Again the glow of satisfaction warmed her face.
"Where was he when he--when he died?"
"At the Schloss--in my dressing-room."
"You were there?"
"My dress was wet with his blood."
Over Friedrich there rushed man's protective feeling, the desire to
shield a woman from pain; his own yearning of not so many months ago,
to fend this one fragile creature from the world. He drew nearer to
her, and she leaned back in her chair and looked up at him out of the
shadow.
"I could not bear to live at the Schloss any longer--there were
horrible memories, and I was alone; I told you my aunt had died. You
know she was my only relative."
Von Rittenheim knew. It was at her aunt's house in Heidelberg that he
had met Hilda.
"Then Maximilian had told me that we could not live in the Schloss if
you did not supply the money to carry it on. After he died I could not
feel myself indebted for that to you when I had treated you so badly."
She hung her head. Von Rittenheim made a gesture of polite dissent, and
walked again to the window.
"You always had enough money, I hope?"
"No sum ever was large enough for Max." They both smiled. "But a piece
of great good fortune came to me just after you went away."
Von Rittenheim turned again to the window and betrayed some
embarrassment, but Hilda was intent upon her story, and noticed
nothing.
"Some of the investments into which my dowry had been put appreciated
enormously in value."
So that was the way Herr Stapfer had explained it. Friedrich nodded
approvingly.
"So I always had enough for my needs, even when----"
"When what?"
"Forgive me. I did not mean to say it."
"You were going to say, 'Even when Maximilian took it?'"
She hung her head again, like a sorry child. He noticed how her neck
and arms shone white through the thin black of her gown.
"After all, you are his brother. Perhaps I should tell you. At the
end--it was because of that that he shot himself, poor Max! He came to
me in my room and asked me for money, and I told him I had none.
Indeed, he had taken the last I had a few days before. He did not
believe me, and he threatened to shoot himself if I did not give it to
him."
"Coward!"
"Of course, I did not think that it was more than--excitement. How
could I believe that he was in earnest? But he kept crying, 'Give it
up, give it up!' The servants heard him. And then----"
Friedrich crossed quickly to her and leaned over the chair as she sat
with her face buried in her handkerchief.
"Hilda, it seems to me no woman ever needed pity and comfort more than
you. You have come many thousands of miles to claim it from me, and I
will not fail you. You reminded me last night of my oath to you. I
repeat it now. My life is at your service if it can bring you
happiness."
The words sounded forced and stilted to his ears, even while he pressed
the little white hand that she put out blindly towards him. He was not
sorry for his pledge; he felt that he could have done no less; but
Sydney's proud, earnest face flashed before him, and his memory saw it
soften and flush with the happy shyness that covered it when she gave
him her handkerchief,--and he wondered to what extent Hilda would
consider that his promise bound him.
A few days made it clear that he had committed himself to no mere form
of words. She received the admiration of every man in the Neighborhood.
Patton McRae's elastic heart added another to its list of occupants,
and John Wendell fell seriously in love with her. But always in the
foreground she placed von Rittenheim. It was not alone that she looked
for his coming, and monopolized him when he arrived; that she deferred
to him, and did half a hundred tell-tale things; but in some way, by a
hint here and a phrase there, she made every one understand how it had
been with them in the past,--how madly he had loved her; how foolish
she had been to break the engagement; how worse than foolish, for she
had broken his great, noble heart, too. But, now--with a pretty sigh
and an appealing look--now was her opportunity to remedy the harm she
had done. When one or two of the bolder ones hinted at an engagement,
she denied it, with a rebuking glance at her black gown, her
fascinating, floating diaphanous black gown. Still, it became evident
to every one that when a proper time had elapsed after Maximilian's
death, her consolation would be even more remedial.
John haunted her steps, and left her only when the Baron came. Then he
disappeared until his rival's departure. Sydney grew distant in manner
to von Rittenheim, and often he did not see her at all when he went to
Oakwood. Hilda's visit to Mrs. Carroll was prolonged on the ground that
seemed to have place in every one's mind, though no one could trace its
origin, that she would stay on near Friedrich until it was time to go
home to Germany to begin her wedding preparations,--say, until after
Christmas,--and that they would be married as soon as the year of
mourning was over.
"It would be disgracefully soon if her husband had been a good man, of
course, but he was such a beast!" And a shrug made all the necessary
condonement for the hastening of the marriage.
By September the whole neighborhood was converted to this belief, all
except John, who _would_ not believe, and Sydney, who had not trusted
herself to think.
The compulsion of thought seized her in her own room one night, after a
day when it had been forced upon her that there could be but one truth,
and that the conclusion to which her friends had come. From window to
window she walked, dragging her trailing draperies, softly blue in the
moonlight. She was fretted into constant motion by the impelling might
of a desire to do something that would put off the moment when she must
stop and think out the situation. She tried to divert her fancy to the
channels of her daily life. She decided what colts should be broken
next summer. She devised a new plan for keeping Bob employed and happy
when the dull days of winter should come. She endeavored to be grateful
that her grandmother was less harassed by pain than usual. Yet through
all wreathed the insistent cry, "Face it. You must face it."
That compelling threat she knows who recognizes that the one dearest to
her on earth must die. It commands the scrutiny of facts, and an end to
the glossing of truth. It rings the knell of hope. Later comes the
sustaining reflection of the future life,--its opportunities for work
and its attendant happiness for him who enters upon it. But now is
self's confrontment with loneliness, with sorrow, with despair.
The cry became insistent in Sydney's ears. Face it she must.
She stepped through the long window upon the balcony which commanded
west and south. The moon swam cold in the steel-blue sky. The ribbon of
low-lying mist betrayed the devious winding of the creek. On the
horizon swung the gray masses of the mountains, their hardness veiled
in the tender light of distance. Sydney fell on her knees and twisted
her hands one within the other. She spoke in a whisper.
"I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! Oh, I cannot bear it!" she
repeated over and over.
Then stung to openness by the lash of the constant inward cry--
"I love him! Oh, I love him! Oh, I cannot bear it!" she moaned yet
again.
She rocked to and fro upon her knees, and hid her face in her hands to
shut out the glory of beauty and calm that lay before and around her.
"I never thought that love would be like this. To feel it--to be sure
of it--and to have to give him to another woman!" She began to cry
weakly.
The moon flooded the gallery with its light. A diamond on one of
Sydney's clasped hands winked as gayly as if a tragedy were not filling
the girl's heart. Then oft-read words came to her lips:
"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, nothing higher;
nothing wider, nothing more pleasant; nothing fuller nor better in
heaven and earth."
"For it carries a burden which is no burden, and makes everything that
is bitter sweet and savory."
"He that loveth flieth, runneth and rejoiceth; he is free and is not
bound."
"He giveth all for all."
"He giveth all for all." She repeated it again and again.
She had, indeed, dreamed of a love for which sacrifice should be a joy.
But that this should be the kind of sacrifice! Even through her
wretchedness the humor of it penetrated, and a woe-begone smile
fluttered over her lips.
The singing words came to her again.
"Let me be possessed by love, mounting above myself."
"Let me love thee more than myself, and love myself only for thee."
She kneeled upright and rested her folded arms upon the railing. Peace
seemed to be flowing in upon her, and a purpose grew into form within
her mind. With increasing control she rose to her feet.
"If my love is worth anything it can do even that."
Her uplifted face shone strong and beautiful as she left the splendor
without, and knelt beside her bed.
"O God, I thank thee that thou hast granted me the power to love. Help
me now, I implore thee, to make use of this, my dearest treasure, for
the joy of others."
XXI
A Poke Party
Friedrich was sitting at his solitary breakfast. He had grown expert in
the daily preparation of bacon, eggs, cornbread, and coffee; but that
is a poor feast which is denied the sauce of companionship, and he
dallied with his spoon, while he stared gloomily through the open door.
The jaded green of the late September foliage harmonized with his mood
of depression.
He went to Oakwood now only so often as courteous attention to his
sister-in-law--poor little girl!--seemed to demand. Sydney avoided him;
and John, who still lingered, although the Schuylers had gone north
long before, gave him the black looks of a jealous rival. Hilda, though
never assuming before him the part of betrothed which every one
assigned to her, nevertheless made him feel the bond by which he had
engaged himself,--a net as fine as silk and as strong as steel; an
enmeshment of chivalry and sympathy and love for his good word.
He made his new business the excuse for his infrequent visits. It was
no subterfuge, for even in the short period of two months the "McRae
Cattle" were earning encomiums, from those who knew stock, for their
good condition and the flavor of their beef. Both on the Baron's place
and at Cotswold long shelter-sheds were being erected for winter
protection; and at Cotswold, whose larger size warranted the
establishment of a more extensive plant, the firm had put in a small
stationary engine to cut the feed, and was building a silo for the
preservation of the winter supplies. A dehorning machine, which caused
a moment of present torture for the sake of months of future peace,
served an additional purpose as an advertisement. Farmers came from far
back in the mountains to see the inhuman weapon, and incidentally
brought along a calf or two to sell as an excuse for their waste of
time. Their denunciations sent more of the curious, who were not
deterred by motives of tenderness from submitting their creatures to
the operation, provided they received a good price.
When Hilda had discovered her brother-in-law's straitened circumstances
she had offered to him a part of her income, deploring his evident
poverty with real distress of voice and manner.
"I don't understand why it is so,--you are not extravagant, like
Max,--but I can see the fact plainly enough, and I beg you to take it,
dear Friedrich."
Friedrich kissed her hand in gratitude, but refused, explaining that he
had enough capital for the undertaking of his business venture, and
that his personal wants were of the simplest.
"But your house, Friedrich. It is not fitting that a von Rittenheim
should live in a cabin like that."
[Illustration: "It is not fitting that a von rittenheim should live in
a cabin like that"]
"Man makes the house, Hilda, and I don't feel that my dignity is hurt.
I am comfortable, and that is all that is necessary."
He happened to think of this conversation as he drank the last of his
coffee, and he realized that Hilda's offer was another of the tiny
threads that linked him to her. He thought how true it was now that, so
long as he could make his living out of his new business, he cared
nothing for the roof that sheltered him; while on that golden night of
happiness when Sydney and he had watched the river flow under the
bridge, he had been glad of his new prosperity because he could build
for _her_ a house such as she should fancy.
He did not allow himself to think often of Sydney. He was glad that he
had had the strength to refrain from asking her to be his wife until he
had something more substantial than his name to offer her. It relieved
somewhat the present situation. Yet her avoidance of him he could
construe only as contempt for a man who had played with her while bound
by other ties. Sometimes he felt that he must explain to her how
intangible were those bonds. Yet he was sufficiently conscious of their
actual existence to feel that the difficulties of explanation were
almost insurmountable. And Hilda, poor child, took his devotion
entirely for granted.
His thoughts were leading him in a circle, and it was a relief when
Melissa appeared in the doorway. He sprang up to welcome her.
"Come in, Mrs. Yare-brough. How do you do?"
"Ah'm well, thank ye. How are you?" returned Melissa, in the polite
formula of her kind.
"Won't you have a cup of coffee?"
"No, Ah thank you. How's Mrs. Baron?"
"Mrs. Baron? Oh! She was very well the last time I was at Oakwood. She
asks fr-requently for you and the baby."
"Mrs. Baron's so sweet! Ah never 'lowed to like anybody's much's Miss
Sydney, but Mrs. Baron's jus' splendid."
With a woman's care-taking instinct, she began to gather together the
dishes on the table and prepare them for washing.
"No, let me," she said, in response to von Rittenheim's objection.
"Jus' while Ah'm talkin'. Ah stopped by to tell ye that Ah'm goin' to
have a party to-night, an' Ah'd be proud to have you-all come to hit."
Her interest in him was so evident, and her desire to give him pleasure
so real, that Friedrich responded, heartily,--
"Certainly, I shall go. It will give me delight. It is kind of you to
ask me."
Melissa turned away, and rattled the knives and forks in gratified
embarrassment.
"Hit's goin' to be to mother's 'cos her house is larger. You know where
hit is?"
"Yes, indeed. Is it a dance?"
"Hit's a poke party, but there'll be dancin', too."
"A poke party! What is that?"
"Don't you-all know what a poke party is?"
"Poke? That is what I do with my finger at the baby."
Melissa laughed aloud.
"You wait 'n see, then. Ah reckon hit'll be a surprise party fo' you as
well as a poke party."
It was clear that Melissa had imparted to her friends the Baron's guess
as to the probable nature of a poke party, for he was greeted with
broad smiles as he made his way through the crowd of men and boys about
Mrs. Lance's door into the room where dancing was going on. Melissa
came to him and proposed a seat beside Mrs. 'Gene Frady until the
cotillon should be ended, but von Rittenheim preferred to go about the
room as dexterously as he might in avoidance of the dancers, speaking
to his acquaintances among the women and girls who lined its walls.
There was space upon the floor for only two sets, and the lookers-on
gossiped patiently, until such time as Alf Lance, the fiddler, should
grow weary and let fall his bow.
"They's fo' blue waistes here to-night. Ollie Warson looks mahty sweet
in her's."
"Do you think so? Hit seems like she favored her paw too much."
"Well, Bill Warson 'lows that if they's any good looks in the family,
they come from him."
"Maw, you-all got a hairpin? Give hit to me next time I turn co'ners."
"Look at Evvie Williams! She always gets a seat nex' the window, so's
she c'n talk to some feller out o' hit."
"Ah did, too, when Ah was that age."
"Yes, Ah remember you did. Ah don' guess Hamp Pinner's goin' to dance
with Ollie tonight."
"Yes, he is. He jus' ast her in through the window."
"Sh, sh, sh. Will you hush yo' fuss!"
"Ah'm well, thank ye, Mr. Baron. How are you?"
"Look at Drusilla Pinner cross her feet, an' her a church-member, too!"
"Ah been lookin'. She's awful careless about her dancin'."
"This child'll have to go to bed in the other room. He's yellin' jus'
tur'ble."
"Ah 'low M'lissy 'll make some money out o' this. They's right smart
here."
Von Rittenheim made his rounds and joined the group of men at the door.
They received him pleasantly, for he was a favorite among them. Indeed,
since his misfortune in the spring he had noticed an added warmth in
their attitude, and a certain intimacy of approach. As he talked to
them the music stopped abruptly, and with its last note he found
himself alone, for the youths about him had precipitated themselves
into the room to secure their partners for the next cotillon. The
enterprising Hamp came in through the window, by which port of entry
the orchestra departed in search of the reviving pail on the back
porch.
Melissa came timidly to von Rittenheim.
"Won't you-all dance this nex' one, Mr. Baron? Ah'll get ye a partner."
"I fear I should make too many mistakes. I do not understand well
enough English to know quickly what says the director."
"Oh, yo' partner 'll tell ye all that."
"Then, if you will be that partner, will I try."
"Oh, no. Hit looks like Ah'd been askin' you."
"But no, Mrs. Yare-brough, for I would not tr-rust myself to the care
of anybody whom I knew less well."
"Truly? Then we'll stand here?" And Friedrich, looking at her beaming
face, did not regret the effort.
The other participants in the cotillon gained no praise from the
spectators, for every eye was upon their unexpected guest. They
applauded his successes and smiled encouragingly upon his mistakes.
They admired his good looks in pleased undertones, and secretly urged
Alf to prolong the dance and their pleasure until it seemed to
Friedrich that he had been on the floor for hours.
When at last the music stopped, Bud's voice was heard calling,
loudly,--
"Come in yere, boys, 'n get yo' pokes."
The girls found seats for themselves, while the men crowded into the
other room.
"Hit's supper," said Melissa, giving Friedrich a little shove towards
the door. "You'll see now."
"May I have the honor of bringing yours to you?"
"No, Ah thank ye, Mr. Baron. Ah always eats mine with Bud. But you-all
go in an' get some, an' you'll fin' somebody to eat hit with when ye
come back."
In the other room the men crowded before a table upon which were piled
paper bags of different sizes. Each man was taking two, one for himself
and one for his partner.
"This size poke is ten cents," insisted Bud, in the uproar, "'n this
size is fifteen. They's good things in 'em all. The quality's the same,
hit's the quantity makes the difference. Yes, they's devil ham
san'wich. Ah know they is, 'cos Ah cut mah finger openin' a can fo'
M'lissy this mo'nin'. Yes, they's cake, too. You, Hamp, that size is
fifteen!"
As Friedrich approached, a laugh went up at the expense of 'Gene Frady,
who had taken a bag of each size.
"Watch out which one 'Gene gives his wife," cried Bud, sarcastically.
The babies on the bed, four of them, were aroused by the noise, and
joined their voices thereto. Three older children, who were sleeping
rosily under the covers, slumbered on peacefully.
"One poke, or two, Mr. Baron? Ah'm proud to see you-all here," said
Bud.
"A poke is a bag, eh? Give me two pokes, if you please, Bud. Yes, the
large ones."
Returning to the dancing-room, he made his way to Mrs. Lance, Melissa's
mother, who was sitting near the window. She was flattered into silence
by the attention of the offered poke, and they ate the contents of
their bags with solemnity.
A figure moving in the dim light outside attracted Friedrich's
attention. He put his head out of the window. The man came directly
beneath, and looked up.
"Ah, Pink, I thought that was you. I want to see you at some time."
"Ah'll watch out fo' ye when you-all's unhitchin' yo' mule."
"Very well. I'm going in a few minutes. You do not come in?"
"No. Hit's M'lissy's party, 'n she 'n me ain' friends."
"Here, take this, then."
Friedrich dropped his partly filled poke into the ready, uplifted hand.
"I had my supper very late to-night," he explained to Mrs. Lance, "and
a man outside a party looks so forlorn, don't you think so?"
"Some of 'em deserves hit," returned Mrs. Lance, laconically. "He's
one."
Von Rittenheim was fumbling with the halter-strap of his mule, when
Pressley appeared beside him out of the shadow of a pine-tree.
"Is that you, Pr-ressley? Do you r-ride or walk?"
"Ah'm walkin'."
"Then will I not mount."
Friedrich slipped the reins over the mule's head, and led him out on to
the highway. Pressley walked beside him. The stars shone brightly
enough to make visible the open road.
"Are you-all goin' to ask me about the rent, Mr. Baron? Bud 'n me's
been pullin' fodder fo' a week. Hit's all ready in the upper field, 'n
you c'n take yo' choice any time. They's good bundles, fo' han's to the
bundle."
"Thank you. No, it was not of that I was going to speak. I want to tell
you that about six weeks ago--it was in August--I was up on Buzzard
Mountain one night, and I fell asleep there."
Pink looked at him suspiciously in the darkness, and put a piece of the
road between them.
"I fell asleep on a ledge of r-rock, and when I woke up I heard voices
just under me."
"The hell ye did!"
"It was you and Bud."
"Well, what ye goin' to do about hit? Hit ain' befittin' you to squeal
on us."
Von Rittenheim turned hot in the darkness, and made an impulsive motion
that induced a corresponding disturbance in his companion.
"If I had thought of doing that I should not have spoken to you
to-night."
Pressley nodded, and came across the intervening space.
"You-all wan' to come into the game, eh?"
"No, I do not want to join you, if that is what you mean."
"Well, what do ye want, anyway?"
"I wees' to say a few things to you. I do not ask you to stop
moonshining. You are old enough to decide for yourself what kind of
life you pr-refer to lead, though you know well that the life of a
law-br-reaker is not the r-right sort."
"Oh, quit preachin', Mr. Baron. You-all's a law-breaker, yo'self."
Friedrich clutched the reins with a jerk that made the mule give a
disgusted snort. The justice of the retort compelled him to
self-control, as well as the knowledge that a giving way to rage would
accomplish nothing, whereas coolness might do something.
"You know as well as I do the penalty of br-reaking the law. You've
suffered it more than once, they tell me."
"Ah reckon Ah've cost 'em right smart mo'n they ever got out o' me,"
chuckled Pink.
"So I do not ask you to face the r-results of what you do, because you
know well what they are, and you have made your choice. But I do ask
you to think carefully before you undertake the r-responsibility of
making Bud a criminal."
Pink's eyes shone cruelly in the darkness, but he only said, "Seems
like you-all been a long time startin' on this yere work o' reform. You
said hit was six weeks ago you heard us a-talkin'."
"Perhaps I have been wrong to delay. But that morning Bud seemed not
sure and determined about joining you, and I hoped that he might make
up his mind to refr-rain."
"How do you know he ain'?"
"Oh, by the grape-vine telegraph. Those things always are known. Also
have I heard the men at the party to-night talking about it."
"Bud ain' no boy. Don' you think he's old enough to decide fo' himself
fo' or ag'in' the life of a law-breaker, as you call hit."
"No, I do not. Bud is several years younger than you in r-real age, and
he is a child beside you in deter-rmination. Also, he admires you."
"Ah'm grateful for the compliment!"
"You could do anything with him."
"Ah'm doin' what Ah wan' to with him."
Von Rittenheim looked at his opponent in disgust, and fell back upon
his last argument.
"You know well what are the chances of your getting caught. You've been
caught before."
"Yes, but Ah won' be this time. Hit was fellers that was mad with me
who told on me befo', 'n Ah've fixed hit this time so Ah ain' got no
enemies. They's only one feller that might inform."
"Who's that?"
"You."
The Baron flung up his head in quick scorn, and Pressley noted the
gesture shrewdly, and nodded in satisfaction. Still he drove in another
nail.
"A feller who'll listen will tell."
Friedrich colored angrily.