THE FACE OF FAILURE
AFTER the week's shower the low Iowa hills looked vividly green. At thebase of the first range of hills the Blackhawk road winds from the cityto the prairie. From its starting-point, just outside the city limits,the wayfarer may catch bird's-eye glimpses of the city, the vast riverthat the Iowans love, and the three bridges tying three towns to theisland arsenal. But at one's elbow spreads Cavendish's melon farm.Cavendish's melon farm it still is, in current phrase, althoughCavendish, whose memory is honored by lovers of the cantaloupe melon,long ago departed to raise melons for larger markets; and still aweather-beaten sign creaks from a post announcing to the world that "thecelebrated Cavendish Melons are for Sale here!" To-day the melon-vineswere softly shaded by rain-drops. A pleasant sight they made, spreadingfor acres in front of the green-houses where mushrooms and earlyvegetables strove to outwit the seasons, and before the brown cottagein which Cavendish had begun a successful career. The black roof-treeof the cottage sagged in the middle, and the weather-boarding was dingywith the streaky dinginess of old paint that has never had enough oil.The fences, too, were unpainted and rudely patched. Nevertheless asecond glance told one that there were no gaps in them, that the farmmachines kept their bright colors well under cover, and that the gardenrows were beautifully straight and clean. An old white horse switchedits sleek sides with its long tail and drooped its untrammelled neck infront of the gate. The wagon to which it was harnessed was new and hadjust been washed. Near the gate stood a girl and boy who seemed to bemutually studying each other's person. Decidedly the girl's slim, lightfigure in its dainty frock repaid one's eyes for their trouble; and herface, with its brilliant violet eyes, its full, soft chin, its curlingauburn hair and delicate tints, was charming; but her brother's lookwas anything but approving. His lip curled and his small gray eyes grewsmaller under his scowling brows.
"Is THAT your best suit?" said the girl.
"Yes, it is; and it's GOING to be for one while," said the boy.
It was a suit of the cotton mixture that looks like wool when it is new,and cuts a figure on the counters of every dealer in cheap ready-madeclothing. It had been Tim Powell's best attire for a year; perhaps hehad not been careful enough of it, and that was why it no longer caredeven to imitate wool; it was faded to the hue of a clay bank, it wasthreadbare, the trousers bagged at the knees, the jacket bagged at theelbows, the pockets bulged flabbily from sheer force of habit, althoughthere was nothing in them.
"I thought you were to have a new suit," said the girl. "Uncle told mehimself he was going to buy you one yesterday when you went to town."
"I wouldn't have asked him to buy me anything yesterday for more'n asuit of clothes."
"Why?" The girl opened her eyes. "Didn't he do anything with the lawyer?Is that why you are both so glum this morning?"
"No, he didn't. The lawyer says the woman that owns the mortgage has gotto have the money. And it's due next week."
The girl grew pale all over her pretty rosy cheeks; her eyes filled withtears as she gasped, "Oh, how hateful of her, when she promised----"
"She never promised nothing, Eve; it ain't been hers for more than threemonths. Sloan, that used to have it, died, and left his property to bedivided up between his nieces; and the mortgage is her share. See?"
"I don't care, it's just as mean. Mr. Sloan promised."
"No, he didn't; he jest said if Uncle was behind he wouldn't press him;and he did let Uncle get behind with the interest two times and neverkicked. But he died; and now the woman, she wants her money!"
"I think it is mean and cruel of her to turn us out! Uncle saysmortgages are wicked anyhow, and I believe him!"
"I guess he couldn't have bought this place if he didn't give a mortgageon it. And he'd have had enough to pay cash, too, if Richards hadn'tbegged him so to lend it to him."
"When is Richards going to pay him?"
"It come due three months ago; Richards ain't never paid up the interesteven, and now he says he's got to have the mortgage extended for threeyears; anyhow for two."
"But don't he KNOW we've got to pay our own mortgage? How can we helpHIM? I wish Uncle would sell him out!"
The boy gave her the superior smile of the masculine creature. "Isuppose," he remarked with elaborate irony, "that he's like Uncle andyou; he thinks mortgages are wicked."
"And just as like as not Uncle won't want to go to the carnival," Evewent on, her eyes filling again.
Tim gazed at her, scowling and sneering; but she was absorbed in dreamsand hopes with which as yet his boyish mind had no point of contact.
"All the girls in the A class were going to go to see the fireworkstogether, and George Dean and some of the boys were going to take us,and we were going to have tea at May Arlington's house, and I was tostay all night;"--this came in a half sob. "I think it is just too mean!I never have any good times!"
"Oh, yes, you do, sis, lots! Uncle always gits you everything you want.And he feels terrible bad when I--when he knows he can't afford to gitsomething you want----"
"I know well enough who tells him we can't afford things!"
"Well, do you want us to git things we can't afford? I ain't neveradvised him except the best I knew how. I told him Richards was ablow-hard, and I told him those Alliance grocery folks he bought such alot of truck of would skin him, and they did; those canned things theysold him was all musty, and they said there wasn't any freight on 'em,and he had to pay freight and a fancy price besides; and I don't believethey had any more to do with the Alliance than our cow!"
"Uncle always believes everything. He always is so sure things are goingto turn out just splendid; and they don't--only just middling; and thenhe loses a lot of money."
"But he is an awful good man," said the boy, musingly.
"I don't believe in being so good you can't make money. I don't wantalways to be poor and despised, and have the other girls have prettierclothes than me!"
"I guess you can be pretty good and yet make money, if you are sharpenough. Of course you got to be sharper to be good and make money thanyou got to be, to be mean and make money."
"Well, I know one thing, that Uncle ain't EVER going to make money.He----" The last word shrivelled on her lips, which puckered into aconfused smile at the warning frown of her brother. The man that theywere discussing had come round to them past the henhouse. How much hadhe overheard?
He didn't seem angry, anyhow. He called: "Well, Evy, ready?" and Eve wasglad to run into the house for her hat without looking at him. It was arelief that she must sit on the back seat where she need not face UncleNelson. Tim sat in front; but Tim was so stupid he wouldn't mind.
Nor did he; it was Nelson Forrest that stole furtive glances at thelad's profile, the knitted brows, the freckled cheeks, the undecidednose, and firm mouth.
The boyish shoulders slouched forward at the same angle as that of thefifty-year-old shoulders beside him. Nelson, through long following ofthe plough, had lost the erect carriage painfully acquired in the army.He was a handsome man, whose fresh-colored skin gave him a perpetualappearance of having just washed his face. The features were long anddelicate. The brown eyes had a liquid softness like the eyes of a woman.In general the countenance was alertly intelligent; he looked youngerthan his years; but this afternoon the lines about his mouth and in hisbrows warranted every gray hair of his pointed short beard. There was areason. Nelson was having one of those searing flashes of insight thatdo come occasionally to the most blindly hopeful souls. Nelson had hopedall his life. He hoped for himself, he hoped for the whole human race.He served the abstraction that he called "PROgress" with unflinching andunquestioning loyalty. Every new scheme of increasing happiness by forcefound a helper, a fighter, and a giver in him; by turns he had beenan Abolitionist, a Fourierist, a Socialist, a Greenbacker, a Farmers'Alliance man. Disappointment always was followed hard on its heels by abrand-new confidence. Progress ruled his farm as well as his politics;he bought the newest implements and subscribed trustfully to
fouragricultural papers; but being a born lover of the ground, a vein ofsaving doubt did assert itself sometimes in his work; and, on the whole,as a farmer he was successful. But his success never ventured outsidehis farm gates. At buying or selling, at a bargain in any form, thefourteen-year-old Tim was better than Nelson with his fifty years'experience of a wicked and bargaining world.
Was that any part of the reason, he wondered to-day, why at the end ofthirty years of unflinching toil and honesty, he found himself witha vast budget of experience in the ruinous loaning of money, with amortgage on the farm of a friend, and a mortgage on his own farm likelyto be foreclosed? Perhaps it might have been better to stay in HenryCounty. He had paid for his farm at last. He had known a good moment,too, that day he drove away from the lawyer's with the cancelledmortgage in his pocket and Tim hopping up and down on the seat forjoy. But the next day Richards--just to give him the chance of a goodthing--had brought out that Maine man who wanted to buy him out. He wasanxious to put the money down for the new farm, to have no whip-lash ofdebt forever whistling about his ears as he ploughed, ready to sting didhe stumble in the furrows; and Tim was more anxious than he; but--therewas Richards! Richards was a neighbor who thought as he did about HenryGeorge and Spiritualism, and belonged to the Farmers' Alliance, andhad lent Nelson all the works of Henry George that he (Richards) couldborrow. Richards was in deep trouble. He had lost his wife; he mightlose his farm. He appealed to Nelson, for the sake of old friendship,to save him. And Nelson could not resist; so, two thousand of thethirty-four hundred dollars that the Maine man paid went to Richards,the latter swearing by all that is holy, to pay his friend off in fullat the end of the year. There was money coming to him from his deadwife's estate, but it was tied up in the courts. Nelson would not listento Tim's prophecies of evil. But he was a little dashed when Richardspaid neither interest nor principal at the year's end, although he gavereasons of weight; and he experienced veritable consternation when therenewed mortgage ran its course and still Richards could not pay. Themoney from his wife's estate had been used to improve his farm (Nelsonknew how rundown everything was), his new wife was sickly and "didn'tseem to take hold," there had been a disastrous hail-storm--butwhy rehearse the calamities? they focussed on one sentence: it wasimpossible to pay.
Then Nelson, who had been restfully counting on the money from Richardsfor his own debt, bestirred himself, only to find his patient creditorgone and a woman in his stead who must have her money. He wroteagain--sorely against his will--begging Richards to raise the moneysomehow. Richards's answer was in his pocket, for he wore the best blackbroadcloth in which he had done honor to the lawyer, yesterday. Richardsplainly was wounded; but he explained in detail to Nelson how he(Nelson) could borrow money of the banks on his farm and pay Miss Brown.There was no bank where Richards could borrow money; and he beggedNelson not to drive his wife and little children from their cherishedhome. Nelson choked over the pathos when he read the letter to Tim; butTim only grunted a wish that HE had the handling of that feller. And thelawyer was as little moved as Tim. Miss Brown needed the money, he said.The banks were not disposed to lend just at present; money, it appeared,was "tight;" so, in the end, Nelson drove home with the face of Failurestaring at him between his horses' ears.
There was only one way. Should he make Richards suffer or sufferhimself? Did a man have to grind other people or be ground himself?Meanwhile they had reached the town. The stir of a festival was in theair. On every side bunting streamed in the breeze or was draped acrossbrick or wood. Arches spanned some of the streets, with inscriptions ofwelcome on them, and swarms of colored lanterns glittered against thesunlight almost as gayly as they would show when they should be lightedat night. Little children ran about waving flags. Grocery wagons andbutchers' wagons trotted by with a flash of flags dangling from thehorses' harness. The streets were filled with people in their holidayclothes. Everybody smiled. The shopkeepers answered questions and wentout on the sidewalks to direct strangers. From one window hung a bannerinviting visitors to enter and get a list of hotels and boarding-houses.The crowd was entirely good-humored and waited outside restaurants,bandying jokes with true Western philosophy. At times the wagons madea temporary blockade in the street, but no one grumbled. Bands of musicparaded past them, the escort for visitors of especial consideration.In a window belonging, the sign above declared, to the Business Men'sAssociation, stood a huge doll clad in blue satin, on which was painteda device of Neptune sailing down the Mississippi amid a storm offireworks. The doll stood in a boat arched about with lantern-deckedhoops, and while Nelson halted, unable to proceed, he could hearthe voluble explanation of the proud citizen who was interpreting tostrangers.
This, Nelson thought, was success. Here were the successful men. The manwho had failed looked at them. Eve roused him by a shrill cry, "Therethey are. There's May and the girls. Let me out quick, Uncle!"
He stopped the horse and jumped out himself to help her. It was thefirst time since she came under his roof that she had been away from itall night. He cleared his throat for some advice on behavior. "Mind andbe respectful to Mrs. Arlington. Say yes, ma'am, and no, ma'am----" Hegot no further, for Eve gave him a hasty kiss and the crowd brushed heraway.
"All she thinks of is wearing fine clothes and going with the fellers!"said her brother, disdainfully. "If I had to be born a girl, I wouldn'tbe born at all!"
"Maybe if you despise girls so, you'll be born a girl the next time,"said Nelson. "Some folks thinks that's how it happens with us."
"Do YOU, Uncle?" asked Tim, running his mind forebodingly over thepossible business results of such a belief. "S'posing he shouldn't bewilling to sell the pigs to be killed, 'cause they might be some friendsof his!" he reflected, with a rising tide of consternation. Nelsonsmiled rather sadly. He said, in another tone: "Tim, I've thought somany things, that now I've about given up thinking. All I can do is tolive along the best way I know how and help the world move the best I'mable."
"You bet _I_ ain't going to help the world move," said the boy; "I'mgoing to look out for myself!"
"Then my training of you has turned out pretty badly, if that's the wayyou feel."
A little shiver passed over the lad's sullen face; he flushed until helost his freckles in the red veil and burst out passionately: "Well, Igot eyes, ain't I? I ain't going to be bad, or drink, or steal, or dothings to git put in the penitentiary; but I ain't going to let folkswalk all over me like you do; no, sir!"
Nelson did not answer; in his heart he thought that he had failed withthe children, too; and he relapsed into that dismal study of the face ofFailure.
He had come to the city to show Tim the sights, and, therefore, thoughlike a man in a dream, he drove conscientiously about the gay streets,pointing out whatever he thought might interest the boy, and generallydiscovering that Tim had the new information by heart already. Allthe while a question pounded itself, like the beat of the heart of anengine, through the noise and the talk: "Shall I give up Richards or beturned out myself?"
When the afternoon sunlight waned he put up the horse at a modest littlestable where farmers were allowed to bring their own provender. Thecharges were of the smallest and the place neat and weather-tight,but it had been a long time before Nelson could be induced to use it,because there was a higher-priced stable kept by an ex-farmer andmember of the Farmers' Alliance. Only the fact that the keeper of thelow-priced stable was a poor orphan girl, struggling to earn an honestlivelihood, had moved him.
They had supper at a restaurant of Tim's discovery, small, specklesslytidy, and as unexacting of the pocket as the stable. It was an excellentsupper. But Nelson had no appetite; in spite of an almost childishcapacity for being diverted, he could attend to nothing but the questionalways in his ears: "Richards or me--which?"
Until it should be time for the spectacle they walked down the hill,and watched the crowds gradually blacken every inch of the river-banks.Already the swarms of lanterns were beginning to bloom out in the dusk.Strains of mu
sic throbbed through the air, adding a poignant touch tothe excitement vibrating in all the faces and voices about them. Eventhe stolid Tim felt the contagion. He walked with a jaunty step andassaulted a tune himself. "I tell you, Uncle," says Tim, "it's nice ofthese folks to be getting up all this show, and giving it for nothing!"
"Do you think so?" says Nelson. "You don't love your book as I wishyou did; but I guess you remember about the ancient Romans, and how thegreat, rich Romans used to spend enormous sums in games and shows thatthey let the people in free to--well, what for? Was it to learn themanything or to make them happy? Oh, no, it was to keep down the spiritof liberty, Son, it was to make them content to be slaves! And so itis here. These merchants and capitalists are only looking out forthemselves, trying to keep labor down and not let it know how oppressedit is, trying to get people here from everywhere to show what a finecity they have and get their money."
"Well, 'TIS a fine town," Tim burst in, "a boss town! And they ain'tgouging folks a little bit. None of the hotels or the restaurantshave put up their prices one cent. Look what a dandy supper we got fortwenty-five cents! And ain't the boy at Lumley's grocery given me twotickets to set on the steamboat? There's nothing mean about this town!"
Nelson made no remark; but he thought, for the fiftieth time, that hisfarm was too near the city. Tim was picking up all the city boys' falsepride as well as their slang. Unconscious Tim resumed his tune. He knewthat it was "Annie Rooney" if no one else did, and he mangled the noteswith appropriate exhilaration.
Now, the river was as busy as the land, lights swimming hither andthither; steamboats with ropes of tiny stars bespangling their dark bulkand a white electric glare in the bow, low boats with lights that sentwavering spear-heads into the shadow beneath. The bridge was a blazingbarbed fence of fire, and beyond the bridge, at the point of the island,lay a glittering multitude of lights, a fairy fleet with miniature sailsoutlined in flame as if by jewels.
Nelson followed Tim. The crowds, the ceaseless clatter of tongues andjar of wheels, depressed the man, who hardly knew which way to dodgethe multitudinous perils of the thoroughfare; but Tim used his elbows tosuch good purpose that they were out of the levee, on the steamboat, andsettling themselves in two comfortable chairs in a coign of vantage ondeck, that commanded the best obtainable view of the pageant, beforeNelson had gathered his wits together enough to plan a path out of thecrush.
"I sized up this place from the shore," Tim sighed complacently, drawinga long breath of relief; "only jest two chairs, so we won't be crowded."
Obediently, Nelson took his chair. His head sank on his thin chest.Richards or himself, which should he sacrifice? So the weary oldquestion droned through his brain. He felt a tap on his shoulder. Theman who roused him was an acquaintance, and he stood smiling in theattitude of a man about to ask a favor, while the expectant half-smileof the lady on his arm hinted at the nature of the favor. Would Mr.Forrest be so kind?--there seemed to be no more seats. Before Mr.Forrest could be kind Tim had yielded his own chair and was off,wriggling among the crowd in search of another place.
"Smart boy, that youngster of yours," said the man; "he'll make his wayin the world, he can push. Well, Miss Alma, let me make you acquaintedwith Mr. Forrest. I know you will be well entertained by him. So, ifyou'll excuse me, I'll get back and help my wife wrestle with the kids.They have been trying to see which will fall overboard first ever sincewe came on deck!"
Under the leeway of this pleasantry he bowed and retired. Nelson turnedwith determined politeness to the lady. He was sorry that she had come,she looking to him a very fine lady indeed, with her black silk gown,her shining black ornaments, and her bright black eyes. She was notyoung, but handsome in Nelson's judgment, although of a haughty bearing."Maybe she is the principal of the High School," thought he. "Martin hasher for a boarder, and he said she was very particular about her melonsbeing cold!"
But however formidable a personage, the lady must be entertained.
"I expect you are a resident of the city, ma'am?" said Nelson.
"Yes, I was born here." She smiled, a smile that revealed a little breakin the curve of her cheek, not exactly a dimple, but like one.
"I don't know when I have seen such a fine appearing lady," thoughtNelson. He responded: "Well, I wasn't born here; but I come when I wasa little shaver of ten and stayed till I was eighteen, when I went toKansas to help fight the border ruffians. I went to school here in theWarren Street school-house."
"So did I, as long as I went anywhere to school. I had to go to workwhen I was twelve."
Nelson's amazement took shape before his courtesy had a chance tocontrol it. "I didn't suppose you ever did any work in your life!" criedhe.
"I guess I haven't done much else. Father died when I was twelve and theoldest of five, the next only eight--Polly, that came between Eb and me,died--naturally I had to work. I was a nurse-girl by the day, first; andI never shall forget how kind the woman was to me. She gave me so muchdinner I never needed to eat any breakfast, which was a help."
"You poor little thing! I'm afraid you went hungry sometimes."Immediately he marvelled at his familiar speech, but she did not seem toresent it.
"No, not so often," she said, musingly; "but I used often and oftento wish I could carry some of the nice things home to mother and thebabies. After a while she would give me a cookey or a piece of breadand butter for lunch; that I could take home. I don't suppose I'll oftenhave more pleasure than I used to have then, seeing little Eb waitingfor sister; and the baby and mother----" She stopped abruptly, tocontinue, in an instant, with a kind of laugh; "I am never likely tofeel so important again as I did then, either. It was great to havemother consulting me, as if I had been grown up. I felt like I had theweight of the nation on my shoulders, I assure you."
"And have you always worked since? You are not working out now?" with aglance at her shining gown.
"Oh, no, not for a long time. I learned to be a cook. I was a good cook,too, if I say it myself. I worked for the Lossings for four years. I amnot a bit ashamed of being a hired girl, for I was as good a one asI knew how. It was Mrs. Lossing that first lent me books; and HarryLossing, who is head of the firm now, got Ebenezer into the works.Ebenezer is shipping-clerk with a good salary and stock in the concern;and Ralph is there, learning the trade. I went to the business-collegeand learned book-keeping, and afterward I learned typewriting andshorthand. I have been working for the firm for fourteen years. Wehave educated the girls. Milly is married, and Kitty goes to theboarding-school, here."
"Then you haven't been married yourself?"
"What time did I have to think of being married? I had the family on mymind, and looking after them."
"That was more fortunate for your family than it was for my sex,"said Nelson, gallantly. He accompanied the compliment by a glance ofadmiration, extinguished in an eye-flash, for the white radiance thathad bathed the deck suddenly vanished.
"Now you will see a lovely sight," said the woman, deigning no reply tohis tribute; "listen! That is the signal."
The air was shaken with the boom of cannon. Once, twice, thrice.Directly the boat-whistles took up the roar, making a hideous din. Thefleet had moved. Spouting rockets and Roman candles, which painted aboveit a kaleidoscopic archway of fire, welcomed by answering javelins oflight and red and orange and blue and green flares from the shore; thefleet bombarded the bridge, escorted Neptune in his car, manoeuvred andmassed and charged on the blazing city with a many-hued shower of flame.
After the boats, silently, softly, floated the battalions of lanterns,so close to the water that they seemed flaming water-lilies, while thedusky mirror repeated and inverted their splendor.
"They're shingles, you know," explained Nelson's companion, "withlanterns on them; but aren't they pretty?"
"Yes, they are! I wish you had not told me. It is like a fairy story!"
"Ain't it? But we aren't through; there's more to come. Beautifulfireworks!"
The fireworks, however, wer
e slow of coming. They could see the bargefrom which they were to be sent; they could watch the movements of themen in white oil-cloth who moved in a ghostly fashion about the barge;they could hear the tap of hammers; but nothing came of it all.
They sat in the darkness, waiting; and there came to Nelson a strangesensation of being alone and apart from all the breathing world withthis woman. He did not perceive that Tim had quietly returned with a boxwhich did very well for a seat, and was sitting with his knees againstthe chair-rungs. He seemed to be somehow outside of all the tumult andthe spectacle. It was the vainglorying triumph of this world. He was thesoul outside, the soul that had missed its triumph. In his perplexityand loneliness he felt an overwhelming longing for sympathy; neither didit strike Nelson, who believed in all sorts of occult influences, thathis confidence in a stranger was unwarranted. He would have told youthat his "psychic instincts" never played him false, although reallythey were traitors from their astral cradles to their astral graves.
He said in a hesitating way: "You must excuse me being kinder dull; I'vegot some serious business on my mind and I can't help thinking of it."
"Is that so? Well, I know how that is; I have often stayed awake nightsworrying about things. Lest I shouldn't suit and all that--especiallyafter mother took sick."
"I s'pose you had to give up and nurse her then?"
"That was what Ebenezer and Ralph were for having me do; but mother--mymother always had so much sense--mother says, 'No, Alma, you've got agood place and a chance in life, you sha'n't give it up. We'll hire agirl. I ain't never lonesome except evenings, and then you will be home.I should jest want to die,' she says, 'if I thought I kept you in a kindof prison like by my being sick--now, just when you are getting onso well.' There never WAS a woman like my mother!" Her voice shook alittle, and Nelson asked gently:
"Ain't your mother living now?"
"No, she died last year." She added, after a little silence, "I somehowcan't get used to being lonesome."
"It IS hard," said Nelson. "I lost my wife three years ago."
"That's hard, too."
"My goodness! I guess it is. And it's hardest when trouble comes on aman and he can't go nowhere for advice."
"Yes, that's so, too. But--have you any children?"
"Yes, ma'am; that is, they ain't my own children. Lizzie and I never hadany; but these two we took and they are most like my own. The girl iseighteen and the boy rising of fourteen."
"They must be a comfort to you; but they are considerable of aresponsibility, too."
"Yes, ma'am," he sighed softly to himself. "Sometimes I feel I haven'tdone the right way by them, though I've tried. Not that they ain'tgood children, for they are--no better anywhere. Tim, he will work frommorning till night, and never need to urge him; and he never gives me apromise he don't keep it, no ma'am, never did since he was a littlemite of a lad. And he is a kind boy, too, always good to the beasts; andwhile he may speak up a little short to his sister, he saves her many astep. He doesn't take to his studies quite as I would like to have him,but he has a wonderful head for business. There is splendid stuff in Timif it could only be worked right."
While Nelson spoke, Tim was hunching his shoulders forward in thedarkness, listening with the whole of two sharp ears. His face worked inspite of him, and he gave an inarticulate snort.
"Well," the woman said, "I think that speaks well for Tim. Why shouldyou be worried about him?"
"I am afraid he is getting to love money and worldly success too well,and that is what I fear for the girl, too. You see, she is so pretty,and the idols of the tribe and the market, as Bacon calls them, arestrong with the young."
"Yes, that's so," the woman assented vaguely, not at all sure whateither Bacon or his idols might be. "Are the children relations ofyours?"
"No, ma'am; it was like this: When I was up in Henry County there camea photographic artist to the village near us, and pitched his tent andtook tintypes in his wagon. He had his wife and his two children withhim. The poor woman fell ill and died; so we took the two children.My wife was willing; she was a wonderfully good woman, member of theMethodist church till she died. I--I am not a church member myself,ma'am; I passed through that stage of spiritual development a longwhile ago." He gave a wistful glance at his companion's dimly outlinedprofile. "But I never tried to disturb her faith; it made HER happy."
"Oh, I don't think it is any good fooling with other people'sreligions," said the woman, easily. "It is just like trying to talkfolks out of drinking; nobody knows what is right for anybody else'ssoul any more than they do what is good for anybody else's stomach!"
"Yes, ma'am. You put things very clearly."
"I guess it is because you understand so quickly. But you weresaying------"
"That's all the story. We took the children, and their father was killedby the cars the next year, poor man; and so we have done the best wecould ever since by them."
"I should say you had done very well by them."
"No, ma'am; I haven't done very well somehow by anyone, myself included,though God knows I've tried hard enough!"
Then followed the silence natural after such a confession when thelistener does not know the speaker well enough to parry abasement bydenial.
"I am impressed," said Nelson, simply, "to talk with you frankly. Itisn't polite to bother strangers with your troubles, but I am impressedthat you won't mind."
"Oh, no, I won't mind."
It was not extravagant sympathy; but Nelson thought how kind her voicesounded, and what a musical voice it was. Most people would have calledit rather sharp.
He told her--with surprisingly little egotism, as the keen listenernoted--the story of his life; the struggle of his boyhood; his randomself-education; his years in the army (he had criticised his superiorofficers, thereby losing the promotion that was coming for bravery inthe field); his marriage (apparently he had married his wife becauseanother man had jilted her); his wrestle with nature (whose pranksincluded a cyclone) on a frontier farm that he eventually lost, havingput all his savings into a "Greenback" newspaper, and being thus swampedwith debt; his final slow success in paying for his Iowa farm; and hispurchase of the new farm, with its resulting disaster. "I've farmed inKansas," he said, "in Nebraska, in Dakota, in Iowa. I was willing togo wherever the land promised. It always seemed like I was going tosucceed, but somehow I never did. The world ain't fixed right for theworkers, I take it. A man who has spent thirty years in hard, honesttoil oughtn't to be staring ruin in the face like I am to-day. Theywon't let it be so when we have the single tax and when we farmers sendour own men instead of city lawyers, to the Legislature and halls ofCongress. Sometimes I think it's the world that's wrong and sometimes Ithink it's me!"
The reply came in crisp and assured accents, which were the strongestcontrast to Nelson's soft, undecided pipe: "Seems to me in this lastcase the one most to blame is neither you nor the world at large, butthis man Richards, who is asking YOU to pay for HIS farm. And I noticeyou don't seem to consider your creditor in this business. How do youknow she don't need the money? Look at me, for instance; I'm in somefinancial difficulty myself. I have a mortgage for two thousand dollars,and that mortgage--for which good value was given, mind you--falls duethis month. I want the money. I want it bad. I have a chance to putmy money into stock at the factory. I know all about the investment;I haven't worked there all these years and not know how the businessstands. It is a chance to make a fortune. I ain't likely to ever haveanother like it; and it won't wait for me to make up my mind forever,either. Isn't it hard on me, too?"
"Lord knows it is, ma'am," said Nelson, despondently; "it is hard onus all! Sometimes I don't see the end of it all. A vast socialrevolution----"
"Social fiddlesticks! I beg your pardon, Mr. Forrest, but it puts me outof patience to have people expecting to be allowed to make every mortalkind of fools of themselves and then have 'a social revolution' jump into slue off the consequences. Let us understand each other. Who do yousuppose I am?"
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"Miss--Miss Almer, ain't it?"
"It's Alma Brown, Mr. Forrest. I saw you coming on the boat and I madeMr. Martin fetch me over to you. I told him not to say my name, becauseI wanted a good plain talk with you. Well, I've had it. Things arejust about where I thought they were, and I told Mr. Lossing so. But Icouldn't be sure. You must have thought me a funny kind of woman to betelling you all those things about myself."
Nelson, who had changed color half a dozen times in the darkness, sighedbefore he said: "No, ma'am; I only thought how good you were to tell me.I hoped maybe you were impressed to trust me as I was to trust you."
Being so dark Nelson could not see the queer expression on her face asshe slowly shook her head. She was thinking: "If I ever saw a babe inarms trying to do business! How did HE ever pay for a farm?" She said:"Well, I did it on purpose; I wanted you to know I wasn't a cruelaristocrat, but a woman that had worked as hard as yourself. Now, whyshouldn't you help me and yourself instead of helping Richards? You haveconfidence in me, you say. Well, show it. I'll give you your mortgagefor your mortgage on Richards's farm. Come, can't you trust Richards tome? You think it over."
The hiss of a rocket hurled her words into space. The fireworks hadbegun. Miss Brown looked at them and watched Nelson at the same time.As a good business woman who was also a good citizen, having subscribedfive dollars to the carnival, she did not propose to lose the worthof her money; neither did she intend to lose a chance to do business.Perhaps there was an obscurer and more complex motive lurking in somestray corner of that queer garret, a woman's mind. Such motives--aimlesssoftenings of the heart, unprofitable diversions of the fancy--will seepunconsciously through the toughest business principles of woman.
She was puzzled by the look of exaltation on Nelson's features,illumined as they were by the uncanny light. If the fool man had notforgotten all his troubles just to see a few fireworks! No, he was notthat kind of a fool; maybe--and she almost laughed aloud in her pleasureover her own insight--maybe it all made him think of the war, wherehe had been so brave. "He was a regular hero in the war," Miss Brownconcluded, "and he certainly is a perfect gentleman; what a pity hehasn't got any sense!"
She had guessed aright, although she had not guessed deep enough inregard to Nelson. He watched the great wheels of light, he watched theriver aflame with Greek fire, then, with a shiver, he watched the bombsbursting into myriads of flowers, into fizzing snakes, into fields ofburning gold, into showers of jewels that made the night splendid fora second and faded. They were not fireworks to him; they were a magicalphantasmagoria that renewed the incoherent and violent emotions of hisyouth; again he was in the chaos of the battle, or he was dreaming byhis camp-fire, or he was pacing his lonely round on guard. His heartleaped again with the old glow, the wonderful, beautiful worship ofLiberty that can do no wrong. He seemed to hear a thousand voiceschanting:
"In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, As He diedto make men holy, let us die to make men free!"
His turbid musings cleared--or they seemed to him to clear--under thestrong reaction of his imagination and his memories. It was all over,the dream and the glory thereof. The splendid young soldier was anelderly, ruined man. But one thing was left: he could be true to hisflag.
"A poor soldier, but enlisted for the war," says Nelson, squaring hisshoulders, with a lump in his throat and his eyes brimming. "I know bythe way it hurts me to think of refusing her that it's a temptation towrong-doing. No, I can't save myself by sacrificing a brother soldierfor humanity. She is just as kind as she can be, but women don'tunderstand business; she wouldn't make allowance for Richards."
He felt a hand on his shoulder; it was Martin apologizing for hurryingMiss Brown; but the baby was fretting and----
"I'm sorry--yes--well, I wish you didn't have to go!" Nelson began; buta hoarse treble rose from under his elbows: "Say, Mr. Martin, Uncle andme can take Miss Brown home."
"If you will allow me the pleasure," said Nelson, with the touch ofcourtliness that showed through his homespun ways.
"Well, I WOULD like to see the hundred bombs bursting at once and Vulcanat his forge!" said Miss Brown.
Thus the matter arranged itself. Tim waited with the lady while Nelsonwent for the horse, nor was it until afterward that Miss Brown wonderedwhy the lad did not go instead of the man. But Tim had his own reasons.No sooner was Nelson out of earshot than he began: "Say, Miss Brown, Ican tell you something."
"Yes?"
"That Richards is no good; but you can't get Uncle to see it. At leastit will take time. If you'll help me we can get him round in time. Won'tyou please not sell us out for six months and give me a show? I'll seeyou get your interest and your money, too."
"You?" Miss Brown involuntarily took a business attitude, with her armsakimbo, and eyed the boy.
"Yes, ma'am, me. I ain't so very old, but I know all about the business.I got all the figures down--how much we raise and what we got last year.I can fetch them to you so you can see. He is a good farmer, and he willcatch on to the melons pretty quick. We'll do better next year, and I'lltry to keep him from belonging to things and spending money; and if hewon't lend to anybody or start in raising a new kind of crop just whenwe get the melons going, he will make money sure. He is awful good andhonest. All the trouble with him is he needs somebody to take careof him. If Aunt Lizzie had been alive he never would have lent thatdead-beat Richards that money. He ought to get married."
Miss Brown did not feel called on to say anything. Tim continued in ajudicial way: "He is awful good and kind, always gets up in the morningto make the fire if I have got something else to do; and he'd thinkeverything his wife did was the best in the world; and if he hadsomebody to take care of him he'd make money. I don't suppose YOU wouldthink of it?" This last in an insinuating tone, with evident anxiety.
"Well, I never!" said Miss Brown.
Whether she was more offended or amused she couldn't tell; and she stoodstaring at him by the electric light. To her amazement the hard littleface began to twitch. "I didn't mean to mad you," Tim grunted, with aquiver in his rough voice. "I've been listening to every word yousaid, and I thought you were so sensible you'd talk over things withoutnonsense. Of course I knew he'd have to come and see you Saturdaynights, and take you buggy riding, and take you to the theatre, andall such things--first. But I thought we could sorter fix it up betweenourselves. I've taken care of him ever since Aunt Lizzie died, and I didmy best he shouldn't lend that money, but I couldn't help it; and Idid keep him from marrying a widow woman with eight children, who kepttelling him how much her poor fatherless children needed a man; and Inever did see anybody I was willing--before--and it's--it's so lonesomewithout Aunt Lizzie!" He choked and frowned. Poor Tim, who had sold somany melons to women and seen so much of back doors and kitchen humorsthat he held the sex very cheap, he did not realize how hard he wouldfind it to talk of the one woman who had been kind to him! He turned redwith shame over his own weakness.
"You poor little chap!" cried Miss Brown; "you poor little sharp,innocent chap!" The hand she laid on his shoulder patted it as she wenton: "Never mind, if I can't marry your uncle, I can help you take careof him. You're a real nice boy, and I'm not mad; don't you think it.There's your uncle now."
Nelson found her so gentle that he began to have qualms lest hiscarefully prepared speech should hurt her feelings. But there was nohelp for it now. "I have thought over your kind offer to me, ma'am,"said he, humbly, "and I got a proposition to make to you. It is yourhonest due to have your farm, yes, ma'am. Well, I know a man would liketo buy it; I'll sell it to him, and pay you your money."
"But that wasn't my proposal."
"I know it, ma'am. I honor you for your kindness; but I can't riskwhat--what might be another person's idea of duty about Richards. Ourconsciences ain't all equally enlightened, you know."
Miss Brown did not answer a word.
They drove along the streets where the lanterns were fading. Tim grewuneasy, she was silent so
long. On the brow of the hill she indicated aside street and told them to stop the horse before a little brown house.One of the windows was a dim square of red.
"It isn't quite so lonesome coming home to a light," said Miss Brown.
As Nelson cramped the wheel to jump out to help her from the vehicle,the light from the electric arc fell full on his handsome face andshowed her the look of compassion and admiration, there.
"Wait one moment," she said, detaining him with one firm hand. "I've gotsomething to say to you. Let Richards go for the present; all I ask ofyou about him is that you will do nothing until we can find out if heis so bad off. But, Mr. Forrest, I can do better for you about thatmortgage. Mr. Lossing will take it for three years for a relative of hisand pay me the money. I told him the story."
"And YOU will get the money all right?"
"Just the same. I was only trying to help you a little by the other way,and I failed. Never mind."
"I can't tell you how you make me feel," said Nelson.
"Please let him bring you some melons to-morrow and make a stagger atit, though," said Tim.
"Can I?" Nelson's eyes shone.
"If you want to," said Miss Brown. She laughed; but in a moment shesmiled.
All the way home Nelson saw the same face of Failure between the oldmare's white ears; but its grim lineaments were softened by a smile, asmile like Miss Brown's.