suddenly from a maple near the house. Rob, the collie, gave an uneasy
whine, and coming in, poked his cold nose into Margaret’s hand, as if
impatient at her revery. She patted him, went to the table, lighted the
lamp, and was arranging the backgammon-board just as her father’s step
sounded on the piazza.
“What! all alone, daughter? This seems like old times,” he said, as he
sat down to his game. “So the lovers haven’t come back yet, eh? How we
miss Waldsen!” Looking up, expecting a reply, he saw that Margaret was
apparently absorbed in an intricate move.
V
It was a good season. The days were bright, the nights brought plentiful
showers, everything throve at the fruit farm, and at midsummer Ezra
Tolford found that he had outdone his best expectations.
Other things prospered besides the products of the soil. Andrea was her
plump, rosy self again, radiant with happiness and energy. The life she
led was that for which she was born, the life that countless generations
of her kindred had lived before her. She loved the daily round of
labour, loved to cook, to keep the house neat. She loved the breath of
the rich earth, when the plough rent the furrows. She loved the simple
gossip of the neighbours, who ran in to consult with bated breath the
wearing possibilities of a dress pattern or a new stitch in knitting.
She had no doubts or fears, but was contented.
When she first met Gurth, his world seemed so far from hers, so much
above and apart, that she listened to all he said with silent
acquiescence, yielding always to his judgment, and never presuming to
discuss matters of which she could have no knowledge, all the while
adoring him with the idealizing passion of first love.
Now this was changed; he was no longer a knight from dreamland, but a
fellow-worker, with whom she might discuss plans into which she had a
far more practical insight than he. She loved him as devotedly, but on a
rational plane.
As for Gurth, did he like this reversal? He was often worried by his own
state of mind. Physically he was well, and, though rather thin, his face
wore a healthy sun bronze. All his plans were going forward smoothly,
the Hill Farm was nearly ready for its autumn planting of small fruits,
and there would be money enough left over to bridge the way for the
little household, until the soil yielded its crops,—yet he was not
wholly contented.
Andrea’s complete satisfaction and identification with her work seemed a
reproach to him. Was this vigorous woman the same being as the girl who
a year before stood blushing and silent, or else was moved to tears when
he read aloud or played his violin to her? She seemed no longer to need
protection, but rather to protect him.
His violin, could he have dreamed that he should ever become estranged
from it? As his fingers grew stiff from contact with the soil, they
stumbled over the strings insensibly, and the vibrating instrument
seemed to grow shrill and wail in grief at the rough touch.
Then he would try again and play something more simple with a legato
movement, when, perhaps, Andrea would frankly say, “What ails your
violin, dearest? It seems out of tune, you do not play it as you used.”
Then he would put it by.
As for books, there was no time for them, no time for study and dreams.
During the early spring he had read almost nightly to Margaret, and
often Ezra Tolford joined in the talk that followed. Now Andrea nodded
laughingly if he merely suggested reading, and asked him if he supposed
she could keep awake to hear him, when she must churn to-morrow. As he
rose to go, perhaps, to his attic for a quiet hour, she would twine her
arms around his neck and tell him it was not good to spoil his eyes with
books on summer nights, and so the days went by.
Gradually it seemed to him that Margaret was the one link that held
before him what he used to be. She said but very little to him usually,
but went on with her daily life, keeping herself as ever refined and
self-contained. It was through her only now that Waldsen knew that the
world still rolled on. It was from her conversation that he gained
scraps from books, magazines, and even the daily news, as she talked to
interest Andrea as they worked and chatted together. In music, too, it
was the same. With exquisite tact she would choose some song that Andrea
knew and could sing correctly and ask Gurth to accompany them.
Waldsen went to church with his betrothed every Sunday evening, and all
the neighbours found it most right and proper; but it was not prayer or
sermon or even the companionship of Andrea that held him through the
long session, but Margaret’s voice leading the simple hymns. It seemed
as if, in singing, she was speaking to him alone, and Gurth was both
moved and puzzled by the transformation of her features.
One Sunday she chanced to look in his direction as she was singing and
caught his expression as he gazed at her. Next day she told her father
that she must rest her voice, and asked him to let Andrea supply her
place in the choir for a while. She would like, she said, if possible to
go to Glen Village for a week or so to stay with Mrs. Watson, an old
friend of her mother’s, who was quite ill and needed friendly care. All
this seemed most natural to the Deacon, who was quite satisfied that
Andrea could manage for that length of time.
Margaret imagined that she was doing a wise thing in going away and
leaving the pair wholly to themselves. On the contrary it opened
Waldsen’s eyes to the position in which he stood, which to be perhaps
brutally direct was this—the two women had changed places. He loved
Andrea as a merry companion, but through her new competence and force
she had lost her hold upon his mystic inner nature, that valued the
ideal above the real. The two had not developed in unison and,
practically, she had outstripped him. It was to Margaret that his spirit
clung. Margaret, the woman he thought without emotion, as distant from
him as the evening star, the reticence of whose nature fascinated him.
Waldsen was not morally inconstant. He was paying the penalty of a joint
heritage of romance and hot-headed impulse. The blood of his parents did
not mingle but contended in his veins.
Acadia was fading in a mist; love for love’s sake, the thrill of music
and the ideal in Nature were passing away, yet he never for a moment
entertained the slightest thought of turning backwards. The soil was
there grasping and swallowing; he had pledged his future to wrestling
with it for his bread; if he conquered, it might yield him food, and
finally—peace. Andrea would be happy, and doubtless he should be
content when his neck had become accustomed to the yoke; for, after all,
his student philosophy aided him, and he realized that there is much in
habit.
* * * * *
With the autumn came the furnishing of the house at the Hill Farm, and
it occupied many of the dull days of early November. Andrea was in her
element, and in a state of tranquil elation.
Only four rooms were to be used at first; a sunny kitchen, and
sitting-room, and two bedrooms above. One of these was to have a blue
paper and the other an old-fashioned chintz pattern sprinkled with
bunches of poppies. “The poppies are for your room, Margaret—” said
Andrea, when they were in the shop at Bridgeton choosing the household
goods. “You like red so much, and you will stay with us often, always
when your father goes away, you know.”
Margaret smiled at her ardour, but never was impatient or seemed to tire
of discussing the little details so dear to the prospective young
housekeeper, or of making visits with her to the new home and guiding
her somewhat abrupt taste.
As Andrea worked with a will, her enthusiasm infected Waldsen, and he
believed himself happy again, until he discovered, as he usually did,
that some arrangement which particularly delighted him was a happy
thought of Margaret’s.
At this time Margaret was often away from home. After her visit to Mrs.
Watson, one of her old schoolmates, who had recently married and settled
in Bridgeton, begged her to come there for a visit; and she felt also
that she must have change, so she promised to stay two weeks with her
friend.
“Send for me if you need me for anything, no matter how trifling,” she
said, when she left home.
Margaret had been at Bridgeton about ten days. It was a rainy evening,
and she was sitting by the open fire with her friends, talking about
school-days.
The dog, who had been sleeping on the hearth-rug, started suddenly, and,
after cocking his ears in a listening attitude, rushed to the door,
barking violently. Horses’ hoofs sounded on the road with the peculiar
sucking thud that rain and mud lend; the gate banged to, and hurried
footsteps crossed the piazza. Margaret, without knowing why, went
quickly to the door and opened it before her friends comprehended what
she was doing, or before any one knocked.
On the threshold, lantern in hand, stood Ezra Tolford. Water was
streaming from the limp brim of his felt hat and ran down his rubber
coat in little streams.
“I knew it was some one from home! What is it, father?” Margaret cried.
The Deacon had a white, scared look and moistened his lips with his
tongue twice before he answered—“Waldsen is very sick; the doctor says
it’s pneumonia. A lot of neighbours have come in and upset things under
pretext of helping Andrea. Doctor Russell says we must have a nurse if
he lasts through to-night, and I thought you’d want to know!”
Margaret did not hear the last words; she was already upstairs and back
again, buttoning her thick coat as she came. Her friends protested
against her going out on such a night, her father joining them, but not
insistently. He seemed ill at ease, as if he had some secret on his
mind.
Bidding good-by hastily, in another moment Margaret was in the wagon
tucking the wraps around her and trying to hold her umbrella against the
wind, while the Deacon turned the horses homeward, so content in having
her with him that he forgot to speak. “Tell me all about it, father, and
why you did not send for me sooner,” she said in an unsteady voice.
“Well, daughter, it all happened so quickly that there was no time for
anything. Three days ago Waldsen went into the village with a load of
feed, and it came on to rain heavily. He was all in a sweat handling the
bags and got sopping wet driving back,—a thing that has happened to me
a dozen times.”
“The next day he was about as usual, but spoke of a catching in his
chest. But yesterday he gave up and the doctor came, and he says that
the heart has been overstrained somehow, and he doesn’t expect to bring
him round!”
“And Andrea, how does she bear it?” whispered Margaret, her throat
almost closing when she tried to speak.
“She’s a brave woman. She keeps quite still and heats the poultices and
measures the medicines, like a regular nurse. You see she does not
believe that he will die because he has a good colour, but that’s the
fever. He is delirious and doesn’t know her, and twice he has called for
you!”
“For me! Oh, father, when?”
“Last night, but it is nothing but his raving,—he doesn’t know what he
says; he thought I was his mother!” and the Deacon eyed Margaret
anxiously.
It was eleven o’clock before they reached home, and, leaving her wet
garments in the kitchen, where she found a neighbour who set about
preparing her a cup of tea, Margaret went softly up the stairs.
The fire in the sitting-room had died down and she stirred it up, adding
a fresh log, and resting a moment to collect herself, went to the attic
chamber.
Outside the door of Gurth’s room stood a table with a small oil-stove
upon it and a dish-pan full of flaxseed meal; great squares of cotton
that had made poultices lay about.
Inside the room a bright fire burned, and the screened lamp showed
Andrea sitting on one side of the bed, watching the clock, and father on
the other side, watching the patient, and combining, as often happens in
the calling of the country physician, both doctor and nurse.
Gurth was sleeping, if the uneasy tossing could be called sleep. Father
was trying to keep the poultices in place, and now and then moistened
the dry lips with a bit of ice. On seeing Margaret, Andrea came to the
door, and, without saying a word, put her arms about her and laid her
head on her shoulder, with a gesture of entire confidence that said,
“Now that you have come, all will be right.” Already Margaret seemed the
elder by years.
“Try to persuade her to lie down an hour, Miss Margaret,” said father;
“she has not rested for two days, nor scarcely touched a morsel.” Andrea
yielded, upon the promise that she should be called at the slightest
change.
Margaret took the chair opposite father, rising at intervals to hand him
what he needed. She felt that in being there now she was infringing no
law, social or moral, and that she had a right to the moments that were
so precious to her. It was almost one o’clock; Gurth stirred and
muttered as father gave him some brandy. Suddenly Margaret became
conscious that his eyes were open and fixed upon her with a look that
was unmistakable. As she leaned forward, not trusting her sight, Gurth
suddenly raised himself upon one arm and stretching the other towards
her, grasped her hand, crying “Margaret!” in a joyful voice. The
delirium began again, in which he seemed to be going through the last
interview with his mother. Andrea was called. In vain she begged him to
speak to her, to look at her, but he never again became conscious, and
at five o’clock he died.
It was the day after Thanksgiving when Gurth was laid away in the
hillside burying-ground, where he had so often scattered food for the
hungry birds.
A troop of neighbours followed him there, for he had become a favourite
through his varied tastes; he had meant to settle at the Glen, so he was
one of them, and all the women felt deep pity for Andrea. On the way
back much curiosity was expressed as to what disposition she would make
of the farm, for they all took it for granted that it would be hers.
For a day or two Andrea stayed in her room alone, refusing all offers of
sympathy and barely tasting food. But one morning when Margaret went
down, she found her in the kitchen going about her work the same as
usual. Her face was pale and drawn, but wore a look of quiet resolution
that was unearthly. She did not mention Waldsen, but when the day’s work
was done, went silently to his attic and, after feeding the birds, sat
looking out, where upon the hillside there was a patch of fresh earth.
Margaret, watching the chance, followed her, and seated herself also by
the window. For a moment neither spoke, and then Andrea laid her head in
Margaret’s lap and said, great sobs nearly strangling her,—“Love me!
Margaret, love me! I have tried not to speak of him and to keep the
grief inside, for we have made you so much trouble, but oh, I cannot!”
and the two women, clinging to each other, mingled their tears.
When Andrea grew calmer, Margaret spoke of the future, and how she hoped
that Andrea would always feel that the Mill Farm was her home.
“It’s very good of you, dear Margaret, to want me, and I should like to
stay, but I must finish Gurth’s work and make the fruit farm a
success,—I know that he would wish it.
“These last few days and nights I have thought it out all myself, and I
have decided. There is some money, you know; enough, he often said,
until the fruit yields a return. I shall hire old Mr. and Mrs. Grigs to
live with me, and if, in a year or two, I prosper, I will send for my
little brothers (Ernest is twelve already), and then I shall have help
enough.
“No, do not try to dissuade me, dear Margaret, you do not understand.
When a woman has lost the love that bounded her life, the only thing
between her and despair is a home!”
It fell to Deacon Tolford, in his legal capacity, as probate judge, to
take the steps necessary for the regulation of Waldsen’s affairs. He
told Andrea that, as a matter of form, he must look through Waldsen’s
papers, and she willingly consented, only asking that any letters from
herself be left unread.
The Deacon spent a morning in the attic, then, coming to the
sitting-room where Margaret was sewing, closed the door gently, sat
down, and began drumming on the table with his fingers, his face wearing
a distressed look.
Margaret waited for him to speak, which he soon did, abruptly, as if he
was beginning in the middle of his thoughts.
“Daughter, I want you to ask Andrea to stop with us as long as she
likes. She can’t well go back to Denmark, and I hate to think of her
facing the world so soon after this trouble.”
“I knew you would wish it, father, so I asked her yesterday to live with
us; but she has thought out her future carefully, and I do not see any
reason for opposing her.” Then she gave the details of Andrea’s plan.
The Deacon sat for some minutes, his head sunk between his shoulders,
and then, pulling himself together, said, “I might as well tell you
something first as last, Margaret,—a fact that neither of you women
seems to think possible. Gurth Waldsen left no will or legal papers of
any sort. The farm and money does not belong to Andrea any more than it
does to us! More than this, it is my duty to inform his mother of the
facts, as she is his only heir, and appoint an administrator to take
charge of the estate, pending its settlement!”
Margaret had risen and was standing with dilated eyes and her hands
clasped before her. “Father! father! I never thought of this. Can
nothing be done? Can we not arrange in some way? Oh! who will tell
Andrea?”
“As Waldsen did not have the foresight to protect her, we can do
nothing, daughter. She need not be told for a few weeks, though, until I
receive some order from his mother,—but know it she must. If they had
married last spring, this trouble would have been avoided. Mark my
words, daughter, some niceties of feeling are too good for daily use.
Gurth was a dreamer, and dreams always end like this.”
“Let us wait a few weeks,” interrupted Margaret, hastily. “As you say,
it may seem less brutal than to tell her now, or his mother, who is so
rich, may let Andrea keep the land.”
VI
With December the deep snows came, and there were times when Andrea
could not make her daily pilgrimage to the Hill Farm. She regarded her
plan of life as settled, and was grateful that she met with no
opposition. She had spoken to the Grigses, and was only waiting for
Christmas, her marriage day, to go home! Home! She made the most of the
magic word, not realizing its emptiness.
She was in an overwrought, exalted state. Feeling that Waldsen was very
near, she knew no loneliness. When she was not working, she sat in his
room and looked up the hill. Once or twice she took down his violin, and
drew the bow across its strings, half expecting it would yield its old
music.
To sympathizing neighbours she told her plans freely, and they,
marvelling at her courage, wondered among themselves if her head was
quite right.
The weeks went on, and Margaret dreaded every mail, lest it should bring
the foreign letter. Christmas was drawing near when, on the day before
it, the letter came. It was from Mrs. Waldsen’s lawyer, brief and
couched in technical language, giving directions for the disposal of the
farm and declining peremptorily to make any allowance to “the woman who
had brought about the estrangement between mother and son, and had so
boldly followed the latter to America, though it was evident, as he had
made no provision for her, that he had no intention of marrying her.”
The Deacon handed the paper to Margaret, and then sat looking dumbly at
her. The snow blew against the window in great felty masses; it lay so
deeply over wood and field that no one had been able to gather Christmas
greens; even the laurels on the hillside were weighed down and hidden.
“I cannot tell her,” said Margaret; “wait until after to-morrow; she
will not try to go to the Hill House as she planned, for the road is
drifted over.”
* * * * *
There was to be a Christmas tree down at the church at seven o’clock on
Christmas Eve, and Margaret had promised to lead the carols with the
children, as a matter of course. She looked out at half-past six and
shivered at the storm, but a deacon’s daughter must not quail in the
face of duty,—in a small town she always shares responsibility with the
minister’s wife, and just now the minister’s wife was ill. Soon Andrea
came downstairs dressed in the plain black gown that she had worn when
Margaret first saw her, and said that she also wished to go to church;
and the two women, preceded by the Deacon, and a blinking lantern, felt,
rather than saw, their way out to the sleigh.
Once at the church, Andrea hid herself in the corner of an old-fashioned
high pew, silently looking at the lights and the children’s happy faces.
When the singing began, tears ran down her cheeks, and she made no
effort to restrain them, or even wipe them away.
The Deacon hurried the girls home as soon as possible, after the
exercises were over, for though the storm had ceased, the thermometer
had fallen, and the cold was intense.
Margaret begged Andrea to share her room that night, for the house
seemed inexpressibly dreary, but she refused gently, and, after kissing
Margaret, went up to Waldsen’s attic room. There she moved about awhile,
and finally Margaret heard her go to her own room, and in a few moments
everything was still.
Andrea did not sleep, however, or even undress; the music had excited
her imagination. It was Christmas Eve; how many years ago was the last
Christmas? She had prepared no present for Waldsen, not even a wreath
for his grave. The thought distressed her out of its due proportion.
Then she remembered that, under the eaves in his room, there was a sheaf
of rye that he had saved to be the Christmas sheaf for their new home.
She would take that up to the hill to him, and all the hungry birds
would come there to-morrow for their festival. Presently it seemed to
her as if the night lifted and day was dawning.
Andrea found the sheaf, and, pinning a shawl about her head and
shoulders, crept softly downstairs. The wind blew so that she could
barely close the woodshed door behind her; at her first step she sank
knee-deep in the snow. Then a sort of second sight came to aid her, and
she chose the places bared by the wind in picking out her path.
The moon came out brightly and the shadows bowed and beckoned
encouragement to her as she struggled on. Could she ever climb the hill?
Twice the wind wound her in her shawl and she fell, but, pausing a
moment for breath, regained her footing. The sheaf grew like lead in her
arms, and the wind fought with her for it.
At last she reached the picket fence that encircled the hill of white
stones. The gate held fast until, dropping her burden, she shovelled the
snow away desperately with her hands and released it. Was she growing
dizzy? No, she felt stronger, better. The few clouds vanished, driven by
the moon. A new light shone about the place, and beautiful colours
radiated from the blowing particles of snow. The wind hushed its
shrillness to soft music, the notes of Gurth’s violin. She was in her
old home once more, and the little brothers were singing their carol.
How the wind blew! she must hurry now,—only a few steps more. Again the
music arose; strange! it seemed to be her own voice that sang to the
accompaniment of Gurth’s violin,—
“Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer!”
She caught hold of a stone to steady herself and turned toward the
unmarked mound. Her feet almost refused to move, one final effort! It
grew light again! Joy! The sheaf of rye seemed to part and open a way
before her, revealing Waldsen standing on the threshold of the Hill
House—would he close the door without seeing her? Casting herself
forward, she cried, “Wait, beloved, I am coming!” and then all was
warmth and light.
* * * * *
In the morning Margaret did not call Andrea when she first awoke. “Day
will come to her soon enough,” she said. An hour later she went to the
empty room and then, finding the bed untouched, searched the house in
vain. Calling the Deacon, he suggested that Andrea might have gone to
the Hill House, but there were no footsteps in the snow to guide them,
for it had drifted all night.
A party of neighbours quickly formed; the men strode about, probing the
drifts with sticks, while the women looked anxiously from their windows.