toward noon old jotham blue came in from a cornfield where he had been turning the earth between the rows. although sixty-five and with snowy hair and beard he looked to be vigorous, and good to live until ninety or a hundred. his eyes were blue and keen, his color rosy. he had great broad shoulders set upon a spare waist, for he had been a handsome figure of a man in his youth.
"how do you do, mr. witla," he inquired with easy grace as he strolled up, the yellow mud of the fields on his boots. he had pulled a big jackknife out of his pocket and begun whittling a fine twig he had picked up. "i'm glad to see you. my daughter, angela, has been telling me one thing and another about you."
he smiled as he looked at eugene. angela, who was sitting beside him, rose and strolled toward the house.
"i'm glad to see you," said eugene. "i like your country around here. it looks prosperous."
"it is prosperous," said the old patriarch, drawing up a chair which stood at the foot of a tree and seating himself. eugene sank back into the hammock.
"it's a soil that's rich in lime and carbon and sodium—the things which make plant life grow. we need very little fertilizer here—very little. the principal thing is to keep the ground thoroughly cultivated and to keep out the bugs and weeds."
he cut at his stick meditatively. eugene noted the chemical and physical knowledge relative to farming. it pleased him to find brain coupled with crop cultivation.
"i noticed some splendid fields of wheat as i came over," he observed.
"yes, wheat does well here," blue went on, "when the weather is moderately favorable. corn does well. we have a splendid apple crop and grapes are generally successful in this state. i have always thought that wisconsin had a little the best of the other valley states, for we are blessed with a moderate climate, plenty of streams and rivers and a fine, broken landscape. there are good mines up north and lots of lumber. we are a prosperous people, we wisconsiners, decidedly prosperous. this state has a great future."
eugene noted the wide space between his clear blue eyes as he talked. he liked the bigness of his conception of his state and of his country. no petty little ground-harnessed ploughman this, but a farmer in the big sense of the word—a cultivator of the soil, with an understanding of it—an american who loved his state and his country.
"i have always thought of the mississippi valley as the country of the future," said eugene. "we have had the valley of the nile and the valley of the euphrates with big populations, but this is something larger. i rather feel as though a great wave of population were coming here in the future."
"it is the new paradise of the world," said jotham blue, pausing in his whittling and holding up his right hand for emphasis. "we haven't come to realize its possibilities. the fruit, the corn, the wheat, to feed the nations of the world can be raised here. i sometimes marvel at the productivity of the soil. it is so generous. it is like a great mother. it only asks to be treated kindly to give all that it has."
eugene smiled. the bigness of his prospective father-in-law's feelings lured him. he felt as though he could love this man.
they talked on about other things, the character of the surrounding population, the growth of chicago, the recent threat of a war with venezuela, the rise of a new leader in the democratic party, a man whom jotham admired very much. as he was telling of the latter's exploits—it appeared he had recently met him at blackwood—mrs. blue appeared in the front door.
"jotham!" she called.
he rose. "my wife must want a bucket of water," he said, and strolled away.
eugene smiled. this was lovely. this was the way life should be—compounded of health, strength, good nature, understanding, simplicity. he wished he were a man like jotham, as sound, as hearty, as clean and strong. to think he had raised eight children. no wonder angela was lovely. they all were, no doubt.
while he was rocking, marietta came back smiling, her blond hair blowing about her face. like her father she had blue eyes, like him a sanguine temperament, warm and ruddy. eugene felt drawn to her. she reminded him a little of ruby—a little of margaret. she was bursting with young health.
"you're stronger than angela," he said, looking at her.
"oh, yes, i can always outrun angel-face," she exclaimed. "we fight sometimes but i can get things away from her. she has to give in. sometimes i feel older—i always take the lead."
eugene rejoiced in the sobriquet of angel-face. it suited angela, he thought. she looked like pictures of angels in the old prints and in the stained glass windows he had seen. he wondered in a vague way, however, whether marietta did not have the sweeter temperament—were not really more lovable and cosy. but he put the thought forcefully out of his mind. he felt he must be loyal to angela here.
while they were talking the youngest boy, david, came up and sat down on the grass. he was short and stocky for his years—sixteen—with an intelligent face and an inquiring eye. eugene noted stability and quiet force in his character at once. he began to see that these children had inherited character as well as strength from their parents. this was a home in which successful children were being reared. benjamin came up after awhile, a tall, overgrown, puritanical youth, with western modifications and then samuel, the oldest of the living boys and the most impressive. he was big and serene like his father, of brown complexion and hickory strength. eugene learned in the conversation that he was a railroad man in st. paul—home for a brief vacation, after three years of absence. he was with a road called the great northern, already a second assistant passenger agent and with great prospects, so the family thought. eugene could see that all the boys and girls, like angela, were ruggedly and honestly truthful. they were written all over with christian precept—not church dogma—but christian precept, lightly and good naturedly applied. they obeyed the ten commandments in so far as possible and lived within the limits of what people considered sane and decent. eugene wondered at this. his own moral laxity was a puzzle to him. he wondered whether he were not really all wrong and they all right. yet the subtlety of the universe was always with him—the mystery of its chemistry. for a given order of society no doubt he was out of place—for life in general, well, he could not say.
at 12.30 dinner was announced from the door by mrs. blue and they all rose. it was one of those simple home feasts common to any intelligent farming family. there was a generous supply of fresh vegetables, green peas, new potatoes, new string beans. a steak had been secured from the itinerant butcher who served these parts and mrs. blue had made hot light biscuit. eugene expressed a predilection for fresh buttermilk and they brought him a pitcherful, saying that as a rule it was given to the pigs; the children did not care for it. they talked and jested and he heard odd bits of information concerning people here and there—some farmer who had lost a horse by colic; some other farmer who was preparing to cut his wheat. there were frequent references to the three oldest sisters, who lived in other wisconsin towns. their children appeared to be numerous and fairly troublesome. they all came home frequently, it appeared, and were bound up closely with the interests of the family as a whole.
"the more you know about the blue family," observed samuel to eugene, who expressed surprise at the solidarity of interest, "the more you realize that they're a clan not a family. they stick together like glue."
"that's a rather nice trait, i should say," laughed eugene, who felt no such keen interest in his relatives.
"well, if you want to find out how the blue family stick together just do something to one of them," observed jake doll, a neighbor who had entered.
"that's sure true, isn't it, sis," observed samuel, who was sitting next to angela, putting his hand affectionately on his sister's arm. eugene noted the movement. she nodded her head affectionately.
"yes, we blues all hang together."
eugene almost begrudged him his sister's apparent affection. could such a girl be cut out of such an atmosphere—separated from it completely, brought into a radically different world, he wondered. would she understand him; would he stick by her. he smiled at jotham and mrs. blue and thought he ought to, but life was strange. you never could tell what might happen.
during the afternoon there were more lovely impressions. he and angela sat alone in the cool parlor for two hours after dinner while he restated his impressions of her over and over. he told her how charming he thought her home was, how nice her father and mother, what interesting brothers she had. he made a genial sketch of jotham as he had strolled up to him at noon, which pleased angela and she kept it to show to her father. he made her pose in the window and sketched her head and her halo of hair. he thought of his double page illustration of the bowery by night and went to fetch it, looking for the first time at the sweet cool room at the end of the house which he was to occupy. one window, a west one, had hollyhocks looking in, and the door to the north gave out on the cool, shady grass. he moved in beauty, he thought; was treading on showered happiness. it hurt him to think that such joy might not always be, as though beauty were not everywhere and forever present.
when angela saw the picture which truth had reproduced, she was beside herself with joy and pride and happiness. it was such a testimony to her lover's ability. he had written almost daily of the new york art world, so she was familiar with that in exaggerated ideas, but these actual things, like reproduced pictures, were different. the whole world would see this picture. he must be famous already, she imagined.
that evening and the next and the next as they sat in the parlor alone he drew nearer and nearer to that definite understanding which comes between a man and woman when they love. eugene could never stop with mere kissing and caressing in a reserved way, if not persistently restrained. it seemed natural to him that love should go on. he had not been married. he did not know what its responsibilities were. he had never given a thought to what his parents had endured to make him worth while. there was no instinct in him to tell him. he had no yearnings for parenthood, that normal desire which gives visions of a home and the proper social conditions for rearing a family. all he thought of was the love making period—the billing and cooing and the transports of delight which come with it. with angela he felt that these would be super-normal precisely because she was so slow in yielding—so on the defensive against herself. he could look in her eyes at times and see a swooning veil which foreshadowed a storm of emotion. he would sit by her stroking her hands, touching her cheek, smoothing her hair, or at other times holding her in his arms. it was hard for her to resist those significant pressures he gave, to hold him at arm's length, for she herself was eager for the delights of love.
it was on the third night of his stay and in the face of his growing respect for every member of this family, that he swept angela to the danger line—would have carried her across it had it not been for a fortuitous wave of emotion, which was not of his creation, but of hers.
they had been to the little lake, okoonee, a little way from the house during the afternoon for a swim.
afterward he and angela and david and marietta had taken a drive. it was one of those lovely afternoons that come sometimes in summer and speak direct to the heart of love and beauty. it was so fair and warm, the shadows of the trees so comforting that they fairly made eugene's heart ache. he was young now, life was beautiful, but how would it be when he was old? a morbid anticipation of disaster seemed to harrow his soul.
the sunset had already died away when they drew near home. insects hummed, a cow-bell tinkled now and then; breaths of cool air, those harbingers of the approaching eve, swept their cheeks as they passed occasional hollows. approaching the house they saw the blue smoke curls rising from the kitchen chimney, foretelling the preparation of the evening meal. eugene clasped angela's hand in an ecstasy of emotion.
he wanted to dream—sitting in the hammock with angela as the dusk fell, watching the pretty scene. life was all around. jotham and benjamin came in from the fields and the sound of their voices and of the splashing water came from the kitchen door where they were washing. there was an anticipatory stamping of horses' feet in the barn, the lowing of a distant cow, the hungry grunt of pigs. eugene shook his head—it was so pastoral, so sweet.
at supper he scarcely touched what was put before him, the group at the dining table holding his attention as a spectacle. afterwards he sat with the family on the lawn outside the door, breathing the odor of flowers, watching the stars over the trees, listening to jotham and mrs. blue, to samuel, benjamin, david, marietta and occasionally angela. because of his mood, sad in the face of exquisite beauty, she also was subdued. she said little, listening to eugene and her father, but when she did talk her voice was sweet.
jotham arose, after a time, and went to bed, and one by one the others followed. david and marietta went into the sitting room and then samuel and benjamin left. they gave as an excuse hard work for the morning. samuel was going to try his hand again at thrashing. eugene took angela by the hand and led her out where some hydrangeas were blooming, white as snow by day, but pale and silvery in the dark. he took her face in his hands, telling her again of love.
"it's been such a wonderful day i'm all wrought up," he said. "life is so beautiful here. this place is so sweet and peaceful. and you! oh, you!" kisses ended his words.
they stood there a little while, then went back into the parlor where she lighted a lamp. it cast a soft yellow glow over the room, just enough to make it warm, he thought. they sat first side by side on two rocking chairs and then later on a settee, he holding her in his arms. before supper she had changed to a loose cream colored house gown. now eugene persuaded her to let her hair hang in the two braids.
real passion is silent. it was so intense with him that he sat contemplating her as if in a spell. she leaned back against his shoulder stroking his hair, but finally ceased even that, for her own feeling was too intense to make movement possible. she thought of him as a young god, strong, virile, beautiful—a brilliant future before him. all these years she had waited for someone to truly love her and now this splendid youth had apparently cast himself at her feet. he stroked her hands, her neck, cheeks, then slowly gathered her close and buried his head against her bosom.
angela was strong in convention, in the precepts of her parents, in the sense of her family and its attitude, but this situation was more than she could resist. she accepted first the pressure of his arm, then the slow subtlety with which he caressed her. resistance seemed almost impossible now for he held her close—tight within the range of his magnetism. when finally she felt the pressure of his hand upon her quivering limbs, she threw herself back in a transport of agony and delight.
"no, no, eugene," she begged. "no, no! save me from myself. save me from myself. oh, eugene!"
he paused a moment to look at her face. it was wrought in lines of intense suffering—pale as though she were ill. her body was quite limp. only the hot, moist lips told the significant story. he could not stop at once. slowly he drew his hand away, then let his sensitive artists' fingers rest gently on her neck—her bosom.
she struggled lamely at this point and slipped to her knees, her dress loosened at the neck.
"don't, eugene," she begged, "don't. think of my father, my mother. i, who have boasted so. i of whom they feel so sure. oh, eugene, i beg of you!"
he stroked her hair, her cheeks, looking into her face as abélard might have looked at héloïse.
"oh, i know why it is," she exclaimed, convulsively. "i am no better than any other, but i have waited so long, so long! but i mustn't! oh, eugene, i mustn't! help me!"
vaguely eugene understood. she had been without lovers. why? he thought. she was beautiful. he got up, half intending to carry her to his room, but he paused, thinking. she was such a pathetic figure. was he really as bad as this? could he not be fair in this one instance? her father had been so nice to him—her mother—he saw jotham blue before him, mrs. blue, her admiring brothers and sisters, as they had been a little while before. he looked at her and still the prize lured him—almost swept him on in spite of himself, but he stayed.
"stand up, angela," he said at last, pulling himself together, looking at her intensely. she did so. "leave me now," he went on, "right away! i won't answer for myself if you don't. i am really trying. please go."
she paused, looking at him fearfully, regretfully.
"oh, forgive me, eugene," she pleaded.
"forgive me," he said. "i'm the one. but you go now, sweet. you don't know how hard this is. help me by going."
she moved away and he followed her with his eyes, yearningly, burningly, until she reached the door. when she closed it softly he went into his own room and sat down. his body was limp and weary. he ached from head to foot from the intensity of the mood he had passed through. he went over the recent incidents, almost stunned by his experience and then went outside and stood under the stairs, listening. tree toads were chirping, there were suspicious cracklings in the grass as of bugs stirring. a duck quacked somewhere feebly. the bell of the family cow tinkled somewhere over near the water of the little stream. he saw the great dipper in the sky, sirius, canopus, the vast galaxy of the milky way.
"what is life anyway?" he asked himself. "what is the human body? what produces passion? here we are for a few years surging with a fever of longing and then we burn out and die." he thought of some lines he might write, of pictures he might paint. all the while, reproduced before his mind's eye like a cinematograph, were views of angela as she had been tonight in his arms, on her knees. he had seen her true form. he had held her in his arms. he had voluntarily resigned her charms for tonight; anyhow, no harm had come. it never should.
