His impulse was to run and take her in his arms, but he knew now that
he must be careful. You can’t be impetuous, it seems, with women,
at least not with that one. He had tried that once, and learned his
lesson. He slipped behind the barn, and stood wondering what to do.
After a few seconds he peered around cautiously. There she sat,
crying shakenly. He tried vainly to imagine a reason. Perhaps her
uncle was complaining of having the responsibility of her and the
children alone there. Perhaps she was actually in want, perhaps in
want of food. Perhaps the other girls had been talking about going
away to school, and she was heartbroken because her mother’s plans
for her education were not to be carried out. Maybe she had just seen
a snake. He remembered his mother saying that after Jeannie McNair
had had to kill a snake, she used to sit down and cry. Some women
did things like that, he knew, not his mother and sisters, but some.
He peered around at her again, most uncomfortable. Her sobbing was
terrible to see. He felt like a spy. He refrained from going to her,
because something warned him that if she had not welcomed him before,
she was less likely to do so now, when her face would be distorted
with tears. But he remembered that prayer look with hot longing.
He stood hesitating. Presently he looked again. She was just lifting
her head to wipe her nose, and she saw him. She gave a little cry
and, jumping up, ran into the cabin, and slammed the door behind her.
As if he were a robber! Then she came out, even more insultingly,
more afraid, and caught up the sleeping baby, and carried her away to
safety. She needn’t barricade the house against him, need she? Wully
thought, angrily. Then he remembered her face in church. He would sit
down and wait a while. He would wait till Dod came home, and see what
he could learn from the lad. But when he looked again towards the
house, there she was, sitting inside the door, and in her hands she
had her father’s old gun!
How preposterous! How outrageous! If she didn’t want him as a lover,
she might at least remember he was Wully McLaughlin, a decent,
harmless man! Waiting for him with a gun! Could it be that the girl
was losing her mind? Her mother had never recovered from that shock
of hers. Could Chirstie have been unbalanced by her mother’s death!
He wouldn’t think it! That would be disloyalty. But somebody, his
mother, their aunt, somebody ought to go to her by force, and get her
away from this lonely place. Who could tell what a girl might do with
a gun! One thing he knew, he wasn’t going away and leave her there
alone, so madly armed, and weeping.
After a while Dod came home, a red-faced, sweating little lad, and
sat down contentedly with the soldier in the shade of the barn. He
was, of course, barefooted and clothed in jeans, and his fitful
haircut did no great honor to Chirstie’s skill as a barber. Surely
he must know what she was crying about. And he would know that Wully
would not be one to make light of her grief.
“What’s happened, Dod?” he began at once. “When I came up, Chirstie
was sitting on the doorstep crying. What’s the matter? Don’t you mind
her?”
Dod was instantly resentful.
“It’s nothing I done.” He was decided and scornful. “She won’t even
let me go swimming a minute. She wants me to stay here all the time.
She cries all the time, no matter what I do!”
This was worse than Wully had expected.
“Was she crying before now?” he asked.
“She cries _all_ the time, I tell you.” He spoke carelessly. Girls’
tears were nothing to him. “She cries when she’s eating. She gets up
in the morning crying. She’s daft!”
“You mustn’t say that, Dod!” said Wully sharply. “Can’t a girl grieve
for her mother without being called daft? That’s no way for a man to
speak!”
Dod was abashed, but unconvinced.
“She’s not grieving for mother,” he answered, defending himself.
“She’s grieving for herself.”
This sounded good to Wully. He hoped she was unhappy for the same
reason he was.
“How do you know?” he demanded.
“She says so. I says for her not to cry about mother, and she says
she wasn’t. ‘I’m crying for myself,’ she says.”
Wully had no longer any scruples about finding out everything he
could from the boy.
“What’s she sitting with that gun in her hands for, Dod? Does she
shoot many chickens?”
“Her? She couldn’t hit a barn. She’s afraid. That’s what’s the matter
with her.”
“What’s she afraid of?”
“Nothing. What’s there to be afraid of here? I don’t know what’s got
into her!”
“Tell me now, Dod!” begged Wully. “My mother would want to know. Does
Uncle John see that you have everything you need?”
“That’s not it!” exclaimed the boy, proudly. “We have enough. Some of
them would come here and stay all the time, but she don’t want them.
She won’t have anybody here. And we’re not going to church again.”
This last he undoubtedly considered a decision worthy of the most
tearless girl. Wully, who seized upon trifling straws, saw promise
in this. She wasn’t going to church again, and she had wanted a
good look at him! But what was it--why should she be so silly? Why
wouldn’t she let him make her happy? She wouldn’t need to be afraid
if he was with her. He saw that Dod knew not much more than he did
about the explanation of his difficulties. But Dod at any time might
find something enlightening. Wully coveted his help.
“It really beats all the way you run this farm with your father
gone,” he affirmed. “When he gets back, I’d like to hire you myself.”
He saw the boy relishing his praise. “You must treat Chirstie like a
man, Dod. You mustn’t blame her for crying. It’s the way women do,
sometimes. You say to her when you go in that my mother is always
waiting to do for her. She’s the one that can help her. She don’t
need to cry any more. We can fix things right. You say that to her,
Dod, and to-morrow I’ll ride over and see what it is. You tell her
we’ll fix everything for her.”
He went away in uncertainty and distress. He ought to tell his mother
how things were. The idea of that girl sitting there with a gun, as
if she didn’t recognize him! Or maybe it would be better to go to his
Aunt Libby Keith. She ought to know. He didn’t like going to anybody.
It was his affair. He couldn’t think of insinuating to anyone that
the girl was--well, not quite right in her mind. He must be very
careful.
And then her face came before him, loving him. After all, it was just
his affair and hers. There was some reason why she must wait. But she
loved him! His mind dwelt on that, rather than on his inexplicable
rejecting. He decided that in the morning he would ride over to
the Keiths’ and ask in a roundabout way, what the trouble was with
Chirstie.
But in the morning he felt so certain that she loved him, in spite of
everything, that he announced to his father that he was going over
to cut slough grass on his eighty, to use in thatching his new barn,
having decided to go to Keiths’, less conspicuously, in the evening.
This was the first time he had as much as mentioned his own farm all
summer. His father was pleased, but his mother protested. Why should
he begin such work on the hottest morning of the summer, when he
hadn’t really been able to help in the haying at all? He might easily
be overcome with the heat, in his condition. But Wully, it seemed,
was at last feeling as well as he had ever felt. He had been loafing
too long. He must begin to get something done on his own place.
So down in his slough he worked away with all his might, and now that
his heart was light, and his fever broken, it was no contemptible
strength he could exert. About the time he was so hot, so soaked
through with sweat that he must sit down for a rest, he saw a
horseman coming towards him. And upon that meeting there depended the
destiny of generations.
He smiled when he saw who it was. Peter Keith was a cousin of both
Chirstie’s and his, the only remaining child of their Aunt Libby’s
and Uncle John Keith’s, the smallest adult of Wully’s seventy-one
cousins, being not more than five feet seven. And he was by far the
most worthless of them. Of course Peter would be riding leisurely
over after the mail in the middle of the morning, while the haying
was to be finished, and the wheat was white and heavy for harvest.
His excuse this summer for not working was that he had a disabled
foot. He said that he had accidentally discharged his gun into it.
Peter Keith was such a man that when he told that story, his hearers’
faces grew shrewd and thoughtful, trying to decide whether or not he
really was lazy enough to hurt his own foot in order to get out of
work. There was no place for laziness in a world where men existed
only by toil. It was like chronic cowardice in the face of the enemy.
Peter’s mother, to be sure, said he wasn’t strong. Libby Keith’s way
of hanging over him, of listening to his rather ordinary cough, her
constant babying of him, was what was spoiling Peter, many said.
Wully had always been more tolerant of him than some of the cousins
were, because he could never imagine a man feigning so shameful a
thing as physical weakness. If Peter didn’t want to farm, why insist,
he argued. If he wanted to go west, to get into something else, let
him go. He _might_ be good for something somewhere. But his doting
mother would never listen to such hard-heartedness.
The two of them made themselves a shade in the grass, and talked away
intimately. Wully was more affable than usual, having resolved upon
first sight of Peter to learn something from him. Peter was always
full of neighborhood news. Tam McWhee had bought ten acres more of
timber, and the Sprouls were beginning to break their further forty,
and so on, and so on. Wully was screwing up his courage to introduce
the subject that was interesting him, in some casual way. Peter was
the last man with whom he cared to discuss Chirstie. But he was
exactly the one who might know something valuable. He delayed, the
question at the tip of his tongue, till even the lazy Peter thought
it was time to be riding on, and rose to go. His foot wasn’t really
much hurt, but he hadn’t renounced his limp. It was then or never
with Wully, so he said, trying to appear uninterested:
“I was riding by McNairs’ yesterday, and I saw Chirstie sitting there
crying. What do you suppose she would be crying about, Peter?”
Peter gave him a sharp look, and grew red in one moment.
“How the devil should _I_ know what girls cry about?” he asked
angrily. “It’s none of my business! Nor yours, either!”
A cry of frightened anger like that sent an excitement through Wully.
“You know very well what it is!” he cried. “You’ve got to tell me!
It’s some of your doings!”
Peter was jumping into his saddle.
“I’ll tell you like hell!” he shouted.
“You’ll tell me before you go!”
“Let go my bridle! Let go, I tell you! It’s none of your business!”
His face told terrible secrets that Wully had never till that moment
imagined suspecting. Now he was pulling him down from his horse.
“Let me alone! It’s not my fault! Take your hands off me! I never
meant to hurt her!” Peter was fighting desperately for his freedom.
Wully was trying to control his insane rage.
“Stand still and tell me what it is! I’m not going to hurt you!” he
cried scornfully. “What are you afraid of? Don’t be a baby!” But his
grasp never relaxed. The boy was afraid he would be shaken to death.
“Let me alone! Take your hands off me! Let me go, and I’ll tell you!
It’s none of your business, anyway!” He was free now, and trembling.
“I didn’t mean to get her into trouble. I wish I’d never seen her! I
offered to marry her once----”
He dodged Wully’s blinded blow.
“_You_ marry her!” he cried murderously. “_You_ marry her!” The first
realization of his meaning had filled Wully with a lust to kill.
Peter had sprung away. He gained his horse. Wully ran after him. All
the oaths he had ever heard came back to him in his need. He ran
furiously after the fleeing seducer. He called after him ragingly.
He threw himself down, too shocked to think plainly. So that was
Chirstie’s sickening secret! That was why she was afraid of him! That
was why she was defending herself with that poor old gun! This was
why she had left her uncle’s house, and avoided others! Chirstie,
betrayed and desolate. Oh, it was well he was trained in killing!
He would go after Peter Keith, and make short work of him. He would
break every bone in his body. There was no death long enough, large
enough, bitter enough, for Peter Keith. Wully lay there weak with
rage, crying out curses. Anger, what little he knew of it, had always
been to him an exhausting disease. He gave himself up to it.
He was so dazed by this revelation that he never thought how time was
passing till he heard the voice of a little brother calling him. It
was long after dinner time. Why didn’t he come home? His mother was
anxious about him. Was he ill? He rose, and stumbled along home.
The sight of that kitchen was a blow to him, so innocent, so habitual
it looked, so remote from violence and revenge. The dishes had been
gathered from the table. The girls were beginning to wash them. His
mother came forward solicitously. What was the matter, she wanted to
know. Wully stood blinking. Murder? Had he thought of murder in a
place of peace? Instantly he had come far back on that road to his
habitual self, when with a shock he came against the criminal fact of
Peter. He was ill, he cried. He wanted to rest. He couldn’t eat.
He shut the door of his room and sat down bewildered on the edge of
his bed. Thoughts of the old security and of the new violence clashed
in his mind. His gun stood in the corner. He reached out and took
it, and sat fingering it, like a man in a baffling dream.
At length from the kitchen there came a burst of happy laughter. That
was his sister laughing. His sister Mary. Laughing. Yes, Mary was
laughing, and Chirstie sat there sobbing, sobbing and shaking!
In that unbetrayed kitchen one of the children had said something
absurd, that had delighted Mary. He knew that outburst. Mary was
a girl safe, and Chirstie was undone. A girl people would scoff
at! Not while he was alive! He threw himself down on the bed. He
began thinking only of the girl. If he killed that snake, who would
Chirstie turn to--who, if she no longer had him? She was alone.
Defending herself, fighting for herself. That was what she thought of
men! She didn’t know any better! He would kill Peter, certainly. But
what was to become of her then?
After a while, lying there, he began to see a way out. He saw it
dimly at first--it grew persuasive. Peter had been always talking
about running away west, had he? Well, he would run away that very
night. Either that, or Wully would destroy him. Wully would have
that girl, as she was, if he had to fight the whole country for her.
His terrible anger still shook him. But there was Chirstie to save,
for himself--and for herself. If he killed Peter, what good would
that do her? It would make her notorious. The way he saw was better
than that. It was an ugly way. But it was safe for her. A situation
hideous forced upon them, a thing which had to be faced out, like
the war, from which there was no escape but victory. If he got rid
of Peter, why should he not have her? Possession of her was worth
letting the betrayer go scot free for, wasn’t it? She had no one but
himself now. And yesterday, in her straits, in her despair, she had
turned her face towards him!
By supper time his mind was perfectly clear about the course he would
take. He rose, and ate something, excitedly, reassuring his mother
that the sun had not prostrated him. He felt all right. He had only
to settle with Peter, and then----!
Peter was sitting securely between his father and mother in front
of the house when Wully rode up, that evening, and demanded a word
with him in private. Peter hesitated. He did not dare to fear his
cousin before them. He went cautiously out through the dusk towards
him. Daylight was almost gone, but Wully turned his back deliberately
towards those who sat casually watching. He didn’t want them to see
the hate he felt mounting over his face. He didn’t want anyone ever
to suspect what he was going to do. He spoke to his cousin only a few
sentences. Then he turned, and rode swiftly away.
He came to Chirstie’s. She was sitting there in the dusk, her head
bowed in that despairing way. He gave his horse to Dod with a
command, and strode over to where she sat. She needn’t try to resist
him now. It was useless.
“I know the whole thing!” he whispered. “I’ve got it all settled.” He
took her in his arms. She needn’t struggle. “It’s all right. He’ll
never frighten you again. You can’t get away. I’ve come for you!”
Dawn found them sitting there together. Indeed, Wully had to urge his
horse along to get home in time for breakfast.
The McLaughlins were assembled for their unexciting morning cornmeal,
all at the table together, when Wully announced, in a fine loud
voice, among them:
“I’m going to be married to-day, mother!”
Her spoon was halfway to her mouth. It was some time before it
reached its destination.
“Wully!” she gasped.
“Well, you needn’t be so surprised. I am.”
“Is it Chirstie?”
Could they ask that!
“I’m _that_ pleased!” she cried. Oh, she wouldn’t have liked anything
else as well! She looked at him narrowly, with delight. “But you
canna just be married to-day, and the harvesting coming on!”
“You bet I can!” replied her American.
Indeed, he never could! Not to Chirstie! They must do something for
Jeannie’s Chirstie, make her some clothes. Wully scoffed at the idea.
She had plenty of clothes, of course. They were going to drive to
town and be married, and he would buy her whatever she needed. He
refused to listen to them. Chirstie might decide not to have him, if
he gave her time.
“Havers!” exclaimed his mother. As if Chirstie didn’t know her own
mind! That was no way to talk! Isobel couldn’t imagine, of course,
that Wully had any real reason for such misgivings. Was it likely
a girl would not have her Wully! If he would just listen to her a
moment, and wait even till the morrow, they would call the friends
in and have a wedding worthy of Chirstie’s mother. It occurred to
him that under the circumstances a plan so respectable might have
advantages for Chirstie, if only she would consent. And his father
began planning how soon he could spare men and horses to begin
hauling lumber for the house.