UNMIXED MISERY.
“Norine,” said Clinton, one day when he had returned to the farm after
a more than usually prolonged absence, “what is this I hear about the
doctor?”
“What is it, Clinton? Nothing serious, I hope?” said Norine. “He is not
ill?”
“No, he is not ill that I know of,” replied Clinton, “so you need not
exhibit so much anxiety.”
There was something in her husband’s tone so like a sneer that it
grated on Norine’s feelings. She looked up at him inquiringly.
“Am I not right to feel anxious about so good a friend?” she asked.
“Friend!” repeated Clinton sneeringly. “He has been a very good friend
to _you_!”
“Has he not been a good friend to you, Clinton?”
“Friend to me? No; we have never been friends in the past, and we are
still less likely to be friendly in the future.”
“Oh, Clinton!” cried Norine pleadingly. “You forget, dear husband. You
would not say that if you were not angry. What is this you have heard,
dear? Something wrong, I am sure.”
And she stood before him with her hands crossed over her breast in an
attitude that was unconsciously supplicating.
“I have heard that he was your lover!”
The blow was struck brutally, and Norine turned white, and her eyes
opened staringly as she received it.
“You do not believe that, my husband?” she said simply.
Clinton did not answer. He only moved uneasily in his chair, looking
doggedly at his feet to avoid his wife’s gaze.
“You do not believe that, my husband?” repeated Norine. “I know you
don’t.”
“You have not denied it yet,” he said sulkily.
“No, Clinton; I did not think it necessary to deny it. Oh, Clinton!”
“Well, ‘oh, Clinton!’” mimicked her husband--“‘oh, Clinton’ has said
nothing more than common report does. Was he not your lover?”
“He has been the best friend I have ever had,” said Norine quietly,
“and I respect him above all others. But he never spoke a word of love
to me in all his life.”
“Well, I wish he would not come here so often,” replied Clinton
doggedly. “It is not pleasant to be away from home and know that
another man comes almost daily to see your wife.”
“Why do you go away from home so much, dear?” pleaded Norine. “There is
no need of it, believe me; and it has changed you so greatly. We used
to be so happy.”
And her voice broke down into a quivering little sigh.
He made no answer to this, and it was a long time before the subject
was mentioned again by either. But it rankled deeply in the hearts of
both. Clinton had never doubted his wife; but this was the first time
that he had expressed a wish that was not promptly and quietly heeded,
and it irritated him.
Then, too, the farm life galled him more than ever, from comparison
with what had become his usual mode of existence. He had never
suggested the idea of leaving the farm to Norine. He was not even sure
that he wanted her to leave it. But to come from his easy, almost
luxurious, life in the city to this little cottage, where everything
looked so pinched and bare by contrast, was a trial to him that not
even his love for his wife and child could render easy.
And Norine! If he had struck her a blow in the face she would not have
been more hurt or surprised.
She had felt in her heart that her husband was losing his love for her,
and she had tried with all her loving heart to save him from himself.
But now there seemed no hope for the future but in her child, and on
him she showered all the love of her aching heart.
And as the winter passed on, and the little fellow grew in every
infantile grace, she drew him closer and closer to her heart, and
devoted herself to him as her only consolation.
She had never mentioned this quarrel to Jim. But Clinton never failed
to ask how many times the doctor had been there during his absence.
And from his tone and manner when speaking of Conway, Jim arrived at a
pretty fair knowledge of the matter.
“The hound!” muttered the irate young man to himself, when alone in
the big red barn. “To speak that way of the man who saved his worthless
life!”
Jim was very angry over it, and when at last Clinton spoke to him of
the frequency of the doctor’s visits, Jim told him in plain language
that “Conway was _his_ friend, and as long as _he_ had a house, Lester
Conway would be welcome there.”
And then honest Jim regretted having spoken so sharply, and thought
remorsefully that it would all be visited on poor Norine, whom he could
see was daily becoming paler and more sorrowful.
How Conway ever became acquainted with the true state of affairs, will
never be known, but he solved that trouble by discontinuing his visits
altogether.
Yet, if there was not one trouble there was always another, and the
little family were far from being happy.
And the winter passed away and spring came again without bringing any
promise of a better condition of affairs.
Clinton grew more and more changeable as the time went on, sometimes
coming home as affectionate as he had ever been in those old days that
seemed so long ago. Then Norine would be flushed and happy, and the
baby would be brought out crowing and kicking.
Jim would smoke away, in placid contentment, and the little cottage
would assume the old look of comfort and happiness. At other times, and
they were far more frequent, he would come in a state described by Mrs.
Higgins as “crosser nor a b’ar with his ha’r off,” and then the little
cottage became a very miserable place indeed.
He was in this disagreeable state one blustering day in March, and Jim,
greatly chafed in temper, had retired to the kitchen, where he was
smoking dismally, and keeping very much in Mrs. Higgins’ way.
That good woman, for a wonder, was not out of temper, and she walked
around him without even a snort of protest.
This unusual conduct became so marked at last that even Jim noticed
it, and gazed at her in wonder. She was busy preparing their evening
meal, but evidently thinking of something far more serious, for she
moved about the little kitchen in such a nervous, apprehensive way, her
withered face working with emotion, that Jim stared at her curiously.
“What is it?” he said at last; “is there anything wrong?”
She started nervously at the sound of his voice.
“Yes, there is,” she said; “somethin’ mighty wrong.”
“What is it?”
“Jim Bright,” she said, coming up to him and laying her shriveled,
work-hardened hand upon his arm, “do you remember such a storm as this
before?”
Jim bent to listen to the howling of the wind outside, and slightly
shook his head.
“Just two years ergo, Jim Bright,” she said nervously; “just two years
ergo.”
Jim looked at her wonderingly, and not understanding her, shook his
head again.
“This is the fourteenth er March, Jim,” said the old woman,
impressively, changing her hand from his sleeve to his breast. “An’ on
the fourteenth er March two years ergo ther war just sich er storm as
this, an’ on the fifteenth er March _he_ war bro’t ’ere,” with a shake
of her thumb toward the next room. “You mark my words, Jim Bright,
ther devil’s a-callin’ for his own, and there’ll be trouble here afore
mornin’.”
Jim could not smile at the old woman--she was too impressive for
that--and she looked too much in earnest as she went on with her work
with that quiet, watchful look on her old face, that her words affected
Jim in spite of himself.
“Pshaw!” he said, shouldering his way through the wind to the barn,
“the idea of my worrying so over an old woman’s whims!”
But he could not help thinking of it, and it was almost with the hope
that it would come true, for Jim was getting very tired of this state
of affairs.
Nothing could be done about it, however, so Jim shook off the nervous
feeling as well as he could, and reëntered the house for supper.
Little Clinton was ailing somewhat, and correspondingly peevish. When
Jim went in, Norine was walking up and down the room with him in her
arms, trying to quiet his cries.
“Here,” said Jim, “let me take that fellow,” and he took the child from
her arms, and noted the sigh of relief she gave.
“My, Jim!” she said, “he is getting dreadfully heavy;” and she looked
proudly at the child as he lay in her brother’s arms.
“Why did you not ask me to take him?” demanded Clinton, somewhat
roughly.
“I was not very tired, dear,” replied Norine sweetly; while Jim
muttered something about taking the child without being asked.
“Here, I will take him now,” said Clinton, taking the little one from
Jim’s arms.
Jim gave up the child quietly, but with a look that said a great deal.
Clinton walked back and forth across the room, trying in vain to quiet
the child.
“Let me take him,” pleaded Norine. “He wants to come to me.”
“No; I will make the little rascal mind me!” said Clinton; and he shook
him crossly.
With her eyes flashing fire, and a bound that resembled the swoop of
a bird, Norine snatched the child from his arms and retreated to the
other end of the kitchen.
“Put the child down!” ordered Clinton.
Norine made no answer, only rocked the child to and fro on her breast.
“Will you put him down?” commanded Clinton.
“No, I will not!” returned Norine. “You are an unnatural parent to
shake your child so, and you can not have him again.”
“Norine, put him down,” commanded Clinton. “It is time he was taught to
obey, and you _shall_ put him down.”
“You shall not speak to my sister in that way!” said Jim, looking very
erect as he stood with his arms folded over his breast.
“Your sister is my wife, and I will not brook interference in my
family,” said Clinton, in that same tone of suppressed passion. “That
is my child, and I will do with him as I think best. Norine, I command
you, put him down!” and he glowered at her, with his face white with
passion.
“Oh, Clinton--Jim, please do not get angry! See, the dear baby is
asleep now, and I will lay him on the bed,” and Norine made a trembling
move toward the door.
“Let me have him,” said Clinton, starting forward; but Jim stood
between them, quiet, but very determined. “Out of my way!” cried
Clinton, trying to push him one side.
Jim put his hands on the other’s shoulders and pushed him back.
“I am not going to move,” he said. “You shall not abuse either the
child or its mother.”
Clinton, white-faced and raging, sprang forward and seized him around
the waist. Jim tried to shake him off in vain, until, losing his own
head, he struck the white, upturned face, once, twice, thrice.
Clinton staggered back, with his face covered with blood, and laid his
hand on the table to support himself. It closed upon a knife lying
there. Then there was a spring forward, a savage yell, a cry from
Norine, a slamming open of the doors, and Clinton Percival had rushed
out into the storm, leaving Jim Bright weltering in his blood upon the
floor.
“I knew hit was er comin’,” cried Mrs. Higgins, as, after stanching
the flow of blood, and bringing Norine back to consciousness, she was
running along the road in search of help. “I knew hit was er comin’.
He’s a-took ter ther mountain, an’ he’ll never get across alive, thank
ther Lord! Oh, Doctor Conway, is that you? Is that you, doctor?” and
her voice rose to a shriek.
“Yes, yes!” cried Conway, bending down from the little rough pony. “Who
is it?”
“Norine, doctor--quick!” gasped Mrs. Higgins; and she had hardly
uttered the name before the doctor was rushing the little pony through
the wind in the wildest way possible.
It was late that night--or rather, early the next morning--when a dark
figure went skulking through the woods in the direction of the old
shanty. Reaching this, he skulked into the darkest corner, looking far
more like a wild animal than a human being.
He had hardly stretched himself down when the sound of approaching
voices made him start out of his lair. They were too close; he dare not
try the door; so, with one spring, he seized the low rafters overhead
and drew himself up on them.
The voices were those of Doctor Conway and the elder Higgins.
“Are you sure?” the doctor was saying.
“Dead sure, doctor,” replied the other voice. “They seed him goin’
directly fer ther ravine; he’s dead, doc--deader nor a door nail.”
“Do you think the body can be recovered?” inquired Conway.
“Hit might be, doc,” replied Higgins, striking a light for his pipe;
“but, yer see, ther branch is purty full now, an’ ef he’s found at all,
it’ll be way down below. How’s Jim?”
“Oh, he’ll get over it all right,” replied the doctor. “He got a nasty
cut, but it is not at all dangerous.”
“Hit’s a good thing ther skunk’s dead,” said the other voice, as they
moved off. “No one’ll ever miss him but ther divil!”
The figure dropped lightly to the floor as they moved away.
“I’ll be dead enough for them!” he muttered hoarsely. “If I can find
that cursed ravine, I will leave them evidence enough!” and he skulked
away through the woods, looking rather more like a wild animal than
ever.
And the closest search satisfied all that Clinton Percival was dead.
His hat and one glove were found on the edge of the most dangerous
ravine for miles around, and hanging to the bushes, halfway down, were
found shreds of cloth that had been part of his coat.
There could be no question as to his death. And although his body
could not be found, even after the most diligent search, there was no
possible doubt as to his fate. He was dead.