The Moment
Lightning was squatting on a box beside the doorway of the bunk-house
that had sheltered him for years. The dawn was just beginning to break.
A low, yellow tinge was spreading over the eastern horizon, and the sky
was cloudless. The stars were still shining to the west, and south,
and north. But their brilliance was past, and they were fading slowly
before the dawn.
The chill of the hills was in the air, but it made no impression on the
tough old body of the squatting man. Like everything else in Nature he
was indifferent to it.
The man’s lap was spread with a grease cloth. On the ground beside him
lay the belt that was usually about his waist, with its holsters, two
long, three-strapped open holsters. One of his two guns was in its
place in its holster. The other was lying in pieces in his lap.
The old man’s mood was one of content. His night had been long and
wakeful, but with the first streak of dawn he had crawled from
under his rough blankets and sought the sure solace of his present
occupation. He was cleaning his beloved guns, handling them with
something of the mother love for her child.
The contemplation of these priceless friends of his early days never
failed to lull him into a quiet, assured confidence and content. When
trouble beset they were his whole resource. And just now trouble was
looming heavily.
It was the dawn of the day of the farmers’ ball in Hartspool. So he saw
to it that his guns were ready. Their carefully filed hair-triggers
needed little more than a breath of wind to release, the beautifully
adjusted ivory sights were without blemish, and the seven chambers
contained not one single speck of rust.
With these things so, ease relaxed the tension of his troubled thought.
He hated the day that was dawning. He hated the folk who had designed
the farmers’ ball. But more than all he hated, with all his untamed
soul, the man who had stolen Molly’s peace of mind and transformed her
into a woman.
“Two-gun” Rogers snapped his second gun to. He opened it again. And
again he closed it. Then, with a deep, satisfied breath, he stooped
over and replaced it in its holster. Then he folded the grease-stained
cloth and thrust it into his hip pocket, and, stooping again, picked up
his belt. He stood up from his box, tall, and lean, and vigorous. And
the process of adjusting the belt about his waist preoccupied him.
A moment later he turned and stared out at the golden prospect of
the sunrise. The sun had cut the horizon and its fiery rays rent the
heavens with slashes of furious fire. It was almost intolerable to gaze
upon. Yet the man stood before it with the unflinching gaze of an old
eagle.
He kicked the box he had been sitting on back within his doorway. And,
with a hunch of his shoulders, he moved on quickly in the direction of
the house. The cook-stove was waiting his attention. In all his years
Molly had never been permitted to light it.
* * * * *
The cook-stove remained unlit. Lightning had not yet passed into the
house. He was standing just outside the door, and his eyes were gazing
down upon something which seemed to bar his way. It was two securely
lashed sacks bulging with their contents, and the old man’s gaze was
speculative as he studied their contours, their lashings, and the loose
attached labels which gave them the appearance of having been delivered
by mail.
After a profound study, which could not possibly have yielded
enlightenment, Lightning resorted to the next most obvious procedure.
He bent down and examined the labels. There was one to each sack. They
were addressed in a clear, bold handwriting to “Molly” at “Marton’s
Farm.” But they gave no indication whence they came and the old man was
left to his own resources.
For awhile these looked to be distinctly barren. Then, slowly, a
change of expression heralded inspiration. After a few more moments he
gingerly stepped over the mysterious bundles and passed into the house.
* * * * *
Molly’s week had been passed in excited anticipation and growing
anxiety. And in the end anxiety supervened over every other emotion.
At first happiness had well-nigh intoxicated her. Life, the simple
daily life of her farm, had been transformed with everything else.
The labours that were her routine were accomplished in something like
a dream, a dream wherein the good-looking face of a man was always
near to her, looking on, encouraging, and smiling his approval of her
efforts.
In her the great love that had swept into her young life was no sickly,
unwholesome sentiment. It inspired her. It supported her. It gladdened
every moment of her day, and stimulated her spirit. She dreamed her
dreams as she went about her simple duties. She dreamed, in the fashion
of every other woman, of the home she would make for the love with
which she had crowned her man. And the home which Molly contemplated
was the home she had always known. She had yielded her love, and with
it went all she was, all that was hers. There were no reservations. No
less than her farm could be the setting wherein her love should find
its home.
Every day she looked again for the man without whom the meaning of life
would be completely lost to her. She did not expect him, but she looked
for him. She knew. She understood. It was spring, and he was far too
good a farmer, she told herself, to neglect the season. No, she did not
expect his coming, but she looked for it, and her yearning was deep,
and full of a profound content.
Then there was that other. Each day with her first waking moments
expectancy leapt. Her trust was without question. An assurance,
whithersoever it came, was an assurance. A promise would be fulfilled,
or why should it be made? Life for Molly had no deceit. So each day she
looked for the coming of Blanche, or of her messenger.
She yearned for the coming of Blanche’s promised party frock as she
yearned for nothing else in life. Blanche had promised that she should
be adorned as no farmer’s wife in Hartspool could possibly be adorned.
And adornment, at that moment, meant something to her it had never
meant before. It was for the eyes of her man to gaze upon. It was for
the added attraction she might possess for him. It was that he might be
proud of, and pleased with, the love she had so abundantly yielded him.
So each day she looked for Blanche’s fulfilment of her given word,
and with the passing of each she reassured herself of the morrow. And
so came the night before _the_ day, and the promise still remained
unfulfilled.
That night the climax of her anxiety smote her. She said not one word
to Lightning. She uttered no word of complaint. But the smile was less
ready in her eyes; there was a curious, deep sinking of her buoyant
spirit, and, for the first time, she contemplated the possibilities of
the non-fulfilment of the promise she had relied upon.
She had prepared to retire to her bed that night in a dejection of
spirit which Lightning was swift to realise. And for all his hatred
of the thing the coming day meant, his manner of parting from her was
infinitely gentle.
“That swell dame couldn’t lie,” he declared spontaneously. “Ther’s
surely eyes you ken look into, Molly, gal, an’ see right through to the
truth back of ’em. Her’s was that way.”
And as he prepared to take his departure for his bunk-house, his hand
rested encouragingly upon the girl’s soft shoulder.
When Molly entered the living-room at sun-up the next morning, and
found Lightning completing his task at her stove, she was without her
customary greeting for him. Lightning glanced up from his labours and
discovered the anxious searching of her gaze. He smiled. It was a
curious, twinkling smile that never got beyond his eyes. But those it
lit in a fashion that must ordinarily have seemed impossible.
“Say, Molly, gal,” he observed, with a studied contortion of his
features intended to express physical pain. “Guess the rheumatiz’s got
my left hinge some. I’d take it kindly fer you to dump the ash bucket
for me.”
He finished up with another fierce contortion as he rose from his knees
before the stove. And, in a moment, Molly was all sympathetic concern.
“Why, I’m sorry, Lightning,” she cried. “I’ll fix the hoss oils right
away. You haven’t had a touch of that a whole winter. It surely is the
ploughing. The flat’s damp with the spring freshet. I’ll fix a good
bottle before I eat.”
She seized the bucket of ashes standing ready as the crackling of the
wood in the stove developed into a roar of flame up the iron stove pipe.
She moved towards the door, and Lightning’s voice followed her.
“Them iles is mighty good dope, but I don’t guess them’s my need. It’s
the saddle. It’s the saddle I was raised to. And I bin weeks on my
feet. The saddle’ll fix it better’n hoss dope.”
The girl had flung open the door to pass out, but she stood stock still
where she was, the heavy bucket firmly grasped in one hand. The old man
watched her, and his eyes had strangely softened. He beheld a flush
of excitement break out upon her soft cheeks, and then--and then the
bucket fell to the ground and overturned its whole contents upon the
immaculate floor.
“Lightning! You knew!”
* * * * *
The living-room was littered with the ravishing contents of the
carefully packed bundles. The ashes had been swept up by the willing
hand of Lightning, while Molly’s deft, excited fingers dealt with her
treasure. Gone for the while was all thought of the breakfast that
should have been in preparation. Gone was every other consideration,
swept out of mind by that supreme moment of gladness.
What else could matter? Two great bundles in their waterproof
wrappings, enclosed in stout sacks. The contents? Ah, those wonderful
contents. The fairy godmother had done her work with due regard for
the conventions of magic. She had waved her wand, and transported her
burdens to the sheltering storm doorway of Molly’s home in the night.
That was understood. It was clear enough to the simple minds of these
two children, the one so far travelled on the journey of life, and the
other standing at the very threshold of the age of joy.
The messenger, whoever he was, had travelled with a pack horse. That
was clear enough. And his instructions must have been very, very
definite, and carefully considered. Clearly he had been admitted to
the secret of it all. He must arrive in the night, when the world was
wrapped in slumber, with only the twinkling eyes of the stars to see,
and the full moon smiling down her beneficence. He must steal upon the
silent house and deposit his friendly burden all unseen. Then in the
morning, then--then---- In her heart Molly felt that only Blanche could
have planned so heavenly a surprise.
It seemed well-nigh impossible that the sacks could have contained all
that wealth of delight. The first of the two to be opened was given up
to the afterthoughts of a generous mind. It was a delicious collection
of creature comforts that had nothing to do with apparel. It was food
delicacies such as no ordinary store in Hartspool could have provided.
And here again was shown the consummate purpose of the sender. The
whole thing was designed without a hint of charity. It was a present of
only those things which no money could have provided out of the stock
of a prairie store. There were candies that must have come from some
big city. There were bottled fruits of a quality Molly had never seen.
There were foreign preserves in wide variety. There were sauces and
flavourings for preparing food. Even Lightning’s appetite was whetted,
and he forgot the occasion of it all. No, there was no charity in it;
only a supreme kindliness.
Then the second bundle, softer and infinitely lighter than the first.
The girl’s cheeks reflected an almost painful excitement as her fingers
fumbled with the fastenings. When the last of the covers was torn aside
Molly drew such a breath that Lightning forgot the amazing display of
luxurious garments that lay revealed. He watched only the hungry eyes
devouring greedily all the beauty of tone and texture which the girl’s
fingers were moving amidst. The whole thing was beyond him.
Molly looked to be in a sort of trance. The beautiful fur wrap she
almost ignored. It was fur, something she understood, something, in
however inferior a quality, that had long since entered her life.
Beneath it, enfolded in tissue paper, lay the party frock. It was gauzy
and diaphanous, and of such a colour and material that was quite beyond
her wildest dreams. Molly raised it gently, tenderly. It was so slight,
and so--so delicate. It seemed to her her hands, those hands that were
used only to her work, must inevitably crush and completely ruin it.
But with its removal a quick intense exclamation broke from the
girl. Beneath it lay something that held her completely spellbound.
It was several layers of garments of the most exquisite silk and
crêpe-de-chine. They were those delicious things which are the dream
of any and every woman’s life, whatever her station. Something so
irresistible that, once possessed, life becomes impossible without. And
the warm fingers, accustomed only to the homeliest materials, moved
amongst them, fondling them, and telling the old man looking on an
emotion which was utterly outside his crude understanding.
There was everything there, everything even to the shoes and those
necessities of the girl’s dark hair which the sender had deemed
essential. Blanche’s promise had been fulfilled, her pledge had been
redeemed with a prodigal generosity that almost dazed the simple farm
girl.
Molly sighed deeply. It even seemed to involve an effort to raise her
eyes from the fascinating spectacle set out upon the well-scrubbed
table.
“I can hardly believe, Lightning.”
The girl’s words came scarcely above a whisper, and the old man watched
her closely. In a moment his mind had leapt back to the meaning of it
all. The smiling enjoyment of Molly’s delight passed out of his eyes,
and they hardened again to their natural glitter.
He remained without reply, and the girl roused herself. Quickly and
deftly she replaced the garments and enfolded them in their wrappings.
And she talked the while.
“Lightning,” she cried, and the excitement of it all was still
thrilling in her tones. “You got to help me. This is my day. My day,”
she repeated almost tenderly. Then she went on quickly and almost
sharply. “You’re mad about Andy. You’re mad because he’s my beau.
Remember this, and get it good. I love Andy. I just love Andy with my
whole heart. Whether you like him, or whether you don’t one day he’s
going to be boss around this farm, just the same as he’s boss right
in--here.” She pressed her hands over her gently swelling bosom. “Since
father died I guess you’ve been real good to me. You been so good to
me I just can’t tell you about it. Well”--she drew a deep breath--“you
aren’t goin’ to quit being good to me because of Andy?” She shook her
head. “You surely aren’t. You see, folks can’t just help these things.
I mean--I mean I--I love Andy. I can’t help it. I wouldn’t if I could.
Won’t you help me still? Won’t you quit hating him?”
The suddenness, the earnestness of Molly’s appeal almost caught the
old cattleman off his guard. And he stood staring down at the refolded
bundle she was about to remove to her room while he prepared his reply.
Then, very deliberately, he shook his head, and gazed at her out of his
framing of loose whisker and grey hair.
“Andy’s your beau all right, Molly, gal,” he said, in his harsh way.
“The thing I feel fer that boy don’t matter a’ curse. You can’t help
the way you feel about him. Wal, I don’t guess I’m no diff’rent.
Leave it that way. I ain’t no sort of archangel, or any pie-faced
psalm-smiter. I got one notion in life. That’s you. I’m goin’ to see
you fixed right if hell itself throws a fit and busts up the throne o’
glory. If Andy’s the boy that’s goin’ to fix you right I’m right behind
him waggin’ a banner, with a halo around my thatch, an’ a pair o’ dandy
wings dustin’ the sand out o’ my eyes, an’ talkin’ pie like a Methody
Meetin’. But if he ain’t? If that boy sets you worryin’, if that boy
hands you a haf-hour o’ grievin’, why, I’m after him like a bitch wolf
chasin’ feed in winter. That goes, Molly, gal. Don’t you worry a thing.
Sure, this is your day, gal. It’s yours, all of it. An’ I’m ready to
weep around that boy’s neck same as if I’d no more sense than a blind
sheep at lambin’ time.”
* * * * *
It was long past the midday meal that the sun of Molly’s day reached
its meridian. The afternoon was well advanced. Lightning had betaken
himself to his labours, and the manner of his going had been
sufficiently characteristic.
“Guess I’ll quit you now, Molly, gal,” he had said. “Ther’s things in
life as I see ’em it ain’t no good trying to boost the way you’d fancy
’em. With your notion fixed that way ther’ ain’t no sort of sense ’cep’
to leave ’em alone till they hurt you. Your Andy, boy’ll get along, an’
when he comes I don’t guess you’ll be yearnin’ to hev the remains o’ my
life joinin’ in your party. So I’ll beat it right now to my ploughing.
Hev a time, kid. Hev a real, swell time with them dandy fixin’s, an’
when you need me, why, I’ll just get around.”
So Molly had the afternoon to herself and the heaven of dreaming her
young soul yearned for. She was more than content with Lightning’s
going. He was right enough in his estimate of her mood. There was
nothing, and no one, must come between her and the wonderful thing that
was hers.
From dinner to the time of Andy’s arrival with his team and spring
wagon was none too long for all Molly had to do. It was perhaps the
most beautiful three hours in her life. For all that had gone before
when the man had taught her her first meaning of love, these hours in
contemplation of herself, and the beautiful garments that had been
showered upon her by the generous hand of Blanche, were perhaps her
real awakening to the meaning of her womanhood. The whole thing was so
deliciously expressive of her ardent youth.
In her precise little way she had promptly decided there should be
no half measures. Nothing but completeness could satisfy her. So it
came that a great boiler was set on the stove, and the iron bath, in
which her weekly laundry was done, was made ready. Nothing would have
induced her to defile the precious finery with a body that had not been
specially prepared.
Her bath was an expression of wonderful restraint, but she went through
with it with a resolve that was quite beautiful in its self-denial. The
whole time of it was one of infinite anticipation and yearning for the
array of beauty laid out awaiting her in her bedroom.
At last the great moment came, and the joy of it all was beyond words.
She lingered in a state of ecstasy over each detail of her dressing.
Some of it was easy, even to her untutored mind; some of it was fraught
with such bewilderment that she came near enough to despair. Inside
out, wrong way round, the girl found herself well-nigh frantic through
her lack of knowledge. But patience served her truly in the end, and
her little mirror reassured her.
The transformation was complete. No Cinderella was ever more richly
endowed. She gazed for minutes that swept swiftly on at the wonder
which Blanche’s wizardry had created. Her eyes shone with delight as
they gazed at the beautiful picture they beheld looking back at her
out of the old mirror. Blanche had judged rightly. Their figures were
almost identical, so the delicate blue frock revealed itself in its
most ravishing aspect.
Yes, the eyes gazing back at her were like twin stars in the velvet
setting of a moonlit sky. Her carefully coiled hair, shining with
satin-like sheen, was surmounted by paste brilliants which had been
selected with such care and taste by the woman who had sent them.
And the string of pearl beads about her soft, white throat were an
adornment incapable of increasing its beauty. The straightness of the
cut of the frock itself entirely disguised the soft contours of her
youthful figure, and the arms, bare to the shoulder, were white, and
soft, and round, with perfect formation of her trained muscles.
Then her feet, and the length of silk hose below the edge of the duly
shortened skirt. The fascination of these things was something that
left the girl almost bewildered at the change. The hose revealed the
ivory tint of the flesh beneath and her diminutive feet, usually
encased in heavy highlows, or gum boots or even buckskin moccasins
that made them look broad and flat, seemed, in their beautifully
shaped covering of silver tissue, utterly incapable of supporting the
substantial burden for which they were designed.
The rattle of Andy’s spring wagon pulling up outside her door sent
the warm blood rushing into Molly’s cheeks. Her moment had come, that
moment for which for seven anxious days she had waited, and of which
she had dreamed. Her inclination was to rush out and greet him, and so
reveal to him the wonder of her physical transformation. But she denied
the impulse.
Just for a moment a little smiling reflection looked back at her out
of her mirror. Then she glanced round her bedroom. She left the fur
wrap unheeded on the bed. No power on earth at that moment could
have persuaded her to hide up her splendour beneath its folds. So
she passed it by, and moved slowly and restrainedly out into the
living-room, and, with all her woman’s delighted vanity, she waited.
She heard his voice. He was talking to his team.
“You’ve a big piece to make before the night’s through,” he said. “Get
that feed into you. You’ll sure need it.”
She heard him moving about. He was probably removing the horses’ bits,
and maybe easing the straps of the neck-yoke. Then his footsteps
approached the door, and the girl’s breath came quickly, and her colour
deepened.
Then his voice came again. This time it was she to whom he was
addressing himself.
“Ho! Molly!” he cried.
There was a pause. Just an instant’s pause. Then the door was flung
wide.
Andy stood framed in it. He was clad in a dark suit, with a light, thin
raincoat buttoned over it. He made no attempt to cross the threshold.
He remained just where the vision of Molly revealed itself to him, and
abruptly bared his head. His dark eyes were alight with amazement.
“Molly!” he cried. Then, with a little gasp: “By Gee!”
The girl had her reward. It was truly her moment. It was the moment of
her life.