He Fell In Love With His Wife - Edward Payson Roe (the speed reading book .txt) 📗

a blessing was at stake.

 

At times, during these lonely and stormy March days, he would dismiss his

anxious speculations in regard to his future course. He was so morbid,

especially at night, that he felt that his wife could revisit the quiet house.

He cherished the hope that she could see him and hear what he said, and he

spoke in her viewless presence with a freedom and fullness that was unlike his

old reticence and habit of repression. He wondered that he had not said more

endearing words and given her stronger assurance of how much she was to him.

Late at night, he would start out of a long reverie, take a candle, and, going

through the house, would touch what she had touched, and look long and fixedly

at things associated with her. Her gowns still hung in the closet, just as

she had left them; he would take them out and recall the well-remembered

scenes and occasions when they were worn. At such times, she almost seemed

beside him, and he had a consciousness of companionship which soothed his

perturbed spirit. He felt that she appreciated such loving remembrance,

although unable to express her approval. He did not know it, but his nature

was being softened, deepened, and enriched by these deep and unwonted

experiences; the hard materiality of his life was passing away, rendering him

capable of something better than he had ever known.

 

In the morning all the old, prosaic problems of his life would return, with

their hard, practical insistence, and he knew that he must decide upon

something very soon. His lonely vigils and days of quiet had brought him to

the conclusion that he could not hunt up a wife as a matter of business. He

would rather face the “ever angry bears” than breathe the subject of matrimony

to any woman that he could ever imagine himself marrying. He was therefore

steadily drifting toward the necessity of selling everything and going away.

This event, however, was like a coral reef to a sailor, with no land in view

beyond it. The only thing which seemed certain was the general breaking up of

all that had hitherto made his life.

 

The offer of help came from an unexpected source. One morning Holcroft

received a call from a neighbor who had never before shown any interest in his

affairs. On this occasion, however, Mr. Weeks began to display so much

solicitude that the farmer was not only surprised, but also a little

distrustful. Nothing in his previous knowledge of the man had prepared the

way for such very kindly intervention.

 

After some general references to the past, Mr. Weeks continued, “I’ve been

saying to our folks that it was too bad to let you worry on alone without more

neighborly help. You ought either to get married or have some thoroughly

respectable and well-known middle-aged woman keep house for you. That would

stop all talk, and there’s been a heap of it, I can tell you. Of course, I

and my folks don’t believe anything’s been wrong.”

 

“Believing that something was wrong is about all the attention my neighbors

have given me, as far as I can see,” Holcroft remarked bitterly.

 

“Well, you see, Holcroft, you’ve kept yourself so inside your shell that

people don’t know what to believe. Now, the thing to do is to change all

that. I know how hard it is for a man, placed as you be, to get decent help.

My wife was a-wondering about it the other day, and I shut her up mighty

sudden by saying, ‘You’re a good manager, and know all the country side, yet

how often you’re a-complaining that you can’t get a girl that’s worth her salt

to help in haying and other busy times when we have to board a lot of men.’

Well, I won’t beat around the bush any more. I’ve come to act the part of a

good neighbor. There’s no use of you’re trying to get along with such

haphazard help as you can pick up here and in town. You want a respectable

woman for housekeeper, and then have a cheap, common sort of a girl to work

under her. Now, I know of just such a woman, and it’s not unlikely she’d be

persuaded to take entire charge of your house and dairy. My wife’s cousin,

Mrs. Mumpson—” At the mention of this name Holcroft gave a slight start,

feeling something like a cold chill run down his back.

 

Mr. Weeks was a little disconcerted but resumed, “I believe she called on your

wife once?”

 

“Yes,” the farmer replied laconically. “I was away and did not see her.”

 

“Well, now,” pursued Mr. Weeks, “she’s a good soul. She has her little

peculiarities; so have you and me, a lot of ‘em; but she’s thoroughly

respectable, and there isn’t a man or woman in the town that would think of

saying a word against her. She has only one child, a nice, quiet little girl

who’d be company for her mother and make everything look right, you know.”

 

“I don’t see what there’s been to look wrong,” growled the farmer.

 

“Nothing to me and my folks, of course, or I wouldn’t suggest the idea of a

relation of my wife coming to live with you. But you see people will talk

unless you stop their mouths so they’ll feel like fools in doing it. I know

yours has been a mighty awkward case, and here’s a plain way out of it. You

can set yourself right and have everything looked after as it ought to be, in

twenty-four hours. We’ve talked to Cynthy—that’s Mrs. Mumpson—and she takes

a sight of interest. She’d do well by you and straighten things out, and you

might do a plaguey sight worse than give her the right to take care of your

indoor affairs for life.”

 

“I don’t expect to marry again,” said Holcroft curtly.

 

“Oh, well! Many a man and woman has said that and believed it, too, at the

time. I’m not saying that my wife’s cousin is inclined that way herself.

Like enough, she isn’t at all, but then, the right kind of persuading does

change women’s minds sometimes, eh? Mrs. Mumpson is kinder alone in the

world, like yourself, and if she was sure of a good home and a kind husband

there’s no telling what good luck might happen to you. But there’ll be plenty

of time for considering all that on both sides. You can’t live like a

hermit.”

 

“I was thinking of selling out and leaving these parts,” Holcroft interrupted.

 

“Now look here, neighbor, you know as well as I do that in these times you

couldn’t give away the place. What’s the use of such foolishness? The thing

to do is to keep the farm and get a good living out of it. You’ve got down in

the dumps and can’t see what’s sensible and to your own advantage.”

 

Holcroft was thinking deeply, and he turned his eyes wistfully to the upland

slopes of his farm. Mr. Weeks had talked plausibly, and if all had been as he

represented, the plan would not have been a bad one. But the widower did not

yearn for the widow. He did not know much about her, but had very unfavorable

impressions. Mrs. Holcroft had not been given to speaking ill of anyone, but

she had always shaken her head with a peculiar significance when Mrs.

Mumpson’s name was mentioned.

 

The widow had felt it her duty to call and counsel against the sin of

seclusion and being too much absorbed in the affairs of this world.

 

“You should take an interest in everyone,” this self-appointed evangelist had

declared, and in one sense she lived up to her creed. She permitted no scrap

of information about people to escape her, and was not only versed in all the

gossip of Oakville, but also of several other localities in which she visited.

 

But Holcroft had little else to deter him from employing her services beyond

an unfavorable impression. She could not be so bad as Bridget Malony, and he

was almost willing to employ her again for the privilege of remaining on his

paternal acres. As to marrying the widow—a slight shudder passed through his

frame at the thought.

 

Slowly he began, as if almost thinking aloud, “I suppose you are right, Lemuel

Weeks, in what you say about selling the place. The Lord knows I don’t want

to leave it. I was born and brought up here, and that counts with some

people. If your wife’s cousin is willing to come and help me make a living,

for such wages as I can pay, the arrangement might be made. But I want to

look on it as a business arrangement. I have quiet ways of my own, and things

belonging to the past to think about, and I’ve got a right to think about ‘em.

I aint one of the marrying kind, and I don’t want people to be a-considering

such notions when I don’t. I’d be kind and all that to her and her little

girl, but I should want to be left to myself as far as I could be.”

 

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Weeks, mentally chuckling over the slight prospect

of such immunity, “but you must remember that Mrs. Mumpson isn’t like common

help—”

 

“That’s where the trouble will come in,” ejaculated the perplexed farmer, “but

there’s been trouble enough with the other sort.”

 

“I should say so,” Mr. Weeks remarked emphatically. “It would be a pity if you

couldn’t get along with such a respectable, conscientious woman as Mrs.

Mumpson, who comes from one of the best families in the country.”

 

Holcroft removed his hat and passed his hand over his brow wearily as he said,

“Oh, I could get along with anyone who would do the work in a way that would

give me a chance to make a little, and then leave me to myself.”

 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Weeks, laughing, “you needn’t think that because I’ve

hinted at a good match for you I’m making one for my wife’s cousin. You may

see the day when you’ll be more hot for it than she is. All I’m, trying to do

is to help you keep your place, and live like a man ought and stop people’s

mouths.”

 

“If I could only fill my own and live in peace, it’s all I ask. When I get to

plowing and planting again I’ll begin to take some comfort.”

 

These words were quoted against Holcroft, far and near. “Filling his own mouth

and making a little money are all he cares for,” was the general verdict. And

thus people are misunderstood. The farmer had never turned anyone hungry from

his door, and he would have gone to the poorhouse rather than have acted the

part of the man who misrepresented him. He had only meant to express the hope

that he might be able to fill his mouth—earn his bread, and get it from his

native soil. “Plowing and planting”—working where he had toiled since a

child–would be a solace in itself, and not a grudged means to a sordid end.

 

Mr. Weeks was a thrifty man also, and in nothing was he more economical than

in charitable views of his neighbors’ motives and conduct. He drove homeward

with the complacent feeling that he had done a shrewd, good thing for himself

and “his folks” at least. His wife’s cousin was not exactly embraced in the

latter category, although he had been so active in her behalf. The fact was,

he would be at much greater pains could he attach her to Holcroft or anyone

else and so prevent further