A shabby, red-faced, weather-beaten old man came to the door of Red Apple a week out from Christmas, with a grim, unfestive look about his mouth and an incongruously saucy look in his eyes. He was tiny – his head barely came to Una's shoulders – and Una herself was none too tall. His arms were thin and the bones beneath seemed as frail as birds. But the hardened muscles in his neck and shoulders belied his wiry strength. This strange visitor doffed his hat when Una answered the door, and stated his business to her in a gruff voice that was strange, with its wild, out-land twang. He was selling Christmas trees. Would the missus like to buy one?
Already the house had been decorated with ivy and holly – silver tinsel and paper snowflakes at the windows – but a young, slender, sweet-smelling spruce would be just the thing to complete the holiday air. Una had a sudden, fleeting vision of the old Maywater days – the family crowded around a fir tree, festooned with paper garlands and bright, colored trinkets. "What a lovely idea!" she cried. "Won't you help me pick one, Mr. …"
"Zeke Pollock," said the man, sweeping an odd, courtly bow. "Hezekiah to folks that know me."
"Why, there is a Hezekiah Pollock buried in the old, Glen, Methodist grave-yard!" cried Una, remembering the fair, Rainbow Valley days.
"Aye, and 'taint me, missus, but wasn't Hezekiah the First my great-grandfather's uncle? Ain't I named for him? I never seed his grave, though, missus, on account of it being in the Methodist grave-yard. It ain't good to get too close to any Methodist dealings – not to offend, missus."
"We are Presbyterians." Una choked back an unholy urge to laugh. "So there is no offense taken. I think that Douglas fir in your wagon is what I need."
"It's a handsome tree, but it's the most dear," said Mr. Pollock, with the open air of one who at the same time has the need of making money and the conscience to effect a full disclosure. "Mebbe you'd like a spruce sapling instead, missus."
"No," Una assured him, with a sidelong glance at the shabby wagon and the man's patched breeches. His coat was so threadbare it made her heart ache. "Perhaps," she began shyly, when the transaction was ended, "You would help me carry this tree into the house?" Una hated to see any person who looked scrawny or hungry or ill-clothed – there was a pot of chowder bubbling away on the stove and an old coat of Shirley's hanging in the wardrobe. She had every intention of seeing that Mr. Pollock went away with his belly full and his body warm.
There was a flash of white teeth in the old man's creased, nut-brown face as he smiled. "I'd be a sorry gentleman if I did let you carry it by yourself," he chided her. "But missus, ye've over-paid me for this tree. Let me see if I can make the change."
"You may keep it," said Una, but Hezekiah Pollock stood his ground. He counted out the surplus to the last penny and pressed it in her hand.
The tree was set up near the big bay window and Una managed to wheedle Mr. Pollock into taking a bite of sup in the cosy kitchen. It took some finagling but she managed to convince him that she wanted company. And she did. Shirley was away in town on a mysterious mission and it was lonely eating one's supper alone. Besides, Una thought, with a glimmer of delight, she liked hearing the wizened old man talk. It seemed as if he would tell her something wonderful – or unholy – or irreverent – if she only let him.
"This clam chowder is terrible good, missus. Sticks to my bones! The last one I knew who could make chowder like this was an old sea-captain I served with when I was a boy. Always meant to get the recipe from him but he was captured and eaten by cannibals before's I ever could."
"How terrible!" cried Una.
"Yup – I s'pose it was – for the cannibals. Old Shea was a tough bite to swallow, I bet. Dash it! I wisht I'd got that recipe! My own Aunt Sarah writ me up hers, but I ain't got no need to have any third rate imitation chowder. This is the real deal."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Una gravely.
"You've done all you can with these Four Winds clams, and that's a fact," said Mr. Pollock, slurping soup, with a good-natured air. "They don't have the flavour of the Pine Shore clams. Next time I'm around these parts I'll bring ye some. How'd you like that?"
"I'd like it very much," smiled Una. "Pine Shore – is that where you live, Mr. Pollock?"
"Call me Hezekiah! Yup – Pine Shore's my home. A dozen of my relatives ast me to live with them but I can't stand any of them so I'm batching it. Got my self a little cabin in the sea cove. It's real homey. But you've got yourself a real home here, missus. I do believe that this is the happiest I've ever seen this little house, missus."
"Oh – have you been here before?" asked Una hungrily. She did so want to know something – anything – about the people who had lived in this house before.
"A dozen times at least. Wasn't I the hired boy for the Margarets, fifty-odd years ago?"
"The Margarets?" Una wondered. "Why, who were they?"
"Why, Margaret Anderson and her daughter Miss Margaret," replied Mr. Pollock, looking longingly at the soup-pot. Una intercepted that look and ladled him another bowl. "Old Mr. Anderson died afore I ever come here. He died when Maggie – that's what we called Miss Margaret – was a baby. Old missus never caterwauled about it, though. When she heard he was kilt she cried for twenty-four hours straight. When she was done she dried her tears and sat up real straight-like and told those folks around her, 'That's the last you shall ever see of me crying over this. I've had all of my tears out at once and henceforth I'll only remember the good times – there were ever so many of them, you see.'"
"She sounds like a wonderful lady." Una's eyes were shining.
"Aye, she was." Mr. Pollock finished off the last of his chowder and sat back with the air of comfortable repose. "Old missus was terrible gentle and kind. I've always sorter had a hard time making ends meet, Miz …Blythe, you say? Relation to the doctor? Oh! Well, Old Missus Anderson wasn't against giving me a bite when she saw I needed it. Real good lady, she was."
"And Miss Margaret – Maggie, I mean?"
"Miss Margaret was a lovely creetur. All gold and soft to look at. She warn't never very strong and she didn't see folks much. This old place is sorter out of the way as far as living goes but the Margarets didn't mind it. They wouldn't move because this is where they'd lived with their father and husband, and to tell the truth, I think they liked being so out of the way. They loved this place, so, missus, and I think they'd like to think of you taking such good care of it. You've kept all their things, I see. Don't they suit this house? Many's the meal I've had at this very table. I feel's though I can see Old Missus at the stove over there, stirring a pot of something tasty. Miss Margaret spent all of her time in the parlor, sitting on that rose-covered settee. The last time I ever saw her before she died, thar she was, with her yaller hair in two long braids down her back and her cheeks all flushed and consumptive looking."
"Oh, did she die?" Una cried.
"Don't all mortals?" asked Mr. Pollock. "Yes – she died – and she died young. But don't look sad, missus. She was happy to the very end. She and old missus were the happiest two mortals I ever met – in most ways. There's a story about Miss Margaret that I'm tempted to tell you. Got love and joy and heartache in it all in one. But – I think I'll save that story for another time."
"Oh, why?" wondered Una.
"Because," Mr. Pollock twisted his hat brim in his hands nervously. "Because I sorter like talking to you, missus. I'm afraid if I say my whole piece now you won't ever have no need to talk to me again. And – I'd like to come back and talk to you again some time. You put me in mind of all sorts of nice things, missus. You're just as kind as old Mrs. Margaret Anderson – and just as pretty as Miss Maggie, in your own way."
"The race of Joseph always knows one another," murmured Una. To Mr. Pollock she said,
"I should be glad to see you again no matter what – you may take my word for it. But if you need the extra insurance I understand. Only – you must promise to come back again some time, Mr. Pollock! Now that I know there is a story about this old place I won't be able to rest until I know what it is."
"I'll come again," Mr. Pollock promised. "It'll be hard to get through once the snows come in earnest. But when spring gets here, I'll come along, presently."
"You had better," said Una. "Oh, Mr. Pollock, it might be terribly rude to ask, but won't you take this old coat? I'd feel so much better if I knew you were warm on your way back to Pine Shore."
"I can't wear no coat as fine as that!" cried Mr. Pollock. "Brass buttons and the works! Who'd give a man a crust of bread he needed with a coat like that? But – missus – if ye've got any old quilts laying about -- it gets terrible frosty in my old cabin a'nights…"
Una went to the garret and returned with some pretty patchwork pieces she had worked in her youth, tied into a neat bundle. In the bundle she had slipped a loaf of bread and a packet of tea. The old man's mouth worked when he saw it and he lifted a brown, work-hardened hand and patted her face, softly, twice.
"Bless your kind heart," he said sincerely, hoisted the bundle on his back, and went out into the night. Shirley passed him on the porch and looked after him in some surprise.
"Una," he wondered, "Have you been visiting with the Wandering Jew? That man looks as though he must be a hundred years old – or more. He has the most interesting face I've ever seen. Is he a man or a gnome? And he's disappeared! Do you often have visitors from fairyland while I'm gone?"
"He hasn't disappeared, he's gone around the bend in the road," Una laughed. "He's Mr. Hezekiah Pollock – and a friend to us. He came up today to sell me a Christmas tree and stayed a while. Can't you smell it, Shirley – that wonderful spruce tang? And there's a pot of chowder on the stove and some fresh bread. Come and have a bite – I've been waiting for you – oh!" For Shirley had caught her in his arms.
"You're nice to come home to," he told her.
A/N: Miss Margaret Anderson is NOT Lost Margaret. I remembered that in my other stories, Cecilia's middle name is Margaret, and I wanted it to mean something. Review!