ideas. If George married Margaret everything would be settled in an
absolutely perfect way. If I should die Bernard would not need to marry
anybody; in fact, I did not believe that in this case he would want to.
He would go to live with George and Margaret; their home would be his
home, and he would always have both of them to take care of him and to
make him happy in every possible way in which anybody could make him
happy. In my mind's eye I could see him in the best room in the house,
with all sorts of comforts and luxuries about him--our present comforts
and luxuries would make a great show gathered together in one room; and
then I saw Margaret and George standing at the open door, asking if
there were anything he would like, and what they could do for him. As
this mental picture came before me my eyes involuntarily went around
that room to see if there were a picture of me on the wall; and there it
was, and no portrait of any other woman anywhere about.
"In a flash the whole thing became so horrible to me that I threw myself
on the bed and began to cry convulsively. Bernard heard me, and came
up-stairs, and I was obliged to tell him I had a sudden pain. He does
not like sudden pains, and sat down and talked to me a good while about
what I had been eating. Before long, however, I grew calm, and was able
to think about my plans in a common-sense, practical way. Truly there
could be nothing better for my present comfort and Bernard's future
happiness: Margaret and George to take care of him, and my image
undimmed in his heart. I felt like one who has insured his life for the
benefit of a loved one, so, no matter what might happen to him, he would
have, as long as he lived, the joy of knowing what he had done for the
loved one.
"When George came the next day he was just the same splendid old George,
and I do not believe any one ever received a warmer welcome from a
sister-in-law than I gave him. Bernard made a little fun of me, as
usual, and said he believed I would rather see George than him.
"'Nonsense,' said I; 'I am always glad to see you, but I am especially
glad to see George.'
"Bernard whistled, and looked at me in the same queer way that he looked
at me when he once had said laughingly that he believed if I had never
met him I would have married George, and I had answered that if I had
been sure he did not exist it might have been a good thing for me to
marry George.
"Miss Temple did not come to the house that morning, as she so often
did, but I asked Emily to send over and invite her to tea; for I did not
wish to lose any time in the carrying out of my plans. It was about the
middle of the afternoon when Bernard and his brother came in from a
walk. I had been anxious to see George, because I wanted to talk with
him about Margaret before he met her. I was going to speak very
guardedly, of course; but I knew it would be well to prepare his mind,
and I had made up my mind exactly what I was going to say.
"I artfully managed so that George and I walked over the lawn to a bench
in the shade of a big tree where there was something or other--I
entirely forget what it was--which I said I would show him. Mr. and
Mrs. Cheston and Bernard were on the piazza, but I did not ask them to
join us.
"We sat down on the bench, and, in a general sort of way, I asked him
what he had been doing, meaning presently to bring up the subject of
Margaret, for I did not know what time she might drop in. But George was
just as anxious to talk as I was, and, being a man, he was a little more
pushing, and he said:
"'Now, little Rosa, I am so glad you came down here with me, for I have
something on my mind I want to tell you, and I want to do it myself,
before anybody else interferes. It is just this: I am engaged to be
married, and as soon as I get back from England I am going to--' And
then he opened his eyes very wide and looked hard at me. 'What is the
matter, Rosa?' he exclaimed. 'Don't you feel well?'
"In one instant all my plans and hopes and happy dreams of the future
had dropped to the ground, and had been crushed into atoms.
"'Well!' said I, and I think I spoke in a queer voice. 'I am very well.
There is nothing the matter with me. What is her name?'
"He told me; but I had never heard it before, and it was of no more
importance to me than the buzzing of a bee.
"'It will be very nice,' I said; 'and now let us go up to the house and
tell the others.'
"I think that for a woman who had just received such a blow as had been
dealt to me I behaved very well indeed. But I was cold and, I suspect,
pale. I listened as the others talked, but I did not say much myself;
and, as soon as I could make some excuse, I went up to my room. There I
threw myself into a great chair, and gently cried myself to sleep. I did
not sob loudly, because I did not want Bernard to come up again. When I
awoke I had a dreadful headache, and I made up my mind I would not go
down to tea. I could do no good by going down, and, so far as I was
concerned, it did not matter in the least whether Margaret was there or
not. In fact, I did not care about anything. Let George marry whoever he
pleased. If I should die Margaret Temple had promised to take care of
Bernard. Everything was settled, and there was no sense in making any
more plans. So I got ready for another nap, and when Bernard came up I
told him I had a headache, and did not want any tea.
"That evening Bernard sat and looked at me without speaking, as was
sometimes his habit, and then he said:
"'Rosa, I do not understand this at all, and I want you to tell me why
you were so extravagantly glad when you found my brother George was
coming here, and why you were so overcome by your emotions when you
heard of his engagement.'
"'Oh, Bernard,' I cried, 'if it were anybody else I might tell
everything, but I cannot tell you--I cannot tell you!' And I am sure I
spoke truly, for how could I have told that dear man what I had said to
Margaret Temple; and how jealous I had been of her afterwards; and how I
had planned for her to marry George; and that, after my funeral, he
should go to live with them; and about my picture on the wall; and all
the rest of it? It was simply impossible. And if he did not know all
this, how could he understand my feelings when I heard that George was
engaged?
"I could not answer him; I could only sob, and repeat what I had said
before--that if it were anybody else I might speak, but that I could
never tell him. Soon after that he went down-stairs, and I went to
sleep.
"Bernard was never cross with me,--I do not believe he could be if he
tried,--but the next morning he was very quiet, and soon after breakfast
he and Mr. Cheston and George went fishing. If the incidents of the day
before had not occurred I suppose they would have done something in
which Emily and I could have joined; but some sort of change had come
over things, and it was plain enough that even George did not want me.
So I sat alone under the tree where George had told me of his
engagement, feeling very much troubled and very lonely. I wanted to tell
everything to somebody, but there was no one to tell. It would be
impossible to speak to Emily; she would have no sympathy with me; and if
I should tell her everything I had planned, I knew she would laugh at me
unmercifully. I think it would have pleased me better to speak to George
than to any one else; he had always been so sympathetic and kind; but
now things were changed, and he would not care to interest himself in
the affairs of any woman except the one to whom he was engaged. It was
terrible to sit there and think that there was not a person in the
world, not even my husband, to whom I could look for sympathy and
comfort. If I had not been out in the open air, where people could have
seen me, I should have cried.
"Happening to look up, I saw some one on the piazza. It was that
horrible Margaret Temple; and when she gazed about from side to side she
saw me under the tree, and as I, apparently, took no notice of her, she
stepped down from the piazza and came walking across the lawn toward me.
If I had been a man I should have cursed my fate; not only was I
deprived of every comfort, but here came the disturber of my peace to
make me still more unhappy.
"I do not remember what she said when she reached me, but I know she
spoke very pleasantly; nor do I remember what I replied, but I am sure I
did not speak pleasantly. I was out of humor with the whole world, and
particularly with her. She brought a little chair that was near by, and
sat down by me. She was a very straightforward person about speaking,
and so she said, without any preface:
"'Have you told your husband of that arrangement you made with me if he
should survive you?'
"'Of course I have not!' I exclaimed. 'Do you think I would tell him a
thing like that, especially when I said I would not? The fact is,' I
continued,--and it was very hard for me to keep from crying as I
spoke,--'I am just loaded down with trouble, and I cannot tell anybody.'
"'I knew you were troubled,' she replied, 'and that is the reason I came
this morning. Why can't you tell me what is the matter?'
"At first this made me angry, and I felt like bouncing off to the house
and never speaking to her again; but in the next instant I changed my
mind. It would serve her right if I told her everything; and so I did.
I made her feel exactly how I had felt when I had thought of her in my
place, and how I had determined that it should never be. Then I went on
and told her all my plans about George and herself; and how Bernard was
to board with them if I died. I made the story a good deal longer than
I have made it here. Then I finished by telling her of George's
engagement, and how nothing had come of the whole thing except that
Bernard had supposed that I thought too much of George, and had gone
away that morning as cold as a common acquaintance; and that I felt as
though my whole life had been wrecked, and that she had done it.
"It was easy to see that she was not affected as she should have been by
what I said. In fact, she looked as though she wanted to laugh; but her
respect for me prevented that.
"'I do not see,' she said, 'how I have wrecked your life.'
"'That may be so,' I answered, 'but it is because you do not want to see
it. I should think that even you would admit that it is enough to drive
me crazy to see any woman waiting and longing for the day which would
give her that which I prize more than anything else in the world. And to
think what you are aspiring to! None of the old left-overs that other
people have offered to you, but my Bernard, the very prince of men! I do
not wonder you were so quick to promise me you would take him!'
"She jumped up, and I thought she was going away; but she did not go,
and turned again toward me, and remarked, just as coolly as anybody
could speak: 'Well, I do not wonder, either. Your Bernard is a most
estimable man, and if nothing should happen in any way or at any time to
interfere in the case of his surviving you I shall be happy to marry
him. I think I would make him a very good wife.'
"At this I sprang to my feet, and I am sure my eyes and cheeks were
blazing. 'Do you mean,' I cried, 'that you would make him a better wife
than I do?'
"'That is a question,' she said, 'that is not easy to answer, and needs
a good deal of consideration.' And she spoke with as much deliberation
as if she were trying to decide whether it would be better to cover a
floor with matting or carpet. 'For one thing, I do not believe I would
nag him.'
"'Nag!' I exclaimed. 'What do you mean by that? Do you suppose I nag
him?'
"'I do not know anything about it,' she answered, 'except what you told
me yourself; and what you said was my reason for agreeing so quickly to
your proposition.'
"'Nag!' I cried. But then I stopped. I thought it would be better to
wait until I could think over what I had said to her before I pursued
this subject. 'But I can tell you one thing,' I continued, 'and that is
that you need not have any hopes in the direction of my husband. I am
going to tell him everything just as soon as he comes home, even about
you and George; and I am going to make him promise that, no matter what
happens, he will never marry you.'
[Illustration: "Do you mean," I cried, "that you would make him a better
wife than I do?"]
"I think these words made some impression on her, for she answered very
quickly: 'I am not sure that it will be wise to tell him everything; but
if you are determined to do so, I must insist that you will tell him
something more; and that is that I am engaged to be married, and have
been for nearly a year.'
"'And you have been deceiving all these anxious wives?' I cried.
"'I never made promises to any one but to you,' she answered; 'and I
would not have done that if I had not liked you so much.'
"'You have a funny way of liking,' I remarked.
"She merely smiled, and went on: 'And I should not have told you of my
engagement if I had not thought it would be safer to do so, considering
the story you are going to tell your husband.'
"'And it is because I consider it safer that I am going to tell him that
story,' I replied.
* * * * *
"That afternoon, as soon as I was alone with Bernard,--I did not give
him any time to show me any of his common-acquaintance coolness,--I told
him the whole thing from beginning to end. He listened so earnestly that
one might have thought he was in church; but when I came to the part
about his boarding with George and Miss Temple he could not help
laughing. He excused himself, however, and told me to go on. He looked
very happy when I had told him my story, and no one would have supposed
that he had ever assumed the air of a mere common acquaintance.
"'You are such a good little wife!' he exclaimed. 'And you are always
trying to do things to make me happy. But you must not take so much
labor and anxiety upon yourself. I want to help you in every way that I
can, and in such a case you ought to let me do it.'
"'But how could you help me in the trouble I have been telling you
about?' I asked.
"'Easily enough,' he answered. 'Now, if you had taken me into your
confidence, I would have told you that I consider Miss Temple too tall a
woman for my fancy.'
"'She is,' I said. 'I did not think so at first, but I can see it
plainly now.'
"'Then, again, she is too practical-minded.'
"'Entirely too much so,' I agreed.
"'And in other respects she is not up to my standard,' continued
Bernard. 'So I think, Rosa, that if you should ever take up such a
scheme again we should act together. I am sure my opinion would be of
great advantage to you in helping you to select some one who should take
up the work of making me happy--'
"'You are perfectly horrid!' I exclaimed; and I stopped his mouth.
"That was the end of the matter; but I never learned to like Margaret
Temple. To be sure, I thought seriously of some things she had said; but
then, people can consider things people say without liking the people
who say them. I pity her husband."
Just then came the summons to luncheon, and this story was not commented
upon.
THIS STORY IS TOLD BY
JOHN GAYTHER
AND IS CALLED
BLACKGUM AG'IN' THUNDER
XI
BLACKGUM AG'IN' THUNDER
John Gayther and the Daughter of the House walked in the garden. The
melons were ripe now, and it was a pleasure to push aside the coarse
leaves and find beneath them the tropical-looking fruit with the pretty
network tracery covering the gray-green rind. The grape-vines, too, were
things of beauty, hanging full of great white, yellow, red, and purple
clusters. The tomatoes gleamed scarlet and purple-red thickly among the
plants. The cabbages had curled themselves up into compact heads that
looked like big folded roses set in an open cluster of leaves. There
were rows of green-leaved turnips, red-leaved beets, and feathery-leaved
carrots. The ears were standing stiff in the corn rows.
In the orchard the peaches were rosy and downy, the plums ready to drop
with lusciousness; ruddy-cheeked pears were crowded on the drooping
branches; the apples, not so plentiful, were taking on the colors that
proclaimed their near fruition; and even the knotty quinces were growing
fair and golden. On the upper terrace the stately, delicate cosmos was
waving in the wind; great beds of low marigolds were flaunting their
rich colors in the bright sunlight; the dahlias lifted into the air,
stiffly and proudly, their great blossoms of varying forms; the
clove-pinks, lowly and delicate in color, gave forth the fragrance of
the springtime which they had held stored up in their tender blossoms;
and the early chrysanthemums were unfolding their plumes.
"I love the late August-time," said John Gayther, as the two sat down to
rest in the summer-house after a long stay in the garden. "I have a
singular feeling, which I hope is not irreverent, that the great Creator
is pleased with me for having brought this work to perfection, and the
thought gives me great peace of mind."
"It does sound a little presumptuous, John," said the young lady.
"Not in the way I mean it," replied John. "We are told that God gives
abundantly of the fruits and blossoms that gladden our hearts and eyes.
But this is only partly true. There may be some lands where nothing need
be done to these God-given fruits and vegetables and flowers. I do not
know. But in this happy land, although he does abundantly give us the
material to work upon, he expects us to do the work. Else what would be
the use of gardens? And if there were no need of gardens there would be
no gardens; and how desolate would life be without gardens!"
"I see what you mean, John," said the young lady. "We could not go into
the woods, or on to the plains, and find the fruits and vegetables that
grow so well in this garden. If they were there at all they would be
poor and undeveloped."
"Exactly so," said John. "And in my garden I garner up God's gifts; and
I select the best, and then the best of the best, and so on and on; and
I watch, oh, so carefully, for everything hurtful; and I water; and I
prune off the dead branches; and enrich the ground. And so I work and
work, with God's help of the sunshine and the rain; and at last, when it
all comes to what we see to-day, I cannot but feel that God is pleased
with me for bringing about the fruition he knew I could accomplish with
the material given by what some people call nature and I call God. That
is what a garden is for, and in that way it glorifies him."
They were both silent for some time. The young girl was thinking that
while all that John had said was true, she could not, like him, love
this season best of all. Its very perfection and full fruition were
saddening, for that must inevitably be followed by decay. The old man
was thinking that while youth and its promise for the future was
beautiful, the resignation and peacefulness of an accomplished life was
far more beautiful.
The red thrush broke into song and startled them both. The old man
listened to it as if it were a paean of thanksgiving for the garden and
all that it had given, and wished he were able to join his voice with
the music of the bird. As the young girl listened it seemed to her that
the song was as clear and sweet and happy as it had been in the spring.
And she marvelled.
"What a pity! We have missed the bird!" A voice broke into the stillness
that had followed the song. It was the Mistress of the House who was
approaching, followed by the Master of the House, the Next Neighbor, and
the Old Professor.
"I was wondering why you were not all here some time ago," said the
Daughter of the House.
"Kept by company," said the Master of the House, as they all came
forward and took their accustomed places. "Not half as agreeable as the
bird, nor as interesting as the story John promised to tell. I hope it
will not be as solemn as your countenance, John."
Nobody was ever solemn long when the Master of the House was present,
and John Gayther's countenance immediately was lighted up by a smile. "I
could not think of telling you a solemn story," he said, "and this one
is about a peculiar character I knew. His name was Abner Batterfield,
and he was a farmer. One day he was forty-five years old. He was also
tired. Having finished hoeing his last row of corn, he sat down on a
bench at his front door, took off his wide and dilapidated straw hat,
and wiped his brow. Presently his wife came out. She was a little more
than forty-five years old, and of phenomenal physical and mental
endurance. She had lived seventeen years with Abner, and her natural
vigor was not impaired.
"'Supper's ready,' said she.
"Her husband heaved a sigh, and stretched out his weary legs in unison.
"'Supper,' he repeated; 'it's allus eat, and work, and sleep!'
"'Perhaps you'd like to leave out the eatin',' said Mrs. Batterfield;
'that would save lots.'
"Her husband ignored this remark. His farm was small, but it was too big
for him. He had no family except himself and wife, but the support of
that family taxed his energies. There was a certain monotony connected
with coming out short at the end of the year which was wearisome to his
soul.
"'Mrs. B.,' said he, 'I've made up my mind to start over again.'
"'Goin' back to the corn-field?' she asked. 'You'd better have your
supper first.'
"'No,' said he; 'it's different. I've been thinkin' about it all day,
and I'm goin' to begin life over ag'in.'
"'At your age it would be more fit fer you to consider the proper endin'
of it,' said she.
"'I knew you'd say that, Mrs. B.; I knew you'd say that! You never do
agree with me in any of my plans and undertakin's.'
"'Which accounts fer our still havin' a roof over our heads,' said she.
"'But, I can tell you, this time I'm a-goin' ahead. I don't care what
people say; I don't care what they do, or what they don't do; I'm goin'
ahead. It'll be blackgum ag'in' thunder this time, and I'm blackgum.
You've heard about the thunder and lightnin' tacklin' a blackgum-tree?'
"'Ever since I was born,' said she.
"'Well, there's a awful scatterin' of dust and chips when that sort of a
fight is on; but nobody ever yet heard of thunder gettin' the better of
a blackgum-tree. And I'm goin' to be a blackgum!'
"Mrs. Batterfield made no reply to this remark, but in her heart she
said: 'And I'm goin' to be thunder.'
"The next morning, Abner Batterfield put on his best clothes, and walked
to the little town about two miles distant. He didn't enter the business
part of the place, but turned into a shady side street where stood a
small one-story building, almost by itself. This was the village
library, and the librarian was sitting in the doorway, reading a book.
He was an elderly man of comfortable contour, and wore no glasses, even
for the finest print.
"'Mornin', Abner,' said the librarian; 'have you brought back that
book?'
"Abner seated himself on the door-step. 'No, I haven't, Mr. Brownsill,'
said he; 'I forgot it. I forgot it, but I remember some things that's in
it, and I've come to talk about 'em.'
"'Very good,' said the librarian, closing the volume of Salmon's
Geographical Grammar with his finger at page 35, treating of paradoxes,
and remarked: 'Well, Abner, what is it?'
"Then Abner Batterfield told his tale. He was going to make a fresh
start; he was going to spend the rest of his life in some manner worthy
of him. He hadn't read much of the book he had taken out of the library,
for in his present way of spending his life there didn't seem to be any
very good time for reading, but he had read enough of it to make him
feel that it was time for him to make a fresh start, and he was going to
do it.
"'And I may have a tough time,' said Abner; 'but it'll be blackgum
ag'in' thunder, and I'm blackgum!'
"The librarian smiled. 'What are you going to do?' said he.
"'That's a thing,' said Abner, 'I'm not so certain about. I've been
thinkin' of enterin' the ministry; but the bother about that is, I can't
make up my mind which particular denomination to enter. There's such a
difference in 'em.'
"'That's true,' said Mr. Brownsill; 'that's very true! But haven't you a
leaning for some one of them in particular?'
"'In thinkin' it over,' said Abner, 'I've been drawn to the Quakers. So
far's I kin find out, there's nothin' a Quaker preacher has to do if he
don't want to.'
"'But then, on the other hand,' said the librarian, 'there's no pay.'
"'Which won't work at all,' said Abner, 'so that's got to be dropped. As
to the Methodists, there's too much work. A man might as well stick to
hoein' corn.'
"'What do you think of the Catholics?' asked the librarian,
meditatively. 'I should think a monk in a cell might suit you. I don't
believe you'd be expected to do much work in a cell.'
"Abner cogitated. 'But there ain't no pay to that, no more'n if I was a
Quaker. And there's Mrs. B. to be considered. I tell you, Mr. Brownsill,
it's awful hard makin' a ch'ice.'