He knew, generally, where Alexander Crandall's farm lay; and, shortly
after, drove through the village and mounted the road over which plied the
Stenton stage. In the Bottom, beyond the east range, he went to the right
and passed over an ill-defined way with numerous and deep fords. It was
afternoon; an even, sullen expanse of cloud hid the deeps of sky through
which the sun moved like a newly-minted silver dollar. A sharp wind drew
through the opening; the fallen leaves rose from the road in sudden,
agitated whirling; the gaunt branches, printed sharply on the curtain of
cloud, revealed the deserted nests of past springs.
He drove by solitary farms, their acres lying open and dead among the
brush; and stopped, undecided, before a fenced clearing that swept back to
the abrupt wall of the range, against which a low house was scarcely
distinguishable from the sere, rocky ascent. Finally he drove in, over a
faintly marked track, past a corner of the fence railed about a trough for
sheep shearing, to the house. A pine tree stood at either side of the
large, uncut stone at the threshold; except for a massive exterior chimney
the somberly painted frame structure was without noticeable feature.
He discovered immediately from the youthful feminine figure awaiting him
at the door that he was not at fault. Mrs. Crandall's face radiated her
pleasure.
"Mr. Makimmon!" she cried; "there's just no one we'd rather see than you.
Step right out, and Alexander'll take your horse. He's only at the back of
the house.... Alec!" she called; "Alec, what do you suppose?--here's Mr.
Makimmon."
Alexander Crandall quickly appeared, in a hide apron covered with curlings
of wood. A slight concern was visible upon his countenance, as though he
expected at any moment to see revealed the "string" of which his brother
had spoken.
Gordon adequately met his salutation, and turned to the woman. He saw now
that she was more mature than Lettice: the mouth before him, although
young and red, was bitten in at the corners; already the eyes gazed
through a shadow of care; the capable hands were rough and discolored from
toil and astringent soaps.
"Come in, come in," Crandall urged, striving to banish the sudden anxiety
from his voice.
"And you go right around, Alec," his wife added, "and twist the head off
that dominicker chicken. Pick some flat beans too, there's a mess still
hanging on the poles. Go in, Mr. Makimmon."
He was ushered into the ceremonious, barely-furnished, best room. There
was a small rag carpet at the door, with an archaic, woven animal, and at
its feet an unsteady legend, "Mary's Little Lamb"; but the floor was
uncovered, and the walls, sealed in resinous pine, the pine ceiling, gave
the effect, singular and depressing, of standing inside a huge box.
"It's mortal cold here," Mrs. Crandall truthfully observed; "the grate's
broken. If you wouldn't mind going out into the kitchen--"
In the kitchen, from a comfortable place by the fire, Gordon watched her
deft preparations for an early supper. Crandall appeared with the picked
dominicker, and sat rigidly before his guest.
"I don't quite make out," he at last essayed, "how you expect your money,
what you want out of it."
"I don't want anything out of it," Gordon replied with an almost bitter
vigor; "leastways not any premium. I said you could pay me when you liked.
I'll deed you the farm, and we'll draw up a paper to suit--to suit
crops."
The apprehension in Alexander Crandall's face turned to perplexed relief.
"I don't understand," he admitted; "but I haven't got to. It's enough to
know that you pulled us out of ruination. Things will come right along
now; we can see light; I'm extending the sheep-cots twice."
Supper at an end he too launched upon the lack of opportunity in
Greenstream. "Some day," he asserted, "and not so far off either, we'll
shake off the grip of these blood-money men; we'll have a state lawed
bank; a rate of interest a man can carry without breaking his back.
There's no better land than the Bottom, or the higher clearings for
grazing ... it's the men, some of 'em...."