"_I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into the
road._"
It was just after sunset the following day when Jed turned from the Big
Road into the River Road and thanked God that the next five miles could
be made before early darkness set in.
Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and her
aristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind.
The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingered
still on the set mouth--the smile was for Jed.
"There seem to be more downs than ups on this road," the girl said, in
order to cover a groan. "It will be awful after dark."
"Dark or light, ma'am," Jed returned, "it's all the same to me, ma'am. I
know dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma'am."
"Do--do you always hit the same humps?" Jed was hitting one now,
squarely.
"Mostly, ma'am; but I'm studyin' to get there before dark, ma'am. If
Washington now, ma'am"--Jed indicated the sleeker of the two
horses--"had the ginger, so to speak, ma'am, as Lincoln has got--why,
ma'am, the River Road would be flyin' out behind, ma'am, like it war a
tail of a kite."
Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit another
hump, she edged toward Jed. After a few moments he felt her head against
his shoulder--from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief and
troubled sleep.
Like one carved from rock, Jed held his position while a reverent
expression grew upon his face.
The glow showed yellow through the western sky, The Gap was growing
purplish and dim, and just then, across a foot bridge over the river, a
hurrying, bent form appeared. It swayed perilously--Jed heard a muttered
curse.
"Gawd A'mighty," he breathed, "it's ole Aunt Becky come back to add to
trubble after us-all hopin' she was daid--or something."
Becky was coming toward the road, bending over the bundle she bore; she
paused, looked down, and then darted ahead right in the path of the
horses. They reared and something snapped.
Meredith awoke and sat up with a cry.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "An accident?"
"'Tain't nothin' so bad as an accident, ma'am," Jed reassured her, "but
I don't take no chances with Lincoln's hind hoofs, ma'am, an' somethin'
done cracked in dat quarter."
The pause gave Aunt Becky time to reach Ridge House and play her part in
the scheme of things.
Panting and well nigh exhausted, the old woman staggered on and was
thankful to see at her journey's end that but one light shone in the
quiet house. The light was in the living room where Angela sat alone
waiting for Meredith Thornton. She had quite forgotten, in her growingly
anxious hours, all about poor Becky and her sorrows. So now, when the
long window, opening on the west porch, swayed inward, she started up
with outstretched arms--and confronted Becky.
"I've brung hit!" Becky staggered to a chair, uninvited, and sat down
with her burden, wrapped in a dirty, old quilt, upon her knees.
Angela sat down also--she was speechless and frightened. She watched the
old woman unfold the coverings, and she saw the form of a sleeping
new-born baby exposed to the heat and light of the fire. She tried to
say something, to get control of herself, but she only succeeded in
bending nearer the apparition.
"Zalie she cum las' night like I told you she would. She's daid
now--Zalie is. I don buried her at sun-up--an' I want it tole--if it
ever is tole--that the child was buried long o' Zalie. She done planned
while she was a-dying.
"I told her what you-all promised an' she went real content-like after
that."
There was sodden despair in Becky's voice.
"Who--is the father of this child?"
The commonplace question, under the strain, sounded trivial--but it was
rung from Angela's dismay.
Becky gave a rough laugh.
"Not the agony o' death an' the fear o' hell could wring that out of
Zalie," she said. Then: "Yo' ain't goin' back on yo' promise, are yo'?"
Sister Angela rallied. At any moment the wheels on the road might end
her time for considering poor Becky.
"You mean," she whispered, "that you renounce--this child; give it to
me, now? You mean--that I must find a home for it?"
"Yo' done promised--an' it eased Zalie at the end."
Angela reached for the child--she was calm and self-possessed at last.
This was not the first child she had rescued.
"It is--a girl?" she asked, lifting the tiny form.
"Hit's a girl. Give hit a chance."
"I will." Then Angela wrapped the child in the old quilt and turned
toward the door.
"Will you wait until I return?" she paused to ask, but Becky, her eyes
on that picture of the Good Shepherd, replied:
"No--I don let go!"
With that she passed as noiselessly from the room as if she were but a
shadow sinking into the darkness outside.
Angela went upstairs and knocked at Sister Constance's door. Sister
Constance was alert at once. Every faculty of hers was trained to
respond intelligently to taps on the door in the middle of the night.
"This is--a child--a mountain child," whispered Sister Angela. "It has
been left here. Take it into the west wing and tell no one of its
presence until we know whether it will be claimed!"
"Very well, Sister." Constance folded the child to her ample breast; the
maternal in her gave the training she had received a divine quality. The
baby stirred, stretched out its little limbs, and opened its vague,
sleep-filled eyes as if at last something worthy of response had
appealed to it.
Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the door
of the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. Sister
Angela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that made
the happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against a
dead blur of sensation.
There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense.
Meredith was in her arms--clinging, sobbing, and repeating:
"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"
"I promise, my darling. I promise." Angela heard herself saying the
words as if they proceeded from the lips of a stranger.
"Has Doris come?"
"Not yet. She will be here soon."
"I can trust you and Doris. Doris knows. And now--I let go!"
Where had Sister Angela heard those words before? They went whirling
through her brain as if on a mighty wheel.
"I have--let go!"
Then followed terrible hours in the guest chamber with Sister Constance
repeating over and over: "It is a perfectly plain case. All is well."
Finally, there was quiet, and then that cry that has power to move the
world's heart, a plaintive wail weighted with relinquishment
and--acceptance. Meredith's little daughter was born just as the clock
below chimed four.
"I will take it to the west wing," Constance said. "Call me if you need
me."
But everything seemed settling into calm, and Meredith fell asleep
looking as she used to look in the old days before she had been forced
outside the gates. At daylight she opened her eyes.
"Is it morning?" she asked of Sister Angela who sat beside her.
"Yes, dear heart."
"Raise the shade, Sister." Then, as Angela raised it--"Why, how strange!
What is that, Sister?"
Angela looked and saw The Ship! In that hour when vitality runs low and
with the past horrors of the night still holding her, all the
superstition of The Gap claimed her.
"I--I was afraid I would lose the ship." Meredith's mind wandered back
to her hurried home-leaving; the dread that the ship that was to bear
her from the Philippines might have gone. The mystic Ship upon The Rock
was all that was needed to fix her fancy.
"But--I was in time. I _am_ in time. The Ship--is waiting. Everything is
all right now!--quite all right, Sister?"
Angela went close to the bed.
"My dear one!" she whispered and slipped her arm under Meredith's head.
"It all seems so--plain in the morning, Sister. It is the night that
makes us afraid. The night! I cannot remember--what it was--I dreamed."
"Never mind, little girl"--Angela's tears were dropping on the soft,
smooth hair that was growing clammy; she felt the cold breath on her
face--"never mind, little girl, the dream is past."
"Sister, it was a bad dream. I do not like bad dreams--tell Doris--what
is it that I want you to tell Doris?"
"Try to sleep, beloved." Angela knelt.
Meredith slipped back to her childhood--she gave a short, hurting laugh.
"Tell her--tell Doris--I did try to learn my lesson--but----"
It was the opening of the door that startled Angela into consciousness.
Doris Fletcher stood within the room. Her eyes took in the scene, the
pretty face against Sister Angela's bosom; the sunlight lying full
across the bed and picking out into a gleam the golden cross that hung
to the floor.
"I'm too--late!"
Agony rang in the quiet words.
"And I've travelled day and night! Her letter was forwarded to me."
The letter burned against Doris's bosom like a tangible thing. She
crossed the room and sank beside the bed.
They all slipped through the following days as people do who realize
that troubles do not come to them, but are overtaken on the way. They
seemed always to have been there; some people pass on the other side,
but if one's path lies close, then one must go with what courage
possible--look hard, feel and groan with the understanding, and pass on
as best he can bearing the memory with him.
Father Noble came from many miles back in the hills. Riding his sturdy
little horse, his loose black cloak floating like benignant wings
bearing him on; his radiant old face shining even in the face of death.
He stayed until the wound in the hillside was covered over Meredith's
little form; stayed to see the flowers hide the scar, murmuring again
and again: "In the hope of joyful resurrection." His was the task to
bridge life and death, and there was no doubt in his beautiful soul.
"And now," he said, after four days, "I must go to Cleaver's
Clearing"--the Clearing was twenty hard miles away. "There are children
there who never heard of God until I took some toys to them last
Christmas. Then they thought that I was God. They are sick now, poor
children--bad food; no care--ah! well, they will learn, they will
learn."
And the old man rode away.
And still Doris had not seen Meredith's child.
"I cannot, Sister," she had pleaded. "I can think of it only as George
Thornton's child."
The hate in Doris's heart was so new and appalling a sensation that it
frightened her.
She tried to think of the unseen child with the love that she felt for
all children--but that one! She struggled to overcome the sickening
aversion that grew, instead of lessened, while the days dragged on. But
always the helpless child represented nothing but passion, brutality,
suffering, and disgrace. It was _not_ a child, a piteous, pleading
child--it was the essence of Wrong made visible.
Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called forth
her old manner of authority. Sitting alone with Doris before the fire in
the living room the evening of Meredith's funeral and Father Noble's
departure she grew stern and commanding.
"This will never do, my dear," she said. "It cannot be that life has
made of you a cruel, unjust woman."
Doris dropped her eyes--they were wonderful eyes, her real and only
claim to beauty. Dusky eyes they were, with a light in them of amber.
"How much did Merry tell you?" she asked, faintly, for the older woman
looked so frail and pure that it seemed impossible that she knew the
worst.
"My dear, she told me--nothing. Her letter said that she wanted to tell
me things--things that she could not tell to God"--Angela unconsciously
touched her cross--"but there was no time. No time."
"There are things that women cannot tell to God, Sister. Things that
they can only tell to some women!"
A bitterness that she could not control shook Doris's voice. She shrank
from touching the exquisite detachment of Sister Angela by the truth,
and yet she must have as much sympathy as possible and, certainly,
coöperation.
"Sister, this child should never have been born!"
The words reached where former words had failed. A flush touched
Angela's white face--it was like sunrise on snow. Then, after a pause:
"Did--Meredith--think that?" A growing sternness gave Doris hope that
she might be saved the details that were like poison in her blood.
"Yes. Protected by--by what is law--George Thornton----"
But Angela raised her thin, transparent hand commandingly. It was as if
she were staying the torrents of wrong and shame that threatened to
deluge all that she had gained by her life of renunciation and
repression--and yet in her clear eyes there gleamed the understanding of
the depths.
"May God have mercy upon--the child!" was what she said, and by those
words she took her stand between past wrong and hope of future justice.
"You must take this child, Doris," she said. "All that you know and feel
but make the course imperative and inevitable."
"Sister, how can I--feeling as I do?"
"Can you afford not to? Can you leave it--to such a man?"
"But, Sister, you do not know him. If I should conquer my aversion and
take the child, if I succeeded in loving it--he would bide his time and
claim it. The law that made this horrible thing possible covers his
claim to the child."
Angela drooped back in her chair. She looked old and beaten.
"He must not have the child," she murmured. "It's the only chance for
the salvation of Meredith's little girl. He _shall_ not have it!"
Doris bent toward the fire holding her cold, clasped hands to the heat.
Suddenly she turned.
"I am growing nervous," she said, "I thought I heard someone pressing
against the window--I thought I saw--a shadow drift outside in the
moonlight."
Angela started and sat upright. Every sense was alert--she was
remembering her promise to old Becky!
"I wish," she said, haltingly, "I wish I had consulted Father Noble. I
have undertaken too much."
"Consulted him about what, Sister?" Doris was touched by the quivering
voice and strained eyes; she set her own trouble aside.
Again that pressing sound, and the wind swirling the dead leaves against
the house.
"About a little deserted mountain child upstairs. I have promised to
find a home for it, but I cannot manage such things any more--I am too
old."
The words came plaintively, as if defending against implied neglect.
Doris's eyes grew deep and concerned.
"A deserted child?" she repeated. In the feverish haste and trouble of
the past few days the ordinary life of Ridge House had held no part. It
seemed to be claiming its rights now, pushing her aside.
Then Sister Angela, her tired face set toward the long window whence
came that pressing sound and the swish of the wind, told Becky's story.
She told it as she might if Becky were listening, ready at any lapse to
correct her, but she carefully refrained from mentioning names.
It eased her mind to turn from Doris's trouble to poor Becky's, and she
saw with relief that Doris was listening; was interested.
"It is strange," Sister Angela mused, when the bare telling of the story
was over, "how the deep, cruel things in life are met by people in much
the same way--the ignorant and the wise, when they touch the inscrutable
they let go and turn to a higher power than their own. Meredith felt
that her child's chance in life lay in a new and fresh start. The
mountain woman's curse, as she termed it, could only be conquered, so
she pleaded, by giving her grandchild to those who did not know. It
amounts to the same thing.
"Meredith is--gone; the old woman of the hills cannot last long. I
wonder, as to the children--I wonder!"
Doris's eyes were burning and her voice shook when she spoke. Her words
and tone startled Angela.
"Where is the--the mountain child?" she asked.
"Upstairs, my dear. Why, Doris, you are shaking as if you had a chill.
You are ill--let me call Sister Constance."
But Doris stayed her as she rose.
"No, no, Sister. I am only trembling because my feet are set on a
possible way! I am--I am pushing things aside. Tell me, is this child a
girl?"
"Yes."
"How old is it?"
"It was born the night before Meredith's child. It survived against
grave dangers--it had no care, really, for twenty-four hours."
"You--you think it will live?"
"Yes."
"Do you think--the grandmother will ever reclaim it?"
"No, my dear. She is very old. I do not know how old, but certainly she
cannot last much longer. She is a strange creature, but I am confident
she realizes all that she said."
"And she is right--it is the only way." Doris was now speaking more to
herself than to Angela. It was as if she were arguing, seeking to
convince her conservative self before she stepped out upon a new and
perilous path.
"No one knowing! Then the start could be new. It is the knowing,
expecting, and suggesting that do the harm. We may call it inheritance,
but it may be that we evolve from our knowledge and fears the very thing
we would avert if we were left free."
Sister Angela bent forward. She whispered as if she felt the necessity
of secrecy.
"What do you mean?"
"Sister, can you not see? Suppose it were possible for me to take
Merry's child without the knowledge of its inheritance from the father.
Suppose this little mountain child were given its chance among people
who did not know."
"The children would reveal themselves, my dear." Angela was defending,
she knew not what, but all her nature was up in arms. "It is God's way."
"Or our bungling and lack of faith, Sister, which?"
All the weariness and hopelessness passed from Doris's face; she was
eager, her eyes shone. Presently she stood up, her back to the fire, her
glance on that far window that opened to the starry night and the
narrow, flower-hidden bed on the hill.
"Sister Angela," the words were spoken solemnly as a vow might be taken
before God, "I am going to take--both children. But on one condition--I
am not to know which is Meredith's."
A log rolling from the irons startled the women--their nerves were
strained to the breaking point.
"Impossible!" gasped Angela.
"Why?"
"Your own has claims upon you!"
"None that I am not willing to give--but this is the only way. If, as
you say, it is God's way that they reveal themselves, then I lose; if
God is with me, I win."
"Dare--you?"
Doris stretched her arms as if pushing aside every obstacle.
"I do," she said. "I am not a daring woman: I am a weak and fearful
one--this, though, I dare!"
"But the father----" Angela whispered.
"The--father----" Doris's eyes flamed.
"But he may, as you say, claim the child." Angela hastened breathlessly
as one running.
"How could he, if I did not know which child was his?"
The blinding light began to point the way clearer, now, to the older
woman.
"It's--unheard of," she murmured, "and yet----"
"I will write to Thornton, offer to take his child," Doris was pleading,
rather than explaining. "I think at the first he will agree to the
proposal--what else can he do? The shock--remember, he does not even
know that a child is expected! Dare we refuse Meredith's child this only
and desperate chance--knowing what we do?"
Angela made no reply. She was letting go one after another of her rigid
beliefs. Again Doris spoke, again she pleaded:
"I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone to
the chapel--and seen the way. I will wait here."
Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physical
support. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat down
thinking; demanding justice.
A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up,
her eyes fixed on the door.
Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the same blanket,
were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge House
kept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over the
small creatures.
"Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word--it was the
last claim of blood.
"I--forgot--when I brought them to you. We have all--forgot. It _is_ the
only way--the chance."
Doris took both children in her arms.
"I shall name them Joan and Nancy," she whispered, "for my mother and
grandmother. Joan and Nancy--Thornton!"
Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forget
her bitter hatred.