The End of the World: A Love Story

  CHAPTER III.

  A FAREWELL.

  Mrs. Anderson felt that she had made a mistake. She had not meant totell Julia that August was to leave. But now that this stormy scene hadtaken place, she thought she could make a good use of it. She knew thather husband co-operated with her in her opposition to "the Dutchman,"only because he was afraid of his wife. In his heart, Samuel Andersoncould not refuse anything to his daughter. Denied any of the happinesswhich most men find in loving their wives, he found consolation in thelove of his daughter. Secretly, as though his paternal affection were acrime, he caressed Julia, and his wife was not long in discovering thatthe father cared more for a loving daughter than for a shrewish wife.She watched him jealously, and had come to regard her daughter as onewho had supplanted her in her husband's affections, and her husband asrobbing her of the love of her daughter. In truth, Mrs. Samuel Andersonhad come to stand so perpetually on guard against imaginaryencroachments on her rights, that she saw enemies everywhere. She hatedWehle because he was a Dutchman; she would have hated him on a dozenother scores if he had been an American. It was offense enough thatJulia loved him.

  So now she resolved to gain her husband to her side by her version ofthe story, and before dinner she had told him how August had charged herwith being false and cruel to Andrew many years ago, and how Jule hadthrown it up to her, and how near she had come to dropping down withpalpitation of the heart. And Samuel Anderson reddened, and declaredthat he would protect his wife from such insults. The notion that heprotected his wife was a pleasant fiction of the little man's, whichreceived a generous encouragement at the hands of his wife. It was afavorite trick of hers to throw herself, in a metaphorical way, at hisfeet, a helpless woman, and in her feebleness implore his protection.And Samuel felt all the courage of knighthood in defending hisinoffensive wife. Under cover of this fiction, so flattering to thevanity of an overawed husband, she had managed at one time or another toembroil him with almost all the neighbors, and his refusal to joinfences had resulted in that crooked arrangement known as a "devil'slane" on three sides of his farm.

  Julia dared not stay away from dinner, which was miserable enough. Shedid not venture so much as to look at August, who sat opposite her, andwho was the most unhappy person at the table, because he did not knowwhat all the unhappiness was about. Mr. Anderson's brow foreboded astorm, Mrs. Anderson's face was full of an earthquake, Cynthy Ann wassitting in shadow, and Julia's countenance perplexed him. Whether shewas angry with him or not, he could not be sure. Of one thing he wascertain: she was suffering a great deal, and that was enough to make himexceedingly unhappy.

  Sitting through his hurried meal in this atmosphere surcharged withdomestic electricity, he got the notion--he could hardly tell how--thatall this lowering of the sky had something to do with him. What had hedone? Nothing. His closest self-examination told him that he had done nowrong. But his spirits were depressed, and his sensitive consciencecondemned him for some unknown crime that had brought about all thisdisturbance of the elements. The ham did not seem very good, the cabbagehe could not eat, the corn-dodger choked him, he had no desire to waitfor the pie. He abridged his meal, and went out to the barn to keepcompany with his horses and his misery until it should be time to returnto his plow.

  Julia sat and sewed in that tedious afternoon. She would have liked onemore interview with August before his departure. Looking through theopen hall, she saw him leave the barn and go toward his plowing. Notthat she looked up. Hawk never watched chicken more closely than Mrs.Anderson watched poor Jule. But out of the corners of her eyes Julia sawhim drive his horses before him from the stable. At the field in whichhe worked was on the other side of the house from where she sat shecould not so much as catch a glimpse of him as he held his plow on itssteady course. She wished she might have helped Cynthy Ann in thekitchen, for then she could have seen him, but there was no chance forsuch a transfer.

  Thus the tedious afternoon wore away, and just as the sun was settlingdown so that the shadow of the elm in the front-yard stretched acrossthe road into the cow pasture, the dead silence was broken. Julia hadbeen wishing that somebody would speak. Her mother's sulkyspeechlessness was worse than her scolding, and Julia had even wishedher to resume her storming. But the silence was broken by Cynthy Ann,who came into the hall and called, "Jule, I wish you would go to thebarn and gether the eggs; I want to make some cake."

  Every evening of her life Julia gathered the eggs, and there was nothinguncommon in Cynthy Ann's making cake, so that nothing could be moreinnocent than this request. Julia sat opposite the front-door, hermother sat farther along. Julia could see the face of Cynthy Ann. Hermother could only hear the voice, which was dry and commonplace enough.Julia thought she detected something peculiar in Cynthy's manner. Shewould as soon have thought of the big oak gate-posts with their roundball-like heads telegraphing her in a sly way, as to have suspected anysuch craft on the part of Cynthy Ann, who was a good, pious,simple-hearted, Methodist old maid, strict with herself, and censorioustoward others. But there stood Cynthy making some sort of gesture, whichJulia took to mean that she was to go quick. She did not dare to showany eagerness. She laid down her work, and moved away listlessly. Andevidently she had been too slow. For if August had been in sight whenCynthy Ann called her, he had now disappeared on the other side of thehill. She loitered along, hoping that he would come in sight, but he didnot, and then she almost smiled to think how foolish she had been inimagining that Cynthy Ann had any interest in her love affair. DoubtlessCynthy sided with her mother.

  And so she climbed from mow to mow gathering the eggs. No place issweeter than a mow, no occupation can be more delightful than gatheringthe fresh eggs--great glorious pearls, more beautiful than any that mendive for, despised only because they are so common and so useful! ButJulia, gliding about noiselessly, did not think much of the eggs, didnot give much attention to the hens scratching for wheat kernels amongstthe straw, nor to the barn swallows chattering over the adobe dwellingswhich they were building among the rafters above her. She had oftenlistened to the love-talk of these last, but now her heart was too heavyto hear. She slid down to the edge of one of the mows, and sat there afew feet above the threshing-floor with her bonnet in her hand, lookingoff sadly and vacantly. It was pleasant to sit here alone and think,without the feeling that her mother was penetrating her thoughts.

  A little rustle brought her to consciousness. Her face was fiery red ina minute. There, in one corner of the threshing-floor, stood August,gazing at her. He had come into the barn to find a single-tree in placeof one which had broken. While he was looking for it, Julia had come,and he had stood and looked, unable to decide whether to speak or not,uncertain how deeply she might be offended, since she had never once lether eyes rest on him at dinner. And when she had come to the edge of themow and stopped there in a reverie, August had been utterly spell-bound.

  A minute she blushed. Then, perceiving her opportunity, she droppedherself to the floor and walked up to August.

  "August, you are to be turned off to-morrow night."

  "What have I done? Anything wrong?"

  "No."

  "Why do they send me away?"

  "Because--because--" Julia stopped.

  But silence is often better than speech. A sudden intelligence cameinto the blue eyes of August. "They turn me off because I love JuleAnderson."

  A LITTLE RUSTLE BROUGHT HER TO CONSCIOUSNESS.]

  Julia blushed just a little.

  "I will love her all the same when I am gone. I will always love her."

  Julia did not know what to say to this passionate speech, so shecontented herself with looking a little grateful and very foolish.

  "But I am only a poor boy, and a Dutchman at that"--he said thisbitterly--"but if you will wait, Jule, I will show them I am of someaccount. Not good enough for you, but good enough for _them_.You will--"

  "I will wait--_forever_--for _you_, Gus." Her head was down, and hervoice could hardly be heard. "Good-by."
She stretched out her hand, andhe took it trembling.

  "Wait a minute." He dropped the hand, and taking a pencil wrote on abeam:

  "March 18th, 1843."

  "There, that's to remember the Dutchman by."

  "Don't call yourself a Dutchman, August. One day in school, when I wassitting opposite to you, I learned this definition, 'August: grand,magnificent,' and I looked at you and said, Yes, that he is. August isgrand and magnificent, and that's what you are. You're just grand!"

  I do not think he was to blame. I am sure he was not responsible. It wasdone so quickly. He kissed her forehead and then her lips, and saidgood-by and was gone. And she, with her apron full of eggs and hercheeks very red--it makes one warm to climb--went back to the house,resolved in some way to thank Cynthy Ann for sending her; but CynthyAnn's face was so serious and austere in its look that Julia concludedshe must have been mistaken, Cynthy Ann couldn't have known that Augustwas in the barn. For all she said was:

  "You got a right smart lot of eggs, didn't you? The hens is beginnin' tolay more peart since the warm spell sot in."