Holcroft's Best Hope
When Holcroft came in to dinner that day the view he had adopted was
confirmed, yet Alida's manner and appearance began to trouble him.
Even to his rather slow perception, she did not seem so happy as she
had been. She did not meet his eye with her old frank, friendly, and
as he had almost hoped, affectionate, expression; she seemed merely
feverishly anxious to do everything and have all as he wished. Instead
of acting with natural ease and saying what was in her mind without
premeditation, a conscious effort was visible and an apparent
solicitude that he should be satisfied. The inevitable result was that
he was more dissatisfied. "She's doing her best for me," he growled, as
he went back to his work, "and it begins to look as if it might wear
her out in time. Confound it! Having everything just so isn't of much
account when a man's heart-hungry. I'd rather have had one of her old
smiles and gone without my dinner. Well, well; how little a man
understands himself or knows the future! The day I married her I was
in mortal dread lest she should care for me too much and want to be
affectionate and all that; and here I am, discontented and moping
because everything has turned out as I then wished. Don't see as I'm
to blame, either. She had no business to grow so pretty. Then she
looked like a ghost, but now when the color comes into her cheeks, and
her blue eyes sparkle, a man would be a stupid clod if he didn't look
with all his eyes and feel his heart a-thumping. That she should
change so wasn't in the bargain; neither was it that she should read
aloud in such sweet tones that a fellow'd like to listen to the
dictionary; nor that she should make the house and yard look as they
never did before, and, strangest of all, open my eyes to the fact that
apple trees bear flowers as well as pippins. I can't even go by a wild
posy in the lane without thinking she'd like it and see in it a sight
more than I once could. I've been taken in, as old Jonathan feared,"
he muttered, following out his fancy with a sort of grim humor. "She
isn't the woman I thought I was marrying at all, and I aint bound by my
agreement--not in my thoughts, anyhow. I'd have been in a nice scrape
if I'd taken my little affidavit not to think of her or look upon her
in any other light than that of housekeeper and butter maker. It's a
scary thing, this getting married with a single eye to business. See
where I am now! Hanged if I don't believe I'm in love with my wife,
and, like a thundering fool, I had to warn her against falling in love
with me! Little need of that, though. She hasn't been taken in, for
I'm the same old chap she married, and I'd be a mighty mean cuss if I
went to her and said, 'Here, I want you to do twice as much, a
hundred-fold as much as you agreed to.' I'd be a fool, too, for she
couldn't do it unless something drew her toward me just as I'm drawn
toward her."
Late in the afternoon he leaned on the handle of his corn plow, and, in
the consciousness of solitude, said aloud: "Things grow clear if you
think of them enough, and the Lord knows I don't think of much else any
more. It isn't her good qualities which I say over to myself a hundred
times a day, or her education, or anything of the kind, that draws me;
it's she herself. I like her. Why don't I say love her, and be
honest? Well, it's a fact, and I've got to face it. Here I am,
plowing out my corn, and it looks splendid for its age. I thought if I
could stay on the old place, and plant and cultivate and reap, I'd be
more than content, and now I don't seem to care a rap for the corn or
the farm either, compared with Alida; and I care for her just because
she is Alida and no one else. But the other side of this fact has an
ugly look. Suppose I'm disagreeable to her! When she married me she
felt like a woman drowning; she was ready to take hold of the first
hand reached to her without knowing much about whose hand it was.
Well, she's had time to find out. She isn't drawn. Perhaps she feels
toward me somewhat as I did toward Mrs. Mumpson, and she can't help
herself either. Well, well, the bare thought of it makes my heart
lead. What's a man to do? What can I do but live up to my agreement
and not torment her any more than I can help with my company? That's
the only honest course. Perhaps she'll get more used to me in time.
She might get sick, and then I'd be so kind and watchful that she'd
think the old fellow wasn't so bad, after all, But I shan't give her
the comfort of no end of self-sacrifice in trying to be pleasant and
sociable. If she's foolish enough to think she's in my debt she can't
pay it in that way. No, sir! I've got to make the most of it now--I'm
bound to--but this business marriage will never suit me until the white
arm I saw in the dairy room is around my neck, and she looks in my eyes
and says, 'James, I guess I'm ready for a longer marriage ceremony.'"
It was a pity that Alida could not have been among the hazelnut bushes
near and heard him.
He resumed his toil, working late and doggedly. At supper he was very
attentive to Alida, but taciturn and preoccupied; and when the meal was
over he lighted his pipe and strolled out into the moonlight. She
longed to follow him, yet felt it to be more impossible than if she
were chained to the floor.
And so the days passed; Holcroft striving with the whole force of his
will to appear absorbed in the farm, and she, with equal effort, to
seem occupied and contented with her household and dairy duties. They
did everything for each other that they could, and yet each thought
that the other was acting from a sense of obligation, and so all the
more sedulously veiled their actual thoughts and feelings from each
other. Or course, such mistaken effort only led to a more complete
misunderstanding.
With people of their simplicity and habit of reticence, little of what
was in their hearts appeared on the surface. Neither had time to mope,
and their mutual duties were in a large measure a support and refuge.
Of these they could still speak freely for they pertained to business.
Alida's devotion to her work was unfeigned for it seemed now her only
avenue of approach to her husband. She watched over the many broods of
little chickens with tireless vigilance. If it were yellow gold, she
could not have gathered the butter from the churn with greater greed.
She kept the house immaculate and sought to develop her cooking into a
fine art. She was scrupulous in giving Jane her lessons and trying to
correct her vernacular and manners, but the presence of the child grew
to be a heavier cross every day. She could not blame the girl, whose
misfortune it was to lead incidentally to the change in Holcroft's
manner, yet it was impossible not to associate her with the beginning
of that change. Jane was making decided improvement, and had Alida
been happy and at rest this fact would have given much satisfaction in
spite of the instinctive repugnance which the girl seemed to inspire
universally. Holcroft recognized this repugnance and the patient
effort to disguise it and be kind.
"Like enough she feels in the same way toward me," he thought, "and is
trying a sight harder not to show it. But she seems willing enough to
talk business and to keep up her interest in the partnership line.
Well, blamed if I wouldn't rather talk business to her than love to any
other woman!"
So it gradually came about that they had more and more to say to each
other on matters relating to the farm. Holcroft showed her the
receipts from the dairy, and her eyes sparkled as if he had brought
jewels home to her. Then she in turn would expatiate on the poultry
interests and assure him that there were already nearly two hundred
little chicks on the place. One afternoon, during a shower, she
ventured to beguile him into listening to the greater part of one of
the agricultural journals, and with much deference made two or three
suggestions about the farm, which he saw were excellent. She little
dreamed that if she were willing to talk of turning the farm upside
down and inside out, he would have listened with pleasure.
They both began to acquire more serenity and hopefulness, for even this
sordid business partnership was growing strangely interesting. The
meals grew less and less silent, and the farmer would smoke his pipe
invitingly near in the evening so that she could resume their talk on
bucolic subjects without much conscious effort, while at the same time,
if she did not wish his society, she could shun it without discourtesy.
He soon perceived that she needed some encouragement to talk even of
farm matters; but, having received it, that she showed no further
reluctance. He naturally began to console himself with business as
unstintedly as he dared. "As long as I keep on this tack all seems
well," he muttered. "She don't act as if I was disagreeable to her, but
then how can a man tell? If she thinks it her duty, she'll talk and
smile, yet shiver at the very thought of my touching her. Well, well,
time will show. We seem to be getting more sociable, anyhow."
They both recognized this fact and tried to disguise it and to relieve
themselves from the appearance of making any undue advances by greater
formality of address. In Jane's presence he had formed the habit of
speaking to his wife as Mrs. Holcroft, and now he was invariably "Mr."
One evening in the latter part of June, he remarked at supper, "I must
give half a day to hoeing the garden tomorrow. I've been so busy
working out the corn and potatoes that it seems an age since I've been
in the garden."
"She and me," began Jane, "I mean Mrs. Holcroft and I, have been in the
garden."
"That's right, Jane, You're coming on. I think your improved talk and
manners do Mrs. Holcroft much credit. I'd like to take some lessons
myself." Then, as if a little alarmed at his words, he hastened to
ask, "What have you been doing in the garden?"
"You'll see when you go there," replied Jane, her small eyes twinkling
with the rudiments of fun.
Holcroft looked at the child as if he had not seen her for some time
either. Her hair was neatly combed, braided, and tied with a blue
ribbon instead of a string, her gown was as becoming as any dress could
be to her, her little brown hands were clean, and they no longer
managed the knife and fork in an ill-bred manner. The very expression
of the child's face was changing, and now that it was lighted up with
mirth at the little surprise awaiting him, it had at least attained the
negative grace of being no longer repulsive. He sighed involuntarily
as he turned away. "Just see what she's doing for that child that I
once thought hideous! How much she might do for me if she cared as I
do!"
He rose from the table, lighted his pipe, and went out to the doorstep.
Alida looked at him wistfully. "He stood there with me once and faced a
mob of men," she thought. "Then he put his arm around me. I would face
almost any danger for even such a caress again." The memory of that
hour lent her unwonted courage, and she approached him timidly and
said, "Perhaps you would like to go and look at the garden? Jane and I
may not have done everything right."
"Why, certainly. I forgot about the garden; but then you'll have to go
with me if I'm to tell you."
"I don't mind," she said, leading the way.
The June sun was low in the west and the air had become deliciously
cool and fragrant. The old rosebushes were in bloom, and as she passed
she picked a bud and fastened it on her bosom. Wood thrushes, orioles,
and the whole chorus of birds were in full song: limpid rills of melody
from the meadow larks flowed from the fields, and the whistling of the
quails added to the harmony.
Holcroft was in a mood of which he had never been conscious before.
These familiar sounds, which had been unheeded so much of his life, now
affected him strangely, creating an immeasurable sadness and longing.
It seemed as if perceptions which were like new senses were awakening
in his mind. The world was full of wonderful beauty before
unrecognized, and the woman who walked lightly and gracefully at his
side was the crown of it all. He himself was so old, plain, and
unworthy in contrast. His heart ached with a positive, definite pain
that he was not younger, handsomer, and better equipped to win the love
of his wife. As she stood in the garden, wearing the rose, her neat
dress outlining her graceful form, the level rays of the sun lighting
up her face and turning her hair to gold, he felt that he had never
seen or imagined such a woman before. She was in harmony with the June
evening and a part of it, while he, in his working clothes, his rugged,
sun-browned features and hair tinged with gray, was a blot upon the
scene. She who was so lovely, must be conscious of his rude, clownish
appearance. He would have faced any man living and held his own on the
simple basis of his manhood. Anything like scorn, although veiled, on
Alida's part, would have touched his pride and steeled his will, but
the words and manner of this gentle woman who tried to act as if blind
to all that he was in contrast with herself, to show him deference,
kindness, and good will when perhaps she felt toward him somewhat as
she did toward Jane, overwhelmed him with humility and grief. It is
the essence of deep, unselfish love to depreciate itself and exalt its
object. There was a superiority in Alida which Holcroft was learning to
recognize more clearly every day, and he had not a trace of vanity to
sustain him. Now he was in a mood to wrong and undervalue himself
without limit.
She showed him how much she and Jane had accomplished, how neat and
clean they had kept the rows of growing vegetables, and how good the
promise was for an indefinite number of dinners, but she only added to
the farmer's depression. He was in no mood for onions, parsnips, and
their vegetable kin, yet thought, "She thinks I'm only capable of being
interested in such things, and I've been at much pains to give that
impression. She picked that rose for HERSELF, and now she's showing ME
how soon we may hope to have summer cabbage and squash. She thus shows
that she knows the difference between us and that always must be
between us, I fear. She is so near in our daily life, yet how can I
ever get any nearer? As I feel now, it seems impossible."
She had quickly observed his depressed, abstracted manner, but
misinterpreted the causes. Her own face clouded and grew troubled.
Perhaps she was revealing too much of her heart, although seeking to
disguise it so sedulously, and he was penetrating her motives for doing
so much in the garden and in luring him thither now. He was not
showing much practical interest in beans and beets, and was evidently
oppressed and ill at ease.
"I hope we have done things right?" she ventured, turning away to hide
tears of disappointment.
"Her self-sacrifice is giving out," he thought bitterly. "She finds
she can scarcely look at me as I now appear in contrast with this June
evening. Well, I don't blame her. It makes me almost sick when I
think of myself and I won't be brute enough to say a harsh word to
her." "You have done it all far better than I could," he said
emphatically. "I would not have believed it if you hadn't shown me.
The trouble is, you are trying to do too much. I--I think I'll take a
walk."
In fact, he had reached the limit of endurance; he could not look upon
her another moment as she appeared that evening and feel that she
associated him chiefly with crops and business, and that all her
grateful good will could not prevent his personality from being
disagreeable. He must carry his bitterness whither no eye could see
him, and as he turned, his self-disgust led him to whirl away his pipe.
It struck a tree and fell shattered at its foot. Alida had never seen
him do anything of the kind before, and it indicated that he was
passing beyond the limits of patience. "Oh, oh," she sobbed, "I fear we
are going to drift apart! If he can't endure to talk with me about
such things, what chance have I at all? I hoped that the hour, the
beauty of the evening, and the evidence that I had been trying so hard
to please him would make him more like what he used to be before he
seemed to take a dislike. There's only one way to account for it
all--he sees how I feel and he doesn't like it. My very love sets him
against me. My heart was overflowing tonight. How could I help it, as
I remembered how he stood up for me? He was brave and kind; he meant
well by me, he means well now; but he can't help his feelings. He has
gone away now to think of the woman that he did love and loves still,
and it angers him that I should think of taking her place. He loved
her as a child and girl and woman--he told me so; he warned me and said
he could not help thinking of her. If I had not learned to love him so
deeply and passionately and show it in spite of myself, time would
gradually have softened the past and all might have gone well. Yet how
could I help it when he saved me from so much? I feel tonight, though,
that I only escaped one kind of trouble to meet another almost as bad
and which may become worse."
She strolled to the farther end of the garden that she might become
calm before meeting Jane's scrutiny. Useless precaution! For the girl
had been watching them both. Her motive had not been unmixed
curiosity, since, having taken some part in the garden work, she had
wished to witness Holcroft's pleasure and hear his praises. Since the
actors in the scene so misunderstood each other, she certainly would
not rightly interpret them. "She's losin' her hold on 'im," she
thought, "He acted just as if she was mother."
When Jane saw Alida coming toward the house she whisked from the
concealing shrubbery to the kitchen again and was stolidly washing the
dishes when her mistress entered. "You are slow tonight," said Alida,
looking at the child keenly, but the impassive face revealed nothing.
She set about helping the girl, feeling it would be a relief to keep
her hands busy.
Jane's efforts to comfort were always maladroit, yet the apparent
situation so interested her that she yielded to her inclination to
talk. "Say," she began, and Alida was too dejected and weary to correct
the child's vernacular, "Mr. Holcroft's got somethin' on his mind."
"Well, that's not strange."
"No, s'pose not. Hate to see 'im look so, though. He always used to
look so when mother went for 'im and hung around 'im. At last he
cleared mother out, and just before he looked as black as he did when
he passed the house while ago. You're good to me, an' I'd like you to
stay. 'Fi's you I'd leave 'im alone."
"Jane," said Alida coldly, "I don't wish you ever to speak to me of
such things again," and she hastily left the room.
"Oh, well!" muttered Jane, "I've got eyes in my head. If you're goin'
to be foolish, like mother, and keep a-goin' for 'im, it's your
lookout. I kin get along with him and he with me, and I'M goin' to
stay."
Holcroft strode rapidly up the lane to the deep solitude at the edge of
his woodland. Beneath him lay the farm and the home that he had
married to keep, yet now, without a second's hesitation, he would part
with all to call his wife WIFE. How little the name now satisfied him,
without the sweet realities of which the word is significant! The term
and relation had become a mocking mirage. He almost cursed himself
that he had exulted over his increasing bank account and general
prosperity, and had complacently assured himself that she was doing
just what he had asked, without any sentimental nonsense. "How could I
expect it to turn out otherwise?" he thought. "From the first I made
her think I hadn't a soul for anything but crops and money. Now that
she's getting over her trouble and away from it, she's more able to see
just what I am, or at least what she naturally thinks I am. But she
doesn't understand me--I scarcely understand myself. I long to be a
different man in every way, and not to work and live like an ox. Here
are some of my crops almost ready to gather and they never were better,
yet I've no heart for the work. Seems to me it'll wear me out if I
have to carry this load of trouble all the time. I thought my old
burdens hard to bear; I thought I was lonely before, but it was nothing
compared with living near one you love, but from whom you are cut off
by something you can't see, yet must feel to the bottom of your heart."
His distraught eyes rested on the church spire, fading in the twilight,
and the little adjoining graveyard. "Oh, Bessie," he groaned, "why did
you die? I was good enough for YOU. Oh! That all had gone on as it
was and I had never known--"
He stopped, shook his head, and was silent. At last he signed, "I DID
love Bessie. I love and respect her memory as much as ever. But
somehow I never felt as I do now. All was quiet and matter-of-fact in
those days, yet it was real and satisfying. I was content to live on,
one day like another, to the end of my days. If I hadn't been so
content it would be better for me now. I'd have a better chance if I
had read more, thought more, and fitted myself to be more of a
companion for a woman like Alida. If I knew a great deal and could
talk well, she might forget I'm old and homely. Bessie was so true a
friend that she would wish, if she knows, what I wish. I thought I
needed a housekeeper; I find I need more than all else such a wife as
Alida could be--one that could help me to be a man instead of a drudge,
a Christian instead of a discontented and uneasy unbeliever. At one
time, it seemed that she was leading me along so naturally and
pleasantly that I never was so happy; then all at once it came to me
that she was doing it from gratitude and a sense of duty, and the duty
grows harder for her every day. Well, there seems nothing for it now
but to go on as we began and hope that the future will bring us more in
sympathy."