Miranda’s time had come. She had seen it coming and was prepared.
With a movement like a flash she pushed open the closet door, seized the
pot of ink from the table, and before the two excited occupants of the
room had time to even hear her or realize that she was near, she hurled
the ink pot full into the insolent face of Harry Temple. The inkstand
itself was a light affair of horn and inflicted only a slight wound, but
the ink came into his eyes in a deluge blinding him completely, as Miranda
had meant it should do. She had seen no other weapon of defense at hand.
Harry Temple dropped Marcia’s wrists and groaned in pain, staggering back
against the wall and sinking to the floor. But Miranda would not stay to
see the effect of her punishment. She seized the frightened Marcia,
dragged her toward the cupboard door, sweeping as she passed the pile of
letters, finished and unfinished, into her apron, and closed the cupboard
doors carefully behind her. Then she guided Marcia through the dark mazes
of the store room to the hall, and pushing her toward the front door,
whispered: “Go quick ’fore he gets his eyes open. I’ve got to go this way.
Run down the road fast as you can an’ I’ll be at the meetin’ place first.
Hurry, quick!”
Marcia went with feet that shook so that every step seemed like to slip,
but with beating heart she finally traversed the length of the piazza with
a show of dignity, passed the loungers, and was out in the road. Then
indeed she took courage and fairly flew.
Miranda, breathless, but triumphant, went back into the kitchen: “I guess
’tain’t him after all,” she said to the interested woman who was putting
on the potatoes to boil. “He’s real interesting to look at though. I’d
like to stop and watch him longer but I must be goin’. I come out to hunt
fer”—Miranda hesitated for a suitable object before this country-bred
woman who well knew that strawberries were not ripe yet—“wintergreens fer
Grandma,” she added cheerfully, not quite sure whether they grew around
these parts, “and I must be in a hurry. Good-bye! Thank you fer the
drink.”
Miranda whizzed out of the door breezily, calling a good morning to one of
the hostlers as she passed the barnyard, and was off through the meadows
and over the fence like a bird, the package of letters rustling loud in
her bosom where she had tucked them before she entered the kitchen.
Neither of the two girls spoke for some minutes after they met, but
continued their rapid gait, until the end of the corduroy road was in
sight and they felt comparatively safe.
“Wal, that feller certainly ought to be strung up an’ walluped, now, fer
sure,” remarked Miranda, “an I’d like to help at the wallupin’.”
Marcia’s overstrung nerves suddenly dissolved into hysterical laughter.
The contrast from the tragic to the ridiculous was too much for her. She
laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she cried in
earnest. Miranda stopped and put her arms about her as gently as a mother
might have done, and smoothed her hair back from the hot cheek, speaking
tenderly:
“There now, you poor pretty little flower. Jest you cry ’s hard ’s you
want to. I know how good it makes you feel to cry. I’ve done it many a
time up garret where nobody couldn’t hear me. That old Satan, he won’t
trouble you fer a good long spell again. When he gets his evil eyes open,
if he ever does, he’ll be glad to get out o’ these parts or I miss my
guess. Now don’t you worry no more. He can’t hurt you one mite. An’ don’t
you think a thing about what he said. He’s a great big liar, that’s what
he is.”
“Miranda, you saved me. Yes, you did. I never can thank you enough. If you
hadn’t come and helped me something awful might have happened!” Marcia
shuddered and began to sob convulsively again.
“Nonsense!” said Miranda, pleased. “I didn’t do a thing worth mentioning.
Now you jest wipe your eyes and chirk up. We’ve got to go through town an’
you don’t want folks to wonder what’s up.”
Miranda led Marcia up to the spring whose location had been known to her
all the time of course, and Marcia bathed her eyes and was soon looking
more like herself, though there was a nervous tremor to her lips now and
then. But her companion talked gaily, and tried to keep her mind from
going over the events of the morning.
When they reached the village Miranda suggested they go home by the back
street, slipping through a field of spring wheat and climbing the garden
fence. She had a mind to keep out of her grandmother’s sight for a while
longer.
“I might’s well be hung for a sheep’s a lamb,” she remarked, as she slid
in at Marcia’s kitchen door in the shadow of the morning-glory vines. “I’m
goin’ to stay here a spell an’ get you some dinner while you go upstairs
an’ lie down. You don’t need to go back to your aunt’s till near night,
an’ you can wait till dusk an’ I’ll go with you. Then you needn’t be out
alone at all. I know how you feel, but I don’t believe you need worry.
He’ll be done with you now forever, er I’ll miss my guess. Now you go lie
down till I make a cup o’ tea.”
Marcia was glad to be alone, and soon fell asleep, worn out with the
excitement, her brain too weary to go over the awful occurrences of the
morning. That would come later. Now her body demanded rest.
Miranda, coming upstairs with the tea, tiptoed in and looked at her,—one
round arm thrown over her head, and her smooth peachy cheek resting
against it. Miranda, homely, and with no hope of ever attaining any of the
beautiful things of life, loved unselfishly this girl who had what she had
not, and longed with all her heart to comfort and protect the sweet young
thing who seemed so ill-prepared to protect herself. She stooped over the
sleeper for one yearning moment, and touched her hair lightly with her
lips. She felt a great desire to kiss the soft round cheek, but was afraid
of wakening her. Then she took the cup of tea and tiptoed out again, her
eyes shining with satisfaction. She had a self-imposed task before her,
and was well pleased that Marcia slept, for it gave her plenty of
opportunity to carry out her plans.
She went quickly to David’s library, opened drawers and doors in the desk
until she found writing materials, and sat down to work. She had a letter
to write, and a letter, to Miranda, was the achievement of a lifetime. She
did not much expect to ever have to write another. She plunged into her
subject at once.
“DEAR MR. DAVID:” (she was afraid that sounded a little stiff, but
she felt it was almost too familiar to say “David” as he was
always called.)
“I ain’t much on letters, but this one has got to be writ.
Something happened and somebody’s got to tell you about it. I’m
most sure she wont, and nobody else knows cept me.
“Last night ’bout dark I went out to feed the chickens, an’ I see
that nimshi Harry Temple skulkin round your house. It was all dark
there, an he walked in the side gate and tried to peek in the
winders, only the shades was down an he couldn’t see a thing. I
thought he was up to some mischief so I followed him down the
street a piece till he turned down the old corduroy road. It was
dark by then an I come home, but I was on the watchout this
morning, and after Mis’ Spafford come down to the house I heard a
horse gallopin by an I looked out an saw a boy get off an take a
letter to the door an ride away, an pretty soon all in a hurry
your wife come out tyin her bonnet and hurryin along lookin
scared. I grabbed my sunbonnet an clipped after her, but she went
so fast I didn’t get up to her till she got on the old corduroy
road. She was awful scared lookin an she didn’t want me much I
see, but pretty soon she up an told me she had a note sayin there
was a messenger with news from you out to the old Green Tavern. He
had a accident an couldn’t come no further. He wanted her to come
alone cause the business was private, so I stayed down by the turn
of the road till she got in an then I went cross lots an round to
the kitchen an called on Mis’ Green a spell. She was tellin me
about her boarders an I told her I thought mebbe one of em was a
friend o’ Hannah Heath’s so she said I might peek through the key
hole of the cubberd an see. She was busy so I went alone.
“Well sir, I jest wish you’d been there. That lying nimshi was
jest goin on the sweetest, as respectful an nice a thankin your
wife fer comin, an excusin himself fer sendin fer her, and sayin
he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d come fer, an pretty soon
when she was scared ’s death he up an told her a awful fib bout
you an a woman called Kate, whoever she is, an he jest poured the
words out fast so she couldn’t speak, an he said things about you
he shouldn’t uv, an you could see he was makin it up as he went
along, an he said he had proof. So he pointed at a pile of letters
on the table an I eyed em good through the hole in the door.
Pretty soon he ups and perposes that he carry her off in a
carriage he has all ready, and takes her to a friend of his, so
she wont be here when you come home, cause you’re so bad, and she
gets up looking like she wanted to scream only she didn’t dare,
and she says he dont tell the truth, it wasn’t so any of it, and
if it was it was all right anyway, that you had some reason, an
she wouldn’t go a step with him anywhere. An then he forgets all
about the lame ankle he had kept covered up on a chair pertendin
it was hurt fallin off his horse when the coach brought him all
the way fer I asked Mis’ Green—and he ketches her by the wrists,
and he says she can’t go without him, and she needn’t be in such a
hurry fer you wouldn’t have no more to do with her anyway after
her being shut up there with him so long, an then she looked jest
like she was going to faint, an I bust out through the door an
ketched up the ink pot, it want heavy enough to kill him, an I
slung it at him, an the ink went square in his eyes, an we slipped
through the closet an got away quick fore anybody knew a thing.
“I brought all the letters along so here they be. I havn’t read a
one, cause I thought mebbe you’d ruther not. She aint seen em
neither. She dont know I’ve got em. I hid em in my dress. She’s
all wore out with cryin and hurryin, and being scared, so she’s
upstairs now asleep, an she dont know I’m writing. I’m goin to
send this off fore she knows, fer I think she wouldn’t tell you
fear of worryin you. I’ll look after her es well’s I can till you
get back, but I think that feller ought to be strung up. But
you’ll know what to do, so no more at present from your obedient
servent,
“MIRANDA GRISCOM.”
Having at last succeeded in sealing her packet to her satisfaction and the
diminishing of the stick of sealing wax she had found in the drawer,
Miranda slid out the front door, and by a detour went to David Spafford’s
office.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Clark,” she said to the clerk importantly. “Grandma
sends her respecks and wants to know ef you’d be so kind as to back this
letter fer her to Mr. David Spafford. She’s writin’ to him on business an’
she don’t rightly know his street an’ number in New York.”
Mr. Clark willingly wrote the address, and Miranda took it to the post
office, and sped back to Marcia, happy in the accomplishment of her
purpose.
In the same mail bag that brought Miranda’s package came a letter from
Aunt Clarinda. David’s face lit up with a pleased smile. Her letters were
so infrequent that they were a rare pleasure. He put aside the thick
package written in his clerk’s hand. It was doubtless some business papers
and could wait.
Aunt Clarinda wrote in a fine old script that in spite of her eighty years
was clear and legible. She told about the beauty of the weather, and how
Amelia and Hortense were almost done with the house cleaning, and how
Marcia had been going to their house every day putting it in order. Then
she added a paragraph which David, knowing the old lady well, understood
to be the _raison d’être_ of the whole letter:
“I think your wife misses you very much, Davie, she looks sort of peeked
and sad. It is hard on her being separated from you so long this first
year. Men don’t think of those things, but it is lonely for a young thing
like her here with three old women, and you know Hortense and Amelia never
try to make it lively for anybody. I have been watching her, and I think
if I were you I would let the business finish itself up as soon as
possible and hurry back to put a bit of cheer into that child. She’s
whiter than she ought to be.”
David read it over three times in astonishment with growing, mingled
feelings which he could not quite analyze.
Poor Aunt Clarinda! Of course she did not understand the situation, and
equally of course she was mistaken. Marcia was not sighing for him, though
it might be dull for her at the old house. He ought to have thought of
that; and a great burden suddenly settled down upon him. He was not doing
right by Marcia. It could not be himself of course that Marcia was
missing, if indeed Aunt Clarinda was right and she was worried about
anything. Perhaps something had occurred to trouble her. Could that snake
of a Temple have turned up again? No, he felt reasonably sure he would
have heard of that, besides he saw him not long ago on the street at a
distance. Could it be some boy-lover at home whose memory came to trouble
her? Or had she discovered what a sacrifice she had made of her young
life? Whatever it was, it was careless and cruel in him to have left her
alone with his aunts all this time. He was a selfish man, he told himself,
to have accepted her quiet little sacrifice of all for him. He read the
letter over again, and suddenly there came to him a wish that Marcia _was_
missing him. It seemed a pleasant thought to have her care. He had been
trying to train himself to the fact that no one would ever care for him
again, but now it seemed dear and desirable that his sweet young companion
should like to have him back. He had a vision of home as it had been, so
pleasant and restful, always the food that he liked, always the thought
for his wishes, and he felt condemned. He had not noticed or cared. Had
she thought him ungrateful?
He read the letter over again, noting every mention of his wife in the
account of the daily living at home. He was searching for some clue that
would give him more information about her. And when he reached the last
paragraph about missing him, a little tingle of pleasure shot through him
at the thought. He did not understand it. After all she was his, and if it
was possible he must help to make up to her for what she had lost in
giving herself to him. If the thought of doing so brought a sense of
satisfaction to him that was unexpected, he was not to blame in any wise.
Since his interview with Kate, and the terrible night of agony through
which he had passed, David had plunged into his business with all his
might. Whenever a thought of Kate came he banished it if possible, and if
it would not go he got out his writing materials and went to work at an
article, to absorb his mind. He had several times arisen in the night to
write because he could not sleep, and must think.
When he was obliged to be in New York he had steadily kept away from the
house where Kate lived, and never walked through the streets without
occupying his mind as fully as possible so that he should not chance to
see her. In this way his sorrow was growing old without having been worn
out, and he was really regaining a large amount of his former happiness
and interest in life. Not so often now did the vision of Kate come to
trouble him. He thought she was still his one ideal of womanly beauty and
grace and perfection of course, and always would be, but she was not for
him to think upon any more. A strong true man he was growing, out of his
sorrow. And now when the thought of Marcia came to him with a certain
sweetness he could be glad that it was so, and not resent it. Of course no
one could ever take the place of Kate, that was impossible.
So reflecting, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he opened Miranda’s
epistle.
Puzzled and surprised he began to read the strange chirography, and as he
read his face darkened and he drew his brows in a heavy frown. “The
scoundrel!” he muttered as he turned the sheet. Then as he went on his
look grew anxious. He scanned the page quickly as if he would gather the
meaning from the crooked ill-spelled words without taking them one by one.
But he had to go slowly, for Miranda had not written with as much
plainness as haste. He fairly held his breath when he thought of the
gentle girl in the hands of the unscrupulous man of the world. A terrible
fear gripped his heart, Marcia, little Marcia, so sweet and pure and good.
A vision of her face as she lay asleep in the woods came between him and
the paper. Why had he left her unprotected all these months? Fool that he
was! She was worth more than all the railroads put together. As if his own
life was in the balance, he read on, growing sick with horror. Poor child!
what had she thought? And how had his own sin and weakness been found out,
or was it merely Harry Temple’s wicked heart that had evolved these
stories? The letter smote him with terrible accusation, and all at once it
was fearful to him to think that Marcia had heard such things about him.
When he came to her trust in him he groaned aloud and buried his face in
the letter, and then raised it quickly to read to the end.
When he had finished he rose with sudden determination to pack his
carpet-bag and go home at once. Marcia needed him, and he felt a strong
desire to be near her, to see her and know she was safe. It was
overwhelming. He had not known he could ever feel strongly again. He must
confess his own weakness of course, and he would. She should know all and
know that she might trust his after all.
But the motion of rising had sent the other papers to the floor, and in
falling the bundle of letters that Miranda had enclosed, scattered about
him. He stooped to pick them up and saw his own name written in Kate’s
handwriting. Old association held him, and wondering, fearful, not wholly
glad to see it, he picked up the letter. It was an epistle of Kate’s,
written in intimate style to Harry Temple and speaking of himself in terms
of the utmost contempt. She even stooped to detail to Harry an account of
her own triumph on that miserable morning when he had taken her in his
arms and kissed her. There were expressions in the letter that showed her
own wicked heart, as nothing else could ever have done, to David. As he
read, his soul growing sick within him,—read one letter after another, and
saw how she had plotted with this bad man to wreck the life of her young
sister for her own triumph and revenge,—the beautiful woman whom he had
loved, and whom he had thought beautiful within as well as without,
crumbled into dust before him. When he looked up at last with white face
and firmly set lips, he found that his soul was free forever from the
fetters that had bound him to her.
He went to the fireplace and laid the pile of letters among the embers,
blowing them into a blaze, and watched them until they were eaten up by
the fire and nothing remained but dead grey ashes. The thought came to him
that that was like his old love. It was burnt out. There had not been the
right kind of fuel to feed it. Kate was worthless, but his own self was
alive, and please God he would yet see better days. He would go home at
once to the child wife who needed him, and whom now he might love as she
should be loved. The thought became wondrously sweet to him as he rapidly
threw the things into his travelling bag and went about arrangements for
his trip home. He determined that if he ever came to New York again Marcia
should come with him.