In Harvest Time

I.

THERE had been no rain worth speaking of for seven long, long weeks, and the month was July ; yet even now, to some, the over-late showers might come over-soon.

Stock-still, high and dry in the midst of the big field on the northward-sloping hill it stood, —no less than one of those triumphs of latest modern farming machinery known as a self-binding reaper. Strangely out of key with the rest of a primitive Virginia landscape, its “ reels ” extended like the arms of a motionless windmill, its sheaf-carrier projecting on the opposite side like the fingers of a giant hand, all its complications thrust into singular prominence, it outlined it. self against a tawny background, — useless for the time being, the all-important time, out of order, if not quite broken; the bravado of its red and yellow paint changed to lowering sullenness, as if the wood and steel divined somehow that the ill wishes which from more than one quarter had hailed its unwelcome advent were seemingly fulfilled by a charm. Beyond, around the square of wheat that should have been finished yesterday, a single cradler was swinging his slow way, with a raker and binder very much behind, pausing now and then to shock. When would the grain, already injured as well as lessened by shattering, be at this rate made safe ? What disappointed hopes on one side, gratified spite on the other, did not the whole scene suggest!

“ Well, boys, all I say is this here : it sarves him ixac’ly right.”

Demeter Haye started as if struck.

Nearly all day yesterday had the click and whir of machinery fretted the air. Now, those two harvesters were working in dogged silence. General quiet prevailed ; and the words just spoken piped up shrilly above a previous indistinct murmur.

A certain road over against which she stood, as if waiting — though with attention divided — for somebody or something to come, crept sunkenly between the scorched hilly fields, seeming to shrink from the day-long glare. It was an old earth-road, much washed and worn away, the dust now ankle-deep where its stony ridges fell to a level; with a worm-fence on each hand, vine - mantled, beneath a straggling line of trees and bushes. Demeter had not known that other expectants were near, and her gaze turned from a more distant survey to where, diagonally across from her, and somewhat lower, a group of three sat on this same fence, in the shade, talking idly together.

The old man, who had spoken last, a shabby and shiftless-looking somebody, glanced humorously from one to the other of the two younger faces beside him, as he went on.

“ Since the niggers have ’most all took the’rselves off to the railroad he ’s found us mighty convenient now ’n’ ag’in ; but white hands ain’t to he ordered like niggers, nor ole Black Jackers like me drove out o’ the’r tracks by anybody, qualitybreed no mo’ ’an half - strainers. He thought, I reck’n, when he bought that thar new-fangle to take bread out o’ po’ folks’ mouths, thought he’d never be beholden ag’in to ole Lucian Crook. Now let him see! They sez’t wuz his own fault yestiddy, in bein’ so hasty about that fust hitch. Did n’t he work over it, though ! clean till Billy Shaw come back, — from fo’ o’clock till sundown ! Bill sez, when he told him ez how Mr. Jack Haye (he’s the agent, ye know, an" knows all about ’em) wuz sick in bed an’ could n’t come to fix it, why, he jest give one damn an’ stopped short. Reck’n it ’peared like Providence had failed then, ’long with the last Haye. An’ to think he could n’t git even a common reaper, but had to turn in with a cradle, nothin’ but a cradle! An’ jest one nigger boy to he’p! ”

The old fellow laughed, slapping his knee as in enjoyment of something keenly relished. One of the young men, who looked a good - natured simpleton, responded with a grin. The other, sitting a little apart, better dressed and better featured, — indeed, a model of clean-cut handsomeness, — pushed his hat further back and smiled unpleasantly.

“ Pretty big come-down, cert’n,” Demeter Haye heard him mutter, “ an’ ’t won’t be me that ’ll help him up again.”

She stood as in a dream, before her inner sight a picture not to be shut out or rubbed away. When presently her ear took note again, old Crook was again the speaker.

“ They sez, though, if’t wa’n’t fur Jack Haye bein’ right thar, so to speak, right at the railroad in Newtown, an’ bein’ so stand-uppy fur his ole neighborhood well ez new high-flyin’ ways, this here circus would n’t he comin’ now. I misdoubt if somebody’s givin’ thanks, if he knows it. Well, all I know is, whoever sent it, we ’re a-goin’. Jest to think how the last Man Jack of us is a-goin’, an’ on money she gived us extry jest a purpose ! Lord ! that gal ! Did she think I did n’t spy her game ? It’s a blessin’ they ’ve fell out, ’pears to me. Even if the land would run together purty, it’s mo’ ’an two sich tempers— (Huh ! I tell you she can’t hear !) Well, they better keep the fence up, that’s all ! When she sets them lips — jiminee ! the brier-scythe’s nothin’ to it ! An’ when he knots them eyebrows — why, rattlesnakes ! I ’ve seed him ploughin’, boys, when he warn’t twelve years old, an’ blest if they did n’t ’pear to say, ‘ I ’ll conquer this here ground or die ! ’ That’s Tillin’ham pride fur ye, — stuck up an’ stubborn in his Work ez t’others ’fore the war wuz in play. An’ now to think how stuck-up stubbornness has fell from a self-binder to a common ole-timy cradle! ”

The trio laughed again, even the dark young man, Orlando, or “ Landy ” Crook, joining in. Mistress Haye had moved a few steps away, frowning, biting her lip. Standing there, sharply erect, on her southward slant, more forward and more fortunate than that opposite one, glancing from the snugly piled wheat shocks around, left by a smaller harvest to-day completed, to the failure, the slow progress, in that other field, it must be owned that the look in her comprehensive farmer’s eye still savored more of triumph than of either neighborly or womanly commiseration. But the guilty red had crept into her cheeks. The old man had guessed aright. By adding that gift of circus money to what she fairly owed these people — her own harvest hands till noon — she had thought to make sure of their not helping Martin Tillingham on the morrow. Where now was the relish of such small revenge ?

Old Lucian Crook shifted his seat on the fence - rail with a painful grunt. “ Huh-nh ! “ he sighed. “ That show’s a long time comin’ by ! Ain’t that the ban’ screekin’ ’way off yonder? Lis’n, good! ”

His son Landy muttered shortly, “ Lord Tillin’ham whettin’ his cutter.”

The old man looked childishly disappointed. He was rambling on with a list of possible accidents which might keep them waiting till after dark, — such as the fat lady’s breaking down her wagon, or the elephant’s crashing through a bridge, — when sudden pain gripped his legs and sent him off into another subject. If there was not rain coming before the next night, he said, his bones were giving false warning. Did they see that purple - red sunset ? he asked, with a wiseacre nod. Had they noted, earlier, how sharp and thin the locust’s cry ? “ It’s ’most too late fur our cawnfield, I’m afeard ; but I tell you, boys, signs is a-p’intin’. Now we’ve turned our penny by harvestin’, let it come, if some folks ain’t so ready. I ain’t claimin’ the main credit, but if that thar snake I hung up yestiddy did n’t ” —

The thread of speech was suddenly broken.

The first distant notes of a brass band, sadly cracked and out of tune, came wailing their announcement that the expected circus and menagerie was at last drawing near on its route from the railway town several miles away to a village equally distant, where would be held the next day’s performance. The watchers by the roadside — even Mistress Haye herSelf — bent forward eagerly. Such an event was rare in these parts.

The Girl I Left Behind Me had merged into Dixie, even less tuneful, more dolefully screeching, when the band-wagon appeared, with weary-faced men, and tarnished brazen instruments catching the sunset light. Up the road behind, like an Oriental fantasy in the midst of the sober Virginian landscape, came marching the elephant in tinsel trappings much gayer than his evident mood. As for the fair creature who sat so magnificently in the gilded houdah on his back, why attempt to describe what struck even old Lucian dumb ? It was all as good an advertisement for the morrow as a third-rate circus could put forth. The piebald horses, the two camels, and the giraffes ; the open cage with a lion, and the closed ones, still more interesting because mysterious, holding presumably many more ; the huge van with the fat woman and the living skeleton inside, — hidden, yet pictured, as was also the great snake which followed ; the twoheaded calf and the pig-faced boy, — on they came and passed, a train of marvels, suggested, half revealed, or displayed. The music shrilled away in a sort of cracked ecstasy. The old man recovered breath for one last shriek of delight. Even saturnine Landy waved his hat and burst out cheering. The queer procession had filed by, — was gone.

As Demeter Haye turned presently to go, she heard a well-known voice calling out, “ Now, hooraw for the lady that’s give me the treat I’m a-goin’ to have to-morrer ! ” But she sent back neither nod nor smile. Martin Tillingham was still in his harvest field, still busy, and now alone, his figure dark and stubborn in the waning light. She glanced upward. The sky still paled round three sides of the horizon, smiled in amethystine mockery overhead ; seeming to reflect those uplifted eyes in hard brightness as well as blueness, and — yet was it indeed unpromising, unyielding dryness also ? Was there really no hint of future moisture lurking in either ? Over the two housetops within view, her own and her nearest neighbor’s, the evening smoke was settling down. A buzzard flapped low and heavily across her path. Her foot struck against a toad blinking up as in mysterious anticipation, and not three steps off she spied another. The notes of the retreating band, the cry of a kildee, even the squeaks of field-mice in her new-made shocks, came with curious, vibrant distinctness. Was this all that promised and threatened ? Above the wooded mountain westward, where it had been brazen yellow this time yesterday, for days and weeks past, what meant that purplish - crimson haze? What meant that look in the face turned at last so resolutely homeward ? A fair face it was, both in features and in coloring. On the compressed red lips, the pale though healthy cheeks, even on the hair,—just the color of a sickle-ripe wheat-field, and pinned sheaf-like behind, crispy bright, yet straight to harshness, — drought would seem to have laid a feverish hand of late, scorching the very eyes ; yet now — might not something dried out, missing here, be found again, as well as harvest guerdon lost? Might not yonder luckless neighbor, after all, hope for rain from this blue as well as fear it from that other ? There was not even a drop of dew yet. Hot and dry the air still felt, lifeless and brooding. Yet certain late words seemed to return and repeat themselves : —

“ I tell you the signs is a-p’intin’.”

II.

“ Have you noticed the spring ? ”

As the speaker stood just outside the door of an old stone “ spring-house,” or dairy, at a rough table, rinsing and cooling the earthen crocks, making ready for their white-brimming flood to come, she showed to advantage, — a stout, comely young woman, black - browed, ivorytoothed, and ruddy-cheeked. Her arms, bare to the elbow, were as brown as they were shapely. Her sunbonnet, backward dangling by its strings, revealed a throat well-nigh as brown, and hair like a crow’s wing. On the whole, no greater contrast could have been presented than that between this maid and the mistress, who, pausing on her way homeward, had just been greeted by the foregoing question.

“ The spring! What about the spring, Tellie ? ”

Tellie Acres flashed a darkly knowing glance over one shoulder, as she carefully dried a well-cooled crock.

“ You know how low’t was this time yestiddy ! Well, jest look at it now ! ”

Demeter Haye had seated herself on the mossy stone which topped the spring’s rough sheltering masonry. She bent over and glanced beneath. Never before had the water been so low as of late. Now it had risen a foot, and was gliding away out of sight under the building, through the channel half dry yesterday, with a ripple like an echo of April. “ Ah-h-h ! ” she breathed softly, lifting her head.

Tellie pointed a finger toward the low, dark doorway near.

“Now jest reach in yonder,” said she, “an’ lay yo’ hand on the flags.”

The floor was so clean that no one need have hesitated. Around three sides of its square of broad, irregular flagstones, smoothed by a century’s wear and washing, ran the water-trench, now darkling in twilight, with crocks and jars, big and little, half sunken in orderly array. As Mistress Haye, kneeling on the doorsill, stooped and laid her palm inside, it felt suddenly moist and cool. The flags were sweating. She drew back and stood up.

Tellie raised her strainer over a pan, and, with the dignity of a priestess at the altar, dipped a foaming cupful of milk from one of the big pails waiting near.

“ Well,” she said, “ I reck’n you know what that means, too ! An’ now lis’n! You hear that mount’n roarin’ ! ”

They were vaguely troubled eyes that Demeter turned toward the long, curved outline of hills, still greenish-black against the dying sunset. Amid the evening’s other, louder noises she had failed to notice this sigh, not roar, which now asserted itself, a yearning, wistful sound as of east wind. Yet not a treetop quivered overhead. The night was falling absolutely still. She knew what this meant, also.

“ The parlor hearth’s ’most as damp as them flags,” broke in Tellie Acres briskly. “I went in awhile ago an’ felt it. The kitchen chimley’s a-smokin’. The black gnats are swarmin’ in the cowpen. The spring-drain down there, other side, is all alive with wrigglin’ things that ’pear like they’d been asleep an’ jest woke up.

I heard a rain-crow in the swamp jest now. If we don t have some rain befo’ to-morrer night, an’ some fresh grass soon for them cows, why, my name ain’t Martella Sarella Acres ! ”

Demeter Haye gave a faint laugh. “ Well, ’t won’t come before it’s needed, Tellie, anyhow.”

Tellie looked at her keenly from under leveled black brows.

“ There’s few in these parts don’t know that, I reck n, miss, even if some don’t quite want it. I can’t say I’m sorry it s comin’ at last. I’m glad you’ve got yo’ wheat in shock. But I’m sorry for them that can’t be so glad. I reck’n I know how Mr. Tillin’ham feels. You think he would n’t give the worth o’ that there wheat fo’ times over rather ’an see it shatterin’ in the rain, or mebbe beat flat in mud, a spite to heaven well as himself? You pridin’ yo’self on bein’ a farmer, too ! Don’t make out to me you don’t know better, miss! I’ve got no land myself, never set up for a land-lover, but would I see that garden I’ve been workin’ go to ruin befo’ my eyes for any money? He ain’t worth ownin’ a piece of God’s earth that sets no mo’ ’an money value on what grows out of it; but Mr. Tillin’ham’s another sort, an’ when I think o’ him now, offerin’ double wages, an’ not one soul stirrin’ finger ” — Tellie’s breath failed suddenly. Her nether lip quivered. She lifted and drained the pail, now nearly empty, with a trembling hand.

“ Martella,” said the lady, her voice clear and cold as ice, “ do not trouble yourself about Mr. Tillingham. Are you going to the show to-morrow ? ”

Tellie wrung out a wet linen cloth as if wringing the neck of her worst enemy.

“ Show ! miss ! ” she cried scornfully. “Not I! Thanky all the same, an’ Miss Phyllis too, for leave. I don’t say I did n’t want to go once, but now, if jest fairly dyin for it, I d stay home till kingdom come befo’ goin’ with Landy Crook. A black-tempered turn-traitor.

I’ve sent him “bout his business. ‘ Don’t talk to me ’bout love,’ I said, ‘where there ain’t common gratitude. Don’t bemoan havin’ nothin’ to marry a wife on when you can turn ’gainst yo’ best friend.’ If anybody else would ha’ stood the Crooks long as Mr. Tillin’ham, — givin’ ’em work when other gent’men set the very niggers above ’em, an’ bearin’ with Uncle Luce’s smarty talk an’ Jim’s no-senseness well as Landy’s sulks, — why, it’s mo’ ’an I know. He’s been the’r best friend many a time ; an’ now, ’cause he’s made ’em mad by showin’ hisself not beholden, but for that fix gittin’ wrong somehow, now with Mr. Jack sick, they go off to a monkey show, an leave him this way, — Landy the worst one, ’cause with him ’t ain’t for pleasure, but jest spite. It ’ll serve him right, when he comes to his senses,” — but the quiver here contradicted the words, — “jest serve him right if Mr. Tillin’ham never forgives it.”

“ Martella, I won’t listen any longer. You ’re a goose to go on so, — part with your sweetheart. He’s a worthy young man, and the best farm-hand I know. If you say too much, we ’ll have to part with you.”

But Tellie’s blood was up above her awe of this tall, pale young lady, so much more formidable than another who ruled indoors. That this other, too, often sallied out, that a second listener had even now come within hearing, neither she nor Demeter took note of as she went on : —

“Well, I can go at the end o’ my month, miss. I’m nothin’ but a hired girl, doin’ darky’s work, I know; but a crow can talk to a eagle, if its tongue’s only slit, an’ now I’m goin’ to talk some to you. Don’t say nothin’ to me ’bout turnin’ ’gainst my sweetheart after yo’ turn against yo’s. Best farm-hand in this whole world Landy may be, but let him cradle his six acres a day “ —

“ Five acres and a half, Martella.’

“Well, it’s all one to me. But ungrateful will be unfaithful, too, some time or other. I don’t know what’s come between you an’ Mr. Tillin’ham — them cattle on the wheat last spring, or not — any mo’ ’an I know what about that binder business has come between

Miss Phyllis an’ Mr. Jack. Maybe she thought, after takin’ up yo’ quarrel, how Mr. Jack had n’t no right, not bein’ able to give you a self-binder, to be sellin’ one to Mr. Tillin ham. I don’t know, I’m sho’, an’ ’t ain’t none o’ my business; but don’t I know you an’ Mr. Tillin’ham was sweethearts well as them two ’fore you fell out somehow ’bout somethin’ ? Have n’t I seed you two together in that very field where you ’re so proud now to git ahead o’ him, seed you walkin’ an talkin’ same as turtle-doves in May ? Have n’t I seed you at lambin’ time an’ calvin’ time consultin’ like nurses over babes, an’ lookin’ over the stock-book, Sunday evenin’s, with yo’ cheeks bare one inch apart, not to speak o’ stirrin’ up poultices for that sick colt last winter, on the kitchen hearth, with fingers fairly touchin’ ? Many’s the time, even befo’ Mr. Jack left, when you ’d ha’ been lost without Mr. Tillin’ham’s help. A fine reward you ’re givin’ him now for all that, well as the hard fight he’s had on his own hook, — debts to pay on land half out in the common, an’ nary hand to trust hut his own. When most other young gent’men - born, nigh his age, went off West, one after t’other, was n’t it told what he said, how he’d stick by ole Virginia an’ the ground that was a’ready his, an’ make the best of ’em both ? Ain’t he nigh the only one left, too? Even yo’ onliest own brother, miss, — like you as twins, — he got tired, an’ took off to somethin’ else ; though I’ll say for Mr. Jack that he stands by ole friends if he don’t by ole land. Nobody livin’ — sister nor sweetheart — will ever get him to take up fool quarrels. If he’s had anything to do, sho’ ’nough, with sendin’ that show, I lay he ’ll wish he had n’t; an’ if ’t was ole times now, with him back here, I lay he’d be out yonder in that field, jest as I’ve a great mind myself. As for Mr. Tillin’ham, miss, it’s a chance you don’t deserve ag’in. I did think once how, with you so well matched, queenin’ it to yo’ heart’s content on that nice big place, an’ Miss Phyllis where she b’longs, with Mr. Jack, how mebbe this here would be for rent, an’ me an’ somebody else — Never mind, though. That’s over an’ done now, so ’t ain’t for myself I’m speakin’, but my say I '11 have clean out. If you thought, when you give that money to Uncle Luce an’ Jim to-day, jest to git ’em out o’ the way o’ helpin’ anybody to-morrer, thought I did n’t ” —

“ Martella Acres ! ”

Mistress Demeter Haye had risen before. She stood up now in the twilight, a pale embodiment of coming storm.

“ I’m going to the house now,” she said, in a low but terribly clear tone. If you want to keep your place here, I advise ” —• But no further did she get. A hand from behind, laid lightly yet firmly on her arm, pulled her around to meet a pair of brown eyes, moist with tears yet shining with laughter, while another hand held out to Tellie the blue-flowered milk-pitcher to be filled. The girl, who had come downhill from the house a few moments before, had been pausing, listening. Her very pretty and rather roguish face was flushed. Her pink upper lip looked a bit tremulous. Even the short brown curls on her uncovered head seemed new swept by this breeze.

4t Come, cousin Meety,” she said incisively, though with a slight catch at the beginning. "It’s harder on you than me, I know, but plain truth for once won’t hurt either.”

The windows of Demeter Haye’s bedroom — small, deep-set casements in a gable end, close under a mossy, shingled roof — commanded a view of that harvest-field where Martin Tillingham had not long since ceased toiling by himself, when, an hour or so later, she turned away from one of them, from the outside brooding dark, struck a match, and lit her lamp.

Her neck and eyes ached with unconscious straining forward. A print from the lichened sill cross-marked her cheek. In the next room she heard her cousin, Phyllis Haye, moving about as if making ready for bed, and Tellie Acres downstairs closing doors and window’s for the night. How late was it? how long had she been there outgazing ? Demeter wondered vaguely. But she did not feel like sleeping.

The next thing she did was to open a drawer in a little, carved, old-fashioned bureau, and take out certain articles lately thrust away therein as never more to be looked at.

They were trifles not worth giving back to Martin Tillingham, along with more valuable gifts, — a ring, for instance, and an enameled bracelet. There was a new remedy for stone bruises on horses’ feet, written in a stiff, unpracticed hand on the blank side of an old envelope ; a giant ear of dark-red Indian corn nested in mistlike autumn grasses ; some arrowheads of whitest flint, ploughed up in that very field out yonder ; a lump of copper ore from the vein common to both places, which was some day to make them both rich ; some tiny sample bottles of fertilizer, price - marked and branded ; a bunch of improved oats, — these were all. Kneeling on the floor, she slowly drew forth one after another, as also the memories by each revived.

What was that in her eyes {though not yet overbrimming) when a faint, distant sound, the voice of Tellie’s rain-crow, presently roused her ?

III.

“ They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”

The words, or rather the memory of them, came to Martin Tillingham like a mocking echo.

His heart was swelling bitterly against hard fortune? as he strode across the scorched and crackling stubble through the heat of afternoon, — strode from a hasty, solitary meal back to his task.

To this had his hopes, his strivings, come. Had he not tried always to be generous as well as just, to bear with cross-grained humor as well as idleness and stupidity ? Had he ever overworked, overdriven, any one but himself, ever underfed or underpaid ? And yet in this perverse little world of his, where just now nobody would work for either love or money, what availed all this — any more than his long perseverance, his loyalty to the soil from which he had sprung, any more than the comparative wealth fairly won — to lift him above the roughest manual toil, and that at last literally single-handed ? His blood grew fiercely hot, then cooled again. What was the use, after all, now of any more making or saving ? Pride of lover and husbandman had been alike bitterly wounded. It was only the born landowner’s instinct, the very pure passion for what he had planted and seen grow, seen whiten to harvest beneath his eyes, that drew him once more afield. “ First the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear.” He could not, could not give it up. The year-old plan of planting, slowly developed month by month, hand in hand with Nature herself ; the influence of changeful, subtly unfolding days,— dewy morns, sun-steeped noons, mellow eves ; cold that strengthened, heat that ripened, earth-sap that fed, cried to his heart and hand for fulfillment of promise now. As Tellie had said, he would gladly give four times the price of the grain to see it saved. He could no more help going back to it than he could help dreaming at night of Demeter Haye.

“ Can I be any he’p to you, sir ? ”

He stopped, and turned with a painful start out of his absorption.

“ Can’t I be some he’p to you ? ”

It was Tellie Acres’ voice, quick, eager, high-pitched, as well as Tellie Acres’ self there near him ; yet with what subtle, slightly tremulous half-suggestion of another, quite different, did not the tone all at once come, with what a sense of curious unreality did it thrill him through ! Instead of answering, he stood looking at the speaker, keenly, though as one who slips back into haze. At the moment neither took note of a third person, who, stealing from a third direction, between the wheat-shocks, paused suddenly, a good way off, as if doubting, half frightened, half angry. The young farmer’s eyes were bent on the girl, as she stepped briskly a little nearer.

It struck Martin Tillingham that even in those few steps before she stopped again, Tellie’s characteristic prance, accentuated to a degree which at any other time would have amused him, contrasted rather queerly with a certain furtive guiltiness suggested by her half-averted face, her bent and sunbonneted head. But there was no mistaking that pink beruffled bonnet, flapping limply in the damp breeze, any more than the hand grasping, holding it together over the lower part of the face. The sheepskin mitten on this hand, the stout heavy leathern shoes on the feet, the coarse cotton frock, all looking ready for rough service, — did not he know to whom they belonged ? If the form inside would seem to be a little less sturdy than when last — Pshaw ! Was he losing his head ? Was this not Tellie Acres ? What sane reason for doubt was, could there be ? As for the voice, however pleasant the idea, the fancy prompted by its new softer note, by the rather puzzling hint of penitence somehow given, it was certainly not that one ; and who else but —

“ If you ’re deef, sir, or dumb, I can go ! ”

“ Who was it that sent — gave you leave to come, Tellie ?”

“ If I choose to come on my own hook,” — the girl’s tone was now simply fierce and sharp, — “ is it anybody’s business? I ’m free, white, an’ twenty-one, I reck’n, if I am hired out doin’ darky’s work ! It’s all done now till milkin’time, anyhow. I’ve got the whole evenin’ befo’ me. Even if the young ladies did n’t want me to come ” —

“ Ah-h-h ! ” broke in Martin Tillingham.

His face flushed, then faded into its usual sunburn, as he picked up his cradle, and drew a whetstone hissingly along its already keen blade. The slender ashwood “ fingers ” quivered like reeds. That third person aforementioned had sidled a few steps nearer behind him, close up in the shadow of the broken reaper hard by, and, carefully keeping out of sight, seemed straining to hear. The mingled alarm, surprise, and indignation of countenance had given way to a gleam of seeming amusement.

“ I want to show you there’s somebody in the world willin’ to lend you a hand — in human kindness, if no mo’ ” —• Tellie cut keenly, indeed shrilly, into the hush which had somehow emphasized itself. “I can rake an’ bind, an’ if I choose to do it I ’ll not be waitin’ anybody’s leave. Look a-yonder over the mount’n, sir, an’ you ’ll see there’s no mo’ time to lose.”

He glanced up and around.

The day had been so far clear, a sort of sickly, sultry clearness. The sun still glared, casting black shadows; its earlier copperish tinge sullenly deepened ; but the purple-gray density round the horizon, north, south, and east, hung curtain-wise. Westward, above the mountain, the banked-up haze which had been massing for several hours past was taking a distinctly cloudlike shape, — fawncolored and opaque low down, with shifting misty white on the upper edge. Dead calm had prevailed since early morning. Now the wheat-heads were swaying in a new-sprung level east wind which suggested by its clinging a damp garment. He went back to his whetting with hand as well as lip all at once a bit unsteady.

“ You are very kind, Tellie,” he said huskily, “ and I’d like to finish this in time. It’s no work for any sort of woman but a strapping darky, but you seem strong, and if ” —

“Reckon I ’ll lend a hand, too, Martin.”

Martin Tillingham turned, with another. more violent start.

The low, rather muffled drawl not far away was that of an old and well-known friend, yet again ! And this time, how near home ! Late overwork and worry had told on his nerves, he felt, as dazzling sun-glare for three days past on his eyesight ; yet could these two facts, even added to looking now full against the sun at one who stood in shadow, with face only lazily half turned towards him, account for this second strange impression ? It was Jack Haye’s own scowl (by no means constant, yet at times decided) between the full red eyebrows which helped to give unlikeness in likeness to his sister ; Jack Haye’s mass of red curls just visible above the eyebrows, beneath a great slouching rush hat-brim ; his sunbrowned skin contrasting with these salient color touches. Though a silk handkerchief tied somewhere on the head hid ears, chin, and part of one cheek, the mouth, — red-shaded, too, by an incipient mustache, at which a hand was fumbling, — this seemed also Jack’s. Yet what diminishing, refining change had as it were laid touch on this face as well as form ? To be sure, young Haye was a slim fellow at best, but could such a short spell of illness have done all this ? Was it real, however, or imaginary ? Did the old gray flannel shirt, with collar pulled up so high, the old corduroy trousers, hang indeed with unusual ill-fitting largeness, or was this idea his own fancy ? Had those old leather corn - shucking gloves (what was Jack doing with them on now, anyhow, even in this other long-discarded rig-out ?) always been so much toe big, apparently, for the hands inside ? And here, too, in voice and face the hint of penitent appeal! What had this, his last, most trusted friend done, said, or thought to be sorry for ? Tellie, after a halffrightened start, a long look across the other’s shoulder, gave a low “ Ah-h-h ! ” as of unmistakable recognition, — nay, more, which would seem to follow the solving of some late puzzle, — and, turning, walked several steps away. Martin Tillingham stood as in a dream.

“ Is that you, Jack ? ”

The answer came more lazily drawling than before : “ More me than anybody else, I reckon.”

“ How in the name of mischief did you get — how long have you been here ? ”

Jack Haye seemed to brace himself up with a sudden effort.

“ Walked over from home.” said he, “ while ago. Been here long enough to take a look at this thing. Sorry to tell you, but — afraid — take me good deal longer to fix it than — you — finish cradling — wheat.”

Martin Tillingham was staring hard at the speaker. His hand went now mechanically to his forehead. Something faded out of his face. It would seem that this last disappointment had been too much for him.

“ Are you sure ? ” be asked.

“ Sorry — but sure as —name’s — Haye. Want help — finish now ? ”

Martin Tillingham fetched another long breath. Then, as his eyes slowly withdrew themselves, went back to the last slow but sure resort, the primitive implement in his hand, the fever of haste seemed to kindle in them, to glow anew.

“ Well, I’m not so badly off as I was this morning,” he said. “ Here ’s a band for the shocking, anyhow. Every man and boy in the neighborhood lias taken himself off to-day — even Landy Crook — to that confounded show. Don’t feel bad about its happening so, if you really did encourage the people to come, — feel as if you ought to make up this way ; though of course any help is welcome. It’s like old times to see you in that rig, — except the face part. What’s the trouble ? But never mind, so ’t is n’t your hand ! Stop as soon as you ’re tired, mind ! I ’ll pitch in now, right away. With you to rake and bind awhile, and Tellie here to shock, it seems we ought to get through ! ”

“ You can do the shockin’, sir.”

It was with curious avoidance of eye, curious distance of tone, that Tellie, still holding the bonnet over her face, spoke to her companion in friendly helpfulness. He heard, started slightly, gave a long, hard look: then a smile, not to be suppressed, rippled over the countenance under the hat-brim, as its owner drawled slowly, “ No, that’s your part. I ’ll rake and bind.”

“ When folks come stealin’ up like rogues an’ listenin’ like dumb fools to others makin’ fair an’ square offers, they need n’t expect to step in an’ upset things with jest one lordly word, if they have got on breeches. Besides, sir ” (the tone grew openly humorous), “ a sick man jest out o’ bed ! Give me that rake ! ”

It was hard to believe that even Tellie Acres’ effrontery could quite reach this point. She stretched out a hand, though for some reason shaking, resolute. Each stood with face studiously averted ; hut the other’s hand almost met Tellie’s in obstinate resistance.

“ I will rake and bind ! ”

“ Whether I give in or no, sir ? Well, we ’ll see ! ”

“ I will be next him ! Nobody shall work between us. I — why, girl, am I not the man ? A man tote sheaves after a girl’s binding! Here ! Let alone !

What strange, new humility, even with this stubborn self-assertion, could have come over the young man ? What new childish perversity prompted Tellie Acres’ next puzzling words, her next willful grasp at the rake ?

“ Won’t them that change their mind so far, all at once, one way, maybe change back again another ? Won’t them that find love so soon after losin’ it maybe lose again ? Is Tellie Acres one to change her mind ? No, sir! Whatever some fool women may do. I let you know she ain’t that sort any mo’ an a man like you. Here! ”

No answer from that other, already bent, half kneeling, at his task. The cumbersome gloves had been flung aside, the muffling handkerchief pulled off. With back to his vexing tormentor, head down, he was binding the swiftly gathered sheaf, if less skillfully than one might expect from a farmer bred, yet with touches both firm and quick. The cradler was already well ahead. No time to be lost. But as Tellie stood waiting, with both hands now free for her own humbler part, it would seem as if she could not resist the temptation to one more piece of impertinence.

“ Tellie Acres is counted as quick as most,” she said, as if in half soliloquy, “an’ ’bout as sharp-sighted, too; but the quick way some folks can git out o’ clo’es an’ in again beats her worse ’n the way they do it without her seein’ ’em. ’T would ha’ took ’most as long to find them ole clo’es, ’pears to me, an’ fish ’em out o’ the garret, as to git into ’em; an’ how you managed it, man, ’tween the time I left that house an’ the time you must ha’ left to be here now, — a sick man jest out o’ bed, too, — why, it beats Martella Sarella Acres ! ”

It was about this hour that somebody who had been long pausing in the dust of the main road just outside Martin Tillingham’s gate turned away from it and went toward the railway station, on an errand which he hoped might, if successful, atone for lack of courage to enter alone. He had said yesterday more than one hard “ no,” this dark-browed Landy, — one still harder this morning. Was it “ no “ that he himself feared now ?

IV.

Almost done!

The sun had long ago stared a redeyed farewell over the topmost edge of the cloud, though the heat, hardly at all abated, only thickened into seeming tangibility, clogging nostrils, weighting eyelids, pressing out sweat like tears. Yet what matter if garments were clinging, wetted through and through! If arms and backs bad ached and heads had reeled, as those two behind strained every sinew to keep well up with the swish of the falling grain, sounding fainter and further ahead, still unfailing, unfaltering, in stubborn emulation, each had pressed doggedly on : sheaf after sheaf, more and more trimly tied, the binding wisp of straw more skillfully spliced, under-doubled each time; shock after shock, in fair and fairer array, they had left in their wake. And now, whatever it might be, self-assertion or simple human kindness, giving vigor to Tellie’s grasp and stride, what must it be, what joy of hope, what upflash of yet dearer atoning impulse, which nerved to such deftness, such steel - like strength, the hands that raked and bound!

And the cradler ! Still his arm kept time. Was it nerved by that new joy or pain, new hope or disappointment, as the broad swaths fell beneath its swing? This was not quite the sympathy which he craved most, not the service he had most right to command, yet both service and sympathy were his. She did not care any more than Phyllis Haye, any more than Landy Crook. Lover’s love, its talks and walks, its looks and dreams, had come at last to this, as well as lifelong friendliness, as past kindly favors. His blade hissed keenly at the thought through the crackling severed stems. And yet, even against ill will, good will had come. Why now go on caring as he did ? That new note in Tellie Acres’ voice, repeated, deepened, in Jack’s, that hint of penitent appeal which so strangely reminded him of her, still impenitent, — why should it so have set his veins athrob ? Could he not put this ache away, forget ? There were other women, no less than men, besides those who had failed him, wounded. Why should not the help of one here, maid or mistress, freely offered in his hour of need, bring for him its suggestion of sweet might-be as well as bitter-sweet might-have-been ? If the mere human bond even now (though never so dear before) would not quite satisfy, might he not yet find the right one, his own ? Why should he still go hungry ? Life’s harvest must he saved. Had he not sown in grief ? Could not he now win gayly home, bringing his sheaves ?

The wind’s murmurous whispers had risen little by little to an incessant sobbing wail, heavy with unshed tears, — tears of infinite yearning, yielding, and promise. Level and undeviating as a crow’s flight, it swept now across the hilltop, telling its tale of moist, low lands, sedgy marsh, and reed-edged water. Closing his eyes a moment, with its breath on his forehead, there came to him a vision of mist, half lifted from gray, sliding reaches ; of dank green waste, shoulder-high with strange, coarse, bristling growths. The wild, shrill clamor of water-fowl, the lowing of fen-fattened bullocks, the rustle of fibrous spears and dip of oars, stole to his mind’s ear, dreamfaint from afar as the echoes of childhood’s rainy days (or perchance days still further back) borne lifelong on the wings of this same east wind. “ Poto - mac ! Po-to-mac ! ” the bullfrogs croaked from their pools. “ Ches-a-peake ! Ches-apeake ! ” shrilled the rain-crows in the swamps. From the older ground where his fathers had been toiled for came a greeting now to him who toiled. One moment, then again reality. The wheat, heaving like a miniature lake, shrinking ever smaller, was gathering into its last embrace the startled, wondering wild little things which still sought shelter there.

Bright, tiny eyes peeped out at him, and faintly squeaking voices piped up remonstrance. The tail of a slender, shining green snake slipped out of sight, then gleamed again. His nostrils seemed to be drawing in smoke. The sunburnt air was yielding to moisture, with pungent Indian - summer suggestions of a sprinkling on hot embers. From a wood’s edge not far away a shower of prematurely yellowed leaves came fluttering afield. Over a shadowless landscape, where each tree and fence stood out with dull leaden emphasis, stretched a shadowy sky, — one cloud, north, south, east, and west. All this he noted without break or pause in those long, swinging strokes, until — Why, what was this ? So near the last, to reel and sicken this way ! Ah, he knew those queer, light-headed sensations, for all they had seemed to pass — It was his last clear though broken thought as the sudden dead weight of the cradle brought his arm, himself, down to one knee.

“ Take the cradle. Take it, and finish, Mr. Jack.” were the first words that he heard distinctly, sounding queerly distant, though the gently mocking tone was just overhead. “ He’s coming to, with the water. To think of that poor little spring not being dry. and turning out so handy ! My, how I flew there and back ! He ’ll soon be right again now, hut not for cradling, surely. Mow lucky you ’re here, — a man ! ”

That was not Tellie Acres’ voice. Was this really Jack Haye behind, supporting him, — a man’s arm under him, a man’s shoulder and breast ? Ah ! this was too bad, or good. As he pushed away impatiently. perhaps somewhat ungratefully, the wet kerchief with which a hand from above was touching his face, stood up, and turned around, even his rising shame and vexation with himself paled before these questions, which were answered this time past mistake.

In the ancient, creaking buggy, whitybrown with dust, which, drawn by a whity-brown horse no less ancient, had carried the whole Crook family that morning on their frolic, there was just now approaching slowly across the stubble from homeway, to meet Martin Tillingham’s gaze, a pale, handsome, red-haired young man, with a limp, forward lean of body and a rather injured expression of countenance. Judging by this last (before its change to sudden amazement), it must have cost to-day not only the effort on his own part, which aforesaid paleness and limpness would suggest, but still more persuading on the part of another, to bring Jack Haye away from his lounging-chair, if not bed, for any piece of business, however urgent. It was hard to fancy Landy Crook as a pleader, but in the face of the man just behind, running alongside the three harnessed horses, ready for their now light and small task, one might read that he had for once played the part ungrudgingly. Despite the surprise which predominated, as, like the other, he halted and stood gazing at the scene before him, there was still enough left of what, after fretting his heart, spoiling his pleasure all day long, had finally prompted this atonement, to set him right even in the eyes of somebody who, hastening from an opposite direction, halted too, paused in the very act of raising a large umbrella, and gave to her feelings a brief exclamatory vent, ending with the name “ Martella Sarella Acres.” To the master of the field, did even this last sturdy figure, any more than the first, seem now quite real? If, of all present, even one, one still kneeling beside him, was no dream, he gave hint only by keeping his eyes away.

V.

When, awhile later. Martin Tillingham came back from driving barnward the after all triumphant machine, — by those few needed expert touches restored, fitted for future greater conquests as well as this last small one, and seeming already to glory in the same, — the notes of a certain brass band, heard once before in this story, were making themselves again audible, and Tellie Acres, in the ancient buggy, with her sweetheart, under her umbrella, was hastening to view the hurriedly returning train. Mistress Phyllis Haye, with sunbonnet in band, damp curls only a little more tumbled than usual, and a shawl on one arm, was walking demurely homeward beside the old playmate whose good opinion she had at least partly worked for and gained. That one who had promised to wait was all alone, waving a signal of welcome, safely cloaked in the waterproof which Tellie had not forgotten, and seated on a heap of her own sheaves.

The big hat had fallen back ; the cleverly dyed and massed tresses slipped down. Through the stain still mottling her cheeks a blush flamed out. The Venetian-red smudge of a mustache was gone, washed away from her rosy upcurved lip. She was laughing when he came up, the kind of laughter that verges upon sobs. Her eyes sparkled like stars through mist. Her hands hung helplessly. On the back of one, the right one, some field brier had left its mark, — a scratch, a smear of blood. Martin Tillingham knelt on the stubble and bent his lips to the spot.

She burst into tears.

When he lifted his face again, a few drops, big and heavy, were glistening on hair and forehead; whether from her eyes or the bending clouds above would have been hard to decide. Across the mountain, like a veil of softest gauze, came slowly on the rain, now only for good. The last sheaf had been tied, the last shock securely piled, — the harvest saved.

A. M. Ewell.