The Haydon farm was only a few miles from the sea, and the spring
wind, which had been blowing from the south all day, had gone into the
east. A chilly salt fog had begun to come in, creeping along where a
brook wound among the lower fields, like a ghostly serpent that was
making its way to shelter across the country.
The old Haydon house stood on high rising land, with two great
walnut-trees at one side, and a tall, thin, black-looking spruce in
front that had lost its mate. A comfortable row of round-headed old
apple-trees led all the way up a long lane from the main road. This
lane and the spacious side yard were scarred by wheel ruts, and the
fresh turf was cut up by the stamping feet of many horses. It was the
evening of a sad day,--the evening after Israel Haydon's wife's
funeral. Many of the people who were present had far to go, and so the
funeral feast had been served early.
The old place looked deserted. The dandelions, which had shone so
bright in the grass that morning, were all shut up, and the syringa
bushes in the front yard seemed to have taken back their rash buds,
and to have grown as gray as winter again. The light was failing fast
out of doors; there was a lamp lighted in the kitchen, and a figure
kept passing between it and the window.
Israel Haydon lingered as long as he could over his barn-work. Somehow
it seemed lonely in the barn, and as long as he could see or feel his
way about, he kept himself busy over the old horse and cow, accepting
their inexpressive companionship, and serving their suppers with
unusual generosity. His sensations, even of grief, were not very
distinct to him; there was only a vague sense of discomfort, of being
disturbed in his quiet course. He had said to many of his friends that
afternoon, "I do' know why 't is, but I can't realize nothing about
it," and spoken sincerely; but his face was marked with deep lines; he
was suffering deeply from the great loss that had befallen him.
His wife had been a woman of uncommon social gifts and facilities, and
he had missed her leadership in the great occasion that was just over.
Everybody had come to him for directions, and expected from him the
knowledge of practical arrangements that she had always shown in the
forty years of their married life. He had forgotten already that it
was a worn-out and suffering woman who had died; the remembrance of
long weeks of illness faded from his mind. It appeared to him as if,
in her most active and busy aspect, she had suddenly vanished out of
the emergencies and close dependence of their every-day lives.
Mr. Haydon crossed the yard slowly, after he had locked the barn door
and tried the fastening, and then gone back to try it again. He was
glad to see the cheerfulness of the lighted kitchen, and to remember
that his own sister and the sister of his wife were there in charge
and ready to companion him. He could not help a feeling of distress at
the thought of entering his lonely home; suddenly the fact of their
being there made everything seem worse. Another man might have
loitered on the step until he was chilly and miserable, but poor
Mr. Haydon only dropped his hand for a moment by his side, and looked
away down the lane; then, with bent head, he lifted the latch as he
always did, and went in. It seemed as if he consciously shouldered the
burden of his loneliness in that dreary moment, and never could stand
upright again.
The season of his solitary life began with more cheer than could have
been expected. The two women were waiting for him placidly, and did
not seem to be curious how he might be bearing this great disaster.
They had cleared away all signs of the great company, and the kitchen
looked as it always did; it had not occurred to them to occupy the
more formal sitting-room. The warmth of the fire was pleasant; a table
was spread with supper. One of the women was bringing the teapot from
the stove, and the other was placidly knitting a blue yarn stocking.
It seemed as if Martha Haydon herself might at any moment come out of
the pantry door or up the cellar stairs.
"We was just about ready for you, Isr'el," said his sister-in-law
Stevens, glancing at him eagerly. "We didn't stop to take anything
ourselves this afternoon, and we didn't suppose 't was so you could;
an' we thought we'd just make a quiet cup o' tea when we had
everything put to rights, and could set down an' enjoy it. Now you
draw right up to the table; that's clever; 't will do us all good."
The good woman bore some likeness to her sister just departed; Israel
had never noticed it so much before. She had a comfortable, motherly
way, and his old face twitched in spite of himself as he bent over the
brimming and smoking cup that she handed across the square table.
"I declare!" said his own sister, Mrs. Abby Martin. "We could reckon
what a sight o' folks there was here this afternoon by the times we
had to make new tea, if there wa'n't no other way. I don't know's I
ever see a larger gathering on such an occasion. Mis' Stevens an' me
was trying to count 'em. There was twenty-six wagons hitched in the
yard an' lane, so William said, besides all that come afoot; an' a few
had driven away before they made the count."
"I'd no idea of there bein' so many," said Israel sadly. "Well, 't was
natural for all who knew her to show respect. I felt much obliged to
the folks, and for Elder Wall's excellent remarks."
"A number spoke their approval to him in my hearing. He seemed pleased
that everything passed off well," said sister Martin. "I expect he
wanted to do the best he could. Everybody knows she was always a good
friend to him. I never see anybody that set so by her minister.
William was telling of me he'd been very attentive all through her
sickness. Poor William! He does mourn, but he behaved very pretty, I
thought. He wanted us to tell you that he'd be over to-morrow soon's
he could. He wanted dreadful to stop with ye overnight, but we all
know what it is to run a milk farm."
"I'd b'en glad if 't was so he could be here with us to-night, an' his
wife with him," said the old man, pushing away his cup. The remnants
of the afternoon feast, with which the table was spread, failed to
tempt his appetite. He rose and took his old wooden armchair by the
stove, and clasped his hands before him. The long brown fingers began
to play mechanically upon each other. It was strange how these
trivial, unconscious habits continued in spite of the great change
which had shaken his life to its foundations.