When Grant came in at noon Mrs. McLane met him at the door with a tender
smile on her face.
"Where's Howard, Grant?"
"I don't know," he replied, in a tone that implied "I don't care."
The dim eyes clouded with quick tears.
"Ain't you seen him?"
"Not since nine o'clock."
"Where do you think he is?"
"I tell yeh I don't know. He'll take care of himself; don't worry."
He flung off his hat and plunged into the wash-basin. His shirt was wet
with sweat and covered with dust of the hay and fragments of leaves. He
splashed his burning face with the water, paying no further attention to
his mother. She spoke again, very gently, in reproof:
"Grant, why do you stand out against Howard so?"
"I don't stand out against him," he replied harshly, pausing with the
towel in his hands. His eyes were hard and piercing. "But if he expects
me to gush over his coming back, he's fooled, that's all. He's left us
to paddle our own canoe all this while, and, so far as I'm concerned, he
can leave us alone hereafter. He looked out for his precious hide mighty
well, and now he comes back here to play big gun and pat us on the head.
I don't propose to let him come that over me."
Mrs. McLane knew too well the temper of her son to say any more, but she
inquired about Howard of the old hired man.
"He went off down the valley. He 'n' Grant had s'm words, and he pulled
out down toward the old farm. That's the last I see of 'im."
Laura took Howard's part at the table. "Pity you can't be decent," she
said, brutally direct as usual. "You treat Howard as if he was a--a--I
do' know what."
"Will you let me alone?"
"No, I won't. If you think I'm going to set by an' agree to your
bullyraggin' him, you're mistaken. It's a shame! You're mad 'cause he's
succeeded and you hain't. He ain't to blame for his brains. If you and
I'd had any, we'd 'a' succeeded too. It ain't our fault, and it ain't
his; so what's the use?"
A look came into Grant's face which the wife knew meant bitter and
terrible silence. He ate his dinner without another word.
It was beginning to cloud up. A thin, whitish, all-pervasive vapor which
meant rain was dimming the sky, and Grant forced his hands to their
utmost during the afternoon, in order to get most of the down hay in
before the rain came. He was pitching from the load into the barn when
Howard came by, just before one o'clock.
It was windless there. The sun fell through the white mist with
undiminished fury, and the fragrant hay sent up a breath that was hot as
an oven-draught. Grant was a powerful man, and there was something
majestic in his action as he rolled the huge flakes of hay through the
door. The sweat poured from his face like rain, and he was forced to
draw his drenched sleeve across his face to clear away the blinding
sweat that poured into his eyes.
Howard stood and looked at him in silence, remembering how often he had
worked there in that furnace-heat, his muscles quivering, cold chills
running over his flesh, red shadows dancing before his eyes.
His mother met him at the door, anxiously, but smiled as she saw his
pleasant face and cheerful eyes.
"You're a little late, m' son."
Howard spent most of the afternoon sitting with his mother on the
porch, or under the trees, lying sprawled out like a boy, resting at
times with sweet forgetfulness of the whole world, but feeling a dull
pain whenever he remembered the stern, silent man pitching hay in the
hot sun on the torrid side of the barn.
His mother did not say anything about the quarrel; she feared to
reopen it. She talked mainly of old times in a gentle monotone of
reminiscence, while he listened, looking up into her patient face.
The heat slowly lessened as the sun sank down toward the dun clouds
rising like a more distant and majestic line of mountains beyond the
western hills. The sound of cow-bells came irregularly to the ear, and
the voices and sounds of the haying-fields had a jocund, pleasant sound
to the ear of the city-dweller.
He was very tender. Everything conspired to make him simple, direct, and
honest.
"Mother, if you'll only forgive me for staying away so long, I'll surely
come to see you every summer."
She had nothing to forgive. She was so glad to have him there at her
feet--her great, handsome, successful boy! She could only love him and
enjoy him every moment of the precious days. If Grant would only
reconcile himself to Howard! That was the great thorn in her flesh.
Howard told her how he had succeeded.
"It was luck, mother. First I met Cook, and he introduced me to Jake
Saulsman of Chicago. Jake asked me to go to New York with him, and--I
don't know why--took a fancy to me some way. He introduced me to a lot
of the fellows in New York, and they all helped me along. I did nothing
to merit it. Everybody helps me. Anybody can succeed in that way."
The doting mother thought it not at all strange that they all helped
him.
At the supper table Grant was gloomily silent, ignoring Howard
completely. Mrs. McLane sat and grieved silently, not daring to say a
word in protest. Laura and the baby tried to amuse Howard, and under
cover of their talk the meal was eaten.
The boy fascinated Howard. He "sawed wood" with a rapidity and
uninterruptedness which gave alarm. He had the air of coaling up for a
long voyage.
"At that age," Howard thought, "I must have gripped my knife in my right
hand so, and poured my tea into my saucer so. I must have buttered and
bit into a huge slice of bread just so, and chewed at it with a smacking
sound in just that way. I must have gone to the length of scooping up
honey with my knife-blade."
The sky was magically beautiful over all this squalor and toil and
bitterness, from five till seven--a moving hour. Again the falling sun
streamed in broad banners across the valleys; again the blue mist lay
far down the Coolly over the river; the cattle called from the hills in
the moistening, sonorous air; the bells came in a pleasant tangle of
sound; the air pulsed with the deepening chorus of katydids and other
nocturnal singers.
Sweet and deep as the very springs of his life was all this to the soul
of the elder brother; but in the midst of it, the younger man, in
ill-smelling clothes and great boots that chafed his feet, went out to
milk the cows,--on whose legs the flies and mosquitoes swarmed, bloated
with blood,--to sit by the hot side of the cow and be lashed with her
tail as she tried frantically to keep the savage insects from eating her
raw.
"The poet who writes of milking the cows does it from the hammock,
looking on," Howard soliloquized, as he watched the old man Lewis racing
around the filthy yard after one of the young heifers that had kicked
over the pail in her agony with the flies, and was unwilling to stand
still and be eaten alive.
"So, so! you beast!" roared the old man, as he finally cornered the
shrinking, nearly frantic creature.
"Don't you want to look at the garden?" asked Mrs. McLane of Howard; and
they went out among the vegetables and berries.
The bees were coming home heavily laden and crawling slowly into the
hives. The level, red light streamed through the trees, blazed along the
grass, and lighted a few old-fashioned flowers into red and gold flame.
It was beautiful, and Howard looked at it through his half-shut eyes as
the painters do, and turned away with a sigh at the sound of blows where
the wet and grimy men were assailing the frantic cows.
"There's Wesley with your trunk," Mrs. McLane said, recalling him to
himself.
Wesley helped him carry the trunk in, and waved off thanks.
"Oh, that's all right," he said; and Howard knew the Western man too
well to press the matter of pay.
As he went in an hour later and stood by the trunk, the dull ache came
back into his heart. How he had failed! It seemed like a bitter mockery
now to show his gifts.
Grant had come in from his work, and with his feet released from his
chafing boots, in his wet shirt and milk-splashed overalls, sat at the
kitchen table reading a newspaper which he held close to a small
kerosene lamp. He paid no attention to any one. His attitude, curiously
like his father's, was perfectly definite to Howard. It meant that from
that time forward there were to be no words of any sort between them. It
meant that they were no longer brothers, not even acquaintances. "How
inexorable that face!" thought Howard.
He turned sick with disgust and despair, and would have closed his trunk
without showing any of the presents, only for the childish expectancy of
his mother and Laura.
"Here's something for you, mother," he said, assuming a cheerful voice,
as he took a fold of fine silk from the trunk and held it up. "All the
way from Paris." He laid it on his mother's lap and stooped and kissed
her, and then turned hastily away to hide the tears that came to his own
eyes as he saw her keen pleasure.
"And here's a parasol for Laura. I don't know how I came to have that in
here. And here's General Grant's autobiography for his namesake," he
said, with an effort at carelessness, and waited to hear Grant rise.
"Grant, won't you come in?" asked his mother, quiveringly.
Grant did not reply nor move. Laura took the handsome volumes out and
laid them beside him on the table. He simply pushed them to one side and
went on with his reading.
Again that horrible anger swept hot as flame over Howard. He could have
cursed him. His hands shook as he handed out other presents to his
mother and Laura and the baby. He tried to joke.
"I didn't know how old the baby was, so she'll have to grow to some of
these things."
But the pleasure was all gone for him and for the rest. His heart
swelled almost to a feeling of pain as he looked at his mother. There
she sat with the presents in her lap. The shining silk came too late for
her. It threw into appalling relief her age, her poverty, her work-weary
frame. "My God!" he almost cried aloud, "how little it would have taken
to lighten her life!"
Upon this moment, when it seemed as if he could endure no more, came the
smooth voice of William McTurg:
"Hello, folkses!"
"Hello, Uncle Bill! Come in."
"That's what we came for," laughed a woman's voice.
"Is that you, Rose?" asked Laura.
"It's me--Rose," replied the laughing girl, as she bounced into the room
and greeted everybody in a breathless sort of way.
"You don't mean little Rosy?"
"Big Rosy now," said William.
Howard looked at the handsome girl and smiled, saying in a nasal sort of
tone, "Wal, wal! Rosy, how you've growed since I saw yeh!"
"Oh, look at all this purple and fine linen! Am I left out?"
Rose was a large girl of twenty-five or thereabouts, and was called an
old maid. She radiated good-nature from every line of her buxom self.
Her black eyes were full of drollery, and she was on the best of terms
with Howard at once. She had been a teacher, but that did not prevent
her from assuming a homely directness of speech. Of course they talked
about old friends.
"Where's Rachel?" Howard inquired. Her smile faded away.
"Shellie married Orrin McIlvaine. They're 'way out in Dakota. Shellie's
havin' a hard row of stumps."
There was a little silence.
"And Tommy?"
"Gone West. Most all the boys have gone West. That's the reason there's
so many old maids."
"You don't mean to say--"
"I don't need to say--I'm an old maid. Lots of the girls are. It don't
pay to marry these days." "Are you married?"
"Not yet." His eyes lighted up again in a humorous way.
"Not yet! That's good! That's the way old maids all talk."
"You don't mean to tell me that no young fellow comes prowling around--"
"Oh, a young Dutchman or Norwegian once in a while. Nobody that counts.
Fact is, we're getting like Boston--four women to one man; and when you
consider that we're getting more particular each year, the outlook
is--well, it's dreadful!"
"It certainly is."
"Marriage is a failure these days for most of us. We can't live on a
farm, and can't get a living in the city, and there we are." She laid
her hand on his arm. "I declare, Howard, you're the same boy you used to
be. I ain't a bit afraid of you, for all your success."
"And you're the same girl? No, I can't say that. It seems to me you've
grown more than I have--I don't mean physically, I mean mentally," he
explained, as he saw her smile in the defensive way a fleshy girl has,
alert to ward off a joke.
They were in the midst of talk, Howard telling one of his funny stories,
when a wagon clattered up to the door, and merry voices called loudly:
"Whoa, there, Sampson!"
"Hullo, the house!"
Rose looked at her father with a smile in her black eyes exactly like
his. They went to the door.
"Hullo! What's wanted?"
"Grant McLane live here?"
"Yup. Right here."
A moment later there came a laughing, chattering squad of women to the
door. Mrs. McLane and Laura stared at each other in amazement. Grant
went outdoors.
Rose stood at the door as if she were hostess.
"Come in, Nettie. Glad to see yeh--glad to see yeh! Mrs. McIlvaine,
come right in! Take a seat. Make yerself to home, do! And Mrs. Peavey!
Wal, I never! This must be a surprise party. Well, I swan! How many more
o' ye air they?"
All was confusion, merriment, hand-shakings as Rose introduced them in
her roguish way.
"Folks, this is Mr. Howard McLane of New York. He's an actor, but it
hain't spoiled him a bit as I can see. How., this is Nettie
McIlvaine--Wilson that was."
Howard shook hands with Nettie, a tall, plain girl with prominent teeth.
"This is Ma McIlvaine."
"She looks just the same," said Howard, shaking her hand and feeling how
hard and work-worn it was.
And so amid bustle, chatter, and invitations "to lay off y'r things an'
stay awhile," the women got disposed about the room at last. Those that
had rocking-chairs rocked vigorously to and fro to hide their
embarrassment. They all talked in loud voices.
Howard felt nervous under this furtive scrutiny. He wished that his
clothes didn't look so confoundedly dressy. Why didn't he have sense
enough to go and buy a fifteen-dollar suit of diagonals for everyday
wear.
Rose was the life of the party. Her tongue rattled on in the most
delightful way.
"It's all Rose and Bill's doin's," Mrs. McIlvaine explained. "They told
us to come over and pick up anybody we see on the road. So we did."
Howard winced a little at her familiarity of tone. He couldn't help it
for the life of him.
"Well, I wanted to come to-night because I'm going away next week, and I
wanted to see how he'd act at a surprise-party again," Rose explained.
"Married, I s'pose," said Mrs. McIlvaine, abruptly.
"No, not yet."
"Good land! Why, y' mus' be thirty-five, How. Must 'a' dis'p'inted y'r
mam not to have a young 'un to call 'er granny."
The men came clumping in, talking about haying and horses. Some of the
older ones Howard knew and greeted, but the younger ones were mainly too
much changed. They were all very ill at ease. Some of them were in
compromise dress--something lying between working "rig" and Sunday
dress. Most of them had on clean shirts and paper collars, and wore
their Sunday coats (thick woollen garments) over rough trousers. Most of
them crossed their legs at once, and all of them sought the wall and
leaned back perilously upon the hind legs of their chairs, eyeing Howard
slowly.
For the first few minutes the presents were the subjects of
conversation. The women especially spent a good deal of talk upon them.
Howard found himself forced to taking the initiative, so he inquired
about the crops and about the farms.
"I see you don't plough the hills as we used to. And reap! What a job it
used to be. It makes the hills more beautiful to have them covered with
smooth grass and cattle."
There was only dead silence to this touching upon the idea of beauty.
"I s'pose it pays reasonably?"
"Not enough to kill," said one of the younger men. "You c'n see that by
the houses we live in--that is, most of us. A few that came in early
an' got land cheap, like McIlvaine, here--he got a lift that the rest of
us can't get."
"I'm a free-trader, myself," said one young fellow, blushing and looking
away as Howard turned and said cheerily:
"So'm I."
The rest semed to feel that this was a tabooed subject--a subject to be
talked out of doors, where a man could prance about and yell and do
justice to it.
Grant sat silently in the kitchen doorway, not saying a word, not
looking at his brother.
"Well, I don't never use hot vinegar for mine," Mrs. McIlvaine was heard
to say. "I jest use hot water, and I rinse 'em out good, and set 'em
bottom-side up in the sun. I do' know but what hot vinegar would be more
cleansin'."
Rose had the younger folks in a giggle with a droll telling of a joke on
herself.
"How d' y' stop 'em from laffin'?"
"I let 'em laugh. Oh, my school is a disgrace--so one director says. But
I like to see children laugh. It broadens their cheeks."
"Yes, that's all hand-work." Laura was showing the baby's Sunday
clothes.
"Goodness Peter! How do you find time to do so much?"
"I take time."
Howard, being the lion of the evening, tried his best to be agreeable.
He kept near his mother, because it afforded her so much pride and
satisfaction, and because he was obliged to keep away from Grant, who
had begun to talk to the men. Howard talked mainly about their affairs,
but still was forced more and more into talking of life in the city. As
he told of the theatre and the concerts, a sudden change fell upon them;
they grew sober, and he felt deep down in the hearts of these people a
melancholy which was expressed only illusively with little tones or
sighs. Their gayety was fitful.
They were hungry for the world, for life--these young people.
Discontented, and yet hardly daring to acknowledge it; indeed, few of
them could have made definite statement of their dissatisfaction. The
older people felt it less. They practically said, with a sigh of
pathetic resignation:
"Well, I don't expect ever to see these things now."
A casual observer would have said, "What a pleasant bucolic--this little
surprise-party of welcome!" But Howard, with his native ear and eye, had
no such pleasing illusion. He knew too well these suggestions of
despair and bitterness. He knew that, like the smile of the slave, this
cheerfulness was self-defence; deep down was another unsatisfied ego.
Seeing Grant talking with a group of men over by the kitchen door, he
crossed over slowly and stood listening. Wesley Cosgrove--a tall,
raw-boned young fellow with a grave, almost tragic face--was saying:
"Of course I ain't. Who is? A man that's satisfied to live as we do is a
fool."
"The worst of it is," said Grant, without seeing Howard, "a man can't
get out of it during his lifetime, and I don't know that he'll have any
chance in the next--the speculator 'll be there ahead of us."
The rest laughed, but Grant went on grimly:
"Ten years ago Wess, here, could have got land in Dakota pretty easy,
but now it's about all a feller's life's worth to try it. I tell you
things seem shuttin' down on us fellers."
"Plenty o' land to rent," suggested some one.
"Yes, in terms that skin a man alive. More than that, farmin' ain't so
free a life as it used to be. This cattle-raisin' and butter-makin'
makes a nigger of a man. Binds him right down to the grindstone and he
gets nothin' out of it--that's what rubs it in. He simply wallers around
in the manure for somebody else. I'd like to know what a man's life is
worth who lives as we do? How much higher is it than the lives the
niggers used to live?"
These brutally bald words made Howard thrill with emotion like the
reading of some great tragic poem. A silence fell on the group.
"That's the God's truth, Grant," said young Cosgrove, after a pause.
"A man like me is helpless," Grant was saying. "Just like a fly in a pan
of molasses. There's no escape for him. The more he tears around the
more liable he is to rip his legs off."
"What can he do?"
"Nothin'."
The men listened in silence.
"Oh, come, don't talk politics all night!" cried Rose, breaking in.
"Come, let's have a dance. Where's that fiddle?"
"Fiddle!" cried Howard, glad of a chance to laugh. "Well, now! Bring out
that fiddle. Is it William's?"
"Yes, pap's old fiddle."
"O Gosh! he don't want to hear me play," protested William. "He's heard
s' many fiddlers."
"Fiddlers! I've heard a thousand violinists, but not fiddlers. Come,
give us 'Honest John.'"
William took the fiddle in his work-calloused and crooked hands and
began tuning it. The group at the kitchen door turned to listen, their
faces lighting up a little. Rose tried to get a "set" on the floor.
"Oh, good land!" said some. "We're all tuckered out. What makes you so
anxious?"
"She wants a chance to dance with the New Yorker."
"That's it, exactly," Rose admitted.
"Wal, if you'd churned and mopped and cooked for hayin' hands as I have
to-day, you wouldn't be so full o' nonsense."
"Oh, bother! Life's short. Come quick, get Bettie out. Come, Wess, never
mind your hobby-horse."
By incredible exertion she got a set on the floor, and William got the
fiddle in tune. Howard looked across at Wesley, and thought the change
in him splendidly dramatic. His face had lighted with a timid,
deprecating, boyish smile. Rose could do anything with him.
William played some of the old tunes that had a thousand associated
memories in Howard's brain, memories of harvest-moons, of melon-feasts,
and of clear, cold winter nights. As he danced, his eyes filled with a
tender light. He came closer to them all than he had been able to do
before. Grant had gone out into the kitchen.
After two or three sets had been danced, the company took seats and
could not be stirred again. So Laura and Rose disappeared for a few
moments, and returning, served strawberries and cream, which Laura said
she "just happened to have in the house."
And then William played again. His fingers, now grown more supple,
brought out clearer, firmer tones. As he played, silence fell on these
people. The magic of music sobered every face; the women looked older
and more careworn, the men slouched sullenly in their chairs, or leaned
back against the wall.
It seemed to Howard as if the spirit of tragedy had entered this house.
Music had always been William's unconscious expression of his
unsatisfied desires. He was never melancholy except when he played. Then
his eyes grew sombre, his drooping face full of shadows.
He played on slowly, softly, wailing Scotch tunes and mournful Irish
love songs. He seemed to find in these melodies, and especially in a
wild, sweet, low-keyed negro song, some expression for his indefinable
inner melancholy.
He played on, forgetful of everybody, his long beard sweeping the
violin, his toil-worn hands marvellously obedient to his will.
At last he stopped, looked up with a faint, apologetic smile, and said
with a sigh:
"Well, folkses, time to go home."
The going was quiet. Not much laughing. Howard stood at the door and
said good-night to them all, his heart very tender.
"Come and see us," they said.
"I will," he replied cordially. "I'll try and get around to see
everybody, and talk over old times, before I go back."
After the wagons had driven out of the yard, Howard turned and put his
arm about his mother's neck.
"Tired?"
"A little."
"Well, now good night. I'm going for a little stroll."
His brain was too active to sleep. He kissed his mother good-night, and
went out into the road, his hat in his hand, the cool moist wind on his
hair.
It was very dark, the stars being partly hidden by a thin vapor. On each
side the hills rose, every line familiar as the face of an old friend. A
whippoorwill called occasionally from the hillside, and the spasmodic
jangle of a bell now and then told of some cow's battle with the
mosquitoes.
As he walked, he pondered upon the tragedy he had rediscovered in these
people's lives. Out here under the inexorable spaces of the sky, a deep
distaste of his own life took possession of him. He felt like giving it
all up. He thought of the infinite tragedy of these lives which the
world loves to call peaceful and pastoral. His mind went out in the aim
to help them. What could he do to make life better worth living?
Nothing.
They must live and die practically as he saw them to-night.
And yet he knew this was a mood, and that in a few hours the love and
the habit of life would come back upon him and upon them; that he would
go back to the city in a few days; that these people would live on and
make the best of it.
"I'll make the best of it," he said at last, and his thought came back
to his mother and Grant.