Fruits of the Earth by Frederick Philip Grove Page B

I do,” she said, a white line around her lips. “But how about you? Don’t you show me every hour, every minute we spend together that you disapprove of me, of all I am?”
    Abe veered to face her, stung to the quick. What if she was right? He must conciliate her, or an abyss would open and swallow them. “Listen here,” he said, shaken, and his voice betrayed him.
    She sank into a chair by the door, covering her face withan apron. “Listen here,” he repeated, steadied. “I have my work. It takes every ounce of my strength; it takes every thought I am capable of.”
    She looked up, her eyes dry and red. “What is it all for?”
    He looked puzzled. “What is what all for?”
    â€œThat work. I don’t know. To me it seems senseless, useless, a mere waste. Work, work, work! What for?”
    He was thunderstruck. She disapproved of him, of all he was. But his voice was even. “Don’t you know?”
    â€œI don’t. I had my misgivings. Farming! There are farms all over the country, down east. But I never dreamt of anything like this. It’s like being in prison, cast off by the world. Don’t hold Mary up to me. She despises me and thinks you a sort of half-god or hero. She looks at this shack and wonders how I can exist in it. She is right. I wonder myself. What can I do about it? This isn’t a country fit to live in.”
    â€œExactly,” Abe said with rising anger. “I am making it into a country fit to live in. That is my task. The task of a pioneer. Can’t you see that I need time, time, time? In six years I’ve built a farm which produces wealth. Give me another six years, and I’ll double it. Then I’ll build you a house such as you’ve never dreamt of calling your own.”
    â€œI know, I know….”
    â€œIf you know, what’s the fuss about? You said you didn’t know what the work was for. That’s it. To build up a place any man can be proud of, a place to leave to my children for them to be proud of.”
    Ruth looked up. “Where do I come in?”
    â€œAren’t you going to profit by my labours?”
    â€œProfit! You probably pride yourself on being a good provider. You are. I’ve all I want except what I need: a purpose in life.”
    â€œDon’t you have the children?”
    She burst into tears.
    Abe drew a chair to the table and sat down by her side. Thence he caught sight of the boy. “Where is Jim?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know, daddy.”
    â€œGo. Run along. Find Jim and play with him.”
    Obediently the child slipped from his chair and left the room, passing through the door into the dusk.
    â€œListen here,” Abe said for the third time. “I am willing to do anything in my power. Do you want to read? Buy books or magazines? Whatever you wish. Why don’t you spend money on clothes, on pretty things such as girls and young women want?”
    â€œWhat for? For whom should I doll myself up? I am ugly. What’s the use? I am getting stout.”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” Abe went on. “Next time I go to Somerville, I’ll open an account for you at the new bank. I’ll deposit a couple of hundred. I’ll give you that much or more every year. To do with as you please. What you need, for yourself or the children, I’ll pay for. This is to be yours. I don’t want you to feel that you have to give an account of what it’s spent on. I won’t ask. I promise you that. Use it in any way you please. I know it’s hard, living that way, all by yourself. It will get better. The children will be company soon. That right?”
    Ruth did not answer; but she was drying her tears with her apron.
    Abe went to the door. “Charlie, Jim!” he called. “Bed-time.”
    And the children, who were only too well aware that something was or had been wrong, came in at once, casting furtive