THE HOWES
Within the confines of his own home Martin Howe, as Ellen Webster
asserted, was a czar. Born with the genius to rule, he would probably have
fought his way to supremacy had struggle been necessary. As it was,
however, no effort was demanded of him, for by the common consent of an
adoring family, he had been voluntarily elevated to throne and scepter. He
was the only boy, the coveted gift long denied parents blessed with three
daughters and in despair of ever possessing a son.
What rejoicings heralded his advent! Had half the treasures an eager
father and mother prayed Heaven to grant been bestowed upon the child, he
would unquestionably have become an abnormality of health, wealth, and
wisdom. But Destiny was too farseeing a goddess to allow her neophyte to
be spoiled by prosperity. Both his parents died while Martin was still a
pupil at the district school, and the lad, instead of going to the city
and pursuing a profession, as had been his ambition, found himself
hurried, all unequipped, uneducated and unprepared, into the
responsibilities of managing the family household.
Farming was not the calling he would have chosen. He neither liked it, nor
was he endowed with that intuitive sixth sense on which so many farmers
rely for guidance amid the mazes of plowing and planting. By nature, he
was a student. The help he had sporadically given his father had always
been given rebelliously and been accompanied by the mental resolve that
the first moment escape was possible, he would leave the country and its
nagging round of drudgery and take up a broader and more satisfying
career.
To quote Martin's own vernacular, farming was hard work,--_damned hard
work._ It was not, however, the amount of toil it involved that daunted
him, but its quality. He had always felt a hearty and only thinly veiled
contempt for manual labor; moreover, he considered life in a small village
an extremely provincial one.
It was just when he was balancing in his mind the relative advantages of
becoming a doctor or a lawyer, and speculating as to which of these
professions appealed the more keenly to his fancy, that Fate intervened
and relieved him of the onerousness of choosing between them.
Martin could have viewed almost any other vocation than that of farmer
through a mist of romance, for he was young, and for him, behind the
tantalizingly veiled future, there still moved the shadowy forms of
knights, dragons, and fair ladies; but with the grim eye of a realist, he
saw farming as it was, stripped of every shred of poetry. Blossoming
orchards and thriving crops he knew to be the ephemeral phantasms of the
dreamer. Farming as he had experienced it was an eternal combat against
adverse conditions; a battle against pests, frosts, soil, weather, and
weariness. The conflict never ceased, nor was there hope of emerging from
its sordidness into the high places where were breathing space and vision.
One could never hope when night came to glance back over the day and see
in retrospect a finished piece of work. There was no such thing as writing
_finis_ beneath any chapter of the ponderous tome of muscle-racking
labor.
The farmer stopped work at twilight only because his strength was spent
and daylight was gone. The aching back, the tired muscles, could do no
more, and merciful darkness drew a curtain over the day, thereby cutting
off further opportunity for toil until the rising of another sun.
But although night carried with it temporary relief from exertion, it
brought with it little peace. As one sat at the fireside in the gathering
dusk, it was only to see in imagination a sinister procession of specters
file past. They were the things that had been left undone. On they swept,
one unperformed task treading upon the heel of its predecessor. There
still remained potatoes to spade, weeds to pull, corn to hoe. A menacing
company of ghosts to harass a weary man as his eyes closed at night and
confront him when he opened them in the morning!
And even when, with the zest the new day brought, he contrived to mow down
the vanguard of the parade, other recruits were constantly reenforcing its
rear ranks and swelling the foes arraigned against the baffled farmer.
Struggle as he would, the line was sometimes longer at evening than it had
been at dawn. What wonder that a conscientious fellow like Martin Howe
felt farming less a business to be accomplished than a choice of
alternatives? What rest was there in sleep, if all the time one's eyes
were closed a man was subconsciously aware that cutworms were devouring
his lettuce and that weeds were every instant gaining headway? Even the
rhythm of the rain was a reminder that the pea vines were being battered
down and that the barn roof was leaking.
Yet to flee from this uncongenial future and seek one more to his liking
did not occur to Martin Howe. He had been born with an uncompromising
sense of duty, and once convinced of an obligation, he would have scorned
to shirk it. The death of his parents left him no choice but to take up
his cross with New England Spartanism and bear it like a true disciple.
All the Howe capital was invested in land, in stock, and in agricultural
implements. To sell out, even were he so fortunate as to find a purchaser,
would mean shrinkage. And the farm once disposed of, what then? Had he
been alone in the world, he would not have paused to ask the question. But
there were Mary, Eliza, and Jane,--three sisters older than himself with
no resources for earning a living. Even he himself was unskilled, and
should he migrate to the city, he would be forced to subsist more or less
by his wits; and to add to his uncertain fortunes the burden of three
dependent women would be madness. No, the management of the family
homestead was his inevitable lot. That he recognized.
What the abandonment of his "Castles in Spain" cost Martin only those who
knew him best appreciated; and they but dimly surmised. Resolutely he kept
his face set before him, allowing himself no backward glances into the
_dolce-far-niente_ land left behind. As it was characteristic of him to
approach any problem from the scholar's standpoint, he attacked his
agricultural puzzles from a far more scientific angle than his father had
done, bringing to them an intelligence that often compensated for
experience and opened before him vistas of surprising interest. He
subscribed to garden magazines; studied into crop rotation and the
grafting of trees and vines; spent a few months at college experimenting
with soils and chemicals. He investigated in up-to-date farming machinery
and bought some of the devices he felt would economize labor.
Gradually the problem of wresting a living from the soil broadened and
deepened until it assumed alluring proportions. Farming became a conundrum
worthy of the best brain, and one at which the supercilious could ill
afford to scoff. Martin found himself giving to it the full strength both
of his body and mind.
By the end of the first year he had become resigned to his new career; by
the end of the second interested in it; by the end of the third
enthusiastic.
In the meantime, as season succeeded season, the soil he had so patiently
tended began to give him thanks, returning ever increasing harvests. The
trees in the old orchard bent under their weight of apples; the grapevines
were lush with fruit. The Howe farm acquired fame in the neighborhood.
The boy was proud of his success and justly so. Not alone did it represent
man's triumph over Nature, but it also meant the mastery of Martin's own
will over his inclinations. And all the while that he was achieving this
dual victory he was developing from a thin, over-grown lad into a muscular
young giant,--keen-eyed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-armed. He
was lithe as an Indian and almost as unwearying. If through the cross
rifts of his daily routine there filtered occasional shadows of
loneliness, he only vaguely acknowledged their existence, attributing his
groping longing for sympathy to the lack of male companionship and the
uncongeniality that existed between himself and his sisters.
He had, to be sure, a few masculine acquaintances in the village, but most
of them were older and less progressive than he, and they offered him
little aid in his difficulties. Having farmed all their lives and been
content with the meager results they had obtained, they shrugged their
shoulders at Martin's experiments with irrigation and fertilizer,
regarding his attempts as the impractical theories of a fanatic. Of youth,
Sefton Falls contained only a scattering, the more enterprising young men
having gone either to the city or to the War.
Thus bereft of friends of his own sex, and turned back from a professional
or a soldier's career by Duty's flaming sword, Martin reverted to his own
home for comradeship. But here, alas, he was again disappointed.
Mary, Eliza, and Jane were not of a type to fill the void in his life that
he sought to have filled. It would be unfair to say he had not a warm
regard for his sisters, for he was a person of inherent loyalty, and ties
of blood meant much to him. Had he not sacrificed his own dreams that his
family might retain their old home? Nevertheless one may have a
deep-rooted affection for one's kin and yet not find them congenial; and
Martin was compelled to acknowledge that Mary, Eliza and Jane--estimable
women as they were--had many fundamental characteristics that were quite
out of harmony with his ideals of life. It was possible their faults were
peculiar to the entire feminine race. He was not prepared to say, since
his knowledge of the sex had never extended beyond the sill of his own
doorway. But whether general or particular, the truth remained that the
mental horizon of his sisters, bounded as it was by the four walls of the
kitchen and such portion of the outside world as could be seen from its
windows, was pitiably narrow.
Beyond the round of their daily duties none of the three women had an
interest in life. Over and over again they performed their humdrum tasks
in the same humdrum fashion, arguing over each petty detail of the
time-worn theme until he marveled they could retain a particle of zest
for routine they never varied from year to year.
Reading and experimenting brought a freshness to his work that stimulated
detours into untraveled paths. But Mary, Eliza, and Jane never sought out
the uncharted way. Evidently monotony suited their stolid temperaments; or
if it did not, they never rebelled against it or tried to shake off its
fetters. Matter-of-fact, timid, faithful, capable, middle-aged,--they were
born to be plodders rather than explorers.
Martin admitted that to their undeviating system he owed a great measure
of the comfort and tranquillity of his well-ordered house, and hence he
struggled earnestly not to complain at the bondage that resulted from
their cast-iron methods. Long since he had despaired of expecting
adaptability from them. They must cling to their rut or all was _lost._
Once out of their customary channel, and they were like tossing ships,
rudderless and without an anchor.
Their solicitude for him was another source of exasperation. There were
days when the brute in him rose and clamored to strike Mary for tagging at
his heels with coats and medicines, and Eliza for her lynxlike
observation of every mouthful he ate. But he curbed the impulse,
shamefacedly confessing himself to be ungrateful.
Had his tolerance been reenforced by insight, he would have understood
that the very qualities which so exasperated him sprang from his sister's
laudable desire to voice a gratitude they could not put into words by
neglecting no act which would promote his welfare; but Martin, alas, was
not a psychologist, and therefore was unable to translate his annoyances
in these interpretative terms.
In truth, what Mary, Eliza, and Jane were as individuals concerned him
very little. He always thought of them as a composite personality, a sort
of female trinity.
Nevertheless Mary, Eliza, and Jane Howe were not a trinity. They were
three very distinct beings.
Mary had had spinsterhood thrust upon her. At heart she was a mother, a
woman created to nurse and comfort. Her greatest happiness was derived
from fluttering about those she loved and waiting upon them. Had she
dared, she would have babied Martin to an even greater extent than she
did. As it was, when she was not at his elbow with warmer socks, heavier
shoes, or a cup of hot coffee, she was worrying about Mary and Eliza,
brewing tonics for them, or putting burning soapstones in their beds. It
was a pity Life had cheated her of having a dozen babies to pilot through
the mazes of measles and whooping cough, for then Mary would have been in
her element. Yet nature is a thing of inconsistencies, and through some
strange, unaccountable caprice, Mary's marital instincts stopped with this
fostering instinct. In every other respect she was an old maid. Men she
abhorred. Like Jennie Wren, she knew their tricks and their manners--or
thought she did--which for all practical purposes amounted to the same
thing. Had it been necessary for her to prove some of the theorems she
advanced concerning the male sex, she would have been at a loss to do so,
since the scope of her experience was very limited. Nevertheless, with
genuine Howe tenacity, she clung to her tenets even though she was without
data to back them up.
Eliza, on the other hand, had in her girlhood been the recipient of
certain vague attentions from an up-State farmer, and these had bared to
her virgin imagination a new world. True, the inconstant swain had
betaken himself to the next county and there wed another. But although the
affair had come to this ignominious end and its radiance had been dimmed
by the realities of a quarter of a century of prosaic life, Eliza had
never allowed time to obscure entirely the beauty of that early dream, nor
the door thus opened into the fairy realms of romance to be wholly closed.
Though she knew herself to be old, silver-haired, and worn, yet within the
fastnesses of her soul she was still young and waited the coming of her
lover. The illusion was only an illusion--a foolish, empty fantasy.
However, it helped her to be content with the present and harmed no one.
That Eliza had never quite "quit struggling" was borne out by the ripples
into which she coaxed her hair and by the knot of bright ribbon she never
failed to fasten beneath her ample chin.
Of the trio, Jane was the best balanced. Although the youngest of the
sisters, it was to her judgment they were wont to appeal in times of
stress. She was more fearless, more outspoken; and any mission she
undertook was more certain of success. Therefore, when it became necessary
to present some cause to Martin, it always fell to Jane's lot to act as
spokesman. Once when a controversy concerning Ellen Webster had arisen,
Jane had actually had the temerity to denounce her brother's attitude to
his face, declaring that should the old woman fall ill she would certainly
go and take care of her. Martin had met her defiance with rage. The
Websters and all their kindred might die before he would cross their
threshold or allow any of his family to do so. Before the violence of his
wrath, Mary and Eliza, who within their souls agreed with Jane, quailed in
terror; but Jane was undaunted.
This lack of what Martin termed _proper pride_ in his sisters was a source
of great disgust to him. He was quite conscious that although they did not
openly combat his opinions, they did not agree with him, and not only
regretted being at odds with their neighbors but also condemned his
perpetuation of the old feud as unchristian. Hence it was a cause for much
rejoicing to his mind to reflect that one male Howe at least survived to
bolster up a spineless, spiritless, and decadent generation. To love one's
enemies was a weak creed. Martin neither loved them nor pretended to.
Never, never, would he forgive the insults the Websters had heaped upon
his family. He wished no positive harm to Ellen Webster; but he certainly
wished her no good.
Mary, Eliza, and Jane had too much timidity and too great a craving for
peace not to conform outwardly at least to their brother's wishes.
Accordingly they bent their necks to his will; for did not Martin rule the
house?
Had you inquired of any of the sisters the Howes' breakfast hour, you
would have been told that breakfast was served when Martin pleased. It was
the sound of his step upon the stair that set preparations for the morning
meal in motion. So it was with every other detail of the home. When he
appeared in the doorway his handmaidens sprang to serve him, and so long
as he lingered beneath the roof they stayed their impatient hands from any
task that would create noise or confusion, and disturb his tranquillity.
It was not until the ban of his presence was removed that they ventured to
resume the mopping, dusting, or cooking in which they had been engaged
before his entrance.
It would have been interesting to know how Martin explained to himself
the lack of machinery in his household, and how he reconciled the
spotlessness of his home with the apparent idleness of his sisters. His
hearth was always swept; the dishes noiselessly washed; the beds made as
if by magic; and the cleaning done without shadow of inconvenience to him.
So long as these processes were not forced upon his consciousness and were
faultlessly performed, he accepted the results without comment. But let
one cog of the wheel slip, setting the mechanism of his comfort awry, and
he was sure to mention it.
Possibly it was because he himself performed his out-of-door duties well
that he demanded, and felt he had the right to demand a similar perfection
within doors. In fact, he drew the lines of demarkation between the
masculine and feminine spheres of service so sharply that his sisters
would have died before they would have asked his aid in any domestic
difficulty. Faithfully he met every obligation he considered to be within
a man's province,--bringing wood, coal, and kindlings with the courtesy of
a courtier; but the fowl browning in the oven might have burned to ebony
before Martin would have lifted a finger to rescue it. To oversee the
cooking was not his duty. No autocrat ever reigned with more absolute
power than did Martin Howe; and no monarch ever maintained a more sincere
faith in his divine right to rule. He simply set the crown of sovereignty
upon his own brows because he believed it to belong there. And had his
faith in his destiny wavered, there were always his slaves Mary, Eliza,
and Jane to bow their foreheads in the dust at his feet and murmur with
true Oriental submissiveness:
Oh, King, Live Forever!
His lordship being thus acknowledged, was it any wonder that Martin cast
about himself a mantle of aloofness and dignity and rated as trivial the
household routine and petty gossip of his sisters? When he listened to
their chatter at all it was with the tolerance of a superior being toward
a less intelligent rabble.
Hence when he returned from the field one night and was greeted by the
breathless announcement that a strange young woman with her trunk had just
arrived at the Websters', it was characteristic of him to quiet the
excited outburst of his sisters with the chilling and stately reply:
"What does it matter to us who she is, or what she's come for? Ellen
Webster's visitors are no concern of ours."