A CLOCK RUNS DOWN
Matthew had undertaken a large stint of ploughing on the Monday when
Ellen went away. The field in which he worked lay on the same ridge
as the woodland and commanded a wide stretch of fertile land and
commodious barns and houses and beautiful groups of trees. The soil was
rich and soft and turned easily, and the two horses knew their business
so well and needed so little attention that there was time for many
pleasant thoughts.
But his thoughts were not pleasant. Millie's remark to Ellen had
offended him; she had behaved like her rude sisters whom he detested.
He would admonish her gently and persuade her to apologize; she would
be glad, he was sure, to put herself in the right.
Presently he began to meditate upon his experience at State College,
to reconstruct the lectures of which he remembered every principle if
not every word, to follow again the laboratory experiments. He had not
yet recalled his father's reminder that even if one became a farmer
science might be useful. He liked to think of the young men whom he had
met from various parts of the State, all at work to improve the soil,
though it was probable that he would have taken no such pleasure in
similar aspirations on the part of his immediate neighbors.
As he turned his horses in the lee of the wood he remembered uneasily
how Ellen had always come to him in the troubles of her childhood.
Sometimes she had cried noisily so that he was ashamed of her--she had
never gone silently away as she did last night.
Amos, as well as Ellen, Matthew thought, had a ground of offense
against Millie. He believed that Amos liked to be thought immune to
love and did not wish to have even friendly relations with any woman.
He thought with faint contempt of a man so young who chose a life
of school-teaching and preaching when he might grasp the handles of
a plough on a cool and pleasant morning. He would have no sympathy
with Grandfather's desire for a return to the ancient conventual
establishment. His own plans for the future included a very different
improvement of the church property; he foresaw the ultimate collapse or
the enforced removal of the old buildings and the erection of a small
bright meeting-house with Amos as preacher. But no matter what the
future might bring, there could be nothing between Amos and Ellen. The
idea was odious.
He had ploughed across and back several times when he saw Millie
advancing along the edge of the field. Hoping she had come to say that
she was sorry she had teased Ellen, he left the horses standing with
their noses against the fence and went to meet her. She was flushed and
out of breath.
"She has gone!" she called. "She took a satchel!"
Matthew asked stupidly, "Who has gone?"
"Why, Ellen! Leaving me with all the work and on Monday yet!"
"Where has she gone?"
"To Harrisburg to Mrs. Sassaman, as she said she would. She left the
number and you are to send the big satchel."
Matthew's first coherent thought was that the neighbors would say that
he had driven Ellen away. Nothing could so entirely and permanently
disgrace him. He laid the blame for this unfortunate happening where it
belonged.
"It's all your fault!"
Millie stood still, flushing, like Matthew, a deep red, and then
growing pale. The moment marked the end of one era in her life and the
beginning of another.
"My fault! When you wouldn't leave her go to school and wouldn't leave
her have her money! I guess you couldn't get any one to agree with
you in that! She has nothing against me whatever; she was as pleasant
as could be and she kissed me good-bye. Did she even walk out here to
say good-bye to you? No, she didn't. She told me to say good-bye."
Millie's voice grew shriller and shriller. She forgot that hitherto she
had never "had words" with Matthew and that she had proudly contrasted
herself in this respect with her father and mother.
"You had no right to speak to her the way you did."
"Ach, I was only teasing!"
"We never alluded to such matters in our family. Ellen never teased me
about you. My father wouldn't have allowed it."
A scornful "Your father!" was upon the tip of Millie's tongue and
crowding upon it even more disagreeable and pointed retorts. But her
need of help was uppermost.
"I have all the heavy work!"
Here was a new and inconvenient aspect of Ellen's departure!
"Couldn't you get along, taking it slowly?"
Millie burst into tears. She had expected Matthew to start at once to
bring Ellen back.
"Of course I couldn't! If you can't get Ellen to come back you'll have
to go for Esther."
Matthew's heart sank.
"I can't go till this evening."
"You could if you only thought so," said Millie. Then she ran back to
the house.
Matthew's dinner was poor and the final touches were put upon it by
himself. He asked Millie to describe Ellen's going and she did so
sullenly. He looked at the address which Ellen had left and felt more
at ease. He would write to her and tell her that he was sorry she
was offended, and he was sure that she would return. He remembered
with some small remorse but with a deeper pleasure her distress at
separation from him.
In the evening he drove to the Königs and brought back his
sister-in-law, who accepted his invitation with alacrity. Esther was
a short, broad young woman who divided her time between periods of
cyclonic activity and equally intensive idleness. She had had a busy
summer and had long desired to visit Millie. Her mother had described
Ellen's housekeeping admiringly and Esther anticipated a season of
refreshing leisure. Of course she would help when it was necessary,
but there would be no dreary and compulsory round of cooking and
dish-washing. Matthew's invitation indicated that he had got over the
haughty feelings of superiority which she had ascribed to him. In
short, Esther was in capital good humor.
She had not been in the Levis kitchen a minute when she observed that
Ellen's housekeeping was not of the character which she had expected.
The dinner dishes waited in the sink and the soiled clothes which
should have been washed and dried and folded down for ironing were
still untouched in a basket under the table.
"Why, where's your maid?" she asked jokingly.
"She's gone away," answered Millie excitedly. "She--"
"She's visiting Mrs. Sassaman, at 34 Hill Street in Harrisburg,"
explained Matthew carefully. "There Mrs. Sassaman lives with a sister."
"So!" Esther discovered the ulterior motive in Matthew's invitation and
Matthew, recognizing her smartness, hated her the more. Millie gave her
a glance which promised that she should know what was to be known.
For two days Matthew continued his ploughing, then a driving rain made
outdoor work impossible. In such weather he busied himself in the barn
or, when he had figuring to do, in the kitchen. It had been a pleasure
to him to lift his eyes and see Millie sitting by the window or Ellen
moving quietly about. He often called Ellen to look over a sum which he
could check in no other way and she sometimes discovered mistakes.
Now he found it impossible to sit in the house which was filled with
incessant clamor of tongues. Millie's laugh rang as loud as Esther's.
Esther had brought an accumulation of neighborhood gossip gathered
during the many months when Millie had been deprived of this form
of entertainment, and the stories lost nothing by her telling. When
Matthew and Millie were in their room at night, Millie repeated others
which Esther had told in his absence. It was pleasant, she thought, to
be married and to have in consequence no reserves whatever.
"But I don't like to hear such things," Matthew interrupted her
gravely. "I've never been used to anything like this. My father--"
Millie turned on her side with a contemptuous "Ach, you!"
Matthew lay very still. The cloudy night was soundless; no cock crowed
or distant dog barked and even the oak trees did not whisper. He
pretended to be asleep, but he was kept awake by a vague, apprehensive
unhappiness. Suddenly he heard a strange, uncanny sound, a queer sort
of metallic death-rattle. He sat up. Millie had heard nothing; her
breathing was the soft, even breathing of sleep. He slipped from bed
and went out into the hall. Everything was perfectly still and the warm
air was scented with the comfortable odor of bread sponge. Nothing
stirred. Yet the strange noise had been unmistakable.
Then he was aware of something out of the common. The house did not
seem natural, something was amiss. Suddenly the intense silence offered
an explanation. The old clock whose loud tick had not failed as long
as he could remember had run down! Since his father's death Ellen had
wound it each morning, but he had forgotten it.
He felt himself shaken with a chill. He was not superstitious, but
there was something ominous about the ceasing of motion which had
been continuous for so many years. He returned to his bed but could
not sleep. The wind was rising; he could hear its whisper among the
dead and dying leaves. Sometimes in her little girlhood Ellen had been
frightened by the noise in the oak trees and had crept into his bed for
comfort. He had not known when she came, but he found her there, sweet
and drowsy, when he woke.
Then the voice of the wind became more importunate than the thought of
Ellen. It was, like the ticking of the clock, a part of his childhood.
Shivering though he was, he rose and looked out at the dark wall of
trees. If they were gone there would be a silence at night like the
silence in the house at this moment. He saw the bare ground with
its ugly stumps. His intention to fell the grove became suddenly
incredible. The tears began to run down his cheeks. Before he returned
to bed he knelt and prayed, but his prayer did not ease his discomfort.
Like Millie he had come to the end of an era.
To his eyes the abode of Mrs. Lebber looked more forbidding than it had
to Ellen, who tolerated it as a merely temporary abode. Having been
received with cold surprise by Mrs. Sassaman, he sat down to wait.
"You'll think I haven't bettered myself!" said she as though Matthew
was to blame for her present situation. She could hardly resist
picturing to him in plain language the unpleasantness and actual
danger of Ellen's life in a store with a lot of rascals--what could a
Seventh-Dayer know about life in the city?--but it seemed disloyal to
mention Ellen's affairs, and she withdrew, leaving him alone. He could
hear a continual whispering from the kitchen and when Ellen arrived he
closed the door of the little room which with its drawn shades seemed
like a prison cell.
"Why, Matthew!" said Ellen. She sat down quickly, her heart filled
with murderous thoughts of Mr. Goldstein. She felt a crazy temptation
to ask Matthew to go to his store and beat him.
Matthew came to the point at once. He sat squarely in his chair, his
strong, brown hands clasped between his knees, a handsome figure.
"Millie was wrong to speak as she did, Ellen. We know there is nothing
between you and Amos, either on his part or yours. Won't you come back?"
Ellen's eyes filled.
"I didn't mind that so much. I'm not here on that account."
He saw dark circles round her eyes. She had grown thinner. He had never
before looked critically at Ellen.
"You aren't well!"
"Yes, I am."
He looked still more intently; seeing for the first time the fine
proportions of her body and the shape of her beautiful head. The
city-dwellers would make of her, he thought fearfully, an object of
desire!
"Ellen, I'll try again to make my position plain. You want to be a
doctor; Father gave you that idea. I don't know how it was when he was
a young man, but I know how it is now. I've been away to school and
I know what is the attitude of the students to God and the Christian
religion. They are scoffers and blasphemers; immersion and Foot-washing
and all our beliefs and customs are subjects for amusement to them."
His cheeks burned; he had believed for a while that he was an apostle
sent to a wicked and perverse university. "I'd as soon cut off my right
hand as help you to such an education. I know, too, what most churches
are like. The preachers are so educated that they can't preach the pure
gospel. When people are educated they think they have found ways of
getting round God!"
Ellen listened curiously. It seemed to her that he was speaking as
though to convince himself.
"Why do you blame those things on education? Think how different Father
was from Brother Reith and Brother Miller!"
"But Father was unbelieving!"
Ellen lifted heavy eyes and looked at Matthew.
"I'm unbelieving, too, then. I think it's selfish to think so much
about saving your soul as though that were all!"
Matthew might have answered, "or about educating your mind," but he was
not quick like Ellen. He had determined to be patient and he answered
gently, "It _is_ all."
"I brought your satchel," he went on, "but I hoped I could take it
back."
Ellen shook her head. She thought again of Mr. Goldstein and with
difficulty restrained her tears.
"What kind of a place have you?"
"I haven't any," she confessed.
"You said you were in a store."
"I have been dismissed."
"Why?"
"Because I studied a little when there were no customers. The man
didn't like it."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to find another place."
Matthew took her hands in his.
"Ellen," said he in a low tone, "come home."
Ellen bent her head upon her breast.
"I won't cut the trees, Ellen. I was mad to think of it. I don't know
what got into me. I've sent word to Umbesheiden."
She made no answer.
"And Millie shall never speak to you that way again."
She seemed to be struggling in a rising sea. Matthew was fond of her;
she guessed by some obscure instinct that he had altered and developed,
that he was fonder of her than of Millie. She was tired, the journey
before her seemed interminable and beyond her strength. But she shook
her head.
"No," she said, "I'm not going to give up."
When Matthew reached Ephrata he went to the livery stable and got his
horse and drove slowly to the farm. Tired and depressed, he longed to
sit quietly and hold his son in his arms.
But his kitchen seemed to be filled with Esther, rocking at the end of
a busy day while Millie prepared supper. She held little Matthew and
sang to him a coarse English song. In the change from one civilization
to another she, like many other young persons, had seized upon that
which was least worthy. Matthew was about to reprove her when he
recollected that little Matthew was still too young to be harmed.
Before he could be hurt, Millie would have to arrange some other way
of running her house.
After supper he walked to the Kloster where his eye fell upon a scene
grown familiar to him during long evenings. The light from the brass
lamp shone upon Grandfather's white beard and upon the golden hair
of Amos bent above "The Mystic Dove." Sometimes Grandfather cast an
approving look upon Amos and sometimes Amos cast a stealthy glance at
Grandfather.
Matthew sat down where his father had once sat. He crossed one knee
over the other and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. There was in
his heart a new and irritating undercurrent of astonishment--how could
human beings live like this?
"I've seen Ellen," said he.
Grandfather looked at him without understanding.
"You've seen Ellen? Why not?"
"She went to Harrisburg as she said she would. There she's living with
Mrs. Sassaman and she declares she won't come back."
Grandfather clasped and unclasped his hands.
"We must pray."
Matthew caught Amos's burning gaze and believed it to be one of anger
at this mention of Ellen.
"She's living in a miserable neighborhood in a house hanging over the
railroad. She had a place in a store, but she's been dismissed. Now
she's going to hunt for another place. She looks sick." He delivered
his short sentences as though they were so many missiles hurled at
Grandfather. It seemed to Grandfather that they were missiles hurled at
Ellen. The right to judge Ellen belonged, he believed, to him.
"Matthew," he said, white and trembling, "you mustn't be too hard on
the little one."
Now Matthew trembled. Nerves were on edge, peace had gone from his
house and heart with Ellen. It was not only that he missed her,
but that there had appeared, as though revealed by her departure,
characteristics in Millie to which he had hitherto been blind. It was
not that Millie had degenerated; it was merely that he saw her suddenly
as she was. Her habits of life were those of the König family. His
table was no longer neatly set; bread was softened by being dipped
into coffee; his house was untidy; the necessities of little Matthew
were attended to unblushingly before every one. He had discovered with
amazement that a man's mind is not at rest even when he is converted
and is a husband and father. He had in the last week had moments of
sick regret when he stood for many minutes with his hands on the
handles of his plough, preoccupied with wicked desires for freedom. He
had, as Ellen surmised, changed radically. A late-born activity of mind
tortured him--it was as though his Milhausen inheritance had had its
way with him, had led him into a trap and there had abandoned him.
"I was perhaps hard on Ellen," he said hotly. "But where did I learn to
be hard on her?"
"Not from me," protested Grandfather. "She is the object of my constant
prayers."
Matthew felt his skin tingle. He drew a deep breath as though he would
inhale more air than the little cottage could furnish. He seemed to
shake his shoulders free of some burden, and he began to talk like a
madman.
"You frightened her! You threatened her with hell! She was afraid. You
frightened me. You didn't let me think for myself. I wish I too had run
away!"
Then like a petulant boy he departed, slamming the door. The quiver
which shook the cottage seemed to transmit itself to the outer air and
thence to the Saal and Saron. Leaning heavily on his chair Grandfather
lowered himself to his knees.
Matthew strode through the gate into the graveyard, catching his breath
once more. He knew that he had acted the fool, but he didn't care, he
was so desperately unhappy and confused. As he drew near the farm he
heard the wind in the trees. He stood still; the sound seemed to carry
some message, but he could not interpret it.
When he opened the door he saw at first only the faint glow of the
fire in the stove, a pleasant sight on a cool evening. But he heard
smothered laughter and saw that on the old settle Esther sat with a
beau. She hailed him with gay and hateful familiarity.