One morning Nannie was out in the garden, not at work as she should
have been (she left all that to Steve), but walking around in a sort
of lordly way, after the fashion of many idlers in this world who
without scruple appropriate the results of industry.
She had often noted an old codger whose place backed up on hers, but
had never held any converse with him. This morning, however, he seemed
inclined to break the ice, as it were, for as she strutted about he
leaned on the fence and said cheerily:
"Good-morning, neighbor."
Nannie gave one glance at his old broad-brimmed straw hat and rusty
overalls, and then said with a certain winning sauciness all her own:
"Good-morning, old Hayseed."
The man laughed. He had a rotund, jovial countenance, which even his
smoked glasses could not plunge into gloom. His every feature had an
upward turn, and there was something strong and good about the face
that made one feel that his heart also curved upward.
"So ye're gard'nin', be yer?" he remarked by way of introduction.
"No, I ain't," said Nannie curtly. "Steve gardens, and you know it.
You've seen him bent like a bow over these beds ever since we came
here."
"Yes, that's so."
"And I've held myself as straight as an arrow."
"Now thet's so, too," and the old man laughed. "Ye're cute, yer air."
"I can see right ahead of me. I don't wear smoked glasses," said
Nannie with a pretty little grimace.
"There's a deal goes on ahind smoked glasses sometimes," said the old
fellow with a laugh.
"How do you keep house?" asked Nannie with an abrupt change of
subject. "You haven't any wife or daughter."
"I don't keep it; jest trust it. Don't turn no key nor nothin' on it,
an' I ain't never knowed it to stray outside ther yard. Ther's a heap
in hevin' faith in things."
Nannie's face grew thoughtful.
"Yer kin 'most b'lieve a man inter bein' honest, an' I reckon it acts
ther same on wimmin, though they be a leetle different."
Nannie looked up from under her curls with a glance half inquiring,
half defiant.
"When wimmin's young they be like a colt--it's hard ter keep 'em
stiddy. When they git older they be somethin' like a mule--it's hard
ter start 'em up now an' agin."
"I guess men are the same. They belong to the same stock--all the
world's akin, you know," said Nannie mischievously.
"All the world's akin, eh?" said the old man slowly, turning this
thought over in his mind. "Well, now, mebbe thet's so, but if it is
ther's a deal of difference atween ther cousins."
Again Nannie's face grew thoughtful. Then she raised her eyes and
pointed, with a little laugh, to a passer-by.
"There goes one kind of a cousin, I suppose."
"He's a coon," said the old man. "Him an' his mother, they live off
yonder nigh ther swamp. They used ter own this 'ere place ye're on,
an' then it passed ter ther datter, an' then her husban' bought it.
She's in ther insane asylum now, an' these rel'tives claim she ain't
crazy, but thet she was put in by ther malice of her husban'. An' they
claim he's got ther place wrongful, an' hadn't a right ter sell ter
you folks."
"That's why they're bothering us so?"
"Thet's why," said old Hayseed.
"Well, they'll find we're _two_ many for them."
Then with a sudden burst of laughter she exclaimed:
"Oh, I'm going to egg Steve on to a fight! Wouldn't it be fun! I
wonder if Steve could fight!"
"Reckon he could," said the old man with a gleam in his eye that
seemed to pierce the darkness of his glasses. "He don't look it exact
an' his manners don't promise it, but ther may be fight in him
somewhere. Ther be men, yer know, can't talk even about ther weather
without shakin' a fist in yer face. He ain't thet kind."
"No. If he were he would have murdered Sarah Maria long ago."
"He would thet, fer a fact. Then ther's others thet air so afeard--so
skeart thet a two-year-old bootblack or ther shadder of publick
derishion could put 'em ter flight. Be thet his kind?"
"I guess not!" blazed Nannie. "Steve's afraid of nothing, living or
dead."
"No, he ain't afeard. I kin see thet; but he's peaceable."
Just at this moment Nannie glanced down the sloping sides of the
ravine and saw Hilda Bretherton panting her way up toward the house.
Now, these two had not met since Hilda married and started off on her
wedding trip to France, shortly before Nannie became engaged. True to
the usual direction of her popularity, Hilda had married a small man,
beside whom she looked the good-natured giantess she indeed was, but
he was enormously rich, and in her particular set she was accounted
one of fortune's favorites.
Since casting her lot in the country Nannie had been into town but
little. For society as she had known it she cared nothing. Then, too,
marriage had entered the magic circle of the Young Woman's Club and
changed its membership, so that Nannie felt herself an alien. She was
not consciously lonely in the country, but yet there was something so
significant in the glad cry she uttered when she caught sight of
Hilda, and the unusual warmth of her greeting, that old Hayseed looked
on from his side of the fence with a meditative air.
"The colt's a-yearnin' fer somethin' without knowin' it," he said to
himself as Nannie dragged Hilda into the house.
"I ought not to sit down," Hilda panted. "Oh, dear! Let me get my
breath! Do you see how awfully fat I am? and my husband don't weigh
but a hundred and twenty--think of that! A sparrow for a protector! If
ever I wanted to get behind him to escape a mouse or anything, what
should I do?"
"Where is he?" asked Nannie.
"What--the mouse?" screamed Hilda.
"No," said Nannie, "the husband;" and then the two fell a-laughing in
the old foolish way.
"Husband! Oh, I thought you'd have something of that kind around, and
one would be enough for to-day."
"No, really! Where is he?"
"Over on the other side of the ravine. You see, we missed the road and
got entangled in the forest. Ye gods! how literally you've taken to
the woods, Nannie! Well, DeLancy didn't feel he was equal to a climb,
so I came alone, presumably to find the road, but I couldn't go on
without seeing you, so I've stolen a visit."
"You'd better!" said Nannie. "If ever you pass me by I'll haunt you!"
"I know that. I always was afraid of you. I always said you were a
little----"
"Sh-h!" said Nannie, imitating Prudence Shaftsbury's air and manner.
"Dear old Prue!" said Hilda. "I saw her the other day. I believe she's
really happy. She don't say much, but she looks it. She's awfully
swell, too. Why, you hear Mrs. Ralph Porter on all sides. She leads
everything. That girl has more tact and diplomacy than any one I ever
saw. Awfully nice girl, too. Here I am, always putting my foot in it.
DeLancy says I fling a rope around my neck so surely as I open my
mouth, and with each succeeding word I give it a jerk. Oh, dear me! I
ought to be going. He'll be wild! Why, you don't look any too well.
What's the matter with you, Nan? Aren't you happy, child?"
"Yes. Mind your business!" said Nannie in the old defiant way.
"Bless me! bless me! You haven't changed a mite! I thought marriage
would improve you. Oh, do you know Evelyn Rogers was married the
other day?"
"No," said Nannie with quickened interest.
"Yes--not at her home. She was visiting her aunt in New York, and
there she married her villainous-looking professor, and would you
believe it? I heard they went right off to the slums on a wedding
trip, taking a thief, and an anarchist, and a murderer with them, as
chaperons, I suppose. Oh, I ought to be going!"
"To the slums?" asked Nannie.
"No, no. I ought to get out of here. DeLancy is insane by this time, I
know! I _must_ run!"
"Hilda, you sit still and cool off! You've just been in a stew ever
since you came."
"I'm in one all the time. Do you remember what some of you girls said
of me at that first meeting of the club--I'd be kept in a continual
stew? Never were truer words spoken. Oh!" and she groaned loudly.
"Why don't you get done--with it?" asked Nannie.
"I can't," said Hilda coolly. "I'm in for it now and must go on to the
bitter end. It's too late to chew the cud of reflection."
"Don't count on the end," laughed Nannie, looking at her friend's
rotund figure. "There's no end to you, Hilda. You're an all-round
woman."
"Indeed I am! If you could only see the number of offices I fill. I'm
nurse, doctor, valet, messenger, and on cross days general vent for
the humors."
"Is he really ill?"
"Oh, I don't know. He has dyspepsia. I guess he don't feel any too
well, and nothing pleases him. He took a notion that a sea voyage
would cure him, and it didn't. He snarled and snapped all the way, and
oh, I was so sick--ugh! and I had to drag myself around after him.
Then next he tried the German baths. He's tried everything, and
now--oh, now," she continued with a groan, putting her handkerchief to
her face, "he says that society is injurious to him. And what do you
suppose he has done?" she asked, raising her voice and peering from
above the handkerchief which she had pressed to her face. "He's rented
a lonely cabin in the Adirondacks for a year--a year! and there I'm to
live! Imagine me, my dear! I shall grow so rusty that when I return to
civilization I shall only be able to hang on the back door and creak
while others are talking. Mercy upon us! there's DeLancy! He'll find
me visiting! I'll never hear the last of this as long as I live! Where
can I go? What can I get under? Oh, there's nothing big enough in all
the world to cover me! Woe is me! I must always remain in the open!"
"Lie down there," said Nannie authoritatively. "I'll cover you."
"You!" screamed Hilda. "You! Oh, you elf! you brownie! you mite--you
widow's mite! What could you cover?"
"Lie down! Be quick! The enemy approaches!" cried Nannie, convulsed
with laughter.
Hilda gave one glance from out the window and then fell flat on the
divan.
"I am lost!" she groaned.
"I'll defend you," said Nannie bravely.
"You! Oh, you atom! you molecule! you microbe! What can you do?"
"Be quiet. You are dead--do you hear? You're _dead_--dead as a
doornail; dead as a mummy--the mummy that walked the streets of Thebes
when Moses was a young man."
"Nannie!"
But Nannie did not hear, for she was running to meet the enemy, a bit
of a man who looked like a woodland sprite as he walked along the edge
of the ravine. In contrast with the big figure that lay prone upon the
divan, his size was really ridiculous. Had his pettiness been merely
external, that would not have mattered. Small men have been known to
tower as giants before us. Luther was called the little monk, and the
Corsican who altered the world's map was of still smaller proportions.
This little creature, however, was the reverse of Julia Ward Howe's
youthful daughter, who announced to an offending visitor that she was
"big inside," inasmuch as he was made on a small pattern, within as
well as without.
His petty face was all puckered up when Nannie encountered him, and
his rasping voice was at its most irritating pitch.
The moment he was within hailing distance he began his complaint,
heedless even of the courtesy of a greeting. He declared he was too
exhausted to take another step; that he had lost his wife, and he
asked if Nannie had seen her.
"Oh, Mr. Seymour! Hilda--Hilda--is--at my house--dead."
"Dead!" he fairly screamed.
"No, dying."
He started toward the house with the speed of the wind, but Nannie
stopped him.
"Don't!" she exclaimed. "Wait! Oh, I'm so excited I'm all mixed up!
She's had an awful spell, but she's better now; but you mustn't
startle her. Something's the matter with her heart. It was beating
like a sledge-hammer--an awful spell."
"Oh, if she dies, who'll take care of me? What shall I do?"
And he wrung his weak little hands.
"She won't die, I guess, if we take good care of her. Oh, it's awful
to have anything of this kind happen when you're out in the country
miles from a doctor."
"And I have been crazy enough to rent a cottage in the Adirondacks!"
Nannie looked at him solemnly and said:
"Oh!"
"I'll let it stand idle! Hilda might die up there! I never thought of
such a thing, she looks so well. And _I_ might be taken worse," he
gasped as one who suddenly realized a still more awful possibility.
"It would never do for us to go up there."
Nannie looked still more solemn and said:
"Oh, no."
By this time they had reached the house, and Mr. Seymour was tiptoeing
about, getting out one remedy after another for his prostrate wife,
who feebly assured him she was better. By the time he had given her
smelling salts, a little port, a whiff of ammonia, some soda and
water, a smell of camphor, and had bathed her forehead in Florida
water, alcohol, witch-hazel, and rubbed it with camphor ice and a
menthol pencil, the case began to look really serious, and Hilda was
honestly ill.
She lay on the divan, perspiring and uncomfortable, uneasy in
conscience and timorous as to results, until near evening, when her
husband, with many a misgiving, took her away in a carriage--not to
the Adirondacks.
Nannie watched until they were out of sight, and when she turned she
saw Steve coming, and in her swift way contrasted him with DeLancy
Seymour.
That evening after dinner, without a word of explanation to her
husband, Nannie walked off to the house of her cousin, Mr. Misfit.
Now, Steve was by this time somewhat accustomed to her eccentric ways
and seldom questioned them, nor did he realize that they were
eccentric. He had grown up knowing very little of women and regarding
them as a peculiar class, which no doubt they are. Indeed, his rural
experiences, not only with his wife, but also with the hens and with
Sarah Maria, had tended toward the inclusion of the entire sex under
the head incomprehensible, and he was inclined to treat them like
difficult words, which we point at from a distance without attempting
to grapple.
He might have maintained this let-alone attitude indefinitely but for
a growing sense of the total depravity of vegetable sins and a
realization of his miserable insufficiency as a combatant. Naturally,
in looking about him for assistance he thought of her who should be
his help-meet, and mentally began to question her continual absence
from home. This evening he was feeling a little more tired than usual,
and an ill-selected luncheon in town had depressed him. When he found
that the weeds were likely to overpower him he arose and decided that
Nannie must be called upon. She was not at home, but he could fetch
her. To be sure that might not be easy, but Steve was now fully
roused. Prolonged warfare had developed in his nature a trace of
pugilism hitherto unsuspected by his nearest friend. Every man has
more or less of the warrior within him. It may be asleep, but it is
there, and Steve was no exception.
A short walk brought him to the house of Nannie's cousin, and there he
found the lady for whom he was seeking.
"Are you going home now, Nannie?" he asked in his usual gentle way.
Nannie looked into his face and saw something new, and it roused her
opposition.
"No," she said.
Now, Steve had read Ian Maclaren's story of the wretched beadle who,
newly inflated, but not profited, by his lonely wedding journey to a
Presbyterian synod, resolved to experiment in the exercise of
authority upon his bride. But, alas! he had read to his destruction.
He remembered with what majesty the beadle said:
"Rebecca, close the door."
But he did not remember what Rebecca did, and hence had no better
sense than to say this evening, with a quiet firmness new to his
domestic use:
"I should like to have you go home now, Nannie. There are matters that
need your attention."
Nannie rose at once and walked home without a word, Steve accompanying
her. By the time they got there a young moon was sinking in the west,
and with the curiosity common to extreme youth it strained its eyes to
see through the trees what Nannie would do.
"The radishes and lettuce need weeding," said Steve when they reached
the garden, and Nannie walked directly to these beds and went to work,
while Steve occupied himself at a little distance.
Before long old Hayseed came up and leaned upon the fence.
"Well, neighbor," he said, "what are ye doin' by moonlight?"
Nannie stood erect and looked at him. Her black eyes fairly
scintillated and her lips were compressed. All around her were
scattered the uprooted weeds, and the lettuce and radishes lay with
them.
"What crop air ye raisin' now?" he asked.
"I'm raising Cain!" she said.