A Yankee from the West Part 26

"But you've had that one so long, Bill."

"Then it's all the sweeter."

"I'm a thousand times obliged to you."

"All right." He was silent for a thoughtful minute, and then he said: "The summer is about gone. It will leave on the train next Tuesday."

The hired man nodded as if he understood. "And I've got to be lookin'

out for somethin' to do in the winter," he said. "I don't reckon you can afford to keep me."

"Yes, I want you. I expect to be busy all winter, trading around. Your wages may go on just the same."

"You don't mean at eighteen dollars?"

"I said just the same."

Mitch.e.l.l's face beamed with satisfaction. "That would scare some of these farmers around here half to death," said he. "They never think of payin' more than ten in winter."

"But I'm not one of these farmers round here."

"That's what you ain't, and I don't know what you have been, nur what you're goin' to be, but to me you're about the best feller I ever struck up with."

They talked of affairs on the farm, the hay, the ripening corn. In the renting of the place a number of ragged sheep had been included, a contingent sale; and a few months of care had wrought almost a miracle in the appearance of the flock, so much so that the old woman regretted her terms and would have withdrawn from them, but Milford had insisted upon a witnessed contract. They talked about the sheep, the increase to come in the winter, the sale of lambs in the early summer. They laid plans for work in the fall, for the cutting and the husking of the corn.

"But I thought you were going to marry," said Milford.

"Yes, but not for a year, Bill. I've got a good deal to attend to first.

I've got to get a divorce, you know. That won't take long, of course, but a man's divorce ought to get cool before he marries again. I've talked to my girl about it, and she thinks so. She's a proper thing."

"Did it ever occur to you that she can't be a very proper thing to talk to you about marriage or to receive attentions from you before you get your divorce?"

"I don't guess she ever thought of that. But I believe she did say she wanted I should get a divorce before I said much more about it. It's all right, anyway. I don't believe in holding a woman to strict rule. If you force the rule on her before you're married, she'll force it on you afterwards, and then where'll you be? Well," he added, leaning over to untie his shoe, "believe I'll go to bed. I'm glad you're pleased with my work. I want to save up enough to git them shirts, you know. It wouldn't look right to draw on her at once. Some fellers would, but I'm rather careful that way."

CHAPTER XVIII.

ACROSS THE DITCH.

Early Tuesday morning a girl from the poor-house went to Mrs. Stuvic's place. This meant that the season was about closed, that the "journeyman" cook had been discharged, the "help" told to go, and that this wretched creature was to do the work. Careful not to appear too early, Milford came almost too late. The carriage had set out for the station. He ordered the driver to stop. He reminded Gunhild of her promise to walk with him across the fields. She declared that she had not promised, but said that she was willing enough to walk. Mrs. Goodwin cautioned her not to loiter by the way; it would greatly put her out to miss the train. Gunhild jumped out, Milford catching at her, and the carriage drove on. They walked down the road to a place where there was a gap in the fence, and here they entered the field. Down deep in the gra.s.s a horde of insects shouted their death songs. Their day of judgment was soon to lie white upon the ground. Artists in their way, with no false notes, with mission ended, they were to die in art, among fantastic pictures wrought by the frost. Milford did not try to hide his sadness. The girl was livelier; the girl nearly always is.

"The other day I got near you, although others were present, but now you are far off," he said. "Must I rope you every time I want you?"

She laughed at this picture of life in the West, thrown in a word. Again she saw men la.s.soing the cattle. But the potato field came back to her, the rough words of the men, the drudgery, and her face grew sad. "I am as close to you now as I was then."

"Not with your eyes. Stop. Let me look at you."

They halted and stood face to face. "Give me your eyes." She gave them to him without a waver. But she reminded him that they must not miss the train. Afar off they could see the carriage turn a corner.

"When am I to see you again?" he asked, as they walked on.

"I do not know that," she answered. "I shall not stay in the winter time at Mrs. Goodwin's house. She will have many persons there then, and will not need me."

"The kingdom of heaven, though it were full, would need you."

"Sometimes you are a wild book, with sentences jumping out at me," she said. "I must rope you," she added, laughing.

"I wish you would--I wish you'd choke me to death, and----"

"And what?"

"And then take my head in your lap."

"In your other life you must have stood at the bow of a boat, making the sea red with the blood of your enemy--and in my other life I bound up your wounds."

They came to a broad ditch. On each side was a forest of wild sunflowers. "You could stand in there and blaze with them," he said, stepping down into the ditch. "Give me your hand, and I'll help you across."

"I can jump."

"Give me your hand--and I hope you'll stumble and fall."

She stood among the sunflowers, looking down at him. "Did you see the cowboy preacher that came West?" she asked. "Would he not have had a wild steer if he had roped your soul?"

"Give me your hand--both."

She gave him her hands, and leaped across the ditch. "I wish there were a thousand," he said, climbing out. "But you haven't answered me. When am I to see you again?"

"I am coming again with Mrs. Goodwin next summer."

"That'll be like a boy's Christmas--ten years in coming. Can't I come to see you in town?"

"I shall not be in the town. I am going into the country to teach."

"Then I can come into the country."

"No. With your wild ways you would make me feel ashamed."

"You are right--I've got sense enough to see it. But is there to be no better understanding between us?"

"Didn't you say that all--something could not keep us apart? Is not that understanding enough?" They had halted again, and she had given him her eyes.

"It's an acknowledgment, but not a plan. What I want is something to work up to."

"There is the carriage coming down the road over yonder. Mrs. Goodwin is waving her handkerchief at me. The station is just across the fence."

"I know all that. But won't you let me write to you?"