The simple ceremony which had made Miss Sophy and Zeph “man and wife,”
as the customary phrase strangely words it, was over. The minister and
his wife, who had known Miss Sophy ever since her coming into the town,
respected her, and trusted her as a stanch friend, were nevertheless
disquieted by this last act of hers, and by the seemingly clandestine way
in which she had insisted upon having it performed.
“If she wa’n’t ashamed of it, what’d she want to come in here to be
married, just like a servant-girl?” said the wife. “I’d never believed
it o’ Sophy Burr, never!” And the minister had replied thoughtfully, “It
does seem queer; but Miss Sophy’s always got some good reason for what
she does; that poor Riker’s been through such dreadful troubles here, I
don’t wonder she doesn’t want it talked about.”
“She’s just thrown herself away, that’s what it is,” said the wife.
“I hope not,” replied the minister, still more thoughtfully. “There’s
something noble in the man’s look, sad as ’tis. He’ll come up yet. Sophy
Burr’s no fool.”
Meantime the two thus being discussed were standing hand in hand just
outside the parsonage gate. Strange words to be spoken by bride and
bridegroom within five minutes of the ceremony which had made them one
were passing between them.
“Zeph,” said Sophy, the instant they had passed the gate,—“Zeph, I’ve got
to do something now that’ll try you considerable; but you must trust me.
You’ve got to let me walk alone down to the depot and get into the cars
by myself, and you get into the last car and stay there till I come t’
ye. ’Twon’t be long—”
“Sophy!” interrupted Zeph, half alarmed, half angry, “what notion’s
taken ye to do that? I don’t think it’s decent, Sophy. What’ll folks
think? It’s dark; ye needn’t be afraid o’ folks seein’ us ’s we go along.
They’ve got to know it to-morrow morning; they might as well know it
to-night.”
It had been a sore point to Zeph already, the secrecy in which their
plans had been shrouded. Humble-minded and self-distrustful as he was,
he was also sensitive to a fault; and he had spent many a wretched hour,
needlessly torturing himself with the question if it could be that the
faithful and devoted Sophy felt shame of having linked her fortunes with
his.
“If you’d heard me through,” retorted Sophy, brusque even in this supreme
moment of her life, “you’d have seen that it wasn’t any notion, nor
nothin’ like a notion. It’s got to be done, Zeph, an’ you’ve got to trust
me. I’ve got a reason, an’ if you knew it you wouldn’t ask me to do
different. You’d help me all you could, an’ not make me feel bad either.
Can’t ye trust me ’s long ’s one hour, Zeph? I’d do it for you. Trust me,
Zeph. I’m your wife now, you know!”
“Of course I’ll trust ye, Sophy,” replied Zeph, half appeased, but only
half. “It wasn’t no question o’ trustin’, an’ I’ll do jest as you want
me to; hain’t I always? But I don’t see why ye can’t tell me what ’tis,
Sophy.”
“Oh, dear!” she cried hysterically, “we haven’t got any time to lose,
standin’ here; it’s ’most train-time now. I can’t tell you! an’ when you
know what ’tis, you’ll see I couldn’t tell you. You’ll be real glad I
didn’t, Zeph. Oh, do trust me! you’ve got to!”—she was crying now,—“for
I’m goin’ right off this minute!” And with a convulsive clasp of her
husband’s hand she turned and walked away at the top of her speed. Tears
ran down her cheeks, and in her excitement she talked aloud to herself
as she ran: “If she should take it into her head to come down there! If
she was to see Zeph, she might suspect! Perhaps she’s backed out already!
Perhaps Gammer won’t get down there in time! Supposin’ Zeph didn’t take
notice o’ my tellin’ him to get into the last car!”
The fast-multiplying terrors so unnerved her, that she felt for the first
time in her sturdy life faint,—which but added another alarm. “If I
should be fool enough to go an’ faint, I should give up!” she said. The
self-contempt she felt at this thought proved the best of tonics, and by
the time she reached the railway station she was almost herself again.
It wanted only ten minutes of the train-time, but there was a sleepy
expression about everybody and everything at the station which struck
fear to her heart. “Train’s late, I’ll be bound,” she thought.
Yes, the train was late; only an hour, though. That would soon pass. In
a few moments she saw a tall figure, much wrapped and encumbered, coming
over a low hill to the north of the station. A short cross-cut from
Gammer Stein’s house would run that way. Her breath coming thick and
fast, Miss Sophy stepped towards the figure. It was Gammer, and she held
the child in her arms. At the sight, Miss Sophy felt herself again in
danger of fainting. “I didn’t know I’d got it in me to be so upset,” she
thought, as she laid her hand on Gammer’s shoulder, and tried to speak.
“You’ve got her!” was all she could say.
“Yes,” whispered Gammer, “she’s asleep. I jest giv’ her ther leastest bit
er paregoric; ’twon’t hurt her er mite; ’n’ I put er li’le bottle on ’t
inter ther bundle, already sweetened. Yer needn’t be er mite afeerd ter
give it ter her ef she hollers.”
“The train’s late!” said Miss Sophy, clutching Gammer’s arm. “We’ll have
to walk about. Keep out here ’n the shade.”
“Ain’t thet drefful, naow,” said Gammer. “I allaowed ter git hyar jest on
ther minnit, five minnits erhead er time, so ’s ter git right on board.
It’s lucky I giv’ her the paregoric. But she’s powerful heavy. I allaow
ter yeow my arm’s plum broke!”
“Let me take her,” said Miss Sophy; and a warm glow kindled in her breast
as the unconscious little creature was laid in her arms.
Zeph was peering anxiously in every direction. He too had discovered
that the train was late; but that did not console him for his wife’s
non-appearance, since she could not have known that fact, and ought long
before this to have been on the platform. Dire anxiety consumed him.
Where was she? What did it mean? He saw the two dimly outlined figures
pacing up and down in the distance; but in contrast with Gammer’s great
height, Sophy’s figure looked so short, he did not dream of its being
hers; and besides, that figure was carrying a child. He did not give it a
second look.
The hour had nearly passed. The sleepy, waiting passengers outside on
the benches and in the waiting-room were beginning to bestir themselves;
trucks were being wheeled, luggage moved, carriages driving up. Walking
boldly forward now, Zeph scrutinized all. No Sophy to be seen! Just as
he was on the point of turning away, with the resolve that come what
might he would not get into the train till he had seen her, his eye was
arrested by a swift-running figure,—a woman, crossing the track a few
rods from the station and turning towards it. A signal-lantern, hung
high on a derrick, flashed its light full upon her as she passed. It was
Rushy, her face wild, her hair dishevelled.
“My God!” gasped Zeph. “That’s what Sophy was afraid of! That’s Rushy,
and she’s drunk! I’ll hide, ’n’ do jest’s Sophy told me to. She’s got
some plan o’ gettin’ aboard herself; she had a reason, sure enough! But
she might ha’ told me!”
Beyond the track, on the side farthest from the station, was a gulch
thick grown with weeds and young cottonwood trees. Into this Zeph leaped,
and stood waiting for the train; as soon as it pulled in he sprang to the
platform of the rear car, and entering it, sank into a seat. Whatever
came now, he at least had fulfilled to the letter his wife’s request. But
the suspense was beyond his endurance.
“It’d kill Sophy if she was to make a row ’n’ insult her,” he said, “’n’
me not there to stand by her!” And going out on the platform, he leaned
out, straining his eyes forward along the train, just in time to see
Sophy standing back from the steps of the forward car and assisting an
elderly woman burdened with a child in her arms to get in before her.
“Just like Sophy,” he thought, “always helpin’ somebody! Oh, why don’t
she jump in quick? Where’s Rushy? She was a lookin’ to see me, I expect,
an’ so she’s missed her!”
It had been but five minutes,—only an insignificant way-station stop; but
it had settled the life-destiny of more than one human being.
The unfortunate Rushy was coming to the station on a very different
errand from that which Zeph had suspected. In fact, she did not reach
the station at all. If he had watched for a moment longer he would have
seen her pause, look attentively at the crowd gathered there, and then,
retreating into the darkness, seat herself on the ground at the base of a
telegraph-pole, against which she leaned in an attitude of despair.
Her house was not far distant from the railway station, and as the
time approached for the train to pass, the poor creature had pressed
her face against the window, listening for the whistle and looking for
the light. Becoming alarmed at length by the long delay, she had run
bareheaded to the station to find what it meant. Seeing the waiting
crowd, she had understood at once, and had thrown herself on the ground,
resolved not to leave the place till the train had come and gone. No
thought of withdrawing from her agreement or even of looking again on
the face of her child had been in her mind. On the contrary, her resolve
had strengthened hourly since her interview with Miss Sophy; but the
strengthening of her resolve did not diminish the intensity of her grief.
“It’ll kill me, I know ’twill,” was the constant refrain in her thoughts;
always following it, however, “but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t
do it. I darstn’t not do ’t!”
Sobbing aloud in the safe shelter of the darkness, she watched each
movement in the confusion at the train, vainly trying to distinguish the
form of Miss Sophy or of Gammer. The moments which seemed so long to all
the other actors in the drama seemed to her like lightning seconds.
“Oh, they’re goin’!” she cried, as the train began to move. “Oh, God,
she’s gone! Baby!” and she fell back senseless on the earth.
At that moment Zeph was saying to himself, “Thank God, we’re safe off!”
and Miss Sophy, devoutly, “Thank God, she didn’t come down!” and Gammer,
aloud, taking Miss Sophy’s hand in hers, “What ails yer? Yer tremblin’
like a leaf!”
“I’ve got something to tell you, Gammer,” replied Miss Sophy, in a
whisper; and she told her then, at last, the truth.
It was well that the necessity of carrying on their conversation in a
cautious whisper restrained Gammer from the full expression of her
emotions; but the repression of them was almost beyond her power.
Disjointed and incredulous ejaculations were at first all which could
take shape in her thought; then followed an avalanche of questions, some
of them hard to answer; but soon all else was swallowed up in a heartfelt
sympathy and gladness which were comforting to Miss Sophy’s heart.
“You don’t think ’twas wrong, then, not to let her know who she was
givin’ her to, do you?” said Miss Sophy.
“Nerry bit of it!” replied Gammer. “’Twa’n’t no use runnin’ ther resk
on’t. I donno haow she’d hev tuk it. Mebbe she’d hev been willin’er, ’n’
mebbe not ser willin’. Thar ain’t no countin’ on folks; yer can’t never
tell. I sh’d allaow she’d been willin’er; but then agin she might er tuk
a jealous fit ’n’ thar wouldn’t hev been any doin’ nothin’. ’T ’s best ’s
’tis. Ye’ve managed wonderful, I allaow yeow hev; ’n’ naow ther sooner
yer let thet pore Zeph know she’s hyar ther better. I allaow he’s ’most
crazy, settin’ thar waitin’!”
“Oh,” faltered Miss Sophy, “I didn’t mean to tell him till we got out of
the train! I don’t want to have any kind o’ fuss in the cars.”
“He won’t make no fuss,” replied Gammer. “He ain’t thet
* * * * *
Here the story of Zeph comes to an abrupt ending. Conceived and begun by
Mrs. Jackson in Los Angeles during the winter of 1884-1885, it was put by
to be finished on her arrival home in Colorado Springs,—a home she was
destined never to reach. In her last hours she sent the manuscript to her
publisher with this message:—
I am very sorry I cannot finish “Zeph.” Perhaps it is not worth
publishing in its unfinished state, as the chief lesson for
which I wrote it was to be forcibly told at the end. You must
be judge about this. I suppose there will be some interest in
it as the last thing I wrote. I will make a short outline of
the plot of the close of the story.... Good-by. Many thanks for
all your long good-will and kindness. I shall look in on your
new rooms some day, be sure—but you won’t see me. Good-by.
Affectionately forever,