A TURN IN THE LANE
Poor father! My heart ached sorely for him. He suffered with his hip,
and his leg was useless. He was still kept bandaged, and we hoped
presently some improvement would happen to the joint. It was bitterly
hard when he had been so active, so light of foot, so full of energy
and hope. If it had not been for his writing now and then, I think he
would have lost heart entirely.
But something had to be done. He considered several projects and
discussed them with Dan, who seemed to know a little of everything. An
overseer—but where could one find the right kind of man. Renting the
place on shares he objected to strenuously.
"If you could get about the overseer might do," commented Dan. "But
you want some one up on the good points of stock, of grain, of soil,
of everything in fact, or else some one willing to study your methods,
which have been a success. Well—I don't see how you stand it. I should
make the whole atmosphere of the town blue and sulphurous," laughing
with hearty good nature, yet with evident energy.
"Can you make one stalk of corn bear five ears? If so swear," said
father with a dubious half frown, half smile. "I have found that even
a horse well brought up doesn't like to be sworn at. A mule may stand
it. He can kick back."
"Do you swear at Chita?" I asked.
"Chita!" What a wealth of tenderness there was in the tone. "I'd about
as quick strike her a blow, and I'd deserve to be horsewhipped if I did
either."
Dan was a handsome, manly fellow. Even of all that came afterward I must
admit it, though in this hardly more than girlhood I was not considering
individual men. There were many in Chicago who were tall and strong and
vigorous. Father was only medium size, and with no striking good looks,
though he had a trusty, honest, shrewd and rather humorous face. But
I loved him dearly. I could have gone to sleep in his arms as I had on
that long journey from Massachusetts to Illinois, and now that he was
unfortunate I knew I should never leave him.
Dan's figure while large was supple in its quick movements—lithe is the
term, I suppose. He had the most fascinating air of laziness and ease.
I have seen him throw himself on the grass with a grace that would
have moved a sculptor to envy, and the manner in which he tossed his
head back and laughed tempted me to save up the funny little household
incidents and jests, and the quips I saw in the paper, just for the sake
of the merry ring. There was the boyish surrender to fun, the delight in
life that was really infectious. As a little girl I had felt afraid of
him, there were moods now that made me tremble, there were glances of
his eyes so deep, so eager that I felt a helpless captive with a wild,
unavailing desire for flight. Then always recurred to me the night of
the wild ride and how his arm had held me like a vice.
His hair was dark and fine and thick, with the ends curling a little. In
the winter he wore a beard, in the summer shaved it off. He had a fine
spirited nose, with flexible nostrils that made me think of Chita, and
a beautiful upper lip, such as the old Latin poets gave to their women.
When I came to read them Dan used to rise before me. He had a broad chin
with a dimple in it, which he really hated. "It was good enough for a
girl!" he would say disdainfully.
With all his kindness through the winter, I had come to be very
grateful, and we were delightful friends, but on my part friends only.
I could not imagine Sophie or Nanette with such a husband. I sometimes
on Sunday interested myself curiously in thinking which of the grown-up
young ladies he would marry. He called at the Doles quite often and took
out Miss Alleta, who would have made a very striking Mrs. Dan Hayne.
Then Martha Campbell was always extremely cordial to him and rumor said
she would not be averse to more regular attentions. He was a prosperous
young fellow, and though his trades were generally advantageous, no
one ever accused him of unfair dealing. I do not believe he would have
cheated any one out of a dollar, not from high principle but because he
thought it mean, and meanness he abhorred.
Out of all the talk father and Dan came to a business arrangement. It
was a great relief. Homer went over to Mrs. Morrison's, and after a
good deal of haggling, bought the wheeling chair granny had used, so
father could get about by himself, for his arms were strong, and there
was an attachment at the side, lever-like, that could be propelled by
the occupant.
Looking back at this summer it was a happy one. I was not much confined
at home. Somehow I shifted the care of father on Dan. I spent a day now
and then with Sophie, the baby was so utterly charming, beginning to say
little words that we understood perfectly. Mother Hayne and Chris were
also very pleasant. Chris had joined the church in the winter and his
inmost desire was to be a clergyman. He had a really beautiful voice. On
Sundays I used to stop—there were always some men in to see father—and
sitting out on the old porch, much renovated and rose grown now, we used
to sing the old Methodist hymns that I can never hear without the tears
coming into my eyes.
"Oh, how happy are they
Who their Saviour obey,
And have laid up their treasure above,"
and
"Come thou fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing thy grace,
Streams of mercy without ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise,"
to the old tune of Greenville. There was still another:
"The Lord into His garden comes,
The spices yield their sweet perfume,
The lilies grow and thrive——"
Are there any new hymns now that bring heaven so near?
Mr. Hayne did not take cordially to the project. He could understand
Ben's ambition, and looked to see him either a governor or a senator
at middle life, but ministers were not likely to make fortunes. Chris
told me his dreams, and not a few of them found lodgment in his mother's
heart.
As for Norman, his lot in life seemed to be settled. Mr. Le Moyne was
dependent upon him and loved him like a son. When Ben confessed his
ambitions to his brother, Norman advised him to prepare for college and
enter Harvard, as that had an excellent law school as well. He would
send him two hundred dollars a year until he was through.
"Isn't that the loveliest and most generous thing in the world!" and
the tears stood in Ben's eyes when he told me, beautiful brown eyes they
were. "Norman's a solid brick. I think I can get through in five years,
and this year to prepare. I should hate dreadfully to leave dear old
Chicago and all of you. But I could come back in vacation if I thought
it best."
"It's just splendid. And then Boston is—is so different, and has so much
in it"—and I paused, for my ideas of Boston were extremely vague.
"And she wasn't so wonderful when she was only thirty years old. And now
when you think of the canal that gives us the key to the Mississippi,
the Sault Ste. Marie planned, the railroads that in a dozen years more
will be an accomplished fact—why, we shall be the centre of everything."
We were enthusiastic, not mere braggarts. And the years showed the
wildest dreams were possible, though so much of it had to be made by
human hands.
"Six years. It is a long while to wait, isn't it?" he continued
musingly. "Then you will be——" studying me intently.
"I shall be twenty-one. Oh, Ben, please don't think of that," I
entreated, for I could guess what was in his mind.
"It wouldn't be fair unless you cared very much. Then, I think, it would
be hard to have your lover so far away and miss all the sweetness of
courtship. You see, I should be so engrossed I shouldn't have time for
society, and could not keep thinking of you. But I don't believe you
are really in love, Ruth. We are more like brother and sister."
"That is it," I cried. "And I do not think I shall marry at all, and
that is why all you Hayne boys will be so dear to me. For now you see
father will need me. I do not suppose he can ever be quite well again,
and he has come to depend on me for so many things. And I shall try to
be very happy."
"You are a darling!" He caught my hand and kissed it. "And you see we
can tell better then than now, I shall hope it will come about some way,
for I shall never find any one I like as well as you."
"Why, I shall be almost an old maid then," with an hysterical sort of
laugh, yet a pang for lost youth. Girls in the new countries married
young. "And I may be queer——"
"You will never be anything but sweet to me, a dear little girl, but it
is best that you should be quite free. If it was ten years and I came
back I know I should love you, for I should feel then that I had the
supreme right, that there was no one to dispute me."
Dear, brave, loyal Ben. Never girl or woman had a truer friend.
It was by Mr. Wight's advice that Ben went to a preparatory school that
autumn, since he had fully decided on his course, and we had no regular
systematic training for college then.
Everything went on well, only father did not improve much. But his
writing was a great delight to him, and papers at a distance spoke of
John Farmer's trenchant articles, which pleased him immensely.
To be sure he and Dan did not always agree, but they gave and took, and
so seemed to get along pretty well. I do not know what father would have
done without him.
It would not be possible to be brought into such familiar contact with
a man and not lapse into a certain intimacy, I suppose, especially as
he had charming moods. He was so much older that I always thought of
his marrying some one eighteen or twenty, and of the families of note.
We sparred and jested, he praised my cooking at times, he thought I
had such pretty, householdy ways, and that I loved father, which I did.
When I went to Sophie's or Mrs. Hayne's he came for me in the evening.
And one picnic we had he took a team and a big wagon, and had no end of
fun giving the girls, little and big, a drive. Miss Campbell was really
devoted to him that day.
Somehow, I thought of Polly Morrison, though Miss Campbell did nothing
pronounced, nor ordered Dan about as Polly used to do.
Mrs. Morrison had spent some months with her. Polly was like a queen.
Mr. Maseurier had no end of slaves on his sugar plantation, and some
were up to the great house. Both sons were married, one settled at New
Orleans, the other in Vincennes. There seemed a great deal of gayety at
that place, and Kaskaskia and Polly was in the midst of it.
Then there was a kind of all-day camp meeting in the woods, and Chris
and I had a very happy time. Oh, the beautiful singing! I was almost
impatient at the addresses and the praying.
I had, too, this summer a pretty flower garden of my own. Dan brought
me some geraniums which I had never seen before. I did delight in it,
and I used to keep the blossoms in the house. The first time I had a
bowl full father said, "That's like old times. Your mother was so fond
of flowers."
"Oh, do tell me about mother," I cried, hanging over the arm of his
chair.
"There isn't much to tell, dear. We had three happy years. We were
young and poor, and very hard worked. And one of the drawbacks to this
prosperity is that she is not here to share it."
His voice fell to a tender solemnity, and I felt awed. I shuddered at
the thought of death.
Then Dan began to take me out driving. He had another horse, but he
seldom drove Chita except by herself in a kind of sulky. Sam was larger,
and one of father's horses matched him. There was another odd thing,
he did not treat me so like a child, though he was very sweet and less
imperious. I liked him better, but there was a mysterious feeling that
I could not explain. Still fifteen is generally not analytical, and in
those days the frank, free life had not made us introspective.
The crops had been fairly good. Father I found had rather given up any
hope of entire recovery, but he was not despondent. We had drawn so much
nearer together, and I was taking such an interest in his articles. I
was getting to be quite a theoretic farmer.
One autumn evening, it was raining very hard, a perfect deluge. No one
came in. In fact, the east wind blew such a hurricane off the lake that
a pedestrian could hardly keep on his feet. We had a splendid fire, and
there was a box of geraniums in the window full of scarlet bloom.
"Come and sit here," said father, motioning to the arm of the chair.
It was broad, and he could use it for a writing desk. It was a favorite
seat of mine. I put my arm around his neck and kissed him on the
forehead.
"Little Girl," he began, "we love each other very much. We have no near
of kin, it is just you and I."
"Yes," I made answer. "But there are all the Haynes, and Sophie, and
several of the girls that I make believe are cousins."
He laughed. "And we must never separate, I think. I couldn't live
without you."
"Oh, father, no! no!" I cried, with passionate emphasis.
"But suppose in a year or two some man wants to marry you, or rather
that you fall in love. And—after all, love is the best thing in a
woman's life. You see, the old people do not live forever."
"Oh, father, you must not, shall not die! If you did I should drown
myself in the lake," and I put my wet cheek down to his.
"There, dear. I am not thinking of dying. Indeed this last month my hip
has felt stronger, and I am quite myself. But I am a good many years
older than you, and naturally would go first."
"Oh, do not let us think of it. I cannot bear it," I pleaded, with every
pulse in a tumult.
"Under some circumstances I should like to see you married. You were
not in love with Homer, and some one else was."
"And there has been Ben." Then I confessed that episode, which he had
not even mistrusted.
"The third time is fatal, I believe." There was a half laughter in his
eyes, yet a tender gravity as he looked earnestly at me, and my cheeks
burned.
"Do you care for Ben? Do you want to be engaged?"
"Oh, no, no! I like Ben very much, but no, I do not want to marry
him—ever," I said incoherently, but with decision.
"Listen, Little Girl. I cannot get along alone. If you were five years
older and a strong, robust woman I might train you for an assistant.
I have known women at home who cared for a farm and reared a family of
children. But you are too young, and the conditions here are too wild,
too unformed, too severe. They need a man's strength and resolution to
grapple with them. I have made a good start and am on the high road to
success, only now I cannot follow it up. I see that, although I have
fought against the conviction. Either I must give up and step out, or
have some one to assist me who will take an interest, and whose interest
will be the same as mine."
"But will not Dan do it?" I inquired, innocently. "You and he get on
pretty well."
"He has proposed to on one condition. And that is—my little girl."
His tone was low and he pressed me closer.
"Oh, you don't mean—" I cried in a kind of terror. "You can't mean—"
"He has asked me if I would object to his trying to win you. There
need be no hurry. He is a smart, bright fellow with lots of energy and
push, and it does seem as if everything he takes hold of succeeds. In
this case we would go on together. Our interests would be identical. We
should both love you. I shouldn't feel afraid then that you would be
left without a protector, if any untoward event happened to me. But I
am not going to urge you. I think he must care for you, since there are
other girls with much richer fathers that I am sure would accept him
for the asking. You may think about it."
"But I don't want to marry any one," I protested in great tumult of soul.
"You are so young. Yet it is rather queer you have not fancied any of
these boys," and he gave a soft chuckle, as if it rather amused him.
"Their mother cares so much for you, too. If I could be well again we
would snap our fingers at them all. But farming needs the head to be
able to get about here and there and keep matters up sharp. Well, well,
I suppose we have to accept what comes," with a long sigh.
"It is very hard," I returned. "And yet you are so well otherwise, and
not old."
"No; if I were ten years older I would resign myself to my fate without
grumbling."
"But I do not want you any older."
"And you would be over twenty-five."
"A horrid old maid," I ejaculated. Single women were not held in high
esteem in those days. There was a great need of wives, indeed many a
first wife died of overwork or over ambition, and more men than women
immigrated from the older States. Only the very undesirable were left
behind. Of course I should be married sometime.
But it seemed strange to think of Dan Hayne as a husband. He was so much
older. He rightly belonged to the girls of eighteen or twenty. But after
I was in bed, and I could not sleep readily, I thought of the kind of
son father needed. A man in store business or a mechanic of any kind
would be of little service to him. Dan was buying and selling property
and stock, went round to the near-by settlements, was considered a
good judge of many things, and had friends on every hand, though he was
masterful and at times high tempered. He was a gay young "buck" as they
termed it then, but marriage was supposed to settle a man.
The figure of Polly Morrison flashed up before me. Why, I could not
tell, for I had not thought of her until she appeared like a strange,
splendid vision. There was a mocking light in her glittering eyes. Why
did she not forbid the bans? She only smiled in a sort of triumph.
The next morning Nanette came for me to go shopping with her, and though
we had not a very extensive array of stores, still we had a nice variety
of goods. Some of the older people thought there was too much catering
to the pride of life. We made one or two calls, we chatted with the
clerks we knew, and when I reached home Dan was just going away. He and
father had been examining some business papers. We merely spoke. I ran
in the kitchen to hurry Jolette about the dinner.
Chris came in the next morning. There was a wonderful preacher from
England who could give our town but this one evening. Mrs. Hayne wanted
me to come over to supper and we would both go. "And I'll see you home,"
said Chris, "if you can't stay all night."
I kissed father and went away. We had grown so much more caressing since
his hurt. There was another neighbor in to tea. We started early and it
was well we did, for before service time the church was packed.
As I said, I liked the full, hearty singing. The strange clergyman
had a rather imposing presence. I may as well confess that I was not
particularly fond of sermons, but after a little I became strangely
interested in this. There was the heroic self-sacrifice in it that
appeals strongly to youth, taking up the duty set plainly before one and
not making mean and shifty evasions. But unless the sacrifice or the
work had some high purpose in view for God or the neighbor, it was in
vain and useless. We were to help in the daily life that God gave us,
to live out at our very best and truest. Simply praying for our neighbor
was not all, when there was something to do.
I think I lost sight of the spiritual application. I kept looking at a
thing that seemed set before me to do, and it grew clearer and clearer
even if I did shrink from it. I was to trust to the promise—"My grace
shall be sufficient." I was moved, exalted. I can do the sermon no sort
of justice, but every one for weeks afterward talked of it, and Chris
was most enthusiastic.
When we came home father and Dan were playing checkers, and they were
both excellent players. Father held up his finger and merely nodded to
Chris, who said good-night, for he knew how Dan hated to be interrupted
in a game. I came and stood by them. This was the rubber, each had won
one game. They were almost at the last and so evenly balanced that it
seemed to me there was something more at stake than a mere king row.
A human soul was to be crowned or—Is there such a determining power as
fate? If father won I should be free, if Dan, I should, I must be his
wife. I watched with strained eyes. Fingers were hardly touched, then
lifted. Father's forehead seemed gathered in a knot, Dan's face was
smiling with that wonderful ease he had, the French call it insouciance.
Father moved—Dan's last man went into the king row, and Dan smiled over
at me.