december—the moon of snowshoes

i

“good king wenceslas looked out,

???on the feast of stephen,

?when the snow lay round about,

???deep and crisp and even!”

sang the violin with pathetic accent, and then stopped abruptly, as the player dropped the bow and pressed his face against the window. the stars shone from the cold blue of a cloudless sky; below lay the city ablaze with light. it was a danish city, and the player was a dane, but when a violin sings, it speaks to each one in his own language. bells pealing from a neighbouring church took up the same carol of christmastide, and young voices echoed it faintly from within the doors of many homes.

on that christmas night, two young women were drilling childish voices in the singing of the same tune. these women had never met, or either even dreamed of the other’s existence, yet a current, as actual as the sound-waves of the music, at that moment began to draw them together, the player of the violin, gurth waldsen, being the unconscious medium.

waldsen looked from the window at the outlines of the palace across the water, its ramparts twinkling with lights that looked like reflections of the brilliant winter stars, but his thoughts did not follow his sight. in a few days he would be an exile from both home and country, and though the leaving was wholly voluntary, yet the past and present struggled together. a visionary in many respects, refusing to understand social classification as read by his family, he had, in his mother’s eyes, capped the climax of his folly on his graduation from the university by refusing a diplomatic career, insisting upon earning his bread literally by the sweat of his brow, and betrothing himself to a pretty, modest, blue-eyed girl of a near-by village,—“a girl of the people,” his mother called her, for though she had been carefully reared, her father, a poor pastor, had been taken from his peasant brothers and educated for the ministry because he was both docile and fragile.

waldsen’s mother was the controlling power of the family. his father, long since dead, had been a dreamer, a musician, and something of a poet, whose wife had married him in a fit of girlish romance, and then lived to scorn him for his lack of ambition and reproach herself for marrying beneath her. her only son should make no such mistake; she would oversee at least his social education, but she completely overlooked the matter of heredity.

so little gurth grew up with only one parent. at ten the boy was tall and undeveloped, with a shock of strange golden-brown hair that he shook back as he played the violin, his greatest pleasure; but at twenty-two he was a slender man with a gold-tipped beard, straight nose, and blue-gray eyes, that looked at and through what he saw, all his features being softened by his father’s dreamy temperament.

mrs. waldsen, therefore, set her face against the marriage with the bitterness of her disappointment stung to fury by the memory of her own past. if she loved her son, it was for her own gratification, not for his, and now, as her world was beginning to talk of him, his bearing and gentle accomplishments, should she allow him to be taken from her?

gurth had waited several months after the first rebuff, hoping that time would mend matters. andrea could not marry yet; she was the foster-mother to four small brothers, and managed the little household for her overworked and underpaid father, but in another year theresa, the younger sister, would be able to take her place. time, however, did nothing but rivet mrs. waldsen’s decision, and in the interval the knowledge of her treatment of his father came to gurth, and he knew then that argument was hopeless. he had some money of his own, though merely a trifling legacy from an uncle, and his last interview with his mother brought to an end all idea of remaining in denmark. this was what he was fighting alone in his study that christmas night, when, turning to his violin for sympathy, it sang the half-sad carol that andrea had been teaching her little brothers the last time that he supped with her.

gurth now regretted the time that had passed in temporizing, in drifting. to-night would end it all, and freed, as far as possible for a man to free himself, he would carry out in detail a plan of life that had often before vaguely offered him escape—not merely liberty to marry as he pleased, but also release from the particular social conditions into which he was born, that had at all times cramped him. he loved nature and his fellow-men, in a genuine and wholesome fashion, but with the institution called society, as it existed about him, he seemed pre-natally at war.

putting aside what he had been, he chose to go as an emigrant, elbow to elbow with labourers; going to gain a living from the soil by his own toil, to try if the strength of body in him matched the strength of intention. he meant to follow an outdoor life, and thus make a home for andrea, wearing the path a little before he let her willing feet tread it with him.

as he looked about his rooms he almost smiled at his few possessions. some long shelves of books, a rack of music, a few pelt rugs, a high-post bed behind an alcove curtain, chairs, a long oak table upon the end of which stood a great bird-cage, while half a dozen smaller ones hung by the window. a porcelain stove stood under the mantel-shelf, and above it was a litter of pipes and broken foils, while on one corner, in a little place apart, shrine-like and surrounded by growing ivy, the portrait of a young girl looked at him. it was merely a photograph taken with the crude art of a provincial town, but the stiff posing could not mar the charm of the face, and gurth looked longingly. leaving the window he moved slowly toward it until, resting his elbows on the shelf, he touched her lips with his, and then started at the unconscious act. to see her once more, to-morrow, stephen’s day, and then go away! his heart and its primitive instinct whispered, “marry her—take her with you!” what he considered his reason said,—“where to? it is winter; the sea is deep and wide, the journey long. make the home; wait for spring!” ah, this was one of the many matters in which what is called impulse would have been wiser because the more direct of the two. it was morning before gurth had thought the matter to a conclusion, and the streets had slept and were waking again before he threw himself upon the bed, still dressed.

he spent the following day in destroying papers and in writing letters to a friend or two. he had the equivalent of about five thousand dollars, to begin life with, and he resolved to hoard the money as carefully as if he were indeed a peasant starting for the new world. this money represented the land, the home; his own brain and hands must do the rest. a trunk of books, his violin, some of his plainest clothes, were all that he would take; a rough coat and a fur cap must be bought to supplement his wardrobe.

the bullfinch by the window piped gaily, and the chaffinches in the cages with fantastic dormers chirped in reply, reminding him of their necessities, and, after feeding them, he unhooked their cages and, fastening them, covered them and prepared to go out. he had promised andrea that he would be with her for supper. it was already five o’clock, and the clausens lived far outside the city, an hour’s sharp driving on the klampenborg road, and the sleigh that he had ordered was waiting. packing the cages under the fur robes, he started the horse at a brisk pace. it seemed already, so powerful is imagination, as if this decision had given him a greater sense of liberty.

in a long, low-studded room, whose polished board floor was relieved by a few squares of bright carpet, two young girls were preparing the supper table. the youngest was at an age when her closely braided hair lacked the dignity of being put up, and her skirts were still a few inches from the ground. she was squarely built, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and rosy with good nature. she held a large loaf, beautifully light and baked evenly brown, which she was regarding with great glee. “lift it, andrea!” she cried. “see how light it is, and how sweet it smells! now that my baking is as good as yours, you can be married, for you know that father said a year ago you could not marry until i baked good bread!” and theresa laughed teasingly. andrea, so addressed, looked at the loaf carefully, then silently kissed the face that was smiling above it. she was half a head taller than her sister, with an oval face surrounded by thick, smooth, bright golden hair that was parted and braided in two wide bands and coiled around her head. her cheek-bones, a trifle high for good proportion, were relieved by great, dark-blue eyes, with jet-black lashes; the chin was firm, the mouth not small but opening over long white teeth. the indescribable charm of the face came from the eyes. the kiss was the only answer that she gave her sister, who rattled on from one theme to another as she brought in the different dishes, occasionally joining in with the four little boys who were singing carols in a group around a battered piano at the other end of the room, mingling their shrill voices with the pastor’s tenor.

“mark my footsteps, good my page,

???tread thou in them boldly:

?thou shalt find the winter’s rage

???freeze thy blood less coldly!”

gurth paused on the threshold an instant listening to the singing, then entered without knocking. the little boys rushed to hang about him and explore his pockets, and the pastor and theresa welcomed him warmly. it was andrea alone who saw a change in his whole demeanour, and wondered at the bird-cages. the evening meal was soon eaten, and the boys went to the kitchen with the toys that gurth had brought them; the pastor, scenting something, sat erect in his arm-chair, all forgetful of his pipe and expectant of some news, while theresa hung over him. gurth stood by the stove, nervous and uncertain how to begin.

andrea went to him, and, putting her hand through his arm, said quietly, but with an infinite tenderness in her voice, “you are going away, dearest, and you have brought your birds for me to keep for you.”

it was as if her voice smoothed away his fears and perplexities, so all four together they discussed the situation without reserve.

gurth, forgetting his prudent plans, begged the pastor to marry them then, or at the latest in a few days, when the necessary legalities could be complied with, so that he might leave andrea as his wife. upon this point the pastor was obdurate. his practical instinct, born partly of the peasant suspicion of another class, and partly of hard experience, forbade this. among his parishioners many a wedding had taken place on the eve of parting, and the husband had been swallowed up in that vast new world, while the poor girl at home waited in vain, not knowing whether she was wife or widow.

he liked gurth in a way, but he was sadly disappointed in his failure to reconcile his mother to the marriage, and, while he believed him sincere at present, he did not know how the separation might affect either of the young people; so he insisted upon delay. if gurth had established himself by the next christmas, he might return and marry. if not—well, there were other men who, under the circumstances, would be more suitable for andrea, though he did not voice his opinion. in reality he had no romance in his nature, and he disbelieved in unequal marriages, especially if money was not coupled with the rank.

if, after a year’s trial, gurth was in a position to come for andrea,—well and good,—but further than that the pastor could be neither coaxed nor driven.

moreover, he allowed them little privacy for saying good-by.

“i know how to work, and i like it, but you must learn how,” andrea whispered, as she clung to him. “but i will be ready, gurth, and, more, if you can’t return, i will go to you!” this understanding was their farewell.

his mother, when she found that he had gone, laughingly told her friends that gurth had a foolish love affair, and, taking her advice, he had gone away to travel it off.

ii

there is nothing that tends so to destroy the conceit of a man little used to the sea, as an ocean voyage in midwinter, especially if it is made on board an emigrant ship. on a good liner he may prop up his flimsy importance in a dozen ways, from feeing stewards to bring him six meals a day while he lies in his berth, to pulling himself together and wearing the distinction of being the only cabin passenger at table during a furious squall. but on an emigrant ship it is impossible to veil or soften stern reality.

gurth had chosen this way of travel that he might more quickly realize his changed circumstances. for two weeks or perhaps three he must live in this community. previously he had a theoretical knowledge of the conditions that surround and make poverty. now for the first time he saw the reality. his first thought was of the wonderful patience of these people; the next conviction was of their unconquered hope.

a dozen perhaps had settled homes in america and had returned to their native land merely to visit, but the multitude were going, they were not quite sure where, to earn their bread, they did not know how. doubts did not trouble them, their pink pasteboard tickets seemed the pledge of landing somewhere, and as for the rest, they were used to uncertainty.

the fourth day out, a day when a mild streak and a few hours’ sunshine brought all the grotesque animated bundles of clothes from their berths, gurth took his violin and, without ado, began to play a native ballad, and then another. silently the people grouped about him, some stealing below to coax up a comrade who was ill.

the intensely earnest look on their faces stimulated him, and he played on and on, grading his music from grave to gay, to suit each in turn, until at last, feeling his wrist failing, he made the national hymn a final effort. scarcely had the tune taken form than a chorus rose, at first swaying and uncertain, and then gaining power and steadiness, until the last word was reached. the men rubbed their eyes with the backs of horny hands, and women hugged him, and before he realized the situation, one stolid, square-faced man, who had virtually declined to talk to him the day before, was passing around his peaked fur cap to receive a ready shower of small coin, which gurth could not refuse. so thus he earned his first money. by his violin and its speech, which, however exquisite, no man feels above him, he was admitted to the freemasonry of his companions.

a carpenter who had been home to see his old parents asked gurth where he was going to settle, and then he realized that he did not know, save what his port was, and that he did not wish to locate far from the sea, nor in a sultry climate. the carpenter drew from him such scant outline of his schemes as he wished to tell—his plan of buying a farm, after he had learned the country’s ways. this man told him about the village where he lived, which was near a new england town whose railways offered a market for small fruits, and he advised gurth to work for his board and lodging with one of the numerous fruit-growers until he learned the craft, saying that as he spoke english well, waldsen might earn a trifle above his board, but that a man who had never done hard work was not worth much.

iii

it was a bitterly cold winter; the wind swept fiercely through the cut between sunset and rocky hills, rushing down the main street at glen village, separating the neighbours on either side more effectively than drifts of snow could have done. however deep, there is something cheerful and exhilarating about snow. children think that it is sent for their special amusement; the shy young man, who drives his sweetheart over to the “social” in the next village, needs no excuse for putting his arm around her, for light sleighs have been known to upset suddenly without the slightest warning. the old folks are cheerful in their reminiscences of just such episodes, and compare each storm with some long-remembered one in the thirties, noting always the frail and inferior wearing quality of modern snow.

but wintry wind is the most exasperating and prying of nature’s messengers, whose mission is the uncovering of weaknesses in all things animate and inanimate. it soon discovers if your eyes are sensitive, your hat a size too small, that you are subject to rheumatism, that your breath is short when you walk uphill, and that your knees bend as you go down, and so turns your cloak over your head like an extinguisher. it knows precisely which shingle lacks a nail, and will lay bare spots calculated to make obstinate leaks. it also spies out the blind whose catch is loose, the gate with one hinge, the elm that is split in the crotch, and the particular chimney flue that leads to the room where your most important relation (who suffers from bronchitis) is being entertained at tea, and it gauges accurately which article on the clothes-line you value the most.

it was this sort of weather, combined with his daughter margaret’s delicate health, that made ezra tolford, living at the glen mill, for which the village was named, resolve to have a hired man.

now ezra tolford had many titles to local distinction. he was deacon of the first church, and his parents had been zealous before him, his grandfather having had the hardihood to fly to the woods with the church plate on the approach of the british in 1779, thereby risking his life via wild beasts, hessians, and exposure,—a fact that is brought up in every local historical discourse to this day. incidentally it might be mentioned that the plucky ancestor (owing to fright and darkness) was never able afterwards to locate the marshy spot where the precious metal was buried; this fact, however, is usually omitted.

ezra was also judge of probate, thanks to a fragmentary law course taken in days when a fond mother had pinched and saved that her only boy might “make his mark.” thirdly, he was the owner of the best mill on the pequotuck. a mill that, in spite of the sale of flour and meal at the village store, kept its wheel going five days out of seven during nine months of the year, sawing wood when no one wished flour, and turning out middlings for the cattle when the stacks grew low. so swift was the river that ice very seldom silenced the song the old wheel hummed as it worked.

lastly, by wise drainage the deacon had turned a dozen acres of protected meadow-land, heretofore regarded as next to useless, into one of the thriftiest fruit farms in southern new england.

all these things made ezra’s daughter margaret of special importance in many eyes besides his own, and it was for her sake that he resolved to have a man to hook up the team for her, when he was busy in the mill or away in the village, and do a thousand and one little errands that the sturdier daughters of his neighbours accomplished for themselves.

the mill house, as it was called, stood on a hill between the pequotuck and a little brook that, curving, joined the river below the dam. it was a placid-looking white house of a style of architecture that might be called new england restored. it had been colonial, but a modern bay-window, a piazza, and a lean-to in the rear had hybridized it; yet it still possessed a dignity never seen in the rural interpretations of the queen anne villa.

this particular house had a very attractive outlook. raised well above them, it was bounded on the western side by the river and the mill-pond that always held the sunset reflections until the twilight absorbed them, while the old red mill with its moss-mottled roof focussed the view. toward the north and east the meadows ran slantwise up a hillside, where, dotted here and there like grazing sheep, you could see the stones of the burying-ground, where the inhabitants of the glen took their final rest, as if their friends had left them as near heaven as possible, and safe from the floods that used once to sweep the valley. to the south the road ran tolerably straight for three miles down to glen village itself.

the interior of the house differed but slightly from others of its class, and that difference consisted in the greater genuineness of its fittings. evidently the woman who presided over it appreciated relative values, for the sitting-room had glowing crimson curtains and a fire of logs in place of the usual “air-tight,” while in one corner, in the location usually chosen for the inevitable asthmatic parlour organ, stood an upright piano. on the table was a comfortable litter of books and papers.

by the window, looking down the road, stood margaret tolford. at the first glance there was nothing striking about her personality. medium in height and colouring, her slight frame was wrapped in a soft white shawl that gave her a fragile air. at a second glance the deep gray eyes, that looked from under a brow narrowed by a quantity of smooth, coal-black hair, were magnetic in their intelligent wonder. her eyes said, “there is much that i would understand, but i cannot;” whereas a shallower nature would have thought, “i am misunderstood!”

the wind whistled in the chimney, and the pud, pud, of a heavy flatiron came from the kitchen, with snatches of inharmonious song, as the thick-lipped polack who was the “help” pummelled the towels and folded them at angles that would have distracted a mathematician. in fact, this very polack was one of margaret’s lesser problems, a sort of necessary evil who, in summer, bareheaded and barefooted, pervaded the premises, but having with her gay neckerchief a certain sort of picturesque fitness, which, when brought nearer, booted and confined to the winter kitchen, became an eyesore. other farmers’ daughters did the cooking and the lighter work, and only had a woman to help with the washing.

margaret had never done manual labour; her mother, dead now two years, had stood between this only child and all hardship, and coaxed the deacon to send her to a collegiate school when her playdays were over. in the summer holidays she was petted and caressed and kept from soiling her hands, and when at eighteen she was coming home for good to mingle as an equal with her parents and learn her part in life, her mother died, and her father closed the one tender spot in his stern heart around his daughter. so she lived shut up within herself, craving a more intellectual companionship than the neighbourhood furnished, and starving unconsciously for demonstrative affection.

tolford was a silent sort of man, who had been so thoroughly understood by his wife that she seemed to know his unvoiced wishes. because he showed so few signs of an affection that would have won a hearty response from margaret, he failed to comprehend the difference between a deeply reserved nature and physical weakness, to which cause he laid her abstraction. his love for her, therefore, took the schooltime form of shielding her from work. he liked to hear her play hymns on sunday evenings, and was very proud to have her train the children of the sunday school in their carols, but it never occurred to him to ask her advice in any of his plans, or expect aid from her. she stood apart, not understanding the love her mother had drawn from the stern, lonely man, and while he excused her reserve, and told the neighbours she was delicate and peaky, her only ailment lay in lack of motive.

it grew dark, and points of light appeared here and there in the landscape; an icy slip of a moon pierced the driving clouds. margaret drew the curtains and sat down by the fire, its light sending a glow to her usually colourless face. a brisk, though heavy, footstep came along the entry from the kitchen, and ezra tolford opened the door, and, stopping a moment to adjust his eyes to the fitful light, went toward the fire, rubbing his hands. margaret immediately arose and, pushing a rocking-chair towards him, prepared to light the lamp.

“never mind that now, daughter,” he said; “sit down, i want to talk a bit. you know i said i’d get a hired man to ‘piece out’ with the work? well, he’s come!”

the deacon was, in reality, fairly well educated, but since his wife’s death (she had kept him to her standard, for she had been a schoolmistress) his english had relapsed into localisms, and, besides this, at the present moment he seemed ill at ease. margaret merely understood the announcement as a roundabout question as to whether any accommodations were prepared for the man, and said: “the shed bedroom is just as hans schmidt left it last fall; i suppose a bed could be made up now, and zella can clean the room to-morrow, but it will be very cold unless you give him a stove.”

“well—er—you see,” said the deacon, “i don’t suppose that room will do,—em!—hem! you see in the beginning he is to live with me without wages, and—” here the deacon came to an embarrassed standstill, and margaret broke in,—“without wages! if he is as poor as that, he will scarcely object to the shed room without a fire for the night!” she did not say this because she was at all mean or hard-hearted, but from her experience of the servant question, any one who was willing to work for nothing must either be utterly worthless or bereft of reason.

“not at all, not at all, daughter! you see, the man is not a common workman, but may buy the hill farm some day as a home for his sister, and wants me to teach him to grow small fruits, and learn the way of things here while he gets it to rights. i’ve contracted with him for a year—” and as margaret did not reply, he continued, “you know peter svenson, the carpenter, who went home to denmark last summer to see his folks? well, he brought this young man back with him. peter knows all about him, and says he is perfectly honest and speaks good english, but is close-mouthed, and doesn’t like to talk of his affairs, because his family used to be well fixed, but now they are all dead but one sister. he has a few thousand dollars and is going to make a home and bring her over in a year.

“peter says he can play a fiddle, but isn’t used to hard work, and advised me not to pay him money, but to offer to show him how i work my farm and give him his board for his services.” then the deacon continued, giving the account of gurth that the garrulous carpenter had pieced together to cover his lack of real knowledge. as margaret still said nothing, he added:—

“now i think the attic east room might be straightened up,—it won’t take long, and it can be bettered to-morrow.”

instantly margaret was divided between extreme wonderment at this strange arrangement on her father’s part, and fierce resentment at the intrusion of a stranger in the house,—a man who was and was not a servant, who must necessarily eat with them, who would not perhaps leave the room when the meal was finished.

if margaret had a decided eccentricity, it was her positive resentment of male society, and she bore the reputation of being proud, because, when the village swains drove up in their newly washed buggies with bows of ribbon tied to the whip handles, and with self-satisfied glances asked her to take a drive, the usual rural compliment, she invariably declined, and their irate mothers settled that she either must be in a decline, experiencing religion, or else, woful thought, “engaged to some fellow northampton way,” where she had been to school.

the truth was that she had, through a wide range of reading and no experience, built up a well-nigh impossible ideal, half medi?val heroism, half modern, intellectual refinement, that was irreconcilable with the type of men with whom she came in contact.

margaret was thoroughly accustomed to her father’s silent mood and considered him by far (as he was) the best-informed man she knew. he was also fond of reading, not only subscribed to a daily paper, but several weeklies and magazines, and always allowed her to buy any book she fancied, so that their winter evenings, when margaret read aloud, were comfortably sociable, and sympathetic. it was no wonder, therefore, that she resented the presence of a stranger, and it was with rather a lowering brow that she followed her father to the kitchen.

deacon tolford went in first, and said abruptly, but in a tone that margaret knew was meant to be cordial: “daughter, this is gurth waldsen, who is going to help me out this year; we want to make him feel so much at home that he’ll settle in glen village. you’d better tell zella to hurry supper; i guess we are both of us hungry.”

margaret added some ordinary words of greeting before she looked at the figure who rose from the settle back of the stove and bowed, without offering to shake hands, as a native would have done. then she raised her eyes and saw the tall, easy figure with the golden-tipped hair and beard, his dreamy gray eyes looking at her with a directness that was not curious, but almost as of pleading for mercy, while the mouse-coloured corduroy suit that waldsen wore brought out the clearness of his skin in a degree that was almost startling.

“i hope that i put you not to great trouble,” he said in his soft baritone. “if you will tell me where i may place my things, i can arrange all myself.” the english was musical, and doubly so from the slight hesitation and accent.

what passed through margaret’s brain she never clearly realized, but she heard her voice as from a long distance asking him to follow her upstairs, and found herself lighting a lamp, and leading the way.

it was strange that she had never noticed before how dreary the attic was. she merely indicated the room, saying that he might leave his things there, and to-morrow he could bring up firewood, while to-night she would give him an extra supply of bedding. as she left, gurth looked after her and at the bare room, and shivered, but the room seemed less cold to him than the woman. there was no reason that he should expect her to be cordial; doubtless she would have preferred a field hand to whom she need not speak.

he realized that his very disappointment grew from the lack of proper comprehension of his present position. “oh, andrea! andrea! for one sight of her sweet, sympathetic face, one touch only!” a harsh, clanging bell from below waked him to the fact that if he wanted water to wash his hands, he must bring it up himself; he looked at them dubiously, smoothed his hair, flipped off his clothes with his handkerchief, and went down.

he hoped that he might be allowed to eat his meals in the kitchen; it would indicate his position more clearly, and he should be less lonely than with constrained companionship. this was not to be. as he passed the dining room door, he saw a table laid for three, at which ezra tolford was already sitting, wrapped in a gaily figured dressing-gown, and collarless, as was his habit when either at ease or at work. he was reading a paper which was propped against a pitcher, and he barely raised his eyes as he asked gurth to be seated.

margaret came in with a coffee-pot and a plate of biscuits. she had thrown off her shawl, and her crimson cashmere waist accentuated the depth of her eyes. gurth unconsciously arose and drew out her chair, waited until she was seated, and pushed it in again. it was a very simple and ordinary act of courtesy, and done as a matter of course without the slightest manner of conferring a favour. margaret coloured at this hitherto unknown civility, but said “thank you” as if she were quite accustomed to it, while the deacon did not notice it at all.

the meal began in silence, but the deacon finished his paper with the first cup of coffee, and began to discuss the affairs of the farm in a businesslike manner. the ice-cutting must begin to-morrow, it was quite clear, for the last snowstorm had been dry and had drifted away from the pond.

had waldsen ever cut ice? no! well, he could superintend the weighing of it, then. could he milk? no! the hay must be transferred from the left side of the great barn to the right, as the supports were giving way, and peter svenson, the carpenter, must come and straighten them, as well as do some tinkering at the mill. squire black at the village needed two tons of hay, so that much could be carted in next morning.

waldsen fortunately was thoroughly familiar with horses, and was a good deal of a carpenter, having always had a fancy for such work, and, when a boy, he had for amusement built an arbour for his mother in the garden of her country-house. he was able to volunteer to repair the barn and mill, if the deacon had the necessary tools. the deacon was too keen to show his surprise, but accepted the offer, and said it would come handy to have some patching up done before it came time to clear the land. he could manage the cows and the mill, if gurth took charge of the horses and the chores.

the deacon, having finished his meal, shook the crumbs from a fold of the tablecloth of which he made a sort of apron in his lap, and left the table. margaret followed him, and waldsen, hesitating a moment, went to the back entry and began to collect his possessions, taking his violin case and a small box first. when he returned for his trunk, the deacon appeared, and, as a matter of course, helped him carry it upstairs. the trunk was very heavy, being half full of books. then the two men went out to feed the horses; the sharp, dry snow blew in like powdered flint when they opened the door, and made rainbows about the lantern as they went down the path.

after the table was clear, margaret took up the paper, read for a few moments, then dropped it suddenly and went into the kitchen. zella, who was knitting a skirt of scarlet yarn, seemed very sulky and angry when margaret bade her take some wood to the attic bedroom. “i no carry for hired man,” was her rejoinder. “you will take the wood up to-night,” said margaret, in the quiet, decided tone that was habitual to her; “to-morrow he will carry it himself.” in a short time a fire was started in the old, open-fronted wood stove, that sent a welcome glow across the long, low room with its deeply recessed dormer windows. the furniture consisted of an old-fashioned four-posted bedstead and some spindle-backed chairs, discarded long ago from the lower rooms, an old chest of drawers and a table, while a row of wooden pegs behind the chimney did duty as a closet.

going to the adjoining lumber room, margaret pulled open a long trunk and took a chintz quilt, some curtains that had originally belonged to the old bed, and three or four carpet rugs. these she dragged into the attic, and then brought from a downstairs room a large rocking-chair, covered with turkey red, and a blue china bowl and pitcher. the last man who had slept in the attic had washed at the pump. in a few minutes the bare room looked quite habitable, and margaret returned to her newspaper.

in perhaps half an hour her father returned, and she heard waldsen’s steps going up the creaking back stairs.

“well, daughter, quite a figure of a man, isn’t he? i know you don’t like to have men folks about, but you see this arrangement will advantage me greatly. if i can sell him the hill farm, it will be so much clear gain, besides being a bargain for him, for it’s running down and needs lots of tinkering. and if we get a good neighbour there, it won’t be so lonesome for you when i go over town. i can arrange with him for half-time work in the growing season, so he can get his fruit running. i’ll sell that place for three thousand dollars—and three thousand dollars in hand,—why, margaret, you might go to europe next summer with judge martin’s folks! he told me yesterday they expected to take a tour, and that if i’d let you go, you’d be good company for elizabeth. what do you say to that, daughter?”

going to him and sitting on the arm of his chair, she hid her face on his shoulder, a childish habit of hers, and said: “dear old dad, i should want you to go with me, and then, besides, it is all so uncertain. this man may not really want to buy a place, or he may have no money, or—or, a great many things may not be true!”

“no, no, child! the man is all right, he wants to have a home of his own by next christmas. there is some reason why his sister cannot come until then. i like to keep you with me, but my little girl is too lonely; she must see more company, and if she’s too wise and too proud for the folks about home, why, this place isn’t the whole world.”

meanwhile waldsen was sitting on his trunk in the attic room in an attitude of dejection. then, as the fire flickered, he saw the change that had been wrought. not great in fact, but in the womanly touch, and he was comforted. taking from his pocket the little case containing andrea’s portrait, he placed it on the chest of drawers, and, after closing the door, took out his violin.

margaret and her father were playing their nightly game of backgammon when she started, dropped her checkers with a rattle, and grasped his arm. the deacon looked up in surprise, and then, as he heard a far-away strain of music that seemed to come from the chimney, said, “don’t be scared, daughter, it’s only the young man playing his fiddle!” but somehow neither father nor daughter cared to continue their game, and a moment later margaret opened the door of the sitting-room and one at the foot of the stairs, and stood there listening, in spite of the cold air that swept down. accustomed at most to the trick playing of travelling concert troupes, who visited the next town, this expressive legato music was a revelation to margaret, and stirred her silent nature to untested depths. the first theme was pleading and wholly unknown to her, but presently the air changed to the song she had taught the children during the last christmas season; through it she heard two voices singing,—the violin and the man.

“brightly shone the moon that night

???though the frost was cruel

?when a poor man came in sight

???gathering winter fuel.

“hither page and stand by me

???if thou know’st it telling

?yonder peasant, who is he

???where and what his dwelling?”

“hymn tunes,” said deacon tolford, pursing his mouth in a satisfied way. “i forgot to ask him if he is a church member. perhaps he might help out at the endeavour concert next month.” but margaret, shaking her head impatiently, stood with her finger on her lips.

the tolford household was more cheerful after waldsen’s coming. not that he intruded upon the deacon and his daughter, merely talking a few minutes after meals, perhaps, and then going to his attic, but little by little the mutual strangeness wore off. though waldsen fulfilled to the letter the work that he had engaged to do, he found that it was impossible to keep up the illusion of being a mere labourer, and reconciled himself from the fact that in other farming families the steady male “help” stands placed on a different footing with the household, from the transient field hands who come and go with the crops and seasons. farmer elliott’s “help” was his brother-in-law, and farmer bryce’s, his wife’s cousin.

the deacon looked at the whole matter from a commercial standpoint. here was a likely young man who, though he was unused to many kinds of manual labour, eked out his lack of knowledge with extreme willingness, and asked no wages other than instruction. at the same time he was a prospective purchaser of a house that had been difficult to sell. that was the beginning and end of the matter. that waldsen was rarely intelligent, and added to their home life, was also an advantage, but secondary.

every day gurth held margaret’s chair, and placed it at the table; there was no longer any restraint between them. he saw in her a sweet, womanly nature, whose best part was evidently held in check, owing to the peculiarities of the community in which she lived, which he could not fathom in spite of freedom from all prejudice. he admitted the beauty of purpose with which she clung to her ideals, but could not help contrasting her reserve with andrea’s spontaneous cheerfulness, her love of everything that grew from the ground and every bird that flew, while margaret seemed but half conscious of the natural beauties that surrounded her.

waldsen was most contented when employed at the mill. birds that braved the winter gathered about it for scraps of grain. nuthatches pried under the mossy shingles, meadow-larks stalked solemnly in the stubbly grass for sweepings, and robins fed upon the berries of many bushes that hedged the pond. wild geese rested there, and for days at a time flocks of ducks would pass and pause for shelter, and owls roosted nightly in the mill loft, making hearty meals of mice. many a time he saw the quail coveys far up on the hill running about among the gravestones, and he put a sheaf of rye there for them, and it waved its shadowy pinions above the snow, as if saying to the silent community, “i, too, have slept in the ground; have courage!”

another sheaf he fastened over the mill door, and, seeing it, the deacon lectured him upon the folly of gathering a lot of birds that must be shot or scared away in berry season, saying, “it’s all very well now, but if you encourage them, where will the profit be when all the biggest berries are bird marked?”

gurth felt like answering, “i will let the birds have them all, so long as they come to me.” but then, where would be the bread for andrea? he felt beauty so keenly that he could not bear to harness nature and drive her like a cart-horse for his profit. his needs and his desires were almost irreconcilable, and the consciousness of it well-nigh appalled him. he could not change his temperament in the least degree; even his experiment of passing for a labourer was partly frustrated; he might possibly have masqueraded as a wandering musician, but he began to feel his incapacity for material toil.

margaret all this time lived in a waking dream; unknown to herself, all the pent-up forces of her affection had crystallized about this stranger. his natural courtesy seemed to her a gentle personal tribute; the mystery he allowed to surround him (being wholly unconscious of the version of his story the carpenter had told), and his poetic personality, made him seem like some one she had met in an old romance. then the music, too, for often now in the evening he brought his violin and accompanied her when she sang or played, giving her new understanding, while he corrected the hardness of her method so tactfully that she did not realize it. lending her new music, substituting the “songs without words” for the hackneyed “airs with variations,” and teaching her german and danish ballads, that lent themselves to her rich contralto voice.

margaret became a different creature, and rare glints of red touched her cheeks. the deacon accounted for this arousing in the pleasure she anticipated in going abroad if the hill farm was sold. he was so thoroughly convinced of her indifference to men, that he was blind to the awakening of her heart.

margaret noticed with pleasure the various details and changes in waldsen’s attic, where she went occasionally to dust, and thought that they betokened contentment. the room was no longer bare, festoons of ground pine hung from the rafters and canopied the windows, a half-dozen home-made cages filled the dormer nearest the stove, and sheltered a collection of wild birds rescued from cold and hunger, which chirped from them merrily, while a little screech-owl blinked sleepily from a perch in the corner. books lay on the table and filled a rough shelf under the eaves. writing implements and paper also lay about, and traces of bold, irregular characters were on the big sheets of blotting-paper.

it was andrea’s picture, however, that interested margaret more than anything. she looked at it day after day, trying to trace a resemblance to gurth. one day she kissed the lips, and then, suddenly remembering that he might also do this, fled precipitately to her room, and, locking the door, stayed until dark, when she went down to supper with her face flushed, and a nervous air. so nervous was she that her hand trembled until she almost dropped the cup that she was passing to her father. gurth grasped it, and thus their hands met for the first time.

iv

the last of february a southerly rain inaugurated the spring thaw. great cakes of ice came down the river, and barricaded the mill. then a cold snap followed, and the trees hung thick with fantastic icicles. in the morning the deacon, gurth, and several neighbours went up the stream to dislodge, with long poles, cakes of ice that were wedged threateningly between trees, and after dinner, when the two men had been talking of the caprices of the storm, the deacon said: “it’s worth walking up to the hill farm, daughter, to see the ice on those white pines, but you must mind your footing. waldsen’s going up there to shovel off the shed roof, and he’ll be glad to beau you, i know.”

margaret blushed painfully, but gurth, totally missing the significance of the word, said, in his precise language, that he was about to ask miss margaret, but feared she could not walk so far. so margaret brought her coat, trimmed with a neck-band and cuffs of fur, and, drawing a dark red tam-o’-shanter over her black hair, set off with waldsen.

as the deacon watched them go down the road, dark and fair, slender and tall, both talking with animation, he suddenly gave a long whistle, for an idea, born of the word he had just used, flashed across his matter-of-fact mind, and he said aloud,—“well, i never! well, i never! she shan’t find her old dad a spoil sport, anyhow! i’ve my doubts if he’ll ever make out with farming, but i suspect he comes of good folks, and there’s a good living at the mill, and margaret’s my only one!” then he smiled contentedly to himself. the deacon had loved his wife with a sentiment that was regarded as a weakness by his neighbours, and he was prepared to enjoy the courtship of his only daughter and forward it by all the innocent local ruses. yes, he would even make errands to town, and at the last moment send waldsen to drive margaret in his stead.

the couple crossed the bridge and climbed the steep river bank towards the hill farm. waldsen was in high spirits and hummed and whistled as they struggled and slipped along, steadying margaret every few steps. happiness and the bracing air had given her a clear colour, and her eyes were sparkling—she was a different being from the pale, silent girl of two months ago. the mail-carrier, who met them at the cross-roads and handed gurth some letters, thought what a fine couple they made, and immediately started his opinion as a rumour around the community.

margaret walked about outside the little brown house, while her companion freed the roof from its weight of ice. her own home was in sight across the river, and at the left was a lovely strip of hill country that rose and fell until it merged with the horizon. she was so absorbed in the view that she did not realize when the shovelling was finished, until waldsen stood close beside her. “has your father told you that i buy this place, and that to-morrow the papers will be signed? yes, i have bought it for my home; i shall plant the ground and work it, as your father says, to win my living. at evening we shall sit here and look up the river and down to where the sun sets, and then over to your house, thanking you for your kindness to a lonely stranger.” the “we” dropped in unawares, but margaret knew that he meant andrea, his sister.

“next christmas i shall move here, for my best resolves have come on christmas day; meanwhile, there is much to be done, and i shall ask your woman’s art how best to make my home attractive.” then they talked of the garden and of the house, how it would need a summer kitchen, until he, through the subtilty of woman’s sympathy, thought that he could not wait all the long months for andrea’s coming.

that night waldsen sat a long time pondering over a letter that had that day come from andrea. at the first, nothing new suggested itself, except that she perhaps was lonely, but on a second reading a note of pain was evident. carelessly feeling in the pocket of his overcoat before going to bed, he found that he had received two letters, when he thought he had but one, and, re-lighting his lamp, he read the second, which was blotted and tear-stained. it ran thus:—

“the stamp on the last letter that i wrote you, dear gurth, is hardly dried, yet i must write again and tell you that which for the last month i have tried to conceal. now it is useless. my father will bring a new wife to fill my mother’s place in two months from now. a hateful woman who has in some strange way gained power over and fascinated him, but who does not wish me in the house, for my father is urging, nay, almost commanding, my betrothal to hans kraus, the brewer’s son, whom i have seen hardly twice, and whose mother is arranging the matter for him.

“in vain i protest and remind him of our betrothal. he insists that your mother will surely win you back, as she is making great efforts to discover where you are. he will not hear of my going out to service. i know that you will say, ‘come to me, and we will be married,’ but knowing your plans and your agreement with your employer, this i will not do until christmas comes again. one thing is possible, if you will undertake it. you are, of course, known in your village as a working-man. there must be some one there who wishes a young, strong woman to do housework, sewing, anything, in short,—you know my hands are used to work of all kinds. find some lady who will pay my passage money, to be taken out in service, and i will come. thus i, too, shall be independent. i can sometimes see you, and when we then marry at christmas, no one will know that we are not as we seem, and we shall begin on a sure footing. do not attempt to stop me, dearest. let me also work.

“your andrea.”

this letter cut waldsen to the heart as well as stirred his pride, and his first impulse was to return at once to denmark for andrea. then he considered all the threads that must be unravelled, the dispersal of many plans so nicely made, and he paused, perplexed. andrea clearly did not realize that he was not really a servant even in name, and that he could not allow her to fill a drudge’s place in some farm-house.

stop! why should he not consult margaret? she might suggest something, and, at least, her advice would be in accord with local custom, so that neither he nor andrea would be criticised in future by those among whom they were to live. he wrote a few comforting lines to his betrothed, which he prepared to post that night that the letter might go by the next day’s steamer, for he had the habit, that a man bred in a large city seldom loses, of noting the coming and going of the iron monsters that bind the continents.

it was after one o’clock when he went downstairs, shoes in hand, and nearly three when he returned from his six-mile walk, after dropping his letter through the well-worn slit in the post-office door. the stairs creaked provokingly as he made his way up. he heard a slight noise and saw a light under margaret’s door, which, as he passed by, opened, and margaret herself peered out, shading her candle with her hand, and looking down the hall. she almost screamed when she saw gurth so near, and said quickly, with a catch in her breath: “i heard a noise and thought the stair door had blown open. are you ill? can i do anything for you?” he looked at her a moment as she stood there in her loose wool wrapper, her hair hanging in long braids, and it seemed like an answer to his perplexity. his heart whispered, trust her, consult her, and he said gravely, “i am not ill, i thank you, and you can do something for me, but not to-night.”

then waldsen slept the sleep of deep fatigue, but margaret, misunderstanding wholly and wakeful with happiness, threw herself on her knees by her bed and, falling asleep, stayed in this position until the sun cast streaks across the room and scattered the mist that betokened the final breaking up of winter.

the march days flew by rapidly, and it was almost april. the willows were showing yellow stems, and the river swirled under them with new fervour. hepaticas bloomed in the wood edges, while violets crept along in the sheltered garden border; bluebirds purled about the mill, while the kingfishers quarrelled over the pond. at every meal waldsen brought the account of some new bird or unknown flower, until the deacon was almost vexed, and told him in a sternly parental way that he would never make his salt, but fill his farm with brakes and briers, growing strawberries for robins and raspberries for catbirds; but margaret only smiled, treasuring every leaf he brought, and spent much time out of doors watching the messengers of spring that she never before had noticed, feeling that life was good.

easter came in middle april, and the little church at glen village was to be decorated with flowers. the day before, gurth went into town with a load of feed, stopping on his way at the post-office, and found a letter from andrea that made him resolve to act at once.

on his way home he bought two pots of blooming lilies, which he placed on margaret’s table in the sitting-room, as an easter gift to the home. as she thanked him, bending over the flowers, he said, “miss margaret, a while ago i said that you could do something for me. i have come to ask it now, but before i speak there is much that i must tell you, so that you may understand.” margaret, making a gesture of assent, stood clinging to the curtain for support, still bending over the lilies.

gurth began slowly and hesitatingly with his father’s unhappy marriage and his loveless childhood, speaking deliberately, and choosing his words like a lawyer presenting his case. a puzzled expression gradually spread over margaret’s face, but as he told her of his meeting with andrea and his love for her, she gave the curtain so sudden a jerk that it tore from its fastenings, and fell in a heap upon her. gurth, merely thinking that she had stood too long, lifted the curtain, gave her a chair, and continued his narrative, with unconscious egotism. for more than an hour he talked; the deacon peeped in and hastily withdrew, thinking that the young folks were coming to an understanding.

margaret did not say a word, but so absorbed was gurth that he did not notice it. a terrible struggle was rending her, and she could not trust herself to speak. not only had her life hinged itself upon an impossibility, but the mistake that had made such a thing possible had come from giving credence to the story of the carpenter.

as every detail of the past three months came before her, she realized how innocent of any deception waldsen had been, and the very advice he was now seeking proved his confidence in her. the secret was her own,—at least she had that comfort. then a wave of pain passed over her, almost stopping her breath and seizing her throat in an iron grasp. she dimly saw that gurth was showing her some letters, and gathered herself together only to receive a fresh blow,—his appeal for andrea. for though he did not ask it in so many words, she knew what was in his mind.

when he had finished and stood expectantly before her, she could no longer contend with herself, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she said, “i must think before i answer you, but i will do all i can.” as she passed him he saw the tears, and, taking her hand, he stooped and kissed it reverently, saying, “god bless you for your sympathy.”

the deacon did not return for tea, having business in town, and waldsen, much surprised at margaret’s absence, ate his meal alone.

margaret herself sat in her east window looking at the twilight, and, when it faded, at the stars. the marsh frogs piped monotonously, and the water rushed over the dam, falling below with a hollow thud. soon waldsen’s violin sounded from his open window,—to-night he played “the songs without words,” one after another, chancing to end with “lost happiness.” as margaret listened, now that the first shock was over, she was soothed. at first she did not think it was possible that she could have andrea in the house, and then she knew that only by some such object lesson would she realize that waldsen could not belong to her. andrea should come, and they would work together. zella was shiftless and constantly threatening to go. to tell her father and make him comprehend the change was her next task. puritan in education and temperament, no other thought but to bend to the seemingly inevitable occurred to her.

on easter day no one who heard margaret sing at church knew of her struggle, and yet her voice moved those plain people as it never had before, and they spoke of it among themselves in walking home. “the dane must have taught her,” they said, “for they do say he can write music.”

when margaret told the deacon that portion of waldsen’s story relating to andrea, he did not betray the surprise he felt. he was, however, completely bewildered by this development, though he had long since ceased judging his daughter by ordinary standards. he was both disappointed and glad; he would have raised no objections to margaret’s marriage with the young dane, yet when he knew the exact facts regarding gurth and andrea, he was surprised at the sudden feeling of relief that came over him, for while he liked gurth as a companion, he had grave doubts as to his permanent contentment in the life that he had now chosen.

but then, if margaret was not in love with waldsen, what had caused her increased interest in life, and drawn her from her usual seclusion? he had it now! and blamed himself for having been so blind. of course, it was the promised trip to europe that had given her motive, and waldsen having travelled, what more likely than that they had often talked of the matter? very well, let andrea come and marry waldsen. they could then keep house for him during margaret’s absence. nothing would be simpler.

when the deacon, after much patient listening, understood the objections to a marriage before christmas, he became quite angry. “such nonsense i never heard before. so he doesn’t wish to marry the girl until his own house is ready! and she doesn’t wish to marry him until christmas because she once promised her father that she would not, and he has since practically turned her out of doors! a pretty pair of fools playing at independence!” but when the deacon saw that margaret was deeply interested and sympathized with the couple, and when she represented to him how much better it would be to have some one like andrea to help her with the housework, rather than a mere clumsy animal like zella, who must be constantly watched, he relented after many grumblings and doubts as to the ability of the two girls to accomplish the work.

“how will it be when you come to feeding the berry hands? you know there’s no one to board them at the hill farm this season!”

“mother and cousin susan were able to do it,” replied margaret, quietly. “i am going to take an interest in the place now, father; i have idled too long.” so andrea was sent for, margaret writing the letter in a kindly tone, but as a mistress engaging a helper, making no mention of waldsen except as of a friend who knew that she wished to come to america. early in may word came that andrea’s steamer was due the next day, and gurth went up to meet her.

all the day long margaret was busy making preparations. “looks to me as if you expected the queen, instead of a helper,” joked her father, as he saw her putting up muslin curtains in the little room next to her own (zella had occupied a bit of a place over the wash-house), and then, as she flushed hotly, he added hastily, “i’m glad you’re going to have a girl companion, daughter, but don’t work too hard; you’re getting pale again.”

at two o’clock everything was ready, and the train from bridgeton was not due until half-past four. margaret sat by her window. everything outside was spring green; only the mill showed its shingles through the spotted branches of the plane trees, for they leaf out late. a mist of greenery veiled the river, but the pond was a glittering mirror. on the edge of the berry fields the cherry trees were shaking down a rain of petals, and bluebirds were murmuring about in pairs, while the song-sparrows kept up their sweet, persistent song from the meadow bushes.

margaret tried to fix her thoughts on the scene before her. would the orioles come back to the elm that touched the roof? she hoped so, for waldsen was so anxious to see them weave their nest. and the fly-catcher with the leather-coloured back—she wondered if he would again leave snake-skins hanging from his nest-hole in the old apple tree, as he did last year. gurth had never seen such a nest.

she left the window and walked slowly up and down the room, the fact forcing itself upon her that whatever she did now or had done for the last three months, was for waldsen’s sake.

she had stayed at home and sent for andrea, to give him pleasure as well as to bring herself to a realization of his betrothal, but she had not understood until this moment exactly what an ordeal she must go through on seeing andrea and gurth together for the first time. she wished that she could run away,—that she had gone abroad, anything, anywhere, rather than see their love-making. it was too late. the love that had entered her heart unasked could not be driven out by argument. she must go on living as if nothing had happened; perhaps years hence when the children at the hill farm called her aunty, it might be different, but not now—not now!

the train was already in sight when margaret drove up to the little brown station at glen village. she was alone, as at the last moment her father had been obliged to go to the mill. the horses were restless, and they furnished margaret with an excuse for remaining in the wagon where she could see andrea from a distance.

the train passed on, a moment of intense silence followed, sparrows quarrelled under the eaves, and a gentle rain of catkins fell from a maple; it is strange how at such times of tension minute details hold the attention.

another minute,—gurth came around the corner and down the long plank walk,—he carried a very small, old-fashioned round-topped trunk on his shoulder, and following him was a young girl who did not look more than sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a black jacket, rather short skirt, and very plain hat that fitted closely over the smooth braids of yellow hair. as she came nearer, margaret saw that the short dress was responsible for the appearance of extreme youth, for her face was pale, serious, and even careworn, and the big blue eyes were brimming with tears. the strain and uncertainty of the last few months had told upon andrea, and the loneliness of the voyage had almost paralyzed her, but it was not until she was safely on land and at her journey’s end that tears came. margaret longed to take the poor little thing in her arms and comfort her, for the frightened eyes called upon her strong motherly instinct; but this would never do, so she merely greeted her pleasantly, handing the reins to gurth, saying, “i will sit on the back seat with andrea.”

for half a mile or so they drove in silence, margaret wishing to give her companion time to recover herself. then she began an easy conversation, leading gradually to andrea herself and her voyage. andrea understood english as readily as gurth, but spoke without his literary nicety; yet before they arrived at the mill farm they were all three talking easily, though andrea maintained a sort of diffidence, as if in the presence of a mistress. noticing this, margaret, as soon as they reached home, signalled waldsen to go with the horses, and took andrea immediately to her room.

once there, after showing andrea where to put her very scanty belongings, margaret drew her to a seat in the window, and, taking her hand, very gently said: “i wrote you that i wanted a girl to help me with my work, and that gurth waldsen told me that you wished to come to america. this was true, but i did not write that i also know the story of his life and of yours, also. we thought it best for you to come here first, and, finding yourself among friends, all would seem plain to you.”

“he—he has told you about his mother—that we are betrothed, and all?” cried andrea, her mild eyes blazing, and a crimson spot glowing under each high cheek-bone. “told it all to a stranger, and you have asked me here from charity? oh, gurth! how cruel of you, how could you?” sobbed andrea, burying her face in her arms.

“i wanted our new life to be real; i thought that we should be working people and have only what we earned, and that there would be no more inequality between us or false positions, and now it is all over,—even our trouble is not our own! it was cowardly in gurth! cowardly, i say!”

margaret was at a loss how to reply to this outburst. andrea’s fatigue and worry would account for her vehemence, but allowing for this, there was some truth underlying her complaint, which made it difficult to cope with. andrea’s nature was wholly genuine; when she said she wished to work, she meant it, but with gurth work was a more abstract idea, a necessity arising from a desire to marry andrea.

margaret sat in silence, until finally, as andrea’s sobs ceased, she drew the girl’s head up so she could look at her. “think a little before you condemn waldsen. you are tired and excited, and also unjust to say that i sent for you out of charity. i needed a helper, and i also wished a companion. i was sure, from what we have seen of him during these months, that the woman for whom gurth waldsen had left his home and fortune would easily understand his present position, and the feelings that prevented him from allowing her to place herself out as a drudge. the idea of keeping your secret was natural, but impossible; you must accept things as they now are, and thus begin the reality.

“come, wipe your eyes, do you want gurth to see them all red and swollen? put some cool water on them,—there, so. now i will leave you awhile, but come down in half an hour, for you are to be cook, you know.” margaret managed to laugh pleasantly, as she went to find waldsen and arrest any tendency to a misunderstanding that might arise.

he was coming from the barnyard with the milkpails, and his almost boyish look of happiness broke into a smile when he saw margaret.

“have you told her? was she not delighted to know how everything is arranged? i did not say a word, but left the pleasure for you, dear friend, you have so deserved it!”

it seemed a pity to undeceive him; it is always a pity to blast a man’s enthusiasm when he has prepared, what he considers, a pleasant surprise for the woman he loves. many a separation has started with such a repulse from the thin edge of the wedge.

margaret gave a rapid summary of andrea’s feeling, softening and smoothing everything, and adding that the best thing would be to take her up to the hill farm after tea. the sight of her future home would do more to reassure her, and give her a feeling of confidence, than any words.

waldsen had put down his pails and stood looking at margaret as she spoke. her face was turned partly towards him, but she was looking past over the hills. she wore a plain, soft, gray woollen gown with a dark red belt and neck-band, and there was a bit of red, her favourite colour, in her hat, while her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the scene she had just undergone. he wondered that he had never noticed before how fine her face was, how graceful and well poised her carriage, and he listened to what she said, half bowing as to a superior being.

the first meal passed off happily enough; andrea, looking very sweet and shy, had added a light blue neckerchief to her almost nunlike black gown, her tears having only given a natural colour to her face. waldsen beamed upon her in his happiness, occasionally relapsing inadvertently to danish as they talked, much to the amusement of the deacon, who seemed quite jovial, and indeed it was a pleasure to him to have three young faces at the table.

after supper margaret and andrea washed the dishes and put them away, margaret saying casually: “gurth wants you to take a walk with him; he has a surprise for you. i will set the bread to-night and close the house; to-morrow you shall begin and do your half. go, andrea; the sun will be down before you are halfway up the hill.”

“will you not come also, miss margaret?” said waldsen’s soft voice.

“not to-night.”

the sun disappeared behind the mill, and a whip-poor-will called suddenly from a maple near the house. rob, the collie, gave an uneasy whine, and coming in, poked his cold nose into margaret’s hand, as if impatient at her revery. she patted him, went to the table, lighted the lamp, and was arranging the backgammon-board just as her father’s step sounded on the piazza.

“what! all alone, daughter? this seems like old times,” he said, as he sat down to his game. “so the lovers haven’t come back yet, eh? how we miss waldsen!” looking up, expecting a reply, he saw that margaret was apparently absorbed in an intricate move.

v

it was a good season. the days were bright, the nights brought plentiful showers, everything throve at the fruit farm, and at midsummer ezra tolford found that he had outdone his best expectations.

other things prospered besides the products of the soil. andrea was her plump, rosy self again, radiant with happiness and energy. the life she led was that for which she was born, the life that countless generations of her kindred had lived before her. she loved the daily round of labour, loved to cook, to keep the house neat. she loved the breath of the rich earth, when the plough rent the furrows. she loved the simple gossip of the neighbours, who ran in to consult with bated breath the wearing possibilities of a dress pattern or a new stitch in knitting. she had no doubts or fears, but was contented.

when she first met gurth, his world seemed so far from hers, so much above and apart, that she listened to all he said with silent acquiescence, yielding always to his judgment, and never presuming to discuss matters of which she could have no knowledge, all the while adoring him with the idealizing passion of first love.

now this was changed; he was no longer a knight from dreamland, but a fellow-worker, with whom she might discuss plans into which she had a far more practical insight than he. she loved him as devotedly, but on a rational plane.

as for gurth, did he like this reversal? he was often worried by his own state of mind. physically he was well, and, though rather thin, his face wore a healthy sun bronze. all his plans were going forward smoothly, the hill farm was nearly ready for its autumn planting of small fruits, and there would be money enough left over to bridge the way for the little household, until the soil yielded its crops,—yet he was not wholly contented.

andrea’s complete satisfaction and identification with her work seemed a reproach to him. was this vigorous woman the same being as the girl who a year before stood blushing and silent, or else was moved to tears when he read aloud or played his violin to her? she seemed no longer to need protection, but rather to protect him.

his violin, could he have dreamed that he should ever become estranged from it? as his fingers grew stiff from contact with the soil, they stumbled over the strings insensibly, and the vibrating instrument seemed to grow shrill and wail in grief at the rough touch.

then he would try again and play something more simple with a legato movement, when, perhaps, andrea would frankly say, “what ails your violin, dearest? it seems out of tune, you do not play it as you used.” then he would put it by.

as for books, there was no time for them, no time for study and dreams. during the early spring he had read almost nightly to margaret, and often ezra tolford joined in the talk that followed. now andrea nodded laughingly if he merely suggested reading, and asked him if he supposed she could keep awake to hear him, when she must churn to-morrow. as he rose to go, perhaps, to his attic for a quiet hour, she would twine her arms around his neck and tell him it was not good to spoil his eyes with books on summer nights, and so the days went by.

gradually it seemed to him that margaret was the one link that held before him what he used to be. she said but very little to him usually, but went on with her daily life, keeping herself as ever refined and self-contained. it was through her only now that waldsen knew that the world still rolled on. it was from her conversation that he gained scraps from books, magazines, and even the daily news, as she talked to interest andrea as they worked and chatted together. in music, too, it was the same. with exquisite tact she would choose some song that andrea knew and could sing correctly and ask gurth to accompany them.

waldsen went to church with his betrothed every sunday evening, and all the neighbours found it most right and proper; but it was not prayer or sermon or even the companionship of andrea that held him through the long session, but margaret’s voice leading the simple hymns. it seemed as if, in singing, she was speaking to him alone, and gurth was both moved and puzzled by the transformation of her features.

one sunday she chanced to look in his direction as she was singing and caught his expression as he gazed at her. next day she told her father that she must rest her voice, and asked him to let andrea supply her place in the choir for a while. she would like, she said, if possible to go to glen village for a week or so to stay with mrs. watson, an old friend of her mother’s, who was quite ill and needed friendly care. all this seemed most natural to the deacon, who was quite satisfied that andrea could manage for that length of time.

margaret imagined that she was doing a wise thing in going away and leaving the pair wholly to themselves. on the contrary it opened waldsen’s eyes to the position in which he stood, which to be perhaps brutally direct was this—the two women had changed places. he loved andrea as a merry companion, but through her new competence and force she had lost her hold upon his mystic inner nature, that valued the ideal above the real. the two had not developed in unison and, practically, she had outstripped him. it was to margaret that his spirit clung. margaret, the woman he thought without emotion, as distant from him as the evening star, the reticence of whose nature fascinated him.

waldsen was not morally inconstant. he was paying the penalty of a joint heritage of romance and hot-headed impulse. the blood of his parents did not mingle but contended in his veins.

acadia was fading in a mist; love for love’s sake, the thrill of music and the ideal in nature were passing away, yet he never for a moment entertained the slightest thought of turning backwards. the soil was there grasping and swallowing; he had pledged his future to wrestling with it for his bread; if he conquered, it might yield him food, and finally—peace. andrea would be happy, and doubtless he should be content when his neck had become accustomed to the yoke; for, after all, his student philosophy aided him, and he realized that there is much in habit.

with the autumn came the furnishing of the house at the hill farm, and it occupied many of the dull days of early november. andrea was in her element, and in a state of tranquil elation.

only four rooms were to be used at first; a sunny kitchen, and sitting-room, and two bedrooms above. one of these was to have a blue paper and the other an old-fashioned chintz pattern sprinkled with bunches of poppies. “the poppies are for your room, margaret—” said andrea, when they were in the shop at bridgeton choosing the household goods. “you like red so much, and you will stay with us often, always when your father goes away, you know.”

margaret smiled at her ardour, but never was impatient or seemed to tire of discussing the little details so dear to the prospective young housekeeper, or of making visits with her to the new home and guiding her somewhat abrupt taste.

as andrea worked with a will, her enthusiasm infected waldsen, and he believed himself happy again, until he discovered, as he usually did, that some arrangement which particularly delighted him was a happy thought of margaret’s.

at this time margaret was often away from home. after her visit to mrs. watson, one of her old schoolmates, who had recently married and settled in bridgeton, begged her to come there for a visit; and she felt also that she must have change, so she promised to stay two weeks with her friend.

“send for me if you need me for anything, no matter how trifling,” she said, when she left home.

margaret had been at bridgeton about ten days. it was a rainy evening, and she was sitting by the open fire with her friends, talking about school-days.

the dog, who had been sleeping on the hearth-rug, started suddenly, and, after cocking his ears in a listening attitude, rushed to the door, barking violently. horses’ hoofs sounded on the road with the peculiar sucking thud that rain and mud lend; the gate banged to, and hurried footsteps crossed the piazza. margaret, without knowing why, went quickly to the door and opened it before her friends comprehended what she was doing, or before any one knocked.

on the threshold, lantern in hand, stood ezra tolford. water was streaming from the limp brim of his felt hat and ran down his rubber coat in little streams.

“i knew it was some one from home! what is it, father?” margaret cried.

the deacon had a white, scared look and moistened his lips with his tongue twice before he answered—“waldsen is very sick; the doctor says it’s pneumonia. a lot of neighbours have come in and upset things under pretext of helping andrea. doctor russell says we must have a nurse if he lasts through to-night, and i thought you’d want to know!”

margaret did not hear the last words; she was already upstairs and back again, buttoning her thick coat as she came. her friends protested against her going out on such a night, her father joining them, but not insistently. he seemed ill at ease, as if he had some secret on his mind.

bidding good-by hastily, in another moment margaret was in the wagon tucking the wraps around her and trying to hold her umbrella against the wind, while the deacon turned the horses homeward, so content in having her with him that he forgot to speak. “tell me all about it, father, and why you did not send for me sooner,” she said in an unsteady voice.

“well, daughter, it all happened so quickly that there was no time for anything. three days ago waldsen went into the village with a load of feed, and it came on to rain heavily. he was all in a sweat handling the bags and got sopping wet driving back,—a thing that has happened to me a dozen times.”

“the next day he was about as usual, but spoke of a catching in his chest. but yesterday he gave up and the doctor came, and he says that the heart has been overstrained somehow, and he doesn’t expect to bring him round!”

“and andrea, how does she bear it?” whispered margaret, her throat almost closing when she tried to speak.

“she’s a brave woman. she keeps quite still and heats the poultices and measures the medicines, like a regular nurse. you see she does not believe that he will die because he has a good colour, but that’s the fever. he is delirious and doesn’t know her, and twice he has called for you!”

“for me! oh, father, when?”

“last night, but it is nothing but his raving,—he doesn’t know what he says; he thought i was his mother!” and the deacon eyed margaret anxiously.

it was eleven o’clock before they reached home, and, leaving her wet garments in the kitchen, where she found a neighbour who set about preparing her a cup of tea, margaret went softly up the stairs.

the fire in the sitting-room had died down and she stirred it up, adding a fresh log, and resting a moment to collect herself, went to the attic chamber.

outside the door of gurth’s room stood a table with a small oil-stove upon it and a dish-pan full of flaxseed meal; great squares of cotton that had made poultices lay about.

inside the room a bright fire burned, and the screened lamp showed andrea sitting on one side of the bed, watching the clock, and father on the other side, watching the patient, and combining, as often happens in the calling of the country physician, both doctor and nurse.

gurth was sleeping, if the uneasy tossing could be called sleep. father was trying to keep the poultices in place, and now and then moistened the dry lips with a bit of ice. on seeing margaret, andrea came to the door, and, without saying a word, put her arms about her and laid her head on her shoulder, with a gesture of entire confidence that said, “now that you have come, all will be right.” already margaret seemed the elder by years.

“try to persuade her to lie down an hour, miss margaret,” said father; “she has not rested for two days, nor scarcely touched a morsel.” andrea yielded, upon the promise that she should be called at the slightest change.

margaret took the chair opposite father, rising at intervals to hand him what he needed. she felt that in being there now she was infringing no law, social or moral, and that she had a right to the moments that were so precious to her. it was almost one o’clock; gurth stirred and muttered as father gave him some brandy. suddenly margaret became conscious that his eyes were open and fixed upon her with a look that was unmistakable. as she leaned forward, not trusting her sight, gurth suddenly raised himself upon one arm and stretching the other towards her, grasped her hand, crying “margaret!” in a joyful voice. the delirium began again, in which he seemed to be going through the last interview with his mother. andrea was called. in vain she begged him to speak to her, to look at her, but he never again became conscious, and at five o’clock he died.

it was the day after thanksgiving when gurth was laid away in the hillside burying-ground, where he had so often scattered food for the hungry birds.

a troop of neighbours followed him there, for he had become a favourite through his varied tastes; he had meant to settle at the glen, so he was one of them, and all the women felt deep pity for andrea. on the way back much curiosity was expressed as to what disposition she would make of the farm, for they all took it for granted that it would be hers.

for a day or two andrea stayed in her room alone, refusing all offers of sympathy and barely tasting food. but one morning when margaret went down, she found her in the kitchen going about her work the same as usual. her face was pale and drawn, but wore a look of quiet resolution that was unearthly. she did not mention waldsen, but when the day’s work was done, went silently to his attic and, after feeding the birds, sat looking out, where upon the hillside there was a patch of fresh earth.

margaret, watching the chance, followed her, and seated herself also by the window. for a moment neither spoke, and then andrea laid her head in margaret’s lap and said, great sobs nearly strangling her,—“love me! margaret, love me! i have tried not to speak of him and to keep the grief inside, for we have made you so much trouble, but oh, i cannot!” and the two women, clinging to each other, mingled their tears.

when andrea grew calmer, margaret spoke of the future, and how she hoped that andrea would always feel that the mill farm was her home.

“it’s very good of you, dear margaret, to want me, and i should like to stay, but i must finish gurth’s work and make the fruit farm a success,—i know that he would wish it.

“these last few days and nights i have thought it out all myself, and i have decided. there is some money, you know; enough, he often said, until the fruit yields a return. i shall hire old mr. and mrs. grigs to live with me, and if, in a year or two, i prosper, i will send for my little brothers (ernest is twelve already), and then i shall have help enough.

“no, do not try to dissuade me, dear margaret, you do not understand. when a woman has lost the love that bounded her life, the only thing between her and despair is a home!”

it fell to deacon tolford, in his legal capacity, as probate judge, to take the steps necessary for the regulation of waldsen’s affairs. he told andrea that, as a matter of form, he must look through waldsen’s papers, and she willingly consented, only asking that any letters from herself be left unread.

the deacon spent a morning in the attic, then, coming to the sitting-room where margaret was sewing, closed the door gently, sat down, and began drumming on the table with his fingers, his face wearing a distressed look.

margaret waited for him to speak, which he soon did, abruptly, as if he was beginning in the middle of his thoughts.

“daughter, i want you to ask andrea to stop with us as long as she likes. she can’t well go back to denmark, and i hate to think of her facing the world so soon after this trouble.”

“i knew you would wish it, father, so i asked her yesterday to live with us; but she has thought out her future carefully, and i do not see any reason for opposing her.” then she gave the details of andrea’s plan.

the deacon sat for some minutes, his head sunk between his shoulders, and then, pulling himself together, said, “i might as well tell you something first as last, margaret,—a fact that neither of you women seems to think possible. gurth waldsen left no will or legal papers of any sort. the farm and money does not belong to andrea any more than it does to us! more than this, it is my duty to inform his mother of the facts, as she is his only heir, and appoint an administrator to take charge of the estate, pending its settlement!”

margaret had risen and was standing with dilated eyes and her hands clasped before her. “father! father! i never thought of this. can nothing be done? can we not arrange in some way? oh! who will tell andrea?”

“as waldsen did not have the foresight to protect her, we can do nothing, daughter. she need not be told for a few weeks, though, until i receive some order from his mother,—but know it she must. if they had married last spring, this trouble would have been avoided. mark my words, daughter, some niceties of feeling are too good for daily use. gurth was a dreamer, and dreams always end like this.”

“let us wait a few weeks,” interrupted margaret, hastily. “as you say, it may seem less brutal than to tell her now, or his mother, who is so rich, may let andrea keep the land.”

vi

with december the deep snows came, and there were times when andrea could not make her daily pilgrimage to the hill farm. she regarded her plan of life as settled, and was grateful that she met with no opposition. she had spoken to the grigses, and was only waiting for christmas, her marriage day, to go home! home! she made the most of the magic word, not realizing its emptiness.

she was in an overwrought, exalted state. feeling that waldsen was very near, she knew no loneliness. when she was not working, she sat in his room and looked up the hill. once or twice she took down his violin, and drew the bow across its strings, half expecting it would yield its old music.

to sympathizing neighbours she told her plans freely, and they, marvelling at her courage, wondered among themselves if her head was quite right.

the weeks went on, and margaret dreaded every mail, lest it should bring the foreign letter. christmas was drawing near when, on the day before it, the letter came. it was from mrs. waldsen’s lawyer, brief and couched in technical language, giving directions for the disposal of the farm and declining peremptorily to make any allowance to “the woman who had brought about the estrangement between mother and son, and had so boldly followed the latter to america, though it was evident, as he had made no provision for her, that he had no intention of marrying her.”

the deacon handed the paper to margaret, and then sat looking dumbly at her. the snow blew against the window in great felty masses; it lay so deeply over wood and field that no one had been able to gather christmas greens; even the laurels on the hillside were weighed down and hidden. “i cannot tell her,” said margaret; “wait until after to-morrow; she will not try to go to the hill house as she planned, for the road is drifted over.”

there was to be a christmas tree down at the church at seven o’clock on christmas eve, and margaret had promised to lead the carols with the children, as a matter of course. she looked out at half-past six and shivered at the storm, but a deacon’s daughter must not quail in the face of duty,—in a small town she always shares responsibility with the minister’s wife, and just now the minister’s wife was ill. soon andrea came downstairs dressed in the plain black gown that she had worn when margaret first saw her, and said that she also wished to go to church; and the two women, preceded by the deacon, and a blinking lantern, felt, rather than saw, their way out to the sleigh.

once at the church, andrea hid herself in the corner of an old-fashioned high pew, silently looking at the lights and the children’s happy faces. when the singing began, tears ran down her cheeks, and she made no effort to restrain them, or even wipe them away.

the deacon hurried the girls home as soon as possible, after the exercises were over, for though the storm had ceased, the thermometer had fallen, and the cold was intense.

margaret begged andrea to share her room that night, for the house seemed inexpressibly dreary, but she refused gently, and, after kissing margaret, went up to waldsen’s attic room. there she moved about awhile, and finally margaret heard her go to her own room, and in a few moments everything was still.

andrea did not sleep, however, or even undress; the music had excited her imagination. it was christmas eve; how many years ago was the last christmas? she had prepared no present for waldsen, not even a wreath for his grave. the thought distressed her out of its due proportion.

then she remembered that, under the eaves in his room, there was a sheaf of rye that he had saved to be the christmas sheaf for their new home. she would take that up to the hill to him, and all the hungry birds would come there to-morrow for their festival. presently it seemed to her as if the night lifted and day was dawning.

andrea found the sheaf, and, pinning a shawl about her head and shoulders, crept softly downstairs. the wind blew so that she could barely close the woodshed door behind her; at her first step she sank knee-deep in the snow. then a sort of second sight came to aid her, and she chose the places bared by the wind in picking out her path.

the moon came out brightly and the shadows bowed and beckoned encouragement to her as she struggled on. could she ever climb the hill? twice the wind wound her in her shawl and she fell, but, pausing a moment for breath, regained her footing. the sheaf grew like lead in her arms, and the wind fought with her for it.

at last she reached the picket fence that encircled the hill of white stones. the gate held fast until, dropping her burden, she shovelled the snow away desperately with her hands and released it. was she growing dizzy? no, she felt stronger, better. the few clouds vanished, driven by the moon. a new light shone about the place, and beautiful colours radiated from the blowing particles of snow. the wind hushed its shrillness to soft music, the notes of gurth’s violin. she was in her old home once more, and the little brothers were singing their carol.

how the wind blew! she must hurry now,—only a few steps more. again the music arose; strange! it seemed to be her own voice that sang to the accompaniment of gurth’s violin,—

“sire, the night is darker now,

???and the wind blows stronger;

?fails my heart, i know not how,

???i can go no longer!”

she caught hold of a stone to steady herself and turned toward the unmarked mound. her feet almost refused to move, one final effort! it grew light again! joy! the sheaf of rye seemed to part and open a way before her, revealing waldsen standing on the threshold of the hill house—would he close the door without seeing her? casting herself forward, she cried, “wait, beloved, i am coming!” and then all was warmth and light.

in the morning margaret did not call andrea when she first awoke. “day will come to her soon enough,” she said. an hour later she went to the empty room and then, finding the bed untouched, searched the house in vain. calling the deacon, he suggested that andrea might have gone to the hill house, but there were no footsteps in the snow to guide them, for it had drifted all night.

a party of neighbours quickly formed; the men strode about, probing the drifts with sticks, while the women looked anxiously from their windows.

margaret went to the attic room, where she could see the country on all sides. something fluttered above the snow between the white stones on the hill, where the wind had swept bare places. in a moment she had gone out and called the nearest of the searchers, who chanced to be her father, and together they climbed the hill.

pillowed by the rye knelt andrea, her eyes turned skyward, a smile upon her parted lips, while above her the meadowlarks flocked and the buntings murmured as they made their christmas feast from gurth’s sheaf.

“we need not tell her now,” was all that margaret said.