BRUSHING UP TO GO TO TOPEKA
With the opening of spring and the coming of the young grass, the handful
of cattle that had not died of starvation began to look healthier. A
shipment of seed corn for planting, and even a stinted amount for feed,
had been sent from the East in March. But for that donation even the work
horses must have succumbed. Josiah Farnshaw had the best horses in the
country and was suspected of having had far more help than he had really
received. The two teams he had favoured all winter against the seeding
season were the envy of all. Some of the old neighbours, after a winter
spent with the wife's relatives in the East, had decided to return and
take the chances of the grasshopper-ridden Middle West, and had come with
horses able to drag the plow, but, worn from travel, most of them were
practically useless.
There was a lull after the small grain was in the ground. The menacing
eggs of the grasshoppers began to hatch as the sun warmed the earth. It
was a period of intense anxiety. So many months had been spent in
alternate intervals of hope and fear that now, since the test was actually
and immediately to be made, the tension was terrific. Men rose as soon as
the first light of day appeared and went to examine the tender grain,
without which they could not remain upon the land which had cost so dear
in the suffering of the winter just past.
A surprise was in store for them. The young insects matured rapidly. While
they appeared in swarms, it was noticed that they disappeared immediately
upon hatching.
Kansas began to get its breath.
Never was promise of crops more encouraging. There was a distinct note of
reassurance and hopefulness in the air. What became of the grasshoppers
nobody knew exactly, but they went almost as fast as they hatched. Some
shook their heads and said, "Wait till hot weather."
Josiah Farnshaw moved steadily ahead with his planting. He announced that
he had faith in Kansas--had always had--he'd stand on the burning deck!
While others hesitated, he took advantage of wind and weather to get his
crops in the ground. He had been right all along. He did not propose "to
be run off of the land he had homesteaded and set with trees by any durned
little bugs he'd ever come across." It was necessary to be up and doing if
a man was going to provide for a family.
Now this assertion proved to be true, for the agent of the harvester
company visited him and requested payment of the notes given the year
before. The agent was gracious when the inability to pay was explained. He
would renew the paper if it could be secured by the land. There was no
hurry about payment, but it was necessary for the details to be finished
up in a business-like manner. The thing looked simple enough. It was a
just debt and Mr. Farnshaw intended to pay it. He'd as soon it was secured
by the land as any other way. The details were soon arranged.
Mr. Farnshaw agreed to meet the agent in Colebyville, the nearest town,
the next day, and have the papers made out. After the agent was gone Mr.
Farnshaw went to the house to inform his wife that she was to go to town
and attach her name to the document.
The storm of protest was expected, and when Mrs. Farnshaw broke out with:
"Now, pa, you ain't never goin' t' mortgage th' farm, are you?" he
answered surlily:
"Yes, I be, an' I don't want no words about it neither," and walked
determinedly out of the house, leaving his wife to cry out her fears with
her children.
"We won't have where to lay our heads, soon," she announced bitterly.
"I've seen somethin' of th' mortgage business an' I ain't never seen any
of 'em free from payin' interest afterward." This was no mere personal
quarrel. Her children distinguished that. This was real, definite
trouble.
Accustomed as the child was to her mother's woes, Lizzie Farnshaw was
moved to unusual demonstrations by the quality of the outburst of tears
which followed the words, and said impulsively:
"Never you mind, ma, I'm going to teach school in another year, and I'll
help pay the interest; and we'll get out of debt, too, somehow."
Mrs. Farnshaw brightened.
"I hadn't thought of that!" she said. "I'm glad you're willin' t' help
out. I had thought maybe you'd get me one of them new nubies after you got
some money of your own." She went into the other room to lay out the black
dress, which death had sanctified some months before, for use on the
morrow. The opportunity to wear the emblems of mourning turned her
childish mind away from the object of her journey, and left her as
unconscious as the young girl herself that the mortgage had extended from
the land to the lives of herself and her husband, and that in that promise
it had laid its withering hand on the future of her child as well.
The promise of assistance had been lightly given; unearned money is always
easily spent; besides, a teacher's salary seemed rolling wealth to the
girl who had never had a whole dollar in her life. The question of paying
the next year's interest was for the time settled. The next morning the
healthy young mind was much more largely concerned with the appearance of
her mother in the new black dress than with either the mourning it
represented or the mortgage which occasioned its presence. She sensed
dimly that a mortgage was a calamity, but her vigorous youth refused to
concern itself for long with a disaster so far removed as the next year.
But though calamity might pursue Lizzie Farnshaw on one hand, true to her
innate nature she handled fate in so masterful a manner that even poverty
could not cheat her youth of all its prerogatives. In order to
sufficiently nourish the teams which must be used in seeding, Josiah
Farnshaw had been obliged to use a part of his seed corn for feed. In
despair at the thought of not being able to plant all the land under
cultivation, he was overjoyed to hear that a farmer by the name of Hornby,
who lived twenty miles or more to the south, had a new and desirable
variety which he was trying to exchange for cows with young calves by
their sides. A calf was selected from their diminished herd, its mother
tied behind the wagon which held it, and Lizzie taken along to assist in
driving. The journey, though begun in early morning, was a tedious one,
for the cow fretted, the day was hot, and the footsore and weary child was
worn out long before the Hornby place was reached. It was after nine
o'clock when they did arrive, the last five miles having been made with
the added burden of a horse which seemed not at all well. Mr. Farnshaw
would not even go into the house to eat supper, but asked the farmer to
see that Lizzie was put to bed at once, while he remained with the sick
horse. The best team had been chosen for this trip, in spite of the near
approach of foaling time for one of the mares, because the other horses
were too reduced by lack of food to drive so far.
After eating a bowl of bread and milk the tired child was taken to her
room by Mrs. Hornby, and in spite of the ruffled curtains which adorned
the windows and the other evidences of taste and refinement about her, she
was soon fast asleep.
The next morning at daybreak the household of Nathan Hornby was astir. The
first object upon which Lizzie's eyes fell was Susan Hornby herself, who
had come to call her to breakfast.
"Your father took one of our horses and started right off home this
morning. The one that was sick last night died and left a little colt. He
said he thought he had better get the other one home at once, so he took
ours. Come right into our room to wash and comb."
Lizzie was on her feet instantly and followed her hostess into the next
room, making love to the neat white bows of her hostess' apron-strings as
she went. What did she care about her father's departure without her when
she could wash her face in a white bowl whose pitcher stood beside the
washstand, and comb her hair before a looking-glass "where you could see
your head and your belt at the same time?" But the combing was destined to
be a lengthy process, for before the child had pulled her comb through the
first lock attacked she saw reflected beside her face in that mirror an
old-fashioned, black walnut secretary _full of books_! Lizzie Farnshaw had
never seen a dozen books in one house in her life except school books, and
here were rows of books that didn't look like any she had ever seen. She
took her comb and walked over to the bookcase where she could read the
titles and comb at the same time, the spacious mirror, two whole feet in
length, being forgotten in this much more desirable gift of fortune.
Susan Hornby's eyes twinkled with delight. In the five years she had been
in Kansas she had never been able to persuade any one to read with her.
Here was a kindred spirit. She looked at the fifteen-year-old girl and was
anxious to know how it happened that she was interested in books at her
time of life.
"Do you like to read?"
The question was repeated, and once more she asked it before the child
heard her.
"I guess you do," she laughed, answering her own question. "We'll have
some good times before your father comes back for you. Come on to
breakfast now--the men are waiting."
Lizzie Farnshaw fell naturally into her improved surroundings. The
educating processes of reforming her language that year had also tended to
improve the girl in other ways and it was with her straight brown hair
gathered into neat braids, clean finger-nails, and a feeling of general
self-respect that she approached Susan Hornby's white-clothed table and
was introduced to Mr. Hornby and the hired men who were already seated
there.
"Right glad t' see you. I been feedin' th' colt. It's about as likely a
specimine as you be," was Nathan Hornby's salutation, and his handclasp
was as hearty as his stubby fingered, hairy hands could make it.
Lizzie slipped quietly into her chair at his side, and stole a glance up
at him again. All through the meal he found her eyes turning toward him
curiously, and at last he said good-naturedly:
"I'll know you next time whether you do me or not."
The remark was a random one and meant nothing at all, except that he had
been conscious of her close attention, but something in the way her gaze
was withdrawn showed that whatever she had been thinking she wished to
conceal it, and in the end it made Nathan Hornby really uncomfortable. The
fact of the matter was that Nathan's language did not fit his
surroundings. Susan Hornby's house was in advance of the country in which
they lived, while her husband fitted the pioneer life he had chosen. Of
this fact neither husband nor wife seemed to be conscious. Nathan was ten
years older than the woman he had married. In accepting him she had
accepted him as he was; later she had grown, but to her he remained the
same; he was just Nathan, and needed no analysis. They lived and loved,
and radiated the harmony which was theirs. The incongruities of their
union were evident to this child, who was supersensitive about grammatical
constructions, but their harmony was to be one of the strong lessons of
her life. Lizzie was accustomed to ungrammatical language at home, but the
atmosphere of this house made ignorance of good form noticeable. She liked
Mr. Hornby, but she wondered a little about his association with his wife
and her home. She went with him to see the colt after breakfast and
remarked upon his neat barnyard in a manner which lifted the cloud upon
his face; he had had a feeling that he did not somehow come up to her
expectations.
The little colt nosed about his hand looking for food, and Nathan
laughed.
"It's just like th' human critter o' that age--wants t' try everything in
its mouth," he said, trying to find a topic of conversation.
Again Nathan Hornby caught a flicker of surprise in Lizzie Farnshaw's eye,
and again he was disconcerted.
"Wonder what I done t' set that child t' lookin' at me so funny?" he asked
himself as he went to the field later, and being big-hearted and ignorant
was unaware that a man could hamstring himself by an ungrammatical
phrase.
All day Susan Hornby read with the young girl and questioned her to get
into touch with her life and thought, and when night came was wildly
enthusiastic about her.
"Nate, she's worth a lift," she said to her husband after Lizzie had again
been tucked into bed. "Let's take her with us to Topeka this fall and put
her into the high school. She's--she's just the age our Katie would have
been. She says some teacher told her she was ready for the high school."
"Better wait till I'm elected, Sue," Nathan replied, and then, seeing
Susan's face cloud over with disappointment, added more cheerfully:
"Of course I don't care if you have the child, but you mustn't get to
countin' on this thing. That's th' trouble with these here fool politics:
they get folks t' countin' on things that can't come around."
Long after his wife was asleep, however, he mused upon the prospects of
going to Topeka, and for her sake he wanted to go. Nathan Hornby always
spoke of his chances of being elected to the legislature of his state
deprecatingly. He swaggered and pretended to be indifferent, but the worm
of desire burrowed deeper every time Topeka was mentioned. The very fact
that he was uneducated, and, as the Democrats had said, unfit, made him
desire it the more. Criticism had aroused the spirit of contest in him.
Also he wanted Susan, now that she had begun to plan for it, to have it.
Nathan Hornby knew that the woman he had married was his superior, and
loved her for it. Masculine jealousy he did not know. He would have been
sincerely glad to have had her elected to the legislature of Kansas
instead of himself.
"It's like Sue t' want t' take th' girl," he meditated, the next day in
the cornfield. "She'll see Katie in every girl she sees for th' rest of
'er days, I reckon. I wouldn't 'a' had no show at Topeka, nohow, if she
hadn't 'a' made Wallace feel good 'bout that crazy thing he calls 'is
wife. Curious how big things hinge on little ones. Now Sue had no more
idea o' gettin' a nomination t' th' legislature for me than that hen she
was foolin' with this mornin'." Later, he remembered the thing that had
worried him before the subject of Topeka came up. "Wonder what I done that
set that youngster t' lookin' at me so funny?"
Mrs. Hornby had not set her heart on going to Topeka foolishly, but she
wanted to go and it entered into all her plans. She did not tell the young
girl of her plans at once, but waited for her to make her place in
Nathan's heart, as she was sure she would do. On that point the girl
succeeded surprisingly. Her knowledge of horses, of harness, of farm
subjects in general made good soil for conversation with her host, and her
love for the motherless colt called her to the barn and made special
openings for communications. Nathan called the colt, which was of the
feminine gender, Pat, because its upper lip was so long, and that too the
girl enjoyed, and entered into the joke by softening the name to Patsie.
They were good friends. Having decided to befriend her, the man's interest
in her increased. She was to be theirs. The sense of possession grew with
both husband and wife. Already they had cast their lot with the child, and
when at last they put the question of the high school to her, the
friendship was firmly welded by the extravagance of its reception.
"Think of it! Think of it! Only think of it! I didn't know how it was
going to come about, but I was sure I was going to get it somehow!" the
young girl cried, dancing about the room excitedly. "Whenever I was afraid
something was going to keep me from it, I used to say, 'I will! I will! I
will go to high school!' Oh, isn't it too lovely! Do you think my saying
it made any difference?" she asked eagerly; and the quaint couple, who
were born two generations in advance of the birth cry of New Thought,
laughed innocently and made no reply.
When the floodgates of surprise and emotion were opened, and she began to
talk of her hopes and fears, it was but natural that she should speak of
her struggles for personal improvement, though this was instinctively done
when Mr. Hornby was absent.
Curiously enough, some of her points of information were as helpful to
Susan Hornby as they had been to her. Mrs. Hornby knew the rules of good
grammar, but many little observances of table manners had changed since
her youth. She read and was well informed on general topics of the day,
but her life for more than fifteen years had been spent with Nathan and
with the hired men who ate at her table, and she had become careless of
small things, so that she listened with an amused smile, but with real
profit as well, to Lizzie's confidences that "You shouldn't cross your
knife and fork on your plate when you are through eating, like the hired
men, but lay them side by side, neat and straight"; that "You shouldn't
eat with your knife, neither," and that "To sip your coffee out of your
saucer with a noise like grasshoppers' wings was just awful!" She, too,
was brushing up to go to Topeka, and while much in advance of her husband
or any of her associates in society matters, she had lived the life of the
farm, and to the end of her existence would be conscious of the
inequalities of her education. Of this she said nothing to the child, but
listened and remembered. Occasionally she reminded the girl that they
might not go to Topeka, but even as she warned she was quickening the
subconscious mind to aid in recording any fact which might be advantageous
when she herself got there, and her love for the child grew. The girl was
part of the scheme. In a week she had become one of the family.
At the end of the week Mr. Farnshaw did not appear; farm matters had
detained him, so that the opportunity for a closer acquaintance with his
daughter was permitted. Under Mrs. Hornby the child blossomed naturally.
The old-fashioned secretary was the young girl's delight. Seeing her
shaking in silent glee over "David Copperfield" one night, and remembering
her eager pursuit of intellectual things, Mrs. Hornby remarked to her
husband, "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he." The world of to-day
would add to Susan Hornby's little speech, "Not only as a man thinketh in
his heart, so is he," but "So shall he live, and do, and be surrounded."
This simple daughter of the farm, the herds, and the homesteaded hills of
bleak and barren Kansas, where the educated and intellectual of earth were
as much foreigners as the inhabitants of far off Russia or Hindustan, had
by her thought not only prepared herself for the life she coveted, but had
compelled the opportunity to enter upon her travels therein. When Mr.
Farnshaw arrived, Mrs. Hornby was fortunate in the form of her request to
take his daughter with her, and it was arranged that if they went to
Topeka the child should be a member of their household.
"We'll be just as good to her as if she were our own," she promised, and
then added reflectively, "We're going to call her her full name too.
Elizabeth was my mother's name. It's so much prettier than Lizzie."
Under any other circumstances Mr. Farnshaw would have seen symptoms of
being "stuck-up" in the change of name, but Elizabeth had been his
mother's name, and although he had little recollection of his mother, and
had never heard her called by her given name, he had seen it writ large on
her tombstone, and, his eye having become accustomed to the word, his ear
fell naturally into line with its pronunciation; besides, his daughter was
to be a school-teacher, and was to sign contracts like a man, and must
have a proper sort of name. She was to live in the house of a member of
the legislature, too, and already called him and his wife "Uncle" and
"Aunt." Mr. Farnshaw tasted pride and found it a sweet morsel.
Election day came the first week in November and Nathan was successful.
With the high school year in view, they moved to Topeka the next week. It
was as if they were literally to educate their Katie. A slight
disappointment awaited them. Though they were ready the young girl did not
come immediately.
According to the dilatory methods of the Farnshaw household,
Elizabeth--she had been supported by her father when the boys had shown an
inclination to laugh her out of the change of name--was three weeks later
yet in going. The eager girl urged at home that she would be behind her
classes if she went into school so late in the term, but her parents, who
knew nothing of school requirements, refused to let her go till the corn
was all husked and everything snug for the winter, arguing that so much
stock had been lost the winter before that every care must be taken of
what was left. Tears at the prospect of such a handicap made no
impression, and it was not till December that the child and her father set
off in the farm wagon for Topeka, two days distant. Railroad fare was not
to be considered, and two new dresses and a new pair of shoes--not
side-laces--were all the additions to her wardrobe.
Susan Hornby was much annoyed at the delay, but met the young girl with
open arms when she arrived.
She was less happy in accosting Mr. Farnshaw.
"Why in this world did you keep her so late? Half the year is gone!" was
her luckless remark to him.
"She's doin' mighty well t' get t' come at all," Mr. Farnshaw replied,
taking instant offence. "I'm th' only man in our part of th' country
that's givin' 'is childern any show at th' high school at all, I can tell
you. I knew I wouldn't get no thanks for it from th' beginnin'. That's th'
way with things nowadays," was his reply.
"Oh, well, we all know you have needed her, and that it's hard to spare a
child on the farm, but we were so anxious to have her have all that could
be got out of this year," Mrs. Hornby said, divided between a desire to
scold the man and a real disinclination to hurt any one. So much valuable
time had been lost. She saw that she must be politic for Elizabeth's sake,
however, for the child's appearance told the experienced woman that she
must keep him in a good humour and inveigle him into giving her a little
money for clothes.
"We'll just make the best of the time that is left, little girl," Mrs.
Hornby said cheerfully, and in that only added to the impression already
made, for Mr. Farnshaw remembered his daughter's tears, and the feeling
grew that instead of being lauded for what he considered a great sacrifice
on his part, he was coming in for a blame wholly unexpected, and that this
woman was siding with the girl and going to spoil her. People of the farm,
more than any other class, resent being blamed, and Josiah Farnshaw was an
extreme representative of his class. He had come to Topeka delighted with
himself because of the fine opportunities he was giving his daughter, and
here was this woman at the first word finding fault because he had not
done better; it was no wonder that children were not satisfied with
anything a man could give them!
There was now no possibility of Elizabeth entering school till after
Christmas, and Aunt Susan turned her attention to efforts to get the most
out of the time they would have to reorganize the poorly constructed
dresses. She was considerate of Mr. Farnshaw's evident sensitiveness,
seeing also that he had no real comprehension of the damage done by the
delay, and made him comfortable by urging him to stay on after he was
really ready to go home. So successful was she that he forgot for the time
he was in her presence that all was not in his favour, and she was able to
induce him to give all that he was able to give toward the improvements
she suggested in his daughter's wearing apparel. Elizabeth was surprised
at the ready response to demands made upon his purse, but here again Mrs.
Hornby left a sting, wholly unintended and at the time not recognized by
Mr. Farnshaw himself, but remembered by him later and never forgotten
after it was once fixed firmly in his mind. Aunt Susan, concerned for the
entrance of the child into the company of those of her own age, pointed
out to her father the gayly dressed girls of Elizabeth's age, and
suggested that a new coat would be an absolute necessity. Mr. Farnshaw had
given Mrs. Hornby all the money he had with him except four dollars, and
his wife had given him a list of groceries to be purchased in the city. It
rather pleased him to use the money toward his daughter's adornment and it
tickled his pride as well to give his last cent toward her education. Mrs.
Hornby looked at the money he placed in her hand, and hesitated visibly.
Josiah Farnshaw stiffened at her manner. Aunt Susan hated to ask for more,
but this would not buy the girl a coat that she could wear in Topeka!
"You are just as good as you can be about this, Mr. Farnshaw, but--but a
coat like the other girls have will cost at least eight or ten dollars."
She felt his attitude.
The amount named took the man's breath. He had given all he had and yet
this woman, whom he had begun to like again, was not satisfied!
"A man can't do no more'n he can, an' that's th' last red cent I've got,"
he replied, humiliated at the necessity of the confession.
"Oh! I'm so sorry," Aunt Susan exclaimed, really so at having forced the
statement. She sat with her brows knit in serious thought a moment, and a
light began to break in upon her. Elizabeth had to have that wrap somehow
and here was a way right before her. She remembered a long cape she had
noticed going down the street that very morning.
"I guess we can make it do," she said hesitantly. She was thinking out her
plan and spoke slowly. "We'll just make a cloak ourselves. We can do it."
Josiah Farnshaw left the next day for home, in a good humour with himself
and his munificence, but on the way home remembered Susan Hornby's
hesitancy and later decision to make the cloak herself, and the worm of
suspicion began to gnaw again.
"If that woman could make something that'd do, what'd she ask for one of
them expensive coats for?" he asked himself. "I guess it's only th' girl
that figures in that deal! I ain't nothin' but th' oats she feeds on
nohow," he reflected, and having once given the thought lodgment it grew
and became the chief stone of the corner.
Our own comes to us, and Josiah Farnshaw had formed the habit of that kind
of thinking. He felt that he was being robbed, and forgot that his
daughter was being befriended, and out of his trip to Topeka got only a
sour distaste for the woman he could clearly see was going to encourage
the child in extravagance. He had never spent so much money on the entire
family in a winter as he had done on that girl, and yet it wasn't enough.
"He'd bet he'd never give 'er another year's schoolin'. She'd come home
an' get a summer school--that's what she'd do. All folks thought about
nowadays was clothes!"
To Elizabeth Farnshaw every day of that busy month was full of unconscious
growth. As soon as Mr. Farnshaw was out of sight, Mrs. Hornby said to
Elizabeth:
"Now, my child, I am going to take up the seams in that basque."
Elizabeth looked down at her "long basque" in dismay; she had striven hard
over that waist and had thought that it would do very well, though
conscious that it had faults. Her face flushed as she answered
reluctantly:
"The seam in the back isn't quite straight, but--I never made one like it
before--and I thought it would do."
"So it would, dear, but it can do better and we've got plenty of time to
fix it. You'll feel ever so much better about it when you see how the
other girls are dressed."
As Aunt Susan snipped and ripped and rebasted the refractory seam,
Elizabeth brought out her little stores of finery to discuss their
artistic features.
"Look," she said, opening a pasteboard box which held her few ribbons. "I
coaxed a long time for that, but I got it." She held up for Aunt Susan's
approval a new Alsatian bow of pink ribbon. "I wanted the wide, but they
didn't have it, so I got a lot of the narrow and hid the joinings in the
pleats. I think it's pretty, don't you?"
Susan Hornby looked at the bow critically, and then seeing Elizabeth's
face cloud over with a suspicion that she did not regard the treasure with
favour, said slowly:
"It's pretty--that is, it's a pretty colour; but I was looking to see
about how many yards there was in it, for the girls aren't wearing
Alsatian bows, as you call them, this year. They seem to be wearing their
hair mostly in two plain braids. I'm glad of it, for you look ever so much
better with your hair done that way. We can rip it up and press the
ribbon. I'm awfully glad you've got such a lot; It'll make lovely bows for
the braids."
While Elizabeth ripped her bow to pieces Aunt Susan's tongue ran on with
the subject nearest her heart.
"To-morrow morning I'm going to have you sit by that window and watch the
girls that go past about school time. You'll learn more this month doing
that than you would in school, I expect. It's just as well you can't start
till next term, since you didn't get here at first."
"Next term!" her new dresses with their long basques--long basques were
more talked of than any other feature of dress that year, not by Elizabeth
alone but all womankind--had seemed so magnificent that she could not
think of it being necessary to take a whole month to make them over.
"Yes, not till after Christmas. You can't start in at the middle of a term
in high school like you can in the country. We'll get you a wrap made
before that time. I told your father I couldn't think of your going
without a coat of some sort. He didn't feel that he could afford a coat,
so I'm going to get the cloth and you and I will make you a circular this
week."
"A circular? What's that?"
Aunt Susan explained the new kind of cape which came down to the bottom of
the dress and had a hood lined with bright coloured silk and was puckered
with rubber to make it fit the face.
It took all day to finish the basque, and the next morning Elizabeth
watched the well-dressed city girls loiter past, and was glad that she
could have a month to get ready to meet them in the schoolroom. She had
never known anybody dressed so well for anything but a funeral, or a
party, or to go to church. They actually wore gloves to school! Elizabeth
looked at her brown hands and decided that she would wear her mittens to
bed till her hands sweated themselves to a proper degree of whiteness, and
Susan Hornby let her look on, and weigh, and exclaim. Thus was Elizabeth
Farnshaw's education begun.
The afternoon was spent selecting the goods for the new cape, and
wandering about the great stores and the streets; a new pair of pretty
gray gloves were obtained, and for the first time Elizabeth heard the term
"lisle thread" used as against the common term of cotton for all things
not silk or woollen. The new cape was to have a wonderful metal fastener
called a clasp, and life ran like a silver stream the next two days as
they sewed on the new-fangled garment.
Oh, father! could you have but seen truly, how great would have been your
joy!
Each day Elizabeth watched the boys and girls come and go past Nathan
Hornby's house, and when the cape was finished she and Aunt Susan went
daily on shopping expeditions. It was the most wonderful week of her
fifteen years, and was well rounded out by going to church on Sunday and
for the first time listening to a choir, and seeing a window of softly
coloured glass. She almost wondered if she had been transported from the
body to the heaven of crowns and harps which her mother loved to
describe.
To heaven Elizabeth Farnshaw had gone in very truth, but it was the heaven
of adolescence and developing womanhood. In the short time she had been
observing the comings and goings of the boys and girls of their
neighbourhood one young man had begun to stand out from the rest.
Elizabeth was nearly sixteen, and when she saw _him_ now in a pew a few
seats ahead of her she made a little movement of astonishment.
Aunt Susan caught the sound of the indrawn breath and looked around
inquiringly, but Elizabeth, with eyes modestly down, studied her
gray-gloved hands and seemed unaware of her scrutiny. Happiness had been
Elizabeth Farnshaw's daily portion for weeks, but this was different. Here
was happiness of another sort, with other qualities, composed of more
compelling elements. The gamut of bliss had not all been run. Elizabeth
had progressed from Arcadia to Paradise and was invoicing her emotions.
She never shied around a subject, but looked all things in the face; and
she found this delightfully surprising world of emotions as entrancing as
the external one of mellow light, music, good clothes, and educational
prospects. The rest of the hour was a blissful dream, in which the only
thought was a wish for Luther and his stunted pony and the freedom of
grassy slopes where she could pour out her newfound joy. With each new
event of this life the loss of Luther was accentuated.
Nathan Hornby and his wife had no acquaintances in Topeka. They left the
church as soon as the service was over. The young girl went with them,
conscious that _he_ was behind her, glad that her new cape was finished,
wondering if _he_ noticed it, eager to be seen yet wanting to hide, and
foolishly aglow and wishing devoutly that she had eyes in the back of her
head. Henceforth Elizabeth lived in the thought of seeing _him_. She
dubbed him "The Unknown," and if she looked out of the window at home, it
was in the hope of seeing him pass; on the way to school she was alert and
watchful for a glimpse of him in the distance; if she went to church it
was to look for him as soon as seated, though he was rarely there. If she
saw him in the morning her day was made glad; if she failed to see him she
looked forward with anticipation to the next day.
The winter spent itself. January passed, and February. The glad days ran
on in kaleidoscopic readjustment of joy, work, wonder, and unfoldment, as
far as Elizabeth's own life was concerned. After the manner of youth, her
own affairs absorbed her. In fact the young girl was so filled with the
delights of her own little world that it was only gradually that she began
to understand that the life in Topeka was not as fortunate with the dear
couple who had shared with her their home. The first signs of trouble were
made manifest to her by the increasing tenderness with which Susan Hornby
hovered around her mate, and her evident and growing solicitude.
Elizabeth was startled when she did at last comprehend the gloom and
anxiety about her. The manner of the pair prevented questions, but, as she
watched covertly, Aunt Susan's distress was transferred to her. Elizabeth
was not curious, but she was intensely sympathetic, and from disinterested
motives she became keenly observant of all that took place about her. No
opportunity to help offered. With a sharp realization that her best
friends were in trouble, she was obliged to conceal any trace of that
knowledge. Nathan and his wife talked apart and in low tones, avoiding the
young girl's presence, and were evidently puzzled and uneasy. It was
Elizabeth's way to make the troubles of those about her her own. Longing
to help, it was impossible to be indifferent. Gradually she got bits of
indirect light upon the subject. From little things dropped accidentally,
and often from explanations which circumstances forced upon them,
Elizabeth learned that money was scarce. This came as a shock, and with
all the hurt and heartsick worry which the mention of finances always
brought to the girl. Why must people have money? she asked herself daily.
And mixed with dreams of "The Unknown" came speculations as to the part
which money played in the game of life, and the bondage of men to it, and
a longing to be free from its withering grasp. In her childish mind the
matter of freedom became slightly mixed and she dreamed dreams of being
free by owning unlimited amounts of it, and she coveted marvellous bank
accounts, acquired in some mystical way, with which the woes of humanity
could be relieved by giving. Along with this new idea of dispensing
charity grew a desire to know why the crop of cash was short in Nathan
Hornby's home. In her innocent way she led up to the subject of expenses
in general, but Aunt Susan kept family affairs strictly in the family and
vouchsafed no explanations, unaware that the example she set in that way
was to bear strange and unexpected fruit. But though Elizabeth carried the
reflex of the anxiety of those about her, she was scarcely sixteen, and
youth and joy and life claimed her attention and the affairs of her stage
in life's span crowded out the affairs of others.
These were days of transition. The child was becoming a woman. The love
which was flowing out of her heart like a spring freshet toward one who,
because she saw him less often was the more often in her thoughts, was
making Elizabeth Farnshaw more observant of those who professed love.
Desiring mutual relations, she became sensitive to the communications of
those about her who had to do with mutual relations.
Elizabeth saw that the more trouble clouded the brow of Nathan Hornby the
cheerier and closer Aunt Susan drew to him. There was none of the quarrels
here to which Elizabeth had become accustomed when things went wrong at
home. The contrast between her father's and mother's daily life and that
of Nathan and Susan Hornby in times of trouble was the subject of constant
thought. Nathan and Susan Hornby were to be guide-posts along the highway
of Elizabeth Farnshaw's domestic affairs. Love pointed her thoughts toward
marriage, and here was a worthy model after which to build. Her natural
affection and gratitude were enhanced by the fact that this couple with
whom she lived, and who were otherwise very dear to her, were the
immediate example of all that was noble in the world of her present
dreams.
The fact that the harmony between Aunt Susan and her mate was of stern
stuff and not matured solely upon success and pleasure added to the
strength of that example. Elizabeth had not been taken into the confidence
of either; their private affairs were kept screened from the gaze of any
but themselves. By a word dropped here and there, however, she learned
that Nathan had speculated and lost much money; also that he had favoured
measures advanced by butter-tongued lobbyists, and that he had lost the
good-will of many of his constituents.
While Elizabeth watched the tender association of Nathan Hornby and his
wife and found such glowing tribute in her heart toward the life they
lived together, a tragedy, in spite of the support and affection lavished
by a faithful wife, was to leave the sunny, cordial man a broken,
half-suspicious one.
Nathan Hornby was to learn that legislative assemblies were death-traps to
those whom providence had failed to coach in diplomacy and judgment, that
legislation was a game at which none but gamesters might successfully
play, a devouring flame singeing the wings of all who failed to
distinguish between the light of a common candle and that of a real sun,
that it was a nightmare to most, and ticklish business for all. Unable to
distinguish between the good and the bad intentions of those who advocated
the passage of bills, convinced long before the end of the legislative
session that a bill looking innocent and direct in its wording might be
evil and indirect in its outworking, Nathan became more and more confused
and less and less able to withstand the attacks made upon him.
Nathan Hornby was a leaden figure in the legislative assembly. He was
honest, but slow of wit, and apt to become passive if pushed beyond his
power to understand. This man who could throw the earth up to a hill of
corn with skill and precision, who could build a haystack which would turn
the rains and snows of winter, and break a colt to the harness without
breaking its spirit, who had handled successfully the problems to which he
had been trained, was not able to throw arguments up to the legislative
hill or protect his reputation against the floods of criticism and
accusation to which his actions were subjected either here in the Capitol
or at home among his constituents. His spirit was broken: he recognized
that he was totally unfit for the position into which fortune had thrust
him. Nathan sat back in his chair, in the House, with few books and papers
on the desk before him, and these unopened, his manner, like his wrinkled
boots, indicative of the farm, his whole attitude that of the
unsophisticated. He listened to the speeches made around him, but had no
ideas to express. He was a pathetic figure. Only the accidents of
Grasshopper Year, when legislative timber was scarce, could have placed
him in such a position. His tough, shaven cheeks grew thinner day by day
as he pulled at the brush of grizzled chin-whiskers and tried to
understand what went on before him.
During those days Susan was both his refuge and the cross of his
crucifixion. The deeper his difficulties became the more he turned to her
for help, certain not only that she understood better than he the measures
about which his colleagues argued, but that she understood him and his
failures, as well as his needs. It was because Susan understood that the
cross was so heavy. If his wife had been a dull woman, if she had been a
woman without ambitions of her own, if she could have been hoaxed into
thinking him the equal of his associates, it would have been easier; but
Nathan was aware that Susan Hornby knew to the finest detail the nature of
his failure as well as she understood and loved the best in him. During
those gloomy days the man marvelled at the gentleness of her solicitations
for his cheering and encouragement, not realizing that woman is by nature
faithful where man is appreciative of her devotion. Appreciation! that had
been the keynote of Nathan Hornby's attitude toward his wife. Susan had
always known what she ought to do, what she wanted to do, and what it was
best for her to do, and in all matters where her individual affairs were
concerned Nathan had never interposed coercion nor advice. If Susan made
mistakes, her husband knew that they were the mistakes of the head and not
of the heart, and left her to correct them in her own way.
Susan Hornby had always been free, and now the walls of love and trust
which Nathan Hornby had builded about their home for nearly twenty years
were to be a flawless rampart behind which he could take refuge from foes
without and receive help from within. At Nathan's request his wife came
day after day and listened to the discussions toward the end of the
session. Nathan sat before her dumb, but she was the anchor to his
drifting soul as the political landslide took the ground out from under
his feet.
"I only wisht I'd 'a' taken you in on this thing sooner," he said on one
occasion, and remembered those first weeks when he had felt
self-sufficient, and had made false moves at the State House, and had also
let himself be inveigled into buying "a few margins." That was the
bitterest drop in his cup. Wheat had dropped steadily from the very day he
had begun buying. A steady decline in prices was unthinkable, and it was
not till their land was endangered that the trusting man began to take
alarm, and even then he let the speculators who profited by the sales
induce him to make one more wild investment to save that which he had
already lost.
His certainty that his neighbors would take revenge upon _him_ for
political differences by sly prods regarding speculation was of slight
importance, but Susan was to be humiliated before them!--Susan, who had
tried to help him to see the dangers--Susan, who did not complain when she
was called upon to sign the deeds to the land she had helped to win from
the Indians and the wilderness of uncultivated things. Nathan remembered
on that bitter day that but for her adventurous spirit he would have been
working at day's wages in old Indiana, instead of having a home and being
an active member of his community and a member of the legislature of his
state, with opportunities to prove himself a man in the world of men. He
had failed, and his failure reacted upon her. It was not the loss of money
and political prestige alone which bit. Another phase of their life in
Topeka added its humiliation. Nathan had wanted his wife to share his
political honours and had found himself ignorant of every means by which
these things could be brought to her. He had heard of gay winters at the
Capital, but they lived apart from it all. The house in which he had
placed her was attractive and on a good street, but the men whom he met at
the State House soon saw that nothing was to be gained through knowing
Nathan Hornby, and failed to ask their wives to call upon his wife.
Disaster is in exact ratio to our valuation of things. Although Nathan
Hornby had lost three fourths of his land, his reputation as a business
man and politician, and his faith in men, he still had left the one
essential gift which should have helped him to win again all that which he
had lost. Susan Hornby, like Ruth of old, abandoned all else and abode
with her husband in love, cheering him at each problematical step, and
saying as they returned from the notary's office after signing away their
land to a stranger:
"Never mind, Nate, there are only two of us," and for the first time since
their little daughter had been taken from them, he had replied:
"Yes, only two, thank God!" and had kissed awkwardly the hand laid over
his mouth, and Susan had seen the glitter of a tear on his faded lashes,
the first in many years.
Susan knew that Nathan would never forget the failures of that year, but
she also knew that the comfort of accustomed activities would help to fill
his mind and keep his thoughts from sore introspection. Here in Topeka
there was nothing to do but cogitate and reflect. It was therefore a
relief to her when Elizabeth received a letter from her mother summoning
her home to teach a spring term of school. While at any other time she
would have been filled with indignation at the recall of Elizabeth just as
she was beginning to get settled to her new work, Susan Hornby felt that
Elizabeth needed education less at this point than Nathan needed the busy
seeding season to occupy his troubled thoughts.