He rose and closed the door, hanging the sign "Busy" outside.
* * * * *
At last I learned about myself and about life.
* * * * *
The harvesting over, Anders began to chum with me. We took long walks
together, talking of many things ... but, chiefly, of course, of those
things that take up the minds of adolescents ... of the mysteries of
creation, of life at its source ... of why men and women are so ... and
I took it for granted, after he confessed that he had fallen into the
same mistakes as I, suffering similar agonies, that he had been set
right by his father, the doctor, as I just had. I was surprised to find
he had not. So I shared with him the recent knowledge I had acquired.
* * * * *
"And you mean to tell me that Uncle Beck has said nothing to you?"
"Not a single word ... never."
"But why didn't you ask him then ... him being a doctor?"
"How can a fellow talk with his father about such things?"
"It's funny to me he didn't inform you, anyhow."
"I was his son, you see!"
* * * * *
Anders had a girl, he told me, confidingly. She was off on a visit to
Mornington, at present ... a mighty pretty little girl and the best
there was....
* * * * *
"By the way, Anders, do you know second cousin Phoebe at all?"
"Sure thing I know her ... the last time I heard of her ... which was
almost a year ago--she was wilder than ever."
"How do you mean, Anders?"
"Her folks couldn't keep her in of nights ... a gang of boys and girls
would come and whistle for her, and she'd get out, sooner or later, and
join them."
"I tell you what," I began, in an unpremeditated burst of invention,
which I straightway believed, it so appealed to my imagination, "I've
never told anybody before, but all these years I've been desperately in
love with Phoebe."
Anders scrutinised me quizzically, then the enthusiasm of the actor in
my face made him believe me....
"Well, no matter how bad she is, she certainly was a beaut, the last
time I saw her."
"I'm going," I continued "(you mustn't tell anybody), I'm going down to
Aunt Rachel's, after I leave here, and _get_ Phoebe." And eagerly and
naïvely we discussed the possibilities as we walked homeward....
* * * * *
After my talk with Uncle Beck all my morbidity began to melt away, and,
growing better in mind, my body grew stronger ... he wrote to my father
that it was not consumption ... so now I was turning my coming West into
a passing visit, instead of a long enforced sojourn there for the good
of my health.
* * * * *
I found different household arrangements on revisiting Aunt Rachel and
her household.
For one thing, the family had moved into town ... Newcastle ... and they
had a fine house to live in, neat and comfortable. Gone was that
atmosphere of picturesque, pioneer poverty. Though, to be sure, there
sat Josh close up against the kitchen stove, as of old. For the first
sharp days of fall were come ... he was spitting streams of tobacco, as
usual.
"I hate cities," was his first greeting to me. He squirted a brown
parabola of tobacco juice, parenthetically, into the wood-box behind the
stove, right on top of the cat that had some kittens in there.
Aunt Rachel caught him at it.
"Josh, how often have I told you you mustn't spit on that cat."
"'Scuse me, Ma, I'm kind o' absint-minded."
The incident seemed to me so funny that I laughed hard. Aunt Rachel gave
me a quiet smile.
"Drat the boy, he's allus findin' somethin' funny about things!"
This made me laugh more. But I had brought Uncle Josh a big plug of
tobacco, and he was placated, ripping off a huge chew as soon as he held
it in his hands.
The great change I have just spoken of came over the family because
Phoebe's two sisters, Jessie and Mona--who had been off studying to be
nurses, now had come back, and, taking cases in town, they were making a
good living both for themselves and the two old folks....
I had learned from Uncle Beck, as he drove me in to Mornington, that,
the last he heard of Phoebe, she was working out as a maid to "some
swells," in that city.
* * * * *
"Damme, ef I don't hate cities an' big towns," ejaculated Uncle Josh,
breaking out of a long, meditative silence, "you kain't keep no dogs
there ... onless they're muzzled ... and no ferrets, neither ... and
what 'ud be the use if you could?... there ain't nothin' to hunt anyhow
... wisht we lived back on thet old muddy hilltop agin."
* * * * *
Supper almost ready ... the appetizing smell of frying ham--there's
nothing, being cooked, smells better....
Paul came in from work ... was working steady in the mills now, Aunt
Rachel had informed me.
Paul came in without a word, his face a mask of such empty hopelessness
that I was moved by it deeply.
"Paul, you mustn't take on so. It ain't right nor religious," said Uncle
Josh, knocking the ashes out of his pipe ... he smoked and chewed in
relays. Paul replied nothing.
"Come on, folks," put in Rachel, "supper's ready ... draw your chairs
up to the table."
We ate our supper under a quiet, grey mood. An air of tragedy seemed to
hang over us ... for the life of me I couldn't understand what had
become of Paul's good-natured, rude jocosity. Why he had grown into a
silent, sorrowful man....
* * * * *
"You kin bunk up with Paul to-night, Johnnie," announced Rachel, when it
came bedtime.
Paul had already slunk off to bed right after supper. It was dark in the
room when I got there.
"Paul, where's the light?"
"--put it out ... like to lie in the dark an' think," answered a deep,
sepulchral voice.
"Whatever _is_ the matter with you, Paul?"
"Ain't you heered? Ain't Ma told you?"
"No!"
Paul struck a match and lit the lamp. I sat on the side of the bed and
talked with him.
"Ain't you heered how I been married?" he began.
"So that's it, is it?" I anticipated prematurely, "and you weren't happy
... and she went off and left you!"
"Yes, she's left me all right, Johnnie, but not that way ... she's
dead!"
And Paul stopped with a sob in his throat. I didn't know what to say to
his sudden declaration, so I just repeated foolishly, "why, I never knew
you got married!" twice.
"Christ, Johnnie, she was the best little woman in the world--such a
little creature, Johnnie ... her head didn't more'n come up to under my
armpits."
There followed a long silence, to me an awkward one; I didn't know what
to do or say. Then I perceived the best thing was to let him ease his
hurt by just talking on ... and he talked ... on and on ... in his slow,
drawling monotone ... and ever so often came the refrain, "Christ, but
she was a good woman, Johnnie ... I wish you'd 'a' knowed her."