Part 18

“Oh, mother, come on in the house and lie down. Go to bed, and you will feel better in the morning.” Cynthia caught her arm, and, greatly perturbed, slowly led the old woman towards the house.

“It's worry, daughter,” Mrs. Porter said, confidingly--“worry about you. You seem to be bothered on account of Nelson Floyd's being away, and I've allowed that to prey on my thoughts.”

“Never mind him, mother,” Cynthia said. “Come on in and lie down. You don't feel any pain, do you?”

“No, daughter, not a bit--not a bit; but your aunt didn't, either. She didn't suffer.”

“Don't you think we ought to send for the doctor, mother?”

“Doctor? No--how ridiculous! Even if it is a drop on the brain, he couldn't do me a bit of good. The brain is inside the--the--what do you call it? See there, my mind isn't what it was. I can't think of as common a thing as a--you know what I mean, Cynthia.”

“You mean skull, mother,” the girl said, anxiously.

“Yes, I mean that. Your aunt's memory was bad, too. She suddenly forgot her own name, and came in from the strawberry-patch one day scared out of her senses. The next thing was her hand getting numb. My thumb feels queer; I believe you could stick a needle through it and I wouldn't feel it. But don't you tell your pa, Cynthia. Wait, anyway, till to-morrow, and see how I feel then. It may pass away, and then--then, again, it may be the first stroke. They say people about my age usually have three, and the last one ends it. I hope I'll go naturally--the way Martha went was horrible; and yet when I think of all my trouble I--”

“Hush, mother, don't!” Cynthia cried. They had now reached the porch. Porter had retired, and so they passed on unnoticed to Mrs. Porter's room.

Cynthia helped her mother undress and get into the bed, and then she went to her own room and sat down, irresolutely, at her table. She leaned her head on her crossed arms and remained quite still. She was very tired in brain and body, and presently dropped to sleep. She slept for about two hours. Suddenly she waked with a start. The clock in the sitting-room was striking ten. Nelson would be at the grape-arbor soon, she told herself with a shudder. Perhaps he was already there, and too cautious to whistle as on former meetings. She stood up, tiptoed to the closet, and opened the door. She uncovered the hidden valise and lifted it out into the light. Then a recollection of her mother's strange condition struck her like a blow in the face, and, standing in the centre of the room, she sighed.

Just then she heard the tread of bare feet in the hall, and a low-mumbled monologue. Her heart stood still, for she recognized her mother's voice. Going softly to the door, she peered out, and there, in a thin, white dress, stood Mrs. Porter, Nathan's double-barrelled shot-gun clutched in her hand, her long hair hanging loose on her back. The old woman's face was averted, and she seemed unaware of her daughter's presence.

“Lord, my God, pardon me for this last act,” she was praying. “It may be a sin in Thy sight for a tortured person to seek escape from trouble by this course, but I can't stand it any longer.”

“Mother, what is this?” Cynthia darted out into the hall and snatched the gun from her mother's hands.

For an instant Mrs. Porter stood staring at her daughter, and then, as if to escape her glance, she turned and went slowly into Cynthia's room.

“Sh!” she said; “don't wake your pa.” And, seeing Cynthia's lamp burning low, she blew down the chimney and put it out. The room was now dark save for the moonlight that struggled in at the windows on each side of the drawn shades.

“Mother, you've got to tell me,” Cynthia demanded, as she leaned the cumbersome weapon against the wall and groped towards the still, white figure; “what were you going to do with that gun?”

Mrs. Porter said nothing, but moved backward to Cynthia's bed and, with a groan, sat down on it.

“Mother”--Cynthia leaned over her, a horrible fear gripping her heart-cords--“what were you about to do?”

“I don't know as I am obliged to tell you or anybody,” Mrs. Porter said, doggedly.

“Mother”--Cynthia sat down by the old woman and put her arm about the gaunt figure--“what were you going to do?”

“I was going to get out of my trouble, if you _will_ know,” Mrs. Porter said, looking her daughter defiantly in the face.

“Your trouble, mother?”

“Yes, I've borne it as long as I can. Huh! you can't guess how much I know. I was awake last Friday night and overheard your plan to run off with Nelson Floyd. I was in a yard of you, crouched down behind the rose-bushes. You said you'd decide by to-night, and ever since then I've been tortured like a condemned soul. That's what affected my brain to-day. It wasn't the sun. Since that awful hour I have been praying God to spare you--to have mercy on my misguided child, and I hoped He would do it, but to-night, while you were putting the dishes away, I came in here and saw your packed valise, and knew you had concluded to leave. Then--then I decided to--to go like Sister Martha did. I was going out in the meadow, by the creek, where it was quiet. I couldn't bear the thought of having to face all those curious people who will throng the house to-morrow to find out about your disgrace.”

“You say you were there?” Cynthia gasped--“you heard?”

“Every word,” answered Mrs. Porter; “and every one was a rusty nail in my heart.”

There was silence. Cynthia had no defence to offer. She simply sat with bowed head, her arm lying limp upon her mother's thinly clad shoulders.'

“Yes, you made up your mind to stain forever our family record. No other girl that I ever heard of, even among our far-off kin, ever threw away her honor as you--”

“Stop, mother, you are going too far!” Cynthia cried, removing her arm and standing erect before the old woman.

“Cynthia, my _poor, poor baby!_ in all that man said the other night he didn't once mention marriage.

“But he meant it, mother!” broke from the girl's pallid lips--“he meant it!”

“He didn't mean anything of the kind, you little fool! As plain as plain could be, he said, right out, that he had no name to give you. And any fool knows no marriage can be legal unless it is brought about under the lawful names of the contracting parties. He simply was trying to give you to understand that he wanted you as a companion in his sin and misery. He has lost his right to a foothold in society, and he wants you, of your own accord and free will, to renounce yours. It was a crazy idea, and one that could have come from none but a brain disordered by liquor, but that is what he had in view.”

“I don't believe it,” Cynthia said, firmly.

“It doesn't make any difference what you believe,” Mrs. Porter returned. “I'm older than you, and I see through him. He tried and tried to ruin you as he did Minnie Wade, but when he was reduced to despair by his trouble he rose from his debauch and wanted to turn his very misfortune to your undoing. The idiot was trying to make himself believe, because his parents had brought all that nastiness down on him, that he would be justified in a like course. The disgrace he had inherited he intended to hand down to another generation, and you--you poor, simple thing!--you calmly packed your white, unspotted things and were ready to sell yourself to his hellish purpose.”

There was awful silence. Cynthia stared, unable to utter a word. She may have doubted the fairness of her mother's version, but the grim picture painted there in the darkness by a woman in seeming readiness to take her own life on account of it fairly chilled her young life's blood. Suddenly a sound broke the outside stillness. There was no mistaking it. It rang out as shrilly on the girl's quaking consciousness as the shriek of a locomotive dashing through a mountain gorge.

“There he is now,” said Mrs. Porter. “Pick up your valise and hurry, hurry to him; but before you go hand me that gun. Before you and he get in that buggy you'll hear my death-knell, and you may know, too, that you fired the shot into the withered breast that nursed you. Go! I'm not keeping you!”

Cynthia swayed visibly in the darkness, and then she sank to her knees and put her head in her mother's lap.

“I won't go,” she groaned, softly. “Mother, I'll do anything you say--anything!”

“Now you are joking, I know,” Mrs. Porter said, harshly.

“No, I mean it--God knows I mean it, mother! Only give me a chance to prove that I mean it. I'll never see him again, if that will suit you--never on earth! I'll stay and nurse you and make you well.”

“If I thought you meant that, Cynthia--Lord, Lord, what a load it would take off of me! Don't--don't say that unless you mean it; the--the joy of saving you would almost kill me.”

“Oh, mother, God knows I mean it!”

“Then”--Mrs. Porter seemed to squeeze her words from her frail body as she stiffly rose to her feet--“then you must let me go, myself, out there and send him off.”

Cynthia, still on her knees, glanced up, her startled eyes wide open.

“Would you ask that, mother?”

“Yes, for in my present condition I'm afraid I'd never believe it was absolutely settled. I--I'm not as clear-headed as I used to be. I've got deep-rooted suspicions, and I'm afraid they would prey on my mind.”

“Then go, mother--go send him away. I'd rather never see him again on earth than to cause you to--to contemplate--but go, mother!”

“Well, you stay here then.” Mrs. Porter was moving towards the door. “I'll be easy with him. I'm so happy over this release that I feel grateful even to him. I'll be gentle, Cynthia.”

As she stood in the door-way of the chamber and glanced back, Mrs. Porter saw Cynthia throw herself face downward on the bed. The old woman was in the hall making her way towards the front-door when she heard Cynthia call her. Retracing her steps, she found her daughter sitting up.

“Mother,” the girl said, “let me go with you. You can hear all that passes between us. That ought to be satisfactory.”

“No, that won't suit me,” Mrs. Porter said, firmly. “I've set my heart on your never facing that man again. For you to go, it would look like you are crazy after him, and he'd hang around here no telling how long.”

“Then go on, mother.” Cynthia fell back on the bed, and, covering her face with her hands, lay still.

XXXV

AS Mrs. Porter stepped down into the yard the whippoorwill call sounded again. “Huh!” she said to herself, exultingly, “I reckon I'll reach there soon enough to suit you, Nelson Floyd. You wanted to get her away from her mother's tongue, did you? Well, you'll find that I'm no fool, if I _am_ old.”

As she emerged from the shade of the apple-trees into the little open in front of the grape-arbor, Nelson Floyd, the red, impatient flare of a cigar in his face, appeared in the door-way.

“Thank God you didn't fail me!” he exclaimed, in accents of vast relief. “For a while I was actually afraid--”

“Afraid that I wouldn't be on time!” Mrs. Porter broke in, with a metallic little laugh. “I always keep my engagements, Nelson Floyd--or, I beg your pardon, Cynthia says you don't call yourself by that name now.”

“Great God, it's _you!_” he exclaimed, and his cigar fell at his feet. “Why, Mrs. Porter--”

“Oh, we needn't stand here and take up time talking about whether it's going to rain or not,” she sneered. “The truth is, I'm due in bed. I've been asleep in my chair half a dozen times since supper. You see, I promised Cynthia that I'd keep this appointment for her, and she tumbled into bed, and is snoozing along at a great rate, while I am doing her work.”

“You--you promised--I--I--don't understand,” Floyd managed to get out of the chaos of his brain.

“Oh, I reckon you don't see it exactly _our_ way,” Mrs. Porter sneered. “And that's because of your high opinion of your own charm. There is nothing on earth that will lead a man from the road of fact as quick as vanity. You thought my girl would jump at your proposition, but, la me! she just dallied with you to get you away last Friday night. At least, that's what I think, for she brought the whole thing to me the next morning, even telling me how you abused me behind my back. She asked me how she'd better get out of it. Most girls plunge headlong into things of this kind without deliberation, but she's not that way. She generally looks ahead, and the truth is, if I may tell state secrets, she has a strong leaning towards Brother Hillhouse. He's a good man--a man that can be counted on--and a man with a respectable family behind him, and, while I'm not sure about it, I think she intends to accept him.”

“Great God, Mrs. Porter, you don't mean that she--”

“You see there! I knew you were incapable of seeing anything that don't tend to your own glory. You thought all along that my girl was crazy about you, but you didn't know her. She's no fool. She's got a long head on her shoulders.”

“But didn't she--she send me any message?” Floyd asked, in a tone of abject bewilderment.

“Oh yes, now I come to think of it, she did. She said for me to beg you never to bother her any more.”

“She said that? Oh, Mrs. Porter, I--”

“Yes, and just as she was cuddling up in bed”--Mrs. Porter's selection of words had never been so adroit--“she called me to her and said that she wondered if you would mind never telling how foolish she had been to meet you out here like she did. I don't know why she was so particular, unless it is that people in this day and time love to throw up to a preacher's wife all the imprudent things she did when she was young.”

“Mrs. Porter, do you actually think Cynthia loves that man?” Floyd's voice shook, and he leaned heavily against the frame of the arbor.

“Love him? How can anybody tell who a woman loves? They don't know themselves half the time; but I'll say this to you: Mr. Hillhouse has been courting her in an open, straightforward way, and that pleased her. He's a man of brains, too, and is going to work his way high up in his profession. He'll be a great light some day. The regard of a man like that is a compliment to a poor country girl; and then she is sure of a life of solid respectability, while with you--good gracious! What's the use of talking about it? But you haven't told me whether you will agree not to bother her again. She'll be anxious to know what you said about that. You see, you might get drunk again, and there is no telling how foolish and persistent you may become, and--”

“I shall not bother her again,” said Floyd. “Tell her I gave you my faithful promise on that. Not only that, but I am going away, and shall never come back here again.”

“Well, I'll tell her--I'll tell her in the morning as soon as she wakes up. La me! I used to be a girl myself, and there was no bother equal to having an old beau hanging around, as we girls used to say in slang, after he'd got his 'walking papers'--that is, after the right man was settled on.”

“There is one thing I want you to tell her”--Floyd breathed heavily--“and that is that I'll never care for any other girl.”

“Shucks! I won't take any such message as that,” the old woman sniffed. “Besides, what's the use? After a flirtation is laid away it ought to die a natural death. The biggest wasters of time in the world are married women who love to look back on old love-scrapes, and sit and brag about them, instead of mending socks and attending to the responsibilities that are piled up on every hand. Well, I'm going in now. It's been a long, hot day, but in this thin dress I feel chilly. I don't want to be hard on you, and I wish you well, so I do, where-ever you go.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Porter,” and, with his head hanging low, Nelson Floyd turned to leave. “I can only assure you,” he added, “that I'll never trouble Cynthia any more. I shall certainly respect her wish.”

“All right; that's as much as she could ask of you,” the old woman returned; “and perhaps, since you are so polite, I ought to thank you.”

As she was drawing near the house, she said to herself with a low, satisfied chuckle: “I believe I worked him exactly right. If I'd 'a' let him know I suspected his full villany he wouldn't have been shaken off so easily. But what am I going to do about that drop of blood on my brain?” she laughed. “If I get rid of it too suddenly Cynthia may smell a mouse. I believe I'll wait a few days and then tell her I think my stroke was due to that new hair-restorer I'm using, an' promise to throw it away.” She paused at the steps and shuddered. “But am I not really a little off?” she mused. “Surely no woman in the full possession of her senses could have gone through all that, as if it were God's truth from beginning to end.”

Inside the hall, after she had softly shut the front door, she saw Cynthia standing on the threshold of her chamber.

“Did you see him, mother?” The question was hardly above a whisper.

“Oh yes, I saw him,” the old woman answered, frigidly. “I saw him.”

“What did he say, mother?” The girl's voice was low, tremulous, and halting.

“Oh, I don't know as he said much of anything, he was so set back by seeing me in this outfit instead of you in your best Sunday-go-to-meeting, with your valise in hand, ready to fly to the moon with him. He let me do most of the talking.” Mrs. Porter managed to stifle a chuckle of satisfaction, and the darkness hid her impulsive smile. “He seemed to be more reasonable, though, than most men would be in his condition. I don't think he was fully sober; he smoked like a steam-engine, dropping cigars and lighting fresh ones, as if they were his main-stay and support. He agreed with me, in a roundabout way, that it was a foolish thing for him to expect a respectable girl to run off in the dead of night with a man of his stamp, and he ended by saying for me to tell you that he was going away off somewhere and that he wouldn't bother you any more. He looked and acted like a thief caught on the spot with the goods in hand and was ready to promise anything to escape arrest and prosecution.”

“Well, you have had your way, mother,” Cynthia said, quietly; “I hope you will feel better satisfied now.”

“Oh, I will, I will--in fact, I feel some better already.” There was another incipient chuckle far down in Mrs. Porter's throat, but she coughed it away. “I really feel like I'm going to get well. I'll sleep like a log to-night. You'd better turn in yourself, daughter.”

“All right, mother--good-night.”

The next morning, shortly after breakfast, as Mrs. Porter was attending to some hens' nests in the barn-yard, Hillhouse crept out of the thicket just beyond the fence and approached her. He was quite pale and nervous, and bent his head and shoulders that the high staked-and-ridered rail-fence might hide him from the view of the house.

“I've been out here in the woods for an hour watching your back-door,” he said. “I was in hopes that I'd see Cynthia moving about in the diningroom or kitchen. You see, I don't know yet whether she went off last night or stayed. I haven't closed my eyes since I saw you.”

“Well, you _have_ got it bad,” Mrs. Porter laughed, dryly, “and you needn't worry any more. I reckon I spilled ink all over my record in the Lamb's Book of Life, but I set in to succeed, and I worked it so fine that she let me go out and send him away for good and all.”

“Oh, Sister Porter, is that true?”

“It's a great deal truer than anything that passed my lips last night,” Mrs. Porter answered, crisply. “Brother Phillhouse, if I ever get forgiveness, there is one of the commandments that will have to be cut out of the list, for I certainly broke it all to smash. I had a separate lie stowed away in every pore of my skin last night, and they hung like cockle-burs to every hair of my head. I wish I was a Catholic.”

“A Catholic?” Hillhouse repeated, his eyes dancing in delight, his sallow skin taking on color.

“Yes, I'd sell our horses and cows and land, and give it to a priest, and tell him to wipe my soul clean with the proceeds. I feel happy, and I feel mean. Something tells me that I'd have made an expert woman thief--perhaps the greatest in the history of all nations.”

“What sort of fibs did you tell, Sister Porter?” Hillhouse was smiling unctuously and rubbing his long hands together.

“Well, I don't intend to tell you,” said the old woman; “besides, it would take a week. I spun the finest fabric of falsehood that was ever made. And I'm not done yet, for I've got to keep it up, and not let it lop off too suddenly.”

“Well, do you think there will be any living chance for me?” the preacher said.

“Yes, I do--that is, if you won't push matters too fast and will be patient. I have a plan now that you will like. Didn't you tell me you were going to preach two sermons this month at Cartersville?”

“Yes, I take Brother Johnston's place for two weeks while he goes off for his vacation.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Porter, “you know Nathan's brother George lives there. In fact, his wife and daughters belong to Mr. Johnston's church. George is a well-to-do lawyer, and his children dote on Cynthia; now I'm going to send her down there for a change.”

“Oh, that will be simply fine!” Hillhouse cried, his face aglow.

“Yes, and if you can't make hay while the sun shines down there, you'll deserve to fail. Cynthia has promised to give Floyd up, and he's agreed not to bother her any more. Now you slip back into the woods. I wouldn't have her see you here at this time of day for anything. When she gets her thinking apparatus to work she's going to do a lot of wondering, anyway.”

XXXVI

TEN days passed. It was now towards the close of a hot and sultry August. Nothing more had been heard of Nelson Floyd, and the sensation due to his mysterious absence had, to some extent, subsided. That Mayhew knew of his whereabouts few persons doubted, for it was noticeable that the old man had put his shoulder to the wheel and was attending to business with less fear and nervousness. It was the opinion of Mrs. Snodgrass that he knew exactly where Floyd was, and expected him to return sooner or later. In fact, it was known to many that Mayhew had suddenly ceased to make inquiry through detectives and the police, and that meant something. The information that Floyd had been back in secret to his home would have startled the community from centre to outer edge, but that was discreetly kept to themselves by the few who knew of it.

Pole Baker was the first to meet Floyd again. It was in Atlanta. Standing in the main entrance of the Kimball House one afternoon, Pole saw Floyd on the opposite side of the street. He was walking rapidly, his head up. He was neatly dressed, cleanshaven, and had a clear, healthful complexion, as if he were in good physical condition.

“Thank God! thar he goes,” Pole exclaimed, “an' I'll bet a hoss he's quit drinkin'.” Quickly darting across the street, he followed Floyd the best he could on the crowded sidewalk. He had pursued him thus for several blocks when Floyd suddenly entered one of the large wholesale dry-goods stores. Reaching the door and looking in, Pole saw his friend just disappearing in the glass-enclosed office in the rear of the big room. Pole entered and stood waiting amid the stacks of cotton and woollen goods which, in rolls and bolts, were heaped as high as his shoulders over the whole floor. Salesmen were busy with customers in different parts of the room, and porters and “stock men” hurried by with big baskets on wheels, and little notice was taken of the mountaineer.

Presently Floyd emerged and came rapidly down one of the aisles towards the door. Pole stepped directly in front of him.

“Why, hello!” Floyd exclaimed, flushing suddenly as he cordially extended his hand. “I wasn't looking for you, Pole.”