Читать книгу Fighting Stars - H. A. Cody - Страница 5
ОглавлениеFIGHTING STARS
"An' there are others besides Sisera, let me tell ye that, Sarah."
"For land's sake! what are you talking about, Henry?"
"Old Sisera, of course. Didn't ye hear the parson read about him to-day?"
"Certainly I did, and I am glad that for once you were awake to listen."
"Oh, my sleepin' time hadn't come when the parson read about the stars fightin' ag'inst Sisera. It's the sermon I generally sleep through, fer the parson is mighty long-winded, an' when he gits on to them patriarchs an' prophets I jist can't keep me eyes open. It must be the dust he shakes out of them old fellers that makes me so tarnation sleepy."
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Henry, for talking that way. But what kept you awake to-day?"
"It was that story about Sisera an' them stars, as I have jist told ye."
"They must have made a deep impression upon you. They are old enough to put you to sleep, if that was what you needed."
"I know that, Sarah. But fer all that, I was wide awake. I couldn't help feelin' sorry fer Sisera. The stars fought ag'inst him jist as they have allus fought ag'inst me. I've told ye over an' over ag'in that I was born under an unlucky star. But since the parson read that story to-day I've come to the conclusion that I was born under several unlucky stars, an' they've been fightin' ag'inst me all me life."
"H'm, I don't believe the stars have anything to do with your luck, Henry. It's your own fault, I guess."
Mr. and Mrs. Winters were on their way from church, walking slowly along the road toward their own home, known far and wide as "Red Rose Cottage," from the profusion of roses in the garden. Henry generally complained about the length of the service, and how tired and sick he was at being dragged out to church every Sunday. But on this bright summer afternoon he was in excellent spirits, as he had come across something at last which gave him great comfort. He had always known that luck was against him, and now he could prove it from the Bible. There was Sisera of ancient days against whom the stars fought. He was certain that Sarah could not deny the fact, as she pinned her faith upon Holy Scripture, and never doubted a single word in that sacred Volume.
"Ye believe the Bible, don't ye, Sarah?" he presently asked.
"Yes, every letter of it."
"Well, then, ye can't deny that the stars have a great deal to do with human bein's. Why, it's all there in black an' white. Look what happened to Sisera."
"But he was an old heathen, Henry, an' deserved to have the stars fight against him. He was warring against God's people."
"Say, Sarah, judgin' by yer words, I'm glad ye don't consider me a heathen. It's the first time in years that I've heard ye say anything in me favor."
"No, I wouldn't like to catalogue you as a downright heathen, neither would I care to call you a Christian. I don't just know where to place you."
"Put me with old Sisera, Sarah. I've taken a sneakin' likin' to that ancient feller. He was troubled like I am with the stars fightin' ag'inst him."
"No, I can't do that. You are different from him. He was a king, remember, while you are nothing but Henry Winters, of Willow Creek, with not a cent to your name. The stars don't know anything about you."
"But I have the farm, Sarah, an' everybody fer miles around knows me."
"And how long will you have the farm? Haven't you already arranged to have it mortgaged? People know you, oh, yes, as the laziest man in the whole country."
"Say, what's comin' over ye, Sarah, that yer so cranky? The service must have stirred ye up the wrong way. Surely yer not goin' to jine in with them stars an' fight ag'inst me, too."
"Oh, the service was all right, Henry, and the parson preached a good sermon. But I'm sick and tired of hearing you talk about your luck. You seized upon those few words about the stars fighting against Sisera, but didn't pay the least attention to anything else. You know as well as I do that the stars have nothing at all to do with you. I remember learning when I went to school that the fault is not in our stars but in our own selves if we fail. I can't remember the exact words, but that is the meaning. I have been patient with you for a long time, but now with our farm a disgrace and about to be mortgaged, I can stand it no longer."
"What d'ye intend to do, Sarah?"
"You'll find out to your sorrow unless you quit your nonsense and get to work. But, there, I might as well talk to a stone as to you. Words of mine don't seem to have any effect upon you at all."
When his wife was in such a mood as this Henry knew from experience that silence was the wisest course. He did not go into the house upon reaching home, but sat under the shade of an old apple tree and smoked to his heart's content. Here the blissful minutes slipped by, broken at last by his wife calling him to supper.
"I saw Ada at church to-day, Sarah," he remarked as he began his meal. "Wonder where Lem was. He hasn't been much at church of late. It's strange that she'd let him out of her sight so long."
"Lem's falling away, I'm afraid," Mrs. Winters replied. "His mind is so much taken up with his specimens that he's in danger of losing his hold on higher things. Anyway, Ada always feels safer when she knows where he is and what he's doing!"
"I do pity that poor feller, Sarah. He hasn't the life of a dog when it comes to freedom. Ada's 'most scared to death that he'll git tangled up with some woman."
"It's the money that makes her so watchful, Henry. If either of them marries they will both lose their father's legacy, and that's what frightens her. She's told me so over and over again. It worries her a great deal."
"It was strange fer old man Karsall to leave his money tied up that way, Sarah. I allus knew he was a queer duck, but gave him credit fer some sense until I heard about his will. Jist think of him blockin' his children that way an' preventin' them from gittin' married if they want to. Why, Lem doesn't dare to look at a woman."
"And I guess he doesn't want to, Henry. It's not his nature. He's too much in love with his specimens that he's got stored away in 'The Loft,' as he calls it. Ada showed me in one day when he was away. It was a sight to behold, with the glass cases filled with all sorts of queer things, and the tables covered with curious stones, and funny things fastened to the walls. He won't let Ada touch or handle anything in that room. He shows considerable spunk when it comes to that."
"An' he'll show more spunk when he runs across the right gal, mark my word, Sarah. He's that kind. I know Lem Karsall well enough to believe that when he gits in love he'll go in head an' shoulders, an' nuthin'll be able to stop him."
"I guess his sister will soon settle any love-affair."
"Not a bit of it, Sarah, unless she gits in love herself first, which isn't likely. She's too fond of money, an' she'd sacrifice her heart-feelin's quick enough fer a dollar bill."
"You shouldn't say that, Henry. Ada Karsall is a good living woman, and attends strictly to her household affairs."
"Yes, an' the affairs of everybody else in this place, Sarah. Not that I have anything ag'inst her, remember, fer I like her a hull lot. If I was a young man an' not married, I'd make a dead-set upon her. She is mighty good lookin' an' has nice takin' ways, too."
"It's lucky for her, Henry, that you are married. I know all too well what it means to be tied to a man like you."
"But the gals around here think I'm all right. They like to have me at their parties. They tell me I'm a good sport an' as young as ever."
"They don't know you as well as I do, Henry Winters. If they had to live with you and depend upon you for a living they'd soon change their tune."
Henry said no more just then, permitting his wife as usual to have the final word. He finished his supper, pushed back his chair, and groped in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. As he carved off several slices from the small portion of the plug that remained, he glanced occasionally at his wife's face. Then he began to sing, as if to himself, the first line of the familiar hymn,
"'O day of rest an' gladness,
O day of joy an' light,
O balm of care an' sadness,
Most beautiful, most bright.'"
He ceased and looked again at his wife.
"We sang them words at the service this afternoon, Sarah, but somehow they don't seem to fit in here. The Day's all right, as fer as the Lord made it, but there's not much joy an' gladness in this house."
"And whose fault is it, Henry?" his wife sharply asked. "I have tried for years to be a consistent Christian, but with all the trials I have to face, it is almost impossible to be full of joy and gladness."
Mrs. Winters' lips quivered, and tears came into her eyes. These she hurriedly brushed away with the corner of her apron, rose quickly from the table and began to clear away the dishes.
"There, there, old gal, don't take on so hard. I know I'm an ugly cuss to git along with, lazy an' all that. But I swear I'll do better from now on, providin' them stars don't git too fractious. We'll go to town t'morrow night an' take in a picture. There's a rattlin' good one on at the Imp, so I hear. We haven't been there fer months, an' I'm jist dyin' to see them actors doin' their stunts. I've a notion that way meself, an' I believe I'd make a good movie actor."
"I believe you would, Henry. As far as acting is concerned you'd make a grand success. That's all you've been doing since we were married. But acting such as yours doesn't make much of a success on a farm. It's only hard grinding work that will accomplish anything there."
Henry made no reply, but rising from his chair, picked up two pails and sauntered out to the barn, expecting to find the cows in the yard waiting to be milked. But they were nowhere to be seen. He searched the pasture until he came to a gap in the fence through which the animals had strayed. It was dark by the time the cows were found, brought home, and milked.
"That's jist my luck," he growled, as he set the pails down upon the milk-house floor. "To think that them brutes should wander off on the Day of Rest! It's them fightin'-stars ag'in, Sarah."
"Did the stars tear down that fence, Henry?" his wife sternly asked. "Didn't you do it yourself when you were hauling wood last winter, and neglected to fix it properly? For goodness' sake, don't blame the stars for your own laziness."
Henry beat a hasty retreat, and did not again refer to the stars the rest of the evening. But next morning as he went out to draw a pail of water, the bucket broke loose, and fell with a splash down into the deep well. By the time it had been drawn up with a long pole with a spike driven through one end, Henry was in a very bad frame of mind.
"There, now, Sarah," he roared, as he entered the kitchen, "kin ye deny that my fightin'-stars are ag'inst me? The bucket broke, an' I've had a dang hard time gittin' any water fer breakfast."
"And what caused the bucket to break, Henry Winters? You know as well as I do. It's because you fastened it to the pole with a string when it broke before, instead of fixing it right. Haven't I warned you time and time again about it? I have also begged you to get a pump instead of that ramshackle affair. Why, we are the only ones who use an old-fashioned bucket and sweep. It almost kills me every time I have to draw water. And, besides, it is the laughing-stock of the neighborhood. Don't talk to me any more about your unlucky stars."
"That old well is mighty interestin', though, Sarah. Ye know how people from the city, an' tourists, too, come all the way to have a look at it. Artists have painted it no end of times, while one young feller wrote some verses about it. They all say it's most pictureskew."
"Why don't you include the battered barn, the broken-down woodshed, as well as the house, Henry? They are all certainly 'pictureskew' if that's what you want. When will you ever learn to speak the English language? You make as bad a mess of it as you do of everything else, farming included."
