Walking home in the still dusk of the winter gloaming, Thorne found
himself compelled at last to look the situation in the face without
disguise or subterfuge; to "take stock" of it all, as it were, and ask
himself what should be the result. He had lingered in Virginia,
lengthening his stay from week to week, because the old world
quaintness of the people, the freshness and yet antiquity of thought
prevalent among them, charmed him, pleased the aesthetic side of his
nature, as the softness of their voices pleased his ear, and the
suavity of their manners, his taste. He was tired to death of the old
routine, weary beyond expression of the beaten track, of the sameness
of the old treadmill of thought. Here he had found variety.
For somewhat the same reason he had sought Pocahontas, charily at
first, dreading disappointment, but finally, as his interest deepened,
without reserve. She was different from other women, more candid, less
impressible. He could not discover what she thought of him, beyond her
surface interest in his talents and conversation. She piqued and
stimulated him; in her presence he exerted himself and appeared at his
best, which is always pleasant to a man. Even old thoughts, and
hackneyed theories donned new apparel when about to be presented to her
notice.
He had played with fire, and was forced now to admit that the fate of
the reckless had overtaken him. He loved her. The truth had been
dawning on his mind for weeks past, but he had put it aside, willfully
blinding himself because of his contentment with the present. Now,
self delusion was no longer possible; the report of his gun had blown
away the last rays of it forever. When Pocahontas lay well-nigh
senseless in his arms, when her fair face rested on his breast and her
breath touched his cheek, he knew, and acknowledged to himself that he
loved her with a passionate intensity such as in all his careless,
self-indulgent life he had never before felt for a woman.
And he had no right to love her; he was a married man.
When this idea flashed across his mind it almost stunned him. He had
been free in heart and mind so long that he had ceased to remember that
he was bound in fact. The substance had so withdrawn itself into the
background of his life that he had forgotten that the shadow still
rested on him. He was free, and he was bound. Thorne turned the idea
over in his mind, as one turns a once familiar thing that has grown
strange from being hidden long from sight. Was he a married
man?--undoubtedly--the idea appalled him.
Two years had passed since the separation and there had been no
divorce. Thorne had thought the matter out at the time, as a man must,
and had decided to wait, and to let any initial steps be taken by his
wife. He had no love left for her, and he realized with grim intensity
that their marriage had been a terrible mistake, but there was
sufficient chivalry if his nature to make him feel that the mother of
his child had claims upon him--to make him willing, for the child's
sake, to leave her the protection of his home and name as long as she
cared to keep it. Then, too, the habit of thought in his family, and
all his early influences were against divorce. The idea had not
presented itself spontaneously, as the natural solution of his domestic
difficulties; he had been obliged to familiarize himself with it. His
family had been Catholics for generations, his mother had become one on
her marriage, and had been ardent and devout, as is usual with
proselytes. Thorne was not a religious man himself, but he respected
religion, and in an abstract way considered it a beautiful and holy
thing. He had never thought of it with any reference to his own life,
but it made a halo around the memory of his mother. Her views had
influenced him in his decision in the matter of a divorce. The world
had given him credit for religious scruples of his own, but the world
had done him more than justice; he was only haunted by the ghosts of
his mother's scruples.
Thorne leaned on the fence of the field where he had first seen
Pocahontas, and went over his former experience of love. What a
miserable thing it had been, at best! How feverish, vapory and
unsatisfying! What a wretched fiasco his marriage had proved! And yet
he had loved his wife! Her beauty was of a type that insures its
possessor love of a certain sort--not the best, but strong enough to
stand the wear and tear of well-to-do existence, if only it is
returned. If Ethel had loved him, Thorne would have held to his lot,
and munched his husks, if not with relish, certainly with decency and
endurance. But Ethel did not love him.
Their marriage, from Ethel's standpoint, had been mercantile; for his
wealth and position, she had willingly bartered her youth and beauty,
and if he would have been content with face value, she would have been
content. Why should people trouble the depths of life when the surface
was so pleasant and satisfying? She liked Thorne well enough, but his
ceaseless craving for congeniality, deep affection, community of
interest, and the like, wearied, bored and baffled her. Why should
they care for the same things, cultivate similar tastes, have
corresponding aspirations? If they differed in thought and life and
expression, let them differ--it was of no consequence. She found her
husband's exactions tiresome. He had her birthright, she had his
pottage; let the matter end there, and each be satisfied.
But Thorne was _not_ satisfied. He had married a transcendently
beautiful woman, but he had no wife. Half the men of his acquaintance
envied him, but he did not rejoice, nor plume himself. He wanted his
wife to lean on him, to clothe the strength of his manhood with the
grace of her womanhood--and his wife showed herself not only capable of
standing alone, but of pushing him away with both hands. His mood
underwent many changes, and finally he let her go, with some disgust,
and a deep inward curse at his past folly. It was not a pleasant
retrospect.
Night had fallen; the air was still and brooding; across the sky
scudded ragged masses of clouds, advanced guard of the storm that was
mustering along the horizon; everywhere there was a feeling that
foreboded snow. In the sky, few stars were visible, and those
glimmered with a cold, wan light; at the zenith a solitary planet
burned steadfastly. The road stretched away into the night; it was
dark under the trees beside the fence; away in the distance the echo of
footsteps sounded.
Thorne thought of Pocahontas. His face softened, and his eyes shone
tenderly. How true she was, how thorough and noble. Her pure face and
fearless gray eyes rose before him; with the love of such a woman to
bless him, her hand in his, her influence surrounding him, to what
might not a man aspire! There were no insincerities, no half-truths,
no wheels within wheels, such as Ethel delighted in, about this other
woman. Even her occasional fits of impatience and temper were indulged
in frankly--a sudden flurry of tempest and then the bright, warm
sunshine; no long-continued murkiness, and heavy sodden depression for
hours and days.
Did she love him? As he asked himself the question, Thorne's heart
bounded, and the blood coursed hotly through his veins. He had tried
to make her love him--had he succeeded? Thorne was no fatuous fool,
blinded by his own vanity, but his power over women had been often
tried, fully proven, and he had confidence in himself. Once only had
he failed of securing the love he sought, and it was the memory of that
failure which made him pause and question now. He was not sure. She
liked him, was pleasant and gracious, but he had seen her so to other
men. Never until this evening had she changed color at his touch. She
liked him--and Thorne felt within him a fierce desire to change her
passivity of regard into wild activity of passion. He could do it.
That tide of crimson, a vague terror and awakening in the gray eyes, as
they met his gaze on re-opening to consciousness, had shown him a tiny
cleft which his hand might broaden, until it should flood their two
lives with the light of love.
The echo of the footsteps deepened, merged into actual sound, drew
nearer. Thorne, in the deep obscurity of the trees, listened, moving
near to the dusky, trunk of an old magnolia; he was in no mood for
passing civilities, and in this friendly country all wayfarers
exchanged greetings. In the sound of the advancing steps, he could
distinguish an unmistakable shuffle which proclaimed race--two negroes
returning from the little village, beyond Shirley, whither they had
gone to make Christmas purchases. They walked by the light of a
flaring pine knot, which was encouraged to burn by being swung around
violently from time to time; it lighted the men's dark faces, and
reflected itself in intermittent flashes on the sides of a bright tin
bucket which the younger man carried, but it intensified the gloom
around them. Both had on their backs bags filled with lumpy things,
like bundles. They were talking cheerfully, and the sound of their
rough voices and guttural laughter reached Thorne before the men
themselves came abreast of his position. The negro with the bucket was
relating an anecdote. Thorne caught part of it.
"Yes, sar," he was saying, "dat was de fust ov it. Mars Jim, he clumb
right spang up to de tip-top de tree, an' de ice was cracklin', an'
slippin', an' rattlin' down like broke up lamp chimblys. De little
gals was 'pon de groun' watchin' him, an' hollerin' an' wringin' deir
han's. I was loadin' de ox-cart wid pine kindlin's back in de woods,
an' when I hearn de chil'en hollerin', I came runnin' to see what was
de matter wid 'em."
"What he clumb arter?" questioned the other negro; "hit's mighty
dangersome gittin' up trees when dey got sleet 'pon 'em."
"Mighty dangersome," acquiesced the narrator, "dat's what I 'lowed ter
myse'f when I seed him. He was arter a lump o' dat green truck wid
white berries 'pon it--mizzletoe, dey calls its name. When I got dar,
he was comin' down de tree holdin' it by de stem wid he teef. He
wouldn't fling it down, kase he's feard he'd spile de berries. Time he
totch de groun' good, Miss Grace, she hauled off, she did, an' smacked
his jaws ez hard ez she could stave, an' axed him how _dar'ed_ he skeer
'em like dat? An' Mars Jim, he larfed out loud, and said: 'Princess
wanted it,' an' den he put de truck he'd resked his nake ter git in
Miss Pocahontas's arms, an' she hugged it up tight, an' went long to de
house cryin'."
Thorne moved involuntarily, and the gun in his hand struck against the
trunk of the tree behind which he stood. The negroes paused and
glanced around alertly, the man with the torch swinging it backward and
forward, with a muttered "What's dat?" Nothing of any consequence; a
bird, or a rabbit, perhaps--nothing worth investigation. The man with
the bucket set his burden on the ground, and opened and shut his hand
rapidly several times. The wire of the handle had cramped his fingers.
Both men transferred their bags from the right shoulder to the left,
and leaned against the tree stems to rest themselves a moment.
The elder man resumed the subject.
"Love her! Lord-er-mussy 'pon me! Jim Byrd was fa'rly _foolish_ wid
love. De groun' warn't fitten fur Miss Pocahontas ter set her foots
'pon in his notion; he'd er liked ter spread _hissef_ down to save her
slippers. T'want no question 'bout lovin' wid Mars Jim!"
"But he gone away," objected the torch-bearer. "I reckon Miss
Pocahontas done kick him; dat how come he lef. What he doin' in
Nexican ef he kin get what he want here? He _gone_!"
"_Dat_ ain't nothin'. He was bleeged ter go out yander ter git money
ter buy back de old place. Money mighty plentiful out dar, Aunt Vi'let
say. Gwine way ain't nothin' ter a _man_; he kin come back 'gin. I
went 'way ter Richmond onct myse'f ter rake up money 'nouf ter buy one
mule, an' rent er scrop o' lan', so ez I could marry Sarah. Mars Jim's
comin' back; las' word he sed ter Aunt Vi'let, was _dat_. Miss
Pocahontas ain't kick him n'other. What she gwine kick him fur? Mars
Jim's er likely man, an' all de ginnerashuns o' de Byrds an' Masons bin
marryin' one n'other ever sence Virginny war er settle_mint_. My ole
gran'daddy, whar war ole Mr. Dabney Byrd's kyar'ege driver, allus
sed--Lord, a-mussy! what DAT!!"
The speaker paused with his mouth open and a chilly sensation about the
back, as though a lump of ice were traveling down his spine. A sound,
as of scriptural denunciation, low, but intense, had caught his ear. A
bat, circling low, had grazed Thorne's face and caused him to throw up
his hand with an impatient oath. The wisdom of the defunct "kyar'ege
driver" was overwhelmed in the flood of perturbation which seized his
descendant. The man swung his torch around nervously and peered into
the darkness, conscious of a distrust of his surroundings that amounted
to positive pain. The other negro said nothing; but addressed himself
to the adjustment of his burden in the manner least likely to impede
retreat.
Among the colored folks this portion of the road enjoyed an evil
reputation, particularly after nightfall, for in a field near by there
was an ancient graveyard, and the rumor went, that the denizens thereof
were of a specially unruly, not to say malicious spirit, and found pure
delight in ambuscades along the road side, and in sallies upon
unsuspecting travelers with results too painful for description.
"Haunts was mighty rank 'bout dar," the negroes said, and after sundown
that part of the road was destitute of attractions. The graveyard had
not been used for many years; but that only made the danger greater,
for ghosts, grown bold with long immunity of office, were held capable
of deeper malignity, than would be within the range of ghosts oppressed
with the modesty of debutants. The fact that the occupants of the
place had, in life, been of their own race, inspired the negroes with
no feeling of kinship or confidence. They were earnestly afraid of all
spirits, be they white, black, or red; but most of all of black ones,
because they seemed most in league with the devil.
When, therefore, the light of the flickering pine torch fell obliquely
on Thorne's dark figure and caught a gleam from the polished mountings
of his gun, and another from the brass of the cartridge belt, which to
the terrified darkeys looked like a cincture of fire, they became
possessed with the idea that the most malevolent of all the spirits,
perhaps the devil himself, was upon them. Calling on their Maker with
more urgence than they ever did at "pray'r meetin'," they grabbed up
their belongings and addressed themselves to flight. The bags,
flopping up and down on their backs, held them to their speed, by
corporeal reminder of what they had to lose if the devil should
overtake them, and the molasses in the bucket slopped over the sides
and sweetened the dust at every jump. The bucket top had bounced off
in the first burst and sped down the road before them, and the owner,
feeling that he had no time to lose, never dreamed of stopping to look
for it. Every now and then the bucket banged against his leg causing
him to feel that the evil one might be gaining, and to yell "Oh, Lawdy!
Oh, Lawdy!!" at the top of his lungs. The torch-bearer had flung away
his light, thinking to elude the devil in the darkness, and all his
soul was in his heels.
Thorne laughed a little, in a mirthless fashion; but he was too
miserable to be amused. While the men talked, black jealousy had crept
around the old magnolia and linked arms with him. Twice in the same
evening this name had crossed him. Who the devil _was_ this Jim Byrd?
These men had spoken of him as the avowed lover of Pocahontas, the man
she would eventually marry. The girl herself had admitted him to be a
dear and valued friend--a friend so dear that his going had left a
blank in her life. The power he had but now felt to be his own,
suddenly appeared to be slipping into other hands. Another sickle was
sharpening for the harvest; other eyes had recognized the promise of
the golden grain; other hands were ready to garner the rich sheaves.
Thorne's heart grew hot; angry blood surged from it and inflamed his
system; every nerve tingled; his eyes glowed, and his fingers tightened
on the barrel of the gun beside him. His consciousness of antagonism
grew so intense that it seemed to annihilate space and materialize his
distant rival into an actual presence; his feeling was that which
animates brutes when they lock horns, or fly at each other's throats;
and, could the emotional force which swayed his soul have been
converted into physical force and projected through space, Jim would
never have seen the light of another day.
Poor Thorne! If suffering may be pleaded in extenuation of moods whose
cause is mingled love and pain, he certainly was not without excuse.
Imagination, wounded by jealousy, leaped forward into the future and
ranged amid possibilities that made him quiver--noble, beautiful
possibilities, filled with joy and light and sweetness--and filled for
his rival--not for him. As in a mirror he beheld his love in his
rival's arms, resting on his bosom, as an hour ago she had rested on
his own; only in this man's embrace, he pictured her glowing, sentient,
responsive to look and caress; not cold, lifeless and inanimate.
Should this thing be? No! a thousand times no! Must he always have a
stone for bread? Must his garners always stand empty while other men's
overflowed with corn?
Deeply the man cursed his past folly; bitterly he anathematized the
weakness which had allowed shadowy scruples and a too fastidious taste
to rule his judgment in the matter of a divorce. He would wait no
longer; he would break at once and forever the frail fetter that still
bound him to a union from which all reality, all sanctity had fled. He
would be free in fact, as he was in heart and thought, to pit his
strength against that of his rival. This prize should not slip from
his grasp uncontested. No man should approach the shrine unchallenged.
The wind rose, sighing fitfully; the clouds gathered and formed an army
which stormed the zenith and threatened to overwhelm the pure light of
the planet. The lesser stars vanished, two or three falling in their
haste and losing themselves forever in infinity. The night thickened;
snow began to fall.