But, curiously, sitting alone, he gave little consideration to the
decision, immediate and irrevocable, which confronted him. His thoughts
evaded, defied, him, retreated into night-like obscurity, returned
burdened with trivial and unexpected details of memory. It grew colder,
the rich monotone of mountain and sky changed to an impenetrable, ugly
density above which the constellations wheeled without color. His back was
toward the maple grove; the removed, disembodied voices mingled in a sound
not more intelligible than the chorus of frogs. It occurred to him
suddenly that, perhaps, in a week, a month, he might not be in
Greenstream, nor in the mountains, but with the white body of Meta Beggs
in the midst of one of those vast, fabulous cities the lust of which
possessed her so utterly.... Or she would be gone.
He thought instinctively of the little cemetery on the slope above the
village. One by one that rocky patch was absorbing family and familiars.
Life appeared to be a stumbling procession winding through Greenstream
over the rise and sinking into that gaping, insatiable chasm. He was
conscious of an invisible force propelling him into that sorry parade,
toward those unpretentious stones marked with the shibboleth of names and
dates. A desperate anxiety to evade this fate set his soul cowering in its
fatal mask of clay. This, he realized, was unadulterated, childish fear,
and he angrily aroused himself from its stifling influence.
Meta Beggs would be back soon; she would require an answer to her
resolve ... all or nothing. The heat, chilled by the night and loneliness,
faded a little from his blood. She demanded a great deal--a man could
never return. He bitterly cursed his indecision. He became aware of a
pervading weariness, a stiffness from his prolonged contact with the
earth, and he rose, moved about. His legs were as rigid, as painful, as an
old man's; he had been leaning on his elbow, and the arm was dead to the
fingers. The nerves pricked and jerked in infinitesimal, fiery agonies. He
swung his arms, stamped his feet, aiding his stagnating circulation. The
frogs ceased their complaint abruptly; the concerted jangle of voices in
the grove rose and fell. The replenished fires poured their energy over
the broad bottoms of the sap kettles.
The night faded.
The change, at first, was imperceptible: as always the easterly mountains
grow visible against a lighter sky. The foliage of the maples, stripped
of the looping stars, took the form of individual branches brightening
from black to green. There was a stir of dim figures about the impatient
horses. Meta Beggs came swiftly to him. He could see her face plainly now,
and was surprised at its strained, anxious expression. Her hand closed
upon his arm, she drew him to her:
"Which?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he dully replied.
"Save me," she implored; "take me away." She whispered maddeningly in his
ear, summoning the lust within him, the clamor in his brain, the throbbing
in his throat, his wrists. He shut his eyes, and, when he opened them, the
dawn had arrived. It forced her from him. Her gown changed to vivid red;
about her throat the graceful pearls were faintly iridescent.
"I don't know," he repeated wearily.
Over her shoulder he saw a buggy approaching across the grass. It was
disconcertingly familiar, until he recognized, beyond any doubt, that it
was his own. Sim, he assured himself, had learned of his presence at the
sap-boiling, and, in passing, had stopped to fetch him home. But there was
no man in the buggy ... only two women. Meta Beggs, intercepting his
intent gaze, turned and followed it to its goal ... Gordon saw now that
Mrs. Caley was driving, and by her side ... Lettice! Lettice--riding over
the rough field, over the dark stony roads, when now, so soon ... in her
condition ... it was insanity. Simeon Caley's wife should never have
allowed it.
The horse, stolidly walking over the sod, stopped before them. Mrs. Caley
held a rein in either hand, her head, framed in a rusty black bonnet and
strings, was as dark, as immobile as iron. Lettice gathered her shawl
tightly about her shoulders; she had on a white waist and her head was
bare. She descended clumsily from the buggy and walked slowly up to
Gordon. Her face was older than he had ever seen it, and pinched; in one
hand she grasped a small pasteboard box.