A DIVISION IN THE COOLLY
A funeral is a depressing affair under the best circumstances, but afuneral in a lonely farm-house in March, the roads full of slush, theragged gray clouds leaping the sullen hills like eagles, is tragic.
The teams arrived splashed with mud, the women blue with cold undertheir scanty cotton-quilt lap robes, their hats set awry by the wind.They scurried into the house, to sit and shiver in the best room, whereall the chairs that could contrive to stand erect, and all of any sortthat could be borrowed, were crammed in together to seat the womenfolks.
The men drove out to the barn, and having blanketed their teams with laprobes, picked their way through the slush of the yard over to the leeside of the haystack, where the pale sun occasionally shone.
They spoke of "diseased" Williams, as if Diseased were his Christianname. They whittled shingles or stalks of straw as they talked.
Sooner or later, after each new arrival, they branched off uponpolitics, and the McKinley Bill was handled gingerly. If any one, in hiszeal, raised his voice above a certain pitch, some one said "Hish!" andthe newcomer's voice sank again to that abnormal quiet which falls nowand again on these loud-voiced folk of the wind and open spaces.
The boys hung around the kitchen and smoke-house, playing sly jokes uponeach other in order to provoke that explosion of laughter so thoroughlyenjoyed by those who can laugh noiselessly.
A snort of this sort brought Deacon Williams out to reprimand them,"Boys, boys, you should have more respect for the dead."
The preacher came. The choir raised a wailing chant for the dead, butthe group by the haystack did not move.
Occasionally they came back, after talking about seeding and the priceof hogs, to the discussion of the dead man's affairs.
"I s'pose his property will go to Emmy and Serry, half and half."
"I expec' so. He always said so, an' John wa'n't a man to whiffle aboutevery day."
"Well, Emmy won't make no fuss, but if Ike don't git more'n his half,I'll eat the greaser."
"Who's ex-e_cu_tor?"
"Deacon Williams, I expect."
"Well, the Deacon's a slick one," some one observed, as if that were anexcellent quality in an executor.
"They ain't no love lost between Bill Gray and Harkey, I don't expect."
"No, I don't think they is."
"Ike don't seem to please people. It's queer, too. He tries awful hard."
The voice of the preacher within, raised to a wild shout, interruptedthem.
"The Elder's gettin' warmed up," said one of the story-tellers, pausingin his talk. "And so I told Bill if he wanted the cord-wood--"
The sun shone warmer, and the chickens _caw-cawed_ feebly. The coltswhinnied, and a couple of dogs rolled and tumbled in wild frolic, whilethe voice of the preacher sounded dolefully or in humming monotone.
Meanwhile, in the house, in the best room and in the best seats near thecoffin, the women, in their black, worn dresses, with wrinkled, sallowfaces and gnarled hands, sat shivering. Theirs was to be the luxury ofthe ceremony.
The carpet was damp and muddy, the house was chill, and the damp windfilled them all with ague; but they had so much to see and talk about,that time passed rapidly. Each one entering was studied critically tosee whether dress and deportment were proper to the occasion or not, andif one of the girls smiled a little as she entered, some one was sure towhisper:--
"Heartless thing, how _can_ she?"
There were a few young men, only enough to help out on the singing, andthey remained mainly in the kitchen where they were seen occasionally inanxious consultation with Deacon Williams.
The girls looked serious, but a little sly, as if they could smile ifthe boys looked their way or if one of the old women should cough herstore teeth out.
Upstairs the family were seated in solemn silence, the two nieces, Emmaand Sarah, and Emma's husband, Harkey, and Sarah's children--deceasedWilliams had no wife. These people sat in stony immobility, except whenHarkey looked at his watch, and said:--
"Seem slow gitten here."
Occasionally women came up the stairway and flung themselves upon thenecks of the mourning nieces, who submitted to it without apparentdisgust or astonishment, and sank back into the same icy calm aftertheir visitors had "straightened their things," and retired to thereserved seats below.
Deacon Williams, small, quick, with sunny blue-gray eyes belying thegloomy curve of his mouth, was everywhere; arranging for bearers,selecting hymns, conferring with the family, keeping abstracted oldwomen off the seats reserved for the mourners, and maintaining ananxious lookout for the minister.
The Deacon was a distant relative of the dead man, and it was generallyadmitted that he "would have a time of it" in administering upon theestate.
At last the word was whispered about that the Elder was coming. Word wassent to the smoke-house and to the haystack to call the stragglers in.They came slowly, and finding the rooms all filled considered themselvesabsolved from a disagreeable duty, and went back to the sunny side ofthe haystack, where they smoked their pipes in ruminative enjoyment.
The Elder, upon entering, took his place beside the coffin, the foot ofwhich he used for a pulpit on which to lay his Bible and his hymn-book.A noise of whispering, rustling, scraping of feet arose as some old mencrowded in among the women, and then the room became silent.
The Elder took his seat and glanced round upon them all with solemnunrecognizing severity, while the mourners came down the creaking pinestairway in proper order of procedure.
Everybody noticed the luxury of new dresses on the nieces and the newsuits on the children. Everybody knew the feeling which led to theseextravagances. Death, after all, was a majestic visitor, and money wasnot to stand in the way of a decent showing. Some of the girls smiledslyly at Isaac's gloves, which were too small and would go only halfwayon, a fact he tried to conceal by keeping his hands folded. Each boy wasprovided with a large new stiff cotton handkerchief, which occupiedimmense space in outside pockets, crumpled as they were into a rustlingball with cruel salient angles like a Chinese puzzle.
The Elder had attended two funerals that week, and like a jaded actorcame lamely to his work. His prayer was not entirely satisfactory to theolder people, they had expected a "little more power."
He was a thin-faced man, with weak brown eyes and a mouth like a gopher,that is, with very prominent upper teeth. His black coat was worn andshiny, and hung limply, as if at some other period he had been fatter,or as if it had belonged to some other man.
The choir with instinctive skill had selected a wailing hymn, onlyslightly higher in development than the chant of the Indians, sweet,plaintive at times, barbaric in its moving cadences. They sang it well,in meditative march, looking out of the windows during its interminablelength.
Then the Elder read some passages of the Scripture in his "funeralvoice," which was entirely different from his "marriage voice" and his"Sunday voice." It had deep cadences in it and chanting inflections, notunlike the negro preachers or the keeners at Irish wakes.
Then he gave out the hymn, which all joined in singing, rising to theirfeet with much trouble. After they had settled down again he took out alarge carefully ironed handkerchief and laid it on the coffin as whoshould say, "If you have tears, prepare to shed them now."
The absurdity of all this did not appear to his listeners, though theywell knew he cared very little about the dead man, who was a veryretiring person.
The Elder on his part understood that his audience was before him forthe pleasure of weeping, for the delight of seeing agonized faces andhearing wild grief-laden wailing. They were there to feel the deliciouscreeping thrill of horror and fear, roused by the presence of the corpseand the near shadow of the hovering angel of death.
The Elder led off by some purely perfunctory remarks about the deceased,about his kindness, and his honesty. This caused the nieces to wipe awaya sparse tear or two, and he was encouraged as if by slight applause. Hedeveloped as usual
the idea that in the midst of life we are in death,that no man can tell when his time will come. He told two or threegrewsome stories of sudden death. His voice now rose in a wild chant nowsank to a hoarse whisper.
The blowing of noses, low sobbings, and fervent amens from the old menthickened encouragingly, and he entered upon more impassioned flights.His voice, naturally sonorous, deepened in powerful song till the menseated comfortably on their haunches out by the haystack could plainlyhear his words. "Oh, my brethren, what will you do in that last day?"
Sarah's boys, without in the least understanding what it all meant,began to weep also and to use their handkerchiefs, so smooth and shiningthey were useless as so much legal-cap writing paper.
Their misery would have been enhanced had they known that out in thewagon-shed under cover of the Elder's voice the other boys were having agame of mummelly peg in the warm, dry ground. Their fresh young soulslaughed at death as the early robins out in the hedge near by defied thewinds of March.
Having harrowed the poor sensation-loving souls as thoroughly as couldbe desired, the Elder began the process of "letting them down easy." Heremembered that the Lord was merciful; that the deceased could approachhim with confidence; that there was a life beyond the tomb, a life ofeternal rest (the allurement of all hard-working humanity).
Slowly the snuffling and sobbing ceased, the handkerchiefs took longerand longer intervals of rest, and when in conclusion the preacher said,"Let us pray," the old men looked at each other with ferventsatisfaction. "It's been a blessed time--a blessed time!"
The pretty girl who sang the soprano looked very interesting with herwet eyelashes, the tears stopped halfway in their course down herrounded cheek. The closing hymn promised endless peace and rest, but wasvoiced in the same tragic and hopeless music with which the serviceopened.
Deacon Williams came out to say, "All parties desiring to view the_remains_, will now have an opportunity." He had the hospitable tone ofa host inviting his guests in to dinner.
Viewing the remains was considered a religious duty, and the men fromoutside, and even the boys from behind the smoke-house, felt constrainedto come in and pass in shuddering horror before the still face whosebreath did not dim the glass above it. Most of them hurried by the boxwith only a swift side glance down at the strange thing within.
Then the bearers lifted the coffin and slipped it into theplatform-spring wagon, which was backed up to the door. The other teamsloaded up, and the procession moved off, down the perilously muddy roadtoward the village burying-ground.
In this way was John Williams, a hard-working, honorable Welshman,buried. His death furnished forth a sombre, dramatic entertainment suchas he himself had ceremoniously attended many times. The funeraltrotters whom he had seen at every funeral in the valley were now in athis death, and would be at each other's death, until the black andyellow earth claimed them all.
A ceremony almost as interesting to the gossips as the burial was thereading of the will, to which only the family were invited. After thereturn of Emma, her husband, and Sarah from the cemetery, DeaconWilliams read the dead man's bequests, seated in the best room, whichwas still littered with chairs and damp with mud.
The will was simple and not a surprise to any one. It gave equaldivision of all the property to the nieces.
"Well, now, when'll we have the settlement?" asked the Deacon.
"Just's you say, Deacon," said Emma, meekly.
"Suit yourself," said Harkey; "only it 'ad better come soon. Sooner thebetter--seedin's coming on."
"Well, to-morrow is Friday, why not Saturday?"
"All right, Saturday." All agreed.
As Harkey drove off down the road he said to his wife: "The sooner wehave it, the fewer things 'll git carried off. The Deacon don't favor menone, and Bill Gray is sweet on Serry, and he'll bear watchin'."
The Deacon on his part took his chin in his fist and looked afterHarkey. "Seemed a little bit anxious, 'cordin' to _my_ notion," he said,with a smile.
II
Saturday was deliciously warm and springlike, the hens woke in the earlydawn with a jocund note in their throats, and the young cattle friskedabout the barn-yard, moved to action by the electrical influences of thesouth wind.
"Clear as a bell overhead," Deacon Williams said.
But Jack Dunlap, Sarah's hand, said, "Nobody travels that way."
Long before dawn the noise of the melting water could be heard runningwith musical tinkle under the ice. The ponds crashed and boomed in longreverberating explosions, as the sinking water heaved it up and let itfall with crackling roar; flights of ducks flashed over, cacklingbreathlessly as they scurried straight into the north.
Deacon and Sarah arrived early and took possession, for Sarah was tohave the eighty which included the house. They were busy getting thingsready for the partition. The Deacon, assisted by Jack, the hired man,was busy hauling the machinery out of the shed into the open air, whileSarah and a couple of neighbors' girls, with skirts tucked up and towelson their heads, were scouring up pots and pans and dusting furniture inthe kitchen.
The girls, strong and handsome in their unsapped animal vigor, enjoyedthe innocent display of their bare arms and petticoats.
People from Sand Lake passing by wondered what was going on. GideonTurner had the courage to pull up and call out, for the satisfaction ofhis wife:--
"What's going on here this fine morning?"
"Oh, we're goin' to settle up the estate!" said Sarah. "Why! how de do,Mrs. Turner?"
"W'y, it's you, is it, Serry?"
"Yes; it's me,--what they is left of me. I been here sence six o'clock.I'm getting things ready for the division. Deacon Williams is theex-e_cu_tor, you know."
"Aha! Less see, you divide equally, I hear."
"Near's we can get at it. Uncle left me the house eighty, and the valleyeighty to Emmy. Deacon's goin' to parcel out the belongin's."
Turner looked sly. "How'd Harkey feel?"
Sarah smiled. "I don't know and care less. He'll make trouble if he can,but I don't see how he can. He agreed to have the Deacon do thedividin', and he'll have to stand by it so far as I can see."
Mrs. Turner looked dubious. "Well, you know Ike Harkey. He looks asthough sugar wouldn't melt in his mouth, but I tell you I'd hate to havedealin's with him."
Turner broke in: "Well, we must be movin'. I s'pose you'll move rightin?"
"Yes. Just as soon's as this thing's settled."
"Well, good-by. Come up."
"You come down."
Sarah was a heavy, good-natured woman, a widow with "a raft ofchildren." Probably for that reason her uncle had left her the house,which was large and comfortable. As she stood looking down the road, oneof the girls came out to the gate. She was a plump, strong creature, aneighbor's girl who had volunteered to help.
"Anybody coming?"
"Yes. I guess--no, it's going the other way. Ain't it a nice day?"
That was as far as she could carry the utterance of her feeling, but allthe morning she had felt the wonderful power of the air. The sun hadrisen incredibly warm. The wind was in the south, and the crackling,booming roar of ice in the ponds and along the river was like winterletting go its iron grip upon the land. Even the old cows shook theirhorns, and made comical attempts to frisk with the yearlings. Sarah knewit was foolish, but she felt like a girl that morning--and Bill wascoming up the road.
In the midst of the joy of the spring day stood the house, desolate andempty, out of which its owner had been carried to a bed in the cold,clinging clay of the little burying-ground.
The girls and Sarah worked swiftly, brushing, cleaning, setting aside,giving little thought to even the beauty of the morning, which enteredtheir blood unconsciously.
"Well, how goes it?" asked a quick, jovial voice.
The girls gave screams of affected fright.
"Why, Deacon! You nearly scared the life out of us."
Deacon Williams was always gallant.
"I didn't kno
w I was given to scaring the ladies," he said. "Well, who'shere?"
"Nobody but us so far."
"Hain't seen nothing o' Harkey?"
"Not a thing. He sent word he'd be on hand, though."
"M--, well, we've got the machinery invoiced. Guess I'll look around andkind o' get the household things in my mind's eye," said the Deacon,taking on the air of a public functionary.
"All right. We'll have everything ready here in a few minutes."
They returned to work, dusting and scrubbing. The girls with theirbanter put death into the background as an obscure and infrequentincident of old age.
Sarah again studied the road down the Coolly.
"Well there! I see a team coming up the Coolly now; wonder if it'sEmmy."
"Looks more like Bill Gray's team," said one of the girls, looking slylyat Sarah, who grew very red.
"Oh, you're too sharp, ain't you?"
It was perfectly ridiculous (to the young people) to see thesemiddle-aged lovers courting like sixteen-year-olds, and they had nomercy on either Bill or Sarah.
Bill drove up in leisurely way, his horses steaming, his wagon-wheelsloaded with mud. Mrs. Gray was with him, her jolly face shining like themorning sun.
"Hello, folkses, are you all here?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Gray," said the Deacon, approaching to help her out."Hello, Bill, nice morning."
Bill looked at Sarah for a moment. "Bully good," he said, leaving hismother to scramble down the wagon-wheel alone--at least so far as he wasconcerned, but the Deacon stood below courageously.
Mrs. Gray cried out in her loud good humor: "Look out, Deacon, don't gittoo near me--if I should fall on you there wouldn't be a grease spotleft. _There!_ I'm all right now," she said, having reached groundwithout accident. She shook her dress and looked briskly around. "Wal,what you done, anyway? Emmy's folks come yet?"
"No, but I guess that's them comin' now. I hope Ike won't come, though."
Mrs. Gray stared at the Deacon. "Why not?"
"Well, he's just sure to make a fuss," said Jack, "he's so afraid hewon't get his share."
Bill chewed on a straw and looked at Sarah abstractedly.
"Well, what's t' be done?" inquired Mrs. Gray, after a pause.
"Can't do much till Emmy gets here," said Sarah.
"Oh, I guess we can. Bill, you put out y'r team, we won't get away 'foredinner."
The men drove off to the barn, leaving the women to pick their way onchips and strips of board laid in the mud, to the safety of thechip-pile, and thence to the kitchen, which was desolately littered withutensils.
Deacon assumed command with the same alertness, and with the same sunnygleam in his eye, with which he directed the funeral a few days before.
"Now, Bill, put out your team and help Jack and me pen them hogs. Womenfolks 'll git things ready here."
Emma came at last, driven by Harkey's brother and his hired man. Theywere both brawny fellows, rude and irritable, and the Deacon lifted hiseyebrows and whistled when he saw them drive in with a lumber wagon.
The women swarmed out to greet Emma, who was a thin, irritable, feeblewoman.
"Better late than never. Where's Ike?" inquired Mrs. Gray.
"Well, he--couldn't git away very well--he's got t' clean up someseed-oats," she answered nervously. After the men drove off, however,she added: "He thought he hadn't ought to come; he didn't want to causeno aidgewise feelin's, so he thought he hadn't better come--he'd justleave it to you, Deacon."
The Deacon said, "All right, all right! We'll fix it up!" but he didn'tfeel so sure of it after that, though he set to work bravely.
The sun, growing warmer, fell with pleasant gleam around the kitchendoor and around the chip-pile where the hens were burrowing. The menworked in their shirt-sleeves.
"Well, now, we'll share the furniture an' stuff next," said the Deacon,looking around upon his little interested semicircle of spectators."Now, put Emmy's things over there and Serry's things over here. I'llcall 'em off, and, if they's no objection, you girls can pass 'em over."
He cleared his throat and began in the voice of one in authority:--
"Thirteen pans, six to Emmy, seven to Serry;" then hastened to add:"I'll balance that by giving the biggest of the two kittles to Emmy.Rollin' pin and cake board to Serry, two flat-irons to Emmy, small tubto Emmy, large one to Serry, balanced by the tin water pail. Dozenclo'se-pins; half an' half, six o' one, half-dozen t'other," he saidwith a smile at his own joke, while the others actively placed thearticles in separate piles.
"Stove to Serry, because she has the house, bureau to Emmy."
At this point Mrs. Gray said, "I guess that ain't quite even, Deacon;the bureau ain't worth much."
"Oh, no, no, that's all right! Let her have it," Emma protestednervously.
"Give her an extry tick, anyway," said Sarah, not to be outdone inmagnanimity.
"Settle that between ye," said the Deacon.
He warmed to his work now, and towels, pans, crockery, brooms, mirrors,pillows, and bedticks were rapidly set aside in two groups on the softsoil. The poverty of the home could best be seen in the display of itspitiful furniture.
The two nieces looked on impassively, standing side by side. The mencame to move the bureau and other heavy things and looked on, while thelighter things were being handed over by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
At noon they sat down in the empty kitchen and ate a cold snack--atleast, the women took seats, the men stood around and lunched on hunksof boiled beef and slices of bread. There was an air of constraint uponthe male portion of the party not shared by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
"Well, that settles things in the house," beamed the Deacon as he cameout with the women trailing behind him; "an' now in about two jerks ofa dead lamb's tail, we'll git at the things out in the barn."
"Wal, we don't know much about machines and things, but I guess we'dbetter go out and keep you men from fightin'," said Mrs. Gray, shakingwith fun; "Ike didn't come because he didn't want to make any trouble,but I guess he might just as well 'a' come as send two such critters asJim 'n' Hank."
The women laughed at her frankness, and in very good humor they all wentout to the barn-yard.
"Now, these things can't be laid out fast as I call 'em off, but we'lldo the best we can."
"Let's try the stawk first," said Jim.
The women stood around with shawls pinned over their heads while thedivision of the stock went forward. The young men came often withinchaffing distance of the girls.
There were nine shotes nearly of a size, and the Deacon said, "I'll giveSerry the odd shote."
"Why so?" asked Jim Harkey, a sullen-faced man of thirty.
"Because a shote is hard to carry off and I can balance--"
"Well, I guess you can balance f'r Em 'bout as well as f'r Serry."
The Deacon was willing to yield a point. "Any objection, Bill? If not,why--"
"Nope, let her go," said Bill.
"What 'ave _you_ got to say 'bout it?" asked Jim, insolently.
Bill turned his slow bulk. "I guess I've a good 'eal to say--haven't I,Serry?"
Sarah reddened, but stood beside him bravely. "I guess you have, Bill,about as much as _I_ have." There was a moment of dramatic tension andthe girls tingled with sympathy.
"Let 'er go," said Bill, splitting a straw with his knife. He had notproposed to Sarah before and he felt an unusual exaltation to think itcame so easy after all.
When they reached the cattle, Jim objected to striking a balance with a"farrer cow," and threw the Deacon's nice calculation all out of joint.
"Let it go, Jim," pleaded Emma.
"I won't do it," Ike said--"I mean I know he don't want no farrer cow,he's got two now."
The Deacon was a little nettled. "I guess that's going to stand," hesaid sharply.
Jim swore a little but gave in, and came back with an access of illhumor on a division of the horses.
"But I've give you the four heavy horses to balance the fou
r others andthe two-year-old," said the Deacon.
"I'll be damned if I stand that," said Jim.
"I guess you'll have to," said the Deacon.
Emma pleaded, "Let it go, Jim, don't make a fuss."
Jim raged on, "I'll be cawn-demmed if I'll stand it. I don't--Ike don'twant them spavined old crows; they're all ring-boned and got theheaves." His long repressed ill-nature broke out.
"Toh, toh!" said the Deacon, "Don't kick over the traces now. We'll fixit up some way."
Emma tried to stop Jim, but he shook her off and continued to walk backand forth behind the horses munching on quietly, unconscious of anydispute about their value.
Bill sat on the oat box in his hulking way, his heels thumping a tune,his small gray eyes watching the angry man.
"Don't make a darn fool of yourself," he said placidly.
Jim turned, glad of the chance for a row, "You better keep out of this."
Bill continued to thump, the palms of his big hands resting on the edgeof the box. "I'm in it," he said conclusively.
"Well, you git out of it! I ain't goin' to be bulldozed--that ain't whatI come here for."
"No, I see it ain't," said Bill. "If you're after a row you can have itright here. You won't find a better place."
"There, there," urged the Deacon. "What's the use? Keep cool and don'ttear your shirts."
Mrs. Gray went up to Jim and took him by the arm. "You need a goodspankin' to make you good-natured," she said. "I think the Deacon hasdone first rate, and you ought 'o--"
"Let go o' me," he snarled, raising his hand as if to strike her.
Bill's big boot lunged out, catching Harkey in the ribs, and if theDeacon had not sprung to his assistance Jim would have been trampled topieces by the scared horse under whose feet he found himself. He waswild with dizzy, breathless rage.
"Who hit me?" he demanded.
Bill's shapeless hulk straightened up and stood beside him as if hispink flesh had suddenly turned to oak. Out of his fat cheeks his grayeyes glared.
"I did. Want another?"
The Deacon and Jack came between and prevented the encounter which wouldhave immediately followed. Bill went on:--
"They cain't no man lay a hand on my mother and live long after it." Hewas thoroughly awake now. There was no slouch to his action at thatmoment, and Jim was secretly pleased to have the encounter go by.
"You come here for a fuss and you can have it, both of you," Bill wenton in unusual eloquence. "Deacon's tried to do the square thing, Emmy'stried to do the square thing, and Serry's kep' quiet, but you've beensour and ugly the whole time, and now it's goin' to stop."
"This ain't the last of this thing," said Jim.
"You never'll have a better time," said Bill.
Mrs. Gray and the Deacon turned in now to quiet Bill, and the settlementwent on. Jim kept close watch on the proceedings, and muttered hisdissent to his friends, but was careful not to provoke Bill further.
In dividing the harnesses they came upon a cow-bell hanging on a nail.The Deacon jingled it as he passed. "Goes with the bell-cow," he said,and nothing further was said of it. Jim apparently did not consider itworth quarrelling about.
At last the work was done, a terribly hard day's work. The machines andutensils were piled in separate places, the cattle separated, and thegrain measured. As they were about to leave, the Deacon said finally:--
"If there's any complaint to make, let's have it right now. I want thissettlement to _be_ a settlement. Is everybody satisfied?"
"I am," said Emmy. "Ain't you, Serry?"
"Why, of course," said Sarah, who was a little slower of speech. "Ithink the Deacon has done first rate. I ain't a word of fault to find,have you, Bill?"
"Nope, not an ioty," said Bill, readily.
Jim did not agree in so many words, but, as he said nothing, the Deaconended:--
"Well, that settles it. It ain't goin' to rain, so you can leave thesethings right here till Monday. I guess I'll be gettin' out for home.Good evening, everybody."
Emma drove away down the road with Jim, but Sarah remained to straightenup the house. Harkey's hired hand went home with Dade Walker whoconsidered that walk the pleasant finish to a very interesting day'swork. She sympathized for the time with the Harkey faction.
Sunday forenoon, when Bill and Sarah drove up to the farm to put thingsin order in the house, they found Ike Harkey walking around with thatqueer side glance he had, studying the piles of furniture, and mentallyweighing the pigs.
He greeted them smoothly: "Yes, yes, I'm _purr_fickly satisfied,_purr_fickly! Not a word to say--better'n I expected," he added.
Bill was not quite keen enough to perceive the insult which lay in thatfinal clause, and Sarah dared not inform him for fear of trouble.
As Harkey drove away, however, Bill had a dim feeling of dissatisfactionwith him.
"He's too gol-dang polite, that feller is; I don't like suchbutter-mouth chaps--they'd steal the cents off'n a dead nigger's eyes."
III
The second Sunday after the partition of goods the entire Coolly turnedout to church in spite of the muddy road. The men, after driving up tothe door of the little white church and helping the women to alight,drove out to the sheds along the fence and gathered in knots besidetheir wagons in the warm spring sun. It was very pleasant there, and themen leaned with relaxed muscles upon the wagon-wheels, or sat on thefence with jack-knives in hand. The horses, weary with six days seeding,slept with closed eyes and drooping lips. Generally the talk was uponspring work, each man bragging of the number of acres he had sown duringthe week, but this morning the talk was all about the division which hadcome between the nieces of "deceased Williams." They discussed it slowlyas one might eat a choice pudding in order to extract the flavor fromeach spoonful.
"What is it all about, anyhow?" asked Jim Cranby. "I ain't heard nothingabout it." He had stood in open-mouthed perplexity trying to catch aclew. Coming late, he found it baffling.
"That shows where he lives; a man might as well live in a well as up inMolasses Gap," said one of the younger men, pointing up to the Coolly."Why, Ike Harkey is kicking about the six shotes the Deacon put off onhim."
"No, it wasn't the shotes, it was a farrer cow," put in Clint Stone.
"Well, _I_ heard it was a shote."
"So did I," said another.
"Well, Bill Gray told Jinks Ike had stole a cow-bell that belonged tothe black farrer cow," said another late comer.
"Stole a cow-bell," and they all drew closer together. This was reallyworth while!
"Yes, sir; Jinks told me he heard Bill say so yesterday. That's the wayI heard it."
"Well, I'll be cussed, if that ain't small business for Ike Harkey!"
"How did it happen?" asked Cranby, with sharpened appetite.
"Well, I didn't hear no p'rtic'lars, but it seems the bell was hangin'on a peg in the barn, and when they got home from church it was gone,hide an' hair. Bill is dead sure Ike took it."
"Say, there'll be fun over that yet, won't they," said one of thefellows, with a grin.
"Well, Ike better keep out of Bill's way, that's all."
"Well--I ain't takin' sides. Some young'un may have took it."
"Well, let's go in, boys; I see the Elder's come. By gum, there'sHarkey!" They all looked toward Harkey, who had just driven up to thedoor.
Harkey came into church holding his smooth, serious face a little oneside, in his usual way, quiet and dignified, as if he were living up tohis Sunday suit of clothes. He seemed to be unconscious of the attitudein which he stood toward most of his neighbors.
Bill and Sarah were not present, and that gave additional color to thestory of trouble between the sisters.
After the sermon Deacon Harkey led the Sunday School, and the critics ofhis action were impressed more than usual with his smooth and quietutterance. Emma seemed more than ordinarily worn and dispirited.
It was perfectly natural that Mrs. Gray should be the last person toknow of the divis
ion which had slowly set in between the two sisters andtheir factions. Charitable and guileless herself, it was difficult forher to conceive of slander and envy.
Nevertheless, a division had come about, slowly, but decisively. Theentire Coolly was involved in the discussion before Mrs. Gray gave itany serious attention, but one day, when Sarah came in upon her andpoured out a mingled flood of sorrow and invective, the good soul wasaghast.
"Well, well, I swan! There, there! I wouldn't make so much fuss overit!" she said, stripping her hands out of the biscuit dough in order togo over and pat Sarah on the shoulder. "After all that to-do gettin'settled, seems 's if you ought 'o _stay_ settled. Good land! It ain'tanything to have a fuss over, anyway!"
"But it is _our_ cow-bell. It belonged on the black farrer cow, that Jimturned his nose up at, and he sneaked around and got it just to spiteus."
"Oh, I guess not," she replied incredulously.
"Well, he did; and Emmy put him up to it, and I know she did," saidSarah in a lamentable voice.
"Sary Ann," said Mrs. Gray, as sharply as any one ever heard her speak,"that's a pretty way to talk about your sister, ain't it?"
"Well, Mrs. Jim Harkey said--"
"You never mind what Mrs. Jim Harkey said; she's a _snoop_ and everybodyknows it."
"But she wouldn't tell that, if it weren't so."
"Well, I tell you, I wouldn't pay no attention to what she said, and Iwouldn't make such a fuss over an old cow-bell, anyway."
"But the cow-bell is only the starting point; she ain't been near thehouse since, and she says all kinds of mean, nasty things about us."
"All comes through Mrs. Jim, I suppose," said Mrs. Gray, with somesarcasm.
"No, it don't. She told Dade Walker that I got all the biggestflat-irons, when she knows I offered her the bureau. I did everything Icould to make her feel satisfied."
"I know you did, and now you must just keep cool till I see Emmymyself."
When Mrs. Gray started out on her mission of pacification, she found itto be entirely out of her control. The Coolly was actively partisan. Oneparty stood by the Harkeys, and another took Sarah's part, while the_tertium quid_ said it was "all darn foolishness."
Mrs. Gray was appalled at the state of affairs, but struggled tomaintain a neutral position. In May, when Bill and Sarah were married,things had reached such a stage that Emma was not invited to the weddingsupper. Nothing could have cut deeper than this neglect, and thereafteradherents of the third remove declined to speak when passing; some evenrefused to nod. The Harkey faction also condemned the early marriage ofBill and Sarah as unseemly.
Soon after, Emma came again to see Mrs. Gray, salty with tears, andcrushed with the slight Sarah had put upon her. She was a plain palewoman, anyway, and weeping made her pitiable. She explained thesituation with her head on Mrs. Gray's lap:--
"She never has been to see me since that day, and--but I hoped she'dcome and see me, but she never sent me any invitation to her wedding."She choked with sobs at the memory of it.
Mrs. Gray realized the enormity of the offence, and she could only puther arms around Emma's back and say, "There, there, I wouldn't take onso about it." As a matter of fact, she had striven to have Bill send aninvitation to his brother-in-law, but Bill was inflexible on that point.With the sound of the stolen cow-bell ringing in his ears, he could notbring himself to ask Ike Harkey into his house.
After Emma grew a little calmer, Mrs. Gray tried again to bridge thechasm. "Now, I just believe if you would go to Sarah--"
"I can't do that! She'd slam the door in my face. Jim's wife says Sarahsaid I shouldn't pick a single currant out of the garden this year!"
"I don't go much on what Jim's wife says," put in Mrs. Gray, guardedly.She had begun to feel that Jim's wife was the main disturbing element.
The sisters really suffered from their separation. They had been so usedto running in at all times of the day that each missed the otherwofully. It had been their habit whenever they needed each other to helpcook, or cut a dress, to hang a cloth out of the chamber window, a signwhich was sure to bring help post-haste; but now nothing would induceeither of them to make the first concession.
Two or three times when Emma, feeling especially lonely, was on thepoint of hanging out the signal, she was prevented by the thought ofsome cruel message Mrs. Jim had brought. Jim lived on Ike's farm in asmall house that had been Emma's first home, and Mrs. Jim was almost asmuch in her house as in her own. She had no children, and was amischief-maker, not so much from ill will as from a love of dramaticsituations; it was her life, this dramatic play of loves and hatesamong her friends and neighbors.
Emma feared her husband, too; he was so self-contained, and soinexorably moral, at least in appearance. He sweetly said he bore no illwill toward the Grays, but he must insist that his wife should not visitthem until they apologized. He took the matter very serenely, however.
The sound of the cow-bell was a constant daily irritation to Bill; hewas slow to wrath, but the bell seemed to rasp on his tenderest nerve;it had a curiously exultant sound heard in the early morning--it seemedto voice Harkey's triumph. Bill's friends were astonished at the changein him. He grew dark and thunderous with wrath whenever Harkey's namewas mentioned.
One day Ike's cattle broke out of the pasture into Bill's young oats,and though Ike hurried after them, it seemed to Bill he might have gotthem out a little quicker than he did. He said nothing then, however,but when a few days later they broke in again, he went over there invery bad humor.
"I want this thing stopped," he said.
Ike was mending the fence. He smiled in his sweet way, and saidsmoothly, "I'm sorry, but when they once git a taste of grain it'spretty hard to keep 'em--"
"Well, there ought to be a new fence here," said Bill. "That fence is asrotten as a pumpkin."
"I s'pose they had; yes, sir, that's so," Harkey assented quickly. "I'mready to build my half, you know," he said, "any time--any time youare."
"Well, I'll build mine to-morrow," said Bill. "I can't have your cattlepasturing on my oats."
"All right, all right. I'll have mine done as quick as yourn."
"Well, see't you do; I don't want my grain all tramped into the groundand I ain't a-goin' to have it."
Harkey hastily gathered up his tools, saying, "Yes, yes, all right."
"You might send home that cow-bell of mine while you're about it," Billcalled after him, but Harkey did not reply or turn around.
IV
The line fence ran up the bluff toward the summit of the ridge to theeast. On each side it was set with smooth green slopes of pasture andpleasant squares of wheat, until it reached the woods and ran under theoaks and walnuts and birches to the cliffs of lichen-spotted stone whichtopped the summit.
Bill walked the full length of the fence to see how much of the oldmaterial could be used. He recognized the bell on one of Harkey'scattle, and he grew wrathful at the sight of another cow peacefullygnawing the fresh, green grass, with the bell, which belonged to theblack cow, on her neck.
It was mid-spring. Everywhere was the vivid green of the Wisconsinlandscape; the slopes were like carefully tended lawns, without stumpsor stones; the groves rose up the hills, pink and gray and green insoftly rounded billows of cherry bloom and tender oak and elm foliage.Here and there under the forest tender plants and flowers had sprung up,slender and succulent like all productions of a rich and shadowed soil.
Early the next morning Bill and his two hands began to work in themeadow, working toward the ridge; Harkey and his brother and their handsbegan at the ridge and worked down toward the meadow; each party couldhear the axes of the other ringing in the still, beautiful spring air.
Bill's hired hand, on his way to the spring about the middle of theforenoon, met Jim Harkey, who said wickedly in answer to a joculargreeting:--
"Don't give me none of your lip now; we'll break your necks for twocents."
The hand came to Bill with the story. "Bill, they're on the fight."
/>
"Oh, I guess not."
"Well, they be. We better not run up against them to-day if we don'twant trouble."
"Well, I ain't goin' to dodge 'em," said Bill; "I ain't in thatbusiness; if they want fight, we'll accommodate 'em with the best we'vegot in the shop."
At noon, Harkey's gang went to dinner a little earlier, and, as theycame down the path quite near, Jim said with a sneer:--
"You managed to git the easiest half of the fence, didn't yeh?"
"We took the half that belongs to us," said Bill. "_We_ don't take whatdon't belong to us."
"Cow-bells, for instance," put in Bill's hired hand, with a provokingintonation.
Jim stopped and his face twisted with rage; Ike paused a little fartheron down the path. Jim came closer.
"Say, I know what you're driving at and you're a liar, and for a leathercent I'd lick you like hell!"
"You can't do it. You don't weigh enough."
"Oh, shut up, Jack," called Bill. "Go about y'r business," he said toJim, "or I'll take a hand."
Jim's face flamed into a wild wrath. His lips lifted at the corners likea wolf's as he leaped the fence with a wild spring and lunged againstBill's breast. The larger man went down, but his great arms closed abouthis assailant's neck with a bear-like grip. Jim could neither rise norstrike; with a fury no animal could equal he pressed his hands uponBill's throat and thrust his elbow into his mouth in the attempt tostrangle him. He meant murder.
Jack faced the other men, who came running up. Ike seized a stake, andwas about to leap over, when Jack raised an axe in the air.
"Stand off!" he yelled, and his voice rang through the woods; he noticedhow harsh and wild it sounded in the silence. He heard a grunting sound,and gave one glance at the two men writhing amid the ferns silent asgrappling bull-dogs.
Bill had fallen in the brake and seemed wedged in. At last there cameinto his heart a terrible shiver, a blind desperation that uncoiled allthe strength in his great bulk. Then he seemed to bound from theground, as he twisted the other man under him, and shook himself free.
He dragged one great maul of a fist free and drove it at the facebeneath him. Jim saw it coming and turned his head. The blow fell on hisneck and his carnivorous grin smoothed out as if sleep had suddenlyfallen upon him. He drew a long, shuddering breath, his musclesquivered, and his clenched hands fell open.
Bill rose upon his knees and looked at him. A deep awe fell upon him. Inthe pause he heard the robins rioting from the trees in the lowervalley, and the woodpecker cried resoundingly.
"You've killed him!" cried Ike, as he climbed hastily over the fence.
Bill did not reply. The men faced each other in solemn silence, all wishfor murder going out of their hearts. The sobbing cry of the mourningdove, which they had been hearing all day, suddenly assumed new meaning.
"_Ah, woe, woe is me!_" it cried.
"Bring water!" shouted Ike, kneeling beside his brother.
Bill knelt there with him, while the rest dashed water upon Jim's face.
At last he began to breathe like a fretful, waking child, and looking upinto the scared faces above him, motioned the water away from him. Theangry look came back into his face, but it was mixed with perplexity.
He touched his hand to his face and brought it down covered with blood."How much am I hurt?" he said fiercely.
"Oh, nothing much," Ike hastened to say; "it's just a scratch."
Jim struggled to his elbow and looked around him. It all seemed to comeback to him. "Did he do it fair?" he demanded of his companions.
"Oh, yes; it was fair enough," said Ike.
Jim looked at Jack. "That _thing_ didn't hit me with his axe, did he?"
Jack grinned. "No, but I was just a-goin' to when Bill belted you one,"was the frank and convincing reply.
Jim got up slowly and faced Bill. "Well, that settles it; it's allright! You're a better man than I am. That's all I've got to say."
He climbed back over the fence and led the way down to dinner withoutlooking back.
"What give ye that lick on the side o' the head, Jim?" his wife asked,when he sat down at the dinner-table.
"Never you mind," he replied surlily, but he added, "Ike's axe come off,and give me a side-winder."
Bill carefully removed all marks of his struggle and walked into dinnershamefacedly, all muscle gone out of his bulk of fat. His sudden returnto primeval savagery grew monstrous in the cheerful kitchen, with itsnoise of hearty children, sizzling meat, and the clatter of dishes.
The stove was not drawing well and Sarah did not notice anything out ofthe way with Bill.
"I never see such a hateful thing in all my life," she said, referringto the stove. "That rhubarb duff won't be fit for a hog to eat; theundercrust ain't baked the least bit yet, and I have had it in theresince fifteen minutes after 'leven."
Bill said generously, "Oh, well, never mind, Serry; we'll worry it downsome way."
V
All through July and August Mrs. Jim Harkey seemed to renew herendeavors to keep the sisters apart; she still carried spiteful tales toand fro, amplifying them with an irresistible histronic tendency. It hadbecome a matter of self-exoneration with her then. She could not stopnow without seeming to admit she had been mischief-making in the past.If the sisters should come together, her lies would instantly appear.
Emma grew morose, irritable, and melancholy; she was suffering for hersister's wholesome presence, and yet, being under the dominion of themischief-maker, dared not send word or even mention the name of hersister in the presence of the Harkeys.
Mrs. Jim came up to the house to stay as Emma got too ill to work, andtook charge of the house. The children hated her fiercely, and therewere noisy battles in the kitchen constantly wearing upon the nerves ofthe sick woman who lay in the restricted gloom of the sitting roombed-chamber, within hearing of every squall.
There were moments of peace only when Ike was in the house. Smooth as hewas, Jim's wife was afraid of him. There was something compelling in hislow-toned voice; his presence subdued but did not remove strife.
His silencing of the tumult hardly arose out of any consideration forhis wife, but rather from his inability to enjoy his paper while theclamor of war was going on about him.
He was not a tender man, and yet he prided himself on being a very calmand even-tempered man. He kept out of Bill's way, and considered himselfentirely justified in his position regarding the cow-bell. It isdoubtful if he would have accepted an apology.
Emma suffered acutely from Mrs. Harkey's visits. Something mean andwearying went out from her presence, and her sharp, bold face was aconstant irritation. Sometimes when she thought herself alone, Emmacrawled to the window which looked up the Coolly, toward Sarah's home,and sat there silently longing to send out a cry for help. But at thesound of Jane Harkey's step she fled back into bed like a frightenedchild.
She became more and more childish and more flighty in her thoughts asher time of trial drew near, and she became more subject to her jailer.She grew morbidly silent, and her large eyes were restless and full ofpleading.
One day she heard Mrs. Smith talking out in the kitchen.
"How is Emmy to-day, Mrs. Jim?"
"Well, not extry. She ain't likely to come out as well as usual thistime, I don't think," was the brutally incautious reply; "she's prettywell run down, and I wouldn't be surprised if she had some trouble."
"I suppose Sarah will be down to help you," said Mrs. Smith.
"Well, I guess not--not after what she's told."
"What has she told?" asked Mrs. Smith, in her sweet and friendly voice.
"Why, she said she wouldn't set foot in this house if we all _died_."
"I never heard her say that, and I don't believe she ever _did_ say it,"said Mrs. Smith, firmly.
Emma's heart glowed with a swift rush of affection toward her sister andMrs. Smith; she wanted to cry out her faith in Sarah, but she dared not.
Mrs. Harkey slammed the oven door viciously.
"Well, you can believe itor not, just as you like; I heard her say it."
"Well, I didn't, so I can't believe it."
When Mrs. Smith came in, Emma was ready to weep, so sweet and cheery washer visitor's face.
She found no chance to talk with her, however, for Mrs. Harkey kept nearthem during her visit. Once, while Mrs. Jim ran out to look at the pies,Mrs. Smith whispered: "Don't you believe what they say about Sarah.She's just as kind as can be--I know she is. She's looking down thisway every day, and I know she'd come down instanter if you'd send forher. I'm going up that way, and--"
She found no further chance to say anything, but from that moment Emmabegan to think of letting Sarah know how much she needed her. Sheplanned to hang out the cloth as she used to. She exaggerated itsimportance in the way of an invalid, until it attained the significanceof an act of treason. She felt like a criminal even in thinking aboutit.
Several times in the night she dreamed she had put the cloth out andthat Jim and his wife had seen it and torn it down. She awoke two orthree times to find herself sitting up in bed staring out of the window,through which the moon shone and the multitudinous sounds of themid-summer insects came sonorously.
Once her husband said, "What's the matter? It seems to me you'd restbetter if you'd lay down and keep quiet." His voice was low enough, butit had a peculiar inflection, which made her sink back into bed by hisside, shivering with fear and weeping silently.
The next day Jim and her husband both went off to town, and Jim's wife,after about ten o'clock, said:--
"Now, Emmy, I'm going down to Smith's to get a dress pattern, and I wantyou to keep quiet right here in bed. I'll be right back; I'll set somewater here, and I guess you won't want anything else until I get back.I'll run right down and right back."
After hearing the door close, Emma lay for a few minutes listening,waiting until she felt sure Mrs. Harkey was well out of the yard, thenshe crept out of bed and crawled to the window. Mrs. Jim was far downthe road; she could see her blue dress and her pink sunbonnet.
The sick woman seized the sheet and pulled it from the bed; the clothescame with it, but she did not mind that. She pulled herself painfully upthe stairway and across the rough floor of the chamber to the windowwhich looked toward her sister's house, and with a wild exultation flungthe sheet far out and dropped on her knees beside the open window.
She moaned and cried wildly as she waved the sheet. The note of a scaredchild was in her voice.
"Oh, Serry, come quick! Oh, I _need_ you, Serry! I didn't mean to bemean; I want to see you _so_! Oh, dear, oh, dear! Oh, Serry, comequick!"
Then space and the world slipped away, and she knew nothing of timeagain until she heard the anxious voice of Sarah below.
"Emmy, where _are_ you, Emmy?"
"Here I be, Serry."
With swift, heavy tread Sarah hurried up the stairs, and the dear oldface shone upon her again; those kind gray eyes full of anxiety and oflove.
Emma looked up like a child entreating to be lifted. Her look sopitifully eager went to the younger sister's maternal heart.
"You poor, dear soul! Why didn't you send for me before?"
"Oh, Serry, don't leave me again, will you?"
When Mrs. Harkey returned she found Sarah sitting by Emma's side in thebed-chamber. Sarah looked at her with all the grimness her jolly fatface could express.
"You ain't needed _here_," she said coldly. "If you want to do anything,find a man and send him for the Doctor--quick. If she dies you'll be hermurderer."
Mrs. Harkey was subdued by the bitterness of accusation in Sarah's faceas well as by Emma's condition. She hurried down the Coolly and sent aboy wildly galloping toward the town. Then she went home and sat down byher own hearthstone feeling deeply injured.
When the Doctor came he found a poor little boy baby crying in Sarah'sarms. It was Emma's seventh child, but the ever sufficing mother-lovelooked from her eyes undimmed, limitless as the air.
"Will it live, Doctor? It's so little," she said, with a sigh.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" said the Doctor, as if its living were notentirely a blessing to itself or others. "Yes, I've seen lots of lustychildren begin life like that. But," he said to Sarah at the door, "sheneeds better care than the babe!"
"She'll git it," said Sarah, with deep solemnity, "if I have to moveover here--and live."