WHEN Cynthia heard the gate close behind the preacher, and from the
window of her room had seen him striding away, she put a shawl over her
shoulder and started out.
“Where on earth are you going?” her mother asked from the end of the
porch, where she stood among the honeysuckle vines.
“I want to run across to Mrs. Baker's, just a minute,” Cynthia said. “I
won't be long. I'll come right back.”
“I'd think you'd be afraid to do that,” her mother protested, “with so
many stray negroes about. Besides, it's the Bakers' bedtime. Can't you
wait till to-morrow?”
“No, I want to walk, anyway,” said Cynthia. “I feel as if it will do me
good. I'm not afraid.”
“Well, I sha'n't go to bed till you come back,” Mrs. Porter gave in.
In a few minutes the girl was at the back-yard fence of Pole Baker's
cottage. The door was open wide, and in the firelight Cynthia saw Mrs.
Baker bending over the dining-room table.
“Oh, Mrs. Baker!” the girl called, softly.
“Who's that? Oh, it's you, Cynthia!” and the older woman came out into
the moonlight, brushing her white apron with her hand. She leaned over
the fence. “Won't you come in?”
“No, I promised mother I'd be right back. I thought maybe you could tell
me if Mr. Baker had heard anything yet.”
“I'm sorry to say he hain't,” replied the little woman, sadly. “Him
and Mr. Mayhew has been working all sorts of ways, and writing constant
letters to detectives and the mayors of different cities, but everything
has failed. He came in just now looking plumb downhearted.”
Cynthia took a deep breath. Her lips quivered as if she had started to
speak and failed.
“But, la me! I haven't give up,” Mrs. Baker said, in a tone of forced
lightness. “He'll come home all safe and sound one of these days,
Cynthia. I have an idea that he's just mad at his ill-luck all round,
and, right now, doesn't care what folks about here think. He'll git over
all that in due time and come back and face his trouble like other men
have done. It's a bitter pill fer a proud young man to swallow, but a
body kin git used to most anything in time.”
“I'm afraid he's never coming home,” Cynthia said, in rigid calmness.
“He once told me if he ever had any great trouble he would be tempted to
drink again. Mr. Baker thinks he's been drinking, and in that condition
there is no telling what has happened to him.”
“Well, let me tell you some'n'--let me give you a piece of sound
advice,” said Mrs. Baker. “It's unaxed; but I'm a sufferin' woman, an'
I'm a-goin' to advise you as I see fit, ef you never speak to me ag'in.
Ef whiskey is keepin' Nelson Floyd away, an' he does come back an' wants
to marry you, don't you take 'im. Tear 'im from yore young heart 'fore
the roots o' yore love git too big an' strong to pull out. It may not be
whiskey that's keepin' 'im away. He may 'a' taken a dram or two at the
start an' be livin' sober somewhar now; or, then ag'in, as you say,
some'n' may 'a' happened to 'im; but, anyhow, don't you resk livin'
with 'im, not ef he has all the money on earth. Money won't stick to a
drinkin' man no longer than the effects of a dram, an' in the mind of
sech a fellow good intentions don't amount to no more than a swarm o'
insects that are born an' die in a day. Of course, some men _do_ reform.
I'm prayin' right now that the awful thing that happened t'other night
to Pole will be his tumin'-p'int, but I dunno. I'll walk on thin ice
over a lake o' fire till I kin see furder. Be that as it may, Cynthia,
I can't stand by an' see another unsuspectin' woman start in on the road
I've travelled--no, siree!”
“I think you are exactly right,” Cynthia said, under her breath, and
then she sighed deeply. “Well, good-night. I must go.” She was turning
away, when Mrs. Baker called to her.
“Stop, Cynthia!” she said. “You ain't mad at me, are you?”
“Not a bit in the world,” Cynthia answered. “In fact, I'm grateful for
your advice. I may never have a choice in such a matter, but I know you
mean it for my own good.”
As Cynthia entered the gate at home, her mother rose from a chair on the
porch. “Now I can go to bed,” she remarked. “I have been awfully uneasy,
almost expecting to hear you scream out from that lonely meadow.”
“There was nothing to be afraid of, mother,” and Cynthia passed on to
her own room. She closed the door and lighted her lamp, and then took
her Bible from the top drawer of her bureau and sat down at her table
and began to read it. She read chapter after chapter mechanically, her
despondent eyes doing work which never reached her throbbing brain.
Presently she realized this and closed the book. Rising, she went to
her window and looked across the grass-grown triangle to her mother's
window. It was dark. All the other windows were so, too. The house was
wrapped in slumber. She heard the clock strike nine. Really she must
go to bed, and yet she knew she would not sleep, and the thought of the
long, conscious hours till daybreak caused her to shudder.
Perhaps twenty minutes had passed since the clock struck, when a sound
suddenly fell upon her ears that thrilled every muscle in her body. It
was the far-off call of a whippoorwill! Was it the cry of the real
bird or an imitation--_his_ imitation? She stood like a thing of stone,
straining her ears for its repetition. There! There it was again, and
nearer, clearer, more appealing. Ah, no creature of mere feathers and
flesh could have uttered that tentative, soulful note! It was Nelson
Floyd alive!--alive and wanting her--her first of all! Standing before
her mirror, she tried to tie up her hair, which had fallen loose upon
her shoulders, but her hands refused to do their office. Without a
second's deliberation she sprang to her door, opened it, and ran on to
the outer one. Passing through this, she glided across the porch and
softly sped over the grass in the direction of the sound. She heard it
again, in startling shrillness, and then, in the clear moonlight, she
saw Floyd standing in front of the grape-arbor. As she drew near her
heart stood still at the sight of the change which had come on him. It
lay like the tracing of Death's pencil on his brow, in his emaciated
features and loosely fitting, soiled, and unpressed clothing. For the
first time in her life she yielded herself without resistance to his
out-stretched arms. With no effort to prevent it, she allowed him to
press his lips to hers. Childlike, and as if in fear of losing him
again, she slid her arm round his neck and drew him tightly to her.
Neither uttered a word. Thus they remained for a moment, and then he led
her into the arbor and they sat down together, his arm still about her
body, her head on his breast. He was first to speak.
“I was so afraid you'd not come,” he panted, as if he had been walking
fast. “Have you heard of my trouble?” he went on, his voice sounding
strange and altered.
She nodded on his breast, not wanting to see the pain she knew was
mirrored in his face.
“Oh no, surely you haven't--that is, not--not what I learned in Atlanta
about my--my mother and father?”
Again she nodded, pressing her brow upward against his chin in a mute
action of consolation and sympathy.
He sighed. “I didn't think anybody knew that,” he said. “That is,
anybody up here.”
“Mr. Mayhew went down and saw your uncle,” Cynthia found voice to say,
finally.
“Don't call him my uncle--he's not that, except as hell gives men
relatives. But I don't want to speak of him. The memory of his ashy
face, glittering eyes, and triumphant tone as he hurled those facts at
me is like a horrible nightmare. I'm not here to deny a thing, little
girl. I came to let you see me just as I am. I fell very low. No one
knows I'm here. I passed through Darley without meeting a soul I knew
and walked all the way here, dodging off the road when I heard the sound
of hoofs or wheels. I've come to you, Cynthia--only you. You are the
only one out of this part of my life that I ever want to see again. I am
not going to hide anything. After that revelation in Atlanta I sank as
low as a brute. I drank and lost my head. I spent several days in New
Orleans more like a demon than a human being--among gamblers, thieves,
and cutthroats. Two of my companions confessed to me that they were
escaped convicts put in for murder. I went on to Havana and came back
again to New Orleans. Yesterday I reached Atlanta. I learned that the
police had been trying to find me, and hid out. Last night, Cynthia, I
was drunk again; but this morning I woke up with a longing to throw
it all off, to be a man once more, and while I was thinking about it a
thought came to me like a flash of light from heaven thrown clear across
the black waste of hell. The thought came to me that, although I am a
nobody (that name has never passed my lips since I learned it was not my
own)--the thought came to me, I say, that there was one single and only
chance for me to return to manhood and obtain earthly happiness. Do you
follow me, dearest?”
She raised her head and looked into his great, staring eyes.
“Not quite, Nelson,” she said, softly. “Not quite.”
“You see, I recalled that you, too, are not happy here at home, and, as
in my case, through no fault of your own--no fault, except being born
different from others around you. I remembered all you'd told me about
your mother's suspicious, exacting nature, and how hard you worked at
home, and how little real joy you got out of life, and then it came to
me that we both had as much right to happiness as any one else--you for
your hard life and I for all that I'd suffered. So I stopped drinking.
I have not touched a drop to-day, although a doctor down there said I
really needed a stimulant. You can see how nervous I am. I shake all
over. But I am stimulated by hope--that's it, Cynthia--hope! I've come
to tell you that you can make a man of me--that you have it in your
power to blot out all my trouble.”
“I don't see how, Nelson.” Cynthia raised her head and looked into his
shadowy face wonderingly.
“I've come here to ask you to leave this spot with me forever. I've got
unlimited means. Even since I've been away my iron lands in Alabama
and coal lands in Tennessee have sprung up marvellously in value.
This business here at the store is a mere trifle compared to other
investments of mine. We could go far away where no one knows of my
misfortune, and, hand-in-hand, make us a new home and new friends. Oh,
Cynthia, that holds out such dazzling promise to me that, honestly, all
the other fades away in contrast to it. Just to think, you'll be all
mine, all mine--alone with me in the wide, wide world! I have no legal
name to give you, it's true, but”--he laughed harshly--“we could put our
heads together and pick a pretty one, and call ourselves by it. I once
knew a man who was a foundling, and because they picked him up early in
the morning he was called 'Early.' That wouldn't sound bad, would it?
Mr. and Mrs. Early, from nowhere, but nice, good people. What do you
say, little girl? It all rests with you now. You are to decide whether I
rise or sink back again, for God knows I don't see how I could possibly
give you up. I have not acted right with you all along in not declaring
my love sooner, but I hardly knew my mind. It was not till that night
at the mill that I began to realize how dear you were to me, but it was
such a wonderful awakening that I did not speak of it as I should. But
why don't you say something, Cynthia? Surely you don't love any one
else--”
She drew herself quite from his embrace, but, still clasping one of his
hands like an eager child, she said:
“Nelson, I don't believe I'm foolish and impetuous like some girls I
know. You are asking me to take the most important step in a woman's
life, and I cannot decide hastily. You have been drinking, Nelson, you
acknowledge that frankly. In fact, I would have known it anyway, for you
are not like you used to be--even your voice has altered. Nelson, a man
who will give way to whiskey even in great trouble is not absolutely a
safe man. I'm unhappy, I'll admit it. I've suffered since you
disappeared as I never dreamed a woman could suffer, and yet--and yet
what you propose seems a very imprudent thing to do. When did you want
me to leave?”
“A week from to-night,” he said. “I can have everything ready by then
and will bring a horse and buggy. I'll leave them down below the orchard
and meet you right here. I'll whistle in the old way, and you must come
to me. For God's sake don't refuse. I promise to grant any request you
make. Not a single earthly wish of yours shall ever go unsatisfied. I
_know_ I can make you happy.”
Cynthia was silent for a moment. She drew her hand from his clasp. “I'll
promise this much,” she said, in a low, firm voice. “I'll promise to
bring my decision here next Friday night. If I decide to go, I suppose
I'd better pack--”
“Only a very few things,” he interposed. “We shall stop in New Orleans
and you can get all you want. Oh, little girl, think of my sheer delight
over seeing you fairly loaded down with the beautiful things you ought
always to have had, and noting the wonder of everybody over your rare
beauty of face and form, and to know that you are all mine, that you
gave up everything for a nameless man! You will not go back on me,
dearest? You won't do it, after all I've been through?”
Cynthia was silent after this burst of feeling, and he put his arm
around her and drew her, slightly resisting, into his embrace.
“What is troubling you, darling?” he asked, tenderly.
“I'm worried about your drinking,” she faltered. “I've seen more misery
come from that habit than anything else in the world.”
“But I swear to you that not another drop shall ever pass my lips,”
he said. “Why, darling, even with no promise to you to hold me back,
I voluntarily did without it to-day, when right now my whole system is
crying out for it and almost driving me mad. If I could do that of my
own accord, don't you see I could let it alone forever for your sake?”
“But”--Cynthia raised her eyes to his--“between now and--and next Friday
night, will you--”
“I shall be as sober as a judge when I come,” he laughed, absorbing hope
from her question. “I shall come to you with the clearest head I ever
had--the clearest head and the lightest heart, little girl, for we are
going out together into a great, mysterious, dazzling world. You will
not refuse me? You are sent to me to repay me for all I've been through.
That's the way Providence acts. It brings us through misery and shadows
out into joy and light. My shadows have been dark, but my light--great
God, did mortal ever enter light such as ours will be!”
“Well, I'll decide by next Friday night,” Cynthia said; “that's all I
can promise now. It is a most important matter and I shall give it a
great deal of thought. I see the way you look at it.”
“But, Cynthia,” he cautioned her, “don't tell a soul that I've been
here. They think I'm dead; let them continue to do so. Friday night just
leave a note saying that you have gone off with me and that you will
write the particulars later. But we won't write till we have put a good
many miles behind us. Your mother' will raise a lot of fuss, but we
can't help that.”
“I shall not mention it to any one,” the girl agreed, and she rose and
stood before him, half turned to go.
“Then kiss me, dearest,” he pleaded, seizing her hands and holding them
tight--“kiss me of your own accord; you know you never have done that,
not even once, since I've known you.”
“No; don't ask me to do that,” she said, firmly, “for that would be
absolute consent, and I tell you, Nelson, frankly, I have not yet fully
decided. You must not build on it too much.”
“Oh, don't talk that way, darling. Don't let me carry a horrible doubt
for a whole week. Do say something that will keep up my hopes.”
“All I can say is that I'll decide by Friday night,” she repeated. “And
if I go I shall be ready. Good-night, Nelson; I can't stay out longer.”
He walked with her as far as he could safely do so in the direction of
the farm-house, and then they parted without further words.
“She'll go--the dear little thing,” he said to himself,
enthusiastically, as he walked through the orchard. When he had climbed
over the fence he paused, looked back, and shrugged his shoulders. An
unpleasant thrill passed over him. It was the very spot on which he had
met Pole Baker that night and had been so soundly reprimanded for his
indiscretion in quitting Nathan Porter's premises in such a stealthy
manner.
Suddenly Floyd pressed his hand to his waistcoat-pocket and drew out a
tiny object that glittered in the moonlight. “The engagement ring!” he
exclaimed, in a tone of deep disappointment; “and I forgot to give it
to her. What a fool I was, when she's never had a diamond in her life!
Well”--he looked hesitatingly towards the farm-house--“it wouldn't do
to call her back now. I'll keep it till Friday night. Like an idiot,
I forgot, too, in my excitement, to tell her where we are to be
married--that is, if she will go; but she won't desert me--I can trust
her. She will be my wife--_my wife!_”