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A Second Spring
by
“We was just about ready for you, Isr’el,” said his sister-in-law Stevens, glancing at him eagerly. “We didn’t stop to take anything ourselves this afternoon, and we didn’t suppose ‘t was so you could; an’ we thought we’d just make a quiet cup o’ tea when we had everything put to rights, and could set down an’ enjoy it. Now you draw right up to the table; that’s clever; ‘t will do us all good.”
The good woman bore some likeness to her sister just departed; Israel had never noticed it so much before. She had a comfortable, motherly way, and his old face twitched in spite of himself as he bent over the brimming and smoking cup that she handed across the square table.
“I declare!” said his own sister, Mrs. Abby Martin. “We could reckon what a sight o’ folks there was here this afternoon by the times we had to make new tea, if there wa’n’t no other way. I don’t know’s I ever see a larger gathering on such an occasion. Mis’ Stevens an’ me was trying to count ’em. There was twenty-six wagons hitched in the yard an’ lane, so William said, besides all that come afoot; an’ a few had driven away before they made the count.”
“I’d no idea of there bein’ so many,” said Israel sadly. “Well, ‘t was natural for all who knew her to show respect. I felt much obliged to the folks, and for Elder Wall’s excellent remarks.”
“A number spoke their approval to him in my hearing. He seemed pleased that everything passed off well,” said sister Martin. “I expect he wanted to do the best he could. Everybody knows she was always a good friend to him. I never see anybody that set so by her minister. William was telling of me he’d been very attentive all through her sickness. Poor William! He does mourn, but he behaved very pretty, I thought. He wanted us to tell you that he’d be over to-morrow soon’s he could. He wanted dreadful to stop with ye overnight, but we all know what it is to run a milk farm.”
“I’d b’en glad if ‘t was so he could be here with us to-night, an’ his wife with him,” said the old man, pushing away his cup. The remnants of the afternoon feast, with which the table was spread, failed to tempt his appetite. He rose and took his old wooden armchair by the stove, and clasped his hands before him. The long brown fingers began to play mechanically upon each other. It was strange how these trivial, unconscious habits continued in spite of the great change which had shaken his life to its foundations.
II.
At noon the next day Israel Haydon and his son William came up across the field together. They had on their every-day clothes, and were talking about every-day matters as they walked along. Mr. Haydon himself had always looked somewhat unlike a farmer, even though there had been no more diligent and successful tiller of the soil in the town of Atfield. He never had bought himself a rougher suit of clothes or a coarse hat for haying, but his discarded Sunday best in various states of decadence served him for barn and field. It was proverbial that a silk hat lasted him five years for best and ten for common; but whatever he might be doing, Israel Haydon always preserved an air of unmistakable dignity. He was even a little ministerial in his look; there had been a minister in the family two or three generations back. Mr. Haydon and his wife had each inherited some money. They were by nature thrifty, and now their only son was well married, with a good farm of his own, to which Israel had added many acres of hay land and tillage, saying that he was getting old, and was going to take the rest of his life easily. In this way the old people had thrown many of their worldly cares upon their son’s broad shoulders. They had paid visits each summer to their kindred in surrounding towns, starting off in their Sunday chaise with sober pleasure, serene in their prosperity, and free from any dark anticipations, although they could not bring themselves to consent to any long absence, and the temptation of going to see friends in the West was never dangerous to their peace of mind. But the best of their lives was apparently still before them, when good Martha Haydon’s strength mysteriously failed; and one dark day the doctor, whom Israel Haydon had anxiously questioned behind the wood-pile, just out of sight from his wife’s window–the doctor had said that she never would be any better. The downfall of his happiness had been swift and piteous. William Haydon was a much larger and rosier man than his father had ever been; the old man looked shrunken as they crossed the field together. They had prolonged their talk about letting the great south field lie fallow, and about some new Hereford cattle that the young farmer had just bought, until nothing more was left to say on either side. Then there came a long pause, when each waited for the other to speak. William grew impatient at last.