"Well, he remembers that awful thing you said about partin'----" Mrs.

Farnshaw began.

"But this isn't any new thing in him, ma. He's always been that way,"

Elizabeth objected, determined not to let her mother start on that subject to-day.

"Oh, I know it! They all get that way if they're let; think they own everything in sight. They get worse, too, as they get older. You do what I said an' set your foot down about that house," her mother replied, and turned to put a pan of bread in the oven.

CHAPTER VII

ERASING HER BLACKBOARD

John's attention centred about the new house and each day found him more impatient to see it finished. The creature comforts of life were his main ideals and he wanted to get settled. Sunday afternoon found him early at Nathan's to consult with Elizabeth about the kitchen windows. Susan Hornby's surprised recognition of his annoyance, when he was told that she had gone home, added to the unpleasantness of the eight-mile drive. What business had that woman studying him or his moods? he asked himself as he drove away. He would not get out of the wagon when he reached Elizabeth's home, though the sun was hot and Mrs. Farnshaw urged him to do so. He was irritated, he did not know at what, but he was. He hurried Elizabeth away without ceremony. As soon as they were beyond earshot he began to voice his grievances. The point he discussed had nothing whatever to do with the real ground for his irritability, but served as an outlet for his acrid frame of mind.

"If you want to go anywhere, let me know it so that I can take you. I can't have you running around the country in this fashion," he began.

Elizabeth, who had felt his manner, looked up in puzzled surprise. She could see nothing in that to be fretted about. It was so good to see him, to have him with her again after a night spent in her father's house, that she was ready to concede any point her lover might raise, but this seemed so trivial that she laughed a happy laugh as she answered caressingly:

"I have always walked whenever and wherever I chose around here. I like it, dear."

"That don't make any difference; it ain't good for any woman to walk eight miles at one time," John answered shortly.

Unable to see the reason for laying stress upon the danger in doing a thing she had done for years without harm to herself, Elizabeth was surprised into continuing the argument without at all caring whether she ever walked again or not.

"I've walked that much a hundred times in my life, and I'll probably walk it a hundred times more," she replied with a laugh.

"Not if you live with me," John Hunter announced, standing as solid as a rock on the issue now that he had raised it.

"But why not?" the girl inquired, still but little concerned, and looking her betrothed over with a girl's eye for correct combinations of collar, tie, and driving gloves. Those gloves had been the chief objection Elizabeth's brothers had been able to raise against the Eastern man, and gave colour to the spiteful "dude" with which John Hunter was mentioned by the envious.

"Why not?" John repeated after her. "Because it don't look well."

The ridiculous and inadequate reply drew the girl still deeper into the discussion. She began to reason with him quite earnestly. She had always walked a great deal; she loved it. Walking was jolly fun. Everybody knew she was not as dependent upon being taken as the ordinary woman. When, however, John would not give in and insisted that things were different now that they were engaged, she ceased to say more.

"You see," he concluded, "people expect me to take you. They'll think something's happened and that I don't want to. If I want to take my future wife, she ought to be willing to be taken. I don't want you ever to walk home again."

Elizabeth Farnshaw was young, the experiences of her night at home had made her covet peace, she was unaware that she was being moulded, or that her lover considered the Hunter ways, as such, especially desirable.

Willing to pay the price, rather enjoying the masterful way in which her betrothed insisted upon serving her, reflecting that no one had ever been willing to serve her at all, and feeling that it was a minor matter, she gave up.

"All right! I like to walk, but if you look at it in that way I won't do it again," she promised, and in the silence which followed stole a look now and then at John Hunter, revelling in his well-groomed appearance. A vision of her father's slatternly, one-suspendered shoulders, and b.u.t.ton-less sleeves flapping about his rough brown wrists, set against this well-shirted gentleman produced sharp contrast and made of the future a thing altogether desirable. The useless arguments between her parents arose before her also; she resolved to argue less and love more. It was something, she reflected, to know when to lay an argument down. Besides, John wanted it. Leaning over, she rubbed her cheek softly against his sleeve.

"I never thought I could be so happy." The words were whispered tenderly, as she looked up into his face.

Could mortal man fail to appreciate the manner of the surrender? There was nothing left to argue about; all had been granted. Elizabeth was learning, as all women have had to do before her, that the man-creature loves to be adored, that by cloaking her own desires, stroking his fur the right way, giving it little pats of approval and admitting the pleasure conferred by his presence, she could work a magic. John's arm dropped about her and she gave herself up to the delights of being cuddled.

It was not possible for the inexperienced girl to measure the importance of the freedom she had surrendered. Elizabeth desired to forget the unpleasant things. Real issues were obscured for the girl by her desire to escape from her father's house. In addition to that, Elizabeth had not yet become a.n.a.lytical. Instead of meditating upon the manner or the positiveness of her lover's commands, she took counsel with herself how to make their lives different from her parents', and in her efforts to keep her own att.i.tude right forgot to see to it that there was a similar att.i.tude on the part of her future husband.

As they drove along with John's arm about her they ceased to talk, and Elizabeth's thoughts drifted off to her affairs with her father and the night just spent at home. Mr. Farnshaw had adopted the policy of contemptuous silence toward her, and Elizabeth hoped devoutly that he would continue in that frame of mind. Only so would she dare to spend at home the weeks between the close of school and her marriage. She had counted much upon spending those weeks with Aunt Susan, who daily became dearer. She was not moved to tell Aunt Susan girlish secrets, but she was understood and rightly valued in Susan Hornby's home; and now, during this one of all the critical periods in her life the most important, Elizabeth desired to be with her, but Mrs. Farnshaw demanded uncompromisingly that her daughter come home at that time. There was no escaping Mrs. Farnshaw's demands on her children, and, troubled and uncertain, Elizabeth pondered and snuggled closer to the man who was to deliver her from them.

The pair drove to the new house before going to the Hornbys' for the rest of the day. John ceased to be fretful, and by the time for leaving had arrived, Elizabeth had forgotten that he had ever been so. That evening Aunt Susan was told of the engagement, and having divined its arrival, she was able to hide any misgivings she had about it. Besides, not having anything upon which to fasten her objections to John Hunter, she was wise enough to know that love must have its way, and when Elizabeth pictured the life that awaited her, her lover's good points, and her satisfaction rang out in a song of glad notes with no hint of apprehension, the older woman tried to enter into the spirit of the hour.

Elizabeth was certain she could meet John Hunter's moods as the occasion required. No doubts a.s.sailed her about the future life except where John's mother was concerned. When Elizabeth got to that point in her reflections she stopped short without speaking of the matter and announced her intention of going to bed. Elizabeth Farnshaw loved John Hunter devotedly, but his mother was another matter. There was a strong undercurrent of anxiety whenever Mrs. Hunter had to be considered. The nearer the time came for her arrival, the more the girl dreaded meeting her. Elizabeth was loyal to John, however, and Susan Hornby was given no hint of that dread.

Mrs. Hunter came west the last week of school, and when John was so busy getting her and her household goods settled that Elizabeth did not see him the entire week, it was like a stab to the sensitive girl. Filled with a natural sense of good-byes to all that she had known and loved in the work, the impending changes in her life took on a troubled air when John failed to come as usual and did not account for the delay. By some psychological process Susan Hornby's misgivings began to be transferred to Elizabeth's mind. Always as they sewed together Elizabeth was tempted to talk about the subject, but something held her back. Often Susan Hornby, who suspected her troubled state of mind, was moved to ask questions and could not.

A week is a long time when anxiety governs the thoughts, and as Elizabeth grew more lonely she crept into Aunt Susan's arms as well as into her heart. It became her custom to creep up to the older woman after the lamps were lighted and lay her head in her lap, while she would imprison one of Aunt Susan's hands so as to be able to fondle it. The evidences of affection became more and more a part of her thoughts now that the days were slipping by without receiving those evidences from the one who had educated her in them.

The last day of school arrived. John had told Elizabeth the week before that he expected to take her and her trunk home, but not having seen him nor had a word from him recently regarding the matter, a strange feeling of disaster made the closing school exercises unreal and uninteresting.

After the children were gone, Elizabeth began the task of cleaning the schoolroom and putting it in order. She set about the work slowly, making it last as long as she could. School teaching had been pleasant work. It had been the one free field of action life had ever granted her, the one point where she had ever possessed herself and moved unquestioned. The presence of John Hunter's mother in the community had made the teaching seem a refuge to the young girl who was to live in the house with her.

Elizabeth had not understood that Mrs. Hunter was actually to live with them till a short time before her arrival, and then had very nearly given offence to her lover by an astonished exclamation of surprise. Perceiving that she had done so she hastened to say that she would be very glad to have his mother with them. As soon as Elizabeth had got away, and taken time to think it out, she saw that she had lied. John also knew that it was not exactly true, and was therefore more sensitive. It had been the first point of real difference between them. There had been no discussion of it. Elizabeth would have been glad to go to him and say that she wished it, but she did not wish it and would not lie consciously. If it had to be, she would make the best of it and make his mother as welcome as she could, but with the instincts of all young things, the girl wanted to live alone with her mate. The unnaturalness of having others thrust upon them during that first year of married life jarred upon her, just as it has jarred upon every bride who has been compelled to endure it since the beginning of time. It made of the new home a workshop instead of a nest, and took from the glamour of marriage. It made the girl cling to the freedom of the country schoolhouse and fear the new life, where the examples presented to her by those who had tried it were discouraging to an observant onlooker. All this came up as she worked, and saddened the day even more than before. As she put the broom away in the corner beside the water pail, she noticed that the blackboard remained to be cleaned.

Taking an eraser she rubbed vigorously.

"It is a rat. Run, rat, run," begun as high as little arms could reach, and straggling zigzagingly down toward the bottom, was the last to be attacked. As her hand pa.s.sed reluctantly over it she said aloud:

"I'm erasing my blackboard too. Pretty soon I won't be a girl any more.

Pretty soon----"

She checked herself, and putting away the eraser, packed the few belongings in the drawer of the desk into a neat bundle to be carried home. With the package under her arm and her little tin dinner pail dangling from her wrist, Elizabeth fitted the key into the lock. As it clicked under her fingers the thought came to her that she must turn it over to the school board. The finality of it clutched her. Thrusting the key back into the door, she was about to go into the little room again for another look around, when Susan Hornby's voice at her elbow made her start.

Aunt Susan saw the tears which had sprung into the young eyes at the leave-taking and drew her down on the step.

"What is it?" she asked earnestly. "You ought to tell me if you are worried."

The tears which had been gathering spilled themselves over cheek and chin.

"Will I get like the rest of them, Aunt Susan?--never go anywhere, never read anything, have nothing ahead but the same weary round over again every day?" she queried, when she was able to command her voice.

Susan Hornby's face worked determinedly to control her own emotions for a moment before she could speak.

Elizabeth continued: "I've been--I've been so happy this summer, Aunt Susan, and--and I'm a little afraid of that other life. Don't think I don't want to be married--I do," she felt bound to interpose. "It's just--just that--well, you can see how it is; the married women around here wear faded things, and--and their teeth get bad--and a man hardly ever wants to take his wife anywhere. Look at Mrs. Carter, and Mrs. Crane, and ma. Poor ma! She never gets to go anywhere she wants to."

The girlish questionings and fears broke down Susan Hornby's control and she fell on Elizabeth's neck and sobbed openly as she said:

"I know, I know. I've thought of little else of late. My poor little ewe lamb! My poor little ewe lamb!"

The ethics of Susan Hornby's generation did not permit of an outright discussion of the marriage relation. She did not have the matter clear in her own mind, but a sort of dull terror came over her whenever she thought of Elizabeth becoming John Hunter's wife. She could hardly have told why.

She knew that somehow human beings missed the highest in the marriage relation and that the undiscussed things of life had to do with the failure; she knew also that her instincts regarding this marriage were true, but she could sound no warning because her knowledge came from the instincts and had no outward evidence of fact with which to support it. To how large a degree did these warnings apply to all? Susan Hornby had plenty of time to wonder and think, for Elizabeth cried softly to herself without speaking further. The older woman's hand wandered over the glossy braids in her lap, and her eyes wandered off toward the Carter homestead while her mind struggled with the problems of the neighbourhood. Elizabeth had put into words a thing she had herself observed. She saw the irritability of men toward their wives; she saw women about them who toiled earnestly, who bore children, and who denied themselves every sort of pleasurable relation at the demand of husbands who never gave them a look of comradery or good fellowship in return. Was it the weariness of the struggle to live, or was it s.e.x, or was it the evil domination of men?

This girl whose sunny hair she was caressing was to go under the merciless hammer of the matrimonial auctioneer. What was to be her fate? Susan Hornby saw that love had touched the highest in Elizabeth Farnshaw's nature and that the girl yearned toward a high ideal of family life. She had shown it in her girlish chatter as they had sewed together. Could she attain to it? Susan Hornby thought of John Hunter and stiffened. She felt that Elizabeth would yearn toward it all the days of her life with him and never catch even a fleeting glimpse of it.

Elizabeth snuggled closer on the step and reached for the hand stroking her head.

"It isn't the faded dresses, Aunt Susan; it's--it's the faded life I'm afraid of," she whispered thickly.

Susan Hornby bent her head to catch the sobbing voice, and losing control of her reserve, said abruptly: "I know it, I know all about it. If I thought John Hunter'd let you set at home like----"

She knew while the words were still in her mouth that it was a mistake.