CHAPTER IX._The Story of a Country Town

THE CHARITY OF SILENCE.

When I went down to breakfast the next morning, I found Agnes waiting

for me, and the meal ready; and as was the case the night before, she

presided at the table without sitting down. I ate alone, and in silence,

as it was explained that Mr. Biggs was not yet up, though it was late,

and Agnes did not seem to be in a mood for talking. The circumstance

that other members of the family kept out of the room made me think that

I was regarded in the house as a sort of a machine likely to explode and

hurt somebody, and could be approached only by those who knew where the

safety valve was which blew me off; for I supposed Mrs. Biggs and Mrs.

Deming to be very aristocratic people, who could not tolerate a

country-bred boy. Therefore I did not feel in very good humor myself,

thinking that Agnes was ashamed to exhibit me to her friends. Going out

to the stables in lazy preparation for returning home, I found Big Adam

pitching hay, as I had left him the day before.

“Well, young Westlock, how are you now?” he inquired, leaning on his

fork.

I returned his greeting, and said I would hitch up when he had time to

help me.

“You needn’t be in a hurry about it,” he said, returning to his work.

“If I were you I would manage to get home just at dark, for then you’ll

have nothing to do during the day. If you get back too early the

preacher may find something for you to do.”

There was a good deal of truth in this, and I thanked him for the

suggestion.

“I know something about hired help and boys on a farm. I have had a ripe

experience in the service of Biggs. I thought he would talk you to death

last night; it’s a terrible death to die. What did he say?”

I repeated portions of the conversation, and gave particular stress to

what he had said concerning his and Big Adam’s doing the work of half a

dozen men.

“He is always saying that,” Big Adam said indignantly, “but I assure you

on my honor that he never held a plough or pitched hay a day in his

life. Why, he is not here a third of his time. He came home last night

after an absence of four weeks; I don’t know where he has been, but to

some of the towns a long way off, probably. At ten or eleven o’clock he

will breakfast, and then I shall hitch up and drive him over the place,

during which time he will point out and suggest enough work to keep a

dozen men busy for months; and after assuring me it ought all to be done

before night, he will return to the house to lounge about. In a day or

two he will go away again, and come back when he gets ready. That’s the

kind of a farmer Biggs is, but I must say for him that he is quiet and

peaceable. I wish I could say as much for his sister, the old pelican.”

Up to this time Big Adam had been wearing his Λ-shaped hat

so far back on his head that I was wondering it did not fall off; but as

if there were some people so contemptible that he could not possibly

mention them without showing his temper, he jerked the hat over on his

low forehead when he said this, and, looking out from under it with his

little eyes, viciously said, “Damn.”

“And who is his sister?” I asked.

“Old Missus Deming, Agnes’s mother; the little old woman they were

careful you should not see.”

It came to me all at once--how foolish of me not to have thought of it

before--why Agnes never talked about her mother, and why she always

seemed to be glad to be away from her; she was disagreeable, not only to

Big Adam, but to every one around her. I understood now that Agnes was

frightened when I first came for fear I should see her mother, and not

for fear her mother would see me, as I had imagined; and I felt so much

better that I had a mind to walk in the yard in plain view of the house,

that Mrs. Deming might regret not having made my acquaintance. I told

Adam that I had seen her, however, and narrated the circumstance of her

appearance in the room after the children.

The hired man expressed his satisfaction at this very much as I have

seen young colts express it, by kicking his legs out in various

directions, and snorting. After he had enjoyed himself in this manner

for a while he said:--

“It’s just like her, though. They might have known better than to have

left her alone. It’s a wonder she didn’t hit you; I wish she had, for

then you would despise her, as I do.”

He continued to chuckle to himself as though it was a satisfaction to

him that I had seen his enemy; and putting his finger in his mouth, he

drew it out in such a manner that it sounded like pulling a cork; then

thumping his jaws he made a sound of liquor coming out of a bottle. This

pantomime I interpreted to mean that if he were better off he would

celebrate the event with something expensive to drink. I found out

afterward that this was a habit with him when in a good humor, and he

had acquired such skill by practice that if your back was turned to him

the deception was perfect.

“She’s the worst woman on earth,” he continued, leading me behind the

barn to be more confidential. “They say she never smiled in her life,

and I believe it. She grumbles, and growls, and jaws from morning until

night; but what can they do? Bless you, she owns the farm!”

I looked astonished, to induce him to go on.

“Yes, she owns the place, and you bet she looks after it. When she came

here with Agnes, six or seven years ago, her brother had a great tract

of land bought on credit, and she paid for it with the money she brought

along, and built the house you slept in last night. Since then she has

been so disagreeable that Biggs is seldom at home, and won’t see her

when he is. Did you see his wife?”

I replied that I had been denied that pleasure.

“You would have seen a sight if you had; a woman who hasn’t combed her

hair for six years, because she has that old hen to look after, besides

the care of the children. I don’t believe she ever sleeps; for if I wake

up in the night she is either being railed at by that she devil or is up

with the children. I believe she is the only person living whose lot is

worse than mine. When I am in the field I am out of my misery, but she

never has that opportunity of escaping hers. When Agnes is away I often

cook my own meals, and I am the only one besides Agnes that pays her any

attention. Except to keep a family of children around her, I think Biggs

never notices her; and when he is at home he occupies a room away from

the noise and confusion. But she is patient, and never complains,

although there is no hope; for the old woman will outlive us all. She

lives on growling and grumbling, for she is afraid to eat for fear of

poison, and hesitates to sleep for visions of strangling. She talks

about poisoning and strangling for hours at a stretch, and accuses the

Biggses of wanting to murder her, because she knows it humiliates them.

I hear that her late husband was a fine fellow, a sea captain. He was a

very sensible man, I judge, for he drowned himself rather than live with

her. I think a great deal of Captain Deming’s memory; he is the only

great man I know even by reputation. Here’s to him.”

He pulled another cork, which appeared to come with difficulty, and

thumped on his jaws to represent the gurgling of liquor as it flows out

of the bottle.

“Agnes is like him. It will be a great relief to her to go home with

you. Does she ever talk of her mother?”

“No,” I answered.

“I thought not; nor does she ever talk of the Devil. But I’ll be bound

she talks a great deal of her father. I think Agnes will never marry,

preferring to remain an old maid rather than introduce a husband to her

mother; and I don’t blame her. She complains during the few weeks that

the poor girl is at home because Agnes is not away earning money for her

strong-box, into which goes every dollar of it. If Agnes has any money,

Biggs gives it to her; for she has to account for every penny of her

earnings to her mother, who says she needs that, and more, to buy

something decent to wear. She talks a great deal about having nothing

decent to wear, as if anything would look well on her angular old bones

except a shroud.”

“What does Biggs do for a living?” I asked, anxious to know as much

about the family as possible.

“To be candid with you,” Big Adam replied, in a confidential way, “I

don’t know; although he has some way of making money, for he always has

it. He organizes the farmers for one thing, and is a member of the

Legislature for another. Once he started a Farmers’ Store here, at a

place over in the hills there,” pointing in the direction, “where the

roads cross, and where the Smoky Hill post-office is kept. He told the

people they must organize for protection, and he somehow made them agree

to patronize his store if he would start one. They were honest men who

made the agreement, and lived up to it a long while; but in time they

found out that he was charging them a great deal more for his goods than

the dangerous men he had warned them against in town. I was in the place

when they came in to hang him; and one man walked up to the rope-reel,

and wanted to know how much rope would be necessary. But Biggs made them

a speech from a vinegar barrel, and so worked upon their feelings that

they went away content with the harmless revenge of calling him a little

whiffet. Biggs put me in charge, and galloped away to find a purchaser

for his store. He found one by representing that an entire neighborhood

of fools had signed an agreement to pay him in cash whatever price he

asked for his goods. The purchaser wanted to shoot Biggs when he found

out how matters really stood--for he had paid a big price--but for some

reason he changed his mind. Biggs is that kind of man. Now you know as

much about him as I do.”

As though he had been idling away too much time already, Big Adam began

to work with great energy, and refused to talk any more, so I put the

horses to the wagon alone; but after I had driven through the gate and

into the road he came out as if there was one word more he desired to

say, and lifting himself up by putting one foot on the wheel, he

whispered in my ear:--

“My father was killed by the Indians.”

He looked so distressed that I expressed some sort of regret, and said

it was a pity.

“Good-bye,” he added, giving me his hand; “my last name is Casebolt. My

mother is married the second time.”

I shook his great fat hand again, and he went back to his work. Driving

round to the front of the house I found Agnes waiting for me, and,

lifting her little trunk into the wagon, we drove away, no one appearing

at the doors or windows to bid her good-bye. My mother had told me to

invite Mrs. Deming to visit her, but out of regard for Agnes I resolved

to say that I had forgotten it. As we went past the stables Big Adam

motioned for me to stop, and raising himself up beside me by putting his

foot on the wheel again, he whispered,--

“My brothers and sisters are all dead.”

He stepped down from the wheel; and putting the whip to the horses I

soon left the place behind me.

I saw that Agnes had been crying, for her eyes were red and swollen; but

I pretended not to notice it, and hoped her spirits would revive as we

neared Fairview.

“You will excuse me, Ned,” she said, after we had driven a long time in

silence, “if I have neglected you, but I have not been myself for

several days. Big Adam talks a great deal, and I saw you down in the

yard with him a long while. You should not believe all he says. I am

unhappy on my own account.”

I did not know what to say in reply, for I was anxious for her to

believe that I thought her mother was not at home, or something of that

sort; so I jerked one of the horses roughly, and said “Whoa,” as if the

animal were preparing to run away. I knew she was distressed that I knew

how unhappy she was at home, and was trying to lay the blame on herself,

as she did in everything; therefore I watched the dangerous horse very

intently for several minutes, and finally got down to walk around the

wagon, to see if anything was wrong. After I had pounded the tires

awhile with a stone, although they were new, I climbed back into my

seat, and we drove on again.

“The people of Fairview have been very kind to me,” Agnes continued, not

minding that I did not care to talk on the subject, “and I have been

happier there than here; although it is very ungrateful in me, and a

poor return for the patient way in which they bear with me at home. I am

so wicked and selfish.”

The tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and I wondered whether it was

wrong to tell white lies, for I was sure Agnes was fibbing in defence of

her family. She thought about the matter a long time after that, and

looked at me narrowly,--although I pretended not to know it,--and seemed

to conclude at last that I had made good use of my time with Big Adam,

and that she must depend upon the charity of my silence. Any way, she

said no more upon the subject, and we rode in silence for several miles.

“You have always taken a great interest in my father,” she said, at

last, wiping her eyes, and dismissing the unpleasant subject. “I have

brought you his picture as a present.”

She took it out of a little package she carried, and gave it to me. It

was a handsome face, and looked very much as I had imagined, except that

it was clean-shaven. I put it away carefully, and she said:--

“My life would have been very different had he lived, and I should not

have been so unkind to every one. He was always so brave and good that I

should have striven to be like him, for everybody loved him. But he is

dead, and I cannot be content without him. It is this that makes me

fretful, and unworthy of my many good friends. Oh dear, I am going to

cry.”

She did cry again, apologizing for it in a way that reminded me of her

uncle; and I sat there feeling like a fool while she was giving vent to

her grief, and until she had regained her self-possession once more.

“I am sorry I did not see him buried, and that he did not have a quiet

place to rest,” Agnes continued, wiping her eyes; “for I dream at night

of his storm-tossed ship, and always think of the sea as forever rolling

and tossing his poor body about, refusing it rest and peace. Often in

the wicked waves I see his white face turned imploringly to me, and the

noises of the night I torture into his cries to me for help. If I knew

where he was buried, and could sometimes visit his grave, I should be