Chapter IV: Part 4

"Thirza, won't you listen? I love you! I have loved you so long--I never knew it until you went away; I never knew how much until I saw you to-day. I did not even know you had returned. Oh, Thirza, I could not have spoken a word to you before those people for worlds; but how I longed to snatch you up in my arms! If you had only looked at me, proud little statue in a gray dress!"

He compelled her to turn her face toward him.

"Thirza, was I mistaken? No, I was not!" and his voice was full of exultation. "I see the same look in your eyes again. You love me, my darling! There!" he cried, releasing her hands, "proud, cruel little woman, go! Leave me! Run away from me! I do not keep you; but, Thirza, you are mine, for all that!"

Hardly conscious of herself, Thirza stood before him, making no use of her liberty.

"Come, Thirza," said the shaking, passionate voice, "leave all the work and all the worry--your own words, darling; how often I have thought of them! Leave it all behind, and come here, to me!"

The clouds had parted, and the stars flamed out, one after another; and, as they were going home together through the starlight, the young man said:

"And did you live the 'real life' you anticipated, Thirza?"

She raised her shining face to his.

"It has just begun," she said.

MOLLY.

A small clearing on a hillside, sloping up from the little-traversed mountain-road to the forest, upon whose edge, in the midst of stunted oaks and scraggy pines stood a rude cabin, such as one comes upon here and there in the remote wilds of West Virginia. The sun, pausing just above the sharp summit of Pinnacle Mountain, threw slant rays across the rugged landscape, which spring was touching up with a thousand soft tints. A great swelling expanse of green, broken at intervals by frowning ledges, rolled off to the low-lying purple mountain ranges, whose summits still swam in sunset light, while their bases were lost in deepest shadow. Over all, a universal hush, the hush which thrills one with a sense of utter isolation and loneliness.

The man and woman who were seated before the cabin door hardly perceived these things. What their eyes saw, doubtless, was the fair promise of the corn-field which stretched along the road for some distance, the white cow with her spotted calf, and the litter of lively pigs which occupied inclosures near the cabin, and--the tiny baby, who lay, blinking and clutching at nothing, across the woman's lap. She was looking down upon the child with a smile upon her face. It was a young and handsome face, but there were shadows in the dark eyes and around the drooping lids, which the smile could not chase away--traces of intense suffering, strange to see in a face so young.

The man, a young and stalwart fellow, shaggy of hair and long of limb, had placed himself upon a log which lay beside the door-step, and was lost in contemplation of the small atom of embryo manhood upon which his deep-set blue eyes were fixed. He had been grappling for three weeks with the overpowering fact of this child's existence, and had hardly compassed it yet.

"Lord! Molly," he exclaimed, his face broadening into a smile, "jess look at him now! Look at them thar eyes! People says as babies don't know nuthin'. Durned ef thet thar young un don't look knowin'er 'n old Jedge Wessminster hisself. Why, I'm mos' afeared on him sometimes, the way he eyes me, ez cunnin' like, ez much ez ter say 'I'm hyar, dad, an' I'm agoin' ter stay, an' you's jess got ter knuckle right down tew it, dad!' Lord! look at thet thar now!" And the happy sire took one of the baby's small wrinkled paws and laid it across the horny palm of his own big left hand.

"Jess look, Molly! Now you ain't agoin' to tell me ez thet thar hand is ever agoin' to handle a ax or a gun, or--or--" pausing for a climax, "sling down a glass o' whiskey? 'Tain't possible!"

At this juncture, an inquisitive fly lit upon the small eminence in the centre of the child's visage destined to do duty as a nose. Hardly had the venturesome insect settled when, without moving a muscle of his solemn countenance, that astonishing infant, with one erratic, back-handed gesture, brushed him away. The enraptured father burst into a roar of laughter.

"I tole ye so, Molly! I tole ye so! Babies is jess a-puttin' on. They knows a heap more'n they gits credit fur, you bet!"

Something like a smile here distended the child's uncertain mouth, and something which might be construed into a wink contracted for an instant his small right eye, whereupon the ecstatic father made the welkin ring with loud haw-haws of appreciative mirth.

Molly laughed too, this time.

"What a man you are, Sandy! I'm glad you feel so happy, though," she continued, softly, while a flush rose to her cheek and quickly subsided. "I ain't been much comp'ny for ye, but I reckon it'll be different now. Since baby come I feel better, every way, an' I reckon----"

She stopped abruptly and bent low over the child.

Sandy had ceased his contemplation of the boy, and had listened to his wife's words with a look of incredulous delight upon his rough but not uncomely face. It was evidently a new thing for her to speak so plainly, and her husband was not unmindful of the effort it must have cost her, nor ungrateful for the result.

"Don't say no more about it, Molly," he responded, in evident embarrassment. "Them days is past an' gone an' furgotten. Leastways, _I_ ain't agoin' to think no more about 'em. Women is women, an' hez ter be 'lowed fur. I don't know ez 'twas more'n I cud expect; you a-bein' so porely, an' the old folks a-dyin', an' you a-takin' on it so hard. I don't go fur ter say ez I ain't been outed more'n wunst, but thet's over'n gone; an' now, Molly," he continued cheerfully, "things is a-lookin' up. Ez soon ez you're strong ag'in, I reckon ye'll be all right. The little un'll keep ye from gittin' lonesome an' down-sperited; now won't he, Molly?"

"Yes, Sandy," said the woman earnestly, "I begin to feel as if I could be happy--happier than I ever thought of bein'. I'm goin' to begin a new life, Sandy. I'm goin' to be a better wife to ye than--I _have_ been."

Her voice trembled, and she stopped suddenly again, turning her face away.

She was a strangely beautiful creature to be the wife of this brawny mountaineer. There was a softness in her voice in striking contrast to his own rough tones, and although the mountain accent was plainly observable, it was greatly modified. He, himself, ignorant and unsophisticated, full of the half-savage impulses and rude virtues of the region, was quite conscious of the incongruity, and regarded his wife with something of awe mingled with his undemonstrative but ardent passion. He sat thus looking at her now, in a kind of adoring wonder.

"Waal!" he exclaimed at last, "blest ef I kin see how I ever spunked up enough fur ter ax ye, anyhow! Ye see, Molly, I'd allers liked ye--allers; long afore ye ever thought o' goin' down to Richmon'."

The woman moved uneasily, and turned her eyes away from his eager face; but Sandy failed to notice this, and went on, with increasing ardor:

"After ye'd gone I missed ye powerful! I used ter go over the mounting ter ax after ye whenever I cud git away, an' when they tole me how ye war enjoyin' yerself down thar, a-arnin' heaps o' money an' livin' so fine, it mos' set me wild. I war _allers_ expectin' ter hear ez how ye'd got merried, an' I kep' a-tellin' myself 'twa'n't no use; but the more I tole myself, the wuss I got. An' when you come home, Molly, a-lookin' so white an' mizzable like, an' everybody said ye'd die, it--why, it most killed me out, Molly, 'deed it did, I sw'ar!"

Sandy did not often speak of those days of his probation; but, finding Molly in a softened mood,--Molly, who had always been so cold and reticent, so full of moods and fancies,--he felt emboldened to proceed.

"Lord, Molly, I didn't hev no rest night _nor_ day! Bob'll tell ye how I hung around, an' hung around; an' when ye got a little better an' come out, a-lookin' so white an' peakèd, I war all of a trimble. I don't know now how I ever up an' axed ye. I reckon I never _would_ a-done it ef it hadn't been fur Bob. He put me up tew it. Sez Bob, 'Marm's afeard as Molly'll go back to Richmon' ag'in,' an' that war more'n I _could_ stand; an' so I axed ye, Molly."

Sandy's face was not one adapted to the expression of tender emotion, but there was a perceptible mellowing of the irregular features and rough voice as he went on.

"I axed ye, Molly, and ye said 'Yes'; an' I ain't never hed no call to be sorry ez I axed ye, an' I hope you ain't, nuther--say, Molly?" and the great hand was laid tenderly on her arm.

"No, Sandy," said she, "I ain't had no call to be sorry. You've been good to me; a heap better'n I have been to you."

Truly, Molly _was_ softening. Sandy could hardly credit his own happiness. He ran his fingers through the tawny fringe of his beard awhile before he answered.

"Thet's all right, Molly. I laid out to be good to ye, an' I've tried to be. Say, Molly," he continued, with a kind of pleading earnestness in his voice, "ye've done hankerin' arter the city, ain't ye? Kind o' gittin' used to the mountings ag'in, ain't ye, Molly?"

It was quite dark on the little hillside now, and Molly could turn her face boldly toward her husband.

"What makes ye keep a-harpin' on that, Sandy? I ain't hankered after the city--not for a long time," and a slight shudder ran over her. "Just put that idea out of your head, Sandy. Nothin' could ever tempt _me_ to go to the city again. I _hate_ it!"

She spoke with fierce emphasis, and rose to go in. Sandy, somewhat puzzled by her manner, but re-assured by her words, heaved a sigh and rose also.

The stars were out, and from a little patch of swamp at the foot of the hill came the shrill piping of innumerable frogs, and a whip-poor-will's wild, sad cry pierced the silence. The baby had long since fallen asleep. The mother laid him in his cradle, and night and rest settled down over the little cabin.

* * * * *

Spring had brightened into summer, and summer was already on the wane; an August morning had dawned over the mountains. Although the sun shone warmly down upon the dew-drenched earth, the air was still deliciously cool and fresh.

Molly stood in the door-way, holding in her arms the baby, whose look of preternatural wisdom had merged itself into one of infantile softness and benignity. She was holding him up for the benefit of Sandy, who, as he went down the red, dusty road, driving the white cow before him, turned now and then to bestow a grimace upon his son and heir. That small personage's existence, while perhaps less a matter of astonishment to his father than formerly, had lost none of the charms of novelty. He was a fine, robust little man, and cooed and chuckled rapturously in his mother's arms, stretching out his hands toward the scarlet blossoms of the trumpet-vine which climbed around the door-way. Mother and child made a fair picture in the twining green frame touched up with flame-like clusters of bloom--a picture which was not lost upon Sandy, who, as he passed out of sight of the cabin, shook his head, and said to himself again, as he had many and many a time before:

"Blest ef I see how I ever got up spunk enough to ax her!"

Molly watched her husband out of sight, and then let her eyes wander over the summer landscape. There was a look of deep content in her face, which was no longer pale and worn. The traces of struggle and suffering had disappeared. The past may have had its anguish, and its sins perhaps, but the present must have seemed peaceful and secure, for she turned from the door-way with a song upon her lips,--a song which lingered all the morning as she went in and out about her household tasks, trying to make more trim and bright that which was already the perfection of trimness and brightness. When she had finished her work the morning was far advanced and the sun glared hotly in at the door and window.

She had rocked the baby to sleep, and came out of the inner room with the happy mother-look upon her face. She turned to look back, to see, perhaps, if the fly-net were drawn carefully enough over the little sleeper. As she stood thus she was conscious of a human shadow which fell through the outer door and blotted out the square of sunshine which lay across the floor, and a deep voice said:

"I'd thank you for a drink of water, ma'am."

Molly turned quickly and the eyes of the two met. Over the man's face came a look of utter amazement which ended in an evil smile.

Over the woman's face came a change so sudden, so terrible, that the new-comer, base and hardened as he looked, seemed struck by it, and the cruel smile subsided a little as he exclaimed:

"Molly Craigie, by all that's holy!"

The woman did not seem to hear him. She stood staring at him with wild incredulous eyes and parted lips, from which came in a husky whisper the words:

"Dick Staples!"

Then she struck the palms of her hands together, and with a sharp cry sank into a chair. The man stepped across the threshold, and stood in the centre of the room looking curiously about him. He was a large, powerfully built fellow, and, in a certain way, a handsome one. He was attired in a kind of hunting costume which he wore with a jaunty, theatrical air.

"I swear!" he exclaimed, with a brutal laugh, as his eyes took in the details of the neat little kitchen, and came at last to rest upon the woman's white face. "I swear! I do believe Molly's married!"

The idea seemed to strike him as a peculiarly novel and amusing one.

"Molly Craigie married and settled down! Well, if that _ain't_ a good one!" and he burst into another cruel laugh. His mocking words seemed at last to sting the woman, who had sat smitten mute before him, into action. She rose and faced him, trembling, but defiant.

"Dick Staples, what _brought_ ye here only God knows, but ye mus'n't _stay_ here. Ye must go 'way this minute, d'ye hear? _Ye must go 'way!_"

She spoke hurriedly, glancing down the road as she did so. The man stared blankly at her a moment.

"Well, now, if that ain't a nice way to treat an old friend! Why, Molly, you ain't going back on Dick you ain't seen for so long, are you? I'd no idea of ever seeing _you_ again, but now I've found you, you don't get rid of me so easy. I'm going to make myself at home, Molly, see if I don't." And the man seated himself and crossed his legs comfortably, looking about him with a mocking air of geniality and friendliness. "Why, d----n it!" he continued, "I'm going to stay to dinner, and be introduced to your husband!"

Molly went nearer to him; the defiance in her manner had disappeared, and a look of almost abject terror and appeal had taken its place.

"Dick," she cried, imploringly, "oh, Dick, for God's sake hear me! If ye want to see me, to speak with me, I won't refuse ye, only not here, Dick,--for God's sake _not_ here!" and she glanced desperately around. "What brought ye here, Dick? Tell me that, and where are ye stayin'?"

"Well, then," he answered surlily, "I ran up for a little shooting, and I'm staying at Digby's."

"At Digby's! That's three miles below here." She spoke eagerly. "Dick, you noticed the little meetin'-house just below here in the hollow?"

The man nodded.

"If ye'll go away now, Dick, right away, I'll meet ye in the woods. Follow the path that leads up behind the meetin'-house to-morrow mornin' between ten and eleven an' I'll meet ye there, but oh, Dick, for God's sake go away now, before--before _he_ comes!"

The desperation in her voice and looks produced some effect upon the man apparently, for he rose and said:

"Well, Molly, as you're so particular, I'll do as you say; but mind now, don't you play me no tricks. If you ain't _there_, punctual, I'll be _here_; now see if I don't, my beauty." He would have flung his arms about her, but she started back with flaming eyes.

"None o' that, Dick Staples!" she cried, fiercely.

"Spunky as ever, and twice as handsome, I swear!" exclaimed the fellow, gazing admiringly at her.

"_Are ye goin'?_"

There was something in her voice and mien which compelled obedience, and the man prepared to go. Outside the door he slung his rifle over his shoulder, and looking back, said:

"Remember now, Molly, 'Meet me in the willow glen,' you know. Punctual's the word!" and with a meaning smile he sauntered down the slope, humming a popular melody as he went.

The woman stood for a time as he had left her, her arms hanging by her side, her eyes fixed upon the door-way. The baby slept peacefully on, and outside the birds were twittering and calling, and the breeze tossed the vine-tendrils in at the door and window, throwing graceful, dancing shadows over the floor and across her white face and nerveless hands. A whistle, clear and cheery, came piping through the sultry noontide stillness. It pierced her deadened senses, and she started, passing her hand across her eyes.

"God!"

That was all she said. Then she began laying the table and preparing the midday meal. When Sandy reached the cabin she was moving about with nervous haste, her eyes gleaming strangely and a red spot on either cheek. Her husband's eyes followed her wonderingly. The child awoke and she went to bring him.

"I wonder what's up now?" he muttered, combing his beard with his fingers, as he was wont to do when perplexed or embarrassed. "Women _is_ cur'us! They's no two ways about it, they _is_ cur'us! They's no 'countin' fur 'em no how, 'deed they ain't!"

At this point the baby appeared, and after his usual frolic with him, during which he did not cease his furtive study of Molly's face, Sandy shouldered his hoe and started for the field. As he reached the door he turned and said:

"O Molly, I seen a man agoin' across the road down by the crick; one o' them city fellers, rigged out in huntin' traps. Did ye see him?"

Molly was standing with her back toward her husband putting away the remains of the meal.

"A man like that came to the door an' asked for a drink," she answered, quietly.

"He warn't sassy nor nothin'?" inquired Sandy, anxiously.

"No--he wasn't sassy," was the answer.

Sandy breathed a sigh of relief.

"Them city fellers is mighty apt to be sassy, and this time o' year they'se allers prowlin' 'round," and bestowing another rough caress on the baby he went his way.

* * * * *

That evening as they sat together before the door Sandy said:

"O Molly, I'm agoin' over ter Jim Barker's by sun-up ter-morrer, ter help him out with his hoein'. Ye won't be lonesome nor nothin'?"

"No--I reckon not," replied his wife. "'Twon't be the first time I've been here alone."

Involuntarily the eyes of the husband and wife met, in his furtive questioning look which she met with a steady gaze. In the dusky twilight her face showed pale as marble and her throat pulsated strangely. The man turned his eyes away; there was something in that face which he could not bear.

And at "sun-up" Sandy departed.

Molly went about her work as usual. Nothing was forgotten, nothing neglected. The two small rooms shone with neatness and comfort, and at last the child slept.

The hour for her meeting with Staples had arrived, and Molly came out and closed the cabin door behind her--but here her feet faltered, and she paused. With her hands pressed tightly on her heart she stood there for a moment with the bright August sunshine falling over her; then she turned and re-entered the cabin, went noiselessly into the bedroom and knelt down by the sleeping child. One warm, languid little hand drooped over the cradle's edge. As her eyes fell upon it a quiver passed over the woman's white face, and she laid her cheek softly against it, her lips moving the while.

Then she arose and went away. Down the dusty road, with rapid, unfaltering steps and eyes that looked straight before her, she passed and disappeared in the shadow of the forest.

* * * * *

When Sandy came home at night he found his wife standing in the door-way, her dark braids falling over her shoulders, her cheeks burning, her eyes full of a fire which kindled his own slow, but ardent, nature. He had never seen her looking so beautiful, and he came on toward her with quickened steps and a glad look in his face.

"Here, Molly," said he, holding up to her face a bunch of dazzling cardinal-flowers, "I pulled these fur ye, down in the gorge."

She shrank from the vivid, blood-red blossoms as if he had struck her, and her face turned ashy white.

"In the gorge!" she repeated hoarsely--"in the gorge! Throw them away! throw them away!" and she cowered down upon the door-stone, hiding her face upon her knees. Her husband stared at her a moment, hurt and bewildered; then, throwing the flowers far down the slope, he went past her into the house.

"Molly's gittin on her spells ag'in," he muttered. "Lord, Lord, I war in hopes ez she war over 'em fur good!"

Experience having taught him to leave her to herself at such times, he said nothing now, but sat with the child upon his lap, looking at her from time to time with a patient, wistful look. At last the gloom and silence were more than he could bear.

"Molly," said he softly, "what ails ye?"

At the sound of his voice she started and rose. Going to him, she took the child and went out of the room. As she did so, Sandy noticed that a portion of her dress was torn away. He remarked it with wonder, as well as her disordered hair. It was not like Molly at all; but he said nothing, putting this unusual negligence down to that general "cur'usness" of womankind which was past finding out.

The next day and the next passed away. Sandy went in and out, silent and unobtrusive, but with his heart full of sickening fears. A half-formed doubt of his wife's sanity--a doubt which her strange, fitful conduct during these days, and her wild and haggard looks only served to confirm--haunted him persistently. He could not work, but wandered about, restless and unhappy beyond measure.

On the third day, as he sat, moody and wretched, upon the fence of the corn-field, Jim Barker, his neighbor from the other side of the mountain, came along, and asked Sandy to join him on a hunting excursion. He snatched at the idea, hoping to escape for a time from the insupportable thoughts he could not banish, and went up to the cabin for his gun. As he took it down, Molly's eyes followed him.

"Where are ye goin', Sandy?" she asked.

"With Jim, fur a little shootin'," was the answer; "ye don't mind, Molly?"

She came to him and laid her head upon his shoulder, and, as he looked down upon her face, he was newly startled at its pinched and sunken aspect.

"No, Sandy, I don't mind," she said, with the old gentleness in her tones. She returned his caress, clinging to his neck, and with reluctance letting him go. He remembered this in after times, and even now it moved him strangely, and he turned more than once to look back upon the slender figure, which stood watching him until he joined his companion and passed out of sight.

An impulse she could not resist compelled her gaze to follow them--to leap beyond them, till it rested upon the Devil's Ledge, a huge mass of rocks which frowned above the gorge. Along these rocks, at intervals, towered great pines, weather-beaten, lightning-stricken, stretching out giant arms, which seemed to beckon, and point down the sheer sides of the precipice into the abyss at its foot, where a flock of buzzards wheeled slowly and heavily about. The woman's very lips grew white as she looked, and she turned shuddering away, only to return, again and again, as the slow hours lagged and lingered. The sunshine crept across the floor never so slowly, and passed at length away; and, just as the sun was setting, Sandy's tall form appeared, coming up the slope. Against the red sky his face stood out, white, rigid, terrible. It was not her husband; it was Fate, advancing. The woman tried to smile. Poor mockery of a smile, it died upon her lips. The whole landscape--the green forests, purple hills and gray rocks--swam before her eyes in a lurid mist; only the face of her husband--that was distinct with an awful distinctness. On he came, and stood before her. He leaned his gun against the side of the cabin, and placed the hand which had held it upon the lintel over her head; the other was in his breast. There was a terrible deliberation in all his movements, and he breathed heavily and painfully. It seemed to her an eternity that he stood thus, looking down upon her. Then he spoke.

"Thar's a dead man--over thar--under the ledge!"

The woman neither moved nor spoke. He drew his hand from his breast and held something toward her; it was the missing fragment torn from her dress.

"This yer war in his hand----"

With a wild cry the woman threw herself forward, and wound her arms about her husband's knees.

"I didn't go for to do it!" she gasped; "'fore God I didn't!"

Sandy tore himself away from her clinging arms, and she fell prostrate. He looked at her fiercely and coldly.

"Take your hands off me!" he cried. "Don't tech me! Thar's thet ez mus' be made cl'ar between you an' me, woman,--cl'ar ez daylight. Ye've deceived me an' lied to me all along, but ye won't lie to me _now_. 'Tain't the dead man ez troubles me," he went on grimly, setting his teeth, "'tain't him ez troubles me. I'd 'a' hed to kill him myself afore I'd done with him mos' likely--ef _you_ hadn't. 'Tain't that ez troubles me--_it's what went afore_! D'ye hear? Thet's what I want ter know an' all I want ter know."

He lifted her up and seated himself before her, a look of savage determination on his face.

"Will ye tell me?"

The woman buried her face upon her arms and rocked backward and forward.

"How _can_ I tell ye,--O Sandy, how _can_ I?" she moaned.

"Ye kin tell me in one word," said her husband. "When ye come back from Richmon' thar wuz them ez tole tales on ye. I hearn 'em, but I didn't believe 'em--I _wouldn't_ believe 'em! Now ye've only ter answer me one question--wur what they said _true_?"

He strove to speak calmly, but the passion within him burst all bounds; the words ended in a cry of rage, and he seized her arm with a grip of iron.

"Answer me, answer me!" he cried, tightening his hold upon her arm.

"It _was_ true, oh my God, it _was_ true!"

He loosened his grasp and she fell insensible at his feet.

There was neither tenderness nor pity in his face as he raised her, and carrying her in, laid her upon the bed. Without a glance at the sleeping child he went out again into the gathering darkness.

Far into the night he was still sitting there unconscious of the passing hours or the chilliness of the air. His mind wandered in a wild chaos. Over and over again he rehearsed the circumstances attending the finding of the dead man beneath the ledge, and the discovery of the fragment of a woman's dress in the rigid fingers; his horror when he recognized the man as the one he had seen crossing the road near the cabin, and the fragment as a part of Molly's dress. He had secured this and secreted it in his bosom before his companion, summoned by his shouts, had come up. He knew the pattern too well--he had selected it himself after much consideration. True, another might have worn the same, but the recollection of Molly's torn dress arose to banish every doubt. There was mystery and crime and horror, and Molly was behind it all--Molly, the wife he had trusted, the mother of his child!

It must have been long past midnight when a hand was laid upon his shoulder and his wife's voice broke the stillness.

"Sandy," said she, "I've come--to tell ye all. Ye _won't_ refuse to listen?"

He shivered beneath her touch but did not answer, and there in the merciful darkness which hid their faces from each other, Molly told her story from beginning to end, told it in a torrent of passionate words, broken by sobs and groans which shook her from head to foot.

"I met him in the woods," she went on. "I took him to the ledge, because I knew nobody would see us there, an' then I told him everything. I went down on my _knees_ to him an' begged of him to go away an' leave me; for I couldn't bear to--to give ye up, an' I knew 'twould come to that! I begged an' I prayed an' he wouldn't hear; an' then--an' then--" she sobbed, "he threatened me, Sandy, he threatened to go an' tell you all. He put his wicked face close up to mine, I pushed him away an' he fell--he fell, Sandy, but God knows I didn't go fur to do it."

She stopped, her voice utterly choked with agonizing sobs, but the man before her did not move or speak. She threw herself down and clasped her arms about him.

"Sandy! husband!" she cried. "Do what ye please with me--drive me away--_kill_ me, but remember this--I _did_ love ye true an' faithful--say ye believe that!"

The man freed himself roughly from her arms.

"I do believe ye," he answered.

There was something horrible in his fierce repulsion of her touch, in the harsh coldness of his voice, and the woman shrank back and crouched at his feet, and neither spoke nor moved again until with the first twitter of the birds, the baby's voice mingling, the mother rose instinctively to answer the feeble summons. She was chilled to the marrow, and her hair and garments were wet with the heavy dew. Sandy sat with averted head buried in his hands. She longed to go to him, but she dared not, and she went in to the child. Weak and unnerved as she was, the heat of the room overcame her, and sitting there with the baby on her lap she fell into a deep, death-like slumber. She returned to consciousness to find herself lying upon the bed with the child by her side. Some one had laid her there, and drawn the green shade close to shut out the bright light. She started up and listened; there was no sound but the whir of insects and the warbling of birds. She arose, stiff and bewildered, and staggered to the door. Sandy was gone.

* * * * *

The day dragged its mournful length along and as night fell steps were heard approaching. Molly's heart gave a great leap, but it was not her husband's step--it was that of Bob, her brother, who came slowly up the path, a serious expression on his boyish face. She would have flown to meet him, but she could not stir. Her eyes fastened themselves upon him with a look that demanded everything.

The young fellow came close up to his sister before speaking.

"How d'ye, Molly, how d'ye?" he said, seating himself beside her and glancing curiously at her white, desperate face.

"What is it, Bob?" she gasped; "what is it? Ye can tell me--I can bear it."

"I ain't got nothin' much to tell," he answered with a troubled air. "I war thinkin' ez you mought hev somethin' ter tell me. Sandy he come by an' said as how he mus' go down ter Gordonsville, he an' Jim Barker, on account o' the man ez fell over the ledge."

The shudder which passed through the woman's frame escaped Bob's notice, and he continued:

"He said ez how he mus' stay till th' inquist war over, an' moughtn't be back for a day or two, an' axed me fur ter keep ye comp'ny till he comes back."

"Till he comes back!" she repeated in a whisper.

She hid her face in her hands, and Bob, who, like Sandy, was used to Molly's strange ways, did not question her further.

Days, weeks and months passed away, and Sandy King had not returned. Jim Barker, who had seen him last, knew only that he had expressed an intention to remain a few days longer in the town, and all further inquiries revealed nothing more.

Bob remained with his sister, and, after the first few weeks of excitement, settled quietly down in charge of the little farm,--"until Sandy gits back," as he always took pains to declare.

This stoutly maintained contingency was regarded by the scattered inhabitants of that region with doubt and disbelief. Sandy's mysterious disappearance excited much comment, and gave rise to endless rumors and conjectures. The current belief, however, was, that being himself a man of peaceable habits, he had found his wife's temper too "cantankerous," and had gone in search of the peace denied him beneath his own roof, such an event having occurred more than once within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

Molly knew nothing of all this. She never left her own door from the day of her husband's departure, and Bob,--warm-hearted fellow,--had stood valiantly between his sister and the prying eyes and sharp tongues which sought to pluck out the heart of her mystery, or apply venom to her bleeding wounds.

That something very serious had occurred, he, more than any other, had cause to suspect, but he respected his sister's reticence, and watched with secret pain and anxiety her increasing pallor and weakness. The hopes he had at first cherished of Sandy's return died slowly out, but he hardly confessed it, even to himself.

Autumn passed into winter, and winter into spring, and in the meantime, as Molly faded, the little boy thrived and waxed strong. He could now toddle about on his sturdy legs, and his prattle and laughter filled the lonely cabin. His mother watched his development eagerly.

"See, Bob!" she would say, "see how he walks, an' how plain he can talk! What'll Sandy say when he sees him?"

Then she would hold up before the round baby-eyes a distorted, shaggy likeness of Sandy, which he had once exhibited with great pride on his return from Gordonsville, and try to teach the baby lips to pronounce "Dad-dy."

"He'll know him when he comes, Bob, see if he don't. He'll know his own daddy, won't he, precious man? An' he'll be here by corn-plantin', Bob, sure!"

And Bob, who always entered with a great assumption of cheerfulness into all her plans, would turn away with a sinking heart.

"Ef he's ever a-comin'," he would say to himself, "he'd better come mighty soon, or----" and then something would rise in his throat, and he could never finish the sentence.

The gray-brown woods had changed to tender green and purple, the air teemed with the sounds, and the earth with the tints, of early spring. The corn was not only planted, but was already sending up sharp yellow-green spikes out of the soft red loam, and yet Sandy had not returned.

A strange woman had taken Molly's place in the household, for Molly could no longer go about--could hardly sit at the window, looking down the lonely road or over the distant hills with her eager, hollow eyes. She had never complained, and up to this time had refused to see a physician. And now when one was summoned, he only shook his head in response to Bob's questions, and hinted vaguely at mental causes beyond his reach.

She lay for the most part with closed eyes, and but for the heaving of her breast, one might have believed her no longer of the living, so white and shadow-like had she become. She seldom spoke, but not a night fell, that she did not call Bob to her side and whisper, with upturned, anxious eyes:

"I reckon he'll come to-morrow, don't you?"

One evening, after a restless, feverish day, she woke from a brief nap. Her brother was seated by her side, looking sadly into her waxen face. She started up with a strange glitter in her eyes, and seized his arm.

"Bob," she whispered, "he's comin'! He's most here! Go and meet him quick, Bob, an' tell him to hurry, to _hurry_, mind, or I sha'n't be here!"

The wildness in her face and voice deepened.

"Go, I tell you! Quick! He's comin'!" and she would have sprung from the bed.

"There, there, Molly," said her brother, soothingly, "jess lay right down an' be quiet, an' I'll go."

She lay upon the pillow as he placed her, panting and trembling, and he went hastily out, pausing, as he went through the kitchen, to say a few words to the woman who sat at the table, feeding the little boy.

"She's a heap wusser," he said, "an' out of her head. Keep a watch over her while I go for the doctor."

He ran quickly down the slope toward the field where the horse was tethered. As he reached the road he saw a tall form advancing through the dusk with rapid strides. Something in the gait and outline set his heart to throbbing; he stopped and waited. The man came nearer.

"Bob!"

"Sandy!"

The two men clasped hands.

"Molly?" said her husband, brokenly. For answer Bob pointed silently toward the cabin, and Sandy passed up the slope before him. As he entered the little kitchen the child stopped eating and stared with wide-open eyes at the stranger.

"Dad-dy! dad-dy!" he babbled.

Sandy saw and heard nothing, but went blindly on into the inner room.

There was a glad cry, and Molly was in her husband's arms.

"I knew ye'd come!" she said.

"Yes, darlin', I've come, an' I'll never----" The words died upon his lips, for something in the face upon his breast told him that Molly was listening to another voice than his.

A SUMMER'S DIVERSION.

"For one, _I_ don't trust them yaller-haired, smooth-spoke women! I never see one on 'em yet that wa'n't full o' Satan."

It was Mrs. Rhoda Squires who uttered the above words; and she uttered them with considerable unnecessary clatter of the dishes she was engaged in washing. Abby Ann, a lank, dyspeptic-looking girl of fifteen or sixteen, was wiping the same, while the farmer himself was putting the finishing touches to his evening toilet. That toilet consisted, as usual, of a good wash at the pump, the turning down of his shirt-sleeves, and a brief application of the family comb, which occupied a convenient wall-pocket at one side of the small kitchen mirror--after which the worthy farmer considered himself in full dress, and ready for any social emergency likely to occur at Higgins' Four Corners.

"No," said Abby Ann, in response to her mother's remark, "she ain't no beauty, but her clo'es does fit elegant. I wish I hed the pattern o' that white polonay o' hern, but I wouldn't _ask_ her for it--no, not to save her!" she added, in praiseworthy emulation of the maternal spirit.

"Oh, you women folks!" interposed the farmer. "You're as full of envy 'n' backbitin' as a beechnut's full o' meat. Beauty! Ye don't know what beauty means. I tell you she _is_ a beauty,--a real high-steppin' out-an'-out beauty!"

"She's as old as I be, every bit!" snapped Mrs. Squires. "An' she hain't got a speck o' color in her cheeks--an' she's a widder at that!"

Farmer Squires turned slowly around and deliberately surveyed the wiry, stooping figure of his wife from the small, rusty "pug" which adorned the back of her aggressive little head, and the sharp, energetically moving elbows, down to the hem of her stiffly starched calico gown.

"Look-a-here, Rhody," said he, a quizzical look on his shrewd, freckled countenance, "you've seen Gil Simmonses thorough-bred? Wall--that mare is nigh onto two year older'n our old Sal, but I swanny----"

Undoubtedly the red signal which flamed from Mrs. Squires's sallow cheeks warned her husband that he had said more than enough, for he came to a sudden pause, seized upon a pair of colossal cowhide shoes, upon which he had just bestowed an unusual degree of attention in the way of polish, and disappeared in the direction of the barn.

"He's jist as big a fool as ever!" she ejaculated. "The Lord knows _I_ didn't want no city folks a-wearin' out _my_ carpets, an' a drinkin' up _my_ cream, an' a-turnin' up their noses at _me_! But no--ever sence he heared that Deacon Fogg made nigh onto a hundred dollars last year a-keepin' summer-boarders, his fingers has been a-itchin' an' his mouth a-waterin', an' nothin' for't but I must slave myself to death the whole summer for a pack o' stuck-up----"

She paused--for a soft rustle of garments and a faint perfume filled the kitchen, and turning, Mrs. Squires beheld the object of her vituperation standing before her.

She was certainly yellow-haired, and though not "every bit as old" as her hostess, a woman whose first youth was past; yet so far as delicately turned outlines, and pearly fairness of skin go, she might have been twenty. The eyes which met Mrs. Squires's own pale orbs were of an intense, yet soft, black, heavy-lidded and languid, and looked out from beneath their golden fringes with a calm, slow gaze, as if it were hardly worth their while to look at all. A smile, purely conventional, yet sweet with the graciousness of good breeding, parted the fine, soft lips.

Her mere presence made the room seem small and mean, and Mrs. Squires, into whose soured and jealous nature the aspect of beauty and grace ate like a sharp acid, smarted under a freshly awakened sense of her own physical insignificance.

She received her guest with a kind of defiant insolence, which could not, however, conceal her evident embarrassment, while Abby Ann retreated ignominiously behind the pantry door.

"I came to ask if Mr. Squires succeeded in finding some one to take us about," said the lady. "He thought he could."

Her voice was deep-toned and sweet, her manner conciliatory.

"I believe he did," replied Mrs. Squires, curtly. "Abby Ann, go tell your father Mis' Jerome wants him."

Abby Ann obeyed, and the lady passed out into the front hall, and to the open door. A cascade of filmy lace and muslin floated from her shoulders and trailed across the shiny oil-cloth. As the last frill swept across the threshold, Mrs. Squires closed the door upon it with a sharp report.

Before the door a little girl was playing on the green slope, while an elderly woman with a grave, kindly face sat looking on.

Farmer Squires, summoned by his daughter, came round the corner of the house. He touched his straw hat awkwardly.

"They's a young feller," he said, "that lives a mile or so up the river, that has a tip-top team--a kivered kerridge an' a fust-rate young hoss. His folks has seen better days, the Grangers has, an' Rob is proud as Lucifer, but they's a big mortgage on the farm, an' he's 'mazin' ambitious ter pay it off. So when I told him about you, he said he'd see about it. He wouldn't let no woman drive his hoss, but he thought mebbe he'd drive ye round hisself. Shouldn't wonder if he was up to-night."

"I wish he might come," said the lady. "My physician said I must ride every day, and I am too cowardly to drive if the horse were ever so gentle."

"No--I guess you couldn't hold in Rob's colt with them wrists," said he, glancing admiringly at the slender, jewelled hands. "I shouldn't wonder if that was Rob now."

At this moment wheels were heard rapidly approaching, and a carriage appeared in sight. A young man was driving. He held the reins with firm hand, keeping his eyes fixed upon the fine-stepping animal, turned dexterously up the slope, brought the horse to a stand-still before the door, and sprang lightly to the ground.

He was a remarkable-looking young fellow, tall above the average, and finely proportioned. Hair and mustache were dark, eyes of an indescribable gray, and shaded by thick, black brows. A proud yet frank smile rested on his handsome face.

"Hello, Rob," said Farmer Squires. "Here's the lady that wanted ter see ye. Mister Granger, Mis' Jerome."

The lady bowed, with a trace of hauteur in her manner at first, but she looked with one of her slow glances into the young man's face, and then extended her hand, and the white fingers rested for an instant in his brown palm. Granger returned her greeting with a bow far from awkward, while a rich color surged into his sun-browned face.

"That is a magnificent horse of yours, Mr. Granger," said Mrs. Jerome. "I hope he is tractable. I was nearly killed in a runaway once, and since then I am very timid."

"Oh, he is very gentle," said Granger, caressing the fiery creature's beautiful head. "If you like, I will take you for a drive now--if it is not too late."

"Certainly, I would like it very much. Nettie," she said, turning to the woman, "bring my hat and Lill's, and some wraps."

The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Mrs. Jerome and her child were whirling over the lovely country road. Their departure was witnessed by the entire Squires family, including an obese dog of somnolent habits, and old Sal, the gray mare, who thrust her serious face over the stone wall opposite, and gazed contemplatively down the road after the retreating carriage.

"Do you think you will be afraid?" asked Granger, as he helped Mrs. Jerome to alight.

"Oh no," she answered, with a very charming smile. "The horse is as docile as he is fiery. I shall enjoy the riding immensely. Do you think you can come every day?"

"I shall try to--at least for the present."

Mrs. Jerome watched the carriage out of sight.

"How very interesting!" she was thinking. "Who would dream of finding such a face here! And yet--I don't know--one would hardly find such a face out in the world. Perhaps it will not be so dull after all. I thought they were all like Squires!"

* * * * *

For several succeeding weeks there was seldom a day when the fiery black horse and comfortable old carriage did not appear before the farm-house door, and but few of those days when Mrs. Jerome did not avail herself of the opportunity, sometimes accompanied by the child and Nettie, oftener by the child alone.

The interest and curiosity with which young Granger had inspired Mrs. Jerome in the beginning, deepened continually. A true son of the soil, descendant of a long line of farmers, whence came this remarkable physical beauty, this refined, almost poetic, temperament, making it impossible for him, in spite of the unconventionally of his manner, to do a rude or ungraceful act? It was against tradition, she thought,--against precedent. It puzzled and fascinated her. She found it impossible to treat him as an inferior, notwithstanding the relation in which he stood to her. Indeed, she soon ceased to think of that at all. The books which she took with her upon their protracted drives were seldom opened. She found it pleasanter to lie back in the corner of the carriage, and watch the shifting panorama of hill and forest and lake through which they were driving. That the handsome head with its clustering locks and clear-cut profile, which was always between her and the landscape, proved a serious obstruction to the view, and that her eyes quite as often occupied themselves with studying the play of those mobile lips, and the nervous tension of those sun-browned hands upon the reins, was, perhaps, natural and unavoidable.

She talked with him a great deal, too, in her careless, fluent way, or rather to him, for the conversation on Granger's part was limited to an occasional eager question, a flash of his fine eyes, or an appreciative smile at some witty turn. She talked of many things, but with delicate tact avoided such themes as might prove embarrassing to an unsophisticated mind--including books.

It was, therefore, with a little shock of surprise that she one day found him buried in the pages of Tennyson, a volume of whose poems she had left upon the carriage seat while she and Lill explored a neighboring pasture for raspberries.

He was lying at full length in the sweet-fern, one arm beneath his head, his face eager and absorbed. He did not notice her approach, and she had been standing near him for some moments before he became aware of her presence. Then, closing the book, he sprang to his feet.

"So you read poetry, Mr. Granger?" she said, arching her straight brows slightly.

"Sometimes," he answered. "I have read a good many of the old poets. My grandfather left a small library, which came into my possession."

"Then you have read Shakspere----" began the lady.

"Yes," interrupted Granger, "Shakspere, and Milton, and Pope, and Burns. Is it so strange?" he asked, turning upon her one of his swift glances. "If one plowman may write poetry another plowman may read it, I suppose."

He spoke with bitterness, a deep flush rising to his temples.

"And have you read modern authors too?"

"Very little. There is no opportunity here. There is nothing here--nothing!" he answered, flinging aside a handful of leaves he had unwittingly gathered.

"Why do you stay here, then?"

The question sprang, almost without volition, from her lips. She would gladly have recalled it the next moment.

Granger gave her another swift glance, and it seemed to her that he repressed the answer which was already upon his tongue. A strange, bitter smile came to his lips.

"Let the shoemaker stick to his last," he said, turning toward the carriage, "and the farmer to his plow."

During the homeward ride he was even more taciturn than usual. At the door, Mrs. Jerome offered him the volume of Tennyson. He accepted it, with but few words.

When he returned it, a few days later, it opened of itself, and between the leaves lay a small cluster of wild roses, and some lines were faintly marked. They were these:

"When she made pause, I knew not for delight;
Because with sudden motion from the ground
She raised her piercing orbs and filled with light
The interval of sound."

"Cleopatra!" Mrs. Jerome repeated softly, "and like her, I thought there were 'no men to govern in this wood.' Poor fellow!"

It was a few days, perhaps a week, later, when Mrs. Jerome, who to the mystification of her host and hostess had received no letters, and, to the best of their knowledge, had written none, up to this time, followed a sudden impulse, and wrote the following epistle:

"MY DEAR FRIEND AND PHYSICIAN:--You advised, no, commanded me,
to eschew the world for a season, utterly and completely. I
have obeyed you to the letter. I will spare you details--enough
that I am gaining rapidly, and, wonderful to say, I am not in
the least _ennuyée_. On the contrary. The cream is delicious,
the spring water exquisite, the scenery lovely. Even the people
interest me. I am your debtor, as never before, and beg leave to
sign myself,

Your grateful friend and patient,

HELEN JEROME.

"P. S.--It would amuse me to know what the world says of my
disappearance. Keep my secret, on your very soul.

H. J."