The Wind Before the Dawn Part 19

"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 ten feet 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 s.h.i.+vering, 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 granary had 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 a.s.sist 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 ma.s.s. 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 gra.s.s, the window panes unbroken and still in their frames. Other windows 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 debris 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 gra.s.s 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. Broken bedsteads 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 s.h.i.+ngles 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.

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 fall below 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 b.u.t.tons 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 hara.s.sed by the certainty that equal perfection in 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 a.s.sume. 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 a.s.sociated 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 him somewhat, 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 courts.h.i.+p 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 became more 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 front room. 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 comrades.h.i.+p 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.