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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-03-19 18:20:59 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-03-19 18:20:59 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78249-0.txt b/78249-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2af5fd4 --- /dev/null +++ b/78249-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4228 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78249 *** + + + + + +ZEPH. + + + + + ZEPH. + + A POSTHUMOUS STORY. + + BY + HELEN JACKSON (H. H.), + AUTHOR OF + “RAMONA,” “A CENTURY OF DISHONOR,” “VERSES,” “BITS OF TRAVEL,” + “BITS OF TRAVEL AT HOME,” “BITS OF TALK ABOUT HOME + MATTERS,” “BITS OF TALK FOR YOUNG FOLKS,” “MERCY + PHILBRICK’S CHOICE,” “HETTY’S STRANGE HISTORY,” + “NELLY’S SILVER MINE,” “LETTERS FROM A CAT,” + “MAMMY TITTLEBACK AND HER FAMILY,” + “THE HUNTER CATS OF CONNORLOA.” + + BOSTON: + ROBERTS BROTHERS. + 1885. + + _Copyright, 1885_, + BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. + + UNIVERSITY PRESS: + JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. + + + + +ZEPH. + + + + +I. + + +The long Colorado twilight was over. But it was not yet quite lamplight +time by the clock, and Miss Sophy Burr was sitting in a brown study at +her kitchen window. This was the time she always took to make a swift +retrospect in her mind of the results, profitable or otherwise, of +the day just ended. She could think better in the dark, and the small +economy of doing without a lamp until the last possible minute gave her +a distinct pleasure. She was the strangest mixture of generosity and +stinginess ever poured into human mould, her boarders said; and nobody +knew better than they, for there was not a boarder in the house who had +not been with her at least a year: some five and some six, and one old +couple—Mr. and Mrs. Jones—had been with her ten. They were in Colorado +for their health,—Mr. Jones for Mrs. Jones’s, and _vice versa_ Mrs. Jones +for Mr. Jones’s; so they always declared, a rare instance of uniformity +in conjugal needs. They began with Miss Sophy in the year when she began, +and the town began,—almost before Miss Sophy fairly began; for all she +had in way of a house then was a tent with a sort of fly attachment for +a kitchen, and the boarders ate their meals in Miss Sophy’s bedroom; or, +to put it differently, Miss Sophy was obliged, owing to the scarcity +of accommodations and the rush of custom, to sleep temporarily in her +dining-room. That sounds better than to say that her boarders dined in +her bedroom. + +This was ten years ago. But to look at Pendar Basin to-day, and to +recall what it was then, one would say it must have been nearer twenty, +so marvellously had the colony grown and developed. It was now what is +called a “thriving” place of some six thousand people,—all active, all +making money, none rich, none very poor, few of any pretence to what is +called in older places “social position,” but all or nearly all of fair +intelligence and good business education in their respective callings. + +It had the making of a town in it,—a superb site, good water, the command +of two mountain passes through which must go up and out of the Basin all +the freight for two large mining districts in the west and in the south. +A railroad, one of the main Colorado lines, brought in the supplies to be +thus shipped, and kept it, moreover, in close relation with the outside +world. On the whole, a very lucky little village was Pendar Basin; and +especially lucky were those who came in the beginning, in the “tent and +coyote” days, as they were called, and had seen the lots they bought +then for hundreds of dollars boom up into value rated by thousands. + +Miss Sophy had not ten dollars in the world when she began. Her story +was a sad one, but its details do not belong here. She had come out from +New England to Colorado to join her lover; found him dead, buried only +the week before her arrival, his last words full of anguished anxiety on +her account, for he had not been successful, and had nothing to leave +her except a grave to be tended; and the first thing the poor soul did, +was to spend a few of her dollars in building a high fence around the +bare sandy mound which hid her lover from her sight. Then she hired +a tent, put out her sign, rolled up her sleeves, and went to work to +earn money enough to carry her home. But the spell of the wilderness +seized hold upon her, and she never went; and now there was not in all +the town a better-known, a more universally respected woman than Miss +Sophy: respected by the women because of her helpful cheery nature and +exceeding decorum of conduct; respected by the men because she had a +“level head” and “owned considerable property,”—surest passports to favor +in the minds of business men. + +As Miss Sophy sat revolving in her mind the relative proportions between +what she had expended and what she had received on the day just closed, +a frown deepened on her forehead. The balance did not please her. The +margin of profit which she had prescribed to herself as a uniform rule +had been diminished by injudicious luxury added to dinner. + +“’Twas the jelly,” she said to herself. “That was what did it. But I +can’t bring myself to give roast mutton without it. Capers come cheaper +and go farther. I’ll boil oftener.” + +At least hundreds of times in the last eight years Miss Sophy had come +to this or similar resolutions; but they always failed her when the +instant arrived for putting them into practice. Her love of a good +dinner herself, and her still keener love of the approbation she won by +setting it before others, kept up perpetual warfare with her savingness, +and being two to one, often came off victorious,—often enough to keep up +her reputation for setting the best table in the town; not often enough, +however, to prevent her making money in the long run, and coming out at +the end of the year with a creditable surplus ahead. + +Just as Miss Sophy had said, half aloud, the last words of her soliloquy, +she heard a faint knock at the door,—an irresolute, vacillating sort of +knock, which aroused her curiosity at once. + +“Who ever’s that,” she said, rising briskly, “that don’t know his mind—or +his fingers?” and she opened the door with impatient quickness. + +A tall man, with a painful expression of incertitude and feebleness in +his bent figure, stood before her without speaking. + +“Well?” said Miss Sophy, sharply. + +“I see a woman come in here a little while ago,” he stammered, “’bout +half an hour back.” + +“Well, supposin’ you did!” interrupted Miss Sophy, still more sharply. + +The man lifted his eyes to hers, with the look of a hunted animal. “Beg +your pardon, ma’am, I didn’t mean to ’fend ye; I thought mebbe ’twas my +wife, ’n’ I’d like to speak to her.” + +“Your wife!” cried Miss Sophy, eying him keenly,—she began to suspect him +of being either a tramp or a lunatic,—“your wife! There hasn’t any woman +come in here but me; ’twas me came int’ the gate just now. What’d you +think your wife was wantin’ in here?” + +The man hung his head. A strange hesitancy seemed to hold back his every +word. + +“She said she was goin’ out to look for work,” he said slowly, “an’ I +thought ’twas her I see turnin’ in here. Beg yor pardon, ma’am. Sorry I +troubled ye.” + +“’Tain’t any great trouble answerin’ a question,” replied Miss Sophy, her +heart warming at once at the symptoms of suffering. “What sort of work +did she want? What do you do? Do you want work?” + +“I’m a carpenter,” answered the man, still speaking slowly, and with +almost a stumbling vagueness; “’t least that’s my trade; I hain’t got any +tools now, though; I’ve been teamin’ since I’ve been here.” + +“Do you want work?” asked Miss Sophy again, curtly. + +No reply from the man. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes resting on +Miss Sophy’s face almost like the unseeing eyes of a sleepwalker. + +“Man alive!” exclaimed Miss Sophy. “I’m askin’ you if you want work! I +can get you somethin’ to do.” + +Still in the same curiously irresolute, hesitant voice the man answered: +“No, I donno’s as I do; that is, I donno’s I’ll be here; if I was here, +I’d be glad o’ work.” + +Miss Sophy’s patience evaporated. “Well, you are here, ’s near ’s I can +judge; but you don’t seem to me to want work so much ’s some men I’ve +met. I don’t know how you expect to get along in this world without +workin’!” + +“I don’t,” said the man. “’Tain’t that I ain’t willin’ to work. Ye hain’t +seen anything o’ my wife, have ye?” he added, with a sudden desperate +energy strangely unlike his manner hitherto. “She’s somethin’ your build, +an’ about your height; that was the reason I took you for her jest now; +hain’t no sech woman been here to-day? I’ve looked ’most everywhere else +I could think of she’d be likely to go. Hain’t she stopped here?” + +“Stark crazy, evidently,” thought Miss Sophy, as she answered: “No, she +hasn’t been here. No woman has been into this door to-day but me. Tell me +where you live, and if your wife does call here I’ll tell her you want +to see her.” + +He started apprehensively. “Oh, no, ma’am,” he said, “don’t you say +nothin’ to her about it. She doesn’t like it to have me goin’ round +followin’ her up. But I thought if she was in the house I’d like to get +a word with her. My name’s Riker, ma’am,—Zeph Riker. We live down in the +Flat; ye can’t miss it. If I’m here I’d be glad to do teamin’; or, if +it wasn’t for not havin’ tools, carpenterin’ ’s my trade. Good-night, +ma’am,” and turning with a swift movement quite out of keeping with his +shambling, inert attitude, he was gone. + +Miss Sophy stood gazing out into the darkness after him for some seconds +before she recovered from her bewilderment. + +“Well, if that don’t beat all the cur’us things that’s ever come to my +door yet!” she mentally ejaculated as she walked slowly through the +kitchen into the dining-room and began setting her supper-table. “I +guess he’s crazy, poor thing! An’ yet, he didn’t seem somehow exactly +like crazy neither. Perhaps some o’ the folks’ll know him. It’s borne in +on me that that man wants lookin’ after.” + +None of the “folks,” that is, Miss Sophy’s boarders, had ever heard of +Zeph Riker. As she told them the tale of her interview they all with one +accord began to warn her against letting her sympathies go out towards +him. He was a tramp; he was a burglar; he was a madman. One after another +the boarders confidently advanced their theories of explanation of his +singular behavior. It was odd to see, but a student of psychological +phenomena could have classified the fact, how, as the conversation went +on, Miss Sophy instinctively took the attitude of Zeph’s defender. + +“I don’t b’leeve he’s one o’ them things,” she said. “I ain’t goin’ to +say it for sure, but I b’leeve he’s jest kind o’ dumb with trouble. I +think that’s all ’t ails him,—some dreadful kind o’ trouble; ’n’ I think +he ought to be looked after. It’s been growin’ on me, the more I’ve +thought on ’t, that ’twas trouble he was in. Trouble makes folks that way +sometimes,—makes the words kind o’ stick, an’ your head seem to be all of +a kind of a buzz, so you don’t know anythin’. I think somebody ought to +look after him.” + +Whenever it became clear to Miss Sophy that a thing or a person wanted +“looking after,” the next logical step in her mind was the conclusion +that she herself was the person whose duty lay in the line of that +precise “looking after.” “And especially after the trouble I’ve seen +myself,” said Miss Sophy, as she took her energetic way the next +afternoon towards “The Flat,”—a part of the town in which, strangely +enough, she had never before been. Miss Sophy was not a walker; that is, +not an outdoor walker. The number of miles her tireless feet walked +each day in her house it would have greatly surprised her to be told. +She always said it tired her to death to walk, she was too stout; and +when her “folks” sometimes observed, “Why, Miss Sophy, you are always +walking, you never sit down,” she would reply, “Oh, but I don’t call it +walkin’, just runnin’ round the house.” And she honestly thought so; and +felt over-fatigued by a half-hour’s walk out of doors, when she would be +fresh as a lark at the end of eight or nine hours’ steady trot on her own +floors. + +It was a warm day, and the perspiration stood in drops on Miss Sophy’s +face when she finally found herself in the centre of the low, thinly +settled district known as the Flat. Looking around her with mingled +disgust and compassion, she indulged in the strongest ejaculation ever +permitted to pass her lips. + +“Land o’ the livin’! What a hole! Poor creaturs! I don’t suppose this +land costs anythin’, an’ that’s what brought ’em all in here. ’Tain’t +any more nor less than a kind o’ cellar! A nice time scarlet fever’d have +if it was to get in amongst these shanties. It’s a shame! I never knew +there was such a place ’s this in this town. Well, one half the world +doesn’t know how the other half lives, is jest as true in small places +as in big, I vow! I don’t know what the man meant by sayin’ I couldn’t +miss it. As if there wasn’t but one house in the Flat, and that his’n!” +and Miss Sophy stood looking right and left in blank perplexity. The +dogs and the children of the Flat soon gathered around her in wonder at +her appearance, and from one of the oldest and least terrified of the +children she learned which of the shanties was “Zeph’s.” + +It was a poor little place, unfenced, uncared for, the house unpainted +and dilapidated; and in strange mockery, it seemed, of the probable needs +of the occupants of such a house, a trim new tying-post stood in front +of the door. Looming up gauntly at its side was the half-done frame of +a two-story house, evidently long since abandoned to wind and weather; +for the beams were gray from exposure, and weeds grew high where floors +should have been. + +“Shouldn’t wonder a mite if that was his’n,” thought Miss Sophy. “He +looked just the kind o’ man to leave off that way. He wants spurrin’ up.” +And there was an unconsciously authoritative quality in the very knock +Miss Sophy gave at Zeph’s door. + +No answer. Again she knocked, still more sharply. No sound of any one +stirring in the house. Impatiently Miss Sophy stepped to the window—there +was but one—and looked in. An ejaculation of dismay escaped her. + +“Of all the pigsties, for such a decent man as he looked, to be livin’ +in!” she said. It was indeed an unsightly place,—a bare floor, long +unswept; a rusty cooking-stove in the centre of the room, ashes and +brands piled on the hearth in front; a battered table; wooden chairs; +a few utensils and dishes on cupboard shelves in one corner; through +a half-open door into an adjoining room were to be seen untidy beds, +and a bureau, with drawers wide open, looking as if they had just been +ransacked by thieves; on a small stand at the head of the bed was a brass +candlestick in which the candle had burned down to the socket, leaving +grimy strata of melted tallow and blackened wick piled around it. + +Miss Sophy’s New England soul revolted. + +“I donno’s there’s any use tryin’ to help anybody that’d have a house +like this,” she thought, and stepped back from the window, again looking +around her in a half-compassionate, half-resentful study of the region. +As she did so she perceived a strange head peering over a high board +fence just beyond the unfinished frame building. It was an old woman. +Her thin gray hair, streaked with yellow, drawn up in a tight knot on +the top of her head, was surmounted again by a pair of huge iron-rimmed +spectacles of a kind out of vogue for fifty years. Her hair looked twenty +years older than her face, and her face, again, twenty years older than +her eyes, which were bright hazel, clear and keen, making the spectacles +seem a grotesque adornment rather than a necessary aid to vision. The old +woman had been watching Miss Sophy’s every movement, and as she saw her +turn away from the window, called out, “Ain’t nobody in thar, be ther?” + +“No,” said Miss Sophy, “no one.” + +“I allowed he hedn’t come hum,” said the woman. “I seed thar warn’t no +smoke out’er’n ther chimbly, ’n’ I said ter Vilm, sez I, ‘I jest allow +thet thar Zeph’s been walkin’ ther streets all night, I allow he hez!’” + +Miss Sophy walked briskly towards the fence. As she did so, the head +disappeared from view, and simultaneously from behind the boards came +the hospitable invitation, “Ef yeow’ll step raound ter the front a piece, +I’ll let yer in; this gate’s done nailed up, kase ther young uns’s allers +lettin’ ther pig aout.” + +“I never!” thought Miss Sophy. “What next, I wonder!” But she complied +with the directions, and reaching the other side of the house found +herself confronted by her strange interlocutor, who exclaimed, “Oh, +ther yer be! I allowed yer wan’t comin’, mebbe! It took yer ser long, I +allowed yer’d gone off. Yer wuz lookin’ for Zeph Riker, wuzn’t yer? Did +yer want him ter work fur yer?” + +“Yes,” replied the dazed Miss Sophy, who had never before heard the +Missouri vernacular, and had never before seen so strange a figure as the +one which now stood before her. + +“Wall, thet’s jest what I wuz a hopin’ up when I seed yer gwine ter ther +door. I allowed to myself thet Zeph wuz gwine ter git holped; he’s clar +down, Zeph is, ’n’ I allow he’ll jest git ter be outer’n his wits ef he +keeps on ther way he’s ben goin’, er walkin’, walkin’, night-times ’n’ +daytimes; they’s all one ter him, he sez, an’ she ain’t wuth it, ’n’ +never wuz. Thar’s lots kin tell him thet; but he won’t listen to nary +word agen her, nary. Vilm, he ’lows he’s crazy, naow; but I don’t. He’s +got’s wits, Zeph hez; an’ there wan’t never no better man cum inter this +yer flairt, never. I allow ter you ther warn’t. He’s reel good, Zeph is. +I ain’t gwine ter say but what ther’s men thet’s rustled more’n he did; +but ’tain’t in some men _to_ rustle; thar’s some that ken, an’ thar’s +some that can’t; an’ thar can’t nobody rustle when ther heart’s took +outer ’em; ’n’ thet’s what’s ther matter with Zeph; he’s got the heart +gone plumb outer him; he’s been settin’ thar ’n thet house sence she’s +went off this last time, ’n’ I allow he’d ha’ starved ter death ef I +hedn’t tuk him over vittles. We’re pore, but we ain’t gwine ter see a +human critter starve, not right next dore, we ain’t. I seed him when he +went off yesterday mornin’. I was jest cummin’ crost ther floor, an’ I +seed him kinder stealin’ by. He know’d I’d ask him whar he wuz gwine. An’ +sez I, ‘Zeph Riker, air yer goin’ huntin’ thet woman agen? I allow yer +the biggest fool in all this yer flairt, Zeph Riker.’ Thet’s what I said. +I hain’t no patience with a man that’ll git down ’n’ be run over wuss ’n +ary dog. An’ he jest give me sech er look, an’ he sez, ‘She’s my wife, +Gammer! an’, more ’n somever, she’s took the chillen along this time.’ +‘She hain’t!’ sez I. ‘Yes, she hez,’ sez he. Wall, when I heered she’d +got the chillen, I hedn’t no more ter say. He’d got ter go hunt ’em, +’n’ git ’em away ef he ennywise could; fur ’t’s a dumb shame fur little +chillen to be with a—sech a critter’s she is!” And Gammer Stein stopped +at last, not for lack of words, but of breath. + +“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” was Miss Sophy’s sole reply to +this outpouring of mingled invective and sympathy. + +“Don’t know what I’m talkin’ abaout!” cried the old woman, wrathfully. +“Hain’t you heered haow Zeph Riker’s wife’s allers gwine off ’n’ leavin’ +him? Sometimes ’tis one thing, ’n’ sometimes ’tis another; she’s allers +got an excuse ready; most gen’ully it’s lookin’ fur work, she sez; she +lets on she’s got ter support the family, ’n’ she’s allers a scandalizin’ +him up ’n’ down; she ’lows he don’t yern nothin’, ’n’ she sez ef one +don’t bring in, the other must; ’n’ so she goes off ter work down ’n the +restaurants, fust one, ’n’ then another, but’s allers ’n the one whar +that skunk o’ a feller she’s goin’ with, thet Nat Leeson, ’s a cookin’. +Thet’s the kind o’ work she’s a doin’! I allow she’d oughter be took up; +she’d oughter; sech women’s a disgrace to thar sex, they air now. Hain’t +yeow heered nothin’ abaout it? I allow yeow must be a stranger hyar, ef +yeow hain’t heered o’ Rusha Riker. She’s jest famed, ill famed, too, in +this hyar town. I allowed thar warn’t nobody thet hedn’t heered o’ her +scandaliginous carak’ter!” + +This last adjective was too much for Miss Sophy’s risibles. In spite of +herself she laughed; at which Gammer Stein broke out again: “I allow +’tain’t no larfin’ marter; it’s jest life ’n’ death, thet’s what ’tis, to +this hyar man ’n’ his chillen, ’n’ ef thar ain’t murder in ’t afore all’s +said ’n’ done, I allow we kin be thankful t’ ther A’mighty. What wuz ye +wantin’ o’ Zeph, ef so be ’s ye never heered o’ him afore?” And pulling +down her spectacles, and adjusting them perilously near the end of her +nose, Gammer Stein looked scrutinizingly across their iron rims at her +visitor. “I don’t know ye,” she said distrustfully. “What mought yer name +be? Be ye new cum?” + +“Oh, no,” replied Miss Sophy. “I have lived here ever since the town was +begun; but I live a mile away from here, and I have never happened to +hear of Zeph till yesterday, when he came to my house lookin’ for his +wife. I thought he was in some sort of trouble, an’ I’d look after him a +little.” + +“Jes so, jes so,” said Gammer, instantly appeased by the presence of +sympathy. “Yer live on ther hill, I allow?” + +“Yes,” said Miss Sophy. + +“Land’s drefful dear up thar,” replied Gammer, “or else me ’n’ Vilm, we’d +been up thar tew, yeow bet! I didn’t never like hollers; but pore folks +’s got ter live whar they kin. Back ’n Missouri we wuz up on a ridge +like, but ’twarn’t ser healthy ’s this, fur all ’twuz higher; ’n’ Vilm’s +allers tellin’ me thet this hyar flairt ain’t reelly a holler. Thar +can’t be no hollers, he sez, when ther hull country’s ez high up ez this +is; but I tell him I don’t want ter live ’n enny place thet ser much ’s +favors ther look ’v er holler, ’n’ ’s soon ’s we git er little erhead +we’s got ter move outer’n this flairt. What part o’ ther hill der yeow +live on? Be yeow a married woman?” + +“No,” replied Miss Sophy, curtly, with something in her tone which the +sensitive old woman felt without fully recognizing, and instinctively +wished she had not asked the question. “I have never been married. I live +alone. I keep the boarding-house next to the Presbyterian church.” + +“Dew yer?” exclaimed Gammer. “Naow I allow thet’s kind o’ cur’us. Vilm, +he’s done teamin’ ter yeour place; he’s tolt me abaout yeow. Don’t yer +want er man steady ter dew yer outside work? Ef ye’d take Zeph in, he’s +handy; he’s a fust-rate carpenter tew, ’n’ a good hand fur hosses; ef +he’d jest git hisself inter some sech place, thar’s plenty ’d take keer +o’ the chillen for jest their keep, ’n’ thay’re li’le, ’twouldn’t be +much, ’n’ let thet hussy o’ his’n go whar she belongs; ’n’ I allow thar +ain’t much doubtin’ whar ’t ’d be. Ef he cud wunst git shet ’v her wunst +fur all, thar’d be some hope o’ Zeph yit. He wuz a reel likely man when +they fust moved in hyar three years ago. She wan’t what she oughter be, +neow I don’t s’pose; but she hadn’t gin herself clean away t’ the devil +then ’s she hez sence. I allow it’s strange yer hain’t never heered o’ +her. Why, she’s been up inter the jail, ’n’ her name ’n the paper, ’n the +‘Times,’ ’n’ the trial, ’n’ all. Jerushy Riker ‘disorderly’ they called +it; ’n’ Zeph he paid the fine, ’n’ all the costs, ’n’ got her hum; ’n’ +I allow ter yeow ’twan’t more ’n a week ’fore she wuz aout agen, ’n’ +feathers ’n her bunnit, ’n’ goin’ to dances wi’ thet Nat, ’s brazhen ’s +any brass ye ever seen. ’N’ there wasn’t erry woman ’n this flairt ’ud +ser much ’s speak ter her, only ther men. I allow men is shameful; ’n’ +’s long ’s they’ll go with her ’n’ give her things, she just spites the +women. My man won’t hev nothin’ ter say ter her; he sez he’d kill her +ef she wuz his’n, ’n’ I sh’d hope he would. But thet ther Zeph, he jest +worships her, ’s ef she wuz the best wife a man ever hed. He’ll foller +her, ’n’ coax her, ’n’ hang round her, ’n’ give her his last cent he’s +got in this blessed yarth, ef she’ll only look wunst torerds him.” + +“He’s a fool!” broke in Miss Sophy. + +“Wall, yis, I allow he is,” said Gammer, reflectively. “I allow he must +be; an’ yit he ain’t, nuther. Zeph ain’t no fool. Ef a man gits took thet +way ’bout a woman, he can’t holp hisself, ’thout he kin git shet ’v her +outern out. Thet’s what I’m tellin’ him allers. I sez to him jest this +last week, sez I, ‘Zeph Riker, yeow jest light aout er hyar; yeow take +yer team,’—he’s got a fust-rate team ef he hain’t sold ’em since last +week to git money ’n’ go hunt fur thet hussy,—‘yeow take yeour team ’n’ +ther young uns, ’n’ light aout; ’n’ yeow keep er travellin’ till yer’ve +got whar yer can’t never hear name of her agin. Yeow kin stop when your +money’s giv aout, ’n’ work till yer git more ter go on with; ’n’ yeow +jest keep movin’. I allow Californy’d be fur enough; ’n’ livin’ ’s easy +made thar, everybody sez thet’s ben thar; yeow jest light aout er hyar.’” + +“What did he say?” asked Miss Sophy, breathlessly. + +“He didn’t say but jest tew words, he didn’t,” replied Gammer. “But them +tew, ’n’ the way he sed ’em, wuz more ’n some folks’s preachin’ all day. +He sez, sez he, ‘Gammer, I can’t;’ ’n’ I allow to yeow I ’spect thet’s +jest the trew on’t; ’n’ ef he can’t, he can’t.” + +“You don’t mean to tell me you think he loves the woman still!” cried +Miss Sophy. + +“But he doos,” said Gammer. “Thet’s why Vilm sez he’s a fool, ’n’ I can’t +gainsay ’t he ain’t; ’n’ yit thar’s times, I allow to yeow, when I git +ter feelin’ ’s ef he wuz better ’n most folks. He don’t never give her +a hash word; he’s allers’s glad ter see her ’s aour pup hyar ter see +the chillen cumin’ hum when school’s aout; ’n’ he’ll slave hisself ter +death, ’n’ sell the coat offen his back, ter git her all she wants; ’n’ +she don’t give him ser much ’s a word er a look, let alone disgracin’ +him ’n’ his chillen ’n’ the name he’s gin her! I donno ’s the Lord +’s gwine ter call him a fool er not. It kind o’ cums over me cur’us +sometimes, ther way he acts.” And the old woman gazed half-inquiringly, +half-shamefacedly, into Miss Sophy’s face. + +Miss Sophy’s eyes were full of tears. She tried to keep them back, but +they were too big to be concealed,—genuine, unmistakable tears. Brushing +them away impatiently, she said, “Well, he’s a fool, anyhow!” + +“I s’pose he must be,” replied Gammer. “Thar ain’t many like him.” + +“I wonder where he is now,” said Miss Sophy. + +“No knowin’,” said Gammer. “It’s two days naow he’s ben huntin’ her. +He won’t go in bold like ’n’ ask ef she’s thar ’t these places, kase +it mads her. He’ll jest hang raound ’n’ watch. He sez he won’t mortify +her! Him mortify her! Thet sounds likely, don’t it? He sed thet ter me +wunst, when I sed ter him, sez I, ‘Zeph Riker, ef yer want her ser bad’s +yer say, take er perliceman ’n’ go git her. She’s yer wife. The law +guvs her ter ye where somever yer kin ketch her.’ ‘I wouldn’t mortify +her thet way,’ sez he; ’n’ then I jest up ’n’ I sez ter him—wall, I +pollergized ter him arter fur the words I used; they wuz outrageous, ’n’ +ther wouldn’t nobody but a fool ha’ stood ’em, Vilm sed; but somehow, +I allow ter yeow, I’ve allers liked him better sence thet day. Sez he, +‘I don’t feel ter blame yer, not fur nothin’ yer say. Thar can’t nobody +understand, but I can’t holp myself.’” + +Strange emotions were tugging at Miss Sophy’s heart-strings. What had +this poor man’s experiences in common with hers? Nothing, surely. The +lover she had lost had been an upright man. Her affection had never been +put to the strain of wrestling with even so much as a suspicion of the +unworthiness of its object. And if such evil destiny as that had ever +befallen her, she would have seemed to be the last person,—she with +her practical common sense, clear business head, matter-of-fact way of +looking at life,—the last person, surely, to have clung to a base and +dishonored man. And yet this pathetic story she was hearing of Zeph +Riker’s inalienable affection for the miserable creature he called wife +seemed to be breaking up within her bosom the very foundations of some +strange, undreamed-of, mighty emotion which threatened to overwhelm her. + +“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” thought Miss Sophy. “It must be +the long walk. It always does upset me to walk.” + +“I must be going now,” she said suddenly. “I have a great deal to do. +I wish you’d let me know if there is anything I can do to help this +poor man. If he wants work I can give him a good deal.” And she turned +abruptly away, to the great discomfiture of Gammer Stein, who had not +said half her say. + +“Ye’ll call raound agen, won’t ye?” she called after her. “Dew. I’d like +ter see yer fust-rate.” + +“Perhaps I will,” said Miss Sophy, “some day. But I’m very busy. You must +come and see me.” + +This pleased Gammer even better. + +“I allow I will,” she said eagerly. “I’d like ter see yer place. I wuz by +thar. It’s an awful nice house yer got.” + +“Good afternoon,” said Miss Sophy, already some paces away, and +quickening her steps to avoid further talk. She walked unconsciously +faster and faster till she reached home. Not for ten years had Miss +Sophy’s spinster breast been the seat of such keen and conflicting +emotion. She could neither analyze it nor shake it off. The image of her +long-buried lover rose up before her with almost terrifying vividness, +and she seemed compelled by some strange power outside of herself to +continue thinking of him, fancying what would have been the result had +their marriage taken place and he afterward proved as unfit for trust, +unworthy of love, as Zeph’s wife. She felt herself disloyal at the very +thought, but she could not free herself from it. + +“What nonsense!” she said to herself, sternly. “There wasn’t a bad drop +of blood in Robert Barrett’s veins, not one; not a man in that family +ever went to the bad.” + +“But what if he had?” persisted this strangely disquieted spirit in her +breast. “What if he had? What if he had been overpowered by temptation? +He was human. Men seemingly as good as he have fallen; have become +drunkards; have been unfaithful to their wives. What if he had? What +would you have done? Wouldn’t you have clung to him through everything? +Do you suppose you could ever have left off loving him, no matter what he +had done?” + +“No, I know I couldn’t,” responded Miss Sophy’s passionate heart, also +strangely disquieted in her breast; “I know I couldn’t!” + +And then by a not unnatural sequence there came into her thoughts the +solemn words of the marriage service, which she could never hear without +a strange pang, remembering that she had once expected to hear them +spoken for herself. “‘For better, for worse; till death do us part.’ What +does that mean,” she said, “if it does not mean just what this poor Zeph +is doing? ‘For better, for worse,’ no matter how much worse! I do believe +I should have looked at it just as he does, this very minute! I wouldn’t +wonder if I’d ha’ been just such a fool ’s he is; an’ I don’t know as +I call it exactly bein’ a fool, neither, any more ’n she does!” And +with a tremendous effort Miss Sophy shook herself free from the bootless +soliloquy, and went about her work, reiterating in her mind the original +resolution with which she had left home early in the afternoon,—that that +man must be “looked after.” + + + + +II. + + +When Zeph left Miss Sophy’s door he had in his mind no specific plan of +action, although from his brisk gait one would have supposed him to have +in view a definite goal which he wished to reach in the shortest possible +time. He walked on, looking neither to the right nor the left, till he +reached the outskirts of the town, at the farthest possible remove from +his own house. Here the land fell away abruptly into bottoms through +which ran a stream, low and shrunken now from the long drought. The +sight of the water was the first thing which roused him from the vague +yet painful reverie in which he had been walking. As he looked into the +water, he thought to himself, “If it was ’s high ’s I’ve seen it in the +spring freshets, I believe I’d jump in and make an end o’ this misery. +Perhaps ’twould be better for her if I was out o’ the world altogether. +But a fellow ’d have to hold himself down, to drown in that depth o’ +water.” And with a dreary smile at the thought he turned back towards the +town. Suddenly a new idea struck him. + +“Mebbe she’s gone home now, an’ she’ll be worse ’n ever, not findin’ any +fire nor nothin’ to cook. I’ll go home an’ clear up, and get some steak!” +He put his hand in his pocket and drew out the few bits of money he had +there,—less than two dollars in all. He sighed bitterly as he looked at +it. “Come to that, has it, an’ I hain’t bought a mouthful to eat to-day! +Don’t take long to play a man out, lying by this way. But there’s enough +for a good supper to-night!” And he quickened his pace. + +How many times had he made just such bootless returns as this, each time +lured on by a stronger and stronger hope that surely now she would +have come back; he would see a light at the window telling him she was +there; she must have come by this time! And each time it had been only +a delusion; each time the empty, silent house and the cold, blackened +hearth had mocked his misery anew, and he had turned away sicker at +heart, more despairing than ever, to resume his hopeless quest. + +“She likes beefsteak better ’n anythin’ else,” he said to himself as he +entered the streets once more and looked on the brightly lighted shops +on either hand. “I’ll get a first-rate good one; and there’s a bit o’ +horse-radish left in the tumbler; she likes that.” And as he went on with +his foolish, affectionate plannings, the hope in his bosom grew stronger, +till he half persuaded himself that he knew she was at home waiting for +him to bring the supper, or that his thus making ready for her would +bring her before long. And yet he had done this very thing, hoped this +unreasoning hope, scores of times before, all in vain. Why did he still +continue to hope? He could not have told. + +As he paid for the meat the butcher, eying him closely, said, “All well +at home, Riker?” + +Zeph gave a slight start, but recovering himself instantly, replied, +“Thank you; I hope so. Hain’t been home since mornin’.” + +“Don’t that beat all?” said the butcher, after he had gone, turning +to his assistant. “Nobody’s never heard Zeph Riker admit it yet when +his wife’s run off from him an’ he’s a huntin’ her; an’ he don’t never +exactly lie about it neither. He’s always got his answer ready.” + +“He’s a blamed fool he don’t bill her,” said the assistant. + +“That’s so,” replied the other. “A little teched in the upper story, I +reckon. But he’s a good fellow ’s ever lived; an’ she’s a handsome huzzy. +I expect he can’t let go on her.” + +“Well, I’d let go on her mighty quick if she b’longed to me. I know that! +I say he’s a blamed fool!” replied the assistant, waxing wrathy. “Why, +she’s been took up, ’n’ in jail. She was down to the beer-garden with +that Nat ’n’ a lot o’ others, ’n’ they all got tight, ’n’ kicked up such +a row the night watchman clapped the hull batch of ’em into the lock-up; +’n’ Riker he went right into court ’n’ paid everything, ’n’ got her out +’n’ took her home. She might ha’ rotted there for all me, if I’d been her +husband.” + +“When ye’ve got a wife o’ your own, mebbe ye’ll know more ’n you do now,” +said the butcher, going to the door and looking after Zeph’s figure, now +nearly lost in the darkness. “He’s a streakin’ it like lightnin’. I do +believe the fellow thinks she’s to home waitin’ for him.” + +“Where is she?” asked the assistant. + +“Out on the mesa, in them freighters’ camp,” replied the butcher. “She’s +been there three days, cookin’ for ’em, ’n’ trainin’ like Sam Hill. I +tell you she’s a flyer! But she can cook, you bet. Tim was in to-day +buyin’ veal ’n’ a turkey. He said they was goin’ to keep Sunday in that +camp, and no mistake! they’d got Rusha Riker for cook and Sal Leeson for +preacher! If Riker’d ever ask anybody where she’s gone to, he’d find out +a heap quicker ’n he does. But he’s too proud. He never opens his head +to nobody, an’ there ain’t nobody goin’ to volunteer to tell him; ’n’ so +he goes sozzlin’ round, ’n’ wastin’ his time, ’n’ gettin’ out o’ pocket. +I hain’t much patience with him myself, I own; but I don’t know how we’d +any of us act if we was placed just ’s he is. It’s pretty hard tellin’.” + +As Zeph drew near his home he walked faster. The more he thought, +the surer he felt she would be there; the more he blamed himself for +not having had everything ready for her at early dusk. “I might ha’ +remembered,” he said to himself remorsefully, “that its bein’ Saturday +night ’d be likely to bring her home, for she hain’t took none o’ her +best things nor the youngsters’, an’ of course she’ll come back to get +’em even if she don’t stay.” And he broke into a run at the top of +the hill above the Flat walling it to the west. Twinkling lights like +fireflies shone all over the place; the humble homes there were thick +set; a rush of emotion came over Zeph as he saw the glimmering lights. +“All them homes,” he thought, “an’ not one of ’em ’s got such trouble ’s +I have! God! but it’s hard!” And he pressed on, newly disheartened, as so +many lonely souls have been, by the simple sight of home-lights gleaming. + +As he turned the corner, where, if a light were burning in his own window +it would greet his eye, his heart beat loud. “If she ain’t there this +time I think it’ll kill me!” he muttered. + +All was dark. She was not there. He stopped, gazed, threw down his +parcels on the ground, and folded his arms on his breast. The moon was +just coming up in the east, beyond the wide plains which stretched away, +it seemed endlessly. Zeph looked at it with dogged dislike. “I don’t need +no moonlight to-night,” he thought. “I forgot ’twas full moon. I might +ha’ known she wouldn’t come home early if ’twas full moon. She’s foolin’ +somewhere.” + +The moon came up fast; its white light fell on the beams of the +unfinished frame, which stood mute record of the terrible ruin of all +Zeph’s plans and hopes of a home. The outlines of the building loomed out +against the sky like a black skeleton, and smote Zeph’s very heart. “Just +about ’s much home ’s I’ve got,” he said to himself. “A kind of a ghost +it looks like, in this light, ’n’ that’s about what it is! I believe +I’ll take the thing down. The lumber ’d bring considerable. But she’ll +throw it up at me if I do; she’s always blamin’ me for not finishin’ it. +I guess most folks ’d say the house she’s got’s good enough to run away +from!” And Zeph strode on gloomily, with reluctant steps. + +Entering the house, he looked around the room with a bitter expression on +his face. “I’ve a mind to clear out too,” he thought. “What’s the use o’ +goin’ on this way? But, no, I can’t. I can’t leave her so long ’s there’s +a chance o’ gettin’ her right. She did care for me once, I know she did; +an’ she is real fond o’ the children; there can’t nobody say she doesn’t +love them even if she has got so set against me; an’ if she hadn’t got +some good heart somewhere she’d hate them too just because I’m their +father. I’ve heard o’ women’s turnin’ thet way till they couldn’t bide +the sight o’ husband nor children, either one o’ them. It’s a kind o’ +craziness comes over ’em. Poor Rushy! Seems’s if she must be crazy.” + +While thinking these thoughts he was mechanically moving about the +rooms, setting things into place, putting back the tumbled clothes into +the drawers, making the beds; then he lighted a fire in the stove, and +opening the drawer in the table took out a fresh candle and set it in the +candlestick. “That’s the last but one,” he said, “but I’ll light it, an’ +then if she does come in, she’ll know I’ll be back before long.” + +He put the beefsteak on a platter by the candlestick. “So she’ll see it +first thing,” he thought, “an’ know I got something good for supper.” + +Then he went out, locking the door and putting the key in their usual +hiding-place for it,—a hollow under the tying-post. + +The thought of the freighters’ camp had at last occurred to him, and he +could not rest now till he had found out if his wife were there. He +groaned aloud as he turned his steps toward the mesa. + +“I’d ’most as soon find her dead,” he thought, “as find her there! Don’t +know but I’d sooner! If she’s been there all this time, ’tain’t for no +good. But then she’s got the children along. She wouldn’t—” And Zeph +clenched his hands and groaned again. + +The “mesa” was a high table-land stretching away to the north of the +town, not over a quarter of a mile wide on the top. Its sides were +broken up into alternating shallow cañons and soft rounding ridges, +grass-grown,—good places for grazing and shelter; at the base of the +western side ran a little brook. It was a favorite spot for camping, and +at times in the summer looked like an army encampment, so thickly dotted +was it with white tents and wagons and picketed horses. + +“It’s the strangest thing I never thought o’ that before!” mused Zeph as +he struck out into the plain. “They’ll pay good wages to a cook, the boys +will, when they’re in town; and Rushy can’t be beat at cookin’, that’s +one thing.” And he tried manfully to keep out all other interpretations +of her presence there. “If so be’s she’s here,” he reiterated to himself, +“I’m a dumb fool to cry out ’fore I know I’m hurt worse ’n I am by just +not knowin’ what’s got her.” + +The moon was riding high in the heavens and flooding plain, mesa, +mountains, all, with a light hardly less clear than sun, as Zeph finally +climbed up through one of the shorter cañons and came out on the top of +the mesa. The freighters’ camp was close before him,—so close that he +started, and involuntarily retreated a step or two into cover of the +ridge, lest he should be too suddenly seen. There was but one tent. From +that came sounds of fiddling and riotous laughter. + +“She’s there, for sure!” sighed Zeph. “Lord have mercy on me! Has she +got them children in there this time o’ night?” and he glanced up at the +moon. “Ten o’clock if it’s a minute! The poor young uns!” + +There were ten of the freight-wagons arranged in a circle around the +tent, some of them with rounded white tops. Cautiously Zeph stole up to +one of these, parted the flaps at the back, and looked in. Surely his +fatherly instinct had guided him to the spot. There lay his two children +sound asleep on a straw bed in the bottom of the wagon. Surprise, joy, +anguish, all held Zeph dumb. As he stood looking at them the boy raised +his head and opened his eyes. + +“Pappy, pappy!” he cried, and scrambled towards him, rousing the baby, +who began to whimper. + +“Hush, sis, hush!” he exclaimed. “Mammy said she’d whip ye if ye cried! +It’s pappy! Don’t ye know pappy?” In a second more the little creature +was in her father’s arms, and for a brief moment Zeph felt himself glad. +Only for a moment, however. + +“Zephie,” he said, “where’s your mammy?” + +“In there,” replied the child, pointing towards the tent. “There’s a lot +o’ men in there; they’re dancin’; the men’s beds is all took out.” + +“Who’s there besides mammy? any other women besides mammy?” asked Zeph, +his words stifling him as he spoke them. + +“Nobody but Sal,” replied Zephie. “She’s here all the time to help mam +cook. Mam says she never cooked so much vittles before. Mam reckons they +must ben starved where they come from. Splendid vittles, pap, they has! +It’s bully! Why didn’t you come too, pap? Mam was tellin’ some o’ the men +she was a lookin’ for ye to come ’fore now.” + +Bitter gall and wormwood to the father’s ears were these innocent +prattlings of his boy. Too well he knew the gibe and jest with which his +wife had told “some of the men” she was looking for him to appear on the +scene. Too well he knew the “Sal” who was her assistant,—one of the most +notorious women in the town, and sister of the man to whom Zeph still +persuaded himself he owed all the misery which had come into his married +life. He was mistaken. Nat Leeson was merely one man among many who +had had right to mock at his dishonor; but it was Nat Leeson with whom +his wife’s relations were now openly and flauntingly intimate. It was +Nat Leeson for whom she really cared, so far as it was in her shallow, +unprincipled nature to care for any man. + +“We’re comin’ home to-morrow, pap,” continued Zephie; “mam says she’s +tired out; ’n’ the teams is all goin’ to start up the mountains early +Monday mornin’; so mam ’n’ Sally’s goin’ to cook up lots o’ vittles +to-morrow for ’em to take, ’n’ then we’re comin’ home.” + +“Be ye? That’s good!” said Zeph. “You tell mammy pap’s real glad ye’re +comin’ home, will ye?” + +“Stay, pap,” replied the boy. “You stay, too; there’s lots room in here. +Sal and mam and us all sleeps in here. You stay; we’re goin’ to have +turkey to-morrow,—an awful big one.” + +“No, I can’t stay, my boy,” replied Zeph. “Mammy’s too busy. She don’t +want me. You help her all you can, Zephie, an’ you be sure ’n’ tell her +pap was here, ’n’ he was dreadful glad you was all comin’ home to-morrow, +will ye? Tell her pap’s ben dreadful lonesome. Don’t ye forget now to +tell her ’s soon ’s she comes to bed.” + +“I’ll tell her ’n the mornin’,” said Zephie. “I’ll be asleep when she +comes to bed.” + +“No, you tell her to-night, Zephie,” said his father. “You stay awake +till she comes. She’ll be here pretty soon, I guess. It’s late now.” + +“Well, I’ll try,” said the child; “but, pap, I’ll be awful sleepy ’s soon +’s you’re gone. Why don’t you go up ’n’ speak to her in the tent?” + +“Oh, I don’t want to interrupt the dancing!” said poor Zeph. “I don’t +know any o’ the men.” + +“Yes, Nat’s there! you know him,” said the child. “All the rest is +freighters.” + +This was the last drop in unhappy Zeph’s cup. It overflowed. + +“I’ll—” he began in a loud tone. “No, I won’t either,” he continued; +and kissing the baby, who had nestled herself to sleep in his arms, +he laid her gently down on the straw, and then kissing the boy, said, +“Good-night, Zephie; be a good boy, and take care of your little sister. +Good-night; I must go now.” And as cautiously as he had come, he stole +down the cañon and was gone. + +Skirting along the base of the mesa for some rods, he climbed up again +at a point some distance the other side of the tent, where stood a clump +of huge pine-trees. Seating himself on the ground, partially hid by the +trunk of the largest of these trees, he fixed his eyes on the tent. Now +that he knew his wife was there, he would watch the place all night. It +appeared to him that the moon stood still in the sky, so long did the +moments seem before the freighters’ revelry broke up. At last, with loud +laughing and talking, the party came out from the tent and separated for +the night: the men going to their respective wagons, and his wife and +Sal—with what breathless anguish he watched their every step!—to the +wagon in which the children lay. Soon the lights were all out, and the +stillness, the unutterable wilderness stillness, rested on the place. +Zeph drew a long breath of relief. “That’s over!” he said aloud, and +leaned his head back against the tree. + +He had eaten nothing since morning, but he was not conscious of hunger +or faintness. He had been under such a mental strain that all physical +sensations were dulled. He could not have told, had he been asked, when +he last ate food. Matters seemed to him to be fast approaching a crisis +in his life; he felt a vague terror of he knew not what,—some terrible +catastrophe approaching. He had felt this fear-stricken presentiment +growing within him rapidly during the last three days. None of his +previous experiences of suffering in consequence of his wife’s conduct +had so told upon him. No one of her unexplained or only too well +explained absences from home had crushed him like this last one. As +he sat hour after hour in this strange solitude, alone, as it almost +seemed, in the universe, with the vast star-set dome of the sky above him +and the vast rayless plains stretching around him, the near mountains +looming up colossal and black like an eternal barrier in the west, he +lived these absences all over again in full and harrowing detail. + +The first one,—that was three years ago. How well he recollected his +fright when he found her gone; the angry incredulity with which he heard +Gammer Stein’s half-implied reflection on her character that night; +the joy with which he welcomed her back the next morning, and the full +acceptance he had given to her story of having been watching with the +sick child of a neighbor, the child too sick to be left, and no one in +the house who could be sent with a message to him. It was not many weeks +before he knew that this was a shameful, shameless lie. And after that +miseries had thickened in his life,—his own house a gathering-place of +the disgraceful and the disgraced; his wife oftener and oftener absent, +sometimes with excuse, sometimes without; her intimate associates men +and women with whom no self-respecting person would consort; his earnings +wasted on fineries or worse. + +“It’s been just a hell on earth, that’s what it’s been,” he thought, as +he buried his face in his hands at some of the reminiscences. That brief +interval of quiet of a few months during which the last child had been +born,—the little girl from whose unconscious influence over the mother’s +heart he had hoped much,—recurred to him now, in this bitter retrospect, +merely as an intensification of his woe. “And me hopin’ its bein’ a +girl might maybe save her! I don’t see why I thought that’d make any +difference if the boy didn’t!” + +How vividly he recalled the day when they were discussing the baby’s +name; and his wife having expressed the desire to give it her own name, +he had taken heart from that, and said to her meaningly, “Would ye really +like to have her called by your name, Rushy?” and she, in her usual +flippant tone, and yet he fancied with a shade of feeling in her face, +had answered, “You’ve got the boy named for you, an’ I should think the +girl ought to be named for me; that’s no more ’n fair;” and he had made +haste to reply, “Of course ’tain’t, an’ I’d rather call her Rushy than +any other name ’n all the world, ’n’ you know that, wife, without my +tellin’ ye; ’n’ she’s goin’ to favor you in looks, too; anybody with half +an eye can see that a’ready; so there’ll be two Rushy Rikers the first +thing ye know.” And when he said this his wife colored, and said, “I +hope to goodness she’ll turn out better ’n the first Rushy Riker!” And +he, poor fool, had gone about for many a week hugging that exclamation +to his soul as an omen and token of good coming to their lives. But it +was short-lived. Before her baby was three months old the old demons of +love of admiration, excitement, finery, folly, and sin had got full hold +again of her weak and unstable nature, and all was as bad as before, or +worse. + +Then came the most flagrant of all her misdemeanors,—the drunken frolic +at the beer-garden and the disgrace of the lock-up; and after that all +sense of shame or of restraint seemed to leave her; and finally, only a +few weeks ago, the most daring of all her escapades, when, taking the +baby, she had gone to Denver openly in the company of Nat Leeson and his +sister; then it was that Zeph, at his wits’ end, had sold some of their +furniture and his kit of carpenter’s tools to get money for the journey, +put the boy into Gammer Stein’s motherly keeping, followed and tracked +her; and for the first and only time exercising his husbandly authority +over her, had brought her home. But it was only an enforced return. She +was sullen, reluctant, full of hatred and reproaches. “A pretty home +it was,” she said, “to bring a woman back to, stripped of half the +furniture, and not a dollar to buy anything with!” If he’d let her alone, +she’d make her own living an’ not be beholden to anybody. + +“Hold your tongue, Rushy!” cried Zeph, the only time in his life he had +thus spoken to her. “Don’t you dare to talk to me about makin’ your own +livin’! If you’ll stay at home an’ keep decent, I’ll keep ye in as good a +livin’ as folks o’ our station needs! I’d ha’ had a good house done for +ye now, if ye’d done’s ye’d oughter.” + +“It’s easy makin’ excuses,” she retorted; “ye never did have no spunk, +an’ it’s a mighty poor livin’ ye’ll ever get in this world. I donno +what’s hendered your buildin’ the house ’fore now, ’cept your own +laziness!” + +“I’ll tell ye what’s hendered me, Rushy,” replied Zeph, thoroughly +angered,—“runnin’ round all creation huntin’ you, ’n’ sellin’ my tools +to get money to follow ye an’ keep ye from comin’ on the town! That’s +what’s hendered me; an’ ’twill hender me, too, s’ long’s ye go on as +ye’re doin’!” + +As Zeph lived over this bitterest of all their quarrels his heart smote +him remorsefully. + +“I expect I was too fierce with her,” he thought. “Perhaps if I’d been +real lovin’ then she’d ha’ come round. She’s been lots worse ever since +then, ’n’ I expect I didn’t manage right. I’ll try ’n’ see if I can’t be +different to her to-morrow when she comes home. She’s had the children +along with her this time, ’n’ that’s some comfort.” + +It was near morning when Zeph finally fell into an uneasy sleep. His +sorrows pursued him even there, and he dreamed a nightmare dream of +seeing his wife at the window of a burning house and being unable to +move hand or foot to her rescue. He opened his eyes with the horror of +this dream full upon him, and for the first second thought the dream was +no dream, but actual truth; for the sky over his head and the whole +front of the mountain range on his right were red as from the light of +a conflagration. Bewildered, he sprang to his feet with a cry, but in +the same second sank down again, saying, “It’s only the sun a comin’ up! +Lord! How it scared me!” + +It was the marvellous rosy dawn peculiar to high altitudes. So vivid, so +fiery a glow does it spread over both sky and earth for a few seconds +before sunrise, that when the sun is above the horizon, and the day +fairly breaks, the light seems less, and not more, and the earth and sky +darkened instead of illumined. + +All was still in the freighters’ camp. A few faint upward curls of +smoke in the distant town were the only signs of life in the beautiful +landscape. As Zeph gazed on the picture he felt insensibly strengthened. + +“’T don’t seem ’s if folks need to suffer so ’n such a world ’s this,” +he thought; “things must come out right, sooner or later, somehow, if +there’s any kind o’ reason ’n anything. It don’t look no ways likely +that God set it all a goin’ jest to make folks miserable! I expect it’s +all our own fault, somewheres, if things goes wrong! I believe Rushy ’n’ +I’ll get on yet. If I could once rake ’n’ scrape money enough to take her +clean out o’ this place ’n’ begin over again, that would be best; but how +to fetch that about I don’t see!” + +Time slipped by imperceptibly to Zeph absorbed in his reverie, and an +hour or more had gone, when he was roused by the sounds of stirring in +the camp. Hastily concealing himself in a ravine, he lay stretched along +the ground, only his eyes above the edge of the mesa, and watched every +movement. He saw his wife and Sal come out, the children following, the +fires lighted in the camp stoves, the preparations for cooking begun. +Presently he saw Nat Leeson stroll up towards the stoves and stop to +talk with his sister. + +“If I see him go nigh Rushy I’ll do some harm, I know I shall,” said +Zeph. “I’ll not risk it. I’ll leave here.” And darting down the ravine +he set off by a circuitous route, on which he could not be seen, towards +home. + +When he reached the outskirts of the town the church-bells were ringing. +The sound seemed full of unwonted invitation to Zeph. It was long since +he had been inside the walls of a church. In the first years of their +married life Rushy had been fond of going to meeting of a Sunday, and he +had been only too proud to go with her and see the admiration with which +people looked at her handsome face and pretty clothes. Even then were to +be seen, if Zeph had only had the wisdom to recognize them, the germs of +all the misery and shame which time had since brought. But he looked on +with the blinded eyes of a man’s first unreasoning passion, saw nothing +wrong, thought no harm, feared no evil. He even shared the pride, which +seemed innocent, in the undeniable fact that Rushy was the handsomest +woman in the congregation. And now, alas, it was for Rushy’s sake, and +because of her beauty, that he was ashamed to look any man in the eye! + +A strange desire seized him to go this morning and hear what the preacher +had to say. He looked down at his clothes. They were shabby enough, +certainly; not at all what he would once have thought it necessary to +wear to be decent at church. But Zeph had been down into depths from +which all thoughts of trivial considerations had long ago vanished. +He smiled half sadly as he turned towards the church door, saying to +himself, “I wouldn’t have been caught goin’ to meetin’ in such cloes ’s +these once; but I guess it don’t make any difference to nobody but me, +’n’ I feel a real call to hear some hymn-singin’ to-day. It’ll get rid +o’ the mornin’, too, quicker ’n any other way. I hain’t got anythin’ to +do but wait the day out till she comes home to-night. She won’t be down, +I don’t suppose, before dark.” And Zeph slipped in and sat down humbly in +one of the side pews nearest the door, which he knew were free to all. It +was early. The bells he had heard were the first bells. No one was in the +building except the sexton, who was bustling about, giving last touches +of dusting to the pulpit Bible. Presently two women entered, bringing, +one a large sheaf of white clematis blooms, the other a high vase filled +with the feathery tassels of Indian corn and a few of the graceful, tall, +sword-like leaves. It was the custom for the women of this congregation +to take turns in decorating the church for the Sunday services; and there +was much vying among them, and continual exercise of ingenuity, each to +outdo the others in effective arrangement of flowers. As they walked up +the aisle Zeph’s eyes followed them with astonishment. + +“If that ain’t just common field corn, ’s sure’s I’m alive,” he said; +“’n’ it’s prettier ’n the flowers be, heaps! Well, I never!” And for the +moment he forgot his misery in watching the women dispose their bouquets +on the reading-desk and table. + +Presently one of them turned briskly and stepped down the aisle to look +up at the desk to see if the arrangement could be improved. + +“Oh, Lord!” said Zeph. And in the same instant he buried his face in his +hands on the back of the seat in front of him. “That’s that Miss Burr I +was askin’ after Rushy last night. I don’t want her to see me. She’ll be +sure to spry round here askin’ if I’ve found her. She’s dreadful active.” +And Zeph remained bowed over, his face hid from view, till he heard their +steps leaving the church. + +It was indeed Miss Sophy; and as she came down the aisle, her quick eyes +catching sight of Zeph’s bowed figure, she said to her companion: “Just +look at that man all doubled up there in the poor-pews. I do declare, I +think it’s a shame to have any such thing’s poor-pews: it’s a kind o’ +badge o’ disgrace to sit there; I’ve known lots ’n’ lots o’ poor folks +that wouldn’t set foot ’n ’em, not if they never heard a sermon t’ +their dyin’ day, they said. I always feel ashamed when I go by ’em ’n’ +shut the door t’ my pew. It’s borne in on me ’tain’t Christian. I think +the Catholics are lots better ’n we are about that,—lots. There ain’t +anything but poor-pews ’n their churches, ’n’ that’s the way it ought to +be,—free to all.” + +“How you do talk, Sophy!” replied her companion, good Mrs. Jones. “Why +don’t you be a Catholic ’n’ done with it, if you think their way’s so +much better ’n ours?” + +“I don’t!” retorted Miss Sophy,—“nothin’ o’ the kind. But I say they’ve +got the right idea about seatin’ people. No wonder they get all the poor +people;—I should think they would. I wouldn’t stir into our church if I +couldn’t hire my pew, the way ’tis now; but ’tain’t right, ’n’ ’twon’t +last, neither. You’ll see it don’t last. ’Twon’t be a great many years +before there’ll be free sittin’s, ’s they call it, in every church ’n +America.” + +“Well, then there’ll be lots o’ rich people ’ll stay away ’stead o’ the +poor people!” retorted Mrs. Jones. “Who wants to sit alongside o’ such a +common-looking day-laborer ’s that?” pointing to Zeph. + +“He’s clean enough,” replied Miss Sophy, eying Zeph closely as they +passed out. “I wouldn’t mind sitting alongside of him. He must be awfully +broken down, somehow, to be in here this time o’ day, sittin’ all +scrouched into a heap like that. I’ve a good mind to go speak to him.” +And she halted. + +“Sophy Burr, you come right straight along out this minute!” exclaimed +Mrs. Jones, raising her voice indignantly above the decorous whisper in +which they had been conversing. “I do believe you’d take all the dead +beats ’n this town on your shoulders if you could. You sha’n’t go near +the man!” And as Miss Sophy, laughing, allowed herself to be dragged out +of the doorway, Zeph lifted his head with a sense of relief and escape. + +Just as the congregation stood up for the first singing, the door of +the pew where he sat was timidly opened, and a lame old woman, dressed +in rusty black, leading a little boy, edged shamefacedly in, glancing +with a mute apology in her eyes at Zeph. Sitting down slowly and with +difficulty, she motioned to the child to stand; whispering to Zeph, +“I’ve got the rheumatiz so’t I can’t keep on my feet.” The child, shy, +and unwonted to the place, refused to stand up, and clinging to her +skirts began to whimper. Zeph reached out his hand to him, with a smile, +and whispered, “You stand up here by me.” The little fellow yielded at +once, the old woman looking on wonderingly at his sudden obedience to a +stranger. When the singing was over, the child, instead of drawing close +to her, nestled up to Zeph, and laid one hand confidingly on his knee. +It was a small thing, a very small thing, but it comforted Zeph. Putting +his arm round the little chap, he drew him closer, and resting his head +comfortably against his shoulder, whispered, “Go to sleep, sonny, if you +want to.” The boy looked up with a vague smile, nestled again, and shut +his eyes. Zeph hugged him tighter still, stroking his hair, and thinking, +“Poor little fellow! He’s got to be a man some day!” + +The minister had risen in the pulpit, opened the Bible, and was reading +his text. + +What words were these, falling on Zeph’s ear? No wonder he +started,—started so violently that the child opened his dozing eyes and +looked up in alarm at his new friend. An audible exclamation had nearly +burst from Zeph’s lips. He gazed at the minister with an emotion very +like terror. Was this stranger, this man of whom he had never heard, +speaking directly to him, him alone, of all that congregation? Had a +message come straight from Heaven to his soul at this crisis in his life? +Was it God, and no mere earthly voice, saying these words: “I say not +unto thee until seven times, but until seventy times seven”? + +“‘Seventy times seven!’” repeated the preacher. “We have heard it so +often that we do not realize what it means; we set it down as a figure +of speech and let it go out of our thoughts. And so it was a figure of +speech whereby the Master intended to convey to us the great truth that +forgiveness is to last as long as offences last,—unto the very end, no +matter how long the life, how bitter the offence. Is not that the way +God deals with us? Day after day, year after year, have we not been +offending Him, breaking His law, slighting His love? We are old, many +of us; have we yet ceased to offend? Yet here comes this beautiful sun +shining on us, forgiving us anew, this very morning.” + +“Just what I was thinkin’ up on the mesa there,” said Zeph to himself, +“only I didn’t put it that way.” + +“And even if we took the numbers literally,” the preacher went on, “even +then, do we live up to it? ‘Seventy times seven:’ four hundred and +ninety. Can we look into our hearts, dealing honestly with ourselves, +and say we have forgiven, any one of us,—forgiven so many offences as +that? Friend, neighbor, husband, wife, how is it? Hast thou been hurt by +any one four hundred and ninety times, and four hundred and ninety times +forgiven the hurt,—forgiven it, wiped it out?” + +It was a homely and realistic putting of the phrase, but it struck home +better than a loftier one would have done. Not a pew in which some +suddenly remorseful heart, thinking of some one especial offender, did +not own, shame-smitten, “No, not so many as that;” and no one more +swiftly, remorsefully, than the always gentle Zeph. + +“That’s a fact!” he was saying in his thoughts. “’Tain’t been near so +many times’s that; an’ I don’t know either ’s I’ve ever once really +forgiven her, out ’n’ out, without layin’ it up to make next time harder; +’n’ that ain’t the way the Lord figures it. ’Twould go hard with us ef He +did! When Rushy comes home to-night I don’t mean to say ’s much ’s one +word t’ her about anythin’, only how glad I am to get her to home again.” + +At the end of the sermon the preacher, his whole soul deeply stirred +within him by the attempt to hold up in its true light, shape, color, to +bring within his people’s real grasp the one eternal talisman,—talisman +alike for life and death, for time and eternity, Forgiveness,—paused, +and with bent head and trembling voice said, “Shall we dare now to utter +the prayer—” He paused again. “Yes. Since the Master gave us the words, +we must dare to use them; let us dare now to utter this prayer, ‘Forgive +us our trespasses _as_ we forgive those who trespass against us.’” + +Sobs were heard throughout the church, and after the benediction +the congregation dispersed silently, as from a funeral service. +There had indeed been many a grave closed forever in those last few +moments,—closed, and a white stone set in token; it had been a moment of +inspiration for the preacher, of salvation to the people. + +Zeph passed out of the door, the little boy still clinging to his hand +and the old woman hobbling by his side. The poor do not stand on ceremony +with each other. + +“That was drefful good doctrine he preached,” she said tremulously, “but +’t’s pretty hard to live up to. Guess he hain’t had no great crosses +hisself.” + +“I don’t know about that,” replied Zeph, slowly. “I was a thinkin’ mebbe +he had had more ’n common, ’r else he wouldn’t ha’ thought it all out so +clear. ’T seemed to me he felt all he was sayin’.” + +“There’s things can’t be forgiven!” she said sullenly. + +Zeph made no reply. Her words grated on him. The child looked up +apprehensively as she pulled him away into another road. “I never see him +take so to a stranger,” she said. “Guess ye’ve got children o’ your own.” + +“Yes, two,” replied Zeph. + +“He’s my grandson,” she said. “All I’ve got left out o’ three boys ’n’ +two girls: all dead. But there’s lots o’ things worse ’n death,” she +added gloomily. “I’ve lived long enough to know that. Good day t’ ye.” +And she turned away. + +“‘Lots o’ things worse ’n death,’” repeated Zeph, as he took his lonely +road home. “That’s true; ’n’ then again ’tain’t true. While there’s +life, there’s hope.” He felt himself strangely cheered and lifted. If +forgiveness were so mighty a thing as the preacher had said,—and it must +be, since it was all that God had or needed to save the world by,—what +more could be needed to straighten out all the tangles of any one little +life? He felt his heart full of a larger, better forgiveness towards his +wife than he had ever before known; a warmer love than he had felt for +many a month. + +“There is nothing love cannot do,” the preacher had said. “The thing is, +to be sure that the love is truly love, and not selfishness.” + +“I know I love Rushy,” thought Zeph, “an’ ’tain’t selfish love, I know +’tain’t! I’d give her up to-day, if I could see any way she’d be better +off without me.” + +And with his heart full of such thoughts as these he sat down to wait +patiently till night for her return. + + + + +III. + + +It was a bitter home-coming,—a bitter return for the forgiving +lovingkindness awaiting her. + +Tired, more discontented with her home than ever, bearing the baby in her +arms, Rushy entered the door, Zephie following, carrying a basket almost +heavier than he could lift. + +As her eyes fell upon her husband, who went forward to meet her, about to +speak words of welcome, she exclaimed testily: “Oh, you’re here, are you! +sittin’ round, I s’pose, doin’ nothin’, ever since I went away.” + +A hot flush rose in Zeph’s face, but he made a mighty effort to curb his +anger, and answered gravely: “No, Rushy, I haven’t been sittin’ much o’ +the time these last three days. I’ve been huntin’ you.” + +“Well, ye might have spared yourself that trouble,” she rejoined. “If I’d +wanted to be found, I could ha’ told ye where I was goin’.” + +“Rushy,” exclaimed Zeph, “don’t aggravate me so! I want to live peaceable +with ye. I wan’t goin’ to say a word to ye about havin’ been gone all +this time; I’ll do anythin’ on God’s earth for ye, Rushy, if ye’ll only +stay at home ’n’ live ’s ye’d oughter.” + +She turned on him like a fury: “Live ’s I’d oughter! Ye miserable, +mean-spirited, no-’count critter! I’ve earned six dollars these three +days I’ve been gone; earned it by as hard work ’s ever I did in my +life,—six dollars in money, besides stuff enough in the basket there +to feed the children ’n’ me for two days more. Have you been earnin’ +anything, I’d jest like to know? Have you earned a cent, now, these three +days? I say you’re the one that had better live as he’d oughter!” And +laying the baby on the bed, she began unpacking the basket of food, and +with a triumphant air enumerating the articles as she took them out: +“There’s cold turkey and veal, and corn-starch, an’ a can o’ tomatoes, +’n’ tea, ’n’ coffee,—better vittles than there’s been in this house for +one whiles.” + +Zeph gazed at her in a sort of dumb despair. He had not been prepared for +this. Like a strange, far-away sound came into his mind the preacher’s +words on which he had been musing so much of the day: “There is nothing +that love cannot do if it is true love, and not selfishness.” + +“I got a nice steak for supper,” he said. “It’s there on the table.” + +She glanced at it contemptuously. “What’s two pounds o’ steak?” she said. +“You can keep it for yourself; we’ve got all we want. I’m goin’ down town +in the mornin’ into rooms I’ve got there. I sha’n’t live here no longer!” + +“Rooms!” gasped Zeph. “Rushy, what do ye mean? Ye ain’t goin’ to leave +me for good an’ all! You don’t mean that, Rushy?” And he came towards +her with a bound, and putting his hands on her shoulders, looked her in +the eyes with an expression which had melted any but a hardened heart. +Outraged love, indignation, incredulity, were blended in it; but over and +above all, a yearning tenderness, the whole passion of a man’s nature, +that could not, would not, surrender the loved object. + +“I’ll never let you go, Rushy, never!” he cried. “Ye don’t mean it. +You’ll never go ’n’ shame me ’n’ the children ’n’ yourself that way. You +don’t mean it! Say you don’t mean it, Rushy!” And his voice broke into +almost a sob. + +“I do mean it too, Zeph Riker, an’ you’ll see I mean it. I hate the very +sight of you, ’n’ you know it; an’ if you can’t earn a livin’, I can, ’n’ +I’m goin’ to; but I ain’t goin’ to earn it for you too. The rooms is +took ’n’ paid for, ’n’ I’m goin’ into ’em to-morrow.” + +Zeph buried his face in his hands and was silent. A tempest was raging +within him. A terrible impulse to spring upon his wife and kill her swept +through his veins,—gone in a second; yet it had been there, and Zeph +shuddered as it fled. + +Again the far-away refrain sounded in his ears: “There is nothing love +cannot do.” + +“Rushy,” he said, “you can’t say I hain’t made a livin’ for us all.” + +“A livin’!” she broke in scornfully. “’Tain’t what I call a livin’!” and +she threw a contemptuous glance round the rooms. “A livin’!” she repeated +tauntingly. + +“It ain’t what it used to be, I know, Rushy,” said Zeph. “But that ain’t +my fault; you stay at home ’n’ see to things ’s ye used to, ’n’ I’ll have +everything comfortable for ye mighty quick. I’ve been dreadful broke up +this last year, Rushy. You don’t keep count o’ the days I’ve been goin’ +round huntin’ you; that’s what’s broke up my work; ’n’ then havin’ to +sell my tools.” + +“Yes, I do keep count of ’em, too!” she shrieked; “you needn’t think I +don’t! An’ every time ye come taggin’ on like a fool after me I hate ye +worse; so you can put that ’n your pipe ’n’ smoke it. Perhaps if ye’d let +me alone ’n’ let me come and go like other folks, without spyin’ on me, I +shouldn’t ha’ gone away so often. But I’m goin’ now, an’ goin’ to stay. +This’s the last night ever I’ll sleep ’n this house; you mark my words!” + +“What makes ye say ‘like other folks,’ Rushy? You can’t fling it up +against me that I hain’t tried to shelter ye from gettin’ yer name into +folks’s mouths. There ain’t the livin’ man can say he’s ever heard me +open my lips against ye; nobody’s ever heard it from me that you was off; +many ’n’ many’s the time I’ve ’s good ’s lied to keep it covered up. +There isn’t any woman was ever heard of goin’ away from home the way you +do,—leastways, no decent woman,” he muttered in a bitterer tone. + +This last expression seemed to subdue instead of increasing her wrath. +She looked at him for a moment reflectively, as if a new idea had struck +her; then her fury broke forth anew: “‘Decent woman,’ eh! Well, I call a +decent man, a man that keeps his family comfortable, and can earn good +wages, and don’t grudge a woman the price of a bonnet, ’n’ ’s got some +pride about him ’n’ ’ll fix up his place, ’n’ not begin a house ’n’ then +let it stand till the timbers rots without so much ’s roofin’ it in. +That’s what I call ‘decent;’ ’n’ I don’t call you anyways decent, ’n’ I +hain’t for a good while, ’n’ I don’t care who knows it. I’m done now! +I’ve stood it ’s long ’s I’m goin’ to. I can take care o’ myself ’n’ the +children, ’n’ I will!” + +“I hain’t ever made any objection to your earnin’ money, Rushy,” +persisted Zeph, “any way you could do it here ’t home.” + +“How’s anybody to get a thing to do down ’n this Flat?” she replied. “You +don’t suppose anybody’d come down here to board?” + +“Are you going to take boarders, Rushy?” said Zeph, the words coming +slowly from his lips. A new horror was seizing him. + +“Yes, I am!” she answered defiantly. “There’s more money in that than +anything.” + +“What’re you goin’ to do for furniture?” + +“The rooms I’ve took is ready furnished,” she answered sullenly. + +“And the boarders too?” said Zeph, in a hard voice. “I begin to +understand. Ye’re goin’ in with that Sal Leeson, Rushy.” + +“Well, supposin’ I am!” she muttered. “She’s a good friend to me, ’n’ +that’s more than any other woman ’n this God-forsaken town’s been!” + +“Oh, Rushy, Rushy!” groaned Zeph. “They was all your friends once; +everybody liked you when we first come here, you know they did. An’ if we +was to move away now, ’n’ go somewheres else, an’ begin over again, ye’d +make plenty o’ friends anywheres. Come, Rushy, let’s go. I’ll start with +ye anywheres ye say; we can sell out for money enough to go with. Come, +Rushy!” and he tried to take her hand in his. + +She pushed him away roughly, with a brutal laugh. “Zeph Riker,” she said, +“you’re a fool! Hain’t I tried ye? I tell ye I’m done. I won’t never live +with ye any more,—never! I’ve had my mind made up to that for longer ’n +you’ve any idea. I’ve only been waitin’ to see my way clear, ’n’ now I +see it, ’n’ I’m goin’, ’n’ you might ’s well quit makin’ a fuss! I’m +goin’!” + +“I forbid ye, Rushy,” said Zeph, solemnly. “I forbid ye! I’m your +husband, ’n’ I forbid ye.” + +“Forbid away!” she sneered. “I’m goin’ all the same.” + +Zeph left the house. This was a new pass to which things had come. The +tender currents of yearning affection which had been all day setting +warmly towards his wife were fast changing under her wicked and cruel +words to angry and revengeful feeling. He would talk no more with her. +He would go apart by himself and wrestle with this new dilemma. What +it was possible for him to do he did not clearly see. Bitterly he +wondered within himself what a rich man would do in such a dilemma; if +a woman threatening such disgrace to herself and family could be locked +up and guarded like a lunatic; what provision the law made for such +contingencies. + +“It’s easy enough for the judge to say, if ’t came into court, that she’s +got to stay ’t home; but that won’t keep her there, ’n’ locks ’n’ bars +wouldn’t either, if she’s made up her mind to go; ’n’ I can’t stay at +home ’n’ watch her, nor pay anybody else for doin’ it either. Lord have +mercy on me, now! I don’t see any way to turn.” And half blinded by these +whirling, miserable thoughts, Zeph went on walking, walking, he knew not +where. At last he turned. + +“I’ll go home,” he said. “She sha’n’t have it to say I didn’t stay with +her to-night. Perhaps I can bring her round yet.” + +But when he entered the house his first glance showed him that she +had not faltered in her intention, and that the morning would see it +carried out. Two boxes stood in the middle of the kitchen floor locked +and corded. Her own clothes and the children’s had all been taken out +of the closet and drawers. The steak lay untouched on the platter where +he had left it. The basket of provisions she had brought from the camp +was repacked, and a brown paper tied tight over its top. “She don’t even +mean to get breakfast here,” thought Zeph, as he passed through into the +bedroom. The children were in their bed asleep, undressed as usual. Rushy +lay on the outside of the bed, none of her clothes removed, her arm flung +over the little ones with an expression of fierce protection, which smote +Zeph none the less because he could not have analyzed the feeling. + +“She needn’t ha’ thought I’d take ’em away from her in their sleep,” he +thought. “What could I do with the baby, anyway, even if I was minded to +steal ’em from her?” + +Rushy was asleep and breathing heavily. She had indeed worked hard +and was tired out. As Zeph stood looking down on her face there swept +over him a storm of memories of the early days of their acquaintance, +courtship, and marriage,—days when he was like a man treading in air, so +foolish and fond was he; so blind to everything except her beauty and her +fascinating, bewitching ways. Every reminiscence of these was now but +fuel to the fires that were consuming him. + +“There doesn’t anybody know any better ’n I do,” he said, in jealous +anguish, “what ways she’s got o’ takin’ a man off his feet. I don’t +blame any of ’em, not a mite, I don’t, if she makes up her mind to fool +’em. There wasn’t ever the man born could stand out against her!” and he +groaned. + +The sound awoke Rushy. Looking up at him angrily, she exclaimed, “Keep +away, can’t ye? Let me alone!” + +“I wasn’t going to touch ye, Rushy,” said Zeph; and he crossed the room +and threw himself, without undressing, on the outside of the bed. + +Slowly the night wore away, Rushy sleeping heavily, as undisturbed as if +no tragedy brooded over her home; Zeph lying motionless, with wide-open +eyes, asking himself over and over and over again the bootless question, +what he should do. It was like a waking nightmare, the sense of near +catastrophe which weighed on his helplessness. + +Once in the night the baby woke and cried hoarsely. Rushy rose, lighted +the lamp, and attended lovingly to the little creature’s wants. As she +was doing so she met Zeph’s steady gaze following her every motion. Her +face hardened instantly into an evil and defiant expression which cut +Zeph to the quick. + +“She hates me,” he thought. “That wa’n’t anythin’ less than hate, that +look she had then.” He was glad when she blew out the light, and without +speaking threw herself again on the bed. + +The bedroom windows faced the east. At the first ray of light Rushy +sprang up, and rousing the children began dressing them. Zeph sat on the +edge of his bed, watching her silently. He had resolved not to speak +first, to simply bide the issue as she might force it upon him. His +continued silence made her uneasy. From time to time she glanced at him +apprehensively. His quiet, calm look made her anxious. She was not clear +in her own mind what it meant, nor what might be the extent of his power +in the matter. The evil counsellors with whom she had resolved to now +cast in her fortunes had warned her that the law would uphold her husband +in compelling her to remain at home, or in taking the children from her +did he choose to let her go. + +“Let him just try it!” she had answered boastfully. “I’d like to see any +man take my children away from me.” + +“But it’s the law, Rushy,” Nat Leeson had said. To tell the truth, +infatuated as he was with Rushy, he was by no means unwilling that the +children should be left with their father. + +“I don’t care if it’s a hundred laws,” Rushy had made answer. “I tell you +nobody’s goin’ to get my children away from me. I’ll make a good livin’ +for ’em, ’n’ no judge is goin’ to take ’em away ’n’ give ’em to Zeph +Riker to take care of! I ain’t a mite afraid.” + +But she was; and the longer Zeph’s silence lasted, and the more glances +she stole at his calm, resolute face, the more afraid she grew; and it +was with an almost sinking heart that at last, when she had no longer +any excuse for further delay, she turned to him and said, with a poor +attempt at bravado in her tone, “I’m going now, Zeph.” She was tying her +bonnet-strings as she spoke. Her hands trembled. Zeph saw it. + +“Haven’t ye thought better o’ what ye said last night, Rushy?” he asked. + +The gentleness of his voice and manner deceived her. It is a piteous +thing to see how, in this life, the gentler and finer organized nature is +always the one to suffer most and come off vanquished in collisions, and +the coarse-grained, brutal one to triumph. + +“No, I hain’t!” she cried in a harsh tone. “I’ve thought better ’n’ +better of goin’. Ye poor shiftless thing, ye, I donno ’s ye’ve got spirit +enough to take care o’ yourself, let alone taking care of a wife an’ +children!” + +“Ye know ye’re sayin’ what’s not true, Rushy,” said Zeph, gravely, with +no excitement in his manner. “Ye’re only trumpin’ up things like that to +say to folks to keep ’em from shamin’ ye ’s ye deserve. Ye know you’ve +had a good home with me, ’n’ a man to love ye ’s nobody else ever’ll love +ye, out o’ all these that’s been foolin’ ’n’ tollin’ ye to the devil.” + +“You go to the devil yourself then,” cried Rushy, “’n’ don’t sit there +talkin’ to me like a preacher. Look to home! If I was a mind to cast up +at you, I could do it fast enough; but I’ve got too much to do. Come, +Zephie, come with mam! You’ve got to carry the basket, but ’tain’t so +heavy ’s ’twas last night. There’ll be a man here to get the things this +noon,” she added, turning again to Zeph. + +He did not heed her. He was gazing at little Zephie. The child stood +looking from his mother to his father, the tears slowly rolling down +his cheeks. He was only ten years old, but he understood too well the +wretched, shameful scene. It was not the first he had witnessed. + +“Come on, Zephie,” said his mother, moving towards the door. The boy did +not stir. + +Zeph held out his hands to him. “Stay here with pappy,” he said. “Mam’ll +come back perhaps sooner ’n she says. You stay with pappy.” And tears +which all Rushy’s cruelty had failed to wring from Zeph’s eyes fell now +as he drew his boy close and folded him in his arms. + +Rushy halted. She was undecided. “Oh, well,” she said, in a hard tone, +affecting to laugh, “Zephie can stay with you if he wants to; he’ll be +glad enough to come to his mammy, though, when he’s hungry. He knows +where ’tis. When you want some o’ mam’s gingerbread, Zephie, you come +down and get it.” And without another look at her husband she left the +house, the baby in her arms. + +For some moments Zeph sat like one stunned. He had not really believed +she would do it; or that it would be anything more than her previous +absences. But he realized now that it was different; something had +passed, had gone forever; a new gulf had opened between him and his wife. +He was recalled to himself by little Zephie, who still stood between his +knees, softly crying. + +“What makes mam go away?” he sobbed. + +The innocent question unnerved Zeph. He too sobbed, and holding the child +convulsively to his breast, cried: “I don’t know, Zephie; something +dreadful’s got into mam. Pappy’s afraid she’s crazy; but perhaps she’ll +come back different.” + +“She won’t ever come back,—not into this house,” said the boy. “I heard +her tell Sal so last night.” + +“What did Sal say?” asked Zeph. + +“She said she’d be just fool enough!” he replied. + +So these were the influences under which Rushy had been. He knew it +before, but the child’s artless story seemed to vivify his realization of +it. + +“What did mam say when Sal said that?” asked Zeph. + +“I don’t know,” said the child; “I didn’t hear her say anything. Nat +said—” + +“What did Nat say?” broke in Zeph, so fiercely that the child started. + +“Nat said she’d have to come back.” + +“He did, did he?” muttered Zeph. + +“Zephie,” he continued, “you an’ pappy’ll live together now till mam +comes home. We’ll have some beefsteak now for breakfast, ’n’ then +pappy’ll take you over to Gammer’s to stay while he goes to work; ’n’ +you can go to school with Bud; ’n’ to-night pappy’ll get a nice supper.” + +“Will you have gingerbread?” asked Zephie. + +“Yes,” replied the father, “gingerbread and apples.” And by some +inexplicable mental process the very incongruity between this question +and answer and the depth of misery in his breast moved him to laughter, +and helped him as no other thing just at that moment could have done. + +Gammer Stein was “Gammer” to the whole neighborhood. Not a family in all +the Flat, or, as Gammer’s Missourian tongue called it, “Flairt,” but went +to her for sympathy, counsel, help, in the perplexities and troubles of +their hard-working lives. She was the only person with whom Zeph had ever +talked of his troubles with his wife. A great-hearted, tireless, motherly +woman, caring tenderly, through all her poverty, for every one, neighbor +or stranger, poorer than herself; bringing up, in her old age, with the +affectionate patience of a mother, two orphan grandchildren; bearing with +more than wifely, almost with superhuman, good-nature the ill-temper of +a brutal husband, to whom even his seventy years had brought neither +decency nor moderation of passions,—Gammer Stein was one of those +unknown, unnoted saints, whose lives, unwritten in words, are written +in records of influence as ineffaceable, as eternal, as the records of +changes and influences in the solid substance of the earth. + +It was not a year after she arrived in town, with the two little +grandsons clinging to her skirts, and calling loudly, unceasingly, from +morning till night, “Gammer, Gammer!” before the whole neighborhood where +she lived had learned to echo the children’s name and the children’s cry; +and it had so nearly passed out of the memory of the place that the old +woman had another name than “Gammer,” that when, as sometimes happened, +a stranger asked her real name, the people had to bethink themselves, to +recall that “Mary,” and not “Gammer,” was the name by which she had been +christened. + +Two weeks had passed since Rushy bade her defiant farewell to her +husband. It was again a cloudless summer Sabbath morning, and the hush of +the beneficent rest it had brought brooded over all the working-people’s +homes in the Flat. Even the belated curls of smoke seemed to ascend +lingeringly, as if knowing that on this day there was no hurry about +anything. But there was no curl of smoke going up out of the chimney +of Zeph’s house. More than once Gammer Stein had glanced that way in +neighborly curiosity, and had thought to herself, “Poor fellow! he sleeps +late to-day. It’s well he can.” + +As the morning wore on, and still no sign of life came from the house, +her thoughts took a shape of anxiety, and she said to her husband, “I +allow Zeph’s sick. He hain’t stirred yit. Yeow jest go over ’n’ see ef he +wants anythin’.” + +“I allow he kin run his sickness hisself,” growled Wilhelm, who was the +antipodes of his wife in every one of the traits which so endeared her to +her neighbors. “I allow I hain’t got no call to go aout nussin’ jest yit. +Yeow kin ef yer want ter. I allow yer fool enough.” + +Gammer glanced at him reproachfully. For fifty years she had held her +peace at such replies as this; but this morning, for some reason, her +mild soul was moved to make answer. “Ef yer wuz layin’ sick in yer bed +hyar, ’n’ nobody ter come nigh yer, I allow Zeph’d be ther fust one as +’ud be lookin’ arter yer; I allow he would. He’s all alone thar. The +boy’s ben these two days daown ’t his mother’s. I seed ’twas cuttin’ +inter Zeph, the little feller’s goin’ off ter her. I wouldn’t wonder a +mite ef Zeph hed gone killed hisself. He’s sed more ’n once he bleeved +she’d drive him t’ it; ’n’ I see him sharpenin’ a big knife ’n aour +grindstone. Thet wuz last Wednesday; no, ’twuz Toosday. I wuz ironin’, +’n’ sez I, jest careless, ‘What yer sharpenin’ ’t so sharp fur, Zeph?’ +’n’ he sez, sez he, ‘I ain’t gwine ter cut my throat, Gammer, yit, never +yeow be afeerd;’ jest ’s ef he seen I wuz thinkin’; ’n’ I sez ter him, +‘Naow, Zeph, ef yeow’ve hed a hell ’n this life, yeow don’t want ter go +right straight inter anuther wuss one, dew yer? An’ I allow ef yer go ’n’ +murder yeourself, ye’ll jest go right straight inter torment thar won’t +be no gettin’ shet of, never!’ I jest spoke plain ter him.” + +“I sh’d think ser,” growled Wilhelm; “allers a meddlin’ in business +’tain’t any o’ yeourn. I allow ’tain’t nothin’ ter yeow ef Zeph Riker +cuts his throat ef he wants ter.” + +“I allow ’tis,” continued Gammer, placidly; “I allow he’s my brother, +accordin’ to Scriptur’; thar ain’t nobody gwine to kill hisself thet I +knows on, ef I kin hender him.” + +The words had hardly passed her lips, when a sharp cry, “Gammer, Gammer!” +came from the front of the house. Both Gammer and Wilhelm sprang to their +feet. + +“That’s Zephie,” exclaimed Gammer, as she ran to the door. Little Zephie +was running by at the top of his speed. As he passed, he shrieked, “Nat’s +cut pappy all ter pieces! He’s bleedin’! The men’s bringin’ him.” + +Horror-stricken, Gammer followed the child, and overtook him as he was +vainly trying with his trembling little fingers to fit the key into the +door. + +“Oh, hurry, hurry!” he cried. “Oh, Gammer, get the door open! Pappy told +me to run ’n’ git his bed ready.” + +“He’s alive, then?” gasped Gammer. + +“Yes, he’s alive,” sobbed Zephie, “but he’s bleedin’; his face’s all +cut. Oh, Gammer, Gammer, when I’m a man I’ll kill Nat!” + +“Hush, child! naow don’t yeow talk thet way; tew killin’s is wuss ’n +one! It’s all murder,” said Gammer, moving about the rooms distractedly, +hardly knowing what she did, as she heard the steady tramp of men’s feet +nearing the house. + +It was a ghastly burden they brought, a ghastly story they had to tell. +After they had made the wounded man as comfortable as it was possible to +make him with the scanty accommodations at hand, the doctor drew Gammer +aside and told her the tale. + +It seemed that Zeph, poor fellow, had not been able to keep away from +the house where his wife was living. Not only did he yearn for the sight +of her face and the baby’s, but he had a foolish notion that his being +occasionally seen there would be a shelter to her reputation. He had +even said, with incredible magnanimity, to Sal Leeson, who reluctantly +bore that much of testimony to his goodness, “It’s all against my will, +Rushy’s bein’ here; but so long’s she’s my wife, ’n’ ’s got my children +along with her, it’s better for all round that I should be here some o’ +the time, whether she wants me or not!” + +The evil-doers, men and women, who consorted in the place, had been more +than once shamed and sobered and finally driven out of Rushy’s room by +the sight of the silent, sad-faced man whose name she had so dishonored. +It was incredible that he could have borne it. But he did; and it had +become evident that if Rushy was insensible to his presence, others were +not, and a new feeling of respect and sympathy for Zeph had arisen, even +in the minds of those previously most hostile to him. Nat himself had +been sometimes shamed into withdrawing from the stern, silent gaze of +the injured husband. Encouraged by these signs that the man was not +wholly insensible to disgrace, Zeph had resolved to make one effort to +reason with him, and had timed this remonstrance unluckily, addressing +him when he was sufficiently under the influence of liquor to be savagely +irritable. It was late on Saturday evening. As Nat entered Rushy’s +kitchen with the easy familiarity of one privileged, Zeph, who had been +waiting for him to come in, rose, and said, “Nat, I owe all my troubles +with my wife to you. If it wasn’t for you—” + +He did not finish the sentence. Seizing a carving-knife which lay on the +table, Nat sprang on him like a tiger. Zeph, wholly unarmed, caught up a +chair to ward off the blows, and one swift, terrible second saw the two +men wrestling in a life-and-death fight. Stretched from one corner to the +other of the room was a line on which Rushy had towels and small articles +hung airing after the wash. The chair with which Zeph was hitting out +blindly caught in this line, throwing him to the floor; and that was +the last he knew till, coming vaguely to his senses, he heard voices +above him: one, his wife’s, angry, hard,—how it smote him!—“I tell you he +sha’n’t stay here! I’ve left him! I won’t have him laid on that bed! He’s +no business here, any way!” + +Zeph opened his eyes. Opposite him was Nat, raging, swearing, held firm +by two policemen, who were dragging him out of the room. + +“Why didn’t ye let me alone till I’d finished my job?” he bellowed, like +a wild beast in his fury, Rushy, one hand on his arm, one on his mouth, +vainly striving to check him from incriminating himself further. + +Zeph closed his eyes at the harrowing sight. Yes; why had they not let +Nat finish his job! How much better it would have been! What a release +from misery! + +Then he heard a voice saying angrily to Rushy,—it was the doctor,—“I +don’t care who he is or what he is, he has got to be laid on that bed, I +tell you! Are you a woman, or a devil? Stand out of the way!” And then +Zeph felt himself lifted and borne, and a buzz of murmuring voices, and +sharp stinging pains in his cheek and throat; and then he sank away and +knew no more until in the night, when he waked again to himself, and all +was still, no sound except the loud ticking of a clock; and some man +sitting by him, a stranger, said in a not unkind voice, “Hey! ’wake, are +ye? Want anything?” and Zeph had said feebly, “Water,” and had tried +to ask for Rushy, but the words would not form themselves; and while +he was struggling to speak them, he floated off, he thought, on a big +white cloud, and the air was full of the sound of bells ringing, and he +remembered that it must be Sunday, and opened his eyes again, and saw the +broad daylight streaming into the room, and the doctor standing in the +doorway, and men’s heads rising one behind the other, and the doctor’s +voice again, angry and indignant, reasoning with Rushy. Could those tones +be Rushy’s, and those cruel words? Yes, it was Rushy, saying in a shrill +voice, “I don’t care! I tell ye I won’t have him here. He’s brought me +trouble enough a’ready; an’ now he’s got Nat into prison, ’n’ I don’t +care what becomes of him. ’Twas all his fault. He begun the fight, +aggravatin’ Nat. Nat never spoke the first word.” + +And above all the confused and struggling sounds of the excited voices +still pealed on the church-bells; and at the sound Zeph’s brain seemed +suddenly to clear itself, and strength to come back to him; and half +raising himself in the bed, he spoke aloud: “Say, doctor, let them carry +me home; I’d rather go. ’T’won’t hurt me. I ain’t very bad hurt, am I?” + +A hush fell on the group of excited talkers. They had thought him asleep. + +“No, you’re not very bad hurt,” said the doctor, coming to the bedside +and feeling his pulse. “I don’t suppose it’ll do you any hurt to be +carried over to your house. But you’ve got an ugly cut in your face, came +mighty near being your throat, and it’ll need watching for a few days, +two weeks maybe. You’ve got to be tended pretty close. You can’t be left +all alone in the house.” And the doctor glanced wrathfully at Rushy, who +stood silent, sullen, looking down on the floor. + +“I’ll manage that, doctor,” said Zeph, cheerfully, “if you’ll just get me +home. My boy’ll go with me, I guess; he’s there ’most o’ the time. I’ll +have to keep him out of school a few days, but after that I’ll do for +myself. I’ve got good neighbors out there.” + +All this time Rushy spoke no word, but her face grew harder and darker +with every syllable that fell from her husband’s lips. She saw how his +words were telling against her. Even her evil comrade, Sal Leeson, bent +almost compassionately over the bed and wiped Zeph’s forehead as he spoke. + +“I say, Rushy,” she muttered, “you might let him stay just a few days; +I’ll look after him.” + +Before Rushy could reply, Zeph cried out, “No, no! I tell you I won’t +stay. Doctor, it ’ud kill me to stay,” he continued pleadingly. “Oh, get +me out o’ here ’s quick ’s you can!” + +They were all rough men who were standing there ready to give what help +might be in their power, but there was not a man among them whose pulses +did not beat quicker at this cry of Zeph’s. They lifted him in their arms +tenderly, as if he had been a helpless woman, and many a resentful glance +was shot back at the unfeeling wife, who neither moved nor spoke as her +husband was borne out of the house. + +“Good-by, Rushy,” he said. “I’m awful sorry to have got ye into this +trouble. But ye know ’twan’t any o’ my doin’, Rushy. Ye know ’twan’t. Say +good-by to me, Rushy. P’raps I’ll never see ye again.” + +“Good-by,” she said sullenly, without looking up. In league and fast +bound with malignant spirits, surely, must Rushy Riker’s heart have been, +to have resisted the appeal of that moment. Even Sal Leeson was crying; +but Rushy’s eyes glittered hard and dry with an evil light. Her guilty +and passionate heart was full of terror for Nat. She had overheard one of +the policemen say, as they dragged him off after the fray, “You’ll swing +for this night’s work, Nat Leeson;” and Nat, frantic in his fury, had +replied, “Swing and be damned! If you’d let me alone a minute longer, I’d +have finished him!” + +Rushy knew only too well that if Zeph was to die of his hurts, these +reckless words of Nat’s would carry terrible weight against him in the +trial for murder which must follow. Her whole nature was on fire with +apprehensions, wild and bootless plottings and plannings, and over and +above all raged an unreasoning anger against her husband for having been +the occasion of such danger to Nat. + +“If worst comes to worst, I’ll swear him out myself,” said the wretched +woman. “I’ll swear Zeph set on him with the knife first. ’Twas just the +same’s a knife, the words he used. They just made Nat crazy.” + +The jail was in full sight from her door: a square, stone building with +grated windows, at the back a high fence surrounding an enclosure in +which a man had been hung only a few months previous,—hung for a murder +committed in a sudden fray not unlike this one between her husband and +Nat. As Rushy recalled the day of this hanging and the crowd of men and +women she had seen outside the fence eagerly striving, like wild beasts +athirst for blood, to look through cracks in the fence, to climb up and +see over, her heart sickened within her; clenching her fist, she shook it +toward the jail and muttered: “They sha’n’t ever hang Nat. I’ll burn the +place down over their heads first. If ’tis stone I’ll fire it somehow, or +I’ll get him poison! They sha’n’t hang him!” + +The church in which Zeph had listened two weeks before to the sermon on +forgiveness stood only a few rods from Rushy’s house. As the men were +carrying him past the door the choir had just begun the singing of the +first hymn. + +“Stop a minute, can’t ye?” whispered Zeph. “It jars me awful, bein’ +carried; just rest a minute here ’n this shade.” He would not confess +that it was for sake of the singing that he wished to stop. With closed +eyes he lay listening. He could not hear the words, but the tune was +one of the sweet old-fashioned ones he had heard sung when he was a +child; and there were words echoing in his thoughts which seemed to fit +strangely into its rhythm,—words echoing yet in the air, though it was +now fourteen days since their syllables had been spoken: “Yea, I say unto +you, until seventy times seven.” + +“I don’t know what’s got into me,” thought Zeph, “to be so haunted like +by them words. I don’t lay no claim to bein’ a Christian, ’n’ I’d just as +soon kill that Nat this minute ’s I would a pizen snake; but I can’t get +free from them words.” + + + + +IV. + + +During these two weeks which had brought such tragedy into Zeph’s life +the memory of him and his troubles had by no means died out of Miss +Sophy’s mind. She found herself reverting with strange persistency to +the trains of unwonted thought awakened within her by his inexplicable +devotion to his unworthy wife. The more she thought, the surer she became +that the man had done only what she herself would have done in similar +circumstances. “‘For better, for worse,’” she repeated. “That doesn’t +mean but one thing; there aren’t any two ways o’ readin’ or sayin’ such +plain words as that! An’ it’s ‘worse’ he’s got, no mistake. But I’m as +sure ’s I’m alive, that there ain’t many men would take it the way he +does; it’s more the way a woman ’ud do. Strange, too; such a great +strong man ’s he is! six foot if he’s an inch,—I’d have thought he’d made +short work o’ any man that came foolin’ round his wife. I’ll go up ’n’ +see how he’s gettin’ along to-morrow.” + +But times were busy with Miss Sophy. Midsummer brought crowds of +travellers to Pendar Basin, and the reputation of Miss Sophy’s good table +was so wide that her doors were besieged with applicants for board. She +had to turn them away by dozens, much to the distress of her thrifty +soul; but, as she curtly remarked sometimes to those who wearied her +by importunities, “Four walls is four walls, ’n’ ye can’t make ’em any +bigger. It’s more for my interest to take ye than ’tis for yours to come, +but I haven’t got so much as room for a shake-down left; that’s the +truth.” + +In addition to this inroad of boarders, Miss Sophy had other perplexities +on her mind; one of her wise and long-seeing measures had been the +purchase of a small ranch, a few miles from town, where she raised +vegetables and kept poultry and cows. Until this summer the scheme had +worked well; the ranch, in the hands of a faithful Swede and his wife, +yielding her a profit on the investment, and contributing no small share +to the fame of her house. She had called the ranch “Greenhills,” partly +in affection for her old Vermont home, partly because the house stood +in a little park-like open, surrounded by low hills which had springs +in them, and were consequently green when the rest of the plains around +were sere and brown. Greenhills butter and Greenhills poultry, whenever +there was any surplus above Miss Sophy’s own needs, brought fancy prices +in market; and the sole air-castle Miss Sophy had, was the vision of +the time when she would have money enough put away in the bank and on +loans to make it safe for her to give up keeping boarders and live at +Greenhills. And it was Greenhills she had in her thoughts on that evening +when Zeph knocked at her kitchen door, and she had with a hasty impulse, +so unlike her usual circumspection, told him she could give him work. +Something in Zeph’s eyes inspired her with sudden and entire confidence +in him, and she would then and there have taken him into her employ, +had he been so minded; she was near at her wits’ end with the miserable +and dishonest fellows she had employed on the place since the Swede had +gone away in the spring. Bitten by the mining craze, of which there had +been a fresh outburst in the region, he had left her, with only a week’s +warning, in the midst of the spring planting, and everything had seemed +to be going from bad to worse ever since. + +“If I could just get that Zeph up there to overlook things! I believe +he’s as honest ’s a Newfoundland dog,” said Miss Sophy. And it was, +after all, not wholly philanthropy which made her, on the very Sunday +afternoon after Zeph’s fray with Nat, turn her steps once more towards +his house. With her usual straightforwardness she was going directly +to him to offer him the situation. “An’ if that wife o’ his is in the +house,” said the resolute Miss Sophy, “I sha’n’t mince any words with +her. I shall just tell her it’s her husband I want, an’ not her, ’n’ +she won’t be allowed to set her foot on the place. If he’s fool enough +to come home to her Sundays he can.” From which it is plain to be seen, +that, spite of her tender meditations on the solemn words of the marriage +service, and on the touching faithfulness of Zeph to his erring wife, +Miss Sophy was not quite sound in the practical application of the +doctrine. + +But Providence intervened to save her the shock of being suddenly +confronted by the spectacle of the wounded, helpless Zeph. As she +crossed the open in front of his house, Gammer Stein’s sharp eyes spied +her. Gammer was keeping the Sabbath in her wonted fashion, by taking +in vigorous hand the bodies of her grandchildren. Cleanliness, in her +creed, took place of all especial observance of conventional godliness +on the seventh day; and a terrible day it made of it for Bud and Tim. +No possible Sunday purgatory of hard benches and long sermons, as +experienced by the children of more Orthodox parents, could have compared +in terror with the Sunday scrubbings and combings to Gammer Stein’s +grandchildren. The foreshadowing gloom of it fell on them of a Saturday, +and the smart and tingle of it lasted all day Monday, and longer. + +It was at a lucky crisis for Bud that Miss Sophy appeared on the scene. +The six days’ tangle of his hair had proved too much both for his +grandmother’s patience and his own, and he had just broken into loud +crying, and she into something as near scolding as her placid nature +ever reached, when, suddenly throwing combs, brushes, scissors, all to +the floor, the old lady cried, “Thar she goes now! Wall, ef thet ain’t +cur’us!” And without another word she ran out of the house, waving her +arms and calling aloud: “Hyar! Miss Burr! Yeow hyar! Don’t yer go nigh +ther house. Yeow wait tell I kin come up ter ye.” + +Miss Sophy, surprised, and, if the truth were told, not wholly pleased, +stood still, as admonished, till Gammer reached her, and then coolly +waited for her to speak. Nothing daunted, Gammer gasped breathlessly, “I +allowed ye wuz gwine ter Zeph’s, wan’t yer?” + +“Yes,” replied Miss Sophy. + +“Wall, I allowed ye wuz, ’n’ I jest dropped everythin’. I wuz er +grapplin’ wi’ Bud’s hair; it’s somethin’ orful, Bud’s hair ez: ’n’ I +jest throwed the combs daown ’n’ run ter tell yer not ter go nigh ther +haouse.” And Gammer stopped for want of breath. + +“Why not?” exclaimed Miss Sophy, curiosity getting the better of her +reserve. “What’s happened? Who’s sick?” + +“’Taint no sickness, it’s wuss!” replied Gammer, sententiously. “It’s +wuss ’n any sickness. Thet Nat’s cut Zeph all ter pieces, ’n’ he’s layin’ +thar; the doctor’s in thar naow,—the city doctor; pore folks hez ter hev +him, yer know. I allow he don’t know much; Zeph wuz bleedin’ orful when +they brung him over; I wuz thar. I never seed sech a sight, ’n’ I don’t +never want ter. I allow he’ll die, sure.” + +“Cut to pieces!” interrupted Miss Sophy. “What do you mean? He can’t be +cut to pieces! Is she in there? Did he find her? Who’s takin’ care o’ +him?” + +“Well, it ez in his face ’n’ jaw, mostly,” replied Gammer; “he ain’t cut +nowhar’s else; ’n’ ther doctor sez when his beard’s growed out agen full, +’twon’t show none. The doctor, he allowed ez he wouldn’t ha’ hed sech a +cut’s thet not fur no woman livin’; he allowed he wouldn’t.” + +It was of no use to attempt to direct courses and channels of narrative +in Gammer Stein’s mouth; once launched, she was as unmanageable as a +rudderless boat, and veered wildly from past to present, from actual to +hypothetical, from descriptive to didactic, according to the quarter from +which each sudden reminiscence and emotion struck her. After one or two +vain attempts to interpolate questions or get some consecutive order of +statement, Miss Sophy abandoned all such efforts and patiently listened, +and in the course of half an hour was in possession of the substantial +facts of the case. + +Two scarlet spots glowed on her cheeks. “It is the most shameful thing I +ever heard!” she cried, when at length Gammer paused. + +“Ain’t it?” said Gammer. “Ain’t she jest a disgrace ter ther whole on us? +I allow thar ain’t no hell, wharever ’tis ner whatsomeever it’s made +outer, thet’s bad enough fur sech’s her.” + +“I’m goin’ in to see him,” said Miss Sophy, firmly. + +“Yer ain’t, though, be yer?” said Gammer. “Be yer reel steady headed? He +looks orful.” + +“I’m goin’ in,” repeated Miss Sophy. “He’s got to be looked after. I +shall ask the doctor what he ought to have to eat.” + +“I allow I’ll go ’long tew,” said Gammer. “Tew’s better ’n one.” And she +accompanied Miss Sophy to the door. As they reached it, the doctor came +out. + +“Ah! Ah, Miss Burr,” he said, in a tone of relief, “I’m glad to see you +here. How did you hear of it? The man is badly hurt, but he will pull +through if he can be kept quiet. He wants nursing, though.” + +Miss Sophy nodded. “Yes, I should think he did,” she said in a wrathful +tone. “I suppose that good-for-nothing wife of his—” + +“Don’t speak of her!” broke in the doctor. “She’s a regular she-devil! If +she shows her face here, I’ll have her arrested. He’s better alone, than +with her round. She won’t come, anyhow; she’s left him.” + +“Humph!” said Miss Sophy, with something between a snort and a sob. “Good +riddance! I should say.” + +“The little chap’s very handy,” continued the doctor, “and he seems fond +of his father. I’ve showed him how to keep the bandages wet; he mustn’t +swallow anything but liquids for a good many days,—only milk at first. +In a day or two, if you can give him some of your good soups, Miss Burr, +that will be all he will need. He’ll pull through. It is a close shave; +but the man’s got the constitution of an ox.” + +“I’ll see he has the soups, doctor,” said Miss Sophy, turning away. + +“Ain’t yer gwine in?” cried Gammer, disappointed. “Yer said ye wuz gwine +in. I allow ’t w’ud be good fur him ter know he’d got some friends more’n +he’d knowed on.” + +Miss Sophy hesitated. A sudden repugnance had seized her. + +“No,” she said, “not to-day. I’ll be up again to-morrow. You can tell him +I was here, and that I’ll look after him. He needn’t give himself one +mite of uneasiness about food. I’ll see that he ’n’ the boy have all they +need. I’ll look after ’em.” + +“Then I allaow they’ll be looked arter,” said Gammer. “Anybody’d know +jest by ther way yer step aout yer hedn’t no slouch abaout yeow! Yer +powerful active, yer air, fur a woman er yeour build. It’s cur’us naow +what tuk Zeph ter yeour door thet night, ain’t it? He hain’t hed much +luck, but thet wuz luck; I allow ter yeou, looks like ’twuz! Good day +t’ ye, good day! I allaow thet Bud’s got hes hair inter a wuss snarl +’n ’twuz afore, while we’ve been talkin’. Ez soon’s I’ve got through +cleanin’ him up I shell go inter Zeph’s ’n’ straighten aout things thar.” + +Miss Sophy went home like one walking in a dream of horror. In the +whole course of her placid thirty-five years no such glimpse as this of +the dark side of human life and human nature had ever reached her. The +currents of existence in her native village were always as smooth as +they were dull; no crime had ever been committed there, neither did any +of the great daily newspapers come into the place with its record of +the wretched iniquities of the outside world. Vaguely Miss Sophy knew +that such things were, as she knew that there were volcanic eruptions +and cyclones; but to find herself thus face to face with, in fact almost +involved in, one of the most dreadful of all human tragedies, stunned her. + +“Right here in Pendar Basin, too,” she said to herself, “in this little +village, and ’mongst workin’ folks, too; I declare it’s awful! I don’t +like bein’ mixed up in it, anyhow. It don’t seem decent to even know +about it. But somebody’s got to look after that man, that’s certain; ’n’ +I’d rather do it myself without any help than go ’n’ tell anybody such a +story’s that. I’d bite my tongue off first.” + +And so with a grim repression which cost Miss Sophy a dear expenditure +of nerve force in the self-restraint it involved, she went about her +business and said not a word to any one of her ministrations to the +wounded man. It was not till the fourth day that she nerved herself up to +accompany Gammer to his bedside. The sight overcame her, and routed her +last vestige of cowardly unwillingness to an open responsibility about +the case. + +“I don’t care what’s to be said,” she exclaimed, “nor who’s mixed up in +it; that man ain’t goin’ to lie another day in that hole. I’m goin’ to +have him moved right out to Greenhills and taken care of decent. I can +drive out there every day ’n’ see to him. I do go out pretty near every +day ’s ’tis; ’n’ the air out there’ll half cure him. Why, the flies ’n +that room o’ his are enough to kill him,—just the flies alone! There +ain’t a window nor a door out to Greenhills that hasn’t got mosquito net +in it.” + +“Yer don’t mean it, dew yer?” exclaimed Gammer Stein, taken all aback at +the suggestion. + +“I do, too!” cried Miss Sophy. “I’m going to the doctor this minute to +ask him if he’s got anything to say against it.” + +“I dunno ’s Zeph ud be willin’,” began Gammer, hesitatingly. “I allow—” + +“He’ll go if I come for him,” interrupted Miss Sophy, impatiently. “He +isn’t a fool,—that is, not in everything,” she added testily. “I want +him out there to work’s soon ’s he’s able, ’n’ he’ll be right there to +begin.” And Miss Sophy was off. + +In an hour she was back again with the doctor, who was heartily in favor +of her scheme. In fact, he said the man’s one chance for life lay in some +such change; the wounds were not of themselves enough to kill him, but +the solitary brooding over his troubles was keeping up a fever in which +he grew daily weaker and daily worse. + +When Miss Sophy’s plan was explained to Zeph, he lifted his eyes to her +face in a long, scrutinizing gaze. + +“I donno what reason ye’ve got, ma’am,” he said slowly, “for takin’ so +much trouble for me. I ain’t worth it.” + +“I dare say you ain’t,” replied Miss Sophy, “but you can’t be left to die +here o’ these flies. If there was a hospital, that’s the place you ought +to go to; but there ain’t any, ’n’ my house out to Greenhills ’s plenty +o’ room in it, ’n’ there’s a man out there can see to all you want. You +don’t want anythin’, the doctor says, but good food ’n’ to be quiet; +’n’ you can have that out there without its costin’ anybody anythin’, +so we’ve decided to move you out there. The men’ll be here about four +o’clock with the wagon.” + +“Greenhills ranch?” said Zeph, inquiringly,—a faint gleam of interest +lighting up the sadness in his eyes. + +“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, “that’s my ranch; that’s where I was going to +give you work, if you’d wanted it, that night you came to my house; ’n’ +just ’s soon ’s you’re on your feet there’s plenty for you to do out +there.” + +Zeph made no reply. His eyes turned to Zephie, who stood at the foot of +the bed, listening wide-mouthed to the startling proposition. + +Miss Sophy misunderstood the expression of Zeph’s gaze. + +“Yes, the boy can go too,” she said. “It’ll be handy to have him there. +There’s plenty o’ room.” + +“I was a thinkin’ that it would be hard to be where I couldn’t see him, +ma’am,” said Zeph, slowly. “But I couldn’t take him out there. He’d have +to stay with his mother.” + +“Stay with his mother!” shrieked Miss Sophy; and, “His mother!” cried the +doctor. “What d’ ye mean, man!” + +Zeph’s face flushed. “I’ve been talkin’ a good many things over with the +boy,” he said, “an’ he’d rather stay an’ help his mother,—a while, at any +rate, till we see how things goes. He was goin’ to see her to-day. That’s +all settled, sir,” he added, as the doctor opened his lips again with an +impatient ejaculation. “There’s things that nobody knows anything about +except folks themselves, an’ other folks can’t judge. I had been plannin’ +to go away for a spell ’s soon ’s I was fit to work, ’n’ Zephie was to +stay with his mother till I come back.” + +There was a dignity in Zeph’s tone and bearing which lifted the homely +language to the level of eloquence; and the earnest answering look on the +child’s face, as he met his father’s eyes, completed the revelation. This +was indeed no matter for “other folks” to judge of or to interfere with. + +“I’ll go out to your place, ma’am,” continued Zeph, again fixing a +bewildered and scrutinizing gaze on Miss Sophy’s face. “I’ll go out, an’ +be thankful to ye for the kindness. I think it’s more ’n likely I’ll +get on my feet quicker there ’n here. I ain’t so very bad hurt, ’n’ ’s +soon ’s I’m able to be round, I’ll work out all I owe ye, ma’am, for the +’commodation.” + +Miss Sophy laughed in spite of herself. + +“I ain’t takin’ you’s a boarder,” she said. “As soon as you are able +to be round, I’ll make a bargain with you, if you’re a mind to, to +look after the ranch. I think you’re about the sort of man I want out +there,—that is, if we can agree about terms,” added Miss Sophy, her +shrewd business habit returning to her; “there will be time enough to +talk about that when you’re up and out.” + +Zeph smiled faintly. “We ain’t likely to disagree about terms, ma’am,” +he said. “I don’t rate myself over ’n’ above high. I’ve got a good team, +though, ’n’ wagon, if they’d be any use to ye.” + +“Have you?” exclaimed Miss Sophy. “The very thing I was needing. One of +the farm horses has broken down, an’ Waters said I’d have to buy another. +That is lucky,”—and Miss Sophy chuckled to herself at this speedy +returning of the bread she had cast on the waters,—“that is downright +lucky. You can be carried out in your own team, and Waters’ll work one +o’ your horses right in harvestin’ the wheat, ’n’ that’ll save me buyin’ +a horse, ’n’ be a good deal more ’n your board to me, which’ll set your +mind to rest about that part on ’t. I always did hate to have anything +to do with horses; don’t know anything about ’em, if I did grow up on +a farm; never could learn to harness ’em; don’t know a bad one from a +good one; expect I’m cheated every time. I dare say you’ll find there’s +nothin’ the matter with this one Waters says ’s sick. When you get out +there you can begin to keep your eye on Waters ’s soon ’s you’re a mind +to. You don’t need to be on your feet to do that, ’n’ he needs watchin’.” + +A most injudicious confidence this to put in a stranger, and a thing +wholly foreign to Miss Sophy’s habitual way of talking with persons whom +she did not know. She could not account for it to herself, and felt a +half embarrassment in her own presence, as it were, as she realized it. +With an unconscious effort at reassuring her self-respect, she turned to +the doctor, as they left the house together, and said, “I don’t know how +it is, but there’s something about that fellow makes you trust him ‘on +sight,’ as you say on money notes. Don’t you think he’s all right?” + +“No doubt of it,” replied the doctor, heartily. “No doubt of his being ’s +honest ’s the day is long; but I don’t believe he’s much force.” + +“How could he help having force, with that great body o’ his?” said Miss +Sophy, ingenuously, coloring as she spoke. “He’s ’most a giant.” + +“I didn’t mean that kind of force,” laughed the doctor, privately amused +at Miss Sophy’s standard. “Some of the smallest men I’ve ever known have +had the most force. I don’t know much about this man. Nobody says any +harm of him, though. But that wife of his is a regular devil! He’s a fool +to stick to her’s he does.” + +Miss Sophy cast her eyes down. “But he’s married to her,” she said. +“What’s he goin’ to do?” + +“Do!” shouted the doctor. And he thought to himself, “Well! of all queer +questions for a steady-going old maid like Sophy Burr to ask! Do!” he +repeated. “Why, get a divorce from her quicker ’n lightning! That’s what +he’d do if he’d got the force you was talking about.” + +“Perhaps he doesn’t think that would be right,” persisted Miss Sophy in +a still lower voice, still with downcast eyes. They had been walking +fast, and had just reached her gate, and as she said these last words she +lifted the latch and held it in her fingers, nervously slipping it up and +down. “Gammer Stein says he loves her spite of all she’s done.” + +The doctor stared in undisguised amazement. “Loves her!” he ejaculated. + +“Yes,” said Miss Sophy; “so Gammer Stein says, and that is the reason he +was down there; he follows her wherever she goes.” + +“Well, he is a fool, then,” said the doctor. “Beg your pardon, Miss +Sophy. The word slipped out unawares to me; but that’s what he is!” + +“I suppose most folks would call him so,” answered Miss Sophy, conveying +her faint last retaliation and championship in a slight emphasis on the +word “most” as she closed the gate. + +“I should say so,” retorted the doctor stiffly, walking away with a +puzzled sense of sudden antagonism towards Miss Sophy, and a general +disposition to reflect contemptuously on spinster views of life. “I +should say so!” he muttered to himself again. “What ever has got into +Sophy Burr, to be standing up for that kind of immorality!” + +And probably nothing short of a revelation from Heaven could have made it +apparent to the good doctor’s mind that it was not at all for immorality +that Miss Sophy was “standing up.” + +In the cool air and peaceful stillness of the Greenhills ranch Zeph +mended by the hour, mended so fast that it seemed to him like a miracle, +mended spiritually as well as bodily; new resolution, new purpose, awoke +within him; clouds lifted, and he saw clearly what he ought to do. This +new vision and purpose wrote themselves at once in his face. It was +little less than a transformation. So great was the change, that when +one morning Miss Sophy saw him driving up to her gate in the Greenhills +wagon, she did not know him. It was not quite two weeks since the day she +had seen him lying wan and spiritless in his bed. + +“Sakes alive!” she ejaculated, “that can’t be Zeph Riker! ’Tis too! Well, +I never! He’s more of a man than I thought.” And there was a certain +indefinable tribute of new respect in her manner as she greeted him with +friendly kindness. “How you have picked up! I didn’t know you at first. +Ready to go to work, ain’t you? You look as if you was!” + +“Yes, ma’am,” said Zeph. “I’m feelin’ fust-rate now; I’m ready to take +hold o’ anythin’ ye’ve got for me to do, ’n’ very thankful to you, ma’am, +for givin’ me the chance. I expect ye’ve got the right to me; the doctor +he was a tellin’ me to-day that he’d about giv’ me up when you come along +that day ’n’ took me out to your place.” + +“Pshaw!” said Miss Sophy. “That’s all nonsense. There was a dozen dead +men in you then! You come in, and I’ll tell you what I want you to do. +I’m goin’ to put a good deal of responsibility on you, ’n’ I don’t expect +you’ll disappoint me.” + +“I’ll try not to,” said Zeph, gravely. “I sha’n’t cheat ye; but I might +disap’int ye, for all that. There’s those that’d answer for me not +cheatin’ ye, if ye’d like a reference, or somethin’ o’ the kind,” he +added. + +“No!” replied Miss Sophy. “I’ll take you on your own references—and mine! +I ain’t often mistaken in folks, ’n’ I made up my mind the first night I +saw you that I’d like to get you to work for me.” + +As soon as the words had passed her lips she would have given much to +recall them. The effect they produced upon Zeph was pitiful to see. In +the flash of a second his face altered. Bitter memories swept over him. +His whole figure seemed to droop, to lose strength; he looked again the +grief-stricken, wandering, vacillating man who had fumbled weakly at her +door that night. + +But it passed. In the few moments during which Miss Sophy stood, +embarrassed, dumb, wondering at her own thoughtlessness in having thus +reminded him of his sorrow, Zeph had wrestled himself free from the +sudden grasp of it, and looking her straight in the eyes, said: “I’m +more to be trusted now than I was then, Miss Burr. I was pretty near out +o’ my mind that night. But I know where I stand now, an’ I’m goin’ to +work. I’m all right, ma’am.” + +“That’s all right, all right,” exclaimed Miss Sophy, awkwardly. She did +not intend to have any further implication with Zeph’s domestic miseries. +“If he’s going to be my overseer ’n’ run that ranch,” said the shrewd +woman to herself, “he’s just got to be my overseer ’n’ nothin’ else. I +can’t be carryin’ all his troubles on my shoulders. Now he’s on his feet, +he’ll have to steer his own canoe.” + +It was only the helpless that appealed to Miss Sophy. People who were, +as she in concise metaphor expressed it, “on their feet” must look out +for themselves. She did, and she expected everybody else to. A very odd +mixture of sympathy and hardness, compassion and coldness, was Miss +Sophy. Even to herself she was puzzling,—so swept away from her bearings +sometimes by great waves of pity and desire to help her fellow-beings, +and again flintily indifferent to suffering, whose shape or phase +antagonized her common sense. There was no limit to her benevolent +activity, generosity, when once her heart was touched; but she was quite +capable of dismissing other cases with a curt, “I’ve no patience with +such people,—no patience at all! They deserve to suffer. Good enough for +them!” + +But to keep Zeph her “overseer ’n’ nothin’ else” proved not to be so easy +as Miss Sophy had thought; and the burden of the thought of his sorrows +would not roll off her shoulders as she had intended. Do her best, she +could not shake herself free of a haunting consciousness of his trouble +and a growing admiration for his courageous patience. No word of allusion +to it passed between them. She would not ask, and nothing would have been +further from Zeph’s impulse than to offer, any information in regard to +the state of affairs; but she fell into the habit of studying his face, +and drawing from its expression her own conclusions as to the posture of +matters. When he looked cheery and resolute, and spoke with vivacity, she +said to herself, “Well, he’s gettin’ along with it wonderfully.” Whenever +he looked downcast and was silent, saying only what was needful to be +said, wrath shook her inmost soul, and her soliloquies were vindictive. +“She’s been pesterin’ him, I know she has, the hussy! I’d like to see her +drummed out o’ town!” or “I expect he’s worryin’ himself to death about +those children. I don’t believe but the law’d give ’em to him if he’d set +about it. He could have the boy out at the ranch’s well as not, an’ the +baby could be boarded. I don’t know what the Lord sends children to such +women for!” + +Ah, very far was Miss Sophy drifting from the purpose she had laid down +to herself of letting the overseer of her ranch “steer his own canoe”! +She was fast nearing the pass of being ready to snatch from his hands +both rudder and oars. It is a dangerous thing for a woman to thus study +and pity a man. By paths of whose bearing she does not so much as dream, +she is approaching a country whose name, if it were once pronounced +in her ears, would terrify her. But there is no one to pronounce the +name; the paths are winding; no guide-posts are there; no tokens; not +so much as a dropped leaf to show who last went through. Shrewdest of +all commanders in the world is Love, who makes his recruits recruit +themselves. + +If Miss Sophy had been told in these days that this constant, +half-tender, half-impatient, half-pitying, half-wrathful watch and +interest she was keeping up in Zeph’s affairs was carrying her straight +and fast into loving him, she would have been ready to slay her +informant, and would have been sure the tale was a lie. All the same +it was true. This was what was coming to Miss Sophy; helpless, unaware, +stout-hearted, sturdy, independent, as she was, it was coming to her, and +she did not know it; in her ignorance she was inviting it, making ready +for it, feeding it. A mighty passion it would be when once it had Miss +Sophy fairly in its clutch; no half-way measure or measures in anything +Miss Sophy did, or became. + +And so the days wore on, faster than ever, it seemed to her; with this +new absorbing interest added to her other duties, she appeared to somehow +lose time out of each day, and never, as she phrased it, “get round.” +From morning to night she went about her work with her brown straw hat +pressed tight down on her forehead. This hat was always to Miss Sophy’s +servants a weather-signal. It had hitherto been her habit to wear it +only on days of extra work,—house-cleaning, or the refitting of a room, +moving of a stove, or some such exigency. The sight of it always struck +terror to her workwomen’s hearts. “When Miss Sophy comes down in the +morning with her brown hat on,” one of them once said, “we jest know +we’ve got to look out an’ step lively!” But this summer the brown hat was +worn day after day, till gradually it lost its portentous meaning to the +household. It really was no less a symptom of perturbations than before, +but they were perturbations whose existence no one suspected,—least of +all, Miss Sophy. + +The summer had gone and the autumn had begun. October, with its hasty +scurrying snows and threatening sleets, took Miss Sophy by surprise. +“Goodness!” she cried one morning; “if it ain’t snowing a’ready! Of +all climates ever I heard of, I do think this Colorado’s the most +unreasonable. It’s bad enough to keep on snowing into May; but to begin +again the first week in October is a little too much! It don’t seem but +yesterday I had the stoves took down, an’ now they’ve all got to be set +up again. It’s as bad as Vermont, every bit.” + +“Why don’t you go to South California, Miss Sophy?” said one of her +boarders, a young engineer, who had recently come from San Diego. “That’s +the climate of all the world; never a flake of snow from one year’s end +to the other; flowers blooming out of doors all winter.” + +“Really? Truly?” said Miss Sophy, turning a wondering look at him. “I +didn’t know as ’twas so warm’s that.” + +“It isn’t,” the engineer replied, laughing. “That’s the joke of it. +I never suffered more with cold here than I have there, when I’ve +got caught out in the mountains at night; but it isn’t cold by the +thermometer, and that’s what the plants go by, I suppose; at any rate, I +know they’re in bloom all winter, and I’ve seen barley in full head in +January.” + +“And never any snow, honest, now?” asked Miss Sophy, incredulously. + +“Never,” he replied; “that is, never except on the mountains. Once I saw +a few flakes come down in Los Angeles; it was in February; it lasted +about ten minutes, and everybody in town was out looking at it. There +hadn’t been a flake seen there for nine years.” + +“That’s where I’d like to live, then!” ejaculated Miss Sophy. “I guess +I’ll move.” + +“Many a true word’s spoken in jest, Miss Sophy,” laughed the young man as +he left the table. “I dare say I’ll see you there yet.” + +“You’ll see me in the moon first!” retorted Miss Sophy. “It’s my destiny +to live an’ die in Pendar Basin!” And she honestly thought so. + + + + +V. + + +Greenhills was shut up; the cows stabled in town and turned out daily +to the meagre winter pasture with the town herd; the horses also, Zeph +having represented to Miss Sophy that this would be far her best plan; it +was nonsense keeping the ranch house open all winter, he said. + +“Just cuttin’ himself right out o’ bread an’ butter,” thought Miss Sophy. +“That’s the kind o’ man I knew he was. But what will you do, Zeph?” she +said. + +“Oh, I shall do very well,” he replied. “I’ve got my house, and there is +always teamin’ to do, and odd jobs o’ carpenterin’; they say there’ll be +considerable buildin’ here this winter.” + +Building! Ah! the word reminded Miss Sophy. She had long wanted to build +an addition to her house; she had more than once had estimates made +for it, but had given it up on account of the exorbitant price—or so it +seemed to her—asked by the builders. Here was her chance. + +“I want some buildin’ done,” she said. “I’ve been wantin’ it for a long +time. I suppose you’d as soon carpenter by the month as do anything else?” + +“I would sooner do anything for you, Miss Burr, than do anything else,” +replied Zeph, with an unconscious emphasis on the “you” which made +Miss Sophy feel ashamed of the undercurrent of avariciousness in her +proposition. + +The plans were soon drawn, the materials procured, and Zeph’s winter +work was begun. And now began also new and undreamed-of experiences in +Miss Sophy’s breast. Nothing was more natural than that she should be in +frequent consultation with her builder, should be continually taking a +look at the progress of the building; this she would have done, whoever +had been laboring on her new rooms. But to no other man’s hammer would +she have listened as she did to Zeph’s. Not a sound of it escaped her +ear; if she had been a poet she could have sung a strange song of the +things it seemed to say: every vibration its steady stroke made in the +air seemed to her to be telling the story of his sad life and his patient +goodness. When it stopped, she wondered what he was doing, and often ran +in to see. Hour by hour, day by day, she listened to and studied the +building up of the walls, the laying of the floors. + +“I ’most think I could build a house myself, I’ve watched you so, Zeph,” +she said one day. + +“I reckon there’s nothin’ you couldn’t do, if you was to try, Miss Burr,” +replied Zeph, as he stepped back from a window-sill he was fitting and +half shut his eyes to see if it were straight. “There ain’t many women +like you.” And Zeph sighed. Women were to him a terrible problem. He +was an innocent-minded man by nature, and had remained so spite of +rough surroundings. His own experience of the falsity of a fair face +and cooing voice had made him not so much bitter as afraid. He could +not read the riddle. What was there in a woman to make her such an +embodiment of heaven or of hell to a man? Zeph did not like to look any +fair woman in the eye since he knew what Rushy was at heart. As for Miss +Sophy,—poor Miss Sophy!—into his meditations on her the thought of sex +seldom entered. He thought of her only as a force,—a helping, guiding, +protecting personality. Perhaps his thoughts of her might have formulated +themselves, even yet, somewhat as they did when he crouched in the church +pew in instinctive fear of her “dreadful” activity. But by whatever name +or trait she stood in his mind, she possessed the grateful loyalty of his +steadfast nature. He had no phrases for this sentiment; neither avowed, +measured, nor questioned it; he simply acted it. A doubt as to the fealty +and service he owed to her no more occurred to him than a doubt as to +the love he bore to his children. Money could not have bought from him +one hour for which Miss Sophy had need or use. This was simply the man’s +instinct; the way he was made; he did not know that there was anything +out of the ordinary in it. Persons of this order do not analyze either +their own or other men’s motives. They simply are what they are, and live +their lives out day by day. They are spared much which more subjective +natures suffer of perplexity and pain. But sometimes when a blow strikes +them they are shivered to the ground as fatally as a tree is rent by a +lightning shaft or uprooted by a sudden blast. And when this happens, +nobody knows what did it. People wonder of what they have died. + +A dim knowledge of some such quality as this in Zeph was slowly filtering +into Miss Sophy’s perception. + +“He hasn’t ever got over it,” she said to herself as she went stirring +about the house, quite unaware that she was always thinking of Zeph. “He +hasn’t ever got over it, ’n’ I don’t suppose he ever will. If he’d only +get the children with him he’d stand it better. I shouldn’t wonder if +’twas the death o’ the man yet! The hussy!” + +Perhaps if Miss Sophy had not been so absorbed in these reviewings +of Zeph’s situation and emotions she might have come sooner to the +realization of her own. But she had no time to think of herself. She was +forever groping, groping, like one in the dark; half blinded by pity and +by a stinging sense of the utter impotence of all outside help for this +sorrowing man whose life had been so strangely set side by side with her +own. + +However, the groping days were nearly over. They could not last forever. +Such situations clear themselves by laws no less fixed than the laws +which determine the joining and the separating of chemical elements. +Events combined to help on the clearing up. Strange things had been +happening to Zeph of which Miss Sophy knew nothing, and never would have +known except for her half ally and confidante in regard to him, Gammer +Stein. + +Miss Sophy and Gammer had seen each other seldom of late. The winter had +been a severe one, with frequent snows and bitter cold; a foot of snow +was to Gammer a more absolute barrier than a stone wall; and to Miss +Sophy the mercury at zero meant simply a stiffening of every faculty as +well as every muscle. Her energy was in direct ratio to the warmth of the +air; at ninety Fahrenheit she was in full vigor; even at a hundred she +worked on with delight. In cold weather she grew inert and torpid, and +used to say she would like to curl up like a spider and lie in a dark +corner till spring. + +Thus it had happened that nearly three months had gone by without her +seeing Gammer; and one morning in March she said to herself, as she was +washing the breakfast dishes, “I really must go and see Gammer to-day. If +this wind’ll only stop blowin’, I’ll go right after dinner.” The words +had hardly formed themselves in her thought, when, seeing a shadow darken +the window, she looked up and saw Gammer herself at the door. + +“I never!” said Miss Sophy aloud. “If that ain’t speakin’ o’ angels, sure +enough! There’s somethin’ cur’us about its so often happenin’ that way!” + +“I was just this very minute sayin’ to myself I’d come up ’n’ see you +this afternoon, Gammer!” she exclaimed, as she opened the door. “I’m real +glad to see you.” + +“Then yer’ve heered it!” gasped Gammer, sinking breathless into a chair. + +“Heard what?” cried Miss Sophy, instantly alert, already, in her heart, +sure it was something about Zeph. “I hain’t heard anything. What’s +happened?” + +“Rushy Riker’s got her bill,” cried Gammer. “She’s got it; ’n’ she ’n’ +thet Nat wuz married last night.” + +“Married!” cried Miss Sophy. “What do you mean? How could she be married?” + +“Why, she’s billed,” retorted Gammer. “Ther papers come yisterday ’t +noon, ’n’ she ’n’ Nat wuz married last night. I allow ther won’t nobody +hev nothin’ ter do with ’em,—nobody thet’s decent. I allow ’t ’s the +dearest day’s work ever she’s done ’n her life. Thet Nat’ll go off ’n’ +leave her some day; he’s none too good; ’n’ she can’t lay down on Zeph +agen.” + +Miss Sophy stood like a statue, her face scarlet, her eyes flashing. + +“Divorced!” she shrieked. “How’d she ever get a divorce? There ain’t a +thing against that man, not one!” + +“Ter be sure ther ain’t,” said Gammer, settling back in her chair. “I +allow thar ain’t no two sides ter thet; she couldn’t hev got no bill ef +he’d hev appeared agen it; but he wouldn’t. He talked it over with me. +She come up thar ter ther house ’s long ago ’s—wall, somewhar abaout New +Year’s, I allaow ’twuz, ’n’ she told Zeph she wuz gwine to bill him ’n’ +marry Nat; ’n’ he told her she couldn’t; ’n’ she sez, sez she, ‘I kin ’n’ +I will; ’n’ ’tany rate I’m gwine ter live with Nat.’ ‘He’ll never marry +ye, Rushy,’ sez Zeph. ‘He will too,’ sez she; an’ then, ef yer’ll b’leeve +me, thet thar Zeph,—I swar, I donno ef the man’s flesh ’n’ blood, er what +he ez,—sez he, ‘Ef he’ll marry yer, Rushy, I won’t hender yer gettin’ +ther bill. Then yer kin live decent. But he’s got ter swar ter marry ye;’ +’n’ I allaow ter yeow, the next night, ef they didn’t both on ’em, she +’n’ Nat, the pizen skunk,—ef thar warn’t both on ’em thar to Zeph’s, +tellin’ him what they’d made up thar minds ter dew; ’n’ naow they’ve +got ’t done. Thet’s the kind er law thar ez in this hyar country; she’s +billed aout clar ’n’ free ez ef she’d been ’z decent ez enny woman could +be, ’n’ he wuz ther one ’twuz wrong. He jest never ’peared ’t all. Thet +wuz all they wanted. I’d jest like ter see ’em both jugged! I allaow ther +wouldn’t nothin’ short er thet tech ’em. ’Twan’t but er few nights sence, +thar wuz er dance, a real respectable dance, down thar whar she lives, +’n’ she ’n’ Nat went in, ’n’ thar come up one o’ ther managers, ’n’ sez +he, ‘Yer’ll be ser good ’s ter git aout er this room, ’n’ be mighty quick +abaout et, tew, or yer’ll git holped aout;’ ’n’ they jest larfed, ’n’ +went aout a tossin’ thar heads ez high ’n’ mighty. I allaow naow they’re +married they’ll brazen ’t aout. Folks forgits everythin’.” + +“Has she got the right to keep the children?” asked Miss Sophy in a +hoarse whisper. Her face was very pale now, and the flashing of her eye +strangely dimmed. + +“I didn’t heer ’t said,” replied Gammer, “but she’s got ’em. I allaow ef +he didn’t ’pear, the childen ’d go to her, same ez she got ther bill. +’N’ he sez he’d ruther she hed ’em; they’ll dew more fur her, he sez, ’n +everythin’ else. She’s allers good ter ’em. He’ll keep an eye ter ’em.” + +“Then he’s ’s free to-day ’s if he’d never been married ’t all,” said +Miss Sophy, still in a whisper, still pale, and with dimmed eyes. + +“I allaow he ez,” said Gammer; “’n’ I allaow ter yeow thet, much ’s I’m +agen bills, ’n’ billed folks marryin’ agen, I’d like ter see Zeph Riker +git him another wife, pesky quick tew, jest ter spite them tew devils +thet ’s kep’ him in er hell, ’s yer might say, these tew years, goin’ on +three. Mebbe ’tain’t right, ’n’ mebbe ’tis. I allaow I’d take the resk on +’t ef ’twuz me.” + +And now a startling thing occurred. Miss Sophy, who had been standing, +immovable, rigid, in front of Gammer, listening to this narrative, +turning first red, then pale, and fast losing her self-control, suddenly +lost it altogether, and flinging herself into a chair, buried her face +in her hands, and burst into tears, sobbing out, half apologetically, “I +never heard such a story in my life! Such things never happened where I +was brought up.” + +Gammer was astounded. Miss Sophy’s bearing, her attitude throughout all +her active interest in Zeph’s affairs, had always been unmistakably +that of the cool, common-sense, kindly benefactor. Her sudden change +to the level of a weeping friend baffled Gammer’s utmost powers of +understanding. Bewilderment made her dumb. Finally she stammered: “I +allaow yer tired, mebbe. I git plum beat aout sometimes, ’n’ ther +leastest thing’ll set me off cryin’.” At which Miss Sophy cried harder +than ever, and Gammer’s bewilderment deepened. + +At last Miss Sophy, recovering herself, said: “That’s so. This long spell +o’ cold weather’s got my nerves all strung up, somehow, so I can’t bear +anything; an’ I’m sure it’s enough to make anybody cry, to think what +that man’s gone through with. I’ve got to know him real well, you see, +havin’ him here this winter to work on the addition,” she added. + +“Yes,” said Gammer, glad to change to a less exciting topic. “He wuz er +tellin’ us abaout it. He allowed he hed reel pleasure buildin’ it fur +ye. He sets a heap by yer; donno’s yer know it, but he doos. He sez thar +warn’t never sech er woman ’n the world ez yeow be.” + +Miss Sophy’s cheeks were red again, and her eyes, brighter than before, +fastened on Gammer’s face as she spoke these words,—fastened there with +an expression which the honest old woman was far from understanding. + +Miss Sophy had had a revelation. No more disguise, equivocation, +illusion, ignorance, on her part, in regard to her feeling toward Zeph. +She loved him, and she knew it. + +What would come of it? Nothing; she said to herself sternly,—nothing +could come of it. The man’s heart was not his own, was no longer to be +won by any woman; it had been given once for all, and he was not a man to +love twice, said Miss Sophy in her simplicity,—given once for all to that +wretched, wicked woman, the mother of his children, who had now separated +herself from him forever. It was bitter. But there were consolations. +Very well Miss Sophy knew that his life would not be severed from hers +unless she herself chose; that they would work together, her interests +the same to him as his own, her wishes and needs determining his daily +duties, and, what was still more, the sight of her, and talking with +her, the greatest comfort and happiness left to his saddened life. This +was a great deal. With this, Miss Sophy thought she could be contented. +“And if I can’t, I can go away,” she said to herself. All this and much +more had passed through her mind while she was saying her final words of +parting with Gammer, who had, as she phrased it, “dropped everything ’n’ +run to tell the noos on’t,” and was in haste to get home. + +After Gammer had gone, Miss Sophy turned her back on her work, and locked +herself into her room for a resolute thinking. She did not mince matters +with herself any more than she would have done with another. + +“Here you are, Sophy Burr,” she said, as she would have said it aloud +to a culprit standing bodily before her. “Here you are! Now what?” At +the end of the hour she was no nearer knowing. Her second soliloquy had +closed, like her first, with the words, “If I can’t, I can go away.” + +The March snows, and the April snows, and the May snows, came and went. +June followed like a midsummer close on their icy days, and Greenhills +was green again. Young vegetables were peering up in the garden; the cows +were revelling in fresh grass; and Zeph, back at his post on the ranch, +was proud of the cream and butter he had for Miss Sophy twice a week. On +the face of things were prosperity and peace in both Miss Sophy’s houses. +Zeph’s countenance wore a new look of contentment and calm. He had put +behind him the things that were dead, and was pressing forward to the +things that remained alive, in way of duty and work. + +A change had come about in his relations with Miss Sophy, which had given +him a new self-respect, and a sense of manly independence, which were an +ever-present stimulus and pleasure. He did not clearly know how this had +happened. Miss Sophy knew. It had begun by her calling him “Mr. Riker” +one day. + +Startled and uneasy, he looked at her,—looked the question he did not +speak. Miss Sophy laughed. Relieved, he exclaimed, “Ye scared me, Miss +Burr. I was afraid I’d ’fended ye.” + +“Oh, no!” said the clever Miss Sophy. “Far from it. But I don’t feel +it’s respectful for me to go on calling a man by his first name, when he +manages all my affairs for me. I look to you for ’most everything now, +and I ain’t goin’ to call you Zeph any longer.” + +“’Most everybody does,” said Zeph. + +“That’s because they don’t know you so well as I do,” said Miss Sophy. + +All the way out to Greenhills Zeph kept thinking this over. It puzzled +him. He was pleased, and yet not pleased. It seemed to put him farther +from Miss Sophy, and yet nearer. He gave up trying to understand the +mystery of it. On the whole, however, he wished that she would say +“Zeph.” But she did not,—not for many a day. + +The next thing Miss Sophy did was simply an act of justice. She said to +him one day, “Mr. Riker, at the rate you are going on, you will double +the value of my ranch for me. I can see that. You are working as if you +were working for yourself.” + +“Of course,” said Zeph, simply. + +“Well,” continued Miss Sophy, “that’s a thing money doesn’t pay for. +Wages don’t cut any figure at all when a man takes hold of a place that +way; you ought to have a share in the place. Now, what I’ve been thinking +would be a fairer way, would be for me to reckon your year’s wages in a +lump as so much put into the ranch on your account, so we shall be owning +it together; do you understand? And if you want to go into stock a little +more, why I’ll go shares in that too.” + +Zeph stared. The good luck of the thing amazed him. Yet he saw that there +was a certain fairness in it. Miss Sophy was not making him a gift, only +helping him to a good investment of his earnings. + +He did not make any profuse expressions of gratitude. It was not his way. +But his “Thank you, Miss Burr, I couldn’t ask for anythin’ better ’n that +if I’d had my choice given t’ me,” was all that Miss Sophy needed. And +the new life and spirit in him which dated from that day were also new +life and spirit to her affectionate soul. + +Good as it was for Zeph to be called Mr. Riker, he did not like it. At +last it seemed to him he could not bear it. Vainly he wondered at the +intensity of his feeling in regard to it. “What odds does ’t make what +she calls me? I swear it’s queer how I hate to hear her say Mr. Riker t’ +me,” he said. + +Finally he mustered courage to say this. It was at Miss Sophy’s back +gate; he had come in as usual with the Greenhills butter and cream, and +a fine lot of green peas, the first of the season,—and Greenhills peas +were always two weeks ahead of anybody’s else in the region. Miss Sophy +was delighted, and as she bade him good-by, she said, “I’m proud enough, +to have peas so early. I can’t see how you did it. I’m ever so much +obliged to you, Mr. Riker.” + +“My name’s Zeph,” said Zeph, in a sudden impulse of desperate courage. + +“So’s mine Sophy,” retorted Miss Sophy, in an equally sudden impulse of +desperate courage, looking full into his eyes. + +“Why! Miss Burr!” gasped Zeph, dropping the reins in his agitation. But +Miss Sophy had turned and run up the path as fast as her feet could carry +her, laughing, however, and looking back at Zeph, who sat gazing after +her in consternation. + +“Good Lord!” he said to himself as she disappeared in the doorway. “What +did she mean? She wan’t mad, anyhow. She couldn’t ha’ meant I was to +call her Sophy! O’ course it couldn’t ha’ been that!” + +“What did she mean?” was a constant refrain in Zeph’s thoughts for the +next three days; and, “I wonder what he’ll do when he comes in Thursday?” +was the refrain in Miss Sophy’s. And when Thursday morning came, and +the Greenhills wagon was seen turning into the lane at the back of Miss +Sophy’s house, her heart thumped like a hammer in her bosom. + +“If he don’t call me Sophy now, he never will,” she thought. + +Zeph was also in trepidation. “I dassent open my mouth,” he thought, +“till she’s said something first. Perhaps she’s forgotten all about it.” + +She met him on the porch. The instant he looked in her face, he knew she +had not forgotten. The instant Miss Sophy looked in his, she divined his +thought; divined also that it would be hers, and not his, to speak the +first word. + +“Good morning,” she said; and after a second’s pause, “Is it to be Mr. +Riker, then, or Zeph?” + +“Zeph,” he said, in a voice so low it seemed less than a whisper. “I +can’t bear it, somehow, to have ye call me anythin’ else.” + +“Well, then, Zeph it is,” replied Miss Sophy, as lightly and glibly as +if she had nothing more at stake than a jest of an idle moment; “but you +know what I told you. If Zeph’s your name, Sophy’s mine. Give and take’s +fair play.” + +Zeph’s hands were full—his hands and arms also—of parcels from +Greenhills: the butter, the jug of cream, young radishes, lettuce, peas. +He did not speak, but went on slowly laying them down one by one, trying +to think what he should say. + +“Well?” said Miss Sophy. “Bargain?” + +Her light tone deceived him. “I can’t think ye’d make fun o’ me, Miss +Burr,” he said. “I don’t make out your meanin’.” + +“I couldn’t ever make fun of you, Mr. Riker,” retorted Miss Sophy, in a +tone still merry, but with an under note in it which Zeph had not been +man if he had failed to perceive. + +“You’re the best friend I ever had, or ever shall have, in this world,” +cried Zeph. + +“And you’re the best friend I have, or ever expect to have, in this +world,” answered Miss Sophy; “the very best—Zeph!” + +Their eyes met,—Miss Sophy’s shining with resolution and tears, Zeph’s, +dark with unfathomable emotion and bewilderment. He opened his lips to +speak; then slowly shaking his head, turned to go. + +“Good-by, Zeph!” said Miss Sophy, smiling. She had conquered, she was +sure. It would not be on that day, or the next, perhaps, that Zeph could +speak her name, but it would come. + +“If you can’t say Sophy, you needn’t say anything,” she continued. “I +don’t like Miss Burr any better than you do Mr. Riker!” + +Zeph’s eyes lighted up. His tongue was loosed now. “Don’t ye?” he +exclaimed. “If I thought that, I could learn any name ye wanted me to!” + +“Sophy’ll do,” said Miss Sophy, dryly. “It’s as good as Zeph. They ain’t +either of ’em any great beauties o’ names to boast of!” And now they +both laughed merrily, and parted without another word, only a farewell +smile to each other,—a smile out of which all the sparkle of the mirthful +laughter had gone, leaving behind the soft light of a deep affection. +And the next time the Greenhills wagon came in (it was but three days +from Thursday to Monday), Miss Sophy met it at the gate, and said with +sweet gravity, “Good-morning, Zeph;” and Zeph made answer, “Good-morning, +Sophy.” And it would have been hard to say which of them was the happier +in the new sound the syllables bore and the new bond their speaking made. + +The happiness of it lasted Miss Sophy for many days; but as the summer +wore away she began to look for something more,—she hardly dared phrase +to herself for what, yet in her heart she knew; and knew, too, that the +thing she craved was hers by right; that the lonely, sorrowful, deserted +man for whom she had come to care so tenderly had come also to love her +with a true devotion. But gradually there grew up in her a fear that +he would never say so. Not by word or look did he show that any idea +of any relation beyond or different from their present one was in his +mind. Whether it were that he lacked courage, or that he still held +himself bound by the bond which his wife had broken, Miss Sophy could +not determine. On the latter point she herself had had doubts, but by +some surreptitious reading on the subject of divorce, and by several +cautiously conducted consultations with her minister and with other +persons, she had at length become fully satisfied that there could be +no possible shadow of wrong in the second marriage of a man whose wife +had not only betrayed and deserted him, but become legally the wife of +another. + +“It hasn’t got any business to stand in his way one minute,” she said to +herself again and again; “and perhaps ’tain’t that that is standing in +his way. But what else can it be? ’Tain’t any love for her; I’m sure o’ +that. That’s one comfort!” + +And by the help of this last item of comfort Miss Sophy weathered the +summer fairly well. But when the autumn signals were flung out,—great +yellow patches of aspens high up on the mountain-sides, and tossing +plumes of purple asters around the Greenhills spring,—Miss Sophy lost +heart. + +“Winter’ll be here in a jiffy,” she said, “an’ he won’t let me keep the +ranch open, an’ I can’t stand it; I can’t stand not to see him ’s I’ve +been seein’ him!” And Miss Sophy racked her brain vainly for a device. + +Finally one occurred to her,—so desperate, so final, it almost took her +breath away as it first flashed through her thoughts; but the longer she +thought, the more she believed it good. It was desperate, and it would be +final: if she won, she won; if she lost, she lost—all. This is a common +trick of Love’s winning. He makes gamesters, desperate gamesters, of most +of us at least once in our lives. We throw down our last card and bravely +call out color or number, all the while feeling a death-grip at our +throats. + +“I might as well!” said Miss Sophy. “There’s no use going on this way +forever. It’s nonsense; besides that, it’ll kill me. I can’t stand it. +I’d rather go away.” + +And she made up her mind. But after she had made it up, she hesitated day +after day. She trembled. More than once she opened her lips to speak the +words, and terror held her dumb. If she lost, she lost all. + +At last she spoke. It was at Greenhills. Already the foreshadowing of +winter glooms had touched the place; frost had turned the vines black +and shrivelled every leaf in the garden. Yet it was only the middle of +September. It looked desolate. + +“Looks as I feel,” said Miss Sophy, grim and resolute; “but I’ll feel +worse, mebbe, before I’m done with it.” + +“Zeph,” she said. Zeph was standing by her side at the bars of the corral +where all the yearlings had been put. He had been pointing them out to +her with great satisfaction. + +There was something in Miss Sophy’s tone which fell strangely on Zeph’s +ear. He knew the inflections of her voice better than she dreamed. What +was coming? She had never pronounced his name thus before. Never, indeed! +He turned his face quickly towards her, inquiringly. + +“Zeph!” she said again, and again the words refused to come. She took +firm hold of the upper rail of the fence to support herself, and began +once more: “Zeph, I’ve made up my mind to go to California. I’m goin’ to +sell out an’ go this fall. I about made up my mind last winter I’d never +stand another o’ these Colorado winters; but it’s been so pleasant this +summer, it kind of put me out o’ the notion; but now I see it settin’ +in again I feel just ’s I did, ’n’ I’m goin’! I’m gettin’ too old to +stand any more snow. Do you know anybody that ud like to buy this ranch? +There’s a man ready to take the other house right off my hands just as +’tis, furniture ’n’ all.” + +Astonishment, incredulity, pain, bewilderment, each in turn and all +together, had swept over Zeph’s face while Miss Sophy was speaking these +words. His eyes fastened themselves on hers blankly. As soon as she +ceased speaking, he stammered: “Sophy! you! going to California! goin’ +away! You can’t mean it, Sophy! What are ye goin’ for? You’re doin’ +splendid here!” The words came slower and slower; the man was half +stunned; and before the hesitating sentences were concluded, he, too, had +instinctively grasped the bars for support. “Ye can’t mean it, Sophy! I +’most think ye’re crazy.” + +“I guess not,” said Miss Sophy, more at ease already. If he felt it like +this, he would never let her go alone, surely. Her winning must be close +at hand. She did not yet thoroughly know the nature of the man she was +dealing with. + +“I guess not,” she repeated. “I hain’t ever had the name o’ bein’ +light-headed. I’ve been a long time makin’ up my mind to this.” + +“I wish ye’d ha’ let me know on ’t sooner,” said Zeph, in an aggrieved +tone, which was music to Miss Sophy’s ears. + +“Why?” she said. + +“I could ha’ got used t’ ’t by degrees,” he replied sadly. “It’s struck +me all of a heap. But I’ll do all I can to help ye, Sophy,” he continued, +bracing himself up, and looking away from her for a minute. “I could ha’ +got a buyer for the ranch better in the summer than now. It’s a bad time +to sell. I expect it would be better to let it lay ’s ’tis till spring. I +can look after it for ye till then, same ’s I have done.” And Zeph sighed. + +Alas! Had she lost? What was Miss Sophy to say next? The talk had taken a +hopeless turn. To gain time, she replied meaninglessly: “I don’t know! I +suppose ’tis a bad time! I never thought o’ that. But I want to go before +the cold weather sets in. There’s flowers all winter long in the south +part o’ California, they say; an’ that’s where I’m goin’.” + +“Ye’ve always seemed real happy here, Sophy,” cried Zeph, “’n’ real well +too! ’T never so much’s crossed my mind ye’d ever leave; ye ain’t got +nothin’ ailin’ ye, have ye, to make ye need to go?” And his face clouded +over with the new anxiety which had that instant occurred to him. + +What tantalizing cruelty sometimes in these impenetrable veils between +human hearts, which are at other times such merciful protection! If Miss +Sophy could have known that as Zeph asked this question his racked heart +was saying, “If she’s got any disease hold on her I’ll coax her t’ let +me go ’long too, ’n’ take care of her,” she would have then and there +feigned herself the victim of any known malady. But in her pride of +energetic health she made haste to repudiate any such implication. + +“Mercy, no!” she said. “Do I look like a sick woman? Never felt better. +But I’m tired o’ this place, an’ this life, an’ everything about it, an’ +especially o’ these winters. I’d like to go where I’d never see another +flake o’ snow ’s long ’s I live. I was brought up on snow; ’n’ I’ve had +six months o’ snow—that is o’ bein’ liable to snow—out o’ every year I’ve +been here; ’n’ I’m sick on ’t, ’n’ I’m goin’. I’ve got enough to get me a +place that I can make a livin’ off anywhere; ’n’ I don’t know any reason +why I should slave myself here, ’n’ freeze to death every winter.” + +Luckless Miss Sophy. Each one of these last sentences went like a bullet +to Zeph’s heart. “Tired o’ this place,” was she? The place which had +seemed to him almost blissful of late; and the work which they had been +jointly doing, he and she, the fruitful ranch, the increasing herd, the +prosperous boarding-house,—all this was to her “slaving to death,” and +she was going. She had made up her mind to it without a word to him any +more than if he had been the poorest cattle-herder, on the ranch,—to him, +to whom she had said, only a few short months ago, that he was the best +friend she had on the earth! Very well! woman like woman! They were all +the same, heartless and untrue,—one from vanity and passion, another from +caprice! They were all alike! This was the last woman whom he would ever +trust! The storm of all these bitter thoughts turned Zeph’s face stern +and his voice cold, and when he replied curtly, “Well, ye’d better go, +then, if that’s the way ye feel, Sophy,” poor Miss Sophy had to clutch +tight to her rail to keep from staggering. + +The hurt that he gave her, however, was their salvation. Without it they +might have perhaps parted forever, then and there, neither knowing that +the other was wounded. But this hurt was too sudden and too deep to be +borne without a cry; and Miss Sophy’s voice, even without the tears in +her eyes, would have appealed to any man like a cry, as she exclaimed, +“Oh, Zeph! I don’t see why you take it that way! I think you’re real +cruel!” + +“I don’t never mean to be that,” said Zeph, “not to nobody. But you +don’t seem to think it’s anythin’ for a fellow to be turned off all in a +minute, an’ everythin’ all broke up!” + +Miss Sophy took heart again. “Who said anything about turning off?” she +asked, with a faint smiling in her tearful eyes. + +“Well, you didn’t say anythin’ about anythin’ else!” retorted Zeph, still +sullen. “You hadn’t any idee o’ takin’ me with ye?” + +“I’ve been thinkin’ all the time, Zeph,” said Miss Sophy, “that I didn’t +know how I’d ever get along without you!” + +“Why didn’t ye say so, then?” + +“How could I?” + +“How could ye? What’s to hender? Ye got me to do your business for ye +here, ’n’ let on to think so much o’ my managin’; ’n’ why couldn’t ye’ve +said ye’d like to have me keep on with it there? No, ye’re tired o’ the +place ’n’ everybody in it! That’s what’s the matter with you!” + +Was this Zeph? What was to become of Miss Sophy in this chaos of +confusion which she had drawn down on her head? Stretching out both her +hands, she cried: “Zeph, I don’t know what’s got into you ’n’ me to be +quarrellin’ here, nor what we’re quarrellin’ about, neither. I should +think you’d know that the last thing I’d want to do, would be to part +from you, an’ that I’d rather have you manage for me than anybody!” + +The pleading in her voice was unmistakable; her face glowed with +affection. Still Zeph seemed both deaf and blind. + +“Then why didn’t ye ask me to go ’long too?” he reiterated. “Why didn’t +ye take me into any o’ your plans? Will you take me now?” he added, with +a half-surly and incredulous emphasis. + +Miss Sophy hid her face in both her hands; she was rosy red; she saw a +vista opening. + +“How could I, Zeph?” she whispered. “Folks don’t know us out there. It’s +very different here, where everybody knows us. I don’t want to go without +you, Zeph, you needn’t think!” + +Into the chambers of Zeph’s brain light had broken at last. What a dolt +he had been! + +“Oh, Sophy, Sophy!” he cried, “was ye a tryin’ me? I do believe ye was!” +and he threw his arms around her. “Sophy, it ’most killed me to hear ye +talk so cool o’ goin’ away ’n’ leavin’ me, when I hain’t had a thought, +day nor night, except o’ servin’ you ’n’ belongin’ to you, for so long!” + +“Well, why didn’t you say so, then?” retorted Miss Sophy, half laughing, +half crying, making haste to turn the tables on him and avenge herself. +“Why didn’t you say so, and not drive me into just about offerin’ myself +to you?” + +“Sophy! Sophy!” answered Zeph, “don’t you go to talkin’ any such way’s +that. I don’t know about offerin’, ’s you call it; givin’ ’s more ’n +offerin’, an’ you know well enough I giv’ myself to you a long ways +back, an’ hain’t ever had, from that day to this, any idee o’ doin’ +anythin’ but helpin’ ye an’ lovin’ ye ’s long’s I live on this earth!” + +And Miss Sophy was content. + + + + +VI. + + +There was but one drawback to Miss Sophy’s happiness. In the new +confidence which now existed between her and Zeph, she learned more fully +than she had done before the depth of his affection for his children. +She found that during all these months it had been his habit to see them +frequently,—sometimes by clandestine watchings, sometimes by Rushy’s +consent that Zephie should on a Sunday take his little sister to their +father’s house. By this means Zeph had kept himself constantly in +relation with them and retained strong influence over the boy. Separation +from them was going to be a terrible thing to him; there were times +when he even doubted if it were right for him to go away and leave them +entirely in the control and at the mercy of their stepfather. Only his +unshaken confidence in the strength of Rushy’s maternal affection enabled +him to think of it. + +“She’s just like a wildcat ’bout the chillen,” he said, “an’ always was; +if Nat Leeson should so much’s raise his hand to ’em, she’d leave him +quicker ’n lightnin’. I ain’t a mite afraid of his ever doin’ ’em any +harm that way. But if she should come to want any way,—Sophy, I don’t see +it clear just how to fix that. Ye know, Sophy, I’d always feel myself +bound to those children.” + +“Of course!” replied Miss Sophy. “And so do I. I wish to goodness we had +’em both here this minute to take ’em with us! That’s what I’d like!” + +“Would ye, Sophy?” cried Zeph. “Would ye really? Oh, Sophy, ye’re real +good!” + +“I don’t suppose there’d be any chance o’ gettin’ ’em, or either one on +’em,” said Miss Sophy. “Would there?” + +“Oh, Lord!” cried Zeph, catching his breath at the very idea. “That’s all +ye know about Rushy! She’d rather kill ’em than let anybody else have +’em! She’s fierce, Rushy is. There isn’t the least use thinkin’ o’ such a +thing.” + +But the doctrine that there was no use in thinking of a thing was not +in Miss Sophy’s creed. The more obstacles lay in the way, the more her +native obstinacy allied itself with her indomitable courage to surmount +them. And in this instance a passion greater than either the courage +or the obstinacy came in, making a triple alliance strong enough to +move mountains. Her love for Zeph was so great that its instincts were +preternaturally keen. + +“He’ll never be happy long away from them children o’ his,” she said, +“an’ he’s got to have ’em,—or at least the baby; she’d be more to him +than the boy; he’d get along if he had her; an’ if we got her, the boy ’d +be big enough to come before long if he wanted to.” + +Plan after plan, all visionary and impracticable, Miss Sophy revolved in +her head. Actual kidnapping of the child would not have seemed to her +wrong; but her common sense told her that it would involve dangers not to +be thought of. Cautiously she sounded Gammer Stein as to the possibility +of Rushy’s being induced, by the prospects of superior advantages to her +daughter, to give her to be adopted by a stranger. No suspicion crossed +Gammer’s mind as to Miss Sophy’s personal interest in the matter, any +further than her benevolent interest in Zeph explained it. + +“Some o’ yer folks wantin’ to ’dopt a child?” she said. “Wall, I allow ef +they know what’s fur thar good they’ll keep shy o’ proposin’ it to Rushy +Riker,—Leeson, I s’pose her name is naow, but I sha’n’t never call her +nothin’ but Riker, not outen Zeph wuz ter git married, an’ I allow thet’s +ther furthest off from his thoughts ’t ever wuz. He seems ter be reel +settled naow. ’Twuz luck fur him a gittin’ yeour place.” + +“Then you think that Mrs. Leeson would not give up the little girl?” +interrupted Miss Sophy, who found the conversation both disagreeable and +embarrassing. + +“Not she!” said Gammer. “I’ll say thet much fur Rushy Riker. Money +couldn’t buy one o’ her young uns, I allaow ’t couldn’t. She’s fierce +fur ’em allers, an’ reel good ter ’em, tew. She’s a hussy, aout an’ +aout, an’ allers wuz, I be bound; but she’s a good mother t’ her young +uns ser fur’s lovin’ ’em goes. She’d run round ’n’ leave ’em fur frolics +an’ sech, an’ she ain’t no great hand ter tidy ’em up; but she loves ’em +more ’n most women doos thar young uns, I allaow she doos. Thet’s one +thing made me ser sure Nat’d never marry her ’n ther livin’ world, kase I +allowed he wouldn’t be bothered ’th ther young uns; but ’twuz young uns +’n’ all, ’r else not ’t all, ’n’ it doos look ez ef he wuz bound ter hev +Rushy. He’s workin’ her ’most ter death tew; thet’s what some says; ’twuz +jest fur her cookin’ he wanted her. He’s took the restaurant now,—the +Star restaurant, whar he wuz a cookin’, ’n’ he ’n’ her ez runnin’ it, ’n’ +er takin’ in money like greased lightnin’, they say. She’s an orful good +cook, Rushy ez. She’s smart; nothin’ she can’t do ef she wants ter, ’cept +be decent; I allow she could do thet tew, ef she wanted ter. She don’t +want ter. But she don’t do no gaddin’ naow, don’t yer furgit it! She’s +got er marster naow ’stead o’ er slave; thet’s what she hed afore,—er +reg’lar slave, thet Zeph wuz. She’ll be sick o’ her bargain, I allaow, +’fore she’s through with it. I know a reel likely young un I allaow +them folks could git,—it’s a boy, though. ’Twuz a gal yer said they wuz +wantin’?” + +“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, feeling guilty, but playing her game boldly. +“It is a girl these parties want. I dare say they’ll find one, though; +children are plenty enough.” + +“More ’n enough, whar they ain’t wanted,” replied Gammer. “I allaow +thet’s anuther queer thing ther Lawd doos. Hyar’s these yer folks o’ +yourn huntin’ fur a child ter ’dopt, ’n’ hyar daown ’n this yer very +flairt I could p’int yer ter ’s many ’s twenty houses whar they’d be glad +’n’ thankful ef thar wuz fewer chillen ter feed ’n’ clothe. Thet’s ther +way ’tis. I allaow ’t ’s cur’us. But I couldn’t never see haow ’tis folks +wants ter ’dopt chillen. I allaow I couldn’t dew no sech thing ’s thet.” + +“Why not?” asked Miss Sophy, so sharply that Gammer looked up in surprise. + +“Wall, I allaow I couldn’t jest say why not,” she replied. “It’s er +kind er feelin’ I hev; ’pears like ’twould be a kinder cheatin’ natur’, +somehow, thet wouldn’t work.” + +“I don’t think so at all,” answered Miss Sophy. “It seems to me the most +natural thing in the world for folks that haven’t got any child o’ their +own, to adopt one.” + +“I expect it’s hevin’ chillen o’ yer own makes ’doptin’ ’em seem so +cur’us,” replied Gammer, placidly; “arter ye’ve hed ’em, I allaow yer +don’t think much o’ ’doptations. ’S fur ’s I’m concerned, I wouldn’t +durst trust myself with other folks’s chillen. Chillen ez tryin’.” + +“I should think they must be,” said Miss Sophy, turning to go, glad +to escape from the conversation which booted nothing and made her +uncomfortable. + +Slowly, reluctantly, she abandoned her project as impracticable. It +grieved her sorely, and it disquieted her anticipations of the future. +But she saw no means, which she dared use, of bringing about the desired +end. She did not stop thinking about it, however; that was out of her +power. Many a night she lay awake far into the morning hours vainly +pondering, wishing, regretting. + +Her arrangements for leaving were nearly complete; so quietly and +judiciously had she made them, that few persons in the town knew of her +contemplated change; and to no one except her minister had she confided +her intention of marrying Zeph. + +“There’s been talk enough about his affairs,” she said, “an’ it’s +nobody’s business but his and mine what we’re going to do.” The marriage +was to take place at the minister’s house, with only the necessary +witnesses, on the evening of their departure from town, and would not be +known until she and Zeph were many miles away. They were going to take +the long overland journey in their own wagon, in company with a party of +emigrants who were about setting off from a mining town a few hours by +rail south of Pendar Basin. This was Zeph’s plan. He had long desired +such a journey. When he proposed it to Miss Sophy, her first reply was, +“Mercy, Zeph, it’d take forever!” + +“Only about two months, Sophy,” he said pleadingly. “Two months out o’ +doors every minute.” + +“Two months!” echoed Miss Sophy. “Is that all? Well, I suppose that’d +be two honeymoons ’stead o’ one!” And in this view the prospect of the +journey grew more and more pleasing to her. + +It only lacked a week of the day fixed for starting. Greenhills was +sold, and well sold, and the money in the bank,—quite enough to buy the +new ranch in California, or wherever they might determine to live. The +people who had bought Miss Sophy’s boarding-house, furniture, good-will, +and so forth, had arrived and taken possession, the transfer being made +with surprisingly little jar to the household. “It’s easy enough to do +anything if you once set about it,” said Miss Sophy, never suspecting how +uncommon was the executive force within her which made all the difference +in the world in the way of “setting about” things. It seemed odd to her +to be a boarder in her own home; and the hours hung so heavily on her +hands that she more than once wished that she was at liberty to go into +the kitchen and cook the dinner. Zeph was away. He had gone to make the +arrangements for their wagon journey, to have everything in readiness, +so that their wagons might be in waiting for them at the railway station +where they would leave the cars. When this plan was made, it had not +occurred to Miss Sophy that it would distress her to be separated from +Zeph for a few days; but she was finding it intolerable. Except for sheer +shame, she would have followed him. Her mind continually reverted to the +grief of her youth, the death of her first lover. “Folks that belongs to +each other hain’t got any business takin’ such risks,” she soliloquized. +“If there was anythin’ to happen to Zeph, an’ me not there, I’d never +get over it, never. If I was to lose him as I did Robert, I do believe +it would kill me dead.” Fiercely she taunted herself with being silly; +but her heart got the better of her common sense in every such argument, +and she grew unhappier hour by hour. In this morbid mood her thoughts +also dwelt more and more on the separation which was coming between Zeph +and his children, and her doubts grew stronger and stronger as to the +possibility of his being happy away from them. “And if he ain’t, that’d +be worse than seein’ him dead, a long ways,” said the miserable Miss +Sophy, torturing herself to no purpose, and fighting vainly against the +pricks on all sides. “I’d lots better gone off an’ left him here to shift +for himself. Well, there’s one thing; if worst comes to worst, he can +come back. I sha’n’t keep any man from doin’ what he thinks ’s right.” + +But fate had better things in store for Miss Sophy than she dreamed. One +night, as she had just fallen into an uneasy sleep after lying awake +for hours grappling with these anxieties, she was roused by the sharp +ringing of the fire-bells. Springing from her bed, she saw the whole +southern sky aglow, heard the sounds of trampling feet and hoarse cries. +In a moment she was dressed and at her door. Men and women were running +breathlessly past. In Pendar Basin everybody went to fires; it was simply +a duty of good-fellowship, for their one fire-engine was none too good, +and the company but poorly trained; and every hand, even a woman’s hand, +counted, when it came to passing up buckets in line. + +“Where is it? What is it?” cried Miss Sophy. + +Nobody knew. “The depot,” said one. “The hotel,” said another. Nobody +stopped to make sure, or to answer again; the ruddy sheets of flame +rolled up fiercer and faster; the bells rang harder. A terrible thing +is a midnight fire, even where the best appliances of a city are close +at hand; but in a country village it seems far crueller,—almost like a +personal enemy come to slay the helpless in their sleep. + +Suddenly Miss Sophy caught sound of another word. “The Star restaurant’ll +go, sure,” said one of the panting runners as he went by. + +“My God!” cried Miss Sophy aloud; and clasping her hands she ran +bareheaded into the street and looked up to the reddening sky. At that +instant she felt her arm grasped violently. + +“Thet restaurant’s a gwine, whar she ez; it ez er judgment on ’em, I +allow ’tis!” cried Gammer Stein. “Come on, come on! I expect thet Zeph’s +thar; he’ll gin his life fur her ef she’s in ther fire!” + +“He won’t do any such thing!” cried Miss Sophy, angrily, forgetting +herself, and turning on Gammer. “He ain’t here; he’s been gone three +days!” and a prayer of thanksgiving went up from her heart. What a mercy +was this! How should she be thankful enough! “Thank God, thank God!” she +said in her heart, as hand in hand with Gammer she ran towards the fire. + +It was indeed the Star restaurant that was “going,”—going fast. The +flames had already burst out of one spot in the roof; figures like black +imps were seen flying past the windows; the crowd surged around the +house, helplessly; shrieks, oaths, commands, confused calls,—all were +blent in a terrible din, which heightened the horror of the black rolling +columns of smoke and fire pouring from the windows. Vainly the little +engine threw its feeble stream into the blazing mass. It quelled the +flame for a second, only to let it leap up fiercer in a new spot. + +In a terrible fascination Miss Sophy and Gammer pressed closer, +nearer,—Miss Sophy clutching Gammer’s hand in a frenzy of excitement. +“Oh, where are the children? Who’s seen the children? Has anybody seen +the children?” she shrieked. + +“Burnt in their beds, I reckon,” said one. “’Tain’t ten minutes since the +fire burst out, ’n’ look ’t that roof; it’s ready to fall in now!” + +“Thet’s him! thet’s Nat,” said Gammer, pointing to a man, blackened +with smoke, leaping from the door, bearing a desk in his hands; back +again into the flames, spite of the warning cries of the crowd; back, +and out again,—not a drop of coward blood in Nat Leeson’s bad heart! At +that moment, just as Miss Sophy had fastened her eyes on his face, a +scream rang out close beside her,—a scream that no one who heard it ever +forgot: “Nat! Nat! where’s the baby?” And more like some swift flying +creature than like a human being there came, parting the crowd right +and left, as if they had been straws in her way, the figure of a woman, +uttering shriek after shriek. Men tried to grasp her by the arm to hold +her back. They could no more grasp her than they could grasp the flames +themselves. “Nat! Nat! where’s the baby?” she shrieked. “Oh, God! save my +baby! Zephie! Zephie!” Over and above all the din Nat heard the cry; and +maddened as he was by terror and loss, the words seemed to turn him into +a fiend. As she reached him he pushed her back, shouting hoarsely, “Damn +your brat! let it burn! Good riddance!” A cry of “Shame! shame!” went up, +but there was time for no further retribution. The flames were licking +out of the windows now, and running up the outside walls. A few minutes +would see all over. The crowd swept back a little. + +“Mam, here’s baby,” cried a shrill, quavering voice; and out of the +smoke, out of the flame, past the raging Nat, who did not even see him, +tottered Zephie, bearing the baby in his arms. There went up a cheer, +a short one, indeed, for the men’s voices broke. They closed round the +boy, took the baby, lifted her; took Zephie, lifted him. Nobody thought +any longer of the burning house; let it go; here were the children. But +where was the mother? It was some minutes before she was found. As she +tossed her arms in despair at her husband’s brutal answer to her cry, +merciful unconsciousness had seized her, and she wavered and fell,—fell, +by the strangest of chances, into the arms of Gammer Stein, who had +pressed on closely after her, expecting, as she afterwards confessed, to +see her plunge into the burning building and be devoured by the flames. + +“An’ I allaow I wuz er thinkin’ ez haow the Lawd hed erpinted thet ther +fire ez er jedgment,” she said, “’n’ the next I knowed, thar she wuz, +ther pore cretur, a settlin’ down agen me, ’n’ er swayin’ back ’n’ forth, +’n’ ’s soon ’s I ketched her I seen she wuz in er dead faint; ’n’ I +allaow ter yeow it kind er fetched me raound, skeered, ’s ef ther Lawd +hed tuk me ter witness he wa’n’t plum done aout wi’ Rushy Riker yit!” + +It was surely a strange chance which put into the hands of Gammer Stein +and Miss Sophy the joint labor of restoring the woman to consciousness. +When at last she opened her eyes and saw Zephie in a chair opposite her, +with the child in his arms, she put her hand to her head, and cried out +pitifully, “Be we dead? Where’s Nat?” + +“No, no, mam,” cried Zephie, holding the baby out to her, “we ain’t none +of us dead! The house ’s all burnt up, but we got out. I brought Rushy +downstairs myself, ’n’ the stairs was a blazin’ under me; donno how I +ever did it; but she never so much ’s kicked nor hollered. If she had, +I’d a dropped her sure.” + +“Your husband is safe too,” said Miss Sophy, with a not wholly kindly +emphasis. Miss Sophy was very human. + +Snatching the baby from Zephie’s arms and straining it to her bosom, +rocking herself to and fro, looking up into Gammer Stein’s face wildly, +Rushy exclaimed, “I wish he’d burned up! I never want to set my eyes on +him again!” + +“’Sh, ’sh!” exclaimed Gammer; “ye donno what ye’re sayin’.” + +“Did ye hear what he said to me, then?” cried Rushy, bursting into a +flood of hysterical crying. “He meant to let the children burn up. He set +it afire hisself. That’s what he sent me out o’ the house for last night.” + +Horror-stricken, Gammer threw up her hands. Miss Sophy stood at the foot +of the bed, listening intently. They were alone with her. + +“I wish God may strike me dead,” cried the raving woman, “if I don’t +believe it! I’ll never go nigh him again, never! ’Twas to get rid o’ the +children he did it!” + +“Rushy Riker!” exclaimed Gammer, and the old woman drew herself up till +her gaunt figure seemed preternaturally tall, and, spite of her uncouth +language, her utterance had the dignity of inspiration,—“Rushy Riker! +yeow jest shet yer mouth, an’ don’t yeow tempt ther Lawd ter strike yer +dead, blasphemin’ thet way. Yeow air plum crazy, thet’s what yer air. Yer +know Nat Leeson, bad’s he ez, never done nothin’ er ther kind. The Lawd’s +gin yer both yer chillen safe ’n’ sound, ’n’ ye’d better git daown ’n yer +knees ’n’ be thankful, ’n’ begin ter lead ther life ye’d oughter. ’Tain’t +tew late yit. Yer young; ’n’ I allaow the Lawd’s er dealin’ ’th yeow +powerful.” + +Rushy’s great black eyes fastened on Gammer’s face fiercely; the tears +stopped; sobs shook her, but she did not speak. The baby, terrified, +began to cry. Hushing her tenderly, cooing over her, caressing her, +Rushy, with a swiftly changing face, began again to weep, but softly, as +if she feared to terrify the child. + +“I expect I was kind o’ crazy,” she muttered, “but ’taint strange.” + +“No,” said Gammer gently, “’tain’t strange! We’ll be gwine naow; yer +better alone. Ther folks ’n this house said yer could hev this room till +yer got time ter look raound, yeow ’n’ yer—yeow ’n’ Nat!” Gammer could +not bring herself to speak the word “husband” in that connection. “Come, +Miss Burr,” she added, touching Miss Sophy on the shoulder, “we’ll be +gwine; we can’t do nothin’ more fur ’er.” + +Miss Sophy did not stir. She was gazing fixedly at Zephie. The child had +thrown himself on the floor, and was lying with his eyes shut. “Look at +him!” she whispered. + +“Dew yer feel bad, Zephie?” asked Gammer. He did not answer. Bending over +him, she exclaimed: “Ef thet ain’t cur’us! He’s sleepin’! Ain’t thet a +mercy, naow, he kin?” And again she drew Miss Sophy away. + +Shaking off the old woman’s hand, Miss Sophy stepped nearer to the bed, +and said, “Mrs. Leeson, I’d like to see you to-morrow morning. Will you +be here?” + +“Who be ye?” asked Rushy, half defiantly, with a distrustful glance. “I +s’pose I’ll be here.” + +“My name is Burr,” answered Miss Sophy, slowly. “You do not know me, I +suppose.” + +“That keeps boarders?” asked Rushy. + +“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, trembling. + +“I know where yer place is,” answered Rushy, indifferently, “’n’ my +husband that was, he’s been workin’ for you, I heered. You was the fust +one ’t ever got any work out o’ him, I heered say.” + +Miss Sophy’s face grew hard. It was well that the light was dim. She +clenched her hands as she replied coldly, nerving herself by the thought +of the purpose she had in view, “He did all the work which he did for me +very well.” + +“Ain’t he workin’ on your ranch now?” asked Rushy. + +“No,” said Miss Sophy, thankful for the form of the question. “I’ve sold +my ranch.” + +“A good while ’fore Zeph Riker’ll get such another job!” said Rushy, +vindictively. + +Again Miss Sophy clenched her hands and held herself calm. For Zeph’s +sake nothing was too much to be borne. For the stake for which she was +playing now she could afford to strain every nerve. + +“Yes,” she said, under all her excitement taking a certain grim +satisfaction in the artful wording of her reply. “Yes, I think it will +be. But I will see you in the morning, Mrs. Leeson. There’s something I +want to talk to you about.” + +“All right,” said Rushy, without a gleam of curiosity in her face. The +reaction after her terrible shock was setting in; a stupor was fast +stealing over her. + +Miss Sophy’s heart was beating high. She had hard work to keep from +telling her project to Gammer Stein, but she refrained. + +“Time enough if it succeeds,” she said. “But it will! I know it will!” + +Miss Sophy had watched Rushy’s face closely while Gammer was upbraiding +her for her accusation against Nat. She had seen the swift look of terror +there, followed by dogged resolve, as she regained partial composure. +Miss Sophy did not believe that the woman had been crazy when she uttered +that accusation, or that she thought herself to have been so. Miss Sophy +believed it true; and if this were so, the very strength of the poor +creature’s maternal affection, which had hitherto been the barrier to the +carrying out of Miss Sophy’s project, would be its surest aid. + +Minute by minute all through the lingering darkness Miss Sophy watched +for the dawn. As soon as it was fairly light, she took her way to the +house. She reckoned, and rightly, that she would find Rushy alone. As she +passed the still smouldering ruins of the restaurant she recognized Nat +working there with a hopeless sort of fury in his motions, dragging out +bits of iron and half-burnt timbers. It seemed a mockery that the chimney +was left standing, and projecting from it a grate half full of coal +and ashes, the remains of the last home-fire lighted on that ill-fated +hearth. While she stood gazing at this, Nat pried the grate out with an +iron bar; as it fell, his face was convulsed with rage, and he poured out +a volley of oaths which made Miss Sophy’s heart stand still. + +“It was true! I believe it!” she gasped, as she quickened her pace, and +did not once look back till she reached Rushy’s bedside. + +In the white, haggard face which looked up from the pillow +half-inquiring, half-alarmed, at Miss Sophy, there were few traces left +of the beauty which had been so fatal a lure to Zeph in days gone by. The +year of hard work, and still more of suffering which she had been too +proud to betray, had told upon Rushy sadly. And this last night with its +anguish, its dire secret, its shock,—this had completed the wreck. She +had almost the look of a dying woman. Placid, rosy, fast asleep on her +arm, lay the child over whose destiny forces strangely conflicting were +now coming together. + +Miss Sophy was a keen reader of faces. As she met Rushy’s first glance +she perceived in it a defined terror. Rushy was indeed in an agony of +apprehension lest the words she had spoken in her frenzy would be used to +work harm to Nat. She was rent between her still passionate love for him +and her mighty love for her children. + +On the instant Miss Sophy changed her entire plan of approach. This +terror should be made to play into her hands. + +“Mrs. Leeson,” she said gravely, “I came down so early to be sure of +seeing you before any one else did. I suppose you remember what you said +last night about your husband’s having set his place on fire? I think no +one heard you except Gammer and me; but we both heard you.” + +Rushy’s eyes dilated with horror. “I was crazy!” she cried. “I was out o’ +my head! I didn’t mean no such thing! Gammer said I was crazy. She knows +Nat wouldn’t do such a thing.” + +“I suppose you did not know,” continued Miss Sophy, eying her +steadily,—no mercy in Miss Sophy’s heart now,—“that I owned the bakery +next your restaurant?” + +“No! Did ye?” gasped Rushy. “Oh, Miss Burr, don’t ye tell on me! I swear +to God it wa’n’t true! I didn’t know I said it! Oh, have some mercy on +me, won’t ye? Nat ’d kill me in a minute if ever he was to hear ’t I’d +said such a word. He never did it, Miss Burr, never! Nat’s real good, he +is; only jest hasty, that’s all. Oh, for God’s sake, ma’am, don’t you go +to tell it!” And in anguish too great for tears Rushy threw herself back +on the bed and groaned aloud. + +“I had no idea of telling it, Mrs. Leeson,” said Miss Sophy. “It was +not for that I came. The property was not much injured, and I am going +away. I didn’t care a fig for the building. But I’ll tell you what I did +come for.” Miss Sophy hesitated, bent over the bed, whispering low, “I +am certain you spoke the truth about Nat’s setting that fire. I’ll never +forget your scream, never; an’ I said to myself, ‘There’s a woman would +be glad to get her child out o’ that man’s way if she could.’” Again Miss +Sophy paused. Rushy’s eyes transfixed her. Confession, awe, yearning, +surrender, were in them. + +“Oh! what be ye?” she said faintly. “Ye scare me! What d’ ye mean?” + +Miss Sophy never could remember distinctly the rest of the +conversation,—how she gradually made clear to Rushy her own wish to +adopt a child; her sudden desire the night before to take the little +one whose life had been thus endangered by her stepfather’s crime; her +feeling that she had been sent to the fire for this very purpose. The +words seemed to come to her as from some power outside herself; and as +she spoke, the mother’s heart seemed melted; tears like rain ran down +her face. Wringing her hands, she said again and again, “I can’t! Oh, I +can’t never let her go; I’d die without her!” And yet again and again she +returned to the point, groaning, “But I darstn’t keep her! I darstn’t! I +donno why I trust ye so, ma’am, but I can’t help it! I know ye won’t do +me no harm; I’ve heard lots about ye, how good ye was to everybody, ’n’ I +know ye’re rich! Oh, I’ll never forgive myself if I stand ’n the child’s +light ’n’ keep her out o’ all ye’d do for her; ’n’ I’ll die if I let her +go out o’ my sight! ’n’ there ’tis!” It was a terrible struggle. More +than once Miss Sophy was on the point of abandoning it. All seemed lost. +Once she rose to go. But Rushy clutched her gown and cried, “Don’t ye +go! don’t go! I hain’t made my mind up! I can’t! If it wa’n’t for fearin’ +she ain’t safe I couldn’t! But oh, if anythin’ did happen to her here, +I’d die! I donno why Nat hates her so; he’s real good to Zephie; allers +has been; but ever sence we was married he’s seemed to hate the sight o’ +baby. I suppose it’s hard on a man to take to another man’s children; but +there’s Zephie, just the same, an’ he’s fond o’ him.” + +Finally the storm-tossed creature said: “You send Gammer here; I’ll talk +it over with her. I’m spent. I can’t think no longer! Gammer knows ye +real well; if she says it’ll be right, I’ll do it! I’m thankful ye’re +goin’ way off; that’s the only way I’d stand it ’t all. It’ll be just +same ’s ef she was dead; ’n’ that’s the way I want it to be! I couldn’t +give her up no other way!” + +Still the baby slept on, placid, unconscious. As Miss Sophy turned to go, +she bent down and kissed its forehead. “She is a most beautiful child,” +she said. “I love her already.” + +“Oh, ye’d be good to her always, always, ’s long ’s ye live, and +leave her safe ’n’ comfortable! Oh, swear it, won’t ye?” cried Rushy, +hysterically. Then with a fresh outburst of crying, her words hardly +articulate, she sobbed, “Should ye want her to call ye mammy? She’s just +beginnin’ to say it this last month or two; p’r’aps ye might let her call +ye aunt, or suthin’ else besides mammy!” + +The anguish in the mother’s voice as she said this touched a chord in +Miss Sophy’s breast that had never before vibrated. As tenderly and +understandingly as if she herself had borne children, she answered, +“Don’t you think it would be best for her to call me mother? You wouldn’t +want her to grow up thinking she had no mother!” + +“No, no! I s’pose she must call ye mammy. Oh, I donno but I wish she was +dead now! Oh, ma’am, don’t ye be angry with me! You go away now. I can’t +talk to ye a minute longer. Send Gammer; she’ll come. She hates me, but +she’s good; she’ll come; she’ll tell me. When are ye going?” + +“To-morrow night.” + +“I’m glad it’s so soon,—that is, if I’m goin’ to do it. If I was to think +it over ’n’ over weeks, I shouldn’t know no better ’t the end; I’d ruther +she’d go ’t oncet. Gammer’ll bring her ter ye. She always goes to Gammer, +Zephie says. He takes her up there sometimes Sundays. I expect—” Rushy +paused. Miss Sophy’s instinct filled up the interval. It was of Zeph +Rushy was thinking. Spite of Miss Sophy’s steady nerves, she trembled +now. “He hain’t got no right, anyhow,” Rushy muttered to herself. “The +judge giv’ ’em to me.” + +“Thar’d have to be papers, wouldn’t there?” she said, looking up +furtively, “so there couldn’t nobody else get her away from you?” + +Miss Sophy’s heart bounded. She made a feint of stooping to pick up +something from the floor to hide her exultation. The words, “and mine +enemy was my helper,” flashed across her thoughts. + +“Yes,” she replied, “that would be better. I will send them to you by +Gammer. I’ll have a lawyer draw them up, so they will be all right; and +if you make up your mind to do it, you can sign them, and give them to +Gammer with the baby, and I’ll have Gammer go with me part way till the +baby’s used to me.” + +“Swear! swear!” shrieked Rushy, snatching Miss Sophy’s hand, fastening +her wild eyes on her face. “Oh, swear to me, here ’n’ now, she’d be t’ ye +the same ’s yer own! Swear!” + +“So help me God,” said Miss Sophy, tears on her cheeks and her voice +faltering, “she shall be to me the same ’s my own.” + +“I believe ye!” gasped Rushy, half fainting from her fierce struggle. “I +believe ye! I don’t never want to see ye agen, though! Don’t ye come +back here. Send Gammer. If I’ll do it, Gammer’ll bring the baby to your +house. If I don’t do ’t, I don’t never want to be asked no more! Be ye +sure ye’re goin’ to-morrow night?” + +“Yes,” said Miss Sophy. + +“South? The south-goin’ train?” + +“Yes,” answered Miss Sophy, suddenly alive to a new danger, and +perceiving as suddenly how it could be averted. “Yes, I am going on the +south-bound train.” + +“Send Gammer quick,” was Rushy’s only answer; and she closed her eyes +exhausted. + +Even in this final crisis Miss Sophy did not confide to Gammer her +relation to Zeph. “What folks don’t know, they can’t let out,” had been +Miss Sophy’s motto all her life, and it stood her in good stead now. +Except for this reticence, her plans at the last moment might have +miscarried disastrously. All that Gammer knew when she set out on her +strange embassy was simply what had already been said by Miss Sophy +herself to Rushy. In her pocket she carried the papers, made out in due +form, by the signing of which the legal adoption of the child would be +put forever beyond question or revocal. + +“An’ I allaow she’ll sign ’em fast enough, I allaow she will ef ’tis ez +she sez, accordin’ ter what I’d ’vise her ter dew. Ther ain’t no tew +sides ter ther thing; ther ez ter most things; but I allaow ther ain’t +ter this,” said Gammer, as she bade Miss Sophy good-by and set out on her +errand. + +It was arranged between them that if Gammer obtained the child she +would pass Miss Sophy’s house on her way home, Miss Sophy watching at +the window to see if she had been successful. In that case Gammer was +to keep the child with her until the next evening, when she would bring +her to the train, joining Miss Sophy there at the last moment. Miss +Sophy’s brain ached with all this plotting and planning, so foreign +to her straightforward nature. She felt disgraced in her own eyes by +so much concealment. “Lord knows I’ll be thankful to get done with all +this coverin’-up business,” she reflected. “It’s a new trade for me; but +then, I’m takin’ up a new trade altogether,”—and her face softened into +a younger look at the very thought. “It’s all for his sake I’m doin’ it. +Once we’re out o’ this country ’n’ settled down, it won’t seem nothin’ at +all; ’n’ I know ’t ’s right! that’s one comfort.” + +It was late in the afternoon before Gammer, equipped with the paper ready +for Rushy’s signature, and already signed by Miss Sophy, set out on +her exciting errand. Never before in Gammer’s life had she been called +upon to take part in such stirring events. But she bore herself like a +veteran, and had no misgivings as to the success of the enterprise. The +only thing that puzzled her was the mysterious secrecy in which Miss +Sophy insisted on wrapping the whole affair. + +“Thar ain’t no disgrace ’n ’doptin’ er child,” she reflected. “I allaow +’t ’s ter ennybody’s cheeriterble credit ter feel ter dew it; but Miss +Burr ez fur coverin’ ’t up ez much ez ef ’twuz er case er stealin’. I +allaow she’s drefful afeard o’ folks talkin’, bein’ an old maid ’s she +ez; ’n’ thar’s plenty ’twould talk, ’n’ kinder larf; folks ez jest mean +enuf. It’s different, her bein’ ’n old maid. Naow ef ’twuz me, nobody’d +say er word. Old maids hez er hard time, ennyway; ’pears like thar shet +out er lots o’ things, ’sides not hevin’ no man o’ ther own.” + +The minutes seemed hours to Miss Sophy as she sat at her window gazing +down the street by which Gammer would return. The sun went slowly down +toward the mountain-tops, reached them, seemed to linger a moment, then +sank, and was gone; then the slow twilight passed, and dusky gloom +settled on the little town. There was no moon; Miss Sophy could see but +a few paces beyond her gate. No Gammer yet! + +She could not bear it. Throwing a shawl over her head, she stole out and +paced up and down in the path. At last she saw the tall figure looming up +in the distance, walking with a swift stride,—too swift to be the step of +one carrying the burden of a heavy child. + +Miss Sophy stood still. As soon as she saw that the old woman’s arms were +empty, she ran forward, exclaiming under her breath, “Wouldn’t she do it? +Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!” + +“Hesh, naow,” said Gammer, as composedly as if it were an every-day +transaction over which Miss Sophy excited herself unnecessarily. “Don’ +git yerself inter er fever! She’s gwine ter; she’s signed; but she don’t +want ter giv her up till ther last minute; she wants ter fix her up; she +hain’t got no cloes fit ter go in, she sez. I declar ter yeow, Miss +Burr, I didn’t never allaow ter feel ez near kind ter Rushy Riker ez I +dew. Thet’s what’s kep’ me. ’T seemed ter kind er dew her sum good ter +talk. She sed she allers knowed I war daown on her, an’ I war; but she’s +broke naow. But ez I ben tellin’ her, she’s made her bed ’n’ she’s got +ter lay in ’t, this time; ’n’ I allaow it’s a hard un. She’s ’feard ’s +death o’ thet Nat,—’feard ’s death; ’n’ yit she kinder doos love him tew; +she won’t never leave him ser long ’s the breath er life’s in her body; +she darstn’t; she sez he’d kill ennybody in a minnit, ’n’ not mean ter, +nuther; when he’s inter his rages he donno nothin’. I allaow she’s got +inter hell afore her time, she hez! Thet’s the way ye’ve got ther baby; +she’d ha’ died afore she’d parted ’th her, ef ’t hedn’t been jest ’s +’tis. Yeow’d hev pitied her ef ye’d seen her tryin’ to sign thet paper, +yeow would. ’T seemed ’s ef she couldn’t do ’t. She’d put ther pen daown, +’n’ then she’d pick ’t up; ’n’ ther paper’s all riz up in blotches whar +she cried on ’t ’n’ tried ter wipe ’t off ’th her gown, ’n’ ’t made ’t +wuss. Yeow’d hev pitied her.” + +“No, I wouldn’t!” replied Miss Sophy. “I haven’t got any pity for a woman +that does what she’s done.” + +Gammer drew a long sigh. It was too dark for her to see Miss Sophy’s +face. They were standing close together in the shadow of a tree, +whispering like conspirators. + +“Yeow’d hev ter, ef yer seen her,” she said; “not but what she’s reapin’ +ez she sowed; I ain’t er gainsayin’ thet; ’n’ I allaow ther Lawd’s gwine +ter punish her wuss yit ’fore He’s done ’th her.” + +“How?” said Miss Sophy. + +“I allaow she’s gwine ter break all ter pieces. She’s jest ther +high-strung kind thet doos; she’s all uv er tremble; narves ez awful when +they gits broke up thet way. She sez she knows she’s gwine ter die, ’n’ +she don’t care how soon; ’n’ I say, ther sooner ther better, tew; fur +thet Nat, he won’t keer fur her a minnit when she’s lost her looks ’n’ +can’t cook,—not er minnit; he’s thet kind. Naow thet Zeph, he’d hev—” + +“Are you sure she will give you the child to-morrow?” interrupted Miss +Sophy. She could not bear any reference to Zeph in this connection. + +“Sure’s I am ’t I’m erlive,” answered Gammer. “She’s a gwine ter bring +her up ter-morrer arter she’s hed her supper, ’n’ she’ll git her ter +sleep ter my house. I allaow ter yeow I dread ter see her go ’n’ leave +her. I allaowed mebbe she’d better come down ter ther train; but—” + +“Oh,” shrieked Miss Sophy, “don’t let her! She’d be sure to take it all +back at the last minute. Don’t let her!” And Miss Sophy actually quivered +with alarm. + +“She won’t come thar,” answered Gammer. “She allaowed she couldn’t. She +allaowed she’d die when she heered the whistle, ’s ’twuz. She sez it’s +a comfort ter her I’m goin’ part way. Not thet she’s got enny kind er +distrust o’ yeow; but ther baby knows me, ’n’ she’s a sckeery little +thing. I allaow yeow’ll have trouble ’th her along fur a spell.” + +“I think not,” said Miss Sophy, with a joy at her heart, thinking of the +baby nestled in its father’s arms. “I’m not afraid.” + +After they had parted, Gammer turned back, calling cautiously, “Oh, Miss +Burr, I clar furgot! She’s powerful ’fraid Zeph’ll get wind on ’t somehow +’n’ interfere. I allaowed ter her he’d ruther yeow hed ther baby ’n enny +woman livin’; he knowed yer; but she ain’t easy ’bout it. Whar is Zeph +naow? D’ yer know? We hain’t seed him for a week back.” + +“He went into the country on business for me,” replied Miss Sophy. + +“’Ll he be back ’fore yer go?” + +“I expect him to-morrow; at least, that was the plan. But he may be +detained,” said the guilty Miss Sophy. + +“Ef he doos come, ye kin tell him all abaout it yerself,” replied the +unsuspecting Gammer, “’n’ he’ll be thankful ter ther Lawd, I allaow he +will.” + +“I hope he will,” ejaculated Miss Sophy, fervently. And as she ran home +she said to herself, “I hope to the Lord that’s the last manouverin’ I’ll +have to do till my dyin’ day. It’s awful wearin’. I shouldn’t wonder if +it’s worse ’n out-’n’-out lyin’!” + + + + +VII. + + +The simple ceremony which had made Miss Sophy and Zeph “man and wife,” +as the customary phrase strangely words it, was over. The minister and +his wife, who had known Miss Sophy ever since her coming into the town, +respected her, and trusted her as a stanch friend, were nevertheless +disquieted by this last act of hers, and by the seemingly clandestine way +in which she had insisted upon having it performed. + +“If she wa’n’t ashamed of it, what’d she want to come in here to be +married, just like a servant-girl?” said the wife. “I’d never believed +it o’ Sophy Burr, never!” And the minister had replied thoughtfully, “It +does seem queer; but Miss Sophy’s always got some good reason for what +she does; that poor Riker’s been through such dreadful troubles here, I +don’t wonder she doesn’t want it talked about.” + +“She’s just thrown herself away, that’s what it is,” said the wife. + +“I hope not,” replied the minister, still more thoughtfully. “There’s +something noble in the man’s look, sad as ’tis. He’ll come up yet. Sophy +Burr’s no fool.” + +Meantime the two thus being discussed were standing hand in hand just +outside the parsonage gate. Strange words to be spoken by bride and +bridegroom within five minutes of the ceremony which had made them one +were passing between them. + +“Zeph,” said Sophy, the instant they had passed the gate,—“Zeph, I’ve got +to do something now that’ll try you considerable; but you must trust me. +You’ve got to let me walk alone down to the depot and get into the cars +by myself, and you get into the last car and stay there till I come t’ +ye. ’Twon’t be long—” + +“Sophy!” interrupted Zeph, half alarmed, half angry, “what notion’s +taken ye to do that? I don’t think it’s decent, Sophy. What’ll folks +think? It’s dark; ye needn’t be afraid o’ folks seein’ us ’s we go along. +They’ve got to know it to-morrow morning; they might as well know it +to-night.” + +It had been a sore point to Zeph already, the secrecy in which their +plans had been shrouded. Humble-minded and self-distrustful as he was, +he was also sensitive to a fault; and he had spent many a wretched hour, +needlessly torturing himself with the question if it could be that the +faithful and devoted Sophy felt shame of having linked her fortunes with +his. + +“If you’d heard me through,” retorted Sophy, brusque even in this supreme +moment of her life, “you’d have seen that it wasn’t any notion, nor +nothin’ like a notion. It’s got to be done, Zeph, an’ you’ve got to trust +me. I’ve got a reason, an’ if you knew it you wouldn’t ask me to do +different. You’d help me all you could, an’ not make me feel bad either. +Can’t ye trust me ’s long ’s one hour, Zeph? I’d do it for you. Trust me, +Zeph. I’m your wife now, you know!” + +“Of course I’ll trust ye, Sophy,” replied Zeph, half appeased, but only +half. “It wasn’t no question o’ trustin’, an’ I’ll do jest as you want +me to; hain’t I always? But I don’t see why ye can’t tell me what ’tis, +Sophy.” + +“Oh, dear!” she cried hysterically, “we haven’t got any time to lose, +standin’ here; it’s ’most train-time now. I can’t tell you! an’ when you +know what ’tis, you’ll see I couldn’t tell you. You’ll be real glad I +didn’t, Zeph. Oh, do trust me! you’ve got to!”—she was crying now,—“for +I’m goin’ right off this minute!” And with a convulsive clasp of her +husband’s hand she turned and walked away at the top of her speed. Tears +ran down her cheeks, and in her excitement she talked aloud to herself +as she ran: “If she should take it into her head to come down there! If +she was to see Zeph, she might suspect! Perhaps she’s backed out already! +Perhaps Gammer won’t get down there in time! Supposin’ Zeph didn’t take +notice o’ my tellin’ him to get into the last car!” + +The fast-multiplying terrors so unnerved her, that she felt for the first +time in her sturdy life faint,—which but added another alarm. “If I +should be fool enough to go an’ faint, I should give up!” she said. The +self-contempt she felt at this thought proved the best of tonics, and by +the time she reached the railway station she was almost herself again. + +It wanted only ten minutes of the train-time, but there was a sleepy +expression about everybody and everything at the station which struck +fear to her heart. “Train’s late, I’ll be bound,” she thought. + +Yes, the train was late; only an hour, though. That would soon pass. In +a few moments she saw a tall figure, much wrapped and encumbered, coming +over a low hill to the north of the station. A short cross-cut from +Gammer Stein’s house would run that way. Her breath coming thick and +fast, Miss Sophy stepped towards the figure. It was Gammer, and she held +the child in her arms. At the sight, Miss Sophy felt herself again in +danger of fainting. “I didn’t know I’d got it in me to be so upset,” she +thought, as she laid her hand on Gammer’s shoulder, and tried to speak. +“You’ve got her!” was all she could say. + +“Yes,” whispered Gammer, “she’s asleep. I jest giv’ her ther leastest bit +er paregoric; ’twon’t hurt her er mite; ’n’ I put er li’le bottle on ’t +inter ther bundle, already sweetened. Yer needn’t be er mite afeerd ter +give it ter her ef she hollers.” + +“The train’s late!” said Miss Sophy, clutching Gammer’s arm. “We’ll have +to walk about. Keep out here ’n the shade.” + +“Ain’t thet drefful, naow,” said Gammer. “I allaowed ter git hyar jest on +ther minnit, five minnits erhead er time, so ’s ter git right on board. +It’s lucky I giv’ her the paregoric. But she’s powerful heavy. I allaow +ter yeow my arm’s plum broke!” + +“Let me take her,” said Miss Sophy; and a warm glow kindled in her breast +as the unconscious little creature was laid in her arms. + +Zeph was peering anxiously in every direction. He too had discovered +that the train was late; but that did not console him for his wife’s +non-appearance, since she could not have known that fact, and ought long +before this to have been on the platform. Dire anxiety consumed him. +Where was she? What did it mean? He saw the two dimly outlined figures +pacing up and down in the distance; but in contrast with Gammer’s great +height, Sophy’s figure looked so short, he did not dream of its being +hers; and besides, that figure was carrying a child. He did not give it a +second look. + +The hour had nearly passed. The sleepy, waiting passengers outside on +the benches and in the waiting-room were beginning to bestir themselves; +trucks were being wheeled, luggage moved, carriages driving up. Walking +boldly forward now, Zeph scrutinized all. No Sophy to be seen! Just as +he was on the point of turning away, with the resolve that come what +might he would not get into the train till he had seen her, his eye was +arrested by a swift-running figure,—a woman, crossing the track a few +rods from the station and turning towards it. A signal-lantern, hung +high on a derrick, flashed its light full upon her as she passed. It was +Rushy, her face wild, her hair dishevelled. + +“My God!” gasped Zeph. “That’s what Sophy was afraid of! That’s Rushy, +and she’s drunk! I’ll hide, ’n’ do jest’s Sophy told me to. She’s got +some plan o’ gettin’ aboard herself; she had a reason, sure enough! But +she might ha’ told me!” + +Beyond the track, on the side farthest from the station, was a gulch +thick grown with weeds and young cottonwood trees. Into this Zeph leaped, +and stood waiting for the train; as soon as it pulled in he sprang to the +platform of the rear car, and entering it, sank into a seat. Whatever +came now, he at least had fulfilled to the letter his wife’s request. But +the suspense was beyond his endurance. + +“It’d kill Sophy if she was to make a row ’n’ insult her,” he said, “’n’ +me not there to stand by her!” And going out on the platform, he leaned +out, straining his eyes forward along the train, just in time to see +Sophy standing back from the steps of the forward car and assisting an +elderly woman burdened with a child in her arms to get in before her. + +“Just like Sophy,” he thought, “always helpin’ somebody! Oh, why don’t +she jump in quick? Where’s Rushy? She was a lookin’ to see me, I expect, +an’ so she’s missed her!” + +It had been but five minutes,—only an insignificant way-station stop; but +it had settled the life-destiny of more than one human being. + +The unfortunate Rushy was coming to the station on a very different +errand from that which Zeph had suspected. In fact, she did not reach +the station at all. If he had watched for a moment longer he would have +seen her pause, look attentively at the crowd gathered there, and then, +retreating into the darkness, seat herself on the ground at the base of a +telegraph-pole, against which she leaned in an attitude of despair. + +Her house was not far distant from the railway station, and as the +time approached for the train to pass, the poor creature had pressed +her face against the window, listening for the whistle and looking for +the light. Becoming alarmed at length by the long delay, she had run +bareheaded to the station to find what it meant. Seeing the waiting +crowd, she had understood at once, and had thrown herself on the ground, +resolved not to leave the place till the train had come and gone. No +thought of withdrawing from her agreement or even of looking again on +the face of her child had been in her mind. On the contrary, her resolve +had strengthened hourly since her interview with Miss Sophy; but the +strengthening of her resolve did not diminish the intensity of her grief. + +“It’ll kill me, I know ’twill,” was the constant refrain in her thoughts; +always following it, however, “but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t +do it. I darstn’t not do ’t!” + +Sobbing aloud in the safe shelter of the darkness, she watched each +movement in the confusion at the train, vainly trying to distinguish the +form of Miss Sophy or of Gammer. The moments which seemed so long to all +the other actors in the drama seemed to her like lightning seconds. + +“Oh, they’re goin’!” she cried, as the train began to move. “Oh, God, +she’s gone! Baby!” and she fell back senseless on the earth. + +At that moment Zeph was saying to himself, “Thank God, we’re safe off!” +and Miss Sophy, devoutly, “Thank God, she didn’t come down!” and Gammer, +aloud, taking Miss Sophy’s hand in hers, “What ails yer? Yer tremblin’ +like a leaf!” + +“I’ve got something to tell you, Gammer,” replied Miss Sophy, in a +whisper; and she told her then, at last, the truth. + +It was well that the necessity of carrying on their conversation in a +cautious whisper restrained Gammer from the full expression of her +emotions; but the repression of them was almost beyond her power. +Disjointed and incredulous ejaculations were at first all which could +take shape in her thought; then followed an avalanche of questions, some +of them hard to answer; but soon all else was swallowed up in a heartfelt +sympathy and gladness which were comforting to Miss Sophy’s heart. + +“You don’t think ’twas wrong, then, not to let her know who she was +givin’ her to, do you?” said Miss Sophy. + +“Nerry bit of it!” replied Gammer. “’Twa’n’t no use runnin’ ther resk +on’t. I donno haow she’d hev tuk it. Mebbe she’d hev been willin’er, ’n’ +mebbe not ser willin’. Thar ain’t no countin’ on folks; yer can’t never +tell. I sh’d allaow she’d been willin’er; but then agin she might er tuk +a jealous fit ’n’ thar wouldn’t hev been any doin’ nothin’. ’T ’s best ’s +’tis. Ye’ve managed wonderful, I allaow yeow hev; ’n’ naow ther sooner +yer let thet pore Zeph know she’s hyar ther better. I allaow he’s ’most +crazy, settin’ thar waitin’!” + +“Oh,” faltered Miss Sophy, “I didn’t mean to tell him till we got out of +the train! I don’t want to have any kind o’ fuss in the cars.” + +“He won’t make no fuss,” replied Gammer. “He ain’t thet + + * * * * * + +Here the story of Zeph comes to an abrupt ending. Conceived and begun by +Mrs. Jackson in Los Angeles during the winter of 1884-1885, it was put by +to be finished on her arrival home in Colorado Springs,—a home she was +destined never to reach. In her last hours she sent the manuscript to her +publisher with this message:— + + I am very sorry I cannot finish “Zeph.” Perhaps it is not worth + publishing in its unfinished state, as the chief lesson for + which I wrote it was to be forcibly told at the end. You must + be judge about this. I suppose there will be some interest in + it as the last thing I wrote. I will make a short outline of + the plot of the close of the story.... Good-by. Many thanks for + all your long good-will and kindness. I shall look in on your + new rooms some day, be sure—but you won’t see me. Good-by. + + Affectionately forever, + + H. J. + + AUGUST 7. + +On a separate sheet was the “Outline.” + + +THE CLOSE OF “ZEPH.” + +They were to settle down on a ranch in one of the beautiful cañons in +South California, opening out seaward, yet not so near the water as to +be too cold for fruits. I had the precise spot in my memory,—an ideal +nook, apricots and vineyards, cherry-trees in bloom there in March, +tomatoes ripe on the hillsides in January; a glimmer of sea to be seen +from the mouth of the cañon fourteen miles away,—endless charm to Miss +Sophy, half-sad spell to Zeph. At the end of two years, one night as +she is watching the sunset light on the water from one of the hills at +the mouth of their cañon, she looks down and sees Zeph coming up the +road with his arm around a boy’s waist. It is Zephie. His mother is +dead,—had saved enough money for him to come to South California and +join his father. She had learned of the marriage, and as soon as Gammer +returned there was a stormy scene; but she soon grew reconciled, and +finally glad. As Gammer had predicted, she never recovered her strength, +but pined away in a mysterious nervous break-down. Zephie’s story is +pathetic. The stepfather was never “bad” to her, but never “real good;” +the boy was her only comfort. Whenever she could save a dollar, she sent +it by Zephie to Gammer to keep, and made Gammer promise to see him safe +started for California. A letter from Gammer sent by Zephie told the +details of the last hours, when the poor woman said she died easier, +thinking how forgiving Zeph had been to her; that she thought if a _man_ +could forgive her like that, perhaps Christ would forgive her too! “She +allaowed,” said Gammer, “thet she couldn’t never hev got no faith to +die trustin’, ef it hedn’t ben fur ther way Zeph ’d allers kep’ on er +furgivin’ her, time an’ agen; ’n’ she jest trusted God ’d be ez good ter +her ez Zeph wuz!” + +“Now,” said Miss Sophy in her heart, “at last, Zeph’ll have real peace +and comfort. He’s never felt settled in his mind yet, and he never would +’s long ’s he hadn’t got the boy; ’n’ I don’t know ’s he would ’s long ’s +she was above ground! But there won’t be a happier man in all California +than he’ll be now!” And a flush born of a secret known only to Miss +Sophy’s own heart was red on her cheek as she went to the door and called +her husband and his boy in to supper. + + + + +_Messrs. Roberts Brothers’ Publications._ + + +_Messrs. ROBERTS BROTHERS have in preparation, and will shortly publish_:— + + +I. + +=GLIMPSES OF THREE COASTS.= By HELEN JACKSON (H. H.). + +These are “Bits of Travel” in California and Oregon, Scotland and +England, and Norway, Denmark, and Germany, partly new and partly +reprinted from the “Atlantic Monthly” and “Century Magazine.” + + +II. + +=VERSES.= Second Series. By HELEN JACKSON (H. H.). + +A collection of Mrs. Jackson’s poems, including everything of importance +written by her since the publication of her first volume. + + +III. + +=BETWEEN WHILES.= By HELEN JACKSON (H. H.). + +“P.S.—Did anybody ever publish a volume of short stories called ‘Between +Whiles’? If not, hide it away and don’t tell anybody, and by next spring +I will have had enough short stories printed to make a nice summer +volume. Isn’t it a lovely title?”—_Postscript to a letter of Mrs. Jackson +to her publisher, dated San Francisco, June 26, 1885._ + + +RAMONA: A STORY. + +BY HELEN JACKSON (H. H.). + +12mo. Cloth. Price $1.50. + +_The Atlantic Monthly_ says of the author that she is “a Murillo in +literature,” and that the story “is one of the most artistic creations +of American literature.” Says a lady: “To me it is the most distinctive +piece of work we have had in this country since ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ and +its exquisite finish of style is beyond that classic.” “The book is truly +an American novel,” says the _Boston Advertiser._ “Ramona is one of the +most charming creations of modern fiction,” says Charles D. Warner. “The +romance of the story is irresistibly fascinating,” says _The Independent_. + +“The best novel written by a woman since George Eliot died, as it seems +to me, is Mrs. Jackson’s ‘Ramona.’ What action is there! What motion! How +_entrainant_ it is! It carries us along as if mounted on a swift horse’s +back, from beginning to end, and it is only when we return for a second +reading that we can appreciate the fine handling of the characters, and +especially the Spanish mother, drawn with a stroke as keen and firm as +that which portrayed George Eliot’s ‘Dorothea.’”—_T. W. Higginson, in +Harper’s Bazar._ + +Unsolicited tribute of a stranger, a lady in Wisconsin:— + +“I beg leave to thank you with an intense heartiness for your public +espousal of the cause of the Indian. In your ‘Century of Dishonor’ you +showed to the country its own disgrace. In ‘Ramona’ you have dealt most +tenderly with the Indians as men and women. You have shown that their +stoicism is not indifference, that their squalor is not always of their +own choosing. You have shown the tender grandeur of their love, the +endurance of their constancy. While, by ‘Ramona,’ you have made your +name immortal, you have done something which is far greater. You are but +one: they are many. You have helped those who cannot help themselves. +As a novel, ‘Ramona’ must stand beside ‘Romola,’ both as regards +literary excellence and the portrayal of life’s deepest, most vital, +most solemn interests. I think nothing in literature since Goldsmith’s +‘Vicar of Wakefield’ equals your description of the flight of Ramona and +Alessandro. Such delicate pathos and tender joy, such pure conception of +life’s realities, and such loftiness of self-abnegating love! How much +richer and happier the world is with ‘Ramona’ in it!” + +_Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, by the publishers_, + + ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. + + +A KEY TO “RAMONA.” + +A CENTURY OF DISHONOR. + +A Sketch of the United States Government’s Dealings with some of the +Indian Tribes. + +By HELEN JACKSON (H. H.), + +AUTHOR OF “RAMONA,” “VERSES,” “BITS OF TRAVEL,” ETC. + +A New Edition. 12mo. pp. 514. Cloth. $1.50. + +“The report made by Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Kinney is grave, concise, and +deeply interesting. It is added to the appendix of this new edition of +her book. In this California journey, Mrs. Jackson found the materials +for ‘Ramona,’ the Indian novel, which was the last important work of +her life, and in which nearly all the incidents are taken from life. +In the report of the Mission Indians will be found the story of the +Temecula removal and the tragedy of Alessandro’s death as they appear in +‘Ramona.’”—_Boston Daily Advertiser._ + +“A number of striking cases of breach of faith, heartless banishment +from homes confirmed to the Indians by solemn treaties, and wars +wantonly provoked in order to make an excuse for dispossessing them of +their lands, are grouped together, making a panorama of outrage and +oppression which will arouse the humanitarian instincts of the nation +to the point of demanding that justice shall be done toward our savage +wards.... ‘H. H.’ succeeds in holding up to the public eye a series of +startling pictures of Indian wrongs, drawn from a century of American +history.”—_New York Tribune._ + +Mrs. Jackson’s Letter of Gratitude to the President. + +The following letter from Mrs. Jackson to the President was written by +her four days before her death, Aug. 12, 1885:— + + _To_ GROVER CLEVELAND, _President of the United States_: + + Dear Sir,—From my death-bed I send you a message of heartfelt + thanks for what you have already done for the Indians. I ask + you to read my “Century of Dishonor.” I am dying happier for + the belief I have that it is your hand that is destined to + strike the first steady blow toward lifting this burden of + infamy from our country, and righting the wrongs of the Indian + race. + + With respect and gratitude, + + HELEN JACKSON. + +_Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the +publishers_, + + ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78249 *** diff --git a/78249-h/78249-h.htm b/78249-h/78249-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b441f56 --- /dev/null +++ b/78249-h/78249-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6237 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Zeph | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +a { + text-decoration: none; +} + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h2.nobreak { + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +hr { + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb { + width: 45%; + margin-left: 27.5%; + margin-right: 27.5%; +} + +hr.chap { + width: 65%; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +div.chapter { + page-break-before: always; +} + +p { + margin-top: 0.5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +blockquote { + margin: 1.5em 10%; +} + +.center { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.hanging { + padding-left: 2em; + text-indent: -2em; +} + +.larger { + font-size: 150%; +} + +.mid { + font-size: 125%; +} + +.noindent { + text-indent: 0; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + right: 4%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; +} + +.right { + text-align: right; +} + +.smaller { + font-size: 80%; +} + +.smcap { + font-variant: small-caps; + font-style: normal; +} + +.titlepage { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 3em; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.x-ebookmaker blockquote { + margin: 1.5em 5%; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78249 ***</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p> + +<p class="center larger">ZEPH.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage larger">ZEPH.</p> + +<p class="center mid">A POSTHUMOUS STORY.</p> + +<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br> +HELEN JACKSON (H. H.),<br> +<span class="smaller">AUTHOR OF<br> +“RAMONA,” “A CENTURY OF DISHONOR,” “VERSES,” “BITS OF TRAVEL,”<br> +“BITS OF TRAVEL AT HOME,” “BITS OF TALK ABOUT HOME<br> +MATTERS,” “BITS OF TALK FOR YOUNG FOLKS,” “MERCY<br> +PHILBRICK’S CHOICE,” “HETTY’S STRANGE HISTORY,”<br> +“NELLY’S SILVER MINE,” “LETTERS FROM A CAT,”<br> +“MAMMY TITTLEBACK AND HER FAMILY,”<br> +“THE HUNTER CATS OF CONNORLOA.”</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage">BOSTON:<br> +<span class="smaller">ROBERTS BROTHERS.<br> +1885.</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage smaller"><i>Copyright, 1885</i>,<br> +<span class="smcap">By Roberts Brothers</span>.</p> + +<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">University Press:<br> +John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span></p> + +<h1>ZEPH.</h1> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>The long Colorado twilight was over. But +it was not yet quite lamplight time by the +clock, and Miss Sophy Burr was sitting in a +brown study at her kitchen window. This was +the time she always took to make a swift retrospect +in her mind of the results, profitable or +otherwise, of the day just ended. She could +think better in the dark, and the small economy +of doing without a lamp until the last +possible minute gave her a distinct pleasure. +She was the strangest mixture of generosity +and stinginess ever poured into human mould, +her boarders said; and nobody knew better +than they, for there was not a boarder in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>house who had not been with her at least a +year: some five and some six, and one old +couple—Mr. and Mrs. Jones—had been with +her ten. They were in Colorado for their +health,—Mr. Jones for Mrs. Jones’s, and <i>vice +versa</i> Mrs. Jones for Mr. Jones’s; so they +always declared, a rare instance of uniformity +in conjugal needs. They began with Miss +Sophy in the year when she began, and the +town began,—almost before Miss Sophy fairly +began; for all she had in way of a house then +was a tent with a sort of fly attachment for a +kitchen, and the boarders ate their meals in +Miss Sophy’s bedroom; or, to put it differently, +Miss Sophy was obliged, owing to the scarcity +of accommodations and the rush of custom, to +sleep temporarily in her dining-room. That +sounds better than to say that her boarders +dined in her bedroom.</p> + +<p>This was ten years ago. But to look at +Pendar Basin to-day, and to recall what it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>then, one would say it must have been nearer +twenty, so marvellously had the colony grown +and developed. It was now what is called a +“thriving” place of some six thousand people,—all +active, all making money, none rich, +none very poor, few of any pretence to what +is called in older places “social position,” but +all or nearly all of fair intelligence and good +business education in their respective callings.</p> + +<p>It had the making of a town in it,—a +superb site, good water, the command of two +mountain passes through which must go up and +out of the Basin all the freight for two large mining +districts in the west and in the south. A +railroad, one of the main Colorado lines, brought +in the supplies to be thus shipped, and kept it, +moreover, in close relation with the outside world. +On the whole, a very lucky little village was +Pendar Basin; and especially lucky were those +who came in the beginning, in the “tent and +coyote” days, as they were called, and had seen +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>the lots they bought then for hundreds of dollars +boom up into value rated by thousands.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy had not ten dollars in the world +when she began. Her story was a sad one, but +its details do not belong here. She had come +out from New England to Colorado to join her +lover; found him dead, buried only the week +before her arrival, his last words full of anguished +anxiety on her account, for he had not been +successful, and had nothing to leave her except +a grave to be tended; and the first thing the poor +soul did, was to spend a few of her dollars in +building a high fence around the bare sandy +mound which hid her lover from her sight. +Then she hired a tent, put out her sign, rolled +up her sleeves, and went to work to earn money +enough to carry her home. But the spell of the +wilderness seized hold upon her, and she never +went; and now there was not in all the town +a better-known, a more universally respected +woman than Miss Sophy: respected by the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>women because of her helpful cheery nature +and exceeding decorum of conduct; respected +by the men because she had a “level head” and +“owned considerable property,”—surest passports +to favor in the minds of business men.</p> + +<p>As Miss Sophy sat revolving in her mind the +relative proportions between what she had expended +and what she had received on the day +just closed, a frown deepened on her forehead. +The balance did not please her. The margin of +profit which she had prescribed to herself as a +uniform rule had been diminished by injudicious +luxury added to dinner.</p> + +<p>“’Twas the jelly,” she said to herself. “That +was what did it. But I can’t bring myself to +give roast mutton without it. Capers come +cheaper and go farther. I’ll boil oftener.”</p> + +<p>At least hundreds of times in the last eight +years Miss Sophy had come to this or similar +resolutions; but they always failed her when the +instant arrived for putting them into practice. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>Her love of a good dinner herself, and her still +keener love of the approbation she won by setting +it before others, kept up perpetual warfare +with her savingness, and being two to one, often +came off victorious,—often enough to keep up +her reputation for setting the best table in the +town; not often enough, however, to prevent her +making money in the long run, and coming out +at the end of the year with a creditable surplus +ahead.</p> + +<p>Just as Miss Sophy had said, half aloud, the +last words of her soliloquy, she heard a faint +knock at the door,—an irresolute, vacillating sort +of knock, which aroused her curiosity at once.</p> + +<p>“Who ever’s that,” she said, rising briskly, +“that don’t know his mind—or his fingers?” and +she opened the door with impatient quickness.</p> + +<p>A tall man, with a painful expression of incertitude +and feebleness in his bent figure, stood +before her without speaking.</p> + +<p>“Well?” said Miss Sophy, sharply.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span></p> + +<p>“I see a woman come in here a little while +ago,” he stammered, “’bout half an hour back.”</p> + +<p>“Well, supposin’ you did!” interrupted Miss +Sophy, still more sharply.</p> + +<p>The man lifted his eyes to hers, with the +look of a hunted animal. “Beg your pardon, +ma’am, I didn’t mean to ’fend ye; I thought +mebbe ’twas my wife, ’n’ I’d like to speak to +her.”</p> + +<p>“Your wife!” cried Miss Sophy, eying him +keenly,—she began to suspect him of being +either a tramp or a lunatic,—“your wife! +There hasn’t any woman come in here but me; +’twas me came int’ the gate just now. What’d +you think your wife was wantin’ in here?”</p> + +<p>The man hung his head. A strange hesitancy +seemed to hold back his every word.</p> + +<p>“She said she was goin’ out to look for work,” +he said slowly, “an’ I thought ’twas her I see +turnin’ in here. Beg yor pardon, ma’am. Sorry +I troubled ye.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span></p> + +<p>“’Tain’t any great trouble answerin’ a question,” +replied Miss Sophy, her heart warming at +once at the symptoms of suffering. “What sort +of work did she want? What do you do? Do +you want work?”</p> + +<p>“I’m a carpenter,” answered the man, still +speaking slowly, and with almost a stumbling +vagueness; “’t least that’s my trade; I hain’t +got any tools now, though; I’ve been teamin’ +since I’ve been here.”</p> + +<p>“Do you want work?” asked Miss Sophy +again, curtly.</p> + +<p>No reply from the man. He seemed lost +in thought, his eyes resting on Miss Sophy’s +face almost like the unseeing eyes of a sleepwalker.</p> + +<p>“Man alive!” exclaimed Miss Sophy. “I’m +askin’ you if you want work! I can get you +somethin’ to do.”</p> + +<p>Still in the same curiously irresolute, hesitant +voice the man answered: “No, I donno’s as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>I do; that is, I donno’s I’ll be here; if I was +here, I’d be glad o’ work.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s patience evaporated. “Well, +you are here, ’s near ’s I can judge; but you +don’t seem to me to want work so much ’s some +men I’ve met. I don’t know how you expect +to get along in this world without workin’!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t,” said the man. “’Tain’t that I ain’t +willin’ to work. Ye hain’t seen anything o’ +my wife, have ye?” he added, with a sudden +desperate energy strangely unlike his manner +hitherto. “She’s somethin’ your build, an’ +about your height; that was the reason I took +you for her jest now; hain’t no sech woman +been here to-day? I’ve looked ’most everywhere +else I could think of she’d be likely to +go. Hain’t she stopped here?”</p> + +<p>“Stark crazy, evidently,” thought Miss Sophy, +as she answered: “No, she hasn’t been here. +No woman has been into this door to-day but +me. Tell me where you live, and if your wife +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>does call here I’ll tell her you want to see +her.”</p> + +<p>He started apprehensively. “Oh, no, ma’am,” +he said, “don’t you say nothin’ to her about it. +She doesn’t like it to have me goin’ round followin’ +her up. But I thought if she was in +the house I’d like to get a word with her. My +name’s Riker, ma’am,—Zeph Riker. We live +down in the Flat; ye can’t miss it. If I’m here +I’d be glad to do teamin’; or, if it wasn’t for +not havin’ tools, carpenterin’ ’s my trade. Good-night, +ma’am,” and turning with a swift movement +quite out of keeping with his shambling, +inert attitude, he was gone.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy stood gazing out into the darkness +after him for some seconds before she +recovered from her bewilderment.</p> + +<p>“Well, if that don’t beat all the cur’us things +that’s ever come to my door yet!” she mentally +ejaculated as she walked slowly through the +kitchen into the dining-room and began setting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>her supper-table. “I guess he’s crazy, poor +thing! An’ yet, he didn’t seem somehow exactly +like crazy neither. Perhaps some o’ the folks’ll +know him. It’s borne in on me that that man +wants lookin’ after.”</p> + +<p>None of the “folks,” that is, Miss Sophy’s +boarders, had ever heard of Zeph Riker. As +she told them the tale of her interview they +all with one accord began to warn her against +letting her sympathies go out towards him. +He was a tramp; he was a burglar; he was a +madman. One after another the boarders confidently +advanced their theories of explanation +of his singular behavior. It was odd to see, +but a student of psychological phenomena +could have classified the fact, how, as the conversation +went on, Miss Sophy instinctively +took the attitude of Zeph’s defender.</p> + +<p>“I don’t b’leeve he’s one o’ them things,” +she said. “I ain’t goin’ to say it for sure, +but I b’leeve he’s jest kind o’ dumb with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>trouble. I think that’s all ’t ails him,—some +dreadful kind o’ trouble; ’n’ I think he ought +to be looked after. It’s been growin’ on me, the +more I’ve thought on ’t, that ’twas trouble he +was in. Trouble makes folks that way sometimes,—makes +the words kind o’ stick, an’ your +head seem to be all of a kind of a buzz, so +you don’t know anythin’. I think somebody +ought to look after him.”</p> + +<p>Whenever it became clear to Miss Sophy +that a thing or a person wanted “looking after,” +the next logical step in her mind was +the conclusion that she herself was the person +whose duty lay in the line of that precise “looking +after.” “And especially after the trouble +I’ve seen myself,” said Miss Sophy, as she +took her energetic way the next afternoon +towards “The Flat,”—a part of the town in +which, strangely enough, she had never before +been. Miss Sophy was not a walker; +that is, not an outdoor walker. The number of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>miles her tireless feet walked each day in her +house it would have greatly surprised her to be +told. She always said it tired her to death to +walk, she was too stout; and when her “folks” +sometimes observed, “Why, Miss Sophy, you are +always walking, you never sit down,” she would +reply, “Oh, but I don’t call it walkin’, just +runnin’ round the house.” And she honestly +thought so; and felt over-fatigued by a half-hour’s +walk out of doors, when she would be +fresh as a lark at the end of eight or nine +hours’ steady trot on her own floors.</p> + +<p>It was a warm day, and the perspiration +stood in drops on Miss Sophy’s face when she +finally found herself in the centre of the low, +thinly settled district known as the Flat. Looking +around her with mingled disgust and compassion, +she indulged in the strongest ejaculation +ever permitted to pass her lips.</p> + +<p>“Land o’ the livin’! What a hole! Poor +creaturs! I don’t suppose this land costs +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>anythin’, an’ that’s what brought ’em all in +here. ’Tain’t any more nor less than a kind o’ +cellar! A nice time scarlet fever’d have if it +was to get in amongst these shanties. It’s a +shame! I never knew there was such a place +’s this in this town. Well, one half the world +doesn’t know how the other half lives, is jest +as true in small places as in big, I vow! I +don’t know what the man meant by sayin’ +I couldn’t miss it. As if there wasn’t but +one house in the Flat, and that his’n!” and +Miss Sophy stood looking right and left in +blank perplexity. The dogs and the children +of the Flat soon gathered around her in wonder +at her appearance, and from one of the +oldest and least terrified of the children she +learned which of the shanties was “Zeph’s.”</p> + +<p>It was a poor little place, unfenced, uncared +for, the house unpainted and dilapidated; +and in strange mockery, it seemed, +of the probable needs of the occupants of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>such a house, a trim new tying-post stood in +front of the door. Looming up gauntly at its +side was the half-done frame of a two-story +house, evidently long since abandoned to wind +and weather; for the beams were gray from +exposure, and weeds grew high where floors +should have been.</p> + +<p>“Shouldn’t wonder a mite if that was his’n,” +thought Miss Sophy. “He looked just the +kind o’ man to leave off that way. He wants +spurrin’ up.” And there was an unconsciously +authoritative quality in the very knock Miss +Sophy gave at Zeph’s door.</p> + +<p>No answer. Again she knocked, still more +sharply. No sound of any one stirring in the +house. Impatiently Miss Sophy stepped to the +window—there was but one—and looked in. +An ejaculation of dismay escaped her.</p> + +<p>“Of all the pigsties, for such a decent man +as he looked, to be livin’ in!” she said. It was +indeed an unsightly place,—a bare floor, long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>unswept; a rusty cooking-stove in the centre of +the room, ashes and brands piled on the hearth +in front; a battered table; wooden chairs; a few +utensils and dishes on cupboard shelves in one +corner; through a half-open door into an adjoining +room were to be seen untidy beds, and a +bureau, with drawers wide open, looking as if +they had just been ransacked by thieves; on a +small stand at the head of the bed was a brass +candlestick in which the candle had burned down +to the socket, leaving grimy strata of melted +tallow and blackened wick piled around it.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s New England soul revolted.</p> + +<p>“I donno’s there’s any use tryin’ to help +anybody that’d have a house like this,” she +thought, and stepped back from the window, +again looking around her in a half-compassionate, +half-resentful study of the region. As she did +so she perceived a strange head peering over +a high board fence just beyond the unfinished +frame building. It was an old woman. Her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>thin gray hair, streaked with yellow, drawn up +in a tight knot on the top of her head, was +surmounted again by a pair of huge iron-rimmed +spectacles of a kind out of vogue for +fifty years. Her hair looked twenty years older +than her face, and her face, again, twenty years +older than her eyes, which were bright hazel, +clear and keen, making the spectacles seem a +grotesque adornment rather than a necessary +aid to vision. The old woman had been watching +Miss Sophy’s every movement, and as she +saw her turn away from the window, called out, +“Ain’t nobody in thar, be ther?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Miss Sophy, “no one.”</p> + +<p>“I allowed he hedn’t come hum,” said the +woman. “I seed thar warn’t no smoke out’er’n +ther chimbly, ’n’ I said ter Vilm, sez I, ‘I jest +allow thet thar Zeph’s been walkin’ ther streets +all night, I allow he hez!’”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy walked briskly towards the fence. +As she did so, the head disappeared from view, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>and simultaneously from behind the boards +came the hospitable invitation, “Ef yeow’ll +step raound ter the front a piece, I’ll let yer in; +this gate’s done nailed up, kase ther young +uns’s allers lettin’ ther pig aout.”</p> + +<p>“I never!” thought Miss Sophy. “What +next, I wonder!” But she complied with the +directions, and reaching the other side of the +house found herself confronted by her strange +interlocutor, who exclaimed, “Oh, ther yer be! +I allowed yer wan’t comin’, mebbe! It took yer +ser long, I allowed yer’d gone off. Yer wuz +lookin’ for Zeph Riker, wuzn’t yer? Did yer +want him ter work fur yer?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the dazed Miss Sophy, who +had never before heard the Missouri vernacular, +and had never before seen so strange a figure as +the one which now stood before her.</p> + +<p>“Wall, thet’s jest what I wuz a hopin’ up +when I seed yer gwine ter ther door. I allowed +to myself thet Zeph wuz gwine ter git holped; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>he’s clar down, Zeph is, ’n’ I allow he’ll jest git +ter be outer’n his wits ef he keeps on ther way +he’s ben goin’, er walkin’, walkin’, night-times +’n’ daytimes; they’s all one ter him, he sez, an’ +she ain’t wuth it, ’n’ never wuz. Thar’s lots kin +tell him thet; but he won’t listen to nary word +agen her, nary. Vilm, he ’lows he’s crazy, +naow; but I don’t. He’s got’s wits, Zeph +hez; an’ there wan’t never no better man cum +inter this yer flairt, never. I allow ter you +ther warn’t. He’s reel good, Zeph is. I ain’t +gwine ter say but what ther’s men thet’s rustled +more’n he did; but ’tain’t in some men <i>to</i> +rustle; thar’s some that ken, an’ thar’s some +that can’t; an’ thar can’t nobody rustle when +ther heart’s took outer ’em; ’n’ thet’s what’s +ther matter with Zeph; he’s got the heart gone +plumb outer him; he’s been settin’ thar ’n thet +house sence she’s went off this last time, ’n’ I +allow he’d ha’ starved ter death ef I hedn’t +tuk him over vittles. We’re pore, but we ain’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>gwine ter see a human critter starve, not right +next dore, we ain’t. I seed him when he went +off yesterday mornin’. I was jest cummin’ crost +ther floor, an’ I seed him kinder stealin’ by. +He know’d I’d ask him whar he wuz gwine. +An’ sez I, ‘Zeph Riker, air yer goin’ huntin’ +thet woman agen? I allow yer the biggest fool +in all this yer flairt, Zeph Riker.’ Thet’s what +I said. I hain’t no patience with a man that’ll +git down ’n’ be run over wuss ’n ary dog. An’ +he jest give me sech er look, an’ he sez, ‘She’s +my wife, Gammer! an’, more ’n somever, she’s +took the chillen along this time.’ ‘She hain’t!’ +sez I. ‘Yes, she hez,’ sez he. Wall, when I +heered she’d got the chillen, I hedn’t no more +ter say. He’d got ter go hunt ’em, ’n’ git ’em +away ef he ennywise could; fur ’t’s a dumb +shame fur little chillen to be with a—sech a +critter’s she is!” And Gammer Stein stopped +at last, not for lack of words, but of breath.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>was Miss Sophy’s sole reply to this outpouring +of mingled invective and sympathy.</p> + +<p>“Don’t know what I’m talkin’ abaout!” +cried the old woman, wrathfully. “Hain’t you +heered haow Zeph Riker’s wife’s allers gwine +off ’n’ leavin’ him? Sometimes ’tis one thing, +’n’ sometimes ’tis another; she’s allers got an +excuse ready; most gen’ully it’s lookin’ fur +work, she sez; she lets on she’s got ter support +the family, ’n’ she’s allers a scandalizin’ him up +’n’ down; she ’lows he don’t yern nothin’, ’n’ +she sez ef one don’t bring in, the other must; +’n’ so she goes off ter work down ’n the restaurants, +fust one, ’n’ then another, but’s allers ’n +the one whar that skunk o’ a feller she’s goin’ +with, thet Nat Leeson, ’s a cookin’. Thet’s the +kind o’ work she’s a doin’! I allow she’d +oughter be took up; she’d oughter; sech +women’s a disgrace to thar sex, they air now. +Hain’t yeow heered nothin’ abaout it? I allow +yeow must be a stranger hyar, ef yeow hain’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>heered o’ Rusha Riker. She’s jest famed, ill +famed, too, in this hyar town. I allowed thar +warn’t nobody thet hedn’t heered o’ her scandaliginous +carak’ter!”</p> + +<p>This last adjective was too much for Miss +Sophy’s risibles. In spite of herself she +laughed; at which Gammer Stein broke out +again: “I allow ’tain’t no larfin’ marter; it’s jest +life ’n’ death, thet’s what ’tis, to this hyar man +’n’ his chillen, ’n’ ef thar ain’t murder in ’t afore +all’s said ’n’ done, I allow we kin be thankful t’ +ther A’mighty. What wuz ye wantin’ o’ Zeph, +ef so be ’s ye never heered o’ him afore?” And +pulling down her spectacles, and adjusting them +perilously near the end of her nose, Gammer +Stein looked scrutinizingly across their iron +rims at her visitor. “I don’t know ye,” she said +distrustfully. “What mought yer name be? +Be ye new cum?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” replied Miss Sophy. “I have lived +here ever since the town was begun; but I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>live a mile away from here, and I have never +happened to hear of Zeph till yesterday, when +he came to my house lookin’ for his wife. I +thought he was in some sort of trouble, an’ I’d +look after him a little.”</p> + +<p>“Jes so, jes so,” said Gammer, instantly appeased +by the presence of sympathy. “Yer +live on ther hill, I allow?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“Land’s drefful dear up thar,” replied Gammer, +“or else me ’n’ Vilm, we’d been up thar +tew, yeow bet! I didn’t never like hollers; +but pore folks ’s got ter live whar they kin. +Back ’n Missouri we wuz up on a ridge like, +but ’twarn’t ser healthy ’s this, fur all ’twuz +higher; ’n’ Vilm’s allers tellin’ me thet this +hyar flairt ain’t reelly a holler. Thar can’t be +no hollers, he sez, when ther hull country’s +ez high up ez this is; but I tell him I don’t +want ter live ’n enny place thet ser much ’s +favors ther look ’v er holler, ’n’ ’s soon ’s we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>git er little erhead we’s got ter move outer’n +this flairt. What part o’ ther hill der yeow live +on? Be yeow a married woman?”</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Miss Sophy, curtly, with something +in her tone which the sensitive old +woman felt without fully recognizing, and instinctively +wished she had not asked the question. +“I have never been married. I live +alone. I keep the boarding-house next to the +Presbyterian church.”</p> + +<p>“Dew yer?” exclaimed Gammer. “Naow +I allow thet’s kind o’ cur’us. Vilm, he’s done +teamin’ ter yeour place; he’s tolt me abaout +yeow. Don’t yer want er man steady ter dew +yer outside work? Ef ye’d take Zeph in, he’s +handy; he’s a fust-rate carpenter tew, ’n’ a good +hand fur hosses; ef he’d jest git hisself inter some +sech place, thar’s plenty ’d take keer o’ the chillen +for jest their keep, ’n’ thay’re li’le, ’twouldn’t +be much, ’n’ let thet hussy o’ his’n go +whar she belongs; ’n’ I allow thar ain’t much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>doubtin’ whar ’t ’d be. Ef he cud wunst git shet +’v her wunst fur all, thar’d be some hope o’ +Zeph yit. He wuz a reel likely man when they +fust moved in hyar three years ago. She +wan’t what she oughter be, neow I don’t +s’pose; but she hadn’t gin herself clean away +t’ the devil then ’s she hez sence. I allow it’s +strange yer hain’t never heered o’ her. Why, +she’s been up inter the jail, ’n’ her name ’n +the paper, ’n the ‘Times,’ ’n’ the trial, ’n’ all. +Jerushy Riker ‘disorderly’ they called it; ’n’ +Zeph he paid the fine, ’n’ all the costs, ’n’ got +her hum; ’n’ I allow ter yeow ’twan’t more ’n +a week ’fore she wuz aout agen, ’n’ feathers ’n +her bunnit, ’n’ goin’ to dances wi’ thet Nat, ’s +brazhen ’s any brass ye ever seen. ’N’ there +wasn’t erry woman ’n this flairt ’ud ser much +’s speak ter her, only ther men. I allow men +is shameful; ’n’ ’s long ’s they’ll go with her +’n’ give her things, she just spites the women. +My man won’t hev nothin’ ter say ter her; he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>sez he’d kill her ef she wuz his’n, ’n’ I sh’d +hope he would. But thet ther Zeph, he jest +worships her, ’s ef she wuz the best wife a man +ever hed. He’ll foller her, ’n’ coax her, ’n’ +hang round her, ’n’ give her his last cent he’s +got in this blessed yarth, ef she’ll only look +wunst torerds him.”</p> + +<p>“He’s a fool!” broke in Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“Wall, yis, I allow he is,” said Gammer, reflectively. +“I allow he must be; an’ yit he +ain’t, nuther. Zeph ain’t no fool. Ef a man +gits took thet way ’bout a woman, he can’t +holp hisself, ’thout he kin git shet ’v her outern +out. Thet’s what I’m tellin’ him allers. I sez +to him jest this last week, sez I, ‘Zeph Riker, +yeow jest light aout er hyar; yeow take yer +team,’—he’s got a fust-rate team ef he hain’t +sold ’em since last week to git money ’n’ go +hunt fur thet hussy,—‘yeow take yeour team +’n’ ther young uns, ’n’ light aout; ’n’ yeow keep +er travellin’ till yer’ve got whar yer can’t never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>hear name of her agin. Yeow kin stop when +your money’s giv aout, ’n’ work till yer git +more ter go on with; ’n’ yeow jest keep movin’. +I allow Californy’d be fur enough; ’n’ livin’ +’s easy made thar, everybody sez thet’s ben +thar; yeow jest light aout er hyar.’”</p> + +<p>“What did he say?” asked Miss Sophy, +breathlessly.</p> + +<p>“He didn’t say but jest tew words, he didn’t,” +replied Gammer. “But them tew, ’n’ the way +he sed ’em, wuz more ’n some folks’s preachin’ +all day. He sez, sez he, ‘Gammer, I can’t;’ ’n’ +I allow to yeow I ’spect thet’s jest the trew +on’t; ’n’ ef he can’t, he can’t.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean to tell me you think he +loves the woman still!” cried Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“But he doos,” said Gammer. “Thet’s why +Vilm sez he’s a fool, ’n’ I can’t gainsay ’t he +ain’t; ’n’ yit thar’s times, I allow to yeow, when +I git ter feelin’ ’s ef he wuz better ’n most folks. +He don’t never give her a hash word; he’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>allers’s glad ter see her ’s aour pup hyar ter see +the chillen cumin’ hum when school’s aout; ’n’ +he’ll slave hisself ter death, ’n’ sell the coat +offen his back, ter git her all she wants; ’n’ she +don’t give him ser much ’s a word er a look, let +alone disgracin’ him ’n’ his chillen ’n’ the name +he’s gin her! I donno ’s the Lord ’s gwine ter +call him a fool er not. It kind o’ cums over me +cur’us sometimes, ther way he acts.” And the +old woman gazed half-inquiringly, half-shamefacedly, +into Miss Sophy’s face.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s eyes were full of tears. She +tried to keep them back, but they were too big +to be concealed,—genuine, unmistakable tears. +Brushing them away impatiently, she said, +“Well, he’s a fool, anyhow!”</p> + +<p>“I s’pose he must be,” replied Gammer. +“Thar ain’t many like him.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder where he is now,” said Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“No knowin’,” said Gammer. “It’s two days +naow he’s ben huntin’ her. He won’t go in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>bold like ’n’ ask ef she’s thar ’t these places, +kase it mads her. He’ll jest hang raound ’n’ +watch. He sez he won’t mortify her! Him +mortify her! Thet sounds likely, don’t it? +He sed thet ter me wunst, when I sed ter +him, sez I, ‘Zeph Riker, ef yer want her ser +bad’s yer say, take er perliceman ’n’ go git her. +She’s yer wife. The law guvs her ter ye where +somever yer kin ketch her.’ ‘I wouldn’t mortify +her thet way,’ sez he; ’n’ then I jest up ’n’ I +sez ter him—wall, I pollergized ter him arter +fur the words I used; they wuz outrageous, ’n’ +ther wouldn’t nobody but a fool ha’ stood ’em, +Vilm sed; but somehow, I allow ter yeow, I’ve +allers liked him better sence thet day. Sez he, +‘I don’t feel ter blame yer, not fur nothin’ yer +say. Thar can’t nobody understand, but I can’t +holp myself.’”</p> + +<p>Strange emotions were tugging at Miss +Sophy’s heart-strings. What had this poor +man’s experiences in common with hers? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>Nothing, surely. The lover she had lost had +been an upright man. Her affection had never +been put to the strain of wrestling with even so +much as a suspicion of the unworthiness of its +object. And if such evil destiny as that had +ever befallen her, she would have seemed to be +the last person,—she with her practical common +sense, clear business head, matter-of-fact +way of looking at life,—the last person, surely, +to have clung to a base and dishonored man. +And yet this pathetic story she was hearing of +Zeph Riker’s inalienable affection for the miserable +creature he called wife seemed to be +breaking up within her bosom the very foundations +of some strange, undreamed-of, mighty +emotion which threatened to overwhelm her.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” +thought Miss Sophy. “It must be the long +walk. It always does upset me to walk.”</p> + +<p>“I must be going now,” she said suddenly. +“I have a great deal to do. I wish you’d let +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>me know if there is anything I can do to help +this poor man. If he wants work I can give +him a good deal.” And she turned abruptly +away, to the great discomfiture of Gammer +Stein, who had not said half her say.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll call raound agen, won’t ye?” she +called after her. “Dew. I’d like ter see yer +fust-rate.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I will,” said Miss Sophy, “some +day. But I’m very busy. You must come and +see me.”</p> + +<p>This pleased Gammer even better.</p> + +<p>“I allow I will,” she said eagerly. “I’d like +ter see yer place. I wuz by thar. It’s an awful +nice house yer got.”</p> + +<p>“Good afternoon,” said Miss Sophy, already +some paces away, and quickening her steps to +avoid further talk. She walked unconsciously +faster and faster till she reached home. Not +for ten years had Miss Sophy’s spinster breast +been the seat of such keen and conflicting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>emotion. She could neither analyze it nor shake +it off. The image of her long-buried lover rose +up before her with almost terrifying vividness, +and she seemed compelled by some strange +power outside of herself to continue thinking +of him, fancying what would have been the +result had their marriage taken place and he +afterward proved as unfit for trust, unworthy +of love, as Zeph’s wife. She felt herself disloyal +at the very thought, but she could not free herself +from it.</p> + +<p>“What nonsense!” she said to herself, sternly. +“There wasn’t a bad drop of blood in Robert +Barrett’s veins, not one; not a man in that +family ever went to the bad.”</p> + +<p>“But what if he had?” persisted this strangely +disquieted spirit in her breast. “What if he +had? What if he had been overpowered by +temptation? He was human. Men seemingly +as good as he have fallen; have become drunkards; +have been unfaithful to their wives. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>What if he had? What would you have done? +Wouldn’t you have clung to him through everything? +Do you suppose you could ever have +left off loving him, no matter what he had +done?”</p> + +<p>“No, I know I couldn’t,” responded Miss +Sophy’s passionate heart, also strangely disquieted +in her breast; “I know I couldn’t!”</p> + +<p>And then by a not unnatural sequence there +came into her thoughts the solemn words of the +marriage service, which she could never hear +without a strange pang, remembering that she +had once expected to hear them spoken for +herself. “‘For better, for worse; till death do +us part.’ What does that mean,” she said, “if +it does not mean just what this poor Zeph +is doing? ‘For better, for worse,’ no matter +how much worse! I do believe I should have +looked at it just as he does, this very minute! +I wouldn’t wonder if I’d ha’ been just such a +fool ’s he is; an’ I don’t know as I call it exactly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>bein’ a fool, neither, any more ’n she does!” And +with a tremendous effort Miss Sophy shook +herself free from the bootless soliloquy, and +went about her work, reiterating in her mind +the original resolution with which she had left +home early in the afternoon,—that that man +must be “looked after.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>When Zeph left Miss Sophy’s door he had +in his mind no specific plan of action, although +from his brisk gait one would have supposed +him to have in view a definite goal which he +wished to reach in the shortest possible time. +He walked on, looking neither to the right nor +the left, till he reached the outskirts of the town, +at the farthest possible remove from his own +house. Here the land fell away abruptly into +bottoms through which ran a stream, low and +shrunken now from the long drought. The +sight of the water was the first thing which +roused him from the vague yet painful reverie +in which he had been walking. As he looked +into the water, he thought to himself, “If it was +’s high ’s I’ve seen it in the spring freshets, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>believe I’d jump in and make an end o’ this +misery. Perhaps ’twould be better for her if I +was out o’ the world altogether. But a fellow ’d +have to hold himself down, to drown in that +depth o’ water.” And with a dreary smile at +the thought he turned back towards the town. +Suddenly a new idea struck him.</p> + +<p>“Mebbe she’s gone home now, an’ she’ll be +worse ’n ever, not findin’ any fire nor nothin’ +to cook. I’ll go home an’ clear up, and get +some steak!” He put his hand in his pocket +and drew out the few bits of money he had +there,—less than two dollars in all. He sighed +bitterly as he looked at it. “Come to that, has +it, an’ I hain’t bought a mouthful to eat to-day! +Don’t take long to play a man out, lying by +this way. But there’s enough for a good supper +to-night!” And he quickened his pace.</p> + +<p>How many times had he made just such bootless +returns as this, each time lured on by a +stronger and stronger hope that surely now she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>would have come back; he would see a light +at the window telling him she was there; she +must have come by this time! And each time it +had been only a delusion; each time the empty, +silent house and the cold, blackened hearth had +mocked his misery anew, and he had turned +away sicker at heart, more despairing than ever, +to resume his hopeless quest.</p> + +<p>“She likes beefsteak better ’n anythin’ else,” +he said to himself as he entered the streets once +more and looked on the brightly lighted shops +on either hand. “I’ll get a first-rate good one; +and there’s a bit o’ horse-radish left in the +tumbler; she likes that.” And as he went on +with his foolish, affectionate plannings, the hope +in his bosom grew stronger, till he half persuaded +himself that he knew she was at home +waiting for him to bring the supper, or that his +thus making ready for her would bring her +before long. And yet he had done this very +thing, hoped this unreasoning hope, scores of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>times before, all in vain. Why did he still continue +to hope? He could not have told.</p> + +<p>As he paid for the meat the butcher, eying +him closely, said, “All well at home, Riker?”</p> + +<p>Zeph gave a slight start, but recovering himself +instantly, replied, “Thank you; I hope so. +Hain’t been home since mornin’.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t that beat all?” said the butcher, +after he had gone, turning to his assistant. +“Nobody’s never heard Zeph Riker admit it +yet when his wife’s run off from him an’ he’s +a huntin’ her; an’ he don’t never exactly lie +about it neither. He’s always got his answer +ready.”</p> + +<p>“He’s a blamed fool he don’t bill her,” said +the assistant.</p> + +<p>“That’s so,” replied the other. “A little +teched in the upper story, I reckon. But +he’s a good fellow ’s ever lived; an’ she’s a +handsome huzzy. I expect he can’t let go on +her.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I’d let go on her mighty quick if +she b’longed to me. I know that! I say he’s +a blamed fool!” replied the assistant, waxing +wrathy. “Why, she’s been took up, ’n’ in +jail. She was down to the beer-garden with +that Nat ’n’ a lot o’ others, ’n’ they all got +tight, ’n’ kicked up such a row the night +watchman clapped the hull batch of ’em into +the lock-up; ’n’ Riker he went right into court +’n’ paid everything, ’n’ got her out ’n’ took her +home. She might ha’ rotted there for all me, +if I’d been her husband.”</p> + +<p>“When ye’ve got a wife o’ your own, mebbe +ye’ll know more ’n you do now,” said the +butcher, going to the door and looking after +Zeph’s figure, now nearly lost in the darkness. +“He’s a streakin’ it like lightnin’. I do believe +the fellow thinks she’s to home waitin’ +for him.”</p> + +<p>“Where is she?” asked the assistant.</p> + +<p>“Out on the mesa, in them freighters’ camp,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>replied the butcher. “She’s been there three +days, cookin’ for ’em, ’n’ trainin’ like Sam Hill. +I tell you she’s a flyer! But she can cook, you +bet. Tim was in to-day buyin’ veal ’n’ a turkey. +He said they was goin’ to keep Sunday +in that camp, and no mistake! they’d got +Rusha Riker for cook and Sal Leeson for +preacher! If Riker’d ever ask anybody where +she’s gone to, he’d find out a heap quicker ’n +he does. But he’s too proud. He never opens +his head to nobody, an’ there ain’t nobody +goin’ to volunteer to tell him; ’n’ so he goes +sozzlin’ round, ’n’ wastin’ his time, ’n’ gettin’ +out o’ pocket. I hain’t much patience with +him myself, I own; but I don’t know how we’d +any of us act if we was placed just ’s he is. It’s +pretty hard tellin’.”</p> + +<p>As Zeph drew near his home he walked +faster. The more he thought, the surer he +felt she would be there; the more he blamed +himself for not having had everything ready for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>her at early dusk. “I might ha’ remembered,” +he said to himself remorsefully, “that its bein’ +Saturday night ’d be likely to bring her home, +for she hain’t took none o’ her best things nor +the youngsters’, an’ of course she’ll come back +to get ’em even if she don’t stay.” And he broke +into a run at the top of the hill above the Flat +walling it to the west. Twinkling lights like +fireflies shone all over the place; the humble +homes there were thick set; a rush of emotion +came over Zeph as he saw the glimmering +lights. “All them homes,” he thought, “an’ +not one of ’em ’s got such trouble ’s I have! +God! but it’s hard!” And he pressed on, +newly disheartened, as so many lonely souls +have been, by the simple sight of home-lights +gleaming.</p> + +<p>As he turned the corner, where, if a light were +burning in his own window it would greet his +eye, his heart beat loud. “If she ain’t there +this time I think it’ll kill me!” he muttered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span></p> + +<p>All was dark. She was not there. He stopped, +gazed, threw down his parcels on the ground, +and folded his arms on his breast. The moon +was just coming up in the east, beyond the +wide plains which stretched away, it seemed +endlessly. Zeph looked at it with dogged dislike. +“I don’t need no moonlight to-night,” +he thought. “I forgot ’twas full moon. I +might ha’ known she wouldn’t come home +early if ’twas full moon. She’s foolin’ somewhere.”</p> + +<p>The moon came up fast; its white light fell +on the beams of the unfinished frame, which +stood mute record of the terrible ruin of all +Zeph’s plans and hopes of a home. The outlines +of the building loomed out against the sky +like a black skeleton, and smote Zeph’s very +heart. “Just about ’s much home ’s I’ve got,” +he said to himself. “A kind of a ghost it looks +like, in this light, ’n’ that’s about what it is! I +believe I’ll take the thing down. The lumber ’d +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>bring considerable. But she’ll throw it up at +me if I do; she’s always blamin’ me for not +finishin’ it. I guess most folks ’d say the +house she’s got’s good enough to run away +from!” And Zeph strode on gloomily, with +reluctant steps.</p> + +<p>Entering the house, he looked around the +room with a bitter expression on his face. +“I’ve a mind to clear out too,” he thought. +“What’s the use o’ goin’ on this way? But, +no, I can’t. I can’t leave her so long ’s +there’s a chance o’ gettin’ her right. She did +care for me once, I know she did; an’ she is +real fond o’ the children; there can’t nobody +say she doesn’t love them even if she has got +so set against me; an’ if she hadn’t got some +good heart somewhere she’d hate them too +just because I’m their father. I’ve heard o’ +women’s turnin’ thet way till they couldn’t +bide the sight o’ husband nor children, either +one o’ them. It’s a kind o’ craziness comes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>over ’em. Poor Rushy! Seems’s if she must +be crazy.”</p> + +<p>While thinking these thoughts he was mechanically +moving about the rooms, setting +things into place, putting back the tumbled +clothes into the drawers, making the beds; +then he lighted a fire in the stove, and opening +the drawer in the table took out a fresh +candle and set it in the candlestick. “That’s +the last but one,” he said, “but I’ll light it, +an’ then if she does come in, she’ll know I’ll +be back before long.”</p> + +<p>He put the beefsteak on a platter by the +candlestick. “So she’ll see it first thing,” he +thought, “an’ know I got something good for +supper.”</p> + +<p>Then he went out, locking the door and +putting the key in their usual hiding-place for +it,—a hollow under the tying-post.</p> + +<p>The thought of the freighters’ camp had at +last occurred to him, and he could not rest now +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>till he had found out if his wife were there. He +groaned aloud as he turned his steps toward +the mesa.</p> + +<p>“I’d ’most as soon find her dead,” he thought, +“as find her there! Don’t know but I’d sooner! +If she’s been there all this time, ’tain’t for no +good. But then she’s got the children along. +She wouldn’t—” And Zeph clenched his +hands and groaned again.</p> + +<p>The “mesa” was a high table-land stretching +away to the north of the town, not over a quarter +of a mile wide on the top. Its sides were +broken up into alternating shallow cañons and +soft rounding ridges, grass-grown,—good places +for grazing and shelter; at the base of the +western side ran a little brook. It was a favorite +spot for camping, and at times in the +summer looked like an army encampment, so +thickly dotted was it with white tents and +wagons and picketed horses.</p> + +<p>“It’s the strangest thing I never thought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>o’ that before!” mused Zeph as he struck out +into the plain. “They’ll pay good wages to +a cook, the boys will, when they’re in town; +and Rushy can’t be beat at cookin’, that’s +one thing.” And he tried manfully to keep +out all other interpretations of her presence +there. “If so be’s she’s here,” he reiterated +to himself, “I’m a dumb fool to cry out ’fore +I know I’m hurt worse ’n I am by just not +knowin’ what’s got her.”</p> + +<p>The moon was riding high in the heavens +and flooding plain, mesa, mountains, all, with a +light hardly less clear than sun, as Zeph finally +climbed up through one of the shorter cañons +and came out on the top of the mesa. The +freighters’ camp was close before him,—so +close that he started, and involuntarily retreated +a step or two into cover of the ridge, +lest he should be too suddenly seen. There +was but one tent. From that came sounds of +fiddling and riotous laughter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span></p> + +<p>“She’s there, for sure!” sighed Zeph. “Lord +have mercy on me! Has she got them children +in there this time o’ night?” and he glanced up +at the moon. “Ten o’clock if it’s a minute! +The poor young uns!”</p> + +<p>There were ten of the freight-wagons arranged +in a circle around the tent, some of +them with rounded white tops. Cautiously +Zeph stole up to one of these, parted the flaps +at the back, and looked in. Surely his fatherly +instinct had guided him to the spot. There lay +his two children sound asleep on a straw bed +in the bottom of the wagon. Surprise, joy, anguish, +all held Zeph dumb. As he stood looking +at them the boy raised his head and opened +his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Pappy, pappy!” he cried, and scrambled +towards him, rousing the baby, who began to +whimper.</p> + +<p>“Hush, sis, hush!” he exclaimed. “Mammy +said she’d whip ye if ye cried! It’s pappy! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>Don’t ye know pappy?” In a second more the +little creature was in her father’s arms, and for +a brief moment Zeph felt himself glad. Only +for a moment, however.</p> + +<p>“Zephie,” he said, “where’s your mammy?”</p> + +<p>“In there,” replied the child, pointing towards +the tent. “There’s a lot o’ men in +there; they’re dancin’; the men’s beds is all +took out.”</p> + +<p>“Who’s there besides mammy? any other +women besides mammy?” asked Zeph, his +words stifling him as he spoke them.</p> + +<p>“Nobody but Sal,” replied Zephie. “She’s +here all the time to help mam cook. Mam says +she never cooked so much vittles before. Mam +reckons they must ben starved where they +come from. Splendid vittles, pap, they has! +It’s bully! Why didn’t you come too, pap? +Mam was tellin’ some o’ the men she was a +lookin’ for ye to come ’fore now.”</p> + +<p>Bitter gall and wormwood to the father’s ears +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>were these innocent prattlings of his boy. Too +well he knew the gibe and jest with which his +wife had told “some of the men” she was looking +for him to appear on the scene. Too well +he knew the “Sal” who was her assistant,—one +of the most notorious women in the town, +and sister of the man to whom Zeph still persuaded +himself he owed all the misery which +had come into his married life. He was mistaken. +Nat Leeson was merely one man among +many who had had right to mock at his dishonor; +but it was Nat Leeson with whom his +wife’s relations were now openly and flauntingly +intimate. It was Nat Leeson for whom +she really cared, so far as it was in her +shallow, unprincipled nature to care for any +man.</p> + +<p>“We’re comin’ home to-morrow, pap,” continued +Zephie; “mam says she’s tired out; ’n’ +the teams is all goin’ to start up the mountains +early Monday mornin’; so mam ’n’ Sally’s goin’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>to cook up lots o’ vittles to-morrow for ’em to +take, ’n’ then we’re comin’ home.”</p> + +<p>“Be ye? That’s good!” said Zeph. “You +tell mammy pap’s real glad ye’re comin’ home, +will ye?”</p> + +<p>“Stay, pap,” replied the boy. “You stay, +too; there’s lots room in here. Sal and mam +and us all sleeps in here. You stay; we’re +goin’ to have turkey to-morrow,—an awful +big one.”</p> + +<p>“No, I can’t stay, my boy,” replied Zeph. +“Mammy’s too busy. She don’t want me. You +help her all you can, Zephie, an’ you be sure ’n’ +tell her pap was here, ’n’ he was dreadful glad +you was all comin’ home to-morrow, will ye? +Tell her pap’s ben dreadful lonesome. Don’t +ye forget now to tell her ’s soon ’s she comes +to bed.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell her ’n the mornin’,” said Zephie. +“I’ll be asleep when she comes to bed.”</p> + +<p>“No, you tell her to-night, Zephie,” said +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>his father. “You stay awake till she comes. +She’ll be here pretty soon, I guess. It’s late +now.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll try,” said the child; “but, pap, +I’ll be awful sleepy ’s soon ’s you’re gone. +Why don’t you go up ’n’ speak to her in the +tent?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t want to interrupt the dancing!” +said poor Zeph. “I don’t know any o’ the +men.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Nat’s there! you know him,” said the +child. “All the rest is freighters.”</p> + +<p>This was the last drop in unhappy Zeph’s +cup. It overflowed.</p> + +<p>“I’ll—” he began in a loud tone. “No, +I won’t either,” he continued; and kissing the +baby, who had nestled herself to sleep in his +arms, he laid her gently down on the straw, and +then kissing the boy, said, “Good-night, Zephie; +be a good boy, and take care of your little +sister. Good-night; I must go now.” And as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>cautiously as he had come, he stole down the +cañon and was gone.</p> + +<p>Skirting along the base of the mesa for some +rods, he climbed up again at a point some distance +the other side of the tent, where stood a +clump of huge pine-trees. Seating himself on +the ground, partially hid by the trunk of the +largest of these trees, he fixed his eyes on the +tent. Now that he knew his wife was there, +he would watch the place all night. It appeared +to him that the moon stood still in the sky, so +long did the moments seem before the freighters’ +revelry broke up. At last, with loud laughing +and talking, the party came out from the +tent and separated for the night: the men going +to their respective wagons, and his wife and +Sal—with what breathless anguish he watched +their every step!—to the wagon in which the +children lay. Soon the lights were all out, and +the stillness, the unutterable wilderness stillness, +rested on the place. Zeph drew a long breath +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>of relief. “That’s over!” he said aloud, and +leaned his head back against the tree.</p> + +<p>He had eaten nothing since morning, but +he was not conscious of hunger or faintness. +He had been under such a mental strain that +all physical sensations were dulled. He could +not have told, had he been asked, when he last +ate food. Matters seemed to him to be fast +approaching a crisis in his life; he felt a vague +terror of he knew not what,—some terrible +catastrophe approaching. He had felt this +fear-stricken presentiment growing within him +rapidly during the last three days. None of +his previous experiences of suffering in consequence +of his wife’s conduct had so told upon +him. No one of her unexplained or only +too well explained absences from home had +crushed him like this last one. As he sat +hour after hour in this strange solitude, alone, +as it almost seemed, in the universe, with the +vast star-set dome of the sky above him and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>the vast rayless plains stretching around him, +the near mountains looming up colossal and +black like an eternal barrier in the west, he +lived these absences all over again in full and +harrowing detail.</p> + +<p>The first one,—that was three years ago. +How well he recollected his fright when he +found her gone; the angry incredulity with +which he heard Gammer Stein’s half-implied +reflection on her character that night; the joy +with which he welcomed her back the next +morning, and the full acceptance he had given +to her story of having been watching with the +sick child of a neighbor, the child too sick to +be left, and no one in the house who could be +sent with a message to him. It was not many +weeks before he knew that this was a shameful, +shameless lie. And after that miseries had +thickened in his life,—his own house a gathering-place +of the disgraceful and the disgraced; +his wife oftener and oftener absent, sometimes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>with excuse, sometimes without; her intimate +associates men and women with whom no +self-respecting person would consort; his earnings +wasted on fineries or worse.</p> + +<p>“It’s been just a hell on earth, that’s what +it’s been,” he thought, as he buried his face +in his hands at some of the reminiscences. +That brief interval of quiet of a few months +during which the last child had been born,—the +little girl from whose unconscious influence +over the mother’s heart he had hoped +much,—recurred to him now, in this bitter +retrospect, merely as an intensification of his +woe. “And me hopin’ its bein’ a girl might +maybe save her! I don’t see why I thought +that’d make any difference if the boy didn’t!”</p> + +<p>How vividly he recalled the day when they +were discussing the baby’s name; and his wife +having expressed the desire to give it her own +name, he had taken heart from that, and said to +her meaningly, “Would ye really like to have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>her called by your name, Rushy?” and she, +in her usual flippant tone, and yet he fancied +with a shade of feeling in her face, had answered, +“You’ve got the boy named for you, +an’ I should think the girl ought to be named for +me; that’s no more ’n fair;” and he had made +haste to reply, “Of course ’tain’t, an’ I’d rather +call her Rushy than any other name ’n all the +world, ’n’ you know that, wife, without my tellin’ +ye; ’n’ she’s goin’ to favor you in looks, too; +anybody with half an eye can see that a’ready; +so there’ll be two Rushy Rikers the first thing +ye know.” And when he said this his wife +colored, and said, “I hope to goodness she’ll +turn out better ’n the first Rushy Riker!” And +he, poor fool, had gone about for many a week +hugging that exclamation to his soul as an +omen and token of good coming to their lives. +But it was short-lived. Before her baby was +three months old the old demons of love of +admiration, excitement, finery, folly, and sin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>had got full hold again of her weak and unstable +nature, and all was as bad as before, +or worse.</p> + +<p>Then came the most flagrant of all her misdemeanors,—the +drunken frolic at the beer-garden +and the disgrace of the lock-up; and after +that all sense of shame or of restraint seemed to +leave her; and finally, only a few weeks ago, the +most daring of all her escapades, when, taking +the baby, she had gone to Denver openly in +the company of Nat Leeson and his sister; +then it was that Zeph, at his wits’ end, had sold +some of their furniture and his kit of carpenter’s +tools to get money for the journey, put +the boy into Gammer Stein’s motherly keeping, +followed and tracked her; and for the first and +only time exercising his husbandly authority over +her, had brought her home. But it was only +an enforced return. She was sullen, reluctant, +full of hatred and reproaches. “A pretty home +it was,” she said, “to bring a woman back to, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>stripped of half the furniture, and not a dollar +to buy anything with!” If he’d let her alone, +she’d make her own living an’ not be beholden +to anybody.</p> + +<p>“Hold your tongue, Rushy!” cried Zeph, +the only time in his life he had thus spoken to +her. “Don’t you dare to talk to me about +makin’ your own livin’! If you’ll stay at +home an’ keep decent, I’ll keep ye in as good +a livin’ as folks o’ our station needs! I’d ha’ +had a good house done for ye now, if ye’d +done’s ye’d oughter.”</p> + +<p>“It’s easy makin’ excuses,” she retorted; “ye +never did have no spunk, an’ it’s a mighty poor +livin’ ye’ll ever get in this world. I donno +what’s hendered your buildin’ the house ’fore +now, ’cept your own laziness!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell ye what’s hendered me, Rushy,” +replied Zeph, thoroughly angered,—“runnin’ +round all creation huntin’ you, ’n’ sellin’ my tools +to get money to follow ye an’ keep ye from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>comin’ on the town! That’s what’s hendered +me; an’ ’twill hender me, too, s’ long’s ye go +on as ye’re doin’!”</p> + +<p>As Zeph lived over this bitterest of all their +quarrels his heart smote him remorsefully.</p> + +<p>“I expect I was too fierce with her,” he +thought. “Perhaps if I’d been real lovin’ then +she’d ha’ come round. She’s been lots worse +ever since then, ’n’ I expect I didn’t manage +right. I’ll try ’n’ see if I can’t be different to +her to-morrow when she comes home. She’s +had the children along with her this time, ’n’ +that’s some comfort.”</p> + +<p>It was near morning when Zeph finally fell +into an uneasy sleep. His sorrows pursued him +even there, and he dreamed a nightmare dream +of seeing his wife at the window of a burning +house and being unable to move hand or foot +to her rescue. He opened his eyes with the +horror of this dream full upon him, and for the +first second thought the dream was no dream, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>but actual truth; for the sky over his head and +the whole front of the mountain range on his +right were red as from the light of a conflagration. +Bewildered, he sprang to his feet with a +cry, but in the same second sank down again, +saying, “It’s only the sun a comin’ up! Lord! +How it scared me!”</p> + +<p>It was the marvellous rosy dawn peculiar +to high altitudes. So vivid, so fiery a glow +does it spread over both sky and earth for +a few seconds before sunrise, that when the +sun is above the horizon, and the day fairly +breaks, the light seems less, and not more, and +the earth and sky darkened instead of illumined.</p> + +<p>All was still in the freighters’ camp. A few +faint upward curls of smoke in the distant town +were the only signs of life in the beautiful landscape. +As Zeph gazed on the picture he felt +insensibly strengthened.</p> + +<p>“’T don’t seem ’s if folks need to suffer so ’n +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>such a world ’s this,” he thought; “things must +come out right, sooner or later, somehow, if +there’s any kind o’ reason ’n anything. It don’t +look no ways likely that God set it all a goin’ +jest to make folks miserable! I expect it’s +all our own fault, somewheres, if things goes +wrong! I believe Rushy ’n’ I’ll get on yet. If +I could once rake ’n’ scrape money enough to +take her clean out o’ this place ’n’ begin over +again, that would be best; but how to fetch +that about I don’t see!”</p> + +<p>Time slipped by imperceptibly to Zeph +absorbed in his reverie, and an hour or more +had gone, when he was roused by the sounds of +stirring in the camp. Hastily concealing himself +in a ravine, he lay stretched along the +ground, only his eyes above the edge of the +mesa, and watched every movement. He saw +his wife and Sal come out, the children following, +the fires lighted in the camp stoves, the +preparations for cooking begun. Presently he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>saw Nat Leeson stroll up towards the stoves and +stop to talk with his sister.</p> + +<p>“If I see him go nigh Rushy I’ll do some +harm, I know I shall,” said Zeph. “I’ll not +risk it. I’ll leave here.” And darting down the +ravine he set off by a circuitous route, on which +he could not be seen, towards home.</p> + +<p>When he reached the outskirts of the town +the church-bells were ringing. The sound +seemed full of unwonted invitation to Zeph. It +was long since he had been inside the walls of +a church. In the first years of their married +life Rushy had been fond of going to meeting +of a Sunday, and he had been only too proud +to go with her and see the admiration with +which people looked at her handsome face and +pretty clothes. Even then were to be seen, if +Zeph had only had the wisdom to recognize +them, the germs of all the misery and shame +which time had since brought. But he looked +on with the blinded eyes of a man’s first unreasoning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>passion, saw nothing wrong, thought +no harm, feared no evil. He even shared the +pride, which seemed innocent, in the undeniable +fact that Rushy was the handsomest woman in +the congregation. And now, alas, it was for +Rushy’s sake, and because of her beauty, +that he was ashamed to look any man in the +eye!</p> + +<p>A strange desire seized him to go this morning +and hear what the preacher had to say. +He looked down at his clothes. They were +shabby enough, certainly; not at all what he +would once have thought it necessary to wear +to be decent at church. But Zeph had been +down into depths from which all thoughts of +trivial considerations had long ago vanished. +He smiled half sadly as he turned towards the +church door, saying to himself, “I wouldn’t +have been caught goin’ to meetin’ in such cloes +’s these once; but I guess it don’t make any +difference to nobody but me, ’n’ I feel a real +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>call to hear some hymn-singin’ to-day. It’ll +get rid o’ the mornin’, too, quicker ’n any other +way. I hain’t got anythin’ to do but wait the +day out till she comes home to-night. She +won’t be down, I don’t suppose, before dark.” +And Zeph slipped in and sat down humbly in +one of the side pews nearest the door, which he +knew were free to all. It was early. The bells +he had heard were the first bells. No one was +in the building except the sexton, who was +bustling about, giving last touches of dusting to +the pulpit Bible. Presently two women entered, +bringing, one a large sheaf of white clematis +blooms, the other a high vase filled with the +feathery tassels of Indian corn and a few of the +graceful, tall, sword-like leaves. It was the custom +for the women of this congregation to take +turns in decorating the church for the Sunday +services; and there was much vying among +them, and continual exercise of ingenuity, each +to outdo the others in effective arrangement of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>flowers. As they walked up the aisle Zeph’s +eyes followed them with astonishment.</p> + +<p>“If that ain’t just common field corn, ’s +sure’s I’m alive,” he said; “’n’ it’s prettier ’n +the flowers be, heaps! Well, I never!” And +for the moment he forgot his misery in watching +the women dispose their bouquets on the +reading-desk and table.</p> + +<p>Presently one of them turned briskly and +stepped down the aisle to look up at the desk +to see if the arrangement could be improved.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Lord!” said Zeph. And in the same instant +he buried his face in his hands on the back +of the seat in front of him. “That’s that Miss +Burr I was askin’ after Rushy last night. I don’t +want her to see me. She’ll be sure to spry +round here askin’ if I’ve found her. She’s +dreadful active.” And Zeph remained bowed +over, his face hid from view, till he heard their +steps leaving the church.</p> + +<p>It was indeed Miss Sophy; and as she came +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>down the aisle, her quick eyes catching sight of +Zeph’s bowed figure, she said to her companion: +“Just look at that man all doubled up there +in the poor-pews. I do declare, I think it’s a +shame to have any such thing’s poor-pews: it’s +a kind o’ badge o’ disgrace to sit there; I’ve +known lots ’n’ lots o’ poor folks that wouldn’t +set foot ’n ’em, not if they never heard a sermon +t’ their dyin’ day, they said. I always feel +ashamed when I go by ’em ’n’ shut the door t’ +my pew. It’s borne in on me ’tain’t Christian. +I think the Catholics are lots better ’n we are +about that,—lots. There ain’t anything but +poor-pews ’n their churches, ’n’ that’s the way +it ought to be,—free to all.”</p> + +<p>“How you do talk, Sophy!” replied her companion, +good Mrs. Jones. “Why don’t you be +a Catholic ’n’ done with it, if you think their +way’s so much better ’n ours?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t!” retorted Miss Sophy,—“nothin’ +o’ the kind. But I say they’ve got the right +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>idea about seatin’ people. No wonder they +get all the poor people;—I should think they +would. I wouldn’t stir into our church if I +couldn’t hire my pew, the way ’tis now; but ’tain’t +right, ’n’ ’twon’t last, neither. You’ll see +it don’t last. ’Twon’t be a great many years +before there’ll be free sittin’s, ’s they call it, +in every church ’n America.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then there’ll be lots o’ rich people ’ll +stay away ’stead o’ the poor people!” retorted +Mrs. Jones. “Who wants to sit alongside o’ +such a common-looking day-laborer ’s that?” +pointing to Zeph.</p> + +<p>“He’s clean enough,” replied Miss Sophy, +eying Zeph closely as they passed out. “I +wouldn’t mind sitting alongside of him. He +must be awfully broken down, somehow, to be +in here this time o’ day, sittin’ all scrouched into +a heap like that. I’ve a good mind to go speak +to him.” And she halted.</p> + +<p>“Sophy Burr, you come right straight along +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>out this minute!” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, raising +her voice indignantly above the decorous whisper +in which they had been conversing. “I do +believe you’d take all the dead beats ’n this +town on your shoulders if you could. You +sha’n’t go near the man!” And as Miss Sophy, +laughing, allowed herself to be dragged out of +the doorway, Zeph lifted his head with a sense +of relief and escape.</p> + +<p>Just as the congregation stood up for the first +singing, the door of the pew where he sat was +timidly opened, and a lame old woman, dressed +in rusty black, leading a little boy, edged shamefacedly +in, glancing with a mute apology in her +eyes at Zeph. Sitting down slowly and with +difficulty, she motioned to the child to stand; +whispering to Zeph, “I’ve got the rheumatiz +so’t I can’t keep on my feet.” The child, shy, +and unwonted to the place, refused to stand up, +and clinging to her skirts began to whimper. +Zeph reached out his hand to him, with a smile, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>and whispered, “You stand up here by me.” +The little fellow yielded at once, the old woman +looking on wonderingly at his sudden obedience +to a stranger. When the singing was over, +the child, instead of drawing close to her, nestled +up to Zeph, and laid one hand confidingly on +his knee. It was a small thing, a very small +thing, but it comforted Zeph. Putting his arm +round the little chap, he drew him closer, and +resting his head comfortably against his shoulder, +whispered, “Go to sleep, sonny, if you want to.” +The boy looked up with a vague smile, nestled +again, and shut his eyes. Zeph hugged him +tighter still, stroking his hair, and thinking, +“Poor little fellow! He’s got to be a man some +day!”</p> + +<p>The minister had risen in the pulpit, opened +the Bible, and was reading his text.</p> + +<p>What words were these, falling on Zeph’s ear? +No wonder he started,—started so violently +that the child opened his dozing eyes and looked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>up in alarm at his new friend. An audible +exclamation had nearly burst from Zeph’s lips. +He gazed at the minister with an emotion very +like terror. Was this stranger, this man of +whom he had never heard, speaking directly +to him, him alone, of all that congregation? +Had a message come straight from Heaven +to his soul at this crisis in his life? Was it +God, and no mere earthly voice, saying these +words: “I say not unto thee until seven times, +but until seventy times seven”?</p> + +<p>“‘Seventy times seven!’” repeated the preacher. +“We have heard it so often that we do not +realize what it means; we set it down as a figure +of speech and let it go out of our thoughts. +And so it was a figure of speech whereby the +Master intended to convey to us the great truth +that forgiveness is to last as long as offences +last,—unto the very end, no matter how long +the life, how bitter the offence. Is not that the +way God deals with us? Day after day, year +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>after year, have we not been offending Him, +breaking His law, slighting His love? We are +old, many of us; have we yet ceased to offend? +Yet here comes this beautiful sun shining on us, +forgiving us anew, this very morning.”</p> + +<p>“Just what I was thinkin’ up on the mesa +there,” said Zeph to himself, “only I didn’t put +it that way.”</p> + +<p>“And even if we took the numbers literally,” +the preacher went on, “even then, do we live +up to it? ‘Seventy times seven:’ four hundred +and ninety. Can we look into our hearts, dealing +honestly with ourselves, and say we have forgiven, +any one of us,—forgiven so many offences +as that? Friend, neighbor, husband, wife, how +is it? Hast thou been hurt by any one four +hundred and ninety times, and four hundred +and ninety times forgiven the hurt,—forgiven +it, wiped it out?”</p> + +<p>It was a homely and realistic putting of the +phrase, but it struck home better than a loftier +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>one would have done. Not a pew in which +some suddenly remorseful heart, thinking of +some one especial offender, did not own, shame-smitten, +“No, not so many as that;” and no +one more swiftly, remorsefully, than the always +gentle Zeph.</p> + +<p>“That’s a fact!” he was saying in his +thoughts. “’Tain’t been near so many times’s +that; an’ I don’t know either ’s I’ve ever once +really forgiven her, out ’n’ out, without layin’ +it up to make next time harder; ’n’ that ain’t +the way the Lord figures it. ’Twould go hard +with us ef He did! When Rushy comes home +to-night I don’t mean to say ’s much ’s one +word t’ her about anythin’, only how glad I +am to get her to home again.”</p> + +<p>At the end of the sermon the preacher, his +whole soul deeply stirred within him by the +attempt to hold up in its true light, shape, +color, to bring within his people’s real grasp +the one eternal talisman,—talisman alike for life +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>and death, for time and eternity, Forgiveness,—paused, +and with bent head and trembling voice +said, “Shall we dare now to utter the prayer—” +He paused again. “Yes. Since the Master +gave us the words, we must dare to use them; +let us dare now to utter this prayer, ‘Forgive us +our trespasses <i>as</i> we forgive those who trespass +against us.’”</p> + +<p>Sobs were heard throughout the church, and +after the benediction the congregation dispersed +silently, as from a funeral service. There had +indeed been many a grave closed forever in +those last few moments,—closed, and a white +stone set in token; it had been a moment of +inspiration for the preacher, of salvation to the +people.</p> + +<p>Zeph passed out of the door, the little boy +still clinging to his hand and the old woman +hobbling by his side. The poor do not stand +on ceremony with each other.</p> + +<p>“That was drefful good doctrine he preached,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>she said tremulously, “but ’t’s pretty hard to +live up to. Guess he hain’t had no great crosses +hisself.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know about that,” replied Zeph, +slowly. “I was a thinkin’ mebbe he had had +more ’n common, ’r else he wouldn’t ha’ thought +it all out so clear. ’T seemed to me he felt all +he was sayin’.”</p> + +<p>“There’s things can’t be forgiven!” she said +sullenly.</p> + +<p>Zeph made no reply. Her words grated +on him. The child looked up apprehensively +as she pulled him away into another road. +“I never see him take so to a stranger,” she +said. “Guess ye’ve got children o’ your +own.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, two,” replied Zeph.</p> + +<p>“He’s my grandson,” she said. “All I’ve +got left out o’ three boys ’n’ two girls: all +dead. But there’s lots o’ things worse ’n +death,” she added gloomily. “I’ve lived long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>enough to know that. Good day t’ ye.” And +she turned away.</p> + +<p>“‘Lots o’ things worse ’n death,’” repeated +Zeph, as he took his lonely road home. +“That’s true; ’n’ then again ’tain’t true. +While there’s life, there’s hope.” He felt himself +strangely cheered and lifted. If forgiveness +were so mighty a thing as the preacher +had said,—and it must be, since it was all that +God had or needed to save the world by,—what +more could be needed to straighten out +all the tangles of any one little life? He felt +his heart full of a larger, better forgiveness towards +his wife than he had ever before known; +a warmer love than he had felt for many a +month.</p> + +<p>“There is nothing love cannot do,” the +preacher had said. “The thing is, to be sure +that the love is truly love, and not selfishness.”</p> + +<p>“I know I love Rushy,” thought Zeph, “an’ +’tain’t selfish love, I know ’tain’t! I’d give +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>her up to-day, if I could see any way she’d be +better off without me.”</p> + +<p>And with his heart full of such thoughts as +these he sat down to wait patiently till night for +her return.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>It was a bitter home-coming,—a bitter return +for the forgiving lovingkindness awaiting her.</p> + +<p>Tired, more discontented with her home than +ever, bearing the baby in her arms, Rushy +entered the door, Zephie following, carrying a +basket almost heavier than he could lift.</p> + +<p>As her eyes fell upon her husband, who went +forward to meet her, about to speak words of +welcome, she exclaimed testily: “Oh, you’re +here, are you! sittin’ round, I s’pose, doin’ +nothin’, ever since I went away.”</p> + +<p>A hot flush rose in Zeph’s face, but he made +a mighty effort to curb his anger, and answered +gravely: “No, Rushy, I haven’t been sittin’ +much o’ the time these last three days. I’ve +been huntin’ you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, ye might have spared yourself that +trouble,” she rejoined. “If I’d wanted to be +found, I could ha’ told ye where I was goin’.”</p> + +<p>“Rushy,” exclaimed Zeph, “don’t aggravate +me so! I want to live peaceable with ye. I +wan’t goin’ to say a word to ye about havin’ +been gone all this time; I’ll do anythin’ on +God’s earth for ye, Rushy, if ye’ll only stay at +home ’n’ live ’s ye’d oughter.”</p> + +<p>She turned on him like a fury: “Live ’s I’d +oughter! Ye miserable, mean-spirited, no-’count +critter! I’ve earned six dollars these +three days I’ve been gone; earned it by as +hard work ’s ever I did in my life,—six +dollars in money, besides stuff enough in the +basket there to feed the children ’n’ me for two +days more. Have you been earnin’ anything, +I’d jest like to know? Have you earned a cent, +now, these three days? I say you’re the one +that had better live as he’d oughter!” And laying +the baby on the bed, she began unpacking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>the basket of food, and with a triumphant air +enumerating the articles as she took them out: +“There’s cold turkey and veal, and corn-starch, +an’ a can o’ tomatoes, ’n’ tea, ’n’ coffee,—better +vittles than there’s been in this house for one +whiles.”</p> + +<p>Zeph gazed at her in a sort of dumb despair. +He had not been prepared for this. Like a +strange, far-away sound came into his mind +the preacher’s words on which he had been +musing so much of the day: “There is nothing +that love cannot do if it is true love, and +not selfishness.”</p> + +<p>“I got a nice steak for supper,” he said. +“It’s there on the table.”</p> + +<p>She glanced at it contemptuously. “What’s +two pounds o’ steak?” she said. “You can +keep it for yourself; we’ve got all we want. +I’m goin’ down town in the mornin’ into +rooms I’ve got there. I sha’n’t live here no +longer!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span></p> + +<p>“Rooms!” gasped Zeph. “Rushy, what do +ye mean? Ye ain’t goin’ to leave me for good +an’ all! You don’t mean that, Rushy?” And +he came towards her with a bound, and putting +his hands on her shoulders, looked her in the +eyes with an expression which had melted any +but a hardened heart. Outraged love, indignation, +incredulity, were blended in it; but over +and above all, a yearning tenderness, the whole +passion of a man’s nature, that could not, would +not, surrender the loved object.</p> + +<p>“I’ll never let you go, Rushy, never!” he +cried. “Ye don’t mean it. You’ll never go ’n’ +shame me ’n’ the children ’n’ yourself that way. +You don’t mean it! Say you don’t mean it, +Rushy!” And his voice broke into almost a +sob.</p> + +<p>“I do mean it too, Zeph Riker, an’ you’ll +see I mean it. I hate the very sight of you, +’n’ you know it; an’ if you can’t earn a livin’, I +can, ’n’ I’m goin’ to; but I ain’t goin’ to earn +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>it for you too. The rooms is took ’n’ paid for, +’n’ I’m goin’ into ’em to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Zeph buried his face in his hands and was +silent. A tempest was raging within him. A +terrible impulse to spring upon his wife and kill +her swept through his veins,—gone in a second; +yet it had been there, and Zeph shuddered as it +fled.</p> + +<p>Again the far-away refrain sounded in his +ears: “There is nothing love cannot do.”</p> + +<p>“Rushy,” he said, “you can’t say I hain’t +made a livin’ for us all.”</p> + +<p>“A livin’!” she broke in scornfully. “’Tain’t +what I call a livin’!” and she threw a contemptuous +glance round the rooms. “A livin’!” she +repeated tauntingly.</p> + +<p>“It ain’t what it used to be, I know, Rushy,” +said Zeph. “But that ain’t my fault; you stay +at home ’n’ see to things ’s ye used to, ’n’ I’ll +have everything comfortable for ye mighty +quick. I’ve been dreadful broke up this last +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>year, Rushy. You don’t keep count o’ the days +I’ve been goin’ round huntin’ you; that’s what’s +broke up my work; ’n’ then havin’ to sell my +tools.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I do keep count of ’em, too!” she +shrieked; “you needn’t think I don’t! An’ +every time ye come taggin’ on like a fool after +me I hate ye worse; so you can put that ’n +your pipe ’n’ smoke it. Perhaps if ye’d let me +alone ’n’ let me come and go like other folks, +without spyin’ on me, I shouldn’t ha’ gone +away so often. But I’m goin’ now, an’ goin’ to +stay. This’s the last night ever I’ll sleep ’n +this house; you mark my words!”</p> + +<p>“What makes ye say ‘like other folks,’ +Rushy? You can’t fling it up against me that +I hain’t tried to shelter ye from gettin’ yer name +into folks’s mouths. There ain’t the livin’ man +can say he’s ever heard me open my lips against +ye; nobody’s ever heard it from me that you +was off; many ’n’ many’s the time I’ve ’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>good ’s lied to keep it covered up. There +isn’t any woman was ever heard of goin’ away +from home the way you do,—leastways, no decent +woman,” he muttered in a bitterer tone.</p> + +<p>This last expression seemed to subdue instead +of increasing her wrath. She looked at +him for a moment reflectively, as if a new idea +had struck her; then her fury broke forth +anew: “‘Decent woman,’ eh! Well, I call a decent +man, a man that keeps his family comfortable, +and can earn good wages, and don’t grudge +a woman the price of a bonnet, ’n’ ’s got some +pride about him ’n’ ’ll fix up his place, ’n’ not +begin a house ’n’ then let it stand till the +timbers rots without so much ’s roofin’ it in. +That’s what I call ‘decent;’ ’n’ I don’t call you +anyways decent, ’n’ I hain’t for a good while, +’n’ I don’t care who knows it. I’m done now! +I’ve stood it ’s long ’s I’m goin’ to. I can take +care o’ myself ’n’ the children, ’n’ I will!”</p> + +<p>“I hain’t ever made any objection to your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>earnin’ money, Rushy,” persisted Zeph, “any +way you could do it here ’t home.”</p> + +<p>“How’s anybody to get a thing to do +down ’n this Flat?” she replied. “You don’t +suppose anybody’d come down here to +board?”</p> + +<p>“Are you going to take boarders, Rushy?” +said Zeph, the words coming slowly from his +lips. A new horror was seizing him.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am!” she answered defiantly. “There’s +more money in that than anything.”</p> + +<p>“What’re you goin’ to do for furniture?”</p> + +<p>“The rooms I’ve took is ready furnished,” +she answered sullenly.</p> + +<p>“And the boarders too?” said Zeph, in a +hard voice. “I begin to understand. Ye’re +goin’ in with that Sal Leeson, Rushy.”</p> + +<p>“Well, supposin’ I am!” she muttered. “She’s +a good friend to me, ’n’ that’s more than +any other woman ’n this God-forsaken town’s +been!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, Rushy, Rushy!” groaned Zeph. “They +was all your friends once; everybody liked you +when we first come here, you know they did. +An’ if we was to move away now, ’n’ go somewheres +else, an’ begin over again, ye’d make +plenty o’ friends anywheres. Come, Rushy, let’s +go. I’ll start with ye anywheres ye say; we can +sell out for money enough to go with. Come, +Rushy!” and he tried to take her hand in his.</p> + +<p>She pushed him away roughly, with a brutal +laugh. “Zeph Riker,” she said, “you’re a +fool! Hain’t I tried ye? I tell ye I’m done. +I won’t never live with ye any more,—never! +I’ve had my mind made up to that for longer ’n +you’ve any idea. I’ve only been waitin’ to see +my way clear, ’n’ now I see it, ’n’ I’m goin’, +’n’ you might ’s well quit makin’ a fuss! I’m +goin’!”</p> + +<p>“I forbid ye, Rushy,” said Zeph, solemnly. +“I forbid ye! I’m your husband, ’n’ I forbid +ye.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span></p> + +<p>“Forbid away!” she sneered. “I’m goin’ all +the same.”</p> + +<p>Zeph left the house. This was a new pass +to which things had come. The tender currents +of yearning affection which had been all +day setting warmly towards his wife were fast +changing under her wicked and cruel words to +angry and revengeful feeling. He would talk +no more with her. He would go apart by himself +and wrestle with this new dilemma. What +it was possible for him to do he did not clearly +see. Bitterly he wondered within himself what +a rich man would do in such a dilemma; if a +woman threatening such disgrace to herself and +family could be locked up and guarded like a +lunatic; what provision the law made for such +contingencies.</p> + +<p>“It’s easy enough for the judge to say, if ’t +came into court, that she’s got to stay ’t home; +but that won’t keep her there, ’n’ locks ’n’ bars +wouldn’t either, if she’s made up her mind to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>go; ’n’ I can’t stay at home ’n’ watch her, nor +pay anybody else for doin’ it either. Lord have +mercy on me, now! I don’t see any way to +turn.” And half blinded by these whirling, +miserable thoughts, Zeph went on walking, +walking, he knew not where. At last he +turned.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go home,” he said. “She sha’n’t have +it to say I didn’t stay with her to-night. Perhaps +I can bring her round yet.”</p> + +<p>But when he entered the house his first +glance showed him that she had not faltered +in her intention, and that the morning would +see it carried out. Two boxes stood in the +middle of the kitchen floor locked and corded. +Her own clothes and the children’s had all been +taken out of the closet and drawers. The steak +lay untouched on the platter where he had left +it. The basket of provisions she had brought +from the camp was repacked, and a brown paper +tied tight over its top. “She don’t even mean +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>to get breakfast here,” thought Zeph, as he +passed through into the bedroom. The children +were in their bed asleep, undressed as +usual. Rushy lay on the outside of the bed, +none of her clothes removed, her arm flung +over the little ones with an expression of fierce +protection, which smote Zeph none the less +because he could not have analyzed the +feeling.</p> + +<p>“She needn’t ha’ thought I’d take ’em away +from her in their sleep,” he thought. “What +could I do with the baby, anyway, even if I was +minded to steal ’em from her?”</p> + +<p>Rushy was asleep and breathing heavily. +She had indeed worked hard and was tired out. +As Zeph stood looking down on her face there +swept over him a storm of memories of the +early days of their acquaintance, courtship, and +marriage,—days when he was like a man treading +in air, so foolish and fond was he; so blind +to everything except her beauty and her fascinating, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>bewitching ways. Every reminiscence +of these was now but fuel to the fires that +were consuming him.</p> + +<p>“There doesn’t anybody know any better ’n +I do,” he said, in jealous anguish, “what ways +she’s got o’ takin’ a man off his feet. I don’t +blame any of ’em, not a mite, I don’t, if she +makes up her mind to fool ’em. There wasn’t +ever the man born could stand out against +her!” and he groaned.</p> + +<p>The sound awoke Rushy. Looking up at +him angrily, she exclaimed, “Keep away, can’t +ye? Let me alone!”</p> + +<p>“I wasn’t going to touch ye, Rushy,” said +Zeph; and he crossed the room and threw +himself, without undressing, on the outside of +the bed.</p> + +<p>Slowly the night wore away, Rushy sleeping +heavily, as undisturbed as if no tragedy brooded +over her home; Zeph lying motionless, with +wide-open eyes, asking himself over and over +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>and over again the bootless question, what he +should do. It was like a waking nightmare, the +sense of near catastrophe which weighed on his +helplessness.</p> + +<p>Once in the night the baby woke and cried +hoarsely. Rushy rose, lighted the lamp, and +attended lovingly to the little creature’s wants. +As she was doing so she met Zeph’s steady +gaze following her every motion. Her face +hardened instantly into an evil and defiant +expression which cut Zeph to the quick.</p> + +<p>“She hates me,” he thought. “That wa’n’t +anythin’ less than hate, that look she had then.” +He was glad when she blew out the light, and +without speaking threw herself again on the bed.</p> + +<p>The bedroom windows faced the east. At +the first ray of light Rushy sprang up, and +rousing the children began dressing them. +Zeph sat on the edge of his bed, watching her +silently. He had resolved not to speak first, +to simply bide the issue as she might force it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>upon him. His continued silence made her +uneasy. From time to time she glanced at him +apprehensively. His quiet, calm look made +her anxious. She was not clear in her own +mind what it meant, nor what might be the +extent of his power in the matter. The evil +counsellors with whom she had resolved to now +cast in her fortunes had warned her that the +law would uphold her husband in compelling +her to remain at home, or in taking the children +from her did he choose to let her go.</p> + +<p>“Let him just try it!” she had answered +boastfully. “I’d like to see any man take my +children away from me.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s the law, Rushy,” Nat Leeson had +said. To tell the truth, infatuated as he was with +Rushy, he was by no means unwilling that the +children should be left with their father.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care if it’s a hundred laws,” Rushy +had made answer. “I tell you nobody’s goin’ +to get my children away from me. I’ll make +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>a good livin’ for ’em, ’n’ no judge is goin’ to take +’em away ’n’ give ’em to Zeph Riker to take +care of! I ain’t a mite afraid.”</p> + +<p>But she was; and the longer Zeph’s silence +lasted, and the more glances she stole at his +calm, resolute face, the more afraid she grew; +and it was with an almost sinking heart that at +last, when she had no longer any excuse for +further delay, she turned to him and said, with +a poor attempt at bravado in her tone, “I’m +going now, Zeph.” She was tying her bonnet-strings +as she spoke. Her hands trembled. +Zeph saw it.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t ye thought better o’ what ye said +last night, Rushy?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The gentleness of his voice and manner deceived +her. It is a piteous thing to see how, in +this life, the gentler and finer organized nature +is always the one to suffer most and come off +vanquished in collisions, and the coarse-grained, +brutal one to triumph.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span></p> + +<p>“No, I hain’t!” she cried in a harsh tone. +“I’ve thought better ’n’ better of goin’. Ye +poor shiftless thing, ye, I donno ’s ye’ve got +spirit enough to take care o’ yourself, let alone +taking care of a wife an’ children!”</p> + +<p>“Ye know ye’re sayin’ what’s not true, +Rushy,” said Zeph, gravely, with no excitement +in his manner. “Ye’re only trumpin’ up +things like that to say to folks to keep ’em from +shamin’ ye ’s ye deserve. Ye know you’ve +had a good home with me, ’n’ a man to love +ye ’s nobody else ever’ll love ye, out o’ all +these that’s been foolin’ ’n’ tollin’ ye to the +devil.”</p> + +<p>“You go to the devil yourself then,” cried +Rushy, “’n’ don’t sit there talkin’ to me like a +preacher. Look to home! If I was a mind to +cast up at you, I could do it fast enough; but +I’ve got too much to do. Come, Zephie, come +with mam! You’ve got to carry the basket, +but ’tain’t so heavy ’s ’twas last night. There’ll +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>be a man here to get the things this noon,” she +added, turning again to Zeph.</p> + +<p>He did not heed her. He was gazing at +little Zephie. The child stood looking from his +mother to his father, the tears slowly rolling +down his cheeks. He was only ten years old, but +he understood too well the wretched, shameful +scene. It was not the first he had witnessed.</p> + +<p>“Come on, Zephie,” said his mother, moving +towards the door. The boy did not stir.</p> + +<p>Zeph held out his hands to him. “Stay here +with pappy,” he said. “Mam’ll come back perhaps +sooner ’n she says. You stay with pappy.” +And tears which all Rushy’s cruelty had failed +to wring from Zeph’s eyes fell now as he drew +his boy close and folded him in his arms.</p> + +<p>Rushy halted. She was undecided. “Oh, +well,” she said, in a hard tone, affecting to +laugh, “Zephie can stay with you if he wants to; +he’ll be glad enough to come to his mammy, +though, when he’s hungry. He knows where +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>’tis. When you want some o’ mam’s gingerbread, +Zephie, you come down and get it.” +And without another look at her husband she +left the house, the baby in her arms.</p> + +<p>For some moments Zeph sat like one +stunned. He had not really believed she would +do it; or that it would be anything more than +her previous absences. But he realized now +that it was different; something had passed, +had gone forever; a new gulf had opened between +him and his wife. He was recalled to +himself by little Zephie, who still stood between +his knees, softly crying.</p> + +<p>“What makes mam go away?” he sobbed.</p> + +<p>The innocent question unnerved Zeph. He +too sobbed, and holding the child convulsively +to his breast, cried: “I don’t know, Zephie; +something dreadful’s got into mam. Pappy’s +afraid she’s crazy; but perhaps she’ll come +back different.”</p> + +<p>“She won’t ever come back,—not into this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>house,” said the boy. “I heard her tell Sal so +last night.”</p> + +<p>“What did Sal say?” asked Zeph.</p> + +<p>“She said she’d be just fool enough!” he +replied.</p> + +<p>So these were the influences under which +Rushy had been. He knew it before, but the +child’s artless story seemed to vivify his realization +of it.</p> + +<p>“What did mam say when Sal said that?” +asked Zeph.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said the child; “I didn’t +hear her say anything. Nat said—”</p> + +<p>“What did Nat say?” broke in Zeph, so +fiercely that the child started.</p> + +<p>“Nat said she’d have to come back.”</p> + +<p>“He did, did he?” muttered Zeph.</p> + +<p>“Zephie,” he continued, “you an’ pappy’ll +live together now till mam comes home. We’ll +have some beefsteak now for breakfast, ’n’ then +pappy’ll take you over to Gammer’s to stay +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>while he goes to work; ’n’ you can go to school +with Bud; ’n’ to-night pappy’ll get a nice +supper.”</p> + +<p>“Will you have gingerbread?” asked Zephie.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the father, “gingerbread and +apples.” And by some inexplicable mental process +the very incongruity between this question +and answer and the depth of misery in his +breast moved him to laughter, and helped him +as no other thing just at that moment could +have done.</p> + +<p>Gammer Stein was “Gammer” to the whole +neighborhood. Not a family in all the Flat, +or, as Gammer’s Missourian tongue called it, +“Flairt,” but went to her for sympathy, counsel, +help, in the perplexities and troubles of +their hard-working lives. She was the only +person with whom Zeph had ever talked of his +troubles with his wife. A great-hearted, tireless, +motherly woman, caring tenderly, through +all her poverty, for every one, neighbor or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>stranger, poorer than herself; bringing up, in +her old age, with the affectionate patience of +a mother, two orphan grandchildren; bearing +with more than wifely, almost with superhuman, +good-nature the ill-temper of a brutal husband, +to whom even his seventy years had brought +neither decency nor moderation of passions,—Gammer +Stein was one of those unknown, unnoted +saints, whose lives, unwritten in words, +are written in records of influence as ineffaceable, +as eternal, as the records of changes +and influences in the solid substance of the +earth.</p> + +<p>It was not a year after she arrived in town, +with the two little grandsons clinging to her +skirts, and calling loudly, unceasingly, from +morning till night, “Gammer, Gammer!” before +the whole neighborhood where she lived had +learned to echo the children’s name and the +children’s cry; and it had so nearly passed out +of the memory of the place that the old woman +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>had another name than “Gammer,” that when, as +sometimes happened, a stranger asked her real +name, the people had to bethink themselves, to +recall that “Mary,” and not “Gammer,” was the +name by which she had been christened.</p> + +<p>Two weeks had passed since Rushy bade her +defiant farewell to her husband. It was again +a cloudless summer Sabbath morning, and the +hush of the beneficent rest it had brought +brooded over all the working-people’s homes +in the Flat. Even the belated curls of smoke +seemed to ascend lingeringly, as if knowing +that on this day there was no hurry about anything. +But there was no curl of smoke going +up out of the chimney of Zeph’s house. More +than once Gammer Stein had glanced that way +in neighborly curiosity, and had thought to +herself, “Poor fellow! he sleeps late to-day. +It’s well he can.”</p> + +<p>As the morning wore on, and still no sign +of life came from the house, her thoughts took +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>a shape of anxiety, and she said to her husband, +“I allow Zeph’s sick. He hain’t stirred yit. +Yeow jest go over ’n’ see ef he wants anythin’.”</p> + +<p>“I allow he kin run his sickness hisself,” +growled Wilhelm, who was the antipodes of his +wife in every one of the traits which so endeared +her to her neighbors. “I allow I hain’t got no +call to go aout nussin’ jest yit. Yeow kin ef yer +want ter. I allow yer fool enough.”</p> + +<p>Gammer glanced at him reproachfully. For +fifty years she had held her peace at such replies +as this; but this morning, for some reason, +her mild soul was moved to make answer. +“Ef yer wuz layin’ sick in yer bed hyar, ’n’ +nobody ter come nigh yer, I allow Zeph’d +be ther fust one as ’ud be lookin’ arter yer; I +allow he would. He’s all alone thar. The +boy’s ben these two days daown ’t his mother’s. +I seed ’twas cuttin’ inter Zeph, the little feller’s +goin’ off ter her. I wouldn’t wonder a mite ef +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>Zeph hed gone killed hisself. He’s sed more +’n once he bleeved she’d drive him t’ it; ’n’ I +see him sharpenin’ a big knife ’n aour grindstone. +Thet wuz last Wednesday; no, ’twuz +Toosday. I wuz ironin’, ’n’ sez I, jest careless, +‘What yer sharpenin’ ’t so sharp fur, Zeph?’ +’n’ he sez, sez he, ‘I ain’t gwine ter cut my +throat, Gammer, yit, never yeow be afeerd;’ +jest ’s ef he seen I wuz thinkin’; ’n’ I sez ter +him, ‘Naow, Zeph, ef yeow’ve hed a hell ’n +this life, yeow don’t want ter go right straight +inter anuther wuss one, dew yer? An’ I +allow ef yer go ’n’ murder yeourself, ye’ll jest +go right straight inter torment thar won’t be +no gettin’ shet of, never!’ I jest spoke plain +ter him.”</p> + +<p>“I sh’d think ser,” growled Wilhelm; “allers +a meddlin’ in business ’tain’t any o’ yeourn. I +allow ’tain’t nothin’ ter yeow ef Zeph Riker +cuts his throat ef he wants ter.”</p> + +<p>“I allow ’tis,” continued Gammer, placidly; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>“I allow he’s my brother, accordin’ to Scriptur’; +thar ain’t nobody gwine to kill hisself thet I +knows on, ef I kin hender him.”</p> + +<p>The words had hardly passed her lips, when +a sharp cry, “Gammer, Gammer!” came from +the front of the house. Both Gammer and +Wilhelm sprang to their feet.</p> + +<p>“That’s Zephie,” exclaimed Gammer, as she +ran to the door. Little Zephie was running by +at the top of his speed. As he passed, he +shrieked, “Nat’s cut pappy all ter pieces! +He’s bleedin’! The men’s bringin’ him.”</p> + +<p>Horror-stricken, Gammer followed the child, +and overtook him as he was vainly trying with +his trembling little fingers to fit the key into +the door.</p> + +<p>“Oh, hurry, hurry!” he cried. “Oh, Gammer, +get the door open! Pappy told me to +run ’n’ git his bed ready.”</p> + +<p>“He’s alive, then?” gasped Gammer.</p> + +<p>“Yes, he’s alive,” sobbed Zephie, “but he’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>bleedin’; his face’s all cut. Oh, Gammer, Gammer, +when I’m a man I’ll kill Nat!”</p> + +<p>“Hush, child! naow don’t yeow talk thet +way; tew killin’s is wuss ’n one! It’s all murder,” +said Gammer, moving about the rooms +distractedly, hardly knowing what she did, as +she heard the steady tramp of men’s feet nearing +the house.</p> + +<p>It was a ghastly burden they brought, a +ghastly story they had to tell. After they had +made the wounded man as comfortable as it +was possible to make him with the scanty +accommodations at hand, the doctor drew Gammer +aside and told her the tale.</p> + +<p>It seemed that Zeph, poor fellow, had not +been able to keep away from the house where +his wife was living. Not only did he yearn for +the sight of her face and the baby’s, but he had +a foolish notion that his being occasionally seen +there would be a shelter to her reputation. He +had even said, with incredible magnanimity, to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>Sal Leeson, who reluctantly bore that much of +testimony to his goodness, “It’s all against my +will, Rushy’s bein’ here; but so long’s she’s +my wife, ’n’ ’s got my children along with her, +it’s better for all round that I should be here +some o’ the time, whether she wants me or +not!”</p> + +<p>The evil-doers, men and women, who consorted +in the place, had been more than once +shamed and sobered and finally driven out of +Rushy’s room by the sight of the silent, sad-faced +man whose name she had so dishonored. +It was incredible that he could have borne it. +But he did; and it had become evident that if +Rushy was insensible to his presence, others +were not, and a new feeling of respect and +sympathy for Zeph had arisen, even in the +minds of those previously most hostile to him. +Nat himself had been sometimes shamed into +withdrawing from the stern, silent gaze of the +injured husband. Encouraged by these signs +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>that the man was not wholly insensible to disgrace, +Zeph had resolved to make one effort to +reason with him, and had timed this remonstrance +unluckily, addressing him when he was +sufficiently under the influence of liquor to be +savagely irritable. It was late on Saturday +evening. As Nat entered Rushy’s kitchen with +the easy familiarity of one privileged, Zeph, +who had been waiting for him to come in, rose, +and said, “Nat, I owe all my troubles with my +wife to you. If it wasn’t for you—”</p> + +<p>He did not finish the sentence. Seizing a +carving-knife which lay on the table, Nat sprang +on him like a tiger. Zeph, wholly unarmed, +caught up a chair to ward off the blows, and one +swift, terrible second saw the two men wrestling +in a life-and-death fight. Stretched from one +corner to the other of the room was a line on +which Rushy had towels and small articles hung +airing after the wash. The chair with which +Zeph was hitting out blindly caught in this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>line, throwing him to the floor; and that was +the last he knew till, coming vaguely to his +senses, he heard voices above him: one, his +wife’s, angry, hard,—how it smote him!—“I +tell you he sha’n’t stay here! I’ve left him! +I won’t have him laid on that bed! He’s no +business here, any way!”</p> + +<p>Zeph opened his eyes. Opposite him was +Nat, raging, swearing, held firm by two policemen, +who were dragging him out of the +room.</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t ye let me alone till I’d finished +my job?” he bellowed, like a wild beast in his +fury, Rushy, one hand on his arm, one on his +mouth, vainly striving to check him from +incriminating himself further.</p> + +<p>Zeph closed his eyes at the harrowing sight. +Yes; why had they not let Nat finish his job! +How much better it would have been! What +a release from misery!</p> + +<p>Then he heard a voice saying angrily to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>Rushy,—it was the doctor,—“I don’t care +who he is or what he is, he has got to be laid +on that bed, I tell you! Are you a woman, or +a devil? Stand out of the way!” And then +Zeph felt himself lifted and borne, and a buzz +of murmuring voices, and sharp stinging pains +in his cheek and throat; and then he sank away +and knew no more until in the night, when he +waked again to himself, and all was still, no +sound except the loud ticking of a clock; and +some man sitting by him, a stranger, said in a +not unkind voice, “Hey! ’wake, are ye? Want +anything?” and Zeph had said feebly, “Water,” +and had tried to ask for Rushy, but the words +would not form themselves; and while he was +struggling to speak them, he floated off, he +thought, on a big white cloud, and the air was +full of the sound of bells ringing, and he remembered +that it must be Sunday, and opened his +eyes again, and saw the broad daylight streaming +into the room, and the doctor standing in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>the doorway, and men’s heads rising one behind +the other, and the doctor’s voice again, angry +and indignant, reasoning with Rushy. Could +those tones be Rushy’s, and those cruel words? +Yes, it was Rushy, saying in a shrill voice, “I +don’t care! I tell ye I won’t have him here. +He’s brought me trouble enough a’ready; an’ +now he’s got Nat into prison, ’n’ I don’t care +what becomes of him. ’Twas all his fault. +He begun the fight, aggravatin’ Nat. Nat never +spoke the first word.”</p> + +<p>And above all the confused and struggling +sounds of the excited voices still pealed on the +church-bells; and at the sound Zeph’s brain +seemed suddenly to clear itself, and strength to +come back to him; and half raising himself in +the bed, he spoke aloud: “Say, doctor, let +them carry me home; I’d rather go. ’T’won’t +hurt me. I ain’t very bad hurt, am I?”</p> + +<p>A hush fell on the group of excited talkers. +They had thought him asleep.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span></p> + +<p>“No, you’re not very bad hurt,” said the +doctor, coming to the bedside and feeling his +pulse. “I don’t suppose it’ll do you any hurt +to be carried over to your house. But you’ve +got an ugly cut in your face, came mighty near +being your throat, and it’ll need watching for +a few days, two weeks maybe. You’ve got to +be tended pretty close. You can’t be left all +alone in the house.” And the doctor glanced +wrathfully at Rushy, who stood silent, sullen, +looking down on the floor.</p> + +<p>“I’ll manage that, doctor,” said Zeph, cheerfully, +“if you’ll just get me home. My boy’ll +go with me, I guess; he’s there ’most o’ the +time. I’ll have to keep him out of school a +few days, but after that I’ll do for myself. I’ve +got good neighbors out there.”</p> + +<p>All this time Rushy spoke no word, but her +face grew harder and darker with every syllable +that fell from her husband’s lips. She saw how +his words were telling against her. Even her evil +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>comrade, Sal Leeson, bent almost compassionately +over the bed and wiped Zeph’s forehead +as he spoke.</p> + +<p>“I say, Rushy,” she muttered, “you might +let him stay just a few days; I’ll look after +him.”</p> + +<p>Before Rushy could reply, Zeph cried out, +“No, no! I tell you I won’t stay. Doctor, +it ’ud kill me to stay,” he continued pleadingly. +“Oh, get me out o’ here ’s quick ’s +you can!”</p> + +<p>They were all rough men who were standing +there ready to give what help might be in their +power, but there was not a man among them +whose pulses did not beat quicker at this cry +of Zeph’s. They lifted him in their arms tenderly, +as if he had been a helpless woman, +and many a resentful glance was shot back +at the unfeeling wife, who neither moved nor +spoke as her husband was borne out of the +house.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span></p> + +<p>“Good-by, Rushy,” he said. “I’m awful +sorry to have got ye into this trouble. But +ye know ’twan’t any o’ my doin’, Rushy. Ye +know ’twan’t. Say good-by to me, Rushy. +P’raps I’ll never see ye again.”</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” she said sullenly, without looking +up. In league and fast bound with malignant +spirits, surely, must Rushy Riker’s heart +have been, to have resisted the appeal of that +moment. Even Sal Leeson was crying; but +Rushy’s eyes glittered hard and dry with an +evil light. Her guilty and passionate heart was +full of terror for Nat. She had overheard one +of the policemen say, as they dragged him off +after the fray, “You’ll swing for this night’s +work, Nat Leeson;” and Nat, frantic in his fury, +had replied, “Swing and be damned! If you’d +let me alone a minute longer, I’d have finished +him!”</p> + +<p>Rushy knew only too well that if Zeph was +to die of his hurts, these reckless words of Nat’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>would carry terrible weight against him in the +trial for murder which must follow. Her whole +nature was on fire with apprehensions, wild and +bootless plottings and plannings, and over and +above all raged an unreasoning anger against +her husband for having been the occasion of +such danger to Nat.</p> + +<p>“If worst comes to worst, I’ll swear him out +myself,” said the wretched woman. “I’ll swear +Zeph set on him with the knife first. ’Twas +just the same’s a knife, the words he used. +They just made Nat crazy.”</p> + +<p>The jail was in full sight from her door: a +square, stone building with grated windows, at +the back a high fence surrounding an enclosure +in which a man had been hung only a few +months previous,—hung for a murder committed +in a sudden fray not unlike this one +between her husband and Nat. As Rushy +recalled the day of this hanging and the crowd +of men and women she had seen outside the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>fence eagerly striving, like wild beasts athirst +for blood, to look through cracks in the fence, +to climb up and see over, her heart sickened +within her; clenching her fist, she shook it +toward the jail and muttered: “They sha’n’t +ever hang Nat. I’ll burn the place down over +their heads first. If ’tis stone I’ll fire it somehow, +or I’ll get him poison! They sha’n’t +hang him!”</p> + +<p>The church in which Zeph had listened two +weeks before to the sermon on forgiveness +stood only a few rods from Rushy’s house. As +the men were carrying him past the door the +choir had just begun the singing of the first +hymn.</p> + +<p>“Stop a minute, can’t ye?” whispered Zeph. +“It jars me awful, bein’ carried; just rest a +minute here ’n this shade.” He would not +confess that it was for sake of the singing that +he wished to stop. With closed eyes he lay +listening. He could not hear the words, but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>the tune was one of the sweet old-fashioned +ones he had heard sung when he was a child; +and there were words echoing in his thoughts +which seemed to fit strangely into its rhythm,—words +echoing yet in the air, though it was +now fourteen days since their syllables had +been spoken: “Yea, I say unto you, until +seventy times seven.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what’s got into me,” thought +Zeph, “to be so haunted like by them words. +I don’t lay no claim to bein’ a Christian, ’n’ +I’d just as soon kill that Nat this minute ’s +I would a pizen snake; but I can’t get free +from them words.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>During these two weeks which had brought +such tragedy into Zeph’s life the memory of +him and his troubles had by no means died out +of Miss Sophy’s mind. She found herself reverting +with strange persistency to the trains +of unwonted thought awakened within her by +his inexplicable devotion to his unworthy wife. +The more she thought, the surer she became +that the man had done only what she herself +would have done in similar circumstances. “‘For +better, for worse,’” she repeated. “That doesn’t +mean but one thing; there aren’t any two +ways o’ readin’ or sayin’ such plain words as that! +An’ it’s ‘worse’ he’s got, no mistake. But I’m +as sure ’s I’m alive, that there ain’t many men +would take it the way he does; it’s more the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>way a woman ’ud do. Strange, too; such a +great strong man ’s he is! six foot if he’s an +inch,—I’d have thought he’d made short +work o’ any man that came foolin’ round his +wife. I’ll go up ’n’ see how he’s gettin’ along +to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>But times were busy with Miss Sophy. Midsummer +brought crowds of travellers to Pendar +Basin, and the reputation of Miss Sophy’s good +table was so wide that her doors were besieged +with applicants for board. She had to turn them +away by dozens, much to the distress of her +thrifty soul; but, as she curtly remarked sometimes +to those who wearied her by importunities, +“Four walls is four walls, ’n’ ye can’t make ’em +any bigger. It’s more for my interest to take +ye than ’tis for yours to come, but I haven’t got +so much as room for a shake-down left; that’s +the truth.”</p> + +<p>In addition to this inroad of boarders, Miss +Sophy had other perplexities on her mind; one +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>of her wise and long-seeing measures had been +the purchase of a small ranch, a few miles +from town, where she raised vegetables and +kept poultry and cows. Until this summer the +scheme had worked well; the ranch, in the +hands of a faithful Swede and his wife, yielding +her a profit on the investment, and contributing +no small share to the fame of her house. She +had called the ranch “Greenhills,” partly in +affection for her old Vermont home, partly because +the house stood in a little park-like open, +surrounded by low hills which had springs in +them, and were consequently green when the +rest of the plains around were sere and brown. +Greenhills butter and Greenhills poultry, whenever +there was any surplus above Miss Sophy’s +own needs, brought fancy prices in market; and +the sole air-castle Miss Sophy had, was the +vision of the time when she would have money +enough put away in the bank and on loans to +make it safe for her to give up keeping boarders +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>and live at Greenhills. And it was Greenhills +she had in her thoughts on that evening when +Zeph knocked at her kitchen door, and she had +with a hasty impulse, so unlike her usual circumspection, +told him she could give him work. +Something in Zeph’s eyes inspired her with sudden +and entire confidence in him, and she would +then and there have taken him into her employ, +had he been so minded; she was near at her +wits’ end with the miserable and dishonest fellows +she had employed on the place since the +Swede had gone away in the spring. Bitten +by the mining craze, of which there had been a +fresh outburst in the region, he had left her, +with only a week’s warning, in the midst of the +spring planting, and everything had seemed to +be going from bad to worse ever since.</p> + +<p>“If I could just get that Zeph up there to +overlook things! I believe he’s as honest ’s a +Newfoundland dog,” said Miss Sophy. And it +was, after all, not wholly philanthropy which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>made her, on the very Sunday afternoon after +Zeph’s fray with Nat, turn her steps once more +towards his house. With her usual straightforwardness +she was going directly to him to offer +him the situation. “An’ if that wife o’ his is in +the house,” said the resolute Miss Sophy, “I +sha’n’t mince any words with her. I shall just +tell her it’s her husband I want, an’ not her, +’n’ she won’t be allowed to set her foot on the +place. If he’s fool enough to come home to +her Sundays he can.” From which it is plain +to be seen, that, spite of her tender meditations +on the solemn words of the marriage service, +and on the touching faithfulness of Zeph to his +erring wife, Miss Sophy was not quite sound in +the practical application of the doctrine.</p> + +<p>But Providence intervened to save her the +shock of being suddenly confronted by the spectacle +of the wounded, helpless Zeph. As she +crossed the open in front of his house, Gammer +Stein’s sharp eyes spied her. Gammer was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>keeping the Sabbath in her wonted fashion, by +taking in vigorous hand the bodies of her grandchildren. +Cleanliness, in her creed, took place +of all especial observance of conventional godliness +on the seventh day; and a terrible day it +made of it for Bud and Tim. No possible Sunday +purgatory of hard benches and long sermons, +as experienced by the children of more +Orthodox parents, could have compared in terror +with the Sunday scrubbings and combings to +Gammer Stein’s grandchildren. The foreshadowing +gloom of it fell on them of a Saturday, and +the smart and tingle of it lasted all day Monday, +and longer.</p> + +<p>It was at a lucky crisis for Bud that Miss +Sophy appeared on the scene. The six days’ +tangle of his hair had proved too much both +for his grandmother’s patience and his own, and +he had just broken into loud crying, and she +into something as near scolding as her placid +nature ever reached, when, suddenly throwing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>combs, brushes, scissors, all to the floor, the +old lady cried, “Thar she goes now! Wall, ef +thet ain’t cur’us!” And without another word +she ran out of the house, waving her arms and +calling aloud: “Hyar! Miss Burr! Yeow hyar! +Don’t yer go nigh ther house. Yeow wait tell +I kin come up ter ye.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy, surprised, and, if the truth were +told, not wholly pleased, stood still, as admonished, +till Gammer reached her, and then coolly +waited for her to speak. Nothing daunted, +Gammer gasped breathlessly, “I allowed ye +wuz gwine ter Zeph’s, wan’t yer?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“Wall, I allowed ye wuz, ’n’ I jest dropped +everythin’. I wuz er grapplin’ wi’ Bud’s hair; +it’s somethin’ orful, Bud’s hair ez: ’n’ I jest +throwed the combs daown ’n’ run ter tell yer +not ter go nigh ther haouse.” And Gammer +stopped for want of breath.</p> + +<p>“Why not?” exclaimed Miss Sophy, curiosity +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>getting the better of her reserve. “What’s happened? +Who’s sick?”</p> + +<p>“’Taint no sickness, it’s wuss!” replied +Gammer, sententiously. “It’s wuss ’n any +sickness. Thet Nat’s cut Zeph all ter pieces, +’n’ he’s layin’ thar; the doctor’s in thar naow,—the +city doctor; pore folks hez ter hev him, +yer know. I allow he don’t know much; +Zeph wuz bleedin’ orful when they brung him +over; I wuz thar. I never seed sech a sight, +’n’ I don’t never want ter. I allow he’ll die, +sure.”</p> + +<p>“Cut to pieces!” interrupted Miss Sophy. +“What do you mean? He can’t be cut to +pieces! Is she in there? Did he find her? +Who’s takin’ care o’ him?”</p> + +<p>“Well, it ez in his face ’n’ jaw, mostly,” replied +Gammer; “he ain’t cut nowhar’s else; +’n’ ther doctor sez when his beard’s growed out +agen full, ’twon’t show none. The doctor, he +allowed ez he wouldn’t ha’ hed sech a cut’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>thet not fur no woman livin’; he allowed he +wouldn’t.”</p> + +<p>It was of no use to attempt to direct courses +and channels of narrative in Gammer Stein’s +mouth; once launched, she was as unmanageable +as a rudderless boat, and veered wildly +from past to present, from actual to hypothetical, +from descriptive to didactic, according to +the quarter from which each sudden reminiscence +and emotion struck her. After one or +two vain attempts to interpolate questions or +get some consecutive order of statement, Miss +Sophy abandoned all such efforts and patiently +listened, and in the course of half an +hour was in possession of the substantial facts +of the case.</p> + +<p>Two scarlet spots glowed on her cheeks. “It +is the most shameful thing I ever heard!” she +cried, when at length Gammer paused.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t it?” said Gammer. “Ain’t she jest +a disgrace ter ther whole on us? I allow thar +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>ain’t no hell, wharever ’tis ner whatsomeever +it’s made outer, thet’s bad enough fur sech’s +her.”</p> + +<p>“I’m goin’ in to see him,” said Miss Sophy, +firmly.</p> + +<p>“Yer ain’t, though, be yer?” said Gammer. +“Be yer reel steady headed? He looks +orful.”</p> + +<p>“I’m goin’ in,” repeated Miss Sophy. “He’s +got to be looked after. I shall ask the doctor +what he ought to have to eat.”</p> + +<p>“I allow I’ll go ’long tew,” said Gammer. +“Tew’s better ’n one.” And she accompanied +Miss Sophy to the door. As they reached it, +the doctor came out.</p> + +<p>“Ah! Ah, Miss Burr,” he said, in a tone of +relief, “I’m glad to see you here. How did +you hear of it? The man is badly hurt, but +he will pull through if he can be kept quiet. +He wants nursing, though.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy nodded. “Yes, I should think +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>he did,” she said in a wrathful tone. “I suppose +that good-for-nothing wife of his—”</p> + +<p>“Don’t speak of her!” broke in the doctor. +“She’s a regular she-devil! If she shows her +face here, I’ll have her arrested. He’s better +alone, than with her round. She won’t come, +anyhow; she’s left him.”</p> + +<p>“Humph!” said Miss Sophy, with something +between a snort and a sob. “Good riddance! +I should say.”</p> + +<p>“The little chap’s very handy,” continued the +doctor, “and he seems fond of his father. I’ve +showed him how to keep the bandages wet; +he mustn’t swallow anything but liquids for a +good many days,—only milk at first. In a day +or two, if you can give him some of your good +soups, Miss Burr, that will be all he will need. +He’ll pull through. It is a close shave; but the +man’s got the constitution of an ox.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see he has the soups, doctor,” said Miss +Sophy, turning away.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span></p> + +<p>“Ain’t yer gwine in?” cried Gammer, disappointed. +“Yer said ye wuz gwine in. I allow ’t +w’ud be good fur him ter know he’d got some +friends more’n he’d knowed on.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy hesitated. A sudden repugnance +had seized her.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said, “not to-day. I’ll be up +again to-morrow. You can tell him I was here, +and that I’ll look after him. He needn’t give +himself one mite of uneasiness about food. I’ll +see that he ’n’ the boy have all they need. +I’ll look after ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Then I allaow they’ll be looked arter,” said +Gammer. “Anybody’d know jest by ther +way yer step aout yer hedn’t no slouch abaout +yeow! Yer powerful active, yer air, fur a +woman er yeour build. It’s cur’us naow what +tuk Zeph ter yeour door thet night, ain’t it? +He hain’t hed much luck, but thet wuz luck; I +allow ter yeou, looks like ’twuz! Good day t’ +ye, good day! I allaow thet Bud’s got hes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>hair inter a wuss snarl ’n ’twuz afore, while +we’ve been talkin’. Ez soon’s I’ve got through +cleanin’ him up I shell go inter Zeph’s ’n’ +straighten aout things thar.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy went home like one walking in a +dream of horror. In the whole course of her +placid thirty-five years no such glimpse as this +of the dark side of human life and human +nature had ever reached her. The currents of +existence in her native village were always as +smooth as they were dull; no crime had ever +been committed there, neither did any of the +great daily newspapers come into the place +with its record of the wretched iniquities of +the outside world. Vaguely Miss Sophy knew +that such things were, as she knew that there +were volcanic eruptions and cyclones; but to +find herself thus face to face with, in fact almost +involved in, one of the most dreadful of all +human tragedies, stunned her.</p> + +<p>“Right here in Pendar Basin, too,” she said +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>to herself, “in this little village, and ’mongst +workin’ folks, too; I declare it’s awful! I +don’t like bein’ mixed up in it, anyhow. It +don’t seem decent to even know about it. But +somebody’s got to look after that man, that’s +certain; ’n’ I’d rather do it myself without any +help than go ’n’ tell anybody such a story’s +that. I’d bite my tongue off first.”</p> + +<p>And so with a grim repression which cost +Miss Sophy a dear expenditure of nerve force +in the self-restraint it involved, she went about +her business and said not a word to any one of +her ministrations to the wounded man. It was +not till the fourth day that she nerved herself +up to accompany Gammer to his bedside. The +sight overcame her, and routed her last vestige +of cowardly unwillingness to an open responsibility +about the case.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care what’s to be said,” she exclaimed, +“nor who’s mixed up in it; that man +ain’t goin’ to lie another day in that hole. I’m +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>goin’ to have him moved right out to Greenhills +and taken care of decent. I can drive +out there every day ’n’ see to him. I do go +out pretty near every day ’s ’tis; ’n’ the air out +there’ll half cure him. Why, the flies ’n that +room o’ his are enough to kill him,—just the +flies alone! There ain’t a window nor a door +out to Greenhills that hasn’t got mosquito net +in it.”</p> + +<p>“Yer don’t mean it, dew yer?” exclaimed +Gammer Stein, taken all aback at the suggestion.</p> + +<p>“I do, too!” cried Miss Sophy. “I’m going +to the doctor this minute to ask him if he’s got +anything to say against it.”</p> + +<p>“I dunno ’s Zeph ud be willin’,” began Gammer, +hesitatingly. “I allow—”</p> + +<p>“He’ll go if I come for him,” interrupted +Miss Sophy, impatiently. “He isn’t a fool,—that +is, not in everything,” she added testily. +“I want him out there to work’s soon ’s he’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>able, ’n’ he’ll be right there to begin.” And +Miss Sophy was off.</p> + +<p>In an hour she was back again with the doctor, +who was heartily in favor of her scheme. +In fact, he said the man’s one chance for life +lay in some such change; the wounds were not +of themselves enough to kill him, but the solitary +brooding over his troubles was keeping +up a fever in which he grew daily weaker and +daily worse.</p> + +<p>When Miss Sophy’s plan was explained to +Zeph, he lifted his eyes to her face in a long, +scrutinizing gaze.</p> + +<p>“I donno what reason ye’ve got, ma’am,” he +said slowly, “for takin’ so much trouble for me. +I ain’t worth it.”</p> + +<p>“I dare say you ain’t,” replied Miss Sophy, +“but you can’t be left to die here o’ these flies. +If there was a hospital, that’s the place you +ought to go to; but there ain’t any, ’n’ my +house out to Greenhills ’s plenty o’ room in it, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>’n’ there’s a man out there can see to all you +want. You don’t want anythin’, the doctor +says, but good food ’n’ to be quiet; ’n’ you can +have that out there without its costin’ anybody +anythin’, so we’ve decided to move you out +there. The men’ll be here about four o’clock +with the wagon.”</p> + +<p>“Greenhills ranch?” said Zeph, inquiringly,—a +faint gleam of interest lighting up the sadness +in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, “that’s my ranch; +that’s where I was going to give you work, +if you’d wanted it, that night you came to my +house; ’n’ just ’s soon ’s you’re on your feet +there’s plenty for you to do out there.”</p> + +<p>Zeph made no reply. His eyes turned to +Zephie, who stood at the foot of the bed, +listening wide-mouthed to the startling proposition.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy misunderstood the expression of +Zeph’s gaze.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, the boy can go too,” she said. “It’ll +be handy to have him there. There’s plenty o’ +room.”</p> + +<p>“I was a thinkin’ that it would be hard to be +where I couldn’t see him, ma’am,” said Zeph, +slowly. “But I couldn’t take him out there. +He’d have to stay with his mother.”</p> + +<p>“Stay with his mother!” shrieked Miss +Sophy; and, “His mother!” cried the doctor. +“What d’ ye mean, man!”</p> + +<p>Zeph’s face flushed. “I’ve been talkin’ a +good many things over with the boy,” he said, +“an’ he’d rather stay an’ help his mother,—a +while, at any rate, till we see how things goes. +He was goin’ to see her to-day. That’s all +settled, sir,” he added, as the doctor opened +his lips again with an impatient ejaculation. +“There’s things that nobody knows anything +about except folks themselves, an’ other folks +can’t judge. I had been plannin’ to go away +for a spell ’s soon ’s I was fit to work, ’n’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>Zephie was to stay with his mother till I come +back.”</p> + +<p>There was a dignity in Zeph’s tone and bearing +which lifted the homely language to the +level of eloquence; and the earnest answering +look on the child’s face, as he met his father’s +eyes, completed the revelation. This was indeed +no matter for “other folks” to judge of +or to interfere with.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go out to your place, ma’am,” continued +Zeph, again fixing a bewildered and scrutinizing +gaze on Miss Sophy’s face. “I’ll go out, an’ +be thankful to ye for the kindness. I think it’s +more ’n likely I’ll get on my feet quicker there +’n here. I ain’t so very bad hurt, ’n’ ’s soon ’s +I’m able to be round, I’ll work out all I owe ye, +ma’am, for the ’commodation.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy laughed in spite of herself.</p> + +<p>“I ain’t takin’ you’s a boarder,” she said. +“As soon as you are able to be round, I’ll make +a bargain with you, if you’re a mind to, to look +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>after the ranch. I think you’re about the sort +of man I want out there,—that is, if we can +agree about terms,” added Miss Sophy, her +shrewd business habit returning to her; “there +will be time enough to talk about that when +you’re up and out.”</p> + +<p>Zeph smiled faintly. “We ain’t likely to disagree +about terms, ma’am,” he said. “I don’t +rate myself over ’n’ above high. I’ve got a +good team, though, ’n’ wagon, if they’d be any +use to ye.”</p> + +<p>“Have you?” exclaimed Miss Sophy. “The +very thing I was needing. One of the farm +horses has broken down, an’ Waters said I’d +have to buy another. That is lucky,”—and +Miss Sophy chuckled to herself at this speedy +returning of the bread she had cast on the +waters,—“that is downright lucky. You can +be carried out in your own team, and Waters’ll +work one o’ your horses right in harvestin’ the +wheat, ’n’ that’ll save me buyin’ a horse, ’n’ be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>a good deal more ’n your board to me, which’ll +set your mind to rest about that part on ’t. I +always did hate to have anything to do with +horses; don’t know anything about ’em, if I did +grow up on a farm; never could learn to harness +’em; don’t know a bad one from a good +one; expect I’m cheated every time. I dare +say you’ll find there’s nothin’ the matter with +this one Waters says ’s sick. When you get +out there you can begin to keep your eye on +Waters ’s soon ’s you’re a mind to. You don’t +need to be on your feet to do that, ’n’ he needs +watchin’.”</p> + +<p>A most injudicious confidence this to put in +a stranger, and a thing wholly foreign to Miss +Sophy’s habitual way of talking with persons +whom she did not know. She could not account +for it to herself, and felt a half embarrassment +in her own presence, as it were, as +she realized it. With an unconscious effort at +reassuring her self-respect, she turned to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>doctor, as they left the house together, and +said, “I don’t know how it is, but there’s something +about that fellow makes you trust him ‘on +sight,’ as you say on money notes. Don’t you +think he’s all right?”</p> + +<p>“No doubt of it,” replied the doctor, heartily. +“No doubt of his being ’s honest ’s the day is +long; but I don’t believe he’s much force.”</p> + +<p>“How could he help having force, with that +great body o’ his?” said Miss Sophy, ingenuously, +coloring as she spoke. “He’s ’most a +giant.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean that kind of force,” laughed +the doctor, privately amused at Miss Sophy’s +standard. “Some of the smallest men I’ve +ever known have had the most force. I don’t +know much about this man. Nobody says any +harm of him, though. But that wife of his is +a regular devil! He’s a fool to stick to her’s +he does.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy cast her eyes down. “But he’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>married to her,” she said. “What’s he goin’ +to do?”</p> + +<p>“Do!” shouted the doctor. And he thought +to himself, “Well! of all queer questions for +a steady-going old maid like Sophy Burr to +ask! Do!” he repeated. “Why, get a divorce +from her quicker ’n lightning! That’s +what he’d do if he’d got the force you was +talking about.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps he doesn’t think that would be +right,” persisted Miss Sophy in a still lower +voice, still with downcast eyes. They had +been walking fast, and had just reached her +gate, and as she said these last words she +lifted the latch and held it in her fingers, +nervously slipping it up and down. “Gammer +Stein says he loves her spite of all she’s +done.”</p> + +<p>The doctor stared in undisguised amazement. +“Loves her!” he ejaculated.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Sophy; “so Gammer Stein +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>says, and that is the reason he was down there; +he follows her wherever she goes.”</p> + +<p>“Well, he is a fool, then,” said the doctor. +“Beg your pardon, Miss Sophy. The word +slipped out unawares to me; but that’s what +he is!”</p> + +<p>“I suppose most folks would call him so,” +answered Miss Sophy, conveying her faint last +retaliation and championship in a slight emphasis +on the word “most” as she closed the +gate.</p> + +<p>“I should say so,” retorted the doctor stiffly, +walking away with a puzzled sense of sudden +antagonism towards Miss Sophy, and a general +disposition to reflect contemptuously on spinster +views of life. “I should say so!” he muttered +to himself again. “What ever has got +into Sophy Burr, to be standing up for that +kind of immorality!”</p> + +<p>And probably nothing short of a revelation +from Heaven could have made it apparent to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>the good doctor’s mind that it was not at all +for immorality that Miss Sophy was “standing +up.”</p> + +<p>In the cool air and peaceful stillness of the +Greenhills ranch Zeph mended by the hour, +mended so fast that it seemed to him like a +miracle, mended spiritually as well as bodily; +new resolution, new purpose, awoke within him; +clouds lifted, and he saw clearly what he ought +to do. This new vision and purpose wrote +themselves at once in his face. It was little +less than a transformation. So great was the +change, that when one morning Miss Sophy +saw him driving up to her gate in the Greenhills +wagon, she did not know him. It was not +quite two weeks since the day she had seen him +lying wan and spiritless in his bed.</p> + +<p>“Sakes alive!” she ejaculated, “that can’t be +Zeph Riker! ’Tis too! Well, I never! He’s +more of a man than I thought.” And there was +a certain indefinable tribute of new respect in her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>manner as she greeted him with friendly kindness. +“How you have picked up! I didn’t +know you at first. Ready to go to work, ain’t +you? You look as if you was!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma’am,” said Zeph. “I’m feelin’ fust-rate +now; I’m ready to take hold o’ anythin’ +ye’ve got for me to do, ’n’ very thankful to +you, ma’am, for givin’ me the chance. I expect +ye’ve got the right to me; the doctor he was +a tellin’ me to-day that he’d about giv’ me up +when you come along that day ’n’ took me out +to your place.”</p> + +<p>“Pshaw!” said Miss Sophy. “That’s all +nonsense. There was a dozen dead men in +you then! You come in, and I’ll tell you what +I want you to do. I’m goin’ to put a good +deal of responsibility on you, ’n’ I don’t expect +you’ll disappoint me.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll try not to,” said Zeph, gravely. “I +sha’n’t cheat ye; but I might disap’int ye, for +all that. There’s those that’d answer for me +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>not cheatin’ ye, if ye’d like a reference, or somethin’ +o’ the kind,” he added.</p> + +<p>“No!” replied Miss Sophy. “I’ll take you +on your own references—and mine! I ain’t +often mistaken in folks, ’n’ I made up my mind +the first night I saw you that I’d like to get +you to work for me.”</p> + +<p>As soon as the words had passed her lips she +would have given much to recall them. The +effect they produced upon Zeph was pitiful to +see. In the flash of a second his face altered. +Bitter memories swept over him. His whole +figure seemed to droop, to lose strength; he +looked again the grief-stricken, wandering, vacillating +man who had fumbled weakly at her door +that night.</p> + +<p>But it passed. In the few moments during +which Miss Sophy stood, embarrassed, dumb, +wondering at her own thoughtlessness in having +thus reminded him of his sorrow, Zeph had +wrestled himself free from the sudden grasp of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>it, and looking her straight in the eyes, said: +“I’m more to be trusted now than I was then, +Miss Burr. I was pretty near out o’ my mind +that night. But I know where I stand now, an’ +I’m goin’ to work. I’m all right, ma’am.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, all right,” exclaimed Miss +Sophy, awkwardly. She did not intend to have +any further implication with Zeph’s domestic +miseries. “If he’s going to be my overseer +’n’ run that ranch,” said the shrewd woman to +herself, “he’s just got to be my overseer ’n’ +nothin’ else. I can’t be carryin’ all his troubles +on my shoulders. Now he’s on his feet, he’ll +have to steer his own canoe.”</p> + +<p>It was only the helpless that appealed to +Miss Sophy. People who were, as she in concise +metaphor expressed it, “on their feet” must +look out for themselves. She did, and she +expected everybody else to. A very odd mixture +of sympathy and hardness, compassion +and coldness, was Miss Sophy. Even to herself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>she was puzzling,—so swept away from her +bearings sometimes by great waves of pity +and desire to help her fellow-beings, and again +flintily indifferent to suffering, whose shape or +phase antagonized her common sense. There +was no limit to her benevolent activity, generosity, +when once her heart was touched; but +she was quite capable of dismissing other cases +with a curt, “I’ve no patience with such people,—no +patience at all! They deserve to suffer. +Good enough for them!”</p> + +<p>But to keep Zeph her “overseer ’n’ nothin’ +else” proved not to be so easy as Miss Sophy +had thought; and the burden of the thought of +his sorrows would not roll off her shoulders as +she had intended. Do her best, she could not +shake herself free of a haunting consciousness +of his trouble and a growing admiration for his +courageous patience. No word of allusion to it +passed between them. She would not ask, and +nothing would have been further from Zeph’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>impulse than to offer, any information in regard +to the state of affairs; but she fell into the habit +of studying his face, and drawing from its expression +her own conclusions as to the posture +of matters. When he looked cheery and resolute, +and spoke with vivacity, she said to herself, +“Well, he’s gettin’ along with it wonderfully.” +Whenever he looked downcast and was silent, +saying only what was needful to be said, wrath +shook her inmost soul, and her soliloquies were +vindictive. “She’s been pesterin’ him, I know +she has, the hussy! I’d like to see her +drummed out o’ town!” or “I expect he’s +worryin’ himself to death about those children. +I don’t believe but the law’d give ’em to him if +he’d set about it. He could have the boy out +at the ranch’s well as not, an’ the baby could +be boarded. I don’t know what the Lord sends +children to such women for!”</p> + +<p>Ah, very far was Miss Sophy drifting from +the purpose she had laid down to herself of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>letting the overseer of her ranch “steer his own +canoe”! She was fast nearing the pass of being +ready to snatch from his hands both rudder +and oars. It is a dangerous thing for a woman +to thus study and pity a man. By paths of +whose bearing she does not so much as dream, +she is approaching a country whose name, if it +were once pronounced in her ears, would terrify +her. But there is no one to pronounce the +name; the paths are winding; no guide-posts +are there; no tokens; not so much as a dropped +leaf to show who last went through. Shrewdest +of all commanders in the world is Love, who +makes his recruits recruit themselves.</p> + +<p>If Miss Sophy had been told in these days +that this constant, half-tender, half-impatient, +half-pitying, half-wrathful watch and interest +she was keeping up in Zeph’s affairs was carrying +her straight and fast into loving him, she +would have been ready to slay her informant, +and would have been sure the tale was a lie. All +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>the same it was true. This was what was coming +to Miss Sophy; helpless, unaware, stout-hearted, +sturdy, independent, as she was, it was coming +to her, and she did not know it; in her ignorance +she was inviting it, making ready for it, feeding +it. A mighty passion it would be when once it +had Miss Sophy fairly in its clutch; no half-way +measure or measures in anything Miss Sophy +did, or became.</p> + +<p>And so the days wore on, faster than ever, +it seemed to her; with this new absorbing interest +added to her other duties, she appeared +to somehow lose time out of each day, and +never, as she phrased it, “get round.” From +morning to night she went about her work +with her brown straw hat pressed tight down +on her forehead. This hat was always to +Miss Sophy’s servants a weather-signal. It had +hitherto been her habit to wear it only on days +of extra work,—house-cleaning, or the refitting +of a room, moving of a stove, or some such +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>exigency. The sight of it always struck terror +to her workwomen’s hearts. “When Miss Sophy +comes down in the morning with her brown +hat on,” one of them once said, “we jest know +we’ve got to look out an’ step lively!” But +this summer the brown hat was worn day after +day, till gradually it lost its portentous meaning +to the household. It really was no less +a symptom of perturbations than before, but +they were perturbations whose existence no +one suspected,—least of all, Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>The summer had gone and the autumn had +begun. October, with its hasty scurrying snows +and threatening sleets, took Miss Sophy by +surprise. “Goodness!” she cried one morning; +“if it ain’t snowing a’ready! Of all climates +ever I heard of, I do think this Colorado’s the +most unreasonable. It’s bad enough to keep +on snowing into May; but to begin again the +first week in October is a little too much! It +don’t seem but yesterday I had the stoves took +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>down, an’ now they’ve all got to be set up +again. It’s as bad as Vermont, every bit.”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you go to South California, Miss +Sophy?” said one of her boarders, a young +engineer, who had recently come from San +Diego. “That’s the climate of all the world; +never a flake of snow from one year’s end to +the other; flowers blooming out of doors all +winter.”</p> + +<p>“Really? Truly?” said Miss Sophy, turning +a wondering look at him. “I didn’t know as +’twas so warm’s that.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t,” the engineer replied, laughing. +“That’s the joke of it. I never suffered +more with cold here than I have there, +when I’ve got caught out in the mountains +at night; but it isn’t cold by the thermometer, +and that’s what the plants go by, I suppose; +at any rate, I know they’re in bloom +all winter, and I’ve seen barley in full head +in January.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span></p> + +<p>“And never any snow, honest, now?” asked +Miss Sophy, incredulously.</p> + +<p>“Never,” he replied; “that is, never except +on the mountains. Once I saw a few flakes +come down in Los Angeles; it was in February; +it lasted about ten minutes, and everybody in +town was out looking at it. There hadn’t been +a flake seen there for nine years.”</p> + +<p>“That’s where I’d like to live, then!” ejaculated +Miss Sophy. “I guess I’ll move.”</p> + +<p>“Many a true word’s spoken in jest, Miss +Sophy,” laughed the young man as he left the +table. “I dare say I’ll see you there yet.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll see me in the moon first!” retorted +Miss Sophy. “It’s my destiny to live an’ die in +Pendar Basin!” And she honestly thought so.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>Greenhills was shut up; the cows stabled +in town and turned out daily to the meagre +winter pasture with the town herd; the horses +also, Zeph having represented to Miss Sophy +that this would be far her best plan; it was +nonsense keeping the ranch house open all winter, +he said.</p> + +<p>“Just cuttin’ himself right out o’ bread an’ +butter,” thought Miss Sophy. “That’s the +kind o’ man I knew he was. But what will you +do, Zeph?” she said.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I shall do very well,” he replied. “I’ve +got my house, and there is always teamin’ to do, +and odd jobs o’ carpenterin’; they say there’ll +be considerable buildin’ here this winter.”</p> + +<p>Building! Ah! the word reminded Miss +Sophy. She had long wanted to build an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>addition to her house; she had more than once +had estimates made for it, but had given it up +on account of the exorbitant price—or so it +seemed to her—asked by the builders. Here +was her chance.</p> + +<p>“I want some buildin’ done,” she said. “I’ve +been wantin’ it for a long time. I suppose +you’d as soon carpenter by the month as do +anything else?”</p> + +<p>“I would sooner do anything for you, Miss +Burr, than do anything else,” replied Zeph, with +an unconscious emphasis on the “you” which +made Miss Sophy feel ashamed of the undercurrent +of avariciousness in her proposition.</p> + +<p>The plans were soon drawn, the materials procured, +and Zeph’s winter work was begun. And +now began also new and undreamed-of experiences +in Miss Sophy’s breast. Nothing was +more natural than that she should be in frequent +consultation with her builder, should be +continually taking a look at the progress of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>building; this she would have done, whoever +had been laboring on her new rooms. But to +no other man’s hammer would she have listened +as she did to Zeph’s. Not a sound of it escaped +her ear; if she had been a poet she could have +sung a strange song of the things it seemed to +say: every vibration its steady stroke made in +the air seemed to her to be telling the story +of his sad life and his patient goodness. When +it stopped, she wondered what he was doing, +and often ran in to see. Hour by hour, day by +day, she listened to and studied the building up +of the walls, the laying of the floors.</p> + +<p>“I ’most think I could build a house myself, +I’ve watched you so, Zeph,” she said one day.</p> + +<p>“I reckon there’s nothin’ you couldn’t do, if +you was to try, Miss Burr,” replied Zeph, as he +stepped back from a window-sill he was fitting +and half shut his eyes to see if it were straight. +“There ain’t many women like you.” And +Zeph sighed. Women were to him a terrible +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>problem. He was an innocent-minded man by +nature, and had remained so spite of rough +surroundings. His own experience of the falsity +of a fair face and cooing voice had made +him not so much bitter as afraid. He could +not read the riddle. What was there in a +woman to make her such an embodiment of +heaven or of hell to a man? Zeph did not +like to look any fair woman in the eye since +he knew what Rushy was at heart. As for +Miss Sophy,—poor Miss Sophy!—into his +meditations on her the thought of sex seldom +entered. He thought of her only as a force,—a +helping, guiding, protecting personality. Perhaps +his thoughts of her might have formulated +themselves, even yet, somewhat as they did +when he crouched in the church pew in instinctive +fear of her “dreadful” activity. But +by whatever name or trait she stood in his +mind, she possessed the grateful loyalty of his +steadfast nature. He had no phrases for this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>sentiment; neither avowed, measured, nor questioned +it; he simply acted it. A doubt as to +the fealty and service he owed to her no more +occurred to him than a doubt as to the love he +bore to his children. Money could not have +bought from him one hour for which Miss +Sophy had need or use. This was simply the +man’s instinct; the way he was made; he did +not know that there was anything out of the +ordinary in it. Persons of this order do not +analyze either their own or other men’s motives. +They simply are what they are, and +live their lives out day by day. They are +spared much which more subjective natures +suffer of perplexity and pain. But sometimes +when a blow strikes them they are shivered +to the ground as fatally as a tree is rent by +a lightning shaft or uprooted by a sudden +blast. And when this happens, nobody knows +what did it. People wonder of what they have +died.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span></p> + +<p>A dim knowledge of some such quality as +this in Zeph was slowly filtering into Miss +Sophy’s perception.</p> + +<p>“He hasn’t ever got over it,” she said to herself +as she went stirring about the house, quite +unaware that she was always thinking of Zeph. +“He hasn’t ever got over it, ’n’ I don’t suppose +he ever will. If he’d only get the children +with him he’d stand it better. I shouldn’t +wonder if ’twas the death o’ the man yet! +The hussy!”</p> + +<p>Perhaps if Miss Sophy had not been so +absorbed in these reviewings of Zeph’s situation +and emotions she might have come sooner +to the realization of her own. But she had no +time to think of herself. She was forever groping, +groping, like one in the dark; half blinded +by pity and by a stinging sense of the utter +impotence of all outside help for this sorrowing +man whose life had been so strangely set side +by side with her own.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span></p> + +<p>However, the groping days were nearly over. +They could not last forever. Such situations +clear themselves by laws no less fixed than the +laws which determine the joining and the separating +of chemical elements. Events combined +to help on the clearing up. Strange things had +been happening to Zeph of which Miss Sophy +knew nothing, and never would have known +except for her half ally and confidante in regard +to him, Gammer Stein.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy and Gammer had seen each other +seldom of late. The winter had been a severe +one, with frequent snows and bitter cold; a foot +of snow was to Gammer a more absolute barrier +than a stone wall; and to Miss Sophy the mercury +at zero meant simply a stiffening of every +faculty as well as every muscle. Her energy +was in direct ratio to the warmth of the air; at +ninety Fahrenheit she was in full vigor; even +at a hundred she worked on with delight. In +cold weather she grew inert and torpid, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>used to say she would like to curl up like a +spider and lie in a dark corner till spring.</p> + +<p>Thus it had happened that nearly three +months had gone by without her seeing Gammer; +and one morning in March she said to +herself, as she was washing the breakfast +dishes, “I really must go and see Gammer +to-day. If this wind’ll only stop blowin’, +I’ll go right after dinner.” The words had +hardly formed themselves in her thought, +when, seeing a shadow darken the window, +she looked up and saw Gammer herself at the +door.</p> + +<p>“I never!” said Miss Sophy aloud. “If that +ain’t speakin’ o’ angels, sure enough! There’s +somethin’ cur’us about its so often happenin’ +that way!”</p> + +<p>“I was just this very minute sayin’ to myself +I’d come up ’n’ see you this afternoon, Gammer!” +she exclaimed, as she opened the door. +“I’m real glad to see you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span></p> + +<p>“Then yer’ve heered it!” gasped Gammer, +sinking breathless into a chair.</p> + +<p>“Heard what?” cried Miss Sophy, instantly +alert, already, in her heart, sure it was something +about Zeph. “I hain’t heard anything. +What’s happened?”</p> + +<p>“Rushy Riker’s got her bill,” cried Gammer. +“She’s got it; ’n’ she ’n’ thet Nat wuz married +last night.”</p> + +<p>“Married!” cried Miss Sophy. “What do +you mean? How could she be married?”</p> + +<p>“Why, she’s billed,” retorted Gammer. +“Ther papers come yisterday ’t noon, ’n’ she +’n’ Nat wuz married last night. I allow ther +won’t nobody hev nothin’ ter do with ’em,—nobody +thet’s decent. I allow ’t ’s the dearest +day’s work ever she’s done ’n her life. Thet +Nat’ll go off ’n’ leave her some day; he’s none +too good; ’n’ she can’t lay down on Zeph agen.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy stood like a statue, her face +scarlet, her eyes flashing.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span></p> + +<p>“Divorced!” she shrieked. “How’d she +ever get a divorce? There ain’t a thing against +that man, not one!”</p> + +<p>“Ter be sure ther ain’t,” said Gammer, settling +back in her chair. “I allow thar ain’t no two +sides ter thet; she couldn’t hev got no bill ef +he’d hev appeared agen it; but he wouldn’t. +He talked it over with me. She come up thar +ter ther house ’s long ago ’s—wall, somewhar +abaout New Year’s, I allaow ’twuz, ’n’ she told +Zeph she wuz gwine to bill him ’n’ marry Nat; ’n’ +he told her she couldn’t; ’n’ she sez, sez she, ‘I +kin ’n’ I will; ’n’ ’tany rate I’m gwine ter live with +Nat.’ ‘He’ll never marry ye, Rushy,’ sez Zeph. +‘He will too,’ sez she; an’ then, ef yer’ll b’leeve +me, thet thar Zeph,—I swar, I donno ef the +man’s flesh ’n’ blood, er what he ez,—sez he, +‘Ef he’ll marry yer, Rushy, I won’t hender yer +gettin’ ther bill. Then yer kin live decent. But +he’s got ter swar ter marry ye;’ ’n’ I allaow ter +yeow, the next night, ef they didn’t both on ’em, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>she ’n’ Nat, the pizen skunk,—ef thar warn’t +both on ’em thar to Zeph’s, tellin’ him what +they’d made up thar minds ter dew; ’n’ naow +they’ve got ’t done. Thet’s the kind er law thar +ez in this hyar country; she’s billed aout clar ’n’ +free ez ef she’d been ’z decent ez enny woman +could be, ’n’ he wuz ther one ’twuz wrong. He +jest never ’peared ’t all. Thet wuz all they +wanted. I’d jest like ter see ’em both jugged! +I allaow ther wouldn’t nothin’ short er thet tech +’em. ’Twan’t but er few nights sence, thar wuz +er dance, a real respectable dance, down thar +whar she lives, ’n’ she ’n’ Nat went in, ’n’ thar +come up one o’ ther managers, ’n’ sez he, ‘Yer’ll +be ser good ’s ter git aout er this room, ’n’ be +mighty quick abaout et, tew, or yer’ll git holped +aout;’ ’n’ they jest larfed, ’n’ went aout a tossin’ +thar heads ez high ’n’ mighty. I allaow naow +they’re married they’ll brazen ’t aout. Folks +forgits everythin’.”</p> + +<p>“Has she got the right to keep the children?” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>asked Miss Sophy in a hoarse whisper. Her +face was very pale now, and the flashing of her +eye strangely dimmed.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t heer ’t said,” replied Gammer, “but +she’s got ’em. I allaow ef he didn’t ’pear, the +childen ’d go to her, same ez she got ther bill. +’N’ he sez he’d ruther she hed ’em; they’ll dew +more fur her, he sez, ’n everythin’ else. She’s +allers good ter ’em. He’ll keep an eye ter ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Then he’s ’s free to-day ’s if he’d never +been married ’t all,” said Miss Sophy, still in a +whisper, still pale, and with dimmed eyes.</p> + +<p>“I allaow he ez,” said Gammer; “’n’ I allaow +ter yeow thet, much ’s I’m agen bills, ’n’ billed +folks marryin’ agen, I’d like ter see Zeph Riker +git him another wife, pesky quick tew, jest ter +spite them tew devils thet ’s kep’ him in er hell, +’s yer might say, these tew years, goin’ on three. +Mebbe ’tain’t right, ’n’ mebbe ’tis. I allaow +I’d take the resk on ’t ef ’twuz me.”</p> + +<p>And now a startling thing occurred. Miss +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>Sophy, who had been standing, immovable, rigid, +in front of Gammer, listening to this narrative, +turning first red, then pale, and fast losing her +self-control, suddenly lost it altogether, and flinging +herself into a chair, buried her face in her +hands, and burst into tears, sobbing out, half +apologetically, “I never heard such a story in +my life! Such things never happened where I +was brought up.”</p> + +<p>Gammer was astounded. Miss Sophy’s bearing, +her attitude throughout all her active interest +in Zeph’s affairs, had always been unmistakably +that of the cool, common-sense, kindly benefactor. +Her sudden change to the level of a weeping +friend baffled Gammer’s utmost powers of +understanding. Bewilderment made her dumb. +Finally she stammered: “I allaow yer tired, +mebbe. I git plum beat aout sometimes, ’n’ +ther leastest thing’ll set me off cryin’.” At +which Miss Sophy cried harder than ever, and +Gammer’s bewilderment deepened.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span></p> + +<p>At last Miss Sophy, recovering herself, said: +“That’s so. This long spell o’ cold weather’s +got my nerves all strung up, somehow, so I +can’t bear anything; an’ I’m sure it’s enough +to make anybody cry, to think what that man’s +gone through with. I’ve got to know him real +well, you see, havin’ him here this winter to +work on the addition,” she added.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Gammer, glad to change to a less +exciting topic. “He wuz er tellin’ us abaout it. +He allowed he hed reel pleasure buildin’ it fur +ye. He sets a heap by yer; donno’s yer know +it, but he doos. He sez thar warn’t never sech +er woman ’n the world ez yeow be.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s cheeks were red again, and +her eyes, brighter than before, fastened on Gammer’s +face as she spoke these words,—fastened +there with an expression which the honest old +woman was far from understanding.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy had had a revelation. No more +disguise, equivocation, illusion, ignorance, on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>her part, in regard to her feeling toward Zeph. +She loved him, and she knew it.</p> + +<p>What would come of it? Nothing; she said +to herself sternly,—nothing could come of it. +The man’s heart was not his own, was no +longer to be won by any woman; it had been +given once for all, and he was not a man to love +twice, said Miss Sophy in her simplicity,—given +once for all to that wretched, wicked woman, +the mother of his children, who had now separated +herself from him forever. It was bitter. +But there were consolations. Very well Miss +Sophy knew that his life would not be severed +from hers unless she herself chose; that they +would work together, her interests the same to +him as his own, her wishes and needs determining +his daily duties, and, what was still +more, the sight of her, and talking with her, the +greatest comfort and happiness left to his saddened +life. This was a great deal. With this, +Miss Sophy thought she could be contented. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>“And if I can’t, I can go away,” she said to +herself. All this and much more had passed +through her mind while she was saying her +final words of parting with Gammer, who had, +as she phrased it, “dropped everything ’n’ run +to tell the noos on’t,” and was in haste to get +home.</p> + +<p>After Gammer had gone, Miss Sophy turned +her back on her work, and locked herself into +her room for a resolute thinking. She did not +mince matters with herself any more than she +would have done with another.</p> + +<p>“Here you are, Sophy Burr,” she said, as she +would have said it aloud to a culprit standing +bodily before her. “Here you are! Now +what?” At the end of the hour she was no +nearer knowing. Her second soliloquy had +closed, like her first, with the words, “If I +can’t, I can go away.”</p> + +<p>The March snows, and the April snows, and +the May snows, came and went. June followed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>like a midsummer close on their icy days, and +Greenhills was green again. Young vegetables +were peering up in the garden; the cows were +revelling in fresh grass; and Zeph, back at his +post on the ranch, was proud of the cream and +butter he had for Miss Sophy twice a week. +On the face of things were prosperity and +peace in both Miss Sophy’s houses. Zeph’s +countenance wore a new look of contentment +and calm. He had put behind him the things +that were dead, and was pressing forward to the +things that remained alive, in way of duty and +work.</p> + +<p>A change had come about in his relations +with Miss Sophy, which had given him a new +self-respect, and a sense of manly independence, +which were an ever-present stimulus +and pleasure. He did not clearly know how +this had happened. Miss Sophy knew. It +had begun by her calling him “Mr. Riker” +one day.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span></p> + +<p>Startled and uneasy, he looked at her,—looked +the question he did not speak. Miss Sophy +laughed. Relieved, he exclaimed, “Ye scared +me, Miss Burr. I was afraid I’d ’fended ye.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no!” said the clever Miss Sophy. “Far +from it. But I don’t feel it’s respectful for me +to go on calling a man by his first name, when +he manages all my affairs for me. I look to +you for ’most everything now, and I ain’t goin’ +to call you Zeph any longer.”</p> + +<p>“’Most everybody does,” said Zeph.</p> + +<p>“That’s because they don’t know you so +well as I do,” said Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>All the way out to Greenhills Zeph kept +thinking this over. It puzzled him. He was +pleased, and yet not pleased. It seemed to put +him farther from Miss Sophy, and yet nearer. +He gave up trying to understand the mystery of +it. On the whole, however, he wished that she +would say “Zeph.” But she did not,—not for +many a day.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span></p> + +<p>The next thing Miss Sophy did was simply +an act of justice. She said to him one day, +“Mr. Riker, at the rate you are going on, you +will double the value of my ranch for me. I +can see that. You are working as if you were +working for yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Zeph, simply.</p> + +<p>“Well,” continued Miss Sophy, “that’s a +thing money doesn’t pay for. Wages don’t +cut any figure at all when a man takes hold of +a place that way; you ought to have a share in +the place. Now, what I’ve been thinking would +be a fairer way, would be for me to reckon your +year’s wages in a lump as so much put into the +ranch on your account, so we shall be owning it +together; do you understand? And if you want +to go into stock a little more, why I’ll go shares +in that too.”</p> + +<p>Zeph stared. The good luck of the thing +amazed him. Yet he saw that there was a certain +fairness in it. Miss Sophy was not making +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>him a gift, only helping him to a good investment +of his earnings.</p> + +<p>He did not make any profuse expressions of +gratitude. It was not his way. But his “Thank +you, Miss Burr, I couldn’t ask for anythin’ +better ’n that if I’d had my choice given t’ me,” +was all that Miss Sophy needed. And the new +life and spirit in him which dated from that day +were also new life and spirit to her affectionate +soul.</p> + +<p>Good as it was for Zeph to be called Mr. +Riker, he did not like it. At last it seemed to +him he could not bear it. Vainly he wondered +at the intensity of his feeling in regard to it. +“What odds does ’t make what she calls me? +I swear it’s queer how I hate to hear her say +Mr. Riker t’ me,” he said.</p> + +<p>Finally he mustered courage to say this. It +was at Miss Sophy’s back gate; he had come in +as usual with the Greenhills butter and cream, +and a fine lot of green peas, the first of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>season,—and Greenhills peas were always two +weeks ahead of anybody’s else in the region. +Miss Sophy was delighted, and as she bade +him good-by, she said, “I’m proud enough, +to have peas so early. I can’t see how you +did it. I’m ever so much obliged to you, +Mr. Riker.”</p> + +<p>“My name’s Zeph,” said Zeph, in a sudden +impulse of desperate courage.</p> + +<p>“So’s mine Sophy,” retorted Miss Sophy, in +an equally sudden impulse of desperate courage, +looking full into his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Why! Miss Burr!” gasped Zeph, dropping +the reins in his agitation. But Miss Sophy +had turned and run up the path as fast as her +feet could carry her, laughing, however, and +looking back at Zeph, who sat gazing after her +in consternation.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord!” he said to himself as she +disappeared in the doorway. “What did she +mean? She wan’t mad, anyhow. She couldn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>ha’ meant I was to call her Sophy! O’ course +it couldn’t ha’ been that!”</p> + +<p>“What did she mean?” was a constant refrain +in Zeph’s thoughts for the next three days; and, +“I wonder what he’ll do when he comes in +Thursday?” was the refrain in Miss Sophy’s. +And when Thursday morning came, and the +Greenhills wagon was seen turning into the +lane at the back of Miss Sophy’s house, her +heart thumped like a hammer in her bosom.</p> + +<p>“If he don’t call me Sophy now, he never +will,” she thought.</p> + +<p>Zeph was also in trepidation. “I dassent +open my mouth,” he thought, “till she’s said +something first. Perhaps she’s forgotten all +about it.”</p> + +<p>She met him on the porch. The instant he +looked in her face, he knew she had not forgotten. +The instant Miss Sophy looked in his, she +divined his thought; divined also that it would +be hers, and not his, to speak the first word.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span></p> + +<p>“Good morning,” she said; and after a second’s +pause, “Is it to be Mr. Riker, then, or +Zeph?”</p> + +<p>“Zeph,” he said, in a voice so low it seemed +less than a whisper. “I can’t bear it, somehow, +to have ye call me anythin’ else.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, Zeph it is,” replied Miss Sophy, +as lightly and glibly as if she had nothing more +at stake than a jest of an idle moment; “but +you know what I told you. If Zeph’s your name, +Sophy’s mine. Give and take’s fair play.”</p> + +<p>Zeph’s hands were full—his hands and arms +also—of parcels from Greenhills: the butter, +the jug of cream, young radishes, lettuce, peas. +He did not speak, but went on slowly laying +them down one by one, trying to think what +he should say.</p> + +<p>“Well?” said Miss Sophy. “Bargain?”</p> + +<p>Her light tone deceived him. “I can’t think +ye’d make fun o’ me, Miss Burr,” he said. “I +don’t make out your meanin’.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span></p> + +<p>“I couldn’t ever make fun of you, Mr. +Riker,” retorted Miss Sophy, in a tone still +merry, but with an under note in it which +Zeph had not been man if he had failed to +perceive.</p> + +<p>“You’re the best friend I ever had, or ever +shall have, in this world,” cried Zeph.</p> + +<p>“And you’re the best friend I have, or ever +expect to have, in this world,” answered Miss +Sophy; “the very best—Zeph!”</p> + +<p>Their eyes met,—Miss Sophy’s shining with +resolution and tears, Zeph’s, dark with unfathomable +emotion and bewilderment. He opened +his lips to speak; then slowly shaking his head, +turned to go.</p> + +<p>“Good-by, Zeph!” said Miss Sophy, smiling. +She had conquered, she was sure. It +would not be on that day, or the next, perhaps, +that Zeph could speak her name, but it would +come.</p> + +<p>“If you can’t say Sophy, you needn’t say +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>anything,” she continued. “I don’t like Miss +Burr any better than you do Mr. Riker!”</p> + +<p>Zeph’s eyes lighted up. His tongue was +loosed now. “Don’t ye?” he exclaimed. “If I +thought that, I could learn any name ye wanted +me to!”</p> + +<p>“Sophy’ll do,” said Miss Sophy, dryly. +“It’s as good as Zeph. They ain’t either of +’em any great beauties o’ names to boast of!” +And now they both laughed merrily, and parted +without another word, only a farewell smile to +each other,—a smile out of which all the +sparkle of the mirthful laughter had gone, +leaving behind the soft light of a deep affection. +And the next time the Greenhills wagon came +in (it was but three days from Thursday to +Monday), Miss Sophy met it at the gate, +and said with sweet gravity, “Good-morning, +Zeph;” and Zeph made answer, “Good-morning, +Sophy.” And it would have been hard to +say which of them was the happier in the new +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>sound the syllables bore and the new bond their +speaking made.</p> + +<p>The happiness of it lasted Miss Sophy for +many days; but as the summer wore away she +began to look for something more,—she hardly +dared phrase to herself for what, yet in her +heart she knew; and knew, too, that the thing +she craved was hers by right; that the lonely, +sorrowful, deserted man for whom she had come +to care so tenderly had come also to love her +with a true devotion. But gradually there grew +up in her a fear that he would never say so. +Not by word or look did he show that any idea +of any relation beyond or different from their +present one was in his mind. Whether it were +that he lacked courage, or that he still held +himself bound by the bond which his wife had +broken, Miss Sophy could not determine. On +the latter point she herself had had doubts, but +by some surreptitious reading on the subject +of divorce, and by several cautiously conducted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>consultations with her minister and with other +persons, she had at length become fully satisfied +that there could be no possible shadow of +wrong in the second marriage of a man whose +wife had not only betrayed and deserted him, +but become legally the wife of another.</p> + +<p>“It hasn’t got any business to stand in his +way one minute,” she said to herself again and +again; “and perhaps ’tain’t that that is standing +in his way. But what else can it be? ’Tain’t +any love for her; I’m sure o’ that. That’s one +comfort!”</p> + +<p>And by the help of this last item of comfort +Miss Sophy weathered the summer fairly well. +But when the autumn signals were flung out,—great +yellow patches of aspens high up on the +mountain-sides, and tossing plumes of purple +asters around the Greenhills spring,—Miss +Sophy lost heart.</p> + +<p>“Winter’ll be here in a jiffy,” she said, “an’ +he won’t let me keep the ranch open, an’ I can’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>stand it; I can’t stand not to see him ’s I’ve +been seein’ him!” And Miss Sophy racked her +brain vainly for a device.</p> + +<p>Finally one occurred to her,—so desperate, so +final, it almost took her breath away as it first +flashed through her thoughts; but the longer +she thought, the more she believed it good. It +was desperate, and it would be final: if she won, +she won; if she lost, she lost—all. This is a +common trick of Love’s winning. He makes +gamesters, desperate gamesters, of most of us +at least once in our lives. We throw down our +last card and bravely call out color or number, +all the while feeling a death-grip at our throats.</p> + +<p>“I might as well!” said Miss Sophy. +“There’s no use going on this way forever. +It’s nonsense; besides that, it’ll kill me. I +can’t stand it. I’d rather go away.”</p> + +<p>And she made up her mind. But after she +had made it up, she hesitated day after day. +She trembled. More than once she opened her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>lips to speak the words, and terror held her +dumb. If she lost, she lost all.</p> + +<p>At last she spoke. It was at Greenhills. +Already the foreshadowing of winter glooms +had touched the place; frost had turned the +vines black and shrivelled every leaf in the +garden. Yet it was only the middle of September. +It looked desolate.</p> + +<p>“Looks as I feel,” said Miss Sophy, grim and +resolute; “but I’ll feel worse, mebbe, before +I’m done with it.”</p> + +<p>“Zeph,” she said. Zeph was standing by +her side at the bars of the corral where all +the yearlings had been put. He had been +pointing them out to her with great satisfaction.</p> + +<p>There was something in Miss Sophy’s tone +which fell strangely on Zeph’s ear. He knew +the inflections of her voice better than she +dreamed. What was coming? She had never +pronounced his name thus before. Never, indeed! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>He turned his face quickly towards +her, inquiringly.</p> + +<p>“Zeph!” she said again, and again the words +refused to come. She took firm hold of the +upper rail of the fence to support herself, and +began once more: “Zeph, I’ve made up my +mind to go to California. I’m goin’ to sell out +an’ go this fall. I about made up my mind last +winter I’d never stand another o’ these Colorado +winters; but it’s been so pleasant this summer, +it kind of put me out o’ the notion; but now I +see it settin’ in again I feel just ’s I did, ’n’ I’m +goin’! I’m gettin’ too old to stand any more +snow. Do you know anybody that ud like to +buy this ranch? There’s a man ready to take +the other house right off my hands just as ’tis, +furniture ’n’ all.”</p> + +<p>Astonishment, incredulity, pain, bewilderment, +each in turn and all together, had swept +over Zeph’s face while Miss Sophy was speaking +these words. His eyes fastened themselves +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>on hers blankly. As soon as she ceased speaking, +he stammered: “Sophy! you! going to +California! goin’ away! You can’t mean it, +Sophy! What are ye goin’ for? You’re doin’ +splendid here!” The words came slower and +slower; the man was half stunned; and before +the hesitating sentences were concluded, he, too, +had instinctively grasped the bars for support. +“Ye can’t mean it, Sophy! I ’most think ye’re +crazy.”</p> + +<p>“I guess not,” said Miss Sophy, more at ease +already. If he felt it like this, he would never +let her go alone, surely. Her winning must be +close at hand. She did not yet thoroughly know +the nature of the man she was dealing with.</p> + +<p>“I guess not,” she repeated. “I hain’t ever +had the name o’ bein’ light-headed. I’ve been +a long time makin’ up my mind to this.”</p> + +<p>“I wish ye’d ha’ let me know on ’t sooner,” +said Zeph, in an aggrieved tone, which was +music to Miss Sophy’s ears.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span></p> + +<p>“Why?” she said.</p> + +<p>“I could ha’ got used t’ ’t by degrees,” he +replied sadly. “It’s struck me all of a heap. +But I’ll do all I can to help ye, Sophy,” he +continued, bracing himself up, and looking away +from her for a minute. “I could ha’ got a +buyer for the ranch better in the summer than +now. It’s a bad time to sell. I expect it would +be better to let it lay ’s ’tis till spring. I can +look after it for ye till then, same ’s I have +done.” And Zeph sighed.</p> + +<p>Alas! Had she lost? What was Miss Sophy +to say next? The talk had taken a hopeless +turn. To gain time, she replied meaninglessly: +“I don’t know! I suppose ’tis a bad time! +I never thought o’ that. But I want to go before +the cold weather sets in. There’s flowers +all winter long in the south part o’ California, +they say; an’ that’s where I’m goin’.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’ve always seemed real happy here, +Sophy,” cried Zeph, “’n’ real well too! ’T never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>so much’s crossed my mind ye’d ever leave; +ye ain’t got nothin’ ailin’ ye, have ye, to make +ye need to go?” And his face clouded over +with the new anxiety which had that instant +occurred to him.</p> + +<p>What tantalizing cruelty sometimes in these +impenetrable veils between human hearts, which +are at other times such merciful protection! If +Miss Sophy could have known that as Zeph +asked this question his racked heart was saying, +“If she’s got any disease hold on her I’ll +coax her t’ let me go ’long too, ’n’ take care of +her,” she would have then and there feigned +herself the victim of any known malady. But +in her pride of energetic health she made haste +to repudiate any such implication.</p> + +<p>“Mercy, no!” she said. “Do I look like +a sick woman? Never felt better. But I’m +tired o’ this place, an’ this life, an’ everything +about it, an’ especially o’ these winters. I’d +like to go where I’d never see another flake o’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>snow ’s long ’s I live. I was brought up on +snow; ’n’ I’ve had six months o’ snow—that is +o’ bein’ liable to snow—out o’ every year I’ve +been here; ’n’ I’m sick on ’t, ’n’ I’m goin’. +I’ve got enough to get me a place that I can +make a livin’ off anywhere; ’n’ I don’t know +any reason why I should slave myself here, ’n’ +freeze to death every winter.”</p> + +<p>Luckless Miss Sophy. Each one of these last +sentences went like a bullet to Zeph’s heart. +“Tired o’ this place,” was she? The place +which had seemed to him almost blissful of +late; and the work which they had been jointly +doing, he and she, the fruitful ranch, the increasing +herd, the prosperous boarding-house,—all +this was to her “slaving to death,” and +she was going. She had made up her mind to +it without a word to him any more than if he had +been the poorest cattle-herder, on the ranch,—to +him, to whom she had said, only a few short +months ago, that he was the best friend she had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>on the earth! Very well! woman like woman! +They were all the same, heartless and untrue,—one +from vanity and passion, another from caprice! +They were all alike! This was the last +woman whom he would ever trust! The storm +of all these bitter thoughts turned Zeph’s face +stern and his voice cold, and when he replied +curtly, “Well, ye’d better go, then, if that’s the +way ye feel, Sophy,” poor Miss Sophy had to +clutch tight to her rail to keep from staggering.</p> + +<p>The hurt that he gave her, however, was their +salvation. Without it they might have perhaps +parted forever, then and there, neither knowing +that the other was wounded. But this hurt was +too sudden and too deep to be borne without +a cry; and Miss Sophy’s voice, even without +the tears in her eyes, would have appealed to +any man like a cry, as she exclaimed, “Oh, +Zeph! I don’t see why you take it that way! +I think you’re real cruel!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t never mean to be that,” said Zeph, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>“not to nobody. But you don’t seem to think +it’s anythin’ for a fellow to be turned off all +in a minute, an’ everythin’ all broke up!”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy took heart again. “Who said +anything about turning off?” she asked, with a +faint smiling in her tearful eyes.</p> + +<p>“Well, you didn’t say anythin’ about anythin’ +else!” retorted Zeph, still sullen. “You +hadn’t any idee o’ takin’ me with ye?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been thinkin’ all the time, Zeph,” said +Miss Sophy, “that I didn’t know how I’d ever +get along without you!”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t ye say so, then?”</p> + +<p>“How could I?”</p> + +<p>“How could ye? What’s to hender? Ye +got me to do your business for ye here, ’n’ +let on to think so much o’ my managin’; ’n’ +why couldn’t ye’ve said ye’d like to have me +keep on with it there? No, ye’re tired o’ the +place ’n’ everybody in it! That’s what’s the +matter with you!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span></p> + +<p>Was this Zeph? What was to become of +Miss Sophy in this chaos of confusion which +she had drawn down on her head? Stretching +out both her hands, she cried: “Zeph, I don’t +know what’s got into you ’n’ me to be quarrellin’ +here, nor what we’re quarrellin’ about, +neither. I should think you’d know that the +last thing I’d want to do, would be to part from +you, an’ that I’d rather have you manage for +me than anybody!”</p> + +<p>The pleading in her voice was unmistakable; +her face glowed with affection. Still Zeph +seemed both deaf and blind.</p> + +<p>“Then why didn’t ye ask me to go ’long +too?” he reiterated. “Why didn’t ye take +me into any o’ your plans? Will you take +me now?” he added, with a half-surly and incredulous +emphasis.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy hid her face in both her hands; +she was rosy red; she saw a vista opening.</p> + +<p>“How could I, Zeph?” she whispered. “Folks +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>don’t know us out there. It’s very different +here, where everybody knows us. I don’t want +to go without you, Zeph, you needn’t think!”</p> + +<p>Into the chambers of Zeph’s brain light had +broken at last. What a dolt he had been!</p> + +<p>“Oh, Sophy, Sophy!” he cried, “was ye a +tryin’ me? I do believe ye was!” and he threw +his arms around her. “Sophy, it ’most killed +me to hear ye talk so cool o’ goin’ away ’n’ +leavin’ me, when I hain’t had a thought, day +nor night, except o’ servin’ you ’n’ belongin’ to +you, for so long!”</p> + +<p>“Well, why didn’t you say so, then?” retorted +Miss Sophy, half laughing, half crying, making +haste to turn the tables on him and avenge herself. +“Why didn’t you say so, and not drive +me into just about offerin’ myself to you?”</p> + +<p>“Sophy! Sophy!” answered Zeph, “don’t you +go to talkin’ any such way’s that. I don’t know +about offerin’, ’s you call it; givin’ ’s more ’n +offerin’, an’ you know well enough I giv’ myself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>to you a long ways back, an’ hain’t ever had, +from that day to this, any idee o’ doin’ anythin’ +but helpin’ ye an’ lovin’ ye ’s long’s I live on +this earth!”</p> + +<p>And Miss Sophy was content.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>There was but one drawback to Miss Sophy’s +happiness. In the new confidence which now +existed between her and Zeph, she learned +more fully than she had done before the depth +of his affection for his children. She found that +during all these months it had been his habit to +see them frequently,—sometimes by clandestine +watchings, sometimes by Rushy’s consent that +Zephie should on a Sunday take his little sister +to their father’s house. By this means Zeph had +kept himself constantly in relation with them +and retained strong influence over the boy. +Separation from them was going to be a terrible +thing to him; there were times when he +even doubted if it were right for him to go away +and leave them entirely in the control and at the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>mercy of their stepfather. Only his unshaken +confidence in the strength of Rushy’s maternal +affection enabled him to think of it.</p> + +<p>“She’s just like a wildcat ’bout the chillen,” +he said, “an’ always was; if Nat Leeson should +so much’s raise his hand to ’em, she’d leave him +quicker ’n lightnin’. I ain’t a mite afraid of his +ever doin’ ’em any harm that way. But if she +should come to want any way,—Sophy, I don’t +see it clear just how to fix that. Ye know, +Sophy, I’d always feel myself bound to those +children.”</p> + +<p>“Of course!” replied Miss Sophy. “And so +do I. I wish to goodness we had ’em both here +this minute to take ’em with us! That’s what +I’d like!”</p> + +<p>“Would ye, Sophy?” cried Zeph. “Would +ye really? Oh, Sophy, ye’re real good!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose there’d be any chance o’ +gettin’ ’em, or either one on ’em,” said Miss +Sophy. “Would there?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, Lord!” cried Zeph, catching his breath +at the very idea. “That’s all ye know about +Rushy! She’d rather kill ’em than let anybody +else have ’em! She’s fierce, Rushy is. There +isn’t the least use thinkin’ o’ such a thing.”</p> + +<p>But the doctrine that there was no use in +thinking of a thing was not in Miss Sophy’s +creed. The more obstacles lay in the way, the +more her native obstinacy allied itself with her +indomitable courage to surmount them. And +in this instance a passion greater than either +the courage or the obstinacy came in, making +a triple alliance strong enough to move mountains. +Her love for Zeph was so great that +its instincts were preternaturally keen.</p> + +<p>“He’ll never be happy long away from them +children o’ his,” she said, “an’ he’s got to have +’em,—or at least the baby; she’d be more to +him than the boy; he’d get along if he had her; +an’ if we got her, the boy ’d be big enough to +come before long if he wanted to.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span></p> + +<p>Plan after plan, all visionary and impracticable, +Miss Sophy revolved in her head. Actual kidnapping +of the child would not have seemed to +her wrong; but her common sense told her that +it would involve dangers not to be thought of. +Cautiously she sounded Gammer Stein as to +the possibility of Rushy’s being induced, by +the prospects of superior advantages to her +daughter, to give her to be adopted by a stranger. +No suspicion crossed Gammer’s mind as +to Miss Sophy’s personal interest in the matter, +any further than her benevolent interest in Zeph +explained it.</p> + +<p>“Some o’ yer folks wantin’ to ’dopt a child?” +she said. “Wall, I allow ef they know what’s +fur thar good they’ll keep shy o’ proposin’ it to +Rushy Riker,—Leeson, I s’pose her name is +naow, but I sha’n’t never call her nothin’ but +Riker, not outen Zeph wuz ter git married, +an’ I allow thet’s ther furthest off from his +thoughts ’t ever wuz. He seems ter be reel +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>settled naow. ’Twuz luck fur him a gittin’ +yeour place.”</p> + +<p>“Then you think that Mrs. Leeson would not +give up the little girl?” interrupted Miss Sophy, +who found the conversation both disagreeable +and embarrassing.</p> + +<p>“Not she!” said Gammer. “I’ll say thet +much fur Rushy Riker. Money couldn’t buy +one o’ her young uns, I allaow ’t couldn’t. +She’s fierce fur ’em allers, an’ reel good ter +’em, tew. She’s a hussy, aout an’ aout, an’ +allers wuz, I be bound; but she’s a good +mother t’ her young uns ser fur’s lovin’ ’em +goes. She’d run round ’n’ leave ’em fur frolics +an’ sech, an’ she ain’t no great hand ter tidy ’em +up; but she loves ’em more ’n most women doos +thar young uns, I allaow she doos. Thet’s one +thing made me ser sure Nat’d never marry her +’n ther livin’ world, kase I allowed he wouldn’t +be bothered ’th ther young uns; but ’twuz +young uns ’n’ all, ’r else not ’t all, ’n’ it doos +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>look ez ef he wuz bound ter hev Rushy. He’s +workin’ her ’most ter death tew; thet’s what +some says; ’twuz jest fur her cookin’ he wanted +her. He’s took the restaurant now,—the Star +restaurant, whar he wuz a cookin’, ’n’ he ’n’ her +ez runnin’ it, ’n’ er takin’ in money like greased +lightnin’, they say. She’s an orful good cook, +Rushy ez. She’s smart; nothin’ she can’t do +ef she wants ter, ’cept be decent; I allow she +could do thet tew, ef she wanted ter. She +don’t want ter. But she don’t do no gaddin’ +naow, don’t yer furgit it! She’s got er marster +naow ’stead o’ er slave; thet’s what she hed +afore,—er reg’lar slave, thet Zeph wuz. She’ll +be sick o’ her bargain, I allaow, ’fore she’s +through with it. I know a reel likely young +un I allaow them folks could git,—it’s a +boy, though. ’Twuz a gal yer said they wuz +wantin’?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, feeling guilty, but +playing her game boldly. “It is a girl these +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>parties want. I dare say they’ll find one, +though; children are plenty enough.”</p> + +<p>“More ’n enough, whar they ain’t wanted,” +replied Gammer. “I allaow thet’s anuther +queer thing ther Lawd doos. Hyar’s these yer +folks o’ yourn huntin’ fur a child ter ’dopt, ’n’ +hyar daown ’n this yer very flairt I could p’int +yer ter ’s many ’s twenty houses whar they’d +be glad ’n’ thankful ef thar wuz fewer chillen +ter feed ’n’ clothe. Thet’s ther way ’tis. I +allaow ’t ’s cur’us. But I couldn’t never see +haow ’tis folks wants ter ’dopt chillen. I allaow +I couldn’t dew no sech thing ’s thet.”</p> + +<p>“Why not?” asked Miss Sophy, so sharply +that Gammer looked up in surprise.</p> + +<p>“Wall, I allaow I couldn’t jest say why not,” +she replied. “It’s er kind er feelin’ I hev; +’pears like ’twould be a kinder cheatin’ natur’, +somehow, thet wouldn’t work.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so at all,” answered Miss +Sophy. “It seems to me the most natural +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>thing in the world for folks that haven’t got +any child o’ their own, to adopt one.”</p> + +<p>“I expect it’s hevin’ chillen o’ yer own +makes ’doptin’ ’em seem so cur’us,” replied +Gammer, placidly; “arter ye’ve hed ’em, I allaow +yer don’t think much o’ ’doptations. ’S fur ’s +I’m concerned, I wouldn’t durst trust myself +with other folks’s chillen. Chillen ez tryin’.”</p> + +<p>“I should think they must be,” said Miss +Sophy, turning to go, glad to escape from the +conversation which booted nothing and made +her uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>Slowly, reluctantly, she abandoned her project +as impracticable. It grieved her sorely, and it +disquieted her anticipations of the future. But +she saw no means, which she dared use, of +bringing about the desired end. She did not +stop thinking about it, however; that was out +of her power. Many a night she lay awake far +into the morning hours vainly pondering, wishing, +regretting.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span></p> + +<p>Her arrangements for leaving were nearly +complete; so quietly and judiciously had she +made them, that few persons in the town knew +of her contemplated change; and to no one +except her minister had she confided her intention +of marrying Zeph.</p> + +<p>“There’s been talk enough about his affairs,” +she said, “an’ it’s nobody’s business but his +and mine what we’re going to do.” The marriage +was to take place at the minister’s house, +with only the necessary witnesses, on the evening +of their departure from town, and would +not be known until she and Zeph were many +miles away. They were going to take the long +overland journey in their own wagon, in company +with a party of emigrants who were about +setting off from a mining town a few hours by +rail south of Pendar Basin. This was Zeph’s +plan. He had long desired such a journey. +When he proposed it to Miss Sophy, her first +reply was, “Mercy, Zeph, it’d take forever!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span></p> + +<p>“Only about two months, Sophy,” he said +pleadingly. “Two months out o’ doors every +minute.”</p> + +<p>“Two months!” echoed Miss Sophy. “Is that +all? Well, I suppose that’d be two honeymoons +’stead o’ one!” And in this view the prospect +of the journey grew more and more pleasing to +her.</p> + +<p>It only lacked a week of the day fixed for +starting. Greenhills was sold, and well sold, +and the money in the bank,—quite enough to +buy the new ranch in California, or wherever they +might determine to live. The people who had +bought Miss Sophy’s boarding-house, furniture, +good-will, and so forth, had arrived and taken +possession, the transfer being made with surprisingly +little jar to the household. “It’s easy +enough to do anything if you once set about it,” +said Miss Sophy, never suspecting how uncommon +was the executive force within her which +made all the difference in the world in the way +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>of “setting about” things. It seemed odd to her +to be a boarder in her own home; and the hours +hung so heavily on her hands that she more than +once wished that she was at liberty to go into +the kitchen and cook the dinner. Zeph was away. +He had gone to make the arrangements for their +wagon journey, to have everything in readiness, +so that their wagons might be in waiting for +them at the railway station where they would +leave the cars. When this plan was made, it had +not occurred to Miss Sophy that it would distress +her to be separated from Zeph for a few +days; but she was finding it intolerable. Except +for sheer shame, she would have followed him. +Her mind continually reverted to the grief of +her youth, the death of her first lover. “Folks +that belongs to each other hain’t got any business +takin’ such risks,” she soliloquized. “If +there was anythin’ to happen to Zeph, an’ me +not there, I’d never get over it, never. If I +was to lose him as I did Robert, I do believe it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>would kill me dead.” Fiercely she taunted herself +with being silly; but her heart got the better +of her common sense in every such argument, +and she grew unhappier hour by hour. In this +morbid mood her thoughts also dwelt more and +more on the separation which was coming between +Zeph and his children, and her doubts +grew stronger and stronger as to the possibility +of his being happy away from them. “And if +he ain’t, that’d be worse than seein’ him dead, a +long ways,” said the miserable Miss Sophy, torturing +herself to no purpose, and fighting vainly +against the pricks on all sides. “I’d lots better +gone off an’ left him here to shift for himself. +Well, there’s one thing; if worst comes to worst, +he can come back. I sha’n’t keep any man from +doin’ what he thinks ’s right.”</p> + +<p>But fate had better things in store for Miss +Sophy than she dreamed. One night, as she had +just fallen into an uneasy sleep after lying awake +for hours grappling with these anxieties, she was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>roused by the sharp ringing of the fire-bells. +Springing from her bed, she saw the whole +southern sky aglow, heard the sounds of trampling +feet and hoarse cries. In a moment she +was dressed and at her door. Men and women +were running breathlessly past. In Pendar Basin +everybody went to fires; it was simply a duty +of good-fellowship, for their one fire-engine was +none too good, and the company but poorly +trained; and every hand, even a woman’s hand, +counted, when it came to passing up buckets +in line.</p> + +<p>“Where is it? What is it?” cried Miss +Sophy.</p> + +<p>Nobody knew. “The depot,” said one. “The +hotel,” said another. Nobody stopped to make +sure, or to answer again; the ruddy sheets of +flame rolled up fiercer and faster; the bells rang +harder. A terrible thing is a midnight fire, even +where the best appliances of a city are close +at hand; but in a country village it seems far +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>crueller,—almost like a personal enemy come to +slay the helpless in their sleep.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Miss Sophy caught sound of +another word. “The Star restaurant’ll go, +sure,” said one of the panting runners as he +went by.</p> + +<p>“My God!” cried Miss Sophy aloud; and +clasping her hands she ran bareheaded into +the street and looked up to the reddening +sky. At that instant she felt her arm grasped +violently.</p> + +<p>“Thet restaurant’s a gwine, whar she ez; it +ez er judgment on ’em, I allow ’tis!” cried +Gammer Stein. “Come on, come on! I expect +thet Zeph’s thar; he’ll gin his life fur her ef +she’s in ther fire!”</p> + +<p>“He won’t do any such thing!” cried Miss +Sophy, angrily, forgetting herself, and turning +on Gammer. “He ain’t here; he’s been gone +three days!” and a prayer of thanksgiving +went up from her heart. What a mercy was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>this! How should she be thankful enough! +“Thank God, thank God!” she said in her +heart, as hand in hand with Gammer she ran +towards the fire.</p> + +<p>It was indeed the Star restaurant that was +“going,”—going fast. The flames had already +burst out of one spot in the roof; figures +like black imps were seen flying past the +windows; the crowd surged around the house, +helplessly; shrieks, oaths, commands, confused +calls,—all were blent in a terrible din, which +heightened the horror of the black rolling +columns of smoke and fire pouring from the +windows. Vainly the little engine threw its +feeble stream into the blazing mass. It quelled +the flame for a second, only to let it leap up +fiercer in a new spot.</p> + +<p>In a terrible fascination Miss Sophy and +Gammer pressed closer, nearer,—Miss Sophy +clutching Gammer’s hand in a frenzy of excitement. +“Oh, where are the children? Who’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>seen the children? Has anybody seen the children?” +she shrieked.</p> + +<p>“Burnt in their beds, I reckon,” said one. +“’Tain’t ten minutes since the fire burst out, ’n’ +look ’t that roof; it’s ready to fall in now!”</p> + +<p>“Thet’s him! thet’s Nat,” said Gammer, +pointing to a man, blackened with smoke, +leaping from the door, bearing a desk in his +hands; back again into the flames, spite of the +warning cries of the crowd; back, and out +again,—not a drop of coward blood in Nat +Leeson’s bad heart! At that moment, just as +Miss Sophy had fastened her eyes on his face, +a scream rang out close beside her,—a scream +that no one who heard it ever forgot: “Nat! +Nat! where’s the baby?” And more like some +swift flying creature than like a human being +there came, parting the crowd right and left, as +if they had been straws in her way, the figure +of a woman, uttering shriek after shriek. Men +tried to grasp her by the arm to hold her back. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>They could no more grasp her than they could +grasp the flames themselves. “Nat! Nat! +where’s the baby?” she shrieked. “Oh, God! +save my baby! Zephie! Zephie!” Over and +above all the din Nat heard the cry; and maddened +as he was by terror and loss, the words +seemed to turn him into a fiend. As she +reached him he pushed her back, shouting +hoarsely, “Damn your brat! let it burn! Good +riddance!” A cry of “Shame! shame!” went +up, but there was time for no further retribution. +The flames were licking out of the windows +now, and running up the outside walls. +A few minutes would see all over. The crowd +swept back a little.</p> + +<p>“Mam, here’s baby,” cried a shrill, quavering +voice; and out of the smoke, out of the flame, +past the raging Nat, who did not even see him, +tottered Zephie, bearing the baby in his arms. +There went up a cheer, a short one, indeed, for +the men’s voices broke. They closed round the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>boy, took the baby, lifted her; took Zephie, +lifted him. Nobody thought any longer of the +burning house; let it go; here were the children. +But where was the mother? It was +some minutes before she was found. As she +tossed her arms in despair at her husband’s +brutal answer to her cry, merciful unconsciousness +had seized her, and she wavered and fell,—fell, +by the strangest of chances, into the arms +of Gammer Stein, who had pressed on closely +after her, expecting, as she afterwards confessed, +to see her plunge into the burning building and +be devoured by the flames.</p> + +<p>“An’ I allaow I wuz er thinkin’ ez haow +the Lawd hed erpinted thet ther fire ez er +jedgment,” she said, “’n’ the next I knowed, +thar she wuz, ther pore cretur, a settlin’ down +agen me, ’n’ er swayin’ back ’n’ forth, ’n’ ’s +soon ’s I ketched her I seen she wuz in er +dead faint; ’n’ I allaow ter yeow it kind er +fetched me raound, skeered, ’s ef ther Lawd +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>hed tuk me ter witness he wa’n’t plum done +aout wi’ Rushy Riker yit!”</p> + +<p>It was surely a strange chance which put into +the hands of Gammer Stein and Miss Sophy +the joint labor of restoring the woman to consciousness. +When at last she opened her eyes +and saw Zephie in a chair opposite her, with +the child in his arms, she put her hand to her +head, and cried out pitifully, “Be we dead? +Where’s Nat?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, mam,” cried Zephie, holding the +baby out to her, “we ain’t none of us dead! +The house ’s all burnt up, but we got out. I +brought Rushy downstairs myself, ’n’ the stairs +was a blazin’ under me; donno how I ever did +it; but she never so much ’s kicked nor hollered. +If she had, I’d a dropped her sure.”</p> + +<p>“Your husband is safe too,” said Miss +Sophy, with a not wholly kindly emphasis. +Miss Sophy was very human.</p> + +<p>Snatching the baby from Zephie’s arms and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>straining it to her bosom, rocking herself to and +fro, looking up into Gammer Stein’s face wildly, +Rushy exclaimed, “I wish he’d burned up! I +never want to set my eyes on him again!”</p> + +<p>“’Sh, ’sh!” exclaimed Gammer; “ye donno +what ye’re sayin’.”</p> + +<p>“Did ye hear what he said to me, then?” +cried Rushy, bursting into a flood of hysterical +crying. “He meant to let the children burn +up. He set it afire hisself. That’s what he +sent me out o’ the house for last night.”</p> + +<p>Horror-stricken, Gammer threw up her hands. +Miss Sophy stood at the foot of the bed, listening +intently. They were alone with her.</p> + +<p>“I wish God may strike me dead,” cried the +raving woman, “if I don’t believe it! I’ll never +go nigh him again, never! ’Twas to get rid o’ +the children he did it!”</p> + +<p>“Rushy Riker!” exclaimed Gammer, and +the old woman drew herself up till her gaunt +figure seemed preternaturally tall, and, spite of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>her uncouth language, her utterance had the +dignity of inspiration,—“Rushy Riker! yeow +jest shet yer mouth, an’ don’t yeow tempt ther +Lawd ter strike yer dead, blasphemin’ thet way. +Yeow air plum crazy, thet’s what yer air. Yer +know Nat Leeson, bad’s he ez, never done +nothin’ er ther kind. The Lawd’s gin yer both +yer chillen safe ’n’ sound, ’n’ ye’d better git +daown ’n yer knees ’n’ be thankful, ’n’ begin ter +lead ther life ye’d oughter. ’Tain’t tew late +yit. Yer young; ’n’ I allaow the Lawd’s er +dealin’ ’th yeow powerful.”</p> + +<p>Rushy’s great black eyes fastened on Gammer’s +face fiercely; the tears stopped; sobs +shook her, but she did not speak. The baby, +terrified, began to cry. Hushing her tenderly, +cooing over her, caressing her, Rushy, with a +swiftly changing face, began again to weep, but +softly, as if she feared to terrify the child.</p> + +<p>“I expect I was kind o’ crazy,” she muttered, +“but ’taint strange.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span></p> + +<p>“No,” said Gammer gently, “’tain’t strange! +We’ll be gwine naow; yer better alone. Ther +folks ’n this house said yer could hev this +room till yer got time ter look raound, yeow +’n’ yer—yeow ’n’ Nat!” Gammer could not +bring herself to speak the word “husband” +in that connection. “Come, Miss Burr,” she +added, touching Miss Sophy on the shoulder, +“we’ll be gwine; we can’t do nothin’ more +fur ’er.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy did not stir. She was gazing +fixedly at Zephie. The child had thrown himself +on the floor, and was lying with his eyes +shut. “Look at him!” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“Dew yer feel bad, Zephie?” asked Gammer. +He did not answer. Bending over him, she exclaimed: +“Ef thet ain’t cur’us! He’s sleepin’! +Ain’t thet a mercy, naow, he kin?” And again +she drew Miss Sophy away.</p> + +<p>Shaking off the old woman’s hand, Miss Sophy +stepped nearer to the bed, and said, “Mrs. Leeson, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>I’d like to see you to-morrow morning. +Will you be here?”</p> + +<p>“Who be ye?” asked Rushy, half defiantly, +with a distrustful glance. “I s’pose I’ll be +here.”</p> + +<p>“My name is Burr,” answered Miss Sophy, +slowly. “You do not know me, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“That keeps boarders?” asked Rushy.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, trembling.</p> + +<p>“I know where yer place is,” answered +Rushy, indifferently, “’n’ my husband that was, +he’s been workin’ for you, I heered. You was +the fust one ’t ever got any work out o’ him, I +heered say.”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s face grew hard. It was well +that the light was dim. She clenched her hands +as she replied coldly, nerving herself by the +thought of the purpose she had in view, “He +did all the work which he did for me very well.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’t he workin’ on your ranch now?” +asked Rushy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span></p> + +<p>“No,” said Miss Sophy, thankful for the form +of the question. “I’ve sold my ranch.”</p> + +<p>“A good while ’fore Zeph Riker’ll get such +another job!” said Rushy, vindictively.</p> + +<p>Again Miss Sophy clenched her hands and +held herself calm. For Zeph’s sake nothing +was too much to be borne. For the stake for +which she was playing now she could afford +to strain every nerve.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, under all her excitement +taking a certain grim satisfaction in the artful +wording of her reply. “Yes, I think it will be. +But I will see you in the morning, Mrs. Leeson. +There’s something I want to talk to you about.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Rushy, without a gleam of +curiosity in her face. The reaction after her +terrible shock was setting in; a stupor was fast +stealing over her.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s heart was beating high. She +had hard work to keep from telling her project +to Gammer Stein, but she refrained.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span></p> + +<p>“Time enough if it succeeds,” she said. “But +it will! I know it will!”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy had watched Rushy’s face closely +while Gammer was upbraiding her for her accusation +against Nat. She had seen the swift +look of terror there, followed by dogged resolve, +as she regained partial composure. Miss Sophy +did not believe that the woman had been crazy +when she uttered that accusation, or that she +thought herself to have been so. Miss Sophy +believed it true; and if this were so, the very +strength of the poor creature’s maternal affection, +which had hitherto been the barrier to the +carrying out of Miss Sophy’s project, would be +its surest aid.</p> + +<p>Minute by minute all through the lingering +darkness Miss Sophy watched for the dawn. +As soon as it was fairly light, she took her way +to the house. She reckoned, and rightly, that +she would find Rushy alone. As she passed +the still smouldering ruins of the restaurant she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>recognized Nat working there with a hopeless +sort of fury in his motions, dragging out bits +of iron and half-burnt timbers. It seemed a +mockery that the chimney was left standing, +and projecting from it a grate half full of coal +and ashes, the remains of the last home-fire +lighted on that ill-fated hearth. While she stood +gazing at this, Nat pried the grate out with an +iron bar; as it fell, his face was convulsed with +rage, and he poured out a volley of oaths which +made Miss Sophy’s heart stand still.</p> + +<p>“It was true! I believe it!” she gasped, as +she quickened her pace, and did not once look +back till she reached Rushy’s bedside.</p> + +<p>In the white, haggard face which looked up +from the pillow half-inquiring, half-alarmed, at +Miss Sophy, there were few traces left of the +beauty which had been so fatal a lure to Zeph +in days gone by. The year of hard work, and +still more of suffering which she had been too +proud to betray, had told upon Rushy sadly. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>And this last night with its anguish, its dire secret, +its shock,—this had completed the wreck. +She had almost the look of a dying woman. +Placid, rosy, fast asleep on her arm, lay the +child over whose destiny forces strangely conflicting +were now coming together.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy was a keen reader of faces. As +she met Rushy’s first glance she perceived in it a +defined terror. Rushy was indeed in an agony +of apprehension lest the words she had spoken +in her frenzy would be used to work harm to Nat. +She was rent between her still passionate love +for him and her mighty love for her children.</p> + +<p>On the instant Miss Sophy changed her entire +plan of approach. This terror should be made +to play into her hands.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Leeson,” she said gravely, “I came +down so early to be sure of seeing you before +any one else did. I suppose you remember +what you said last night about your husband’s +having set his place on fire? I think no one +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>heard you except Gammer and me; but we +both heard you.”</p> + +<p>Rushy’s eyes dilated with horror. “I was +crazy!” she cried. “I was out o’ my head! I didn’t +mean no such thing! Gammer said I was +crazy. She knows Nat wouldn’t do such a thing.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you did not know,” continued +Miss Sophy, eying her steadily,—no mercy in +Miss Sophy’s heart now,—“that I owned the +bakery next your restaurant?”</p> + +<p>“No! Did ye?” gasped Rushy. “Oh, Miss +Burr, don’t ye tell on me! I swear to God it +wa’n’t true! I didn’t know I said it! Oh, have +some mercy on me, won’t ye? Nat ’d kill me +in a minute if ever he was to hear ’t I’d said +such a word. He never did it, Miss Burr, +never! Nat’s real good, he is; only jest hasty, +that’s all. Oh, for God’s sake, ma’am, don’t +you go to tell it!” And in anguish too great +for tears Rushy threw herself back on the bed +and groaned aloud.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span></p> + +<p>“I had no idea of telling it, Mrs. Leeson,” +said Miss Sophy. “It was not for that I came. +The property was not much injured, and I am +going away. I didn’t care a fig for the building. +But I’ll tell you what I did come for.” +Miss Sophy hesitated, bent over the bed, whispering +low, “I am certain you spoke the truth +about Nat’s setting that fire. I’ll never forget +your scream, never; an’ I said to myself, +‘There’s a woman would be glad to get her +child out o’ that man’s way if she could.’” +Again Miss Sophy paused. Rushy’s eyes transfixed +her. Confession, awe, yearning, surrender, +were in them.</p> + +<p>“Oh! what be ye?” she said faintly. “Ye +scare me! What d’ ye mean?”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy never could remember distinctly +the rest of the conversation,—how she gradually +made clear to Rushy her own wish to adopt +a child; her sudden desire the night before to +take the little one whose life had been thus +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>endangered by her stepfather’s crime; her feeling +that she had been sent to the fire for this +very purpose. The words seemed to come to +her as from some power outside herself; and as +she spoke, the mother’s heart seemed melted; +tears like rain ran down her face. Wringing her +hands, she said again and again, “I can’t! Oh, +I can’t never let her go; I’d die without her!” +And yet again and again she returned to the +point, groaning, “But I darstn’t keep her! I +darstn’t! I donno why I trust ye so, ma’am, +but I can’t help it! I know ye won’t do me no +harm; I’ve heard lots about ye, how good ye +was to everybody, ’n’ I know ye’re rich! Oh, +I’ll never forgive myself if I stand ’n the child’s +light ’n’ keep her out o’ all ye’d do for her; ’n’ +I’ll die if I let her go out o’ my sight! ’n’ there +’tis!” It was a terrible struggle. More than +once Miss Sophy was on the point of abandoning +it. All seemed lost. Once she rose to go. +But Rushy clutched her gown and cried, “Don’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>ye go! don’t go! I hain’t made my mind up! +I can’t! If it wa’n’t for fearin’ she ain’t safe I +couldn’t! But oh, if anythin’ did happen to her +here, I’d die! I donno why Nat hates her so; +he’s real good to Zephie; allers has been; but +ever sence we was married he’s seemed to hate +the sight o’ baby. I suppose it’s hard on a man +to take to another man’s children; but there’s +Zephie, just the same, an’ he’s fond o’ him.”</p> + +<p>Finally the storm-tossed creature said: “You +send Gammer here; I’ll talk it over with her. +I’m spent. I can’t think no longer! Gammer +knows ye real well; if she says it’ll be right, I’ll +do it! I’m thankful ye’re goin’ way off; that’s +the only way I’d stand it ’t all. It’ll be just same +’s ef she was dead; ’n’ that’s the way I want it +to be! I couldn’t give her up no other way!”</p> + +<p>Still the baby slept on, placid, unconscious. +As Miss Sophy turned to go, she bent down +and kissed its forehead. “She is a most beautiful +child,” she said. “I love her already.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, ye’d be good to her always, always, ’s +long ’s ye live, and leave her safe ’n’ comfortable! +Oh, swear it, won’t ye?” cried Rushy, +hysterically. Then with a fresh outburst of +crying, her words hardly articulate, she sobbed, +“Should ye want her to call ye mammy? She’s +just beginnin’ to say it this last month or two; +p’r’aps ye might let her call ye aunt, or suthin’ +else besides mammy!”</p> + +<p>The anguish in the mother’s voice as she said +this touched a chord in Miss Sophy’s breast +that had never before vibrated. As tenderly +and understandingly as if she herself had borne +children, she answered, “Don’t you think it +would be best for her to call me mother? You +wouldn’t want her to grow up thinking she had +no mother!”</p> + +<p>“No, no! I s’pose she must call ye mammy. +Oh, I donno but I wish she was dead now! +Oh, ma’am, don’t ye be angry with me! You +go away now. I can’t talk to ye a minute +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>longer. Send Gammer; she’ll come. She hates +me, but she’s good; she’ll come; she’ll tell +me. When are ye going?”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow night.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad it’s so soon,—that is, if I’m goin’ +to do it. If I was to think it over ’n’ over +weeks, I shouldn’t know no better ’t the end; +I’d ruther she’d go ’t oncet. Gammer’ll bring +her ter ye. She always goes to Gammer, +Zephie says. He takes her up there sometimes +Sundays. I expect—” Rushy paused. Miss +Sophy’s instinct filled up the interval. It was +of Zeph Rushy was thinking. Spite of Miss +Sophy’s steady nerves, she trembled now. “He +hain’t got no right, anyhow,” Rushy muttered +to herself. “The judge giv’ ’em to me.”</p> + +<p>“Thar’d have to be papers, wouldn’t there?” +she said, looking up furtively, “so there couldn’t +nobody else get her away from you?”</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy’s heart bounded. She made a +feint of stooping to pick up something from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>floor to hide her exultation. The words, “and +mine enemy was my helper,” flashed across her +thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she replied, “that would be better. +I will send them to you by Gammer. I’ll have +a lawyer draw them up, so they will be all right; +and if you make up your mind to do it, you +can sign them, and give them to Gammer with +the baby, and I’ll have Gammer go with me +part way till the baby’s used to me.”</p> + +<p>“Swear! swear!” shrieked Rushy, snatching +Miss Sophy’s hand, fastening her wild eyes +on her face. “Oh, swear to me, here ’n’ +now, she’d be t’ ye the same ’s yer own! +Swear!”</p> + +<p>“So help me God,” said Miss Sophy, tears +on her cheeks and her voice faltering, “she +shall be to me the same ’s my own.”</p> + +<p>“I believe ye!” gasped Rushy, half fainting +from her fierce struggle. “I believe ye! I +don’t never want to see ye agen, though! Don’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>ye come back here. Send Gammer. If I’ll do +it, Gammer’ll bring the baby to your house. +If I don’t do ’t, I don’t never want to be asked +no more! Be ye sure ye’re goin’ to-morrow +night?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“South? The south-goin’ train?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Miss Sophy, suddenly alive +to a new danger, and perceiving as suddenly +how it could be averted. “Yes, I am going +on the south-bound train.”</p> + +<p>“Send Gammer quick,” was Rushy’s only +answer; and she closed her eyes exhausted.</p> + +<p>Even in this final crisis Miss Sophy did +not confide to Gammer her relation to Zeph. +“What folks don’t know, they can’t let out,” +had been Miss Sophy’s motto all her life, and it +stood her in good stead now. Except for this +reticence, her plans at the last moment might +have miscarried disastrously. All that Gammer +knew when she set out on her strange embassy +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>was simply what had already been said by Miss +Sophy herself to Rushy. In her pocket she +carried the papers, made out in due form, by +the signing of which the legal adoption of the +child would be put forever beyond question or +revocal.</p> + +<p>“An’ I allaow she’ll sign ’em fast enough, +I allaow she will ef ’tis ez she sez, accordin’ ter +what I’d ’vise her ter dew. Ther ain’t no tew +sides ter ther thing; ther ez ter most things; +but I allaow ther ain’t ter this,” said Gammer, +as she bade Miss Sophy good-by and set out +on her errand.</p> + +<p>It was arranged between them that if Gammer +obtained the child she would pass Miss Sophy’s +house on her way home, Miss Sophy watching +at the window to see if she had been successful. +In that case Gammer was to keep the child +with her until the next evening, when she would +bring her to the train, joining Miss Sophy there +at the last moment. Miss Sophy’s brain ached +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>with all this plotting and planning, so foreign +to her straightforward nature. She felt disgraced +in her own eyes by so much concealment. +“Lord knows I’ll be thankful to get +done with all this coverin’-up business,” she +reflected. “It’s a new trade for me; but then, +I’m takin’ up a new trade altogether,”—and +her face softened into a younger look at the +very thought. “It’s all for his sake I’m doin’ +it. Once we’re out o’ this country ’n’ settled +down, it won’t seem nothin’ at all; ’n’ I know +’t ’s right! that’s one comfort.”</p> + +<p>It was late in the afternoon before Gammer, +equipped with the paper ready for Rushy’s signature, +and already signed by Miss Sophy, set +out on her exciting errand. Never before in +Gammer’s life had she been called upon to take +part in such stirring events. But she bore herself +like a veteran, and had no misgivings as +to the success of the enterprise. The only thing +that puzzled her was the mysterious secrecy in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>which Miss Sophy insisted on wrapping the +whole affair.</p> + +<p>“Thar ain’t no disgrace ’n ’doptin’ er child,” +she reflected. “I allaow ’t ’s ter ennybody’s +cheeriterble credit ter feel ter dew it; but Miss +Burr ez fur coverin’ ’t up ez much ez ef ’twuz +er case er stealin’. I allaow she’s drefful afeard +o’ folks talkin’, bein’ an old maid ’s she ez; ’n’ +thar’s plenty ’twould talk, ’n’ kinder larf; folks +ez jest mean enuf. It’s different, her bein’ ’n +old maid. Naow ef ’twuz me, nobody’d say er +word. Old maids hez er hard time, ennyway; +’pears like thar shet out er lots o’ things, ’sides +not hevin’ no man o’ ther own.”</p> + +<p>The minutes seemed hours to Miss Sophy +as she sat at her window gazing down the street +by which Gammer would return. The sun went +slowly down toward the mountain-tops, reached +them, seemed to linger a moment, then sank, +and was gone; then the slow twilight passed, +and dusky gloom settled on the little town. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>There was no moon; Miss Sophy could see but +a few paces beyond her gate. No Gammer +yet!</p> + +<p>She could not bear it. Throwing a shawl +over her head, she stole out and paced up and +down in the path. At last she saw the tall +figure looming up in the distance, walking with +a swift stride,—too swift to be the step of one +carrying the burden of a heavy child.</p> + +<p>Miss Sophy stood still. As soon as she saw +that the old woman’s arms were empty, she ran +forward, exclaiming under her breath, “Wouldn’t +she do it? Oh, what shall I do! What +shall I do!”</p> + +<p>“Hesh, naow,” said Gammer, as composedly +as if it were an every-day transaction over +which Miss Sophy excited herself unnecessarily. +“Don’ git yerself inter er fever! She’s gwine +ter; she’s signed; but she don’t want ter giv +her up till ther last minute; she wants ter fix +her up; she hain’t got no cloes fit ter go in, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>she sez. I declar ter yeow, Miss Burr, I didn’t +never allaow ter feel ez near kind ter Rushy +Riker ez I dew. Thet’s what’s kep’ me. ’T +seemed ter kind er dew her sum good ter talk. +She sed she allers knowed I war daown on her, +an’ I war; but she’s broke naow. But ez I ben +tellin’ her, she’s made her bed ’n’ she’s got ter +lay in ’t, this time; ’n’ I allaow it’s a hard un. +She’s ’feard ’s death o’ thet Nat,—’feard ’s +death; ’n’ yit she kinder doos love him tew; +she won’t never leave him ser long ’s the breath +er life’s in her body; she darstn’t; she sez he’d +kill ennybody in a minnit, ’n’ not mean ter, +nuther; when he’s inter his rages he donno +nothin’. I allaow she’s got inter hell afore her +time, she hez! Thet’s the way ye’ve got ther +baby; she’d ha’ died afore she’d parted ’th her, +ef ’t hedn’t been jest ’s ’tis. Yeow’d hev pitied +her ef ye’d seen her tryin’ to sign thet paper, +yeow would. ’T seemed ’s ef she couldn’t do ’t. +She’d put ther pen daown, ’n’ then she’d pick ’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>up; ’n’ ther paper’s all riz up in blotches whar +she cried on ’t ’n’ tried ter wipe ’t off ’th her +gown, ’n’ ’t made ’t wuss. Yeow’d hev pitied +her.”</p> + +<p>“No, I wouldn’t!” replied Miss Sophy. “I +haven’t got any pity for a woman that does +what she’s done.”</p> + +<p>Gammer drew a long sigh. It was too dark +for her to see Miss Sophy’s face. They were +standing close together in the shadow of a tree, +whispering like conspirators.</p> + +<p>“Yeow’d hev ter, ef yer seen her,” she said; +“not but what she’s reapin’ ez she sowed; I +ain’t er gainsayin’ thet; ’n’ I allaow ther Lawd’s +gwine ter punish her wuss yit ’fore He’s done +’th her.”</p> + +<p>“How?” said Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“I allaow she’s gwine ter break all ter pieces. +She’s jest ther high-strung kind thet doos; +she’s all uv er tremble; narves ez awful when +they gits broke up thet way. She sez she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>knows she’s gwine ter die, ’n’ she don’t care +how soon; ’n’ I say, ther sooner ther better, tew; +fur thet Nat, he won’t keer fur her a minnit +when she’s lost her looks ’n’ can’t cook,—not er +minnit; he’s thet kind. Naow thet Zeph, he’d +hev—”</p> + +<p>“Are you sure she will give you the child +to-morrow?” interrupted Miss Sophy. She +could not bear any reference to Zeph in this +connection.</p> + +<p>“Sure’s I am ’t I’m erlive,” answered Gammer. +“She’s a gwine ter bring her up ter-morrer +arter she’s hed her supper, ’n’ she’ll git +her ter sleep ter my house. I allaow ter yeow +I dread ter see her go ’n’ leave her. I allaowed +mebbe she’d better come down ter ther train; +but—”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” shrieked Miss Sophy, “don’t let her! +She’d be sure to take it all back at the last +minute. Don’t let her!” And Miss Sophy actually +quivered with alarm.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span></p> + +<p>“She won’t come thar,” answered Gammer. +“She allaowed she couldn’t. She allaowed +she’d die when she heered the whistle, ’s ’twuz. +She sez it’s a comfort ter her I’m goin’ part +way. Not thet she’s got enny kind er distrust +o’ yeow; but ther baby knows me, ’n’ she’s a +sckeery little thing. I allaow yeow’ll have +trouble ’th her along fur a spell.”</p> + +<p>“I think not,” said Miss Sophy, with a joy +at her heart, thinking of the baby nestled in its +father’s arms. “I’m not afraid.”</p> + +<p>After they had parted, Gammer turned back, +calling cautiously, “Oh, Miss Burr, I clar furgot! +She’s powerful ’fraid Zeph’ll get wind +on ’t somehow ’n’ interfere. I allaowed ter her +he’d ruther yeow hed ther baby ’n enny woman +livin’; he knowed yer; but she ain’t easy ’bout +it. Whar is Zeph naow? D’ yer know? We +hain’t seed him for a week back.”</p> + +<p>“He went into the country on business for +me,” replied Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span></p> + +<p>“’Ll he be back ’fore yer go?”</p> + +<p>“I expect him to-morrow; at least, that was +the plan. But he may be detained,” said the +guilty Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“Ef he doos come, ye kin tell him all abaout +it yerself,” replied the unsuspecting Gammer, +“’n’ he’ll be thankful ter ther Lawd, I allaow +he will.”</p> + +<p>“I hope he will,” ejaculated Miss Sophy, fervently. +And as she ran home she said to herself, +“I hope to the Lord that’s the last manouverin’ +I’ll have to do till my dyin’ day. It’s +awful wearin’. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s worse +’n out-’n’-out lyin’!”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII.</h2> + +</div> + +<p>The simple ceremony which had made Miss +Sophy and Zeph “man and wife,” as the customary +phrase strangely words it, was over. +The minister and his wife, who had known Miss +Sophy ever since her coming into the town, +respected her, and trusted her as a stanch +friend, were nevertheless disquieted by this last +act of hers, and by the seemingly clandestine +way in which she had insisted upon having it +performed.</p> + +<p>“If she wa’n’t ashamed of it, what’d she want +to come in here to be married, just like a servant-girl?” +said the wife. “I’d never believed +it o’ Sophy Burr, never!” And the minister had +replied thoughtfully, “It does seem queer; but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>Miss Sophy’s always got some good reason for +what she does; that poor Riker’s been through +such dreadful troubles here, I don’t wonder she +doesn’t want it talked about.”</p> + +<p>“She’s just thrown herself away, that’s what +it is,” said the wife.</p> + +<p>“I hope not,” replied the minister, still more +thoughtfully. “There’s something noble in +the man’s look, sad as ’tis. He’ll come up +yet. Sophy Burr’s no fool.”</p> + +<p>Meantime the two thus being discussed were +standing hand in hand just outside the parsonage +gate. Strange words to be spoken by +bride and bridegroom within five minutes of +the ceremony which had made them one were +passing between them.</p> + +<p>“Zeph,” said Sophy, the instant they had +passed the gate,—“Zeph, I’ve got to do something +now that’ll try you considerable; but you +must trust me. You’ve got to let me walk +alone down to the depot and get into the cars +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>by myself, and you get into the last car and +stay there till I come t’ ye. ’Twon’t be +long—”</p> + +<p>“Sophy!” interrupted Zeph, half alarmed, +half angry, “what notion’s taken ye to do +that? I don’t think it’s decent, Sophy. What’ll +folks think? It’s dark; ye needn’t be afraid +o’ folks seein’ us ’s we go along. They’ve got +to know it to-morrow morning; they might as +well know it to-night.”</p> + +<p>It had been a sore point to Zeph already, the +secrecy in which their plans had been shrouded. +Humble-minded and self-distrustful as he was, +he was also sensitive to a fault; and he had +spent many a wretched hour, needlessly torturing +himself with the question if it could be that +the faithful and devoted Sophy felt shame of +having linked her fortunes with his.</p> + +<p>“If you’d heard me through,” retorted +Sophy, brusque even in this supreme moment +of her life, “you’d have seen that it wasn’t any +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>notion, nor nothin’ like a notion. It’s got to +be done, Zeph, an’ you’ve got to trust me. I’ve +got a reason, an’ if you knew it you wouldn’t +ask me to do different. You’d help me all you +could, an’ not make me feel bad either. Can’t +ye trust me ’s long ’s one hour, Zeph? I’d do +it for you. Trust me, Zeph. I’m your wife +now, you know!”</p> + +<p>“Of course I’ll trust ye, Sophy,” replied +Zeph, half appeased, but only half. “It wasn’t +no question o’ trustin’, an’ I’ll do jest as +you want me to; hain’t I always? But I +don’t see why ye can’t tell me what ’tis, +Sophy.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear!” she cried hysterically, “we +haven’t got any time to lose, standin’ here; it’s +’most train-time now. I can’t tell you! an’ +when you know what ’tis, you’ll see I couldn’t +tell you. You’ll be real glad I didn’t, Zeph. +Oh, do trust me! you’ve got to!”—she was +crying now,—“for I’m goin’ right off this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>minute!” And with a convulsive clasp of her +husband’s hand she turned and walked away +at the top of her speed. Tears ran down her +cheeks, and in her excitement she talked aloud +to herself as she ran: “If she should take it +into her head to come down there! If she was +to see Zeph, she might suspect! Perhaps she’s +backed out already! Perhaps Gammer won’t +get down there in time! Supposin’ Zeph didn’t +take notice o’ my tellin’ him to get into the last +car!”</p> + +<p>The fast-multiplying terrors so unnerved her, +that she felt for the first time in her sturdy life +faint,—which but added another alarm. “If I +should be fool enough to go an’ faint, I should +give up!” she said. The self-contempt she felt +at this thought proved the best of tonics, and +by the time she reached the railway station she +was almost herself again.</p> + +<p>It wanted only ten minutes of the train-time, +but there was a sleepy expression about everybody +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>and everything at the station which struck +fear to her heart. “Train’s late, I’ll be bound,” +she thought.</p> + +<p>Yes, the train was late; only an hour, though. +That would soon pass. In a few moments she +saw a tall figure, much wrapped and encumbered, +coming over a low hill to the north of the +station. A short cross-cut from Gammer Stein’s +house would run that way. Her breath coming +thick and fast, Miss Sophy stepped towards the +figure. It was Gammer, and she held the child +in her arms. At the sight, Miss Sophy felt +herself again in danger of fainting. “I didn’t +know I’d got it in me to be so upset,” she +thought, as she laid her hand on Gammer’s +shoulder, and tried to speak. “You’ve got +her!” was all she could say.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” whispered Gammer, “she’s asleep. +I jest giv’ her ther leastest bit er paregoric; +’twon’t hurt her er mite; ’n’ I put er li’le bottle +on ’t inter ther bundle, already sweetened. Yer +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>needn’t be er mite afeerd ter give it ter her ef +she hollers.”</p> + +<p>“The train’s late!” said Miss Sophy, clutching +Gammer’s arm. “We’ll have to walk about. +Keep out here ’n the shade.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’t thet drefful, naow,” said Gammer. “I +allaowed ter git hyar jest on ther minnit, five +minnits erhead er time, so ’s ter git right on +board. It’s lucky I giv’ her the paregoric. But +she’s powerful heavy. I allaow ter yeow my +arm’s plum broke!”</p> + +<p>“Let me take her,” said Miss Sophy; and a +warm glow kindled in her breast as the unconscious +little creature was laid in her arms.</p> + +<p>Zeph was peering anxiously in every direction. +He too had discovered that the train was +late; but that did not console him for his wife’s +non-appearance, since she could not have known +that fact, and ought long before this to have +been on the platform. Dire anxiety consumed +him. Where was she? What did it mean? He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>saw the two dimly outlined figures pacing up +and down in the distance; but in contrast with +Gammer’s great height, Sophy’s figure looked +so short, he did not dream of its being hers; +and besides, that figure was carrying a child. +He did not give it a second look.</p> + +<p>The hour had nearly passed. The sleepy, +waiting passengers outside on the benches and +in the waiting-room were beginning to bestir +themselves; trucks were being wheeled, luggage +moved, carriages driving up. Walking boldly +forward now, Zeph scrutinized all. No Sophy +to be seen! Just as he was on the point of +turning away, with the resolve that come what +might he would not get into the train till he +had seen her, his eye was arrested by a swift-running +figure,—a woman, crossing the track +a few rods from the station and turning towards +it. A signal-lantern, hung high on a derrick, +flashed its light full upon her as she passed. It +was Rushy, her face wild, her hair dishevelled.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span></p> + +<p>“My God!” gasped Zeph. “That’s what +Sophy was afraid of! That’s Rushy, and she’s +drunk! I’ll hide, ’n’ do jest’s Sophy told me +to. She’s got some plan o’ gettin’ aboard herself; +she had a reason, sure enough! But she +might ha’ told me!”</p> + +<p>Beyond the track, on the side farthest from +the station, was a gulch thick grown with weeds +and young cottonwood trees. Into this Zeph +leaped, and stood waiting for the train; as soon +as it pulled in he sprang to the platform of +the rear car, and entering it, sank into a seat. +Whatever came now, he at least had fulfilled +to the letter his wife’s request. But the suspense +was beyond his endurance.</p> + +<p>“It’d kill Sophy if she was to make a row +’n’ insult her,” he said, “’n’ me not there to +stand by her!” And going out on the platform, +he leaned out, straining his eyes forward along +the train, just in time to see Sophy standing +back from the steps of the forward car and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>assisting an elderly woman burdened with a +child in her arms to get in before her.</p> + +<p>“Just like Sophy,” he thought, “always +helpin’ somebody! Oh, why don’t she jump +in quick? Where’s Rushy? She was a lookin’ +to see me, I expect, an’ so she’s missed her!”</p> + +<p>It had been but five minutes,—only an insignificant +way-station stop; but it had settled the +life-destiny of more than one human being.</p> + +<p>The unfortunate Rushy was coming to the +station on a very different errand from that +which Zeph had suspected. In fact, she did not +reach the station at all. If he had watched for +a moment longer he would have seen her pause, +look attentively at the crowd gathered there, +and then, retreating into the darkness, seat herself +on the ground at the base of a telegraph-pole, +against which she leaned in an attitude of +despair.</p> + +<p>Her house was not far distant from the railway +station, and as the time approached for the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>train to pass, the poor creature had pressed her +face against the window, listening for the whistle +and looking for the light. Becoming alarmed +at length by the long delay, she had run bareheaded +to the station to find what it meant. +Seeing the waiting crowd, she had understood +at once, and had thrown herself on the ground, +resolved not to leave the place till the train had +come and gone. No thought of withdrawing +from her agreement or even of looking again +on the face of her child had been in her mind. +On the contrary, her resolve had strengthened +hourly since her interview with Miss Sophy; +but the strengthening of her resolve did not +diminish the intensity of her grief.</p> + +<p>“It’ll kill me, I know ’twill,” was the constant +refrain in her thoughts; always following +it, however, “but I’ll never forgive myself if I +don’t do it. I darstn’t not do ’t!”</p> + +<p>Sobbing aloud in the safe shelter of the darkness, +she watched each movement in the confusion +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>at the train, vainly trying to distinguish +the form of Miss Sophy or of Gammer. The +moments which seemed so long to all the other +actors in the drama seemed to her like lightning seconds.</p> + +<p>“Oh, they’re goin’!” she cried, as the train +began to move. “Oh, God, she’s gone! +Baby!” and she fell back senseless on the +earth.</p> + +<p>At that moment Zeph was saying to himself, +“Thank God, we’re safe off!” and Miss Sophy, +devoutly, “Thank God, she didn’t come down!” +and Gammer, aloud, taking Miss Sophy’s hand +in hers, “What ails yer? Yer tremblin’ like a +leaf!”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got something to tell you, Gammer,” +replied Miss Sophy, in a whisper; and she told +her then, at last, the truth.</p> + +<p>It was well that the necessity of carrying on +their conversation in a cautious whisper restrained +Gammer from the full expression of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>her emotions; but the repression of them was +almost beyond her power. Disjointed and incredulous +ejaculations were at first all which +could take shape in her thought; then followed +an avalanche of questions, some of them hard +to answer; but soon all else was swallowed up +in a heartfelt sympathy and gladness which +were comforting to Miss Sophy’s heart.</p> + +<p>“You don’t think ’twas wrong, then, not to +let her know who she was givin’ her to, do +you?” said Miss Sophy.</p> + +<p>“Nerry bit of it!” replied Gammer. “’Twa’n’t +no use runnin’ ther resk on’t. I donno haow +she’d hev tuk it. Mebbe she’d hev been +willin’er, ’n’ mebbe not ser willin’. Thar ain’t +no countin’ on folks; yer can’t never tell. I +sh’d allaow she’d been willin’er; but then agin +she might er tuk a jealous fit ’n’ thar wouldn’t +hev been any doin’ nothin’. ’T ’s best ’s ’tis. +Ye’ve managed wonderful, I allaow yeow hev; +’n’ naow ther sooner yer let thet pore Zeph +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>know she’s hyar ther better. I allaow he’s +’most crazy, settin’ thar waitin’!”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” faltered Miss Sophy, “I didn’t mean +to tell him till we got out of the train! I don’t +want to have any kind o’ fuss in the cars.”</p> + +<p>“He won’t make no fuss,” replied Gammer. +“He ain’t thet</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Here the story of Zeph comes to an abrupt +ending. Conceived and begun by Mrs. Jackson +in Los Angeles during the winter of 1884-1885, +it was put by to be finished on her arrival home +in Colorado Springs,—a home she was destined +never to reach. In her last hours she sent +the manuscript to her publisher with this message:—</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p>I am very sorry I cannot finish “Zeph.” Perhaps +it is not worth publishing in its unfinished state, as the +chief lesson for which I wrote it was to be forcibly told +at the end. You must be judge about this. I suppose +there will be some interest in it as the last thing I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>wrote. I will make a short outline of the plot of the +close of the story.... Good-by. Many thanks for +all your long good-will and kindness. I shall look in +on your new rooms some day, be sure—but you won’t +see me. Good-by.</p> + +<p class="center">Affectionately forever,</p> + +<p class="right">H. J.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">August 7.</span></p> + +</blockquote> + +<p>On a separate sheet was the “Outline.”</p> + +<h2>THE CLOSE OF “ZEPH.”</h2> + +<p>They were to settle down on a ranch in one +of the beautiful cañons in South California, opening +out seaward, yet not so near the water as to +be too cold for fruits. I had the precise spot in +my memory,—an ideal nook, apricots and vineyards, +cherry-trees in bloom there in March, +tomatoes ripe on the hillsides in January; a +glimmer of sea to be seen from the mouth of +the cañon fourteen miles away,—endless charm +to Miss Sophy, half-sad spell to Zeph. At the +end of two years, one night as she is watching +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>the sunset light on the water from one of the +hills at the mouth of their cañon, she looks down +and sees Zeph coming up the road with his arm +around a boy’s waist. It is Zephie. His mother +is dead,—had saved enough money for him to +come to South California and join his father. +She had learned of the marriage, and as soon +as Gammer returned there was a stormy scene; +but she soon grew reconciled, and finally glad. +As Gammer had predicted, she never recovered +her strength, but pined away in a mysterious +nervous break-down. Zephie’s story is pathetic. +The stepfather was never “bad” to her, but +never “real good;” the boy was her only comfort. +Whenever she could save a dollar, she sent +it by Zephie to Gammer to keep, and made Gammer +promise to see him safe started for California. +A letter from Gammer sent by Zephie told +the details of the last hours, when the poor +woman said she died easier, thinking how forgiving +Zeph had been to her; that she thought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>if a <i>man</i> could forgive her like that, perhaps +Christ would forgive her too! “She allaowed,” +said Gammer, “thet she couldn’t never hev got +no faith to die trustin’, ef it hedn’t ben fur ther +way Zeph ’d allers kep’ on er furgivin’ her, time +an’ agen; ’n’ she jest trusted God ’d be ez good +ter her ez Zeph wuz!”</p> + +<p>“Now,” said Miss Sophy in her heart, “at +last, Zeph’ll have real peace and comfort. He’s +never felt settled in his mind yet, and he never +would ’s long ’s he hadn’t got the boy; ’n’ I +don’t know ’s he would ’s long ’s she was above +ground! But there won’t be a happier man in +all California than he’ll be now!” And a flush +born of a secret known only to Miss Sophy’s +own heart was red on her cheek as she went to +the door and called her husband and his boy in +to supper.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2 class="nobreak"><i>Messrs. Roberts Brothers’ Publications.</i></h2> + +</div> + +<p><i>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Roberts Brothers</span> have in preparation, +and will shortly publish</i>:—</p> + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<p class="hanging"><b>GLIMPSES OF THREE COASTS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Helen +Jackson</span> (H. H.).</p> + +<p>These are “Bits of Travel” in California and Oregon, Scotland +and England, and Norway, Denmark, and Germany, partly new +and partly reprinted from the “Atlantic Monthly” and “Century +Magazine.”</p> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<p class="hanging"><b>VERSES.</b> Second Series. By <span class="smcap">Helen Jackson</span> (H. H.).</p> + +<p>A collection of Mrs. Jackson’s poems, including everything of +importance written by her since the publication of her first volume.</p> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<p class="hanging"><b>BETWEEN WHILES.</b> By <span class="smcap">Helen Jackson</span> (H. H.).</p> + +<p>“P.S.—Did anybody ever publish a volume of short stories +called ‘Between Whiles’? If not, hide it away and don’t tell anybody, +and by next spring I will have had enough short stories printed +to make a nice summer volume. Isn’t it a lovely title?”—<i>Postscript +to a letter of Mrs. Jackson to her publisher, dated San Francisco, +June 26, 1885.</i></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<h3>RAMONA: <span class="smcap">A Story</span>.</h3> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By HELEN JACKSON (H. H.).</span></p> + +<p class="center">12mo. Cloth. Price $1.50.</p> + +<p><i>The Atlantic Monthly</i> says of the author that she is “a Murillo +in literature,” and that the story “is one of the most artistic +creations of American literature.” Says a lady: “To me it is the +most distinctive piece of work we have had in this country since +‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ and its exquisite finish of style is beyond that +classic.” “The book is truly an American novel,” says the <i>Boston +Advertiser.</i> “Ramona is one of the most charming creations of +modern fiction,” says Charles D. Warner. “The romance of the +story is irresistibly fascinating,” says <i>The Independent</i>.</p> + +<p>“The best novel written by a woman since George Eliot died, as +it seems to me, is Mrs. Jackson’s ‘Ramona.’ What action is there! +What motion! How <i>entrainant</i> it is! It carries us along as if +mounted on a swift horse’s back, from beginning to end, and it is +only when we return for a second reading that we can appreciate +the fine handling of the characters, and especially the Spanish +mother, drawn with a stroke as keen and firm as that which +portrayed George Eliot’s ‘Dorothea.’”—<i>T. W. Higginson, in +Harper’s Bazar.</i></p> + +<p>Unsolicited tribute of a stranger, a lady in Wisconsin:—</p> + +<p>“I beg leave to thank you with an intense heartiness for your +public espousal of the cause of the Indian. In your ‘Century of +Dishonor’ you showed to the country its own disgrace. In +‘Ramona’ you have dealt most tenderly with the Indians as men +and women. You have shown that their stoicism is not indifference, +that their squalor is not always of their own choosing. You +have shown the tender grandeur of their love, the endurance of +their constancy. While, by ‘Ramona,’ you have made your name +immortal, you have done something which is far greater. You are +but one: they are many. You have helped those who cannot help +themselves. As a novel, ‘Ramona’ must stand beside ‘Romola,’ +both as regards literary excellence and the portrayal of life’s deepest, +most vital, most solemn interests. I think nothing in literature +since Goldsmith’s ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ equals your description of +the flight of Ramona and Alessandro. Such delicate pathos and +tender joy, such pure conception of life’s realities, and such loftiness +of self-abnegating love! How much richer and happier the world +is with ‘Ramona’ in it!”</p> + +<p><i>Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, by the publishers</i>,</p> + +<p class="right">ROBERTS BROTHERS, <span class="smcap">Boston</span>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="center">A KEY TO “RAMONA.”</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">A Century of Dishonor.</span></h3> + +<p class="center">A Sketch of the United States Government’s Dealings +with some of the Indian Tribes.</p> + +<p class="center">By <span class="smcap">Helen Jackson</span> (H. H.),</p> + +<p class="center">AUTHOR OF “RAMONA,” “VERSES,” “BITS OF TRAVEL,” ETC.</p> + +<p class="center">A New Edition. 12mo. pp. 514. Cloth. $1.50.</p> + +<p>“The report made by Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Kinney is grave, concise, and +deeply interesting. It is added to the appendix of this new edition of her book. +In this California journey, Mrs. Jackson found the materials for ‘Ramona,’ the +Indian novel, which was the last important work of her life, and in which nearly +all the incidents are taken from life. In the report of the Mission Indians will +be found the story of the Temecula removal and the tragedy of Alessandro’s death +as they appear in ‘Ramona.’”—<i>Boston Daily Advertiser.</i></p> + +<p>“A number of striking cases of breach of faith, heartless banishment from +homes confirmed to the Indians by solemn treaties, and wars wantonly provoked +in order to make an excuse for dispossessing them of their lands, are grouped +together, making a panorama of outrage and oppression which will arouse the +humanitarian instincts of the nation to the point of demanding that justice shall +be done toward our savage wards.... ‘H. H.’ succeeds in holding up to the +public eye a series of startling pictures of Indian wrongs, drawn from a century +of American history.”—<i>New York Tribune.</i></p> + +<p class="titlepage">Mrs. Jackson’s Letter of Gratitude to the President.</p> + +<p>The following letter from Mrs. Jackson to the President was +written by her four days before her death, Aug. 12, 1885:—</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="noindent"><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Grover Cleveland</span>, <i>President of the United States</i>:</p> + +<p>Dear Sir,—From my death-bed I send you a message of heartfelt thanks for +what you have already done for the Indians. I ask you to read my “Century of +Dishonor.” I am dying happier for the belief I have that it is your hand that is +destined to strike the first steady blow toward lifting this burden of infamy from +our country, and righting the wrongs of the Indian race.</p> + +<p class="center">With respect and gratitude,</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Helen Jackson</span>.</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p><i>Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of +price, by the publishers</i>,</p> + +<p class="right">ROBERTS BROTHERS, <span class="smcap">Boston</span>.</p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78249 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78249-h/images/cover.jpg b/78249-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..93fc1db --- /dev/null +++ b/78249-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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