MCCLELLAND AND STEWART
PUBLISHERS TORONTO
Copyright, Canada, 1937
by McClelland & Stewart Limited
Printed in Canada
Press of the Hunter-Ross Company Limited
To
my son GEORGE this
book is affectionately
dedicated
| CHAPTER | PAGE | |
| I | His Plan | 13 |
| II | What He Discovered | 20 |
| III | Fighting Stars | 27 |
| IV | Medical Advice | 34 |
| V | Henry's Views on Education | 42 |
| VI | The Picnic | 52 |
| VII | The "Twins" | 60 |
| VIII | First Aid | 66 |
| IX | A Little Picture | 73 |
| X | Checking the Agent | 81 |
| XI | Another Blunder | 90 |
| XII | Her Desperate Idea | 97 |
| XIII | "The Stars are Comin'!" | 104 |
| XIV | A Discovery | 112 |
| XV | Startling News | 121 |
| XVI | Under Cover of Night | 129 |
| XVII | A Worthy Champion | 137 |
| XVIII | On Guard | 145 |
| XIX | Stanfield Makes a Call | 154 |
| XX | The "Shooting" Begins | 163 |
| XXI | Pressed into Service | 172 |
| XXII | The Thrilling Stunt | 179 |
| XXIII | A Morning Call | 186 |
| XXIV | Revelation | 193 |
| XXV | At the Store | 201 |
| XXVI | The Night Visit | 208 |
| XXVII | Trapped | 217 |
| XXVIII | For Her Sake | 227 |
| XXIX | Discovered | 236 |
| XXX | What the Picture Revealed | 244 |
| XXXI | Henry's "Specimen" | 251 |
| XXXII | The Final Test | 257 |
| XXXIII | The Uncle | 263 |
Although Charles Stanfield was a wealthy man he was far from happy. Everything that money could buy was at his command. He had merely to give the order and it would be fulfilled without delay. From a worldly point of view he was an outstanding example of a prosperous man who had fought his way to the top of the ladder of success. By many he was admired for his keen business qualities; by others he was feared and hated. He was considered a hard man, and merciless in any transaction where money was the object of his pursuit.
But as he sat on the spacious veranda of his noble and luxurious suburban house, thoughtfully smoking an after-dinner cigar, his life to him seemed an utter failure. The evening was balmy and refreshing, a pleasant contrast to the intense heat of the day. The air was redolent with the scent of rare and old-fashioned flowers from the well-kept gardens surrounding the house. Smooth velvet lawns sloped gently to the street beyond, over which arched the outspreading branches of lordly maple and elm trees. It was an entrancing spot, and the admiration of all who looked upon it. But it was too trim and neat. Seldom did any weary wayfarer rest beneath the shade of those old trees, and never did little children wander along the gravelly walks nor tumble and play upon the grassy lawns. It was a paradise sealed so far as any touch with the outside world was concerned, and it had been so for years.
By Stanfield's side sat a man, somewhat younger, silently smoking. His strong intellectual face betokened the deep student. And so he was, for William Radcliffe, besides being the president of Strongbow University, was an authority on botany, and his lectures were always an outstanding feature of the college curriculum. Twenty years before when he had been called to his present position, the university was weak and tottering to its fall. But through his ability and the generous gifts of his friend, Charles Stanfield, a marked improvement was soon effected, and the institution ere long became one of the strongest in the entire country. Stanfield had endowed several chairs, and also had given large sums chiefly for the sake of his friend. Radcliffe was most grateful for such assistance, and he hoped that Stanfield in his will would make further liberal contributions. Of course, he had not even suggested this, although it was often in his mind. So when he had been invited to take dinner with his friend for the purpose of considering a very important matter, he cherished the idea that his hopes were at last to be realized. He confided this to his wife that afternoon.
"Charles is greatly changed of late," he remarked, "and since his serious illness he does not seem to take much interest in financial matters. Why, I was with him last week for over an hour and he never once referred to money."
"It was his sickness, no doubt, which made the change," Mrs. Radcliffe replied. "When he has regained his former strength he will be the same as before. He needs cheering up a bit. Ask him over here for dinner to-morrow."
"I am afraid he would not consent to come, dear. He seldom goes anywhere now. I know that the sight of our happy family only intensifies his loneliness. He told me so once, and said that he would gladly give all he possesses to have such a family of his own."
"I wonder who will get his money, William? Perhaps he will leave something to our children as he is so fond of them."
"No doubt he will remember them. But my opinion is that he will leave most of his wealth to the university. He has taken a great interest in it, and has received several honors in recognition of his gifts."
Radcliffe was thinking of this as he sat on the veranda by the side of his companion. Stanfield was unusually silent this evening, and several times he sighed. At length Radcliffe felt that he could endure the silence no longer.
"What a beautiful place you have here, Charles," he began.
"Beautiful, do you say?" Stanfield asked, arousing himself and turning his eyes upon his friend's face. "Yes, I suppose it is beautiful, but what is the use of beauty if you cannot enjoy it?"
"But what is there to interfere with your enjoying it?"
"Many things, William, and it is to talk over this very matter that I have asked you to spend a few hours with me this evening. I wish to apologize for taking you away from your family."
"Oh, do not mind that, Charles. They can get along very well without me for a while. We shall have the whole summer together, as this is just the beginning of vacation."
"You are a fortunate fellow, William." Stanfield again sighed as he knocked off the ash from his cigar into an ash-tray near by. "You can enjoy life because you have others to enjoy it with you. But with me it is different. What does all this beauty amount to?" He waved his hand toward the flowers, lawns and trees. "I have been so engrossed for long years in making money that I have lost all sense of the beautiful things of nature."
"But why did you have all this done then? Why did you not let your grounds grow up in weeds and bushes?"
"Partly for the sake of appearance, and partly in the hope that I might learn to enjoy it. But it's no use. It means little or nothing to me. If I had others to enjoy it with me, it might make a difference, but the very sight of it is almost like gall and wormwood to me now."
"You surprise me, Charles."
"No doubt I do, and perhaps I am foolish to talk in this manner to-night. But I am getting along in years, and since my serious illness I look upon life from an altogether different point of view. Until I was laid aside, I considered the making of money the only thing worth while. Ever since I left home as a poor boy I gave my whole mind and soul to that. And I have succeeded, but at what a cost! For the sake of money I sacrificed all the finer instincts of my nature, and all my family ties have been so severed for so many years that I do not know how many relatives I have living. My two brothers died childless, and my only sister left several children, so I heard at the time of her death. But how many, and what they are like I have not the remotest idea. They know nothing of me, I suppose, whether I am dead or alive, for my sister was a proud, high-spirited woman, who naturally resented my neglect of her. She married a worthless fellow, a drifter through life."
"Is he living?" Radcliffe asked.
"He died years before my sister."
"How did she manage to get along after his death?"
"I do not know, and that is one of the things which is causing me so much trouble now."
Stanfield rose from his comfortable chair and walked slowly up and down the veranda. Radcliffe noted the expression of agony upon his face as he silently watched him.
"Yes, William," he continued, "if I had only gone to her when her husband died and helped her, what a joy it would be to me now, and what a comfort I might have been to her through her years of widowhood."
Wearily he resumed his seat, and leaned his head upon his right hand. His cigar had gone out, but he still clutched it between the fingers of his left hand.
"It all came to me while I was lying in the hospital. Marion seemed to be very near me, and I saw her over and over again just as she looked when we played together as children. Try as I might I could not get her out of my mind, and gradually the longing came upon me to have her with me once more. This increased in intensity as the days passed, and although I knew that such a thing was impossible, I began to wonder if I could not do something for her children, that they in return might prove a comfort to me in my old age."
He paused and gazed out among the trees through the steadily-deepening twilight. Radcliffe sat very still, although his mind was most active. He was not at all satisfied at this unexpected turn in the conversation. His bright vision of a big endowment to the university did not seem so bright, for he saw instead Stanfield's money going to those shadowy and far-off nieces and nephews. They might be a useless lot who would not make good use of the money, but would squander it in a reckless manner. Stanfield should be warned.
"Suppose your sister's children are unworthy of your assistance or are incapable of looking after your money should you leave it to them?" he suggested. "They may be very common and ignorant, and so your bequest would do them more harm than good. Have you considered that?"
"Marion's children could never be ignorant or common, William. With her blood in their veins, and with her teaching and influence they surely must be above the ordinary. While she was alive and with them I am certain that she kept them respectable. But what may have happened since her death is what I fear. They may be married now and have families of their own. They may have gone down in the scale of humanity. Oh, there are many things that may have happened to them. But I am going to find out, and I want you to help me."
"Why, what can I do?" Radcliffe asked in astonishment. "I know nothing about your family."
"That doesn't matter, William. I want you to go with me to find out. This must be kept a strict secret between us two. I have thought out the details, and to tell you the truth, I feel strangely enthusiastic about the adventure. I want to visit the place where my sister spent the last years of her life, and learn all I can about her children. I shall go, of course, under an assumed name, so no one will have any idea who I am. If I should meet any of my nieces and nephews they will have no suspicion that 'Daniel Doncaster' is their uncle, for that is the name I intend to take."
"But what are you going to do with me?" Radcliffe demanded.
"Make use of you as a botanist, of course. If I should arrive in a village alone with my chauffeur, what reason could I give for hanging about the place for several days? But if we go as tourists, traveling through the country for the purpose of studying the plants of the different communities, it would help out a great deal. You will have to do all the necessary talking about flowers, for to tell you the truth, I hardly know one from another."
"And what will you do?"
"I? Oh, I shall keep still, smile, look wise, and pretend to know all about your jargon. But if you will look after the flowers, I'll attend to family affairs. I guess my business training ought to help when it comes to ferreting out information. You can leave that to me. Now, are you willing to undertake this adventure? I want your company as well as your assistance."
"I see no reason why I should not go with you," Radcliffe replied. "I shall enjoy the trip, I know, and may get some rare specimens as well. I have never been to that part of Canada. Your sister lived in New Brunswick, so I believe."
"Yes, on the Saint John River, a stream noted for its beauty, and well named the 'Rhine of America.' We have no river in the United States like it to my way of thinking. It is attracting many tourists from this country every summer. They go not only for the scenic beauty, but for the refreshing coolness of the climate. Just wait until you see and you will then confess like the Queen of Sheba that the half has not been told."
"You have been dinning this into my ears for a long time," Radcliffe smilingly reminded. "I have seen much of Canada, your wonderful British Columbia, the great prairie provinces, and your fine Ontario and Quebec, but I have missed seeing your Bluenose land."
"You have something to look forward to, then, William, and I am going to introduce you to the beauties of Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and New Brunswick. Just wait until you see the noble Saint John River and its tributaries, the far-famed Annapolis Valley, and the Island, then I am sure you will be as enthusiastic as I am."
Stanfield was almost like a boy now as he outlined the proposed tour. Radcliffe listened in silence, wondering what would be the outcome of the adventure. He knew from experience how useless it would be to oppose his companion's plans. But the thought of those nieces and nephews, and what the finding of them might mean to his beloved university was more in his mind than the prospect of seeing new lands, no matter how wonderful.
After several weeks of pleasant traveling Charles Stanfield and William Radcliffe reached the little town of Radnor, and put up at the only hotel the place contained. It was evening, and after supper the two men sat and smoked under a big horse chestnut tree near the building. The sun was still shining brightly, and not a breath of wind ruffled the surface of the Saint John River but a short distance away.
"This is worth coming a long way to see," Radcliffe remarked, as his eyes wandered out over the water. "This is the climax of all the wonderful scenes we have beheld since we left home."
"I am glad that you have confessed at last," Stanfield replied. "You know now that I was not exaggerating when I told you about the beauty of these provinces down by the sea."
"The half was not told me, Charles. I shall never doubt your word after this."
"My name is Daniel now, remember. I am entered in the hotel register as 'Daniel Doncaster,' so please bear that in mind. It is here where I am to begin my inquiries about my nieces and nephews, so we must be careful."
"So this is where your sister lived?"
"It is one of the places, and here she died, so I believe. I am anxious to find out as much as possible, so I shall have an interview with the hotel keeper. He seems like an agreeable man, and should be able to give me some useful information."
"And I am anxious to get out into the fields, Charles. Oh, excuse me, I mean Daniel. Confound it! I am going to find it hard to remember that every time I speak to you."
Both men laughed heartily as they separated, one to his beloved flowers; the other to begin his family search.
Stanfield found the hotel keeper in his office sorting out some mail which had come for his guests.
"You have many visitors here during the summer, I see," Stanfield began as he looked down upon the guest-book lying upon the desk.
"Yes, this is our busy time," was the reply. "I have no end of trouble with letters, though. Now, here are three for a man who left town yesterday, and I have no idea where to send them."
"You have lived here for some time, I suppose."
"Most of my life. I was born just a few miles away."
"It is certainly a beautiful spot."
"You were never here before?"
"No. But I have heard much about it. I knew a man many years ago who lived somewhere near here. His name was Rivers. Perhaps you have heard of him."
"Oh, John Rivers. Yes, knew him well, poor fellow. I helped to lay him out after he was drowned. It is generally believed that he committed suicide, although it could not be proved."
"What was the trouble?"
"Oh, he got mixed up in some affair in the city, lost what money he had and his position as well. He became depressed when he failed to get another job. He was a hard worker, and honest as the sun. I have the opinion that he was made the scapegoat while others got off free. But you can't make people around here believe that."
"Any of his family living here?" Stanfield asked as indifferently as possible.
"None now. His wife died several years ago, and I hardly know where his two daughters are. One is a school teacher somewhere, and the other is in the States."
"Married?"
"Guess not. It might be better if she were."
"Why?"
"Oh, I can't very well explain. Those two sisters were not one bit alike. Nita, the school teacher, was steady as clock-work, and stood by her mother to the last. But Ruth was flighty, wanted to get away from home and make a name for herself. She's been following the Stage, so I understand, and that doesn't sound good to us here."
"There were no other children?"
"No, just the two girls. And, my! they were handsome, pretty as pictures, and as independent as if they owned the world. People said they were too independent. But I guess they came by it naturally, for their mother was that kind. Why, when she was left with those two girls on her hands she wouldn't take a cent in charity, but went right to work."
"What did she do?"
"Anything that she could find that was honest. For some time she took in washing, and did scrubbing and housecleaning as well. She did most of the scrubbing here until her health failed. Then she did sewing until a short time before her death. She was a remarkable woman and all respected her very highly."
Stanfield hardly heard these last words, for he had turned away his face lest he should betray his emotion. He looked absently through the office window out upon the river. Something, almost like fire, was shooting through his brain, causing the perspiration to stand out in beads upon his forehead. He had been totally unprepared for such news as this. So his only sister had been struggling for years like that—scrubbing and taking in washing until her health had failed! And then sewing until a short time before her death! And while she was doing all this he had been piling up money just for his own selfish interest! He had been traveling and living in luxury while she had been grubbing from day to day in her effort to provide for herself and daughters! But what had the girls been doing? Did the mother work herself to death for them? He hesitated a little ere asking this question. What would the answer be? Would it prove them to be unworthy of any effort on his part?
"And what were the daughters doing all this time?" he at length asked in a low voice.
"Oh, Ruth worked in the city when she got old enough, trying to earn her own living. But when she could do little there she became discouraged and went to the States, as I told you. But Nita stayed at home, and did all that she could, looking after the garden and the chickens, and sewing her fingers off. She stuck right by her mother to the very last."
"And what then?" Stanfield almost whispered the words.
"Sold the house and put herself through Normal School. She had hard scraping, though she managed to do it somehow. I bought the house, thinking it might be a good bargain, but I have it still on my hands."
"How much do you want for it?" Stanfield asked.
"Anything that I can get for it now, although I was asking two thousand."
"I'll take it."
The hotel keeper looked quickly up, startled and amazed.
"You want to buy that house, sir?"
"I do. Have the deed made out as soon as possible, not to that name," motioning to the register, "but to this," and he handed him his business-card. "Please keep my name a secret for a time, at least. Stanfield means nothing to you, nor to any one in Radnor. But for the present I wish to be known only as 'Daniel Doncaster.'"
It was an unheard of thing for Stanfield to act in such an impulsive manner. In every step of his business career he had thought out most carefully the smallest detail. But now he was about to buy a house on the spur of the moment, with not the slightest idea as to what the building was like. What he would do with the property he did not know. Neither did he care. He only knew that the house in which his sister had died appealed to him most strongly. He could do nothing for her now, but he could keep the house from going to strangers, and he would do what he could for her children. In that way he might be able to make some atonement for his neglect.
"Have you the key to the house?" he asked the hotel keeper. "I wish to have a look at the building. Is it far from here?"
"Only a short distance," was the reply. "I will show you the way as I am not very busy just now."
It took them but ten minutes to pass from the hotel to the end of the narrow sidewalk, and a few minutes more brought them to a little cottage standing a short distance from the street.
"This is the place," the hotel keeper explained, as he unlatched a small gate and pushed it open. "It's been neglected so long that it's in a pretty bad shape."
Stanfield made no reply but walked slowly up to the front door. A few flowers were visible, struggling bravely up through a jungle of weeds. Large shady trees surrounded the building, the only things of any apparent value there. The house was dilapidated, gray and weather-beaten, with many of the clapboards falling off. Panes of glass had been broken out, and the porch was in ruins. The interior was in a worse condition. The wall paper was hanging in strips, and in several places large pieces of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Stanfield gazed ruefully around.
"So this is where the Rivers lived, eh?" he queried. "My! what a mess. And this is what I am about to buy."
"Five years have made a great difference sir," his guide replied. "It was quite neat at the time of Mrs. Rivers' death. That's the room right in there where she breathed her last," and he pointed to a small bedroom on the right.
A slight sigh escaped Stanfield's lips as he walked to the door and looked in. He found it difficult to control his feelings.
"I wish to stay here a while and look around," he said. "Thank you for showing me the way. You might as well leave me the key so I can lock up."
The hotel keeper left, wondering what could be the stranger's special interest in the old house. Perhaps the man wanted to repair it and use it for a summer dwelling. Anyway, he was glad at the prospect of getting the place off his hands, and making a good profit. He had paid only six hundred dollars for it in the first place when it was in a fairly good condition. He wished that he had asked three thousand instead of two, for he believed he would have received it.
Stanfield waited until he was sure that the hotel keeper had left the building. He then stepped into the little room where his sister had died. It, too, was much dilapidated, and rat holes were to be seen under the baseboards. The only window the room contained looked out upon the back yard. Most of the panes were broken and the glass was lying upon the floor. Stanfield removed his hat and stood with uncovered head in that room which had become so sacred to him. His brain was very active, and the expression in his eyes told something of the depth of his emotion.
"And so this is where Marion died!" he exclaimed. "Oh, why didn't I come sooner!"
The sound of his own voice startled him, so strangely hollow did it seem in that silent house. He glanced around to be sure that no one was listening. Then, under the impulse of his remorse, he sank to his knees upon the dirty floor and buried his face in his hands.
"Forgive me, Marion," he moaned. "I can never forgive myself for my neglect. I am not worthy to be called a man for leaving you to fight your battle alone. How much I might have done to help you."
For several minutes he remained kneeling there, and when he at last rose slowly to his feet, he stood in the middle of the room with bowed head and tears streaming down his cheeks. The thoughts that passed through his mind were known only to himself, but when he at length lifted his head and wiped away his tears there was an expression of determination in his eyes well known to men in the business world. But it was not of money Charles Stanfield was thinking now, nor how he could get the best deal in some big transaction.
Ten minutes later when he left the house and walked slowly along the street in the direction of the hotel he was a man who had seen a vision, and whose soul had been deeply stirred by a sense of higher things.
"An' there are others besides Sisera, let me tell ye that, Sarah."
"For land's sake! what are you talking about, Henry?"
"Old Sisera, of course. Didn't ye hear the parson read about him to-day?"
"Certainly I did, and I am glad that for once you were awake to listen."
"Oh, my sleepin' time hadn't come when the parson read about the stars fightin' ag'inst Sisera. It's the sermon I generally sleep through, fer the parson is mighty long-winded, an' when he gits on to them patriarchs an' prophets I jist can't keep me eyes open. It must be the dust he shakes out of them old fellers that makes me so tarnation sleepy."
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Henry, for talking that way. But what kept you awake to-day?"
"It was that story about Sisera an' them stars, as I have jist told ye."
"They must have made a deep impression upon you. They are old enough to put you to sleep, if that was what you needed."
"I know that, Sarah. But fer all that, I was wide awake. I couldn't help feelin' sorry fer Sisera. The stars fought ag'inst him jist as they have allus fought ag'inst me. I've told ye over an' over ag'in that I was born under an unlucky star. But since the parson read that story to-day I've come to the conclusion that I was born under several unlucky stars, an' they've been fightin' ag'inst me all me life."
"H'm, I don't believe the stars have anything to do with your luck, Henry. It's your own fault, I guess."
Mr. and Mrs. Winters were on their way from church, walking slowly along the road toward their own home, known far and wide as "Red Rose Cottage," from the profusion of roses in the garden. Henry generally complained about the length of the service, and how tired and sick he was at being dragged out to church every Sunday. But on this bright summer afternoon he was in excellent spirits, as he had come across something at last which gave him great comfort. He had always known that luck was against him, and now he could prove it from the Bible. There was Sisera of ancient days against whom the stars fought. He was certain that Sarah could not deny the fact, as she pinned her faith upon Holy Scripture, and never doubted a single word in that sacred Volume.
"Ye believe the Bible, don't ye, Sarah?" he presently asked.
"Yes, every letter of it."
"Well, then, ye can't deny that the stars have a great deal to do with human bein's. Why, it's all there in black an' white. Look what happened to Sisera."
"But he was an old heathen, Henry, an' deserved to have the stars fight against him. He was warring against God's people."
"Say, Sarah, judgin' by yer words, I'm glad ye don't consider me a heathen. It's the first time in years that I've heard ye say anything in me favor."
"No, I wouldn't like to catalogue you as a downright heathen, neither would I care to call you a Christian. I don't just know where to place you."
"Put me with old Sisera, Sarah. I've taken a sneakin' likin' to that ancient feller. He was troubled like I am with the stars fightin' ag'inst him."
"No, I can't do that. You are different from him. He was a king, remember, while you are nothing but Henry Winters, of Willow Creek, with not a cent to your name. The stars don't know anything about you."
"But I have the farm, Sarah, an' everybody fer miles around knows me."
"And how long will you have the farm? Haven't you already arranged to have it mortgaged? People know you, oh, yes, as the laziest man in the whole country."
"Say, what's comin' over ye, Sarah, that yer so cranky? The service must have stirred ye up the wrong way. Surely yer not goin' to jine in with them stars an' fight ag'inst me, too."
"Oh, the service was all right, Henry, and the parson preached a good sermon. But I'm sick and tired of hearing you talk about your luck. You seized upon those few words about the stars fighting against Sisera, but didn't pay the least attention to anything else. You know as well as I do that the stars have nothing at all to do with you. I remember learning when I went to school that the fault is not in our stars but in our own selves if we fail. I can't remember the exact words, but that is the meaning. I have been patient with you for a long time, but now with our farm a disgrace and about to be mortgaged, I can stand it no longer."
"What d'ye intend to do, Sarah?"
"You'll find out to your sorrow unless you quit your nonsense and get to work. But, there, I might as well talk to a stone as to you. Words of mine don't seem to have any effect upon you at all."
When his wife was in such a mood as this Henry knew from experience that silence was the wisest course. He did not go into the house upon reaching home, but sat under the shade of an old apple tree and smoked to his heart's content. Here the blissful minutes slipped by, broken at last by his wife calling him to supper.
"I saw Ada at church to-day, Sarah," he remarked as he began his meal. "Wonder where Lem was. He hasn't been much at church of late. It's strange that she'd let him out of her sight so long."
"Lem's falling away, I'm afraid," Mrs. Winters replied. "His mind is so much taken up with his specimens that he's in danger of losing his hold on higher things. Anyway, Ada always feels safer when she knows where he is and what he's doing!"
"I do pity that poor feller, Sarah. He hasn't the life of a dog when it comes to freedom. Ada's 'most scared to death that he'll git tangled up with some woman."
"It's the money that makes her so watchful, Henry. If either of them marries they will both lose their father's legacy, and that's what frightens her. She's told me so over and over again. It worries her a great deal."
"It was strange fer old man Karsall to leave his money tied up that way, Sarah. I allus knew he was a queer duck, but gave him credit fer some sense until I heard about his will. Jist think of him blockin' his children that way an' preventin' them from gittin' married if they want to. Why, Lem doesn't dare to look at a woman."
"And I guess he doesn't want to, Henry. It's not his nature. He's too much in love with his specimens that he's got stored away in 'The Loft,' as he calls it. Ada showed me in one day when he was away. It was a sight to behold, with the glass cases filled with all sorts of queer things, and the tables covered with curious stones, and funny things fastened to the walls. He won't let Ada touch or handle anything in that room. He shows considerable spunk when it comes to that."
"An' he'll show more spunk when he runs across the right gal, mark my word, Sarah. He's that kind. I know Lem Karsall well enough to believe that when he gits in love he'll go in head an' shoulders, an' nuthin'll be able to stop him."
"I guess his sister will soon settle any love-affair."
"Not a bit of it, Sarah, unless she gits in love herself first, which isn't likely. She's too fond of money, an' she'd sacrifice her heart-feelin's quick enough fer a dollar bill."
"You shouldn't say that, Henry. Ada Karsall is a good living woman, and attends strictly to her household affairs."
"Yes, an' the affairs of everybody else in this place, Sarah. Not that I have anything ag'inst her, remember, fer I like her a hull lot. If I was a young man an' not married, I'd make a dead-set upon her. She is mighty good lookin' an' has nice takin' ways, too."
"It's lucky for her, Henry, that you are married. I know all too well what it means to be tied to a man like you."
"But the gals around here think I'm all right. They like to have me at their parties. They tell me I'm a good sport an' as young as ever."
"They don't know you as well as I do, Henry Winters. If they had to live with you and depend upon you for a living they'd soon change their tune."
Henry said no more just then, permitting his wife as usual to have the final word. He finished his supper, pushed back his chair, and groped in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. As he carved off several slices from the small portion of the plug that remained, he glanced occasionally at his wife's face. Then he began to sing, as if to himself, the first line of the familiar hymn,
He ceased and looked again at his wife.
"We sang them words at the service this afternoon, Sarah, but somehow they don't seem to fit in here. The Day's all right, as fer as the Lord made it, but there's not much joy an' gladness in this house."
"And whose fault is it, Henry?" his wife sharply asked. "I have tried for years to be a consistent Christian, but with all the trials I have to face, it is almost impossible to be full of joy and gladness."
Mrs. Winters' lips quivered, and tears came into her eyes. These she hurriedly brushed away with the corner of her apron, rose quickly from the table and began to clear away the dishes.
"There, there, old gal, don't take on so hard. I know I'm an ugly cuss to git along with, lazy an' all that. But I swear I'll do better from now on, providin' them stars don't git too fractious. We'll go to town t'morrow night an' take in a picture. There's a rattlin' good one on at the Imp, so I hear. We haven't been there fer months, an' I'm jist dyin' to see them actors doin' their stunts. I've a notion that way meself, an' I believe I'd make a good movie actor."
"I believe you would, Henry. As far as acting is concerned you'd make a grand success. That's all you've been doing since we were married. But acting such as yours doesn't make much of a success on a farm. It's only hard grinding work that will accomplish anything there."
Henry made no reply, but rising from his chair, picked up two pails and sauntered out to the barn, expecting to find the cows in the yard waiting to be milked. But they were nowhere to be seen. He searched the pasture until he came to a gap in the fence through which the animals had strayed. It was dark by the time the cows were found, brought home, and milked.
"That's jist my luck," he growled, as he set the pails down upon the milk-house floor. "To think that them brutes should wander off on the Day of Rest! It's them fightin'-stars ag'in, Sarah."
"Did the stars tear down that fence, Henry?" his wife sternly asked. "Didn't you do it yourself when you were hauling wood last winter, and neglected to fix it properly? For goodness' sake, don't blame the stars for your own laziness."
Henry beat a hasty retreat, and did not again refer to the stars the rest of the evening. But next morning as he went out to draw a pail of water, the bucket broke loose, and fell with a splash down into the deep well. By the time it had been drawn up with a long pole with a spike driven through one end, Henry was in a very bad frame of mind.
"There, now, Sarah," he roared, as he entered the kitchen, "kin ye deny that my fightin'-stars are ag'inst me? The bucket broke, an' I've had a dang hard time gittin' any water fer breakfast."
"And what caused the bucket to break, Henry Winters? You know as well as I do. It's because you fastened it to the pole with a string when it broke before, instead of fixing it right. Haven't I warned you time and time again about it? I have also begged you to get a pump instead of that ramshackle affair. Why, we are the only ones who use an old-fashioned bucket and sweep. It almost kills me every time I have to draw water. And, besides, it is the laughing-stock of the neighborhood. Don't talk to me any more about your unlucky stars."
"That old well is mighty interestin', though, Sarah. Ye know how people from the city, an' tourists, too, come all the way to have a look at it. Artists have painted it no end of times, while one young feller wrote some verses about it. They all say it's most pictureskew."
"Why don't you include the battered barn, the broken-down woodshed, as well as the house, Henry? They are all certainly 'pictureskew' if that's what you want. When will you ever learn to speak the English language? You make as bad a mess of it as you do of everything else, farming included."
Henry was not anxious to hear any more solid truth, so instead of attending to things around the place, he started for the store to arrange about the mortgage, so he informed his wife. Mrs. Winters sighed as she gazed after him from the kitchen window while she washed the breakfast dishes. She knew that a visit to the store meant the rest of the morning, and that she would not see him again until dinner time. She was more discouraged than she had been at any time in her life. Henry was hopeless, and the future looked very dark. She had schemed and slaved to make an honest living, but with such a careless lazy husband the task was impossible. But something had to be done or else both of them would be in the Poor House. The mortgage was the last straw. Soon their place would be gone, for she well knew that the interest would never be paid, to say nothing of the principal. It would be only a short time when the house would be sold over their heads.
When the dishes were at last washed and put away, she went out of doors and busied herself in her flower garden in front of the house. This was her sole relaxation. When among the roses, poppies, morning-glories, gladioli, pansies, and other smiling flower-friends, she was content, and her care gradually slipped from her mind. As she dug around the roots, or tied up some weak stalks, she hummed softly to herself. She was a woman of considerable ability, and naturally sweet-tempered. But years of grinding toil and discouragement had left their marks upon her face and form. Only when among her flowers was there a renewal of her old-time enthusiasm and almost youthful buoyancy of spirit.
So engrossed was she with her work that she did not notice old Doctor Benson approaching in his light buggy. His cheery voice rang out as usual as he drew up his horse in front of the house.
"Your garden looks fine, Mrs. Winters," he complimented. "It's a pity I can't say the same about the rest of the place."
"It is, Doctor," Mrs. Winters replied as she moved close to the fence. "But Henry will not work, as you are well aware."
"Too bad, too bad, Mrs. Winters. Something will have to be done."
"But what can I do? I'm at my wit's end. I have talked and scolded until I am tired. I don't know what will cure a lazy man."
"H'm," the doctor grunted, while a twinkle shone in his eyes. "Some humorist has said that he didn't know of anything that would absolutely cure a lazy man, but that sometimes a second wife would help a great deal."
"But I'm not going to give Henry a chance to get a second wife," Mrs. Winters stoutly declared. "I don't want to die just yet, and, besides, I wouldn't like to see another woman afflicted as I have been. You will have to suggest something else, Doctor."
"I don't blame you, Mrs. Winters. Live as long as you can. But is there any way whereby we can give Henry a good downright scare? I have known that to be beneficial in several cases. Of what is he most afraid?"
"Work, of course, and next to that, dying. The thought of death sends shivers through his body. He hates to talk about it, and it is next to impossible to get him to attend a funeral."
"Then that's the way to scare him, Mrs. Winters. Don't scold him, but tell him that he isn't looking well, and that he needs a rest or he won't last long. Seize upon the first opportunity. If his appetite is not up to the mark, start in right there."
"I'd never begin, then, Doctor. Henry's appetite never fails. It has not varied since we were married. He is always hungry, and eats everything that is put before him. I am sure I wouldn't be able to make any effect upon him through his appetite."
"Dear me! Now, what can I suggest? Suppose you tackle him on his shortness of breath. If he should come into the house panting for instance, you might——"
"Nonsense, Doctor, I thought you knew Henry well enough to know that he never pants," Mrs. Winters interrupted. "He never does anything hard enough to make him out of breath, so that scheme won't work."
"But he gets excited, doesn't he? I have seen him stirred up to a great pitch of eloquence down at the store during an election. Anyway, wait your opportunity, and give him a good scare. He's contrary by nature, and if the fear of dying doesn't make him buck up just for spite then I lose my guess. Start in as soon as possible, and I will help you all I can. Well, I must be moving. Good day, and good luck to you. Get along, Jerry."
During the rest of the morning Mrs. Winters thought over the doctor's suggestion. She smiled grimly as she prepared dinner and awaited her husband's arrival. When at last he ambled into the kitchen, and braced himself just inside the door for the usual scolding, he was surprised at his wife's quiet manner.
"You are late, Henry," she accosted. "But, wash yourself and sit right down to the table. You will feel stronger after you get something to eat."
Henry's eyes bulged in astonishment, and he sagged back heavily against the wall.
"I don't feel sick, Sarah," he gasped. "What makes ye think I am?"
"From the way you walked up the road, dear. And now you are leaning against the wall. I really believe you are not well. I scolded you yesterday and also this morning, but I am sorry now. I blamed you for letting the farm run down, and neglecting things in general. But I should not have done so, for you are not strong. I am going to take better care of you after this. I was talking to the doctor this morning, and he is certain that you need special treatment. Get washed, now, and sit right down before your dinner gets cold."
For once in his life Henry was at a loss for words. He did as his wife ordered and took his seat at the table. But he did not feel hungry, a most unusual thing for him.
"Can't you eat your pie, Henry?" Mrs. Winters asked.
"Naw, don't feel like eatin' any. I can't make out what's come over me."
"You need a rest, so the doctor said. Lie down a while and I will prepare some medicine for you to take when you get up."
Henry pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
"I don't want to lay down," he growled. "I don't feel sick. It's fresh air I want. It's as hot as—as an oven here."
"You must have a fever if you feel so hot, Henry. This kitchen is quite cool."
"It is! Jist look at my forehead; it's streamin' wet."
"That is a bad sign, dear. Oh, I am afraid you are going to be very sick. Fever comes that way, and it should not be neglected. Do let me send for the doctor. I don't want you to die and leave me alone in the world."