Soonafter the milking ordeal was at an end Nannie started over to the house of her cousins, the Misfits. It chanced that she happened upon this ill-mated couple in the nick of time.
“Glad to see you, Nan,” exclaimed Mr. Misfit. “I have a day off, and Mrs. Misfit wants to take the boat trip. You must go with us.”
“Yes, we've never been, and I told Henry we really ought to go! I am tired of being asked if I don't think it's pleasant, and having to say I don't know anything about it.”
“You'll have to fly around and get ready, then, for we must take the next train in if we want to catch that boat. You'll go,” he added as his wife slipped away to dress, “won't you, Nannie?”
Nannie stood regarding him with one of her elfin looks.
“You need me, don't you?” she said.
He laughed rather awkwardly. He always felt uncomfortable when Nannie looked at him that way.
“Why, yes, of course. We shall be glad of your company.”
“I know why you wanted me to-day,” said Nannie later on, when she was sitting out on the deck of the boat with him while Mrs. Misfit was taking a nap in the saloon.
He turned and looked at her, and saw it would be of no use to try to evade.
“There's something uncanny about this girl,” he said to himself.
“You wanted me—you and Lillie both wanted me to stand between you. You couldn't endure each other's company for a day. It would bore you to death.”
“You are right,” he said simply. “It would bore me. I don't know about Lillie.”
“Well, I can tell you,” said Nannie, speaking in no uncertain tone. “Youare just as uninteresting to her as she is to you.”
He caught his breath.
“You are complimentary, I must say.”
“I know all about it. It's something like this with Steve and me. We don't bore each other, but we don't know what to say.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Nannie sat silent for a moment. Evidently she was revolving matters mentally. Finally she turned to her companion, and with a roguish smile, which shone like a sunbeam out from overhanging curls, said:
“I suppose I'll have to 'perk up' a little.”
“I don't speak Hindoostanee,” he replied.
“Well, Steve's above me, you know.”
He nodded, but Nannie took no offense. He was thinking. “That's our trouble. I'm above Lillie.”
“And I must try to reach him somehow.”
“If Lillie would do that——” he began, but Nannie cut him short.
“It's not Lillie, it'syou! Lillie is above you!”
Again he caught his breath, this time with a gasp, but he was forced to be silent. It would be a strange man indeed who could enter into an argument to prove his wife inferior to himself. He might be thoroughly convinced of this; might even have taken it for granted that others realized the fact, but he could hardly have the face to bring his voluminous arguments on this point to the attention of an outsider.
“I know what you're thinking,” said Nannie, and she looked uncanny again. “I can't say these things as well as some people could, but you think because you know books you're better than Lillie. The books can't be the first things, because there must always be men before there can be books; and there must always be some real things, true things, before there can be men. These were there first. The books don't make them, butjust refer to them, and the people that have the real things are higher than the books. That's what makes Lillie higher than you.”
The man sat thinking for a few moments, then he tried to laugh.
“Really, Nannie,” he said, “if one were ill with that horrid disease called Conceit, a quiet half hour with you on the deck of a boat would restore him to health.”
Nannie gazed at him defiantly, but said nothing.
“No, I'll tell you, little one, how it all came about,” he said rather patronizingly. “Lillie and I married when we were boy and girl. She was seventeen and I was twenty. Lillie was very pretty and that attracted me, and I—well, I don't know just what she saw in me!”
“I've often wondered,” said Nannie.
He gave one look of blank amazement and then dropped his hands in dismay.
“Well, I suppose you were more interesting then than you are now,” Nannie went on comfortingly.
“I hope so,” he said humbly, “but weneither of us knew the other. Our tastes were not formed; our characters were not matured. I grew one way, she grew another; now we care for entirely different things, and as a result we are walking through life together and each is utterly alone.”
He was looking off over the big lake now. He had forgotten the annoyances and unpleasant surprises of their conversation. He no longer saw Nannie. A dreary never-ending waste was all that held his mental vision.
Nannie's voice recalled him.
“That's no excuse,” she insisted.
He started like a man rudely awakened.
“Who thought of making excuses?” he said rather gruffly.
But down in his heart lay the testimony that convicted him. By this it was proven that he had for thirteen years been excusing himself.
“If you would take an interest you could do something for Lillie and she could do something for you.”
He did not jest this away. He wastaking an interest now and doing some humiliating thinking, and as a result of all this he stood before himself in a clear, new light, in which it could readily be seen that he was less in need of sympathy than of pardon.
On her way home that afternoon Nannie called at Mrs. Earnest's house, and was boisterously welcomed by the two little ones of the family, Mamie and Jim.
“A story! A story!” they shouted.
“Oh, I can't,” said Nannie. “I haven't any in my head.”
“Yes, you must! You promised!” urged Jim in an extremely moral tone (he himself was a shocking transgressor in the matter of promises). “You promised! You know you did! You've got to!”
“Well, what shall it be about?”
“Indians!” screamed Jim, “and let them do a lot of killing!”
“No. I want a kitty story,” said Mamie.
“I won't have a kitty story—I want a bloody Indian story!” said Jim stoutly.
“I don't know any bloody Indian story, and I wouldn't tell one if I did,” said Nannie in her abrupt, decisive way.
“I won't listen, then,” pouted Jim.
“Very well. You may go to Kamchatka if you like. Mamie and I are going to have a kitty story.”
Mamie cuddled up to Nannie, while Master Jim stalked out of the room. It was observed, however, that he was not above taking up a squatter's claim in the hall and listening through the crack of the door.
“Once upon a time,” Nannie began in the old way so fascinating to children—“once upon a time there lived a dear little kitty.”
Just at this point the front door opened and Mr. Earnest walked in. Now, Nannie had never fancied this gentleman, and to-night, as she noted his glowering look, she felt a savage desire to annoy him.
“Hello, chick,” he said, brusquely In answer to little Mamie's greeting. “Good-evening, Nannie,” he added, taking out his paper and seating himself.
As he did so Mrs. Earnest came into the room. She always seemed ill at ease in her husband's presence, though she strove to appear the contrary.
“Why, good-evening, dear,” she began. “Are you home?”
“No, I'm not,” he said roughly. “Can't you see?”
“I thought I recognized you,” she replied, forcing a little laugh.
He made no reply.
“Did you bring the sugar, dear?” she asked presently.
“No, I didn't.”
She was depending on this for preserving, and she wanted to ask why he failed, but did not quite dare.
“Can you bring it to-morrow?” she inquired after an awkward pause.
“I don't know,” he said gruffly.
Again she hesitated. She was very gentle and naturally timid, and his treatment had increased the latter tendency. At last she mustered strength to say:
“I need it very much.”
There was no reply, and directly she left the room.
Now, not one iota of this domestic scene was lost upon Nannie. From the day she had listened to that story told by Constance Chance to her young friend (Mrs. Earnest's oldest child) she had been looking about her sharply. The first direction of eyes newly opened is outward. We see our neighbors—see that instead of performing their part like men they are skulking through life—men as churls, snarling, or it may be stalking, automaton fashion; men as sticks, walking, and we hasten to correct their errors. Our own correction comes afterward, if at all, for as the poet has told us, it were easier to tell twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to do it.
Nannie fastened her eyes upon Mr. Earnest, but as he was now absorbed in his paper he lost the benefit of her fierce glances.
“Why don't you tell?” urged Mamie, who did not relish this interruption to her story.
“Well, once there lived a horrid pig.”
“Why, that's not it,” said the child pettishly. “It's a kitty.”
“No, it's a pig,” reiterated Nannie with emphasis. “A horrid, selfish pig!”
“I don't like that,” pouted Mamie. “You begin about a kitty, and just as I'm getting interested in her you go off on a pig.”
“Well, then, once there was a big, horrid cat.”
“You said a dear little kitty,” cried Mamie.
“He was a dear little kitty once, I suppose, but he grew up to be a big selfish, glowering, tortoise-shell tomcat.”
“Was there any mama kitty?” asked Mamie, who yearned for a gentle element in the story.
“Yes, and she was lovely, so unselfish and kind, but the big, ugly one bullied her all the time till she was afraid to call her soul her own.”
“Did they have any teeny weeny kitties?” asked Mamie.
“Yes, three of them. The oldest was very sweet and the next was rather good sometimes, but showed signs of being horrid like the big one when he grew up,and the littlest of all was very cunning and good.”
“Did they have a little house?”
“Yes, but it was awfully hard to keep it, because when Mrs. Kitty wanted anything she was afraid to ask old Mr. Cat for it, and when he forgot things, instead of begging her pardon, as he should have done, he would glare at her until she was afraid of her life. Oh, he was an odious old thing! He thought he was very big and handsome, but he was horrid-looking, and everybody hated him and he made everybody wretched. Well, one day Mrs. Kitty was going to give a birthday party for the weeniest kitty. They none of them wanted old Mr. Cat to come, because nobody could have a good time when he was around, but they didn't know how to get rid of him without making him angry—he was always angry at somebody or something.
“Now the family who owned these kitties had some rabbits, and lately something had been killing the rabbits, and they wanted to find out what it was, sothey set a trap. Well, on the birthday Mrs. Kitty prepared a nice little dinner; she had some new milk, and a little meat and a bit of cheese, and six little mice. The table was so pretty, and everybody sat down, and there was no end of the fun going on, until suddenly they all stopped talking and laughing, for they saw hateful Mr. Cat. He came sulking and glowering along, as if somebody outside had whipped him and he wanted to take it out of his family. Mrs. Kitty begged him to sit down, and the little kitty told him it was her birthday party.
“'What can I help you to?' asked Mrs. Kitty in her pretty voice, trying not to look frightened.
“'None of this stuff,' he growled. 'Haven't you anything decent to eat?'
“'I'm afraid we haven't anything but this,' said Mrs. Kitty, her teeth chattering with dread for fear he'd pounce on the table and break the dishes. 'Do please take something,' she begged.
“But he only made a great hateful ts-s! and turned away as mad as he could be,and then down he hopped right into the rabbit trap, which happened to be near.
“Out came one of the boys of the family, hallooing and shouting to the others that he had heard the trap go off and knew they'd caught the thief, and the poor little kitties ran away as fast as their small legs would carry them, not stopping to see that horrid old Mr. Cat was held fast.”
“What became of Mr. Cat?” asked Mamie.
“He came to a bad end, as all such creatures do,” said Nannie in a terrible voice.
At this point Jim's interest outran his pride, and he swung open the door so that he could hear better.
“What became of him?” persisted Mamie.
“He received a sound trouncing,” said Nannie.
Just at this juncture of affairs she caught sight of Mr. Earnest's eyes peering at her above his paper. Had they been filled with tears or dark with remorseshe might have relented, but, shocking to relate, they were fairly twinkling with merriment, and Nannie perceived that she was amusing her auditor hugely, instead of reading him a terrible lesson, and in her anger she all but lost control of herself.
“Wasn't anything else done to him?” asked Jim in a rather disappointed tone.
“Yes,” said Nannie, glaring at Mr. Earnest in a fierce, defiant manner.
“Oh, that's enough to do to him,” pleaded little Mamie.
“No, it isn't,” said Jim. “He ate up the rabbits.”
“Maybe he didn't eat the rabbits,” urged tender-hearted Mamie.
“No, he didn't eat the rabbits. A weasel did that,” said Nannie, her awful gaze still fixed on Mr. Earnest's laughing eyes. “But he had been ugly to his family, and that's the worst, the meanest thing a man—a cat can do, and Providence caught him in a trap to punish him.”
“What else was done to him?” persisted Jim.
“He was hung,” said Nannie, and she almost smacked her lips with savage relish.
“Oh!” said Jim, and he condescended to enter the parlor and plant himself in front of Nannie. “Then what else was done with him?” reiterated this young avenging fury.
“I don't like this story,” said Mamie.
“I do!” said Jim. “It's most bester than Indians.”
Nannie was going to say that was all, but just then she caught sight of those mocking eyes again, and in a sudden fury she added:
“He was drawn and quartered.”
“Oh!” gasped Jim, while Mamie began to weep.
Just then a roar of laughter ensued from behind the newspaper, and Nannie, whose every nerve was taut, leaped from her chair.
The newspaper fell, and the two chief actors in this drama confronted one another, one of them convulsed with laughter and the other with flashing, defiant eyes and tightly pursed mouth.
“And after that—” urged Jim. “Go on, Miss Nannie. Oh, this is a bully story! It's bestest than Indians!”
“After that,” said Nannie, turning squarely on Mr. Earnest, “after that he was sent to the penitentiary for life, and everybody said 'Good enough!' 'Served him right, nasty, mean, horrid old thing!'” and away she went, slamming the front door behind her.
The bang of the door, and still more the unusual sound of Mr. Earnest's laughter, brought the little wife to the spot.
“We had a bully story!” Master Jim explained. “There wasn't any fighting in it, but a big old cat got caught in a trap, and he was hung and quartered up.”
“Jim!” said his mother. “Do stop! I don't like such stories. What could Nannie have been thinking of?”
If she had dared she would have added: “I don't see how anybody could have laughed over that.”
But perhaps she was checked by a look on Mr. Earnest's face. He was notlaughing now; neither was he scowling; he looked very grave.
“Jennie,” he said, “come here, dear,” and with a quick, unaccustomed flutter of her heart she went to him. “I've been a brute—a cowardly brute, but I'm sorry, and I want to do better. Will you forgive me? And if I behave like a man in future do you think you can go back to the old love, dear?”
The children had run out to see if Nannie had left them, and the room was very still; no sound but the ticking of the clock, and once in awhile a deep sob that would not be crushed back.
Great events turn on small pivots ofttimes, and so it happened that there were some changes in that little house after this.
Curiously enough, not long after Nannie's story a great tortoise-shell tomcat appeared in the Earnest home. No one thought of asking Mrs. Earnest if she had brought him there, and the others knew nothing about him. More curiously still, when Mr. Earnest began to growsulky or ugly, Sir Tortoise Shell would often walk into the room and glare at him with his big, ugly eyes.
“Jennie, I believe I'll shoot that cat!” he exclaimed one day. “I can't bear him!”
“Oh, no, I couldn't let you hurt him, Gerald,” said Mrs. Earnest, who had become quite a spirited little woman in the new and happy atmosphere she breathed now. “I'm so fond of him.”
She looked demure enough as she stooped to pet the cat, but really her eyes were sparkling with mischief, for truth to tell, she had heard Nannie's story and was ready to adopt a big yellow cat as her coat of arms.
Mr. Earnest strolled out on to the gallery. He too was thinking of that story.
“I could have stood the trouncing,” he said to himself, “and the hanging, and even the drawing and quartering; but when it came to sending all four quarters to the penitentiary for life, what could a poor devil do but cave in?”
A weekhad passed since Steve refused to burden himself longer with Sarah Maria's care and education. As a matter of course he saw that the irascible lady was still retained about the place, but he felt that to be no concern of his so long as their orbits did not cross, and so far Sarah Maria seemed to appreciate his indifference and to thrive upon it.
A change of base was effected, however, on the morning of the eighth day, and it came about in this wise. On going down to his little corn-field one morning to see how matters were progressing, Steve found—but perhaps we should first tell how he had, with melancholy eyes, seen most of the results of his summer's hard work come to naught; one vegetable after another had gone the way of the flesh—not a legitimate way, as it shouldhave gone, on the family table, but by the path of some violence that had cut off its usefulness and ended its life prematurely.
The corn was about the only article that had escaped such wreckage; it really had flourished and now bade fair to grace the table before long. Once in a while, when his spirits needed propping, Steve allowed himself the comfort of gazing upon the vigorous cornstalks, with their budding tassels, and this was his intent upon this particular day. Alas! the sight he beheld was hardly calculated to raise the spiritual thermometer, so to speak, for Sarah Maria was contentedly munching what corn she had not already trampled under foot. Now, this was more than even Steve could endure, and for once his gentleness and quiet gave way to something resembling a wild storm.
Breaking a stout switch from a tree, he proceeded to use it with such energy that Sarah started for the barn at a sprinting gait. She did not mind beingsent home—that she expected as a matter of course; but she hotly resented the manner in which it was done. Reaching the barn and finding the door closed, she suddenly turned and charged Steve with such malice and vigor that she was upon him before he had time to think of escaping or of defending himself. With one blow she knocked him down, but happily, instead of demolishing him at once, she stood over him glaring and otherwise torturing him mentally before she could decide upon the best method by which to blot him out of existence.
While Steve was thus being rolled as a sweet morsel of revenge under the tongue of the vicious Sarah, Brownie came running from the house. Possibly he beheld his master's predicament and wished to succor him; possibly he was animated by the spirit of mischief which seemed to possess him most of the time. However that may be, he collided with a hive of bees as he ran and upset it. Then swift as a flash he fled to a large tree growing nearby and stood upon his little hindfeet close to its trunk, in such a manner that he was completely hidden from view.
The bees, raging out of their house and looking about them for the enemy who had knocked so rudely at their back door as to overturn the entire building, beheld Sarah Maria standing rampant over the prostrate Steve. The latter looked meek enough, but the former was evidently equal to anything vicious. Accepting this circumstantial evidence without investigation, the bees sallied forth in a body and proceeded to punish the wicked cow, and in about one minute Mrs. Maria was dancing a fisher's hornpipe of the most extravagant character. With tail tilted at a disrespectful angle, she careened in such fashion as to bring her flying heels close to Steve's terrified nose. Meanwhile he lay still, watching proceedings with gentle amazement.
“Most extraordinary conduct,” he said.
By-and-by, thinking the time ripe for escape, he attempted to rise and slip away, but the eagle eye of the festive bovine caught his first movement, and shepounced upon him so viciously that nothing but his feigning to be dead saved his life. Just at this junction the kitchen door opened, and Bridget, who had observed these high proceedings from the window, put out her head and screamed “Murther!” on hearing which Sarah dashed toward the house, but was back again upon Steve before he had a chance to rise.
“Upset another hive, me dear!” screamed Bridget. “Sure a big dose of bees will be good fer her.”
Sarah Maria again galloped toward the kitchen, and Bridget hastily withdrew her counsel.
“Shure it's the divil himsilf broke loose!” shouted Bridget again, opening the door a crack. “I'd know his horns an' tail anywheres, bad cess to him! Howly Mither! how shall I get yez into the house? It's a state of siege I'm in here, or I'd be out a-dhraggin' yez inside. Don't raise yer hid, Mr. Loveland—don't now, me dear, as ye love yer life, or fust ye know she'll go a-bowlin' of it 'roun'that yard as if it was a billiard bawl. She's got no more heart in her brist than that. Och! bad luck ter her! Shure——”
But again Sarah Maria started to interview the cook, and again Bridget had a pressing engagement indoors.
“Och! what shall we do now? Shure it's quakin' I am fer fear ivery minute. I'll see your gory head bouncin' 'roun' the potaty patch an' her afther it. May the saints defind yez from sich a horrible fate. Och! look at that, now!” she shrieked as Sarah made another lurch in Steve's direction. “Perlice! perlice!” she screamed, so loud that she might have been heard in the city. “Shure I hope I may live ter see that ould divil hangin' ter the apple tree an' the crows fasteing off her wicked ould body. There, now, come, Mr. Loveland—she's off! Och! good luck ter thim bees! Git up now, me darlint! There, rin! rin fer yer life! Och! she's comin' agin!”
But Steve reached the kitchen door first, and Bridget reached forth a welcoming hand and snatched him inside,his coat being rent in twain by the violence of his salvation.
“Shure, now, that's a cow fer a respictable middle-aged woman twilve years over from Oireland ter sit down an' milk when she's not yit ready ter die—is it, now? An' a respictable family ter drink the milk of an' not expect ter be cuttin' up shines an' capers an' all sorts of wicked things in consequence—is it, I say? Luck at that, now! Haven't I told yez that cow hasn't the manners ov a leddy, at all, at all!”
Mrs. Maria was at that moment clearing the fence and dancing down the road, pursued by a hive of bees.
“May the divil claim his own an' sit her up next ter him down where the both ov thim belongs!” was Bridget's pious wish as she disappeared.
Steve had hardly more than had time to change his clothes, which fortunately had received all the damage in the recent scrimmage, when he saw Nannie hurrying down the road. She was half running, half walking, and her face was soradiantly happy that Steve went out to learn the good tidings she evidently bore. So eager was she to impart her news that she called out before he reached her:
“It's happened! It's happened! It's all over! and it's so little—and the dearest—oh, Steve——”
She could say no more, for her words were cut short just here and her excitement found vent in a happy sob.
“Why, my dear,” said Steve, taking her gently by the arm and leading her toward the house.
But Nannie resisted:
“No, no,” she cried. “I'm going right back, I only came home for you. You must go right over. Randolph is wild. Oh, it's so dear and sweet! Just like a rose! I could smother it with kisses!”
She would hardly let him go for his hat, and all the way over she dragged him along, insisting upon greater speed and chattering in an excited, happy way that was perfectly new and perfectly delightful to Steve.
Randolph was on the lookout forthem, and his excitement was no less than Nannie's.
“You must see the pretty little baby, old man,” he said after an impetuous hand-shaking.
“Why, yes, do let me see it.”
“Don't sayit,” exclaimed Nannie. “It's a little girl.”
“Well, my dear—really—you forgot to mention which it was.”
Just then Randolph entered with a bundle of shawls, which he reverently and delightedly opened.
All at once his face changed and a look of blank dismay effaced his happy, expectant expression.
“W—why, where is she?” he stammered.
“Randolph Chance!” blazed Nannie, snatching the bundle from him, “I could slap you! You've got her upside down!”
“Oh!” groaned Randolph. “Will it kill her?”
“It may!” said Nannie fiercely. “You've no business with her! Holding her heels up! Poor little thing.”
And she laid her face on the tiny human doll and cooed to it, and soothed it, while the father stood there—big, helpless, remorseful, solicitous, and tender.
“Let me take her,” said Steve quietly, holding out his hands.
Nannie's first impulse was to say “No” and to press the baby closer to her, but something in Steve's face arrested the word she would have spoken, and she placed the precious little charge in his arms.
“I declare, old man, one would think you had had a dozen at least!” said Randolph, looking on admiringly.
“It's the first very young child I ever held,” said Steve.
Nannie was still. She and Randolph were looking at Steve, and Steve was looking into the little face that lay upon his arm. For a moment no one spoke; then Nannie said abruptly:
“I want to see Constance.”
“I'm afraid I can't let you, Nannie,” said Randolph. “She doesn't seem quite as well as she did awhile ago.”
“Then I must see her,” said Nannie emphatically.
“Why, my dear,” Steve began gently, “perhaps to-morrow——”
“No, I must see her now. I've something to tell her. It will make her well. Imustsee her.”
She was so determined that Randolph reluctantly consented, and she passed into Constance's room, leaving the baby with Steve.
“Constance,” said Nannie, stepping up to the bedside, “you are going to get well, aren't you?”
“Why, yes, of course,” said Constance.
“I want to tell you, you must. I think it would be wicked to leave the little baby in the world without a mother. No one would ever love her and no one would teach her to do things and how to be good, and she would be so lonely, and she wouldn't know how to come near people and say anything, no matter if her heart was bursting.”
And Nannie sank by the bed and wept as a woman does sometimes when hersobs break their way out and she can't stop them.
A flood seemed to pour upon Constance, and in it she saw the lonely, yearning, ignorant child-wife as she really was. She also saw how unjust she herself had been, and pity and remorse laid hold upon her.
“Nannie! dear Nannie—you poor little thing! Come here. I want to tell you that I love you. I never knew you before and Steve loves you if only you would let him.”
But Nannie was on her feet again. Her words had been spoken, and all the crudity that had been swept aside for a moment returned in full force and awkwardness. Without even a glance at Constance she abruptly left the room, and in a few moments she and Steve were walking homeward.
Sarah Mariawas gone and baby Chance was thriving. There was bliss enough for any reasonable man, and Steve waxed almost light of heart. All this had come about with time, and other things might come, too, if time were not interfered with. The news of Sarah's rapid transit had hardly cost Nannie the lifting of an eyebrow. She was so absorbed in the baby that she could well afford to spare her amiable bovine.
Although it was quite late in the fall, Steve was actually contemplating the planting of another crop. Now that the main enemy had withdrawn her horns and heels from the garden, winter seemed a mere bagatelle in the way of opposition—an obstacle too small for reckoning.
But, as poets and prose writers have abundantly proven, Ill Fortune has anugly habit of coming around a corner with a sudden demoniac swish when least expected and she certainly did this time. Steve was out in his garden drinking in the mellow stillness of an Indian summer twilight, and feeling not really happy perhaps—a man who has a home only in name can hardly be that—but rested and at peace at that particular moment, which is much more than could be asserted of his condition the next, for as he looked down the road he beheld Sarah Maria gamboling along, having in tow at the end of a rope a well-spent, perspiring darky.
“Dis yere yo' cow, massa?” asked the weary African as he came up.
Steve hesitated; he was sorely tempted to repudiate madam.
“Ain't yo's Massa Lubland?”
Steve nodded in a gloomy manner.
“Den I reckon dis yere b'longs to yo',” he said confidently, and he tugged and pulled the unruly beast within the boundary of the cow-yard, with no further damage to the place than the trampling ofseveral choice plants and the breaking of a young apple tree.
“How much do I owe you?” asked Steve in a tone of subdued melancholy.
“Now, massa, I's gwine tell yo' my story, an' den I lebes it to yo' to do de right ting by me. Yo' see, dis yere cow come to me jes' 'bout tree months ago, an' my wife she 'lowed it was a giff, but I sez, 'No, sah, no giffs come a-droppin' out de sky dat a-way. Dis yere b'longs to some ob de quality folk, an' dey's a-gwine to want her some day, so we mus' keep her up right smart, an' dey'll pay us fer all our trubble.' So we fed her ob de fat ob de lan', but 'peared like she were de kin' dat keeps lean anyways; dat's why she look so kin' o' pulin' now.
“She was so contrairy to manage dat I got kin' o' skeered ob her, an' one day she tuk me in de pit ob de stomach an' h'isted me ober de fence, an' I hed mis'ry in de stomach an' mis'ry in de back, an' my wife 'lowed I was gwine ter die. It tuk de doctor an' a powerful lot o' medicine ter sot me up agin, an' I was kin' o'porely fer a long time. Bimeby we heerd de cow b'longed ter Massa Lubland, an' yo' libed out heah, an' jes' den a neighbor come 'long wid a load o' furn'ture an' I ax him:
“'Could yo' take de cow?'
“'Ef she'll hitch on I could,' he say. 'Is she peaceable or is she ornery?'
“'She's ornery heah,' I say, 'but she's gwine ter wawk 'long lak a lady when she's gwine home, 'case she's homesick.'
“Well, massa, he done tuk her, but when he come back from de city he tole me she jes' sot herself agin goin', an' she sot so hard de hosses couldn't pull nohow, an' when he got down to loose her she rared till she fetched some o' de furn'ture down on her haid, an' dar was a nice table broke ter kindlin' wood, an' I hed ter pay him five dollars fer it. An' jes' as I put de pocket book up agin—an' it was plum' empty—roun' de corner come de cow, wid her eyes on fire, an' she jes' strewed us bofe ober de groun' like we was dead chickens afore she runned inter de shed. An' massa, sho's yo's bawn, she hookedan' tossed me like a rubber bawl all de way up heah, till I hain't got a whole bone anywhares in my body. Lordy! but she's a turrible critter!”
“Do I owe you ten dollars?” asked Steve with grim resignation.
“I takes whatever yo' gives, massa, an' I doan complain; but I knows yo's hon'rable, an' yo's gwine ter 'member I was laid up from work a week an' hed ter pay de doctor an' de med'cines, an' I's fed her plum' full fer tree months.”
“Do I owe you fifteen dollars?” asked Steve.
The darky looked mournful.
“Do I owe you twenty?” asked Steve in a somewhat severe tone.
“Reckon yo' hain't gwine ter fergit I paid five fer de table,” murmured this meek son of Africa.
“Take twenty-five, then, and make an end of it,” said Steve.
“Tank yo', tank yo', massa. I hain't nebber gwine ter fergit yo' ner de cow. Gawd bress yo' bofe, massa.”
And grinning and bowing he disappeared,leaving Steve minus a fifth of his monthly salary and plus the beautiful Sarah Maria.
It was part of the procession of events that the butcher should heave in sight at that moment, and that Steve should hail him and take him in to look at the returned prodigal.
“She's so lean she wouldn't be good for much,” said the man. “If you'd fatten her up I'd——”
“No, I think not. I'd rather you'd take her now.”
“I couldn't give you but ten dollars for her this way.”
“Take her,” said Steve.
And the bargain was concluded. Shortly after this Bridget was ill with cramps for a few days.
“What has upset you?” asked Nannie.
“I couldn't tell at fust,” groaned Bridget, “but I mind now—it's thet Sarah Meriah.”
“Why, she's gone! What can she have to do with you now?”
“Shure she was in that last beefsteakI ate. I recognized her the minnit she passed me lips. 'Are ye back agin?' sez I, 'bad cess ter yez!' 'Thrue fer yez,' sez she, 'an' I'll be ther upsettin' of yez yit.' An' faith she is, fer it's feel her I do this blissed minnit, hookin' me in'ards an' kickin' me vitals, an' behavin' in a most disgraceful and unleddylike fashion throughout.”
Possibly Nannie found herself more at leisure, now her bovine charge was off her hands, and wanted occupation, or—and this is more likely—the beauty and comfort of Randolph's and Constance's home had stolen to her heart and stirred new impulses there. Other influences had been at work on this neglected region as well, but to these Nannie did not as yet yield their meed of credit. It is a sad but well-known fact that the home agencies for regeneration are the last to receive recognition and gratitude. So it was that while Nannie was dimly conscious that she owed something to Constance's womanliness, she refused to dwell upon the beauty and tenderness ofSteve's conduct toward her. His uniform courtesy, gentleness, and forbearance, though the most powerful factors in her dissatisfaction with self and embryonic yearnings toward a more conscientious, nobler life, were as yet utterly ignored by her in actual thought, and had her attention been called to them, she would probably have denied that she owed aught of good to their influence. This was discouraging, to be sure, but one must wait long and patiently for full results. It was enough, perhaps, for the present that Nannie went about her home trying, in a blundering way, to bring to pass some changes for the better. With a deeper insight than she recognized she looked to her table, first of all. Bridget was not a first-class cook, and her limited repertory rendered the bill of fare wearisome and monotonous.
Several dishes that Nannie had seen on Constance's table had caught her eye. A tempting salad was one, and having learned how to make it, she gave her own table the benefit of this knowledge one evening.
Steve's face lighted with surprise and pleasure the moment the new and very attractive dish was brought on. He knew it was none of Bridget's making.
“This must be yours, my dear,” he said with a gentle, winning smile.
Now, poor Nannie was terribly awkward about anything that involved a show of feeling, so instead of taking this as she should have done, she merely said brusquely:
“I made it.”
Then she colored violently, then immediately looked defiant.
But her color and her defiance were both of them so pretty and engaging that Steve was moved by a rare impulse to go round to her and kiss her.
Shocking as it may seem, Nannie caught him by the nose with a sudden fierce motion and held on with grim, unrelenting grasp.
The whole scene occurred in a flash, as it were, and Steve was utterly unprepared for his own act, and still more so for its consequence. Impulsiveness withhim, however, was unusual and short-lived, and even under these untoward circumstances he soon recovered his gentle gravity.
“When are you going to release my nose, Nannie?” he said in his accustomed quiet tone.
“Goodness knows!” she replied brusquely—possibly without intent to pun—but she let go.
Steve retreated a step or two and seemed undecided as to what course to pursue. A certain air of dignity and reserve enveloped him at all times, and up to the present moment this had never failed to be respected by those with whom he had come in contact. It was hardly possible, then, to pass by so flagrant an outrage as this in silence.
“I hardly think,” he said gently, “you mean all the things you do.”
“I mean every one!” snapped Nannie, whose resentment was stirred, all the more so because she was ashamed of herself.
“If that is the case,” Steve replied, andas he spoke, quietly and without anger, he was conscious of a dull dread of her reply—“if that is the case, it can't be that you feel either love or respect for me.”
“I guess I don't, then,” said Nannie rudely, and she rose from the table and went out into the garden.
Steve stood irresolute for a time; then he took his hat and left the house. Never in all his life before had he felt as miserable and as helpless. At that moment the beauty died not only out of his own life, but out of nature as well. There was no longer a balm in Gilead. He walked on, instinctively taking one of his old paths, from which he had heretofore received so much of comfort and inspiration, but which to-night gave him absolutely nothing of either. It would seem that nature had shared the blow he had received and had been deadened by it. Poor Mother Nature, she was just the same, but her child was out of gear and she could do nothing but wait. By-and-by a change came, not in the way of happiness, perhaps, but in a lightening of that deadness which is ofnecessity the most hopeless of all conditions.
Awaking from his torpor to a certain extent, Steve found himself engaged in some practical thoughts. He had lately been balancing his books, and the result was not encouraging. He was now reviewing this with a certain grim despondency and also a certain grim humor.
“We've spent eighteen hundred dollars in one year. I earn fifteen hundred a year and there's six hundred in the bank. We've just one year and two months to live. We'd better begin to repent,” he said to himself.
Then presently he began to wonder what the use of it all was. He had given Nannie shelter and protection—that was all there was to it. They were no more to each other than strangers. He had done his utmost, and she was as far away from him as ever; that made an end of hope; he might as well give it up. At that moment there was nothing he would have liked better. What with the care and perplexity he had endured overwomen, cows, and hens, he was more than ready to wash his hands of the entire lot.
But Steve was unaccustomed to following inclination when duty pointed in another direction, so although he was apparently doing that now, yet he had no other thought than of returning to his post by-and-by.
He walked on in an aimless sort of fashion, merely because he did not know what else to do just then, and soon found himself near the cottage whose glorified windows attracted him on his tramp some time ago. It was dull enough now, for the departing sunlight streamed in another direction, leaving the little house in shadow. Steve would have passed it without a thought had not a woman's cry caught his ear—a bitter, wailing cry, on which came words as bitter:
“Oh, I'm sick of it all! Would God that I were dead!”
Without meaning to intrude on private grief, Steve stood stock-still. There was something so horrible in the contrast between a cry of such lawless despairand the idea of the contentment and happiness for which that little house should stand that it fairly paralyzed the man's steps, just as the motion of the heart is arrested by a shock.
The cottage stood on the edge of the woods. Just now these were bare and gaunt, and the steep-sided ravine to the left seemed to-day a barren crack in a gloomy landscape.
It was all of it unbearable, unendurable. Anything was better than this, and Steve turned with relief in the direction of a familiar train whistle, hurried to the station, and soon was speeding toward his former bachelor quarters.
How desolate the old building looked when he reached it! The sun had sunk below the tall chimney tops, and the narrow street lay in gloomy shadow. Nothing daunted, however, Steve entered, and forgetful of the custom of the building, he stepped to the elevator shaft. It was dark, but looking far up he thought he could discern a faint glimmer of the sunset. Some lines he once read came to him: