"Desolation is a delicate thing.
It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air,
But treads with killing footsteps, and fans with silent wing,
The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear;
Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above,
And the music-stirring motion of its soft and busy feet,
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the monster Love,
And wake, and find the shadow Pain...."
"The smoke is falling, the ducks and geese are flying about, the maple
leaves are turned underside up, the cocks are crowing, the cat is
eating grass, the gulls have left the lake and fly over the land, the
flies sting, and the cement on the cellar floor is damp, so I think
it's going to rain; and if it does, I ain't a-going to begin to color
my rags," said Mrs. Deans, standing arms akimbo on the doorstep.
"Yes," said her husband, "it's a deal like rain; the moon had a shroud
on it last night, and the frogs croaked terrible, and my rheumatics has
just been ramping."
"Yes," went on Mrs. Deans, "my corns has ached intolerable, and the
cows have been lowing since daybreak; there's no doubt but what it's
going to rain. I wonder if Myron Holder is a-coming, or if she ain't!"
"Oh, she'll be here in time for breakfast!" said Mr. Deans, with
would-be sarcasm. "How you can abide that girl and Liz I don't know,
Jane; no mortal good's fur's I see. That Liz eats her head off every
day she rises, and as for Myron Holder, she picks and pecks and turns
up her nose as if the eatin' wasn't good enough for her; it beats me
what's the good of 'em."
"Well," said his wife, sharply, "there ain't no great call, fur's I
see, for you to see whether they're any good or not, an' no need for
you to worry over the victuals, for that I'll make shift to attend to.
I suppose you'd like me to slave myself to death, and git along without
'em? Well, if that's what's on your mind, just relieve your feelings
of it right away--for be a slave to no man I won't, and that settles
that!" with which Mrs. Deans betook herself out to the gate to look for
further manifestations bearing upon the weather, and to see if Myron
Holder was coming.
Mr. Deans shrunk up in his chair, blinking as he chewed, and taking his
rebuff very philosophically. He was accustomed to his wife's
"onsartainness," and when any of his remarks proved a boomerang, he
simply consoled himself with the thought of "better luck next time" and
subsided.
Mrs. Deans went out to the gate. It was early morning, and the sun was
rising unseen behind heavy masses of water-charged clouds; there was a
soft grayness of impending rain in the air, a fresh smell of springing
grass, and new leaves, and newly turned earth; the gulls had deserted
the lake, and were soaring in oblique circles through the gray,
glisteningly white; the swallows from under the eaves of the barn were
journeying forth to the pond for the clay to coat their nests; the
sparrows were chirping saucily, as they robbed the young chicks of the
grain scattered for them; from the field behind the barn came the
bleating of the lambs, and now and then there sounded a distant voice
as Gamaliel or the hired men shouted to their horses.
The bound girl, coming in from milking, paused to make grimaces at the
unconscious back of her benefactress, an accomplishment at which Liz
was an adept. After contorting her face horribly for a few moments,
accompanying herself mentally with unflattering epithets addressed to
the same unconscious back, Liz went on her way to the cellar, having
very much enjoyed the relaxation of her facial muscles. Mrs. Deans
stood looking down the road. Her eyes were red and watery this
morning, and she wiped them on the corner of her apron. Far down
towards the village she could descry a vehicle of some kind, but no one
on the footpath. She returned to the house, and, satisfied that Myron
Holder would not arrive for some time at least, went up to the garret
to "sort over" the contributions that had been sent in for the
mission-box that was going to the far West. First, however, she called
to her husband to watch for Myron Holder's appearance, and rap on the
wall with his stick when he saw her, so that she might come down and
"be ready for her." Mrs. Deans always welcomed Myron Holder with
sneers or rage in the morning, just as her grandmother greeted her with
reproaches or revilings at night. There would have been something
comic, had it not been so cruel and so sad, in the way these women
played battledore with this girl as shuttlecock and tossed her from one
to the other to be buffeted.
That morning Myron Holder had just got clear of the village, when she
heard behind her the rumble of wheels; they drew nearer, and at last
her down-cast eyes caught the image of a wagon, but she did not look
up, and did not know whose it was until she heard Homer Wilson's voice.
"Good-morning, Myron," he said; "are you going out to Deans'?"
"Good-morning. Yes," she answered, blushing and ill at ease, for he
had pulled up his horses.
"Then climb in and have a ride; I'm going to town," he said.
"Oh, no; no, thank you!" said Myron, hanging back.
"What for? Come, get in," he said.
Myron was so well used to being told what to do, and so little used to
refusing, that she half made a step towards the wagon then--"No, I
mustn't"--she paused--"you know--I----"
"Don't be a goose, Myron," returned he with decision. "Climb in here!
I never see you these days, and we used to be good friends----" The
infrequent tears rushed to her eyes. Without more ado, she went to the
side of the wagon and set a foot on the step; the impatient horses
started, and she felt herself half lifted in by Homer's strong arm.
The horses sprang forward, to be soon checked, though, for Homer was
evidently in no hurry that morning; indeed, the horses were restrained
to an unwilling walk.
"How's things getting on with you, Myron?" asked Homer, trying to speak
in a commonplace tone.
"Oh, just the same," she answered, unsteadily. "Mrs. Deans kindly
keeps me on."
"Oh, she does, does she?" asked Homer. "Very good of her, I'm sure;
she's a most charitable woman, Mrs. Deans is!"
Myron somehow felt her heart sink at this. Of late, aroused from the
first bewilderment of her shame, she had wondered once or twice if Mrs.
Deans was so wholly admirable in her life and intentions as she said
she was; if she herself was so utterly vile. Homer's reply showed her,
or so she thought, that she was wrong in doubting Mrs. Deans.
"Yes," went on Homer, "Mrs. Deans is what Ma calls a 'mother in
Israel,' and no mistake. How many she's mothered! All these Home
girls! And now struggling with you! Really, Myron, you might be
thought most fortunate to get into such a household." Something in his
voice gave Myron courage to look up. She did--but let her eyes fall
before the bitter sneer that lurked on his lip, the scorn that shone in
his eyes. In that instant she gathered, however, that none of it was
for her; the next she was conscious of a desire to say something to
Homer of Mrs. Deans' meanness, backbiting, insincerity, hypocrisy.
Myron Holder had naturally a sweet disposition, but the happiest of us,
even, have sometimes a longing desire to pull another down, and for a
moment this temptation assailed her with almost irresistible strength.
She was so inured to blame herself, that to hear another dispraised,
and that other the woman who embittered each hour of the day for her,
was perilously sweet. She half parted her lips, but the generous
spirit that had survived so many blows, so much injustice, yet endured
and stifled the impulse. She sat silent. A jingling of loose tires, a
rattling of loose bolts, and the uneven beating of a lame horse's hoofs
struck upon their ears; some one was coming from the village.
"Hullo," said Homer, without looking round, "here's old Crow Muir
coming!" The young men of Jamestown had an irreverent habit of calling
Mr. Muir "Crow"--due to the solemn hue of his garb. A poor compliment
any self-respecting crow would have deemed it, at least, when Mr. Muir
was attired, as he was this morning, in his oldest suit of black.
Mr. Muir's vocation compelling him to travel usually in a silent and
slow way, he liked, when not bent upon an official errand, to go as
swiftly and noisily as he could. He had an old piebald mare, the
original plan of whose anatomy was so obscured by lumps and distorted
by twists as to be almost obliterated; she was very lame in the nigh
forefoot and had the stringhalt in her off hind leg, so that her gait
was somewhat startling to behold; her neck was long and lean, her head
heavy, her nose Roman, her eyes set close together in a bald face, her
tail was more like a mule's than a horse's; but despite these
peculiarities, which by some people might have been considered
disabilities, she was the fastest animal in Jamestown, and her progeny
was noted far and wide among the local sports. The vehicle behind this
gallant steed was as direct a contradiction to the stately hearse as
could be imagined. It was a light wagon, set upon ridiculously high
wheels, which, being always adjusted loosely at the axle, had a lateral
as well as an onward movement; the body of the wagon was not more than
five inches deep and painted a bright green (the same paint that coated
the undertaker's veranda made his wagon a thing of vernal beauty). The
seat was uncushioned and had rungs in the back, like a chair--in fact,
it was a section taken from one of the long, old-fashioned desks that
had been removed from the school a few years before this time.
In this state and equipage, then, did Mr. Muir overtake Homer and Myron.
"Homer, good-morning!" said Mr. Muir, solemnly, as he came abreast of
them; and then he was past, his wagon jingling crazily, his knees
nearly touching his chin, each wheel running at a different angle and
leaving wavering tracks in the dust.
"Oh, Homer," said Myron.
"Well," said Homer, "what's the matter?"
"Mr. Muir--he'll talk," she said.
"You're quite right there," said Homer, with a vicious tightening of
the lips. "It'll do him good." He gave the restive horses a slap with
the reins, but the next moment checked their sudden speed.
"Don't mind me, Myron," he said, flushing under his brown skin as he
felt her nervous start. "I am in a bad temper this morning, and
disgusted with the way people gabble about nothing." And then they
drove on in silence again. As they passed the little cemetery, they
saw the piebald mare, in a ridiculous "stand at ease" position, tied
beside the gate.
"Hear of any one dead?" asked Homer.
"No, not a word," said Myron, her thoughts reverting painfully to her
last visit to her father's grave.
"Well, maybe old Crow's gone to see if any of 'em are coming up," said
Homer. Then, the thought suggested to him by the field of young
springing grain opposite, he added, "Not much of a crop from old Crow's
planting." After this grim speech there were no further words until
they were opposite the wire fence of Deans' so-called garden.
"Myron," said Homer hastily, "any time you want a friend for anything,
come to me, will you?"
"Yes," she said simply, looking at him with ineffable gratitude and
wonder in her eyes. "But have you forgotten----"
"My memory's as good as most folks' is," said Homer gruffly; then,
wishing once for all to let her see he accepted the facts of her life,
he said: "What do you call your child, Myron?"
"My," she answered, with the indescribable mother-voice of love,
"little My."
"A very good name, too," said Homer, with conviction. "I'm coming in
to see him some day."
Myron fairly gasped in terror.
"Oh, no," she said, with entreaty in her tones and eyes; "oh, no,
promise you won't think of such a thing--promise you won't"--he was
drawing up the horses at the Deans' gate, and she clasped both hands
over his arm in her urgency. "Promise," she urged. He looked down at
her, his face sombre; he gathered the beauty of her face and pleading
eyes, his old self awakened for an instant from its bath of bitterness,
and his old natural smile made his stern face bright and gentle as he
said:
"Of course, I won't, if you don't want me to. Is it your grandmother?"
"Yes, and----" she unclasped her hands and began to descend. "Thank
you so much," she said.
"For not coming?" he asked. His face was dark again.
"No; for speaking to me," she answered, as she turned quickly to the
house, and he went on to the city, as fast now as his horses could
spurn the miles, and he had gone some distance before his face lost the
expression caused by her last speech; but long ere he reached the town,
the old gloom again settled upon his countenance.
From the high window Mrs. Deans had watched Myron and Homer as they
drove from the foot of the garden; as they passed the corner of the
house she sped to a more advantageous window, arriving in time to see
Myron unclasp her hands from his arm and descend from the wagon. Mrs.
Deans could hardly restrain herself from calling aloud to them, and
proclaiming her discovery of their "brazenness," if not from the
house-top, at least from the attic window; but with much strength of
will she denied herself and kept silent until Homer's wagon vanished,
and she heard a vigorous rap-rap down stairs. Then she collapsed upon
a heap of winter quilts that were piled in the attic, and communed with
herself.
"She was doin' some rare begging, but the Wilsons is strong set when
they've made up their minds. But such cheek! To drive her up to my
door as bold as brass, and in no hurry out of sight, either; at least,"
bethinking herself, "he did drive off mighty quick, when once she got
out; wonder if she wanted me to see him! Well, if that's her idea,
'twon't do her no good! She should have told me when I asked her; I
won't take no notice, now; she can't get me to back down from what I've
said; it's a terrible disgrace on Marian Wilson--well, they _did_ talk
about Marian and that stonecutter one time, but he went away, and it
was all smothered up, but I had my own thoughts. Well, this is a
judgment on her now; she was too set up when Homer came back to the
farm; like's not, he was druv to it! Fine goin's on, I warrant, he had
in the city! Thank the Lord, Maley's not sich as Homer Wilson; but
then he's been brought up different, and it's all in the bringin' up.
And there was something very queer about that stonecutter business;
that would account for Homer's being so bad."
Mrs. Deans went about her work dreamily, struggling with the problem of
Homer's depravity; her philosophy--like some other philosophies--first
created a result, and then strove to invent circumstances to justify
and explain it.
Mrs. Deans was sorely tried to decide what course was best to pursue:
she would have liked to go at once to Mrs. Wilson, and proclaim her
son's iniquity to her and see "how she took it"; she longed to go to
Mrs. Holder's and announce that she had discovered the secret which had
so puzzled the village; she would have dearly loved to shower upon
Myron Holder the new and expressive epithets that were trembling upon
the tip of her tongue, but the peculiar view she had adopted of the
situation suggested to her that Myron Holder wanted the secret she had
kept so long and so well discovered; and greater than her desire to see
her lifelong friend disgraced by the proof of her son's fault--greater
than her desire to vindicate her own superior cunning--greater even
than her desire to berate Myron Holder, was her determination to make
Myron Holder suffer; so she decided to take no active step in the
affair, no matter how hard the repression of her righteous wrath might
prove.
She felt, however, there could be no harm in giving Mrs. White a hint
of how things stood, for the Sunday before this Homer Wilson had tied
up young Ann White's buggy shafts when he found her at a standstill on
the way home from church. Here Mrs. Deans wandered a little from the
main track, and dwelt a while on the enormity of Homer Wilson tearing
along the roads, or through the woods, or along the lake shore, the
whole Sabbath day, instead of going to church; here she recalled, with
a shock, that Myron Holder never went to church either, and Mrs. Deans,
putting two and two together, decided that not only of sin, but of
sacrilege, were these two guilty.
Mrs. Deans felt fired with a great zeal for young Ann White's soul: if
she should be led into marrying Homer Wilson, what a dreadful thing it
would be! Not but what the Whites needed something to take them down a
peg; still the pleasure of balking Homer, if he had any thoughts in Ann
White's direction, would be something. Besides, although Mrs. Deans
did not formulate this to herself, it would relieve the pressure of
restraint to tell Mrs. White the circumstances, and Mrs. Deans
concluded to herself: "It can't do no harm to let Ann White know. I
miss my guess if she has her sorrows to seek; that Bing isn't ten
removes off an idiot."
So Mrs. Deans contented herself all the forenoon by staring at Myron
Holder with a concentrated glare of contempt and triumph, varied only
by sudden calls to Liz to "come back from there" whenever she
approached Myron, and when Liz "came back," which she did in a hasty
and indefinite way, not knowing very well why Myron had suddenly become
so dangerous, Mrs. Deans would say:
"Haven't you got enough evil in you, but what you must learn more bad
off of her?" or, "There ain't no use my striving to bring you up
decent, when your natural bent is to be bad," or some other remark to
the same effect.
In the afternoon, the rain heralded by so many infallible signs made
its appearance, and Mrs. Deans perforce remained at home. She took her
sewing to the kitchen, and set Myron and the bound girl to work to mend
the grain bags; and as the storm outside whipped the maples, and
struggled with the oaks, and stripped the horse-chestnut trees of their
brittle blossoms, so the storm of Mrs. Deans' vituperation raged over
the heads of the two girls sitting on the floor surrounded by the dusty
grain bags. Liz was in such a state of nervousness that she was
sticking her needle into her fingers at every second stitch, when Myron
Holder began to feel the floor rising with her--the bags whirled round
and round in a circle of which she was the centre; the floor ceased to
rise evenly and tilted up--up--on one edge--tilted until it was
perpendicular, and flung Myron Holder off--a long distance off--into an
abyss of darkness, through which whirled great wheels of light that
rushed toward her as if they would utterly destroy her, but always
passed by a hair's breadth; the last one passed, its light vanished,
the whirring of its rapid flight died away, even the darkness
disappeared--Myron Holder had fainted. She still sat, needle in one
hand, bag in the other. Liz reached across for another bag and chanced
to knock against her slightly; Myron fell over like a log.
"She's dead!" screamed Liz, and sprang up with hysterical cries.
Mrs. Deans' face blanched.
"You fool, get out of the way!" she said, and pushed Liz aside
savagely, as she rushed toward Myron's prostrate figure. "Take hold of
her," ordered Mrs. Deans, in a voice that quelled the bound girl's
hysterics. Together they got her to the door; Mrs. Deans flung it
wide, and Myron opened her eyes with the summer rain beating in her
face and the waving masses of green trees and tossing branches before
her eyes. To that blankness succeeded a quick memory of its approach,
a shuddering recollection of that final plunge into darkness, to be
obliterated by physical weakness and nausea; she clung to the door to
support herself, and Mrs. Deans released her hold of her arms.
"You can go lie down on Liz's bed till you come to," said Mrs. Deans,
"and then you can go home for the rest of the day."
"Thank you," said Myron, and Mrs. Deans went to the dining-room, while
Myron crept to the tiny kitchen bedroom--each unaware of the horrible
bathos of Myron's speech. Mrs. Deans did not come to the kitchen for
some time, and when she did Myron was gone--out into the storm unseen
of any, to struggle through rain and mud to the village, "a reed shaken
by the wind" indeed.