Chapter 25
David Brower had prospered, as I have said before, and now he waschiefly concerned in the welfare of his children. So, that he might giveus the advantages of the town, he decided either to lease or sell hisfarm--by far the handsomest property in the township. I was there when abuyer came, in the last days of that summer. We took him over the smoothacres from Lone Pine to Woody Ledge, from the top of Bowman's Hill toTinkie Brook in the far valley. He went with us through every tidy roomof the house. He looked over the stock and the stables.
'Wall! what's it wuth?' he said, at last, as we stood looking down thefair green acres sloping to the sugar bush.
David picked up a stick, opened his knife, and began to whittlethoughtfully, a familiar squint of reflection in his face. I suppose hethought of all it had cost him--the toil of many years, the strength ofhis young manhood, the youth and beauty of his wife, a hundred thingsthat were far better than money.
'Fifteen thousan' dollars,' he said slowly--'not a cent less.' The manparleyed a little over the price.
'Don' care t' take any less t'day,' said David calmly. 'No harm done.'
'How much down?'
David named the sum.
'An' possession?'
'Next week'
'Everything as it stan's?'
'Everything as it stan's 'cept the beds an' bedding.'
'Here's some money on account,' he said. 'We'll close t'morrer?'
'Close t'morrer,' said David, a little sadness in his tone, as he tookthe money.
It was growing dusk as the man went away. The crickets sang with a loud,accusing, clamour. Slowly we turned and went into the dark house, Davidwhistling under his breath. Elizabeth was resting in her chair. She washumming an old hymn as she rocked.
'Sold the farm, mother,' said David.
She stopped singing but made no answer. In the dusk, as we sat down, Isaw her face leaning upon her hand. Over the hills and out of the fieldsaround us came many voices--the low chant in the stubble, the baying ofa hound in the far timber, the cry of the tree toad--a tiny drift of oddthings (like that one sees at sea) on the deep eternal silence of theheavens. There was no sound in the room save the low creaking of therocker in which Elizabeth sat. After all the going, and coming, anddoing, and saying of many years here was a little spell of silence andbeyond lay the untried things of the future. For me it was a time ofreckoning.
'Been hard at work here all these years, mother,' said David. 'Oughterbe glad t' git away.'
'Yes,' said she sadly, 'it's been hard work. Years ago I thought I nevercould stan' it. But now I've got kind o' used t' it.'
'Time ye got used t' pleasure 'n comfort,' he said. 'Come kind o' hard,at fast, but ye mus' try t' stan' it. If we're goin' t' hev sech flin inHeaven as Deacon Hospur tells on we oughter begin t' practice er we'llbe 'shamed uv ourselves.'
The worst was over. Elizabeth began to laugh.
At length a strain of song came out of the distance.
'Maxwelton's braes are bonnie where early falls the dew.'
'It's Hope and Uncle Eb,' said David while I went for the lantern.'Wonder what's kep' 'em s' late.'
When the lamps were lit the old house seemed suddenly to have got asense of what had been done. The familiar creak of the stairway asI went to bed had an appeal and a protest. The rude chromo of thevoluptuous lady, with red lips and the name of Spring, that had alwayshung in my chamber had a mournful, accusing look. The stain upon hercheek that had come one day from a little leak in the roof looked nowlike the path of a tear drop. And when the wind came up in the night andI heard the creaking of Lone Pine it spoke of the doom of that house andits own that was not far distant.
We rented a new home in town, that week, and were soon settled init. Hope went away to resume her studies the same day I began work incollege.