weekend with him at the farmhouse. We found the place much as he had described it—a rather charming old building set among ancient fruit trees. At a little distance there was a modern barn which was flanked by a series of elaborately constructed pig pens. I had always thought of pigs as wallowing in mud and refuse, but these pens were as clean and dry as the cage of any animal in the zoo. Each enclosure contained four well-groomed hogs.
George Harris lived on the place and acted as caretaker. He is a lanky, leather-skinned farmer, surly in manner, taciturn, and completely without humor of any civilized variety. From the beginning, however, I was conscious of a bond of sympathy between Harris and me; unspoken and unadmitted, I believe it was none the less real.
Annette was more charitable than I. She loved the house, the pigs did not disgust her, and she was even able to persuade herself that Uncle Alfred's almost insane fondness for them was somehow praiseworthy. Even when he would get into the pen with them, scratch their bristly backs with a stick, call them individually by name, and grunt crooningly at them, Annette felt only a kind of sorrow for the loveless life that had brought my uncle at last to pigs.
On that first evening at my uncle's house in New York, he had said, "Remember, children—I have great plans for you!" But I doubt very much if he spoke the truth. Instead, I think he realized that eventually he would have a plan—when he had had time, to devise one of sufficient intricacy. When the scheme finally emerged, it was so delicately constructed, so beautifully balanced, that I completely failed to recognize it.
One night my uncle said, "Julian, my boy—I don't know if I ever told you that I have several important business interests in South America. As you can see, I am not built for traveling, so I have always employed agents to represent me. But agents are not always entirely trustworthy. Now if only you could speak Spanish—"
The offer expanded slowly and alluringly, like dawn that begins with a line of light on the horizon and gradually sets the whole sky a-blaze. First, I would give up my miserable job, and devote my entire time for a period of three or four weeks to the study of the South American enterprises, and to learning enough Spanish to handle my uncle's affairs. Then, Annette and I could be married, and sail to Rio for our honeymoon. The salary would be large, but even this was not all. In addition, Uncle Alfred proposed to make me his sole heir. There was one other detail: Uncle Alfred insisted that Annette give up her work and the room where she lived. He wished her to stay at the Savoy Plaza, at his expense. Laughing, he said that she must begin to accustom herself to life as the wife of a rich man.
The month of preparation went according to my uncle's schedule; Annette spent most of her time shopping for her trousseau, and my days were filled by my studies.
On the date set for our marriage, we three went to the farm where it was my uncle's whim to have the ceremony performed. We would spend the night there, and sail in the morning for Brazil. All the arrangements were in Uncle Alfred's hands—hiring the minister, buying the tickets, and so on. Apparently he enjoyed playing Lord Bountiful, for his face was like a smiling mould of jelly.
When we arrived at the farm the weather was unnaturally warm and threatening; heavy, sluggish clouds hung low in the sky, the air was oppressively still, and it seemed to me that I could feel the vibration of distant thunder, though it was not yet audible. Even the hogs seemed affected by the sultry atmosphere; they were restless
