I like to forget unpleasant experiences quickly, particularly mistakes
of my own, and to that end I hurried home and told Marion everything.
Few husbands, I know, would have done so, but I am not one who lacks the
moral courage to do right when I know it will be better for me in the
end; nor would I be unwise enough to attempt to conceal the fact that I
have faults when I know that it is infinitely wiser to acknowledge them.
An error thrust in Marion's way may arouse her compassion, while a good
deed, too obviously placed there, may be pushed aside with well-merited
contempt. I prefer to let my virtues bloom in seclusion on either side
of her path, for her artistic eye delights to spy out the modest flower
that hides itself in verdure.
Marion vibrated between laughter and tears as she listened to my tale.
Did I try to extenuate my conduct, or gloss over my unspeakable
stupidity? No; I castigated myself unsparingly. I anticipated the worst
that might be said, and said it with superlative fervor. Only thus could
I hope to avert the useless, humiliating process of having my mistakes
pointed out in detail; only thus could I evoke the sweet human sympathy
I craved, and divert my wife's indignation toward that adroit old
swindler, John Waydean. She was visibly affected by my self-accusation,
and I began to breathe more freely. She seemed to be in no haste to
interrupt with a word of reproach, or to say that she told me so, or to
hope the experience would be a lesson to me. I had begun to reflect
that, after all, I wasn't a bad sort of fellow and that man was made to
err, when suddenly she burst into tears.
"Marion," I cried, aghast, "I'm an idiot, but there's no use crying
over----"
"No," she moaned--"no--use."
"It's _my_ fault," I urged, in despair, "but if it were yours, I'm--I'm
blamed if I'd cry!"
"It _is_--my fault," she gasped, with a fresh relapse.
In a flash I jumped to the conclusion that she was overcome with remorse
for having told the butcher that I knew all about cattle. I saw that it
really was her fault, after all, but this was not the time to say so.
"Not at all," I assured her, with soothing generosity. "You must not
blame yourself--you didn't realize the awkward position you placed me
in."
"No--use," she repeated, unheeding. "To think that--I--should be
so--taken in!"
"_You_ taken in?" I cried. "It was I. Who--what--to--oh----"
The words died away in my throat as Marion uncovered her face. Not a
word did she say, but her look was insufferable.
"I didn't," I protested hotly; "I never said I knew all about cattle
when"----
I stopped, disconcerted by the expressive interrogatory turn to the
corners of her mouth. If she had said, in words, that I had convicted
myself by my denial, I could have argued the point, but this silent
denunciation was distracting. I stared for a moment with uncomprehending
hauteur, then strode from the room, trying to make my back view appear
like that of a man who might possibly escape being mangled by a train or
dying of heart failure until his wife had an opportunity to apologize
for her heartless conduct. This device had never failed; it didn't this
time. I was reaching for my hat in the hall when Marion called me. I
looked back, virtuously impassive, but I could not suppress my joy when
I saw in her face, not a sorrowful willingness to forgive me this time,
but loving toleration. What mattered forty dollars, or even forty cows,
if I might once more be restored to favor?
It was in all sincerity that I assured her that I would profit by my
experience, for it did not seem possible that I could ever again meet a
cow on terms of mental superiority, and yet, in a few days, time and my
elastic temperament had such a mellowing influence that I lost all
sensitiveness on the subject; indeed, after pledging the butcher to
secrecy, I found myself telling Andy Taylor with the gusto of an
onlooker. And later, when we had, through the good offices of the
butcher, found a suitable cow that wasn't dry, I became able to
appreciate the humor of the situation with quite an impersonal relish.
Our new cow was not a graceful animal, like Ariadne, but she was easy to
milk and docile, and, as Marion said, Paul could never be impaled on her
horns, for she hadn't any.
I would not willingly have missed the pleasure of owning a cow, nor the
satisfaction of being able to milk her, but I did not try to disguise
from Marion the fact that it was hard work; indeed, the harder I work,
the more I like her to be aware of it. Solicitude is cheering to me, so
when, at first, she used to stand beside me and express a fear that I
might hurt my back or burst a blood-vessel, I worked enthusiastically;
but later, when attending to our cow became a part of the inevitable
daily routine, and when I milked in solitude, I got very tired and
thought morbid thoughts about hired men and other farm accessories that
were not.
It is odd that the butcher's aggravating habit of leaving our gate open
should have resulted in Marion's suggesting that we should hire William
Wedder, the one available man exactly suited to our requirements. Also,
I afterwards reminded Marion, if it had not been for what she called my
negligence in not removing the gate-semaphore when winter set in,
William's observant eye would not have detected anything unusual in the
appearance of the place. I recalled, too, that I had several times been
prevented from taking down the sign-board by the impossibility of
finding the hammer and the wrench at the same time; not only that, but
when both tools were to hand I had a strange instinct against making use
of them for that purpose. Marion smilingly admitted that it was
extraordinary; she suggested that perhaps I was influenced by the same
instinct that led me to leave the Venetian shutters on the window frames
all winter, instead of taking them off in the fall and putting them on
again in the spring. However, I was proud enough of the success of my
invention to be content to see the obtrusive request "PLEASE CLOSE THIS
GATE" swing uselessly in the wintry winds, while the gate itself stood
open, half buried in the snowdrift that formed around it after every
storm. If the gate were closed, the request retreated into obscurity
behind a post, but when it was opened the board swung across the
roadway, so that a person driving in or out would have to duck his head
to avoid it. The butcher, for whose especial benefit I had taken all
this trouble, regarded the device with gloomy suspicion when I showed
him how it worked. Instead of admiring my ingenuity, he insinuated that
it would be the means of frightening his horses, so I insisted upon his
driving in and out several times until they showed complete unconcern.
He appeared depressed by the thought that he could never again pretend
that he forgot to close the gate, and although I secretly sympathized
with him in his repugnance to taking unnecessary trouble, I was
determined to break him off the habit of leaving the gate open.
Thus it happened that William Wedder, tramping along the road with a red
bundle swung over his shoulder, against a blustering March wind, spied
something that caused him to stop and think, to lay his stick and bundle
in the hollow of a snowdrift, smooth out his face to a becoming gravity,
and wend his way up to the house.
It was several hours later in the day when I, returning from the city,
halted in the same spot and stared in amazement. The semaphore had
vanished, the gate, standing open for months, imbedded in several feet
of snow and ice, was now closed, a way being neatly cleared for its
movement. I opened it and the warning notice shot out over my head, in
perfect working order. I walked up to the house, puzzled but gratified,
trying to conjecture how and why Marion had prepared this surprise. She
opened the door, struggling to conceal her laughter at my countenance.
"How ever did"--I began.
"Hush! Come into the sitting-room," she said mysteriously. "There's a
man in the kitchen!"
"A man!" I exclaimed, in agitation. I had warned Marion never to admit a
tramp in my absence, and somehow I leaped to the conclusion that she had
been imposed upon by a hardened villain. It was a relief to think she
was no longer alone.
She nodded. "Not an ordinary tramp," she said. "He's the dearest,
funniest little old man, with pink cheeks like a baby's, and so clean
looking. When he'd had his dinner"----
"You gave him his dinner?"
"Certainly I did. You don't suppose I sold it to him? Oh, you needn't
look so stern; I'll tell you how it happened. I was just taking my pies
out of the oven about eleven o'clock when he knocked at the door and
said he'd like to borrow a shovel for a few minutes. About half an hour
later I remembered he hadn't brought it back, and when I looked out of
the front window there was the top of his head bobbing up and down at
the gate. I got on my things in a hurry and went out to see what he was
doing, and he was scraping the ice so hard with his back turned to me
that I had to shout three times before he heard."
"'What's that for?' I called out. 'For you, ma'am,' he answered, turning
round with the oddest look. 'For me?' I said. 'Why, I never asked you to
dig out our gate.' 'No, ma'am,' he said, 'but when I seen that there
sign hung out, I thought to myself that some widow with small children
lived here, and it wouldn't be much of a job to dig out her gate. Then
when you come to the door I seen I was mistaken, but I thought I'd do it
anyway, for it wasn't your fault that you was so young and--and----'"