my companion and i had been so intent upon the subject of the conversation that we had not heard any one open the gate, but at this moment, above the noise of the rain, we heard a loud knocking. we were all startled as we sat by the fire, and mrs. todd rose hastily and went to answer the call, leaving her rocking-chair in violent motion. mrs. fosdick and i heard an anxious voice at the door speaking of a sick child, and mrs. todd's kind, motherly voice inviting the messenger in: then we waited in silence. there was a sound of heavy dropping of rain from the eaves, and the distant roar and undertone of the sea. my thoughts flew back to the lonely woman on her outer island; what separation from humankind she must have felt, what terror and sadness, even in a summer storm like this!
“you send right after the doctor if she ain't better in half an hour,” said mrs. todd to her worried customer as they parted; and i felt a warm sense of comfort in the evident resources of even so small a neighborhood, but for the poor hermit joanna there was no neighbor on a winter night.
“how did she look?” demanded mrs. fosdick, without preface, as our large hostess returned to the little room with a mist about her from standing long in the wet doorway, and the sudden draught of her coming beat out the smoke and flame from the franklin stove. “how did poor joanna look?”
“she was the same as ever, except i thought she looked smaller,” answered mrs. todd after thinking a moment; perhaps it was only a last considering thought about her patient. “yes, she was just the same, and looked very nice, joanna did. i had been married since she left home, an' she treated me like her own folks. i expected she'd look strange, with her hair turned gray in a night or somethin', but she wore a pretty gingham dress i'd often seen her wear before she went away; she must have kept it nice for best in the afternoons. she always had beautiful, quiet manners. i remember she waited till we were close to her, and then kissed me real affectionate, and inquired for nathan before she shook hands with the minister, and then she invited us both in. 'twas the same little house her father had built him when he was a bachelor, with one livin'-room, and a little mite of a bedroom out of it where she slept, but 'twas neat as a ship's cabin. there was some old chairs, an' a seat made of a long box that might have held boat tackle an' things to lock up in his fishin' days, and a good enough stove so anybody could cook and keep warm in cold weather. i went over once from home and stayed 'most a week with joanna when we was girls, and those young happy days rose up before me. her father was busy all day fishin' or clammin'; he was one o' the pleasantest men in the world, but joanna's mother had the grim streak, and never knew what 'twas to be happy. the first minute my eyes fell upon joanna's face that day i saw how she had grown to look like mis' todd. 'twas the mother right over again.”
“oh dear me!” said mrs. fosdick.
“joanna had done one thing very pretty. there was a little piece o' swamp on the island where good rushes grew plenty, and she'd gathered 'em, and braided some beautiful mats for the floor and a thick cushion for the long bunk. she'd showed a good deal of invention; you see there was a nice chance to pick up pieces o' wood and boards that drove ashore, and she'd made good use o' what she found. there wasn't no clock, but she had a few dishes on a shelf, and flowers set about in shells fixed to the walls, so it did look sort of homelike, though so lonely and poor. i couldn't keep the tears out o' my eyes, i felt so sad. i said to myself, i must get mother to come over an' see joanna; the love in mother's heart would warm her, an' she might be able to advise.”
“oh no, joanna was dreadful stern,” said mrs. fosdick.
“we were all settin' down very proper, but joanna would keep stealin' glances at me as if she was glad i come. she had but little to say; she was real polite an' gentle, and yet forbiddin'. the minister found it hard,” confessed mrs. todd; “he got embarrassed, an' when he put on his authority and asked her if she felt to enjoy religion in her present situation, an' she replied that she must be excused from answerin', i thought i should fly. she might have made it easier for him; after all, he was the minister and had taken some trouble to come out, though 'twas kind of cold an' unfeelin' the way he inquired. i thought he might have seen the little old bible a-layin' on the shelf close by him, an' i wished he knew enough to just lay his hand on it an' read somethin' kind an' fatherly 'stead of accusin' her, an' then given poor joanna his blessin' with the hope she might be led to comfort. he did offer prayer, but 'twas all about hearin' the voice o' god out o' the whirlwind; and i thought while he was goin' on that anybody that had spent the long cold winter all alone out on shell-heap island knew a good deal more about those things than he did. i got so provoked i opened my eyes and stared right at him.
“she didn't take no notice, she kep' a nice respectful manner towards him, and when there come a pause she asked if he had any interest about the old indian remains, and took down some queer stone gouges and hammers off of one of her shelves and showed them to him same's if he was a boy. he remarked that he'd like to walk over an' see the shell-heap; so she went right to the door and pointed him the way. i see then that she'd made her some kind o' sandal-shoes out o' the fine rushes to wear on her feet; she stepped light an' nice in 'em as shoes.”
mrs. fosdick leaned back in her rocking-chair and gave a heavy sigh.
“i didn't move at first, but i'd held out just as long as i could,” said mrs. todd, whose voice trembled a little. “when joanna returned from the door, an' i could see that man's stupid back departin' among the wild rose bushes, i just ran to her an' caught her in my arms. i wasn't so big as i be now, and she was older than me, but i hugged her tight, just as if she was a child. 'oh, joanna dear,' i says, 'won't you come ashore an' live 'long o' me at the landin', or go over to green island to mother's when winter comes? nobody shall trouble you an' mother finds it hard bein' alone. i can't bear to leave you here'—and i burst right out crying. i'd had my own trials, young as i was, an' she knew it. oh, i did entreat her; yes, i entreated joanna.”
“what did she say then?” asked mrs. fosdick, much moved.
“she looked the same way, sad an' remote through it all,” said mrs. todd mournfully. “she took hold of my hand, and we sat down close together; 'twas as if she turned round an' made a child of me. 'i haven't got no right to live with folks no more,' she said. 'you must never ask me again, almiry: i've done the only thing i could do, and i've made my choice. i feel a great comfort in your kindness, but i don't deserve it. i have committed the unpardonable sin; you don't understand,' says she humbly. 'i was in great wrath and trouble, and my thoughts was so wicked towards god that i can't expect ever to be forgiven. i have come to know what it is to have patience, but i have lost my hope. you must tell those that ask how 'tis with me,' she said, 'an' tell them i want to be alone.' i couldn't speak; no, there wa'n't anything i could say, she seemed so above everything common. i was a good deal younger then than i be now, and i got nathan's little coral pin out o' my pocket and put it into her hand; and when she saw it and i told her where it come from, her face did really light up for a minute, sort of bright an' pleasant. 'nathan an' i was always good friends; i'm glad he don't think hard of me,' says she. 'i want you to have it, almiry, an' wear it for love o' both o' us,' and she handed it back to me. 'you give my love to nathan,—he's a dear good man,' she said; 'an' tell your mother, if i should be sick she mustn't wish i could get well, but i want her to be the one to come.' then she seemed to have said all she wanted to, as if she was done with the world, and we sat there a few minutes longer together. it was real sweet and quiet except for a good many birds and the sea rollin' up on the beach; but at last she rose, an' i did too, and she kissed me and held my hand in hers a minute, as if to say good-by; then she turned and went right away out o' the door and disappeared.
“the minister come back pretty soon, and i told him i was all ready, and we started down to the bo't. he had picked up some round stones and things and was carrying them in his pocket-handkerchief; an' he sat down amidships without making any question, and let me take the rudder an' work the bo't, an' made no remarks for some time, until we sort of eased it off speaking of the weather, an' subjects that arose as we skirted black island, where two or three families lived belongin' to the parish. he preached next sabbath as usual, somethin' high soundin' about the creation, and i couldn't help thinkin' he might never get no further; he seemed to know no remedies, but he had a great use of words.”
mrs. fosdick sighed again. “hearin' you tell about joanna brings the time right back as if 'twas yesterday,” she said. “yes, she was one o' them poor things that talked about the great sin; we don't seem to hear nothing about the unpardonable sin now, but you may say 'twas not uncommon then.”
“i expect that if it had been in these days, such a person would be plagued to death with idle folks,” continued mrs. todd, after a long pause. “as it was, nobody trespassed on her; all the folks about the bay respected her an' her feelings; but as time wore on, after you left here, one after another ventured to make occasion to put somethin' ashore for her if they went that way. i know mother used to go to see her sometimes, and send william over now and then with something fresh an' nice from the farm. there is a point on the sheltered side where you can lay a boat close to shore an' land anything safe on the turf out o' reach o' the water. there were one or two others, old folks, that she would see, and now an' then she'd hail a passin' boat an' ask for somethin'; and mother got her to promise that she would make some sign to the black island folks if she wanted help. i never saw her myself to speak to after that day.”
“i expect nowadays, if such a thing happened, she'd have gone out west to her uncle's folks or up to massachusetts and had a change, an' come home good as new. the world's bigger an' freer than it used to be,” urged mrs. fosdick.
“no,” said her friend. “'tis like bad eyesight, the mind of such a person: if your eyes don't see right there may be a remedy, but there's no kind of glasses to remedy the mind. no, joanna was joanna, and there she lays on her island where she lived and did her poor penance. she told mother the day she was dyin' that she always used to want to be fetched inshore when it come to the last; but she'd thought it over, and desired to be laid on the island, if 'twas thought right. so the funeral was out there, a saturday afternoon in september. 'twas a pretty day, and there wa'n't hardly a boat on the coast within twenty miles that didn't head for shell-heap cram-full o' folks an' all real respectful, same's if she'd always stayed ashore and held her friends. some went out o' mere curiosity, i don't doubt,—there's always such to every funeral; but most had real feelin', and went purpose to show it. she'd got most o' the wild sparrows as tame as could be, livin' out there so long among 'em, and one flew right in and lit on the coffin an' begun to sing while mr. dimmick was speakin'. he was put out by it, an' acted as if he didn't know whether to stop or go on. i may have been prejudiced, but i wa'n't the only one thought the poor little bird done the best of the two.”
“what became o' the man that treated her so, did you ever hear?” asked mrs. fosdick. “i know he lived up to massachusetts for a while. somebody who came from the same place told me that he was in trade there an' doin' very well, but that was years ago.”
“i never heard anything more than that; he went to the war in one o' the early regiments. no, i never heard any more of him,” answered mrs. todd. “joanna was another sort of person, and perhaps he showed good judgment in marryin' somebody else, if only he'd behaved straight-forward and manly. he was a shifty-eyed, coaxin' sort of man, that got what he wanted out o' folks, an' only gave when he wanted to buy, made friends easy and lost 'em without knowin' the difference. she'd had a piece o' work tryin' to make him walk accordin' to her right ideas, but she'd have had too much variety ever to fall into a melancholy. some is meant to be the joannas in this world, an' 'twas her poor lot.”
