It became generally known, before Sunday came again, that Albert was to
take the farm, and that Seth was to go to the city--known not only along
the rough, lonesome road leading over the Burfield hills, which had once
been a proud turnpike, with hospitable taverns at every league, and the
rumbling of great coaches and the horn of the Postboy as echoes of its
daily life of bustle and profit, and now was a solitary thoroughfare
to no place in particular, with three or four gaunt old farmhouses,
scowling in isolation, to the mile--not only on this road, and at the
four corners below, but even at Thessaly people learned of the coming
change as if by magic, and discussed it as a prime sensation. It need
not be added that the story grew greatly in telling--grew too ponderous
to remain an entity, and divided itself into several varying and,
ultimately, fiercely conflicting sections.
The Misses Cheesborough had the best authority for saying that Albert
had acted in the most malignant and shameful manner, seizing the farm,
and turning poor Seth out of doors, and it was more than a suspicion in
their minds that the feeble old father would soon be railroaded off to
an asylum.
On the other hand, Miss Tabitha Wilcox, who by superior vigor and
resource held her own very well against the combined Misses Cheesbrough,
knew, absolutely _knew_, that Albert had behaved most handsomely, paying
off all the mortgages, making a will in favor of John and Seth, and
agreeing to send Seth to College, and what was more, Miss Tabitha would
not be surprised, though some others might be, if the public-spirited
Albert erected a new library building in Thessaly as a donation to the
village.
Between these two bold extremes there was room for many shades of
variation in the story, and many original bents of speculation. Down at
the cheese factory they even professed to have heard that a grand coal
deposit had been surreptitiously discovered on the Fairchild farm, and
that Albert was merely the agent of a syndicate of city speculators who
would presently begin buying all the land roundabout. Old Elhanan Pratt
did not credit this, but he did write to his son in Albany, a clerk in
one of the departments, to find out if a charter for a railroad near
Thessaly had been applied for. The worst of it was, neither John nor
Seth would talk, and as for Albert, he had gone back to New York,
leaving his wife behind.
On the farm the fortnight following the funeral passed without event. In
the lull of field labor which precedes haying time, there was not much
for Seth to do. He went down to the river several times on solitary
fishing trips; it seemed to him now that he was saying farewell not only
to the one pastime which never failed him in interest or delight, but to
the valley itself, and the river. How fond he was of the stream, and all
its belongings!
More like home than even the old farmhouse on the hill seemed some of
these haunts to which he now said good-bye--the shadowed pool under the
butternut tree, with its high steep bank of bare clay where, just under
the overhanging cornice of sod, the gypsy swallows had made holes for
their nests, and at the black base of which silly rock bass lay waiting
for worms and hooks; the place further up where the river grew sharply
narrow, and deep dark water sped swiftly under an ancient jam of rotting
logs, and where by creeping cautiously through the alders, and gaining
a foothold on the birch which was the key to the obstructing pile, there
were pike to be had for the throwing, and sometimes exciting struggles
with angry black bass, who made the pole bend like a whip, and had an
evil trick of cutting the line back under the logs; and then the broader
stretch of water below the ruined paper mill’s dam, where the wading
in the thigh-deep rifts was so pleasant, and where the white fish would
bite in the swift water almost as gamely as trout, if one had only the
knack of playing his line rightly in the eddies.
A score of these spots Seth had known and loved from the boyhood of
twine and pin hooks; they seemed almost sacredly familiar now, as he
wandered up and down the stream, dividing his attention between the
lures and wiles of the angler’s art and musings on the vast change of
scene which was so close before him. Ah, how fair were the day dreams
he had idly, fondly built for himself here in these old haunts, with
kingfishers and water rats for sympathizers, and the ceaseless murmur
of the water, the buzz of the locusts in the sun, the croak of the frogs
among the reeds, for a soft inspiring chorus of accompaniment to his
thoughts!
Now these dreams were really to come true; he was actually going to the
city, to wear decent clothes, to mingle as much as he chose with men of
wisdom and refinement, to attain that one aim and vision of his life, a
place on a great paper!
It was only here by the river, rod in hand, that he seemed able to fully
realize the beatitude of the vista. So as often as he could he came, and
if there was a ground note of sorrow at leaving these nooks, this dear
old river, there was also a triumphant song of exaltation in the air,
the water, the sunshine, which he could not hear on the farm.
Partly because these excursions generally led him from the house before
she made her appearance mornings, partly because he felt vaguely that
his own victory over fate involved disappointment for her, Seth did not
see much of Isabel during her husband’s absence. So far as he knew, she
had taken the news of Albert’s determination to move into the country
quietly enough. Neither by word or sign had she discovered to Seth
any distaste for the prospect. But none the less he had a half-guilty
conviction that she did not like it, and that she must blame him, or at
least have some feeling against him, for it. She had spoken so
earnestly to him about the curse of existence in the country; it was not
conceivable to him that she should suddenly accept for herself without
protests or repining, the very life she had thus commiserated with him
about.
Yet it seemed after all that he was mistaken. It was the evening after
Albert’s return, and Annie had come over after supper, ostensibly
to borrow a wrapper-pattern from Isabel, but really, it need not be
doubted, to hear the news.
What news there was to be given out the eldest brother dispensed to the
family circle, after Alvira had cleared away the “tea-things.”
That domestic had a clear idea of making one in the circle, and,
hastening in from the kitchen without her apron, drew up a chair to sit
with the others, and enjoy the revelations which, from Albert’s manner
during supper, all felt to be impending. But the invasion of city
manners, which she and Milton had deplored and ridiculed for a fortnight
back, had an unsuspected bitterness in its train for her. The lawyer
looked at her coolly, as he struck a match on the under side of the
mantel-piece, and asked: “Hadn’t you better go out, Alvira, and see that
the chickens don’t get into the kitchen?”--and she flounced out again,
with nose in air, and black eyes flashing.
Albert lighted his cigar, put an arm chair down near the old rocker in
which his father sat and took his seat. Near the open door, overlooking
the farmyard and the barns, and full in the light from the west, sat
Miss Sabrina, knitting, and Isabel, with a paper. At the latter’s feet,
on a hassock, was Annie, and Seth sat on the doorstep.
“Father,” said Albert, “things have been arranged in New York so that I
can speak, now, about the plans which I hinted of ten days ago.”
The old man nodded his head, and said plaintively, “Whatever yew think
best, Albert, s’long as the boys git a fair shaow.”
“You needn’t worry about that. My business is settled now, I think, so
that I can live here six or eight months in the year, say from March
till October, running down occasionally, perhaps, but making this my
residence. I will take up all the mortgages--perhaps buy back some of
the old farm, may be all of it. There are three or four ways in which
this can be equitably arranged--we’ll talk of those in detail later on,
some day when John can come up. I will have the carpenters here in a few
days, to look over the house, and figure on putting it in first-class
repair. The barns will have to be new throughout. There must be new
machinery, new fences, and a pretty thorough weeding out of the cattle.
We shall want a carriage house--but then its no use of enumerating,
there is so much to be done. We will put some money into horseflesh
down on Long Island, and see if something can’t be done in the way of a
stock-farm. I’m thinking of a trout pond, up beyond the orchard, in the
ravine there, too.”
“Oh, Albert, this is what I’ve be’n prayin’ for this thirty year!” It
was Sabrina who spoke. There were tears of joy in her eyes.
Lemuel Fairchild seemed rather dazed, not to say dismayed, at the
prospect thus bewilderingly unfolded. “It’ll cost a heap o’ money,
Albert,” he said at last, rather dubiously, “an’ I dunnao’ ’baout yer
gittin’ it back agin.”
“That will be _my_ look out,” said the lawyer, confidently. “At any
rate, Isabel and I will make a good home for you and Aunt Sabrina, as
long as you both live. It will be a pleasant change for us both. As for
Seth--”
There was a pause, and Annie nestled closer to Isabel, with a soft “Oh
yes, about Seth.”
“As for Seth, it’s time he saw something of life besides grubbing here
like a farm-hand. We will try and get along without him here. I’ve
talked the matter over with a friend of mine, the proprietor of the
Tecumseh _Chronicle_ and he is willing to give him a start there, under
the most favorable conditions. The salary will be small at first,
of course, but I will supplement it with enough to give him a decent
living, if he is frugal. After that of course it all depends on
himself.”
Seth stood up, as these last words were spoken, and replied,
stammeringly. “You needn’t be afraid of my not trying hard, Albert. I’m
sure I’m very grateful to you. It’s more than I dared expect you would
do for me.” He pushed his way past the women to shake hands with his
brother, and say again “It’s so good of you.”
Albert received these expressions of gratitude benevolently, adding some
words of advice, and concluding with “You had better get ready to start
as early next week as you can. One of the _Chronicle_ men is going on a
vacation, and its Workman’s idea that you would be handy in his absence.
You could go, say, Wednesday, couldn’t you?”
“So far as getting ready is concerned, I don’t know that there is
anything to do which couldn’t be done in a day. But--but--”
“Of course you will need some things. I’ll talk with you about that in
the morning. We’ll drive down to Thessaly day after to-morrow together.”
Albert rose with this to go out and see Milton, and the family interview
was at an end.
Miss Sabrina hurried out to the kitchen, impatient to begin discussing
with Alvira, as had been her wont for years, this new development in the
affairs of the household.