He set about helping his father at the business with unaffected docility.
He tried not to pose, and he did his best to bear his loss and humiliation with manly fortitude. But his whole life had not set so strongly in one direction that it could be sharply turned aside now, and not in moments of forgetfulness press against the barriers almost to bursting. Now and then, when he came to himself from the wonted tendency, and remembered that Alice and he, who had been all in all to each other, were now nothing, the pain was so sharp, so astonishing, that he could not keep down a groan, which he then tried to turn off with a cough, or a snatch of song, or a whistle, looking wildly round to see if any one had noticed.
Once this happened when his father and he were walking silently home from the works, and his father said, without touching him or showing his sympathy except in his tone of humorously frank recognition, "Does it still hurt a little occasionally, Dan?""Yes, sir, it hurts," said the son; and he turned his face aside, and whistled through his teeth.
"Well, it's a trial, I suppose," said his father, with his gentle, soft half-lisp. "But there are greater trials.""How, greater?" asked Dan, with sad incredulity. "I've lost all that made life worth living; and it's all my own fault, too.""Yes," said his father; "I think she was a good girl.""Good!" cried Dan; the word seemed to choke him.
"Still, I doubt if it's all your fault." Dan looked round at him. He added, "And I think it's perhaps for the best as it is."Dan halted, and then said, "Oh, I suppose so," with dreary resignation, as they walked on.
"Let us go round by the paddock," said his father, "and see if Pat's put the horses up yet. You can hardly remember your mother, before she became an invalid, I suppose," he added, as Dan mechanically turned aside with him from the path that led to the house into that leading to the barn.
"No; I was such a little fellow," said Dan.
"Women give up a great deal when they marry," said the elder. "It's not strange that they exaggerate the sacrifice, and expect more in return than it's in the nature of men to give them. I should have been sorry to have you marry a woman of an exacting disposition.""I'm afraid she was exacting," said Dan. "But she never asked more than was right.""And it's difficult to do all that's right," suggested the elder.
"I'm sure you always have, father," said the son.
The father did not respond. "I wish you could remember your mother when she was well," he said. Presently he added, "I think it isn't best for a woman to be too much in love with her husband."Dan took this to himself, and he laughed harshly. "She's been able to dissemble her love at last."His father went on, "Women keep the romantic feeling longer than men; it dies out of us very soon--perhaps too soon.""You think I couldn't have come to time?" asked Dan. "Well, as it's turned out, I won't have to.""No man can be all a woman wishes him to be," said his father. "It's better for the disappointment to come before it's too late.""I was to blame," said Dan stoutly. "She was all right.""You were to blame in the particular instance," his father answered. "But in general the fault was in her--or her temperament. As long as the romance lasted she might have deluded herself, and believed you were all she imagined you; but romance can't last, even with women. I don like your faults, and I don't want you to excuse them to yourself. I don't like your chancing things, and leaving them to come out all right of themselves; but I've always tried to make you children see all your qualities in their true proportion and relation.""Yes; I know that, sir," said Dan.
"Perhaps," continued his father, as they swung easily along, shoulder to shoulder, "I may have gone too far in that direction because I was afraid that you might take your mother too seriously in the other--that you might not understand that she judged you from her nerves and not her convictions. It's part of her malady, of her suffering, that her inherited Puritanism clouds her judgment, and makes her see all faults as of one size and equally damning. I wish you to know that she was not always so, but was once able to distinguish differences in error, and to realise that evil is of ill-will.""Yes; I know that," said Dan. "She is now--when she feels well.""Harm comes from many things, but evil is of the heart. I wouldn't have you condemn yourself too severely for harm that you didn't intend--that's remorse--that's insanity; and I wouldn't have you fall under the condemnation of another's invalid judgment.""Thank you, father," said Dan.
They had come up to the paddock behind the barn, and they laid their arms on the fence while they looked over at the horses, which were still there.
The beasts, in their rough winter coats, some bedaubed with frozen clots of the mud in which they had been rolling earlier in the afternoon, stood motionless in the thin, keen breeze that crept over the hillside from the March sunset, and blew their manes and tails out toward Dan and his father. Dan's pony sent him a gleam of recognition from under his frowsy bangs, but did not stir.
"Bunch looks like a caterpillar," he said, recalling the time when his father had given him the pony; he was a boy then, and the pony was as much to him, it went through his mind, as Alice had ever been. Was it all a jest, an irony? he asked himself.
"He's getting pretty old," said his father. "Let's see: you were only twelve.""Ten," said Dan. "We've had him thirteen years."Some of the horses pricked up their ears at the sound of their voices.
One of them bit another's neck; the victim threw up his heels and squealed.
