CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER IX“AGAINST HER INSTINCTS, AGAINST HER BETTER JUDGMENT, AGAINST HER WILL”

Mrs. Hunter did not come to help, nor to call upon Elizabeth and Susan Hornby, after the disaster, and Elizabeth was finally obliged to go to see John’s mother without any encouragement other than Luther’s urging.

The day came at last when the call had to be made, and for the first time Elizabeth came in contact with polite society which smiles and bows in polite form without any especial regard for sincerity. There was not a ripple of discontent on the surface at her future home. Mrs. Hunter might never have heard of the girl’s family difficulties. The girl might have called the day before, so courteous and charming was the dignified hospitality with which she was accepted. Elizabeth felt as if the most painful possibility of her life had been safely put behind her. She had been nervous and uncomfortable about this visit, and was correspondingly sensitive to the perfect manner of her hostess, and carried away with her a new problem to work upon: if John Hunter’s mother, by her poise and presence, made of his home a social unit of appearance and value, John Hunter’s wife must not fallbelow the grade of that home when she became its mistress. She pondered long upon that subtle air of good breeding which ignored real issues and smoothed communication by seeming not to know disagreeable facts. Elizabeth decided that it was much more desirable than the rugged honesty with which the primitive folk about them would have humiliated themselves by explanation and apology. She would copy that suavity of manner. Also, she resolved not to discuss grievances. They were a bore and it was horribly countrified.

“I will not let myself think any more about it. I will be myself, and not be affected by what the rest of the folks do, and I’ll not let myself sit and fumble with my buttons because some one else is going to think about them. Mrs. Hunter’s manners are beautiful. I’d just love her if I didn’t know I was going to have to live with her,” she thought. Mrs. Hunter was a fixture in Elizabeth’s mental world, and her estimates were the standards Elizabeth considered when she sewed alone or when Aunt Susan was silent. The girl was both fascinated and repelled by them. Mrs. Hunter’s bearing was the subject of constant and delighted meditation, while the cold carefulness of it was a terrorizing nightmare. The girl kept up a conversation with Aunt Susan on the sewing, or a fire of mirth and jollity with Nathan or Luther, with this undercurrent of thought always going on. How was she to emulate that polish with so little experience in social affairs she would ask herself one moment, and the next would be harassed by the certainty that equal perfectionin housekeeping and entertainment would be expected of her. There was no escaping her fate. If she was to learn these things, she must learn them of John’s mother. There was no way of acquiring them beforehand. Elizabeth faced her position squarely: she decided to accept her teacher. At least Mrs. Hunter seemed willing to make it easy for her.

When Elizabeth went home that night she spoke in glowing terms of Mrs. Hunter’s friendly reception, and praised the real merit of her housekeeping, letting Luther see that she hoped to acquire it, and left the little group around the supper table in great good humour because the visit had been a success. She took Luther after the meal was over and went to look for the eggs about the haystacks, talking all the while of John Hunter’s mother in the happiest manner she could assume. The visit to John’s home had made her a bit homesick for John himself. Luther’s presence had so completely filled the days since John’s departure that she had not been lonesome for him, but the house with which he was associated had brought John back to the foreground of her consciousness with a rush, and Luther saw that she was aglow with longing for the man she was to marry. They did not walk as usual after the eggs were hunted, but went back to the house, where Elizabeth excused herself and soon went to bed. John was expected now at any time.

When John did arrive two days later he found a welcome awaiting him that was all that the most exacting of men could have desired, a thing which astonished himsomewhat, for rumour had reached him as soon as he had come into the home neighbourhood that the new Swede had cut him out. John came to see Elizabeth with curiosity predominating in his mind, though there was a distinct feeling of determination to master the situation if rumour had been right.

Luther was not at the house when John Hunter arrived. Elizabeth’s delight over her lover’s return was not a thing to be deceived about, but one thing left its impress upon his mind: Elizabeth called this new man by his given name and spoke of him as one speaks of an intimate. This was soon dismissed from John’s mind, however, for Elizabeth was all agog to learn about the Mitchell County land which he said he had bought, and John Hunter stretched his legs out comfortably in the mended rocker of Nathan Hornby’s little front room and talked enthusiastically of the pasture he would have for surplus cattle when he had got the farm in running order. No reference was made to Elizabeth’s affairs with her family. John was keenly appreciative of her joy in his presence, and the old relations were renewed; in fact, the relations were on a better basis than they had been for several days before John’s absence. By a curious stroke of fate, Luther was away from the house every time John Hunter called for over a week. It whetted John’s interest in the other man not to be able to see him, and it added an element to the courtship which had threatened to disappear. This other man on the scene made him apprehensive; he wanted the centre of the stage for himself, and he becamemore ardent. Elizabeth was courted with sweet manner, and all her wishes considered.

The summer was a happy one. Aside from a simple white dress to be married in, and two calico dresses for house wear, Elizabeth put her own sewing away and helped Aunt Susan repair her quilts and carpets which had suffered badly in the cyclone. Two weeks had to be given up to the plastering of the remodelled house, and all the furniture was revarnished by their own hands. By the time all this was finished the girl felt a personal possession in every article the house contained, and it had indeed become a home to her. The home she had left was scarcely more than a shadow in Elizabeth’s mind. The work of remodelling and brightening up Nathan’s house was hastened because of the wedding, which they planned to have take place there. Susan Hornby and Elizabeth had grown closer than ever since the storm, when each had feared the loss of the other. They worked and sewed together, skimping Nathan and Luther on the cooking till the former threatened to turn cook in self-defence.

Mrs. Farnshaw had not come to help when the neighbours put up the demolished house. The bridges had been out and no one had gone to warn her that help was needed. When the news had arrived the omission had been taken as an offence and no effort had been made to go at all. The last week in September, however, Elizabeth’s mother came to see her. The girl was helping Susan Hornby put fresh straw under the rag carpet in the frontroom. The straw was carefully spread and the carpet tacked along one side of the room, and Elizabeth, hammer in hand, turned over from her knees to a sitting position and surveyed her mother with a dull fear at her heart; she knew what her mother’s presence meant. Mrs. Farnshaw resented the new carpet, she resented Susan Hornby, she resented the comradeship she felt existed between her daughter and this alien woman who was no relation to her by the ties of blood. Ignoring Aunt Susan’s courteous attempts to make her feel welcome, she drove straight to the object of her visit and demanded that Elizabeth come home to be married.

“I’m going to be married right here, ma,” Elizabeth replied, twisting the hammer around in the other hand and filled with apprehension. She knew her mother’s tendency to hold fast to foolish demands.

Mrs. Farnshaw’s ready handkerchief went up to her eyes at once.

“Now look a’ here, Lizzie, I ain’t got no other girl, an’ it’s a pretty how-de-do if I can’t have my only daughter married from my own house.”

Elizabeth fidgeted about, laying her hammer down and picking up a straw that had pushed its way through the loose rags of the carpet on which she sat. After a time she turned her eyes to Aunt Susan with a mute call for help. Susan Hornby was decidedly uncomfortable.

“I thought of course you’d come home to be married,” Mrs. Farnshaw continued.

“You know pa ’d raise a fuss as soon as I appeared,” her daughter replied.

Mrs. Farnshaw brightened. She was strong on argument. Elizabeth’s silence had disconcerted her, but if she would talk—well, Mrs. Farnshaw began to have hopes.

“You’ve been away all summer,” she sobbed, returning to her handkerchief.

Elizabeth kept her eyes on Aunt Susan’s face and did not reply again. There was another silence.

Mrs. Farnshaw began to be desperate.

“Folks has talked an’ talked,” she said, “an’ I let ’em, because I thought when you come home for th’ weddin’ it’d put a stop t’ their tongues. You’ve been down here, an’ you don’t know how hard it’s been.”

Elizabeth had listened in a distressed silence and studied Susan Hornby’s face for signs of assistance.

“I guess they haven’t talked——” she began at length, and then stopped short at something in Aunt Susan’s eye which confirmed her mother’s words.

“Oh, yes, they have,” her mother hastened to say. “They say you ain’t got no proper pride, an’ they say you’ve got too stuck up t’ live to home any longer, now that you’re goin’ t’ marry rich, an’ they say I can’t make your things good enough for you t’ be married in, an’——”

Mrs. Farnshaw had voiced her greatest grievance—her neighbours criticised her. She broke into such real weeping that it was impossible not to be moved by it.

Forgetting her policy of silence, Elizabeth argued andexplained. Talking to her mother, but keeping her eyes glued on Aunt Susan’s, she went into details about the difficulty at home.

“You know pa ’ll find some excuse to strike me as soon as I get there,” she concluded. She had a painful sense of weakness and inadequacy in the presence of her mother’s determination. Her own worries seemed so trivial in the presence of her mother’s sorrow.

“E won’t, I tell you,” Mrs. Farnshaw repeated for the twentieth time. “E’ll let you alone if you do th’ right thing. We love our children—if th’ neighbours don’t think so,” she wailed.

As she talked, however, she kept a shrewd eye on her daughter and soon saw that Elizabeth’s eyes turned to those of Aunt Susan. It was not enough for this Hornby woman to be neutral; Mrs. Farnshaw decided to enlist her.

“If you had a girl you’d want ’er t’ be married in your own house, I know,” she said, leaning forward eagerly. “Suppose you only had th’ one——” She saw the quick tears gathering. “Did you ever have a little girl?” she asked.

Susan Hornby’s emotions mastered her. She made no attempt to reply.

“Then tell ’er t’ come home for just two more days,” she said quickly. “I don’t ask for no more than that. Just long enough to put an end t’ this talk. I don’t never ’spect t’ have ’er after that, but——”

She sprang to her feet and, crossing the room, dragged Elizabeth to her feet also.

“I’ve got t’ have you, Lizzie, an’ that’s all th’ is about it!” They looked at each other a long time. Elizabeth weakened.

What could the girl do? Against her instincts, against her better judgment, against her will, she consented.

“See to it, then, that no new thing comes up to disgrace us,” she said, stepping back to avoid the compelling touch of the hand that clutched at her sleeve, still looking across despairingly at Aunt Susan.

All help had been taken from that quarter. Bewildered, torn between her comprehension of mother love and a real knowledge of this particular case, Susan Hornby fumbled with the hem of her apron and did not look up.

Elizabeth, alone and without support, was easily victimized.

“I’ll go,” she said briefly.

So the peaceful summer ended for Elizabeth Farnshaw with her promise to go home. She hated to go, but the phrasing of her mother’s plea, “just two more days,” helped to sustain her. It had been a happy summer, two days would not be long, and then would come John and the new home.

There had been many reasons for the happiness of Elizabeth’s last weeks of girlhood. The days had been full of pleasant work, and John had taken regular and masterful possession of her evenings. He came always such a picture of natty cleanliness and taste that it was a joy to be the object of his wooing. When John had foundthat Elizabeth was not in love with Luther, as she had been reported to be, but accorded the old grounds of affection to him, he had spread himself comfortably in Luther’s presence and drawn him into conversation whenever it could be done. In addition to a desire to set his well-polished boots in strong contrast against those of busy, unobserving Luther, the only dressing of which was an occasional soaking in oil to keep them from cracking, John Hunter had been half forced to like honest, kindly Luther Hansen. Luther was not a man to arouse antagonisms. He assumed his natural rôle with Elizabeth even before her fiancé and let the ground of their cordiality and friendship rest on such sensible basis that they were accepted as a matter of course.

John Hunter had been restless and half angry when he had first come home from Mitchell County—a thing he had not let Elizabeth see—but his feelings had been soothed and delighted by the display of her preference for him on his return. A new buggy had been purchased, and it was John Hunter’s pride.

Elizabeth was unconscious of any rivalry. The new buggy was a great acquisition. It was the first to appear in that part of the country. She felt favoured to have it at her service, but the crown of all her felicity had been John Hunter’s adoration, which had been poured at her feet without stint. If she wished to go anywhere, she had but to mention it. The relations of the early summer had been reëstablished. He talked of the new land, and of the cattle to be placed on it in two or three years, whenthe calves he was buying would be grown. The lots in which he had held an equity since his father’s death had been sold before his mother’s departure from the old home, and twenty-five calves had been picked up from the surrounding farmers with the money thus secured. Every evening John drove to some farm to look for young cattle, and Elizabeth accompanied him. Cash had been paid for the Western land, and at the end of the summer most of the money that had been received from the estate had been invested.

As they drove from farm to farm, discussing prices; sheds, feed, and the wintering of stock, the girl’s heart swelled with gratitude that her lines had fallen in such well-provided places. The pinch of poverty was to be lifted from her life.

More than the plenty, Elizabeth prized the peace which seemed to be drifting in her direction.

Every day since John Hunter’s return had been a happy day. John consulted her judgment and her wishes, and it was done with that air of comradeship which was the most sought-for thing in Elizabeth Farnshaw’s life. All her lonely days she had longed for it, and in all her girlish dreams it had been the prime factor. She had obtained glimpses of it in Susan Hornby’s home, and now, she told herself joyfully, it was to be a permanent feature of her future life.

With Mrs. Farnshaw’s advent a series of unpleasant things began to manifest. John was glad that the marriage was to take place in Elizabeth’s own home. Becauseof their engagement, he had heard little of the gossip about her, but it had been enough to make him suspect more and wish her well out of it. If now she would go home it would make the whole thing look right and stop the reports.

John Hunter was distinctly a man of moods and reflected the conditions in which he happened for the moment to find himself. When he came to see Elizabeth the night after her mother had been to see her, he was pleased that she was to go home the next day, but he instantly partook of the discontent she showed. He took her to his mother’s house for a short stay, but both were heavy of spirits and John was actually depressed. Elizabeth was almost abnormally sensitive to the attitude assumed toward her, and had she been shrewd she would never have carried any doubts of her own efficiency or judgment to her lover, but she was as open as a little child. John left her at the little gate and drove away so promptly that the girl’s lip quivered as she turned in the dark to go to the house.

Elizabeth found Luther seated on the low doorstep. The shadow of the house prevented her from seeing him till she was almost upon him.

“Of all things! I never thought of you being here,” she exclaimed, thinking of the kiss she had just received not three rods distant.

Luther laughed sheepishly.

“I hadn’t intended t’ see your good-nights,” he said honestly, “but I’d ’a’ made a worse mess of it by runnin’than I did by settin’ still. Anyhow, you’re goin’ t’ be married in three days, an’ it needn’t make no difference. I’ve been a thinkin’ about you an’ I waited up t’ talk.” He made room on the step for her to sit beside him.

“Thinking about me?”

“Yes. Mrs. Hornby says your mother was here to-day. She’s kind of worried about it—you goin’ home, I mean. I don’t know about that—I hope It’ll be all right. Try an’ make it right, Lizzie. Th’ Hunters go a good deal on looks.”

Elizabeth was silent.

Luther felt it and interpreted her silence rightly.

“Is that something I’m not to talk about, Lizzie?” he asked.

The question hurt worse than the statement.

“I—I—don’t know why you ask me such a thing, Luther,” she faltered.

Luther arose. He was not to be offended, nor would he put away what he had waited to say.

“I only wanted to say that—well, do what th’ folks ask of you, Lizzie. You’re only home for a couple of days an’—an’”—after a long pause—“an’ it won’t hurt nobody.”

Elizabeth got up slowly.

“Good-night, Luther,” she said.

She wanted to offer him her hand; she was sure she was hurting him, but she could not talk to him on this point; the very truth of his suspicious that the Hunter estimate of her might be affected by scandal made of it a sore point.Elizabeth Farnshaw would be loyal to mutual relations, even where Luther’s feelings were concerned.

They met in the morning on perfectly friendly ground, but there was an attitude of reserve which brooked no remark on her part. Luther departed early for his own house, and John Hunter came before noon to take her to her father’s home. After all her simple possessions were in the wagon, Elizabeth went back and threw herself into the arms of Aunt Susan, who was crying miserably.

“Oh, Aunt Susan! I feel as if I had taken leave of you forever. I’ve—I’ve been so happy in this house—till yesterday. Can I ever repay what you’ve done for me?”

Susan Hornby gathered Elizabeth into her arms and sobbed more vehemently. The silence was unbroken except by those sobs, and at last the girl, moved out of herself, tried to comfort her, and said coaxingly:

“I’ll live right near you. I’ll see you every few days and—and I’ll never forget how good you’ve been to me. It’s—it’s too bad these last two days had to be so—so different. I—I don’t know what went wrong, but—but”—she laughed desperately—“where have our good times gone to? I’m going to be married to the man I love—and I’m going to live right near you—and—what is the matter with us, anyway?”

Susan Hornby clung to the girl and could not cease crying, till at last Elizabeth lifted her chin on one finger and with a corner of Aunt Susan’s own apron, wiped the tears from the contorted face.

“Now then, don’t cry,” she said, kissing her again and again.

“Keep the folks in a good humour, dear. The Hunters ’ll feel awful if anything more happens,” Susan Hornby faltered, and then, to keep the girl from, replying, and to avoid the surprise and pain in the young face, pushed her gently but firmly toward the door and John Hunter, who was waiting impatiently.

CHAPTER XPHILOSOPHY OF ELIZABETH’S LIFE VOICED

“To-morrow,” Elizabeth said, significantly, as John turned back to get into the wagon after they had deposited the trunk in the house.

“To-morrow,” John smiled back at her. It was a reluctant smile he gave her, but the bid for affection in her young eyes was irresistible.

“He had to be nice,” she thought as she walked back to the house; “it was a good way.”

A sudden thought came to her.

“Did you ask Luther to the wedding?” she asked of her mother as she entered.

“No, I didn’t. What do you want of that Swede?” Mrs. Farnshaw asked petulantly. “I should think——”

What she thought was never recorded in words, for Elizabeth was out of the house like a flash, calling to John Hunter as she ran down the road after him. It was a surprised John who took her message.

“Yes, I’ll tell him, but I don’t see what you want of that Swede—he always seems to cut such a figure in everything you do,” John said discontentedly.

“Well, just tell him that ma sends the invitation, will you?” was all Elizabeth could say.

It was John’s first contemptuous remark about Luther, and it disturbed her. They were to live closer to Luther Hansen than any other neighbour and it was essential that they be on friendly terms. She had hoped it might be that John would appreciate the good things in Luther which even his nationality could not spoil. Dear old Luther! In spite of the observation she had seemed to resent the night before, Elizabeth loved him—loved him all the more because she had been obliged to hurt him. It suddenly occurred to her that John might not deliver her message. She put the thought away from her instantly, saying aloud:

“He’d do anything he knew I wanted him to do,” and then was struck with the doubtful tone in which it was said.

“What did you say?” her mother asked, for Elizabeth had just entered the door.

“Nothing. I hate this wedding!”

“Well, now, I like that, after all I’ve done to give you a good time,” the mother said angrily.

“No, ma; you mean to give yourself a good time. You make me come home when I don’t want to, and you ask people I hate to have, and then you leave out the people I want most. It isn’t my wedding. I’m going to stand up and be married so as to get rid of it all, but John won’t have the minister I want, you won’t have the people I want, I’m most sure pa ’ll kick up some kind of a row about it—and—and I was so happy till you came and made me consent to it. What did you do it for?”

“Do it for? You ungrateful child! What did I do it for? I’ll tell you,” Mrs. Farnshaw’s eyes hardened into momentary coals of fire. “I did it because I don’t like your whole goings on. Minister? Why don’t you say preacher, like the rest of your folks? It’s that Hornby woman. She made you talk of divorces——” At thought of all her supposed wrongs at the hand of Susan Hornby Mrs. Farnshaw broke into a half scream and ended by throwing herself into a chair by her daughter’s side and clinging to her hand with her upturned face streaming over with tears, her mouth convulsed with pain till speech was impossible.

Moved to repentance at the sight of the pang she had caused, Elizabeth fell on her knees by her mother’s side, and with her arms encircling her, cried contritely:

“I didn’t mean it, ma, really—that is, I didn’t mean it that way. Don’t mind what I said. I do love you.”

Mrs. Farnshaw clung to her, so shaken by sobs that she still could not speak, and the penitent daughter soothed and comforted her with her own heart breaking at the thoughtlessness of her speech.

“Put it away and don’t remember it; I didn’t mean it. I’m tired to death—and—and——” She pondered a moment and then made the experiment. “And I want to speak of Aunt Susan to you. I can’t bear to have you feel so bad about me liking her. She hasn’t put a single notion into my head. Be good and get acquainted with her. She’d like to have you. If you knew her you’d know how different she is from what you think. I’ll take you to seeher the very first time you come to see me. Say you will.”

Elizabeth stroked the thin hair back from the passion-worn face, and waited for her reply.

Mrs. Farnshaw shook her head, but could not meet the offer squarely.

“The two of you’d be a wishin’ you could get rid of me so’s you could talk your own kind of talk,” she said with conviction. “’Taint any use, Lizzie; I ain’t your kind. Your pa ’d be madder at me ’n ever, too.”

“Well, he’s mad all the time, anyhow,” Elizabeth said.

“No ’e wasn’t till you said that awful thing—that is, ’e was mad often enough, but not like ’e’s been since. You don’t know what you done t’ your mother then. Be good, an’ go t’ ’im, an’ settle ’is mind ’fore you’re married. It don’t matter if I know Miss Hornby ’r not; but what a difference it’d make t’ me if he only knowed I never put you up t’ that partin’ business! Please do it fur me, Lizzie.”

This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth had hoped to avoid the recurrence of this issue. Knowing that she was keeping her mother in cruel suspense, Elizabeth hesitated and by every sign showed her disinclination to discuss the subject. What should she do? Whatcouldshe do? The tortured eyes of her mother studied her with an intensity which she could not avoid. To consent was to fail with her father, to refuse was to make matters much worse with the mother she had just hurt. Luther hadwarned her to avoid collisions with her family which were liable to cause gossip; Aunt Susan had implored her to keep the folks in a good humour; her own instincts were against the movement, but her feelings were pleading for the mother who begged her to try once again to obtain reconciliation before she was married. Ah! if this time would end it!

“Say you will,” the mother begged with pathetic brevity.

“I’d do it in a minute if there were the least opportunity to succeed, ma,” Elizabeth said reluctantly, and not looking toward her. “If I do it and fail, You’ll be wanting me to go right on with it after I’m married, and that I won’t do for anybody.” The sentence ended savagely.

Mrs. Farnshaw studied her daughter eagerly. She began to have hopes. Now, if only she could get the right touch on her appeal.

“If You’ll do it, an’ be careful-like, Lizzie,” she said compellingly, “if You’ll be careful-like this time, I’ll never ask you again. I can’t live this way any longer. I won’t never ask you again. Please,” she insisted. “Speak real soft an’ nice-like. Please.”

“But, ma, are you crazy? You told me—you told me that—oh dear, what’s the use to tell you what you said?” the girl cried, her judgment giving its last caution a hearing.

What was the use indeed!

In the end Elizabeth consented—consented with kindliness of manner. Since she was going to do it at all shewould do it lovingly. She argued herself into that mood before she agreed to the move. Her mother had a hard life; on one who knew her doubted that fact. Neither would any one have doubted that Mr. Farnshaw led a hard life also. Some devil of unrest demanded excitement and disagreement.

“Keep the folks in a good humour,” Luther had said.

Elizabeth had no support from any quarter. She could only consent.

“I’ll do it, ma,” she agreed. “I am going away to be happy. John and his mother never have a word together that isn’t pleasant.”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Farnshaw said with relief, “but men don’t always treat their wives like they do their mothers. It’s something they get t’ feel about their wives that’s th’ trouble. Women think th’ only way t’ be good wives’s t’ give up—an’ men think so too. Women’s most always afraid of what th’ men ’ll think, an’ th’ men know it.”

“Well, ma, come on! There’s lots to do; let’s get at it.”

Elizabeth was in no mood to philosophize. She hated the coming conference with her father to the utter exclusion of every other thought at that moment, and had hardly heard what her mother had said.

“You’ll never regret bein’ good t’ your old mother,” Mrs. Farnshaw said, rubbing her hand over the girl’s glossy braids as Elizabeth turned away to begin the work she had suggested. “My! it don’t seem like six weeks since I was your age—young an’ startin’ out—an’ lifelooked good t’ me, I kin tell you. Now I ain’t got nothin’ t’ be good t’ me but you.”

“I think I’ll wash my hair before the sun gets low,” Elizabeth said. “Then I’ll help you in here.” She was disturbed about the promise she had given and wanted to get away from her mother before she should say some unlucky thing that would show it. She let her hair down and loosened it with a toss of her head. It was a glittering garment which covered her from head to knees in wavy strands which flew about her in lines of beauty as she moved about getting her hot water and towels. Mrs. Farnshaw watched her with an expression near real affection. She came over and ran her hands through the rippling mass as the girl turned to go out of doors where she could splash comfortably, and after she had gone passed her hands over her own faded locks slowly.

“Lizzie’s always had th’ best of everything,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I wisht she wasn’t s’ set against ’er pa. I’m goin’ t’ make ’er do it all th’ same.”

The girl in the backyard pondered upon the same thing as she dried her hair in the hot sun.

“I hate it,” she thought, “but I’m going to do it just the best I know how. Madidn’tsay it, nor agree with it, and I’m going to make it as easy as I can for her before I go. Will we ever be like they are?” she asked herself half seriously, and felt sure it could not be. “Ma has always insisted on things and never lets pa nor the rest of us forget anything or lay it down. I believe a woman can manage those things. Aunt Susan does.”

As Elizabeth started to the house, she noticed her father and the boys coming from the cornfield with a wagon-load of snapped corn. Joe drove the team and his father sat in the back with his feet dangling over the end-gate. They were turning into the barnyard when she discovered them.

With her hair floating about her like a veil, she started at once for the barn. She could not talk this out with her mother listening, and if she did not do it now it would be forced upon her at supper, when her father was certain to be in his worst mood. Mr. Farnshaw always came to the table tired.

Seeing Elizabeth coming toward him, Mr. Farnshaw dropped from the wagon and went to fill the swill pails. The hogs knew they were to be fed and set up their usual noisy clamour. It was his purpose to divert their attention till the boys could drive the wagon into the corral, hoping also to leave his daughter where she could not approach him. Mr. Farnshaw delighted in making people wait. With a pail in either hand he advanced to the fence. The hogs left the gate and ran to meet him, upsetting the trough as they came. Setting the pails down, he snatched up a peeled osage stick, kept outside of the pen for that purpose, and belaboured angrily the snouts sticking over the fence. The pigs were hungry and persistent. By the time they were beaten into a respectable awe and had backed away squealing, Mr. Farnshaw discovered his daughter at his elbow. He had intended to ignore her; he turned red with rage. Witha look of infinite contempt, he stooped and picked up a pail.

“What a racket they do make,” she remarked, smiling at him without offence.

In spite of her smiling manner, Elizabeth was half sick with apprehension. It was not a propitious time to approach him, but Mr. Farnshaw watched to see that a propitious moment should not arrive when he was in one of his sulking fits. Elizabeth had played that game with him before. With her courage oozing away, and a feeling that there was no benefit in seeming not to know what he was thinking about, she put her hand on his sleeve saying:

“Don’t be cross with me, pa. Really Idowant to be friends.”

Mr. Farnshaw jerked his arm aside to avoid her touch and spilled half the pail of swill on the ground. He lurched over to the other side to right the pail; the bucket at his feet upset, pouring dishwater, milk, and potato peelings over his heavy plow-shoes as it went. To avoid the onrush of the greasy tide he sprang back, slipped in its oily overflow, and fell, the pail he held pouring its contents over him as he went. His gray whiskers, the bottom of his jersey, his very ears dripped swill as he arose. It was disconcertingly funny, and the girl helped him to his feet, laughing in spite of every effort to restrain herself.

To lose his temper was bad enough, but to be made ridiculous and be laughed at at the same time was more than the man could endure. He was insane with fury. There was such a look of malignity on his face as he jerkedaway and turned to face her that the girl, suddenly sobered, dodged and started to run. Her long hair trailed across his arm, and lost to every consideration but that of satisfying his temper, he caught it as she passed and swinging the osage stick to which he still clung, shouted:

“Damn you! This is th’ kind of friends I’ll be.”

He struck with all his force, jerking her hair at the same time. Thrown from her feet, the full weight of the girl’s body came on her hair. It hurt cruelly. She veered around on her knees and caught the now tangled hair with both hands to ease the strain. He grabbed her by one arm and rained blows on her thinly clad shoulders which hissed in tune with the man’s temper as they fell.

“I’ll be friends with you!” he shrieked. “I’ll send you t’ that young smartie with some marks on you that’ll show ’im what kind of a wife he’s gettin’. You told your ma t’ leave me! Maybe You’ll be leavin’ him next. Tell ’im I said so, will you?”

Cut by the flexible withe, which left welts like ribbons on her young shoulders, the girl was unable to endure more passively, and struggled to free herself. The partially successful opposition infuriated the man. He was not accustomed to defence. His fury knew no restraint. He rained the blows harder than ever and the girl finally caught the whip itself. Catching the limber end desperately, she jerked it sidewise; unconsciously, she had deflected her father’s hand so that it struck her head just below the ear. It stretched her senseless at his feet.

Josiah Farnshaw was aghast. With a gulping cry ofalarm and pity, he stooped to lift his unconscious daughter. He had not intended to do so brutal a thing.

“Now look what you’ve gone an’ done!”

Mrs. Farnshaw had watched Elizabeth go to him with something of prayer in her heart. She knew the girl’s intention was to be square about the apology and she had strained every nerve to watch the encounter. At the first blow she had started to the scene of action.

“I think you might have——”

The man’s relenting mood vanished. He dropped the limp body and rose to his full height.

“You damned fool,” he exclaimed, “if you hadn’t set this a goin’ an’ kept it a goin’ this wouldn’t ’a’ happened. Of all th’ blasted, impossible things it’s t’ have a snivelling she-devil always at your elbow. Keep your hands off of me!” he cried, shaking himself loose from the detaining hand she had laid on his arm. “I’m goin’ t’ git.”

The boys had arrived by that time. They carried the girl to the well and bathed her face and hands with fresh water, while the head of the house strode down the road toward the north. Elizabeth was not seriously injured and recovered consciousness as soon as the water touched her. Mrs. Farnshaw left the task of resuscitation to her sons and looked after her rapidly disappearing husband with eyes that longed for reconciliation. Reconciliation for one thing or another had been the most driving inspiration her twenty years of married life had known; it was her most potent incentive. Cowed and broken, fear bound her fast to his footsteps. Not even the daughterstruggling to her feet at her side could detract her attention from his receding form.

Elizabeth stood balancing herself dizzily for a moment before she began really to see or grasp what was going on around her; then the full value of the mishap broke upon her. All that Luther and Aunt Susan had hinted at had befallen her in spite of every effort to avoid it.

But not even the calamity which had befallen them could stop their busy fingers. The preparations for the wedding feast were a merciful feature of the rest of the evening. The guests had been invited and must be prepared for. The hair that had been washed was braided, the mother’s tears dried, and every member of the family pressed into the service. The entire house was cleaned and rearranged. Not till after midnight did the members of the little group seek their beds. Mr. Farnshaw had not returned. They had even forgotten him a large part of the time in the hurry. Elizabeth regarded the half dozen bruises which her sleeves would not cover with alarm when she was at last ready to climb her ladder. Joe covered them with a liniment which he brought from the barn. As he set the dusty bottle on the kitchen table after the anointing had been done, he remarked dryly:

“Wonder if you an’ me ’ll ever do that kind of thing t’ our young ones? Everybody’s always said we was like the old man.”

“Take that nasty smellin’ bottle out of here, an’ don’t begin any talk about your pa. Everybody get t’ bed,” Mrs. Farnshaw commanded.

Even the absence of her husband could not dim the interest of Mrs. Farnshaw in the coming spectacle of her daughter’s marriage. With the capacity of a little child to suffer from unkindness or neglect, she combined the same child-like capability to enjoy pageantry of any sort. Benches for curious neighbours surrounded Mrs. Farnshaw’s bed when she retired, and unaccustomed things filled every nook of the usually unattractive room. Evergreen boughs stared at her from the corner opposite her bed; the bed was to be removed in the morning. It had been her own romantic idea to have a bower for the bride and groom. She had been so busy making that bower that she had forgotten her own troubles for an hour and more, but she remembered them now and her interest died out. With a quivering indrawn breath she turned out the light and dived into the huge feather-bed, smothering her sobs by crushing her pillow against her face.

Elizabeth, upstairs, had her own disappointments to go over, and her mother’s sobbing coloured her ruminations. Her vision had been cleared. In spite of youth, and of humiliation, she saw that the blow that had undone her had been accidental. She saw what the encouragement of temper would lead to. She saw the gradual growth and stimulation of that temper in the daily contentions of her father and mother.

She rubbed her bruises and thought long on the troubles about her. Accusations and defence, she decided, were at the root of them. They were the universal topics of the conversations at home and among all the people shehad ever known except the Hornbys and the Chamberlains.

“Defence!” she said in a scornful whisper. “What does it matterwhois wrong in anything? The only thing that matters iswhatis wrong and to find a way to make it come out better next time,” and at last went to sleep quite unaware that she had evolved a philosophy which rightly applied would reorganize the world.

CHAPTER XI“WIVES, SUBMIT YOURSELVES UNTO YOUR HUSBANDS, AS UNTO THE LORD”

The day after the wedding was Friday, or “sweep day,” as Mrs. Hunter called it. Anxious to begin as she expected to hold out, and to form regular habits in John’s wife, Mrs. Hunter superintended the housecleaning processes.

Elizabeth had had no idea that any one could put in so many hours with broom and dust rag, but when it was done, looked about her with housekeeperly delight in the orderly, well-kept rooms. As they had worked that day the girl had been keenly observant of John’s mother. She could not tell whether John had told her of the trouble in her home or not. Mrs. Hunter did not refer to it directly or indirectly, and this fact was the subject of much thought. This faultless manner of dismissing unpleasant things stood out in strong contrast to the endless and tiresome discussions to which the girl was accustomed. Elizabeth wished she could find time to run over to Uncle Nate’s for a chat with Aunt Susan, but the busy day absorbed her and there was no time to go anywhere; in fact, it was time for John to come home from Colebyville, where he had gone to hunt for a hired man before thecleaning was really finished. Glancing up at the clock on the lambrequined shelf in the sitting room, the girl was surprised to see that it was already four o’clock. The cleaning was finished and she ran to the kitchen to put up the rag in her hand, and then went hurriedly into her bedroom to comb her hair and get her dress changed before John should come.

Absorbed in her dressing, Elizabeth did not hear her husband enter the house until she heard him talking to his mother in the dining room. With freshly combed hair and clean calico dress she ran with a glad little bound to meet him.

John Hunter and his mother stopped short with their conversation when they saw her and were plainly embarrassed.

The young wife became conscious that something was wrong and stopped in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other in mute inquiry.

Mrs. Hunter turned and went back to the kitchen. John came toward his wife.

“What is it, John? What has happened?” she asked in a whisper. There was a sick look on John Hunter’s face.

Elizabeth did not put her hand on him as was her usual way. The girl-wife had an indistinct feeling that her husband and his mother were a combination for the moment of which she was not a part.

“Enough has happened,” the man said, passing her and going toward their bedroom. “Come in here!”

He held the door open for her to enter, and she passed in and stood waiting while he shut it behind them.

“What is it, John?” she queried, unable to wait longer.

“Your father has gone to Colebyville and got into a drunken row,” was the bald statement. “Everybody in the country knows about his fuss with you.”

He did not offer to touch her, but walked over to the window and began to drum on the window-pane with nervous fingers.

“Drunk! Row! My father was never drunk in his life!” was the astonished exclamation with which Elizabeth Hunter met this unbelievable accusation.

“Well, he’s been drunk enough to last the rest of his life this time, and we’re the laughing stock of this whole country.”

John Hunter had gone to Colebyville that morning in the new buggy, rather pleased to be the centre of observation and remark. He quite liked to swagger before these country people whom he chose otherwise to ignore. He was well dressed, his buggy was the admired of all admirers, and he was newly married. Country gossip had some pleasing qualifications. When he had arrived at Colebyville, however, John Hunter had found that country people had little ways of their own for the edification of the vainglorious, and that trim young men in buggies became infinitely more interesting to the scorned when they could be associated with scandal. He soon found that he was the object of much amused discussion and shortly it became evident that they were quite willing that he shouldknow that he was the object of ridicule. Pretending friendship, one of them enlightened him as to the exact circumstances which were amusing them, and then sneaked back to his companions with a verbatim report of his surprised exclamations. John Hunter did not enjoy being the victim of a trap laid by those he had patronized. It had been a humiliating day, and John Hunter always handed his misfortunes along. He poured his disgust over his wife as if she alone were responsible for all he had suffered that day.

“What was the row with you about, anyway?” he inquired with evident aversion to her presence.

Elizabeth had withered into a quivering semblance of the confident woman who had run to meet him five minutes ago. Her knees shook under her with collapse. She sat down on the edge of the bed and stammered her explanations as if she had been a naughty child caught red-handed in some act of which she was ashamed.

“It—oh, John! I only went to him to make up about—about other things. We—we didn’t have any fuss exactly. It—it was just the same old thing. I—I begged ma not to make me go home. I told her what he would—I knew he’d whip me, but she would have me go.”

“Well, he couldn’t whip you for nothing,” John said, with brutal inquiry. “What’d you fall out with him for? I never heard of such a thing as a girl who was a woman grown that fell out with her father till he whipped her.”

Exasperated and miserable, John bestowed blame in the only convenient place he found.

The young wife buried her face in the counterpane and did not attempt to reply, and after looking dully at her for a moment John Hunter went out and left her to carry her burden of shame alone. The sound of the closing door assured her that at least she could be alone in her tears, and the humbled girl gave herself up to sobbing. Luther and Aunt Susan would never be quite convinced that she had done her best to avoid trouble; she even wondered herself if there might not have been some fault in the way she had approached her father. As usual, Elizabeth was concerned with the trouble of others. The whole dreadful thing passed before her with the vividness of actual reproduction. John’s mother knew this at any rate. That was a sore point. They were in the kitchen talking it over now! With the conviction of absolute certainty, Elizabeth buried her face in the counterpane of her bridal couch and sobbed in desolate abandon.

After a time John came back again and looked into the room. Seeing her distress, he went over slowly and lifted her to her feet with a stir of pity.

“Don’t cry,” he said gloomily. “It can’t be helped. Come on out to the kitchen and help mother with the supper.”

Elizabeth knew that at that moment he did not want to caress her, but her hungry soul craved comfort beyond her power to control and she dug her face into his breast and sobbed there unasked.

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