PHILOSOPHY OF ELIZABETH'S LIFE VOICED
"To-morrow," Elizabeth said, significantly, as John turned back to get
into the wagon after they had deposited the trunk in the house.
"To-morrow," John smiled back at her. It was a reluctant smile he gave
her, but the bid for affection in her young eyes was irresistible.
"He had to be nice," she thought as she walked back to the house; "it was
a good way."
A sudden thought came to her.
"Did you ask Luther to the wedding?" she asked of her mother as she
entered.
"No, I didn't. What do you want of that Swede?" Mrs. Farnshaw asked
petulantly. "I should think----"
What she thought was never recorded in words, for Elizabeth was out of the
house like a flash, calling to John Hunter as she ran down the road after
him. It was a surprised John who took her message.
"Yes, I'll tell him, but I don't see what you want of that Swede--he
always seems to cut such a figure in everything you do," John said
discontentedly.
"Well, just tell him that ma sends the invitation, will you?" was all
Elizabeth could say.
It was John's first contemptuous remark about Luther, and it disturbed
her. They were to live closer to Luther Hansen than any other neighbour
and it was essential that they be on friendly terms. She had hoped it
might be that John would appreciate the good things in Luther which even
his nationality could not spoil. Dear old Luther! In spite of the
observation she had seemed to resent the night before, Elizabeth loved
him--loved him all the more because she had been obliged to hurt him. It
suddenly occurred to her that John might not deliver her message. She put
the thought away from her instantly, saying aloud:
"He'd do anything he knew I wanted him to do," and then was struck with
the doubtful tone in which it was said.
"What did you say?" her mother asked, for Elizabeth had just entered the
door.
"Nothing. I hate this wedding!"
"Well, now, I like that, after all I've done to give you a good time," the
mother said angrily.
"No, ma; you mean to give yourself a good time. You make me come home when
I don't want to, and you ask people I hate to have, and then you leave out
the people I want most. It isn't my wedding. I'm going to stand up and be
married so as to get rid of it all, but John won't have the minister I
want, you won't have the people I want, I'm most sure pa 'll kick up some
kind of a row about it--and--and I was so happy till you came and made me
consent to it. What did you do it for?"
"Do it for? You ungrateful child! What did I do it for? I'll tell you,"
Mrs. Farnshaw's eyes hardened into momentary coals of fire. "I did it
because I don't like your whole goings on. Minister? Why don't you say
preacher, like the rest of your folks? It's that Hornby woman. She made
you talk of divorces----" At thought of all her supposed wrongs at the
hand of Susan Hornby Mrs. Farnshaw broke into a half scream and ended by
throwing herself into a chair by her daughter's side and clinging to her
hand with her upturned face streaming over with tears, her mouth convulsed
with pain till speech was impossible.
Moved to repentance at the sight of the pang she had caused, Elizabeth
fell on her knees by her mother's side, and with her arms encircling her,
cried contritely:
"I didn't mean it, ma, really--that is, I didn't mean it that way. Don't
mind what I said. I do love you."
Mrs. Farnshaw clung to her, so shaken by sobs that she still could not
speak, and the penitent daughter soothed and comforted her with her own
heart breaking at the thoughtlessness of her speech.
"Put it away and don't remember it; I didn't mean it. I'm tired to
death--and--and----" She pondered a moment and then made the experiment.
"And I want to speak of Aunt Susan to you. I can't bear to have you feel
so bad about me liking her. She hasn't put a single notion into my head.
Be good and get acquainted with her. She'd like to have you. If you knew
her you'd know how different she is from what you think. I'll take you to
see her the very first time you come to see me. Say you will."
Elizabeth stroked the thin hair back from the passion-worn face, and
waited for her reply.
Mrs. Farnshaw shook her head, but could not meet the offer squarely.
"The two of you'd be a wishin' you could get rid of me so's you could talk
your own kind of talk," she said with conviction. "'Taint any use, Lizzie;
I ain't your kind. Your pa 'd be madder at me 'n ever, too."
"Well, he's mad all the time, anyhow," Elizabeth said.
"No 'e wasn't till you said that awful thing--that is, 'e was mad often
enough, but not like 'e's been since. You don't know what you done t' your
mother then. Be good, an' go t' 'im, an' settle 'is mind 'fore you're
married. It don't matter if I know Miss Hornby 'r not; but what a
difference it'd make t' me if he only knowed I never put you up t' that
partin' business! Please do it fur me, Lizzie."
This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth had hoped to avoid the recurrence
of this issue. Knowing that she was keeping her mother in cruel suspense,
Elizabeth hesitated and by every sign showed her disinclination to discuss
the subject. What should she do? What _could_ she do? The tortured eyes of
her mother studied her with an intensity which she could not avoid. To
consent was to fail with her father, to refuse was to make matters much
worse with the mother she had just hurt. Luther had warned her to avoid
collisions with her family which were liable to cause gossip; Aunt Susan
had implored her to keep the folks in a good humour; her own instincts
were against the movement, but her feelings were pleading for the mother
who begged her to try once again to obtain reconciliation before she was
married. Ah! if this time would end it!
"Say you will," the mother begged with pathetic brevity.
"I'd do it in a minute if there were the least opportunity to succeed,
ma," Elizabeth said reluctantly, and not looking toward her. "If I do it
and fail, You'll be wanting me to go right on with it after I'm married,
and that I won't do for anybody." The sentence ended savagely.
Mrs. Farnshaw studied her daughter eagerly. She began to have hopes. Now,
if only she could get the right touch on her appeal.
"If You'll do it, an' be careful-like, Lizzie," she said compellingly, "if
You'll be careful-like this time, I'll never ask you again. I can't live
this way any longer. I won't never ask you again. Please," she insisted.
"Speak real soft an' nice-like. Please."
"But, ma, are you crazy? You told me--you told me that--oh dear, what's
the use to tell you what you said?" the girl cried, her judgment giving
its last caution a hearing.
What was the use indeed!
In the end Elizabeth consented--consented with kindliness of manner. Since
she was going to do it at all she would do it lovingly. She argued herself
into that mood before she agreed to the move. Her mother had a hard life;
on one who knew her doubted that fact. Neither would any one have doubted
that Mr. Farnshaw led a hard life also. Some devil of unrest demanded
excitement and disagreement.
"Keep the folks in a good humour," Luther had said.
Elizabeth had no support from any quarter. She could only consent.
"I'll do it, ma," she agreed. "I am going away to be happy. John and his
mother never have a word together that isn't pleasant."
"I hope so," Mrs. Farnshaw said with relief, "but men don't always treat
their wives like they do their mothers. It's something they get t' feel
about their wives that's th' trouble. Women think th' only way t' be good
wives's t' give up--an' men think so too. Women's most always afraid of
what th' men 'll think, an' th' men know it."
"Well, ma, come on! There's lots to do; let's get at it."
Elizabeth was in no mood to philosophize. She hated the coming conference
with her father to the utter exclusion of every other thought at that
moment, and had hardly heard what her mother had said.
"You'll never regret bein' good t' your old mother," Mrs. Farnshaw said,
rubbing her hand over the girl's glossy braids as Elizabeth turned away to
begin the work she had suggested. "My! it don't seem like six weeks since
I was your age--young an' startin' out--an' life looked good t' me, I kin
tell you. Now I ain't got nothin' t' be good t' me but you."
"I think I'll wash my hair before the sun gets low," Elizabeth said. "Then
I'll help you in here." She was disturbed about the promise she had given
and wanted to get away from her mother before she should say some unlucky
thing that would show it. She let her hair down and loosened it with a
toss of her head. It was a glittering garment which covered her from head
to knees in wavy strands which flew about her in lines of beauty as she
moved about getting her hot water and towels. Mrs. Farnshaw watched her
with an expression near real affection. She came over and ran her hands
through the rippling mass as the girl turned to go out of doors where she
could splash comfortably, and after she had gone passed her hands over her
own faded locks slowly.
"Lizzie's always had th' best of everything," she said, shaking her head
sadly. "I wisht she wasn't s' set against 'er pa. I'm goin' t' make 'er do
it all th' same."
The girl in the backyard pondered upon the same thing as she dried her
hair in the hot sun.
"I hate it," she thought, "but I'm going to do it just the best I know
how. Ma _didn't_ say it, nor agree with it, and I'm going to make it as
easy as I can for her before I go. Will we ever be like they are?" she
asked herself half seriously, and felt sure it could not be. "Ma has
always insisted on things and never lets pa nor the rest of us forget
anything or lay it down. I believe a woman can manage those things. Aunt
Susan does."
As Elizabeth started to the house, she noticed her father and the boys
coming from the cornfield with a wagon-load of snapped corn. Joe drove the
team and his father sat in the back with his feet dangling over the
end-gate. They were turning into the barnyard when she discovered them.
With her hair floating about her like a veil, she started at once for the
barn. She could not talk this out with her mother listening, and if she
did not do it now it would be forced upon her at supper, when her father
was certain to be in his worst mood. Mr. Farnshaw always came to the table
tired.
Seeing Elizabeth coming toward him, Mr. Farnshaw dropped from the wagon
and went to fill the swill pails. The hogs knew they were to be fed and
set up their usual noisy clamour. It was his purpose to divert their
attention till the boys could drive the wagon into the corral, hoping also
to leave his daughter where she could not approach him. Mr. Farnshaw
delighted in making people wait. With a pail in either hand he advanced to
the fence. The hogs left the gate and ran to meet him, upsetting the
trough as they came. Setting the pails down, he snatched up a peeled osage
stick, kept outside of the pen for that purpose, and belaboured angrily
the snouts sticking over the fence. The pigs were hungry and persistent.
By the time they were beaten into a respectable awe and had backed away
squealing, Mr. Farnshaw discovered his daughter at his elbow. He had
intended to ignore her; he turned red with rage. With a look of infinite
contempt, he stooped and picked up a pail.
"What a racket they do make," she remarked, smiling at him without
offence.
In spite of her smiling manner, Elizabeth was half sick with apprehension.
It was not a propitious time to approach him, but Mr. Farnshaw watched to
see that a propitious moment should not arrive when he was in one of his
sulking fits. Elizabeth had played that game with him before. With her
courage oozing away, and a feeling that there was no benefit in seeming
not to know what he was thinking about, she put her hand on his sleeve
saying:
"Don't be cross with me, pa. Really I _do_ want to be friends."
Mr. Farnshaw jerked his arm aside to avoid her touch and spilled half the
pail of swill on the ground. He lurched over to the other side to right
the pail; the bucket at his feet upset, pouring dishwater, milk, and
potato peelings over his heavy plow-shoes as it went. To avoid the onrush
of the greasy tide he sprang back, slipped in its oily overflow, and fell,
the pail he held pouring its contents over him as he went. His gray
whiskers, the bottom of his jersey, his very ears dripped swill as he
arose. It was disconcertingly funny, and the girl helped him to his feet,
laughing in spite of every effort to restrain herself.
To lose his temper was bad enough, but to be made ridiculous and be
laughed at at the same time was more than the man could endure. He was
insane with fury. There was such a look of malignity on his face as he
jerked away and turned to face her that the girl, suddenly sobered, dodged
and started to run. Her long hair trailed across his arm, and lost to
every consideration but that of satisfying his temper, he caught it as she
passed and swinging the osage stick to which he still clung, shouted:
"Damn you! This is th' kind of friends I'll be."
He struck with all his force, jerking her hair at the same time. Thrown
from her feet, the full weight of the girl's body came on her hair. It
hurt cruelly. She veered around on her knees and caught the now tangled
hair with both hands to ease the strain. He grabbed her by one arm and
rained blows on her thinly clad shoulders which hissed in tune with the
man's temper as they fell.
"I'll be friends with you!" he shrieked. "I'll send you t' that young
smartie with some marks on you that'll show 'im what kind of a wife he's
gettin'. You told your ma t' leave me! Maybe You'll be leavin' him next.
Tell 'im I said so, will you?"
Cut by the flexible withe, which left welts like ribbons on her young
shoulders, the girl was unable to endure more passively, and struggled to
free herself. The partially successful opposition infuriated the man. He
was not accustomed to defence. His fury knew no restraint. He rained the
blows harder than ever and the girl finally caught the whip itself.
Catching the limber end desperately, she jerked it sidewise;
unconsciously, she had deflected her father's hand so that it struck her
head just below the ear. It stretched her senseless at his feet.
Josiah Farnshaw was aghast. With a gulping cry of alarm and pity, he
stooped to lift his unconscious daughter. He had not intended to do so
brutal a thing.
"Now look what you've gone an' done!"
Mrs. Farnshaw had watched Elizabeth go to him with something of prayer in
her heart. She knew the girl's intention was to be square about the
apology and she had strained every nerve to watch the encounter. At the
first blow she had started to the scene of action.
"I think you might have----"
The man's relenting mood vanished. He dropped the limp body and rose to
his full height.
"You damned fool," he exclaimed, "if you hadn't set this a goin' an' kept
it a goin' this wouldn't 'a' happened. Of all th' blasted, impossible
things it's t' have a snivelling she-devil always at your elbow. Keep your
hands off of me!" he cried, shaking himself loose from the detaining hand
she had laid on his arm. "I'm goin' t' git."
The boys had arrived by that time. They carried the girl to the well and
bathed her face and hands with fresh water, while the head of the house
strode down the road toward the north. Elizabeth was not seriously injured
and recovered consciousness as soon as the water touched her. Mrs.
Farnshaw left the task of resuscitation to her sons and looked after her
rapidly disappearing husband with eyes that longed for reconciliation.
Reconciliation for one thing or another had been the most driving
inspiration her twenty years of married life had known; it was her most
potent incentive. Cowed and broken, fear bound her fast to his footsteps.
Not even the daughter struggling to her feet at her side could detract her
attention from his receding form.
Elizabeth stood balancing herself dizzily for a moment before she began
really to see or grasp what was going on around her; then the full value
of the mishap broke upon her. All that Luther and Aunt Susan had hinted at
had befallen her in spite of every effort to avoid it.
But not even the calamity which had befallen them could stop their busy
fingers. The preparations for the wedding feast were a merciful feature of
the rest of the evening. The guests had been invited and must be prepared
for. The hair that had been washed was braided, the mother's tears dried,
and every member of the family pressed into the service. The entire house
was cleaned and rearranged. Not till after midnight did the members of the
little group seek their beds. Mr. Farnshaw had not returned. They had even
forgotten him a large part of the time in the hurry. Elizabeth regarded
the half dozen bruises which her sleeves would not cover with alarm when
she was at last ready to climb her ladder. Joe covered them with a
liniment which he brought from the barn. As he set the dusty bottle on the
kitchen table after the anointing had been done, he remarked dryly:
"Wonder if you an' me 'll ever do that kind of thing t' our young ones?
Everybody's always said we was like the old man."
"Take that nasty smellin' bottle out of here, an' don't begin any talk
about your pa. Everybody get t' bed," Mrs. Farnshaw commanded.
Even the absence of her husband could not dim the interest of Mrs.
Farnshaw in the coming spectacle of her daughter's marriage. With the
capacity of a little child to suffer from unkindness or neglect, she
combined the same child-like capability to enjoy pageantry of any sort.
Benches for curious neighbours surrounded Mrs. Farnshaw's bed when she
retired, and unaccustomed things filled every nook of the usually
unattractive room. Evergreen boughs stared at her from the corner opposite
her bed; the bed was to be removed in the morning. It had been her own
romantic idea to have a bower for the bride and groom. She had been so
busy making that bower that she had forgotten her own troubles for an hour
and more, but she remembered them now and her interest died out. With a
quivering indrawn breath she turned out the light and dived into the huge
feather-bed, smothering her sobs by crushing her pillow against her face.
Elizabeth, upstairs, had her own disappointments to go over, and her
mother's sobbing coloured her ruminations. Her vision had been cleared. In
spite of youth, and of humiliation, she saw that the blow that had undone
her had been accidental. She saw what the encouragement of temper would
lead to. She saw the gradual growth and stimulation of that temper in the
daily contentions of her father and mother.
She rubbed her bruises and thought long on the troubles about her.
Accusations and defence, she decided, were at the root of them. They were
the universal topics of the conversations at home and among all the people
she had ever known except the Hornbys and the Chamberlains.
"Defence!" she said in a scornful whisper. "What does it matter _who_ is
wrong in anything? The only thing that matters is _what_ is wrong and to
find a way to make it come out better next time," and at last went to
sleep quite unaware that she had evolved a philosophy which rightly
applied would reorganize the world.