In mid-October Darrin returned afoot, as he had departed; and there was
no warning of his coming. He reached the farm in the afternoon. John was
in the woodlot at the time, cutting the wood into cord lengths in
preparation for hauling. Evered had worked in the morning, but after
dinner he sat down by the kitchen stove and remained there, in the dull
apathy of thought which was becoming habitual to him. He was still there
and Ruth was busy about the room when Darrin came to the door. Ruth had
caught sight of him through the window; she was at the door to meet him
and opened it before he knocked. She wanted to tell him how glad she was
to see him; but all she could do was stand very still, her right hand at
her throat, her eyes on his.
He said gently, “Well, I’ve come back. But it has been longer than I
thought it would be.”
She nodded. “Yes, it has been a long time.”
There was so much of confession in her tone that the man’s heart pounded
and he stepped quickly toward her. But when she moved back he saw Evered
within the room, watching him with dull eyes; and he caught himself and
his face sobered and hardened.
“My things are here?” he asked.
“In the shed,” she said. “John brought them up. I’ll show you.”
She stepped away and he followed her into the kitchen, toward the door
that opened at one side into the shed.
She had already opened the door when Evered asked huskily, “Back, are
you?”
Darrin said, “Yes.” There was an indescribable note of hostility in his
voice which he could not disguise.
“Won’t be here long now, I figure,” Evered suggested.
“I don’t know,” said Darrin. “I’ll be here till I’ve done what I came to
do.”
Evered did not speak for a minute; then he asked, “Get them moose
pictures, you mean?”
Ruth looked from one man to the other in a bewildered way, half sensing
the fact that both were wary and alert.
Darrin said, “Of course.”
Evered shook his head. “Dangerous business, this time o’ year. The old
bulls have got other things on their mind besides having their pictures
took.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Darrin.
“You’ve a right to,” Evered told him, and turned away.
Darrin watched the man for an instant; then he followed Ruth into the
shed. She showed him his dunnage, packed in a stout roll; and he lifted
it by the lashing and slung it across his shoulder.
“Mr. Evered is right,” she said. “The moose are dangerous--in the fall.”
He touched his roll with his left hand affectionately. “I’ve a gun here.
My pistol, you know. I’ll be careful.”
She urged softly, “Please do.”
There was so much solicitude in her voice that Darrin was shaken by it;
he slid the roll to the floor.
Then Evered came to the door that led into the shed; and he said, “I’ll
help you down with that stuff.”
Darrin shook his head. “No need,” he replied. “I can handle it.”
He swung it up again across his shoulder; and Ruth opened the outer door
for him. She and Evered stood together watching him cross the barnyard
and lower the bars and pass through and go on his way.
When he was out of sight Ruth looked up at Evered; and the man said
gently, “Glad to see him, Ruthie?”
She nodded, “I like him.”
“More than you like John?” the man asked.
And she said steadily, “I like them both. But Darrin is gentle, and
strong too. And you Evereds are only cruelly strong.”
“I wouldn’t say John was cruel,” the man urged wistfully.
“He’s your son,” she said, the old bitterness in her voice.
And Evered nodded, as though in confession. He looked in the direction
Darrin had taken.
“I wonder what he’s back for,” he said half to himself.
Ruth did not answer, and after a little she went back into the kitchen.
She heard Evered working with his ax for a while, splitting up wood for
the stove; and presently he brought in an armful and dumped it in the
woodbox. It was a thing he had done before, though John was accustomed
to carry her wood for her. As he dropped the wood now Evered looked
toward her, as though to make sure she had seen; he smiled in a
pleading, broken way. She thanked him, a certain sympathy in her voice
in spite of herself. The man was so broken; he had grown so old in so
short a time.
Darrin, bound toward his old camping ground at the spring, heard John’s
ax in the birch growth at his left, but he did not turn aside. There was
a new purpose in the man; his old pleasantly amiable demeanor had
altered; his eyes were steady and hard. He reached the spring and
disposed his goods, with a packet of provisions which he had brought
from the village.
A little later he went back up the hill to get milk and eggs from the
farm. It chanced that he found Evered in the barnyard; and Evered saw
him coming, and watched him approach. They came face to face at the
bars, and when Darrin had passed through he stood still, eying the other
man and waiting for Evered to speak. There was a steady scrutiny in
Evered’s eyes, a questioning; Darrin met this questioning glance with
one that told nothing. His lips set a little grimly.
Evered asked at last, “You say you came back for more pictures?”
“Yes.”
“I’m wondering if you’ll get what you come for.”
Darrin said, “I intend to.”
Evered nodded quietly. “All right,” he agreed. “I don’t aim to hinder.”
He turned toward the barn; and as he turned Darrin saw that he had his
knife slung in its leather sheath upon his hip. The sheath was deep;
only the tip of the knife’s haft showed. Yet Darrin’s eyes fastened on
this with a strange intentness, as though he were moved by a morbid
curiosity at sight of the thing. The heavy knife had taken so many
lives.
Darrin did not move till Evered had gone into the barn and out of sight;
then the younger man turned toward the house, and knocked, and Ruth
opened the door.
He asked, “Can I get milk to-night, and eggs; and have you made butter?”
She had been surprised to see him so soon again; she was a little
startled, could not find words at once. But she nodded and he came into
the kitchen and she shut the door behind him, for the day was cold.
“We haven’t milked,” she said. “It will be a little while.”
Darrin, whose thoughts had been on other things, found himself suddenly
swept by a sense of her loveliness. He had always known that she was
beautiful, but he had held back the thought, had fought against it. Now
seeing her again after so long a time he forgot everything but her. She
saw the slow change in his eyes; and though she had longed for it, it
frightened her.
She began to tremble, and tried to speak, but all she could say was,
“Oh!”
Darrin came toward her then slowly. He had not meant to speak, yet the
words came before he knew. “Ah, Ruth, I have missed you so,” he said.
Her eyes were dim and soft. She was miserably happy, an anguish of
happiness.
He said, “I love you so, Ruth. I love you so.” And he kissed her.
The girl was swept as by a tempest. She had dreamed of this man for
weeks, idealizing him, thinking him all that was fine and gentle and
good. She gave herself to his kisses as though she were hungry for them.
She was crying, tears were flowing down her cheeks; and at first she
thought this was because she was so happy, while Darrin, half alarmed,
half laughing, whispered to comfort her.
Then slowly the girl knew that she was not crying because she was so
happy. She could not tell why she cried; she could not put her heart in
words. It was as though she were lonely, terribly lonely. And she was
angry with herself at that. How could she be lonely in his arms? In
Darrin’s arms, his kisses on her wet cheeks?
She could not put the thought away. While he still held her she wept for
very loneliness. He could not soothe her. She scarce heard him; she put
her hands against him and tried to push him away, feebly at first. She
did not want to push him away; yet something made her. He held her
still; his arms were like bands of iron. He was so strong, so hard. Thus
close against him she seemed to feel a rigor of spirit in the man. It
was as though she were pressed against a wall. He freed her. “Please,”
he said.
And she cried, as though to persuade herself, “Oh, I do love you! I do!”
But when he would have put his arms round her again she shrank away from
him, so that he forbore. She turned quickly away to her tasks. She had
time to compose herself before Evered came in, and later John. Then
Darrin left with the things he had come to secure, and went down the
hill in the early dusk of fall.
Ruth was thoughtful that evening; she went early to her room. She was
trying desperately to understand herself. She had been drawn so strongly
toward Darrin, she had found him all that she wanted a man to be. She
had been miserable at his going, had longed for his return. She had
wanted that which had come to pass this day. The girl was honest with
herself, had always been honest with herself. She had known she loved
him, longed for him.
Yet now he was returned, he loved her and his kisses only served to make
her miserably lonely. She could not understand; slept, still without
comprehending.
Darrin, next day, did not go into the swamp. He busied himself about the
spring, producing again that sketch which he had made on the day Evered
told him the story of the tragedy. He was groping for something, groping
for understanding, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes were sober with
thought.
After he had cooked his dinner and eaten it the man sat for a long time
by the fire, tending it with little sticks, watching the flames as
though he expected to find in them the answer to his riddle. Once he
took from his pocket a letter, and read it soberly enough, then put it
back again. And once he took fresh paper and made a new sketch of the
locality about him.
He seemed at last to come to some decision. The aspect of his
countenance changed subtly. He got to his feet, pacing back and forth.
At about four o’clock in the afternoon he put on his coat and started up
the knoll toward the farm. When he had gone some fifty yards he stopped,
hesitated, and came back to his camp fire. From his kit he selected the
automatic pistol, saw that it held a loaded clip, belted it on. It hung
under his coat inconspicuously.
He went on his way this time without hesitation; went steadily up the
hill, reached the bars about the farmyard, passed through and knocked
on the kitchen door.
Ruth came to the door; he asked her abstractedly, as though she were a
stranger, where Evered was. She said he was in the shed; and Darrin went
there and found Evered grinding an ax. The man looked up at his coming
with sober eyes. Ruth had stayed in the kitchen.
Darrin said quietly, “Evered, I want to talk to you.”
Evered hesitated, studying the other. He asked, “What about?”
“A good many things,” Darrin told him.
Evered laid aside the ax. “All right,” he said.
“Come away from the house,” Darrin suggested.
There was a certain dominant note in his voice. The old Evered would
have stayed where he was; but the old Evered was dead. “Come,” said
Darrin; and he stepped out into the yard and Evered followed him. Darrin
crossed to the bars and let them down. He and Evered passed silently
through.
The men went, Darrin a little in the lead, down the hill toward the
spring.