On Thursday the county fair was to be held. The fair is one of the
gala-days of the year in the country districts of the West, and one of
the times when the country lover rises above expense to the extravagance
of hiring a top-buggy, in which to take his sweetheart to the
neighboring town.
It was customary to prepare for this long beforehand, for the demand for
top-buggies was so great the livery-men grew dictatorial, and took no
chances. Slowly but surely the country beaux began to compete with the
clerks, and in many cases actually outbid them, as they furnished their
own horses and could bid higher, in consequence, on the carriages.
Will had secured his brother's "rig," and early on Thursday morning he
was at work, busily washing the mud from the carriage, dusting the
cushions, and polishing up the buckles and rosettes on his horses'
harnesses. It was a beautiful, crisp, clear dawn--the ideal day for a
ride; and Will was singing as he worked. He had regained his real self,
and, having passed through a bitter period of shame, was now joyous with
anticipation of forgiveness. He looked forward to the day, with its
chances of doing a thousand little things to show his regret and his
love.
He had not seen Agnes since Monday; Tuesday he did not go back to help
thresh, and Wednesday he had been obliged to go to town to see about
board for the coming term; but he felt sure of her. It had all been
arranged the Sunday before; she'd expect him, and he was to call at
eight o'clock.
He polished up the colts with merry tick-tack of the brush and comb, and
after the last stroke on their shining limbs, threw his tools in the box
and went to the house.
"Pretty sharp last night," said his brother John, who was scrubbing his
face at the cistern.
"Should say so by that rim of ice," Will replied, dipping his hands into
the icy water.
"I ought 'o stay home to-day and dig 'tates," continued the older man,
thoughtfully, as they went into the woodshed and wiped consecutively on
the long roller-towel. "Some o' them Early Rose lay right on top o' the
ground. They'll get nipped, sure."
"Oh, I guess not. You'd better go, Jack; you don't get away very often.
And then it would disappoint Nettie and the children so. Their little
hearts are overflowing," he ended, as the door opened and two sturdy
little boys rushed out.
"B'ekfuss, poppa; all yeady!"
The kitchen table was set near the stove; the window let in the sun, and
the smell of sizzling sausages and the aroma of coffee filled the room.
The kettle was doing its duty cheerily, and the wife, with flushed face
and smiling eyes, was hurrying to and fro, her heart full of
anticipation of the day's outing.
There was a hilarity almost like some strange intoxication on the part
of the two children. They danced and chattered and clapped their chubby
brown hands and ran to the windows ceaselessly.
"Is yuncle Will goin' yide nour buggy?"
"Yus; the buggy and the colts."
"Is he goin' to take his girl?"
Will blushed a little and John roared.
"Yes, I'm goin'--"
"Is Aggie your girl?"
"H'yer! h'yer! young man," called John, "you're gettin' personal."
"Well, set up!" said Nettie, and with a good deal of clatter they drew
around the cheerful table.
Will had already begun to see the pathos, the pitiful significance of
his great joy over a day's outing, and he took himself a little to task
at his own selfish freedom. He resolved to stay at home some time and
let Nettie go in his place. A few hours in the middle of the day on
Sunday, three or four holidays in summer; the rest of the year, for this
cheerful little wife and her patient husband, was made up of work--work
which accomplished little and brought them almost nothing that was
beautiful.
While they were eating breakfast, teams began to clatter by, huge
lumber-wagons with three seats across, and a boy or two jouncing up and
down with the dinner baskets near the end-gate. The children rushed to
the window each time to announce who it was and how many there were in.
But as Johnny said "firteen" each time, and Ned wavered between "seven"
and "sixteen," it was doubtful if they could be relied upon. They had
very little appetite, so keen was their anticipation of the ride and the
wonderful sights before them. Their little hearts shuddered with joy at
every fresh token of preparation--a joy that made Will say, "Poor little
men!"
They vibrated between the house and the barn while the chores were being
finished, and their happy cries started the young roosters into a
renewed season of crowing. And when at last the wagon was brought out
and the horses hitched to it, they danced like mad sprites.
After they had driven away, Will brought out the colts, hitched them in,
and drove them to the hitching-post. Then he leisurely dressed himself
in his best suit, blacked his boots with considerable exertion, and at
about 7:30 o'clock climbed into his carriage and gathered up the reins.
He was quite happy again. The crisp, bracing air, the strong pull of the
spirited young team, put all thought of sorrow behind him. He had
planned it all out. He would first put his arm round her and kiss
her--there would not need to be any words to tell her how sorry and
ashamed he was. She would know!
Now, when he was alone and going toward her on a beautiful morning, the
anger and bitterness of Monday fled away, became unreal, and the sweet
dream of the Sunday parting grew the reality. She was waiting for him
now. She had on her pretty blue dress, and the wide hat that always made
her look so arch. He had said about eight o'clock.
The swift team was carrying him along the cross-road, which was little
travelled, and he was alone with his thoughts. He fell again upon his
plans. Another year at school for them both, and then he'd go into a law
office. Judge Brown had told him he'd give him--
"Whoa! Ho!"
There was a swift lurch that sent him flying over the dasher. A confused
vision of a roadside ditch full of weeds and bushes, and then he felt
the reins in his hands and heard the snorting horses trample on the hard
road.
He rose dizzy, bruised, and covered with dust. The team he held securely
and soon quieted. The cause of the accident was plain; the right
fore-wheel had come off, letting the front of the buggy drop. He
unhitched the excited team from the carriage, drove them to the fence
and tied them securely, then went back to find the wheel, and the burr
whose failure to hold its place had done all the mischief. He soon had
the wheel on, but to find the burr was a harder task. Back and forth he
ranged, looking, scraping in the dust, searching the weeds.
He knew that sometimes a wheel will run without the burr for many rods
before coming off, and so each time he extended his search. He traversed
the entire half mile several times, each time his rage and
disappointment getting more bitter. He ground his teeth in a fever of
vexation and dismay.
He had a vision of Agnes waiting, wondering why he did not come. It was
this vision that kept him from seeing the burr in the wheel-track,
partly covered by a clod. Once he passed it looking wildly at his watch,
which was showing nine o'clock. Another time he passed it with eyes
dimmed with a mist that was almost tears of anger.
There is no contrivance that will replace an axle-burr, and farm-yards
have no unused axle-burrs, and so Will searched. Each moment he said:
"I'll give it up, get onto one of the horses, and go down and tell her."
But searching for a lost axle-burr is like fishing; the searcher expects
each moment to find it. And so he groped, and ran breathlessly,
furiously, back and forth, and at last kicked away the clod that covered
it, and hurried, hot and dusty, cursing his stupidity, back to the team.
It was ten o'clock as he climbed again into the buggy, and started his
team on a swift trot down the road. What would she think? He saw her now
with tearful eyes and pouting lips. She was sitting at the window, with
hat and gloves on; the rest had gone, and she was waiting for him.
But she'd know something had happened, because he had promised to be
there at eight. He had told her what team he'd have. (He had forgotten
at this moment the doubt and distrust he had given her on Monday.) She'd
know he'd surely come.
But there was no smiling or tearful face watching at the window as he
came down the lane at a tearing pace, and turned into the yard. The
house was silent, and the curtains down. The silence sent a chill to his
heart. Something rose up in his throat to choke him.
"Agnes!" he called. "Hello! I'm here at last!"
There was no reply. As he sat there the part he had played on Monday
came back to him. She may be sick! he thought, with a cold thrill of
fear.
An old man came around the corner of the house with a potato fork in his
hands, his teeth displayed in a grin.
"She ain't here. She's gone."
"Gone!"
"Yes--more'n an hour ago."
"Who'd she go with?"
"Ed Kinney," said the old fellow, with a malicious grin. "I guess your
goose is cooked."
Will lashed the horses into a run, and swung round the yard and out of
the gate. His face was white as a dead man's, and his teeth were set
like a vice. He glared straight ahead. The team ran wildly, steadily
homeward, while their driver guided them unconsciously without seeing
them. His mind was filled with a tempest of rages, despairs, and shames.
That ride he will never forget. In it he threw away all his plans. He
gave up his year's schooling. He gave up his law aspirations. He
deserted his brother and his friends. In the dizzying whirl of passions
he had only one clear idea--to get away, to go West, to escape from the
sneers and laughter of his neighbors, and to make her suffer by it all.
He drove into the yard, did not stop to unharness the team, but rushed
into the house, and began packing his trunk. His plan was formed. He
would drive to Cedarville, and hire some one to bring the team back. He
had no thought of anything but the shame, the insult, she had put upon
him. Her action on Monday took on the same levity it wore then, and
excited him in the same way. He saw her laughing with Ed over his
dismay. He sat down and wrote a letter to her at last--a letter that
came from the ferocity of the mediæval savage in him:
"It you want to go to hell with Ed Kinney, you can. I won't say a word.
That's where he'll take you. You won't see me again."
This he signed and sealed, and then he bowed his head and wept like a
girl. But his tears did not soften the effect of the letter. It went as
straight to its mark as he meant it should. It tore a seared and ragged
path to an innocent, happy heart, and he took a savage pleasure in the
thought of it as he rode away in the cars toward the South.