John Upham's farm, or rather what had been John Upham's farm (Doctor
Prescott owned it now), began at the end of a long stretch of woods,
with some fine fields sloping greenly towards the west. Farther on,
behind a row of feathery elm-trees, stood the old Upham homestead.
John Upham did not live there now; his mortgage had been foreclosed
nearly a year before, about the time the last baby was born. People
said that the mother had been cruelly hurried out of her own house
into the little shanty, which her husband was forced to rent for a
shelter. Poor John Upham had lost all his ancestral acres to Doctor
Prescott now, and did not fairly know himself how it had happened.
There had been heavy bills for medicines and attendance, and the
doctor had loaned him money oftentimes, with his land as security,
for other debts. A little innocent saying of one of his six children
to another was much repeated to the village, "Father bought you of
Doctor Prescott, and paid for you with all the clover-field he had
left, and you must be very good, for you came very dear."
It was known positively that John Upham had gone to Doctor Prescott's
the day after he had left his old home, and told him to his face what
he thought of him. "You have planned and manoeuvred to get all my
property into your hands from the very first of it," said John Upham.
"You've drained me dry, an' now I hope you're satisfied."
"You had full value in return," replied the doctor, calmly.
"I haven't had time. In nine cases out of ten, if you had given me a
little time, I could have got myself out, and you know it. You've
screwed me down to the very second."
"I cannot afford to give my debtors longer time than that regulated
by the laws of the commonwealth."
Then a sudden strange gleam had come into John Upham's blue eyes.
"Thank the Lord," he cried out, in a trembling fervor of
wrath--"thank the Lord, He gives all the time there is to His
debtors, an' no commonwealth on the earth can make laws agin it." He
had actually then raised a great fist and shaken it before the
doctor's face. "Now, don't you ever darse to darken my doors again,
Doctor Seth Prescott!" he had cried out. "If my wife or my children
are sick, I'll let them lay and die before I'll have you in the
house!" So saying, John Upham had stridden forth out of the doctor's
yard, where he had held the conversation with him, with Jake Noyes
and two other men covertly listening.
After that Jake Noyes had given surreptitious advice, with sly
shoving of medicine-vials into John Upham's or his wife's hands when
the children were ailing, and lately Jerome had taken his place.
"Guess you had better go there instead of me when the young ones are
out of sorts," Jake Noyes had told Jerome. Then he had added, with a
crafty twist and wink: "When ye can quarrel with your own bread an'
butter with a cat's-paw might as well do it, especially when you're
gettin' along in years. You 'ain't got anything to lose if you do set
the doctor again ye, and I have."
The house in which the Uphams had taken shelter was in sight of the
old homestead, some rods farther on, on the opposite side of the
road. It stood in a sandy waste of weeds on the border of an old
gravel-pit--an ancient cottage, with a wretched crouch of humility in
its very roof. It had been covered with a feeble coat of red paint
years ago, and cloudy lines of it still survived the wash of old
rains and the beat of old sunbeams.
Behind it on the north and west rose the sand-hill, dripping with
loose gravel as with water, hollowed out at its base until its crest,
bristling with coarse herbage, magnified against the sky, projected
far out over the cottage roof. The sun was reflected from the sand in
a great hollow of arid light. Jerome, nearing it, felt as if he were
approaching an oven. The cottage door was shut, as were all the
windows. However, he heard plainly the shrill wail of the sick baby.
John Upham opened the door. "Oh, it's you, Jerome!" said he.
"Good-day."
"Good-day," returned Jerome. "How is the baby?"
"Well, he seems kind of ailin'. Laury has been up with him all night.
Thought maybe you might give him something. Come in, won't ye?"
There were only two rooms on the lower floor of the cottage--one was
the kitchen, the other the bedroom where John Upham and his wife
slept with the three youngest children.
Jerome followed Upham across the kitchen to the bedroom beyond. The
kitchen was littered with all John Upham's poor household goods,
prostrate and unwashed, degraded even from their one dignity of use.
One of the kitchen windows opened towards the sand-hill; the room was
full of its garish glare of reflected sunlight, and the revelations
were pitiless. Laura Upham, once a model housekeeper, had lost all
ambition and domestic pride, now she had such a poor house to keep
and so many children to tend.
Upham muttered an apology as Jerome picked his way across the room.
"Laury has been up all night with the baby, an' she hasn't had any
time to redd up the room," he said. "The children have been in here
all the mornin', too, an' they've stirred things up some. I've just
sent 'em out to pick flowers to keep 'em quiet."
As he spoke he gathered up awkwardly, with a curious over-motion of
his broad shoulders, as if he would conceal the action, various
articles in his path. When he opened the door into the bedroom he
crammed them behind it with a quick, shifty motion.
The kitchen had been repulsive, but the bedroom fairly shocked with
the very indelicacy of untidiness. Jerome felt an actual modesty
about entering this room, in which so many disclosures of the closest
secrets of the flesh were made. The very dust and discolorations of
the poor furnishings, the confined air, made one turn one's face
aside as from too coarse a betrayal of personal reserve. The naked
indecency of domestic life seemed to display and vaunt itself,
sparing none of its homely and ungraceful details, to the young man
on the threshold of the room.
"Laury 'ain't had a chance to redd up this, either," poor John Upham
whispered in his ear, and gathered up with a furtive swoop some linen
from the floor.
"Oh, that's all right!" Jerome whispered back, and entered boldly,
shutting as it were all the wretched disclosures of the room out of
his consciousness, and all effort to do was needless when he saw Mrs.
Upham's face.
Laura Upham's great hollow eyes, filled with an utter passiveness of
despair, stared up at him out of a sallow gloom of face. She had been
pretty once, and she was not an old woman now, but her beauty was all
gone. Her slender shoulders rounded themselves over the little
creature swathed in soiled flannel on her lap. Just then it was
quiet; but it began wailing again, distorting all its miserable
little face into a wide mouth of feeble clamor as Jerome drew near.
Mrs. Upham looked down at it hopelessly. She did not try to hush it.
"It's cried this way all night," she said, in a monotonous tone.
"It's goin' to die."
"Now, Laury, you know it ain't any sicker than it was before," John
said, with a kind of timid conciliation; but she turned upon him with
a fierce gleam lighting her dull eyes to life.
"You needn't talk to me," said she--"you needn't talk to me, John
Upham, when you won't have the doctor when it's your own flesh an'
blood that's dyin'. I don't care what he's done. I don't care if he
has taken the roof from over our heads. My child is worth more than
anything else. He'd come if you asked him, he couldn't refuse--you
know he couldn't, John Upham!"
John Upham's face was white; his forehead and his chin got a curious
hardness of outline. "He won't have a chance," he said, between his
teeth.
"Let your own flesh and blood die, then!" cried his wife; but the
fierceness was all gone from her voice; she had no power of sustained
wrath, so spent was she. She gave a tearless wail that united with
the child's in her lap in a pitiful chord of woe.
"Now, Laury, you know J'rome gave Minnie somethin' that helped her,
and she seemed every mite as sick as the baby," her husband said, in
a softer voice. But she turned her hopeless eyes again upon the
little, squalid, quivering thing in her lap, and paid no more heed to
him. She let Jerome examine the child, with a strange apathy. There
was no hope, and consequently no power of effort, left in her.
When Jerome brought some medicine in a spoon, she assisted him to
feed the child with it, but mechanically, and as if she had no
interest. Her sharp right elbow shone like a knob of ivory through a
great rent in her sleeve; her dress was unfastened, and there was a
gleam of white flesh through the opening; she neither knew nor cared.
There was no consciousness of self, no pride and no shame for self,
in her; she had ceased to live in the fullest sense; she was nothing
but the concentration of one emotion of despairing motherhood.
She heard Jerome and her husband moving about in the next room, she
heard the crackling of fire in the stove, the clinking din of dishes,
the scrape of a broom, not realizing in the least what the sounds
meant. She heard with her mind no sound of earth but the wail of the
sick baby in her lap.
Jerome Edwards could tidy a house as well as a woman, and John Upham
followed his directions with clumsy zeal. When the kitchen was set to
rights Mrs. Upham went in there, as she was bidden, with the baby,
and sat down in a rocking-chair by the open window towards the road,
through which came a soft green light from some opposite trees, and a
breath of apple-blossoms.
"We've got the room all redd up, Laury," John Upham said, pitifully,
stooping over her and looking into her face. She nodded vaguely,
looking at the baby, who had stopped crying.
Jerome dropped some more medicine, and she took the spoon and fed it
to the baby. "I think it will go to sleep now," said Jerome. Mrs.
Upham looked up at him and almost smiled. Hope was waking within her.
"I think it is nothing but a little cold and feverishness, Mrs.
Upham," Jerome added. He had a great pitiful imagination for this
unknown woe of maternity, which possibly gave him as great a power of
sympathy as actual knowledge.
"You are a good fellow, Jerome, an' I hope I shall be able to do
somethin' to pay you some day," John Upham said, huskily, when they
were in the bedroom putting that also in order.
"I don't want any pay for what I give," Jerome returned.
When Jerome started for home, Mrs. Upham and the baby were both
asleep in the clean bedroom. Retracing his steps along the pleasant
road, he was keenly happy, with perhaps the true happiness of his
life, to which he would always turn at last from all others, and
which would survive the death and loss of all others.
He pictured John Upham's house as he found it and as he left it with
purest self-gratulation. He had not gone far before he heard a clamor
of childish voices; there were two, but they sounded like a troop.
John Upham's twin girls broke through the wayside bushes like little
wild things. Their hands were full of withering flowers. He called
them, and bade them be very still when they went home, so as not to
waken their mother and the baby, and they hung their heads with
bashful assent. They were pretty children in spite of their soiled
frocks, with their little, pink, moist faces and curling crops of
yellow hair.
"If you keep still and don't wake them up, I will bring you both some
peppermints when I come to-morrow," said Jerome. He had nearly
reached the village when he met the two eldest Upham children. They
were boys, the elder twelve, the younger eight, sturdy little
fellows, advancing with a swinging trot, one behind the other, both
chewing spruce-gum. They had been in the woods, on their way home,
for a supply. Jerome stopped them, and repeated the charge he had
given to the little girls, then kept on. The bell was ringing for
afternoon meeting--in fact, it was almost done. Jerome walked faster,
for he intended to go. He drew near the little white-steepled
meeting-house standing in its small curve of greensward, with the row
of white posts at the side, to which were tied the farmers' great
plough-horses harnessed to covered wagons and dusty chaises, and then
he caught a glimpse of something bright, like a moving flower-bush,
in the road ahead. Squire Eben Merritt, his wife, his sister Miss
Camilla, and his daughter Lucina, were all on their way to afternoon
meeting.
The Squire was with them that day, leaving heroically his trout-pools
and his fishing-fields; for was it not his pretty Lucina's second
Sunday only at home, and was he not as eager to be with her as any
lover? Squire Eben had gained perhaps twenty pounds of flesh to his
great frame and a slight overcast of gray to his golden beard;
otherwise he had not changed in Jerome's eyes since he was a boy. The
Squire's wife Abigail, like many a small, dark woman who has never
shown in her looks the true heyday of youth, had apparently not aged
nor altered at all. Little and keenly pleasant, like some
insignificant but brightly flavored fruit, set about with crisp silk
flounced to her trim waist, holding her elbows elegantly aslant under
her embroidered silk shawl, her small head gracefully alert in her
bright-ribboned bonnet, she stepped beside her great husband, and
then came Lucina with Miss Camilla.
Miss Camilla glided along drooping slenderly in black lace and lilac
silk, with a great wrought-lace veil flowing like a bride's over her
head, and shading with a black tracery of leaves and flowers her fair
faded face; but Jerome saw her no more than he would have seen a
shadow beside Lucina.
If Lucina's parents had changed little, she had changed much, with
the wonderful change of a human spring, and this time Jerome saw her
as well as her gown. She wore that same silken gown of a pale-blue
color, spangled with roses, and the skirts were so wide and trained
over a hoop and starched petticoats that they swung and tilted like a
great double flower, and hit on this side and that with a quick
musical slur. Over Lucina's shoulders, far below her waist, fell her
wonderful fair hair, in curls, and every curl might well have proved
a twining finger of love. Lucina wore a bonnet of fine straw, trimmed
simply enough with a white ribbon, but over her face hung a white
veil of rich lace, and through it her pink cheeks and lips and great
blue eyes and lines of golden hair shone and bloomed and dazzled like
a rose through a frosted window.
Lucina Merritt was a rare beauty, and she knew it, from her
looking-glass as well as the eyes of others, and dealt with herself
meekly wherewithal, and prayed innocently that she might consider
more the embellishment of her heart and her mind than her person, and
not to be too well pleased at the admiring looks of those whom she
met. Indeed, it was to this end that she wore the white veil over her
face, though not one of the maiden mates would believe that. She
fancied that it somewhat dimmed her beauty, and that folk were less
given to staring at her, not realizing that it added to her graces
that subtlest one of suggestion, and that folk but stared the harder
to make sure whether they saw or imagined such charms.
Jerome Edwards saw this beautiful Lucina coming, and it was suddenly
as if he entered a new atmosphere. He did not know why, but he
started as if he had gotten a shock, and his heart beat hard.
Squire Merritt made as if he would greet him in his usual hearty
fashion, but remembering the day, and hearing, too, the first strains
of the opening hymn from the meeting-house, for the bell had stopped
tolling, he gave him only a friendly nod as he passed on with his
wife. Miss Camilla inclined her head with soft graciousness; but
Jerome looked at none of them except Lucina. She did not remember
him; she glanced slightly at his face, and then her long fair lashes
swept again the soft bloom of her cheeks, and her silken skirts
fairly touched him as she passed. Jerome stood still after they had
all entered the meeting-house; the long drone of the hymn sounded
very loud in his ears.
He made a motion towards the meeting-house, hesitated, made another,
then turned decidedly to the road. It seemed suddenly to him that his
clothes must be soiled and dusty after his work in John Upham's
house, that his hair could not be smooth, that he did not look well
enough to go to meeting. So he went home, yielding for the first
time, without knowing that he did so, to that decorative impulse
which comes to men and birds alike when they would woo their mates.