Isabel, who had never confessed her trouble to her mother until now, had
this evening told all there was to tell.
"No, no, my dear," she said as she moved to go, "I have no dread of his
blows. I don't suppose he will ever strike me again. Ah, there's the
worst of it; he's got away, away beyond blows. I wish sometimes he'd
brain me, if only that would stop his secretly watching me.
"If he'd never gone beyond blows, I would have died before I would
have told; not for meekness, dearie, nor even for love,--of you, or my
child, or any one,--but just for pride and shame. But to know, every
day and hour, that I'm watched, and that every path I tread is full of
traps,--there's what's killing me. And I could let it kill me and never
tell, if being killed were all. But I tell you because--Oh, my poor
little mother dearie, do I wear you out, saying the same things over
and over?
"This is all I ask you to remember: that my reason for telling you is to
save the honor of my husband himself, and of you, dear heart, and of--of
my child, you know. For, mother, every innocent thing I do is being
woven into a net of criminating evidence. Sooner or later it's certain
to catch me fast and give me over, you and me and--and baby, to public
shame."
As they went toward the arbor door Isabel warily hushed, but her mother
said: "There's no one to overhear, honey-blossom; Minnie's at your house
with Sarah."
But neither was there more to be said. The daughter shut herself out,
and stood alone on the doorstep pondering what she had done. For she had
acted as well as spoken, and, without knowledge of Leonard's move, was
calling Godfrey home herself. Her mother was to send the dispatch in the
morning.
[Illustration: "But to know every day and hour that I'm watched."]
So standing and distressfully musing, she heard the click of the
Byingtons' door as Ruth left Leonard on the porch. But her thought went
after Arthur. Where was he? That he had honestly gone where he had said
he was going she painfully doubted. She stirred to move on, but had not
taken a step when a feminine cry of terror set her blood leaping and
sent her flying down the arbor, and where the two paths crossed she and
Leonard met at such a speed that only by seizing her with both his hands
did he avoid trampling her down. The scream was repeated again and
again.
"It's Minnie!" cried Isabel as they sprang down the path to the mill
pond; and Leonard, outrunning her, called back,--
"We'll get her out! She's not gone under!"
The next moment he, and then she, were on the scene. Minnie stood on
the firmer ice away from the bank, moaning in continued agitation, but
already rescued. It was Arthur Winslow who had saved her.
Now he gained the bank with the dripping girl, where he yielded her to
his wife, and without a word from him, from Isabel, or from Leonard to
any one but the incessantly talking maid, the four hurried up the path.
When they reached the arbor Ruth had joined them, and there the three
women turned to the cottage. Leonard passed on toward his home. Arthur
went into his own house.
In the cottage, while being hurried into dry clothes, Minnie more
coherently explained her mishap. Wishing to play a joke on Giles, she
had slipped away from the fireside company of him and Sarah to put a
match to his fagots on the pond, run back with word that they were
burning, and laugh with Sarah while Giles should plunge out to find the
incendiaries. But she had forgotten how frail good ice may be against a
warm bank, and leaping down, had promptly broken through. She had had
the fortune to hold on by the ice's outer edge until Arthur, whom she
felt sure only Providence could have sent there, drew her out. She was
tearfully ashamed, yet not so broken in spirit but she fiercely vowed
she would get even with Giles for this yet.
Leonard went to his room, Arthur to his, and each in his way shut
himself in to darkness, silence, and the fury of his own heart.
One of the things most harrowing to Leonard was that, at every turn,
the active part fell to Arthur, while him fate held mercilessly to the
passive; and his soul writhed in unworded prayer for any conceivable
turn of events that would give him leave to act, to do!
But all he could do was done. Godfrey was sent for: everything must
await his coming. Heaven hold Arthur's hand till Godfrey could come!
Ruth returned home and began to lock up the house. When, presently, she
tapped at her brother's door and looked in, he had lighted the room and
was reading his telegram.
"All right over the way," she said, and to hurry on over the grim
untruth repeated briefly Minnie's story. "Good-night. You go--to-morrow?
Well, you'll make haste back."
She left him, but later returned.
"Leonard." At the slightly opened door she thrust in her Bible, with a
finger on the line, "My soul, wait thou only upon God."
"Thank you," said the brother. "Good-night. I'm afraid we've kept Him
waiting on us."