IV
The last of February a southerly rain inaugurated the spring thaw. Great cakes of ice came down the river, and barricaded the mill. Then a cold snap followed, and the trees hung thick with fantastic icicles. In the morning the Deacon, Gurth, and several neighbours went up the stream to dislodge, with long poles, cakes of ice that were wedged threateningly between trees, and after dinner, when the two men had been talking of the caprices of the storm, the Deacon said: “It’s worth walking up to the Hill Farm, daughter, to see the ice on those white pines, but you must mind your footing. Waldsen’s going up there to shovel off the shed roof, and he’ll be glad to beau you, I know.”
Margaret blushed painfully, but Gurth, totally missing the significance of the word, said, in his precise language, that he was about to ask Miss Margaret, but feared she could not walk so far. So Margaret brought her coat, trimmed with a neck-band and cuffs of fur, and, drawing a dark red tam-o’-shanter over her black hair, set off with Waldsen.
As the Deacon watched them go down the road, dark and fair, slender and tall, both talking with animation, he suddenly gave a long whistle, for an idea, born of the word he had just used, flashed across his matter-of-fact mind, and he said aloud,—“Well, I never! Well, I never! She shan’t find her old dad a spoil sport, anyhow! I’ve my doubts if he’ll ever make out with farming, but I suspect he comes of good folks, and there’s a good living at the mill, and Margaret’s my only one!” Then he smiled contentedly to himself. The Deacon had loved his wife with a sentiment that was regarded as a weakness by his neighbours, and he was prepared to enjoy the courtship of his only daughter and forward it by all the innocent local ruses. Yes, he would even make errands to town, and at the last moment send Waldsen to drive Margaret in his stead.
The couple crossed the bridge and climbed the steep river bank towards the Hill Farm. Waldsen was in high spirits and hummed and whistled as they struggled and slipped along, steadying Margaret every few steps. Happiness and the bracing air had given her a clear colour, and her eyes were sparkling—she was a different being from the pale, silent girl of two months ago. The mail-carrier, who met them at the cross-roads and handed Gurth some letters, thought what a fine couple they made, and immediately started his opinion as a rumour around the community.
Margaret walked about outside the little brown house, while her companion freed the roof from its weight of ice. Her own home was in sight across the river, and at the left was a lovely strip of hill country that rose and fell until it merged with the horizon. She was so absorbed in the view that she did not realize when the shovelling was finished, until Waldsen stood close beside her. “Has your father told you that I buy this place, and that to-morrow the papers will be signed? Yes, I have bought it for my home; I shall plant the ground and work it, as your father says, to win my living. At evening we shall sit here and look up the river and down to where the sun sets, and then over to your house, thanking you for your kindness to a lonely stranger.” The “we” dropped in unawares, but Margaret knew that he meant Andrea, his sister.
“Next Christmas I shall move here, for my best resolves have come on Christmas Day; meanwhile, there is much to be done, and I shall ask your woman’s art how best to make my home attractive.” Then they talked of the garden and of the house, how it would need a summer kitchen, until he, through the subtilty of woman’s sympathy, thought that he could not wait all the long months for Andrea’s coming.
That night Waldsen sat a long time pondering over a letter that had that day come from Andrea. At the first, nothing new suggested itself, except that she perhaps was lonely, but on a second reading a note of pain was evident. Carelessly feeling in the pocket of his overcoat before going to bed, he found that he had received two letters, when he thought he had but one, and, re-lighting his lamp, he read the second, which was blotted and tear-stained. It ran thus:—
“The stamp on the last letter that I wrote you, dear Gurth, is hardly dried, yet I must write again and tell you that which for the last month I have tried to conceal. Now it is useless. My father will bring a new wife to fill my mother’s place in two months from now. A hateful woman who has in some strange way gained power over and fascinated him, but who does not wish me in the house, for my father is urging, nay, almost commanding, my betrothal to Hans Kraus, the brewer’s son, whom I have seen hardly twice, and whose mother is arranging the matter for him.
“In vain I protest and remind him of our betrothal. He insists that your mother will surely win you back, as she is making great efforts to discover where you are. He will not hear of my going out to service. I know that you will say, ‘Come to me, and we will be married,’ but knowing your plans and your agreement with your employer, this I will not do until Christmas comes again. One thing is possible, if you will undertake it. You are, of course, known in your village as a working-man. There must be some one there who wishes a young, strong woman to do housework, sewing, anything, in short,—you know my hands are used to work of all kinds. Find some lady who will pay my passage money, to be taken out in service, and I will come. Thus I, too, shall be independent. I can sometimes see you, and when we then marry at Christmas, no one will know that we are not as we seem, and we shall begin on a sure footing. Do not attempt to stop me, dearest. Let me also work.
“Your Andrea.”
This letter cut Waldsen to the heart as well as stirred his pride, and his first impulse was to return at once to Denmark for Andrea. Then he considered all the threads that must be unravelled, the dispersal of many plans so nicely made, and he paused, perplexed. Andrea clearly did not realize that he was not really a servant even in name, and that he could not allow her to fill a drudge’s place in some farm-house.
Stop! why should he not consult Margaret? She might suggest something, and, at least, her advice would be in accord with local custom, so that neither he nor Andrea would be criticised in future by those among whom they were to live. He wrote a few comforting lines to his betrothed, which he prepared to post that night that the letter might go by the next day’s steamer, for he had the habit, that a man bred in a large city seldom loses, of noting the coming and going of the iron monsters that bind the continents.
It was after one o’clock when he went downstairs, shoes in hand, and nearly three when he returned from his six-mile walk, after dropping his letter through the well-worn slit in the post-office door. The stairs creaked provokingly as he made his way up. He heard a slight noise and saw a light under Margaret’s door, which, as he passed by, opened, and Margaret herself peered out, shading her candle with her hand, and looking down the hall. She almost screamed when she saw Gurth so near, and said quickly, with a catch in her breath: “I heard a noise and thought the stair door had blown open. Are you ill? Can I do anything for you?” He looked at her a moment as she stood there in her loose wool wrapper, her hair hanging in long braids, and it seemed like an answer to his perplexity. His heart whispered, Trust her, consult her, and he said gravely, “I am not ill, I thank you, and you can do something for me, but not to-night.”
Then Waldsen slept the sleep of deep fatigue, but Margaret, misunderstanding wholly and wakeful with happiness, threw herself on her knees by her bed and, falling asleep, stayed in this position until the sun cast streaks across the room and scattered the mist that betokened the final breaking up of winter.
The March days flew by rapidly, and it was almost April. The willows were showing yellow stems, and the river swirled under them with new fervour. Hepaticas bloomed in the wood edges, while violets crept along in the sheltered garden border; bluebirds purled about the mill, while the kingfishers quarrelled over the pond. At every meal Waldsen brought the account of some new bird or unknown flower, until the Deacon was almost vexed, and told him in a sternly parental way that he would never make his salt, but fill his farm with brakes and briers, growing strawberries for robins and raspberries for catbirds; but Margaret only smiled, treasuring every leaf he brought, and spent much time out of doors watching the messengers of spring that she never before had noticed, feeling that life was good.
Easter came in middle April, and the little church at Glen Village was to be decorated with flowers. The day before, Gurth went into town with a load of feed, stopping on his way at the post-office, and found a letter from Andrea that made him resolve to act at once.
On his way home he bought two pots of blooming lilies, which he placed on Margaret’s table in the sitting-room, as an Easter gift to the home. As she thanked him, bending over the flowers, he said, “Miss Margaret, a while ago I said that you could do something for me. I have come to ask it now, but before I speak there is much that I must tell you, so that you may understand.” Margaret, making a gesture of assent, stood clinging to the curtain for support, still bending over the lilies.
Gurth began slowly and hesitatingly with his father’s unhappy marriage and his loveless childhood, speaking deliberately, and choosing his words like a lawyer presenting his case. A puzzled expression gradually spread over Margaret’s face, but as he told her of his meeting with Andrea and his love for her, she gave the curtain so sudden a jerk that it tore from its fastenings, and fell in a heap upon her. Gurth, merely thinking that she had stood too long, lifted the curtain, gave her a chair, and continued his narrative, with unconscious egotism. For more than an hour he talked; the Deacon peeped in and hastily withdrew, thinking that the young folks were coming to an understanding.
Margaret did not say a word, but so absorbed was Gurth that he did not notice it. A terrible struggle was rending her, and she could not trust herself to speak. Not only had her life hinged itself upon an impossibility, but the mistake that had made such a thing possible had come from giving credence to the story of the carpenter.
As every detail of the past three months came before her, she realized how innocent of any deception Waldsen had been, and the very advice he was now seeking proved his confidence in her. The secret was her own,—at least she had that comfort. Then a wave of pain passed over her, almost stopping her breath and seizing her throat in an iron grasp. She dimly saw that Gurth was showing her some letters, and gathered herself together only to receive a fresh blow,—his appeal for Andrea. For though he did not ask it in so many words, she knew what was in his mind.
When he had finished and stood expectantly before her, she could no longer contend with herself, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she said, “I must think before I answer you, but I will do all I can.” As she passed him he saw the tears, and, taking her hand, he stooped and kissed it reverently, saying, “God bless you for your sympathy.”
The Deacon did not return for tea, having business in town, and Waldsen, much surprised at Margaret’s absence, ate his meal alone.
Margaret herself sat in her east window looking at the twilight, and, when it faded, at the stars. The marsh frogs piped monotonously, and the water rushed over the dam, falling below with a hollow thud. Soon Waldsen’s violin sounded from his open window,—to-night he played “The Songs without Words,” one after another, chancing to end with “Lost Happiness.” As Margaret listened, now that the first shock was over, she was soothed. At first she did not think it was possible that she could have Andrea in the house, and then she knew that only by some such object lesson would she realize that Waldsen could not belong to her. Andrea should come, and they would work together. Zella was shiftless and constantly threatening to go. To tell her father and make him comprehend the change was her next task. Puritan in education and temperament, no other thought but to bend to the seemingly inevitable occurred to her.
On Easter Day no one who heard Margaret sing at church knew of her struggle, and yet her voice moved those plain people as it never had before, and they spoke of it among themselves in walking home. “The Dane must have taught her,” they said, “for they do say he can write music.”
When Margaret told the Deacon that portion of Waldsen’s story relating to Andrea, he did not betray the surprise he felt. He was, however, completely bewildered by this development, though he had long since ceased judging his daughter by ordinary standards. He was both disappointed and glad; he would have raised no objections to Margaret’s marriage with the young Dane, yet when he knew the exact facts regarding Gurth and Andrea, he was surprised at the sudden feeling of relief that came over him, for while he liked Gurth as a companion, he had grave doubts as to his permanent contentment in the life that he had now chosen.
But then, if Margaret was not in love with Waldsen, what had caused her increased interest in life, and drawn her from her usual seclusion? He had it now! and blamed himself for having been so blind. Of course, it was the promised trip to Europe that had given her motive, and Waldsen having travelled, what more likely than that they had often talked of the matter? Very well, let Andrea come and marry Waldsen. They could then keep house for him during Margaret’s absence. Nothing would be simpler.
When the Deacon, after much patient listening, understood the objections to a marriage before Christmas, he became quite angry. “Such nonsense I never heard before. So he doesn’t wish to marry the girl until his own house is ready! and she doesn’t wish to marry him until Christmas because she once promised her father that she would not, and he has since practically turned her out of doors! A pretty pair of fools playing at independence!” But when the Deacon saw that Margaret was deeply interested and sympathized with the couple, and when she represented to him how much better it would be to have some one like Andrea to help her with the housework, rather than a mere clumsy animal like Zella, who must be constantly watched, he relented after many grumblings and doubts as to the ability of the two girls to accomplish the work.
“How will it be when you come to feeding the berry hands? You know there’s no one to board them at the Hill Farm this season!”
“Mother and cousin Susan were able to do it,” replied Margaret, quietly. “I am going to take an interest in the place now, father; I have idled too long.” So Andrea was sent for, Margaret writing the letter in a kindly tone, but as a mistress engaging a helper, making no mention of Waldsen except as of a friend who knew that she wished to come to America. Early in May word came that Andrea’s steamer was due the next day, and Gurth went up to meet her.
All the day long Margaret was busy making preparations. “Looks to me as if you expected the Queen, instead of a helper,” joked her father, as he saw her putting up muslin curtains in the little room next to her own (Zella had occupied a bit of a place over the wash-house), and then, as she flushed hotly, he added hastily, “I’m glad you’re going to have a girl companion, daughter, but don’t work too hard; you’re getting pale again.”
At two o’clock everything was ready, and the train from Bridgeton was not due until half-past four. Margaret sat by her window. Everything outside was spring green; only the mill showed its shingles through the spotted branches of the plane trees, for they leaf out late. A mist of greenery veiled the river, but the pond was a glittering mirror. On the edge of the berry fields the cherry trees were shaking down a rain of petals, and bluebirds were murmuring about in pairs, while the song-sparrows kept up their sweet, persistent song from the meadow bushes.
Margaret tried to fix her thoughts on the scene before her. Would the orioles come back to the elm that touched the roof? She hoped so, for Waldsen was so anxious to see them weave their nest. And the fly-catcher with the leather-coloured back—she wondered if he would again leave snake-skins hanging from his nest-hole in the old apple tree, as he did last year. Gurth had never seen such a nest.
She left the window and walked slowly up and down the room, the fact forcing itself upon her that whatever she did now or had done for the last three months, was for Waldsen’s sake.
She had stayed at home and sent for Andrea, to give him pleasure as well as to bring herself to a realization of his betrothal, but she had not understood until this moment exactly what an ordeal she must go through on seeing Andrea and Gurth together for the first time. She wished that she could run away,—that she had gone abroad, anything, anywhere, rather than see their love-making. It was too late. The love that had entered her heart unasked could not be driven out by argument. She must go on living as if nothing had happened; perhaps years hence when the children at the Hill Farm called her aunty, it might be different, but not now—not now!
The train was already in sight when Margaret drove up to the little brown station at Glen Village. She was alone, as at the last moment her father had been obliged to go to the mill. The horses were restless, and they furnished Margaret with an excuse for remaining in the wagon where she could see Andrea from a distance.
The train passed on, a moment of intense silence followed, sparrows quarrelled under the eaves, and a gentle rain of catkins fell from a maple; it is strange how at such times of tension minute details hold the attention.
Another minute,—Gurth came around the corner and down the long plank walk,—he carried a very small, old-fashioned round-topped trunk on his shoulder, and following him was a young girl who did not look more than sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a black jacket, rather short skirt, and very plain hat that fitted closely over the smooth braids of yellow hair. As she came nearer, Margaret saw that the short dress was responsible for the appearance of extreme youth, for her face was pale, serious, and even careworn, and the big blue eyes were brimming with tears. The strain and uncertainty of the last few months had told upon Andrea, and the loneliness of the voyage had almost paralyzed her, but it was not until she was safely on land and at her journey’s end that tears came. Margaret longed to take the poor little thing in her arms and comfort her, for the frightened eyes called upon her strong motherly instinct; but this would never do, so she merely greeted her pleasantly, handing the reins to Gurth, saying, “I will sit on the back seat with Andrea.”
For half a mile or so they drove in silence, Margaret wishing to give her companion time to recover herself. Then she began an easy conversation, leading gradually to Andrea herself and her voyage. Andrea understood English as readily as Gurth, but spoke without his literary nicety; yet before they arrived at the Mill Farm they were all three talking easily, though Andrea maintained a sort of diffidence, as if in the presence of a mistress. Noticing this, Margaret, as soon as they reached home, signalled Waldsen to go with the horses, and took Andrea immediately to her room.
Once there, after showing Andrea where to put her very scanty belongings, Margaret drew her to a seat in the window, and, taking her hand, very gently said: “I wrote you that I wanted a girl to help me with my work, and that Gurth Waldsen told me that you wished to come to America. This was true, but I did not write that I also know the story of his life and of yours, also. We thought it best for you to come here first, and, finding yourself among friends, all would seem plain to you.”
“He—he has told you about his mother—that we are betrothed, and all?” cried Andrea, her mild eyes blazing, and a crimson spot glowing under each high cheek-bone. “Told it all to a stranger, and you have asked me here from charity? Oh, Gurth! how cruel of you, how could you?” sobbed Andrea, burying her face in her arms.
“I wanted our new life to be real; I thought that we should be working people and have only what we earned, and that there would be no more inequality between us or false positions, and now it is all over,—even our trouble is not our own! It was cowardly in Gurth! cowardly, I say!”
Margaret was at a loss how to reply to this outburst. Andrea’s fatigue and worry would account for her vehemence, but allowing for this, there was some truth underlying her complaint, which made it difficult to cope with. Andrea’s nature was wholly genuine; when she said she wished to work, she meant it, but with Gurth work was a more abstract idea, a necessity arising from a desire to marry Andrea.
Margaret sat in silence, until finally, as Andrea’s sobs ceased, she drew the girl’s head up so she could look at her. “Think a little before you condemn Waldsen. You are tired and excited, and also unjust to say that I sent for you out of charity. I needed a helper, and I also wished a companion. I was sure, from what we have seen of him during these months, that the woman for whom Gurth Waldsen had left his home and fortune would easily understand his present position, and the feelings that prevented him from allowing her to place herself out as a drudge. The idea of keeping your secret was natural, but impossible; you must accept things as they now are, and thus begin the reality.
“Come, wipe your eyes, do you want Gurth to see them all red and swollen? Put some cool water on them,—there, so. Now I will leave you awhile, but come down in half an hour, for you are to be cook, you know.” Margaret managed to laugh pleasantly, as she went to find Waldsen and arrest any tendency to a misunderstanding that might arise.
He was coming from the barnyard with the milkpails, and his almost boyish look of happiness broke into a smile when he saw Margaret.
“Have you told her? Was she not delighted to know how everything is arranged? I did not say a word, but left the pleasure for you, dear friend, you have so deserved it!”
It seemed a pity to undeceive him; it is always a pity to blast a man’s enthusiasm when he has prepared, what he considers, a pleasant surprise for the woman he loves. Many a separation has started with such a repulse from the thin edge of the wedge.
Margaret gave a rapid summary of Andrea’s feeling, softening and smoothing everything, and adding that the best thing would be to take her up to the Hill Farm after tea. The sight of her future home would do more to reassure her, and give her a feeling of confidence, than any words.
Waldsen had put down his pails and stood looking at Margaret as she spoke. Her face was turned partly towards him, but she was looking past over the hills. She wore a plain, soft, gray woollen gown with a dark red belt and neck-band, and there was a bit of red, her favourite colour, in her hat, while her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the scene she had just undergone. He wondered that he had never noticed before how fine her face was, how graceful and well poised her carriage, and he listened to what she said, half bowing as to a superior being.
The first meal passed off happily enough; Andrea, looking very sweet and shy, had added a light blue neckerchief to her almost nunlike black gown, her tears having only given a natural colour to her face. Waldsen beamed upon her in his happiness, occasionally relapsing inadvertently to Danish as they talked, much to the amusement of the Deacon, who seemed quite jovial, and indeed it was a pleasure to him to have three young faces at the table.
After supper Margaret and Andrea washed the dishes and put them away, Margaret saying casually: “Gurth wants you to take a walk with him; he has a surprise for you. I will set the bread to-night and close the house; to-morrow you shall begin and do your half. Go, Andrea; the sun will be down before you are halfway up the hill.”
“Will you not come also, Miss Margaret?” said Waldsen’s soft voice.
“Not to-night.”
The sun disappeared behind the mill, and a whip-poor-will called suddenly from a maple near the house. Rob, the collie, gave an uneasy whine, and coming in, poked his cold nose into Margaret’s hand, as if impatient at her revery. She patted him, went to the table, lighted the lamp, and was arranging the backgammon-board just as her father’s step sounded on the piazza.
“What! all alone, daughter? This seems like old times,” he said, as he sat down to his game. “So the lovers haven’t come back yet, eh? How we miss Waldsen!” Looking up, expecting a reply, he saw that Margaret was apparently absorbed in an intricate move.