THE following evening was balmy and moonlit. Hillhouse was at Porter's
just after supper, seated on the porch in conversation with Mrs. Porter.
“Yes, I believe I'd not ask her to see you to-night,” she was advising
him. “The poor girl seems completely fagged out. She tries to do as
much about the house as usual, but it seems to tire her more. Then she
doesn't eat heartily, and I hear her constantly sighing.”
“Ah, I see,” Hillhouse said, despondently. “Yes,” the old woman pursued,
“I suppose if you finally get her to marry you, you'll have to put up
with the memory that she _did_ have a young girl's fancy for that man,
Brother Hillhouse. But she wasn't the only one. The girls all liked him,
and he did show a preference for her.”
“Has she--has she heard the latest news--the very latest?” Hillhouse
asked, anxiously. “Has she heard the report that Henry A. Floyd told
Mr. Mayhew he had met Nelson and revealed that awful news about his
parentage?”
“Oh yes; Mrs. Snodgrass came in with that report this morning. She knew
as well as anything that Cynthia was excited, and yet she sat in the
parlor and went over and over the worst parts of it, watching the girl
like a hawk. Cynthia got up and left the room. She was white as death
and looked like she would faint. Mrs. Snodgrass hinted at deliberate
suicide. She declared a young man as proud and high-strung as Nelson
Floyd would resort to that the first thing. She said she wouldn't blame
him one bit after all he's suffered. Well, just think of it, Brother
Hillhouse! Did you ever hear of anybody being treated worse? He's been
tossed and kicked about all his life, constantly afraid that he wasn't
quite as respectable as other folks. And then all at once he was taken
up and congratulated by the wealth and blood around him on his high
stand--and then finally had to have this last discovery rammed in his
face. Why, that's enough to drive any proud spirit to desperation! I
don't blame him for getting drunk. I don't blame him, either, for not
wanting to come back to be snubbed by those folks. But what I _do_
want is fer him not to drag me and mine into his trouble. When my girl
marries, I want her to marry some man that will be good to her, and I
want him to have decent social standing. Even if Floyd's alive, if I can
help it, Cynthia shall never marry him--never!”
“Does Miss Cynthia believe,” ventured the preacher, “that Floyd has
killed himself?”
“I don't think she believes that, _quite_,” was Mrs. Porter's reply;
“but she doesn't seem to think he'll ever come back to Springtown. Don't
you worry, Brother Hillhouse. She'll get over this shock after a while,
and then she'll appreciate your worth and constancy. If I were you, I'd
not press my claim right now.”
“Oh, I wouldn't think of such a thing!” Hillhouse stroked a sort of
glowing resignation into his chin, upon which a two-days beard had made
a ragged appearance. “I've been awfully miserable, Sister Porter, but
this talk with you has raised my hopes.” Mrs. Porter rose with a faint
smile. “Now, you go home and write another good sermon like that last
one. I watched Cynthia out of the corner of my eye all through it. That
idea of its being our duty to bear our burdens cheerfully--no matter
how heavy they are--seemed to do her a lot of good.” The color came into
Hillhouse's thin face, and his eyes shone. “The sermon I have in mind
for next Sunday is on the same general line,” he said. “I'm glad she
listened. I was talking straight at her, Sister Porter. I'm not ashamed
to admit it. I've been unable to think of anything but her since--since
Floyd disappeared.”
“You are a good man, Brother Hillhouse”--Mrs. Porter was giving him her
hand--“and somehow I feel like you will get all you want, in due time,
remember--in due time.”
“God bless you, sister,” Hillhouse said, earnestly, and, pressing the
old woman's hand, he turned away.