Part 8

Marion rested her cheek against my unyielding shoulder and reassured me on every point in the gentlest, most affectionate manner, though, she knew I would be relieved to hear, I was under no responsibility in the matter. Anyway, it was only a form, and if I objected to doing it, Auntie could give herself away or send to Colorado for Uncle Richard. "Is that all?" she concluded.

It wasn't. I wanted to know what had become of the first Mrs. Fairman. After that, there was one thing more that it took much coaxing to extract.

"It doesn't seem fair," I burst forth, at last. "_He_ can't stop it, and they don't even consider whether he'd give his consent, if he had a chance." Marion stared at me stupidly, and I saw that she didn't understand. "Your Uncle Philip," I explained, in a low tone.

I do not care to repeat what she said. At the same time, I cannot see that such a thought is more irreverent than the fact that suggested it. Nor could I see that I should withdraw my objection because, as Marion averred, Uncle Philip would have remarried in a year if Aunt Sophy had died first. Indeed, I was unrelenting until we came to a complete understanding on the whole subject, as follows:--

(a) Second marriages, in the abstract, are objectionable.

(b) Second marriages are, occasionally, justifiable.

(c) _Some_ are INCONCEIVABLE.

IX

AUNT SOPHY'S GENEROSITY

I have often wondered how my wife's Aunt Sophy came to be so fond of me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Up to the time that she visited us at Waydean we had met only casually, yet at the end of that short visit we parted the warmest friends; indeed, she embraced me with motherly affection and implored me to take good care of myself and not work too hard. What, she suggested with tender solicitude, would Marion and dear little Paul do without me if I shortened my life by overwork? I was deeply affected by her thoughtfulness; my eyes glistened with emotion as I promised to be careful, for the mental picture of my family sorrowing over my worn-out frame made me realize what a loss I would be. But whatever her good opinion was based upon, force of circumstances tended to confirm it, for she found many details of our domestic economies that coincided with her ideas of good management, and never failed to attribute to me more than my proper share of credit for the same. It was impossible for me to advance an opinion on any subject without her enthusiastic approval, but whether she approved of the ideas because they were mine, or liked me because of them, I could not determine. Another thing that made her visit enjoyable was Marion's flattering desire to show me up in the best possible light. I was surprised to find that I could work through my repertory of entertaining stories, and yet have my wife join in Aunt Sophy's appreciative laugh with the zest of a first hearing; and whenever Aunt Sophy nodded to her in confidential admiration of my cleverness she would respond with a most charming flush of gratified pride. Not only that, but I have heard her, on occasions when I was supposed to be absorbed in my writing in the next room, allude to my admirable qualities in an artfully casual way; even stating, when the conversation turned on mining stocks, that she was thankful to say that Henry couldn't be induced to put a dollar into any such scheme!

But nothing I had said or done impressed Aunt Sophy as favorably as Marion's version of my opinion on second marriages. During the two months she spent with us at Waydean before her marriage I was often embarrassed by her expressions of gratitude to me for being instrumental in helping her to make up her mind. No one, she said repeatedly, had made her see her duty as clearly as I, and no one else could have said the same things (at this point she always paused to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes) in such beautiful and sympathetic language; young people so often thought that older persons had no right to marry. Nor could I disclaim the sentiments attributed to me when I saw what a comfort they were to the dear old lady.

She was very happy in her preparations, but to me there was something pathetic in her happiness, for I could not help thinking of poor Uncle Philip and wondering if she did too, but as far as I could find out I was the only person in the house who became a prey to saddening reflections. This perplexed me to such an extent that sometimes I was distracted by the fear that I, too, might be forgotten--a maddening conclusion, but logically unassailable. At such times I would hesitatingly ask Marion if she were sure Uncle Philip was forgotten, but she would only reply, "Tut!" or "Stop that!" in a vicious suppressed whisper. This was unsatisfying, but of course Marion did not understand my need of sympathy, and her mind was not in a favorable condition to consider questions relating to psychical research. I had seen her with Mrs. Taylor in the height of her rag-carpeting fever, but her delight in that was slight compared with the bliss of helping to plan Aunt Sophy's trousseau, and I soon realized that it was not a time when she would be likely to concern herself about either my present or future state.

But after the anniversary of our wedding day I determined that, as far as I was concerned, Uncle Philip might remain buried in oblivion; if he intruded himself into my thoughts I drove him forth again with contumely. Only thus could I preserve my self-respect, and at the same time feel that I was at all worthy to partake of the full measure of Aunt Sophy's generous affection. The feeling of sympathy that I had cherished for her deceased husband, and the half-reproachful tolerance of her projected second marriage, suddenly left me, and I not only transferred my sympathy to Mr. Fairman, but I began to hate the memory of Uncle Philip. I might not have gone as far as that if he had not persisted in haunting me after it had become impossible to harbor him without being disloyal to Aunt Sophy, but my conscience became clear when my change of sentiment could no longer be doubted. Had I still felt any mental reservation I could not have accepted her more than generous gift of a cheque for five thousand dollars which she insisted upon giving to each of us on the morning of our wedding anniversary, nor could we have refused without hurting her feelings.

"If you say another word," she declared, in response to our protests, "I'll be offended. It's a queer thing, indeed, if I'm not to be allowed to do what I like with my own money! You both know perfectly well that my future is provided for, and I'd rather have the pleasure of seeing you spend it now than put it away for you until after I'm gone, when you mightn't need it so much. You don't need it now? Of course not. Well then, you, Henry, if you can't think of anything else, might spend yours at the races; Marion can give a real nice ball with hers, if she wants to. Remember, I'd like each of you to spend your money without consulting the other, so that you'll feel perfectly free to use it in any way. Put it away for Paul? Not a bit of it. _I'll_ provide for Paul--the dear little old-fashioned pet! Do you know, he came to me yesterday with that solemn expression of his, and said, 'Auntie, I love you far more than if father had killed all my chickens for you to----'"

"Oh, Auntie," interrupted Marion, with forced gayety, "I've intended for ever so long to tell you about----"

I cannot bear anyone else to confess my sins, and just as the rapidly ascending pitch of Marion's voice indicated the approach of the climax I recovered my presence of mind and drowned her announcement with a loud laugh. "Awfully good joke!" I exclaimed. "Last year Paul raised such a hullabaloo about eating his that I--ha, ha, ha!--had to buy all we used......at the market!"

I had expected her to be astonished, perhaps shocked; evidently she wasn't. My laugh stopped short as I saw her nod in knowing assent and smile complacently.

"Auntie," cried Marion--"you knew!"

"Well," she admitted, "I won't say I _knew_ exactly, but I'll tell you how it happened. Perhaps you remember my saying last summer that Henry sometimes reminded me of your Uncle Philip?"

"Yes, you often said that he had uncle's smile and tone of voice."

"And then," she continued, "I noticed that it was always when I spoke about the chickens being so nice that I saw the resemblance, and I remembered that Philip, when he raised fancy fowls, used to bring me chickens every time he came from the farm, and I never suspected that he bought them at the market until one day we had a pair for dinner that couldn't have been less than ten years old."

"I--thought it--would spoil--your appetite if you knew," I began penitently.

Aunt Sophy laughed, then sobered again in tender reminiscence. "Just what poor Philip said," she mused, shaking her head. "He was a good judge of meat and poultry, but he didn't do as well as you, Henry. There isn't one man in a thousand who could choose as many tender chickens without being taken in. I never would have guessed they were bought ones if you hadn't come home one day with a pair of legs sticking out of the parcel under your arm. It was so good of you, Henry, to take all that trouble to spare that little darling's feelings. Not many fathers would have been so unselfish and considerate."

I said nothing. I can endure being admired for my virtues, but Aunt Sophy's commendation made me dumb with excess of emotion and joyous surprise. I had thought myself a pretty good sort of fellow, but the revelation of how much better I really was than I had seemed began to visibly affect me. I became so agitated that I could feel my nose beginning to twitch like a rabbit's. Marion and Aunt Sophy also looked hysterically inclined to fall into each other's arms in an ecstacy of forgiveness, so I hastily retreated to my study. There was a stovepipe hole in the partition between the two rooms through which detached and semi-detached words were wafted to my ears. Some people would have been self-conscious enough to move out of hearing or to cough artificially, but I do not shrink from the truth. I knew that I was being alluded to, but I knew also that there was no more danger of my being puffed up by self-conceit than of a proprietory stamp enriching the contents of the original package.

"He's......tender-hearted, Auntie......couldn't bear......Paul's chickens."

"......like your......Uncle Philip!"

"......wouldn't slap......mosquito." (No; I'd rather blow him from the mouth of a cannon. H. C.)

"Poor Philip......once stepped......toad......quite ill."

"Henry......so thoughtful......do anything......make me happy."

"Yes......kindest husband......so much sense......Philip different......wouldn't listen......about farm."

"Mr. Fairman......devoted......be happy......do anything."

"Oh, Marion!......think I'm......old goose."

I know when a conversation becomes confidential, and I quietly retreated without hearing anything further except some indistinct murmuring and happy sobs.

From the day my bank account was increased by the sum of five thousand dollars I made up my mind to spend it all, if necessary, in the purchase of Waydean. I exulted in the anticipation of Marion's delight and amazement on finding that I had preferred to do this in place of frittering it away in luxuries that we could do without, or investing it in stocks. I almost wished her birthday was at hand so that I could celebrate the day by making her a present of the place; then the idea of giving it to her on Aunt Sophy's wedding-day entered my mind, and this seemed such a capital plan that I decided to carry it out. Few men, I meditated, would have thought of such a graceful acknowledgment of Aunt Sophy's kindness, and I felt that Marion would be doubly pleased that I should think of adding to the joy of the eventful day. I could not help wondering what my wife intended doing with her money, but she didn't say anything to enlighten me, and I took good care not to allude to it, for fear she should question me in return. She made frequent trips to the city, carrying her little bank-book with an air of importance, but I could see nothing in the results of her shopping to indicate lavish expenditure. For instance, on one trip she bought a wire potato masher for seven cents, a spice cabinet for thirty cents, sixty cents worth of trimming for an old hat, and a pair of silk suspenders for me. The price mark on the latter was carefully obliterated, being a present, so I couldn't tell what they cost; anyway, it wouldn't have been proper to look at the price, if it had been legible. Evidently, at that rate of spending she would have enough money left to stock the farm when it became hers.

The real estate agent whom I consulted smiled loftily when I alluded to Peter Waydean's reputation for shrewdness and overreaching. "Don't concern yourself about that, Mr. Carton," he said. "We business men are accustomed to deal with these close-fisted farmers. They usually know the value of a farm as well as we do, but we know how to get them down to the bottom figure. We don't run after the owner and let him think we're anxious to buy; we approach him in the most incidental manner, dangling the bait, so to speak, until he's afraid someone else is going to snap it up. Now, the Waydean farm I take to be worth about thirty-five hundred, and you say the old man talks of selling, so if you allow a margin of a hundred or two I think I can secure it without any trouble."

The calm confidence of Mr. Brooks elated me; after telling him he might go as high as four thousand dollars, I went home, calculating on the way how I would spend the remaining thousand that I would still have to the good.

A week later Brooks shook his head as I entered his office. "We haven't quite got that deal through, Mr. Carton," he said. "The fact is that there seems to be a snag. Old man appears willing to sell--quite genial and all that, but when it comes to figures he fights shy; says he wants more time to think. To hurry him up I made a straight offer of four thousand. I could see that he was inclined to gobble it, but he held back, and when I went out yesterday I discovered why. Ever hear of that being a likely spot for oil or gas?"

"Good heavens, no!" I cried.

He smiled at my evident alarm. "I haven't either," he assured me, "but I thought perhaps you might have inside information. The idea came into my head when I found there was another party as keen to get the place as you."

"Another--party?" I gasped.

"I met Roper--of Bates and Roper, you know--coming out of the old man's house yesterday. I guess we each suspected the other of being on a private speculation, but after considerable sounding I found that he had been commissioned to buy the place. Then it struck me that you and this other party might have been quietly prospecting."

I shook my head. "I'm not after oil or gas wells or anything else in that line," I said decidedly. "I want the place for a quiet home. Who is this other--man?"

"I don't know. Roper didn't name his client, and of course I didn't name mine, but as far as I can make out we've both had similar instructions. It looks as if the old man were holding off to see who would make the highest bid. Now it isn't worth more than four thousand, but you can decide whether to bid higher or let it go."

If anything could have made me more eager it was the knowledge that someone else wanted Waydean. The thought of Marion's dismay if our home should be sold over our heads filled me with the determination to settle the matter at once. I told Brooks to go ahead to the extent of five thousand dollars.

"Well," he said, shaking his head with reluctance, "I'd rather lose my commission than see you give that, for the land isn't worth the money,--that is, for farming," he added, with a shrewd glance at me,--"but that's your look-out, and I'll do my best."

X

UNCLE BENNY CREATES A DIVERSION

It was during the first eighteen months of our life at Waydean that I wrote "The Meditations of Uncle Benny" for the _Observer_. I do not allude to these sketches as anything out of the ordinary, for there are times, as Marion says, when it is well for one to neither affirm nor deny the truth. Why it is wrong for me to voice a just and critical appreciation of my literary work, and proper for my wife to openly admire her newly scrubbed floor or her arrangement of flowers in a vase, I cannot see. Nor can I get her to explain; she prefers to say that if I cannot see for myself it would be useless for her to try to make me understand,--a baffling inconsequent remark. Nevertheless I am willing to believe that some things are too subtle for my comprehension, and that her instinct is invariably to be depended upon; also, that the less I express my admiration for what I have written, the more open and unrestrained her appreciation will become. Consequently, although when the first of the Uncle Benny sketches appeared in print I laughed and applauded as heartily as if the author were unknown to me, I learned to regard the later ones with almost gloomy indifference, or even to subject them to adverse criticism, this course being the one most likely to lead my wife to praise the artistic excellence of my work.

Personally, I make no claim to artistic excellence,--it would be neither becoming nor tactful for me to do so,--but I may mention that the circulation of the _Weekly Observer_ doubled, and then trebled; also that as a result of the popularity of Uncle Benny it soon became necessary to copyright each instalment in advance of publication to prevent unauthorized copying by exchanges. I have noticed that to some authors is given the art of writing so that their work appeals to their fellow-creatures at a certain stage of development; others, again, have that broad human sympathy that puts them in touch with young and old, cultured and uncultured, wise and foolish. I had no wish to add to the sum of human wisdom and culture, but it was a delight to me that Uncle Benny made people merrier. Paul, at the age of seven, William Wedder, three score years older, were equally infatuated. On Saturday mornings Paul would insist upon having Uncle Benny read aloud to him during breakfast, then he would carry off the paper to peruse it himself at leisure, while William could ill conceal his impatience at having to await his turn. Most authors read their own works aloud, in public, to their friends, or in the family circle; I do not. It is only fair to state that I might not have reached this exalted plane but for my wife. It was she who made me understand the injustice, the blind selfishness, the distressing egotism that permits an author, revelling in the enjoyment of his own imaginings, to inflict them upon a helpless listener whose capacity for appreciation is so infinitesimal in comparison. It was she who showed me that Rossetti's sketch of Tennyson reading Maud was not merely a crude picture of the great poet by his friend, but a revelation of the long pent-up sufferings of one who was doomed to sit in an attitude of attention, under the watchful eye of The Author Who Reads His Own Works, ready to respond at a glance with a nod, a smile or a tear.

Therefore it was Marion who read Uncle Benny to Paul and Aunt Sophy and the author; it was I who, one morning during the reading, heard an unusual sound from the kitchen. Fearing that William, who was taking his breakfast there, had at last miscalculated his swallowing capacity and needed help, I quietly withdrew from the table and opened the door into the kitchen. To my amazement it collided with William's head, and he straightened himself up when he had recovered his equilibrium and looked at me with flushed cheeks and a foolish smile, making no attempt at explanation. Did I ask for one? Certainly not. I begged his pardon and hastened to get the liniment as if it was a most reprehensible act of mine to open the door without warning. I felt angry and humiliated that he had placed me in such an awkward position, but I could not be brutal enough to show my resentment by accusing him of eavesdropping, especially when it appeared to be the case. When he had recovered his speech and remarked incidentally that he was in the act of picking up his hard-boiled egg which had rolled in front of the door, I expressed the keenest regret for my carelessness and assured him I would be more cautious in future.

Yet the revelation of his depravity was a distinct shock to us until I found that it was the reading of Uncle Benny that had attracted the dear old man, and that he could not resist the impulse to get within earshot.

"I may as well own up," he confessed, at last, "that the way the missis reads them stories is as refreshin' to my mind as raspberry pies is to my stomach. She do read most beautiful, and when I hear Master Paul chippin' in with them odd sayin's and you and that old lady laughin' so cheery I jest can't help listenin'."

William's spontaneous appreciation was delightful, and I found his admiration for my fictitious Uncle Benny most amusing, considering how unconscious he was that I was the author, and that he cordially detested the original of the character, Peter Waydean. But I ceased to enjoy his enthusiasm when it threatened to become a mania, for he unbosomed himself one day of a plan he had made to go to the city to make the personal acquaintance of Uncle Benny at the _Observer_ office. I tried to dislodge this idea, showing him the absurdity of looking for a person who probably didn't exist, but I was mistaken in thinking my arguments effective, for in a few days I found a letter at my office addressed to Uncle Benny in William's crooked handwriting. I read it with rising indignation.

"Dear Uncle Benny," he wrote. "I am unknown to you and you to me but your writings has made me feel as if we was old chums. I wanted to go to the city to have a chat with you but the boss he kicked. He says I might be took up for a lunatic if I went to the Observer asking for you. He says there aint no such person and if there was he would be some young whip snap that would call the devil and the hoist man to run me out for thinking he was a old man like me. He says it aint none of my business how old you be and what you look like. He says your blame curiosity William might land you in the police cells. Now as far as I can make out you must be well up in years and you write darn good stories. Now I got one or two good stories about the boss that is too good to keep. He aint a regular farmer and he don't know much about working land. He says the way to make the farm pay is to keep from paying out money on it and when I tell him we need a implement he asks how much will it cost and when I tell him he puts that much in the bank and says we can do without. There aint a implement on the place but three. That shows what kind of a man he is but I ain't going to let him scare me off if you drop me a line to say you want to hear them stories.

"WILLIAM WEDDER."

It was well that I was not within reach of William when I read his epistle, for my wrath would have descended upon him, but having time to think it over before I reached home I concluded to preserve my incognito by ignoring the matter; besides, I was exceptionally busy that week as Aunt Sophy's wedding was near at hand, and I could not afford to risk the loss of his services at such a time.

As I neared the house that afternoon I heard loud voices in the yard, and when I got within sight I saw my hired man and Peter Waydean walking around each other in the attitude of quarrelsome dogs about to spring.

"I tell you," snarled Peter, "them darn hens has been living on my field peas, and I believe you drove them over there in the first place."