When Seth walked over from the Thessaly station, Sunday forenoon, to
the farm, he was not, it may be imagined, in a placid frame of mind.
There lay before him an interview with his brother which could not,
in the nature of things, be pleasant, and which might very easily be
distinctly unpleasant. It was his duty to say sundry things to Albert
which were not in themselves nice, and if Albert was still in the mood
shown forth by his peremptory letter, these remarks would very likely
produce a scene. Seth was in no sense afraid of his brother, nor had the
thrifty thought that this brother was a rich, childless man, to offend
whom would be a gratuitous economic blunder, ever entered his head. The
youngster had no faculty whatever for financial prudence. But he was
grateful--almost ridiculously grateful--by nature. The trait is not a
rare one, even in these days when a new civilization has substituted for
individual patronage and beneficence the thanks-to-nobody trade-unionism
of universal conceit and rivalry, but it was abnormally developed in the
youngest of the Fairchilds.
He said to himself, as he crossed the fields toward the white and red
land-mark of house and barns on the side hill, that he owed everything
in the world to this brother. Whatever there might be in his public
attitude to condemn, however pernicious his politics might be, still it
was his fraternal feeling and generosity which had created the vast
gulf between Seth the plow-yokel and Seth the editor. These reflections
brought no comfort to the young man.
Some perverse agency whispered to him, as he strode along over the
stubble, that after all he had never really liked Albert; and this
liberality of his, too, might it not be a mere cheap mess of pottage,
thrown to Seth to console him for the loss of his rights in the farm?
John had always been incredulous as to Albert’s true goodness in this
matter; might there not be something in these suspicions? Seth tried
manfully to combat these ungenerous doubts, but they forced themselves
upon his mind.
Then there was Albert’s treatment of his wife! Seth had never been clear
as to the exact nature of Isabel’s grievance against her husband. No
specific allegation of cruelty or neglect, much less of infidelity, had
ever been laid by her at Albert’s door in his brother’s hearing. Indeed,
so far as Seth’s observation went, Albert had always appeared to be a
decent enough sort of husband, complaisant even if somewhat indifferent,
and acquiescent to the verge of weakness, in her whims. He seemed to
refuse her nothing, in the matter of having her own way, and if he most
often broke the ruling conjugal dumbness by satirical comments on her
actions and opinions, he at least never seriously attempted to fetter
either. This sounded like the description of a tolerable husband,
as husbands go. But up against it was to be set Isabel’s plaintive,
pitiful, persistent assertion of unhappiness with him. And clearly
she ought to know what her husband was like a good deal better than an
outsider could.
So the arguments did battle in Seth’s mind, as he climbed the last
fence, and felt his feet on ancestral soil. He had now only to cross a
short stretch of pasture land to be at his journey’s end.
Perfect silence rested on the farm. The fat cows lay lazily about him,
comfortably chewing the cud of sweet aftermath; the cluster of bright,
neat buildings fell into picturesque lines of composition before him, in
the soft, hazy sunshine of Indian summer. The background of scarlet and
ochre and deep purple-browns in the woods beyond, of warm mauve hills
and pale, fluffy clouds above; the shaggy old horse, standing in
tranquil bliss, with his head over the fence; the aged shepherd-dog
stretched asleep on the kitchen door-stone in the sunny distance--all
brought to him a sense of content and beauty which warmed his heart and
calmed his thoughts. The spell of the peaceful, restful scene soothed
him. Then, as by magic, the whole picture seemed to take on the charm of
Isabel’s presence. “I am to see her!” he said aloud, almost exultantly.
There had been no special pleasure in this prospect, a few hours before.
Indeed, it had been months since he had been conscious of a genuine
desire to meet his sister-in-law. At times of late it had even seemed
to him that a meeting would be a source of embarrassment, just as the
necessity of keeping up the clandestine correspondence presented itself
often to him in the light of a bore.
But now--yes! she was walking forth swiftly to meet him--coming over
the grass with a gliding haste which had a wealth of welcome in every
motion. The very genius of the mellow, warm-hearted season she seemed
to his eyes as she advanced, clad in some soft, indefinite stuff,
loose-flowing, and that in tint under the red noon sun could be the
shadow on golden grain, or the light on dark puce grapes, or the dim,
violet haze over the distant valley. She was near him now, beaming with
unaffected delight, reaching out her hands in greeting--and his heart
went to meet her.
“Oh, Seth! How good of you to come!”
She had almost thrown herself into his arms, and had stood upon tiptoe
to be kissed. He held himself back from the embrace, but he did kiss
her, and he swung her hands now in his, looking into her glowing eyes
with tender, responsive intentness, and smiling his joy. This reception
did make him very happy, but he had also a great uneasiness lest some of
the folks should be observing them from the windows of the house.
She divined his thoughts, and said, gayly: “They are all at church!”
“What? Albert too?” Seth knew that his brother was not of a religious
turn; but he swiftly bethought himself, and added “Oh, I forgot that
election is coming on.”
“No,” she chirruped, springing along by his side, her arm tight in his,
her walk reflecting exultantly her emotion, “he is in New York. He will
be back to-morrow. He has telegraphed me to have you wait.” She dropped
into a mock-serious tone: “That is, of course, if you would _like_ to
wait?” She looked up archly: “Do you much mind waiting?”
“Do I _mind!_” He could only look his delight. His voice trembled.
She made a tiny skip, and lifted her face to him again, radiant with
happiness. “Do you know,” she said, “I could run and jump like any
little child, I am so wild with joy! It seems such an age since we were
together last! Only letters--but they were very nice, though. You dear
boy, who taught you to write such pretty letters--?”
He pressed her arm closer in his. “Who taught me everything that is
sweet?” he whispered. It was all very delicious, but still it troubled
him.
They entered the house, and he excused himself while he took his
hand-bag up to his old room, and made his toilet after the long hot
walk. As he occupied himself thus, and brushed his novel beard, his
thoughts were much perturbed. It was very far from his ideas to make
love to his brother’s wife. This bald statement of the situation which
framed itself now in his mind, almost for the first time, repelled and
alarmed him. Yet it seemed to sum up the state of affairs fairly. If
there was not lovemaking in every feature of that meeting out on the
lawn, then his conceptions of the tender passion were all at fault.
“By Jove, it mustn’t come to that!” he said to himself. “A fellow ought
to be able to be fond of his sister-in-law, and be pleasant to her, and
sympathize with her and all that, without going beyond the bounds, and
making a scoundrel of himself.”
And it was with a deep resolution to be careful, and watch all his
words, that he descended the stairs. He had taken out of his valise two
front pages of a Sunday newspaper, containing “Jeff Brigg’s Love Story,”
which he had saved a while before for Isabel, and he gave them now to
her.
“Here is something I cut out for you, Isabel; it is a very pretty story,
and I know you will like it.”
“Oh, how sweet of you! How well you know just what will please me most
of all! And you shall read it to me! The other stories you have sent
me were only moderately nice, because I had to read them by myself, but
this--oh! this will be enchanting!”
She arranged an easy chair--a low, capacious chair with light blue the
dominant color in its covering--close beside the window in the parlor
which overlooked the poplars, and seated herself in it. Seth brought a
hassock for her feet, and then put his own chair along side, where he
could see her, and still get a good light on the print. It was not easy
for him to begin the reading, so great was the fascination of looking
at his companion. The sunlight flared upon the white curtains above her,
and its reflections glowed back again from her crown of golden braids,
luminous against the azure of the chair, and tipped with soft radiance
her rounded profile, in cameo-relief against the deep olive of the
poplars. Isabel was an artist.
He made a beginning at last, and read until the democrat-wagon drove up
in the yard, with its load of church-goers. She made a little mouth at
the interruption.
“I suppose Sabrina will come in now, and dinner will be ready soon. But
afterwards we can be quiet again, for she always reads the Bible in her
own room Sunday afternoons.”
All through the cold dinner, despite the necessity of answering Aunt
Sabrina’s and Milton’s remarks, Seth found his mental vision fixed on
that beautiful profile against the leafy background; especially sweet
was the portrait when the eyes were closed, and the lovely fullness
above the lids, as in the face of a Madonna, was revealed in the
wavering light.
The story was not to be finished that afternoon, for Elhanan Pratt
and his daughter dropped in almost before the meal was finished, and a
little later Annie Fairchild came. There was not even much consolation
in the pretty grimaces expressive of discontent which Isabel from time
to time, when the visitors were not looking, confided to Seth. It was a
very dull afternoon.
The venerable Mr. Pratt, a weazen, verbose little “gentleman-farmer,”
who wore a huge black satin stock over his high flaring collar opening
behind, and remained clean-shaven, in pious memory of Henry Clay and the
coon campaign, sat on the edge of his chair and droned commonplaces by
the hour. He evidently had an axe to grind by his visit, and he was much
disappointed by Albert’s absence. But if he could not see “the coming
Congressman,” as he called him once or twice, and sound that new
political magnate as to his own renomination for the Assembly, he could
at least enjoy the monopoly of a long conversation with the Editor of
the Tecumseh _Chronicle_, and impress that young man with the breadth
and value of his views. So Seth was forced to spend three dreary hours,
answering as briefly as might be, listening wearily, and stealing stray
glances at the three young women, who made a brighter group on the other
side of the parlor stove. Once or twice he tried tentatively to engraft
himself upon their conversation, and choke old Elhanan off, but the
solemn little bore relentlessly brought him back to the dry bones of
politics. Thus it happened that he had barely had an opportunity of
exchanging a word with his cousin Annie, when she stood up and said, “I
must be going.”
He walked over to her now, and put his hand in a brotherly way on her
shoulder, as he helped her on with her cloak.
“I’ve scarcely had a word with you, Annie,” he said, smiling. “How
is your grandmother? I needn’t ask how _you_ are. You grow prettier
everyday. And how do you get on with your school?”--for the girl was now
teaching in the district school house over the hill.
She answered, “Oh, grandmother is about the same; perhaps a little
weaker, but as bright mentally as ever. You are looking well, Seth, and
quite the man now. Your beard becomes you--doesn’t it, Isabel? We are so
sorry you can’t come to-morrow night. We see so little of you since you
have become a city man.”
“Sorry that I can’t come!” repeated Seth after her.
“Come where?” Isabel interposed with a ready explanation. “There is to
be a husking over at Crump’s to-morrow evening--the first of the season.
There will be a big party of young people, and Crump sent over by
Annie an invitation for us. But I have explained that you are here on
business, which may very likely occupy you to-morrow evening, and that
in any case you would have to write your leaders for the next day’s
paper. We are ever so sorry, Annie,” she added, turning to the
school-teacher now, “but you know this is a terribly busy time with
Seth, and we mustn’t think of letting our little country sociables
interfere with his work. Some time, soon, he will come for a real
vacation, instead of a flying business trip, and then we can monopolize
him--and we will, too, won’t we, Annie?”
Annie smiled, a little faintly, as if her heart were not altogether in
it, and replied, “Yes, to be sure we will.” She added, to Seth, “I won’t
say goodbye. I suppose I shall see you again.”
He assented, and went to the door with her, and stood on the steps
watching her as she walked away in the autumn dusk. Decidedly she _was_
a pretty girl!
The Pratts, father and daughter, consented upon the shadowiest
suggestion of an invitation to stay and partake of the picked-up Sunday
tea, and that involved their spending the evening. Aunt Sabrina came in,
and the talk was dreary and general. So “Jeff Briggs” and his amatory
affairs went over to the morrow.
In the morning Seth walked over to Thessaly and saw John. The interview
depressed him. John had had some idea of following the _Chronicle’s_
lead, and bolting the State ticket, but the county politicians had
bullied him out of the thing by threatening the destruction of the
job-printing business connected with the _Banner of Liberty_, and the
boycotting of the paper itself. All his inclinations, too, were toward
Ansdell in the Congressional race; but Albert had loaned him some money,
and, beside, he couldn’t see his way clear to disregarding, openly at
least, the fraternal tie. He was consequently in a savage mood.
“I’m thinking of taking out the head-line of the paper this week,”
he growled, with a sardonic humor, “and putting in instead a cut of a
runaway slave, with a bundle over his shoulder, which is in the job-room
here, left over from the days when there was slavery in New York State,
and masters used to advertise in the old paper for fugitives. ‘_Banner
of Liberty_ ’ indeed! By heaven, it ought to be ‘_Banner of Bondage!_”
There was no comfort or profit in discussing the situation, either
general or local, with John. He neither knew nor cared, he swore, what
Albert’s chances were to dissolve the deadlock on the morrow. He might
or he mightn’t; it was all one to him, and apparently to the party, who
were the----!
Seth left John to his bad temper and language, and returned to the farm
in the afternoon. A telegram from Albert awaited him.
_“New York, Oct. 19.--If possible conclude business, home to-night, at
latest to-morrow morning. Wait for me at all hazards.--Albert.”_
To provide against a possible delay over Tuesday, Seth devoted the
afternoon, and the earlier part of the evening, to writing matter for
his paper, which Dana was to convey to Thessaly for the early morning
train, when he went to the cheese-factory. If Albert was coming at all
that night, he would arrive about eight.
Nine o’clock came. Aunt Sabrina, after sitting in stem silence by the
living-room stove for an hour or two, looking at the wall-paper as her
brother Lemuel had been won’t to do, went up to bed with a frigid “good
night.” The farm people had all retired with the chickens, long before.
Scarcely raising his eyes from his writing, Seth remarked:
“How Aunt Sabrina has failed since I left the farm! She grows ever so
much like father. Poor old woman, she was so eager to have Albert come
here, so elated with the idea that the family was to be restored to
social and political dignity again--and now the apples seem to be all
dead-sea fruit to her. I can’t see that she takes the slightest interest
in Albert’s campaign. Odd, isn’t it?”
Isabel was sitting near the stove, around the corner of the table from
him. The reddish radiance reflected down from the shaded lamp fell upon
her rounded chin and her smooth white neck, dainty in tint as the ruffle
in which it lost itself. Above this lace at the back, as she bent over
her embroidery, some stray curling wisps of hair gleamed like gold in
the light. She replied:
“It isn’t that at all. She’s interested enough in the Congress idea, or
would be if she hadn’t something else on her mind. The prying old piece
found out, by quizzing Dana, about our writing to each other. She
has got it into her ridiculous old head, I feel sure, that there is
something between us. Didn’t you notice the way she eyed us at the
dinner table yesterday?”
Seth did not answer. His article was unfinished, but he suddenly found
himself in doubt whether it was not already long enough. He reflected,
or tried to reflect, for a moment, while the soft tones of her voice
murmured in his ears, then added a sentence which might serve as a
conclusion, and scrawled a dash underneath.
“There! I’m through!” he said, and looked up.
Her eyes were fixed upon his face. They were in the shadow of the tinted
lamp-shade, but they had a light of their own--a languorous, alluring
glow. He had never looked into such eyes before; they fascinated him,
and he knew, in a delicious trembling, that his own were answering them
in kind.
“You can read to me now,” she said, the rapt, wistful gaze melting into
a smile. “He will not come to-night.”
Seth took the story, as she gave it to him from her workbox, and
glanced over it to pick up the thread of the narrative where it had been
dropped. As he was still thus engaged, he felt her hand laid upon his,
and, as their eyes met again, heard her low, soft voice murmur:
“Do you know why I declined our invitation for the husking?”
There was a silence, which the young man felt that his face made full of
acquiescent meaning.
She answered her own question: “I wanted you here, all for myself.”
Seth lost himself in an uplifting, floating sensation of ethereal
beatitude. Her hand was in his now, warm and palpitating, and he raised
it to his lips. It was difficult to breathe, but the oppression in his
breast was all delight. He rose to his feet, his arms outstretched,
his heart beating in exultant tumult. He heard her whisper--he could
scarcely see her for the magnetic waving before his eyes--the refrain of
the story: “So strong and yet so gentle!” His lips were formed for the
passionate utterance--already framed in his heart--“My darling!” when
there came the sound of footsteps on the path without, and of a hand
upon the latch.
Seth mechanically took up the manuscript of his article, and turned
toward the door. Beneath an impassive mien, far more composed than
he dared to hope, there was the sensation of being hurled down, down,
through the air, to unwelcome earth.
It was Albert. He looked at the two cursorily but closely, and only
said, as he tossed his bag into a chair:
“Train was late. You go to bed at once, Isabel. I have particular
business with Seth.”