Down in the hollow a light twinkled in the kitchen window; it was nearly midnight and Billy found himself stumbling over the rough pasture field half asleep and decidedly out of temper.

"My, but I hate this place," he stormed bitterly. "Soon's I'm big enough to get away it won't see much more of me, I can tell you."

His mother was silent. She never used the evasive "You must not say such things." Perhaps the most eloquent part of her life was its quietness. Just now Billy felt his conscience twinge under it. Her patience was teaching him early to overcome the selfishness of youth.

He knew that always hers was the greater suffering, but she never complained; so a bit sheepishly he added: "And I suppose that's just when I might be able to save you and Jean some. But I could make lots of money then; we'd be independent; we could all go together."

"Oh, no, sonny, we couldn't do that. Things will be different.

There'll be a way for you and Jean. We'll find one somehow. Maybe your father'll see things differently after a while. I think that'll be a fine calf of Dolly's; likely almost a cream coat with black points and big soft, black eyes, like a young deer's."

"I think she was a fool to trail it away in there as if she thought we'd kill it. I'd have been gooder'n gold to it at home. It was just a chance that we found her at all, and I'm sure no one wants to go prowlin' around the swamp at this time of the night."

Then she told him what she knew of nature's primitive laws handed down from Dolly's wild ancestors--how the wild birds protect their young from preying enemies and why the old turkey hen, tame for generations, always tried to hide her nest. She also told him of whatever beautiful things she knew to look and listen for in the woods at night, simple, wonderful lore that her father had given her on their walks through the woods to salt the cattle on Sundays.

Before Billy had finished his bread and milk and crawled into bed he had resolved to explore that wood again. He wasn't afraid of it now; it was a real outdoor theatre.

But long after he was asleep his mother lay awake on the lounge downstairs, listening to the heavy breathing in the next room and thinking. It had troubled her a good deal lately, this night thinking, always looking back and wondering just how present situations had come about. Life had sprung up around her so happily in her beautiful old home. Only to live and laugh and be happy--that was all that was expected of her, and if it didn't seem enough, if she had visions, mysterious inward stirrings of something creative crying for expression, she generally kept them to herself. At last she suggested it timidly--she wanted to go to school, she wanted to do something. She didn't know just what. How could she when she had never had a chance to see what there was to be done? But her father had laughed and petted her and said he guessed he could keep his only little girl. It was a pretty hard lookout if a man couldn't protect his one pet lamb from being buffetted about in the world, fighting for a living with men, and losing their respect and her own womanliness by working at a man's job. And he added with unconcealed disappointment that it wasn't like her to want such a thing when she could have the protection of her father's home.

She didn't realize then, of course, how miserably inadequate such a protection might be, but the argument silenced her. She felt keenly ashamed of herself--sort of in a cla.s.s with the long-spurred hen cropping up every year, a menace to the social life and economic purpose of the flock. They seemed to think she wanted to "go into the world" for the mere joy of adventure or the hope of notoriety, either of which would almost have frightened her to death. But the uncontrollable little voice inside wouldn't be quiet. It still cried out to create something, to be a part of the scheme that makes the world go round.

Then Dan came, Dan with his handsome face and buoyant, indomitable swing, a fine animal--and the time-old instinct leapt into a flame.

There had never been anyone else, because there hadn't been anyone else in the neighborhood, and she had never been out of it, and this seemed just what she had been waiting for. She wasn't introspective, and she didn't stop to a.n.a.lyze this feeling, of course. Apart from the tumultuous sway of it there were secret visions which she would not for worlds have revealed to anyone, but which brought her the only rea.s.surance, "This is real"--a train of little white figures to hold close for a while, then to send out into the world to do the things she had wanted to do. They would be just like Dan, of course, but they would be guided by the spark she had kept smouldering in her dreams for them.

Now that the dream had failed it never occurred to her that she had made a mistake. Dan was still her man; she couldn't have imagined things otherwise, only she wondered what she could do, working single-handed and against odds, to give the children a chance. What if, in the fight ahead of her, she should go out as she had seen several of her neighbors go, coming up to the battle spent and tired out, trying desperately to hang on, then suddenly letting go because the overstrained vitality just snapped? Staring into the darkness she whispered over and over, "Oh, G.o.d, I can't--not yet."

CHAPTER III.

"_I want to tell you how much I love you. I also want not to tell you at all, but to do something for you with my hands and feet, to make your bed, to pick lavender pine cones for you, to do something you would never know that I had done. For of the many ways of love, one of the dearest is to serve in silence, to celebrate and not be found out. Mothering is a great business on these lines._"--_Dr.

Richard Cabot in "What Men Live By."_

Summer had pa.s.sed with the anxiety and toil of harvest, and the cheering presence of numberless bird colonies, living out the romances and cares of their family history in the meadow of the Swamp Farm. The sumachs in the fence corners were turning crimson before a plan that had long been evolving in Mary's mind took definite direction. Dan had gone on a two days' trip for one of his agencies.

It might be the only opportunity she would have for secrecy. Nothing had ever before driven her to such drastic measures, but never before had she had so much at stake. She felt distinctly guilty as she evaded Billy's few searching questions and looked away from the troubled appeal in Jean's br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes. For the first time in their lives she was leaving them; no wonder they had misgivings. She was almost frightened herself, at this new thing that could drive her to practise such deception.

Still she set out on her six mile walk to town with grim determination, walking fast to reach the railroad track before she should meet any one she knew on the travelled highway. By the time she came to the narrow board walk at the edge of the town she was hot and tired and white with excitement. Everyone seemed to be looking at her. She supposed they all knew Dan, but then there was no reason why they should a.s.sociate her with Dan. It was a long time since they had been in town together, strangely enough, on a similar errand.

That was before Jean was born, and Dan had brought her in to the lawyer's office. He had sold a town lot that her father had given her, and superficial as it might seem, it had been necessary for her to come to the lawyer's office to put her name to the deed, and sign another paper applying the proceeds against the mortgage on the Swamp Farm. It was the first time Mary had put her name to any legal doc.u.ment except her marriage certificate, and she wished now that she had known more about what these papers meant with their dazzling red seals and nothing clear about them except the dotted line for her name.

She had another town lot, though. That was what had brought her out on such a questionable adventure to-day. Dan had sold it too, but when he came home with arrangements all made to take her to town the next day to sign the papers again, she gave him the biggest surprise of his married life by saying she didn't want to sell; she wanted to keep that lot--her father had given it to her.

And Dan had laughed, a very indulgent, unnatural laugh for Dan, and said she was "such a whimsical little woman." However it was much better to sell the lot and turn the money into the farm where it would be safe for the children; so he had sold it. He wanted to make that quite clear; _the lot was already sold_; all that remained was to sign the papers.

And Mary with that quiet immovableness that sometimes takes possession of those gentle, pliable, unquestioning women, replied that she was sorry, but she wouldn't sign the papers. She didn't say why. She didn't mention that the farm was running deeper into debt every year; that it was already proving more of an injury than a help to the children, and that in this remnant of her inheritance lay the only hope she had of ever giving them anything better. She just repeated slowly, a bit shakily, and looking down at the spout of her tea-pot, that she _wouldn't sign them_.

And then Dan dropped his indulgent, protective att.i.tude quite suddenly. He asked her "what in h.e.l.l" she expected to do with the lot, then. Did she think she could look after it herself? She knew about as much about business as a squaw. How was any woman to look after her interests in legal affairs where even a man had to keep his eyes open? And who would be expected to take care of such things for her if not her husband? He also enlarged upon a business man's att.i.tude toward women who cared to mix up in such things instead of keeping their place. Altogether he was very much annoyed over this unexpected check in his affairs. It was extremely humiliating to have to tell Harding that his wife, for sentimental reasons, didn't want the lot sold; besides he needed the money. He had no doubt about getting it ultimately, of course. Several plans might be worked to that end, one of the most feasible being to take Billy out of school because there were no funds forthcoming to hire help. But even under the pressure of this, Mary was risking his further displeasure, and taking a venture that would have seemed madness to her a year ago.

The world seemed swimming around her when she entered the lawyer's office, nervously tucking back the damp hair from her forehead, and painfully conscious of the years-old cut of her dress, the road-dust on her shoes, and her absolute ignorance of what to do. If the lawyer was surprised he didn't show it. His practice was not very pressing in the sleepy little town, and he could afford time to put his clients at ease before proceeding to business.

"You mean," he repeated when she had explained her errand, "that you have changed your mind about the lot; that you would like to see Harding this afternoon?"

She a.s.sented with inward panic at the thought of it. "Or would I need to see him? You couldn't just--telephone him or something? I should be getting back, and I wanted to--it seems foolish--but I thought I would like to make my will."

"I see. And you think if you had the lot turned into cash it would be easier to leave it as you want to? I'll just ask Harding to come around. You feel that you know what the lot's worth?"

"Why, I hadn't thought much about that. Father paid five hundred for it, I think."

"That was a long time ago. A dollar doesn't go as far now. Do you remember just what Harding offered Mr. Withers this spring?"

"Six hundred."

The lawyer's mouth hardened a little. He had heard the offer made in his office, and had suspected that Dan wanted to reserve a few hundred for immediate use.

"Better ask for a thousand," he advised casually, "and would you like to put the money out on a mortgage?"

"I'd rather put it in the bank. I want it where it can be got at.

That's why I came about the will. I want it used for the children while they need it, before they come of age. I want it used to send them to school. That could be arranged, couldn't it?"

"I guess so. What about your executor?"

"I hadn't thought of that. How do they generally do?"

"A woman generally makes her husband her executor, but if there is any reason why you would rather have someone else----."

"Certainly not." Mary had come into possession of her dignity with remarkable suddenness. A bright red covered her face, but her head was up, and the eyes that had wandered all over the room in nervous embarra.s.sment before, met the lawyer's squarely with something of a challenge. She even held them there in the face of his amus.e.m.e.nt while she finished a bit lamely: "But I think I would rather leave it with you to take care of for them, if you would--Dan has so much to look after."

Mary didn't notice the weariness of the way home that night. A strange, new elation carried her aching feet over the bruising, irregular railroad ties. The whole dismal swamp seemed singing with the joy of a breaker pa.s.sed. Only, when the stars began to come out over the trees, she wondered if the children would be afraid to stay alone, and quickened her steps. Several times she slipped her hand into her bag just to feel the copy of the will that was to be their safeguard if anything happened. Once she took out her bank-book and peered through the faint moonlight at the dancing figures. She had never had a bank-book before. She had never known what it was to take a ten-dollar bill from a pile, and spend it with luxurious recklessness in white flannelette and nainsook and shirting and various colored calicoes for the children. Then she would gather up the parcels in her aching arms and hurry on again with a thrill of happy antic.i.p.ation.

A section-man watching her thought her deranged, but Mary knew that she was just beginning to see clearly. She had learned that the laws relating to a woman's property were not framed to be beyond a woman's understanding, and the men hadn't seemed to consider her out of her place. A hot wave went over her when she thought of her ignorance of the simplest parts of the procedure. They had been very kind about it, but some arrangement must be made to teach these things to Jean, and save her the agony of such embarra.s.sment.

So it seems we have one of the great motive forces of human evolution--the ambition of individuals here and there to give their children the things they have missed themselves.

The days after this were filled with a mother's provident setting of her house in order. Piles of little garments took shape and received their distinguishing hand touches of smocking and embroidery in the cold, weary hours when everyone else was sleeping. When she smoothed them out the soft nap caught on her roughened hands like the clutch of something frail and clinging--something that needed her, and she prayed for life desperately, as though the waters were already covering her.

Then, one day in late November, when Dan had gone on an indefinite itinerary selling incubators, and Billy was trying to harvest the turnip crop, the dinner-bell called over the fields again. Something in the short, quick ring told him the call was urgent, but when he reached the house he could only stare with growing terror. His mother's face and hair were wet with perspiration; her mouth was set hard and white at the edges; her eyes were bright like stars--full of suffering that could not be hidden even from the child. She was sorting through a basket of white stuff and as usual she stopped to rea.s.sure him.

"It's all right, Boy. Just take the colt and run and tell Auntie Brown to come."

Through all the hard things that had tried the boy's courage and robbed him of the irresponsibility of childhood, he had never known what real fear was before. It seemed to make his limbs and voice powerless to urge the colt to his hardest run. Only one thing was clear to him--his mother might die, and she was alone. It was miles farther to the doctor's, but if only Auntie Brown were there! She was as good as a doctor, everyone said, and she was the only physician many of them knew.

Mrs. Brown saw him coming and opened the door before he stopped. She didn't ask him what he came for. She just said she would go right down, and told him to go for the doctor, then called after him to ask if his father was at home, or when he was coming, but Billy didn't answer. Already he was floating down the road on the horse's neck. He might have told her, he reflected, that they didn't know when his father was coming home; his trip had been delayed because he had to stay around until Nell's colt came, but there was no time for gossiping now. Anyway, he couldn't see why anyone should be concerned about where his father was at such a time as this.

The doctor wasn't at home. His wife said she would telephone and send him right down from another case but to the boy, remembering the look in his mother's eyes when he left her, it seemed as though the fates in general had conspired against him. When he reached home with his lathered, limping colt, the doctor hadn't arrived yet and Mrs. Brown was worried. She wouldn't let him see his mother, but she lifted the corner of a shawl from a white flannel bundle in the rocking chair and Billy looked. He swallowed his astonishment and looked again, at the squirming, blind, uncomfortable little mite, and sighed. He felt much as he had done when a kindly-intentioned neighbor had unexpectedly thrust into his arms one cold day in winter, a very young, whimpering puppy, when he had no warm place to keep it, and the cows were dry--he couldn't see how he was going to make it very comfortable. Perhaps, however, the dog had developed his sense of responsibility and protection, for he bent down till he could feel the baby's breath in faint, warm little puffs against his face and from the depths of bitter experience, confided his sympathy.

"Poor little beggar," he said. "Just startin' out, ain't you?"

The baby didn't make much difference to the tenor of affairs in the household. When he was three days old his father came home and was glad to see him. A week later Billy discovered that the newcomer was going to get him into serious difficulties. Mrs. Brown had told him, with no uncertain meaning, that if he wanted to keep his mother he would have to help her a lot, and Billy was beginning awkwardly and heroically, because he hated it, to add several new ch.o.r.es about the house to his regular daily programme. On this afternoon he was riding the disc-harrow up the field toward the house when his mother, who had been washing, came out with a basket of clothes. It occurred to Billy that he might hang out the clothes for her, and he brought down a storm of his father's wrath by urging the horses over the half-frozen clods almost at a trot. He was so sure that his case was justified that he offered a spirited, if terrified, explanation, but Dan wasn't interested in hanging out a washing. Out of all patience with Billy's lack of judgment as a horseman, he demanded with finality, "Don't you know that mare has a colt?"

Then one day, in the winter, the baby dropped out of the world as unceremoniously as he had entered. Dan was away on another business trip when the first heavy snowfall came and the young cattle had to be housed. As she had done in other years, Mary went out to help. The next day the baby had a cold. In a few days more he was fighting a losing battle with pneumonia. His father reached home in time to see him go.