"It"s my own will, Hermie," he said, in a tone they had not heard from him since the day, eighteen years behind them, when the boy Hermie was rescued from the "old swimmin"-hole." "We"ll have the deeds drawed up to-morrer."
They stood an instant, hands gripped, regarding each other in the allegiance not of blood alone. The clasp broke, and they remembered the woman and turned to her. There she stood, trembling a little, but apparently removed from all affairs too large for her. She had taken a cover from the stove, and was obviously reflecting on the next step in her domestic progress.
"I guess you better bring me in a handful o" that fine kindlin", Hermie," she remarked, in her wonted tone of brisk suggestion, "so "s "t I can brash up the fire. I sha"n"t have dinner on the stroke--not "fore half-past one."
THE ADVOCATE
"You goin"?" called Isabel Wilde from the road, to Ardelia, sitting forlornly on the front steps.
It was seven o"clock of a wonderful August morning, with all the bloom of summer and the lull of fall. Isabel was a dark, strong young creature who walked with her head in the air, and Ardelia, pretty and frail and perfect in her own small way, looked like a child in comparison. Isabel had been down to carry a frosted cake to her little niece Ellen, for Ellen"s share of the picnic at Poole"s Woods. It was Fairfax day, when once a year all Fairfax went to the spot where the first settlers drank of the "b"ilin" spring" on their way to a clearing.
"You goin"?" she called again, imperiously, and Ardelia answered, as if from some unwillingness:--
"I guess so."
"Now what do you want to say that for?" rang her mother"s voice from an upper window, where, trusting to her distance from the road, she thought she could speak her mind without Isabel"s hearing. "You know you ain"t.
Oliver"s gone off to work in the acre lot."
Isabel had heard. She stood regarding Ardelia thoughtfully, her black brows drawn together and her teeth set upon one full lip.
"Ardelia," she called softly, after that moment of consideration.
"What is it?" came Ardelia"s unwilling voice, the tone of one who has emotion to conceal.
"Come here a minute."
Ardelia rose slowly and came down the path. She was a wisp of a creature, perfectly fashioned and very appealing in her blond prettiness. Isabel eyed her sharply and judged from certain signs that she had at least meant to go. She had on her light-blue dimity with the Hamburg frills, and her sorrowful face indicated that she had donned it to no avail.
"What time you goin", "Delia?" asked Isabel quietly, over the fence.
Ardelia could not look at her. She stood with bent head, busily arranging a spray of coreopsis that fell out over the path, and Isabel was sure her eyes were wet.
"I don"t know," she said evasively; "maybe not very early."
Isabel was looking at her tenderly. It was not a personal tenderness so much as a softness born out of peculiar circ.u.mstance. She knew exactly why she was sorry for Ardelia in a way no one else could be. Yet there seemed to be no present means of helping her.
"Well," she said, turning away, "maybe I"ll see you there. Say, "Delia!"
A sudden thought was brightening her eyes to even a kinder glow. "If you haven"t planned any other way, s"pose you go with us. Jim Bryant"s goin"
to take me, and he"d admire to have you, too. What say, "Delia?"
Ardelia"s delicate figure straightened, and now she looked at Isabel.
There was something new in her gentle glance. It looked like dignity.
"I"m much obliged to you, Isabel," she returned stiffly. "If I go, I"ve arranged to go another way."
"All right," said Isabel. "Well, I guess I"ll be gettin" along."
But before she was half-way to the turning of the road she heard Mrs.
Drake"s shrill voice from the upper window:--
"He"s begun to dig, "Delia. Oliver"s begun to dig. He won"t stop for no picnics, I can tell ye that."
It seemed to Isabel as if the world were very much out of tune for delicate girls like "Delia who wanted pleasure and could not have it.
She paused a moment at the crossing of the roads, the frown of consideration again upon her brow. "Makes me mad," she said to herself, but half absently, as if that were not the issue at all. Then she turned her back on her own home-road and the house where her starched dress was awaiting her, and where Jim Bryant would presently call to take her to Poole"s Woods, and walked briskly down the other way.
Isabel stopped at the acre field, but she had no idea of what she meant to say when she was there. Oliver was digging potatoes, as she knew he would be, and she recognized the bend of the back, the steady stress of one who toiled too long and too unrestingly, so that his very pose spoke like a lifelong purpose. She stood still for a moment or two before he saw her, gazing at him. Old tenderness awoke in her, old angers also.
She remembered how he had made her suffer in the obstinate course of his own will, and how free she had felt when at last she had broken their engagement and seen him drift under Ardelia"s charm. But he would always mean something to her more than other men, in a fashion quite peculiar to himself. She had agonized too much over him. She had protected him too long against the faults of his own nature, and now she could not be content unless, for his sake, she protected Ardelia a little also.
Suddenly he lifted himself to rest his back, and saw her. They stood confronting each other, each with a sense of familiarity and pain.
Oliver was a handsome fellow, tall, splendidly made, with rich, warm coloring. He looked kindly, but stolidly set in his own way.
"That you, Isabel?" he asked awkwardly.
They had met only for a pa.s.sing word since the breaking of their troth.
"Yes," said Isabel briefly. "I"ve got to speak to you. Wait a minute.
I"ll come in by the bars, and you meet me under the old cherry. It"ll be shady there."
She turned back to the bars, ducked deftly under, and, holding her skirts from the rough land, made her way to the cherry in the corner of the lot. Oliver wonderingly followed. She felt again that particular anger she reserved for him, when she saw him stalking along, hoe in hand. It was a settled tread, with little spring in it, and for the moment it seemed to her a prophecy of what it would be when he was an old man, with a staff instead of the hoe. She was waiting for him under the tree.
"Oliver," she began, speaking out of an impulse hardly yet approved by judgment, "you goin" to the picnic?"
Oliver looked at her in wonder.
"Why, no," said he slowly.
"Didn"t you promise "Delia you"d go?"
"No, I guess not. I said mebbe I"d be round if I had time, but I ain"t found the time. These "taters have got to be dug."
The red had surged into Isabel"s full cheeks. She looked an eloquent remonstrance.
"Oliver," she said impetuously, ""Delia"s sittin" on the front steps, waitin" for you to come. She"ll be terrible disappointed if you put her aside like this."
Oliver took off his hat and pa.s.sed a hand over his forehead. She noticed, as she had a hundred times, how fine his hair was at the roots, and was angry again because he would not, with his exasperating ways, let any woman love him as she might. He seemed to have nothing to say, but she knew the picture of lone "Delia sitting on the steps was far from moving him. It did cause him an honest trouble, for he was kind; but not for that would he postpone his work.
"Oliver," she continued, "did you ever know what "twas that made me tell you we must break off bein"--engaged?"
He was looking at her earnestly. His own mind seemed returning to a past ache and loss.
"I understood," he said at length--"I understood "twas because you kinder figured it out we shouldn"t get along well."
She stood there, a frowning figure, her lips compressed, her eyes stormy. Then she turned to him, all frankness and candor.
"Oliver," she said, "I never give you any reasons. What"s the use? I was terrible fond of you. I was. I don"t know "s any girl ought to say that when you"re engaged to somebody else, and I"m engaged myself, and happy as the day is long. But what "twas--what come between us--you never made me have a good time."