by Unknown
“Did he?” Jerry looked down at his hands again.
After a space of silence, Jed got up boredly and moved to the stairs.
“I want to find the hen’s nest. It’s downstairs somewhere. I want to capture her eggs.”
Polly followed him slowly. At the door she paused. Her eyes looking back gravely at him made him think of Mary’s. There was the same faint crease between the brows.
“You won’t tell on me, will you?”
He shook his head… .
Sitting alone once more, Jerry listened to the search below him for the stolen nest. The children’s hushed voices called back and forth to each other; their hands rustled in straw; and their feet thudded softly over the planks. Suddenly they were gone. The silence of the barn was renewed with a cricket’s chirping. … He could sit still no longer.
The bull was uneasy in his pen. As Jerry looked through the upper bars, he saw the great roan beast brooding with his forehead against the timbers. He was completely unaware of Jerry. But he rocked gently over his crooked knees, and the light thump of his skull against the boards made the upright shudder under Jerry’s hand. Then, with no warning sound, he reared against the wall. His ears were pricked; his thick, short horns shone in the upper shadows dim as ivory.
Jerry went out quietly.
He stood for a moment in the doors to blink the dazzle from his eyes. Except for the dog, who still got flavor from his antiquated bone, the yard was empty. No sound came from the house; there was no sign of Ma or Mary.
The dog gave him a brief glance, and whipped some dust with his tail; but Jerry continued round the kitchen stoop, round the corner of the house, until he came to the pantry wall. Inside he heard the steady thumping of the churn. He stood beside some shrubs and looked through the open door. Mary was sitting on a stool, the churn between her knees. Her hands rhythmically followed the dasher up and down; but her eyes were turned to the window. He could not see her face clearly, for the light did not fall on it, but he thought that she was crying. Her shoulders sagged; from time to time she braced them with a conscious effort.
But before he could move, he heard Ma Halleck coming through the kitchen. He could not see her, but her cheerful voice reached him clearly.
“Ain’t it made yet? There must be a witch in that churn. What’s the matter, dearie?”
“Nothing, Ma. I’m tired.”
“It’s been a long wrestle. You let me have that dasher. I do think I hear it coming.”
The beat of the churn became stronger, and Jerry thought he also detected a heavier splashing.
“It’s a-coming,” cried Ma. “I’ll have it in a minute.”
By leaning forward he could see her standing over the churn, her broad hands in place of Mary’s on the stick. Her dress bounced on her shoulders in tune to the thrust of her hands. Mary had turned upon her stool to ease her back. Now she stood up.
“I’ll fetch the working bowls.”
In a moment she had set two shallow wooden bowls upon the table. The butter in the churn was quickly gaining weight.
Ma said, “I’ll help you work it. You set still a while.”
“Where’s Jerry, Ma?”
“I don’t know. I ain’t seen him since dinner time. Traipsing around, I guess.”
Mary sat down again.
She said in an even voice, “When we get done, I want to talk to him. By myself.”
“Made up your mind?”
Mary gave no answer, and Ma snorted.
Jerry drew back. As he returned to the yard, his eyes fell on the woodshed. An axe was driven deep into a block, and cooking wood, waiting for splitting, was piled beside it work for his uneasy hands. He hung his coat on a nail and laid hold of the axe, and the helve met his palms coolly. With a light drive of the bit, he hooked up a chunk and set it ready against the block. His wrists absorbed the rap as the twisting edge rebounded. As he swung again he felt himself take hold of life. The log split and he leaned one half upon its face to quarter it.
In the pantry, Ma Halleck rested her hands to hear the strokes of the axe. She nodded to Mary.
“There he is, dearie.” Mary was listening to the steady blows as though they had some message for her. “In the woodshed,” Ma went on, “splitting wood.”
She chugged away at the dasher once more. The sound of butter was plain enough now for anyone. In a moment she stooped to draw the vent plug and let out the air. Then she removed the lid and stared inside.
“A twelve-pound mess, or thereabouts.” She edged’ a bucket forward with her toe to drain the buttermilk into. As she bent down to tilt the churn a seam gave way somewhere among her clothes. She crouched there, looking up at Mary. Her fat red face grew serious.
“Dearie.” Her voice was throaty all at once. “If you wanted to go back with him, you know I wouldn’t stand in your way. It’s just I couldn’t bear to see you cheated for a second time.”
Mary half smiled.
“I know it, Ma.”
Ma went on, “When I heard that wheel of that old wagon coming up the road that night, I was awake in my bed. I had been thinking of you and Jerry and wondering would we ever see you any more. But I didn’t know who it was, and I hollered over to George to get up and see. The dogs was fussing so.”
“I remember, they did rush out barking long before we got into the yard.”
“It was that wheel. Then I looked out my window and heard Falk answering George, and George lifted up his lantern on your face. And I felt it was your ghost. Ghosts mostly come after a person thinks about their bodies. George didn’t recognize you just at first. But I did just as if you was my own daughter. I just put on my coat and come on down and when I saw you there, sitting alongside Falk and Polly asleep between you and Jed showing plain right under your dress, I knowed what had happened to you. I was glad to have you, dearie; but I felt set hard against Jerry. You looked so peaked.”
Ma drew her breath and let the churn sit up. She took both paddles and reached her bare arms in for the butter. She lifted it expertly and held it up.
“I do like bright-colored butter. White butter always makes me think of fish. Dead fish.”
She dropped it in a bowl and spread it out, halved it, and gave the second half to Mary. She took a handful of coarse salt and sprinkled the butter, folded it, and began to work it over with the paddle. Mary took the other bowl upon her lap.
“You’ve always got a home here, dearie. I took good care of you, didn’t I, when Jed was coming? Not but what he was an easy baby borning.” She paused a moment. “It’s just that if you went away I’d feel much better not to ever think you might be coming back that way again.” She reached one hand up to pull her apron strap back on her shoulder. “Perhaps you feel the need of a man around again. I’d used to think of Joe, maybe. He needs a steadying girl. But I’ve seen you’d never fancy him.”
“I like Joe,” Mary said.
“All girls do. But I expect Joe won’t ever marry. He’s a kind of twig. Right since he was born I’ve never planned for Joe to marry. No, I’ve always thought of him staying to home with me.”
“I believe he will.”
“You never can tell, dearie. But, dearie, you’ve got to think. A man that goes off once is apt to get head-free again. I don’t deny Jerry looks older. And he’s a handsome man, now he’s got his heft. And seems he’s done well, too. But leaving of you for a chit. Oh, Falk’s told me all about it. I never could abide Harley Falk, I think, but for the way he looked after you.”
“He was good to me,” Mary said. “I feel sorry for him. He’s said to me the whole world was against him. I was the only person that had ever been nice to him.”
“I wouldn’t trust him myself, though,” said Ma. “The way he goes after you with his eyes. It riles George, too.”
“If he’s happy visiting me, I don’t mind.”
“Didn’t you say he was coming back to-day?”
“Yes. He wanted me to go away with him. He’s wan
ted to marry me, I guess. All along. He’s said I could get justice before law for being deserted. But Jerry hasn’t really, Ma. I went off from him. I’ve just remembered that this afternoon.”
Ma glanced at her. Her voice softened unexpectedly.
“Dearie, I’ve made one or two mistakes before. Maybe I did in hiding those pieces in the paper from you. There’s just one thing, though, I would say if a girl was fixed the way you are.”
Her hand dipped in the salt crock.
“If you do make up your mind to have him back, don’t never remember what has happened not in talk.”
Her hand sprinkled the salt, but her head was raised. She was listening through the door.
“Speaking about ghosts,” she said. “Hear that!”
Mary listened too.
Unexpectedly close they heard the laborious, slow squeaking of a wheel. It was coming down the slope for the yard.
“It’s Harley Falk,” cried Ma. “I must have been hearing it right along, but thought it was a locust or a screeching bird. Why don’t he ever grease it?”
She stepped to the door.
“It’s him. The horse looks as if he’s traveled quite a ways. He’s tired.”
Mary’s face wore a white, stricken look.
“What’ll I say to him, Ma?”
“Him? What does that matter? What’ll you say to Jerry?”
“I feel so sorry for him. It seems I understand him better just this minute.”
“Shall I go out and talk to him for you?”
“No, Ma. I’d ought to do that myself.”
But she sat still in spite of herself. The wheel wound down slowly. It turned into the yard. Each squeak cut knifelike through the quiet. Then it stopped.
“Good land!” cried Ma. “I wonder how much salt I’ve worked into this butter!”
Mary set down the bowl.
“I’m going out, Ma.”
Watching her quiet figure through the door, Ma’s eyes grew wet. She picked up Mary’s bowl and tasted her butter on a thumbnail.
“Thank gracious! She’s forgot to put in any salt at all.”
She threw the two workings together and her strong wrists worked the paddle through the doubled mess as if they were the makings of a man for whom she felt considerable distaste.
Jerry heard the squeaking wheel turn into the yard. He looked up in time to see the old white horse start for the barn trough as though, even in blindness, he was familiar with the way. He drove the axe into the block and slowly walked out from the shed.
Harley Falk was getting down over the wheel. He caught the reins in the whip socket and turned.
His face was burned red from the long driving through the heat; but Jerry saw under the burn the face set slowly. The man’s eyes fastened on him; and his hands went to his breeches’ pockets. He stepped back and leaned against his wagon wheel.
He said, “It’s pretty hot to-day.”
“Yes,” said Jerry.
“You been here long?”
“I got here this morning.”
Falk took his right hand from his pocket and pulled gently at his lips.
“I stopped to water my horse,” he said. “Got any objections?”
“It’s not my farm.”
Jerry did not move. Under the red skin he saw the man’s face getting white. His eyes were losing brightness. He said, “I thought I’d see how Mrs. Fowler was.”
“She’s all right.”
The dog, Toby, passed between them, went over to the horse, sniffed at his weary pasterns, and fixed a wheel.
Neither of them noticed him. The yard was dead with the full heat of midafternoon. Even the hens had moved from the dust to the strip of shade beside the barn foundation. It was so still that the two men plainly heard the footfalls coming through the kitchen from the pantry; but though both recognized the step, their eyes held each other.
Mary came quietly between them. She held a bonnet by the strings. Her eyes were grave, and as she looked at Harley Falk her lips trembled and smiled.
The cobbler took his hat off. His eyes, swinging to Jerry, were sardonic. He understood her smile, and for an instant amusement at Jerry’s face conquered his self-pity.
At his glance, Mary’s color waved in her cheeks. But before she could speak, the cobbler put his hat back on his head.
“I was just passing through to the Birdnut cabin. I stopped to water the horse, and when I saw Mr. Fowler was here I just lit down to pay respects.”
“Stay here tonight,” Mary said.
“No, I guess not. The cabin’s dry and the barn’s all right for the horse. I’m only going to camp a little while, and I’ve got food along.” His eyes swung back to Mary, and Jerry saw her color rise again. His hands clenched, and suddenly he felt his heart beating heavily.
Falk’s voice went on, “It’s been an unseasonable hot day. Driving makes me dry. I’ll just have a drink afore I go.” He stooped down beside his horse and sucked some water up. He wiped his mouth slowly.
“I might as well be getting on.”
“Good-bye,” said Mary. She moved quickly forward and held out her hand. Falk shook it, let it drop. His glance passed over her head to Jerry.
“Good-bye.”
He lifted the reins and started the old horse. The white, sightless stare of the animal crossed them both. The wheel squeaked lethargically. A little dust half lifted and fell back in its place. The wagon tracked between the woodshed and the barn and out along the meadow road.
They watched it through the grass; the horse’s head low to the track, the man leaning his elbow on his knees. Jerry turned slowly to Mary.
She still looked after the wagon and her hands were pleating the ribands of her bonnet. He too looked after the wagon once more. The road was leading the cobbler round the edge of the marsh towards a line of small oaks.
“Jerry.”
“Yes, Mary.”
“Let’s go away from the yard, down there. It’s quiet there.”
He turned back to her.
Her eyes were on him.
They stood together on the edge of the great meadow that grew clover heavy enough in two cuttings to winter a herd of forty cows. The dog, Toby, who had joined them on their walking, eyed them for a moment with comical disgust, then bounded off to find a woodchuck hole. At their feet clear water of the flooded marsh land reached to the edge of meadow grass.
Mary was facing the water. Her breast rose sharply over her quickened breathing. Her eyes were grey and her cheeks had paled in the bright sunlight. She had put her bonnet on when they left the yard, but now it hung on her back, the knotted ribands close under her chin; and her hands were joined, straight down before her, pressed tight, as if she felt a pain.
“Mary, I’ve been a terrible damned fool.”
She seemed so near him; she stood so still; he could have touched her by a turning of his wrist.
“I looked for you everywhere I could think of, Mary. I thought you had gone east somewhere.”
She was holding their life together between her palms. But she did not stir.
“I’ve been sorry. Ever since. Three years. A long time, to me.”
“It’s been a long time to me, too, Jerry.”
His eyes followed hers along the blue curve of the marsh. He could not remember the thing he had wanted to tell her. His voice was dead in his throat. He said, “I came to ask you to come back with me, Mary.”
She did not breathe; but her hands twitched suddenly, and the sun caught on her wedding ring. He reached out slowly to touch it. His voice shook.
“When I fashioned that nail, I was ashamed of it. But I’ve thought since it was the one best thing I ever did.”
Her hand rose under his and she turned to face him.
He could not meet her eyes.
“Will you forgive me, Mary? Will you come back?”
She said, quietly, “Yes, I’ll come back.”
He said, “I’ll try to make it up to you.”
Her eyes looked into his as if she were remembering things.
“I’ve got a house waiting for us. It’s your house. There isn’t any mortgage on it. I built it myself.”
She smiled a little.
“I’ll like that.”
“I’ve made it nice.” He looked back at the farm. “I’ve told Jed and Polly of it.” His mouth smiled wryly. “They said they’d come.”
“It will be nice for them. I’ve been thinking of them. Out here they seem half Hallecks’ and half mine.”
“They’ll be our own in Rochester.”
“Yes.”
He felt the sun upon them, entering them both. Fifty yards away, the dog was exchanging insults with the woodchuck, up and down the hole, but their voices were muffled by the earth and grass.
He said, “I’m making money now. You can have anything you want.”
He flushed suddenly when she was quiet.
“I mean we won’t have to move around any more. My work’s in Rochester, and the canal is nearly done. I’ve finished the last locks at Lockport. I won’t have to go off any more.”
Her face was grave. If she thought that his hair was grey above the ears and that his eyes looked tired, she did not show it. She stood quite still with the close-leaved clover touching the hem of her skirt.
Watching her, his eyes renewed for him the curve of her cheek and throat, the curl of hair above the ears, her strong, straight back. He was afraid to touch her, for she stood so still.
A breath of wind was ruffling the marsh water, setting the reeds bending. … It started a shivering in the tops of the sycamores. It came over the meadow combing the clover in short waves to show a gleam of silver underneath the leaves and blew upon their faces.
Mary turned her face to it.
“When will you come back, Mary?”
She smiled a little.
“I’ll go back when you do, Jerry.”
His voice was tentative.
“I’ve been away so long from Rochester, I ought to go soon. It’s not fair to Hunter, staying away so long.”
She said, “I think it will be best to start back soon.”
“You’ll have things to pack up, and to say good-bye to all of them.”
“It won’t take long to pack.”