"But really, Marion, he hasn't been away from me for more than half an hour at a time, he is so devoted. Of course, with such large interests he has business to look after, but he does it altogether by telegrams. It amazes me to see the number he sends off, and I'm getting quite used to the shoals that arrive, but at first the sight of them made me feel quite ill. He never looks to see if there are more than ten words, and yesterday's hotel bill had an item of $7.62 for telegrams!
"Somehow I have been thinking a great deal of your poor Uncle Philip lately. I think it must be the resemblance I see in Henry to him that has brought him so vividly before me—and I have come to the conclusion that I was too hard on him aboutthe farming. Of course he spent a great deal of money on it, but the spending gave him pleasure, and if he had taken to horse-racing or gambling, or something worse, as so many men do, I would have had real cause to complain. I am older now, and I see that married men when they get to a certain age are inclined to fret and chafe, and perhaps bolt, if they are tethered with too short a rope. I see, too, that I didn't do Philip any good by trying to keep him from farming. Now, dear Marion, I have something to write that will not offend you, I hope. I tried to say it last week, but I couldn't quite get my courage up, for you have a little bit of a temper, dear, and I knew that if I saw your eyes flash I would get flustered and make a bungle of it. You know I always supposed it was Henry's own determination that kept him from buying any implements but a spade, a rake and a hoe, but from something Paul said I have surmised that it was because you made him promise not to. Perhaps, at the time, that was a wise precaution, but you are differently situated now, and you should modifyyour views. Of course Henry will do exactly as you say, and never let you see what it costs him, and although I admire his common sense about saving money, I admire him much more for his unselfish, uncomplaining devotion to your ideas. I believe if he thought it would give you any pleasure he would go and cut off his little finger on the chopping block in the woodshed. But I would advise you strongly, Marion (since you need have no fear for the future), to let him spend all the money he wishes on the farm, and to keep all sorts of fancy stock. Let him go ahead for a year at least and take all the pleasure he can out of it, and you'll find it will pay in the end. There's just one thing I would shut down on, if I were you (though I don't think it's likely he'd want to do it, but you never can tell how far they may go if they once get started), that is, underdraining. I don't know anything about overdrains, but I do know that underdrains are simply ruinous, and if you keep Henry from underdraining I don't believe he can waste much money. Now, dear Marion, write soon and let yourpoor old aunt know that you are not offended by this suggestion."
Marion stopped reading, covered her face with her hands and laughed hysterically, exclaiming, "Oh, how funny! You poor,—poor, down-trodden creature!"
I was dumb with astonishment at first,—there was much food for reflection in the letter,—but what surprised me most was the absence of any allusion to Mr. Fairman's buying the farm. "Is that all?" I asked, with breathless incredulity.
It wasn't. Marion found another sheet marked, "Later."
"Joseph came in a few minutes ago and handed me one of those telegrams to read. Imagine my astonishment at finding he has bought Waydean for Henry! It seems that on our wedding-day he made up his mind to do this, and never said a word to me about it. If he had I certainly would have said he was too late. How fortunate, after all, that your bargain with Peter fell through. I think Joseph is more pleased to be able to make Henry a present ofWaydean than about anything that has happened since we saw you last, and I can't tell you how glad I am. You see, Marion, Henry can go ahead with perfect confidence."
For nearly two years I had rigidly adhered to Marion's scheme of inexpensive farming, with the result that we refrained from spending money at a rate that should have enabled us to amass a fortune in course of time. The rent which I paid to Peter practically included a bonus to him for working his own land, but this was a mere trifle to the outlay that would have been necessary had I essayed the rôle of an ordinary amateur farmer. Thus, from the standpoint of economy I can cheerfully testify that the plan was a success, but at times its chafing restrictions irritated me almost to the point of rebellion, as when I heard Abner Davis insinuate that I was not a regular farmer. This feeling, however, gradually wore away, as I learned that Marion's plan not only meant a pecuniarysaving, but also a freedom from many responsibilities and worries inseparable from the lot of the ordinary farmer. At all times I could rise superior to the devastations of potato-bugs and cut-worms, early and late frosts, hog-cholera, hail-storms, floods, droughts, and mortgage interest. It was this consideration that made me hesitate to adopt Aunt Sophy's suggestion that I should indulge myself by launching forth in the fatuous career of the irregular farmer who spends his fortune in the delightful pursuit of a phantom profit, but when I began to fully realize that we owned Waydean and that I had five thousand dollars in the bank, the prospect of farming on a larger scale became distinctly alluring. At this point I suddenly made the astounding discovery that Marion had entered upon a policy of absolute non-interference in the matter. Not only did she neglect to point out the proper course for me to take, but she also declined to express an opinion or make a comment upon anything even remotely connected with farming operations; nor would she explain her reasons for thisextraordinary behavior, or admit that she had reasons. I could only guess that it was Aunt Sophy's letter which had influenced her to this complete inaction and apparent indifference to my agricultural operations.
It was then that I became aware how dependent I was upon my wife's judgment and how much I distrusted my own. Like a caged bird unwittingly made free, I felt bewildered and forsaken and vainly tried to be restored to favor. I am amenable to reason, to flattery, or to anything else that helps to make life pleasant and more worth living; not so with Marion. It is hopeless to attempt to change her purpose by external influences, and I soon gave up the thankless task of trying to extract an opinion from her that she was bound to keep to herself. It was while I was still in a state of mental bewilderment over her behavior that Peter Waydean came forward with what appeared to be a most reasonable proposition. While I had been puzzling over what I should do with the farm, it appeared that he, by a curious coincidence, was in a similar state of indecision aboutwhat he should do without it. He hadn't realized, he said, when he sold the place to Mr. Fairman, how attached he was to the old homestead or how bereft of occupation he would feel when he no longer cultivated the land that he had cropped for half a century. He could scarcely make me understand how gratified he was that I, and not a stranger, was now the owner; indeed, the idea had occurred to him that, considering our friendly relations as neighbors, we might make an arrangement, to our mutual advantage—ahem!—to work the land on shares.
I had but a vague idea of what working land on shares meant, and I had to ask him to explain the term. Instead of giving me a precise definition, he began by pointing out that if I worked the farm myself I would have the expense of keeping a hired man all the year round, as well as extra hands in the busy season; I would have a continued outlay for farm-stock, implements, feed and sundries. On the other hand, if we worked the land on shares, he would be willing to do all the work himself andprovide everything necessary, if I were willing to pay him the three hundred dollars that it would cost me to keep a hired man.
"And the produce?" I asked warily, though I felt inclined to agree on the spot.
Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully before he spoke. "I was going to say that we might share and share alike, but I'm ready to do more than that," with an expansive smile. "You see, as I told you once before, taking one year with another, farming don't pay, and you might have to share two years' losses against one year's profits." He paused for a moment, and I nodded knowingly. "Now," he continued, "I'll take the hull darned crop myself, and if it don't pay expenses you don't lose, but if there is any profit once in a while, I'll have something for horse and cow feed."
This offer sounded so generous that I almost succumbed; indeed, I would have agreed at once but for the caution inspired by my previous dealings with him, and the remembrance that Marion counted it one of my failings that my first impulse was always to agree with any plausible proposition.This thought gave me moral courage enough to withhold my consent until I had time to talk it over with my wife.
Now when I eagerly began to explain the advantages of working the land on shares I was so full of the subject that I forgot temporarily that Marion was leaving me to my own devices, nor did I remember till I paused for her opinion, and heard the interesting comment that I'd better get the whitewash mixed up so that we could do the kitchen right after dinner.
I mixed the whitewash with fierce energy. After dinner I applied it with a concentrated vigor that, properly distributed, would have whitened the White House. As I worked, I ruminated bitterly upon Marion's aggravating reserve, doubly annoying in that I had an instinct that she saw a fatal flaw in the plan which was not apparent to me. When I finished the walls and ceiling of the kitchen I found that I had incidentally whitened the stove, the floor and myself.
To my surprise, Marion made no comment on this as she prepared to scrub the floor, her features expressing calm content,with perhaps a suggestion of scornful amusement that was not definite enough to justify me in accusing her of implying that I hadn't done the work neatly. She had just dipped her scrubbing brush into the pail of water, and I was in the act of removing my bespattered overalls, when the front door-bell rang. It was such an unusual occurrence at Waydean for anyone to come to the front door that the sound of the bell at this juncture created a commotion. Neither of us was presentable, but Marion seized a towel and rubbed some splatches of lime off my face, hurried me into an old coat and declared I must go. I had learned previously that on any special occasion it is always the man who must go, so I did not protest. I even went willingly, for the bell rang a second time with a portentous reverberation that thrilled me with expectancy that something was about to happen, and I was in the mood to enjoy something happening. As I glanced at the mirror in the hall I was startled to see that my hair and beard were powdered a delicate gray with the lime, and that the lines in my facelooked like the deep seams of old age, but as this couldn't be helped I opened the door with my usual air of inquiring dignity.
"How are you, Mr. Waydean?" demanded a hearty voice, and a large, bearded, black-clothed, silk-hatted man grasped my hand with a fervent pressure.
I am singularly open to sympathy, and at that particular time I would have welcomed the benediction of a wayside beggar, so I returned the hearty hand-clasp and replied that I was from fair to middling, warmly inviting him to walk into the parlor. It did not occur to me until he spread his coat tails and inverted his hat on the floor that he looked as if he might be an ex-clerical insurance or book agent, and I was rather more relieved than impressed when he announced that he was the new pastor of the only church in the neighborhood. I attempted to apologize for my disordered appearance and to explain that I was not a church-goer, also that Waydean was not my name, but that of the place.
"Not one word, Mr. Waydean," he interrupted, his deep voice drowning mycourteous utterance. "You wouldn't think so, perhaps, but I was brought up on a farm, and I have learned that clothes do not make a man. Would you be a different person, let me ask, were you clothed in sheepskins or purple and fine linen?"
"I never tried either of those costumes," I answered, "but if you saw me in my ordinary clothes you wouldn't take me for a farmer."
"Come now, Mr. Waydean," he urged, tapping my knee insistently; "would you or would you not be the same man? A straight answer, if you please—no hedging."
"Well," I admitted, "I suppose I would be the same man, but I'd look mighty different."
He leaned back in his chair, contemplating me with a satisfied smile. "I am pleased to see that you are willing to grant that you are in error," he said, stroking his beard; "it's always better to tell the truth at first than to wait until you are obliged to do so. But this, of course, is not what I called to say, and I must come to the point.I've preached in this church two Sabbaths, and you have not been present. May I ask you why?"
"Well I—I'm not much in the habit of going to church. I——"
"Hedging again, Mr. Waydean," he said, holding up a warning forefinger. "I must insist upon your being perfectly frank. I have reason to suppose you have stayed away on account of this petty disagreement with Brother Bunce and Brother Lemon. Is not that the fact?"
Alas, I could not say! Had I known the particulars of the petty disagreement he mentioned I might have hazarded an admission that he was correct in his surmise, for I find it easier to acknowledge that a person is right in a matter of no interest to me than think up arguments on the other side. I felt like a small boy who is called upon to decide instantly whether his punishment will be mitigated or increased if he confesses to a deed of which he is both innocent and ignorant. I looked in every direction but at my accuser, and remained silent.
"Mr. Waydean," he went on, with a note of sympathetic compassion that would have softened my heart had I been a sinner, "I find it is better to begin work in a new sphere by smoothing out anything that has caused discord, so I have come to you to-day as a peacemaker to speak about your demeanor in church, which, I understand, has been the primary cause of this trouble."
"My demeanor in church?" I cried, with indignant incredulity.
"Not a word, if you please, until I have stated the case in full, as I understand it; then I shall listen to your explanation. You are in the habit of sleeping in church, and——"
Again I struggled to disclaim the habit of church-going. Again his masterful voice drowned my protest.
"I can assure you, Mr. Waydean, that we all have habits of which we are totally unconscious. I, for instance, invariably moisten my thumb in turning the leaves of the pulpit Bible, and I am inclined to disbelieve my wife when she mentions the matter afterwards. Now, I want you totake my word for it that you have the habit I am about to speak of, even though you may think you haven't."
I remembered with an effort that my name was Peter Waydean; at the same time I was thrilled by a sudden conviction that, as resistance seemed useless, a delightful situation would result if I consented to play the part that was being thrust upon me so vigorously. There was no sound of scrubbing from the kitchen, and I was positive that Marion had left her work to listen to the conversation. This consideration gave zest to the idea, for things seemed to have been providentially arranged so that Marion might remain in the background, wrathfully powerless to interfere in what had every appearance of proving to be a most entertaining masquerade.
"Mr. Hughes, I'll try," I said meekly.
"Well then, I will say frankly that I think it excusable if you occasionally fall asleep during the sermon on a warm day, considering that you have but one day's rest in the week from most arduous manual labor; but, it happens, your pew is betweenBrother Bunce's and Brother Lemon's, and they, too, are sometimes overcome by somnolency. Don't be offended if I put the matter plainly,—they both complain that you have the habit of going to sleep and——"
"But what right have they to complain of my going to sleep, when they——"
"There,—there!—be calm, and I'll explain. Remember, they are both liberal givers and pillars of the church, and we must do nothing to alienate them; indeed, if we can do anything to make them more comfortable it is our duty to do so. Now they do not complain of your going to sleep, but they protest against having their rest disturbed by—ahem!—your—yoursnoring."
"Mysnoring!" I exclaimed wrathfully. "Let me inform you, sir, I never snore. I—" A choking guttural sound from the dining-room, followed by an artificial feminine cough, arrested my denial. I gulped twice, then I went on humbly: "I should say, rather, that I was not aware I snored."
"Well put, Mr. Waydean," said mymentor approvingly. "I remember the first time my wife told me I snored I was quite irritated, so I know how you feel. But I have investigated this matter thoroughly before coming to you, and I find the opinion is universal that you are in fault."
"Well, then, what are you going to do about it? If I'm not wanted in the church I'm willing to stay away."
"No, no,—my dear sir, I will not hear of such a thing. I am determined that no one shall leave the church during my pastorate. I would suggest, however, that you might change your pew to one at the rear of the building under the gallery. You would be more comfortable there, and Bunce and Lemon would be out of range, so to speak."
"Never," I protested firmly. "I shall either keep my pew at the front, or leave the church."
"You will listen to reason, Mr. Waydean," he insisted, with confident decision. "I was told that you were obstinate, and that I might as well leave you alone, but I want you to set a good example to yourneighbors and show them you are a man of sense. May I—ah—ask you to call in Mrs. Waydean, if she is at home?"
It was a move that took me unawares; I almost broke out into a cold sweat. There was a sudden dull thump in the dining-room that sounded as if the cat had jumped down from the top of the dresser to the floor, and I knew that Marion in her dismay had dropped into a chair. Somehow this sound was inspiriting. She could not get upstairs without being seen by our visitor, and in her old skirt she was as impotent to interrupt any statement I chose to make as if she were bound and gagged. Therefore, with inward relish and outward regret, I answered that my wife had been so unfortunate as to twist her ankle and had been confined to her bed for two days.
He only paused to express the proper condolences before returning to the point; leaning forward confidentially, he lowered his voice. "The fact is, Mr. Waydean, I sympathize with your stand in the matter, but we must all make sacrifices for the good of the community. You must consider thatthese men give liberally, and how, may I ask, could the revenue be made up if they left the church?"
More was implied by the diplomatic suggestiveness of his tone than by the words. There was a pause, during which I pursed up my lips, half-closed my eyes, and thoughtfully rubbed the bristles on my chin. "Well," I remarked at length, in a reflective tone, "I suppose you think I might do a little better?"
"To be quite frank, I think you might," he responded. "It is a delicate matter to mention, but you have the reputation of being the wealthiest man in the neighborhood, and—and——"
"And the closest," I added, with a touch of asperity. "To be quite frank withyou, Mr. Hughes, I didn't take much stock in your predecessor, or I might have given more; but now I may perhaps feel differently. You make Bunce and Lemon attend to their own beams, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll—" Again that falsetto cough from the next room checked my flow of speech. I had completely forgottenMarion, having become so absorbed in my part.
"Well?" he asked expectantly.
I glanced around nervously and lowered my voice almost to a whisper. "I'll give as much cash as I gave before; besides, I'll give half my crop."
"Half your crop!" he exclaimed in amazement.
"Half—my—crop," I solemnly asserted; "if you care to send for it. Perhaps you could get Bunce and Lemon to team the produce to market?"
"I'll attend to that," he responded cheerfully. "I'll get up a bee, and lend a hand myself. I hope,—ho, ho, ho!—that you will have a large crop. What do you propose to grow next year?"
"Well, I—I haven't quite decided."
"Considering that I have a half-interest, let me suggest potatoes."
"Potatoes!" I exclaimed. "Why, they're not worth digging this year—fifteen cents a bag!"
The minister laughed. "Ninety-nine farmers out of a hundred will reason in thesame way," he said; "then the crop will be short and the prices high. Be the hundredth man, and plant potatoes."
I thanked him for the advice, which seemed to me to be excellent. He rose to go, then placed his hand affectionately on my shoulder. "Keep your pew," he said, "and leave me to settle with Brothers Bunce and Lemon; but if, as a favor to me, you could keep from—going to sleep?——"
I could not resist the urgent friendliness of his appeal. "Mr. Hughes," I responded, "I can promise never to close my eyes while listening to your sermons; more than that, I'll see that Bunce and Lemon keep awake also."
His eyes twinkled with appreciative humor as he thanked me, and a sudden remorse seized me for taking advantage of his insistent belief that I was Peter Waydean. I might have yielded to my inclination to confess, had not Marion's cough given place to a series of energetic movements which I interpreted as a threat that she was preparing to enter the room to expose my duplicity. As a usual thing I ameasily intimidated, but sometimes when I get beyond my depth I become bold, defiant, reckless. I had, after all, done no wrong; I had merely accepted a situation that had been forced upon me. My wife, on the contrary, had behaved with heartless indifference. After training me to depend upon her judgment, after teaching me to obey the dictates of her conscience, she had, without a word of warning, sympathy or apology, left me to wrestle alone with a momentous question; left me to be tossed about like a tailless kite or a rudderless boat. Well, it was my plain duty to teach her a lesson, and I saw the way to point a pretty moral and at the same time settle my doubts as to the wisdom of allowing Peter to work my land on shares. Marion had refused her opinion on this matter; she might now listen while I appealed to a stranger.
"Mr. Hughes," I said hurriedly, as he picked up his hat, "sit down for five minutes more—I want to ask your advice."
He did so, and briefly,—very briefly, for the sounds indicated that Marion was desperately sponging her skirt on thedining-room table,—I sketched a proposition similar to Peter's. "Now," I concluded, "do you consider that a fair arrangement for the city man as well as for the farmer?"
"A fair arrangement!" he exclaimed. "Where is the city man's share?"
"Wouldn't it be in the money he wouldn't spend by not working the land himself?" I asked earnestly.
He laughed in joyous abandonment. "Really, Mr. Waydean," he gasped, "you have an extraordinary mind. But it doesn't pay to juggle with one's conscience, even in the case of a city man—it would be downright extortion."
Again I was moved by his geniality to confess that I was not the man I seemed; again was this virtuous resolve crushed. Before I could speak, he went on: "You wouldn't have asked me this if your conscience hadn't troubled you. Three hundred dollars bonus for the farmer—andallthe produce!" Again his smile broke out afresh as he looked at me in mild reproof. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. I, too, thought at one time that amateur farmerswere designed by Providence to add to the prosperity and entertainment of legitimate cultivators of the soil, but—oh, dear me!—three hun—ho, ho, ho!—Why, you'd kill your goose."
"Goose!" I cried fiercely. "Do you mean to call me a goose?"
"No, no,—I was going to say you'd kill your goose——"
"Don'tsay it, then," I adjured him, with bitter resentment. "If you mention anything oval and metallic and glittering, I'll have a—a nervous prostration. Why do men of your profession want to wreck the nerves of your listeners by firing off the most obvious remarks, the stalest platitudes, the most hackneyed metaphors? Why can't you sometimes say something unexpected? I'd go to church if I could listen to sermons in which I didn't always know what was coming next."
It was his turn to wince. An angry flush mounted to his cheeks, and he positively glowered at me. "Permit me to say," he thundered, extending his right arm in a pulpit gesture, "that I wasn't going tomention the gol"—I don't know what he wasn't going to mention, for I clapped my hands over my ears just in time to escape hearing, because I felt that I really couldn't bear a certain reference that he seemed bent upon making. The next words that reached me were: "—was about to say that if you pluck all the feathers off your goose out of season the result will be fatal. Mr. Waydean, you are behaving in——"
"Don't," I implored—"don't Mr. Waydean me again. I'mnotold Waydean. I'm——"
"You're not—Peter Waydean?" he gasped.
"No,—I'm not."
"I—I was told this was the Waydean homestead."
"It is," I said, regaining my composure, "but he doesn't live here."
He stared at me blankly. "And you?"
"Oh, I'm only the city man."
He picked up his hat and moved toward the door. "Good-afternoon," he said frigidly.
Remorse for what was past and despairfor what was to come gripped me. "I'm sorry for the mistake," I said, following him to the door, "but you wouldn't give me a chance to explain."
Without a word or look in reply, he walked away, selfishly absorbed in his own thoughts.
I suppose the law of retributive punishment is, strictly speaking, a just one, but I feel sure there is such a thing as carrying it too far, especially when it is applied without regard to the mitigating circumstances that sometimes prompt a usually tractable man to kick over the traces. I think, in a case of this kind, a deeper moral effect may be obtained by the application of the beautiful theory that crime, like virtue, has its own inevitable reward, apart from any extraneous punishment that the human intellect can devise. Years before, when the latter philosophy was expounded to me by Marion during a discussion on the subject, it seemed a mere abstract proposition that verged on absurdity, but in the painful moments that elapsed between the departure of the minister and my hesitating entrance tothe dining-room its true significance burst upon me like a ray of sunshine. I would remind Marion of her convictions; I would tell her I had adopted her view; she would refrain, in deference to her own unswerving opinions, to add to the mental anguish that had already led me to see how unwise it was to give way to evil impulses.
Therefore, encouraged by this thought, I faced my wife as if nothing had happened since I left the kitchen to answer the summons of the door-bell. I was prepared to find her indignant, wrathful, in tears, but I did not expect to see her sitting in an attitude of apathetic despair, dry-eyed and speechless.
"Good heavens, Marion!" I cried. "What's the matter?"
It was some time before I could get her to answer; then it was a positive relief to see her lips move and hear her say faintly, "You've—done it—now."
I had difficulty in finding out what I had done. A gleam of hope thrilled me when at last she revived enough to attack in the open.
Then, and not till then, did I develop my strategic lines of defence. First, I pleaded justification; second, that my vivid imagination, like Paul's, had led me to believe for the time that I was Peter; third, that I had tried in vain to make the minister understand that I was not Peter; fourth, that my desire for sympathy and companionship had warped my judgment and caused me to innocently yield to temptation; fifth, that I could not see that I had done wrong; sixth, that the burden of poignant grief for my conduct was more than I could bear; seventh, that any attempt to rub it in would harden my heart and stifle the reproaches of my own conscience; eighth,—well, to the final argument upon which I based my futile hopes Marion replied that her own attitude, born of the humiliating discovery of the kind of man I really was, might well be considered part of the inevitable consequences of my misdeeds, and that if she had ever given me cause to believe that she thought differently she took it all back.
It was then, with my guns spiked, that I surrendered unconditionally. I only pleadedthat for Paul's sake—dear little Paul, who, in his plays, so innocently invented fictions that rivalled Munchausen's—we should gather up the little fragments of our shattered happiness and piece them together with calm resignation. I was about to suggest that we should seek consolation in a life of self-abnegation by trying to do good to others, but, seeing that Marion was obviously moved, I desisted. I am proud to say I know how far to go; I am prouder that I know when to stop and keep a good thing for another occasion.
Marion was melted, and no regular farmer was ever more grateful to see the welcome rain after a scorching drought than I was to see her tears. She was melted, and yet, strange to say, I could not get her to assure me that I was forgiven, and I am so constituted that I cannot be content without warm assurances to that effect.
Months went by, and we regained our happiness to an amazing extent; indeed, if Marion had not still refused to confirm it, I would have supposed that I was completely forgiven, for she sometimes went so faras to smile in recalling my conversation with the minister. I no longer worried over her refusal to express an opinion about the farm, for I had made up my mind to have nothing to do with Peter, and to grow potatoes, and potatoes, and yet more potatoes. I had a strong instinct that potatoes would be trumps. Seed was cheap, though labor came high. Joe Wrigley was the only available man, and though he had previously been eager to work for me at a dollar and a half a day, his terms went up to two dollars when I tried to hire him for the season. I thought his wholesale price should be lower than the retail one, but I had to agree to his terms. Day after day he ploughed and harrowed and planted, until I called a halt on the first of July with about one-third of the farm in potatoes. Throughout the summer I bore the jocular allusions of my experienced neighbors to the potato farm, replying only with a shrewd and complacent smile; later, I was flattered to notice that knowing glances of amusement were conspicuously absent when I entered the post-office at mail time, and that my casual remarks weretreated with grave consideration. Later still, when the price went up to a dollar and a half a bag, and the prospect that I would have a large crop became a certainty, I was able to indulge in exultant calculations of my probable profits. These delightful anticipations were slightly marred by Marion's persistent lack of enthusiasm, and the fact that when I asked her if she could ever forgive me she always replied that she hoped to be able to before winter. There was something so pointed and yet elusive in this remark that I could not fathom her meaning, and it was not until I noticed that whenever I mentioned potatoes a peculiar tight expression appeared about her mouth that I could guess she was reserving her forgiveness until my promise was redeemed.
One day in the beginning of October I wrote a brief note to the minister. Now I had never seriously considered the possibility of ignoring the promise I had made during my lapse of identity, but I will confess that it was with a pang I prepared to redeem it, for I loved every one of those conical heaps that dotted my fields, with apassionate first love that I knew I could never feel again. Indeed, if I could have preserved them from decay, I would rather have left the pyramids where they stood, as a lasting monument to the genius of the city man who raised more than two thousand dollars worth of potatoes at a cost of less than one thousand, but with iron resolution I determined to keep to the letter of my promise. Of course, I might have done so in a private and incidental manner, but I frankly admit that I believe if a man chooses to be noble and generous he ought to be so in a manner that gives him the most enjoyment and furnishes the most telling example to others.
On the morning of the twenty-first of October the Fairmans arrived to spend with us the first anniversary of their wedding, and not a small part of the pleasure of seeing them again was, to me, the delighted admiration they expressed on making a tour of the pyramids. Aunt Sophy was so exuberant over my success, and her husband so frankly astonished when he rapidlycalculated the value of the crop in dollars and cents, that I had much difficulty in retaining my usual modest and unassuming manner. Even Marion, despite a certain inflexible set to her mouth that I detected under her company expression, couldn't help looking regretfully pleased.
We had a most enjoyable dinner, sitting so long over the table that Paul excused himself and went out to play, but it was only a short time until he came running back with the petrifying news that there was a funeral entering the gate. There was a simultaneous rush to the front windows, and out on the road we all saw a long line of democrats beginning to move slowly through our gate. Between the trees, at the head of the procession, we caught fleeting glimpses of a professional silk hat and a suit of black clothes.
"Henry!" cried Marion, with a little shriek. "You wouldn't—let them—bury——?"
"Well, I don't know. If it's a Waydean—and the custom——"
"Henry!" shrieked Aunt Sophy, clasping Marion in her arms.
"Really," began Mr. Fairman, "I—I—"
"They've stopped in the yard," yelled Paul, putting his head in the doorway.
I headed the rush to the back window, then one more rush brought us all into the yard, Mr. Fairman in the rear, supporting the ladies, while Paul, who revels in sudden excitement, skipped about us in glee. The driver of the first wagon was Peter Waydean; the professional person descending with his back to us was the Rev. Daniel Hughes. He came forward with a genial smile and greeted me warmly.
"Mr. Carton," he said, "we have come to take advantage of——"
My arm was gripped from behind. "Pay him to take it away—at once," whispered Aunt Sophy in my ear, with fierce energy, pressing her purse into my hand.
There was a sudden silence; the dramatic moment had arrived. I stepped back and courteously introduced Mr. Hughes to Aunt Sophy, to Marion, to Mr. Fairman. In a few simple and carefully chosen words I explained that Mr. Hughes and my neighbors had come at my request to takeone-half of my crop for the benefit of the church. Then the minister made a most handsome acknowledgment, and I tried to look deprecating. There was rapt attention on the part of the listeners, the men on the wagons being visibly impressed, those at the rear craning their necks to get a better view of the tableau. Aunt Sophy beamed gratification; her husband sighed regretfully, as if he thought the contribution rather large. And in Marion's eyes I read the most charming and complete forgiveness that could fall to the lot of an erring husband; indeed, they were brimming with such perfect trust and confidence in my innate nobility of character that I instantly resolved to become even more worthy of her esteem.
We watched the long line of wagons pass through the barnyard and round the end of the barn on the way to the back fields, and as I stood slightly in advance of the others I heard Mr. Fairman wonder in a low tone if I proposed to run for the legislature.
"Just like a thing your Uncle Philip would have done!" murmured Aunt Sophy to Marion.
A fleeting spasm crossed Mr. Fairman's face, then his calm serenity returned. I fancy that Uncle Philip had better be dropped, or Aunt Sophy's husband's admiration for me may lapse.
On the last wagon rode Abner Davis. He returned my salute with respectful solemnity, and I could scarcely repress a smile of triumph as I recalled his derisive remark that I was not a regular farmer. Paul, some latent boyish instinct stirring within him, ran after the wagon and clung to the tailboard, an unheard of feat for him.
"I wonder what kind of a farmer Abner Davis will call you now," said Marion, voicing my complacent pride.
At that moment loud guffaws, Abner's unmistakable laugh and his companion's, reached us from the wagon that had rounded the barn, and Paul came dashing back, breathless.
"Father," he called out, gleefully, "I heard him say that any man who would give half of such a fine crop to——"
"To what?" I asked, with eager interest as Paul stopped for breath.
"—to—the church—when——"
"Oh, hurry, Paul!" cried his mother.
"—potatoes were such a price—was——"
We waited in suspense, various flattering allusions to my generous gift suggesting themselves as that mischievous boy stopped to spin around on his heels and laugh in elfish glee.
"Waswhat?" we cried in chorus.
"—A da-r-r-n fool!" shrieked Paul.