A Williams Anthology Part 11

Quite unexpectedly just ahead of him a young woman stepped out from the shadow of a tree and sprang lightly into the road. "h.e.l.lo, David!"

she said, waiting for him to come up to her. "You look as tired as a plough-horse. What's the matter?"

"Well, I am, Janet. It doesn't hardly seem as if I could push one foot ahead of another. Here I've been working all day long, and only just done at eight or nine o'clock."

"Poor boy," answered the girl. "Come and sit down a few minutes while I talk to you. I didn't go round to the house because I knew your father and mother would be off at meeting."

David needed no urging. He placed the pails of milk by the roadside and together the two sat down by the stone wall.

"I'd let you put your arm around me if you didn't smell so cowy," said Janet with a little laugh.

"That's not my fault," he answered. "Somebody's got to milk the poor old beasts, and I don't know who would if I didn't. That doesn't make me like it, though. Oh Janet, when I feel as tired as I do to-night I get terribly sickened with all this humdrum life on the farm! It's just work, work, from morning till night and when you get done you're too tired to read or talk or do anything but just go to sleep like a big ox. If it weren't for father's and mother's sakes I believe I'd quit the old place in a minute. If I could only go off somewhere--anywhere, only to be out of sight of the farm!"

"Well, I like that, Mr. Waring," said the girl, with a look half indignant, half smiling. "Is _that_ the only thing that keeps you here? I guess perhaps it's time for me to go home now."

"Oh, Janet, don't take it that way! You know what I mean. I'm just sick and tired of the whole business, and I wish to goodness I could throw it over. By the way, I suppose you know my brother's coming home from Yale to-morrow. It's almost two years since I've seen him except for a week or two. I guess he'll have changed some; his letters sound so, anyway."

"That's just what I came down to ask you about. I heard it yesterday and I'd be awfully glad if you two would come up to supper day after to-morrow--that's Sunday. I'm so anxious to see him because I know he'll have lots to tell us about college and the city and things like that. Oh, David, I get tired too of always staying here in the country and teaching school forever, when there are so many things to learn and so much to see off there in the world. That's what Loren can tell us about. It'll be next best to getting off somewhere one's self."

During the course of the conversation the streak of white in the west had turned to gray and the night was rapidly closing down. The girl jumped to the ground; "Good-night," she said, as she started away, "I'll see you both Sunday,--sure, now!"

David picked up his milk-pails and completed the work of the day. A little later he had seated himself on the porch. He felt discontented and unhappy though he could not have told exactly why. But one thing was evident--he was not antic.i.p.ating Loren's home-coming with much pleasure. He felt, in fact, a certain reluctance, or rather timidity, about meeting this younger brother of his who knew so much and talked so much, and seemed to enjoy himself so thoroughly. He antic.i.p.ated keenly the difference that two years must have brought between them, and dreaded the time when they should be put side by side once more and compared. For David, too--the older of the boys by a year--had expected to go to college and till the time came had never doubted the expediency of it. But, as is so often the case, that merry-making force in human affairs that we call Circ.u.mstance--or is it Providence?--had it fixed up otherwise. Mr. Waring had suddenly lighted upon chronic poor health as a daily companion on the walk of life, and his time was so much engrossed therewith that David seemed called upon--nay, impelled--to become the main-stay of the farm; Loren was still too young; financial affairs were far from encouraging; Mrs.

Waring looked constantly to her older son for advice and a.s.sistance; in short, the golden gate of the future seemed to be drawing to, without any voluntary effort of his own. Yet he had often recalled since then the night--that breathless night in August four years ago--when he and his dearest ambition had had their last battle, and he had forced it to cover. "Loren shall have the best chance I can give him," he had said to himself, with his teeth gritted, "and G.o.d help me to stick it out here on the farm!" Thus it was, that, as usual, Dame Circ.u.mstance had won out by a good margin.

And now Loren had been two years at Yale and was coming home for the summer. Loren had learned a vast deal at college; among other sc.r.a.ps of intelligence he had discovered that his family were a little outlandish, and that Melton was altogether too slow a place for a rational being like himself to exist in except, at the best, for a few summer weeks. His latest letter, received only yesterday, was a characteristic one, and David had unintentionally resented its tone of breezy self-a.s.surance: "... I suppose I shall show up at fair Melton,"

it had read, "about 2:35 on Sat.u.r.day, unless, that is, I happen to get a few days' invite to New York. Of course David will be down to meet me and bring my trunk up." The words were innocent enough, but they had insinuated their way into his mind and rankled there like an evil thing. "Yes, _of course_ I will be down," he said to himself somewhat bitterly; "of course I will, that's to be expected. And bring up his trunk for him; yes, that's just what I like--the chance to fetch Loren's trunk, and I like his way of taking it all for granted, too."

The mental transition to the matter of Janet's invitation was a natural one. He began to wish that she hadn't been in such a hurry about giving it. What could she want of Loren? He wasn't anything to her. Why did she have to be all the time hankering after new friends?

"New friends!" With a slight internal start David realized that only three years ago Loren had never been away from home. "New friends!"

Why, Janet had known them both ever since the old days of skip-rope and hide and seek! What more natural than that she should want to see her old play-fellow again? Why should _he_ complain? Hadn't she said once, "I love you, David," and wasn't that enough to make him trust her?

A little way down the road he heard the step of some one approaching and in a moment the shape of a man grew visible through the darkness.

He turned, opened the gate, and stepped to the porch. In his hand he carried a suit-case. This he set down heavily and approached the door.

David sprang to his feet. "Why Loren, is that you? We weren't expecting you to-night."

"Well, how are you, old boy?" cried the new-comer. "It's bully good to see you again. No, I didn't expect to get up to-night, but there wasn't much doing at college and I didn't get my invite, so I thought I might as well come on home. Where are the folks?"

"Out at meeting just now, but they'll be back in a little while. Sit down, you must be tired."

Loren took a chair and sunk into it with a sigh of comfort. "You're right I am. I tell you it's hard work to walk a mile and a half with a suit-case. And all the time you were just sitting comfortably out here on the veranda listening to the katydids." He drew out his pipe and lit it. "Well, how are all the folks? Same as usual?"

"I guess so. Father's failing a little, and mother worries a good deal, but keeps pretty well."

"That's good. They must be mighty glad to have one of us at home to look after things. Lord, but I've often imagined you outdoors driving around in the open air and enjoying life when I've been plugging up for some beastly exam. But, apropos of the health bulletin, etc., is Janet Manning here still, or has she gone off to college?"

"No, she's teaching school at the Corners. I saw her a minute to-night, and she invited us up to supper there on Sunday."

"Good! That's something like. Shall be much charmed to see the little schoolma'am again. She's a slick little girl--at least she used to be.

In my opinion she's wasting her time up here in the woods. Why, that girl's got ability, and I call it a shame for her to bury herself in the country just for her mother's account. But say, isn't that a wagon coming?"

The two went down to the gate and stood there waiting for the buggy to draw up. When Mr. and Mrs. Waring were out, David took the horse to the barn and unharnessed in the dark. Then he reentered the house, and without saying anything more than "Good-night," went up to his room.

II

It was late in the afternoon of an August day. From the high gable windows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot through the dusty air in a long, straight shaft and rested on the lower part of the haymow, gilding every dry wisp with a temporary and fatuous splendor.

Elsewhere in the barn it was already half dark. On one side the hay rose up in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanished dimly in the dusky shadows. Opposite were the cow-stables, five of them in a row, each occupant munching her cud contentedly and now and then giving vent to a soft, self-satisfied low. From one of the stalls could be heard the rhythmical squirt of milk against the milking-pail, for David was engaged upon his evening work. On a rickety chair near the hay-loft sat Janet, holding a timid little barn cat in her lap and stroking it nervously. She was speaking in a voice that betrayed considerable agitation.

"Well, I'm just going to leave it with you to decide, for I'm not ready to do it myself. But it does seem to me that it's the chance of a lifetime. It's just a question of whether I shall always stay on here teaching district school, or see a little of the world and have a chance to go on studying."

She stopped, and a moment of strained silence ensued, broken only by the sound of the milking. David pressed his head against the flank of the cow and choked back something in his throat. Then he managed to speak.

"Of course, Janet," he said, with an attempt at composure. "I can see how it must attract you--this opportunity of going off to college, and I don't mean to put anything in your way. Such questions a person has to decide for one's self, and I don't see how I can give you any help."

"Yes, there you are again. You just won't say yes or no; but I am sure all the time that you don't really want me to go. You'd like to keep me here at home, just an ignorant, stupid country girl. Why don't you want me to make something of myself, David? I know I've got ability, and you know it as well as I do, but it isn't of any use to me here.

Wouldn't you feel proud of me if I went off and did something worth while?"

David could not answer at once. He sat with his eyes shut, his knees pressed rigidly against the pail, and against his head he felt the warm, throbbing pulse of the animal in front of him. Upon his mind a picture was forcing itself with cruel insistence. It was the Janet of a year hence, well-dressed, sedate, intellectual, with all her new college interests to talk of; and side by side with this he saw himself--what would _he_ be? Just the same as ever, only a little more awkward and out of date, and when he talked it would be of--yes, his cows, and the new pig, and the price of potatoes! It was Loren who would be suited to her then; it was they who would sit under the trees together and the farmer could go about his ch.o.r.es. The impossibility of her continuing to love him struck him with a new pang of conviction, and he felt helpless before it.

"Why don't you say something, David?" asked the girl, rapping her foot on the floor and unconsciously pulling the kitten's fur. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

David saw that he must speak, and he determined to dissimulate no longer. "No, Janet, but can't you see how it must look to me? How can you expect me to be happy over it? Do you suppose, dear, that you could feel toward me, after a year at college, just as you do now?

Don't you see how it would separate us and you'd have all your new friends and studies to take up your time and I'd just be plodding along here in the woods like a clod of turf? How could you ever keep on loving me? Don't you see, Janet, how it sort o' breaks my heart to say yes?"

The jets of milk shot into the pail with an angry rapidity. The bar of sunlight lay almost horizontally now across the upper emptiness of the barn, transforming the thick-hung cobwebs into golden draperies and accentuating the twilight gloom below. Janet threw the kitten out of her lap and, jumping from the chair, walked nervously to the window and looked out absently upon the meadow below.

"Well, I supposed it would come to that," she said, with some indignation in her voice. "It's nice to feel that you can't trust me out of your sight. Don't you think that if you really loved me as you say you'd be as glad as I was that I could get a better education? But of course, if you're afraid to trust me, why, I suppose I can give it up."

The strain of decision had been a hard one for Janet, and she was now on the verge of giving way under it. Her shoulders shook, and she put her face in her hands. David heard her sobbing softly.

"Janet," he said, "if you think that this is going to be a valuable thing for you, I'm not going to say a word against it. You know that every wish I've got is for your good, and that's G.o.d's truth. If you think it's best to go, I'm going to try to think so too, and I'll do everything I can to make you happy."

Janet had left the window and came toward him, a joyful smile breaking through her tears. "You are a dear, good boy, and I love you," she said, and allowed him to kiss her. He held her long in his big arms and his own eyes filled with burning tears.

He could not banish the thought that this might be the last time.

III

The gray desolation of a March afternoon brooded out over the wide meadows, out over the dim woods beyond, and still on to the half-visible hills in the distance, where it merged itself imperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. Though the rain was not falling, everything dripped with the damp. In front of the Waring farmhouse the road, wallowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirty streak under the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the house opened and David came out. His mother followed him anxiously.

"David, I hope it isn't bad news," she asked, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Can't you tell me about it?"

"Not now, mother. It's nothing very unexpected; I'll tell you later, but I'd rather wait a little while." He pushed open the gate and stepped out into the road, his heavy boots sinking in to half their height.

The mother watched him with strained attention as he set off towards the barn. There was a sort of savage aimlessness in his gait. His shoulders were bent forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked neither to the one side nor the other of the road. At the barnyard gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, and the small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back into the house.

David strode deliberately through the yard and out of the gate on the other side--the one that opened on the sloping meadow behind the barn.

Not a living thing was in sight. A chill, white fog had slowly settled over the land, obliterating outline and color, toning everything down to a monotonous sameness of appearance--a flat, unrelieved vacancy.