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 spotted14 calf15, and the litter of lively pigs which occupied inclosures near the cabin, and—the tiny baby, who lay,[130] 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 drooping17 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 embryo18 manhood upon which his deep-set blue eyes were fixed19. 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 knuckle20 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[131] ax or a gun, or—or—" pausing for a climax21, "sling22 down a glass o' whiskey? 'Tain't possible!"
At this juncture23, an inquisitive24 fly lit upon the small eminence25 in the centre of the child's visage destined26 to do duty as a nose. Hardly had the venturesome insect settled when, without moving a muscle of his solemn countenance27, that astonishing infant, with one erratic28, back-handed gesture, brushed him away. The enraptured29 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 distended30 the child's uncertain mouth, and something which might be construed31 into a wink32 contracted for an instant his small right eye, whereupon the ecstatic father made the welkin ring with loud haw-haws of appreciative33 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 subsided34. "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——"
Sandy had ceased his contemplation of the boy,[132] 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 embarrassment37. "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 brawny38 mountaineer. There was a[133] 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-savage39 impulses and rude virtues40 of the region, was quite conscious of the incongruity41, and regarded his wife with something of awe42 mingled43 with his undemonstrative but ardent44 passion. He sat thus looking at her now, in a kind of adoring wonder.
"Waal!" he exclaimed at last, "blest ef I kin16 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 ardor46:
"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!"
[134]
Sandy did not often speak of those days of his probation47; but, finding Molly in a softened48 mood,—Molly, who had always been so cold and reticent49, so full of moods and fancies,—he felt emboldened50 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 mellowing51 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 softening52. Sandy could hardly credit his own happiness. He ran his fingers through the tawny53 fringe of his beard awhile before he answered.
[135]
"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 shudder54 ran over her. "Just put that idea out of your head, Sandy. Nothin' could ever tempt55 me to go to the city again. I hate it!"
She spoke56 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 shrill57 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 wane58; an August morning had dawned over the mountains. Although the sun[136] 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 merged59 itself into one of infantile softness and benignity60. 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 bestow61 a grimace62 upon his son and heir. That small personage's existence, while perhaps less a matter of astonishment63 to his father than formerly64, had lost none of the charms of novelty. He was a fine, robust65 little man, and cooed and chuckled66 rapturously in his mother's arms, stretching out his hands toward the scarlet67 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:
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.[137] The past may have had its anguish68, 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 drawn69 carefully enough over the little sleeper70. As she stood thus she was conscious of a human shadow which fell through the outer door and blotted71 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 amazement72 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[138] staring at him with wild incredulous eyes and parted lips, from which came in a husky whisper the words:
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 curiously74 about him. He was a large, powerfully built fellow, and, in a certain way, a handsome one. He was attired75 in a kind of hunting costume which he wore with a jaunty76, theatrical77 air.
"I swear!" he exclaimed, with a brutal78 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 smitten80 mute before him, into action. She rose and faced him, trembling, but defiant81.
"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.
[139]
"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 geniality82 and friendliness83. "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 defiance84 in her manner had disappeared, and a look of almost abject85 terror and appeal had taken its place.
"Dick," she cried, imploringly86, "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 desperately87 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'[140] 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 apparently88, 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 mien89 which compelled obedience90, and the man prepared to go. Outside the door he slung91 his rifle over his shoulder, and looking back, said:
"Remember now, Molly, 'Meet me in the willow92 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[141] outside the birds were twittering and calling, and the breeze tossed the vine-tendrils in at the door and window, throwing graceful93, 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 wont94 to do when perplexed95 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 furtive96 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?"
[142]
"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 mighty99 apt to be sassy, and this time o' year they'se allers prowlin' 'round," and bestowing100 another rough caress101 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 twilight102 her face showed pale as marble and her throat pulsated103 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[143] 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 faltered104, 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 drooped105 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 kindled106 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[144] a bunch of dazzling cardinal-flowers, "I pulled these fur ye, down in the gorge107."
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 cowered108 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.
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 negligence109 down to that general[145] "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 persistently110. He could not work, but wandered about, restless and unhappy beyond measure.
On the third day, as he sat, moody111 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 banish112, 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 ca[146]ress, clinging to his neck, and with reluctance113 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 Ledge11, 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 beckon114, and point down the sheer sides of the precipice115 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 shuddering116 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, rigid117, 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 lurid118 mist; only the face of her husband—that was dis[147]tinct 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 eternity119 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.
Sandy tore himself away from her clinging arms, and she fell prostrate121. 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[148] 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, tightening122 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[149] the bed. Without a glance at the sleeping child he went out again into the gathering123 darkness.
Far into the night he was still sitting there unconscious of the passing hours or the chilliness124 of the air. His mind wandered in a wild chaos125. 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 secreted126 it in his bosom127 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[150] from beginning to end, told it in a torrent128 of passionate129 words, broken by sobs130 and groans131 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 sobbed132, "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 utterly133 choked with agonizing134 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 crouched135 at his feet, and neither spoke nor moved again until[151] with the first twitter of the birds, the baby's voice mingling136, the mother rose instinctively137 to answer the feeble summons. She was chilled to the marrow138, and her hair and garments were wet with the heavy dew. Sandy sat with averted139 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 slumber140. 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.
[152]
"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 inquiries141 revealed nothing more.
Bob remained with his sister, and, after the first few weeks of excitement, settled quietly down in[153] charge of the little farm,—"until Sandy gits back," as he always took pains to declare.
This stoutly142 maintained contingency143 was regarded by the scattered144 inhabitants of that region with doubt and disbelief. Sandy's mysterious disappearance145 excited much comment, and gave rise to endless rumors146 and conjectures147. 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 valiantly148 between his sister and the prying149 eyes and sharp tongues which sought to pluck out the heart of her mystery, or apply venom150 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 reticence151, 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[154] little boy thrived and waxed strong. He could now toddle152 about on his sturdy legs, and his prattle153 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 likeness154 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 teemed155 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 spikes156 out of the soft red loam157, and yet Sandy had not returned.
[155]
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 vaguely158 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, feverish159 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.
[156]
"There, there, Molly," said her brother, soothingly160, "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 throbbing161; he stopped and waited. The man came nearer.
"Bob!"
"Sandy!"
The two men clasped hands.
"Molly?" said her husband, brokenly. For answer Bob pointed162 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.
Sandy saw and heard nothing, but went blindly on into the inner room.
[157]
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.
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1
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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8
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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10
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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12
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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13
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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14
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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15
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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16
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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17
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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18
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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19
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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21
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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22
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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23
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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24
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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25
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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26
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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27
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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28
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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29
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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32
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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33
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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34
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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35
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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38
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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39
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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40
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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41
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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42
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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43
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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44
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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45
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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46
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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47
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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48
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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49
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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50
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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52
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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53
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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54
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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55
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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56
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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57
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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58
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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59
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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60
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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61
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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62
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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63
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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64
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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65
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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66
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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68
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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69
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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70
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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71
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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72
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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73
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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75
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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77
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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78
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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79
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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80
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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81
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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82
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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83
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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84
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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85
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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86
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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87
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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88
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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89
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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90
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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91
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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92
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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93
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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94
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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95
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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96
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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97
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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98
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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99
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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100
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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101
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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102
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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103
pulsated
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| v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的过去式和过去分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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104
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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105
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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107
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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108
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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109
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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110
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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111
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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112
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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113
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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114
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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115
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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116
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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117
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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118
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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119
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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120
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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121
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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122
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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123
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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124
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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125
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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126
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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127
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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130
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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132
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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134
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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135
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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137
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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138
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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139
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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140
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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141
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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142
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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143
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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144
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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148
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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150
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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151
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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152
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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153
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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154
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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155
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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156
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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157
loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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158
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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159
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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160
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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161
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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162
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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163
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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