Though there was wrong on both sides, they never would have separated
had it not been for the old man.
He was Ben's father, and Ben was an only child--a spoiled, selfish,
high-tempered lad, who had grown up with the idea that his father, Anson
English, or the "old man," as his dutiful son called him, was much
richer than he really was, and that he had no need of any personal
effort--any object in life, aside from the pursuit of pleasure.
Ben's mother had died when he was fifteen years old and his father had
never married again. Yet it was not any allegiance to her memory which
had kept Anson English from a second marriage. He remembered her, to be
sure, and scarcely a day passed without his mentioning her. But after
her death, as during her weary life, he used her name as a synonym for
all that was undesirable. He compared everybody to "'Liz'beth," and
always to her disadvantage. He had a word of praise and encouragement
and approval for every housewife in the neighborhood except--his own.
Whatever went wrong, in doors or out, "'Liz'beth" was the direct or
indirect cause.
During the first five years of her married life, Elizabeth made
strenuous exertions to please her husband. She wept her sweet eyes dim
over her repeated failures. Then she found that she had been attempting
an impossible labor, and grew passively indifferent--an indifference
which lasted until death kindly released her.
Elizabeth had been a tidy housekeeper during these first years.
"You'd scrub and scour a man out 'er house an' home!" was all the praise
her husband gave her for her order and cleanliness; and to his
neighbors, to whom he was fond of paying informal visits, he would often
say--"Liz'beth's at it again--sweepin' and cleanin', so I cleared out.
Never see _her_ without out a broom in her hand. I'd a good deal rather
have a little more dirt, than so much tearin' 'round. 'Liz'beth tires
me, with her ways."
Yet, when in the indifference of despair which seized upon Elizabeth
before her death, she allowed her house to look after itself, Anson was
no better satisfied.
"I've come over to find a place to set down," he would tell his
neighbors. "'Liz'beth's let things 'cumulate, till the house is a sight
to see--she's gettin' dreadful slack, somehow. A man likes order when he
goes home to rest from all his cares."
Even when she died she displeased him by choosing a busy season for the
occasion.
"Just like 'Liz'beth, to die in hayin' time," he said. "Everything got
to stop--hay spoilin'--men idle. Women never seem to have no system
about work matters--no power of plannin' things, to make it convenient
like for men folks."
Yet after she was gone, Anson found how much help she had been to him,
how wonderful her economy had been, how light her expenditures. He knew
he could never find any one to replace her, in these respects, and as
money considerations were the main ones in his mind he believed it would
be the better economy to remain a widower, and hire his work done.
So during those most critical years of Ben's life, he had been without a
woman's guidance or care.
At eighteen he was all that arrogance, conceit, selfishness, and high
temper could render him. Yet he was a favorite with the fair sex for all
that, as he had a manly figure, and a warm, caressing way when he chose,
that won their admiration and pleased their vanity.
Anson English favored early marriages, and began to think it would be
better all around if Ben should bring a wife home.
She could do the work better than hired help, and keep the money all in
the family. And Ben would not waste his time and means on half a dozen,
as he was now doing, but would stay at home, no doubt, and settle down
into a sensible, practical business man. Yes, Ben ought to marry, and
his father told him so.
Ben smiled.
"I'm already thinking of it," he said. He had expected opposition from
his father, and was surprised at his suggestion.
"Yes," continued the "old man," as Ben already designated him, "I'd like
to see you settle down before you're twenty-one. But you want to make a
good choice. There's Abby Wilson, now. She's got the muscle of a man,
and ain't afraid of anything. And her father has a fine property--a
growin' property. Abby'll make a man a good, vigorous helpmate, and
she'll bring him money in time. You'd better shine up to Abby, Ben."
Ben gave a contemptuous laugh. "I'd as soon marry a dressed-up boy," he
said. "She's more like a boy than a girl in her looks and in her ways. I
have other plans in my mind, father, more to my taste. I mean to marry
Edith Gilman, if she'll take me, and I think she will."
A dark frown contracted Anson English's brow.
"Edith Gilman?" he repeated; "why, that puny schoolma'm, with her baby
face and weak voice, 'll never help _you_ to get a livin', Ben. What are
you thinkin' of?"
"Of love, father, I guess. I love her, and that's all there is of it.
And I shall marry her, if she'll take me, and you can like it or lump
it, as you please. She's a good girl, and if she's treated well all
round, she'll make a good wife, and she's the only woman that can put
the check rein on me, when I get in my tempers. She'll make a man of me
yet."
"But she can't work," insisted the father. "She looks as white and puny
as 'Liz'beth did the year she died."
"She's overworked in the school-room. I mean to take her home, and give
her a rest. I don't ask any woman to marry me and be my drudge. I expect
my wife will keep help."
The old man groaned aloud. Ben's ideas were positively ruinous. If he
married this girl, it would add to, not decrease, the family expenses.
But it was useless to oppose. Ben would do as he pleased, the old man
saw that plainly, and he might as well submit.
He did submit, and Ben married Edith on his twenty-first birthday, and
brought her home.