LIKED HIM.
Summer was just opening, and there were not many boarders at Mrs.
Stuvic's house. But the posting of a railway time-card in the
dining-room showed that everything was in readiness. A cook had come
from the city to set up her temper against the slouching impudence of
the hired man, and an Irish girl stood ready to play favorites at the
table. Mrs. Stuvic gave the stranger a seat at the head of the table,
and three tired women--hens, worn out with clucking to their boisterous
broods--began a whispered comment upon him. One, with a paper novel
lying beside her plate, said that he was fiercely handsome. Mrs. Stuvic
sat down near him.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Milford," he answered, and the woman with the novel seemed pleased with
the sound.
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Stuvic, as if she had divined as much, "but
your other name. I can't remember outlandish names."
"William."
"Yes, Bill," she said. "Well, Bill, you hinted you wanted work."
The woman with the novel withdrew her attention. Milford shot a glance
at her. "Yes," he replied. "The man you say is the biggest liar that
ever trod leather told me that you had a farm to rent."
"Well, land sakes! when did he take to tellin' the truth? But just keep
still now and say nothin'. Don't say a word, but keep still, and after
supper I'll show you somethin'."
A red-headed boy, the natural incumbrance of the woman with the novel,
snorted over his plate, and the old woman set her teeth on edge and
looked hard at him. "Yes, well, now what's the matter with you? Who told
you to break out?"
"Eat plenty of supper, Bobbie, or you'll be hungry before bed-time,"
said the mother. "He hasn't had much appetite lately," she added, and
the boy tried to look pitiful. Mrs. Stuvic cleared her throat, and under
her breath muttered "Calf." The mother looked at Milford. "I beg your
pardon," she said, "but are you related to the Milfords that live down
in Peoria County?"
"I think not, madam," Milford answered.
"They are such nice people," the woman went on; "distant relatives of
mine. Sit up straight, Bobbie. One of the boys has made quite a name as
a lawyer--Alfred, I think. And I hear that the daughter, Julia, is about
to be married to a foreigner of considerable distinction."
"I've lived down in that part of the country," said a woman with a
lubberly cub in her arms, "and I know a family down there named Wilford.
They have a son named Alfred, and a daughter Julia who is about to be
married to a foreigner."
"Wilford, now let me see," mused the mother of the red boy. "Well, I
declare, I believe that is the name!"
"And that," said Milford, "is no doubt the reason, or at least one of
the reasons, why they are not kin to me."
"Oh, you keep still!" Mrs. Stuvic cried, snapping a smile in two. "You
didn't have to say that--but when you don't know what to say, Bill, say
the next best thing. Yes, you bet! Oh, I know a lot, but I don't tell it
all. People come here and think they can fool me, but they can't. Some
of them come a turnin' up their noses at the table, when I know as well
as I know anythin' that they haven't got half as good at home. We had
one family in particular that was always growlin'. And when they went
home in the fall I said to myself, 'I'll just slip into town one of these
days, and see what you've got to eat.' I did, and I never set down to
such a meal in my life--soup that looked like tea, and birds put on thin
pieces of burnt bread. But if you are through, Bill, come with me; I
want to show you somethin'."
She put on her bonnet, and as she stepped out told the Irish girl to
take Milford's bag upstairs. It was evident that her favorable
impression of him extended as far as a night's lodging. They crossed the
road, passed through a gate, so heavy on its hinges that it had to be
dragged open, and entered a grove of hickory trees. The sward was thick.
Here and there were patches of white and pink wild flowers. The sun was
going down, and the lake, seen through a gap in the trees, looked like a
prairie fire. They came to a broad lane shaded by wild-cherry trees.
Milford stopped.
"I've never seen anything more beautiful than this," he said.
"You just keep still!" she replied. "Yes, and I'll show you somethin'
worth lookin' at."
They passed through another gate, went up a graceful rise, into a field,
along a broad path hedged with vines and flowers. "Just look at this!"
she said. "There ain't better land in this county, and here it lies all
gone to waste. The men out here ain't worth the powder and lead it would
take to kill 'em. I've rented this farm half a dozen times in the last
three years. And what do they do? Get so drunk Sunday that it takes them
nearly all week to sober up. I've had to drive 'em away. And the last
one! Mercy sakes! The biggest fool that ever made a track; and a
hypercrit with it. I found him in the corner of the fence prayin' for
rain. Well, I just gathered a bridle and slipped up on him, and if his
prayer didn't have a hot end I don't know beans when I see 'em. There
was a streak of barbed wire on the fence, and in tryin' to get over he
got tangled; and if I didn't give it to him! The idea of a fool gettin'
down on his knees tryin' to persuade the Lord to change his mind! All
that belongs to me," she went on, waving her hand--"best farm right now
in Lake County. And there's the house on the hill, as nice a cottage as
you'd want to live in. What do you think of it all?"
"Charming," said Milford. "There's many an old cow in the West that
would like to stick her nose up to her eyes into this rich grass."
"You bet, Bill! Are you from the West?"
"Yes, from all over the West. I used to herd cattle; I tried to raise
sheep--and I could have done something, but I was restless and wanted to
stir about. But I've got over that. Now I want to work."
"That's the way I like to hear a man talk," she said, lifting the latch
of a gate. "I don't believe you'd pray for rain."
"The only thing worth prayin' for, madam, is a soul."
"Good enough! Bill, I like you. They say you have to eat a barrel of
salt with a man before you know him, and I reckon it's true. But I've
eaten so many barrels of salt with men that I know one as far as I can
see him. You don't profess to be so awful honest, do you?"
There was hollowness in his laugh, and bitterness in his smile. "I
haven't made any pretensions," he said.
"Well, you just keep still and don't make any," she replied.
Through an orchard, they passed to a house on a hill. It stood in the
shade of a great walnut tree. She pointed out the barn, the
garden-patch, and the woods that belonged to the place. In the soft
light it appeared a paradise to the man from the West, green with grass,
purple with flowers. She asked him a question, and he answered with a
sigh. Then he told her that he was almost moneyless. He had no capital
but his will--his muscle. Such a place would be a godsend to him. In his
past life there was much to grieve over--time thrown away,
opportunities laughed at, money squandered. He could not help dreaming
over his follies, and his dream choked him; so he wanted to work with
his hands, to fight against a blunt opposition. He stood bareheaded, his
face strong. She looked upon him with admiration. From the first,
something about him had caught her odd fancy. She was an implacable
enemy and a surprising friend. She put her hand on his arm.
"Now, don't you fret," she said. "You didn't have to tell me you had no
money. That's all right. If you want this farm you can have it. It's no
use to me, lyin' this way. Yes, Bill, you can take it right now. Oh, you
may go around here, and some of 'em will tell you that a meaner woman
never lived--them that's tried to have their own way over me--but the
poor and the needy will tell a different tale. They know where to get
somethin' to eat. Well, it's settled. Come on, now, and we'll go back
and fix up the particulars when we get time."
He was cheerful as they walked back toward the old woman's home. New
tones came out of his voice. There was baritone music in his laugh. She
assured him that the details could be arranged without a hitch, that for
the present he might rest at ease. He replied that there could be no
ease for him, except as he might dig it out of the ground; he seemed to
crave a strain of the body to relieve a strain of the mind. She was
accustomed to meet all sorts of men, the scum and the leisure of the
city, but this man gave her a new feeling of interest. He looked like a
man that would fight, and this kindled the fire of her admiration. She
loathed a coward. As a girl, she had hunted with her father in the woods
of Ohio. One night his house was attacked by roughs, and she had fought
with him. To her there was no merit that did not show action; thought
that did not lead to action was a waste of the mind. A book was the
record of laziness. She tolerated newspapers--in one she had found the
announcement that a man whom she hated was dead. Once a man slandered
her. She laughed--a sound as cold as the trickling of iced water--and
said that she would live to see his last home marked out upon the
ground. She did. She was seen in the cemetery, digging. "What are you
doing there?" was asked. And she answered: "I'm planting a hog-weed on
Thompson's grave." Old Lewson, the man who sat under the apple tree,
gave his meager property to his children. They turned him out to die.
Mrs. Stuvic took him. "I won't live long," he said. "I'm eighty-three
years old." "Don't you fret," she replied; "a man that's as big a fool
as you be may live to be a hundred and fifty." And the heart of this old
woman was deeply stirred by Milford, not by his misfortunes, his
homelessness, the touch of the adventurous vagabond in his face, but by
her belief that he possessed an unconquerable spirit.
"Yes, you keep still, and we'll arrange it all in time," she said, as
they entered the hickory grove. "And you needn't tell me anythin' about
yourself, nuther. A man's never so big a liar as when he's tellin'
things about himself or his enemy. It seems that he can't tell the truth
about either one. So you keep still. It's most too late in the season
for you to do very much now in the way of plantin', but you can make a
good beginnin'. There's stuff enough in the cottage back yonder, and you
may take possession to-morrow if you want to. There's a fellow named Bob
Mitchell around here that's out of work, and you can hire him to help
you. He's a good hand to work--the only trouble is, he thinks he's
smart. But he'll follow if there's any one to lead."
"Madam, I wish I knew how to thank you," said Milford, as he opened the
gate leading into the main road. "I came without an introduction,
without a single letter----"
"Don't you dare come fetchin' any of your letters to me! There ain't
nothin' much easier than to write a lie."
"I'm not going in now. I'll walk about a while."
"Do as you like," she replied. "Your room's at the end up there," she
added, pointing. She went into the house, and he turned back into the
grove. He sat down with his back against a tree, his hat on the ground.
He muttered words to himself; he felt the cool air upon his moist brow;
he breathed the perfume of the fresh night.