Namesakes

I

MARY ANN had never seen her except as a dear old lady lying in bed, her hair almost as white as the snowy folds of her cap, the expression of her face so sweet, especially when she was looking down into Mary Ann’s own little upturned face, that sometimes, familiar with it as she was, she would cry out admiringly, ‘ Grandmother, in thy fresh cap thee’s lovely!’ Or, stroking her withered cheek softly to prove it, ‘Grandmother, thy hands are hard, but thy cheeks are as soft as a gray pussy-willow.’

It was not only because she was born on her grandmother’s birthday and had her name, that there was such a depth of affection between them, but that helped. ‘I’m glad we’re namesakes!’ she would exclaim every now and then; and often when she did not say it, her eyes said it for her. How well she remembered that very first morning of all!

‘ Cousin Pamela took me in to thee. “What’s thee think of thy namesake?” she said. Thee was so surprised! Thee did n’t see how it could be. Thee’d heard no commotion in the night, and yet there I was. It must be me! “Well, well! Mary Ann, does thee say it’s to be? Why did n’t she find a pretty name?” Thee pretended thee did n’t like it, and then thee was the very first one to call me that. “Dear little Mary Ann!” thee said, just as thee says it now.’

Their love for each other was so great that though one Mary Ann belonged to her father and mother, and the other to all the valley, they belonged to each other first of all. When Mary Ann was there in the room her grandmother’s eyes followed her with delight, and involuntarily, while the little girl was gone, she kept listening for the crescendo of her little step coming up the steep wooden stairs. How often the grandmother’s mind went back to one autumn day when Mary Ann came in with a lapful of gay leaves that her mother had been teaching her to name.

‘Here, grandmother,’ she said, holding one up, ‘here’s a leaf that fell from a maple tree, and here is one from an oak. And here,’ she said softly, holding up a tiny feather, ‘here’s a leaf that fell from a little bird.’

When she opened her eyes from one of her little ‘ cat-naps,’ it was upon that little figure that she loved to focus her wakening thoughts. And if, as in these latter years, her dreams had taken her back to other days, and had waked up voices long since silent, the little girl was a dear welcome back into a world that without her would have been too lonely. Was it because her grandmother’s last conscious thoughts had been of Mary Ann that in these dreams she was so often a little girl herself again, — living over again the forgotten happenings of her childhood, helping her mother in the familiar old kitchen of the house where she was born, listening to the noisy splash of her father’s mill-wheel, or taking her happy way through fields and woods that only in her dreams would ever again be as they were?

II

To Mary Ann there was the rest of the house and her grandmother’s room. Even the world outside was different as she looked down upon it from there; the changing seasons told her their story better than they did when she was down in the gardens below, and there was no tree in the world like the great maple tree outside the window. To sit curled up on the window-sill and look out into its green swaying branches was to live for a while in a world of tree-top and sky. When she looked back into the room again, how much of intimate snugness its four walls held!

Mary Ann loved everything in that room, from the great white-curtained bed where her grandmother lay, to her own little stool by the fire. It was a soft coal fire, glowing red behind the black bars of the grate. Long hours at a time, while her grandmother slept, Mary Ann sat before it, forgetting the patchwork pinned to her knee, forgetting everything but the song the fire sang; for it sang, oh, of everything that ever was or would be. It sang of the Valley in the old days, when everything was green still. It sang of the Little Girl in Homespun that her grandmother used to be — that ridiculous little girl who cried because she was lost once, right where this house stood now. It sang of funny things and pretty things. Of apple trees all pink with blossom, of bluebirds and bees; of ferns in the shady woods, and mint by the streams; of pebble-bordered paths that led through gardens rich with bloom; of morning-glories in the sun, and roses wet with dew; of butterflies, of rainbows, of cobwebs in the grass, of frost on the window-panes, and icicles from the roof.

Sometimes the ticking of the old clock in the corner would break in upon the song, and Mary Ann would step over softly to open the door and peep down at the swaying weights, and wonder again how it ever came to be, for it seemed like something alive, especially when she looked up at the ruddy face of the Man in the Moon jovially peeping down at her over the edge of the dial.

Often it was the Robin on the Vase who interrupted the song. He was sitting up on the mantelpiece beside the Shell. The Shell was lovely, with its pearly spirals rising to the dome, and the funny thing about it was that she could look up and listen and listen, and not hear a thing, but when she climbed on a chair and held it up against her ear she could hear the waves break, and see the white foam spreading on the shore. But the Robin sang to her clear across the room. He was sitting on a twig of cherry-blossoms, his red breast as plump as a robin’s could be, his head cocked on one side, looking at her.

‘When thee watches his bright little eyes can’t thee just hear his chirp?’ her grandmother would say sometimes. Of all the birds that gladdened her life, the robin was her favorite. But the Robin on the Vase was the best of all, for he did not go when the other robins did, but stayed on to cheer them through the snow and the cold, and the long winter days. ‘And no matter when it is he sings,’ she would say, as Mary Ann stood by the bed looking over to him with her, ‘there is something in his cheery song that reminds thee of soft spring evenings, when the grass is turning green again, and the apple trees are pink.’

‘Oh, grandmother! he’s realer than a real robin!’ Mary Ann would cry.

But Mary Ann had other things to do in that room than listen to the Robin and the Clock and the Fire. Of all the household she knew she was the only one her grandmother liked to have wait on her. To every one else it was, ‘Now what did thee bother with that for?’ But to Mary Ann herself it was, ‘Thy little feet must be my feet. Run to the window and tell me what thee sees.’ Or, ‘Thy two eyes must be my glass. Tell me, does my cap set straight? ’

‘Mother comes in handy for some things,’Mary Ann admitted generously. ‘But there isn’t much we can’t manage, is there?’

All without being told she would pull down the blind to shut out the ray of light that shone in her grandmother’s eyes; would find the little shawl and put it about her shoulders; would slip the little pillow under her back, or take it out and warm it by the fire; or, if it had no ‘life,’ take it and shake it till it all fluffed out again.

‘Now has it?’ she would ask, her cheeks red with the effort.

Best of all she liked to go to the cupboard for things. The very idea of the cupboard pleased her, with its door that was just like any other door, and yet led to so much. ‘Everything thee wants, but does n’t want around,’ she would say sometimes, stopping for another look before she shut the door again upon its riches. Last of all, she would find her soft little cloth and dust the daguerreotype of her grandfather on the little cherry stand by the bed.

‘I never saw him,’ she would muse sometimes regretfully. ‘But thee was well acquainted with him, was n’t thee?’

If her grandmother seemed restless she would get up from her little stool with a worried look. ‘Grandmother,’ she would say, ‘does thee feel a draught?’ She was always trying to think up things that would help. One day when a dose of ‘pepper-tea’ had brought relief, she turned, half-way down the stairs with the empty cup, to fly back.

‘Grandmother,’ she cried, ‘if thee just lived on pepper-tea would n’t thee soon be well?’

On the opposite wall, looking over to her grandmother as she lay in bed, was the Good Shepherd leading his flock. His face was kind, as kind as her grandmother’s, and his heart was kind too, for one little lamb, too weak to follow, He carried all the way in his arms. It was her grandmother’s greatest treasure. Oftener than she looked at the Robin or the Shell her eyes sought the face of the Good Shepherd, and rested there. Mary Ann liked to look at Him too. Standing by the bedside, her hand in her grandmother’s, she learned to repeat with her the words of her favorite Psalm, ‘The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.’ And the words of the Psalm so blended themselves with the picture before her that all her life long the sight of nibbling sheep had a biblical savor to her eyes.

Often, when her grandmother was asleep, and no one else was in the room, she would go over and talk to Him.

‘I’m glad thee does n’t go to sleep,’ she would say. ‘Does n’t thee care about anything but just lambs? Does n’t thee love little calves and chickens? ’ ‘Perhaps the little calves were all having a drink from their mother when thee started off,’ she decided. ‘And the little colts were all tagging the buggy, and the little chickens were having fun scratching up worms, but the little lambs did n’t have anything to do but come. I’m glad they came!’

Mary Ann loved the Good Shepherd, but better still she loved that little lamb He carried in his arms, that little lamb too young to follow. Sometimes she would put her hand up softly to stroke it. Then she would look up till her eyes met those of the Good Shepherd.

‘Thee’s like me,’ she would whisper. ‘Thee loves that littlest sheep best.’

One day her grandmother said, ‘ Look at the picture of the Good Shepherd for me. I cannot see it well across the room, but thee can see it for me. And when the time comes that thee does n’t need to see it for me any longer, then it shall be thine, and when thy eyes rest on it thee’ll always think of thy old grandmother who could n’t stay with thee any longer, because the Good Shepherd had called her to Him.’

Mary Ann came over to the bedside. ‘Is thee going away?’ she asked in startled surprise. ‘Won’t thee always be here in bed?’

‘Not always. Some day I must leave thee.’

‘No, no,’ Mary Ann reassured her. ‘When thee goes I’ll go with thee. Was I ever there?’

‘Sometimes I think thee came from there. But thee can’t come now. Thee’s not ready yet.’

‘If old Hannah came to help in the kitchen could n’t mother get me ready ? ’

‘Thee can’t come yet because the Good Shepherd has n’t called thee. Thee does n’t see yet — thee does n’t need to; but some day thee will.’

‘Won’t He call us together?’

‘No; ’t is not often He calls two at once. Sometimes when He calls a young mother He lets the little one come too, that it may not cry for her in vain. Sometimes when He calls a little baby he bids the mother follow where her heart is, but only those two does He often call together. Some day when I fall asleep He will come to me in a dream and bid me follow Him, and when I awake I shall be with Him. Sometimes,’ she murmured to herself, ‘I almost long to be at rest.’

‘ Thee longs sometimes to be at rest! ’ Mary Ann echoed, with a humorous little twinkle. ‘Well, grandmother! What’s thee doing but resting now?’

Her grandmother never spoke any more of going away, and the idea became remote with Mary Ann, but it did n’t quite leave her mind. Sometimes when she was looking up at the Good Shepherd’s face she remembered that some day He was to call her, and then a vision would rise in her mind of her grandmother’s starting off on a long, long journey. One day toward the end of summer, she happened to think of it.

‘I must finish the quilt before she goes,’ she thought.

Ever since she had first learned to hold a needle in her hand she had been sewing patches for a quilt for her grandmother, and now what a great space they would cover! She waited till her grandmother had fallen asleep, then she brought them from the cupboard and spread them out to see; but they only made two little rows up and down the hearthrug. When she looked over to the great expanse of the big fourposter, two big tears gathered in her eyes. What she had done was nothing! But by the time her grandmother had waked she had had a happy thought.

‘Grandmother,’ she said, ‘if that quilt covered thee all up, would thee mind if it did n’t cover the rest of the bed?’

With her grandmother’s answer she was content, though something in the voice arrested her.

‘Grandmother,’ she said, ‘thy voice shakes to-day, just like thy hands. Is it because thee’s cold, like the little birds in the snow? When thee has my quilt over thee, thee’ll never be cold any more, will thee?’

Her grandmother only bent over and kissed her. Her lips were shaking too. ‘Would thee like a bit of sugar with lavender on it?’ she said.

III

Every one knew that Mary Ann’s grandmother was failing, every one but Mary Ann. Nowadays it wearied her when her old friends came in to see her; she only half followed their tales of neighborhood doings, and forgot them when told. Sometimes she even forgot to ask for those who were sick. Other children tired her. She loved to see the babies they brought in, but it was evident that it wearied her to watch them. Sometimes when the others had all gone out she would look over at Mary Ann, so happy and so busy, and gradually the rested look would come back to her face. ‘Mary Ann,’ she would say, calling her nearer, ‘I’m glad thee’s just as thee is.’

Only on her worst days she had them keep Mary Ann outside. When she said, ‘Thee can tell Mary Ann to play outside a little while,’ it was an admission of suffering that nothing else could have wrung from her. And when, after a while, she would look around, half querulously, half forgetfully, to ask, ‘What’s thee done with Mary Ann?’then they knew that the worst was over.

Summer was just giving place to autumn when Mary Ann was ready for the quilting. The grapes were purple on the vine, and one branch of the great maple tree outside the window was red like a scarlet plume. It was a perfect autumn, of abundant, harvests and warm bright days, just such a season as her grandmother had always loved. Something of its warm sunny peace seemed to come in through the open windows, clear to the bedside. All through the room there was a quiet like that of the still woods, or the harvested fields lying warm in the sun.

To one another they all spoke softly, but to her grandmother they raised their voices. Even Mary Ann by her side would have to speak twice. ‘Hear that cricket!’ she would exclaim; but her grandmother had not even heard her voice. Often when Mary Ann looked in she was sleeping. When she opened her eyes and caught sight of Mary Ann with her question all ready, she smiled as though she had heard, but ‘Dear little Mary Ann!’ was all her answer,

On the morning of her eightieth birthday, not at crack of dawn, as Mary Ann had begged, but later on, when the sun was high in the sky, they called the little girl to come in, for her grandmother had wakened from a long stupor. Her eyes seemed unconsciously to search the room for something that was not there, nor was anything they offered what she meant. After a while she became conscious herself what it was, and then with great difficulty, in words they had to bend over to catch, she gave voice to the old plaint, ’What ’s-thee-done-with-MaryAnn?’

Mary Ann was too excited to notice that every one else was sad, or to remember that she was to be very quiet. Proud and happy, she came running in with the quilt in her arms, and spread it out on the bed in all its variegated length.

‘Look, grandmother!’ she cried.

But her grandmother did n’t seem to understand at once. When she spoke, her voice was thick and strange, like a voice from far away.

‘Why, it’s little Mary Ann! Can’t thee come nearer? What’s that thee’s got?’

‘It’s thy quilt!’ Mary Ann cried delightedly. ‘This is thy birthday. Did thee forget ? ’

‘Well, well! And so thee made it for me with thy two little hands! Dearlittle-Mary-Ann! ’

‘Thee was n’t skimped on the cotton, either! Feel! Thee’d never guess how many pennies’ worth.’

‘No, warm and thick. Cover me up with it, so. Now I’ll sleep. Thank thee, dear little Mary Ann! ’

Once again, after her eyes were closed, she whispered, smiling to herself, ‘ Dear-little-Mary-Ann,’ and fell asleep with the smile still on her lips, and Mary Ann’s hand in hers.

Only once again did she open her eyes. It was long after Mary Ann had been taken away to play out of doors. They thought she was still asleep when she looked up and seemed to be about to speak; but when Mary Ann’s mother bent over to listen, the words refused to come. She could only touch the quilt with her hand, and make her desire known with her eyes.

That night Mary Ann’s mother was still watching by the bedside, but Mary Ann was not lonely, for two or three relatives who had been there all day had decided to stay on over the night too. Mary Ann was to leave her own little bed and sleep in the spare room with Cousin Pamela Walton, whom she loved most of all.

‘Long as I’ve lived in this house,’ she confided, hurrying out of her clothes, ‘I’ve never once slept in this bed!’

When Mary Ann woke up in the morning she was all alone in the bed. She had a dim consciousness of having been roused once, not at midnight by the flash of a candle in the dark, but by the closing of a door behind some one in the gray light of dawn. Quickly she jumped up out of bed. She wanted to be the very first one to wish all the relatives good morning, but most of all she wanted to run in and see how her grandmother had slept with the new quilt over her. But just as she was about to open her grandmother’s door, Cousin Pamela took her hand.

‘Thee must n’t go in there,’ she said, and led her into the room across the hall.

The other relatives were there, and some of the neighbors too; but they were not talking as usual, and at the sight of Mary Ann the tears came into their eyes. Mary Ann forgot the happy greetings she had ready for them. Something she read in their faces filled her with a strange foreboding, so that she was afraid without knowing just what it was she was afraid of. She only knew where it was she wanted to take refuge.

‘I want to go to grandmother,’ she said. ‘ Can’t I just sit in there quiet till she wakes?’

Cousin Pamela took her in her lap. She did n’t answer for a moment. Then, ‘Thy grandmother’s gone to take her last sleep,’she said. ‘Does thee know what that means? She’ll never wake up any more.’

She would have held her up close in her arms, but Mary Ann drew away from her in forlorn distrust.

‘Thee doesn’t know about things here,’ she said. ‘ Thee’s only an outsider. Where’s mother?’

It was the third day since her grandmother had fallen asleep, and still Mary Ann was waiting for her to wake up. All through the still house everyone else was waiting. The fire on the hearth was waiting, and the clock, and the chairs, and all the inanimate things her eye lighted on.

‘Mother,’ she said that first night, before she would go to bed, ‘if she wakes in the night, will thee call me?’

‘She won’t wake, dear.’

‘But will thee if she does?’

She could n’t believe it. She knew there was such a thing as death, but she did n’t know that it was inevitable. She never thought of it as happening to any one in the family. Every now and then she would look in at the door. If any one else was there she would slip away again, but if her grandmother was lying all alone, she would go in.

‘ Grandmother,’ she would say softly, after a bit, ‘I’m here. Does n’t thee see me? Grandmother, if thee’s not able to talk, won’t thee turn over and listen? Won’t thee just open thy eyes and look ? ’

It always seemed as though in another moment the eyes would open and the old smile come back to her face, while she said, ‘Dear little Mary Ann! What’s thee brought me now?’

But after a while something in the silence frightened her, and she did not go back any more. She watched the faces of those coming out from the room, but no one said, ‘Thy grandmother’s asking for thee.’

‘ ’T is the old Mary Ann! ’ they all said softly. The Mary Ann who used to come to their houses, the Mary Ann they all looked for when any one was sick or in trouble; for she was clad again in the old gray silk they all remembered, with a fichu of blond around the neck, and there was no weariness on her face now to change its sweet expression. The lines of pain were gone, and in her smile there was all the old benevolence.

There was a smile with their tears, as though something precious had come back to them; but what wakened the dearest recollections for them made the only strange note for little Mary Ann. She had never seen her with a dress on before, but always as an invalid lying in bed.

After the others had all set off on foot for the little graveyard by the meeting-house, Mary Ann went up with her mother to take a last look at her grandmother’s face. Why was it that now she was not waiting any more? How was it that she knew as she stood there that the eyes would never open again, or the lips move in speech? Her mother’s gentle face was almost as calm as the sleeping one.

‘See how sweetly she sleeps. Thee would n’t wake her if thee could, would thee?’

Mary Ann knew she would never be cold, for together they spread the little quilt over her, and in that narrow bed it was big enough to wrap her all around.

After they had been home a little while they missed Mary Ann. She did not come when they called. At last they found her, crying away by herself.

‘What did thee do it for? What did thee do it for?’ she sobbed. ‘What did thee put her down in the ground for, even if she won’t wake up? Why can’t she have her own bed to lie on and be dead ?’

IV

In the lonely days that followed no one could comfort Mary Ann. Perplexity was mingled with her sadness, for she knew not whether to believe that her grandmother was deep down in the earth under the old oak trees by the meeting-house, where she had seen her laid; or up in the sky, whither they told her she had gone; or whether she had started off at last on that long journey where Mary Ann in fancy had seen her vanish, down the blue canal, through the locks, and past the dam, and on into a dim distance too far off for Mary Ann’s thoughts to follow.

One thing only she knew: her grandmother was no longer in her room. Sometimes, half expecting to find her there in spite of all, she would slip into the darkened room; but she had not come back, not even when Mary Ann had gone to the woods and brought in bittersweet, or great bunches of her favorite life everlasting. The empty bed looked big and gaunt, and she would steal out again with an ache in her heart that no one could cure.

But one day, when she had been there longer than usual, she sat down on the floor by the bed, where she used to stand and talk to her grandmother. Nothing in the room had been changed; then why was it all so different? Away in the depths of one of the dim corners the Clock still ticked, not sociably as it used to, but slowly, hesitatingly, breaking the silence with an odd little echo after each tick that was never there before. One of the shutters had blown open and a shaft of bright sunshine struck into the room. It shone on the worn back of the old leather Testament on the stand by the bed, and brought out the faded gilt lettering of the title. It made a blur on the face in the daguerreotype, but it caught the ruddy cheek of the Man in the Moon. It struck the peak of the spiraled Shell, and changed it to a dome of live pearl, as though it were back beside the sea with the wet sands sparkling around it. But it was on the Robin on the Vase that the light shone brightest. He cocked his head and chirped away so cheerily that Mary Ann forgot for just a minute. ‘Listen, grandmother!’ she was going to say, and then she remembered.

‘I wish she had the Robin on the Vase along!’ she sobbed. Of all the things she loved she had n’t taken one. And the Good Shepherd, — wherever she was she must be missing Him. As Mary Ann lifted her eyes to Him dim memories came back that He was to have called her grandmother to Him. Oh, if He only had called while she was there to hear! It would n’t be any use if He did call now, for how could she ever hear, down in the ground, or up in the sky, or away off on the lonely road?

‘Why didn’t thee call her?’ she cried. But the Good Shepherd looked so kind, so reassuring — and she had the quilt along — perhaps, perhaps, she hardly knew what, but through her tears she kept seeing the kind face of the Good Shepherd.

Presently, without her seeing just how it happened, the picture grew bigger. The fields stretched out to meet some little low hills in the distance that closed them round to make a valley, a valley all green, as in the old days. The Good Shepherd and all the lambs had turned around and were watching for some one who was coming away off over the fields. Mary Ann watched with them, and as the figure drew nearer she saw that it was her grandmother! She was walking along briskly, well and strong, as she said she would be. She carried a great bundle in her arms. All the little lambs ran up to meet her, and the Good Shepherd held out his hand.

‘How’s thee resting to-day, Mary Ann?’ He said, just like the neighbors who used to come in.

But almost before she waited to answer his greeting, she unrolled the bundle to show Him. It was Mary Ann’s quilt! He could hardly believe his eyes.

‘Is this what she was doing all those days when she sat on the little stool and sewed? How tired she must have grown! ’

‘It isn’t tired thee gets when thee sits and sews — it’s too much rested,’ she said. ‘That’s worse.’

‘Was it as much for her to do as for thee to stand on a stool that time in the old kitchen, and make bread for thy mother?’

‘Oh, more, far more! That didn’t prick my fingers.’

The Good Shepherd felt it approvingly. ‘Thee was n’t skimped on the cotton,’ He assured her.

‘No! A whole bale, all bought by the penny’s worth at Benny Tucker’s, away down at the very end of the street.’

‘So far to carry it!’ He exclaimed appreciatively; but her grandmother shook her head.

‘Past all the shops,’ she explained. ‘Thirteen barley kisses she could have had, or six sticks of peppermint, and six of clove, and one of the white with the red and yellow stripe.’

The Good Shepherd marveled. ‘And the licorice-root man on the corner, did she pass him by too?’

Every time they ceased to speak there was such a joyous chirping of robins you would have said there must be twenty around, but it all came from one plump robin redbreast, hopping along over the grass. Mary Ann soon saw it was the Robin on the Vase, for whenever he stopped to rest he was perched as of old on a twig of cherryblossoms, watching them as pertly as ever with his black, beady eyes.

‘I’ve seen bigger quilts,’ the Good Shepherd was saying tentatively.

‘They were made to cover the bed, I guess. This was made to cover me —’

‘Dear little Mary Ann!’ He murmured.

After a while, when Mary Ann could no longer hear them talking, she got up and went over to the picture, but her grandmother had already gone on, perhaps to show the quilt to the neighbors. The Robin had gone too. The lambs were in their place again, and the Good Shepherd stood facing her, just as He used to, but it seemed to her that He had never looked down upon her so kindly before.

‘ Dear little Mary Ann! ’ He seemed to say, over and over again. ‘Is thee any less rested now?’

Mary Ann was comforted. Her loneliness was gone, and all her bewilderment, for her grandmother was here safe and happy, in the green fields with the Good Shepherd and his flock. He had called, and she had heard, and Mary Ann was glad. And if some time that littlest lamb of all should be cold, like the one that was lost on the hills, Mary Ann knew what it was they would wrap it up in to make it all warm once more.