STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES

THE civic center of the village at the river forks might have been called the long building, in which were located the post-office and the blacksmith shop. It was here that, on the morning following, old Granny Joslin stood in the door, pipe in mouth, looking up the long street, which rambled down from the hills. Her gaze was fixed upon the approaching vehicle commonly known as the mail stage. It seemed to carry passengers this morning, an unusual thing, and the passengers themselves were such as to attract special attention of Granny Joslin and others.

That they were “furriners” Granny Joslin would have pronounced long ago. There were two women, both young, and their apparel, had it been worn by any of these parts, would distinctly have been recognized as “fotched on.”

The two young women climbed down, unassisted, from the vehicle, and stood, perhaps as extraordinary a pair as ever had been seen thereabouts, in the dust of the street, looking about them curiously. The younger of the two, with hands in pockets and feet just a trifle wide apart—a trim young woman and noticeable anywhere—was clad in well-cut traveling garb and tailored hat. She caught now in her gaze the old woman, who leaned against the side of the post-office door, silent and motionless, regarding these newcomers.

“Good-morning, Grandma,” said she, not pertly, but with a certain easy assurance, which seemed to go naturally with her.

“Howdy, Ma’am,” replied Granny Joslin, still with her pipe in her mouth.

“Is this the town,” continued the young woman, “and if it isn’t, where is it?”

“I reckon’s as much as ary other place,” admitted Granny.

“And where’s the hotel?—the driver said there wasn’t any.” The latter, shaking his head, mystified, had stepped within, carrying his meager mailsacks.

“Hotel? Tavern, you mean? Well, now, he’s done tolt ye the truth, Ma’am. There hain’t no tavern here, none at all.”

“What! And we’ve ridden twenty miles from the railroad because we couldn’t find anything fit to eat there.”

“It’s tougher the furtherer in ye git,” said Granny Joslin. “Ye orter see Hell-fer-Sartin, Ma’am. Ye’re from the North, I reckon?”

The young woman nodded.

“Well, I reckon Granny Williams will take ye in, like enough. She’s got another furrin womern in thar now.”

“Oh, all right—that will be fine. Do you know what her rates are?”

“Rates, Ma’am?”

“How much she charges by the day, or maybe longer.”

The old lady looked at her silently for some time, but at length answered with a certain calm dignity of her own.

“I don’t reckon nobody would charge ye nothin’ fer what ye et while ye was in here, Ma’am,” said she. “Ye’d be welcome.”

“What do you think of that, Nina?” chuckled the spokesman of the two new arrivals.

She turned again to the old woman. “Well,” said she politely, “we want to do what’s right. I just thought I’d ask you, you know. We’re strangers here, all right enough. We wouldn’t plan to stay long—maybe not more than a day or two.”

“Who air ye?” demanded Granny Joslin succinctly. “Have ye heerd anything about the war outside? I heerd tell thar was some sort of diffikilty we-all was havin’ with some other folks somewhars. I come down to see.”

“War! Have we heard of the war! I should say we hadn’t heard of anything else!” rejoined the young woman. “It’s put a crimp in business, all right—especially our business.”

“What is yore business, Ma’am?” queried the old dame.

“We’re players—actors—don’t you see?—theatrical people—you know. And we’ve lost a perfectly good angel. That’s why we’re here.”

This statement likewise seemed to Granny Joslin a most extraordinary one. She made no comment, as the speaker went on, feeling a trifle angered in the suspicion that these others were making sport of her.

“Well, it was the war that did that,” said the young woman. “And here we are.”

“Tell me, Madam,” began the older of the two newcomers, seeing the perplexity of the old lady, “do you know of any one in here lately by the name of Haddon?”

Granny Joslin bent the calm gaze of her deep-set hazel eyes upon her.

“The furrin womern over to Granny Williams’ house is name Haddon,” said she after a time, “but her man, he hain’t here no more now.”

“Isn’t here! Has he been here? When did he leave?” It was the younger woman who spoke again.

“He lef’ a while back.”

“Where did he go? Do you know?”

“No, I don’t. The Lord only knows whar he went, but he’s daid all right. Up yander on the hill is whar he’s buried at. His womern has been stayin’ on here fer a little while yit, over to Granny Williams’, like I done tolt ye.”

Her close scrutiny saw consternation upon the faces of both the newcomers.

“But—you don’t mean Mr. Haddon—you don’t mean that Mr. James Haddon—he isn’t dead, is he?”

“He sartinly is,” replied Granny Joslin. “He was drownded down to the Narrers while he was a-comin’ in here. They had a boat an’ they come up from Windsor. Davy—that’s my grandson—saved the corp, and he had a moughty hard time doin’ it, too, let me tell ye. He liken to have drownded hisself. But Davy, he fotched the corp, anyways.”

The two strangers looked at one another, horrified.

“We heard he came in that way,” began the younger woman. “You see, we knew him very well. We wired to New York—don’t you see, he was our partner, the backer of our company, as they say—we had a theatrical company on the road. Well, they told us he had started in for this place here. Then we didn’t get any more word from his office. We weren’t so far away from here by rail, so we started over—of course, if we’d come in the same way he did we would have heard of it—but we didn’t. You see, Mr. Haddon was in business with us. Dead?—why—why—what’ll we do?”

The old lady still regarded them both fixedly, her pipe still between her lips.

“What’s yore name, Ma’am?” said she after a time. “Ye’re mighty purty, ‘pears like to me.”

“They call me Polly Pendleton, Grandma,” said the young woman. “I don’t know your name—we don’t know anything at all. What you say to us is terrible—it’s awful.”

“Yes, it’s right hard,” admitted Granny Joslin. “Say, Ma’am, tell me, did ye ever meet a young man from these parts? An’ tell me, furthermore, air ye French and Irish mixed?”

Polly Pendleton suddenly flushed to her eyes. “What makes you ask that?” she demanded.

“I reckoned ye was,” replied the old dame quietly. “Ye jest about come under a tall man’s arm, too, don’t ye? Ye’re purty as a pictur. I don’t know as I ever seed a purtier gal than ye, lessen it’s the furrin woman over thar at Granny Williams’ house right now. I’m French and Irish myself, too, Ma’am.”

“How odd! I say, Grandma, what’s your name—since we’re getting acquainted now?”

“My name’s Joslin, Ma’am. That thar young man I meant was Davy, my grandson, the same thet built the school buildin’ up yander on the hill—biggest building ever was in these mountings. Now, I’ve heerd Davy talk of ye afore now, Ma’am. But I reckon ye’ve come in here fer another sort of man than Davy.”

“Rather!” said Polly, a smile suddenly coming upon her troubled face in spite of all. “But Joslin—David Joslin—why, of course—I’ve seen him, yes. You’re right—we didn’t come in here after him.”

The look of genuine perturbation upon the faces of the two young women proved to the ancient dame that the news they had heard was serious enough for them, whatever cause there might be. Polly Pendleton’s dark eyes were a trifle dimmed as she turned once more.

“We’re sorry—we’re as sorry as we can be, Grandma,” said she. “We hadn’t any idea he was even sick. I don’t know what to do. But I think we’ll have to go back as soon as we can.”

“Ye kain’t git back afore to-morrer,” said Granny. “But the fustest thing to do is to come in an’ git something to eat. We’ll go over to Granny Williams’. Ye must be tired, the both of ye. The roads is awful.”

The shrug of Polly’s shoulder was endorsement enough for this general statement, and Nina, usually the more silent, employed likewise now an eloquent exclamation.

“I don’t believe the furrin womern has come back from up in the hills yit,” said Granny Joslin.

She did not note the sudden relief which came upon the face of at least one of her auditors. “But that don’t make no difference,” she resumed. “Thar’ll be plenty of room fer ye. If ye was up in my country now, I’d have ye come home with me, but it’s ten mile up the creek. I jest walked down this mornin’ along of my mewel takin’ sick a few days back.”

“You walked—ten miles!”

“I sartinly did. But like I said, ye kain’t walk that fer, bein’ furriners. Why, chile, frail-like as ye air, ye’d be plumb beat out by that time, an’ so would yore sister here—ye said yore sister, didn’t ye?”

“She’s more than that,” said Polly Pendleton. “She’s the only friend I’ve got now. We’re both awfully obliged to you, Mrs. Joslin. We certainly are. We’d do as much for you.”

“I believe ye would, myself,” said Granny Joslin simply. “Ye’ll be welcome here, so fer as what we got to give ye. We’re all alike.”

Polly Pendleton was pausing for a moment’s thought. “We hadn’t the slightest idea in the world, of course, or we’d never have come here. We—I don’t think we want to bother Mrs. Haddon, you know. She’d rather be alone, I’m sure.” She held back, hesitating.

“She’s a fine womern, Ma’am, accordin’ to Davy,” rejoined the old woman. “He says she’s the finest he ever seed, and he’s been Outside and seed a power of things in his time, Davy has.”

“Well,” broke in Polly Pendleton, now with a certain asperity, “one thing, she can’t be any hungrier than I am right now.”

“So long as ye kin eat ye’re a-goin’ to survive your sorrer, Ma’am, I always heerd,” rejoined Granny Joslin grimly. “Well, come along. We all got to die some time, come to that.”

She placed her pipe in her pocket now, after knocking out the ashes, and started out forthwith in the lead, her bent and bony body, shrunken and battered under the weight of years and infirmity, scarce as tall as Polly Pendleton by half a head. Her course was across the street along which, further down, lay the house of Granny Williams.

“Well, Nina, old dear,” commented Polly, sotto voce, as they followed, “things couldn’t be much worse, could they? Poor chap—isn’t it a horrible thing? And we never knew a word!”

Her uncommunicative comrade only nodded, her face drawn into lines none too happy now, for she it was, of the firm of Pendleton and Stanton, who usually was the more concerned with the business affairs.

“And here’s his wife in here, too—that makes it a lot harder,” she said at length. “I’ve a picture of how much she loves you, Polly! There’s plenty of places I’d rather be in than right here now, my dear!”

“Well, I’m hungry,” resumed Polly once more, trying to shake off care, as always. “Is this the place, Grandma?” she added, hurrying up now and giving a hand to the old dame’s elbow, as she turned in at the steep walk behind the gate.

“It’s the place, Ma’am,” said Granny Joslin. “Come on in. Whether Granny Williams is home or not ye’ll be welcome in her house. It hain’t never locked.”