Part 12

He continued to look at her as she sat in the soft radiance of the lamp-light, her head bowed, her slender hands, browned and roughened by the labors of sorrowful years, tightly clasped in her lap; and a great compassion for her friendless youth, her woman’s tenderness and weakness, swept over him like a flood. He longed to take her in his arms, to comfort her unforgotten griefs and forever to shield her from the coldness of an unfriendly world. She seemed so slight, so fragile a creature in her thin dress of faded muslin, with the heavy masses of her hair knotted low against her slender neck.

“You say you cannot tell me who it is?” she murmured. “It is so strange not to know—to wait, being afraid every day. Why, any time Jimmy might come home and find me gone.”

Her voice trembled into silence.

He bent toward her, his face transfigured with love and pity.

“Barbara!” he cried, in a low voice of yearning.

She looked up at him, startled, afraid. He perceived this, and the next instant his features had resumed their expression of cold serenity.

“I was about to tell you that any excessive anxiety on your part is wholly unnecessary,” he said. “You will certainly be notified at least a week in advance. And—as my client is situated at present—I think I may predict with tolerable certainty that the call will not come before—autumn.”

Her face brightened.

“In October,” she said, “we shall harvest the orchards. Then I could pay back the money.”

A swift shadow crossed his face.

“Money; is it of that you must always be thinking?” he asked.

“You know that I must,” she said proudly. “I could not rest under so heavy an obligation to—anyone.”

“No,” he agreed. “I see that—I understand.”

A melancholy smile touched his lips.

“Do not be alarmed as to the obligation,” he said quietly. “My client is a man who is accustomed, like Shylock, to exact the last penny—even to the pound of flesh. He will not let you off easily.”

Barbara drew a quick breath.

“It is a man, then?” she asked. “I—hoped——”

“You were hoping it was a woman,” he said dryly. “I have committed an indiscretion in telling you so much. But—conceive, if you will, a man, well along in years, the—guardian of a child, who requires——”

“Is the child,” asked Barbara, “a boy or girl?”

He hesitated.

“Er—I cannot tell you as to that. Let us suppose for the moment that it is a boy.”

“Have you seen the child?”

He looked at her with what she would have called in another a bantering tenderness in his deep-set eyes. In connection with Stephen Jarvis the suggestion was untenable—absurd.

“Do you know you are cross-examining me with considerable adroitness?” he said. “I must be on my guard, or you will force me to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“And why should you not tell me the truth?” she urged. “I think I have the right to know it.”

“Not at present,” he said coolly. “I am in honor bound to my client, you should remember. I may lose my—er—commission, if I am not careful.”

“I should be glad to know that the child is—that he is not an imbecile.”

She answered his amazed look with swift explanation.

“A woman who saw my advertisement wanted me to take charge of an imbecile child; that is why——”

“And you would have done it, Barbara? You were ready to commit yourself to such a future, just because I——”

He stopped short with a visible effort.

“No; the child is—— He is a very dear and lovable little fellow, I should say. And he needs—you. He is—quite alone in the world.”

“So,” she murmured, “is Jimmy. And when I am gone there will be no one——”

“You will not be obliged to leave your brother right away, you know,” he suggested. “And—possibly not at all.”

Her face became illuminated with a sudden inspiration.

“Why shouldn’t the man—this client of yours—bring the child here for me to take care of? I should be so glad to have him right away. This is a healthy spot. I could make him very comfortable.”

Jarvis shook his head.

“I shouldn’t like to suggest such a thing,” he said slowly. “It might savor of impertinence——”

Her face crimsoned with mortification.

“I didn’t mean——” she stammered.

“Not on your part,” he amended hastily; “understand me, please. Your idea is—quite like you; quite what I should expect, knowing you as I do. But—I fear it wouldn’t do. My client——”

“He must be a peculiar sort of person,” hazarded Barbara.

“He is,” agreed Jarvis. “So much so that—I feel I ought to warn you in one particular.”

Barbara waited in expectant silence.

Jarvis hesitated, studying her downcast face.

“I want you to promise me,” he said slowly, “that you will not yield to the importunities of—of Whitcomb. No; don’t interrupt me. Hear me out. He will urge you to marry him—soon. He will tell you—— But you must not listen—yet. Do you hear me? You must—put him off. You must wait—till——”

“I shall wait,” she said coldly, “till the man—your client—is satisfied, or paid, in full.”

“Will you promise me this?”

She looked him full in the eyes.

“Why should I promise you?” she demanded haughtily. “I have signed a contract. I am in honor bound to stand by it. I shall keep my word—fulfil the letter of my bond; but not because you have asked me to do it.”

He turned abruptly and took up his hat.

“That is all I have to say to you,” he said in a business-like tone.

He stopped, hesitated.

“If I do not see you again——”

“But you will be obliged to see me,” she objected, “—to tell me.”

“No,” he said, and smiled slightly. “I shall not need to see you again; and—I may not——”

He held out his hand.

“Will you forgive me, Barbara?” he asked humbly.

“Forgive you?” she echoed.

“God knows I have need of your forgiveness. If I do not see you again—and it is quite possible that I may not. I am thinking of going away, of closing my house here. I may never return. But I want—I need to carry with me the certainty that you will sometimes think kindly of me. Not that I deserve it, but——”

His eyes, dark with pain, searched her face.

“I cannot bear to remember all that has passed between us. I know now that I was less than a man to threaten you—browbeat you, as I did. I hope you will believe me when I tell you I am hoping for your best—your truest, and most lasting happiness.”

His voice, shaken with the solemn passion of renunciation, died into silence.

She put her hand into his.

“I—am sorry,” she faltered.

“For what, Barbara?” he asked.

She drew a deep sigh that was half a sob.

“For—everything,” she said.

Her mouth quivered like a grieving child’s.

“And you do forgive me, Barbara?”

“Yes.”

He raised her fingers to his lips.

“Good-bye,” he said.

She heard his rapid step on the gravel without, and later the whir of wheels, faint and fainter in the distance.

* * * * *

Barbara did not tell David all that had passed between Jarvis and herself, when on the following day he unburdened himself of the multiplied conjecture and complaints which had occurred to him since his briefly renewed acquaintance with the lawyer. In some uncomprehended way their past had acquired a new significance in Barbara’s eyes, almost sacred in the light of Jarvis’s difficult confession. As she had, through some deep, delicate instinct, hidden her early romance from Jarvis, she now shielded from David’s scrutiny his rival’s unavailing passion and pain. David would not understand, she knew; he would laugh and toss his handsome head, secure in his own easily won triumph.

“I suspected the old fox knew more than he owned up to me, though when I taxed him with it he was ready to lie out of it,” David said.

He drew Barbara to him and kissed her carelessly full on the mouth. Then when she would have withdrawn herself from his arms, he laughed, and held her strongly to him, looking deep into her eyes.

“You don’t want to get away from me,” he said. “You are mine; didn’t you know that?”

He kissed her a dozen times, hotly, eagerly, holding her breathless, crushed against his breast, releasing her at last, flushed and tremulous, her heavy hair loosened on her neck.

David watched her with amused eyes, as she restored the hairpins to place, following the curving lines of her young figure appreciatively.

“You need some handsome gowns, Barbara, to set off your good looks,” he said. “You’ll have them, too, when you’re my wife.”

He took her hand.

“I’ll wager you’ve been wondering why I didn’t bring you a ring,” he went on exuberantly. “Girls always like rings, and I see you don’t wear anything but that plain one. Here, I’ll——”

“Don’t take it off,” implored Barbara. “It was my mother’s. It was her wedding ring.”

“That’s all right, dear. But you must take it off, just the same. You can wear it on the other hand, if you like—or put it away; a keepsake like that is best locked up in some box. I’ll give you all the rings you’ll need to wear from now on.”

He snapped open a tiny case of white velvet and flashed its imbedded jewel in her averted eyes.

“Do you like it, dear? Do you think it’s pretty? I couldn’t get anything decent in this hole, of course, so I sent to the city for it. It just came by express, last night. I found it when I got back from my delightful ride with that old crab, Jarvis.”

“It—it’s beautiful, David, but——”

“I hope it’ll fit; let me put it on, dearest.”

“David—I—can’t; don’t you see—I am not free to—to——”

“What in Heaven’s name are you talking about? Aren’t we engaged?”

“I—don’t know,” the girl said slowly. “No,—not till fall. You mustn’t——”

“Damn old Jarvis, if he’s been putting any such notions into your head!” cried David. “Why, Barbara, you’re talking nonsense. Didn’t he tell you you could get a release? I’ll buy the fellow off. I told Jarvis I would.”

“You told him?”

“Why, of course, I did. And I mean to. We’ll be married by that time. Now, don’t say _no_. Just give me a show to prove what ought to need no urging on my part to make you see. If we are married hard and fast there’ll be no back talk coming from Jarvis or anybody else. Can’t you see that, dear? I dare say the fellow is only waiting for a good excuse to demand his money back, and we’ll give it to him. Come, sweetheart, let me put this ring on your dear little finger, and next month I’ll add another of a different sort. Then I’ll be in a position to talk business with old Jarvis, or his client, whoever he is. I’ll say, ‘Here’s your money, sir,’ short and sharp; ‘take it or leave it, as suits you best. My wife doesn’t go out to service with any man.’ That’s my sensible girl!”

He would have drawn her again into his arms. But she resisted him tensely.

“You don’t understand, David, and you must understand,” she said slowly. “I—promised I wouldn’t—till——”

“You promised! Who in the devil did you promise? You promised me, and I’m going to hold you to it.”

“No; not till after I was bound, and I—only promised you conditionally. Don’t you remember, David?”

“I only remember what I choose to remember,” he said superciliously. “And all I know, or care to know, at the present moment, is that you’re mine—mine, Barbara! Haven’t I waited for years and suffered—Barbara!”

His voice vibrated with passion; he reached out for her hungrily, irresistibly, and held her fast in the clasp of one powerful arm, while with the other he sought for her elusive hand.

“One finger is just as good as another for me,” he laughed as he slipped the ring into place. “There! Isn’t that handsome?”

But she hid her troubled eyes against his shoulder.

“Not on my ugly brown hand, David,” she murmured. “And I cannot wear it—yet. I promised.”

“That’s twice you’ve mentioned the fact that you promised,” he said, scowling. “Did Jarvis have the brazen nerve to come between you and me with any of his cut and dried legal business?”

“He—reminded me of my contract. He said——”

“Well, I’ll fix that up with Jarvis. Say, do you know he makes me tired? I told him we were engaged, and if he had any such line of talk to pass out he might have come to me. I’m the one for him to do business with from now on, and I’ll let him know it, too.”

He released her, suddenly.

“You can do as you like about the ring,” he said in an offended tone. “Most girls would jump at the chance to wear a two-hundred-dollar diamond. I’ll chuck it into the waste-basket, if you say so.”

“Oh, David!” breathed Barbara, “did you spend all that money—just for me?”

“Yes, I did; and I supposed you’d be pleased. I never dreamed you’d refuse to wear it.”

“But—it isn’t that I don’t love you,” she faltered. “Indeed I——”

“Well, if you love me, you’ll do as I say,” interrupted David, with an arrogant toss of his handsome head. “Will you, Barbara?”

“I will in everything but—you know, dear, I—I can’t.”

He stared at her in angry silence.

“You appear a soft enough little thing,” he said at last, “but you’re as infernally obstinate as—— Here, give me the ring. I’ll not force it on you.”

She slipped it from her finger in silence, and he took it, restored it to its velvet nest, and dropped the case in his pocket.

“The next time I ask you to wear that ring,” he said, “you’ll either do it, or——”

“David!” cried Barbara faintly. “Please—please don’t be angry. Try to—understand.”

“Try to understand—eh? Well, I’m not so dull as some; but you’ve got me stumped all right. Maybe that’s what you’re trying to do.”

She put out her hands to him pleadingly. But he did not choose to see them.

“I’ll talk with Jarvis,” he said roughly. “And in the meantime you keep away from him. Just let me manage for a while. A woman isn’t up to business, anyway. Why, it makes me hot to think of his coming here and talking you to a finish the way he did. I wish I’d caught him at it, that’s all.”

“David!” Barbara’s voice was low and urgent. “I wish you wouldn’t——”

“Wouldn’t what?”

She clung to his arm; but his look did not soften.

“Please don’t—say anything to Mr. Jarvis. He—meant to be kind. He——”

David turned suddenly and caught her by the shoulders.

“See here,” he said. “I’m beginning to see a glimmer of light through this particular millstone. Is _Jarvis_ the man who tried to get you to marry him while I was away? Answer me!”

“He asked—me—to marry him, and I——”

David burst into a great laugh.

“Well, well!” he cried, “that was a conquest. Old Jarvis, of all men! Why, Barb, you’re a wonder. Ha, ha!”

She trembled before his loud laughter as she had not beneath the weight of his displeasure.

David suddenly became grave, his brows drawn in thought.

“That puts a different face on things,” he said.

XVIII

HEWETT’S general store, with its official annex, the post-office, occupied a prominent place in the social as well as the economic system of Barford. Not even the aisles, sheds, and steps of the Presbyterian church afforded so convenient and popular an arena for the interchange of items of general interest as did “Hewett’s.” There appeared to be something suggestively cheerful and enlivening in the sagging piles of fruit and vegetables, something friendly and hospitable in the boxes, barrels, and kegs open to public inspection and exploring fingers. Even the curious and all-pervasive odor compounded of prunes, pickles, yellow soap, and tobacco, with an occasional aromatic whiff of freshly ground coffee, seemed to lend itself to a pleasantly open frame of mind, conducive to an unreserved expression of opinion concerning the church, the state, and the social whirl, as evidenced in the varying currents and eddies of village life.

As in other similar emporiums devoted to the display and sale of such commodities as were in general demand “the store cat” might be seen guarding inconspicuous rat-holes, or curled up in peaceful slumber in the cracker barrel, or in close proximity to the whity-brown loaves of bread destined for private consumption and handled with easy familiarity and a total lack of ceremonial cleanliness by the driver of the baker’s cart, the Hewetts, father and son, and by such tentative customers as elected to test the freshness of the product with doubtful thumb and finger.

It was at Hewett’s, as might have been expected, that the singular event of the auction at the Preston farm had been discussed in all its different aspects. The amount of the mortgage held by Stephen Jarvis, the various expedients resorted to by the daughter of Donald Preston, and the events leading up to her desperate and successful coup had all been reviewed circumstantially and in order. The continued presence of David Whitcomb in the community furnished a welcome variation to the subject; and inasmuch as David was found not averse to talking of himself, there was little mystery about his return to Barford and its object.

Opinions as to the personal appearance, probable resources, and moral character of the ex-schoolmaster were found to be as varied as the new and somewhat showy raiment in which he appeared from day to day.

“Thinks he’s too good to walk now ’t he’s got them shiny pointed shoes,” observed Hank Smith, whose footgear was of the square-toed variety, presumably inherited from a deceased relative. “I seen him drivin’ a rig out t’ Preston’s to-day.”

“Yas,” corroborated the local liveryman. “He’s took it b’ the week. Says he’s thinkin’ of buyin’ a good horse.”

“Huh! you don’t say,” drawled a farmer from the hills, who had dropped in for his week’s supply of groceries and his mail. “I s’pose he done pretty well out west? Mebbe I c’d sell him that bay mare o’ mine.”

“He spen’s lots of money; I don’t know how much he’s got,” was the unchallenged opinion put forth by another.

There followed a general oscillation of heads about the empty stove, a round-bellied affair, capable of fierce white heats in the winter time, but abandoned to rust in summer and habitually diffusing a clammy scent of chimney soot and damp ashes.

“I guess the’ don’t anybody know ’s t’ that; I heard him speak o’ minin’ prop’ties kind o’ careless like. He sure does carry a big wad.”

“The table board over t’ the Eagle’s called pretty fair; but ’tain’t good enough fer Whitcomb. He pays extry fer dinner at night.”

“Jus’ so; an’ Sutton’s cook left after he’d been thar a couple o’ weeks. She said she wa’n’t a-goin’ t’ put up with Whitcomb.”

“Wall, I’ll give that young feller about four months t’ run through what he’s got,” the elder Hewett observed, in the intervals of passing various purchases of coffee through his grinder. “I’ll bet I c’d carry all the minin’ prop’ty he owns in m’ vest pocket, an’ hev room fer m’ han’kerchief.”

“‘Twon’t take him that long if he keeps on as he’s goin’ now. I heerd”—and the speaker leaned forward, bringing the legs of his chair to the floor with a thump—“‘at he’s pretty fast; drinks consid’ble an’ plays cards fer money. Wonder if she knows?”

“Barb’ry’d ought t’ look out, if he’s that kind,” observed another, wagging his pendulous chin-whiskers. “Her pa’d ought t’ be a serious warnin’ t’ her.”

“Shaw! ’tain’t so,” put in a third. “Dave’s all right. He ain’t so slow’s to be actually mossy; but he’s all right. I’ll bet you——”

What the speaker was about to wager on his charitable opinion was lost to the public as Peg Morrison stubbed noisily up the steps, and entered the door, swung hospitably wide to dust, flies, and the travelling public.

“Hello, Peg; how’s your folks?” drawled Al Hewett, presenting his round, solemn face at the square aperture devoted to the delivery of mail. “Le’ me see; here’s a paper fer you, an’ a circ’lar,—one o’ them phosphate ads you’ve been gettin’ lately. An’ a letter fer Miss Barb’ra. Do you want I should forward it—eh?”

“Forward it—no; give it t’ me.”

Mr. Morrison’s voice held an exasperated note discouraging to those in quest of information.

“Then she ain’t left yet?” queried an individual, comfortably seated over the cool recesses of the pickle barrel. “Somebody was sayin’——”

“No, sir,” said Peg, facing about and addressing the inquiring circle of eyes as one man. “No, sir; Miss Barb’ry ain’t gone, an’ as fer ’s I know, she’ll be home, anyhow, till after the apples is picked.”

Mr. Morrison would have warmly disclaimed any intention of discussing his mistress’s business with outsiders; but he felt it incumbent upon himself, as the surviving feudal representative, as it were, of the Preston family, to correct erroneous public opinion.

“Goin’ t’ gether a pretty fair crop this year, I see,” observed the village veterinary, who combined the business of livery and sale stable with his more learned profession.

“You bet,” chuckled Peg. “W’y, them apples ’ll beat anythin’ in the county. We’re goin’ t’ exhibit at th’ fair, same ’s we ust to.”

“Apples is goin’ t’ be so cheap y’ can’t git nothin’ fer ’em,” said a farmer pessimistically. “Ef they don’t all drop off the trees come September, it’s bein’ s’ dry.”

“Our apples won’t drop, I’ll bet you,” bragged Peg. “We’ve kep’ th’ ground in our orchards ploughed an’ cultivated all summer. Miss Barb’ry, she kind o’ got that notion las’ spring f’om readin’ some gov’ment report, an’ jus’ to humor her I done ’s she said.”

“‘Tain’t no way to do,” put in another. “The grass prevents th’ roots f’om heavin’; keeps ’em cool in summer an’ warm in winter. Y’ don’t ketch me payin’ any ’tention to them blamed gov’ment reports. Now the Republicans is in, y’ can’t b’lieve a word ’at comes f’om Washin’ton.”

No one being immediately minded to disprove this sweeping statement, there was brief silence for a space. Then a new topic was introduced.

“Say, Peleg, when’s the weddin’ comin’ off to your place?”

“The weddin’? what weddin’?” parried Peg cautiously. “I ain’t heerd o’ no weddin’.”

“You hain’t—heh? Well, you’re kind o’ behind the times.”

“I heerd the’ was to be two weddin’s out your way come fall,” cackled the horse doctor. “How ’bout Marthy an’ th’ onions?”

Peg turned an angrily bewildered face upon the speaker.

“Th’ onions,” he said, “is O. K.; but I dunno what you’re drivin’ at.”

“Well, I’ll tell ye; Marthy Cottle told Elviry Scott, an’ she tol’ my wife’s sister that you was payin’ her marked attention. She said she hadn’t made up her mind whether t’ marry ye or not. But she thought mebbe she might, ef the onion crop turned out all right. I sez t’ m’ wife——”

A roar of laughter drowned the end of the sentence and Peg’s indignant denial.

“I ain’t done no more,” he averred, “than t’ wipe m’ feet careful on th’ door-mat on the kitchen-stoop when the’s mud on the groun’. An’ I only done that t’ keep th’ peace.”

“Wall, Peleg, ef you c’n make out t’ keep th’ peace with Marthy Cottle, I reckon you’re the man fer Marthy,” was the opinion of the senior Hewett, delivered over the top of a tall bag of sugar which he was weighing.

A chorus of loud laughter greeted this sally; when it had died away a late comer announced impersonally that the county fair was going to be the finest in years.

“That’s so,” confirmed a visitor from the county seat, distant some five miles. “The’ll be horses f’om all over the state, ’n a b’lloon ascension, b’sides the usual features.”

“Any races?” inquired the farmer from the upper hill road. “‘Cause I’ve got a colt, Black Hawk blood, ’t c’n run like a streak o’ greased lightnin’.”

“Races? Well, natu’ally. The’ll be races every day after the fust, an’ on Sat’day, the closin’ day, the stakes ’ll be a hunderd dollars fer two-year-olds, an’ up fer hosses o’ all ages. I wouldn’t miss it fer more’n I gen’ally carry in loose change. The’ll be some tall bettin’, I persoom.”

“They say that young Whitcomb feller’s quite a sport when ’t comes t’ puttin’ money on any ol’ thing,” drawled young Hewett, who had laid aside his official gravity as he emerged from behind the post-office.

Mr. Morrison looked troubled.

“I guess I’ll be goin’ ’long,” he said, and cast a defiant look around the circle. “Ef I was you,” he said, “I’d keep my mouth shet ’bout things I didn’t know anythin’ ’bout.”

No one answered; but there was a general laugh as his heavy boots were heard to strike the sidewalk.