V
“I am afraid you found it difficult,” Doctor Burch said, when it was over. “It wasn’t an easy programme. I wish there had been more of Krause.”
“I’m not sure I liked it,” she answered wearily. “I feel as if I had ploughed a field. It made me savage, just the way moonlight used to when I was growing up.”
“That is the pure essence of sensation. Now, I never get that response to music. To me it is little more than an intellectual exercise. The greatest musician I ever knew told me once that his knowledge of the theory of music had, in a way, spoiled his complete enjoyment of a concert.”
She had refused tea, and they had strolled in the direction of the Park. As she left the concert hall, it had seemed to her that she was stifling for air, and now, when they entered the Park, she threw back her head and breathed quickly, with her gaze on the bright chain of sky threading the tree-tops.
“This smells like November at Old Farm,” she said. “Whenever I smell the country, I want to go home.”
“Yours is a large farm?”
She laughed. “A thousand acres and we couldn’t afford to buy a cow. Do you know what it means to be land poor? After the war my father couldn’t hire labour, so he had to let all the land go bad, as we say, except the little he could cultivate himself. The rest has run to old fields. Everything is eaten up by the taxes and the mortgage. There are pines, of course, and Nathan Pedlar tells us if we let the timber stand, it will one day be valuable. Now we can’t get a good price because the roads are so bad it takes too many mules to haul it away. Once in a while, we sell some trees to pay the taxes, but they bring so little. My father cut down seven beautiful poplars at Poplar Spring; but when he sold them he couldn’t get but a dollar and a half for each one where it fell. It doesn’t seem worth while destroying trees for that.”
“What do you do with the abandoned fields?”
“Nothing. Some people turn sheep into them, but my father says that doesn’t pay. The fields run to broomsedge and life-everlasting, and in time pine and scrub oak get a good start.”
“But they can be reclaimed. The land can be brought back, if it is well treated.”
“I know, but that takes labour; and Father and Josiah have as much work as they can manage. There isn’t any money to pay the wages of hands. We’ve got some good pastures too. If only there was something to begin with, we might have a dairy farm. Nathan Pedlar says, or a stock farm like James Ellgood’s. I wish I knew the science of farming,” she concluded earnestly. “Doctor Faraday says it is as much a science as medicine.”
It was The first time he had seen her deeply interested. Strange, the hold the country could get over one!
“Is there any way I could learn farming from books?” Dorinda asked before he could reply. “I mean learn the modern ways of getting the best out of the soil?”
He smiled. “It all comes back to chemistry, doesn’t it? That, I imagine, is what Doctor Faraday meant— the chemistry of agriculture. Yes, there are books you can study. I’ll get you a list from a friend of mine who is a professor in the University of Wisconsin. By the way, he is to give a lecture on that very subject in New York next month. There is to be a series of lectures. I’ll find out about it and take you if you’ll go with me. You must remember, though, that practical experience is always the best teacher.”
She shook her head. “We have the experience of generations, and it has taught us nothing except to do things the way we’ve always done them. Mother used to say that the only land she would ever cultivate, if she had to choose over again, is the land of Canaan where
‘generous fruits that never fail,
On trees immortal grow!’”
He laughed. “I think I’d like your mother.”
The casual remark arrested her. Would he really like her mother, she wondered, with her caustic humour, her driven energy, her periodical neuralgia, and her perpetual melancholy? Had he ever known any one who resembled her? Had he ever known any woman whose life was so empty?
“Poor Ma!”—She corrected herself: “Poor Mother, the farm has eaten away her life. It caught her when she was young, and she was never able to get free.”
“Doesn’t she care for it?”
“I don’t know. I sometimes think she hates it, but I know it would kill her to leave it. It is like a bad heart. You may suffer from it, but it is your life, and it would kill you to lose it.” She broke off, pondered deeply for a few moments, and then added impulsively, “If I had the money, I’d go back and start a dairy farm there.”
While she spoke a vision glimmered between the windy dusk in the Park and the orange light of the afterglow. She saw it with an intensity, an eagerness that was breathless;—the fields, the roads, the white gate, the long low house, the lamp shining in the front window. For the first time she could think of Old Farm without invoking the image of Jason. For the first time since she had left home, she felt that earlier and deeper associations were reaching out to her, that they were groping after her, like the tendrils of vines, through the darkness and violence of her later memories. Earlier and deeper associations, rooted there in the earth, were drawing her back across time and space and forgetfulness. Passion stirred again in her heart; but it was passion transfigured, recoiling from the personal to the impersonal object. It seemed to her, walking there in the blue twilight, that the music had released some imprisoned force in the depths of her being, and that this force was spreading out over the world, that it was growing wider and thinner until it covered all the desolate country at Old Farm. With a shock of joy, she realized that she was no longer benumbed, that she had come to life again. She had come to life again, but how differently!
“I feel as if the farm were calling to me to come back and help it,” she said.
That night she dreamed of Pedlar’s Mill. She dreamed that she was ploughing one of the abandoned fields, where the ghostly scent of the life-everlasting reminded her of the smell of her mother’s flowered bandbox when she took it out of the closet on Sunday mornings—the aroma of countless dead and forgotten Sabbaths. Dan and Beersheba were harnessed to the plough, and when they had finished one furrow, they turned and looked back at her before they began another. “You’ll never get this done if you plough a hundred years,” they said, “because there is nothing here but thistles, and you can’t plough thistles under.” Then she looked round her and saw that they were right. As far as she could see, on every side, the field was filled with prickly purple thistles, and every thistle was wearing the face of Jason. A million thistles, and every thistle looked up at her with the eyes of Jason! She turned the plough where they grew thickest, trampling them down, uprooting them, ploughing them under with all her strength; but always when they went into the soil, they cropped up again. Millions of purple flaunting heads! Millions of faces! They sprang up everywhere; in the deep furrow that the plough had cut; in the dun-coloured clods of the upturned earth; under the feet of the horses; under her own feet, springing back, as if they were set on wire stems, as soon as she had crushed them into the ground. “I am going to plough them under, if it kills me,” she said aloud; and then she awoke. A chill wind was blowing the white curtains at the window. Was it only her imagination, or did the wind, blowing over the city, bring the fragrance of pine and life-everlasting? For an instant, scarcely longer than a quick breath, she felt a sensation of physical nearness, as if some one had touched her. Then it vanished, leaving her in a shudder of memory. It was not love; of this she was positive. Was it hate which had assumed, in the moment between sleep and waking, the physical intensity of love? It was the first time she had dreamed of Jason. Long after she had ceased to think of him, she told herself resentfully.
The next morning, when office hours were over, she went to the library and asked for a list of books on dairy farming. She read with eagerness every one that was given to her, patiently making notes, keeping in her mind the peculiar situation at Old Farm. When Doctor Burch arranged for the course of lectures, she attended them regularly, adding, with diligence, whatever she could to her knowledge of methods; gleaning, winnowing, storing away in her memory the facts which she thought might some day be useful. Before her always were the neglected fields. She saw the renewal of promise in the land; the sowing of the grain, the springing up, the ripening, the immemorial celebration of the harvest. She saw the yellowing waves of wheat, the poetic even swath falling after the mower. “All that land,” she thought, “all that land wasted!” The possibility of the dairy farm haunted her mind. Enterprise, industry, and a little capital with which to begin! That was all that one needed. If she could start with a few cows, six perhaps, and do all the work of the dairy herself, it might be managed. But Old Farm must be made to pay, she decided emphatically. Old Farm with a thousand acres could supply sufficient pasture and fodder for as many cows as she would ever be likely to own. “If I could get the labour it wouldn’t be so hard,” she thought one day, while she was sitting by the window in the nursery. “If I could buy the cows and hire a little extra labour, it wouldn’t be impossible to make a success.” Then her spirit drooped. “You can’t do anything without a little money,” she thought, and laughed aloud. “Not much, but a little makes all the difference.”
“What are you laughing at, Dorinda?” asked Mrs. Faraday, turning from the crib, where she was bending over the baby.
“I was thinking I’d give anything I’ve got for six—no, a dozen cows.”
“Cows?”
“At Old Farm. It hurts me to think of all that land wasted.”
“It is a pity. I suppose it was good land once?”
“In great-grandfather’s day it was one of the best farms in that part of the country. Of course he never cultivated much of it. He let a lot of it stand in timber. That’s what we paid the taxes with right after the war. Father and Josiah do the best they can,” she added, “but everything is always against them. Some people are like that, you know.”
“It’s a bad way to be,” commented Mrs. Faraday, and she asked presently, “What would you like to do with the farm?”
Dorinda’s cheeks flushed as she answered. “First, if I had the money, I’d try to bring up the fields. I’d sow cowpeas and turn them under this year wherever I could. Then I’d add to the pasture. We can easily do that, and in a little while we could get a good stand of grass. Then I’d buy some cows from James Ellgood, some of his Jerseys, and try to set up a dairy farm, a very little one, but I wouldn’t let anybody touch the milk and butter except Mother and myself. I wouldn’t be satisfied with anything that wasn’t better than the best,” she concluded, with an energy that was characteristic of the earlier Dorinda.
“And you’d sell your butter—where?”
For an instant this dampened the girl’s enthusiasm. How funny that she had never once thought of that!
“Oh, well, we’re near enough to Richmond or Washington,” she said. “The road to the station is bad, but it is only two miles. We could churn one day and send the butter out before sunrise the next morning.”
Mrs. Faraday looked at her sympathetically. “I could help you in Washington,” she said. “I’ve a friend there who owns one of the biggest hotels. The manager would take your butter, I know, and eggs too, if they are the very best that can be bought. And you’d ask a large price. People are always willing to pay for the best.”
Dorinda sighed. “It’s just like a fairy tale,” she said, “but, of course, it is utterly out of the question.”
“Well, I don’t see why.” Mrs. Faraday lifted the baby from the crib and sat down to nurse it. “We would lend you the money you needed to start with. After all you’ve done for Penelope, we’d be only too glad to do that in return. But it would be drudgery, even if you succeeded, and you ought not to look forward to that. You ought to marry, my dear.”
Dorinda flinched. “Oh, I’ve finished with all that!”
“But you haven’t. You’re too young to give up that side of life.”
“I don’t care. I’m through with it,” repeated Dorinda, and she meant it.
“Well, just remember that we are ready to help you at any time. It would mean nothing to us to invest a few thousand dollars in your farm. You could pay us back when you succeeded.”
“And I could pay you interest all the time.”
“Of course—if it would make you feel easier. Only don’t let your foolish pride stand in the way of achieving something in the end.”
Dorinda gazed thoughtfully out of the window. Her pride was foolish, she supposed, but it was all that she had. With nothing else to fall back on, she had taken refuge in an exaggerated sense of independence.
“You are so capable,” Mrs. Faraday was saying, “that I am sure you will never fail in anything that you undertake. The doctor was telling me only yesterday that, for a woman without special training, your efficiency is really remarkable. It isn’t often the girls of your age are so practical.”
A laugh without merriment broke from Dorinda’s lips. “That would please my mother,” she said. “They used to say at Old Farm that my head was full of notions.”
“Most young girls’ are. But you were fortunate to settle down as soon as you did.”
Without replying, Dorinda stared at the baby in Mrs. Faraday’s arms. It was a fat, pink baby, with a round face in which the features were like tiny flowers, and a bald head, as clear and smooth as an egg shell. When it laughed back at her, the pink face crumpled up and it gurgled with toothless gums.
“If you’ve ever been poor, you can’t get over the dread of having to borrow,” she answered after a pause.
For the next few months, while she read books and attended lectures without understanding them, the idea of the country worked like leaven in Dorinda’s imagination. Gradually, though she was unprepared for the change in her attitude, some involuntary force was driving her back to Old Farm. Problems that had appeared inexplicable became as simple as arithmetic; obstacles that had looked like mountains evaporated into mist as she approached them. “I couldn’t let them do it,” she would declare, adding a minute later, with weakening obstinacy, “After all, it isn’t as if they were giving me the money. I can always pay them in the end, even if I have to mortgage the farm.”
As the winter passed, she saw more and more of Burch. She liked him; she enjoyed her walks with him; his friendship had become a substantial interest in her life; but she realized now and then, when he accidentally touched her hand, that every nerve in her body said, “So far and no farther” to human intercourse. Her revulsion from the physical aspect of love was a matter of the nerves, she knew, for more than two years under the roof of a great surgeon had taught her something deeper than the patter of science. Yet, though her shrinking was of the nerves only, it was none the less real. One side of her was still dead. The insensibility of the last two years, which had made her tell herself at moments that she could not feel the prick of a pin in her flesh, had worn off slowly from that area of her mind which was superior to the emotions. But the thought of love, the faintest reminder of its potency, filled her with aversion, with an inexpressible weariness. She simply could not bear, she told herself bluntly, to be touched.
“There must be something in life besides love,” she thought, in revolt from the universal harping upon a single string. Watching the people in the street, she would find herself thinking, “That woman looks as if she lived without love, but she doesn’t look unhappy. She must have found something else.” Then, with the vision of Old Farm in her mind, she would reflect exultantly: “There is something else for me also. Love isn’t everything.”
“Do you know, I’ve almost decided to go home,” she said to Doctor Burch one day in April, when they were sitting in the Park. “Did you see those lilacs in the florists’ windows as we passed? It is lilac time at Old Farm now, and the big bushes in the corner of the west wing are all in bloom. They are so old that they reach to the roof, and the catbirds build in them every year.” She lifted her head and looked at the delicate pattern of the elms against the pale sky. How cold and thin spring was in the North!
“You mean you’ll go back and begin farming?”
“I mean I can’t stay away any longer. I’m part of it. I belong to the abandoned fields.”
“Will you let me come?” he asked abruptly.
Her hand lay, palm upward, in her lap, and as he asked the question, his fingers closed caressingly over hers. Instantly the alarm began in her nerves; she felt the warning quiver dart through them like the vibration in a wire. Her nerves, not her heart, repulsed him. She might even love him, she thought, if only he could keep at a distance; if he would never touch her; if he would remain contented and aloof, neither giving nor demanding the signs of emotion. But at the first gesture of approach every cell in her body sprang on the defensive.
“You wouldn’t be comfortable,” she said, while an expression that was almost hostile crept over her full red mouth. “It is so different from anything you have known.”
His smile was winning. “I shouldn’t mind that if you wanted me.”
She looked over his head at the elm boughs arching against the sky. Yes, it was lilac time in Virginia. She saw the rich clusters drooping beside the whitewashed walls, under the grey eaves where wrens were building. The door was open, and the fragrance swept the clean, bare hall, with the open door at, the other end, beyond which the green slope swelled upward to the pear orchard. Over all, there was the big pine on the hill, brushing the quiet sky like a bird’s outstretched wing. How peaceful it seemed. After the storm through which she had passed, tranquillity meant happiness.
The silence had grown intimate, tender, provocative; and for a moment she had a feeling of relaxation from tension, as if the iron in her soul were dissolving. Then the pressure of his fingers tightened, and she shivered and drew away her hand.
“You don’t like me to touch you?” he asked, and there was a hurt look in his eyes.
She shook her head. “I don’t like anybody to touch me.”
“Are you as hard as that?”
“I suppose I am hard, but I can’t change.”
“Not if I wait? I can wait as long as you make me.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference. Waiting wouldn’t change me. I’ve finished with all that.”
She rose because the thought of Jason had come to her out of the vision of Old Farm; and though she no longer loved him, though she hated him, this thought was so unexpected and yet so real that it was as if he had actually walked into her presence. He was nothing to her, but his influence still affected her life; he was buried somewhere in her consciousness, like a secret enemy who could spring out of the wilderness and strike when she was defenseless.
On the hall table, when she entered the house, she found a letter, addressed in the pale, repressed handwriting of her mother. As she went upstairs she tore it open, and dropping into a chair by the window of her room, she read the closely written sheets by the last gleam of daylight.
My dear Daughter:
I hate to have to send you bad news, but your father had a stroke last Saturday while he was ploughing the tobacco field. He had not been well for several days, but you know he never complains, and he did not stop work till he dropped in the field. Josiah and Rufus had to pick him up between them and bring him into the house.
We sent straight for the doctor. Rufus saddled Beersheba and rode to Pedlar’s Mill, and Nathan sent word to Doctor Stout up near the Courthouse. It was more than two hours before the doctor got here, but your father had not come to himself. The doctor says he will never be up again, and if you want to see him alive, you had better come as soon as you can. We do everything that is possible, and Nathan has been the greatest help in the world. I don’t know what I should do without him. Josiah spends the nights here. Since his marriage he has lived, as I wrote you, in that place over beyond Plumtree, but he is real good about helping, and so is Elvira. She has offered to help me nurse, but she is so flighty that I had rather have Aunt Mehitable’s granddaughter, Fluvanna Moody. Fluvanna comes every day. She is a mighty good nurse and your father likes to have her around, even if she is one of the new order of darkeys. I believe she takes after Aunt Mehitable more than any of the other grandchildren. Your father does not give any trouble, and he has not spoken but twice since his fall. It is right hard to understand what he says—he speaks so thickly—but Fluvanna and I both think he was asking for you.
The farm is going on just the same. Rufus hates the work here, and wants to go to the city. A week before his stroke your father was offered a thousand dollars for the timber between Poplar Spring and the back gate. Nathan advised him to hold on a little longer, but I reckon we will have to sell it now to pay for your father’s sickness. The cow is a great comfort. Your father cannot take any solid food. I give him a little milk and a few swallows of chicken broth. Mrs. Garlick sent him some chicken broth yesterday, and one of the Miss Sneads comes over with something every day.
Your affectionate mother,
EUDORA ABERNETHY OAKLEY.
So, after all, the decision had been taken out of her hands. Life was treating her still as if she were a straw in the wind, a leaf on a stream. The invisible processes which had swept her away were sweeping her back again. While she sat there with the letter in her hand, she had the feeling that she was caught in the whirlpool of universal anarchy, and that she could not by any effort of her will bring order out of chaos.
“Poor Pa.” This was her first thought, and she used instinctively the name that had been on her lips as a child. So this was the end for him, and what had he ever had? He had known nothing except toil. Suddenly, as if the fact added an intolerable poignancy to her grief, she remembered that he had never learned even to read and write. He could sign his name, that was all. When he was a child the “poor white” was expected to remain unlettered, and in later years the knowledge her mother had taught him had not, as he used to say apologetically, “stuck by him.”
Rising quickly, she put the letter aside and began folding her clothes.