|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 57
And that is all that she knows to this day about the man sitting in the
corner, with his hat over his eyes, bound for Colorado.
One of the Elect.
"Down, Muff! down!"
Muff obeyed; he took his paws off from his master's shoulders with an
injured look in his great mute eyes, and consoled himself by growling at
the cow. Mr. Ryck put a sudden stop to a series of gymnastic exercises
commenced between them, by throwing the creature's hay down upon her
horns; then he watered his horse, fed the sheep, took a look at the
hens, and closed all the doors tightly; for the night was cold, so cold
that he shivered, even under that great bottle-green coat of his: he was
not a young man.
"Pretty cold night, Muff!" Muff was not blest with a forgiving
disposition; he maintained a dignified silence. But his master did not
feel the slight. Something, perhaps the cold, made him careless of the
dog to-night.
The house was warm, at least; the light streamed far out of the kitchen
window, down almost to the orchard. He passed across it, showing his
figure a little stooping, and the flutter of gray hair from under his
hat; then into the house. His wife was busied about the room, a pleasant
room for a kitchen, with the cleanest of polished floors and whitened
tables; the cheeriest of fires, the home-like faces of blue and white
china peeping through the closet door; a few books upon a little shelf,
with an old Bible among them; the cosey rocking-chair that always stood
by the fire, and a plant or two in the south window. He came in,
stamping off the snow; Muff crawled behind the stove, and gave himself
up to a fit of metaphysics.
"Cold, Amos?"
"Of course. What else should I be, woman?"
His wife made no reply. His unusual impatience only saddened her eyes a
little. She was one of those women who would have borne a life-long
oppression with dumb lips. Amos Ryck was not an unkind husband, but it
was not his way to be tender; the years which had whitened his hair had
brought him stern experiences: life was to him a battle, his horizon
always that about a combatant. But he loved her.
"Most ready to sit down, Martha?" he said at last, more gently.
"In a minute, Amos."
She finished some bit of evening work, her step soft about the room.
Then she drew up the low rocking-chair with its covering of faded
crimson chintz, and sat down by her husband.
She did this without noise; she did not sit too near to him; she took
pains not to annoy him by any feminine bustle over her work; she chose
her knitting, as being always most to his fancy; then she looked up
timidly into his face. But there was a frown, slight to be sure, but
still a frown, upon it, neither did he speak. Some gloomy, perhaps some
bitter thought held the man. A reflection of it might have struck across
her, as she turned her head, fixing her eyes upon the coals.
The light on her face showed it pale; the lines on her mouth were deeper
than any time had worn for her husband; her hair as gray as his, though
he was already a man of grave, middle age, when the little wife--hardly
past her sixteenth birthday--came to the farm with him.
Perhaps it is these silent women--spiritless, timid souls, like this
one,--who have, after all, the greatest capacity for suffering. You
might have thought so, if you had watched her. Some infinite mourning
looked out of her mute brown eyes. In the very folding of her hands
there was a sort of stifled cry, as one whose abiding place is in the
Valley of the Shadow.
A monotonous sob of the wind broke at the corners of the house; in the
silence between the two, it was distinctly heard. Martha Ryck's face
paled a little.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|