I suppose the law of retributive punishment is, strictly speaking, a
just one, but I feel sure there is such a thing as carrying it too far,
especially when it is applied without regard to the mitigating
circumstances that sometimes prompt a usually tractable man to kick over
the traces. I think, in a case of this kind, a deeper moral effect may
be obtained by the application of the beautiful theory that crime, like
virtue, has its own inevitable reward, apart from any extraneous
punishment that the human intellect can devise. Years before, when the
latter philosophy was expounded to me by Marion during a discussion on
the subject, it seemed a mere abstract proposition that verged on
absurdity, but in the painful moments that elapsed between the departure
of the minister and my hesitating entrance to the dining-room its true
significance burst upon me like a ray of sunshine. I would remind Marion
of her convictions; I would tell her I had adopted her view; she would
refrain, in deference to her own unswerving opinions, to add to the
mental anguish that had already led me to see how unwise it was to give
way to evil impulses.
Therefore, encouraged by this thought, I faced my wife as if nothing had
happened since I left the kitchen to answer the summons of the
door-bell. I was prepared to find her indignant, wrathful, in tears, but
I did not expect to see her sitting in an attitude of apathetic despair,
dry-eyed and speechless.
"Good heavens, Marion!" I cried. "What's the matter?"
It was some time before I could get her to answer; then it was a
positive relief to see her lips move and hear her say faintly,
"You've--done it--now."
I had difficulty in finding out what I had done. A gleam of hope
thrilled me when at last she revived enough to attack in the open.
Then, and not till then, did I develop my strategic lines of defence.
First, I pleaded justification; second, that my vivid imagination, like
Paul's, had led me to believe for the time that I was Peter; third, that
I had tried in vain to make the minister understand that I was not
Peter; fourth, that my desire for sympathy and companionship had warped
my judgment and caused me to innocently yield to temptation; fifth, that
I could not see that I had done wrong; sixth, that the burden of
poignant grief for my conduct was more than I could bear; seventh, that
any attempt to rub it in would harden my heart and stifle the reproaches
of my own conscience; eighth,--well, to the final argument upon which I
based my futile hopes Marion replied that her own attitude, born of the
humiliating discovery of the kind of man I really was, might well be
considered part of the inevitable consequences of my misdeeds, and that
if she had ever given me cause to believe that she thought differently
she took it all back.
It was then, with my guns spiked, that I surrendered unconditionally. I
only pleaded that for Paul's sake--dear little Paul, who, in his plays,
so innocently invented fictions that rivalled Munchausen's--we should
gather up the little fragments of our shattered happiness and piece them
together with calm resignation. I was about to suggest that we should
seek consolation in a life of self-abnegation by trying to do good to
others, but, seeing that Marion was obviously moved, I desisted. I am
proud to say I know how far to go; I am prouder that I know when to stop
and keep a good thing for another occasion.
Marion was melted, and no regular farmer was ever more grateful to see
the welcome rain after a scorching drought than I was to see her tears.
She was melted, and yet, strange to say, I could not get her to assure
me that I was forgiven, and I am so constituted that I cannot be content
without warm assurances to that effect.
Months went by, and we regained our happiness to an amazing extent;
indeed, if Marion had not still refused to confirm it, I would have
supposed that I was completely forgiven, for she sometimes went so far
as to smile in recalling my conversation with the minister. I no longer
worried over her refusal to express an opinion about the farm, for I had
made up my mind to have nothing to do with Peter, and to grow potatoes,
and potatoes, and yet more potatoes. I had a strong instinct that
potatoes would be trumps. Seed was cheap, though labor came high. Joe
Wrigley was the only available man, and though he had previously been
eager to work for me at a dollar and a half a day, his terms went up to
two dollars when I tried to hire him for the season. I thought his
wholesale price should be lower than the retail one, but I had to agree
to his terms. Day after day he ploughed and harrowed and planted, until
I called a halt on the first of July with about one-third of the farm in
potatoes. Throughout the summer I bore the jocular allusions of my
experienced neighbors to the potato farm, replying only with a shrewd
and complacent smile; later, I was flattered to notice that knowing
glances of amusement were conspicuously absent when I entered the
post-office at mail time, and that my casual remarks were treated with
grave consideration. Later still, when the price went up to a dollar and
a half a bag, and the prospect that I would have a large crop became a
certainty, I was able to indulge in exultant calculations of my probable
profits. These delightful anticipations were slightly marred by Marion's
persistent lack of enthusiasm, and the fact that when I asked her if she
could ever forgive me she always replied that she hoped to be able to
before winter. There was something so pointed and yet elusive in this
remark that I could not fathom her meaning, and it was not until I
noticed that whenever I mentioned potatoes a peculiar tight expression
appeared about her mouth that I could guess she was reserving her
forgiveness until my promise was redeemed.
One day in the beginning of October I wrote a brief note to the
minister. Now I had never seriously considered the possibility of
ignoring the promise I had made during my lapse of identity, but I will
confess that it was with a pang I prepared to redeem it, for I loved
every one of those conical heaps that dotted my fields, with a
passionate first love that I knew I could never feel again. Indeed, if I
could have preserved them from decay, I would rather have left the
pyramids where they stood, as a lasting monument to the genius of the
city man who raised more than two thousand dollars worth of potatoes at
a cost of less than one thousand, but with iron resolution I determined
to keep to the letter of my promise. Of course, I might have done so in
a private and incidental manner, but I frankly admit that I believe if a
man chooses to be noble and generous he ought to be so in a manner that
gives him the most enjoyment and furnishes the most telling example to
others.
On the morning of the twenty-first of October the Fairmans arrived to
spend with us the first anniversary of their wedding, and not a small
part of the pleasure of seeing them again was, to me, the delighted
admiration they expressed on making a tour of the pyramids. Aunt Sophy
was so exuberant over my success, and her husband so frankly astonished
when he rapidly calculated the value of the crop in dollars and cents,
that I had much difficulty in retaining my usual modest and unassuming
manner. Even Marion, despite a certain inflexible set to her mouth that
I detected under her company expression, couldn't help looking
regretfully pleased.
We had a most enjoyable dinner, sitting so long over the table that Paul
excused himself and went out to play, but it was only a short time until
he came running back with the petrifying news that there was a funeral
entering the gate. There was a simultaneous rush to the front windows,
and out on the road we all saw a long line of democrats beginning to
move slowly through our gate. Between the trees, at the head of the
procession, we caught fleeting glimpses of a professional silk hat and a
suit of black clothes.
"Henry!" cried Marion, with a little shriek. "You wouldn't--let
them--bury----?"
"Well, I don't know. If it's a Waydean--and the custom----"
"_Henry!_" shrieked Aunt Sophy, clasping Marion in her arms.
"Really," began Mr. Fairman, "I--I--"
"They've stopped in the yard," yelled Paul, putting his head in the
doorway.
I headed the rush to the back window, then one more rush brought us all
into the yard, Mr. Fairman in the rear, supporting the ladies, while
Paul, who revels in sudden excitement, skipped about us in glee. The
driver of the first wagon was Peter Waydean; the professional person
descending with his back to us was the Rev. Daniel Hughes. He came
forward with a genial smile and greeted me warmly.
"Mr. Carton," he said, "we have come to take advantage of----"
My arm was gripped from behind. "Pay him to take it away--_at once_,"
whispered Aunt Sophy in my ear, with fierce energy, pressing her purse
into my hand.
There was a sudden silence; the dramatic moment had arrived. I stepped
back and courteously introduced Mr. Hughes to Aunt Sophy, to Marion, to
Mr. Fairman. In a few simple and carefully chosen words I explained that
Mr. Hughes and my neighbors had come at my request to take one-half of
my crop for the benefit of the church. Then the minister made a most
handsome acknowledgment, and I tried to look deprecating. There was rapt
attention on the part of the listeners, the men on the wagons being
visibly impressed, those at the rear craning their necks to get a better
view of the tableau. Aunt Sophy beamed gratification; her husband sighed
regretfully, as if he thought the contribution rather large. And in
Marion's eyes I read the most charming and complete forgiveness that
could fall to the lot of an erring husband; indeed, they were brimming
with such perfect trust and confidence in my innate nobility of
character that I instantly resolved to become even more worthy of her
esteem.
We watched the long line of wagons pass through the barnyard and round
the end of the barn on the way to the back fields, and as I stood
slightly in advance of the others I heard Mr. Fairman wonder in a low
tone if I proposed to run for the legislature.
"Just like a thing your Uncle Philip would have done!" murmured Aunt
Sophy to Marion.
A fleeting spasm crossed Mr. Fairman's face, then his calm serenity
returned. I fancy that Uncle Philip had better be dropped, or Aunt
Sophy's husband's admiration for me may lapse.
On the last wagon rode Abner Davis. He returned my salute with
respectful solemnity, and I could scarcely repress a smile of triumph as
I recalled his derisive remark that I was not a regular farmer. Paul,
some latent boyish instinct stirring within him, ran after the wagon and
clung to the tailboard, an unheard of feat for him.
"I wonder what kind of a farmer Abner Davis will call you now," said
Marion, voicing my complacent pride.
At that moment loud guffaws, Abner's unmistakable laugh and his
companion's, reached us from the wagon that had rounded the barn, and
Paul came dashing back, breathless.
"Father," he called out, gleefully, "I heard him say that any man who
would give half of such a fine crop to----"
"To what?" I asked, with eager interest as Paul stopped for breath.
"--to--the church--when----"
"Oh, hurry, Paul!" cried his mother.
"--potatoes were such a price--was----"
We waited in suspense, various flattering allusions to my generous gift
suggesting themselves as that mischievous boy stopped to spin around on
his heels and laugh in elfish glee.
"Was _what_?" we cried in chorus.
"--A da-r-r-n fool!" shrieked Paul.