cakes of ice came down the river, and barricaded the mill. Then a cold
snap followed, and the trees hung thick with fantastic icicles. In the
morning the Deacon, Gurth, and several neighbours went up the stream to
dislodge, with long poles, cakes of ice that were wedged threateningly
between trees, and after dinner, when the two men had been talking of
the caprices of the storm, the Deacon said: “It’s worth walking up to
the Hill Farm, daughter, to see the ice on those white pines, but you
must mind your footing. Waldsen’s going up there to shovel off the shed
roof, and he’ll be glad to beau you, I know.”
Margaret blushed painfully, but Gurth, totally missing the significance
of the word, said, in his precise language, that he was about to ask
Miss Margaret, but feared she could not walk so far. So Margaret brought
her coat, trimmed with a neck-band and cuffs of fur, and, drawing a dark
red tam-o’-shanter over her black hair, set off with Waldsen.
As the Deacon watched them go down the road, dark and fair, slender and
tall, both talking with animation, he suddenly gave a long whistle, for
an idea, born of the word he had just used, flashed across his
matter-of-fact mind, and he said aloud,—“Well, I never! Well, I never!
She shan’t find her old dad a spoil sport, anyhow! I’ve my doubts if
he’ll ever make out with farming, but I suspect he comes of good folks,
and there’s a good living at the mill, and Margaret’s my only one!” Then
he smiled contentedly to himself. The Deacon had loved his wife with a
sentiment that was regarded as a weakness by his neighbours, and he was
prepared to enjoy the courtship of his only daughter and forward it by
all the innocent local ruses. Yes, he would even make errands to town,
and at the last moment send Waldsen to drive Margaret in his stead.
The couple crossed the bridge and climbed the steep river bank towards
the Hill Farm. Waldsen was in high spirits and hummed and whistled as
they struggled and slipped along, steadying Margaret every few steps.
Happiness and the bracing air had given her a clear colour, and her eyes
were sparkling—she was a different being from the pale, silent girl of
two months ago. The mail-carrier, who met them at the cross-roads and
handed Gurth some letters, thought what a fine couple they made, and
immediately started his opinion as a rumour around the community.
Margaret walked about outside the little brown house, while her
companion freed the roof from its weight of ice. Her own home was in
sight across the river, and at the left was a lovely strip of hill
country that rose and fell until it merged with the horizon. She was so
absorbed in the view that she did not realize when the shovelling was
finished, until Waldsen stood close beside her. “Has your father told
you that I buy this place, and that to-morrow the papers will be signed?
Yes, I have bought it for my home; I shall plant the ground and work it,
as your father says, to win my living. At evening we shall sit here and
look up the river and down to where the sun sets, and then over to your
house, thanking you for your kindness to a lonely stranger.” The “we”
dropped in unawares, but Margaret knew that he meant Andrea, his sister.
“Next Christmas I shall move here, for my best resolves have come on
Christmas Day; meanwhile, there is much to be done, and I shall ask your
woman’s art how best to make my home attractive.” Then they talked of
the garden and of the house, how it would need a summer kitchen, until
he, through the subtilty of woman’s sympathy, thought that he could not
wait all the long months for Andrea’s coming.
That night Waldsen sat a long time pondering over a letter that had that
day come from Andrea. At the first, nothing new suggested itself, except
that she perhaps was lonely, but on a second reading a note of pain was
evident. Carelessly feeling in the pocket of his overcoat before going
to bed, he found that he had received two letters, when he thought he
had but one, and, re-lighting his lamp, he read the second, which was
blotted and tear-stained. It ran thus:—
“The stamp on the last letter that I wrote you, dear Gurth, is
hardly dried, yet I must write again and tell you that which for
the last month I have tried to conceal. Now it is useless. My
father will bring a new wife to fill my mother’s place in two
months from now. A hateful woman who has in some strange way
gained power over and fascinated him, but who does not wish me
in the house, for my father is urging, nay, almost commanding,
my betrothal to Hans Kraus, the brewer’s son, whom I have seen
hardly twice, and whose mother is arranging the matter for him.
“In vain I protest and remind him of our betrothal. He insists
that your mother will surely win you back, as she is making
great efforts to discover where you are. He will not hear of my
going out to service. I know that you will say, ‘Come to me, and
we will be married,’ but knowing your plans and your agreement
with your employer, this I will not do until Christmas comes
again. One thing is possible, if you will undertake it. You are,
of course, known in your village as a working-man. There must be
some one there who wishes a young, strong woman to do housework,
sewing, anything, in short,—you know my hands are used to work
of all kinds. Find some lady who will pay my passage money, to
be taken out in service, and I will come. Thus I, too, shall be
independent. I can sometimes see you, and when we then marry at
Christmas, no one will know that we are not as we seem, and we
shall begin on a sure footing. Do not attempt to stop me,
dearest. Let me also work.
“Your ANDREA.”
This letter cut Waldsen to the heart as well as stirred his pride, and
his first impulse was to return at once to Denmark for Andrea. Then he
considered all the threads that must be unravelled, the dispersal of
many plans so nicely made, and he paused, perplexed. Andrea clearly did
not realize that he was not really a servant even in name, and that he
could not allow her to fill a drudge’s place in some farm-house.
Stop! why should he not consult Margaret? She might suggest something,
and, at least, her advice would be in accord with local custom, so that
neither he nor Andrea would be criticised in future by those among whom
they were to live. He wrote a few comforting lines to his betrothed,
which he prepared to post that night that the letter might go by the
next day’s steamer, for he had the habit, that a man bred in a large
city seldom loses, of noting the coming and going of the iron monsters
that bind the continents.
It was after one o’clock when he went downstairs, shoes in hand, and
nearly three when he returned from his six-mile walk, after dropping his
letter through the well-worn slit in the post-office door. The stairs
creaked provokingly as he made his way up. He heard a slight noise and
saw a light under Margaret’s door, which, as he passed by, opened, and
Margaret herself peered out, shading her candle with her hand, and
looking down the hall. She almost screamed when she saw Gurth so near,
and said quickly, with a catch in her breath: “I heard a noise and
thought the stair door had blown open. Are you ill? Can I do anything
for you?” He looked at her a moment as she stood there in her loose wool
wrapper, her hair hanging in long braids, and it seemed like an answer
to his perplexity. His heart whispered, Trust her, consult her, and he
said gravely, “I am not ill, I thank you, and you can do something for
me, but not to-night.”
Then Waldsen slept the sleep of deep fatigue, but Margaret,
misunderstanding wholly and wakeful with happiness, threw herself on her
knees by her bed and, falling asleep, stayed in this position until the
sun cast streaks across the room and scattered the mist that betokened
the final breaking up of winter.
The March days flew by rapidly, and it was almost April. The willows
were showing yellow stems, and the river swirled under them with new
fervour. Hepaticas bloomed in the wood edges, while violets crept along
in the sheltered garden border; bluebirds purled about the mill, while
the kingfishers quarrelled over the pond. At every meal Waldsen brought
the account of some new bird or unknown flower, until the Deacon was
almost vexed, and told him in a sternly parental way that he would never
make his salt, but fill his farm with brakes and briers, growing
strawberries for robins and raspberries for catbirds; but Margaret only
smiled, treasuring every leaf he brought, and spent much time out of
doors watching the messengers of spring that she never before had
noticed, feeling that life was good.
Easter came in middle April, and the little church at Glen Village was
to be decorated with flowers. The day before, Gurth went into town with
a load of feed, stopping on his way at the post-office, and found a
letter from Andrea that made him resolve to act at once.
On his way home he bought two pots of blooming lilies, which he placed
on Margaret’s table in the sitting-room, as an Easter gift to the home.
As she thanked him, bending over the flowers, he said, “Miss Margaret, a
while ago I said that you could do something for me. I have come to ask
it now, but before I speak there is much that I must tell you, so that
you may understand.” Margaret, making a gesture of assent, stood
clinging to the curtain for support, still bending over the lilies.
Gurth began slowly and hesitatingly with his father’s unhappy marriage
and his loveless childhood, speaking deliberately, and choosing his
words like a lawyer presenting his case. A puzzled expression gradually
spread over Margaret’s face, but as he told her of his meeting with
Andrea and his love for her, she gave the curtain so sudden a jerk that
it tore from its fastenings, and fell in a heap upon her. Gurth, merely
thinking that she had stood too long, lifted the curtain, gave her a
chair, and continued his narrative, with unconscious egotism. For more
than an hour he talked; the Deacon peeped in and hastily withdrew,
thinking that the young folks were coming to an understanding.
Margaret did not say a word, but so absorbed was Gurth that he did not
notice it. A terrible struggle was rending her, and she could not trust
herself to speak. Not only had her life hinged itself upon an
impossibility, but the mistake that had made such a thing possible had
come from giving credence to the story of the carpenter.
As every detail of the past three months came before her, she realized
how innocent of any deception Waldsen had been, and the very advice he
was now seeking proved his confidence in her. The secret was her
own,—at least she had that comfort. Then a wave of pain passed over
her, almost stopping her breath and seizing her throat in an iron grasp.
She dimly saw that Gurth was showing her some letters, and gathered
herself together only to receive a fresh blow,—his appeal for Andrea.
For though he did not ask it in so many words, she knew what was in his
mind.
When he had finished and stood expectantly before her, she could no
longer contend with herself, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she
said, “I must think before I answer you, but I will do all I can.” As
she passed him he saw the tears, and, taking her hand, he stooped and
kissed it reverently, saying, “God bless you for your sympathy.”
The Deacon did not return for tea, having business in town, and Waldsen,
much surprised at Margaret’s absence, ate his meal alone.
Margaret herself sat in her east window looking at the twilight, and,
when it faded, at the stars. The marsh frogs piped monotonously, and the
water rushed over the dam, falling below with a hollow thud. Soon
Waldsen’s violin sounded from his open window,—to-night he played “The
Songs without Words,” one after another, chancing to end with “Lost
Happiness.” As Margaret listened, now that the first shock was over, she
was soothed. At first she did not think it was possible that she could
have Andrea in the house, and then she knew that only by some such
object lesson would she realize that Waldsen could not belong to her.
Andrea should come, and they would work together. Zella was shiftless
and constantly threatening to go. To tell her father and make him
comprehend the change was her next task. Puritan in education and
temperament, no other thought but to bend to the seemingly inevitable
occurred to her.
On Easter Day no one who heard Margaret sing at church knew of her
struggle, and yet her voice moved those plain people as it never had
before, and they spoke of it among themselves in walking home. “The Dane
must have taught her,” they said, “for they do say he can write music.”
When Margaret told the Deacon that portion of Waldsen’s story relating
to Andrea, he did not betray the surprise he felt. He was, however,
completely bewildered by this development, though he had long since
ceased judging his daughter by ordinary standards. He was both
disappointed and glad; he would have raised no objections to Margaret’s
marriage with the young Dane, yet when he knew the exact facts regarding
Gurth and Andrea, he was surprised at the sudden feeling of relief that
came over him, for while he liked Gurth as a companion, he had grave
doubts as to his permanent contentment in the life that he had now
chosen.
But then, if Margaret was not in love with Waldsen, what had caused her
increased interest in life, and drawn her from her usual seclusion? He
had it now! and blamed himself for having been so blind. Of course, it
was the promised trip to Europe that had given her motive, and Waldsen
having travelled, what more likely than that they had often talked of
the matter? Very well, let Andrea come and marry Waldsen. They could
then keep house for him during Margaret’s absence. Nothing would be
simpler.
When the Deacon, after much patient listening, understood the objections
to a marriage before Christmas, he became quite angry. “Such nonsense I
never heard before. So he doesn’t wish to marry the girl until his own
house is ready! and she doesn’t wish to marry him until Christmas
because she once promised her father that she would not, and he has
since practically turned her out of doors! A pretty pair of fools
playing at independence!” But when the Deacon saw that Margaret was
deeply interested and sympathized with the couple, and when she
represented to him how much better it would be to have some one like
Andrea to help her with the housework, rather than a mere clumsy animal
like Zella, who must be constantly watched, he relented after many
grumblings and doubts as to the ability of the two girls to accomplish
the work.
“How will it be when you come to feeding the berry hands? You know
there’s no one to board them at the Hill Farm this season!”
“Mother and cousin Susan were able to do it,” replied Margaret, quietly.
“I am going to take an interest in the place now, father; I have idled
too long.” So Andrea was sent for, Margaret writing the letter in a
kindly tone, but as a mistress engaging a helper, making no mention of
Waldsen except as of a friend who knew that she wished to come to
America. Early in May word came that Andrea’s steamer was due the next
day, and Gurth went up to meet her.
All the day long Margaret was busy making preparations. “Looks to me as
if you expected the Queen, instead of a helper,” joked her father, as he
saw her putting up muslin curtains in the little room next to her own
(Zella had occupied a bit of a place over the wash-house), and then, as
she flushed hotly, he added hastily, “I’m glad you’re going to have a
girl companion, daughter, but don’t work too hard; you’re getting pale
again.”
At two o’clock everything was ready, and the train from Bridgeton was
not due until half-past four. Margaret sat by her window. Everything
outside was spring green; only the mill showed its shingles through the
spotted branches of the plane trees, for they leaf out late. A mist of
greenery veiled the river, but the pond was a glittering mirror. On the
edge of the berry fields the cherry trees were shaking down a rain of
petals, and bluebirds were murmuring about in pairs, while the
song-sparrows kept up their sweet, persistent song from the meadow
bushes.
Margaret tried to fix her thoughts on the scene before her. Would the
orioles come back to the elm that touched the roof? She hoped so, for
Waldsen was so anxious to see them weave their nest. And the fly-catcher
with the leather-coloured back—she wondered if he would again leave
snake-skins hanging from his nest-hole in the old apple tree, as he did
last year. Gurth had never seen such a nest.
She left the window and walked slowly up and down the room, the fact
forcing itself upon her that whatever she did now or had done for the
last three months, was for Waldsen’s sake.
She had stayed at home and sent for Andrea, to give him pleasure as well
as to bring herself to a realization of his betrothal, but she had not
understood until this moment exactly what an ordeal she must go through
on seeing Andrea and Gurth together for the first time. She wished that
she could run away,—that she had gone abroad, anything, anywhere,
rather than see their love-making. It was too late. The love that had
entered her heart unasked could not be driven out by argument. She must
go on living as if nothing had happened; perhaps years hence when the
children at the Hill Farm called her aunty, it might be different, but
not now—not now!
The train was already in sight when Margaret drove up to the little
brown station at Glen Village. She was alone, as at the last moment her
father had been obliged to go to the mill. The horses were restless, and
they furnished Margaret with an excuse for remaining in the wagon where
she could see Andrea from a distance.
The train passed on, a moment of intense silence followed, sparrows
quarrelled under the eaves, and a gentle rain of catkins fell from a
maple; it is strange how at such times of tension minute details hold
the attention.
Another minute,—Gurth came around the corner and down the long plank
walk,—he carried a very small, old-fashioned round-topped trunk on his
shoulder, and following him was a young girl who did not look more than
sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a black jacket, rather short skirt, and
very plain hat that fitted closely over the smooth braids of yellow
hair. As she came nearer, Margaret saw that the short dress was
responsible for the appearance of extreme youth, for her face was pale,
serious, and even careworn, and the big blue eyes were brimming with
tears. The strain and uncertainty of the last few months had told upon
Andrea, and the loneliness of the voyage had almost paralyzed her, but
it was not until she was safely on land and at her journey’s end that
tears came. Margaret longed to take the poor little thing in her arms
and comfort her, for the frightened eyes called upon her strong motherly
instinct; but this would never do, so she merely greeted her pleasantly,
handing the reins to Gurth, saying, “I will sit on the back seat with
Andrea.”
For half a mile or so they drove in silence, Margaret wishing to give
her companion time to recover herself. Then she began an easy
conversation, leading gradually to Andrea herself and her voyage. Andrea
understood English as readily as Gurth, but spoke without his literary
nicety; yet before they arrived at the Mill Farm they were all three
talking easily, though Andrea maintained a sort of diffidence, as if in
the presence of a mistress. Noticing this, Margaret, as soon as they
reached home, signalled Waldsen to go with the horses, and took Andrea
immediately to her room.
Once there, after showing Andrea where to put her very scanty
belongings, Margaret drew her to a seat in the window, and, taking her
hand, very gently said: “I wrote you that I wanted a girl to help me
with my work, and that Gurth Waldsen told me that you wished to come to
America. This was true, but I did not write that I also know the story
of his life and of yours, also. We thought it best for you to come here
first, and, finding yourself among friends, all would seem plain to
you.”
“He—he has told you about his mother—that we are betrothed, and all?”
cried Andrea, her mild eyes blazing, and a crimson spot glowing under
each high cheek-bone. “Told it all to a stranger, and you have asked me
here from charity? Oh, Gurth! how cruel of you, how could you?” sobbed
Andrea, burying her face in her arms.
“I wanted our new life to be real; I thought that we should be working
people and have only what we earned, and that there would be no more
inequality between us or false positions, and now it is all over,—even
our trouble is not our own! It was cowardly in Gurth! cowardly, I say!”
Margaret was at a loss how to reply to this outburst. Andrea’s fatigue
and worry would account for her vehemence, but allowing for this, there
was some truth underlying her complaint, which made it difficult to cope
with. Andrea’s nature was wholly genuine; when she said she wished to
work, she meant it, but with Gurth work was a more abstract idea, a
necessity arising from a desire to marry Andrea.
Margaret sat in silence, until finally, as Andrea’s sobs ceased, she
drew the girl’s head up so she could look at her. “Think a little before
you condemn Waldsen. You are tired and excited, and also unjust to say
that I sent for you out of charity. I needed a helper, and I also wished
a companion. I was sure, from what we have seen of him during these
months, that the woman for whom Gurth Waldsen had left his home and
fortune would easily understand his present position, and the feelings
that prevented him from allowing her to place herself out as a drudge.
The idea of keeping your secret was natural, but impossible; you must
accept things as they now are, and thus begin the reality.
“Come, wipe your eyes, do you want Gurth to see them all red and
swollen? Put some cool water on them,—there, so. Now I will leave you
awhile, but come down in half an hour, for you are to be cook, you
know.” Margaret managed to laugh pleasantly, as she went to find Waldsen
and arrest any tendency to a misunderstanding that might arise.
He was coming from the barnyard with the milkpails, and his almost
boyish look of happiness broke into a smile when he saw Margaret.
“Have you told her? Was she not delighted to know how everything is
arranged? I did not say a word, but left the pleasure for you, dear
friend, you have so deserved it!”
It seemed a pity to undeceive him; it is always a pity to blast a man’s
enthusiasm when he has prepared, what he considers, a pleasant surprise
for the woman he loves. Many a separation has started with such a
repulse from the thin edge of the wedge.
Margaret gave a rapid summary of Andrea’s feeling, softening and
smoothing everything, and adding that the best thing would be to take
her up to the Hill Farm after tea. The sight of her future home would do
more to reassure her, and give her a feeling of confidence, than any
words.
Waldsen had put down his pails and stood looking at Margaret as she
spoke. Her face was turned partly towards him, but she was looking past
over the hills. She wore a plain, soft, gray woollen gown with a dark
red belt and neck-band, and there was a bit of red, her favourite
colour, in her hat, while her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of
the scene she had just undergone. He wondered that he had never noticed
before how fine her face was, how graceful and well poised her carriage,
and he listened to what she said, half bowing as to a superior being.
* * * * *
The first meal passed off happily enough; Andrea, looking very sweet and
shy, had added a light blue neckerchief to her almost nunlike black
gown, her tears having only given a natural colour to her face. Waldsen
beamed upon her in his happiness, occasionally relapsing inadvertently
to Danish as they talked, much to the amusement of the Deacon, who
seemed quite jovial, and indeed it was a pleasure to him to have three
young faces at the table.
After supper Margaret and Andrea washed the dishes and put them away,
Margaret saying casually: “Gurth wants you to take a walk with him; he
has a surprise for you. I will set the bread to-night and close the
house; to-morrow you shall begin and do your half. Go, Andrea; the sun
will be down before you are halfway up the hill.”
“Will you not come also, Miss Margaret?” said Waldsen’s soft voice.
“Not to-night.”