As David made his way with rapid strides through the rippling wheat, he
experienced a series of sensations. For the first time since his wedding
day he was aroused to entirely forget himself and his pain. What did it
mean? Marcia frightened! What at? Harry Temple at their house! What did he
know of Harry Temple? Nothing beyond the mere fact that Hannah Heath had
introduced him and that he was doing business in the town. But why had Mr.
Temple visited the house? He could have no possible business with himself,
David was sure; moreover he now remembered having seen the young man
standing near the stable that morning when he took his seat in the coach,
and knew that he must have heard his remark that he would not return till
the late coach that night, or possibly not till the next day. He
remembered as he said it that he had unconsciously studied Mr. Temple’s
face and noted its weak points. Did the young man then have a purpose in
coming to the house during his absence? A great anger rose within him at
the thought.
There was one strange thing about David’s thoughts. For the first time he
looked at himself in the light of Marcia’s natural protector—her husband.
He suddenly saw a duty from himself to her, aside from the mere feeding
and clothing her. He felt a personal responsibility, and an actual
interest in her. Out of the whole world, now, he was the only one she
could look to for help.
It gave him a feeling of possession that was new, and almost seemed
pleasant. He forgot entirely the errand that had made him come to search
for Marcia in the first place, and the two men who were probably at that
moment preparing to go to his house according to their invitation. He
forgot everything but Marcia, and strode into the purply-blue shadows of
the wood and stopped to listen.
The hush there seemed intense. There were no echoes lingering of flying
feet down that pine-padded pathway of the aisle of the woods. It was long
since he had had time to wander in the woods, and he wondered at their
silence. So much whispering above, the sky so far away, the breeze so
quiet, the bird notes so subdued, it seemed almost uncanny. He had not
remembered that it was thus in the woods. It struck him in passing that
here would be a good place to bring his pain some day when he had time to
face it again, and wished to be alone with it.
He took his hat in his hand and stepped firmly into the vast solemnity as
if he had entered a great church when the service was going on, on an
errand of life and death that gave excuse for profaning the holy silence.
He went a few paces and stopped again, listening. Was that a long-drawn
sighing breath he heard, or only the wind soughing through the waving
tassels overhead? He summoned his voice to call. It seemed a great effort,
and sounded weak and feeble under the grandeur of the vaulted green dome.
“Marcia!” he called,—and “Marcia!” realizing as he did so that it was the
first time he had called her by her name, or sought after her in any way.
He had always said “you” to her, or “child,” or spoken of her in company
as “Mrs. Spafford,” a strange and far-off mythical person whose very
intangibility had separated her from himself immeasurably.
He went further into the forest, called again, and yet again, and stood to
listen. All was still about him, but in the far distance he heard the
faint report of a gun. With a new thought of danger coming to mind he
hurried further into the shadows. The gun sounded again more clearly. He
shuddered involuntarily and looked about in all directions, hoping to see
the gleam of her gown. It was not likely there were any wild beasts about
these parts, so near the town and yet, they had been seen occasionally,—a
stray fox, or even a bear,—and the sun was certainly very low. He glanced
back, and the low line of the horizon gleamed the gold of intensified
shining that is the sun’s farewell for the night. The gun again! Stray
shots had been known to kill people wandering in the forest. He was
growing nervous as a woman now, and went this way and that calling, but
still no answer came. He began to think he was not near the clump of pines
of which Miranda spoke, and went a little to the right and then turned to
look back to where he had entered the wood, and there, almost at his feet,
she lay!
She slept as soundly as if she had been lying on a couch of velvet, one
round white arm under her cheek. Her face was flushed with weeping, and
her lashes still wet. Her tender, sensitive mouth still quivered slightly
as she gave a long-drawn breath with a catch in it that seemed like a sob,
and all her lovely dark hair floated about her as if it were spread upon a
wave that upheld her. She was beautiful indeed as she lay there sleeping,
and the man, thus suddenly come upon her, anxious and troubled and every
nerve quivering, stopped, awed with the beauty of her as if she had been
some heavenly being suddenly confronting him. He stepped softly to her
side and bending down observed her, first anxiously, to make sure she was
alive and safe, then searchingly, as though he would know every detail of
the picture there before him because it was his, and he not only had a
right but a duty to possess it, and to care for it.
She might have been a statue or a painting as he looked upon her and noted
the lovely curve of her flushed cheek, but when his eyes reached the firm
little brown hand and the slender finger on which gleamed the wedding ring
that was not really hers, something pathetic in the tear-wet lashes, and
the whole sorrowful, beautiful figure, touched him with a great
tenderness, and he stooped down gently and put his arm about her.
“Marcia,—child!” he said in a low, almost crooning voice, as one might
wake a baby from its sleep, “Marcia, open your eyes, child, and tell me if
you are all right.”
At first she only stirred uneasily and slept on, the sleep of utter
exhaustion; but he raised her, and, sitting down beside her, put her head
upon his shoulder, speaking gently. Then Marcia opened her eyes
bewildered, and with a start, sprang back and looked at David, as though
she would be sure it was he and not that other dreadful man from whom she
had fled.
“Why, child! What’s the matter?” said David, brushing her hair back from
her face. Bewildered still, Marcia scarcely knew him, his voice was so
strangely sweet and sympathetic. The tears were coming back, but she could
not stop them. She made one effort to control herself and speak, but her
lips quivered a moment, and then the flood-gates opened again, and she
covered her face with her hands and shook with sobs. How could she tell
David what a dreadful thing had happened, now, when he was kinder to her
than he had ever thought of being before! He would grow grave and stern
when she had told him, and she could not bear that. He would likely blame
her too, and how could she endure more?
But he drew her to him again and laid her head against his coat, trying to
smooth her hair with unaccustomed passes of his hand. By and by the tears
subsided and she could control herself again. She hushed her sobs and drew
back a little from the comforting rough coat where she had lain.
“Indeed, indeed, I could not help it, David,”—she faltered, trying to
smile like a bit of rainbow through the rain.
“I know you couldn’t, child.” His answer was wonderfully kind and his eyes
smiled at her as they had never done before. Her heart gave a leap of
astonishment and fluttered with gladness over it. It was so good to have
David care. She had not known how much she wanted him to speak to her as
if he saw her and thought a little about her.
“And now what was it? Remember I do not know. Tell me quick, for it is
growing late and damp, and you will take cold out here in the woods with
that thin frock on. You are chilly already.”
“I better go at once,” she said reservedly, willing to put off the telling
as long as possible, peradventure to avoid it altogether.
“No, child,” he said firmly drawing her back again beside him, “you must
rest a minute yet before taking that long walk. You are weary and excited,
and besides it will do you good to tell me. What made you run off up here?
Are you homesick?”
He scanned her face anxiously. He began to fear with sudden compunction
that the sacrifice he had accepted so easily had been too much for the
victim, and it suddenly began to be a great comfort to him to have Marcia
with him, to help him hide his sorrow from the world. He did not know
before that he cared.
“I was frightened,” she said, with drooping lashes. She was trying to keep
her lips and fingers from trembling, for she feared greatly to tell him
all. But though the woods were growing dusky he saw the fluttering little
fingers and gathered them firmly in his own.
“Now, child,” he said in that tone that even his aunts obeyed, “tell me
all. What frightened you, and why did you come up here away from everybody
instead of calling for help?”
Brought to bay she lifted her beautiful eyes to his face and told him
briefly the story, beginning with the night when she had first met Harry
Temple. She said as little about music as possible, because she feared
that the mention of the piano might be painful to David, but she made the
whole matter quite plain in a few words, so that David could readily fill
in between the lines.
“Scoundrel!” he murmured clenching his fists, “he ought to be strung up!”
Then quite gently again, “Poor child! How frightened you must have been!
You did right to run away, but it was a dangerous thing to run out here!
Why, he might have followed you!”
“Oh!” said Marcia, turning pale, “I never thought of that. I only wanted
to get away from everybody. It seemed so dreadful I did not want anybody
to know. I did not want you to know. I wanted to run away and hide, and
never come back!” She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. David
thought the tears were coming back again.
“Child, child!” he said gently, “you must not talk that way. What would I
do if you did that?” and he laid his hand softly upon the bowed head.
It was the first time that anything like a personal talk had passed
between them, and Marcia felt a thrill of delight at his words. It was
like heavenly comfort to her wounded spirit.
She stole a shy look at him under her lashes, and wished she dared say
something, but no words came. They sat for a moment in silence, each
feeling a sort of comforting sense of the other’s presence, and each
clasping the hand of the other with clinging pressure, yet neither fully
aware of the fact.
The last rays of the sun which had been lying for a while at their feet
upon the pine needles suddenly slipped away unperceived, and behold! the
world was in gloom, and the place where the two sat was almost utterly
dark. David became aware of it first, and with sudden remembrance of his
expected guests he started in dismay.
“Child!” said he,—but he did not let go of her hand, nor forget to put the
tenderness in his voice, “the sun has gone down, and here have I been
forgetting what I came to tell you in the astonishment over what you had
to tell me. We must hurry and get back. We have guests to-night to supper,
two gentlemen, very distinguished in their lines of work. We have business
together, and I must make haste. I doubt not they are at the house
already, and what they think of me I cannot tell; let us hurry as fast as
possible.”
“Oh, David!” she said in dismay. “And you had to come out here after me,
and have stayed so long! What a foolish girl I have been and what a mess I
have made! They will perhaps be angry and go away, and I will be to blame.
I am afraid you can never forgive me.”
“Don’t worry, child,” he said pleasantly. “It couldn’t be helped, you
know, and is in no wise your fault. I am only sorry that these two
gentlemen will delay me in the pleasure of hunting up that scoundrel of a
Temple and suggesting that he leave town by the early morning stage. I
should like to give him what Miranda suggested, a good ‘wallupin’,’ but
perhaps that would be undignified.”
He laughed as he said it, a hearty laugh with a ring to it like his old
self. Marcia felt happy at the sound. How wonderful it would be if he
would be like that to her all the time! Her heart swelled with the great
thought of it.
He helped her to her feet and taking her hand led her out to the open
field where they could walk faster. As he walked he told her about Miranda
waiting for him behind the currant bushes. They laughed together and made
the way seem short.
It was quite dark now, with the faded moon trembling feebly in the West as
though it meant to retire early, and wished they would hurry home while
she held her light for them. David had drawn Marcia’s arm within his, and
then, noticing that her dress was thin, he pulled off his coat and put it
firmly about her despite her protest that she did not need it, and so,
warmed, comforted, and cheered Marcia’s feet hurried back over the path
she had taken in such sorrow and fright a few hours before.
When they could see the lights of the village twinkling close below them
David began to tell her about the two men who were to be their guests, if
they were still waiting, and so interesting was his brief story of each
that Marcia hardly knew they were at home before David was helping her
over their own back fence.
“Oh, David! There seems to be a light in the kitchen! Do you suppose they
have gone in and are getting their own supper? What shall I do with my
hair? I cannot go in with it this way. How did that light get there?”
“Here!” said David, fumbling in his pocket, “will this help you?” and he
brought out the shell comb he had picked up in the garden.
By the light of the feeble old moon David watched her coil the long wavy
hair and stood to pass his criticism upon the effect before they should go
in. They were just back of the tall sunflowers, and talked in whispers. It
was all so cheery, and comradey, and merry, that Marcia hated to go in and
have it over, for she could not feel that this sweet evening hour could
last. Then they took hold of hands and swiftly, cautiously, stole up to
the kitchen window and looked in. The door still stood open as both had
left it that afternoon, and there seemed to be no one in the kitchen. A
candle was burning on the high little shelf over the table, and the tea
kettle was singing on the crane by the hearth, but the room was without
occupant. Cautiously, looking questioningly at one another, they stole
into the kitchen, each dreading lest the aunts had come by chance and
discovered their lapse. There was a light in the front part of the house
and they could hear voices, two men were earnestly discussing politics.
They listened longer, but no other presence was revealed.
David in pantomime outlined the course of action, and Marcia,
understanding perfectly flew up the back stairs as noiselessly as a mouse,
to make her toilet after her nap in the woods, while David with much show
and to-do of opening and shutting the wide-open kitchen door walked
obviously into the kitchen and hurried through to greet his guests
wondering,—not suspecting in the least,—what good angel had been there to
let them in.
Good fortune had favored Miranda. The neighbor had stayed longer than
usual, perhaps in hopes of an invitation to stay to tea and share in the
gingerbread she could smell being taken from the oven by Hannah, who
occasionally varied her occupations by a turn at the culinary art. Hannah
could make delicious gingerbread. Her grandmother had taught her when she
was but a child.
Miranda stole into the kitchen when Hannah’s back was turned and picked
over her berries so fast that when Hannah came into the pantry to set her
gingerbread to cool Miranda had nearly all her berries in the big yellow
bowl ready to wash, and Hannah might conjecture if she pleased that
Miranda had been some time picking them over. It is not stated just how
thoroughly those berries were picked over. But Miranda cared little for
that. Her mind was upon other things. The pantry window overlooked the
hills and the woods. She could see if David and Marcia were coming back
soon. She wanted to watch her play till the close, and had no fancy for
having the curtain fall in the middle of the most exciting act, the rescue
of the princess. But the talk in the sitting room went on and on. By and
by Hannah Heath washed her hands, untied her apron, and taking her
sunbonnet slipped over to Ann Bertram’s for a pattern of her new sleeve.
Miranda took the opportunity to be off again.
Swiftly down behind the currants she ran, and standing on the fence behind
the corn she looked off across the wheat, but no sign of anybody yet
coming out of the woods was granted her. She stood so a long time. It was
growing dusk. She wondered if Harry Temple had shut the front door when he
went out. But then David went in that way, and he would have closed it, of
course. Still, he went away in a hurry, maybe it would be as well to go
and look. She did not wish to be caught by her grandmother, so she stole
along like a cat close to the dark berry bushes, and the gathering dusk
hid her well. She thought she could see from the front of the fence
whether the door looked as if it were closed. But there were people coming
up the street. She would wait till they had passed before she looked over
the fence.
They were two men coming, slowly, and in earnest conversation upon some
deeply interesting theme. Each carried a heavy carpet-bag, and they walked
wearily, as if their business were nearly over for the day and they were
coming to a place of rest.
“This must be the house, I think,” said one. “He said it was exactly
opposite the Seceder church. That’s the church, I believe. I was here once
before.”
“There doesn’t seem to be a light in the house,” said the other, looking
up to the windows over the street. “Are you sure? Brother Spafford said he
was coming directly home to let his wife know of our arrival.”
“A little strange there’s no light yet, for it is quite dark now, but I’m
sure this must be the house. Maybe they are all in the kitchen and not
expecting us quite so soon. Let’s try anyhow,” said the other, setting
down his carpet-bag on the stoop and lifting the big brass knocker.
Miranda stood still debating but a moment. The situation was made plain to
her in an instant. Not for nothing had she stood at Grandma Heath’s elbow
for years watching the movements of her neighbors and interpreting exactly
what they meant. Miranda’s wits were sharpened for situations of all
kinds. Miranda was ready and loyal to those she adored. Without further
ado she hastened to a sheltered spot she knew and climbed the picket fence
which separated the Heath garden from the Spafford side yard. Before the
brass knocker had sounded through the empty house the second time Miranda
had crossed the side porch, thrown her sunbonnet upon a chair in the dark
kitchen, and was hastening with noisy, encouraging steps to the front
door.
She flung it wide open, saying in a breezy voice, “Just wait till I get a
light, won’t you, the wind blew the candle out.”
There wasn’t a particle of wind about that soft September night, but that
made little difference to Miranda. She was part of a play and she was
acting her best. If her impromptu part was a little irregular, it was at
least well meant, boldly and bravely presented.
Miranda found a candle on the shelf and, stooping to the smouldering fire
upon the hearth, blew and coaxed it into flame enough to light it.
“This is Mr. Spafford’s home, is it not?” questioned the old gentleman
whom Miranda had heard speak first on the sidewalk.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said the girl glibly. “Jest come in and set down. Here,
let me take your hats. Jest put your bags right there on the floor.”
“You are— Are you—Mrs. Spafford?” hesitated the courtly old gentleman.
“Oh, landy sakes, no, I ain’t her,” laughed Miranda well pleased. “Mis’
Spafford had jest stepped out a bit when her husband come home, an’ he’s
gone after her. You see she didn’t expect her husband home till late
to-night. But you set down. They’ll be home real soon now. They’d oughter
ben here before this. I ’spose she’d gone on further’n she thought she’d
go when she stepped out.”
“It’s all right,” said the other gentleman, “no harm done, I’m sure. I
hope we shan’t inconvenience Mrs. Spafford any coming so unexpectedly.”
“No, indeedy!” said quick-witted Miranda. “You can’t ketch Mis’ Spafford
unprepared if you come in the middle o’ the night. She’s allus ready fer
comp’ny.” Miranda’s eyes shone. She felt she was getting on finely doing
the honors.
“Well, that’s very nice. I’m sure it makes one feel at home. I wonder now
if she would mind if we were to go right up to our room and wash our
hands. I feel so travel-stained. I’d like to be more presentable before we
meet her,” said the first gentleman, who looked very weary.
But Miranda was not dashed.
“Why, that’s all right. ’Course you ken go right up. Jest you set in the
keepin’ room a minnit while I run up’n be sure the water pitcher’s filled.
I ain’t quite sure ’bout it. I won’t be long.”
Miranda seated them in the parlor with great gusto and hastened up the
back stairs to investigate. She was not at all sure which room would be
called the guest room and whether the two strangers would have a room
apiece or occupy the same together. At least it would be safe to show them
one till the mistress of the house returned. She peeped into Marcia’s
room, and knew it instinctively before she caught sight of a cameo brooch
on the pin cushion, and a rose colored ribbon neatly folded lying on the
foot of the bed where it had been forgotten. That question settled, she
thought any other room would do, and chose the large front room across the
hall with its high four-poster and the little ball fringe on the valance
and canopy. Having lighted the candle which stood in a tall glass
candlestick on the high chest of drawers, she hurried down to bid her
guests come up.
Then she hastened back into the kitchen and went to work with swift
skilful fingers. Her breath came quickly and her cheeks grew red with the
excitement of it all. It was like playing fairy. She would get supper for
them and have everything all ready when the mistress came, so that there
would be no bad breaks. She raked the fire and filled the tea kettle,
swinging it from the crane. Then she searched where she thought such
things should be and found a table cloth and set the table. Her hands
trembled as she put out the sprigged china that was kept in the corner
cupboard. Perhaps this was wrong, and she would be blamed for it, but at
least it was what she would have done, she thought, if she were mistress
of this house and had two nice gentlemen come to stay to tea. It was not
often that Grandmother Heath allowed her to handle her sprigged china, to
be sure, so Miranda felt the joy and daring of it all the more. Once a
delicate cup slipped and rolled over on the table and almost reached the
edge. A little more and it would have rolled off to the floor and been
shivered into a dozen fragments, but Miranda spread her apron in front and
caught it fairly as it started and then hugged it in fear and delight for
a moment as she might have done a baby that had been in danger. It was a
great pleasure to her to set that table. In the first place she was not
doing it to order but because she wanted to please and surprise some one
whom she adored, and in the second place it was an adventure. Miranda had
longed for an adventure all her life and now she thought it had come to
her.
When the table was set it looked very pretty. She slipped into the pantry
and searched out the stores. It was not hard to find all that was needed;
cold ham, cheese, pickles, seed cakes, gingerbread, fruit cake, preserves
and jelly, bread and raised biscuit, then she went down cellar and found
the milk and cream and butter. She had just finished the table and set out
the tea pot and caddy of tea when she heard the two gentlemen coming down
the stairs. They went into the parlor and sat down, remarking that their
friend had a pleasant home, and then Miranda heard them plunge into a
political discussion again and she felt that they were safe for a while.
She stole out into the dewy dark to see if there were yet signs of the
home-comers. A screech owl hooted across the night. She stood a while by
the back fence looking out across the dark sea of whispering wheat. By and
by she thought she heard subdued voices above the soft swish of the
parting wheat, and by the light of the stars she saw them coming. Quick as
a wink she slid over the fence into the Heath back-yard and crouched in
her old place behind the currant bushes. So she saw them come up together,
saw David help Marcia over the fence and watched them till they had passed
up the walk to the light of the kitchen door. Then swiftly she turned and
glided to her own home, well knowing the reckoning that would be in store
for her for this daring bit of recreation. There was about her, however,
an air of triumphant joy as she entered.
“Where have you ben to, Miranda Griscom, and what on airth you ben up to
now?” was the greeting she received as she lifted the latch of the old
green kitchen door of her grandmother’s house.
Miranda knew that the worst was to come now, for her grandmother never
mentioned the name of Griscom unless she meant business. It was a hated
name to her because of the man who had broken the heart of her daughter.
Grandma Heath always felt that Miranda was an out and out Griscom with not
a streak of Heath about her. The Griscoms all had red hair. But Miranda
lifted her chin high and felt like a princess in disguise.
“Ben huntin’ hen’s eggs down in the grass,” she said, taking the first
excuse that came into her head. “Is it time to get supper?”
“Hen’s eggs! This time o’ night an’ dark as pitch. Miranda Griscom, you
ken go up to your room an’ not come down tell I call you!”
It was a dire punishment, or would have been if Miranda had not had her
head full of other things, for the neighbor had been asked to tea and
there would have been much to hear at the table. Besides, it was apparent
that her disgrace was to be made public. However, Miranda did not care.
She hastened to her little attic window, which looked down, as good
fortune would have it, upon the dining-room windows of the Spafford house.
With joy Miranda observed that no one had thought to draw down the shades
and she might sit and watch the supper served over the way,—the supper she
had prepared,—and might think how delectable the doughnuts were, and let
her mouth water over the currant jelly and the quince preserves and
pretend she was a guest, and forget the supper downstairs she was missing.