The Wind Before the Dawn Part 16

The girl shrank away and dropped the hand she had been fondling. There was absolute silence for 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 his mother 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 embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.sed into the house, over which John and his mother conducted Elizabeth, talking of its arrangement and furnis.h.i.+ngs. 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 at her 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 k.n.o.bs, 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 m.u.f.fled lump in the middle of the table. The sponge for the Sat.u.r.day'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 next morning, 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 appet.i.te 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 principle must 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 been _Elizabeth'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 used to 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 m.u.f.fled 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."

Pus.h.i.+ng the cake-bowl away from her, she went around the table, and taking her mother's face between her hands she 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, admonis.h.i.+ng 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 when he was at last embarra.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 coa.r.s.e, 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 d.a.m.ned 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 chastis.e.m.e.nt 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.