IN THE OLD WOMAN'S PARLOR.
It was clearly an insult to ask him to come. They had slandered him, and
now they wanted him at their entertainment. He told the boy to tell them
that he would not be there. He plowed during the afternoon, with never a
look toward the house when he turned at the end of a row. He hoped that
they expected him; he would smack his lips over the vicious joy of
disappointing them. The invitation had, no doubt, come from Mrs.
Blakemore; Miss Strand could have had no hand in it. She did not care
enough for him to wish for his company. But it made no difference who
did the inviting, he would not go. He went home tired, and was sleepy at
the supper table. He took down his pipe and lighted it. Mitchell talked
about the woman whose freckles were as gold to him. He had found a
valuable rod and reel in the rushes; he would sell them and buy a
divorce.
"If you take my advice," said Milford, "you'll let the women alone."
"But a feller that's in love can't take advice."
"Love!" Milford sneered. "You in love?"
"That's what. Fell in love about a quarter to two, last Sunday was a
week. What are you doin' with that boiled shirt lyin' out there? Goin'
to put it on?"
"I don't know. Is there any water in the rain barrel?"
"Ought to be if it hain't leaked out; poured in there last night. Goin'
to take a bath?"
"Don't suppose I want to drink out of the rain barrel, do you?"
"Didn't know; no tellin' much what a feller'll do. But it hits me that
when a man begins to take baths he's sorter in love himself, now that
we're on that subject."
"Well, I don't have to get a divorce."
"That don't sound like you, Bill. Don't believe I'd gouge you that way."
Milford's dark countenance flushed; he made a noise in his throat. He
held out his hand, and in a gentle voice said: "I beg your pardon.
Shake."
"You've said enough," Mitchell replied, shaking hands with him. "All
that a son of old Illinois needs is that sort of play, and he's done.
Goin' somewhere to-night?"
"No; thought I'd put on clean clothes and walk about in the woods."
He dressed himself and walked down by the lake. He heard the merry
splashings of moonlight bathers, the hound-like baying of the bull
frogs, far away in the rushes. He picked his way over a barbed-wire
fence, and went into the thick woods where the close air still held the
heat of the day. He came out into the road a quarter of a mile below
Mrs. Stuvic's house. It was too dark to go back through the woods; there
were numerous stumps, tangled vines, and the keen briar of the wild
gooseberry. The grass field further along was drenched with dew. He
would pass the house and take the road through the hickory grove. As he
drew near, he heard the piano. It reminded him of an old box that had
been hauled over the mountains and set up in a mining camp. The red
lantern swung from the eaves of the veranda. Some one began to sing, and
he halted at the gate. Why make an outcast of himself? he mused. He went
into the yard, and stood there. Who was he, to be sulking? What right
had he, a laborer, to expect anything? They had made him a gift of their
attention. In the city, they would not have noticed him. He would go in,
a nobody, and pick up a crumb of entertainment. The door stood open.
Mrs. Blakemore saw him. She came out with a smile.
"Oh, I thought you would come if you could," she said. "So kind of you.
Come in."
The first person whom he saw upon entering the room was the Professor,
in earnest conversation with the "discoverer." He was telling her of the
pleasure it would give him to have her meet his wife. They would strike
up a friendship, both being patronesses of art and intellect. But his
wife was a great home-body. She rarely went out; she was contented to
have him represent her with his praises. And he thought that it was
pardonable in a man to praise his wife. He offered no apology for it.
Romance had not deserted his fireside. A fresh bow of blue ribbon was
ever at the throat of his married life. At this moment he spied Milford,
and blustered up to greet him. It was not enough to say that he was
pleased; he was delighted. He grasped Milford's hand and shook it
warmly. He spoke of Milford's charming visit to his home; it was an
honor that his family keenly appreciated. "Oh, you are acquainted with
Mrs. Goodwin. Yes, I remember now, you paid her a deserved compliment.
He spoke of your great gifts, madam."
Gunhild was not in the room. Footsteps came down the passage-way, and
Milford's eyes flew to the floor. Some one at the piano loosened a dam,
and let flow a merry rivulet, and into the room danced Mrs. Stuvic, her
head high, and her back as straight as an ironing board. The children
shrieked with laughter, and the men and women clapped their hands. She
was oblivious to applause. She was looking far back upon a hewed log
floor, bright faces about a great fireplace, and a fiddler in the
corner, beneath a string of dried pumpkin, hanging from a rafter. The
rillet of music ran out.
"Yes, you bet!" she said, with tears in her eyes. "Many and many a time,
Bill; and all night long, with the snow three feet outside, and the
wolves howlin' in the woods. Yes, you bet! Who is this?"
Mrs. Goodwin introduced the Professor. He hopped to one side, back
again, bowed, and expressed his great pleasure. "Dolihide," said Mrs.
Stuvic. "I'd forget that name even if it was my own. But my, what names
they do fish up these days! Oh, let me see, you've moved over to the
old Pruitt place. Yes, I saw your wife at Lake Villa. Big fat woman. And
I've met you before."
The Professor bowed. "Not lean, madam; not lean, but not fat. She
couldn't dance as you do, but not fat, madam."
"No, you bet she couldn't," said Mrs. Stuvic. "And there ain't many that
can. Strike up a tune there, and, Bill, you come out here and dance with
me."
"Oh, yes, do!" Mrs. Blakemore cried.
Milford not only declined; he "bucked." He was not to be caught in such
a trap. He might be made to look ridiculous, but not with his willing
assistance. He might have nerve enough to break wild horses, he said,
but not enough to get out on a floor to dance. Why not take the
Professor? Milford expected to see him run, but he stepped forth with a
gracious smile, and took hold of the old woman. And while they were
dancing Gunhild entered the room. Without even the slightest tint of
embarrassment, she went straightway to Milford and shook hands with him.
She had been out bareheaded, under the trees, and dewdrops gleamed in
her hair.
"Did you find Mrs. Goodwin much scared about you last night?"
"Not much. She knew I would come home safe. This morning, when I said
how kind it was of you to keep a light burning in a pan for me, they
laughed. And I was angry till they told me it was all a joke."
"I heard about it. Blakemore told me."
"Did he? Oh, it was not much important."
"And they tried to guy you about me, did they?"
"Guy me? They tried to plague. Then I get mad till I understand, and
then I laugh."
"Blakemore said they told you that I--that I was engaged."
"Yes, but that was of no difference. They tried to make me think I do
wrong to walk with you when you engaged. I told them that it made no
difference."
"But I am not engaged."
"No? But it makes no difference. You know, I think it almost a shame for
that old woman to dance. It makes me feel--feel--I do not know, but you
know--you understand."
"Yes; I feel the same way."
"Yes. Have you been working hard to-day?"
"Pretty hard. What have you been doing?"
"Reading a book and trying to draw. I could do neither. Spread
everywhere was a drawing that I could not catch; and hummed in the air
were words more beautiful than in the book. They have quit dancing. I am
glad."
The Professor resumed his talk with the "discoverer." "One of the truest
pleasures enjoyed by man is to meet a woman with a mind."
"Indeed! And are they so very rare?"
"Oh, no, no," the Professor quickly replied, realizing that he had
struck the wrong key. "As an educator, I know the scope and the power of
the female mind--I do not like the expression, female mind, but I must
employ it to make my meaning clear. Yes, I know the scope and the power,
comparing more than favorably with the mind of man. But--" and here he
halted, with a finger in the air, to give the word emphasis--"but, once
in a long while, we meet an exceptional female mind, and it is then that
we experience our truest pleasure. Such a mind, I may say, is possessed
by my wife; and, begging the pardon of your presence, such is the mind
that I have met here to-night."
She looked at him with a woman's doubt, which means more than half
believing. She glanced at Gunhild, wondering whether the girl had
overheard the remark. She seemed anxious that some one should have
caught it. Compliments are almost worthless when they reach none but the
flattered ear. And to tell that they have been paid is too much like
presenting one with a withered flower. Gunhild had not heard the remark.
She was picking up Milford's slowly dropping words.
"You are very kind, Professor, but, really, you don't expect me to
believe you when you express such satisfaction at meeting me."
The Professor appeared grief-smitten. "Madam, as an educator, I have
been accustomed to deal with many phases of the human mind. And I have
lived long enough to verify the adage that honesty is the best policy,
in words as well as in acts; and I have learned that, while truth told
to man is a virtue, it is, told to a woman, a sublimity." He bowed and
twisted the sharp point of his red beard, a gimlet with which he would
bore through the soft sheeting of a woman's incredulity. At this moment,
it flashed upon her that she had made another discovery, not of a
genius, but of a philosopher. But she must be cautious. He might have a
treatise ready for the publisher. She sighed a regret that the doctor
was not present to hear the exalted talk of this gifted man. How dim his
eyes were, with groping in the dusk, looking for the learning of the
ancients! In such wisdom there must be sincerity. But it was not wise to
swallow with too keen a show of relish. She would dally with this
delicious food.
"Oh," she laughed, "it is so easy for a man to pay a compliment."
"Madam, I admit that a studied art may become a careless grace, witness
the Frenchman and the Spaniard; but the blunt Anglo-Saxon must still
depend upon truth for his incentive--the others taste dainty viands; he
feeds upon blood-dripping meat."
She did not know exactly what he meant, but it sounded well, and bowing
thoughtfully, she said: "How true!"
Some one raised a clamor for a song from Mrs. Stuvic. She was as ready
to sing as to dance. Her accomplishments belonged to her boarders. And
she sang a song popular in her day:
"Pretty little Miss, don't stand on beauty,
That's a flower that must soon decay,
Reddest rose in yonder's garden,
Half an hour will fade away.
No, no, no, sir, no; all the answer she made was no."
Milford was called upon for a story. He refused, but the girl's eyes
implored him, and he told a story of heroism in a blizzard. The
Professor was then called out for a speech. The Liberty of the American
was his theme; the glory of every man having a castle, his climax.
Milford smiled to think of the road leading from the Professor's castle,
of the portcullis that had come near falling on him. He saw the mistress
of the castle standing with her hands on her hips.
"He has so many fine words," said Gunhild. "Why don't they send him to
the Congress?"
"Because they've got too many fine words there already, I guess,"
Milford answered.
"But is he not a very smart man?"
"Oh, yes, smart enough, I guess. That's what's the matter with him--too
smart."
"But how can a man be too smart?"
"I give it up. But it seems as if it takes a fool to make a success of
life; the hogs of the business world root up money."
"I do not understand. You are making some fun of me."
"No, I'm giving it to you straight. The successful business man wears
bristles on his back."
She laughed at this. She said that she knew he was making fun of her;
but she liked to hear him talk like that. It was so new to her.
"Ha! her complexion reminds me of a tinted vase with the light seeping
through it," said the Professor, talking to the "discoverer," but with
his eyes fixed upon the Norwegian girl. "A flower come up out of the
wild and long-neglected garden of the Viking. And how truly American
those people soon become! Blood, madam; it is blood."
"Gunhild is a good girl, and knows nothing so well as she does honor."
"A girl who knows honor is splendidly equipped, madam. I have a
daughter. And who is it that accompanies her? It is honor, madam.
Throughout the seasons, they are together, arm about waist, like school
girls, studying virtue from the same book."
She leaned over and touched his arm. "I want to ask you something. Do
you know very much about Mr. Milford?"
"He warmed his hand with his heart, madam, and extended it to me."
"But don't you think he's peculiar?"
"All things are peculiar until we understand them."
"I know, but isn't there something strange about his being here as he
is, working on a farm?"
"Not to me, when I meditate upon the fact that I myself keep books and
do general roust-about work for a planing mill. Roust-about--idiomatic,
good, and to the point."
"But farm work is so hard," she persisted. "And he appears to be so well
equipped for something better. At times, he is almost brilliant."
"A brightness in the rough," said the Professor. "He has that crude
quality of force which sometimes puts to shame the more nearly even
puissance of a systematic training."
She looked at him as if her eyes said, "Charming." And the world had
suffered him to go to seed, nodding his ripe and bursting pod in the
empty air. It was a shame. But his treatise on philosophy--she must
find out about that.
"Professor, have you ever written anything?"
He smiled. "Madam, the web I have woven, if spun straight, would
encircle the globe. I have written."
"Philosophy?"
"Finance, madam."
She choked a laugh in its infant uprising. That this threadbare man
should write about money! How ridiculous! But true genius has many a
curious kink.
Mrs. Blakemore, feeling that she was neglected, brought in Bobbie to
annoy the company with him. She bade him shake hands with Mr. Milford;
she commanded him to recite for the Professor. The learned man smiled.
He said that there was nothing so sweet as the infant lip, lisping its
way into the fields of knowledge. Multicharged by his mother, the boy
began to fire off, "I am not mad, no, am not mad." Mrs. Stuvic, who had
been remarkably quiet, got up and remarked as she passed Milford: "This
lets me out; yes, you bet!"
The Professor applauded the youngster. He would be a great man, some
day. He had the voice and the manner of the true orator. Only seven
years old? Quite remarkable. His mother stroked his hair, and said that,
in fact, he would not be seven till the eighteenth of September. At this
the Professor was much surprised. Really a remarkable boy.
Mr. Josh Spence, a fat man rounding out a corner of the room with his
retiring flesh, was called upon for a song. He was modest, and he
declined, but yielded upon persuasion, and in strained tenor sang
"Marguerite."
"Do you like his voice?" Gunhild asked.
"It's not big enough to fit him," Milford answered. "But let him sing.
It keeps the boy quiet."
"Oh, are you not ashamed? He is a nice little man, and his mother loves
him so."
"And only seven years old," said Milford.
"You must not make fun. The boy is her heart. You must not laugh at a
heart."
Milford flinched. He had not said the right thing. "Mitchell, the man
who works with me, called me down for saying something that I oughtn't
to have said, and I apologized, and we shook hands. I apologize to you.
Shall we shake hands?"
She shook her head. "No, it will not be necessary. You do not mean to be
cruel."
This touched him. He tried to hide himself with a laugh. She looked at
him earnestly, and his face sobered. He thought of the night before, his
kneeling to her on the floor of the haunted house, and felt that it
would be a comfort to drop upon his knees again, not to talk of the wind
rising among the trees, but to tell her that she had clasped her hands
about his heart.
"Shall we go out on the veranda?" he asked, eating her with his glutton
eyes.
"No, it is getting late. See, Mrs. Goodwin is telling the Professor
good-night. I must go too."
"May I see you again soon?"
"Oh, you may come. Mrs. Goodwin will not care."
"But do you want me to--do you care if I come?"
"Yes, I will like for you to come. We will be friends."
"And shall we go over into the woods where the mandrakes are in bloom?"
"Yes, Mrs. Goodwin likes the flowers that grow in the woods. She calls
them beautiful barbarians."
Mrs. Stuvic took the lantern down from under the eaves of the veranda.
She called it a sign to every rat to hunt his hole. She joked at Milford
as he passed her, going out. Even her blunt eye saw that he was
enthralled. "Not so loud," he said. "Those people might hear you."
"I'd better flag you down," she replied, swinging the red lantern before
his face.
Milford and the Professor walked off together along the road running
through the grove. "Professor, you seemed to be happy to-night."
"My dear fellow, I am the most miserable man alive--just at this time."
"What's the trouble?"
"Life insurance. It will be due on the ninth of this present month,
three days from now, ninety-seven dollars and forty cents, and how I am
to raise it the Lord only knows. I have been carrying it for seven
years, a galling burden, shifted from shoulder to shoulder, with but a
moment of relief between the shifts. Many a time as the day approached
have I wished that the lightning might strike me. And I pledge you my
word that I would rather die any sort of death than to have it lapse.
It has been a hard fight, a fight that my wife and daughter, as
intelligent as they are, could not fully understand. They argue
sometimes that the money thus invested would make them comfortable, with
better clothes and more furniture in the house. They cannot comprehend
that I am making this great sacrifice for a rainy day, a day when I
shall be out in the rain and they in a better house."
"Well, I want to tell you that it's noble in you."
"No, I don't look at it that way. It is a self-defense, an easing of my
conscience for not providing better for them. But I must manage to raise
it somehow, and I have an idea. I have been sounding Mrs. Goodwin. She
has faith in my ability. I am going to write something and upon it
borrow enough money from her to pay my installment. Her husband can send
the paper to a medical review with his name signed to it. Some sanitary
measures that I have long pondered shall be set forth. Result, notoriety
for the doctor and his wife and a moment of ease between the shifts for
me. Would you resort to anything like that?"
"Would I? Well, I should think so. Do you know what I'd do? If I
had--had some one dependent upon me and had my life insured, I'd go out
on the highway and hold up a chosen servant of the Lord before I'd let
it lapse."
"My dear boy, I am delighted to know that you understand how I feel. I
don't want to be a rascal; I would like to be honest. But I tell you
that I have resorted to many a piece of trickery--almost treachery--to
pay my premiums. I could tell you something, but you would hate me for
it."
"No, I wouldn't."
"Well, I would better not tell it. What a charming young woman!"
"Yes. Blakemore calls her a 'peach.'"
"A vulgarism not altogether unbefitting," said the Professor, stumbling
along in the dark. "She has not the dash of the American girl, perhaps,
but I rather admire her for the lack of it. Well, our roads part here.
From now until morning I must work on my medical paper."