"For one, _I_ don't trust them yaller-haired, smooth-spoke women! I
never see one on 'em yet that wa'n't full o' Satan."
It was Mrs. Rhoda Squires who uttered the above words; and she
uttered them with considerable unnecessary clatter of the dishes she
was engaged in washing. Abby Ann, a lank, dyspeptic-looking girl of
fifteen or sixteen, was wiping the same, while the farmer himself
was putting the finishing touches to his evening toilet. That toilet
consisted, as usual, of a good wash at the pump, the turning down of
his shirt-sleeves, and a brief application of the family comb, which
occupied a convenient wall-pocket at one side of the small kitchen
mirror--after which the worthy farmer considered himself in full dress,
and ready for any social emergency likely to occur at Higgins' Four
Corners.
"No," said Abby Ann, in response to her mother's remark, "she ain't
no beauty, but her clo'es does fit elegant. I wish I hed the pattern
o' that white polonay o' hern, but I wouldn't _ask_ her for it--no,
not to save her!" she added, in praiseworthy emulation of the maternal
spirit.
"Oh, you women folks!" interposed the farmer. "You're as full of envy
'n' backbitin' as a beechnut's full o' meat. Beauty! Ye don't know
what beauty means. I tell you she _is_ a beauty,--a real high-steppin'
out-an'-out beauty!"
"She's as old as I be, every bit!" snapped Mrs. Squires. "An' she
hain't got a speck o' color in her cheeks--an' she's a widder at that!"
Farmer Squires turned slowly around and deliberately surveyed the wiry,
stooping figure of his wife from the small, rusty "pug" which adorned
the back of her aggressive little head, and the sharp, energetically
moving elbows, down to the hem of her stiffly starched calico gown.
"Look-a-here, Rhody," said he, a quizzical look on his shrewd, freckled
countenance, "you've seen Gil Simmonses thorough-bred? Wall--that mare
is nigh onto two year older'n our old Sal, but I swanny----"
Undoubtedly the red signal which flamed from Mrs. Squires's sallow
cheeks warned her husband that he had said more than enough, for he
came to a sudden pause, seized upon a pair of colossal cowhide shoes,
upon which he had just bestowed an unusual degree of attention in the
way of polish, and disappeared in the direction of the barn.
"He's jist as big a fool as ever!" she ejaculated. "The Lord knows _I_
didn't want no city folks a-wearin' out _my_ carpets, an' a drinkin' up
_my_ cream, an' a-turnin' up their noses at _me_! But no--ever sence
he heared that Deacon Fogg made nigh onto a hundred dollars last year
a-keepin' summer-boarders, his fingers has been a-itchin' an' his mouth
a-waterin', an' nothin' for't but I must slave myself to death the
whole summer for a pack o' stuck-up----"
She paused--for a soft rustle of garments and a faint perfume filled
the kitchen, and turning, Mrs. Squires beheld the object of her
vituperation standing before her.
She was certainly yellow-haired, and though not "every bit as old"
as her hostess, a woman whose first youth was past; yet so far as
delicately turned outlines, and pearly fairness of skin go, she might
have been twenty. The eyes which met Mrs. Squires's own pale orbs
were of an intense, yet soft, black, heavy-lidded and languid, and
looked out from beneath their golden fringes with a calm, slow gaze,
as if it were hardly worth their while to look at all. A smile, purely
conventional, yet sweet with the graciousness of good breeding, parted
the fine, soft lips.
Her mere presence made the room seem small and mean, and Mrs. Squires,
into whose soured and jealous nature the aspect of beauty and grace ate
like a sharp acid, smarted under a freshly awakened sense of her own
physical insignificance.
She received her guest with a kind of defiant insolence, which could
not, however, conceal her evident embarrassment, while Abby Ann
retreated ignominiously behind the pantry door.
"I came to ask if Mr. Squires succeeded in finding some one to take us
about," said the lady. "He thought he could."
Her voice was deep-toned and sweet, her manner conciliatory.
"I believe he did," replied Mrs. Squires, curtly. "Abby Ann, go tell
your father Mis' Jerome wants him."
Abby Ann obeyed, and the lady passed out into the front hall, and to
the open door. A cascade of filmy lace and muslin floated from her
shoulders and trailed across the shiny oil-cloth. As the last frill
swept across the threshold, Mrs. Squires closed the door upon it with a
sharp report.
Before the door a little girl was playing on the green slope, while an
elderly woman with a grave, kindly face sat looking on.
Farmer Squires, summoned by his daughter, came round the corner of the
house. He touched his straw hat awkwardly.
"They's a young feller," he said, "that lives a mile or so up the
river, that has a tip-top team--a kivered kerridge an' a fust-rate
young hoss. His folks has seen better days, the Grangers has, an' Rob
is proud as Lucifer, but they's a big mortgage on the farm, an' he's
'mazin' ambitious ter pay it off. So when I told him about you, he said
he'd see about it. He wouldn't let no woman drive his hoss, but he
thought mebbe he'd drive ye round hisself. Shouldn't wonder if he was
up to-night."
"I wish he might come," said the lady. "My physician said I must ride
every day, and I am too cowardly to drive if the horse were ever so
gentle."
"No--I guess you couldn't hold in Rob's colt with them wrists," said
he, glancing admiringly at the slender, jewelled hands. "I shouldn't
wonder if that was Rob now."
At this moment wheels were heard rapidly approaching, and a carriage
appeared in sight. A young man was driving. He held the reins with firm
hand, keeping his eyes fixed upon the fine-stepping animal, turned
dexterously up the slope, brought the horse to a stand-still before the
door, and sprang lightly to the ground.
He was a remarkable-looking young fellow, tall above the average,
and finely proportioned. Hair and mustache were dark, eyes of an
indescribable gray, and shaded by thick, black brows. A proud yet frank
smile rested on his handsome face.
"Hello, Rob," said Farmer Squires. "Here's the lady that wanted ter
see ye. Mister Granger, Mis' Jerome."
The lady bowed, with a trace of hauteur in her manner at first, but she
looked with one of her slow glances into the young man's face, and then
extended her hand, and the white fingers rested for an instant in his
brown palm. Granger returned her greeting with a bow far from awkward,
while a rich color surged into his sun-browned face.
"That is a magnificent horse of yours, Mr. Granger," said Mrs. Jerome.
"I hope he is tractable. I was nearly killed in a runaway once, and
since then I am very timid."
"Oh, he is very gentle," said Granger, caressing the fiery creature's
beautiful head. "If you like, I will take you for a drive now--if it is
not too late."
"Certainly, I would like it very much. Nettie," she said, turning to
the woman, "bring my hat and Lill's, and some wraps."
The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Mrs. Jerome and her child were
whirling over the lovely country road. Their departure was witnessed by
the entire Squires family, including an obese dog of somnolent habits,
and old Sal, the gray mare, who thrust her serious face over the stone
wall opposite, and gazed contemplatively down the road after the
retreating carriage.
"Do you think you will be afraid?" asked Granger, as he helped Mrs.
Jerome to alight.
"Oh no," she answered, with a very charming smile. "The horse is as
docile as he is fiery. I shall enjoy the riding immensely. Do you think
you can come every day?"
"I shall try to--at least for the present."
Mrs. Jerome watched the carriage out of sight.
"How very interesting!" she was thinking. "Who would dream of finding
such a face here! And yet--I don't know--one would hardly find such
a face out in the world. Perhaps it will not be so dull after all. I
thought they were all like Squires!"
* * * * *
For several succeeding weeks there was seldom a day when the fiery
black horse and comfortable old carriage did not appear before the
farm-house door, and but few of those days when Mrs. Jerome did not
avail herself of the opportunity, sometimes accompanied by the child
and Nettie, oftener by the child alone.
The interest and curiosity with which young Granger had inspired
Mrs. Jerome in the beginning, deepened continually. A true son of
the soil, descendant of a long line of farmers, whence came this
remarkable physical beauty, this refined, almost poetic, temperament,
making it impossible for him, in spite of the unconventionally of his
manner, to do a rude or ungraceful act? It was against tradition, she
thought,--against precedent. It puzzled and fascinated her. She found
it impossible to treat him as an inferior, notwithstanding the relation
in which he stood to her. Indeed, she soon ceased to think of that at
all. The books which she took with her upon their protracted drives
were seldom opened. She found it pleasanter to lie back in the corner
of the carriage, and watch the shifting panorama of hill and forest and
lake through which they were driving. That the handsome head with its
clustering locks and clear-cut profile, which was always between her
and the landscape, proved a serious obstruction to the view, and that
her eyes quite as often occupied themselves with studying the play of
those mobile lips, and the nervous tension of those sun-browned hands
upon the reins, was, perhaps, natural and unavoidable.
She talked with him a great deal, too, in her careless, fluent way,
or rather to him, for the conversation on Granger's part was limited
to an occasional eager question, a flash of his fine eyes, or an
appreciative smile at some witty turn. She talked of many things, but
with delicate tact avoided such themes as might prove embarrassing to
an unsophisticated mind--including books.
It was, therefore, with a little shock of surprise that she one day
found him buried in the pages of Tennyson, a volume of whose poems
she had left upon the carriage seat while she and Lill explored a
neighboring pasture for raspberries.
He was lying at full length in the sweet-fern, one arm beneath his
head, his face eager and absorbed. He did not notice her approach, and
she had been standing near him for some moments before he became aware
of her presence. Then, closing the book, he sprang to his feet.
"So you read poetry, Mr. Granger?" she said, arching her straight brows
slightly.
"Sometimes," he answered. "I have read a good many of the old poets. My
grandfather left a small library, which came into my possession."
"Then you have read Shakspere----" began the lady.
"Yes," interrupted Granger, "Shakspere, and Milton, and Pope, and
Burns. Is it so strange?" he asked, turning upon her one of his swift
glances. "If one plowman may write poetry another plowman may read it,
I suppose."
He spoke with bitterness, a deep flush rising to his temples.
"And have you read modern authors too?"
"Very little. There is no opportunity here. There is nothing
here--nothing!" he answered, flinging aside a handful of leaves he had
unwittingly gathered.
"Why do you stay here, then?"
The question sprang, almost without volition, from her lips. She would
gladly have recalled it the next moment.
Granger gave her another swift glance, and it seemed to her that he
repressed the answer which was already upon his tongue. A strange,
bitter smile came to his lips.
"Let the shoemaker stick to his last," he said, turning toward the
carriage, "and the farmer to his plow."
During the homeward ride he was even more taciturn than usual. At the
door, Mrs. Jerome offered him the volume of Tennyson. He accepted it,
with but few words.
When he returned it, a few days later, it opened of itself, and between
the leaves lay a small cluster of wild roses, and some lines were
faintly marked. They were these:
"When she made pause, I knew not for delight;
Because with sudden motion from the ground
She raised her piercing orbs and filled with light
The interval of sound."
"Cleopatra!" Mrs. Jerome repeated softly, "and like her, I thought
there were 'no men to govern in this wood.' Poor fellow!"
It was a few days, perhaps a week, later, when Mrs. Jerome, who to the
mystification of her host and hostess had received no letters, and,
to the best of their knowledge, had written none, up to this time,
followed a sudden impulse, and wrote the following epistle:
"MY DEAR FRIEND AND PHYSICIAN:--You advised, no, commanded me,
to eschew the world for a season, utterly and completely. I
have obeyed you to the letter. I will spare you details--enough
that I am gaining rapidly, and, wonderful to say, I am not in
the least _ennuyée_. On the contrary. The cream is delicious,
the spring water exquisite, the scenery lovely. Even the people
interest me. I am your debtor, as never before, and beg leave to
sign myself,
Your grateful friend and patient,