The next day was a rainy day; not a shower, but a steady rain--an
unusual thing in midsummer in the West. A cold, dismal day in the
fireless, colorless farmhouses. It came to Howard in that peculiar
reaction which surely comes during a visit of this character, when
thought is a weariness, when the visitor longs for his own familiar
walls and pictures and books, and longs to meet his friends, feeling at
the same time the tragedy of life which makes friends nearer and more
congenial than blood-relations.
Howard ate his breakfast alone, save Baby and Laura its mother going
about the room. Baby and mother alike insisted on feeding him to death.
Already dyspeptic pangs were setting in.
"Now ain't there something more I can--"
"Good heavens! No!" he cried in dismay. "I'm likely to die of dyspepsia
now. This honey and milk, and these delicious hot biscuits--"
"I'm afraid it ain't much like the breakfasts you have in the city."
"Well, no, it ain't," he confessed. "But this is the kind a man needs
when he lives in the open air."
She sat down opposite him, with her elbows on the table, her chin in her
palm, her eyes full of shadows.
"I'd like to go to a city once. I never saw a town bigger'n La Crosse.
I've never seen a play, but I've read of 'em in the magazines. It must
be wonderful; they say they have wharves and real ships coming up to the
wharf, and people getting off and on. How do they do it?"
"Oh, that's too long a story to tell. It's a lot of machinery and paint
and canvas. If I told you how it was done, you wouldn't enjoy it so well
when you come on and see it."
"Do you ever expect to see me in New York?"
"Why, yes. Why not? I expect Grant to come on and bring you all some
day, especially Tonikins here. Tonikins, you hear, sir? I expect you to
come on you' forf birfday, sure." He tried thus to stop the woman's
gloomy confidence.
"I hate farm-life," she went on with a bitter inflection. "It's nothing
but fret, fret, and work the whole time, never going any place, never
seeing anybody but a lot of neighbors just as big fools as you are. I
spend my time fighting flies and washing dishes and churning. I'm sick
of it all."
Howard was silent. What could he say to such an indictment? The ceiling
swarmed with flies which the cold rain had driven to seek the warmth of
the kitchen. The gray rain was falling with a dreary sound outside, and
down the kitchen stove-pipe an occasional drop fell on the stove with a
hissing, angry sound.
The young wife went on with a deeper note:
"I lived in La Crosse two years, going to school, and I know a little
something of what city life is. If I was a man, I bet I wouldn't wear my
life out on a farm, as Grant does. I'd get away and I'd do something. I
wouldn't care what, but I'd get away."
There was a certain volcanic energy back of all the woman said, that
made Howard feel she would make the attempt. She did not know that the
struggle for a place to stand on this planet was eating the heart and
soul out of men and women in the city, just as in the country. But he
could say nothing. If he had said in conventional phrase, sitting there
in his soft clothing, "We must make the best of it all," the woman could
justly have thrown the dish-cloth in his face. He could say nothing.
"I was a fool for ever marrying," she went on, while the baby pushed a
chair across the room. "I made a decent living teaching, I was free to
come and go, my money was my own. Now I'm tied right down to a churn or
a dish-pan, I never have a cent of my own. He's growlin' 'round half the
time, and there's no chance of his ever being different."
She stopped with a bitter sob in her throat. She forgot she was talking
to her husband's brother. She was conscious only of his sympathy.
As if a great black cloud had settled down upon him, Howard felt it
all--the horror, hopelessness, imminent tragedy of it all. The glory of
nature, the bounty and splendor of the sky, only made it the more
benumbing. He thought of a sentence Millet once wrote:
"I see very well the aureole of the dandelions, and the sun also, far
down there behind the hills, flinging his glory upon the clouds. But not
alone that--I see in the plains the smoke of the tired horses at the
plough, or, on a stony-hearted spot of ground, a back-broken man trying
to raise himself upright for a moment to breathe. The tragedy is
surrounded by glories--that is no invention of mine."
Howard arose abruptly and went back to his little bedroom, where he
walked up and down the floor till he was calm enough to write, and then
he sat down and poured it all out to "Dearest Margaret," and his first
sentence was this:
"If it were not for you (just to let you know the mood I'm in)--if it
were not for you, and I had the world in my hands, I'd crush it like a
puff-ball; evil so predominates, suffering is so universal and
persistent, happiness so fleeting and so infrequent."
He wrote on for two hours, and by the time he had sealed and directed
several letters he felt calmer, but still terribly depressed. The rain
was still falling, sweeping down from the half-seen hills, wreathing the
wooded peaks with a gray garment of mist, and filling the valley with a
whitish cloud.
It fell around the house drearily. It ran down into the tubs placed to
catch it, dripped from the mossy pump, and drummed on the upturned
milk-pails, and upon the brown and yellow beehives under the maple
trees. The chickens seemed depressed, but the irrepressible bluejay
screamed amid it all, with the same insolent spirit, his plumage
untarnished by the wet. The barnyard showed a horrible mixture of mud
and mire, through which Howard caught glimpses of the men, slumping to
and fro without more additional protection than a ragged coat and a
shapeless felt hat.
In the sitting room where his mother sat sewing there was not an
ornament, save the etching he had brought. The clock stood on a small
shell, its dial so much defaced that one could not tell the time of day;
and when it struck, it was with noticeably disproportionate
deliberation, as if it wished to correct any mistake into which the
family might have fallen by reason of its illegible dial.
The paper on the walls showed the first concession of the Puritans to
the Spirit of Beauty, and was made up of a heterogeneous mixture of
flowers of unheard-of shapes and colors, arranged in four different ways
along the wall. There were no books, no music, and only a few newspapers
in sight--a bare, blank, cold, drab-colored shelter from the rain, not a
home. Nothing cozy, nothing heart-warming; a grim and horrible shed.
"What are they doing? It can't be they're at work such a day as this,"
Howard said, standing at the window.
"They find plenty to do, even on rainy days," answered his mother.
"Grant always has some job to set the men at. It's the only way to
live."
"I'll go out and see them." He turned suddenly. "Mother, why should
Grant treat me so? Have I deserved it?"
Mrs. McLane sighed in pathetic hopelessness. "I don't know, Howard. I'm
worried about Grant. He gets more an' more down-hearted an' gloomy every
day. Seems if he'd go crazy. He don't care how he looks any more, won't
dress up on Sunday. Days an' days he'll go aroun' not sayin' a word. I
was in hopes you could help him, Howard."
"My coming seems to have had an opposite effect. He hasn't spoken a word
to me, except when he had to, since I came. Mother, what do you say to
going home with me to New York?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she cried in terror. "I couldn't live in a
big city--never!"
"There speaks the truly rural mind," smiled Howard at his mother, who
was looking up at him through her glasses with a pathetic forlornness
which sobered him again. "Why, mother, you could live in Orange, New
Jersey, or out in Connecticut, and be just as lonesome as you are here.
You wouldn't need to live in the city. I could see you then every day or
two."
"Well, I couldn't leave Grant an' the baby, anyway," she replied, not
realizing how one could live in New Jersey and do business daily in New
York.
"Well, then, how would you like to go back into the old house?"
The patient hands fell to the lap, the dim eyes fixed in searching
glance on his face. There was a wistful cry in the voice.
"Oh, Howard! Do you mean--"
He came and sat down by her, and put his arm about her and hugged her
hard. "I mean, you dear, good, patient, work-weary old mother, I'm going
to buy back the old farm and put you in it."
There was no refuge for her now except in tears, and she put up her
thin, trembling old hands about his neck, and cried in that easy,
placid, restful way age has.
Howard could not speak. His throat ached with remorse and pity. He saw
his forgetfulness of them all once more without relief,--the black thing
it was!
"There, there, mother, don't cry!" he said, torn with anguish by her
tears. Measured by man's tearlessness, her weeping seemed terrible to
him. "I didn't realize how things were going here. It was all my
fault--or, at least, most of it. Grant's letter didn't reach me. I
thought you were still on the old farm. But no matter; it's all over
now. Come, don't cry any more, mother dear. I'm going to take care of
you now."
It had been years since the poor, lonely woman had felt such warmth of
love. Her sons had been like her husband, chary of expressing their
affection; and like most Puritan families, there was little of caressing
among them. Sitting there with the rain on the roof and driving through
the trees, they planned getting back into the old house. Howard's plan
seemed to her full of splendor and audacity. She began to understand his
power and wealth now, as he put it into concrete form before her.
"I wish I could eat Thanksgiving dinner there with you," he said at
last, "but it can't be thought of. However, I'll have you all in there
before I go home. I'm going out now and tell Grant. Now don't worry any
more; I'm going to fix it all up with him, sure." He gave her a parting
hug.
Laura advised him not to attempt to get to the barn; but as he persisted
in going, she hunted up an old rubber coat for him. "You'll mire down
and spoil your shoes," she said, glancing at his neat calf gaiters.
"Darn the difference!" he laughed in his old way. "Besides, I've got
rubbers."
"Better go round by the fence," she advised, as he stepped out into the
pouring rain.
How wretchedly familiar it all was! The miry cow-yard, with the hollow
trampled out around the horse-trough, the disconsolate hens standing
under the wagons and sheds, a pig wallowing across its sty, and for
atmosphere the desolate, falling rain. It was so familiar he felt a pang
of the old rebellious despair which seized him on such days in his
boyhood.
Catching up courage, he stepped out on the grass, opened the gate and
entered the barn-yard. A narrow ribbon of turf ran around the fence, on
which he could walk by clinging with one hand to the rough boards. In
this way he slowly made his way around the periphery, and came at last
to the open barn-door without much harm.
It was a desolate interior. In the open floor-way Grant, seated upon a
half-bushel, was mending a harness. The old man was holding the trace in
his hard brown hands; the boy was lying on a wisp of hay. It was a small
barn, and poor at that. There was a bad smell, as of dead rats, about
it, and the rain fell through the shingles here and there. To the right,
and below, the horses stood, looking up with their calm and beautiful
eyes, in which the whole scene was idealized.
Grant looked up an instant, and then went on with his work.
"Did yeh wade through?" grinned Lewis, exposing his broken teeth.
"No, I kinder circumambiated the pond." He sat down on the little
tool-box near Grant. "Your barn is good deal like that in 'The Arkansaw
Traveller.' Needs a new roof, Grant." His voice had a pleasant sound,
full of the tenderness of the scene through which he had just been.
"In fact, you need a new barn."
"I need a good many things more'n I'll ever get," Grant replied shortly.
"How long did you say you'd been on this farm?"
"Three years this fall."
"I don't s'pose you've been able to think of buying--Now hold on,
Grant," he cried, as Grant threw his head back. "For God's sake, don't
get mad again! Wait till you see what I'm driving at."
"I don't see what you're drivin' at, and I don't care. All I want you to
do is to let us alone. That ought to be easy enough for you."
"I tell you, I didn't get your letter. I didn't know you'd lost the old
farm." Howard was determined not to quarrel. "I didn't suppose--"
"You might 'a' come to see."
"Well, I'll admit that. All I can say in excuse is that since I got to
managing plays I've kept looking ahead to making a big hit and getting a
barrel of money--just as the old miners used to hope and watch. Besides,
you don't understand how much pressure there is on me. A hundred
different people pulling and hauling to have me go here or go there, or
do this or do that. When it isn't yachting, it's canoeing, or--"
He stopped. His heart gave a painful throb, and a shiver ran through
him. Again he saw his life, so rich, so bright, so free, set over
against the routine life in the little low kitchen, the barren sitting
room, and this still more horrible barn. Why should his brother sit
there in wet and grimy clothing, mending a broken trace, while he
enjoyed all the light and civilization of the age?
He looked at Grant's fine figure, his great, strong face; recalled his
deep, stern, masterful voice. "Am I so much superior to him? Have not
circumstances made me and destroyed him?"
"Grant, for God's sake, don't sit there like that! I'll admit I've been
negligent and careless. I can't understand it all myself. But let me do
something for you now. I've sent to New York for five thousand dollars.
I've got terms on the old farm. Let me see you all back there once more
before I return."
"I don't want any of your charity."
"It ain't charity. It's only justice to you." He rose. "Come now, let's
get at an understanding, Grant. I can't go on this way. I can't go back
to New York and leave you here like this."
Grant rose, too. "I tell you, I don't ask your help. You can't fix this
thing up with money. If you've got more brains'n I have, why, it's all
right. I ain't got any right to take anything that I don't earn."
"But you don't get what you do earn. It ain't your fault. I begin to see
it now. Being the oldest, I had the best chance. I was going to town to
school while you were ploughing and husking corn. Of course I thought
you'd be going soon yourself. I had three years the start of you. If
you'd been in my place, you might have met a man like Cook, you might
have gone to New York and have been where I am".
"Well, it can't be helped now. So drop it."
"But it must be helped!" Howard said, pacing about, his hands in his
coat-pockets. Grant had stopped work, and was gloomily looking out of
the door at a pig nosing in the mud for stray grains of wheat at the
granary door. The old man and the boy quietly withdrew.
"Good God! I see it all now," Howard burst out in an impassioned tone.
"I went ahead with my education, got my start in life, then father died,
and you took up his burdens. Circumstances made me and crushed you.
That's all there is about that. Luck made me and cheated you. It ain't
right."
His voice faltered. Both men were now oblivious of their companions and
of the scene. Both were thinking of the days when they both planned
great things in the way of an education, two ambitious, dreamful boys.
"I used to think of you, Grant, when I pulled out Monday morning in my
best suit--cost fifteen dollars in those days." He smiled a little at
the recollection. "While you in overalls and an old 'wammus' was going
out into the field to plough, or husk corn in the mud. It made me feel
uneasy, but, as I said, I kept saying to myself, 'His turn'll come in a
year or two.' But it didn't."
His voice choked. He walked to the door, stood a moment, came back. His
eyes were full of tears.
"I tell you, old man, many a time in my boarding-house down to the city,
when I thought of the jolly times I was having, my heart hurt me. But I
said, 'It's no use to cry. Better go on and do the best you can, and
then help them afterward. There'll only be one more miserable member of
the family if you stay at home.' Besides, it seemed right to me to have
first chance. But I never thought you'd be shut off, Grant. If I had, I
never would have gone on. Come, old man, I want you to believe that."
His voice was very tender now and almost humble.
"I don't know as I blame you for that, How.," said Grant, slowly. It was
the first time he had called Howard by his boyish nickname. His voice
was softer, too, and higher in key. But he looked steadily away.
"I went to New York. People liked my work. I was very successful, Grant;
more successful than you realize. I could have helped you at any time.
There's no use lying about it. And I ought to have done it; but some
way--it's no excuse, I don't mean it for an excuse, only an
explanation--some way I got in with the boys. I don't mean I was a
drinker and all that. But I bought pictures and kept a horse and a
yacht, and of course I had to pay my share of all expeditions, and--oh,
what's the use!"
He broke off, turned, and threw his open palms out toward his brother,
as if throwing aside the last attempt at an excuse.
"I did neglect you, and it's a damned shame! and I ask your forgiveness.
Come, old man!"
He held out his hand, and Grant slowly approached and took it. There was
a little silence. Then Howard went on, his voice trembling, the tears on
his face.
"I want you to let me help you, old man. That's the way to forgive me.
Will you?"
"Yes, if you can help me."
Howard squeezed his hand. "That's all right, old man. Now you make me a
boy again. Course I can help you. I've got ten--"
"I don't mean that, How." Grant's voice was very grave. "Money can't
give me a chance now."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean life ain't worth very much to me. I'm too old to take a new
start. I'm a dead failure. I've come to the conclusion that life's a
failure for ninety-nine per cent of us. You can't help me now. It's too
late."
The two men stood there, face to face, hands clasped, the one
fair-skinned, full-lipped, handsome in his neat suit; the other tragic,
sombre in his softened mood, his large, long, rugged Scotch face bronzed
with sun and scarred with wrinkles that had histories, like sabre-cuts
on a veteran, the record of his battles.