Seth's Brother's Wife: A Study of Life in the Greater New YorkFrederic, Harold
General
Seth's Brother's Wife: A Study of Life in the Greater New York
Frederic, Harold
Farm life -- Fiction; Journalists -- Fiction; New York (State) -- Fiction; Villages -- Fiction
John had nodded at Albert on his approach, and thrust his feet a trifle
further forward. He still stood silent, looking meditatively at the row
of poplars on the other side of the road through rings of pipe smoke.
“So you don’t think much of farm work, eh?” said Albert.
“Who does?” replied Seth, sententiously.
A considerable period of silence ensued. Albert had never had a very
high idea of his younger brothers’ conversational qualities, and had
rarely known how to talk easily with them, but to-night it seemed a
greater task than ever. He offered them cigars, in a propitiatory way.
Seth accepted and lit one; John said “Thanks, I prefer a pipe,” and
silence reigned again.
It was twilight now, and in the gathering dusk there was no sign of
motion about, nor any sound save the tinkle of a sheep-bell in the
pasture opposite.
John’s pipe burned out, and Albert pressed a cigar upon him again.
“I _want_ you to try them,” he said, almost pleadingly, “I’m sure you’ll
like them. They are a special brand the steward at the Union League gets
for me.”
This time John consented, and he seemed to feel that the act involved a
responsibility to talk, for he said, with an effort at amiability as he
struck a match:
“Your wife seems to be looking very well.”
“Yes, Isabel’s health is perfect, and it always benefits her to get out
in the country. That’s a kind of Irishism isn’t it? I mean it makes her
good health more obvious.”
“Good health is a great thing,” John answered.
The conversation was running emptings again, almost at the start. Albert
made a heroic effort to strengthen it.
“Well, this is a regular quakers’ meeting,” he said, briskly. “We see
each other so seldom, we are almost strangers when we do meet. I want to
be frank with you, come now, and you should be frank with me. You have
something on your minds, I can see. Isn’t it something I ought to know?”
Seth spoke again: “Perhaps on the evening of one’s mother’s funeral it
isn’t to be expected that even brothers should feel chatty.”
The village journalist felt the injustice of this comment from the
youngster.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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