Family life -- Fiction; Farm life -- Fiction; Marriage -- Fiction
On Monday the absorbing work of the farm was renewed, and every day
brought to Holcroft long and exhausting hours of labor. While he was
often taciturn, he evidently progressed in cheerfulness and hope.
Alida confirmed his good impressions. His meals were prompt and
inviting; the house was taking on an aspect of neatness and order long
absent, and his wardrobe was put in as good condition as its rather
meager character permitted. He had positively refused to permit his
wife to do any washing and ironing. "We will see about it next fall,"
he said. "If then you are perfectly well and strong, perhaps, but not
in the warm weather now coming on." Then he added, with a little nod,
"I'm finding out how valuable you are, and I'd rather save you than the
small sum I have to pay old Mrs. Johnson."
In this and in other ways he showed kindly consideration, but his mind
continually reverted to his work and outdoor plans with the
preoccupation of one who finds that he can again give his thoughts to
something from which they had been most reluctantly withdrawn. Thus
Alida was left alone most of the time. When the dusk of evening came
he was too tired to say much, and he retired early that he might be
fresh for work again when the sun appeared. She had no regrets, for
although she kept busy she was resting and her wounds were healing
through the long, quiet days.
It was the essential calm after the storm. Caring for the dairy and
working the butter into firm, sweet, tempting yellow rolls were the
only tasks that troubled her a little, but Holcroft assured her that
she was learning these important duties faster than he had expected her
to. She had several hours a day in which to ply her needle, and thus
was soon enabled to replenish her scanty wardrobe.
One morning at breakfast she appeared in another gown, and although its
material was calico, she had the appearance to Holcroft of being
unusually well dressed. He looked pleased, but made no comment. When
the cherry blossoms were fully out, an old cracked flower vase--the
only one in the house--was filled with them, and they were placed in
the center of the dinner table. He looked at them and her, then
smilingly remarked, "I shouldn't wonder if you enjoyed those cherry
blows more than anything else we have for dinner."
"I want something else, though. My appetite almost frightens me."
"That's famous! I needn't be ashamed of mine, then."
One evening, before the week was over, he saw her busy with a rake
about the door. Last year's leaves were still scattered about, with
twigs and even small boughs wrested by the winds from the trees. He
was provoked with himself that he had neglected the usual spring
clearing away of litter, and a little irritated that she should have
tried to do the work herself. He left the horses at the barn and came
forward directly. "Alida," he said gravely, "there's no need of your
doing such work; I don't like to see you do it."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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