"WIVES, SUBMIT YOURSELVES UNTO YOUR
HUSBANDS, AS UNTO THE LORD"
The day after the wedding was Friday, or "sweep day," as Mrs. Hunter
called it. Anxious to begin as she expected to hold out, and to form
regular habits in John's wife, Mrs. Hunter superintended the housecleaning
processes.
Elizabeth had had no idea that any one could put in so many hours with
broom and dust rag, but when it was done, looked about her with
housekeeperly delight in the orderly, well-kept rooms. As they had worked
that day the girl had been keenly observant of John's mother. She could
not tell whether John had told her of the trouble in her home or not. Mrs.
Hunter did not refer to it directly or indirectly, and this fact was the
subject of much thought. This faultless manner of dismissing unpleasant
things stood out in strong contrast to the endless and tiresome
discussions to which the girl was accustomed. Elizabeth wished she could
find time to run over to Uncle Nate's for a chat with Aunt Susan, but the
busy day absorbed her and there was no time to go anywhere; in fact, it
was time for John to come home from Colebyville, where he had gone to hunt
for a hired man before the cleaning was really finished. Glancing up at
the clock on the lambrequined shelf in the sitting room, the girl was
surprised to see that it was already four o'clock. The cleaning was
finished and she ran to the kitchen to put up the rag in her hand, and
then went hurriedly into her bedroom to comb her hair and get her dress
changed before John should come.
Absorbed in her dressing, Elizabeth did not hear her husband enter the
house until she heard him talking to his mother in the dining room. With
freshly combed hair and clean calico dress she ran with a glad little
bound to meet him.
John Hunter and his mother stopped short with their conversation when they
saw her and were plainly embarrassed.
The young wife became conscious that something was wrong and stopped in
the middle of the room, looking from one to the other in mute inquiry.
Mrs. Hunter turned and went back to the kitchen. John came toward his
wife.
"What is it, John? What has happened?" she asked in a whisper. There was a
sick look on John Hunter's face.
Elizabeth did not put her hand on him as was her usual way. The girl-wife
had an indistinct feeling that her husband and his mother were a
combination for the moment of which she was not a part.
"Enough has happened," the man said, passing her and going toward their
bedroom. "Come in here!"
He held the door open for her to enter, and she passed in and stood
waiting while he shut it behind them.
"What is it, John?" she queried, unable to wait longer.
"Your father has gone to Colebyville and got into a drunken row," was the
bald statement. "Everybody in the country knows about his fuss with you."
He did not offer to touch her, but walked over to the window and began to
drum on the window-pane with nervous fingers.
"Drunk! Row! My father was never drunk in his life!" was the astonished
exclamation with which Elizabeth Hunter met this unbelievable accusation.
"Well, he's been drunk enough to last the rest of his life this time, and
we're the laughing stock of this whole country."
John Hunter had gone to Colebyville that morning in the new buggy, rather
pleased to be the centre of observation and remark. He quite liked to
swagger before these country people whom he chose otherwise to ignore. He
was well dressed, his buggy was the admired of all admirers, and he was
newly married. Country gossip had some pleasing qualifications. When he
had arrived at Colebyville, however, John Hunter had found that country
people had little ways of their own for the edification of the
vainglorious, and that trim young men in buggies became infinitely more
interesting to the scorned when they could be associated with scandal. He
soon found that he was the object of much amused discussion and shortly it
became evident that they were quite willing that he should know that he
was the object of ridicule. Pretending friendship, one of them enlightened
him as to the exact circumstances which were amusing them, and then
sneaked back to his companions with a verbatim report of his surprised
exclamations. John Hunter did not enjoy being the victim of a trap laid by
those he had patronized. It had been a humiliating day, and John Hunter
always handed his misfortunes along. He poured his disgust over his wife
as if she alone were responsible for all he had suffered that day.
"What was the row with you about, anyway?" he inquired with evident
aversion to her presence.
Elizabeth had withered into a quivering semblance of the confident woman
who had run to meet him five minutes ago. Her knees shook under her with
collapse. She sat down on the edge of the bed and stammered her
explanations as if she had been a naughty child caught red-handed in some
act of which she was ashamed.
"It--oh, John! I only went to him to make up about--about other things.
We--we didn't have any fuss exactly. It--it was just the same old thing.
I--I begged ma not to make me go home. I told her what he would--I knew
he'd whip me, but she would have me go."
"Well, he couldn't whip you for nothing," John said, with brutal inquiry.
"What'd you fall out with him for? I never heard of such a thing as a girl
who was a woman grown that fell out with her father till he whipped her."
Exasperated and miserable, John bestowed blame in the only convenient
place he found.
The young wife buried her face in the counterpane and did not attempt to
reply, and after looking dully at her for a moment John Hunter went out
and left her to carry her burden of shame alone. The sound of the closing
door assured her that at least she could be alone in her tears, and the
humbled girl gave herself up to sobbing. Luther and Aunt Susan would never
be quite convinced that she had done her best to avoid trouble; she even
wondered herself if there might not have been some fault in the way she
had approached her father. As usual, Elizabeth was concerned with the
trouble of others. The whole dreadful thing passed before her with the
vividness of actual reproduction. John's mother knew this at any rate.
That was a sore point. They were in the kitchen talking it over now! With
the conviction of absolute certainty, Elizabeth buried her face in the
counterpane of her bridal couch and sobbed in desolate abandon.
After a time John came back again and looked into the room. Seeing her
distress, he went over slowly and lifted her to her feet with a stir of
pity.
"Don't cry," he said gloomily. "It can't be helped. Come on out to the
kitchen and help mother with the supper."
Elizabeth knew that at that moment he did not want to caress her, but her
hungry soul craved comfort beyond her power to control and she dug her
face into his breast and sobbed there unasked.
[Illustration: "THE YOUNG WIFE BURIED HER FACE IN THE COUNTERPANE
AND DID NOT ATTEMPT TO REPLY"]
John's arms closed about her in a relaxed sort of way, and patting her
head half-heartedly, he said again:
"Come on, dear. Mother's out there getting supper alone." He took his own
pocket handkerchief and wiped her tear-stained face and, after kissing
her, pushed her gently but firmly toward the kitchen.
Supper was not a cheerful meal. Elizabeth's voice was thick from crying
and she did not talk at all, while John and his mother could not discuss
the topic uppermost in their minds in her presence. The feeling that there
was a combination of which she was not a part grew upon the young wife,
and a longing for Aunt Susan grew with it.
"I'd like to go over to Uncle Nate's immediately after supper," she said.
"I'll do the dishes while you hitch up."
"Good Lord! I don't want to go over there to-night," was the reply. "I
wish you'd quit calling those people 'Aunt' and 'Uncle'."
Elizabeth's face blazed with colour as he got up and went into the sitting
room. The brutality of the answer was so evident to John's mother that she
followed him.
"You had better take Elizabeth to Mr. Hornby's, John. I don't think you
should speak to her in that way, either," she said in a low tone of
voice.
Elizabeth could not hear Mrs. Hunter's remarks, but John's reply was
audible enough.
"I'm not going over there to-night. I don't feel as if I ever wanted to go
anywhere again."
She also heard Mrs. Hunter's low "Sh!" and felt more than ever an alien.
When the dishes were finished Mrs. Hunter went upstairs. John followed
her.
"I will not be hurt, because I will not see hurt," Elizabeth told herself
as she slipped through the house to her own room. Because her lips
quivered as she said it, she busied herself in taking down her hair to
brush for the night. Her sleeves were tight and hindered, and she took off
her dress and folded it across the back of a chair carefully, and finished
braiding her hair in her petticoat.
John found her with her white arms uplifted as she combed the long
strands. Moved by her girlish beauty and freshness, he went over and put
his arms about her. The girl's mouth was full of hairpins, and she mumbled
something he did not understand. He kept his arms about her insistently,
and rubbed his chin on her smooth shoulder with a little laugh. She
struggled to free herself, but he held her teasingly, and finally
accepting the playful tussle as an apology, though she knew it was not an
adequate one, she gave up. She was resolved not to split hairs with her
husband over small matters; she would not nurse grievances.
As for John Hunter, he had not thought of apology,--or of the necessity of
one; he had been moved by the sight of the tempting figure of the woman he
possessed.
Elizabeth loved her husband and wished to believe that he loved her; she
was unwilling to begin her married life with any sort of whining or
suspicion, so she ended the matter by resting unresisting in his arms and
turning her young face up to be kissed.
The next morning Elizabeth washed the dishes alone, and Mrs. Hunter
followed John to the barn and later to the pasture, where he went to catch
a horse.
"Where are you going with a horse?" his mother asked as they passed
through the pasture gate.
"I have to go over to Chamberlain's to help with a small stack of hay he
put up in the field and wants to move, now that he's got the time. I told
him he'd better let me help him before the new hired man comes to begin
the husking; I'm going to need the team every day after that," John
replied.
"So you got a man, did you?" Mrs. Hunter said, catching hold of his arm to
keep him from outwalking her. "If you're going as far as Chamberlain's
you'd better take Elizabeth over to Mr. Hornby's while you're hitched up.
I'll get dinner. You hurt her feelings last night, and that'll be a good
way to make it right with her."
"Now look here, mother," John Hunter answered decidedly, "I'll do nothing
of the kind. With this story going around we'll stay at home where we
belong. Anyhow, the sooner she's cut away from these country jakes the
better for her, and I'll begin right here and now. I don't intend--never
have intended--to have these people tacked to my coat-tails every move I
make. If she's hurt, She'll simply have to get over it; besides, she
didn't stay mad long--you saw that for yourself. She's all right if she's
managed right."
It was true, Mrs. Hunter reflected. Elizabeth had not seemed to take much
offence, and was perfectly good-natured this morning. She did not intend
to interfere with the affairs of her son and his wife. Elizabeth seemed
submissive, and promised well. She hoped that this horrid gossip would die
down. That was a nasty thing to be mixed up with. Mr. Hunter had never had
anything like that happen to him before, and she was devoutly glad they
were away out here in Kansas where no one who had ever known them would
hear it. Elizabeth would be all the better as a wife if she did not start
out by running around too much. It did not occur to Mrs. Hunter, nor to
her son, that if the old acquaintances were to be taken away from
Elizabeth that in all justice she must be provided with new ones. In fact,
it did not occur to them at all that her opinions were of any value
whatever. Why should John explain his plans to her? Why, indeed?
As she went about her Saturday morning's work Elizabeth watched John and
his mother stroll down the path in the pasture, certain that she herself
was the subject of their conversation, and her eyes burned with unshed
tears. The intimacy between John and his mother seemed so much more firmly
established than the intimacy between John and herself that she was filled
with lonesomeness and a longing for Aunt Susan.
"To-morrow's Sunday and there'll be nothing to do. He'll have to take me
then. He was tired and upset by that horrid talk last night. Oh, why do I
have to be mixed up with things I can't help--and--and have him cross, and
everything?" She ended with a little shuddering cry, and buried her head
in the kitchen towel and gave up to the tears which, now that she was
alone, she could candidly shed. How she longed for Aunt Susan, and yet she
could not have talked to her of these things; but in spite of that she
wanted her.
* * * * *
"Will you go over to--to Mrs. Hornby's with us to-day?" she asked Mrs.
Hunter at the breakfast table the next morning.
"Why--yes--if you're going," Mrs. Hunter answered with a hesitant glance
at John.
The tone and the hesitancy struck Elizabeth. She looked at John as she had
seen the older woman do.
"Mother spoke yesterday of your going," John said quickly, "and I
said--well, I want to get some more cleaning done about that barn before
the man comes. There's plenty of time about that. Let them come here if
they want to see us."
"But I want to go," Elizabeth persisted. She had been accustomed to
dictating where John Hunter should take her. John himself had taught her
to do so.
"Well, there's plenty of time. I'm busy to-day, if it is Sunday," was all
that her husband thought it necessary to reply.
The hope that Aunt Susan would come to see her if she found that they were
not coming over helped Elizabeth to accept the brusque refusal better than
she otherwise would have done. John was cheerful and pleasant, and the
hurt that she had felt at first died away. He asked her to go to the barn
with him and was merry and full of small talk and chatter, such as lovers
appreciate, and the girl finally concluded that that must be his naturally
decided manner when suddenly approached on a subject to which he could not
consent. Elizabeth was aware that there was little consideration shown her
at such times, but was resolved not to find fault unless the question were
a vital one. Altogether it was a happy day. Gratitude was a large feature
of Elizabeth's make-up, and there was something about being in the
atmosphere of refinement and beauty which made her accept many little
evidences of inattentiveness on the part of her husband. As she helped
with the cooking, she was conscious of the difference between the kitchen
utensils of this and her own home; as she swept she contrasted the
red-and-green ingrain carpet of the sitting room with the worn and ugly
rag carpet of her mother's house; as she set the table she reflected that
no other house of that community boasted a dining room, and certainly no
other young wife could say she had napkins and a white tablecloth every
day in the week; and there was yet a larger item than these for which the
girl was thankful: no girl she had ever known had married so cultured a
man. Elizabeth looked across the table as she served the pie at dinner and
in spite of every snub was humbly thankful to be a part of that family.
Nor was she a mere snob and deserving of what she got in the way of ill
treatment because she submitted to it; Elizabeth was a young girl of
artistic temperament, craving beauty, and longing for the companionship of
those who talked in terms comprehensible to her at the same time that they
advanced her aesthetic education and possibilities. In proportion as she
valued this thing was she to pay her price.
The price Elizabeth was to pay came at strange and unexpected moments. The
hired man, when he appeared, proved to be Jake Ransom, now a man, and
ready to do a man's work in his simple station. Jake of course knew for
whom he was to work and came into the kitchen to his first meal with his
face wreathed in a sheepish grin.
"I'd better 'a' taken your advice an' gone t' th' high school," he said,
extending his calloused hand to shake. "Only I wouldn't 'a' been workin'
fur you."
He laughed his great hearty guffaw, partly in embarrassment and partly
because he really enjoyed the joke of the possibility of him being an
educated man. It was a cheap country pleasantry, and said with genuine
good-fellowship, but Mrs. Hunter, who heard it as she turned to the dining
room with the coffee pot in her hand, disapproved of the familiarity of
it. Mrs. Hunter had disapproved of the plate laid for Jake at the family
table and was out of sorts with the country life into which she had been
plunged.
After Jake had gone to bed upstairs--and that was another grievance of
Mrs. Hunter's, this having the hired man in the room next to her own--she
took up the matter of his position in her son's house seriously.
"All the hired help in the country eat at the table and are accorded the
privileges of any member of the family, mother," John replied to her
objections.
"You don't mean that You'll have to have them at your table day after
day--always?" his mother exclaimed. "You'll never have any home life at
all."
"As long as we farm, mother, we'll be in exactly that position," John
said, stirring the fire in the sitting-room stove, about which they were
gathered for the evening.
"But they eat so awfully much," Mrs. Hunter continued, "and they drink out
of their saucers, and suck their teeth till it makes one sick!" Then
happening to look across at Elizabeth she caught the flush on her young
face and stopped so short that all were embarrassed.
John got up suddenly and left the room and the house. The two women sat in
an uncomfortable silence for some minutes, and then the elder of them went
upstairs to bed, leaving the younger to her mortifying thoughts. Elizabeth
remembered the scorn of the young teacher in her own childhood for the
same offence and reflected that she had been unable to break her family of
similar habits. As far as she was concerned, however, the presence of the
hired man at her table was far less disturbing than that of her husband's
mother. Part of the time she was happy to learn from Mrs. Hunter, but more
of the time she was restless under her supervision.
The week had been an uncomfortable one in both tangible and intangible
ways. Elizabeth had often found John and his mother talking and have them
drop the conversation when she appeared. She had had many humiliating
hours over the disgrace she knew they were discussing. The fact had come
out that Mr. Farnshaw had returned to his home, but nothing beyond that.
Another week passed, and again John refused to take Elizabeth to see Aunt
Susan. This time he said that the team had worked all week, and that he
felt that the horses needed rest. A new team was added to the farm assets
and the next Sunday John said he was too tired himself to go away from
home. Never once did he say that he had any motive which extended beyond
the time at hand. Each Sunday the excuse fitted the circumstances of that
particular day, and he talked of going in a general way as if it were a
matter of course that they would go soon. It was clearly the duty of the
young couple to make the first visit, and as clearly Nathan Hornby and his
wife were waiting for them to do so. Elizabeth was puzzled by her
husband's refusal. At the end of a month she became alarmed for fear their
neglect would give offence to the dear couple who had sheltered her when
she was in need. It had not occurred to her to discredit John's reasons,
though she began to suspect that she had married the sort of man she had
heard much about--the husband who never wanted to go anywhere.
Early in December Mrs. Hunter was called East by the serious illness of a
sister in Illinois. The day she left a heavy snow fell. Elizabeth went out
into the still yard and let the white flakes fall on her uncovered head
with such a sense of freedom as she had never felt since her marriage.
"The house is mine," she whispered ecstatically; "the house is all mine,
and now I can go out of doors if I want to and not be criticised."
Elizabeth had been far more accustomed to barn life than the life of the
house. This was a thing that Mrs. Hunter could not understand. It was not
the correct thing for a woman to go about the barn where a hired man was
employed, even if her husband worked at his side, and Elizabeth's trips to
the cow stable and granaries had been discouraged. Jake Ransom had been
shrewd enough to see that his first joke in the Hunter house had been
unpleasant to the mother of his employer and had never trespassed upon the
grounds of familiarity again, but Elizabeth had been criticised until
willing to give up her trips to the scene of her husband's work. John
might be impatient, but Elizabeth loved him; his mother was patient but
critical, and Elizabeth did not love her; therefore the first feeling of
relief when the older woman had gone away included the delight of being
free to go where she wished--at his side. The barns were a source of great
interest to Elizabeth. The pride of the girl, accustomed to straw stables
and slatternly yards and unhoused machinery, in the well-kept barnyard of
her husband was natural and commendatory. John had order well developed in
his scheme of things. John's cribs did not stand open to the weather. Now
that Mrs. Hunter was away, Elizabeth spent most of the day going about the
place, looking into every bin, and making the acquaintance of each new
animal they possessed. Jake was helping Silas and it left the girl plenty
of time to explore. The amount of new stock struck her as surprising. Here
too she was glad. John was evidently going to be a man of large affairs.
Elizabeth had a sudden desire to run over and talk it over with Luther as
she had done when she drove out with her affianced husband to buy the
calves. She was surprised to see how the little bunch of calves had grown,
not only in size but in numbers. The thought of Luther carried her back,
as she stood looking over the calf yard, to the matter of visiting Aunt
Susan. Of late the feeling had grown strong upon her that Mrs. Hunter had
had something to do with John's reluctance to making this visit. The
calves ceased to interest her and she wandered slowly back to the house
thinking about it. There were so many phases of her domestic affairs to
consider: Aunt Susan's right to the evidences of her love and her
inability to show that love because of her husband's reluctance to take
her; Luther's evident offence, and the possibility that the wedding
invitation had not been extended to him by John, since he had never paid
them a neighbourly visit; the close alliance between John and his mother
and the brusqueness with which John disposed of any request of hers if he
did not choose of himself to do the thing she wanted--all called for
examination. Elizabeth shook the snow from her hair and cloak and built up
the fire, intending to sit down by it and think over her situation, but
John arrived in the middle of her preparations and supper had to be
hastily prepared, for the afternoon had gone and much of the regular
morning's work still remained to be done. With flying feet, Elizabeth
attacked the task of getting things in order, and it was a relief when
John, who had left the last chores to Jake, came in and helped her. They
had hardly ever been left alone in the house in all the three months they
had been married, and to Elizabeth it was working in fairyland to have
John make one side of a bed's clothes lie smooth while she pulled and
straightened at the other.
With Mrs. Hunter gone, John took up the task of drilling his young wife in
the Hunter ways. To Elizabeth he was a model husband. She contrasted her
father's stupid inability and unwillingness inside of his home with the
orderly and systematic way in which John Hunter helped her. John took part
in whatever household function was taking place in his presence. He wiped
the dishes if she washed them; if a carpet was to be swept he handled the
broom if he were there to do it, and he never went to the field without
filling the reservoir and water pail as well as the coal scuttle and cob
basket. He assumed the management of cooking and housework so subtly that
the unsophisticated girl saw only his helpfulness; in fact, he had only
helpfulness in mind. John had ideas of neatness and order which made of
housekeeping a never-ending process, but John himself laboured steadily
toward their accomplishment, and he was so successful in inspiring her
with those same ideals that her pride helped her over many a weary day's
cleaning. She entered into them week after week and became expert at
ironing, baking, and all the little offices of the domestic altar. All her
strength was given to her work each day, and for a time she succeeded
comfortably, but as the days shortened and the routine became more
exacting she longed for the out-of-door freedom in which she had been
raised.
Christmas passed, and still Elizabeth had entered no house except her own
since her marriage in October. This would not have disturbed her, for she
was not a girl who cared for visiting, if it had not been that Aunt Susan
was being neglected.
Mrs. Farnshaw came and did not fail to let Elizabeth know that the country
gossips were concerned with tales supposed to account for her secluded way
of living. Some said that she was too "stuck-up" to associate with her old
friends, while others said that John Hunter had married her to keep his
house, but that he was not proud of her and preferred to leave her at
home. Luther had completed his "shanty," and Elizabeth knew by the smoke
she could see rising from his chimney that he no longer lived with Aunt
Susan; also Elizabeth heard bits of gossip about him from Jake, who had
taken a great liking to Luther and often spent his evenings with him.
Luther Hansen had come to borrow a scoop shovel when he had shelled his
corn, but John had managed to accept it as a barnyard call and had not
invited him to the house, and after the scoop was returned Luther did not
come again. Elizabeth had days when she wanted his cheery presence and
sensible ways of looking at life, but she was almost glad he did not come;
she could not have explained her seclusion to him nor could she have
refused to explain. The girl's pride was cut to the quick.
January passed, and February. One afternoon in early March Elizabeth sat
at the dining-room window sewing and meditating sadly upon John's growing
irritability whenever she mentioned Aunt Susan. She was unable as yet to
force him to take her as she requested; neither had she been able to get
her own consent to going the first time to the house of this old friend
alone and have Aunt Susan's questioning eyes looking her over for
explanations. She was puzzled still, for John usually spoke of her friends
with respect, and there was nothing to indicate his reasons for opposition
except that he was simply averse to visiting on general principles, and
even then why should he so resolutely refuse to accommodate her when he
was so reasonable on all other subjects?
"I don't care, I'm going this week if he's ever so cross," she muttered.
Almost at the same instant she looked up and saw a bobsled coming into the
side lane.
"Aunt Susan's very self!" she cried, pushing away the little garment on
which she was sewing, and running to the door.
She met the muffled figure halfway down the path, called to Nathan to take
his team to the barn, where they would be out of the cutting wind, and
bundled Susan Hornby into the house with little shrieks of delight and
welcome.
Susan Hornby knew that she was wanted at the end of that five minutes.
"However could you know that I was wanting you so bad to-day?" Elizabeth
said finally, as she thrust her guest down into a rocking chair and then
went down on her knees to unfasten her overshoes.
"Land sakes! What are you trying to do--and you----" The sentence stopped
and the speaker looked embarrassed.
Elizabeth, still on her knees, looked up. A soft blush covered her face as
she gave a happy little laugh.
"Yes--it's true," she whispered. "Oh, Aunt Susan, I'm so happy!"
Outside, Nathan Hornby seized the opportunity to look around the barns.
"Good cattle sheds," he remarked to himself. "Good bunch of pigs, too. I
hope 'e ain't goin' into debt, as they say, but I swan, it looks like
it."
Nathan's survey of the barns had given the two women inside the house time
to talk over the affair so close to their hearts, and the little sitting
room had been turned into a temple by the presence of a young mother that
was to be and that older but childless mother who loved her as her own.
Elizabeth, still on her knees, laid her head in Aunt Susan's lap as of
old, and Susan Hornby, with every hurt buried, listened to her
confessions, with her free hand feeling its way over the thick braids as
she prayed earnestly in her heart that her beloved child would go through
the travail awaiting her without harm and not be left childless in her old
age.
When Nathan's heavy boot crunched on the snow-covered doorstep, Elizabeth
ran to meet him with the broom and a whole world's wealth of welcome in
voice and manner.
"I'm so glad you came to-day. I've been wanting Aunt Susan _so_ of late.
Isn't it a heavy snow for this late in the season?"
She rattled busily along to carry the impress of welcome, for the old man
had not responded to her as his wife had done.
"Well, now," said candid Nathan, "you don't exactly give one th'
impression of pinin' t' see folks when you never come over at all."
Elizabeth knew that though he regarded the broom with which he brushed at
his boots with extra attention, he was listening closely for her answer.
"There's John!" she cried, seeing her husband as he drove a bunch of
calves into the lane. She hastened to tell her guest that her husband had
been some miles to the west to attend a sale, and pretended to have
forgotten Nathan's awkward remark.
She was glad to see that John left Jake to turn the calves into the yards
and came to the house at once, with cordiality shining out of every line
of his face. He made Nathan Hornby so welcome that every sign of
displeasure faded from Nathan's countenance. He gave a hasty brush at his
boots and came in to shake hands with Susan Hornby. He stirred the fire
briskly, and remarked to Nathan:
"Ain't that a dandy bunch of calves? I had a chance to get them at that
Irishman's sale--I forget his name--oh, yes, Tim--Tim--you know? I ought
to know myself since I just signed a note to him. Averaged eighteen
dollars a head--forty-three of 'em. With corn at thirty cents, they'll
turn quick money."
The fire roared under his vigorous poking, and he applied himself to
putting more coal in the stove without looking up.
Elizabeth Hunter's face lost the happy expression with which she had been
regarding him as he welcomed the old couple and stirred the fire,
presumably for their benefit. He _had_ been glad to see them: they had
helped him over an awkward announcement. He had not told her he meant to
get these cattle, and he had let her think that he meant to take her
advice and not go into debt any more than he had already done.
John Hunter heard his wife's low exclamation of surprise. He was glad it
was over.
Susan Hornby heard it too and caught the sick look on her face, but though
she wondered about it she asked no questions, for Elizabeth Hunter was a
woman of reserve. Elizabeth Hunter had developed a power unknown to
Elizabeth Farnshaw.
"Got a good many sheds built a'ready, I see," was the next remark the girl
heard.
"Yes," John replied, still devoting himself to the fire. "I expected to
get the stock sooner--haven't used it all this year--but it's there for
next season. I've got about all the cattle I'll get now. I told Carter I'd
take seventeen head of his. He was going to put them up at his sale next
week, but I persuaded him to let me have them in a bunch. I'll get them
home to-morrow. Got 'em on 6 per cent. They'll grow into money every day
this summer--mostly two-year-olds. Don't you think so?"
"That's all owin'," Nathan replied slowly. "Cattle take a lot of cover,
an' you ain't usin' straw sheds."
"Oh, my sheds ain't cost so very much," John replied easily. "They're
substantial too. I don't think much of the straw-shed business. It'll do
for Hansen, now, that ain't got anything to put under cover, but when a
man's got anything----" John filled out the sentence with an expressive
gesture, and then before any one could speak said casually: "By the way, I
hear the Swede's going to be married to-morrow."
"Married?" Elizabeth Hunter exclaimed. Every word of the conversation had
been a stab, but to have Luther called a Swede was too much.
"Yes, dear," Aunt Susan said, laying a hand on her arm. "I meant to have
told you and I hadn't got to it yet. Nate and I are invited to the
wedding. It's Sadie Crane, you know."
Elizabeth fell into the nearest chair utterly limp. "Sadie Crane?" she
said over and over.
"I knew you'd hate to have it Sadie, but any woman could be glad to get a
man as good as Luther, and she's crazy over him. He'll make her a good
husband whether she makes a good wife or not. She'll have her own way a
good deal further than most wives."
John Hunter suspected that the latter was said for his benefit.
Nathan and Susan Hornby disagreed, as much as it was possible for them to
do, on the way home.
"You may say what you please, if she don't come it's because she don't
want to. You couldn't ask for a more rousin' welcome 'n _he_ give us,"
Nathan said as he watched the forefoot on the off horse to see whether it
was a cake of snow that made it limp or a more serious trouble.
"It wasn't any more rousing than hers was when I went in and--and look how
he spoke of Luther," Susan replied hesitatingly. She hardly dare point out
the weakness of John, however angry she was at him, for she had had
trouble enough to get Nathan to bring her at all.
"That's so," Nathan admitted. "They're a pair of snobs, anyhow. You think
she treats you all right, but you saw how she shied round th' subject when
I put it straight to 'er. I went because you wanted me to--but I ain't
sure----" Nathan Hornby ceased to speak before his sentence was finished.
Elizabeth's neglect had been another nail in the coffin of his friendly
trust. Susan had had hard work to persuade him to bring her to-day and had
hoped that some lucky circumstance would help to dispel his suspicions.
This had looked possible at first, but she saw that he still nursed his
grievances.
Susan had her suspicions also, but they were of John, not of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth had been as glad to see her as she had always been, whatever
there might have been that was unexplainable on the surface. Susan Hornby
knew with a knowledge that was unassailable that Elizabeth Hunter loved
her as much as Elizabeth Farnshaw had done.
"I don't care, I'm going again some day before long," she said; "she won't
be going out much now for a while."
"Well, now, look here," Nathan said, stubbornly sticking to a conviction
from which he was unable to get away. "You think Hunter keeps her from
coming. He give us more of a welcome 'n she did, a good sight."
Susan Hornby glanced around at her husband in astonishment. She had never
said that she thought Elizabeth was prevented by John from coming to see
them. Nathan had measured her better than she had realized.
"No-o, he didn't," she replied slowly. She resolved to speak frankly. "You
didn't see her when she took me into the house. Honestly, Nate, it was
better than a whole revival service to have that girl tell me of--of----"
"I didn't see that," Nathan interrupted, "I only know he _was_ glad t' see
us; you saw that for yourself."
"I was just going to say----" Susan considered a moment and then said
firmly: "He was glad to see us because there was something about those
cattle he hadn't told her. Didn't you see the look on her face?"
"That wouldn't make no difference with th' way he'd do by us. 'E was as
glad as could be, an' asked you t' come back 's if you'd been 'is mother.
It's some stuck-up notion of hers--this thing of them not visitin' their
neighbours."
Susan looked up at him indulgently.
"You won't refuse to be good friends with her--for my sake, Nate. She was
as glad to see me as a little child."
"Why don't she come t' see you then?" Nathan asked sternly, able only to
see the one point.
"I don't exactly know, Nate. I couldn't crowd her on that matter--she
looked so worried when I brought it up that I just let it go. I only
_know_ she wants to come."
They dropped the subject and rode along over the smooth road, too absorbed
in their own thoughts to get pleasure out of this last sleighride of the
season, both endeavoring to solve the problem from their own viewpoint,
Nathan full of distrust and suspicion, his wife too well versed in human
nature to doubt Elizabeth's honesty or believe that she was spoiled by a
fine home or an advanced social position. At last she spoke her
conclusions:
"There's something in her face I like better'n ever, but there's a worried
something there I don't like to see."
Nathan was sorry he had criticised Elizabeth. Sue loved the girl. Nathan
and Susan discussed, but never argued. If Susan remained of her first
opinion after talking a thing over, Nathan conceded within himself that
she had some good reason for her convictions even where he could not
agree.
"Sue 'll have t' see it for herself," he meditated. "I'd be glad t' see
'er right. We'll see how it turns out." But as he tried to get himself
into that frame of mind he remembered how many days had been spoiled for
his wife that winter because she longed for Elizabeth, and he
involuntarily muttered:
"Dirty little huzzy!" and ground his straggling teeth as he thought of
it.
* * * * *
After Nathan and Susan Hornby had turned into the main road, John walked
slowly back to the house.
"What'd I say that Mrs. Hornby didn't like?" he asked, as he entered the
kitchen where Elizabeth was preparing the supper which Nathan had declined
to stay and eat.
Elizabeth's brow was drawn into a puckered wrinkle. She followed her own
laborious thinking, unaware that her husband had spoken.
"What'd I say that riled Mrs. Hornby?" he repeated.
Elizabeth heard the question now and looked up. It was hard to answer. To
mention the tone in which he had spoken of Luther was useless she knew.
Her hesitancy annoyed her husband.
"Well, what's wrong?"
"Nothing--that is----" Elizabeth could not discuss it.
John Hunter resented her silence. He turned without speaking and picked up
the water pail quickly. John heaped coals of fire by performing household
duties.
Reflecting that he was going to be angry whether she talked out or not,
Elizabeth laid a detaining hand on his arm and spoke of what she felt she
could get his attention fixed upon.
"I was thinking of all that money we're going to have to pay some day,
John. I--I've tried before to make you understand me. Oh, John, dear,
don't you see--but then, no, of course you don't, you've never had the
experience of it. You see, dear, I've had it. It takes the heart out of
people. You never get rid of it after you get into it once. You just go
on, you get old and quarrelsome--and--and you never have any good times
because you're afraid of something--of the interest that's got to be met,
and things. Why won't you let me help you? You didn't tell me about these
last cattle, nor the Carter lot. Why----"
"Now look here, Elizabeth, a man can't run to the house and consult a
woman about every little thing he does, before he does it. I always tell
you when I can. I told you about this."
Irritability was John Hunter's strongest weapon.
"I don't want you to run to the house to tell me about every little thing
you do," the young wife explained patiently, "but these debts will not be
little things when they come to be paid off, dear. Really, you don't know
how they will sap you and me later on; they may even take the farm right
out from under our feet. There are so many things that can happen to
cattle--and interest _has_ to be paid. That's the awful part of it,
and----"
John fidgeted uneasily and did not look at her. He wanted to get away. He
had not come in to talk of this. Elizabeth held his sleeve and he had to
say something.
"I haven't failed to get what you need out of this money," he said at
last. "I can't have you shutting out opportunities for business. I'll
raise the interest. If I furnish the money I ought to be free to make a
living the best way I see how. What do you know about a man's business?"
Desiring only to convince him, which she could not do if he were
irritated, Elizabeth laid her paring knife on the kitchen table and put
her arm about her husband's neck coaxingly.
"Of course you get everything I need, dear; that isn't the trouble. I
don't want to shut out opportunities for business either, but I gave up my
education to help pay interest. I know how hard it is to raise. The calves
die, and the cows don't give milk enough to make up the difference. The
loss---- Oh, I know," she said putting her hand affectionately over his
mouth to still the objection he had started to offer. "You think beef
cattle will be different, but black-leg gets into a herd of beef cattle
just as readily as into the cows and calves, and frosted corn is a
liability Kansas farmers always have hanging over a crop. I'm not
complaining about the cattle that are paid for--it's those we'd have to
pay for that were dead. The money was yours and you had a right to spend
it as you chose, but the debts will be _ours_. The skimping and saving
will fall on me as much as on you, and skimping makes people mean and
penurious. Promise me you won't go into debt without telling me again."
"Forget it, little woman," John replied, patting her face and kissing it
many times. "I'll never do anything to disgrace you."
He had not replied to a single argument; he had not made a single promise.
Elizabeth submitted to his caresses with a sigh. It was useless. She could
not fall out with him for the sake of the child that was coming. She
resolved to accept what she could get and try to be patient.
"I'm glad you were so nice to Aunt Susan," she said, trying to get away
from the impossible and make as much as she could out of the possible.
"we'll go over Sunday. I'd begun to think you'd never do it. We'll take
them by surprise."
John Hunter laughed indulgently. "You think you got me that time," he
said, and escaped to the well without further remark.
Elizabeth looked after him, and pondered, with a quivering lip, on the
wilfulness of the refusal to promise. She had been so sure that she was
escaping the hell of mortgages and interest when she married. The farm was
already carrying every cent the loan companies would give on first papers.
If anything should happen to the stock they would have to put a second
mortgage on part of it. John was determined to work on a large scale. She
had tried many times to show him how hard it would be to raise large
incumbrances, but whenever she did so he became fretful and for days
spoiled the home comfort for which she strove. Elizabeth tried to model
their home life after that of Aunt Susan, and leave her husband free to
use his own judgment, but this matter of indebtedness was alarming. She
knew how slowly money came in on the farm and how impossible it was to
raise a mortgage once it was plastered over a piece of land. Already she
saw the day of payments, note-renewals, and chattel mortgages staring them
in the face. Elizabeth's pride had suffered a fall. She saw the weary
years stretch ahead of them without joy and without hope other than that
which those about them had, unless some special providence assisted them
to avoid the common lot of farmers. As she went about her table-setting,
however, the quality of the linen, of the dishes, of every object in the
room differed from anything she had ever known, and the hope of youth came
to her aid. This home should be different from the rest; she would make it
so by patience as well as by its possessions. The black-leg was not an
immediate danger, and she would look for the best.
* * * * *
Winter passed, and spring. The patience Elizabeth had vowed to command had
been tried to the utmost in some particulars. John had never taken her to
see Aunt Susan. Sometimes he said "wait till next week," sometimes he said
he was tired, more often he retired into his accustomed irritability, and
at last because of the evidences of her pregnant state she ceased to
desire it. The winter had not been totally unpleasant. If she did not
irritate her husband they were very happy together. John had pleasant
little ways about the house and was as helpful as the most exacting woman
could demand. The spring had been harder because Elizabeth had less
strength and the house and garden work had increased. It took three hired
men to keep the farm work done, and there were many mouths to fill.
One particularly hot day in June John unloaded on the kitchen table an
armful of groceries he had just brought from town, remarking as he did
so:
"I brought home some dried blackberries for pies, Elizabeth."
Hepsie Brown, the lately acquired hired girl, stood at Elizabeth's elbow,
and began to put the parcels away in the cupboard.
Elizabeth took a couple of letters he was handing her and went into the
sitting room to read them. John followed her in.
"Be sure you make the pies," he said with an emphasis which showed he
meant to have it remembered.
"All right, dear."
"You'd better cook the fruit to-night," he added.
"All right. I'll tell Hepsie."
"Better do it yourself," he cautioned.
"She can do it. I'll tell her," Elizabeth said without looking up, but she
knew that that would not end the discussion the moment it was out of her
mouth. She recognized John's most unpleasant insisting mood.
"Mother always tends to her own pie-baking. Girls never get things right,"
he said emphatically, waiting for her to raise her eyes to his.
"Yes, yes, dear," the girl answered, looking up as he required. "She can
do it just as well as I can; it don't hurt her to stand on her feet."
She had given the sign of submission and he was ready to be pleasant about
it, but he reiterated the demand.
"I know, dear," he said, kissing her, "but I can't bear to have things
coming on the table not right when we have men about. It don't take long
to make a few pies."
Elizabeth rose wearily, put the letters down and went to the kitchen. Her
face was drawn and there was a fagged, weary droop to the shoulders. John
demanded that the house and cooking be kept up to the city standard,
forgetting that there was a garden to keep in order also, besides little
chickens to feed and butter to be made. If Elizabeth had said she were
sick and had gone to bed, John would have had the doctor come to see her
twice as often as necessary, and would have exhausted the little town of
Colebyville to supply such things as she could eat, but it never occurred
to John Hunter that as long as his wife was able to go about the house
that she might know what she should do much better than he.
Elizabeth was unable to defend herself. She coveted peace, and she could
not have peace unless she responded to John's suggestions. Also, at this
time Elizabeth was determined that she would not be cross. The coming
child absorbed her mind as much as it absorbed her body. She would not let
one hour of discord or inharmony affect its life. Elizabeth had no idea
how to manage her husband so as to get him even to listen to her side of
an argument. The girl was worn out by useless things which she could not
avoid doing.
Elizabeth was extremely nervous at this period of her life. John went to
bed full of healthy fatigue and slept soundly till morning, and knew
nothing of mental and physical strains which left his wife more tired in
the morning than when she went to bed at night. Elizabeth had been a
strong girl, but she was supporting the life of another; she tossed and
moaned through the two or three short hours in which she could sleep, and
for the rest lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness, filled with terror
at what the rapidly approaching future held for her. In her girlish
imaginings and fears, ignorant of the facts a young mother should have
known, she had magnified the sufferings of childbirth till life was a
network of horrors, and her nerves were at the breaking point.
The next morning Elizabeth, with aching back and trembling knees, her face
flushed from the heat of the stove, stood at the kitchen table rolling out
the pie crust. A tear rolled down her cheek. Hepsie, who stood near and
was regarding her sympathetically, laid firm hold on the rolling-pin.
"I knew you'd no business t' do it. Now you go in an' set down in th'
rockin' chair while I finish this here batch of pies."
Hepsie was older than Elizabeth and making pies had been her business; the
crust was mixed and the fruit had been cooked the night before. Reflecting
that not much could happen to a pie after getting that far on the road to
perfection, Elizabeth let the rolling-pin be taken from her hand and went
in wearily to throw herself on the lounge to rest.
John came into the kitchen and his face darkened.
"Tell Mrs. Hunter that I look for Hansen to help with the grain to-day,
and that I told him to bring his wife with him," he said to Hepsie, and
went out, banging the door after him.
Elizabeth had heard him come in and had risen to explain, but stopped
short when she heard that Luther had been asked to help. Her first feeling
was of a joy which brought the tears to her eyes. John had been
persistently cool whenever Luther had been mentioned since their marriage.
The next feeling of which she was conscious was an intense distaste to
having Sadie in the house with her all day, and this was followed by the
thought that John had known that Luther and Sadie were coming since the
day before and had said nothing about it to her; but small time was given
her to think about any phase of the matter, for Luther's familiar,
unpainted wagon was at that very moment coming into the side lane. With a
conviction that she had not been told till it was absolutely necessary,
Elizabeth walked promptly out to meet her young neighbours.
It was the old Luther which greeted her.
"You know my wife, Lizzie," he said with such a happy look in Sadie's
direction that Elizabeth's heart responded to the call for open
friendship. Luther never nursed suspicion.
"I should just say I did," Elizabeth replied warmly, extending her hand to
the little woman Luther was setting on her feet. Luther climbed promptly
into the high seat from which he had just lifted his wife and held his own
hand down to Elizabeth from there.
"It was mighty fine for you to send word for her t' come along."
And Elizabeth did not let him gather from any hint of expression or word
that so far from sending word for Sadie to spend the day with her, she had
not known till in these last ten minutes that either of them was expected.
John came and talked to Luther, mounting the spring-seat at his side to
ride to the field, but did not look at Elizabeth, though she looked at him
longingly and everything in her cried out for reconciliation and openness.
John had a way of ignoring her when explanations had to be made.
Luther's attitude toward his wife had influenced Elizabeth in Sadie's
favour as nothing else had ever been able to do. She began to feel less
hostile, and as they turned toward the house asked her interestedly how
she was "coming on" with her garden and chickens. This was common ground,
and Sadie warmed to the real welcome she was accorded. She stopped beside
Elizabeth's coops in the backyard and examined the little groups of
begging, downy balls with the animation of a true farmer's wife. Here was
something she knew as well as Elizabeth; in fact, when a count was made it
was discovered that Sadie's broods several times outnumbered those of the
neighbour she envied. It was an absorbing topic of conversation, and the
two women stood for some moments with the hungry little beggars clamouring
lustily about them. Suddenly they became conscious of the smell of burning
sugar.
"Oh, my goodness!" Elizabeth exclaimed, and ran to the kitchen, leaving
her guest to follow as she chose.
Hepsie had gone upstairs, and as Elizabeth opened the oven door a cloud of
smoke rolled out which nearly blinded her and set her to coughing.
Sadie followed her in and somehow her mood changed as she looked over the
well-kept kitchen. Something in the tidy order and tasty arrangement of
its shelves hurt. Sadie was not a natural housekeeper.
"Bet she just thinks she beat us all," she thought as she laid her bonnet
on the sitting-room sofa, where she had felt of the pillows, and the
lambrequin which hung from the long shelf where the clock and vasts stood,
on the opposite side of the room. "Bet she don't put on no airs about me
just the same." She looked at the small bookcase below the mantel in a
perfect rage of envy. Elizabeth was surrounded by the things which
befitted Elizabeth, and Sadie realized as she had never done in their
childhood the chasm which separated them, and knew nothing of the anguish
of the young wife as she laboured with the disfigured pies, nor that
Elizabeth thought of the look of love she had seen Sadie receive with
something very like envy in her heart.
Elizabeth thought long upon the joy in Luther's face as he greeted her.
John must have made some move about the request for help which covered the
neglect of all these months adequately to Luther. Sadie finished her
inspection of the inner regions and returned to the kitchen primed with
things to be said to her rival, and Elizabeth fared badly at her hands.
Her innate refinement would not let Elizabeth strike back in the coarse
way in which she was attacked, and she listened to hints and pretended
sympathy on the subject of Farnshaw domestic difficulties, of reported
debts which John Hunter had contracted, and neighbourhood estimates of the
fact of her own secluded manner of life since her marriage, till her head
swam and her memory was scorched for many a day. But though her head ached
and her knees almost refused to perform their office, Elizabeth remained
in the kitchen and superintended every dish prepared for that harvest
dinner. The fact that the pies had scorched left her with the feeling that
John had had a foundation of real fact for his demand that she give them
her personal attention, and left her humbled and ready to beg forgiveness.
Every fibre of her cried out for the trust she had seen in Luther's glance
at Sadie. _There_ was true marriage, and the state which she laboured
daily to establish.
At dinner John did not look at Elizabeth, though her eyes sought his
constantly, and when the pie was passed around she remarked on its trimmed
edges shamefacedly.
Silas Chamberlain wiped his knife on a piece of bread and slid it under
the section nearest him.
"You never mind about them edges. It looks like a good pie t' me, an' John
here will eat his share of it, I'll warrant you. Th' rest of this company
can survive if he does. I just been a thinkin' as I set here what a
stunnin' cook you've got t' be in these ten months. I used t' think you'd
have a lot t' learn after you was married, but you seem t' 'a' learned it
short off--eh, John?"
John Hunter had to reply. "I've been sorry mother had to go away.
Elizabeth's done pretty well, but mother would have been a great help,
with her fixed ways of doing things," he said reluctantly.
Luther had been looking earnestly at John, but spared Elizabeth when he
saw her confusion by looking quickly down at his plate and saying
nothing.
"Don't know's Lizzie needs any help as far as doin' things is concerned,
though she may need more rest," Silas returned; and Sadie took up the
subject.
"I think my stove bakes a little better on the bottom," she remarked
critically.
"I low t' taste your pies to-morrow if it don't rain," Silas answered her
without looking up from the bite he was severing with the knife upon which
it was to be conveyed to his mouth.
Luther Hansen's laugh rang out heartily.
"Don't," he said, winking at Sadie. "She'll be keepin' me out of th' field
t' fire th' oven."
The sting of the criticism was drawn by Luther's merry acceptation of it.
Sadie laughed too, but the hint left its rankling point. These same men
would harvest for them on the morrow, and as Sadie looked over Elizabeth
Hunter's well set table she knew that she would not have the advantage on
her side.
"Lizzie's always had th' best of everything," she thought.
Silas Chamberlain thought over the day's events as he rode slowly home.
While unhitching, Old Queen nipped angrily at Bob, who had sniffed at her
collar pad, and Silas cuffed her ears.
"Whoa, there, you spiteful beast! You'll be wantin' pie that's a leetle
better done on th' under crust next. Drat 'er! I could 'a' fit right
there, only--well you kin allus hit harder with that kind of folks if you
don't let yourself git riled. Pore little woman! Not little, neither--but
a year ago so young an' glowin' with happiness. Used t' make me think of a
bob-white, trottin' up an down these roads s' contented like, an' allus so
friendly an' sociable. Looks 's if she didn't have spirits enough t' laugh
at nothin' these days. Looks 's if she'd had a peep into a den of wild
beasts an' was afraid they'd break out an' get 'er. Liza Ann's got t' go
an' see 'er, an' I'm goin' t' tell 'er so."
As Silas went toward the house, he stopped suddenly and looked back at the
wagon, which stood in the same place he had left it that rainy afternoon
over a year ago.
"She looked that peert with 'er red lips an' bright eyes, a askin' if th'
school board was t' meet. Pore little woman--she ain't a goslin' any more,
an' 'er new feathers ain't turnin' th' rain very good neither," he
reflected, shaking his head.
The long day ended at last and John came to the house after the evening
chores were finished. Elizabeth waited for him in her bedroom. Throughout
the entire evening she had been telling herself that she must make this
thing right. For the sake of the expected child she must not let her mind
be disturbed with the hurt feeling she had been unable to put away since
John had gone out without letting her explain about the morning's baking.
She allowed herself no angry or resentful thought for the prolonged and
cruel reproach. Dry-eyed, she sat by the open window in her nightdress,
making buttonholes in a tiny slip as she waited. She heard him deposit the
basket of cobs beside the kitchen stove, which he never forgot to bring in
at night, and by the rattle of the dipper which followed and the chug,
chug, chug of the pump knew that he was filling the reservoir. Breakfast
on the farm was an early meal and greatly facilitated by small
preparations. John never forgot nor neglected his part of the household
duties. Elizabeth sighed. John had the appearance of right on his side
when he demanded her highest efforts at the household altar. She put away
the little slip as she heard him coming toward the bedroom and rose to
meet him. The tears came in spite of every effort to stay them, and to
hide her face she dug it deep into his shoulder while she sobbed out her
story. It was a full minute before John's arm went about her, but at last
reflecting that something was due one in her condition, he patted her
heaving shoulders and said as if addressing a child:
"There, there now, I never thought of you feeling so bad," and after a
minute's thought added, "but you see, dear, the part of the dinner you saw
to yourself was all right, and the pies had to be apologized for."