CHAPTER VIIERASING HER BLACKBOARD
John’s attention centred about the new house and each day found him more impatient to see it finished. The creature comforts of life were his main ideals and he wanted to get settled. Sunday afternoon found him early at Nathan’s to consult with Elizabeth about the kitchen windows. Susan Hornby’s surprised recognition of his annoyance, when he was told that she had gone home, added to the unpleasantness of the eight-mile drive. What business had that woman studying him or his moods? he asked himself as he drove away. He would not get out of the wagon when he reached Elizabeth’s home, though the sun was hot and Mrs. Farnshaw urged him to do so. He was irritated, he did not know at what, but he was. He hurried Elizabeth away without ceremony. As soon as they were beyond earshot he began to voice his grievances. The point he discussed had nothing whatever to do with the real ground for his irritability, but served as an outlet for his acrid frame of mind.
“If you want to go anywhere, let me know it so that I can take you. I can’t have you running around the country in this fashion,” he began.
Elizabeth, who had felt his manner, looked up in puzzled surprise. She could see nothing in that to be fretted about. It was so good to see him, to have him with her again after a night spent in her father’s house, that she was ready to concede any point her lover might raise, but this seemed so trivial that she laughed a happy laugh as she answered caressingly:
“I have always walked whenever and wherever I chose around here. I like it, dear.”
“That don’t make any difference; it ain’t good for any woman to walk eight miles at one time,” John answered shortly.
Unable to see the reason for laying stress upon the danger in doing a thing she had done for years without harm to herself, Elizabeth was surprised into continuing the argument without at all caring whether she ever walked again or not.
“I’ve walked that much a hundred times in my life, and I’ll probably walk it a hundred times more,” she replied with a laugh.
“Not if you live with me,” John Hunter announced, standing as solid as a rock on the issue now that he had raised it.
“But why not?” the girl inquired, still but little concerned, and looking her betrothed over with a girl’s eye for correct combinations of collar, tie, and driving gloves. Those gloves had been the chief objection Elizabeth’s brothers had been able to raise against the Eastern man, and gave colour to the spiteful “dude” with which John Hunter was mentioned by the envious.
“Why not?” John repeated after her. “Because it don’t look well.”
The ridiculous and inadequate reply drew the girl still deeper into the discussion. She began to reason with him quite earnestly. She had always walked a great deal; she loved it. Walking was jolly fun. Everybody knew she was not as dependent upon being taken as the ordinary woman. When, however, John would not give in and insisted that things were different now that they were engaged, she ceased to say more.
“You see,” he concluded, “people expect me to take you. They’ll think something’s happened and that I don’t want to. If I want to take my future wife, she ought to be willing to be taken. I don’t want you ever to walk home again.”
Elizabeth Farnshaw was young, the experiences of her night at home had made her covet peace, she was unaware that she was being moulded, or that her lover considered the Hunter ways, as such, especially desirable. Willing to pay the price, rather enjoying the masterful way in which her betrothed insisted upon serving her, reflecting that no one had ever been willing to serve her at all, and feeling that it was a minor matter, she gave up.
“All right! I like to walk, but if you look at it in that way I won’t do it again,” she promised, and in the silence which followed stole a look now and then at John Hunter, revelling in his well-groomed appearance. A vision of her father’s slatternly, one-suspendered shoulders, and button-less sleeves flapping about his rough brown wrists, setagainst this well-shirted gentleman produced sharp contrast and made of the future a thing altogether desirable. The useless arguments between her parents arose before her also; she resolved to argue less and love more. It was something, she reflected, to know when to lay an argument down. Besides, John wanted it. Leaning over, she rubbed her cheek softly against his sleeve.
“I never thought I could be so happy.” The words were whispered tenderly, as she looked up into his face.
Could mortal man fail to appreciate the manner of the surrender? There was nothing left to argue about; all had been granted. Elizabeth was learning, as all women have had to do before her, that the man-creature loves to be adored, that by cloaking her own desires, stroking his fur the right way, giving it little pats of approval and admitting the pleasure conferred by his presence, she could work a magic. John’s arm dropped about her and she gave herself up to the delights of being cuddled.
It was not possible for the inexperienced girl to measure the importance of the freedom she had surrendered. Elizabeth desired to forget the unpleasant things. Real issues were obscured for the girl by her desire to escape from her father’s house. In addition to that, Elizabeth had not yet become analytical. Instead of meditating upon the manner or the positiveness of her lover’s commands, she took counsel with herself how to make their lives different from her parents’, and in her efforts to keep her own attitude right forgot to see to it that there was a similar attitude on the part of her future husband.
As they drove along with John’s arm about her they ceased to talk, and Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted off to her affairs with her father and the night just spent at home. Mr. Farnshaw had adopted the policy of contemptuous silence toward her, and Elizabeth hoped devoutly that he would continue in that frame of mind. Only so would she dare to spend at home the weeks between the close of school and her marriage. She had counted much upon spending those weeks with Aunt Susan, who daily became dearer. She was not moved to tell Aunt Susan girlish secrets, but she was understood and rightly valued in Susan Hornby’s home; and now, during this one of all the critical periods in her life the most important, Elizabeth desired to be with her, but Mrs. Farnshaw demanded uncompromisingly that her daughter come home at that time. There was no escaping Mrs. Farnshaw’s demands on her children, and, troubled and uncertain, Elizabeth pondered and snuggled closer to the man who was to deliver her from them.
The pair drove to the new house before going to the Hornbys’ for the rest of the day. John ceased to be fretful, and by the time for leaving had arrived, Elizabeth had forgotten that he had ever been so. That evening Aunt Susan was told of the engagement, and having divined its arrival, she was able to hide any misgivings she had about it. Besides, not having anything upon which to fasten her objections to John Hunter, she was wise enough to know that love must have its way, and when Elizabeth pictured the life that awaited her, her lover’s good points,and her satisfaction rang out in a song of glad notes with no hint of apprehension, the older woman tried to enter into the spirit of the hour.
Elizabeth was certain she could meet John Hunter’s moods as the occasion required. No doubts assailed her about the future life except where John’s mother was concerned. When Elizabeth got to that point in her reflections she stopped short without speaking of the matter and announced her intention of going to bed. Elizabeth Farnshaw loved John Hunter devotedly, but his mother was another matter. There was a strong undercurrent of anxiety whenever Mrs. Hunter had to be considered. The nearer the time came for her arrival, the more the girl dreaded meeting her. Elizabeth was loyal to John, however, and Susan Hornby was given no hint of that dread.
Mrs. Hunter came west the last week of school, and when John was so busy getting her and her household goods settled that Elizabeth did not see him the entire week, it was like a stab to the sensitive girl. Filled with a natural sense of good-byes to all that she had known and loved in the work, the impending changes in her life took on a troubled air when John failed to come as usual and did not account for the delay. By some psychological process Susan Hornby’s misgivings began to be transferred to Elizabeth’s mind. Always as they sewed together Elizabeth was tempted to talk about the subject, but something held her back. Often Susan Hornby, who suspected her troubled state of mind, was moved to ask questions and could not.
A week is a long time when anxiety governs the thoughts, and as Elizabeth grew more lonely she crept into Aunt Susan’s arms as well as into her heart. It became her custom to creep up to the older woman after the lamps were lighted and lay her head in her lap, while she would imprison one of Aunt Susan’s hands so as to be able to fondle it. The evidences of affection became more and more a part of her thoughts now that the days were slipping by without receiving those evidences from the one who had educated her in them.
The last day of school arrived. John had told Elizabeth the week before that he expected to take her and her trunk home, but not having seen him nor had a word from him recently regarding the matter, a strange feeling of disaster made the closing school exercises unreal and uninteresting. After the children were gone, Elizabeth began the task of cleaning the schoolroom and putting it in order. She set about the work slowly, making it last as long as she could. School teaching had been pleasant work. It had been the one free field of action life had ever granted her, the one point where she had ever possessed herself and moved unquestioned. The presence of John Hunter’s mother in the community had made the teaching seem a refuge to the young girl who was to live in the house with her. Elizabeth had not understood that Mrs. Hunter was actually to live with them till a short time before her arrival, and then had very nearly given offence to her lover by an astonished exclamation of surprise. Perceiving that she had done so shehastened to say that she would be very glad to have his mother with them. As soon as Elizabeth had got away, and taken time to think it out, she saw that she had lied. John also knew that it was not exactly true, and was therefore more sensitive. It had been the first point of real difference between them. There had been no discussion of it. Elizabeth would have been glad to go to him and say that she wished it, but she did not wish it and would not lie consciously. If it had to be, she would make the best of it and make his mother as welcome as she could, but with the instincts of all young things, the girl wanted to live alone with her mate. The unnaturalness of having others thrust upon them during that first year of married life jarred upon her, just as it has jarred upon every bride who has been compelled to endure it since the beginning of time. It made of the new home a workshop instead of a nest, and took from the glamour of marriage. It made the girl cling to the freedom of the country schoolhouse and fear the new life, where the examples presented to her by those who had tried it were discouraging to an observant onlooker. All this came up as she worked, and saddened the day even more than before. As she put the broom away in the corner beside the water pail, she noticed that the blackboard remained to be cleaned. Taking an eraser she rubbed vigorously.
“It is a rat. Run, rat, run,” begun as high as little arms could reach, and straggling zigzagingly down toward the bottom, was the last to be attacked. As her hand passed reluctantly over it she said aloud:
“I’m erasing my blackboard too. Pretty soon I won’t be a girl any more. Pretty soon——”
She checked herself, and putting away the eraser, packed the few belongings in the drawer of the desk into a neat bundle to be carried home. With the package under her arm and her little tin dinner pail dangling from her wrist, Elizabeth fitted the key into the lock. As it clicked under her fingers the thought came to her that she must turn it over to the school board. The finality of it clutched her. Thrusting the key back into the door, she was about to go into the little room again for another look around, when Susan Hornby’s voice at her elbow made her start.
Aunt Susan saw the tears which had sprung into the young eyes at the leave-taking and drew her down on the step.
“What is it?” she asked earnestly. “You ought to tell me if you are worried.”
The tears which had been gathering spilled themselves over cheek and chin.
“Will I get like the rest of them, Aunt Susan?—never go anywhere, never read anything, have nothing ahead but the same weary round over again every day?” she queried, when she was able to command her voice.
Susan Hornby’s face worked determinedly to control her own emotions for a moment before she could speak.
Elizabeth continued: “I’ve been—I’ve been so happy this summer, Aunt Susan, and—and I’m a little afraid of that other life. Don’t think I don’t want to bemarried—I do,” she felt bound to interpose. “It’s just—just that—well, you can see how it is; the married women around here wear faded things, and—and their teeth get bad—and a man hardly ever wants to take his wife anywhere. Look at Mrs. Carter, and Mrs. Crane, and ma. Poor ma! She never gets to go anywhere she wants to.”
The girlish questionings and fears broke down Susan Hornby’s control and she fell on Elizabeth’s neck and sobbed openly as she said:
“I know, I know. I’ve thought of little else of late. My poor little ewe lamb! My poor little ewe lamb!”
The ethics of Susan Hornby’s generation did not permit of an outright discussion of the marriage relation. She did not have the matter clear in her own mind, but a sort of dull terror came over her whenever she thought of Elizabeth becoming John Hunter’s wife. She could hardly have told why. She knew that somehow human beings missed the highest in the marriage relation and that the undiscussed things of life had to do with the failure; she knew also that her instincts regarding this marriage were true, but she could sound no warning because her knowledge came from the instincts and had no outward evidence of fact with which to support it. To how large a degree did these warnings apply to all? Susan Hornby had plenty of time to wonder and think, for Elizabeth cried softly to herself without speaking further. The older woman’s hand wandered over the glossy braids in her lap, and her eyes wandered off toward the Carter homestead while her mind struggled with the problems of the neighbourhood.Elizabeth had put into words a thing she had herself observed. She saw the irritability of men toward their wives; she saw women about them who toiled earnestly, who bore children, and who denied themselves every sort of pleasurable relation at the demand of husbands who never gave them a look of comradery or good fellowship in return. Was it the weariness of the struggle to live, or was it sex, or was it the evil domination of men? This girl whose sunny hair she was caressing was to go under the merciless hammer of the matrimonial auctioneer. What was to be her fate? Susan Hornby saw that love had touched the highest in Elizabeth Farnshaw’s nature and that the girl yearned toward a high ideal of family life. She had shown it in her girlish chatter as they had sewed together. Could she attain to it? Susan Hornby thought of John Hunter and stiffened. She felt that Elizabeth would yearn toward it all the days of her life with him and never catch even a fleeting glimpse of it.
Elizabeth snuggled closer on the step and reached for the hand stroking her head.
“It isn’t the faded dresses, Aunt Susan; it’s—it’s the faded life I’m afraid of,” she whispered thickly.
Susan Hornby bent her head to catch the sobbing voice, and losing control of her reserve, said abruptly: “I know it, I know all about it. If I thought John Hunter’d let you set at home like——”
She knew while the words were still in her mouth that it was a mistake. The girl shrank away and dropped the hand she had been fondling. There was absolute silencefor a moment, the older woman dumb, unable to go on, unable to explain, unable to retract, or extricate herself in any way. The discussion had promised so well at first that both had entered into it with zest, and yet the moment it had become personal, loyalty had risen between them and hushed their words and left them uncomfortable. The silence became so intolerable that Elizabeth arose, and unable to look up turned and fumbled with the lock on the schoolhouse door. Aunt Susan rose also and waited, without speaking, for her to start home. Something hurt on both sides. Neither blamed the other, but both were to look back to the rough schoolhouse steps and the half-hearted discussion of man’s domination and woman’s inability to defend herself against it.
Before supper was quite finished John came to take Elizabeth to meet his mother. He was all bustle and activity; in fact, John Hunter was at his best. He took possession of her in exactly the way to show how unnecessary her fears had been. The reaction set in. John was fresh and clean of linen and finger-nails and pleasing to the eye. Elizabeth’s mood changed the moment he presented himself on Nathan’s doorstep. Every fear of the faded life disappeared in his magical presence. John Hunter at least was not faded. After all, Elizabeth had been a bit piqued and really wanted to meet Mrs. Hunter. John whisked her off merrily and carried her to the home which was to be theirs.
“Mother, this is Elizabeth Farnshaw, soon to be your daughter,” was the introduction he gave her when hismother met them at the door, and then watched narrowly to see what sort of impression Elizabeth would make.
Mrs. Hunter kissed the girl gravely, and still retaining her hand stepped back and looked at her curiously, but kindly.
“I am glad you are to be John’s wife, dear,” she said slowly. “I am sure we shall like each other. We must—he is all I have, you know.”
Elizabeth, who had felt herself on trial, was near tears, but her lover saved her from that embarrassment when, feeling that the Hunter approval was accorded, he stepped forward and put his arms about the two, kissing first one and then the other.
“My mother and my wife-to-be must certainly like each other,” he said.
They passed into the house, over which John and his mother conducted Elizabeth, talking of its arrangement and furnishings. The girl had supposed that she had a fairly definite idea of the appearance that house would have, having overseen every feature of its building, but it was a world of surprises she entered upon to-day. In her wildest dreams of what they would do when they had become rich, as they had planned much to do, this daughter of the Kansas prairies had never pictured such tasteful home-making. Each bedroom had its bureau with bedstead to match, and the one downstairs had ruffled pillow-shams.
“This is to be your own room,” Mrs. Hunter whispered in Elizabeth’s ear, and the young girl stole a shy look ather lover, who was drumming on the window and had not heard, and made no reply, but it gave her a sense of possession in the new house which she had very nearly lost of late.
It was reserved for the new cook stove in the spotless kitchen to complete the surprises of Elizabeth’s new world. Elizabeth fingered the nickled knobs, exclaimed over the reservoir for hot water at its back and the warming closet below, and investigated all its secret places as if it had been a toy. John Hunter gave his mother an approving nod behind the girl’s back, and the visit was a success. Elizabeth forgot that she was to share the honours of the home with “Mother Hunter,” as she had secretly called her a few times, and in the end overstayed her time till the leave-taking at Aunt Susan’s had to be cut short, and they were late in arriving at her father’s house.
The day, which had had so many variations, however, like a piece of music, was to return to the original theme before it closed. It had been a day of forebodings and anxiety. Fate never permitted Elizabeth Farnshaw more than a short snatch at happiness, and as John Hunter drove away after he had helped her deposit her trunk in a dusty corner, the girl wanted to run after him and implore him not to leave her at the mercy of the morrow.
As she gazed about the cheerless kitchen she noticed a muffled lump in the middle of the table. The sponge for the Saturday’s baking had been warmly wrapped for the night. To-morrow would be bake day! Oh, joy! Elizabeth resolved to insist upon kneading the dough the nextmorning, and before starting up the ladder to the loft where she was to sleep she hunted around in the kitchen safe for the cook book, wondering if by any chance she could induce her mother to let her try her hand at baking a cake also.
“Go to bed, in there!” growled a voice from the other room, and the girl climbed to her pallet, on which dreams of cooking were to entertain her waking as well as her sleeping hours.
Elizabeth’s cooking schemes turned out rather better than she had expected. There are some things common to all women, and Mrs. Farnshaw entered into her daughter’s desire to learn to cater to the appetite of the man she was going to marry. She worked with the girl at the home-made kitchen table, and as they worked she talked of many things which to her mind were essential to preparations for marriage, of the dresses to be made, of the new house, which was Mrs. Farnshaw’s pride, and of John Hunter himself. By some unlucky chance Elizabeth mentioned her father’s name. Mrs. Farnshaw had been waiting for an opportunity to speak of the misunderstanding between her husband and their daughter. It is the tendency of the weak to waste much time and energy in reconciliations, and to Mrs. Farnshaw peace meant far more than principles. She gave little thought to the rightness of her husband’s demands, but bent every faculty toward coaxing her family to accede to them. If he were angry, all must move in cautious attempt to placate his temper, and if his feelings were hurt no principlemust be permitted to stand in the way of excuse and explanation. She was rejoiced when Elizabeth mentioned her father’s name and forced upon her at once the necessity of asking pardon for the luckless remark regarding separation which Mr. Farnshaw had overheard three months before.
“But it isn’t a particle of use, ma,” Elizabeth replied when pushed to the point of answering. “You know he’ll hate me now, no matter what I ever do. I’ve only got along peaceably this far by not talking to him of anything at all. It’s his way. Let it alone. I’m sorry I ever said it, but it can’t be helped.”
“Yes, it can,” Mrs. Farnshaw persisted. “Anyhow, he’s your pa, an’—an’—an’ you owe it t’ him. You owe it t’ me too, t’ make it right. I’ll never have a day of peace with him again if you don’t. You’d no business t’ talk of partin’ nohow! ’Taint decent, an’—an’ it give him th’ feelin’ that I was sidin’ in with such talk.”
Mrs. Farnshaw had been shrewd enough to save her strongest point till the last. That was the lever by which she could pry Elizabeth loose from her seated conviction that nothing could be done. Those sentiments had beenElizabeth’s, not her mother’s. Something was due the mother who had been compelled to share the blame for words as abhorrent to her as they were to the irate husband who supposed she had instigated them. Elizabeth knew that her mother would never have a day of peace with the man in any case, but she knew from her own experience with him that a remark such as she had made would be usedto worry her mother and to stir even more bitter accusations than usual. In her heart she knew that nothing she could say would change her father’s feelings or alter his belief about the matter, but she did feel that her mother was justified from her own standpoint in making the demand. As she stirred the cake dough and pondered, she glanced across the table to the open door of her mother’s scantily furnished bedroom opposite. A vision of ruffled pillow-shams where she was soon to sleep came to her in strong contrast. The memory of muffled sobs which she had heard coming from that poverty-stricken couch in the corner opposite the door was set over against the peaceful look of the room which was to be hers. She was going away to be happy: why not do this thing her mother asked before she went? Elizabeth knew that her attempt at reconciliation would be fruitless, but she resolved to do the best she could to leave all possible comfort to the mother whose portion was sorrow and bread eaten in bitterness and disappointment. She thought it out slowly. After pondering a long time, during which Mrs. Farnshaw studied her but did not speak, Elizabeth delivered her promise.
“I’ll do the best I can, ma. I don’t believe It’ll do any good, but it isn’t fair that you should suffer for a thing you hate as bad as he does. Don’t let’s talk about it, and let me find my own time to do it. I’ll—I’ll do my very best.”
Pushing the cake-bowl away from her, she went around the table, and taking her mother’s face between her handsshe stroked the thin hair away from the wasted forehead, and kissed her with a tenderness which brought a quiver to the unsatisfied lips.
“I’ll do it as well as I possibly know how. I—I’m going away to be happy, and—and I want you to be happy too.”
It was easier to say than to do, for things went wrong about the barn, and when supper time arrived Elizabeth decided to wait for a more propitious time.
In spite of her determination to get the disagreeable task behind her as soon as possible, Elizabeth could find no chance at the breakfast table the next morning to broach the subject, though she tried several times. Mrs. Farnshaw gave her warning looks, but it was clearly not the time. When at last the family was ready for divine services and Mr. Farnshaw drove up in front of the house with the lumber wagon, the mother gave Elizabeth a little push toward the door, admonishing her to “be quick about it. Now’s your time.”
Elizabeth went slowly out. Mr. Farnshaw had just jumped out of the wagon and when he saw his daughter coming stooped quickly to examine the leather shoe sole which served to protect the brake. The elaborate attempt to ignore her presence made the hard duty still harder. She waited for him to take cognizance of her presence, and to cover her confusion adjusted and readjusted a strap on Patsie’s harness, thankful for the presence of her favourite.
“Let that harness alone!” her father commanded whenhe was at last embarrassed by his prolonged inspection of the wagon-brake.
“All right, pa,” Elizabeth replied, glad to have the silence broken in any manner. “I—I came out to talk to you. If I—if I’ve done anything to annoy you, ever, I want to ask your pardon. I—ma—I want to tell you that John Hunter and I are to be married this fall, and—and I’d like to be the kind of friends we ought to be before I go away.”
The last sounded rather good to the girl and she stopped, encouraged, also feeling that it was best to let well enough alone; but when she looked up at him and encountered his look she shrank as if to avoid something aimed at her.
The tyrant detests anything which cringes before him, and Josiah Farnshaw was as much fired to anger by what he saw in his daughter’s face as he could have been by her defiance.
“Oh, I know you’d like to be friends!” he sneered with the fierce hatred of a man caught in an evil act. “Now that you’re goin’ away you’d like t’ be on good terms with me, would you? How many cows would you like for your peaceable intentions? What’s th’ price of your friendship, anyhow? Of course you don’t owe me anything! You’re a lady! Now that you’re goin’ t’ set up housekeepin’ you’d like t’ be good friends. You’ll get nothin’ from me; I’ll let you know that right here and now. Go along with you; I don’t want nothin’ from you, an’ I don’t propose t’ give nothin’ to you.”
It was so coarse, so brutal, so untrue, that the girl met him once in his life as he deserved.
“Keep your cows,” she said in the low tones of concentrated bitterness. “I don’t want them, nor money from you. I don’t owe you anything, either. I’ve done more work and furnished you more money than ever I cost you since the day I was born. I knew no one could explain anything to you. I told ma so, but she’s afraid for her life of you, and insisted. I’ve tried to keep the peace with you, really, but no one ever has or ever will be able to do that. I’ll let you alone after this.”
“You damned huzzy!” the now thoroughly aroused man exclaimed, lunging forward to strike her with his open hand. He had only listened to her so far because there had been something so compelling in the rush of her words that he had been stupefied by astonishment into doing so.
Patsie, who was in line with the blow, reared and threw herself against her mate, knowing what that tone of her master’s voice indicated, and his hands were so occupied for a few seconds in quieting the team that he could not follow his daughter and administer the chastisement he wished.
“I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life!” he cried, however, when he saw her disappearing through the open door of the house.
“Now, and what have you done?” Mrs. Farnshaw demanded when the breathless girl pushed rapidly past her at the inner door and faced about defiantly in the middle of the kitchen.
“I don’t want to hear another word about it, ever. I’ve done it about as bad as I could, I guess, but I’ll never take another whipping from him, and you needn’t expect it.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she moaned after the family had gone, referring to the figurative speech, “She’s afraid for her life of you.” That had been meant in a very different sense. The girl would have given much to have unsaid it, to have given any sort of explanation.
It was not possible to explain anything to Josiah Farnshaw, and remembering the threat to flog her as soon as he returned from meeting, Elizabeth began to put up her hair and prepare for the departure which was her only way of escape. Josiah Farnshaw never forgot a promise of that sort.
“I’ll go to Aunt Susan’s,” she resolved, and as soon as she could get her dress changed and a few things thrown quickly into the trunk which she had partially unpacked the day before, Elizabeth took her parasol and started toward the south. John lived in that direction also, and would be on his way to see her, for his mother had asked Elizabeth to spend the day with her. She would ask John to come for her trunk and then have him take her to Susan Hornby’s house. Aunt Susan would welcome her with open arms. She was covered with perspiration when she met her lover, who was hot and uncomfortable also, and had been cursing every mile of the shadeless Kansas road. John’s relief was so great at meeting her a couple of miles on the way that he did not inquire why she was there at that hour till she was seated beside him.
“But your father can’t do anything to you,” he objected when she had outlined her plan of going to Aunt Susan’s to stay till the wedding. “Everybody knows that you have left there and You’ll have to explain things and get into a scandal.”
Without going into details, Elizabeth insisted that he drive on at once and get her trunk before her father and the family should get home from church.
John Hunter argued the matter.
“If you leave home,” he said slowly, refusing to drive on, “people will talk, and it isn’t to be considered.”
There was a pause. Should she explain the case fully? It could not be done. John could not be made to understand. Elizabeth knew that even in the primitive community in which she had been brought up a man would be filled with disgust at the idea of striking a full-grown woman on any sort of provocation, and that a man reared as John Hunter had been reared would be alienated not only from her family but from her.
Caught like a rat in a trap, Elizabeth Farnshaw let her future husband study her curiously, while she deliberated and cast about for some means of getting his approval to her scheme without villifying her parents by telling the whole truth.
“I’ll be nearer you, and Aunt Susan’s always glad to have me,” she said coaxingly.
It was a good bit of argument to put forth at that moment. The sun poured his heat out upon them inscalding fierceness, and John Hunter had cursed his luck every mile he had covered that morning. He had been accustomed to reach her in fifteen minutes, and the suggestion that she go back to the old place began to look more reasonable, yet he hesitated and was reluctant to let a breath of gossip touch his future wife. Whether Elizabeth were right or wrong did not enter into his calculations.
It looked as if his consent was not to be obtained. She could not go back.
“I’m not going home, and that is all that there is about it,” the girl announced in desperation.
John still hung back.
When he did not reply and it became necessary for her to go into the details she had been trying to avoid, it was done reluctantly and with as little emphasis put upon the possibility of physical chastisement as could be done and convince him at all. To Elizabeth’s surprise John did not take much notice of that element. It did not occur to her at that time that it was a strange thing that her lover should fail to be stirred by the probability of her receiving a blow. Elizabeth had never had consideration shown her by any one but Susan Hornby and had not yet learned to expect it. John struck the horses with the dangling lines he held and drove on toward the waiting trunk. She watched him as he rode by her side moodily thinking of the gossip threatened, and while it was not the mood she wished him to entertain, it did not occur to her that it was anything but anatural one. They rode without speaking until the house was reached.
“This’ll have to be explained to mother,” he remarked discontentedly as he shoved the unoffending trunk into the back of the wagon. Elizabeth made no reply. She had been thinking of that very thing.
VIIICYCLONES
Susan Hornby asked no questions when Elizabeth and John presented themselves at her door. Their embarrassed faces warned her. She gathered Elizabeth into her arms for a brief hug, and then pushed her toward the inside of the house, remaining behind to show John where to put the trunk. When it had been set beside the kitchen door she dismissed him by saying:
“I won’t ask you to stay for a bite of dinner, since your mother is alone, Mr. Hunter.”
“Well—er—that is—mother expected Elizabeth over there,” John stammered, looking toward the front room.
“Tell your mother Elizabeth will stay right here till she has rested up from that headache,” the woman replied with the tone of having settled the matter.
Elizabeth, in the other room, noted that he did not argue about it and heard him drive away with mixed feelings. When at last Aunt Susan’s questions were answered the girl in turn became questioner.
“Will she think—John’s mother—that we’re coarse and common?” she asked when she had told as much as she could bring herself to tell of the morning’s altercation.
The look on the older woman’s face was not a hopeful one, and the girl got up restlessly from the trunk-top where she had dropped beside her. She remembered the fear, half expressed, on the schoolhouse steps two days before and drew within herself, sick with life.
“Can I put my trunk away?” she asked, to break the awkward silence she felt coming.
“Yes,” was the relieved answer, and each took a handle, carrying the light piece of baggage to the bedroom. At the door Elizabeth stopped short. A strange coat and vest were spread carelessly over the bed, and a razor strop lay across the back of the little rocking chair.
“Oh, I forgot!” Susan Hornby exclaimed, sweeping the offending male attire into her apron. “A young fellow stopped last night and asked to stay till he could get a house built on that land west of Hunter’s. You’re going to have a bachelor for a neighbour.”
“Who?” Elizabeth asked, and then added, “What will he do for a room if I take this one?”
“I don’t know,” Aunt Susan replied to the last clause of the question. “The room is yours, anyhow. I’m so glad to have you back that I’d turn him out if need be. Honestly, we could hardly eat Saturday. Nate was as bad as I was. They’ve gone to Colebyville together to-day. I’m glad Nate’s got him—he’s lonesome enough these days.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to cheer up Aunt Susan, for she always fell into a gloom when she mentioned Nathan. It took Elizabeth’s mind from her own affairs, and by thetime the unpacking was finished the volatile spirits of youth had asserted themselves. They took a walk toward evening, and only returned in time to meet John Hunter, who had come to see his betrothed about a trip he had decided suddenly to take to Mitchell County. He had spoken of it to Elizabeth before, and had only waited to get his mother established and a desirable hired man to run the place in his absence. The man had come that day asking for work and giving good references and John had decided to go at once.
In the excitement of preparation John seemed to have forgotten the discomforts of the morning, and though he soon took his departure, he left Elizabeth less unhappy than she had been. Nathan and the new man were coming in the distance as John Hunter drove away, and the girl turned back into the kitchen to help with the supper.
“Lizzie Farnshaw! And you are the Elizabeth these folk have been talkin’ about? Well, I’ll be hornswoggled!”
Nathan and the new boarder had just come in.
“Is it really you, Luther?” Elizabeth asked, and there was no mistaking the glad tones.
They looked each other over for changes; they sat beside each other at the table, and Elizabeth asked questions and talked excitedly while he ate.
“Your hair is darker, and it’s curly,” she remarked, remembering the tow-coloured locks cut square across the boyish, sunburned neck.
Luther Hansen’s face crinkled into fine lines and his blue-gray eyes laughed amusedly.
“Got darker as I got older, Lizzie, an’ th’ typhoid put them girl-twists into th’ ends of it. Bet you’re a wishin’ for it—all th’ women folks do. Wish you had it.”
They went for a walk after supper and talked of many things. He was the same Luther, grown older and even more companionable. Elizabeth learned that both his parents had died, leaving the then seventeen-year-old boy a piece of land heavily mortgaged, and with nothing but a broken down team and a superannuated cow to raise the debt. By constant labour and self-denial the boy had lifted the financial load, and then happening to meet a man who owned this Kansas land had traded, with the hope that on the cheaper land he could reach out faster and get a good increase on the original price besides.
“I remembered th’ kind of land it was about here, an’ didn’t need t’ come an’ see it first,” he said. “I was goin’ t’ hunt you up ’fore long, anyhow. I never thought of these folks a knowin’ you, though, after I got here. Funny, ain’t it? I’m right glad t’ be back t’ you,” was his frank confession.
And Elizabeth Farnshaw looked up happily into his face, meeting his eye squarely and without embarrassment. It was as natural to have Luther, and to have him say that he wanted to see her, as it would have been to listen to the announcement from her brother.
“I’m so glad,” she replied, “and I’ve so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin.”
Luther laughed.
“Mrs. Hornby thought I’d be put out about that room, but I told ’er nothin’ like that’d bother me if it brought you t’ th’ house. I’ve been sleepin’ under th’ wagon all th’ way down from Minnesoty an’ I can go right on doin’ it.”
They did not go far, but wandered back and sat on Nathan’s unpainted doorstep while the stars came out, and Elizabeth forgot all about the trials of the morning, and told him of her engagement to John Hunter.
“I’m going to live right next to your farm, Luther, and you must——”
Elizabeth Farnshaw had started to say that he must know John, and somehow the words got suddenly tangled in her throat, and the sentence was unfinished for the fraction of a moment and then ended differently from what she had intended: “And I shall be so glad to have you for a neighbour, and You’ll marry—now who will you marry?”
Luther, who had begun to like this new Elizabeth even better than the girl of six years ago, had his little turn in the dark shadow of Nathan’s overhanging roof at the mention of this love affair, but he swallowed the bitter pill like a man. The renewed acquaintance had been begun on friendly lines and through all the days which followed it was kept rigidly on that ground. He was glad to have been told frankly and at once of John Hunter’s claims.
In spite of the fact that Elizabeth had stumbled and found herself unable to suggest that John and Luther wereto be friends, she talked to Luther of her plans, her hopes of becoming a good housekeeper, her efforts at cooking, and of the sewing she was engaged upon. He learned, in time, of the disagreements with her father, and was not surprised, and with him she took up the subject of the marital relations at home. Luther’s experience was more limited than Susan Hornby’s, but he looked the matter of personal relations squarely in the face and discussed them without reserve. There was always something left to be finished between them, and night after night they walked or sat together on the doorstep till late. Nathan looked on disapprovingly, not understanding the bond between them, but Susan, who heard the girl chatting happily about her coming marriage, saw that the friendship was on safe ground and laughed away his fears.
Nathan had found his first friend since his Topeka experience, and was unwilling to see him come to harm; also, while Nathan had come to love Elizabeth almost as much as his own daughter, and to miss her when she was away, he was uncomfortably aware that she prized a culture which he did not possess, and was subject to fits of jealousy and distrust because of it.
Days passed. Elizabeth could not induce herself to call on her future mother-in-law. The surety that she was cheapened by reports of her home affairs stung her consciousness and made it impossible to make the call which she knew she would certainly give offence by omitting. This, too, she talked over with Luther, and he advised her to go at once. Each day she would promise,and each day she would make excuses to herself and him, till at last the man’s sober sense told him it must not be put off longer.
One evening, after John had been gone two weeks, and Elizabeth explained the fact of not having gone to see Mrs. Hunter because of the extreme heat, Luther suggested that she go over to the “shanty” with him.
“I forgot my coat, and it looks as if it’d rain ’fore mornin’,” he remarked. “I kept th’ harness on th’ horses, so’s t’ drive over.”
As Elizabeth expected, the visit to Mrs. Hunter was the first subject broached after they started.
“You’re goin’ t’ live in th’ house with Mrs. Hunter, Lizzie”—Luther always used the old-fashioned name—“an’ you must be friends with ’er,” he cautioned.
“I know it, Luther. I’ll go to-morrow, sure, no matter what happens,” the girl promised, her words coming so slowly that there was no mistaking her reluctance. “I just can’t bear to, but I will.”
Luther considered at some length.
“She’ll be lonesome, not knowin’ anybody here,” he said with almost equal reluctance. “I—I want t’ see you start in right. You’ve got t’ live in th’ house with ’er.”
The last clause of his argument was not exactly in line with the impression he wished to produce; in fact, it was only a weak repetition of what he had begun the argument with, but somehow, like Elizabeth, that was the main fact in the case which absorbed his attention. He was dissatisfiedwith it, but could think of no way to state it better; so to turn the subject to something foreign to the hated topic, he remarked on a hayfield they were passing.
“Them windrows ought t’ ’a’ been shocked up,” he said, casting his eye up at the northwest to measure the clouds. “Jimminy!” he exclaimed, slapping the team with the lines. “I wonder if I’ve brought you out here t’ get you wet?”
He glanced apprehensively at Elizabeth’s thin print dress as the startled team jerked the old lumber wagon over the rough road, and half wished he had not brought her with him, for the signs were ominous. The breeze, which had been fitful when they had started, had died away altogether. Not a breath of air was stirring; even the birds and crickets were silent.
The storm was gathering rapidly.
They rounded the corner, near his building place, on a full trot, and plunged into the grove of cottonwoods which surrounded the “shanty,” with a consciousness that if they were to avoid a wetting, haste was necessary.
The faded coat, which was the object of the journey, hung on the handle of the windlass at the newly sunk well. The dried lumps of blue clay heaped themselves about the new pine curb and the young man stumbled awkwardly over the sunbaked clods as he reached for his coat. As he turned back toward the wagon an exclamation of dismay escaped him. The storm had gathered so rapidly that the boiling clouds could be plainly seen now above the tops of the ragged trees which surrounded the place.Instead of waiting to put the coat on, Luther flung it into the back of the wagon, and, climbing hastily over the hub, turned the horses and drove them into the open road. One glance after they were free from the grove was enough. With a shout, he stood up, urging the horses into a gallop.
Boiling like smoke from the stack of a rapidly moving locomotive, the storm bore down upon the level Kansas prairie. Not a sound was heard except a dull roar from the north. Urging the horses to their utmost efforts with voice and threatening gestures, Luther looked back at the girl on the spring seat reassuringly.
“We’re makin’ good time, Lizzie,” he shouted, “but I’m afraid You’ll get th’ starch took out of that purty dress. I never thought of this when I brought you.”
Elizabeth, clinging to the backless spring seat with both hands, smiled back at him. It was only a storm, and at best could only soak their clothes and hair; but to Luther more than that was indicated.
As they rounded the corner and turned toward the north, a sudden puff of wind jerked the shapeless straw hat from Luther’s head and sent it careening dizzily over the stubs of the hay field at the right. Hats cost money, and Luther pulled up the galloping horses. Hardly waiting to see whether Elizabeth caught the lines he flung to her, he sprang to the ground and gave chase. The hat rolled flat side down against a windrow and stuck, so that it looked as if it were to be captured, but before he reached it the wind, which had now become a steady blow, caughtit, and as the only loose thing of its size to be found, played tag with its owner. At last he turned back, gasping for breath and unable to lift his head against the blast.
A fleeting glimpse of Elizabeth standing up in the wagon was all that he got, for a blinding flash of lightning split the sky from north to south, followed by a terrific crash of thunder. Half stunned, he fell into the deep rut of an old road crossing the hayfield at right angles to his course.
As he arose a moment later, a scene never to be forgotten met his gaze. One of his horses lay motionless on the ground, the other was struggling feebly to regain its feet, and Elizabeth was scrambling wildly out of the wagon. Rushing to her side, Luther drew her away from the floundering horse. A gust of rain struck them.
“Can you hold his head,” Luther shouted in her ear, “while I get him out of the harness?”
Elizabeth nodded, and together they caught the bit and laid the beast’s head flat on the ground, where the girl held it fast by main force while Luther worked at the straps and buckles.
“At last!” he cried, when the name-strap gave way under his fingers. He flung the neck-yoke over against the body of the dead horse, and stepped back to free himself from the dangling lines.
Elizabeth let the horse’s head loose and jumped back, still holding to the halter-strap. The frightened animal bounded to its feet with a neigh of alarm, dragging the girl out of Luther’s reach just as a thunderous roar and utter darkness enveloped them.
What happened, exactly, the man never knew. He picked himself up, half senseless, some minutes later, covered with mud, and his clothing half torn from his body. At first he could not recall where he was; then seeing the dead horse in the road, and the upturned bed of the wagon itself, he realized that they had been struck by a cyclone.
The darkness had whirled away with the retreating tornado, and a gray light showed the demoralized wagon overturned by the roadside. The wagon was in painful evidence, but Elizabeth? Where was Elizabeth? Looking wildly about in all directions, Luther called her name:
“Lizzie! Lizzie! God in heaven! What has become of you?”
He remembered the fate of a girl in Marshall County which he had heard discussed only last week. That child had been picked up by one of these whirling devils and her neck broken against a tree!
With a wild cry, he turned and ran in the direction of the receding storm, calling her name and looking frantically on both sides of the path where the cyclone had licked the ground as clean as a swept floor. He could see nothing at all of Elizabeth. Realizing at last that he was wasting his efforts, and that some degree of composure would assist in the search, Luther stopped and looked about him.
Outside the immediate path of the cyclone, which was cleared of every movable thing, the hay was tossed and thrown about as if it had been forked over the ground to dry itself from the wetting it had had. Hay everywhere,but no living thing to be seen. Could it be that Elizabeth had been carried completely away by the storm, or was she buried in the hay somewhere?
Unresponsive as all nature to human emotions, the tumbled grass lay about him, a picture of confusion and ruin. The futility of human effort was borne in upon him as he scanned the waste. A pile larger than the surrounding piles separated itself from the scattered heaps at last. He regarded it eagerly. Yes! there was a flutter of wet calico.
Half rejoicing, half terrified at the prospect of what he might find, Luther Hansen ran and flung himself down on his knees beside it, dragging at the half-buried form of the girl in frantic haste. She was doubled together and mixed with the hay as if, after being picked up with it, she had been whirled with it many times and then contemptuously flung aside.
Drawing her out, Luther gathered her into his arms and listened to her heart beat to make certain that she still lived.
Though limp and unconscious, Elizabeth Farnshaw was alive, and Luther drew her up and leaned her loosely rolling head on his shoulder while he considered what to do.
A sharp, peppering fall of hail struck them. Luther looked about quickly for shelter. The Kansas prairie stretched level and bare before him. Not even a bush presented itself. The size of the hailstones increased.
Elizabeth began to show signs of returning consciousness and to move feebly.
The hailstones came down like a very avalanche of ice. It became necessary to interpose his body between her and the storm. He thought of the coat they had come to obtain, but that had probably gone with the hat and the hay and all other things in the route of the hurricane. He stooped close over her quivering form and let the frozen pellets fall on his unprotected head. The deluge was mercifully short, but at the end Luther Hansen was almost beaten into insensibility.
When the hailstorm was over the rain burst upon them with renewed fury, and the wind blew as cold as a winter’s gale. The chill stung them into activity. Luther got slowly, to his feet, bracing himself against the blast as he did so, and also pulled up the now conscious girl. Elizabeth’s strength had not returned and she fell back, dragging him to his knees at her side. The rain ran off her hair and clothes in streams, and against the storm her thin cotton dress was of no protection whatever. Luther urged her to control her shaking limbs and try to walk. It could only be accomplished by much effort. When at last she staggered to her feet, he put his arm about her and with bent head turned to face the rain, which cut like switches at their faces and cold shoulders, to which the wet cotton garments clung like part of the very skin itself.
The wind blew a gale. It was almost impossible to make headway against it. Had it not been for Elizabeth’s chilled state Luther would have slipped down in a wagon rut and waited for the squall to subside, but it was essential that the girl be got under shelter of some sort At length,after struggling and buffeting with the storm for what seemed an age, alternately resting and then battling up the road toward home, they turned the corner of the section from which the Hornby house could be seen.
Suddenly, Elizabeth gave a frightened scream. Luther, whose head had been bowed against the wind, looked up with a start.
“Good God!” broke from his lips.
Only a twisted pile of débris was to be seen where that house had stood.
With the impulse to reach it instantly, they started on a run, hand in hand, but the fierceness of the gale prevented them. Out of breath before they had gone a dozen yards, there was nothing to do but stop and recover breath and start again at a pace more in keeping with their powers. Impatient and horrified, they struggled ahead, running at times, stumbling, falling, but not giving up. Terrified by the thought of they knew not what possible disaster ahead of them, they at last turned into the little path leading to the ruined house.
Picking their way over scattered bits of household belongings, broken boards and shingles, for some distance, they at last reached the main pile of timbers. The girl’s heart sank at the thought of what they might find there, and she made a gesture of distress.
“This is no place for you, Lizzie,” Luther said, quick to comprehend, and sick with pity for her.
As he spoke, his foot sank between some timbers into a pile of wet cloth, and thinking that it was a humanform, he shuddered and fell forward to avoid giving an injury the nature of which he could only guess.
They dug frantically at the pile, and were relieved to find that it was only a ragged knot of rainsoaked carpet. It indicated, however, the possibilities of the moment, and Luther ceased to urge the now frenzied girl to leave him, and together they stumbled about in their search. Darkness was falling rapidly, and they called first the name of Nathan, and then of his wife, beside themselves because they could not find even a trace of either to indicate their fate. Had the storm picked them up as it had done Elizabeth and carried them out of the wreckage?
Luther stopped and shouted the thought into Elizabeth’s ear. The wind dropped for an instant, and they stood looking about the place as well as the gloom would permit. The rain fell less noisily also. All at once they heard their names called from somewhere toward the north. Turning, they saw, what they had not noticed before, that the straw sheds and the granary were untouched by the tornado.
“Here, Luther! Here, Lizzie!” came another call from the granary door.
Nathan Hornby, faintly seen, was shouting to them at the top of his voice. A new dash of rain came, and the wind redoubled its fury as if vexed with itself for having carelessly let the wayfarers get a glimpse of the harbour where it would be unable to do them further harm. With a glad cry, they ran toward the beckoning figure, and a second later Elizabeth was lifted by Nathan and Lutherinto the open door of the bin-room, and literally fell across the shifting grain into Aunt Susan’s open arms, sobbing and clinging to her as if fearing that the fierce winds would snatch her away. The relief was almost too much for the girl.
“Aunt Susan! Aunt Susan! How could I live without you?” she sobbed.
Susan Hornby drew the horse blanket with which she was covered over the shuddering child in her arms, and patted and soothed her, crying softly for joy as she did so, for the fears of the last hour had been mutual. The thought of her darling out in the storm, suffering she knew not what, had unnerved Susan Hornby, and brought home to her as nothing else had ever done a realization of the precious relation between them.
“My daughter! My daughter! My Katy’s own self!” she repeated over and over.
The reaction of fright and cold and wet brought on a chill which set Elizabeth’s teeth to chattering audibly. Aunt Susan was beside herself with worry. Do what she would, the girl could not control herself. They rubbed and worked with her for some minutes. Luther was alarmed and blamed himself for having taken her out in threatening weather. Elizabeth insisted that no harm had come to her except a wetting, but could not convince the others till Nathan had a bright idea.
“Here! we’ll scoop these warm oats over you. They’re as warm as toast—havin’ th’ blazin’ sun on th’ roof of this place all day.”
The two men were alert for any signs of the old building toppling over under the terrific pressure of the wind, and had kept pretty close to the door; but they moved over in the direction of the two women, and using their hands as shovels soon had them well covered with oats.
“There you are,” Nathan shouted, when Susan had begged them to desist because of the dust they were raising. “We’ll set you folks a sproutin’ if heat an’ moisture’s got anything t’ do with it,” he continued.
He pulled some grain sacks out of the empty wheat bin and advised Luther to wrap them around himself. “I’m some wet, myself,” he announced, “but I’ve got warm ragin’ round here like a gopher. Now tell us how you folks come t’ get here in all this storm. What’d you do with th’ horses?”
All this had been shouted at the top of his voice, for the wind rattled and tore at the old building with the noise of a cannonade, as if determined to wreck even this shelter. It was not possible to see one’s hand in the darkness, for when the door had been pulled shut after the young couple, the last ray of light was shut out. Besides, night had fallen now, and the darkness outside was no less dense.
Luther told in as few words as possible of the catastrophe which had befallen them on the road.
“Why, Susan,” Nathan exclaimed, “th’ same twister struck them as struck us! Now don’t that beat you? Funny th’ stables didn’t go, too. That’s th’ way with them things—they go along an’ mow a patch a rod ’r two wide as clean as a whistle, an’ not touch a thing tenfeet away. Lord man!” he cried, turning toward Luther in the dark with a reminiscent giggle, “you should ’a’ seen us. Sue saw th’ storm a-comin’, an’ she run out t’ git th’ chickens in, an’ nothin’ ’d do ’er when she see th’ way them clouds was a actin’ but I must come in, too. We didn’t even milk! I never see anything come on like it; we didn’t hardly have time t’ git th’ winders shut till we could hear it roarin’! Lord, you should ’a’ heard it come! All at onct it got dark, an’ th’ house begun t’ rock; an’ then it slid along on th’ ground, an’ then it lifted clear up at th’ northeast corner, an’ we slid down in a heap on th’ other side along o’ th’ cupboards an’ th’ kitchen table an’ crocks we’d set out for th’ milk we didn’t get into ’em, an’ then th’ house lit over on th’ other corner an’ went t’ pieces like a dry-goods box. That kitchen table was th’ savin’ of us! I don’t know how it got over us, but there it was with th’ safe an’ water-bench a holdin’ th’ timbers off’n us.” Nathan wound up his story in a lowered tone, and there was silence for a moment as each went over his personal experience in thought.
“Gittin’ warm there, Elizabeth?” he asked after a time.
“A little,” the girl answered, still shivering, but with less audible chattering of her teeth.
“You’ll be all right in half an hour,” Nathan said with a relieved sigh. “I think we’ll put a little more of these oats over you for good luck,” he added.
They heaped the warm grain thick about her, and then, because it was hard to converse with the noise of the roaring wind outside, gave up the effort. The old granaryhad a good roof and did not leak; they grew less frightened, and Elizabeth grew warm in Aunt Susan’s arms and slept at last. The rest lay long, listening to the angry blast, counting up their losses and planning to reconstruct so as to fit the new circumstances. For Luther another horse would be needed, while Nathan would have to build a house and furnish it anew.
After the wind subsided the two men discussed in low tones the best way of beginning on the morrow, and it was finally decided that Luther should go out and appeal to the neighbours to gather together and assist in sorting and saving such things as were worth it, and construct out of the broken timbers a habitation which would shelter them till a better could be erected. Fortunately, Luther had used none of the lumber of his last load, and but little of the one he had bought before.
It was almost morning before they fell asleep, and the sun was shining brightly before they awoke. As they emerged from the musty oats bin into the fresh air, which had been purified by the wind and rain of the night before, a curious sight met their eyes.
The house was indeed a wreck! Roof, side-walls, plaster, floor, and furniture were mixed in one indistinguishable mass. The kitchen table Nathan had mentioned stood as a centre-pole under a leaning pile of boards and splintered scantlings, and had evidently done much to save the lives of its owners when the roof fell. One end of the house lay, almost uninjured, on the grass, the window panes unbroken and still in their frames. Otherwindows had been hurled from the walls to which they belonged and ground to powder. Half the roof had been deposited between the road and the rest of the débris as carefully as if it had been lifted by some gigantic machinery, and was unhurt, while the other side, splintered and riddled, was jumbled together with joists, siding, and kitchen chairs.
They spent but little time over the ruin of treasures, but after a hurried breakfast, consisting of such eggs as they could find about the haystacks, and coffee—rainsoaked, but still coffee, which was dug out of a stone jar where it had fallen—the men went at once for help.
In spite of bridges washed out, and many hindrances, sympathetic farmers began to gather within two hours after Luther had started out. The lumber he had offered was brought and many willing hands began the erection of the simple four-room house on the old foundation. The place was cleared, furniture carried to one side, while broken timbers were carried to the other and sorted, nails drawn, and every available stick laid in neat piles ready for those who had brought saws and hammers for building.
Susan and Elizabeth sorted the soaked and muddy clothing, carpets, and bedclothes, and Mrs. Chamberlain and other neighbour women, around a great out-of-door fire near the well, washed and spread the clothes on the grass to dry.
As if by magic, a house arose before night and, minus doors and windows, but otherwise ready for occupancy, offered its shelter to the tired but grateful family. Brokenbedsteads had been mended and put in place, feather-beds had been dried in the hot sun, straw ticks had been filled with clean hay; broken chairs nailed or wired together occupied their old places; the kitchen safe, with its doors replaced but shutting grudgingly, was in its old corner, and the unplastered house had a look of homey comfort in spite of the lack of some of its usual features.
Luther, who was a sort of carpenter, donated his services for several days, and except for patches of new weather-boarding or shingles mixed with the old there was little to indicate the path of a cyclone in the country. Yes, there was a pile of splintered boards tossed roughly together not far from the back door, and the usual fuel of corncobs was below par.