The Old Gray Homestead Part 4

"I've said a good many foolish things in the course of my life, and changed my mind about them afterwards."

"Or feel sorry if I came to grief--"

"And a good many untrue and wicked ones for which I have repented afterwards."

"Well, I did come to grief--or pretty nearly. I met three Polish workmen on the road. I think they were--intoxicated. Anyway, they tried to stop me. I was lucky in managing to turn in here--so quickly they didn't realize what I was going to do. If I hadn't been near the entrance to this wood-road--Austin, what makes you grip my hand so? You hurt."

"Promise me you'll never ride alone again," he said, his voice shaking.

"I certainly never shall."

"And could you possibly promise me, too, that you'll forgive the absolutely unforgivable way I've acted all summer, and give me a chance to show that I can do better--_Sylvia_?"

"Oh, yes, _yes_! Please don't feel badly about that. I--I--never misunderstood at all. I know you've had an awfully hard row to hoe, and that's made you bitter, and--any man hates to have a woman help--financially. Besides"--she hesitated, and went on with a humility very different from her usual sweet imperiousness--"I've been pretty unhappy myself, and it's made _me_ self-willed and obstinate and dictatorial."

"You! You're--more like an angel than I ever dreamed any woman could be."

"Oh, I'm not, I'm not--please don't think so for a minute. Because, if you do, we'll start out on a false basis, and not be real friends, the way I hope we're going to be now--"

"Yes--"

"And, please, may I sit up now? And really, my hands are warm"--he dropped them instantly--"and I would like to hear about the storm--whether it has done much damage, if you know."

"It has destroyed every building we owned except the house itself."

"Austin! You're not in earnest!"

"I never was more so."

"Oh, I'm sorry--more sorry than I can tell you!" One of the little hands that had been withdrawn a moment earlier groped for his in the darkness, and pressed it gently; she did not speak for some minutes, but finally she went on: "It seems a dreadful thing to say, but perhaps it may prove a blessing in disguise. I believe Thomas is right in thinking that a smaller farm, which you could manage easily and well without hiring help, would be more profitable; and now it will seem the most natural thing in the world to sell that great southern meadow to Mr. Weston."

"Yes, I suppose so; he offered us three thousand dollars for it; he doesn't care to buy the little brick cottage that goes with it--which isn't strange, for it has only five rooms, and is horribly out of repair.

Grandfather used it for his foreman; but, of course, we've never needed it and never shall, so I wish he did want it."

"Oh, Austin--could _I_ buy it? I've been _dying_ for it ever since I first saw it! It could be made perfectly charming, and it's plenty big enough for me! I've sold my Fifth Avenue house, and I'm going to sell the one on Long Island too--great, hideous, barnlike places! Your mother won't want me forever, and I want a little place of my very own, and _I love_ Hamstead--and the river--and the valley--I didn't dare suggest this--you all, except Thomas, seemed so averse to disposing of any of the property, but--'

"If we sell the meadow to Weston, I am sure you can have the cottage and as much land as you want around it; but the trouble is--"

"You need a great deal more money; of course, I know that. Have you any insurance?"

"Very little."

For some moments she sat turning things over in her mind, and was quiet for so long that Austin began to fear that she was more badly hurt than she had admitted, and found it an effort to talk.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked at last, anxiously. "Are you in pain?"

"No--only thinking. Austin--if you cannot secure a loan at some local bank, would you be very averse to borrowing the money from me--whatever the sum is that you need? I am investing all the time, and I will ask the regular rates of interest. Are you offended with me for making such a suggestion?"

"I am not. I was too much moved to answer for a minute, that is all. It is beyond my comprehension how you could bring yourself to do it, after overhearing what you heard me say the other evening."

"Then you'll accept?"

"If father and Thomas think best, I will; and thank you, too, for not calling it a gift."

"Are you likely to be offended if I go on, and suggest something further?"

"No; but I am likely to be so overwhelmed that I shall not be of much practical use to you."

"Well, then, I'd like you to take a thousand dollars more than you need for building, and spend it in travelling."

"In travelling!"

"Yes; Thomas is a born farmer, and the four years that he is going to have at the State Agricultural College are going to be exactly what he wants and needs. He isn't sensitive enough so that he'll mind being a little older than most of the fellows in his cla.s.s. But, of course, for you, anything like that is entirely out of the question. How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Well, if you could get away from here for a time, and see other people, how they do things, how they make a little money go a long way, and a little land go still farther, how they work hard, and fail many times, and succeed in the end--not the science of farming that Thomas is going to learn, but the accomplished fact--I believe it would be the making of you. My Uncle Mat was one of the first importers of Holstein cattle in this country, and I'd like to have you do just what he did when he got through college. Of course, you can buy all the cows you want in the United States now, of every kind, sort, and description, and just as good as there are anywhere in the world; but I want you to go to Europe, nevertheless. Start right off while Thomas is still at home to help your father; take a steamer that goes direct to Holland; get into the interior with an interpreter. Then cross over to the Channel Islands. By that time you'll be in a position to decide whether you want to stock your farm with Holsteins, which have the strongest const.i.tutions and give the most milk, or Jerseys, which give the richest. While you're over there, go to Paris and London for a few days--and see something besides cows. Come home by Liverpool. I know the United States Minister to the Netherlands very well, and no end of people in Paris. I'll give you some letters of introduction, and you'll have a good time besides getting a practical education. The whole trip needn't take you more than eight weeks. Then next spring visit a few of the big farms in New York and the Middle West, and go to one of those big cattle auctions they hold in Syracuse in July. Then--"

"For Heaven's sake, Sylvia! Where did you pick up all this information about farming?"

"From Uncle Mat--but I'll tell you all about that some other time. The question is now, 'Will you go?'"

"G.o.d bless you, _yes_!"

"That's settled, then," she cried happily. "I was fairly trembling with fear that you'd refuse. Why _is_ it so hard for you to accept things?"

"I don't know. I've been bitter all my life because I've had to go without so much, and this summer I've been equally bitter because things were changing. It must be just natural cussedness--but I'm honestly going to try to do better."

"We've got to stay here until morning, haven't we?"

"I'm afraid we have. You can't walk, and even if you could, the chances are ten to one against our finding the highroad in this Egyptian darkness! When the sun comes up, I can pick my own way along through the underbrush all right, and carry you at the same time. You must weigh about ninety pounds."

"I weigh one hundred and ten! The idea!--There's really no chance, then, of our moving for several hours?"

"I'm sorry--but you must see there is not. Does it seem as if you couldn't bear being so dreadfully uncomfortable that much longer?"

"Not in the least. I'm all right. But--"

"Do you mind being here--alone with me?"

"No, _no, no_! Why on earth should I? Let me finish my sentence. I was only wondering if it might not help to pa.s.s the time if I told you a story? It's not a very pleasant one, but I think it might help you over some hard places yourself, if you heard it; and if you would tell part of it--as much as you think best--to your family after we get home, I should be very grateful. Some of it should, in all justice, have been told to you all long ago, since you were so good as to receive me when you knew nothing whatever about me, and the rest is--just for you."

"Is the telling going to be hard for you?"

"I don't think so--this way--in the dark--and alone. It has all seemed too unspeakably dreadful to talk about until just lately; but I've been growing so much happier--I think it may be a relief to tell some one now."

"Then do, by all means. I feel--"

"Yes--"