A Very Interested Friend
For the next few days, Holcroft lived alone. The weather remained
inclement and there was no occasion for him to go farther away than the
barn and outbuildings. He felt that a crisis in his life was
approaching, that he would probably be compelled to sell his property
for what it would bring, and begin life again under different auspices.
"I must either sell or marry," he groaned, "and one's about as hard and
bad as the other. Who'll buy the place and stock at half what they're
worth, and where could I find a woman that would look at an old fellow
like me, even if I could bring myself to look at her?"
The poor man did indeed feel that he was shut up to dreadful
alternatives. With his ignorance of the world, and dislike for contact
with strangers, selling out and going away was virtually starting out
on an unknown sea without rudder or compass. It was worse than
that--it was the tearing up of a life that had rooted itself in the
soil whereon he had been content from childhood to middle age. He
would suffer more in going, and in the memory of what he had parted
with, than in any of the vicissitudes which might overtake him. He had
not much range of imagination or feeling, but within his limitations
his emotions were strong and his convictions unwavering. Still, he
thought it might be possible to live in some vague, unknown place,
doing some kind of work for people with whom he need not have very much
to do. "I've always been my own master, and done things in my own way,"
he muttered, "but I suppose I could farm it to suit some old, quiet
people, if I could only find 'em. One thing is certain, anyhow--I
couldn't stay here in Oakville, and see another man living in these
rooms, and plowing my fields, and driving his cows to my old pasture
lots. That would finish me like a galloping consumption."
Every day he shrunk with a strange dread from the wrench of parting
with the familiar place and with all that he associated with his wife.
This was really the ordeal which shook his soul, and not the fear that
he would be unable to earn his bread elsewhere. The unstable
multitude, who are forever fancying that they would be better off
somewhere else or at something else, can have no comprehension of this
deep-rooted love of locality and the binding power of long association.
They regard such men as Holcroft as little better than plodding oxen.
The highest tribute which some people can pay to a man, however, is to
show that they do not and cannot understand him. But the farmer was
quite indifferent whether he was understood or not. He gave no thought
to what people said or might say. What were people to him? He only
had a hunted, pathetic sense of being hedged in and driven to bay.
Even to his neighbors, there was more of the humorous than the tragic
in his plight. It was supposed that he had a goodly sum in the bank,
and gossips said that he and his wife thought more of increasing this
hoard than of each other, and that old Holcroft's mourning was chiefly
for a business partner. His domestic tribulations evoked mirth rather
than sympathy; and as the news spread from farmhouse to cottage of his
summary bundling of Bridget and her satellites out of doors, there were
both hilarity and satisfaction.
While there was little commiseration for the farmer, there was decided
disapprobation of the dishonest Irish tribe, and all were glad that the
gang had received a lesson which might restrain them from preying upon
others.
Holcroft was partly to blame for his present isolation. Remote rural
populations are given to strong prejudices, especially against those
who are thought to be well-off from an oversaving spirit; and who,
worse still, are unsocial. Almost anything will be forgiven sooner
than "thinking one's self better than the other folks;" and that is the
usual interpretation of shy, reticent people. But there had been a
decided tinge of selfishness in the Holcrofts' habit of seclusion; for
it became a habit rather than a principle. While they cherished no
active dislike to their neighbors, or sense of superiority, these were
not wholly astray in believing that they had little place in the
thoughts or interests of the occupants of the hill farm. Indifference
begat indifference, and now the lonely, helpless man had neither the
power nor the disposition to bridge the chasm which separated him from
those who might have given him kindly and intelligent aid. He was
making a pathetic effort to keep his home and to prevent his heart from
being torn bleeding away from all it loved. His neighbors thought that
he was merely exerting himself to keep the dollars which it had been
the supreme motive of his life to accumulate.
Giving no thought to the opinions of others, Holcroft only knew that he
was in sore straits--that all which made his existence a blessing was
at stake.
At times, during these lonely and stormy March days, he would dismiss
his anxious speculations in regard to his future course. He was so
morbid, especially at night, that he felt that his wife could revisit
the quiet house. He cherished the hope that she could see him and hear
what he said, and he spoke in her viewless presence with a freedom and
fullness that was unlike his old reticence and habit of repression. He
wondered that he had not said more endearing words and given her
stronger assurance of how much she was to him. Late at night, he would
start out of a long reverie, take a candle, and, going through the
house, would touch what she had touched, and look long and fixedly at
things associated with her. Her gowns still hung in the closet, just
as she had left them; he would take them out and recall the
well-remembered scenes and occasions when they were worn. At such
times, she almost seemed beside him, and he had a consciousness of
companionship which soothed his perturbed spirit. He felt that she
appreciated such loving remembrance, although unable to express her
approval. He did not know it, but his nature was being softened,
deepened, and enriched by these deep and unwonted experiences; the hard
materiality of his life was passing away, rendering him capable of
something better than he had ever known.
In the morning all the old, prosaic problems of his life would return,
with their hard, practical insistence, and he knew that he must decide
upon something very soon. His lonely vigils and days of quiet had
brought him to the conclusion that he could not hunt up a wife as a
matter of business. He would rather face the "ever angry bears" than
breathe the subject of matrimony to any woman that he could ever
imagine himself marrying. He was therefore steadily drifting toward
the necessity of selling everything and going away. This event,
however, was like a coral reef to a sailor, with no land in view beyond
it. The only thing which seemed certain was the general breaking up of
all that had hitherto made his life.
The offer of help came from an unexpected source. One morning Holcroft
received a call from a neighbor who had never before shown any interest
in his affairs. On this occasion, however, Mr. Weeks began to display
so much solicitude that the farmer was not only surprised, but also a
little distrustful. Nothing in his previous knowledge of the man had
prepared the way for such very kindly intervention.
After some general references to the past, Mr. Weeks continued, "I've
been saying to our folks that it was too bad to let you worry on alone
without more neighborly help. You ought either to get married or have
some thoroughly respectable and well-known middle-aged woman keep house
for you. That would stop all talk, and there's been a heap of it, I
can tell you. Of course, I and my folks don't believe anything's been
wrong."
"Believing that something was wrong is about all the attention my
neighbors have given me, as far as I can see," Holcroft remarked
bitterly.
"Well, you see, Holcroft, you've kept yourself so inside your shell
that people don't know what to believe. Now, the thing to do is to
change all that. I know how hard it is for a man, placed as you be, to
get decent help. My wife was a-wondering about it the other day, and I
shut her up mighty sudden by saying, 'You're a good manager, and know
all the country side, yet how often you're a-complaining that you can't
get a girl that's worth her salt to help in haying and other busy times
when we have to board a lot of men.' Well, I won't beat around the bush
any more. I've come to act the part of a good neighbor. There's no
use of you're trying to get along with such haphazard help as you can
pick up here and in town. You want a respectable woman for
housekeeper, and then have a cheap, common sort of a girl to work under
her. Now, I know of just such a woman, and it's not unlikely she'd be
persuaded to take entire charge of your house and dairy. My wife's
cousin, Mrs. Mumpson--" At the mention of this name Holcroft gave a
slight start, feeling something like a cold chill run down his back.
Mr. Weeks was a little disconcerted but resumed, "I believe she called
on your wife once?"
"Yes," the farmer replied laconically. "I was away and did not see her."
"Well, now," pursued Mr. Weeks, "she's a good soul. She has her little
peculiarities; so have you and me, a lot of 'em; but she's thoroughly
respectable, and there isn't a man or woman in the town that would
think of saying a word against her. She has only one child, a nice,
quiet little girl who'd be company for her mother and make everything
look right, you know."
"I don't see what there's been to look wrong," growled the farmer.
"Nothing to me and my folks, of course, or I wouldn't suggest the idea
of a relation of my wife coming to live with you. But you see people
will talk unless you stop their mouths so they'll feel like fools in
doing it. I know yours has been a mighty awkward case, and here's a
plain way out of it. You can set yourself right and have everything
looked after as it ought to be, in twenty-four hours. We've talked to
Cynthy--that's Mrs. Mumpson--and she takes a sight of interest. She'd
do well by you and straighten things out, and you might do a plaguey
sight worse than give her the right to take care of your indoor affairs
for life."
"I don't expect to marry again," said Holcroft curtly.
"Oh, well! Many a man and woman has said that and believed it, too, at
the time. I'm not saying that my wife's cousin is inclined that way
herself. Like enough, she isn't at all, but then, the right kind of
persuading does change women's minds sometimes, eh? Mrs. Mumpson is
kinder alone in the world, like yourself, and if she was sure of a good
home and a kind husband there's no telling what good luck might happen
to you. But there'll be plenty of time for considering all that on
both sides. You can't live like a hermit."
"I was thinking of selling out and leaving these parts," Holcroft
interrupted.
"Now look here, neighbor, you know as well as I do that in these times
you couldn't give away the place. What's the use of such foolishness?
The thing to do is to keep the farm and get a good living out of it.
You've got down in the dumps and can't see what's sensible and to your
own advantage."
Holcroft was thinking deeply, and he turned his eyes wistfully to the
upland slopes of his farm. Mr. Weeks had talked plausibly, and if all
had been as he represented, the plan would not have been a bad one.
But the widower did not yearn for the widow. He did not know much
about her, but had very unfavorable impressions. Mrs. Holcroft had not
been given to speaking ill of anyone, but she had always shaken her
head with a peculiar significance when Mrs. Mumpson's name was
mentioned.
The widow had felt it her duty to call and counsel against the sin of
seclusion and being too much absorbed in the affairs of this world.
"You should take an interest in everyone," this self-appointed
evangelist had declared, and in one sense she lived up to her creed.
She permitted no scrap of information about people to escape her, and
was not only versed in all the gossip of Oakville, but also of several
other localities in which she visited.
But Holcroft had little else to deter him from employing her services
beyond an unfavorable impression. She could not be so bad as Bridget
Malony, and he was almost willing to employ her again for the privilege
of remaining on his paternal acres. As to marrying the widow--a slight
shudder passed through his frame at the thought.
Slowly he began, as if almost thinking aloud, "I suppose you are right,
Lemuel Weeks, in what you say about selling the place. The Lord knows
I don't want to leave it. I was born and brought up here, and that
counts with some people. If your wife's cousin is willing to come and
help me make a living, for such wages as I can pay, the arrangement
might be made. But I want to look on it as a business arrangement. I
have quiet ways of my own, and things belonging to the past to think
about, and I've got a right to think about 'em. I aint one of the
marrying kind, and I don't want people to be a-considering such notions
when I don't. I'd be kind and all that to her and her little girl, but
I should want to be left to myself as far as I could be."
"Oh, certainly," said Mr. Weeks, mentally chuckling over the slight
prospect of such immunity, "but you must remember that Mrs. Mumpson
isn't like common help--"
"That's where the trouble will come in," ejaculated the perplexed
farmer, "but there's been trouble enough with the other sort."
"I should say so," Mr. Weeks remarked emphatically. "It would be a pity
if you couldn't get along with such a respectable, conscientious woman
as Mrs. Mumpson, who comes from one of the best families in the
country."
Holcroft removed his hat and passed his hand over his brow wearily as
he said, "Oh, I could get along with anyone who would do the work in a
way that would give me a chance to make a little, and then leave me to
myself."
"Well, well," said Mr. Weeks, laughing, "you needn't think that because
I've hinted at a good match for you I'm making one for my wife's
cousin. You may see the day when you'll be more hot for it than she
is. All I'm trying to do is to help you keep your place, and live like
a man ought and stop people's mouths."
"If I could only fill my own and live in peace, it's all I ask. When I
get to plowing and planting again I'll begin to take some comfort."
These words were quoted against Holcroft, far and near. "Filling his
own mouth and making a little money are all he cares for," was the
general verdict. And thus people are misunderstood. The farmer had
never turned anyone hungry from his door, and he would have gone to the
poorhouse rather than have acted the part of the man who misrepresented
him. He had only meant to express the hope that he might be able to
fill his mouth--earn his bread, and get it from his native soil.
"Plowing and planting"--working where he had toiled since a
child--would be a solace in itself, and not a grudged means to a sordid
end.
Mr. Weeks was a thrifty man also, and in nothing was he more economical
than in charitable views of his neighbors' motives and conduct. He
drove homeward with the complacent feeling that he had done a shrewd,
good thing for himself and "his folks" at least. His wife's cousin was
not exactly embraced in the latter category, although he had been so
active in her behalf. The fact was, he would be at much greater pains
could he attach her to Holcroft or anyone else and so prevent further
periodical visits.
He regarded her and her child as barnacles with such appalling adhesive
powers that even his ingenuity at "crowding out" had been baffled. In
justice to him, it must be admitted that Mrs. Mumpson was a type of the
poor relation that would tax the long suffering of charity itself. Her
husband had left her scarcely his blessing, and if he had fled to ills
he knew not of, he believed that he was escaping from some of which he
had a painfully distinct consciousness. His widow was one of the
people who regard the "world as their oyster," and her scheme of life
was to get as much as possible for nothing. Arrayed in mourning weeds,
she had begun a system of periodical descents upon his relatives and
her own. She might have made such visitations endurable and even
welcome, but she was not shrewd enough to be sensible. She appeared to
have developed only the capacity to talk, to pry, and to worry people.
She was unable to rest or to permit others to rest, yet her aversion to
any useful form of activity was her chief characteristic. Wherever she
went she took the ground that she was "company," and with a shawl
hanging over her sharp, angular shoulders, she would seize upon the
most comfortable rocking chair in the house, and mouse for bits of news
about everyone of whom she had ever heard. She was quite as ready to
tell all she knew also, and for the sake of her budget of gossip and
small scandal, her female relatives tolerated her after a fashion for a
time; but she had been around so often, and her scheme of obtaining
subsistence for herself and child had become so offensively apparent,
that she had about exhausted the patience of all the kith and kin on
whom she had the remotest claim. Her presence was all the more
unwelcome by reason of the faculty for irritating the men of the
various households which she invaded. Even the most phlegmatic or the
best-natured lost their self-control, and as their wives declared,
"felt like flying all to pieces" at her incessant rocking, gossiping,
questioning, and, what was worse still, lecturing. Not the least
endurable thing about Mrs. Mumpson was her peculiar phase of piety.
She saw the delinquencies and duties of others with such painful
distinctness that she felt compelled to speak of them; and her zeal was
sure to be instant out of season.
When Mr. Weeks had started on his ominous mission to Holcroft his wife
remarked to her daughter confidentially, "I declare, sis, if we don't
get rid of Cynthy soon, I believe Lemuel will fly off the handle."
To avoid any such dire catastrophe, it was hoped and almost prayed in
the Weeks household that the lonely occupant of the hill farm would
take the widow for good and all.