Freeland tribune. (Freeland, Pa.) 1888-1921, 1895-10-03
THE SILENT SISTERS.
by I. ZANGWILL.

They had quarreled in girlhood, and
mutually declared their intention
never to speak to each other again,
wetting and drying their forefingers
TO the accompaniment of an ancient
childish incantation; and while they
lived on the paternal farm they kept
their foolish oath with the stubborn
ness of slow country stock, despite
the alternate coaxing and chastise-
ment of their parents, notwithstand-
ing the perpetual everyday contact of
their lives, through every vicissitude
of season and weather, of sowing and
reaping, of sun and shade, of joy and
sorrow. Death and misfortune did
not reconcile them, and when their
father died, and the old farm was sold
up, they travelled to London in the
same silence, by the same train, in
search of similar situations. Service
separated them for years, although
there was only a stones throw be-
tween them. They often stared at
each other in the streets. Honor, the
elder, married a local artisan, and two
and half years later Mercy, the
younger, married fellowworkman of
James husband. The two husbands
were friends, and often visited each
others houses, which were on oppo-
site sides of the same sordid street,
and their wives made them welcome.
Neither Honor nor Mercy suffered an
allusion to the breach; it was under
stood that their silence must be re-
ceived in silence. Each of the sisters
had quiverful OF children, who played
and quarreled together in the streets
and in one another's houses, but not
even the street affrays and mutual
grievances of the children could pro-
woke the mothers to words. They
stood at their doors in impotent fury,
almost bursting with the torture of
keeping their mouths shut against the
effervescence of angry speech. When
either lost child, the other watched
the funeral from her window, dumb as
the mutes.
The years rolled on, and still the
river of silence flowed between their
lives. Their good looks faded; the
burden of life and of collaborating was
heavy upon them. Gray hairs streaked
their brown tresses, then brown hairs
strealfed their gray tresses. The
Fuckers of age replaced the dimples Of
youth. The years rolled on, and death
grew busy among the families. Honor's
husband died, and Mercy lost a son,
who died a week after his wife. Chol-
era took several of the younger chill
dren. But the sisters themselves lived
on, bent and shriveled by toll and sor-
row even more than by the slow frost
of the years
Then one day Mercy took to her
death-bed. An internal disease, too
long neglected, would carry her off
within week. So the doctor told
jim, Mercy's husband.
Through him the news travelled to
Hopor's eldest son, who still lived with
her. BY the evening it reached
| Honor.
She went upstairs abruptly when he
told her, leaving him wondering at her
stony aspect. When she came down
she was bonneted and shawled. lie
was filled with joyous amaze to see
her hobble across the street, and, for
the first time in her life, pass over her
sister Mercy's threshold.
AS Honor entered the sicls-room,
with purscd lips, light leapt into
the wasted, wrinkled countenance of
the dying creature. She raised her.
self slightly in bed, her lips parted,
then shut tightly, and her face dark
ened.
Honor turned angrily to Mercys
husband, who hung about impotently.
"Why did you let her run down so
low?" she said. 81 didn't know" the
old man stammered, taken back by her
presence even more than by her ques-
tion. "She was always a woman to
say nothin'."
Honor put him impatiently aside and
examined the medicine bottle on the
bedside table.
Isn't it time she took her dose?"
81 dessay."
Honor snorted wrathfully. "What's
the use of man?" she inquired as she
carefully measured out the fluid and
put it to her sisters lips, which opened
to receive it and then closed tightly
again.
"How is you wife feeling now?" Hon
or asked after pause.
"How are you now, Mercy?" asked
the old man, awkwardly. The old
woman shook her head. I'm a-goin'
fast, Jim," she grumbled weakly, and
tear of self-pity tlicliled down her
| parchment cheek.
What rubbidge she do talkl" cried
Honor, sharply. "Why dye stand
there like tailor's dummy? Why
don't you tell her to cheer up?"
"Cheer up, Mercy" quavered the old
man hoarsely.
But Mercy groaned instead, and
turned fretfully on her other side with
her face to the wall.
I'm too old, I'm too DID," she
moaned. This is the end o. me-"
Did you ever hear the lilse?' Hon
or asked Jim angrily, as she smoothed
his wife's pillow. "She was always
conceited about her age, settin' her
self up as the equals of her elders; and
here am |, her elder sister, as carried
her in my arms when | was five and
| H. h,1 4 81,