FLAXEN GROWS RESTLESS.
But as the excitement of getting back died out, poor Flaxen grew
restless, moody, and unaccountable. Before, she had always been the same
cheery, frank, boyish creature. As Bert said, "You know where to find
her." Now she was full of strange tempers and moods. She would work most
furiously for a time, and then suddenly fall dreaming, looking away out
on the shimmering plain toward the east.
At Bert's instigation, a middle-aged widow had been hired, at a fabulous
price, to come and do the most of the work for them, thus releasing
Flaxen from the weight of the hard work, which perhaps was all the worse
for her. Hard work might have prevented the unbearable, sleepless pain
within. She hated the slatternly Mrs. Green at once for her meddling
with her affairs, though the good woman meant no offence. She was jocose
in the broad way of middle-aged persons, to whom a love-affair is
legitimate food for raillery.
But Gearheart's keen eye was on Flaxen as well. He saw how eagerly she
watched for the mail on Tuesdays and Fridays, and how she sought a quiet
place at once in order to read and dream over her letters. She was
restless a day or two before a certain letter came, with an eager,
excited, expectant air. Then, after reading it, she was absent-minded,
flighty in conversation, and at last listlessly uneasy, moving slowly
about from one thing to another, in a kind of restless inability to take
continued interest in anything.
All this, if it came to the attention of Anson at all, was laid to the
schooling the girl had had.
"Of course it'll seem a little slow to you, Flaxie, but harvestin' is
comin' on soon, an' then things'll be a little more lively."
But Gearheart was not so slow-witted. He had had sisters and girl
cousins, and knew "the symptoms," as Mrs. Green would have put it. He
noticed that when Flaxen read her letters to them there was one which
she carefully omitted. He knew that this was the letter which meant the
most to her. He saw how those letters affected her, and thought he had
divined in what way.
One day when Flaxen, after reading her letters, sprang up and ran into
her bedroom, her eyes filled with sudden tears, Gearheart crooked his
finger at Ans, and they went out to the barn together.
It was nearly one o'clock on an intolerable day peculiar to the Dakota
plain. A frightfully hot, withering, and powerful wind was abroad. The
thermometer stood nearly a hundred in the shade, and the wind, so far
from being a relief, was suffocating because of its heat and the dust it
swept along with it.
The heavy-headed grain and russet grass writhed and swirled as if in
agony, and dashed high in waves of green and yellow. The corn-leaves had
rolled up into long cords like the lashes of a whip, and beat themselves
into tatters on the dry, smooth spot their blows had made beneath them;
they seemed ready to turn to flame in the pitiless, furnace-like blast.
Everywhere in the air was a silver-white, impalpable mist, which gave to
the cloudless sky a whitish cast. The glittering gulls were the only
living things that did not move listlessly and did not long for rain.
They soared and swooped, exulting in the sounding wind; now throwing
themselves upon it, like a swimmer, then darting upward with miraculous
ease, to dip again into the shining, hissing, tumultuous waves of the
grass.
Along the roads prodigious trains of dust rose hundreds of feet in the
air, and drove like vast caravans with the wind. So powerful was the
blast that men hesitated about going out with carriages, and everybody
watched feverishly, expecting to see fire break out on the prairie and
sweep everything before it. Work in the fields had stopped long before
dinner, and the farmers waited, praying or cursing, for the wheat was
just at the right point to be blighted.
As the two men went out to the shed side by side, they looked out on the
withering wheat-stalks and corn-leaves with gloomy eyes.
"Another day like this, an' they won't be wheat enough in this whole
county to make a cake," said Anson, with a calm intonation, which after
all betrayed the anxiety he felt. They sat down in the wagon-shed near
the horses' mangers. They listened to the roar of the wind and the
pleasant sound of the horses eating their hay, a good while before
either of them spoke again. Finally Bert said sullenly:
"We can't put up hay such a day as this. You couldn't haul it home under
lock an' key while this infernal wind is blowin'. It's gittin' worse, if
anythin'."
Anson said nothing, but waited to hear what Bert had brought him out
here for. Bert speared away with his knife at a strip of board. Anson
sat on a wagon-tongue, his elbows on his knees, looking intently at the
grave face of his companion. The horses ground cheerily at the hay.
"Ans, we've got to send Flaxen back to St. Peter; she's so homesick she
don't know what to do."
Ans' eyes fell.
"I know it. I've be'n hopin' she'd git over that, but it's purty tough
on her, after bein' with the young folks in the city f'r a year, to come
back here on a farm." He did not finish for a moment. "But she can't
stand it. I'd looked ahead to havin' her here till September, but I
can't stand it to see her cryin' like she did to-day. We've got to give
up the idee o' her livin' here. I don't see any other way but to sell
out an' go back East somewhere."
Bert saw that Anson was still ignorant of the real state of affairs, but
thought he would say nothing for the present.
"Yes: that's the best thing we can do. We'll send her right back, an'
take our chances on the crops. We can git enough to live on an' keep her
at school, I guess."
They sat silent for a long time, while the wind tore round the shed,
Bert spearing at the stick, and Anson watching the hens as they vainly
tried to navigate in the wind. Finally Anson spoke:
"The fact is, Bert, this ain't no place f'r a woman, anyway--such a
woman as Flaxen's gittin' to be. They ain't nothin' goin' on, nothin' to
see 'r hear. You can't expect a girl to be contented with this country
after she's seen any other. No trees; no flowers; jest a lot o' little
shanties full o' flies."
"I knew all that, Ans, a year ago. I knew she'd never come back here,
but I jest said it's the thing to do--give her a chance, if we don't
have a cent; now let's go back to the house an' tell her she needn't
stay here if she don't want to."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose was in that letter?"
"Couldn't say. Some girl's description of a pic-nic er somethin'." Bert
was not yet ready to tell what he knew. When they returned to the house
the girl was still invisible, in her room. Mrs. Green was busy clearing
up the dinner-dishes.
"I don't know's I ever see such a wind back to Michigan. Seems as if it
'u'd blow the hair off y'r head."
"Oh, this ain't nothin'. This is a gentle zephyr. Wait till y' see a
wind."
"Wal, I hope to goodness I won't never see a wind. Zephyrs is all I can
mortally stand."
Anson went through the little sitting-room and knocked on Flaxen's door.
"Flaxie, we want to talk to yeh." There was no answer, and he came back
and sat down. Bert pointed to the letter which Flaxen had flung down on
the table. The giant took it, folded it up, and called, "Here's y'r
letter, babe."
The door opened a little, and a faint, tearful voice said:
"Read it, if ye want to, boys." Then the door closed tightly again, and
they heard her fling herself on the bed. Anson handed the letter to
Bert, who read it in a steady voice.
Dear Darling: I have good news to tell you. My uncle was out from
Wisconsin to see me, and he was pleased with what I had done, and he
bought out Mr. Ford, and gave me the whole half interest. I'm to pay him
back when I please. Ain't that glorious? Now we can get married right
off, can't we, darling? So you just show this letter to your father, and
tell him how things stand. I've got a good business. The drug store is
worth $1,200 a year--my half--but knock off fifty per cent and we could
live nicely. Don't you think so? I want to see you so bad, and talk
things over. If you can't come back soon, I will come on. Write soon.
Yours till death,
Will.
From the first word Anson winced, grew perplexed, then suffered. His
head drooped forward on his hands, his elbows rested on his vast, spread
knees. He drew his breath with a long, grieving gasp. Bert read on
steadily to the end, then glanced at his companion with a deep frown
darkening his face; but he was not taken by surprise. He had not had
paternal affection change to the passion of a lover only to have it
swept down like a half-opened flower. For the first time in his life
Anson writhed in mental agony. He saw it all. It meant eternal
separation. It meant a long ache in his heart which time could scarcely
deaden into a tolerable pain.
Gearheart rose and went out, unwilling to witness the agony of his
friend and desiring himself to be alone. Anson sat motionless, with his
hands covering his wet eyes, going over the past and trying to figure
the future.
He began in that storm: felt again the little form and face of the
wailing child; thought of the frightful struggle against the wind and
snow; of the touch of the little hands and feet; of her pretty prattle
and gleeful laughter; then of her helpful and oddly-womanish ways as she
grew older; of the fresh, clear voice calling him "pap" and ordering him
about with a roguish air; of her beauty now, when for the first time he
had begun to hope that she might be something dearer to him.
How could he live without her? She had grown to be a part of him. He had
long ceased to think of the future without her. As he sat so, the
bedroom door opened, and Flaxen's tearful face looked out at him. He did
not seem to hear, and she stole up to him and, putting her arm around
his neck, laid her cheek on his head--a dear, familiar, childish
gesture, used when she wished to propitiate him. He roused himself and
put his arm about her waist, tried to speak, and finally said in a sorry
attempt at humor, wofully belied by the tears on his face and the
choking in his throat:
"You tell that feller--if he wants ye, to jest come an'--git ye--that's
all!"