SQUARING ACCOUNTS.
The summer storm had spent itself by daylight, and the sun rose on that
morning after the world's end much as it had risen on other mornings,
but it looked down upon prostrate trees and scattered fences and
roofless barns. And the minds of the people were in much the same
disheveled state as the landscape. One simple-minded girl was a maniac.
Some declared that the world had ended, and that this was the new earth,
if people only had faith to receive it; some still waited for the end,
and with some the reaction from credulity had already set in, a reaction
that carried them into the blankest atheism and boldest immorality.
People who had spent the summer in looking for a change that would
relieve them from all responsibility, now turned reluctantly
toward the commonplace drudgery of life. It is the evil of all
day-dreaming--day-dreaming about the other world included--that it
unfits us for duty in this world of tangible and inevitable facts.
It was nearly daylight when Andrew and August and Julia reached the
castle. The Philosopher advised Julia to go home, and for the present
to let the marriage be as though it were not. August dreaded to see
Julia returned to her mother's tyranny, but Andrew was urgent in his
advice, and Julia said that she must not leave her mother in her
trouble. Julia reached home a little after daylight, and a little before
Mrs. Anderson was brought home in a fit of hysterics.
Poor Mrs. Abigail still hoped that the end of the world for which she
had so fondly prepared would come, but as the days wore on she sank into
a numb despondency. When she thought of the loss of her property, she
groaned and turned her face to the wall. And Samuel Anderson sat about
the house in a dumb and shiftless attitude, as do most men upon whom
financial ruin comes in middle life. The disappointment of his faith and
the overthrow of his fortune had completely paralyzed him. He was
waiting for something, he hardly knew what. He had not even his wife's
driving voice to stimulate him to exertion.
There was no one now to care for Mrs. Anderson but Julia, for Cynthy had
taken up her abode in the log-cabin which Jonas had bought, and a
happier housekeeper never lived. She watched Jonas till he disappeared
when he went to work in the morning, she carried him a "snack" at ten
o'clock, and headways found her standing "like a picter" at the gate,
when he came home to dinner. But Cynthy Ann generally spent her
afternoons at Anderson's, helping "that young thing" to bear her
responsibilities, though Mrs. Anderson would receive no personal
attentions now from any one but her daughter. She did not scold; her
querulous restlessness was but a reminiscence of her scolding. She lay,
disheartened, watching Julia, and exacting everything from Julia, and
the weary feet and weary heart of the girl almost sank under her
burdens. Mrs. Anderson had suddenly fallen from her position of an
exacting tyrant to that of an exacting and helpless infant. She followed
Julia with her eyes in a broken-spirited fashion, as if fearing that she
would leave her. Julia could read the fear in her mother's countenance;
she understood what her mother meant when she said querulously, "You'll
get married and leave me." If Mrs. Anderson had assumed her old
high-handed manner, it would have been easy for Julia to have declared
her secret. But how could she tell her now? It would be a blow, it might
be a fatal blow. And at the same time how could she satisfy August? He
thought she had bowed to the same old tyranny again for an indefinite
time. But she could not forsake her parents in their poverty and
afflictions.
The fourteenth of August, the day on which possession was to have been
given to Bob Walker, came and went, but no Bob Walker appeared. A week
more passed, in which Samuel Anderson could not muster enough courage to
go to see Walker, in which Samuel Anderson and his wife waited in a
vague hope that something might happen. And every day of that week Julia
had a letter from August, which did not say one word of the trial that
it was for him to wait, but which said much of the wrong Julia was doing
to herself to submit so long. And Julia, like her father and mother, was
waiting for she knew not what.
At last the suspense became to her unendurable.
"Father," she said, "why don't you go to see Bob Walker? You might buy
the farm back again."
"I don't know why he don't come and take it," said Mr. Anderson
dejectedly.
This conversation roused Mrs. Abigail. There was some hope. She got up
in bed, and told Samuel to go to the county-seat and see if the deeds
had ever been recorded. And while her husband was gone she sat up and
looked better, and even scolded a little, so that Julia felt encouraged.
But she dreaded to see her father come back.
Samuel Anderson entered the house on his return with a blank
countenance. Sitting down, he put his face between his hands a minute in
utter dejection.
"Why don't you speak?" said Mrs. Anderson in a broken voice.
"The land was all transferred to Andrew immediately, and he owns every
foot of it. He must have sent Bob Walker here to buy it."
"Oh! I'm so glad!" cried Julia.
But her mother only gave her one reproachful look and went off into
hysterical sobbing and crying over the wrong that Andrew had done her.
And all that night Julia watched by her mother, while Samuel Anderson
sat in dejection by the bed. As for Norman, he had quickly relapsed into
his old habits, and his former cronies had generously forgiven him his
temporary piety, considering the peculiar circumstances of the case some
extenuation. Now that there was trouble in the house he staid away,
which was a good thing so far as it went.
The next afternoon Mrs. Anderson rallied a little, and, looking at
Julia, she said in her querulous way, "Why don't you go and see him?"
"Who?" said Julia with a shiver, afraid that her mother was insane.
"Andrew."
Julia did not need any second hint. Leaving her mother with Cynthy, she
soon presented herself at the door of the castle.
"Did _she_ send you?" asked Andrew dryly.
"Yes, sir."
"I've been expecting you for a long time. I'll go back with you. But
August must go along. He'll be glad of an excuse to see your face again.
You look thin, my poor girl."
They went past Wehle's, and August was only too glad to join them,
rejoicing that some sort of a crisis had come, though how it was to help
him he did not know. With the restlessness of a man looking for some
indefinable thing to turn up, Samuel was out on the porch waiting the
return of his daughter. Jonas had come for Cynthy Ann, and was sitting
on a "shuck-bottom" chair in front of the house.
Andrew reached out his hand and greeted his brother cordially, and spoke
civilly to Abigail. Then there was a pause, and Mrs. Anderson turned her
head to the wall and groaned. After a while she looked round and saw
August. A little of her old indignation came into her eyes as she
whimpered, "What did _he_ come for?"
"I brought him," said Andrew.
"Well, it's your house, do as you please. I suppose you'll turn us out
of our own home now."
"As you did me," said the Philosopher, smiling. "Let me remind you that
I was living on the river farm. My father had promised it to me, and
given me possession. A week before his death you got the will changed,
by what means you know. You turned me off the farm which had virtually
been mine for two years. If I turn you off now, it will be no more
than fair."
There was a look of pained surprise on Julia's face. She had not known
that the wrong her uncle had suffered was so great. She had not thought
that he would be so severe as to turn her father out.
"I don't want to talk of these things," Andrew went on. "I ought to
have broken the will, but I was not a believer in the law. I tell this
story now because I must justify myself to these young people for what I
am going to do. You have had the use of that part of the estate which
was rightfully mine for twenty years. I suppose I may claim it all now."
Julia's eyes looked at him pleadingly.
"Why don't you send us off and be done with it then?" said Mrs. Abigail,
rising up and resuming her old vehemence. "You set out to ruin us, and
now you've done it. A nice brother you are! Ruining us by a conspiracy
with Bob Walker, and then sitting here and trying to make my own
daughter think you did right, and bringing that hateful fellow here to
hear it!" Her finger was leveled at August.
"I am glad to see you are better, Abigail. I wanted to be sure you were
strong enough to bear all I have to say."
"Say your worst and do your worst, you cruel, cruel man! I have borne
enough from you in these years, and now you can say and do what you
please; you can't do me any more harm. I suppose I must leave my old
home that I've lived in so long."
"You need not worry yourself about leaving; that's what I came over to
say."
"As if I'd stay in _your_ house an hour! I'll not take any favors at
_your_ hand."
"Don't be rash, Abigail. I have deeded this hill farm to Samuel, and
here is the deed. I have given you back the best half of the property,
just what my father meant you to have. I have only kept the river land,
that should have been mine twenty years ago. I hope you will not stick
to your resolution not to receive anything at my hand."
And Julia said: "Oh! I'm so--"
But Mrs. Anderson had a convenient fit of hysterics, crying piteously.
Meantime Samuel gladly accepted the deed.
"The deed is already recorded. I sent it down yesterday as soon as I saw
Samuel come back, and I got it back this morning. The farm is yours
without condition."
This relieved Abigail, and she soon ceased her sobbing. Andrew could not
take it back then, whatever she might say.
"Now," said Andrew, "I have only divided the farms without claiming any
damages. I want to ask a favor. Let Julia marry the man of her choice
in peace."
"You have taken one farm, and therefore I must let my daughter marry a
man with nothing but his two hands," sobbed Mrs. Anderson.
"Two hands and a good head and a noble heart," said Andrew.
"Well, I won't consent," said she. "If Julia marries _him_," pointing to
August, "she will marry without my consent, and he will not get a cent
of the money he's after. Not a red cent!"
"I don't want your money. I did not know you'd get your farm back, for I
did not know but that Walker owned it, and I--wanted--Julia all the
same." August had almost told that he had married Julia.
"Wanted her and married her," said Andrew. "And I have not kept a
corn-stalk of the property I got from you. I have given Bob Walker a
ten-acre patch for his services, and all the rest I have deeded to the
two best people I know. This August Wehle married Julia Anderson when
they thought the world might be near its end, and believing that, at any
rate, she would not have a penny in the world. I have deeded the river
farm to August Wehle and his wife."
"Married, eh? Come and ask my consent afterwards? That's a fine way!"
And Abigail grew white and grew silent with passion.
"Come, August, I want to show you and Julia something," said Andrew. He
really wanted to give Abigail time to look the matter in the face
quietly before she committed herself too far. But he told the two young
people that they might make their home with him while their house was in
building. He had already had part of the material drawn, and from the
brow of the hill they looked down upon the site he had chosen near the
old tumble-down tenant's house. But Andrew saw that Julia looked
disappointed.
"You are not satisfied, my brave girl. What is the matter?"
"Oh! yes, I am very happy, and very thankful to you; and next to August
I love you more than anybody--except my parents."
"But something is different to what you wished it. Doesn't the site suit
you? You can look off on to the river from the rise on which the house
will stand, and I do not know how it could be better."
"It couldn't be better," said Julia, "but--'
"But what? You must tell me."
"I thought maybe you'd let us live at the castle and take the burden of
things off you. I should like to keep your house for you, just to show
you how much I love my dear, good uncle."
Even an anchorite could not help feeling a pleasure at such a speech
from such a young woman, and this shaggy, solitary, misanthropic but
tender-hearted man felt a sudden rush of pleasure. August saw it, and
was delighted. What one's nearest friend thinks of one's wife is a vital
question, and August was happier at this moment than he had ever been.
Andrew's pleasure at Julia's loving speech was the climax.
"Yes!" said the Philosopher, a little huskily. "You want to sacrifice
your pleasure by living in my gloomy old castle, and civilizing an old
heathen like me. You mustn't tempt me too far."
"I don't see why you call it gloomy. It wasn't only for your sake that I
said it. I think it is the nicest old house I ever saw. And then the
books, and--and--you." Julia stumbled a little, she was not accustomed
to make speeches of this sort.
"You flatterer!" burst out Andrew. "But no, you must have your own
house."
Mrs. Anderson, on her part, had concluded to make the best of it. Julia
already married and the mistress of the Anderson river farm was quite a
different thing from Julia under her thumb. She was to be conciliated.
Besides, Mrs. Anderson did not want Julia's prosperity to be a lifelong
source of humiliation to her. She must take some stock in it at
the start.
"Jule," she said, as her daughter re-entered the door, "I can let you
have two feather-beds and four pillows, and a good stock of linen and
blankets. And you can have the two heifers and the sorrel colt."
The two "heifers" were six, and the sorrel "colt" was seven years of
age; but descriptive names often outlive the qualities to which they
owed their origin. Just as a judge is even yet addressed as "your
honor," and many a governor without anything to recommend him hears
himself called "your excellency."
When Abigail surrendered in this graceful fashion, Julia was touched,
and was on the point of putting her arms around her mother and kissing
her. But Mrs. Anderson was not a person easily caressed, and Julia did
not yield to her impulse.
"Cynthy Ann, my dear," said Jonas, as they walked home that evening, "do
you know what Abig'il Anderson reminds me of?"
No; Cynthy Ann didn't exactly know. In fact, it would have been
difficult for anybody to have told what anything was likely to remind
Jonas of. There was no knowing what a thing might not suggest to him.
"Well, Cynthy, my Imperial Sweetness, when I see Abig'il come down so
beautiful, it reminded me of a little fice-t dog I had when I was a
leetle codger. I called him Pick. His name was Picayune. Purty good
name, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was."
"Well, now, that air little Pick wouldn't never own up as he was driv
outen the house. When he was whipped out, he wouldn't never tuck his
tail down, but curl it up over his back, and run acrost the yard and
through the fence and down the road a-barkin' fit to kill. Wanted to let
on like as ef he'd run out of his own accord, with malice aforethought,
you know. _That's_ Abig'il."