happen more than thirty years ago."
"What did you see over the grave of the child who was killed in her armsby lightning?"
"This:
"'And he was not, for God took him.'"
Farmer Waite had but one word to say:
"She came to me when my Sissy had the smallpox; the only person in townwho would enter my doors. More than that; when Sissy was up and I wentto pay the doctor's bill I found it had been settled. I did not knowthen who had enough money and compassion to do this for me; now I do."
Many an act of kindness which had been secretly performed in that townduring the last twenty years came to light on that day, the most notableof which was the sending of a certain young lad to school and hissubsequent education as a minister.
But other memories of a sweeter and more secret nature still came uplikewise, among them the following:
A young girl, who was of a very timid but deeply sensitive nature, hadbeen urged into an engagement with a man she did not like. Though theconflict this occasioned her and the misery which accompanied it wereapparent to everybody, nobody stirred in her behalf but Agatha. She wentto see her, and, though it was within a fortnight of the wedding, shedid not hesitate to advise the girl to give him up, and when the poorchild said she lacked the courage, Agatha herself went to the man andurged him into a display of generosity which saved the poor, timid thingfrom a life of misery. They say this was no easy task for Agatha, andthat the man was sullen for a year. But the girl's gratitude wasboundless.
Of her daring, which was always on the side of right and justice, thestories were numerous; so were the accounts, mostly among the women, ofher rare tenderness and sympathy for the weak and the erring. Never wasa man talked to as she talked to Jake Cobleigh the evening after hestruck his mother, and if she had been in town on the day when ClarissaMayhew ran away with that Philadelphia adventurer many said it wouldnever have happened, for no girl could stand the admonition, or resistthe pleading, of this childless mother.
It was reserved for Mr. Halliday and Mr. Sutherland to talk of hermental qualities. Her character was so marked and her manner so simplethat few gave attention to the intellect that was the real basis of herpower. The two mentioned gentlemen, however, appreciated her to thefull, and it was while listening to their remarks that Frederick wassuddenly startled by some one saying to him:
"You are the only person in town who have nothing to say about AgathaWebb. Didn't you ever exchange any words with her?--for I can hardlybelieve you could have met her eye to eye without having some remark tomake about her beauty or her influence."
The speaker was Agnes Halliday, who had come in with her father for asocial chat. She was one of Frederick's earliest playmates, but one withwhom he had never assimilated and who did not like him. He knew this, asdid everyone else in town, and it was with some hesitation he turned toanswer her.
"I have but one recollection," he began, and for the moment got nofarther, for in turning his head to address his young guest he hadallowed his gaze to wander through the open window by which she sat,into the garden beyond, where Amabel could be seen picking flowers. Ashe spoke, Amabel lifted her face with one of her suggestive looks. Shehad doubtless heard Miss Halliday's
remark.
Recovering himself with an effort, he repeated his words: "I have butone recollection of Mrs. Webb that I can give you. Years ago when I wasa lad I was playing on the green with several other boys. We had hadsome dispute about a lost ball, and I was swearing angrily and loud whenI suddenly perceived before me the tall form and compassionate face ofMrs. Webb. She was dressed in her usual simple way, and had a basket onher arm, but she looked so superior to any other woman I had ever metthat I did not know whether to hide my face in her skirts or to followmy first impulse and run away. She saw the emotion she had aroused, andlifting up my face by the chin, she said: 'Little boy, I have buried sixchildren, all of them younger than you, and now my husband and myselflive alone. Often and often have I wished that one at least of thesedarling infants might have been spared us. But had God given me thechoice of having them die young and innocent, or of growing up to swearas I have heard you to-day, I should have prayed God to take them, as Hedid. You have a mother. Do not break her heart by taking in vain thename of the God she reveres.' And with that she kissed me, and, strangeas it may seem to you, in whatever folly or wickedness I have indulged,I have never made use of an oath from that day to this--and I thank Godfor it."
There was such unusual feeling in his voice, a feeling that none hadever suspected him capable of before, that Miss Halliday regarded himwith astonishment and quite forgot to indulge in her usual banter. Eventhe gentlemen sat still, and there was a momentary silence, throughwhich there presently broke the incongruous sound of a shrill andmocking laugh.
It came from Amabel, who had just finished gathering her bouquet in thegarden outside.