The Awakening
Molly was sitting up in her bed, with the grey daylight searching the
night shadows that still lurked in the little bedroom that had known
her from her earliest days.
Under the small window was the old drawer-chest that supported a
painted mirror, before which the girl was accustomed to dress. Near by
stood a home-made chair with a rawhide seat. In one dim corner of the
room the folds of a cotton curtain hung down over the few garments of
which her outer wardrobe consisted. And against the far wall, opposite
the end of the bed, was a trunk, surrounded and adorned by a flounced
covering of large-patterned cotton. The board flooring of the place had
some of its bareness disguised by one or two home-made rugs. Yet, for
all its bare comfort, the room had always contained for Molly a wealth
of content and happy memory.
She was in her homely night apparel, with her knees drawn up under the
well-worn bed-covering. Her arms were clasped about her knees, and she
was staring hopelessly into the slowly receding shadows.
The silence was intense. As yet not even the wild-fowl on the river
were stirring. And no sound of any sort came up from the slumbering
kine in the corral.
Molly was alone with the dawn and her waking thoughts. She was alone
with memory. And, strangely enough, never in all her life had she known
such a profound dispiritedness. Slowly her eyes filled with tears. Her
lips moved, quivering spasmodically. Then the storm of grief overflowed
down her cheeks.
For some time her face was buried in the coarse sheeting of her bed.
Then, with a quick movement, her head was flung up. She clad herself
hurriedly in her working clothes. She bathed her face and hands,
and adjusted her hair before the little mirror which reflected just
sufficient light for the process. Then she moved to the chest with its
floral-patterned cover.
For many minutes she moved about in her moccasin slippers. The lid of
the chest was propped open, and her busy hands were at work folding and
packing, bestowing inside it the delicate garments which only a short
day ago had afforded her such delight. Somehow her mood was completely
reversed. And there was not a moment in which she paused to contemplate
the wonderful texture, the softness and delicacy, of the things she was
packing. It was almost as if her work could not be accomplished with
sufficient speed.
The last garment had been folded and bestowed. The silver tissue shoes
had found their place in the chest. The cloak, with its fur lining, had
been laid on the top of the others. Then the commoner garments, that
had their ordinary home in the chest, were replaced on the top of all,
and the lid was re-closed.
It was as though Molly’s glory of yesterday was a thing repugnant to
her; as though she were endeavouring to shut out the memory of it from
her mind. As the lid of the chest closed, and the cover was re-set in
its place, the girl stood for a moment before it with bosom heaving and
a light of panic in her eyes.
The dawn had broadened towards full daylight when Molly at last turned
away and passed out of the room.
* * * * *
Lightning moved up to the house engrossed in thought. That which he
had witnessed of the parting at the storm doorway had troubled him.
The girl’s subsequent flood of tears had shocked him out of all his
confidence.
The earlier episode had been comprehensible enough. The disaster he had
feared had happened. Molly had promised marriage. The man he felt he
could never work for was to become the master of the Marton farm. For
him, he knew, it meant the end of all things. And the thought that he
would be driven to part from Molly froze his heart and left him groping
helplessly.
It was Lightning’s way to drive straight to the heart of things. But he
was not prepared for the scene he discovered in the living-room. The
cook-stove had been lit. The breakfast had been set. And Molly was at
work frying the pork, and browning the beans.
Molly glanced round as Lightning thrust the door open, and he caught a
glimpse of a pair of forlorn eyes darkly ringed as a result of hours
of tearful wakefulness. Instantly the man’s rougher mood melted. His
desire to delve to the heart of things evaporated. A great wave of
foolish sympathy set him yearning to say something, to do something,
that would banish the look of trouble he beheld.
But inspiration failed him, and his greeting was a jarring complaint.
“Say, Molly, gal, I bin workin’ around here since you was knee high,
an’ I ain’t known the man or woman that set light to that darn ol’
stove but me. It’s a measly bet I can’t set a lucifer to a bunch
o’ kindlin’ for you the mornin’ after your party night. What’s got
you, gal?” he went on, with a grin intended to help things. “Feelin’
restless? Your fine fixin’s got you worried they’d sort o’ quit you
come mornin’? I sure feel bad sun-up wa’ant early enough to light your
stove.”
Again the girl turned from her work at the stove.
“Does it matter, Lightning?” she asked, in a voice that lacked all its
usual cheer.
“Come to that, I don’t guess it does,” the man returned on the instant,
feeling he had no right to any complaint that could cause her distress.
“You surely must ha’ been plumb beat dancin’ around at that hoe-down,
though. Then ther’ was all o’ them fine fixin’s. They’d get most any
woman all worried to death with notions an’ things. Ther’ ain’t nothin’
like notions to get you so used up you can’t sleep nor nothin’. Now I
was reck’nin’ to leave you sleepin’ till noon. I’d figgered to fix my
eats myself, an’ hev you a real swell feed ready by noon. Then you’d
get up an’ around, an’ hand me all the joy stuff your party showed you.”
Molly dished out the beans, and set a layer of fat pork beside them
on the platter which was to serve Lightning. The man’s transparent
kindliness was not without effect upon her. A ghost of a smile
dispersed something of the woe which so distressed Lightning.
“You would figger that way,” she said kindly. “That’s you all the time.
Well, this time I’ve done the figgering. I’ve figgered you need a
breakfast right away. So sit around and eat, Lightning, and don’t worry
that I lit your stove for you.”
The old man glanced at the heaping beans and bacon. Then he looked
again into the face of the girl, who had made no attempt to help
herself. He made no move to sit in at the table. He shook his head, and
set himself to the task which he knew must be fulfilled without delay.
“You’re goin’ to marry him, Molly, gal?” he said abruptly.
Molly turned to the stove.
“I’m going to marry Andy--before summer’s out,” she said in a low tone.
Lightning passed a hand over his unbrushed hair.
“Then I won’t be needed--after harvest,” he said, with a curious
dullness.
Molly turned back on the instant. All the woe had passed out of her
eyes. She stood up, tall and very pretty in her white waist and homely
cloth skirt, and a gleam of hope reacted in Lightning’s eyes.
“Lightning!”
Molly paused on her exclamation. Then:
“Lightning, you sure won’t quit me, because--because of Andy?” she
cried. “Oh, you--you just couldn’t! You wouldn’t! Why? Why? I’ll need
you more than ever. I shall. I could never do without you. You’ve been
everything to me. You’ve--you’ve been father to me ever since--ever
since father was killed. Want you? Oh, you don’t know the thing
you’re saying. I know. You just hate Andy. And--and you want to quit
me because of him. If you could only know the thing he is to me you
wouldn’t feel that way. You surely wouldn’t. Say you won’t quit me. Say
you’ll stop right along when Andy comes, just the same as--as now. Say
that, Lightning. You must say it. You’ll--you’ll set me crazy if you
don’t.”
Lightning’s harsh voice jarred the silence of the room.
“Then he’s comin’ right here! That feller!” he cried. “He’s comin’
along to own this pore darn farm your dead father built right up
fer--_you_! He’s goin’ to claim it all! He’s goin’ to claim--_you!_”
The old man’s voice had risen almost to a shout. But with his final
exclamation he seemed to realise whither his fury was driving him. And
he stood silent, with his thin nostrils dilating, and with grim lips
tight pressed.
Molly stared at him. Then, slowly, she raised her hands in mute but
infinite appeal. There were no words, no angry retort, no argument.
Lightning capitulated. He inclined his head in surrender, and the hate
passed out of his eyes.
“Fergit it, Molly, gal. I’m crazy mad, sure,” he said.
Then he glanced down at the steaming food, and a sound escaped him like
a laugh of self-derision.
“Surely I’ll stop around, little gal, with you needin’ me,” he went on.
“If you need him here, you must have him. If you figger to hand him
over your farm, you must hand it. If he’s your man, then that’s surely
so, an’ I ain’t another word. If he acts right, an’ treats you right,
may the good Lord be good to him, an’ so’ll I. If he don’t-- Say, I’ll
eat that feed right away, little Molly. An’ I’ll try an’ remember I’m
your hired man, an’ fergit some day I’ll hev to be his.”