A Yankee from the West Part 36

"Oh, I see. But I thought you wanted to go with her."

"I knew that you did not," she replied.

"But did you?" he asked.

"I would not spoil a beautiful day," she answered.

They dined at the bakery, flattering themselves that the girl who waited on them did not know that they were lovers. They did not see her wink at her fat mother behind the showcase.

"I haven't asked you how long I may stay," said Milford, as they walked out.

"I was afraid to come to that," she replied. "I must leave on the train to-night. I have only waited for you."

"When do you think I can see you again?"

"I do not know. I will write."

"Remember that nothing can keep us apart--nothing but yourself."

"Then we shall not be kept apart. But why do you leave it with me?"

"Because you are to decide when I tell you something."

"Do you put it off because it is so hard to tell?"

"No, because I'm not ready yet. I will be when I close out with the old woman."

"I would like to know now."

"It would be plucking green fruit," he replied.

"You know best," she said, trustfully.

The air grew chilly when the sun had set, and they returned to the cottage to sit alone in the parlor. They heard the kindly tones of the gripman talking to his children. There was a melodeon in the room, and she played a Norwegian hymn. The barefoot youngsters scampered in the pa.s.sage-way.

"Let them come in," he said.

"No, they are undressed for bed," she replied. It was the evening romp, a tired mother's trial-time before the hour of rest when all are asleep.

He went to the railway station with her; walked that they might be longer on the road, looked at cottages, gazed up at flats, planning for the future. In the deep secrecy of a crowd he kissed her good-bye, and then went forth to stroll about the town. He stood listening to the weird song of a salvation woman; he dropped a nickel into a rich beggar's hat; he saw the grief-stricken newsboy weeping in a doorway, and believing that he was a liar, gave him a penny; he went to sleep in a hotel and dreamed that he saw a woman with bowed head listening to the angelus.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE BIGGEST LIAR ON EARTH.

When Milford reached Rollins he found the Professor at the station waiting for him. "I will go home with you," he said. "I have something of grave importance to communicate." Steve Hardy offered them a ride in his milk wagon, but they set out on foot, at the suggestion of the Professor, who said that in this way he could better lead up to his subject. Milford was silent till they had proceeded some distance down the lane, and then he asked if anything had gone wrong. The Professor answered that everything had gone wrong, but as he had not yet led up to his subject, he continued to walk on, brooding, sighing like the wind in the rushes. They turned the corner, went down a slope, and at the bottom, the scholar took Milford by the arm apparently to conduct him to the subject, which presumably was waiting on the top of the hill.

"We are coming to it, my dear Milford. It is elusive, but we are almost to it. Now, here we are," he said, with evident relief, as they reached the top of the hill.

"All right, go ahead," said Milford. "Shoot it off."

"Idiomatic," breathed the Professor. "And, sir, to follow it with idiom, I am up against it."

"Up against what?"

"Failure, grinning and teeth-chattering failure. You have seen me turn defiantly upon my false training, and woo the ways of the world. You have seen me buy; you have seen me s.n.a.t.c.hed off my feet by a yearling calf, in the presence of a dignified woman; you have heard me pop my whip at the crack of day. And what has it all come to? Failure. I know that this sounds funny to you, but it is my way, and I find it useless to attempt another. Now, to the point: On all my speculations I have lost money. My bargains turned out to be disasters. I sold at a sacrifice, and am still in debt. I don't know why I should not have succeeded. My object was as worthy as yours. But I failed."

"That may be, but you're nearly as well off as you were before you made the attempt. You haven't so much to grieve over after all."

"Oh, yes, I have. My life insurance. But for that I could snap my fingers at defeat."

"When's the money due?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"I can let you have it. What are you trying to do?"

"I am grabbing after your hand."

"Let it alone."

"But, my dear fellow, your kindness overwhelms me."

"Then don't take the money."

"Oh, yes, I shall; I am more than willing to be overwhelmed. Ha! I had set my heart on you, and was afraid that you might not be back in time.

Thank the Lord for the man who comes in time. All others are a blotch upon the face of the earth. Last night was a torture to me. More than once my wife called out, 'You give me the fidgets with your walking up and down. I want to sleep.' Sleep! There was no sleep for me. I saw the sun rise, and I said to myself, 'If that man don't come you won't s.h.i.+ne for me to-day.' But you came, G.o.d bless you. Well, I'll turn off here and go by home, to show them that I am not crushed into the earth, and will see you at your house this evening."

Mrs. Stuvic saw Milford, and came out to the barnyard gate. She wanted to ask him if he had seen any of her boarders, but had forgotten their names. Some one had told her that Milford expected soon to quit the place, and she asked him why he had not told her.

"I've told you as much as I have any one," said he. "I don't expect to go before next spring."

"Well, we may all be dead and buried before then," she replied.

"Yes, all except you."

"You bet! Why, three men have been here lately wantin' to insure my life. Did you see that girl? But I know you did. Why don't you buy the farm and bring her out here? You could soon pay for it."

"I'd rather live in the West."

"The cat's foot! You don't know what you want. Was that the Professor man with you over there on the hill? I couldn't see very well. He's crazy. Yes, he is, as crazy as a loon, and I don't want him round here.

He might set the house afire. Don't you think he's crazy?"

"Well, he's one of the peculiar many that go to make up the world."