Walden Slater had drawn his rickety rocker back against the wall and
he sat just outside the curtain of water that dripped from the eaves
of the back piazza. He looked through the swinging silver hangings
of rain soberly, his empty corncob pipe drooping disconsolately from
his wide mouth. It was evident that he was deep in the concentration
of difficult thought for his brows wrinkled and his head bowed still
lower as he twiddled a small bit of wood in his hand and gazed blankly
at the whirring rain. Dreeme stood in the back door and watched him.
Behind the young doctor in the kitchen Deborah moved about, her small
clear voice raised as she attempted unsuccessfully to converse with
the reticent Mrs. Slater who paraded back and forth with dishes and
answered her in grudging monosyllables. There was an excited quaver in
Deborah’s voice that moved Dreeme, the note of a stifled excitement.
They all had something on their minds. They were all concealing
something from one another. The very atmosphere induced an ingrowing
that was unhealthy and unnatural. Dreeme coughed loudly and shifted
his position. Walden Slater did not stir. He still sat crouched in the
rocker rolling the bit of wood between his stumpy fingers.
“I should think the rain would cheer you up,” remarked Dreeme.
Walden Slater turned his head slowly, inspected the young doctor with a
blank eye, and then resumed his study of the rain.
“Won’t it be good for the crops?”
“Umph,” said Walden Slater. He twiddled his bit of wood and looked at
the sky.
“I’m going to marry Deborah,” announced Dreeme.
Walden Slater turned deliberately around and stared at the young
doctor. He looked first at his shoes, then his trousers, then his coat,
and finally into the doctor’s face. His eyes were opaque mirrors. He
cleared his throat. He said:
“Be you?”
His tone was mild and there was no surprise in his voice.
“I reckoned so,” he added after a moment.
“Any objections?” asked Dreeme.
Walden Slater watched the rain carefully.
“Do you ever whittle?” he inquired.
Dreeme laughed aloud.
“No,” he said. “I don’t even carry a knife.”
His mind flashed back to dour farmers seated morosely before the post
office and general store whittling away at small pieces of wood,
industriously carving nothing to pass away the endless time.
“No objections at all,” remarked Walden Slater mildly.
Both of them heard the humming of the Reverend George Burroughs as he
came through the kitchen from the dining room, and Dreeme drew back
with some distaste as the tall sallow figure pushed through the door to
the back piazza.
“The Lord gives plenteously,” intoned the preacher as his black
expressionless eyes roved from the faces of the two men to the gusts of
rain that swept across the green foliage beyond the house.
“Lend me your knife,” requested Walden Slater, twiddling the bit of
wood in his hand.
The Reverend George Burroughs extracted an old clasp-knife from his
pocket and passed it over to the farmer. Walden Slater began to
methodically whittle the bit of wood he held to a fine point. The tiny
shavings fluttered to the floor.
“A fine rain makes a fine crop,” announced the preacher.
“A fine crop makes a fine profit,” added Dreeme, saying the first thing
that popped into his mind.
“A fine knife makes a fine point,” declared Walden Slater. “This knife
is dull.”
He handed it back without any thanks, and the preacher stowed it away
in his pocket. Dreeme drifted back through the kitchen preparatory to
returning to his study. The conversation was altogether too dull.