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diff --git a/old/54987-h/54987-h.htm b/old/54987-h/54987-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index c07d685..0000000 --- a/old/54987-h/54987-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13055 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title>Seth's Brother's Wife, by Harold Frederic</title> - <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Seth's Brother's Wife, by Harold Frederic - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Seth's Brother's Wife - A Study of Life in The Greater New York - -Author: Harold Frederic - -Release Date: June 26, 2017 [EBook #54987] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - SETH’S BROTHER’S WIFE - </h1> - <h2> - A Study Of Life In The Greater New York - </h2> - <h2> - By Harold Frederic - </h2> - <h4> - New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons - </h4> - <h3> - 1887 - </h3> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0007.jpg" alt="0007 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <h3> - TO - </h3> - <h3> - MY MOTHER - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>SETH’S BROTHER’S WIFE.</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I.—THE HIRED FOLK. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—THE STORY OF LEMUEL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—AUNT SABRINA. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—THE TWO YOUNG WOMEN. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—THE FUNERAL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI.—IN THE NAME OF THE FAMILY. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—THE THREE BROTHERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—ALBERT’S PLANS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—AT “M’TILDY’s” BEDSIDE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.—THE FISHING PARTY. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE WORLD. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—THE SANCTUM. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII.—THIRTEEN MONTHS OF IT. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV.—BACK ON THE FARM. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV.—MR. RICHARD ANSDELL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI.—DEAR ISABEL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII.—AN UPWARD LEAP. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII.—BOLTING THE TICKET. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX.—THE WELCOME. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX.—THE NIGHT: THE BROTHERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI.—THE NIGHT: MASTER AND MAN. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII.—THE NIGHT: THE LOVERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII.—THE CONVENTION: THE BOSS. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV.—THE CONVENTION: THE NEWS. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV.—“YOU THOUGHT I DID IT!” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI.—THE CORONER. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII.—ANNIE AND ISABEL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII.—BETWEEN THE BREAD-PAN AND - THE CHURN. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX.—THE BOSS LOOKS INTO THE - MATTER. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX.—JOHN’S DELICATE MISSION. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI.—MILTON’S ASPIRATIONS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII.—“A WICKED WOMAN!” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII.—THE SHERIFF ASSISTS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV.—AT “M’TILDY’S” BEDSIDE - AGAIN. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV.—“SUCH WOMEN ARE!” </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - SETH’S BROTHER’S WIFE. - </h1> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I.—THE HIRED FOLK. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>f ther’ ain’t a - flare-up in <i>this</i> haouse ’fore long, I miss <i>my</i> guess,” - said Alvira, as she kneaded the pie-crust, and pulled it out between her - floury fingers to measure its consistency. “Ole Sabriny’s got her back up - this time to stay.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, let ’em flare, says I. ’Taint none o’ aour business, - Alviry.” - </p> - <p> - “I knaow, Milton; but still it seems to me she might wait at least till - th’ corpse was aout o’ th’ haouse.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s thet got to dew with it?” - </p> - <p> - The callousness of the question must have grated upon the hired-girl, for - she made no reply, and slapped the dough over on the board with an - impatient gesture. - </p> - <p> - It was near the close of a fair day, late in May, and the reddened - sunlight from the West would have helped to glorify any human being less - hopelessly commonplace than Milton Squires as he sat in its full radiance - on the doorstep, peeling and quartering apples over a pan which he held - between his knees. This sunlight, to reach him, painted with warm tints - many objects near at hand which it could not make picturesque. The three - great barns, standing in the shadow to the south, were ricketty and - ancient without being comely, and the glare only made their awkward - outlines and patched, paintless surfaces the meaner; the score of lean - cows, standing idly fetlock-deep in the black mire of the barnyard, or - nipping the scant tufts of rank grass near the trough, seemed all the - dingier and scrawnier for the brilliancy of the light which covered them; - the broken gate, the bars eked out with a hop-pole, the wheelbarrow turned - shiftlessly against a break in the wall, the mildewed wellcurb, with its - antiquated reach—all seemed in this glow of dying day to be - conscious of exhibiting at its worse their squalid side. The sunset could - not well have illumined, during that hour at least, a less inspiring scene - than this which Alvira, looking out as she talked, or the hired man, - raising his head from over the apples, could see from the kitchen door of - Lemuel Fairchild’s farm-house. But any student of his species would have - agreed that, in all the uninviting view, Milton was the least attractive - object. - </p> - <p> - As he rose to empty his pan within, and start afresh, he could be seen - more fully. He was clumsily cased from neck to ankles in brown over-alls, - threadbare, discolored, patched, with mud about the knees and ragged edges - lower down. He wore rubber boots, over the bulging legs of which the - trousers came reluctantly, and the huge feet of these were slit down the - instep. His hat had been soft and black once; now it seemed stiffened with - dirt, to which the afternoon milking had lent a new contribution of short - reddish hair, and was shapeless and colorless from age. His back was - narrow and bent, and his long arms terminated in hands which it seemed - sinful to have touch anything thereafter to be eaten. Viewed from behind, - Milton appeared to be at least fifty. But his face showed a somewhat - younger man, despite its sun-baked lines and the frowzy beard which might - be either the yellow of unkempt youth or the gray of untidy age. In - reality he was not yet thirty-six. - </p> - <p> - He slouched out now with a fresh lot of apples, and, squatting on the - door-stone, resumed the conversation. - </p> - <p> - “I s’pose naow Sissly’s gone, ther’ won’t be no livin’ under th’ same roof - with Sabriny fer any of us. Ther’ ain’t nobuddy lef’ fer her to rassle - with ’cep’ us. Ole Lemuel’s so broken-up, he won’t dare say his - soul’s his own; ’n John—well, Lize Wilkins says she heerd him - say he didn’t know’s he’d come to th’ funer’l ’t all, after th’ way - him ’n’ Sabriny hed it aout las’ time he was here.” - </p> - <p> - “I wasn’t talkin’ o’ <i>them!</i>” said Alvira, slapping the flour from - her hands’ and beginning with the roller; “it’d be nothin’ new, her tryin’ - to boss <i>them</i>. But she’s got her dander up naow agin somebuddy that - beats them all holler. They won’t no Richardsons come puttin’ on airs ’raoun’ - here, an’ takin’ th’ parlor bedroom ’thaout askin’, not ef th’ ole - lady knaows herself—’n’ I guess she does.” - </p> - <p> - “What Richardsons?” asked Milton. “Thought Sissly was th’ last of ’em—thet - they wa’n’t no more Richardsons.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, man alive, ain’t Albert’s wife a Richardson, th’ daughter of - Sissly’s cousin—you remember, that pock-pitted man who kep’ th’ fast - hoss here one summer. Of course she’s a Richardson—full-blooded! - When she come up from th’ train here this mornin’, with Albert, I see by - th’ ole lady’s eye ’t she meant misch’f. I didn’t want to see no - raow, here with a corpse in th’ haouse, ’n’ so I tried to smooth - matters over, ’n’ kind o’ quiet Sabriny daown, tellin’ her thet - they had to come to th’ fu-ner’l, ’n’ they’d go ’way soon’s - it was through with, ’n’ that Albert, bein’ the oldest son, hed a - right to th’ comp’ny bed-room.” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ what’d she say?” - </p> - <p> - “She didn’t say much, ’cep’ thet th’ Richardsons hed never brung - nothin’ but bad luck to this haouse, ’n’ they never would, nuther. - ’N’ then she flaounced upstairs to her room, jis’s she allus does - when she’s riled, ’n’ she give Albert’s wife sech a look, I said to - m’self, ‘Milady, I wouldn’t be in <i>your</i> shoes fer all yer fine - fixin’s.’” - </p> - <p> - “Well, she’s a dum likely lookin’ woman, ef she <i>is</i> a Richardson,” - said Milton, with something like enthusiasm. “Wonder ef she wears one o’ - them low-necked gaowns when she’s to hum, like th’ picters in th’ <i>Ledger</i>. - They say they all dew, in New York.” - </p> - <p> - “Haow sh’d I knaow!” Alvira sharply responded. “I got enough things to - think of, ’thaout both’rin’ my head abaout city women’s dresses. ’N’ - you ought to hev, tew. Ef you’n’ Leander’d pay more heed to yer - work, ’n’ dew yer chores up ship-shape, ’n’ spen’ less time - porin’ over them good-fer-nothin’ story-papers, th’ farm wouldn’t look so - run-daown ’n’ slaouchy. Did yeh hear what Albert said this mornin’, - when he looked ’raoun’? ‘I swan! ’ he said, ‘I b’lieve this - is th’ seediest lookin’ place ’n all Northern New York.’ Nice thing - fer him to hev to say, wa’n’t it!” - </p> - <p> - “What d’ I keer what <i>he</i> says? He ain’t th’ boss here, by a - jug-full!” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ more’s th’ pity, tew. He’d make yeh toe th’ mark!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, ’n’ Sabriny’d make it lively fer his wife, tew. Th’ ole fight - ’baout th’ Fairchileses ’n’ th’ Richardsons wouldn’t be a - succumstance to thet. Sissly’d thank her stars thet she was dead ’n’ - buried aout o’ th’ way.” - </p> - <p> - These two hired people, who discussed their employer and his family with - that easy familiarity of Christian names to be found only in Russia and - rural America, knew very well what portended to the house when the - Richardson subject came up. Alvira Roberts had spent more than twenty - years of her life in the thick of the gaseous strife between Fairchild and - Richardson. She was a mere slip of a girl, barely thirteen, when she had - first hired out at the homestead, and now, black-browed, sallow from much - tea-drinking, and with a sharp, deep wrinkle vertically dividing her high - forehead, she looked every year of her thirty-five. Compared with her, - Milton Squires was a new comer on the farm, but still there were lean old - cows over yonder in the barnyard, lazily waiting for the night-march to - the pastures, that had been ravenous calves in their gruel-bucket stage - when he came. - </p> - <p> - What these two did not know about the Fairchild family was hardly worth - the knowing. Something of what they knew, the reader ought here to be - told. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II.—THE STORY OF LEMUEL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>emuel Fairchild, - the bowed, gray-haired, lumpish man who at this time sat in the main - living room within, feebly rocking himself by the huge wood-stove, and - trying vaguely as he had been for thirty-six hours past, to realize that - his wife lay in her final sleep in the adjoining chamber, had forty-odd - years before been as likely a young farmer as Dearborn County knew. He was - fine-looking and popular in those days, and old Seth Fairchild, dying - unexpectedly, had left to this elder son his whole possessions—six - hundred acres of dairy and hop land, free and clear, a residence much - above the average farm-house of these parts, and a tidy sum of money in - the bank. - </p> - <p> - The contrast now was sweeping. The Fairchild’s house was still the largest - residential structure on the Burfield road, which led from Thessaly across - the hills to remote and barbarous latitudes, but respect had long since - ceased to accrue to it upon the score of its size. To the local eye, it - was the badge and synonym of “rack and ruin;” while sometimes strangers of - artistic tastes, chancing to travel by this unfrequented road, would voice - regrets that such a prospect as opened to the vision just here, with the - noble range of hills behind for the first time looming in their true - proportions, should be spoiled by such a gaunt, unsightly edifice, with - its tumble-down surroundings, its staring windows cheaply curtained with - green paper, and its cheerless, shabby color—that indescribable gray - with which rain and frost and Father Time supplant unrenewed white. The - garden, comprising a quarter-acre to the east of the house, was a tangled - confusion of flowers and weeds and berry-bushes run wild, yet the effect - somehow was mean rather than picturesque. The very grass in the yard to - the west did not grow healthfully, but revealed patches of sandy - barrenness, created by feet too indifferent or unruly to keep the path to - the barns. - </p> - <p> - Yet the neighbors said, and Lemuel had come himself to feel, that the - blame of this sad falling off was not fairly his. There had been a fatal - defect in the legacy. - </p> - <p> - The one needful thing which the Hon. Seth Fairchild did <i>not</i> leave - his elder son was the brains by means of which he himself, in one way or - another, had gathered together a substantial competency, won two elections - to the State Senate, and established and held for himself the position of - leading citizen in his town—that most valued and intangible of - American local distinctions. But while Lemuel’s brown hair curled so - prettily, and his eyes shone with the modest light of wealthy and - well-behaved youth, nobody missed the brains. If there was any change in - the management of the farm, it passed unnoticed, for all attention was - centred on the great problem, interesting enough always when means seeks a - help-meet, but indescribably absorbing in rural communities, where - everybody knows everybody and casual gallants never come for those - luckless damsels neglected by native swains—Whom will he marry? - </p> - <p> - It boots not now to recall the heart-burnings, the sad convictions that - life would henceforth be a blank, the angry repinings at fate, which - desolated the village of Thessaly and vicinity when Lemuel, returning from - a mid-winter visit to Albany, brought a bride in the person of a bright - eyed, handsome and clever young lady who had been Miss Cicely Richardson. - He had known her, so they learned, for some years—not only during - his school-days at the Academy there, but later, in what was mysteriously - known in Thessaly as “society,” in whose giddy mazes he had mingled while - on a visit to his legislative sire at the Capital City. No, it is not - worth while to dwell upon the village hopes rudely destroyed by this shock—for - they are dim memories of the far, far past. - </p> - <p> - But to one the blow was a disappointment not to be forgotten, or to grow - dim in recollection. Miss Sabrina Fairchild was two years younger than her - brother in age—a score of years his senior in firmness and will. She - had only a small jointure in her father’s estate, because she had great - expectations from an aunt in Ohio, in perpetual memory of whose - anticipated bounty she bore her scriptural name, but she was a charge on - her brother in that she was to have a home with him until she chose to - leave it for one of her own. I doubt not that her sagacious father - foresaw, from his knowledge of his daughter, the improbability that this - second home would ever be offered her. - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina, even at this tender age, was clearly not of the marrying - kind, and she grew less so with great steadiness. She was at this early - date, when she was twenty-four, a woman of markedly strong character, of - which perhaps the most distinct trait was family pride. - </p> - <p> - There has been a considerable army of State Senators since New York first - took on the honors of a Commonwealth, and unto them a great troop of - daughters have been born, but surely no other of all these girls ever - exulted so fondly, nay, fiercely, in the paternal dignity as did Sabrina. - She knew nothing of politics, and little of the outside world; her - conceptions of social possibilities were of the most primitive sort; one - winter, when she went to Albany with her father, and was passed in a - bewildered way through sundry experiences said to be of a highly - fashionable nature, it had been temporarily apparent to her own - consciousness that she was an awkward, ignorant, red-armed country-girl—but - this only for one wretched hour or so. Every mile-post passed on her - homeward ride, as she looked through the stage window, brought restored - self-confidence, and long before the tedious journey ended she was more - the Senator’s daughter than ever. - </p> - <p> - Through this very rebound from mortification she queened it over the - simpler souls of the village with renewed severity and pomp. The itinerant - singing master who thought to get her for the asking into his class in the - school-house Wednesday evenings, was frozen by the amazed disdain of her - refusal. When young Smith Thurber, the kiln-keeper’s son, in the flippant - spirit of fine buttons and a resplendent fob, asked her to dance a measure - with him at the Wallaces’ party, the iciness of her stare fairly took away - his breath. - </p> - <p> - Something can be guessed of her emotions when the brother brought home his - bride. With a halfcowardly, half-kindly idea of postponing the trouble - certain to ensue, he had given Sabrina no warning of his intention, and, - through the slow mails of that date, only a day’s advance notice of his - return with Mrs. Lemuel. The storm did not burst at once. Indeed it may be - said never to have really burst. Sabrina was not a bad woman, according to - her lights, and she did nothing consciously to make her sister-in-law - unhappy. The young wife had a light heart, a sensible mind and the faculty - of being cheerful about many things which might be expected to annoy. But - she had some pride, too, and although at the outset it was the very simple - and praiseworthy pride of a well-meaning individual, incessant vaunting of - the Fairchilds quite naturally gave a family twist to it, and she soon was - able to resent slights in the name of all the Richardsons. - </p> - <p> - After all, was she not in the right? for while the grass was scarcely - green on the grave of the first Fairchild who had amounted to anything, - there were six generations of Richardsons in Albany chronicles alone who - had married into the best Dutch families of that ancient, aristocratic - town, to say nothing of the New England record antedating that period. - Thus the case appeared to her, and came gradually to have more prominence - in her mind than, in her maiden days, she could have thought possible. - </p> - <p> - So this great Forty Years’ War began, in which there was to be no single - grand, decisive engagement, but a thousand petty skirmishes and little - raids, infinitely more vexatious and exhausting, and was waged until the - weaker of the combatants, literally worn out in the fray, had laid down - her arms and her life together, and was at peace at last, under the sheet - in the darkened parlor. - </p> - <p> - The other veteran party to the feud, her thin, iron-gray hair half - concealed under a black knit cap, her bold, sharp face red as with stains - of tears, sat at the window of her own upper room, reading her Bible. If - Milton and Alvira had known that she was reading in Judges, they might - have been even more confident of a coming “flare-up.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III.—AUNT SABRINA. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>EIGHBORING - philosophers who cared, from curiosity or a loftier motive, to study the - Fairchild domestic problem, in all its social and historic ramifications, - generally emerged from the inquiry with some personal bias against Miss - Sabrina, tempered by the conclusion that, after all, there was a good deal - to be said on the old lady’s side. - </p> - <p> - Certainly, as the grim old maid in the rusty bombazine gown and cap, which - gave a funereal air even to the red plaid shawl over her shoulders, sat at - her upper window, and tried through a pained and resentful chaos of - secular thoughts to follow the Scriptural lines, there was an extremely - vivid conviction uppermost in her mind that justice had been meted out - neither to her nor to the Fairchilds. She would have repelled indignantly, - and honestly enough too, the charge that there was any bitterness in her - heart toward the sister-in-law whose burial was appointed for the morrow. - She had liked poor Cicely, in her iron-clad way, and had wept genuine - tears more than once since her death. Indeed, her thoughts—and they - were persistent, self-asserting thoughts which not even her favorite - recital of Gideon’s sanguinary triumph could keep back—ran more upon - the living than upon the dead. - </p> - <p> - And what gloomy, melancholy thoughts they were! They swept over two score - of years, the whole gamut of emotion, from the pride and hope of youth to - the anguish of disappointed, wrathful, hopeless old age, as her hand might - cover all there was of sound in music by a run down her mother’s ancient - spinet which stood, mute and forgotten, in the corner of the room. Her - brother, this brother whom satirical fate had made a Lemuel instead of a - Lucy or a Lucretia, a man instead of a woman as befitted his weakness of - mind and spirit—had begun life with a noble heritage. Where was it - now? He had been the heir to a leading position among the men of his - county. What was he now? The Fairchilds had been as rich, as respected, as - influential as any Dearborn family. Who did them honor now? - </p> - <p> - The mental answers to these questions blurred Miss Sabrina’s spectacles - with tears, and Gideon’s performance with the lamps seemed a tiresome - thing. She laid the Book aside, and went softly down stairs to her - brother, who sat, still rocking in his late wife’s high, cushioned - arm-chair, disconsolate by the stove. - </p> - <p> - There were also in the room his oldest son and this son’s wife, sitting - dumbly, each at a window, making a seemly pretence of not being bored by - the meagre prospect without. They looked at their aunt in that far-off - impassive manner with which participants in a high pageant or solemn - observance always regard one another. There was no call for a greeting, - since they had already exchanged whispered salutations, earlier in the - day. Miss Sabrina glanced at the young wife for an instant—it was - not a kindly glance. Then her eyes turned to the husband, and while - surveying him seemed suddenly to light up with some new thought. She - almost smiled, and her tight pressed lips parted. Had they followed the - prompting of the brain and spoken, the words would have been: - </p> - <p> - “Thank God, there is still Albert!” - </p> - <p> - Albert Fairchild would have been known in any company, and in any guise, I - think, for a lawyer. The profession had its badge in every line and aspect - of his face, in every movement of his head, and, so it seemed, in the way - he held his hands, in the very tone of his voice. His face was round, and - would have been pleasant, so far as conformation and expression went, had - it not been for the eyes, which were unsympathetic, almost cold. Often the - rest of his countenance was wreathed in amiable smiles; but the eyes - smiled never. He had looked a middle-aged man for a decade back, and - casual acquaintances who met him from year to year complimented him on not - growing old, because they saw no change. In fact he had been old from the - beginning, and even now looked more than his age, which lacked some few - months of forty. He was growing bald above the temples, and, like all the - Fairchilds, was taking on flesh with increasing years. Nothing could have - better shown the extremity of poor Sabrina’s woe than this clutching at - the relief afforded by the sight of Albert, for she was not on good terms - with him. Albert had been born and reared through boyhood at a time when - the farm was still prosperous and money plenty. He had been educated far - beyond the traditions of his sires, and was the first University man of - his family, so far as was known. He had been given his own bent in all - things, before he settled down to a choice of profession, and then, at - considerable expense, had been secured a place with one of the greatest - legal firms in New York City. For years the first fruits of the soil, the - cream off all the milk—so the Aunt’s mingled scriptural and dairy - metaphors ran—had been his. And what return had they had for it? He - had become a sound, successful lawyer, with a handsome income, and he had - married wealth as well. Yet year after year, as the fortunes of the - Fairchild homestead declined, he had never interfered to prevent the fresh - mortgage being placed—nay, had more than once explicitly declined to - help save it. - </p> - <p> - “Agriculture is out of date in this State,” she had heard him say once, - with her own ears, “Better let the old people live on their capital, as - they go along. It’s no use throwing good money after bad. Farm land here - in the East is bound to decrease in value, steadily.” - </p> - <p> - This about the homestead—about the cradle of his ancestors! Poor old - lady, had the Fairchilds been sending baronial roots down through all this - soil for a thousand years, she couldn’t have been more pained or mortified - over Albert’s callous view of the farm which her grandfather, a revolted - cobbler from Rhode Island, had cleared and paid for at ten cents an acre. - </p> - <p> - Then there was his marriage, too. In all the years of armed neutrality or - tacit warfare which she and Cicely had passed together under one roof, - they had never before or since come so near an open and palpable rupture - as they did over a city-bred cousin of Cicely’s—a forward, - impertinent, ill-behaved girl from New York, who had come to the farm on a - visit some ten years before, and whose father was summoned at last to take - her away because otherwise she, Sabrina, threatened to herself leave the - house. There had been a desperate scene before this conclusion was - reached. Sabrina had stormed and threatened to shake the dust of the - homestead from off her outraged sandals. Cicely for the once had stood her - ground, and said she fancied even worse things than that might happen - without producing a universal cataclysm. Lemuel had almost wept with - despair over the tumult. The two older boys, particularly John, had not - concealed their exuberant hope that their maiden Aunt might be taken at - her word, and allowed to leave. And the girl herself, this impudent huzzy - of a Richardson, actually put her spoke in too, and said things about old - cats and false teeth, which it made Sabrina’s blood still boil to recall. - </p> - <p> - And it was this girl, of all others in the world, whom Albert must go and - marry! - </p> - <p> - Yet Sabrina, in her present despondent mood, felt herself able to rise - above mere personal piques and dislikes, if there really was a hope for - the family’s revival. She was not very sanguine about even Albert, but - beyond him there was no chance at all. - </p> - <p> - John, the second brother, had talent enough, she supposed. People said he - was smart, and he must be, else he could scarcely have come in his - twenty-eighth year to be owner and editor of the Thessaly <i>Banner of - Liberty</i>, and put in all those political pieces written in the first - person plural, as if he had the power of attorney for all Dearborn county. - But then he was mortally shiftless about money matters, and they did say - that since his wife’s death—a mere school-teacher she had been—he - had become quite dissipated and played billiards. Besides she was at open - feud with him, and never, never would speak to him again, the longest day - <i>he</i> lived! So that settled John. - </p> - <p> - As for Seth, the youngest of the brothers, it is to be doubted if she - would have thought of him at all, had he not come in at the moment. He had - been down to the village to get some black clothes which the tailor had - constructed on short notice for him, and he, too, passed through the - sitting room to the stairs with the serious look and the dead silence - which the awful presence imposes. - </p> - <p> - Then she did think of him for a moment, as she stood warming her fingers - over the bald, flat top of the stove—for though bright and warm - enough outside, the air was still chilly in these great barns of rooms. - </p> - <p> - Seth was indisputably the handsomest of all the Fairchilds, even handsomer - than she remembered his father to have been—a tall, straight, - broadshouldered youth, who held his head well up and looked everybody in - the face with honest hazel eyes. He had the Richardson complexion, a dusky - tint gained doubtless from all those Dutch intermarriages of which poor - Cicely used to make so much, but his brown hair curled much as Lemuel’s - used to curl, only not so effeminately, and his temper was as even as his - father’s had been, though not so submissive or weak. His hands were rough - and coarse from the farm work, and his walk showed familiarity with - ploughed ground, but still he had, in his way, a more distinguished air - than either Albert or John had ever had. - </p> - <p> - Looking him over, a stranger would have been surprised that his aunt - should have left him out of her thoughts of the family’s future—or - that, once pausing to consider him, she should have dropped the idea so - swiftly. But so it was. Miss Sabrina felt cold and aggrieved toward - Albert, and she came as near hating John as a deeply devout woman safely - could. She simply took no account of Seth at all, as she would have - expressed it. To her he was a quiet, harmless sort of youngster, who - worked prettily steadily on the farm, and got on civilly with people. She - understood that he was very fond of reading, but that made no special - impression on her. - </p> - <p> - If she had been asked, she would undoubtedly have said that Seth was her - favorite nephew—but she had never dreamed of regarding him as a - possible restorer of the family glories. - </p> - <p> - “Is yer oven hot enough?” she asked Alvira in the kitchen, a minute later. - “If they’s anything I <i>dew</i> hate, it’s a soggy undercrust.” - </p> - <p> - “I guess I kin manage a batch o’ pies by this time,” returned the - hired-girl with a sniff. Through some unexplained process of reasoning, - Alvira was with the Fairchilds as against the Richardsons, but she was - first of all for herself, against the whole human race. - </p> - <p> - “Milton gone aout with the caows?” asked the old lady, ignoring for the - once the domestic’s challenge. “When he comes back, he ’n’ Leander - better go over to Wilkinses, and get what chairs they kin spare. I s’pose - there’ll be a big craowd, ef only to git in and see if there’s any holes - in our body-Brussels yit, ’n’ haow that sofy-backed set in the - parlor’s holdin’ out. Poor Cicely! I think they better bring over the - chairs tonight, after dusk. What people don’t see they can’t talk abaout.” - </p> - <p> - “Heard Milton say he was goin’ to borrer some over at Warren’s,” remarked - Alvira, in a casual way, but looking around to see how the idea affected - Miss Sabrina. - </p> - <p> - “Well he jis’ won’t!” came the answer, very promptly and spiritedly. “If - every mortal soul of ’em hes to stan’ up, he won’t! I guess Lemuel - Fairchild’s wife can be buried ’thaout asking any help from Matildy - Warren. I wouldn’t ask her if ’twas th’ las’ thing I ever did.” - </p> - <p> - “But Annie sent word she was comin’ over fus’ thing in th’ mornin’, so’s - to help clear up th’ breakfast things. If she’s good enough fer that, I - don’t see why you need be afeered o’ borryin’ her chairs.” - </p> - <p> - “They ain’t her chairs, and you knaow it, Alviry. I ain’t got a word to - say agin’ Annie Fairchild, but when it comes to her gran’ mother, I kin - ride a high horse as well’s she kin. After all the trouble she made my - family, the sight of a single stick of her furnitur’ here’d be enough to - bring the rafters of this haouse daown over my head, I do believe!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, of course, ‘tain’t none o’ my business, but seems to me there’ll be - a plaguey slim fun’r’l when <i>your</i> turn comes if you’re goin’ to keep - up all these old-woman’s fights with everybody ’raound abaout.” - </p> - <p> - “Naow Alviry!” began Miss Sabrina, in her shrillest and angriest tone; - then with a visible effort, as if remembering something, she paused and - then went on in a subdued, almost submissive voice, “You knaow jis’ haow - Matildy Warren’s used us. From the very day my poor brother William ran - off with her Jenny—and goodness knaows whatever possessed him to dew - it—thet old woman’s never missed a chance to run us all daown—ez - ef she oughtn’t to been praoud o’ th’ day a Fairchild took up with a - Warren.” - </p> - <p> - “Guess you ain’t had none the wu’st of it,” put in Alvira, with sarcasm. - “Guess your tongue’s ’baout as sharp as her’n ever was. B’sides - she’s bed-ridden naow, ’n’ everybody thought she wouldn’t get threw - th’ spring. ’N’ ef Seth’s goin’ to make up to Annie, you ought to - begin to smooth things over ’fore she dies. There’s no tellin’ but - what she mightn’t leave the farm away f’m th’ girl at th’ last minute, - jis’ to spite you.” - </p> - <p> - “Yeh needn’t talk as if <i>I</i> wanted her pesky farm!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well now, you knaow what I mean’s well’s I dew. What’s th’ use o’ - harpin’ on what yer brother William did, or what ole Matildy said, ’fore - I was born, when you knaow th’ tew farms jine, and yer heart’s sot on - havin’ ’em in one—Yes, ’fore I was born,” repeated the - domestic, as if pleased with the implication of juvenility. - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina hesitated, and looked at Alvira meditatively through her - spectacles, in momentary doubt about the propriety of saying a sharp thing - under all the circumstances; but the temptation was not to be resisted. “’N’ - you ain’t percisely a chicken yourself, Alviry,” she said and left the - kitchen. - </p> - <p> - Later, when Milton had returned from the pasture, and hung about the - kitchen, mending the harness that went with the democrat-wagon while - waiting for Leander to return from the cheese factory, Alvira remarked: - </p> - <p> - “Seems ’if Sabriny’d lost all her sper’t this last day or tew. - Never see sech a change. She don’t answer up wuth a cent. I shouldn’t be - s’prised if she didn’t tackle Albert’s wife after all. Oh yes, ’n’ - you ain’t to go to Warren’s for them chairs. Sa-briny’s dead-set agin - that.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s up?” asked Milton, “Hez Seth broke off with Annie?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t knaow’s they ever was anything particular to break off. No, ’t - ’aint that; it’s the same raow ‘tween the two ole women. Goodness - knaows, I’m sick ’n’ tired of hearin’ ’baout it.” - </p> - <p> - “No, but ain’t Seth ’n’ Annie fixed it up?” persisted Milton; - “Daown’t th’ corners they say it’s all settled.” Then he mutteringly - added, as he slouched out to meet Leander, who drove up now with a great - rattle of empty milk-cans. “I wish’t <i>I</i> was in Seth’s shoes.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you <i>dew</i>, dew yeh!” said Alvira, thus left to herself. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV.—THE TWO YOUNG WOMEN. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he young girl - whose future had been settled down at the corners, came along the road - next morning toward the Fairchild house, all unconscious of her destiny. - She lived in a small, old-fashioned farm-dwelling back in the fields, - alone with her grandmother, and although there was a bitter feud between - the heads of the two houses, it had not stopped her from being a familiar - and helpful figure in her uncle’s homestead. - </p> - <p> - Annie Fairchild was a country girl in some senses of the term, calm-faced, - clear-eyed, self-reliant among her friends, but with a curious disposition - toward timidity in the presence of strangers. She was held to be too - serious and “school-ma’am-ish” for pleasant company by most rural maidens - of her acquaintance, and the few attempts of young farmers of the - country-side to establish friendly relations with her had not been crowned - with conspicuous success. It could scarcely be said that she was haughty - or cold; no one could demonstrate in detail that her term of schooling in - a far-off citified seminary had made her proud or uncivil; but still she - had no intimates. - </p> - <p> - This was the more marked from the fact that she was a pretty girl—or - if not precisely pretty, very attractive and winning in face. No other - girl of the neighborhood had so fine and regular a profile, or such - expressive, dark eyes, or so serenely intelligent an expression. It had - been whispered at one time that Reuben Tracy, the school-master, was - likely to make a match of it with her, but this had faded away again as a - rootless rumor; by this time everybody on the Burfield road tacitly - understood that eventually she was to be the wife of her cousin Seth, when - it “came time for the two farms to join.” And she had grown accustomed - long since to the furtive, half-awed, half-covetous look which men cast - upon her, without suspecting the spirit of reluctant renunciation - underlying it. - </p> - <p> - She met Milton Squires on the road, close in front of the Fairchild’s - house, this morning, and, nodding to him, passed on. She did not - particularly note the gaze he bent upon her as she went by, and which - followed her afterward, almost to the Fairchild gate. If she had done so, - and could have read all its meaning, she would not have gone on with so - unruffled a face, for it was a look to frighten an honest young woman—an - intent, hungry, almost wolfish look, unrelieved by so much as a glimmer of - the light of manliness. - </p> - <p> - But she was alike unconscious of his thoughts and of the gossip he had - heard at the corners. Certainly no listener who followed her to the gate, - where she encountered Seth at work screwing on a new hinge, would have - gathered from the tone or words of the greeting on either side any - testimony to confirm the common supposition that they were destined for - each other. - </p> - <p> - “Good morning, Seth,” she said, halting while he dragged the great gate - open for her, “you’re all through breakfast, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I think Albert and his wife are at the table still. We didn’t call - them when the rest got up, you know. They’re not used to country ways.” - </p> - <p> - “Anybody else here?” - </p> - <p> - “No, except John.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m so glad he came. That Lize Wilkins has been telling everybody he - wouldn’t come on Sabrina’s account. And it would have looked <i>so</i> - bad.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Lize Wilkins talks too much. All John ever said was that he wouldn’t - stay here in the house any more than he could help. It’s too bad he can’t - get along better with Aunt; it would make things so much pleasanter.” - </p> - <p> - “How’s your father, Seth? He seemed at first to take it pretty hard.” - </p> - <p> - “He appeared a little brighter yesterday, after Albert came, but he’s very - poorly this morning. Poor old man, it makes a sad difference with him—more - I suppose than with us boys, even with me, who never have been away from - her hardly for a day.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Seth, a boy outgrows his mother, I suppose, but for an old couple - who have lived together forty years a separation like this must be awful. - I shall go up to the house now.” - </p> - <p> - Seth followed her with his eyes as she walked up the road, past the - old-fashioned latticed front door with its heavy fold of crape hanging on - the knocker, and turned from sight at the corner of the house; and the - look in his face was soft and admiring, even if it was hardly loverlike. - In his trouble—and he felt the bereavement most keenly—it - seemed restful and good to have such a girl as Annie about, Indeed, a - vague thought that she had never before seemed so sweet and likeable came - to him, as he turned again to the hinge, and lightened his heart - perceptibly, for almost the last words his mother had spoken to him had - been of his future with Annie as his wife. - </p> - <p> - “You will have the farm before long, Seth,” she said, smiling faintly as - he stroked her pale hair—somehow to the last it never grew grey—and - looked at her through boyish tears, “and Annie will bring you the Warren - farm. Her grandmother and I have talked it over many a time. Annie’s a - good girl, there’s no better, and she’ll make my boy a good, true wife.” - </p> - <p> - For a year or two back Seth had understood in a nebulous way that his - parents had an idea of his eventually marrying Annie, but his mother’s - words still came to him in the form of a surprise. First, it had been far - from his thoughts that old Mrs. Warren, Annie’s invalid grandmother, would - listen to such a thing, much less plan it. There was a bitterness of long - standing between the two families, he knew. His father’s younger brother—a - halfbrother—named William Fairchild, had married Mrs. Warren’s only - daughter under circumstances which he had never heard detailed, but which - at least had enraged the mother. Both William and his wife had died, out - West he believed, years and years ago, leaving only this girl, Annie - Fairchild, who came an orphan to the grandmother she had never seen - before, and was reared by her. In this Mrs. Warren and his aunt Sabrina - had found sufficient occasion for a quarrel, lasting ever since he could - remember, and as he had always understood from his aunt that her battle - was in defense of the whole family, he had taken it for granted that he - not less than the other Fairchilds was included in Mrs. Warren’s disfavor. - He recalled, now, indeed, having heard Annie say once or twice that her - grandmother liked him; but this he had taken in a negative way, as if the - grandmother of the Capulets had remarked that of all the loathed Montagus - perhaps young Romeo was personally the least offensive to her sight. - </p> - <p> - And second, he was far from being in a Romeo’s condition of heart and - mind. He was not in love with Annie for herself—much less for the - Warren farm. To state plainly what Seth had not yet mustered courage to - say in entire frankness even to himself, he hated farming, and rebelled - against the idea of following in his father’s footsteps. And the dreams of - a career elsewhere which occupied the mutinous thoughts Seth concealed - under so passive an exterior had carried him far away from the plan of an - alliance with the nice sort of country cousin who would eventually own the - adjoining farm. So in this sense, too, his mothers dying words were a - surprise—converting into a definite and almost sacred desire what he - had supposed to be merely a shapeless fancy. - </p> - <p> - Not all this crossed his mind, as he watched Annie till she disappeared, - and then turned back to his work. But the sight of her had been pleasant - to him, and her voice had sounded very gentle and yet full of the - substance of womanliness—and perhaps his poor, dear mother’s plan - for him, after all, was the best. - </p> - <p> - The gate swinging properly at last, there was an end to Seth’s out-door - tasks, and he started toward the house. The thought that he would see - Annie within was distinct enough in his mind, almost, to constitute a - motive for his going. At the very door he encountered his brother Albert’s - wife, coming out, and stopped. - </p> - <p> - Isabel Fairchild was far from deserving, at least as a woman, the epithets - with which Aunt Sabrina mentally coupled her girlhood. There was nothing - impertinent or ill-behaved about her appearance, certainly, as she stood - before Seth, and with a faint smile bade him good-morning. - </p> - <p> - She was above the medium height, as woman’s stature goes, and almost - plump; her hair, much of which was shown in front by the pretty Parisian - form of straw hat she wore, was very light in color; her eyes were blue, a - light, noticeable blue. She wore some loose kind of black and gray morning - dress, with an extra fold falling in graceful lines from her shoulders to - her train, like a toga, and she carried a dainty parasol, also of black - and gray, like the ribbons on her dark hat. To Seth’s eyes she had seemed - yesterday, when he saw her for the first time, a very embodiment of the - luxury, beauty, refinement of city life—and how much more so now, - when her dingy traveling raiment had given place to this most engaging - garb, so subdued, yet so lovely. It seemed to him that his sister-in-law - was quite the most attractive woman he had ever seen. - </p> - <p> - “I thought of going for a little stroll,” she said, again with the faint, - half-smile. “It is so charming outside, and so blue and depressing in the - house. Can I walk along there through the orchard now?—I used to - when I was here as a girl, I know—and won’t you come with me? I’ve - scarcely had a chance for a word with you since we came.” - </p> - <p> - The invitation was pleasant enough to Seth, but he looked down - deprecatingly at his rough chore clothes, and wondered whether he ought to - accept it or not. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Seth, the <i>idea</i> of standing on ceremony with <i>me!</i> As if - we hadn’t played together here as children—to say nothing of my - being your sister now!” - </p> - <p> - They had started now toward the orchard, and she continued:— - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, it seems as if I didn’t know anybody here but you—and - even you almost make a stranger out of me. Poor Uncle Lemuel, he is so - broken-down that he scarcely remembers me, and of course your Aunt and I - couldn’t be expected to get very intimate—you remember our dispute? - Then John, he’s very pleasant, and all that, but he isn’t at all like the - John I used to look up to so, the summer I was here. But you—you - have hardly changed a bit. Of course,” she made haste to add, for Seth’s - face did not reflect unalloyed gratification at this, “you have grown - manly and big, and all that, but you haven’t changed in your expression or - manner. It’s almost ten years—and I should have known you anywhere. - But John <i>has</i> changed—he’s more like a city man, or rather a - villager, a compromise between city and country.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I’m a countryman through and through, I suppose,” said Seth, with - something very like a sigh. - </p> - <p> - “John has seen a good deal of the world they tell me, and been on papers - in large cities. I wonder how he can content himself with that little - weekly in Thessaly after that.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think John has much ambition,” answered Seth, meditatively. “He - doesn’t seem to care much how things go, if he only has the chance to say - what he wants to say in print. It doesn’t make any difference to him, - apparently, whether all New York State reads what he writes, or only - thirty or forty fellows in Dearborn County—he’s just as well - satisfied. And yet he’s a very bright man, too. He might have gone to the - Assembly last fall, if he could have bid against Elhanan Pratt. He <i>will</i> - go sometime, probably.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, do you have an auction here for the Assembly?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, but the man who’s willing to pay a big assessment into the - campaign fund can generally shut a poor candidate out John didn’t seem to - mind much about being frozen out though—not half so much as I did, - for him. Everybody in Thessaly knows him and likes him and calls him - ‘John,’ and that seems to be the height of his ambition. I can’t imagine a - man of his abilities being satisfied with so limited a horizon.” - </p> - <p> - “And, you, Seth, what is your horizon like?” asked Isabel. - </p> - <p> - They had entered the orchard path, now, and the apple blossoms close above - them filled the May morning air with that sweet spring perfume which seems - to tell of growth, harvest, the fruition of hope. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m picked out to be a countryman all the days of my life I suppose.” - There was the sigh again, and a tinge of bitterness in his tone, as well. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I hope not—that is, if you don’t want to be. Oh, it must be - such a dreary life! The very thought of it sets my teeth on edge. The - dreadful people you have to know: men without an idea beyond crops and - calves and the cheese-factory; women slaving their lives out doing bad - cooking, mending for a houseful of men, devoting their scarce - opportunities for intercourse with other women to the weakest and most - wretched gossip; coarse servants who eat at the table with their employers - and call them by their Christian names; boys whose only theory about - education is thrashing the school teacher, if it is a man, or breaking her - heart by their mean insolence if it is a woman; and girls brought up to be - awkward gawks, without a chance in life, since the brighter and nicer they - are the more they will suffer from marriage with men mentally beneath them—that - is, if they don’t become sour old maids. I don’t wonder you hate it all, - Seth.” - </p> - <p> - “You talk like a book,” said Seth, in tones of unmistakable admiration. “I - didn’t suppose any woman could talk like that.” - </p> - <p> - “I talk as I feel always, when I come into contact with country life, and - I get, angry with people who maunder about its romantic and picturesque - side. Where is it, I should, like to know?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it isn’t all so bad as you paint it, perhaps, Isabel. Of course——“—here - he hesitated a little—“you don’t quife see it at its best here, you - know. Father hasn’t been a first-rate manager, and things have kin all so - bad as you paint it, perhaps, Isabel. Of course——” here he - hesitated a little—“you don’t quife see it at its best here, you - know. Father hasn’t been a first-rate manager, and things have kind o’ run - down.” - </p> - <p> - “No, Seth, it isn’t that; the trail of the serpent is over it all—rich - and poor, big and little. The Nineteenth century is a century of cities; - they have given their own twist to the progress of the age—and the - farmer is almost as far out of it as if he lived in Alaska. Perhaps there - may have been a time when a man could live in what the poet calls daily - communion with Nature and not starve his mind and dwarf his soul, but this - isn’t the century.” - </p> - <p> - “But Webster was a farm boy, and so was Lincoln and Garfield and Jackson—almost - all our great men. Hardly any of them are born in cities, you will find.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the country is just splendid to be born in, no doubt of that; but - after you are born, get out of it as soon as you can.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know as I can leave Father very well,” said Seth slowly, and as - if in deep thought. - </p> - <p> - They walked to the end of the pasture beyond the orchard, to within view - of the spot where all the Fairchilds for three generations had been laid, - and where, among the clustering sweet-briars and wild-strawberry vines - Milton had only yesterday dug a new grave. The sight recalled to both - another subject, and no more was said of country life as they returned to - the house. Indeed, little was said of any sort, for Seth had a thinking - mood on. Nothing was very clear in his mind perhaps, but more distinctly - than anything else he felt that existence on the farm had all at once - become intolerable. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V.—THE FUNERAL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he American - farm-house funeral is surely, of all the observances with which civilized - man marks the ending of this earthly pilgrimage, the most pathetic. The - rural life itself is a sad and sterile enough thing, with its unrelieved - physical strain, its enervating and destructive diet, its mental - barrenness, its sternly narrowed groove of toil and thought and - companionship—but death on the farm brings a desolating gloom, a - cruel sense of the hopelessness of existence, which one realizes nowhere - else. The grim, fatalist habit of seizing upon the grotesque side, which a - century of farm life has crystallized into what the world knows as - American humor, is not wanting even in this hour; and the comforting - conviction of immortality, of the shining reward to follow travail and - sorrow, is nowhere more firmly insisted upon than among our country - people. But the bleak environment of the closed life, the absence of real - fellowship among the living, the melancholy isolation and vanity of it - all, oppress the soul here with an intolerable weight which neither fund - of sardonic spirits nor honest faith can lighten. - </p> - <p> - Something of this Isabel felt, as the mid-day meal was hurried through, on - Alvira’s sharp intimation that the room couldn’t be cleared any too soon, - for the crowd would begin coming now, right along. There were three - strangers at the table—though they seemed to be scarcely more - strangers than the members of her husband’s family—of whom two were - clergymen. - </p> - <p> - One of these, who sat next to her, was the Episcopalian minister at - Thessaly, a middle-aged, soft sort of man, with short hair so smooth and - furry that she was conscious of an impulse to stroke it like a seal-skin, - and little side-whiskers which reminded her of a baby brush. He impressed - her as a stupid man, but in that she was mistaken. He was nervous and ill - at ease, first because he could not successfully or gracefully use the - narrow three-tined steel fork with a bone handle that had been given him, - and second, because he did not understand the presence of the Rev. Stephen - Bunce, who sat opposite him, offensively smacking his lips, and devoting - to loud discourse periods which it seemed might better have been employed - in mastication. - </p> - <p> - If quiet Mr. Turner was ill at ease, the Rev. Stephen was certainly not. - He bestrode the situation like a modern Colossus. The shape of his fork - did not worry him, since he used it only as a humble and lowly adjunct to - his knife. The presence of Mr. Turner too, neither puzzled nor pained him. - In fact, he was rather pleased than otherwise to have him there, where he - could talk to him before sympathetic witnesses, and make him realise how - the man of the people who had a genuine call towered innately superior to - mere beneficed gentility. “Beneficed gentility”—that was a good - phrase, and he made a mental note of it for future use; then—the - temptation was too strong—he bundled it neck and crop into the - florid sentence with which he was addressing Albert—and looked at - the Episcopalian to watch its effect. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Turner was occupied with his javelin-shaped fork, and did not seem to - hear it. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Bunce suspected artifice in this, and watched the rector’s meek face - for a sign of secret confusion. After a moment he said, with his full, - pompous voice at its loudest and most artificial pitch:— - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Mr. Turner, this is a sad occasion!” - </p> - <p> - The rector glanced up with some surprise, for he had not expected this - overture, and answered “Yes, truly it is; extremely sad.” - </p> - <p> - “Yet it is consoling to feel that even so sad an occasion can be converted - into a means of grace, a season of spiritual solace as it were.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Turner only nodded assent to this; he felt that the whole company - around the table, hired people and all, were eagerly watching him and the - burly, bold-faced preacher opposite, as if they were about to engage in - gladiatorial combat. - </p> - <p> - But Mr. Bunce would not permit the challenge to be declined. He stroked - his ochre-hued chin whisker, looked complacently around the board, and - asked: - </p> - <p> - “I s’pose you’ve brought your white and black riggins’ along, eh? Or don’t - you wear ’em except in Church?” - </p> - <p> - There was a pained look in Mr. Turner’s face; he made a little gesture - toward the folding doors leading to the parlor, beyond which lay the dead, - and murmured: - </p> - <p> - “It will be better, will it not, to speak of these matters together, after - dinner?” - </p> - <p> - Again the Rev. Stephen glanced around the table, looking especially toward - Miss Sabrina for approval, and remarked loftily: - </p> - <p> - “There is no need of concealment here, sir. It is all in the family here. - We all know that the Mother in Israel who has departed was formerly of - your communion, and if she wanted to have you here, sir, at her funeral, - why well and good. But the rest of this sorrowin’ family, sir, this - stricken household, air Baptists—” - </p> - <p> - “I declare! there’s the Burrells drivin’ into the yard, a’ready!” said - Alvira, rising from her chair abruptly. “If you’re threw we better hustle - these things aout, naow; you women won’t more’n have time to dress ’fore - they’ll all be here.” - </p> - <p> - The interruption seemed a welcome one to everybody, for there was a - general movement on both sides of Mr. Bunce, which he, with his sentence - unfinished, was constrained to join. - </p> - <p> - The third stranger, a small, elderly man with a mobile countenance and - rusty black clothes, drew himself up, put on a modifiedly doleful - expression, and, speaking for the first time, assumed control of - everything: - </p> - <p> - “Naow, Milton, you ’n’ Leander git the table aout, ’n’ bring - in all the extry chairs, ’n’ set ’em ’raound in rows. - Squeeze ’em pooty well together in back, but the front ones kind o’ - spread aout. You, Miss Sabriny, ’n’ the lady”—indicating - Isabel with his thumb—“’n’ Annie’d better go upstairs ’n’ - git yer bonnets on, ’n’ things, ’n’ go ’n’ set in the - room at the head o’ the stairs. You men, tew, git your gloves on, ’n’ - naow be sure ’n’ have your hankch’fs in some pocket where you can - git at ’em with your gloves on—’n’ have your hats in - your hands, ‘n’ then go ’n’ set with the ladies. Miss Sabriny, - you’ll come daown arm-in-arm with yer brother, <i>when</i> I call, ’n’ - then Albert ’n’ his wife, ’n’ John with Annie, ’n’ - Seth with—pshaw, there’s odd numbers. Well, Seth can come alone. And - dew keep step comin’ daown stairs!” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ naow, gents,” turning to the Rev. Mr. Turner, “your gaown’s in - the fust room to the right on the landin’, and if you”—addressing - Mr. Bunce—“will go up with him, and arrange ’baout the - services, so’s to come daown together—it’ll look pootier than to - straggle in by yourselves,—’n’ you, Milton, ain’t you got - somethin’ besides overalls to put on?” - </p> - <p> - Thus the autocrat cleared the living room. Then, going around through the - front hall, he entered the parlor to receive, with solemn dignity and a - fine eye to their relative social merit, the first comers. - </p> - <p> - These were almost exclusively women, dressed in Sunday garb. As each buggy - or democrat wagon drove up inside the gate, and discharged its burden, the - men would lead the horses further on, to be hitched under or near the - shed, and then saunter around to the kitchen side of the house, where - cider was on tap, and other men were standing in the sunshine, chewing - tobacco and conversing in low tones, while the women from each conveyance - went straight to the front door, and got seats in the parlor as close to - the coffin as possible. The separation of the sexes could hardly have been - more rigorous in a synagogue. There were, indeed two or three meek, - well-brushed men among the women, sitting, uncomfortable but resigned, in - the geranium-scented gloom of the curtained parlor, but, as the more - virile brethren outside would have said, they were men who didn’t count. - </p> - <p> - The task of the undertaker was neither light nor altogether smooth. There - were some dozen chairs reserved, nearest the pall, for the mourners, the - clergymen and the mixed quartette expected from Thessaly. Every woman on - entering made for these chairs, and the more unimportant and “low-down” - she was in the rural scale of social values, the more confidently she - essayed to get one of them. With all of these more or less argument was - necessary—conducted in a buzzing whisper from which some squeak or - guttural exclamation would now and again emerge. With some, the undertaker - was compelled to be quite peremptory; while one woman—Susan Jane - Squires, a slatternly, weak-eyed creature who presumed upon her position - as sister-in-law of Milton, the hired man—had actually to be pushed - away by sheer force. - </p> - <p> - Then there was the further labor of inducing all these disappointed ones - to take the seats furthest back, so that late comers might not have to - push by and over them, but efforts in this direction were only fitful at - the best, and soon were practically abandoned. - </p> - <p> - “Fust come, fust sarved!” said old Mrs. Wimple. “I’m jes ez good ez them - that’ll come bimeby, ’n’ ef I don’ mind their climbin’ over me, <i>you</i> - needn’t!” and against this the undertaker could urge nothing satisfactory. - </p> - <p> - In the intervals of that functionary’s activity, conversation was quite - general, carried on in whispers which, in the aggregate, sounded like the - rustle of a smart breeze through the dry leaves of a beach tree. Many - women were there who had never been in the house before—could - indeed, have had no other chance of getting in. These had some fleeting - interest in the funeral appointments, and the expense incident thereto, - but their chief concern was the furnishing of the house. They furtively - scraped the carpet with their feet to test its quality, they felt of the - furniture to see if it had been re-varnished, they estimated the value of - the curtains, speculated on the cost of the melodeon and its age, wondered - when the ceiling had last been whitewashed. Some, who knew the family - better, discussed the lamentable decline of the Fairchilds in substance - and standing within their recollection, and exchanged hints about the - endemic mortgage stretching its sinister hand even to the very chairs they - were sitting on. Others, still more intimate, rehearsed the details of the - last and fatal illness, commented on the character of individuals in the - family, and guessed how long old Lemuel would last, now that Cicely was - gone. - </p> - <p> - In the centre of these circling waves of gossip lay the embodiment of the - eternal silence. Listening, one might fain envy such an end to that living - death of mental starvation which was the lot of all there, and which - forced them, out of their womanhood, to chatter in the presence of death. - </p> - <p> - The singers came. They were from the village, belonging to the - Congregational church there, and it was understood that they came out of - liking for John Fairchild. None of the gathering knew them personally, but - it was said that the contralto—the woman with the bird on her - bonnet, who took her seat at the melodeon—had had trouble with her - husband. A fresh buzz of whispering ran round. Some stray word must have - reached the contralto, for she colored and pretended to study the music - before her intently, and, later, when “Pleyel’s Hymn” was being sung, she - played so nervously that there was an utter collapse in the sharps and - flats of the third line, which nearly threw the singers out. - </p> - <p> - The undertaker now stalked in, and stood on tiptoe to see if the back room - was also filled. He had been out with the men at the kitchen door, fixing - crape on the arms of six of the best dressed and most respectable looking - farmers in an almost jocular mood, and drilling them affably in their - duties; drinking cider, exchanging gossip with one or two acquaintances, - and conducting himself generally like an ordinary mortal. He had now - resumed his dictatorship. - </p> - <p> - Most of the men had followed him around to the front of the house, and - clustered now in the hall, or in a group about the outer door, holding - their hats on a level with their shoulders. - </p> - <p> - A rustle on the stairs told that the mourners were descending. Then came - the strains of the melodeon, and the singing, very low, solemn and sweet. - </p> - <p> - A little pause, and the full voice of the Baptist preacher was heard in - prayer—then in some eulogistic remarks. What he said was largely - nonsense, from any point of view, but the voice was that of the born - exhorter, deep, clear-toned, melodious; there seemed to be a stop in it, - as in an organ, which at pathetic parts gave forth a tremulous, weeping - sound, and when this came not a dry eye could be found. He was over-fond - of using this effect, as are most men possessing the trick, but no one - noticed it, not even Isabel, who from sitting sternly intolerant of the - whispering women around her, and indignant at Mr. Bunce for his dinner - performance, found herself sobbing with all the rest when the tremulo stop - was touched. - </p> - <p> - There was more singing, this time fine, simple old “St. Denis” and then - the bearers were summoned in. - </p> - <p> - The men asked one another in murmurs outside if the Episcopal clargyman - was to take no part in the services. Within, Mrs. Wimple went straighter - to the point. She plucked him by the sleeve of his robe and leaning over - with some difficulty, for she was a corpulent body, whispered to the - hearing of a score of her neighbours: - </p> - <p> - “What air you here fer, mister, if you ain’t goin’ to say nor dew - nothin’?” - </p> - <p> - “I officiate at the grave,” he had said, and then regretted all the - remainder of the day having answered her at all. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - On the return of the procession from the little knoll where the slate and - marble tomb-stones of long dead Fairchilds bent over the new brown mound, - Annie and Seth walked together. There was silence between them for a time, - which he broke suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “It’s <i>all</i> very hard, Annie, for you know how much mother and I - loved each other. But, truly, the hardest thing of all is to think of - staying here among these narrow dolts. While she was here I could stand - it. But I can’t any more.” - </p> - <p> - Annie said nothing. She felt his arm trembling against hers, and his voice - was strained and excited. What <i>could</i> she say? - </p> - <p> - “They’re not like me,” he went on; “I have nothing in common with them. I - hate the sight of the whole of them. I never realised till to-day how big - a gulf there was between them and me. Didn’t <i>you</i> see it—what - a mean, narrow-contracted lot they all were?” - </p> - <p> - “Who do you mean, Seth?” - </p> - <p> - “Why all of them. The Burrells, the Wimples, old Elhanan Pratt, old Lyman - Tenney, that fellow Bunce—the whole lot of them. And the women too! - Did you watch them—or, what’s worse, did you hear them? I wonder you - can bear them yourself, Annie, any more than I can.” - </p> - <p> - “Sometimes it <i>is</i> hard, Seth, I admit; when I first came back to - grandma from school it was awfully hard. But then I’ve got to live here, - and reconcile myself to what the place offers,—and, after all, Seth, - they are well-meaning people, and some of them are smart, too, in their - way.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well-meaning—in their way,—yes! But I haven’t got to live - here, Annie, and I haven’t got to reconcile myself, and I <i>won’t</i> - That’s the long and short of it. I can make my living elsewhere—perhaps - more than my living—and be among people who don’t make me angry - every time I set eyes on them. And I can find friends, too, who feel as I - do, and look at things as I do, instead of these country louts who only - know abominable stories, and these foolish girls—who—who—” - </p> - <p> - “Nobody can blame you to-day, Seth, for feeling blue and sore, but you - ought not to talk so, even now. They’re not all like what you say. Reuben - Tracy, now, he’s been a good friend and a useful friend to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Rube’s a grand, good fellow, of course. I know all that. But then - just take his case. He’s a poor schoolmaster now, just as he was five - years ago, and will be twenty years from now. What kind of a life is that - for a man?” - </p> - <p> - “And maybe the girls <i>are</i>—foolish, as you started to say, but—” - </p> - <p> - “Now, Annie, don’t think I m’eant anything by that, <i>please!</i> I know - you’re the dearest girl and the best friend in the world. Truly, now, you - won’t think I meant anything, will you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Seth, I won’t” said Annie softly. It was her arm that trembled now. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI.—IN THE NAME OF THE FAMILY. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ISS Sabrina sat by - her accustomed window an hour after the return from the grave, waiting for - Albert. The mourning dress, borrowed for the occasion from a neighbor, was - cut in so modern a fashion, contrasted with the venerable maiden’s - habitual garments, that it gave her spare figure almost a fantastic air. - The bonnet, with its yard of dense, coarse ribbed crape, lay on the table - at her elbow, beside her spectacles and the unnoticed Bible. Miss Sabrina - was ostensibly looking out of the window, but she really saw nothing. She - was thinking very steadily about the coming interview with her nephew, and - what she would say to him, and wondering, desponding, hoping about his - answers. - </p> - <p> - The door opened, and Albert entered. “You wanted to see me, Aunt, so Annie - said,” he remarked! gravely, in a subdued tone. - </p> - <p> - She motioned him to a chair and answered, in a solemn voice curiously like - his own: “Yes, there’s some things I want to say to you, all by yourself.” - </p> - <p> - They sat for some moments in silence, the lawyer watching his aunt with - amiable forbearance, as if conscious that his time was being wasted, and - she, poor woman, groping in a novel mental fog for some suitable phrases - with which to present her views. Under Albert’s calm, uninspiring gaze - those views seemed to lose form, and diminish in intelligence as much as - in distinctness. It had all been so clear to her mind—and now she - suddenly found it fading off into a misty jumble of speculations, mere - castles in the air. She had expected to present an unanswerable case - lucidly and forcibly to her lawyer nephew; instead, it seemed increasingly - probable that he would scout the thing as ridiculous—and, what was - worse, be justified in so doing. So it was that she finally made her - beginning doubtingly, almost dolefully: - </p> - <p> - “Of course I dunno haow you feel abaout it, Albert, but I can’t help - thinking something ought to be settled abaout th’ farm, while yer here.” - </p> - <p> - “Settled? How settled?’’ asked Albert. There was a dry, dispassionate - fibre in his voice which further chilled her enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “Why—well—you knaow—what I mean, Albert,” she said, - almost pathetically. It was so hard to know just how to say things to - Albert. - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary, I don’t in the least know what you mean. What do you - want settled about the farm? What is there to settle about it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothin’, ef yeh don’t choose to understand” said Miss Sabrina. - </p> - <p> - Another period of silence ensued. Albert made a movement as if to rise, - and said: - </p> - <p> - “If there is’nt anything more, I think I’ll go down again.” - </p> - <p> - There was an artificial nicety of enunciation about this speech, which - grated on the old lady’s nerves. She squared her shoulders and turned upon - her nephew. - </p> - <p> - “Naow what’s the use of bein’ mean, Albert? Yeh dew knaow what I’m - thinking of, jis’ ez well ez I dew! Yeh unly want to make it ez hard fer - me to tell yeh as yeh possibly kin. I s’pose thet’s the lawyer of it!” - </p> - <p> - Albert smiled with all his face but the eyes, and slightly lifting his - hands from his fat knees, turned them palms up, in mute deprecation of his - aunt’s unreasonableness. The gesture was as near the shoulder-shrug as the - self-contained lawyer ever permitted himself to go. It was a trifle, but - it angered the old maid enough to remove the last vestige of hesitation - from her tongue: - </p> - <p> - “Well, ef yeh <i>don’t</i> knaow what I mean, then I’ll tell yeh! I mean - that ef th’ Fairchilds are goin’ to be a Dearborn caounty fam’ly, ’n’ - hole their heads up amongst folks, ther’s got to be a change o’ some sort - right away. Your father’s let everything slide year after year, till - there’s pesky little lef’ naow to slide on. He’s behine hand agin in money - matters, even with th’ Pratt mortgage on top of t’others. What’s wuss, - it’s in everybody’s maouth. They’ve left him off th’ board at th’ - cheese-factory this year, even; of course they say, it’s cuz he never ’tended - th’ meetin’s—but I knaow better! It’s jis cuz Lemuel Fairchild’s - goin’ deown hill, ’n’ the farm’s goin’ to rack ’n’ ruin, ’n’ - ev’rybuddy knaows it. Jis’ think of it? Why, ’twas th’ Fairchilds - made that cheese-factory, ’n’ it’s allus gone by aour name, ’n’ - we used to sen’ th’ milk of a hundred ’n’ thirty caows there—almost - as much as all th’ rest of ’em put togither—’n’ ez I - said to Leander Crump, when he was squirmin’ raound tryin’ to make me - b’lieve they didn’t mean nothin’ by droppin’ Lemuel aout o’ th’ board, - says I—‘nobuddy ever ’spected a table spoonful o’ water in - aour milk!’—’n’ he colored up, <i>I</i> tell yeh!” - </p> - <p> - “No doubt” said Albert, impassively. - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina paused to mentally retrace her argument, and see if this - remark had any special bearing. She could discover none, and grew a little - angrier. - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, th’ question’s right here. My father, your grand father, made - a name fer hisself, and a place for his fam’ly, here in Dearborn caounty, - second to nobuddy. Fer years ’n’ years I kin remember thet th’ one - question people ast, when it was proposed to dew anything, was ‘what does - Seth Fairchild think ’baout it?’ He went to th’ Senate twice; he - could ’a gone to Congress from this dees-trick time ’n’ time - agin, if he’d be’n a mine to. Ev’rybuddy looked up to him. When he died, - all of a suddent, he lef’ Lemuel th’ bes’ farm, th’ bes’ stock, th’ bes’ - farm haouse, fer miles raound. Well, thet’s forty year ago. I’ve lived - here threw it all. I’ve swallered my pride every day in th’ week, all thet - time. I’ve tried to learn myself a humble spirit—but I’ve hed to see - this place, and the fam’ly, going daown, daown, daown!” - </p> - <p> - There were tears in the old maid’s eyes now, as she spoke, tears of - mortification and revolt against her helplessness, for she seemed to read - the failure of her appeal in the placid face of her nephew, with its only - decent pretence of interest. She went on, with a rising voice: - </p> - <p> - “You knaow a little of haow things hev’ gone, though you’ve allus took - precious good pains to knaow ez little ez yeh could. You knaow that when - you were a boy you were a rich man’s son, with yer pony, ’n’ yer - dancin’ lessons, ’n’ yer college eddica-tion; ’n’ yer mother - dressed well, ’n’ had a kerridge, ’n’ visited with th’ bes’ - people of Albany, people who were <i>my</i> friends tew when I used to go - to Albany with yer grandfather. ’N’ what hev we come to? Yer mother - slaved her life aout, lost all her ambition, lost all her pride, saw - things goin’ to th’ dogs and didn’t knaow haow to stop ’em—sakes - forbid thet I should say anything agin Sissly; she did all she could; - p’raps ’twould ’ev gone different if she’d be’n a different - kine o’ woman, p’raps not; there’s no use talkin’ ’baout thet. ’N’ - ef I’d hed <i>my</i> say, tew, maybe things’d be’n different; but its ez - it is, ’n’ it’s no use cryin’ over spilt milk. - </p> - <p> - “Father never meant to be hard with me. When he lef’ me nothin’ but a - living aout o’ th’ farm, he expected, everybuddy expected, my Aunt - Sabrina’d leave me a clean sixty thaousand dollars when she died. She was - an ole woman, ’n’ a widow, ’n’ she hed no childern. She’d - allus promised my father thet if I was named after her—confaound her - name!—I shaould be her heir. ’N’ then, Iess’n a year after - his death, what does the old huzzy up ’n’ do but marry some fortune - hunter young enough to be her son, ’n’ give him every cent she hed - in the world. He led her a fine dance of it, tew, ’n’ serve her - right! But there I was, lef ’thaout a thing ’cep a roof over - my head. - </p> - <p> - “’N’ then Lemuel, nothin’ ud do but he must go to Californy when - the gold cry riz, ’n’ no sooner’d he git there than he was homesick - ’n’ hed to come back; ’n’ when he got back, ’n’ begun - to hear what fortunes them who’d gone aout with him were a making, than he - must start aout again. But where it’d be’n wilderness a few months b’fore, - he faound cities naow, ’n’ ev’ry chance took up; then he got robbed - o’ all his money, ’n’ hed to borrer, ’n’ then he took chills - ’n’ fever off th’ isthmus, n’ hed to lay in quarantine fer weeks, - on ’caount o’ th’ yellah fever; it’d be’n a poor year on the farm, - ’n’ when he got back, it took ev’ry cent of his ready-money to set - himself right. - </p> - <p> - “From thet day to this, his Californy luck hez stuck to him like death to - a nigger, tell here, to-day, the Fitches don’t think it wuth while to come - to your poor mother’s fun’ral—I kin remember Lije Fitch when he was - glad enough to beg beans o’ my father fer seed—’n’ I’m - wearing borrered mournin’ of Sarah Andrewses, <i>a mile tew big for me!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “It seems to me I’ve been told all this a good many times, Aunt Sabrina,” - said Albert, as his aunt stopped and glared at him trembling with the - excitement of her peroration. “There’s nothing very-pleasant in it, for - either of us, to listen to or talk about; but I don’t see that there’s - anything more than I’ve heard over and over again, except about your - having on another woman’s dress, and I don’t assume that I am expected to - interfere about <i>that!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Poor Miss Sabrina was too deeply moved, and too much in earnest, to note - the sarcastic levity underlying the lawyer’s conclusion. She caught only - the general sense of a negative response, and looked at her nephew - steadily with a gaze half-indignant, half appealing. - </p> - <p> - “Then you won’t dew anything, ay?” she asked at last. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am very far from saying that. <i>That’s</i> another thing. You send - for me, saying that you have an important communication to make to me—at - least, I assume that it is important, from the circumstances surrounding - the request. I come, and you first insist that I know as well as you do - what you mean, and then, when I demur, you rehearse all the unfortunate - details of my father’s failure in life. I suggest that these are already - tolerably familiar to me, and <i>this</i> mild statement you construe as a - definite refusal on my part to do something—what, I don’t know.” - </p> - <p> - “I declare, Albert, you better send in a bill fer givin’ me this - consultation. <i>I</i> never knew a son who could take his father’s ruin - ’n’ his fam’ly’s disgrace so cool, before. I s’pose <i>that’s</i> - th’ lawyer of it, tew!” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it’s an advantage that some one of the family should keep cool, - Aunt, and look at things one by one, in their true relation. Now, if you - have any proposition to make to me, any plan to present for my - consideration, I should like to hear it—because really this other - style of conversation is profitless beyond description. In a word, what do - you want me to do?” - </p> - <p> - “What do I want yeh to do?” The old maid leaned forward and put a thin, - mitted hand on Albert’s knee, looking eagerly into his face, and speaking - almost shrilly. “I want yeh to take this farm, to come here to live, to - make it a rich gentleman’s home agin! to put the Fairchilds up once more - where my father left ’em.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes?” was the provokingly unenthusiastic response. - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina felt that she had failed. She put her spectacles on, and took - the Bible into her lap, as if to say that she washed her hands of all - mundane matters. But it did not suit Albert to regard the interview as - closed. - </p> - <p> - “There is one thing you don’t seem to see at all, Aunt,” he said. “That - is, that Dearborn County is relatively not altogether the most important - section of the Republic, and that it is quite possible for a man to win - public recognition or attain professional distinction in other communities - which might reconcile him to a loss of prestige here. It may sound like - heresy to you, but I am free to admit that the good opinion of the - business men of New York City, where I am regarded as a successful sort of - man, seems to me to outweigh all possible questions as to how I am - regarded by Elhanan Pratt and Le-ander Crump and—and that Baptist - gentleman, for instance, whom you had here to-day. The world has grown so - large, my dear aunt, since your day, that there are thousands upon - thousands of Americans now who go all their lives without ever once - thinking about Dearborn County’s opinion. Of course I can understand how - deeply you must feel what you regard as a social decline in the eyes of - your neighbours. But truly, it does not specially affect me. They are not - my neighbours; if I seem to them to be of less importance than I was in my - boyhood, when I had a pony, I can’t help it, and I am sure I don’t want - to. Frankly, to use my mother’s old phrase, I don’t care a cotton hat for - their opinion good, bad, or indifferent. It is this, I think, which you - leave out of your calculation.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina had listened, with the Book opened only by a finger’s width. - The elaborate irony of her nephew’s words had escaped her, but she saw a - gleam of hope in his willingness to discuss the matter at all. - </p> - <p> - “But then this is the home o’ the Fairchilds; the fam’ly belongs to - Dearborn Caounty; father was allus spoken of ez Seth Fairchild o’ - Dearborn, jis’ as much ez—ez Silas Wright o’ Dutchess.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course that last is a powerful argument,” said Albert with a furtive - smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “But, after all, the county - family idea doesn’t seem to attract me much. Why, aunt, do you know that - your grandfather Roger was a journeyman shoemaker, who walked all the way - here from Providence. There was nothing incongruous in his son becoming a - Senator. Very well; if you have a state of society where sudden elevations - of this sort occur, there will inevitably be corresponding descents—just - as lean streaks alternate with fat in the bacon of commerce. The - Fairchilds went up—they, come down. They have exhausted the soil. Do - you see?” - </p> - <p> - “Nao! I don’t see a bit! ’N’ I b’lieve at heart you’re jis’ ez - praoud ez I be!” - </p> - <p> - “Proud? Yes! Proud of myself, proud of my practice, proud of my position. - But proud because three or four hundred dull countrymen, seeing my cows - sleek, my harness glossy, my farm well in order, and knowing that my - grandfather had been a State Senator, would consider me a ‘likely ’ - man—no, not at all.” - </p> - <p> - Albert rose at this to go, and added, as he turned the door-knob: - </p> - <p> - “As soon as he’s equal to it, Aunt Sabrina, I’ll get father to go over his - affairs with me, and I’ll try and straighten them out a trifle. I dare say - we can find some way out of the muddle.” - </p> - <p> - “But yeh won’t take up the thing yerself? Yeh won’t dew what I wanted yeh - tew?” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer smiled, and said: “What really? Come here and be a farmer?” - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina had risen, too, and came toward her nephew. “No” she said, - “not a farmer. Be a country gentleman, ’n’—’n’—a - Congressman!” Albert smiled again, and left the room. He smiled to himself - going down the stairs, and narrowly escaped forgetting to change his - expression of countenance when he entered the living room, where were - sitting people who had not entirely forgotten the fact that it was a house - of mourning. - </p> - <p> - For Albert had a highly interesting idea in his mind, both interesting and - diverting. Curiously enough, he had begun developing it from the moment - when his aunt first disclosed her ambition for him. At the last moment, in - a blind way she had suggested the first political office that entered her - mind as an added bribe. She could not know that her astute nephew had, - from the first suggestion of her plan, been trying to remember whether it - was Jay and Adams Counties, or Jay and Morgan, that were associated with - Dearborn in the Congressional district; or that, when she finally in - despair said “Be a country gentleman and a Congressman,” his brain had - already turned over a dozen projects in as many seconds, every one - Congressional. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII.—THE THREE BROTHERS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter the early - supper of stale bread, saltless butter, dark dried apple sauce, and chippy - cake had been disposed of, Lemuel returned to his rocking chair by the - stove, Aunt Sabrina and Isabel took seats, each at a window, and read by - the fading light, and Albert put on his hat, lighted a cigar, and went - out. His brother John stood smoking a pipe in the yard, leaning against - the high well-curb, his hands deep in his pantaloons pocket, and his feet - planted far to the front and wide apart. Seth was coming from the barns - toward the well, with a bucket in his hand. Albert walked across to the - curb, and the three brothers were alone together for the first time in - years. - </p> - <p> - “It does one good to be out of doors such an evening as this,” said - Albert. “It seems to me it would be better if father would get out in the - open air more, instead of sitting cooped up over that stove all the - while.” - </p> - <p> - “When a man’s been out in the open air, rain or shine, snow or blow, for - fifty years, he ought to have earned the right to stay inside, if he wants - to. | That’s about the only reward there is at the end of a farmer’s - life,” answered Seth, turning the calfbucket upside down beside John, and - sitting on it. Seth had his old clothes on once more, and perhaps there - was some consciousness of the contrast between his apparel and that of his - black-clad brethren in the truculent tone of his reply. - </p> - <p> - John had nodded at Albert on his approach, and thrust his feet a trifle - further forward. He still stood silent, looking meditatively at the row of - poplars on the other side of the road through rings of pipe smoke. - </p> - <p> - “So you don’t think much of farm work, eh?” said Albert. - </p> - <p> - “Who does?” replied Seth, sententiously. - </p> - <p> - A considerable period of silence ensued. Albert had never had a very high - idea of his younger brothers’ conversational qualities, and had rarely - known how to talk easily with them, but to-night it seemed a greater task - than ever. He offered them cigars, in a propitiatory way. Seth accepted - and lit one; John said “Thanks, I prefer a pipe,” and silence reigned - again. - </p> - <p> - It was twilight now, and in the gathering dusk there was no sign of motion - about, nor any sound save the tinkle of a sheep-bell in the pasture - opposite. - </p> - <p> - John’s pipe burned out, and Albert pressed a cigar upon him again. - </p> - <p> - “I <i>want</i> you to try them,” he said, almost pleadingly, “I’m sure - you’ll like them. They are a special brand the steward at the Union League - gets for me.” - </p> - <p> - This time John consented, and he seemed to feel that the act involved a - responsibility to talk, for he said, with an effort at amiability as he - struck a match: - </p> - <p> - “Your wife seems to be looking very well.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Isabel’s health is perfect, and it always benefits her to get out in - the country. That’s a kind of Irishism isn’t it? I mean it makes her good - health more obvious.” - </p> - <p> - “Good health is a great thing,” John answered. - </p> - <p> - The conversation was running emptings again, almost at the start. Albert - made a heroic effort to strengthen it. - </p> - <p> - “Well, this is a regular quakers’ meeting,” he said, briskly. “We see each - other so seldom, we are almost strangers when we do meet. I want to be - frank with you, come now, and you should be frank with me. You have - something on your minds, I can see. Isn’t it something I ought to know?” - </p> - <p> - Seth spoke again: “Perhaps on the evening of one’s mother’s funeral it - isn’t to be expected that even brothers should feel chatty.” - </p> - <p> - The village journalist felt the injustice of this comment from the - youngster. - </p> - <p> - “No, Seth,” he said, “Don’t snap Albert up in that fashion. I dare say he - feels the thing, in his own way, as much as the rest of us. You are right, - Albert; there <i>is</i> something, and I’ll tell you plainly what it is. - Do you see those poplars over there? In the morning their shadows Come - almost to our front door. Father planted them with his own hands. When I - was a boy, I used to play over there, and climb up on to the bolls, and - pretend I was to build houses there, like in Swiss Family Robinson. Well, - that land passed out of our hands so long ago—it’s been an old story - for years. Do you see the roof of the red school-house over back of the - hill?” turning toward the South. “Or no, the light is too poor now, but - you know where it is. When I used to cut ’cross lots to school - there, I went the whole way over father’s land. Now, if I wanted to go - there, how many people would I trespass on, Seth?” - </p> - <p> - “Ferguson owns the clover meadow, and Pratt has the timothy meadow, and - what we used to call the berry patch belongs to Sile Thomas; he’s begun to - build a house on it.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely. Why even the fence close to where mother’s grave is, divides - ours from another man’s land now.” - </p> - <p> - “Sabrina spoke to me about all this this afternoon,” said Albert - hesitatingly, “and I tried, as I often have before, to make her understand - that that must be the natural course of affairs, so long as the East tries - to compete with the West in farming.” - </p> - <p> - “Well that may be all right, but Elhanan Pratt seems to manage to compete - with the West, as you call it, and so do the Fergusons and all the rest of - them. We are the only ones who appear to get left, every time. Of course, - it’s somebody’s fault. Father’s been a poor manager, no use of denying - that. But that doesn’t make it any the easier to bear. Father hardly knows - which way to turn for ours from another man’s now. Money; he might have - scraped through the year if hops had had a good season, but at nine cents - a pound it was hardly worth while to take them to the depot. You can’t - clear expenses at less than eleven cents. And then if he does have a - fairly decent year, his hop-pickers are always the most drunken, idle gang - of them all, who eat their heads off, and steal more fruit and chickens - than they pick boxes, and if anybody’s hops are spoiled in the kiln, you - can bet on their being Fairchild’s, every time. And three years ago, it - was the hop merchant who failed, just at the opportune moment, and let - Father in for a whole years’ profit and labor. Of course, it’s all bad - luck, mismanagement, whatever you like to call it, and it can’t be helped, - I suppose. But it makes a man sour, and it broke poor mother’s heart. And - then here’s Seth.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, never mind me, I can stand it, I guess, if the rest can. I’m not - complaining” came from the figure on the bucket—only dimly to be - seen now, in the shadow of the curb, and the increasing darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Here’s Seth,” continued John, without noting the disclaimer. “You and I - had <i>some</i> advantages—of course, mine were not to be compared - with yours, but still I was given a chance, such as it was and I don’t - know that I would trade what I learned at work during college years for a - college education—but this poor boy, who’s thought about him, who’s - given him a chance to show what’s in him? He’s been allowed to come up as - he could, almost like any farm laborer. His mother tried to do her little, - but what spirit did she have for it, and what time did the drudgery here - give him? Thank God! He’s had the stuff in him to work at education - himself, and he’s got the making of the best man of us three. But it’s no - thanks to you. And <i>that’s</i> why we feel hard, Albert. Nobody supposes - you could make a good farmer and manager out of father; nobody blames you - for a bad hop season, or the dishonesty of Biggs. But I do say that of us - three brothers there’s one who frets and worries over the thing, and - though he’s a poor man, does all he can afford to do, and more too, to - help make it better; and there’s another, young, ambitious, capable, whose - nose is held down to the grindstone, and the best years of whose life are - being miserably spent in a hopeless wrestling with debt and disaster; and - there’s a third brother, the oldest brother, rich, easy, enjoying all the - luxuries of life, who don’t give a damn about it all! <i>That’s</i> what I - say, and if you don’t like it, you needn’t!” - </p> - <p> - The silence which ensued was of the kind that can be felt. The two cigars - at the corners of the old curb glowed intermittently in the darkness. - John’s had gone out during his speech, and as he re-lighted it, the glare - of the match showed an excited, indignant face. There was no room for - doubt, after the momentary exhibit which the red light made, that John was - very much in earnest. - </p> - <p> - Albert was thinking laboriously on his answer. Meantime, he said, to fill - the interval “Do you like the cigar?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; a fifteen center, isn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - Albert had it in his mind to say truthfully that he paid $180 per - thousand, but the fear of invidious comparisons rose before him in time, - and he said “About that, I think.” - </p> - <p> - He waited a moment, still meditating, and threw out another stop-gap: - “It’s curious how the rhetorical habit grows on a man who writes leading - articles. I noticed that you used three adjectives every time, the regular - cumulative thing, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe so; it would be more to the purpose to hear what you think about - the spirit of my oration; the form doesn’t matter so much.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I will tell you, John,” said Albert, slowly, still feeling his way, - “to speak frankly, no doubt there’s a good deal in what you say. I feel - that there is. But you ought to consider that it isn’t easy for a man - living in a great city, immersed in business cares, and engrossed in the - labors of his profession, to realise all these things, and see them as - you, who are here on the ground, see them. It’s hardly fair to attack me - as heartless, when you present these facts to me for the first time.” - </p> - <p> - “For the first time! You ought to have seen them for yourself without - presenting. And then you said Sabrina had often discussed the subject with - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but her point of view is always family dignity, the keeping up of the - Fairchilds’ homestead in baronial state, and that sort of thing. You - should have heard her this afternoon, telling me how her fathers name used - to be coupled with Dearborn County, just as Silas Wright’s was with - Dutchess—either Dutchess or Delaware, I forget which she said—but - it was very funny.” - </p> - <p> - “Sabrina and I haven’t spoken for I don’t know how long, and we’re not - likely to again in a hurry, but for all that I’m bound to say I wish some - others of the family had as much pride as she’s got,” said John. “Whatever - else she may be, she’s as loyal and as faithful to the family idea, as - jealous of the family’s name, as any old Spanish grandee. And I confess - the Silas Wright thing doesn’t seem funny to me at all—any fellow - with the right kind of a heart in him would feel that it was deucedly - pathetic—the poor old maid clinging through the shipwreck to that - one spar of support—the recollection of a time when her father was - bigger than his county. Such things oughtn’t to be laughed at.” - </p> - <p> - Albert lost his patience. “Confound it, man, do you want to force me into - a quarrel—this night of all others! By George, was there ever such a - brace of brothers! I come out here to get you by yourselves, to talk over - with you some plans that have occurred to me for setting things right here—and - I haven’t had a civil answer yet from either of you. First it’s the - youngster who scowls and snarls at me, and then you read me lofty lectures - on my behavior, and then both together in concerted condemnation. No - wonder I come rarely to the farm! It’s enough to sicken any man of family - ties, to be bullyragged in this way. I’ve a good mind to tell you you can - all go to the devil, and be hanged to you!” - </p> - <p> - The figure on the bucket rose to its feet with a spring, so energetically - that there seemed a menace in the action. The village editor restrained - this movement with a quiet hand, and a whispered “Keep cool, Seth.” Then - he said with exaggerated calmness of voice: - </p> - <p> - “Personally, perhaps I shouldn’t mind much if you did. But there are - others to look after, and so, before you do, it might be worth while to - learn what the fine alternative was to have been. It would be a great pity - to not even to hear these noble plans with which you were primed, you say, - when you came out.” - </p> - <p> - “But you must admit, John, that you and Seth tonight have been enough to - try the patience of a saint.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, we admit that. Go on!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you’ve made it a little difficult for me to develop my plans—they - were scarcely formed in my mind. In a general way, I wanted to consult you - about freeing the farm, perhaps buying back some of the original land that - has gone, putting the house in shape again, improving the stock, placing - Father and Sabrina beyond the chance of ever being embarrassed again—and—and—doing - something for Seth.” - </p> - <p> - “Nobody wants you—” began the impatient Seth. - </p> - <p> - “Youngster, <i>you</i> shut up!” said John, again using the quieting hand. - “Do you really mean all this, Albert?” - </p> - <p> - “I should scarcely have spoken in detail as I have, otherwise,” answered - the lawyer loftily. - </p> - <p> - “Well, this—” said John, “this takes a fellow’s breath away.” - </p> - <p> - “If you hadn’t been in such haste to impute bad motives and convict me - without judge or jury, perhaps the effect of my plans might not have been - so overpowering.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, we did you an injustice, Albert, clearly we did. We were full of the - idea that all these troubles rolled off you like water off a duck’s back. - It seems that was our mistake. But—what’s your scheme?” - </p> - <p> - “Definitely, I have none, except to do all I can, in the way we may decide - will be best all around. I have been thinking some of coming to live here - myself, say from May to November of each year, and taking the farm into my - own hands.” - </p> - <p> - “H’m—m! That might have its advantages, perhaps—<i>but</i>——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I know what you mean. If I do, everybody’s rights shall be respected. - We’ll fix that beyond question, to your satisfaction, before a thing is - done.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t care about myself, particularly; you know that: but then there’s - Seth, you know—we’ve always figured on the farm as his. It’s true he - don’t want to be a farmer, that he hates the whole thing, but still that - represents all his capital, so to speak, and—” - </p> - <p> - “My dear John, that shall all be arranged. I am a childless man—probably - always shall be. As long as Father lives the farm shall remain in his - name. Either his will can be in my favor, or I can manage the farm as a - trustee for all three of us, after he’s gone. In either case, you shall - both be protected in turn by my will—absolutely protected. Meantime, - what do you want me to do for Seth? What does he want to do?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing needs to be done for me,” began Seth, “I can—” - </p> - <p> - “Now, youngster, <i>will</i> you be quiet!” said John, in mock despair. - “I’ll tell you what you can do for Seth, and do easily. Get him a place on - some decent newspaper, in New York or one of the larger cities of the - State, and let him have money enough to eke out a small salary at first, - so that he can begin at editorial work instead of tramping up through the - reporter’s treadmill, as I had to. That’s all Seth’ll ask, and it will be - the making of him.” - </p> - <p> - “Begin at editorial work—Seth? Nonsense!” - </p> - <p> - “No nonsense about it. For two years back Seth has been doing some of the - best work on my paper—work that’s been copied all over the State.” - </p> - <p> - “Bless my soul, what a literary family we are!” said the lawyer. “Does - Aunt Sabrina write, too? Perhaps those love poems you have on the last - page are hers.” - </p> - <p> - John continued without noticing the interjection. “Do you remember that - long article on Civil Service Reform we had in the <i>Banner</i> last - January?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think I do, John. To be frank, although we enjoy having you send - us the <i>Banner</i> immensely, occasionally it happens that the stress of - professional duties compels me to miss reading a number.” - </p> - <p> - “Well that article was reprinted in all the big papers, from Boston to - Chicago. I never knew any other thing from a little village paper to - travel so far, or attract so much attention. I had lots of letters about - it, too. That article was Seth’s—all his own. I didn’t change a word - in it. And he’s hardly seen any thing of the world yet, either.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer was heard chuckling, when John’s voice died away in the - darkness. The cigars had long since burned out, and the men could with - difficulty see one another. The two younger brothers waited, the one - surprised, the other increasingly indignant, to learn the cause of - Albert’s hilarity. - </p> - <p> - “Do you realise, John,” he said at last, with merriment still in his - voice, “what a delightful commentary on Civil Service Reform your words - make. The best article on that doctrine is written by a youngster who has - never left the farm, who doesn’t know the difference between a Custom - House and a letter-box on a lamp-post! Ho, ho, I must tell that to - Chauncey when I see him.” - </p> - <p> - An hour later, John and Seth still leaned against the mossy curb, smoking - and talking over the words of their elder brother, who sometime before had - gone in to avoid the dew-fall. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if we <i>have</i> misjudged him, after all,” said Seth. “I’m - almost ashamed to accept his favors, after the way I pitched into him.” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder what his scheme really is,” mused the more experienced village - editor. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII.—ALBERT’S PLANS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t became generally - known, before Sunday came again, that Albert was to take the farm, and - that Seth was to go to the city—known not only along the rough, - lonesome road leading over the Burfield hills, which had once been a proud - turnpike, with hospitable taverns at every league, and the rumbling of - great coaches and the horn of the Postboy as echoes of its daily life of - bustle and profit, and now was a solitary thoroughfare to no place in - particular, with three or four gaunt old farmhouses, scowling in - isolation, to the mile—not only on this road, and at the four - corners below, but even at Thessaly people learned of the coming change as - if by magic, and discussed it as a prime sensation. It need not be added - that the story grew greatly in telling—grew too ponderous to remain - an entity, and divided itself into several varying and, ultimately, - fiercely conflicting sections. - </p> - <p> - The Misses Cheesborough had the best authority for saying that Albert had - acted in the most malignant and shameful manner, seizing the farm, and - turning poor Seth out of doors, and it was more than a suspicion in their - minds that the feeble old father would soon be railroaded off to an - asylum. - </p> - <p> - On the other hand, Miss Tabitha Wilcox, who by superior vigor and resource - held her own very well against the combined Misses Cheesbrough, knew, - absolutely <i>knew</i>, that Albert had behaved most handsomely, paying - off all the mortgages, making a will in favor of John and Seth, and - agreeing to send Seth to College, and what was more, Miss Tabitha would - not be surprised, though some others might be, if the public-spirited - Albert erected a new library building in Thessaly as a donation to the - village. - </p> - <p> - Between these two bold extremes there was room for many shades of - variation in the story, and many original bents of speculation. Down at - the cheese factory they even professed to have heard that a grand coal - deposit had been surreptitiously discovered on the Fairchild farm, and - that Albert was merely the agent of a syndicate of city speculators who - would presently begin buying all the land roundabout. Old Elhanan Pratt - did not credit this, but he did write to his son in Albany, a clerk in one - of the departments, to find out if a charter for a railroad near Thessaly - had been applied for. The worst of it was, neither John nor Seth would - talk, and as for Albert, he had gone back to New York, leaving his wife - behind. - </p> - <p> - On the farm the fortnight following the funeral passed without event. In - the lull of field labor which precedes haying time, there was not much for - Seth to do. He went down to the river several times on solitary fishing - trips; it seemed to him now that he was saying farewell not only to the - one pastime which never failed him in interest or delight, but to the - valley itself, and the river. How fond he was of the stream, and all its - belongings! - </p> - <p> - More like home than even the old farmhouse on the hill seemed some of - these haunts to which he now said good-bye—the shadowed pool under - the butternut tree, with its high steep bank of bare clay where, just - under the overhanging cornice of sod, the gypsy swallows had made holes - for their nests, and at the black base of which silly rock bass lay - waiting for worms and hooks; the place further up where the river grew - sharply narrow, and deep dark water sped swiftly under an ancient jam of - rotting logs, and where by creeping cautiously through the alders, and - gaining a foothold on the birch which was the key to the obstructing pile, - there were pike to be had for the throwing, and sometimes exciting - struggles with angry black bass, who made the pole bend like a whip, and - had an evil trick of cutting the line back under the logs; and then the - broader stretch of water below the ruined paper mill’s dam, where the - wading in the thigh-deep rifts was so pleasant, and where the white fish - would bite in the swift water almost as gamely as trout, if one had only - the knack of playing his line rightly in the eddies. - </p> - <p> - A score of these spots Seth had known and loved from the boyhood of twine - and pin hooks; they seemed almost sacredly familiar now, as he wandered up - and down the stream, dividing his attention between the lures and wiles of - the angler’s art and musings on the vast change of scene which was so - close before him. Ah, how fair were the day dreams he had idly, fondly - built for himself here in these old haunts, with kingfishers and water - rats for sympathizers, and the ceaseless murmur of the water, the buzz of - the locusts in the sun, the croak of the frogs among the reeds, for a soft - inspiring chorus of accompaniment to his thoughts! - </p> - <p> - Now these dreams were really to come true; he was actually going to the - city, to wear decent clothes, to mingle as much as he chose with men of - wisdom and refinement, to attain that one aim and vision of his life, a - place on a great paper! - </p> - <p> - It was only here by the river, rod in hand, that he seemed able to fully - realize the beatitude of the vista. So as often as he could he came, and - if there was a ground note of sorrow at leaving these nooks, this dear old - river, there was also a triumphant song of exaltation in the air, the - water, the sunshine, which he could not hear on the farm. - </p> - <p> - Partly because these excursions generally led him from the house before - she made her appearance mornings, partly because he felt vaguely that his - own victory over fate involved disappointment for her, Seth did not see - much of Isabel during her husband’s absence. So far as he knew, she had - taken the news of Albert’s determination to move into the country quietly - enough. Neither by word or sign had she discovered to Seth any distaste - for the prospect. But none the less he had a half-guilty conviction that - she did not like it, and that she must blame him, or at least have some - feeling against him, for it. She had spoken so earnestly to him about the - curse of existence in the country; it was not conceivable to him that she - should suddenly accept for herself without protests or repining, the very - life she had thus commiserated with him about. - </p> - <p> - Yet it seemed after all that he was mistaken. It was the evening after - Albert’s return, and Annie had come over after supper, ostensibly to - borrow a wrapper-pattern from Isabel, but really, it need not be doubted, - to hear the news. - </p> - <p> - What news there was to be given out the eldest brother dispensed to the - family circle, after Alvira had cleared away the “tea-things.” - </p> - <p> - That domestic had a clear idea of making one in the circle, and, hastening - in from the kitchen without her apron, drew up a chair to sit with the - others, and enjoy the revelations which, from Albert’s manner during - supper, all felt to be impending. But the invasion of city manners, which - she and Milton had deplored and ridiculed for a fortnight back, had an - unsuspected bitterness in its train for her. The lawyer looked at her - coolly, as he struck a match on the under side of the mantel-piece, and - asked: “Hadn’t you better go out, Alvira, and see that the chickens don’t - get into the kitchen?”—and she flounced out again, with nose in air, - and black eyes flashing. - </p> - <p> - Albert lighted his cigar, put an arm chair down near the old rocker in - which his father sat and took his seat. Near the open door, overlooking - the farmyard and the barns, and full in the light from the west, sat Miss - Sabrina, knitting, and Isabel, with a paper. At the latter’s feet, on a - hassock, was Annie, and Seth sat on the doorstep. - </p> - <p> - “Father,” said Albert, “things have been arranged in New York so that I - can speak, now, about the plans which I hinted of ten days ago.” - </p> - <p> - The old man nodded his head, and said plaintively, “Whatever yew think - best, Albert, s’long as the boys git a fair shaow.” - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t worry about that. My business is settled now, I think, so - that I can live here six or eight months in the year, say from March till - October, running down occasionally, perhaps, but making this my residence. - I will take up all the mortgages—perhaps buy back some of the old - farm, may be all of it. There are three or four ways in which this can be - equitably arranged—we’ll talk of those in detail later on, some day - when John can come up. I will have the carpenters here in a few days, to - look over the house, and figure on putting it in first-class repair. The - barns will have to be new throughout. There must be new machinery, new - fences, and a pretty thorough weeding out of the cattle. We shall want a - carriage house—but then its no use of enumerating, there is so much - to be done. We will put some money into horseflesh down on Long Island, - and see if something can’t be done in the way of a stock-farm. I’m - thinking of a trout pond, up beyond the orchard, in the ravine there, - too.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Albert, this is what I’ve be’n prayin’ for this thirty year!” It was - Sabrina who spoke. There were tears of joy in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - Lemuel Fairchild seemed rather dazed, not to say dismayed, at the prospect - thus bewilderingly unfolded. “It’ll cost a heap o’ money, Albert,” he said - at last, rather dubiously, “an’ I dunnao’ ’baout yer gittin’ it - back agin.” - </p> - <p> - “That will be <i>my</i> look out,” said the lawyer, confidently. “At any - rate, Isabel and I will make a good home for you and Aunt Sabrina, as long - as you both live. It will be a pleasant change for us both. As for Seth—” - </p> - <p> - There was a pause, and Annie nestled closer to Isabel, with a soft “Oh - yes, about Seth.” - </p> - <p> - “As for Seth, it’s time he saw something of life besides grubbing here - like a farm-hand. We will try and get along without him here. I’ve talked - the matter over with a friend of mine, the proprietor of the Tecumseh <i>Chronicle</i> - and he is willing to give him a start there, under the most favorable - conditions. The salary will be small at first, of course, but I will - supplement it with enough to give him a decent living, if he is frugal. - After that of course it all depends on himself.” - </p> - <p> - Seth stood up, as these last words were spoken, and replied, stammeringly. - “You needn’t be afraid of my not trying hard, Albert. I’m sure I’m very - grateful to you. It’s more than I dared expect you would do for me.” He - pushed his way past the women to shake hands with his brother, and say - again “It’s so good of you.” - </p> - <p> - Albert received these expressions of gratitude benevolently, adding some - words of advice, and concluding with “You had better get ready to start as - early next week as you can. One of the <i>Chronicle</i> men is going on a - vacation, and its Workman’s idea that you would be handy in his absence. - You could go, say, Wednesday, couldn’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “So far as getting ready is concerned, I don’t know that there is anything - to do which couldn’t be done in a day. But—but—” - </p> - <p> - “Of course you will need some things. I’ll talk with you about that in the - morning. We’ll drive down to Thessaly day after to-morrow together.” - Albert rose with this to go out and see Milton, and the family interview - was at an end. - </p> - <p> - Miss Sabrina hurried out to the kitchen, impatient to begin discussing - with Alvira, as had been her wont for years, this new development in the - affairs of the household. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX.—AT “M’TILDY’s” BEDSIDE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>emuel Fairchild - sat still, smoking his wooden pipe, and looking absently, straight ahead, - into the papered wall. This habit of gazing at nothing was familiar to - them all, and when, at Isabel’s suggestion, the three young people started - for a stroll through the orchard path, they left him entirely without - ceremony. This was growing to be the rule; no one in the family now - consulted him, or took the trouble to be polite to him. He seemed to have - become in his own house merely an article of animated furniture, of not - much more importance than the rough-furred sickly old cat who dozed his - life away back of the stove. - </p> - <p> - He sat thus in solitude for some time, blankly studying the grotesque - patterns in the old-fashioned wall-paper, and drawing mechanically at the - pipe in his mouth, unconscious that no smoke came. Thus Miss Sabrina found - him when, after a more than ordinarily sharp passage at arms with Alvira, - she returned from the Kitchen. - </p> - <p> - “I swaow! thet girl gits wuss tempered ’n’ more presumin’ ev’ry day - o’ her life,” she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “Who—Annie?” asked her brother, rousing himself as if from a nap. - </p> - <p> - “Annie! nao! who’s talkin’ abaout <i>her?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Oh nothin’, unly I was thinkin’ ’baout Annie—‘baout her ’n’ - Seth, yeh knaow,” answered Lemuel, apologetically. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what abaout ’em?” The query was distinctly aggressive in - tone. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothin’ much. I was sort o’ thinkin’—well, <i>you</i> knaow - S’briny, haow Sissly used to lot on their makin’ a match of it—’n’ - I was kine o’ wond’rin’ ef this here notion o’ Seth’s goin’ away wouldn’t - knock it all in th’ head.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” Miss Sabrina’s monosyllabic comment had so little of sympathy or - acquiescence in it, that Lemuel continued in an injured tone and with more - animation, not to say resolution: - </p> - <p> - “Well, I’ve hed kine of an idea o’ goin’ over ’n’ talkin’ it over - with M’tildy. Mebbe that’ll be the best thing to dew.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh <i>you</i> think so, dew yeh? Thet’s all th’ pride <i>you’ve</i> got - lef’, is it? I think I see <i>my</i>self goin’ hangin’ raound Matildy - Warren, beggin’ her to let her granddaughter marry a Fairchild! I’m - ashamed of yeh, Lemuel.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’ see, much, what ther’ is to be ashamed on.” He added, with the - faintest shadow of a grin on his face. “’N’ b’twixt you ’n’ - me, I don’t see ’s there’s so blamed much fur me to be praoud - abaout, nuther. ‘Tain’t’s if I was goin’ to ask a favor o’ M’tildy, at - all. She ’n’ Sissly used to talk ‘baout the thing’s if ’twas - settled. ’N’ now’t she’s gone, ’n’ Seth’s talkin’ o’ - quittin’ th’ farm, seems to me it’d be the sensible thing to kind o’ fine - aout ef M’tildy wouldn’t offer th’ young folks her farm, ef they’d stay.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Very</i> well, sir. Hev’ yer own way,” answered Miss Sabrina, with - stern formality. “You allus <i>would</i> hev yer own way—and yeh kin - go muddle things up to yer heart’s content, for all o’ me!” - </p> - <p> - Lemuel watched his sister march to the stairs door and close it decisively - behind her. He was accustomed of old to this proof of her wrath; as far - back as he could remember it had been Sabrina’s habit to figuratively wash - her hands of unpleasant complications on the ground-floor by slamming this - self-same door, and going up to sulk in her own room. She did it as a - young girl, in the first months of her disagreements with his young wife; - it seemed to him a most natural proceeding now, when they were both old, - gray-headed people. - </p> - <p> - Just now, it was a relief to him that she had gone, for if she had stayed - he might not have had the courage to put his thoughts into actions. As it - was he took his hat from its nail back of the kitchen door, and started - across-lots for the Warren homestead. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - There was no danger of not finding Mrs. Warren at home. For seven or eight - years she had scarcely stirred beyond her own door, and for the past - eighteen months she had been bed-ridden. The front door was opened to Mr. - Fairchild by a young slip of a girl, one of the brood of daughters with - which a neighboring poor family was weighted down, and all of whom had - been driven to seek work at any price among the farmers of the vicinity. - It seemed as if there was a Lawton girl in every other farmhouse the whole - length of the Burfield road. - </p> - <p> - The girl ushered him into the gloomy hall, gloomier than ever now in the - gathering twilight, and unceremoniously left him there, while she went to - announce his presence. He heard through a door ajar at the end of the hall - a thin, querulous voice ask, “Which one of the Fairchilds is it?” and the - girl’s reply “The old man.” - </p> - <p> - Then the servant returned to him and with a curt “Come ahead,” led him to - the mistress of the house, who lay in her bed-home, in a recess off the - living room. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Matilda Warren had never been what might be called a popular woman in - the neighborhood. She and her husband, the latter dead now for many years, - had come from Massachusetts. They were educated people in a sense, and had - not mingled easily with their rougher neighbors. The widow Warren had, - after her daughter’s escapade, carried this exclusiveness to a point which - the neighborhood found disagreeable. Gradually she had grown into the - recluse habit, and younger generations on the hillside, eking out the - gossip of their elders with fancies of their own, born of stray glimpses - of her tall, gaunt figure and pale face, came to regard her with much that - same awe which, two centuries before, reputed witches had for children, - young and old. - </p> - <p> - Something of this feeling Lemuel himself was conscious of, as he stood - before her. The coverlet came up close under her arms. She wore a - wrapper-dress of red flannel. As he entered she raised herself, with an - evidently cruel effort, upon her elbow, dragging the pillow down to aid in - supporting her shoulder. She panted with this exertion as she confronted - him. Her scanty white hair was combed tightly back from her forehead, and - bound in place with a black-velvet band; a natural parting on the side of - the hair gave the withered face a suggestion of juvenile jauntiness, in - grotesque, jarring contrast with the pale blue eyes which glittered from - caverns of dark wrinkles, and the sunken, distorted mouth. She had changed - so vastly since their last meeting that Lemuel stood bewildered and - silent, staring at her. - </p> - <p> - She spoke first. “I’m trying to think—it must be twenty year since - we’ve met, Lemuel Fairchild.” - </p> - <p> - “Nigh onto that, M’tildy,” he replied, turning his hat in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t expect ever to lay eyes on you again, I couldn’t come to you, - and wouldn’t if I could, and I didn’t dream you would ever show your face - here.” The aged woman said this in a high, sharp voice, speaking rapidly - and with an ungracious tone. - </p> - <p> - Lemuel fidgetted with his hat and moved his feet uneasily on the dog-skin - rug. “Yeh needn’t be afeered, M’tildy, I wouldn’t hev come naow ef it - hadn’t been somethin’ partikler ’baout Annie.” - </p> - <p> - The invalid raised her shoulder from the pillow with a sudden movement, - and bent her head forward. “What’s happened to her? Is she hurt? Tell me, - quick!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh nao, they ain’t nothin’ th’ matter with her. It’s unly ’baout - her ’n’ Seth. I kine o’ thought we ought to talk it over ’n’ - see haow the land lay. That’s all.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh that’s it, is it? <i>Samantha!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Betrayed out of her shrewdness by the suddenness of the summons the - servant girl made her immediate appearance through the hall door. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I knew you were listening, you huzzy,” said Mrs. Warren grimly. “You - get along up stairs, go into Annie’s room, an’ make a noise of some sort - on the melodeon till I call you. Not too much noise, mind; jest enough so - I can know you’re up there.” As the girl left the room, the invalid - explained: “What she don’t hear, the rest of the Lawtons won’t know. That - family’s as good as a detective force for the whole county.” Then, in a - less amiable tone: “You might as well set down. What is it about my girl - an’ Seth?” - </p> - <p> - As Lemuel awkwardly seated himself near the bedside and prepared to - answer, a wailing, discordant series of sounds came from the floor above. - The knowledge that the girl was creating this melancholy noise to order, - and on his account, confused his thought and he found himself stating the - case much more baldly than he had intended. “The fact is,” he said, - stroking his hat over his knee, “Seth’s thinkin’ o’ goin’ away to Tecumsy—Albert’s - got him a place there—’n’ so I s’pose it’ll be all up b’twixt - him ’n’ Annie.” - </p> - <p> - The grandmother never took those light, searching eyes off her visitor’s - face. He felt himself turning uncomfortably red under their malevolent - gaze, I and wished she would speak. But she said nothing. At last he - explained, deferentially: - </p> - <p> - “I thought it’d only be right to tell yeh. I know Sissly ’n’ you - use to talk abaout th’ thing. Th’ way she use to talk, speshly jis’ ’fore - she died, it ’peared ‘s if you tew hed it all settled. But Albert’s - goin’ to take th’ farm, it seems, ’n’ Seth, he’s fig’rin’ on goin’ - away to be a neditor, ’n’ it looks to me’s if th’ hull plan’d fell - threw.” - </p> - <p> - Still no reply from the bed. He added, helplessly “Don’t it kind o’ seem - so to you, M’tildy?” - </p> - <p> - The wretched discords from the chamber above mocked him. The witch-like - eyes from the shadows of the recess began to burn him. It was growing into - the dusk, but the eyes had a light of their own, a cold, steely, fierce - light. Would she never speak? How he regretted having come! - </p> - <p> - “I’ll tell you what seems to me, Lemuel Fairchild,” she said at last, not - speaking so rapidly now, and putting a sharp, finishing edge on each of - her words. “It seems to me that there’s never been but one decent, - honorable, likely human bein’ in your whole family an’ she came into it by - the mistake of marrying you. I blame myself for not remembering the blood - that was in you all, an’ for thinking that this youngest son of yours was - different from the rest. I forgot that he was a Fairchild like the others, - an’ I forgot what I owed that family of men, so mean and cowardly and - selfish that they have to watch each other like so many hyenas. An’ so - you’ve come to tell me that Seth has turned out like his father, like his - uncle, like all of his name, eh? The more fool I, to need to be told it!” - </p> - <p> - Lemuel’s impulse was to rise from his chair, and bear himself with - offended dignity, but the glitter in the old woman’s eyes warned him that - the attempt would be a failure. He scowled, put his hat on the other knee, - crossed his legs, pretended to be interested in the antics of a kitten - which was working havoc with a ball of yarn at his feet. Finally he said: - </p> - <p> - “You ain’t fair to Seth. He’s a good boy. He ain’t said nothin’ nor done - nothin’ fer yeh to git mad at. Fer that matter, you never was fair to any - of us, ’cept Sissly.” - </p> - <p> - “Fair! <i>Fair!</i>” came the answer promptly, and in a swifter measure. - “Hear the man! Why, Lemuel Fairchild, you know that you cheated your own - brother out of the share in that farm that was his by all rights as much - as yours. You <i>know</i> that your father intended you both to share - alike, that he died too suddenly to make a new will and that you grabbed - everything under a will made when your brother William was thought to be - too sickly to ever raise. You <i>know</i> that you let him grow up an - idle, worthless coot of a fellow, an’ then encouraged him—yes, don’t - deny it, encouraged him I say—to make a fool of my daughter, and run - away with her. - </p> - <p> - “You knew I wouldn’t look at him as a suitor for Jenny; but you thought I - would be soft enough, once they were married, to give him my farm, an’ you - counted on getting it away from him afterwards, just as your father got - the Kennard farm before you. You egged him on into the trouble, an’ you - let him die in it, without help. Oh <i>I</i> know you, Lemuel Fairchild—I - know your breed! - </p> - <p> - “Your <i>wife</i> was a good woman—a million times better than you - deserved. <i>She</i> knew the wrongs that had been done me, an’ Annie, an’ - her poor ne’er-do-well of a father before her; <i>she</i> was anxious to - make them good, not I. It was she who talked, year after year, when she - ran over here on the sly to visit me, of squaring everything by the young - folk’s marriage. For a long time I didn’t like it. I distrusted the - family, as, God knows, I had reason to. But all that I heard of Seth was - in his favor. He was hardworking, patient, even-tempered, so everyone - said. What little I saw of him I liked. An’ I felt sorry for him, too, - knowing how dear he was to his mother, and yet how helpless she was to - give him advantages, an’ make something besides a farm-drudge out of him. - So little by little, I gave in to the idea, an’ finally it became mine - almost as much as Cecily’s. - </p> - <p> - “As for Annie, I don’t know how much she has grown to care for him; I’m - afraid she’s known about our talks, and lotted on ’em, though if - anything has passed between them she would have told me. For she’s a good - girl—a <i>good</i> girl—and she’ll stand by me, never fear, - and say as I say now, that it’s good riddance! D’ye mind? Good riddance to - bad rubbish—to your whole miserable, conniving, underhanded family! - There ain’t an honest hair in your head, Lemuel Fairchild, and there never - was. And you can go back to them that sent you, to your old catamaran of a - sister and your young sneak of a son, and tell ’em what I think of - them, and you, and the whole caboodle of you, that ruined and killed my - Jane, and made me a broken old woman before my time, and now tries to - break my grand-daughter’s heart! And the longest day you Jive, don’t ever - let me lay eyes on you again. That’s all!” - </p> - <p> - Lemuel groped his way out again through the dark hall, to the front door. - The groaning discords from upstairs rose to a triumphant babel of sound as - he knocked against the hat-rack, and fumbled for the latch, as if to - emphasize and gloat over his discomfiture. The cold evening air, after the - sweltering heat of the sick-room, was a physical relief, but it brought no - moral comfort. - </p> - <p> - Old Lemuel was much pained, and even more confused, by the hard words to - which he had had to listen. They presented a portrait of himself which he - felt to be in no way a likeness, yet he could not say wherein a single - line should be altered. He knew that he was not a bad man; he felt - conscious of having done no special wrong, intentionally, to anybody; he - had always tried to be fair and square and easy-going with everybody: yet - the mischief of it was that all these evil things which the witchlike - M’tildy had piled at his door were of indubitable substance, and he could - not prove, even to himself, much less to her, that they did not belong - there. It was a part of the consistently vile luck of his life that all - these malignant happenings should be charged up against him, and used to - demonstrate his wickedness. He had not enough mental skill or alertness to - sift the unfair from the true in the indictment she had drawn, or to put - himself logically in her place, and thus trace her mistakes. He only - realized that all these events which she enumerated had served to convince - Mrs. Warren that he was a villain. The idea was a new one to him, and it - both surprised and troubled him to find that, as he thought the matter - over he could not see where she was particularly wrong. Yet a villain he - had certainly never intended to be—never for a moment. Was this not - cruelly hard luck? - </p> - <p> - And then there was this business about Seth. He had meant it all in the - friendliest spirit, all with the best of motives. And how she had snapped - him up before he had a chance to explain, and called him a scoundrel and - his boy a sneak, and driven him from the house! Here was a muddle for one—and - Sabrina had said he would make a muddle of it, as he had of everything - else, all through his life. The lonely, puzzled, discouraged old man felt - wofully like shedding tears, as he approached his own gate—or no, it - was Albert’s gate now—and passed the young people chatting there, - and realized what a feeble old fool they all must think him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X.—THE FISHING PARTY. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he young people - were arranging, as Lemuel slunk past them in the dark, a fishing party for - the following day. The proposal had been Isabel’s—she had a fertile - mind for pleasure planning—and Annie and Seth were delighted with - it. They would take a basket of food, and make the tea over a fire in the - woods, and the two women could take turns in playing at fishing with a - little rod which Seth had made for himself as a boy. It would be an ideal - way of bidding good-bye to Seth, said his pretty sister-in-law, and Annie, - feeling more deeply both the significance of saying good-bye and the charm - of having a whole day to herself along the river and in his company, had - assented eagerly. - </p> - <p> - As for Seth, this sudden accession of feminine interest in, and concern - for, him was extremely pleasant and grateful. The very suggestion of the - trip, in his honor, was like a sweet taken in advance from the honeyed - future which he was so soon to realize. Long that night, after he had - walked over to the Warren gate with Annie, and returned to the unlathed - attic where Milton lay already snoring, he thought fondly of the morrow’s - treat. - </p> - <p> - The morning came, warm but overcast, with a soft tendency of air from the - west. “It couldn’t have been better if it had been made to order,” Seth - said enthusiastically, when Isabel made her appearance before breakfast. - “It will be good fishing and good walking, not too hot and not wet.” - </p> - <p> - Albert smiled a trifle satirically when the project was unfolded to him—with - that <i>conceited tolerance which people who don’t fish always extend to - those who do</i>. “You’ll probably get wet and have the toothache” he said - to his wife, but offered no objection. - </p> - <p> - The lunch was packed, the poles were ready, the bait-can stood outside the - shed door, breakfast was a thing of the past, and Isabel sat with her - sunhat and parasol—but Annie did not come. Seth fidgeted and fumed - as a half-hour went by, then the hour itself. It was so unlike Annie to be - late. He made an errand to the hay-barn, to render the waiting less - tedious, and it was there that Milton found him, rummaging among some old - harness for a strap. - </p> - <p> - “Annie’s come over,” said Milton, “I heerd her say somethin’ ’baout - not goin’ fishin’, after all. Looks ’sif she’d be’n cryin’ tew. I - tole ’em I’d fetch yeh.” - </p> - <p> - Seth came out into the light, slapping the dust off his hands. “What’s - that you say? Why isn’t she going?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunnao nothin’ more ’n I’ve told yeh. Ask her yerself. I ’spose - she’s be’n cryin’ at the thought of yer goin’. That’ll be the eend o’ - ev’rythin’ atwixt you two, won’t it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, do mind your own business, Milton!” Seth said, and hurried across the - barnyard to where the two young women stood, on the doorstep. “Why aren’t - you going, Annie? What’s the matter?” he called out as he approached. - </p> - <p> - Poor Annie looked the picture of despair. Her face bore the marks of - recent tears and she hung her head in silence. Isabel answered for her. - </p> - <p> - “Going? Of course she is going. It would be ridiculous not to go, now that - everything’s arranged. Get the things together, Seth, and let us make a - start.” - </p> - <p> - “But Milton said she wasn’t going,” persisted Seth. - </p> - <p> - “Dear, dear, how downright you are! Don’t I tell you that she <i>is</i> - going, that there is nothing the matter, that we are waiting for you?” And - there was nothing more to be said. - </p> - <p> - The sun came out before the trio had gone far, but not before they had - begun to forget the cloud at the start. The grass in the pastures was not - quite dry yet, but wet feet were a part of the fun of the thing, Isabel - said gaily. The meadow larks careened in the air about them, and the - bobolinks, swinging on the thistle tops, burst into chorus from every side - as the sunlight spread over the hill-side. There were robins, too, in the - juniper trees beyond the white-flowering buckwheat patch, Seth pointed - out, too greedy to wait till the green berries ripened. A flock of crows - rose from the buckwheat as they passed and who could help smiling at - Isabel’s citified imitation of their strident hawing? They came upon some - strawberries, half-hidden in the tall grass beside the rail-topped wall, - and Isabel would gather them in her handkerchief, to serve as dessert in - their coming <i>al fresco</i> dinner, and Annie helped her, smiling in - spite of herself at the city lady’s extravagant raptures. - </p> - <p> - When they stopped to rest, in the fresh-scented shadow of the woods, and - sat on a log along the path, two wee chipmunks came out from the brake - opposite and began a chirping altercation, so comical in its suggestions - of human wrangling that they all laughed outright. The sound scared away - the tiny rodents in a twinkling, and it banished as swiftly the restraint - under which the excursion had begun. - </p> - <p> - From that moment it was all gayety, jesting, enjoyment. Isabel was the - life of the party; she said the drollest things;—passed the - quaintest comments,—revealed such an inexhaustable store of spirits - that she lifted her companions fairly out of their serious selves. Seth - found himself talking easily, freely, and even Annie now and again made - little jokes, at which they all laughed merrily. - </p> - <p> - The fisherman’s judgment as to the day was honored in full measure. The - fish had never bitten more sharply, the eddies had never carried the line - better. It seemed so easy, to let the line wander back and forth between - the two currents, to tell when the bait was grabbed underneath, and to - haul out the plunging, flapping beauty, that Isabel was all eagerness to - try it, and Seth rigged the little pole for her, baited the hook - self-sacrificingly with his biggest worm, which he had thought of in - connection with a certain sapient father of all pike further up the river, - and showed her where and how to cast the line. - </p> - <p> - Alas, it was not so simple, after all, this catching of fish. - </p> - <p> - First she lost a hook on a root; then it seemed to her that ages passed in - which nothing whatever happened and this was followed by the discovery - that her hook had entirely been stripped of bait without her suspecting - it. At last there came a bite, a deep, determined tug, which she answered - with a hysterical pull, hurling through the air and into the thistles far - back of her a wretched little bull-head which they were unable to find for - a long time, and which miserably stung her thumb with its fin when she - finally did find it. - </p> - <p> - After this exploit Annie must try, and she promptly twitched her line into - the tree overhead. And so the day went forward, with light-hearted - laughter and merriment, with the perfect happiness which the sunshine and - color and perfume of June can bring alone to the young. - </p> - <p> - They grew a trifle more serious at dinner time. It was in the narrow - defile where the great jam of logs was, and where the river went down, - black and deep, under the rotting wood with a vicious gurgle. Just above - the jam there was a mound, velvety now with new grass, and comfortably - shaded—a notable spot for dinner and a long rest, and then the girls - could watch to much advantage Seth’s fishing from the logs, of which great - things were prophesied. Here then the cloth was spread on the grass, the - water put on over a fire lighted back of the mound, and the contents of - the basket laid in prandial array. It was in truth a meagre dinner, but - were appetites ever keener or less critical? - </p> - <p> - Once during the forenoon, when allusion was made to Seth’s coming - departure, Isabel had commanded that nothing be said on that subject all - day long. “Let us not think of it at all,” she had said, “but just enjoy - the hours as if they would never end. That is the only secret of - happiness.” But now she herself traversed the forbidden line. - </p> - <p> - “How strange it will all seem to you, Seth,” she mused, as she poured out - the tea. “As the time draws near, don’t you almost dread it?” - </p> - <p> - “What I’ve been thinking most about to-day is your coming to the farm to - live. It can’t be that you are altogether pleased—after what I’ve - heard you say.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes, why not?” said Isabel. “My case is very different from yours. I - shall be just as idle as I like. I shall have horses, you know and a big - conservatory, and a piano, and all that. We shall have lots of people here - all summer long—just think what fishing parties we can make up!—and - whenever it gets stupid we can run down to New York. Oh, I’ve got quite - beyond the reconciled stage now. I am almost enthusiastic over it. When - you come back in a year’s time, you won’t know the place. It will have - been transformed into a centre of fashion and social display. I may get to - have a veritable salon, you know, the envy and despair of all Dearborn - County. Fancy Elhanan Pratt and Sile Thomas in evening dress, with patent - leather pumps and black stockings, scowling at Leander Crump, with a - crushed hat under his arm, whom they suspect of watering his milk! Oh, we - shall be gay, I assure you.” - </p> - <p> - Seth looked at her attentively, puzzled to know how much of this was - badinage, how much sincerity. She smiled archly at him—what a - remarkably winning smile she had!—and continued: - </p> - <p> - “Then Annie will be company for me, too. I mean to bring her out, you - know, and make her a leader of society. In a year’s time when you come - back and I introduce you to her, you won’t be able to credit your senses, - her air will be so <i>distingué</i>, and her tastes so fastidious.” - </p> - <p> - She ceased her gay chatter abruptly, for Annie had turned away and they - could see that her eyes were filling with tears. - </p> - <p> - Seth bethought him of those earlier tears, the signs of which had been so - obvious when they started, and it was natural enough to connect the two. - </p> - <p> - “Something <i>has</i> happened, Annie,” he said. “Can’t you tell us what - it is?” - </p> - <p> - And then he bit his tongue at having made the speech, for Annie turned a - beseeching look at him, then at Isabel, and burst into sobs. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t it reason enough that you are going away?” said Isabel. “What more - could you ask?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it isn’t that alone,” protested Annie through her tears. Her pride - would not brook the assumption. “There is something else; I can hardly - tell you—but—but—my grandmother has suddenly taken a - great dislike to Seth; if she knew where I was she would be very angry: I - never deceived her, even indirectly, before, but I couldn’t bear not to - come after I got to the house, and if I’ve done wrong—” - </p> - <p> - “Now, now dear” cooed Isabel, leaning over to take Annie’s hands, “what - nonsense to talk of wrong; come now, dry your eyes, and smile at us, like - a good girl. You are nervous and tired out with the task of tending your - grandmother—that’s all—and this day in the woods will do you a - world of good. Don’t let us have even the least little bit of unhappiness - in it.” - </p> - <p> - Seth watched his sister-in-law caress and coax away Annie’s passing fit of - gloom, with deep enjoyment. The tenderness and beauty of the process were - a revelation to him; it was an attribute of womanhood the existence of - which he had scarcely suspected heretofore, in his untutored, bucolic - state. Annie seemed to forget her grief quickly enough, and became - cheerful again; in quaint docility she smiled through her tears at - Isabel’s command, and the latter was well within the truth when she cried: - “There! You have never looked prettier in your life!” - </p> - <p> - Seth nodded acquiescence, and returned the smile. But somehow this grief - of Annie’s had bored him, and he felt rather than thought that his - country-cousin, even in this radiant moment, was of slight interest - compared with the city sister-in-law, who not only knew enough not to cry - herself, but could so sweetly charm away tears from others. - </p> - <p> - Seth tested all the joints of his pole, and changed the hook and baited it - with studious care, before he climbed out on the jam. Gingerly feeling his - way from log to log, he got at last upon the wet mossy birch which - projected like a ledge at the bottom of the pile. The women watched his - progress from the mound, and gave a little concerted shout of triumph - when, at the very first cast of his line into the froth of the dark eddy, - it was caught and dragged swiftly across the stream, and a handsome pike a - moment later paid the penalty. - </p> - <p> - “That’s by far the biggest yet, isn’t it?” Annie asked. - </p> - <p> - “Wait, there are bigger yet. Watch this!” - </p> - <p> - The line, thrown in again, had been sharply jerked and was now being drawn - upstream under the logs. Seth moved down to the end of the birch, stooping - under the jutting heap of logs above, to be able to play the pole - sidewise, and save the fish. It was a difficult position to stand in; he - held the rod far forward with one hand, and grasped a bough above for - support as he leaned out over the stream. - </p> - <p> - The thing snapped—exactly how it was no one knew—a log - released from its bondage shifted position, a dozen others rolled over it - rumbling, and the women held their breath affrighted as they saw, without - moving, the whole top of the jam tremble, lift a jagged end or two, and - then collapse with a hollow noise. As they found voice to scream, the - water was covered with floating debris, and the air filled with a musty - fungus-like smell. - </p> - <p> - There was no sign of Seth. - </p> - <p> - The roar of the falling timber had scarcely died away before Annie had - left the mound, had torn her way through the alders at the bottom, and - stood panting on the wet slimy rocks at the edge of the stream. She hardly - heard the frightened warning which Isabel, pale and half-fainting, called - out to her: - </p> - <p> - “Keep away from the water, Annie! You’ll surely be drowned!” - </p> - <p> - She was painfully intent upon another thing, upon the search for some - indication of her cousin. The logs were moving but slowly in the current, - and were heaped so irregularly that no clear survey of the whole surface - could be had. There seemed an eternity of suffering in every second which - she spent thus, scanning the scene. Could the crush of logs have killed - him? Even if he had escaped that, would he not be drowned by this time? - The grinding of the logs against each other, the swash of the water at her - feet, Isabel’s faint moaning on the mound above, seemed to her dazed - terror a sort of death dirge. - </p> - <p> - Oh, joy! She caught sight of something in cloth between two great - tree-trunks, drenched, covered with the red grime of rotten wood, - motionless; but it was Seth. His face she could not see, nor whether it - was under water or not. She walked boldly into the stream—kneedeep - at the outset, and the slippery rocks shelving off swiftly into unknown - brown-black depths—but there was no hesitation. A halfdozen steps, - and she disappeared suddenly beneath the water. Isabel wrung her hands in - despair, too deep now to find a voice; but Annie had only slipped on the - treacherous slates, and found her footing again. The water came to her - shoulders now, and was growing deeper steadily. - </p> - <p> - With a strength born of desperation she clambered up on the birch, which - floated nearest her, and pulled herself along its length, swaying as it - rolled in the current under her weight, but managing to keep on top. It - was nothing short of miraculous to Isabel’s eyes, the manner in which she - balanced herself, clambered from log to log, overcame all the obstacles - which lay between her and the inanimate form at the other side. The - distance was not great, and a swimmer would have made nothing of the feat, - but for a girl encumbered with heavy wet skirts, and in deep water for the - first time, it was a real achievement. - </p> - <p> - At last she reached Seth—her progress had covered three minutes, and - seemed to her hours long—and, throwing herself across both logs, - with a final effort lifted his head upon her shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “He is alive!” she said to Isabel, feebly now, but with a great sigh of - relief. - </p> - <p> - The city woman ran down at this, all exultation. At Annie’s suggestion, - she tied their two shawls together, fastened one end to a pole, and - managed to fling the other over to the rescuer; it was easy work after - that to draw the logs to the bank, and then Annie, standing knee-deep - again in the water, made shift to get the heavy dead weight safe on land. - The two women tugged their burden through the alders, and up to the place - where the dinner dishes still lay, with scarcely a word. Then exhausted, - excited, overjoyed, Isabel threw herself in Annie’s arms and they both - found relief in tears. - </p> - <p> - Seth had been struck on the head and stunned by the first falling log; how - much he had been in the water or how near he had been to drowning could - not be discovered. - </p> - <p> - He presently opened his eyes, and a smile came almost instantaneously to - his face as he realised that his head was resting in Isabel’s lap, that he - was muffled up in her shawl, and that she was looking down upon him - anxiously, tenderly. A second sufficed to bring the whole thing to his - mind, or at least the facts that he had gone under with the logs and by - some agency had been landed here safe and comfortable, if not dry—and - to bring also the instinctive idea that it would be the intelligent part - to lie still, and be petted and sympathised with. - </p> - <p> - Isabel scarcely returned his smile. She had not recovered from her fright. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Seth,” she asked earnestly, “Are you hurt? Do you feel any pain?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a bit” he replied—“only dizzy like. By George! How they did - come down though. I must have had a pretty narrow squeak of it. Funny—I - don’t remember coming out at all.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled now. “I should think not. You lay perfectly senseless way out - there among the logs. We fished you out, and dragged you up here. I feel - like a heroine in a Crusader’s romance, really!” - </p> - <p> - It entered Seth’s mind to say something nice in reply, that she looked - like one, or that they were not equal in those benighted ages to producing - such women, or something of that sort; but his tongue did not seem to - frame the words easily and as he looked up at her he grew shy once again, - and felt himself flushing under her smile, and only said vacuously, - “Mightly lucky I wasn’t alone, isn’t it?” Annie appeared on the scene now, - her clothes steaming from the heat of the fire, over which she had - endeavoured to dry them, and her teeth displaying a spasmodic tendency to - knock together between sentences. She too was full of solicitude as to - Seth’s condition, and to satisfy this he reluctantly sat up, stretched his - arms out, felt of the bump on his forehead, beat his chest, and finally - stood erect. - </p> - <p> - “I’m all right, you see” he said—“only, bo-o-o, I’m cold,” and he - made for the fire, upon which Annie had heaped brushwood, which crackled - and snapped now, giving forth a furious heat. - </p> - <p> - They stood about the fire for a considerable time. Isabel was opposite - Seth, rather ostentatiously drying sundry damp places in her dress which - had come in contact with the rescued man’s dripping hair and clothes. He - was so interested in watching her, and in thinking half-regret fully, - half-jubilantly, that she had been put to this discomfort in saving his - life, that he failed to notice how completely drenched his cousin had - been. The conversation turned entirely, of course, upon the recent great - event, but it was desultory and broken by long intervals of silence, and - somehow Seth did not get any clear idea of how he was saved, much less of - the parts the two women had respectively played in the rescue. - </p> - <p> - It would be unfair to say that Isabel purposely misrepresented anything; - it is nearer the truth to describe her as confounding her own anxiety with - her companion’s action. At all events, the narrative to be gleaned from - her scattering descriptions and exclamations had the effect of creating in - Seth’s mind the impression that he could never be sufficiently grateful to - his sister-in-law. - </p> - <p> - As for Annie, the whole momentous episode had come so swiftly, had been so - imperative, exhaustive in its demands of all her faculties, and then had - so suddenly dwindled to the unromantic conditions of drying wet clothes at - a brush fire, that her thoughts upon it were extremely confused. She - scarcely took part in the conversation. Perhaps she felt vaguely that her - own share in the thing was not made to stand forth with all the prominence - it deserved, but she took it for granted that, in his first waking - moments, while he was alone with Isabel, Seth had been told the central - fact of her going into the water for him, and, if he was not effusively - grateful, why—it was not Seth’s way to be demonstrative. Besides she - said to herself, she did not want to be thanked. - </p> - <p> - Still, late that night, long hours after Seth had said good-night to her - at the Warren gate, and she had almost guiltily stolen up to her room - without braving her grandmother’s questions, Annie could not go to sleep - for thinking:— - </p> - <p> - “He might at least have <i>looked</i> some thanks, even if he did not - speak them.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Three days later, Seth departed for the city. It was not a particularly - impressive ceremony, this leave-taking, not half so much as he had - imagined it would be. - </p> - <p> - He had risen early, dressed himself in one of the two new, ready-made, - cheap suits Albert had bought for him at Thessaly and packed all his - possessions in the carpet satchel which had been in the family he knew not - how long—and still found, when he descended the stairs, that he was - the first down. It was a dark, rainy morning, and the living room looked - unspeakably desolate, and felt disagreeably cold. He sat for a long time - by a window pondering the last copy of John’s <i>Banner</i>, and trying to - thus prepare his mind for that immense ordeal of daily newspaper work, - that struggle of unknown, titanic proportions, now close before him. - </p> - <p> - Alvira at last came in to lay the breakfast table. - </p> - <p> - “Hello, you up already?” was all she said; but he felt she was eyeing him - furtively, as if even thus soon he was a stranger in the house of his - birth. - </p> - <p> - Aunt Sabrina next appeared. “There! I knew it ’d rain,” she - exclaimed. “I told Alviry so last night. When th’ cords on th’ curtains - git limp, yeh can’t fool me ’baout it’s not rainin’. ’N’ - Seth, I hope you’ll go to Church regular whatever else you dew. ’N’ - ef yeh could take a class in th’ Sunday schewl, it’d go a long ways tow’rd - keepin’ yeh aout o’ temptation. Will yeh go to th’ Baptist Church, think? - Th’ Fairchilds ’v’ allus be’n Baptists.” - </p> - <p> - The breakfast passed in constrained silence, save for Albert, who - delivered a monologue on the evils of city life, and the political and - ethical debauchery of the press, to which Seth tried dutifully to pay - attention—thinking all the while how to say goodbye to Isabel, how - to invest his words with a fervor the others would not suspect. - </p> - <p> - When the time came, all this planning proved of no avail. He found himself - shaking hands as perfunctorily with her as with her husband, and his - father and aunt. Only the latter kissed him, and she did it with awkward - formality. - </p> - <p> - Then he climbed into the buggy where Milton and the carpet bag were - already installed, and, answering in kind a chorus of “Good-byes” drove - out into the rain—and the World. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI.—ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE WORLD. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>eth’s first - impressions of the World, gathered when he found himself and his valise - alone on the sidewalk of one of Tecumseh’s chief streets, were distinctly - gloomy. - </p> - <p> - Other passengers who had left the train here, and in whose throng he had - been borne along thus far, started off briskly in various directions once - they reached the busy thoroughfare, elbowing their way through the horde - of clamorous hotel porters much as one might push through a clump of - obstructing bushes. He had firmly fixed in his mind the cardinal rule of - traveling countrymen, that these shouting runners were brigands intent - upon robbing him, and he was clear in his resolution to give them no hold - upon him, not even by so much as a civil expression of countenance. He - said “No, thank you!” sternly to at least a dozen solicitations, so it - seemed to him, and walked away steadily, fearful that their practised eyes - had detected in him an utter stranger, and intent only upon proving to - them that he knew where he was going. When at last it seemed likely that - they were no longer watching him, he stopped, put his bag down in a door - way, and looked about. - </p> - <p> - It was half-past six of a summer afternoon (for a failure to make - connections had prolonged the sixty-mile journey over eight hours), and - the sun, still high, beat down the whole length of the street with an - oppressive glare and heat. The buildings on both sides, as far as eye - could reach, were of brick, flat-topped, irregular in height, and covered - with flaring signs. There was no tree, nor any green thing, in sight. - </p> - <p> - Past him in a ceaseless stream, and all in one direction, moved a swarm of - humanity—laborers and artisans with dinner-pails, sprucely dressed - narrow-chested clerks and book-keepers, and bold faced factory-girls in - dowdy clothes and boots run down at the heels—a bewildering, - chattering procession. No one of all this throng glanced at him, or paid - the slightest attention to him, until one merry girl, spying his forlorn - visage, grinned and called out with a humorous drawl “Hop-pick—ers!” - and then danced off with her laughing companions, one of whom said, “Aw, - come off! You’re rushin’ the season. Hop’s ain’t ripe yet.” - </p> - <p> - Seth felt deeply humiliated at this. He had been vaguely musing upon the - general impudence of his coming to this strange city to teach its people - daily on all subjects, from government down, while he did not even know - how to gracefully get his bag off the street. This incident added the - element of wounded self-pride to his discomfort—for even casual - passers-by were evidently able to tell by his appearance that he was a - farmer. Strange! neither Albert nor John had told him anything calculated - to serve him in this dilemma. They had warned him plentifully as to what - not to do. Indeed his head was full of negative information, of pit-falls - to avoid, temptations to guard against. But on the affirmative side it was - all a blank. John had, it was true, advised him to get board with some - quiet family, but if there were any representatives of such quiet families - in the crowd surging past, how was he to know them? - </p> - <p> - While he tormented himself with this perplexing problem, two clerks came - out of the store next to which he stood, to pull up the awning and prepare - for night. A tall young man, with his hands deep in his trouser’s pockets, - and a flat straw hat much on one side of his head, sauntered across the - street to them, and was greeted familiarly. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Tom,” shouted one of these clerks, “you just everlastingly gave it - to that snide show to-night. <i>Wasn’t</i> it a scorcher, though?” - </p> - <p> - The young man with the straw hat put on a satisfied smile: “That’s the - only way to do it,” he said lightly. “The sooner these fakirs understand - that they can’t play Tecumseh people for chumps, the better. If the <i>Chronicle</i> - keeps on pounding ’em, they’ll begin to give us a wide berth. Their - advance agent thought he could fix me by opening a pint bottle of - champagne. That may work in Hornellsville, but when he gets to-night’s <i>Chronicle</i> - I fancy he’ll twig that it doesn’t go down here.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, by the way, Tom,” said the other clerk, in a low tone of voice, “my - sister’s engaged to Billy Peters. I don’t know that she wants to have it - given away, that is, names, and everything, but you might kind o’ hint at - it. It would please the old folks, I think—you know father’s taken - the <i>Chronicle</i> for the last twenty years.” - </p> - <p> - “I know” said Tom, producing an old envelope from a side pocket and making - some dashes on it with a pencil—“the regulation gag: ‘It is rumored - that a rising young hat-dealer will shortly lead to the altar one of the - bright, particular social stars of Brewery street ’ eh? Something - like that?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that’s it. You know how to fix it so that everybody’ll know who is - meant. Be around at Menzel’s to-night?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll look in. The beer’s been fearfully flat there, - though, this last carload. So long, boys!”—and Tom moved down the - street while the clerks re-entered the store. - </p> - <p> - Seth followed him eagerly, and touched him on the shoulder, saying: - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon, sir, but I heard you mention the <i>Chronicle</i> just - now. I would be much obliged if you could tell me where the office is.” - </p> - <p> - The young man turned, looked Seth over and said, affably enough: - </p> - <p> - “Certainly. But you’ll find it shut up. The book-keeper’s gone home.” Then - he added, as by a happy afterthought: “If you want to pay a weekly - subscription, though, I can take it, just as well as not.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” answered Seth, “I’ve come to work on the <i>Chronicle</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—printer? I guess some of the fellows are there still, throwing - in their cases. If you like, I’ll show you.” - </p> - <p> - Seth replied, with some embarrassment, “No, I’m not a printer. I’ve come - to be—to be—an editor.” - </p> - <p> - Tom’s manner changed in a twinkling from civility to extreme cordiality. - </p> - <p> - “Oh—ho! you’re the new man from Thessaly, eh? Jack Fairchild’s - brother! By Jove! How <i>are</i> you, anyway? When did you get in? Where - are you stopping?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not stopping anywhere—unless it be this stairway here,” Seth - replied, pointing to his carpetbag with a smile, for his companion’s - cheerfulness was infectious. “I came in half an hour ago, and I scarcely - knew where to go, or what to do first. I gather that you are connected - with the <i>Chronicle</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I should remark!” said Tom, taking the bag up as he spoke. “Come - along. We’ll have some supper down at Bismarck’s, and leave your grip - there for the evening. We can call for it on our way home. You’ll stop - with me to-night, you know. It ain’t a particularly fly place, but we’ll - manage all right, I guess. And how’s Jack?” - </p> - <p> - In the delight of finding so genial a colleague, one, too, who had known - and worked with his brother, Seth’s heart rose, as they walked down the - street again. He had been more than a little dismayed at the prospect of - meeting these unknown writers whose genius radiated in the columns of the - <i>Chronicle</i>, and in whose company he was henceforth to labor. - Especially had he been nervous lest he should not speak with sufficient - correctness, and should shock their fastidious ears with idioms insensibly - acquired in the back-country. It was a great relief to find that this - gentleman was so easy in his conversation, not to say colloquial. - </p> - <p> - They stopped presently at a broad open door, flanked by wide windows, in - which were displayed a variety of bright-tinted play bills, and two huge - pictures of a goat confidently butting a small barrel. There was a steep - pile of these little, dark-colored barrels on the sidewalk at the curb, - from which came a curious smell of resin. As they entered, Seth discovered - that this odor belonged to the whole place. - </p> - <p> - The interior was dark and, to the country youth’s eyes, unexpectedly vast. - The floor was sprinkled with gray sand. An infinitude of small, circular - oak tables, each surrounded with chairs, stretched out in every direction - into the distant gloom. Away at the farther end of the place, somebody was - banging furiously on a piano. In the middle distance, three elderly men - sat smoking long pipes and playing dominoes, silently, save for the sharp - clatter of the pieces. Nearer, three other men, seated about a table, were - all roaring in German at the top of their lungs, pounding with their - glasses on the resounding wood, and making the most excited and menacing - gestures. While Seth stared at them, expecting momentarily to see the - altercation develop into blows, he felt himself clutched by the arm, and - heard Tom say: - </p> - <p> - “Bismarck, this is Mr. Fairchild, a new <i>Chronicle</i> man. You must use - him as well as you do me.” - </p> - <p> - Seth turned and found himself shaking hands with an old German monstrous - in girth, and at once fierce and comical in aspect, with short, upright - gray hair, a huge yellowish-white moustache, and little piggish blue eyes - nearly hidden from view by the wave of fat which rendered his great purple - face as featureless as the bottom of a platter. - </p> - <p> - “Who effer vas Misder Vott’s frent, den you bed he owens dis whole - houwus,” this stout gentleman wheezed out, smiling warmly, and releasing - Seth’s hand to indicate, with a sweeping gesture of his pudgy paw, the - extent of Seth’s new and figurative possessions. - </p> - <p> - On the invitation of the host they all took seats, and a lean, - wolfish-faced young man named “Ow-goost,” who shuffled along pushing his - big slippers on the floor, brought three tall foaming glasses of - dark-brown beer. Seth did not care for beer, and had always, in a general - way, avoided saloons and drink, but of course, under these circumstances, - it would be ridiculous not to do as the others did. The beverage was - bitter, but not unpleasant, and with an effort he drank it half down at a - time, as he saw his companions do. Then he looked about, while they - discussed the merits of this new “bock,” Tom speaking with an air of great - authority, and pronouncing it better than the last, but a bit too cold. - </p> - <p> - The piano was still jangling, and the dominoes were being rattled around - for a new game. The three noisy old men had grown, if possible, more - violent and boisterous than ever. One of them now sprang to his feet, - lifted his right hand dramatically toward the dusky ceiling, and bellowed - forth sonorously something which Seth thought must be at least a challenge - to immediate combat, while the others hammered their glasses vehemently, - and fairly shrieked dissent. - </p> - <p> - “I’m afraid those men are going to fight,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Fight? Nonsense! They’re rather quieter than usual,” remarked Tom. “What - are they chewing on to-night, Bismarck—the Sigel racket?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said their host, listening indifferently. “Dot’s Sigel.” Then, - addressing Seth, he explained: “Somedimes it’s Sigel, unt somedimes the - reffolution uff forty-eighd, unt den somedimes der k-vestion of we haf a - vood bafement by Main streed. It all makes no differunce to dem, vicheffer - ding dey shdarts mit, dey git yust so much oxcited. Dot rooster you see - standing up mit der spegtacles, dot Henery Beckstein, he’s a tailor; he - sits mid his legs tvisted all day, den when night comes he neets some - exercises. Efery night for tweluf years he comes here, unt has his liddle - dalk, und de udders, dey alvays pitches into him. He likes dot better as - his dinner. De vurst is, dey all don’t know vat dey talk aboud. I bleef, - so help me Gott, no one of ’em ever laid eyes by Sigel, unt dey all - svear he vas deir dearest frent. Now—hear dot! Dot Beckstein say uff - he didn’t shleep mid him four years in his dent, in de same bet! How was - dot for lies, huh?” The host, pained and mortified at this mendacity, left - his seat and waddled over to the disputants, shouting as he went, and - joined the conversation so earnestly that his little eyes seemed bursting - from his beet-red face. - </p> - <p> - “Great old man, that,” said Tom, pounding with his glass for the waiter; - “there’s no flies on <i>him!</i> I named him Bismarck three or four years - ago—everybody calls him that now—and it tickled him so, - there’s nothing here too good for me. You like cheese, don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, yes, I eat cheese sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - Seth never <i>had</i> eaten this kind of cheese which Owgoost presently - slapped down before them, along with a mustard cup, a long bulging roll of - black bread, and more beer. It was pale and hard and strong of scent, was - cut in thick slabs, and was to be eaten, he judged from Tom’s procedure, - under a heavy top-dressing of the brown mustard. He liked it though, and - was interested to find how well beer went with it, or it went with beer. - Then they had each a little pickled lambs-tongue, pink and toothsome, to - be eaten with plenty of salt, and it was quite remarkable how ideally beer - seemed to go with this, too. In all, three large glasses went. - </p> - <p> - Tom was a delightful companion. It was simply charming to hear him talk, - as he did almost continuously, describing the round of life in Tecumseh, - relating gay little anecdotes of personal experience, and commenting - trenchantly on various men as they came in. To some of these he introduced - Seth. They seemed extremely affable young people, and some of them who - took seats near by invited Tom and him with much fervor and still greater - frequency, to have their glasses filled up. The former accepted these - proffers very freely, but the beer did not taste as good to Seth as it had - during supper, and he kept to his one glass—the fourth—sipping - at it from time to time. Tom was so urgent about it, though, that he did - take a cigar, a dark, able-bodied cigar which annoyed him by burning up on - one side. - </p> - <p> - The beer-hall presented a brilliant appearance now, with all the lights - flaming, with most of the chairs filled by merry young men, with three or - four white-jacketed waiters flitting about, bearing high in air both hands - full of foaming glasses—a fine contrast to the dingy, bare interior - of the twilight, with only the solitary Owgoost. Above the ceaseless hum - of conversation and laughter, rose, at intervals, the strains of lively - music from the far-off piano, reinforced now by a harp and a flute. - </p> - <p> - After a time cards were proposed, and Tom made one of a quartette who - ranged themselves at the table. Seth could not play, and so moved his - chair back, to watch the game. His cigar burned badly and he relighted it. - Then it tasted bitter, and, after some hesitation, he threw it away. The - game, called seven-up, was one he had never seen before; the ten-spots - were invested with a fictitious value which puzzled him. Tom, over whose - shoulder he watched had three of these tens, and silently indicated to - Seth that they were of especial interest. Seth fixed his eyes upon them, - to see how they were to be managed. They were very curious ten-spots, - being made of beer-glasses running over with lambs-tongues, with lambs - chasing them to rescue their lamented members, and burly “Bismarck” - striving in vain to secure order. General Sigel came to help him, and Tom - dealt him a terrific blow. Here <i>was</i> a fight at last, and John - Fairchild stood by, rapidly taking notes. Then it came bed-time, and—Seth - was being shaken into sensibility by Tom, who said between fits of - chuckling: - </p> - <p> - “Wake up, old boy! Wake up!” - </p> - <p> - Another great change had taken place in the beer-hall—the lights - were out, the music had ceased, the crowd was gone. A solitary gas-jet - flickered from the chandelier over the table; the game was ended, and the - players were standing ready to depart, and laughing. Fat Bismarck stood - behind him, in the half-shadow, looking very sleepy, and he seemed to be - grinning too. - </p> - <p> - Seth saw all this first. Then he discovered that he held his collar and - necktie in his hand, and that his coat and waistcoat were on the table. He - dimly began to understand that he had been asleep, and that, in the - operation of his dream, he had commenced undressing. Everybody was - laughing at him, his friend Tom, who now was helping him on with his coat, - most heartily of all. - </p> - <p> - “I declare,” Seth said, “I must have fallen asleep. I had no idea—I - suppose I was dreaming of getting ready for bed.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dots all right, dots all right,” said Bismarck heartily. “Ve don’d - mind it a bit. You vas only dired owut.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that’s it,” said Tom, “he’d had a hard day of it, traveling all the - way from Thessaly. Are you ready? We’ll get the bag, and trot along home. - Good night, boys!” - </p> - <p> - Seth responded to the chorus of answering “good nights,” and the twain - started out. Tom not only carried the bag, but took his companion’s arm—much - to Seth’s satisfaction, for he felt very tired, and it seemed unusually - difficult for him to shake off his sleepiness. Tom was more talkative than - ever, and he seemed to be saying extremely clever things, but Seth somehow - did not follow their meaning, and he could think of nothing to say in - reply. They were in a dark side street now. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I thought he’d be open!” said Tom, abruptly, stopping before a place, - through the closed shutters of which long horizontal threads of light - gleamed. “Let’s go in and have a night-cap. It’ll set you straight in a - minute.” - </p> - <p> - The curious reluctance to speak, of which Seth had felt vaguely conscious - all along, now prompted acquiescence as the easiest course, and he - followed Tom into a small, low room, thick with cigar-smoke and the odor - of kerosene, where four or five men, with their hats tilted over their - eyes, were playing cards: there was a pile of money in the centre of the - table, to which each in turn seemed to be adding from a smaller heap - before him. They were so much engrossed in the game that they only nodded - at Tom, and Seth felt relieved at escaping the ordeal of being introduced - to them. At Tom’s suggestion he took a little glass of brandy—“to do - their duty by the National debt,”—what ever that meant. It was - burning, nauseous stuff, which brought the tears to his eyes, but it made - him feel better. - </p> - <p> - It especially enabled him to talk, which he proceeded to do now with a - fluency that surprised him. Tom was evidently much impressed by his - remarks, saying little, it is true, but gripping his arm more closely. - Thus they walked to Tom’s lodgings—a tall, dark brick house opposite - a long line of coal sheds. The hall was so dark that Seth, in trying to - follow his guide, stumbled over an umbrella-rack, and fell to the floor. - Tom assisted him to rise, with a paternal “steady now, steady; that’s it, - lean on me,” and so helped him up the two flights of steep, narrow stairs. - In all the world, it seemed to Seth, he could not have met a more amiable - or congenial friend than Tom, and he told him so, as they climbed the - stairs, affectionately leaning upon his arm, and making his phrases as - ornate in diction and warm in tone as he could. - </p> - <p> - “Here we are,” said Tom, opening a door, and lighting a lamp which - revealed a small, scantily furnished room, in extreme disorder. “Make - yourself at home, my boy. Smoke a pipe before you go to bed?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mercy, no. I thinks—do you know, I feel a little dizzy.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you’ll be all right in the morning. Just undress and pile into bed. - I’ll smoke a pipe first.” Half an hour after Seth’s first day in the World - had closed in heavy slumber, Tom looked at him before blowing out the - light, and smiled to himself: “He <i>is</i> about as fresh as they make ’em.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII.—THE SANCTUM. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he young men - dressed next morning in almost complete silence. Tom was still sleepy, and - seemed much less jovial and attractive than he had been the previous - evening; Seth, accustomed to far earlier rising, was acutely awake, but - his head ached wearily and there was a dreadful dryness in his mouth and - throat. They went through the forms of breakfast in the basement, too, - without much conversation. Seth was ashamed of the number of cups of - coffee he drank, and carried away only confused recollections of having - been introduced to a middle-aged woman in black who sat at the head of the - table, and of having perfunctorily answered sundry questions about - business in Dearborn County, put by a man who sat next to him. - </p> - <p> - They were well on their way to the office before Tom’s silent mood wore - away. - </p> - <p> - “You must brace up!” he said. “Don’t let Workman know that we were out - together last night. He’s a regular crank about beer—that is, when - anybody but himself drinks it. What’s the matter? You look as melancholy - as a man going to be hanged.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I’m nervous about the thing. It’s all going to be so new and - strange at the start.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that’ll be all right. You’ll get the hang of it fast enough. They are - rather decent fellows to work with upstairs, all but Samboye. He’ll try to - sit on you from the start, but if you hold your own with him you’ll get - along with the rest.” - </p> - <p> - “Samboye—he’s the editor, isn’t he?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. You don’t know any of them, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “Not even by name.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, after Workman, who’s very rightly named, and who runs the thing, - there’s Samboye, who koo-toos to Workman and bullies all the rest. He puts - on more airs than a mowing machine agent at a state fair. He makes <i>everybody</i> - tired. Next to him comes Tyler—Tony Tyler, you’ll like him—that - is, if he takes a fancy to you. He knows about eighteen hundred times as - much as Samboye does, only somehow he hasn’t the faculty of putting it on - paper. Too much whisky. Then there’s Dent—he’s a Young Man - Christian; plays duets on the piano with his sister, you know, and all - that sort of thing—but he’s away now on his vacation. And then Billy - Murtagh—he’s a rattling good fellow, if you don’t let him borrow - money of you. He does part of the telegraph and news. Those are the only - fellows upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - “But where do you come in?” - </p> - <p> - “Me? Oh, I’m the City Editor. I and my gang are downstairs. I made a - strike to have you down with me, and put you on police court, but Workman - wouldn’t have it. It’s all poppycock, for they’ve got more men upstairs - now than they know what to do with. However, if Workman thinks the people - want to read editorials on the condition of Macedonia more than they do - local news, he can go ahead. It’s none of my funeral.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know what special work I am to do?” - </p> - <p> - “From all I hear, it would be easier to tell what you’re not to do. - Everyone of them has got a scheme for unloading something on you. First - you’re to do a lot of Dent’s work, like the proofs and Agricultural and - Religious; then Murtagh wants to put State News on you, and Tyler tells me - you’ve got to do the weekly as soon as you get your hand in, and Art, - Music and the Drama is a thing that must go up stairs, now that the - baseball season has begun, for I can’t attend to it. But if they play it - too low down on you, just you make a stout kick to Workman about it.” - </p> - <p> - While Seth pondered this outlook and advice, they reached the <i>Chronicle</i> - office, and presently, by a succession of dark and devious stair-ways, he - found himself in an ancient cockloft, curiously cut up by low partitions - into compartments like horse-stalls, each with a window at the end, and - was introduced as “the new man” to Mr. Anthony Tyler, otherwise Tony. - </p> - <p> - This gentleman bore no outward signs of the excess of spirituous liquor to - which Tom had alluded, and was very cordial and pleasant. He was extremely - dark in hair, beard and eyes, seemed to be not more than thirty, and sat - at a table piled high with books, clippings and the like, and surrounded - by great heaps of papers. Tom glanced over two or three of these latter, - and then went off humming a tune lightly and calling out to Seth in - imitation of a popular air, as he rattled down stairs “I’ll meet you when - the form goes down.” - </p> - <p> - Among other polite questions Tyler asked Seth where he was stopping. - </p> - <p> - “Nowhere permanently. I must find some place. I stopped last night with - Mr. Votts.” - </p> - <p> - “With whom?” - </p> - <p> - “With Mr. Votts, the gentleman who just left us.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you mean Tom Watts. You’ve got his name wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “Come to think of it, it was a German who called him that last evening, - and I was misled by his pronunciation.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Tyler’s face grew more serious. - </p> - <p> - “You are a stranger here. Let me give you some advice. Don’t cultivate Mr. - Watts’ German friends. He’s not a bad chap of his sort, but he drinks - altogether too much beer. Who drinks beer, thinks beer, as Johnson says. - Perhaps I can be of use to you in the matter of a boarding house. Oh, - here’s Mur-tagh,” he continued introducing Seth to another tall, slender - young man who had come up the stairs with an arm-full of papers; “he will - take you now, and give you an idea of your work.” Whereupon Mr. Tyler - turned again to his papers and shears, and Seth followed the new comer to - the farthest stall in the row, which was henceforth to be his own. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - There came a brief quarter of an hour in the afternoon when what seemed to - the novice a state of the wildest excitement reigned in the editorial - room. An inky boy in a huge leather apron dashed from stall to stall - shouting an interrogative “Thirty for you?” His master and patron, the - foreman, also aproned from chin to knees, with shirt-sleeves rolled to the - biceps, followed with the same mysterious question, put in an injured and - indignant tone. A loud, sharp discussion between this magnate and Tyler, - profanely dictatorial on the one side, profanely satirical on the other, - rose suddenly and filled the room with its clamor. An elderly man, bald as - a billiard ball, and dressed like a clergyman, came bounding up the - stairs, pulling out his watch as he advanced, and demanding fiercely the - reason for this delay. There was an outburst of explanation, in which four - or five voices joined, mingling personal abuse freely with their analysis - of the situation. Tom Watts leaped up the stairs four steps at a time and - hurled himself into the controversy. Seth could distinguish in this babel - of exclamations such phrases as— - </p> - <p> - “You better get some india-rubber chases!” - </p> - <p> - “If that fire’s cut down, you might as well not go to press at all!” - </p> - <p> - “If somebody would get down here in the morning, we could get our matter - up in time.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sick and tired of getting out telegraph for these chuckle-headed - printers to throw on the floor!” “That Mayhew matter’s been standing on - the galleys so long already that it’s got grey-headed!” - </p> - <p> - “By the Lord Harry, I’ll make a rule that the next time we miss the - Wyoming mail it shall be taken out of your wages!” - </p> - <p> - Here the inky boy galloped through to Seth with a proof-sheet, shouting, - “You’ve got a minute and a half to read this in!” The bald, elderly - gentleman, who seemed to be Mr. Workman, came and stood over Seth, watch - in hand, scowling impatiently. Under this embarrassment the wet letters - danced before his eyes, and he could find no errors, though it turned out - later that he had passed “elephant” for “elopement” and ruined Watts’ - chief sensation. A few minutes later, the clang of the presses in the - basement shook the old building, and the inky boy bustled through the room - again, pitching a paper into each of the stalls. There was a moment of - silence, broken only by the soft rustling of the damp sheets. Then - simultaneously from the several tables rose a chorus of violent - objurgation. - </p> - <p> - Seth heard the voice which he had learned was Samboye’s roar out, “What - dash-dashed idiot has made me say ‘our martyr President Abraham Sinclair? - ’ Stop the press!” There were other voices: “Here’s two lines of - markets upside down!” “Oh, I say, this is <i>too</i> bad. <i>Moyen age</i> - is ‘mayonaise ’ in my Shylock notice, and it’s Mrs. McCullough - instead of Mr. ————.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m dashed if the paper looks as if it had been read at all. We can’t - have such proof-reading as this!” - </p> - <p> - While these comments were still proceeding the noise of the press suddenly - ceased. The silence was terrible to Seth’s guilty consciousness, for he - had heard enough to know that it was his fault. Mr. Workman entered the - room again, and again Sam-boye’s deep voice was heard, repeating the awful - Sinclair-Lincoln error. Seth had looked at his fresh copy of the <i>Chronicle</i>, - with some vague hope that the Editor was mistaken, but alas! it was too - true. Mr. Workman came over to his stall; he had put his watch back in his - pocket, but his countenance was stern and unbending. - </p> - <p> - “You are Mr. Fairchild, I presume,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Seth rose to his feet, blushing, and murmured, “Yes, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “I understood from your brother that you were used to newspaper work.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I thought I was. I have been around the <i>Banner of Liberty</i> - office a great deal, but it seems so different on a daily.” - </p> - <p> - “H’m,—yes. Well, I dare say you’ll learn.” - </p> - <p> - Luckily the press started up again here, and Mr. Workman, looking at his - watch once more, went down stairs. - </p> - <p> - Seth felt most grievously depressed. Looking back, his first day had been - full of mortification and failure. The use of scissors and mucilage brush - was painfully unfamiliar to his clumsy fingers. The scope and intention of - the various news departments he had been told to take charge of were - unknown to him, and he had watched Murtagh go over the matter he - submitted, striking out page after page, saying curtly, “We’ve had this,” - “This is only worth a line or two,” or “this belongs in county notes,” - with a sinking heart. His duties were so mechanical and commonplace, after - what he had conceived an editor’s functions to be, that his ineptitude was - doubly humiliating. - </p> - <p> - Then there was this dreadful proof-reading failure. Murtagh had given him - the sample proof-sheet in the back of the dictionary to copy his marks - from—and he had copied them with such scrupulous efforts after - exactness that the printers couldn’t understand them. These printers—he - could see them through the windows opposite, standing pensively over their - tall cases, and moving their right arms between the frames and their - sticks with the monotonous regularity of an engine’s piston-rod—seemed - a very sarcastic and disagreeable body of men, to judge by the messages of - criticism on his system of marking which the inky boy had delivered for - them with such fidelity and enjoyment during the day. He had eaten nothing - since the early breakfast, and felt faint and tired. The rain outside, - beating dismally on the window and the tin roof beyond, added to his - gloom, and the ceaseless drumming of the presses below increased his - headache. - </p> - <p> - The other men seemed to have nothing to do now save to talk, but he turned - wearily to the great mound of exchanges from which Murtagh had directed - him to extract “Society Jottings” and “Art, Music and the Drama” after the - paper went to press. - </p> - <p> - He spent a few despairing minutes on the threshold of the task—enough - to see clearly that it was beyond his strength. Society was Syriac to him, - and he had never seen a play acted, beyond an occasional presentation of - “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” or “The Octoroon” by strolling tenth-rate mummers in - the tiny hall at Thessaly. How could he select matter for such - departments? He wavered for a time, from a disinclination to confront men - who had just condemned his work so unsparingly, but at last he got up from - the table where he had been pinned all day, and went over to the further - end of the room. - </p> - <p> - There was a sort of conclave about Tyler’s table. Both he and Samboye - reclined in tipped-back chairs, with their feet upon it; Watts sat on the - table swinging his legs, his straw hat still on the back of his head, and - Murtagh was perched in the window seat. Their conversation, which had been - flowing freely, stopped as Seth approached. He had expected to be - introduced to his Editor, Mr. Samboye, but no one seemed to think of it, - and that gentleman himself relieved him of the embarrassment by nodding - not uncourteously but with formality. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Fairchild,” he said, with impressive slowness, “in the pursuit of a - high career you will be powerfully aided by keeping in recollection the - fact that the sixteenth President of the United States was named Lincoln - and not Sinclair. We have a prejudice too, weak as it may seem, in favor - of spelling ‘interval’ with a ‘v’ rather than an ‘n’.” - </p> - <p> - Seth did not find it so difficult to address this great man as he had - anticipated. He said simply that he was very sorry, but the work was - utterly new to him, it was his first day, he hoped to learn soon, etc. - Emboldened by the sound of his own voice, he added his doubts about being - able to satisfactorily preside over such exacting columns as “Society - Jottings” and “Art, Music and the Drama”—and gave reasons. - </p> - <p> - “By George!” cried Watts, “I envy you! Just fancy a man who has never seen - anything but ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’—and not even that with real - Siberian bloodhounds. You shall begin going tonight. I’ll take you to - ‘Muldoon’s Picnic.’” - </p> - <p> - “Well, at any rate,” remarked Mr. Tyler, “you can do ‘Agricultural.’ You - must know that right down to the ground.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” assented Seth, “I think I ought to manage that. The truth is, most - of the stuff the papers print for farmers is nonsense—pure rubbish.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is. I know that Dent—he is a New York city boy, who - doesn’t know clover from cabbage—once put in a paragraph about the - importance of feeding chickens on rock salt, and an old farmer from Boltus - came in early one morning and whaled the bookkeeper out of his boots - because he had followed the advice and killed all his hens. There must be - some funny man out West somewhere who makes up these bad agricultural - paragraphs, and of course they get copied. How can fellows like Dent, for - instance, tell which are good and which are not? But they can’t fool you, - and that’ll be an advantage. Then there’s Religious. You can do that - easily enough. I should think.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” interposed Murtagh, “all you have to do is to lay for the Obago <i>Evening - Mercury</i>. Every Saturday that has a column of religious. Alec Watson, a - fellow in that office, has fifty-two of these columns, extracts from - Thomas à Kempis, and Wesley and Spurgeon and that sort of thing, which - have been running in the <i>Mercury</i> since before the war. When New - Year’s comes he starts ’em going again, round and round. Nobody - knows the difference. Well, their columns are longer than ours, so each - week you can run about half their paragraphs—the shortest ones—and - then fill in with some news notes, statistics, you know, about how many - churches the Moravians have now, and that sort of thing. You can pick - those up during the week, anywhere.” - </p> - <p> - “Then there ought to be some originality about it too,” said Tom Watts. - “It is just as well to sling in some items of your own, I think, such as - ‘There is a growing desire among the Baptists to have Bishops, like other - people,’ or, ‘It is understood that at the coming Consistory the Pope will - create seven new American Cardinals.’ That last is a particularly good - point. Every once in a while, predict more Cardinals. It doesn’t hurt - anybody, and it makes you solid when the thing does happen. There’s - nothing like original news to show the influence of journalism. One - morning, after the cakes had been bad for a week, heavy, sour or something - else, I said to my landlady that I believed the fault must be in the - buckwheat. She said no, she didn’t think so, for the flour looked very - nice indeed. I put a line in ‘Local Glimpses’ that day, saying that - unfortunately the buckwheat this year was of inferior quality, and the - very next morning she apologised to me: said I was right; the buckwheat <i>was</i> - bad; she had read so in the <i>Chronicle</i>. Can you imagine a nobler - illustration of the power of the press?” - </p> - <p> - Seth looked attentively at the speaker, to see if he was joking, but there - was no more evidence of mirth in his thin face than in the serious tone of - his voice. None of the others laughed. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Samboye said some of the most remarkable things, at once humorous and - highly original, and put in an elaborate frame of big unusual words. He - was a huge man in frame, with an enormous head, bushy eyebrows, heavy - whiskers, a ponderous manner, a tremendous voice—in fact seemed to - Seth precisely the kind of man from whom delicate wit, and soft shading of - phrases were not to be expected. He happened for the nonce to be in a - complaisant mood, and was relaxing himself in the company of “his young - men,” as he liked to call his colleagues. But ordinarily he was - overbearing and arbitrary, and this had rankled so deeply in their minds - that they listened with apathy, unresponsive, to his choicest sallies, and - Watts even combated him, with scant courtesy it seemed to Seth. - </p> - <p> - To him this monologue of the Editor’s was a revelation. He had never heard - such brilliant talk, such a wonderful mastery of words, such delicious - humor. He drank it all in eagerly, and laughed aloud at its broader points—the - more heartily, perhaps, because no one else smiled. This display of - appreciation bore fruit after its kind. Before Mr. Samboye went he spoke - some decidedly gracious words to Seth, saying among other things: - </p> - <p> - “However harshly we may be tempted by momentary stress of emotion to - speak, always remember that we unitedly feel your fresh bucolic interest - in things, your virginal capacity for admiration, and your pristine flush - of enthusiasm for your work to be distinct acquisitions to the paper,” - which Seth felt to be somewhat nonsensical, but still was grateful for. - </p> - <p> - After Mr. Samboye had gone, Tom Watts took occasion to warn him in an - aside: - </p> - <p> - “Be careful how you appear to curry favor with Samboye before the other - fellows. Oh, I know you didn’t think of it—but don’t laugh at his - jokes. They’ll think you’re trying to climb over them, and they’ll be - unpleasant to you, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII.—THIRTEEN MONTHS OF IT. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>ROWING familiarity - with his work did not restore to Seth the lofty conceptions of - journalism’s duties and delights which he had nourished on the hill-side - farm, and which had been so ingloriously dimmed and defaced by his first - day’s experience. - </p> - <p> - The tasks set before him, to which he gradually became accustomed, seemed - almost as unintellectual and mechanical as the ploughing and planting he - had forsaken. The rule of condensation, compression, continually dinned - into his ears by his mentors, robbed his labors of all possible charm. To - “boil down” columns of narrative into a few lines of bald, cold statement; - to chronicle day after day in the curtest form, fires, failures, crimes, - disasters, deaths, in a wearying chain of uninteresting news notes; to - throw remorselessly into the journalistic crucible all the work of - imagination, of genius, of deep fine thought which came into his hands, - together with the wordy dross spun out by the swarm of superficial - scribblers, and extract from good and bad alike only the meaningless, - miserable fact—this was a task against which, in the first weeks of - experience, his whole soul revolted. - </p> - <p> - By the time he had become reconciled to it, and had mastered its tricks, - his dream of journalism as the most exalted of all departments of activity - seemed to him like some far-away fantasy of childhood. - </p> - <p> - He not only had failed to draw inspiration from his work; it was already - ceasing to interest him. Under pleasanter conditions, he felt that he - would have at least liked the proof-reading portion of the daily routine; - but the printers were so truculent and hostile, and seemed so - pre-determined to treat him as their natural enemy, that this was irksome, - too. There was no relief to the distasteful monotony in other branches of - his work. Even the agricultural column, which he had promised himself to - so vastly improve, yielded no satisfaction. The floating, valueless stuff - from which his predecessors had selected their store came so easily and - naturally to the scissors that after a week or two he abandoned the idea - of preparing original matter: it saved time and labor, and nobody seemed - to know the difference. These words, in fact, came to describe his mental - attitude toward all his work. He had no pride in it. If he escaped curses - for badly-read proofs, and criticism for missing obvious matters of news, - it was enough. - </p> - <p> - Seth did not arrive at this condition of mind without much inner protest, - or without sundry efforts to break through the crust of perfunctory - drudgery which was encasing him. At the start he bestowed considerable - thought and work upon an effort to brighten and improve, by careful - re-working of materials, one of the departments entrusted to him, and, - just when he expected praise, Tyler told him to stop it. Then he tried to - make his religious column a feature by discarding most of the ancient - matter which revolved so drolly in the Obago <i>Evening Mercury</i>, and - picking out eloquent bits from the sermons of great contemporary - preachers; but this elicited denominational protest from certain pious - subscribers, and Mr. Workman commanded a return to the old rut. - </p> - <p> - But <i>the</i> cruel humiliation came when Seth took to Mr. Samboye an - editorial paragraph he had written with great care. It was a political - paragraph, and Seth felt confident that it was exactly in the <i>Chronicle’s</i> - line, and good writing as well. The Editor took it, after regarding the - young writer with a stony, half-surprised stare, and read it over slowly. - He delivered judgment upon it, in his habitual pomposity of phrases: “This - is markedly comprehensive in scope and clarified in expression, Mr. - Fairchild.” Then, as Seth’s heart was warming with a sense of commendation - and success, the Editor calmly tore the manuscript in strips, dropped them - in his waste-basket, and turned reflectively to his newspaper. - </p> - <p> - Seth’s breath nearly left him: “Then you can’t use it;” he faltered. “I - thought it might do for an editorial paragraph.” - </p> - <p> - There was the faintest suggestion of a patronising smile on Mr. Samboye’s - broad, ruddy face. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am reminded, Mr. Fairchild,” he answered, with bland irrelevance; - “pray do not allow Porte to pass again with a small p, as you did - yesterday in the proof of my Turkish article. It should be capitalized - invariably.” - </p> - <p> - The beginner went back to his stall both humiliated and angry. The cool - insolence with which he had been reminded that he was a proof-reader, and - warned away from thoughts of the editorial page, enraged and depressed - him. He passed a bitter hour at his table, looking savagely through the - window at the automatic motions of the printer directly opposite, but - thinking evil thoughts of Samboye, and cursing the fate which had led him - into newspaper work. So uncomfortable did he make himself by these - reflections that it required a real effort to throw off their effects when - Watts came upstairs, and the two left the office for the day. It was - impossible not to relate his grievance. - </p> - <p> - Tom did not see its tragic side, and refused utterly to concede that Seth - ought to be cast down by it. - </p> - <p> - “That’s only Samboye’s way,” he said, lightly. “He won’t let any of the - fellows get on to the page, simply because he’s afraid they’ll outwrite - him. He’d rather do it all himself—and he does grind out an immense - load of stuff—than encourage any rivals. Besides, he never loses a - chance to snub youngsters. Don’t let it worry you for a minute. If he sees - that it does, he’ll only pile it on the thicker. In this business you’ve - got to have a hide on you like the behemoth of Holy Writ, or you’ll keep - raw all the while.” - </p> - <p> - Seth found some consolation in this view, and more still in Tom’s cheery - tone. The two young men spent the evening together—at Bismarck’s. - </p> - <p> - This came gradually but naturally to be Seth’s habitual evening resort. It - represented to him, indeed, all that was friendly and inviting in Tecumseh - society. He was able to recall dimly some of the notions of coming social - distinction he indulged in the farm days—dreams of a handsome young - editor who was in great request in the most refined and luxurious home - circles, who said the most charming things to beautiful young ladies at - parties and balls, who wavered in his mind between wedding his employer’s - daughter and taking a share in the paper, or choosing some lowlier but - more intellectual maid to wife, and leading with her a halcyon and - exaltedly literary career in a cottage—but they were as unreal, as - indistinct now as the dreams of night before last. All the social bars - seemed drawn against him as a matter of course. - </p> - <p> - This did not impress him as a hardship, because he was only vaguely - conscious of it, at first, and then grew into the habit of regarding it as - a thing to be grateful for. Tom Watts pointed out to him frequently the - advantage of being a Bohemian, of being free from all the fearsome, - undefined routine and responsibility of making calls, of dressing up in - the evening, and of dangling supine attendance upon girls and their - mammas. This “social racket,” the city editor said, might please some - people; Dent, for instance, seemed to like it. But for his part it seemed - quite the weakest thing a young man could go in for—entirely - incompatible with the robust and masculine character demanded in a - successful journalist. - </p> - <p> - This presented itself to Seth as an extremely sound position, and he made - it his own so willingly that very soon he began to take credit to himself - in his own eyes for having turned a deaf ear to the social siren, and - having deliberately rejected the advances of fashionable Tecumseh. He - grew, really, to believe that it was by preference, by a wise resolution - to preserve his freedom and individuality, that he remained outside the - mysterious, impalpable regions which were labelled in his mind as - “Society.” - </p> - <p> - On the other hand, there was no nonsense at Bismarck’s, or at the other - similar beer halls to which Tom introduced him. One dressed as one chose, - and did as one liked; seven-up or penochle provided just the mental - recreation a wearied literary brain demanded; and the fellows one met - there were cheerful, companionable young men, who likewise had no nonsense - about them, who put on no airs of superiority, and who glided swiftly and - jovially through the grades of acquaintanceship to intimacy. - </p> - <p> - Seth was greatly strengthened in his liking for this refuge from - loneliness in a strange city by what he saw of Arthur Dent, whom Watts had - prepared him to regard as the embodiment of the other and strait-laced - side. - </p> - <p> - This young man was not at all uncivil, but he was delicate, almost - effeminate in frame, wore eye-glasses, dressed with fastidious neatness, - never made any jokes or laughed heartily at those of others, and rarely - joined the daily lounge and smoke around Tyler’s table after the paper had - gone to press—and in all these things he grated upon Seth’s - sensitiveness. He was the one member of the staff whom Mr. Workman seemed - to like and whom Mr. Samboye never humiliated publicly by his ponderous - ridicule, and these were added grievances. He worked very steadily and - carefully, and was said to do a good deal of heavy reading at home, - evenings, in addition to the slavish routine of high social duties in - which Seth indefinitely understood him to be immersed. His chief tasks - were the book reviews, the editing of correspondence, and the preparation - of minor editorial paragraphs in a smaller type than Mr. Samboye’s. Seth - thought that his style, though correct and neat, was thin and emasculated, - and he came to associate this with his estimate of the writer, and account - for it by his habits and associations—which the further confirmed - him in his judgment as to the right way to live. - </p> - <p> - But there was something more than this. The first few days after his - return from his vacation, Dent had tried to be courteous and helpful to - the newcomer from the country, in his shy, undemonstrative way, and Seth, - despite his preconceived prejudice, had gone a little way on the road to - friendship. Then one night, as he and Watts were returning arm-in-arm to - their joint lodgings from Bismarck’s, a trifle unsteadily perhaps, they - had encountered Dent walking with a young lady, and Tom had pleasantly - accosted them—at least it seemed pleasantly to Seth—but Dent - had not taken it in the right spirit at the time, and had been decidedly - cool to Seth ever since. This was so unreasonable that the country boy - resented it deeply, and the two barely spoke to each other. - </p> - <p> - His relations with the others were less strained, but scarcely more - valuable in the way of companionship. Mr. Tyler did not seem to care much - for his company, and never asked him to go to the “Roast Beef”—a - sort of combination of club and saloon where he spent most of his - evenings, where poker was the chief amusement and whisky the principal - drink. From all Seth could learn, it was as well for him that he was not - invited there. As for Murtagh, all his associations outside the office - seemed to be with young men of his own race, who formed a coterie by - themselves, and frequented distinctively Irish resorts. Like most other - American cities Tecumseh had its large Irish and German elements, and in - nothing were ethnographic lines drawn so clearly as in the matter of - amusements. There were enough young Americans holding aloof from both - these foreign circles to constitute a small constituency for the “Roast - Beef,” but a far greater number had developed a liking for the German - places of resort, and drank beer and ate cheese and rye bread as if to the - manner born. Seth found himself in this class on his first step over the - threshold of city life; he enjoyed it, and he saw very little of the - others. - </p> - <p> - The two most important men on the <i>Chronicle</i>, Mr. Workman and Mr. - Samboye, were far removed from the plane upon which all these Bohemian - divisions were traced. They belonged to the Club—the Tuscarora Club. - Seth knew where the club house was—but he felt that this was all he - was ever likely to know about it. The first few days in Tecumseh had - taught him the hopelessness of his dream of associating with his employer. - Socially they were leagues apart at the outset, and if the distance did - not increase as weeks grew into months, at least Seth’s perception of it - did, which amounted to the same thing. - </p> - <p> - He did not so readily abandon the idea of being made a companion by - Samboye, but at last that vanished too. The Editor held himself very high, - and if he occasionally came down off his mountain top, his return to those - heights only served to emphasize their altitude. There were conflicting - stories about his salary. Among the lesser lights of the editorial room it - was commonly estimated at forty-five dollars a week, but some of the - printers had information that it was at least fifty—which fatigued - the imagination. Seth himself received nine dollars, which his brother - supplemented by five, and he found that he was regarded as doing - remarkably well for a beginner. But between this condition and the state - of Samboye with his great income, his fine house on one of the best - streets, his influential position in the city, and his luxurious - amusements at the Club, an impassable gulf yawned. - </p> - <p> - There is no pleasure in following further the details of the country boy’s - new life. He lost sight of his disappointment in the consolations of a - phase of city existence which does not show to advantage in polite-pages. - He did not become vicious or depraved. - </p> - <p> - The relentless treadmill of a daily paper forbade his becoming indolent. - By sheer force of contact his mind expanded, too, more than even he - suspected. But it was a formless, unprofitable expansion, which did not - help him to get out of the rut. He performed his work acceptably—at - least he rarely heard any criticisms upon it—lived a trifle ahead of - his small income, and ceased to even speculate on the chance of promotion. - </p> - <p> - When, thirteen months after his advent in Tecumseh, the news came to him - from the farm that his father was dying, he obtained leave to go home. Mr. - Workman remarked to Mr. Samboye that afternoon: - </p> - <p> - “I shan’t mind much if Fairchild doesn’t come back.” - </p> - <p> - “Is that so? He seems to get through his work decently and inoffensively - enough. He will never set the North River ablaze, of course, but he is - civil and all that.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, but I can’t see that there’s anything in him. Beside, I don’t like - his influence on Watts. I’m told you can find them together at Bismarck’s - every night in the week.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, that makes it bad,” said Mr. Samboye. - </p> - <p> - Then the proprietor and the editor locked up their desks, went over to the - Club, and played pyramid pool till midnight. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV.—BACK ON THE FARM. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he farm seemed - very little like home to Seth, now that he was back once more upon it. He - could neither fit himself familiarly into such of the old ways as remained - nor altogether appetize the changes which he felt rather than discerned - about him. - </p> - <p> - Of all these alterations his father’s disappearance was among the least - important. Everybody had grown out of the habit of considering Lemuel as a - factor in any question. Nobody missed him now that he was gone, or felt - that it was specially incumbent to pretend to do so—nobody save Aunt - Sabrina. Those who cared to look closely could see that the old maid was - shaken by her weak brother’s death, and that, though she said little or - nothing about it, an augmented sense of loneliness preyed upon her mind. - For the rest, the event imposed a day or two of solemnity, some - alterations of dress and demeanor, a sombre journey with a few neighbors - to the little burial plot beyond the orchard—and then things resumed - their wonted aspect. - </p> - <p> - To the young journalist this aspect was strange and curious. The farm had - put on a new guise to his eyes. It was as if some mighty hand and brush - had painted it all over with bright colors. It was not only that the house - had been restored and refurnished, that new spacious buildings replaced - the ancient barns, that the fences had been rebuilt, the farm yard cleaned - up and sodded, the old well-curb and reach removed—the very grass - seemed greener, the bending of the boughs more graceful, the charm of sky - and foliage and verdure far more apparent. The cattle were plumper and - cleaner; there were carriage horses now, with bright harness and sweeping - tails, and a costly black mare for the saddle, fleet as the wind: the food - on the table was more uniformly toothsome, and there were now the broad - silver-plated forks to which Seth had somewhat laboriously become - accustomed in his Tecumseh boardinghouse. He admired all these changes, in - a way, but somehow he could not feel at home among them. They were - attractive, but they were alien to the memories which, in his crowded, - bricked-up city solitude, had grown dear to him. - </p> - <p> - There were droll changes among the hired people. For one thing, they no - longer all ate at the table with the family. An exception was made in - favor of Milton Squires, who had burst through the overalls chrysalis of - hired-manhood, and had become a sort of superintendent. He had not learned - to eat with a fork, and he still talked loudly and with boisterous - familiarity at the table, reaching for whatever he wanted, and calling the - proprietor “Albert,” and his aunt “Sabriny.” He did not bear his social - and industrial promotion meekly. He bullied the inferior hired men—Leander - had a colleague now, a rough, tow-headed, burly young fellow named Dana - Pills-bury—and snubbed loftily the menials of the kitchen. This - former haunt scarcely knew him more, and his rare conversations with - Alvira were all distinctly framed in condescension. This was only to be - expected, for Milton wore a black suit of store-clothes every day, with a - gold-plated watch chain and a necktie, and met the farmers round about on - terms of practical equality. He was reputed to be a careful and capable - manager; his wrath was feared at the cheese-factory; his judgment was - respected at the corners’ store. Naturally, such a man would feel himself - above kitchen associations. - </p> - <p> - Of course this defection evoked deep wrath in Alvira’s part of the house, - some overflowings of which came to Seth’s notice before he had been a day - at the farm. Alvira was not specially changed to the young man’s eyes—indeed - her sallow, bilious visage, dark snapping eyes and furrowed forehead - seemed the most familiar things about the homestead, and her acidulous - tones struck a truer note in his chords of memory than did any other - sound. - </p> - <p> - Aunt Sabrina, wrapped as of old in her red plaid shoulder shawl, but - seemingly less erect and aggressive, spent most of her time in the - kitchen, ostentatiously pretending to pay her board by culinary labor. - Behind her back Alvira was wont to say to her assistant, a slatternly - young slip from the ever-spreading Lawton family tree, that the old lady - only hindered the work, and that her room would be better than her - company. But when Aunt Sabrina was present, Alvira was customarily civil, - sometimes quite friendly. The two were drawn together by community of - grievance. - </p> - <p> - They both hated Isabel, with her citified notions, her forks and napkins, - and stuck-up airs generally. It had pleased Aunt Sabrina’s mood to regard - herself as included in the edict which ordained that servants should eat - in the kitchen, and only the sharpest words she had ever heard Albert - speak had prevented her acting upon this. She had come to the family - table, then, but always with an air of protest; and she had a grim - pleasure in leaving her napkin unfolded, month after month, and in keeping - everybody waiting while she paraded her inability to eat rapidly or - satisfactorily with the new fangled “split spoon.” - </p> - <p> - She and Alvira had a never-failing topic of hostile talk in the new - mistress. To judge by their threats, their jibes and their angry - complaints, they were always on the point of leaving the house on her - account. So imminent did an outbreak seem to Seth, when he first heard - their joint budget of woes and bitter resolves, that he was frightened, - but the Lawton girl reassured him. They had talked just like that, she - said, every day since she had been there, which would be “a year come - August,” and she added scornfully: “They go away? You couldn’t chase ’em - away with a clothes-pole!” - </p> - <p> - The two elderly females had another bond of sympathy, of course, in - Milton’s affectation of superiority. - </p> - <p> - They debated this continually, though as Sabrina had the most to say about - her niece-in-law, with Alvira as a sympathetic commentator, so the hateful - apotheosis of the whilom hired-man was recognized to be Alvira’s special - and personal grievance, in girding at which Sabrina bore only a helping - part. - </p> - <p> - Seth accounted for this by calling up in recollection an old vague - understanding of his youth that Milton was some time going to marry - Alvira. He could remember having heard this union spoken of as taken for - granted in the family. Doubtless Alvira’s present attitude of ugly - criticism was due to the fear that Milton’s improved prospects would lead - him elsewhere. The Lawton girl indeed hinted rather broadly to him that - there were substantial grounds for Alvira’s rage. “I’d tear his eyes out - if I was her, and he wouldn’t come up to the scratch,” she said, “after - all that’s happened.” Seth understood her suggestion, but he didn’t - believe it. The Lawtons were a low-down race, anyway. He had seen one of - the girls at Tecumseh once, a girl who had gone utterly to the bad, and - this sister of hers seemed a bold, rude huzzy, with a mind prone to mean - suspicions. - </p> - <p> - It was a relief to go back again to the living-room, where Isabel was, and - he both verbally and mentally justified her gentle hint that the kitchen - was not a good place for young men to spend their time. - </p> - <p> - “You have no idea,” she said, letting her embroidery fall in her lap for - the moment, “how ruinous to discipline and to household management - generally this country plan of making companions of your servants is. I - had to put a complete stop to it, very soon after I came. There would be - no living with them otherwise. There’s not much comfort in living with - them as it is, for your Aunt sits out in the kitchen all day long, - pretending that she is abused and encouraging them to think that they are - ill-used too. She makes it very hard for me—harping all the time on - my being a Richardson, just as she did with your mother. - </p> - <p> - “Then there’s Milton. I did not want to make any difference between him - and the other hired people, but your brother insisted on it—on - having him at the table with us, and treating him like an equal. He is as - coarse and rough and horrid as he can be, but it seems that he is very - necessary on the farm, and your brother leaves so much to him and relies - so much on him that I couldn’t help myself. He hasn’t got to calling me - ‘Isabel’ yet, but I expect him to begin every day of my life. You can’t - imagine what an infliction it is to see him eat—or rather, to hear - him, for I try not to look.” - </p> - <p> - Isabel took up her work again, and Seth looked at her more closely than he - had done before. She sat at the window, with the full summer light on her - bright hair and fair, pretty face. Her tone had been melancholy, almost - mournful; looking at her, Seth felt that she was not happy, and more—for - he had never supposed her to be particularly happy—that she was - bitterly disappointed with the result of the farm experiment. She had not - said so, however, and he was in doubt whether it would be wise for him to - assume it in his conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Albert seems to thrive on country fare,” he said, perhaps unconsciously - suggesting in his remark what was turning in his mind—that she - herself seemed not have thrived. The rounded outlines of her chin and - throat were not so perfect as he remembered them. She looked thin and - tired now, in the strong light, and there was no color to speak of in her - face. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes!” she said, with that falling inflection which is sister to the - sigh, and keeping her eyes bent upon her work, “<i>he</i> grows fat. I did - not imagine that a man who had always been so active, who was so - accustomed to regular office work and intellectual professional pursuits, - could fall into idle ways so easily. But it is always a bore to him now - when he has to go down to New York at term time. Once or twice he has had - a coolness with his partners because he failed to go at all. I shouldn’t - be surprised if he gave New York up altogether. He talks often of it—of - practising at Tecumseh instead. Oh, and that reminds me. You can tell. - What relation does Tecumseh bear to this place? I know they have some - connection in his mind, because he spoke once of the ‘pull’—whatever - that may mean—being a Tecumseh lawyer would give him here. I know - they are not in the same county, for I looked on the map. Whatever it is, - that would be his purpose in going there, I am curious to learn. You - know,” she added, with a smile and tone pathetic in their sarcasm, “a wife - ought to be interested in whatever concerns her husband.” - </p> - <p> - “They are in the same Congressional district,” Seth replied. “There are - three counties in the district, Dearborn (where we are now), Jay, which - lies east of us, and then Adams, which is a long, narrow county, and runs - off South of Dearborn. Tecumseh is away at the extreme southern end of - Adams county. Perhaps that is what you have in mind.” - </p> - <p> - “It is what <i>he</i> has in mind,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “But how does Albert fill his time here—what does he do?” - </p> - <p> - “In about equal parts,” she made answer, lifting her eyes again, with the - light of a little smile in them now, “he reads novels here in the house, - and drives about the neighborhood. What time he is not in the easy-chair - upstairs, devouring fiction, he is in his buggy on the road. He won’t let - me have anybody up from New York, even of the few I know, but he has - developed a wonderful taste for striking up acquaintances here. He must by - this time know every farmer for twenty miles around. First of all, in - buying his stock when he took the farm, he spread his purchases around in - the queerest way—getting a cow from this man, a colt from another, a - pig here and a bull there. Milton and he went together, and they must have - driven two hundred miles, I should think, collecting the various animals. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t understand it at first, but I begin to now. He wanted to - establish relations with as many men here as he could. And the farmers he - invites here to dinner—you should see them! Sometimes I think I - shall have to leave the table. It’s all I can do, often, to be decently - civil to them, rough, vulgar men, unwashed and untidy, whom he waylays out - on the road and brings in. He thinks I ought to exert myself to make them - feel at home, and chat with them about their wives and children, and ugh! - call on them and form friendships with them. But I draw the line there. If - he enjoys bringing them here, why I can’t help it; and if he likes to - drive about, and be hail-fellow-well-met with them, that is his own - affair. But——” - </p> - <p> - She stopped, and Seth felt that the silence was eloquent. He began to - realize that his pretty sister-in-law was in need of sympathy, and to rank - himself, with indignant fervor, on her side. - </p> - <p> - Annie Fairchild came in. Seth had seen and spoken with her several times, - during the period of his father’s death and funeral, but hurriedly and in - the presence of others. Her appearance now recalled instantly the day of - the fishing trip—a soft and pleasant memory, which during his year’s - exile had at times been truly delicious to him. - </p> - <p> - The women thought of it too, now, and talked of it, at Seth rather than to - him, and with a playful spirit of badinage. As of old, Isabel did most of - the talking. Annie had become quite a woman, Seth said to himself, as she - took off her hat, tidied her hair before the glass, and laughingly joined - in the conversation. She talked very well, too, but she seemed always to - think over her words, and there appeared to be in her manner toward him a - certain something, intangible, indefinite, which suggested constraint. He - could feel, though he could not explain, it. - </p> - <p> - During his stay in Tecumseh he had seen almost nothing of the other sex. - There were often some young women at the boarding-house, but he had not - got beyond a speaking acquaintance at the table with any of them, in the - few instances where his shyness had permitted even that. His year in a - city had improved him in many ways. He could wear good clothes now without - awkwardness; he spoke readily among men, and with excellent choice of - language; he knew how to joke without leading the laughter himself. But he - had had no chance to overcome by usage his diffidence in female company, - and he had not been quite at ease in his mind since Annie came in. She - seemed to make a stranger of him. - </p> - <p> - He thought upon this, and felt piqued at it. He wondered, too if he was - not sitting clumsily in his chair—if it was not impolite in him to - cross his legs. Gradually, however, he grew out of his reserve. It dawned - upon him that Annie was timorous, nervous, about the impression she was - making on him, and that Isabel listened with real respect and deference to - what he had to say. He grew bold, and took the lead of the conversation, - and the two women followed meekly. It was a delightful sensation. He said - to himself: “It is the easiest thing in the world, once you make the - plunge. I could talk with women now in the finest drawing room in the - land.” He sat back in his chair, and told them some anecdotes about Mr. - Samboye, from which somehow they gathered the notion that he was at the - best coordinate in rank with Seth. They were more than ever proud of their - relative, who had so rapidly conquered a high and commanding position for - himself in that mystic, awesome sphere of journalism. Seth expanded and - basked in this admiration. - </p> - <p> - He had heretofore found the evenings on the farm stupidly tedious. To sit - at the big table till bed time, reading by the light of a single kerosene - lamp, or exchanging dry monosyllables with Albert, offered a dismal - contrast to the cheerful street lamps, the bright store-windows, the noise - and gaiety and life of the places of evening resort in Tecumseh. But this - evening revealed a far more attractive side of country life than he had - known before. Annie stayed after tea, and the three played dominoes. - Albert seemed somewhat out of sorts, but they did not mind his silence in - the least. They chatted gaily over their games, and time flew so merrily - and swiftly, that Seth was surprised when Annie said she must leave, and - he discovered that it was a quarter to ten. - </p> - <p> - “How pleasantly the evening has passed,” Isabel said, and smiled at him, - and Annie answered, “Hasn’t it! I don’t know when I have enjoyed myself so - much—” and she, too, smiled at him. - </p> - <p> - The old walk over the fields, down the poplar lane, to see Annie home—how - like the old times it seemed! And yet how far away they were! Sometimes in - these bye-gone walks, as they came up now in Seth’s memory, he and Annie - had been almost like lovers—not indeed, in words, but in that - magnetic language which the moon inspires. It occurred to neither of them - to saunter slowly, now. They walked straight ahead, and there were no - “flashes of eloquent silence.” Their conversation was all of Isabel. - </p> - <p> - “Not as happy as she expected!” said Annie, repeating a question of - Seth’s; “you can’t guess how wretched she is! Sometimes it’s all she can - do to keep from breaking down. I am literally the only person she has to - talk to, that she cares about, week in and week out. Albert is away a - great deal. I don’t think he is much company when he <i>is</i> home. She - did try, when she first came, to make some acquaintances round about, - among the well-to-do farmers’ wives. But she couldn’t bear them, and they - said she was stuck up, and so <i>that</i> came to nothing. She doesn’t get - on at all with Aunt Sabrina, either. Poor girl! she is so blue at times - that my heart aches for her. Of course she wouldn’t let you see it. - Besides she has been ever so much more cheerful since you came. I <i>do</i> - hope you will stay as long as you can—just for <i>her</i> sake.” - </p> - <p> - She added this explanation with what sounded to Seth’s ear like gratuitous - emphasis. The disposition rose swiftly within him to resent this. - </p> - <p> - “You are very careful,” he said, “to have me understand that it’s for her - sake you want me to stay.” Then he felt, even while the sound of his voice - was in the air, that he had made a fool of himself. - </p> - <p> - His cousin did not accept the individual challenge. “No, of course we are - all glad to see you. You know we are. But <i>she</i> specially needs - company; it’s a mercy to her to have somebody to brighten her up a little. - Really, I get anxious about her at times. I try to run over as much as I - can, but then I have grandmother to tend, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “How is the old lady, by the way? And oh—tell me, Annie, what it was - that all at once set her against me so. You remember—the day before - we went fishing, and Isabel saved my life.” - </p> - <p> - The answer did not come immediately. In the dim starlight Seth could see - that his cousin’s face was turned away, and he guessed rather than saw - that she was agitated. - </p> - <p> - “I will tell you,” she said at last, nervously, “why grandmother—or, - no, I will <i>not</i> tell you! You have no right to ask. Don’t come any - further, I am near enough to the house now. Good night.” - </p> - <p> - She had hurried away from him. He watched her disappear in the darkness, - then turned and walked meditatively home. - </p> - <p> - He was not so sure as he had been that it was easy to understand women. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV.—MR. RICHARD ANSDELL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was no light - task to spend a vacation contentedly on the farm. There were thousands of - city people who did it, and seemed to enjoy it, but Seth found it - difficult to understand how they contrived to occupy themselves. What work - on a farm meant, he knew very well; but the trick of idling in the country - was beyond him. It was too hot, in these July days, for driving much, and - besides, Albert rarely invited him into the buggy when the grays were - brought around to the step. The two brothers saw little of each other, in - fact. It was not precisely a coolness, but Albert seemed to have other - things on his mind beside fraternal entertainment. The old pastime of - fishing, too, failed him. In the renovation of the house his fine pole and - tackle had somehow disappeared, and he had no money wherewith to replace - them. He had entered upon his vacation unexpectedly, at a time when he - happened to be particularly short of cash—and there was something in - Albert’s manner and tone which rendered it impossible to apply to him, - even if pride had not forbidden it. - </p> - <p> - There was, it is true, the increasing delight of being in Isabel’s - company, but alongside this delight grew a doubt—a doubt which the - young man shrank from recognizing and debating, but which forced its - presence upon his mind, none the less—a doubt whether it was the - part of wisdom to encourage too much of a friendship with his - sister-in-law. This friendship had already reached a stage where Aunt - Sabrina sniffed at its existence, and she hinted dimly to Seth of the - perils which lurked in the lures of a citified siren, with an expression - of face and a pointedness of emphasis which clearly had a domestic - application. There was nothing in this, of course, but the insensate - meddlesomeness of a disagreeable old maid, Seth said to himself, but still - it annoyed him. - </p> - <p> - More serious, though, was his suspicion—lying dormant sometimes for - days, then suddenly awakened by a curt word or an intent glance—that - Albert disliked to see him so much with Isabel. Often this rendered him - extremely nervous, for Isabel had no discretion (so the young man put it - to himself) and displayed her pleasure in his society, her liking for him, - quite as freely in her husband’s presence as when they were alone. There - was nothing in this, either, only that it made him uneasy. Hence it came - about that, just when one set of inclinations most urgently prompted him - to stay about the house, another set often prevailed upon him to absent - himself. On these occasions he generally walked over to Thessaly, and - chatted with John. - </p> - <p> - “John and I have so much to talk about, you know, being both newspaper - men,” he used to say, with a feeling that he owed an explanation of some - sort to Isabel. “And then I can see the daily papers there. That gets to - be a necessity with a journalist—as much so as his breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - “I scarcely dare to read a paper now,” Isabel once replied. “It drives me - nearly mad with longing to get back among people again. I only read heavy - things, classic poetry and history—and then, thank Heaven, there is - this embroidery.” - </p> - <p> - It was at John’s, or rather on the way there, that Seth met one day a man - of whom he was in after life accustomed to say, “He altered the whole bent - of my career.” Perhaps this was an exaggerated estimate of the service - Richard Ansdell really rendered Seth; but it is so difficult, looking - back, to truly define the influence upon our fortunes or minds by any - isolated event or acquaintance, and moreover, gratitude is so wholesome - and sweet a thing to contemplate, and the race devotes so much energy to - civilizing it out of young breasts, that I have not the heart to insist - upon any qualification of Seth’s judgment. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Ansdell at this time was nearly forty years of age, and looked to be - under thirty. He was small, thin-faced, clean-shaven, dark of skin and - hair, with full, clear eyes, that by their calmness of expression - curiously modified the idea of nervousness which his actions and mode of - speech gave forth. He was spending his fortnight’s vacation in the - vicinity, and he was strolling with his friend the school-teacher, Reuben - Tracy, toward the village when Seth overtook them. Seth and Reuben had - been very intimate in the old farm days—and <i>here</i> was a young - man to the latent influence of whose sobriety of mind and cleanliness of - tastes he never fully realized his obligation—but since his return - they had not met. After greetings had been exchanged, they walked together - to the village, and to the <i>Banner of Liberty</i> office. - </p> - <p> - It was the beginning of the week, and publication day was far enough off - to enable John to devote all his time to his visitors. There was an hour - or more of talk—on politics, county affairs, the news in the city - papers, the humors and trials of conducting a rural newspaper, and so - forth. When they rose to go, John put on his hat, and said he would “walk - a ways” with them. On the street he held Seth back with a whispered “Let - us keep behind a bit, I want to talk to you.” Then he added, when the - others were out of hearing: - </p> - <p> - “I have got some personal things to say, later on. But—first of all—has - Albert said anything since to you about the farm?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a word.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I have been thinking it all over, trying to see where the - crookedness comes in—for I feel it in my bones that there <i>is</i> - something crooked. But I am not lawyer enough to get on to it. I’ve had a - notion of putting the whole case to Ansdell, who’s a mighty bright lawyer, - but then again, it seems to be a sort of family thing that we ought to - keep to ourselves. What do you think?—for after all, it is mostly - your affair.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t see that Albert isn’t playing fair. It must be pretty nearly as - he says—that he has put as much money in the farm as it was worth - when he took it. It’s true that father’s will leaves it to him outright—and - that wasn’t quite as Albert gave us to understand it should be—but - Albert pledges us that our rights in it shall be respected, and it seems - to me that that is better than an acknowledged interest in a bankrupt farm - would be, which we hadn’t the capital to work, and which was worthless - without it.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you are right.” John paused for a moment, then began again in a - graver tone: “There’s something else. How are you getting on on the <i>Chronicle?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well enough; I get through my work without anybody’s finding fault. I - suppose that is the best test. A fellow can’t do any more.” - </p> - <p> - “That is where you are wrong. ‘A fellow’ can do a great deal more. And - when you went there I, for one, expected you were going to do a deuced - sight more. You have been there now—let’s see—thirteen months. - You are doing what you did when you went there—sawing up miscellany, - boiling down news notes, grinding out a lot of departments which the - office boy might do, if his own work weren’t more important. In a word - you’ve just gone on to the threshold, and you’ve screwed yourself down to - the floor there—and from all I hear you are likely to stay there all - your life, while other fellows climb over your head to get into the real - places.” - </p> - <p> - “From all you <i>hear?</i> What do you mean by that—who’s been - telling you about me?” - </p> - <p> - “That you shan’t know, my boy. It is enough that I <i>have</i> heard. You - haven’t fulfilled your promise. I thought you had the makings of a big man - in you; I believed that all you needed was the chance, and you would rise. - You were given the chance—put right in on the ground floor, and - there you are, just where you were put. You haven’t risen worth a cent.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you expect a fellow to do? Get to be editor-in-chief in thirteen - months? What could I do that I haven’t done? There have been no vacancies, - so no one has climbed over my head. I’ve done the work I was set to do—and - done it well, too. What more can you ask?” - </p> - <p> - Seth spoke in an aggrieved tone, for this attack seemed as unjust as it - had been unexpected. - </p> - <p> - John replied, “Now keep cool, youngster! Nobody expected you to get to be - editor-in-chief in thirteen months, so don’t talk nonsense. And I am not - blaming you for not getting promotion, when there have been no vacancies. - What I do mean, if you want to know, is that you have failed to make a - good impression. You are not in the line of promotion. Workman doesn’t say - to himself when he thinks of you ‘There’s a smart, steady, capable young - man on whom we can count, who’s able to go as high as we are able to put - him.’ No! instead of that he says—but no, never mind. I don’t want - to hurt your feelings.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you are mighty considerate, all at once,” retorted Seth, angrily. “Go - on! Say what you were going to say! What is it that Workman says, since - you’ve been spying on me behind my back?” - </p> - <p> - “Now you are talking like a fool,” said the elder brother, keeping his - temper. “I haven’t been spying on you. I have only been commenting on - facts which have come to my knowledge without seeking and which were - brought to me by one who has your interests at heart. I have only been - talking to you as I ought to talk, with the sole idea of benefiting you, - helping you. If you don’t want to hear me, why I can shut up.” - </p> - <p> - Seth did not reply for a minute or so; then he growled moodily: “Go ahead! - Let’s hear it all.” - </p> - <p> - “The ‘all’ can be said in a few words. You have been wasting your time. I - grant that you have done your work well enough to escape blame—but - what credit is there in that? a million mechanics do that every day. - Instead of improving yourself, elevating and polishing yourself, by good - reading, by studying the art of writing, above all by choosing your - associates among men who are your superiors, and from whom you can learn, - you have settled down in a Dutch beer saloon, making associates out of the - commonest people in town, and having for your particular chum that - rattle-headed loafer Tom Watts. Do you suppose Mr. Workman doesn’t know - this? Do you suppose he likes it, or that it encourages him to hope for - your future?” - </p> - <p> - Seth was silent longer than ever, this time. When he spoke it was to utter - something which he instantly regretted: “I haven’t been able to gather - from your old friends that you were altogether a bigot, yourself, on the - subject of beer, when you were my age.” - </p> - <p> - Fortunately John did not get angry; Seth honestly admired and envied his - elder brother’s good temper as he heard the reply: - </p> - <p> - “That’s neither here nor there. Perhaps I did a good many things that I - want you to avoid. Besides, there was nothing in me. I am good enough as - far as I go, but if I had worked on a daily paper till my teeth all fell - out, I should never have got any higher than I was. With you it is - different; you can go up to the head of the class if you are a mind to. - But the beer saloon isn’t the way—and Tom Watts isn’t the guide.” - </p> - <p> - “He is the only friend I have got. What was I to do? It is easy enough to - talk, John, about my knowing good people and all that, but <i>how?</i> - That is the question? It isn’t fair to blame me as you do. All the men - like Workman and Samboye—I suppose you mean them—hold - themselves miles above me. Do you suppose I’ve ever seen the inside of - their houses or of their club? Not I! You dump a young countryman in a - strange city, new at his work, without knowing a solitary soul—and - then you complain because he gets lonesome, and makes friends with the - only people who show any disposition to be friendly with him. Do you call - that fair play?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, there’s something in that,” John replied, meditatively. “Some time - I’m going to write a leader on the organized indifference of modern city - society to what becomes of young men who deserve its good offices and - drift into beer saloons because they are not forthcoming. It would make - the <i>Banner</i> immensely solid with orthodox people.” - </p> - <p> - “You wouldn’t have wanted me to go to the Young Men’s Christian - Association, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “No-o, I don’t know that I would. I don’t know, after all, that you could - have done much differently. But you’ve done enough of it, do you - understand? You have served your time; you have taken your diploma. It is - time now to quit. And I can put you on to a man, now, who will help you on - the other tack. Do you see Ansdell, ahead there?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes;—is he the man who told you about Workman and me?” - </p> - <p> - John ignored the question. “Ansdell is one of the cleverest men going; - he’s head and shoulders over anybody else there is in Tecumseh, or in this - part of the State. For you to know him will be a college education in - itself. He is more than a big lawyer, he is a student and thinker; more - than that, he is a reformer; best of all, he is a man of the world, who - has sown more wild oats than would fill Albert’s new bins, and there’s not - an atom of nonsense about him. He knows about you. We’ve talked you over - together. He understands my idea of what you ought to be, and he can help - you more than any other man alive—and what is more he will.” - </p> - <p> - “It was he who told you about me, wasn’t it?” Seth persisted. - </p> - <p> - “If you will know, it was and it wasn’t. All he said was that he had heard - Workman speak of you; that he had got the idea from his tone that you were - not making the most of your opportunities; that he thought this was a - great pity; and that if he could be of any use to you he would be very - glad. That is all—and not even your sulkiness can make anything but - kindness out of it.” - </p> - <p> - This practically ended the dialogue, for the others had stopped to let the - brothers come up, and John shortly after left the party. - </p> - <p> - The three men had a long stroll back to the hillside road, with a still - longer lounge on the grass under the elms by the bridge. Seth watched and - listened to this swarthy, boyish-looking mentor who had, so to speak, - thrust himself upon him, very closely, as was natural. Did he like him? It - was hard, he found, to determine. Mr. Ansdell was extremely opinionated. - He seemed to have convictions on almost every subject, and he clung to - them, defended them, expanded them, with almost tearful earnestness. His - voice was as strong and powerful as his figure was diminutive; he talked - now chiefly about the Tariff, which he denounced with a vibrating - intensity of feeling. Seth knew nothing about the Tariff, or next to - nothing, but he admired what Ansdell said, mainly because it was said so - well. But he grew quite enthusiastic in his endorsement when he heard his - Editor, Mr. Samboye, used as a typical illustration of the dishonesty with - which public men treated that question. After that he felt that it would - be easy to make friends with Mr. Ansdell. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI.—DEAR ISABEL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the last day - but one of Seth’s vacation on the farm. He was not sorry, although the - last week, by comparison, had been pleasant enough. He had seen a good - deal of Mr. Ansdell, who interested him extremely, and who had come for - him three or four times for long walks in the fields. He sat now in the - living room near Isabel, dividing his attention between her and his book—one - of Albert’s innumerable novels. The desultory conversation mixed itself up - with the unfolding work of fiction so persistently that he presently gave - over the attempt to read, and drew his chair nearer to his sister-in-law. - It was raining outside, and wet weather always made her want to talk. She - said: - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, Seth, if you have noticed any change in Alvira.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I can’t say that I have. In fact, she seems to me the one person - about the place who has <i>not</i> altered a bit.” - </p> - <p> - “See what eyes men have! Why, she has grown ages older. She goes about now - muttering to herself like an old, old woman. And the way she looks at one, - sometimes, it is enough to give one the chills. I tell Albert often that I - am almost afraid to have her in the house.” - </p> - <p> - Seth chuckled audibly, in good-natured derision. “What a mountain out of a - mole hill! Why Alvira has glared at people that way, with her little - black-bead eyes, ever since I was a boy. She doesn’t mean anything by it,—not - the least in the world. The trouble is, Isabel, that you let your - imagination run away with you. You are desperately lonesome here, and you - amuse yourself by conjuring up all sorts of tragic things. You will have - Aunt Sabrina a professional witch next thing you know, and Milton a mystic - conspirator, and this plain old clap-boarded farm house a castle of - enchantment.” - </p> - <p> - He had never before assumed even this jocose air of superiority over his - blond sister-in-law, and he closed his sentence in some little trepidation - lest she should resent it. But no, she received it with meekness, and only - protested mildly against the assumption underneath. - </p> - <p> - “No, I am sure there is something in it. She is brooding about Milton. Not - in any sentimental way, you know, but it used to be understood, I think, - that they were to marry, and now he carries himself way above her. Why, I - can remember, as long ago as when I visited here that summer, when we were - all boys and girls and cousins together, I heard your mother say they - would make a match of it some time. But now he avoids the kitchen and her. - It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it, for me to be speculating in this way - about the love affairs of the servants. But you are driven to it here. You - have no idea how grateful one gets to be, here in the country, for the - smallest item of human gossip.” - </p> - <p> - Seth was still considering whether it was possible for him, in careful - language, to suggest his own—or rather the Lawton girl’s—view - of the Milton-Alvira affair, when Isabel spoke again: - </p> - <p> - “Speaking of gossip, there is something I have been tempted half a dozen - times to mention to you—something I heard almost every day during - the little time that the women round-about were calling on me. You will - guess what I mean—the talk about you and Annie.” - </p> - <p> - Seth did not immediately answer, and she continued: - </p> - <p> - “Of course, you know, Seth, that I wouldn’t speak of it if I thought it - would be distasteful to you. But I know it used to be the idea that you - two were marked for each other. I have heard ever so much about it since - we have lived here. And yet you don’t seem to me to be at all like lovers—hardly - even like affectionate cousins. I think she has rather avoided the house - since you have been here, although that, of course, may be only - imagination. She is such a dear, good girl, and I am <i>so</i> fond of - her, but still I can hardly imagine her as your wife. You don’t mind my - speaking about it, do you?” - </p> - <p> - Seth was still at a loss what to say, or, better, how to say it. While she - had been speaking the contrast between the two young women, which had been - slumbering in his mind for a year, had risen vividly before him. The - smile, half-deprecating, half-inviting, with which she looked this last - question at him, as she laid the everlasting embroidery down, and leaned - slightly forward for a reply, gave the final touch to his vanishing - doubts. - </p> - <p> - “Mind <i>your</i> speaking about it? No, no, Isabel.” He scarcely knew his - own voice, it was so full of cooing softness. “I am glad you did—for—for - who has a better right? No, there is nothing in the gossip. Our people—my - mother, her grandmother—had it in mind once, I believe, but Annie - and I have never so much as hinted at it between ourselves. Ever since - mother’s death old Mrs. Warren has, however, taken a deep dislike to me—you - remember how she forbade Annie to go with us on that fishing trip—but - even without that——” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I shan’t forget that fishing trip,” Isabel whispered, still with the - tender smile. - </p> - <p> - “Nor I, you may be very sure.” The caressing tone of his voice sounded - natural to him now. “As I was saying, even if we two young people had once - thought of the thing, I fancy it would be different now, anyway. <i>Then</i>, - I was going to be a farmer. <i>Now</i>, of course, that is all changed. My - career is in the city, in circles where Annie would not be at home. She is - a dear, good girl, as you say: nobody knows that better than I do. But you - must admit she <i>is</i>—what shall I say?—rural. Now that I - have got my foot on the ladder, there is no telling how far I may not - climb. It would be simply suicide to marry a wife whom I perhaps would - have to carry up with me, a dead weight.” - </p> - <p> - The youngster was not in the least conscious of the vicious nonsense he - was talking. In the magnetic penumbra of Isabel’s presence his words - seemed surcharged with wisdom and good feeling. And the young woman, too, - who was four years his senior, and who should have known better, never - suspected the ridiculous aspect of the sentiments to the expression of - which she listened with such sweet-faced sympathy. We <i>are</i> such - fools upon occasion. - </p> - <p> - “Besides, there is no reason why I should think of marriage at all, for a - long time to come—at least not until I have made my way up in my - profession a bit. When the time does come, it will be because I have found - my ideal—for I have an ideal, you know, a very exalted one.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her keenly, blushing as he did so, to discover if she had - caught the purport of his words; then he addressed himself, with an - absence of verbal awkwardness at which he was himself astonished, to - making it more clear. - </p> - <p> - “I mean, Isabel, that my brother has won a prize which would make anything - less valuable seem altogether worthless in my eyes. If there is not - another woman in the world like my brother Albert’s wife, then I shall - never marry.” - </p> - <p> - “Brother Albert’s wife” looked up at the speaker for an instant—a - glance which seemed to him to be made of smiles, sadness, delight, - reproach and many other unutterable things; then she bent over her work, - and he fancied that the pretty fingers trembled a little between the - stitches. There was a minute of silence, which seemed a half hour. At last - she spoke: - </p> - <p> - “Does your brother impress you as being a particularly happy man? I won’t - ask a similar question about his wife.” - </p> - <p> - Seth found it necessary to stand up, to do this subject justice. “No!” he - answered. “He doesn’t deserve such a wife. But because one man is - incapable of appreciating a treasure which he has won, it’s no reason why - another man shouldn’t—shouldn’t say to himself ‘I will either marry - that kind of woman or I’ll marry none.’ Now, <i>is</i> it, Isabel?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps this wife is not altogether the treasure you think she is,” the - young woman answered, with the indirection of her sex. - </p> - <p> - Seth found words entirely inadequate to express his dissent. He could only - smile at her, as if the doubt were too preposterous to be even suggested, - and walk up and down in front of her. - </p> - <p> - Still intent upon her work, and with her head inclined so that he saw only - a softened angle of face beneath the crown of glowing light-hued hair, she - made answer, speaking more slowly than was usual with her, and with - frequent pauses: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think you know all my story, though it is a part of your family’s - history on both sides. You remember my father—a sporting, - horse-racing man of the world, and you know that my mother died when I was - a baby. You knew me here, one summer, as a visiting cousin, and we played - and quarrelled as children do. Now you know me again as your brother’s - wife—but that is all. You know nothing of the rest—of how my - father, proud about me as he was common in other things, kept me mewed up - among governesses and housekeepers in one part of the house, while his - flash companions rioted in another part; of how my wretched, chafing - girlhood was spent among servants and tutors, with not so much as a - glimpse of the world outside, like any Turkish girl; of how, when your - brother, because he was a cousin, did become the one friend of my father’s - who might be invited into the drawing room, and be introduced to me, and - took a fancy that he would like to marry me, I welcomed even such a chance - for emancipation, and almost cried for joy; and of how I woke up afterward—no, - this is what you do not know.” There was a considerable pause here. “And I - do not know why I tell this to you now, except that I want you to - understand.” - </p> - <p> - “I <i>do</i> understand, Isabel.” - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact he did not understand at all, but he thought he did, - which, for present purposes, came to the same thing. - </p> - <p> - “And you can realize,” she went on, “how I feel at the thought of staying - here the rest of my life—or, even if we go elsewhere—of having - my life mapped out for me without any regard to my wishes and aspirations, - while you are just pluming your wings for soaring, and can fly as high as - you like with no one to gainsay you. Oh, what it must be to be a man!” She - was looking up at him now, with enthusiasm supplanting the repining in her - eyes. “And you love your work, so, too! You are so clever and capable! You - can be anything you like in your profession—and it is impossible - that I should ever be anything that I want to be.” - </p> - <p> - A month ago, when he first came to the farm, this calm assumption of his - ability to carve whatever part he desired out of the journalistic cake - would have fallen upon Seth like cruel and calculated sarcasm. As it was, - he winced a little under its exaggeration, but the substance pleased him. - He squared his shoulders unconsciously as he answered: - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am only at the threshold as yet, but if there is any such thing - as doing it, I am going to push my way on. It doesn’t seem so easy always, - when you are right in the thick of the fight, but now, after my rest here, - I feel like an eagle refreshed. I am full of new ideas and ambitions. I - owe a good deal of it to Ansdell, I suppose. You never saw such a fellow - for making everybody believe as he does, and take an exalted view of - things, and long to be doing something great. John prescribed him to me as - a doctor would some medicine, and I took him more or less under protest, - but I feel immensely better already.” - </p> - <p> - Isabel took only a languid interest in the inspiring qualities of this - prodigy, and reverted to her own grievance: - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you will go and conquer your position. I will stay here and count - those miserable poplars across the road—did you ever see a more - monotonous row?—and work anti-macassars for no one to see, and mope - my heart out. Why, do you know, I haven’t one single correspondent!” - </p> - <p> - The full enormity of the situation thus revealed was lost upon Seth, who - had never written more than half-a-dozen letters in his life, and did not - see why people who did not have to write letters should want to do so. But - he said “Indeed!” as compassionately as he could. - </p> - <p> - “No, not one. I did think you might have taken pity on me, but for all the - year that you have been away, I have never heard a word from you.” - </p> - <p> - “I wrote once or twice to Albert,” Seth answered, tentatively, to occupy - time until he could turn around in his mind the immense suggestion - involved in this complaint. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and I used to hear at the breakfast table—‘Oh, by the way, - Aunt Sabrina, Seth sends his love to you and Isabel—’ only this and - nothing more! What is the good of having a literary man in the family, if - he doesn’t write you long, nice letters?” The vista which had flashed - itself before Seth’s mental vision was filled with dazzling light. He - could not mask the exultation in his voice as he asked: - </p> - <p> - “Do you really want me to write to you?” - </p> - <p> - “You ought not to have waited to be asked,” she said, smiling again. “Yes, - you shall write me—and long letters too, mind—as often as you - like.” She added after a moment’s pause, in which both had been turning - over the same idea, “You needn’t be afraid of writing too often. The - bundle from the post office always comes to me in the morning, hours - before <i>he</i> gets downstairs. Dana brings it up when he comes back - from the cheese-factory, and it never goes into any one’s hands but mine. - Beside, henceforth I shall watch for it all the more carefully.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Next morning Seth prepared once again to leave the homestead, but this - time with a light heart and a gay demeanor. A month’s absence had served - so to remodel his views of the <i>Chronicle</i>, that he already felt - himself to be a personage of importance, in its control. He had been - constantly spoken of in the village as “one of the editors” of that - journal, and found so much pleasure in the designation that he had come to - use it in thinking of himself. He felt himself fired, too, with new - enthusiasm and power by his talks with Ansdell, and he believed, not only - that he saw where his past errors had lain, but that he knew now the trick - of success. Above all, he was to write long letters to Isabel, and receive - answers equally long and nice from her, and—this gave him an - especial sense of delight—it was all to be a secret between them. - </p> - <p> - The sun shone brightly, too, after the rain, as if to be in harmony with - his mood. Albert was more affable than he had been before, and after - breakfast, and while the carriage was being brought around, gave him some - cigars for the journey, and a $20 bill for pocket money. These were - pleasant preludes to a little brotherly conversation. - </p> - <p> - “I wish you would hurry up and get to have a say on the <i>Chronicle</i> - as soon as you can, Seth,” said the lawyer, holding him by the lappel in - fraternal fashion. “You can help me there, help me very materially. I am - going to be nominated for Congress in this district next year—don’t - whisper about it yet, but I’ve got it solid. I haven’t let any grass grow - under my feet since I moved here, and they can’t beat me in the - Convention. But the <i>Chronicle</i> can do a good deal in the election, - and I look to you for that. I am not going to Washington without knowing - my business after I get there. There is a big thing on hand, big for me, - big for you too. Good-bye now, my boy; I must get upstairs to my writing. - You won’t forget!” - </p> - <p> - No, Seth promised, very cordially and heartily, he would not forget. - </p> - <p> - When his traps had been piled again into the carriage, and he said - good-bye to his Aunt and to Alvira, no Isabel was to be seen. She had been - at breakfast, but had subsequently disappeared. Seth went into the living - room—no one was there. He opened the door to the stairs and called - out her name—no answer. As he closed the door again, he heard the - faintest tinkle imaginable from a piano key. He had not thought of the - parlor, which was ordinarily unused, but he hastened to it now. Isabel - stood at the instrument, her head bowed; her finger still pressing the - key. She turned with a dear little exclamation, which might be either of - surprise or satisfied expectancy, and held out her hand. - </p> - <p> - “So you <i>wouldn’t</i> go, after all, without saying good-bye to me!” - </p> - <p> - “Why, Isabel, you know better!” answered Seth, still very downright for - his years. He was actually pained at her having fancied him capable of - such a thing, and while he held her hand, he looked at her with mild - reproach in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, do I?” she answered, rather inconsequently. Then she sighed, and - bowed her fair head again. “Have you given it a thought at all—how - lonely it will be after you are gone for—for those who are left - behind? I can’t bear to think of it—I came in here because I - couldn’t stand and see the horses at the door, and the preparations for - your going. It is as if the tomb door were swinging back on me again. I am - foolish, I know—” here the words were much hampered in their flow by - incipient sobs—“but if you could realize my position—the awful - desolation of it, the—the—” She broke down altogether, and, - with the disengaged hand, put her handkerchief to her eyes. - </p> - <p> - Seth had never seen a young and beautiful woman in tears before, off the - stage, but his racial instincts served him in the emergency. He gently - took her hand down again, holding them both, now, in his. He told her, - again surprising himself by the smoothness and felicity of his words, how - delightful she had made his visit, how deeply he prized her sympathy and - compassionated her lot, and how the pangs of regret at parting were only - solaced by the thought that she had permitted him to write. Then he kissed - her—and hurried out to the carriage. - </p> - <p> - The handsome, high-bitted grays made short work of the drive to Thessaly - station, where John was waiting to have a parting word, so that Seth - scarcely had time to collect his thoughts and settle accounts with - himself, before the train started. Three hours later when he got off at - Tecumseh, he had progressed no further in his work of striking a moral - balance than: - </p> - <p> - “After all, she is my cousin as well as my sister-in-law.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII.—AN UPWARD LEAP. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HAT man of - achievement cannot recall some one short period of his life which seems to - transcend in significance and value all the rest of his career—when - great things for which he had only unconsciously waited came to him - without the asking; when the high court of events rendered its sudden, - unexpected verdict of success, without costs to him who had never made a - plea; when the very stars in their courses seemed to have privily - conspired to fight for him? How swift, inexplicable, even amazing it all - was! And yet how simple too! And when the first flush of astonishment—half - delight, half diffidence—had passed, how natural it all seemed; how - mind and manners and methods all expanded to meet the new requirements; - how calmly and as a matter of course the dignity was worn, the increment - appropriated, the mental retina adapted to the widened focus! How easily, - too, he sloughed off his own conviction that it was all pure luck, and - accepted the world’s kind judgment of deserved success! Who is it that - accuses the world, and rails at its hardness of heart? What man among us - all, in the hour of honest introspection, does not know that he is rated - too high, that he is in debt to the credulity, the generosity, the dear - old human tendency to hero-worship, of his fellows? - </p> - <p> - This is an extract from a letter which the successful Seth Fairchild wrote - a few months ago. Chronologically, it is dated only a couple of years - after the occurrences with which we are now concerned—but to him an - interval of decades doubtless seemed to separate the periods. Perhaps the - modesty of it is a trifle self-conscious, and the rhetoric is of a - flamboyant kind which he will never, apparently, outgrow, but at all - events it shows a disposition to be fair as between himself and history. - The period of great fortune, to which he alludes, is to be glanced at in - this present chapter—to be limned, though only in outline, more - clearly no doubt than he himself could be trusted to do it. For, though a - man have never so fine a talent for self-analysis, you are safe to be - swamped if you follow him a step beyond your own depth. In cold fact, Seth - could no more tell how it was that, within one short year, he rose from - the very humblest post to become Editor of the <i>Chronicle</i>, than - Master Tom here can explain why he has outgrown his last summer’s - knickerbockers while his twin brother hasn’t. - </p> - <p> - He had been back at his work in Tecumseh only a month when word came to - the office one morning that Mr. Tyler could not come—that he had - been seriously injured in the havoc wrought by a runaway horse. It was too - early for either editor or proprietor to be on the scene, and Arthur Dent - at that hour was the visible head of the staff. He and Seth had scarcely - spoken to each other for months—in fact since that disagreeable - evening encounter—but he walked over now to our young man’s desk and - said: - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Fairchild, you would better take the News to-day. Tyler has been - badly hurt.” - </p> - <p> - Marvelling much at the favoritism of the selection, for Dent had not only - passed Murtagh over but had waived his own claims of precedence, Seth, - changed desks. He got through the work well enough, it appeared, but he - mistrusted deeply his ability to hold the place. Mr. Samboye did not seem - to approve his promotion, though he said nothing, and the manner in which - Mr. Workman looked at him in his new chair seemed distinctly critical. - </p> - <p> - After the paper had gone to press, and some little routine work against - the next morning’s start was out of the way, he wavered between idling the - remaining two hours away among the exchanges, or attempting an editorial - article for the morrow, such as Mr. Tyler occasionally contributed. His - former experience with Mr. Samboye dismayed him a bit, but he concluded to - try the editorial experiment again. Some things which Ansdell had said one - day on the Silver question remained in his mind, and he made them the - basis of a half-column article. He was finishing this when the office-boy - told him Mr. Workman wished to see him below. He took his Silver article - with him, vaguely hoping, hardly expecting, to be congratulated on his - day’s work, and told to keep the desk. - </p> - <p> - Seth’s impressions of his employer were that he was a hard, peremptory - man, and he searched his face now for some sign of softness in vain. Mr. - Workman motioned him to a seat, and said abruptly: - </p> - <p> - “You were on the News desk to-day. Did you take it yourself, or were you - sent there?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Dent told me to take it, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Why didn’t he take it himself, or put Murtagh on?” - </p> - <p> - Seth had it in mind to explain that Murtagh did not come down early - enough, but he remembered how strenuous the rules were in the matter of - matutinal punctuality, and concluded to say simply that he didn’t know. - Mr. Workman looked at him for a moment, made some arabesque figures with - his pencil on the edge of the blotter, looked at him again, and then said, - in a milder tone than Seth had supposed his voice capable of: - </p> - <p> - “I may as well be candid with you. I have been very much disappointed in - you so far. You haven’t panned out at all as your brother led me to expect - you would.” - </p> - <p> - This was a knock-down blow. Poor Seth could only turn his copy about in - his hands and stammer: “I am very sorry. In what way have I failed?” - </p> - <p> - “It would be hard to tell exactly in what way. I should say it was in a - general failure to be the sort of young man I thought you were going to - be. You have shown no inclination, for example, to write anything—and - yet your brother praised you up to the skies as a writer.” - </p> - <p> - “But what was the good? I did write a long paragraph when I first came - here, and handed it in to Mr. Samboye, and he tore it up before my eyes! - That would be enough to discourage anybody!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he did that with you too, did he?” Mr. Workman made more arabesques - on his blotter, shading them with great neatness. - </p> - <p> - Seth thought this was a favorable opportunity to get in his Silver - article, and handed it to the proprietor with a word of explanation. Mr. - Workman read it over carefully and laid it aside without a syllable of - comment. There was nothing in his face to show whether he liked it or not. - He surrounded all his penciled figures with a wavy border, and said again: - </p> - <p> - “Then there are your associations. Before ever you came I was discouraged - at the amount of money and time and health my young men were squandering - in saloons. It had become a scandal to the town. I get a young man in from - the country, whose habits are vouched for as perfect, with an idea that he - will influence the rest, and lo and behold! he becomes the boss guzzler of - the lot!” - </p> - <p> - “There is a good deal of justice in that, Mr. Workman—or there was. - But since I’ve been back this time it has been changed. I have moved into - another boarding house where I have a room to myself, and I have read at - home almost every evening when I was not with Mr. Ansdell. I think I see - the folly of that old way, as clearly as any one can.” - </p> - <p> - “Ansdell and I had a long talk about you the other day. It was he who gave - me my first idea that there was anything in you. He is something of a - crank on certain subjects, but he knows men like a book. I have been - saying to myself that if he liked you there must be more in you than I had - discovered. If I am right in this, now is your time to show it. It is a - toss up, the doctors say this afternoon, whether poor Tyler lives or dies. - In any case he won’t be about in months. You can keep on at the desk for a - while. We’ll see how you make it go.” - </p> - <p> - The next afternoon, when the inky boy brought up the damp first copies - from the clanging, roaring region of the press, Seth was transfixed with - bewilderment at seeing his article in the position of honor on the - editorial page. While he still stared at it, amazed and troubled, Mr. - Samboye with an angry snort swung around in his chair to face him: - </p> - <p> - “Is this Silver thing yours?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “And it is your conception of the ethics of journalism, is it, to sneak - leaders into the composing, room without authority?” - </p> - <p> - “I sneaked nothing in! I gave the copy to Mr. Workman last night. I am as - much surprised to see it the leader as you are.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Samboye rose abruptly, and strode through the room to the stairs. They - were ricketty at best and they trembled, the whole floor trembled, under - his wrathful and ponderous tread. - </p> - <p> - The fat-armed foreman, who was in on his eternal quest for copy, had heard - this dialogue. He grinned as the Editor slammed the door below, and - chuckled out “He’ll get his comb cut now. The boss ordered your thing to - be the leader himself.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Samboye presently returned with his broad face glowing crimson, and - seated himself at his work again in gloomy silence. He made more erasures - than usual, and soon gave it up altogether, taking his hat and stick with - an impatient gesture, and stamping his way out. - </p> - <p> - Time went on. The luckless Mr. Tyler died, and Seth became confirmed in - his place. He had developed more strongly, perhaps, than any other one - trait, the capacity for system, and he was able to so remodel and expedite - the routine work of the News desk that he had a good deal of time for - editorial writing. His matter was never again given the place of honor, - but it came to be and important and regular feature of the page. - </p> - <p> - He worked hard on the paper—and almost equally hard, by spells, at - home evenings. He did drop in at Bismarck’s or some like place, for a few - moments now and then, but he was careful to avoid games, or any further - intimacy with habitués. Had it not been for Ansdell and Dent, this part of - his new regimen would have been well nigh impossible, for the gregarious - instinct was strong in him—as it is in any young man worth his salt—and - associations of some sort were as necessary as food to him. He had - discovered, long before this, that Dent was an old acquaintance of - Ansdell’s, and that he, in fact, had told the latter about Seth and his - profitless courses, and interested the lawyer in his case. - </p> - <p> - He had learned, too, that this pale “Young Man Christian” as Watts had - called him derisively, had from the first been well-disposed toward him, - and, when the emergency of Tyler’s absence came up, had waived alike his - own claims to preferment and his justifiable personal pique, and thrust - Seth forward into the place because he felt that he needed some such - incentive to make a man of himself. This was very high conduct, and Seth - tried hard to like Dent a great deal in return. He never quite succeeded. - They were too dissimilar in temperament to ever become close friends. Seth - explained it to himself by saying that Dent was too cold and - non-emotional. But Dent himself never seemed conscious of anything lacking - in their relations, and they were certainly cordial and companionable - enough when they met, generally two evenings a week, at Mr. Ansdell’s - chambers. - </p> - <p> - Nothing less like the bachelor’s den dear to tradition can be imagined. - There were no pipes, for the lawyer smoked cigars and nothing else; there - was no litter of papers, opened books, pamphlets, scraps and the like, for - he was the soul of order; no tumbled clothes, odd boots, overflowing - trunks, etc., for he was the pink of neatness. He used to like to describe - himself in the words with which Evelyn paints his father, as “of a - thriving, neat, silent, methodical genius,” but it was always with a - twinkling eye, for surely no man was ever less silent. He was a born - talker—nervous, eager, fluent, with a delicate sense of the sound - and shading of words, a keen appreciation of all picturesque and salient - points, a rare delight in real humor, and, above all, with tremendous - capabilities of earnestness. Conceive such a man, if you can—for - there will never be another like him—and then endow him in your mind - with a marvelous accumulation of knowledge, with convictions upon every - conceivable subject, and with nothing short of a passion for enforcing - these upon those of whom he was fond—and some idea of the perfect - ascendancy he gained over Seth will have been obtained. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Ansdell was neither impeccable nor omniscient. There was much in both - his theories and his practice which would not commend itself to the moral - statutes of the age; he attempted no defense, being incredulous as to the - right of criticism upon personal predilections. But he had a flaming - wrath, a consuming, intolerant contempt, for men who were unable to - distinguish between private tastes and public duty. On this subject of - public duty he was so strenuous, so deeply earnest, that often there - seemed but a microscopic line between his attitude and fanaticism. But - this zeal had its magnificent uses. Often it swayed despite themselves the - politicians of his party who had least in common with him, and who - disliked him and vaunted their conventional superiority to him even while - they were being swept along toward nobler purposes than their own small - souls could ever have conceived, in the current of feeling which his - devotion had created. - </p> - <p> - He took complete possession of Seth’s mind, and he worked wonders upon it. - There is neither room here, nor power, to analyze these achievements. The - young man, heretofore through circumstances slow and mechanical, revealed - under the inspiration of this contact his true temperament. He became as - receptive as a sensitized plate in the camera. He seemed to take in facts, - theories, emotions, prejudices, beliefs, through the very pores of his - skin. He found himself hating one line of public action, and all its - votaries, vividly; he found himself thrilling with violent enthusiasm for - another line, and its exponents—such an enthusiasm as exiled men - tremble under when they hear the national air of their native land. - </p> - <p> - He was not always right. Very often indeed he did injustice, in his mind, - and in the types as well, to really well-meaning men who after their - lights were just as patriotic as he was. He condemned with undue ferocity - where he could not unreservedly praise, and, like most men of - three-and-twenty who sit on the tripod of judgment upon their fellow - mortals, he made many mistakes. But his mental and moral advance, despite - these limitations, was tremendously swift, and, in the main, substantial. - No man ever made the world budge an inch ahead who had not well developed - the capacity for indignation at weak and wrong things. This indignant - faculty grew and swelled in Seth’s nature like a strong vine, spreading - upon the tree of his admiration for his ideals. - </p> - <p> - He had a fair income now—twenty dollars a week—and he lived - very well, having a room in a good house, and taking his meals down town. - This was a condition of life which had always commended itself to his - imagination, and he revelled now in realising it. Of course he saved no - money. Through Ansdell and others he had made the acquaintance of a number - of Tecumseh men of position, and he had been asked a little to their - houses, but he had not gone more than once. This single experience did not - dismay or humiliate him; he flattered himself that he came out of it with - credit. But it did not interest him; it was wofully difficult to talk to - the women he met—to know what to say to them. It was the easier to - come back from this one excursion to his old Bohemian bachelor notions, - and justify them to himself. - </p> - <p> - The correspondence with Isabel had not been altogether so attractive as he - had anticipated. It had its extremely pleasant side, of course, but there - were drawbacks. She wrote well, but then most of her writing was about - herself, which grew wearisome after a time. It was difficult too, to find - time to answer her letters always when the philandering mood was upon him, - and in this matter he found himself curiously the creature of his moods. - The routine of daily newspaper toil had rendered him largely independent - of them in his ordinary work. He wrote about as well one day as another. - But there were seasons when he could not write to Isabel at all. Then he - would say to himself that the need of doing so was a nuisance, and in this - frame of mind he would generally end by reproaching himself for even - entertaining the idea of a mild flirtation with his brother’s wife. Not - that there was anything wrong in it, of course; he was quite clear on this - point; but it was so useless, such a gratuitous outlay of time and talent! - </p> - <p> - But then next day, perhaps, a good dinner, or a chance glimpse of fresh - romance in the exchanges, or some affecting play at the theatre of an - evening, would bring back all the glamour of her pretty, tender face, the - magic of her eyes, the perfume of her tawny hair. And then he could write, - and did write, often with a force of sweet rhetoric, a moving quality of - caressing ardor, which it is difficult to distinguish from love making. - </p> - <p> - To him these letters did not mean that at all; they were really abstract - reflections of the sentimental side of his nature, which might have been - evoked by almost any likable, intelligent woman. - </p> - <p> - But to the wife on the farm they seemed deeply, deliciously, personal. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII.—BOLTING THE TICKET. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the year of - a great political revival—coming none too soon. - </p> - <p> - It is a part of the history of human progress that grand moral movements, - once they have fulfilled their immediate purpose, swing backward to the - establishment of some new abuse. The net gain is, no doubt, century by - century, continuous. But to those who look for episodic interest rather - than epochal meaning the march of the race must often seem crab like—as - when a Henry VIII utilizes a reforming revolt to crush and plunder a vast - system of benefaction, and create a hard-fisted, commercial plutocracy - with one hand, while calling into existence with the other a permanent - class of starving poor; or when a Bonaparte makes the waning impetus of a - democratic uprising serve his imperial ambition, and converts the legions - of the Republic into the guards of a Caesar. - </p> - <p> - So, in our own time, in our own country, craft and greed had climbed to - the control of a great organization, baptized in the name of Freedom and - excited still with the thoughts of its tremendous achievements, and - diverted its forces to the service of base ends. - </p> - <p> - This ignoble mastery had not gone unchallenged. More than one revolt - against it had given promise, for a little, of success. But each in its - failure had but repeated the familiar experience of yeomanry against - trained troops, of sporadic, scattering popular impulses against the cool, - consecutive plans of organized power. But it is the fate of despotisms, - whether of a man or of a machine, to by excesses sap their own - foundations. There came a time when the political usurpers who, through - the listlessness of some citizens, the ancient prejudices of others, the - mean lust for profit and place of still a third class, had attained power, - went just a step too far. - </p> - <p> - As this is a romance, and not a political history, it is permitted to - avoid both dates and any details which might seem to fix a particular - occurrence, and ask the reader to conceive that the crisis grew out of the - manner in which these politicians obtained control of an imaginary but - important Convention—that they bribed delegates, that they forged - telegrams to secure a majority for themselves on the organizing committee, - and that they made drunk the poor tool they had selected for Chairman and - locked him in his hotel room that he might not escape them. It strains - credulity to assume all this, I know, but its acceptance is essential to - the story. Fortunately it is less difficult to credit the corollary—that - the decent people of the State, led by an honest press, rose <i>en masse</i> - and pulverized this machine at the following election. - </p> - <p> - It was at the outset of this crisis that Seth became Editor of the - Tecumseh <i>Chronicle</i>. The young man had been, it need scarcely be - said, deeply interested in the events which led up to it, and when the - first of the party papers came out frankly, the morning after the - Convention, refusing to support its nominations, he was in a tremor of - delight. He scarcely dared hope that the <i>Chronicle</i> would follow - their lead, but still he did hope. Mr. Samboye remained downstairs in - consultation with Mr. Workman longer than usual on that eventful forenoon. - They were settling the policy of the paper, of course, and the young news - editor, perfunctorily weeding out copy for the “first side,” was conscious - all the while of being eagerly anxious to know what this policy was to be. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Samboye presently came up, took his seat without the ordinary prelude - of conversation, and began writing. He finished his article, still without - a word to any one, and took it down to Mr. Workman. He was absent but a - few moments. On his return Seth asked him: - </p> - <p> - “Do we bolt the ticket?” - </p> - <p> - Before he could answer, a telegraph boy came running up the stairs (this - one actually did run) with a dispatch for Mr. Samboye. The editor opened - and read it in a puzzled way at first, then more carefully and with a - light of comprehension on his broad face. He folded the telegram up - carefully, put it into his inner vest pocket and said to Seth: - </p> - <p> - “No, we occupy a picturesque position on the top rail of the fence.” - </p> - <p> - The editor did not seem quite himself that day. He stayed about the - editorial room instead of going out to lunch, until the leader proof was - ready, and then he asked to read it himself, instead of letting it go in - the ordinary course to the proof-reader. He made a good many corrections - on it, which was unusual for him. Finally, about half-an-hour before the - paper went to press, he took his departure, saying briefly to Seth that he - would not return that day. - </p> - <p> - Two hours later the office boy summoned Seth to the counting-room below. - Mr. Workman sat alone at his desk, with the day’s <i>Chronicle</i> spread - out before him, and with the original proof-sheet of the leader in his - hand. He motioned Seth to close the doors, and to take a seat close beside - him. - </p> - <p> - “You have read this leader?” he asked, after a moment’s silence. - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you think of it?” - </p> - <p> - “I shouldn’t like to say all that I think of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Neither should I,” replied Mr. Workman with an iron-clad smile. He was - very pale, and Seth scented a storm in the manner in which the grim smile - faded from his face after an instant of hovering, as a gleam of wintry - sunshine passes off the snow. “There’s a story—a very curious story—back - of this leader. I only know part of it; perhaps you can help me to get at - the rest.” - </p> - <p> - Not knowing what to say, Seth remained silent. The proprietor continued: - “When this leader left my hands this morning, it bolted the ticket, out - and out. There was no mistake about it. It was squarefooted. As it is now, - it’s neither fish, flesh nor fowl. It condemns the Convention and the - frauds, but it practically says that the result must be accepted. The - worst of it is I didn’t see the paper until the edition had been worked - off. The alterations in the proof here, which make all the difference - between white and black, are in Samboye’s hand. Did he say anything to you - about it? Was anybody up in the editorial room to see him?” - </p> - <p> - “No one came up to see him; he said nothing to me except that we were on - the fence. That disgusted me so much that I asked nothing further.” - </p> - <p> - “Did he say that when he came up from here—or later, after he had - gone over the proof?” - </p> - <p> - “He said it when—or no, hold on—he received a dispatch just - before;” and Seth recounted the episode of the telegram. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Workman was much impressed with this. He covered his blotter thick - with scrolls and geometrical figures while he pondered it. At last he - spoke. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know where the telegram came from?—no, of course not. I - think I know about where, and I think I can guess about what it said. It - said that, in this matter of bolting tickets, one day’s delay might make - an immense amount of difference, and that it would be worth his while to - keep the <i>Chronicle</i> non-committal in its first issue by hook or by - crook. Take my word for it, that is what it said in substance. The fellows - who sent it were scared about the <i>Chronicle</i>. They knew what an - effect its course would have on the weeklies, most of which go to press - to-morrow. They couldn’t spend money better than in having us accept the - ticket, and not only commit ourselves but the country editors—and <i>they’ve - bought Samboye!</i>” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. The two men looked at each other. Finally - Workman said: - </p> - <p> - “The worst feature of it is, there is no way of getting at the thing—of - proving it. I suppose I could get an order compelling the Company to - produce the telegram, but I am not sure, and then it would be a big - scandal and a big expense.” He lapsed into pencil work again and sighed. - </p> - <p> - “But is Samboye that kind of man?” asked Seth. “Oh yes, I have no - illusions on that score. I very nearly caught him in a thing of this sort—on - a smaller scale, of course—three years ago.” - </p> - <p> - “But why then——” - </p> - <p> - “Why have I kept him? You were going to ask. Well, he is a good man in his - way. He is an immensely clever writer, if you don’t care much for solid - argument, and do care for decorative stuff, with a good deal of fun, and - epigram, and big words. People used to talk about his articles. I suppose - hundreds of people buy the <i>Chronicle</i> just to read them. Well, we - will have to lose those people, and all the others who will quarrel with - us for bolting the ticket. For she’s going to be bolted! So you better go - to bed early to-night, and eat raw meat for breakfast, for we want a - leader to-morrow that will make their hair curl.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean——” began Seth in a flutter of strange excitement. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you will have to take hold. Samboye shall never show his face in - that room again. That’s settled! I may get somebody else, later—we’ll - see. But you can carry it along for a time, can’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll try—but I am afraid——” - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t be afraid. In a campaign you simply want straightforward, - red-hot, to-the-point writing. It is the rest of the year, when one must - write general matter, that pulls on a man. Besides, Ansdell will help you - out, if you need him. Oh, yes, and that reminds me—your brother - Albert didn’t show to very good advantage in that Convention. He might - easily have made a better beginning in politics than that. From all - accounts he had the Dearborn County delegates in his pocket, and, although - these other scandals have diverted attention from it, I think the way they - ratted over was about the worst thing in the whole affair.” - </p> - <p> - “It wasn’t nice, for a fact,” said Seth. - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t had it mentioned in the paper, mostly on your account. But I am - not so clear about keeping silent next week, when the Congressional - Convention comes up. Your brother, I suppose, has Dearborn County solid - for his own candidacy. But here in Adams County the delegates are for - Ansdell—and of course he is our sort of man. I don’t think much of a - party paper interfering before the nomination is made, but this may be a - case where it will be necessary—especially if Abe Beekman, up in Jay - County, tries any of his funny work. However, it will be time enough to - cross that bridge when we get to it. Meanwhile, say not a word to anybody, - in the office or out of it, about what has happened. Just go ahead with - the work, and pay attention to no one.” - </p> - <p> - There was no scandal. Mr. Samboye took his punishment quietly, and left - Tecumseh shortly afterward, ostensibly on a long vacation. There was some - little gossip, but no whisper of the actual facts in the case. - </p> - <p> - Seth surprised himself by the excellence and evenness of his work in the - new position. Probably he will never do better or stronger writing than he - did in this his first campaign. For one thing, it is doubtful if any - political contest can ever again appeal to his enthusiasm, and stir all - his emotions to the glowing point of ardency, as this one did. In one - sense his new position was embarrassing, for a number of the old time - readers of the <i>Chronicle</i> refused to support it now against their - party, and some of them said very disagreeable things about the youngster - rattling about in Samboye’s shoes. But there was another class, a larger - class it seemed to him, who shared his enthusiasm, and, in their excited - admiration for the course of the paper, heaped praises upon him even - beyond his deserts. So he worked on, writing almost the entire page daily, - coming down early in the morning and staying long after the paper was out, - and giving scarcely a thought to the outside world. - </p> - <p> - He had barely seen Ansdell since his promotion. He felt an even greater - sense of loss in this than he would have done under ordinary - circumstances, for the tremendous mental outpouring to which he was daily - subjected made him almost famished, at times, for food in the form of - conversation with this man who, of all others, most sympathized with him. - </p> - <p> - But there was a difficulty in the way—of which Seth’s sensitiveness - made, no doubt, a great deal too much. The fight for the Congressional - nomination in the district was attracting attention all over the State, - and, as evil luck would have it, Seth’s brother was pitted against Seth’s - dearest friend. It was no ordinary contest, in which a man could with ease - maintain a friendly neutrality. Everywhere the struggle in the - Thirty-sixth District was regarded as a sample conflict, as embodying in - itself all the features of the larger issue between the machine and the - people. Albert Fairchild had identified himself so thoroughly with the - party organization, and had played so prominent a part in the scandals - which provoked the revolt, that his cause was distinctly that of the - politicians; while Ansdell was just as distinctively the representative of - the independent and rebellious element. In no other district of the State - were the lines so clearly drawn. - </p> - <p> - It was a fortnight or so after Seth’s assumption of the editorship that - the District Convention was held—at the little village of Tyre, some - dozen miles from Thessaly, up in Jay County. The <i>Chronicle</i> had - taken no part in the contest. No one doubted that its sympathies were with - Ansdell, but still it had not said so. The night before the Convention Mr. - Workman advised Seth to write to his brother, warning him that if he were - nominated the <i>Chronicle</i> could not support him. - </p> - <p> - “So long as we are in the bolting business, we might as well be hanged for - a sheep as a lamb,” said the proprietor. - </p> - <p> - It was not a pleasant task, but Seth performed it as graciously as he - could. - </p> - <p> - There was no news from Tyre next day save that Mr. Beekman of Jay was also - a candidate, and that the Convention was in a deadlock. The second day, - along with the news announcement that the Convention, after seventy-odd - fruitless ballots, had adjourned for a week, came a despatch from Albert - begging Seth to visit the farm for a couple of days, and talk the thing - over, before the <i>Chronicle</i> took action. Upon consultation with Mr. - Workman Seth replied that this was impossible, owing to the necessities of - his work. - </p> - <p> - Then there came a letter from Albert, brief, but very much to the point. - </p> - <p> - “<i>DEAR Brother: I am sorry if your work must suffer by your coming to - me, but I think I have a claim upon you superior to even that of the </i>Chronicle<i>. - If I have not, I ought to have. I decline to believe that, if you - represent the matter to him as really imperative, my former friend, Mr. - Workman, will place any obstacles in your way. But if he does I still - insist that your choice between him and me must be a final one. I do not - write a word to you about gratitude. I simply say, be here at the farm on - Sunday—or never again.</i> - </p> - <p> - “<i>Albert</i>.” - </p> - <p> - After this there was nothing to do but for Seth to telegraph that he would - come. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX.—THE WELCOME. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Seth walked - over from the Thessaly station, Sunday forenoon, to the farm, he was not, - it may be imagined, in a placid frame of mind. There lay before him an - interview with his brother which could not, in the nature of things, be - pleasant, and which might very easily be distinctly unpleasant. It was his - duty to say sundry things to Albert which were not in themselves nice, and - if Albert was still in the mood shown forth by his peremptory letter, - these remarks would very likely produce a scene. Seth was in no sense - afraid of his brother, nor had the thrifty thought that this brother was a - rich, childless man, to offend whom would be a gratuitous economic - blunder, ever entered his head. The youngster had no faculty whatever for - financial prudence. But he was grateful—almost ridiculously grateful—by - nature. The trait is not a rare one, even in these days when a new - civilization has substituted for individual patronage and beneficence the - thanks-to-nobody trade-unionism of universal conceit and rivalry, but it - was abnormally developed in the youngest of the Fairchilds. - </p> - <p> - He said to himself, as he crossed the fields toward the white and red - land-mark of house and barns on the side hill, that he owed everything in - the world to this brother. Whatever there might be in his public attitude - to condemn, however pernicious his politics might be, still it was his - fraternal feeling and generosity which had created the vast gulf between - Seth the plow-yokel and Seth the editor. These reflections brought no - comfort to the young man. - </p> - <p> - Some perverse agency whispered to him, as he strode along over the - stubble, that after all he had never really liked Albert; and this - liberality of his, too, might it not be a mere cheap mess of pottage, - thrown to Seth to console him for the loss of his rights in the farm? John - had always been incredulous as to Albert’s true goodness in this matter; - might there not be something in these suspicions? Seth tried manfully to - combat these ungenerous doubts, but they forced themselves upon his mind. - </p> - <p> - Then there was Albert’s treatment of his wife! Seth had never been clear - as to the exact nature of Isabel’s grievance against her husband. No - specific allegation of cruelty or neglect, much less of infidelity, had - ever been laid by her at Albert’s door in his brother’s hearing. Indeed, - so far as Seth’s observation went, Albert had always appeared to be a - decent enough sort of husband, complaisant even if somewhat indifferent, - and acquiescent to the verge of weakness, in her whims. He seemed to - refuse her nothing, in the matter of having her own way, and if he most - often broke the ruling conjugal dumbness by satirical comments on her - actions and opinions, he at least never seriously attempted to fetter - either. This sounded like the description of a tolerable husband, as - husbands go. But up against it was to be set Isabel’s plaintive, pitiful, - persistent assertion of unhappiness with him. And clearly she ought to - know what her husband was like a good deal better than an outsider could. - </p> - <p> - So the arguments did battle in Seth’s mind, as he climbed the last fence, - and felt his feet on ancestral soil. He had now only to cross a short - stretch of pasture land to be at his journey’s end. - </p> - <p> - Perfect silence rested on the farm. The fat cows lay lazily about him, - comfortably chewing the cud of sweet aftermath; the cluster of bright, - neat buildings fell into picturesque lines of composition before him, in - the soft, hazy sunshine of Indian summer. The background of scarlet and - ochre and deep purple-browns in the woods beyond, of warm mauve hills and - pale, fluffy clouds above; the shaggy old horse, standing in tranquil - bliss, with his head over the fence; the aged shepherd-dog stretched - asleep on the kitchen door-stone in the sunny distance—all brought - to him a sense of content and beauty which warmed his heart and calmed his - thoughts. The spell of the peaceful, restful scene soothed him. Then, as - by magic, the whole picture seemed to take on the charm of Isabel’s - presence. “I am to see her!” he said aloud, almost exultantly. - </p> - <p> - There had been no special pleasure in this prospect, a few hours before. - Indeed, it had been months since he had been conscious of a genuine desire - to meet his sister-in-law. At times of late it had even seemed to him that - a meeting would be a source of embarrassment, just as the necessity of - keeping up the clandestine correspondence presented itself often to him in - the light of a bore. - </p> - <p> - But now—yes! she was walking forth swiftly to meet him—coming - over the grass with a gliding haste which had a wealth of welcome in every - motion. The very genius of the mellow, warm-hearted season she seemed to - his eyes as she advanced, clad in some soft, indefinite stuff, - loose-flowing, and that in tint under the red noon sun could be the shadow - on golden grain, or the light on dark puce grapes, or the dim, violet haze - over the distant valley. She was near him now, beaming with unaffected - delight, reaching out her hands in greeting—and his heart went to - meet her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Seth! How good of you to come!” - </p> - <p> - She had almost thrown herself into his arms, and had stood upon tiptoe to - be kissed. He held himself back from the embrace, but he did kiss her, and - he swung her hands now in his, looking into her glowing eyes with tender, - responsive intentness, and smiling his joy. This reception did make him - very happy, but he had also a great uneasiness lest some of the folks - should be observing them from the windows of the house. - </p> - <p> - She divined his thoughts, and said, gayly: “They are all at church!” - </p> - <p> - “What? Albert too?” Seth knew that his brother was not of a religious - turn; but he swiftly bethought himself, and added “Oh, I forgot that - election is coming on.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” she chirruped, springing along by his side, her arm tight in his, - her walk reflecting exultantly her emotion, “he is in New York. He will be - back to-morrow. He has telegraphed me to have you wait.” She dropped into - a mock-serious tone: “That is, of course, if you would <i>like</i> to - wait?” She looked up archly: “Do you much mind waiting?” - </p> - <p> - “Do I <i>mind!</i>” He could only look his delight. His voice trembled. - </p> - <p> - She made a tiny skip, and lifted her face to him again, radiant with - happiness. “Do you know,” she said, “I could run and jump like any little - child, I am so wild with joy! It seems such an age since we were together - last! Only letters—but they were very nice, though. You dear boy, - who taught you to write such pretty letters—?” - </p> - <p> - He pressed her arm closer in his. “Who taught me everything that is - sweet?” he whispered. It was all very delicious, but still it troubled - him. - </p> - <p> - They entered the house, and he excused himself while he took his hand-bag - up to his old room, and made his toilet after the long hot walk. As he - occupied himself thus, and brushed his novel beard, his thoughts were much - perturbed. It was very far from his ideas to make love to his brother’s - wife. This bald statement of the situation which framed itself now in his - mind, almost for the first time, repelled and alarmed him. Yet it seemed - to sum up the state of affairs fairly. If there was not lovemaking in - every feature of that meeting out on the lawn, then his conceptions of the - tender passion were all at fault. - </p> - <p> - “By Jove, it mustn’t come to that!” he said to himself. “A fellow ought to - be able to be fond of his sister-in-law, and be pleasant to her, and - sympathize with her and all that, without going beyond the bounds, and - making a scoundrel of himself.” - </p> - <p> - And it was with a deep resolution to be careful, and watch all his words, - that he descended the stairs. He had taken out of his valise two front - pages of a Sunday newspaper, containing “Jeff Brigg’s Love Story,” which - he had saved a while before for Isabel, and he gave them now to her. - </p> - <p> - “Here is something I cut out for you, Isabel; it is a very pretty story, - and I know you will like it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how sweet of you! How well you know just what will please me most of - all! And you shall read it to me! The other stories you have sent me were - only moderately nice, because I had to read them by myself, but this—oh! - this will be enchanting!” - </p> - <p> - She arranged an easy chair—a low, capacious chair with light blue - the dominant color in its covering—close beside the window in the - parlor which overlooked the poplars, and seated herself in it. Seth - brought a hassock for her feet, and then put his own chair along side, - where he could see her, and still get a good light on the print. It was - not easy for him to begin the reading, so great was the fascination of - looking at his companion. The sunlight flared upon the white curtains - above her, and its reflections glowed back again from her crown of golden - braids, luminous against the azure of the chair, and tipped with soft - radiance her rounded profile, in cameo-relief against the deep olive of - the poplars. Isabel was an artist. - </p> - <p> - He made a beginning at last, and read until the democrat-wagon drove up in - the yard, with its load of church-goers. She made a little mouth at the - interruption. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose Sabrina will come in now, and dinner will be ready soon. But - afterwards we can be quiet again, for she always reads the Bible in her - own room Sunday afternoons.” - </p> - <p> - All through the cold dinner, despite the necessity of answering Aunt - Sabrina’s and Milton’s remarks, Seth found his mental vision fixed on that - beautiful profile against the leafy background; especially sweet was the - portrait when the eyes were closed, and the lovely fullness above the - lids, as in the face of a Madonna, was revealed in the wavering light. - </p> - <p> - The story was not to be finished that afternoon, for Elhanan Pratt and his - daughter dropped in almost before the meal was finished, and a little - later Annie Fairchild came. There was not even much consolation in the - pretty grimaces expressive of discontent which Isabel from time to time, - when the visitors were not looking, confided to Seth. It was a very dull - afternoon. - </p> - <p> - The venerable Mr. Pratt, a weazen, verbose little “gentleman-farmer,” who - wore a huge black satin stock over his high flaring collar opening behind, - and remained clean-shaven, in pious memory of Henry Clay and the coon - campaign, sat on the edge of his chair and droned commonplaces by the - hour. He evidently had an axe to grind by his visit, and he was much - disappointed by Albert’s absence. But if he could not see “the coming - Congressman,” as he called him once or twice, and sound that new political - magnate as to his own renomination for the Assembly, he could at least - enjoy the monopoly of a long conversation with the Editor of the Tecumseh - <i>Chronicle</i>, and impress that young man with the breadth and value of - his views. So Seth was forced to spend three dreary hours, answering as - briefly as might be, listening wearily, and stealing stray glances at the - three young women, who made a brighter group on the other side of the - parlor stove. Once or twice he tried tentatively to engraft himself upon - their conversation, and choke old Elhanan off, but the solemn little bore - relentlessly brought him back to the dry bones of politics. Thus it - happened that he had barely had an opportunity of exchanging a word with - his cousin Annie, when she stood up and said, “I must be going.” - </p> - <p> - He walked over to her now, and put his hand in a brotherly way on her - shoulder, as he helped her on with her cloak. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve scarcely had a word with you, Annie,” he said, smiling. “How is your - grandmother? I needn’t ask how <i>you</i> are. You grow prettier everyday. - And how do you get on with your school?”—for the girl was now - teaching in the district school house over the hill. - </p> - <p> - She answered, “Oh, grandmother is about the same; perhaps a little weaker, - but as bright mentally as ever. You are looking well, Seth, and quite the - man now. Your beard becomes you—doesn’t it, Isabel? We are so sorry - you can’t come to-morrow night. We see so little of you since you have - become a city man.” - </p> - <p> - “Sorry that I can’t come!” repeated Seth after her. - </p> - <p> - “Come where?” Isabel interposed with a ready explanation. “There is to be - a husking over at Crump’s to-morrow evening—the first of the season. - There will be a big party of young people, and Crump sent over by Annie an - invitation for us. But I have explained that you are here on business, - which may very likely occupy you to-morrow evening, and that in any case - you would have to write your leaders for the next day’s paper. We are ever - so sorry, Annie,” she added, turning to the school-teacher now, “but you - know this is a terribly busy time with Seth, and we mustn’t think of - letting our little country sociables interfere with his work. Some time, - soon, he will come for a real vacation, instead of a flying business trip, - and then we can monopolize him—and we will, too, won’t we, Annie?” - </p> - <p> - Annie smiled, a little faintly, as if her heart were not altogether in it, - and replied, “Yes, to be sure we will.” She added, to Seth, “I won’t say - goodbye. I suppose I shall see you again.” - </p> - <p> - He assented, and went to the door with her, and stood on the steps - watching her as she walked away in the autumn dusk. Decidedly she <i>was</i> - a pretty girl! - </p> - <p> - The Pratts, father and daughter, consented upon the shadowiest suggestion - of an invitation to stay and partake of the picked-up Sunday tea, and that - involved their spending the evening. Aunt Sabrina came in, and the talk - was dreary and general. So “Jeff Briggs” and his amatory affairs went over - to the morrow. - </p> - <p> - In the morning Seth walked over to Thessaly and saw John. The interview - depressed him. John had had some idea of following the <i>Chronicle’s</i> - lead, and bolting the State ticket, but the county politicians had bullied - him out of the thing by threatening the destruction of the job-printing - business connected with the <i>Banner of Liberty</i>, and the boycotting - of the paper itself. All his inclinations, too, were toward Ansdell in the - Congressional race; but Albert had loaned him some money, and, beside, he - couldn’t see his way clear to disregarding, openly at least, the fraternal - tie. He was consequently in a savage mood. - </p> - <p> - “I’m thinking of taking out the head-line of the paper this week,” he - growled, with a sardonic humor, “and putting in instead a cut of a runaway - slave, with a bundle over his shoulder, which is in the job-room here, - left over from the days when there was slavery in New York State, and - masters used to advertise in the old paper for fugitives. ‘<i>Banner of - Liberty</i> ’ indeed! By heaven, it ought to be ‘<i>Banner of - Bondage!</i>” - </p> - <p> - There was no comfort or profit in discussing the situation, either general - or local, with John. He neither knew nor cared, he swore, what Albert’s - chances were to dissolve the deadlock on the morrow. He might or he - mightn’t; it was all one to him, and apparently to the party, who were the——! - </p> - <p> - Seth left John to his bad temper and language, and returned to the farm in - the afternoon. A telegram from Albert awaited him. - </p> - <p> - <i>“New York, Oct. 19.—If possible conclude business, home to-night, - at latest to-morrow morning. Wait for me at all hazards.—Albert.”</i> - </p> - <p> - To provide against a possible delay over Tuesday, Seth devoted the - afternoon, and the earlier part of the evening, to writing matter for his - paper, which Dana was to convey to Thessaly for the early morning train, - when he went to the cheese-factory. If Albert was coming at all that - night, he would arrive about eight. - </p> - <p> - Nine o’clock came. Aunt Sabrina, after sitting in stem silence by the - living-room stove for an hour or two, looking at the wall-paper as her - brother Lemuel had been won’t to do, went up to bed with a frigid “good - night.” The farm people had all retired with the chickens, long before. - </p> - <p> - Scarcely raising his eyes from his writing, Seth remarked: - </p> - <p> - “How Aunt Sabrina has failed since I left the farm! She grows ever so much - like father. Poor old woman, she was so eager to have Albert come here, so - elated with the idea that the family was to be restored to social and - political dignity again—and now the apples seem to be all dead-sea - fruit to her. I can’t see that she takes the slightest interest in - Albert’s campaign. Odd, isn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - Isabel was sitting near the stove, around the corner of the table from - him. The reddish radiance reflected down from the shaded lamp fell upon - her rounded chin and her smooth white neck, dainty in tint as the ruffle - in which it lost itself. Above this lace at the back, as she bent over her - embroidery, some stray curling wisps of hair gleamed like gold in the - light. She replied: - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t that at all. She’s interested enough in the Congress idea, or - would be if she hadn’t something else on her mind. The prying old piece - found out, by quizzing Dana, about our writing to each other. She has got - it into her ridiculous old head, I feel sure, that there is something - between us. Didn’t you notice the way she eyed us at the dinner table - yesterday?” - </p> - <p> - Seth did not answer. His article was unfinished, but he suddenly found - himself in doubt whether it was not already long enough. He reflected, or - tried to reflect, for a moment, while the soft tones of her voice murmured - in his ears, then added a sentence which might serve as a conclusion, and - scrawled a dash underneath. - </p> - <p> - “There! I’m through!” he said, and looked up. - </p> - <p> - Her eyes were fixed upon his face. They were in the shadow of the tinted - lamp-shade, but they had a light of their own—a languorous, alluring - glow. He had never looked into such eyes before; they fascinated him, and - he knew, in a delicious trembling, that his own were answering them in - kind. - </p> - <p> - “You can read to me now,” she said, the rapt, wistful gaze melting into a - smile. “He will not come to-night.” - </p> - <p> - Seth took the story, as she gave it to him from her workbox, and glanced - over it to pick up the thread of the narrative where it had been dropped. - As he was still thus engaged, he felt her hand laid upon his, and, as - their eyes met again, heard her low, soft voice murmur: - </p> - <p> - “Do you know why I declined our invitation for the husking?” - </p> - <p> - There was a silence, which the young man felt that his face made full of - acquiescent meaning. - </p> - <p> - She answered her own question: “I wanted you here, all for myself.” - </p> - <p> - Seth lost himself in an uplifting, floating sensation of ethereal - beatitude. Her hand was in his now, warm and palpitating, and he raised it - to his lips. It was difficult to breathe, but the oppression in his breast - was all delight. He rose to his feet, his arms outstretched, his heart - beating in exultant tumult. He heard her whisper—he could scarcely - see her for the magnetic waving before his eyes—the refrain of the - story: “So strong and yet so gentle!” His lips were formed for the - passionate utterance—already framed in his heart—“My darling!” - when there came the sound of footsteps on the path without, and of a hand - upon the latch. - </p> - <p> - Seth mechanically took up the manuscript of his article, and turned toward - the door. Beneath an impassive mien, far more composed than he dared to - hope, there was the sensation of being hurled down, down, through the air, - to unwelcome earth. - </p> - <p> - It was Albert. He looked at the two cursorily but closely, and only said, - as he tossed his bag into a chair: - </p> - <p> - “Train was late. You go to bed at once, Isabel. I have particular business - with Seth.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX.—THE NIGHT: THE BROTHERS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>lbert seemed in an - amiable mood as, divesting himself of his outer garments, he drew up a - chair by the fire, offered Seth a cigar from his case and lighted one - himself. He examined Seth’s face by the flame of the match, as the latter - lighted his cigar, and appeared to be satisfied with the inspection. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down here,” he said pleasantly. “I want a good long talk with you. It - was too bad to keep you waiting so long, but there was no help for it. I - couldn’t see the people in New York that I wanted to see until to-day, and - it was only by good fortune that I caught the train as it was. Then we - were delayed on the road, of course. If an engineer on this one-horse line - should ever get a train through on time I believe he’d have a fit, just - from the shock of the thing. And then I had to wake up the man at the - livery stable in Thessaly—fancy his being asleep at eight o’clock!—and - he would only bring me as far as the foot of the hill, because he had been - up to a dance all the previous night. But of course, in my position now, - running for office, I couldn’t complain. Beside, I ought to be used to all - these little delights of rural existence by this time.” - </p> - <p> - Albert stretched his feet out comfortably on the rail of the stove, and - leaned back in his chair with an air of enjoyment. He had been growing - very stout this past year, Seth noticed, and the bald spot on his crown - had visibly spread. He seemed unwontedly good-natured too—a natural - and proper accompaniment to increasing obesity. - </p> - <p> - “But all this has nothing to do with my asking you to come here, has it? - Did Workman raise any objections to your coming?” - </p> - <p> - “No, of course not, after he read your letter.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer smiled complacently: “I thought that letter would fetch him. Of - course, my boy, the harshness of the letter was for effect on him, not on - you. It simply gave you a chance to say you had <i>got</i> to come.” - </p> - <p> - Seth did not find himself wholly clear on this point, but he nodded - assent. Albert looked at him, and seemed a trifle annoyed at having the - conversation all to himself, but he went on after a moment’s pause, - speaking now with good humored gravity: - </p> - <p> - “First of all, I ought to tell you how proud I have been of your fine - progress on the <i>Chronicle</i>. I doubt if there is another young man of - your age in the State who has done so much climbing in so short a time. I - take a real satisfaction in thinking that you are my brother. I can’t tell - you how often I say to myself: ‘Albert Fairchild, the best thing you ever - did in your life, or ever will do, was to give that boy a chance.’” - </p> - <p> - This was gall and wormwood to the young man. He had almost succeeded in - regaining the composure so abruptly scattered by Albert’s unexpected - arrival. The fluttering agitation came back now, and brought with it a - painful sense of shame and self-reproach as Albert’s words recalled the - scene which his entrance had interrupted. Seth did not look his brother in - the face, but murmured some commonplace of gratitude. He was glad that - there was a red shade on the lamp; it might conceal his flush of - humiliation. - </p> - <p> - Albert went on: “But you were not invited here so peremptorily just to - hear this. Brotherly pride and affection are things that don’t need words—that - can be taken for granted—are they not?” - </p> - <p> - Seth tried to smile, and said, “Yes, of course they are.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, youngster, I am taking them for granted in your case. Mind, as I - said in my letter, I am not saying a word about gratitude. I don’t want - the thing to be put on that footing at all. Brothers ought to be able to - help each other, and all that, without lugging in the question of - gratitude. I am talking to you as one man should to another who bears the - same name, and was of the same mother. By George! poetry, isn’t it? Well, - the point is this. The time has come when you can help me, help me - immensely. I am not in this fight for myself alone. Personally I care very - little about going to Congress. But I have got the family to consider, and - I am in a position now where I can make a ten-strike for it. A good deal - of it I have created myself. These countrymen up here in Dearborn County - fancy they are shrewd politicians, but it has taken me, almost a novice in - politics, less than two years to get the whole machinery right under my - thumb. It’s in the blood, I tell you! There wasn’t another manager in this - whole section that could hold a candle to the old Senator, in his day,—and - if he could keep track of things now I imagine he’d admit that his - grandson was no slouch.” - </p> - <p> - Albert chuckled quietly at the slang word, the expressiveness of which - pleased him, and at the vision of the satisfaction of the departed - ancestor which it suggested. He proceeded: - </p> - <p> - “I can’t tell you all my plans, but I am in a big combination. I have made - use of my large connections as a lawyer in New York to arrange some things - which would open your eyes if you knew them. It is all settled that I am - going on to a Committee which will be worth while, I can tell you. And - then, once started in the thing, with my grandfather’s name back of me, - there is no telling where I may not climb. A name that has figured in the - blue book as ours has is a tremendous power. The Republic derides - heredity, but the public believes in it. It is human nature, my boy. And - in this rehabilitation of the family name you have as much concern as I - have—in fact more than I have—for you will enjoy even more - than I shall the fame and wealth I am going to get out of this thing, for - the family.” - </p> - <p> - “Where does the wealth come in, Albert? There is no money honestly to be - made in politics.” Seth had forgotten his earlier embarrassment now, and - the spirit of dispute was rising within him. - </p> - <p> - “My dear fellow,” said the elder brother, comfortably contemplating the - rings of cigar smoke he was making, “to the wise there is money - everywhere. The word ‘honesty’ in politics is a purely relative term, just - as it is in your line, or in law, or in medicine. If we lawyers strictly - graded our charges by the net value of our services to our clients, if - doctors refused to make all calls upon patients that were not altogether - necessary, and based their bills rigidly upon the actual good they had - done—by George! the poor-houses would have to be enlarged. Take your - own business, for instance, or I ought to call it a profession, too, I - suppose. Are editors invariably candid with their readers, do you think? - Do they always tell the disagreeable truth about people they make their - money from? And don’t they have an open hand behind the back about the - same as other folks do? Occasionally, I admit, an ass like our brother - John does drift into the profession, and retains his childhood belief that - the moon is made of green cheese. But I have noticed that such fellows as - he, who run their papers on an exalted moral plane, generally come around - to borrow money from the ungodly, toward the close of the year, to make - their accounts balance. I am sorry to see that John and Ansdell have - filled your head with all this nonsense. A newspaper man tearing his shirt - in defense of financial fastidiousness in politics presents rather a - comical spectacle, if you only knew it.” - </p> - <p> - “You have no right at all to say that!” Seth answered hotly. “I believe - firmly that the newspaper men of this country, considering their influence - and the great temptation to make money out of it, are as honest a body of - men as you can find in America. This conventional talk about their - venality is the cruellest kind of libel, and if you knew them as I do you - wouldn’t lend yourself to circulating it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am not entirely without acquaintance in this white-winged - profession of yours,” replied the lawyer, smilingly. “I know Mr. Mortimer - Samboye, for example. I could tell you too, you confiding youngster, just - his figure, and where the cheque, made payable to his wife, was cashed.” - </p> - <p> - “If you do know about Samboye, you know what I believe to be the one - exception to the rule in the State. I don’t for a moment believe that - there is another editor whom your people could have bought. It is an - odious exception, to be sure, but exceptions prove the rule. If - journalists and journals were in the market, as you and your machine - friends seem to imagine, there would be no such widespread bolt against - your machine ticket to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you think so, do you?” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer was getting vexed. He stood up, thrust his hands deep into his - trowsers pockets, and spoke with more sharpness than before. - </p> - <p> - “You think so! Why, man alive, this same d——d <i>Chronicle</i> - of yours has been in the market since before you were born. I bet you - to-day that Workman would rather plank out five thousand dollars from his - own pocket than let me cross-examine him in the witness box on his - recollections of the <i>Chronicle’s</i> record. Why, that is the very last - paper in the State that has a title to throw stones! Do you want to know - when this new reforming zeal of Workman’s was born? I can tell you. It was - the day that another man (Dick Folts, if you wish names), was appointed to - the Territorial Governorship that Workman wanted for his brother. So you - thought it was only high morality and noble patriotic sentiments that - ailed the <i>Chronicle</i>, did you? You never suspected that it was - simply a bad case of brother—that it all happened because Samuel M. - Workman of Toboggan was compelled to continue to adorn a private station? - You think the world is run on kid-gloved, scriptural ethics? It reminds me - of a novel I read here awhile ago. It set out to describe An American - Politician—and in almost every scene in the book where he appeared, - he was drinking tea in some lady’s drawing room, declaiming to the fair - sex on how he was going to reform politics. He thought he was a deuce of a - fellow, and so did the women and the author too. This politician was a - good sample of all your reformers. I tell you, the men who go to afternoon - teas in America, exert no more influence on American politics than—than - a hen who was too refined to scratch in the barn-yard for worms would - exert on the question of female suffrage. Now <i>don’t</i> make a fool of - yourself, Seth. Your predecessor, Samboye, was in no way your equal—some - fellow at the club once, I remember, just hit him off in a phrase which he - had hunted up in the dictionary to sling at him: ‘a nugipolyloquous - numbskull ’—but he knew enough to feather his own nest, and - to take men as they are, and not as the Prophet Jeremiah might think they - ought to be. <i>Don’t</i> make me angry with this pharisaical nonsense! - You are very young yet. You will see things differently when you have - rubbed up against the world a while longer.” - </p> - <p> - Seth also stood up now, with his hands deep in his pockets—a trick - of all the Fairchilds when they were excited. - </p> - <p> - “I have no desire to make you angry,” he answered, beginning with an - effort at calmness, but soon raising his voice, “and I shouldn’t have - dreamed of inflicting my juvenile views on you if you hadn’t insisted, - even to the point of a threat, on my coming here. I would rather not argue - the thing at all. We regard politics from totally different standpoints. I - believe that your methods and aims—by ‘your’ I mean your wing of the - party—are scandalous, corrupting and ruinous. I believe that if some - check is not put upon the rule of the machine, if the drift of public - acquiescence in debased processes of government is not stopped, it will - soon be too late to save even the form of our institutions from the dry - rot of venality.” - </p> - <p> - “Seems to me I’ve read all this. Don’t work your old leaders off on me. - Talk sense!” said Albert. - </p> - <p> - Seth dropped rhetoric: “All this is very real, very big, to me. To you it - is impracticable and meaningless. You don’t at all believe in the dangers - which are so apparent to me. Perhaps if you did you wouldn’t care. That is - all right. I have no desire to convert you, or to debate the question with - you. I simply want to explain that there is no community of premises, - even, between us on this subject. As for your explanation of the motives - underlying the <i>Chronicle’s</i> attitude, I shan’t contradict you. So - far as I am concerned, the matter is not in argument. It is enough for me - that we bolt the State ticket, and occupy the ground we do. It is no - concern of mine by what path we got there.” - </p> - <p> - Albert had heard his brother through with contemptuous impatience. He said - now, with one foot on the stove hearth, and in a voice which, by its very - coldness of calm, ought to have warned Seth of the temper underlying it: - </p> - <p> - “You may bolt the State ticket as much as you d——d please. I - don’t like your doing it, and it will injure you more than any efforts of - mine can make good, but I can’t help it, and it wasn’t for that that I - wanted to see you. But if you bolt <i>me</i>, Mr. Seth, or put so much as - a straw in my path, by God! I’ll grind you, and your paper, and everybody - responsible for it, finer than tooth-powder! However—we will exhaust - the other side of the subject first. I’ve had it in mind for a long while, - in fact ever since I first procured you a place there, to buy you a share - in the <i>Chronicle</i>. Workman would be glad of the ready money—he - itches for it as much as any living man—and it would be a good thing - for you. Would you like that?” - </p> - <p> - “You haven’t told me yet what you dragged me up here, away from my work, - for,” said Seth. “You presumably had an object of some sort.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you want to get down to business, do you? You shall have it, in a - nutshell. I want you to see Ansdell, and get him to promise that if I beat - him in the Convention he will support me squarely at the polls; I want you - to get a pledge from Workman that the <i>Chronicle</i> will come out for - me, solid, the day after I am nominated. <i>That’s</i> what I want, and it - is mighty little for <i>me</i> to ask of <i>you!</i> And you may tell - Workman for me that if he and his paper give me the smallest ground for - complaint, and waver in the least in backing me up, I’ll start a paper in - Tecumseh before Christmas that will crush the <i>Chronicle</i> out of - sight. The paper is no good, anyway. I know hundreds of good citizens who - would rejoice to have a decent substitute for it.” The pride of the editor - was wounded. “You seem to worry a good deal about this worthless paper, at - all events,” he said, bitterly. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t bandy words with me, youngster!” cried Albert, scowling and pacing - the floor. “I want your answer, or the answer of your employer—yes - or no! I’ll have none of your impudence!” - </p> - <p> - Seth held his temper down. He could not help feeling that his brother, - from the fraternal standpoint at least, had some pretty strong arguments - on his side. He made answer: - </p> - <p> - “I should have no influence with Ansdell, one way or the other, even if I - talked with him. He knows his own business best, and if he has made up his - mind to a certain course, nothing that I could say would move him. As for - the <i>Chronicle</i> we’ve kept our hands off, thus far, on your account, - and we’ve said nothing at all about your leading the Dearborn County - delegates into the machine camp at the State Convention, although the - whole rest of the State is ringing with it. But I am charged to say that - that is as much as we can do. If you are nominated, we can’t and won’t - support you. It is not a nice thing for me to have to say to you, but - there’s no good mincing matters. Besides, you know—there may be a - way out of it; you may not be nominated to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “All hell can’t prevent it!” The words came forth in an explosion of - wrath. Albert stamped his foot and clenched his fists as Seth had never - seen him do before. He tapped his breast three or four times, - significantly, as if there were something in the pocket to which he was - referring—Seth remembered the gesture long afterward—and - repeated that his nomination was assured. He seemed to dislike his - passion, and strive to restrain it, but the choleric vein between his - brows grew more swollen, and his black, keen eyes flashed more angrily - than ever, as he strode up and down before the stove. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and I’ll be elected too! All the white-livered hounds in Adams - County, from my own brother up, shall not stop me! I’ll stump the district - every night and day till election. I’ll speak in Tecumseh—yes, in - Tecumseh, at the biggest meeting money and organisation can get together—and - I’ll handle this whole bolting business so’s to warm the hearts of honest - men all over the State. By God! I’ll shake Workman as a terrier shakes a - rat, in view and hearing of his whole community! Won’t he squirm though! - And won’t the crowd enjoy having him shown up! And <i>you</i>”—there - followed some savage personal abuse, profane in form—“after - to-morrow morning, never let me lay eyes on you again!” - </p> - <p> - “It is not for the pleasure of seeing you that I come here, ever,” Seth - retorted, the words coming quick and fierce. “Be sure I’d never trouble - you again, if you were the only one in this house!” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer’s eyes sparkled with a sardonic meaning, and Seth, as he saw - it, bit his tongue with impatience at the thoughtless form of his speech; - for he read in this cold, glancing light that nothing had been lost upon - his brother’s perception when he entered the room. - </p> - <p> - There was a full minute’s silence, in which the two men faced each other. - Albert was busy thinking how to put most effectively the things he was now - moved to say. At last he spoke, coolly, incisively once more, while Seth, - flushed and anxious, pretended to regulate the flame of the lamp. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I have no illusions about the motive of your visits to the farm. I - am not blind; even if I were, others about the house are not. I am not - going to say what you are doubtless expecting. I might point out to you - that a young man who comes to a brother’s house—I will say nothing - of the debt of gratitude he owes him—and steals chances to make love - to that brother’s wife, is a pitiful cur. Stop!”—for Seth had - straightened himself angrily at this epithet, despite his consciousness of - self-reproach. - </p> - <p> - “I repeat that I <i>might</i> say this—but I will not. I prefer to - view it in another light. I don’t think you are a knave. To be that - requires intelligence. You are a fool,—a conceited, presumptuous, - offensive fool. You set yourself up to judge <i>me</i>; you arrogate to - yourself airs of moral superiority, and assume to regulate affairs of - State by the light of your virtue and wisdom—and you have not brains - enough meanwhile to take care of yourself against the cheapest wiles of a - silly woman, who amuses herself with young simpletons just to kill time. - You take upon yourself to lay down the law to a great National party—and - you don’t know enough to see through even so transparent a game as this. - Get out of my sight! I have wasted too much time with you. It annoys me to - think that such an idiot belongs to the family.” - </p> - <p> - Albert had rightly calculated that he could thus most deeply and surely - wound Seth, but he was mistaken in his estimate of the nature of the - response. If Seth’s vanity was scalded by his brother’s words, he at least - didn’t show it. But he did advance upon Albert with clenched fists, and - gleaming eyes, and shout fiercely at him: - </p> - <p> - “A man who will speak that way of his wife is a coward and a scoundrel! - And if it is my cousin Isabel he means, he is a liar to boot! If you were - not my brother——” - </p> - <p> - “If I were not, what then?” - </p> - <p> - Albert waited a moment for the answer, which the conflict between Seth’s - rage and his half-guilty consciousness choked in the utterance, and then - calmly turned on his heel and left the room, by the same outside door at - which he had entered. - </p> - <p> - As Seth went upstairs, he heard Isabel’s door close softly. “I wonder how - much of it she heard?” he said to himself. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI.—THE NIGHT: MASTER AND MAN. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>LBERT walked - across the yard toward the larger of the new stable buildings. It was a - dry, warm, luminous night, radiant overhead with the glory of a whole - studded heaven of stars. The moon, the full, shining-faced moon of - October, would rise in an hour or so, and then would come pale mists along - the valley bottom-lands, and perhaps clouds in the eastern sky. But one - could walk bareheaded in this soft starlight now, without a fear of cold. - </p> - <p> - The lawyer paid no sort of attention to the night, but strode across the - grass, swung himself over the stile, and pulled back the great stable - door, creaking shrilly on its rollers, with angry energy. He stopped upon - the threshold of the darkness, through which the shapes of carriages - covered with white sheets vaguely loomed, and called out: - </p> - <p> - “Milton!” - </p> - <p> - There was the answering sound of footsteps overhead. A door at the top of - the stairs was opened, and a flood of light illumined the staircase. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you’ve got back, ay?” said a voice from the top. - </p> - <p> - It had been Milton’s idea, when the new buildings were erected, to achieve - complete domestic autonomy by arranging for himself a residential room - above the carriage place. The chamber was high and commodious. It had been - lathed and plastered, and, in lieu of wall-paper, the sides were decorated - with coarsely-colored circus bills, or pictures from sporting weeklies, - all depicting women in tights. There was a good corded bed in one corner. - Two chairs, a stained pine table on which, beside the lamp, were some - newspapers, a little wood stove, and a mantel-shelf covered with tin-types - and cheap photographs, completed the scene. Milton enjoyed living here - greatly. It comported with his budding ideas of his own personal dignity, - and it freed him from the disagreeable supervision which the elder Miss - Fairchild was so prone to exercise over all who lived in the house. Only - the Lawton girl, Melissa, came across the yard each forenoon, to tidy up - the room, and chuckle over the pictures and the tastes which these, and - the few books Milton from time to time brought home from a - sporting-library at Thessaly, indicated. - </p> - <p> - “It’s lucky you hadn’t gone to bed,” said the lawyer, curtly, pulling his - hat over his eyes to shade them from the flaring light, and sitting down. - “I was going to wake you up. What’s your news?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been over to Tyre twice to see Beekman, ’n’ no use. Once he - wouldn’t talk at all—jis’ kep his ole lantern-jaws tight shet, ’n’ - said ’Ef Albert Fairchild wants to see me, he knaows where I kin be - faound.’ Th’ other time he was more talkative—tried his best to fine - aout what I was drivin’ at, but I couldn’t git no satisfaction aout o’ - him. He wouldn’t bine himself to nothin’. He jis’ stood off et arm’s - lenth, ’n’ sized up what I was a sayin’ in that dum sly way o’ his. - I couldn’t make head nor tail of him. He wouldn’t say he would take money, - ’n’ he wouldn’t say he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say yes or nao to th’ - post office scheme, or anythin’ else. He jis’ kep’ his big eyes on me, as - much as to say, ‘You ketch a weasel asleep!’ ’n’ listened. Naow yeh - knaow th’ hull of it. If yeh want anythin’ more done, yeh better do it - yerself.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer looked attentively at his hired man, and drummed with his - fingers on the-table. “So that’s all, is it? You are no further ahead with - Beek-man than when the Convention adjourned? You’ve got no proposition - from him—no statement as to how he takes my proposals?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s it, Albert—jest it!” - </p> - <p> - Something in Milton’s tone seemed to annoy Albert even more than his - confession of failure had done. He rose to his feet abruptly. “Don’t - ‘Albert’ me!” he said, raising his voice out of its accustomed calm; “I - don’t like it! You take too much upon yourself. But—I am to blame - for it myself. I’ve let you run things with too free a hand, and trusted - affairs to you that I ought to have kept to myself. It is always my way,” - he went on, in petulant selfcriticism. “I never did trust anybody who was - worth the powder to blow him up. I ought to be used to it by this time. - But to encounter two such fools in one evening—and this evening of - all others, too—by George! it’s enough to make a man strike his - mother!” - </p> - <p> - “I ain’t no fool, Mister Fairchild”—the hired man was standing up - too, and his harsh tones gave the title an elaborate, almost ridiculous - emphasis—“’n’ I’ll thank yeh to keep yer tongue civil, tew! - Ef yeh don’t like my style, yeh kin git sum’un else to do yer dirty work - for yeh. I’ve no hankerin’ fer it. I’m hired to manage this farm, I am. - Nothin’ was said ’baout my hevin’ to run a Congresshn’l campaign - into th’ bargain. I ain’t sayin’ but what I kin do it’s well’s some other - folks. I ain’t sayin’ that it’s beyon’ me. P’raps I’ve got my pull ’n’ - this caounty, ’s well ’s some other people. P’raps ’f - I was amine to, I could knock somebuddy’s game skyhigh, jis’ by liftin’ my - little finger tomorrer. I ain’t sayin’ I’m goin’ to dew it. I ain’t - findin’ no fault with yeh. All I say is I ain’t goin’ to take one ioty o’ - slack from you, or anybody else, about this thing. You hear <i>me!</i>” - </p> - <p> - The hired man had spoken aggressively and loudly, with his thumbs in the - arm-holes of his vest, and his shaggy head well up in the air. He knew his - employer pretty well, and had estimated with some precision the amount of - impudence he would bear. This full measure he was not disposed to abate - one atom. He had failed to buy the Jay County boss, or even to - satisfactorily gauge his intentions, it was true, but that was no reason - why he should submit to being called a fool by Albert Fairchild, who - couldn’t run his farm, let alone his Congressional campaign, without him. - So the mean-figured, slouching countryman, with his cheap, ill-fitting - clothes, frowzy beard, and rough, red hands truculently spread palm - outward on his breast, stood his ground before the city lawyer and grinned - defiance at him. - </p> - <p> - The lawyer did not immediately reply. He was not ordinarily at a loss for - words or decisions in his dealings with men, but this rude, uncouth - rustic, with his confident air and his fund of primordial cunning, puzzled - him. There was some uneasiness in the feeling, too, for he could not - remember the exact limits of his confidences with Milton. Moreover he - could not afford, at any price, to quarrel with him now on the eve of the - Convention. “After the election we’ll clip your wings, my fine fellow,” he - thought to himself, but he gave the words upon which he finally decided a - kindlier turn. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I hear you. Almost anybody on the side-hill could, the way you are - talking. There is no reason why you should lose your temper. If you - couldn’t fix Beekman, why that’s all there is to it. We must go at it in a - different way. I can see through him. He’s standing out for a cash - payment. The old fox wants money down.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you’ve got it fur him, hain’t yeh? Go ’n’ give it to him, - straight aout!” - </p> - <p> - “But that’s it—I wanted you to bring back an idea of his figure.” - </p> - <p> - “His figger. How much hev yeh got?” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind that—it’s a d——d sight more than the office - is worth; but when a man gets into a fight of this sort, he’s got to force - his way through, cost or no cost.” - </p> - <p> - “Air yeh sure it can’t be traced? Wuz yeh careful to raise it so nobuddy - cud spot yeh, and give aout that yeh got so much money together for - purposes o’ bribery?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is perfectly safe. There is no record.” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ nobuddy on airth knaows yeh’ve got th’ money?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a living soul!” - </p> - <p> - The two men communed together as to the importance of immediate action. - The Convention was to reassemble at Tyre, fifteen miles away, at eleven - the following forenoon. The political master of Jay County, Abe Beekman, - who held in his hands the deciding power, lived near Tyre, but in the - valley some miles further on. The first train from Thessaly in the morning - would be too late, for Beekman would have already arrived on the ground at - Tyre, coming from the opposite direction, and would have begun work on his - own hook. He must be seen at his home, early in the morning. The question - was—how to encompass this. - </p> - <p> - “You might drive across to-night,” Albert suggested; “it can’t be more - than twenty miles. It’s a bad, up-hill road, but four or five hours ought - to do it, easily enough. By George—I believe I’ll go myself—start - at once, see Beekman about daybreak, and then come back to Tyre by - breakfast time; as if I had just driven over from here. No one will - suspect a thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, thet’s a fust-rate idee,” assented Milton; “only be keerful ’n’ - put yer money in a safe place.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer again slapped his breast with a confident “Never fear about - that,” and went to the house to get some wraps for the night ride, leaving - Milton to harness the grays, and drag out the sidebar buggy with the pole. - The hired-man hummed to himself as he moved quietly, dextrously in the - semi-darkness in the performance of this task. - </p> - <p> - Albert returned, just as the hame straps were being buckled. - </p> - <p> - “Everybody seems to be asleep in the house,” he said. “If they ask any - questions in the morning, mind you know nothing whatever. That brother of - mine is no friend. Be careful what you say to him. Let him walk to the - depot in the morning. It’ll do him good. Oh yes, by the way, better let me - have one of those revolvers of yours—you have ’em upstairs, - haven’t you—give me the one that strikes fire every time.” - </p> - <p> - Milton came down and out presently, saying that he just remembered having - lent the weapon. “’Tother’s no good,” he added; “yeh don’t need no - pistol anyway. Th’ moon’ll be up direc’ly.” - </p> - <p> - Albert gathered up the lines, and drove out slowly toward the road. - </p> - <p> - “Yeh better save th’ beasts till after yeh git over Tallman’s hill, ’n’ - rest ’em there by th’ gulf!” Milton called after him, as a last - injunction. - </p> - <p> - The hired man stood at the stable door, and watched the buggy pass the - darkened, silent house, turn out on the high-road, and disappear beneath - the poplars. The moon was just coming up, beyond this line of trees, and - it made the gloom of their shadow deeper. His eyes, from following the - vehicle ranged back to the house, which reared itself black against the - whitening sky. There was there no sound, nor any sign of life. He took a - revolver out of his pocket, and examined it in the starlight, cocking it - again and again to make sure that there had been no mistake. Satisfied - with the inspection, he put it back in his side coat-pocket. He went - upstairs, changed his hat, took a drink out of a flat brown bottle in his - cupboard, and spent a minute or two looking at one of the tin-type - portraits on the mantel-shelf. He held the picture to the light, and - grinned as he gazed—then put it in his breast pocket, blew out the - lamp, and felt his way softly down stairs. - </p> - <p> - A few minutes later he came out from the stable, leading the swift black - mare. She was saddled and bridled, and seemed to understand, as he led her - over the grass, that he wanted no noise made. The man and beast, throwing - long, grotesque shadows on the lawn, in the light of the low moon, stole - past the house, and out upon the road. Milton here climbed into the - saddle, and with an exultant little cluck, started in the direction his - master had gone, still keeping the black mare on the grass. They, too, - disappeared under the poplars. - </p> - <p> - The moon mounted into the heavens, pushing aside the aspiring clouds which - sought to dispute her passage, then clothing them in her own livery of - light, and drawing them upward after her, in a glittering train of - attendance. All over the hill-side the calm radiance rested. The gay hues - with which autumn’s day brush painted the woods, the hedge rows, the long - stretches of orchard, stubble, and field, sought now to only hint at their - beauty, as they yielded new outlines, mystic suggestions of form and - color, in the soft gray picture of mezzotint. Thin films of vapor rose to - enwrap the feet of the dark firs, nearer to the sky, and in the valley - below the silver of the moonlight lost itself on the frost-like whiteness - of the gathering mist. It was a night for the young to walk together, and - read love’s purest, happiest thoughts in each other’s eyes—for the - old to drink in with thankful confession the faith that the world was - still gracious and good. - </p> - <p> - Milton was walking the mare now, still on the grass. He could hear the - sound of wheels, just ahead. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII.—THE NIGHT: THE LOVERS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>eth had gone up to - his room in a state of wretchedness which, seeming insupportable at the - outset, had grown steadily worse upon reflection. He said to himself that - he had never before in his whole life been so humiliated and unhappy, and - then smiled with pitying contempt for the inadequacy of such a statement - of the case. One’s career must have been titanic in its tragic experiences - to warrant such a comparison. “I have never known before what suffering - was,” he thought, as he paced up and down his little room, scourging - himself with the lash of bitter reflections. - </p> - <p> - To try to sleep did not enter his head. He sat for a long time on the side - of the bed, seeking to evolve something like order from the chaos of his - wits, but he could not think. Had he tried to write, to discuss the thing - in a letter, the simple familiar operation of the pen might have led him - out of the <i>cul de sac</i>. As it was, whichever turn his mind sought to - take, there rose an impassable barrier of shame, or rage or - self-recrimination. In whatever light he tried to view the situation, it - was all pain. He had been curtly, cruelly thrown off by his brother—the - man to whom he owed everything—and he had had to listen to the most - cutting, insulting language from this brother before they parted. Then, as - he clenched his fists and fumed with impotent anger at the recollection of - this language, there would come to divert this wrath, and turn it back - upon himself, the facts that he had interposed his own boyish vanity and - conceit to balk this brother’s purposes, and had been caught trembling on - the very brink of making love to this brother’s wife. Did he not richly - merit Albert’s scorn? He could remember—should he ever forget?—the - exact words of Albert’s contemptuous characterization: “A conceited, - presumptuous, offensive fool.” Did he not deserve them all? He owed this - brother everything: the honest boy insisted upon saying this to himself - over and over again, as the basis of all argument on the subject; the - opportunity came for him to repay something of this debt. How had he - improved it? By setting himself up to oppose this brother in the chief - object of his life, and, as if this were not enough, by yielding weakly to - the temptation to rob him of his domestic honor as well! “I must be a - villain as well as a fool, must I!” the youngster growled between his set - teeth, as he threw himself from the bed, and began the gloomy pacing up - and down again. - </p> - <p> - He had not lighted his lamp. The soft half-darkness of the starlight, - sufficing barely to render objects visible in the room, suited his mood. - He heard the sound of wheels now on the gravel below. Looking out, he - could see that the grays were being driven out; as they turned the corner - of the house, the full moonlight fell upon them and the carriage, and Seth - saw distinctly that it was his brother who was driving, and that he was - wrapped as for an all-night ride. - </p> - <p> - “He won’t even stay under the same roof with me!” he said half-aloud, with - a fresh bitterness of self-accusation—and then the torment of - reproaching voices began in his breast again. - </p> - <p> - As he turned from the window he heard a low rapping at his door; a minute - later, he heard Isabel’s voice, almost a whisper: - </p> - <p> - “Seth! Don’t open the door, but tell me, who was it that went out with the - carriage just now? I heard it, but from my window I could see nothing. Was - it <i>he?</i>” - </p> - <p> - Seth answered, as calmly as he could: “Yes, I am sure of it. I recognized - him.” He stood close to the door, and the thought that only the thin pine - panels divided him from her was uppermost in his mind. - </p> - <p> - There was a little pause. Once his hand involuntarily moved toward the - latch, but he drew it back. Then she spoke again: - </p> - <p> - “You had a terrible quarrel, didn’t you, and all for me! I heard your - answer, Seth, way up here. How nobly you spoke! It went straight to my - heart, to hear his brutality rebuked in that manly way. I shan’t forget - it.” - </p> - <p> - There was a moment’s silence; then she whispered with a lingering - softness, “Good night!” and he heard the faint rustling of her garments - down the hall. - </p> - <p> - Brief as the interruption was, it had changed the whole spirit of his - thoughts. The vindictive accusing demons had vanished, and left no more - than a numbing sense of past torture in his breast. The anguish of - self-condemnation, the crushing burden of self-humiliation, had passed - away. The moonlight, as it spread over the slope toward Thessaly village, - seemed to bring healing in its peaceful radiance. His own provocation grew - mountain high; his brother’s justification for his insults and barbarity - diminished. “I was doing only my duty in opposing him,” he said - confidently, and there was no voice of dissent now. “Still more was I - right in defending poor Isabel from his unmanly imputations. If a man is - incapable of appreciating such a wife——.” - </p> - <p> - He did not follow out his thought, but surrendered himself instead to - calling up, and enjoying in detail, the sweet scene which Albert’s coming - had so rudely broken into. How delicious it all was, as fancy now limned - its outlines—yet not all the dainty graces of imagination and memory - could reproduce in its full charm the original. He could think, and think, - until the whole room seemed instinct with her presence, but how poor a - counterfeit it all was, lacking the perfume of her hair and laces, the - deep, languorous glow of her eyes, the thrilling melody of her low voice. - The tender, caressing prolongation of syllables in that whispered “good - night” made soft soul-music still in his ears. The insane thought—he - did not dare ask himself if it were also a hope—that she might come - again, took possession of him, and he stood for a long time close by the - door, listening, waiting. - </p> - <p> - It was while Seth stood thus, seeing only with the eyes of the mind, that - Milton stole past on the grass below, with the black mare, on his mission - of murder. Had the young man been at the window instead, much that - followed might have been different. - </p> - <p> - Seth stood at the door for what seemed to him a long time, until gradually - the futility of the action became apparent to him. “Of course she would - not come!” he said, and resumed his pacing once more. - </p> - <p> - The Faust-like vision began to dance before his eyes again, but with a - witchery now which was uncanny. The calm of waiting had brought him enough - strength of control to feel the presence of the cloven hoof in it all. The - temptation was more urgent, strenuous than ever, but he was conscious of a - deeper, more dogged spirit of resistance within him than ever, as well. - There was no renewal of the savage, chaotic war of emotions under which he - had suffered at the outset, groaning in the self-infliction of purposeless - pain. This was a definite, almost scientific, struggle between two - distinct forces, and though they fought their battle with all manner of - sophistical weapons, and employed feints, pretended retreats and false - advances in highest strategical form, he was never deceived for a moment - as to which was the bad and which the good. - </p> - <p> - The issue forced itself upon him, finally, with a demand for decision - which was imperative. He could stay no longer in his room. There was - neither sleep nor rest of any kind there for him. - </p> - <p> - He went to the door, and opened it. Through the blackness he could see a - faint vertical line of light at the front end of the low hall, as of a - lamp burning, and a door left ajar. The yellow ray gleamed as he looked at - it, and seemed to wave itself in fascinating motions of enticement. He - stood for a moment undecided, all his impulses strongly swaying towards - the temptation, all his resisting reasons growing weaker in their - obstruction, and some even turning coward, and whispering, as they laid - down their arms, “After all, youth has its rights.” Then he squared his - shoulders, with the old gesture of resolution, and walked steadily away - from the line of light, down the stairs, and out of the door, bareheaded - under the stars. - </p> - <p> - He had walked for a long, long time, before he became conscious that he - had left his hat behind. The night air was exceptionally mild for the - season, but it grew cool enough to bring this fact to his notice. As he - put his hand to his head, and stopped short at the discovery, his whole - mind seemed to clarify itself. He had been walking aimlessly, almost - unconsciously—it must have been for much more than an hour. In a - vague way, he knew where his steps had led him. He had walked through the - orchard to his mother’s grave, and stood for some time by the brier-clad - wall and fence which surrounded it, thinking of his boyhood, and of her. - Then he had struck across through Sir Thomas’s pasture, to the main road; - thence by the way of the school-house, and skirting the hill, to the - Burfield road, at the farthermost end of the line of poplars. - </p> - <p> - As he stopped here now collecting his thoughts, awakening himself as it - were, the sound of chorussinging reached him, faint at first, then growing - more distinct. A wagon-load of young people were returning from Leander - Crump’s husking, enjoying themselves in the fair moonlight. From the - sounds, they must have been about in front of the Fairchild homestead, and - they were coming rapidly toward Seth. If he remained in the road, they - must pass and recognize him. - </p> - <p> - There was a division line of thorn hedge, long since grown into tall young - trees, coming to the road here, and a path beside it leading to a rude - stile in the turnpike fence. This path went straight to Mrs. Warren’s - house, as Seth had known from boyhood, but he gave this no thought as he - stepped over the stile, and moved along in the shadow of the thorns. He - walked a score of yards or so, and then stepped closer into the obscurity - of the hedge, to wait till the hay-wagon and its caroling crew had passed - by on the road outside. He was feeling very cold now, and tired to boot, - and said to himself that as soon as the road was clear he would go home - and go to bed. - </p> - <p> - To his surprise the singing came to an abrupt halt, just as the wagon - approached the end of the hedge. - </p> - <p> - There was a chorus of merry “whoas!” as the horses drew up, and through - the clear air Seth could hear a confused babel of voices, all jovially - discussing something. One male voice, louder than the rest, called out: - </p> - <p> - “You’d better let me come along with you!” - </p> - <p> - There was some giggling audible, out of which rose a clear, fresh girlish - voice which Seth knew: - </p> - <p> - “No, thanks! I can cut across by this path in less than no time. I’m not - afraid. The tramps are all abed and asleep by this time, like other honest - people.” - </p> - <p> - With more laughter, and a salvo of “good nights!” the wagon started off - again, and Annie Fairchild, singing lightly to herself the refrain of the - chorus, and holding her face up to catch the full radiance of the - moonlight, came walking briskly down the path. - </p> - <p> - Despite her valiant confidence the young woman gave a visible start of - alarm as Seth stepped out from the shadows to speak to her. She threw - herself forward as if to run, then looked again, stopped, and then gave a - little tremulous laugh, and cried: - </p> - <p> - “Why, Seth! is that you. Mercy! How you frightened me!” - </p> - <p> - He could think of nothing better than a feeble parody of her words: “Yes, - it is time all honest people were abed and asleep.” - </p> - <p> - He said this with a half-smile, but the girl’s face grew more serious - still as she looked at her cousin. She spoke eagerly:— - </p> - <p> - “Why, what’s the matter with you to-night? Where is your hat? You look as - white as a ghost! Oh—have you come from our house? Is it something - about grandmother?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it’s nothing about her. I haven’t been nearer your place than this. I - only stepped in here so as to avoid the wagon. I didn’t want them to see - me like this.” - </p> - <p> - “But why should you <i>be</i> like this? Now, Seth, I know something <i>has</i> - happened. What is it? Am I wanted? Can I do anything?” - </p> - <p> - “Let me walk with you to your house,” he said, and they turned together - down the path. “Something <i>has</i> happened. I don’t know that I can - tell you what it is, but only to be with you like this rests and comforts - me.” - </p> - <p> - He was walking in the shadow; the strong light, which only tipped his - shoulder occasionally, enveloped her. He watched her furtively as they - moved along, and, just in proportion as he found relief and solace in the - contemplation of her clear, frank, serene face, he shrank from confiding - his own weak woes to her. But, as he said, it was a comfort to be with - her. - </p> - <p> - They had walked almost to within sight of the Warren farmhouse before he - broke the silence. She had scarcely looked at him since they started, but - kept her gray eyes straight ahead, as if viewing some fixed, distant - object. Her lips were tightly pressed together—the only sign of - emotion on her face—and this proof that she was hard at work - thinking tended further to embarrass him. - </p> - <p> - “I truly don’t know how to tell you, Annie,” he said at last. “But Albert - and I have—have had words together; in fact—we’ve quarrelled.” - </p> - <p> - Her lips quivered a little. She did not turn her face toward him, but - said, nervously: “I have been expecting that.” - </p> - <p> - Seth did not ask himself the cause of his cousin’s anticipatory - confidence, but went on gloomily: “Well, it has come. We had it out, this - evening, to the very last word. And then, as if that were not enough, the - devil himself got hold of me afterward, and tugged and tore at me to—but - I can’t tell you <i>that</i>. I can scarcely realize myself what I’ve been - through this night. Why, I’ve been wandering about here on the hill-side - for hours, not knowing where I was going, or even what I was thinking of, - like a mad man. You can see how my hands are scratched, and my clothes - torn; that is from the berry-bushes, I suppose, up by mother’s grave. I - remember being there. I didn’t even know that my head was bare, until just - before the wagon came up.” Before this remarkable recital of insane - things, Annie was properly silent. - </p> - <p> - Seth added, after a pause, “But it is all over now. And I can’t tell you, - you can’t begin to guess, how it brings me to my senses, and soothes and - restores me to have met you like this.” - </p> - <p> - As he paused suddenly, they both turned to listen and look. From the knoll - to the east, where the turnpike ran through a cutting, there came a - curiously muffled sound, like yet unlike the first measured drumming of a - partridge. It swelled a second later into something more definite, as they - saw a dark horse, the rider crouching low over its neck, galloping like - the wind along the high-road toward Thessaly. The pace was something - prodigious—the horse had vanished like an apparition before they - could look twice. But there had been nothing like a commensurate volume of - sound. - </p> - <p> - “The horse was running on the grass beside the road,” Seth remarked. - </p> - <p> - “Probably going for a doctor,” was her comment. “I wonder who is ill!” - </p> - <p> - “It looked to me more like the headless horseman than a sick-messenger.” - </p> - <p> - As he said this, and they turned to walk again, his face lighted up once - more. The thought seemed to please him, and he smiled on her as he added: - </p> - <p> - “Let me be superstitious enough to fancy that the thing which just flashed - by, in a rumble of low thunder, was the demon that has been torturing me - all this while. We will say that he has been defeated, baffled, and has - fled in despair, and that”—he looked still more smilingly at her—“the - fiend has been beaten and driven away by you. Do you know, Annie, that - here in this lovely light you are the very picture of a good angel? - Perhaps angels don’t wear seal-skin cloaks, or have such red cheeks, but - if they knew how becoming they were, they would.” - </p> - <p> - Annie’s face, which had been immobile in thought, softened a little. She - was accustomed to her cousin’s hyperbole. - </p> - <p> - “I am delighted if you feel better,” she laughed back. “But it is no - credit specially to me. Contact with any other rational human being would - probably have had the same effect upon you. If I had helped you in any - way, or advised you, perhaps I might own the angelic impeachment. But I - don’t even know the first thing about your trouble, except that you’ve - quarrelled with Albert, and—and had a temptation.” - </p> - <p> - She had begun gayly enough, but she uttered the last words soberly, almost - gravely. Instinct and observation alike told her that Seth’s experiences - had been of a deeply serious nature. - </p> - <p> - He sighed heavily, and looked on the ground. How much could he tell her?—in - what words should he put it? Even as he sought in his mind for safe and - suitable phrases, an Idea—a great, luminous, magnificent Idea—unfolded - itself before his mental vision. It was not new to him—years ago he - had often entertained and even nourished it—yet it had been hidden, - dormant so long, and it burst forth now so grandly transformed and - altered, that for an instant he stopped abruptly, and put his hand to his - breast as if to catch his breath. Then he walked on again, still with his - eyes on the ground. He fancied that he was meditating; instead, he was - marvelling at the apotheosized aptness of the Providence which had sent - this Idea at just this time, and swearing grateful fealty to it with all - the earnestness of his being. - </p> - <p> - He looked up at last, and drew her arm through his. They were near the - house now. “I am going to make a clean breast of it, Annie,” he said. “If - I have not finished when we get to the bars, shall we turn back? I want - you to hear it all.” - </p> - <p> - “It is pretty late, Seth,” she said, but neither in tone, nor in the - manner in which she allowed her arm to be taken, was there the kind of - refusal which dismays. - </p> - <p> - There was no need now to seek words. They came fast, keeping pace with the - surge of his thoughts. - </p> - <p> - “Annie,” he began, “I have been as near the gates of hell to-night as it - is given to a man to go, and bring back his soul. I have fancied all this - while that I was strong because I was successful; that I was courageous - because I happened to be clever. I found myself put to the test to-night, - and I was weak as water. I am afraid of myself. More, I have been making a - fool of myself. I know now the measure of my weakness. I have the brains, - perhaps, but I have no balance-wheel. I fly off; I do insensate things; I - throw myself away. I need a strong, sweet, wise nature to lean upon, to - draw inspiration from. Oh if you could realize the peace, the happiness - your simple presence brought me this evening! I haven’t said it yet, - Annie, but you have guessed it—I want to pledge myself to you, to - swear that you are to be my wife.” - </p> - <p> - The girl had drawn her arm from his before the last sentence was finished, - and stood facing him. They were within call of the house, but she did not - offer to renew the walk. She answered him with no trace of excitement, - looking him candidly in the face: - </p> - <p> - “I am not sure just how to answer you, Seth. Hardly any girl would know, I - think, how to treat such a declaration as that. Wait a moment—let me - finish! In the first place, I am in doubt whether I ought to treat it - seriously at all. You are disturbed, excited, to-night; when we first met - you looked and acted like a madman. And then again—understand, I am - trying to talk to you as a friend of all your life, instead of a mere girl - acquaintance—I would not marry any man who I did not firmly believe - loved me. You have not even pretended that you love me. You have simply - complimented me on my disposition, and pledged yourself to a partnership - in which I was to be a balance-wheel.” - </p> - <p> - “You are laughing at me!” - </p> - <p> - “No, Seth, my dear cousin, not at all. I am only showing you the exact - situation. You are too excited, or too unpractical, to see it for - yourself. You talk now about being at the gates of hell and expressions - like that—wild words which signify only that you have had trouble - during the evening. I fancy that all men are apt to exaggerate such things—I - <i>know</i> you are. Why, do you even know what trouble is? Have <i>I</i> - had no trouble? Have I not lived a whole life of trial here with a - bed-ridden invalid? And there are other things that—that I might - speak of, if I chose to complain. For instance”—her face brightened - as she spoke, now, and a suggestion of archness twinkled in her eyes—“was - it not a terrible thing that I should have waded into the water, that day - of the fishing party, and got you out all by myself, and then heard the - credit coolly given to another—person, who never got so much as the - soles of her shoes wet?” - </p> - <p> - Annie had begun seriously enough, but the softness of her real mood toward - her cousin, together with the woman’s natural desire to have justice done - her in affairs of the heart, had led her into a halfplayful revelation of - pique. Seth would have answered here, but she held up her hand, and went - on: “Wait till I am through. You didn’t know the truth in that matter of - the log-jam. I understand that. There are a good many other things the - truth of which you don’t know. You don’t, for instance, know the real - facts about your own mind. You have had trouble to-night—for all - your talk about making a clean breast of it you haven’t told me yet what - it was—and your imagination makes a mountain out of what was - probably a molehill, and you straightway rush off bareheaded to wander - about like a ghost, and frighten people out of their wits; and then, - happening to meet a girl who, by the deceptive light of the moon, looks as - if she had some sense about her, you take without consideration the most - important step a man can take in his whole life. Isn’t that a fair - statement of the case? And, thinking it all over, don’t you agree with me - that you would better tie my handkerchief about your head and go home and - go to bed?” - </p> - <p> - Seth laughed—a reluctant, in-spite-of-himself laugh. “You always - would make fun of me when I tried to be serious. But if I ever <i>was</i> - serious in my life, it is now. Listen to me, Annie! It is not my fault if - I see you now, truly as you are, for the first time. I have been a fool. I - know it I said so at the start. But a man is the creature of - circumstances, you know. Things have happened tonight which have opened my - eyes. I realize now that you have been closest to my heart all the while, - that I have loved you all——” - </p> - <p> - Annie stopped him, with her hand upon his arm. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t want you to finish that to-night. Please don’t, Seth. It would - not be fair to me—or to yourself. Perhaps some other time when you - have thought it over calmly—we will talk about it—that is, if - you are of the same mind. If you are not, why, everything shall be just as - it was before. And more than that, Seth, you—you mustn’t feel in the - least bound by what has been said to-night. You know that I am older than - you—two whole months! That isn’t as much as four years”—the - meekest of her sex could scarcely have foregone that shaft—“but it - gives me some sort of authority over you. And I am going to use it for - your good. If it becomes necessary, I shall treat you like a perverse - little boy, who doesn’t in the least know what is good for him.” - </p> - <p> - There was no discouragement to Seth in the tones of her speech, however - non-committal its text might be. He put his arm about her and murmured: - </p> - <p> - “To think that I never <i>knew</i> until now! Ah, you make me very happy, - Annie. And shall you be happy, too, do you think, happier than if we - hadn’t met?” - </p> - <p> - She smiled as she disengaged herself, and gave him both hands to say that - they must separate: “Happier at least than on the night of the fishing - party. I cried myself to sleep that night.” - </p> - <p> - Seth found the house wholly dark, upon his return. He had no difficulty in - getting to sleep, and his heavy slumber lasted until long after the - breakfast hour the following forenoon. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIII.—THE CONVENTION: THE BOSS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>yre had seen - better days. In the noble old time of stage coaches it had been a - thriving, almost bustling place, with mills turning out wares celebrated - through all the section, with a starch factory which literally gave the - name of the town to its product as a standard of excellence, and with - taverns which were rarely left with a vacant room more than a day at a - time. In those days it had been a power in politics too. The old - court-house which frowned now upon the village green, elbowing the more - modern brick jail out of public sight, was supposed to have echoed in its - time about the tallest eloquence that any court-house in the State had - heard. From Tyre had come to Albany, and Washington as well, a whole - cluster of strong, shrewd, stalwart-tongued politicians, who forced their - way to speakerships, and judgeships, and even senatorships, like veritable - sons of Anak. It was a Tyre man who had beaten Aaron Burr in such and such - a memorable contest. It was another Tyre man who, by assuming lead of the - distracted Bucktails at a certain crucial period, had defeated sundry - machinations of the Clintonians, and sounded the death-knell of their - hopes. There was a Tyre man in the Regency, of course, and he is popularly - believed, at least in Jay County, to have held that storied syndicate up - by the tail, so to speak, years after it would otherwise have collapsed. - At every State Convention, in this fine old time, inferior politicians - from other sections dissembled their appetites until Tyre had been fed to - satiety. And in the sowing season of politics, when far-seeing candidates - began arranging for a share in the autumn harvest of offices, no aspirant - felt that his seed had a chance of sprouting until he had paid a - pilgrimage to Tyre, and invoked the mercy, if he could not have the - smiles, of the magnates there. - </p> - <p> - It was due doubtless to the traditions of these visits, when Judge Gould, - the hero of the great Biggs murder case, would be at the Nedahma House, - and Senator Yates, who unravelled and dragged to the pitiless light the - masonic plot to blow up Mount Vernon, was to be found at the turnpike - tavern, and both would keep pretty well in-doors toward evening because - Colonel De Lancey, who had shot four men before Hamilton’s death - discredited duelling, was in town on private business—it was no - doubt due to these memories that Tyre kept up its political tastes and, in - a faded way, its political prestige, long after its material importance - and interest had vanished. The mills were remembered now only by the - widened reaches in the stream where their dams had once been; the starch - factory was a dismantled ruin, from which what woodwork the lightning had - spared had long since been abstracted for fuel; one of the taverns was now - a private dwelling, and the other two neither profited themselves nor - pleased the wives of the village by their dependence upon local custom. - But the men of Tyre were still intense politicians. Indeed their known - virulence had given to their county sobriquet of Jayhawker an almost - national fame. Nowhere else in the State, proportionately, were so many - weekly partisan papers taken—not tame, dispassionate prints, but the - fire-eaters of both party presses, with incessant harrowing accounts of - peaceful and confiding negroes being massacred in the South, on the one - side, answered regularly on the other by long imposing tables of the money - stolen by notorious criminals in the public service. This was the meat - Tyre fed on, and contending editors could not serve it out too rank or - highly peppered for its taste. - </p> - <p> - The one excitement of Tyre too—far transcending the county fair, - which had only interested them casually, and which they had seen moved - over to Sidon, on the line of the newly-extended railroad, without a - protest—was a political convention. There would be such a crowd - about the Court House then as scarcely the spectacle of its being consumed - by flames could draw at another time. The freeholders of Tyre paid much - more than their fair share of county taxes; they knew it, and did not - grumble at the injustice. In fact it rather pleased them than otherwise to - see their town rated on the Supervisor’s assessment-rolls according to its - ancient wealth; the amercement was a testimonial to their dignity. Upstart - towns like Sidon might wrangle over a few hundred dollars, and cheapen - their valuation in the public eye by unworthy tricks; Tyre would have none - of such small doings; it would preserve a genteel exterior, even if it had - to eat pork grease on its buckwheat cakes in domestic seclusion. But if - there had been so much as a hint about holding a county convention - anywhere else than in the Tyre Court House—then, to use Abe - Beekman’s homely expression, you would have seen the fur fly! Other towns - might indulge their modern and mercenary tastes in county fairs, - railroads, gas, reservoirs and the like, to their hearts’ content, but - they must keep their hands off political conventions. He would be a brazen - Jayhawker indeed who should question Tyre’s monopoly of these! - </p> - <p> - So new generations of county politicians followed precedent without - thought of murmuring, and accepted the discomforts of jolting in crowded - democrat-wagons over the stony, bleak hills to Tyre, of eating cold, bad - dinners in the smoke-dried, draughty barracks which had once been hotels, - of drinking limed well-water with the unspeakable whiskey—as natural - consequences of being interested in the public affairs of the nation. This - resignation of other Jay County towns to the convention claims of Tyre - swelled into a spirit of truculent defence every two years, when the - question of a joint Congressional gathering for all three counties of the - district came up. Precisely what would have happened if the bigger shires - of Dearborn and Adams had combined in a refusal to come to Tyre, I am not - bold enough to guess. The general feeling would probably have been that a - crisis had arisen in which Jay County could do no less than dissolve her - relations with the Federal Union. - </p> - <p> - Fortunately no such menace of secession and civil war was ever suffered to - rise glowering on the horizon. Abe Beekman, the boss of Jay County, always - managed to have Tyre designated by the District Committee, and the - politicians from Dearborn and Adams amiably agreed to console themselves - for the nuisances of the trip by getting as much fun out of it as was - possible—which, reduced to details, meant bringing their own - whiskey, sternly avoiding the dangerous local well-water, and throwing at - each other during the dinner scramble such elements of the repast as - failed to attract their metropolitan tastes. This procedure was not - altogether to the liking of the Tyre landlords, who, however, compensated - themselves for the diminution of the bar traffic and the havoc wrought in - the dining room, by quadrupling their accustomed prices; and the invasion - of boisterous aliens had its seamy side for the women of the place, who - found it to the advantage of their dignity to stop indoors during the day - which their husbands and fathers consecrated to the service of the - Republic. But Tyre as a whole was proud and gratified. - </p> - <p> - On the morning when the adjourned District Convention was to reassemble, - political interest throbbed with feverish quickness in all the pulses of - Tyre. - </p> - <p> - The town could remember many a desperate and stirring combat on its - well-worn battle-field, but never such a resolute, prolonged, and - altogether delightful contest as this. The fight had its historic side, - too. Every voter in Tyre could remember, or had been taught in all its - details about, the famous struggle of the wet fall of ’34, when - Hiram Chesney, the Warwick of Jay County then, locked horns with the elder - Seth Fairchild of Dearborn, and, to pursue the local phraseology, they - pawed up more earth in their fierce encounter than would dam the Nedahma - creek. Poor Hiram had finally been worsted, falling ignobly on his native - stamping ground, before the eyes of his own people. He had long since - passed away, as Warwicks should when their king-making sinews have lost - their strength. But another boss, perhaps in some ways a greater boss, had - arisen in Jay County, in the person of Abram K. Beekman, and now, nearly - half a century later, he was to try conclusions with a second Fairchild of - Dearborn—a grandson of the hero of ’34. They had grappled - once, a fortnight before, and had had to separate again, after an all-day - tug, with a fall credited to neither. Now, in a few hours, they were to - confront each other once more. What wonder that Tyre was excited! - </p> - <p> - The two gladiators had been the observed of all observers during the - preliminary skirmish. Tyre was almost disposed to fancy the Dearborn man. - In his portly, black-clad figure, his round, close-shaven, aquiline face, - and his professional capacity for oratory, he had recalled pleasantly the - days when the Jay County bar was famous. The local magnate, Beekman, was - not a lawyer; he could not make a speech; he didn’t even look as if he - could make a speech. He had none of the affable, taking ways which Albert - Fairchild used to such purpose, but was brusque, self-contained, prone to - be dogmatic when he was not taciturn. Thus the balance turned enough in - Fairchild’s favor to about offset Beckman’s claims to local sympathy as a - Jayhawker, and put Tyre people in excellent mental trim to enjoy all the - points of the duel. - </p> - <p> - For in the minds of these practical politicians, it <i>was</i> a duel. - There was a third candidate, named Ansdell, it was true, supported by - nearly all the Adams delegation, but then he was a reformer, and had not - even come to the Convention, and Tyre had no use for him. A county boss - who had got a machine, and purposed doing certain definite things with it, - either to build up himself or crush somebody else, was natural and - comprehensible; but a man who set himself up as a candidate, without the - backing of any recognized political forces, who came supported by - delegates elected in a public and lawless manner without reference to the - wishes of leaders, and who pretended that his sole mission in politics was - to help purify it—who <i>could</i> make head or tail out of that? - </p> - <p> - Thus Tyreans talked with one another, as the village began to take on an - air of liveliness after breakfast, and groups slowly formed on the - sidewalks in front of the two hotels. There were many shades of diverging - opinion as to the merits and the prospects of the approaching contest, but - on one matter of belief there was a consensus of agreement. The fight lay - between Beekman and Fairchild, and the third man—it was interesting - to note that ignorance of his name was fashionable—wasn’t in the - race. Steve Chesney, whose right to speak oracularly on politics was his - sole inheritance from the departed Warwick, his father, summed up the - situation very clearly from the standpoint of Tyre when he said, leaning - comfortably against the post office hitching post, and pointing his - arguments in the right places with accurate tobacco juice shots at a crack - in the curb: - </p> - <p> - “The hull p’int’s this: Dearborn’s got seventeen votes, ain’t she?—solid - for Fairchild. Then he’s got two ’n’ Adams, ain’t he?—makin’ - nineteen ’n’ all. Th’ dude, he’s got what’s left of Adams, fifteen - ’n’ all. Jay County’s only got ten votes, ain’t she? Very well, - they’re solid for Abe. <i>Now!</i> Twenty-three’s a majority of the - convention. Git twenty-three ’n’ that settles it. Th’ reformer, he - needs eight votes. Kin he git ’em? Whair frum? Frum Dearborn? Not - much! Frum Jay? Well, not <i>this</i> evening! Count him out then. Of th’ - other two, Fairchild wants four votes, Abe needs thirteen. Thet looks kind - o’ sickly for Abe, mebbe yeh think. But bear in mine thet th’ Adams men - air pledged agin’ Fairchild by th’ same resolution which bines ’em - to th’ other chap. Abe wasn’t a candidate then ’n’ he didn’t git - barred out. But they made a dead set agin Fairchild all through Adams, on - ’count of his funny work at th’ State Convention. <i>So</i>, Adams - kin go to Abe, ’n’ she can’t go to Fairchild. I tell yeh, Jay can’t - be beat, ef she’s only a mine to think so—thet is, of course, ef - Dearborn fights fair. Ef she don’t, p’raps she may win to-day, but I tell - yeh, in thet case ther won’t be enough left of her candidate come ’lection - night to wad a hoss-pistol with.” - </p> - <p> - The Jay County delegates had begun to straggle into town, and percolate - aimlessly through the throngs in and about the bar-rooms, listening to the - discussions, and exchanging compliments and small talk with acquaintances. - Pending the appearance of their leader there was nothing else for them to - do. There was a rumor that Abe Beekman was in town, sending for men as he - wanted to see them, one by one, but nobody professed to be in the secret - of his hiding place, and nobody dreamed of attempting to find out what Abe - wished to keep dark. - </p> - <p> - The Adams County men, delegates and others, came over the hill from the - Spartacus station in a carryall, with four horses, and created a genuine - sensation as they drew up with a great clatter and splashing of mud in - front of the Nedahma House, and descended jauntily from the rear step to - the curb-stone. The natives eyed them all with deep interest, for upon - their action depended the issue of the day, but there was a special - excitement in watching the nine delegates with stove-pipe hats and gloves, - and tight rolled umbrellas, who came from Tecumseh itself. Tecumseh was - the only city in the district, or the whole section, for that matter, and - Jay County people timidly, wistfully dreamed of its gilded temptations, - its wild revels of sumptuous gayety, its dazzling luxuriance of life, as - shepherd boys on the plain of Dura might have dreamed of the mysteries and - marvels of Babylon. It was something, at least, to touch elbows with men - whose daily life was passed in Tecumseh. - </p> - <p> - Such of the younger Tyreans as had been introduced to these exalted - creatures on their previous visit crowded around them now, to - deferentially renew the acquaintance, and shine before their neighbors in - its reflected light. - </p> - <p> - Then the news filtered through the groups round about that Ansdell himself - had come up this time, and was the short, wiry little man with the drab - overcoat and the sharp black eyes. This aroused a fleeting interest, and - there was some standing on tip-toe to get a good view of him, but it could - not last long, for Ansdell as a politician was not a tangible thing on - which the tendrils of Tyre’s imagination could get a real grip. - </p> - <p> - It was of more importance to learn whether the views of the Adams - delegates had undergone any change—whether a new light had dawned - upon them in the interim. They submitted graciously to the preliminary - test of drinks at the bar, and pretended with easy affability to remember - distinctly the various Tyre men who came up and recalled their - acquaintance of a fortnight ago, but they had nothing to say that was to - the purpose. They were waiting; they would see what turned up; they would - certainly vote for Ansdell on the first ballot; further than that they - couldn’t say, but they saw no reason now why they shouldn’t keep on voting - for him; still, perhaps something might happen—this and nothing - more. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile there was an uneasy whisper going the rounds to the effect that - the two Adams men who had previously voted for Fairchild were now for - Ansdell, having succumbed to local pressure during the fortnight. The - story could not be verified, for the two gentlemen in question had - secreted themselves upon their arrival, and the other Adams men only - grinned bland mystery when interrogated on the subject. This worried the - Tyre men a good deal more than they would have liked to admit, but there - was a certain element of pleasure in it, too, for it added piquancy to the - coming fight. - </p> - <p> - The wooden minute hand of the old clock on the court house cupola had - laboriously twitched along to the zenith of the dial once more, marking - ten o’clock; only half an hour remained now before the time for the - Convention to reassemble, and the Dearborn delegates were still absent. - People began to stroll toward the court house, and casually attach - themselves to the outskirts of the cluster of saturnine, clean-shaven, - thin-featured old villagers, in high black stocks and broad-brimmed soft - hats, who stood on the steps, behind the fluted columns of the building’s - ambitious Grecian front, and chewed tobacco voraciously while they set up - the rival claims of Martin Van Buren and Francis Granger, or mumblingly - wrangled over the life and works of De Witt Clinton. These old men, by - reason of the antiquity and single-heartedness of their devotion to their - country, had two inalienable and confirmed rights: to sit on the platform - close by the speakers when the Declaration of Independence was read each - Fourth of July and to have the first chance for seats when the doors were - opened at a political Convention. - </p> - <p> - At last the eyes of those who had lingered about the Turnpike Tavern were - gladdened by the sight of the Dearborn crowd, driving furiously up in - three or four vehicles. Milton Squires was in the foremost wagon, and he - was the first to alight. - </p> - <p> - He trembled and turned around swiftly as a man laid a hand on his - shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “What d’yeh want?” he demanded, with nervous alertness. - </p> - <p> - The man whispered in his ear: “Abe Beekman is over in the back settin’ - room at Blodgett’s, ’n’ he wants to see your man Fairchile right - off.” - </p> - <p> - Milton had regained his composure. “So do I want to see him. Whair abaouts - is he? I was to meet him here.” - </p> - <p> - “There ain’t been no sign of him here, this mornin’. Nobuddy ’n - Tyre’s laid eyes on him, so far’s I kin fine aout.” - </p> - <p> - “Thet’s cur’ous,” said Milton reflectively. “He started to drive over - early enough. We cum by train, expectin’ to fine him here. P’raps he’s - seen Beekman by this time, on th’ quiet.” - </p> - <p> - “No, he ain’t!” The messenger’s tone was highly positive. - </p> - <p> - “Then mebbe I’d better go ’n’ see Beekman myself. Whair is - Blodgett’s?” - </p> - <p> - The man led the way off the main street, to a big, clap-boarded, dingy - white house, fronting nowhere in particular, and stopped at the gate. - </p> - <p> - “Ain’t you comin’ in?” Milton asked him. - </p> - <p> - “I dasen’t.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIV.—THE CONVENTION: THE NEWS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here were two - strange men in the low-ceilinged, grimly-furnished “settin’ room,” as - Milton was ushered into the presence of the Boss, but at a gesture from - this magnate they went out; the Boss surveyed the new comer without a word - of greeting or comment. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Beekman was a tall, angular man, past the prime of life, as was shown - by the gray in his thick hair, curling at the ends, and in the stiff, - projecting ruff of beard under his chin. His face was thin, hungry, with a - plaintive effect of deep lines, and his great blue-black eyes were often - tearful, like a young robin’s, in their intent watchfulness. He was almost - wholly Dutch in parentage—of that silent, persistent, - quietly-masterful race which, despite all the odds, has still held more - than its own in Stuyvesant’s State—and the descent showed itself in - the dusky hue of his skin. He had never been a wealthy man, though he came - of a family decently supplied with substance, and of long settlement in - the county. He had climbed to his present eminence after a long career in - local politics, by that process of exhaustion which we call the survival - of the fittest. Having attained it, his rule was that of a just despot, - rewarding and binding still more closely to him the faithful, - remorselessly crushing all signs of rivalry, and putting the recalcitrant - without pity to fire and sword. He had an almost supernatural faculty of - organizing information, and getting at the motives of men. He sniffed - treachery as a deer in the breeze sniffs the dog, and he had an oriental - way of striking with cruel swiftness, before anybody but the guilty victim - suspected offence. Withal, he was a kindly man to those who deserved well - of him, an upright citizen according to his lights, and a profound - believer in his party. - </p> - <p> - He sat now chewing an unlighted cigar, with his feet on the hearth of the - stove, and contemplated Milton at his leisure. He did not like Milton at - all, and one of his chief reasons for doubting the real ability of Albert - Fairchild was his choice of such an agent and confidant. At last he said, - curtly: - </p> - <p> - “It’s you, is it? I’ve got no business with you! Where’s Fairchild?” - </p> - <p> - There was something in Beekman’s eager, searching way of looking at a man - with those big bright eyes of his which, coupled with the question, - embarrassed Milton, and he fumbled with his hat as he repeated the - explanation he had given to the messenger. He was annoyed with himself for - being thus disturbed. - </p> - <p> - The Boss looked his visitor out of countenance once more. Then he said: - “Sit daown! Well, what is it to be?” - </p> - <p> - ‘Milton grinned, and leaned forward familiarly in his chair. - </p> - <p> - “I sh’d ruther think that was fur you to say.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you think so, do yeh? You imagine you’ve got me on the hip, ay?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, p’raps we’re no jedge, but it sorts o’ looks that way, now, don’t - it?” Milton tipped back his chair, satisfiedly, and put one of his big - feet up on the hearth, to dispute possession with the Boss. - </p> - <p> - Beekman reflected for a minute: then he began, after glancing at the - clock: - </p> - <p> - “There’s no time to waste. I might as well talk up ’n’ daown with - yeh. Your man Fairchild makes me tired. Ef he’d set his heart on goin’ to - Congress, why on airth didn’t he come to me in the first place, ’n’ - say so? It could ’a’ been arranged, easy’s slidin’ off a log. But - no, instid of that, he must go ’n’ work up th’ thing his own way, - ’n’ then come ’n’ buck agin me in my own caounty, ’n’ - obleege me to fight back. D’yeh call that sense? He’s smart enough in his - way, I grant yeh. He’s fixed up a putty fair sort o’ organisation in - Dearborn, although it can’t last long, simply because it’s all built up on - money, ’n’ I don’t go a cent on that kind of organising. Still it’s - good enough in its way. <i>But</i>, he made his mistake in lettin’ the - idea run away with him that he could skeer me into a conniption fit with - his musharoon organisation. He didn’t knaow me. He never took the trouble - to find aout abaout me. He jest took it fur granted that I’d crawl daown - aout o’ my tree, like Davy Crockett’s coon, as soon’s he pinted his gun at - me. Well, I didn’t come worth a cent. Then, when he faound aout that he’d - struck a snag, ’n’ that Dearborn County wasn’t the hull deestrick, - he turns raoun’ ’n’ aouts with his wallet, ’n’ tries to hire - me to come daown. Fur that’s what you was here for last week, ’n’ - you knaow it’s well’s I do.” - </p> - <p> - Milton tried to get in some words here, of dissent or explanation, but the - Boss would not hear them. - </p> - <p> - “Lem me go on; ’s no use your lyin’. That was Fairchild’s second - mistake. He thought politics was all money. Ef I was poorer than Job’s - turkey, he couldn’t buy me to so much as wink an eye fur him. I’m not in - politics fur what I kin make aout of it. I’m in because I like it; because - it’s meat ’n’ drink to me; because I git solid, substantial comfort - aout of it. Ther’s satisfaction in carryin’ yer eend; there’s pretty nigh - as much in daownin’ them that’s agin yeh. Jest naow I’m a thinkin’ a good - deal what fun it ’d be to let the floor aout from under your man - altogether, ’n’ nominate this feller from Tecumsy.” - </p> - <p> - “But,” broke in Milton, “you’re a candidate yer-self, ’n’——” - </p> - <p> - “Wait till I’m threw, will yeh? I <i>said</i>, I’m leanin’ a good deal - jest naow to’rd this man from Tecumsy. I c’d beat him easy ’nough - at the polls, ef he turned cranky, but I daoubt ef it ’d be wuth - while. I ain’t seen him yet, but I’m told he’s here, ’n’ ef I like - his looks durn me ef I ain’t a mine to nominate him. He can’t do no harm, - even ef he tries. These reform spurts don’t winter well. They never last - till spring. The boys lose their breath for a few months. But then they - git daown to work agin, and baounce the reformers to the back seats where - they belong. But it ’d be one thing to elect a high-toned, - kid-gloved, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-maouth kind o’ man like - what’s-his-name, ’n’ a hoss o’ quite another color to ’lect - Fairchild. <i>He’d</i> make me trouble from the word ‘go!’ Understan’, I - ain’t afraid of his meddlin’ with me here in Jay caounty; not a bit of it. - But he’d use his position to cripple me in the deestrick. The present - Congressman tried that on— ’n’ you ain’t so much as heerd his - name mentioned fur a re-nomination. But it was bother ’nough to - squelch him. I ain’t goin’ to hev it to do all over agin.” - </p> - <p> - “Right you air, tew!” Milton responded. - </p> - <p> - The Boss held up his hand to forbid further interruption, while he looked - curiously at his visitor, as if puzzled by his acquiescence. He went on: - </p> - <p> - “Ef you was a man of any readin’ you’d hev heerd of a custom among - Europe-ian kentries, when one whips another, of makin’ the under dog in - the fight pull aout his front teeth, like. The beaten kentry has to tear - daown its forts, ’n’ blow up its men-o’-war, ’n’ so on, jest - as a guarantee not to make any more trouble. Well, ef I’d concluded to hev - any dealin’s at all with Fairchild, that’s what I’d hev done with him. I’d - ’a’ made him turn over the appintment of all Dearborn’s men on the - deestrick Committee; ’n’ I’d ’a had a written agreement that - half the Postmasters in Adams ’n’ Dearborn, as well as all in Jay, - should be o’ my namin’. My wife’s brother should hev hed the Thessaly post - office, tew, right under Fairchild’s nose, so’s to keep an eye on him. - It’s the duty of every man to purvide for his own fam’ly.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothin’ small about <i>you!</i> You only wanted the hull airth!” chuckled - Milton, ingratiatingly. - </p> - <p> - “No, it was Fairchild who wanted the airth ’n’ thought he’d got it, - ’n’ while he was deliberatin’ whether he’d have it braowned on both - sides or not, lo ’n’ behold I went in ’n’ took it away from - him slick ’n’ clean.” - </p> - <p> - The Boss rose as he was speaking, reached for his overcoat and put it on. - “Time’s up!” he said, sententiously. - </p> - <p> - Milton had risen too, and placed himself between Beekman and the door. - “There’s seven minutes yit,” he said eagerly, “I’ve got something yeh - can’t afford to miss. Don’t you want th’ nomination yer-self?” - </p> - <p> - “No. What good’d Washington be to me? New York State’s big enough for me. - If yeh don’t understand that I put my name before the Convention jest to - hold my caounty together, ’n’ block Dearborn, yer a dummed sight - bigger fool than even I took yeh to be.” - </p> - <p> - “But s’pose Dearborn’s votes cud be thrown to you! They’d nominate yeh! - What’d thet be wuth to yeh?” - </p> - <p> - “What ’d it be wuth?” mused the Boss, looking intently at Milton. - </p> - <p> - “Yes! in ready money, here! naow!” - </p> - <p> - The Boss took up his hat, meditatively, and gazed at his companion again. - “Did you knaow th’ man that brought yeh here?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—’twas Jim Bunner, wa’nt it?” - </p> - <p> - “That man ’d wade threw fire ’n’ water fer me. Yeh couldn’t - tempt him with a hundred thaousan’ dollars to so much as say an evil word - abaout me, let alone injure me. Yit he’s desprit poor, ’n’ th’ unly - thing I ever did fer him in my life, excep’ givin’ him a day’s work naow - ’n’ then, was to help him bury his child decently, ten years ago. - But <i>I</i> know my <i>men!</i> Here Fairchild has took you off a - dunghill, where all yer hull humly, sore-eyed, misrubble fam’ly belong, ’n’ - made a man of yeh, trusted his affairs to yeh, clothed yeh, fed yeh, yes, - ’n’ let yeh fatten yerself on the profits of his farm—and - naow yeh turn ’raound ’n’ offer to sell him aout. By gum! I - was right. Fairchild hain’t got no sense! ’N’ you, yeh skunk, git - aout! Don’t yeh walk on the same side of the street with me, or I’ll swat - the hull top of yer head off!” - </p> - <p> - “We’ll nominate Ansdell ’fore you git a chance!” snarled Milton. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The Convention met, depressed by the evident feeling of disappointment - among the spectators, who swarmed on all the high, pewlike seats back of - the bar railing, while the delegates sat in rows of chairs inside the - space reserved in term time for the lawyers. There was ground enough for - this disappointment. Fairchild had not come, and the prospects of a good - speech, or even a bitter personal contest, were fading away. No one had an - explanation for his absence. The Dearborn delegates were more in the dark - than outsiders even, for they had been told to meet him in Tyre, before - the Convention, and that he would breakfast at the Turnpike Tavern. Milton - reassured them for a time by enlarging upon the bad condition of the - roads, but even he ended as they took their seats, by professing some fear - of an accident. “However, I’ll cast th’ solid vaote, th’ same as before, I - suppose?” he said, and the bondsmen nodded assent. - </p> - <p> - The proceedings opened tamely. The Chairman was a professor from the - Tecumseh Academy; the other counties each had a secretary. Two written - announcements were handed up to be read, one that Milton Squires was - authorized to cast seventeen votes for Dearborn County, the other naming a - man to perform a similar function for the ten votes of Jay. There was to - be no break yet awhile, apparently, in the two machine counties. But—what - would Adams do? - </p> - <p> - As this question flashed through the minds of the assemblage, one of the - Adams delegates rose, walked to the bench, gave a paper to the presiding - officer, and then joined the little throng of spectators to one side. Did - this mean that he left the Convention? What <i>did</i> it mean? - Experienced observers began to feel that something startling was coming. - </p> - <p> - The paper being read, turned out to be an announcement that Abram K. - Beekman had been substituted in the Adams County delegation for the - delegate who had just vacated his seat, and as the words died away the - Boss himself pushed his way down the aisle, threw his long leg over the - bar-rail, and took his seat. The master of Jay County getting substituted - for Adams County—here <i>was</i> a mystery! Did it portend that - Adams had been won for Beekman’s candidature? Yes, it must mean that—and - Tyre’s heart leapt for joy. Or no—it couldn’t mean that. The Boss - would hardly thrust himself forward in that brash way if he were sure of - winning—and Tyre’s heart sank again, sadly. - </p> - <p> - The Chairman announced that balloting would be resumed; that the counties - would be called in alphabetical order, and that, in the case of Adams - County, which did not signify a desire to vote as a unit, the names of the - delegates would also be called in that order. Before the words were fairly - out of his mouth a hundred shrewd brains had discovered that this meant - Beekman’s being the first name called. But what was his game? - </p> - <p> - So perplexed were the men of Tyre with this problem that they almost - forgot to cheer when their man rose to his feet, in response to his name. - It was rarely that one saw Abe Beekman in Conventions; he preferred to run - them from the outside; and no one in the hall had ever heard him make a - speech. Imagine how they listened now! - </p> - <p> - He spoke with an almost boyish nervousness, resting his hands on the table - before him, and clinging, as it were, with his eyes to the Chairman for - support. What he said was brief, to the point, and worth repeating here: - </p> - <p> - “I got substituted, ez p’raps some of yeh hev guessed, because I wanted a - word at the very start. I hev my reasons. I ain’t a’ goin’ to mention no - names—” he darted a swift, significant glance over toward the - Dearborn County men, singling out Milton for a second, then reverting his - troubled gaze to the Chairman—“but I kin feel it in my bones that - things ain’t on the square here. Ther’s a nigger in the fence. Mebbe it’s - no business of mine to yank him aout, but it’s only fair to my caounty - that we shouldn’t let anybody git ahead of us in doin’ what we want to - dew. It’s trew that D. comes ahead o’ J. in the alph’bet, but”—and - there was a momentary relaxation of his eager, sombre face as he - enunciated this undoubted fact—“its jest as trew that A. comes in - front o’ D. Ef any set o’ men—mind, I mention no names, but—ef - any set o’ delegates come here with the idee o’ sellin’ their man aout, or - o’ makin’ a combination which’ll put them solid with the next Congressman, - and leave Jay aout in the cold, perhaps ’fore I’m threw they’ll see - thet they bit off more’n their jaws could wag. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Cheerman, I don’t want to go to Congress. I never ’v’ hed the - least hankerin’ after it. This State of aours is good enough for me. I - wouldn’t feel like myself ef I had to stan’ ’raoun’ ’n’ see - chaps from Rhode Island or Floridy puttin’ on airs, and pretendin’ to cut - as big a swath as New York did. I’m too much of a State man fer thet. I’d - be itchin’ to jump on ’em all the while. So I want to say that I - withdraw my name——” - </p> - <p> - The Hon. Elhanan Pratt rose here, his weazen little figure coming up with - a spring like a jack-in-the-box, and squeaked out sharply: “I rise to a - point of order. The Abram K. Beekman whose name is before this Convention - is a Jay County man, nominated by Jay County, and voted for alone by Jay - County. No Adams County man”—there was an elaborate sarcasm in the - tone—“has any right to withdraw that name.” - </p> - <p> - “The point of order is well taken,” said the Chair. - </p> - <p> - “Well, in thet case I won’t ask to withdraw my name,” responded Beekman. - “But I don’t think it’ll make much differ’nce. A wink is as good as a nod - to a bline man. P’raps you kin git an idee by this time haow the Jay - caounty cat’s goin’ to jump; p’raps you can’t. I’m-goin’ to vaote fer Mr. - Richard Ansdell, ’n’ I wan’ to say——” - </p> - <p> - He was interrupted here by a stout, sharp burst of hand-clapping from the - Adams delegates, and the few Adams men in the audience. The Tyre crowd - were taken aback for an instant, and sat bewildered; then the fact that - their man had played his game, and was acting as if he had won, inspired - them to join tumultuously in the applause, though they were in total - darkness as to the nature of the stakes played for. - </p> - <p> - The Boss went on: “I wan’ to say that I’ve never laid eyes on him but - once, ’n’ never spoke a word with him in my life. But I ain’t lived - all this while ’thaout learnin’ to read somethin’ of a man’s natur’ - in his face. I believe he’s honest and straight-aout; I don’t believe - there’s a crookid hair in his head. P’raps he’s got some naotions that - we’d look on as finnickin’ up here in Jay, but I ain’t afeard o’ them. - It’s better to hev a man standin’ so upright thet he bends back’rd, then - to hev—— to hev—— the fact is, Mr. Cheerman, <i>I</i> - think I’ve said ’baout enough. Th’ other candidate hain’t showed up - today! P’raps it’s jest as well fur him that he hain’t. I guess he’ll - consider that he’s got abaout threw with deestrick politics—but I - don’t want to appear to be rubbin’ it in. The lawyers hev a Latin sayin’ - abaout speakin’ nothin’ but good o’ the dead——” - </p> - <p> - Beekman stopped short. The Chairman had risen to his feet. Half the - delegates had followed his example, and were gazing intently at one of the - tall, small-paned windows on the right side of the room. The three - reporters who were sitting in the clerk’s desk had begun climbing over the - rails and weaving their way between the chairs toward this same window. A - hum of rising murmurs was running through the audience. Beekman, finding - suddenly that he had no auditors, and disconcerted at the interruption, - looked about the room for a moment, in search of an explanation. Then he - followed the direction of the faces, and saw his retainer, Jim Bunner, - clambering in under the lifted sash, and making strenuous, almost frantic, - efforts meanwhile to attract his attention. - </p> - <p> - The man was breathless with excitement. He had climbed to the window from - the roof of a low adjoining shed, and he could be heard now, as he found a - footing on the back of a bench, in panting explanation of his conduct: “I - <i>hed</i> to come this way! It’d ’a taken me tew long to’ve got - threw the crowd at th’ door. I’ve got news for th’ Boss that won’t keep a - second!” - </p> - <p> - He had pushed his way roughly through the throng now, brushing the - reporters aside with especial impatience, and stood whispering, gasping - his tidings in Beekman’s ear. The assemblage, silent now as the midnight - watch, read in the deepening shadows and shocked severity of the Boss’s - face that something far out of the ordinary had happened. Beekman appeared - to be asking some questions, and pondering the whispered answers with - increasing emotion. - </p> - <p> - The waiting hundreds, all on their feet now, watched him in a tremor of - expectation. - </p> - <p> - At last he spoke, in a low, changed, yet extremely distinct voice: - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Cheerman, when I spoke abaout sayin’ nothin’ but good o’ th’ dead, I - spoke unbeknaown to myself like a prophet. My friend here brings some - awful news. Mr. Fairchild o’ Dearborn has jest been faound, stark ’n’ - cold, crunched under his hosses ’n’ carriage, at the bottom of - Tallman’s ravine!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXV.—“YOU THOUGHT I DID IT!” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Seth awoke - next morning, the position of the shadow cast by the thick green-paper - curtain which covered the upper half of his window, told his practised - faculties that it was very late, and impelled him to get out of bed, - before he began at all to remember the several momentous events of the - previous evening. As he dressed he strove to get these arranged in their - proper order in his mind. Curiously enough there were certain inchoate - recollections of feminine screams, of bursts of hysterical sobbing, of low - but rough and strange male voices, doleful and haunting, which confusedly - struggled for place in his sleepy thoughts, and seemed now to be a part of - the evening’s occurrences, now to belong to this present morning, and to - have come to him while he was nearing the end of his sleep. - </p> - <p> - As he passed his Aunt Sabrina’s door on his way to the stairs, he heard - from within this same sound of suppressed weeping. This much at least of - the unlocated recollections must have belonged to the first stages of his - waking. “Another quarrel with Isabel!” he thought, as he descended the - stairs. “Why is it that women must always be rowing it with each other!” - Then his own dispute with Albert came fresh and overpowering in - distinctness of impression across his mind, and the grounds of his - grievance against the temper of the other sex faded away. - </p> - <p> - The living-room was vacant—the breakfast table still standing in the - disorder of a meal just finished, and the shades down as though the day - had not yet begun, although the clock showed it to be past ten. One of the - folding doors of the parlor was open and he heard Isabel’s voice—it - struck him as being strangely altered toward harshness of fibre—calling - him to enter. - </p> - <p> - She stood, as he remembered her once before, in front of the piano. In the - dusk of the drawn curtains—how gloomy and distrait everything about - the house was this morning!—her figure was not very clearly visible, - but her face was so pale that it seemed to be independent of any light. - Her eyes had the effect of slight distention, and, in the shadow, were - singularly dark of tint. They were gazing at him with a strange, intent, - troubled look, and the expression of the pallid face went with this to - disturb him vaguely. He said to himself, in the moment of waiting for her - to speak, that he must keep his troth with Annie resolutely in mind, and, - if needs be, not shrink from avowing and standing by it. - </p> - <p> - Isabel did not offer him her hand, or tender him any greeting whatever; - only looked him through and through with that searching, unaccustomed - gaze. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn’t let them call you,” she said at last, speaking slowly, as if - with an effort to both form these words, and repress others. “I knew that - you needed the sleep.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry if I put anybody out by my laziness. But it is such a relief - to be able to sleep like that once in a while, instead of having to get - down to the office by eight.” - </p> - <p> - “I heard you go out last night. I heard you come in this morning. But not - another soul in the house suspects that you were out; not one!” - </p> - <p> - The tone was unmistakably solemn, and weighted with deep feeling of some - sort. Seth uneasily felt that a scene was impending, though he could not - foresee its form. He felt, too, that the part he must play in it would of - necessity be an awkward one. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he answered, “the night seemed too fine to stay in doors. Besides, - I was nervous, and it did me good to walk it off. You can’t imagine how - light-hearted I was when I returned, or—for that matter—how - heavy-hearted when I went out.” - </p> - <p> - “Seth!” - </p> - <p> - The word came forth like the red flash from clouds which can no longer - retain their pent-up, warring, swelling forces—an interjection of - passion, of dread, of infinite troubling, of doubt wreathed in struggle - with pain. She swayed slightly toward him, her hands clasped and stretched - down and forward with a gesture of excessive perturbation, her great eyes - lustrous with the excitement of this battle of emotions. Seth fancied that - the dominant meaning of the look was reproach. He could not in the least - see his way through the dilemma, or even understand it. He could only say - to himself that the enchantment was ended, and that, come what might, he - would not forget Annie. - </p> - <p> - The woman glided a step nearer to him. She put one hand to her brow with a - sudden movement, and rested the other upon the piano, as if all at once - conscious of needing support. With a painful little laugh, hysterically - incongruous, she said: - </p> - <p> - “I am almost beside myself, am I not? I can not speak to you, it seems! - And yet there is so much to say—or no! isn’t silence better still?” - Her voice trembled as she went on: “For what <i>could</i> we say? How - meaningless all our words would be in the face of—— of——-.” - </p> - <p> - She swept both hands to her eyes, with an impetuous gesture. Her form - seemed to totter for a moment, so that Seth instinctively moved toward - her. Then with a wild outburst of sobs she threw herself upon his breast, - convulsed with incessant paroxysms of passionate weeping. - </p> - <p> - They stood thus together for some minutes. The young man, moved to great - tenderness by her evident suffering, the cause of which he vaguely - referred to the previous evening’s events, put his arm about her, - whispered gently to her to be comforted, and stroked her hair with a soft, - caressing touch. His hand touched her cheek, and she shuddered at the - contact; then swiftly took the hand in hers, and raised it to her lips, - murmuring between the sobs: - </p> - <p> - “Ungrateful! was it not done for me? Ah, dear, I shall not shudder again.” - </p> - <p> - She kissed the hand repeatedly, and pressed it to her bosom, as she spoke. - She was still trembling like a leaf in his arms. - </p> - <p> - What could it all mean? he asked himself—and found no answer. - </p> - <p> - “We must be brave, dear,” she whispered now. “We must be on our guard - every instant! Oh—h! they shall tear my heart out before they learn - anything—so much as a syllable! We must keep our nerves.” She looked - up into his astonished face, with almost a smile in her effort to - strengthen his courage. “We <i>will</i> be brave, won’t we, mine? The test - will come soon now. Perhaps in an hour they will bring—<i>it!</i>” - </p> - <p> - The trembling seized her frame, and shook it with cruel force. She buried - her face in his breast with along, low cry of anguish, and sobbed there - piteously, clinging to his hand still. Once she bent as if to kiss it - again, but stopped, then turned her head aside, groaning “Oh how terrible! - how terrible!” - </p> - <p> - The mystification now demanded light of some sort. - </p> - <p> - “What is it that is so terrible, my poor girl?” he asked. “What are they - going to bring in an hour? Tell me, Isabel—my sweet sister—what - does it all mean?” - </p> - <p> - She looked up into his face, with flickering suggestions of a mechanical - smile at the comers of her pale lips, and with soft reproach in her eyes: - </p> - <p> - “Are you going to pretend to <i>me</i>, too, dear one? As if it were not - all here in my heart—all, all! Ah, they shan’t get it! They shan’t - get the shadow of a hint. You were home here all the while! You were - asleep, sound asleep! If it be necessary, I could swear that I <i>knew</i> - you were asleep, that—but no, there might be suspicion then. That we - mustn’t have! Don’t fear for me, dear one! I shall be so discreet, so - circumspect, watching, weighing every word! But oh—h—shall we - dream of <i>it?</i> What if we should, and should cry out in our sleep—Oh-h, - my God! my God!” - </p> - <p> - She sank again, convulsively clutching his hand, and quivering with - feverish sobs upon his breast. - </p> - <p> - “Upon my soul, I don’t in the least know what you are talking about, - Isabel! Do try and be calm, and tell me what it is!” - </p> - <p> - “<i>He</i> asks <i>me!</i>” she cried, with the same jarring, painful - half-laugh he had heard before. - </p> - <p> - He held her from him, so that he might look into her face. - </p> - <p> - “Come, come! You are acting like a tragedy-queen on the stage. Do be - sensible, and tell me what the matter is. You make me out of patience with - you!” - </p> - <p> - He spoke in the vexed tone of a man needlessly perplexed with foolish - mysteries. To her strained senses the simple expression of impatience was - cruel mockery. She drew herself still further back from him, and dropped - his hand. She was able to speak collectedly now: - </p> - <p> - “It is <i>you</i> who are the actor. You persist in playing the part—to - <i>me!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Still in riddles! <i>What</i> part, Isabel?” - </p> - <p> - “You <i>will</i> have me tell you? You want to hear the thing—in - words?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, by all means.” - </p> - <p> - She had never once taken her frightened, fascinated gaze from his face. - “You insist on hearing from my lips that while you were out last night - your brother was murdered——” - </p> - <p> - “What!” - </p> - <p> - “Murdered not four miles from here, as he was driving on the road, and his - body thrown down into a ravine. Some boys found it. Fortunately, everybody - thinks it was an accident. The men who brought the news thought so.” - </p> - <p> - She had spoken the words coldly, as if they were commonplaces and had been - learnt by rote; but all the passion of her being was flaming in her eyes, - which transfixed him with their stare. - </p> - <p> - “Mur-dered!” the young man stammered, feeling his senses reeling. “Albert - murdered! Oh-h this must be nonsense! It is too terrible to think of even! - You are out of your mind, Isabel!” - </p> - <p> - Her lips quivered: “It would be no wonder if I were, after <i>this!</i>” - </p> - <p> - The darkened rooms, the sobbing of his Aunt upstairs, the sounds of - anguish that he knew now had partially awakened him, the crazed demeanor - of Isabel—all these rose around him, like a black fog, to choke and - confound his mind. Her fixed gaze burned him. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me what you know!” he cried, wildly. - </p> - <p> - “Wouldn’t it be easier to tell me what <i>you</i> know?” The chilling tone - of the words startled him, as might a sudden contact of warm flesh with - ice, before his bewildered brain had grasped their meaning. Then, like the - crimson, all-pervading outburst of a conflagration, the thing dawned upon - him, and his thoughts seemed blood-red in its hideous light. He pushed her - from him fiercely, returning her piteous look of fright with a glare, and - biting his tongue for words that should be great enough to fairly - overwhelm her. As she cowered, he strode toward her: “You thought I did - it!” he shouted at her. - </p> - <p> - Her only answer was to bury her face in her hands, and sink weakly at his - knees. - </p> - <p> - He stood relentlessly glowering down upon her. The bitter, brutal words - that might be heaped upon her, nay, that ought to be, crowded upon his - tongue. It was too great a task to restrain them, to keep silence. - </p> - <p> - “<i>You</i> thought <i>I</i> did it,” he repeated. “And you didn’t object—you - didn’t shrink from me! Why, I remember—my God!—you kissed my - hand! You said: ‘it was done for me! ’ Oh-h!” - </p> - <p> - The woman at his feet, her face hidden, had been sobbing violently. She - lifted her eyes now, and strove appealingly to conquer him with their - power. She rose, unaided, to her feet, and confronted him. Terror and - tenderness visibly struggled for the mastery of her facial expression, as - for the mood behind it. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t, Seth, don’t! Can’t you see how I am suffering? Have you no pity? - How <i>can</i> you have the heart to speak to me like this?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>You</i> talk about pity—about hearts!” - </p> - <p> - “How long ago was it that they were on your tongue—that you had your - arms stretched open for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t recall it!” - </p> - <p> - “If I were to die this day, this hour, it would be the one thing I should - want to remember, the one thing of my life that I should hug to my heart. - What is changed since then? A man dead?—a man dies every minute of - the day somewhere in the world! Suppose I was wrong! Suppose it <i>was</i> - an accident—yes, we’ll say it was! <i>Don’t</i> you see—how - little that is, how unimportant, compared with—with——” - </p> - <p> - She finished the sentence by a faltering step toward him, her arms - outstretched, her lips parted, her form offering itself for his embrace - with a sinuous seduction of moving outlines. - </p> - <p> - The old witchery flamed up for a second in his pulses; then it was - emberless ashes. - </p> - <p> - Without a word he turned and left her. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Aunt Sabrina opened the door of her room in response to his strenuous - rapping, and wiped her tear-stained face with the end of her - shoulder-shawl as her nephew entered. At his behest, she told all the - tidings that had come to the farm. Its master had been found at the bottom - of Tallman’s ravine, by some boys who had climbed down to see if the - beech-nuts were turning. The whole equipage had pitched off the narrow - road which crossed the gulf at this point, high above. The buggy was - smashed. One of the horses was dead; the other had two of its legs broken. - Half hidden under the carriage and one of the beasts was Albert, quite - lifeless and cold. The men who brought the news believed every bone in his - body must have been broken. - </p> - <p> - As she concluded the bare recital of facts, the poor old maid began her - sobbing afresh. - </p> - <p> - “I might uv knaowd it’d ’a’ come to this,” she groaned; “‘pride - goeth before a fall,’ ez Solomon says. I hed my heart tew much sot on his - goin’ to Congress; I was exaltin’ my horn tew high. I was settin’ by the - window, that very minute, watchin’ Sarah Andrews go by perked up in their - democrat wagon, with her injy shawl ’n all her fine feathers on, ’n’ - never so much’s turnin’ her head this way, ’n’ I was sayin’ to - myself, ‘M’ lady, you’ll come daown a peg ’r two off ’n your - high hoss when Albert goes to Congress’—’n’ there the men was - comin’ in the gate, thet identical minute, with the news. I tell you!” she - roused herself into indignant declamation here, “men like Zeke Tallman - ought to be hung, who ’re tew shiftless or penurious to fix up - their fences on pieces o’ raoad like thet, sao’s to keep folks from - drivin’ off in the dark, ’n’ killin’ themselves! That’s what they - ought!” - </p> - <p> - “But it wasn’t dark, Aunt Sabrina,” said Seth; “the moon was so bright all - last night, you could have seen to read by it.” - </p> - <p> - The old lady was too occupied with her own thoughts to even think of - inquiring as to her nephew’s source of information. She only rocked to and - fro, desolately, and said, as if talking to herself: - </p> - <p> - “Sao much the wuss, Seth. It <i>was</i> to be! Nothin’ could a’ stopped - it. Thet old witch, M’tildy Warren, is right. There’s a cuss on aour - fam’ly. Here, almost inside tew years, Sissly’s gone, ’n’ Lemuel’s - gone, ’n’ naow its poor Albert! ’N’ he was gittin’ so like - his grandfather, the Senator, tew, gittin’ to look like him, ’n’ - ack like him; I kin remember my father——” - </p> - <p> - Seth had left the room, with soft footsteps. He would go at once to the - scene of his brother’s death. - </p> - <p> - At the outside door, as he opened it, he stood face to face with Annie. - She gave him her hand silently. Her face was paler than he had ever seen - it before, and she looked on the ground, after the first little start of - surprise at the meeting, instead of into his face. - </p> - <p> - “You have heard?” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Isn’t it awful?” - </p> - <p> - “Will you go upstairs and see Aunt Sabrina? She is in her room. I think - the sight of you would do her good.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. What a terrible shock it must be to her. And——?” - </p> - <p> - “The widow? You’ll find her in the parlor. Strange enough, she was weeping - her eyes out when I last saw her.” He could not keep the bitterness out of - his tone. - </p> - <p> - “Poor woman!” was all that Annie could find it in her heart to murmur, as - Seth passed her on his gloomy errand, and she entered the house of - mourning. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVI.—THE CORONER. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE was a short - cut by which, using a rough back road across the hill, and then a - dimly-marked bridle path down the bed of the creek, one could get to - Tallman’s ravine in less than an hour on foot. Seth saddled the black - mare, and brought her up on the meadow plateau overlooking the gulf, - panting and white on breast and barrel with foam, inside fifteen minutes. - He had galloped furiously, unable to think save in impatient flashes, and - reckless alike of his own neck and the beast’s wind and limbs. He reined - up the plunging mare at the very edge of the ravine, where some score of - farmers and boys were standing clustered under the trees, watching his - excited approach. - </p> - <p> - As he threw himself from the saddle among them, and looked swiftly from - face to face for the right one to speak to first, the attention of the - elder bystanders concentrated itself upon the mare. They would have given - their foremost thoughts to her anyway, for they were owners of livestock - even before they were neighbors, and her splashed and heated condition - appealed in protest to their deepest feeling—reverential care for - good horseflesh. But there was something more: the mare was strangely, - visibly agitated at the sight of the glen before her, and reared back with - outstretched trembling forelegs, lifted ears, and distended, frightened - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “By Cracky!” cried Zeke Tallman himself, “don’t it beat natur’! This ’ere - mare knaows what’s happened! Look at her! She senses what’s layin’ down - there at the bottom!” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ it they say dawgs has got more instinck than a hoss!” said a - younger yokel. He kicked a mongrel pup which was lounging around among the - men’s legs, with a fierce “Git aout! yeh whelp, yeh! What d’<i>you</i> - knaow abaout it!” to illustrate his contempt for this canine theory. - </p> - <p> - A third farmer, more practically considerate, took the shivering, - affrighted beast by the bridle, and led it away from the gulf’s edge, - patting its wet neck compassionately as they went. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Seth had found his way through the group to his brother John, - who stood with his back against a beech tree, springing from the very - brink of the gulf, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the trampled - grass at his feet. A half circle of boys, with one or two girls of the - school age, stretched about him at some distance, like the outer line of - an open fan, mutely eyeing him as the second most important figure in the - tragedy. They separated for Seth to make his way, and made signs to each - other that the interest was doubled by his arrival. The brothers shook - hands silently and scarcely looked at each other. - </p> - <p> - There came the sound of a pistol shot from the glen below; somebody said: - “There! they’ve killed th’ off-hoss. Ther’ goes th’ best matched team o’ - grays in Dearborn Caounty!” - </p> - <p> - “Have you been down yet, John?” Seth asked softly, as the low buzz of - conversation began about them once more. - </p> - <p> - “No, not yet. I suppose I could if I had insisted on it, but when I got - here, twenty minutes or so ago, they told me here that Timms had got his - jury together down there, and forbidden anybody coming down till they were - through. So I’ve stayed here. Not that I care about Timms, but—I can - wait.” - </p> - <p> - “Let’s go down!” As he spoke, Seth swung himself around the beech, and - began the descent, letting himself swiftly down the steep, mossy declivity - by saplings and roots. His brother followed. One or two boys started also, - but were roughly restrained by their elders, with a whispered “Stay back, - can’t yeh! H’ain’t yeh got no sense. Them’s the brothers!” - </p> - <p> - The scene at the bottom was not unlike what Seth’s fancy had painted it, - adding the terrible novelties of the night to a spot he had known from - boyhood. Half-shaded even in the noon sunlight by overhanging branches - from the towering, perpendicular sides of the glen, the miniature valley - lay, a narrow stretch of poor, close-cropped grass, with the spiral, faded - mullein stalks, the soft brown clumps of brake, the straggling, bloomless - thistles, and even some tufts of glowing golden-rod, which push their way - into unfrequented pasture-lands and encompass their sterility. The stream, - which once had been a piscatorial glory of the section, but now, robbed of - its water and its life by distant clearings, mills and reservoirs, - wandered sadly and shallowly on an unnoted course, divided itself here to - skirt each side of the gulf with a contemptible rivulet—the two - coming together abruptly at the mouth of the low stone culvert, and - vanishing into its dark recesses, above which rose, sloping steeply, the - high embankment of the road traversing the ravine. - </p> - <p> - It was over this embankment that horses, carriage and owner had - precipitately pitched; it was at its base, on the swail and gravel of the - stream’s edge, that the wreck lay, surrounded by a little knot of men. - Vertical gashes in the earth down the bank, with broken branches and tom - roots, marked the awful track of the descent; the waters of the brook to - the right, dammed by the body of the horse killed in the fall, had - overflowed the sands and made muddy rivulets across to the culvert. - </p> - <p> - The Coroner turned with obvious vexation at the sound of the brothers’ - approach. “I thought I give word—” he began; then, recognizing the - newcomers, added, without altering his peremptory, officious tone: “It’s - all right; you can come now, if you want to. The gentlemen of the jury - have completed their labors for the present. I was on the pint of - adjourning the ink-west.” - </p> - <p> - The brothers joined the jurors, and dumbly surveyed the spectacle at their - feet. One of the grays lay across the rivulet; the other, more recently - dead, was piled awkwardly upon its mate’s neck and shoulders, in an - unnatural heap. The front portions of the buggy, scratched but not - smashed, were curiously reared in the air, by reason of the pole being - driven deep into the soft earth, between the horses; the rear wheels and - the seat, broken off and riven by the violence of the shock, were imbedded - in the marsh underneath. On the higher ground, close in front of the - brothers, lay something decorously covered with horse-blankets, which they - comprehended with a sinking of the heart. - </p> - <p> - “He lay in theer, part under the hind wheels ’n’ part under the - nigh hoss,” explained the Coroner, with dignity. “The fall was enough to - brek his neck twenty times over, let alone the hosses may’ve kicked him on - the way down. We hev viewed the remains, ’n’ we’ve decided— - </p> - <p> - “We ain’t decided nothin’!” broke in one of the jurors, a serious, almost - grim-faced farmer, with a bushy collar of gray whiskers framing his brown - square jaw. “How kin we decide till we’ve heerd some evidence, ’n’ - before the ink-west is threw with?” - </p> - <p> - “There’s some men’d kick if they was goin’ to be hung. Did I <i>say</i> - we’d arrived at a verdict? What I mean is we’ve agreed to adjourn the - ink-west now till arter the funeral.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, why daon’t yeh say what yeh mean, then?” rejoined the objecting - juror. “They can’t no cor’ner make up my verdict fur me, ’n’ you’ll - fine it aout, tew.” - </p> - <p> - “The more fool me fur panelin’ yeh!” was the Coroner’s comment. - </p> - <p> - The brothers insensibly edged away from this painful altercation. A little - elderly man, in shabby broadcloth which seemed strangely out of place - among the rough tweeds and homespuns of the farmers, detached himself from - the group of jurors, and came over to them, with a subdued halfsmile of - recognition. It was the Thessaly undertaker. - </p> - <p> - “Tew bad, ain’t it?” he said glibly, “allus some such scrimmage as thet, - on every one of Timms’ juries. He ain’t got no exec’tive ability, <i>I</i> - say. I’d like to see <i>him</i> run a funer’l with eight bearers—all - green han’s! I told him thet once, right to his face! But then of course - yeh knaow <i>I</i> can’t say much. He’s techy, ’n’ ’twouldn’t - do fur me to rile him. We hev a kind o’ ’rangement, you see. I hev - to be on hand any-way, ’n’ he allus puts me on the jury; it helps - him ’n’ it helps me. I kin always sort o’ smooth over things, if - any o’ th’ jurors feels cranky, yeh knaow. They’ll listen to me, cuz they - reelize I’ve hed experience, ’n’ then there’s a good deal in - knaowin’ haow to manage men, in hevin’ what <i>I</i> call exec’tive - ability. Of course, this case is peculiar. They ain’t no question abaout - th’ death bein’ accidental. But this man you heerd kickin’, this Cyrus - Ballou, he’s makin’ a dead set to hev’ Zeke Tallman condemned fur hevin’ - his fence up there in bad repair. He ’n’ Tallman’s a lawin’ of it - abaout some o’ his steers thet got into Tallman’s cabbages, ’n’ - thet’s why——-” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose we can leave this to you!” John broke in, impatience mastering - the solemnity of the scene. “Have you made any arrangements? You know what - ought to be done.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my boy ought to be here by this time with my covered wagon, what I - call my ambulance.” - </p> - <p> - The brothers turned away from him. The little man remembered something and - hurrying after them laid his hand on John’s arm. - </p> - <p> - “When I spoke abaout allus bein’ on the jury, you knaow, p’raps I ought - to’ve explained.” He proceeded with an uneasy, deprecating gesture. “You - see, a juror gits a dollar a day, ’n’ sometimes friends of the - remains think I ought to deduck thet f’m my bill, but ef you’ll jest - consider——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh for God’s sake! leave us alone!” - </p> - <p> - It was Seth who spoke, and the undertaker joined his fellow-jurors at the - foot of the hill forthwith. The brothers went back, and stood again in - oppressed silence over the blanketed form. - </p> - <p> - Dr. William Henry Timms meanwhile conversed apart with his panel. He was a - middle-aged, shrewdfaced man, who, like so many thousands of other Whig - babes born in the forties, had been named after the hero of Tippecanoe. He - was more politician than coroner, more coroner than doctor. He hung by a - rather dubious diploma upon the outskirts of his profession, snubbed by - the County Society, contemned by most sensible Thessaly families as “not - fit to doctor a sick cat.” But he had a powerful “pull” in the politics of - the county, and the office could not, apparently, be wrested from him, no - matter how capable his opponent. - </p> - <p> - In the earlier years of his official service he had been over zealous in - suspecting mysteries, and had twice been reprimanded by the Supreme Court - Judge, and much oftener by the District Attorney, for enveloping in - criminal suspicion cases which, when intelligently examined, were palpable - and blameless casualties. These experiences had sensibly modified his - zeal. He had put the detective habit of mind far away behind him, and, - like a wise official, bent all his energies now to the more practical - labor of dividing each inquest into as many sessions as possible. Had he - been a Federal Deputy Marshal, he could not have been more skilled in this - delicate art of getting eight days’ pay out of a three hours’ case. A bare - suggestion of mystery at the start, to be almost cleared up, then revived, - then exploited carefully, then finally dissipated, and all so deftly that - the District Attorney, who lived at Octavius, would not be inspired to - come over and interfere—this was Dr. Timms’ conception of a - satisfactory inquest. Occasionally there would be the added zest of an - opportunity to formally inflict censure upon somebody, and if this - involved some wealthy or potential person, so much the better: to withhold - the censure meant tangible profit, to sternly mete it (failing a fair - arrangement) meant public credit as a bold, vigilant official. - </p> - <p> - Dr. Timms was still turning over in his mind the professional - possibilities involved in Tallman’s bad fence-building, and casually - sounding his jurors as to their private feelings toward the delinquent; - the brothers had followed the jury up to the meadow plateau, and were - standing aloof from yet among their neighbors, answering in monosyllables, - and following mentally the work of the undertakers’ squad down in the - bottom; the farmers were beginning to straggle off reluctantly, the - demands of neglected work and long-waiting dinners conquering their - inclination to remain—when a big carry-all from Tyre drove up on the - road outside, and a score of men clambered out and over the fence to join - the group. They had driven post-haste from the Convention, and among them - were Ansdell, Beekman, and Milton Squires. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Ansdell came straight to the two brothers, giving a hand to each with - a gesture full of tender comprehension. While they talked in low tones of - the tragedy, they were joined by Abe Beekman; upon the normal eagerness - and wistful solemnity of his gaunt face there was engrafted now a curious - suggestion of consuming interest in some masked feature of the affair. He - was so intent upon this, whatever it might be, that to the sensitive - feelings of the other three he seemed to dash into the subject with wanton - brusqueness. - </p> - <p> - “How air yeh, Fairchild?” he nodded to John, “I want somebody to tell me - this hull thing, while it’s fresh. Who knaows th’ most ’baout it? - Where’s th’ Cor’ner? What’s he done so far?” - </p> - <p> - Obedient to a word from John, the Coroner dignifiedly came over to the - beech tree, where our little group stood, and listened coldly to a series - of searching questions put by the Jay County magnate. When they were - finished he made lofty answer: - </p> - <p> - “I ain’t institooted no inquiries yit. That’ll be arranged fur later, to - convenience the family ’n’ the officers of the law. It ain’t - customary, in cases of accident like this, to rush around like a hen with - her head cut off, right at the start. The law takes these things ca’mly, - sir—ca’mly ’n’ quietly.” - </p> - <p> - “But have you made an examination?—you are a doctor, I think,” - interposed Ansdell. “Have you satisfied yourself when the death occurred? - Have you learned any of the circumstances of it? Were there any - witnesses?” - </p> - <p> - The Coroner looked at the questioner, then at the brothers, as if - including them in his pained censure, then back again at Ansdell: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know ez it’s any o’ <i>your</i> business,” he said. “Who <i>air</i> - yeh, any way?” - </p> - <p> - Before anyone else could answer, Beekman spoke: “He’s the next Congressman - from this deestrick—nominated by acclamation over at Tyre to-day—that’s - who <i>he</i> is. But never mind that, what I want to knaow is—air - yeh sure he died from an accident? Kin yeh swear to thet ez a doctor?” - </p> - <p> - “Toe be sure I kin!” responded the official, in a friendlier tone. “He was - simply mashed out o’ shape by the fall. He come down forty feet, ef it was - an inch, plum under the horses. They jest rolled over each other, all the - way down.—And so this is Mr. Ansdell, I presewm. I’m proud to make - yer acquaintance, sir. Only by the merest accident I wasn’t at the - Convention to-day, sir.” - </p> - <p> - The undertaker came up now to announce that the first stage of his labors - was completed and that the ambulance wagon was on the road outside, ready - to start for the Fairchild homestead. - </p> - <p> - “We went up by t’other side, lower daown the gulf,” he explained; “’twas - easier, ’n’ then there was no shock to yer feelin’s. Ef I might be - ’lowed to s’jest, it ’ud look kine o’ respectful to hev all - these friends of the remains walk two by two, behine the wagon, daown to - the haouse. Yeh might let the carry-all come along arterwards, empty, yeh - knaow, ez a sort o’ token of grief.” - </p> - <p> - The suggestion was passively accepted as the proper thing under the - circumstances, and the little procession began to shape itself on the road - outside. Seth was moving toward the fence with the others, when the - thought of the black mare he had ridden to the scene occurred to him. A - farm-boy was holding the animal a little way off, near some bars opening - from the meadow to the road. Seth saw Milton getting over the rails—he - had been busy on the outskirts of the assemblage gathering accounts from - those earlier on the ground—and said to him: “Won’t you get the - mare, and ride her home, along with the carry-all. I shall walk—with - the rest.” - </p> - <p> - The cortege had formed just beyond the fateful narrowing of the road, - where it crossed the gulf, and the men who were to follow Albert to the - homestead, including all the late comers from Tyre and a few neighbors, - had looked down the steep declivity, and noted the new breaking away of - earth on the road’s edge, before they passed on to fall in line behind the - black, shrouded vehicle. The procession had moved some rods when there - came sounds of excitement from the rear; at these some of the walkers - turned, then others, and even the driver of the ambulance drew up his - horses and joined the retrospective gaze. - </p> - <p> - The black mare was balking again, on the road directly over the gulf, and - was crowding back with her haunches tight against the fencing on the side - opposite to that over which her late master had fallen. It was a moment of - cruel tension to every eye, for the fence was visibly yielding under the - animal’s weight, and another tragedy seemed a matter of seconds. Milton - appeared to have lost all sense, and was simply clinging to the mare’s - neck, in dumb affright. Luckily a farmer ran forward at this juncture, and - contrived to lead the beast forward diagonally away from the spot. Milton - sat up in the saddle again, turned the mare away from the gulf, and - galloped off. - </p> - <p> - “Dummed cur’ous thet!” whispered Beekman to Seth; “does thet mare ack thet - way often?” - </p> - <p> - “I never knew her to balk before to-day. She acted like that when I first - brought her up to the ravine. It <i>is</i> curious, as you say. But animal - instinct is a strange, unaccountable thing any way.” - </p> - <p> - “Hm-m!” answered the Boss of Jay County, knitting his brows in thought, as - the procession moved again. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVII.—ANNIE AND ISABEL. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nnie found the - living room of the Fairchild homestead unoccupied. She could hear Alvira - talking with the Lawton girl out in the kitchen, and from the parlor on - the other side there came a murmuring sound which she did not comprehend - at once. As she laid her hand upon the stair door, with the purpose of - ascending to Sabrina’s room, this sound rose to a distinguishable pitch. - It was a woman’s weeping. Annie hesitated, listening for a moment; then - she turned, rolled one of the parlor doors back, and entered. - </p> - <p> - Isabel lay buried in the blue easy-chair, her face, encircled by one arm, - hidden against its back. The great braids of her yellow hair were - dishevelled and loosened, without being in graceful disorder. Her whole - form trembled with the force of her hysterical sobbing. - </p> - <p> - At Annie’s touch upon her shoulder she raised her face quickly. It was - tear-stained, haggard, and looked soft with that flabbiness of outline - which trouble may give to the fairest woman’s beauty when it is not built - upon youth; over this face passed a quick look of disappointment at - recognition of Annie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it is you!” - </p> - <p> - The almost petulant words escaped before Isabel could collect herself. She - sat up now, wiping her eyes, and striving with all her might for control - of her thoughts and tongue. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Isabel. I <i>was</i> going up to Sabrina’s room, but I heard you - sobbing here, and I felt that I must come to you. It is all so terrible—and - I do so feel for you!” - </p> - <p> - “Terrible—yes, it <i>is</i> terrible! It was kind of you to come—very - kind. I—I scarcely realize it all, yet. It was such a shock!” - </p> - <p> - “I know, poor dear.” Annie laid her hand caressingly on the other’s brow. - She had not come with over-tenderness in her heart, but this unexpected - depth of suffering, so palpably real, touched her keenly. “I know. Don’t - try to talk to me—don’t feel that it is necessary. Only let me be of - use to you. It will be a dreadful time for you all—and perhaps I can - spare you some. I shan’t go to the school to-day. Oughtn’t you to go up to - your room now, Isabel, and lie down, and leave me here to—to arrange - things?” - </p> - <p> - “No, not yet! Perhaps soon I will. My impulse is to stay down, to spare - myself nothing, to force myself to suffer everything that there is to be - suffered. I’ll see; perhaps that may not be best. But not now! not now! No—don’t - go! Stay with me. I dread to be left alone; my own thoughts murder me!” - She rose to her feet, and began pacing to and from the piano. “Let me walk—and - you talk to me—anything, it doesn’t matter what—it will help - occupy my mind. Oh, yes—were you at Crump’s last night? I heard them - come by, late, singing.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Isabel, how <i>can</i> we talk of such trivial things? Yes, I was - there; I was in the singing party, too. It makes me shudder to think that - at that very minute, perhaps——” The girl paused for a moment, - with parted lips and troubled face, as if pondering some sudden thought; - then exclaimed, “<i>Oh-h!</i> the horse! Could it have been!” - </p> - <p> - “Could what have been!” Isabel stopped in her caged-panther-like pacing, - and looked deep inquiry. - </p> - <p> - “But no, of course not! What connection <i>could</i> there have been! You - see, after I left the wagon, to cut across by the path at the end of the - poplars, a horse came galloping like the wind up the road, with some - figure lying low on its back. We were too far away to see distinctly, - though the night was so light”—she had insensibly drifted into the - use of the plural pronoun—“but the thing went by so like a flash - that it seemed an apparition. And come to think of it, there was an effort - to avoid noise. I know I wondered at there being such a muffled sound, and - Seth explained——” - </p> - <p> - She stopped short, conscious of having said more than she intended. - </p> - <p> - “Seth was with <i>you</i>, then?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—he met me, quite unexpectedly, by the thorns. He had been out - walking, he said; the night was too fine to sleep.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I heard him go out, an hour and a half at least before the singers - came by. Did he say anything to you about what had happened, here in the - house, during the evening?” Isabel’s azure eyes took on their darkest hue - now, in the intentness of her gaze into her companion’s face. - </p> - <p> - “Only that he had had words with Albert—poor boy! how like a knife - the memory of them must be to him now!” - </p> - <p> - “Did he tell you what the words were about?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “Did he say anything else to you?” - </p> - <p> - Annie grew restive under this persistent interrogation. The habit of - deference to the older, wiser, more beautiful woman was very strong with - her, but this did seem like an undue strain upon it. - </p> - <p> - “Why yes, no doubt he did. We talked of a number of things.” - </p> - <p> - “What were they? What did he say?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, really, Isabel, I——” - </p> - <p> - The elder woman gave a little click with her teeth and, after a searching - glance into the other’s face, resumed her walk up and down, her hands - clenched rather than clasped before her, and her movement more feline than - ever. “Well, really you—what?” she said with the faintest suggestion - of a mocking snarl in the intonation. - </p> - <p> - The girl drew herself up. It was not in human nature to keep her tone from - chilling. “Really, I think I would better go up to Sabrina. I fancied I - might be of some service to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Annie! Are you going to speak like that to me?—<i>now</i> of all - times!” The tone was outwardly appealing. Annie’s sense was not skilled - enough to detect the vibration of menace in it. - </p> - <p> - “No, Isabel, not at all. But you make it hard for me. Can you wonder? I - think to comfort a desolate, stricken woman in her hour of sorrow, and she - responds by peremptory cross-examination as to what a young man may have - said to me, in the moonlight. Is it strange that I am puzzled?” - </p> - <p> - “Strange! Is not everything strange around and about me! That I should - have married as I did; that I, loathing farm life, should have come here - to live; that I should be waiting here now for them to bring my husband’s - corpse home to me—is it not all strange, unreal? The conversation - ought to be to match, oughtn’t it?”—she spoke with an unnatural, - tremulous vivacity which pained and frightened the girl—“and so, - while we wait, I talk to you about young men, and the moonlight, and all - that. <i>Can’t</i> you see that my mind is tearing itself to pieces, like - a machine in motion with some big rod or other loose, pounding, crushing, - right and left like a flail! We <i>must</i> talk! Tell me what he said, - anything—everything.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, that isn’t so easy,” Annie replied dubiously, much mistrusting the - sanity of all this conversation, but pushed along with it in spite of - herself. “He said something about a misunderstanding with his poor - brother, and then—then something that I didn’t at all understand - about a temptation, a great temptation leading him to the gates of hell he - called it—but you know how Seth is given to exaggerate everything—and - then——” - </p> - <p> - “He told you all this, did he. How confiding! How sweet! Go on—what - <i>else</i> did he say to you—in the moonlight.” - </p> - <p> - Annie felt vaguely that the tone was cruel and hostile. As she paused in - bewildered self-inquiry, Isabel glided forward and confronted her, with - gleaming eyes and a white, drawn face. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you stop there?” she demanded in a swift, bitter whisper. - </p> - <p> - “There <i>are</i> things which—a girl doesn’t like to—have - dragged from her in this——” - </p> - <p> - Even as Annie was forming this halting halfsentence, a change came over - the elder woman. She dropped the hand which had been raised as if to - clutch Annie’s shoulder. The flashing light passed from her eyes, and - something of color, or at least of calm, came back into her face. - </p> - <p> - “I understand!” she said, simply. - </p> - <p> - “You can see, Isabel, that this is not a time I should have chosen to - speak of such things to you, if you had not insisted. It seems almost - barbarous to bring my joy forward, at such a time, and appear to contrast - it with your affliction. You <i>won’t</i> think I wanted to do it, will - you?” - </p> - <p> - The widow of a day was looking contemplatively at her companion; she had - effaced from both expression and voice every trace of her recent - agitation. “Are you sure it is all joy?” she asked calmly. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn’t admit it to him. And at first I was not altogether clear about - it in my own mind. Indeed, with this other and terrible thing, I can - scarcely think soberly about it, as it ought to be thought of. But still—you - know, Isabel, we were little children together—and I have never so - much as thought of anybody else.” Annie spoke more confidently, as she - went on; the notion that there had been malevolence in Isabel’s tone had - faded into a foolish fancy: there seemed almost encouragement, sympathy, - in her present expression. “I should have lived and died an old maid if he - had not come to me. And it comforts me, dear, too, to think that in your - great trouble I shall have almost a sister’s right to be with you, and - help you bear it.” - </p> - <p> - Isabel did not respond to this tender proffer of solace. She still stood - eying her companion reflectively. “You are very certain of being happy, - then?” she mused. - </p> - <p> - A sense of discordance touched the girl’s heart again—a something in - the restrained, calm tone which seemed to sting. She looked more - searchingly into the speaker’s eyes, and read in their blue depths a - mystery of meaning which froze and silenced her. While Annie looked, in - growing paralysis of thought, Isabel spoke again, slowly: - </p> - <p> - “Your married life at least won’t be deadly dull, as mine was. There must - be great possibilities of excitement in living with a man who can propose - marriage to a girl—in the moonlight—<i>on his way home from - having murdered his brother!</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Young Samantha Lawton, the member of the tribe who served as - maid-of-all-work at the Warren homestead, had a mind at once imaginative - and curious. From an upper window she had caught sight of the mournful - procession from Tallman’s ravine, winding its way down the hill, in the - distance. She stole out from the house, whose bedridden occupant could at - best only yell herself hoarse in calling if she chanced to need anything - during her absence, and walked up the path by the thorns to the main road, - over which the cortege would presently pass. Inside the sharp angle of - shade made at this corner, where the thorns aspiringly joined the poplars, - there was an old board seat between two trees, the relic of some past and - forgotten habit of rendezvous, perhaps whole generations old. Samantha - knew of this seat, and stood on it now; from it, she had a clear view of - the road in front and, through the tangled thorns, of the meadow-path to - the left, while there were branches enough about her to render her - practically invisible. From this coign of vantage Samantha saw some things - which she had not expected to witness. - </p> - <p> - Annie Fairchild came suddenly across the line of vision, from the - direction of the dead man’s house, and walked straight to the stile at the - edge of the thorn row. There was something so curious in the expression of - her face, as she advanced, that Samantha scented discovery, and prepared - on the instant an exculpatory lie. But Annie passed the one place where - discovery was probable, and the hidden girl saw now that the strange look - had some other explanation. She crossed the stile, and clung to the fence - post, as if for support; glanced up the road, where now the black front of - the nearing procession could be discerned; then with a shudder turned her - face in profile toward her unsuspected observer, and looked vacantly, - piteously up into the afternoon sky. - </p> - <p> - Annie’s face, with its straight, firm outlines, was not one which lent - itself to the small facial play of evanescent emotions. Its regular - features habitually expressed an intelligent, self-reliant composure, not - easily responsive to shades of feeling. To see this calm countenance - transfixed now with a helpless stare of anguish was to comprehend that - something terrible had happened. - </p> - <p> - She stood at the stile, desperately clinging to the rail at first, then - edging into the thorns to be more out of sight, as the ambulance and the - little file of friends moved slowly by. She noted nothing of the - peculiarities of the procession—that most of the silent followers - were strange men, in city dress—but only gazed at Seth, walking - along gravely behind the vehicle, beside his brother John. She saw him - with eyes distended, fixed—as of one following the unfolding of a - hideous nightmare. So long as the party remained in sight, these set, - affrighted eyes followed him. Then they closed, and the sufferer reeled as - if in a swoon. - </p> - <p> - Samantha’s first and best impulse was to get down and go to the agonized - woman’s aid; her second, and controlling, thought, was to stop where she - was, and see and hear all that was going. - </p> - <p> - Annie seemed to recover her strength, if not her composure. She wrung her - hands wildly and talked with strange incoherence aloud to herself. Once - she started, as if to cross the stile again and return to the house of - mourning, but drew back. At last, walking straight ahead, like one in a - dream, she moved toward her home. - </p> - <p> - Samantha followed at a safe distance, marvelling deeply. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVIII.—BETWEEN THE BREAD-PAN AND THE CHURN. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>ELL, I don’ knaow - ’s I go’s fur’s Sabriny, ’n’ say ther’s a cuss on th’ - fam’ly, ’n’ thet M’tildy Warren put it there, fur after all, three - deaths hand-runnin’ in tew years ain’t an onheerd-of thing, but I don’t - blame her fur gittin’ daown-hearted over it. Poor ole creetur, she’s be’n - a carryin’ the hull load o’ grief on her shoulders sence Sissly died. I - shouldn’t wonder if it’d be tew much for her naow.” - </p> - <p> - Alvira sighed, and let her eyes wander compassionately from the kneading - board and its batch of dough to the old, cushioned arm chair by the - kitchen stove where Aunt Sabrina customarily sat. This last bereavement - had rendered the hired-girl almost sentimental in her attitude toward the - stricken old maid—so much so that when young Samantha Lawton dropped - in, toward evening, and offered to sit down in this chair, Alvira had - sharply warned her to take another. - </p> - <p> - The girl had brought a note over from Annie to Seth, and was not a little - vexed that Alvira should have taken it from her, and gone upstairs to - deliver it herself, instead of allowing the messenger to complete her - errand. She declined, therefore, to display any interest in the subject of - the aged aunt, and warmed her hands over the glowing stove-griddles in - silence. The elder Lawton girl, Melissa, resting for a moment from her - churning, turned the talk into a more personal channel. - </p> - <p> - “Fur <i>my</i> part, I think it’s a pesky shame, where there’s three big - strappin’ men ’raoun’ th’ haouse, to make a girl wag this old - chum-dash till her arms are ready to drop off. ’N’ I’ll tell ’em - sao, tew.” - </p> - <p> - “I sh’d thought Dany’d done it fur yeh” said her younger sister, with a - grin. “He allus seemed to me to be soft enough to do all yer work fur yeh, - ef you’d let him.” - </p> - <p> - “Not he! Both he ’n’ Leander ain’t so much’s lifted a finger ’raoun’ - th’ haouse to-day. They’re off daown to th’ corners, hangin’ raoun’ th’ - store, ’n’ swoppin’ yarns ’baout th’ accident. <i>They</i> - wouldn’t keer ’f I churned away here till I spit blood. In th’ - mornin’ he’ll be awful sorry, of course, ’n’ swear he furgot all ’baout - Wednesday’s bein’ churnin’ day. Thet’s th’ man of it!” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ I s’pose Milton never does nothin’ ’baout th’ haouse - naowadays,” remarked Samantha, interrogatively. - </p> - <p> - “No, siree!” snapped Alvira. “You bet he daon’t! He’s tew high ’n’ - mighty fur thet! Prob’ly he’s furgot so much as th’ name of a churn, even. - He might git his broadcloth suit spotted, tew. I wouldn’t dream o’ askin’ - <i>him</i>. I’d ruther ask Seth any day then I hed Milton. <i>He</i> don’t - put on half so many airs, even if he does git thirty dollars a week in - Tecumseh, ’n’ live ’mong ladies ’n’ gentlemen ev’ry - day ’f his life.” - </p> - <p> - Melissa rested from her labors again, to say sneeringly: “Pritty ladies ’n’ - gentlemen he <i>use’t</i> to travel with, there in Tecumsy, accordin’ to - all accaounts!” Alvira paused in turn, with her arms to the elbow in the - floury mixing, and an angry glitter in her little black eyes. “Ef I was <i>some</i> - folks, ’n’ hed <i>some</i> folk’s relations in Tecumsy, ’pears - to me I’d keep my maouth pritty blamed shut ’baout what goes on - there!” - </p> - <p> - The retort was ample. There was no answering sound, save the muffled - splash and thud of Melissa’s vigorously-resumed churning. - </p> - <p> - The lull in conversation was beginning to grow oppressive when the young - visitor asked: “Haow does th’ fine lady take it?” - </p> - <p> - “She seems more opset than anyone’d given her credit fur,” Alvira - answered, sententiously. - </p> - <p> - Melissa interposed to expand this comment, and rest her arms: “Yes, she <i>seems</i> - opset enough. P’raps she <i>is</i>. But then agin, p’raps ef you was young - ’n’ good lookin’, with blew eyes ’n’ a lot o’ yalleh hair - thet was all yer own, ’n’ you hed a hus-ban’ twice as old as you - was, ’n’ he sh’d fall daown ’n’ break his neck, ’n’ - leave you a rich young widder, p’raps you’d cry yer eyes aout—when - people was lookin’—speshly if thet husban’ o’ yours left a likely - young brother who was soft on yeh. When you git as old ’s I be, - S’manthy, you’ll learn ther’s a good deal in appear’nces.” - </p> - <p> - “When she gits as old as you air,” broke in Alvira, sharply, “I hope - she’ll learn better ’n’ to blab everythin’ thet comes into her - head! You’ll let that cream break, ef yeh don’t look aout!” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t b’lieve its within an ’aour o’ comin’” said Melissa, - wearily resuming her task. - </p> - <p> - “No, but—reelly,” began Samantha, “<i>is</i> Seth——?” - </p> - <p> - “Never you mind whether Seth is or whether he isn’t,” answered Alvira. “A - young tadpole of a girl like you’s got no business pryin’ ’raoun’ - older folks’ affairs. You better go home! M’tildy may need yeh. Yer - sister’s got her work to dew, ’n’ so ’ve I.” - </p> - <p> - This plain intimation produced no effect upon Samantha. She continued to - warm her hands, which were already the hue of a red apple with the heat, - and remarked: “No, she don’ want me. Annie said I might stay ’s - long ’s I wanted to. She said she wanted to be left alone. She’s - abaout the wuss broke up girl <i>I</i> ever sot eyes on. You ought to see - the way <i>she</i> takes on, though. I bet the widder ain’t a succumstance - to her. Ef you’d seen what <i>I</i> saw, ’n’ heern what <i>I</i> - heerd this afternoon, I guess you’d think so tew.” - </p> - <p> - The girl spoke calmly, with a satisfied conviction that nobody would tell - her to go home again in a hurry. - </p> - <p> - “What was it?” came simultaneously from the kneading-board and the churn. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I dunnao,—I ain’t much of a han’ to blab everythin’. A young - tadpole of a girl like me, yeh knaow, ain’t got no business——” - </p> - <p> - “Come naow! <i>Don’t</i> be a <i>fool</i>, S’manthy! Ef you’ve got - anythin’ to say, spit it aout!” - </p> - <p> - Thus adjured by the commanding tones of Alvira, the girl trifled no more, - but related what she had seen, while hidden behind the thorns. She had a - talent for description, and made so much of Annie’s stony face and strange - behavior, that she succeeded in producing an effect of mystification upon - her listeners scarcely second to that under which she, as an involuntary - spectator, had labored. The success of her recital was not lost upon - Samantha, as she went on: - </p> - <p> - “Et was after th’ undertaker’s waggin ’n’ th’ men—some gallus - lookin’ young fellers, f’m Tecumsey I guess, was amongst ’em—et - was after these’d all gone by, thet I heerd her talk. She kind o’ hid - herself in th’ bushes while they was a goin’ by, ’n’ stared at ’em - like mad, ez fur’s she c’d folly ’em. Then she bust aout—not - a-cryin’ mind yeh, fur she never shed a tear—but wringin’ her han’s - ’n’ groanin’ ’n’ actin’ ’s ef she was goin’ to faint. I c’d - see her jest ez plain ’s I kin see you stan’in’ there naow, ’n’ - heer her, tew. All to onc’t she up ’n’ said——” - </p> - <p> - The young girl stopped here in the narrative abruptly, with a fine - disregard for the consuming interest with which her companions were - regarding her; she lifted her nose, and drew two or three leisured sniffs. - Then she bent down at the side of the stove and repeated them. - </p> - <p> - “Ther’s somethin’ burnin’ in thet oven,” she said at last, confidently. - </p> - <p> - “Et’s th’ barley. I knowed S’briny’d traipse off ’n’ leave it. She - allus does;” said Alvira, flinging open the oven door, and dragging out - with her apron a smoking pan of scorched grain. - </p> - <p> - Through the dense, pungent smudge which temporarily filled the room, - Samantha was heard to remark with offensive emphasis: “We allus drink - genu-wine coffee over to M’tildy’s. She’s mean enough ’baout some - things, but she wouldn’t make us swell ourselves aout with no - barley-wash.” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ sao do we here, tew—all but S’briny!” retorted Alvira, - indignantly. “She got use’ to drinkin’ it in war-times, when yeh couldn’t - git reel coffee fur love n’r money, jes’ ez all th’ other farm-folks did. - On’y she’s more contrary ’n’ th’ rest, ’n’ she wouldn’t - drink nothin’ else naow, not ef yeh poured it into her maouth with a - funnel. But go on ’th yer yarn!” - </p> - <p> - Samantha had to cough a little, on account of the smoke, and then it took - her some moments to collect the thread of her narrative. But at last even - the spirit of Tantalus could invent no further delay, and she proceeded: - </p> - <p> - “Well, she didn’t say much, fer a fact, but they was business in ev’ry - word she did say. Fust she hollered aout—right aout, I tell yeh: ‘<i>Et’s - a wicked lie! She’s a bad, wicked woman!</i> ’ Then she stopped fer - awhile ’n’ put her han’s up to her for’id—like this. Then she - shuk herself, ’n’ commenced to climb back over th’ stile, but she - seemed to think better of it, ’n’ started fer her own haouse, - like’s ef she was a walkin’ in her sleep, ’n’ a groanin’ to - herself: ‘<i>Seth a murd’rer! Seth a murd’rer!</i>’ Thet’s what I heerd!” - </p> - <p> - The girl put both feet up on the stove hearth, and tilted her chair back - in conscious triumph. “Got ’n’ apple handy?” she inquired of - Alvira, carelessly, in the tone of one whose position in life was assured. - </p> - <p> - To this strange recital, involving such terrible suggestions, there - succeeded a full minute of silence in the kitchen, broken only by the - ponderous clucking of the high wooden clock. Alvira and Melissa looked at - each other dumbly—each for once willing to forego the first word. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what d’yeh say to <i>thet?</i>” finally asked Melissa. - </p> - <p> - After some reflection, Alvira answered, “I sh’d say S’manthy was a lyin’.” - </p> - <p> - “S’elp me die, crisscross, I ain’t!” protested the girl at the stove: - “I’ve told it all, jest’s it happened, straight’s a string. Where’s yer - apples?” - </p> - <p> - Alvira meditated again for a moment. Then she said to her subordinate: “Go - down ’n’ git that sister o’ yourn a Spitzenberg—’n’ - bring up some cider, yeh might’s well, too.” - </p> - <p> - When Melissa had gone, Alvira went over to the ‘younger girl, and gripped - her sharply by the shoulder: “Look here, you, is what you’ve be’n tellin’ - us here honest? Don’t lie to <i>me!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Honest Injun? Alviry! ev’ry word!” - </p> - <p> - Alvira returned to her dough, and slapped it savagely into a huge, - unnatural pancake. She maintained silence until Melissa had returned, and - not only supplied her sister’s wants, but poured out a cupful of the new - cider for herself, as a proof of her appreciation of the Lawton family’s - supremacy over the existing crisis. Then Alvira spoke: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t ’tach th’ least ’mportance in th’ world to what - S’manthy heerd. Annie’s a school-teacher, ’n’ she’s be’n workin’ - pritty hard, ’n’ this thing’s kind o’ opset her—what with - tendin’ to her gran’mother, ’n’ then this teachin’, which is - narvous, wearin’ kine o’ work. Thet’s th’ trewth o’ th’ matter. <i>I</i> - kin un-derstan’ it. She was jest aout of her senses. But other folks won’t - understan’ it as I dew. Once a hint gits flyin’ amongst outsiders, who - knaows where it’ll stop? Naow, girl ’n’ woman, I’ve be’n in this - haouse twenty year ’n’ more. I’m more a Fairchild than I’m anythin’ - else. I remember th’ man in there—layin’ dead in th’ parlor—when - he was a youngster, comin’ home f’m college; I remember Seth when he was a - baby. I ain’t got no folks of my own thet I keer a thaousandth part ‘s - much abaout, nur owe a thaousandth part ’s much tew, ez I dew this - Fairchile fam’ly. <i>Well!</i> They’ve hed trouble enough, this las’ tew - year, ‘thout havin’ any added onto it by th’ tattlin’, gossipin’ tongues - of outsiders. I ain’t goin’ to <i>hev</i> it! D’yeh understan’! Ef I heer - s’ much’s a whisper of this yere crazy school-teacher’s nonsense reported - ‘raound, by th’ Lord above, I’ll skin yeh both alive!” - </p> - <p> - “Who’s <i>b’en</i> a gossipin’?” asked Samantha, reproachfully. “I - shouldn’t never said a word, ef you hadn’t insisted, ’n’ called me - a fool fur holdin’ my tongue.” - </p> - <p> - “I dunnao where you’ll gao to when you die, S’manthy,” said Alvira, - reflectively. “But nao, girls, trewly naow, this mustn’t be mentioned. Yeh - kin see with half ’n eye what a raow it’d stir up. Naow prommus me, - both o’ yeh, thet not a word of it shell pass yer lips. Yeh can see fer - yerself haow foolish it is! Ev’rybody knaows he driv off th’ raoad, ’n’ - killed himself ’n’ th’ hosses by th’ fall. It’s ez plain ‘s th’ - nose on yer face. Still it’s jest sech cases as this thet people git - talkin’ abaout, once they’re sot goin’—so yeh <i>will</i> promise - me, won’t yeh?” - </p> - <p> - They promised. - </p> - <p> - “Hon’r bright, ye’ll never say a word to nao livin’ soul?” - </p> - <p> - They asseverated solemnly, honor bright, and Samantha had a doughnut as - well as another cup of cider. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The tiresome butter came at last, and the dough passed into a higher form - of existence through the fiery ordeal of the oven; supper was laid and - silently eaten; two neighbors, volunteers for the night-watch with the - dead, came, and were ushered into the gloomy parlor; while apples, cheese, - doughnuts and a pitcher of cider were placed on the table outside, for - their refreshment in the small hours. Night fell upon the farm. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Melissa Lawton stole out-doors as soon as Alvira retired to her room, and - made her way through the darkness to the barns. As Albert had done on the - fatal previous evening, she opened the sliding door of the big stable, and - called up the stairs to Milton. There was no response, and investigation - showed that he was not in his room, although the lamp was burning dimly. - The girl stopped long enough to look over the familiar coarse pictures on - the walls and the shelf, and then crept down the steep stairs again. - </p> - <p> - As she groped her way through the blackness to the stable door she came - suddenly in contact with a person entering, and felt herself rudely seized - and pushed back at arms’ length. - </p> - <p> - “Who’s here? What d’yeh want?” demanded a harsh voice, which seemed - despite its gruffness to betray great trepidation. - </p> - <p> - “It’s me—M’lissy!” - </p> - <p> - “Come along aout here into the light, so I kin see yeh. What a’ yeh doin’ - here, praowlin’ ’raoun’ ’n th’ dark, skeerin’ people fur?” - </p> - <p> - The Lawton girl’s native assurance all came back to her as she confronted - Milton in the dim starlight outside—which was radiance by contrast - with the stable’s total darkness—and she grinned satirically at him. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve got a nerve on you like a maouse, I swaow! You trembled all over - when yeh tuk holt o’ me, in there. What was yeh skeert abaout? I wouldn’t - hurt yeh!” - </p> - <p> - “I wa’n’t skeert,” the man replied, sullenly. “What was yeh after - in there?” - </p> - <p> - “I was lookin’ fur you.” - </p> - <p> - “What fur?” The tone was still uneasily suspicious. - </p> - <p> - “I got somethin’ to tell yeh.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “D’yeh knaow, I more’n half b’lieve this thing wa’n’t an accident - at all. What’d yeh say ’f it sh’d turn aout to be a murder?” - </p> - <p> - Even in this faint light Melissa could see that Milton was much taken - aback by the suggestion. He thrust his hands into his pockets, pulled them - out again, shuffled his feet, stammered, and betrayed by other signs - general among rustics his surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Pshaw—git aout!” he said at last; “what nonsense! Of caourse ’t - was ’n accident. Didn’t th’ Cor’ner say sao? Daon’t ev’rybody knaow - it?” - </p> - <p> - “Annie Fairchile don’t say sao. <i>She</i> don’t knaow it.” - </p> - <p> - The girl went on to relate the substance of Samantha’s revelations, adding - unconsciously sundry embellishments which tended to throw a clearer light - upon Seth as the chief figure in the mystery. - </p> - <p> - Milton listened with deep attentiveness. His slow, inefficient brain - worked hard to keep up with the recital, and assimilate its chief points. - When the girl had finished he still thought steadily on this strange - story, with its unforeseen, startling suggestions. Gradually two items - took shape in his mind as most important: that Annie believed Seth to be - the criminal, and hence would be estranged from him; and that if by any - unexpected means people came to suspect foul play, here were the elements - of a ready-made suspicion against Seth. The first of these was very - welcome; it would be time enough to think of the other if a discovery were - made. - </p> - <p> - “What dew I think?” he said at last, in response to the girl’s repeated - inquiries. “I think thet sister o’ yourn lied, ’n’ I think yeh - better keep yer maouth, ’n’ her’n tew, pritty dum shet, ef yeh - don’t want to git into trouble.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIX.—THE BOSS LOOKS INTO THE MATTER. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>OUSIN Seth—<i>There - are reasons why I cannot come to the house again, even to the funeral; and - why I shall not see you again during your stay. I think you will - understand them. If you explain to Aunt Sabrina that I am ill, it will not - be a falsehood. I have been and am suffering—terribly. But nobody - can help me, save by leaving me to myself. I am trying to forget, too, - everything that was said when we last talked together, and I shall - succeed. Never fear, I shall succeed. A.</i> - </p> - <p> - It was this note, scrawled in a hand very unlike Miss Annie’s customary - prim, school-teacher’s writing, which Samantha had borne over from the - Warren house. Seth had studied it, perplexedly, for a long time on the - evening of its arrival. He ruminated now again upon it, as he walked along - the road toward Thessaly, the following forenoon. The temptation to - confide the thing to John, who had stayed over night with him at the - homestead, and now was walking silently by his side toward the village, - wavered in his mind. Perhaps John could assist him to comprehend it; but - then, it would be necessary to explain so much to him first. Finally the - arguments in favor of confession triumphed, and with a “Here, old man; - this is a letter from Annie. I want you to help me guess what it means,” - he made the plunge. - </p> - <p> - John read the note carefully. “What was it you talked about on this - occasion she refers to, and when was it?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “It was night before last, <i>the</i> night, and I asked her to marry me.” - </p> - <p> - “And what was her answer?—I’ll tell you afterward how glad I am to - hear what you’ve just told me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it wasn’t decisive—but she admitted that it made her very - happy.” - </p> - <p> - “And you haven’t seen her since?” - </p> - <p> - “No—or yes! I did. I met her just for a moment yesterday forenoon, - as I was starting out from the house after hearing—the <i>news</i>. - We only exchanged a word or two, though.” - </p> - <p> - “Did she seem angry with you then?” - </p> - <p> - “Not at all!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what can have happened since? Try and think! She has reasons, she - says, which she thinks you will understand. When a woman says she has - ‘reasons’ she means that some mischief-maker has told her something - disagreeable. Now——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God! I see it now!” Seth stopped short in the road, and clenched - his fists. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what is it?” - </p> - <p> - “She went into the house, and saw Isabel!” Seth continued, as if talking - to himself. - </p> - <p> - “What has that got to do with it?” - </p> - <p> - Seth looked up at his brother with a blanching face, in which fright and - amazement blended. “What is that line of Congreve’s about Hell having no - fury like a woman scorned?” he asked mechanically. - </p> - <p> - It was John’s turn to stare. Gradually a light began to spread in his - mind, and make things visible whose existence he had not suspected before. - “Well, you <i>are</i> a simpleton!” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t I know it?” was the pained, contrite response. - </p> - <p> - The brothers walked on a few yards in silence. Then John said “Of course, - you needn’t tell me any more of this than you want to—but at least I - can ask you—how <i>much</i> of a fool have you made of yourself up - at the farm?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s hard to say. Just now I’m inclined to think that I am the champion - ass of the world.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you’re displaying some sense <i>now</i>, anyway. What have you - done?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t done anything. That’s the foolish part of it all.” - </p> - <p> - John stopped in turn, and looked his brother’s face attentively over. “Go - on, now,” he said, “and tell me what there is of it. There’s no use in my - butting my brains out against a stone wall, guessing at such an - inscrutable mess as this seems to be.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s hard to tell—there isn’t anything specially <i>to</i> tell. I - simply got sort of sentimental about Isabel, you know—she was lonely - and disappointed in life, and my coming to the farm was about the only - chance for company she got, and all that—and then I found the thing - might go too far and so I stopped it—and to clinch the thing, asked - Annie to marry me. That’s what there is of it.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s good as far as it goes. Go on, youngster; out with the rest of - it!” - </p> - <p> - “I tell you that <i>is</i> all.” - </p> - <p> - “Humbug! Annie never wrote this letter on the strength of such - philandering nonsense as that. You say Isabel must have told her - something. What <i>was</i> that something? Do you know?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes!” The answer was so full of despondent pain, that John’s sympathy - rose above his fraternal censariousness. - </p> - <p> - “Come, my boy,” he said, “you’d better make a clean breast of it. It won’t - seem half so bad, once you’ve told me. And if I can help you, you know I - will.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I <i>will</i> tell you, John. Night before last, Monday night, I - had hard words with Albert, up at the house. You know how he sent for me, - insisted on my coming, and what he wanted. Of course I could only say no, - and we quarreled. Toward the end we raised our voices, and Isabel, who was - upstairs, overheard us. Just then he began about me and her—it seems - he had noticed or heard something—and she, hearing her name, took it - for granted the whole quarrel was about her. I went upstairs, and - presently he drove out of the yard with the grays. I couldn’t sleep, I was - so agitated by the idea of our rupture, and I went out to walk it off. It - was while I was out that I met Annie and had the talk I have told you - about. Then I came home, went to bed, and slept till after ten—long - after everybody else had heard the news. I heard of it first from Isabel, - and she—she——” - </p> - <p> - He came to an abrupt halt. The duty of saying nothing which should - incriminate the woman rose before him, and fettered his tongue. - </p> - <p> - “And she—what?” asked John. - </p> - <p> - “Well, she somehow got the idea that I had followed Albert out and—and—was - responsible for his death! <i>Now</i>. you have it all!” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. They were nearing the four corners, and walking - slowly. Finally John, with his eyes on the ground, said: “And so that’s - what she has told Annie, you think?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s the only way I can explain the note.” - </p> - <p> - “But Annie couldn’t possibly believe such a thing as that!” - </p> - <p> - “No—but there’s an explanation for that too. Come to think of it, I - must have said a lot of things to her, that night, which seem now to her - to fit in with this awful theory. Poor girl! I don’t blame her.” - </p> - <p> - John answered, after a pause, “There’s no use of my saying anything to - show you what a situation you are in, or to scold you for it. I suppose - you realize it fully enough. What’s more to the purpose, we must consider - what is to be done. It is safe enough to assume that if Isabel thinks this - and has said it to one person, either some one else will think it, or she - will hint about it to another. The thing is too terrible to have even one - person, even if she were silent as the grave, think about it. The obvious - thing, I should think, would be to have a postmortem examination.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought they always had them at inquests.” - </p> - <p> - “No, the Coroner can dispense with one if he and the jury agree that it - isn’t necessary. Timms sent me word that he had decided to dispense with - one, in this case, ‘out of consideration for the feelings of the family.’ - That means, of course, that he wants the <i>Banner</i> to help re-elect - him next year. But now out of ‘consideration for the family’ we’ll have to - have one. Don’t be so down in the mouth about it, boy; it will all come - right, never fear!” - </p> - <p> - The brothers had reached the solitary building at the corners—a low, - dingy store, with its sloping roof turned to the road, and a broad - platform and steps stretching along its entire front. A horse and vacant - buggy stood at the hitching-post. John proposed to go in and get some - cigars, if Turner had any fit to smoke. - </p> - <p> - Their surprise was great at meeting on the steps Mr. Beekman of Jay - County, who was coming out. After terse salutations had been exchanged, - Beekman said: - </p> - <p> - “Lucky you fellows come daown jest ez yeh did. I come over this mornin’ - a-purpose to see yeh, ’n’ yit I didn’t quite like to go up to th’ - farm. I’ve got ever so many things I want to ask yeh, ’n’ say to - yeh.” He led the way over to the farther end of the steps, and, following - his example of sitting down on the platform, they waited curiously for him - to proceed: - </p> - <p> - “Fust of all, I was daown to Tecumsy last night, ’n’ saw Workman. - He said you”—turning to Seth—“needn’t worry yerself ’baout - comin’ back till yeh was ready. They kin keep th’ paper runnin’ for a week - or sao, while you stay up here ’n’ dew yer duty like a Christian.” - </p> - <p> - Seth said he was much obliged, and then asked how it happened that Beekman - had posted off to Tecumseh—over seventy miles—and returned so - soon. - </p> - <p> - “Well, there was some things I wanted to see abaout daown there, ’n’ - more thet I’m interested in keepin’ an eye on up here. So I kind o’ humped - myself.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m glad to see you taking such an interest in Ansdell’s campaign,” said - John. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Beekman’s gaunt visage relaxed for a second: “So yeh calc’late <i>thet’s</i> - what I’m buzzin’ ’raoun’ th’ State fur, do yeh? Yeh never’s more - mistaken in yer life. I’ve heerd reports circ’latin’ ’raoun’ thet - ther’d be an election a fortni’t or so from naow, ’n’ thet Ansdell - ’n’ I was concerned in it, but yeh can’t prove it by <i>us</i>. We - ain’t s’ much as give a thought to politics sence th’ Convention ended. <i>We’ve</i> - got somethin’ else to occupy aour minds with b’sides politics. I got a - telegraph dispatch from him, sent from New York this mornin’, thet I want - to talk to yeh ’baout presently, but fust——” - </p> - <p> - “Ansdell in New York?” asked Seth, all curiosity-now. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he went on daown, while I got off at Te-cumsy, ’n’ I sh’d - jedge from his telegraph thet he’d be’n on the go some sence he got there. - But what I want to ask yeh ’baout is this: Do yeh knaow haow much - money yer brother hed on him night ‘fore last, when he was—when he - met his death?” - </p> - <p> - The brothers looked at each other, then at, the speaker, “No,” answered - Seth, finally. “We haven’t the least idea. Why do you ask?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll come to that bimeby. Naow next, do you knaow where he was th’ day - b’fore th’ Convention?—thet is, Monday.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I can tell you that. He was in New York. He only got back Monday - evening.” - </p> - <p> - “Pre-cisely. Well, naow, do yeh knaow what he went there for?” - </p> - <p> - “No. Something connected with politics, I suppose, but I can’t say for - certain. He had business there very often, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I knaow. But he hed very special business this last time. Naow look - at this telegram.” - </p> - <p> - The two took the oblong sheet, and read: - </p> - <p> - “<i>New York—Oct. 21. 942 A.M. Unexpectedly easy sailing. Found clue - to money almost without looking. Fancy now must been sixteen instead ten. - Hope return to-night. Ansdell</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, still I am in the dark,” John said, after reading and re-reading - the dispatch. “What is it all about? I suppose you understand it.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m beginnin’ to see a leetle ways threw th’ millstone, I think, myself,” - replied Beekman. “But it’s all so uncert’n yit, I don’t want to say - nothin’ thet I can’t back up later on.” - </p> - <p> - Seth too had been busily pondering the dispatch, and he said now, with a - flushing face: “<i>I</i> know what you think! You and Ansdell have got an - idea there was foul play!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, yes, it ain’t much more’n an idee, <i>yit</i>;” assented Beekman. - </p> - <p> - “What do you base your idea on?” demanded John, full of a nameless, - growing fright lest there <i>might</i> be something further which Seth’s - confession had not revealed. - </p> - <p> - “Jest you wait one day more,” said the Boss of Jay County, grimly, “one - day more ’ll dew. Then I miss my guess ef we ain’t in shape to tell - yeh. Fust of all, there’s got to be a post-mortem.” - </p> - <p> - John’s impulse was to say that he and Seth had already agreed upon this, - but a second thought checked his tongue. - </p> - <p> - “’N’ it’ll hev to be on th’ quiet. Everything depends on thet—on - keepin’ it dark. There’s some folks might get skeered, ’n’ - complicate things, ef it ain’t kep’ mum. ’N’ thet’s what I wanted - to ask yeh ’baout. I’ve thought of Dr. Bacon, over at Thessaly, ’n’ - Dr. Pierce daown at the Springs. They’re both good men, ’n’ got - level heads on ’em. What d’yeh say to them?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve no objection to them in the world, but the Coroner——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I know ’bout him. He’s th’ blamedest fool in th’ caounty. Over - in Jay we wouldn’t elect sech a dumb-head to be hog-reeve. But you ’n’ - Ansdell kin fix it with him to-morrow, ’n’ I’ll drive to-day ’n’ - see both doctors, ’n’ put ’em straight. ’N’ naow yeh - must prommus me, both of yeh, thet yeh won’t breathe a word of this to any - livin’ soul.” - </p> - <p> - They promised, and he climbed into his buggy, and gathered up the reins. - “Oh, there’s one thing more,” he said, on reflection. “P’raps you wonder - why I’m takin’ so much on myself. I’ll tell yeh bimeby. I’ve got my - reasons. I’m mixed up in it, more’n you’d think.” - </p> - <p> - He turned about, and drove off briskly toward Thessaly. The brothers stood - in perplexed silence by the roadside for some minutes. There was surely - enough to think about. - </p> - <p> - At last, with a frank gesture, John stretched his hand out to Seth: - </p> - <p> - “Old boy,” he said, “I don’t know how this thing is coming out, but we’ll - see it through together. You go down to the office and wait for me. You - might do some things to fill up the paper this week if you’ve got nerve - enough. I’m going back to the farm.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXX.—JOHN’S DELICATE MISSION. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile Seth tried to - divert his thoughts at the <i>Banner</i> office by going over the - freshly-arrived batch of morning dailies, and fastening his attention upon - their political editorials and reports of speeches instead of their - displayed and minute reports of the sensational tragedy in Tallman’s - ravine—John Fairchild retraced his steps toward the farm. He had a - definite purpose in his mind—to confront and silence Isabel—and - he strove hard as he went along to plan how this should be done, and what - he should say. - </p> - <p> - He felt that his dominant emotion was wrath against this sister-in-law of - his, and he said to himself as he strode along that he had never liked - her. He could recall the summer a dozen years before when she came to the - farm as a visiting cousin. He had been civil to her then, even - companionable, for she was bright, spirited, in a word good company, but - it seemed to him now that even then he had suspected the treachery - ingrained in her nature—that he had been instinctively repelled by - those hateful qualities, dormant in her girlhood, which were later to plot - infidelity to one of his brothers, and lure into trouble, shame, perhaps - even crime, the other. - </p> - <p> - This latter phase of her work was peculiarly abominable in John’s eyes. He - was not going to get up any special indignation on the first count of the - indictment; a bachelor of nearly forty who marries a sentimental young - girl does it at his own risk, John felt, and Albert had invited just this - sort of thing by exiling her to a farm, and forcing her romantic mind to - feed on itself. But that she should have selected Seth—her own - husband’s brother, the Benjamin of the flock, a veritable child in such - matters—to practise her arts upon, was grievously unpardonable. To - be sure, Seth ought to have had more sense. But then John, habitually - thinking of him as “the youngster,” thought he could see how he had been - led on, step by step, never realizing the vicious tendency of it all, - until he had all at once found himself on the brink of a swift descent. - Then, to do the boy justice, he seemed to have stopped short, turned his - back upon the siren, and for the sake of further security, irrevocably - committed himself to Annie. He had been sadly weak in the earlier stages - of the affair, no doubt; but this last course appeared manly and sensible—and - wholly incompatible, too, with any idea of malice or crime on Seth’s part. - What fault there was belonged-to the woman, and she should be told so, - too, straight and sharp. - </p> - <p> - Thus John’s thoughts ran as he entered the house, and bade the Lawton girl - tell her mistress he wished to speak with her. He had not seen Isabel - since her husband’s death—she having kept her room constantly—nor - for a long time previous. They had, indeed, scarcely met more than - half-a-dozen times since she came to live at the homestead, and then with - considerable formality on both sides. As he stood by the stove in the - living-room, awaiting her coming, he knitted his brows and framed some - curt, terse words of address. - </p> - <p> - She entered, clad in the same black and dark-gray wrapper which his memory - associated with his mother’s funeral, and which gave the effect of height - and slender dignity to her figure. Her face was pale and pathetic in - expression, and the ghost of a smile which flitted in greeting over it for - a second accentuated its stamp of suffering. She offered him her hand, and - said, in a low mournful voice: - </p> - <p> - “It was good of you to come to me, John. I have been expecting, hoping you - would. Won’t you take off your coat and sit down?” - </p> - <p> - He had shaken hands with her, loosened his overcoat and taken a seat - before he had time to reflect that he ought to have ignored her greeting - and her proffered hand. The sharp words, too, that he had arranged in his - mind seemed too brusque now to utter to a weak, lone woman who was so - evidently suffering. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said, “I thought I ought to talk things over with you. You’ve - got nobody else.” - </p> - <p> - “No—not a soul! I couldn’t be more wholly alone if I were at the - North Pole, it has seemed to me this last day. I have eaten nothing; I - haven’t slept an hour. So you must make allowances for me,” she said, with - a weak shadow of a smile, “if I seem nervous or incoherent. My mind goes - all astray, sometimes now, and I seem unequal to the task of controlling - it.” - </p> - <p> - He had thought at last of a question which might introduce the desired - subject without wounding her feelings. “Do you happen to know,” he asked, - gently, “whether Albert brought a large sum of money with him from New - York Monday?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven’t the least idea, I am sure. In fact, I only saw him for a moment - after his return. And besides, you know, he never told me a syllable about - his business arrangements. No one could be in more complete ignorance of - his affairs than I have always been.” There was the tone of resigned - regret in her voice which a wife might rightly use. “I do indeed—there - is one exception—know about his will. He told me that, not by way of - confidence, but because it came out—in some words we once had about - property of mine in New York. I might as well tell you. The will gives - everything except my third to you and your aunt and—your brother. <i>He</i> - has the lion’s share. Don’t think I am complaining, John. I wouldn’t have - had it altered if I could. I am more than independent, you know, apart - from right of dower. If I had had the making of the will, it would have - been just the same. It is only right that his money should go to his - family.” - </p> - <p> - John reflected for some moments before he answered. “I am almost sorry you - told me,” he said then. “It makes me wretched and ashamed to think of the - injustice I have done him in my mind. It sounds brutal, in the light of - what you have told me,—but I am going to confess it to you—I - suspected all along that he intended to come some game over us about the - farm; and now, instead——. Oh, it’s <i>too</i> bad. I wish he - could hear me!” John continued, with a glance toward the folding doors of - the parlor, once more the chamber of death. “I wish he could know how I - despise myself for having wronged him in my mind.” - </p> - <p> - Isabel said nothing, but her responsive eyes seemed to express - appreciation and sympathy. John lost all sense of wrath toward her as he - went on: - </p> - <p> - “Yes, from the very start we wronged him. We didn’t understand him. He was - different from us—he was a man of the world, and we were countrymen, - and we thought all the while that he held himself outside the family. I - never gave him credit for good motives when he came to the farm; neither - did Seth. We both thought he was playing his own game, for himself, and - nobody else. And here, by George! he turns out to have had more brotherly - feeling, more family feeling, than we ever had. It makes me miserable to - think of it. It’ll break Seth’s heart, too; he’ll always torture himself - with the thought that the last time he ever saw Albert alive they parted - in anger.” - </p> - <p> - The words were out before he realized their significance. He stopped - short, and felt himself changing color as he looked at her to see whether - she too was thinking about that terrible night. - </p> - <p> - She made a motion as if to rise from her chair; then dropped back again - and returned his inquiring glance with a fixed, intent look. - </p> - <p> - “So you know something about <i>that</i>,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Did Seth tell you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes!” he answered, falteringly. “Seth told me. We had a long talk this - forenoon. I think he told me about every thing there was to tell. In fact, - that is mostly why I’ve come back now to see you.” - </p> - <p> - She was silent, but her eyes seemed to John to be saying disagreeable - things. - </p> - <p> - He began again to realize that it was his duty to be indignant in attitude - and peremptory in tone, but he was also conscious of feeling very sorry - for Isabel. The village editor often described himself, and was uniformly - characterized by others, as being “no hand for women.” His own brief - career as a married man—it seemed almost a dream now, and a very - painful dream, with a short period of great happiness, then a slightly - longer season of illness, poverty, debt, despair, and then the rayless - gloom of death in his scarcely established home—had taught him next - to nothing of the sex, and inclined him against learning more. The - impressions of womankind which clustered about the memories of his - girl-wife were, however, all in the direction of gentleness and softness. - As he reflected, it grew increasingly difficult for him to put on a harsh - demeanor toward his sister-in-law. She might deserve it well enough, but - it was not in his heart to speak ugly words to a pretty and troubled woman - at such a time. He stumbled on: - </p> - <p> - “Yes, the youngster is fearfully cut up about the whole thing, and he <i>had</i> - to talk to somebody. He’s always been used to telling me everything. He is - not a tattler, though, and I’m bound to say he only told me because I - questioned him, and insisted on his making a clean breast of it. Then I - sent him down to the office, and I came back here, thinking it might be - best for all concerned to have a frank talk with you about it.” - </p> - <p> - She had a course mapped out now in her mind. “I am sure that your motives - are good, John,” she said, “and that you will be fair and candid. I - confess I don’t see what there is to be gained, specially, but you no - doubt know best. What is it you wanted to talk over?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it isn’t easy to state it, off hand. Perhaps I might as well begin - by speaking of motives, as you did. I own that when I came in I wasn’t so - sure that your motives were good, as you say you are about mine.” - </p> - <p> - “That is candid, at all events.” - </p> - <p> - “I want to be perfectly open and above-board with you, Isabel. You seem to - have got into your head yesterday—I won’t say you have it now—some - horrible and ridiculously wild suspicion of Seth——” - </p> - <p> - “I know what you mean,” she interposed, with nervous haste. “You mustn’t - think of that at all! You mustn’t blame me for it! I was simply distracted—mad—out - of my senses. I don’t know <i>what</i> awful thing my fancy didn’t conjure - up. Don’t pay any attention to that!” - </p> - <p> - “But the mischief of it is that you seem to have spoken of this to—to - somebody else. It would have been unimportant otherwise. <i>This</i> - complicates it badly. Don’t you see it does?” - </p> - <p> - She made no answer, and kept her eyes on the figures in the carpet. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you see it does?” he repeated. - </p> - <p> - “How do you know that I spoke of it to anybody?” she asked, after a pause, - and still with downcast eyes. - </p> - <p> - “That has nothing to do with it, Isabel. It’s true, isn’t it, that you did - speak of it?” - </p> - <p> - To his surprise and embarrassment she began weeping, and hid her face in - her handkerchief. He sat mutely watching her, wishing that she would stop, - and perplexed at encountering on the very threshold of his inquiries and - argument this un-meetable demonstration of a woman’s resources. - </p> - <p> - She presently sobbed out, from behind the perfumed cambric: “You <i>can’t</i> - hold me accountable for what I did yesterday, or what I said! I was beside - myself! I scarcely know what I thought, or what I said! I acted like a - crazy woman—and felt like one, too! It is easy enough for you to be - cool and collected about the thing. You are a <i>man!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know, Isabel,” he said, kindly, “I understand all that, and I can - make all the allowances in the world for you, in your position. But still - that doesn’t alter the fact that the thing has been said, and the harm - done. To be sure, I suppose, the harm will be only temporary, but as it - stands it affects the prospects of more than one person—of two - persons, in fact, near to us—very materially. You know what I mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what can be done to remedy it? That is the question. I am not going - to blame you, but still the fault <i>was</i> yours, and the steps to set - it right ought to be yours, too, oughtn’t they?” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” She looked up now, forgetting her tears. - </p> - <p> - “I am not quite sure what I do mean. I haven’t thought over details. There - is simply a given situation, with the question how to get out of it, and - the onus of action on you. I want you to help me think what the best way - will be.” - </p> - <p> - “How logically you state it! Suppose I disavowed the whole thing, ignored - it, refused to do anything or say anything. What then?” - </p> - <p> - “I won’t consider that at all. You couldn’t be so unfair as that—so - ungenerous.” - </p> - <p> - “Unfair! Ungenerous!” Isabel rose to her full height, and frowned down at - her brother-in-law, without a trace of tears in her eyes. “Fine fairness, - distinguished generosity, have been shown to <i>me</i>, haven’t they! - There has been so much delicacy in regarding <i>my</i> feelings! I ought - to leap at the opportunity of smoothing over matters between Mr. Seth and - his lady-love. My husband’s awful death, my position here, alone in the - world, the shock and suffering of it all—these are mere trifles - compared with the importance of seeing that their love affairs are - uninterrupted! Perhaps I might get a chance at the funeral to have them - kiss and make up—or would you prefer me to leave my dead now and go——” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Your</i> dead!” - </p> - <p> - The brother had risen also, and taken his hat. The exclamation carried in - its tone all the bitterness with which his mind had stored itself on his - walk back to the farm. Pity for the woman, perhaps something too of innate - susceptibility to beauty and grace, had restrained and covered up this - bitterness, so that he had supposed it gone. It flamed forth now, in - wrathful satire. - </p> - <p> - As she put her handkerchief up again to her eyes, as a token of more - tears, he went on, in a cold kind of excitement: - </p> - <p> - “You talk very cleverly—more so than any other woman I ever knew. - But you should pick your strong phrases with more discrimination. For - instance, when you want to produce a really striking effect upon me, it is - unwise to use an expression which recalls to me at once things that you - would rather I didn’t think about. I wouldn’t say ‘<i>my</i> dead ’ - if I were you, especially when you are talking to his brother. It may do - for outsiders, but here in the family it is a bad waste of words.” - </p> - <p> - Her only answer was a gust of sobs. They failed to move him and he went - on: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know that I have any means of forcing you to do anything, or say - anything, against your will. If you take that position, perhaps it won’t - be necessary. The wicked, ridiculous thing you thought, or pretended to - think, and said to that poor girl, can be straightened out very easily. We - can’t prevent the pain it has already caused, but we can stop its causing - more. But if you lisp it to another human being—well, I don’t know - what to threaten you with. It isn’t easy to guess what considerations will - weigh with a woman who has your ideas of wifely duty, and of her - responsibilities towards young and foolish members of her husband’s - family, and——” - </p> - <p> - “How <i>can</i> you be so cruel, so mean, John? What right have you to - talk to me like that? Everybody attacks me like an enemy. You never have - been decent to me since I was married. Your whole family has treated me - like an outsider, almost a criminal, since I came here. Your old cat of an - aunt never looked at me except to wish me evil. Your brother—yes, if - he could hear me now, from where he lies, I would say it!—never was - fond of me, never tried to make a companion of me, never treated me as a - wife should be treated, or even as his intellectual equal. <i>You</i> - avoided me as if I were poison. The neighborhood disliked me, gossiped - about me, and I hated them. Only one there was of you all who was pleasant - with me, and good to me—and now that you have turned him against me, - too, you come and insult me because I was pleased and grateful for his - friendship. That is <i>manly</i> isn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - John had listened to the beginning of this impassioned speech with a - callous heart. But he was a just man, and he had in almost unmeted degree - that habit of mind which welcomes statements of both sides of a - controversy. He might have been a wealthier man, and the owner of a more - thriving paper, if he had had more of the partisan spirit. But to be - strictly fair was the rule of his being. He would not criticise political - opponents for doing things which in his heart he approved, and, on the - same principle he would not condemn unheard even this woman, if she had - any justification. As she went on, he began to feel that there was - considerable force in her argument. She certainly had been most - disagreeably situated, connubially and socially, and her definition of the - Seth episode was plausible, if that were all there was of it. He softened - perceptibly in tone as he answered: - </p> - <p> - “No, I am sorry if you think I wanted to insult you. Perhaps I did speak - too strongly. I apologize for it. But I feel very earnestly on this - subject. I’ve always been a sort of father and big brother combined to - Seth, and the idea of his getting into a mess, or doing foolish or - discreditable things, cuts me to the quick. You can see my position in the - matter. I am anxious not to hurt your feelings, but my first duty is to - him. Perhaps the two need not come into conflict. After all, no real harm - has been done, I fancy, except in this one case of repeating your - hysterical suspicion of him. <i>That</i> was inexcusable; can’t you <i>see</i> - that it was? I’m sure that if you’ll think it over calmly, you’ll be - disposed to do what is fair and right. I’m not blaming you particularly - for the other thing. You might have remembered that you were older than - Seth, to be sure, but then I realize that you were not at all pleasantly - placed——” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind what you realize! We won’t discuss that at all. There is - nothing to discuss. You and your aunt seem bound to make yourselves - ridiculous about me. I won’t demean myself by answering—or no! I <i>will</i> - say this much to you. There has never a word passed between Seth and me - that every soul of you might not have heard, and welcome. He was simply - pleasant and friendly to me—and I was grateful to him and fond of - him, as I might be of a brother. Where was the harm? In no decent state of - society would any one ever have dreamed of suspecting wrong. But <i>here</i>—why, - people live and breathe suspicion! It is the breath of their nostrils.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought you used to correspond,” John said, tentatively. - </p> - <p> - “Correspond! There it is again! What of it, I should like to know? Why - shouldn’t my cousin, my brother, write to me? I have all the letters;—you - may see them every one. They gave me a great deal of pleasure. They - represented my sole point of contact with civilization, with fine feelings - and pretty thoughts. But you can go over them all, if you like. You won’t - find a single whisper of proof of your aunt’s mean suspicion. I am almost - ashamed of myself for having stooped to defend myself—but it is just - as well to let you know the truth.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes!” John breathed a sigh which was not altogether of relief, but - carried a fair admixture of bewilderment. This ingenious explanation did - not at all points tally with the inferences drawn from Seth’s confession. - Perhaps it was true enough in the letter, but he felt that as a revelation - of the spirit it left much to be desired. He added: - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am sorry if I misjudged you. Probably I did. However, even if - Seth had come near getting into a scrape, he’s safe out of it now.” - </p> - <p> - This complaisant conclusion nettled-the woman. She went on, as if her - explanation had not been interrupted: - </p> - <p> - “Of course, we had what you might call a community of grievance to talk - about, and draw us together. It wouldn’t be fitting in me to say more now - than that my life here was not congenial: you won’t mind my saying <i>that</i> - much? I had dreamed of a very different kind of married existence. Seth, - too, had his trouble. In his boyhood, when it seemed assured that he was - to remain the farmer of the family, his mother had planned a marriage for - him. It isn’t for me to say a word against Annie. She is a good enough - girl, in her way. But when Seth got out of his chrysalis, and learned what - there really was in him, the thought that he was committed in a sense to - marrying a farm girl made him very gloomy. He used to talk with me about - it, not saying anything against Annie, mind you, but——” - </p> - <p> - “That’ll do!” said John, curtly. “We won’t go into that. Evidently there - was no limit to Seth’s asininity. Let that pass. Whatever he said, or - didn’t say, during his vealy period, he’s going to marry Annie now. There - never was a time, and I fear there never will be one, when I would not - call her his superior. The question is: Are you going to retract before - her the false, cruel things you have said?” - </p> - <p> - “I am going upstairs again,” she said. “I think I will lie down awhile,” - and moved towards the stair-door. - </p> - <p> - The brother looked at her, amazed, pained, indignant. She had her hand on - the latch by the time his emotions found words: - </p> - <p> - “I’ve wasted my time in pitying you. God forbid that any of our family, - young or old, should ever fall in with such a woman as you are again!” He - pulled on his hat and left the house. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXI.—MILTON’S ASPIRATIONS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he lamps were - lighted in the little partitioned-off square which served as the editorial - room of the <i>Banner</i> when John returned. He found Seth weakly - striving to write something for the editorial page, and in substance laid - the situation before him. He was not feeling very amiably toward his young - brother at the moment, and he spoke with cold distinctness. The tone was - lost upon Seth, who said wearily: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t see that it makes much difference—her refusing. What good - would it have done, if she <i>had</i> gone to Annie? She could only tell - her that she had abandoned such and such ideas. That isn’t what counts. - The fact of importance is that she ever entertained them, that they ever - existed. To my notion, there’s nothing to do but to wait and see what - comes of Beekman’s suspicions. What do you think of them, anyway? I have - been trying to imagine what he is aiming at, but it puzzles me? What do - you think?” - </p> - <p> - “To tell the truth, I haven’t been thinking of that. My mind has been - occupied with the female aspects of the thing. I’m not impatient. - Evidently Beekman and Ansdell think they have got hold of something. They - are not the men to go off on a wild-goose chase. Very good: I can wait - until they are ready to explain. But what I can’t wait for—or bear - to think about—is poor Annie, suffering as she must be suffering to - have written that letter.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I’ve thought of that, too, but I’m helpless. I can’t think of - anything: I can’t do anything.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t seem to be of much use, for a fact,” mused the brother. “I’ll - tell you what I’ll do, if you think best. To-morrow afternoon, after I’ve - seen Ansdell, or before that if he doesn’t come, I will go over and see - Annie myself. I can go over to the school-house by the back road, and walk - home with her. Perhaps by that time, too, I shall have something tangible - to explain to her. Until then, I suppose she must continue in suspense. It - is the penance she ought to do, I dare say—” the brother added this - in mildly sarcastic rebuke—“for the luxury of being in love with - such a transcendant genius as you are.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Something like an hour before this, Annie had dismissed her classes and - locked up the school-house for the night. As she did so, she mentally - wondered if she should ever have the strength to walk home. - </p> - <p> - The day had been one long-drawn out torture from its first waking moments—indeed - there seemed to have been nothing but anguish since her interview with - Isabel the previous day, not even the oblivion of sleep. Her impulse, and - her grandmother’s advice, had been to remain at home; but she had already - left the school unopened on the fatal Tuesday, in the shock of the news of - Albert’s death: to absent herself a second day might prejudice the - trustees against her. Besides, the occupation might serve to divert her - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps the trustees were satisfied, she said to herself now, locking the - door, but there certainly had been no relief in the day’s labor. The - little children had been unwontedly stupid and trying; the older boys, - some of them almost of her own age, had never before seemed so unruly and - loutishly impertinent. Even these experiences alone would have availed to - discourage her; as it was they added the stinging of insects to her great - heartache. With some organizations, the lesser pain nullifies the other. - She seemed to have a capacity for suffering, now, which took in, and made - the most of, every element of agony, great and small. She turned from the - rusty, squat little old building and began her journey homeward, with - hanging head and a deadly sense of weakness, physical and spiritual, - crushing her whole being. - </p> - <p> - Milton Squires had been watching for her appearance for some time, from a - sheltering ridge of berry-bushes and wall beyond the school, and he - hurried now to overtake her, clumsily professing surprise at the meeting. - </p> - <p> - “I jes happened up this way,” he said, “Dunnao <i>when</i> I be’n up here - on this road b’fore. Never dreampt o’ seein’ yeou.” - </p> - <p> - She made answer of some sort, as unintelligible and meaningless to herself - as to him. She did not know whether it was a relief or otherwise that he - was evidently going to walk home with her. Perhaps, if she let him do all - the talking, the companionship would help her to get over the ordeal of - the return less miserably. But she could not, and she would not, talk. - </p> - <p> - “I kind o’ thought mebbe you’d shet up schewl fer a week ’r sao,” - he proceeded, ingratiatingly, “but then agin I said to m’self ‘no siree, - she ain’t thet kine of a gal. Ef she’s got any work to dew, she jes’ does - it, rain ’r shine’. Thet’s what I said. Pooty bad business, wa’n’t - it, this death of yer cousin?” - </p> - <p> - “Dreadful!” she murmured, wishing he would talk of something else. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir, it’s about’s bad’s they make ’em. Some queer things ’baout - it tew. I s’pose yeh ain’t heerd no gossup ’baout it, hev yeh?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” she whispered with a sinking heart; a real effort was needed to - speak the other words: “What gossip? Is there gossip?” - </p> - <p> - “Dunnao’s yeh kin call it real gossup. P’raps nobuddy else won’t ’spicion - nothin’. But to me they’s some things ’baout it thet looks darned - cur’ous. Of caourse, it ain’t none o’ my business to blab ’baout - the thing.” - </p> - <p> - “No, of course.” - </p> - <p> - These little words, spoken falteringly, confirmed all that Milton had - wished to learn the truth about. Over night a stupendous scheme had - budded, unfolded, blossomed in his mind. Originally his primitive - intellect had gone no further than the simple idea of committing homicide - under circumstances which would inevitably point to an accident. The plan - was clever in its very nakedness. But through some row among the women, - probably out of jealousy, the hint of murder had been raised, and coupled - with Seth’s name. If this hint ripened into a suspicion and an inquiry, a - new situation would be created, but Milton could not see any peril in it - for him, for Seth would obviously be involved. But it would be better if - no questions of murder were raised at all, and matters were allowed to - stand. This would not only place Milton’s security beyond peradventure, - but it would give him a tremendous grip upon Annie. It was in this - direction that his mind had been working steadily since he heard of - Annie’s suspicions. The opportunity seemed to have come for placing the - cap-stone of acquisition upon the edifice of desire he had so long and - patiently been rearing. - </p> - <p> - As for the poor girl, she had reasoned herself out of the suspicion of - Seth’s guilt a thousand times, only to find herself hopelessly relapsing - into the quagmire. Milton’s hints came with cruel force to drag her back - now, this time lower than ever. Even he seemed to know of it, but he - proposed to maintain silence. Of course, he <i>must</i> be induced to keep - silent. Oh! the agony of her thoughts! - </p> - <p> - “You’n’ Seth was allus kine o’ frenly,” he proceeded. “Way back f’m - th’ time yeh was boys ’n’ gals.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, we always were.” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ they used to say, daown to th’ corners, that yeou two was - baoun’ to make a match of it.” - </p> - <p> - “There wasn’t anything in that at all!” She spoke decisively, almost - peremptorily. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they wa’n’t, ay?” There was evident jubilation in his tone. - “Never was nothin’ in that talk, ay?” - </p> - <p> - “No, nothing.” - </p> - <p> - The pair walked along on the side of the descending road silently for some - moments. A farmer passed them, hauling a load of pumpkins up the hill, and - exchanged a nod of salutation with Milton. This farmer remarked at his - supper-table an hour later, to his wife: “I’d bet a yoke o’ oxen thet - Milton Squires is a’makin’ up to the schewl-teacher. I seed ’em - walkin’ togither daown th’ hill to-night, ’n’ he was a lookin’ at - her like a bear at a sap-trough. It fairly made me grit my teeth to see - him, with his broadcloth cloze, ’n’ his watch-chain, ’n’ his - on-gainly ways.” To which his helpmeet acidulously responded: “Well, I - dunnao’s she c’d dew much better. She’s gittin’ pooty well along, ’n’ - fer all his ongainly ways, I don’t see but what he comes on, ‘baout’s - well’s some o’ them thet runs him daown. A gal can’t jedge much by a man’s - ways haow he’ll turn aout afterwards. <i>I</i> thought <i>I’d</i> got a - prize.” Whereupon the honest yeoman chose silence as the better part. - </p> - <p> - The red sun was hanging in a purplish haze over the edge of the hill as - the two descended, and the leaves from Farmer Perkins’s maples rustled - softly under their feet. Milton drew near his subject: - </p> - <p> - “I’ve be’n gittin’ on in th’ world sence yeou fust knew me, hain’t I?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, everybody says so.” - </p> - <p> - “’N’ yit everybody don’t knaow half of it. I ain’t no han’ to tell - all I knaow. Ef some folks c’d guess th’ speckle-ations I be’n in, ‘n’ th’ - cash I’ve got aout in mor’giges ’n’ sao on, it’d make ’em - open their eyes. It’s th’ still saow thet gits th’ swill, as my mother - use’ to say, ’n’ I’ve be’n still enough abaout it, I guess.” - </p> - <p> - His coarse chuckle jarred on the girl’s nerves, but the importance of - placating him was uppermost in her mind, and she answered, as pleasantly - as she could: - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I’m glad, Milton. You have worked hard all your life, and you - deserve it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yeh <i>air</i> glad, reely naow?” - </p> - <p> - “Why yes! Why shouldn’t I be? It always pleases me to hear of people’s - prosperity.” - </p> - <p> - “But me purtic’ly?” he persisted, earnestly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” she replied, absent-mindedly. Then the odd nature of the - question occurred to her, but she was too distrait to think consecutively, - and she added no comment to her answer. - </p> - <p> - “Well, it eases me to hear yeh say thet,” he went on, with awkward - deliberation, “fer they’s somethin’ I’ve be’n wantin’ to say to yeh fer a - long time. I don’t s’paose you reelize haow well off I am?” She did not - answer. Her mind seemed to refuse to act, and she heard only the sound of - his words. He took her reply for granted and continued: - </p> - <p> - “I c’d eena’most buy up thet farm there”—pointing over to the - Fairchild acres on the slope, now within sight—“’n’ I ain’t - so all-fired sure yit thet I won’t, nuther! But what’s th’ good o’ money, - on-less yeh kin git what yeh want with it, ay?” - </p> - <p> - The impulse of her soul-weariness was to let this aimless question pass - like the other, without reply. But she was reminded of the importance of - being pleasant to this tedious man, and so answered, entirely at random: - </p> - <p> - “What is it you want, Milton?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunnao—I’m kind o’ feared o’ puttin’ my foot in it; yeh won’t be - mad ef I tell yeh?” - </p> - <p> - “Why no, of course not. What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then,” he blurted out, “I want <i>yeou!</i>” The girl looked dumbly - at him, at first not realizing at all the meaning of his words, then held - as in a vise between the disposition to reply to him as he deserved and - the danger, the terrible danger, of angering him. There fluttered through - her senses, too, a mad kind of yearning to shriek with laughter—born - of the hysterical state of her long-oppressed nerves. She eventually - neither rebuked nor laughed, but said vacuously: - </p> - <p> - “Want <i>me?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Ef yeou’ll marry me, I’ll make one o’ th’ fust ladies o’ Dearb’rn Caounty - aout o’ yeh. Yeh need never lay yer finger to a stitch o’ work agin, no - more’n Is’bel did, daown yander.” He spoke eagerly, with more emotion in - his strident voice than she had ever heard there before. - </p> - <p> - The difficulty of her position crushed her courage. Of course she must say - no, but how do it without affronting him? The idea of reasoning him gently - out of the preposterous wish came to her. - </p> - <p> - “This is some flying notion in your head, Milton,” she said, civilly. “You - will have forgotten it by next week.” - </p> - <p> - “Forgott’n it, ay! Yeh think sao? What ’f I told yeh I hain’t - thought o’ nothin’ else fur nigh onto ten year?” - </p> - <p> - His tone was too earnest and excited to render further trifling safe. He - pulled out of an inner pocket and held up before her a little, irregularly - squared tin-type—which she recognized as having been made in - whimsical burlesque of her lineaments by an itinerant photographer years - before. - </p> - <p> - “How did you come by that?” she asked, to gain time. - </p> - <p> - “I got it fr’m th’ man thet made it, ’n’ I paid a dollar bill fer - it, tew,” he answered triumphantly, “’n’ I’ve kep it by me ever - sence!” - </p> - <p> - After a pause she said, as calmly as she could: “I never dreamed that such - a thought had entered your head. Of course, it—it can’t be.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not, I’d like to knaow?” he demanded. “Don’t yeh b’lieve what I’ve - told yeh ’baout my bein’ well off?” - </p> - <p> - “That hasn’t anything to do with it. There are other reasons—a good - many other reasons.” - </p> - <p> - “What air they?” His tone was peremptory. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know that I can explain them to you. But truly there are so many - of them—and your words took me so wholly by surprise, that—that——” - </p> - <p> - “Yeh needn’t mince matters! I <i>knaow!</i> Yeh hev sot yer idees on Seth! - Yeh needn’t tell me yeh hain’t!” - </p> - <p> - “I won’t talk with you at all if you shout at me in that way, and - contradict me flat when I assure you to the contrary.” - </p> - <p> - Milton paused for a moment, to consider the situation. They were - approaching the poplars now, along the lonely turnpike, and the - conversation could not be much protracted. What he had to say must be said - without delay. But what was it that he wished to say? A dozen inchoate - plans rose amorphously to the surface of his mind—to cajole her, to - strive further to impress her with his wealth, to entreat her, to attempt - to bully her. This last resource ran best with his mood, but there were - difficulties. Annie was the reverse of a cowardly girl; there was nothing - timid or tremulous about her; if he attempted to intimidate her, the - enterprise would most probably be a ridiculous failure, for he stood too - much in awe of her self-reliance and intelligence to have confidence in - his own mastery. - </p> - <p> - But stay—she was fearful about Seth. Whether it was true or not that - she had no idea of marrying her cousin, she was evidently solicitous for - his safety. An idea born of this conclusion swiftly engrafted itself upon - the hired man’s general strategy. He lifted his light, shifty eyes from - the grass of the roadside path to her face, once more, and said: - </p> - <p> - “Well, ef you’re a mine to be mean, I kin be mean tew—meaner ’n’ - pussly. Ef yeh think I’m goin’ to stan’ still, ’n’ let yeou ’n’ - Seth hev it all yer aown way, yer mistaken. I’ve only got to open my - maouth to th’ Cor’ner, ’n’ whair’d <i>he</i> be, ’n’ yeou - tew?” - </p> - <p> - There was a certain indefinable suggestion of bravado in his tone which - caught Annie’s attention. It was the barest, most meagre of shadows, but - she grasped at the chance of substance behind it. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe you could say anything, or do anything, which would - injure him,” she said, with more confidence in her words than she felt in - her heart. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yeh daon’t, ay!” he growled. “Ef yeh knaowed what I knaow, p’raps - yeh’d change yer teune.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you know, then? Come now, let us hear it!” She grew defiant, with - an instinctive sense that the inferior being beside her was ready to - retreat, if only she could keep up her boldness of front. - </p> - <p> - “Never yeou mind what I knaow!” he answered, evasively. “It’ll be enough, - I guess, to cook <i>his</i> geuse, when th’ time comes.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I thought so!” she exclaimed. “You were simply talking to hear - yourself talk—to scare me. Well, you see now that you wasted your - breath.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, <i>did</i> I! Well, I won’t waste any more of it, then, till I talk - to th’ Cor’ner. I kin tell him some things ’baout who rid th’ black - mare aout thet night, after Albert’d gone. Guess thet’ll kind ’o’ - fix things!” - </p> - <p> - His slow imagination, working clumsily in the mazes of falsehood, had - carried Milton a step too far; his simple plan of substituting Seth for - himself in the events of the fatal night miscarried in a way he could not - suspect. - </p> - <p> - Annie did not answer. An exclamation had risen to her lips, but something - akin to presence of mind checked it there. Her brain seemed to be working - with lightning flashes. The black mare had played a part in the tragedy, - then; Seth had certainly not had the animal out that evening; the rushing, - almost noiseless apparition which had startled them in the moonlight must - have been the mare; it was coming from the direction of Tallman’s; it had - a rider; who could that rider have been? and how did Milton know about it?—so - the swift thoughts ran, in a chain which seemed luminous in the relief it - brought to her. These two questions she could not answer—in her joy - at the apparent exculpation of Seth it did not seem specially important - that they should be answered—and she had self-possession enough to - ask nothing about them. - </p> - <p> - It was a nice question what she should say to her companion, who was now, - without any distinct suspicions on her part, growing luridly loathsome and - repugnant in her eyes. The fear of angering him had died away, but a vague - sense that mischief might be done by arousing his curiosity or - apprehensions had come to take its place. She spoke cautiously: - </p> - <p> - “I hope you won’t do anything rash, that you would regret afterwards.” - </p> - <p> - “They ain’t nao need o’ my doin’ nothin’, ef yeou’d only hev some sense. - But if yeou’re goin’ to be agin me, ther’s nao tellin’ what I won’t dew,” - he answered with sullen terseness. - </p> - <p> - They had come to the poplars, and Annie stopped at the stile under the - thorns. - </p> - <p> - “I shall have to leave you here,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Then yeh won’t hev me, ay? Yeh better think twice ’fore yeh say - nao! Yeh won’t git another sich a chance—to live like a lady, ’n’ - hev ev’rything yeh want. ’N’ ef yeh dew say nao, yeh kin rest ’sured - yeh ain’t heerd th’ last of it, ner him nuther.” Milton’s little - green-gray eyes watched her face intently, and he fingered his flaring - plated watch-chain with nervous preoccupation. “What d’yeh say, yes’ ’r - nao?” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t say anything more than I have said—<i>now</i>,” she - answered, and, stepping over the stile, left him. - </p> - <p> - For a long time afterward Annie’s conscience debated the justification of - that final word, the last one she ever addressed to Milton, and which was - obviously intended to keep alive a hope that she knew to be absurdly - without ground or reason. Sometimes even now she has momentary doubts - about it—but she silences cavil by whispering to herself in - unanswerable defence: “I thought then that possibly it might be needed to - help Seth—perhaps even to save him.” - </p> - <p> - She had little leisure just then, however, to devote to moral - introspection, for Samantha met her, half-way down the thorn-walk, to - excitedly tell her that her grandmother, Mrs. Warren, was very much worse - than usual. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXII.—“A WICKED WOMAN!” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Isabel looked - into her mirror next morning, the image shown back fairly startled her. - Day by day during this eventful week the glass had helped her to grow - familiar with reddened eyes, with harsh, ageing lines, and with a pallor - which no devices of the toilet could efface. It was not so much an added - accentuation of these which riveted her gaze, now, upon the mirror, as the - suggestion of a new face—of a stranger’s countenance, reflecting - meanings and thoughts of the uncommon kind. - </p> - <p> - She studied the face at first with an almost impersonal interest; then as - the brain associated these lineaments with her own, and made their - expression a part of her own spiritual state, she said to this other self - in the glass, audibly: - </p> - <p> - “Another week of this will make you an old woman.” She added, after a - pause of fascinated yet critical scrutiny: “Yes, and a wicked woman, too!” - There has been what one can only hope is an intelligible reluctance, from - the beginning of this recital, to essay analysis or portrayal of Isabel’s - thoughts and motives. A complex, contradictory character like hers, - striving now to assimilate, now to sway the simple, straightforward, - one-stringed natures with which it is environed, may be illustrated; it is - too great a task to dissect it. Yet for the once we may venture to look - into this troubled mind. - </p> - <p> - A wicked woman! The phrase which she had addressed aloud to the mocking - image in the glass, in mingled doubt and irony, clung to her meditations. - Had she ever meant to be wicked—ever deliberately, or even - consciously, chosen evil instead of good? No! There was no dubious - reservation in her answer. Yet within the week—oh, the horrible - week!—she had come to occupy a moral position for which hell could - not hold too relentless or fierce a punishment. She had hugged to her - heart thoughts which, when they are linked with acts, go to expiation on - the gallows. She shuddered now at the recollection of them; she could - recall that she had shuddered then, too. Yet all the same these thoughts - were a part of her—belonged to her. She had not repelled them as - alien, or as unwelcome. Even while in terror at their mien, she had - embraced them. Was this not all wickedness? - </p> - <p> - The reply came, in sophistical self-defense, that no one act or emotion of - a life could be judged by itself. The antecedent circumstances, leading up - to it, must be taken into account. She had been borne along on the current - of a career shaped for her by others. She was not responsible—she - had never fought with her destiny—she had done nothing but seek to - bring some flowers and light and color into the desolate voyage of life. - Was it fair to say that these little innocent, womanish efforts to soften - a sterile existence were the cause of the shipwreck—that it was - these which had brought her so suddenly, dazed and terrified, into the - very breakers on the sinister rocks of crime? No, the answer came again; - surely it could not be fair. - </p> - <p> - Yet she had hated her husband; she had been overjoyed, even while she was - affrighted, by the news of his death—or at least there was a - tremulous sensation very like joy; she had hailed as her deliverer the - young man whom her wild fancy made responsible for that death—yes, - had even in her frenzy kissed his hand, the hand which she then believed - to have blood upon it, his brother’s blood! her husband’s blood! Were not - these the thoughts and actions of a wicked woman? What difference was - there between her and the vilest murderess confined for life in a - penitentiary? - </p> - <p> - Or no! What nonsense this was! What single thing had she said or done to - bring on the catastrophe? It was an accident—everybody knew that - now. But even if it had not been an accident, how would she have been to - blame? Was it her fault that she was pleasing in men’s eyes, or that Seth - had been attracted by her, and had been sympathetic to her? How could she - have helped it? Was there any reason why she should have tried to help it? - Was it wrong for her, exiled as she was to this miserable farm life, to - make a friend of her cousin—her husband’s brother? And if they had - grown to be attached to each other, could it be wondered at? - </p> - <p> - And it had all been so innocent, too! What single compromising word, even, - had ever been spoken! Might not the most blameless of women have had just - such a pretty little romantic friendship, without dream of harm? - </p> - <p> - As for the frantic things she had thought and said on that awful forenoon - after the discovery, she strove to put them away from her memory, as born - of a hysterical, wholly irresponsible state. - </p> - <p> - But they would come back, no matter how often banished. - </p> - <p> - Then, too—perhaps worst of all, for honest John seemed to lay - particular stress upon it—was the terrible declaration she had made - to Annie. About this there could be no self-deception. She would not - pretend to herself that this had been done through any but revengeful? - spiteful motives—pure cruelty, in fact. But was she to be thus - coolly pushed aside, her romance shattered, her dear day-dream dissipated—and - not to be justified in striking back? - </p> - <p> - This conceited boy—she was able thus to think of Seth now, in his - absence, and in the light of the affront she felt he had put upon her—and - this country school-teacher, to come billing and cooing in the very hour - of her supreme excitement—did they not deserve just what they had - received? After all, her words had done no permanent harm.. Doubtless by - this time they had all been cleared up. And if Miss Annie <i>did</i> - suffer a little, what better was she than other people, to be free all her - life from heartaches? - </p> - <p> - But then came a mental picture of Annie’s calm, sweet, lightful face - transfixed with speechless horror at the brutal words—and after it, - close and searching, the question: “Why should I have stabbed Annie? She - was always kindness itself to me. Was it not heartless to make that poor - girl suffer?” And there followed in her mind, as an echo of her first - exclamation to the mirror—that had gathered reverberating force from - all the thoughts we have striven to trace—the haunting cry: “A - wicked woman!” - </p> - <p> - Afternoon came, and the battle still went on. Bitter condemnation of her - own conduct struggled with angry pleas of grievance against others, and - the conflict wearied her into what threatened to be a sick headache. The - idea of getting out into the open air and seeking relief in a walk, which - had been dormantly in her mind all day, finally took form, and led her - outside the homestead for the first time since her husband’s death. - </p> - <p> - Once outside, she walked aimlessly through the orchard—in preference - to the high road, where she might meet neighbors—toward the little - family graveyard. It was not until she had nearly reached this spot that - she recalled having heard that Seth, too, came here on that terrible - night. The recollection brought an added sense of all the wrongs she held - to have been done her. She stood for a long time by the old board fence, - with its coating of dry, mildew-like moss on the weather-beaten surfaces - turned to the north, and its inhospitable hedging of brown, half-bare - briars, and looked in reverie upon the tombs within the enclosure. - </p> - <p> - Three generations of the Fairchilds lay here under the straggling mat of - withered strawberry vines. She saw the low blue-slate slabs, nearly - covered now by aspiring weeds and brambles, which modestly pleaded in - antique letters that the original shoemaker, Roger, and his lowly spouse - might not be altogether forgotten. Rising ostentatiously above these - timid, ancient memorials, as if with intent to divert attention from their - humility, was the marble obelisk marking the resting-place of the family’s - greatest man, the Hon. Seth Fairchild. The monument was not so white or so - imposing now as it once had been, and the proud inscription setting forth - how its subject had been “twice Senator of the State of New York,” was - almost illegible from the storm-stains and mould on its venerable front. - There were some other stones, gray and small, tipping humbly toward the - central monolith, as if mutely begging at least a little share of the - Senator’s greatness for his wife and sisters, and nearer were two plain - modern slabs recounting the sole interesting facts of the colorless lives - of Lemuel and Cicely Fair-child—that they had been alive, and now - were dead. - </p> - <p> - Here still nearer her, almost at her feet, the widow saw some pegs driven - in the ground, with string stretched around them to form a long rectangle. - The sight brought no thrill to her. She was conscious of all its meaning, - but felt herself scarcely interested. In life she had owed nothing but - dislike to the man whose last coming these signs of preparation betokened. - His death had shocked her at first by its fearful suddenness; it did not - especially disturb her now, save at times with a furtive elation at the - accompanying thought that at last she was free. Her thoughts were with the - living—and their relation to those long since dead. - </p> - <p> - If these rambling thoughts could have been summarized in words they would - have run in this fashion: - </p> - <p> - “What has all your family pride brought you, all your planning and - manoeuvring, you dull countrymen? <i>I</i> wasn’t good enough for you, eh? - Your breed must conspire against me, eh? and treat me like an interloper, - an outsider, eh? You thought I was to be brought here too, did you, when - my time arrived, and be snubbed and bullied into some back corner like the - rest of your wives, while my husband, ‘the Congressman,’ had a big - monument like this of your old humbug, the Senator? And you expected to - patronize me, or cut me dead, as the living dolts here on the turnpike - have done, did you? Well, you are fooled! I’ve escaped you! I shall never - come here but once again—to bring you your ‘Congressman.’ You can - have him and welcome. And that old cat of an aunt of his, she will come - presently, too, and I wish you much joy of <i>her!</i> And perhaps you - will give up your idea, then, that you amount to anything, or ever will - amount to anything. The farm is going to a young man who will sell it, and - who doesn’t care a cent for the whole crowd of you, and who will live in a - city, and eat with his fork, and forget that there ever were such people - as you. And he will forget, too, that——” - </p> - <p> - She came to a full stop in her meditations. Yes, Seth would forget her, - too. She had no illusions on this point. Perhaps this was too kindly a - view of it, even—he might be compelled to remember her by sheer - force of his bitterness toward her. There could be no doubt, after his - cruel words on the eventful forenoon—their last meeting—that - he scorned and despised her. What an idiot she had been to disclose to him - her thoughts—those mad fancies and beliefs of that frantic morning! - She might have known that the idea of his fighting his brother, on <i>her</i> - account, was preposterous. What did he care about her? He had been nice - with her, had written her pretty, graceful letters when she asked him to - do so, and had sent her books to read—that was all. There was - nothing else. She had been a fool to dream that there was anything else. - He would sell the farm, and go back to Tecumseh, and marry Annie—yes, - marry Annie! And they, too, would refer to her now and then, and comment - on her wickedness, and hope that they might never have a daughter like - her. That would be all. - </p> - <p> - She turned from the little enclosure of graves, without giving them - another thought. The mental picture which she conjured up of the young - couple, contented by a fireside of their own, perhaps with a child, tore - at her heart-strings. - </p> - <p> - In the farm-yard she was met by Mr. Ansdell, who was evidently watching - for her, and who introduced himself courteously. - </p> - <p> - “The Coroner is here,” he said, “with some medical gentlemen, and there - are also your late husband’s partner, Mr. Hubbard, who accompanied me from - New York last night, and the District Attorney and some others. In a - couple of hours or so we expect to be able to tell you what brought us. - Meanwhile, we are anxious to spare you any possible intrusion—and - also a possible scene. It is for this that I have waited outside for you. - If you could prolong your walk for that length of time, going to some - friend’s house near by, for instance, without saying that anything unusual - was transpiring here——” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I will go,” she answered. “Will two hours be long enough?” - </p> - <p> - “I hope so,” he said, bowing his thanks. - </p> - <p> - She walked out through the great swing-gate to the turnpike, and idly - chose the westward turning, along under the poplars. The curious incident - of all these visitors at the house did not excite her attention. Her mind - was too busy torturing itself with that marriage which was already spoken - of as assured. - </p> - <p> - At the stile by the thorns, the idea of going to the Warren house suddenly - occurred to her. It was a bold, purposeless, almost crazy thought; perhaps - for those very reasons it commended itself to her mood. She felt herself - impelled alike by good and malignant impulses to cross the stile; she - walked down the thorn path, scarcely knowing whether her purpose was to - bless or to curse. - </p> - <p> - The door was opened by Samantha, whose scared face took on an added - expression of anxiety on recognizing the visitor. - </p> - <p> - “Go into the parlor, ’n’ I’ll light the stove fer yeh,” she - whispered. “Th’ old lady’s very laow. Soon’s she comes hum from schewl - I’ll send Annie in to see yeh.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIII.—THE SHERIFF ASSISTS. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile Isabel sat - over the stove in the cold, austere parlor of the Warren house, with its - ancient furniture, the never failing photograph album, and those huge pink - shells on the mantle-shelf without which no rural home used to be complete—waiting - for she scarcely knew what—strange things were going forward in the - home of the Fairchilds. - </p> - <p> - On the forenoon of this same day, Thursday, there had been a gathering in - the office of the Thessaly <i>Banner of Liberty</i>. It was the - publication day of the paper, but for once it went to press without - enlisting even the most careless scrutiny, let alone the solicitude, of - its editor-proprietor. He had more serious business on hand. Closeted with - him in the little editorial room, whose limited space had rarely before - been so taxed, were Beekman, Ansdell, the District Attorney, the Sheriff, - and the younger of the dead man’s two New York partners, a shrewd, silent, - long-faced man. Seth had desired to be of the party but his brother had - sent him off, to return after dinner. - </p> - <p> - These men gravely discussed some subjects with which our readers are - familiar, and some now first brought to light. John had a letter from - Annie, sent by hand the previous evening, detailing the strange things - Milton had said to her about the black mare. Ansdell and Mr. Hubbard, the - partner, recited how they had discovered that Albert Fairchild, on the - preceding Monday, sold $16,000 worth of government bonds, and the abortive - effort he made to so arrange the transfer that it would not be traced. - Beekman recalled how the black mare had balked on the edge of the gulf the - day after the murder—for they all thus characterized it now. Later, - the Coroner came in by appointment, and in the presence of the dreaded - District Attorney was meekness itself. He even heard that two physicians - were to go out with the party, and make an examination, without taking - offence. - </p> - <p> - After the noon-day dinner the gathering was reinforced by the two doctors - and by Seth, the latter devoured by curiosity and vexed at being kept so - long in the dark. Soon after, all of the party save the Sheriff made their - way to the Fairchild house, driving by twos or threes, and at intervals, - to avoid exciting suspicion. It was after the arrival of the last division - that Ansdell met Isabel, and advised her to stay away from the house for a - time. - </p> - <p> - The two surgeons and the Coroner went silently into the parlor, and closed - the door behind them. In the living-room Ansdell, Hubbard, John, and the - District Attorney took chairs around the stove, having given word that - Milton, who was off on the other side of the hill, arranging the sale of - some apples, should be sent in to them when he arrived, which could not be - very long now. In the kitchen, opening back from the living-room as this - in turn did from the parlor, Seth and Beekman sat with the three women of - the household. - </p> - <p> - These latter had been told that something was going on, or rather had - inferred it from being forbidden to leave the room, and were agog with - puzzled excitement. They had no clue, save a vague understanding that - important personages were in the front portions of the house, but Alvira - and Melissa stole unhappy glances toward Seth, in uneasy fear that the - worst suspicions born of Samantha’s recital were to be realized in fact. - Aunt Sabrina, sitting with her shawl wrapped about her gaunt shoulders, - and with her feet on a piece of wood in the oven, did not know of this - story which gave point to the other women’s anxiety, but was in misery - between a deep yearning to learn what had happened, and a pessimistic - conviction that it must be another addition to the Fairchilds’ load of - calamities. - </p> - <p> - They heard Milton drive up presently, and hail Dana with instructions to - put the horse out, and a query concerning the several strange vehicles - under the shed. Then he came into the kitchen, stamping his feet with the - cold, and walking straight to the stove to warm his hands. It was growing - dark in the low room, and he did not recognize Beekman. - </p> - <p> - Seth delivered his errand, saying that his brother John wished to see - Milton, as soon as he returned, in the living-room. The hired man gave the - speaker a curious glance, and, after a moment or two of hand warming, went - in to learn what was wanted. - </p> - <p> - Almost as he closed the door behind him, the Sheriff entered the kitchen - from the outside, and after an interrogative glance toward Beekman, which - the latter answered by a nod, drew up a chair leisurely by the stove. - </p> - <p> - “Who’d a thought it ’d a turned out so cold, ‘fore the moon - changed?” he asked of the company collectively. “Hev yeh got any cider - abaout handy? ’N’ a daoughnut, tew, ef yeh don’t mine.” - </p> - <p> - While Melissa was in the cellar, the Sheriff, who was a Spartacus man and - a stranger to both Seth and the females, asked of Beekman: “What did yeh - agree on fer a sign?” - </p> - <p> - “Th’ shakin’ of th’ stove.” - </p> - <p> - Seth had been annoyed all day at the pains taken by John to keep the facts - of the enterprise now in hand from him, and he displayed so much of this - pique in the glance he now cast from the Sheriff to Beekman, that the - latter felt impelled to speak: - </p> - <p> - “P’raps you disremember my askin’ yeh ’t’ other day ’baout - whether yer brother had much money on him that night. Well, we’ve settled - thet point. He did hev’—’n’ ’twas a considerable sum - tew—‘baout sixteen thaousan’ dollars.” - </p> - <p> - “No!” Seth’s exclamation was of incredulous surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sixteen thaousan’. We knaow it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I remember now,” said Seth, searching his impressions of the night. - “I remember that when I said he might fail to be nominated, he slapped his - breast two or three times as if he had something in the pocket. By George! - I wonder——” - </p> - <p> - “Yeh needn’t waste no more time wond’rin’. Thet was it! ’N’ d’yeh - knaow what he was goin’ to dew with thet money? No, yeh daon’t! He was - agoin’ to buy me! I wouldn’t say this afore aoutsiders; I dunnao’s I’d say - it to yeou ef your paper wa’n’t so dum fond o’ pitchin’ into me fer - a boss, ’n’ a machine man ez yeh call it, ’n’ thet kine o’ - thing. Yer brother hed th’ same idee o’ me thet your paper’s got. He was - wrong. They tell me ther air’ some country caounties in th’ State where - money makes th’ mare gao. But Jay ain’t one of ’em. Yer brother - wanted to git into Congress. Ther was nao chance fer him in New York City. - He come up here ’n’ he worked things pooty fine, I’m baoun’ to say, - but he slipped up on me. Bribes may dew in yer big cities, but they won’t - go daown in Jay. I don’t b’lieve they’s ez much of it done anywhere ez - folks think, nuther.” - </p> - <p> - “But this money, then, was——” - </p> - <p> - “Lemme go on! P’raps this ’d never be’n faound aout, ef yer brother - hadn’t made mistake number tew in pickin’ aout the wust ’n’ meanest - cuss in th’ caounty to be his gao-between. I kin tell mean cusses when I - see ’em, ’n’ this feller he had was jest <i>the</i> dirtiest - scalawag I ever did see. I kin stan’ a scoundrel in a way ef he’s bright - abaout it, but this was a reg’lar, natchul born fool. Somehaow in th’ - kentry, these men don’t seem to hev no sense. Ef they’re goin’ to rob a - man, or set his barns afire, or kill him, they dew it in the darnedest, - clumsiest saort o’ way, so they’re sure to git faound aout the minute - anybody looks an inch beyond his nose into th’ thing. It makes a man - ashamed to be a kentry-man to see th’ foolish way these here blockheads - git caught, ev’ry time.” - </p> - <p> - The women had been listening intently to this monologue. They looked at - one another now, with the light of a strange new suspicion in their eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Who is this man? Who are you talking about?” Seth asked eagerly. - </p> - <p> - At that moment the sound of a stove being shaken vigorously came from the - living-room. The Sheriff rose to his feet, and strode toward the door of - this room. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll shaow him to yeh in th’ jerk of a lamb’s tail,” he said. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The conversation in the living-room, after Milton entered, had been - trivial for a time, then all at once very interesting. He had been - disagreeably surprised at finding three men with John, but had taken a - seat, his big hands hanging awkwardly over his knees, and had been - reassured somewhat by the explanation that Mr. Hubbard, the dead man’s - partner, was anxious to hear all he could about the sad occurrence. The - District Attorney he did not know by sight, and he did not recognize - Ansdell, who stood looking out of the window, softly drumming on the - panes. - </p> - <p> - Milton told a lot of details, about Albert’s return, about hitching up the - grays for him, about how the news was received at the Convention and the - like, all recited with verbose indirectness, and at great length. Once he - stopped, his attention being directed to a slight sound in the parlor, and - looked inquiry. John promptly explained that it was the undertaker, and - the hired man went on. - </p> - <p> - At last the District Attorney, who had hitherto been silent, asked - quietly: - </p> - <p> - “You went back to the stable—to your own room—after Mr. - Fairchild drove away?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, ’n’ went to bed.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you hear any one enter the stables afterward?” - </p> - <p> - “No, nary a soul.” - </p> - <p> - “There is a black mare in the stables, used under the saddle. Was she - taken out that night?” - </p> - <p> - “Not thet I knaow of. Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, there seems to be a pretty positive story that she was. She was - seen on the road, in fact, late that night, coming from the ravine. The - rider was not recognized, but the mare was. How do you account for that?” - </p> - <p> - “Tain’t none o’ my business to ’caount for it.” Milton did not like - the tendency of the conversation. - </p> - <p> - “No, I know that, but we are interested in finding out. I don’t think you - know me—I am the District Attorney—and I shall take particular - pains to find out.” - </p> - <p> - A gulf suddenly yawned before Milton’s feet, and he made a prompt, bold - attempt to leap it. “I didn’t like to say nothin’ ’baout it, bein’ - as it’s in th’ fam’ly”—he cast an uneasy glance at John here—“but - Seth Fairchild rides th’ mare a good deal. I did hear somebody saddlin’ - th’ mare, but I took it fer granted it was him, ’n’ sao I didn’t - git up. It’d be jes like him, I said to myself, to go ridin’ in th’ - moonshine. He’s thet sort of a feller, naow ain’t he, John?” - </p> - <p> - The sound of his own voice frightened Milton as he went on, and his - closing appeal to the brother for corroboration carried the nervous accent - of fear. John did not answer, but rose and walked over to join Ansdell at - the window. - </p> - <p> - “Of caourse,” Milton began, in a lower voice, to which he sought to give a - confidential tone, “I don’t wan’ to say nothin’ agin Seth. Of caourse, - he’s John’s brother, ‘n’——” - </p> - <p> - The words were cut short by the rolling back of one of the parlor doors, - and the entrance of the three doctors. The Coroner, who came last, pulled - the door shut again. The older of the other two came to the District - Attorney and said, with deliberate distinctness: - </p> - <p> - “We are both prepared to swear that Mr. Fairchild’s death was caused by a - gunshot wound in the head.” - </p> - <p> - It was then that John sprang to the stove, and shook its grate vehemently. - </p> - <p> - At sight of the Sheriff, who advanced upon him with a directness which - left no ambiguity as to his purpose, Milton rose excitedly from his chair, - cast a swift scared glance around the company, and then, while the - handcuffs were being snapped upon his wrists, began to whimper. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t do it! It’s a put-up job! It’s them brothers o’ his thet allus - hankered after his money, ’n’ naow they got it they’re tryin’ to - put the thing on me. ’N’ his wife, tew, thet stuck-up city gal, she——” - </p> - <p> - “Come naow, yeou better shut up,” said the Sheriff sententiously. “Th’ - more yeh say th’ wuss it’ll be fer yeh.” - </p> - <p> - Most of the men present averted their gaze during the brief period of - alternate threats and cringing, of rough curses and frenzied fawning on - the Sheriff, the District Attorney, and even the Coroner, which ensued; - but Mr. Hubbard watched it all carefully with evident interest. - </p> - <p> - “That is a very curious type of criminal,” he said, as the Sheriff and his - prisoner left the room; “very curious indeed! I never saw a murderer - before who had so little nerve, and funked so absolutely when he was - confronted with detection. Why, I’ve seen men, guilty as guilty could be, - who would deceive even their own lawyers. But such a simpleton as that—he’s - not worth his rope.” - </p> - <p> - “That is because you are a city man,” explained the District Attorney. - “You don’t know the kind of murderers we raise here in the country. The - chances are that your city assassin would be tortured by remorse, if he - escaped discovery, and that he committed the deed in a moment of passion. - But the rural murderer (I am speaking of native Americans, now) plans the - thing in cold blood, and goes at it systematically, with nerves like - steel. He generally even mutilates the body, or does some other horrible - thing, which it makes everybody’s blood boil to think of. And so long as - he isn’t found out, he never dreams of remorse. He has no more moral - perspective than a woodchuck. But when detection does come, it knocks him - all in a heap. He blubbers, and tries to lay it on somebody else, and - altogether acts like a cur—just as this fellow ’s doing now, - for instance.” - </p> - <p> - A hubbub of shrieks and sobs rose from the kitchen as he finished this - sentence, and they with one accord moved toward the door. - </p> - <p> - The Sheriff, with an eye to his promise to the two men in the kitchen, had - led the livid and slinking wretch out to the centre of the room, where the - dim candles had now been lighted, and, forcing him to hold up his hands so - that the manacles might be fully visible, said to Seth: - </p> - <p> - “Here yeh air! I said I’d shaow him to yeh! Here is the whelp thet did th’ - mischief. Look at him!” - </p> - <p> - There was a second of dead silence, as the several listeners took in the - significance of his words, and of the spectacle. - </p> - <p> - The silence was broken by an inarticulate, indescribable cry from Aunt - Sabrina. Then came with startling swiftness a confusion of moving bodies, - of screams, and the rattling of the handcuffs’ chain, which no one could - follow. When the intervention of the Sheriff and Beekman had restored - quiet, it was discovered that the old lady, with an agility of which none - could have supposed her capable, had snatched a potato knife from the - table, and made a savage attempt to wreak the family’s vengeance upon - Milton. She had not succeeded in inflicting any injury, save a slight cut - on one of his pinioned hands, and Seth now with some difficulty persuaded - her to leave the room. - </p> - <p> - It fell to Alvira’s lot to bind up the bleeding hand—for Melissa, - undertaking the task, was too nervous and trembling to perform it. - </p> - <p> - A little dialogue, in hushed whispers, which only imperfectly reached even - the sentinel Sheriff, ensued: - </p> - <p> - “Sao this is what yeh’ve come tew!” - </p> - <p> - “It’s all a lie!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t tell <i>me!</i> Ef you’d be’n contented with yer lot in life, - ’n’ hadn’t tried to swell yerself up like a toad in a puddle, this - wouldn’t a happen’d. But nao, yeh poor fewl, yeh must set yerself up to <i>be</i> - somebody! ’N’ naow where air yeh?” - </p> - <p> - Words with which to answer rose to Milton’s bloodless lips, but he could - not give them utterance. He could not even look at her, but in a dazed way - stared at the hand, which he held so that she could wind the bandage in - spite of the gyves. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t use to think yeh was aout-’n-aout bad,” she continued, more - slowly; “they was a time when yeh might a made a decent man o’ yerself—ef - yeh’d kep’ yer word to me.” - </p> - <p> - This time he did not make an effort to answer. - </p> - <p> - The task of sustaining the talk alone was too great for her. The tears - came into her eyes, and blinded the last touches to the bandage. As it was - completed, the Sheriff put his hand roughly on the prisoner’s shoulder. - The meaning of this movement spread over her mind, and appalled her. With - a gesture of decision she stood on tiptoe, lifted her face up to Milton’s, - and kissed him. Then, as he was led away, she turned to the onlookers, and - said defiantly, between incipient sobs: - </p> - <p> - “I daon’t keer! Ef t’ was th’ last thing I ever done in my life, I’d dew - it. We was—engaged—once’t on a time!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIV.—AT “M’TILDY’S” BEDSIDE AGAIN. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>o you clip over - and tell Annie,” John had said to Seth, when the first excitement of the - scene had passed off, and they stood at the kitchen window, watching the - Sheriff’s buggy fade off in the dusk down the hill toward Thessaly jail. - “It’s the thing for you to do—the quicker the better!” - </p> - <p> - Annie had been home from her day’s task some minutes, and sat by her - grandmother’s bedside. The patient was in a semi-comatose state, breathing - with unnatural heaviness, and Samantha had been dispatched with all haste - to bring a doctor from Thessaly. It seemed terribly probable that Mrs. - Warren’s last day had come. - </p> - <p> - Yet as she sat by the curtained recess, holding in her’s the withered hand - which lay inanimate on the high edge of the bed, Annie still thought very - little of the great change impending over her home; she had faced this - death in life so long that its climax did not startle her, or wear the - garb of strangeness. Instead, she was pondering the unaccountable, - unwelcome fact with which Samantha had greeted her on her return—that - Isabel was in the adjoining room, and had asked to see her. - </p> - <p> - What could it mean? What could Isabel’s purpose be in coming? And ought - she to sacrifice her own feelings to the dictates of politeness, and go in - to see this wicked, cruel woman? Perhaps she had come to retract and - apologize for the fearful words of Tuesday. Perhaps her intention was to - reiterate them, or worse, to recount that now the whole world would know - of them—and gloat over her pain. No, that could scarcely be, for - since her interview with Milton Annie felt satisfied at least of Seth’s - innocence. But still something new might have been disclosed—Isabel - might have evil tidings of some sort with which to overwhelm her afresh. - What should she do? - </p> - <p> - The parlor door was ajar, and though she could not see her visitor, she - could plainly hear the snapping of the wood fire within, which Samantha - had kindled. Isabel must be perfectly aware of her return, and of her - presence in this sick chamber. Every minute that she hesitated would only - augment the widow’s anger at being thus inhospitably neglected. Even if - she had relented, and had come with kindly intent, this reception might - alter her impulses. - </p> - <p> - She rose to enter the parlor, but still stood irresolute, holding her - grandmother’s hand, when there came the sound of footsteps in the front - hall—then of a hasty knock on the door opening from the hall into - this room in which she was. She opened the door, and before her, excited - and jubilant, stood her cousin Seth. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve come to tell you!” he burst out, “It’s all cleared up. There <i>was</i> - a murder. Milton did it! He’s just been arrested! I tried to ring your - bell, but it didn’t seem to work. So I <i>had</i> to come in! And now——” - </p> - <p> - He opened his arms with an unmistakable gesture, and they closed fondly - upon an overjoyed maiden, who sobbed upon his breast for very relief. - </p> - <p> - When she found breath and words, it was to say: - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you can’t guess what I have suffered these last two days; I thought I - should never live through them! And now it seems as if I should go wild - with joy—as if I couldn’t keep my feet down on the floor!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, I know, my darling. But we shall be all the happier for this - spell of wretchedness. Dry your eyes, pet. There shall be no more thought - or talk of tears—much less of dying.” - </p> - <p> - “O Seth!—I forgot!—my grandmother!” - </p> - <p> - She lowered her voice, and told him her fears. - </p> - <p> - Hand in hand, and with his arm about her shoulder, they moved softly to - the bedside of the dying woman. The noise of the talking, or some less - apparent influence, had aroused her from her lethargy. Her pale eyes were - brilliant still, with an unearthly light, it seemed to the awed young man, - and she rested their gaze fixedly upon the couple. - </p> - <p> - “Who is that?” she asked in a querulous whisper. - </p> - <p> - “It is Seth, Granny,” the girl answered, relapsing unconsciously into the - familiar form she had not used since childhood. - </p> - <p> - The aged woman restlessly moved her head, and her eyes snapped with - impatience at her inability to raise herself from the pillow. - </p> - <p> - “I won’t have him here! Tell him to take his arm away. What’s he doin’ - here, anyway? He desarted yeh! His own father told me so! Tell him to go - away! I hate the sight of the hull breed!” - </p> - <p> - “But he’s come back to me, Granny,” the girl pleaded, while Seth shrank - backward in the shadow of the curtain. “Truly he has, and he’s not to - blame. And I love him very dearly”—a pressure from the young man’s - hand answered the sweetness of this avowal—“and he will be all I - shall have left when—when—” she stopped, unwilling to conclude - her thought in words. - </p> - <p> - “An’ will he take yeh away, an’ do by yeh ez a husban’ ought to do, or - will he take yeh onto that Fairchild farm, an’ break yer heart out ez his - father did his mother’s, an’ ez his uncle did yer mother’s, an’ ez his - brother, so they tell me, is doin’ with his wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mercy!” the girl exclaimed, involuntarily; then she whispered to - Seth, back of the curtains: “What shall I do! I forgot all about it—Isabel - is there in the parlor and she has heard every word we’ve said.” - </p> - <p> - The quick ears of the invalid caught the whispered explanation. . - </p> - <p> - “Isabel!” she said, sharply. “That’s Albert Fairchild’s wife ain’t it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes!” the girl answered. She tried in dumb show to convey to Seth that - her grandmother was ignorant of his brother’s death. - </p> - <p> - “Go an’ fetch her in here,” said Mrs. Warren, with more animation in her - voice than it had shown before. “I want to see her—to talk with - her.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Granny, you ought’nt to see strangers; you know, the doctor——” - </p> - <p> - “I guess she ain’t much more of a stranger than this young man you’ve got - here. Go an’ fetch her, I say! I won’t hurt her, an’ she won’t hurt me.” - </p> - <p> - There was nothing for Annie to do, but go into the parlor, and bow - shamefacedly to Isabel, and say, with embarrassment in every syllable: - “Excuse me for not coming before, but I think my grandmother is dying. She - wants very much to see you. Won’t you come, please?” - </p> - <p> - Isabel had risen to her feet upon Annie’s entrance. To the latter’s - surprise and increased confusion she held forth her hand with a friendly - gesture. “Yes, I will come with you,” she said, as Annie doubtingly took - the proffered hand, and the two women entered the sick-room. - </p> - <p> - Isabel did not seem to see Seth, who stood at the head of the bed, among - the drawn curtains, but walked to the bedside and said softly: “I am - Isabel, Mrs. Warren; I am sorry that our first meeting should find you so - low.” - </p> - <p> - “So you’re Albert’s wife, eh?” The old woman eyed her keenly, for what - seemed a long time. “I’ve heered tell o’ you. Would you mind gettin’ that - candle there, on the mantle-piece, an’ holdin’ it, so’t I kin see yer - face?” - </p> - <p> - Isabel gravely complied with the request, and stood before the invalid - again, with the yellow light glowing upon her throat and lower chin and - nostrils and full, Madonna-like brows. Her face was at its best with this - illumination from below. She would have been a rare beauty close before - the footlights. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Mrs. Warren, after a long inspection, “P’raps it’ll sound - ridiculous to yeh, but yeh don’t look unlike what I did when I was your - age. The farm ain’t had time to tell on yeh yit. But it will! It made me - the skeercrow that you see; it’ll do the same for you. When I was a girl, - I was a Thayer, the best fam’ly in Norton, Massachusetts. We held our - heads high, I kin tell yeh. Why, when I brought my side-saddle here, - stitched with silk, ’twas the fust one they’d ever seen in these - parts. But I married beneath me, an’ I come up here into York State to - live, on this very farm. With us, farmin’ don’t mean a livin’ death. - P’raps we don’t hev sech fine big barns ez yeh build here, but our houses - are better. We don’t git such good crops, but we pay more heed to - education and godly livin’. It’s th’ diff’rence ’twixt folks who - b’lieve there’s somethin’ else in life b’sides eatin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ - makin’ money, an’ folks that don’t. Well, I left a good home, an’ I come - here, an’ here I am. Look at me! Look at Lemuel Fairchild’s wife, Cicely—she - was a relation of yours, wasn’t she?—see how the farm made an ole - woman o’ her, an’ broke her down, an’ killed her! You’re young, an’ you’re - good lookin’ yit, but it’ll break yeh, sure’s yer born. Husban’s on these - farms ain’t what they air in the cities, nor even in the country in New - England. I’m told your husban’ don’t treat you right.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t let us talk about that—please!” said Isabel: she stole a - swift, momentary glance toward Seth as she spoke. - </p> - <p> - The keen eyes in the recess followed this look. “Well, no,” the husky, - whispering voice went on, “p’raps it ain’t none o’ my business. But tell - me about this young man here—yer husband’s brother. I want to know - about him.” - </p> - <p> - “What about him?” asked Isabel slowly, after a pause. - </p> - <p> - “Why, is he a likely man? Air his habits good? Could he take this girl o’ - mine—an’ she’s a good girl, Annie is—could he take her to - Tecumsy, an’ make a fit home fer her? An’ <i>would</i> he do it? Would he - make her a good husban’—ez good ez she desarves? I ask you, ’cause - you know him. I leave it to you—would you yerself marry him ef yeh - was free, an’ feel safe about him? Come, now, tell me that!” - </p> - <p> - Isabel hesitated so long that the old woman, seemingly wandering a little - after her long, laborious concentration of thought, broke in again: - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I know ’em! I know ’em! Of all the Fair-childses, there - never was one decent one. They stole my daughter, an’ let her die ’mongst - strangers, an’ they made a broken ole woman o’ me, an’ they slaved - Cicely’s life out o’ her, an’ now they want my Annie——” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Isabel here, speaking softly, and putting her hand on the - wasted arm which lay above the coverlet. “I think you wrong Seth. Whatever - the rest may have done, I think he will be a good husband to Annie. I am - <i>sure</i> he will.” - </p> - <p> - No answer, save a low, incoherent murmuring, came from the recess. The - invalid had lapsed into the lethargy of exhausted nature. As the trio - stood by the bedside even this sound ceased. Nothing was to be heard but - the labored, unnatural breathing. - </p> - <p> - Isabel placed the candle again upon the shelf. She had not removed her - bonnet and wrap, and she turned now irresolutely toward the door. - </p> - <p> - Annie went to her, and silently took her hand. “I forgive you,” she - whispered. “Was there anything else? Did you want to speak to me?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know what I wanted when I came. Let me go now. Perhaps if I said - any more, I should hate myself afterward.” - </p> - <p> - And thus, without a glance at Seth, she went. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXV.—“SUCH WOMEN ARE!” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE story, such as - it is, is told. - </p> - <p> - Before the daily press of the State, which had given great attention to - the tragedy in Dearborn County, became fairly aware that a mystery - attached to it, the wretched Milton had confessed his crime. He had - followed and come up with his employer, who stopped at his call. There was - a conversation—then the killing. The prisoner made a weak effort to - pretend that there was a quarrel first, and that his deed was in - self-defence, but he deceived no one. He had with much difficulty led the - grays off the side of the ravine, the murdered man being first thrown - over, and the horses and buggy purposely hurled down upon him. There was - some angry criticism when it became known that the District Attorney had - agreed to accept a plea of murder in the second degree, and the popular - explanation—that it was done from motives of consideration for the - family—provoked not a few jibes from people who wanted to know why - the Fairchilds were any better than other folk. But the course of the law - was not affected by this comment, nor did the District Attorney suffer - appreciably from it when he came up the succeeding autumn for re-election. - The money was all recovered—and, if you have the influence requisite - to obtain a visiting pass to New York’s forest-girt prison on the Eastern - watershed of the Adirondacks—that terrible subterranean place of woe - from which even Siberian gaolers might get some hints of new things in - anguish—you may still see a thin, bent, evil-faced wretch dragging - out existence in the mines, who once was reckoned a likely man in Dearborn - County, and who cast its united vote at the most famous of all Tyre’s - Conventions. - </p> - <p> - The funeral of Albert Fairchild will long be remembered in all the section - round. More than one State official attended, and there was a vast - concourse of lesser political lights, who kept a shrewd eye upon - opportunities for profitable discourse with each other, before and after - the services, while they put themselves dignifiedly in evidence before the - public by getting their names in the local papers. - </p> - <p> - There were no surprises to the inner circle of the family when the will - came to be read. Subject to the widow’s third, the farm was devised in - equal parts to the two brothers, but the major share of the other property - went to Seth. The partner from New York remained at the homestead long - enough to arrange the details by which the widow’s portion was bought by - the brothers, and her leave-taking accomplished. - </p> - <p> - John Fairchild lives in high contentment on the ancestral farm. He grows - stout now, in the accustomed Fairchild fashion, and though his light ruddy - face and brown beard are hostile to the suggestion, people profess to see - the family likeness in him as he grows older. Aunt Sabrina especially - cherishes this fancy with fondness. She has come to regard this nephew, - whom once she so deeply disliked, with some affection and vast esteem, and - she devotes her hours to dreaming of the great things he may accomplish as - the Fairchild of Dearborn—what time she is not joining Alvira in - prayer that he may not be moved to marry a city woman. Thus far there are - no indications that he thinks of marrying any one, and his ambitions seem - to take no higher form than the re-invigoration of the <i>Banner of - Liberty</i>, which he drives over to Thessaly three times a week to - superintend, and which, they say, promises soon to blossom into a daily. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - One closing scene we may glance at—a pretty room, with modern - furniture, and wide, flower-clad windows looking upon one of the best of - Tecum-seh’s residential streets. Annie, grown brighter-faced and yet no - older in looks, despite the nearly four years of married life which have - gone by, stands at the window with a baby in her arms, and laughs as she - tosses the infant forward toward the panes, in greeting to the paternal - parent, who is coming up the front steps. The wife is in gay spirits, not - only because the head of the house has come home to dinner instead of - stopping at the Club, but for another reason, compared with which all - dinners were trivial. - </p> - <p> - “O Seth, her first tooth has come through!” - </p> - <p> - “That so? It’s about time, I should-think.” - </p> - <p> - His reception of the great tidings is so calm, not to say indifferent, - that the beaming wife looks at him in mock surprise. Seth has not aged - specially either, but he wears this evening an unwontedly serious - expression of face, and gets into his dressing-gown and slippers with an - almost moody air. - </p> - <p> - Baby is brought up in frowning, blinking proximity to her sire and made by - proxy to demand an explanation of this untoward gloom, on an occasion - which ought to be given over to rejoicing. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m tired,” Seth answers; “and then—then I have a letter which - puzzles and annoys me a little.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it anything that I know about?” Annie has seated herself beside him - now, and looks sweet inquiry. - </p> - <p> - “Well, yes. It is a letter from Dent—you know I’ve let him go down - to Washington to get an idea of the place and the men while the session is - on—and along with a letter to the paper, pretty good stuff, too, he - sends me this personal note. Read it for yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Annie took the letter, and reads steadily along through its neat - chirography: - </p> - <p> - “Washington, March 7th. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Fairchild: - </p> - <p> - “I send a letter going into the Silver question from the standpoint of - some of the Western men I have talked with. They impress me as being more - sincere than sensible on the subject. I think the trip will be of vast - service to me—and also, I trust, to the paper. - </p> - <p> - “Last evening, I met for the second time since I have been here, an - elderly gentleman from your part of the State, named Beekman. Like myself, - he is down here to look around, and get an idea of things. It is the first - time, I should judge, that he has been so far away from home, and his - comments are extremely droll—often very clever, too. He seems to - know you very well, and asked me to remember him kindly to you, and - express his congratulations upon your purchase of a controlling interest - in the paper. He wanted me to be sure and say to you that while the - experiment of electing Ansdell had worked very well—he seems to - admire Ansdell greatly—you mustn’t allow that to lead you into the - habit of thinking that all bolters are saints and all straight-party men - devils. It seems that since he has been here he has encountered some - foolish and exceptional Southern Congressman who provoked him by saying ‘<i>Your</i> - Government’ and <i>your</i> laws’ instead of using the pronoun and that - has made him a great Stalwart again—for the time-being.” - </p> - <p> - Annie looked up from the sheet. “I must say I don’t see anything in all - this to particularly disturb anybody. This seems just the harmless sort of - letter I should expect your innocuous Mr. Dent to write.” - </p> - <p> - “Read the rest of it,” was Seth’s reply. - </p> - <p> - She went on:— - </p> - <p> - “By the way, I met your sister-in-law among the guests at a reception the - other evening, to which Mr. Ansdell kindly secured me an invitation. Her - residence on K street—she gave me the number, which I have somewhere—is - said to be one of the most charming homes in Washington. She is - very-popular in society here, and I am told that you meet her at every - fashionable gathering. She was certainly very pleasant with me, when Mr. - Ansdell presented me and explained who I was. She especially asked me if I - knew what you had named your baby-girl, but I could not tell her. - </p> - <p> - “<i>I</i> could tell her if she asked <i>me!</i>” remarked the young wife, - grimly. “The very idea!” - </p> - <p> - “Go on,” said Seth—“or I shall feel that we ought to have named her - Proscrastinatia instead of Annie; get to the end of the thing.” - </p> - <p> - Annie got to the end with a single sentence: - </p> - <p> - “By the way, it may interest you—and I hope you won’t be annoyed at - my mentioning it, and indeed you may very possibly have heard it already—to - learn that everybody here seems to understand that Mr. Ansdell is shortly - to marry your sister-inlaw, and he himself, speaking to me, referred to - her in a way which amounted to a declaration of the fact.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, there you have it!” said Seth slowly, after a long pause in which - husband and wife looked at each other. “That <i>is</i> news, isn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - “I should think so!” Annie spoke deliberately, too, turning the letter - over with a meditative air. “I should think so!” - </p> - <p> - The gravity of his wife’s tone seemed to Seth to be more profound than the - circumstances altogether demanded. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know after all,” he said, in half-apology for his own earlier - confession of gloom, “but that it would be a tolerable match. I don’t say - that they would be happy in the sense that we are happy, my girl; but she - has a great many qualities which would make her a helpful wife to an - ambitious, successful, masterful sort of public man like Ansdell. Come, - now, let’s be fair to her. Dent says that she is very popular in - Washington.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied Annie thoughtfully, drawing her daughter closer to her - breast, “she always will be popular with people who are not married to - her. Such women are!” - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Seth's Brother's Wife, by Harold Frederic - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE *** - -***** This file should be named 54987-h.htm or 54987-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/9/8/54987/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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