A CULTURED MAN
When no remonstrance of hers availed to prevent the constant increase of
expenses, Elizabeth saw that her assistance, instead of helping the family
to get out of debt, was simply the means of providing toys for
experimentation, and that she was being quietly but persistenly euchred
out of all that her heart cherished. Mr. Farnshaw valued the machinery he
was collecting about him, Mrs. Farnshaw valued the money, partly because
in one way and another it added to the family possessions, and also
because her husband having found out that he could obtain it through her
easier than by direct appeal, she could avoid unpleasantness with him by
insisting upon her daughter giving it to him; but Elizabeth's education
was valued by no one but Elizabeth, and unless she were to learn her
lesson quickly the time for an education to be obtained would have
passed.
"It's of no use for you to talk to me, ma," Elizabeth said the spring
after she was twenty years old, "I shall keep every cent I make this
summer. Pa gets into debt and won't let anybody help him out, and I am
going to go to Topeka this fall. I'm years older right now than the rest
of the scholars will be--not a single pupil that was there when I went
before will be there--and I'm going to go. I don't ever intend to pay the
interest on that old mortgage again--it's just pouring money into a
rat-hole!"
[Illustration: "'NOW LOOK HERE, LIZZIE, ... YOUR PA EXPECTS IT'"]
It was early morning and they were planting potatoes. Her mother stood
with her back turned toward the raw April wind as they talked, her old
nubia tied loosely about her head and neck, and her hands red with the
cold.
"Now look here, Lizzie"--Mrs. Farnshaw always refused to use the full
name--"your pa expects it."
"Of course he expects it; that's why he keeps adding to the mortgage; but
that don't make any difference. I'm going to Topeka this fall just the
same. I am not going to pay one dollar on the interest in May, and you can
tell pa if you like."
Mrs. Farnshaw was alarmed. Elizabeth had protested and tried to beg off
from the yearly stipend before, but never in that manner. The tone her
daughter had used frightened her and she quivered with an unacknowledged
fear. Her husband's wrath was the Sheol she fought daily to avoid. What
would become of them if the interest were not paid?
Added to Mrs. Farnshaw's personal desire to command her daughter's funds
there was the solid fear of her husband's estimate of her failure. She
could not look in his eye and tell him that she was unable to obtain their
daughter's consent. To live in the house with him after Lizzie had told
him herself was equally unthinkable, for his wrath would be visited upon
her own head.
"My child! My child!" she cried, "you don't have to be told what he will
do t' me."
There was a long pause while she sobbed. The pause became a compelling
one; some one had to speak.
"I can't help it, ma," Elizabeth said doggedly after a time.
"Oh, but you don't know what it means. Come on to th' house. I can't work
no more, an' I've got t' talk this thing out with you."
They picked up the pails and the hoe with which they had been covering the
hills and went to the house, carrying a burden that made a potato-planting
day a thing of no consequence.
The mother busied herself with the cob fire as she argued, and Elizabeth
put away the old mittens with which she had protected her hands from the
earth which never failed to leave them chapped, before she picked up the
broom and began an onslaught on the red and fluffy dust covering the
kitchen floor.
"You see, You'll go off t' teach an' won't know nothin' about it,
an'--an'--I'll have it t' bear an'----" The pause was significant.
Mrs. Farnshaw watched her daughter furtively and strained her ears for
signs of giving up. At last Elizabeth said slowly:
"I'm as sorry as I can be, ma, but--I'm twenty years old, and I've _got_
to go."
There was no doubting that her mind was made up, and yet her mother threw
herself against that stone wall of determination in frantic despair.
"Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie! I can't live an' have you do it. You don't know,
child, what I have to bear."
"Now look here, ma; you won't let me have things out openly with pa and
come to an understanding with him, and when I told you four years ago that
you ought to leave him if you couldn't live with him peaceably you talked
as if I had committed some sort of sin. You and pa are determined to fuss
it out and I can't help it, and I've sacrificed four good years to you and
the interest is bigger than it ever was. I haven't helped you one bit. If
you want to go on living with him You'll do it in your own way, but if
your life is unbearable, and you want to leave him, I'll see that you are
provided for. The law would give you a share of this----"
The noise of the broom and of their voices had prevented them from hearing
any other sounds, but a shadow fell across the middle door and Josiah
Farnshaw entered the kitchen a blazing picture of wrath. Before he could
speak, however, the dog on the doorstep barked sharply at a stranger who
was close upon him, and the irate father was obliged to smooth his
manner.
Elizabeth escaped to the bedroom as her father crossed to the kitchen to
see what the man wanted, and Mr. Farnshaw went on out to the pens a moment
later with the "hog buyer," as the man proved to be.
"My God! My God! What have you done?" Mrs. Farnshaw cried, following
Elizabeth into the bedroom.
"I don't know, ma," the girl cried, as white as her mother. "I'm going to
get off to hunt up a school while that man is here. The sun has come out
and it's only ten o'clock. If you're afraid, come along," she advised, as
she hurried into a clean calico dress and took down her old black riding
skirt from its nail.
"Lizzie!" the mother exclaimed, as much afraid of the advice as she was of
her husband.
There was little time left her for argument, for Elizabeth hurriedly tied
a thick green veil over her plain straw hat and left the house. The hog
pens were on the opposite side of the stable from the house and Elizabeth
soon had Patsie, now a mare of five years, saddled and bridled.
The air was softening, and it occurred to her that it was going to rain,
as she hurried out of the yard, but she did not wait to get extra wraps
nor her umbrella. The best thing to do, she knew, was to get away while
that hog buyer was there and trust to luck for the edge of her father's
anger to wear away before she returned.
Fortunately she had worn her old coat, which was heavy and waterproof, and
when it did begin to rain half an hour later, instead of turning back she
pressed forward, more afraid of the thunderstorm at home than any to be
encountered on the way.
Elizabeth rode steadily southward, thinking out her share in this new
quarrel in which she had embroiled her parents, unaware that as it
drizzled it became warmer and that the day had become spring-like and
endurable. She began to question the propriety of having suggested drastic
measures to her mother. "Till death do you part" rang in her ears in spite
of the certainty that the union of her mother and her father was an unholy
thing which was damning them more surely than a separation could possibly
do. Of only one thing could Elizabeth be sure: she saw without mistake at
last that she must decide upon her own duties hereafter without listening
to a mother who could not decide anything for herself.
The director of the district to which Elizabeth first turned her steps was
away from home when she arrived and it was necessary to consider where she
would go next. After some thought she decided to try the Chamberlain
district, which lay between there and her home. It was eight miles from
the Farnshaw homestead and far enough away so that she would not have to
board with her parents and she determined to try to meet the school board,
which met usually on the first Tuesday night in April.
The fact of facing around toward the north again set her to considering
what course of action she would pursue when she went back home.
"I'll go back, I guess, and be patient with whatever he feels like doing
with me," she resolved, reflecting that from her father's standpoint he
had a very real grievance against her. "It was a dreadful thing for him to
hear me advising ma to leave him. I guess I owe it to them to try to
straighten it up. But I don't believe it can ever be straightened up," she
ended doubtfully.
Elizabeth was passing a grove of young cottonwood trees and was so
absorbed in her thoughts that, becoming only half conscious that Patsie
was lagging and that time was passing rapidly, she gave her a slap with
the strap in her hand, urging the horse to a faster pace as she rounded
the corner of the section without looking up. Patsie broke into a long,
easy lope. Suddenly Elizabeth became conscious of the noise of other hoofs
splashing toward them. Glancing up, she saw a farm team almost upon them,
whose driver was stooped to avoid the rain.
Elizabeth pulled her horse up sharply, and to one side. The trail was an
old one, and the sloping, washed-out rut was deep. Patsie lost her footing
and, after a slipping plunge or two, fell floundering on her side before
her mistress could support her with the rein. Active as a boy, Elizabeth
loosened her foot from the stirrup and flung herself to the other side of
the road, out of the way of the dangerous hoofs. Elizabeth slipped as her
feet struck the ground and she landed on "all-fours" in the grass.
The young man, suddenly awake to what had happened, was out of his high
seat and had the mare by the bridle before its rider had fairly scrambled
up.
"I beg your pardon! Are you hurt?" he called across the wagon, when
Patsie, still nervous from her fall, hung back as far as her rein would
permit and not only refused to be led but threatened to break away
altogether.
"Not at all! Not a bit! Whoa! Patsie! Whoa! Lady!" Elizabeth cried, coming
around to them, and extending a smeary, dripping hand for the taut rein.
The young man let her step in front of him and put her hand on the strap,
but kept his own there as well, while they both followed the backing horse
with braced steps, the girl talking soothingly to the frightened animal
the while. The naturally docile filly responded to the voice she had heard
from earliest colthood and soon let Elizabeth approach close enough to put
her hand on the bit. The seriousness of the affair gave way to the comic
when the horse began to snatch bits of grass from the roadside.
The young couple laughed and looked at each other rather sheepishly as
they saw that further cooperation was not needed. They untangled their
hands where they had slipped tight together in the loop of the bridle rein
as they had followed the rearing beast.
"She has broken the girth," the young man said, lifting his hat
ceremoniously and with a manner not born of life on the farm.
He threw the stirrup over the top of the saddle and fished under the now
quiet horse for her dangling surcingle. Having secured it, he untied the
strap and examined it to see if it were sufficiently long to permit of
tying another knot. Deciding that it was, he tied one end in the ring in
the saddle and, passing the other through the ring of the girth, drew it
up with a strong, steady pull. His side face against the saddle, as he
pulled, permitted him to examine curiously the young girl in front of
him.
"Are you sure you are not hurt at all?" he asked solicitously.
"Not a bit--only muddy," she replied, stooping to brush her earth-stained
hands through the rain-laden grass at the roadside. He was still working
with the straps when her hands were cleaned and watched her openly as she
shielded her face behind Patsie's head while waiting. The water dripped
from the ends of her braided brown hair and the long dark lashes of her
brown eyes were mist-laden also. He examined all the accoutrements of her
mount minutely. When at last it occurred to her that he was giving them
extra attention for the sake of extending the time Elizabeth's eyes
lighted up with a humorous twinkle. The young man caught and rightly
interpreted the expression and was embarrassed.
"I think it's all right," he said quickly. "I'm awfully sorry to have been
so stupid. I never thought of meeting any one in all this rain."
Elizabeth took that as a reflection upon her presence out of doors on such
a day, and leading her horse down into the deep road sprang into the
saddle from the bank before he could offer his assistance.
"Thank you for helping me," she said, and was off toward the west before
he could speak.
She was gone, and he could do nothing but look after her helplessly.
"Your horse has lamed itself," he called when he was at last able to
concern himself with such matters, but either the spattering hoofbeats
prevented her hearing his voice or she was determined not to reply; he
could not tell which. There was nothing to do but return to his wagon.
"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "Now you've made an ass of yourself and let
her get away without finding out who she was or where she lived." He liked
her--and he was an ass! He anathematized himself openly.
When well away from the man, Elizabeth saw that his observation regarding
the prospects of meeting people on such a day was a perfectly natural one
and not aimed at her at all. She laughed at the spectacle she was sure she
must have presented, and wished now that she had not been in such a hurry
in leaving him. Here was a man worth looking at. The gesture as he had
lifted his hat indicated refinement.
"Curious that I haven't seen him--he lives here some where," she pondered,
and now that she could not find out she rated herself severely for the
embarrassment which was apt to assail her at critical moments.
Patsie limped miserably, and Elizabeth brought her down to a walk and let
her droop along the old country road, and speculated on this new specimen
of masculinity which had dropped from the skies to puzzle and delight her
soul.
The rain beat heavily now, and Elizabeth began to take her situation into
account after thinking over the stranger a few minutes. There was a
perfect deluge of water from the burdened sky, and though no sign of a
house could be seen, she knew she could not be far from the Chamberlain
homestead; but the ground was becoming more and more soggy, and her
garments were not of the heaviest. Patsie's feet went ploop, ploop, ploop,
in the soft, muddy road. Elizabeth urged her to the fastest possible
walking speed in spite of her lameness. To trot or gallop was impossible,
and the young horse slipped now and then in a manner which would have
unseated a less skilful rider.
The sodden Kansas road was aflood with this spring rain. Patsie laboured
heavily and Elizabeth gave herself up to her cogitations again. Her mind
had reacted to more pleasant subjects than home affairs.
It had been a dreary, disheartening ride, and yet it had had its
compensations, for was not the rider young and the earth filled with the
freshness of spring? The short and tender grass bordered the road to the
very wheel-ruts; the meadow larks sang regardless of the rain, or mayhap
in sheer meadow-lark delight because of it. To the south a prairie chicken
drummed, and a cow called to her calf, whose reply came from a point still
farther in the distance. At the sound of the cow's lowing Elizabeth
Farnshaw peered delightedly through mists.
"I knew it couldn't be much farther, Patsie," she said, leaning forward
and patting the neck of the dripping horse. Little spurts of water flew
spatteringly from under the affectionate palm, and Elizabeth shook her
bare hand to free it from the wet hairs which adhered to it, laughing at
her rainsoaked condition.
It was indeed a time for seeking shelter.
Presently the rattle of a chain was heard nearby, then the outlines of a
straw stable were seen, and from the foreground of mist a man appeared
unhitching a team of horses from a large farm wagon. Patsie gave a little
nicker of anticipation as she scented the sacks of oats, carefully
covered, in the back of the wagon. The old man rose from his stooping
position in unfastening the tugs and faced the newcomer.
"Why, it's Miss Farnshaw! Gee whiz! Be you a duck t' be out on such a day
as this?" he inquired, stepping forward when he saw that she was coming
in. Then chuckling at his own humour, he added:
"I guess you be a goslin'--a goslin' bein' a young goose, you know."
Elizabeth Farnshaw laughed. "But my feathers aren't turning the rain, Mr.
Chamberlain." It was the second time within the hour that she had been
reminded that women were not expected to go out of doors in a rainstorm.
"That's because you're such a young goose, you know; you ain't got no
feathers yet, it's only down."
"Fairly caught!" she replied, backing her horse around so that the rain
would come from behind, "Tell me, does the school board meet to-night?"
"Oh, ho!" the farmer replied, "that's th' way th' wind blows, is it? Now
look here, young lady, if you be as prompt in lickin' them youngsters in
season an' out o' season as you be in lookin' up schools I guess You'll
do. Yes, sir-ee, th' school board meets to-night an' you jes' come t' th'
house an' have a bite t' eat an' we'll see what we can do for you. Why,
stars an' garters!" he exclaimed as he lifted her down from her horse,
"Liza Ann 'll have t' put you in th' oven along with th' rest of th'
goslins." Then he added: "Now you run along to th' house, an' I'll take
this horse in hand. I judge by its nicker you didn't stop for no dinner
to-day."
Mrs. Chamberlain appeared at the door and her husband called to her,
"Liza Ann! here's Miss Farnshaw, as wet as that last brood of chickens you
found under th' corn-planter. Give 'er a dry pair of shoes an' take 'er
wet coat off o' 'er."
As Elizabeth turned to her hostess, the old man exclaimed, "Why, Gosh all
Friday, what's happened to your horse?"
"I'm awfully worried about Patsie's foot. She slipped in the muddy road
this afternoon. Do you suppose It'll lay her up? It's a busy time and pa
needs her."
"I don't know; it's in a ticklish place. I'll rub it good with Mustang
liniment; that's th' best thing I know of. Now you run on to th' house;
you're wet enough t' wake up lame yourself in th' mornin'," he admonished,
straightening up, with his hands on the small of his back.
Having dismissed Elizabeth, Silas Chamberlain took Patsie's saddle from
her back and laid it across Old Queen's harness, taking his own team into
the barn first. Old Queen was an unsocial animal and it was necessary to
tie her in the far stall when a strange horse was brought into the barn,
as she had a way of treating intruders badly. She sniffed at the saddle
distrustfully as Mr. Chamberlain tied her up.
"Whoa! there!" he said emphatically, giving her a slap on the flank which
sent her into the opposite corner of the stall. "You needn't be s' all
fired touchy you can't let a strange saddle come into th' stall. That
saddle's carried th' pluckiest girl in this end of th' county t'day.
Gosh-a-livin's! Think of her a comin' out on a day like this, an' smilin'
at them wet feathers, as she called 'em, 's if it didn't make no
difference bein' wet at all. Now if John Hunter gets his eyes on 'er
there'll be an end of ma's board money; an' then how'll I finish payin'
fur that sewin' machine?"
In the house, after some time spent in trying to be stiffly polite to her
guest, the unwilling hostess began the supper. The potatoes were put on to
fry, the kettle sang, and Mrs. Chamberlain sat down to grind the coffee in
a mill which she grasped firmly between her knees.
"Maybe you 'uns don't drink coffee?" she remarked anxiously, stopping to
look over at the girl, who sat near the fire drying her shoes in the
oven.
"Oh, yes," Elizabeth answered slowly, coming back reluctantly from a
consideration of the handsome stranger she had met; "that is," she added
confusedly, "I never drink anything but water, anyhow."
Mrs. Chamberlain gave a relieved sigh. "I was afraid you'd rather have
tea, an' I ain't got no tea in th' house. Bein' farmin' season now it
seems as if I can't never get t' town."
Just then one adventurous chick which, with the rest of the brood, had
been discovered under the corn-planter earlier in the day, jumped out of
the box in which it had been kept near the fire. Mrs. Chamberlain set the
mill on the table and gave chase to the runaway.
"That's th' peertest chicken of th' lot," she remarked as she again
enveloped him in the old woollen skirt, from the folds of which came much
distressed cheeping. "They're hungry, I think," she added, reaching for a
bowl of yellow cornmeal which she mixed with water. Lifting the skirt off
the little brood carefully, and giving it a cautious shake to assure
herself that no unwary chick was caught in its folds, she dropped some of
the mixture in the middle of the box, tapping lightly with the spoon to
call the attention of the chicks to its presence. The chickens pecked
hungrily, and there was a satisfied note in the twitterings of the downy
little group as Mrs. Chamberlain turned to the preparation of her supper
again.
"Yes, he's th' peertest chicken of th' lot; an' I'd most as soon he'd been
more like th' rest--he's always gettin' out of th' box."
"Now, Liza Ann, you ain't thinkin' nothin' of th' kind," said her husband,
who had hurried with his evening chores so as to get a chance to visit
with the company and had just come in from the stable. "You know you said
yourself, 'Thank goodness, there's one on 'em alive,' when you fished 'em
out from under that planter. Th' same thing's keeping 'im on th' go now
that kept 'im from givin' up as quick as th' rest did then. Chicken's is
like boys, Miss Farnshaw," Silas continued, addressing Elizabeth; "th'
ones that makes th' most trouble when thy're little, you can count on as
bein' th' most likely when they're growed up. Now, Liza Ann there counted
on that chicken soon's ever she set eyes on 'im."
Having washed his face and hands in the tin basin on the bench just
outside the kitchen door, Silas Chamberlain combed his curly locks of iron
gray before the little looking glass which was so wrinkled that he looked
like some fantastic caricature when mirrored on its surface. After a short
grace at the opening of the meal, he passed a dish of potatoes,
remarking:
"We ain't much hands t' wait on th' table, Miss Farnshaw; You'll have t'
reach an' help yourself."
"Who's this plate for?" Elizabeth asked at last, designating the vacant
place at her side.
"That's John's," said Mrs. Chamberlain.
"John Hunter's, Miss Farnshaw," said Silas. "He's our boarder, an' th'
likeliest young man in these parts." Then he added with conviction, "You
two be goin' t' like each other."
A girlish blush covered the well-tanned cheeks, and to hide her
embarrassment Elizabeth said with a laugh:
"Describe this beau ideal of yours."
"Now, Si, do let th' child alone," Mrs. Chamberlain protested. "He's
always got t' tease," she added deprecatingly.
"Sometimes I be an' sometimes not. Miss Farnshaw made me think of you some
way when I see her this afternoon." Noting his wife's look of surprise, he
explained: "I mean when I see you down to th' Cherryvale meetin' house.
An' it didn't take me long t' make up my mind after that, neither."
Mrs. Chamberlain smiled at the mention of girlhood days, but said nothing,
and Silas turned to Elizabeth again with his honest face alight with
memories of youth.
"You see, Miss Farnshaw, I'd gone out on th' hunt of a stray calf, an' an
unexpected shower came on--th' kind that rains with th' sun still a
shinin'--an' I dug my heels into old Charlie's flanks an' hurried along
down th' road to th' meeting house, a few rods farther on, when what
should I see but a pretty girl on th' steps of that same place of refuge!
Well, I begged 'er pardon, but I stayed on them there steps till that
shower cleared off. Most of th' time I was a prayin' that another cloud
would appear, an' I didn't want it no bigger than a man's hand neither.
No, sir-ee, I wouldn't 'a' cared if it'd 'a' been as big as th' whole Bay
of Biscay. An' what I was thinkin' jest now was that there was about th'
same fundamental differences 'tween you an' John Hunter that th' was
'tween Liza Ann an' me. He's light haired an' blue eyed, an tall an' slim,
an' he's openin' up a new farm, an' 'll need a wife. He talks of his
mother comin' out t' keep house for him, but, law's sakes! she wasn't
raised on a farm an' wouldn't know nothin' about farm work. Oh, yes, I
forgot t' tell you th' best part of my story: I got t' carry Miss Liza Ann
Parkins home on old Charlie, 'cause th' crick rose over th' banks outen
th' clouds of rain I prayed for!"
"Now, Si Chamberlain, there ain't a word of truth in that, an' you know
it," said his wife, passing Elizabeth a hot biscuit. "I walked home by th'
turnpike road, Miss Farnshaw, though we did wait a bit, till it dried up a
little."
Her husband's laugh rang out; he had trapped Liza Ann into the discussion,
in spite of herself, and he had trapped her into an admission as well.
"Well," he said, "I may be mistaken about th' details, but I've always had
a soft spot in my heart for th' rainy days since that particular time."
"But you haven't told me why Mr. Hunter isn't here to eat his supper,"
said Elizabeth, "nor have you told me what he is like."
"Oh, he's gone over to Colebyville for his mail, an' won't be home till
late--in all this mud. As to what he's like--it ain't easy t' tell what
John's like; he's--he's a university feller; most folks say he's a dude,
but we like him?"
"What university?" Elizabeth asked with a quick indrawn breath; she knew
now whom she had met on the road that afternoon.
"He comes from Illinois. I guess it's th' State University--I never asked
him. His father died an' left him this land an' he's come out here to farm
it. Couldn't plow a straight furrow t' save his life when he come a little
over a year ago, but he's picked up right smart," Silas added, thereby
giving the information the young girl wanted.
This young man was to be in this neighbourhood all summer. Still another
reason for applying for the Chamberlain school.
As Elizabeth helped Liza Ann with her dishwashing after supper, John
Hunter came in. The ground had been too soft for them to hear the wagon
when he drove up. Silas introduced them promptly and added with a grin:
"You've heard of folks that didn't know enough t' come in out of th' rain?
Well, that's her!"
John Hunter's eyes twinkled an amused recognition, but he did not mention
the accident in which Patsie had come to grief.
"I am very glad to meet you, Miss Farnshaw; we are both wet weather
birds."
Seeing Liza Ann reach for a frying pan, he addressed himself to her:
"Never mind any supper for me, Mrs. Chamberlain. I knew I'd be late, as I
had to go around by Warren's after I got back, and I got an early supper
at the new hotel before I left town!"
"The extravagance of that!" exclaimed Mrs. Chamberlain, to whom hotel
bills were unknown.
John Hunter went to the door to clean some extra mud off his boot tops,
and to hide a wide and fatuous smile at the thought of tricking Silas out
of his accustomed joke. He felt nearer the girl, because she too had been
silent regarding the afternoon encounter. He liked the mutuality of it and
resolved that it should not be the last touch of that sort between them.
While not really intellectual, John Hunter had the polish and tastes of
the college man, and here he reflected was a girl who seemed near being on
his own level. She looked, he thought, as if she could see such small
matters as bespattered clothes.
Silas followed him out. "You didn't bed them horses down did you?" he
asked.
"No. I expect we'd better do it now and have it out of the way."
As they entered the dark stable and felt their way along the back of the
little alley, behind the stalls, for the pitchforks, the younger man asked
indifferently:
"Who did you say the young lady was?"
"Oh, ho!" shouted Silas; "it didn't take you long. I knew you'd be
courtin' of me along with your questions. Now look here, John Hunter, you
can't go an' carry this schoolma'am off till this here term's finished. I
look fur Carter an' that new director over to-night, for a school meetin',
an' I'm blamed if I'm goin' t' have you cuttin' into our plans--no,
sirr-ee--she's t' be left free t' finish up this school, anyhow, if I help
'er get it."
"No danger! You get her the school; but how does she come to have that air
away out here? Does she come from some town near here?"
"Town nothin'! She was jest raised on these prairies, same as th' rest of
us. Ain't she a dandy! No, sir--'er father's a farmer--'bout as common as
any of us, an' she ain't had no different raisin'. She's different in
'erself somehow. Curious thing how one body'll have a thing an' another
won't, an' can't seem t' get it, even when he wants it an' tries. Now you
couldn't make nothin' but jest plain farmer out of me, no matter what you
done t' me."
"Do you think they'll give her the school?" John asked.
Silas's laugh made the young man uncomfortable. He had intended to avoid
the necessity for it, but had forgotten himself.
"There's Carter now," was all the reply the old man gave as he moved
toward the door, which he could dimly see now that he had been in the
darkness long enough for his eyes to become accustomed to it. The
splashing footsteps of a horse and the voice of a man cautioning it came
from toward the road.
"That you, Carter?" Silas called.
"Yes. This ground's fairly greasy to-night," answered the voice.
"Bring your horse in here; there's room under cover for it," was the
rejoinder.
They tied it in the darkness, feeling their way from strap to manger. "The
Farnshaw girl's here waitin' fur th' school."
"Glad of that," replied the newcomer. "I don't know her very well, but
they say she can handle youngsters. She's had some extry schoolin' too.
Don't know as that makes any difference in a summer term, but it's never
in th' way."
The young man slipped out of the stable, intending to get a word with the
new teacher before the others came to the house. The school was assured to
her with two members of the board in her favour, he reflected. Liza Ann
had gone to the other room, and finding the way clear he asked in a half
whisper:
"Did you lame your horse badly?" And when Elizabeth only nodded and looked
as if she hoped her hostess had not heard, John Hunter was filled with
joy. The mutuality of the reticence put them on the footing of good
fellowship. There was no further opportunity for conversation, as they
heard Silas and Carter on the step and a third party hail them from a
distance.
There was a moment's delay and when the door did at last open Elizabeth
Farnshaw gave a glad cry:
"Uncle Nate! Where in the world did you come from?"
She caught Nathan Hornby by the lapels of his wet overcoat and stood him
off from her, looking at him in such a transport of joy that they were the
centre of an admiring and curious group instantly.
While Nathan explained that they had only last month traded their wooded
eighty for a hundred and sixty acres of prairie land in this district, and
that it had been their plan to surprise her the next Sunday by driving
over to see her before she had heard that they were in that part of the
state, Elizabeth sat on the edge of the wood-box and still held to his
coat as if afraid the vision might vanish from her sight, and asked
questions twice as fast as the pleased old man could answer them, and
learned that Nathan had been appointed to fill out the unexpired term of
the moderator of the Chamberlain school district, with whom he had traded
for the land. The business of the evening was curtailed to give the pair a
chance to talk, and when the contract was signed, Elizabeth said that she
would go home with Nathan, and John Hunter thrust himself into the
felicitous arrangement by taking the young girl over in his farm wagon, it
being decided that Patsie's lameness made it best for her to remain housed
in Silas's barn for the night.
It was a mile and a half along soggy roads to Nathan Hornby's, and John
Hunter made as much of the time fortune had thrown at him as possible.
They sat under one umbrella, and found the distance short, and John told
her openly that he was glad she was to be in his neighbourhood.