He Fell In Love With His Wife | Page 7

He seemed possessed by a feverish impatience to banish every
vestige of those whom he had driven forth, and to restore the apartment
as nearly as possible to the aspect it had worn in former happy years. At
last, he sat down where his wife had been accustomed to sit,
unbuttoned his waistcoat and flannel shirt, and from against his naked
breast took an old, worn daguerreotype. He looked a moment at the

plain, good face reflected there, them, bowing his head upon it, strong,
convulsive sobs shook his frame, though not a tear moistened his eyes.
How long the paroxysm would have lasted it were hard to say, had not
the impatient whinnying of his horses, still exposed to the storm,
caught his attention. The lifelong habit of caring for the dumb animals
in his charge asserted itself. He went out mechanically, unharnessed
and stabled them as carefully as ever before in his life, then returned
and wearily prepared himself a pot of coffee, which, with a crust of
bread, was all the supper he appeared to crave.

Chapter II
. A Very Interested Friend
For the next few days, Holcroft lived alone. The weather remained
inclement and there was no occasion for him to go farther away than
the barn and outbuildings. He felt that a crisis in his life was
approaching, that he would probably be compelled to sell his property
for what it would bring, and begin life again under different auspices.
"I must either sell or marry," he groaned, "and one's about as hard and
bad as the other. Who'll buy the place and stock at half what they're
worth, and where could I find a woman that would look at an old
fellow like me, even if I could bring myself to look at her?"
The poor man did indeed feel that he was shut up to dreadful
alternatives. With his ignorance of the world, and dislike for contact
with strangers, selling out and going away was virtually starting out on
an unknown sea without rudder or compass. It was worse than that--it
was the tearing up of a life that had rooted itself in the soil whereon he
had been content from childhood to middle age. He would suffer more
in going, and in the memory of what he had parted with, than in any of
the vicissitudes which might overtake him. He had not much range of
imagination or feeling, but within his limitations his emotions were
strong and his convictions unwavering. Still, he thought it might be
possible to live in some vague, unknown place, doing some kind of
work for people with whom he need not have very much to do. "I've
always been my own master, and done things in my own way," he
muttered, "but I suppose I could farm it to suit some old, quiet people,
if I could only find 'em. One thing is certain, anyhow--I couldn't stay

here in Oakville, and see another man living in these rooms, and
plowing my fields, and driving his cows to my old pasture lots. That
would finish me like a galloping consumption."
Every day he shrunk with a strange dread from the wrench of parting
with the familiar place and with all that he associated with his wife.
This was really the ordeal which shook his soul, and not the fear that he
would be unable to earn his bread elsewhere. The unstable multitude,
who are forever fancying that they would be better off somewhere else
or at something else, can have no comprehension of this deep-rooted
love of locality and the binding power of long association. They regard
such men as Holcroft as little better than plodding oxen. The highest
tribute which some people can pay to a man, however, is to show that
they do not and cannot understand him. But the farmer was quite
indifferent whether he was understood or not. He gave no thought to
what people said or might say. What were people to him? He only had
a hunted, pathetic sense of being hedged in and driven to bay. Even to
his neighbors, there was more of the humorous than the tragic in his
plight. It was supposed that he had a goodly sum in the bank, and
gossips said that he and his wife thought more of increasing this hoard
than of each other, and that old Holcroft's mourning was chiefly for a
business partner. His domestic tribulations evoked mirth rather than
sympathy; and as the news spread from farmhouse to cottage of his
summary bundling of Bridget and her satellites out of doors, there were
both hilarity and satisfaction.
While there was little commiseration for the farmer, there was decided
disapprobation of the dishonest Irish tribe, and all were glad that