One evening, about four days later, Mrs. Waycroft hurried in to see Ann.
The sharp-sighted woman, as she nodded indifferently to the visitor, and
continued her work of raking live coals under a three-legged pot on the
hearth, saw that Mrs. Waycroft was the fluttering bearer of news of some
sort, but she made no show of being ready to listen to it. The widow,
however, had come to be heard, she had come for the sheer enjoyment of
recital.
"Ann," she panted, "let that oven alone and listen to me. I've got about
the biggest piece of news that has come your way in many a long day."
"You say you have?" Ann's brass-handled poker rang as she gave a parting
thrust at a burning chunk, and struck the leg of the pot.
"Yes, and I dropped on to it by the barest accident. About an hour after
sunset to-day, I was in the graveyard, sitting over Jennie's grave, and
planning how to place the new stones. I looked at the spot where I'd
been sitting afterwards, and saw that it was well sheltered with thick
vines. I was completely covered from the sight of anybody passing along
the road. Well, as I was sitting there kind o' tired from my work and
the walk, I heard a man's voice and a woman's. It was Langdon Chester
and Virginia Hemingway. He seemed to be doing most of the talking, and
since God made me, I never heard such tender love-making since I was
born. I knew I had no business to listen, but I just couldn't help it.
It took me back to the time I was a girl and used to imagine that some
fine young man was coming to talk to me that way and offer me a happy
home and all heart could desire. I never dreamed such tender words could
fall from a man's tongue. I tried to see Virginia's face, but couldn't.
He went on to say that his folks was to know nothing at present about
him and her, but that everything would finally be satisfactorily
arranged."
"Huh, I reckon so!" Ann ejaculated, off her usual guard, and then she
lapsed into discreet silence again.
"But I got on to the biggest secret of all," Mrs. Waycroft continued.
"It seems that Langdon has been talking in a roundabout way to his
father about Jane's sad plight, and that Colonel Chester had agreed to
send the money for the operation from Savannah."
"Huh! he's got no money to give away," slipped again from Ann's too
facile lips, "and if he _did_ have it, he wouldn't--"
"Well, that may be, or it may not," said Mrs. Waycroft; "but Langdon
said he wasn't going to wait for the check. He said a man in Darley had
been bantering him for a long time to buy his fine horse, Prince, and as
he didn't care to keep the animal, he had sent him by one of the negroes
on the place this morning."
"Oh, he did that!" Ann panted. She carefully leaned the poker against
the jamb of the fireplace and sat staring, her rugged face working under
stress of deep and far-reaching thought.
"So I heard him say as plainly as you and me are talking right now. He
said the negro couldn't possibly make the transfer and get back with the
money till about ten o'clock to-night. And that, to me, Ann--just
between us two, was the oddest thing of all. For he was begging her to
slip away from home at that hour and come to his house for the money, so
she could surprise her ma with it the first thing in the morning."
"He was, was he? huh!" Ann rose and went to the door and looked out.
There she stood stroking her set face with a steady hand. She was
tingling with excitement and trying to hide it. Then she turned back and
bent low to look at the coals under her pot. "Well, I reckon she was
willing to grant a little favor like that under the circumstances."
"She had to be begged powerful," said the visitor. "I never in all my
life heard such pleading. Part of the time he'd scold her and reproach
her with not caring for him like he did for her. Then he'd accuse her of
being suspicious of him, even when he was trying his level best to help
her out of trouble. Finally, he got to talking about how folks died,
slow-like, from cancers, and what her real duty was to her mother. It
was then that she give in. I know she did, though I didn't hear what she
said, for he laughed out sudden, and gladlike, and I heard him kiss her
and begin over again, about how happy they were going to be and the
like. I reckon, Ann, he really _does_ mean to marry her."
"I reckon so," Ann said. "I reckon so. Such things have been known to
happen."
"Well, we'll wait and see what comes of it," said Mrs. Waycroft.
"Anyway, Jane will get her cancer-money, and that's all she cares for.
They say she's in agony day and night, driving Virginia distracted. I'm
sorry for that pore little thing. I don't like her mammy, for treating
you as she has so long and persistent, but I can't hold Virginia
accountable."
Ann shrugged her broad shoulders. There was a twinkling light of dawning
triumph in each of her non-committal eyes, and unwonted color in her
cheeks, all of which escaped the widow's notice.
"Well, that wasn't the end," she said, tentatively.
"I couldn't hear any more, Ann. They walked on. I stood up and watched
them as they went on through the bushes, arm in arm, towards her home.
I'm sure he loves her. Anybody would know it that heard him talk;
besides she is pretty--you know that, Ann. She is the most beautiful
girl I have ever seen anywhere. They looked fine, too, walking side by
side. They say he's a spendthrift and got bad habits, but maybe his
folks will be glad to have him settle down with such a sensible girl if
she is poor. She'll keep him straight. I'd rather nothing is said about
where Jane's money is coming from, Ann. That seems to be their secret,
and I have no right to circulate it."
"I'll not talk it," Ann said. "It will be safe with me."
When the widow had left, Ann became a changed creature in outward
appearance. She stood on the porch till her guest had disappeared in the
dusk, and then she paced the floor of her sitting-room in a spasm of
ecstasy, now and then shaken by a hearty laugh.
"I see through him," she chuckled. "He is trying to ease his dirty
conscience by paying money down. It's a slick trick--on a par with a
promise to marry. He's telling his filthy soul that he's saving her
mother's life. The girl's as blind as a bat--the average woman can only
see one thing at a time; she's simply bent on getting that money, and
thinks of nothing else. But, Jane Hemingway--old lady--I've got you
where I want you at last. It won't be long before your forked tongue
will be tied fast in a knot. You can't keep on after me publicly for
what is in your own dirty flesh. And when you know the truth you'll
know, too, that it all come about to save your worthless life. You'll
get down on your knees then and beg the Lord to have mercy on you. Maybe
you'll remember all you've done against me from your girl-days till now
as you set with your legs dangling in the grave. Folks will shun your
house, too, unless you rid it of contagion. But you _bet I'll_ call.
I'll send in _my_ card. Me'n' you'll be on a level then, and we'll owe
it to the self-same high and mighty source."
Ann suddenly felt a desire for the open air, as if the very walls of her
house checked the pleasurable out-pourings of her triumph, and she went
outside and strode up and down in the yard, fairly aflame with joy. All
at once she paused; she was confronting the sudden fear that she might
be fired by a false hope. Virginia, it was true, had agreed to go to
Chester's at the appointed hour, but might she not, in calmer moments,
when removed from Langdon's persistent influence, think better of it and
stay at home? Ah, yes, there was the chance that the girl might fail to
keep the appointment, and then--
Cold from head to foot, Ann went back into the cottage and stood before
the fire looking at the clock. It was fifteen minutes of ten, and ten
was the hour. Why not make sure of the outcome? Why not, indeed? It was
a good idea, and would save her days and days of suspense.
Going out, Ann trudged across the dewy meadow, her coarse skirt clutched
in her hands till she stood in one of the brier-grown fence-corners near
the main road. Here, quite hidden from the open view of any one passing,
by the shade of a young mulberry-tree, whose boughs hung over her like
the ribs of an umbrella, she stood and waited. She must have been there
ten minutes or more, her tense gaze on the road leading to Jane
Hemingway's cottage, when she was sure she heard soft footsteps coming
towards her. Yes, it was some one, but could it be--? It was a woman's
figure; she could see that already, and, yes, there could be no mistake
now--it _was_ Virginia. There was no one in the neighborhood quite so
slight, light of foot, and erect. Ann suddenly crouched down till she
could peer between the lower rails of the fence. She held her breath
while the girl was passing, then she clasped her hands over her knees
and chuckled. "It's _her_!" she whispered. "It's her, and she's headed
for everlasting doom if ever a creature walked into a net of damnation."
When Virginia was thirty or forty yards away, Ann cautiously climbed
over the fence, almost swearing in impatience as she pulled her skirts
from the detaining clutch of thorns, briers, and splinters, and with her
head down she followed.
"I'll make dead sure," she said, between pressed lips. "This is a matter
I don't want to have a shadow of a doubt about."
Presently, the long, white palings comprising the front fence at the
Chesters' appeared into view, and the dark, moving figure of the girl
outlined against it could be seen more clearly.
Virginia moved onward till she had reached the gate. The smooth, steel
latch clicked; there was a rip of darkness in the ribbon of white; the
hinges creaked; the gate closed with a slam, as if it had slipped from
nerveless fingers, and the tall boxwood bordering the walk to the door
of the old house swallowed Virginia from the sight of her grim pursuer.
"That will do me," Ann chuckled, as she turned back, warm with content
in every vein. On her rapid walk to her house she allowed her fancy to
play upon scores of situations in which the happening of that night
would bring dire humiliation and shame to her enemy. Ann well knew what
was coming; she had only to hold the album of her own life open and let
the breeze of chance turn the pages to view what Jane Hemingway was to
look upon later.