Pris smiled—although not, as one might have supposed, at hearing
herself called Pris. She had never been called anything else,
incongruous as the name seemed with her dignified face and figure. The
full Priscilla would have been better, although there was in it a savor
of primness out of keeping with her full-blown matronliness.
She looked much younger than her husband, but there was really little
difference in their ages. She was taller than he, with a stout, majestic
figure and a placid, meditative fashion of moving. She gave the
impression of serenity and self-reliance. Her face was fresh and
unlined, with deep-set gray eyes and a resolute line of jaw. She had a
good forehead and the profile of a thoughtful, intellectual woman. The
same face, somewhat intensified, was to be found in her son, who was
president of the university in Redmond.
While Priscilla carried some store parcels and her asters into the
house, Stephen put away the flour and turned the horses’ heads into a
clover aftermath on the southern slope. Tea was ready in the kitchen
when he came in. The table was set opposite the open door, through which
Priscilla might see the western hills, with the sun hanging low above
them. Stephen did not care for that view. It was too lonesome, he said.
But Priscilla loved it.
“Well, everything is about wound up at last, Pris,” he said,
contentedly. “I went into Dan McCulloch’s on my way to the mill, and we
made the dicker. He’s rented the farm for a year. ’Twould ha’ been
better to have sold outright, I s’pose, and I wisht’ I could, but nobody
wanted to buy just now. Dan’s a good farmer. The land’ll be all right in
his hands. We can call an auction right off now, and sell the stock and
machinery and what furniture we don’t want to take. Then we’ll go. Laws,
Pris, it makes me young again to think of it! Seems ’sif we were
starting out in life all over again, don’t it, now?”
Priscilla smiled.
“Maybe you’ll be wanting to get back before you’ve lived long in
Redmond,” she said.
Stephen chuckled as if at a joke.
“That was all the talk at the store to-day. Peter Shackford says, says
he, ‘Winslow, you’ll never be contented in city life. You’ll be wild to
get back here afore next spring,’ says he, Shackford-like, as if he knew
it all. I says to him, Pris, says I, ‘Look here, Peter, I guess you
don’t rightly know what you’re talking about. I’m tired of living in a
place as far from anywhere as Roseneath. I want to live where a man can
open his door and see something besides a ventilator,’ says I. And
that’s the truth, Pris. I’m tired of the old rut. Says I to Peter,
‘Three miles from a church and a hundred from a library! Sixty-five
years of that’d tire any man. I want to get right into the thick of
things once afore I die. I want to live among men who are thinking and
talking of what goes on in the world—not just of potato bugs and local
politics—men who read something more’n a little one-horse partisan
paper and ain’t more given to gossip than their wives.’ Peter didn’t
like it, I tell ye now, Pris. But he pretended to laugh. Says, says he,
‘Big talk, Stephen, big talk! Ye were always good at it. But we’ll see.’
Then he winked at the others. They’re all kind of narrow-minded—bound
up in crops, as it were. It’s creeping on me, I dare say, and I want to
get away from it. I ain’t so old but I can expand a bit yet. The folks
’round here don’t care for anything they can’t see. ’S long as the local
member looks after the bridges and sprinkles some jobs among his biggest
supporters, they don’t care who’s making history in the world.”
“I don’t know that I care a great deal myself,” said Priscilla,
placidly. “But I’m tired of this lonesome life, too, now that the
children have all gone. I’ve so much spare time on my hands, I want to
be where I can do something with it—be interested in what other women
are interested in—see things—do things—learn things that are worth
while. I’m sure of myself, but I’m not so sure of you, Father. You are
as full of enthusiasm as a boy over moving to the city, but perhaps you
won’t find it all you expect, and you may feel discontented.”
“No, I won’t, Pris,” protested Stephen. “I’ve thought it all out, I tell
you. I’ve worked hard all my life. I want a resting spell now, and I’ll
enjoy it, never fear. There’ll be no hankering for Roseneath on my part.
You’re more likely to be homesick yourself.”
“Not I,” said his wife, with emphasis. “I’ll never want to come back.
I’ve always had a longing for city life—though I’ve been very happy
here, Father; I must say that. We’re getting old, and we have enough
money to keep us in comfort. So we may as well take satisfaction out of
it and suit ourselves before we die.”
“Just what I said to Peter!” said Stephen, triumphantly. “Just what I
said to him, Pris. I guess you and I see things pretty well in line.
There ain’t never been any pulling different ways with us, has there,
now?”
They looked at each other across the table, full of contentment.
Stephen and Priscilla Winslow had decided to sell or rent their farm and
move to Redmond for the remainder of their days. Their three children
were settled there, and they wished to be near them. Gordon, the oldest,
was president of the university. Besides the natural tie, there was a
bond of intellectual comradeship between him and his mother, from whom
he had inherited his most marked characteristics. Theodore, commonly
called Ted, was a prominent Redmond lawyer, and Edith, who was the
youngest, had recently been graduated from college, and was the teacher
of mathematics in the Redmond seminary. She was a clever woman, and she
was very anxious that her parents should come to Redmond.
“Mother has been giving us ‘chances’ all her life,” she said to her
brothers. “It’s time she had a chance herself. She is really cleverer
than any of us.”
The day after the auction Stephen and Priscilla went to Redmond.
Theodore and Edith had come to accompany them, and in the general
excitement they did not feel particularly sorrowful at leaving their old
home. The next three weeks were busy ones. They rented a town house in a
good locality, and furnished it comfortably. A servant-girl was also
included in the scheme of things. Priscilla thought they did not need
one, but Edith insisted.
“You will want your time for study and social life, Mother,” she said.
“You don’t want to burden yourself with housework, too. You’ve done
enough of that.”
Priscilla yielded gracefully, but she put her foot down with firm
decision when Mrs. Ted suggested two girls—a cook and a housemaid.
“One is enough,” said Priscilla, and one it was—a good general girl,
who came highly recommended. Mrs. Ted looked out for that.
By Christmas they were settled down.
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