I didn't expect to become an expert milker at once, but I knew from observation how to milk, and I went to work with frantic energy. In a calmer frame of mind I might have waited to tie Ariadne's legs together, they looked so excessively agile;however, she allowed me to exhaust every possible grip and password without protest, also,—alas!—without acknowledgment. When I retreated at last with the empty pail, my dismay was increased by the sideways leaps of joyful anticipation indulged in by the calf in the next stall. Something had to be done to fill up that creature, and I realized with a sense of utter desolation that I was left alone to do it. A word of advice, a protest, tears or angry reprisals, would alike have been sweet to my ears at that moment, but I knew Marion too well to hope that she would come to my help until I implored her forgiveness; even then,—oh, maddening inconsistency!—she would perhaps be plunged in gloom because I had not enough strength of character to stick to my convictions. No, there was but one course for me: I must prove the worth of my theory, if possible; if not, I would at least be in a position to capitulate with the honors of war.
I went into the house and looked up the directions for teaching a calf to drink. Ifound that you merely seized it by the nostrils with the thumb and little finger, inserting the other three into its mouth as you drew its head gently into the pail of milk. This operation sounded rather objectionable, but I could not afford to be squeamish, and I prepared to smuggle our small supply of milk out of the pantry and add it up with water to make a sufficient bulk. As I passed through the kitchen I glanced furtively at Marion in the faint hope that she might be ready to hold out the olive branch, but when I saw that she did not deign to notice my existence a sudden violent resentment seized me. Instead of surreptitiously abstracting the milk, as I had intended, I poured it into the pail with defiant ostentation; still, I left the kitchen with a sinking heart, for when Marion neglected to ask me what I was going to do with that, I knew that she must indeed be in a serious mood.
I know I followed the directions to the letter up to the point when I drew the calf's head into the pail and inserted my fingers, though much perseverance was needed, forit seemed to be able to travel backwards in all directions at once, faster than I could go forwards; but after that I am not quite sure what happened. I know there was a violent explosion and upheaval,—a blank followed, then I discovered that I was standing in the stable doorway frantically squeezing three of my fingers between my knees to deaden the pain, while the calf stood outside looking at me with an expression of incredulous wonder, its legs sticking out in four different directions like props. I wonder whether it was blown out or carried out; I don't think it walked. I don't think, either, that I lost my presence of mind; if I did, I found it again instantly. Instead of going into the house for liniment, I calmly turned the cow out of the stable also, then I looked on grimly, resigned to non-interference if the calf should happen to bite its parent or the cow kick her offspring.
Ariadne looked around apprehensively when she emerged from the stable; the calf ambled crookedly toward her; she edged away with forward pointed ears; itfollowed hungrily. She trotted toward the open gate, the calf gamboling in pursuit; suddenly her tail straightened and she broke into a mad gallop,—so did the calf, so also did I. It was in this order we passed the kitchen door where Marion stood calling out to me in wild alarm to run, that the cow had broken loose.
Perhaps it was this cheery information that inspired me to overtake my movable property a mile further down the road, where our butcher, homeward bound, had got off his wagon to turn them back.
"You might be able to milk a cow thathadmilk," he said with a chuckle, after listening to my tale, "but it'd take Old Nick to raise a calf on a dry one."
"A dry one!" I shouted. "Do you mean"——
"Did the old man tell you it wasthiscow's calf?" he interrupted.
"Well, no,—I can't remember that he did. He said I'd better take the calf too, and I supposed——"
"Exactly—then he's salted you right enough! You've paid forty dollars for abeef cow that he offered to give me for a twenty dollar account he owes me. I'm sorry—dashed sorry—that you've been took in, but—he, he! ha, ha, ha!—but you let on you knowed all about cattle, and I told you to keep your weather eye——"
"I can stand being swindled," I shouted, in wrath, "but I won't stand any told-you-so business. You ought to have more sense than to talk that way when—when——"
"There, there," he interjected soothingly—"I know jest how you feel. The other day my missis told me I'd smash my hand if I went hammerin' nails with an axe. Well sir, it wasn't three minutes till I did. Of course I swore a bit, but when I went into the kitchen and the missis asked me first how I done it, and then said she knowed I would, I jest went clean out of my head with rage. I'd sooner have gone out and smashed the other thumb than have been spoke to that way."
My heart warmed to the butcher; he is a man of fine feelings. He not only gave me twenty dollars for the cow, but promised to frighten John Waydean into silenceby representing that I was preparing evidence for a criminal prosecution.
"And now," I said, in conclusion, "I'd like your candid opinion about the calf. If I decided to raise it, would it be likely to grow into a valuable cow?"
"Well," he answered, gulping in a peculiar, hesitating way, as if he were reluctant to answer, "you mostly can't tell what kind of a cow a calf will make when it's a week old, but if you—if you wanted to raise acow, you—you——"
His face became suffused with a dull purple flush, as if he were struggling with a mighty spasmodic sneeze; he turned his face away, his body shaking convulsively, then with obvious difficulty he continued: "If you wanted to raise acowyou'd ought to have bought a—a—ha, ha, ha!——"
"Have boughtwhat?" I cried, in exasperation.
He stopped laughing and looked up and down the road, then leaned over the edge of the wagon-seat with his whip hand shielding one side of his mouth. I hung breathless on his words.
"A—cow—calf," he whispered.
I like to forget unpleasant experiences quickly, particularly mistakes of my own, and to that end I hurried home and told Marion everything. Few husbands, I know, would have done so, but I am not one who lacks the moral courage to do right when I know it will be better for me in the end; nor would I be unwise enough to attempt to conceal the fact that I have faults when I know that it is infinitely wiser to acknowledge them. An error thrust in Marion's way may arouse her compassion, while a good deed, too obviously placed there, may be pushed aside with well-merited contempt. I prefer to let my virtues bloom in seclusion on either side of her path, for her artistic eye delights to spy out the modest flower that hides itself in verdure.
Marion vibrated between laughter and tears as she listened to my tale. Did I try to extenuate my conduct, or gloss over my unspeakable stupidity? No; I castigated myself unsparingly. I anticipated the worst that might be said, and said it with superlative fervor. Only thus could I hope to avert the useless, humiliating process of having my mistakes pointed out in detail; only thus could I evoke the sweet human sympathy I craved, and divert my wife's indignation toward that adroit old swindler, John Waydean. She was visibly affected by my self-accusation, and I began to breathe more freely. She seemed to be in no haste to interrupt with a word of reproach, or to say that she told me so, or to hope the experience would be a lesson to me. I had begun to reflect that, after all, I wasn't a bad sort of fellow and that man was made to err, when suddenly she burst into tears.
"Marion," I cried, aghast, "I'm an idiot, but there's no use crying over——"
"No," she moaned—"no—use."
"It'smyfault," I urged, in despair, "butif it were yours, I'm—I'm blamed if I'd cry!"
"Itis—my fault," she gasped, with a fresh relapse.
In a flash I jumped to the conclusion that she was overcome with remorse for having told the butcher that I knew all about cattle. I saw that it really was her fault, after all, but this was not the time to say so.
"Not at all," I assured her, with soothing generosity. "You must not blame yourself—you didn't realize the awkward position you placed me in."
"No—use," she repeated, unheeding. "To think that—I—should be so—taken in!"
"Youtaken in?" I cried. "It was I. Who—what—to—oh——"
The words died away in my throat as Marion uncovered her face. Not a word did she say, but her look was insufferable.
"I didn't," I protested hotly; "I never said I knew all about cattle when"——
I stopped, disconcerted by the expressive interrogatory turn to the corners ofher mouth. If she had said, in words, that I had convicted myself by my denial, I could have argued the point, but this silent denunciation was distracting. I stared for a moment with uncomprehending hauteur, then strode from the room, trying to make my back view appear like that of a man who might possibly escape being mangled by a train or dying of heart failure until his wife had an opportunity to apologize for her heartless conduct. This device had never failed; it didn't this time. I was reaching for my hat in the hall when Marion called me. I looked back, virtuously impassive, but I could not suppress my joy when I saw in her face, not a sorrowful willingness to forgive me this time, but loving toleration. What mattered forty dollars, or even forty cows, if I might once more be restored to favor?
It was in all sincerity that I assured her that I would profit by my experience, for it did not seem possible that I could ever again meet a cow on terms of mental superiority, and yet, in a few days, time and my elastic temperament had such a mellowinginfluence that I lost all sensitiveness on the subject; indeed, after pledging the butcher to secrecy, I found myself telling Andy Taylor with the gusto of an onlooker. And later, when we had, through the good offices of the butcher, found a suitable cow that wasn't dry, I became able to appreciate the humor of the situation with quite an impersonal relish. Our new cow was not a graceful animal, like Ariadne, but she was easy to milk and docile, and, as Marion said, Paul could never be impaled on her horns, for she hadn't any.
I would not willingly have missed the pleasure of owning a cow, nor the satisfaction of being able to milk her, but I did not try to disguise from Marion the fact that it was hard work; indeed, the harder I work, the more I like her to be aware of it. Solicitude is cheering to me, so when, at first, she used to stand beside me and express a fear that I might hurt my back or burst a blood-vessel, I worked enthusiastically; but later, when attending to our cow became a part of the inevitable daily routine, and when I milked in solitude, I got very tired andthought morbid thoughts about hired men and other farm accessories that were not.
It is odd that the butcher's aggravating habit of leaving our gate open should have resulted in Marion's suggesting that we should hire William Wedder, the one available man exactly suited to our requirements. Also, I afterwards reminded Marion, if it had not been for what she called my negligence in not removing the gate-semaphore when winter set in, William's observant eye would not have detected anything unusual in the appearance of the place. I recalled, too, that I had several times been prevented from taking down the sign-board by the impossibility of finding the hammer and the wrench at the same time; not only that, but when both tools were to hand I had a strange instinct against making use of them for that purpose. Marion smilingly admitted that it was extraordinary; she suggested that perhaps I was influenced by the same instinct that led me to leave the Venetian shutters on the window frames all winter, instead of taking them off in the fall andputting them on again in the spring. However, I was proud enough of the success of my invention to be content to see the obtrusive request "PLEASE CLOSE THIS GATE" swing uselessly in the wintry winds, while the gate itself stood open, half buried in the snowdrift that formed around it after every storm. If the gate were closed, the request retreated into obscurity behind a post, but when it was opened the board swung across the roadway, so that a person driving in or out would have to duck his head to avoid it. The butcher, for whose especial benefit I had taken all this trouble, regarded the device with gloomy suspicion when I showed him how it worked. Instead of admiring my ingenuity, he insinuated that it would be the means of frightening his horses, so I insisted upon his driving in and out several times until they showed complete unconcern. He appeared depressed by the thought that he could never again pretend that he forgot to close the gate, and although I secretly sympathized with him in his repugnance to taking unnecessary trouble, I wasdetermined to break him off the habit of leaving the gate open.
Thus it happened that William Wedder, tramping along the road with a red bundle swung over his shoulder, against a blustering March wind, spied something that caused him to stop and think, to lay his stick and bundle in the hollow of a snowdrift, smooth out his face to a becoming gravity, and wend his way up to the house.
It was several hours later in the day when I, returning from the city, halted in the same spot and stared in amazement. The semaphore had vanished, the gate, standing open for months, imbedded in several feet of snow and ice, was now closed, a way being neatly cleared for its movement. I opened it and the warning notice shot out over my head, in perfect working order. I walked up to the house, puzzled but gratified, trying to conjecture how and why Marion had prepared this surprise. She opened the door, struggling to conceal her laughter at my countenance.
"How ever did"—I began.
"Hush! Come into the sitting-room,"she said mysteriously. "There's a man in the kitchen!"
"A man!" I exclaimed, in agitation. I had warned Marion never to admit a tramp in my absence, and somehow I leaped to the conclusion that she had been imposed upon by a hardened villain. It was a relief to think she was no longer alone.
She nodded. "Not an ordinary tramp," she said. "He's the dearest, funniest little old man, with pink cheeks like a baby's, and so clean looking. When he'd had his dinner"——
"You gave him his dinner?"
"Certainly I did. You don't suppose I sold it to him? Oh, you needn't look so stern; I'll tell you how it happened. I was just taking my pies out of the oven about eleven o'clock when he knocked at the door and said he'd like to borrow a shovel for a few minutes. About half an hour later I remembered he hadn't brought it back, and when I looked out of the front window there was the top of his head bobbing up and down at the gate. I got on my things in a hurry and went out to see what he wasdoing, and he was scraping the ice so hard with his back turned to me that I had to shout three times before he heard."
"'What's that for?' I called out. 'For you, ma'am,' he answered, turning round with the oddest look. 'For me?' I said. 'Why, I never asked you to dig out our gate.' 'No, ma'am,' he said, 'but when I seen that there sign hung out, I thought to myself that some widow with small children lived here, and it wouldn't be much of a job to dig out her gate. Then when you come to the door I seen I was mistaken, but I thought I'd do it anyway, for it wasn't your fault that you was so young and—and——'"
I smiled.
"No, I didn't pay him," she protested, the becoming flush on her cheeks deepening. "I offered him a quarter, but he wouldn't take it, so I knew he wasn't trying to flatter me, and I made him come up to the house to get some dinner when he got the gate closed. You should have seen his face when the semaphore went behind the gate-post. He was so delighted that heopened and shut the gate several times to see it work, exclaiming, 'My, my! ain't he got a head! Don't that work beautiful!'"
"I suppose you did right to give the poor old chap some dinner," I observed, with a complacent smile.
"When he came into the kitchen," she continued, "he said the smell of hot raspberry pies was the most appetizing smell in the whole world. He said his aunt used to make them when he was a boy, and once he stole a whole one and ate it, and ever since when he tries to feel sorry the remembrance of the delightful sensation in his insides overpowers his conscience and makes him feel glad. Of course I gave him one for dinner, and I told him he might have another if he wished, but he declared that one was enough—that no mortal could stand more than a certain amount of bliss. Just fancy, Henry; he says his aunt's pies weren't a circumstance to mine!"
"The old flatterer!" I exclaimed.
"You didn't say that when he praised your semaphore," cried Marion, with resentment.
I hadn't intended any reflection on the quality of her pies, but it was some little time before she could understand that I really thought them to be infinitely superior to my mother's.
"After dinner," she went on, "he said he wasn't in a hurry, so he'd just cut up some wood and do the stable work until you came home, for he wanted to see you."
My curiosity was aroused, also my suspicions, for my wife's manner was distinctly ingratiating. That might mean either that she had some new project of her own in the background to submit to me, or that she was about to tack off in another direction in regard to one of mine, as she had done in the case of the cow.
"About my semaphore?" I inquired warily.
"So he said," she replied, with a tantalizing laugh. "He wants to—to—handle the county right!"
My heart thumped; my brain seemed to turn a somersault. If Marion had not been swaying to and fro with herhandkerchief covering her face as she struggled with her mirth I could not have concealed my exultation. Months before, the success of my device had led me to think of having it patented under the name of "The Eureka Non-Automatic Gate-Closing Attachment," but Marion had nipped my project in the bud. The butcher, too, when I asked his opinion, had chilled my enthusiasm by declaring that if my gate-attachment proved salable in this locality he would move to some other. Of course, that was before he had become expert in keeping his head out of the way of the sign-board, and while he still wore a strip of court plaster on the bridge of his nose.
Now my judgment was vindicated. A man could surely sell one hundred semaphores at five dollars each in one county; ten counties would enable me to buy Waydean; ten more would pay for a train load of implements, as in my day dream of long ago; another ten would stock the farm with domestic animals; tens of hundreds of counties still remained to furnish the means for nebulous philanthropic schemes.
Did I breathe hard, grow flushed or pale with excitement, or do anything to indicate that it was the moment of my triumph? No, I didn't. For one thing, I was sure Marion was keeping something from me; otherwise, why should it seem so funny to her? Until I understood what she meant, I must appear calm, even bored.
"Well," I said, stifling a yawn, "I'll go and send him off. I wouldn't be bothered selling county rights; besides, the semaphore isn't patented."
Marion looked puzzled. "Wait," she said hurriedly, "till I tell——"
"I'll get rid of him first," I said, with determination, "and then you can tell me the rest."
"But he's not to be sent off," she insisted. "Sit down, and I'll tell you everything. He's looking for a place."
"A place!" I exclaimed, beginning to see light. "What has that got to do with us? When I proposed hiring a man you said we couldn't afford to hire more than a quarter or an eighth of a man."
"Exactly. And this old man wants aplace where he need work only two or three hours a day. He won't take any wages, but he'd like to have the reading of our books and newspapers. He says he hasn't any use for money as long as he has 'good readin' and nice vittles.'"
I smiled at the persuasive eagerness of her tone. She was evidently bent upon hiring this peculiar old man, but she had expected me to make the proposal so that she could gracefully accede to it. There would be certain advantages, I concluded, accruing to the possession of even the fractional part of a hired man. For instance, I would at once be relieved of the stable work and the milking of Mary Jane. Then spring was coming on, and I would be able to enjoy the luxury of watching him toiling in the vegetable garden under Marion's supervision. Furthermore, my birthday would arrive with the first green grass, and there were indications that I would be presented with a lawn-mower.
"Well, what did you tell him?" I asked, trying to look judicial.
"I said that of course it was a matter foryou to decide and I couldn't say anything about it."
I could not repress a gleam of ironical amusement. She was absolutely truthful, yet it was a convention of hers that my word was law, and that I was the autocrat of the household. It was a postulate I dared not dispute.
"Yes, of course," I admitted, in response to her frigid, inquiring glance. "I'll—I'll think it over. In the meantime I'll have a look at him."
"Well, you'd better decide,—that is, I'm quite, quite willing to give the poor old man a trial."
Had I been of a different mind from Marion, I could scarcely have resisted William Wedder's persuasive arguments, and when I had talked with him for a few minutes I did not wonder that she had succumbed to his fascinating eloquence. I knew his praise of my semaphore must be flattery, and yet—I liked it. I felt sure from his manner, his appearance and his conversation that he was merely masquerading as a hired man, but I wanted to see him playthe part, although he looked more like a well-to-do retired farmer taking a holiday than a man who needed to travel about looking for work. He did not present credentials, but I ignored the question of references, which seemed quite unnecessary in view of his obvious respectability. He knew how to do farm work, he assured me; he was handy with tools, understood gardening, and could churn and make butter as well as milk the cow. As to terms, he would not take money, but he would be more than satisfied if he had his board and plenty of reading matter. In the slack time in midsummer,—his smooth-shaven jolly face grew solemn as he spoke,—perhaps, if it wouldn't be too much to ask, and if he needed a new suit of clothes, I might let him have just a township right to sell my gate-closer.
I fixed my curious gaze upon his rigid features. I knew instinctively that his earnest solemnity was assumed; I knew by experience that nothing was so effective in baffling any attempt to play off as a steady concentrated stare. His eyes droopedslightly; he studied the names on the drawers of the spice-cabinet attentively; too attentively.
"William," I said, with deliberate, unbending determination, "I have avoided asking you embarrassing questions, but I must know the truth about this semaphore business before I decide whether to engage you or not. What prompted you to dig out my gate?"
I saw a faint flicker of almost contemptuous amusement in his face. "Why," he replied, as if he wondered at my asking such a simple question, "I seen that there notice up, of course."
"I want to know the truth," I repeated slowly, and this time I was almost startled by the perfection with which I imitated Marion's inflexible intonation.
His face assumed a pained and yet forgiving expression, and he regarded the hair broom with intense interest. I waited, as Marion had once waited for me, with the air of being willing to wait until he had time to compute the number of hairs it contained, and I tried to intimate silentlythat my waiting could have but one result. This specialty of Marion's was more difficult, but I succeeded, for William suddenly laughed and looked me full in the face with engaging candor.
"Well, sir," he said, as if he found a difficulty in making the confession, "I didn't like to say so at first, but I thought—ha, ha!—it'd be a darn good joke on you."
I smiled appreciatively. William had done well; indeed I could not have done better myself, but I recognized a hollowness in his laugh. I waited with silent expectancy, as one of Paul's chickens might wait after receiving a grain of corn from his store.
He paused, looked a little blank, gulped, then with the air of one who reluctantly parts with his last coin, he added: "Besides, I wanted to see how the semaphore worked."
I shook my head, sighed, looked at him pityingly, for I saw the misguided man had persuaded himself it was the truth, and I divined, I know not how, that he was mistaken. I tried to recall what Marion wouldhave said at this juncture, and I said it; indeed, I said it so effectively that I wished Marion had been within earshot. If my voice had not been an octave lower than hers I might have doubted that it was mine.
William's peach-tinted cheeks flushed crimson; he wiped his brow with his red bandanna. "I ain't been cornered like this," he exclaimed, "since my miss—" He checked the utterance with an abrupt cough, and continued in a low soliloquizing tone, "Now I come to think of it, the wind was blowin' pretty fresh and jest when I come opposite the gate I caught a whiff that set me thinkin'."
"A whiff?" I asked, in surprise.
"Hot—raspberry—pies," he explained, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I was completely satisfied and engaged him on the spot, sending him to milk at once. He had scarcely departed when the door into the dining-room opened and Marion appeared. I saw from her face that she had been listening to the conversation, and that indignation and amusement struggled for mastery.
"You wr-r-etch!" she ejaculated.
I said nothing. I was master of the situation, and I knew it was one of the times when she could imagine more provoking insinuations than I could put into words.
"What are you laughing at?" she cried indignantly.
"I was just thinking—" I began, then I paused dramatically.
"Thinking what?" she demanded.
"That William Wedder is either a married man or a widower."
I had intended her to ask me why, and I had the answer ready, but it was the wrong question she propounded.
"A married manora widower?" she repeated slowly; then her face became suddenly illumined with appreciative mirth. "Oh, I see! Because it was so hard to get at theexacttruth?"
"Ye—es," I faltered.
William Wedder, as one-fourth of a hired man, was a distinct success. Not only did he do the ordinary chores that had previously fallen to my lot, but he lightened Marion's household labors by his readiness to churn, wash floors and windows, and to do any other extra work that might have turned her attention from culinary duties. In fact, it soon became apparent that the mainspring of William's energy needed to be kept in working order by a diet that included a liberal supply of raspberry pie or its equivalent, for if the quality or quantity of the dessert were not to his liking his movements became languid and his cheerfulness fled. His own theory, he told me in confidence, was that the dessert compartment of his stomach was so arranged that no amount of plain food would fill it,—he was quite sure that wasthe case, for the only effect of trying to fill up by substituting plain food for puddings and pies was to make him feel lop-sided.
But if he was costly to feed he paid for his board by the bountiful supply of vegetables he raised, for our little garden flourished amazingly under his care. And if we fancied chickens for dinner, it was no longer necessary for me to steal out with the axe at night after Paul was asleep and rouse a horrid clamor among the innocent victims that I tremblingly clutched by the legs. How William did it we never inquired. Indeed, we preferred to think that he didn't, but if he did, it was done in silence and with decorum, and the chickens which I had taken the precaution not to allow Paul to include in his flock appeared on our kitchen table looking quite as if they had just been bought at the market.
It was during the second summer at Waydean that I noticed the first indication of Marion's longing to own the farm. She began to resent the proximity of Peter's live-stock, when his cattle looked as if they thought of leaping the fence, or when hispigs strayed into the barnyard. Then she began to speculate about the value of the land and how many years it would take us to save enough money to buy it, and if, after all, it would not have been better to have leased the whole farm in the first place, so that we might have had employment for the whole of a hired man. Later, she insinuated that she would feel more confidence in me if I had shown myself to be a masterful man by insisting upon the purchase of a plough to add to our three primitive implements, and when I contended that a plough would have been useless without a horse, she declared that a horse would have been provided if we had needed one, and if we made up our minds to buy the place we would find a means of raising the money. But in this case I was not as sanguine as Marion, for I knew that Peter would hold out for a price far in excess of the value of the property if he knew we thought of buying, and that my present income would only allow us to put away a small sum each year toward the purchase. However, the idea kept working in my mind, though I wascareful not to let our landlord know that we coveted his land, concluding that the best way to deal with him, if we ever were able to buy it, would be through a land agent. In the meantime, I had considerable difficulty in keeping the peace between him and my hired man, for they showed such an antipathy to each other that I feared a dispute would arise that might endanger the renewal of my lease. We had all become so fond of the place that I was more than willing to go on paying a high rent, and Peter himself, besides being interesting and entertaining, was still a precious mine of literary material.
Aunt Sophy's interest in Waydean almost equalled our own, and she was enthusiastic in her approbation of our idea of buying the property. She wrote that had I resembled her late husband in temperament she would have advised Marion differently, but considering the wonderful talent I had shown for not buying implements, and my sensible ideas about poultry-raising, she was sure I could be trusted to manage any amount of land economically.
Poor Aunt Sophy! She had been ill during the spring, and had delayed her second visit until she would feel stronger; then a few days before we expected her she telegraphed that she would be unable to leave home and asked Marion to go to her at once, if possible. When this direful message arrived we both felt at the same instant that it meant the end of dear Aunt Sophy. But in addition to the sorrow that welled up in me, the appalling thought seized me that it was now too late to atone for having allowed her to cherish the innocent belief that the fowls she had helped us to eat were of our own raising. I could no longer hope that the memory of the vicarious chickens of last summer would be eclipsed by her enjoyment of the real home-made ones we had meant to lavish on her this year. Up to this time the fact that Marion had been equally guilty with me, had been consoling, but when I saw by the agonized look on her face that the same dreadful thought had gripped her I hastened to take the blame.
"It was my fault, Marion," I gasped penitently. "I bought the chi—chick——"
"Don't!" she cried, with a little shriek. "How can you say that dreadful word? Of course, it was your fault,—but will that keep Auntie from dying while she still thinks that—that—oh, oh!"
I must say I had not expected such ingratitude. Considering my generous assumption of the blame, Marion might at least have said that it wasn't my fault. Some people can perform a kindly act, and then pass on their way serenely; I cannot. I want to stand by and enjoy the effect; I like my beneficence to be appreciated.
Yet unselfishness, unlike affection, may be wasted; worse, if ignored, it may arouse a whirlwind of passion, as I found, to Marion's cost. In a most unbridled manner I disclaimed responsibility. I asserted that Aunt Sophy, if she were dying, would pass away more peacefully if she went on believing that the chickens were homegrown; that anyway, not having spared expense, I had procured plumper and juicier ones than the best of Paul's; that anyperson who would think of disturbing, at such a time, the settled convictions of a dying aunt, was heartless and cruel; that I did not purpose standing quietly by to have my reputation blasted, when I merely needed to tap my head and whisper to Aunt Sophy that my wife's delusion was a harmless one that might well be ignored; finally, that a dying aunt would have something else to think about than the origin of the chickens she had eaten last year. I even suggested, with insane hilarity, that she would be absorbed in speculations as to her chances of reaching Uncle Philip before he had begun to underdrain his celestial estate.
It was at this point that I came to my senses. Marion had fled from the room with her hands over her ears.
There are times when a simple acknowledgment of wrong-doing, or a humble apology, is sufficient; there are other times when it is expedient for me to confess my utter inability to understand how I could have behaved in such a base and brutal manner; but only once in years am I obliged to collapse dejectedly, my faceexpressing horror and revulsion as I wipe cold sweat, imaginary or real, from my brow, while in a broken voice I insist thatIdidn't,—that if I seemed to, it was the devil who had suddenly possessed me.
This time Marion was disinclined to accept any such explanation, contending that if I allowed myself to become possessed I might take the consequences, and I had such a short time in which to depict the extraordinary sensations that accompanied the outbreak that she was ready to start for the train before I had made my case really convincing. She relented sufficiently, however, on the score of parting, to forgive me provisionally, but she hinted that she was taking Paul with her so that if I had another seizure I might enjoy it alone. She hoped, also, that I would make a strong effort to avoid being seized in the presence of strangers who might not understand that I was irresponsible. Did I think she could trust me to behave with decorum if I should be sent for to attend poor Auntie's——obsequies?
These, and other insinuations, I bore withpatient quiet dignity, as became a man who had been lately dispossessed, and my demeanor had such an effect upon Marion that she bade me good-by with the same affectionate warmth that would have fallen to my lot had I behaved with my customary courtesy.
It was not until the next day that I began to think that we might have been too hasty in concluding that Aunt Sophy was seriously ill—although I could think of no other reason for her sudden change of plans and her summons to Marion, but I was not left long in doubt. That afternoon a telegram arrived from Marion assuring me that there was no cause for alarm and that she would be home the next day.
I awaited her arrival with eager curiosity and impatience, and I was mystified to see her step off the train looking radiantly happy.
Aunt Sophy, she declared, was never better in her life, and looked ten years younger, but no further information could I extract until we reached the house and Paul went off to look after his pets. Then Iinquired anxiously if she had confessed about the chickens.
"N—no," she admitted, with smiling hesitancy, "I—I didn't. Auntie's mind was so taken up with—other things."
This was agreeable news. The idea of Aunt Sophy learning of my duplicity had been painful, when I had supposed she was dying; the image of her in good health and looking ten years younger as she listened to my shortcomings was intolerable. Besides, in weakening on her determination to confess, Marion had departed from the line of strict moral rectitude that she was continually tracing for my uncertain footsteps. This thought I carefully buried, like a dog with a precious bone, to be unearthed when next I was hauled over the coals for not doing the thing I ought to have done.
"Well," I proceeded, "what's up—what did she want you for?"
A slightly apprehensive look vanished; a most becoming flush spread over her face. For a moment I imagined, if such a thing were possible, that she radiated with pride and vain-glory.
"She wanted—to ask—my advice," she replied, with innocent diffidence.
"Your advice!" I shouted, with a burst of laughter. "Christopher Colum—Oh!—I—I beg your pardon, Marion, I didn't mean——"
I was too late. I am a blundering idiot at times, and my wife thought, naturally, that I was scoffing at the idea of her being qualified to give advice, when, as a matter of fact, I considered her an adept in that accomplishment. I had the painful task of explaining in detail why I had laughed, and the humiliation of admitting that, after all, it wasn't a bit odd for an old lady to crave advice from her niece.
"Anyway," Marion contended, with recurring indignation, "she isn't really old—she's only fifty-three."
"Is that all?" I inquired, with excessive surprise. "Why, she's—she's just in her prime!"
"Just what I told her!" exclaimed Marion, with approving enthusiasm. "I said she had half a lifetime before her yet."
"Certainly, she has," I agreed. "And what did she want your advice about?"
A look of ineffable sweetness, of tender, grand-maternal pride illumined Marion's countenance. I had never seen its like before, but somehow I recognized a spiritual inner consciousness made visible; an intangible something that a man of less refined and delicate perceptions would have missed. I didn't know what it meant. I do now.
"Dear Aunt Sophy," she murmured dreamily, her eyes brimming, her gaze directed through and far beyond me, in a way that made me feel transparent; "she was so happy when I settled it!"
This remark conveyed no meaning to my mind, yet something within me vibrated in sympathy to her mood, so that for a short time I sat spellbound, caring only to enjoy the subtle delight of feeling what I didn't comprehend. I remembered, years before, in a lecture on mental phenomena, hearing the difference between perception and apperception explained so minutely that my brain swiftly convoluted whenever I tried torecall the distinction; now it was clear. Marion and Aunt Sophy had apperceived together—Iwas apperceiving. There was an inner circle, and I was of it; yet in the midst of my enjoyment my material mind somehow detached itself, reaching out longingly for more.
"You settled it?" I suggested, in a reverent whisper.
"I did," she replied softly.
My mind was a yawning void, except for the intrusive suggestion of coffee, plainly absurd, yet some instinct warned me to avoid abruptness.
"Was she willing to—to—?" I ventured.
"Willing!—willing!—I should think so. But I know exactly how she felt. Her mind was really made up, I think, though she didn't know it. I could see that although shethoughtshe wanted my advice she would have been heartbroken if I had advised hernotto do it, and I knew that what she needed was my encouragement, so—I—I——"
"You encouraged her," I cried, with sudden inspiration.
"Why, of course I did. She was so grateful that she just threw her arms about me and—" Marion choked with emotion and stopped to wipe away her joyful tears.
I began to feel distracted, but with an effort I focussed my mind on the main point, setting aside as unimportant a doubt as to what Aunt Sophy had done or said after she had embraced her niece.
"What disturbed her mind before you settled it?" I asked.
"She was afraid that I—that people might think her old and foolish."
"And you made her believe that she was—I mean, wasn't?"
"Yes, and I told her that you had often said that people ought to consider it a duty to—to live so that—that they would enjoy the companionship of suitable companions when—they got up in years, and that an elderly person living around among relatives was to be pitied."
It was a garbled version of an argument I had used during a previous discussion on the propriety of second marriages. I had contended, with personal indifference, thatto an impersonal entity, left alone in this vale of tears with no embarrassing family ties, and feeling no dread of complications in a future state of existence, a second marriage might prove both expedient and happy. This suggestion I had offered in entire innocence, as I might have distended a paper bag for a child to burst, fancying it would please Marion, as it usually did, to worry a weak argument to tatters; an operation which I enjoyed for the sake of seeing her eyes flash and the becoming color that mounted to her cheeks. But when, amid a torrent of tears, she accused me of being just like other men, and of planning to marry another wife, I was struck dumb with horror. It was painful enough to be brought face to face with the thought of her dying first, but to be branded as a probably faithless wretch was agony. I can try to justify myself for wrong-doing; I can resent the injustice of being blamed for actions that I refrain from; but when I suffer for deeds that I wouldn't do in the distant future I am staggered by improbable possibilities. Given the opportunity,might I not have caused the death of my great-great-grandfather? Consequently, I remained silent, guiltily silent, in appearance; and Marion no longer condemned second marriages—at least, she hadn't for some months—as a disgrace to civilization, her manner indicating sorrowful resignation to the inevitable.
It is strange, but true, that I didn't know what was coming; and yet I thought I knew, too well. My wife had apparently told her aunt of my supposititious inclinations; they had wept in each other's arms; they had apperceived together; awful thought, they had apperceived ME.
Never before had I been so moved. I rose to my feet, my teeth tightly clenched, vaguely pleased to notice that I stood unsteadily; it was the proper, the most effective way. "Marion," I said, in an undertone, gripping her arm, yet careful to press only hard enough for a grip—she was such a tender little thing, though so cruel. I had intended to say more, but the one word seemed so full of meaning that I stopped to let it penetrate; also to give one swiftglance at the reflection of my face in the mirror of the wall-cabinet. That glance showed me that I appeared to be struggling with the unutterable; I went on doing so.
Marion's face grew pale and rigid. "Good gracious, Henry!" she cried, trying to rise; "what's the matter?"
"Sit still," I commanded fiercely, with a bitter smile; a smile that made my teeth gleam back at me wolfishly from the wall-cabinet. "Matter enough! You've wrecked my happiness by telling Aunt Sophy that I wanted another wife."
"I never did!" she cried indignantly. "Do you think I could bear to tellanyone if—if it was true?"
My grasp relaxed. I knew there must be something wrong in my reasoning. "Do you mean," I asked cautiously, "that you couldn't have told her because it wasn't true—or—or because it was."
"I couldn't tell heranyway," she cried, with a peal of laughter, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, how funny!"
I sat down, feeling strangely flabby and weak. "Then why," I asked helplessly,mopping my brow, "did you repeat what I said about second marriages?"
Her smile gave place to a look of anxiety. "Listen, Henry," she entreated, "and try to fix your mind on this. I explained to you that your opinion was the greatest comfort to her, and I told her what you thought because I wanted—to—settle—her—mind."
"Oh, yes—just so," I assented. "And it got that way because she was old and foolish." I nodded with a vacuous air of perfect understanding.
Marion leaned back on the sofa limply and stared at me. "Not because she was old and foolish, for she wasn't," she said helplessly, "but because she thought other people wouldthinkshe was."
"Yes, yes," I repeated vacantly; "then you came along and straightened things out. Now," I added, "you may try your hand on me.Mymind's unsettled."
I felt a foolish smile widening my mouth at Marion's look of alarm, and closed my eyes trustfully as my head drooped backwards. When I opened them again shewas standing behind my chair shaking me with all her might. A fog seemed to drift away from my brain and I suddenly knew what I wanted to ask. "What—advice—did you—give?" I asked, in spasms.
"To marry—Mr. Fair——"
"Marry!" I shouted, leaping to my feet. "Old Fairman?"
Her eyes shone with triumph. "Mr.Fairman, Henry," she said, in gentle reproof. "Auntie left all the arrangements to me, and she was delighted at the idea of being married here at the end of her visit. I knew you would be glad to do anything you could."
"But where do I come in?" I asked, in bewilderment.
"Oh, well, I don't exactly know yet, but I might want you to give her away if we decide to have anyone do that, and there are lots of things you can attend to."
I smiled a smile that I keep for particular occasions. At times I can be decided; Marion says obstinate. But whether it is obstinacy or decision, I am as unyielding as a mule when the fit seizes me. I care notfor reason, threats or chastisement; hope, fear, love and all else are encased in the one instinct to stand rigid, with my ears flat against my head and my fore-feet projecting slightly. Marion has learned that the only remedy is to pat me around the nose and put a lump of sugar in my mouth. So have I.
"I'll do nothing of the kind," I said, with a quick sideways jerk of my head.
Marion swallowed twice before she spoke. "Henry, dear," she said, sweetly, "I know you must have a good reason for your decision. Tell me what it is, won't you?"
I hadn't, but when a man is spoken to that way he's got to take notice, or feel like a boor. "It would take too long," I replied stubbornly, thinking hard.
"Oh, no, it wouldn't. Come and sit on the sofa and tell me all about it. It's awfully good of you to take so much interest inmyaunt."
I sat down stiffly on the edge of the sofa, and stared into futurity; Marion toyed with my hair and looked inquiring.
"You ask me to give away your aunt," I began, in stern accusation, "to a man of whom I know literally nothing. I remember him only as a well-dressed, respectable-looking old codger, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a stubby grey beard and no mustache. He may be virtuous; he may not. He may be in love with your aunt; he may be in love with her money."
Marion rested her cheek against my unyielding shoulder and reassured me on every point in the gentlest, most affectionate manner, though, she knew I would be relieved to hear, I was under no responsibility in the matter. Anyway, it was only a form, and if I objected to doing it, Auntie could give herself away or send to Colorado for Uncle Richard. "Is that all?" she concluded.
It wasn't. I wanted to know what had become of the first Mrs. Fairman. After that, there was one thing more that it took much coaxing to extract.
"It doesn't seem fair," I burst forth, at last. "Hecan't stop it, and they don't even consider whether he'd give hisconsent, if he had a chance." Marion stared at me stupidly, and I saw that she didn't understand. "Your Uncle Philip," I explained, in a low tone.
I do not care to repeat what she said. At the same time, I cannot see that such a thought is more irreverent than the fact that suggested it. Nor could I see that I should withdraw my objection because, as Marion averred, Uncle Philip would have remarried in a year if Aunt Sophy had died first. Indeed, I was unrelenting until we came to a complete understanding on the whole subject, as follows:—
(a) Second marriages, in the abstract, are objectionable.
(b) Second marriages are, occasionally, justifiable.
(c)Someare INCONCEIVABLE.
I have often wondered how my wife's Aunt Sophy came to be so fond of me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Up to the time that she visited us at Waydean we had met only casually, yet at the end of that short visit we parted the warmest friends; indeed, she embraced me with motherly affection and implored me to take good care of myself and not work too hard. What, she suggested with tender solicitude, would Marion and dear little Paul do without me if I shortened my life by overwork? I was deeply affected by her thoughtfulness; my eyes glistened with emotion as I promised to be careful, for the mental picture of my family sorrowing over my worn-out frame made me realize what a loss I would be. But whatever her good opinion was based upon, force ofcircumstances tended to confirm it, for she found many details of our domestic economies that coincided with her ideas of good management, and never failed to attribute to me more than my proper share of credit for the same. It was impossible for me to advance an opinion on any subject without her enthusiastic approval, but whether she approved of the ideas because they were mine, or liked me because of them, I could not determine. Another thing that made her visit enjoyable was Marion's flattering desire to show me up in the best possible light. I was surprised to find that I could work through my repertory of entertaining stories, and yet have my wife join in Aunt Sophy's appreciative laugh with the zest of a first hearing; and whenever Aunt Sophy nodded to her in confidential admiration of my cleverness she would respond with a most charming flush of gratified pride. Not only that, but I have heard her, on occasions when I was supposed to be absorbed in my writing in the next room, allude to my admirable qualities in an artfully casual way; even stating, when theconversation turned on mining stocks, that she was thankful to say that Henry couldn't be induced to put a dollar into any such scheme!
But nothing I had said or done impressed Aunt Sophy as favorably as Marion's version of my opinion on second marriages. During the two months she spent with us at Waydean before her marriage I was often embarrassed by her expressions of gratitude to me for being instrumental in helping her to make up her mind. No one, she said repeatedly, had made her see her duty as clearly as I, and no one else could have said the same things (at this point she always paused to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes) in such beautiful and sympathetic language; young people so often thought that older persons had no right to marry. Nor could I disclaim the sentiments attributed to me when I saw what a comfort they were to the dear old lady.
She was very happy in her preparations, but to me there was something pathetic in her happiness, for I could not help thinking of poor Uncle Philip and wondering if shedid too, but as far as I could find out I was the only person in the house who became a prey to saddening reflections. This perplexed me to such an extent that sometimes I was distracted by the fear that I, too, might be forgotten—a maddening conclusion, but logically unassailable. At such times I would hesitatingly ask Marion if she were sure Uncle Philip was forgotten, but she would only reply, "Tut!" or "Stop that!" in a vicious suppressed whisper. This was unsatisfying, but of course Marion did not understand my need of sympathy, and her mind was not in a favorable condition to consider questions relating to psychical research. I had seen her with Mrs. Taylor in the height of her rag-carpeting fever, but her delight in that was slight compared with the bliss of helping to plan Aunt Sophy's trousseau, and I soon realized that it was not a time when she would be likely to concern herself about either my present or future state.
But after the anniversary of our wedding day I determined that, as far as I was concerned, Uncle Philip might remain buriedin oblivion; if he intruded himself into my thoughts I drove him forth again with contumely. Only thus could I preserve my self-respect, and at the same time feel that I was at all worthy to partake of the full measure of Aunt Sophy's generous affection. The feeling of sympathy that I had cherished for her deceased husband, and the half-reproachful tolerance of her projected second marriage, suddenly left me, and I not only transferred my sympathy to Mr. Fairman, but I began to hate the memory of Uncle Philip. I might not have gone as far as that if he had not persisted in haunting me after it had become impossible to harbor him without being disloyal to Aunt Sophy, but my conscience became clear when my change of sentiment could no longer be doubted. Had I still felt any mental reservation I could not have accepted her more than generous gift of a cheque for five thousand dollars which she insisted upon giving to each of us on the morning of our wedding anniversary, nor could we have refused without hurting her feelings.
"If you say another word," she declared,in response to our protests, "I'll be offended. It's a queer thing, indeed, if I'm not to be allowed to do what I like with my own money! You both know perfectly well that my future is provided for, and I'd rather have the pleasure of seeing you spend it now than put it away for you until after I'm gone, when you mightn't need it so much. You don't need it now? Of course not. Well then, you, Henry, if you can't think of anything else, might spend yours at the races; Marion can give a real nice ball with hers, if she wants to. Remember, I'd like each of you to spend your money without consulting the other, so that you'll feel perfectly free to use it in any way. Put it away for Paul? Not a bit of it.I'llprovide for Paul—the dear little old-fashioned pet! Do you know, he came to me yesterday with that solemn expression of his, and said, 'Auntie, I love you far more than if father had killed all my chickens for you to——'"
"Oh, Auntie," interrupted Marion, with forced gayety, "I've intended for ever so long to tell you about——"
I cannot bear anyone else to confess my sins, and just as the rapidly ascending pitch of Marion's voice indicated the approach of the climax I recovered my presence of mind and drowned her announcement with a loud laugh. "Awfully good joke!" I exclaimed. "Last year Paul raised such a hullabaloo about eating his that I—ha, ha, ha!—had to buy all we used......at the market!"
I had expected her to be astonished, perhaps shocked; evidently she wasn't. My laugh stopped short as I saw her nod in knowing assent and smile complacently.
"Auntie," cried Marion—"you knew!"
"Well," she admitted, "I won't say Iknewexactly, but I'll tell you how it happened. Perhaps you remember my saying last summer that Henry sometimes reminded me of your Uncle Philip?"
"Yes, you often said that he had uncle's smile and tone of voice."
"And then," she continued, "I noticed that it was always when I spoke about the chickens being so nice that I saw the resemblance, and I remembered that Philip, when he raised fancy fowls, used to bringme chickens every time he came from the farm, and I never suspected that he bought them at the market until one day we had a pair for dinner that couldn't have been less than ten years old."
"I—thought it—would spoil—your appetite if you knew," I began penitently.
Aunt Sophy laughed, then sobered again in tender reminiscence. "Just what poor Philip said," she mused, shaking her head. "He was a good judge of meat and poultry, but he didn't do as well as you, Henry. There isn't one man in a thousand who could choose as many tender chickens without being taken in. I never would have guessed they were bought ones if you hadn't come home one day with a pair of legs sticking out of the parcel under your arm. It was so good of you, Henry, to take all that trouble to spare that little darling's feelings. Not many fathers would have been so unselfish and considerate."
I said nothing. I can endure being admired for my virtues, but Aunt Sophy's commendation made me dumb with excess of emotion and joyous surprise. I hadthought myself a pretty good sort of fellow, but the revelation of how much better I really was than I had seemed began to visibly affect me. I became so agitated that I could feel my nose beginning to twitch like a rabbit's. Marion and Aunt Sophy also looked hysterically inclined to fall into each other's arms in an ecstacy of forgiveness, so I hastily retreated to my study. There was a stovepipe hole in the partition between the two rooms through which detached and semi-detached words were wafted to my ears. Some people would have been self-conscious enough to move out of hearing or to cough artificially, but I do not shrink from the truth. I knew that I was being alluded to, but I knew also that there was no more danger of my being puffed up by self-conceit than of a proprietory stamp enriching the contents of the original package.
"He's......tender-hearted, Auntie......couldn't bear......Paul's chickens."
"......like your......Uncle Philip!"
"......wouldn't slap......mosquito." (No; I'd rather blow him from the mouth of a cannon. H. C.)
"Poor Philip......once stepped......toad......quite ill."
"Henry......so thoughtful......do anything......make me happy."
"Yes......kindest husband......so much sense......Philip different......wouldn't listen......about farm."
"Mr. Fairman......devoted......be happy......do anything."
"Oh, Marion!......think I'm......old goose."
I know when a conversation becomes confidential, and I quietly retreated without hearing anything further except some indistinct murmuring and happy sobs.
From the day my bank account was increased by the sum of five thousand dollars I made up my mind to spend it all, if necessary, in the purchase of Waydean. I exulted in the anticipation of Marion's delight and amazement on finding that I had preferred to do this in place of frittering it away in luxuries that we could do without, or investing it in stocks. I almost wished her birthday was at hand so that I couldcelebrate the day by making her a present of the place; then the idea of giving it to her on Aunt Sophy's wedding-day entered my mind, and this seemed such a capital plan that I decided to carry it out. Few men, I meditated, would have thought of such a graceful acknowledgment of Aunt Sophy's kindness, and I felt that Marion would be doubly pleased that I should think of adding to the joy of the eventful day. I could not help wondering what my wife intended doing with her money, but she didn't say anything to enlighten me, and I took good care not to allude to it, for fear she should question me in return. She made frequent trips to the city, carrying her little bank-book with an air of importance, but I could see nothing in the results of her shopping to indicate lavish expenditure. For instance, on one trip she bought a wire potato masher for seven cents, a spice cabinet for thirty cents, sixty cents worth of trimming for an old hat, and a pair of silk suspenders for me. The price mark on the latter was carefully obliterated, being a present, so I couldn't tell what they cost;anyway, it wouldn't have been proper to look at the price, if it had been legible. Evidently, at that rate of spending she would have enough money left to stock the farm when it became hers.
The real estate agent whom I consulted smiled loftily when I alluded to Peter Waydean's reputation for shrewdness and overreaching. "Don't concern yourself about that, Mr. Carton," he said. "We business men are accustomed to deal with these close-fisted farmers. They usually know the value of a farm as well as we do, but we know how to get them down to the bottom figure. We don't run after the owner and let him think we're anxious to buy; we approach him in the most incidental manner, dangling the bait, so to speak, until he's afraid someone else is going to snap it up. Now, the Waydean farm I take to be worth about thirty-five hundred, and you say the old man talks of selling, so if you allow a margin of a hundred or two I think I can secure it without any trouble."
The calm confidence of Mr. Brooks elated me; after telling him he might go as highas four thousand dollars, I went home, calculating on the way how I would spend the remaining thousand that I would still have to the good.
A week later Brooks shook his head as I entered his office. "We haven't quite got that deal through, Mr. Carton," he said. "The fact is that there seems to be a snag. Old man appears willing to sell—quite genial and all that, but when it comes to figures he fights shy; says he wants more time to think. To hurry him up I made a straight offer of four thousand. I could see that he was inclined to gobble it, but he held back, and when I went out yesterday I discovered why. Ever hear of that being a likely spot for oil or gas?"
"Good heavens, no!" I cried.
He smiled at my evident alarm. "I haven't either," he assured me, "but I thought perhaps you might have inside information. The idea came into my head when I found there was another party as keen to get the place as you."
"Another—party?" I gasped.
"I met Roper—of Bates and Roper, youknow—coming out of the old man's house yesterday. I guess we each suspected the other of being on a private speculation, but after considerable sounding I found that he had been commissioned to buy the place. Then it struck me that you and this other party might have been quietly prospecting."
I shook my head. "I'm not after oil or gas wells or anything else in that line," I said decidedly. "I want the place for a quiet home. Who is this other—man?"
"I don't know. Roper didn't name his client, and of course I didn't name mine, but as far as I can make out we've both had similar instructions. It looks as if the old man were holding off to see who would make the highest bid. Now it isn't worth more than four thousand, but you can decide whether to bid higher or let it go."
If anything could have made me more eager it was the knowledge that someone else wanted Waydean. The thought of Marion's dismay if our home should be sold over our heads filled me with the determination to settle the matter at once. Itold Brooks to go ahead to the extent of five thousand dollars.
"Well," he said, shaking his head with reluctance, "I'd rather lose my commission than see you give that, for the land isn't worth the money,—that is, for farming," he added, with a shrewd glance at me,—"but that's your look-out, and I'll do my best."