He Fell In Love With His Wife, Edward Payson Roe [children's books read aloud .TXT] 📗

had married

her for, but this might have been true of a capable, yet disagreeable woman

whom he could not like, to save himself.

 

Both in regard to himself and Alida, Holcroft accepted the actual facts with

the gladness and much of the unquestioning simplicity of a child. This rather

risky experiment was turning out well, and for a time he daily became more and

more absorbed in his farm and its interests. Alida quietly performed her

household tasks and proved that she would not need very much instruction to

become a good butter maker. The short spring of the North required that he

should be busy early and late to keep pace with the quickly passing seedtime.

His hopefulness, his freedom from household worries, prompted him to sow and

plant increased areas of land. In brief, he entered on just the businesslike

honeymoon he had hoped for.

 

Alida was more than content with the conditions of her life. She saw that

Holcroft was not only satisfied, but also pleased with her, and that was all

she had expected and indeed all that thus far she had wished or hoped. She

had many sad hours; wounds like hers cannot heal readily in a true, sensitive

woman’s heart. While she gained in cheerfulness and confidence, the terrible

and unexpected disaster which had overtaken her rendered impossible the

serenity of those with whom all has gone well. Dread of something, she knew

not what, haunted her painfully, and memory at times seemed malignantly

perverse in recalling one whom she prayed to forget.

 

Next to her faith and Holcroft’s kindness her work was her best solace, and

she thanked God for the strength to keep busy.

 

On the first Sunday morning after their marriage the farmer overslept, and

breakfast had been ready some time when he came down. He looked with a little

dismay at the clock over the kitchen mantel and asked, “Aren’t you going to

scold a little?”

 

She shook her head, nor did she look the chiding which often might as well be

spoken.

 

“How long have I kept breakfast waiting, or you rather?”

 

“What difference does it make? You needed the rest. The breakfast may not be

so nice,” was her smiling answer.

 

“No matter. You are nice to let a man off in that way.” Observing the book

in her lap, he continued, “So you were reading the old family Bible to learn

lessons of patience and forbearance?”

 

Again she shook her head. She often oddly reminded him of Jane in her

employment of signs instead of speech, but in her case there was a grace, a

suggestiveness, and even a piquancy about them which made them like a new

language. He understood and interpreted her frankly. “I know, Alida,” he said

kindly; “you are a good woman. You believe in the Bible and love to read it.”

 

“I was taught to read and love it,” she replied simply. Then her eyes dropped

and she faltered, “I’ve reproached myself bitterly that I rushed away so

hastily that I forgot the Bible my mother gave me.”

 

“No, no,” he said heartily, “don’t reproach yourself for that. It was the

Bible in your heart that made you act as you did.”

 

She shot him a swift, grateful glance through her tears, but made no other

response.

 

Having returned the Bible to the parlor, she put the breakfast on the table

and said quietly, “It looks as if we would have a rainy day.”

 

“Well,” said he, laughing, “I’m as bad as the old woman—it seems that women

can run farms alone if men can’t. Well, this old dame had a big farm and

employed several men, and she was always wishing it would rain nights and

Sundays. I’m inclined to chuckle over the good this rain will do my oats,

instead of being sorry to think how many sinners it’ll keep from church.

Except in protracted-meeting times, most people of this town would a great

deal rather risk their souls than be caught in the rain on Sunday. We don’t

mind it much week days, but Sunday rain is very dangerous to health.”

 

“I’m afraid I’m as bad as the rest,” she said, smiling. “Mother and I usually

stayed home when it rained hard.”

 

“Oh, we don’t need a hard storm in the country. People say, ‘It looks

threatening,’ and that settles it; but we often drive to town rainy days to

save time.”

 

“Do you usually go to church at the meeting house I see off in the valley?”

she asked.

 

“I don’t go anywhere,” and he watched keenly to see how she would take this

blunt statement of his practical heathenism.

 

She only looked at him kindly and accepted the fact.

 

“Why don’t you pitch into me?” he asked.

 

“That wouldn’t do any good.”

 

“You’d like to go, I suppose?”

 

“No, not under the circumstances, unless you wished to. I’m cowardly enough

to dread being stared at.”

 

He gave a deep sign of relief. “This thing has been troubling me,” he said. “I

feared you would want to go, and if you did, I should feel that you ought to

go.”

 

“I fear I’m very weak about it, but I shrink so from meeting strangers. I do

thank God for his goodness many times a day and ask for help. I’m not brave

enough to do any more, yet.”

 

His rugged features became very somber as he said, “I wish I had as much

courage as you have.”

 

“You don’t understand me—” she began gently.

 

“No, I suppose not. It’s all become a muddle to me. I mean this church and

religious business.”

 

She looked at him wistfully, as if she wished to say something, but did not

venture to do so. He promptly gave a different turn to the conversation by

quoting Mrs. Mumpson’s tirade on churchgoing the first Sunday after her

arrival. Alida laughed, but not in a wholly mirthful and satisfied way.

“There!” he concluded, “I’m touching on things a little too sacred for you. I

respect your feelings and beliefs, for they are honest and I wish I shared in

‘em.” Then he suddenly laughed again as he added, “Mrs. Mumpson said there

was too much milking done on Sunday, and it’s time I was breaking the Fourth

Commandment, after her notion.”

 

Alida now laughed outright, without reservation.

 

“‘By jocks!’ as Watterly says, what a difference there is in women!” he

soliloquized on his way to the barn. “Well, the church question is settled for

the present, but if Alida should ask me to go, after her manner this morning,

I’d face the whole creation with her.”

 

When at last he came in and threw off his waterproof coat, the kitchen was in

order and his wife was sitting by the parlor fire with Thomson’s “Land and the

Book” in her hand.

 

“Are you fond of reading?” he asked.

 

“Yes, very.”

 

“Well, I am, too, sort of; but I’ve let the years slip by without doing half

as much as I ought.”

 

“Light your pipe and I’ll read to you, if you wish me to.”

 

“Oh, come now! I at least believe in Sunday as a day of rest, and you need

it. Reading aloud is about as hard work as I can do.”

 

“But I’m used to it. I read aloud to mother a great deal,” and then there

passed over her face an expression of deep pain.

 

“What is it, Alida? Don’t you feel well?”

 

“Yes, oh, yes!” she replied hastily, and her pale face became crimson.

 

It was another stab of memory recalling the many Sundays she had read to the

man who had deceived her. “Shall I read?” she asked.

 

“Alida,” he said very kindly, “it wasn’t the thought of your mother that

brought that look of pain into your face.”

 

She shook her head sadly, with downcast eyes. After a moment or two, she

raised them appealingly to him as she said simply, “There is so much that I

wish I could forget.”

 

“Poor child! Yes, I think I know. Be patient with yourself, and remember

that you were never to blame.”

 

Again came that quick, grateful glance by which some women express more than

others can ever put in words. Her thought was, “I didn’t think that even he

was capable of that. What a way of assuring me that he’ll be patient with

me!” Then she quietly read for an hour descriptions of the Holy Land that

were not too religious for Holcroft’s mind and which satisfied her conscience

better than much she had read in former days to satisfy a taste more alien to

hers than that of her husband.

 

Holcroft listened to her correct pronunciation and sweet, natural tones with a

sort of pleased wonder. At last he said, “You must stop now.”

 

“Are you tired?” she asked.

 

“No, but you are, or ought to be. Why, Alida, I didn’t know you were so well

educated. I’m quite a barbarous old fellow compared with you.”

 

“I hadn’t thought of that before,” she said with a laugh.

 

“What a fool I was, then, to put it into your head!”

 

“You must be more careful. I’d never have such thoughts if you didn’t suggest

them.”

 

“How did you come to get such a good education?”

 

“I wish I had a better one. Well, I did have good advantages up to the time I

was seventeen. After I was old enough I went to school quite steadily, but it

seems to me that I learned a little of everything and not much of anything.

When father died and we lost our property, we had to take to our needles. I

suppose I might have obtained work in a store, or some such place, but I

couldn’t bear to leave mother alone and I disliked being in public. I

certainly didn’t know enough to teach, and besides, I was afraid to try.”

 

“Well, well! You’ve stumbled into a quiet enough place at last.”

 

“That’s what I like most about it, but I don’t think I stumbled into it. I

think I’ve been led and helped. That’s what I meant when I said you didn’t

understand me,” she added hesitatingly. “It doesn’t take courage for me to go

to God. I get courage by believing that he cares for me like a father, as the

bible says. How could I ever have found so kind a friend and good a home

myself?”

 

“I’ve been half inclined to believe there’s a Providence in it myself—more

and more so as I get acquainted with you. Your troubles have made you better,

Alida; mine made me worse. I used to be a Christian; I aint any more.”

 

She looked at him smilingly as she asked, “How do you know?”

 

“Oh! I know well enough,” he replied gloomily. “Don’t let’s talk about it any

more,” and then he led her on to speak simply and naturally about her

childhood home and her father and mother.

 

“Well,” he said heartily, “I wish your mother was living for nothing would

please me better than to have such a good old lady in the house.”

 

She averted her face as she said huskily, “I think it was better she died

before—” But she did not finish the sentence.

 

By the time dinner was over the sun was shining brightly, and he asked her if

she would not like to go up the lane to his woodland to see the view. Her

pleased look was sufficient answer. “But are you sure you are strong enough?”

he persisted.