Part 17

"Well, it's a sin for a man to live so in a Christian country, an' the kindest thing to say about him is that he's crazy. Some o' the men folks over to the store declare he is crazy; but William declares he ain't. He says he's asleep. William kind o' likes him. Does he ever pass the time o' day with you?"

"Hardly ever. I meet him once or twice a year, maybe, in the road. He bows when I go past on an errand an' holds on to his dog when he tries to run out an' bite me."

"That's real kind o' gentlemanly," observed Susan.

"I never thought of it that way," said Amanda absently; "but perhaps it is. All I can say is, Caleb Kimball's a regular thorn in my flesh. I can't do anything for him, an' I can't forget him, right under foot as he is--his land joinin' mine. Mornin', noon, an' night for years I've wanted to get into that man's house an' make it decent for him; wanted to milk the cow the right time o' day; feed the horse; weed the garden; scrub the floor; wash the windows; black the stove."

"How you do go on, Mandy!" exclaimed Mrs. Benson. "What diff'rence does it make to you how dirty he is, so long's you're clean?"

"It does make a diff'rence, an' it always will. I hate to see the daisies growin' so thick, knowin' how he needs hay. I want to root 'em out same's I did mine, after I'd been away three years in Lewiston. I hate to take my pot o' beans out o' the oven Saturday nights an' know he ain't had gumption enough to get himself a Christian meal. Livin' alone 's I do, Susan, things 'bulk up' in my mind bigger'n they'd ought to."

"They do so," agreed Susan; "an' you mustn't let 'em. You must come over to our house oftener. You know William loves to have you, an' so do the boys. The Bible may insinuate we are our brother's keeper, but we can't none of us help it if he won't be kept!--There, I must be gettin' home. I've had considerable many reminders the last half-hour that it's about time! It's none o' my business, Mandy, but you do spoil that cat, an' the time's not far off when he won't be a mite o' comfort to you. Of course, I'm too intimate here to take offense, but if the minister should happen to set in this chair when he calls, an' see that cat promenade round an' round the rockers an' then rustle off into the settin'-room as mad as Cuffy, he'd certainly take notice an' think he wa'n't a welcome visitor."

"Like mistress, like cat!" sighed Amanda. "Tristram an' I get awful set in our ways."

"Kind o' queer, Mandy, namin' a cat for your grandfather," Mrs. Benson observed anxiously as she opened the door. "William an' me don't want you to get queer."

"I ain't got anything better 'n a cat to name for grandfather," said poor Amanda, in a tone that set her friend Susan thinking as she walked homeward.

The summer wore along and there came a certain Tuesday different from all the other Tuesdays in that year, or in all the forty years that had gone before--a Tuesday when the Kimball side door was not opened in the morning. No smoke issued from the chimney all day. The rooster and his kidnapped hen flew up from the steps and pecked at the door panels vigorously. Seven o'clock in the evening came, then eight, and no light to be seen anywhere. The dog howled; the horse neighed; the cow lowed ominously in the closed barn. At nine o'clock Amanda took a lantern and sped across the field, found a pail in the shed, slipped into the barn, milked the cow, gave the beasts hay and water, and leaving the pail of milk on the steps, went quietly home again, anxious lest she had done too much, anxious also lest she had not done enough.

Next morning she stationed herself at her kitchen window and took account of her signs. The milk-pail was overturned on the steps, the rooster and hen perching on the rim, but there was no smoke coming from the chimney. She thought quickly as she did everything else. She waited long enough to make a cup of coffee, then she slipped out of her door and up to Kimball's. Her apron was full of kindling, and on her arm she carried a basket with a package of herbs, a tiny bottle of brandy, one of cologne, some arrowroot and matches, a cake of hard soap and a clean towel, bones for the dog and corn for the hen.

Caleb's door was unlocked. The dog came out of the shed evincing no desire to bark or bite. The kitchen was empty, and--she thanked the Lord silently, as she gave a hasty glance about--not as dreadful as she had anticipated. Untidy beyond words, bare, dreary, cheerless, but not repulsively dirty. She stole softly through the lower part of the house, and then with a beating heart went up the uncarpeted stairs. At the head was an open door that showed her all she expected and feared to find. The sun streamed in at the dusty, uncurtained window over the motionless body of Caleb Kimball, who lay in a strange, deep sleep, unconscious, on the bed. His hair was raven black against the pillow and the lashes on his cheeks looked more 'n a yard long, Amanda told Susan Benson. (She afterward confessed that this was a slight exaggeration due to extreme excitement.) She spoke his name three times, but he did not stir. She must get the doctor and send for William Benson, that was clear; but first she must try her hand at improving the immediate situation.

Stealing downstairs she tied on her apron and lighted a fire in the kitchen stove, with the view of making things respectable before gossipy neighbors came in. Her sister used to say that the minute Amanda tied on her apron things began to move and take a turn for the better, and it was so now. She poured a few drops of cologne into a basin of water, and putting the towel over her arm went upstairs to Caleb's bedside.

"I've done him wrong," she thought remorsefully as she noted his decent night-clothing and bedding. "He ain't lost his self-respect in all these years, and every soul in Bonny Eagle thought he was living like an animal!"

She bathed his face and throat and hands, then moistened and smoothed his hair without provoking a movement or a sound. He seemed in a profound stupor, but there was no stertorous breathing. Straightening the bedclothes and giving a hasty wipe to the tops of the pine bureau and table, she opened the window and closed the blinds. At this moment she spied one of the Thatcher boys going along the road, and ran down to the gate to ask him to send William Benson and the doctor as soon as possible.

"Tell them Miss Dalton says please to come quick; Caleb Kimball's very sick," she said.

"Don't you need mother, too?" asked the boy. "She's wanted to git into his house for years, and she'd do most anything for the chance."

"No, thank you," said Amanda pitilessly. "I can do everything for the present, and Mr. Benson will probably want his wife, if anybody."

"All right," said the boy as he started off on a dog-trot. News was rare in Bonny Eagle, and Caleb Kimball was a distinguished and interesting figure in village gossip.

Amanda Dalton had never had to hurry in her life. That was one of her crosses, for there probably never was a woman who could do more in less time. It was an hour and a half before William Benson came, and in those ninety minutes she had swept the kitchen and poured a pail or two of hot soap-suds over the floor, that may have felt a mop, but certainly had not known a scrubbing-brush for years. She tore down the fly-specked, tattered, buff shades, and washed the three windows; blackened the stove; fed the dog and horse; milked the cow; strained the milk and carried it down cellar; making three trips upstairs in the meantime to find no change in the patient. His lids stayed down as though they were weighted with lead, his long arms lay motionless on the counterpane.

Amanda's blood coursed through her veins like lightning. Here was work to her hand; blessed, healing work for days, perhaps weeks to come. In these first moments of emotional excitement I fear she hoped it would be a long case of helpless invalidism, during which it would be her Christian duty to clean the lower part of the house and perhaps make some impression on the shed; but this tempting thought was quickly banished as she reflected that Caleb Kimball was a bachelor, and the Widow Thatcher the person marked out by a just but unsympathetic Providence for sick-nurse and housekeeper.

"She shan't come!" thought Amanda passionately. "I'll make the doctor ask me to take charge. William Benson shall stay here nights an' Susan will run in now an' then daytimes, or I'll get little Abby Thatcher to do the rough work an' keep me company; then her mother won't make talk."

"I don't know exactly what's the matter with the man," confessed the doctor, when he came. "There's a mark and a swelling on the back of his head as if he might have fallen somewhere. He hasn't got any pulse and he's all skin and bone. He's starved out, I guess, and his machinery has just stopped. He wants nursing and feeding and all the things a woman can do for him. The Lord never intended men-folks to live alone!"

"If they ain't got wit enough to find that out for themselves it ain't likely any woman'll take the trouble to tell 'em!" exclaimed Amanda with some spirit.

"Don't get stuffy, Amanda! Just be a good Christian and take hold here for a few days till we see whether we've got to have a nurse from Portland. Man's extremity is God's opportunity; maybe Caleb'll come to his senses before he gets over this sickness."

"I wonder if he ever had any senses?" said Amanda.

"Plenty," the doctor answered as he prepared the medicines; "but he hasn't used them for twenty years.--I'll come back in an hour and fetch Bill Benson with me. Then I'll stay till I can bring Caleb back to consciousness. We shall have to get him downstairs as soon as he can be moved; it will be much easier to take care of him there."