Chapter 10. Philosophy Of Elizabeth's Life Voiced

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_ CHAPTER X. PHILOSOPHY OF ELIZABETH'S LIFE VOICED

"To-morrow," Elizabeth said, significantly, as John turned back to get into the wagon after they had deposited the trunk in the house.

"To-morrow," John smiled back at her. It was a reluctant smile he gave her, but the bid for affection in her young eyes was irresistible.

"He had to be nice," she thought as she walked back to the house; "it was a good way."

A sudden thought came to her.

"Did you ask Luther to the wedding?" she asked of her mother as she entered.

"No, I didn't. What do you want of that Swede?" Mrs. Farnshaw asked petulantly. "I should think----"

What she thought was never recorded in words, for Elizabeth was out of the house like a flash, calling to John Hunter as she ran down the road after him. It was a surprised John who took her message.

"Yes, I'll tell him, but I don't see what you want of that Swede--he always seems to cut such a figure in everything you do," John said discontentedly.

"Well, just tell him that ma sends the invitation, will you?" was all Elizabeth could say.

It was John's first contemptuous remark about Luther, and it disturbed her. They were to live closer to Luther Hansen than any other neighbour and it was essential that they be on friendly terms. She had hoped it might be that John would appreciate the good things in Luther which even his nationality could not spoil. Dear old Luther! In spite of the observation she had seemed to resent the night before, Elizabeth loved him--loved him all the more because she had been obliged to hurt him. It suddenly occurred to her that John might not deliver her message. She put the thought away from her instantly, saying aloud:

"He'd do anything he knew I wanted him to do," and then was struck with the doubtful tone in which it was said.

"What did you say?" her mother asked, for Elizabeth had just entered the door.

"Nothing. I hate this wedding!"

"Well, now, I like that, after all I've done to give you a good time," the mother said angrily.

"No, ma; you mean to give yourself a good time. You make me come home when I don't want to, and you ask people I hate to have, and then you leave out the people I want most. It isn't my wedding. I'm going to stand up and be married so as to get rid of it all, but John won't have the minister I want, you won't have the people I want, I'm most sure pa 'll kick up some kind of a row about it--and--and I was so happy till you came and made me consent to it. What did you do it for?"

"Do it for? You ungrateful child! What did I do it for? I'll tell you," Mrs. Farnshaw's eyes hardened into momentary coals of fire. "I did it because I don't like your whole goings on. Minister? Why don't you say preacher, like the rest of your folks? It's that Hornby woman. She made you talk of divorces----" At thought of all her supposed wrongs at the hand of Susan Hornby Mrs. Farnshaw broke into a half scream and ended by throwing herself into a chair by her daughter's side and clinging to her hand with her upturned face streaming over with tears, her mouth convulsed with pain till speech was impossible.

Moved to repentance at the sight of the pang she had caused, Elizabeth fell on her knees by her mother's side, and with her arms encircling her, cried contritely:

"I didn't mean it, ma, really--that is, I didn't mean it that way. Don't mind what I said. I do love you."

Mrs. Farnshaw clung to her, so shaken by sobs that she still could not speak, and the penitent daughter soothed and comforted her with her own heart breaking at the thoughtlessness of her speech.

"Put it away and don't remember it; I didn't mean it. I'm tired to death--and--and----" She pondered a moment and then made the experiment. "And I want to speak of Aunt Susan to you. I can't bear to have you feel so bad about me liking her. She hasn't put a single notion into my head. Be good and get acquainted with her. She'd like to have you. If you knew her you'd know how different she is from what you think. I'll take you to see her the very first time you come to see me. Say you will."

Elizabeth stroked the thin hair back from the passion-worn face, and waited for her reply.

Mrs. Farnshaw shook her head, but could not meet the offer squarely.

"The two of you'd be a wishin' you could get rid of me so's you could talk your own kind of talk," she said with conviction. "'Taint any use, Lizzie; I ain't your kind. Your pa 'd be madder at me 'n ever, too."

"Well, he's mad all the time, anyhow," Elizabeth said.

"No 'e wasn't till you said that awful thing--that is, 'e was mad often enough, but not like 'e's been since. You don't know what you done t' your mother then. Be good, an' go t' 'im, an' settle 'is mind 'fore you're married. It don't matter if I know Miss Hornby 'r not; but what a difference it'd make t' me if he only knowed I never put you up t' that partin' business! Please do it fur me, Lizzie."

This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth had hoped to avoid the recurrence of this issue. Knowing that she was keeping her mother in cruel suspense, Elizabeth hesitated and by every sign showed her disinclination to discuss the subject. What should she do? What could she do? The tortured eyes of her mother studied her with an intensity which she could not avoid. To consent was to fail with her father, to refuse was to make matters much worse with the mother she had just hurt. Luther had warned her to avoid collisions with her family which were liable to cause gossip; Aunt Susan had implored her to keep the folks in a good humour; her own instincts were against the movement, but her feelings were pleading for the mother who begged her to try once again to obtain reconciliation before she was married. Ah! if this time would end it!

"Say you will," the mother begged with pathetic brevity.

"I'd do it in a minute if there were the least opportunity to succeed, ma," Elizabeth said reluctantly, and not looking toward her. "If I do it and fail, You'll be wanting me to go right on with it after I'm married, and that I won't do for anybody." The sentence ended savagely.

Mrs. Farnshaw studied her daughter eagerly. She began to have hopes. Now, if only she could get the right touch on her appeal.

"If You'll do it, an' be careful-like, Lizzie," she said compellingly, "if You'll be careful-like this time, I'll never ask you again. I can't live this way any longer. I won't never ask you again. Please," she insisted. "Speak real soft an' nice-like. Please."

"But, ma, are you crazy? You told me--you told me that--oh dear, what's the use to tell you what you said?" the girl cried, her judgment giving its last caution a hearing.

What was the use indeed!

In the end Elizabeth consented--consented with kindliness of manner. Since she was going to do it at all she would do it lovingly. She argued herself into that mood before she agreed to the move. Her mother had a hard life; on one who knew her doubted that fact. Neither would any one have doubted that Mr. Farnshaw led a hard life also. Some devil of unrest demanded excitement and disagreement.

"Keep the folks in a good humour," Luther had said.

Elizabeth had no support from any quarter. She could only consent.

"I'll do it, ma," she agreed. "I am going away to be happy. John and his mother never have a word together that isn't pleasant."

"I hope so," Mrs. Farnshaw said with relief, "but men don't always treat their wives like they do their mothers. It's something they get t' feel about their wives that's th' trouble. Women think th' only way t' be good wives's t' give up--an' men think so too. Women's most always afraid of what th' men 'll think, an' th' men know it."

"Well, ma, come on! There's lots to do; let's get at it."

Elizabeth was in no mood to philosophize. She hated the coming conference with her father to the utter exclusion of every other thought at that moment, and had hardly heard what her mother had said.

"You'll never regret bein' good t' your old mother," Mrs. Farnshaw said, rubbing her hand over the girl's glossy braids as Elizabeth turned away to begin the work she had suggested. "My! it don't seem like six weeks since I was your age--young an' startin' out--an' life looked good t' me, I kin tell you. Now I ain't got nothin' t' be good t' me but you."

"I think I'll wash my hair before the sun gets low," Elizabeth said. "Then I'll help you in here." She was disturbed about the promise she had given and wanted to get away from her mother before she should say some unlucky thing that would show it. She let her hair down and loosened it with a toss of her head. It was a glittering garment which covered her from head to knees in wavy strands which flew about her in lines of beauty as she moved about getting her hot water and towels. Mrs. Farnshaw watched her with an expression near real affection. She came over and ran her hands through the rippling mass as the girl turned to go out of doors where she could splash comfortably, and after she had gone passed her hands over her own faded locks slowly.

"Lizzie's always had th' best of everything," she said, shaking her head sadly. "I wisht she wasn't s' set against 'er pa. I'm goin' t' make 'er do it all th' same."

The girl in the backyard pondered upon the same thing as she dried her hair in the hot sun.

"I hate it," she thought, "but I'm going to do it just the best I know how. Ma didn't say it, nor agree with it, and I'm going to make it as easy as I can for her before I go. Will we ever be like they are?" she asked herself half seriously, and felt sure it could not be. "Ma has always insisted on things and never lets pa nor the rest of us forget anything or lay it down. I believe a woman can manage those things. Aunt Susan does."

As Elizabeth started to the house, she noticed her father and the boys coming from the cornfield with a wagon-load of snapped corn. Joe drove the team and his father sat in the back with his feet dangling over the end-gate. They were turning into the barnyard when she discovered them.

With her hair floating about her like a veil, she started at once for the barn. She could not talk this out with her mother listening, and if she did not do it now it would be forced upon her at supper, when her father was certain to be in his worst mood. Mr. Farnshaw always came to the table tired.

Seeing Elizabeth coming toward him, Mr. Farnshaw dropped from the wagon and went to fill the swill pails. The hogs knew they were to be fed and set up their usual noisy clamour. It was his purpose to divert their attention till the boys could drive the wagon into the corral, hoping also to leave his daughter where she could not approach him. Mr. Farnshaw delighted in making people wait. With a pail in either hand he advanced to the fence. The hogs left the gate and ran to meet him, upsetting the trough as they came. Setting the pails down, he snatched up a peeled osage stick, kept outside of the pen for that purpose, and belaboured angrily the snouts sticking over the fence. The pigs were hungry and persistent. By the time they were beaten into a respectable awe and had backed away squealing, Mr. Farnshaw discovered his daughter at his elbow. He had intended to ignore her; he turned red with rage. With a look of infinite contempt, he stooped and picked up a pail.

"What a racket they do make," she remarked, smiling at him without offence.

In spite of her smiling manner, Elizabeth was half sick with apprehension. It was not a propitious time to approach him, but Mr. Farnshaw watched to see that a propitious moment should not arrive when he was in one of his sulking fits. Elizabeth had played that game with him before. With her courage oozing away, and a feeling that there was no benefit in seeming not to know what he was thinking about, she put her hand on his sleeve saying:

"Don't be cross with me, pa. Really I do want to be friends."

Mr. Farnshaw jerked his arm aside to avoid her touch and spilled half the pail of swill on the ground. He lurched over to the other side to right the pail; the bucket at his feet upset, pouring dishwater, milk, and potato peelings over his heavy plow-shoes as it went. To avoid the onrush of the greasy tide he sprang back, slipped in its oily overflow, and fell, the pail he held pouring its contents over him as he went. His gray whiskers, the bottom of his jersey, his very ears dripped swill as he arose. It was disconcertingly funny, and the girl helped him to his feet, laughing in spite of every effort to restrain herself.

To lose his temper was bad enough, but to be made ridiculous and be laughed at at the same time was more than the man could endure. He was insane with fury. There was such a look of malignity on his face as he jerked away and turned to face her that the girl, suddenly sobered, dodged and started to run. Her long hair trailed across his arm, and lost to every consideration but that of satisfying his temper, he caught it as she passed and swinging the osage stick to which he still clung, shouted:

"Damn you! This is th' kind of friends I'll be."

He struck with all his force, jerking her hair at the same time. Thrown from her feet, the full weight of the girl's body came on her hair. It hurt cruelly. She veered around on her knees and caught the now tangled hair with both hands to ease the strain. He grabbed her by one arm and rained blows on her thinly clad shoulders which hissed in tune with the man's temper as they fell.

"I'll be friends with you!" he shrieked. "I'll send you t' that young smartie with some marks on you that'll show 'im what kind of a wife he's gettin'. You told your ma t' leave me! Maybe You'll be leavin' him next. Tell 'im I said so, will you?"

Cut by the flexible withe, which left welts like ribbons on her young shoulders, the girl was unable to endure more passively, and struggled to free herself. The partially successful opposition infuriated the man. He was not accustomed to defence. His fury knew no restraint. He rained the blows harder than ever and the girl finally caught the whip itself. Catching the limber end desperately, she jerked it sidewise; unconsciously, she had deflected her father's hand so that it struck her head just below the ear. It stretched her senseless at his feet.

Josiah Farnshaw was aghast. With a gulping cry of alarm and pity, he stooped to lift his unconscious daughter. He had not intended to do so brutal a thing.

"Now look what you've gone an' done!"

Mrs. Farnshaw had watched Elizabeth go to him with something of prayer in her heart. She knew the girl's intention was to be square about the apology and she had strained every nerve to watch the encounter. At the first blow she had started to the scene of action.

"I think you might have----"

The man's relenting mood vanished. He dropped the limp body and rose to his full height.

"You damned fool," he exclaimed, "if you hadn't set this a goin' an' kept it a goin' this wouldn't 'a' happened. Of all th' blasted, impossible things it's t' have a snivelling she-devil always at your elbow. Keep your hands off of me!" he cried, shaking himself loose from the detaining hand she had laid on his arm. "I'm goin' t' git."

The boys had arrived by that time. They carried the girl to the well and bathed her face and hands with fresh water, while the head of the house strode down the road toward the north. Elizabeth was not seriously injured and recovered consciousness as soon as the water touched her. Mrs. Farnshaw left the task of resuscitation to her sons and looked after her rapidly disappearing husband with eyes that longed for reconciliation. Reconciliation for one thing or another had been the most driving inspiration her twenty years of married life had known; it was her most potent incentive. Cowed and broken, fear bound her fast to his footsteps. Not even the daughter struggling to her feet at her side could detract her attention from his receding form.

Elizabeth stood balancing herself dizzily for a moment before she began really to see or grasp what was going on around her; then the full value of the mishap broke upon her. All that Luther and Aunt Susan had hinted at had befallen her in spite of every effort to avoid it.

But not even the calamity which had befallen them could stop their busy fingers. The preparations for the wedding feast were a merciful feature of the rest of the evening. The guests had been invited and must be prepared for. The hair that had been washed was braided, the mother's tears dried, and every member of the family pressed into the service. The entire house was cleaned and rearranged. Not till after midnight did the members of the little group seek their beds. Mr. Farnshaw had not returned. They had even forgotten him a large part of the time in the hurry. Elizabeth regarded the half dozen bruises which her sleeves would not cover with alarm when she was at last ready to climb her ladder. Joe covered them with a liniment which he brought from the barn. As he set the dusty bottle on the kitchen table after the anointing had been done, he remarked dryly:

"Wonder if you an' me 'll ever do that kind of thing t' our young ones? Everybody's always said we was like the old man."

"Take that nasty smellin' bottle out of here, an' don't begin any talk about your pa. Everybody get t' bed," Mrs. Farnshaw commanded.

Even the absence of her husband could not dim the interest of Mrs. Farnshaw in the coming spectacle of her daughter's marriage. With the capacity of a little child to suffer from unkindness or neglect, she combined the same child-like capability to enjoy pageantry of any sort. Benches for curious neighbours surrounded Mrs. Farnshaw's bed when she retired, and unaccustomed things filled every nook of the usually unattractive room. Evergreen boughs stared at her from the corner opposite her bed; the bed was to be removed in the morning. It had been her own romantic idea to have a bower for the bride and groom. She had been so busy making that bower that she had forgotten her own troubles for an hour and more, but she remembered them now and her interest died out. With a quivering indrawn breath she turned out the light and dived into the huge feather-bed, smothering her sobs by crushing her pillow against her face.

Elizabeth, upstairs, had her own disappointments to go over, and her mother's sobbing coloured her ruminations. Her vision had been cleared. In spite of youth, and of humiliation, she saw that the blow that had undone her had been accidental. She saw what the encouragement of temper would lead to. She saw the gradual growth and stimulation of that temper in the daily contentions of her father and mother.

She rubbed her bruises and thought long on the troubles about her. Accusations and defence, she decided, were at the root of them. They were the universal topics of the conversations at home and among all the people she had ever known except the Hornbys and the Chamberlains.

"Defence!" she said in a scornful whisper. "What does it matter who is wrong in anything? The only thing that matters is what is wrong and to find a way to make it come out better next time," and at last went to sleep quite unaware that she had evolved a philosophy which rightly applied would reorganize the world. _

Read next: Chapter 11. "Wives, Submit Yourselves Unto Your Husbands, As Unto The Lord"

Read previous: Chapter 9. "Against Her Instincts, Against Her Better Judgment, Against Her Will"

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