THE RETURN
IT WAS the fourth morning since Ambrose's departure, and county court
day in Pennyroyal. The hour was just before noon, so the men had already
left the court-house and were standing around in groups talking
politics, while the younger ones paraded, walking shoulder to shoulder
for mutual support and encouragement. The main street was also
fluttering with girls, a variety of household errands having brought
them forth at this hour; on their arms fresh sunbonnets trembled, in
their eyes wonderful things danced, and indeed almost all of them were
fair. Yet in the doorway of the drygoods firm of Hobbs & Thompson Miner
Hobbs stood wrapped in gloom; the girls had giggled for him and at him
vainly. More than eighty-six hours had passed bringing no word from his
partner.
Suddenly a vibration swept through the air as tangible as the pealing
of bells. Ambrose was on his way back into Pennyroyal. The news must
have had its origin somewhere out of sight, for now it was travelling
swiftly by word of mouth.
One moment the older men ceased arguing and spat widely, the girls
turned their eyes away from their admirers, even the youths glanced up
the hill, for the story grew that not only was Ambrose returning, but
that he did not ride alone.
By and by, though still some distance off, Miner beheld old Liza drawing
the familiar gig. About her neck hung a garland of buttercups and
daisies, above one twitching ear appeared a bouquet of wild flowers and
sweet fern tied with flowing streamers of white cotton-back satin
ribbon, while upright on the floor of the gig stood Ambrose.
As the equipage advanced Miner leaned against his door frame.
Ambrose was wearing a new stove-pipe hat, his swallow tailed coat
revealed a new beflowered waistcoat, and in his buttonhole blossomed a
rose. But Miner swept details aside. On Ambrose's face was the
expression that has lit up the world, and by his side rode a strange
girl never before seen in Pennyroyal.
Ambrose was bowing from right to left, waving his hat in joyous circles
of greeting, while the girl clung with one hand to an end of his coat
and with the other clutched her paper-flower bouquet.
When the gig had turned the corner into Linden street and was moving on
toward the rose cottage the news of its approach had preceded it, for
the wooden sidewalk close by was lined and there in the forefront stood
Susan Barrows, her hands on her hips and her bunches of corkscrew curls
bobbing.
"Where on earth did you find _that_ girl, Ambrose Thompson?" she called
out as soon as the couple were in hailing distance.
Ambrose drove closer. "I didn't _find_ her, Miss Susan," he answered,
lying like a saint.
Mrs. Barrows' eyes bored like old gimlets sharpened from long use.
"She's too young to be your housekeeper, and she ain't ugly," she said.
"The town'll talk."
But now Liza had stopped of her own accord in front of home, and
Ambrose, letting go of his reins, put his arm about the girl. Under the
new poke bonnet her face was pale except for the scarlet of her lips and
her dark eyes that never left their refuge.
The sensitive point to her companion's long nose quivered. Coming toward
them he could see Miner's six pink-and-white, blond sisters, and in
their wake the dark little man. Miner was walking like a man at a
funeral, with his head bowed, and that he did not wear a band of crepe
upon his arm was only that he had lacked opportunity; everything else
suggested a pall. At the same instant, round the corner of the cottage,
trotted Moses, waving his tail and wearing a smile of forgiveness. One
look, and ignoring his master's friendly whistle, the little dog
disappeared, not to be seen again for three days.
Silently Ambrose lifted the stranger down to the boardwalk and with his
arm still about her turned to face Susan. Perhaps there was something of
appeal in the familiar solemnity of his gaze and in his whimsical drawl:
"We'll let the town talk, Susan, won't we, or it'll bust?" he replied
quietly. "No, ma'am, she ain't my hired housekeeper; no ma'am, she
ain't no relation of mine; that is, no born blood kin." With this he
began leading Sarah to the shelter of his own yard and, drawing her in,
closed the gate.
"But we're pretty closely related, Susan." Purposely Ambrose's voice was
raised. He then took a few irresistibly jubilant steps backward and
forward, swinging the girl with him. "She's my wife!"
PART TWO
HIS SECOND WIFE
"_Heaven mend us all_"