A Golden Moment
Andy McFardell’s drift was infinitely more rapid than appeared. The
current of indolence was strong in him, and, to a nature such as his,
it was irresistible. Since the day of the visit of Molly Marton to his
homestead, and, later, the infinitely less welcome visit of Lightning,
not another rod of seeding had been done, in spite of the week of
perfect weather that had passed over his head.
The simple truth was that Andy McFardell belonged to a type to which
discipline is an essential, to which it is sheer salvation. Robbed of
the iron rule of the Mounted Police the man had quickly degenerated
to the condition of a storm driven, rudderless, derelict. Inclination
swayed him like the yielding grass on a wind-swept plain. The sturdy
resistance of the forest tree was impossible to him. His moods
impelled, and he drifted before them.
The drift had set for sheer and growing indolence where his farm was
concerned. The fierce enthusiasm which had first supported him, had
died out like the fitful blaze of an unfed camp-fire. And with its
passing only the ashes of all that was best in him remained behind.
Two purposes dominated him entirely just now. The one was the thing
which the shrewd mind of Lightning had suggested. And the other was the
storm of passion which Molly Marton had set stirring in his selfish
soul.
Molly’s visit had served him with further excuse. It had served him
with another three days of respite from the work of his farm; with
another three days of Barney Lake’s hotel at Hartspool; another three
days of the allurements of its poker game and Rye whisky. He had
forthwith ridden into the township to obtain the tickets necessary for
the farmers’ dance.
On his return home there was not the smallest pretence of making up his
leeway of neglected work. He was glad enough to continue his drift. He
had obtained the tickets. He must forthwith convey the news to Molly
and obtain her definite reassurance that she would let him take her to
the dance.
He found Molly in her hay corral. She was at work in sun-bonnet and
cotton overall, clearing the ground with rake and fork, and making
ready for the new cut of hay, which operation was the next in the
routine of the year’s labours.
He had ridden hard. And when he drew rein at the corral fence the horse
under him was pretty badly tuckered. It was caked with sweat and dust
on the matted remains of its thick winter coat, and looked generally
the mean thing that McFardell’s neglect had reduced it to.
Had the rider been any other, the smiling eyes under the girl’s
sun-bonnet would have been full of serious condemnation. But with Andy
McFardell’s coming the girl’s heart was beating high. She was concerned
only with the portent of his visit, and thinking of the wonderful
secret which lay between her and that kindly, generous, stranger-woman,
Blanche.
“Why, Andy,” she cried. “I just hadn’t a notion you’d get along so
soon. Is--is it all--fixed? The dance, I mean? You--you got the
tickets?”
The man laughed as he slid out of the saddle. Molly was all eagerness.
“Doesn’t that beat it?” he cried, in mock amazement. “Say, I’ve ridden
hell-for-leather, worried to death guessing. You see, I’d paid for two
tickets and hadn’t definite word from you I was to take you along in
to that dance.”
He laughingly threw up his hands, and Molly came to the corral rail and
rested her folded arms upon it. She was more than content.
Andy was good enough for any woman to gaze upon. In the saddle he had
none of the horsemanship of Lightning, in spite of the latter’s sixty
years. But he had the military seat of the Police. He was clad in a
loose cotton shirt, with sleeves rolled above the elbows. His breeches
were the uniform breeches of the Police, with the yellow stripe
removed, and they fitted closely over his sturdy limbs. His top boots,
too, belonged to his police days. So, too, the heavy, rusted steel
spurs upon his heels.
But it was neither his clothing, nor his horsemanship which concerned
Molly at that moment. It was his good-looking face, the sturdy breadth
of his shoulders, and the fine muscles of his arms which stirred her
simple heart so deeply.
She ducked under the rail and came to him.
“Why,” she laughed slily, “my mind was fixed directly I quit you.”
Andy shook his head.
“But not before. You left me guessing,” he said reproachfully. Then he
glanced swiftly about him. “Where’s Lightning?”
Never in her life had laughter more impelled Molly. She felt somehow
she wanted to laugh all the time.
“Out on the ploughing,” she cried. “He’s breaking a new five acres.”
Andy pulled an envelope from the pocket of his shirt. He opened it
and drew out the contents. And the while he was watching the play of
interest and expectancy on the girl’s expressive face. He passed her
the gaudily got up tickets, and waited while she read down the letter
press.
“Fi’ dollars!” she breathed in consternation, as she came to the price
of the ticket. Then she looked up incredulously. “You paid fi’ dollars
for each? Fi’ dollars for--me? Oh, Andy!”
The man laughed.
“Why not?” he cried, a hot light leaping into his eyes. “I’d do more
than that any day. I’d hand out everything, if it left me without a
cent in the world--for you. You see, little girl, I want to hand you
a real swell time. Dancing don’t mean a lot to me. With a girl it’s
surely diff’rent. Say, Molly, you just don’t know the thing you’ve
been to me around these hills. I’d never have got through or made good
without you. Say----”
The man’s words had come quickly. His tone rang with a sincerity which,
at the moment, was completely real. And as he made a sudden movement
towards her, a movement which there could be no mistaking, the passion
in his dark eyes was an expression of the stirring of his whole manhood.
The girl stood like some simple, defenceless, fascinated creature. And
only a wealth of rich colour dyed the soft roundness of her cheeks, and
a shy responsive gladness lit her big eyes. Coquetry was impossible to
her. So, too, was any girlish, unmeant denial. The passion of love she
had nursed ever since her great realisation well-nigh suffocated her.
It completely robbed her of all power for connected thought and speech.
For Molly the next few moments were filled with a wild rush of confused
emotions, and unutterable happiness. It seemed to her that life could
never again afford her a moment of delight comparable with that through
which she was passing. She hardly knew; she certainly did not pause to
think. For one wild moment she was caught and tightly held in the arms
which had never failed to stir her admiration. She seemed to feel, in
the delirium of it all, the strong beating of the man’s heart against
hers. Then came those kisses upon her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her
forehead. And as she abandoned herself to them her young heart was
driving fiercely to make return.
Then--then--it was over. She had released herself, and she knew not
how or why. Her returning senses revealed to her his passion-lit eyes
gazing down into hers. Her bosom was heaving in a tumult of emotion,
and every limb of her body was a-shake. But happiness, supreme
happiness that was well-nigh exaltation, thrilled her. Life seemed at
the very pinnacle of its amazing beauty.
In that brief, delirious moment of spiritual expression Molly’s
whole world had somehow become transfigured. Everything was changed.
Her whole life had changed out of the even, unemotional calm she
had hitherto known. It seemed as if a great new light were shining
somewhere deep down in her soul, diffusing wonderful rays to the
uttermost extremities of her being, lighting a path of unspeakable
joy down the channels of her senses. The golden sunlight of the day
about her had intensified. It had become doubly brilliant and more
full of meaning. The old homestead, so full of the calm beauty of her
childhood’s sheltered happiness, the very trees and hills about it,
all these, everything, had doubled the depth of their concern for her
innocent mind.
Then the man with his passionate eyes, his strong arms, and sturdy
body. He, too, had shared in the transformation. No longer was he the
struggling object of her girlish pity; no longer was he a creature who
had played the cruel rôle of fortune’s shuttle-cock. All that was wiped
out. It was all brushed away by the gilded artistry that had re-adorned
her vision of life. He was the golden superman of her soul, crowned
with the sublime halo of her young love.
They both stood speechless. Then at last it was the man who broke the
silence.
“You--aren’t mad with me, Molly?” he asked, still holding her by the
hands that were so soft and warm in his. But his tone was without the
doubt his words implied, and his smile was full of confidence.
Molly shook her head. Then she released her hands which moved in a
queer little gesture that told so much.
“Oh, Andy!” she cried. And the exclamation seemed to set loose the tide
of her surging feelings. “Mad with--you? You? Oh, no. How could I be?
I--I love you, Andy. Why,” she added with innocently widening eyes, “I
guess I’ve loved you right along always, just always.”
The man’s gaze had been averted as though something of the girl’s
innocence abashed him. But in a moment it came back swiftly, hotly.
His hands were flung out, and he caught Molly up again in his arms. He
held her crushed closely to him, and talked between the kisses which he
rained upon her up-turned face.
“I just know, little girl,” he cried thickly. “I surely know it all. I
been through it. It’s been the same here, right from the first, when
you happened along with me opening out my clearing. I haven’t ever been
able to forget. I didn’t want to anyway. I----”
He broke off in a fashion that startled the girl in his arms. And a
sudden twinge of alarm shot through her senses. She looked up into
the face she loved, and realised that the whole expression of it had
changed. The eyes were cold and hard, and they were searching the
distant bluff round which the grass-trail to the ploughing skirted.
It required no second thought to tell her the meaning of the change.
Besides, there was a sound upon the warm air, the sound of the rattle
of chain harness and plodding hoofs.
“It’s Lightning,” she said, recovering herself.
Andy’s arms fell from about her. And together they stood searching the
bluff. Presently they beheld Jane and Blue Pete appear from amongst the
tree-trunks. And Jane’s capacious back was bearing the grotesque burden
of the old choreman with his guns. He was sitting sideways on her vast
expanse of rounded breadth, and his heavily-booted feet were dangling.
Molly spoke quickly, anxiously.
“It’s just dinner, Andy,” she said. “You’ll stop around an’ eat?”
She knew Lightning’s antagonism, and she wanted to make sure before the
old man came up.
But Andy shook his head unsmilingly.
“I just can’t stop around, little kid,” he said quietly, his eyes still
on the team with its queer burden.
“Why?”
Molly was disappointed, and her disappointment found expression in her
monosyllable.
Andy shrugged. Then he moved over to his horse and busied himself
at the cinchas of his “condemned” police saddle. He spoke over his
shoulder.
“No, sweetheart,” he said quietly, but decidedly. “It’s no use. I got
to get right back to work. If I stop around to eat the day’ll be gone
before I make home, and ther’s the--seeding. Besides----”
“Yes?”
Andy indicated the choreman who was crossing the open towards them.
Then, quite abruptly, he turned from his saddle and held out his hand
in farewell. He was smiling, and his smile told Molly that his action
was for the benefit of the man who was observing them as he came.
“No,” he said, in a tone intended for Lightning’s ears. “I won’t stop
around to eat. You see, I just got along to fix things with you, and
tell you I’d got the tickets for the dance. There’s a week. Just a
week for you to fix your party frock in. You’ll fix it good, eh?” he
laughed. “You see, we hill folks need to show the town dames. I fancy
you being a real show-up to ’em.”
He had swung into the saddle, and Molly laughed happily. He had said
the one thing that gave her the opportunity she needed. In spite of
her feelings and emotions of the moment the memory of Blanche’s visit,
Blanche, with wonderful generosity for all she was a stranger, still
stood out in her mind a matter of tremendous moment. Her femininity was
abounding. Nothing in the world, it seemed, was left that could add one
tittle to her happiness.
Her eyes were dancing as Lightning came up, and the great team halted
of its own accord. The old man remained where he was on the mare’s
back, while some form of greeting passed between the home team and the
stranger. He barely even responded to Andy’s nod of greeting.
“Don’t worry, boy,” Molly cried airily. “I’ll sure be fixed right. I’ll
be wearing a swell gown. I certainly will. When’s the day?”
Lightning spat out a chew, and took a fresh bite at a fragment of plug
he drew from his hip pocket. But his hard old eyes remained fixed on
the other man’s face as though he were reading him down to the depths
of his very soul. He uttered no word. Not a single word.
“Thursday. I’ll be along with the spring wagon.”
Lightning’s jaws chewed harder as Andy made his reply. There was not
the flicker of an eyelid to indicate that which was passing behind his
stony regard.
Molly was becoming uneasy at the old man’s silence. She wanted to force
him into speech. But she refrained, fearing the result.
“So long, Molly.”
Andy raised a hand in salutation, and his horse stirred as he lifted
his reins. “Thursday--sure.”
Molly gazed smilingly up into the man’s face under the cold gaze of the
silent Lightning.
“Thursday--sure,” she responded. “So long, Andy.”
The horse moved off, and Andy McFardell glanced round at the choreman.
“So long, Lightning. I’m going after that matter--after Thursday.”
But the old man still made no reply. He sat there on his old mare’s
back stolidly intent and watchful. His unfriendliness was adamant. And
Molly became completely alarmed.
Andy rode off. His way took him up past the barn, and he disappeared
beyond it, round the lean-to workshop, and headed eastwards for his
home.
The moment he had passed out of view Molly turned on Lightning who had
slid down from Jane’s broad back. A flush dyed her pretty cheeks, and
an angry sparkle lit her eyes.
“I--I won’t stand for it, Lightning!” she cried, stamping her foot on
the hard, dusty ground. “It’s mean. It’s so mean I can’t believe it.
He’s been right into Hartspool and paid five dollars for my ticket.
He’s paid that for me! Just to hand me a swell time. I----”
“Don’t ’ee do it, Molly, gal. Just don’t ’ee do it.”
Lightning was transformed. All the stony light of his eyes had changed
to one of humble pleading as he stood before the child he loved better
than life itself. His lean face seemed suddenly to have become more
deeply lined, and his tatter of whisker looked more than usually
grotesque and pathetic. His hands were outheld in appeal.
“Fer the love o’ yer dead father, Molly, don’t ’ee go fer to do it,” he
went on. “He’s bad. He’s rotten----”
“Don’t dare say it, Lightning! Don’t ever dare say it. He’s not bad.
He’s--oh!”
Molly broke off with an exclamation of supreme disgust and helpless
indignation. And she fled headlong towards the house as though
Lightning’s very presence were something she could no longer endure.
The old man gazed after her. Then the yearning in his eyes gave place
to an expression which no thought of Molly could have inspired. He
turned to his team, and it was the comfortable, gentle Jane he led, and
addressed, as he moved towards the barn.
“It ain’t no use, old gal,” he said, with a shake of his grizzled head.
“I’ll sure jest hev to do it one day.”
He hunched his shoulders in the fashion peculiar to him.
“Guess I ain’t blind yet, an’ my nerve’s dead steady, an’ I’m surely
glad that’s so.”