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  CHAPTER II

  THE HOWES

  Within the confines of his own home Martin Howe, as Ellen Websterasserted, was a czar. Born with the genius to rule, he would probably havefought his way to supremacy had struggle been necessary. As it was,however, no effort was demanded of him, for by the common consent of anadoring family, he had been voluntarily elevated to throne and scepter. Hewas the only boy, the coveted gift long denied parents blessed with threedaughters and in despair of ever possessing a son.

  What rejoicings heralded his advent! Had half the treasures an eagerfather and mother prayed Heaven to grant been bestowed upon the child, hewould unquestionably have become an abnormality of health, wealth, andwisdom. But Destiny was too farseeing a goddess to allow her neophyte tobe spoiled by prosperity. Both his parents died while Martin was still apupil at the district school, and the lad, instead of going to the cityand pursuing a profession, as had been his ambition, found himselfhurried, all unequipped, uneducated and unprepared, into theresponsibilities of managing the family household.

  Farming was not the calling he would have chosen. He neither liked it, norwas he endowed with that intuitive sixth sense on which so many farmersrely for guidance amid the mazes of plowing and planting. By nature, hewas a student. The help he had sporadically given his father had alwaysbeen given rebelliously and been accompanied by the mental resolve thatthe first moment escape was possible, he would leave the country and itsnagging round of drudgery and take up a broader and more satisfyingcareer.

  To quote Martin's own vernacular, farming was hard work,--_damned hardwork._ It was not, however, the amount of toil it involved that dauntedhim, but its quality. He had always felt a hearty and only thinly veiledcontempt for manual labor; moreover, he considered life in a small villagean extremely provincial one.

  It was just when he was balancing in his mind the relative advantages ofbecoming a doctor or a lawyer, and speculating as to which of theseprofessions appealed the more keenly to his fancy, that Fate intervenedand relieved him of the onerousness of choosing between them.

  Martin could have viewed almost any other vocation than that of farmerthrough a mist of romance, for he was young, and for him, behind thetantalizingly veiled future, there still moved the shadowy forms ofknights, dragons, and fair ladies; but with the grim eye of a realist, hesaw farming as it was, stripped of every shred of poetry. Blossomingorchards and thriving crops he knew to be the ephemeral phantasms of thedreamer. Farming as he had experienced it was an eternal combat againstadverse conditions; a battle against pests, frosts, soil, weather, andweariness. The conflict never ceased, nor was there hope of emerging fromits sordidness into the high places where were breathing space and vision.One could never hope when night came to glance back over the day and seein retrospect a finished piece of work. There was no such thing as writing_finis_ beneath any chapter of the ponderous tome of muscle-rackinglabor.

  The farmer stopped work at twilight only because his strength was spentand daylight was gone. The aching back, the tired muscles, could do nomore, and merciful darkness drew a curtain over the day, thereby cuttingoff further opportunity for toil until the rising of another sun.

  But although night carried with it temporary relief from exertion, itbrought with it little peace. As one sat at the fireside in the gatheringdusk, it was only to see in imagination a sinister procession of spectersfile past. They were the things that had been left undone. On they swept,one unperformed task treading upon the heel of its predecessor. Therestill remained potatoes to spade, weeds to pull, corn to hoe. A menacingcompany of ghosts to harass a weary man as his eyes closed at night andconfront him when he opened them in the morning!

  And even when, with the zest the new day brought, he contrived to mow downthe vanguard of the parade, other recruits were constantly reenforcing itsrear ranks and swelling the foes arraigned against the baffled farmer.Struggle as he would, the line was sometimes longer at evening than it hadbeen at dawn. What wonder that a conscientious fellow like Martin Howefelt farming less a business to be accomplished than a choice ofalternatives? What rest was there in sleep, if all the time one's eyeswere closed a man was subconsciously aware that cutworms were devouringhis lettuce and that weeds were every instant gaining headway? Even therhythm of the rain was a reminder that the pea vines were being battereddown and that the barn roof was leaking.

  Yet to flee from this uncongenial future and seek one more to his likingdid not occur to Martin Howe. He had been born with an uncompromisingsense of duty, and once convinced of an obligation, he would have scornedto shirk it. The death of his parents left him no choice but to take uphis cross with New England Spartanism and bear it like a true disciple.All the Howe capital was invested in land, in stock, and in agriculturalimplements. To sell out, even were he so fortunate as to find a purchaser,would mean shrinkage. And the farm once disposed of, what then? Had hebeen alone in the world, he would not have paused to ask the question. Butthere were Mary, Eliza, and Jane,--three sisters older than himself withno resources for earning a living. Even he himself was unskilled, andshould he migrate to the city, he would be forced to subsist more or lessby his wits; and to add to his uncertain fortunes the burden of threedependent women would be madness. No, the management of the familyhomestead was his inevitable lot. That he recognized.

  What the abandonment of his "Castles in Spain" cost Martin only those whoknew him best appreciated; and they but dimly surmised. Resolutely he kepthis face set before him, allowing himself no backward glances into the_dolce-far-niente_ land left behind. As it was characteristic of him toapproach any problem from the scholar's standpoint, he attacked hisagricultural puzzles from a far more scientific angle than his father haddone, bringing to them an intelligence that often compensated forexperience and opened before him vistas of surprising interest. Hesubscribed to garden magazines; studied into crop rotation and thegrafting of trees and vines; spent a few months at college experimentingwith soils and chemicals. He investigated in up-to-date farming machineryand bought some of the devices he felt would economize labor.

  Gradually the problem of wresting a living from the soil broadened anddeepened until it assumed alluring proportions. Farming became a conundrumworthy of the best brain, and one at which the supercilious could illafford to scoff. Martin found himself giving to it the full strength bothof his body and mind.

  By the end of the first year he had become resigned to his new career; bythe end of the second interested in it; by the end of the thirdenthusiastic.

  In the meantime, as season succeeded season, the soil he had so patientlytended began to give him thanks, returning ever increasing harvests. Thetrees in the old orchard bent under their weight of apples; the grapevineswere lush with fruit. The Howe farm acquired fame in the neighborhood.

  The boy was proud of his success and justly so. Not alone did it representman's triumph over Nature, but it also meant the mastery of Martin's ownwill over his inclinations. And all the while that he was achieving thisdual victory he was developing from a thin, over-grown lad into a muscularyoung giant,--keen-eyed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-armed. Hewas lithe as an Indian and almost as unwearying. If through the crossrifts of his daily routine there filtered occasional shadows ofloneliness, he only vaguely acknowledged their existence, attributing hisgroping longing for sympathy to the lack of male companionship and theuncongeniality that existed between himself and his sisters.

  He had, to be sure, a few masculine acquaintances in the village, but mostof them were older and less progressive than he, and they offered himlittle aid in his difficulties. Having farmed all their lives and beencontent with the meager results they had obtained, they shrugged theirshoulders at Martin's experiments with irrigation and fertilizer,regarding his attempts as the impractical theories of a fanatic. Of youth,Sefton Falls contained only a scattering, the more enterprising young menhaving gone either to the city or to the War.

  Thus bereft of friends of his own sex, and turned back from a professi
onalor a soldier's career by Duty's flaming sword, Martin reverted to his ownhome for comradeship. But here, alas, he was again disappointed.

  Mary, Eliza, and Jane were not of a type to fill the void in his life thathe sought to have filled. It would be unfair to say he had not a warmregard for his sisters, for he was a person of inherent loyalty, and tiesof blood meant much to him. Had he not sacrificed his own dreams that hisfamily might retain their old home? Nevertheless one may have adeep-rooted affection for one's kin and yet not find them congenial; andMartin was compelled to acknowledge that Mary, Eliza and Jane--estimablewomen as they were--had many fundamental characteristics that were quiteout of harmony with his ideals of life. It was possible their faults werepeculiar to the entire feminine race. He was not prepared to say, sincehis knowledge of the sex had never extended beyond the sill of his owndoorway. But whether general or particular, the truth remained that themental horizon of his sisters, bounded as it was by the four walls of thekitchen and such portion of the outside world as could be seen from itswindows, was pitiably narrow.

  Beyond the round of their daily duties none of the three women had aninterest in life. Over and over again they performed their humdrum tasksin the same humdrum fashion, arguing over each petty detail of thetime-worn theme until he marveled they could retain a particle of zestfor routine they never varied from year to year.

  Reading and experimenting brought a freshness to his work that stimulateddetours into untraveled paths. But Mary, Eliza, and Jane never sought outthe uncharted way. Evidently monotony suited their stolid temperaments; orif it did not, they never rebelled against it or tried to shake off itsfetters. Matter-of-fact, timid, faithful, capable, middle-aged,--they wereborn to be plodders rather than explorers.

  Martin admitted that to their undeviating system he owed a great measureof the comfort and tranquillity of his well-ordered house, and hence hestruggled earnestly not to complain at the bondage that resulted fromtheir cast-iron methods. Long since he had despaired of expectingadaptability from them. They must cling to their rut or all was _lost._Once out of their customary channel, and they were like tossing ships,rudderless and without an anchor.

  Their solicitude for him was another source of exasperation. There weredays when the brute in him rose and clamored to strike Mary for tagging athis heels with coats and medicines, and Eliza for her lynxlikeobservation of every mouthful he ate. But he curbed the impulse,shamefacedly confessing himself to be ungrateful.

  Had his tolerance been reenforced by insight, he would have understoodthat the very qualities which so exasperated him sprang from his sister'slaudable desire to voice a gratitude they could not put into words byneglecting no act which would promote his welfare; but Martin, alas, wasnot a psychologist, and therefore was unable to translate his annoyancesin these interpretative terms.

  In truth, what Mary, Eliza, and Jane were as individuals concerned himvery little. He always thought of them as a composite personality, a sortof female trinity.

  Nevertheless Mary, Eliza, and Jane Howe were not a trinity. They werethree very distinct beings.

  Mary had had spinsterhood thrust upon her. At heart she was a mother, awoman created to nurse and comfort. Her greatest happiness was derivedfrom fluttering about those she loved and waiting upon them. Had shedared, she would have babied Martin to an even greater extent than shedid. As it was, when she was not at his elbow with warmer socks, heaviershoes, or a cup of hot coffee, she was worrying about Mary and Eliza,brewing tonics for them, or putting burning soapstones in their beds. Itwas a pity Life had cheated her of having a dozen babies to pilot throughthe mazes of measles and whooping cough, for then Mary would have been inher element. Yet nature is a thing of inconsistencies, and through somestrange, unaccountable caprice, Mary's marital instincts stopped with thisfostering instinct. In every other respect she was an old maid. Men sheabhorred. Like Jennie Wren, she knew their tricks and their manners--orthought she did--which for all practical purposes amounted to the samething. Had it been necessary for her to prove some of the theorems sheadvanced concerning the male sex, she would have been at a loss to do so,since the scope of her experience was very limited. Nevertheless, withgenuine Howe tenacity, she clung to her tenets even though she was withoutdata to back them up.

  Eliza, on the other hand, had in her girlhood been the recipient ofcertain vague attentions from an up-State farmer, and these had bared toher virgin imagination a new world. True, the inconstant swain hadbetaken himself to the next county and there wed another. But although theaffair had come to this ignominious end and its radiance had been dimmedby the realities of a quarter of a century of prosaic life, Eliza hadnever allowed time to obscure entirely the beauty of that early dream, northe door thus opened into the fairy realms of romance to be wholly closed.Though she knew herself to be old, silver-haired, and worn, yet within thefastnesses of her soul she was still young and waited the coming of herlover. The illusion was only an illusion--a foolish, empty fantasy.However, it helped her to be content with the present and harmed no one.That Eliza had never quite "quit struggling" was borne out by the ripplesinto which she coaxed her hair and by the knot of bright ribbon she neverfailed to fasten beneath her ample chin.

  Of the trio, Jane was the best balanced. Although the youngest of thesisters, it was to her judgment they were wont to appeal in times ofstress. She was more fearless, more outspoken; and any mission sheundertook was more certain of success. Therefore, when it became necessaryto present some cause to Martin, it always fell to Jane's lot to act asspokesman. Once when a controversy concerning Ellen Webster had arisen,Jane had actually had the temerity to denounce her brother's attitude tohis face, declaring that should the old woman fall ill she would certainlygo and take care of her. Martin had met her defiance with rage. TheWebsters and all their kindred might die before he would cross theirthreshold or allow any of his family to do so. Before the violence of hiswrath, Mary and Eliza, who within their souls agreed with Jane, quailed interror; but Jane was undaunted.

  This lack of what Martin termed _proper pride_ in his sisters was a sourceof great disgust to him. He was quite conscious that although they did notopenly combat his opinions, they did not agree with him, and not onlyregretted being at odds with their neighbors but also condemned hisperpetuation of the old feud as unchristian. Hence it was a cause for muchrejoicing to his mind to reflect that one male Howe at least survived tobolster up a spineless, spiritless, and decadent generation. To love one'senemies was a weak creed. Martin neither loved them nor pretended to.Never, never, would he forgive the insults the Websters had heaped uponhis family. He wished no positive harm to Ellen Webster; but he certainlywished her no good.

  Mary, Eliza, and Jane had too much timidity and too great a craving forpeace not to conform outwardly at least to their brother's wishes.Accordingly they bent their necks to his will; for did not Martin rule thehouse?

  Had you inquired of any of the sisters the Howes' breakfast hour, youwould have been told that breakfast was served when Martin pleased. It wasthe sound of his step upon the stair that set preparations for the morningmeal in motion. So it was with every other detail of the home. When heappeared in the doorway his handmaidens sprang to serve him, and so longas he lingered beneath the roof they stayed their impatient hands from anytask that would create noise or confusion, and disturb his tranquillity.It was not until the ban of his presence was removed that they ventured toresume the mopping, dusting, or cooking in which they had been engagedbefore his entrance.

  It would have been interesting to know how Martin explained to himselfthe lack of machinery in his household, and how he reconciled thespotlessness of his home with the apparent idleness of his sisters. Hishearth was always swept; the dishes noiselessly washed; the beds made asif by magic; and the cleaning done without shadow of inconvenience to him.So long as these processes were not forced upon his consciousness and werefaultlessly performed, he accepted the results without comment. But letone cog of the wheel slip, setting the mechanism
of his comfort awry, andhe was sure to mention it.

  Possibly it was because he himself performed his out-of-door duties wellthat he demanded, and felt he had the right to demand a similar perfectionwithin doors. In fact, he drew the lines of demarkation between themasculine and feminine spheres of service so sharply that his sisterswould have died before they would have asked his aid in any domesticdifficulty. Faithfully he met every obligation he considered to be withina man's province,--bringing wood, coal, and kindlings with the courtesy ofa courtier; but the fowl browning in the oven might have burned to ebonybefore Martin would have lifted a finger to rescue it. To oversee thecooking was not his duty. No autocrat ever reigned with more absolutepower than did Martin Howe; and no monarch ever maintained a more sincerefaith in his divine right to rule. He simply set the crown of sovereigntyupon his own brows because he believed it to belong there. And had hisfaith in his destiny wavered, there were always his slaves Mary, Eliza,and Jane to bow their foreheads in the dust at his feet and murmur withtrue Oriental submissiveness:

  Oh, King, Live Forever!

  His lordship being thus acknowledged, was it any wonder that Martin castabout himself a mantle of aloofness and dignity and rated as trivial thehousehold routine and petty gossip of his sisters? When he listened totheir chatter at all it was with the tolerance of a superior being towarda less intelligent rabble.

  Hence when he returned from the field one night and was greeted by thebreathless announcement that a strange young woman with her trunk had justarrived at the Websters', it was characteristic of him to quiet theexcited outburst of his sisters with the chilling and stately reply:

  "What does it matter to us who she is, or what she's come for? EllenWebster's visitors are no concern of ours."