Part 11

At that moment Paul was leaning over the edge dangling a long string into the well; fishing, I supposed, in my ignorance. For days he had been going about with a dreamy look on his face that betokened a secret play of absorbing interest. I drew a breath of relief when I saw that he didn't look up at Marion's unguarded remark. All would have been well had I not been so misguided as to make a suggestion that aroused Marion's sense of duty and her persistent belief that I tried to shirk mine.

"Paul," said she, and even in that one word I detected the compassionate severity suitable to the extraction of a tooth--"do you know that we'll have to leave----"

"Marion," I implored, "wait till we get him into the house--he'll rouse the neighborhood."

I should have known better than to protest. Once started in the track of duty nothing short of a disastrous collision would stop her. She did pause, but merely to make a remark to me that led to a sharp altercation. We forgot our rule never to give way to our angry passions before Paul; indeed, he was so unusually silent that we didn't remember his presence until we were suddenly struck dumb by a shrill exclamation of impatient wrath that arose from the other side of the well.

"Dar-r-n it!" he ejaculated, with petrifying distinctness.

If he had turned into a quick-firing gun and dropped a shell at our feet the effect could not have been more paralyzing. Our boy had been carefully screened, not only from evil, but from vulgarity; he had never gone to Sunday school, nor been left to the care of a nursemaid. His companions were his toys and domestic pets; other children he had seen only from a distance, and he regarded them as curious, but not interesting, little animals. His face reflected the purity of his mind. I hesitate to say so, for obvious reasons, but his face at the age of seven was simply angelic; I mean, of course, normally, not when his mouth was wide open in the act of expressing bodily or mental anguish. And this is not merely his mother's opinion and mine; it is Aunt Sophy's also. Indeed, Aunt Sophy, who is never tired of drawing attention to his remarkable resemblance to a photograph of me as a boy, has gone much farther, and has given utterance to thoughts that we only think.

Therefore, we turned to each other in dumb amazement; then I raised the lantern to make sure that it really was Paul who had spoken. He was getting up from his crouching position and the light showed that his little mouth was tightly set and that his wide-open eyes sparkled like stars. Even as we stared at him his lips parted again, and again he said: "Dar-r-r-n it!"

I am thankful that the well was partially covered and that I was able to keep Marion from sliding into it. "_Paul!_" she cried in horror, "oh, Paul!"

I hastened to follow her lead. "Paul," I said, with fierce sternness, "what do you mean, sir?"

"I mean," he replied accusingly, "that it's all spoiled. They've taken fright at your squabbling and put out their lamps."

Again we stared at each other in questioning silence. What had taken fright we knew not, but we did know that we had squabbled.

"Where did you hear that dreadful word?" demanded Marion.

"Darn?" queried Paul, with innocent pride. "I heard William Wedder say something when the coal-oil barrel rolled on his foot, and when I asked him 'I beg your pardon?' he couldn't remember what he had said, then when I kept on asking him to try to remember he said it must have been an exclamation called _darn_. I think it's ever so much nicer than _bother_ or _good gracious_."

"It's a vulgar word, and only vulgar people use it," I commented reprovingly.

"Why, father, William said that when Joe Wrigley's horse stood up on his hind legs you said----"

"Paul," I interrupted hurriedly, "you said something took fright, and----"

"Hush!" said he, in a mysterious whisper, coming close to me. "It was the fairies. William said if we made an oil well and didn't say anything about it, they'd be sure to come to fill their lamps, and they have. I saw three of them climbing up my rope ladder when you frightened them off."

"Then you knew that William made this?" I exclaimed.

"Of course. I helped him to bury the barrel so that the fairies wouldn't know it wasn't a real natural well. He said if we kept it a secret it would be a pleasant surprise to you when I showed you the fairies. Hush! They're climbing up the rope ladder again. Peep down through that crack and you'll see them--very--ve--ry--quietly. There now--stand back. I'm going to help them up over the edge."

The next morning Peter Waydean came over to see me, his face wreathed in smiles, his manner most cordial. "Mr. Carton," he said genially, "I ain't on the hunt for oil wells this morning, but I was on my way to thank you for the trouble you took in rigging up that one when I met your little boy coming over to see me."

"Paul!" I exclaimed--"to see you?"

Peter nodded. "Great head on that little chap," he said. "'I don't want you to be angry at father about the oil well,' he says to me, 'for William and I made it together, and father didn't know anything about it,' says he, standing up straight and stiff. Then he told me the whole business, and although it turned out a good thing for me, I'm glad to know it was that scoundrel Wedder that tried to play it off, and not you. Paul was so tickled at me pretending to believe he really seen fairies that when he wanted me to say that I'd sell the farm to you just the same, I hadn't the heart to tell him it was sold."

"Sold?"

"Yes,--you see, I thought you had played that trick on me and I was so mad yesterday that when along comes another agent twice as keen to buy as them other two I jumped at the chance of selling. 'Name your price,' says he, 'to sell on the spot.' 'Six thousand,' says I, at a bluff. 'Done,' says he; and in five minutes the agreement was signed."

"Well," I said, with a sigh, "I suppose we'll have to move."

"Oh, I don't know," said Peter encouragingly. "Perhaps the party don't want to live here; though, considering the price," he added, with a shrewd smile, "he didn't buy just for speculation. They say he's got a fine place in the city and heaps of money, and he's just got married again to a widow. I might as well have asked another thousand, I believe."

"What is his name?" I asked, with sudden interest.

"Fairman. He owns--what--Mr. Carton, what's the----"

I relaxed my tense grip of his arm. "His first name?" I demanded eagerly.

"Joseph, I think. What's the matter?"

I am afraid my explanation was not very clear to Peter. I could not tell him the cause of my excitement, nor mention the fact that I had saved Mr. Fairman's life several times in one day, for that would have savored of boastfulness; so I hinted that when we were boys together Mr. Fairman had saved my life and had ever since regarded me with the highest esteem. Thus I preserved the main fact of our connection, only disguising it enough to let Marion see incidentally afterwards how careful I was to avoid the appearance of vainglory.

Now when I rushed into the house to tell Marion that Mr. Fairman had bought Waydean, I did so with the innocent exuberance of expectant delight with which children, not too sophisticated, view brown paper parcels that are delivered at their homes during the Christmas season. Marion's first thought, I could swear, was similar to mine; I could not mistake the vivid flash of happy gratitude that illumined her face, nor the sudden exclamation that was checked at the parting of her lips, yet her tone, when she did speak, expressed the utmost mystification. "Why,--how strange!" said she.

For an instant I did not comprehend her mental attitude, but I am remarkably adaptable, not by nature, but by training, and by a swift turn I avoided plunging headlong into an awkward situation. It would show a want of delicacy, a sordid mind, a vulgar expectancy, were I not to ignore the thought that we had both almost uttered. Even though I saw an equine nose, a flowing tail and four legs protruding through the brown paper, I must not guess it was a rocking horse; above all, I must not hope it was to be mine.

"Yes," I remarked, with innocent bewilderment, "it is very strange. I wonder why he bought it."

Truly I have learned a thing or two. My wife regarded me with admiration that she scarcely tried to hide. I had saved Mr. Fairman's life without adding a cubit to my stature in her estimation, but by this trifling observance of the proprieties, this delicate expression of native refinement, I stood exalted upon a pedestal.

"I wonder," repeated Marion, after me, in deep conjecture, "why he--bought--it?"

Our eyes met. In hers I could see a faraway amused sparkle; in my own I permitted a faint twinkle, then we both looked in another direction.

"Perhaps," I ventured cautiously, "Aunt Sophy will write and tell us."

"Perhaps she will," said Marion.

The reward of unconscious virtue arrived by the next mail, in the guise of a long letter from Mrs. Fairman.

"......I can scarcely realize that it is only three days since we said good-by," she wrote, "it seems so long ago. Of course we have been travelling most of the time and this is really the first chance I have had to write and tell you about the trip, and how constantly I think of your kindness to me, and what good reason I have to be grateful for the advice that had so much to do with my present happiness. Indeed, I confessed to Joseph how I was influenced by Henry's opinion, and he was quite affected. He keeps saying to me: 'A fine young man--a noble young man!' He describes to me over and over again how admirably Henry acted in the presence of danger the morning of our wedding; he says he hasn't a doubt but that for Henry's coolness and resource we wouldn't be married now. The thought makes me shudder! I suppose that is why I feel so nervous about him when he is out of sight; I am so afraid of another accident.

"But really, Marion, he hasn't been away from me for more than half an hour at a time, he is so devoted. Of course, with such large interests he has business to look after, but he does it altogether by telegrams. It amazes me to see the number he sends off, and I'm getting quite used to the shoals that arrive, but at first the sight of them made me feel quite ill. He never looks to see if there are more than ten words, and yesterday's hotel bill had an item of $7.62 for telegrams!

"Somehow I have been thinking a great deal of your poor Uncle Philip lately. I think it must be the resemblance I see in Henry to him that has brought him so vividly before me--and I have come to the conclusion that I was too hard on him about the farming. Of course he spent a great deal of money on it, but the spending gave him pleasure, and if he had taken to horse-racing or gambling, or something worse, as so many men do, I would have had real cause to complain. I am older now, and I see that married men when they get to a certain age are inclined to fret and chafe, and perhaps bolt, if they are tethered with too short a rope. I see, too, that I didn't do Philip any good by trying to keep him from farming. Now, dear Marion, I have something to write that will not offend you, I hope. I tried to say it last week, but I couldn't quite get my courage up, for you have a little bit of a temper, dear, and I knew that if I saw your eyes flash I would get flustered and make a bungle of it. You know I always supposed it was Henry's own determination that kept him from buying any implements but a spade, a rake and a hoe, but from something Paul said I have surmised that it was because you made him promise not to. Perhaps, at the time, that was a wise precaution, but you are differently situated now, and you should modify your views. Of course Henry will do exactly as you say, and never let you see what it costs him, and although I admire his common sense about saving money, I admire him much more for his unselfish, uncomplaining devotion to your ideas. I believe if he thought it would give you any pleasure he would go and cut off his little finger on the chopping block in the woodshed. But I would advise you strongly, Marion (since you need have no fear for the future), to let him spend all the money he wishes on the farm, and to keep all sorts of fancy stock. Let him go ahead for a year at least and take all the pleasure he can out of it, and you'll find it will pay in the end. There's just one thing I would shut down on, if I were you (though I don't think it's likely he'd want to do it, but you never can tell how far they may go if they once get started), that is, underdraining. I don't know anything about overdrains, but I do know that underdrains are simply ruinous, and if you keep Henry from underdraining I don't believe he can waste much money. Now, dear Marion, write soon and let your poor old aunt know that you are not offended by this suggestion."

Marion stopped reading, covered her face with her hands and laughed hysterically, exclaiming, "Oh, how funny! You poor,--poor, down-trodden creature!"

I was dumb with astonishment at first,--there was much food for reflection in the letter,--but what surprised me most was the absence of any allusion to Mr. Fairman's buying the farm. "Is that all?" I asked, with breathless incredulity.

It wasn't. Marion found another sheet marked, "Later."

"Joseph came in a few minutes ago and handed me one of those telegrams to read. Imagine my astonishment at finding he has bought Waydean for Henry! It seems that on our wedding-day he made up his mind to do this, and never said a word to me about it. If he had I certainly would have said he was too late. How fortunate, after all, that your bargain with Peter fell through. I think Joseph is more pleased to be able to make Henry a present of Waydean than about anything that has happened since we saw you last, and I can't tell you how glad I am. You see, Marion, Henry can go ahead with perfect confidence."

XIV

A PASTORAL CALL

For nearly two years I had rigidly adhered to Marion's scheme of inexpensive farming, with the result that we refrained from spending money at a rate that should have enabled us to amass a fortune in course of time. The rent which I paid to Peter practically included a bonus to him for working his own land, but this was a mere trifle to the outlay that would have been necessary had I essayed the rôle of an ordinary amateur farmer. Thus, from the standpoint of economy I can cheerfully testify that the plan was a success, but at times its chafing restrictions irritated me almost to the point of rebellion, as when I heard Abner Davis insinuate that I was not a regular farmer. This feeling, however, gradually wore away, as I learned that Marion's plan not only meant a pecuniary saving, but also a freedom from many responsibilities and worries inseparable from the lot of the ordinary farmer. At all times I could rise superior to the devastations of potato-bugs and cut-worms, early and late frosts, hog-cholera, hail-storms, floods, droughts, and mortgage interest. It was this consideration that made me hesitate to adopt Aunt Sophy's suggestion that I should indulge myself by launching forth in the fatuous career of the irregular farmer who spends his fortune in the delightful pursuit of a phantom profit, but when I began to fully realize that we owned Waydean and that I had five thousand dollars in the bank, the prospect of farming on a larger scale became distinctly alluring. At this point I suddenly made the astounding discovery that Marion had entered upon a policy of absolute non-interference in the matter. Not only did she neglect to point out the proper course for me to take, but she also declined to express an opinion or make a comment upon anything even remotely connected with farming operations; nor would she explain her reasons for this extraordinary behavior, or admit that she had reasons. I could only guess that it was Aunt Sophy's letter which had influenced her to this complete inaction and apparent indifference to my agricultural operations.

It was then that I became aware how dependent I was upon my wife's judgment and how much I distrusted my own. Like a caged bird unwittingly made free, I felt bewildered and forsaken and vainly tried to be restored to favor. I am amenable to reason, to flattery, or to anything else that helps to make life pleasant and more worth living; not so with Marion. It is hopeless to attempt to change her purpose by external influences, and I soon gave up the thankless task of trying to extract an opinion from her that she was bound to keep to herself. It was while I was still in a state of mental bewilderment over her behavior that Peter Waydean came forward with what appeared to be a most reasonable proposition. While I had been puzzling over what I should do with the farm, it appeared that he, by a curious coincidence, was in a similar state of indecision about what he should do without it. He hadn't realized, he said, when he sold the place to Mr. Fairman, how attached he was to the old homestead or how bereft of occupation he would feel when he no longer cultivated the land that he had cropped for half a century. He could scarcely make me understand how gratified he was that I, and not a stranger, was now the owner; indeed, the idea had occurred to him that, considering our friendly relations as neighbors, we might make an arrangement, to our mutual advantage--ahem!--to work the land on shares.

I had but a vague idea of what working land on shares meant, and I had to ask him to explain the term. Instead of giving me a precise definition, he began by pointing out that if I worked the farm myself I would have the expense of keeping a hired man all the year round, as well as extra hands in the busy season; I would have a continued outlay for farm-stock, implements, feed and sundries. On the other hand, if we worked the land on shares, he would be willing to do all the work himself and provide everything necessary, if I were willing to pay him the three hundred dollars that it would cost me to keep a hired man.

"And the produce?" I asked warily, though I felt inclined to agree on the spot.

Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully before he spoke. "I was going to say that we might share and share alike, but I'm ready to do more than that," with an expansive smile. "You see, as I told you once before, taking one year with another, farming don't pay, and you might have to share two years' losses against one year's profits." He paused for a moment, and I nodded knowingly. "Now," he continued, "I'll take the hull darned crop myself, and if it don't pay expenses you don't lose, but if there is any profit once in a while, I'll have something for horse and cow feed."

This offer sounded so generous that I almost succumbed; indeed, I would have agreed at once but for the caution inspired by my previous dealings with him, and the remembrance that Marion counted it one of my failings that my first impulse was always to agree with any plausible proposition. This thought gave me moral courage enough to withhold my consent until I had time to talk it over with my wife.

Now when I eagerly began to explain the advantages of working the land on shares I was so full of the subject that I forgot temporarily that Marion was leaving me to my own devices, nor did I remember till I paused for her opinion, and heard the interesting comment that I'd better get the whitewash mixed up so that we could do the kitchen right after dinner.

I mixed the whitewash with fierce energy. After dinner I applied it with a concentrated vigor that, properly distributed, would have whitened the White House. As I worked, I ruminated bitterly upon Marion's aggravating reserve, doubly annoying in that I had an instinct that she saw a fatal flaw in the plan which was not apparent to me. When I finished the walls and ceiling of the kitchen I found that I had incidentally whitened the stove, the floor and myself.

To my surprise, Marion made no comment on this as she prepared to scrub the floor, her features expressing calm content, with perhaps a suggestion of scornful amusement that was not definite enough to justify me in accusing her of implying that I hadn't done the work neatly. She had just dipped her scrubbing brush into the pail of water, and I was in the act of removing my bespattered overalls, when the front door-bell rang. It was such an unusual occurrence at Waydean for anyone to come to the front door that the sound of the bell at this juncture created a commotion. Neither of us was presentable, but Marion seized a towel and rubbed some splatches of lime off my face, hurried me into an old coat and declared I must go. I had learned previously that on any special occasion it is always the man who must go, so I did not protest. I even went willingly, for the bell rang a second time with a portentous reverberation that thrilled me with expectancy that something was about to happen, and I was in the mood to enjoy something happening. As I glanced at the mirror in the hall I was startled to see that my hair and beard were powdered a delicate gray with the lime, and that the lines in my face looked like the deep seams of old age, but as this couldn't be helped I opened the door with my usual air of inquiring dignity.

"How are you, Mr. Waydean?" demanded a hearty voice, and a large, bearded, black-clothed, silk-hatted man grasped my hand with a fervent pressure.

I am singularly open to sympathy, and at that particular time I would have welcomed the benediction of a wayside beggar, so I returned the hearty hand-clasp and replied that I was from fair to middling, warmly inviting him to walk into the parlor. It did not occur to me until he spread his coat tails and inverted his hat on the floor that he looked as if he might be an ex-clerical insurance or book agent, and I was rather more relieved than impressed when he announced that he was the new pastor of the only church in the neighborhood. I attempted to apologize for my disordered appearance and to explain that I was not a church-goer, also that Waydean was not my name, but that of the place.

"Not one word, Mr. Waydean," he interrupted, his deep voice drowning my courteous utterance. "You wouldn't think so, perhaps, but I was brought up on a farm, and I have learned that clothes do not make a man. Would you be a different person, let me ask, were you clothed in sheepskins or purple and fine linen?"

"I never tried either of those costumes," I answered, "but if you saw me in my ordinary clothes you wouldn't take me for a farmer."

"Come now, Mr. Waydean," he urged, tapping my knee insistently; "would you or would you not be the same man? A straight answer, if you please--no hedging."

"Well," I admitted, "I suppose I would be the same man, but I'd look mighty different."

He leaned back in his chair, contemplating me with a satisfied smile. "I am pleased to see that you are willing to grant that you are in error," he said, stroking his beard; "it's always better to tell the truth at first than to wait until you are obliged to do so. But this, of course, is not what I called to say, and I must come to the point. I've preached in this church two Sabbaths, and you have not been present. May I ask you why?"

"Well I--I'm not much in the habit of going to church. I----"

"Hedging again, Mr. Waydean," he said, holding up a warning forefinger. "I must insist upon your being perfectly frank. I have reason to suppose you have stayed away on account of this petty disagreement with Brother Bunce and Brother Lemon. Is not that the fact?"