He Fell In Love With His Wife by Edward Payson Roe (best books to read for students TXT) 📖

his admiring

scrutiny. “Come, I’m here to talk business and you’ve no time to waste. I’ve

made out a list of what the child actually must have to be respectable.”

 

“You’re right, Alida,” said the farmer, becoming grave at once over a question

of dollars and cents. “As you say, one thing leads to another, and if we take

the girl we must clothe her decently. But then, I guess she’ll earn enough to

pay her way. It isn’t that I worry about so much,” he broke out

discontentedly, “but the interference with our quiet, cozy life. Things are

going so smoothly and pleasantly that I hate a change of any kind.”

 

“We mustn’t be selfish, you know,” she replied. “You are doing a kind,

generous act, and I respect you all the more for it.”

 

“That settles everything. You’ll like me a little better for it, too, won’t

you?” he asked hesitatingly.

 

She laughed outright at this question and answered, “It won’t do to take too

much self-sacrifice out of your act. There’s something which does us all

good. She ought to have a spelling and a writing book also.”

 

Holcroft was assuredly falling under the sway of the little blind god, for he

began at once to misunderstand Alida. “You are very fond of self-sacrifice,”

he said, rather stiffly. “Yes, I’ll get everything on your list,” and he took

it from her hand. “Now I must be off,” he added, “for I wish to get back

before night, and it’s so warm I can’t drive fast. Sorry I have to go, for I

can’t say I dote on self-sacrifice.”

 

Alida but partially understood his sudden change of mood, nor was the farmer

much better enlightened himself in regard to his irritation. He had received

an unexpected impression and it seemed to fit in with other things and explain

them. She returned slowly and dejectedly to the house, leaving unsaid the

words she meant to speak about Jane’s relations to her. Now she wished that

she had imitated Jane, and merely nodded to the farmer’s questions. “If he

knew how far I am beyond the point of liking, I don’t know what he’d do or

say,” she thought, “and I suppose that’s the reason I couldn’t answer him

frankly, in a way that would have satisfied him. It’s a pity I couldn’t begin

to just LIKE a little at first, as he does and have everything grow as

gradually and quietly as one of his cornstalks. That’s the way I meant it

should be; but when he stood up for me and defended me from those men, my

heart just melted, and in spite of myself, I felt I could die for him. It

can’t be such an awful thing for a woman to fall in love with her husband, and

yet—yet I’d rather put my hand in the fire than let him know how I feel. Oh,

dear! I wish Jane hadn’t been born, as she says. Trouble is beginning

already, and it was all so nice before she came.”

 

In a few moments Holcroft drove up. Alida stood in the door and looked

timidly at him. He thought she appeared a little pale and troubled, but his

bad mood prevailed and he only asked briefly, “Can’t I get something for you?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Well, goodbye, then,” and he drove away with Jane, who was confirmed in her

line of policy. “She’s afraid of ‘im too,” thought the child. “Mind her!

Guess not, unless he says so.” She watched the farmer furtively and concluded

that she had never known him to look more grim or be more silent even under

her mother’s blandishments. “He’s married this one, I s’pose, to keep house

for ‘im, but he don’t like her follerin’ ‘im up or bein’ for’ard any more’n he

did mother. Shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t keep her, either, if she don’t suit

better. She needn’t ‘a’ put on such airs with me, for I’m goin’ to stick to

him.”

 

Chapter XXIX. Husband and Wife in Trouble

 

Like many others with simple, strong natures, Holcroft could not be

wrong-headed moderately, and his thoughts, once started in a direction were

apt to carry him much farther than the cause warranted. Engrossed in painful

and rather bitter musings, he paid no heed to Jane and almost forgot his

errand to town. “I was a fool to ask that question,” he thought. “I was

getting silly and sentimental with my talk about the picture and all that.

She laughed at me and reminded me I was wasting time. Of course she can’t

like an old, hard-featured man like me. I’m beginning to understand her now.

She made a business marriage with me and means to live up to her agreement.

She’s honest; she feels I’ve done her a real kindness in giving her a home,

and she’s willing to be as self-sacrificing as the day is long to make it up

to me. I wish she wasn’t so grateful; there’s no occasion for it. I don’t

want her to feel that every pleasant word and every nice act is so much toward

paying a debt. If there was any balance in my favor it was squared up long

ago, and I was willing to call it even from the start. She’s made me like her

for her own sake and not on account of what she does for me, and that’s what I

had in mind. But she’s my superior in every way; she’s growing to be a pretty

as a picture, and I suppose I appear like a rather rough customer. Well, I

can’t help if, but it rather goes against me to have her think, ‘I’ve married

him and I’m going to do my duty by him, just as I agreed.’ She’ll do her duty

by this Jane in the same self-sacrificing spirit, and will try to make it

pleasant for the child just because it’s right and because she herself was

taken out of trouble. That’s the shape her religion takes. ‘Tisn’t a common

form, I know—this returning good for good with compound interest. But her

conscience won’t let her rest unless she does everything she can for me, and

now she’ll begin to do everything for Jane because she feels that

self-sacrifice is a duty. Anybody can be self-sacrificing. If I made up my

mind, I could ask Mrs. Mumpson to visit us all summer, but I couldn’t like her

to save my life, and I don’t suppose Alida can like me, beyond a certain

point, to save her life. But she’ll do her duty. She’ll be pleasant and

self-sacrificing and do all the work she can lay her hands on for my sake; but

when it comes to feeling toward me as I can’t help feeling toward her—that

wasn’t in the bargain,” and he startled Jane with a sudden bitter laugh.

 

“Say,” said the child, as if bent on adding another poignant reflection, “if

you hadn’t married her, I could ‘a’ come and cooked for you.”

 

“You think I’d been better off if I’d waited for you, eh?”

 

“You kinder looked as if yer thought so.”

 

He now made the hills echo with a laugh, excited both by his bitter fancies

and the preposterous idea. She looked at him inquiringly and was much

perplexed by his unwonted behavior. Indeed, he was slightly astonished at his

own strange mood, but he yielded to it almost recklessly. “I say, Jane,” he

began, “I’m not a very good-looking man, am I?”

 

She shook her head in emphatic agreement.

 

“I’m old and rough and hard-featured?”

 

Again she nodded approvingly.

 

“Children and some others speak the truth,” he growled.

 

“I never had no teachin’, but I’m not a fool,” remarked Jane keenly.

 

“I guess I’m the fool in this case,” he added.

 

“It don’t make no difference to me,” she said sympathetically. “I’m goin’ to

mind you and not her. If you ever send her away I’ll cook for you.”

 

“Send her away!” exclaimed the farmer, with a shiver. “God forbid! There,

don’t talk any more!”

 

For the next half mile he drove in silence, with a heavy frown on his face;

then he broke out sternly, “If you don’t promise to mind Mrs. Holcroft and

please her in everything, I’ll leave you at the poorhouse door and drive home

again.”

 

“‘Course I will, if you tells me to,” said the child in trepidation.

 

“Well, I DO. People will find that making her trouble is the surest way of

making themselves trouble.”

 

“She’s got some hold on ‘im,” concluded Jane, who, in listening to much

gossip, had often heard this expression, and now made a practical application

of the idea.

 

Watterly was greatly relieved when he saw Holcroft drive up with the fugitive.

“I was just going out to your place,” he said, “for the girl’s mother insisted

that you had enticed the child away,” and the man laughed, as if the idea

tickled him immensely.

 

Holcroft frowned, for he was in no mood for his friend’s rough jests. “Go to

your mother till I send for you,” he said to Jane.

 

“The fact that you had taken two other females from the house gave some color

to Mrs. Mumpson’s views,” pursued Watterly, who could take only the broadest

hint as to his social conduct.

 

He received one now. “Tom Watterly,” said the farmer sternly, “did I ever

insult your wife?”

 

“By jocks! No, you nor no other man. I should say not.”

 

“Well, then, don’t you insult mine. Before I’d seen Mrs. Holcroft, you told

me she was out of the common run,—how much out, you little know,—and I don’t

want her mixed up with the common run, even in your thoughts.”

 

“Well, now, I like that,” said Watterly, giving Holcroft his hand. “You know I

didn’t mean any offense, Jim. It was only one of my foolish jokes. You were

mighty slow to promise to love, honor, and obey, but hanged if you aint more

on that line than any man in town. I can see she’s turning out well and

keeping her agreement.”

 

“Yes, that’s just what she’s doing,” said the farmer gloomily. “She’s a good,

capable woman that’ll sacrifice herself to her duty any day. But it wasn’t to

talk about her I came. She’s a sight better than I am, but she’s probably not

good enough for anybody in this town to speak to.”

 

“Oh, pshaw; now, Jim!”

 

“Well, I’ve come on disagreeable business. I didn’t know that Mrs. Mumpson

and her child were here, and I wish to the Lord they could both stay here!

You’ve found out what the mother is, I suppose?”

 

“I should say so,” replied Tom, laughing. “She’s talked several of the old

women to death already. The first day she was here she called on my wife and

claimed social relations, because she’s so ‘respecterbly connected,’ as she

says. I thought Angy’d have a fit. Her respectable connections have got to

take her off my hands.”

 

“I’m not one of ‘em, thank goodness!” resumed Holcroft. “But I’m willing to

take the girl and give her a chance—at least I’ll do it,” he corrected

himself, in his strict observance of truth. “You can see she’s not a child to

dote on, but I was sorry for her when I sent her mother away and said I’d try

and do something for her. The first thing I knew she was at the house,

begging me to either take her in or kill her. I couldn’t say no, though I

wanted to. Now, you see what kind of a good Samaritan I am.”

 

“Oh, I know you! You’d hit a man between