"He talked about you, I couldn't stan' it."
"Did you believe it?" he queried sternly.
"There wa'n't anything to believe. That's neither here nor there.
But--Enoch, if anybody should cut my right hand off--Enoch"--Her voice
fell brokenly. She was a New England woman, accustomed neither to
analyze nor talk. She could only suffer in the elemental way of dumb
things who sometimes need a language of the heart. One thing she knew.
The man was hers; and if she reft herself away from him, then she must
die.
He had taken Rosie's hand, and Amelia was aware that he turned away.
"I don't want to bring up anything," he said hesitatingly, "but I
couldn't stan' bein' any less 'n other men would, jest because the
woman had the money, an' I hadn't. I dunno's 't was exactly fair about
the cows, but somehow you kind o' set me at the head o' things, in the
beginnin', an' it never come into my mind"--
Amelia sat looking wanly past him. She began to see how slightly
argument would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from
her and left her young.
"Enoch," she said vigorously, "you've got to take me. Somehow, you've
got to. Talkin' won't make you see that what I said never meant no more
than the wind that blows. But you've got to keep me, or remember, all
your life, how you murdered me by goin' away. The farm's come between
us. Le's leave it! It's 'most time for the cars. You take me with you
now. If you tramp, I'll tramp. If you work out, so'll I. But where you
go, I've got to go, too." Some understanding of her began to creep
upon him; he dropped the child's hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch,
in these latter days of his life, had forgotten how to smile; but now a
sudden, mirthful gleam struck upon his face, and lighted it with the
candles of hope. He stood beside her, and Amelia did not look at him.
"Would you go with me, 'Melia?" he asked.
"I'm goin'," said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could
not abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous
judgment.
"S'pose I don't ask you?"
"I'll foller on behind."
"Don't ye want to go home, an' lock up, an' git a bunnit?"
She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head.
"No."
"Don't ye want to leave the key with some o' the neighbors?"
"I don't want anything in the world but you," owned Amelia shamelessly.
Enoch bent suddenly, and drew her to her feet. "'Melia," said he, "you
look up here."
She raised her drawn face and looked at him, not because she wished,
but because she must. In her abasement, there was no obedience which
she would deny him. But she could only see that he was strangely happy,
and so the more removed from her own despair. Enoch swiftly passed his
arm about her, and turned her homeward. He laughed a little. Being a
man, he must laugh when, that bitter ache in the throat presaged more
bitter tears.
"Come, 'Melia," said he, "come along home, an' I'll tell you all about
the cows. I made a real good bargain. Come, Rosie."
Amelia could not answer. It seemed to her as if love had dealt with her
as she had not deserved; and she went on, exalted, afraid of breaking
the moment, and knowing only that he was hers again. But just before
they left the shadow of the woods, he stopped, holding her still, and
their hearts beat together.
"'Melia," said he brokenly, "I guess I never told you in so many words,
but it's the truth: if God Almighty was to make me a woman, I'd have
her you, not a hair altered. I never cared a straw for any other. I
know that now. You're all there is in the world."
When they walked up over the brown field, the sun lay very warmly there
with a promise of spring fulfilled. The wind had miraculously died, and
soft clouds ran over the sky in flocks. Rosie danced on ahead, singing
her queer little song, and Enoch struggled with himself to speak the
word his wife might wish.
"'Melia," said he at last, "there ain't anything in my life I couldn't
tell you. I jest ain't dwelt on it, that's all. If you want to have me
go over it"--
"I don't want anything," said Amelia firmly. Her eyes were suffused,
and yet lambent. The light in them seemed to be drinking up their
tears. Her steps, she knew, were set within a shining way. At the door
only she paused and fixed him with a glance. "Enoch," said she
threateningly, "whose cows were them you sold to-day?"
He opened his lips, but she looked him down. One word he rejected, and
then another. His cheeks wrinkled up into obstinate smiling, and he
made the grimace of a child over its bitter draught.
"'Melia, it ain't fair," he complained. "No, it ain't. I'll take one of
'em, if you say so, or I'll own it don't make a mite o' difference
whose they be. But as to lyin'"--
"Say it!" commanded Amelia. "Whose were they?"
"Mine!" said Enoch. They broke into laughter, like children, and held
each other's hands.
"I ain't had a mite o' dinner," said Amelia happily, as they stepped
together into the kitchen. "Nor you! An' Rosie didn't eat her pie. You
blaze up the fire, an' I'll fry some eggs."