"AGAINST HER INSTINCTS, AGAINST HER BETTER
JUDGMENT, AGAINST HER WILL"
Mrs. Hunter did not come to help, nor to call upon Elizabeth and Susan
Hornby, after the disaster, and Elizabeth was finally obliged to go to see
John's mother without any encouragement other than Luther's urging.
The day came at last when the call had to be made, and for the first time
Elizabeth came in contact with polite society which smiles and bows in
polite form without any especial regard for sincerity. There was not a
ripple of discontent on the surface at her future home. Mrs. Hunter might
never have heard of the girl's family difficulties. The girl might have
called the day before, so courteous and charming was the dignified
hospitality with which she was accepted. Elizabeth felt as if the most
painful possibility of her life had been safely put behind her. She had
been nervous and uncomfortable about this visit, and was correspondingly
sensitive to the perfect manner of her hostess, and carried away with her
a new problem to work upon: if John Hunter's mother, by her poise and
presence, made of his home a social unit of appearance and value, John
Hunter's wife must not fall below the grade of that home when she became
its mistress. She pondered long upon that subtle air of good breeding
which ignored real issues and smoothed communication by seeming not to
know disagreeable facts. Elizabeth decided that it was much more desirable
than the rugged honesty with which the primitive folk about them would
have humiliated themselves by explanation and apology. She would copy that
suavity of manner. Also, she resolved not to discuss grievances. They were
a bore and it was horribly countrified.
"I will not let myself think any more about it. I will be myself, and not
be affected by what the rest of the folks do, and I'll not let myself sit
and fumble with my buttons because some one else is going to think about
them. Mrs. Hunter's manners are beautiful. I'd just love her if I didn't
know I was going to have to live with her," she thought. Mrs. Hunter was a
fixture in Elizabeth's mental world, and her estimates were the standards
Elizabeth considered when she sewed alone or when Aunt Susan was silent.
The girl was both fascinated and repelled by them. Mrs. Hunter's bearing
was the subject of constant and delighted meditation, while the cold
carefulness of it was a terrorizing nightmare. The girl kept up a
conversation with Aunt Susan on the sewing, or a fire of mirth and jollity
with Nathan or Luther, with this undercurrent of thought always going on.
How was she to emulate that polish with so little experience in social
affairs she would ask herself one moment, and the next would be harassed
by the certainty that equal perfection in housekeeping and entertainment
would be expected of her. There was no escaping her fate. If she was to
learn these things, she must learn them of John's mother. There was no way
of acquiring them beforehand. Elizabeth faced her position squarely: she
decided to accept her teacher. At least Mrs. Hunter seemed willing to make
it easy for her.
When Elizabeth went home that night she spoke in glowing terms of Mrs.
Hunter's friendly reception, and praised the real merit of her
housekeeping, letting Luther see that she hoped to acquire it, and left
the little group around the supper table in great good humour because the
visit had been a success. She took Luther after the meal was over and went
to look for the eggs about the haystacks, talking all the while of John
Hunter's mother in the happiest manner she could assume. The visit to
John's home had made her a bit homesick for John himself. Luther's
presence had so completely filled the days since John's departure that she
had not been lonesome for him, but the house with which he was associated
had brought John back to the foreground of her consciousness with a rush,
and Luther saw that she was aglow with longing for the man she was to
marry. They did not walk as usual after the eggs were hunted, but went
back to the house, where Elizabeth excused herself and soon went to bed.
John was expected now at any time.
When John did arrive two days later he found a welcome awaiting him that
was all that the most exacting of men could have desired, a thing which
astonished him somewhat, for rumour had reached him as soon as he had come
into the home neighbourhood that the new Swede had cut him out. John came
to see Elizabeth with curiosity predominating in his mind, though there
was a distinct feeling of determination to master the situation if rumour
had been right.
Luther was not at the house when John Hunter arrived. Elizabeth's delight
over her lover's return was not a thing to be deceived about, but one
thing left its impress upon his mind: Elizabeth called this new man by his
given name and spoke of him as one speaks of an intimate. This was soon
dismissed from John's mind, however, for Elizabeth was all agog to learn
about the Mitchell County land which he said he had bought, and John
Hunter stretched his legs out comfortably in the mended rocker of Nathan
Hornby's little front room and talked enthusiastically of the pasture he
would have for surplus cattle when he had got the farm in running order.
No reference was made to Elizabeth's affairs with her family. John was
keenly appreciative of her joy in his presence, and the old relations were
renewed; in fact, the relations were on a better basis than they had been
for several days before John's absence. By a curious stroke of fate,
Luther was away from the house every time John Hunter called for over a
week. It whetted John's interest in the other man not to be able to see
him, and it added an element to the courtship which had threatened to
disappear. This other man on the scene made him apprehensive; he wanted
the centre of the stage for himself, and he became more ardent. Elizabeth
was courted with sweet manner, and all her wishes considered.
The summer was a happy one. Aside from a simple white dress to be married
in, and two calico dresses for house wear, Elizabeth put her own sewing
away and helped Aunt Susan repair her quilts and carpets which had
suffered badly in the cyclone. Two weeks had to be given up to the
plastering of the remodelled house, and all the furniture was revarnished
by their own hands. By the time all this was finished the girl felt a
personal possession in every article the house contained, and it had
indeed become a home to her. The home she had left was scarcely more than
a shadow in Elizabeth's mind. The work of remodelling and brightening up
Nathan's house was hastened because of the wedding, which they planned to
have take place there. Susan Hornby and Elizabeth had grown closer than
ever since the storm, when each had feared the loss of the other. They
worked and sewed together, skimping Nathan and Luther on the cooking till
the former threatened to turn cook in self-defence.
Mrs. Farnshaw had not come to help when the neighbours put up the
demolished house. The bridges had been out and no one had gone to warn her
that help was needed. When the news had arrived the omission had been
taken as an offence and no effort had been made to go at all. The last
week in September, however, Elizabeth's mother came to see her. The girl
was helping Susan Hornby put fresh straw under the rag carpet in the front
room. The straw was carefully spread and the carpet tacked along one side
of the room, and Elizabeth, hammer in hand, turned over from her knees to
a sitting position and surveyed her mother with a dull fear at her heart;
she knew what her mother's presence meant. Mrs. Farnshaw resented the new
carpet, she resented Susan Hornby, she resented the comradeship she felt
existed between her daughter and this alien woman who was no relation to
her by the ties of blood. Ignoring Aunt Susan's courteous attempts to make
her feel welcome, she drove straight to the object of her visit and
demanded that Elizabeth come home to be married.
"I'm going to be married right here, ma," Elizabeth replied, twisting the
hammer around in the other hand and filled with apprehension. She knew her
mother's tendency to hold fast to foolish demands.
Mrs. Farnshaw's ready handkerchief went up to her eyes at once.
"Now look a' here, Lizzie, I ain't got no other girl, an' it's a pretty
how-de-do if I can't have my only daughter married from my own house."
Elizabeth fidgeted about, laying her hammer down and picking up a straw
that had pushed its way through the loose rags of the carpet on which she
sat. After a time she turned her eyes to Aunt Susan with a mute call for
help. Susan Hornby was decidedly uncomfortable.
"I thought of course you'd come home to be married," Mrs. Farnshaw
continued.
"You know pa 'd raise a fuss as soon as I appeared," her daughter
replied.
Mrs. Farnshaw brightened. She was strong on argument. Elizabeth's silence
had disconcerted her, but if she would talk--well, Mrs. Farnshaw began to
have hopes.
"You've been away all summer," she sobbed, returning to her handkerchief.
Elizabeth kept her eyes on Aunt Susan's face and did not reply again.
There was another silence.
Mrs. Farnshaw began to be desperate.
"Folks has talked an' talked," she said, "an' I let 'em, because I thought
when you come home for th' weddin' it'd put a stop t' their tongues.
You've been down here, an' you don't know how hard it's been."
Elizabeth had listened in a distressed silence and studied Susan Hornby's
face for signs of assistance.
"I guess they haven't talked----" she began at length, and then stopped
short at something in Aunt Susan's eye which confirmed her mother's
words.
"Oh, yes, they have," her mother hastened to say. "They say you ain't got
no proper pride, an' they say you've got too stuck up t' live to home any
longer, now that you're goin' t' marry rich, an' they say I can't make
your things good enough for you t' be married in, an'----"
Mrs. Farnshaw had voiced her greatest grievance--her neighbours criticised
her. She broke into such real weeping that it was impossible not to be
moved by it.
Forgetting her policy of silence, Elizabeth argued and explained. Talking
to her mother, but keeping her eyes glued on Aunt Susan's, she went into
details about the difficulty at home.
"You know pa 'll find some excuse to strike me as soon as I get there,"
she concluded. She had a painful sense of weakness and inadequacy in the
presence of her mother's determination. Her own worries seemed so trivial
in the presence of her mother's sorrow.
"E won't, I tell you," Mrs. Farnshaw repeated for the twentieth time.
"E'll let you alone if you do th' right thing. We love our children--if
th' neighbours don't think so," she wailed.
As she talked, however, she kept a shrewd eye on her daughter and soon saw
that Elizabeth's eyes turned to those of Aunt Susan. It was not enough for
this Hornby woman to be neutral; Mrs. Farnshaw decided to enlist her.
"If you had a girl you'd want 'er t' be married in your own house, I
know," she said, leaning forward eagerly. "Suppose you only had th'
one----" She saw the quick tears gathering. "Did you ever have a little
girl?" she asked.
Susan Hornby's emotions mastered her. She made no attempt to reply.
"Then tell 'er t' come home for just two more days," she said quickly. "I
don't ask for no more than that. Just long enough to put an end t' this
talk. I don't never 'spect t' have 'er after that, but----"
She sprang to her feet and, crossing the room, dragged Elizabeth to her
feet also.
"I've got t' have you, Lizzie, an' that's all th' is about it!" They
looked at each other a long time. Elizabeth weakened.
What could the girl do? Against her instincts, against her better
judgment, against her will, she consented.
"See to it, then, that no new thing comes up to disgrace us," she said,
stepping back to avoid the compelling touch of the hand that clutched at
her sleeve, still looking across despairingly at Aunt Susan.
All help had been taken from that quarter. Bewildered, torn between her
comprehension of mother love and a real knowledge of this particular case,
Susan Hornby fumbled with the hem of her apron and did not look up.
Elizabeth, alone and without support, was easily victimized.
"I'll go," she said briefly.
* * * * *
So the peaceful summer ended for Elizabeth Farnshaw with her promise to go
home. She hated to go, but the phrasing of her mother's plea, "just two
more days," helped to sustain her. It had been a happy summer, two days
would not be long, and then would come John and the new home.
There had been many reasons for the happiness of Elizabeth's last weeks of
girlhood. The days had been full of pleasant work, and John had taken
regular and masterful possession of her evenings. He came always such a
picture of natty cleanliness and taste that it was a joy to be the object
of his wooing. When John had found that Elizabeth was not in love with
Luther, as she had been reported to be, but accorded the old grounds of
affection to him, he had spread himself comfortably in Luther's presence
and drawn him into conversation whenever it could be done. In addition to
a desire to set his well-polished boots in strong contrast against those
of busy, unobserving Luther, the only dressing of which was an occasional
soaking in oil to keep them from cracking, John Hunter had been half
forced to like honest, kindly Luther Hansen. Luther was not a man to
arouse antagonisms. He assumed his natural role with Elizabeth even before
her fiance and let the ground of their cordiality and friendship rest on
such sensible basis that they were accepted as a matter of course.
John Hunter had been restless and half angry when he had first come home
from Mitchell County--a thing he had not let Elizabeth see--but his
feelings had been soothed and delighted by the display of her preference
for him on his return. A new buggy had been purchased, and it was John
Hunter's pride.
Elizabeth was unconscious of any rivalry. The new buggy was a great
acquisition. It was the first to appear in that part of the country. She
felt favoured to have it at her service, but the crown of all her felicity
had been John Hunter's adoration, which had been poured at her feet
without stint. If she wished to go anywhere, she had but to mention it.
The relations of the early summer had been reestablished. He talked of the
new land, and of the cattle to be placed on it in two or three years, when
the calves he was buying would be grown. The lots in which he had held an
equity since his father's death had been sold before his mother's
departure from the old home, and twenty-five calves had been picked up
from the surrounding farmers with the money thus secured. Every evening
John drove to some farm to look for young cattle, and Elizabeth
accompanied him. Cash had been paid for the Western land, and at the end
of the summer most of the money that had been received from the estate had
been invested.
As they drove from farm to farm, discussing prices; sheds, feed, and the
wintering of stock, the girl's heart swelled with gratitude that her lines
had fallen in such well-provided places. The pinch of poverty was to be
lifted from her life.
More than the plenty, Elizabeth prized the peace which seemed to be
drifting in her direction.
Every day since John Hunter's return had been a happy day. John consulted
her judgment and her wishes, and it was done with that air of comradeship
which was the most sought-for thing in Elizabeth Farnshaw's life. All her
lonely days she had longed for it, and in all her girlish dreams it had
been the prime factor. She had obtained glimpses of it in Susan Hornby's
home, and now, she told herself joyfully, it was to be a permanent feature
of her future life.
With Mrs. Farnshaw's advent a series of unpleasant things began to
manifest. John was glad that the marriage was to take place in Elizabeth's
own home. Because of their engagement, he had heard little of the gossip
about her, but it had been enough to make him suspect more and wish her
well out of it. If now she would go home it would make the whole thing
look right and stop the reports.
John Hunter was distinctly a man of moods and reflected the conditions in
which he happened for the moment to find himself. When he came to see
Elizabeth the night after her mother had been to see her, he was pleased
that she was to go home the next day, but he instantly partook of the
discontent she showed. He took her to his mother's house for a short stay,
but both were heavy of spirits and John was actually depressed. Elizabeth
was almost abnormally sensitive to the attitude assumed toward her, and
had she been shrewd she would never have carried any doubts of her own
efficiency or judgment to her lover, but she was as open as a little
child. John left her at the little gate and drove away so promptly that
the girl's lip quivered as she turned in the dark to go to the house.
Elizabeth found Luther seated on the low doorstep. The shadow of the house
prevented her from seeing him till she was almost upon him.
"Of all things! I never thought of you being here," she exclaimed,
thinking of the kiss she had just received not three rods distant.
Luther laughed sheepishly.
"I hadn't intended t' see your good-nights," he said honestly, "but I'd
'a' made a worse mess of it by runnin' than I did by settin' still.
Anyhow, you're goin' t' be married in three days, an' it needn't make no
difference. I've been a thinkin' about you an' I waited up t' talk." He
made room on the step for her to sit beside him.
"Thinking about me?"
"Yes. Mrs. Hornby says your mother was here to-day. She's kind of worried
about it--you goin' home, I mean. I don't know about that--I hope It'll be
all right. Try an' make it right, Lizzie. Th' Hunters go a good deal on
looks."
Elizabeth was silent.
Luther felt it and interpreted her silence rightly.
"Is that something I'm not to talk about, Lizzie?" he asked.
The question hurt worse than the statement.
"I--I--don't know why you ask me such a thing, Luther," she faltered.
Luther arose. He was not to be offended, nor would he put away what he had
waited to say.
"I only wanted to say that--well, do what th' folks ask of you, Lizzie.
You're only home for a couple of days an'--an'"--after a long pause--"an'
it won't hurt nobody."
Elizabeth got up slowly.
"Good-night, Luther," she said.
She wanted to offer him her hand; she was sure she was hurting him, but
she could not talk to him on this point; the very truth of his suspicious
that the Hunter estimate of her might be affected by scandal made of it a
sore point. Elizabeth Farnshaw would be loyal to mutual relations, even
where Luther's feelings were concerned.
They met in the morning on perfectly friendly ground, but there was an
attitude of reserve which brooked no remark on her part. Luther departed
early for his own house, and John Hunter came before noon to take her to
her father's home. After all her simple possessions were in the wagon,
Elizabeth went back and threw herself into the arms of Aunt Susan, who was
crying miserably.
"Oh, Aunt Susan! I feel as if I had taken leave of you forever. I've--I've
been so happy in this house--till yesterday. Can I ever repay what you've
done for me?"
Susan Hornby gathered Elizabeth into her arms and sobbed more vehemently.
The silence was unbroken except by those sobs, and at last the girl, moved
out of herself, tried to comfort her, and said coaxingly:
"I'll live right near you. I'll see you every few days and--and I'll never
forget how good you've been to me. It's--it's too bad these last two days
had to be so--so different. I--I don't know what went wrong,
but--but"--she laughed desperately--"where have our good times gone to?
I'm going to be married to the man I love--and I'm going to live right
near you--and--what is the matter with us, anyway?"
Susan Hornby clung to the girl and could not cease crying, till at last
Elizabeth lifted her chin on one finger and with a corner of Aunt Susan's
own apron, wiped the tears from the contorted face.
"Now then, don't cry," she said, kissing her again and again.
"Keep the folks in a good humour, dear. The Hunters 'll feel awful if
anything more happens," Susan Hornby faltered, and then, to keep the girl
from, replying, and to avoid the surprise and pain in the young face,
pushed her gently but firmly toward the door and John Hunter, who was
waiting impatiently.