“I saw you were up, Mr. Beech”—it was Esther Hagadorn who spoke—“and I don’t seem able to sleep, and I thought, if you didn’t mind, I’d come over here.”
“Why, of course,” the farmer responded. “Just bring up a chair there, an’ sit down. That’s it—wrap the shawl around you good. It’s a cold night—snowin’ hard outside.”
Both had spoken in muffled tones, so as not to disturb the others. This same dominant notion of keeping still deterred me from turning over, in order to be able to see them. I expected to hear them discuss my illness, but they never referred to it. Instead, there was what seemed a long silence. Then the school-ma’am spoke. “I can’t begin to tell you,” she said, “how glad I am that you and your wife aren’t a bit cast down by the—the calamity.”
“No,” came back Abner’s voice, buoyant even in its half-whisper, “we’re all right. I’ve be’n sort o’ figurin’ up here, an’ they ain’t much real harm done. I’m insured pretty well. Of course, this bein’ obleeged to camp out in a hay-barn might be improved on, but then it’s a change—somethin’ out o’ the ordinary rut—an’ it’ll do us good. I’ll have the carpenters over from Juno Mills in the forenoon, an’ if they push things, we can have a roof over us again before Christmas. It could be done even sooner, p’raps, only they ain’t any neighbors to help me with a raisin’ bee. They’re willin’ enough to burn my house down, though. However, I don’t want them not an atom more’n they want me.”
There was no trace of anger in his voice. He spoke like one contemplating the unalterable conditions of life.
“Did they really, do you believe, set it on fire?” Esther asked, intently.
“No, I think it caught from that fool fire they started around back of the house, to heat their fool tar by. The wind was blowing a regular gale, you know. Janey Wilcox, she will have it that that Roselle Upman set it on purpose. But then, she don’t like him—an’ I can’t blame her much, for that matter. Once Otis Barnum was seein’ her home from singin’ school, an’ when he was goin’ back alone this Roselle Upman waylaid him in the dark, an’ pitched onto him, an’ broke his collar-bone. I always thought it puffed Janey up some, this bein’ fought over like that, but it made her mad to have Otis hurt on her account, an’ then nothing come of it. I wouldn’t ’a’ minded pepperin’ Roselle’s legs a trifle, if I’d had a barrel loaded, say, with bird-shot. He’s a nuisance to the whole neighborhood. He kicks up a fight at every dance he goes to, all winter long, an’ hangs around the taverns day in an’ day out, inducin’ young men to drink an’ loaf. I thought a fellow like him ’d be sure to go off to the war, an’ so good riddance; but no! darned if the coward don’t go an’ get his front teeth pulled, so’t he can’t bite ca’tridges, an’ jest stay around; a worse nuisance than ever! I’d half forgive that miserable war if it—only took off the—the right men.”
“Mr. Beech,” said Esther, in low fervent tones, measuring each word as it fell, “you and I, we must forgive that war together!”
I seemed to feel the farmer shaking his head. He said nothing in reply.
“I’m beginning to understand how you’ve felt about it all along,” the girl went on, after a pause. “I knew the fault must be in my ignorance, that our opinions of plain right and plain wrong should be such poles apart. I got a school-friend of mine, whose father is your way of thinking, to send me all the papers that came to their house, and I’ve been going through them religiously—whenever I could be quite alone. I don’t say I don’t think you’re wrong, because I do, but I am getting to understand how you should believe yourself to be right.”