Part 34 (1/2)
”No, but since I woke up I do my work in about two-thirds of the time.”
”Good for you! Oh, that feller Milford has stirred up the whole country.”
”And when he gets through with that farm, madam, I'll take it. I don't think he'll stay a great while longer.”
”Why, has he said anythin' about goin' away?”
”No, but with my shrewd eye I can see that he's getting restless. But I have no time to talk to you.”
The season for breaking land and planting came, slowly through the stubborn and lingering cold, and Milford bent himself to the putting in of a large crop. His letters from Gunhild were rambling, but affectionate. She was now in Indiana. Her work in Michigan had been but partly successful. ”I'm studying so that after awhile I may teach a regular school,” she said. ”But there is so much to learn and the examination is very hard. I met a man the other day who said that he knew you. He tried to sell you a book. He said that you were very hard to deal with. I told him that you must know what you wanted. Mr.
Blakemore was here three days ago, to look at some land. He came to the house where I board, and said that he is making much money. There was a church sociable and he wanted me to go with him, but I refused. He said that I never would succeed as long as I was so particular. And I felt that you would rather I be particular than to succeed. I do not want any success that you would not like. His little boy has been sick, but is well now. They are not coming out to Rollins in the summer. They are going further away to a more fas.h.i.+onable place. Mrs. Goodwin writes to me yet, so she has not forgotten me. She says that her discovery is marvelous. She asked about you. She believes that you will be rich one of these days. I told her in my letter that I did not want to think so, but I know that she cannot understand. She will not know that I do not want you to get so far away from me. But you would not. It is a dream with me to come out there once again. I never have seen a place more beautiful. The woods here are not so full of the sketches that no one can draw, and there are no lakes scattered everywhere. I may come for one week during the vacation.”
June was cool, but July was hot, and with the change in the weather came Mrs. Goodwin and her discovery, a pale girl with long hands. The ”discoverer” sent for Milford. She was graciously pleased to meet him again. ”I am sorry we can't call back the old summer,” she said, giving him her hand. ”But the old summers never come back.” She introduced him to the musical genius, Miss Swartz. Her pale lips parted in a white smile. Milford asked her to play. Mrs. Goodwin shrugged, glanced at the piano and said: ”I can't let her touch that thing.” If Mrs. Stuvic had heard this remark she would have bundled them off down the road. But she was out in the orchard at scolding heat with a retired policeman, sent by the city to board with her during the summer. Miss Swartz languidly waved herself out of the room, and Mrs. Goodwin, motioning Milford to a seat beside her on the sofa, commanded him to tell her all about himself.
”I haven't anything of interest to tell.”
”Ah, the same close mouth. You hear from her quite often, I suppose. A strong woman. Don't you think so? I urged her to stay with me, but she thought it her duty to go away. Do you expect to reside here permanently? Gunhild likes this place so much. She's perfectly charmed with it.”
”Which question shall I answer first?”
”Did I ask more than one? I haven't seen you in so long that I must rattle on at a fearful rate.”
”I don't expect to live here permanently.”
”Not if she should request it?”
”She will not request it. Our arrangements are not yet quite clear enough for such requests.”
”Indeed? I fancied that it was all understood.”
”It is, in a way, but we must have a very serious talk before there can be--be----”
”Anything definite,” she suggested. ”Yes, I understand. But this serious talk? How can that change your plans or have any bearing upon them?”
”That is for her to decide. I had a certain object in view before she entered into any of my calculations.”
”Dear me, we are as far apart as ever. You must know that I dote upon that girl, and that consequently I am interested in you. But I needn't tell you this. You know it already.”
”Yes, and I am grateful.”
”But you will give me no hint as to what your object is. Don't you think I ought to know it?”
”She doesn't know it yet.”
”But you must have told her something.”
”A little, and she didn't urge me to tell her more.”
”Do I deserve that reproach? I hope not. Really, she and you present a singular romance.”
”It is not a romance; it's only a sort of understanding.”