Sarah Maria was gone and baby Chance was thriving. There was bliss
enough for any reasonable man, and Steve waxed almost light of heart.
All this had come about with time, and other things might come, too,
if time were not interfered with. The news of Sarah's rapid transit
had hardly cost Nannie the lifting of an eyebrow. She was so absorbed
in the baby that she could well afford to spare her amiable bovine.
Although it was quite late in the fall, Steve was actually
contemplating the planting of another crop. Now that the main enemy
had withdrawn her horns and heels from the garden, winter seemed a
mere bagatelle in the way of opposition--an obstacle too small for
reckoning.
But, as poets and prose writers have abundantly proven, Ill Fortune
has an ugly habit of coming around a corner with a sudden demoniac
swish when least expected and she certainly did this time. Steve was
out in his garden drinking in the mellow stillness of an Indian summer
twilight, and feeling not really happy perhaps--a man who has a home
only in name can hardly be that--but rested and at peace at that
particular moment, which is much more than could be asserted of his
condition the next, for as he looked down the road he beheld Sarah
Maria gamboling along, having in tow at the end of a rope a
well-spent, perspiring darky.
"Dis yere yo' cow, massa?" asked the weary African as he came up.
Steve hesitated; he was sorely tempted to repudiate madam.
"Ain't yo's Massa Lubland?"
Steve nodded in a gloomy manner.
"Den I reckon dis yere b'longs to yo'," he said confidently, and he
tugged and pulled the unruly beast within the boundary of the
cow-yard, with no further damage to the place than the trampling of
several choice plants and the breaking of a young apple tree.
"How much do I owe you?" asked Steve in a tone of subdued melancholy.
"Now, massa, I's gwine tell yo' my story, an' den I lebes it to yo' to
do de right ting by me. Yo' see, dis yere cow come to me jes' 'bout
tree months ago, an' my wife she 'lowed it was a giff, but I sez, 'No,
sah, no giffs come a-droppin' out de sky dat a-way. Dis yere b'longs
to some ob de quality folk, an' dey's a-gwine to want her some day, so
we mus' keep her up right smart, an' dey'll pay us fer all our
trubble.' So we fed her ob de fat ob de lan', but 'peared like she
were de kin' dat keeps lean anyways; dat's why she look so kin' o'
pulin' now.
"She was so contrairy to manage dat I got kin' o' skeered ob her, an'
one day she tuk me in de pit ob de stomach an' h'isted me ober de
fence, an' I hed mis'ry in de stomach an' mis'ry in de back, an' my
wife 'lowed I was gwine ter die. It tuk de doctor an' a powerful lot
o' medicine ter sot me up agin, an' I was kin' o' porely fer a long
time. Bimeby we heerd de cow b'longed ter Massa Lubland, an' yo' libed
out heah, an' jes' den a neighbor come 'long wid a load o' furn'ture
an' I ax him:
"'Could yo' take de cow?'
"'Ef she'll hitch on I could,' he say. 'Is she peaceable or is she
ornery?'
"'She's ornery heah,' I say, 'but she's gwine ter wawk 'long lak a
lady when she's gwine home, 'case she's homesick.'
"Well, massa, he done tuk her, but when he come back from de city he
tole me she jes' sot herself agin goin', an' she sot so hard de hosses
couldn't pull nohow, an' when he got down to loose her she rared till
she fetched some o' de furn'ture down on her haid, an' dar was a nice
table broke ter kindlin' wood, an' I hed ter pay him five dollars fer
it. An' jes' as I put de pocket book up agin--an' it was plum'
empty--roun' de corner come de cow, wid her eyes on fire, an' she jes'
strewed us bofe ober de groun' like we was dead chickens afore she
runned inter de shed. An' massa, sho's yo's bawn, she hooked an'
tossed me like a rubber bawl all de way up heah, till I hain't got a
whole bone anywhares in my body. Lordy! but she's a turrible critter!"
"Do I owe you ten dollars?" asked Steve with grim resignation.
"I takes whatever yo' gives, massa, an' I doan complain; but I knows
yo's hon'rable, an' yo's gwine ter 'member I was laid up from work a
week an' hed ter pay de doctor an' de med'cines, an' I's fed her plum'
full fer tree months."
"Do I owe you fifteen dollars?" asked Steve.
The darky looked mournful.
"Do I owe you twenty?" asked Steve in a somewhat severe tone.
"Reckon yo' hain't gwine ter fergit I paid five fer de table,"
murmured this meek son of Africa.
"Take twenty-five, then, and make an end of it," said Steve.
"Tank yo', tank yo', massa. I hain't nebber gwine ter fergit yo' ner
de cow. Gawd bress yo' bofe, massa."
And grinning and bowing he disappeared, leaving Steve minus a fifth
of his monthly salary and plus the beautiful Sarah Maria.
It was part of the procession of events that the butcher should heave
in sight at that moment, and that Steve should hail him and take him
in to look at the returned prodigal.
"She's so lean she wouldn't be good for much," said the man. "If you'd
fatten her up I'd----"
"No, I think not. I'd rather you'd take her now."
"I couldn't give you but ten dollars for her this way."
"Take her," said Steve.
And the bargain was concluded. Shortly after this Bridget was ill with
cramps for a few days.
"What has upset you?" asked Nannie.
"I couldn't tell at fust," groaned Bridget, "but I mind now--it's thet
Sarah Meriah."
"Why, she's gone! What can she have to do with you now?"
"Shure she was in that last beefsteak I ate. I recognized her the
minnit she passed me lips. 'Are ye back agin?' sez I, 'bad cess ter
yez!' 'Thrue fer yez,' sez she, 'an' I'll be ther upsettin' of yez
yit.' An' faith she is, fer it's feel her I do this blissed minnit,
hookin' me in'ards an' kickin' me vitals, an' behavin' in a most
disgraceful and unleddylike fashion throughout."
Possibly Nannie found herself more at leisure, now her bovine charge
was off her hands, and wanted occupation, or--and this is more
likely--the beauty and comfort of Randolph's and Constance's home had
stolen to her heart and stirred new impulses there. Other influences
had been at work on this neglected region as well, but to these Nannie
did not as yet yield their meed of credit. It is a sad but well-known
fact that the home agencies for regeneration are the last to receive
recognition and gratitude. So it was that while Nannie was dimly
conscious that she owed something to Constance's womanliness, she
refused to dwell upon the beauty and tenderness of Steve's conduct
toward her. His uniform courtesy, gentleness, and forbearance, though
the most powerful factors in her dissatisfaction with self and
embryonic yearnings toward a more conscientious, nobler life, were as
yet utterly ignored by her in actual thought, and had her attention
been called to them, she would probably have denied that she owed
aught of good to their influence. This was discouraging, to be sure,
but one must wait long and patiently for full results. It was enough,
perhaps, for the present that Nannie went about her home trying, in a
blundering way, to bring to pass some changes for the better. With a
deeper insight than she recognized she looked to her table, first of
all. Bridget was not a first-class cook, and her limited repertory
rendered the bill of fare wearisome and monotonous.
Several dishes that Nannie had seen on Constance's table had caught
her eye. A tempting salad was one, and having learned how to make it,
she gave her own table the benefit of this knowledge one evening.
Steve's face lighted with surprise and pleasure the moment the new and
very attractive dish was brought on. He knew it was none of Bridget's
making.
"This must be yours, my dear," he said with a gentle, winning smile.
Now, poor Nannie was terribly awkward about anything that involved a
show of feeling, so instead of taking this as she should have done,
she merely said brusquely:
"I made it."
Then she colored violently, then immediately looked defiant.
But her color and her defiance were both of them so pretty and
engaging that Steve was moved by a rare impulse to go round to her and
kiss her.
Shocking as it may seem, Nannie caught him by the nose with a sudden
fierce motion and held on with grim, unrelenting grasp.
The whole scene occurred in a flash, as it were, and Steve was utterly
unprepared for his own act, and still more so for its consequence.
Impulsiveness with him, however, was unusual and short-lived, and
even under these untoward circumstances he soon recovered his gentle
gravity.
"When are you going to release my nose, Nannie?" he said in his
accustomed quiet tone.
"Goodness knows!" she replied brusquely--possibly without intent to
pun--but she let go.
Steve retreated a step or two and seemed undecided as to what course
to pursue. A certain air of dignity and reserve enveloped him at all
times, and up to the present moment this had never failed to be
respected by those with whom he had come in contact. It was hardly
possible, then, to pass by so flagrant an outrage as this in silence.
"I hardly think," he said gently, "you mean all the things you do."
"I mean every one!" snapped Nannie, whose resentment was stirred, all
the more so because she was ashamed of herself.
"If that is the case," Steve replied, and as he spoke, quietly and
without anger, he was conscious of a dull dread of her reply--"if that
is the case, it can't be that you feel either love or respect for me."
"I guess I don't, then," said Nannie rudely, and she rose from the
table and went out into the garden.
Steve stood irresolute for a time; then he took his hat and left the
house. Never in all his life before had he felt as miserable and as
helpless. At that moment the beauty died not only out of his own life,
but out of nature as well. There was no longer a balm in Gilead. He
walked on, instinctively taking one of his old paths, from which he
had heretofore received so much of comfort and inspiration, but which
to-night gave him absolutely nothing of either. It would seem that
nature had shared the blow he had received and had been deadened by
it. Poor Mother Nature, she was just the same, but her child was out
of gear and she could do nothing but wait. By-and-by a change came,
not in the way of happiness, perhaps, but in a lightening of that
deadness which is of necessity the most hopeless of all conditions.
Awaking from his torpor to a certain extent, Steve found himself
engaged in some practical thoughts. He had lately been balancing his
books, and the result was not encouraging. He was now reviewing this
with a certain grim despondency and also a certain grim humor.
"We've spent eighteen hundred dollars in one year. I earn fifteen
hundred a year and there's six hundred in the bank. We've just one
year and two months to live. We'd better begin to repent," he said to
himself.
Then presently he began to wonder what the use of it all was. He had
given Nannie shelter and protection--that was all there was to it.
They were no more to each other than strangers. He had done his
utmost, and she was as far away from him as ever; that made an end of
hope; he might as well give it up. At that moment there was nothing he
would have liked better. What with the care and perplexity he had
endured over women, cows, and hens, he was more than ready to wash
his hands of the entire lot.
But Steve was unaccustomed to following inclination when duty pointed
in another direction, so although he was apparently doing that now,
yet he had no other thought than of returning to his post by-and-by.
He walked on in an aimless sort of fashion, merely because he did not
know what else to do just then, and soon found himself near the
cottage whose glorified windows attracted him on his tramp some time
ago. It was dull enough now, for the departing sunlight streamed in
another direction, leaving the little house in shadow. Steve would
have passed it without a thought had not a woman's cry caught his
ear--a bitter, wailing cry, on which came words as bitter:
"Oh, I'm sick of it all! Would God that I were dead!"
Without meaning to intrude on private grief, Steve stood stock-still.
There was something so horrible in the contrast between a cry of such
lawless despair and the idea of the contentment and happiness for
which that little house should stand that it fairly paralyzed the
man's steps, just as the motion of the heart is arrested by a shock.
The cottage stood on the edge of the woods. Just now these were bare
and gaunt, and the steep-sided ravine to the left seemed to-day a
barren crack in a gloomy landscape.
It was all of it unbearable, unendurable. Anything was better than
this, and Steve turned with relief in the direction of a familiar
train whistle, hurried to the station, and soon was speeding toward
his former bachelor quarters.
How desolate the old building looked when he reached it! The sun had
sunk below the tall chimney tops, and the narrow street lay in gloomy
shadow. Nothing daunted, however, Steve entered, and forgetful of the
custom of the building, he stepped to the elevator shaft. It was dark,
but looking far up he thought he could discern a faint glimmer of the
sunset. Some lines he once read came to him:
"The emptying tide of life has drained the iron channel dry;
Strange winds from the forgotten day
Draw down, and dream, and sigh:"
They were passing and repassing him--these winds. A sigh, a certain
coolness, a faint whisper--that was all as they entered the shaft and
sped upward like ghosts of a busy world.
Steve turned and ran rapidly up the stairs. He could hardly fit his
key, he was in such haste to escape from that lonesome hallway. Day
was passing out by the western gate when he entered his room, and it
would seem that heaven, in all its untold beauty, had come forth to
greet her. Such a sky! It fairly overwhelmed him, and he turned to the
east, as one seeks shelter in the shadow from a too brilliant light.
Even the east was whispering the story, but gently and in cadences fit
for weak human senses, just as winds in the tall tree-tops faintly
repeat the harmonies of heaven.
To and fro Steve walked in the spacious lonesome apartments. Was his
present solitude an earnest of his future? Was he forever to be
denied the warm human clasp of another's hand? Was he doomed evermore
to see the oncoming of the night from out some deserted room?
The west was fading now. Day had passed and carried light and sunshine
with her. The clouds were moving hither and yonder restlessly, and in
their ghostly passage they took on weird shapes.
Steve watched them with a strange interest--an interest just tinged
with superstition, half rejecting, half receiving their import,
something as one watches the shifting of cards in the hands of a
wizard.
He looked out over the waters of the lake, but the east was leaden
now; her lips were sealed; she had passed silently into the night.
Even in the west there was but a fitful glowing, and the clouds came
and went.
The room had grown black--insupportable! Steve could not endure it--he
must light it in some way. A lamp would not do. It was a warm evening,
wonderfully warm for that season, but he must have firelight.
He looked about him and soon found kindling and fuel, for he had as
yet disturbed none of the room's furnishings. His lease was not spent;
he could use the place for storage for quite a time yet.
The warmth of the cheery flame was welcome to him, for despite the
heat of the evening he felt a chilliness which he did not know meant
fever. It was not among possibilities that a man of Steve's fine
sensitive fiber could do violence to his idea of right without
disaster to his physical being. He had fled from his post of duty, he
felt himself to be a deserter, and this deflection was necessarily
accompanied by physical disturbance.
As he sat beside the bright blaze he heard Randolph telling of his
successful wooing and saw him tilted back in his chair against the
opposite wall of the chimney. Then he stepped from out the ingle-nook
and stood in a little old cemetery. They were putting mother and Mary
into the same grave, and he thought the gravediggers cruel because
they hurled the clods of earth so heavily upon them.
The cemetery was growing colder now, and he wakened, oppressed with
the dreariness of it all. He replenished his failing fire and then sat
down to dream again, but this time he was not alone, for Nannie sat by
the cheery little blaze--not across the way, but close by his side.
She had all her brilliant beauty, all her tantalizing, bewitching
ways, but he no longer feared to touch her; no longer feared to smooth
back the tangled curls and kiss the dear, piquant face, for the
drawbridge was down, the gates were flung open, and Castle Delight was
his at last.
It was a great moment for Steve. Now he had life and had it
abundantly; now he had wife and hearthstone.
He wakened again in a cold, dark room, and he saw gleaming through the
blackness a tearful, wistful face which he knew was Nannie's. She was
in trouble--she wanted something, she was calling him in weird, spirit
fashion, and he must go!