ERASING HER BLACKBOARD
John's attention centred about the new house and each day found him more
impatient to see it finished. The creature comforts of life were his main
ideals and he wanted to get settled. Sunday afternoon found him early at
Nathan's to consult with Elizabeth about the kitchen windows. Susan
Hornby's surprised recognition of his annoyance, when he was told that she
had gone home, added to the unpleasantness of the eight-mile drive. What
business had that woman studying him or his moods? he asked himself as he
drove away. He would not get out of the wagon when he reached Elizabeth's
home, though the sun was hot and Mrs. Farnshaw urged him to do so. He was
irritated, he did not know at what, but he was. He hurried Elizabeth away
without ceremony. As soon as they were beyond earshot he began to voice
his grievances. The point he discussed had nothing whatever to do with the
real ground for his irritability, but served as an outlet for his acrid
frame of mind.
"If you want to go anywhere, let me know it so that I can take you. I
can't have you running around the country in this fashion," he began.
Elizabeth, who had felt his manner, looked up in puzzled surprise. She
could see nothing in that to be fretted about. It was so good to see him,
to have him with her again after a night spent in her father's house, that
she was ready to concede any point her lover might raise, but this seemed
so trivial that she laughed a happy laugh as she answered caressingly:
"I have always walked whenever and wherever I chose around here. I like
it, dear."
"That don't make any difference; it ain't good for any woman to walk eight
miles at one time," John answered shortly.
Unable to see the reason for laying stress upon the danger in doing a
thing she had done for years without harm to herself, Elizabeth was
surprised into continuing the argument without at all caring whether she
ever walked again or not.
"I've walked that much a hundred times in my life, and I'll probably walk
it a hundred times more," she replied with a laugh.
"Not if you live with me," John Hunter announced, standing as solid as a
rock on the issue now that he had raised it.
"But why not?" the girl inquired, still but little concerned, and looking
her betrothed over with a girl's eye for correct combinations of collar,
tie, and driving gloves. Those gloves had been the chief objection
Elizabeth's brothers had been able to raise against the Eastern man, and
gave colour to the spiteful "dude" with which John Hunter was mentioned by
the envious.
"Why not?" John repeated after her. "Because it don't look well."
The ridiculous and inadequate reply drew the girl still deeper into the
discussion. She began to reason with him quite earnestly. She had always
walked a great deal; she loved it. Walking was jolly fun. Everybody knew
she was not as dependent upon being taken as the ordinary woman. When,
however, John would not give in and insisted that things were different
now that they were engaged, she ceased to say more.
"You see," he concluded, "people expect me to take you. They'll think
something's happened and that I don't want to. If I want to take my future
wife, she ought to be willing to be taken. I don't want you ever to walk
home again."
Elizabeth Farnshaw was young, the experiences of her night at home had
made her covet peace, she was unaware that she was being moulded, or that
her lover considered the Hunter ways, as such, especially desirable.
Willing to pay the price, rather enjoying the masterful way in which her
betrothed insisted upon serving her, reflecting that no one had ever been
willing to serve her at all, and feeling that it was a minor matter, she
gave up.
"All right! I like to walk, but if you look at it in that way I won't do
it again," she promised, and in the silence which followed stole a look
now and then at John Hunter, revelling in his well-groomed appearance. A
vision of her father's slatternly, one-suspendered shoulders, and
button-less sleeves flapping about his rough brown wrists, set against
this well-shirted gentleman produced sharp contrast and made of the future
a thing altogether desirable. The useless arguments between her parents
arose before her also; she resolved to argue less and love more. It was
something, she reflected, to know when to lay an argument down. Besides,
John wanted it. Leaning over, she rubbed her cheek softly against his
sleeve.
"I never thought I could be so happy." The words were whispered tenderly,
as she looked up into his face.
Could mortal man fail to appreciate the manner of the surrender? There was
nothing left to argue about; all had been granted. Elizabeth was learning,
as all women have had to do before her, that the man-creature loves to be
adored, that by cloaking her own desires, stroking his fur the right way,
giving it little pats of approval and admitting the pleasure conferred by
his presence, she could work a magic. John's arm dropped about her and she
gave herself up to the delights of being cuddled.
It was not possible for the inexperienced girl to measure the importance
of the freedom she had surrendered. Elizabeth desired to forget the
unpleasant things. Real issues were obscured for the girl by her desire to
escape from her father's house. In addition to that, Elizabeth had not yet
become analytical. Instead of meditating upon the manner or the
positiveness of her lover's commands, she took counsel with herself how to
make their lives different from her parents', and in her efforts to keep
her own attitude right forgot to see to it that there was a similar
attitude on the part of her future husband.
As they drove along with John's arm about her they ceased to talk, and
Elizabeth's thoughts drifted off to her affairs with her father and the
night just spent at home. Mr. Farnshaw had adopted the policy of
contemptuous silence toward her, and Elizabeth hoped devoutly that he
would continue in that frame of mind. Only so would she dare to spend at
home the weeks between the close of school and her marriage. She had
counted much upon spending those weeks with Aunt Susan, who daily became
dearer. She was not moved to tell Aunt Susan girlish secrets, but she was
understood and rightly valued in Susan Hornby's home; and now, during this
one of all the critical periods in her life the most important, Elizabeth
desired to be with her, but Mrs. Farnshaw demanded uncompromisingly that
her daughter come home at that time. There was no escaping Mrs. Farnshaw's
demands on her children, and, troubled and uncertain, Elizabeth pondered
and snuggled closer to the man who was to deliver her from them.
The pair drove to the new house before going to the Hornbys' for the rest
of the day. John ceased to be fretful, and by the time for leaving had
arrived, Elizabeth had forgotten that he had ever been so. That evening
Aunt Susan was told of the engagement, and having divined its arrival, she
was able to hide any misgivings she had about it. Besides, not having
anything upon which to fasten her objections to John Hunter, she was wise
enough to know that love must have its way, and when Elizabeth pictured
the life that awaited her, her lover's good points, and her satisfaction
rang out in a song of glad notes with no hint of apprehension, the older
woman tried to enter into the spirit of the hour.
Elizabeth was certain she could meet John Hunter's moods as the occasion
required. No doubts assailed her about the future life except where John's
mother was concerned. When Elizabeth got to that point in her reflections
she stopped short without speaking of the matter and announced her
intention of going to bed. Elizabeth Farnshaw loved John Hunter devotedly,
but his mother was another matter. There was a strong undercurrent of
anxiety whenever Mrs. Hunter had to be considered. The nearer the time
came for her arrival, the more the girl dreaded meeting her. Elizabeth was
loyal to John, however, and Susan Hornby was given no hint of that dread.
Mrs. Hunter came west the last week of school, and when John was so busy
getting her and her household goods settled that Elizabeth did not see him
the entire week, it was like a stab to the sensitive girl. Filled with a
natural sense of good-byes to all that she had known and loved in the
work, the impending changes in her life took on a troubled air when John
failed to come as usual and did not account for the delay. By some
psychological process Susan Hornby's misgivings began to be transferred to
Elizabeth's mind. Always as they sewed together Elizabeth was tempted to
talk about the subject, but something held her back. Often Susan Hornby,
who suspected her troubled state of mind, was moved to ask questions and
could not.
A week is a long time when anxiety governs the thoughts, and as Elizabeth
grew more lonely she crept into Aunt Susan's arms as well as into her
heart. It became her custom to creep up to the older woman after the lamps
were lighted and lay her head in her lap, while she would imprison one of
Aunt Susan's hands so as to be able to fondle it. The evidences of
affection became more and more a part of her thoughts now that the days
were slipping by without receiving those evidences from the one who had
educated her in them.
The last day of school arrived. John had told Elizabeth the week before
that he expected to take her and her trunk home, but not having seen him
nor had a word from him recently regarding the matter, a strange feeling
of disaster made the closing school exercises unreal and uninteresting.
After the children were gone, Elizabeth began the task of cleaning the
schoolroom and putting it in order. She set about the work slowly, making
it last as long as she could. School teaching had been pleasant work. It
had been the one free field of action life had ever granted her, the one
point where she had ever possessed herself and moved unquestioned. The
presence of John Hunter's mother in the community had made the teaching
seem a refuge to the young girl who was to live in the house with her.
Elizabeth had not understood that Mrs. Hunter was actually to live with
them till a short time before her arrival, and then had very nearly given
offence to her lover by an astonished exclamation of surprise. Perceiving
that she had done so she hastened to say that she would be very glad to
have his mother with them. As soon as Elizabeth had got away, and taken
time to think it out, she saw that she had lied. John also knew that it
was not exactly true, and was therefore more sensitive. It had been the
first point of real difference between them. There had been no discussion
of it. Elizabeth would have been glad to go to him and say that she wished
it, but she did not wish it and would not lie consciously. If it had to
be, she would make the best of it and make his mother as welcome as she
could, but with the instincts of all young things, the girl wanted to live
alone with her mate. The unnaturalness of having others thrust upon them
during that first year of married life jarred upon her, just as it has
jarred upon every bride who has been compelled to endure it since the
beginning of time. It made of the new home a workshop instead of a nest,
and took from the glamour of marriage. It made the girl cling to the
freedom of the country schoolhouse and fear the new life, where the
examples presented to her by those who had tried it were discouraging to
an observant onlooker. All this came up as she worked, and saddened the
day even more than before. As she put the broom away in the corner beside
the water pail, she noticed that the blackboard remained to be cleaned.
Taking an eraser she rubbed vigorously.
"It is a rat. Run, rat, run," begun as high as little arms could reach,
and straggling zigzagingly down toward the bottom, was the last to be
attacked. As her hand passed reluctantly over it she said aloud:
"I'm erasing my blackboard too. Pretty soon I won't be a girl any more.
Pretty soon----"
She checked herself, and putting away the eraser, packed the few
belongings in the drawer of the desk into a neat bundle to be carried
home. With the package under her arm and her little tin dinner pail
dangling from her wrist, Elizabeth fitted the key into the lock. As it
clicked under her fingers the thought came to her that she must turn it
over to the school board. The finality of it clutched her. Thrusting the
key back into the door, she was about to go into the little room again for
another look around, when Susan Hornby's voice at her elbow made her
start.
Aunt Susan saw the tears which had sprung into the young eyes at the
leave-taking and drew her down on the step.
"What is it?" she asked earnestly. "You ought to tell me if you are
worried."
The tears which had been gathering spilled themselves over cheek and
chin.
"Will I get like the rest of them, Aunt Susan?--never go anywhere, never
read anything, have nothing ahead but the same weary round over again
every day?" she queried, when she was able to command her voice.
Susan Hornby's face worked determinedly to control her own emotions for a
moment before she could speak.
Elizabeth continued: "I've been--I've been so happy this summer, Aunt
Susan, and--and I'm a little afraid of that other life. Don't think I
don't want to be married--I do," she felt bound to interpose. "It's
just--just that--well, you can see how it is; the married women around
here wear faded things, and--and their teeth get bad--and a man hardly
ever wants to take his wife anywhere. Look at Mrs. Carter, and Mrs. Crane,
and ma. Poor ma! She never gets to go anywhere she wants to."
The girlish questionings and fears broke down Susan Hornby's control and
she fell on Elizabeth's neck and sobbed openly as she said:
"I know, I know. I've thought of little else of late. My poor little ewe
lamb! My poor little ewe lamb!"
The ethics of Susan Hornby's generation did not permit of an outright
discussion of the marriage relation. She did not have the matter clear in
her own mind, but a sort of dull terror came over her whenever she thought
of Elizabeth becoming John Hunter's wife. She could hardly have told why.
She knew that somehow human beings missed the highest in the marriage
relation and that the undiscussed things of life had to do with the
failure; she knew also that her instincts regarding this marriage were
true, but she could sound no warning because her knowledge came from the
instincts and had no outward evidence of fact with which to support it. To
how large a degree did these warnings apply to all? Susan Hornby had
plenty of time to wonder and think, for Elizabeth cried softly to herself
without speaking further. The older woman's hand wandered over the glossy
braids in her lap, and her eyes wandered off toward the Carter homestead
while her mind struggled with the problems of the neighbourhood. Elizabeth
had put into words a thing she had herself observed. She saw the
irritability of men toward their wives; she saw women about them who
toiled earnestly, who bore children, and who denied themselves every sort
of pleasurable relation at the demand of husbands who never gave them a
look of comradery or good fellowship in return. Was it the weariness of
the struggle to live, or was it sex, or was it the evil domination of men?
This girl whose sunny hair she was caressing was to go under the merciless
hammer of the matrimonial auctioneer. What was to be her fate? Susan
Hornby saw that love had touched the highest in Elizabeth Farnshaw's
nature and that the girl yearned toward a high ideal of family life. She
had shown it in her girlish chatter as they had sewed together. Could she
attain to it? Susan Hornby thought of John Hunter and stiffened. She felt
that Elizabeth would yearn toward it all the days of her life with him and
never catch even a fleeting glimpse of it.
Elizabeth snuggled closer on the step and reached for the hand stroking
her head.
"It isn't the faded dresses, Aunt Susan; it's--it's the faded life I'm
afraid of," she whispered thickly.
Susan Hornby bent her head to catch the sobbing voice, and losing control
of her reserve, said abruptly: "I know it, I know all about it. If I
thought John Hunter'd let you set at home like----"
She knew while the words were still in her mouth that it was a mistake.
The girl shrank away and dropped the hand she had been fondling. There was
absolute silence for a moment, the older woman dumb, unable to go on,
unable to explain, unable to retract, or extricate herself in any way. The
discussion had promised so well at first that both had entered into it
with zest, and yet the moment it had become personal, loyalty had risen
between them and hushed their words and left them uncomfortable. The
silence became so intolerable that Elizabeth arose, and unable to look up
turned and fumbled with the lock on the schoolhouse door. Aunt Susan rose
also and waited, without speaking, for her to start home. Something hurt
on both sides. Neither blamed the other, but both were to look back to the
rough schoolhouse steps and the half-hearted discussion of man's
domination and woman's inability to defend herself against it.
Before supper was quite finished John came to take Elizabeth to meet his
mother. He was all bustle and activity; in fact, John Hunter was at his
best. He took possession of her in exactly the way to show how unnecessary
her fears had been. The reaction set in. John was fresh and clean of linen
and finger-nails and pleasing to the eye. Elizabeth's mood changed the
moment he presented himself on Nathan's doorstep. Every fear of the faded
life disappeared in his magical presence. John Hunter at least was not
faded. After all, Elizabeth had been a bit piqued and really wanted to
meet Mrs. Hunter. John whisked her off merrily and carried her to the home
which was to be theirs.
"Mother, this is Elizabeth Farnshaw, soon to be your daughter," was the
introduction he gave her when his mother met them at the door, and then
watched narrowly to see what sort of impression Elizabeth would make.
Mrs. Hunter kissed the girl gravely, and still retaining her hand stepped
back and looked at her curiously, but kindly.
"I am glad you are to be John's wife, dear," she said slowly. "I am sure
we shall like each other. We must--he is all I have, you know."
Elizabeth, who had felt herself on trial, was near tears, but her lover
saved her from that embarrassment when, feeling that the Hunter approval
was accorded, he stepped forward and put his arms about the two, kissing
first one and then the other.
"My mother and my wife-to-be must certainly like each other," he said.
They passed into the house, over which John and his mother conducted
Elizabeth, talking of its arrangement and furnishings. The girl had
supposed that she had a fairly definite idea of the appearance that house
would have, having overseen every feature of its building, but it was a
world of surprises she entered upon to-day. In her wildest dreams of what
they would do when they had become rich, as they had planned much to do,
this daughter of the Kansas prairies had never pictured such tasteful
home-making. Each bedroom had its bureau with bedstead to match, and the
one downstairs had ruffled pillow-shams.
"This is to be your own room," Mrs. Hunter whispered in Elizabeth's ear,
and the young girl stole a shy look at her lover, who was drumming on the
window and had not heard, and made no reply, but it gave her a sense of
possession in the new house which she had very nearly lost of late.
It was reserved for the new cook stove in the spotless kitchen to complete
the surprises of Elizabeth's new world. Elizabeth fingered the nickled
knobs, exclaimed over the reservoir for hot water at its back and the
warming closet below, and investigated all its secret places as if it had
been a toy. John Hunter gave his mother an approving nod behind the girl's
back, and the visit was a success. Elizabeth forgot that she was to share
the honours of the home with "Mother Hunter," as she had secretly called
her a few times, and in the end overstayed her time till the leave-taking
at Aunt Susan's had to be cut short, and they were late in arriving at her
father's house.
The day, which had had so many variations, however, like a piece of music,
was to return to the original theme before it closed. It had been a day of
forebodings and anxiety. Fate never permitted Elizabeth Farnshaw more than
a short snatch at happiness, and as John Hunter drove away after he had
helped her deposit her trunk in a dusty corner, the girl wanted to run
after him and implore him not to leave her at the mercy of the morrow.
As she gazed about the cheerless kitchen she noticed a muffled lump in the
middle of the table. The sponge for the Saturday's baking had been warmly
wrapped for the night. To-morrow would be bake day! Oh, joy! Elizabeth
resolved to insist upon kneading the dough the next morning, and before
starting up the ladder to the loft where she was to sleep she hunted
around in the kitchen safe for the cook book, wondering if by any chance
she could induce her mother to let her try her hand at baking a cake
also.
"Go to bed, in there!" growled a voice from the other room, and the girl
climbed to her pallet, on which dreams of cooking were to entertain her
waking as well as her sleeping hours.
Elizabeth's cooking schemes turned out rather better than she had
expected. There are some things common to all women, and Mrs. Farnshaw
entered into her daughter's desire to learn to cater to the appetite of
the man she was going to marry. She worked with the girl at the home-made
kitchen table, and as they worked she talked of many things which to her
mind were essential to preparations for marriage, of the dresses to be
made, of the new house, which was Mrs. Farnshaw's pride, and of John
Hunter himself. By some unlucky chance Elizabeth mentioned her father's
name. Mrs. Farnshaw had been waiting for an opportunity to speak of the
misunderstanding between her husband and their daughter. It is the
tendency of the weak to waste much time and energy in reconciliations, and
to Mrs. Farnshaw peace meant far more than principles. She gave little
thought to the rightness of her husband's demands, but bent every faculty
toward coaxing her family to accede to them. If he were angry, all must
move in cautious attempt to placate his temper, and if his feelings were
hurt no principle must be permitted to stand in the way of excuse and
explanation. She was rejoiced when Elizabeth mentioned her father's name
and forced upon her at once the necessity of asking pardon for the
luckless remark regarding separation which Mr. Farnshaw had overheard
three months before.
"But it isn't a particle of use, ma," Elizabeth replied when pushed to the
point of answering. "You know he'll hate me now, no matter what I ever do.
I've only got along peaceably this far by not talking to him of anything
at all. It's his way. Let it alone. I'm sorry I ever said it, but it can't
be helped."
"Yes, it can," Mrs. Farnshaw persisted. "Anyhow, he's your pa,
an'--an'--an' you owe it t' him. You owe it t' me too, t' make it right.
I'll never have a day of peace with him again if you don't. You'd no
business t' talk of partin' nohow! 'Taint decent, an'--an' it give him th'
feelin' that I was sidin' in with such talk."
Mrs. Farnshaw had been shrewd enough to save her strongest point till the
last. That was the lever by which she could pry Elizabeth loose from her
seated conviction that nothing could be done. Those sentiments had been
_Elizabeth's_, not her mother's. Something was due the mother who had been
compelled to share the blame for words as abhorrent to her as they were to
the irate husband who supposed she had instigated them. Elizabeth knew
that her mother would never have a day of peace with the man in any case,
but she knew from her own experience with him that a remark such as she
had made would be used to worry her mother and to stir even more bitter
accusations than usual. In her heart she knew that nothing she could say
would change her father's feelings or alter his belief about the matter,
but she did feel that her mother was justified from her own standpoint in
making the demand. As she stirred the cake dough and pondered, she glanced
across the table to the open door of her mother's scantily furnished
bedroom opposite. A vision of ruffled pillow-shams where she was soon to
sleep came to her in strong contrast. The memory of muffled sobs which she
had heard coming from that poverty-stricken couch in the corner opposite
the door was set over against the peaceful look of the room which was to
be hers. She was going away to be happy: why not do this thing her mother
asked before she went? Elizabeth knew that her attempt at reconciliation
would be fruitless, but she resolved to do the best she could to leave all
possible comfort to the mother whose portion was sorrow and bread eaten in
bitterness and disappointment. She thought it out slowly. After pondering
a long time, during which Mrs. Farnshaw studied her but did not speak,
Elizabeth delivered her promise.
"I'll do the best I can, ma. I don't believe It'll do any good, but it
isn't fair that you should suffer for a thing you hate as bad as he does.
Don't let's talk about it, and let me find my own time to do it.
I'll--I'll do my very best."
Pushing the cake-bowl away from her, she went around the table, and taking
her mother's face between her hands she stroked the thin hair away from
the wasted forehead, and kissed her with a tenderness which brought a
quiver to the unsatisfied lips.
"I'll do it as well as I possibly know how. I--I'm going away to be happy,
and--and I want you to be happy too."
It was easier to say than to do, for things went wrong about the barn, and
when supper time arrived Elizabeth decided to wait for a more propitious
time.
In spite of her determination to get the disagreeable task behind her as
soon as possible, Elizabeth could find no chance at the breakfast table
the next morning to broach the subject, though she tried several times.
Mrs. Farnshaw gave her warning looks, but it was clearly not the time.
When at last the family was ready for divine services and Mr. Farnshaw
drove up in front of the house with the lumber wagon, the mother gave
Elizabeth a little push toward the door, admonishing her to "be quick
about it. Now's your time."
Elizabeth went slowly out. Mr. Farnshaw had just jumped out of the wagon
and when he saw his daughter coming stooped quickly to examine the leather
shoe sole which served to protect the brake. The elaborate attempt to
ignore her presence made the hard duty still harder. She waited for him to
take cognizance of her presence, and to cover her confusion adjusted and
readjusted a strap on Patsie's harness, thankful for the presence of her
favourite.
"Let that harness alone!" her father commanded when he was at last
embarrassed by his prolonged inspection of the wagon-brake.
"All right, pa," Elizabeth replied, glad to have the silence broken in any
manner. "I--I came out to talk to you. If I--if I've done anything to
annoy you, ever, I want to ask your pardon. I--ma--I want to tell you that
John Hunter and I are to be married this fall, and--and I'd like to be the
kind of friends we ought to be before I go away."
The last sounded rather good to the girl and she stopped, encouraged, also
feeling that it was best to let well enough alone; but when she looked up
at him and encountered his look she shrank as if to avoid something aimed
at her.
The tyrant detests anything which cringes before him, and Josiah Farnshaw
was as much fired to anger by what he saw in his daughter's face as he
could have been by her defiance.
"Oh, I know you'd like to be friends!" he sneered with the fierce hatred
of a man caught in an evil act. "Now that you're goin' away you'd like t'
be on good terms with me, would you? How many cows would you like for your
peaceable intentions? What's th' price of your friendship, anyhow? Of
course you don't owe me anything! You're a lady! Now that you're goin' t'
set up housekeepin' you'd like t' be good friends. You'll get nothin' from
me; I'll let you know that right here and now. Go along with you; I don't
want nothin' from you, an' I don't propose t' give nothin' to you."
It was so coarse, so brutal, so untrue, that the girl met him once in his
life as he deserved.
"Keep your cows," she said in the low tones of concentrated bitterness. "I
don't want them, nor money from you. I don't owe you anything, either.
I've done more work and furnished you more money than ever I cost you
since the day I was born. I knew no one could explain anything to you. I
told ma so, but she's afraid for her life of you, and insisted. I've tried
to keep the peace with you, really, but no one ever has or ever will be
able to do that. I'll let you alone after this."
"You damned huzzy!" the now thoroughly aroused man exclaimed, lunging
forward to strike her with his open hand. He had only listened to her so
far because there had been something so compelling in the rush of her
words that he had been stupefied by astonishment into doing so.
Patsie, who was in line with the blow, reared and threw herself against
her mate, knowing what that tone of her master's voice indicated, and his
hands were so occupied for a few seconds in quieting the team that he
could not follow his daughter and administer the chastisement he wished.
"I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!" he cried, however, when he
saw her disappearing through the open door of the house.
"Now, and what have you done?" Mrs. Farnshaw demanded when the breathless
girl pushed rapidly past her at the inner door and faced about defiantly
in the middle of the kitchen.
"I don't want to hear another word about it, ever. I've done it about as
bad as I could, I guess, but I'll never take another whipping from him,
and you needn't expect it."
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," she moaned after the family had
gone, referring to the figurative speech, "She's afraid for her life of
you." That had been meant in a very different sense. The girl would have
given much to have unsaid it, to have given any sort of explanation.
It was not possible to explain anything to Josiah Farnshaw, and
remembering the threat to flog her as soon as he returned from meeting,
Elizabeth began to put up her hair and prepare for the departure which was
her only way of escape. Josiah Farnshaw never forgot a promise of that
sort.
"I'll go to Aunt Susan's," she resolved, and as soon as she could get her
dress changed and a few things thrown quickly into the trunk which she had
partially unpacked the day before, Elizabeth took her parasol and started
toward the south. John lived in that direction also, and would be on his
way to see her, for his mother had asked Elizabeth to spend the day with
her. She would ask John to come for her trunk and then have him take her
to Susan Hornby's house. Aunt Susan would welcome her with open arms. She
was covered with perspiration when she met her lover, who was hot and
uncomfortable also, and had been cursing every mile of the shadeless
Kansas road. John's relief was so great at meeting her a couple of miles
on the way that he did not inquire why she was there at that hour till she
was seated beside him.
"But your father can't do anything to you," he objected when she had
outlined her plan of going to Aunt Susan's to stay till the wedding.
"Everybody knows that you have left there and You'll have to explain
things and get into a scandal."
Without going into details, Elizabeth insisted that he drive on at once
and get her trunk before her father and the family should get home from
church.
John Hunter argued the matter.
"If you leave home," he said slowly, refusing to drive on, "people will
talk, and it isn't to be considered."
There was a pause. Should she explain the case fully? It could not be
done. John could not be made to understand. Elizabeth knew that even in
the primitive community in which she had been brought up a man would be
filled with disgust at the idea of striking a full-grown woman on any sort
of provocation, and that a man reared as John Hunter had been reared would
be alienated not only from her family but from her.
Caught like a rat in a trap, Elizabeth Farnshaw let her future husband
study her curiously, while she deliberated and cast about for some means
of getting his approval to her scheme without villifying her parents by
telling the whole truth.
"I'll be nearer you, and Aunt Susan's always glad to have me," she said
coaxingly.
It was a good bit of argument to put forth at that moment. The sun poured
his heat out upon them in scalding fierceness, and John Hunter had cursed
his luck every mile he had covered that morning. He had been accustomed to
reach her in fifteen minutes, and the suggestion that she go back to the
old place began to look more reasonable, yet he hesitated and was
reluctant to let a breath of gossip touch his future wife. Whether
Elizabeth were right or wrong did not enter into his calculations.
It looked as if his consent was not to be obtained. She could not go
back.
"I'm not going home, and that is all that there is about it," the girl
announced in desperation.
John still hung back.
When he did not reply and it became necessary for her to go into the
details she had been trying to avoid, it was done reluctantly and with as
little emphasis put upon the possibility of physical chastisement as could
be done and convince him at all. To Elizabeth's surprise John did not take
much notice of that element. It did not occur to her at that time that it
was a strange thing that her lover should fail to be stirred by the
probability of her receiving a blow. Elizabeth had never had consideration
shown her by any one but Susan Hornby and had not yet learned to expect
it. John struck the horses with the dangling lines he held and drove on
toward the waiting trunk. She watched him as he rode by her side moodily
thinking of the gossip threatened, and while it was not the mood she
wished him to entertain, it did not occur to her that it was anything but
a natural one. They rode without speaking until the house was reached.
"This'll have to be explained to mother," he remarked discontentedly as he
shoved the unoffending trunk into the back of the wagon. Elizabeth made no
reply. She had been thinking of that very thing.
VIII
CYCLONES
Susan Hornby asked no questions when Elizabeth and John presented
themselves at her door. Their embarrassed faces warned her. She gathered
Elizabeth into her arms for a brief hug, and then pushed her toward the
inside of the house, remaining behind to show John where to put the trunk.
When it had been set beside the kitchen door she dismissed him by saying:
"I won't ask you to stay for a bite of dinner, since your mother is alone,
Mr. Hunter."
"Well--er--that is--mother expected Elizabeth over there," John stammered,
looking toward the front room.
"Tell your mother Elizabeth will stay right here till she has rested up
from that headache," the woman replied with the tone of having settled the
matter.
Elizabeth, in the other room, noted that he did not argue about it and
heard him drive away with mixed feelings. When at last Aunt Susan's
questions were answered the girl in turn became questioner.
"Will she think--John's mother--that we're coarse and common?" she asked
when she had told as much as she could bring herself to tell of the
morning's altercation.
The look on the older woman's face was not a hopeful one, and the girl got
up restlessly from the trunk-top where she had dropped beside her. She
remembered the fear, half expressed, on the schoolhouse steps two days
before and drew within herself, sick with life.
"Can I put my trunk away?" she asked, to break the awkward silence she
felt coming.
"Yes," was the relieved answer, and each took a handle, carrying the light
piece of baggage to the bedroom. At the door Elizabeth stopped short. A
strange coat and vest were spread carelessly over the bed, and a razor
strop lay across the back of the little rocking chair.
"Oh, I forgot!" Susan Hornby exclaimed, sweeping the offending male attire
into her apron. "A young fellow stopped last night and asked to stay till
he could get a house built on that land west of Hunter's. You're going to
have a bachelor for a neighbour."
"Who?" Elizabeth asked, and then added, "What will he do for a room if I
take this one?"
"I don't know," Aunt Susan replied to the last clause of the question.
"The room is yours, anyhow. I'm so glad to have you back that I'd turn him
out if need be. Honestly, we could hardly eat Saturday. Nate was as bad as
I was. They've gone to Colebyville together to-day. I'm glad Nate's got
him--he's lonesome enough these days."
It was Elizabeth's turn to cheer up Aunt Susan, for she always fell into a
gloom when she mentioned Nathan. It took Elizabeth's mind from her own
affairs, and by the time the unpacking was finished the volatile spirits
of youth had asserted themselves. They took a walk toward evening, and
only returned in time to meet John Hunter, who had come to see his
betrothed about a trip he had decided suddenly to take to Mitchell County.
He had spoken of it to Elizabeth before, and had only waited to get his
mother established and a desirable hired man to run the place in his
absence. The man had come that day asking for work and giving good
references and John had decided to go at once.
In the excitement of preparation John seemed to have forgotten the
discomforts of the morning, and though he soon took his departure, he left
Elizabeth less unhappy than she had been. Nathan and the new man were
coming in the distance as John Hunter drove away, and the girl turned back
into the kitchen to help with the supper.
* * * * *
"Lizzie Farnshaw! And you are the Elizabeth these folk have been talkin'
about? Well, I'll be hornswoggled!"
Nathan and the new boarder had just come in.
"Is it really you, Luther?" Elizabeth asked, and there was no mistaking
the glad tones.
They looked each other over for changes; they sat beside each other at the
table, and Elizabeth asked questions and talked excitedly while he ate.
"Your hair is darker, and it's curly," she remarked, remembering the
tow-coloured locks cut square across the boyish, sunburned neck.
Luther Hansen's face crinkled into fine lines and his blue-gray eyes
laughed amusedly.
"Got darker as I got older, Lizzie, an' th' typhoid put them girl-twists
into th' ends of it. Bet you're a wishin' for it--all th' women folks do.
Wish you had it."
They went for a walk after supper and talked of many things. He was the
same Luther, grown older and even more companionable. Elizabeth learned
that both his parents had died, leaving the then seventeen-year-old boy a
piece of land heavily mortgaged, and with nothing but a broken down team
and a superannuated cow to raise the debt. By constant labour and
self-denial the boy had lifted the financial load, and then happening to
meet a man who owned this Kansas land had traded, with the hope that on
the cheaper land he could reach out faster and get a good increase on the
original price besides.
"I remembered th' kind of land it was about here, an' didn't need t' come
an' see it first," he said. "I was goin' t' hunt you up 'fore long,
anyhow. I never thought of these folks a knowin' you, though, after I got
here. Funny, ain't it? I'm right glad t' be back t' you," was his frank
confession.
And Elizabeth Farnshaw looked up happily into his face, meeting his eye
squarely and without embarrassment. It was as natural to have Luther, and
to have him say that he wanted to see her, as it would have been to listen
to the announcement from her brother.
"I'm so glad," she replied, "and I've so much to tell you that I hardly
know where to begin."
Luther laughed.
"Mrs. Hornby thought I'd be put out about that room, but I told 'er
nothin' like that'd bother me if it brought you t' th' house. I've been
sleepin' under th' wagon all th' way down from Minnesoty an' I can go
right on doin' it."
They did not go far, but wandered back and sat on Nathan's unpainted
doorstep while the stars came out, and Elizabeth forgot all about the
trials of the morning, and told him of her engagement to John Hunter.
"I'm going to live right next to your farm, Luther, and you must----"
Elizabeth Farnshaw had started to say that he must know John, and somehow
the words got suddenly tangled in her throat, and the sentence was
unfinished for the fraction of a moment and then ended differently from
what she had intended: "And I shall be so glad to have you for a
neighbour, and You'll marry--now who will you marry?"
Luther, who had begun to like this new Elizabeth even better than the girl
of six years ago, had his little turn in the dark shadow of Nathan's
overhanging roof at the mention of this love affair, but he swallowed the
bitter pill like a man. The renewed acquaintance had been begun on
friendly lines and through all the days which followed it was kept rigidly
on that ground. He was glad to have been told frankly and at once of John
Hunter's claims.
In spite of the fact that Elizabeth had stumbled and found herself unable
to suggest that John and Luther were to be friends, she talked to Luther
of her plans, her hopes of becoming a good housekeeper, her efforts at
cooking, and of the sewing she was engaged upon. He learned, in time, of
the disagreements with her father, and was not surprised, and with him she
took up the subject of the marital relations at home. Luther's experience
was more limited than Susan Hornby's, but he looked the matter of personal
relations squarely in the face and discussed them without reserve. There
was always something left to be finished between them, and night after
night they walked or sat together on the doorstep till late. Nathan looked
on disapprovingly, not understanding the bond between them, but Susan, who
heard the girl chatting happily about her coming marriage, saw that the
friendship was on safe ground and laughed away his fears.
Nathan had found his first friend since his Topeka experience, and was
unwilling to see him come to harm; also, while Nathan had come to love
Elizabeth almost as much as his own daughter, and to miss her when she was
away, he was uncomfortably aware that she prized a culture which he did
not possess, and was subject to fits of jealousy and distrust because of
it.
Days passed. Elizabeth could not induce herself to call on her future
mother-in-law. The surety that she was cheapened by reports of her home
affairs stung her consciousness and made it impossible to make the call
which she knew she would certainly give offence by omitting. This, too,
she talked over with Luther, and he advised her to go at once. Each day
she would promise, and each day she would make excuses to herself and him,
till at last the man's sober sense told him it must not be put off
longer.
One evening, after John had been gone two weeks, and Elizabeth explained
the fact of not having gone to see Mrs. Hunter because of the extreme
heat, Luther suggested that she go over to the "shanty" with him.
"I forgot my coat, and it looks as if it'd rain 'fore mornin'," he
remarked. "I kept th' harness on th' horses, so's t' drive over."
As Elizabeth expected, the visit to Mrs. Hunter was the first subject
broached after they started.
"You're goin' t' live in th' house with Mrs. Hunter, Lizzie"--Luther
always used the old-fashioned name--"an' you must be friends with 'er," he
cautioned.
"I know it, Luther. I'll go to-morrow, sure, no matter what happens," the
girl promised, her words coming so slowly that there was no mistaking her
reluctance. "I just can't bear to, but I will."
Luther considered at some length.
"She'll be lonesome, not knowin' anybody here," he said with almost equal
reluctance. "I--I want t' see you start in right. You've got t' live in
th' house with 'er."
The last clause of his argument was not exactly in line with the
impression he wished to produce; in fact, it was only a weak repetition of
what he had begun the argument with, but somehow, like Elizabeth, that was
the main fact in the case which absorbed his attention. He was
dissatisfied with it, but could think of no way to state it better; so to
turn the subject to something foreign to the hated topic, he remarked on a
hayfield they were passing.
"Them windrows ought t' 'a' been shocked up," he said, casting his eye up
at the northwest to measure the clouds. "Jimminy!" he exclaimed, slapping
the team with the lines. "I wonder if I've brought you out here t' get you
wet?"
He glanced apprehensively at Elizabeth's thin print dress as the startled
team jerked the old lumber wagon over the rough road, and half wished he
had not brought her with him, for the signs were ominous. The breeze,
which had been fitful when they had started, had died away altogether. Not
a breath of air was stirring; even the birds and crickets were silent.
The storm was gathering rapidly.
They rounded the corner, near his building place, on a full trot, and
plunged into the grove of cottonwoods which surrounded the "shanty," with
a consciousness that if they were to avoid a wetting, haste was
necessary.
The faded coat, which was the object of the journey, hung on the handle of
the windlass at the newly sunk well. The dried lumps of blue clay heaped
themselves about the new pine curb and the young man stumbled awkwardly
over the sunbaked clods as he reached for his coat. As he turned back
toward the wagon an exclamation of dismay escaped him. The storm had
gathered so rapidly that the boiling clouds could be plainly seen now
above the tops of the ragged trees which surrounded the place. Instead of
waiting to put the coat on, Luther flung it into the back of the wagon,
and, climbing hastily over the hub, turned the horses and drove them into
the open road. One glance after they were free from the grove was enough.
With a shout, he stood up, urging the horses into a gallop.
Boiling like smoke from the stack of a rapidly moving locomotive, the
storm bore down upon the level Kansas prairie. Not a sound was heard
except a dull roar from the north. Urging the horses to their utmost
efforts with voice and threatening gestures, Luther looked back at the
girl on the spring seat reassuringly.
"We're makin' good time, Lizzie," he shouted, "but I'm afraid You'll get
th' starch took out of that purty dress. I never thought of this when I
brought you."
Elizabeth, clinging to the backless spring seat with both hands, smiled
back at him. It was only a storm, and at best could only soak their
clothes and hair; but to Luther more than that was indicated.
As they rounded the corner and turned toward the north, a sudden puff of
wind jerked the shapeless straw hat from Luther's head and sent it
careening dizzily over the stubs of the hay field at the right. Hats cost
money, and Luther pulled up the galloping horses. Hardly waiting to see
whether Elizabeth caught the lines he flung to her, he sprang to the
ground and gave chase. The hat rolled flat side down against a windrow and
stuck, so that it looked as if it were to be captured, but before he
reached it the wind, which had now become a steady blow, caught it, and as
the only loose thing of its size to be found, played tag with its owner.
At last he turned back, gasping for breath and unable to lift his head
against the blast.
A fleeting glimpse of Elizabeth standing up in the wagon was all that he
got, for a blinding flash of lightning split the sky from north to south,
followed by a terrific crash of thunder. Half stunned, he fell into the
deep rut of an old road crossing the hayfield at right angles to his
course.
As he arose a moment later, a scene never to be forgotten met his gaze.
One of his horses lay motionless on the ground, the other was struggling
feebly to regain its feet, and Elizabeth was scrambling wildly out of the
wagon. Rushing to her side, Luther drew her away from the floundering
horse. A gust of rain struck them.
"Can you hold his head," Luther shouted in her ear, "while I get him out
of the harness?"
Elizabeth nodded, and together they caught the bit and laid the beast's
head flat on the ground, where the girl held it fast by main force while
Luther worked at the straps and buckles.
"At last!" he cried, when the name-strap gave way under his fingers. He
flung the neck-yoke over against the body of the dead horse, and stepped
back to free himself from the dangling lines.
Elizabeth let the horse's head loose and jumped back, still holding to the
halter-strap. The frightened animal bounded to its feet with a neigh of
alarm, dragging the girl out of Luther's reach just as a thunderous roar
and utter darkness enveloped them.
What happened, exactly, the man never knew. He picked himself up, half
senseless, some minutes later, covered with mud, and his clothing half
torn from his body. At first he could not recall where he was; then seeing
the dead horse in the road, and the upturned bed of the wagon itself, he
realized that they had been struck by a cyclone.
The darkness had whirled away with the retreating tornado, and a gray
light showed the demoralized wagon overturned by the roadside. The wagon
was in painful evidence, but Elizabeth? Where was Elizabeth? Looking
wildly about in all directions, Luther called her name:
"Lizzie! Lizzie! God in heaven! What has become of you?"
He remembered the fate of a girl in Marshall County which he had heard
discussed only last week. That child had been picked up by one of these
whirling devils and her neck broken against a tree!
With a wild cry, he turned and ran in the direction of the receding storm,
calling her name and looking frantically on both sides of the path where
the cyclone had licked the ground as clean as a swept floor. He could see
nothing at all of Elizabeth. Realizing at last that he was wasting his
efforts, and that some degree of composure would assist in the search,
Luther stopped and looked about him.
Outside the immediate path of the cyclone, which was cleared of every
movable thing, the hay was tossed and thrown about as if it had been
forked over the ground to dry itself from the wetting it had had. Hay
everywhere, but no living thing to be seen. Could it be that Elizabeth had
been carried completely away by the storm, or was she buried in the hay
somewhere?
Unresponsive as all nature to human emotions, the tumbled grass lay about
him, a picture of confusion and ruin. The futility of human effort was
borne in upon him as he scanned the waste. A pile larger than the
surrounding piles separated itself from the scattered heaps at last. He
regarded it eagerly. Yes! there was a flutter of wet calico.
Half rejoicing, half terrified at the prospect of what he might find,
Luther Hansen ran and flung himself down on his knees beside it, dragging
at the half-buried form of the girl in frantic haste. She was doubled
together and mixed with the hay as if, after being picked up with it, she
had been whirled with it many times and then contemptuously flung aside.
Drawing her out, Luther gathered her into his arms and listened to her
heart beat to make certain that she still lived.
Though limp and unconscious, Elizabeth Farnshaw was alive, and Luther drew
her up and leaned her loosely rolling head on his shoulder while he
considered what to do.
A sharp, peppering fall of hail struck them. Luther looked about quickly
for shelter. The Kansas prairie stretched level and bare before him. Not
even a bush presented itself. The size of the hailstones increased.
Elizabeth began to show signs of returning consciousness and to move
feebly.
The hailstones came down like a very avalanche of ice. It became necessary
to interpose his body between her and the storm. He thought of the coat
they had come to obtain, but that had probably gone with the hat and the
hay and all other things in the route of the hurricane. He stooped close
over her quivering form and let the frozen pellets fall on his unprotected
head. The deluge was mercifully short, but at the end Luther Hansen was
almost beaten into insensibility.
When the hailstorm was over the rain burst upon them with renewed fury,
and the wind blew as cold as a winter's gale. The chill stung them into
activity. Luther got slowly, to his feet, bracing himself against the
blast as he did so, and also pulled up the now conscious girl. Elizabeth's
strength had not returned and she fell back, dragging him to his knees at
her side. The rain ran off her hair and clothes in streams, and against
the storm her thin cotton dress was of no protection whatever. Luther
urged her to control her shaking limbs and try to walk. It could only be
accomplished by much effort. When at last she staggered to her feet, he
put his arm about her and with bent head turned to face the rain, which
cut like switches at their faces and cold shoulders, to which the wet
cotton garments clung like part of the very skin itself.
The wind blew a gale. It was almost impossible to make headway against it.
Had it not been for Elizabeth's chilled state Luther would have slipped
down in a wagon rut and waited for the squall to subside, but it was
essential that the girl be got under shelter of some sort At length, after
struggling and buffeting with the storm for what seemed an age,
alternately resting and then battling up the road toward home, they turned
the corner of the section from which the Hornby house could be seen.
Suddenly, Elizabeth gave a frightened scream. Luther, whose head had been
bowed against the wind, looked up with a start.
"Good God!" broke from his lips.
Only a twisted pile of debris was to be seen where that house had stood.
With the impulse to reach it instantly, they started on a run, hand in
hand, but the fierceness of the gale prevented them. Out of breath before
they had gone a dozen yards, there was nothing to do but stop and recover
breath and start again at a pace more in keeping with their powers.
Impatient and horrified, they struggled ahead, running at times,
stumbling, falling, but not giving up. Terrified by the thought of they
knew not what possible disaster ahead of them, they at last turned into
the little path leading to the ruined house.
Picking their way over scattered bits of household belongings, broken
boards and shingles, for some distance, they at last reached the main pile
of timbers. The girl's heart sank at the thought of what they might find
there, and she made a gesture of distress.
"This is no place for you, Lizzie," Luther said, quick to comprehend, and
sick with pity for her.
As he spoke, his foot sank between some timbers into a pile of wet cloth,
and thinking that it was a human form, he shuddered and fell forward to
avoid giving an injury the nature of which he could only guess.
They dug frantically at the pile, and were relieved to find that it was
only a ragged knot of rainsoaked carpet. It indicated, however, the
possibilities of the moment, and Luther ceased to urge the now frenzied
girl to leave him, and together they stumbled about in their search.
Darkness was falling rapidly, and they called first the name of Nathan,
and then of his wife, beside themselves because they could not find even a
trace of either to indicate their fate. Had the storm picked them up as it
had done Elizabeth and carried them out of the wreckage?
Luther stopped and shouted the thought into Elizabeth's ear. The wind
dropped for an instant, and they stood looking about the place as well as
the gloom would permit. The rain fell less noisily also. All at once they
heard their names called from somewhere toward the north. Turning, they
saw, what they had not noticed before, that the straw sheds and the
granary were untouched by the tornado.
"Here, Luther! Here, Lizzie!" came another call from the granary door.
Nathan Hornby, faintly seen, was shouting to them at the top of his voice.
A new dash of rain came, and the wind redoubled its fury as if vexed with
itself for having carelessly let the wayfarers get a glimpse of the
harbour where it would be unable to do them further harm. With a glad cry,
they ran toward the beckoning figure, and a second later Elizabeth was
lifted by Nathan and Luther into the open door of the bin-room, and
literally fell across the shifting grain into Aunt Susan's open arms,
sobbing and clinging to her as if fearing that the fierce winds would
snatch her away. The relief was almost too much for the girl.
"Aunt Susan! Aunt Susan! How could I live without you?" she sobbed.
Susan Hornby drew the horse blanket with which she was covered over the
shuddering child in her arms, and patted and soothed her, crying softly
for joy as she did so, for the fears of the last hour had been mutual. The
thought of her darling out in the storm, suffering she knew not what, had
unnerved Susan Hornby, and brought home to her as nothing else had ever
done a realization of the precious relation between them.
"My daughter! My daughter! My Katy's own self!" she repeated over and
over.
The reaction of fright and cold and wet brought on a chill which set
Elizabeth's teeth to chattering audibly. Aunt Susan was beside herself
with worry. Do what she would, the girl could not control herself. They
rubbed and worked with her for some minutes. Luther was alarmed and blamed
himself for having taken her out in threatening weather. Elizabeth
insisted that no harm had come to her except a wetting, but could not
convince the others till Nathan had a bright idea.
"Here! we'll scoop these warm oats over you. They're as warm as
toast--havin' th' blazin' sun on th' roof of this place all day."
The two men were alert for any signs of the old building toppling over
under the terrific pressure of the wind, and had kept pretty close to the
door; but they moved over in the direction of the two women, and using
their hands as shovels soon had them well covered with oats.
"There you are," Nathan shouted, when Susan had begged them to desist
because of the dust they were raising. "We'll set you folks a sproutin' if
heat an' moisture's got anything t' do with it," he continued.
He pulled some grain sacks out of the empty wheat bin and advised Luther
to wrap them around himself. "I'm some wet, myself," he announced, "but
I've got warm ragin' round here like a gopher. Now tell us how you folks
come t' get here in all this storm. What'd you do with th' horses?"
All this had been shouted at the top of his voice, for the wind rattled
and tore at the old building with the noise of a cannonade, as if
determined to wreck even this shelter. It was not possible to see one's
hand in the darkness, for when the door had been pulled shut after the
young couple, the last ray of light was shut out. Besides, night had
fallen now, and the darkness outside was no less dense.
Luther told in as few words as possible of the catastrophe which had
befallen them on the road.
"Why, Susan," Nathan exclaimed, "th' same twister struck them as struck
us! Now don't that beat you? Funny th' stables didn't go, too. That's th'
way with them things--they go along an' mow a patch a rod 'r two wide as
clean as a whistle, an' not touch a thing ten feet away. Lord man!" he
cried, turning toward Luther in the dark with a reminiscent giggle, "you
should 'a' seen us. Sue saw th' storm a-comin', an' she run out t' git th'
chickens in, an' nothin' 'd do 'er when she see th' way them clouds was a
actin' but I must come in, too. We didn't even milk! I never see anything
come on like it; we didn't hardly have time t' git th' winders shut till
we could hear it roarin'! Lord, you should 'a' heard it come! All at onct
it got dark, an' th' house begun t' rock; an' then it slid along on th'
ground, an' then it lifted clear up at th' northeast corner, an' we slid
down in a heap on th' other side along o' th' cupboards an' th' kitchen
table an' crocks we'd set out for th' milk we didn't get into 'em, an'
then th' house lit over on th' other corner an' went t' pieces like a
dry-goods box. That kitchen table was th' savin' of us! I don't know how
it got over us, but there it was with th' safe an' water-bench a holdin'
th' timbers off'n us." Nathan wound up his story in a lowered tone, and
there was silence for a moment as each went over his personal experience
in thought.
"Gittin' warm there, Elizabeth?" he asked after a time.
"A little," the girl answered, still shivering, but with less audible
chattering of her teeth.
"You'll be all right in half an hour," Nathan said with a relieved sigh.
"I think we'll put a little more of these oats over you for good luck," he
added.
They heaped the warm grain thick about her, and then, because it was hard
to converse with the noise of the roaring wind outside, gave up the
effort. The old granary had a good roof and did not leak; they grew less
frightened, and Elizabeth grew warm in Aunt Susan's arms and slept at
last. The rest lay long, listening to the angry blast, counting up their
losses and planning to reconstruct so as to fit the new circumstances. For
Luther another horse would be needed, while Nathan would have to build a
house and furnish it anew.
After the wind subsided the two men discussed in low tones the best way of
beginning on the morrow, and it was finally decided that Luther should go
out and appeal to the neighbours to gather together and assist in sorting
and saving such things as were worth it, and construct out of the broken
timbers a habitation which would shelter them till a better could be
erected. Fortunately, Luther had used none of the lumber of his last load,
and but little of the one he had bought before.
It was almost morning before they fell asleep, and the sun was shining
brightly before they awoke. As they emerged from the musty oats bin into
the fresh air, which had been purified by the wind and rain of the night
before, a curious sight met their eyes.
The house was indeed a wreck! Roof, side-walls, plaster, floor, and
furniture were mixed in one indistinguishable mass. The kitchen table
Nathan had mentioned stood as a centre-pole under a leaning pile of boards
and splintered scantlings, and had evidently done much to save the lives
of its owners when the roof fell. One end of the house lay, almost
uninjured, on the grass, the window panes unbroken and still in their
frames. Other windows had been hurled from the walls to which they
belonged and ground to powder. Half the roof had been deposited between
the road and the rest of the debris as carefully as if it had been lifted
by some gigantic machinery, and was unhurt, while the other side,
splintered and riddled, was jumbled together with joists, siding, and
kitchen chairs.
They spent but little time over the ruin of treasures, but after a hurried
breakfast, consisting of such eggs as they could find about the haystacks,
and coffee--rainsoaked, but still coffee, which was dug out of a stone jar
where it had fallen--the men went at once for help.
In spite of bridges washed out, and many hindrances, sympathetic farmers
began to gather within two hours after Luther had started out. The lumber
he had offered was brought and many willing hands began the erection of
the simple four-room house on the old foundation. The place was cleared,
furniture carried to one side, while broken timbers were carried to the
other and sorted, nails drawn, and every available stick laid in neat
piles ready for those who had brought saws and hammers for building.
Susan and Elizabeth sorted the soaked and muddy clothing, carpets, and
bedclothes, and Mrs. Chamberlain and other neighbour women, around a great
out-of-door fire near the well, washed and spread the clothes on the grass
to dry.
As if by magic, a house arose before night and, minus doors and windows,
but otherwise ready for occupancy, offered its shelter to the tired but
grateful family. Broken bedsteads had been mended and put in place,
feather-beds had been dried in the hot sun, straw ticks had been filled
with clean hay; broken chairs nailed or wired together occupied their old
places; the kitchen safe, with its doors replaced but shutting grudgingly,
was in its old corner, and the unplastered house had a look of homey
comfort in spite of the lack of some of its usual features.
Luther, who was a sort of carpenter, donated his services for several
days, and except for patches of new weather-boarding or shingles mixed
with the old there was little to indicate the path of a cyclone in the
country. Yes, there was a pile of splintered boards tossed roughly
together not far from the back door, and the usual fuel of corncobs was
below par.