ADJUSTING DOMESTIC TO SOCIAL IDEALS
The next morning the wind blew the fine snow in one vast driving cloud; it
was impossible to see a hundred feet. Elizabeth knew that the stock was
suffering, but was almost certain that she could not reach them. It would
not be hard to reach the barn, since the wind would be with her, but to
return would be a different matter. To feel that she had done all that she
could, she went as far as the gate, and when she could not see the house
from that point was sufficiently warned and struggled back to safety. No
sound but that of the storm came to her even at the gate, but she was
certain that the famishing cattle were calling for food. Her day was
consumed in the care of Luther's inflamed hands and feet. The only remedy
she knew was wet cloths and she worked anxiously to reduce the swelling
and congestion.
About four o'clock the wind dropped. Though the air was still full of fine
snow, Elizabeth wrapped herself in John's old overcoat and muffler, and
putting a pair of Jake's heavy mittens on her hands, and taking the
milkpails on her arm to save a trip back for them, she went to the barn.
The barn door stuck, with the snow which had collected in the runway, and
she had to fumble for some time before it would come open. A perfect babel
of voices greeted her. Jake had left the south door of the barn ajar when
he left that morning, and the eddying snow had banked itself along the
entire centre of the building. Patsie stood in the stall nearest the door,
humped up with the cold, and with a layer of snow on her hips and
spreading black tail. She turned sidewise and pawed furiously, giving
shrill little whinnies as Elizabeth seized a half-bushel measure and waded
through the snow to the oats bin.
"No, corn's better this cold weather," the girl said aloud, and hurried to
the other bin. Soon the horses were making noise enough to inflame the
appetites of the other animals, who redoubled their cries.
She investigated the pens and found the hogs in good condition, but the
drifts so high as to make it possible for them to make neighbourly visits
from pen to pen, and even into the cattle yard. It was a struggle to carry
the heavy ear corn from the crib to the pens, but it was done, and then
Elizabeth turned her attention to the excited cattle.
Taking time to rest and get her breath, Elizabeth noticed that a few of
the hogs had not come to get their feed, and went to investigate the
cause. They seemed to be fighting over some choice morsel on the far side
of the cattle yard. At first she thought that it was one of their number
that they were fighting about, but as she approached the knot, one of them
ran off to one side dragging something, its head held high to avoid
stepping on the grewsome thing it carried. One of the young cows had lost
her calf in the freezing storm, and the hogs were fighting over its torn
and mangled body. Elizabeth sought out the little mother, and segregating
her from the herd, drove her into the straw cow-stable, where she would be
sheltered. The other milch cows had been left in their stalls by the men
the day before, and snorted and tugged at their ropes as the newcomer
appeared. Elizabeth tied the heifer, and then shut the door after her and
returned to the unprotected herd outside.
The fodder was so full of snow that it was impossible for the girl to
handle it at all, so she dug the ladder out of the snow and placed it
against the long hayrick beside the fence and forked the hay over into the
racks below. It required every ounce of strength she had to throw the hay
clear of the stack and in line with the racks where the cattle could reach
it, but the girl worked with a will, while the cattle fought for best
places, or any place at all, and reached hungry tongues for the sweet
hay.
Elizabeth worked with joy and energy. The mood of the storm was upon the
girl. Not before in all the months she had been married had she ever moved
in perfect freedom in her native out-of-doors element. It was a gift of
the gods and not to be despised or neglected, for to-morrow would come
John--and prison bars. Before she had begun, she faced the wind, and with
bounding joy looked over the drifted fields toward the north and
northeast. The air was clearing. The world looked different from this
lofty position. She was Elizabeth again, Elizabeth transformed and made
new. The lethargy of recent months had slipped away; something about the
rush and motion of things in the last twenty-four hours inspired her; the
fierce winds of yesterday and to-day stirred her spirit to do, to be in
motion herself. They had communicated their energy, their life, their free
and ungoverned humour. Elizabeth's thoughts ran on as fast as her blood.
She thought of Luther, and of all he had said to her, of her neglected
opportunities which he had pointed out to her, and wondered modestly if he
were right, and then knew that he was. She thought of how she, the
out-of-door prisoner of her father's home, had become the indoor prisoner
of her husband's home. She had thought that to marry and escape her
father's grasp was to possess herself; but Elizabeth Hunter saw that as a
wife she was really much less free. She thought of the sacrifices she had
made in the hope of securing harmony, and she thought of the futility of
it all. She decided that if a woman were enslaved it was because she
herself permitted it, that to yield where she should stand fast did not
secure a man's love, it only secured his contempt and increased his
demands. In the three years she had been married she had not been
permitted an hour of real companionship until the accident of this storm
had brought an old friend to her door and kept him there till she had had
a chance to realize the mental depths to which she had fallen in her
isolation. In all the time she had been married she had not thought of
anything but the bare details of their daily life. A woman had to have the
association of congenial people to keep her from falling into housekeeping
dry-rot. For thirty-six hours she had possessed herself, and in that time
she had renewed her youth and acquired a new outlook. As she stood looking
across the fields, her eyes fell on Nathan Hornby's chimney. The wind had
dropped so completely that the air had cleared of snow, and the curling
smoke from a freshly built fire arose in the frosty air, sending a thrill
of homesickness through her as she pictured the orderly kitchen in which
that fire was built. Was it orderly now that its guardian angel was gone?
The hideous cruelty of a neglect which kept her from knowing whether it
was well kept swept over her. Once she would have spent herself in
emotionalism and tears at remembrance of it, but Elizabeth had advanced.
"I'll go and see him to-morrow, or as soon as the roads are fit," was her
resolve. "Luther's right; he usually is."
The cattle calling from below brought her back to the necessities of the
hour. Laying hold of the frosty pitchfork she renewed her attack upon the
hay and continued till the racks were filled. By the time the ladder was
put away again her hands were stinging till it was impossible to work, and
she ran to the barn where she could put them against Patsie's flank while
she blew her warm breath upon them. Patsie was ticklish, and twitched her
loose hide nervously and gnawed at her feed-box with little squeals of
excitement. The feed-box was of two-inch lumber instead of the usual sort.
It was like all John did: so much attention put in one place there was no
time for the rest; well done, but much left undone. Everything about
John's barn was orderly and well built. There had been a time when she had
rejoiced at what seemed to be thrift, but to-day she saw it from a new
angle; Mr. Farnshaw had wastefully let his machinery rot and his stock
perish from cold, but here was wastefulness of another sort; Elizabeth
speculated on the cost of this barn and thought of the interest to be
paid.
On her way to the cow-stable where the little mother whose calf had fallen
a victim to the cold awaited her, she thought of the toolroom where she
had gone for her feed. A forty-dollar set of harness hung there: Carter's
harness had chains instead of leather tugs, and would outwear them several
times over. It was an orderly toolroom: the bridles occupied a row over
the collars, hames and back-bands came next, and on the other side of the
room, on six-inch spikes, hung extra clevises, buckles, straps, and such
materials as accidents to farm machinery required. John's mending was well
provided for and well done. Elizabeth would have loved just this sort of
order if it had not been so costly.
The little cow was so hungry that she hardly knew that she was giving her
milk into a foreign receptacle till a voice at the stable door made her
jump so violently that the pail was knocked over and Elizabeth had to
scramble hastily to avoid a similar fate.
"Well, now, there you be! Gosh-a-livin's!----"
Silas Chamberlain never finished that speech. The milk from the rolling
pail spattered over his feet as he sprang to Elizabeth's rescue. The
little cow tore at the rope that held her, and every mate she had in the
stable joined her in snorting and threatening to bolt over the mangers.
The old man, "So-bossied," and vented all the soothing cattle talk he
could command while he looked on in embarrassed confusion.
"Now ain't that jes' like me?" he queried in dismay. "Look what I've gone
an' done!" He picked up the empty pail and handed it to the man that was
with him to keep it from being trampled upon by the plunging cows, while
he tried to establish confidential relations with them.
"Never mind, Mr. Chamberlain. She's only a heifer and never milked before.
She wouldn't have let me get that far without trouble, anyhow, if she
hadn't been so hungry. The hogs killed her calf last night or this morning
and I thought I'd milk her before I began on the rest. I don't suppose
John can get home before to-morrow night, and the chores had to be done.
Here, there's an extra bucket or two. Do you want to help milk? they'll
quit fussing in a minute."
"Course I do. That's what Noland an' I come for. This is Mrs. Hunter,
Noland," Silas said, remembering formalities at the last moment. "We
thought John wouldn't 'a' got back 'fore th' storm come on. Now let's get
this milkin' done 'fore dark or we'll be havin' t' ask for a lantern."
"Oh! Mr. Chamberlain, I forgot to tell you that Luther Hansen got caught
in the storm and nearly froze," Elizabeth said when they had settled
themselves to the work. "He's at our house now; his feet and hands are
awful. I think they're all right, but I wish we could get at Doctor
Morgan."
The old man nearly upset the milk a second time in his astonishment, and
the milking was cut as short as could decently be done so as to get to the
house. The early winter night had settled down and the sting of the cold
was paralyzing as they hastened in. Silas went straight to Luther, and
Elizabeth and the new man brought a fresh supply of coal and cobs before
they went in. They met Silas coming out as they carried the last basketful
from the shed.
"I'm goin' right over t' tell Sadie," he announced. "I brought Noland over
to help, but Luther says you're goin' t' need 'im right along, an' I'll
jes' leave 'im for good. You'll like each other an' he'll want t' stay as
bad as You'll want 'im."
Silas had poured the whole arrangement out, and as it was about what was
necessary it was accepted.
The presence of a stranger necessitated more formal housekeeping, and when
the new man came back from helping Silas saddle Patsie he found the
kitchen in order and the savoury smell of fresh biscuits and ham. A small
table was placed beside Luther, and the ham and hot things had a seasoning
of brilliant, intellectual conversation, for the man from college was
adept at entertaining his fellow men and showed his best powers.
Elizabeth was too tired to stay awake long and she left him and Luther
chatting, after she had shown Mr. Noland where he was to sleep and had
filled the cold bed with hot flatirons to take the chill from the icy
sheets. However happy she may have been while feeding the stock, she had
to acknowledge that the loss of sleep the night before and the
unaccustomed use of the pitchfork had made of her bed a desirable place.
She awoke when the stranger went up the stairs, but was asleep before his
footsteps had reached the room above her. A tantalizing remembrance of his
face disturbed her for a moment, but only for a moment, and then tired
nature carried her back to the land of dreams. She had seen him somewhere,
but where, she was too sleepy to think out.
The next morning Silas came with his bobsled and they helped Luther into a
chair and carried him in it to the sled and so to his home. John and his
mother came a little after noon, and the girl watched to see how her
husband would like the new man, half afraid that because she had secured
him in John's absence that he would not like him, and she wished it might
be possible to keep him with them. She need not have worried, for Hugh
Noland had looked about the place and decided to make himself so necessary
to its proprietor that his presence would be desired, and he had gifts
which favoured him in that respect. Besides, John had been unsuccessful in
obtaining help and was overjoyed to come home and find the cattle fed and
everything at the barn in good order. Patsie and her mate were hitched to
the lumber wagon and stood waiting in the lane when John came and Jack was
being wrapped in his warmest cloak.
"Where on earth are you going?" John asked in profound astonishment.
"I told Mr. Noland to hitch up and take me to Uncle Nathan's, but now that
you are here, you can go if you wish," Elizabeth replied quietly. "I
should have gone a long time ago. Will you go along mother, or will you
stay at home after climbing these drifts all day? I think now that you're
at home we'll take the sled instead of the wagon. You won't mind making
the change, will you?"
She ended by addressing the new man, and it was all so naturally done that
John Hunter swallowed whatever was uncomfortable in it. He would not go
himself, and Elizabeth set off with the stranger, glad of the chance to do
so.
"I'll drive right home and help with things there. What time shall I come
back for you?" Noland asked as he set her on the ground as near Nathan's
doorstep as he could get the team to go.
"Not till after five. Mother's there and I'll let her get your suppers,
and I'll get mine here with Uncle Nate."
It was such a perfectly normal arrangement that Hugh Noland did not guess
that there was anything new in it. He drove away with a feeling of
disappointment because he had been unable to draw her into conversation on
the way over. She had proven herself a good conversationalist at meals and
he looked forward to a time when he would be a permanent part of that
household. Luther and Silas had been right. Here was the partner he was
looking for if he could only make himself appreciated.
He had laid out every faculty and put it to the best use for that purpose
and had been a bit disconcerted to have her suddenly become
uncommunicative.
Nathan was at the barn; he saw them stop and recognized his visitor.
"Humph!" he snorted in disgust. However, a man could not leave a woman
with a baby in her arms standing on his doorstep on a raw February day.
"How do you do, Uncle Nate?" the girl said timidly as soon as he was near
enough to accost.
Nathan's greeting was short and inhospitable. He did not offer to shake
hands, nor pretend to see the hand she extended to him. Instead, he opened
the door and invited her gruffly to enter. Closing the door behind them,
he went to the stove and began to stir the fire industriously.
Elizabeth saw that she must have the difficulty over at once or her
courage would wilt. Setting Jack on the floor, she went to Nathan and put
her hand on his arm detainingly.
"You have fire enough, Uncle Nate. Let me talk to you."
"Well?" he said briefly.
The girl was staggered by the nature of her reception. It was worse than
she had expected. Luther Hansen's estimate of the real situation had been
only too right. She stood before Nathan Hornby trembling and disconcerted
by the wall of his silence. The old kitchen clock ticked loudly, she could
hear her own pulses, and the freshly stirred fire roared--roared in a
rusty and unpolished stove. Dust lay thick on the unswept floor. Nathan
needed her. She would win her way back to his heart.
"Uncle Nate, I don't blame you one bit if you aren't nice to me. I haven't
deserved it, but----"
"I guess you needn't 'Uncle Nate' me any more," he said when she paused.
His speech was bitter and full of animosity, but it was better than his
compelling silence.
"I don't blame you one bit for being mad at me----I should think you would
be. I don't know what I'm going to say to you either, but I've come to beg
your forgiveness," she stammered.
Nathan Hornby did not speak, but waited coldly for her to continue. There
was plainly no help offered her.
"I--I can't explain, Uncle Nate--I am going to call you so--you--you shall
not put me away. I have come for your forgiveness and--and I'm going to
stay till I get it. I--I can't explain--there--there are things in life
that we can't explain, but I'm innocent of this stuck-up business you
think I've had. I--I've loved you and Aunt Susan. Oh, Uncle Nate, I've
loved her better than I ever did my own mother," she ended with a sob.
There was the voice of honesty in what she said, but Nathan remembered his
wrongs.
"If that's so, why didn't you come t' see 'er?" he said. "If you loved
'er, why'd you let 'er go down to 'er grave a pinin' for you? She looked
for you till she was crazy 'most, an' she never got a decent word out of
you, nor a decent visit neither. If you loved 'er, what'd you act that way
for?"
The memory of that last day, when his wife had yearned so pitifully for
this girl, arose before him as he stood there, and shook his faith in the
honesty of Elizabeth's purposes in spite of the earnestness of her
manner.
"That is the one thing I cannot explain, Uncle Nate," Elizabeth answered.
"I--I was all ready to come that day and--and--then I couldn't."
She buried her face in her hands at the memory of it and burst into
tears.
"Is it true that Hunter won't take you anywhere?" he asked pointedly.
"You have been listening to the Cranes," she answered.
"I've been listenin' t' more'n them," he said with the fixed purpose of
drawing her out on the subject. "I've been listenin' t' some as says
you're too high and mighty t' associate with th' likes of us--an' I've
heard it said that your husband won't take you nowhere. Now I just
naturally know that a man can't shut a woman up in this American country,
so's she can't go anywhere she wants t', if she wants t' bad enough; an' I
remember how Hunter was 'fore 'e married you; 'e was always on th' go--an'
there's a nigger in th' woodpile somewheres."
Elizabeth was for the moment staggered. What he said was so true. And yet,
how untrue! It was hard to think with the eye of suspicion on her.
Appearances were against her, but she was determined not to discuss the
privacies of her married life. She paused and looked Nathan squarely in
the face till she could control her reasoning faculties.
"That is neither here nor there," she said quite firmly at last. "I shall
not defend myself to you, Uncle Nate, nor explain away bad reports. It
would not help me and it would not help you. What I am here for is to
offer you my love _now_. What I want you to believe is that I mean it,
that I've wanted to come, that I'm here because I want to be here, and
that I never mean to neglect you again. I--I couldn't come to see
her--but, oh, Uncle Nate, mayn't I come to see you? I can't tell you all
the little ins and outs of why I haven't come before, but you must believe
me."
Elizabeth ended imploringly.
The man was softened by her evident sincerity in spite of himself, and yet
his wound was of long standing, his belief in her honesty shaken, his
beloved wife in her grave, assisted to her final stroke by this girl's
neglect, and he could not lay his bitterness aside easily. He did not
speak.
The silence which followed was broken only by the ticking of the
old-fashioned Seth Thomas clock and the roar of the fire.
Elizabeth looked around the familiar room in her dilemma, entangled in the
mesh of her loyalty to her husband's dubious and misleading actions.
Nearly every article in that room was associated with some tender
recollection in the girl's mind. Not even the perplexity of the moment
could entirely shut out the reminiscent side of the occasion. The
bread-board, dusty and unused, leaned against the flour barrel, the little
line above it where the dishtowels should hang sagged under the weight of
a bridle hung there to warm the frosty bit, the rocking chair, mended with
broom wire after the cyclone, and on its back Aunt Susan's chambray
sunbonnet where it had fallen from its nail: all familiar. With a little
cry Elizabeth fell on her knees by Nathan Hornby's side.
"Oh, Uncle Nate! you can't tell what others have to contend with, and--and
you must not even ask, but----" She could not proceed for sobs.
Nathan Hornby's own face twitched and trembled with emotion. The girl had
unconsciously used Susan's own last words. His heart was touched. Susan's
great love for Elizabeth pleaded for her.
"Can't I come, Uncle Nate? Won't you be friends with me?"
And Nathan Hornby, who wanted her friendship, answered reluctantly:
"Yes-s-s--come along if you want t'. You won't find it a very cheerful
place t' come to, but she'd be glad t' know you're here, I guess."
Jack, sitting in his shawls and wraps on the floor, began to cry. He had
been neglected long enough. His mother got suddenly to her feet. Both
stooped to take the baby. Elizabeth resigned him to Nathan, instinctively
realizing that Jack was a good advocate in her favour if Nathan still
retained fragments of his grievances. She let the old man retain him on
his lap while she busied herself about him unpinning his shawls.
It was home-like and companionable to have a woman and baby in the house,
and Nathan Hornby had been lonesome a long time. He clucked to the baby
and began to trot him up and down on his knee. With a relieved sigh
Elizabeth dropped into a chair and watched them.
Jack, unaccustomed to whiskers, put his hand out to investigate. Nathan
waggled his chin to shake its pendant brush, and Jack started nervously.
Nathan looked across at Elizabeth and laughed. That little laugh did a
world of good in aiding Elizabeth's plans. It was not possible for Nathan
to catch her eye in good-natured raillery and remain cool of manner; that
laugh and the glance that went with it did much to wash away his hurt. In
his secret soul Nathan had craved Elizabeth's love and Elizabeth's baby.
She had been like a daughter in the house. He had missed her almost as
much as his wife had done, but he had resented her long absence. He had
come to the house determined not to forget his wrongs, and here he was, in
less than fifteen minutes, smiling at her over the head of the baby in
friendly amusement. He was puzzled now at the readiness with which he had
given in, but Nathan found his love stronger than his grievances.
"Take off your things, Lizzie; th' house's yours if you--if you really
want it to be."
Elizabeth took off her wraps and prepared to begin work on the disorderly
kitchen. Aunt Susan's limp apron hung on the nail from which the bonnet
had fallen, and she put it on, looking about her, undecided where it was
best to commence.
"I've come to help--where shall I begin?" she said.
"If I could tell you what t' do I could 'a' done it myself," Nathan said
ruefully.
Elizabeth thought of the orderly wife who was gone and a sob arose in her
throat.
"Oh, Uncle Nate! You don't know how I miss her sometimes."
And Nathan Hornby replied sadly:
"I kind a think maybe I do."
* * * * *
The night was cloudy and the long diagonal drifts made it hard to drive
after dark. The chores had kept Noland later than he had thought and it
was dusk when he arrived at Nathan's for Elizabeth.
Hugh Noland had been spending the afternoon with John Hunter about the
barn, measuring him and talking of farm prospects. Here was the place for
him to settle down, if he could arrange for a partnership. He was so much
convinced of this that he was endeavouring to make the alliances of
friendship before he led up to the more serious one. It had baffled him to
have Elizabeth answer in monosyllables both going to Mr. Hornby's and
again during their return; he wanted to talk. Her home was the first
farmhouse he had ever entered that he felt could be home to him; its
evidences of culture and refinement had made as lasting an impression upon
Hugh Noland as that same home had done upon Elizabeth when John Hunter had
taken her to see his mother in it. It was an oasis in the rural desert. He
meant to exert every effort to establish himself in it. When Elizabeth did
not respond to his attempts at conversation, he fell back upon the
analysis of herself and her husband which had been going on in his mind
all day. They were evidently not people who felt above their neighbours on
account of their superior education, for she had gone to spend a whole
afternoon with that plain old farmer and she had shown the liveliest
interest, even friendship, for the Swede on the other side of the farm. He
liked them the better for that. If a man or woman lived in a community he
or she should be a part of that community. Hugh Noland never doubted that
the friendly interest he had witnessed was the regularly established
course of action and that it was mutual in the household. Coming into the
household at this transition point, he was to make many such mistakes in
his estimates.
John Hunter was at the side gate to assist his wife and baby out of the
sled. He left Elizabeth to carry Jack to the house and went to the barn to
help Noland put the team away. This man, who took milking as a lark, and
all farm work as a thing to be desired, and yet was a gentleman, was to
John Hunter, who scorned these things as beneath himself, an anomaly. It
had never occurred to John that labour of that sort could have dignity,
nor that a man could choose it as a livelihood unless driven to it. It had
never occurred to him that if driven to it one should enter into it as a
real participant. To him it was a thing to endure for a time and never
refer to after it could be put behind him. The beauty of the dawn, the
pleasant odours of new-mown hay, the freshness of the crisp air, the
association with the living creatures about him, the joys of a clean life,
all escaped him. Hugh Noland had enumerated these things, and many more,
while they had worked together that afternoon, and John Hunter accepted
the enumeration, not because it was fundamentally true, but because it was
the estimate of a cultured and well-educated man.
John Hunter had been vexed at Elizabeth for the sangfroid with which she
had walked away from established custom in ordering the team prepared for
her to be taken to Nathan's, but with Noland present he had accepted it
without remark. Here was a man before whom John would always, but
instinctively rather than premeditatively, endeavour to show his best
side.
Hugh Noland went to the house with John, talking farm work and prices of
produce as if they were matters of pleasant as well as necessary
importance, and he set John to talking in his best vein and without
superciliousness; he had the faculty of bringing out the best in the
people he met. He brought some of his books--he had stopped at the
Chamberlain homestead for his trunk on their return that evening--and
added them to those already on the Hunter shelves. While arranging them,
he sat on the floor before the bookcase and glancing over the titles of
those belonging to the family, opened an occasional one and read aloud a
verse or a paragraph or two. He read with zest and enthusiasm. He was
fresh from the world of lectures and theatres, and the social life of the
city, and became a rejuvenating leaven for this entire household.
* * * * *
Luther was on Elizabeth's mind when she awakened the next morning, and as
soon as the breakfast work was finished and she had time to get the house
in order, she decided to move from her new standpoint and go to see him.
To this end she asked Mrs. Hunter to keep Jack while she was gone, and to
the older woman's objections that she should let the men hitch up the sled
and drive her over she answered firmly:
"I don't want a word said about it. I will go whenever I please without
arguing it with anybody."
In her secret soul she was glad to get past the barn without John seeing
her. She would not have permitted him to stop her, or delay her visit, but
a discussion with her husband was apt to hold surprises and she to become
confused and angry, and worsted in the _manner_ of her insistence. To get
away without having to explain put her in good spirits.
The sun shone brightly and the air, though snappy and cold, was brisk and
fresh. It was the first free walk of a mile Elizabeth had ever taken since
her marriage. Elizabeth was herself again. She skirted around the long
drifts as she crossed the field humming a snatch of tune with all her
blood atingle with the delight of being alone in the vast silent fields.
The mere passing of time since Aunt Susan's death had gradually worked a
change in her condition, which Luther's presence and the stimulating
quality of his words, John's absence, the intoxication of the wild and
unfettered storm, the visit to Nathan Hornby's, and the invigorating
personality of Hugh Noland had combined to rejuvenate in the crushed and
beaten girl. Life held meanings to which she had long been blind.
Elizabeth set about the reorganizing of her life with no bitterness toward
John, only glad to have found herself, with duty to herself as well as
others still possible.
Sadie Hansen met Elizabeth at the door with such evident uneasiness that
Elizabeth was moved to ask:
"Luther's all right, Sadie?"
"Yes-s-s!" Sadie replied slowly, and with such reluctance that Elizabeth
was puzzled.
Sadie took her to the bedroom and shut the door behind her as tight as if
she hoped to shut out some evil spirit in the action. Her manner filled
Elizabeth with curiosity, but she crossed to Luther and held out her
hand.
"Before you 'uns begin," Sadie said with the air of burning her bridges
behind her, and before any one had had a chance to speak, "I want t' tell
you something. I could 'a' told it in th' kitchen," she stammered, "but I
made up my mind last night that I'd have it out with both of you. I've
done you th' meanest trick, Lizzie. Luther said you was goin' t' Hornby's
yesterday. Did you go?"
Elizabeth, standing at the head of Luther's bed, nodded in her surprise,
feeling that her visit with Nathan was not a subject to which she could
lend words.
"Now look here, Lizzie, if what I said t' th' Hornbys has made any
difference, I'll go t' him an' take it back right before your face."
Elizabeth's eyes opened in astonishment.
"Uncle Nate did not mention it to me," Elizabeth replied.
"Well, I've made up my mind I want t' tell it, an' have it off my mind."
Sadie considered a moment and then plunged into her tale hurriedly, for
fear that her courage would cease to support her.
"Well, when I was to your house last summer, an' you told me about th'
effect it had on a baby t' have a mother that never got mad, I come home
an' tried t' do everything I thought you meant an'--seems t' me I never
was s' mean in my life. Mean feelin' I mean. I got along pretty well at
first--I guess it was somethin' new--? but th' nearer I got t' th' time,
th' worse I got. I scolded Luther Hansen till I know he wished he'd never
been born. Th' worst of it was that I'd told 'im how--what a difference it
made, and he was that anxious----?"
Luther raised his hand to protest, but Sadie waved him aside and
continued:
"Oh, you needn't defend me, Luther!" she exclaimed. "I've been meaner 'n
you know of." Turning to Elizabeth again, "I used t' look over t' your
house an' feel--an' feel 's if I could only see you an' talk a while, I'd
git over wantin' t' be s' mean, but you wouldn't never come t' see
us--an'--an' I didn't feel's if--I didn't feel free t' go any more, 'cause
ma said you didn't want t' be sociable with our kind of folks."
Sadie paused a moment to crease the hem of her apron and get the twitching
out of the corners of her distressed mouth.
"Well, at last, when you didn't come, an' I couldn't git no help from no
one, I just said every mean thing I could. I told Hornby a week 'fore his
wife died that you said you didn't want t' change visits with us country
jakes, 'cause you wanted your boy t' be different from th' likes of us.
Ma'd heard that somewhere, but I told it t' 'im 's if you'd said it t' me.
Sue Hornby put 'er hand on my arm an' said, so kind like, 'Sadie, ain't
you 'fraid t' talk that way an' you in that fix?' An' I just cried an'
cried, an' couldn't even tell 'er I'd tried t' do different."
Luther Hansen had been trying to interrupt the flow of his wife's
confession, and broke in at this point by saying:
"Sadie's nervous an' upset over----"
"No, I ain't," Sadie replied hastily. "I've been as mean as mud, an' here
she's took care of you, an' I've gone an' got Hornby mad at 'er. He
believed what I told, if 'is wife didn't. They say, Lizzie, that 'e lives
there all by 'iself an'----" Sadie choked, and waited for Elizabeth to
speak.
"I guess you've worried about nothing," Elizabeth said brightly. "I've
been to see him, and we're good friends--the best kind in fact, and no one
could ever make us anything else hereafter." She looked down at Luther and
smiled.
"Will it make any difference with my baby?" Sadie asked anxiously, her
mind working like a treadmill in its own little round.
"No, Sadie--that is, I guess not. I've been thinking, as I listened to
you, that the way you tried would have to count--it's bigger than anything
else you've done."
Sadie Hansen dropped into a chair sobbing hysterically.
Elizabeth's hand went to the girl's shoulder comfortingly.
"God does not ask that we succeed, Sadie; he asks that we try."
* * * * *
Elizabeth was back in her own kitchen in time to get dinner. John had seen
her as she came home, but made no remark.
At the end of three weeks there was a consultation between Hugh Noland and
John regarding a possible partnership. Not only did Noland like John
Hunter, but he was delighted with the atmosphere with which he found him
surrounded.
"This is a home," had been Hugh's secret analysis of the household. In
fact the home was the main feature of the Hunter farm, the main reason for
wishing to stay.
To John the offer of partnership was a blessing from heaven itself. The
matter of interest was pressing on him far more than he had acknowledged
to Elizabeth. It galled him to discuss things with her since she had
ceased to ask about them or even to show any concern. He did not realize
that she had been compelled to consider the matter hopeless.
It was agreed that Hugh should lift the indebtedness and have one half
interest in the concern, land and stock. There would be about five hundred
dollars left over after all the debts were paid, and John gleefully
decided to buy some more calves with the residue.
"But we shall need every cent of that for running expenses this summer,"
Noland objected.
"Oh, well, if we do, we can always get money on sixty or ninety day
loans," John replied easily.
"I'd rather not go into debt, with my health," the new partner said
decidedly.
He happened to look across at Elizabeth and caught the alert sign of
approval in her face. He had heard Silas and some others discuss the
Hunter mortgages, but here was a still more significant evidence.
Elizabeth had not signalled him, but the look told the story; in fact, it
told more than the girl had intended.
"I should consider it a necessary condition of any business I went into,"
he added steadily. "I am an uncertain quantity, as I have told you, with
this heart, and I could not be worried with debts."
Elizabeth did not look at him this time, but he saw the look of
satisfaction and heard her indrawn breath. And now the really lovable side
of Hugh Noland began to show out. Feeling now that he was a real member of
the family, he began to give himself to its pleasing features. The
evening's reading became a thing to which the whole group looked forward.
The flow of companionship exceeded anything any member of the family had
ever anticipated. Jake arrived in time for the spring work, as he had
agreed, and was astonished by every feature of the family life which he
saw about him. Elizabeth was cheerful, even happy, while John Hunter was
another man. Jake figured out the changes about him wistfully, craving a
part in the good-fellowship. Here was contentment such as Jake had never
witnessed. Not a trace of the old tragic conditions seemed to remain. Jake
had missed the key to the situation by his absence at the time of the
blizzard, but he was keenly aware that some change had been wrought. He
studied Hugh Noland and was even more enthusiastic about his personality
and powers than the family. All called the new man by his given name, a
sure sign of their affection.
Elizabeth had worked a radical change in her life. Jake watched her come
and go without remark from her husband, give her orders to Hugh to hitch
up for her if she chose to drive, or if she walked, going without
permission, and was almost as pleased as she. He saw that she had learned
to keep her own counsel and not to speak of her plans till the time for
action had arrived. He felt a something new in her.
Elizabeth had, in fact, learned that while openness was a point of
character, nevertheless, if she dealt openly with her husband it led to
quarrelsome discussions. She saw that John did not know why he opposed
her, that it was instinctive. As she studied him, however, she found how
widely separated they were in spirit. The calm which Jake saw, was all
there, but there were other things fully as vital which had not been there
before. The self-questioning of those months previous to Aunt Susan's
death had been productive of results. While a certain openness of attitude
had disappeared, there was the strength which has all the difference
between deceit and reserve in Elizabeth Hunter's face.