The Passing of Sister Barsett
Mrs. Mercy Crane was of such firm persuasion that a house is meant tobe lived in, that during many years she was never known to leave herown neat two-storied dwelling-place on the Ridge road. Yet being veryfond of company, in pleasant weather she often sat in the side doorwaylooking out on her green yard, where the grass grew short and thickand was undisfigured even by a path toward the steps. All her fadedgreen blinds were securely tied together and knotted on the inside bypieces of white tape; but now and then, when the sun was not too hotfor her carpets, she opened one window at a time for a few hours,having pronounced views upon the necessity of light and air. AlthoughMrs. Crane was acknowledged by her best friends to be a peculiarperson and very set in her ways, she was much respected, and oneacquaintance vied with another in making up for her melancholyseclusion by bringing her all the news they could gather. She had beenleft alone many years before by the sudden death of her husband fromsunstroke, and though she was by no means poor, she had, as some onesaid, "such a pretty way of taking a little present that you couldn'thelp being pleased when you gave her anything."For a lover of society, such a life must have had its difficulties attimes, except that the Ridge road was more traveled than any other inthe township, and Mrs. Crane had invented a system of signals, towhich she always resorted in case of wishing to speak to some one ofher neighbors.The afternoon was wearing late, one day toward the end of summer, andMercy Crane sat in her doorway dressed in a favorite old-fashionedlight calico and a small shoulder shawl figured with large palmleaves. She was making some tatting of a somewhat intricate pattern;she believed it to be the prettiest and most durable of trimmings, andhaving decorated her own wardrobe in the course of unlimited leisure,she was now making a few yards apiece for each of her more intimatefriends, so that they might have something to remember her by. Shekept glancing up the road as if she expected some one, but the timewent slowly by, until at last a woman appeared to view, walking fast,and carrying a large bundle in a checked handkerchief.Then Mercy Crane worked steadily for a short time without looking up,until the desired friend was crossing the grass between the dusty roadand the steps. The visitor was out of breath, and did not respond tothe polite greeting of her hostess until she had recovered herself toher satisfaction. Mrs. Crane made her the kind offer of a glass ofwater or a few peppermints, but was answered only by a shake of thehead, so she resumed her work for a time until the silence should bebroken."I have come from the house of mourning," said Sarah Ellen Dow atlast, unexpectedly."You don't tell me that Sister Barsett"--"She's left us this time, she's really gone," and the excitednews-bringer burst into tears. The poor soul was completelyoverwrought; she looked tired and wan, as if she had spent her forcesin sympathy as well as hard work. She felt in her great bundle for apocket handkerchief, but was not successful in the search, and finallyproduced a faded gingham apron with long, narrow strings, with whichshe hastily dried her tears. The sad news appealed also to MercyCrane, who looked across to the apple-trees, and could not see themfor a dazzle of tears in her own eyes. The spectacle of Sarah EllenDow going home with her humble workaday possessions, from the housewhere she had gone in haste only a few days before to care for a sickperson well known to them both, was a very sad sight."You sent word yesterday that you should be returnin' early thisafternoon, and would stop. I presume I received the message as yougave it?" asked Mrs. Crane, who was tenacious in such matters; "but Ido declare I never looked to hear she was gone.""She's been failin' right along sence yisterday about this time," saidthe nurse. "She's taken no notice to speak of, an' been eatin' thevally o' nothin', I may say, sence I went there a-Tuesday. Her sistersboth come back yisterday, an' of course I was expected to give upcharge to them. They're used to sickness, an' both havin' such a namefor bein' great housekeepers!"Sarah Ellen spoke with bitterness, but Mrs. Crane was remindedinstantly of her own affairs. "I feel condemned that I ain't begun myown fall cleanin' yet," she said, with an ostentatious sigh."Plenty o' time to worry about that," her friend hastened to consoleher."I do desire to have everything decent about my house," resumed Mrs.Crane. "There's nobody to do anything but me. If I was to be takenaway sudden myself, I shouldn't want to have it said afterwards thatthere was wisps under my sofy or--There! I can't dwell on my owntroubles with Sister Barsett's loss right before me. I can't seem tobelieve she's really passed away; she always was saying she should goin some o' these spells, but I deemed her to be troubled with narves."Sarah Ellen Dow shook her head. "I'm all nerved up myself," she saidbrokenly. "I made light of her sickness when I went there first, I'dseen her what she called dreadful low so many times; but I saw herlooks this morning, an' I begun to believe her at last. Them sisterso' hers is the master for unfeelin' hearts. Sister Barsett wasa-layin' there yisterday, an' one of 'em was a-settin' right by hertellin' how difficult 't was for her to leave home, her niece wasgoin' to graduate to the high school, an' they was goin' to have atime in the evening, an' all the exercises promised to be extryinteresting. Poor Sister Barsett knew what she said an' looked at herwith contempt, an' then she give a glance at me an' closed up her eyesas if 't was for the last time. I know she felt it."Sarah Ellen Dow was more and more excited by a sense of bittergrievance. Her rule of the afflicted household had evidently beeninterfered with; she was not accustomed to be ignored and set aside atsuch times. Her simple nature and uncommon ability found satisfactionin the exercise of authority, but she had now left her post feelinghurt and wronged, besides knowing something of the pain of honestaffliction."If it hadn't been for esteemin' Sister Barsett as I always have done,I should have told 'em no, an' held to it, when they asked me to comeback an' watch to-night. 'T ain't for none o' their sakes, but SisterBarsett was a good friend to me in her way." Sarah Ellen broke downonce more, and felt in her bundle again hastily, but the handkerchiefwas again elusive, while a small object fell out upon the doorstepwith a bounce."'T ain't nothin' but a little taste-cake I spared out o' the loaf Ibaked this mornin'," she explained, with a blush. "I was so shoved outthat I seemed to want to turn my hand to somethin' useful an' feel Iwas still doin' for Sister Barsett. Try a little piece, won't you,Mis' Crane? I thought it seemed light an' good."They shared the taste-cake with serious enjoyment, and pronounced itvery good indeed when they had finished and shaken the crumbs out oftheir laps. "There's nobody but you shall come an' do for me at thelast, if I can have my way about things," said Mercy Craneimpulsively. She meant it for a tribute to Miss Dow's character andgeneral ability, and as such it was meekly accepted."You're a younger person than I be, an' less wore," said Sarah Ellen,but she felt better now that she had rested, and her conversationalpowers seemed to be refreshed by her share of the little cake. "DoctorBangs has behaved real pretty, I can say that," she continuedpresently in a mournful tone."Heretofore, in the sickness of Sister Barsett, I have always felt tohope certain that she would survive; she's recovered from a sight o'things in her day. She has been the first to have all the new diseasesthat's visited this region. I know she had the spinal mergeetis monthsbefore there was any other case about," observed Mrs. Crane withsatisfaction."An' the new throat troubles, all of 'em," agreed Sarah Ellen; "an'has made trial of all the best patent medicines, an' could tell youtheir merits as no one else could in this vicinity. She never was onethat depended on herbs alone, though she considered 'em extremelyuseful in some cases. Everybody has their herb, as we know, but I'mfree to say that Sister Barsett sometimes done everything she could tokill herself with such rovin' ways o' dosin'. She must see it nowshe's gone an' can't stuff down no more invigorators." Sarah Ellen Dowburst out suddenly with this, as if she could no longer contain herhonest opinion."There, there! you're all worked up," answered placid Mercy Crane,looking more interested than ever."An' she was dreadful handy to talk religion to other folks, but I'vecome to a realizin' sense that religion is somethin' besides opinions.She an' Elder French has been mostly of one mind, but I don't know'sthey've got hold of all the religion there is.""Why, why, Sarah Ellen!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, but there was stillsomething in her tone that urged the speaker to further expression ofher feelings. The good creature was much excited, her face was cloudedwith disapproval."I ain't forgettin' nothin' about their good points either," she wenton in a more subdued tone, and suddenly stopped."Preachin' 'll be done away with soon or late,--preachin' o' ElderFrench's kind," announced Mercy Crane, after waiting to see if herguest did not mean to say anything more. "I should like to read 'emout that verse another fashion: 'Be ye doers o' the word, notpreachers only,' would hit it about right; but there, it's easy forall of us to talk. In my early days I used to like to get out tomeetin' regular, because sure as I didn't I had bad luck all the week.I didn't feel pacified 'less I'd been half a day, but I was out allday the Sabbath before Mr. Barlow died as he did. So you mean to saythat Sister Barsett's really gone?"Mrs. Crane's tone changed to one of real concern, and her mannerindicated that she had put the preceding conversation behind her withdecision."She was herself to the last," instantly responded Miss Dow. "I seeher put out a thumb an' finger from under the spread an' pinch up afold of her sister Deckett's dress, to try an' see if 'twas all wool.I thought 'twa'n't all wool, myself, an' I know it now by the way shelooked. She was a very knowin' person about materials; we shall misspoor Mis' Barsett in many ways, she was always the one to consult withabout matters o' dress.""She passed away easy at the last, I hope?" asked Mrs. Crane withinterest."Why, I wa'n't there, if you'll believe it!" exclaimed Sarah Ellen,flushing, and looking at her friend for sympathy. "Sister Barsettrevived up the first o' the afternoon, an' they sent for Elder French.She took notice of him, and he exhorted quite a spell, an' then hespoke o' there being need of air in the room, Mis' Deckett havin'closed every window, an' she asked me of all folks if I hadn't betterstep out; but Elder French come too, an' he was very reasonable, an'had a word with me about Mis' Deckett an' Mis' Peak an' the way theywas workin' things. I told him right out how they never come near whenthe rest of us was havin' it so hard with her along in the spring, butnow they thought she was re'lly goin' to die, they come settlin' downlike a pair o' old crows in a field to pick for what they could get. Ijust made up my mind they should have all the care if they wanted it.It didn't seem as if there was anything more I could do for SisterBarsett, an' I set there in the kitchen within call an' waited, an'when I heard 'em sayin', 'There, she's gone, she's gone!' and Mis'Deckett a-weepin', I put on my bunnit and stepped myself out into theroad. I felt to repent after I had gone but a rod, but I was so workedup, an' I thought they'd call me back, an' then I was put out becausethey didn't, an' so here I be. I can't help it now." Sarah Ellen wascrying again; she and Mrs. Crane could not look at each other."Well, you set an' rest," said Mrs. Crane kindly, and with the merestshadow of disapproval. "You set an' rest, an' by an' by, if you'd feelbetter, you could go back an' just make a little stop an' inquireabout the arrangements. I wouldn't harbor no feelin's, if they beinconsiderate folks. Sister Barsett has often deplored their actionsin my hearing an' wished she had sisters like other folks. With allher faults she was a useful person an' a good neighbor," mourned MercyCrane sincerely. "She was one that always had somethin' interestin' totell, an' if it wa'n't for her dyin' spells an' all that sort o'nonsense, she'd make a figger in the world, she would so. She walkedwith an air always, Mis' Barsett did; you'd ask who she was if youhadn't known, as she passed you by. How quick we forget the outs aboutanybody that's gone! But I always feel grateful to anybody that'sfriendly, situated as I be. I shall miss her runnin' over. I can seemto see her now, coming over the rise in the road. But don't you get ina way of takin' things too hard, Sarah Ellen! You've worked yourselfall to pieces since I saw you last; you're gettin' to be as lean as ameetin'-house fly. Now, you're comin' in to have a cup o' tea with me,an' then you'll feel better. I've got some new molasses gingerbreadthat I baked this mornin'.""I do feel beat out, Mis' Crane," acknowledged the poor little soul,glad of a chance to speak, but touched by this unexpected mark ofconsideration. "If I could ha' done as I wanted to I should be feelin'well enough, but to be set aside an' ordered about, where I'd takenthe lead in sickness so much, an' knew how to deal with Sister Barsettso well! She might be livin' now, perhaps"--"Come; we'd better go in, 'tis gettin' damp," and the mistress of thehouse rose so hurriedly as to seem bustling. "Don't dwell on SisterBarsett an' her foolish folks no more; I wouldn't, if I was you."They went into the front room, which was dim with the twilight of thehalf-closed blinds and two great syringa bushes that grew againstthem. Sarah Ellen put down her bundle and bestowed herself in thelarge, cane-seated rocking-chair. Mrs. Crane directed her to staythere awhile and rest, and then come out into the kitchen when she gotready.A cheerful clatter of dishes was heard at once upon Mrs. Crane'sdisappearance. "I hope she's goin' to make one o' her niceshort-cakes, but I don't know's she'll think it quite worth while,"thought the guest humbly. She desired to go out into the kitchen, butit was proper behavior to wait until she should be called. Mercy Cranewas not a person with whom one could venture to take liberties.Presently Sarah Ellen began to feel better. She did not often findsuch a quiet place, or the quarter of an hour of idleness in which toenjoy it, and was glad to make the most of this opportunity. Just nowshe felt tired and lonely. She was a busy, unselfish, eager-mindedcreature by nature, but now, while grief was sometimes uppermost inher mind and sometimes a sense of wrong, every moment found her morepeaceful, and the great excitement little by little faded away."What a person poor Sister Barsett was to dread growing old so shecouldn't get about. I'm sure I shall miss her as much as anybody,"said Mrs. Crane, suddenly opening the kitchen door, and letting in anunmistakable and delicious odor of short-cake that revived still morethe drooping spirits of her guest. "An' a good deal of knowledge hasdied with her," she added, coming into the room and seeming to make itlighter."There, she knew a good deal, but she didn't know all, especially o'doctorin'," insisted Sarah Ellen from the rocking-chair, with anunexpected little laugh. "She used to lay down the law to me as if Ihad neither sense nor experience, but when it came to her bad spellsshe'd always send for me. It takes everybody to know everything, butSister Barsett was of an opinion that her information was sufficientfor the town. She was tellin' me the day I went there how she dislikedto have old Mis' Doubleday come an' visit with her, an' remarked thatshe called Mis' Doubleday very officious. 'Went right down on herknees an' prayed,' says she. 'Anybody would have thought I was aheathen!' But I kind of pacified her feelin's, an' told her I supposedthe old lady meant well.""Did she give away any of her things?--Mis' Barsett, I mean," inquiredMrs. Crane."Not in my hearin'," replied Sarah Ellen Dow. "Except one day, thefirst of the week, she told her oldest sister, Mis' Deckett,--'twasthat first day she rode over--that she might have her green quiltedpetticoat; you see it was a rainy day, an' Mis' Deckett had complainedo' feelin' thin. She went right up an' got it, and put it on an' woreit off, an' I'm sure I thought no more about it, until I heard SisterBarsett groanin' dreadful in the night. I got right up to see what thematter was, an' what do you think but she was wantin' that petticoatback, and not thinking any too well o' Nancy Deckett for takin' itwhen 'twas offered. 'Nancy never showed no sense o' propriety,' saysSister Barsett; I just wish you'd heard her go on!"If she had felt to remember me," continued Sarah Ellen, after theyhad laughed a little, "I'd full as soon have some of her nicecrockery-ware. She told me once, years ago, when I was stoppin' to teawith her an' we were havin' it real friendly, that she should leave meher Britannia tea-set, but I ain't got it in writin', and I can't sayshe's ever referred to the matter since. It ain't as if I had a homeo' my own to keep it in, but I should have thought a great deal of itfor her sake," and the speaker's voice faltered. "I must say that withall her virtues she never was a first-class housekeeper, but Iwouldn't say it to any but a friend. You never eat no preserves o'hers that wa'n't commencin' to work, an' you know as well as I howlittle forethought she had about putting away her woolens. I satbehind her once in meetin' when I was stoppin' with the Tremletts andso occupied a seat in their pew, an' I see between ten an' a dozenmoth millers come workin' out o' her fitch-fur tippet. They wasflutterin' round her bonnet same's 'twas a lamp. I should be mortifiedto death to have such a thing happen to me.""Every housekeeper has her weak point; I've got mine as much asanybody else," acknowledged Mercy Crane with spirit, "but you neversee no moth millers come workin' out o' me in a public place.""Ain't your oven beginning to get overhet?" anxiously inquired SarahEllen Dow, who was sitting more in the draught, and could not bear tohave any accident happen to the supper. Mrs. Crane flew to ashort-cake's rescue, and presently called her guest to the table.The two women sat down to deep and brimming cups of tea. Sarah Ellennoticed with great gratification that her hostess had put on two ofthe best tea-cups and some citron-melon preserves. It was not anevery-day supper. She was used to hard fare, poor, hard-working SarahEllen, and this handsome social attention did her good. Sister Cranerarely entertained a friend, and it would be a pleasure to speak ofthe tea-drinking for weeks to come."You've put yourself out quite a consid'able for me," sheacknowledged. "How pretty these cups is! You oughtn't to use 'em socommon as for me. I wish I had a home I could really call my own toask you to, but 't ain't never been so I could. Sometimes I wonderwhat's goin' to become o' me when I get so I'm past work. Takin' careo' sick folks an' bein' in houses where there's a sight goin' on an'everybody in a hurry kind of wears on me now I'm most a-gittin' inyears. I was wishin' the other day that I could get with somecomfortable kind of a sick person, where I could live right alongquiet as other folks do, but folks never sends for me 'less they'redrove to it. I ain't laid up anything to really depend upon."The situation appealed to Mercy Crane, well to do as she was and notburdened with responsibilities. She stirred uneasily in her chair, butcould not bring herself to the point of offering Sarah Ellen the homeshe coveted."Have some hot tea," she insisted, in a matter of fact tone, and SarahEllen's face, which had been lighted by a sudden eager hopefulness,grew dull and narrow again."Plenty, plenty, Mis' Crane," she said sadly, "'tis beautifultea,--you always have good tea;" but she could not turn her thoughtsfrom her own uncertain future. "None of our folks has ever lived to bea burden," she said presently, in a pathetic tone, putting down hercup. "My mother was thought to be doing well until four o'clock an'was dead at ten. My Aunt Nancy came to our house well at twelveo'clock an' died that afternoon; my father was sick but ten days.There was dear sister Betsy, she did go in consumption, but 'twa'n'tan expensive sickness.""I've thought sometimes about you, how you'd get past rovin' fromhouse to house one o' these days. I guess your friends will stand byyou." Mrs. Crane spoke with unwonted sympathy, and Sarah Ellen's heartleaped with joy."You're real kind," she said simply. "There's nobody I set so much by.But I shall miss Sister Barsett, when all's said an' done. She's askedme many a time to stop with her when I wasn't doin' nothin'. We allhave our failin's, but she was a friendly creatur'. I sha'n't want tosee her laid away.""Yes, I was thinkin' a few minutes ago that I shouldn't want to lookout an' see the funeral go by. She's one o' the old neighbors. Is'pose I shall have to look, or I shouldn't feel right afterward,"said Mrs. Crane mournfully. "If I hadn't got so kind of housebound,"she added with touching frankness, "I'd just as soon go over with youan' offer to watch this night.""'T would astonish Sister Barsett so I don't know but she'd return."Sarah Ellen's eyes danced with amusement; she could not resist her ownjoke, and Mercy Crane herself had to smile."Now I must be goin', or 'twill be dark," said the guest, rising andsighing after she had eaten her last crumb of gingerbread. "Yes, thankye, you're real good, I will come back if I find I ain't wanted. Lookwhat a pretty sky there is!" and the two friends went to the side doorand stood together in a moment of affectionate silence, looking outtoward the sunset across the wide fields. The country was still withthat deep rural stillness which seems to mean the absence of humanity.Only the thrushes were singing far away in the walnut woods beyond theorchard, and some crows were flying over and cawed once loudly, as ifthey were speaking to the women at the door.Just as the friends were parting, after most grateful acknowledgmentsfrom Sarah Ellen Dow, some one came driving along the road in a hurryand stopped."Who's that with you, Mis' Crane?" called one of their near neighbors."It's Sarah Ellen Dow," answered Mrs. Crane. "What's the matter?""I thought so, but I couldn't rightly see. Come, they are in a peck o'trouble up to Sister Barsett's, wonderin' where you be," grumbled theman. "They can't do nothin' with her; she's drove off everybody an'keeps a-screechin' for you. Come, step along, Sarah Ellen, do!""Sister Barsett!" exclaimed both the women. Mercy Crane sank down uponthe doorstep, but Sarah Ellen stepped out upon the grass all of atremble, and went toward the wagon. "They said this afternoon thatSister Barsett was gone," she managed to say. "What did they mean?""Gone where?" asked the impatient neighbor. "I expect 'twas one of herspells. She's come to; they say she wants somethin' hearty for hertea. Nobody can't take one step till you get there, neither."Sarah Ellen was still dazed; she returned to the doorway, where MercyCrane sat shaking with laughter. "I don't know but we might as welllaugh as cry," she said in an aimless sort of way. "I know you toowell to think you're going to repeat a single word. Well, I'll get mybonnet an' start; I expect I've got considerable to cope with, but I'mwell rested. Good-night, Mis' Crane, I certain did have a beautifultea, whatever the future may have in store."She wore a solemn expression as she mounted into the wagon in hasteand departed, but she was far out of sight when Mercy Crane stoppedlaughing and went into the house.
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