A LIGHT IN DARKNESS
AFTERWARD, when the two men had parted for the night, Miner went
directly to his home, and there in his usual methodical fashion
undressed and got himself into bed, although all the time his dark face
was twisting and working, his mouth dry, while the mind of the man had
no knowledge of what his hands were doing. For Miner, without
understanding it, was alone on his high mountain where every man must
stand who knows what it is to desire and to surrender. So what does it
matter that his mountain was the attic bedroom of a cottage and that the
little man who wrestled with the devil stood but five feet two in his
stocking feet and weighed only a hundred and five pounds, or even that
his "Get thee behind me, Satan," was so differently put?
Because when Miner's fight was over he merely said: "I ain't never been
at all certain in my mind that I could love a woman, so more'n likely
I've all along been mistaken 'bout Em'ly. Seems like there ain't but one
mortal thing on this earth I am sure on and that's--Ambrose!"
And yet the little man recalled nothing of the story of David and
Jonathan, and, even if he had, could never have appreciated how their
story touched his.
Nevertheless, it was one thing to decide to make a sacrifice of himself
and his love to his friend, and quite a different thing to persuade that
friend to accept it. For some time poor Miner puzzled; Ambrose would not
even go out to the log cabin during the period of Emily's convalescence,
though getting daily reports of her condition through him and through
Doctor Webb. Susan Barrows, for some unexplainable reason, absolutely
declined to speak to her next door neighbour when, after the period of
her nursing was over, she had once more returned home.
There were harassed hours when unwittingly Miner came near to laying the
case before Ambrose, being so accustomed, in all other matters
requiring imagination, to relying on that of his friend. It is all very
well to think that he might just have plainly stated his own change of
mind and heart, but measuring the extent of the renunciation by what it
would have meant to him, so surely Ambrose would never have accepted his
sacrifice.
No, some more ingenious method must be devised, and Hamlet did not
devote more agony to discovering a plan for avenging his father's death
than Miner to finding a way of new life for Ambrose.
One afternoon the little man was limping slowly along the dusty August
turnpike leading out from Pennyroyal with Moses, who, feeling his need,
had accompanied him, yet, now too stiff to walk far, was being carried
in his arms, when the attention of both the man and dog were arrested by
the spectacle of an old darky trying to drive a mule, hitched to a
wagonload of green-corn, into Pennyroyal, the mule having at this point
positively declined to go farther.
It was inspiration in a strange guise, and yet inspiration must
necessarily come to us in the character of the events that make up our
lives.
The darky coaxed and threatened and beat his willow switch bare of
leaves; the mule, spreading her legs to the four corners of the globe,
remained firm. By and by the negro got down from his seat and with
Miner's aid gathered a small pile of chips, which, with a piece of
paper, were placed under the mule and set fire to. Then an instant
later, when the mule started trotting amiably off toward Pennyroyal,
Miner's heart began singing its own peculiar anthem of thankfulness, and
immediately afterward he hurried off for a visit to Emily at the log
cabin.
On coming back to the shop so changed was his expression and so cleared
his look of doubt that Ambrose, feeling sure Emily had just accepted
him, wished to God Miner would confide in him and so let his darkest
hour be lived through.
But Miner said nothing then. However, when his regular hour came around
once more he appeared taking his accustomed chair next his friend's
under the apple tree in his yard. And yet here Miner still continued
mute, although moving about far more restlessly than usual, while
Ambrose, patiently waiting for him to speak, felt the sharpness of his
earlier desire succeeded by a kind of apathy. Finally at some little
distance off a clock in a church tower struck eight.
"My foot itches to-night, Ambrose," Miner announced suddenly.
"Shake it," advised his listener, whose mind was certainly on a far
different line of thought.
But Miner, only squirming and twisting about the more, complained:
"Seems like it's one of them things that can't be shook off. I was just
a-thinkin' it might be better to go for a walk than to sit here so
eternal."
And here Ambrose, feeling that the little man would never get out his
confession to-night, sighed: "Suit yourself, ef you like walking better.
I reckon I kin make out the rest of the evening alone."
Nevertheless, Miner did not stir. Instead, taking another bite at a
fresh plug of tobacco, he chewed on it fiercely for a moment longer. "I
was aimin' for you to come with me," he said, "bein's as you know I
ain't able to git on too well with this lame leg."
The soft summer night stirred in Ambrose no inclination for movement,
and indeed far rather would he have been alone and undisturbed, yet now
getting up slowly, lifting his great height in sections, he offered his
arm to his friend.
Then the two men started off together, walking far more rapidly than
usual on a summer night's stroll, for Miner seemed to have forgotten his
lameness, and the fury of his spirit rushed them both ahead. Every now
and then, furtively, he kept feeling in his back pocket, but the tall
man did not notice him nor was he for some time aware in what direction
he was being led.
A half moon shone in the sky, and the night was clear and still.
Then suddenly at a turn in a country road Ambrose abruptly halted,
letting his companion's arm slide from his own. For at this turn in the
road to the end of his life must Ambrose Thompson wake to consciousness,
since from here in the daylight could be seen the first glimpse of the
log schoolhouse, and though not visible by night its spiritual presence
was the plainer.
"I ain't goin' with you to Em'ly's to-night, Miner," Ambrose declared
quietly; "it's more'n I kin stand and more'n you've the right to ask. I
wasn't countin' on you tryin' to outwit me." The words were spoken with
only reasonable reproach, and yet the little man turned on the speaker
fiercely.
"You jist wait here, Ambrose Thompson, till I git back, and keep on
waitin' in the same place, for ef you don't I'll never forgive you, God
knows." And off trotted Miner toward the cabin, until his small form was
lost in the darkness.
Of course Ambrose waited, it having always been his custom to give way
to Miner in small things, and, as he had grown unaccountably weary,
stretched himself full length on the ground, and there a moment later
the man felt himself in the grip of the primal instinct that all big men
and some big women know. His will kept his long clean body still, yet
everything else in him called out the strong man's right over the weak.
The earth that mothered him proved it in all her moods. And yet there
only a few paces ahead of him Miner was holding Emily in his arms. One
swift rush and--here Ambrose checked his vision, for he would not stir
one foot.
Therefore, at first, the slight crackling noise at some little distance
off made no impression upon him, but almost at once and without his own
volition his long, sensitive nose sniffed the odour of smoke somewhere
in the woods. The next instant a flame shot up in the air and Ambrose
with it, for the flame came directly from the neighbourhood of Emily's
cottage.
"Lord!" murmured Ambrose as he ran, "Em'ly's house is afire, and she
hasn't no one but a little runt like Miner to look after her."