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He never dared meet the thought。 He intended honestly to marry Emma
Byers。 But this thing was too strong for him。 As for Bella； she laughed
at him； but she was scared； too。 They both fought the thing； she selfishly；
he unselfishly； for the Byers girl； with her clear； calm eyes and her
dependable ways； was heavy on his heart。 Ben's appeal for Bella was
merely that of the magnetic male。 She never once thought of his finer
qualities。 Her appeal for him was that of the frail and alluring woman。
But in the end they married。 The neighborhood was rocked with
surprise。
Usually in a courtship it is the male who assumes the bright colors of
pretense in order to attract a mate。 But Ben Westerveld had been too
honest to be anything but himself。 He was so honest and fundamentally
truthful that he refused at first to allow himself to believe that this slovenly
shrew was the fragile and exquisite creature he had married。 He had the
habit of personal cleanliness； had Ben； in a day when tubbing was a
ceremony in an environment that made bodily nicety difficult。 He
discovered that Bella almost never washed and that her appearance of
fragrant immaculateness； when dressed； was due to a natural clearness of
skin and eye； and to the way her blond hair swept away in a clean line
from her forehead。 For the rest； she was a slattern； with a vocabulary of
invective that would have been a credit to any of the habitues of old Red
Front Huckins' bar。
They had three children； a girl and two boys。 Ben Westerveld
prospered in spite of his wife。 As the years went on he added eighty
acres here； eighty acres there； until his land swept down to the very banks
of the Mississippi。 There is no doubt that she hindered him greatly； but
he was too expert a farmer to fail。 At threshing time the crew looked
forward to working for Ben； the farmer； and dreaded the meals prepared
by Bella； his wife。 She was notoriously the worst cook and housekeeper
in the county。 And all through the years； in trouble and in happiness； her
plaint was the same 〃If I'd thought I was going to stick down on a farm
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all my life； slavin' for a pack of menfolks day and night； I'd rather have
died。 Might as well be dead as rottin' here。〃
Her schoolteacher English had early reverted。 Her speech was as
slovenly as her dress。 She grew stout； too； and unwieldy； and her skin
coarsened from lack of care and from overeating。 And in her children's
ears she continually dinned a hatred of farm life and farming。 〃You can
get away from it；〃 she counseled her daughter； Minnie。 〃Don't you be a
rube like your pa；〃 she cautioned John； the older boy。 And they profited
by her ad… vice。 Minnie went to work in Commercial when she was
seventeen； an overdeveloped girl with an inordinate love of cheap finery。
At twenty； she married an artisan； a surly fellow with roving tendencies。
They moved from town to town。 He never stuck long at one job。 John；
the older boy； was as much his mother's son as Minnie was her mother's
daughter。 Restless； dissatisfied； emptyheaded； he was the despair of his
father。 He drove the farm horses as if they were racers； lashing them up
hill and down dale。 He was forever lounging off to the village or
wheedling his mother for money to take him to Commercial。 It was
before the day of the ubiquitous automobile。 Given one of those present
adjuncts to farm life； John would have ended his career much earlier。 As
it was； they found him lying by the roadside at dawn one morning after the
horses had trotted into the yard with the wreck of the buggy bumping the
road behind them。 He had stolen the horses out of the barn after the help
was asleep； had led them stealthily down the road； and then had whirled
off to a rendezvous of his own in town。 The fall from the buggy might
not have hurt him； but evidently he had been dragged almost a mile before
his battered body became somehow disentangled from the splintered wood
and the reins。
That horror might have served to bring Ben Westerveld and his wife
together； but it did not。 It only increased her bitterness and her hatred of
the locality and the life。
〃I hope you're good an' satisfied now；〃 she repeated in endless
reproach。 〃I hope you're good an' satisfied。 You was bound you'd make a
farmer out of him； an' now you finished the job。 You better try your hand
at Dike now for a change。〃
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Dike was young Ben； sixteen； and old Ben had no need to try his hand
at him。 Young Ben was a born farmer； as was his father。 He had come
honestly by his nickname。 In face； figure； expression； and manner he
was a five…hundred…year throwback to his Holland ancestors。 Apple…
cheeked； stocky； merry of eye； and somewhat phlegmatic。 When； at
school； they had come to the story of the Dutch boy who saved his town
from flood by thrusting his finger into the hole in the dike and holding it
there until help came； the class； after one look at the accompanying picture
in the reader； dubbed young Ben 〃Dike〃 Westerveld。 And Dike he
remained。
Between Dike and his father there was a strong but unspoken feeling。
The boy was cropwise； as his father had been at his age。 On Sundays
you might see the two walking about the farm； looking at the pigsgreat
black fellows worth almost their weight in silver； eying the stock；
speculating on the winter wheat showing dark green in April； with rich
patches that were almost black。 Young Dike smoked a solemn and
judicious pipe； spat expertly； and voiced the opinion that the winter wheat
was a fine prospect Ben Westerveld； listening tolerantly to the boy's
opinions； felt a great surge of joy that he did not show。 Here； at last； was
compensation for all the misery and sordidness and bitter disappointment
of his married life