A Yankee from the West Part 34

"No, but since I woke up I do my work in about two-thirds of the time."

"Good for you! Oh, that feller Milford has stirred up the whole country."

"And when he gets through with that farm, madam, I'll take it. I don't think he'll stay a great while longer."

"Why, has he said anythin' about goin' away?"

"No, but with my shrewd eye I can see that he's getting restless. But I have no time to talk to you."

The season for breaking land and planting came, slowly through the stubborn and lingering cold, and Milford bent himself to the putting in of a large crop. His letters from Gunhild were rambling, but affectionate. She was now in Indiana. Her work in Michigan had been but partly successful. "I'm studying so that after awhile I may teach a regular school," she said. "But there is so much to learn and the examination is very hard. I met a man the other day who said that he knew you. He tried to sell you a book. He said that you were very hard to deal with. I told him that you must know what you wanted. Mr.

Blakemore was here three days ago, to look at some land. He came to the house where I board, and said that he is making much money. There was a church sociable and he wanted me to go with him, but I refused. He said that I never would succeed as long as I was so particular. And I felt that you would rather I be particular than to succeed. I do not want any success that you would not like. His little boy has been sick, but is well now. They are not coming out to Rollins in the summer. They are going further away to a more fas.h.i.+onable place. Mrs. Goodwin writes to me yet, so she has not forgotten me. She says that her discovery is marvelous. She asked about you. She believes that you will be rich one of these days. I told her in my letter that I did not want to think so, but I know that she cannot understand. She will not know that I do not want you to get so far away from me. But you would not. It is a dream with me to come out there once again. I never have seen a place more beautiful. The woods here are not so full of the sketches that no one can draw, and there are no lakes scattered everywhere. I may come for one week during the vacation."

June was cool, but July was hot, and with the change in the weather came Mrs. Goodwin and her discovery, a pale girl with long hands. The "discoverer" sent for Milford. She was graciously pleased to meet him again. "I am sorry we can't call back the old summer," she said, giving him her hand. "But the old summers never come back." She introduced him to the musical genius, Miss Swartz. Her pale lips parted in a white smile. Milford asked her to play. Mrs. Goodwin shrugged, glanced at the piano and said: "I can't let her touch that thing." If Mrs. Stuvic had heard this remark she would have bundled them off down the road. But she was out in the orchard at scolding heat with a retired policeman, sent by the city to board with her during the summer. Miss Swartz languidly waved herself out of the room, and Mrs. Goodwin, motioning Milford to a seat beside her on the sofa, commanded him to tell her all about himself.

"I haven't anything of interest to tell."

"Ah, the same close mouth. You hear from her quite often, I suppose. A strong woman. Don't you think so? I urged her to stay with me, but she thought it her duty to go away. Do you expect to reside here permanently? Gunhild likes this place so much. She's perfectly charmed with it."

"Which question shall I answer first?"

"Did I ask more than one? I haven't seen you in so long that I must rattle on at a fearful rate."

"I don't expect to live here permanently."

"Not if she should request it?"

"She will not request it. Our arrangements are not yet quite clear enough for such requests."

"Indeed? I fancied that it was all understood."

"It is, in a way, but we must have a very serious talk before there can be--be----"

"Anything definite," she suggested. "Yes, I understand. But this serious talk? How can that change your plans or have any bearing upon them?"

"That is for her to decide. I had a certain object in view before she entered into any of my calculations."

"Dear me, we are as far apart as ever. You must know that I dote upon that girl, and that consequently I am interested in you. But I needn't tell you this. You know it already."

"Yes, and I am grateful."

"But you will give me no hint as to what your object is. Don't you think I ought to know it?"

"She doesn't know it yet."

"But you must have told her something."

"A little, and she didn't urge me to tell her more."

"Do I deserve that reproach? I hope not. Really, she and you present a singular romance."

"It is not a romance; it's only a sort of understanding."

"But you say there is no perfect understanding. Oh, a sort of romance. I see. Well, you will make her a good husband and consequently a good living."

A vision of the Professor as he had sat amid his s.h.i.+fting toasts to woman arose before Milford. "Good husband, I hope; and a good living, I am determined," he said.

"You couldn't have made a better reply, Mr. Milford, if you had pondered a week. You are quite happy at times. It was voted last summer that you had good blood, and you must have it still," she added with a smile.

"Although you call yourself a Westerner, you are really from the East, I believe."

"Yes, but to live in the West soon rubs out the marks of all sections."

"True enough, I suppose. But do you expect to go back there?"

"Yes, but I don't know how long I'll stay. I may run out and come straight back. I can't tell. It all depends."

"Upon Gunhild's decision?"

"Not wholly. The fact is I can't explain myself. Oh, I could," he added, observing her wondering eye, "but I serve my purpose best by----"

"By showing that you have no confidence in me," she suggested. "No," she hastened to continue, "you have none. You have shown it all along. But why should I ask you to have confidence? We met by accident at a farm-house, during a holiday, at a time when real friends.h.i.+ps are rarely formed. Impressed by the ephemeral season, we recognize that we too are but fleeting, with changing likes and dislikes, the prejudices and predilections of an hour. Of course, my affection for Gunhild is lasting. Her interests and mine walk far down the road together, hand in hand. I could not expect you to see this; you saw her and all else stood about her in a dim radius. I was a shadow, dim or dark, as the day was light or heavy, the same as Mrs. Blakemore. My station ent.i.tled me to respect, and you gave it. But you did not feel that my love for the young woman ent.i.tled me to something closer than respect. You are no common man, Mr. Milford. Your face is a Vand.y.k.e conception of a spirit of adventure. You are a strength repenting a weakness; there are flaws in you, and yet I could wish that I were the mother of such a son."

"Don't," said Milford, touching her hand; "please don't. I honor you; I could get down on my knees to you. You're not a shadow. There is nothing in a shadow that makes a man bow his head in reverence. But I can't tell you."

"Is it so very bad, Mr. Milford?"

"Yes, it is worse than very bad."

He moved further from her, and looked at her as if he expected her to move also, but she did not. "There is redemption," she said; "moral redemption."

"There must be a material redemption," he replied.

"G.o.d demands that it must be spiritual," she said.

"But man insists that it must be earthly," he persisted.

"The gospel was tenderest coming from the mouth of one who had been infamous."

"Yes," he replied, "but then the blood of the Virgin's Son was still red upon the earth, and in the heart of the changing world that blood atoned for everything. It is different now. Man may forgive, but he wants the dollar."

"And he's goin' to get it unless you tie his hands behind him," said Mrs. Stuvic, stepping into the room. "Yes, you bet! Why don't you have that girl play the pian, Mrs.--I can't recollect your name to save my life."

"She didn't bring her music," Mrs. Goodwin replied, and the old woman "whiffed." "Music the cat's foot! Don't she know a tune? Tell her to give me a jig and I'll dance it."

"She won't play, Mrs. Stuvic. It's of no use to ask her."

"She won't? Well, then, she needn't. Mebbe she don't like my pian. But I want to tell you that it's as good as anybody's. I give a hundred and fifty dollars and a colt for it, and the carpenter painted it fresh this spring. But if she don't want to play, she needn't. What's become of that woman--out here last year? Can't think of her name, but her husband moped about and ended up by callin' your young woman a peach.

What's become of her?"

"She's gone to the seash.o.r.e, I understand," Mrs. Goodwin answered, looking slyly at Milford.