CHAPTER XLIV.
SQUARING ACCOUNTS.
The summer storm had spent itself by daylight, and the sun rose on thatmorning after the world's end much as it had risen on other mornings,but it looked down upon prostrate trees and scattered fences androofless barns. And the minds of the people were in much the samedisheveled state as the landscape. One simple-minded girl was a maniac.Some declared that the world had ended, and that this was the new earth,if people only had faith to receive it; some still waited for the end,and with some the reaction from credulity had already set in, a reactionthat carried them into the blankest atheism and boldest immorality.People who had spent the summer in looking for a change that wouldrelieve them from all responsibility, now turned reluctantlytoward the commonplace drudgery of life. It is the evil of allday-dreaming--day-dreaming about the other world included--that itunfits us for duty in this world of tangible and inevitable facts.
It was nearly daylight when Andrew and August and Julia reached thecastle. The Philosopher advised Julia to go home, and for the presentto let the marriage be as though it were not. August dreaded to seeJulia returned to her mother's tyranny, but Andrew was urgent in hisadvice, and Julia said that she must not leave her mother in hertrouble. Julia reached home a little after daylight, and a little beforeMrs. Anderson was brought home in a fit of hysterics.
Poor Mrs. Abigail still hoped that the end of the world for which shehad so fondly prepared would come, but as the days wore on she sank intoa numb despondency. When she thought of the loss of her property, shegroaned and turned her face to the wall. And Samuel Anderson sat aboutthe house in a dumb and shiftless attitude, as do most men upon whomfinancial ruin comes in middle life. The disappointment of his faith andthe overthrow of his fortune had completely paralyzed him. He waswaiting for something, he hardly knew what. He had not even his wife'sdriving voice to stimulate him to exertion.
There was no one now to care for Mrs. Anderson but Julia, for Cynthy hadtaken up her abode in the log-cabin which Jonas had bought, and ahappier housekeeper never lived. She watched Jonas till he disappearedwhen he went to work in the morning, she carried him a "snack" at teno'clock, and headways found her standing "like a picter" at the gate,when he came home to dinner. But Cynthy Ann generally spent herafternoons at Anderson's, helping "that young thing" to bear herresponsibilities, though Mrs. Anderson would receive no personalattentions now from any one but her daughter. She did not scold; herquerulous restlessness was but a reminiscence of her scolding. She lay,disheartened, watching Julia, and exacting everything from Julia, andthe weary feet and weary heart of the girl almost sank under herburdens. Mrs. Anderson had suddenly fallen from her position of anexacting tyrant to that of an exacting and helpless infant. She followedJulia with her eyes in a broken-spirited fashion, as if fearing that shewould leave her. Julia could read the fear in her mother's countenance;she understood what her mother meant when she said querulously, "You'llget married and leave me." If Mrs. Anderson had assumed her oldhigh-handed manner, it would have been easy for Julia to have declaredher secret. But how could she tell her now? It would be a blow, it mightbe a fatal blow. And at the same time how could she satisfy August? Hethought she had bowed to the same old tyranny again for an indefinitetime. But she could not forsake her parents in their poverty andafflictions.
The fourteenth of August, the day on which possession was to have beengiven to Bob Walker, came and went, but no Bob Walker appeared. A weekmore passed, in which Samuel Anderson could not muster enough courage togo to see Walker, in which Samuel Anderson and his wife waited in avague hope that something might happen. And every day of that week Juliahad a letter from August, which did not say one word of the trial thatit was for him to wait, but which said much of the wrong Julia was doingto herself to submit so long. And Julia, like her father and mother, waswaiting for she knew not what.
At last the suspense became to her unendurable.
"Father," she said, "why don't you go to see Bob Walker? You might buythe farm back again."
"I don't know why he don't come and take it," said Mr. Andersondejectedly.
This conversation roused Mrs. Abigail. There was some hope. She got upin bed, and told Samuel to go to the county-seat and see if the deedshad ever been recorded. And while her husband was gone she sat up andlooked better, and even scolded a little, so that Julia felt encouraged.But she dreaded to see her father come back.
Samuel Anderson entered the house on his return with a blankcountenance. Sitting down, he put his face between his hands a minute inutter dejection.
"Why don't you speak?" said Mrs. Anderson in a broken voice.
"The land was all transferred to Andrew immediately, and he owns everyfoot of it. He must have sent Bob Walker here to buy it."
"Oh! I'm so glad!" cried Julia.
But her mother only gave her one reproachful look and went off intohysterical sobbing and crying over the wrong that Andrew had done her.And all that night Julia watched by her mother, while Samuel Andersonsat in dejection by the bed. As for Norman, he had quickly relapsed intohis old habits, and his former cronies had generously forgiven him histemporary piety, considering the peculiar circumstances of the case someextenuation. Now that there was trouble in the house he staid away,which was a good thing so far as it went.
The next afternoon Mrs. Anderson rallied a little, and, looking atJulia, she said in her querulous way, "Why don't you go and see him?"
"Who?" said Julia with a shiver, afraid that her mother was insane.
"Andrew."
Julia did not need any second hint. Leaving her mother with Cynthy, shesoon presented herself at the door of the castle.
"Did _she_ send you?" asked Andrew dryly.
"Yes, sir."
"I've been expecting you for a long time. I'll go back with you. ButAugust must go along. He'll be glad of an excuse to see your face again.You look thin, my poor girl."
They went past Wehle's, and August was only too glad to join them,rejoicing that some sort of a crisis had come, though how it was to helphim he did not know. With the restlessness of a man looking for someindefinable thing to turn up, Samuel was out on the porch waiting thereturn of his daughter. Jonas had come for Cynthy Ann, and was sittingon a "shuck-bottom" chair in front of the house.
Andrew reached out his hand and greeted his brother cordially, and spokecivilly to Abigail. Then there was a pause, and Mrs. Anderson turned herhead to the wall and groaned. After a while she looked round and sawAugust. A little of her old indignation came into her eyes as shewhimpered, "What did _he_ come for?"
"I brought him," said Andrew.
"Well, it's your house, do as you please. I suppose you'll turn us outof our own home now."
"As you did me," said the Philosopher, smiling. "Let me remind you thatI was living on the river farm. My father had promised it to me, andgiven me possession. A week before his death you got the will changed,by what means you know. You turned me off the farm which had virtuallybeen mine for two years. If I turn you off now, it will be no morethan fair."
There was a look of pained surprise on Julia's face. She had not knownthat the wrong her uncle had suffered was so great. She had not thoughtthat he would be so severe as to turn her father out.
"I don't want to talk of these things," Andrew went on. "I ought tohave broken the will, but I was not a believer in the law. I tell thisstory now because I must justify myself to these young people for what Iam going to do. You have had the use of that part of the estate whichwas rightfully mine for twenty years. I suppose I may claim it all now."
Julia's eyes looked at him pleadingly.
"Why don't you send us off and be done with it then?" said Mrs. Abigail,rising up and resuming her old vehemence. "You set out to ruin us, andnow you've done it. A nice brother you are! Ruining us by a conspiracywith Bob Walker, and then sitting here and trying to make my owndaughter think you did right, and bringing that hateful fellow here tohear it!" Her finger was leveled at August.
"I am glad to see you are better, Abigail. I wanted to be sure you werestrong enough to bear all I have to say."
"Say your worst and do your worst, you cruel, cruel man! I have borneenough from you in these years, and now you can say and do what youplease; you can't do me any more harm. I suppose I must leave my oldhome that I've lived in so long."
"You need not worry yourself about leaving; that's what I came over tosay."
"As if I'd stay in _your_ house an hour! I'll not take any favors at_your_ hand."
"Don't be rash, Abigail. I have deeded this hill farm to Samuel, andhere is the deed. I have given you back the best half of the property,just what my father meant you to have. I have only kept the river land,that should have been mine twenty years ago. I hope you will not stickto your resolution not to receive anything at my hand."
And Julia said: "Oh! I'm so--"
But Mrs. Anderson had a convenient fit of hysterics, crying piteously.Meantime Samuel gladly accepted the deed.
"The deed is already recorded. I sent it down yesterday as soon as I sawSamuel come back, and I got it back this morning. The farm is yourswithout condition."
This relieved Abigail, and she soon ceased her sobbing. Andrew could nottake it back then, whatever she might say.
"Now," said Andrew, "I have only divided the farms without claiming anydamages. I want to ask a favor. Let Julia marry the man of her choicein peace."
"You have taken one farm, and therefore I must let my daughter marry aman with nothing but his two hands," sobbed Mrs. Anderson.
"Two hands and a good head and a noble heart," said Andrew.
"Well, I won't consent," said she. "If Julia marries _him_," pointing toAugust, "she will marry without my consent, and he will not get a centof the money he's after. Not a red cent!"
"I don't want your money. I did not know you'd get your farm back, for Idid not know but that Walker owned it, and I--wanted--Julia all thesame." August had almost told that he had married Julia.
"Wanted her and married her," said Andrew. "And I have not kept acorn-stalk of the property I got from you. I have given Bob Walker aten-acre patch for his services, and all the rest I have deeded to thetwo best people I know. This August Wehle married Julia Anderson whenthey thought the world might be near its end, and believing that, at anyrate, she would not have a penny in the world. I have deeded the riverfarm to August Wehle and his wife."
"Married, eh? Come and ask my consent afterwards? That's a fine way!"And Abigail grew white and grew silent with passion.
"Come, August, I want to show you and Julia something," said Andrew. Hereally wanted to give Abigail time to look the matter in the facequietly before she committed herself too far. But he told the two youngpeople that they might make their home with him while their house was inbuilding. He had already had part of the material drawn, and from thebrow of the hill they looked down upon the site he had chosen near theold tumble-down tenant's house. But Andrew saw that Julia lookeddisappointed.
"You are not satisfied, my brave girl. What is the matter?"
"Oh! yes, I am very happy, and very thankful to you; and next to AugustI love you more than anybody--except my parents."
"But something is different to what you wished it. Doesn't the site suityou? You can look off on to the river from the rise on which the housewill stand, and I do not know how it could be better."
"It couldn't be better," said Julia, "but--'
"But what? You must tell me."
"I thought maybe you'd let us live at the castle and take the burden ofthings off you. I should like to keep your house for you, just to showyou how much I love my dear, good uncle."
Even an anchorite could not help feeling a pleasure at such a speechfrom such a young woman, and this shaggy, solitary, misanthropic buttender-hearted man felt a sudden rush of pleasure. August saw it, andwas delighted. What one's nearest friend thinks of one's wife is a vitalquestion, and August was happier at this moment than he had ever been.Andrew's pleasure at Julia's loving speech was the climax.
"Yes!" said the Philosopher, a little huskily. "You want to sacrificeyour pleasure by living in my gloomy old castle, and civilizing an oldheathen like me. You mustn't tempt me too far."
"I don't see why you call it gloomy. It wasn't only for your sake that Isaid it. I think it is the nicest old house I ever saw. And then thebooks, and--and--you." Julia stumbled a little, she was not accustomedto make speeches of this sort.
"You flatterer!" burst out Andrew. "But no, you must have your ownhouse."
Mrs. Anderson, on her part, had concluded to make the best of it. Juliaalready married and the mistress of the Anderson river farm was quite adifferent thing from Julia under her thumb. She was to be conciliated.Besides, Mrs. Anderson did not want Julia's prosperity to be a lifelongsource of humiliation to her. She must take some stock in it atthe start.
"Jule," she said, as her daughter re-entered the door, "I can let youhave two feather-beds and four pillows, and a good stock of linen andblankets. And you can have the two heifers and the sorrel colt."
The two "heifers" were six, and the sorrel "colt" was seven years ofage; but descriptive names often outlive the qualities to which theyowed their origin. Just as a judge is even yet addressed as "yourhonor," and many a governor without anything to recommend him hearshimself called "your excellency."
When Abigail surrendered in this graceful fashion, Julia was touched,and was on the point of putting her arms around her mother and kissingher. But Mrs. Anderson was not a person easily caressed, and Julia didnot yield to her impulse.
"Cynthy Ann, my dear," said Jonas, as they walked home that evening, "doyou know what Abig'il Anderson reminds me of?"
No; Cynthy Ann didn't exactly know. In fact, it would have beendifficult for anybody to have told what anything was likely to remindJonas of. There was no knowing what a thing might not suggest to him.
"Well, Cynthy, my Imperial Sweetness, when I see Abig'il come down sobeautiful, it reminded me of a little fice-t dog I had when I was aleetle codger. I called him Pick. His name was Picayune. Purty goodname, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was."
"Well, now, that air little Pick wouldn't never own up as he was drivouten the house. When he was whipped out, he wouldn't never tuck histail down, but curl it up over his back, and run acrost the yard andthrough the fence and down the road a-barkin' fit to kill. Wanted to leton like as ef he'd run out of his own accord, with malice aforethought,you know. _That's_ Abig'il."