Part 7

"But the going back will be simply dreadful," persisted Sue. "I wish I were rich--then you shouldn't go!"

"I hardly think that would make any difference, my dear cousin. I don't think I am eminently fitted to become a parasite," laughed Thirza.

"Do you know what you _are_ eminently fitted for?" cried Sue, energetically.

"Sue!" cried Thirza, warningly.

"I don't care," Sue continued, daringly; "you are so set on going back to America that I half suspect----"

"Don't, Sue, please!" interrupted Thirza, with such evident signs of genuine displeasure, that Sue, who stood somewhat in awe of her cousin, ceased to banter, mentally vowing that she was "the queerest girl she had ever met with."

Thirza arose and went out into the flower-adorned balcony. She sought distraction, but somehow the surging, chattering crowd in the street below, the brilliant illumination, the far-off strains of music, did not bring her what she sought.

"If only Sue wouldn't!" she reflected, and then, between her and the sea of heads, and the lights and the flowers rose a face--the face that had troubled her meditations on Jones' Hill, that had followed her in all her wanderings, the noble face, with its blue eyes bent upon her so earnestly, so eloquently. Had she read aright, even if too late, the meaning of those eyes as they met hers at parting? The same sweet, sharp pain that was not all pain, shot through her heart, and a consciousness of something blindly missed, something perversely thrown away, came over her. Sighing, she arose, and in response to Sue's call, went in and dressed for a gay party, in which, in her present mood, she felt neither pleasure nor interest. "If people here knew what a pitiful fraud I am--what a despicable part I am acting!" she said to herself, as, well-dressed and handsome, she entered the brilliant _salon_.

It was all over in a few days, and Thirza was sailing homeward as fast as wind and wave and steam could carry her. The year that had passed had brought little outward change in the girl. She looked fairer and fresher, perhaps, and certain little rusticities of dress and speech and manner had disappeared--worn off, as had the marks of toil from the palms of her slender hands. But to all intents and purposes, the tall figure in its close-fitting brown suit, which during the homeward voyage sat for the most part in the vessel's stern, gazing back over the foaming path, was the same which had watched a year before with equal steadiness from the steamer's bow. The very same, and yet--the girl often wondered if she were indeed the same, and lost herself in speculations as to how the old life at Millburn would seem to her now. She recalled with inflexible accuracy the details of her existence there, and tried to look her future undauntedly in the face. But all her philosophy failed her when in imagination she found herself upon the threshold of the old mill. There, indeed, she faltered weakly, and turned back.

When at last, one evening in June, she stepped out of the train at the little station of Millburn, a crowd of bitter thoughts came rushing upon her, as if they had been lying in wait there to welcome her. She had informed no one of her coming, and it was not strange that no friendly face greeted her, and yet, as she pursued her way alone through the silent, unlighted streets, her heart grew faint within her. How poor and meagre everything seemed! The unpaved streets, the plank sidewalks, the wooden houses, and yonder, across the river, the great mills, looming grim and shapeless through the dusk! The long, glorious holiday was over--there lay her future.

Weary and sick at heart she entered her boarding-house. The old familiar aroma saluted her, the hard-featured landlady welcomed her with a feeble smile, the unwashed children with noisy demonstrations.

Her room was at her disposal, and under the plea of fatigue she kept out of sight the whole of the succeeding day, which happened to be Sunday. She lay the greater part of the day upon the old lounge, looking round upon the well-known furnishings with a weary gaze. How small and shabby the room, how hideous the wall paper, how mean and prosaic everything, and the very canaries in their cage had forgotten her, and screamed shrilly at her approach!

That was a long day--the longest of her life, she thought. But the girl was made of good stuff; she made a brave fight, and this time came off conqueror. When Monday morning came, she arose and dressed herself in the old gray working suit, smiling back encouragement to her reflection in the glass as if it had been that of another person. There was no use in putting off the evil day, she said to herself, it would only make it harder; and so, when the great bells clanged out their harsh summons, she went out into the beautiful June morning, joined the crowd which streamed across the bridge, and before the last brazen tone had died away, preliminaries were arranged, and Thirza was in her old place again.

All through the long summer days Thirza labored on at the old work, with aching limbs and throbbing pulses. The unceasing din and jar, the invisible flying filaments, the hot, oily atmosphere, the coarse chatter of the operatives, wearied and sickened her as never before. Every evening she left the mill with a slower step; deep lines began to show themselves in her face, heavy shadows to settle beneath her dark, sad eyes. Poor girl! it was all so much harder than she had anticipated. The latent forces in her nature, which, through all those years of toil, had never been called into action, were now, since her plunge into another phase of life, fully aroused, and asserted themselves in ceaseless clamor against surroundings. Besides this,--smother it, fight it, ignore it, as she might,--she was living in a state of tremulous expectancy. Again and again her heart had leaped at the sight of a figure in the distance, only to sink again into a dull throb of disappointment.

The fourth Sunday after her return, Thirza went to church for the first time. It was early when she arrived and people were just beginning to assemble. Many greeted her warmly and proffered her a seat, but she refused all, taking one far back, and at one side where she could see all who entered. The seats gradually filled, but it was not until the last strains of the voluntary were dying away that Madison, senior, the great manufacturer, and his large complacent-looking wife came in, and with an air of filling the whole edifice, marched down to their pew in the front row. The music ceased. There was a rustling of silk which was audible in every part of the little church, and Warren Madison entered, accompanied by a stately blonde girl, elegantly attired. Queen-like she swept along, and Thirza saw, as if in a dream, the smile which she bestowed upon her escort as he stood aside to allow her to enter the pew, and she saw also his face, looking handsomer and manlier than ever. Then they were seated, and only the backs of their heads were visible. Thirza's heart stood still for a moment, and then began beating so wildly that she almost feared those around her might hear it. She went through mechanically with the simple forms the service required. She even tried to follow the thread of the Rev. Mr. Smyther's labored discourse, but there, between her and the pulpit, were the nodding white plumes and the yellow braid, and the brown shapely head and broad shoulders, and oh! so near together! Interminable as the service seemed, it came to an end at last, and before the amen of the benediction had died upon the air, Thirza was in the street, hastening homeward.

The next day she stood at her loom, listlessly watching the shifting cloud-pictures in the midsummer sky, the glittering river, and the distant meadows and woods, and wishing herself away from the noise and the close air, and alone in some deep nook, where she could hide her face and think. A loud, confused mingling of voices, among which a high-pitched, girlish one was most conspicuous, rose above the clatter of the machinery, and drew her attention. She turned involuntarily toward the sound, and as quickly back again. That one glance had sufficed to show her Warren Madison, escorting a party of ladies through the mill. The blonde girl was there, looking, in her white dress, like a freshly-gathered lily. The party passed near her. She heard young Madison's voice warning the ladies to keep their draperies from the machinery; she heard the girlish voice in laughing answer, and, as they passed by, the same voice exclaiming, "Why, Warren, what a nice girl, for a mill-girl! The dark one, I mean, by the window." Then there came a little whiff of violet perfume, and they had gone--he had gone! And, even in the midst of her humiliation and anger and self-pity, she could not but be thankful that he had thus passed her by, without a word. She could not have borne it--there.

The machinery roared and clattered and groaned, the air grew closer and hotter, the silvery clouds grew denser and blacker, and little puffs of wind blew in and fanned her feverish temples; and at last the bell sounded, and she could go. Away! no matter where, so that she were out of sight of everything and everybody, so that she could be alone with her own torn, wrathful, tortured soul. Straight through the town she went, up the hill beyond, and into the old burying-ground, where her parents rested. It was the only place, alas! where she was sure of being left alone; for there is no place so given over to loneliness and solitude as a country grave-yard. Here, among the quiet sleepers, where the grass and brier-roses grew rank and tall, and undisturbed, except now and then to make room for a new-comer,--here she dared look herself in the face. And oh, the shame and scorn and loathing which that self-inspection produced! She threw herself down by the graves,--her graves,--and buried her face upon her arms. She lay there until shadows gathered about her, so still that the small brown sparrows hopped fearlessly across the folds of her dress and nestled in the grass beside her. At last she started up, and pressed her hands against her temples.

"I cannot bear it!" she cried aloud. "I thought I could; but I cannot! I must leave this place--this hateful, dreadful place----"

Was there a footstep near her in the dry grass, and was some one standing there in the dusk? She sprang to her feet and would have fled; but the figure came rapidly toward her. It was Warren Madison.

"You must pardon my following you, Thirza," he said. "I went to the house, and they told me you had come up this way. I came after you, because I have something I must say to you."

It was light enough for Thirza to see that he was very pale, and that his eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face. Trembling, bewildered, she made another attempt to pass him; but he seized her wrist and detained her.

"Thirza," he cried, "do not run away from me until you have heard what I have to say. Let me look in your face, and see if I can find what I thought I saw there when we parted that evening, more than a year ago."

He drew her toward him, and compelled her to meet his gaze. She tried to meet it with coldness and scorn; but she was weak and unnerved, and there was such pleading tenderness in his voice! She trembled, and sought feebly to withdraw her hand.

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

He compelled her to turn her face toward him.

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

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

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

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

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

She raised her shining face to his.

"It has just begun," she said.

MOLLY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Molly laughed too, this time.

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

She stopped abruptly and bent low over the child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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