"Well, I'll lay down side of him, an' mebbe we'll both go to sleep,"

his mother said, with a strange docility. Jerome a.s.sisted her into the bed, then he and Elmira went back to the kitchen.

Jerome motioned to Elmira to be quiet, and cautiously lifted the little j.a.panned trunk and pa.s.sed it from one hand to the other, as if testing its weight. Elmira watched him with her bewildered, tearful eyes. Finally he tiptoed softly out with it, motioning her to follow with the candle. They went into the icy parlor and closed the door.

"What's the matter, Jerome?" Elmira whispered.

"I'm afraid there may be something wrong with the money. I'm going to find it out before he does, if there is."

There was a little padlock on the trunk, but it was tied together with a bit of leather shoestring, not locked. Jerome took out his jack-knife, cut the string, and opened the trunk. Elmira held the candle while he examined the contents. There was a large old wallet stuffed with bank-notes, also several parcels of them tied up carefully.

"It's just as I thought," Jerome muttered.

"What?"

"Some of the money is gone. The gold isn't here. It might have been the man who roomed with him at Hayes's Tavern. There have been queer things done there before now. All I wonder is, he didn't take it all."

"Oh, Jerome, it isn't gone?"

"Yes, the gold is gone. Here is the bag it was in. The thief left that. Suppose he thought he might be traced by it."

"Oh, poor father, poor father, what will he do!" moaned Elmira.

"He'll do nothing. He'll never know it," said Jerome.

"What do you mean?"

"Wait here a minute." Jerome went noiselessly out of the room and up-stairs. He returned soon with a leathern bag, which he carried with great caution. "I'm trying to keep this from jingling," he whispered.

"Oh, Jerome, what is it?"

Jerome laughed and untied the mouth of the bag. "You must help me put it into the other bag; every dollar will have to be counted out separately."

"Oh, Jerome, is it money you've saved?"

"Yes; and don't you ever tell of it to either of them, or anybody else, as long as you live. I guess poor father sha'n't know he's lost any of his money he's worked so hard to get, if I can help it."

Chapter x.x.xV

A stranger pa.s.sing Abel Edwards's house the day after his return might have gotten the impression that one of the functions of village life--a wedding or a funeral--was going on there. From morning until late at night the people came down the road, wading through the snow, the men with trousers tucked into boots, the women with yarn-stockings over their shoes, their arms akimbo, pinning their kilted petticoats to their hips. Many drove there in sleighs, tilting to the drifts. The Edwards's door-yard was crowded with teams.

All the relatives who had come fourteen years before to Abel Edwards's funeral came now to his resurrection. They had gotten the news of it in such strange, untraceable ways, that it seemed almost like mental telegraphy. The Greens of Westbrook were there--the three little girls in blue, now women grown. One of them came with her husband and baby; another with a blushing lout of a lad, to whom she was betrothed; and the third, with a meek blue eye, on the watch for a possible lover in the company. The Lawson sisters, from Granby, arrived early in the day, being conveyed thither by an obliging neighbor. Amelia Stokes rode to Upham on the butcher's wagon, in lieu of another conveyance, and her journey was a long one, necessitating hot ginger-tea and the toasting of her slim feet at the fire upon her arrival. Amelia was clad in mourning for her old mother, who had died the year before. At intervals she wept furtively, incited to grief by recollections of her mother, which the place and occasion awakened.

"Every once in a while it comes over me how poor mother relished them hot biscuits and that tea at your funeral," she whispered softly to Abel, who smiled with child-like serenity in response.

All day Abel sat in state, which was, however, intensified in the afternoon by a new suit of clothes, which Jerome had purchased in Dale. As soon as Jerome returned with it, he was hustled into the bedroom with his father.

"Get your father into 'em quick, before anybody else comes," said Ann Edwards. She was dressed in her best, and Elmira had further adorned her with a little worked lace kerchief of her own, fastened at the bosom with a sprig of rose-geranium leaves and blossoms. Ann had confined herself to her chair since arising that morning. She made no allusion to her walking the night before, and seemed to expect a.s.sistance as usual.

"Do you suppose mother can't walk this morning?" Elmira whispered to Jerome.

"Hush," he replied, "don't bother her with it unless she speaks of it herself. I have a book which gives instances of people recovering under strong excitement, and then going back to where they were before. I don't believe mother can walk, or she would."

Ann Edwards and Abel sat side by side on the sofa in the parlor, and the visitors came and greeted them, with a curious manner, which had in it not so much of the joy of greeting, as awe and a solemn perplexity. Always, after shaking hands with the united couple, they whispered furtively to one another that Abel Edwards was much changed, they should scarcely have known him. Yet, with their simple understandings, they could not have defined the change, which they recognized plainly enough, for it lay not so much in form and feature as in character. Abel Edwards's hair was white, he was somewhat fuller in his face, but otherwise he was little altered, so far as mere physical characteristics went. The change in him was subtler.

Jerome had noticed it the night before, and it was evidently a permanent condition. Abel Edwards, from being a reserved man, with the self-containment of one who is buffeted by unfair odds of fate, yet will not stoop to vain appeals, but holds always to the front his face of dumb dissent and purpose, was become a garrulous and happy child. People hinted that Abel Edwards's mind was affected, but it was a question whether that was the case, or whether it was the simple result of his abandonment, fourteen years before, of the reins which had held an original nature in check. He might possibly have merely, when renouncing his toil over the up-grade of life, slipped back to his first estate, and thus have experienced in one sense no change at all.

Many of Abel's old friends and neighbors were not fully convinced of the desirability of his reappearance. When a man has been out of his foothold in the crowd for fourteen years, he cannot regain it without undue jostling of people's shoulders, and prejudices even. The resurrection of the dead might have, if the truth were told, uncomfortable and perplexing features for their nearest and dearest, and Abel Edwards had been practically dead and buried.

"They were gettin' along real well before he come; of course, they're glad to see him, but I dun'no' whether they'll get along as well with him or not," proclaimed Mrs. Green of Westbrook, with the very aggressiveness of frankness, and many looked a.s.sent.

Abel's wife had no question in her inmost heart of its utter blessedness at his return, but her grief at his loss had never healed. For that resolute feminine soul, which had fought on in spite of it, her husband had died anew every morning of those fourteen years when she awoke to consciousness of life; but it was different with his children. For both of them the old wounds had closed; it was now like tearing them asunder, for it is often necessary to revive an old pain to fully appreciate a present joy. Had Jerome and Elmira been older at the time of their father's disappearance, it would have been otherwise, but as it was, their old love for him had been obliterated, not merely by time and absence, but growth. It was practically impossible, though they would not have owned it to themselves, for them to love their father, when he first returned, as they had used. They were painfully anxious to be utterly faithful, and had an odd sort of tender but imaginative pity towards him, but they could grasp no more. Both of them hesitated when they said father; every time they returned home and found him there it was with a sensation of surprise.

Three days after Abel Edwards's return came one of the severest rain-storms ever known in Upham. The storm began before light; when people first looked out in the morning their windows were glazed with streaming wet, but it did not reach its full fury until eleven o'clock. Then the rain fell in green and hissing sheets.

"Gorry," Martin Cheeseman said, looking out of the mill door, which seemed to open into a solid wall of water, "looks as if the great deep was turned upsidedown overhead. If it keeps on this way long there'll be mischief."

"Think there'll be danger to the mill?" Jerome asked, quickly.

"No, I guess not, it's built strong; but I wouldn't resk the solid airth long under Niagry. Where you goin'?"

"Down to Robinson's store. I want to get something."

"Well, I should think you were half-witted to go out in this soak if you could keep a roof over your head," cried Cheeseman, but Jerome was gone.

He bought strong rope at Robinson's store, and before night the mill was anch.o.r.ed to some stout trees and one great granite bowlder.

Cheeseman helped grumblingly. "I shall get laid up with rheumatiz out of it," he said; "an' this rain can't keep on, it ain't in natur', out of the Old Testament."

But the rain continued all that day and night, and the next day, with almost unremitting fury. At times it seemed more than rain--there were liquid shafts reaching from earth to sky. By noon of the second day, half the cellars in the village were flooded; coops floated in slatted wrecks over fields; the roads were knee-deep in certain places; the horses drew back--it was like fording a stream. People began to be alarmed.

"If this keeps on an hour longer, there'll be the devil to pay,"

Squire Eben Merritt said, when he came home to dinner. He had been down to Lawyer Means's and crossed the Graystone brook, which was now a swollen river.

"What will happen?" asked Abigail.

"Happen? The Main Street bridge will go, and the saw-mill, and the Lord knows what else."

Lucina turned pale.

"It will be hard on Jerome if he loses his mill," said her mother.

"Well, the boy will lose it if it keeps on," returned the Squire.

"He's working hard, with four men to help him; they're loading it with stones and anchoring it with ropes, but it can't stand much more. I miss my guess, if the foundations are not undermined now."

Lucina said not a word, but as soon as she could she slipped up-stairs to her chamber and prayed that her Heavenly Father would save poor Jerome's mill, and stop the rain; but it kept on raining.

When Lucina heard the fierce dash of it on her window-pane, like an angry dissent to her pet.i.tion, she prayed more fervently, sobbing softly in the whiteness of her maiden bed; still it rained.