1 THEY LIVED together in a part
of the country which was not so prosperous as it had once been, about three
miles from one of those towns that, instead of increasing in population,
is steadily decreasing. The territory was not very thickly settled; perhaps
a house every other mile or so, with large acres of corn- and wheat-land
and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to timothy and clover.
Their particular house was part log and part frame, the log portion being
the old original home of Henry's grandfather. The new portion, of now rain-beaten,
time-worn slabs, through which the wind squeaked in the chinks at times,
and which several overshadowing elms and a butternut-tree made picturesque
and reminiscently pathetic, but a little damp, was erected by Henry when
he was twenty-one and just married.
That was forty-eight years before. The furniture
inside, like the house outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent of
an earlier day. You have seen the what-not of cherry wood, perhaps, with
spiral legs and fluted top. It was there. The old-fashioned four-poster
bed, with its ball-like protuberances and deep curving incisions, was there
also, a sadly alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The bureau
of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built, but faded-looking,
and with a musty odor. The rag carpet that underlay all these sturdy examples
of enduring furniture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored affair woven
by Phoebe Ann's own hands, when she was fifteen years younger than she
was when she died. The creaky wooden loom on which it had been done now
stood like a dusty bony skeleton, along with a broken rocking-chair, a
worm-eaten clothes-press — Heavens knows how old — a lime-stained bench
that had once been used to keep flowers on outside the door, and other
decrepit factors of household utility, in an east room that was a lean-to
against this so-called main portion. All sorts of other broken-down furniture
were about this place; an antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two of its
ribs; a broken mirror in an old cherry frame, which had fallen from a nail
and cracked itself three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died; an
extension hat-rack, which once had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its
pegs; and a sewing machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism
by rivals of a newer generation.
The orchard to the east of the house was full
of gnarled old apple trees, worm-eaten as to trunks and branches, and fully
ornamented with green and white lichens, so that it had a sad, greenish-white,
silvery effect in moonlight. The low outhouses, which had once housed chickens,
a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with patches of moss
as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint for so long that
they were blackish gray as to color, and a little spongy. The picket-fence
in front, with its gate squeaky and askew, and the side fences of the stake-and-rider
type were in an equally run-down condition. As a matter of fact, they had
aged synchronously with the persons who lived here, old Henry Reifsneider
and his wife Phoebe Ann.
They had lived here, these two, ever since
their marriage, forty-eight years before, and Henry had lived here before
that from his childhood up. His father and mother, well along in years
when he was a boy, had invited him to bring his wife here when he had first
fallen in love and decided to marry; and he had done so. His father and
mother were the companions of himself and his wife for ten years after
they were married, when both died; and then Henry and Phoebe were left
with their five children growing lustily apace. But all sorts of things
had happened since then. Of the seven children, all told, that had been
born to them, three had died; one girl had gone to Kansas; one boy had
gone to Sioux Falls, never even to be heard of after; another boy had gone
to Washington; and the last girl lived five counties away in the same State,
but was so burdened with cares of her own that she rarely gave them a thought.
Time and a commonplace home life that had never been attractive had weaned
them thoroughly, so that, wherever they were, they gave little thought
as to how it might be with their father and mother.
5 Old Henry Reifsneider
and his wife Phoebe were a loving couple. You perhaps know how it is with
simple natures that fasten themselves like lichens on the stones of circumstance
and weather their days to a crumbling conclusion. The great world sounds
widely, but it has no call for them. They have no soaring intellect. The
orchard, the meadow, the corn-field, the pig-pen, and the chicken-lot measure
the range of their human activities. When the wheat is headed it is reaped
and threshed; when the corn is browned and frosted it is cut and shocked;
when the timothy is in full head it is cut, and the hay-cock erected. After
that comes winter, with the hauling of grain to market, the sawing and
splitting of wood, the simple chores of fire-building, meal-getting, occasional
repairing, and visiting. Beyond these and the changes of weather — the
snows, the rains, and the fair days — there are no immediate, significant
things. All the rest of life is a far-off, clamorous phantasmagoria, flickering
like Northern lights in the night, and sounding as faintly as cow-bells
tinkling in the distance.
Old Henry and his wife Phoebe were as fond
of each other as it is possible for two old people to be who have nothing
else in this life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she
died, a queer, crotchety person with coarse gray-black hair and beard,
quite straggly and unkempt. He looked at you out of dull, fishy, watery
eyes that had deep-brown crow's-feet at the sides. His clothes, like the
clothes of many farmers, were aged and angular and baggy, standing out
at the pockets, not fitting about the neck, protuberant and worn at elbow
and knee. Phoebe Ann was thin and shapeless, a very umbrella of a woman,
clad in shabby black, and with a black bonnet for her best wear. As time
had passed, and they had only themselves to look after, their movements
had become slower and slower, their activities fewer and fewer. The annual
keep of pigs had been reduced from five to one grunting porker, and the
single horse which Henry now retained was a sleepy animal, not over-nourished
and not very clean. The chickens, of which formerly there was a large flock,
had almost disappeared, owing to ferrets, foxes, and the lack of proper
care, which produces disease. The former healthy garden was now a straggling
memory of itself, and the vines and flower beds that formerly ornamented
the windows and dooryard had now become choking thickets. A will had been
made which divided the small tax-eaten property equally among the remaining
four, so that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet these two
lived together in peace and sympathy, only that now and then old Henry
would become unduly cranky, complaining almost invariably that something
had been neglected or mislaid which was of no importance at all.
“Phoebe, where's my corn-knife? You ain't
never minded to let my things alone no more.”
“Now you hush, Henry,” his wife would caution
him in a cracked and squeaky voice. “If you don't, I'll leave yuh. I'll
git up and walk out of here some day, and then where would y' be? Y' ain't
got anybody but me to look after yuh, so yuh just behave yourself. Your
corn-knife's on the mantel where it's allus been unless you've gone an'
put it summers else.”
Old Henry, who knew his wife would never leave
him in any circumstances, used to speculate at times as to what he would
do if she were to die. That was the one leaving that he really feared.
As he climbed on the chair at night to wind the old, long-pendulumed, double-weighted
clock, or went finally to the front and the back door to see that they
were safely shut in, it was a comfort to know that Phoebe was there, properly
ensconsed on her side of the bed, and that if he stirred restlessly in
the night, she would be there to ask what he wanted.
10 “Now, Henry, do lie still! You're as
restless as a chicken.”
“Well, I can't sleep, Phoebe.”
“Well, yuh needn't roll so, anyhow. Yuh kin
let me sleep.”
This usually reduced him to a state of somnolent
ease. If she wanted a pail of water, it was a grumbling pleasure for him
to get it; and if she did rise first to build the fires, he saw that the
wood was cut and placed within easy reach. They divided this simple world
nicely between them.
As the years had gone on, however, fewer and
fewer people had called. They were well-known for a distance of as much
as ten square miles as old Mr. and Mrs. Reifsneider, honest, moderately
Christian, but too old to be really interesting any longer. The writing
of letters had become an almost impossible burden too difficult to continue
or even negotiate via others, although an occasional letter still did arrive
from the daughter in Pemberton County. Now and then some old friend stopped
with a pie or cake or a roasted chicken or duck, or merely to see that
they were well; but even these kindly minded visits were no longer frequent.
15 One day in the early spring of
her sixty-fourth year Mrs. Reifsneider took sick, and from a low fever
passed into some indefinable ailment which, because of her age, was no
longer curable. Old Henry drove to Swinnerton, the neighboring town, and
procured a doctor. Some friends called, and the immediate care of her was
taken off his hands. Then one chill spring night she died, and old Henry,
in a fog of sorrow and uncertainty, followed her body to the nearest graveyard,
an unattractive space with a few pines growing in it. Although he might
have gone to the daughter in Pemberton or sent for her, it was really too
much trouble and he was too weary and fixed. It was suggested to him at
once by one friend and another that he come to stay with them awhile, but
he did not see fit. He was so old and so fixed in his notions and so accustomed
to the exact surroundings he had known all his days, that he could not
think of leaving. He wanted to remain near where they had put his Phoebe;
and the fact that he would have to live alone did not trouble him in the
least. The living children were notified and the care of him offered if
he would leave, but he would not.
“I kin make a shift for myself,” he continually
announced to old Dr. Morrow, who had attended his wife in this case. “I
kin cook a little, and, besides, it don't take much more'n coffee an' bread
in the mornin's to satisfy me. I'll get along now well enough. Yuh just
let me be.” And after many pleadings and proffers of advice, with supplies
of coffee and bacon and baked bread duly offered and accepted, he was left
to himself. For a while he sat idly outside his door brooding in the spring
sun. He tried to revive his interest in farming, and to keep himself busy
and free from thought by looking after the fields, which of late had been
much neglected. It was a gloomy thing to come in of an evening, however,
or in the afternoon, and find no shadow of Phoebe where everything suggested
her. By degrees he put a few of her things away. At night he sat beside
his lamp and read in the papers that were left him occasionally or in a
Bible that he had neglected for years, but he could get little solace from
these things. Mostly he held his hand over his mouth and looked at the
floor as he sat and thought of what had become of her, and how soon he
himself would die. He made a great business of making his coffee in the
morning and frying himself a little bacon at night; but his appetite was
gone. The shell in which he had been housed so long seemed vacant, and
its shadows were suggestive of immedicable griefs. So he lived quite dolefully
for five long months, and then a change began.
It was one night, after he had looked after
the front and the back door, wound the clock, blown out the light, and
gone through all the selfsame motions that he had indulged in for years,
that he went to bed not so much to sleep as to think. It was a moonlight
night. The green-lichen-covered orchard just outside and to be seen from
his bed where he now lay was a silvery affair, sweetly spectral. The moon
shone through the east windows, throwing the pattern of the panes on the
wooden floor, and making the old furniture, to which he was accustomed,
stand out dimly in the room. As usual he had been thinking of Phoebe and
the years when they had been young together, and of the children who had
gone, and the poor shift he was making of his present days. The house was
coming to be in a very bad state indeed. The bed-clothes were in disorder
and not clean, for he made a wretched shift of washing. It was a terror
to him. The roof leaked, causing things, some of them, to remain damp for
weeks at a time, but he was getting into that brooding state where he would
accept anything rather than exert himself. He preferred to pace slowly
to and fro or to sit and think.
By twelve o'clock of this particular night
he was asleep, however, and by two had waked again. The moon by this time
had shifted to a position on the western side of the house, and it now
shone in through the windows of the living-room and those of the kitchen
beyond. A certain combination of furniture — a chair near a table, with
his coat on it, the half-open kitchen door casting a shadow, and the position
of a lamp near a paper — gave him an exact representation of Phoebe leaning
over the table as he had often seen her do in life. It gave him a great
start. Could it be she — or her ghost? He had scarcely ever believed in
spirits; and still — He looked at her fixedly in the feeble half-light,
his old hair tingling oddly at the roots, and then sat up. The figure did
not move. He put his thin legs out of the bed and sat looking at her, wondering
if this could really be Phoebe. They had talked of ghosts often in their
lifetime, of apparitions and omens; but they had never agreed that such
things could be. It had never been a part of his wife's creed that she
could have a spirit that could return to walk the earth. Her after-world
was quite a different affair, a vague heaven, no less, from which the righteous
did not trouble to return. Yet here she was now, bending over the table
in her black skirt and gray shawl, her pale profile outlined against the
“Phoebe,” he called, thrilling from head to
toe, and putting out one bony hand, “have yuh come back?”
20 The figure did not stir,
and he arose and walked uncertainly to the door, looking at it fixedly
the while. As be drew near, however, the apparition resolved itself into
its primal content — his old coat over the high backed chair, the lamp
by the paper, the half-open door.
“Well,” he said to himself, his mouth open,
“I thought shore I saw her.” And he ran his hand strangely and vaguely
through his hair, the while his nervous tension relaxed. Vanished as it
had, it gave him the idea that she might return.
Another night, because of this first illusion,
and because his mind was now constantly on her and he was old, he looked
out of the window that was nearest his bed and commanded a hen-coop and
pig-pen and a part of the wagon-shed, and there, a faint mist exuding from
the damp of the ground, he thought he saw her again. It was one of those
little wisps of mist, one of those faint exhalations of the earth that
rise in a cool night after a warm day, and flicker like small white cypresses
of fog before they disappear. In life it had been a custom of hers to cross
this lot from her kitchen door to the pig-pen to throw in any scrap that
was left from her cooking, and here she was again. He sat up and watched
it strangely, doubtfully, because of his previous experience, but inclined,
because of the nervous titillation that passed over his body, to believe
that spirits really were, and that Phoebe, who would be concerned because
of his lonely state, must be thinking about him and hence returning. What
other way would she have? How otherwise could she express herself? It would
be within the province of her charity so to do, and like her loving interest
in him. He quivered and watched it eagerly; but a faint breath of air stirring,
it wound away toward the fence and disappeared.
A third night, as he was actually dreaming,
some ten days later, she came to his bedside and put her hand on his head.
“Poor Henry,” she said, “it's too bad.”
25 He aroused out of his sleep,
actually to see her, he thought, moving from his bedroom into the one living
room, her figure a shadowy mass of black. The weak straining of his eyes
caused little points of light to flicker about the outlines of her form.
He arose, greatly astonished, walked the floor in the cool room, convinced
that Phoebe was coming back to him. If he only thought sufficiently, if
he made it perfectly clear by his feeling that he needed her greatly, she
would come back, this kindly wife, and tell him what to do. She would perhaps
be with him much of the time, in the night, anyhow; and that would make
him less lonely, this state more endurable.
In age and with the feeble it is not such
a far cry from the subtleties of illusion to actual hallucination, and
in due time this transition was made for Henry. Night after night he waited,
expecting her return. Once in his weird mood he thought he saw a pale light
moving about the room, and another time he thought he saw her walking in
the orchard after dark. It was one morning when the details of his lonely
state were virtually unendurable that he woke with the thought that she
was not dead. How he had arrived at this conclusion it is hard to say.
His mind had gone. In its place was a fixed illusion. He and Phoebe had
had a senseless quarrel. He had reproached her for not leaving his pipe
where he was accustomed to find it, and she had left. It was an aberrated
fulfillment of her old jesting threat that if he did not behave himself
she would leave him.
“I guess I could find yuh ag'in,” he had always
said. But her cackling threat had always been:
“Yuh'll not find me if I ever leave yuh. I
guess I kin get some place where yuh can't find me.”
This morning when he arose he did not think
to build the fire in the customary way or to grind his coffee and cut his
bread, as was his wont, but solely to meditate as to where he should search
for her and how he should induce her to come back. Recently the one horse
had been dispensed with because he found it cumbersome and beyond his needs.
He took down his soft crush hat after he had dressed himself, a new glint
of interest and determination in his eye, and taking his black crook cane
from behind the door, where he had always placed it, started out briskly
to look for her among the nearest neighbors. His old shoes clumped soundly
in the dust as he walked, and his gray-black locks, now grown rather long,
straggled out in a dramatic fringe or halo from under his hat. His short
coat stirred busily as he walked, and his hands and face were peaked and
30 “Why, hello, Henry! Where're
yuh goin' this mornin'?” inquired Farmer Dodge, who, hauling a load of
wheat to market, encountered him on the public road. He had not seen the
aged farmer in months, not since his wife's death, and he wondered now,
seeing him looking so spry.
“Yuh ain't seen Phoebe, have yuh?” inquired
the old man, looking up quizzically.
“Phoebe who?” inquired Farmer Dodge, not for
the moment connecting the name with Henry's dead wife.
“Why, my wife Phoebe, o' course. Who do yuh
s'pose I mean?” He stared up with a pathetic sharpness of glance from under
his shaggy, gray eyebrows.
“Wall, I'll swan, Henry, yuh ain't jokin',
are yuh?” said the solid Dodge, a pursy man, with a smooth, hard, red face.
“It can't be your wife yuh're talkin' about. She's dead.”
35 “Dead! Shucks!” retorted
the demented Reifsneider. “She left me early this mornin', while I was
sleepin'. She allus got up to build the fire, but she's gone now. We had
a little spat last night, an' I guess that's the reason. But I guess I
kin find her. She's gone over to Matilda Race's; that's where she's gone.”
He started briskly up the road, leaving the
amazed Dodge to stare in wonder after him.
“Well, I'll be switched!” he said aloud to
himself. “He's clean out'n his head. The poor old feller's been livin'
down there till he's gone outen his mind. I'll have to notify the authorities.”
And he flicked his whip with great enthusiasm. “Geddap!” he said, and was
Reifsneider met no one else in this poorly
populated region until he reached the whitewashed fence of Matilda Race
and her husband three miles away. He had passed several other houses en
route, but these not being within the range of his illusion were not considered.
His wife, who had known Matilda well, must be here. He opened the picket-gate
which guarded the walk, and stamped briskly up to the door.
“Why, Mr. Reifsneider,” exclaimed old Matilda
herself, a stout woman, looking out of the door in answer to his knock,
“what brings yuh here this mornin'?”
40 “Is Phoebe here?” he demanded
“Phoebe who? What Phoebe?” replied Mrs. Race,
curious as to this sudden development of energy on his part.
“Why, my Phoebe, o' course. My wife Phoebe.
Who do yuh s'pose? Ain't she here now?”
“Lawsy me!” exclaimed Mrs. Race, opening her
mouth. “Yuh pore man! So you're clean out'n your mind now. Yuh come right
in and sit down. I'll git yuh a cup o' coffee. O' course your wife ain't
here; but yuh come in an' sit down. I'll find her fer yuh after a while.
I know where she is.”
The old farmer's eyes softened, and he entered.
He was so thin and pale a specimen, pantalooned and patriarchal that he
aroused Mrs. Race's extremest sympathy as he took off his hat and laid
it on his knees quite softly and mildly.
45 “We had a quarrel last night,
an' she left me,” he volunteered.
“Laws! Laws!” sighed Mrs. Race, there being
no one present with whom to share her astonishment as she went to her kitchen.
“The pore man! Now somebody's just got to look after him. He can't be allowed
to run around the country this way lookin' for his dead wife. It's turrible!”
She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought
in some of her new-baked bread and fresh butter. She set out some of her
best jam and put a couple of eggs to boil, lying whole-heartedly the while.
“Now yuh stay right there, Uncle Henry, till
Jake comes in, an' I'll send him to look for Phoebe. I think it's more'n
likely she's over to Swinnerton with some o' her friends. Anyhow, we'll
find out. Now yuh just drink this coffee an' eat this bread. Yuh must be
tired. Yuh've had a long walk this mornin'.” Her idea was to take counsel
with Jake, “her man,” and perhaps have him notify the authorities.
She bustled about, meditating on the uncertainties
of life, while old Reifsneider thrummed on the rim of his hat with his
pale fingers and later ate abstractedly of what she offered. His mind was
on his wife, however, and since she was not here, or did not appear, it
wandered vaguely away to a family by the name of Murray, miles away in
another direction. He decided after a time that he would not wait for Jack
Race to hunt his wife but would seek her for himself. He must be on, and
urge her to come back.
50 “Well, I'll be goin',” he
said, getting up and looking strangely about him. “I guess she didn't come
here after all. She went over to the Murrays', I guess. I'll not wait any
longer, Mis' Race. There's a lot to do over to the house to-day.” And out
he marched in the face of her protests taking to the dusty road again in
the warm spring sun, his cane striking the earth as he went.
It was two hours later that this pale figure
of a man appeared in the Murrays' doorway, dusty, perspiring, eager. He
had tramped all of five miles, and it was noon. An amazed husband and wife
of sixty heard his strange query, and realized also that he was mad. They
begged him to stay to dinner, intending to notify the authorities later
and see what could be done; but though he stayed to partake of a little
something, he did not stay long, and was off again to another distant farmhouse,
his idea of many things to do and his need of Phoebe impelling him. So
it went for that day and the next and the next, the circle of his inquiry
The process by which a character assumes the
significance of being peculiar, his antics weird, yet harmless, in such
a community is often involute and pathetic. This day, as has been said,
saw Reifsneider at other doors, eagerly asking his unnatural question,
and leaving a trail of amazement, sympathy. and pity in his wake. Although
the authorities were informed — the county sheriff, no less — it was not
deemed advisable to take him into custody; for when those who knew old
Henry, and had for so long, reflected on the condition of the county insane
asylum, a place which, because of the poverty of the district, was of staggering
aberration and sickening environment, it was decided to let him remain
at large; for, strange to relate, it was found on investigation that at
night he returned peaceably enough to his lonesome domicile there to discover
whether his wife had returned, and to brood in loneliness until the morning.
Who would lock up a thin, eager, seeking old man with iron-gray hair and
an attitude of kindly, innocent inquiry, particularly when he was well
known for a past of only kindly servitude and reliability? Those who had
known him best rather agreed that he should be allowed to roam at large.
He could do no harm. There were many who were willing to help him as to
food, old clothes, the odds and ends of his daily life — at least at first.
His figure after a time became not so much a common-place as an accepted
curiosity, and the replies, “Why, no, Henry; I ain't see her,” or “No,
Henry; she ain't been here to-day,” more customary.
For several years thereafter then he was an
odd figure in the sun and rain, on dusty roads and muddy ones, encountered
occasionally in strange and unexpected places, pursuing his endless search.
Undernourishment, after a time, although the neighbors and those who knew
his history gladly contributed from their store, affected his body; for
he walked much and ate little. The longer he roamed the public highway
in this manner, the deeper became his strange hallucination; and finding
it harder and harder to return from his more and more distant pilgrimages,
he finally began taking a few utensils with him from his home, making a
small package of them, in order that he might not be compelled to return.
In an old tin coffee-pot of large size he placed a small tin cup, a knife,
fork, and spoon, some salt and pepper, and to the outside of it, by a string
forced through a pierced hole, he fastened a plate, which could be released,
and which was his woodland table. It was no trouble for him to secure the
little food that he needed, and with a strange, almost religious dignity,
he had no hesitation in asking for that much. By degrees his hair became
longer and longer, his once black hat became an earthen brown, and his
clothes threadbare and dusty.
For all of three years he walked, and none
knew how wide were his perambulations, nor how he survived the storms and
cold. They could not see him, with homely rural understanding and forethought,
sheltering himself in hay-cocks, or by the sides of cattle, whose warm
bodies protected him from the cold, and whose dull understandings were
not opposed to his harmless presence. Overhanging rocks and trees kept
him at times from the rain, and a friendly hay-loft or corn-crib was not
above his humble consideration.
55 The involute progression
of hallucination is strange. From asking at doors and being constantly
rebuffed or denied, he finally came to the conclusion that although his
Phoebe might not be in any of the houses at the doors of which he inquired,
she might nevertheless be within the sound of his voice. And so, from patient
inquiry, he began to call sad, occasional cries, that ever and anon waked
the quiet landscapes and ragged hill regions, and set to echoing to his
thin “O-o-o Phoebe! O-o-o Phoebe!” It had a pathetic, albeit insane, ring,
and many a farmer or plowboy came to know it even from afar and say, “There
goes old Reifsneider.”
Another thing that puzzled him greatly after
a time and after many hundreds of inquiries was, when he no longer had
any particular dooryard in view and no special inquiry to make, which way
to go. These cross-roads, which occasionally led in four or even six directions,
came after a time to puzzle him. But to solve this knotty problem, which
became more and more of a puzzle, there came to his aid another hallucination.
Phoebe's spirit or some power of the air or wind or nature would tell him.
If he stood at the center of the parting of the ways, closed his eyes,
turned thrice about, and called “O-o-o Phoebe!” twice, and then threw his
cane straight before him, that would surely indicate which way to go for
Phoebe, or one of these mystic powers would surely govern its direction
and fall! In whichever direction it went, even though, as was not infrequently
the case, it took him back along the path he had already come, or across
fields, he was not so far gone in his mind but that he gave himself ample
time to search before he called again. Also the hallucination seemed to
persist that at some time he would surely find her. There were hours when
his feet were sore, and his limbs weary, when he would stop in the heat
to wipe his seamed brow, or in the cold to beat his arms. Sometimes, after
throwing away his cane, and finding it indicating the direction from which
he had just come, he would shake his head wearily and philosophically,
as if contemplating the unbelievable or an untoward fate, and then start
briskly off. His strange figure came finally to be known in the farthest
reaches of three or four counties. Old Reifsneider was a pathetic character.
His fame was wide.
Near a little town called Watersville, in
Green County, perhaps four miles from that minor center of human activity,
there was a place or precipice locally known as the Red Cliff, a sheer
wall of red sandstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, which raised its sharp
face for half a mile or more above the fruitful corn-fields and orchards
that lay beneath, and which was surmounted by a thick grove of trees. The
slope that slowly led up to it from the opposite side was covered by a
rank growth of beech, hickory, and ash, through which threaded a number
of wagon-tracks crossing at various angles. In fair weather it had become
old Reifsneider's habit, so inured was he by now to the open, to make his
bed in some such patch of trees as this to fry his bacon or boil his eggs
at the foot of some tree before laying himself down for the night. Occasionally,
so light and inconsequential was his sleep, he would walk at night. More
often, the moonlight or some sudden wind stirring in the trees or a reconnoitering
animal arousing him, he would sit up and think, or pursue his quest in
the moonlight or the dark, a strange, unnatural, half wild, half savage-looking
but utterly harmless creature, calling at lonely road crossings, staring
at dark and shuttered houses, and wondering where, where Phoebe could really
That particular lull that comes in the systole-diastole
of this earthly ball at two o'clock in the morning invariably aroused him,
and though he might not go any farther he would sit up and contemplate
the darkness or the stars, wondering. Sometimes in the strange processes
of his mind he would fancy that he saw moving among the trees the figure
of his lost wife, and then he would get up to follow, taking his utensils,
always on a string, and his cane. If she seemed to evade him too easily
he would run, or plead, or, suddenly losing track of the fancied figure,
stand awed or disappointed, grieving for the moment over the almost insurmountable
difficulties of his search.
It was in the seventh year of these hopeless
peregrinations, in the dawn of a similar springtime to that in which his
wife had died, that he came at last one night to the vicinity of this self-same
patch that crowned the rise to the Red Cliff. His far-flung cane, used
as a divining-rod at the last cross-roads, had brought him hither. He had
walked many, many miles. It was after ten o'clock at night, and he was
very weary. Long wandering and little eating had left him but a shadow
of his former self. It was a question now not so much of physical strength
but of spiritual endurance which kept him up. He had scarcely eaten this
day, and now exhausted he set himself down in the dark to rest and possibly
60 Curiously on this occasion
a strange suggestion of the presence of his wife surrounded him. It would
not be long now, he counseled with himself, although the long months had
brought him nothing, until he should see her, talk to her. He fell asleep
after a time, his head on his knees. At midnight the moon began to rise,
and at two in the morning, his wakeful hour, was a large silver disk shining
through the trees to the east. He opened his eyes when the radiance became
strong, making a silver pattern at his feet and lighting the woods with
strange lusters and silvery, shadowy forms. As usual, his old notion that
his wife must be near occurred to him on this occasion, and he looked about
him with a speculative, anticipatory eye. What was it that moved in the
distant shadows along the path by which he had entered — a pale, flickering
will-o'-the-wisp that bobbed gracefully among the trees and riveted his
expectant gaze? Moonlight and shadows combined to give it a strange form
and a stranger reality, this fluttering of bogfire or dancing of wandering
fire-flies. Was it truly his lost Phoebe? By a circuitous route it passed
about him, and in his fevered state he fancied that he could see the very
eyes of her, not as she was when he last saw her in the black dress and
shawl but now a strangely younger Phoebe, gayer, sweeter, the one whom
he had known years before as a girl.
Old Reifsneider got up. He had been expecting
and dreaming of this hour all these years, and now as he saw the feeble
light dancing lightly before him he peered at it questioningly, one thin
hand in his gray hair.
Of a sudden there came to him now for the
first time in many years the full charm of her girlish figure as he had
known it in boyhood, the pleasing, sympathetic smile, the brown hair, the
blue sash she had once worn about her waist at a picnic, her gay, graceful
movements. He walked around the base of the tree, straining with his eyes,
forgetting for once his cane and utensils, and following eagerly after.
On she moved before him, a will-o'-the-wisp of the spring, a little flame
above her head, and it seemed as though among the small saplings of ash
and beech and the thick trunks of hickory and elm that she signaled with
a young, a lightsome hand.
“O Phoebe! Phoebe!” he called. “Have yuh really
come? Have yuh really answered me?” And hurrying faster, he fell once,
scrambling lamely to his feet, only to see the light in the distance dancing
illusively on. On and on he hurried until he was fairly running, brushing
his ragged arms against the trees, striking his hands and face against
impeding twigs. His hat was gone, his lungs were breathless, his reason
quite astray, when coming to the edge of the cliff he saw her below among
a silvery bed of apple-trees now blooming in the spring.
“O Phoebe!” he called. “O Phoebe! Oh, no,
don't leave me!” And feeling the lure of a world where love was young and
Phoebe as this vision presented her, a delightful epitome of their quondam
youth, he gave a gay cry of “Oh, wait, Phoebe!” and leaped.
65 Some farmer-boys, reconnoitering
this region of bounty and prospect some few days afterward, found first
the tin utensils tied together under the tree where he had left them, and
then later at the foot of the cliff, pale, broken, but elate, a molded
smile of peace and delight upon his lips, his body. His old hat was discovered
lying under some low-growing saplings the twigs of which had held it back.
No one of all the simple population knew how eagerly and joyously he had
found his lost mate.